Nightshift 24: Second M Block, Near the bathrooms and exit
((Coming from here.))
It wasn't a long way to go before he wound up at the doors leading out of the cellblock. Kimbley couldn't quite remember what room Wesker said he was in - not that it mattered - but he knew it would still be a while. The doors had just unlocked; he wasn't expecting anything, or anyone, else to show up and recognize him for a ( Read more... )
"The hell do you think you're doing?" He grumbled at whoever had been checking him out before straightening slightly and leaning his back against the wall. When his shoulders hit the cool surface, he paused, looking towards his left shoulder and seeing that the bandages that had once been holding it together were gone, as well as the pain that had come with them.
He smirked. Maybe the bastards had done him a favor, and maybe now they'd pay for it.
He leaned forward, feeling steadier as he crossed his arms over his muscled chest and glanced towards where he knew the exit to the main hallway was. This time, he'd kick some ass, this time ( ... )
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Of course, at the mention of his current situation, something occurred to Greed that his anger had kept hidden from him: The mess he was in now was a new one, a worse one, a wholly different one than he'd been in before.
And he wasn't the only one caught in it.
Something else occurred to Greed as his eyes shot back to the alchemist's, and it was that he was playing right into Kimbley's tattooed hands.
His eyes narrowed.
"It means you aren't worth shit as an asset, either."
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"If you think so," he hissed, fingers curling and uncurling against his palms. "But you seem to forget that I was a soldier as much as I was an alchemist. I could still blow you into a million, bloody pieces and leave you a smear on the floor ... it'd just take a little more work." He let his grimace jerk sharply into a smirk, albeit a pained one. "I didn't always have the tattoos."
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The homunculus may not have cared much for the hag or the teachings she'd forced upon the creatures she'd birthed, but he'd remembered enough about alchemy to know when he was being fed bullshit and when he wasn't. (Of coure, given Dante's tendencies towards lies herself, he could never be completely sure what had been real and what hadn't, but goddammit if he was going to give Kimbley the benefit of the doubt.)
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It was true, too - the first time he'd successfully made a bomb, it was from raw materials. And the explosion had nearly killed him, but that just meant he'd been completely successful. As long as you had a container, the right chemicals (most of which were easily found in a semi-domestic setting like this), and in some cases a lighter, you could turn someone into a screaming pile of flame and flesh. No alchemy necessary.
... sure, he hadn't actually used the homemade method in a long time (going on ... holy shit, almost twenty years?), but he could remember the basic principles, the easier explosives, and the resulting compounds that gave off the most dangerous blasts. And that was all that mattered, really.
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There was Mustang, of course, but he wasn't too willing to be an apprentice... yet. There was that long-haired guy--Vincent--and Schuldig, too, but... hell, Schuldig was almost as bad as Kimbley.
Beggars couldn't be choosers, but then again, beggars didn't have to be stupid either. (And besides, Greed would die before he called himself one of those.)
"Yeah, so maybe you're useful." Greed smirked. "Doesn't mean a damn thing if you're a rat."
Still, the temptation was there, and stronger than Greed wanted to admit. Back home, sure, he'd tear the man limb from limb without a second thought, but that was because back home he'd actually be able to.
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"So what if I'm a rat?" Kimbley let himself smirk again, wider than before now that the pain was fading out of his immediate attention. "You knew I what I was when you found me, and you still trusted me enough to show me exactly where your skull was. Doesn't make much in the way of an argument for you."
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The homunculus' sharp teeth clenched together as his eyes narrowed. He tightened his grip and shifted his weight, keeping one knee on Kimbley's thighs as he slammed the other one down on his left arm.
No matter what Kimbley could offer him now, he'd screwed him over and left him to die, sold him out for some cheap thrills. Greed didn't want him as an ally. He wanted him to fucking pay.
Greed took his blackened hand from Kimbley's neck and grasped the bomber's wrist with it instead. He took his other hand and pulled it from the wounds on Kimbley's arm, blood spilling as malice took hold of Greed's shadowed countenance.
"You really like your hands, don't you?"
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Kimbley's arm throbbed to life as Greed slammed one knee down onto it, effectively pinning it against any and all attempts to free it (and maybe breaking it, he wasn't sure). He was swept with a minor wave of relief when those claws left his throat, and again (only with a slight pain) when they slipped off of his injured arm. (Great. Now they were bleeding more.)
But all his pain, all his irritation, all his smug arrogance vanished in the face of Greed's newfound grip and that single, innocuous question. His smirk fell and against his will, Kimbley knew (just knew) that his face had turned to an expression of half-panic, half-anger. And just a little bit of point-blank terror.
"Don't even try it," he snarled, immediately attempting to wrench his arm free and when that failed, clenching his hand into a fist. "I swear it, if you so much as touch them, I'll wrench out your eyes in your sleepHe didn't doubt that Greed would do it. The homunculus shouldn't doubt that Kimbley wouldn't follow through with his own threat, either ( ... )
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He did take what he wanted, though, regardless of the consequences for himself or other people. He liked his plots to end up being easy enough on everyone, but civility wasn't something too high on his list of priorities. At the end of the day, sure, Greed would beat up a couple of kids for his own benefit because Greed didn't let anything stand between him and what he wanted.
And yet, some pompous bastard had"You don't fuck me over, Kimbley." Greed smirked with the kind of half-sane glint that came to his eyes when he indulged too fully in his sin. "You just don't ( ... )
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It wasn't the pain that bothered him, because there were much more painful things in the world than having your hand cut up. And he'd experienced plenty of them. No, it had nothing to do with the cuts and the blood and the future thoughts of infections or amputations. It was that his hand - one of his two greatest weapons, the creations he'd spent nearly his entire life perfecting - was completely and absolutely ruined. Half of the best, most dangerous weapon in all Amestris and it was destroyed.
A strangled almost-scream of rage struggled to free itself from his throat, but even in the throes of agonized rage, Kimbley still had his pride.
"I'll kill you!" he snarled, his voice ( ... )
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He was about to try and wrench his other pinned arm free, the one that had sustained no damage, when a semi-familiar voice cut into his rage-fogged mind. Still with a snarl on his face, Kimbley looked around wildly, trying to see who it was. When his eyes landed on the nearby figure, it took him a few moments for the recognition to set in.
The Fuhrer.
He was here ( ... )
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Greed's violet eyes darted away from the bomber, though his grip remained strong. The hall was dark and though the homunculus could make out the third man's figure and the vague lines of his face, he didn't recognize him as someone he knew particularly well, at least not in this light.
"I'm busy," Greed growled, and though the nonchalance with which the newcomer had spoken was unsettling, it wasn't enough to distract him from the situation at hand. Kimbley struggling underneath him was getting old and tiring as was, and with grit teeth, the homunculus brought his fist back and slammed it into the alchemist's jaw.
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