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Zolf J. Kimbley

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{ October 5th, 1914. Early Evening. } [October 5th, 2005]
[ mood | pissed off ]


Kimbley was grateful that it wasn't raining.

It would have been far too cliche for a young man like him, and it wasn't as if he needed anything else to go completely and utterly wrong that day. And, as difficult as it was for him to believe that things could get worse, he wasn't the sort of pathetic sap who was stupid enough to think that they couldn't.

Still docked out in his military blues, he'd skipped out on work-- not that anyone would miss him, and the feeling was mutual-- he'd been wandering the streets again, unable to completely vent his frustration and emotional confusion on innocent citizens. Still, tempered and unpredictable as Kimbley was, he had his reasons-- or a reason.

It's name was Major Frank Archer.

The mere thought of the man, who, tragically, was probably feeling as miserable as Kimbley himself was, brought a narrow-eyed glare to the alchemist's face. He wanted sincerely to be able to believe that Archer could just die, and he could care less. His attatchment to his fellow officer was growing more and more what he percieved to be a vulernability. Something that could be taken and used against him, as he had seen that day in the hospital. He needed something stable to grasp onto while his mind sorted itself gradually out, or he'd go utterly insane. As if he wasn't already.

But, the only stable thing... Archer. He felt as if that was a long time gone.


12 fuses lit. | Boom-boom, baby.

{ October 5th, 1914. Morning. } [October 5th, 2005]
[ mood | thoughtful ]


Kimbley... I'll see you tomorrow, I suppose?

He had awoken that morning, before dawn, with that voice in his head, too clear and too familiar, and had paced around in his pajamas. He had said, 'If you want,' which was as close as he could have ever gotten to a sincere 'yes.' But, even after he had eaten a little and dressed himself-- the ribbon in his dark hair was a soft, boyish blue today-- Kimbley couldn't quite bring himself to be certain that he was going to go and see Major Frank Archer that day. It was beginning to strangely strike him as something extremely foreign and discomforting-- a relationship.

Still, it wasn't as if he had anything better to do, he told himself. Just more paperwork whilst the military figured out what they wanted to do with their psychotic bomber alchemist. It had absolutely nothing to do with concern-- Archer would be fine, with his new automail. A few lonely weeks surrounded by sterile whiteness, and the man was nearly as good as new. Nothing a good soldier wouldn't be able to take. Especially not an ambitious soldier, like Archer.

But, somehow, Kimbley had laced up his military issue boots and walked out of the dorms in the direction of the hospital, remembering the way to Archer's room this time, but walking slowly, thoughts bogging up his mind and making him less than pleasant company for those few who would seek it.


44 fuses lit. | Boom-boom, baby.

{ October 2nd, 1914. Early Evening. } [October 2nd, 2005]
[ mood | cranky ]


He'd heard the news shortly after his arrival in Central. He remembered not understanding at first, his mind trying to wrap itself around the fact that things were not all right-- nevermind that he'd never believed that things could ever be all right to begin with. But, there it was-- the headline in the day's paper. The late train from East City had crashed, killing some and severely wounding others. 'Others.' He found himself bitterly wishing the word could be as distant from him as he thought it sounded.

Strange as it was, Kimbley felt no sorrow-- just pure anger, echoing through his body as he stood outside, somewhere in the streets, not sure where he was. He had been wandering like a lost man, his things still unpacked back at the military dorms and his arrival duties neglected. He didn't know how to handle this sort of ... Whatever the hell  it was! He was over-whelmed by his annoyance, anger, fury... Stupid, stupid, stupid! What had Archer been thinking? If he'd just stopped fucking around all the goddamn time and gotten on the proper train...

He knew he ought to go visit the man, considering. But, too proud, too stubborn, the alchemist couldn't bring himself to really want it, so earnestly did he blame Archer for the man's own problems. It was a form of betrayal, it was. Nevermind what anyone else said-- fate, destiny. It didn't matter. They were a team. Allies. And now one-half was in the hospital, breathing or not, Kimbley didn't know. But, now he was left here, to deal with the colonel and his irritating subordinates on his own. Well, so be it.

It didn't matter. There were others who had uses for his skills-- forces he considered potentially more powerful than the military itself. He didn't need their license to kill, he didn't need their rank, he certainly didn't need their over-flow of paperwork... Tired and pissed off, Kimbley told himself: he didn't need anyone. Not anymore.

Boom-boom, baby.

{ Saturday, September 24, 1914. Afternoon. } [September 24th, 2005]
[ mood | annoyed ]

Note: Reference to this encounter.


The library at the military headquarters was almost more dust than text. It reminded Major Z. J. Kimbley of a room in some haunted mansion from a child's story book-- a fact that annoyed him constantly in addition to the little air particles would not stop making him bloody sneeze. (It really rather took away from the 'psychotic murderer' image to have his allergies acting up constantly.) Not to mention, he absolutely loathed having to navigate through isles and isles of ancient books, having spent the last hour or so in the vast alchemic section of the library, searching for information on a subject that recently had him admittedly somewhat concerned.

Wearily running slender fingers through the short fringe of hair about his face, Kimbley paused at a row of rather hefty-looking tomes, leaning forward a little and cautiously blowing air at the dusty covers. Coughing a bit at the result, he waved an arrayed hand to disperse the offending dust, reading over the now visible titles. At length, he selected a particularly heavy text, cradling the overly weighty book as he opened it, thumbing through a bit. After a few moments, his yellow eyes lit in the dim lights, scanning over the worn page carefully.

In large, faded ink, the page read plainly: alchemic theory of homunculi. Running his fingers briefly over the ribbon binding in his hair out of habit, Kimbley leaned up against one of the firmer shelves, settling in to read for a while.


83 fuses lit. | Boom-boom, baby.

{ Tuesday, September 10th, 1914. Afternoon. } [September 20th, 2005]
[ mood | bored ]

Note: Since this is an alternate universe roleplay, I took the liberty of setting Kimbley into the scheme of things in the way presented below. I would have stuck with the series, but I haven't gotten a chance to speak with the community 'Greed' yet, and I wasn't sure if Kimbley ought to be under Greed's employment at the Devil's Nest, in prison for war crimes, or still in the military.


He was still getting re-acquainted to the weight of the pocket watch, but he knew he liked it as much as he ever did-― not the trinket itself really, but what it meant. There was something about the way that people looked at him, something about the subtle awe and fear in their gaze when the light glimmered off the polished metal as he opened and shut it, click, click, click.

They almost didn't give it to him, at first, so appalled were the judges by his macabre performance during his second state exam. The military itself had been reluctant to let him re-take it, despite the fact that his so-called 'doctors' had declared his-- as the records stated-- psychotic misbehavior cured. Though, it sufficed to say, the doubt of his superiors was not poorly placed. After killing half-a-dozen of his own men, including the officer who tried to restrain him, the man known officially as the Crimson Alchemist was infamous for his indiscrimminating blood-lust. He'd paid his dues, however-- seven years in the psychiatric ward of a mismanaged prison.

Now at the age of twenty-six, the once court-martialed combat alchemist was back in business, so to speak, though, needless to say, his explosion of a fellow examinee was a little less than well-recieved, considering his records. However, fortunately for the re-instated Crimson Alchemist, the military was in a shortage of skilled alchemists. Though, for the time being, he was firmly restricted to small, local missions and research-- a rather dull occupation for one whose skills lie in battle and blood-shed.

His hands, equipt with beautifully tapered fingers and deadly alchemical rays on the palms, were ill put to use turning the pages of ancient texts and filling out paper-work. But, though he was not a patient man by any means, he was willing to endure a trivial inconvenience such as his current situation. It would pay off eventually, he was sure. And once more, the military's wolf-dog would be on the loose, baring his fangs to all.

Until that time, he would be stuck doing his stupid, 'temporary' duties, sitting in a small office, signing in his quick scrawl-- 'Maj. Z. J. Kimbley'-- his signature across unnecessary and cluttering pieces of paper that passed for important documents.

Yellow, jackal eyes narrowed in displeasure as he suffered the boredom and slow pace of another day in waiting, the Crimson Alchemist casually allowed himself the leisure of quickly exploding the lightbulb of the lamp on his desk with a loud shatter, an expression of mild satisfaction on his face. He hoped that someone might come in and yell at him, maybe, so that he might at least have something else to focus on. Letting a slight frown tug down on the corners of his wide lips, he pushed his dark, long pony-tail over a muscular shoulder, finger-tips lingering on the length of plain, gold-hued ribbon bind there for a moment too long before he turned his attention back to the pains of his occupation.


6 fuses lit. | Boom-boom, baby.

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