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.