Lucio didn’t take kindly to those who would try to slight him. Thinking he was rather docile as he went through his every day life. Sometimes, people would confuse his aloof nature for foolishness or even weakness.
And this one who quivered before him was no different.
He didn’t care much for money, could’ve just let the other take what he had. But today- something about today had pushed him a little closer to that ledge. The ledge he threatened to tumble over nearly every day. Those tendencies rising again- tasting copper in his mouth. His hands itching, his face burning.
“You picked the wrong fucking day-” He muses, fist connecting with the other man’s nose in that dark alley way. Otherwise completely quiet and abandoned.
And though the strikes were echoing, no one came to this man’s aid. Even the ever shadowy hangman stood in the alley. Leaning against the wall in silence as he watched the horrific onslaught that Lucio rained upon this common thief. Did he deserve it?
Likely not.
Though that didn’t make it any less pleasurable for the former assassin. His knuckles bloody as his boot connects with his victim’s head. Only now does he notice the other’s presence.
“How convenient.” He grins, approaching the other, pushing him now against the brick wall, lazily one hand held him there. Though the other did not struggle. Lucio wouldn’t kill him, he wasn’t even worried about the prospect.
Lucio’s bloodied hand raises and swipes a line of blood across the other’s face.
“Red is most definitely your color sweetheart.” He muses, offering him the rest of his hand.
It really depends o-on the reasons they need to die... I-I like the punishment to fit the crime, but w-what really matters to me the most is that they suffer deeply.
I-I can more than kill quickly and quietly, a-and that is sometimes necessary. But it holds very little satisfaction for me. I want my victims to have plenty o-of time to reflect on exactly what they’ve done wrong... Go slow enough that they think there’s a chance to-to make me change my mind.
...So, I guess the short answers is I like slow, hands-on killing; torture with weapons a-and poisons.
((Just answering this one as someone else asked the other one too and this one got long.))
It was on my eighteenth birthday, i-if you can believe it. Late at night, I was walking home alone from a party my friend had thrown me... We lived in a quiet neighborhood; nobody thought twice a-about a girl walking by herself in the dark. Not... Not to mention my house wasn’t that far away, though I did have to cross an electric corridor.
The man seemed to come out of nowhere... He grabbed me before I could make a single sound, trying to pull me to the ground. Had it not been for the martial arts I’d studied since I was ten, this story might have ended very differently.
I managed to gain the upper hand, incapacitating him enough that I could have run away... But I-I didn’t... I couldn’t. There was an animal in me that night - and she was free and she was threatened.
I flew at him while he was still trying to get back up... I-I grabbed him by the collar; both hands white knuckled on the fabric of that plaid button down... And I... Just started slamming his head into the pavement. Over and over again. He was dead long before I stopped, I’m sure of that.
((Oh here we go. Send the scissors to have my muse kill yours brutally and horrifically))Was it a nightmare? Was it reality? Impossible to tell really, all he knew, was this... creature... this... -thing-.. wasn’t Switch. Not the Switch he knew. Not the sweet little pup he had once befriended and even treated like family. No. This was an imposter bearing Switch’s face.There was no bringing Switch back now. Impossible. All he could do.. was destroy the abomination and mourn for his friend.Left eye flashed sharply, a bright blue and gold combining together, he wasn’t the same either. He was stronger now, faster, and more importantly, he had abilities that once he hadnt’ had.The best way to destroy another monster, was to take them by surprise, hit them from behind and leave no traces.Thus it was that Shorty moved silently, footsteps not even audible thanks to his low weight.Still, this was his friend. Or had been. didn’t he owe him at least a vague explanation?Bones shot up from the floor around Switch, surrounding him, blue bones, stay still and you’re fine, move and you’re going to feel the weight of your sins upon your back, and fuck if Shorty didnt’ know Switch had his share of sins to deal with. He couldnt’ afford the poison that would race through his body if he touched those bones.“Stay.”The word was spoken curtly and without any of the warmth the small skeleton was usually known for, right eye pitch black, left glowing fiercely as he approached the other, moving around so he could see his face. Bones sliding closer together to entrap the other within their merciless prison.“Be a good mutt for once. At least once before you leave this world.”Oh but to just...destroy him.. it would be too easy wouldn’t it? Didn’t Switch deserve so much better than that? If this was just a nightmare then it didn’t matter, if it was reality and something had driven him to this, then he had to make this count.White bone flew suddenly from out of nowhere piercing the shoulder and driving through it with extreme force, enough to allow it to almost get the full way through before it was stopped, followed quickly by the other shoulder and both knees, driving the mutt through the ‘cage’ and effectively pinning him to the ground. There would be no escape.“you know...this could have been avoided... if you would have just... listened... once.. once in a while.”A shake of the head and the final bone is above Switches chest, Shorty’s left eye flaring even brighter, full power activated as he forces the other’s soul out, the bone flying downwards and piercing the centre of the soul, driving the bone in and pinning that to the ground, watching almost impassively as it started to crumble before his eyes, as the creature pinned to the ground began to crumble in the same manner.“Dust. To. Dust. Return to peace Swiss. I’ll miss ya.”
Send me 💀 for a drabble of my muse killing yours.(No longer accepting.)
Dead of night, the two of them are walking. To where, Kimbley is uncertain—but then again, nothing is certain now.
However, in his own unique manner, Kimbley has been able toremain optimistic. This new incarnation of the monster he had once known hadbeen hesitant at first to accept Kimbley’s presence when he’d offered hisservices, and yet, despite the initial hesitation, he had not been turned away. Thus,following at Greed’s right side as they trekked through the wilderness of Amestris, Kimbley tookthis as a positive sign.
But obviously, he did not allow his optimism to overtake hisusually sensible nature. Kimbley had accepted there would no doubt be challenges he would be dealing with when he was finally reunited with Greed, and he had been incredibly right: not only did it seem that Greed could not remember his identity (and not even his own), but hisessence had come to be trapped inside some troublesome boy’s body—a boy that turned out to be royalty.
Obviously Kimbley preferred not to associate too closely with “Ling”—he had no interest in babysitting teenagers, and, that aside, Greed is enough of a handful (at least there was familiarity in that amidst this mess)—but that didn’t mean he would be able to avoid dealing with him altogether.
And everything that had followed the boy on his quest for immortality.
Abruptly, Greed pauses, violet eyes flicking from the path ahead to the underbrush to their left—as if hearing a sound out of the ordinary. Perhaps Kimbley would have heard it, if not for the grogginess that had been overtaking him—and, perhaps, he would have been swifter in darting out of the way of the several kunai emerging from the leafy branches.
He manages, however, to move off to the side, vision quickly checking Greed’s position once the flurry had subsided—to see he has already darted toward the direction from whence the assault had originated.
Reckless—as usual.
Yet he cannot allow himself to linger, legs carrying him as quickly as they would allow into the forest, gaze searching for Greed. He can hear an altercation ahead—the sleek noise of the edge of a blade, slicing through the air and through the wood, and of the clink of armor twinned with the weight of feet jumping from tree to tree. He catches sight---briefly, through the leaves---to see that it’s clearly of Xingese make, just like the knives that had nearly sliced him through.
Assassins, he considers, despite his partial stupor. From what Kimbley had gleaned from his brief encounters with Ling, the young man is an emperor-to-be---with a slew of siblings competing for the same inheritance. It would be no surprise to him if at least one of them was cutthroat enough to pull a move like this.
He stops and merely listens, trying to puzzle out just how many there are bustling about in the treetops. Three---no, four. And one of them is Greed, from the way Kimbley had passively studied the sound of his footfalls.
Kimbley is aware that Greed can care for himself---for the most part, at least---yet that does not still his concern. He recalls, with such stark clarity, returning to the Nest to find it barren, save the wreckage and elongated blood trails. He had failed to be there for Greed, even though he had sworn something akin to fealty to him---and, with this second chance, he did not wish to fail again.
Yet he knows, and laments, that he is in no condition to join their above-ground battle---not in this exhausted state.
Still waiting, golden eyes turned upward---two screams---silence. They’ve either been incapacitated or---as Kimbley would prefer---killed.
Then he hears one of them landing right above him, a thick rustling drowning out all other noise.
An inward breath as he presses his hands together and mentally calculates, activating his deadly alchemy, and slams them against the trunk of the tree. A mere second for the molecules in the bark to compress---down to the very roots---and abruptly explode into a shower of splinters.
The mighty oak teeters, sways, then breaks, toppling to the ground and tearing through the branches of the surrounding trees. It lands with a mighty sound---and a scream.
A familiar scream.
Kimbley wastes no time in rushing forward, past the assassin that had fallen from the great height and crumpled into a heap in the underbrush. (All three down, it seems---but there are more important matters to which me must attend.)
Heart speeding up, he can see a black, clawed hand sticking up from underneath the trunk of the fallen tree, and all at once, he finds himself glued to the spot. He had always wondered if Greed could duplicate his inhuman abilities in this human body---but now, had he learned the truth...?
A bitter, horrible truth...?
He shuts his eyes to clear the image---only to hear the branches shake with the effort of movement. Opening them, Kimbley can see the trunk of the tree parting from its indent in the ground, and there emerges Greed, red sparks surrounding his bloodied, straining frame.
“How about---a little help, maybe?” the half-Homunculus growls---and, filled with a refreshing sort of relief, Kimbley rushes forward and, with what remaining strength he can muster, helps in freeing him.
And once Greed is fully healed, lying against the bark and taking in shallow breaths, Kimbley just watches him. He feels an overwhelming need to do---something. But what, he cannot identify.
So instead, he merely takes a seat beside Greed---as close as he will allow---and waits for the signal to keep moving.
Send me 💀 for a drabble of my muse killing yours. (no longer accepting)
@occidoergosum
[[ thank u, he is pretty gay~ also nothing explicit or gross under the cut (except death, obviously), just really long >___>
Also, Barry is now Kimbley’s son. :P ]]
—
It might not have been readily apparent, but Kimbley was always at least somewhat proud of his creations—even the failures. Though it was with a heavy heart that he would accept some of his experiments as less-than-his-best, he tried to take things in stride—that, in the end, he could learn from these mistakes, so as to not repeat them.
And yet there were some failures that he could not so easily leave alone.
Number 66, as the creature came to be known, had been considered one of Kimbley’s greatest triumphs thus far in his career. Attaching a human soul to an inanimate object was still a precarious procedure, requiring a decent amount of sacrifice in order for it to be at all successful. The Red Stone he had used to transfer the prisoner’s essence into its current metal shell had dissipated completely in the wake of the experiment—and it had not been a size to scoff at. And yet it seemed, in the wake of the initial process, that he had been successful, and for that Kimbley was proud.
—At first, of course.
As he was somewhat proud of all of his experiments, so too did he keep a close eye on them in the aftermath, Number 66 included. In the beginning, all seemed well—the metal creature was put on guard duty above-ground, its sole purpose to keep watch over the perimeter of Laboratory 5. It performed admirably enough, though most of the stragglers it cut through were homeless bums that couldn’t put up a half-decent fight. Nevertheless, it did its job well, and that was really all that mattered. And this pleased Kimbley.
However, with the passage of time, Kimbley noticed a subtle… degrading of the metallic beast’s personality. Certainly the man that became the monster was not entirely “well,” but he at least had some sense of composure. It was almost as though its mind was slowly beginning to erode, leaving it in random manic giggling fits, engaging in indecipherable monologues, fighting with invisible adversaries.
All the while Kimbley was making these mental notes, he improved his methods, branching into more advanced territory—all culminating to the creation of Number 48, which was in fact the combination of two souls. By this time, having done his homework and gone through the process several times, it seemed the minds had melded to the armor perfectly intact, without any sort of degradation.
So Kimbley had to wonder—had it been an issue with his own procedure? Or was the soul he had used to create Number 66 simply… of poor quality?
Either way, he believed it was high time to remedy his mistake.
Number 66 was summoned to his underground chamber, his pose unassuming as the clanking suit of armor crossed the threshold. Though he knew the creature did not require rest, he insisted it take a seat with a kindly gesture.
“Please—I enjoy the illusion of having company,” Kimbley insisted.
And so Number 66 silently complied, sitting heavily in the seat, metallic joints creaking and clicking as it did so.
“I’ve been meaning to have a discussion with you,” the scientist began, pacing idly, “about your current state.”
“Yeah, doc?” it responded—and it sounded impatient. Kimbley was aware the two of them maintained a shaky alliance—though Number 66 had been gifted with this durable body, Kimbley had still forcefully ripped its soul out of its living body—but there was just enough trust there that it would not be suspicious of Kimbley’s current motives.
“Well—” and Kimbley paused as he reached the far wall, stopping short, a hand pressing against one of the stones, which slightly sank into its indents. Without glancing backward, he could hear the metal bands snap around Number 66′s hefty frame—reinforced steel, just for this particular occasion. A rattling of joints, an awkward gasp.
At last he turned his golden eyes to his experiment, and at last, he allowed them to be tinged with disappointment.
“I’m afraid your services will no longer be required.”
“Aw—c’mon, doc, this is really how you’re gonna let me go out?” the armor prodded with a touch of sarcasm—then, suddenly, a smattering of inappropriate laughter. “Not even gonna let met get a chance in to slice up that pretty face of yours? —Well, certainly not as pretty as my wife’s—” then a sudden jerk of its helm, “—if I was married? …Was I?”
And as it commenced mumbling to itself, Kimbley sauntered forward, fingers gently clasping the skeletal face and lifting it to reveal the seal that Kimbley had forged.
“—Ah, d—doc?” the armor sputtered, its stammer signifying that it was finally realizing its vulnerable position. “Wh— Are you—? Are you really gonna—?”
“Most of the time,” Kimbley addressed the armor as he loomed above it, “I would revel in erasing such a blight on my nearly flawless record—and yet, I strangely find my heart heavy. No father wants to murder his own child, but alas.”
His thumb rubbed at the small, bloody mark on the back edge of the metal frame, and he felt it shudder under his touch. Its lines were reinforced with his own alchemy, and therefore, only alchemy could be used to wash away the soul bound within.
“C’mon, doc—I can do better! You want that, right? You want me to cut up more people? I’ll cut ‘em all up! Every last one of ‘em! Every disgusting little piggy crawling across your doorstep!” the creature begged as Kimbley removed his gloves, revealing the twin sun and moon arrays on his palms. “Every last one, I swear—every last one—!”
Like a solemn father speaking to his sniveling son, Kimbley responded, “Farewell, Number 66.”
And, pressing his hands together, his index finger gently brushed against the array. A shower of destructive sparks erupted from his touch, blasting the soul free from its iron prison.
At the behest of Greed, Kimbley had been sent to collectanother of his monstrous kin from South Headquarters, one of his chimeralackeys in tow. Despite the earnest insistence for chatter, Kimbley preferredto keep his end of the conversation at a minimum as they picked their waythrough the sewer system. Years of imprisonment had dulled his desire for smalltalk, and it wasn’t as though he had much to say anyway.
Finally, once he approached the imposing edifice, wallscrumbling down in a blast of his signature alchemical energy, Kimbley notedthat even with the use of a few extra “ingredients,” the results were far too… lackingfor his liking. Prison had truly made him rusty, and it fueled his perfectionist nature to do better.
In addition, he subconsciously logged that his inhumancompanion had ultimately proven neither a help nor a hindrance to theircombined cause.
Honestly, it wasn’t as though Kimbley necessarily felt any dislikefor the various chimeras that inhabited the Nest. Really, he merely viewed themas fellow drifters taking up space in his (perhaps only temporary) abode, andnot much more.
However, it was because of this rather neutral viewof them that he hardly minded putting his little friend’s molecules touse.
So, believing it best to even the odds once those two Elricboys made their appearance---to improve upon his last undesirable attempt---a tattooed palm enclosed around the tail of thetumbled-over chimera, whose attention perked immediately at the contact, voice a horrified screech:
“Do you plan to turn me into a bomb---?”
Kimbley decided it best to answer not with words, but withaction. Engaging his deadly transmutation, he could feel the creature’smolecules breaking down right underneath his touch, the twisted expression onhis face making apparent the pain involved in the process.
Then, with a single gentle push, the chimera toppled over,turning into a brilliant shower of explosive sparks and black smoke. It wasenough to send the boys flying against the wall, the one still made of fleshgaining a decent burn to his face and a wound to his arm.
Despite the fun he had been having, the excursion hadultimately been for naught; gauging the amount of soldiers filing into view,the presence of those Elric boys and their teacher, and now the approach of theFührer, Kimbley decided it best to flee the scene and hop back down into thesewers.
As he tread along casually, he supposed he could only hopethat particular chimera had been one of Greed’s less favored among hisunderlings.
Send me ‘✂’ and my muse will kill yours. Right now. Brutally, horribly, bloody. Just do it.
“There are so many things I would like to say to you...” Salazar didn’t finish his sentence. A thousand thoughts were pushing through his skull, barraging him with every reason not to do this.
But only one reason mattered, a reason so dear and so unattainable it didn’t deserve thought process.
He’d done this a thousand times in his nightmares. His eventual snap played out before him again and again, no longer scaring him but feeding him. Did Rowena really believe, in the end, that he could let her go? That he could let her continue, to go on knowing every secret he has? Clarity came to him the same way anger trickled through his veins.
"For you, Rowena, I shall not use magic.” In an effort to show her how seriously he took this he put his wand on the table, walking away. He wondered momentarily if she’d seen this coming, if she just didn’t believe it. Without hesitation he crossed the room to her, touching her cheek. "Magic lacks a rather...intimate feeling in certain situations, I find.”
A sigh, before moving his hand from her cheek to her neck, squeezing enough to make her squirm without actually cutting off her oxygen supply. Of course she fought against him, sent him flying across the room. She was powerful, but not too powerful, and he stood quickly to avoid further attacks. “Magic, love, what did I say?”
In moments her wand was gone, rolling across the floor as Salazar attacked again. He was rougher, more precise, more keen. Blood dripped from his knuckles as he bludgeoned her again and again, ignoring every word that came from her lips. What could she possibly say to him that she hadn’t already?
She was so, so beautiful. Even now, as they tussled, back and forth on a power play that Salazar could no longer control. Even with blood in her hair and colour leaving her face, she was beautiful. She would loathe him for thinking that as he killed her, push him back into the crowd of men that only cared for that.
In the end, he didn’t care. It didn’t matter what she looked like, or how smart she was. In the end, she was a lifeless body beneath his rage, beneath the facade that was their friendship.
She stopped fighting, stopped trying to argue him out of this. She had no movement in her, and when Salazar realized she was actually dead, he couldn’t move. He knew he had to clean this up, but he couldn’t move away from Rowena. His eyes could not meet hers now, even as they stared off into the distance without seeing. His hands shook, he felt sick. He had killed people before, used a sword to behead people in the war but, never had he felt... what was it that he felt?
Tears began to drip from his cheeks, staining Rowena’s robes with something other than her own blood. The clarity that had been so real to him was gone, a mixture of confusion and heartbreak and arrogance taking it’s place. What had he done? Salazar pulled her against him, sitting on the floor as he held her, shaking with desolation. How long had he been there? Hours? Days?
It didn’t matter. Rowena was gone. Without her, nothing mattered.
