Log; Complete

[crimson-intent.livejournal.com]

When; November 16th, afternoon cause we fail at speedy logging
Rating; PG-13 (maybe a touch more?)
Characters; Dante [a_rotted_heart] & Zolf Kimblee [crimson_intent]
Summary; Kimblee breaks free from Road's dream into the uncaring company of his roommate, Dante.
Log;

Kimblee: Kimblee knew it was a dream. The nameless faces his sharp memory couldn't latch onto, the discontinuity, those odd torches, the lack of killing intent even as his tormentors intentionally pushed him towards expiring ... how many times had he "died"? Kimblee decided to conveniently forget. Past flirting and brushing glances, he and death had been forced into a union which was becoming progressively abusive. "Resurrection", once viewed favorably, had taken on a bitter edge some time ago when the looping pattern became all too clear ...

Whether gift or aptitude, Kimblee had learned early on how to harness his dreams. Leveling cities in your sleep wasn't nearly as satisfying as the real thing, but a useful outlet nonetheless. Therefore, nightmares were rare, and ones Kimblee couldn't manipulate into something more pleasing, even rarer ... until now. The first few he'd managed to find a way out of, blaming the illness sweeping the City for his lack of control. However, during each bout of sleep the trap tightened, until the night arrived where there was no foreseeable way out ... except into another dream.

Brainwashing attempts, lobotomies, sensory deprivation, amputations, vivisection ... every rumor whispered through the cell blocks of Central Prison about Lab Five, and then some, were playing themselves out. Most defied words, and at some point Kimblee lost the battle which robbed them of sound. There's a world of difference between struggling and fighting, though ...

When a chance came, he didn't hesitate. They were using him as fodder for a philosopher's stone. He was pinned, hands skewered by those horrid candles which haunted every mindscape, alchemy tugging at his soul and sizzling around the torn edges of his tattoos. Ironically, soul pain, however excruciating, was something arrancar had made him all too familiar with. Riding the agony, pushing past it, Kimblee reached out to the stone along tendrils of his own spirit. He tapped into the object capable of bypassing every alchemical law known to man, and flashed a triumphantly feral smile as the world exploded, shattered, around him ...

Dante: How long had it been now? Friday night.. Saturday night... now Sunday.

Dante had known something was wrong when Kimblee had started muttering in his sleep, even before she'd woken to singed sheets and insisted he give her the Philosopher's Stone in his stomach. The man was not a tense creature by nature, rarely troubled by anything, let alone his sleep. Thus it was all the more disturbing when one day he simply didn't wake up at all.

Dante was no stranger to the sounds of torture. She had not done the deed herself, of course, but she'd had enough experience in the darker aspects of science to be familiar. And for nearly three days she had heard those screams from Kimblee, who normally was so soft and smooth with his words.

He'd attacked her on Saturday, his eyes open but unseeing; she could only hope he was too lost in the dream to remember the panic on her face before quick thinking and hurried alchemy left him restrained on the floor while she took refuge in the second bedroom.

But as troubling, bothersome--annoying--his screams were, the silence that was just as noticeable was far more unsettling....

Kimblee: As consciousness filtered back, Kimblee stepped though the usual routine. One that, as of late, had played itself out far too often for his tastes. A light sleeper, the alchemist took certain precautions upon waking from anything deeper than his usual shallow slumber. Maintaining a guise of stupor, he rolled tongue against palate – damp sandpaper against sticky wood, but not cottony like drugs would have left it. Even breath brought familiar scents, and wafting voices sounded mundane, relatively tranquil, rather than tormented. Kimblee stretched subtly. Sore muscles protested weakly, chafed skin grumbling where snug bounds had a bit of give ...

Despite the inconsistencies, if he was restrained, odds were little had changed. Kimblee's hoarse voice wheezed through a bitter chortle. It was the laugh of someone who hadn't necessary lost their mind, if they possessed one to lose, but kept sanity on a very elastic leash.

Dante: The silence persisted.... Different.

Suspicious.

Kimblee had long since screamed himself hoarse, but a rasping cry was still a noise. Dante frowned, slipping out of the bed--she'd taken to reading in the second bedroom the past two days--and set down her book.

It was only when she approached the doorway that she heard him laughing. For a moment, her lips pressed into a thin smile--that bitterness was familiar, but mixed with a flavor of madness so thick it was nearly tangible. Venom like that which boiled in her own heart, seamlessly merged with a monster's dementia.... Dante understood it, yet could find it nowhere in her heart to pity the man.

Still, she lingered in the doorway, watching, waiting for Kimblee to respond... just as she always did.

Kimblee: A face, and one the alchemist recognized. But more importantly, a focal point for his vitriol ... something he'd been robbed of thus far. What new game was this, then? Did they think he wouldn't harm his current benefactor? Deemed him incapable of truly reveling in her death? Kimblee's laugh ended in a derisive snort. Having taken up residence in his brain, they should know better.

Kimblee met her eyes without lifting his head. Limp hair framed and obscured some of the alchemist's features, but not his gaze – it's normal chill gone scalding – or that demonic smile.

"A change of scenery? how thoughtful," he said, voice as smooth as an abused throat could manage. "I always did think this room would look better in red." The curl of his lips leaving little doubt as to where said shade would come from.

Dante: Dante pursed her lips. Awake, but trapped in his dreams nonetheless. Kimblee's hands had ceased to hold any danger for her some time ago--he wasn't looking at her now, though. A change of scenery....

"Zolf Kimblee." She rarely used the man's name, much less his full name. But given the circumstances, it seemed appropriate--whatever phantom he believed he saw was likely to use his codename, and her first priority was to distance herself from his tormentors.

"You're finally awake."

Her voice was cool, even, an invitation back from insanity she knew he wouldn't accept... not yet, at least. She pressed palms together, sending blue-tinted arcs crackling through the floor. The restraints that held his arms crumbled, leaving only the crudely transmuted concrete and wood from the destroyed bedframe that disabled legs.

She'd gifted him use of his tattooed hands; it was a gamble considering his condition, but the longer he was bound in body the longer he'd be bound in mind.

Kimblee: Kimblee lolled his head back as she spoke, dry throat visibly struggling through a swallow, tongue lingering more than was likely necessary for a simple wetting of parched lips.

"I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else ..."

The use of his name was unwise. Indeed, she rarely used it. And that fact only gave credence to his error in judgment.

He acted quickly once his arms were freed. Alchemy blistered the flooring, freeing legs and sizzling a speedy trail to the doorway. There an explosion, intended to herd rather than harm, blocked Dante's escape. Kimblee moved to press hand smartly to chest, pin her to the doorjamb, exploiting imbalance and momentum more than exerting any force himself.

Dante: Someone else. This mad dog was becoming more nuisance than pet. Dante didn't flee--wouldn't flee, not from him--but even if she had tried, she wouldn't have gotten far. The explosion at her back knocked her off balance, and he was quick, far quicker than he should have been with his body in its present condition.

Her back arched against the doorframe wedged uncomfortably between her shoulderblades and her spine, forcing her chest to press into his hand. Her hands were free, but useless as weapons. Yet Dante simply turned up her nose in disgust; it was insulting, thinking he would attempt to kill her in the same crude way he had so many others, like she was nothing more than cannon fodder. He was a pitiful creature, so wretched he wasn't even worthy of her hatred.

She turned her face from him as a soft chuckle brought the curling hint of a smirk to her lips. Even so... bringing the brute closer was the only way to recapture what had been wrenched away from her by those dreams. And she did long for the Crimson when he was properly tamed.

Kimblee: "Such bravery," Kimblee said, halfway between a hiss and a husky purr.

Her laughter bit, but didn't take hold. Countless strong individuals had lost their resolve beneath his palms. It rendered death more savory than sweet. Though, as with food, diversity was the spice of life.

"So, blood or muscle," he whispered, cheek to cheek as his hand flexed, fingers and thumb stretching towards either side of Dante's neck. "Choices, choices ..."

Dante: Dante looked at him coolly out of the corner of her eye; the hint of a smile that lingered on her face was haughty, scornful. He was seeing her face, noticed her confidence... now all that was left was to ensure he heard her words as well.

"So the great Crimson Alchemist has been reduced to this?"

She lifted her chin slightly, more as an imitation of the usual toss of her head than to evade the hand dangerously near her throat.

"I've lived far too long to be killed by what you've become."

Kimblee: I've lived far too long to be killed by what you've become ...

"Have you, now?" It was his turn to chuckle again. "... or just long enough."

The laughter remained twisted, gruff, but ran cleaner than before. The statement had found its intended mark. Brain wooed into testing outliers to Dante's "story" like puzzle pieces after a successful placement opened up new possibilities, the wheels of Kimblee's intellect were nudged into motion. Its rise wouldn't bring empathy, or a sense of right and wrong, but a coolly calculating mind which had deemed her useful once before, and might again ...

"... and what have I become, hmm?"

... if given the chance, of course. The alchemist's index finger curled lightly against her collarbone. Perhaps he had a rare gem on his hands, an individual whose body would break before fortitude. Kimblee looked at Dante's glittering eyes, but not into them. If she was truly such a jewel, they would engorge with a certain brilliance before life popped free ... all the beauty of a shattered diamond, and no need to trouble oneself with deadly shrapnel.

Dante: Something fluttered in Dante's chest, a tremor through her core that had nothing to do with the man's touch--delight that manifested itself not in any physical way, aside from the sharp glint in her eyes. Kimblee's fate had been decided from the beginning, of course. That he would kill her was never an option. But victory, control, was sweet nonetheless, so strong that she could taste it just as clearly as the bile Hohenheim had left in her heart.

"You have a good mind, Kimblee."

Her voice was clear, a sweet lure into the loving arms of the puppeteer. A hand rose slowly, deliberately to his face, fingers--not palm--delicately tracing along cheekbone.

"I'm sure you remember how to use it."

Kimblee: Remember? Kimblee couldn't suppress another chortle. He never forgot a detail. As for his mind – the chuckle rolled on, gaining momentum – in lesser circumstances many had wasted no time telling him he'd lost it long ago, if ever possessed one at all.

He'd won. The alchemist knew that now. In a battle with his own mind he had come out the victor. What could possibly stand in his way?

Wracked by gravelly laughter, Kimblee tossed his head back, falling away from Dante, and against the opposite wall. Vision constricted as a nauseating feeling welled into head rather than throat. A body deprived of nourishment and rest for far too long can't sustain peak function indefinitely. It's duty of survival accomplished, the time had come for a certain benefactor to do her job ...

Back sliding against plaster, cackle fading, he was unconscious again before reaching the floor.

Dante: The smile faded from Dante's features as Kimblee pulled away, and her face settled back into its usual indifference. Of course, a frail human body could only last for so long on days without food or water, and he had already pushed his to its limits and beyond.... Pitiful.

She watched him hit the wall and slide limply to the floor; his skin had been clammy when she touched his face, but now it had taken on an unhealthy pallor as well. Dead? Dante knelt, hand going to his face again, but this time sliding down past his jaw to feel for a pulse. Alive still, it seemed... but in poor condition. He couldn't stay on the floor--she would have to contact Envy to pull him to the couch.

She rose with a sigh. Tch... now she had more of the floor to fix.