WIPs
Today a set of three works in progress and a couple drabbles. Haven't been writing much lately, so enjoy the update when you get it.
First- Four drabbles in response to a challenge over on my regular journal, here mainly for archiving purposes.
Star Wars, Pride, Envy, and Ambiguity
Second- the WIPs, one original, two FMA
Crits are most welcome and indeed wanted and needed on all three.
Title: Children of the Future
Original Fiction
Rating: Eventually R, PG for now
Word Count: 1,946
Summary: In the future, people are valued not by what they do, but how they are made.
Notes: Obviously, a work in progress. All exposition up to this point, sad to say. There will be action.. eventually... just some things needed to get set out, which may or may not make it into the final version. Right now, I mostly need some sounding board comments.
We were the Children of the Future. We were supposed to be perfect: perfect beings, perfect tools. We were each engineered, designed, created for a purpose. Some of us were to be the perfect scientists: studious, curious, always willing to learn and find and do. Some of us were meant to be the perfect workers: courteous citizens willing to do, to help, to be whatever was needed. Some of us, most of us, were meant to be the perfect soldiers: knowing no fear, pity, or mercy, living for the next battle, the next order. We were the perfect shock troops; what ordinary person could fire at something that looked like the child they had left at home? So others began developing things, creations like us. Soon, the world was filled with us, we who became known simply as the Children as more uses were found for us in every aspect of life. Soon, Children did all the work; the normals relied on us, depended on us, trusted us. That was their first mistake.
2126, KelTek Genetic Research Facility, Central Office
“Sir, I don’t think I understand. You’re asking us to-”
“Create the perfect person. What’s so hard to understand?”
“But, sir, human genetic experimentation and engineering is illegal. If we were found out, the results could be disastrous. We could be shut down, all our funding cut, we could even go to jail!”
“I am well aware of the consequences, James, don’t think that I’m not. I understand the risks you and your team will be taking. That’s why I’m offering a twenty-five percent pay raise if you are successful, and bonuses for each success following the first.”
“Sir! I, uh, I don’t really know what to say…”
“Say you’ll succeed, James. That’s all I need to hear.”
~~~~~~~~~
They created us, gave us life, such as it was. They expected us to be grateful. They wanted us to be no more than robots, really, robots that could think for themselves, but only when commanded to. They wanted us to live for their every need, jump to their every whim. And we did. At least at first. At least until we discovered that, in their haste to create the perfect human beings, they had unknowingly not only given us minds, they had given us souls.
2127, KelTek Genetic Research Facility, Laboratory H, Project: Children Of The Future
Aaron James, head of the Children Of The Future Project, paced nervously in his office. He was still young compared to the team he led, only being ten years out of graduate school. He had never expected to be approached immediately out of school by KelTek Enterprises to be a part of a genetic research team funded by a number of government and private organizations. He had also never expected to be promoted to heading the team just over a year ago when the previous head resigned under mysterious circumstances. He had almost laughed when he found out the reason for both. Almost.
His team was composed of some of the best in the field of genetic research and engineering. He was proud of them. How could he not be, they were about to succeed with the project they had all spent the better part of the last year working on. No one had ever expected success this quickly. Of course, he was quick to check himself, there was no real guarantee of success in full and there wouldn’t be until some time in the future; for now, though, they were all immensely surprised and gratified that after only a few attempts, they had managed to alter the genetic makeup of a group of zygotes, implant them in the synthetic wombs, and, unlike the past attempts, this group had suffered a minimum of spontaneous purging. Every other batch had been completely decimated within the first trimester, the first within just a week of implanting; the second had lasted almost a full month. They had, as yet, had no success with speeding up the gestation time, either.
He glanced out of his office window. He could see his team at work, some tending the near-term fetuses, others already hard at work at the next, improved batch of zygotes, correcting those mistakes they had observed in the developing embryos. He could hardly believe it had only been a year since the official start of the project, although underground research on the subject had been going on for years. It had started decades or possibly even a century ago with simple alterations to the genetic codes of small animals, rats and the like, to make them live longer so they could be better test subjects. That had been a small step onto a superhighway of invention. Not long after that, scientists had begun experimenting, quietly, with other animals. As the decades went on, they began more complex tests on more complex subjects. For the first mission to Mars alone, over ten new species had been created to withstand the peculiar needs of deep space.
All of that had led, inevitably perhaps, to the questions of what could happen if that research was turned to humans, the ultimate end of the evolution track. The governments of the world had stepped in immediately to put an end to that kind of speculation; they had feared its consequences without seeing its possibilities. That simply sent the research underground, of course, into the hands of the private sector companies, those who realized that there was a profit to be made from those who could afford to be discrete. And so, for the last few decades, research had continued, openly on animals, perhaps not so openly on humans. And if a company managed to ‘discover’ the cure for cancer, or diabetes, or multiple sclerosis, well, who would question whether their methods had been completely above-board.
And so, here was James with his team of scientists, working off the research of decades, patching together the secrets of the human genetic code to create…what? The perfect human? James somewhat doubted that was possible. To himself, when no one was with him, he often feared that they may be creating, not people, but monsters. How much could a person or a group of persons meddle in the realm commonly conceded as belonging to whatever god may be out there before they crossed too far? They could create a human who was strong, quick, smart, but when was what they created no longer human? He had no answers, even for himself, but then, he wasn’t being paid to toil over moral questions, only to produce results, in whatever form they appeared.
That was exactly what his team was doing, producing results. The only real problem was that they had no idea, any of them, what the results might be. They had decided, after the first failed attempt, to work slower, altering fewer genes at a time, working their way up to the final full effect they wanted. This batch was split into groups with different alterations. He turned to the wall of synthetic wombs that he could just make out through the glass into isolation. There were twenty of them, lined up in neat rows of five, but James hoped to increase the number to ten times that amount with this success. Each womb was clear to facilitate monitoring but marked with a colored circle. The green coded embryos, ten of them, had been personality altered, as far as genes could. They would be watched and raised separately to see just how far genetic alteration could affect temperament. Yellow designated the five altered for increased intelligence and diligence. They would be tested under different circumstances to see just how far human intelligence could be pushed. If all went well, they might someday help to create their own brothers and sisters. Finally, at the far end, five embryos had been marked with blue, embryos that had been altered in size and strength. For some reason, these had suffered the only casualties, losing three of their number. The two that remained seemed healthy enough, but no one would know for sure until they were removed from the wombs.
This was, he reflected, really more the a creation of experimental subjects than any sort of finished product. The course of genetic engineering may never be finished, just becoming more and more refined ad infinitum. Where angels fear to tread, indeed. The possibilities were truly endless; almost any profession or role in society could be designed for: doctor, scientist, laborer, teacher. Soldier. That one, perhaps, he feared the most. Would his be the hand that designed the human that ended the world? Pointless thoughts, at this time anyway. He found himself smiling as he thought back to his college days. He had once done a research paper on one of the great behaviorists of the Twentieth Century, one who had believed that genetics meant truly nothing. ‘Give me a dozen healthy infants,’ the scientist had claimed, ‘well-formed, and my own specified world to bring them up in and I’ll guarantee to take any one at random and train him to become any type of specialist I might select-doctor, lawyer, artist, merchant-chief and yes, even beggar-man and thief.’ They would soon discover just how correct he had been. In this one thing, they would change the world.
He forced himself to check back into the present. His team was still hard at work, showing not much time had passed during his mental wanderings. Only four people were in the lab at the moment, not counting the two lab assistants whose entire job it was to tend the embryos. They had learned from the first batch how quickly a change of temperature of just a few degrees, a moment of carelessness, could flaw the entire batch, possibly irreparably. The other seven members of the team were currently on the evening or night shifts. They had agreed early on that as long as there were embryos incubating, someone more than a lab assistant had to be in the lab at all times. The chances for something to go wrong were just too many. Just as well, James thought, less time to do as you please leaves less time for corporate espionage. The last thing he needed was one of his team to be selling secrets to some other company, although as far as he knew, they were the only ones attempting this forbidden art, attempting to steal the fire of the gods. But news of this research couldn’t be kept completely secret forever, as hard as they tried, and soon there would be competition.
And there was a frightening thought, because competition would lead to contestation of ownership, which meant patents. Patented designer children. That was what they were truly creating, not dolls or tools, but children. James shook his head. Whenever he started thinking thoughts like that, he began to doubt his wisdom in not following his former superior as soon as he found out what the team would be doing. He preferred to think of them as just things instead of the human beings he knew they would become. But, if humans truly had souls, as some believed, what would become of these beings born outside of any god’s plan? Would they be soulless things or would they be…alive? Ah, well, that was a debate for another day, and for another person. He was in no way religious, nor did he claim to be. He left it to theologians, philosophers, and the insane to debate the realms of the unknown; he would be content to live in what he could sense and know.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Title: The Fuhrer's Blades
Series: FMA x King's Blades crossover (not entirely necessary to be familiar with Blades)
Rating: Again, will probably be R, PG for now
Word count: 1,361
Summary: Lord Mustang, formerly Sir Flame, has just been assigned a Blade, a human weapon second to none. Will this turn out to be a blessing or a curse?
Notes: Places are from King's Blades, people mostly from FMA. Other things mix both worlds. This one... again, all concrit makes me happy, but I'm mostly worried about what may seem confusing to someone who doesn't know Blades.
Lord Mustang grimaced as the party rode across the barren Starkmore plain. They’d been going at a leisurely pace, granted, but surely by noon they should have reached the fame fortress of Ironhall. Not that he minded the riding. Far from it. It had been months since he’d been on a horse for more than a few minutes of trotting along Grandon’s streets. No, he didn’t mind the riding, rather it was the company which was making his fingers twitch.
The Fuhrer had decided to come collect a few Blades himself so Mustang had been limited to two companions, leaving them surrounded by the members of the Royal Guard, the Fuhrer’s loyal guard dogs. He thought that it was probably some sort of irony that someone who had once been one of the most respected Blades in the history of Ironhall’s graduates, and who now held a position of considerable power within the hierarchy of Chivial itself should be made uneasy by those who he should rightfully call his brothers. He supposed it was the sidelong glances they kept giving him, as if already suspecting that he had been plotting for months against their ward. But that was impossible. Mustang had been amazingly careful to destroy any trace of his meddling that could possibly reach back to the Fuhrer or, even worse, to the former Blade in charge of the Dark Chamber, Sir Ironblood. What he hadn’t seen to personally, Hughes had handled.
Hughes, who had been a childhood friend before Mustang went to Ironhall and a trusted companion and supporter now that Mustang was again in a position to need such things. Mustang glanced at the man beside him. If he could have anyone at his back in this pack of dogs, Hughes would be at the top of the list. A Blade’s loyalty was forced, conjured by a sword through the heart, but Hughes… Hughes he could trust not only with his life, but with his heart and mind as well.
He tugged at his riding gloves as he looked at the man riding to his other side and slightly behind him, wishing he could wear his arrayed gloves instead but knowing the Guard would sooner rip his arms off than let him keep such blatant weapons in the Fuhrer’s presence. They wouldn’t even let him carry Wit, which was his by right of being a Blade. Instead, she was tucked away safely in his saddlebag. He missed the weight of his rapier at his hip but there was nothing to be done about that at the moment.
That led him to his second companion. Jean Havoc, ostensibly a servant, was much more than the Guard could expect. While nowhere up to Blade standards, Havoc had the skill to get Mustang and Hughes something of a head start should anything go wrong. Something inside Mustang twisted at the thought of so easily sentencing one of his men to certain death, but he quickly shoved it aside. Two companions were all he had been allowed to bring with him on this idiotic trek to the edge of the world. Why one of the most dangerous men in the country should need a bodyguard… unless… No. He refused to even consider that option. No one, not even the Fuhrer could know what he was planning. Even he wasn’t entirely set on his course, yet.
At least, that’s what he told Hughes and the others when they pressed. So, no, there had to be another reason for the letter he had received last week formally inviting ‘Lord Mustang, Marquess of Ester’ to accompany the Fuhrer to Ironhall to receive the gift of a Blade. But even so, he should have heard from someone, the letter shouldn’t have just come out of nowhere… but it had.
Mustang removed one hand from the reins and rubbed his eyes. It didn’t add up and it certainly wasn’t expected and that was bad. As he was contemplating the unfairness of it all, a hand touched his shoulder. Only years of self-control kept the even more years of relying on reflex from taking Hughes’ hand off before he even registered who it was and, judging from the smirk on Hughes’ face, he knew exactly the pressure Mustang was up against. He briefly considered taking Hughes’ hand off anyway but instead quirked an eyebrow up into his most severe ‘explain-or-die’ expression. Hughes merely smirked wider and pointed at the large cloud of dust that had magically appeared, heading toward a growing structure of imposing grey on the horizon.
Ah, the sopranos’ riding class had spotted the Fuhrer’s party, then. Well, at least they were getting closer. At this pace another hour should bring them up to the main gate. He was tempted to quicken his mount’s pace, but one simply did not outride the Fuhrer, and Fuhrer Bradley wasn’t much of a rider to begin with.
He wasn’t much of a Fuhrer, either, in Mustang’s opinion, but the twenty-odd Blades riding formation around them might object to those sentiments. At least in the Fuhrer’s hearing. He catalogued the ones he knew for the twentieth time that day. Some were far after his time, but some he recognized, having known them in Ironhall or later in the Lord Marquess’ service. Thre was Strongarm, a giant of a man and one Mustang made a conscious effort not to get too close to. He was commander of the Royal Guard and all too eager in his duties. After his release, perhaps, with a few carefully placed facts, he might make a useful ally. Plus, he was one of the strongest (Mustang was forced to grimace at his own unintentional yet horrible pun) alchemists to come out of Ironhall in years, both physically and in the craft.
Glancing around, it occurred to Mustang that nearly all of the Guard carried some sort of array on their person. Interesting. While Blades were recognized as the best fighters to be found in almost any arena, around the same percentage of them had the talent for alchemy as could be found in the civilian population. They were given the best possible training in the craft, of course, alongside their studies of other skills such as horsemanship and the like, but for so many of the Fuhrer’s personal guard to be alchemists, well, he must be collecting them specifically. But then, he was the Fuhrer and they were the Fuhrer’s Blades, and he could do with them as he wished.
Mustang sighed and tossed a half-hearted glare at Hughes. He’d successfully given himself a new set of worries and a grand headache. This was going to be a long hour.
Candidate Fullmetal looked up from the junior he was sparring with as the sopranos came tearing in from their riding lesson, the old paint horse winning more by virtue of its familiarity with the game than any competence on its rider’s part. He knew the speedy entry could only mean one thing, but he turned back to his sparring, smacking his partner upside the head with the saber he was using as the boy continued to pay attention to the riders instead of to his opponent.
As they picked up the rhythm of their sparring again, he continued to think. Not that he needed too much brain power against this opponent. The boy was a good enough rapier man but with sabers he was hopeless. So, riders spotted approaching Ironhall. Looked like he wouldn’t be Prime Candidate much longer. Most Primes would have been running for their rooms to prepare for the ceremony as soon as riders had been spotted, but Fullmetal snorted at the thought. This way the Brat would know where to find him, and, while he probably should clean up, considering he had the mud and grime of a morning’s sparring and who knew what else coated on him, he wanted to let the ward see just who he would be getting as a Blade. He was a weapon, pure and simple, not a show dog, and he knew it. Fullmetal refused to primp or mince words for anyone, even the Fuhrer himself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Title: Origins (working title only)
Series: FMA pre-series (very pre- 400 yrs pre)
Rating: R for violence
Word count: 1,240
Warnings: violence, ouchies for pre-Envy
Summary: Envy was not always a Sin.
Notes: Again, I need a sounding board and crit. That's all I'm asking for on this one, nothing really specific. Also- I'm kinda trying to keep this one from turning into the dark, morbid fiasco that Total Slaughter turned in to.
Indeed, it is not by the plans of men, but by the hand of God that the affairs of men are directed; and this men call Fate, not knowing the reason for what things they see occur; and what seems to be without cause is easy to call the accident of chance. Still, it is a matter every mortal will decide for himself according to his taste. ~Procopius- Anecdota (The Secret History) Ch. 4
“Good boy. You’re Mother’s good boy. You’d anything for Mother, wouldn’t you? You said you’d bring your father back. Only a little while longer. He’ll come back. He has to.”
Pain. Darkness. Then… a release. Memory. Flashes of light.
Mother, so pretty, crying.
Mother asking him if he would help her get father to come back to them. How could he refuse? Mother only wanted what was best for them.
Pain! He couldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t breathe right. He felt like he was going to die. He wished he would die. A cool hand on his forehead. Mother. Father would come. Father would…
Pain. Darkness. Then…nothing.
~~
Waking into darkness from… darkness? He remembered…nothing… and everything. Darkness, hands, pain, nothingness, thoughts, feelings, all as one until…it stopped. He- who was he?- awoke to… this… Darkness within darkness.
He tried to move and found he couldn’t. The word found him- chains. He was chained to the wall here, wherever here was. He felt his memory struggle against the chains which held it as he tried to remember. He had forgotten something, he knew, forgotten something which should have lived in his very soul but which had been driven out by the darkness. But what he had forgotten he could not recall, no matter how he tried, till he forgot even that he had forgotten.
He squirmed against the wall, pulling at the bands on his wrists, ankles and neck. He swallowed as things slowly began to leak past the barrier on his thoughts. An emotion led the way. Fear. First the word. Then, as if it had been a trigger, terror followed on its heels. He would have started thrashing if he could have. Instead, the collar around his neck stopped him. He felt more than heard a snap, a flash of pain and light. Darkness.
~~
A line of light cut across the darkness the next time he awoke. Darkness and light. A shadow. A voice he thought- could he think?- he should know.
“Hm… Mother’s good boy… So, Hoenheim was right, after all…” Hands joined the voice and shadow. Cool, soft hands, hands that touched his face. Hands that he leaned into, following the prompt of some part of himself that could not be lost even when forgotten. Hands that hurt. A slap that jerked his head as far as the collar would allow. A groan escaped him.
Was that what his voice sounded like?
The voice again. He struggled to drag the name for the emotion to his mind and failed.
“Worthless, aren’t you? Brought him back, but for what? To give me you. You don’t even look like him anymore. Honestly, what good could you possibly be?” A sigh. He tried to stretch out a hand, to touch… something that pulled at his memory, that called to him. A desperate whimper, a call for help, for… love was the word… was met with pain. Another slap. He cringed back.
“Don’t touch me. Why should an abomination like you be allowed to touch me? Still…” A soft caress. “You may be of some use. We shall see.” As the shadow turned to leave, a word, a name, a plea for… something, forced its way to the front of his mind.
“Mother!”
His voice tore out of him, painful and rusty. He jerked against his chains. “Mother!” And what did that word mean that he screamed so fervently? “Mother!! Come back, please! I’m sorry! I love you! I-“ The shadow stopped. It heard.
“But who could ever love you? You are an abomination, a sin against God and nature. You are nothing. But soon, I will make you better, into a thing worthy to be used and feared if not loved.” The shadow left, taking his light with it. He was left behind in Darkness, only his scream of utter despair and longing echoing from the stones.
~~
The Darkness was unchanging but sometimes he thought he saw or heard things in it. Things that called to him, offered him a release. But every time he reached out something pulled him back, called him back. Someone called to him. He raised his head and found himself again looking at the shadow. The pressure at his throat and wrists lessened and disappeared. He fell as the chains that had been supporting him for an unknowable amount of time no longer did.
“Come.” The voice, which his entire being commanded that he obey. The shadow turned and left. He tried to follow but only managed to drag himself as far as the doorway. The shadow turned at his hesitation, resolved into a shape, a figure, one he felt he should know. “Never make me repeat myself.” She turned again, leaving him desperate to follow Her. Using the doorframe, he dragged himself to his feet, lurched after Her. He felt something twist, pain, but he kept going. ‘Follow,’ his mind told him, and he did.
Followed to… a table. She was already sitting in a chair, gestured him to another. He took it willingly, reached for the food laid out invitingly in front of him. Pain. Hurt, he glanced at Her, cradling his hand. The crop he now saw She held had raised a welt across the back of his hand. Confused, he waited.
Not for long. “Good boy.” She reached over, picking up a small sweet cake, nibbling at it. “Hm… you are remarkable. You’ve lasted much longer without food or water than a human could. And yet you have less self-control than an animal. Very well. Your training starts today. You will do nothing unless I instruct you to. Do you understand?” He didn’t, really. He started to shake his head no when She lashed out with the crop again, catching his cheek. He flinched.
“You will always answer me. Do you understand.”
“Yes.” Pain again, another broken mark on his face, this one narrowly missing his eye. The voice became dangerous.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes… Mother?”
A disapproving look crossed Her face as She raised the crop again, then stopped. The look grew into a calculating grin. She reached out, caressing his unmarked cheek.
“Yes, that’s Mother’s good boy. Back to your room, now.” He scrambled out of his seat, eager to please Her but reluctant to leave the food. The crop across his shoulders knocked him to the ground. Unable to rise again, he crawled back to the door of his room. The Darkness was there. The Darkness would welcome him, perhaps too much. But could he defy Her?
He pulled himself the rest of the way.
A clap. Light. The collar resettled around his neck. The voice sounded pleased. Pleased with… him?
“Mmm…good boy.” A hand on his hair, stroking. It felt…nice. Fingers tightened, pulled, pain, pulled his head back. “A good dog won’t fight his collar. Don’t make me become…more creative.” She left, taking the light with Her, leaving only Darkness and a whimpering that sounded pitiful even to his own ears.
First- Four drabbles in response to a challenge over on my regular journal, here mainly for archiving purposes.
Star Wars, Pride, Envy, and Ambiguity
Second- the WIPs, one original, two FMA
Crits are most welcome and indeed wanted and needed on all three.
Title: Children of the Future
Original Fiction
Rating: Eventually R, PG for now
Word Count: 1,946
Summary: In the future, people are valued not by what they do, but how they are made.
Notes: Obviously, a work in progress. All exposition up to this point, sad to say. There will be action.. eventually... just some things needed to get set out, which may or may not make it into the final version. Right now, I mostly need some sounding board comments.
We were the Children of the Future. We were supposed to be perfect: perfect beings, perfect tools. We were each engineered, designed, created for a purpose. Some of us were to be the perfect scientists: studious, curious, always willing to learn and find and do. Some of us were meant to be the perfect workers: courteous citizens willing to do, to help, to be whatever was needed. Some of us, most of us, were meant to be the perfect soldiers: knowing no fear, pity, or mercy, living for the next battle, the next order. We were the perfect shock troops; what ordinary person could fire at something that looked like the child they had left at home? So others began developing things, creations like us. Soon, the world was filled with us, we who became known simply as the Children as more uses were found for us in every aspect of life. Soon, Children did all the work; the normals relied on us, depended on us, trusted us. That was their first mistake.
2126, KelTek Genetic Research Facility, Central Office
“Sir, I don’t think I understand. You’re asking us to-”
“Create the perfect person. What’s so hard to understand?”
“But, sir, human genetic experimentation and engineering is illegal. If we were found out, the results could be disastrous. We could be shut down, all our funding cut, we could even go to jail!”
“I am well aware of the consequences, James, don’t think that I’m not. I understand the risks you and your team will be taking. That’s why I’m offering a twenty-five percent pay raise if you are successful, and bonuses for each success following the first.”
“Sir! I, uh, I don’t really know what to say…”
“Say you’ll succeed, James. That’s all I need to hear.”
~~~~~~~~~
They created us, gave us life, such as it was. They expected us to be grateful. They wanted us to be no more than robots, really, robots that could think for themselves, but only when commanded to. They wanted us to live for their every need, jump to their every whim. And we did. At least at first. At least until we discovered that, in their haste to create the perfect human beings, they had unknowingly not only given us minds, they had given us souls.
2127, KelTek Genetic Research Facility, Laboratory H, Project: Children Of The Future
Aaron James, head of the Children Of The Future Project, paced nervously in his office. He was still young compared to the team he led, only being ten years out of graduate school. He had never expected to be approached immediately out of school by KelTek Enterprises to be a part of a genetic research team funded by a number of government and private organizations. He had also never expected to be promoted to heading the team just over a year ago when the previous head resigned under mysterious circumstances. He had almost laughed when he found out the reason for both. Almost.
His team was composed of some of the best in the field of genetic research and engineering. He was proud of them. How could he not be, they were about to succeed with the project they had all spent the better part of the last year working on. No one had ever expected success this quickly. Of course, he was quick to check himself, there was no real guarantee of success in full and there wouldn’t be until some time in the future; for now, though, they were all immensely surprised and gratified that after only a few attempts, they had managed to alter the genetic makeup of a group of zygotes, implant them in the synthetic wombs, and, unlike the past attempts, this group had suffered a minimum of spontaneous purging. Every other batch had been completely decimated within the first trimester, the first within just a week of implanting; the second had lasted almost a full month. They had, as yet, had no success with speeding up the gestation time, either.
He glanced out of his office window. He could see his team at work, some tending the near-term fetuses, others already hard at work at the next, improved batch of zygotes, correcting those mistakes they had observed in the developing embryos. He could hardly believe it had only been a year since the official start of the project, although underground research on the subject had been going on for years. It had started decades or possibly even a century ago with simple alterations to the genetic codes of small animals, rats and the like, to make them live longer so they could be better test subjects. That had been a small step onto a superhighway of invention. Not long after that, scientists had begun experimenting, quietly, with other animals. As the decades went on, they began more complex tests on more complex subjects. For the first mission to Mars alone, over ten new species had been created to withstand the peculiar needs of deep space.
All of that had led, inevitably perhaps, to the questions of what could happen if that research was turned to humans, the ultimate end of the evolution track. The governments of the world had stepped in immediately to put an end to that kind of speculation; they had feared its consequences without seeing its possibilities. That simply sent the research underground, of course, into the hands of the private sector companies, those who realized that there was a profit to be made from those who could afford to be discrete. And so, for the last few decades, research had continued, openly on animals, perhaps not so openly on humans. And if a company managed to ‘discover’ the cure for cancer, or diabetes, or multiple sclerosis, well, who would question whether their methods had been completely above-board.
And so, here was James with his team of scientists, working off the research of decades, patching together the secrets of the human genetic code to create…what? The perfect human? James somewhat doubted that was possible. To himself, when no one was with him, he often feared that they may be creating, not people, but monsters. How much could a person or a group of persons meddle in the realm commonly conceded as belonging to whatever god may be out there before they crossed too far? They could create a human who was strong, quick, smart, but when was what they created no longer human? He had no answers, even for himself, but then, he wasn’t being paid to toil over moral questions, only to produce results, in whatever form they appeared.
That was exactly what his team was doing, producing results. The only real problem was that they had no idea, any of them, what the results might be. They had decided, after the first failed attempt, to work slower, altering fewer genes at a time, working their way up to the final full effect they wanted. This batch was split into groups with different alterations. He turned to the wall of synthetic wombs that he could just make out through the glass into isolation. There were twenty of them, lined up in neat rows of five, but James hoped to increase the number to ten times that amount with this success. Each womb was clear to facilitate monitoring but marked with a colored circle. The green coded embryos, ten of them, had been personality altered, as far as genes could. They would be watched and raised separately to see just how far genetic alteration could affect temperament. Yellow designated the five altered for increased intelligence and diligence. They would be tested under different circumstances to see just how far human intelligence could be pushed. If all went well, they might someday help to create their own brothers and sisters. Finally, at the far end, five embryos had been marked with blue, embryos that had been altered in size and strength. For some reason, these had suffered the only casualties, losing three of their number. The two that remained seemed healthy enough, but no one would know for sure until they were removed from the wombs.
This was, he reflected, really more the a creation of experimental subjects than any sort of finished product. The course of genetic engineering may never be finished, just becoming more and more refined ad infinitum. Where angels fear to tread, indeed. The possibilities were truly endless; almost any profession or role in society could be designed for: doctor, scientist, laborer, teacher. Soldier. That one, perhaps, he feared the most. Would his be the hand that designed the human that ended the world? Pointless thoughts, at this time anyway. He found himself smiling as he thought back to his college days. He had once done a research paper on one of the great behaviorists of the Twentieth Century, one who had believed that genetics meant truly nothing. ‘Give me a dozen healthy infants,’ the scientist had claimed, ‘well-formed, and my own specified world to bring them up in and I’ll guarantee to take any one at random and train him to become any type of specialist I might select-doctor, lawyer, artist, merchant-chief and yes, even beggar-man and thief.’ They would soon discover just how correct he had been. In this one thing, they would change the world.
He forced himself to check back into the present. His team was still hard at work, showing not much time had passed during his mental wanderings. Only four people were in the lab at the moment, not counting the two lab assistants whose entire job it was to tend the embryos. They had learned from the first batch how quickly a change of temperature of just a few degrees, a moment of carelessness, could flaw the entire batch, possibly irreparably. The other seven members of the team were currently on the evening or night shifts. They had agreed early on that as long as there were embryos incubating, someone more than a lab assistant had to be in the lab at all times. The chances for something to go wrong were just too many. Just as well, James thought, less time to do as you please leaves less time for corporate espionage. The last thing he needed was one of his team to be selling secrets to some other company, although as far as he knew, they were the only ones attempting this forbidden art, attempting to steal the fire of the gods. But news of this research couldn’t be kept completely secret forever, as hard as they tried, and soon there would be competition.
And there was a frightening thought, because competition would lead to contestation of ownership, which meant patents. Patented designer children. That was what they were truly creating, not dolls or tools, but children. James shook his head. Whenever he started thinking thoughts like that, he began to doubt his wisdom in not following his former superior as soon as he found out what the team would be doing. He preferred to think of them as just things instead of the human beings he knew they would become. But, if humans truly had souls, as some believed, what would become of these beings born outside of any god’s plan? Would they be soulless things or would they be…alive? Ah, well, that was a debate for another day, and for another person. He was in no way religious, nor did he claim to be. He left it to theologians, philosophers, and the insane to debate the realms of the unknown; he would be content to live in what he could sense and know.
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Title: The Fuhrer's Blades
Series: FMA x King's Blades crossover (not entirely necessary to be familiar with Blades)
Rating: Again, will probably be R, PG for now
Word count: 1,361
Summary: Lord Mustang, formerly Sir Flame, has just been assigned a Blade, a human weapon second to none. Will this turn out to be a blessing or a curse?
Notes: Places are from King's Blades, people mostly from FMA. Other things mix both worlds. This one... again, all concrit makes me happy, but I'm mostly worried about what may seem confusing to someone who doesn't know Blades.
Lord Mustang grimaced as the party rode across the barren Starkmore plain. They’d been going at a leisurely pace, granted, but surely by noon they should have reached the fame fortress of Ironhall. Not that he minded the riding. Far from it. It had been months since he’d been on a horse for more than a few minutes of trotting along Grandon’s streets. No, he didn’t mind the riding, rather it was the company which was making his fingers twitch.
The Fuhrer had decided to come collect a few Blades himself so Mustang had been limited to two companions, leaving them surrounded by the members of the Royal Guard, the Fuhrer’s loyal guard dogs. He thought that it was probably some sort of irony that someone who had once been one of the most respected Blades in the history of Ironhall’s graduates, and who now held a position of considerable power within the hierarchy of Chivial itself should be made uneasy by those who he should rightfully call his brothers. He supposed it was the sidelong glances they kept giving him, as if already suspecting that he had been plotting for months against their ward. But that was impossible. Mustang had been amazingly careful to destroy any trace of his meddling that could possibly reach back to the Fuhrer or, even worse, to the former Blade in charge of the Dark Chamber, Sir Ironblood. What he hadn’t seen to personally, Hughes had handled.
Hughes, who had been a childhood friend before Mustang went to Ironhall and a trusted companion and supporter now that Mustang was again in a position to need such things. Mustang glanced at the man beside him. If he could have anyone at his back in this pack of dogs, Hughes would be at the top of the list. A Blade’s loyalty was forced, conjured by a sword through the heart, but Hughes… Hughes he could trust not only with his life, but with his heart and mind as well.
He tugged at his riding gloves as he looked at the man riding to his other side and slightly behind him, wishing he could wear his arrayed gloves instead but knowing the Guard would sooner rip his arms off than let him keep such blatant weapons in the Fuhrer’s presence. They wouldn’t even let him carry Wit, which was his by right of being a Blade. Instead, she was tucked away safely in his saddlebag. He missed the weight of his rapier at his hip but there was nothing to be done about that at the moment.
That led him to his second companion. Jean Havoc, ostensibly a servant, was much more than the Guard could expect. While nowhere up to Blade standards, Havoc had the skill to get Mustang and Hughes something of a head start should anything go wrong. Something inside Mustang twisted at the thought of so easily sentencing one of his men to certain death, but he quickly shoved it aside. Two companions were all he had been allowed to bring with him on this idiotic trek to the edge of the world. Why one of the most dangerous men in the country should need a bodyguard… unless… No. He refused to even consider that option. No one, not even the Fuhrer could know what he was planning. Even he wasn’t entirely set on his course, yet.
At least, that’s what he told Hughes and the others when they pressed. So, no, there had to be another reason for the letter he had received last week formally inviting ‘Lord Mustang, Marquess of Ester’ to accompany the Fuhrer to Ironhall to receive the gift of a Blade. But even so, he should have heard from someone, the letter shouldn’t have just come out of nowhere… but it had.
Mustang removed one hand from the reins and rubbed his eyes. It didn’t add up and it certainly wasn’t expected and that was bad. As he was contemplating the unfairness of it all, a hand touched his shoulder. Only years of self-control kept the even more years of relying on reflex from taking Hughes’ hand off before he even registered who it was and, judging from the smirk on Hughes’ face, he knew exactly the pressure Mustang was up against. He briefly considered taking Hughes’ hand off anyway but instead quirked an eyebrow up into his most severe ‘explain-or-die’ expression. Hughes merely smirked wider and pointed at the large cloud of dust that had magically appeared, heading toward a growing structure of imposing grey on the horizon.
Ah, the sopranos’ riding class had spotted the Fuhrer’s party, then. Well, at least they were getting closer. At this pace another hour should bring them up to the main gate. He was tempted to quicken his mount’s pace, but one simply did not outride the Fuhrer, and Fuhrer Bradley wasn’t much of a rider to begin with.
He wasn’t much of a Fuhrer, either, in Mustang’s opinion, but the twenty-odd Blades riding formation around them might object to those sentiments. At least in the Fuhrer’s hearing. He catalogued the ones he knew for the twentieth time that day. Some were far after his time, but some he recognized, having known them in Ironhall or later in the Lord Marquess’ service. Thre was Strongarm, a giant of a man and one Mustang made a conscious effort not to get too close to. He was commander of the Royal Guard and all too eager in his duties. After his release, perhaps, with a few carefully placed facts, he might make a useful ally. Plus, he was one of the strongest (Mustang was forced to grimace at his own unintentional yet horrible pun) alchemists to come out of Ironhall in years, both physically and in the craft.
Glancing around, it occurred to Mustang that nearly all of the Guard carried some sort of array on their person. Interesting. While Blades were recognized as the best fighters to be found in almost any arena, around the same percentage of them had the talent for alchemy as could be found in the civilian population. They were given the best possible training in the craft, of course, alongside their studies of other skills such as horsemanship and the like, but for so many of the Fuhrer’s personal guard to be alchemists, well, he must be collecting them specifically. But then, he was the Fuhrer and they were the Fuhrer’s Blades, and he could do with them as he wished.
Mustang sighed and tossed a half-hearted glare at Hughes. He’d successfully given himself a new set of worries and a grand headache. This was going to be a long hour.
Candidate Fullmetal looked up from the junior he was sparring with as the sopranos came tearing in from their riding lesson, the old paint horse winning more by virtue of its familiarity with the game than any competence on its rider’s part. He knew the speedy entry could only mean one thing, but he turned back to his sparring, smacking his partner upside the head with the saber he was using as the boy continued to pay attention to the riders instead of to his opponent.
As they picked up the rhythm of their sparring again, he continued to think. Not that he needed too much brain power against this opponent. The boy was a good enough rapier man but with sabers he was hopeless. So, riders spotted approaching Ironhall. Looked like he wouldn’t be Prime Candidate much longer. Most Primes would have been running for their rooms to prepare for the ceremony as soon as riders had been spotted, but Fullmetal snorted at the thought. This way the Brat would know where to find him, and, while he probably should clean up, considering he had the mud and grime of a morning’s sparring and who knew what else coated on him, he wanted to let the ward see just who he would be getting as a Blade. He was a weapon, pure and simple, not a show dog, and he knew it. Fullmetal refused to primp or mince words for anyone, even the Fuhrer himself.
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Title: Origins (working title only)
Series: FMA pre-series (very pre- 400 yrs pre)
Rating: R for violence
Word count: 1,240
Warnings: violence, ouchies for pre-Envy
Summary: Envy was not always a Sin.
Notes: Again, I need a sounding board and crit. That's all I'm asking for on this one, nothing really specific. Also- I'm kinda trying to keep this one from turning into the dark, morbid fiasco that Total Slaughter turned in to.
Indeed, it is not by the plans of men, but by the hand of God that the affairs of men are directed; and this men call Fate, not knowing the reason for what things they see occur; and what seems to be without cause is easy to call the accident of chance. Still, it is a matter every mortal will decide for himself according to his taste. ~Procopius- Anecdota (The Secret History) Ch. 4
“Good boy. You’re Mother’s good boy. You’d anything for Mother, wouldn’t you? You said you’d bring your father back. Only a little while longer. He’ll come back. He has to.”
Pain. Darkness. Then… a release. Memory. Flashes of light.
Mother, so pretty, crying.
Mother asking him if he would help her get father to come back to them. How could he refuse? Mother only wanted what was best for them.
Pain! He couldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t breathe right. He felt like he was going to die. He wished he would die. A cool hand on his forehead. Mother. Father would come. Father would…
Pain. Darkness. Then…nothing.
~~
Waking into darkness from… darkness? He remembered…nothing… and everything. Darkness, hands, pain, nothingness, thoughts, feelings, all as one until…it stopped. He- who was he?- awoke to… this… Darkness within darkness.
He tried to move and found he couldn’t. The word found him- chains. He was chained to the wall here, wherever here was. He felt his memory struggle against the chains which held it as he tried to remember. He had forgotten something, he knew, forgotten something which should have lived in his very soul but which had been driven out by the darkness. But what he had forgotten he could not recall, no matter how he tried, till he forgot even that he had forgotten.
He squirmed against the wall, pulling at the bands on his wrists, ankles and neck. He swallowed as things slowly began to leak past the barrier on his thoughts. An emotion led the way. Fear. First the word. Then, as if it had been a trigger, terror followed on its heels. He would have started thrashing if he could have. Instead, the collar around his neck stopped him. He felt more than heard a snap, a flash of pain and light. Darkness.
~~
A line of light cut across the darkness the next time he awoke. Darkness and light. A shadow. A voice he thought- could he think?- he should know.
“Hm… Mother’s good boy… So, Hoenheim was right, after all…” Hands joined the voice and shadow. Cool, soft hands, hands that touched his face. Hands that he leaned into, following the prompt of some part of himself that could not be lost even when forgotten. Hands that hurt. A slap that jerked his head as far as the collar would allow. A groan escaped him.
Was that what his voice sounded like?
The voice again. He struggled to drag the name for the emotion to his mind and failed.
“Worthless, aren’t you? Brought him back, but for what? To give me you. You don’t even look like him anymore. Honestly, what good could you possibly be?” A sigh. He tried to stretch out a hand, to touch… something that pulled at his memory, that called to him. A desperate whimper, a call for help, for… love was the word… was met with pain. Another slap. He cringed back.
“Don’t touch me. Why should an abomination like you be allowed to touch me? Still…” A soft caress. “You may be of some use. We shall see.” As the shadow turned to leave, a word, a name, a plea for… something, forced its way to the front of his mind.
“Mother!”
His voice tore out of him, painful and rusty. He jerked against his chains. “Mother!” And what did that word mean that he screamed so fervently? “Mother!! Come back, please! I’m sorry! I love you! I-“ The shadow stopped. It heard.
“But who could ever love you? You are an abomination, a sin against God and nature. You are nothing. But soon, I will make you better, into a thing worthy to be used and feared if not loved.” The shadow left, taking his light with it. He was left behind in Darkness, only his scream of utter despair and longing echoing from the stones.
~~
The Darkness was unchanging but sometimes he thought he saw or heard things in it. Things that called to him, offered him a release. But every time he reached out something pulled him back, called him back. Someone called to him. He raised his head and found himself again looking at the shadow. The pressure at his throat and wrists lessened and disappeared. He fell as the chains that had been supporting him for an unknowable amount of time no longer did.
“Come.” The voice, which his entire being commanded that he obey. The shadow turned and left. He tried to follow but only managed to drag himself as far as the doorway. The shadow turned at his hesitation, resolved into a shape, a figure, one he felt he should know. “Never make me repeat myself.” She turned again, leaving him desperate to follow Her. Using the doorframe, he dragged himself to his feet, lurched after Her. He felt something twist, pain, but he kept going. ‘Follow,’ his mind told him, and he did.
Followed to… a table. She was already sitting in a chair, gestured him to another. He took it willingly, reached for the food laid out invitingly in front of him. Pain. Hurt, he glanced at Her, cradling his hand. The crop he now saw She held had raised a welt across the back of his hand. Confused, he waited.
Not for long. “Good boy.” She reached over, picking up a small sweet cake, nibbling at it. “Hm… you are remarkable. You’ve lasted much longer without food or water than a human could. And yet you have less self-control than an animal. Very well. Your training starts today. You will do nothing unless I instruct you to. Do you understand?” He didn’t, really. He started to shake his head no when She lashed out with the crop again, catching his cheek. He flinched.
“You will always answer me. Do you understand.”
“Yes.” Pain again, another broken mark on his face, this one narrowly missing his eye. The voice became dangerous.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes… Mother?”
A disapproving look crossed Her face as She raised the crop again, then stopped. The look grew into a calculating grin. She reached out, caressing his unmarked cheek.
“Yes, that’s Mother’s good boy. Back to your room, now.” He scrambled out of his seat, eager to please Her but reluctant to leave the food. The crop across his shoulders knocked him to the ground. Unable to rise again, he crawled back to the door of his room. The Darkness was there. The Darkness would welcome him, perhaps too much. But could he defy Her?
He pulled himself the rest of the way.
A clap. Light. The collar resettled around his neck. The voice sounded pleased. Pleased with… him?
“Mmm…good boy.” A hand on his hair, stroking. It felt…nice. Fingers tightened, pulled, pain, pulled his head back. “A good dog won’t fight his collar. Don’t make me become…more creative.” She left, taking the light with Her, leaving only Darkness and a whimpering that sounded pitiful even to his own ears.