Combined Entry (Fullmetal Scribblings)
You Are the Ace of Clubs
You go at everything in your life full force. You are a natural gambler.
Your life definitely has some extreme highs and lows, but you know how to ride out the low times.
A total adventure seeker, you are never satisfied by what's normal or ordinary. You like to push limits and shock people. You're dramatic, but a drama queen.
Your life has been a wild ride so far. You have stories that people can barely believe. And you're probably still young...with a lot of wild rides in front of you.
A gamble you should take: High stakes roulette
Your friends would describe you as: Crazy
Your enemies would describe you as: Demented
If you lived in Vegas, you would be: A high roller
What Playing Card Are You?
For a while there, I toyed with the notion of taking my roulette in Russian form. Before I realized I would probably get it wrong and end up like Superman.
Click, clack, boom.
WITH THAT IN MIND: some FMA go-nowhere genficlet goodness!
NO PAIRINGS?! OMG WTF. SHOCKING.
It doesn't frighten him anymore. This waking nightmare is familiar and calmer than the things that precede and surround it. He's had it once too often.
He can't move. Dust and cinders above him, around him, soot and pressure on his chest, copper and iron oxidizing against his teeth. Magnesium bolted to life and left brilliant, hurting purple scars swimming through his vision. Plasma is mostly water, but there's always carbon in everything and nitrates, nitrogen and steel.
He can't move. Buried in silicon up to his neck. There's a fleeting sense of somewhere else, a place of saline and sun and that shrill screaming laughter that drilled into his brain--he always hated children, even when he was a child--but there's no water here, not for miles around, though it waits in stubbornly separated form high above; water is a nontoxic hydroxide.
Their eyes are red. The part of him that wrote a mostly-ignored field study on spectrum diffraction analyisis knows perfectly well that it's simply the color of their blood through their irises.
The palms of his hands are nestled deep in a useless, largely inert substance. Science is not reassuring when he cannot grasp it.
Their eyes are red and their grip is calm, measured and dry. The one with the array, the one that glows and screams against the back of his skull, that one's mad, and this other one, there is strength but no power in his big, rough hands; bone stretches and arches under the pressure in ways it shouldn't.
He shrieks an oath. He would spit if he could, he would bite if he could, but he can do neither, so he screams curses until Big Hands puts a few fingers into the soft underside of his chin and holds his tongue still by the roots.
Once his jaws are open, that's when they twist the stopper out of the vial. Sucrose. Sugar water. Sweetening the bait. He gags, straining, working with his whole face--pulling his spine with the effort of trying to spit it out.
It's no good.
"I'm sorry," says the one with the arrays. He's a shitty liar, face rictus with glee and strain.
He'll kill them both. He'll put a hole in the world. The detonation will be felt for miles; the earth itself will tremble.
Nothing he does can stop the slow, inexorable marching of the ants.
The windows are waxed paper. He tore his out, first thing; he'll never again go without fresh air and the clear, wistful scent of seasons changing--he can tell, even over the sewage and rot of the neighborhood. Filth doesn't bother him.
Moonlight makes a blinding crescent across the head of the bed. Plain white sheets are easiest to steal. He used to have silk. He will again. Soon. Black, claret, navy; something that absorbs light and gleams.
These are rough and blatant, headlights instead of gaslight.
He still twitches inside when he sees automobiles--in no small part because only the military can afford them. He can't forget his little jaunt to the classy side of town. He'd dressed up for the occasion, put aside his bangles and trousers and vest for a suit and some hair oil. He refused to surrender the boots. He was no Envy--no new face for him--but Martel said he "cleaned up well". He'd found that hilarious. She'd never seen him in a tricorn hat; he missed those. And fustian breeches. Got himself a lot of ass wearing those, male and female.
He missed a lot of things.
He'd be glad when cars finally went out of fashion. He'd been walking down the middle of the street. This made perfect sense to him; it was a good idea to keep clear of people's upper-story windows. He did think it odd when he'd reached the end of the avenue and not once heard a warning shout and splash of emptied pots, but he'd figured the rich had finally developed water closets again, or something close to them.
He had jumped six feet straight up at the sounding of the horn of that thing. It did not look like fun. He did not want a ride, no matter how pretty the soldiers behind the driver were, an adorable blonde statue and her dark-haired sculptor. That one had smirked at him in passing; the question was rounded and smooth and a little too slick from his mouth. He'd had white even teeth and white gloves. Greed could feel the array there before he saw it and had flinched back from the door, smiling and bowing to cover his agitation and wishing like hell that he'd worn his dark glasses. No, thank you, Sir, he absolutely did not want a ride anywhere an alchemist could take him.
Greed was positive he did not want to own one--a car. He already had an alchemist. He Did Not Want a car. Well, maybe. In another fifty years or so, when they were more commonplace and his people needed some help getting around. He'd be used to them, both cars and his people, and he wouldn't give either of them up.
Even if Dorochet was still teasing him about it by then.
Greed scrunched up against the wall in the top corner of the king sized mattress. He wasn't quite used to all the space, though he wanted it, craved it, and had been delighted to have it. He could move again, and it felt odd. He didn't really sleep. He'd spent far too long doing that already. But there was a luxurious feeling to uncoiling and laying still in a soft, warm, safe place with his eyes closed. He spent his days staring and wide-eyed, hungry for motion and depth and shadows and color and light. It was nice to rest every so often.
He didn't pile up with his crew all the time anymore. They'd never said anything, but he knew he hogged the covers and kicked in his sleep. Pack animals shared everything, and when it got down to it, he just wasn't the sharing type. It had been wonderful to breathe with them, lean against them, feel the way Martel and Loa both slunk up to him for warmth. He spent hours watching Dorochet's hands paddle at nothing; he reached over to stroke the swordsman's hair whenever he frowned or whimpered.
That was the purpose of the bed. He still had to figure out a way to break it to them, that it was okay to sleep on the furniture as long as it was his furniture where he also slept. And he had to do it without insulting their human dignity. Soldiers, even ex-soldiers, had altogether too much dignity. Greed drowsily wondered how in hell Pride kept his under control.
It was fucking chilly in here alone with his rough sheets and the windows open.
He spent several minutes building a barricade of pillows against the headboard, the wall, and his back--a shallow nest to hold the heat in. Martel would approve. If she were here.
Greed sighed and rolled over on his belly, propped up on the edge of the pillows so he could see out the window.
He laid still and waited for the sun to come up.
You go at everything in your life full force. You are a natural gambler.
Your life definitely has some extreme highs and lows, but you know how to ride out the low times.
A total adventure seeker, you are never satisfied by what's normal or ordinary. You like to push limits and shock people. You're dramatic, but a drama queen.
Your life has been a wild ride so far. You have stories that people can barely believe. And you're probably still young...with a lot of wild rides in front of you.
A gamble you should take: High stakes roulette
Your friends would describe you as: Crazy
Your enemies would describe you as: Demented
If you lived in Vegas, you would be: A high roller
What Playing Card Are You?
For a while there, I toyed with the notion of taking my roulette in Russian form. Before I realized I would probably get it wrong and end up like Superman.
Click, clack, boom.
WITH THAT IN MIND: some FMA go-nowhere genficlet goodness!
NO PAIRINGS?! OMG WTF. SHOCKING.
It doesn't frighten him anymore. This waking nightmare is familiar and calmer than the things that precede and surround it. He's had it once too often.
He can't move. Dust and cinders above him, around him, soot and pressure on his chest, copper and iron oxidizing against his teeth. Magnesium bolted to life and left brilliant, hurting purple scars swimming through his vision. Plasma is mostly water, but there's always carbon in everything and nitrates, nitrogen and steel.
He can't move. Buried in silicon up to his neck. There's a fleeting sense of somewhere else, a place of saline and sun and that shrill screaming laughter that drilled into his brain--he always hated children, even when he was a child--but there's no water here, not for miles around, though it waits in stubbornly separated form high above; water is a nontoxic hydroxide.
Their eyes are red. The part of him that wrote a mostly-ignored field study on spectrum diffraction analyisis knows perfectly well that it's simply the color of their blood through their irises.
The palms of his hands are nestled deep in a useless, largely inert substance. Science is not reassuring when he cannot grasp it.
Their eyes are red and their grip is calm, measured and dry. The one with the array, the one that glows and screams against the back of his skull, that one's mad, and this other one, there is strength but no power in his big, rough hands; bone stretches and arches under the pressure in ways it shouldn't.
He shrieks an oath. He would spit if he could, he would bite if he could, but he can do neither, so he screams curses until Big Hands puts a few fingers into the soft underside of his chin and holds his tongue still by the roots.
Once his jaws are open, that's when they twist the stopper out of the vial. Sucrose. Sugar water. Sweetening the bait. He gags, straining, working with his whole face--pulling his spine with the effort of trying to spit it out.
It's no good.
"I'm sorry," says the one with the arrays. He's a shitty liar, face rictus with glee and strain.
He'll kill them both. He'll put a hole in the world. The detonation will be felt for miles; the earth itself will tremble.
Nothing he does can stop the slow, inexorable marching of the ants.
The windows are waxed paper. He tore his out, first thing; he'll never again go without fresh air and the clear, wistful scent of seasons changing--he can tell, even over the sewage and rot of the neighborhood. Filth doesn't bother him.
Moonlight makes a blinding crescent across the head of the bed. Plain white sheets are easiest to steal. He used to have silk. He will again. Soon. Black, claret, navy; something that absorbs light and gleams.
These are rough and blatant, headlights instead of gaslight.
He still twitches inside when he sees automobiles--in no small part because only the military can afford them. He can't forget his little jaunt to the classy side of town. He'd dressed up for the occasion, put aside his bangles and trousers and vest for a suit and some hair oil. He refused to surrender the boots. He was no Envy--no new face for him--but Martel said he "cleaned up well". He'd found that hilarious. She'd never seen him in a tricorn hat; he missed those. And fustian breeches. Got himself a lot of ass wearing those, male and female.
He missed a lot of things.
He'd be glad when cars finally went out of fashion. He'd been walking down the middle of the street. This made perfect sense to him; it was a good idea to keep clear of people's upper-story windows. He did think it odd when he'd reached the end of the avenue and not once heard a warning shout and splash of emptied pots, but he'd figured the rich had finally developed water closets again, or something close to them.
He had jumped six feet straight up at the sounding of the horn of that thing. It did not look like fun. He did not want a ride, no matter how pretty the soldiers behind the driver were, an adorable blonde statue and her dark-haired sculptor. That one had smirked at him in passing; the question was rounded and smooth and a little too slick from his mouth. He'd had white even teeth and white gloves. Greed could feel the array there before he saw it and had flinched back from the door, smiling and bowing to cover his agitation and wishing like hell that he'd worn his dark glasses. No, thank you, Sir, he absolutely did not want a ride anywhere an alchemist could take him.
Greed was positive he did not want to own one--a car. He already had an alchemist. He Did Not Want a car. Well, maybe. In another fifty years or so, when they were more commonplace and his people needed some help getting around. He'd be used to them, both cars and his people, and he wouldn't give either of them up.
Even if Dorochet was still teasing him about it by then.
Greed scrunched up against the wall in the top corner of the king sized mattress. He wasn't quite used to all the space, though he wanted it, craved it, and had been delighted to have it. He could move again, and it felt odd. He didn't really sleep. He'd spent far too long doing that already. But there was a luxurious feeling to uncoiling and laying still in a soft, warm, safe place with his eyes closed. He spent his days staring and wide-eyed, hungry for motion and depth and shadows and color and light. It was nice to rest every so often.
He didn't pile up with his crew all the time anymore. They'd never said anything, but he knew he hogged the covers and kicked in his sleep. Pack animals shared everything, and when it got down to it, he just wasn't the sharing type. It had been wonderful to breathe with them, lean against them, feel the way Martel and Loa both slunk up to him for warmth. He spent hours watching Dorochet's hands paddle at nothing; he reached over to stroke the swordsman's hair whenever he frowned or whimpered.
That was the purpose of the bed. He still had to figure out a way to break it to them, that it was okay to sleep on the furniture as long as it was his furniture where he also slept. And he had to do it without insulting their human dignity. Soldiers, even ex-soldiers, had altogether too much dignity. Greed drowsily wondered how in hell Pride kept his under control.
It was fucking chilly in here alone with his rough sheets and the windows open.
He spent several minutes building a barricade of pillows against the headboard, the wall, and his back--a shallow nest to hold the heat in. Martel would approve. If she were here.
Greed sighed and rolled over on his belly, propped up on the edge of the pillows so he could see out the window.
He laid still and waited for the sun to come up.