Seventh Bomb || VOICE

[muertederojo]

Good day, residents of Mayfield! I hope you are all doing well. Yet again, another holiday is here; Father's Day. A day to honor our fathers, husbands, or perhaps even male figures of whom we look up to. I hope you all have a wonderful day!

{{FILTERED TO: Olivier ArmstrongBy the way. Miss Armstrong. May have a word with you? I would like to

Comments

Action

[wristsniper]

[Again, she feels compelled to follow. This isn't good, there are alarm bells going off in her head... This man is as good as insane and she's alone with him in his house.

But she follows in silence and takes a seat.]

Action

[muertederojo]

*Kimbley has his back to her, at the time when she sits down. His bandaged hands work at lifting the coffee pot, pouring out the hot liquid inside it into two cups. Setting the pot aside, he turns back towards her, handing her a cup.*

I'm reconsidering siding with you, Miss Armstrong. *He sits down across from her at the table, taking a sip from his red mug.*

Action

[wristsniper]

[She takes it, eying him warily.]

Your hands still haven't healed? I thought you had a kitchen accident.

--Reconsidering?

[muertederojo]

*he sets down his cup and rips at the bandages on one hand, unraveling it, and doing the same to the other, taking his time with it.*

Yes. If this rebellion does take us all back home, I would like to come with.

[wristsniper]

Care to explain your reasoning? Sudden changes of heart are suspicious even from the best people.

[Her eyes are locked on his hands.]

[muertederojo]

*He pulls away the bandages to reveal his arrays on his palms yet again, carved into his flesh. Kimbley shrugs and stands up, running his hand through his hair as he walks over to her side of the table, cleaning dirt from under his other hand's nails.*

Everyone gets home sick. I'm sure you know, being as all your men were left behind at Briggs.

[wristsniper]

[She has seen worse things, but with her already low opinion of alchemists, such an act turns her stomach--her countrymen were right. They were alchemic arrays.]

We learn to deal with it...

Thank you for the coffee, but I have other things to attend to. I'll be going, if you don't mind.

[She stands.]

[muertederojo]

Sit back down, Armstrong. Hands on the table.

[wristsniper]

[Her stomach churns, and she sits back down. She can't not do it. This... will not end well.

Her hands are obediently atop the table, folded together.]

I wasn't reaching for my sword, Crimson.

[muertederojo]

And we'll make sure that won't ever happen again for a while.

*He reaches his hand out, taking her wrist and pinning her right hand down, his other hand reaching into his suit jacket to take out an object.

In a split second, a serrated-edged bread knife pins her hand to the table top, striking her through the top of her hand and through her palm, and into the table. He leans his head down next to her ear, smiling through his voice.*

Any leader can fall Armstrong. Even you. And don't get up yet~ I'm not done.

[wristsniper]

[A cold wave rolls through her body as she begins to go into shock. It's immediate, but she can't stand. She reaches for the knife--it's not getting up, and he never told her to not resist.

The blood pools on the table, running across the surface. She feels searing, horrific pain finally register, and she bites her cheek to keep from reacting as any normal human would.

Her tendons are torn, muscles destroyed, smaller bones damaged.]

You'll have to do much more than that, Crimson.

[muertederojo]

*He throws his head back with a bark of a laugh, walking over to a kitchen drawer, sifting through the assortment of knives and other objects inside.*

Oh I know that. You're an Armstrong after all. You'll be harder to break, but, that's what makes it so much fun.

*Sure, he didn't have his alchemy to use himself, but there were others ways to inflict pain onto others. It wasn't as musical as his explosions, but it was something. His fingers run over the blade of one knife and he quirks a brow, taking it out before walking over to her, flicking his fingernail at the end of the knife, hearing it twang.

He steps up to her again, and holds up her other hand, looking down at her delicate palm, tilting his head to the side almost fondly. Kimbley runs his thumb over the plump muscle which connected the thumb to the actual hand and smiles even wider. Crimson takes the knife up, and begins to carve into the curve of that plump muscle, slicing it open slowly.*

[wristsniper]

You won't break me. [She begins extracting the knife from her hand, millimeter by millimeter, but then he comes back and--god, she's going to fight him now, try to kick at him, force him away.]

You're sick! You're pathetic, to take advantage of someone like this!

[She stills as the knife nears, not wanting to risk casual damage to it. Her mind is blank, a haze; this is truly terrifying.]

You plan on killing me slowly?

[muertederojo]

Killing you? Perish the thought! Not now right now, at least. I don't plan on getting droned for it any time soon. I'm smarter than that.

*Kimbley stares down at crimson that trickled down her hand before he slams that hand down onto the table, making sure to put most pressure down on her open thumb muscle, and also pins that hand down with another knife.

He steps up beside her, and a soft clap could be heard...*

[wristsniper]

[She sits in stunned silence until the clap, staring in horror at her hands. She can hardly process words.

Her hands.

Her hands are destroyed.

Can May fix this?

He claps, and she yells.]

Don't use alchemy on me, you bastard!

[muertederojo]

*He presses both hands against her cheeks, on either side of her face....

but nothing happens. Kimbley snickers, keeping those hands there on her face, standing behind her. He releases her face though and walks over to the hand he recently stabbed, and pulls the knife out slowly... half way, only to drag the knife along her hand now, cutting it open.*

How can a leader possibly lead with broken hands?