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31_days2011-06-16 03:31 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2011-06-16 03:31 pm
[June 16] [Fullmetal Alchemist] Native Son (Part 1/3)
Title: Native Son (Part 1 out of 3)
Day/Theme: June 16, 2011 "To be a discoverer you hold close whatever you find, and after a while you decide what it is."
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Ed, various OCs
Rating: G
Author's comment: Post manga/Brotherhood, so beware slight ending spoilers.
Not tired enough to nap, not bored enough to finish reading the novel he'd picked up for the trip (after about twenty pages, he had realized it wasn't what he'd expected and had shelved it, at least until he was feeling more desperate), Ed stared out the window at the green, gold, and brown southern land rolling by. The region bore some resemblance to Resembool and its surroundings, though perhaps the fields were a bit less lush and the buildings more severe. Or maybe it was just the comparison with his hometown that made everything seem a little lesser. Once he reached the border with Aerugo, Ed was sure that- "Kimblee Textiles." The sign flashed by, staying in view just long enough for Ed to be sure he'd seen it. "Kimblee." What were the chances that this was related to that Kimblee? ...What were the chances it wasn't?
The train slowed as it pulled into the station. Ed rose, rocking slightly with the jerking of the train. "Fernburg!" the conductor announced. Ed hesitated. It wasn't as if he were on a tightly fixed schedule, but...
He grabbed his suitcase and headed for the front of the compartment. "Excuse me," he squeezed past a woman leading two small children in the opposite direction. It just wasn't in Ed's nature to deny his curiosity. These weren't like the days when the fate of the nation hung in the balance. He had time for detours (although this one seemed unlikely to provide a funny anecdote or good souvenir for Winry).
"I thought you were headed for South City," the conductor looked a bit bemused as Ed hopped off onto the platform.
"You've got to know when to change your plans," he answered optimistically.
The Fernburg station was quiet, but not empty. At least four other people had this stop as their destination. Two of them were met by family. Ed looked around, took his bearings, and backtracked along the road that ran parallel to the tracks until the tantalizing-horrifying sign came into view again up the path and on the hill. More locals went by, including a group of rowdy youths probably just a year or two younger than Ed in a beat-up pickup truck. Without any visible automail and wearing none of his trademark red, Ed faded right into the town. No one paid him any heed as he ambled up the road to the factory.
From the outside, it appeared an ordinary factory. A couple of trees flanked the front doors. A stream ran along the backside of the hill, toward a grave of flowering orange trees. All the activity was inside at this hour, behind closed doors. Ed considered coming just a bit closer and peeking through one of the dark, narrow windows. Kimblee Textiles. So what? Maybe the memory of that particularly tricky alchemist was making him paranoid. Why couldn't there be other, innocent, people in Amestris named "Kimblee?"
Half of a pair of heavy doors swung open just enough for a small boy to slip out into the sunlight. He was dressed pristinely in blue and white and, even by the laxest interpretation of the labor laws, was too young to be working in the factory, although his clothing seemed to imply he was more privileged than that. He turned toward Ed as the door slid closed after him with a thick clank. Gold eyes met gold eyes. He looked curious. Ed couldn't help but read into that sharp gaze- intelligence, intensity, cunning. His hair was cute neatly and fashionably, but an odd cowlick still jumped out from the side of his head. Black hair and heavy-lidded eyes. It was enough to put Ed on edge and keep him there. "You saw his soul," he reminded himself, "He's dead. He's gone." It was irrational for an unknown boy to put his guard up so high.
"Hey, kid," Ed spoke, breaking the paralyzing spell of his own thoughts, "I want to ask you a question. Who is this "Kimblee" running this place?"
"That's my granddad," he leaned back against the door, "Do you need to see him?"
Did he? "Uh, if he doesn't mind me taking a look around..." Ed ventured instead of answering directly.
"Yeah," the Kimblee -Ed was sure he was a Kimblee- boy nodded, "I'm sure it's fine and all. I'll go tell him he's got a guest." He struggled slightly with the familiar weight of the factory doors and disappeared back inside.
Ed shifted his suitcase from one hand to another, still with wonder and confusion. What was the answer to this puzzle? Surely he was over-thinking this. From the dappled shade of the elms at the front, Ed moved on into the cool of the building. It probably didn't feel so cool to the men and women (though more women) swarming over the power looms and other machines.
"Good afternoon, sir." Ed's braid flipped over his shoulder as he suddenly shifted his attention to the gray-haired, sharp-nosed man speaking to him. It wasn't hard to peg him as an overseer of some kind. "James C. Kimblee," he introduced himself, "I'm the owner of this factory."
"Edward Elric...from Resembool."
"Oh." The mention of Resembool brought the ghost of a smile to James' somber, lined face. "Most of the wool we handle for military uniforms comes from Resembool." Ed picked up on James' pleasure in discussing his work and parlayed it into a stroll around the factory. He asked mostly perfunctory questions about the textile business as he looked for clues toward his real source of curiosity and tried to sort his thoughts. Winry, he imagined, would have enjoyed the tour more than he was.
The reappearance of the boy (his resemblance to that Kimblee was stronger than the older man's) provided Ed with what he assumed was the best opening he would get. The grandson was talking to a woman- presumably his grandmother- in the doorframe of a back office. "That kid's your grandson, huh?" he tried to act normal about it. "He's pretty polite. Is he out here to visit with you?"
"Polite, hmm?" James considered it. "Not so much as my own children."
"Both?" Ed hoped this dispassionate man would submit to his prying.
"The first two Kimblees to die outside Fernburg in generations. Let me give you a little advice, young man. Whether you and your father see eye to eye or not, he'd prefer to see you outlive him."
Ed supposed James Kimblee was right, but he saw no need to bring up the fact that he was already past the help of such advice. It wasn't his story he had come to tell. He could compare it to the pains he knew, like losing a friend or a parent. "It must have been hard. Were they with the military?"
"Only one. ...But they were both alchemists," James slipped into a sullen frown. "At least the younger one died in a South City hospital. We could give him a proper burial. The older one... Well, there wasn't anything even sent back to us. We wouldn't have even known he was dead if Brigadier General Mustang hadn't written us about it." James paused, looking Ed over, as if confirming something he had already guessed about his inquiring young guest.
Ed was struck by an awkward feeling, his stomach twisting into a half knot. In a way, this was sad to hear. The Col- Brigadier General hadn't been present for Kimblee's demise, but for some reason he had still taken it upon himself to specifically inform this family. Did he know these people personally? What were they like? That for all Kimblee's awful crimes and twisted nature, he was still someone's son. And if Mustang hadn't taken that initiative, who knew who long it would have been until they learned of his demise?
Unable to think of anything kind to say about Kimblee (aside from "he was a really powerful alchemist," which James seemed disinclined to appreciate) Ed settled for a weak, "Your factory is very nice."
But it wasn't enough. He went on to confirm what James had already guessed. "I knew your son," he admitted, "Umm, I mean, Solf." It felt weird saying that name, but it must have been what his parents called him.
"Oh...So I thought."
That James was not cheered by this knowledge left a funny impression on Ed. He couldn't stop a smile from beginning to crack across his face. "Ha ha, so," he guessed, "You knew what sort of person he was. We weren't exactly friends, Mr. Kimblee." James looked like he was about to speak, but Ed kept him from an unnecessary display. "It's okay," he said, although almost unconsciously he placed a hand over the spot where he retained a scar from being impaled in Baschool's mines, "You don't need to apologize for him. There's...well, I don't imagine there was a lot you could do about that."
Any hint of apology that had risen to James' lips was banished just that easily. "You're right. He was a bad seed. He might not have even been my son, but I raised him. I have to take some responsibility."
Ed wondered at that declaration. Those words and aspect brought this Kimblee closer to the man he had encountered, who had worn this name so proudly, than any other action could have done.
[to be continued on June 19th...]
Day/Theme: June 16, 2011 "To be a discoverer you hold close whatever you find, and after a while you decide what it is."
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Ed, various OCs
Rating: G
Author's comment: Post manga/Brotherhood, so beware slight ending spoilers.
Not tired enough to nap, not bored enough to finish reading the novel he'd picked up for the trip (after about twenty pages, he had realized it wasn't what he'd expected and had shelved it, at least until he was feeling more desperate), Ed stared out the window at the green, gold, and brown southern land rolling by. The region bore some resemblance to Resembool and its surroundings, though perhaps the fields were a bit less lush and the buildings more severe. Or maybe it was just the comparison with his hometown that made everything seem a little lesser. Once he reached the border with Aerugo, Ed was sure that- "Kimblee Textiles." The sign flashed by, staying in view just long enough for Ed to be sure he'd seen it. "Kimblee." What were the chances that this was related to that Kimblee? ...What were the chances it wasn't?
The train slowed as it pulled into the station. Ed rose, rocking slightly with the jerking of the train. "Fernburg!" the conductor announced. Ed hesitated. It wasn't as if he were on a tightly fixed schedule, but...
He grabbed his suitcase and headed for the front of the compartment. "Excuse me," he squeezed past a woman leading two small children in the opposite direction. It just wasn't in Ed's nature to deny his curiosity. These weren't like the days when the fate of the nation hung in the balance. He had time for detours (although this one seemed unlikely to provide a funny anecdote or good souvenir for Winry).
"I thought you were headed for South City," the conductor looked a bit bemused as Ed hopped off onto the platform.
"You've got to know when to change your plans," he answered optimistically.
The Fernburg station was quiet, but not empty. At least four other people had this stop as their destination. Two of them were met by family. Ed looked around, took his bearings, and backtracked along the road that ran parallel to the tracks until the tantalizing-horrifying sign came into view again up the path and on the hill. More locals went by, including a group of rowdy youths probably just a year or two younger than Ed in a beat-up pickup truck. Without any visible automail and wearing none of his trademark red, Ed faded right into the town. No one paid him any heed as he ambled up the road to the factory.
From the outside, it appeared an ordinary factory. A couple of trees flanked the front doors. A stream ran along the backside of the hill, toward a grave of flowering orange trees. All the activity was inside at this hour, behind closed doors. Ed considered coming just a bit closer and peeking through one of the dark, narrow windows. Kimblee Textiles. So what? Maybe the memory of that particularly tricky alchemist was making him paranoid. Why couldn't there be other, innocent, people in Amestris named "Kimblee?"
Half of a pair of heavy doors swung open just enough for a small boy to slip out into the sunlight. He was dressed pristinely in blue and white and, even by the laxest interpretation of the labor laws, was too young to be working in the factory, although his clothing seemed to imply he was more privileged than that. He turned toward Ed as the door slid closed after him with a thick clank. Gold eyes met gold eyes. He looked curious. Ed couldn't help but read into that sharp gaze- intelligence, intensity, cunning. His hair was cute neatly and fashionably, but an odd cowlick still jumped out from the side of his head. Black hair and heavy-lidded eyes. It was enough to put Ed on edge and keep him there. "You saw his soul," he reminded himself, "He's dead. He's gone." It was irrational for an unknown boy to put his guard up so high.
"Hey, kid," Ed spoke, breaking the paralyzing spell of his own thoughts, "I want to ask you a question. Who is this "Kimblee" running this place?"
"That's my granddad," he leaned back against the door, "Do you need to see him?"
Did he? "Uh, if he doesn't mind me taking a look around..." Ed ventured instead of answering directly.
"Yeah," the Kimblee -Ed was sure he was a Kimblee- boy nodded, "I'm sure it's fine and all. I'll go tell him he's got a guest." He struggled slightly with the familiar weight of the factory doors and disappeared back inside.
Ed shifted his suitcase from one hand to another, still with wonder and confusion. What was the answer to this puzzle? Surely he was over-thinking this. From the dappled shade of the elms at the front, Ed moved on into the cool of the building. It probably didn't feel so cool to the men and women (though more women) swarming over the power looms and other machines.
"Good afternoon, sir." Ed's braid flipped over his shoulder as he suddenly shifted his attention to the gray-haired, sharp-nosed man speaking to him. It wasn't hard to peg him as an overseer of some kind. "James C. Kimblee," he introduced himself, "I'm the owner of this factory."
"Edward Elric...from Resembool."
"Oh." The mention of Resembool brought the ghost of a smile to James' somber, lined face. "Most of the wool we handle for military uniforms comes from Resembool." Ed picked up on James' pleasure in discussing his work and parlayed it into a stroll around the factory. He asked mostly perfunctory questions about the textile business as he looked for clues toward his real source of curiosity and tried to sort his thoughts. Winry, he imagined, would have enjoyed the tour more than he was.
The reappearance of the boy (his resemblance to that Kimblee was stronger than the older man's) provided Ed with what he assumed was the best opening he would get. The grandson was talking to a woman- presumably his grandmother- in the doorframe of a back office. "That kid's your grandson, huh?" he tried to act normal about it. "He's pretty polite. Is he out here to visit with you?"
"Polite, hmm?" James considered it. "Not so much as my own children."
"Both?" Ed hoped this dispassionate man would submit to his prying.
"The first two Kimblees to die outside Fernburg in generations. Let me give you a little advice, young man. Whether you and your father see eye to eye or not, he'd prefer to see you outlive him."
Ed supposed James Kimblee was right, but he saw no need to bring up the fact that he was already past the help of such advice. It wasn't his story he had come to tell. He could compare it to the pains he knew, like losing a friend or a parent. "It must have been hard. Were they with the military?"
"Only one. ...But they were both alchemists," James slipped into a sullen frown. "At least the younger one died in a South City hospital. We could give him a proper burial. The older one... Well, there wasn't anything even sent back to us. We wouldn't have even known he was dead if Brigadier General Mustang hadn't written us about it." James paused, looking Ed over, as if confirming something he had already guessed about his inquiring young guest.
Ed was struck by an awkward feeling, his stomach twisting into a half knot. In a way, this was sad to hear. The Col- Brigadier General hadn't been present for Kimblee's demise, but for some reason he had still taken it upon himself to specifically inform this family. Did he know these people personally? What were they like? That for all Kimblee's awful crimes and twisted nature, he was still someone's son. And if Mustang hadn't taken that initiative, who knew who long it would have been until they learned of his demise?
Unable to think of anything kind to say about Kimblee (aside from "he was a really powerful alchemist," which James seemed disinclined to appreciate) Ed settled for a weak, "Your factory is very nice."
But it wasn't enough. He went on to confirm what James had already guessed. "I knew your son," he admitted, "Umm, I mean, Solf." It felt weird saying that name, but it must have been what his parents called him.
"Oh...So I thought."
That James was not cheered by this knowledge left a funny impression on Ed. He couldn't stop a smile from beginning to crack across his face. "Ha ha, so," he guessed, "You knew what sort of person he was. We weren't exactly friends, Mr. Kimblee." James looked like he was about to speak, but Ed kept him from an unnecessary display. "It's okay," he said, although almost unconsciously he placed a hand over the spot where he retained a scar from being impaled in Baschool's mines, "You don't need to apologize for him. There's...well, I don't imagine there was a lot you could do about that."
Any hint of apology that had risen to James' lips was banished just that easily. "You're right. He was a bad seed. He might not have even been my son, but I raised him. I have to take some responsibility."
Ed wondered at that declaration. Those words and aspect brought this Kimblee closer to the man he had encountered, who had worn this name so proudly, than any other action could have done.
[to be continued on June 19th...]