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31_days2012-07-09 04:59 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2012-07-09 04:59 pm
[July 9] [Fullmetal Alchemist] Bold as the Dark
Title: Bold as the Dark
Day/Theme: July 9, 2012 "But then there are nights."
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Scar, OCs
Rating: PG
"The largest house in town," the vagrants all agreed, "That's the alchemists' house."
Scar could see it from where they stood, the strange ornamental turrets peeking over the tops of Pallet's other buildings. Two potential explanations for it came to mind: the alchemist had inherited it from eccentric ancestors or he had designed (and possibly built) it himself.
Sparks popped and flew as several green branches were added to the fire. "And I assume that there are people living there with him. Family? Servants?" Percy appeared to be rich enough for them.
"No servants." The consensus was equally clear on this. "A doctor visits regularly, but it's only Mr. Percy there."
It promised to be an easy stop on his journey- Percy was older, ailing, and alone. The Ductile Alchemist- who'd helped produce all manner of creative munitions and combat materials. Scar'd had no word from anyone who'd actually seen him take to the field, but killing with one's own hands or not was not the deciding criteria for marking a man or woman down on his list of targets. Henry Percy had sold his soul to the state. He was life would be forfeit.
Scar thanked his contacts with a bag of chestnuts he had removed surreptitiously from a farm stand. Roasting them over their fire would provide some friendly pleasure along with sustenance. He grew braver as the sun set. He would leave these men to their cobbled together meal.
"You're that Ishvalan they're talking about, aren't you?" bearded Tom Hull halted his departure, "The State Alchemist-killer. The man with the scar."
Was a person who brought up this fact more likely to turn him over to the authorities than one who realized this belatedly or pretended to ignore it? "Yes," he answered, low and grumbled, hoping the admission would not garner him any extra attention. He hadn't had much to offer his local informants as payment, but even a man who'd been handed a fortune could easily accept the bribe, then turn around and betray to one who'd given it. Since he had left his homeland, he had found no one he could implicitly trust. He lived on the edge of the knife.
"I don't care much for the freaks myself," Tom rubbed his hands together in the direction of the fire, soaking up what little heat he could from off to the side of its source, "Can't say I'd blame an Ishvalan for doin' what yer doin'. A lot of them are a stuck up bunch. Some of 'em, 'specially in Central, think you ought to worship the ground they walk on. But…if Percy was like that once- maybe he was, I don't know- he's not like that any longer."
"I offer to any who will accept it." He was not aiming to replicate the extended torture his people had undergone. Perhaps this alchemist, older than the ones he'd struck down before, would accept his fate with grace. The choice was up to Ductile. It was in Ishvala's hands now.
The towers of the alchemist's manse had all but disappeared into the midnight blue of the night sky. Scar swept off into the night, cloak flowing behind him on the chill breeze.
Although Percy had undoubtedly read the news about Mitsch and Ventura and Perry (dead, they were only people- he couldn't avoid their names), there was no human security present at his stately home- as the train-jumpers had predicted. He was naive or cocky or resigned. There was a plethora of ways to interpret the lack of action. He had asked for additional security, but it was too late in coming. He had set up some secret form of defense all his own.
Cautious he might be, but Scar saw no point in over thinking it. He tried the back gate. It was locked, but the metal crumbled all too easily under his (his brother's) destructive touch. The garden was overgrown and inside the night was blacker still, with drooping willows and bushy junipers to shade his approach. When Ductile was in better health, he had probably tended to his grounds himself. He was too proud to pay someone else to take over the task for him. He still believed that he would regain the strength to resume the work on his own. If either (or both) was the case, Scar saw something of his father in the man. …It wasn't good to get sentimental.
He'd fight the urge- and it had never stopped him from taking drastic actions thus far- but some nights he couldn't help it. If his father had lived in a house this size! All the people he would have allowed to come and live alongside him!
He broke his way inside with a minimum of noise. There appeared to be three stories to the house. The odds were in his favor that, unless Ductile was a very light sleeper, he had not heard.
Scar crept through a dusty parlor where no light but the distant beams of the moon reached to illuminate a set of Xingese vases, a row of faded photographs. "Where are you, alchemist?" he thought to himself, passing into a kitchen where a stack of dishes tilted lazily across the counter beside open bottles of pills and potions.
The uneasy possibility that Ductile had passed away of natural causes between the last that Scar had heard of him and his arrival passed through his mind.
On the ground floor were a dining room and library, closets and cupboards, along with the parlor and kitchen, but no bedrooms and no Ductile Alchemist (though the contents of the study made quite clear that this was his home and he was proud of the many awards and patents he had garnered over the years).
The stairs creaked under his weight, but summoned no response from above. Proceeding without difficulty emboldened him as the fall of night had.
The second floor was equal to the first in emptiness. The place was beginning to feel rather eerie. Scar listened with care for some sound that might alert him to what was going on- if perhaps he had stumbled into a trap.
On the third floor, the Ductile Alchemist was asleep in his bed. His breathing was troubled. For whom was this encounter a blessing, Scar wondered, for whom was it a curse?
"Henry Percy," he growled to awaken the gray-haired man, "Ductile Alchemist."
---
[to be continued?]
Day/Theme: July 9, 2012 "But then there are nights."
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Character/Pairing: Scar, OCs
Rating: PG
"The largest house in town," the vagrants all agreed, "That's the alchemists' house."
Scar could see it from where they stood, the strange ornamental turrets peeking over the tops of Pallet's other buildings. Two potential explanations for it came to mind: the alchemist had inherited it from eccentric ancestors or he had designed (and possibly built) it himself.
Sparks popped and flew as several green branches were added to the fire. "And I assume that there are people living there with him. Family? Servants?" Percy appeared to be rich enough for them.
"No servants." The consensus was equally clear on this. "A doctor visits regularly, but it's only Mr. Percy there."
It promised to be an easy stop on his journey- Percy was older, ailing, and alone. The Ductile Alchemist- who'd helped produce all manner of creative munitions and combat materials. Scar'd had no word from anyone who'd actually seen him take to the field, but killing with one's own hands or not was not the deciding criteria for marking a man or woman down on his list of targets. Henry Percy had sold his soul to the state. He was life would be forfeit.
Scar thanked his contacts with a bag of chestnuts he had removed surreptitiously from a farm stand. Roasting them over their fire would provide some friendly pleasure along with sustenance. He grew braver as the sun set. He would leave these men to their cobbled together meal.
"You're that Ishvalan they're talking about, aren't you?" bearded Tom Hull halted his departure, "The State Alchemist-killer. The man with the scar."
Was a person who brought up this fact more likely to turn him over to the authorities than one who realized this belatedly or pretended to ignore it? "Yes," he answered, low and grumbled, hoping the admission would not garner him any extra attention. He hadn't had much to offer his local informants as payment, but even a man who'd been handed a fortune could easily accept the bribe, then turn around and betray to one who'd given it. Since he had left his homeland, he had found no one he could implicitly trust. He lived on the edge of the knife.
"I don't care much for the freaks myself," Tom rubbed his hands together in the direction of the fire, soaking up what little heat he could from off to the side of its source, "Can't say I'd blame an Ishvalan for doin' what yer doin'. A lot of them are a stuck up bunch. Some of 'em, 'specially in Central, think you ought to worship the ground they walk on. But…if Percy was like that once- maybe he was, I don't know- he's not like that any longer."
"I offer to any who will accept it." He was not aiming to replicate the extended torture his people had undergone. Perhaps this alchemist, older than the ones he'd struck down before, would accept his fate with grace. The choice was up to Ductile. It was in Ishvala's hands now.
The towers of the alchemist's manse had all but disappeared into the midnight blue of the night sky. Scar swept off into the night, cloak flowing behind him on the chill breeze.
Although Percy had undoubtedly read the news about Mitsch and Ventura and Perry (dead, they were only people- he couldn't avoid their names), there was no human security present at his stately home- as the train-jumpers had predicted. He was naive or cocky or resigned. There was a plethora of ways to interpret the lack of action. He had asked for additional security, but it was too late in coming. He had set up some secret form of defense all his own.
Cautious he might be, but Scar saw no point in over thinking it. He tried the back gate. It was locked, but the metal crumbled all too easily under his (his brother's) destructive touch. The garden was overgrown and inside the night was blacker still, with drooping willows and bushy junipers to shade his approach. When Ductile was in better health, he had probably tended to his grounds himself. He was too proud to pay someone else to take over the task for him. He still believed that he would regain the strength to resume the work on his own. If either (or both) was the case, Scar saw something of his father in the man. …It wasn't good to get sentimental.
He'd fight the urge- and it had never stopped him from taking drastic actions thus far- but some nights he couldn't help it. If his father had lived in a house this size! All the people he would have allowed to come and live alongside him!
He broke his way inside with a minimum of noise. There appeared to be three stories to the house. The odds were in his favor that, unless Ductile was a very light sleeper, he had not heard.
Scar crept through a dusty parlor where no light but the distant beams of the moon reached to illuminate a set of Xingese vases, a row of faded photographs. "Where are you, alchemist?" he thought to himself, passing into a kitchen where a stack of dishes tilted lazily across the counter beside open bottles of pills and potions.
The uneasy possibility that Ductile had passed away of natural causes between the last that Scar had heard of him and his arrival passed through his mind.
On the ground floor were a dining room and library, closets and cupboards, along with the parlor and kitchen, but no bedrooms and no Ductile Alchemist (though the contents of the study made quite clear that this was his home and he was proud of the many awards and patents he had garnered over the years).
The stairs creaked under his weight, but summoned no response from above. Proceeding without difficulty emboldened him as the fall of night had.
The second floor was equal to the first in emptiness. The place was beginning to feel rather eerie. Scar listened with care for some sound that might alert him to what was going on- if perhaps he had stumbled into a trap.
On the third floor, the Ductile Alchemist was asleep in his bed. His breathing was troubled. For whom was this encounter a blessing, Scar wondered, for whom was it a curse?
"Henry Percy," he growled to awaken the gray-haired man, "Ductile Alchemist."
---
[to be continued?]