Zolf Kimblee dreams in the dark. A flower, waiting to bloom once more. He dreams of death, and the joy in making war.
Disclaimer: I make no claim upon the glory and wonder that is Fullmetal Alchemist. This is, in case it's not obvious, set at some point during his imprisonment during the manga canon.
Whether in the end or thinking of the begining, whichever way he remembered, there was nothing but the music.
Even here, in this dark, tiny space, a metal box they put him for the same reason that a child clings to a teddy bear to keep the bogeyman away, he could still remember the echoes that sang of his fondest memories-
(screams, women and men and children screaming until their voices broke, howling like Hell had just opened up and let the demons loose, their screams a high note marked as the explosions rip them apart, bursts of stone and mortar flying everywhere and silencing them all)
-thoughts sufficient to warm his soul and set his heart abuzz like a scraps of metal around a lodestone. All it took was a single stimulus, the vaguest reminder to connect a years-gone moment to now, and he was there again, back in the deserts raining with blood and fire-
(he hears the soldiers talk amongst themselves as he uses the power of a dozen souls extracted and condensed into the ruby-red crystal over his heart and he doesn't care, they are merely noises admist the symphony, chattering peons ignorant of the glory before them, and he pays them little attention as the ground cracks and breaks like pounding metal and finally erupts and he screams his joy for the incomprehensible beauty of destruction incarnate-)
-and his heart, just for a moment, soared, as though he was not in this dreary prison cell but flying higher than any bird dare reach, at once imprisoned and airbourne; it was a joy, a pleasure, as much a wonder as the cycle of analysis, deconstruction and reconstructed that he immersed himself in for the making of his music. All it took was the littlest thing; the smell of metal that recalled the reek of blood as it pilled high into the air, the storm of almost continual complaining, whining and talk, all quiet and nearly whispers but coming together as a dull roar and suddenly replete not with squawking as important as motes in sunlight, but transformed into the seemingly endless screams of dying and howls of rage, more and more variations upon, pain and anger, the two cornerstones of human existence, founding hundreds of different notes, all flowing together into an orchestra of such incomparable beauty that it made tears flow just to think of it-
(He raises his hands, howling a cry of ultimate joy as the power courses through him, directed by the circles on his palms and shaped by his will and swelled to fantastic tides by the Philospher's Stone around his neck, and as the invisible waves concusses the air and shreds a woman to bits and showers the childs cowering behind her with gouts of his mother's blood and pieces of meat, he knows precisely why so many have gone to their deaths seeking the power of this little gem, this piece of ultimate power; with the power of this at his beck and call, he could be a god, no, better than that, better than any absurd and overbearing ideal the Ishbalans and their ilk will conceive of-)
In some ways, he honestly prefered it. Here, alone in the dark, there weren't any shadows of people to make him act in ways unbefitting, to force him to cloak himself in illusions of stupidity and self-delusion like the rest of them did. Here, he could think as he wished, and let those thoughts show themselves on his face without fear of being discovered.
Zolf J. Kimbley smiled to himself. The sounds of truest music called to him through the misted veil of years gone by, a siren's song that he longed to answer. He longed to cough up the Philosopher's Stone he swallowed years ago as he did every so often, just to remember the compositions of so long ago, and let the warden, the guards, the prisoners, let all of them know the supreme honor of being part of his orchestra.
But he could wait. He was perfectly aware that sooner or later, they would require his assistance. As far as he was concerned, this was strictly a temporary situation, even if he hadn't already been able to blast his way out at his own discretion: the sheep liked to have the wolf kept under padlock and their fences secure. Never mind if the fence was rotten, all too easily broken, and if the shepherds had smiles like violet-eyed snakes, all too eager to take them to the slaughtering room: sheep needed their illusions after all, poor dumb things that they were.
He was completely assured that they would need him, sooner or later. Sooner or later, the State always needed people like Kimbley. The military needed people like him, men who could hear the music, coax it from the masses and led the dance to it whether it was a roaring symphony or only scattered notes.
His smile widened, teeth shining wetly, and he didn't have it in him to restrain an excited roll of the shoulders. And there was no reason to hold back, there was never a reason to keep back the purity of the first and truest feeling, espicially when he was excited as he was now. This was a different excitement then what the sweet memories of Ishbal brought to him, not the same sort of joy that seemed brown skin erupt and red eyes widen with silent screams; no, it was not reminescene, but anticipation.
Kimbley felt it in the air, could practically taste their need of him. Soon, all too soon, he would be free to make his music again, free to clap his hands and transform such useless flesh and blood into compounds more interesting and fun, watch them erupt into the crimson flowers that were his namesake. And all under the auspices of the State.
He allowed himself a quiet chuckle. He could wait. The laws of probability were in his favor; this was a country of war, and war always needed people like him. He laughed again at the thought, saw no reason not to.
Some people said he was insane. But he had looked at the world too long ago, saw the needless deception and endless self-delusions, and had intimately known how stupid it all was. Stupid that people lied to themselves over the most ridiculous things, stupid that they lived and died for lies. In a way, Kimbley pitied them for their foolishness. He couldn't understand the never-ending confusion they inflicted upon themselves. He'd known people in the war like that, who needed to rationalize their job when it seemed so obvious to Kimbley that it was just a job. They couldn't seem to stop berating themselves for killing people, whether a measly dozen or thousands, and it gave him a headache just trying to understand them.
Apparently, everyone else was insane, unable to see the fleshy suits everyone wore as just that; empty sacks with no real importance behind them. It was actually funny in a bitter sort of way, that they had so many ways of making reasons to kill another when it seemed so overwhelmingly obvious to Kimbley that there was only one reason to do so, and no matter how many times he'd tried to explain it, through action and reason, he had only been met with horror and disgust. Disgusted in turn, he'd given up on them.
He killed people because he wanted to. There was no other reason than that, nothing else worth consideration.
Kimbley grinned ever wider, a beautiful sense of satisfaction rising in him. In due time, he'd be able to express it in his own right, make his music again, because they needed him.
Until then, at the very least, he had his memories.
From his cell, a cheerful whistling echoed, and even the hardest guard or most brutal prisoner shivered at the noise.