Fuck. Fuck. I can’t stop thinking about Roy straight up fire bending from his throat bc of that thing i just reblogged I’m sweating so bad FML FML FML FML!!!!
In Roy Mustang’s defense, he’d had his gloves shredded twice
already. And for a man who relied on those gloves to keep his own head attached
to his body, twice was twice too many.
In Roy Mustang’s defense, he understood a tattoo was an
unsightly thing for a political figure to have. He’d mulled over it in silence,
usually late at night staring at the ceiling of his empty apartment. It could
be well-received, if he played it up as part of his Flame Alchemist persona.
More likely it could tank his political career. The only popular tattooed
alchemists were Solf Kimblee and Scar, and tossing himself in with their lot
was probably political suicide.
In Roy Mustang’s defense, he hadn’t been able to bring
himself to consult Riza Hawkeye on this decision. And she was the source of at
least half the level-headed logic that drove him most days. He’d personally
been the one to burn the Flame Alchemist tattoo off her back. He didn’t want to
hurt her by letting her know he intended to get his own tattooed on.
This brought Roy to a series of conclusions: He could not
continue relying solely on his gloves if he wanted to stay alive. He could not
tattoo the flame transmutation circle anywhere the public (or Riza) would notice
easily. And of course, it needed to be somewhere functional even if he were
captured and immobilized.
The tattoo artist grimaced at the request. “Your neck?”
The dentist only quirked an eyebrow. “You want flint fillings in your teeth? What, are
you trying to chew sparks?”
Most importantly though, Roy Mustang had the money for it,
and he had the unflinching, moronic resolve to follow through.
He was satisfied, after many hours of gritting his teeth and
digging his finger nails into a tattoo parlor chair, with how suavely his
uniform concealed the red transmutation circle just above his collar bone. It
took some practice, cutting his teeth against each other at just the right
angle to make the volatile fillings spark. It took even more practice to catch
that spark and transmute it into a roiling flame. It took the most practice of
all to do this without singeing the inside of his mouth to hell and back.
But stupidly enough, it worked.
And so Roy Mustang had a secret weapon.
And the real pity about secret weapons, when it comes down
to it, is that they have to remain secret. Mustang went about his days with his
tattoo concealed, and his teeth fillings hidden, and his lackluster gloves
securely on his hands. He was eager, almost, for some eighth homunculus to hop
out of the shadows and challenge him, if only so that he could know his genius
had not gone to waste. Maybe Selim Bradley would grow a few more teeth and eyes and try to get the jump on Mustang. Maybe King Bradley himself would hop on out of his grave for a rematch, as Bradley had already proven himself once or twice to be perfectly capable of bouncing back from certain death.
No such thing happened. Three weeks passed entirely without incident. This annoyed Roy
Mustang.
In the fourth week, something sort of happened.
It wasn’t an immortal monster, nor a creature aiming to
become God, nor a human turned homunculus that jumped him on his walk home. No,
it was a knobbly-kneed teen, face just a bit too shiny and oily in the
lamplight, holding a quivering gun.
“Hands up,” the boy barked. Roy complied, almost giddily.
Oops, oh no, no hands… Whatever could he do. “Money. I want your money. Your
wallet. Where is it?”
“I can’t reach it with my hands up,” Roy answered.
“Don’t be smart! Where is it!?”
“My coat pocket.” Roy motioned with his head. “Come closer,
and you can take it from my pocket. My hands are up.”
“Alright… Alright, no funny business!” the teen barked. He
edged closer, his eyes flickering between Mustang’s hands, eyes, and coat
pocket. Mustang felt like Christmas had come.
“Oh, one thing first,” Mustang said, and the teen stopped,
paralyzed, hand tight to the gun. Mustang clicked his teeth, flashed a friendly
grin, and exhaled. The entire night lit up in flame. “I’m a bit flammable this
close up.”
The teen yelped. Or shrieked perhaps. Or attempted to
vocalize some noise of utter horror and instead choked on his spit, yowling and
sputtering like some stepped-on cat. He threw himself backward, landing
butt-first on the pavement and scrambling, scooting away, turning over and
launching himself to his feet in the opposite direction.
Roy watched the boy sprint away, until he was nothing but a
pinprick in the distance. Then he bent down and picked up the gun. He smiled,
and coughed, and coughed again, and didn’t stop coughing for a good 30 seconds,
because unfortunately there was no way to breathe literal fire without feeling
like he’d swallowed at least some of it.
It was still the best idea he’d had in his entire 29 years
of living.
And god dammit it to hell that he couldn’t tell anyone…
Roy stared at the gun, emptying the chamber and stashing it
in his coat pocket along with his wallet. He chewed his tongue and thought
about it.
…Maybe he’d tell Edward.
He and Edward differed on a lot of opinions, and Edward was
loathe to admit that Mustang had ever done anything right in his life.
But Edward, more than anyone, would understand this was
absolutely cool as hell.
On the topic of deaths in FMA (so, major spoiler tag right now for the FMA:B anime/manga) there’s one that’s just so well-constructed, so well-executed, and I’ve never seen anyone bring this up:
The Death of Wrath, Fuhrer King Bradley
It was Bradley who ordered and signed the extermination campaign in Ishval. And he did so unflinchingly. Partway through the war, the High Priest of Ishval offers himself up to Bradley in an attempt to end the war–one leader turning himself over to the other.
And Bradley, Bradley scoffs. He laughs at the notion that any one human life can be worth more than any other. He states that this priest’s life does not equal the tens of thousands of Ishvalans.
They curse him out. They tell him God will punish him. And Bradley invites it
He dares God to strike him down! He dares God’s Wrath to find him, and end him. But of course, nothing happens. The war continues. The Ishvalans die.
Then, we have Scar, who’s seeking vengeance for his murdered people. He does it in God’s name. He targets State Alchemists, because they are blasphemers. They distort things from the form God gave
them. They create, when creation is
the domain of God alone.
Al attempts to call Scar out on this hypocrisy later when
they battle in Central. Scar claims he’s working a loophole though. His arm
only destroys. He’s not encroaching
on God’s domain. He does not create.
Fast forward many many chapters. Scar is the final person to battle Bradley. And he finds
himself losing at first, even with Bradley as injured as he is. Then Scar pulls
out his trump card, gains the upperhand on Bradley, gains the advantage.
He’s tattooed his brother’s other design on his left arm. He’s
embraced the creation arm. Against
his beliefs, against his morals, against his creed, Scar has become one of the
blasphemers. He’s encroached on God’s
domain, because the magnitude of failure outweighed the sin of creating.
Bradley mocks him for this. He claims Scar must have finally
realized God is fake. That He’s a construction of humans, and the war has
finally broken Scar of his faith. If Bradley were right, Arakawa would probably
have him win this fight. He doesn’t, though. Scar beats him.
Scar, finally,
kills him. And he does it by embracing creation.
After countless attempts, after the train explosion, after Buccaneer’s death, after Fu’s death, Bradley remained alive. It was Scar, in the end, who got to kill him, and he succeeds in the face of Bradley claiming he’s surrendered his faith. So no, it’s not that Scar’s given up his faith.
Far from it.
By embracing creation, Scar has, symbolically, BECOME the
God of Ishval.
He creates. He destroys. He is nameless, yet acts in the name of Ishvala. He is Wrath. And it’s not just that “Wrath was killed by a wrathful man.”
Scar is the Wrath of Ishvala.
Bradley is killed by
the God of Ishval.
Bradley invoked the Wrath
of Ishvala, and he dies by it.
God did find Bradley, in the end. He was late on the invite, but He answered. Oh god, did He answer.
“Dad how do you know so many important people in the military?” “I used to work under Fuhrer Mustang, i still owe him money actually” “yeah right”
“dAD HOW COME THE EMPEROR OF XING JUST CAME IN THROUGH OUR WINDOW?!” “BECAUSE I MADE HIM EAT MY BOOT AND IT CEMENTED OUR FRIENDSHIP” “WHEN WILL THE LIES STOP DAD”
i think it was lost in the anime adaptation how genuinely confused hohenheim was when he came back. like in brotherhood he seems so stoic and All Knowing but in the manga he’s just like i dont get it….wheres my house…last time i was here i had a wife and a house where are they…….
Manga Hohenheim was a glorious dork, and as much as I love FMAB, one of my few gripes with it is that as much as we got cool stoic Hohenheim, we didn’t get much of
“I like the new color of your suit, Kimblee.” remains to be the most savage destruction of any man I have ever seen to this day. Dude was literally bleeding out all over his white overcoat and some 8 year old roasted him. Imagine dying in the middle of nowhere with the president’s 3rd grader memeing on you.
Plot Designing 