now i ded from tired
Aug. 19th, 2004 04:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mikkenekoI die now. Have fun reading.
I am so mean to Ed in this part. I almost feel guilty.
Almost.
Fandom: Full Metal Alchemist
Title: Temperance (working title only.)
Pairings: None yet
Rating: R in this section
WARNING: This section contains very violent drug reactions and material which may be kinda disturbing.
Older brother: Fourteen
Younger brother: Thirteen
Something teased at the back of his mind. The connection. The factories. The houses. The people in the streets. Doring. For a moment he almost put his finger on it, but then it slipped away. Ed could almost feel the slithering thought, like a wet piece of string, worming its way through his brain. It was a disturbing sensation, and he pressed his hands against his head, trying to pin it down.
"Brother?" Al sounded anxious. Ed jerked his head up -- when had he curled up enough to hide his face in his knees? -- and saw his brother looming over him. He made the bed shift, and Ed had to snatch out a hand to grab for something solid, because that one tiny motion seemed to set off an entire cascade of motions that rocked him and rippled him until he thought he would slip away. "Brother, what's wrong?"
"Al," he gasped, then stopped. Was that really his voice? Did he really sound like that? It reminded him of the time he'd heard his own voice on a recording machine, flat and tinny and crackling with static.
He moaned and curled up again -- it seemed like the easiest position. It made it hard to breathe, though, with his arms tucked up tight to his chest, and he found himself gasping, trying to breathe through air gone thick and heavy. His heart thudded, a painful impact inside his ribcage. At any moment now it would burst outwards, spraying the bed with blood and splinters of bone -- or perhaps it would dash itself into pieces against the unyielding frame. What was happening to him?
"Al," he tried again, and managed not to shiver at the sound. "Al, something is wrong."
"That's what I've been saying for the last ten minutes, Brother!" That was Al, voice sharp with annoyance, edged with fear. It was strange, imagining his brother's voice as a metal blade, one that sawed across the edge of his ears. He shuddered again.
"What --" He tried to sit up. Nooo, that was a mistake. The room pitched around him, sending his head swimming. He turned his head, searching for his brother, but his eyes didn't want to focus; his vision was covered by bursts of searing white.
Something loomed up by his elbow, huge and metal and forbidding. Ed shrank away from it, mouth gone dry, his throat filling up with the taste of fear and revulsion. "Don't come near me," he hissed. "Get away!"
"Brother!" That was Al, sounding shocked and hurt. He could hear his brother, but he couldn't see him. There was no Al, there was only this thing, stealing his brother's voice, looming dark and menacing. It was hollow, he knew, and he could hear the whispers from inside the dark and empty space, like snakes or worms sliding against each other.
"You're not him. You're not him! You're just a filthy impostor!" Ed shouted. "Al, where are you?" He tried to get to his feet and failed, ending up swaying drunkenly on his hands and knees.
"I'm right here!" the suit of armor protested, and Ed growled in rage, because that thing had stolen his brother's voice, and was using it against him.
"Give him back!" he snarled, and flung himself against the thing, cold and alien and inhuman. "Give my brother back to me! What have you done with him?!"
His hands met cold metal plates, slamming with a resounding metal echo. He tried to dig his fingers in, to claw his way beneath the iron skin and expose the slimy, slithering thing he knew was underneath. His fingers slipped and scrabbled against the surface, and suddenly strong, cold hands were closing on his wrists, wrenching them apart, holding him up off the bed. "What are you talking about, Brother? It's me! It's only me! Stop it, you're hurting yourself!"
"Give him back!" Ed screamed, panic mixing with fury as he struggled and kicked. "Al! Where are you? I can't see!"
And then he stopped struggling, letting himself hang limp in the giant's grasp, eyes wide and staring.
No.
He could see.
He could see the faces in the walls, the ceiling, where before there had been nothing but plain whiteness. He could see the faint, shifting pulses, like somebody had tried to transmute the walls into humans and stopped halfway. And now he could hear their voices, too, faint whispers and moans of despair and agony as they quivered and pulsed, masquerading their agony behind a facade of blank stillness.
He shouldn't have looked at them, though, because now they knew he could see them. They knew, and they strained towards him, blank sightless eyes and filmy, straining mouths. And he knew, with a blinding clarity, just what they wanted from him. Escape, from their blank prison; eyes to see and mouths to breathe and legs to walk with. Real flesh, not the half-alive mockery.
His throat began to hurt, he realized, and it was a bit before he could hear himself screaming at them not to come near him, not to touch him, that they couldn't have his arms or his legs. Screaming for Al to get away, to run, before they noticed him too. That thing -- that metal monster that was holding him down, holding him in place while they came and chewed him apart -- was shaking him, speaking in that high, sweet mockery of his brother's voice. He renewed his struggles, lashing out with all the strength and fury that had kept him alive this long.
His arm connected with something -- or so he thought, though he couldn't really feel his hands any more; had the walls already eaten them away? -- and the grip holding him loosened. He kicked out, hard, and managed to tear himself loose. He hit the ground, and started to roll away, to get to his feet in the center of the room where he could defend himself.
Another mistake, he realized with horror, as he felt the whispers starting to crawl up his arms, a shivering carpet on the floor that quickly threatened to envelop him. Shaking with fear and revulsion, he tried to brush them off his skin, but they only laughed and giggled and twisted themselves under his skin, crawling through the layers of subcutaneous fat to twine through his blood vessels and worm their way into his heart.
"No!" he cried, and rolled away, slapping and kicking at the whispers as more and more tried to crawl under his skin. On an instinct, he clapped his hands together, and transformed his auto-mail. The blue light crackled and spat like an angry animal, spilling over his hands and arms to run down onto the floor like hungry flames. They made the whispers cry out in horror and shrivel, so he did it again. And again.
"Brother, stop this now!" his brother's voice came to him, dimly. "There's nothing there, do you hear me? You're imagining things -- it's just you and me in here!"
"Stay back, Al," he growled, feeling his voice crack and bleed. "Don't let them touch you --"
One of the whispers under his skin shivered up through his neck, then, crawling into his brain. He cried out, wordlessly, convulsing hard enough that his head banged against the floor. They were in him now, eating holes through his brain and in his heart -- he had to get them out, before they killed him. He lashed out with his automail, his only weapon, seeking the source of the threat, to destroy it.
He almost had it, almost, when the suit of armor slammed down on him again, pinning him to the floor where the whispers could race over and over his body. He writhed in pain, trying to throw the metal thing off of him, but it was far too heavy, and far too strong. It lifted him off the floor like a rag doll, holding his arms up and apart -- helpless -- before slamming down on some hard unyielding surface.
There was a flare of light, that smelled like scorching, and then something hard against his wrists, his ankles, trapping him in place. He snarled and fought, spitting curses he didn't even know he remembered, but to no avail. He flung his head back, eyes wide and wild, searching for the source of his torment. "Why -- why do this?" he said, hardly able to force the words out of his mouth. "Why -- no! Don't make me see!" He screamed, and screamed again, as the walls and floors and ceilings opened up, revealing the empty space that they'd been hiding up till now. More and more of the whispers were in his head, now, twisting in among his thoughts -- his memories -- chuckling at him gleefully and promising that he'd have lots to look at in just a minute. "No! I don't want to look -- I don't want to see!"
The last thing he heard was Al's voice, in a fading whisper so that he knew his brother was gone. And what he said made so little sense, that of all the things forcing their way into his head, it was this that Ed thought he must have imagined. "I'm sorry, Brother," Al whispered. "Forgive me."
Me, thought Edward. You have that backwards. It's me.
+ + +
He woke up, and was immediately sorry for it.
I'm alive, was his first realization, which did not entirely please him. I'm not hearing the walls talk any more, was his second, which was slightly better.
I feel like I've had half of Central City fall on me, was the third, and unfortunately, that was the one that dragged him back to consciousness. Light stabbed into his head, even with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and he twitched, instinctively trying to deny it. He hurt. He could feel the ache of bruises and the sting of raw cuts, but much more serious was the twisting pang in his gut and the blinding pain in his head.
"Uh..." He decided to make another go at moving. He rolled his head to the side, and tried to move his body. That didn't help with the bruises at all, but at least he could get a better sense of things now.
He couldn't move more than a few inches. His eyes flew open, and he immediately clamped them shut again as the light assaulted his eyes. He lowered his head, and shuddered, until something moved in front of him, blocking out the light.
Slowly, he opened his eyes again, and looked up. And up, into the familiar metal faceplate of his brother's armor. "Al," he said, and his voice was cracked and dry. He licked his lips, and tried to swallow; that hurt, too.
"Brother?" Al sounded hushed, and worried. He hunkered down in front of Ed, in front of the -- chair? Yes, as Ed dropped his eyes again, he was sitting in the wooden chair that had come with the room. The arms of the chair, though, had arched up into wooden cuffs around his wrists and ankles, which explained why he couldn't move.
"Yeah." That was barely recognizable as a word. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I think... I'm okay now."
"No, you are definitely not okay," Al said firmly. "But... you know me, right?"
The note of faint uncertainty and pain lacing through his brother's voice made Ed want to choke. He nodded, and closed his eyes as it sent another spear of pain through his head. He heard clankings and scrapings as Al leaned forward, and there was the flare of another alchemical reaction as Al returned the chair to its normal state. "I'm so sorry about this, Brother," Al said miserably. "But you weren't listening to me, and you were... I didn't know what to do."
"S'okay." Ed lifted his human arm to rub against his face, and blinked as he realized that his right, auto-mail arm was still captured. He looked back at his brother. "Al?"
Al didn't quite seem to know what to say. Now that his vision had cleared slightly, Ed could see the markings that his attacks had left on the armor plates; very faint dents in a few places, scratches in the plate across his left chest and shoulders, and smudges of blood smeared across the right. He reached out instinctively. "God, Al, I'm sorry," he said without thinking. "Hold on, I'll fix it right away --"
"No, it's fine --" Al said softly, not meeting Ed's eyes. "Brother, I think you should fix your arm first."
"Huh?" He looked down for the first time at his right arm, the one that the chair was still holding trapped.
A hoarse shout escaped him, and he nearly knocked himself and the chair over onto the floor as he flinched away, instinctively trying to escape his own arm. For a moment he panicked, thinking that the hideous visions from last night were real, that they were here, pulsing and eating their way through his arm --
"Brother, it's okay!" Al's voice pulled him out of it, his hand firm on Ed's left shoulder to keep him and the chair upright. "It's not real. You can fix it. I'm just going to let your arm go, and you can fix it -- just don't look too close, okay?"
He was hyperventilating, and it took Ed a moment to regain his scattered wits, force himself back to calmness. Al kept on talking, and Ed clung fiercely to the sound of his voice to bring him back to reality.
"I, uh, put the floor back the way it was," Al said nervously. "And the walls, but I didn't -- well, I didn't think I could put an array on your arm and put that back to normal, not while you were still --"
"I'm okay now," Ed managed a nearly normal tone. He took a deep breath, and forced a smile. He was pretty sure it was about as weak and pathetic as he felt right now, but that would do. Without another word, Al freed his arm, and Ed clapped his hands -- the simple gesture took far more effort than it ought -- and placed his hand on the auto-mail, smoothing out the obscene forms into blankness once again.
"Brother," Al said, standing again to hover over him anxiously, "do you think you're going to be okay?"
Ed opened his mouth, then closed it as he really had to think about this one. "I don't know," he said after a moment. "I... think I will be. Wh... why do you ask?" he said, changing his question at the last moment.
"Well," Al said, as he helped his brother to stand, and then stumble the few feet until he could collapse onto the bed. "I tried to leave last night -- so that I could go get help, or -- but I heard a noise, and when I got back, you had gotten your arm free and were -- umm." Al looked away, fiddling with his helmet slightly.
Ed looked up, pinning him with a sharp glance, and Al finished miserably. "--trying to dig your eyes out."
Oh. Well, that explained where that particular cut had come from. Ed drew in a shaky breath, and let it out again. "I'll be fine now," he said. "I'm sor -- I'm fine."
"Sure?" Al asked nervously.
"Sure." Ed nodded fiercely, trying to reassure his brother.
"Okay then." Al straightened up, and turned for the door. He ducked through the frame, closing it gently behind him, and Ed stared after him, mouth open, confusion and hurt welling up inside him. Why was Al -- ?!
The crashing sound that immediately followed cut off his selfish thoughts before they could properly form. Another crash sounded, one that shook the entire building; and then another one followed. It sounded like someone had thrown a table into a wall with great force, Ed calculated. Or possibly from a great height.
Raised voices floated through the door; one a woman's, high-pitched with distress. The other was his brother's distorted by fury, and Ed pushed himself to his feet, fighting off the shakiness that threatened to overtake him. Looks like he couldn't afford to relax just yet.
~tbc~
I am so mean to Ed in this part. I almost feel guilty.
Almost.
Fandom: Full Metal Alchemist
Title: Temperance (working title only.)
Pairings: None yet
Rating: R in this section
WARNING: This section contains very violent drug reactions and material which may be kinda disturbing.
Older brother: Fourteen
Younger brother: Thirteen
Something teased at the back of his mind. The connection. The factories. The houses. The people in the streets. Doring. For a moment he almost put his finger on it, but then it slipped away. Ed could almost feel the slithering thought, like a wet piece of string, worming its way through his brain. It was a disturbing sensation, and he pressed his hands against his head, trying to pin it down.
"Brother?" Al sounded anxious. Ed jerked his head up -- when had he curled up enough to hide his face in his knees? -- and saw his brother looming over him. He made the bed shift, and Ed had to snatch out a hand to grab for something solid, because that one tiny motion seemed to set off an entire cascade of motions that rocked him and rippled him until he thought he would slip away. "Brother, what's wrong?"
"Al," he gasped, then stopped. Was that really his voice? Did he really sound like that? It reminded him of the time he'd heard his own voice on a recording machine, flat and tinny and crackling with static.
He moaned and curled up again -- it seemed like the easiest position. It made it hard to breathe, though, with his arms tucked up tight to his chest, and he found himself gasping, trying to breathe through air gone thick and heavy. His heart thudded, a painful impact inside his ribcage. At any moment now it would burst outwards, spraying the bed with blood and splinters of bone -- or perhaps it would dash itself into pieces against the unyielding frame. What was happening to him?
"Al," he tried again, and managed not to shiver at the sound. "Al, something is wrong."
"That's what I've been saying for the last ten minutes, Brother!" That was Al, voice sharp with annoyance, edged with fear. It was strange, imagining his brother's voice as a metal blade, one that sawed across the edge of his ears. He shuddered again.
"What --" He tried to sit up. Nooo, that was a mistake. The room pitched around him, sending his head swimming. He turned his head, searching for his brother, but his eyes didn't want to focus; his vision was covered by bursts of searing white.
Something loomed up by his elbow, huge and metal and forbidding. Ed shrank away from it, mouth gone dry, his throat filling up with the taste of fear and revulsion. "Don't come near me," he hissed. "Get away!"
"Brother!" That was Al, sounding shocked and hurt. He could hear his brother, but he couldn't see him. There was no Al, there was only this thing, stealing his brother's voice, looming dark and menacing. It was hollow, he knew, and he could hear the whispers from inside the dark and empty space, like snakes or worms sliding against each other.
"You're not him. You're not him! You're just a filthy impostor!" Ed shouted. "Al, where are you?" He tried to get to his feet and failed, ending up swaying drunkenly on his hands and knees.
"I'm right here!" the suit of armor protested, and Ed growled in rage, because that thing had stolen his brother's voice, and was using it against him.
"Give him back!" he snarled, and flung himself against the thing, cold and alien and inhuman. "Give my brother back to me! What have you done with him?!"
His hands met cold metal plates, slamming with a resounding metal echo. He tried to dig his fingers in, to claw his way beneath the iron skin and expose the slimy, slithering thing he knew was underneath. His fingers slipped and scrabbled against the surface, and suddenly strong, cold hands were closing on his wrists, wrenching them apart, holding him up off the bed. "What are you talking about, Brother? It's me! It's only me! Stop it, you're hurting yourself!"
"Give him back!" Ed screamed, panic mixing with fury as he struggled and kicked. "Al! Where are you? I can't see!"
And then he stopped struggling, letting himself hang limp in the giant's grasp, eyes wide and staring.
No.
He could see.
He could see the faces in the walls, the ceiling, where before there had been nothing but plain whiteness. He could see the faint, shifting pulses, like somebody had tried to transmute the walls into humans and stopped halfway. And now he could hear their voices, too, faint whispers and moans of despair and agony as they quivered and pulsed, masquerading their agony behind a facade of blank stillness.
He shouldn't have looked at them, though, because now they knew he could see them. They knew, and they strained towards him, blank sightless eyes and filmy, straining mouths. And he knew, with a blinding clarity, just what they wanted from him. Escape, from their blank prison; eyes to see and mouths to breathe and legs to walk with. Real flesh, not the half-alive mockery.
His throat began to hurt, he realized, and it was a bit before he could hear himself screaming at them not to come near him, not to touch him, that they couldn't have his arms or his legs. Screaming for Al to get away, to run, before they noticed him too. That thing -- that metal monster that was holding him down, holding him in place while they came and chewed him apart -- was shaking him, speaking in that high, sweet mockery of his brother's voice. He renewed his struggles, lashing out with all the strength and fury that had kept him alive this long.
His arm connected with something -- or so he thought, though he couldn't really feel his hands any more; had the walls already eaten them away? -- and the grip holding him loosened. He kicked out, hard, and managed to tear himself loose. He hit the ground, and started to roll away, to get to his feet in the center of the room where he could defend himself.
Another mistake, he realized with horror, as he felt the whispers starting to crawl up his arms, a shivering carpet on the floor that quickly threatened to envelop him. Shaking with fear and revulsion, he tried to brush them off his skin, but they only laughed and giggled and twisted themselves under his skin, crawling through the layers of subcutaneous fat to twine through his blood vessels and worm their way into his heart.
"No!" he cried, and rolled away, slapping and kicking at the whispers as more and more tried to crawl under his skin. On an instinct, he clapped his hands together, and transformed his auto-mail. The blue light crackled and spat like an angry animal, spilling over his hands and arms to run down onto the floor like hungry flames. They made the whispers cry out in horror and shrivel, so he did it again. And again.
"Brother, stop this now!" his brother's voice came to him, dimly. "There's nothing there, do you hear me? You're imagining things -- it's just you and me in here!"
"Stay back, Al," he growled, feeling his voice crack and bleed. "Don't let them touch you --"
One of the whispers under his skin shivered up through his neck, then, crawling into his brain. He cried out, wordlessly, convulsing hard enough that his head banged against the floor. They were in him now, eating holes through his brain and in his heart -- he had to get them out, before they killed him. He lashed out with his automail, his only weapon, seeking the source of the threat, to destroy it.
He almost had it, almost, when the suit of armor slammed down on him again, pinning him to the floor where the whispers could race over and over his body. He writhed in pain, trying to throw the metal thing off of him, but it was far too heavy, and far too strong. It lifted him off the floor like a rag doll, holding his arms up and apart -- helpless -- before slamming down on some hard unyielding surface.
There was a flare of light, that smelled like scorching, and then something hard against his wrists, his ankles, trapping him in place. He snarled and fought, spitting curses he didn't even know he remembered, but to no avail. He flung his head back, eyes wide and wild, searching for the source of his torment. "Why -- why do this?" he said, hardly able to force the words out of his mouth. "Why -- no! Don't make me see!" He screamed, and screamed again, as the walls and floors and ceilings opened up, revealing the empty space that they'd been hiding up till now. More and more of the whispers were in his head, now, twisting in among his thoughts -- his memories -- chuckling at him gleefully and promising that he'd have lots to look at in just a minute. "No! I don't want to look -- I don't want to see!"
The last thing he heard was Al's voice, in a fading whisper so that he knew his brother was gone. And what he said made so little sense, that of all the things forcing their way into his head, it was this that Ed thought he must have imagined. "I'm sorry, Brother," Al whispered. "Forgive me."
Me, thought Edward. You have that backwards. It's me.
+ + +
He woke up, and was immediately sorry for it.
I'm alive, was his first realization, which did not entirely please him. I'm not hearing the walls talk any more, was his second, which was slightly better.
I feel like I've had half of Central City fall on me, was the third, and unfortunately, that was the one that dragged him back to consciousness. Light stabbed into his head, even with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and he twitched, instinctively trying to deny it. He hurt. He could feel the ache of bruises and the sting of raw cuts, but much more serious was the twisting pang in his gut and the blinding pain in his head.
"Uh..." He decided to make another go at moving. He rolled his head to the side, and tried to move his body. That didn't help with the bruises at all, but at least he could get a better sense of things now.
He couldn't move more than a few inches. His eyes flew open, and he immediately clamped them shut again as the light assaulted his eyes. He lowered his head, and shuddered, until something moved in front of him, blocking out the light.
Slowly, he opened his eyes again, and looked up. And up, into the familiar metal faceplate of his brother's armor. "Al," he said, and his voice was cracked and dry. He licked his lips, and tried to swallow; that hurt, too.
"Brother?" Al sounded hushed, and worried. He hunkered down in front of Ed, in front of the -- chair? Yes, as Ed dropped his eyes again, he was sitting in the wooden chair that had come with the room. The arms of the chair, though, had arched up into wooden cuffs around his wrists and ankles, which explained why he couldn't move.
"Yeah." That was barely recognizable as a word. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I think... I'm okay now."
"No, you are definitely not okay," Al said firmly. "But... you know me, right?"
The note of faint uncertainty and pain lacing through his brother's voice made Ed want to choke. He nodded, and closed his eyes as it sent another spear of pain through his head. He heard clankings and scrapings as Al leaned forward, and there was the flare of another alchemical reaction as Al returned the chair to its normal state. "I'm so sorry about this, Brother," Al said miserably. "But you weren't listening to me, and you were... I didn't know what to do."
"S'okay." Ed lifted his human arm to rub against his face, and blinked as he realized that his right, auto-mail arm was still captured. He looked back at his brother. "Al?"
Al didn't quite seem to know what to say. Now that his vision had cleared slightly, Ed could see the markings that his attacks had left on the armor plates; very faint dents in a few places, scratches in the plate across his left chest and shoulders, and smudges of blood smeared across the right. He reached out instinctively. "God, Al, I'm sorry," he said without thinking. "Hold on, I'll fix it right away --"
"No, it's fine --" Al said softly, not meeting Ed's eyes. "Brother, I think you should fix your arm first."
"Huh?" He looked down for the first time at his right arm, the one that the chair was still holding trapped.
A hoarse shout escaped him, and he nearly knocked himself and the chair over onto the floor as he flinched away, instinctively trying to escape his own arm. For a moment he panicked, thinking that the hideous visions from last night were real, that they were here, pulsing and eating their way through his arm --
"Brother, it's okay!" Al's voice pulled him out of it, his hand firm on Ed's left shoulder to keep him and the chair upright. "It's not real. You can fix it. I'm just going to let your arm go, and you can fix it -- just don't look too close, okay?"
He was hyperventilating, and it took Ed a moment to regain his scattered wits, force himself back to calmness. Al kept on talking, and Ed clung fiercely to the sound of his voice to bring him back to reality.
"I, uh, put the floor back the way it was," Al said nervously. "And the walls, but I didn't -- well, I didn't think I could put an array on your arm and put that back to normal, not while you were still --"
"I'm okay now," Ed managed a nearly normal tone. He took a deep breath, and forced a smile. He was pretty sure it was about as weak and pathetic as he felt right now, but that would do. Without another word, Al freed his arm, and Ed clapped his hands -- the simple gesture took far more effort than it ought -- and placed his hand on the auto-mail, smoothing out the obscene forms into blankness once again.
"Brother," Al said, standing again to hover over him anxiously, "do you think you're going to be okay?"
Ed opened his mouth, then closed it as he really had to think about this one. "I don't know," he said after a moment. "I... think I will be. Wh... why do you ask?" he said, changing his question at the last moment.
"Well," Al said, as he helped his brother to stand, and then stumble the few feet until he could collapse onto the bed. "I tried to leave last night -- so that I could go get help, or -- but I heard a noise, and when I got back, you had gotten your arm free and were -- umm." Al looked away, fiddling with his helmet slightly.
Ed looked up, pinning him with a sharp glance, and Al finished miserably. "--trying to dig your eyes out."
Oh. Well, that explained where that particular cut had come from. Ed drew in a shaky breath, and let it out again. "I'll be fine now," he said. "I'm sor -- I'm fine."
"Sure?" Al asked nervously.
"Sure." Ed nodded fiercely, trying to reassure his brother.
"Okay then." Al straightened up, and turned for the door. He ducked through the frame, closing it gently behind him, and Ed stared after him, mouth open, confusion and hurt welling up inside him. Why was Al -- ?!
The crashing sound that immediately followed cut off his selfish thoughts before they could properly form. Another crash sounded, one that shook the entire building; and then another one followed. It sounded like someone had thrown a table into a wall with great force, Ed calculated. Or possibly from a great height.
Raised voices floated through the door; one a woman's, high-pitched with distress. The other was his brother's distorted by fury, and Ed pushed himself to his feet, fighting off the shakiness that threatened to overtake him. Looks like he couldn't afford to relax just yet.
~tbc~
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 02:31 am (UTC)*munch*
no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 08:26 am (UTC)Bring on the violence, plz!
no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 10:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 10:19 pm (UTC)::sniffles::
no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 03:40 pm (UTC)And yes, violence is nice. We likes it.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 04:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 10:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 04:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 10:18 pm (UTC)I am so almost tempted to get a paid account for this just so I cn have the extra icons. e_e
no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 12:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 12:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 12:50 pm (UTC)And now, having gotten the obligatory Edward abuse out of the way, I can hit the plot. And the story will become boring, I bet. ^^;
no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 02:26 pm (UTC)Woah, this is fascinating!
I have nothing to say, aside from the obligatory "Omg this was so good write more", and vague threats to cling to your virtual legs until you upload. Ph33ar me, I only assault the people I admire :p.
Do you mind if I friend?
no subject
Date: 2004-08-19 04:11 pm (UTC)