Marques, Jackyll "Jack" WIP

[Reila Tsukino]

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CASE FILE: Alchemist/Alkahestrist

"Only the glow of doorbells are inviting."
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FULL NAME:
→ "Jack" Jackyll Ilya Marques
→ Physically: Ilya Sidorov

AGE:
→ Mentally used to: 29
→ Physically: 28

SEX:
→ Male

BIRTH PLACE:
→ Mentally used to: Lior, Great Desert
→ Physically: Paris, Rouen

RACE:
→ Rouenian

DATE OF BIRTH:
→ Mentally used to: November 30, 1988
→ Physically: February 15, 1987

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HEIGHT:
→ Mentally used to: 5'11"
→ Physically: 6'0"

WEIGHT:
→ Mentally used to: 155.9 lbs.
→ Physically: 171.3 lbs.

PICTURE:
→

Spoiler:

DESCRIPTION:
→ Jack’s trademark is his stark orange hair, contrasting heavily with the sky blue of his eyes. When he was younger, there was a time in his life when he hated his hair and shaved it all off into a buzz cut. The reason for that was simple: he hated himself. The orange hair reminded him of his twin brother whom he never met for obvious reasons. That’s right, he was born dead as Jack should have been had they not saved him. In fact, he’d be dead in about five years from now if he hadn’t invented himself a new heart with which to replace his defective one. This new heart is lodged into his chest by way of Labrose Alloy that carefully connects the mechanical automail heart of his creation to the rest of his body. On the outside it looks like a circle of metal with seven dashes of blue halogen lights vibrantly shining through. These lights can very easily be concealed, but most of the time, they steadily glow through the shirts he wears. Speaking of shirts, Jack wears an array of different clothing. For business he, of course, plays the part of snazzy, smooth, and clean-cut CEO, wearing suit after suit, mostly pinstripes and dashed with a sprinkle of expensive cologne. He has his shoes shined (against his will, but deals with it, seeing as it is practically a requirement for a man of his standing) and they are even tied for him if he is too busy for the job. But PLEASE he can tie his own damn shoes. It’s a real problem sometimes. It really is.

He gets his hair styled for important press conferences, interviews, etc., but most of the time when he is slaving away in his shop, it’s thrown up and all over the place with man work sweat. His hair is kept mainly at shoulder length since after his recovery in the hospital after being comatose for just about ten years (with sparse awakenings here and there). When he woke up, he looked like Rapunzel. Don’t ask. Needless to say he cut it, but not all of it this time, no. Jack wanted to keep those memories—wanted to learn something from his mistakes and rise from the ashes of yesterday. This was his new beginning, and he would have hair this time. So much hair, that he could even braid it if he wanted to, and oh, did he want to. For some reason, braiding two braids (along usually the left side of his part) comes across to him as badass. When he has time (usually seldom), Jack partakes in braiding that side of his hair and leaving the rest down. His long bangs often obscure his eyes, but when he doesn’t have to focus on anything in particular, allowing his sight to be impeded is a welcome reprieve. However, during work, he sports a small pony tail of those bangs on the top of his head and jams out to 80’s Rock N’ Roll.

When he isn’t dressed as the rich suit-adorning Jack Krow, he is parading through his mansion corridors with a variance of his favorite band tee-shirts. Please note, he doesn’t work in his many band shirts because for some reason, (he found out), grease, sweat, and rough machinery does some damage to the insignias (not that he can’t buy a new one if need be). Regardless, he tends to do the muscle shirt, black beater thing when indulging himself. Yeeep.

Jack has those kind of eyes that attract attention. They are very stare-worthy, thus asserting many to continue making eye contact with them. Now that—that can get very annoying. In a roomful of people staring at you, wouldn’t you get a little…eh? Sometimes such occasions can be a bit overwhelming to him especially seeing as he is usually the centerpiece for the whole equation—the focus of attention. As much as he can love it, it can get to the eh point fast, where he will then open a tab and proceed to switch gears. But switching gears, can be hard without a little bit of alcohol, you know? It’s a pretty simple concept. Go to a party with too many people fawning over you, get drunk, have a good time, and then don’t remember it the next day. That’s how some of the best business deals are done.

In his left ear is what appears to be a black stud earring, but is actually a device invented by him to prevent himself from going deaf in the occasion that he uses his lightning alchemy. This small piece utilizes invisible, high-pitched sound waves to counteract the thunder following the strike of his alchemic blast. In short, it blocks the loud, deafening rumble by using something just a bit more intense than a dog whistle. He came up it when he was watching Oprah once. Hey, he was on that show a couple times.

Oh, one last thing. Jack’s eyesight isn’t as perfect as his reputation; he’s a bit far-sighted. Just a bit. He can see perfectly fine, but glasses help when he works. He has prescription goggles of varying kinds, colored glasses for working with blowtorches, and you get the jist. Along those lines, Jack is an expert at disguising himself. Occasionally, he dabbles in being a spy for the Gelemortian government, tasking himself as a Ciel Militant for the betterment of the world in order to pursue world peace and eradicate war, all that stuff. For that reason, he doesn’t make weapons like his father did; Jack makes computer systems, innovative technology, and automail that more or else can be used as a weapon… That’s beside the point. Jack owns a million and one cellphones, often forgetting which is which. He can hardly stand owning such a slow and outdated device, but for disguising appearance’s sake he doesn’t have much of a choice. Despite that, he always has his own crafted smartphone on his person somewhere at all times (it's an addiction). He has colored contacts, wigs, and can obtain any sort of uniform needed to become whatever he has to be in order to get what he wants, but usually Jack doesn’t have to go into the danger zone in person; he has computers equip with his alchemy for that.

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PERSONALITY:
→ Jack: a man who never has to do anything for himself, but insists on doing the heavy labor. He’s the lone gunslinger type that ignores help like a buzzard of bees, stingers aimed and ready. He’s self-assured in that he and only he can get the job done to the best of its ability. Well-aware of his mental capacity, he knows his limits and when he can and cannot do something. In the sense of completing something, it is black and white to Jack. It’s either done by him or done by someone else. Regardless, it is done; nothing is impossible. He gets obsessive with his work and anything that he commits himself to. He will spend day upon day coped up in his tempered glass box of a workshop in the basement, blind to all other outside noises or even people yelling in his ear. He has an encoded password for getting in that only specified people have access to in order to keep those not prepared for his obsessive behavior out and those accustomed delayed by having to type in a passcode. Jack has many secrets that he doesn’t outwardly share with people, but he openly tends to brag about most other things. While he can be completely cryptic with stuff pertaining to his health or an important project he is working on that cannot be leaked, he can also be almost obnoxiously open about pretty much everything else. He doesn’t care—what’s he got to lose?

He doesn’t mask his personality with forced words that people want to hear; he says his opinion outright and bluntly. Using his intellect to twist anything in his favor, he can assert his argument to its full potential, gaining the popular vote. And, oh, does he love the cheers. Like a rock star with a keyboard, he tap-screens his way to the stop of the stairs, and loves standing there. Always being right earns him a bit of an ego, but despite that ego, he wouldn’t exactly admit to ‘loving himself’. Jack sort of sees himself as essential for the world to function to its full potential, but he’s not the type to gaze into the mirror and admire how fabulous he is. Actually, he rather dislikes looking in the mirror if only to shave without slitting his neck and make sure his hair didn’t morph into a fro overnight. When he was younger, haunted by the specter of his twin, Karis, he would break every mirror he saw out of fear of his own reflection. So even now, he feels slight discomfort catching that reflection. But likewise, having confidence and a blown-up ego with guns to back it up is nothing short of everyday behavior.

To most people, Jack comes across as a joyful, happy-go-lucky asshole that is unintentionally stuck as a show-off like a robin with a red breast. Except Jack’s ticker isn’t so hot. He suffers a heart condition that even with his own constructed automail running his life support via a constant beat, he still is subjected to fainting spells and lightheadedness when overexerting himself. He has to carefully maintain his diet and constantly drink his own mixtures of healthy minerals instead of water. Ironically, water is too risky. He has an exercise regimen that he sticks to religiously despite not believing in god. This consists of working out at the gym, martial arts practice, and whatever else appeals to him at the time.

He is elitist when it comes to anything to do with technology or automail, constantly criticizing, but he would never stop a random stranger on the street to tell them how ineffective their appendage is, instead, he would turn to whomever he is with and complain to them. When it comes to complaining though, Jack doesn’t really partake when it involves himself. If he is in some sort of pain or otherwise, he typically mentions it offhandedly so information is available, but never gripes about it; it’s not his style. Those close to him must learn how to read him and catch the discreet shifts in his demeanor in order to translate his monotone replies into feelings and then respond accordingly. There are many things that Jack would never admit to out loud and those things must be lightly treaded in order to avoid complete withdrawal from the topic. Such being, mostly subjects related to health.

Alright, a downer for the girls, but Jack’s not exactly a romantic. Involving anything love-related he’s one of those idiot guys that don’t know where to start. He’s completely ignorant of other people’s feelings, and really has no idea how to relay that he cares when he does. But he tries. He tries despite running in long dialogue circles that really take him only around the point he’s trying to make. Aside from failing to emphasize his concern of others, he also has trouble explaining anything technical using language understandable by normal people. He usually has to be reminded of this and finds it difficult to simplify things since they come out of his brain complicated. It’s kind of like being a translator: there’s a lot of lost in translation if he converts it into everyday speak. Therefore, it's a bother, but he manages.

Jack smokes, but he doesn’t smoke a lot, and he drinks, but he doesn’t drink a lot. He loves a party as much as the next guy, but even having so much money at his disposal, he doesn’t get much of a break. And, god, does he need a vacation. He doesn’t stop working, committed to not really the corporation, but his own personal pursuits and desires. It’s not really the way to run a business, but he wasn’t made to cooperate with demands. Another way to call it is being irresponsible. In fact, Jack rather despises rules and rather break them then bend them. One of his favorite things is to rewrite people’s opinions by carefully conducting a strong argument against said rule(s) whose sole explanation stunts the other party’s ability to refute him. At the same time, Jack is a protector, creating new inventions to fill the gap and breach the boarders fought over by countries. Yeah, he pursues peace full-force, aiming solely to eradicate the very thing that earns him business. …Well, maybe not completely. Having access to most systems connected to satellites, Jack is an information god, capable of hacking anything within reach. That at his disposal, there is nearly an unlimited list of options…

…like buying too many cars. Audis, Mercedes, classics: Jack has cars of the rainbow that he never takes out for joyrides. He only gets behind the wheel when he has to go somewhere, and he never lets anyone else drive him somewhere unless it’s to a ball, gathering, or meeting of higher status in which it is expected of him to be chauffeured. He loves cars and keeps his classics inside his house, sitting in them to think with or without playing the saxophone in the process. And because of his status, Jack is practically hunted by attractive females sporting plastic surgery like a disease. He doesn’t take too much interest in the fake types, but he does partake in playboy tendencies every once in a while. Only females that get on his case and hold intelligence that is at least able to measure up to his slightly are able to get anywhere near his bed. And he has a big bed.

One thing that Jack sucks at is remembering names, well, to explain it better, he typically doesn’t care to remember names. It’s only if the person means something to him that he cares to register the bit of information into his overflowing plethora of filing cabinets in his head. This gets him into trouble sometimes, but he always plays the innocent bachelor because honestly, he’s usually the victim due to others misunderstanding anyway. He loves giving nicknames to people. Like if the secretary at a bank has red nails, contrary to looking at her nametag, he’ll refer to her as ‘rednails’. That is another reason why Jack is often considered a heartless bastard. ...Even though, technically, he doesn’t have a heart.

LOVE:
→Himself, Pointed spoons, Having people that clean up his messes, Explaining things, Elaborating, Talking, Socializing, Criticizing, Critiquing, Grey skies, Windows, Night, Bonfires, Coffee, Wine, Tall buildings, Owning tall buildings, Five Star hotels, Smart devices, Science, Technology, Computers, Experimenting with new things, Testing things on himself, Designing new things, Automail, Tools, Blowtorches, Goggles, Other supplies, Being praised, Being a smart ass, Being an asshole, Cracking insulting jokes, Insulting people, Fucking with people, Messing with people's minds, People's reactions, People in general, Aaron, Sweating, Cologne, Parties, Singing in the shower, Slow dancing, Daydreaming, Movies, Music, Classical music, Hard rock, Sex, Honeycomb cereal, Milk, Collecting expensive things, Disguising himself, The element of surprise, Breaking and entering, Defying all odds, Running before walking, Hoping fences, Barbed wire, Stealing things, Defying all odds, Indiana Jones, Fighting, Keeping things in check, Watching people, People watching, Crunching leaves, Being tall, Snaking, Pokemon, DS, Soul Silver, Zelda, Video games, Being a nerd, Posters, Decorating,

HATE:
→Strippers, Sluts, Whores, Salt, Ice cream, Spicy food, Heat, Sand, Too much attention, The press & the Media (though he answers to them), The news, Being studied, Taking tests, Answering surveys, Stares, Silence, Militaristic fools, Unnecessary fights, Uptight people, Rules, Sympathy, Religion, Death, The ideas people have of death, The concept of life, Reflections, Mirrors, Pain, Beds, Sleeping, Snoring, Daymares, Cats, Dogs, Pets, Playing games, Bums, Old people, People who get in his way, Bouncers, Flies, Cellphone charms, Being handed things, Not finishing books, Chocolate, Verbal fights (not verbal arguments--there's a difference), Being challenged, Bullies (exemption: himself), Secrets kept from him, Gorillas, Driving, Tea, Gum, Beer, Chimerae, Street talk, Too much cursing, Stupidity, Shopping, Nerf guns, Fake weapons, Halloween, Going in without a plan, Not being calm, Being shot at randomly, Knife fights, Being glared at, Crying, Puzzles, Traps, Purpose over complication, Organizing things, Going outside,


DEEPEST SECRET:
→ He has two souls.

IDOL:
→

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HISTORY:
→ Days are just a glance—a faint passing—a breath. Tearless, effortless, he sees but the trail of a summer dress, ribbons against pale paint—the shadow before the form. Ashes falling from his lips around a cigarette, he leans tirelessly into the palm of his hand, dead eyes staring listlessly at the curtains cutting out moonlight, remembering just as they were when they’d first bought them. Once without dust, they were now faded beyond repair, cleaved by the claws of their dog. He could still hear her barking—those hopeful brown eyes through the window. He could remember mixing Taz’s food before his hands were rough and callused. Then the sight of her laying there twisted in pain, tongue lolling in the throws of death. Table overturned. The shock he felt ravage his body, grip his veins like a vice. It was the end before he even opened his eyes. Laughing in blinding sunlight, holding hands now cold—so cold.

He shifted uneasily on the sofa, catching his dusty reflection in the television. What he saw was a wreck of a man—what happened when a jar of fireflies spilled over, leaking out little glows of fortune…until none remained. Snuffed out, that was his life. He was leaving it all—abandoning it like waking up from a bad dream. Wipe away the sand like lapping saltwater, turn away and walk up the tarp laid out already by the loss of others. God, it was like he was a dead body floating up to the surface, seeing the sky for the first time. And it was too bright.

For sale, the sign outside beamed as if it were a happy ending. He’d never sell it—it’d be on the flaky house market forever, but he’d never be inside it again. Once this door closed, he would never come back. Shut the door on it all. Just shut the door like it was something easy—like he was going out for coffee. Bam. Now head up the lawn and around the sprinkler. Fuck, he’d forgotten to lock it. He turned back and writhed around in his pocket for the single key, thrusting it into the lock. But there were fingerprints melded into the white paint—touches, faint trails of a past life. Remember how to smile. He forced it, but it hurt turning the key and finally…walking away.

When it locked, it locked something in himself away. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but it might have been his misery. Just a few short months ago, his sweet wife, his unborn child, and his dog were stripped of their souls. They weren’t killed—couldn’t even say they were murdered; no, their souls were just gone. He’d walk along the street like he was now and find doors ajar, ownerless laundry blowing in the soft July breeze. A splayed apron hanging from a window as if it were waving, a car with lights still on, run out of gas, he passed it by in a daze. Was there anyone else left alive in this world—was he the only one? It was the typical response to seeing a zombie-apocalypse without blood (and without zombies). It really wasn’t a zombie-apocalypse at all then; it was a nightmare.

(* * *)

…like Aaron’s unruly habit of drinking coffee out of straws. Since the dawn of the dinosaurs, that guy… He’d steal his pencil, rig his chair legs to break, set him up with the neighborhood bully, but nothing got rid of him. It was the sort of irritation that rivals had…except they weren’t rivals; Krux was always better...and older. So why was this kid trying so hard to be his friend?! Summer classes at South City Elementary were for idiots, and by god, Aaron Hartmen was fulfilling the role. Krux was just here because, well, he never paid attention in the boring classes. Were F minuses possible?

The next summer, that fool, Aaron, was back and as absorbent as can be. The same scenarios repeated themselves until—to put it shortly—the tattletale’s mother told him off. A Ten-year-old. Perfume breath in face, livid eyes, the “YOU!” pointed finger, spittle—the whole deal. Needless to say, he was terrified into submission. The next day, Krux was a mere shell of who he had been. His aloof, caring-not father was overwhelmed and recovering in a back room for the remainder of that summer while his son sought help elsewhere. His father, Günther Chernakov, didn’t really speak ‘woman’ anyway; it wasn’t like he knew half of what Ms. Hoffmen said. Still, it was her, Aaron’s mom, that finally set him on the right track. From that defacing onward, he sought a new path which involved frequenting Aaron’s house to play Pokémon.

In the end, Aaron achieved what he had always dreamed (and it wasn’t beating him at Soul Silver). They were friends. Okay, alright, he could deal with it. Just shrug it off; it was no biggie. Plenty of other things deserved his attention. Like badgering his father to assimilate and get him the new DS for Christmas (not like they were religious). Sure, if wearing a cross around his neck could save his soul by the time he was greying around the edges, hell, he’d do it. …If only he could still see things that way.

No cross saved his father that year. The man’s only definition was vested in the dog tags dangling around the remains of his neck. Aerugese bullets. Identifying the body. Eleven years old. Out of the woodwork his mother crept like a cockroach no one could kill. His only hope—his only family. Since she could only speak fragmented Amestrian and no Drachman, the son could barely communicate with his own mother. Already being bilingual, he was faced with the complication to either learn Gelemortian or fall prey to slander. (Not that his intelligence wasn’t ridiculed enough after going to summer school two times in a row). Still, he held fast to that boyish pride that somehow he knew would only last a little longer.

Smiling amidst tears, that man was still a man: his Father. The shadow in the corner—the illegible handwriting scrawled on an oak—so much so little. Speaking often in riddles—mixed nuances of grandeur and glory, they’d chew their food silently, plates covering the story of crayons begging for more in which was never received. Parents, what were they? He’d never understand the cold shoulder because to Krux, that was love. He fed him. He had allowance. He went to school. This was life. He didn’t question it—no, not until he saw what a real family looked like. His father certainly wasn’t one. It hurt. It bled so profusely that the covered crayon notes were not enough. Attention was sought elsewhere, fervently pursued in others. He became that bully: the one that picked on the weak—the one that always stood on top so others would look to him.

However, with Aaron, there was no top. He let himself be taken and changed from the outside in; he’d welcomed it even. Scowling in the dark, blond curls abound, his mother came to pick him up with the remnants of his life packed away in a suitcase. Gelemorté. Ugh, there was so much snow his tiny arms immediately paled to match. He felt like a chameleon…but a jacked chameleon. Middle school Gelemortian girls hit on him left and right: ‘Oh, I’ll teach you Gelemortian!’ They didn’t help; he tried it. Somehow mall adventures and movie nights just didn’t help absorb the complexity of the language. Eventually, eventually he nailed it down, but it only took a million years.

When he turned sixteen he’d about had it. Aloof mother never at home. Homework to boot. No friends. No one. Stealing books on complicated arithmetic from the library just wasn’t cutting it anymore. He’d have to make due with something else—something that involved getting out of that shithole. Don’t get him wrong, he was grateful that his mother even gave him a second glance. He was only supposed to be a one night stand so it kinda made sense. He saw the photo album; it was empty, his parents never married. Soldier overseas. Hostess on leave. One night. And he was handed over to cleft hands already bent and broken from pulling triggers. Dodged too many bullets already. It had been only a matter of time; each slam of the front door counted down to this barren life of snow and slutty outfits fixed with lace.

Study abroad. Oh, it saved lives. Little did they know he had already spent most of his life in the county he was going to study. Suckers. A boy of summers, he skinned the rest of the months like a castaway orange peel, clinging desperately to the seldom times he found enjoyment in the redundancy. What little could life mean? Perhaps he was never meant for the world to begin with?

That aside, he boarded up in a tiny crumb of an apartment on the dangerous back streets of South City—woo hoo! Not really. He hated it kind of. Despite being on his own, he was on his own, and it sucked. Money was a major issue, so, he had to get a job: part time ‘cause there was school. Juggling life as a convenience store cashier and writing research papers based on the atrocity of biochemistry was exhausting to the point at which he began to take naps in the back room (on the job of course). Best part about it, he was never caught. He started dating this girl, Helga (wasn’t his first). Stupid name, gorgeous body; they balanced out. She was the esteemed manager of the convenience store who almost always gave him free reign. Hell yes. Talking to Aaron in the cold months on Facebook oftentimes turned into three-hour Skype conversations then escalated into creating forums based on their technological findings and ideas. He was up to his nose in busy, but luckily Lawson, where he worked, was practically next door to his apartment too. School was a ways off, but it was high school, not like anyone gave a damn if he was tardy practically every day so long as his straight B’s continued.

Helga, who was the assigned manager of the convenience store, had had enough overlooking her boyfriend’s irresponsible behavior. One night, she decided to play a trick on him. While he was tapping away at a 12-page article on his laptop, she flipped the store’s breaker and began screaming frantically for his help. In frenzy, he stumbled into a shelf lining the aisle, knocking it over to get to her. In that same moment, a shady customer coming in saw an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and seized it. Brandishing a blade by flashlight, he stammered into the shadow. Down on his luck, things were finally looking up as he fingered his way over to the register. Krux, by this time, had gotten a hold of Helga who was laughing at his alarm, writing it all off as just a ruse. All a joke. Really funny. The crook found the register locked and winged around to spot the two of them. Helga, taking a scolding by an annoyed Krux, turned away to flick the lights back on. When next the store was illuminated, Krux had the tip of a knife pressed to blood prick at his neck.

That was the first time he faced death. Helga’s screams were muffled into the background, everything turning into a ringing tunnel. He moved towards the light, squinting into the precipice, tenaciously clinging to whatever he could grasp. Giving in wasn’t an option.

“You see here,” Krux held up his hands defensively, eyes dark and emotionless, “I’m not going to stop you.” He dropped his hands to his sides, feeling how utterly loose they were. “Take what you want.” Just not his laptop; he had a paper to finish.

He never saw Helga again after that night. Don’t get him wrong, she wanted to see him out of whatever girlish need she had in face of the tragedy, but he just didn’t. It wasn’t his style: that night put a large damper on whatever he was trying to accomplish here. What even was he going to do after school ended? Playing his DS wouldn’t pay the expenses and certainly working in a convenient store wasn’t going to feed him forever. His mother was going to cut ties with him the instant he turned eighteen so… He was screwed and only now did he realize how truly weak he was.

That weakness led Krux to a time in his life where he was looking to learn, of all things, alchemy. After graduation, he immediately set out to find a teacher. Craigslist was extremely helpful, but when he met up with the so-called woman that would be teaching him, he was aghast. She was not only younger than him, but drop-dead-gorgeous. He was hardly convinced of her worth, which only made her more determined to prove herself. Every day they had lessons, her expertise consisting of turning air into large gusts of wind. Simple conversion of molecules. Instead of dwelling there, Krux expanded the idea and jumped to converting air pressure into a near zero-gravity state. In short, an invisible tunnel. Kamilla, and all of her beauty was elated that she was more than successful at pushing her teachings. Her belief was that if everyone knew alchemy, there would be less fighting and more advancement in every aspect of the human condition. Essentially, the current borders of thought and progress would be stretched much like a hunk of metal into a complex sword to cut away doubt and indecision. Krux was intrigued and pledged to follow her and help teach people the art in which Amestris was known for. They saved up and went to Xing together.

For a few years they lived together in the country renowned for alkahestry, teaching alchemy. However, in order to successfully connect to the populace, Krux believed that it was necessary to learn alkahestry and retain the Dragon’s Pulse. Over time, he was able to grasp the connection to other energy in the earth, able then to understand where the Xingese were coming from. He felt this source of power so solidly, that he decided to go even further with it, losing his true objective in the haze of study. Kamilla was concerned at first, yet beyond her own pursuits, she still found herself supporting him. This conflict that did not come to pass was what made the set realize something fairly shocking. They were inseparable and never argued over things larger than trivial issues. Their paths in life were intersected and Kamilla’s smile was for what Krux got out of bed for. They grew so close that they started holding hands—started holding each other, and started whispering the truth.

Krux was twenty-one the first time he bought Kamilla red roses. It was after one of those disagreements that get out of hand. He apologized to her, and promised he’d never let her go. Those words that day ring evermore in his mind, clutching the surface of every thought to remind him how ephemeral promises are. He had no choice. There was no choice! They moved back to Amestris after Krux was satisfied with his mastery of pigment in the human body. Married at twenty-two, Krux put down everything he had on a mortgage in South City. Bad investment.

They lived happy lives as teachers despite Krux turning the garage into a workshop for computers. Once the neighbors started bringing their broken-down equipment for him to tamper with, he had the brilliant idea much to Kamilla’s resistance. After a time, with the extra cash rolling in and frequent barbeques, she stopped complaining about parking her car in the driveway and started supporting his conquest. It didn’t end there; he began to bury his nose in countless books picking up the way magnets work in relation to computers, the human body, and so forth. He obtained the knowledge of magnetic alchemy by accident one day when he cut himself working on a computer. His tools plummeted towards the cement where they did not clatter, he was so annoyed that he had to pick them all up that his mind constructed a complicated formula combined with the iron in his blood manipulating the magnetic field around his own body to catch them in stasis. So horrified by the objects floating about him he was that he immediately lost concentration and called Kamilla. He was rushed to the hospital, but even on the gurney all he could talk about was how elated he was by this new discovery.

It still didn’t end there; a few months post removal of his stitches, Krux was back in his man cave, fiddling with things Kamilla could only shake her head at. While she went each day off to teach, he was drowning in knowledge, assessing experiment after experiment until he arrived at a set alchemy which was able to configure the codes of devices not handheld. He could acquire information from any devices connected to satellites and read it. While he knew this was highly dangerous, he couldn’t help but go deeper and deeper until he accidentally set off a few alarms. It wasn’t like the government wouldn’t notice someone was reading their shit. Whoops. Backing out like wildfire, Krux threw away his phone and immediately informed his wife of the problematic situation. Three seconds later, they got a phone call from a blocked number that didn’t leave a message. An hour later, someone in a suit was at the door. The second they opened the door, Krux was seized and Kamilla was left silent and afraid in the doorway.

“I’d like to call my lawyer,” he muttered into the burly man’s grasp. He was met with laughter.

”Who do you think we are?” Certainly not the government. To Krux’s sheer horror, he determined quickly that the men who threw him into a prison cell were not affiliated with any sort of law. They were mercenaries making bombs not for government protection, but for murder! He spent three nights shivering, trying to discern what to do. There was no one else locked away except him; he figured they killed everyone else who defied them, but wanted to use him. That was why they took his phone and why labrose, an alchemy resistant alloy, was covering every nook and cranny of the cell. These guys were smart—so smart they were idiots. His wife was probably having a conniption by now… Well, he’d just have to break out then.

Combining something he read in a book about opposites and explosive results, Krux got the idea from the mercenaries to make a human bomb out of alchemy. Forming it much like the blueprints of their own bombs in his mind, he grabbed the nearest guy and drew two transmutation circles on his skin. Didn’t know he could use alkahestry, did they? He activated it and the man’s guts blew ceilingward, splattering everywhere and causing Krux to retch in the corner for twenty minutes. At first, he couldn’t breathe, but he wasn’t going to let them control his life—he wasn’t going to rot in a cell like some slave. Turning his guts to glory (literally), he thrust his hand through the bars, flailing around in the man’s dismantled flesh for the keys. He threw up a little more, but managed to get the door open, hack the lock, and bolt out their front door. He called the police, reported everything, and met his wife on the scene fourteen hours after questioning. He relived the scene in countless nightmares, waking up in a cold sweat, panting, and clutching the sheets. If Kamilla wasn’t there, he’d definitely need counseling.

After a while, under the advice of Aaron who lived down the block and whom he saw frequently to consult with, he brought home a puppy. Kamilla was elated, naming her Taz. Together, they took her to the dog park each Saturday, giving her all the care and attention they could muster from their busy lives. Eventually, Krux was able to use alchemy again, returning to his old fix-it job, doing some research here and there via a more guarded binary alchemy. They lived a solid, consistent life, deciding to raise a family just as soon as they had enough income to support another member.

It took Kamilla six months to conceive, but the moment she found out, she tackled Krux, wrapping her arms around his neck with a giggle he hadn’t heard since she was a teenager. They were going to be parents; he was going to be a father! Seven long months of carrying, later, Krux was sick of buying raspberry ice cream and butterscotch chips, but basking in her ethereal glow was worth it. That morning he set off to work, picking up supplies for a needed refurbishment of a motherboard for a well-known company that was commissioning him simply because of his skill. Word was being passed around and Krux was starting to get recognition for his many efforts. People were even saying that he should work for the government. He only shook his head, preferring to live life simply; he didn’t need to get involved in anything dangerous ever again. Not after that…that man he had to kill in order to escape that dungeon trying to trap his soul. No thanks.

He quick grabbed up his shopping bags packed with gadgets most people would think he gathered from a landfill, and exited to his pricey Audi. Beeping it open, he casually dropped down the bags on the passenger seat and proceeded to drive the forty minutes back to South City from East City. That was his only regret of moving closer to Aaron in South City: he was further away from the industry in East City and had to drive all the way there to get certain parts for the rush jobs. Blah.

Traffic started to dwindle in the other lane suddenly; oncoming was empty, but his lane was packed. People were turning around in frenzy. Krux was confused and fairly worried. Was there a bad accident? Immediately, he fished for information on his smartphone, hacking into the nearby news network with his alchemy. What he found, he can’t explain to this day. There just weren’t words. There was nothing but that gut feeling—that undeniable desire to refute the plausibility of such a discovery. His hands first started to sweat, his breath catching, eyes drifting from the words on the screen into the air ahead. He began to slowly register car windows with limp hands hanging out them, cars that had driven over the side of the road, cars that had hit each other and piled up into a smoldering ball of smoke, but no screams. There were no voices. Engines were running, cars were jumbling, but there were no words.

Eventually he ran out of space to drive. A couple others were following him too, with hollow expressions equivalent to his own beaming through the rearview mirror at him. He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t alone in this. He kept repeating it to himself with fragments of hope dangling like the flesh from the man he killed. Oh god please. Anything. Anyone. Let Kamilla be okay. Let her be alive. ”I’ll never let you go.”

Pale hands on the wheel, he teetered on the edge of a giant crater, he shut the car off and walked the rest. South City was gone. It was just gone. Their house, on the very edge of it was just down this block. Just down the block. He couldn’t bring himself to run, could barely gather the strength to walk. He already knew somewhere inside what he would find. Alchemy. It did this. What Kamilla and he had taught people had caused this—this disaster.

Krux had gone from the trivialities of figuring out how to balance caring for an infant and his dog to opening doors and finding bodies on the floor, staring. Always those gaping eyes, yielding nothing but the ever-encroaching fear that beyond his own door he would find the same. He kept going, stumbling over curbs and abandoned lawnmowers with shells under them. Bodies. Emptiness was thick in the air. He could hardly breathe—hardly think anything but reaching for that one doorknob and turning it. His own wails of anguish lost on him as everything fell apart. His soul caved in on itself, his essence and meaning for existence lost in the blissful expression on his wife’s face. Today was her day off. If it was Tuesday, she would be in Central. Why—why did it have to be today? He couldn’t—he just… Holding her to him, he knew he wasn’t holding her. There was nothing there but fabric: clothes, what once was. There was a void—a confounding emptiness that was destroying his whole concept of life. He swiped her eyes closed. She looked like she was asleep. There was nothing wrong with her. Taz was under the table, twisted in a funny way. Her tongue was lolling out, a pool of drool gathered under her, eyes wide and horrified. She had known it was coming. But what exactly? What kind of alchemy took human lives other than human tr—Human Transmutation. A Philosopher Stone. Who? It didn’t matter. No, it just…it was all over. This was the end. The last page of a story that could have continued—a family that never flourished—a happiness that had been so intact, he thought nothing could take it away. Until now—this very moment.

He was at such a loss, he couldn’t cry anymore. He stopped screaming hours ago. He was in a kitchen chair watching militants tangle through the streets with walkie-talkies. He didn’t care what they were saying. He didn’t care if they found the one that caused all this. Revenge wasn’t even in the equation. He didn’t care about that, and he knew he couldn’t bring back his wife. Human transmutation never worked, it only took more from someone. But if you traded in human lives, you could get power without the need for equivalent exchange. Did that mean he could bring back his wife with the very stone that took her away? Part of him wanted to search for the result with the Briggs Brigade, but the other part was too broken—too torn to even consider trying to live again. If he brought back his wife, he would also have to bring back his child or she would bleed to death. It was impossible in any way he could think of. He relented, he cried more, he rolled on the floor, and bashed the linoleum until there was nothing left to let out. All forms of human expression were lost to him.

The next day, he had a million emails and phone calls. The bodies were being shipped out and buried by whatever family they had left or by government loyalties. His wife was taken from him and given to the ground. He barely could remember the funeral. But he left red roses and all of his heart behind. Raz was buried next to her without a marker. She didn’t need one. There were some things…some things he didn’t like. He didn’t like gravestones or tombstones. They had names on them. His wife’s name was on one of them. The date said she had died yesterday. He didn’t believe it. She was dead. She was gone. It felt like years—eons trapped in a tunnel. Her students were teacherless, who would teach them? He didn’t have a dog to feed—to play with. The freshly painted room upstairs wasn’t filled with the cries of a newborn. Who would fill that space? Who would fill that space where his heart should be? Was that the last time he would ever…buy roses? Aaron tried comforting him, patting him on the back, but his longtime friend had never seen such an expression or lack thereof on Krux’s face. Maybe the stone had taken his soul too and his body was operating manually. But no, so much pain…the feeling of his everything rupturing surely meant that he was alive. He was alive. But why? What else was there?

Lost and entirely desolate, Krux spent the next three months living in an empty house surrounded by other empty houses. The South City suburbs were slowly being sold off to buyers who didn’t care about ghosts. They were everywhere, watering gardens that were already dried and dead. He saw them, but he was sure no one else did. He even saw his wife coming up and down the stairs holding up new baby clothes she had bought, trying to decipher if yellow was more unisex or too girlie. He cried everyday he woke up and realized he was awake. At some point, he stopped touching his phone and started touching the places they had shared together. The refrigerator door: she opened it. The foyer railing: her hand graced it. The bed. Their pictures with students in Xing. Their photo album. Her voice playing over and over, stuck in their wedding videos. It was purgatory. When was he going to die too? He found himself drinking water, eating as if to survive, and every time questioned why.

Aaron came to the door and shook him awake. He hardly realized how long it had been. He was running out of money, he guessed. The kitchen was barren. He was starving. He hadn’t shaved. Normal things came back to him when he looked at Aaron and realized he smelled like aftershave. He didn’t actually hear what the man was saying until he said it a third time very slowly. He was telling him to sell the house and move somewhere else or it would drive him crazy. Crazy? That was the least of his problems. What did it matter if he was going insane, it was better than… better than what? What did it matter if it kept Aaron from crawling up his back? He agreed, gathering up the memories and throwing them into a suitcase. He left with nothing else.

(* * *)

The car was running. The for sale sign was flapping. He was in the driver’s seat remembering—remembering when he had read that South City had disappeared. He was going to drive to Aaron’s where he would stay for a little while. Gather himself. But there was nothing left to piece together. Simply, there wasn’t anything left for him—nothing that alchemy and the combined efforts of alkahestry could ever fix. His own soul was so shriveled that he could hardly account for being alive. It was so easy just not to. He decided to apologize. He’d write Aaron a text explaining. It would be a simple text, nothing gaudy or dramatic. There wasn’t anything like that left in him.

Aaron, thank you. At least you tried, buddy. There are just some things that can’t be put back together. Unfortunately, I’m one of them. Don’t blame yourself or anything else. I guess things just happen, huh.

He drove off the cliff into the crater. It was a long drop that nearly made him sick, but never once did he want to turn back. The car crushed him, collapsed both lungs and broke four ribs; he had an additional six broken bones and 12 fractures. Krux Marques was helicoptered to Central City Hospital at approximately 4:43 PM, wherein, he was stopped being given medical attention, for the gravity of his injuries were too high for life expectancy. His mother was called, but she didn’t come. Slowly, he was getting his wish.

(* * *)

Ilya Sidorov was an immigrant living in Central City, Amestris. He had no wife and no family, but damn was he a happy sonuvabitch. He spent his nights consuming a great deal of Smirnoff vodka because all the other brands were shit. He drank it straight without any of that watery ice shit, and was one of the lankiest men in the construction business. He had muscles that were practically invisible, but stamina that could rival the Chancellor’s. What a great man! He had lost his virginity to some priceless gal he could never forget about. He vowed to find her again, but doubted he would, and was totally cool with it. He liked to announce his extravagancies to anyone in the vicinity and all the regulars in the bar knew the whole story. They’d have a good laugh every time he told it, reciting it for him and slapping him on the back. All around, Ilya was a well-liked guy. People loved him and make fun of his dorky thick-rimmed glasses, saying it made him look smarter than he was. Hell, he could lift heavy shit, but he definitely couldn’t tell you what it was. He was a people person, he could tell what people needed and what made them happy. He reminded them of things, hell, he wasn’t called Ilya the alarm clock for nothin’.

On the side, Ilya would write. When he wasn’t at the bar, he was typing up something fun and interesting to post on the internet and share with people. He never had enough, spilling over at the seams, and word after word, he gave to whoever would read. He loved feedback and took criticisms with a level of seriousness that one would not normally expect. He wrote so much that he ran out of hard drive space to store it all, so he stopped saving it.

The love of his life is a custom built Suzuki in his favorite shade of silver. To and from work it took him, rain or shine. His arms would grow weary from lifting at work and he’d take breaks on the kindness of his coworkers, promising them favors in return. He always took the short stick whether he liked it or not, but he grew to enjoy helping others just as much as he enjoyed telling his story.

Born in Drachma, he lost his family to the slums, hitchhiking his way to North City via shipping trucks. He had his rough times and ate a few rats in his day, but he was happy now. He was living life and shouting about it, he boasted and hollered his life’s story to any who would listen and most of them didn’t have a choice. He rallied crowds and got audiences with all sorts of folk that were enthralled by his charisma and selfish selflessness. He’d give himself and stand on tables above crowds, but never would he do it for himself. It was for them! For them, he’d say! The people cajoled and smiled. He taught lessons and then went about sipping his vodka as if nothing happened. He was no teacher; he just shared his stories and closed drawers. You see, Ilya had a horrible OCD problem. If things were in disarray, he’d immediately set forth and repair them. It was his job and he took it to a new level even off duty: close cabinets, order the bottles, arrange the spoons, etc. He liked organization and even the displacement of shoes got to him such that he had to take the crooked shoe and make it straight. He was discreet about it, but everyone knew and usually accepted it. He cleaned up their messes so it wasn’t really a problem.

Ilya didn’t own shoes; he’d rather spend the money on vodka because he could. There were no rules saying he had to wear shoes. His whole life in Drachma, he explained how he could never afford shoes and had to run through the frozen snow barefoot and endure the pain. He said, now that he can afford shoes, he’d rather not wear them because he was too used to the pain of living. He didn’t have a green card and was working illegally, so everyone kept his stories hush-hush despite their volume. He didn’t care either way, he was strong and resilient, he declared!

However, there came a day when wearing shoes would have been beneficial… Ilya was blindly carrying a heavy beam over a glass panel, but the weight of it cracked the glass. It shattered, slicing his Achilles, and causing him to drop the beam on himself. Four of his ribs cracked and punctured his lungs. He broke his leg, but was very much conscious and alive by the time an ambulance arrived. He was in critical care for 48 hours, but was stabilized and carted into a recovery room shared with a man he overheard wasn’t going to make it. Despite his own shape, Ilya was frowning. Accidents happened, but some people just shouldn’t have to suffer. Looked about his age too. It was disheartening, yet at the same time, at least the other patient had a visitor; Ilya had no one. It was a guise, his life: that laughter—those nights at the bar. Dappled happiness. He realized that now he had come so close to death. ”If I could,” he said to the slumped visitor, ”I would give my life to that man.”

[Reila Tsukino]

(* * *)

When next Krux woke, there was another body there lifelessly looking at him, but there was choice in his eyes. Something told him this. There was serendipitous joy staggering upon his face. Aaron was on the floor and something was glowing so fiercely he couldn’t see his friend’s expression. Consciousness was fading, but somehow he knew he had been saved from the clutches of something he no longer could fully understand…

Human Transmutation took his wife, but returned to him life. At first he wanted to throw himself out the hospital window or stab himself to death with the I.V., but something in him stopped him. Aaron was there, hunched over his bed like a ghost over hope. He brought him back. The doctors didn’t know. Everyone was calling him Ilya. Who was that? It wasn’t him. Only Aaron called him Krux and it held so much sadness that it barely sounded like his name either.

It took a long time, but once he was released, he found himself holding unfamiliar keys, wearing unfamiliar clothes, and still inwardly freaking out about that fact that he looked completely different. After he shaved, he was…he was very Drachman, but it was like his pigment went out of whack and—No, he was just a completely different person. This wasn’t his body; it was Ilya’s. He just had to accept it along with the fact that he was living against his will, of course. He felt less dead and more hopeful that whatever these keys led to would be something cool. His ribs were a bit sore still and a billion and one doctors told him to take it easy, but he rushed off in search. Aaron didn’t stop him. He immediately hacked into Ilya’s accounts and found his address and—Vodka bottles reeked about the apartment, lining everything in perfect order. That was all. No pictures, no shoes, no nothing. Krux took off his shoes and left them there. He padded around and found nothing of worth except keys to a motorcycle parked down the street (he tried a bunch before finding the right one). It didn’t look like a normal Suzuki and was rather supped up for a bike. He found himself liking it… He called up Aaron and told him he was going to learn how to ride.

He stayed in Ilya’s apartment for all of a day, before leaving the place, barefoot. With the rest of his money and Ilya’s, he hired people to clean it, and sold it in a week. Apparently it was close to a bar so the stakes were higher than he thought for a trashy little space. He avoided that side of town like the plague just in case people recognized him, changed his name officially to Krux Ilyah Marques, and set about looking for work. Aaron was tired for a while, but he recovered at about the same rate Krux did, allowing for a smooth balance. He never said thank you—never spoke of it—never questioned it. Aaron didn’t either, it was safer that way. When Krux decided to join RIOTE and move to Drachma, his friend said nothing, only supported him in silence.

ADD MORE and add shit about the automail organs and heart problems.

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TRIVIA:
→ He is bisexual.
→ He is a fabulous actor and flamboyant white liar.
→ He lies to get out unwanted things.
→ He is not chivalrous in any way whatsoever.
→ He is selfish and narcissistic.
→ He is super ignorant to people's feelings regarding him.
→ He openly admits he's an asshole.
→ He'll never kill someone or get his own hands dirty.
→ He has trouble communicating that he cares when he actually does.
→ He has way too much self-confidence.
→ He enjoys giving people all sorts of nicknames because he can't remember names for the life of him.
→ He can read Binary (computer language) or any other digital codes like he can ?? (his first language).
→ He has access to anything connected to a satellite.
→ His favorite song is "Foolin'" by Def Leppard.
→ His favorite city is New York in Creta, but he would never choose to live there.
→ He designs various technology and computers in his spare time.
→ He loves digging for information.
→ He has a photographic memory.
→ He doesn't dream.
→ He always listens to ocean sounds on a device before going to sleep.
→ He owns a custom built Suzuki, Silver.
→ He doesn't use cash.
→ He is getting good at pointing out problems.
→ He only smokes occasionally, mostly when he is depressed or reminiscing.
→ He believes in ghosts.
→ He has a blood seal on the right side of his chest and a nasty scar on his Achilles.
→ His entire family was wiped out in the South City incident.
→ He gets frustrated when people confuse his I's and L's because he writes his capital I like l and his L's like l, thus his middle name is followed usually by pronunciation confusion.
→ He keeps plastic plants in his room.
→ He is CEO of a famous multi-billion dollar automail corporation.
→ He designs automail, various technology, and computers in his spare time.
→ What he spends his money on includes a list of charities, his automail corporation, and cars.
→ He owns a private jet and fourteen cars with his last name and their number as the license plates. Along with that, three of them are classics.
→ He owns a skyscraper in Central City, Amestris and a mansion in South City, Amestris lakeside.[/color]

→ He has an automail heart in his body that he designed himself due to having Myocarditis. It still gives him some trouble and could at any time malfunction. He still experiences angina pectoris and takes toprol occasionally.
→ He has an automail left arm, liver, and two kidneys due to human transmutation.

→ Can say "you're a fool" and "where's the bathroom" in ten languages.
→ He is fluent in Amestrian, broken Cretan, and Rouenian (Gelemortian Dialect).

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ALIAS:
→ Aki

OTHER CHARACTERS:
→ Aurelius, Spade, Elastor, Toss,

CREATOR'S COMMENTS:
→ WHO DRINKS COFFEE WITH STRAWS!?

FACE CLAIM:

Code:

[b]UTA NO☆PRINCE-SAMA♪[/b]/[i]Jinguji Ren[/i]

CUSTOM RANK:
→ THE LISTLESS SWIVEL CHAIR

OFFICIAL TITLE:
→ Mastermind

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