Chapter 9 The Cage of the Free
After several days of travel, the landscape changed.
Open plains gave way to straight streets, imposing stone buildings, and towers that rose like constant reminders of the State's power. Central City stretched out before them—the heart of Amestris, the seat of government, the place where decisions became orders and orders became death.
The convoy stopped in front of the prison.
The building was cold, gray, severe. There were no ornaments—only high walls and heavy bars. A place designed to break wills.
Basque Grand stepped down first. Then, without ceremony, Kimblee was ordered out.
The cuffs weighed on his wrists, yet his posture remained upright, almost relaxed. Before crossing the gates, Kimblee paused for a moment and glanced over his shoulder.
"Thank you, Iron Alchemist," he said, with a sincere, almost polite smile.
Basque did not even look at him.
He turned away and replied in a dry voice, without a trace of empathy:
"You're welcome, Crimson Alchemist."
And he left.
The gates opened.
Kimblee entered the prison.
With every step, more guards surrounded him. First two. Then four. Then an entire line—armed, watching him as if he might explode at any moment. Kimblee knew it: this would not be easy. Not in there.
They led him through long corridors lit by cold lights. The sound of gates slamming shut behind him set the rhythm of his descent into hell.
At last, they brought him into an office.
They took his information. Name. Rank. Crimes. Everything was written down with mechanical coldness. The interviewer, a weary man, looked up.
"Do you know why you're here?"
Kimblee smiled.
A wide, enthusiastic smile.
"For killing three soldiers," he said, "and a whole lot of Ishvalan citizens."
His voice was charged with excitement. He went on, describing the events with an unsettling gleam in his eyes, as if recalling a work of art. Each word seemed to amuse him more than the last.
"That's enough," the interviewer interrupted, slamming his hand on the desk. "That's enough."
They took away his identification.
Then his clothes.
They handed him a prisoner's uniform.
No name. No rank. No title.
Just another number.
Kimblee was led to his cell.
The door closed with a metallic crash that echoed down the corridor. The smell of confinement—old sweat and resentment—hung thick in the air.
It wasn't long before the voices began.
"Government dog!"
"Bastard, let me get my hands on you!"
"Because of you, too many people died!"
"You're nothing but a traitor!"
"Just die already!"
The words came from everywhere, bouncing off the walls, heavy with hatred, bitterness, and despair. Revolutionaries, enemies of the State, men broken by war and by Amestris itself.
Kimblee listened to it all.
And he smiled.
Then he started to laugh.
At first softly. Then louder. Louder still. His laughter rose above the insults, drowning them out one by one. The corridor fell silent, leaving only his cackle echoing like a sick refrain.
Kimblee stepped up to the bars.
"You damn bastards!" he shouted. "I'll be waiting for you right here!"
His eyes shone with a disturbing sense of freedom.
"None of you is freer than I am!"
"You live consumed by resentment—by everything you've done and can't bear!"
His smile grew almost ecstatic.
"I am a free soul."
"I feel no resentment."
"I feel no hatred."
He spread his arms, as if embracing chaos.
"Only happiness… for every sonata I've heard."
His voice dropped, dangerous.
"And your screams… will be the next one."
The prison fell silent once more.
And at the center of that cage, Solf J. Kimblee smiled, convinced that even behind bars, he was still the freest of them all.
(End of Chapter)