Chapter 33 Frozen Echoes of War
Isaac McDougal arrived without warning, like a blast of icy air slipping through a poorly closed door. The guards announced his name with caution, as if even speaking it aloud might lower the temperature of the place. Kimblee looked up at once.
For the first time in months, he stood.
"Well now…" he said with an open, almost genuine smile. "The Ice Alchemist in person. To what do I owe this visit, Isaac? Or are you here to see Major Armstrong?"
Isaac did not answer immediately. He remained standing, watching him, as if he needed to confirm that the man behind the bars was still the same Solf J. Kimblee he remembered—and at the same time feared discovering that he was not. His eyes, once calm, now carried a dull hardness, like a lake frozen for far too long.
The silence grew uncomfortable.
At last, Isaac turned his head toward Armstrong.
"Major," he said firmly, "could you give us a moment alone?"
Armstrong blinked, surprised. He looked at Kimblee, then at Isaac, and his expression darkened slightly. He disliked secrets, especially those that seemed to rise from the past that haunted him so deeply.
"Of course…" he replied after a few seconds. "I'll be right here."
He sat a few meters away, arms crossed, pretending to take interest in an unpainted figurine. Pretending.
Isaac stepped closer and took a seat beside Kimblee. The Crimson Alchemist calmly picked up his brush again, as if the visit had not disrupted his routine in the slightest. He dipped the tip into red paint and continued outlining with precision.
"So," he said without looking at him, "tell me. What do you want to know, Isaac?"
McDougal clenched his fists briefly before speaking.
"A few months ago, a general came to visit you," he said. "I'm not mistaken, am I?"
Kimblee nodded calmly.
"You're not mistaken. Some paperwork, records, an interview. They wanted details about the war." He smiled faintly. "It seems the past is coming back into fashion."
Isaac let out a short, humorless laugh.
"I… couldn't get over it," he confessed. "What we went through there. Ishval. Every day was worse than the last. The enemy outnumbered us, outmatched us in determination… and still we had to keep advancing. Keep fighting." He lowered his gaze. "The man I was before—the one who hesitated, the one who froze at crucial moments… he no longer exists."
Kimblee finally lifted his eyes and studied him carefully. There was no mockery in his gaze. Only analysis. Evaluation. He saw something different in Isaac now: a dangerous rigidity, a conviction born not of duty, but of resentment. This was not simple trauma.
"The war changed all of you," Kimblee said, with a strangely enthusiastic tone. "Fascinating, isn't it?" He set the brush down. "But you didn't come here to tell me war stories, Isaac. Why are you really here?"
Isaac took a deep breath.
"You're right, Kimblee." He leaned slightly toward him. "While I was in Ishval, I started noticing something strange. After certain battles… they took the bodies. Not just my men's—also Ishvalan civilians'."
Kimblee raised an eyebrow.
"War always leaves corpses."
"I'm not talking about the medical corps," Isaac replied quickly. "It wasn't them. They were men in white coats. They said they were doctors, but none of them looked like doctors. They didn't take notes. They showed no compassion. They just… collected."
Kimblee went still.
The silence grew heavier than before.
"And that disturbed you?" he asked at last.
"It obsessed me," Isaac answered. "Why would they want corpses? Why take them in secret? No one gave explanations. No one asked questions."
Kimblee carefully placed the brush on the table.
"Because asking questions is dangerous," he said. "It always has been."
Isaac stared at him.
"You knew, didn't you?"
Kimblee smiled.
"I suspected." He leaned back. "The military doesn't waste resources. And in a war like Ishval, bodies… are plentiful."
Isaac swallowed.
"I've started putting the pieces together. Forbidden alchemy. Secret research. Generals looking the other way." His voice hardened. "Kimblee, I think they used that war as a laboratory."
Kimblee's smile widened, genuine this time.
"Oh, Isaac…" he said, his eyes gleaming with almost childlike excitement. "You don't think so. You know it."
Isaac rose abruptly.
"That doesn't make it right!" he hissed. "Real people died! Entire families!"
"Right and wrong are luxuries of the victors," Kimblee replied calmly. "War doesn't ask for permission. It only collects."
From his seat, Armstrong shifted uncomfortably. He couldn't hear every word, but he felt the weight of the conversation pressing against his chest.
Isaac took another deep breath, trying to control his anger.
"I can't keep pretending anymore," he said. "If what I suspect is true… Amestris is built on a lie. On blood."
Kimblee watched him with renewed interest.
"And what do you intend to do about it, Ice Alchemist?"
Isaac met his gaze directly.
"Stop it."
The word hung between them.
Kimblee let out a soft laugh.
"How admirable. How naïve." He shook his head. "You didn't come here seeking justice, Isaac. You came seeking validation."
Isaac did not answer.
"You want to know if you're insane," Kimblee continued. "If what you saw was real. If your hatred has a foundation."
Isaac clenched his jaw.
"And does it?"
Kimblee leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"More than you can imagine."
Isaac froze.
"Then…" he whispered, "why didn't you do anything?"
Kimblee looked at him as if that were the most interesting question of the afternoon.
"Because someone had to accept the role of the villain," he replied. "And because destruction is more honest than pretending to be pure."
He leaned back onto the cot.
"You still believe you can save something, Isaac. That's what sets us apart."
Isaac took a step back.
"We are not the same."
"No," Kimblee agreed. "You still doubt. And that doubt…" he smiled, "…is dangerous."
The guards announced the end of the visit. Isaac paused before leaving.
"If all of this comes to light…" he said without looking back, "the world will change."
Kimblee closed his eyes, satisfied.
"The world always changes," he replied. "It just needs the right detonator."
Isaac left without another word. Armstrong immediately stood and approached Kimblee, but he had already picked up his brush again.
The figurine on the table was now covered in ice and crimson red.
A dangerous combination.
(End of the chapter)