I Will Follow You Into Hell If You Ask Me.

“I will follow you into hell if you ask me.”

Royai week day 7 prompt: Choices

My quick contribution to the fandom (and a little play with copic markers).

Ignite

A/N: Royai week 2016 Day 6: Ignite. I'm not too happy with this, but I want to complete the “challenge.” I didn't know what the prompts were until a couple of days before Royai week started, so I am really rushed as the week winds up. A tiny bit of my post Promised Day head canon is in here. This is about 430 words long. Of course, FMA is not mine. It's so obvious that I sometimes forget the disclaimer.

Roy Mustang was famous for his ability to ignite things. After all, he wore ignition gloves. People loved watching the Flame Alchemist produce fire with a snap. He could spectacularly set things ablaze from great distances. His explosions and conflagrations could inspire shock and awe. He could produce flames into tableaux that were almost art. He'd developed a method of producing colored flames which he could hang in the night sky like fireworks. He controlled the blazes like a puppet master. On a smaller scale, he could do subtle tricks like lighting several candles in a row or even in a pattern. He could, carefully dry you off after being soaked by rain. Of course, he could get a fireplace crackling in a flash.

What most people didn't realize was that his ability to ignite things was not as amazing as his ability to ignite and incite people's interest, imagination, or duty.

He had talked his foster mother into believing that he was worthy of the investment and mature enough to be sent away for alchemy lessons at the age of 15.

He had convinced a bitter, prematurely old brilliant alchemist to teach him.

He had overcome another teen's reticence to form an enduring friendship.

He had unintentionally swayed that young woman into becoming a soldier.

He had convinced his two best friends that the military was corrupt and evil and that they could and should change it.

He had turned a group of talented but unappreciated military misfits into a strong and loyal team.

He had stoked the flickering flame in a desperately damaged  Edward Elric and fanned his will to live.

Somehow, when he was a colonel, he had persuaded two generals- one who had affection for him and, amazingly, one who could barely stand him, to save the people of their country by carrying out a coup d'etat  to overthrow the monsters controlling Amestris.

His ability to draw people into his plans consited of charm, articulate and logical language, intellectual brilliance, good looks, and a dash of petulance.

Now, to accomplish his most ambition aim, he was using his formidable powers of persuasion to democratize his country. It looks like he will succeed.

Roy Mustang has one more aspect of his heat-related talent, but he only shares it with one person- his old friend, his soldier, his lover. It was a very personal and private type of flame, the flame of love. Arguably, Riza Hawkeye's ability to fan his love is at least equal to his to fan hers. It makes for a pretty wonderful connection.

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up

Despite constant efforts to declutter your home, do papers still accumulate like snowdrifts and clothes pile up like a tangled mess of no...

I gave this 2 generous stars.

This really should have been a leaflet as opposed to a 200-plus-paged book. Also, it could have used a little Decluttering and Organizing itself. ALSO, the author clearly has got herself some OCD. The book was translated from Japanese, but I think that it was probably poorly written. If you are like me, you could benefit from tidying up. I would classify myself as a "collector" and not a "hoarder," but I definitely have too much stuff. The author tells us to discard anything that does not "bring us joy." I wish I had kept a stroke count of how many times that phrase appeared in the book. I think that it is probably something good to consider, but I believe that there may be other factors to take into account. I have a little OCD, and I have a few bizarre compulsive behaviors like apologizing to my car when I hit a pothole, but the author wants you to thank everything you use (your purse, your clothes, your house) everyday. They will bask in the thanks and treat you more kindly. She does have a few interesting ideas, and I mean to try one of them. It has to do with folding tops and arranging them in the drawer. I wish that there had been an illustration about that. There are no illustrations. I end this review with a dark admission. I have more rolls of toilet paper than her most extreme client had.

The Girl with All the Gifts

Melanie is a very special girl. Dr. Caldwell calls her "our little genius." Every morning, Melanie waits in her cell to be collected for...

ssadropout’s review:

I forgot to log this in! I guess I started it about a week ago, and I finished it yesterday. This is a zombie apocalypse tale. I've read and enjoyed several zombie books, but this one really sets itself apart. While there is quite a bit of action in the book, the story is driven by characterization and character development. I always love a book where my opinion of a character changes. That's a sign of a good writer. The title refers to a character but also to the Pandora's box myth. Remember? What was left in the box was HOPE. I'm always interested in what writers come up with to create their zombies. MR Carey uses the fungus Ophiocordyceps. I believe that I read about it somewhere once before. It's real, but it affects ants. As soon as an ant is affected, the fungus controls the creature's behavior. Yes real zombie ants. Gross out warning...!!! The fungus grows inside the ant and eventually bursts through the ant's head. You can see that this device can provide some gory thrills, and they mix well with the the characterizations. There is a new movie of it, and I hope that I can get to see it.

Music

A/N: I had a lot of trouble with this prompt. I wanted to jump out of the box, but I may have tripped up.   This is inspired by Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf. This is in the same future as my fic for Forgotten. After he regained his sight, Roy convinced Riza that they should not wait until it was safe for them to become lovers.

The word count is about 950.Rated T for mild sexual situations.

Neither FMA nor PatW are mine.

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“What's with that radio?” asked Roy with a puzzled expression. Riza was setting it up on her night table. She used to sleep on the left, but since Roy had begun sharing her bed, she felt it was better for her to be between him and the door as her window was inaccessible from outside. So, she was setting it up on the right side of the bed. She held a typed sheet- instructions.

“Fuery gave this to me. He calls it a radio alarm. It's like an alarm clock, but it will play a radio broadcast instead of a buzzer or a bell.”

“Why'd he give it to you?” Roy grumbled. “Shouldn't his commanding officer get first crack?”

Riza smirked. “He was going to, but I convinced him that a radio would never wake you up- that you need a loud alarm clock. Since he- like the rest of your team-  is well-acquainted with your sleeping habits, he agreed and gave it to me.”

That shut him up.

When Riza was satisfied that that it was set up correctly, they cooked a light dinner. They had begun to develop a nice rhythm of working together in the kitchen. Afterwards, Riza did make him read and sign two reports, but it was basically a lovely, relaxed evening. Of course, they made sure that there was time to go to bed before it was time to go to bed. They both slept better since they had begun sleeping together, but eventually...

… the radio crackled on. Riza had chosen a classical music station, and she had been awaken by a bassoon solo. She began to tickle her General who was still snoring. “Roy. Roy!”

“What? What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong. It's just time to get up. But Roy, does this music remind you of anything?'

He looked confused for several seconds and suddenly gave out a belly laugh. “Do you mean the game?”

She nodded, giggling. “You said that my father sounded like a cranky old bassoon. For a week after you said that, I could barely face him without laughing. I tried so hard to hold the chuckles in until I left his laboratory.”

“I had an image of him as a bassoon with legs following me, relentlessly. Doot doot doot doot dum,” Roy intoned while pinching his nose. “Pursued by a nasally judgmental musical instrument. But you liked your teacher's voice.”

“Mrs. Maxwell. She was a great teacher, and she did sound like a celesta. Her voice was musical and had that chime-like sound. I could listen to her for hours. Well, you know! I told you to come to school and listen to her.”

“Yes. I sneaked away one day when your father was extra preoccupied and listened outside your classroom window. You were right. I bet she could sing well, too.”

“And you almost got caught!”

He groaned. “I shouldn't have stood on that rickety rock. It's a good thing that I had kept up my cross-country running. Imagine what tune the bassoon would have played had I been caught.”

“You said that I was a viola. I was really upset until you explained.”

“I immediately knew that you were a stringed instrument. Not shrill like a violin could be. You were mellow despite your situation. The viola is the least known of the strings. People listening to music barely notice it. It's mysterious. But it's there, making beautiful music. Quietly supporting the other instruments.

“There's another reason that I chose the viola that I never told you.”

“I don't like the sound of this. Are you going to tell me now?”

“Well, if you remember, we started playing the game after I returned from summer break. I was surprised that Master Hawkeye had wanted me to take time off, but I decided that he wanted me out of your house when you were home all day with no school. It didn't really help, because when I got back in the fall, you had, um, blossomed. You had become curvy. You still wore  shapeless clothes, but you had turned into a girl. A beautiful girl. You were not the least bit androgynous, anymore. The curves of the strings reminded me of your new curves.” He leered at her and she snorted.

“Don't think I didn't know you were always trying to sneak looks at my breasts. You're lucky I never told Father. He would have bassooned you with flame alchemy. You told me that you were a tuba. Your voice was already deep, and you liked its shiny brass color. I said 'okay,' but I lied.”

“What? I'm devastated! What instrument was I if I wasn't a tuba? What about now? Did I ever grow into my tuba-osity? Oh, Riza, this hurts.” He gave her his best pout.

“At first, I thought you might be cymbals, because of how noisy you were crashing through the woods and scaring any eatable animals away. But you got better. You actually were a good student, and I understood why Father put up with you. So, I decided that you were a clarinet. The clarinet reminds me of a cat. You had become more stealthy like a cat and kind of sneaky like a cat. Like when you'd try to check me out.”

He laughed. “I do like being thought of as sneaky and stealthy, but I don't care very much what instrument I am anymore, as long as the music I make is with you,” he cooed.  

She shut the radio alarm off and said, “I think that I am up for a duet right now.”

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A/N: Sorry for the corny ending.