bang bang

"You’ll hear no argument from me that a sick bastard like you should be rotting in prison instead of pestering me.”

Her heart is pounding with anger, and her throat tickles with nausea.

Far be it from he to start any sort of argument indicating anything of the contrary. He fancied himself an artist and while he was quite adept at his survival he didn't particular lust after it at any cost--it was quite the dance he did to his particular tune;      "I'm out on good behavior don't you know?" it's spoken in a lilt more akin to a mock whisper, as though he's sharing with her a certain juicy line of gossip     "I've been an absolute saint. Absolved of all my nasty      little hiccups with my rank reinstated quite nicely      even if I've little interest of stepping forward to pitch      at this base a moment longer---pester you? If my intentions      were done in a desire after your ire I assure you, I would      be doing my utmost of every fiber to earn it."

The hatred she feels is vast and instant—so much of her wants to snap his neck for the slight.

He is a visceral reminder of the horrors of Ishval. His leering grin, his empty eyes. She remembers the child she was when they met, and it turns her stomach.

        "I will sing and dance for our dear Brigadier General          but that's neither here nor there Lieutenant.          It seems we're short on good men if we monsters who          don the masks of men do walk free."

         “Whatever you say,” she replied lowly; spitefully. “I know you’re aware that there are other means of killing, you just used the way you found most amusing to you. Even then, there are more efficient ways of getting the job done— if you were truly as invested in your work as you claim to be, you would have recognized that far earlier.”

Kimblee listened as he always did, with a half smile partially cocksure in it's tilt-- the cat who had feasted upon the canary.  Even if he would never outwardly admit such a thing, there was a healthy respect to be had for the General. Especially in her holding of this posting, he normally didn't count himself a fan of those whose blood ran thick with the need to enlist and serve (cattle with teeth) but if there were any he could name--- Major General Olivier Armstrong would be quite solidly in the top three. "Come now Major," he purrs low in his throat as he rocks back on heel "If one is to enjoy their work is any result not efficient?"

Of course Kimblee is an avid pupil in the study of                                  d e a t h  and all it's wondrous wily ways so he was very much aware of the hundreds, and thousands of ways one could (and likely would) die. Especially in a war zone. Though, he did adore dear Olivier reminding him of such. 

"I'm here because I want to be." he hums, simple as that tone chipper as his hands tuck idly into the deep pockets of his coat--white as snow and stark in contrast to the  deep crimson of his scarf "I've also nowhere else I need be."