"I'll rip every part of your body into pieces!" snarled Kimbley, still too caught up in the throes of rage to realize that in his current state, that probably wouldn't be possible. (He was strong, yes, but not strong enough to rip off someone's arm.) He continued struggling and trying to tear apart whatever part of Greed he could get hold of - which was quickly put to a pause when his arm was caught and his body was slammed back into the cold, hard, and now very bloody floor.

He was about to try and wrench his other pinned arm free, the one that had sustained no damage, when a semi-familiar voice cut into his rage-fogged mind. Still with a snarl on his face, Kimbley looked around wildly, trying to see who it was. When his eyes landed on the nearby figure, it took him a few moments for the recognition to set in.

The Fuhrer.

He was here?

Although the development made Kimbley actually pause for a good few seconds, he wasn't about to let anyone's intrusion - whether it was the Fuhrer himself, Mustang, or any other worthless piece of trash that walked by - stop him from getting revenge on Greed. His hand was ruined, damn it, and he wasn't about to let that get away unpunished.