nestingdevil | (no subject)

HEY SATANFACE

GUESS WHAT

ah ? hey hey thats nt vry nice

[But he'll bite.]

mason right? yknow youre a bt ofapssant

whatve you gt for me?

u say that every time, i dont kno why it still surprises u



but get this:

i heard a local bar in bavan got busted for underground gambling and now theres a bunch of rich socialites bitchin about not bein able 2 go play poker and bet on cage matches n shit

its a business gap ripe for movin in2 if u ask me

cnt deny that kisd likeyou shold be enngetic

stll little rude dnt you thnk ?

thogh youve gt my intrest ony a mattr of time

nothing new and wve got the spce thogh theyll hve to find smone else for the cges littel too mssy hmn ?

gotta sy though im imprssed good wrk

its part of my charm

but thanks

want me 2 start droppin rumors about there bein a great place in vandare 2 gamble??

msure

justmke surethey knw itll cost 'em

these ppl are FILTHY rich i dont think its gonna be a problem


plus even if they dont go for it im pretty sure their shitty rebellious 20-somethin kids who wanna look streetwise will be all ovr the idea of a gritty undergroun bar run by a demon

u should rly play that up btw

like invest in some pyrotechnics n shit

dnd't thinkso evryone wnts somthing

kids tnd otobe more troubl thn theyr worth bt if thats what ittkes

somme what?

u kno, liek fireworks and smoke machines n shit

u got the whole glowin ember thing goin on in ur skin already but u could make some super dramatic entrances if u could rig like, an explosion of smoke every time u came in2 the room

[What.]

didnt rly hve tht whrer im from llvely

bt msre we coudl firue somethin out

thogh sseems liek itdd be a bit mssy eithr waay i wont sayno to the bisness

not toobd for yr first tiem guss youre worth the trouble aftrall

thanx, i like 2 think that im pretty good @ makin myself worth it

should i start lookin in2 whether or not this place has smoke machines??

lesst yor honest

ah ? no dnt think so lovyl bt suityrself

itll be rad i promise



SO what do i get 4 the info, u got anythign good

money is p. good, 4 the record

thnk youvr got the rong idea

thats nt how itusualy rorks masn considrng ive doen you thfavor

but its godo wrk fne meet me at teh docks nd illsre wht icn do

aw cmon i promise the increase in businessll more than make up for the compensation

but cool thanks ur a bro


i can be there by morning

that cool??

nt rlly gunna letthe go re you?

uhhuh

morning huh ? suti yourself

hey, im in the city remember?

itll take me a few hours to fly over at least

hvnt forgt kid

estside bvan gt a plce thogh notexctly somthwere kidsliek yu shuld be

bt itsnt iek yove litstend bfore

ill br here

[The Devil's Nest is no stranger to odd sights. Today, this quota is fulfilled by what looks to be a floating skeleton; famine-thin, seeping a thin layer of shadow, with fingers long and sharp like needles or scalpels or sharpened bone.]

[If anyone side-eyes him from another room as he heads down the corridor - sheathed sword hovering through the middle of an intangible ribcage, freshly dusted with snow from outside - he doesn't pay it any mind. He'd gone in a back way to avoid the bar proper, but he can't do anything about any looks up here - besides, most of them probably also have... circumstances. He's gonna worry about his own instead.]

[Namely, hurdle number one - how to knock when the reason he's here is that he can't unthinkingly rely on corporeality anymore. For a moment, he stares at his claws, curling them - then he solves the problem with a twitch of his other hand's fingers, levitating his blade forward and rapping on Greed's door with the hilt.]

—Boss? ...got a bit of a problem.— [It's undeniably Stocke's voice, but there's an odd quality to it, a mix of an echo and the crackle of an old tape.]

[It's true that the 'Nest is no stranger to odd sights. But even then, the place is strangely quiet. At least, in terms of a customer base. The various thuds and knocks inside elude to the same conclusion; as the fog slowly slips in, easing through the cricks and cracks of the place like an undetectable threat. From the basement to the upper floor above, the muddled sounds of struggle are hard to ignore. A few hard thuds shake from deep below, a couple of doors rattle and bang. Voices gargle from behind closed rooms, the symphony of it all keeping a-many from wandering too close.]

[Under the crack of Greed's door, the tell-tale heat is a calling card. It blisters beneath the frame, roaring red then idling out like the heavy breathing of a furnace. The door knob smolders to the touch, the metal locks and bolts wavering with the temperature.]

[When Stocke's hilt knocks, silence follows at first. A heavy groan escapes from beneath the door and the thin layer of smoke seeping out retracts inward, coiling back as if switched on the reverse. The bolts and locks holding it closed snap back in a series of clicks and then:]

It's open - [Greed's voice sounds from inside, but it's tinny. Like a communication through cans and the distinct ping, ting, ting of clattering coins chimes through. The door groans open not a second later, its hinges threatening to buckle right off. A breath of air billows out with the intrusion removed and a potent smell of charring wood and ash washes out into the hallway in a violent sigh.]

[The heat billowing out, the taste of smoke and fire in the air - Stocke gets the flash of a thought of (burning), and his form jumps like a rewound VHS just set to play, all distortions and broken lines. He shoves the memory away, stabilizes, ignores the phantom sting of letters across his back - all there is there is bone, and it's not solid bone at that. And there's nothing to fear from heat, nothing left of him that can burn or vaporize, only get drowned out by light.]

[But what the temperature is doing is setting off sparks of concern; normally, Stocke's seen Greed keep it more... contained. The slice of a superheated spade-tail or claw through ice, wafts of steam tossed up by a boot, flakes of ash. This time, there's smoke, metal brightening as if held over flame, and combined with that groan -]

[He lets his sword free from his telekinesis; the wooden sheath clatters lightly against the floor, falls to stand tilted against a corner of the corridor. Stocke glides through the doorway, tendrils pulled warily against his back against any future blazes of red glow, some winding through vertebrae. But what he actually says is a careful:] —Are you alright?—

[He sets his own problem aside for now. Greed still needs to be told - if Stocke's lost a physical presence permanently, (as, deep down, he fears,) there are some jobs he won't be able to do. Greed will need to figure out new uses for him. But it's not within-the-next-minute urgent, or even the next ten, twenty, thirty. It can wait.]

[The room inside is almost too dark; like a blackened oven and the radiating heat draws lines in the dark. Shadows move, a form slowly stands. A silhouette under a backdrop of fire that spews and spits inside the open-mouth grate of the furnace. Along the wall, his tail skips across the surface. Skating small trails that singe and burn into whatever paint's still left.]

[Greed plants his hand to the back of his skull, his jaw open wide. The groan that escapes is softy, smoldering; thick. An exhale of smoke lingers by his mouth, lighting up now and again with a few pieces of still-hot ash. They blaze with a wicked red, then blink out of existence when he twists. The bones in his back snap together, running a rhythm of crunches and cracks. A snap, a crackle, a pop and everything's right back where it should be.]

[Circumstances aside.]

[One eye peels open in the dark, the white of it reduced to nothing more that of a hollow socket. Black; from the tips of his hair to the sharps of his claws. Thin vein work lightens with the touch of fresh air and Greed's head sways to the side. At the edge of his frown, a pair of fangs have protruded similar to an under-bite.] Ah-? [He finally manages and his torso lifts, his boot swings out. And the pitch-black roll of smog takes momentum for a test-drive, exiting the room in thinning threads that touch and caress as they move further down the hallway.] It isn't the first time, Stocke. And it would take a lot more to hurt me.

[But the change in Stocke's voice makes his eye narrow and Greed sways in the direction of the sound. While it had been hard to see at first, what with the onslaught of molten ash and blackened smoke, the other's predicament comes more into focus as the after-burn makes its exit.] Oi, oi, oi - [The tinniness to his voice fades with his baritone and the Sin sinks into his spine, jerking around to get a better look at just what sort of problems the fog has brought this time.]

[There's nothing much left to Stocke, in all honesty. Wisps of shadow cling helplessly to exposed bone, the hollows of his eyes wander without pupils to guide them. Greed takes one step forward and his tail cuts through the air, slicing a fresh line ash free from the tip. He doesn't hesitate in the slightest, moving in to further inspect what's his] - you've got it a bit worse, hmn?

[He comes in close, but the space given is somewhat of an unspoken agreement. Light, fire - whatever Stocke's become, that much has been made clear. A weakness of sorts and the former homunculus tips his chin. At the edge of his nose, his sunglasses shine in a fiery glow. As gold and red run races across the silver rims. Greed nudges the pair up his eyes with the edge of his knuckle and while it's hard to hear, the growl in the back of his throat lights up. Stoking his neck to a brilliant shade of gold. But then it's gone and the color of his skin quickly fades back into that of cooling charcoal.] You all right?

[The leathery whip of his tail slithers along side Stocke, its barbed tip poised to strike. It finds its intended target and his tail coils around the still-warm knob to the door, slowly easing it shut again. Greed's a bit closer now and the grin he has is a little more forced. Weary.]

Looks like we've run into some bad luck.

Edited 2015-03-04 04:35 (UTC)

[Dark as hell beyond the entrance - and maybe that's appropriate phrasing, given the occupant. Skipping embers and lines of crimson, flashes of light that mess with night vision enough to make the room stay dark. Lucky Stocke's a shade, then - and even so, it's the the gleam of Greed's new fangs that makes Stocke trace free his silhoutte from the rest of the room, black demon instead of odd dark shape.]

[Greed doesn't lie. But Stocke knows very well the trick of using your own standards instead of those of others, of making an 'I'm alright' mean anything from a surface graze to 'well, I'm not dying.' And 'it isn't the first time' doesn't mean anything besides, maybe, 'not as much of a surprise.' He stares at Greed, unblinking, making sure for himself; white glow cuts through pitch smoke, finally thins to curved lines as he agrees.]

[Worse...?] —Could make an argument the other way. This saved my hand, earlier.— [His voice keeps its customary evenness, but it's strangely light, as if he's trying too hard to make a deadpan joke. And maybe that's what gives it away.] —Then again, not sure I wouldn't rather have lost it, if that was the exchange.—

[(Stocke's terrified, frightened down to the - ha - bones of not being able to have any control. First he lost the Chronicle, then his humanity, and both of those he could've dealt with. But then it was choice, eating people, sacrificing them, and now it's his body; he's only glad he's got telekinesis, or he'd be reduced to a ghost. What's next? His voice? His mobility?)]

[- he's fine. Fine. (He is also lying to himself. That's another trick he knows.)]

[Obligingly, he straightens when Greed comes closer; his arms spread slightly to the side instead of hanging in front of him. If held naturally, the claws dangle past his knees, arms so long and thin as to unnerve. It's as if someone were putting together a human and screwed up the proportions past all repair. His head, neck - they're still solid, if mouthless. But down further it's a tracery of ribs and spine, at least until it reaches his legs, which are almost as bad as his other limbs.]

['Bad luck' nets a sizzle-crackle-hiss, not quite a soft, short laugh. But if it were one, it'd be bitter, or filled with dark amusement, or both. That's one thing to call it.] —Borrowing my question?— [Again, it's a subtle difference, but it sounds just a tad too blithe. Stocke seems to realize, because he pulls himself together; he's slipping slowly, and he doesn't like it. He needs to actually be fine, and the first step to it, in his own mind, is to say it aloud.] —A little inconvenienced, but I'm in one piece.—

[Then it's back to the reason he's here. Abruptly, words businesslike despite the static, he adds:] —I can't go solid. Not sure if I'll get it back, but either way, for now I'm limited in which of my normal duties I'll be able to do.— [There's only so much telekinesis can do.] —...there may be new ones I can help with. Going through walls shouldn't be entirely useless.—

[The room is baking inside and some of the wallpaper drips off in ribbons at the corners. Not enough to worry about, but enough to make a statement. Either he doesn't notice or he's too busy concerning himself with what stands before him; a shadowy mass, twisting and turning through stark-white bone. What used to be Stocke is nothing more than a shell and had he not known the other before, it would have been a bit difficult to make out.]

[The air thins with the release of smog and the tip of Greed's tail scurries away from the door handle. The metal piece is a bit misshapen in the aftermath, the smooth surface concave in some places.] It's a bit inconvenient - [The Sin starts in and when his tongue touches his teeth, it's like a crack of a molten-hot whip. The forked piece glows in hell-fire, snapping off then rolling back into his mouth. A few sizzles graze inside his cheek, illuminating his bones in an ashen shade of black.] - though I guess it's to be expected. Things being as they are, well -

[He's interrupted by a belching squeal and one of the doors further down the hallway flies open. Greed instantly perks at the sound, his jaws setting into an uncanny frown. The large, curved-teeth on either side of his mouth slice, then open. Releasing a breath of ash that plumes out and dissipates.] Tsk. Our friends aren't exactly very giving, are they.

[Thankfully, he knows what to expect. At least, he has an inclination. Once the fog dissipates, the more monstrous transformations should subside. Though it's speculation at best and the Sin's eyes narrow behind his sunglasses when he rights them again. The blare of red behind them burns and fades, lingering back in bright, scurrying streaks.] Ha - ! I guess you could say that, but I've already told you: I don't let anyone take what's mine, Stocke. Fog god, or not.

[Greed tosses his hand into the air, the jagged markings of inky-black skin heating again with the movement. On fire; from deep, deep down he can feel it. A burning sensation that has nothing to do with the physical manifest. A need and oh, is he parched.] No, it shouldn't be. [He extends his hand, gently prying open his claws to further inspect the other. Trails of black shift through his fingers, twisting through the gaps like stray smoke. Again, his expression falls and the former homunculus takes one step forward, then another.]

Haven't run into any other trouble, have you? [He starts in again, but not without a distance in is voice. His head is pulsing, his core racing. The heavy drum beat thudding his temples, screaming out for one thing only:]

["More."] Either way, it looks like we'll have a long night ahead of us - [One eye rolls around in his socket, turning back to Stocke.] - think you can handle it?

[Static ripples down Stocke's tendrils at the sizzling - unintentional warning sent and recieved. The heat's a non-issue, but Greed's on the edge of snapping out bright orange and yellow and red, metaphorical lava poking out between the cracks, gleaming. Sparks of fire like the jump of lightning.]

[Regardless, besides his eyes widening slightly, he doesn't move when Greed extends his claws. He floats deathly still - trusts that much.]

[Smoke and shadow bends around the talons; bones stay sharply defined, smooth dark curves wreathed in black, but they're no more corporeal for all that. (Cold, that's the only thing they are - nothing near sub-zero, but they might as well be in the contrast of the demon's room.) Stocke lifts an arm and waves it through the edges of Greed's open claws to demonstrate - same's true for them. Same's true for everything, really. Greed needn't have opened the door after acknowledging the knock; Stocke could've drifted from one side to the other unobstructed as soon as he set down his blade.]

[What, trouble other than the offhand mention of nearly losing an arm and whatever was the fog god's doing?] —...nothing besides that caused by the new group starting to change. City's been quiet since yesterday.— [In part thanks to the festival held in Bavan - he'd darted over there for a bit once he'd noted the lack of activity in Vandare, all focused elsewhere - and in part thanks to the fog since then. Long nights as they caused for the monsters, they were worse threats for entirely human inhabitants of the peninsula.]

—Haven't got a choice but to handle it.— [But whatever his words, he's more than ready for anything that'll let him prove to himself he can still do things, even like this. Half to mentally emphasize that, he reaches out with telekinesis, catches one of the clouds of ash Greed's breathing out. He loops that once around his upraised arm, a controlled circle, before letting it free to dissolve.]

[Only after does he realize Greed's 'mine' didn't throw him off - he didn't even note it until almost a full minute or two after. Right, well... chalk one more up to 'getting used to it.' It has been something like two months.]

[To make up for the momentarily disoriented flicker in his eyes, he adds,] —...I tracked down that second name.— [The one from the squealer Stocke'd caught and Greed'd... terrified out of his wits.] —Businesswoman heading one of the peninsula's shipping companies. Widowed. Moved to Bavan with the rest of her family a bit over a month ago.— [And there was why, even though he'd traced her a while back, he hadn't done anything; she'd gone, and left the Devil's Nest temporarily alone.] —But she's coming back by herself in a week to administrate.

[After a second, he continues:] —...her younger daughter was eaten by one of the transformed, late last year.—

Edited (quietly fiddles with word choice... this is what i get for trying to finish writing tags just after waking up) 2015-03-06 16:52 (UTC)

[The tip of his toe presses into the door, causing it to slowly drift ajar again. In the hallway, the few lights still holding flutter - most of the candles have gone out and any bulbs still in one piece are foggy, ashen. The glass burning from the inside out. A door lays flat in the hallway, its structure splintered and cracked. Greed's lips pull aside, sliding one jagged-tooth against another for a brief flicker of a snarl.]

[Then, gone.] That so - ? Don't get me wrong Stocke - she might end up being trouble for us, but I've still got my rules. I don't fight women. [But that doesn't mean he'll idly sit and wait it out either. Not with how dismal his would-be second looks; not with how parched he feels. His hand falls loosely at his side and the tips of his claws barely touch one another. The pounding in his head is worse, the heat at the corners of his vision more so.]

[He just doesn't seem to care.] Humans tend to get righteous when it comes to that. Not that I blame her - [The former homunculus' throat recoils and starts to drop. The heat source falling and falling and a pulse-beat undulates further in his chest. Where a heart should be, but off somehow. Greed throws his foot, slowly bringing his heel down first to let the rest of his boot pat against the floorboards with a distinct, sharp click.] - but we've got a bit more of a problem on our hands.

[Hunger. That's the word for it; not for food or for drink. Not for sleep or for sex. But for everything; everything and anything and the Sin's shoulders rise up, his body leans forward. The brush of shadow at his backside is cooler, chilled. Rinsing over him and the small bursts of fire veining through his arm huff and die out. They'll reignite again, now doubt. But for now - ]

No, you don't have a choice. And I've always been a fan - never been one to work for anyone else. [Greed's voice is lofty, air. As he tips his head, eyeing Stocke through his sunglasses a second time 'round. They're warm to the touch, the metal holding them together wafting with edges of steam. Red blares against the backside of his sunglasses, the strength of it waxing and waning every-so-often. He sneers blindly; not at Stocke, but at something else. A feeling down in the 'Pit; wriggling and tugging him to a destination.]

Looks like you could use the favor this time.

[Another thunderous quake vibrates from the basement, the sound muted through the various floors. The walls shake once, then stop. Greed coils his head around the door and for flash, his frown is back again. It doesn't fit his face, that look. Almost angry, feral.]

[Wrath.] Tsk - [A forced grin presses on his jaw line and the Sin takes the lead. Down the hallway he goes, the remaining light bulbs beating out. Whether it's him, them, or the situation, it's difficult to say. But as the minutes count down and as slowly-trickling fog creeps in, the 'Nest falls dim. Shadows lick where light used to be, replacing it in an eerie silence.]

[It'll be a long, long night.]

Edited 2015-03-09 22:50 (UTC)

[Humans. He was, he's still - ...or is he? He wants to say he still counts himself, if only to spite the fog god of this, but he hasn't since he ate his first soul.]

[Apparently that doesn't make a difference in this; Stocke can't blame the woman either. Can't feel much besides pity, really - even without Greed's 'I don't fight women,' he wouldn't have wanted to do anything to her. All the same, his job is to protect this place, the monsters here.] —No need to fight.— [Quiet.] —Just convince her the 'Nest isn't worth the trouble.—

[How is the harder part; small things aren't likely to dissaude someone with that sort of grudge, and more extreme ones are - tasteless. Especially considering the circumstances, and the slightly older child she has remaining. Something he'd rather leave as a last resort. So the first thing that comes to mind that's still available -] —...maybe find something to keep her busy enough in Bavan, once she returns, that she has no time to invest in Vandare.— [Then all they have to do is last out the couple of weeks she'll be here first.]

[As Greed goes, Stocke floats after, eyeing the floor under him as it shakes, tendrils swishing uneasily at Greed's expression. (Usually he sees less scowling, more of a voluntary grin - if a wolfish one.) Dark swirls around them, and mist, leaving Stocke just a pair of glowing eyes - at least until he reaches for his sword's sheath as they pass, dragging it back through the air and into incorporeal ribs. He'd rather have it with him, have something to resort to that isn't ripping out people's souls -]

[Stocke swallows as ravenousness hits him with the thought, but it feels stilted without a mouth or real throat; the noise it makes is a thin electronic whine. (Like a pale imitation of an actual swallow made by someone solid.) He's hungry, been pushing himself as near to the limit as he dared again, and using his invisibility recently had only made it worse. (In fairness, he hadn't known it would - most of his previous uses had been not long after he'd fed, hadn't made enough of a difference to be notable. But now...)]

[Stocke lifts one dangling claw slightly to his side - but his sword's hilt isn't there, not with the way he's carrying it now, and his fingers wouldn't be able to curl tight around it even if it were. He doesn't have the luxury of that little tell, nothing material to ground himself with. So instead he glides in Greed's wake silently, shadowing.]

[Stocke isn’t the only one feeling the subconscious ping of hunger. The nature of it is buried and feral, bubbling to the surface when he’s either forgotten or merely ignored the feeling out of pure ignorance; the sensation isn't one he has had to worry about before. A matter of convenience, but now? It's different. His tongue feels rough to the touch, his throat choking out like someone who’s been wandering the desert for a bit too long. The only distraction comes from Stocke himself as he oozes from a solid to a mostly-airy state. The tendrils of inky, chilled smoke drift across his back and Greed listens as the sword trills softly behind him; a blade abandoned by circumstance.]

[The matter of the woman from Bavan is shelved for the time being. He can’t think straight, not with that constant drumming in the side of his skull. Greed’s teeth shine off as he rounds the corner towards the stairwell, his fangs illuminating in a soft glow. Below them, the entrance to the ‘Nest bangs unlocked and a soft gust howls through the empty bar. On nights like this, when the fog yanks the true monsters to the surface, the lack of patrons isn't surprising.]

[What is is the sound of whispers, the loud commotion of uneven feet blindly walking through the dark.] "This is the place boys - I know it." [A pause, a crash, then:] "Hey watch it - !" [The voice sounds older, gruff. Grinding through teeth soaked in spit. Footsteps knock off hollow on the bottom floor and whoever it is, they've brought company. Their boots are thick and heavy - their stance labored, yet tight. Greed's mouth pulls into a sneer, his upper lip peeling away to show off his new set.]

"Shit. You don't think anyone's still here, do ya?" [Another - this time a bit younger, with a farm-bred accent to tell of his upbringing. Two whistling plunks tremble with unsteady hands and it's hard not to know what's going on: the barrel of an opened shotgun, a reloading of slugs. A rather loud click breaks the silence and someone breathes heavily outward.] "Looks like the fuckers cut and run. Whatever. We'll show 'em I ain't no one to mess 'round with. Had a tail on that g'damn little bird thief. Ain't gunna be chased out this time."

[The Sin slowly takes one step and the conversation abruptly cuts off from below. The merry band of men alerted, they quiet down and hunker. It's a contrast of two forces and Greed casually takes the stairs, his hands slipping into his pockets. His smile is dangerous, deadly. And still oddly friendly; coaxing.] Oi, oi, oi - now what's all this, hmn? You'd have to be pretty stupid to try something here, friend.

[Despite their luck? Fate sometimes offered a better deal.]

[As soon as he hears voices - rough and unfamiliar, angry - Stocke closes his eyes and falls back, slipping into the Nest's shadows. They haven't brought light with them, and that's their mistake; not only does that leave him freer to move, it means they won't be able to see him. He doesn't even need to go invisible; good, since he can't afford that right now.]

[He listens as they hiss back and forth, claws tensing in the dark; finally, his eyes crack barely open, just another line of moonlight from a window or a gleam off an abandoned bottle. Greed's moving glow is sure to draw more attention - Stocke takes the opportunity to rise silently up to the ceiling, guide his sheathed sword away from him, above the intrudors. There's no reflection off the unpolished wood, but even so, Stocke waits a moment or two before following. As he passes Greed - just before the demon heads down the stairs - he lets one tendril droop, trail through Greed's shoulder. It's just another flicker of darkness in the gloom, a whisper of cold, but what it means is 'I'll be waiting up above for a signal.']

[The intruders wouldn't be expecting anything from above; people rarely did. Flight-capable monsters might've changed that, some, but within the enclosed confines of the bar, without the sound of flapping wings, there'd be no forewarning.]

['Little bird thief'... do they mean Mason? Or some other harpy that hangs around here? It'd be a lot easier to pull up possibilities if he hadn't started pulling at the seams hungrily as soon as static whispered (prey), so he shelves the thought and focuses on the present. His eyes, still thin slits, fix on the shotgun.]

[It's not a magical firearm like back home, he knows that after the months he's spent here. Ammunition, not spells. Stocke's not too worried about being shot, but if they aim at Greed - can he stop a slug? It'd be moving too fast for his telekinesis, he thinks; not safe to test now if he's right. Instead he reaches out a mental thread to hook the firearm itself. He doesn't twitch it, not yet, but if there's a move to shoot - he'll try to yank the barrel upwards.]

[Stocke takes the cue without order; Greed can feel the slight chill leave his back, the retracting tendrils like a phantom in passing. Despite what could amount to some serious trouble, a proud flash passes over his expression. Luck or otherwise, he's glad to have Stocke. He hasn't proved a bad investment in the slightest.]

[The quiet touch on his shoulder is acknowledged in a span of exposed teeth. Reading it for what is is: a gesture that if things turn sour, all he needs to do is ask.]

[Iron trembles underneath his stride, the stairs rocking in groans of exhausted metal. Stocke's right in his personal assumption - the spill of liquidity gold and brimstone alerts the gang of three even more-so than the thunderous baritone of the Sin's voice. The shotgun gets cocked and poised. Thrown into place to rest against a shoulder. Unfortunately for them, the one sporting said-firearm just happens to be the youngest of the group. A blind sheep follower that, sadly, ran into a wolf den on the worst of nights.]

[Bad luck, bad decisions.]

Now, that really isn't very nice - not really smart, are ya? [Greed's pitch is tainted in the same half-drowned tin, scratching at his throat. The inside of his mouth glows, causing the bones of his jaw to illuminate in a terrible black. Not unlike a photo in a negative. But then the fire's swallowed again and he turns the last corner with a pleasant smile. Meeting the double-barreled gaze of the shotgun.]

"Call it sumthin' personal - ain't nobody gunna say shit once we get this taken care of. Should'a jus' stayed out m'business, devil - " [The older gentleman replies. He hasn't brought his farming equipment as a makeshift weapon this time: lesson learned. Instead, he's got a rifle lazily dangling in his fingers. A soft touch of moonlight glazes across a metal chain around his neck, illuminating a gold cross in a milky white.]

[Greed ticks his eyebrow up in mild humor.] That's not how it works, friend. Besides, I really couldn't have you messing with one of mine. [The Sin answers, not without a sneer. In the pitch-black of the bar, his outstretching wings loom behind him. Similar to shadows widening, they're marred in a fresh frame of ash. The youngest member of the band starts to tremble and the shotgun in his grip rattles.]

[Then his hand slips, his palm too sweaty to hold his bravado together. The twin barrels of the shotgun flare with a deafening bang.]

"F-Fuck!"

[The slugs meet their target in a spewing of ash. Greed's back hits the wall with a violent thud, causing one or two bottles and a mirror to crash onto the floor. The kid panics, his fingers missing the release on gun more than once. When he finally gets it, the smoking shells eject and roll onto the floor. The older man curses, his words unintelligible as he waves his rifle in the air.] "You dumb little shit!"

[The boy's lip quivers as he fumbles around for two more shots. Unfortunately, they forgot one thing.]

[Silence passes and for a second, the three stare at Greed's still form.] "Shit - if I'd known it'd be that fuckin' easy - " [The older man calms, his bloated cheek deflating as a splatter of tobacco shoots out onto the floor.] "Not f'er nothin', but the next one we find, try not to piss in y'er pants."

[But as they talk, a wicked red flickers. A twitching skitter sounds off. Greed's claws move in a quick-jerk motion, like someone who's just had an electrical shock to the system. His body slowly raises from the wall, a faint trail of smoke wafting from his bowed-down head. His left hand opens up, cradling his neck. Then he twists, it snaps, and he groans out a sigh:] Ah- that hurt.

[Salt. They had forgot the salt. And now it's game, set: match.]

[Stocke jerks at the retort of the gun, already knowing he's too late to interfere - his reaction time isn't superhuman, and those slugs can fly across the room in less time than it takes him to blink. Less time than it takes him to curl the claws on one hand together, as if grasping at something that's no longer there. An angry static surges up his spine, through his throat, mouth or not - he slams it to a halt before it spills out, whether as a quiet curse or an inhuman hiss. It struggles there as the three stand around, staring, the oldest man almost mocking; if there's anything Stocke's learned over the past week, it's that even if something like that's enough to kill Greed, he'll probably be back. This peninsula's strange like that. And yet -]

[He's almost surprised at the amount of relief he feels when the demon's red flares back up, but he sets that aside; more importantly, that shouldn't happen again. The kid's grip is still slippery; it's hardly any work at all to yank the shotgun out of his fingers telekinetically, send it flying off towards the far wall. It doesn't quite reach, hitting the floor and spinning past glittering shards of glass before it slides to a halt. Meanwhile, Stocke hasn't been paying it any mind since the first tug and fling; before the kid's even had any chance to yelp, the shade's snapping that same mental thread towards the leader's rifle.]

[This he doesn't try to pull away - no guarantees on how tightly the man's holding, he might have a chance to shoot. If Stocke knew anything about the innards of firearms, he'd have messed with them; as it is, at least he knows what the trigger's for. He jams it, holding it tightly in place; if the third man's got something to shoot, Stocke gives it the same treatment, spooling out another metaphorical line.]

[Telekinesis isn't foolproof - there's a limit to how much Stocke can carry with it. But counteracting the efforts of a finger, two? That's nothing. If the rifle-holder tries to shoot, the trigger shouldn't budge. To make it even better - unless these natives are experts on the types of monsters Ryslig holds, there's nothing to say that Greed didn't do all that. No evidence of a second monster pulling any strings.]

[Stocke's tendrils quiver tensely, invisible in the ceiling's darkness. He wants to do more, but Greed still hasn't motioned him forward. There's a difference between taking initiative and suddenly acting like he can't trust the demon to handle this, and he's not crossing it.]

[Your move, boss.]

[When the shotgun goes airborne, the kid all but yelps in surprise. His eyes are like saucers, his mouth hanging open as mental collection moves to disarray. His hardly-visible trembles are now in full view and his feet slide together. His empty hands twitch, looking for something to hold onto to. Unfortunately, he takes a few uneven steps back and goes crashing to the floor; breathing heavily as he tries to crab-walk for escape.]

[Greed's already up, his head bowed. A grip of claws holds his neck and he groans slightly, twisting at the muscle and bone locked underneath his palm. The leader of the group takes no pause, his rifle rearing up in a shining sheen: no unlike a tank posed to fire. He goes to pull the trigger. Goes again - ] "Piece of god'mn shit!" [He furiously pulls back the cock-pull hammer, releasing an unspent shell onto the floor. It rolls away, the pointed tip catching moonlight before it disappears into a corner.]

[It's enough of a pause.]

[While he doesn't have the usual tricks, Greed's talons grab the wooden length of the rifle. He can't slice it apart like he'd normally would, but one good twist snaps the man's wrist clean. The weapon drops and the Sin's look is put-upon. As if this is all merely a bother.] Oh-? Probably hurt yourself that way, Chief. [The tone of his voice is sharp, sing-song. Even as the elder of the bunch wails, his sodden lip smeared in a wet sheen of aged, tarry tobacco. Greed holds him firm, parting only a brief glance upward to signal his would-be second.] I told you, I wasn't interested in hurting anyone. But you're not really giving me much choice.

[Greed's other hand shoots off like a gunshot, his claws snaring the older man's collar. Behind him, his wings are a terrible looming of brimstone - their shape fading by the outline. One beat has the two of them against the opposing wall and the former homunculus uses the side of it to lift the older man up and off the floor. His aged old boots hang and the laces dangle as his last lifeline. This close, he can practically smell it on him; a soul quivering deep down with a boy's kind of fear. Something that old men try to bury over time.]

[It's sickeningly sweet.] That's twice now - why don't we try not to make it messier than it has to be this time, hmn? [His free hand is out, his arm gesturing slowly to his side. The two others stare on, the youngest one frozen in the corner. Greed cricks his head to the side as he draws eerily close to the leader's face. His eyes are wide behind his sunglasses, the pricks of his pupils thickening out with the idea. It's been a while since he last consumed and the ping of hunger brought on by the recent fog isn't doing him any favors.]

[Thankfully, chance luck seems to be on his side.] "I'll fuckin' see you n'Hell f'er I make no deal." [The man finally speaks up, his voice choking on his own spittle. Greed's eyes settle, his lids hooding with a small sneer.] Eh - that's a shame. [Under the demon's grip, the appointed leader tries to furiously snatch at his cross. It causes the Sin to reel back slightly, his frown more pronounced. His grip loosens just a tad, fabric sliding between his claws in a silent whispers of linen.]

[The Sin sighs - dramatic, overly so. As his hand snakes around back, effectively plucking the clasp of the necklace to make it fall to the floor. It drops once; like a heavy piece of lead, or a bad omen in the making.]

[Then he has his head against the other's, foreheads touching. The older man finally goes still, a dreamy look washing over his face. At peace, for a moment. His arms hang at his sides, his eyes turn milky in their stare. Had it been anything else, the act might look intimate.] I really am sorry, you know. [The Sin hums rather pleasantly. But then his jaws are opening, his teeth glint. What happens is a reaction and something slips out of the opening in the man's lip. A vacuum to dust, wrenching a whispering form out from his teeth. In comes in slowly, time ticking almost to a halt.]

[Then it's gone. Down Greed's throat with a simple rattling of his tongue. The older man's eyes roll back into his skull and Sin lets loose his grip. He stares down at the unconscious form, his expression mixed with distaste.]

[Stocke's off like a shot at the demon's signal, dropping with the barest flicker of movement in the dark. His sword follows - he directs it away from him with a motion of his hand, more because that makes it easier than because it's really necessary, then sinks into the ground.]

[The blade flutes off towards the kid, sheath smacking lightly against his throat. Slowly the sword begins to slide out, gleaming brightly, red and orange and fire-gold playing over it thanks to Greed; finally, the wooden cover clatters to the floor. It's not close enough to cut, Stocke doesn't want that, but it's a warning. Stay in the corner and don't move.]

[The shade, meanwhile, rises up out of the floor behind the last man while Greed's bargaining, the intruder frozen in place and staring. Stocke's soundless up to the point where he darts claws through the man's back; once he clutches the soul, though, there's such a strong sudden urge to (rip it out, now) that he nearly does. It's only the resistant clinginess of a soul desperate to stay in place that snaps him out of it, arm halfway free - he returns the soul to its original position carefully, with the feeling that his heart would be hammering if he still had a human form. (And maybe the static hammering through him is similar enough, even if it's doing it out of hunger.)]

[That should leave these other two pinned - Stocke's eyes rise in time to see Greed's almost-lazy flinch, hear the sigh before the little cross hits the floor. His gaze traces its outline, curious, memorizing; mistakenly, he assumes it's the material that it's made of that's the problem. Salt inside? Not that it matters; now it's out of reach and out of mind, useless to the man as something on the other side of the bar.]

[Then Greed does something, something that pulses brightly through the room to Stocke's senses. It draws him like a moth to a flame - only maybe it's more like the soft light of a glowing creature underwater, with the way the rest of his perceptions dull in comparison. If Stocke still had pupils, they might have dilated; instead his eyes widen, gaping holes of white. It's a pattern of ripples through the room's natural static, stronger with the older man's limpness, until Stocke can hardly believe he'd never felt it before with other souls -]

[The sensation vanishes when Greed's jaws snap shut, and Stocke realizes he's taut as a string, claws twitching gently around the intruder's soul. It's an effort of will to yank himself back from the precipice of instinct - he can't make decisions based on that, even if his actions eventually end the same, or he'll lose all grip on reason to the fog god's curse. And with the return of clarity, he knows he hasn't felt anything with this intensity earlier, or the whole town would've been shaking constantly every time a soul was torn free. It's due to hunger, has to be.]

[In the corner, his blade's just begun to wobble. Stocke steadies it, leaving the edge a centimeter from the kid's neck; steadies himself with it, then straightens up to his full height. Gangling thin and tall, with the stretched proportions of a shadow cast by a faraway lamp - human, Stocke was about average, but now he practically looms.]

[Whatever his resolutions, Stocke's voice feels distant, disembodied when he finally speaks, like his mind's still following the soul down Greed's throat.] —Anything you want me to do with these two?— [He nudges the man he's caught forward with a gentle push on his soul, but without loosening his grasp.]

[There's a delayed, dull shock as the 'and there's another soul gone forever' hits him. A flash of worry that he's only feeling it at all out of obligation, rather than true distress, thanks to the holdup. But nothing speaks to it, not even motion in his tendrils - he's gotten better at controlling them when he has something he wants to keep to himself - and it's soon drowned by the feeling of luminous quarry in his hand.]

[The leader's arm stretches out slowly, unraveling like a flower in bloom. His fingers are white and pale, making the blood vessels and veins stick out against his skin. They almost glow in the dark; as moonlight passes through the 'Nest in watery, waning wisps.]

[Greed's careful to sidestep the offending appendage, his heels making a short semi-circle around spread fingers. They seem to be reaching in the aftermath - trying to catch something so-far gone.] Eh- [A groan wheezes out of him, his claws already wrapped around the metal frames of his sunglasses to pull them off. The pair hang loosely in his fingertips and the red-light pouring from his eyes is haunting and wicked. A nightmare wrapped neatly in a package and the boy's head leans back, his Adam's apple throbbing just a breath away from Stocke's sword.] - seems like we've got a problem here, don't we.

[Fire churns in his chest, his throat. The shade of burnt-orange cooling back to that inviting kind of gold. The kind men yearn for, the kind he owns. Greed's eyes flick to the older of the two left, watching as something writhes and twitches in Stocke's ever-so-delicate grasp. Whoever the man is, it looks as if he still has a soapbox he wants to stand on.]

[Too bad said soapbox is merely soaked cardboard by this point.] Don't get me wrong -I didn't want to have to do that, but your friend here didn't really give me much choice. [A tip has him leering at the other, a scavenger on his last inspection.] And it looks like you aren't either, are you? [Greed closes the gap between himself, Stocke, and the man trapped between them. His middle-aged face flat-lines between contempt and rage. When he goes to speak, he chokes out a word or two. The hand at his side tries to pull at a buck-knife on his belt to no avail.]

[Greed's eyes hood and his frown falls strongly on his jaw.] Guess we have to do this the hard way. [A quick jerk of his glance has him looking at Stocke, his shoulders slumping. The sunglasses in his claws flip over his knuckles, catching moonlight only to disappear at the lip of his vest. The decision ultimately falls on Stocke, but:] He's all yours.

[The man hitches when he hears those three, solemn words. Rage morphs into cold-chilled fear and the thudding in his chest is almost audible in the bar's silence. His eyes turn to pin-pricks in his skull and he tries to protest, but he can't. Like a some sort of force has been put on him and as he pushes to catch Stocke in his peripheral, a horrible red seeps around Greed's face. Humming like a lonely night in a district made for better company.]

[Greed turns his attention back to the youngest.] And that leaves you - gunna guess you're not as stupid as the rest of 'em. [He crouches down, his tail grinding across the floorboards in a warning. The terrible light in his eyes fades and Greed sinks his hands between spread out thighs.] As long as you don't plan on coming back here, consider this my one time offer. [One claw presses into Stocke's blade, urging it away from the boy's throat. No calm comes to his face, however. The fear frozen, his exhales fast and erratic. The Sin offers him a solid smile - one not filled to the brim with razors.]

[The young man looks at his companion, looks at Greed, then promptly jolts up on his legs like a newborn fawn. A table falls over in his exit and the door bashes when he tears it open. A few jolting steps and whining breathes send him out and gone to whatever the rest of the night has in store.]

['He's all yours.' It'd have been easier, somehow, to have been commanded there, one way or the other - but Stocke shouldn't want the easier route. And yet - if Greed'd said to let the man go, that would've been the end of it, and if he'd indicated concretely in the other direction, then Stocke could've said he hadn't made the choice. (But it still would be; he'd chosen to join up, he chose whether to obey or not. Not getting out of it that easily.)]

[Either way - as it is, the decision's on him. And nearly everything points to taking the man's soul - it'll get rid of him, when this one's likely to come back again, it'll feed Stocke so he won't have to prey on someone else, it'll... and yet, he's still not entirely sure he's not being urged to it just because he's hungry. Would he make the same arguments without that weighing on him?]

[The man's attempts to turn, struggle away... the shade hardly notices them, in comparison to the terrified shaking to his core. An elbow or shove will pass through nothing but cold air.]

[Stocke breathes out, a quiet crackle - it's nothing more than a gesture. A shadow doesn't need to breathe. Then, as dispassionately as he can manage - he wrenches back, quick and violent.]

[The soul doesn't want to go; it stretches like taffy for the short second it has a chance to, blazing bright but quick and weak as the beating of a dying heart. Then it snaps free and the man's eyes go blank - slowly, without something to motivate action, he sinks to the floor, fingers loosening from the knife he was grappling for. Stocke, for a second, tries to loop an arm under the man's shoulder, lower him to the floor himself; it shouldn't matter, anymore, but somehow it does. His hand goes through with a whisper of black, and he pulls it back. Right.]

[There's a short, almost ridiculous moment where Stocke tries to figure out what he's supposed to do next, without a mouth to feed with - but the hand holding the soul's already lifting it up to his ribcage, nudging it inside. The soul beats against the edges like a caged bird, as if there are invisible walls between the bones. Then, moments later - it rips into shreds, dissolves into sparking lights and is gone. It leaves behind nothing more than a inaudible impression of something very like a wail, tinny and remote.]

[Stocke swallows, the action as fruitless as his breath, even as everything goes sharp and clear with the crispness of just having fed, an overabundance of detail. It fades enough for him to pick out his telekinesis being shoved against - he lifts his head and rotates towards it, leaving behind what might as well be a corpse on the floor. The kid's already running, door slamming behind him - Stocke's not even sure if he saw what happened to his second associate or was spooked off beforehand. Either way, the shade pulls the sword away so Greed's no longer holding it back, slips it gently back into its sheath. It glides almost casually back to Stocke's side.]

[He doesn't want to say anything, right now - instead he releases the threads he had attached to the mans' weapons, uses the ability instead to right the toppled table and lift the firearms onto it. The bodies... mechanically, he decides he probably wouldn't be able to do much more than drag them, they're too heavy for anything else. He leaves them where they are for Greed or someone else in the Nest to handle.]

[A thought a moment later has his tendrils twisting towards the door; he drifts towards it and sticks his head through, checking for any more backup outside. Not expecting any - they'd have called them in upon confronting Greed - but not leaving it up to chance. It takes him another few beats to find his voice again once he pulls back. If there are reinforcements it's a warning, but otherwise, quiet...] —What was that down in the basement, before?—

[As the body takes the fall in slow-motion agony, Greed eases to stand. The last dying breath of the man's soul is crushed between Stocke's ribs, giving a strobe-light effect to the bar once again. Lightning in a thousand bottles and the Sin slowly removes and opens his sunglasses. The lip of his thumb nail peels an earpiece open, letting it swing wide with a click. With the threats gone, the bar goes quiet again; deathly so.]

[Greed presses the shades to the crook of his nose, pushes the glass with his fingers, and rights them. It's a souring waste, but not something to change his mood too much. After a few seconds, his smile slices wide open. With his back to Stocke, the fur of his collar rises to cradle his neck and throat.] I'm sorry you had to do that. [It's the only solace he gives. The trembles from the basement below have all but subsided and Greed pivots, a catch of moonlight turning his skin a pale shade of blue. He turns his head to examine the body briefly - it isn't dead, but maybe death would be a better fate. He steps over the lifeless wrist and the knuckles on the man's fingers are white. Tight, as if he still had a last ditch effort to stand on.]

[Greed's close to Stocke not a moment later. Silent for a moment or two, taking his would-be second with a glance. If there's worry on his face, it's short lived.] Probably one of the others. [The Sin turns his head over his shoulder, straightening his spine. The howling and wailing, similar to a symphony of banshees, is gone. Nothing but stillness, a death rattle's last call.]

[Greed waves over his other shoulder, beckoning Stocke to follow.] I'll take care of everything up here. Better check on anyone downstairs. Wouldn't want anymore surprises tonight. [It's been a long time since he's had to deal with a body, but he's no stranger to the concept. Greed's wings unfurl, a new fire kindling between the veins. He takes one step forward and a circle of ash burns in his heel.]

[He won't ask if Stocke's all right; physically, there's nothing to show of their encounter. What sort of lingering aftermath? He can only guess. They had been similar; war stories that haunted. That clawed when night settled in, making them remember.]

[He doesn't need to press the issue.]

[Instead, Greed's hand lowers to the older man: the leader of the pack. His claws wrap round a limp wrist and the body jerks up with an odd kind of ease. Like a rag doll being dragged behind a young child, the man slides across the floor. His old leather boots bounce when they hit a snag and Greed pauses. A chill wind whistles under the entrance and the door jitters a bit in the dark.]

[There's a silent acknowledgement of Greed's condolences in the guttering light of Stocke's eyes - he appreciates it - but it's not so much him doing it the shade cares about as it is the soul-eating happening at all. One more time, he looks at the almost-corpse; this group knew what they were doing, going after what might as well be a monster stronghold, and it's not as though he hasn't killed before, but... (But.)]

[Souls are another matter. A life taken will move on; a soul taken... ends.]

[It's hitting him harder without the fog of hunger, but at the same time he's glad for that. He doesn't want to reach a day when he stops caring, whatever the kind of person. That's a slippery slope to head down.]

[Shoving the feelings back for later, on the other hand, is fair game. Especially the kind of later where he's too tired to think about them. He pulls himself away, follows Greed's motion.] —I'm on it.— [Maybe he'll get a glimpse of that elusive basement-dweller, while he's at it. Though if he hasn't seen them yet...]

[The shade glides across the bar, by little sparkles of glass sunken safely into cracks in the floor and trails of Greed's ash on the floor, marks of where the demon's swaggered. Angles of moonlight reflect off coloured bottles as he passes, made dull by the dark's grayscale vision; the tabletops gleam with glimmers of hellfire thrown off Greed's wings. A turn of Stocke's wrist has his sword following him as he heads down.]

[Long night, was it...?]

Are you the owner of the Devil's Nest?

you could sy that thogh if youre asking thre must be somthing you want

thst right?

That's right. Are you hiring?

[He gets right to the point, at least...]

nevr was one todny antone friend

comeby and we'll seehwat we cn do

the names' greed thinnk youcolld do me thfavor?

ah rghht

just tell em youre nre for me

[This guy's messages were atrocious. They were harder to read than Hisoka's, but considering the messaging system-- Well, it's fair. He's not one to judge based on typing habits anyway.]

Greed. I'll come by right now, then. You can have my name once I'm there.

oh -? thsts not usully how it wrks

but fine suit yurself

[He didn't say anything against it, so Kurapika's going to assume it's not an issue. He'd prefer to keep his name off the network, and he's still not decided on giving his real name or a cover-up when he shows up...

But, he'll stop messaging there and take a few minutes to get into disguise... It's simple. A short wig works well enough and won't get in the way, especially if he ends up being able to do this regularly, as work. His clothing is the first women's outfit he could find in town, feminine but not over the top. Enough for people to make assumptions and not connect it with the real him, he's figuring.

From there, he heads out to find it. It's not hard since he'd wandered past it before even contacting Greed. A neighborhood like this was exactly what he was looking for.

When he enters, he speaks to the first employee he finds.]

I'm here for Greed.

[At this time of day, the bar is a little more quiet. The lights are dim and the curtains are drawn, giving the air a smokey, dreary look. Stale cigarette smoke clings to the ceiling, suspended without the constant bustle of people coming in and out.]

[A woman at the counter perks when the door chimes and a sliver of light cuts inside, slicing a pale beam through the place. Bits of dust brighten with the onslaught, only to disappear as they plunge back into the dark. Across her neck, scales of blue shimmer and she bares her teeth for a moment. Not in a threat, but in surprise. Her eyes squint and she immediately turns her head, tossing the pale-white of her hair to and fro. She waves it away soon after, the bin in her hands clinking and jingling with the sudden movement.] Yeah, he's here - [She finally says with a sigh. The bin's placed onto the counter with a thud and as the door closes shut, there's a visible ease in her shoulders. She throws her head back to the new comer, ice-green lips puckered out in slight suspicion.] - what do want with him?

[A small fire catches nearby, crackling in the open maw of a fireplace rather suddenly. The flames stoke unannounced, but it's enough of a warning. From above, the floorboards shake and quiver. As thunderous heels shoot off; the pace daunting, yet oddly purposeful. The woman turns away, peering upwards with a soft scoff.]

[From the darkened stairwell above, a glow of orange slowly seeps in. Like the very fire recently-caught below, it grows; spilling a gold wash down the rusted-iron steps. A lofty sigh follows, the sound crackling similar to stoked charcoal. One foot falls, then another. Showing off a signature pair of curved-tipped boots.] Oi, oi, oi - now, that's not very nice. I'm expecting a few today, sweet heart. Try to be a little nicer, hmn?

[Greed coils around the winding staircase, his claws shoved deep into his pockets. The steps rattle under his heels and the bolts shiver from where they hardly manage to stay. He shoots a grin to the nameless woman, his mouth full of a deadly set.] Besides, you should know how this works by now. Don't worry. [And he doesn't sound upset at all. Almost pleased, appreciative. One shoulder rolls back, sending the fur of his collar to caress his jawline. He hits the lower floor with a clack, circling the woman to take a look at just who's shown up at his doorstep.]

Oh-? Sorry, that was a little rude. [The Sin's eyebrows touch above his pitch-black shades and he dips slightly to touch at his collarbone.] You must be one of the ones from the network - [A simmer vibrates in his throat and the black coating alongside his neck stokes to a muted orange.]

- so, what can I do for you, lovely?

[Being greeted with a question like that was exactly what he was expecting. In situations like this, that was normally the case, wasn't it? Paranoia or worry weeding out whatever could be a threat or a nuisance. He's well prepared to answer, as well, but as the flames shoot up, the atmosphere in the room changes and he finds his eyes drifting to the stranger coming down the steps.

By the time the descent and show of it is over, Kurapika is certain this is precisely the type of place he was looking for. At the same time, he wonders if it might have been a better idea to wait until he had more up his sleeve to make up for his lack of abilities.

It was too late for thinking on that, though.

Despite being overall 'impressed' (if that was the word for how he viewed these scenes), his face stays cold even when he's greeted in such an active and friendly manner. The most he moves is a slight raise of his chin as he makes his goal known in his voice, which is about as ambiguous as his appearance. There's no point hiding it or skirting around the topic.]

I'm here for a job. You say you're not one to turn anyone away, so are there no requirements?

For a job, huh? [The Sin echoes back. His body straightens slightly and he shoots an over-the-shoulder glance at his female company. A wordless transaction passes between them; her nodding and him grinning. Showing tooth for tooth, fang for fang in a silent exchange. She leaves the bin where it is, her painted nails touching at the fabric of her collar. She exits with a knowing kind of smirk, disappearing down the next hallway as she gingerly flicks her hair back into place with a throw of her knuckles.]

[Greed watches her go before turning back to present company.] You've got part of it right. I'm not one to turn anyone away, but there are some requirements. [He lifts his head, showing off the blackened length of his throat. The thinly-placed patches of scale slide off in opposite directions - in lengths similar to stretched, irregular rectangles.] Working for me is a little bit different - the name's not just that.

[With the two of them alone, the former homunculus eases a foot forward. Closing gaps and choking off the breathing space; any personal bubbles pushed, prodded, and otherwise popped.] You'd be working for me - I don't really care what you are, what you're becoming. This place isn't for anyone normal and if you've heard, then you already know - I do take care of what's mine - [His voice purrs off, rolling in the backside of his throat as the fork of his tongue rattles against his teeth. Greed's eyebrows push together, shooting up from his sunglasses.]

- that's the deal. I expect some loyalty, after all. Room, board, everything else? That's taken care of. [He inspects like a vulture; teetering over his hips, bending his spine. Every move of him wild, energetic. Yet lazy, sleazy: at ease.] First thing's first -

[One claw extends, the crook of it tapping against the other's shoulder lightly. His lips push together and from behind him, his tail idly coils and retracts. Similar to a feline that's just happened on a curious thing.] - what's your name?

[More than the idle rumors on the streets and any information he'd picked up on a whim by browsing the network, Kurapika was learning from the behaviors of the people here. Now, too, as the owner steps closer and threatens his comfort with a presence that's practically suffocating. It's difficult to ignore the monstrous changes his body must have gone through, and from the way he holds himself, he's certain that hiding it wasn't a goal from the start.

It's an impressive. Kurapika's confidence wasn't something that wavered in the face even of the most notorious band of thieves, but here, before this man and without his nen, he's on edge. He's too close and he doesn't like the tone in those words, but that's exactly what he's looking for.

His mind is racing and composure is something he has to consciously keep, but he manages well. His skin was terribly pale to begin with, thanks to his own changes, so that wasn't giving anything away, and his eyes were always fierce to begin with. The most he had to stay conscious of was that he didn't get too emotionally excited in any way over these words, actions or his own thoughts. If his eyes turned scarlet at all while he was playing this part, it would ruin any illusion. A connection could be made.

One hand rises, swiping a bit of his own hair from his eyes. A name.... Yes, he'd thought of that on the way here.]

Justine.

[There's a pause long enough to let that set in, but not long enough to seem like he's expectant over it.] I'm not the type who thinks I can serve myself with this job without giving anything in return. Loyalty won't be an issue.

[Those are just words, he knows, but he's well acquainted with taking the steps to prove it, as well. He's still talking, it seems, enough that his fangs show between words.] I won't be needing room and board. What I came here for can be taken from the work itself. I believe we can help each other, though I've no way to prove it until I'm given a chance.

[His stiff posture finally breaks as his hand shifts to hold up between them, fingers splayed and aimed at Greed's chest like he's not against shoving his potential-future-employer away from him by the chest. He's not really sure that this is the best move, but in this case, it's his emotions moving him, flaring up in small ways to avoid a total outburst.] But don't mistake loyalty for subservience. I won't hesitate to speak my mind.

[An odd kind of stillness takes hold of him as he watches her speak. Still tipping over his hips, Greed's mouth presses with hooked interest. The tail behind him churns slower, finally freezing in a point-posed position. The pierced string of coins hooked into the tip trill to a stop, the jewelry wafting with the last throes of momentum.] Justine, huh? It's a pleasure.

[A pleasure indeed and while most would be more apt to hide their intentions, Greed isn't. The want on his features sketches into every tick of his eyebrow, every pull of his lip. His shoulders sag and the white fur at his neck slides to caress the backside of skull. A midnight lover's touch; ginger, wafting. Ghostly.] I'm sure you aren't, but don't mistake me for something I'm just not lovely. I'm not about to force you to do anything, if that isn't what you want. Even I have some standards. [From behind his sunglasses, the faintest touch of red glimmers. The glow spirals behind thick panes of black, shining off to chase the metal keeping the pair together. There one moment, gone the next. Whether that's a trick of the light or something else - ]

[Her hand comes out and Greed's face falls for a split second at the comment: "But don't mistake loyalty for subservience - " Everything else falls on deaf ears and the Sin's head violently sways backward with a resounding snap. His jaws open wide and a bark of laughter thunders through the bar. The exposure of his throat shows off blistering fingers of warm heat that brighten gold with the onslaught. After a moment or two, Greed calms and his laughter cools. Until he's slick again, smooth. A right criminal and his head falls forward, his boot sways out with an anchored heel.]

You've got it all wrong, sweet-heart. The people here are mine, sure. But that doesn't mean I expect something like that - [A flash of movement behind his shades has him looking at the hand outstretched in front of him. Greed opens up his own in return, gesturing to the air between them.] - I do count myself as fair and if I wanted something like that, I wouldn't be much different from him. No - [His arm falls boneless to his side, his other palm fastened around the small of his torso.] - I'm not keen on that and I've always been a fan of choice. Even here - I've been doing this for a long time, but that hasn't changed.

[Where the rest is fairly expected of someone presenting himself like this, the laughter is jarring. His eyes still haven't left Greed's from the brief glint of red he'd caught sight of. That was startling too, still. Such a common change in this place, but each sight set off waves of memories and pain. Slowly, his own hand drops from between them, and he tears his gaze away to look elsewhere, around the bar.]

Then we won't have a problem. [He hadn't been speaking that for his own protection, anyway, but as a warning. Of course, that probably wasn't understood. Kurapika always had an intensity about him in situations like this, but it was hard to pinpoint. It just showed in his eyes, and in his posture.

It's his turn to glance down at Greed's hand now, and then back to his face.]

Standards are key, but I wouldn't be here if I wasn't willing to work. So, is there something you could use me for? [Does he have a job or not, basically. To the chase-- but there is one thing that caught his ear. 'Him', he'd said, in reference to someone Kurapika hadn't been able to catch.]

"Him", though... Who is it that you mean by that?

[Slam, bam, thank you ma'am; Greed straightens his back, standing a tad taller to loom over the other. The claws wrapped around his torso click against the brown fabric of his shirt, threatening it with a scratchy kind of sound.] Right to business then? I like your attitude.tgyythu

[The Sin throws his head over his shoulder, chasing a look through the bar. While the amounting ~~possessions~~ employee base has been slow and staggering, it isn't like he's entirely lacking either. He recoils around, swaying his hip out to quick-jerk on his heels.] Depends on what you can do. I already have plenty to bring shipments in from Bavan. And I could use a couple more here - serving drinks, taking care of the bar when I'm not around. Think you can do something like that?

[With his back exposed to her, Greed lulls his head over the back of his collar, turning a stray glance; the gesture gives a brief look at just what's hiding behind those impossibly-dark shades. A flicker and his eyes are a pale kind of purple, the white of them slowly being invaded by the same stretches of black that pepper-mark the rest of his body. The slits of his pupils shiver to sharp points - akin to a serpent and chilled despite his too-hot temperature.]

Hmn-? [He hums distractedly. For a second, a comical expression crosses him, making his features sag. Him - Greed hisses out a curbed-cut laugh, the tone of it more like a gasket that's been released. He tosses his head away and one foot kicks out, then the other. Sending him in a trawling kind of waltz as he heads for the bar.] It's a bit of a boring story, but if you really have to know - good ol'Daddy sir. I wasn't really human before I got here, lovely.

But that isn't really important now, is it?

[When given the chance, he takes in as much as he can of this man's appearance. It seems the longer he stares, the more monstrous he appears. New details get picked up and filed away, like those eyes that have Kurapika narrowing his own ever so slightly in thought.

It doesn't last long, seeing as Greed starts heading to the bar. He listens intently, following along without a second thought. Daddy sir? The way he was speaking on this was pretty cryptic, all things considered... But it was likely involving too much detail to offer for a complete stranger.

Even when they reach the bar, he's stiff and official, not bothering to sit or even lean or relax his posture. He stands straight, looking to Greed as he finishes.]

I suppose not. [Not now, at least, and so he'll let that slide. Questions about pasts and humanities were a sore subject here, weren't they? And as much as he wanted to know what Greed was, in that case, he would find out later. Perhaps there was trust to be earned. Slowly, with hard work.]

You're not the first I've heard to say they weren't originally human. [He leaves that in the air for a brief moment before looking to the side, at the area behind the bar.]

And I do like to stick to business. [For the record.] So as far as that goes, I could do serving and taking care of things easily. [More convenient than traveling back and forth to Bavan, he thinks.]

[The mirrored wall of bottles and booze melds with his movement; reflecting him back in amorphous shapes that flow into one another as he walks. Faintest hints of terrible red and charcoal catch in mismatched forms of glass. Bulging out and thinning again in the wide collection of liquor.]

[He runs an index and a middle across the bar when he rounds to the side-entrance, the tips of his nails creating a pitch. Meeting the battered top, they jump and glide; tuning the surface with a deep hum.] No, can't imagine I'd be the only one. That's a little naive to think. But most here tend to have the same story - being human once. I'd imagine this would be pretty difficult to get used to. Not that I can blame them, but it seems to me it's better this way, right? [Maybe, maybe not. The Sin's muscle oozes when he walks; as he sways and runs the curve of the bar with a practiced knowledge.] Gunna guess you were human before all this? Or did I get that wrong, lovely?

[The small door to the side swings open and bangs deaf against the back of the bar. For a second, it stays pinned to the surface. Until the shadowy form of his tail jerks away, unplugging itself similar to a lodged-in spear.] Fair enough, though you can drop that. This isn't military position, sweetheart. Don't get the wrong idea.

[With the door free, it sways and wafts behind him for a few seconds. Slowing down as it finds itself again and the latch snaps closed with a soft click. Greed reaches across the bar, shelling out a barely-smoked butt from one of the ashtrays. The tip of his thumb cleans it off, plucking away ash with a pleasant kind of grin that's more like a shark on its best behavior.]

[Still just as deadly and just as predatory as the next.] That's fine, but in case you change your mind - [His hand reaches underneath the bar-face, disappearing into one of many compartments to find just what he's looking for. A ring of keys rattles and he pries it open, flipping through the collection until he finds the right one. Silver, old; flecked with rust and a number reading in a crooked "4". Greed tears it out from the set, sending the piece of metal tumbling over his knuckles and onto the bar.]

[A pinch and a slide sends it her way.] - that one's yours. [Lips pull aside and his grin is nakedly wanton; all that need, all that desire - it coils in the fire in his throat, hisses with the words on his tongue:]

Welcome to The Devil's Nest.

[He's tempted to correct him with a pointed "Justine" but he holds back for now out of curiosity in his actions. His actions and his words, rather. Kurapika couldn't blame him for questioning his humanity-- people could appear completely human and be complete monsters in various ways. He'd learned that.]

Better? That's not a thought I hear from most. [An eyebrow raises, and finally, he breaks down enough to fold his arms over the counter top.] You're right. I am human. No part of these transformations or trials are going to change that.

[One of those types, he is. Watching as Greed reaches below the bar for something, his lips press into more of a flat line. Not a military position... He's well aware.]

It's just my personality. [His hands open to catch the key suddenly slid his way, and when he catches it, he blinks down at first. He's still getting a room? ...Well, if he's not expected to stay here every night, it could come in useful. He may end up using it at certain points.

Brown eyes slide back up to Greed only to meet with that expression of his. Kurapika can only describe it as distasteful, but he keeps that to himself, pocketing the key in one simple motion.]

Thank you for having me. Now, [He straightens the nice bow on his blouse and then smooths his hand down the rest of his shirt. His head looks elsewhere, but it's only a few seconds before his eyes are flicking back to Greed.] Is it "Boss?" Or just "Greed?"

[That's telling in a way, too, he thinks.]

[Human. Definition: former. It isn't the first time he's dealt with a similar kind of story and while it had been a mix of both chance and circumstance before, Ryslig's in no short supply. People who once were, trying desperately to hold onto a glimmer of a chance: to be normal, to be what they used to be. Greed's look turns oddly pleasant, his razors shielded away as his mouth closes up.] Maybe not for you. I've never been human, least not until the first couple of months here. Wasn't really something I could get used to.

[Abandoned smoke creeps in above him, lingering at the ceiling in a mounting cloud. It moves with an airy disposition, as if suspended one moment and animated the next. He turns a look back to her, the lids of eyes falling softly behind his shades.] I am sorry, you know. But that new body of yours will come in handy. Might just take a while for you to get used to it. Either way, I'm not about to judge. I really don't care what you are.

[His claw hitches away from the key, leaving a slight smear of ash across the surface. Faint, hardly noticeable. A look twitches behind his shades, the only tell-tale sign the slight dip of his brow. The key disappears from sight and whether that's a silent confirmation or a pick up for a future conversation, he's satisfied with the transaction nonetheless.] You wouldn't be the first - [Greed's voice practically pops in his throat. Burning, burning, burning - straight down his gullet with a holding-purr.] - and there's no need to thank. You're one of mine now. I might not be so good, but I'm not so bad either.

[The Sin's face falls slightly at the next question, his head rising up like perked-sprung gopher.] Ah-? [He starts in. Before a sly laugh slithers through his teeth, making the split tip of his tongue ricochet off the roof of his mouth.] Ha - ! No. It's just Greed. Though if that's what you want to call it, I'm not about to stop you. [A loose ember dances across his tongue, jumping from one side to the next until it sizzles when it meets the inside of his cheek. A strand of steam curls in the aftermath and Greed swallows, his hand grazing the side of his hip.]

Feel free to start whenever you've got the time. We're busier at night, but I'm sure you already figured that out.

"Handy," perhaps, but only in the context of this place. Everyone is forced to be human upon arrival, then?

[That's some information he didn't have before already. Greed's struggling with his first few months of being more 'human' than not is the same sort of feeling he's experiencing now, he knows. The lack of his nen, no chains on his right hand... It's empty.

Anything he gains from becoming a vampire will not be enough. He needs to work at getting back his normal abilities, and he intends to find out how.

For now, he closes his eyes in understanding at the name. Greed, then. Maybe he'll use Boss if it ends up being particularly flattering later on down the line, but for now, he'd rather not if he doesn't have to.]

I see. In that case, Greed, how about tomorrow night? [Blinking his eyes open again, he fixes them on Greed. There's something more in them now, the only hint as to what being his next few words.]

I have business I need to take care of tonight, but after that, I'll be available.

That's what they say. Not exactly something I was interested in anyway. [The cigarette gets tapped again, his index extending to rap-rap-rap against the side. Fresh fire crackles with the exit of ash, digging itself further into what remains of the cigarette.] It's pretty inconvenient, but I guess that's not the case for most.

[His shoulder and back sag, allowing him to retreat from the face of the bar again. His tailbone anchors to the prep-station behind him and Greed stretches out his legs, letting them hang loosely together by the ankles. The cigarette gets one last drag in the aftermath, the smoke charring down his throat as he idly pinches the hot tip. The scales on his finger pads spit, smoke plumes. Then it's dead again, the useless butt snapped away with a flick of his pointer. It sails into some dark corner of the bar, out of sight and mind entirely.]

Tomorrow night? Sounds fine. Just make sure you're here before it gets too busy - [The Sin latches both thumbs through the loops of his leather slacks, his head tilting back in "Justine's" direction. The look on his face is coy and sly - the devil ready to present his best fiddle. At his side, his tail lulls curiously at the floor. Swishing across the thick boards of wood.] Take care of what you need to. Like I said before, I don't really care what you do otherwise. We tend to have more later in the evening. Midnight's usually pretty busy.

[Greed slowly lifts his bones from the shelf behind him, twisting his head over his shoulder at movement deeper inside. He caresses the roof of his mouth with a jarring sneer, a Cheshire's look in an onslaught of teeth.] Don't think I have to show you out, hmn? [A blare of red slides behind his sunglasses, crawling drearily through the lenses.]

[He stays silent at the mention of inconvenience. Yes, it is, in a way. He was stripped down not just to humanity, but to humanity before he was able to control his nen. That's something he needs to gain back more than just his humanity.

Following the smoke of that cigarette, he nods, taking a step back from the bar and straightening out his blouse with both hands. His eyes flick back to Greed.]

I'll be sure to get here earlier. In any case, I appreciate the smoothness of this. [It was fast and easy, just how he likes it.] I'll find you then. Until next time.

[His ponytail waves a little as he turns, confident steps taking him all the way out of the bar. One step done, and just a little business to take care of before he starts working. Hopefully there will be plenty to learn here.]

[Killua stood outside the entrance of Devil's Nest for a bit, curiously peering in through the windows. Whoever it was that suggested this place to him must have mistaken him for someone a little older than thirteen. Oh well, he wasn't committed to anything just yet, and it's not like he was worried even with how shady the place looked.

Desperation led him to push the door open and waltz inside. Heading towards the center of the bar with his hands casually in his pockets, Killua speaks up.] Yo. So who's the owner around here?

[He didn't have a name or even a face, so he'll just get right to the point.]

Edited 2015-03-05 06:24 (UTC)

That'd be me.

[The voice comes from behind Killua, its baritone hard to miss. From the mirrored sidewall and the hefty collection of liquor, a reflection paces. The muted images swarm into one another, showing off in a smear of burning black. But there's no denying that one thing; showing in curved-bottles and a smoked-stained surface is a brimming smile. Full of too-sharp razors that slice together in a row more befitting of an undersea predator.]

[Greed rounds the other, his body half-sunk and teetering over his hips. How he walks is predatory-slow, daunting. The two pairs of horns growing from his skull bristle with the heat trapped inside, sending wicked lines of red smoldering in intricate, circular patterns. He presses his lips together, side-glancing his would-be guest through the gap of his sunglasses. He's young, brash. And like too many others he's had the pleasure of meeting.]

[Ryslig isn't exactly lacking in the sort.] Though this really isn't a place for kids - [The former homunculus starts in and the barbed edge of his tail cracks out, pressing into the side-entrance door to make it swing. He's behind the bar not a second later and one eyebrow shot curiously over the rims of his sunglasses.] - but I'm sure you already knew that. You wouldn't be here otherwise.

[An ashtray still burns on the surface of the bar and a few bottles have already been pried open, drained, and served. The night's young and the customer base is still in its quiet stages. A few yellowed-eyed and sharped-fanged folks linger in the recesses, watching idly or entertaining themselves as the day switches hands. Greed shoots a look over Killua for a second, noting just how many have already taken their spot for the night.]

[But then, it's back to business at hand.]

The name's Greed - [The Sin begins and one claw opens up. The blackened tips scrape together, coaxing a collection of sparks that ignite in a flash. Further down the length of the bar, a few candles wake to the call; their wicks turning with an airy whoosh.]

- now that I've given you mine, what can I do for you, exactly?

[This guy's presence was nothing to take lightly. Killua knew just from looking at him that he should tread carefully. He had that sort of aura about him, and Nen wasn't something he needed sense that; observation was enough.

Observation too, brought another realization. Greed's horns and claws were not unlike the ones his brother had gotten during the recent fog. While Killua had considered the prospect that Illumi was becoming a Gargoyle like him, this had him reconsidering. Whatever he was, if he was the same thing as his brother... Then this trip might actually prove more useful than he thought. If he can find out what Illumi is becoming before he does, he'll be able to find out his weaknesses too. He'll protect Alluka and his friends yet.

With this in mind, Killua remains steadfast even as Greed stalks like a predator nearby. It's curious that he's not being dismissed immediately because of his age, although it probably would have been easier to impress him that way.]

I'm Killua. [He starts in the same unfitting casual tone as before.]

I heard you were hiring, but I'm not really interest in working at a place like this, you know? Still, I was hoping we could work something out. I want information.

[And now he had even more to ask.]

Killua - it's a pleasure. [From behind the bar, Greed gets to work. There might not be many customers to tend to, but there are still some. The thick chord of his tail wafts out aimlessly, touching bottle after bottle with a sort of gentleness that would be best suited for a mother 'Croc. The barbed end skitters across glass, its pieced-flesh jiggling with a set of three silver coins.]

[A bottle flips into his hand, his knuckles wrapping around the rather long cork. He pauses in the middle of it, a surprised sort of look gracing him. Until his teeth split his face wide open and a small hiss of laughter churns in his throat. Burning embers flick from his tongue and Greed tilts his head back, yanking the cork up and out in the process.] Ha - ! You're more informed than you look. That's pretty impressive - [The laughter simmers out, the cork pops. Into the open mouth of a trash barrel it goes, disappearing with a drop behind the bar.] - that's a shame, but I won't force you. Not interest if you aren't.

[Information, though. Greed snatches a glass by the lip, his claws skittering in the inside drop to draw a few lines. He pours out a healthy helping of something; red, thick. It spews in the glass and the smell is a souring sterile.] I can work something out, just depends on what you've got to offer. Nothing in this world is free, kid. [He pauses, letting the liquor pop and splash with a few wet smacks.] Equivalent exchange - [The same montage he's said before and Greed plugs the bottle with his thumb, sending it back to the depths of the bar. He gestures into the air for someone behind Killua, his index and middle beckoning in silence.] - information for information. Or something else, if it's worth it.

[A smokey hand wafts past the other, its fingers bony and exposed. The man is nothing more than a shell; his long black hair slowly pilfering off into shapeless, bruised-colored air. His white, pupil-less eyes roll in his sockets, briefly acknowledging Killua. Then the drink's gone and the stranger with it. Back to darker, quieter pastures.]

But you've come to the right place. [Greed's voice charms back in and his tail slides back to the floor; out of sight, out of mind.] What are you looking for?

[Killua had already heard enough about how Greed treated his employees to know he didn't want to work for him--formally, anyway. From the start he had made that clear; what he was trying to find now was a loophole. It sounded like the guy was willing to compromise, so he would start there.]

I can do just about anything, so that shouldn't be a problem. [He moves forward, taking a seat at the bar and resting his elbows on the counter. He may be cautious, but he was not afraid. Greed didn't seem liable to attack him without reason.]

I want to know everything you have on the fog god. Anything I already know doesn't count. [Raising his arm, Killua points at the older man.] Plus I'm interested in what kind of monster you are.

[Greed seemed to have some sort of power over fire. That was bad, if he really was the same species as his brother. Here Killua had hoped Illumi wouldn't be immune to his only advantage. The last time he saw him, he certainly didn't seem to be.]

About anything, huh? [The former homunculus silently slips in as the other takes his seat; practically in time with Killua and his elbows meet the surface on his side of the bar, his arms folding loosely at the lip. Tracing up his arm is the same slick-black; like his hands have been permanently tarred with oil.] Ha - ! I like that attitude of yours, kid. And you're not the first - you've got my attention.

[But as his company goes on, Greed cocks one brow casually; his lips running a curved line against his jaw.] That's a pretty tall order. I already have a couple helping me in Bavan - [His voice rattles in his throat, simmering like a collection of R(s) rolled and held at the tip of his tongue. He flings one arm out, bringing up a set of talons in a swing of charring-scales. One claw taps into the surface of the bar lightly, giving punctuation to his point.] - I don't really know much about the fog god, just the rumors. Apparently the last time, a few struck a deal and got something out of it. What they got, I really couldn't say. Didn't really interest me at the time and I've never been one to take orders from someone else.

[Information of the fog god comes and goes; sometimes, there's more. Mostly, it's less. Just rumors that lead elsewhere, talk that goes nowhere. Not that it entirely matters to him; the information is just that: business. What the fog god wants, what the end goal is?]

[He's got a different agenda entirely.]

[A hiss of laughter creeps out of him when the conversation switches and Greed slowly goes on the rewind. His nails skip across the flat-top wood, scratching a few hot lines in the process.] Now that's an interesting question - [His voice trails off, holding on with baited breath. Then hook, line:] - word says a demon. [And so do the symptoms; horns, claws. A pair of wings neatly folded behind his back that rest in a dormant kind of ash. Greed clicks his heel behind him, slowly whirling his head up to give a slight scratch under his throat. The vein word is molten; fingering out in links of wicked red.]

The real question is - why do you want to know?

[He's got his attention, that's good. Killua wasn't sure if he was just being humoured or not at first, even if he wasn't being brushed off.]

Too bad, that's kind of the main reason I came here. [Nothing on the fog god, it figured. Well that leaves only two possible uses left for this guy in Killua's mind. At least he was honest though, and driving one thing home--that nearly everything Killua's heard so far was still nothing but rumours until he'd seen it for himself.] If you know the names of any of the people who made a deal with the fog god, I'll take it.

[He'll contact them later, but right now he's back on whole monster thing, because "demon" is so fitting for his brother that it's almost laughable. Of course.

Killua's brows are knit, and he doesn't really want to explain his reasons for wanting to know. They would probably just make Greed less inclined to tell him, so he'll only tell him enough to think that it's just honest, well-intentioned curiosity.] I think my older brother might be a demon too, so I was hoping I could learn more.

Edited 2015-03-12 17:56 (UTC)

[Greed's lips purse in a strange fascination; one that mixes with a kind of put-upon stare. A shy breath of a whistle slides through his teeth, shrilling when it meets the jagged, uneven edges.] Oh-? Kind of a demanding little pissant, aren't ya? [His expression simmers behind his sunglasses; as he recoils his forked tongue inward, dragging the smoldering tip back inside his jaws. A low grumble holds in his throat, the tone lightly pleased despite the circumstance.] Even if I did - that's asking a lot, don't you think? Nothing in this world comes free, friend.

[The heavy barb of his tail wanders idly behind him - an appendage without direction. It tells of his mannerisms; of a constant nonchalance and a perked curiosity. The metal adornments trill and tremble as it moves. Chiming ever-so-softly under the less-chaotic bar noise.]

Your brother, huh? So it's a little more personal. [The former homunculus spins the cap to another bottle with a flick. It takes the grooves on its own after that. Riding them out until it finds the last rung, sealing the contents for the time being. Greed's shoulders slump upwards, his movement molasses-slow and thick. One claws hooks into an abandoned ashtray and the tip of it clacks dully against porcelain inside.]

Depends on what you really want to know and what you've got in return. [He plucks a half-smoked butt from the pile, gently cleaning away ash and soot with the backside of his talon.]

Though, I'm sure we could work something out.

[His eyes narrow into an indignant glare, because he actually has no idea what the word "pissant" means, but it doesn't sound like a compliment. If it weren't for the fact he was trying to negotiate here, he'd probably call Greed out on it--maybe. The guy's still intimidating, but as the older man goes on Killua's beginning to feel impatient.]

I already told you I'm willing to work for it. [Greed may not be brushing him off, but he's still talking to him like he's some naive child who's expecting the answers to just be handed to him. Killua's not here to play around, despite the casual entrance, and he makes that known through the tone of his voice and the iciness of his leer; no longer indignant or childish. It's truly a look that could kill a lesser man, and a look that far too many people saw before Killua did just that.]

So just name your price. I want to know everything you're willing to tell me about Demons, and I want to know the names of the people who made a deal with the fog god. Got it?

[It's a familiar tune that he's had to dance to on more than one occasion. Greed's smile quips up with Killua's tenacity, his mouth pursing slightly. It isn't in surprise as much as it's intrigue. While manners are a bit lacking, there's no denying that the kid did have a spine on him.]

[An admirable trait.] Yeah, you did. But you already told me you're not interested in working for me. [Greed's voice muffles as he shoves the end of the cigarette into his mouth, letting his horrible daggers fan out across the end. The butt threatens to thread under the pressure, but when he leans into a burning candle nearby, the integrity doesn't matter. A cherry births from the tip and paper coils backwards; eaten alive in silvery wafts of smoke. Greed's smile eases, then he stills.]

[And finally, the can of worms pops open with three, simple words: "...name your price."]

[His lips pull tight, his shoulders stiffen. Oh, if that's not just the worst thing. Tempting to the tempter and the former homunculus' laugh leaks out on the thread-work of an exhale.] Ha - ! You really think you can deliver something like that? Fine then, but remember - a deal's a deal. [Greed's knuckles wrap around the cigarette, prying it wildly from his jaws in a string of blue-ing orange. He taps the side of it, sending a bit of white ash to the floor.] If you can gather information, bring it back here first. Anything of interest - fog god, whatever's going on in town. I want to know about it. I imagine that'll be pretty easy for you.

[While his gaze is still hidden behind his sunglasses, the smoldering red doubles. Showing the ever-expanding slits of his eyes that glow like brimstone to match. They tremble with want as they try to decide whether to expand or retract.] And I'll tell you everything you want to know about demons. The people who made the deal, though - [That's not so common knowledge. Nor does has he confirmed anything.] - I don't know if it's all true, so it's not really worth the time tracking down a dead lead.

[Greed tosses his head to the side, calling someone over. From the back of the bar, nestled deep in one of the couches, another woman slides to attention. Her long dress whispers at her ankles, the silk of it moving in time with her equally-slippery stride. The demon leaves the head of the bar, switching hands with her silently.] Figured we could do this elsewhere. C'mon.

[And with that, Greed heads down one of the hallways. Whatever the bar used to be, it goes off in all sorts of directions. There's a floor above, doors on the right. Other hallways that lead into deep pitches of dark.]

[And everywhere, it seems there's someone or something lingering nearby.]

I said I wasn't interested in working here, but that's not this. [This is an informal exchange of services, and a way to keep Greed from thinking he owns him. Killua didn't want to commit to one job anyway, but more than that he hated feeling controlled, like someone else was making his choices for him. It reminded him far too much of his family, his brother and mother especially.

At any rate, he's prepared himself for whatever Greed may ask of him. A simple exchange of information seems basic enough.] I'll tell you everything I already know.

[It's of no consequence to him if Greed knows what information he's found out through the network and through his own experiences. Even less so if it gives him a chance to learn his brother's weaknesses and what he'll be capable of in the future. He still plans on squeezing out what he can on the deal regarding the fog god too, but for now he lets it drop.] And anything I find out, as long as you do the same.

[Killua follows Greed through the back of the bar, eyes surveying his surroundings and nearby monsters. It's like climbing into a nest of ants. They seem endless, and Killua folds his wings in close to his body on the off chance anyone decides to try and grab them.

It doesn't bode well for him to be this outnumbered, so he'll be cautious about entering any closed rooms.]

Edited 2015-03-17 20:14 (UTC)

Equivalent exchange then. Sounds fair. [His hand waves at his side and the leather bands on his wrist jump and jangle. Constantly in motion, yet casual. Greed passes by one of the doors, one latched shut with a complex line of locks and bolts that run straight up across the side. For a moment he pauses there, the tips of his claws hovering over the set. He shrugs not too soon afterward, silently deciding it against it.] And simple enough. As long as you live up to your end of the bargain.

[Instead of the usual, Greed leads Killua into one of the vacant booths out back. It's sealed with a simple curtain and draw, the fabric moving aside with a push of his wrist. Center is a table, its candle left unlit with a mounting ashtray nearby. He takes a seat opposite the other, one arm throwing itself against the back-frame of the booth.] So what is it you want to know, exactly? [Greed chimes in, his head tilting back to expose his throat. One heel slides over the other knee, causing the swing of his pointed-tip boot to cant in vertical slant. He's at ease, almost too much so.]

[A king and his proverbial castle.]

[The barb of his tail swings out to the side, slicing the cord to the curtain once Killua slips in. The fabric falls with a heavy whoosh, effectively sealing them off from prying eyes. It's a transaction; a business deal that's entirely his. The Sin's claws dribble off the side of their perch, the tips grazing against well-worn red leather.] I can show you what I know, but remember: information for information. [The color in his throat changes. From a terrible red, to a more soothing gold. Temptation in its finest form.]

[He produces a familiar pack of matches, the grinning devil smeared on the top a mark for the making. One claw pushes against the butt-end, sending the slip open and he gingerly clips a single match with the curved-dip of a talon. One strike against the side of his thigh brings it to life, igniting both the candle front and center and a cigarette from the ashtray.] There's a little more to being a demon than being a homunculus - [Smoke accents his every word, pluming in a noxious cloud that hangs near his teeth. Whether that first admission is a free-be or not, it's hard to tell.]

[That is, until:] - first thing's first though. What are you, hmn? [Despite the hollowed look coming from his sunglasses, the faint light pulls at the lenses. Revealing hooded eyes that thin out with a sinister touch.]

Yeah, yeah. I get it. [Keep his end of the bargain or else, typical shady business. Killua used to kill people for a living, he knows how this goes and he's always been good for his word.

When they come to the complexly locked door he was prepared to protest, but luckily Greed kept going and took them somewhere else, where he felt relatively safe entering. Worst comes to worst, he can easily just get up and leave; a curtain wasn't going to stop him.

So stepping inside, he takes a casual seat across from Greed, his wings spread to accommodate the back of the chair without sacrificing too much seat space. Greed's cigarette earns a wrinkled nose, because in close quarters the smell's intrusive, but Killua doesn't make mention of it. Likewise, he wants to ask just what a homunculus is, but that would mean having to offer up information for it. He'll just ask Kurapika later.] I want to know about the kind of powers Demons get and if there's anything they're weak or resistant to.

[He'll just come out with it now; there should be no reason for Greed to hesitate if this was an "even exchange", right? Besides, it was for his brother. He just never said how.] And I'm a Gargoyle, but I'm not fully transformed yet so I probably don't know everything.

Edited 2015-03-22 14:51 (UTC)

[The cigarette's pulled away, comfortably nesting in the middle of his thick knuckles. It slow burns after that, clumps of ash forming and falling where the edge of the couch ends. Greed raises his eyebrow a bit at Killua's question, his mouth opening with a simple, "Ah-?" before he flutters his fingers, sending threads of smoke retreating.] You really think I'd tell you all that? You're sure asking a lot, friend.

[A snap sends his jaws shut and Greed leans over, forcing the cigarette into the half-full tray. It seers the bottom, drawing a line of blackening soot to replace a days worth of dust. His smile is chaste, his chin canted downwards with amusement.] Though that avarice of yours - pretty impressive. Fine then. I won't tell you everything, but the first thing I noticed was salt. Can be a pain sometimes and the people in Vandare use it from time to time. [Greed pulls his fingers away, leaving the crushed form of the smoke to lean crookedly vertical in the pile. Standing on its own, it looms over long-dead comrades.] It hurts and it doesn't heal. It also seems to stop me from getting into certain places. I don't know how that works, but I'm sure someone like you could figure it out.

[His head tilts to the left, yearning towards the curtain. A few footsteps sound outside the barrier and at the bottom edge of the fabric, a pair of clipped-heels trudge by.] In terms of abilities, there's at least one I can tell you about. [With one hand free, Greed pries open his claws. The center of his palm is black to the pitch, marked with thin-set scales that look like they've been put under heat for some time. His knuckles tighten and his fingers caress the air, starting from the pinkie and back again. The movement coaxing a small flame that grows and rises from the center of his hand. Stark, jagged arches of red gleam in his sunglasses as he does so, his expression that of lazy fascination.]

[Though, it couldn't be further from the truth.] I didn't have it before here - tends to comes in handy. [The fire flickers and his claws retract inwards. A snuff sends silvery wisps of blue smoke through the cracks of his fingers, the flame extinguished.]

[However, he does perk up with the other finally gives; his cheek rising from the resting point of his other hand and Greed whistles.] A gargoyle, huh? That's interesting - I haven't met one of those yet. [And truth be told, the curious tone in his voice is genuine. Despite meeting some, he hasn't seen every monster Ryslig had to offer.] Guess it comes with some sort of perk, right?

[Finally, he turns back to Killua - that same poisonous desire lingers on his expression, his upper lip dragging back with a toothy smile. There's a low noise somewhere close by and it seems to be coming from him. Not in his vocal chords, but deep, deep down. Grumbling like a bonfire in short range. Greed taps the table between them, scratching a soft line.]

Why don't you show me exactly what you can do. [It isn't a question.]

Salt? [He sounds dubious as Greed elaborated, if only because of all things to be weak to, why salt? Then again, it really wasn't any more or less pathetic than the amount of monsters who found sunlight a hindrance. Himself one day included. It's not that he was complaining, though. Salt was easy to get a hold of and if it could really ward his brother off, even better.

Once Greed has finished showing off his control over fire, Killua doesn't need to ask now to know that this meant Greed was fire-proof. It left a sinking and dreadful feeling his gut; one of his greatest assets was likely going to be useless against Illumi in the future.] There's a lot of us around. I know at least two others.

[There's a pause as he suddenly comes to realize what the chances of his brother becoming something else--something he's never even seen before--were. He may be completely wrong with his current guess.]

Does salt water count? I mean, towards your weakness. [He slips the question in before he bothers to address the command to show-off, silently lifting his own hand. The skin there starts to head up, nails glowing hot as fire begins to form and swirl at his palm. In a sudden and intentional burst of energy it expands and engulfs his hand, from the second knuckle of his fingers down, in a sizable fireball.] This is all I can do.

[His ankles lock loosely together under the table, making the dramatic jut of one of them smack deafening into the peg holding it upright. Greed leans back, or he tries to. The leather-like flaps of his wings fold inward, teeter, then stretch. Hoisting themselves to fan across his shoulders, extending outward like added appendages made for grabbing. For taking and stealing. It's almost an ironic sort of gesture, a crude poetry written in Ryslig's design.]

[Everything was and is his for the taking.] Wouldn't know. Not really interested in testing it out anyway. [The Sin lifts his head, abruptly choked off as Killua follows his two step with one of his own. Fire plumes in an outstretched palm, igniting his sunglasses like dull-coals raked back to life. Greed's smile is fierce and intrigued. The tip of his tongue rolls against the roof of his mouth and his own heat comes to the call. Glowing from the inside out, giving a brief look inside - like an x-ray marred in tar, his bones light up. A swallow cools him and with it, the show's over.] Oh-? Now that is something - [There's heavy want on his tongue, a sickly purr in his throat.]

[The fire's out, but not his need for more, more, more.] I'm sure that isn't all you can do, but you're not one to give it all away either. I like that attitude of yours. [The former homunculus props up his shoulder, nudging his head almost playfully to the side. One eye presses closed beneath his sunglasses, sending the opposing eyebrow rising sky-high.] So is this what you plan to do? Get information for information? There's a better deal, y'know.

[He slouches as he speaks, leaning comfortably in his seat. Owning the joint both physically and metaphorically - a king and his proverbial castle. Greed taps his finger dully against the leather, plucking a silver plug in the process.] I might not be so good, but I'm not so bad either. The mortal lot always has a problem with that - what's good, what's wrong. What's taboo. People tend to think greed is just for money and wealth, but that isn't all. [A pause.] Wanting a better life, protecting a loved one - [When he lifts his gaze to lock eyes with the other, the pulse of red is unmistakable. Like the devil staring back, the slits of his pupils are needle-sharp points of black. Highlighted by the ghastly glow, practically burning themselves in the backside of each lens.]

- and what's mine is just that. If I didn't take care of them, I wouldn't really be me. Consider it - [His words trail off with a shrug and Greed leans forward. His hands go to his pockets and his body rises out of the booth, looming over the table like some sort of terrible fable creeping in past midnight.] - your choice. Like I told you before, I'm not interested if you aren't.

This is all I can do as far as Gargoyle stuff goes. [Killua acknowledges Greed's suspicions, but doesn't clarify. Of course he can do more than that, but they were exchanging monster information right now. Nothing more and nothing less. He would offer up more if he needed to, but that need hasn't arrived just yet.]

Your idea of a better deal is trying to own me. [The words are cold again, his eyes narrowed.] Right? Well the only person I belong to is myself.

[Growing up in a family that wanted nothing more than to control him, to mold him into what they wanted, Killua won't allow himself to stoop that low. His entire being rejects it. He's here to stop his brother from trying to own him, so why the hell would he stumble out of one hell and into another? Maybe Greed isn't as bad as Killua thinks, but he can't help but be repulsed by the idea on principle.]

So unless you can accept that, then I guess this is all I plan to do. If I run out of information, I'll do favours, but I don't want your protection. [Unless Illumi puts his friends into danger, or backs him up into a corner--he's not going to budge.]

Edited 2015-03-29 18:26 (UTC)

[For a second, the Sin scoffs. His body goes stiff. Then, in a violent cracking of bones, his throws his head back wide. The laugh that comes out of him is as loud as it is putrid; tendrils of leftover smoke rise from his gullet and the noise booms inside the small enclosure - like a thunderstorm trapped in a bottle. He slaps his hand against the leather seat, issuing a crack similar to a dulled out whip.]

Ha - ! You've got it'll wrong. Of course, you'd be one of mine - but it isn't all like that. I don't plan to force you to do anything - [The Sin's throat gleams in rich, hellish fire. As he lowers his skull again, his smile alights with a brim of teeth.] - but no. The people who work here are mine, that's true. But don't mistake me for something I'm not, kid. Take it or leave it, your choice.

[He doesn't need to explain himself nor does he have the care to. Killua has his own opinions; his own line drawn in the sand. The former homunculus lets his lips part with a pursed expression.] Suit yourself. Information and favors will get you so far and I'm not about to say no. [The air cools, the heat simmering down deep in his chest. Greed taps his seat again, gingerly arching an eyebrow in Killua's direction.] But if you ever changed your mind, you already know how to find me.

[His ankles unlock, sending his thighs spreading wide. Greed places his palms against the leather running up each leg, then tips of his claws biting with a scratch.] Anything else, or is our business done here?

I'll leave it. [Killua stares at Greed with an unwavering and intense gaze as he speaks. Nothing Greed says is doing anything to change his mind, and Killua doesn't even bother to address it past his final dismissal.]

There's more. I still want to know the names of the people who made a deal with the fog god. Even if it's just a rumour. [Most of his high-profile concerns regarding demons were answered now. If Greed could summon fire than he was clearly resistant to it. That meant if Illumi was one of them, his own powers wouldn't be much of a threat for long.]

Edited 2015-03-31 01:40 (UTC)

[He taps his middle and index against the table, canting his head just slightly to show off his throat. His expression is pursed, one eyebrow sliding up with Killua's answer.] That's fair, I guess. Though, it's still a bit of a shame - [How he speaks is slippery; oily. Flitting off his tongue to flicker against the pronged tip. Greed rolls his wrist across the surface, spreading his palm wide.]

I'll tell you the names, but they aren't much. [And they'll all lead almost no where. Dead ends, corrupt word of mouth - rumors can pass so long before the real information's lost in the shuffle. Greed swings his leg over the other knee as he gestures outside of the booth. He's acknowledged with a silent nod - a man this time, his scowl lined deep in his face. A pen and napkin find themselves in the Sin's snaring grip and he jots down a few. The list is only about five names long and it's folded between his fingers and pressed to the table. One slide sends it Killua's way.]

Next time you're in Bavan, find someone named Mason. She's picking up some of my shipments. Bring them back here and consider it payment for this. [A lean to the right makes his matching wing spread. Slowly unfurling in a leathery sheen of black and the tips skate across the opposing wall; making a terrible shrill sound off the facing.]

Anything else you've got for me?

[Killua's quieter than before, just wanting to get what he wants and get out of here. He leans forward to grab the napkin, glancing at the names inside before he stuffs them into the pocket of his lengthy track shorts. They were already memorized, the gesture was pointless.]

Mason? Got it. [If Greed wasn't going to offer up their private channel or address off the bat, Killua assumed he either didn't know it, or he wanted him to figure it out on his own. Either way, he's found targets with less information.]

No, that's it. [He's gotten what he needed for today. Greed didn't get the privilege excess information--not when everything Killua held back was a potential bargaining chip.]

Edited 2015-04-07 16:12 (UTC)

Then I guess we're done here - [Though unlike Killua, Greed doesn't seem apt to move. Instead, his hand shoots up lazily beside his head and his claws unfurl, wafting through the air to chase away the thought. Lasting threads of smoke run and disappear between his knuckles, drifting aimlessly out into the hallway.] - though I doubt this is the last time we'll see each other, hmn?

[The Sin clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, sending the forks rattling. He watches the other leave with mild interest and his temple slouches against the knuckles of his other hand. He shrugs when Killua's finally gone and a soft flick of a match sparks. Something clacks against the surface of the table.]

[Despite everything, the kid hadn't been a waste of time in the slightest.]

I won't be able to come the bar for a while. Something came up that needs to be taken care of.

hmn ?

ah ? donttll me you rn itno moretrouble

yiu allrught?

I didn't and I'm fine. Someone I know is struggling with their changes.

wounnt br the frsttime. new one 'm guessing

jst makr sure to keepinntocuh been hearing intrsintg rumros lately

You would be correct.
What kind of rumors?

few ofthe nrw ones arentliek bfre

not chnging likewe did kindofa bit oftruble

Do your sources have any idea what they're becoming? Or is that information still figuring that out?

[Although San was slowly piecing things together on his end with the corpse of a friend laying near by.]

woulndt know mybre sometingntodo with theway theygot thre

rmuor hsit thesmome of them are liek thosesortires bout the livingddead whethrro not thatstrue

well

Some kind of "living dead"? Some literature describes them as undead. I'm not surprised the deities are adding to that category.

thats thermor anywdfy

though sooudsslike theseones hdad it diiffrentnhan most ofus. somthing bout a room bfroe waking u hrere

keep an eyeouthmn? and ifyou find nythingintreresting makesure to bringithree

I'll look in to the matter once things calm down.

thres a frewhrere imfamiliar with ivegotsomme lookinginto it

whhtrher thisiscomething neww or not iwoulnt know

ah rigth ifyoufindntnything worththe time bringit tome hmn?

Of course.
[sanctity666 has disconnected.]

boss?

got some information for you if you have a moment

hmn - ?

som e infomtirmaton huh? gotall thetimein thewrld kimbley

anythin todo tiwhth whathpnned a frew weeks ago ?

[...Someone really needs to teach you how to type, boss...]

not exactly
someone else showed up from amestris here
said a lot of things that didnt add up, but he said something that might interest you

he said he and a subordinate were attacked by a woman with a tattoo of a snake eating its tail

ametstris huh afrew showedup duringllst week

couplestaynded byt

[There's a delay between the messages, a momentary pause. Then:]

oh - ? tht so ?

thyeres onyl one ikwow of butdidnt thinkkthe oldhg was hre thoughanyings possible

guy givyou a nme?

he didnt, but the only female one im aware of from my world is the fuhrers secretary
he would have been more specific if it was her
so i guess that little part doesnt carry over between worlds

ah - ?

figrued it out tohuh /? noshe wasnt wrkingwith brdly atthe time

lust. butlst ikneew she hadbeentken careofwhrer imfrom

[It just took him ten damn months to realize. No big deal.]

archer and i come from the same exact moment, and you come from a different version of amestris somehow
him coming from yet another point in time doesnt surprise me now

im pretty sure he must have killed her, cause i know enough about homunculi to know if he hadnt hed be dead

i forget the name of the one from my world, but she went by the name of a dead soldier, thats how archer figured it out

Edited 2015-08-09 04:30 (UTC)

liek ive tolduoubre

threes nosuch thingas nonsuch thing

theresonyl one wommna andyouvre gotitright she wasntround aftre

[Ah, right. He'll keep that bit to himself. There's another lengthy pause between the next message, then:]

mustbe thecolonel

thagt right ?

yeah, thats right

[No comment on Greed obviously hiding something from him.]

andnot yiurs euithrer butfrom mine

ha ! thats intresting hetell houuanything else?

he seemed adamant that he wanted to see you
but he didnt strike me as someone who would be willing to hear your side of it so i didnt tell him youre here

since hes from your world, he might be more receptive to listening to you, i dont know

doesnt suriorse me could bemessy ifhes notfromwhenim from

hottaadmit didnthik youddo that im imressed

maybe butwedidnt intreact much bsdiesiwas wearingadifffrrent face then

i dont think hes from when you are; the last thing he remembers is being attacke, he said

[Or was it killing the chick? Either or, really.]

cmon boss, i wouldnt rat you out
thats not my style

soundsimilr tosomemoneelsp that washre

diffrrent timesame plce ha - ! likeivesaid ibrfe nosuchthinga nosuch thing

[Another pause, then:]

didntsay nthing boutthat

cmon whooyoudo utkae me forexctly?

i never did find out when exactly the one from my world was, i figured he was from the same point i was, but who knows really

what did you mean, then, boss?

[He's not sure what to make of the question, so he's not about to ask!]

thisplce still hsasome surprisesilkk give it htht

jufst didnthikk youddbe te one itsnotliek imthe sone youwrked for right?

still gottadmitt thats clvrrer

youre not that different from the one i know

besides youre my boss here, thats what counts

[There's a length between messages for some time. Then:]

ha - ! didntyreelly thinkso

findout whayyou cn thecolnel wasnt exctlyaproblem whereim frombt if hes frmthn then itcouldget talittle messy

sure, i can do that

it wont be a problem

n ot that hhrd right?

i woulnthave you if ididnt turst you kimbley dontgetthe wrongitdea

believe me, i know

mustang doesnt know me, so it might be a little awkward getting information out of him
but maybe i can warm him up to the idea of you having nothing to do with the chick he fought

elric mightbe blytoo but yourebothngrromt the otherrr one

maybe

seewhaytt oucan comebup with ifneedbbe bringim by

im not sure i want to think about what all the differences are
admittedly im curious

if i can get him to come to the bar without wrecking things, sure, ill give it a shot

hvnt fiund toomny myself butthrres a few

bsiides hestlanted iwontdenytht butrightnw hestill umnan mghtend upbring more trouble lfter

seewhat youcna comeup withhh

ill keep you informed

im gonna be sticking around the nest for a while
whenever i get to vandare anyway

not boutto eny you

nything ishould know ? uou usuully dontstayy vrry oftenn

archers gone

i dont really feel like being in bavan

[There's a longer pause on his side of the line. Then:]

arhcrer huh

gotsomthing to doin bvan anyway

feel frree

[He leaves it at that. Kimbley doesn't really feel like getting into it.]

itll be easier if you need me for anything

culd useeit notasmuhc as i usuuully get btt mighht beworthhh yourtimme

tomorrw nigt easy nough?

yeah thats fine

i should be in vandare by then

ment ifyou wnted aride backk

figrued thatdbe esirer right?

oh

[He's... pretty out of it, though he doesn't want to admit it.]

even better

ill be waiting for you, then

essiirer thatt wya

bsides youcnan makre sure wedont lose ny ofthegoodson thewy back

can do, boss

that wont be a problem

[ooc: Light got the channel number from the card.]

Your plan to attack Vandere is now known. What is your goal?

tht so ? nd wywould i tell you thht?

It is.

Rather you tell me or not is entirely up to you. However, if you do, you might have some help toward that goal.

Edited (oops, habit. anon i am not) 2016-05-03 08:34 (UTC)

oh ? gott a admitt thts surpising but ifhou rrellly want to knkow

hed to vdandre's southside nd we'll sseeewht we can do hmn ?

I can't do that yet.

But I would like to offer you an alliance. If the rumors are true, the reason for your attack is preservation. However, there is another group that plans to overthrow the city in a much more violent manner. If this happens, it could easily unite the other cities against all monsters, and result in increased danger everywhere else. Having the entire monster population move isn't an option, especially if we focus on quality of life and not just survival. Vandere will be the only safe port and only temporary.

Work with me instead. Agree to offer protection against the upcoming attack. In exchange, I will work to get a monster on the council and assure the Devil's Nest is never harmed. From there, we can work together to decrease tensions in Vandere.

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN01

[It takes a bit for the message to come through, but as soon as it does, the sound on the other side is smokey; like that of a cigar lounge missing its intended target. However, even that stillness doesn't last. A sharp tck clicks through and as the receiver sputters, what comes on the other side is nothing short of an audible, dry-laced grin.]

That's not really how it works, friend. [Greed's close. Too close. The purr in the back of his throat rolls as heavy as a furnace. It pops and growls; vibrates and hushes. He taps his claw again along plastic, making the device pick-pick-pick in the background.] Like you said though, the rumors can't really be stopped. But don't mistake me for something I'm just not.

[Talk isn't cheap, but Vandare's underworld has been a bit more giving in recent weeks. He's heard aboutthe others - a band of monsters with a military intent on giving the city a run for its money. It's never suited him, nor does the idea of complete law and order bode as a better option. Something chimes on the feed, breaking the thought.] I'm not interested in killing anyone I don't have to - the name's Greed, after all. Even I have some standards.

This other group though - [His voice trails off - as slick and sly as the devil at a poker game. Greed pulls away from the recording.] - you aren't wrong. Word has it they plan to take over, even if others have a different idea. First thing's first though -

[Abruptly, the recording cuts out. Until:]

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN02

[Again, he's close. Enough so that his snapping teeth echo on the line:]

What's your name, Chief? I've given you mine - seems only fair, hmn?

[Despite the audio message, he still only gets a text in return. Light isn't in a position to publicly play his hand, and it's best this is done in secret until things are more settled.]

Please don't misunderstand, I'm not asking you to be selfless, this is for the best of us all. If you take the city, it will only be temporary before humans band together. You saw what happened in Kulen, I'm sure you've heard of Bloody Bones. We're not indestructible. We can die.

I'm glad you'd prefer not to kill. That's the same solution I want. So don't. As someone with the name Greed -- [Which is surely a nickname. Normally your name didn't give you traits or personality qualities, but no one would actually name their child Greed.] -- you don't want to be stuck with only one option. It may feel like it's the case, but it's not.

For now, since you're Greed, you can call me Reason. A partnership would reveal more.

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN03

[When the recording comes in again, the Sin's a bit further away. Close, but leering - like that of a buzzard hovering in plain view. He taps the top of the device just once.] Like I told you - don't get the wrong idea. I'm not like the rest of them.

[At the mention of the Bloody Bones though, Greed's voice takes on a nasty hiss. The moment is brief - the action more so. The noise wheezes through his teeth akin to that of a leaky gasket that's corrected itself.] I've heard of them. I've been here a long time, friend - longer than most. And while some can come back, they've already proven that even that has its limits. I'm not interested.

[A brief pause holds on his side of the line. Before he sputters and the noise that comes in is more an elongated groan than anything else:] Ah-? Sorry, it's the only name I've got Chief. But fine, have it your way. Reason, then. It's a pleasure.

[The tip of his nail leaves the laptop. It drags softly along the flat top of a table, drawing out a shrill scrrch.] Maybe, but I'd rather do business in person. I'm sure even you can understand that, hmn?

You've said, but you haven't said what you mean by that. How do you see the rest of them?

No, no one intelligent would want to intentionally become targets for a hate group. What do you think they will do to a town run just by monsters? What do you think they can do with the support such an action will give them? The worst reaction to such a group would be to give them the ammunition they need for help.

Then it's nice to meet you, Greed. It's an interesting name if it's real. [Says the guy named Light.]

Then, it has to be under my conditions. I won't meet near the Nest. Instead, we'll meet in a neutral location in Vandere. You have to come alone. I'll do the same.

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN04

Because - [Greed's voice slips in. It seems to purr and hiss all in the same breath; like that of a feline with a devilish proposition.] - I've never had a problem with the mortal lot. Even here, that hasn't changed.

[A minute's pause is quickly interrupted by a dull, hollowing clang. As the Sin casually breaks on the receiver, allowing his knuckle to stroke the side of a porcelain ashtray with a flick.] Don't get me wrong - I'm not denying that, friend. Most humans are predictable. They'll always fear what they can't understand and here? It's no different. Some, though - they'll surprise you.

[Wood groans through the feed and a sharp scrape sounds off like a gunshot. Greed grunts and some of his bones pop on the other side of the line - snapping, cracking, and falling back into place as empty as a corpse.] I thought I already told you - it's the only name I've got. I wasn't exactly human before coming here.

[But at Light's final request, the Sin quiets. All too clearly, that wicked grin is back again - pulling, yanking, and peeling his lips in a wet-smack smile.] Fine, have it your way. Better to resolve this peacefully anyway - am I right?

[Already, he's pulling away and through the line, the dull click, click, click of his boots clap off the floorboards below. Greed runs one last signature claw along the keyboard.] But not the docks. That's my deal. Whether you take it or not is your choice.

Not everyone is the same, I understand that, and it's all the more reason to handle this as peacefully as possible.

Greed it is. It's a little unusual for me, but a lot of things are. In my world, greed is the desire for everything and is considered one of the deadly sins. Is that fitting?

I don't have any particular attachment to the docks. For curiosity sake as I prepare to leave: is that request due to your monster type, or would you recommend anyone avoid them?

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN05

[Knuckle for knuckle, nail for nail, the Sin wraps his hand around the upper edge of the laptop. It causes the receiver to bounce and the microphone skips in a startling, short-lived static. Greed hums for a moment.] You've got it. I want everything you can think of, Chief. The name's not just that, after all.

[Thankfully, he saves the rant. Shelves it with nothing more than a cool slip of his tongue; as it rattles its forks between his teeth as comforting as a viper on the approach. But even with all of his pleasantries, a thin laugh curdles in jaws. The laptop buckles under his approach - the lid of it threatening to snap as he pushes and yanks back toward his side of the line.] Y'know, you ask a lot of questions for someone who's just looking for a hand. Sorry, but again, that's not how it works. Nothing's free, friend. But you already knew that, didn't you?

[Because if the other side of the screen is as much as they've presented themselves to be, there's no need for subtleties; no need to beat around the bush. He rolls his nails across the back of the computer with one more, finalizing click.] How about you actually tell me who you are when we meet. And in exchange? You can ask me whatever you want. Just name your place, Reason. And we'll see what we can do, hmn?

[The man is either expressive, fidgety, or both. Light listens closely to the sounds, trying to discern as much as possible before their actual meeting. In truth, he hadn't been planning to meet in person, but this is important and paramount to the next step. Besides, this isn't an illegal deal, and Light can handle himself now if he needs to.

He would prefer not to need to.]

I'm not asking for a favor, but we can discuss that when we meet.

[An address in the middle of Vandare is inserted.]

If that works, we can meet there. I'll answer your questions about who I am then, but don't blame me if you find it boring. I'm not sure how I can compare to Greed.

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN06

Fine - have it your way.

[There's another pause as he flicks a glance at the rendezvous point. It's a little more exposed than he'd like, but there are still plenty of back alleys to slip through should the need arise. Greed shrugs and from the recording, a huff of fire breathes along the receiver.]

You'll find that it takes a lot to bore me, friend. See you soon.

[And with that, the line cuts. As the laptop lid snaps closed with a jarring, curtain-call clack.]

[By the time he makes his appearance, the last shreds of day are slowly starting to drape along the buildings in town. Streaks of burnt orange and scathing red dash from roof top to roof top; forcing the sky into a brimstone washout. With the commotion still in full effect, most of the day-fairing shops have already closed their doors for the evening. Doors are barred and locked; steps are laced and strung with charms, salt and candles to stand guard through the haunting hours. But unlike months previous, the streets aren't entirely dormant and as night's clutches grow closer and closer, small torches begin to ignite in a collective, whoofing flurry.]

[And with them comes the military march of law, order, and the ever-quick trigger.]

[It's one of the reasons he travels incognito these days. Albeit briefly - he's not interested in getting one of his involved should this meeting turn sour. Instead, he abandons the body a bit away(s) from the intended spot. All with promises that if things should get messy, he always has an exit.]

[Clean or otherwise.]

[As daylight switches hands for the airy shudder of gas lamps and lanterns, the Sin's body slowly molds itself out of a hanging stretch of smoke. It blackens out his chosen alleyway, leaving it with dark corners that seem to plummet on and on and on. Small sparks tease inside and as he moves closer to his destination, that cloud of his follows. Like that of a black fog rolling in with nothing by ill intentions.]

[But it's the sharp click-a-click-click of his heels that announce him first.]

[They shoot off cobblestone like lonely gunshots; as strained fire and brimstone thin under the sway of square-cut plastic. The ash trapped beneath his boots seems to act under a pressure and as soon as one foot lifts, the stones underneath plume outward; like that of fallout that's been disturbed after a long, timeless settle. However, even that disappears when his smog drags in. Leaving behind nothing more than red crescents to broil and scar into the ground below.]

[The situation in of itself isn't unheard of, but it also certainly isn't his usual. Wars of politics and the like have always been something he's avoided. But when push inevitably comes to shove and his own wants are on the table, well.]

[The choice is a pretty simple one.]

[Yet, his own-worldly restraints have always left him face to face. No anonymous tip to string him along, no question as to who or what was behind the next door. Here, those rules have been tossed out the window and when the Sin finally makes it to the coordinates given, the heat trapped inside his throat blooms to aglow. It erupts along blackened scales, showing his razor-cut grin in a terrible sheen of back-lit, yellowing-white.]

[Because, in the end, the devil's always got an ear for a deal.]

[It's a dangerous move born of too little time and too little influence. Having only been here a little over a month, Light has no choice but to rely on a ready-made army to be used in defense if there was a need. Greed wants his own slice of Vandare which can happen even if there is no attack if they play their roles right.

The rumors of the Devil's Nest are varied, and Light knows rumors aren't a trustworthy source of information. Anyone can make up a lie, a half-truth, an exaggeration, and only the foolish believe everything they were told. Nonetheless, it sounds like an organization someone like Light would never normally be associated with.

Despite times.

The reasoning behind the deal is easy enough. If there is an attack, if Vandare falls to monsters, there would be many more people rising against them, and soon Ryslig would be one large monster hunt. As someone newly transformed, as someone who doesn't want to spend his time running, he can't let it happen.

So he walks down the dangerous streets, steps soft as he pulls his coat further around him to combat the night air. His clothing has been tailored to fit his wings, though it's still a foreign feeling to have the fabric occasionally brush against them.

Light's a bit later as he has much further to travel, but faerie rings have made the trip possible. When the meeting place approaches, the faerie finds himself approaching Greed. The carapace is hidden by shoes and gloves, but the wings are too large to conceal. Beneath the changes is a young man, eighteen years old if the sin has an eye for ages, with a modern haircut which seems to flatter his brown hair - it was at least popular in his world. Tall for his Japanese heritage, Light stands at 5'10 with a thin waist but with shoulders that hint at strength. Brown eyes regard him carefully. As soon as he stops, a ring of mushrooms appear around him.]

The precaution isn't for you. Vandare is dangerous now. [And faeries aren't known for their fighting abilities.

He reaches out a hand, fingers uncalloused.] I assume you're Greed. I'm Light Yagami, it's nice to meet you.

[As daylight bleeds into dawn and their meeting comes to a crossroads, the Sin slowly lifts his head. Light's ring of mushrooms catches in a perfect twilight. They hum a bone kind of white; laced and touched by the thinnest trails of blue as the sun finally takes its well-needed nap. It's in that moment that the moon begins its over head hover; like that of a glass-corpse eye watching, waiting to see what will happen.]

[He shouldn't be surprised that the one of the other side of the line is younger. Barely a teen by the looks of it and really, isn't that just something. Greed perks up, his shoulders slouching as his neck lifts to get a better look see.] Hmn-? [At first, his expression his nonchalant - a kind of innocence better suited for a predator caught in on-coming high beams. But even that changes and when Light produces his hand, the former homunculus' surprise fades away. Replaced once again by his deadly set smile. It stretches along one side of his jaw to the other like that of an angler fish on a winner's streak.] Light, huh? It's a pleasure -

[His claws stretch through the hanging gloom. They rip on by, parting smoke and ash similar to that of a hot knife through butter. And oh, oh, is he broiling just the same. Veins of sulfur huff along his forearm, their trails breathing in a collection of terrible reds, oranges, and yellows. He takes Light's hand with a delicate snare; the tips of his would-be talons barely pricking the backside of the other's invitation.] No, I can't really say you're wrong. Things here haven't gotten any easier. I'm surprised you decided to stay. Most tend to head to Bavan any chance they get. I gotta admit, you're pretty impressive.

[When he finally releases his grip, Greed slowly yanks his arm back into his stretch of smog. It hangs about him like a sinister cloud, creating billows that continuously flow in drooping, coiled strands. In the brief moment, he takes a glance over his shoulder. Further in town, licks of firelight graze from building to building; causing the bricks to erupt in white-wash halos. When the patrol finally does pass, night is swift to retake its turf - the darkness practically darting in for the stranglehold.]

[Greed taps his foot once.] So, I'm gunna guess you're newer here. That right? [His head tilted, the Sin lets his eyes wander back in Light's direction. They dart behind his sunglasses in a streak, drawing a thin line of red like that of tail lights blurring around a suicide corner. The Sin cocks one eyebrow slowly above the brim of his shades.] Not about to judge either way. I might not be good, but I'm not so bad either. Like you, I'm not really interested in killing unless I have to. I already told you - the name's not just that.

[Under his chin, the bob in his throat begins searing to a coaxing gold. Trapped flames skate along the inside of his scales, giving them a shine that grows whenever he inhales back. He's had his fair share of reminders at just how sour things can get and as that heat spits, the jagged lines of a still-healing scar highlight in the dark.] But don't take my avarice for something it just isn't. First thing's first though -

[One of his boots cuts through, forcibly yanking him out from the dark. The spot Light's chosen is a good one - there aren't many prying eyes and those that could have already gone to rest. Greed emerges along Light's side, his body moving like a phantom on the edge of a deadly bargain. Behind him, his tail lurches above the cobblestone and its metal clamps and swinging charms twiddle to the tune of horrible bells.] - what do you want, exactly?

[There are a lot of things Light hates about being a monster. He hates not having a choice in the matter, he hates having to feed on human energy - knowing it could have been worse is little consolation. You don't thank your captor for the things they didn't do. But, horror aside, there are some advantages to his new form. It's not worth it, he would trade back instantly, but he isn't going to be so stubborn as to not use them. That ring of mushroom is his way out should this go badly, should Greed turn out to be dangerous.

He watches for little things. Do his claws threaten to press just a bit harder? Does he try to loom and intimidate? Body language and small actions can say a lot about a person, small things that no one realizes they're doing and is thus more honest than words and larger gestures. It's important to know who he might be working with.]

I don't live in Vandare. Sorry to ruin the image, but I'm from Bavan. I used my rings to come here for the meeting.

[By now, his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, making the light that goes by them a bit brighter than it really is, but he readjusts to the night quickly after; the patrol wasn't slow enough to accustom him to anything bright.]

I am relatively new, but Ryslig isn't a place that allows for a slow adjustment. What gave me away? [Maybe it was the fact that his changes seem so few.

Those same eyes that seemed to be only causally watching him continue to follow his movement the best they can.]

I want you to win. [His words come easily.] I want Vandare to be more peaceful. A full scale attack will only have temporary winners, and I would prefer something more long-term. You want to keep the Devil's Nest. We can show them just how valuable it is.

[The Sin's stretched out tail flicks around in a blooming ring. Standing face to face, the two of them couldn't be more different. Black to white, dusk to dawn; the poetry isn't entirely lost either and as the other makes his points, the former homunculus sinks in on himself. Like that of a eel under the murk of a low, oil-slicked tide.] Didn't think so, but that's not what I was talking about.

[The kid, though - he's clever. He picks up meaning with little hesitation, falling right back in to the proposition as quickly as a snake on the second strike. Two beats, and he hits his target. Greed's lips pull back at the notion and with them, his vicious dentistry glints into view.] You catch on quick - I like that. You're right, though. I've been here a long time - it might not be slow, but you've still got a bit more to go. Sorry.

[Like that of a curious cat, the devil's tail swings back again. It yanks around in a loose arc; drawing with it charcoal(ed) lines that seem to stick to air as if it were a fine, untouched canvas. To say he's intrigued is an understatement. Greed's eyes hood behind his shades and a few, quick sparks press behind the other side of the glass. They shoot off in a range - red to purple, purple to pink, and back again.]

[Because what Light has to say is practically a lure; one viciously baited to draw him in, in, in. "I want you to win." "We can show them just how valuable it is." A heavy, sleazy weight takes the Sin's shoulders like a vice. He's both stiff and fluid; eased, but cocked. Like a creature in cold blood with a thirst on its tongue and a demand beating on and on. He rolls one of his feet outward, his heel grinding into the ground below before the rest of his boot follows.]

[Oh, oh, the kid really shouldn't have.] Ha - ! Do you now. [It isn't a question. Greed tilts and his body pulls along with him. One foot waltzes over the other, causing both the dust on the ground and the ash on his heels to interlock in a dry spell.] For someone who doesn't know me, you're pretty impressive. You also aren't wrong. Whoever the other ones are, they've made their point pretty clear.

[He pauses. A wave of soot ripples along his side. It fingers through his points, causing ribbons to split off and weave until they can't give anymore. Greed dips his chin just so.] If you think I'm about to let anyone take that away, you really haven't been paying attention. [The tip of his index taps against his thigh; a brief distraction.] And while you've got my attention, that's not why you really came to me now, is it?

[No. Whoever the kid, he's quick. Efficient. And just like everyone else, there's always something more: something behind the deal, written in fine print. Of course, that's speculation at best. But if the years he's seen have anything to account for, it's just that:] Everyone wants something, kid. Don't tell me you're one of those - [The Sin charms his way back in. He's closer now - not threatening, no, but just edging in. Bit by bit, piece by piece.] - you just don't seem the type. So the real question is, what do you get out of it? Other than a spot here in Vandare?

[This man - a man named after a sin that could consume everything around it - is expressive, either agitated or always on the move. There's no fear, no hesitation in his movements, nothing that indicates doubt or worry. It's a man accustomed to being on top, a man who felt confident in his ability to win. That made the bargain a bit harder. This only works if Light can offer him something different, something he doesn't have.

But it doesn't just feel emotive, it feels like a predator examining its prey before deciding if it's worth the trouble. It likely isn't literal, not when this is the side that wants to kill fewer humans, but those eyes may be searching for something else. A crack? A fault that would reveal Light to be a liar, a fake, something wasting his time?

It's best to assume both. There'd be nothing to find, there'd be no hint of weakness or worry in return. Nonetheless, this can't seem like a clash of two alpha males. If the confidence is real, Greed isn't about to bow down.]

I don't want a place in Vandare. I won't turn down a welcome, but I've made my temporary life in Bavan. Still, Vandare doesn't exist in a vacuum. What happens here will matter to the rest of the world.

[Closer now, the presence doesn't feel as threatening, but Light is always cautious.] I might not know you, but I know of you. Your name comes with a lot of stories. At the very least, you want to keep what is yours. Despite your namesake, you'd also prefer to keep causalities low. Others might be impressed for a lot of reasons, but that's my reason for coming. I don't want the bias against the monsters to grow to the point of an actual war. If the other cities think monsters will rise and claim power, that's going to happen. I'd prefer to talk it out, but I'm not an idealist. Instead, I want a way to back up what we say. That's why I'm on your side. Instead of attacking Vandare, let's defend it. We'll show the people they were wrong, you'll still lead the monsters in a fight to protect what is yours, and fewer people will die. Once the fight is over, the other towns will see what you've done.

[And doesn't he have it all right. Greed's skull lowers a tad more as Light goes on, his grin pursing into a drawn-out strike. It rides and twists along the strong of his jaw; like that of a criminal on the edge of a big score. To say he's attentive is an understatement - the Sin's eerily still. Only his tail gives him away; its constant swoops and turns sketching loose figure eights at a bar-crawl's pace.]

Oh-? No, you aren't wrong. Things being as they are, it was really only a matter of time. Our friends just think they have the right idea.

[Because violence is always paid back: equivalent exchange at its finest. Blood for blood, murder for murder. He's seen it time and time again and the result? Is always the same. There's never a winner, not really. And when there is, the moment is brief and temporary. Before everything goes back to the same old, same old and oh, doesn't history love the repetitive.]

[Greed's tongue snaps inside his jaw, sparking a fire as impulsive as a quick-draw match.] A lot of stories, huh? [The former homunuclus digs his heel in, allowing the curve of his boot to swing through the air in a knife-cut strike. The ribbons of smoke at his ankles quickly disperse, then. Their trails finally thinning to reveal the cobblestone below.] Gotta admit, I like your honesty. I'm not interested in making this any messier than it has to be. But the others in Bavan seem to have made their decision. [The more he talks, the hotter it gets. The bob in his throat stretches outward - turning the veins along his neck a thick, gold-smelter yellow. He still has that bridge to cross. A long, barely-tethered road that could collapse at any second. But for now, it's only him and his and as Greed chases a look over Light's shoulder, his attention briefly catches on the arch of a prowling feline.]

You're pretty informed for a kid. [An air of distraction hangs in his voice; like someone who's both a million miles away and still lingering in the here and now. A metaphorical limbo. He lets his eyes sink shut and from beneath the curves of his shades, his eyebrows furrow into one another. Creating a ripple effect up to the base of his horns.] But if you think everyone's as reasonable as you, you've got another thing comin'.

[Because just north of here, a military coup is brewing. The Sin himself hasn't met them face to face, but word of mouth is enough to paint a picture. Ruthless, tactical. An armed forced beating to a singular drum. He flattens his foot again and the endless smog reclaims its turf; blanketing the cobblestone below like silt disturbed in a dark, bottomless pond.] Ha - ! Don't get the wrong idea. If you think I'll let them or anyone else take Vandare, I'm sorry. My avarice runs a little too deep for that.

[When he turns back to Light again, those eyes of his peer at the top of his sunglasses. They're muted now; in a ghastly kind of purple(ing)-red more suitable for a back lit bruise.] I'm sure you already know that anyone associated with the Bloody Bones won't make it. It'll be a problem, but most of the monsters here have tried to reason with them in the past. Unfortunately, they're not exactly so giving. [Whether to make a point or sheer force of habit, he strikes his thumb along the edge of his throat. Scales meet scales in a terrible scrrch and thin, fresh-silver smoke wafts out. No, he's had his own run in(s) with the 'Bones and the like twice now.]

[He isn't keen on a repeat.] It's their choice, in the end. I've always been a fan of that. But if they decide to continue, I'm sure I don't have to tell you how it ends. When it comes to the rest of the people here though, they're off limits. I don't care what they think up in Bavan - that's my deal.

No, I don't think everyone is as reasonable as me. [He wishes they were; if they would just think about the repercussions that came with this attack, then a more peaceful resolution would be tried first. Light isn't a doormat, he won't turn his back out of fear of being attacked, but working with someone to reduce their enemies is the optimal solution. Sadly, he doesn't really go the way of a criminal group, he doesn't have his own personal army.] But not everyone is as powerful as you. You came here like the rest of us, with nothing. Since then, you've become a leader, and it isn't through force; few of the monsters that follow you are weak.

Even before I came, you didn't want to hurt the citizens. Take it a step further. Agree to defend against a monster attack that would hurt those citizens. [His eyes closed, as if he hates to say the words that come from his mouth, the taste bad and lingering on his tongue.] As for the Bloody Bones, they'll likely attack to. If they're killed in the crossfire, it's unavoidable.

[Brown eyes reopen to center on Greed. There's still nothing challenging there, but he's not showing weakness either. Trying to fight an alpha head-on may not gain their cooperation, but baring your throat didn't earn the necessary respect. It's a delicate, intricate balance.]

I'm asking you to do the same thing you've been doing: lead them. You'll just have a different enemy now, at least if it comes to that.

Wouldn't be me if I did. I've always given them that option. Working for me is a little different, after all. [Greed watches Light through the exchange. Sizing him up, flicking glance after glance as smooth as a well-oiled elevator. He doesn't know Light from a face in the crowd - to him, it's another newcomer. But unlike most, the kid isn't afraid and to come to him so willingly? Well - ]

No, I don't. I've never had a problem with humans and that's where me and these Toyotomi are different. It's pointless. [The former homunculus side-steps, his heels lifting in a purposeful two-step. He's slowly closing the ring around Light, carefully aware of the mushroom boundary that separates the two of them.] But let's make one thing clear: I'll give them a chance to go home, but if they continue? Then it's out of my hands. As for the Bloody Bones, you already know that most of them won't take the deal, no matter how good it is. They're righteous and that isn't going to change any time soon.

[A cool breeze swipes through the alley. It sends a couple of trash barrels clattering and the spirals in his horns breathe in a hellish fume. Greed's body ticks with a slight slouch.] As for the Toyotomi, they know where I stand. If they really decide to make things messy, that's their choice. They might think they've got everything right, but there's an underworld here, kid. Not everyone is so interested in what they have to offer.

[Which means just that: he's got a deal and with it, a few friendlier faces. The outcasts and low lives, the criminals and thieves. The Toyotimi's idea for a new Vandare might sound well and good, but for some? It couldn't be more the opposite. The former homunuclus' mouth spreads wide and just behind his teeth, the forks of his tongue bristle: a devil with a gold tongue.] Though, you should know how this goes -

[A brief pause. The gem in the Sin's ear gently spins; the slight gust taking it like a wind chime at midnight.] - what's in it for me if I decide to do just that? I'm not telling you no, don't misunderstand. But I told you in the beginning that the name isn't just that. [As he talks, his voice crackles; a sound similar to the start of a brush fire.] I am Greed - the living embodiment of it.

[Now, so close and near, his gaze burns into his lenses. There's no secret any more, no holding back. A fierce longing pricks in his eyes - turning the thin slivers into dangerous, shivering points. Greed's neck stretches out and his tone hushes to a hissing, smoke-run whisper.] If you end up on the council, I expect a little something back, hmn? And in return, we'll take care of the rest.

So - [His claws pry away from his bones, stretching black to black in cruel, curved-cat claws.] - do we have a deal?

The request isn't to not defend yourself. If they attack, you're free to fight back, which I'm sure you would do anyway. I don't want to be the aggressors here, but we can't allow ourselves to be victims either. That isn't what I'm trying to do. The people you protect? This won't change that.

[The breeze also shifts some of the lighting for those who are out, making the shimmer of Light's wings move a bit, though the man himself stays still. His hair is long enough to blow gently, which does prompt him to raise a hand to move his bangs from his eyes; he does need to find someone to at least trim his hair into his chosen style, but other things had kept him busy.]

As for Toyotomi, I understand where his intentions come from, but I can't agree with his method. It's a cycle that has to be broken. Already, we're unable to keep from killing humans. In return, the Bloody Bones were created. If we keep killing humans, now by choice, more and more of their kind will rise.

[The gem is eye-catching, but only for a moment. Those eyes quickly go back to the Sin's before his hand is reaching out to shake that hand. If it's tangible enough.]

If I end up on the council, we do. Otherwise, I don't mind helping in other ways as long as you continue to be the kind of leader you've shown to be.

[A look of just knowing crosses the Sin's face. The expression is old and simmering - like that of a tar pit that's only recently been exposed. Greed's had his fair share of both parties: the extremists and militants, the peaceful and diplomatic. War isn't always the inevitable end, but given the circumstances, the idea of a treaty is a laughable outcome.]

[Light's clear conversation just means that he knows it too.] Y'know for a kid, you're pretty clever. [The phrase doesn't come as an insult in the slightest. A high trill takes the devil's voice in a rumble; like that of a big-pawed cat under tentative domestication. One false move could mean a bite, but that isn't the case here. Instead, Greed meets the hand shake with one of his own; wrapping finger after finger around Light's presented gesture.]

Not sure what you mean by that though. [The Sin's tone pricks behind his teeth. In all, he's never made a point of trying to be something he just isn't. Hero, villain, something else. There's no structure to his game, no clean-cut answer to the why(s) and the how(s). Only a moral gray he's never had the luxury of slipping into. It's always merely existed - his nature as unrestricted as his namesake.]

[When he finally lets go of the other's hand, a cloud of ash wafts between them. It glides and holds; like a jet-dry cough out of the back end of an aged tail pipe. Greed lowers his arm boneless(ly), but as it falls back down to his side, his fingers take a quick detour. The tip of his thumb disappears into his pocket. It flicks once, the edge of his nail puncturing the corner of a small, well-used matchbox.] Don't forget what I told you, kid. I might not be so bad, but that doesn't mean I'm good either. [He hangs on that last word, the rest of his fingers rap-tap-tapping along the edge of the box.] My avarice just tends to do the deciding for me. And what I want is Vandare's south end. If the Toyotomi change their mind, the humans here will be mine. Whatever else they do, whatever you decide to do? I don't really care. They're off limits.

[His arm extends, each one of his fingers fanning opening like a collection of kitchen knives. Resting on his palm is that same, little book: its top painted with a constant, sneering devil. He waits for Light to take it before retreating just a hitch back. The tip of his pointed boot curls upward as he does, forcing his heel to peel off the ground below. Greed ticks his jaws.] I don't think I have to tell you what that means. I'm fair, but even I have some standards. If you really think our friends up north are going to be a problem, then you can tell them just that. I've been here a long time and if they think they'll be calling all the shots, well.

[A shallow shrug takes hold of his shoulders. Light can read between those lines just fine and really, he doesn't care to explain. At the end of it all, he knows things will get messy - that's part of a coup like this. However, he'll keep his to a minimum and if someone, anyone, should cross that line?]

[All bets were definitely off.] If you need anything else, you know where to find me. [Greed's eyes peel open again, their lids heavy and hooded. He watches the matchbox in Light's hand; tracing it once, twice.] If that's all though, I've got other business to take care of. I'm sure you know how to get out of here without anyone seeing you, right?

[Greed or revenge, want or hate, emotions really do drive so many different people, humans and monsters alike. Toyotomi's motives are easy to read, and Greed doesn't bother to hide his own. It makes it easier to digest, to plan when the words are written out with little written between the lines. The motives, even, are understable. Perhaps that makes it more complicated, that Light understands all sides of the complex equation. When turned into monsters, the fog put them in a horrible, horrible position in which they had little choice in which to play their role. Humans will always have to be slightly afraid of them because not eating isn't a real option, which means they'll always have enemies.

It's the long term that worries Light.

Still, so far, it seems to be working out well. No one has bad intentions, at least. That helps.

Reaching out, Light accepts the card. Idly, he flips it over and then forward again, looking down at the logo with a smile before looking up to meet the other man's eyes with a nod.] That's all. You know my real name now, I'm easy enough to find. If you need me, don't hesitate to reach out. I'll be going back instantly, but you should be careful. It's not entirely safe right now.

[But his peace is said. Without any visible action, Light is gone, leaving behind just the circle of mushrooms.]

boss

[A very long pause - Stocke's reluctant to write the rest. It makes too final for his liking.]

i might need to skip out of town for some time
it's getting worse

['It' being... well, he doubts Greed hasn't noticed the way he'd started reacting to some of the Nest's residents: demons, gargoyles, Kimbley. The Sin himself. Flinching first, then tenseness, then a constantly-chained, inadvertent hatred which'd led to avoiding them... there's a reason Stocke's not doing this in person, and it's that he gets closer to snapping every moment he takes.]

[Unlike when he was a demon, a fight to take out his energy on probably isn't going to wind this down. Not until he figures out how to get rid of the parasite latched in him.]

[He figured this was going to come sooner or later. As predicted, the issue in Kulen decisively bit them in the ass and the timing couldn't have been more inconvenient. After all, everything had a price.]

[This just happens to be his.]

[Greed takes his time on the other side. With the fog creeping in and that settling itch clawing at his core, Stocke's absence is like a toothache. He doesn't like it, but there's little choice here. The parasite epidemic had taken a back seat and now, oh now, it's all coming to a head.]

[The Sin's teeth nip at the edge of a cigarette.] figure d sss much. dont thnkyu rllywnt to hrea frme so iwnnt bothr wit h the usull. nd bfre you ge t anhy wild ides

it tkkes a lot mor to offnd me, rmember?

tke the tunnls under the nest to th outsd oftown li's got a trck wait ing to tkye you to bavan

youll sty with hm just don t mkke thing difficult hmn ?

[Stocke won't - he never does. The Sin taps his claws along his keyboard, further delaying the message. It isn't until the cigarette completely ashes out that he finds himself again; the haze of fog lifting for one moment of clarity:]

your e still one of mine ykknow

ad all i ever wnte

[The message abruptly cuts. As if he sent it without realizing, as if there's a back-track between the strokes. Two minutes go by, five. Then:]

eh doesnt mtter

mak e sur youre bck once we gt thi s figur d out

[...]

appreciated
take care of yourself, boss

call me back if you need me
[He can't be around the Nest for long, maybe. But if they need help in Vandare - especially with the city breaking up, now - Stocke'd like to think he has willpower enough for it.]
doesn't matter how far i am or how long it takes
still one of yours
[Echoed. It's easy to avoid that flinch of hatred, over the network; without sight setting his parasite off Stocke thinks 'Greed,' not 'demon.']

woulnd hve it any othrr way

um!
greed!

i know you're really busy but...
can i ask you for a really big favor?

favo r huh ?

yeah!
will yhou come to a dinner party with me for a friend?

he doesn't have very many.... so we're having a partty for him to meet new people and make friends!

a frind huh ? gootta name?

been a whi le bt you do rmmber who yure talkn to rght ?

ill sse wht i cn do

yeah hes katsuie!
i don't know if you've met him yet

well.... i was just thinking if he at least knows you then maybe he'll be able to meet all the other people you know!
you're pretty popular
you know lots of people!

maybe you could help him...?

sor ry dnt know him

[Ah, though: there it is. Dawn's innocence in the thick of it. Greed pauses on his side while the tips of his talons hover breathlessly over the keyboard. Naivety or just ill-rooted faith, he isn't sure. But Dawn's misplaced guidance sure has hit its mark.]

[But then, nothing's wrong with a little hope now, right?]

[Greed's lips peel open and in a flash of teeth, he finally responds:]

you do kn ow flttry will get you n o whre hm

we ';ll see wht we can n do n promises thogh. woulnt want to sse you disspointed lovly

[Sending computer messages is for chumps. Besides, who even knows how often Greed keeps up on the stupid thing, and this is too important to wait. It's fairly early in the day so he assumes it's probably fairly safe to go barging in on the boss. And even if it isn't, it's not like it's the first time and it won't be the last.

Because Dante has no manners whatsoever.

He knocks on the devil's door once, loudly, before announcing:]

Greed! You up? I'm coming in.

[Before doing just that. Unless it's locked in which case he'll be super disappointed. And possibly kick the door.]

[Licks of smoke play at the bottom of the door. They funnel in on the edge - creating a continuous loop from where the hallway ends and his own den begins. Dreamlike, but without the questionable answer as to who or what is lurking just behind. And as Dante's knuckles bounce on the other side of the wood, the gap in the frame breathes with a furnace sigh. Shooting settled-ash and soot out into the hall like dust from an old, untouched book.]

[There'll be no need for door-icide today.]

[The loose knob twists. While the day's still young and morning's just another visitor, the room in question hangs in a limbo(ing) dark. A peer of sunlight droops in from the back window. Its access is restricted - the only allowance being a thin slice cutting from one end of the room to the next. A few clumps dust float by, their brief moment in the lime-light turning them a'sparkle before they disappear again. Back, back, back to the dark from whence-they-came.]

[A fitting lair.]

Ah- [Greed's voice curls. At first, it's hard to make out just where he is. It's the sharp sound of his boots that give him away: their signature click-click-clicks parting the thick layer of charcoal in a lengthy drawl. He wraps one hand along the base of his neck, allowing his skull to hang like a corpse on the end of a rope. But with one tip, one roll, the bones down his spine give a pitiful crunch - the resulting sigh as pleasant as a late-night aftermath.]

[Truth is, he's used to these types of interruptions. He shouldn't be so surprised. And considering the nature of everything, he doesn't think he'll have to wait too long.]

[The dark proves no problem to the minotaur, the single blade of light catching his eyes and casting an eerie bright-gold reflection in them as his gaze sweeps the room. It doesn't take much to spot Greed, a shadow among the soot and ash, the dim broken apart by his furnace-light.

Without invitation he moves further into the room, arms folding over his chest as he does. Much as he'd like to stop being the one to bring bad news, well...

Dante wears scarlet for a reason.]

So I don't know if you've seen the news, but the doctors over at the labs have come up with a way to get rid of our little pest problem.

[Certainly Greed remembers the parasites, those sickening crawling bugs inhabiting the bodies of their loved ones. Changing them, their behavior, everything... And the inevitable outcome.]

[Under the smokey overhang, the Sin's eyes wheeze open. They're red, blurry; a duel set a'glow like brake lights on baked, desert concrete. He doesn't bother waving Dante over. The Minotaur has a way of forcing himself into the situation whether invited or not. To bother would be a waste of time, a listless effort.]

[Besides, this is something they both have an interest in. And oh yes, he's heard the news.]

[Greed lines his index up to the side his thigh. He taps it once, the feel of his claw on leather as artificial as he is. All the while, Dante's words pass by in a drift: "...the doctors over at the labs .. " "-way to get rid of-". They mingle in a blur and it's his own avarice that picks out what it wants. Not the who, not the what, but the solution. A flicker passes by the devil's face: a chip in his armor that's almost violent. That's almost wrat-]

[The Sin's jaw cracks, exposing his teeth in a sidewinder's smile.] That so. [Without his vest, the tattoo kissed into the side of his neck vibrates in blue. He touches it mindlessly; a distant thought or two floating between his viper-slit glance. Greed waves them away not a second later; two fingers hurriedly twiddling in the dark.]

[The issue with the parasites has just been one more thorn in his side and as time passed, as the days drew out to months, the scratch had grown infected. Toxic. Enough to bring his core screaming in protest; a terrible back-fire against its host. Though really, he's just one in the same.]

[Avarice incarnate, sin in the flesh. And Lord have fucking mercy - ]

[Greed saunters across the room. He pauses by the dresser at the back, his nails playing with one of the drawers.] Who's doing the operations? There are some 'docs in town that're reliable. But I don't think I have to tell you that some will have another agenda. [He turns his head upward, effectively meeting Dante in the mirror. He waits for a second. Even with all his selfishness, he knows there's more than just Stocke on the line. Greed lifts his shoulders and with a sink, he pulls himself from the reflection.]

She's there, isn't she.

[It's been a point of interest for Greed, what with a few of his own disappearing under mysterious circumstances and not being nearly as present at the 'Nest as they once were. More than a few had fallen prey to the parasites, and Dante had been keeping an ear to the ground for good news.

This is the first break he's heard in a long time, and it couldn't have come sooner.

He waits while the devil absorbs the news, both silent in the oily, smoking darkness. Only the sound of greed's claws on leather, and Dante's gently swishing tail to break the heavy stillness. He's agitated, understandably, nothing about this has been easy and it's getting far past the point of being reasonable to ignore. Dante doesn't like a problem he can't kick to death.]

No idea, my contact says they're reliable. Lot of success so far. [Still there's always that chance that something will go wrong. Hence why he's bringing it to Greed's attention now.]

She's going in later this week. Been feeling the call back to Kulen, we're running out of time.

[He doesn't need to say it, either she takes this one shot and has a chance, or they keep playing the ignore it and hope it goes away game until she ends up ripped apart from the inside. Either way, things are looking grim.]

[A point of interest and oh, is that putting it lightly. Vandare had been one thing: a common enemy and a common goal. Take care of the Bloody Bones and rebuild the rest. A simple idea that only grew more complicated as time went on. The parasites, though. They had been like a thief in the night - the slow creep disease setting in before any of them realized the signs. Greed yanks a compartment open and a pair of keys loops in the hook of his middle finger.] Might be worth taking a look ourselves, don't you think?

[Laboratories. Bad blood born of another life - of a time far away from here. He doubts it's the same thing. This world is a little more open - its secrets blurted on the network as easy as a keystroke. Still, history: it has a way of leaving a wound or two.]

[And while it hadn't been him there, the situation's not so different.]

[The Sin coils his fingers around the ring.] Not too surprising. That's where the colony was, right? [The details elude him. He remembers Dante referring to a swarm; sentient bugs with a hive mind mentality burrowed under the surface. The priests in the village up North had something to do with it, though now? Now, not much of that remains.]

[Greed's tail gives a petulant flick. Running out of time - ] The labs are in Bavan, right? Pretty convenient - [Soot furls out of his jaw, a lofty note. He's got business in Bavan, anyway.]

[A little detour won't hurt.]

[A quietly pleased flick of his tail as those keys appear, he and Greed do think very much alike at times.]

Glad to see we're on the same page.

[Dante's no more a fan of it than Greed, though likely for different reasons. In this case he's just paranoid without a solid cause for a change. Still, relying on one's gut instincts has kept him alive, better not to ignore an anxious twist.]

Right, and with everything else the bugs have changed I don't think it's unreasonable to assume they're ready to go home to mother.

[And leave the spoiled remains of their former hosts like so much discarded refuse. Their job's done, no need to worry about them anymore. There are still plenty of human attendants, the monsters didn't trash the town like whatever happened in Rota. It still stands as whole as it was the night of the infection.

Maybe they should have burned the whole hive to the ground, but how do you burn creatures immune to the heat of lava that live inside stone? No, they'll need a bigger fly swatter.]

So I've heard, couldn't tell you where but I think we'll find our way easy enough.

[With Dante's innate ability to navigate any maze they'll find their way eventually.]

[As his hand wanders along the dip of his back, the keys disappear. Their bulk drops from his claws into the welcoming slip of his back pocket. A flash of silver, a single chime, and they're gone. It's true that, on occasion? The two of them do think alike. And as the Sin's lips peel back, the expression in the mirror is enough to say it all:]

[They're definitely on the same page.]

[Greed straightens and his hand gently closes around the frames of his sunglasses.] Sounds like they've got it all planned out, then. [A slight hitch teases on the end of his words. A loathsome hiss, a snide regard. He pries his thumb between the earpieces and with a flip of his nail, they peel open. He's never had to worry about an infection before. Maybe with some of his own at one time, but that had been the usual: common colds, a bit of the flu. The former homunculus leans forward and with a press of his hand, his sunglasses slip onto the bridge of his nose.]

[Point, click, and oh, is he ready.]

Ah, that's right - that ability of yours is pretty useful. Might come in handy - [The edge of his talon clicks against the nose piece. With his signature pair in place, the mirror's reflection becomes suddenly dark. No more red to save its name, no more purple to chase it. Just the impossible black: hollow and socket(ed) like that of a sneering skull. Greed lowers his hand to his side.] - but first, I think you and I have some other business to take care of.

[Mainly, the Toyotomi. Of which, Dante has made himself pretty clear. It's admirable, in a way - expected, considering the Minotaur's nature, but also appreciated. A light touch of a smile plays on the devil's features, his index coasting along the side of his thigh a second time. Thoughtful, perhaps. All the gears a turning, turning, turning. He tests his tongue to the back of his teeth and with a shrug, the gem in his ear drops to a spinning-still.] We'll be a couple of days. Bring what you want, but try to be a little polite, hmn? They're our big guests - [He tilts his head up, locking glance for glance in the one-way mirror. The insinuation is as crude as it is clear.]

[Whatever agreement they had, there's no love lost: between himself or the group's new, self-appointed figurehead.]

[He knew Greed wouldn't let him down. This kind of thing required a certain finesse, a finesse that the demon just so happened to have in droves. He understood exactly what Dante was asking in coming to him

And he didn't even need to offer the question directly.]

Sounds like it, [He drawls.] But I suppose it couldn't hurt to do a little homework of our own. [Neither has Dante. He doesn't get sick, nor his twin, certainly he's aware of the various illnesses that can affect humans but for him they are merely a thing to be observed from the outside. Sure, he's managed to give himself something of a hangover before, but that's really the worst of it. And even then they were nothing like the real thing.]

[An infestation though, this is something far worse. He's only seen something like this in particularly bad demonic infestations. Surgery was never an option with those.]

[Greed's words pull him back into reality, the wandering ears and gaze snap back to the devil, tail once again giving a matter-of-fact flick.] Right, that little deal with our friends.

[Friends who seem to be having some difficulty remembering past agreements. He gestures vaguely as if somehow that alone should assuage any concerns Greed has as to Dante's behavior. In fact, the flippancy should really only be concerning.]

No promises, but I'll try not to put his head through a table as soon as he opens his mouth.

[Which is about as much guarantee as you can really expect out of Dante, to be fair. Mostly because he isn't especially violent until provoked. Antagonistic all day long? Absolutely, but he won't raise a hoof in defense until someone starts something first.]

[It's fortunate that they're on the same page in that regard as well. The old Toyotomi Dante never met and has no opinions on, but this Kouen guy, well... He remembers when he first rolled into town and started making demands. It's no surprise his habits haven't changed thus far. He won't stop at Vandare, and he certainly won't be content to let them live their happy little lives left in peace.]

[A deal and that's what it all boils down to, isn't it. Hideyoshi had understood what that meant - a bargain. A little give and take signed off not with a pen, but with the sheer shake of a hand and a devilish grin. The boundaries they had drawn out all those months ago had been fair, but as always: when it came to power shake-ups, those lines eventually became blurred. And with the General pointedly missing, his obvious vacancy has been noted and filled. Leave them here they are again to retrace the drawing board.]

[All of it with the new, high-hatted company.]

[Greed pulls away from the dresser.] At least the General had been a bit reasonable - [While he talks, a waft of soot floats along the bureau's surface. It sighs through its splintering cracks - dropping, falling. Until the edges become too steep, allowing gravity to take hold. The Sin makes a soft nose in the back of his throat, then. Thoughtful and snide. A tilt of his chin lifts his head towards the ceiling and the upper part of his lip curls with a jagged sneer.] - little bit of a pissant, isn't he? [He chirps. Hideyoshi had been forward and brash, but at least he knew how to play his cards and play them well.]

[Kouen, on the other hand - ]

[Greed lifts his arm. His carbon-cold fingers claw through the air, their pricked-points snaring the collar of his vest as he passes. Fur feathers between his knuckles in a stark contrast; white to black, black to white, and a frame of gray to set it just right.] Keep your eye on them. I know Stocke's around, but with our current problem, I don't expect him to hang around too long. [The Sin shoves one arm through the vest, then the other.] Ah -

[His wings tilt and twist. They flatten against one another an inch at a time - squeezing, contorting. Like that of an octopus at the crossroads of a thin crack. Though by some miracle though, and no doubt some practice, the edges slip through: the vertical slits on the vest's backside just enough to let them pass. Greed gently touches the trim to right it and with a few, buzzard(ly) pecks at the collar, the fur fans out.] Don't let the others know just yet. I want to see what they're planning to do first.

[Because, if Kouen's as bullheaded as he's come out to be, then they'll need another plan.]

[Greed rocks his shoulder back and with the edge of his boot, he peels the door open. Yes, they're definitely need another plan. But if the new Toyotomi think he's about to leave Vandare.]

[Oh, oh, how wrong they are.]

[New company without a lick of subtlety or reliability. Company that has made it more than clear that they're all just stepping stones for his next big power grab. No loyalty among thieves indeed when one flashes his knife at every opportunity and boasts loudly about his plans.]

[Dante snorts derisively at the statement.] A little? Guy's a huge tool.

[He's made it clear how he feels about Kouen time and time again, and he'll continue to do so because he doesn't play nice with pieces of shit and he's not making exceptions for this little parasite on the network.] Guy swoops in, nabs power at the first opportunity then tries to see how far he can get away with throwing it around right off the bat? Talk about poor taste.

[He shifts on his hooves, scraping and tapping in irritation. He's always been better at holding down his temper, but the minotaur just makes everything so much more aggressive. Especially lately with shot nerves, high tensions, and no reprieve in sight. And to top it all off he's been trying to cut back on drinking? Something's bound to break eventually.]

Yeah, I'll keep an ear to the ground. I don't think he's stupid enough to try something fishy right off the bat, but he's going to screw us in the end. His type doesn't give a shit who he steps on so long as he gets what he's after.

[Power. Pfeh, what a waste. Funny how many people are willing to destroy their way into it.

Watching Greed play contortionist with his wings is a bit of an amusing show, and Dante would offer to help but it's more funny from the angle he's standing. So instead he just watches, a vaguely amused smirk planted on his face. Damn, boss, he didn't know you could bend like that.]

You got it. My lips are sealed.

[Couldn't have picked a better person. No one gets anything out of Dante unless he wants them to.]

[Greed tilts his head. Stuck in the door frame, his shadow seems to stretch out impossibly behind him. A creature in the fog, a man for the centuries. A thin curl of ash lifts away from his face and as it folds along the edge of the door, its ribbon jack-knives; mimicking that a bent finger. Coaxing, begging, for the Toyotomi to just try.]

[Because this isn't the first coup. A veteran to the art and a conductor once upon a time. Though that had been some years ago; his last defiance on the same, steadfast grin. And then, well - ]

[Then's now history.]

No, they don't. But I can't say that I blame them - pretty ambitious. [How he answers is almost sung. A high note teases in the back of his throat, a trill vibrates on his tongue. He doesn't know everything about Dante and he doesn't have to. He's an outsider just the same: a bridge between the mortal lot and the decidedly not.]

[Even in a world full of them, monsters would always find monsters.]

[The former homunculus pauses when he hears the familiar scratch of hooves. One of his elbows knocks along the door frame in response - a metaphorical last call before he heads into the hallway. Dante's impatience can only hold out so long; he'd rather not push it.] I've been doing this a long time and he's not the first. He can try all he wants - it won't work.

[Which is true, in some regard. Ryslig's taken a lot from him, sure. But where it's taken, it's also given. Equivalent exchange at its finest. Greed pockets his hands, his smog stretching out in front of him like some sort of wicked, red-rolled carpet. Except it isn't red at all: it's black, gray. A shade well suited for things like him.]

[The creatures in the dark.] Just try to keep that temper of yours in check; they're still our guests, y'know. [But by how he says it? Dante's feelings on the Toyotomi are entirely mutual. Greed's mouth twists; the expression tilting on the smug side of knowing.]

[They won't make it easy, that much is sure. As for the company - ]

[The Sin plants one foot on the iron steps heading to the bar below. The screws bang unevenly as he does; the structure crooked yet oh so fitting.]

[Only time could tell how much the new Toyotomi would accept the idea.]

Edited 2016-09-14 00:11 (UTC)

[If the Toyotomi did decide to try to take the 'Nest by force, they were in for a hell of a surprise. Not a single one of Greed's would jump ship and expect him to handle the problem alone.]

[It'll be a lot more than they bargained for.]

Tch, ambitious. Reckless if you ask me.

[Destroy everything in their path, rebuild the rubble you yourself created? Not exactly an efficient governance model. And yes, he realizes the irony of himself saying that but Dante has never said he wasn't a hypocrite. Difference is he tries to keep his recklessness to self-destruction, and maybe some property damage.

Greed's right on the money though, he's an outsider and always has been. By choice or otherwise, monsters will indeed always find monsters.]

Good to know you're ready for this, it's not going to be pretty.

[If things get violent it'll be real nasty, because Dante's pretty sure Greed has no intentions of taking over any real political power. That's not his style. Which, in turn, would leave an inconvenient vacuum only to be filled with more annoyance.

Dante really didn't like politics.]

Don't worry about me any, I won't throw the first swing.

[He will throw the last, and he may still antagonize until punches are being thrown. There's really no putting a cork in that mouth of his. However, with Greed's tone and the silent understanding between them that the feeling is mutual he does relax some. At least he's not the only one that distrusts them, and isn't the only one waiting for the shit to fly.

That's a switch he's not entirely sure he knows how to handle. But it's reassuring, nonetheless.]

[Dante follows not far behind, his own shadow joining Greed's on the stairs. When things do go south there will be hell to pay. And oh, the Toyotomi don't know what they're getting into.]

[Moonlight falls over the floor of the Sin's room, cold and piercing, a shine over clawmarks and scorches on the floor. It's blocked by a silhouette before it breaks over the furnace, the dark part solid shape, part wavering and indistinct - a shade's tendrils cast a shadow like one reflected through water. The shade in question watches the street below: monsters and humans, noise and quiet alike.]

[Stocke doesn't twitch when he hears Greed's footsteps (distinct and long since memorized, like everyone in the Nest's) or the door. Returning to the Nest feels more like 'home' than anything else in the past two years, and that sound, with no parasite's compulsions...]

[The shade's tendrils drift, but he curls his hand around the windowsill and slides off it, standing to face Greed. He hasn't been down to the bar proper yet - it felt right, to let the Sin know first.]

Boss. ['I'm back.']

[The familiar taste. A touch of something missing, the scent of someone who should have never left in the first place. It hangs along the door frame in a cologne's whisper. Silky, comforting. The shadows along the jut of the window just solidify the fact; their edges playing on the watery side of a silver, waning moon. He doesn't need to see it to know exactly who it is and as the door wheezes open, as a breath of smog releases to the tune of crowbar(red) crypt, the Sin's lips pull back. Exposing each and everyone of his razors in a thin sheet of sparked sulfur.]

[Avarice incarnate and now, everything's counted for.]

[The door clicks shut softly behind him: a ghost's touch. Greed's quiet for a moment; the seconds holding out as surely as sand counted between his knuckles. The tips of his fingers test his thigh, the jewel in his ear spins soundlessly on the end of its chain. The devil in waiting, watching. Holding it out one more time until: ]

Oh? [Shrouded in the dark, his body moves like an oil slick. It's hard to tell just where one part begins and another ends. Thin threads of bone-white feather across leather only to dart off again - their movement as slow and steady as each practiced roll of his heel.]

[And at the center of it all, two beats of red. Caged and pressed into the back of his shades like hell-scorched pennies.]

[The days, weeks, months. Greed lifts his chin and with a silent inhale, his throat begins to broil. Turning cool-carbon into a slick, ever-present gold. He wastes no time, then - the drum of his boots closing the gap inch by inch. A waltz of a creature with centuries to spare.]

Took you long enough - [He's closer, now - his own ash meeting Stocke's tendrils like some sort of perilous handshake. The Sin's mouth forms to a line. The street lamps outside pop softly when he does; like that of strained buttons being stretched to their limit.]

[One ping, two pings, three pings, four, and the corner goes dim.]

[Stocke takes his own step closer. Just the one, not a click or tap on the wood beneath to evidence it, but the shade's used to letting the Sin make the last move too-close, pushing boundaries. His settled spot's always been to the right or just behind, a gap of one arm's reach between - this is an oddity.]

[Stocke's version of too-close is not quite so obtrusive, much like his footsteps. A ghost in the dark; his eyes shutter closed.]

[This near, he doesn't need them to feel the glow of Greed's demon's core spilling out through the cracks, even without touch - rich as molten metal.]

[It's almost too much a relief not to have gnawing hatred eroding his control, having to shore it back with every heartbeat, every breath in between. Stocke has the feeling that with nothing to push against he's yawing too hard in the other direction. He doesn't really care.]

Sorry to keep you waiting. [Wry, a faint wisp of amusement - like the trail of smoke from a snuffed candle. Stocke's eyes stay shut; the shade's tendrils trail through ash and ember, leaving an echo of a pattern.]

[There's something about moments like these. The night is lazy, the air a touch humid. As if time's clock had been metaphorically punched and the world around had been left to go on without it. Seconds pass like hours, hours like days, and as the final street lamp plunks out of existence, the Sin's jaw unwinds. No longer is his smile so jeering, no more do those teeth flicker like lanterns in the dark. A warmer expression now, yet still weighted with all the heaviness of a sinner at an empty confession.]

["Gotcha."]

Sorry, huh? [He echoes. The displaced shadows scatter as he lifts his hand to his face. Built for it and here, on Ryslig's shores, it seems the transformations haven't changed much. The black scales along his skin shift in the gloom - the dark filtering over his knuckles like water out of rusty, fluorescent-fluttered tap. He touches the frames of his shades - his search for chrome-allure ending with nothing more than a whimpering png.]

[Because, right now? He's got a more pressing itch.]

[The former homunculus hooks his sunglasses by the nose piece. One catch and they lift from his face; a signal and an expression all at once.] Not like you had much of a choice, hmn? [He hums. The pair hang in his nest of claws, the ear pieces directing to the ceiling above. He doesn't look at Stocke - not at first. Instead, his lazy eyes maps out the pair. As if they're priceless; as if they hold some sort of safe-guarded secret he's finally come to terms with.]

[One click however, and they're gone. Shoved at the lip of his collar: the devil's would-be tie.]

[And now - now it's back to business.]

[The slits of his eyes peel into his peripheral. He can't help chasing that echo. A predatory need, a desire as hot and sickening as a destroying fever. A thin huff cues from his nose and with one more step, he greets the tendrils head on. Throat exposed, chin tilted, and that heat of his brought down to a comfortable, low-light simmer.]

[The one gift he'll ever give. Signed, sealed, and delivered.]

A lot happened while you were gone. You'll need to catch up. [As he talks, the Sin begins tightening a circle around the other. It's bullshit, really: both of them know better. This is just the song, the dance, and he's got the whole thing memorized. The Heathen's Waltz in D Minor. The backs of his boots clack sharply along the floor and with an air anticipation, he lifts his head. As if daring the shadows to just try.]

[Because why give when there's just so much to take.]

[Greed's footsteps circle like the beating wings of a vulture, closer and closer to something a-twitch in the leaden heat of a dust bowl. A banked fire heralded by the gentle ring of metal, the creak of old boards underfoot.]

[Stocke doesn't flinch; his eyes slit open as the Sin cools his flames, follow him from side to side, but the shade doesn't turn to chase the closing loops. Stocke's shoulders dip slowly down. He knows this dance; as far as he's concerned, he's safe enough that he can't call himself the prey. Better to name his role as the dark patch the vulture casts, shielded from the sun.]

[The shade flicks his tendrils softly, acknowledging. Quiet -] Anyone been causing trouble? [He's thinking of one group, one person in particular - the Toyotomi's new leader, insistent and impatient, an ambitious feather in his cap. But if there was something else, or something more, he'd hardly be surprised. After two months...]

[Stocke tilts his head to the side as he waits for the answer, as if he's considering something. There's a sharp brightness in his gaze, the glint of a scale tipping back and forth - his gaze follows Greed crossing in front of him, the way the demon tosses his head back.]

[It's a long stretch of seconds before the shade's stance shifts. Subtly: a slight drag of one heel to the side, as if he's getting ready for a jump, a hand's fingers bending for a moment at his side. His tendrils are slower as Greed passes through them at his back. Despite it all, Stocke waits until Greed moves out in front of him again, another coil the tighter.]

[Abrupt - the shade closes the last fragment of distance, stepping into the demon's way. The song's familiar to them both, but suddenly Stocke's playing new notes; he reaches to curl fingers around the back of Greed's neck, winding through hair and against scale and smoldering lines. Then he leans up and forward, pressing his lips against the Sin's own.]

[It's clumsy, with a clack of teeth; for all the confidence the rest of Stocke's stance screams, there's something hesitant about this last. Experimental.]

Edited (minor edits; this is why i shouldn't reread tags at 1 am ) 2016-09-12 07:50 (UTC)

[His mouth twists when Stocke's finds it. A fitting smile for something as loathsome as him; a creature terrible to the core. Rotten, selfish. Ryslig chose right when they made him a devil. He can't pretend he's anything different. An easy canvas and while Stocke fumbles through the motions, the Sin's hands trace out his body. Not yet touching, just framing him out: guiding. Like that of a man painting the form of an hourglass between the palms of his hands, yet it's not quite that either. Because he's never been one to fight his nature: it's his cruel definition. One that he's never tried to outrun, never tried to deny, and in a press of claws, he takes it.]

[No hesitation.]

[He hears the protest of leather first; the tips of his nails skirting along the edge of the other's back - infecting, invading. Greed's eyes fall shut. In the end, it's just too much. So much, right here, in his arms. The edges of his teeth pluck at his companion's lip: a gentle warning.] Easy. No need to hurt yourself, hmn?

[A flick of red. The Sin levels his eyes to Stocke's own; seeking them out, searching for that static white that's so much a part of the other as everything else. A blip like that of a bad dial tone, a buzz like a snowed-in television screen. The former homunculus flattens his hand along Stocke's back and with a two-step of his own, he tries to coax him backward.]

[A charm for the wicked.]

[He's never been built for romance. For the kind of politeness that comes with talks over dinner and a fine glass of wine. He's raw, but even in the moment? He does take his time. Stocke's new to this. Maybe not to this particular circumstance, but to the connotation.]

[And he? Well, he's rich with time.]

[Greed peels his mouth away. A touch of smoke hangs on his tongue - like a still-burning cigarette left to extinguish in an empty glass. The smell of it ripe; a taste as scorching as hell-fire and just as potent. The Toyotomi are shelved for the moment. They're just one more thorn they'll have to deal with. Right now though - right now.]

[He couldn't give less a shit. The parasite's kept Stocke away too long and God forbid, someone try to take what's so rightfully his.]

[The Sin pulls his talons away, replacing them with knuckle. There are pieces of Stocke he'll never be able to have: intangible moments. His spine, though; it's a perfect balance. The tendrils that peel away like fog through his fingers, the anchor of a backbone to keep it all together. Greed's forehead slides along the other's temple, the shells of his horns huffing their own, black-gray exhaust. He can smell everything this close and in a second, his hidden grin comes out of its closet. Tooth for tooth against the side of Stocke's temple, a wet peel.]

[The shadow's shadow.]

[And with one snatch, he tests his limits. Greed hums along the other's ear - a broiling, thoughtless hum.]

Go ahead.

[Stocke curves into the prick of Greed's talons at his back, stretching underneath like some tenebrous beast. His hand at Greed's neck slides up, carding through black hair; then it hits one of the Sin's horns and slows, following the spiral with a thumb. The shade's claw scrapes lightly over ridges, disrupting curls of demon's smoke.]

[Stocke himself slows at Greed's prompting and the nip of jagged teeth, his eyelids drifting down halfway. His eyes glow bright, too bright; a soft ring of static round the edges rather than the center. This...]

[They snap back to alertness as the shade catches Greed watching him - he makes a soft noise, questioning. But there's the Sin's hand splayed at his back, a light pressure; Stocke follows along. As he always has, always will, Ryslig permitting.]

[It's a good thing his extra limbs aren't so much a solid encumbrance as another monster's would be: the shade's paying hardly as much attention to his surroundings right now as he should be. His tendrils twist around each other, fan out languidly - jitter to a halt only when the Sin pulls back, leaving Stocke breathing slightly harder than usual. A warmth stays, a kindling furnace very unlike a shade's cool mist.]

[Greed wouldn't be mistaken if he guessed this was entirely new. Stocke'd never had the time or inclination (or had Heiss arranged it that way?), and Ernst... it's entirely possible, but Stocke doesn't like to think of the shattered fragments of memory he now has, let alone search them for something like this. He doesn't want to claim them as his.]

[It means he's flying part-blind.]

[That's nothing unusual. He'll figure it out as he goes; Stocke's made a decision, and he's not often one to turn back.]

[Still, it doesn't keep a self-deprecating quirk from the corner of his mouth when he feels Greed's teeth again. He can sense the press of the demon's knuckles down his spine, the light vibration at the side of Greed's throat as the demon hums; too much he's suddenly overly conscious of, and the rush of static in him's no different.]

[His hand drops from the Sin's neck to his back, the other one rising to meet it; he trails fingers down the membrane of Greed's wings. With gold flames dimmed, there's nothing but a faint sting to them - touch outstrips it, leaving behind a sensation that's not entirely unpleasant. This time it's Stocke's turn to have his eyes slide shut.]

[Over anything else:] Show me.

[Letting go, giving in; it always happens eventually. A few days may pass, a couple of months might go by. But by the end of it all, inevitability catches up. The suggestions and nuances slipping in like a slow-acting poison. It strikes firm between the heartbeats - catching the guarded off their guard and it's all just too little, too late.]

[And now here - here's the moment. The head-on collision and someone's cut the brakes.]

[A blister of red draws along the Sin's face. This close, he can feel every hitch of breath; every twist and curl of Stocke's tendrils as they blindly stretch and touch their way along the wall in a desperate search for an exit plan. Greed idly traces the point of his knuckle along the other's spine. It's an unraveling at its finest. A thread caught on the edge of a nail and here he is. Pulling away the defenses piece by piece, thread by tread. All of it purposely yanked to the right key.]

[The devil's bargain in A-Minor.]

[Greed prompts his heel forward. Its soft edge rolls along the floor, sending the jagged tip of his boot skyward. He's elongated as he moves; like that of a fat-bellied adder chasing down its meal. The venom's already there, it's just a matter of waiting at this point. And wait, he does. Taking the time to count the seconds, to feel the anticipation tightening just a snap out of reach. The edge of his boot lines up neatly against Stocke's and within the moment, he tightens the gap. The bones of his hips meeting the other's in a soft, promising pressure.]

["Show me." So be it.]

Your choice - [Lowered, a whisper flickering on his tongue. Greed's lips pull tight along the Stocke's skull, threatening teeth to skin akin to that of a soft-sided blade. The flat of his boot taps along the other's ankle as he does so - a suggestion to take a step back. To let go and just give, give, give.]

[Because he can never change. There's no cleanse in the world, no baptism strong enough. The cruel incarnation of mortal Sin and here it is: the moment of confession.]

[A sigh of warm air slithers out behind him. Greed leans forward, his freed hand slowly forming along the other's face. A twist of his wrist sends his fingers through Stocke's hair. Bits and slivers thread between his knuckles - the strikes of flash-blonde a stark contrast to the blackened pitch Ryslig's defined him to be. And perhaps, that's what it all boils down to: two, opposing forces drawn together in a clash out of need, out of want, to have. God, have.]

[And oh, oh, does he want it.]

[The Sin's wings fan outward. With Stocke's fingers padding underneath, the ripple effect is almost curtain-like. Leathery skin stretches along the ceiling, its jagged tips drawing into old paint and tobacco stain like a hell-fire sketch. It's there that they anchor. A private shade and finally, his time is up.]

[Greed's teeth meet the side of Stocke's neck with a tentative taste. Not yet biting, not fully. Just existing there - a wolf showing its Alpha colors. A curl of his thumb presses along the other's ear as he does. An access point to trail nip after nip. He follows them down until his that collar stops him again. A beat, a pause, then:] Ah, right. Sorry - [He starts. Though from the tone of it, the apology's half-assed at best. Greed lifts his chin. An industrial whine is what follows - his nails slicing buckle after buckle like that of heat-popped buttons.]

[He only has so much patience, after all.]

[Peeling back defenses, picking open lock after lock. Or perhaps it's the other way round - Stocke unstrapping shield and sword, setting them aside. He'd call it letting down his own defenses.]

[Maybe it's all in how you look at it.]

[It's sure that he follows the Sin's touches easy as a whisper, twisting with the finger trailing down his spine. Step back, let go, ride every moment with the tick of the clock - the shade feels his tendrils flow through something behind him. Cabinet? Wall? Who can tell? Pull back another half an inch as Greed's wings flare out and he'd be able to brace his elbows against it, but he doesn't yet move.]

[It's contact he wants. He's been gone too long, parasite forcing him away and lashing him with a feeling of empty isolation all at once, a mess of push and pull and... And he's too much a monster now, too much a shadow. Maybe someday Ryslig will give up on him, send him back to Alistel and the end of being sacrificed or onward into the dark, but it's here he wants to stay.]

[The Sin's teeth skim over his throat, and Stocke cuts off the low, quiet groan he makes almost before it begins. But the way he slants his head at an angle, baring his neck even without the push of Greed's thumb, is harder to hide. Nor does he try. One hand tangles at the back of Greed's head.]

[No heartbeat, no true pulse, but crashing waves of static at the Sin's fingers, under Stocke's skin like a tide. A static feeling in the air to follow, a cold taste like the snap of the forest after snowfall. Or, perhaps, in fog.]

[Stocke's head rises slightly at the demon's careless apology, eyes slitting barely open. They watch Greed tear through leather, still that same too-bright; the shade's breath catches at the tip of the Sin's claws trailing down the bare skin underneath.]

[It takes him a moment or two, and his voice is rough, raggedy-edged:] Could've just asked, [Stocke says, amused. But he doesn't seem to truly mind.]

[There's two knives hidden underneath, strapped at one side - the shade's fingers skitter over the buckle holding them there blind, catch on it and thumb it open. Belt and sheathes drop to the floor, hitting the wood with a muffled thud. And below that - scars, a criss-cross of old swords and shrapnel, even one round and jagged as though he'd once been impaled. Some of them oddly like an echo, one scar layered almost exactly over another as if by design.]

[Stocke pays them no mind, two of his fingers curling around the edge of Greed's vest. A light tug - that's hardly fair, is it?]

[It's like exposing an electric wire.]

[Static jumps between his teeth. Touches of energy, the sting of a radio signal without a clear destination. They flip in his mouth to the beat of changing channels: going, going, going. But there's nothing on, nothing but him and his and as he flattens the other along the backside wall, the rest of the world tunes out.]

[Somewhere else might have the rights to Stocke, but here? That's not the case.]

[Greed's mouth pulls back when he feels those fingers his hair. It's desperation; a need to claim a surface when all else is null and void. Everything about it is in contrast to Stocke's definition. The solider, the operative; the cold-snap beating at him like a drawn-cracked whip. The Sin twists his heel, forcing it up and around the growing pile of disused armor and weaponry. Belts, knives, sheaths - they're just a mounting tab of Stocke's release. Silently counted, internally memorized, and as he pries the tip of his boot between the other's legs, he steals it all. Forcing them all aside in a careless sideswipe.]

[Stocke's paid his dues over and over again. Time to cough up.]

[A low laugh catches in his jaws. It ghosts along the side of the other's throat - a hot mix of steamy coal and well-kept fire.] Oh-? Should I now. [Hardly a question, hardly an apology. Greed's voice sounds pleased - a note as slurred and sultry as a jackal's salesman pitch. He shifts his thumb when Stocke exposes his throat, the smooth side of his talon retracing his steps up, up, up.] Didn't think you'd really hold it against me.

[The edge of his claw gives a light tick to the bob of the other's throat. A nip, a taste. He knows Stocke's flying blind. Where he'd usually be collected and calm, there's now an utter lack of it. Control lost to the wind: just as wispy and fleeting as a shadow.]

[And really, isn't that just fitting.]

[Greed presses his nose to the dip of the shade's collar. His smile is more clear, then; a touch of the demon through the devil. Stocke's persistent tug on his vest just adds to it and with a compliant shrug, the Sin's arms lace loosely at his back. Fur pulls back from his neck, leather drops away. A bit of give and take and here, there's no exception.]

[Equivalent exchange: the purest form of a trade.]

Guess that wasn't very fair, was it? [The former homunculus talks along the dip of Stocke's neck, his own body slinking down further and further. His knees bend as he does; causing the wall behind them to give a soft shiver of protest. He ignores it, though. A sound on deaf ears and as soft skin turns to rough scars, Greed lets his vest drop from his wrists. It meets the rest of their hoard: a mixed pile of Stocke, of him, tangled together in a fitting kind of poetry.]

[But it's those scars that really have his interest.]

[He's never had the luxury - least, not before now. Wounds had been nothing but a passing breeze - an inconvenience easily erased. And while even Ryslig's left a few of its marks, they're not the same. Greed's eyes open in a glow. Red and purple bleed together as he learns each one. A knot here, a mix of flesh and steel there. They reflect in a broil - as if somehow, they were a personal offense. As if somehow - ]

Tch - [Faint, barely above a whisper. The Sin's teeth lightly touch one another. The snarl is short lived, but still present; like a flash of static itself, the expression is raw. His own, vicious nature coming through. Hurting him is one thing. But one of his?]

[That's a theft he won't so easily ignore.]

[Greed touches his tongue to the back of his teeth. Instantly, his mouth whirls again. A pursed smile sways to one half of his face.] You really are more trouble than you're worth sometimes. [He hums. One of his hands snares the edge of Stocke's shirt, peeling it away with the ease of a hot-knife to butter. Stocke might be learning as he goes, but it's too clear that this is something expected. That he's done this before. Similar canvas, different subject, but the same, age-old result.]

[Nothing ever really changes.]

[Greed's legs bow out. Ten and two they go, allowing him to sink, sink, sink. He's half hovering over the floor by the time he's done, both of his hands slipped behind Stocke's back in interim . They fan out there; the motion covetous, ensnaring. And it's then, that he starts. The Sin leans in. Kiss by kiss, tooth for tooth, he draws his grin down the other's stomach. A marking, a signal.]

[Avarice incarnate written out in faint smoke.]

[Because oh, does he want it. Everything Stocke has, everything that he'll ever be. The Sin pauses when he reaches the jut of the other's hip. Nothing about Stocke is ever entirely there. An image of shadow and mirrors, a creature in half formation. Solid, wispy. But there - there's a point and as he wraps his mouth around bone, the devil finally shows off his teeth.]

[Greed lets the points them hover. A razor's edge hinting at skin. Again, he can feel the protest of static. Like blue electric, it flicks at him. A warning, a challenge. The Sin springs one claw out as he waits; his index merely snaking around the back of Stocke's thigh.]

[A snap, a pinch, and his teeth sink in.]

Edited 2016-09-29 05:02 (UTC)

[Another sharp point at his neck, a huff of warm breath; Stocke should be feeling on edge, threatened. And it'd be a lie to say he's calm. But danger's as far from his thoughts as it would be in the bar down below at sunrise - quiet, empty and slow-moving. Dust spiraling up into rays of sunlight cast from the windows, the crack of the door. ]

[The shade's head drops back against the wall - he exhales, slow, trying to keep it steady. Doesn't entirely succeed.]

['You really are more trouble than you're worth sometimes.' The corner of the Stocke's mouth quirks up.] It's been said, [he agrees. The shade watches Greed in return, eyes only half-open - one hand's fingers trace, curiously, the red lines of alchemy that branch over the Sin's shoulders. Stocke pauses a claw at one of the foci, looping carefully over the circle.]

[Clean, neat, in ruled patterns like something made artificial. About as different an impression from the rest of the Sin as anything could be. But Greed seems to wear them with as much confidence as he does any title: Sin, homunculus, demon. A proud outcast, taking what's thrown to the edges and making it his.]

[And now Stocke does have to brace himself against the back wall as Greed slides further down, marking inch by inch, inevitable as sand dropping down an hourglass. A faint shiver runs up and through, the shade pressing into the spread fingers at his back. Tendrils lash with the effort of keeping the rest of him nearly still - they snap around Greed's hands as if to wrap ribbons around them, constrict into nothing more than fading shadow. It'd take more concentration than Stocke can bring to bear right now to solidify them; keeping the rest of him there is hard enough.]

[In other ways it's easier. The shade feels solid rather than shadow, more than he has in a long while.]

[The Sin's teeth sink in, a pang of sharp sensation Stocke can't describe - his hips buck once, the shade letting out a soft curse, a hissing noise. His hand on Greed's shoulder tightens, the other leaving thin scratches down the wall. Then the shade relaxes, slow; the hiss melds into a quiet, satisfied hum.]

[He lets his hands stretch, then. They spread about the backs of the other's legs; a loose knot of crooked nails and smooth scales wandering up, God, up. Because for as much as he's correction in the artificial, there's something beautiful in the opposite. The uneven edges, the slightly askew. Perfection in the not-so-much and as Greed's grin peels from Stocke's skin, the heels of his palms mold into his backside. Forcing his knuckles to gently skip along the damaged wall.]

[For this is how it is and always will be: the nights of today, of yesterday, written and tallied in claw marks.]

[Faint ribbons of shadow play at his wrists. He can feel them even now; their protest half-assed. Like someone hanging on the edge between the need to hold on and the desire to let go. The last bits sigh across his scales. They linger for a moment; the final threads of a snapping rope and as they give way, the devil releases a breath of his own. Hot, heavy - a question without words:]

["Why don't you show me who you really are."]

[The grip on his shoulder just confirms the answer. Stocke's fingers burrow into his muscle. They're tense, hard, and as the wall behind them cracks in a splinter, a satisfactory tone flips in the Sin's throat. It sticks there - causing bits of lukewarm ash to break free in a tease. Greed shifts his teeth away, moving instead towards the bend of the other's stomach. Most times, Stocke has a look of emaciation. Something skeletal holding the rest of him together like a leaky cage. But in the moment, there's solidity; a surface he can actually touch.]

[And touch he does. Nip by nip, snap by snap, until the edges of his teeth snare the hem of the other's slacks.]

[Greed pins a piece of leather on the points of his jaw.] That so? [As he talks, that smile of his yanks again. A belt loop stretches in a snare; mimicking that of a chew-toy in the mouth a playful canine. The stitches keeping it together are barely holding as is and when he slowly tips his head to the side, he can hear their final moments; the needlework all but giving up the ghost in a protesting hitch.]

[Tck, tck, tck. The last of them let go and here it is: the final locks picked, pulled, and thrown apart.]

[The Sin draws out his nails.] Almost thought you made a habit of it. [He remarks. The tips of his claws jump on a spring of knuckles. There's pressure now - the hooked edges of his talons skipping across leather to draw a faint line. Greed slips both hands between Stocke's thighs. It's a prying pull, a hint. Before his forehead settles along his companion's stomach, allowing his jaws to peel each clasp apart.]

[One daunting flick at a time.]

[Greed's teeth release, leaving pinpricks of darker shadow in a jagged semi-circle; Stocke pulls his claws free of the wall as if in echo, leaving curls of wood, broken splinters behind. His hum peters off, soft. Almost content, but with a bit more...]

[Greed's always been the one to encourage them to embrace a monstrous nature. Nothing wrong with humans, some of them aren't so bad, but there's just as little wrong in being something other - taking advantage in anything it can give you. Fire and shadows and ice, flight and claws, something that comes to fit just as much as the old mortal shape did. It's ironic, then, that right now is when Stocke feels nearly human again. Vulnerable: the static pulsing under his skin flutters and jolts with adrenaline, unsteady like a broken-winged moth. Beating against chinks in panes of glass, as Greed picks off piece after piece of the control slipping from Stocke's grasp; more of them than the shade ever expected. And when he hits the light, oh how bright he'll burn - you might not know what comes after, but talk about a blaze of glory.]

[It's long gone past when Stocke could back off, even if he wanted to. Maybe - ever since that first night when he held a line of shining steel to Greed's throat - he never really could.]

[Greed nips a line down his stomach again, quick sharp touches one after another; the shade's breaths hitch in the occasional broken shard as he tries to stop a noise, a shudder of sensation. The Sin's having the exact effect he's probably planned to - winding Stocke up a second time, past lazy satisfaction, the coil stretching tighter and tighter until sometime soon it'll snap.]

[The demon's teeth snag on one of his belts, almost a breather. The glint of pointed teeth means he's nowhere near done, but Stocke catches himself while he can; his free hand undoes buckles Greed hasn't reached yet, with less accuracy than before, but his tendrils curve forward, reaching, reaching -]

[A huff of breath, and -] Yours, aren't I? [It's meant like this: the Nest's always been nothing but trouble; of course he's the same. Habit, package and parcel. But there's too much in it to just be teasing back.]

[Ryslig shattered him when it first made him eat souls, and he glued himself back together with Greed and the Nest, filled up the gaps of himself he lost with the same. 'Yours' is too deep a truth. Tie him here...]

[Besides: to Stocke, it's never been more trouble than it's worth.]

[For all that the shade's trying not to tumble entirely just yet - making it a last challenge? pure habit? maybe none of them, maybe all - he moves along with the Sin's every light push and pull. Greed dances him near the brink, and for a moment Stocke can almost (almost) understand what the Sin's avarice is really like. He wants, with the burning intensity of the sun he can no longer see; wants Greed not to stop, wants to push back, wants to pull the demon up and return the favour, wants everything all at the same time, with every contradiction. The shade makes a choked whine, deep in the back of his throat - the hand on Greed's shoulder scores up his back instead, and it's only what is left of Stocke's control that keeps it from sinking in too deep. The tug upward is half-hearted at best: let the Sin choose.]

[The other. It's always been his definition - the man on the other side of the tracks, the creature that could easily pass for human if he ever cared to try. So close, but yet so very, very far. He's a step from the normal, a heel in the everything-but, and even against all Ryslig's attempts otherwise, the result's still the same:]

[A king for the freaks, a high-hand for the monsters; wrapped up and crowned by whatever normalcy leaves behind.]

[Maybe that's what makes this so easy. For him, the others, this is their day-to-day. The white-fences replaced by neon lights, the family dinners a table set by scowling faces and needling teeth. For them, history isn't photographed: it's memorized. Each mug of beer is an instant. Every clogged ashtray, a familiar reminder. And even as they're swiped, cleaned, and tossed out for the next big night, the stains of yesterday remain. Somehow, it's always been this way and as Stocke's words curl into his ear, a thin smile edges on the Sin's face.]

["Yours, aren't I?" "We'll always be - "]

[A light heat plays in his arrays. It's the final confession he needs and oh, does Stocke give it so well. No need to ask; no seconding guessing. Just admission in the rawest form. Greed wraps the palms of his hands around his companion's hips and with a gentle thud, his knees brace along the back wall. He matches Stocke's spread with one of his own. The insides of his thighs graze either side of the other's legs - a vice of leather, muscle. The chord of his tail curls out from behind him, then. Under a dim light, it takes on the look of an armored adder. Crooked steel peels across the floorboards, the gems catch on old ash. But it's not the floor it's looking for, oh no.]

[Because if Stocke wants to be tied here: so be it.]

[Greed wraps a loose knot around one of Stocke's ankles. Carefully, slowly. Because now, oh now, he can draw it out. That want, that need. The vice of his tail tightens and with a purposeful yank, he tries to pry the other's leg wide open. Dust skitters from the floorboards in the aftermath; like that of a desperate, centuries held sigh. The soot sticks to the air and as he pulls his head away, his image seems to disappear.]

[A ghost in the darkness.]

[One second goes by, another. But he's not far. A purple(ing) red blisters through the smoke. It filters through the grainy air like high beams in a fog; weighted, murky. All the while, the devil presses his thumbs neatly into the other's skin. He keeps the bones between his fingers trapped in a kind of vice. Not too hard, but not so soft as to let the other go. Of course, Stocke could easily slip out if he chose to. But for right now, that doesn't seem to be the case.]

[He's right where he wants to be; where he should have been all those months ago.]

[A snap of his thumb and Greed peels Stocke's pants wide open.] Remember - you can't really hurt me. [His words come in a drift. He applies a bit of pressure, pushing the pads of his fingers up just for the feel of it. While Stocke's usual form is nothing but bone and shadow, something here has changed. A bit of muscle bleeding on through and fuck if it isn't a sight.]

[Greed curls his fingers into a leather hem and with a bristle of heat, he snatches a zipper, catches a belt. Pulling the last bits apart so that he can finally have what he so rightfully deserves.]

[Months, after all, are a long time to account for.]

[A quiet impact at the wood on either side, the press of leather encircling him - a vise, a trap. Stuck between a demon and a hard place, but it's the first Stocke curls toward; this is a trap he's not looking for a way out of. The bait's still reeling him in - it's there even as the Sin's tail snakes around him, even as Stocke takes in a sharp breath, eyes flickering a broken television pattern. His expression's hard to parse - a study in a pendulum, swinging back and forth.]

[The tug like rope's his prompt; he slips down the wall an inch as his legs slide further apart, re-braces himself. he air hangs heavy in the room, too warm, heat caught in soot and ash; a furnace behind a grate still makes itself known, and a Sin's presence isn't so easily forgotten. A symphony of brimstone dust.]

[The shade raises himself from the wall with a push of his elbows as Greed pulls away, his sound of protest snapped in half and dropped into silence. That same scale swinging up and down - on the one side, learned instinct beaten into him over the years (keep hold, keep control); on the other, everything else, conscious thought and want both telling him to give in. (By now, the Sin could hold it tipped with one finger).]

[He's still pinned in place; Greed's not leaving. A smear of purple and red through the smoke like a smirk worn in the eyes.]

[The Sin's fingers press in, and Stocke writhes, desperate noise strangled through his teeth - he's more than half-hard already, as Greed pulls the last bit of leather down. 'Remember - you can't really hurt me.' That's something you could near call an invitation; the shade curves forward, his claws digging into the Sin's back just above where his wings connect. His breath comes in soft, startled pants.]

[The shade just stays for length of two heartbeats, strung taut as a wire. Then his eyes flare bright with determination, claws sinking in just that little bit deeper; there's a whiplash of shadows from his back.]

[His tendrils reach around his back, winding. But this time they're just on the other edge of corporeal, a misty but physical touch - one snarls about one of the Sin's legs, another traces lightly up his arm. Stocke's head drops as a third runs down Greed's spine, between his shoulderblades, and the shade's grip loosens. He exhales, slow and ragged - he can feel all of them...]

[The claws at his back tattoo into his skin. He had almost forgotten what pain felt like - the sensation an aching sting. It's one that holds onto the bob of his throat, that tastes at the back of his jaw in a scratch of warm acid. Like that of windpipe that's been suddenly clenched shut.]

[And yet, not at all unpleasant.]

[Blood swells from the sharp pricks, the beads of which take on the look of a fresh-rung sweat. Greed arches his back into the feeling, into the tug of desperation practically begging him to get on with it. The last domino falls into place and just like a prod of a maniacal finger, he topples it over: a full exposure. Of everything Stocke's become, accepted, and thrived to be, steadied between the palms of more covetous hands.]

Hn - [Greed's click of laughter huffs along Stocke's stomach.] - see, wasn't that hard, was it? [In his exhale, the air is steamy and toxic - a poisonous cocktail of addiction that seems to answer the friction in the tendrils around him; as if they're fed up and worn with Stocke's stubbornly-human control. "Be the monster," they seem to say. "Take what you want." And oh, could the Sin not agree more.]

[Monsters and those there of have always been his best company.]

[Greed splays his palms open. Stocke's hips fill neatly between them - as nail after nail, claw after claw, he takes what he wants. A grand theft of the personal variety and with sizzle at the tip of his tongue, the devil prepares himself for the final grab. Muggy vapor lifts from the sharps of his teeth, the pucker of fire extinguishing silently in his throat. Greed rolls his lips inward and with that, the insinuation's clear:]

["Better hold on tight, lovely - lest you want to get bit."]

[Stocke's already started showing the symptoms far before the devil takes him in. The Sin's forehead presses into the dip of the other's stomach, exposing his horns like a pair of lifelines in a turbulent sea. Despite his second's clear inexperience, after the initial introduction's over, the former homunculus holds no more bars. He swallows Stocke inch by inch, the threat of his teeth a reminder of just who and what he is.]

[A man, but not; a ghost, only slightly. But still a guru for the unabashedly needy.]

[With a serpentine flick, Greed's tongue slides out from the bottom of his jaw. The forks split along the other's cock - an elongated trace hinted with a pinch of sulfur. He can taste all of it now; the shade's corporeal design a chill, DC-charge. Positive and negatives do battle in the shell of his throat, causing his shoulders to roll and undulate. Igniting his internal hearth and when they meet, he disregards any kind of warning. Greed's talons bite into the handle of Stocke's hips. They try to force him forward - dragging him, plunging him deeper down his gullet as simple and drowning as a devil's bargain.]

[Because oh, how easier it is just to fall.]

[It takes Stocke a moment, as Greed's hands run over his hips - but:] ...I am learning from the best. [His voice is tinged with the same heat that seeps over the floorboards, spills as smoke from Greed's words.]

[Then the Sin's mouth wraps around him, and Stocke's thoughts snap over like a jarred switch - the shade's head and shoulders jerk back, hitting the wall again. He breathes out a word with his eyes suddenly shut, too staggered and soft to truly make out; 'Prophet,' maybe. Or maybe something else.]

[Whatever it is, the touch of Greed's tongue twists it into a thin, pleading sound; Stocke's claws drag up the demon's back, sharp points in deep, then release and catch a tight grip on the Sin's shoulders. As if the shade's slipping, trying to hold on. A tendril brushes gently over the marks left, then settles into a loose, dangling coil at Greed's neck.]

[Stocke's hips twitch as the Sin's nails dig in, trying to restrain himself from thrusting forward with Greed's lips curled around him. An audible 'hhh-h' of breath, stomach tensed against the demon's horns, a heavy inhale in the seconds after - Stocke's flushed, skin shading dark gray rather than red. His fingers drop off the Sin's shoulders to sink into the wall behind him a second time, and he mouths what might be a curse, might be a prayer.]

[He follows the pull with unsteady legs, leaning forward.]

[The shade's tendrils are more sure where Stocke's not - almost with a mind of their own, but it's nothing but the shade's own eagerness fueling them. The one wound about Greed's leg snakes higher, cupping the front of the demon's pants with a faint pressure; another curls around the Sin's back entire, just under the seam of his wings, and traces a nearly possessive line across his chest.]

Edited ('teri are you going to edit this like 3 hours later' yes) 2016-10-24 06:19 (UTC)

[Prophet, but there are none here - only the exact opposite. Everything the conventional world frowns upon, the concept of virtue living in a paradox. The Sin's mouth twists when he hears it and while it's too haughty to accurately make out, the feeling's just the same. A breaking submission - like that of the very thing he is, corrupting indefinitely.]

[And Lord forgive him, he just can't help himself.]

[A shallow grunt wheezes from his nostrils. It rides on ribbons of smoke - their tangles meeting the cool touch of shadow like some sort of informal handshake. He can smell the tint of copper, now. The taste of it is tinny in the back of his throat: a flavor riddled with charcoal and soot. He pries the curls of his talons from Stocke's thighs and with a fan of his fingers, with a spread like wildfire, he begins to take the rest of him. His hands stretch along the other's stomach, meeting dark gray to an impossible black. Taking his time, his chances, before delivering the final blow.]

[After all, Stocke just has so much to give. And give, he does.]

[Greed's hands meld into the other's ass; a handful each. He doesn't miss how much those tendrils seem to give it away. Where his second's still staggering with his choices, his nature is more primal. It doesn't question what it wants, doesn't hesitate to take what it needs. The Sin flicks his glance upward. His eyes roll lazily in their sockets: as if daring that monster to come out. To seek and take what it so blatantly needs in a shiver of cat-sliver points.]

[No need to hold back. Not anymore.]

[Another hum vibrates at the back of his throat. He presses the pads of his fingers atop the other's backside, allowing him to act where Stocke so pointedly hesitates. Bob for bob, he devours the other: the swell of a hard-on half shoved down his throat like a means of suffocation. And all the while, he can't keep his hands busy enough. They skirt down the backs of Stocke's thighs, trace lines across his skin. Only to come back again: as if he's just itching for it. As if this is just one more addiction he can never quite satisfy.]

[Never enough: it's never enough. And deep down, all he hears is the same old drum. Beating, pounding, in an indefinite loop.]

["More, more, more. Give me more, give me more - "]

[Behind him, the devil's wings suddenly snap wide. They expand from one side of the room to the other - like that of a sail in high water breaking its binds. Deeper wounds cut into the ceiling, harder scorches ferment in the walls. It's the proverbial switch and Stocke's all but thrown it. Whatever sort of control's gone now and as the Sin's fingers peel around the back of his companion's thighs, Greed eases skull back. Pulling his lips away, away, away until only the head of a cock remains.]

[The motion is deliberate. A dare:]

["Go on and show me what you've got."]

[Call it a contradiction. Or say something else about prophets; someone spreading a word doesn't have to spread one of virtue.]

[Stocke exhales a long, not-quite-silent groan, a stream of colder air in among the weight of ashen embers. The shade's claws pull free of the wall in a single crack, shards and splinters of wood crackling down to fade in a fog made of devil's smoke. Shattered lights outside flicker a short lamp-light motif, a spark jumping between split wire curls - a shade's power of short-circuit snapping energy free.]

[Greed takes it slow, stretches it out through the fall of an hourglass, and it's just too much. Stocke inhales to speak - breaks off in a strangled sound as the Sin hums, vibration traveling what feels like all the way up the shade's spine. Tries again -] Boss - Greed - [Name and title and reflection of 'Yours, aren't I?' all together now,] - please -

[Stocke's not oft one to beg, but just this once he'll make an exception.]

[The shade's not watching, and that's his mistake; there's the whooshing spread of the Sin's wings, fire buffeted up by wind and fuel, and then Greed pulls back and pauses, daringly. Stocke's eyes snap open, and he stares down wild-eyed and near-feral. Free tendrils lash, a snick of partially-formed shadow against the walls. Prophet help him, boss, you're going to kill him.]

[But he can't say he hasn't been enjoying the ride.]

[The shade's fingers curl into the hair at Greed's nape, pulling tight but in no particular direction. Even breathing hard as he is, even a-quiver with tension, Stocke can't bring himself to take in the way the Sin's challenging him to do; too hard and fast a dagger against who he is. But he can match the game his own way.]

[A tendril snakes under the border of Greed's built, tracing slowly down. Winds in careful loops around the Sin's shaft, stroking up the underside.]

[Trickles of fire snake around his ear. This is what he's been waiting for: the last chord in a string tuned too tight. It plays on every note: from the tremble of stolen electricity forced off its wire to the squelch of a wall as its peeled back and exposed. Under nails so tense, so full of disregard that they forget their place. Greed eases his mouth open. The strangle of shadows between his legs brings a heat to his smile; a delicate lick of humidity testing on the points of his razors as they frame around the tip of the other's cock like the threat of a testing trap.]

[And there it is, the final throes: "Please."]

[Greed pushes backward. The base of his skull forms into Stocke's twisted fingers - applying the pressure, giving him the answer without the need to communicate. It's cruel, really: how much he's played the other. How long he's plucked that string bit by bit. The Sin drags his hand backward and with a casual flick of his nail, he leaves his mark across skin. A delicate reminder of where he was and where he'd always be.]

[But never be said that the devil doesn't give as good as he gets.]

[Further away, the underside of his palm huffs in a wad of steam - as if the aftermath of a shower had been trapped between his nails, desperate for freedom. Greed extends his index. He churns it twice, twirling both fog and smoke in a tight, relentless knot.] Turn around - [He starts in; an order as cool as fresh-dipped carbon. No, he's been far too coy and now, now - ]

[A strum of steel shivers from behind him. His tail's on the move; wandering, searching, for something in particular. The Sin's jaw closes up to a faint line and as wood catches on the spade of his tail, his lips offer a mild crack: that vicious line of his coming back to view with terrible intentions in mind. A drawer nearby springs open, a couple of items rattle. And with a light clap of his heels, the former homunculus rises to stand. He pops the button to his pants blindly open - by a the dip of his nail, the quick-jerk snap of a thumb that's as ingrained into him as everything else.]

[After that, it's just logic. Greed guides his free hand across Stocke's hip as a pivoting motion. Slow, like a dance better people might take under finer circumstances. He spreads his knuckles along the thin of the other's torso: mapping black scales to dark tendrils with only his tattoo to separate the differences.]

[Because oh, is this just fine. Up against the wall, spread out, for him and him alone.]

[The Sin pushes his nose into the back of Stocke's head. Whatever he went searching for, it disappears into his other hand. Greed hooks the tips of his talons into the lip of it. Plastic whines back, a lick of burning pops away. What remains is the warped cap of a bottle - its last effort falling helplessly between the two in a singular ping and a vicious crunch.]

[Greed spits something to the floor.] Don't hold back - [Trilled, whispered. The Sin slides his hand between Stocke's legs. Slick oil warms on the backs of his knuckles, along his nails made quickly short. He guides one finger inside, then another. A slow coating inch by inch until he can go no further.]

Edited 2016-11-15 02:03 (UTC)

[Stocke watches Greed pull back, soft huffs of slightly colder air slipping between his teeth into the blanketing furnace of the Sin's room. For a moment he doesn't move; then he unwinds his fingers, letting the demon pull away without protest, though his free tendrils lash with held-in energy. Even the faint prick of the Sin's teeth brushing over his cock, the sharp-edged almost-warning: that's nothing to deter him. The tip leaks, slowly, a dark smoke - barely a shade or two lighter than Stocke's shadowy blood.]

['Turn around' - the shade's eyes flicker, and for a moment he hesitates. His tendrils have tangled themselves well and good about Greed's limbs, and though they start to slowly unwind, he watches the demon with an odd glint to his expression. One last time, before his limbs retreat: he leans forward to taste the Sin's mouth again. Less tense than the first attempt, more heated, if not quite slow; with a charge like contained lightning. Tendrils run over Greed's shoulders, his sides. The one below his belt snakes away haltingly, as if reluctant.]

[Finally Stocke draws back and turns, eyes half-lidded - orders are orders, after all.]

[The shade braces upper arms against the wall, stretching into the spread of the Sin's knuckles; a quiet hum runs up and down his throat as Greed presses a grin against the back of his head. One errant tendril takes the chance to curve again over the demon's shoulders. It's almost proprietary; Stocke can't say he's not started to learn some habits from the one standing behind him.]

[Despite everything, Stocke goes momentarily stiff at the first press of a finger inside him - a soft, static hiss pushing past his tongue at the sensation. He reins in his breathing, steady and controlled, and relaxes very deliberately; the Sin's unhurried and careful, oil making it easy instead of rough, and the feeling's.... not quite comfortable, but not quite unpleasant. As the seconds tick by, the shade starts to go slack by reaction instead of calculated choice.]

[Then the Sin's fingers push against a spot that makes Stocke jolt full-bodied, knees buckling against the wall. He pulls in a startled mouthful of air, eyes wide and bright.]

[Lips against his, a curl of shadow along his shoulder; they bring about a wicked smile. A press of razors to the electric charge - stealing from it, inhaling it, as sweetly as a Siren's kiss. A soul's cost in a devil's transaction. Not tangibly per his nature, but still the idea of it. As if he could swallow everything Stocke is, everything he could ever be, in a parade of grins and a striking touch. The very embodiment of sin itself tracing him from end to end with nothing more than a sharp inhale along the points of his teeth. Greed leans forward and with a flick, his free hand opens wide. The tips of his tails shrilling a low, industrial whine.]

Easy - [He starts. The curls of his fingers go slack as he talks; something a touch ginger, more relaxed. A hum vibrates at the back of his jaws and while his wrist bends, while his hand forms between Stocke's legs, he follows him through. Pushing just one knuckle deeper, one length further, until there's no more to give. Greed's mouth purses to a line, his breath fingering into the shell of the other's ear with a heated temptation.] - no need to hurt yourself, hmn?

[Under a smokey haze, his fingers tentatively pat down the other's hip. Claw after claw, nail after nail, he counts his skin; pressing the pads of his fingers along the thin of Stocke's torso like that of blind man tracing his surroundings. For as much as he's seen the other, this is something different. It's a moment to convey to memory. Each of his scars a tally; every intake of breath, a piece to count. The former homunculus spreads his fingers one, last time - pressing his pinkie and thumb along the other's rear before he pushes past the last knuckle. Steadying himself, closing the gap, and it's there, that he holds.]

[For, if nothing else, he's at least going to make it count.]

[Where the wall gives, Greed motions his palm along Stocke's stomach. Fragments and pieces, static and shadow; they play between his fingers as he goes. His curved nails draw along muscle, their edges following the other's bend like that of a surgeon's knife hovering at a starting point. But instead of cutting, he merely trails. Until he finds just what he's looking for and with an underhanded grab, he wraps his palm around the base of the other's cock. A daunting move done one finger at a time.]

[Relentless, egotistical, and oh, isn't it just him.]

[Greed's mouth opens behind Stocke's head. His nose back against the crook of the other's neck, he slowly glides his fingers out. A touch of a noise tickles at his jaws, then; a smile, perhaps. An expression a little more sincere, a hint of appreciation. The Sin runs the back of his knuckles around the other's curves. They're subtle in parts, sharper in others, and when he grazes a hipbone, his hand makes a grab for it. Coaxing, leading, the other back, back, back.]

[When they meet, he's already ready. Greed spreads his knees. His stomach hitches, his hips roll. Until the two of them are merely skin to skin, allowing the tip of his cock to press between Stocke's legs. The movement is easy, slow - like he's savoring the moment. Letting it simmer on baited breath, holding it out one second at a time. The Sin's jaws open wide and as he threatens it along Stocke's shoulder, he finally gives in. Sinking himself deep in one, gliding arch.]

[Greed's fingers run down his torso like someone strumming an instrument, plucking strings, tracing over scars and skin. As if the Sin's trying to figure out how to tune the notes, play the scale. But it's the fingers inside Stocke that are really playing him, now that he's gotten used to the feeling - he groans into his arm, muffled, at the twist of them. Pushes backwards himself for the bit more sensation.]

[Greed's huff of breath on his ear has him turning his head to give the Sin a sideways, half-hearted glare - part dry, part pleading. He's been catapulted between too much and too little what feels like thirty, forty times; the roulette's stopped on the latter again, and he just wants Greed to move.]

[The tendril around Greed's shoulders pulls tighter, and Stocke reaches down to give himself a bit of friction, but the Sin gets there first. Stocke's hand pauses, catching on the seam between black scales and skin - he drops his head forward into the curve of his arm as Greed's fingers wrap around. Carbon-coating warmer than a shade's fingers, and a texture smooth like diamond in snake-skin patterns. Stocke's eyes shut a moment, a soft sound catching behind his tongue.]

[His free hand traces up the Sin's arm with slightly less urgency than before.]

[Stocke's head lifts again as the Sin eases his fingers out, another tendril lashing out to wrap around Greed's wrist, then loosening without a pull. He hardly needs any coaxing to move - just the cue. Shadowy limbs twist impatiently out of the way as Greed takes his time, then dissipate entirely into incorporeal shapes and smoke. Gone like they've never been to leave room for drawing closer.]

[There's another quiet shade's hiss when the Sin finally pushes in, tone and tinge and taste of it more pleased than anything. It's a faint burn and stretch, but also a pang of static like broken stars all through him - Stocke breathes, snagging at air heavy enough that he's nearly panting again. Clenching and relaxing, feels his pulse strum through with a shade's electric energy. Then, after a beat of maybe five - slow and careful, he rolls his hips forward and back again.]

[There's a kind possessiveness to his touch; a fine lining of warmed hearth and shallow need laced across his fingers in licks of long-set ash. It plays off the tips of his nails in a fever - like that of silk threading itself into a tight knot. Twisting, claiming. And as Stocke finds himself again, the Sin's right behind him; a presence living in sheets of smoke and dust just brimming with anticipation.]

[And here, here it is.]

[He can feel the cold chill of shadow as he presses into Stocke's back. It meets his skin in a bristle; the lightest touch of a charge flickering along his scales to the tune of twitching, static purple. A quick vibration. As if the last bit of doubt's finally letting go - like that of a broken-end cable firing off a final shock. And as it shreds away, the devil inhales on a hint of a grin. In the end, he can never get enough of this; the look of Stocke's face pressed into his arm, the sound of his nails beating into the wall. It's just another memory - another keepsake of what is and will always be:]

[His.]

[Between the hanging gloom, the bones of his rib-cage gently ignite from the inside out. Beats of fire and heat boom inside. They writhe and jerk, the flashes of bright white and cracked orange similar to that of a trapped thunderhead trying to pound its way out. The Sin's lips pull wetly back and as his stomach clenches, he follows the other's lead. The coil of his hip riding Stocke's arches in a soundless, daunting rhythm.]

[The possession of a creature bound by the desire to have, have, have.]

[But he doesn't forget. With one hand snared around the curve of Stocke's hip, the Sin plays the rest. His fingers tap down the length of the other's cock like a fiddle; timing every thrust to a jerk, a pull back to a coil. The curves of his nails flip inward and with a soft trace, he fingers the head of the other's cock. Rolling it, pressing it, into the pads of his fingers like that of a treasured coin worth counting over and over again.]

[And God, is it fucking worth it.]

[Greed hums into Stocke's neck. Dull reds and faint purples sink into the wall's scars. They're deeper in some places, lighter in others; the evidence of Stocke's repent a confession of bites and scratches that will probably stay far after either of them realize. The Sin lowers his head. His jaws wheeze open, then. A whirl of smoke faints between his teeth - the silent whisper akin to a wick that's been suddenly snuffed out. The hand around Stocke's hip clenches down and with a beckoning pull, the Sin finds his pace. Riding, rocking. And, as one of the lights outside clinks off, his teeth latch onto the bend of Stocke's shoulder. An anchor of points to leave a reminder.]

[No matter where Stocke goes, no matter what happens, he'd always be there; in one form, or another.]

[It's like the roar of a forest fire or volcano's eruption, a force of nature, consuming. The lights at Greed's throat and ribs and wings and scales act brimstone illumination and pulsing rhythm alike, and Stocke can near feel the Sin's satisfaction in the very blood and breath of the air around them - ashen haze and glimmer in the walls, an inhale whistling through a Cheshire's grin of pointed teeth. The hum at the base of Stocke's neck he feels more in sensation than in sound.]

[It's hardly alone. The shade stifles small, faintly needing noises with every rock of the Sin's hips, writhing with the careful-casual play of Greed's fingers, relentless as the gleam of gold. Presses back even into the flicker of the demon's ribs, storming lights and all, moves with the beat the Sin's found.]

[In the end it's the bite of Greed's teeth that does it, just one feeling too many when Stocke can already hardly think - the shade comes apart under the Sin's fingers, shuddering. A wordless cry that's too glitched-recording to have come from a truly human throat, nowhere near the strength of a shout but still a volume above what came before.]

[Stocke's eyes slide half-open a moment later (when did they close?). Though he's still catching his breath, there's a lazy feeling seeping deep through his bones - as if he were basking in sunlight, were he still a creature of day. An ease of tension on a level he hasn't felt in weeks, if not much longer.]

[But there's only a stutter of a second before he starts moving again - time to pay it back.]

[It's the sensation of a power surge; the jump of erratic static, the blip of a current finally finding its ground. He expects it to sting; the threat of electricity all but teasing the smalls of his hairs. Any moment, it could jolt through his bones. Burning him, igniting him, in a thundercloud's charge. But it doesn't happen. Instead, the sensation is of in mid-collapse; a chord unraveling under his fingers piece by piece until he's reached its last tether. And at the end of it, a faint shrill - Stocke's shudder a mere echo playing through his skull as wordlessly as feedback on a bad connection.]

[But oh, oh, is it satisfying.]

[The Sin's teeth pluck themselves from the other's shoulder. He moves his hands away from him, then; the stretch of his palms pressed flat against thighs that seem warmer, more solid somehow. And as his would-be partner collects himself again, a small hitch of an inhale hisses along the Sin's teeth. It puckers there; a sharp sound sparking behind his teeth like a struck match fighting an alleyway wind. Stocke doesn't take long to find his rhythm. It comes in clear; the mild haze leaving as quickly as an burnt-out overcast and it's the devil that nips at his heels. Following every rock, every roll, with exhaustive attention. As if he could still take his time; as if he could make the seconds last for hours to take in every moment with selfish disregard.]

[The very definition of his namesake.]

[Greed lifts one of his hands away. It plants itself close to the wall - a sprung-trap snarl of nails and claws burying itself between the scratches Stocke had left not minutes before. Smokey lines cut along the marks. They bear in heavy; a spread of gauges meeting the Shade's own in breathy strokes of chill, quick-fire smoke. Where there had been splinters before, only a couple of curls remain. And as the Sin grips the other's hip for leverage, the spread of his wings fans them out. Creating small speckles that glint deep inside the wood like fireflies blinking out in the night.]

[When he speaks again, all that comes out is a short exhale. Something tinny, sharp - like that of tea-kettle plucked off a stove-top and while his muscles tighten, while his stomach knots, the Sin's mouth snaps into an unyielding grin. Allowing a thin huff of steam to whistle and whine between the points of his teeth.]

[Without the dire strumming of static through his veins, snapping under his skin like lightning running to the heights - an insistent drum of 'more' over and over, and maybe other 'please's that the shade didn't voice - Stocke finds it easier to start drawing in his surroundings again. Catching something more than just the feeling of Greed on him, in him, a vicious desperation like a circuit freshly closed.]

[The Sin could drag him back there, he knows, given nothing more than a bit of time. But right now he feels like a candle charred to the bottom, burnt out, warm and languid as the pool of wax left when the fire snuffs out.]

[For now he'd rather this. It's easier to hear the soft hiss of Greed's breath, in and out, feel the way the demon's muscles tense and go lax. Wings spreading as if the Sin can't keep them pulled close, the splinter of claws in wall and fire glimmer sown below the wood. A scorching satisfaction like sparks at the edge of a bonfire; a reaction, felt instead of given.]

[Stocke's head drops back. He curls his mouth against Greed's neck, deliberate, a hum buzzing soft and electric down his spine and through his throat, up to his teeth. The shade leaves one elbow braced, but the other falls; Stocke's fingers slide down the arm leading down to his side, then run claws in a circle around a crimson-bright Ouroboros. A snap of his hips - the demon's greedy greedy greedy, but Stocke has just avarice enough to want to yank the Sin over the edge in return.]

[There's a different kind of pleasure in this.]

[The current speaks more to his core than anything else. A battery power on the rough Stocke's fingers, a shock on the edge of his lip that coaxes like a black widow's kiss. It's poisonous and commanding; the small jolts and static cling enough to grip his rottenness to the bone. The Sin's wings suddenly go lax and as the other leads him on, the roles feel oddly switched. As if he's being baited, being coaxed, over the edge with nothing more than a silent promise:]

["Come, come, monster. Just a little closer - "]

[Greed's mouth cracks. It splits a hair open - a broken smile made in wicked teeth and deadly desire. He inhales sharply against the back of his throat; taking in the smell, swallowing the charge. This is it: his would-be kingdom made in the touch of it. The feel of everything that's his ripped down to the bare minimum. Avarice's greatest reprise and Stocke's playing all the right chords. All the right notes plucked and pulled with the silent composition of giving in.]

[The Sin's wings snap into the walls and as their tips scrape aside old paint, his stomach knots; a sigh escapes him. Like the first, needed take of breath. Greed buries his cock, the last twitch of muscle exiting on the spade of his tail. It shivers once - the jingle and chime of steel a distant, yet haunting echo.]

[The devil's quiet satisfaction.]

[A brief wave of fire silhouettes through his wings then; the tight membranes drawing out a kind of flutter like the backside of a tapestry with a story to tell. Orange taps through his veins, gold chases through his scales. Greed plants his hands flat against the wall and as his body eases back, the touch of his nose grazes against Stocke's neck. Tasting it, taking in each scent as if it's some sort of gift. He only pauses once he gets to the other's collarbone - the last draft of smog slipping from his nostrils in a thin, silvery-shine sheet.]

Why don't you stick around this time, hmn? [Greed's voice slurs. It's not so much as a suggestion as it is an inclination and while the Sin pulls away, the backs of his knuckles gently graze Stocke's hip. An informal invitation that needs no repeating.]

[The rest of the day, for what it's worth, can wait.]

[A soft sense of victory kindles in Stocke's chest, with the strain and the break and the fall - fed by sigh and gentle ringing of metal and the pulse of firelight, cupped carefully in his thoughts like something to be protected. From absences, from the troubles of rival factions, from all the rest of it; there's that, to worry about in good time, and then there's - this.]

[The shade's circuit-hum abates, receding back to that quiet, static pattern always circling his bones. He blinks slow, eyelids starting to drop once again; the Sin drawing back leaves him feeling slightly colder, and he leans into the graze of the demon's knuckles at his hip, the breath at his neck. Which almost answers Greed already, but -]

[The slur of words pulls that quirk from the edge of Stocke's mouth again. It changes, somehow, into a faint smile even with his eyes shut - small, soft, momentary, but solid as anything real. His tendrils wind slow.]

[Stocke's fingers brush over the brilliant-gold veins in the leather of Greed's wings.] I'll stay, [he says, but it sounds a little bit like an 'Of course.' After all the rest, he can burely call it a plunge.]

[He follows Greed with his eyes still closed, trusting sound and Sin as guides.]

>ever heard the name AM/

[Oh, does that ring a bell.]

you cld say tht

somt hing i shold know?

>interesting >looks like im rolling snake eyes today >tell me what you know

nt mch if thts what youre asking

ha d an iss ue wit one ofuours. does nt show up mch bbt ive alwys made it a pliint not tohurt womnn

seems like thi s one hs othr ideas

now yi wann a tell me wht this is ab out?

>the reason ive been babysitting a body in my basement

[Greed was there, he would know.]

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN01

[The recording starts with an audible click. Hollow, bony - the tap of a claw against a plastic surface. He doesn't need the name to know exactly who Dante's referring to. The body in the basement; another unsuccessful result of the parasite removal. But where some had been mistakes, others -]

[Others aren't adding up.]

Ehh - [A sigh slinks from his jaws. The exhale's lengthy and smooth; the taste of a late-night cigarette just dangling on the edge of his tongue. Greed shifts his leg and the chair below gives a muted thnk in reply.] - Lady, right?

I haven't met him before, if that's what you mean. [Even without a face to go with it, it's hard not to imagine: his animated expression. The leathers on his wrist clink together, his claws unfurl.] But there's one here who's been with him before. She had a few bruises on her when I first met her. Eponine - [The Sin starts in. She's not as frequent as some of the rest, so the likely hood of her and Dante running into one another is slim. But - ]

Wouldn't give me much more than that. Seemed to me like she didn't want to start any more trouble. But you know me: even I have some standards. [An edge to his words; as thin and jagged as a switchblade. He doesn't know AM, nor does he know all the details.]

[But really, that doesn't mean much.]

[Greed lets his arm fall and on the other side of the line, a splintering creak sounds off. Like a musket through old, tired wood.]

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN02

[When the second recording starts up, the receiving end of the line is nothing sort of a terrible bristle: the threat of a sneer touching just out of view.]

[Greed lifts his sunglasses from the table.] So - Bavan, then?

[That's right, Greed doesn't like typing so much. Which is fine, Dante isn't as much in the mood for speaking so hopefully the devil won't mind if he continues to awkwardly clack away with his hooves.]

>who else/

[There aren't a lot of people in this world or his own that Dante would go out of his way for, but Lady is definitely one of them. Certainly Greed would understand that much. Of course he'd brought her home, his own death had taught him the trauma of waking up in a strange place, weak with death exhaustion an blindly trying to find your way home. His brother hadn't brought him back, he saw a body as just that: a sack of meat. Dante, who has spent his entire life in the human world understands the awkward value humans place upon the deceased.

The last thing he'd want is for her to suffer more.]

>so >it sounds like he has a history with this sort of thing >i should have known

[Crow is getting an earful after all of this is said and done.]

[Dante doesn't know much more either, but he intends to find out. If there's one thing he's good at it's tracking someone down. Especially when they don't want to be found.]

[He knew he could count on you, boss.]

>you read my mind

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN03

[">who else/". There's no one else. Just one body in a basement not far from where he currently is - her eyes glazed over like a milky, half-drunk moon.]

[Greed's teeth audibly clack before he catches it. ] Ehhh - don't do anything too brash yet. There's no point. [The Sin's heel knocks along the edge of the keyboard - its square-cut shape tuning the wood surface to a hollowing pitch.] Couldn't tell you - never met him. But considering how I found her, I wouldn't be surprised.

[Speaking of which - ]

[It's rare to hear that noise. That low pitch, that baritone growl just bristling under the surface. The former homunculus forces his jaws open, his smile on the other side a fleeting gesture.]

[Lady might not technically be one of his, yet -.]

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN04

Stocke's back - [The recording starts in again. Whatever kind of snarl had been there just seconds ago is gone. Replaced with the usual humming-slur.] - I'll see if any of his know anything first.

[A beat of pause. Greed taps his index twice on the other end of the receiver.] You're familiar with the shacks on the edge of the city, right? [He questions, his tone more sing-song than anything else.] Got someone there that might know something.

Let me know what you find. In the meantime, I'll see what I can do.

>you know me

[Which very well may be the cause for Greed's concern. Dante can bide his time, oh he will, but once that switch is hit there's no stopping him. Hot or cold, apathetic or all in. There isn't a lot of in between with him and sometimes there's no telling when the mood will change.

First he wants to be sure. He needs to know he's got the right spider, the right culprit behind the act. If he just starts going after others indiscriminately then he's no better than the very demons he's come to loathe over the years. But something tells him his hunch isn't wrong this time.]

>is he/ >thats good >keep me posted

[Yes the bugs should be out of everyone by now. Lady was one of the last to go in, her hesitance not buckling until the very end.

And he drove her to it.

It's no secret Dante feels largely responsible for this. He asked her to go, insisted that it was her best chance outside of waiting for it to kill her anyway.

Fortune has it that he's not recording, so that Greed won't be aware of the kick and crash of a bedside table gone shattering across the room. Temper's a hell of a thing some days.

A few minutes before there's a response:]

>yeah i know them >who am i looking for

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN05

[Oh, he knows. The temper a bull: one flick of red and it's all over. Not that he blame Dante for it, nor does he hold it against them. Stealing, he's reminded. And on his side of the receiver, on the other end of the line, a touch of heat. Light. Like beginnings of a house fire.]

[Bring it down though. Bring it down, down, down.]

[When he speaks again, his sultry expression is undeniable. Greed inhales sharply and two dull clicks follow.] His name's Li - a native. But don't let him fool you. He's not much different from the rest of us.

[Meaning just one thing: he's a criminal. A societal dreg. The Sin pauses.] He's been keeping himself low ever since Vandare. Tell him I sent you. I don't know how much he'll know, but it's a start.

[A beat. Even though there's no recording on Dante's end, it's hard not to imagine something's been broken in that short span of minutes. The legs of the Sin's chair squeal along the floor.] Oi, oi, oi - don't do anything brash. You'll lose it all that way.

[Which, Dante knows; he's always know that. But sometimes, it gets the better of him. The former homunculus lifts and his voice drifts away at a distance.] I'll see what we can do in the meantime.

>li/ got it >well maybe if he doesnt have what im looking for he can help me out with another errand

[He misses his guns more than anything now. Especially with the recent rise in tensions, the death of frined. It's time to gear up and start hitting back.

At Greed's comment though:]

>you say that like it hasnt happened before

[The response was quick, too quick, and he realizes immediately after sending it he's said too much and it's time to backtrack. Briefly He has to wonder if Greed somehow knew he'd kicked the table, but really it's more likely the devil just knows him that well. He does brash things because really? It's all going to go to hell one way or another. Might as well be the one holding the wheel on the way down, don't you think?]

>anyway. yeah. ill do some digging >ill let you know before i go to pin a spider to a wall >if you want in on this fun

Edited 2016-09-15 13:44 (UTC)

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN06

[A cigarette spurts briefly on the receiving end; the last bits of paper biting at the filter piece for piece. Dante on a good day is a loose canon; a gun cocked, loaded, and ready to go. Now, though. Now, he has a target in mind. A name and a face that can finally answer for all of his frustrations. And nothing, no one, would get in his way.]

Tch- [Greed's lips pull back. An obvious half-grin release before his nails click along the edge of the laptop's screen.] - don't make it too messy. Better to get the information first, hmn? [The last word holds in his throat. Like churning fire, it bakes along the receiver. Dull now, but a possible threat for the future. The Sin tilts his head and through the recording, the jewel hanging from his ear chimes in.]

[A bell-toll for the wicked.] Eh- I don't doubt it. That temper of yours tends to get the better of you. Not that I blame you.

[He idly taps his foot.] As for Li, it depends on what you're looking for, exactly. Just tell him I sent you - [The former homunculus presses the flat of his boot into the chair's leg and with push, he slides it back into place.] In the meantime, I'll see what I can find out.

[Under normal circumstances Dante can manage that temper of his with a little more control and finesse, but with the way things have been going for so long that control's starting to fray. And when the dam breaks?

It's going to be ugly.]

>dont worry >im not the type to go off half cocked >but if my suspicions are correct then i think weve got the right guy

[For all his recklessness there are a few rules even Dante won't break. He won't attack unannounced, and he won't go after someone he doesn't know without absolute certainty is guilty of whatever he's hunting them for. Once those requirements have been filled, however, all bets are off.]

>at the very least maybe he can point me where i need to go >sword and hooves are all well and good >but im feeling a little naked without my guns

[He misses his guns so much.]

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN07

No, a little better than that, aren't you? [Not that he can entirely blame him. Death might be a fleeting thing in Ryslig, but that doesn't mean much. Greed touches the edge of the device again. The tips of his claws roll forward - their tune a light pat-pat-pat like the touch of a testing spider. No, even one is one too many and as his lips peel back, something wet answers on the edge of his mouth. Something hot, something putrid, and oh, oh.]

[Does something wicked this way come.]

Don't make it too messy. Better to get the information first. Whoever he is, it looks like he owes us a favor. [A favor meaning what? He doesn't say.]

[A long pause follows on his side of the line. The sound of moving leather, muffled fur, and the dull click, click, click of his heels says he's on the move. Where, for what, is anyone's guess.] Guns, huh. Eh- [The Sin's voice curls along the receiver's edge. A little further now, but not entirely out of reach.] I'll see if he's got anything. Tell him you work for me and he might not be such a pissant about it.

[That said, he gives the laptop a final squeeze. Nail to nail, he meets the plastic head on - causing it to whine and buckle under his hard-fast grip. To say the feeling is mutual is an understatement.]

[And if Dante's going on the hunt, it won't be long until he has some unsavory company.]

[Death may be fleeting but it always comes with a price. Lost memories, furious allies, the constant threat of revenge. There is always a cost, and unfortunately with enemies that can rise from the dead the simple solutions won't work anymore. Dante will have to be more creative.

But he's never been one to strike early. Better safe than sorry in his book.]

>dont worry >i might be reckless but even i have some standards >but you already knew that much

[Although the favor thing does catch his attention. That's a strange way of wording it, a favor? For what? But the subject switches again and now's not the time to follow up. He'll needle when he's seeing less red.]

>heh >you got it >guess ive got a lead to follow

[Oh he will be, and for a man who prefers to work alone this particular company isn't unwelcome. Out of all the demons that have dogged his shadow in the past, Greed's by far his favorite. An old friend he's only just met, the welcome whisper in the dark. They act like they've known each other forever, and perhaps in some ways they have.]

[ He breathes out a sigh once. It is followed by a giggle -- high-pitched like a string on an instrument strung too tight, about to snap. One can feel the smile in his words, sharp, biting. Words themselves fumble in his mouth due to broken teeth. Heard more when he uses word that end roughly, words that bring his teeth together like the demon's name. But he is smiling, yes, always smiling. ]

Greed. I like you very much. I was... AM very charmed by you. Very charmed. Your fire is one worth bowing this lowly head to. Yes, yes, that is correct. And that is why I am showing as much respect as I can to you. For thinking about Kira, for allowing me to meet you when I was elsewhere with my thoughts...

I want to kill Dante. I want to kill Redgrave. This is no desire to start war with you and yours. No... that feast would not fill either of our bellies. Not this. So I tell you and ask you to give him to me. He will be given a fair fight... he will.. because he is yours I ask you first.

As is right, as is fair. That is how humans should act, right? [ And then he starts to laugh. His laughter carries on and on obviously driven to tears as he cannot quite turn off the feed before he realizes he has laughed for too long. ]

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN01

[It takes a while for him to respond: minutes, an hour. When the message does come through though, there's a sharp buzz of static. A weighted kind of silence holds in response: as if the air around it is heavy, thick. Enough that it almost strangles the receiver - like that of paired hands slowly choking the life out of an offending throat.]

[Did he hear that right?]

Is that so. [Greed's voice slides on deadly pitch. Sarcastic, light, but undeniably sharp. Despite the lack of an image, it isn't that hard to picture: the curl of a lip drawn back, the show of teeth back-lit in a tint of sulfur. A lonely fire huffs from beyond the feed and as its flames condense, the sound turns biting and brittle. Like that of a meal left to char in the bottom of an unattended pan.]

[No, he did hear that right, didn't he.]

[A curbed laugh barks at the back of his throat. The furnace at the backside of the room gives a healthy rumble, then. It buckles on the air of the recording - the nuts, nails, and bolts practically aching to break free. Greed glides the flat of his foot across the floor and with a hollow thud, his heel etches into the surface.] Just who do you think you're talking to? Or did you forget already?

[As he talks, the fans inside the laptop begin to whine. They're working overtime, it seems: the strain of both heat and smog enough to make the recording skip a beat. When it returns, the devil's mouth is all-too-close to the receiver.] He's one of mine, friend. Workers, henchmen - they're my possessions. Killing one of them is stealing from me - [A rancid snap rattles along the feed. Whatever's happening on the other side, it tells of nothing good. The fire's louder, his baritone deeper. Greed's nails suddenly twist along the lid to the laptop and as the ends of them threaten against plastic, the recording picks up the pieces: one snap, one crack, and - ]

- and nobody takes what's mine.

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN02

So - [A sigh of a smoke wisps on his tongue. Taunting, light. Greed's jaw clamps closed with a bone-brittle click, abruptly cutting it off.]

- what'll it be?

>>anotherface has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN01

[ Mitsuhide returns after spending some time with Liquid. He did his best to hold onto the feelings of anger. Because that is how mad he was at Dante, he normally allows such feelings to dip -- to be drowned -- in the miasma that is his insanity. But he held onto it for days and days. As he recovered from the fight, he looked at his body and renewed in his resolve to "stay angry." He held that fury in his hands. Cupping it, even as it spilled and slipped through his fingers, he could only watch it slowly ebb until his usual smile dances across his lips. Until he can no longer feel that has lead him to this point.

And now it is gone but the purpose isn't.

His voice no longer has a higher-pitch. The mania slowed down to where he speaks in his usual voice. He bobs his head, wobbling in the chair he sits on. The wood beneath squeaks and groans each time he puts more weight on one side of the seat. Mitsuhide giggles first. A surprisingly friendly sort of sound -- lilting with a calmer madness. ] I'm overjoyed that you still consider us friends. Normally, normally... humans would think that this is a means to break away, right?

[ With some of the words, he sounds far away -- his head tips back as he looks up toward the ceiling but the mic still picks up what he says, just softer, softer. The sound of the chair rattling as his body convulses with his laughter. ] It's only if I kill him that I'm stealing, right? Wanting and being able to... that's two different things. He wouldn't fight me. He wouldn't kill me. It wasn't fair. I could still fight, Greed.

[ The words hold little venom. It is more like relaying the events to another than spitting them in the demon's face. His head lulls from side-to-side on his shoulders as he breaks up what he says with softer giggles. Muffled as he presses his chin against his chest. ] I only wish to continue what he would not allow me to continue. But ... you would still take it as me attempting to steal from you?

That's not good... that isn't... I don't like to give people such feelings... I would rather fill your mouth with blood and we can both laugh with one another as our pieces are falling apart. [ How odd it is to say so much with little malice twisting and warping the words. One can see the warm smile dancing freely, wildly. The small tilt of the head as he would slouch low so that he could look up at Greed if they were standing before one another. A slight parting of his lips as he breathes out a happy sigh. Like a confession of love. Because this is his confession of love. ]

If I kill you first, can I have Dante?

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN03

You've got it all wrong. [Through the recording, an edging sneer fingers along the receiver. It's sharp and biting: like that of a grin teasing on the upper half of a tensely-pulled lip. Circumstances aside, that usual nonchalance of his still hangs on. It bakes in the back of his jaws in a fever; forcing red-hot to broil on the feed's edge in a soft, muted haze. The Sin hooks the edge of an ashtray with his claw.]

[Tnk.] Humans maybe, but I was never one to begin with. [Porcelain yelps gingerly on the recording: the subtle scrape like that of a nail tuning the side of an empty glass. He's only had the pleasure of meeting Mitsuhide once and while the encounter had raised more questions than answers, his madman threats had gone to the back-burner. Haphazardly forgotten and buried.]

[Until now, that is.] What's your point? [A gaseous note wheezes through the Sin's jaws and with a resounding clack, he leers into the recording.] Sorry, that's not how it works. Even you should know that.

[On the other side, Greed tips his head. There are sounds all around him: the light pat of steel on steel, the coo of a furnace just aching for a taste. A scathing rumble breaks it all up and as the other's would-be confession sighs through the receiver, the devil answers it with nothing short of a booming, thunderous bark. It coughs just out of view: an eruption of soot fingering at the ceiling to take it for all that it's worth.] Ha - ! Is that what this is all about?

[The legs of a chair skitter on the line. They skip along the floor, dragging with them a length of soot to sigh dryly into the recording. Greed lifts himself from his seat and with a groan of plastic, he pushes the lid to the laptop just a bit wider.] Guess there's no choice, is there? [While they aren't face to face, it isn't so hard to imagine: the heavy lid of his eyes, the sarcastic twist of his mouth as if he isn't at all surprised. The beads strung along his tail give a healthy chime. They shiver and tremble: the bell-toll's last call tickling at the back of the feed.] Eh - that's a shame. I thought we could do this peacefully.

[The former homunculus flicks his tongue. What follows is a rattle - like that of a serpent giving its final warning and with it, the head of the laptop returns with one more, industrialized whine.]

Suit yourself.

>>anotherface has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN02

I have always been a human. I was born a human and I will die a human. [ Like with Greed, even with only his voice, one can see the expression he has. The smile slips away as he stares at the screen in front of him. Even the rattling of the chair due to his violent swaying back and forth ceases. His eyes fixate on what is in front of him and is the key of what has driven him to wish for Dante's death. Something cold twists around his words, freezing them. ]

I may be wrong about a lot of things, but an insult like that cannot be forgiven. [ It breaks the chill of the words. Something melting and warming. His singing words return with a manic smile. The rattling of the chair picks up. Thump. Thump. It almost acts like a beat to the song that his words take. ] Yes, it is what is everything is about. I'm equally upset that we cannot do this peacefully, Greed. I think that you're an exceptional person. I never wanted to do anything to you.

[ A moment of silence. Spit can almost be heard hitting the screen as he starts to laugh. The chair snaps back and forth now as he rocks violently in it. ] No, not true. But you could tell the lie already, couldn't you? It was just a second... I wondered about how much your avarice was, but it seems it is only that much, hm? Only that much? So I love you with my entire heart. [ His giggles hiss through his teeth as he turns his head to choke out his laughter. ] You may think that is a lie, but it is not.

When I kill you... I'll keep your head. Please, tell me what your favorite meal is. [ It is what he asked Jotaro, isn't it? Yes, it is. This, too, is a willingness to show his respect. ] I'll cook it for you every day. I'll feed your head and even clean up after the mess that falls through your throat. [ The hyena laughter picks up to a higher-pitch. ] It wouldn't be good to leave you messy, right? I'm not that cruel, Greed.

But ... that is that is that, isn't it?

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN04

Never wanted to do anything to me? That's a little rich - [Tight, seething. Greed unwinds his fingers from the cover of the laptop, resulting in a harsh scritch of staggering plastic. The hooks of his nails drag on his side of the line. They skitter atop the lid; tuning the surface like that of cat claws sprung into an unsuspecting slab of wood. Even if the initial threat wasn't intended for him, the end's still the same.]

[Bite him once, shame on him. Bite him twice, however - ]

[The Sin's smile widens and on the recording, something brittle snaps out of place. A lonely crunch.] That much? Ha - ! Just who the hell do you think you're talking to? [While it's hard to make out, a distinct sizzling makes its way onto the receiver. It's far off, light: like that of a candle's end left to burn itself out in a pool of molten wax. The former homunculus gives his tail a lazy flit.] Sorry, but if you think that's all, you really don't know me very well. [His voice drops, then. A baritone pitch, the note of it low and broiling at the back of his jaws. Greed's mouth opens and as cool air meets his heat, a tinny trill tests against the feed.]

[Distant, yet still so dangerously, dangerously, close.]

Will you now. [He hums. The last of the device falls out of his grip. Like the other's voice, it cracks across the receiver - almost meeting it in some kind of shattered, dissonant harmony. Greed puckers his lip. A beat of thick silence is what follows. Throttles of pungent air choke the receiver. It falls weighted along the line -the taste thick, humid; a house fire's drawling crackle.] That's really too bad.

[Another piece of plastic pops. What it is, what it could be - Greed doesn't pay it much mind. Instead, he mindlessly traps it under the crook of his nail and it's there that it fissures. Creating a sound akin Styrofoam melting atop a hot-cranked oven.] Y'know, it's always better to take my offer, but I guess I couldn't talk you out of it, could I. [Rhetorical, of course. Mitsuhide's mind is a minefield laced in hornet's nest. Usually, the Sin would merely forgive and forget: his odd habits, his childish demeanor trying to balance reason with insanity. But there's a line: a distinct one.]

[And it only took the Wendigo seconds to cross it.]

[The former homunculus rolls his tongue along the roof of his mouth. He's forgotten about the shard of plastic during the conversation and while it quickly melts beneath his finger, the receiver picks up its dying gasps: the lengthy crinkle and shallow ploop bringing its demise to a final end.]

Have it your way.

[Greed has a lot of influence in Vandare, and Light feels that spreading the word to him is a good place to start.]

Am I right in assuming you enjoy parties?

nt about tosy no ifthats wha t youre askn

why go t somthin for m e?

A Halloween Party on the 29th. We're trying to actually have an event that goes in our favor. It's for all monsters, but I'd like to extend an invitation to all of you, too.

a par ty hu ?

coulndt hurt thuugh i cnt promis e nything

It's an invitation, not an obligation.

Do you know much about Halloween?

dont ge t me wrong im st ll intrested

? tht s smme srt of holldy hrre right ? didn t hve itwher eim from

Edited 2016-11-02 22:44 (UTC)

It exists in a lot of worlds, my own included. It's a day to wear costumes and go to parties, once you're an adult. Children use the costumes to get candy, but the party is a separate occasion.

thts ri ght. hd somthing like thrt thellst time

sprate hu h ? hy not. coulnnt hurt.

What was it like? The last 'something'?

Then, I hope I'll see you there.

whih ch time?

don t see whhy not. bavn right?

It's starting at nightfall.

[An address is sent along with the message.]

His friend was kind enough to loan her castle.

prtty imprssive

an ything else i shulld know?

[There's a delay between the two messages. Until:]

guss ill seyou there thn

Edited 2016-11-17 02:59 (UTC)

The man behind the scenes prefer it be monsters only but aside from that, nothing.

I'll see you there.

Apparently our esteemed governor of South Vandare has earned you something of a fan.
A newbie just messaged me asking about you and your crew.
They may or may not drop by the 'nest at some point, they seem kind of rude and just this side of demanding from what I got.

Oh ? thatso ?

not like ihvent dealt withit before. idd youget a name or ?

Wouldn't say it if it weren't.

No name, pretty tight lipped this one. Possibly more so than me.

does nt leve mch. thou gh its not lke itshrd to find

le t meknow if youhe re anyth ing else hmn ?

Edited 2016-12-19 02:24 (UTC)

I'm sure you'll know him soon as he walks in.
Not like he'll blend in with your regular crowd by the sounds of things.
Came off kind of like a pompous ass but with a brain.

I might or might not, depends on interesting anything else I hear is.

left thyt kindof impression huh>?

figurd asmch

All in the way they talk.
Or write in this case.
Open-minded too, getting a feel for his options.

Aw you make me seem downright predictable.

cant syi blam e him

not relly predict ble jjst figur ed weve done hiss bfre hmn ? notbout to hlld itginst ya

Neither can I.

Maybe a time or two. Still usually seems worth mentioning again now and then.

oh ?

youthin k sohuh? dont thi nk inneed he remindeer. ive told you bfre - i;mnot abott toforce ya ifyou rent intrested'

letme knoo wif youhear any thing else. ifyou hnve the time

Edited 2017-01-03 23:40 (UTC)

Don't sound so surprised. It was going to happen eventually.

You'll have to forgive me if I don't entirely believe you.

We'll see.

huey hey. imky it a pointt nottolie remrmber?

why woulnd thisltime be anyffrrent?

Edited 2017-01-04 02:30 (UTC)

huess so

Edited 2017-01-04 02:31 (UTC)

You're a demon isn't that reason enough?

Edited 2017-01-04 22:18 (UTC)

wasn t clways. bdises.

last ichkkced so we re you rght? mybe ntbefore. ethhr way doesnt rrelly matte r does it? im ntt boutto holdit aginst you

Edited (A MILLION EDITS LATER JESUS) 2017-01-05 02:44 (UTC)

jus becuse imademo n doesnt menn iman yting lkethe onesyou know. thught wedgot ten past tht

Except you're the most like the demons from home.

Doesn't mean I trust you.

oh ? kin d ofhrsh dontyou thin k?

gue ss icnt chang your mnd, huh> eh

Maybe.

Who knows? Maybe I'm just seeing how much you're willing to take.

um

mr. greed

i need some advice

can i speak withh you?

?

it s just grred rmember?

donntt seehwy not

Edited 2017-01-30 04:56 (UTC)

er right!

it's just um

about what i want to talk about

um

it felt like i should be more respectfull when asking for advice

and when it's about um

um

i don't really know how to say it

[ HONESTLY SHE DOESN'T REALLY KNOW WHAT IT IS SHE'S COMING TO GREED FOR ADVICE ON. Only that he's been around for a while, so surely he'd have the answer to her problems.

Also he seems to be the one with the most stable relationships in this house. ]

rspct fl? youshld kno w me bttr than that

bt advi ce hu ? hy dontt yycome by. figred its esier todoit inoprson hm?

upstrs - il bearund

ah

o-okay! i'll be right there--!

[ True to her word, there's the steady click of claws against the hardwood floors approaching Greed's room before there's a moment of silence as if someone's hesitating before a knock comes at his door.]

Greed? It's, um-- It's me, Dawn...

[The hallway is quiet at first. Tools of shadows play in a current of smog; the flow of it similar to that of an open-mouthed statue releasing a finalizing sigh. It tosses the lights in a haloing ring; their edges bleeding and blurry. To anyone else, the atmosphere gives off a bad sign; the presence of something lurking behind the door like that of an unknown shape twisting in the thick of a syrupy swamp. But here, in Vandare's notorious south side, under a steady fume of neon, it's a calling card; the mark of sin itself living up to its definition.]

[Which - ]

[Behind the lip of the door, a soft glow begins to blossom. Light oranges and yellows leak into the hallway - their colors growing closer, nearer, as if they're somehow answering her hesitation. While Dawn's one of the first, she's also one of the youngest. Someone out of her element living in the company of crooks and thieves. However, that's never seemed to matter. Like the rest, she's still one of his. Another misfit in a place teaming with unlikely company.]

[A sneeze of ash frees itself from the wooden frame and the Sin plugs the door open on the flat of boot. Without his vest, the scales along his neck take on a subtle hum in the dark. They shine in a team of red and gold; their pattern lacing along the cracks like glue to a broken piece of pottery. Greed shoves his elbow into the far corner and as his arm sags, his wrist rolls to the side. Allowing his fingers to pry open in a dagger-sharp fan.] You don't have to do that, y'know.

[He shrugs and with a wave of his fingers, he sends a bit of dust hurling away.]

So, what did you want to ask me?

[ If Greed decides to check up on the basement he'll notice a scrap of fabric stuck in between two doors of a cupboard, storage, anything like that. The fabric seems to come from a dress.There's also some blood on the floor near a broken bottle. ]

[With the 'Nest as compromised as it is, there have been some measures: the trappings outside, the small wire-tangles left to snare a catch or two. However, that doesn't mean the place has entirely been abandoned and after some time, the Sin himself will check in. Taking supplies or anything else that may come in handy.]

[The blood on the floor is new. Whether it had been there before though, that's harder to say. Their exit had been fast: haphazard. Anything broken, any kind of cuts or scrapes - those would have been inevitable. But there's something about it that seems out of place: that seems too fresh. A small tsk touches on the inside of his cheek and with a tap of his boot, Greed idly pushes the broken bottle aside. The scrap of fabric all but catching his wandering, lazy eye far more than anything else.]

[Staying here too long isn't really an option. But, if someone's been here, then maybe, just maybe.]

[Gingerly, the tips of his nails pluck the piece from its snare. Whatever it is, it hadn't been there before they left. And considering how new it looks -]

Hey, hey -

Edited 2017-04-14 12:02 (UTC)

[ Later on, several days later it's obvious that someone's been there again. There's some strands of purple seaweed on the floor, along with some droplets of water like substance. ]

[It's the second time that he follows the trail.]

[Keeping focus is more difficult each day he comes back. The static in the air sends the veins at the side of his temple jumping; the constant whirl of both machinery and white-noise effectively meshing together to form a kind of high-pitched squeal. Pop, goes a bulb. Crrrrk, goes a speaker. The voice of a radio signal's silent yet drumming demand:]

["Obey, obey, obey.".]

[But following orders, listening to someone else? Has never been his strong suit. And while the infection itches beneath his skin, while his teeth visibly set in a vice, it's that nature of his the urges him forward. The want, no the need, to reclaim practically latching through the fog like pair of claws snaring in the dark.]

[A piece of seaweed slops atop the floor. It pins under his boot in a signal slap; the sticky coils and jellied-top straining as surely as a tight-twisted sponge.]

Thought you'd like to know he's awake.

alrr edy huh ? goo d to knnw. rmor has it heisnn tthe first

thou gh thhts prtty fa st. somme thing i shuuld kn ow?

It was a little more than a week, not sure already is the right answer.

Not that I have noticed. Should I be asking why you felt the need to ask that?

ah ri ght. sorry

gott a admit im alltttle surrised. usullhy you wulldnt hvebothred. st ill donnt liek me vry much ri ght?

no t that iddd hol it aginst you

gunn a guss hes a roud th en ?

Edited 2017-06-12 22:44 (UTC)

I told Stocke too. It's not like I did something special.

And not telling you seemed a little unfair.

He's in the shower. He'll probably be around once he's eaten something. Can't imagine he won't be hungry after skipping meals for a week.

tht right gss i sho uldnt b surprised

mybe bu t thn again

nvevrrmind doe snt mttr

dontt have mmch but ther 's enou gh. ru mor has ithe iisnt the first. a f ew othrs hve had the smae thing hppn.coul dnt tell you wh ythugh. no t rrlly mch togoon

We should be glad he didn't feel like keeping us waiting even longer.

Okay.

Great... at least it's over now and we can all stop wondering if he's suddenly going to stop breathing on us.

coul dnnt keep hmdown too lng ri ght? too stubbrn for that

gunn a guss you saw th mesge. mght be somthin wor th look in int o

He is that.

Yeah I saw it. Not sure I would trust information handed out by Foggy herself. But it's more than we've had in awhile on the information front.

no bt yourr e no t wrong. mi ht be wo rth th time.

an y thin esle?

Can't be more of a waste than anything else has been.

No, just wanted to let you know he was up.

yo ure nt wron nng. ta lkk to l i ifouoi cnfnd him

gu ss i sh ul th ank yo shuldnt i?

I'm guessing it's usually not easy to find Li then?

You don't have to, but you're welcome.

b itt ofn undrstandmnt. cnt relly bl ammme him though dooing whthe doooes - notrxctly wo rtth the at tenton.

seeemmms on ly fai r. t ell hm i snnt yu. he'lllll mrkk sure to ake cre of it

thaaat is if hee hs nanythn

Fair enough.

Here's hoping he does.

con siiidring whthe doo s h mmi ght atllest tell yu whre to strt

bttrr th annn not hing righ t?

Edited 2017-07-05 00:10 (UTC)

Most anything at this point is better than nothing.

But yeah, hopefully he'll have some ideas on where to start.

Thanks.

Hey, 'boss.'

You in the mood to mark me up?

?

ah ri ght. ont hv one ytt do yu ?

sur e. cmm on by you knw whre to fnd me. sorry. mig t not b so plsaant bu t im u re you cnn hndle it.

It's big. Gonna need a lot of your time.

Clear the place out before I get there?

suunds prtty ambitusss bt suitt yourslf.

upstirrs. th ee res t ar tkinng care of ashpppment

[He's avoided it as long as possible; something about marring his skin more than it's already been damaged doesn't sit right with Mello. Easy options were on the table: a simple dot below his right ear, something undetectable that would serve its purpose.]

[But he's never been one to back down from anything, has he? Within a few months he's found his place in a world where so many still wander without alliances or resources; and if that's not something to wear like a badge of honor, what is?]

[Greed might notice that Mello's steps aren't the quiet, swift sounds they were only a few weeks prior. The Gods have gone and taken his grace away and replaced it with a humanity that, at this point in time, Mello is convinced he's won unconditionally. But it's with the same chin-lifted overconfidence that he takes the steps two at a time; pads of his fingers running along a railing as he ascends.]

[There are at least a hundred humans with a steady enough hand to do this; a drop of Greed's blood to mix in with the ink is all it takes, but the idea of anyone else having access to Mello for as long as it might take is preposterous. Hell, he might not even let L do it, at this point.]

[He thinks the Sin should be honored, and it shows with a sardonic lift to his lips when he enters unannounced — he was invited after all — too human and vulnerable to be surrounded by such power. Full bottle of dark liquor in one hand — some cognac he swiped from one of the local bars — and paper with his design tucked into his pocket, he's already twisting the cap when he speaks.]

Where do you want me?

[Airy, mock-distracted.]

[Inside, the room stagnates in a sluggish humidity. Halos of red lights cruise about its surface; their look more similar to a particular district known by its intention. The constant glow and throb thrown up to continuously drag them in, one by one, with the promise of an lucid, yet wholly-aware transaction. The furnace near the furthest wall prompts him first and as the crackles of spent wood claw between the bars, the Sin inhales - his well-lit cigarette flaring his smile into focus as surely as a flashlight stilling in the dark.]

[Because no, he hasn't missed the change. Where Mello's presence is usually faint, a new weight trudges at the back of his heels. It announces him far before he even has the chance to barge in and while his quiet may be missing, some things really never do change. His attitude, his lack of question, just as prideful and bold as the last. Greed plucks the cigarette from the tip and as the pads of his fingers extinguish its spark, he casually drops it into a glass nearby. Leaving the flame to choke itself out in a soft, solitary hiss.]

That's your choice, don't you think? [The Sin answers. While the bar below may be active, the room is a stark contrast. There are no women to keep him company, no onlookers leering to take a peek. It's empty. A last night call suspended as if time itself's been slowed to an agonizing crawl. Greed wraps his fingers around the arms of his chair; the tips of his claws leaving behind an outline of shallow, smoking pock marks. Tattooing has never been his specialty, but Mana's gift had come with a bit of a fail-safe. An exclusive tell to make sure history?]

[It didn't repeat itself.]

[Greed slouches forward, his fingers snagging the lip of a vial nearby. The inkwell is small, (in)descriptive: an object most would overlook. He twists off the glass stopper with a flick of his thumb and as it unscrews, his other hand catches the plug.] You mentioned being here for a while - guess you've got something in mind, then. [While he talks, he sets the topper on a dresser nearby. The ink stuck to its surface rewinds when he leaves it. The drips, drops, and streaks moving as wetly as an oil-slick with a conscious thought. The former homunuclus slinks his head towards his shoulder; his absent vest allowing a slink of soot to grace his back like a thin, sheer shroud. He pats his foot and in an instant, the ash collapses to the floor.] I probably don't have to tell you, but it's not exactly very pleasant. Sure you're up for it?

[The question comes over the dip of his shoulder. Of course, he already knows the answer. The bottle of liquor in Mello's hand is enough of an indication. His resolve, even more so. Mello's never been one to turned down a challenge. More often than not, he runs towards it. Brazenly bolting right into the thick with nothing more than a bullet-charged smile and a look that could kill. God, kill, kill, kill.]

[And if this is what he wants, well - ]

[Greed plucks his sunglasses from his face, their single click clapping together like a dry-socket trigger. He places them next to the bottle and as his hand comes back up to his face, the reflection in the mirror shines in a film. His inspecting look more similar to man checking to see just what's been stuck to the bottom of his boot.] Ehhh - [He starts. He extends the crook of his finger and without a moment of hesitation, the Sin opens his jaw. The tips of his teeth snap against his skin - the quick motion as sure as a mouse-trap springing on its target. One crunch, one nick, and he pulls away; leaving the blood from the wound to trickle on both his chin and knuckle in a reddening smear. A few drops is all it takes before the heat rises up again and as the cut blisters, the former homunculus turns the ink well in a lofty circle. He churns it once, twice. The mix of ink and blood forming one, terrible cocktail. He's already done it for some of the others. The process is simple. A drop of him, a dash of black, and here, here's the label. One to sign them away to particular name.]

[The brand of avarice, forever stuck to the skin.]

[A splash licks the side of the bottle and the Sin dips his finger in. He lifts a healthy helping of ink into the bowl of his claw; its color deep and pit(less). He cleans off the excess with the side his thumb - the thinning strands mimicking that of drool lurching from the jowls of a hungry dog.]

[Greed snags a stool with his foot, dragging it towards him.] So - wanna tell me what you have in mind? [He slurs and under the bleed of limelight, the glob on his finger turns a particular pitch. Like blood itself, cradled and carried to a hint of admiration.]

[For far be it for the devil to deny what the other truly wants.]

[Something like a familiar ritual — or Greed is exceedingly skilled at making it seem that way — is anything but to a newly-human thing who wears his own skin like something foreign; there's always that element of entrancement, and it may be more acute now that Mello's defenses are nearly non-existent in the face of something with even a hint of greater power than any human can possess. A low hum somewhere in this throat; curious eyes follow each nuance and movement of the Sin's process — a drop of blood, a permanent stain.]

[Your choice~]

[The serpent coils around a withered branch with his tongue extended, the apple hangs from the tree — if you wish — always been your choice in the end — but I can show you — and curiosity is a thing that plagues the brilliant in diseased pangs that draw them out so much farther than they should ever go. And reach, Mello does: he's pulling his coat off without a word, leather exposing untarnished skin on the right, but the left?]

[Oh, he's been marred. Long ago — plans shattered and flames licking at his very name — but the scars remain in jagged patterns along his shoulder, extend and ruin the skin along his torso where the damage has mercifully halted. The risen, discolored skin has long-since healed over; no amount of intervention from the Gods seem to alter a thing about it.]

[Well, there's Mana, but that's another issue altogether. For now, he only slips out of the vest beneath, sets the bottle on a nearby chair while fabrics are meticulously laid over a surface — stolen or no, they're expensive.]

Worse than this? [For the first time, the extent of his damage is fully visible. Really, a needle? No matter how many times Greed pokes and breaks skin, no pain exists like flesh burning endlessly for what seemed like weeks on end — before he gave in, before he took whatever he could just to make it stop — and no matter the size of what he's asking for, a little bit of cognac and a lot of previous nerve damage is bound to help him along the way.]

[The where of it is irrelevant, Mello would consider his surroundings less than sterile by surgical standards; one glance around the area confirms that no matter where he ends up, the result will be the same. So he'll circle around to face his host for now, ever-curious nature taking precedence over caution. Between two fingers, he offers Greed a slip of notebook paper with a completed design, something scribbled haphazardly on lined sheets until it began to take form, eventually becoming the one thing that Mello knows he has no right to mark himself with.]

[But God had no right to toss him here, so there's that.]

Should cover most of it.

[Well, save for his face. Somehow, scarred flesh is more appealing to him than something infinitely difficult to conceal that's bound to draw far more eyes. But before he lays himself bare and vulnerable before the demon with a too-smug demeanor—]

Does it matter how much is in there? [Tips his chin towards the inkwell while he hoists himself up on a table, slipping up with the same grace he possessed when he was less (or more) than human.]

[Because there's possession, then there's possession. If The Sin's blood has the power to grant entry into an entire city, Mello would be a fool to believe serving as a key is the extent of its ability.]

[And maybe, it is a kind of ritual: one made in the backrooms of motels, washed under neon limelight and stroked by the finger's physical price checker. The worth of touch, of feeling, pressed and rubbed to gauge a worth. Greed hums softly to himself - his tilted head and half-heavy eyes sliding as slippery as sweat trolling down a glass. He extends his hand; the piece of paper and its design pinching in his knuckles like a business card with no name, no forwarding address, and no trace of when and where it came from.]

[Anonymous, undefined, and just like the very shadow he's known for: oil-slick and ambiguous to keep them guessing, guessing, guessing.]

[For curiosity? Well - ]

[The Sin's mouth puckers. He traces over the design only once; his pace slow and entranced. It's as if, somehow, there's a secret message hidden inside only he can see. Only he can read. The side of his finger peels back the edge and as the cross develops, the paper's fringe begins to shrink. The heat of the blasphemous meeting its holier counterpart like a spell-bound fire tamed by a barrier. It won't pass any further. Instead, the warmth from his hand teases the coils - the loose pieces browning, blackening, until all that remains is dust.]

[Greed taps the paper once and one of the corners crinkles away.] No, it doesn't matter. [He starts in, idly. He leans forward and as his smile straightens along the points of his teeth, the paper and its design disappear into his back pocket.] Though, that's a pretty specific design. Didn't really take you for the sort - [While he talks, a pilfer of smoke wheezes from the corner of his mouth. Religious, the good book - it would be stupid to think he isn't aware. It's changed through the ages. Where it had once been the deciding Cree of the land, as the years went by, the meanings had waned. Giving birth to science, advancement, questioning, doubt. Not that there aren't and weren't still zealots clinging to the notion. The deciding few, preaching and shouting savor and saint, damned and sinner, as if their voice and theirs alone could cleanse. The former homunculus pinches his fingers together and the ink swelled in his nail stretches. It thins and sparks - the threads mimicking that of still-hot tar forever bottling its pockets of primordial heat. He springs his hand open not a moment later and the strings snap apart.]

[No, no - there's really no going back. Not now, not later, and certainly - ]

[Greed shoves his middle finger into the well.] You're sure about this, right? Remember - no regrets. [He says, his smile exposing in a hint of too-white teeth. If Mello really had his doubts, though, he wouldn't be here. The other knows which direction he wants to go - has it planned, second for second, down to the T. He's ambitious and raw; thirsty and vicious. Whatever hesitation he may have had, it's already been talked away or ignored.]

[He doesn't need to ask twice.]

Like I said before, it isn't too pleasant. Though, I guess I wouldn't really know. [The Sin hooks his foot around a stool nearby and as the curve of his boot latches on, he carelessly drags it towards him. The legs of skip dryly along the floor - their shiver causing a layer of soot to drift from the boards like an old book thrown from its shelf.] But it'll take a while - just try not to move too much, hmn? [While he talks, those eyes of his churn. They flip their color: the red-pulse softening to a purple both eerie and toxic. It leaves his face lit up like a black-light: the dips and angles sharpening, sharpening - ]

[Thnk, goes the stool and under a shed of smoke, Greed wraps about the seat. What little he knows about the other, the scars are enough of an indication. They all have their wounds, their reminders - his own with their stories mapped out by each and every situation that led them here. A brief snarl teases on his lip, but before it can stay too long, the Sin waves his hand. Effectively shrugging off the moment with the same, standard nonchalance.]

[No, he doesn't need to ask. Nor does he plan to. And as Mello spreads himself open, the former homunculus touches two of his claws above his collarbone. He swipes downward to get the shape - the tips of his nails gingerly seeping out ink like the hollow fang of a viper delivering its dose.]

[Possession may be one thing, but possessions? Oh, oh - ]

[Be it Avarice that knows them all-too well.]

[There are those, including himself, who would tell Mello that exposing himself this way in front of a thing who is bound to have known humanity long before Mello, before L, those who preceded them — generations upon lifetimes, and without his power that he cursed with every breath, the figure that stretches himself before something that could be old enough to pre-date Christianity, asking him to mark one of his own up with something that might just offend him in every possible way.]

[A half-chuckle before he swigs the bottle; nerve damage or no, Mello knows that no part of this is going to be pleasant. Might need another when this one is through.]

Mm? [He doesn't bother capping it. Another sip will come soon enough. Now, liquor his him like it did before his first bout of changes — eons ago — hard and fast; the too-ambitious boy with on a blazing warpath never did have time for such things.] Never asked, [he murmurs, stretching his neck in some idle gesture that denotes nothing at all. Because this? Is far too personal for his liking. Even with intent, Mello has always been the type to keep his distance.]

[And, well. He's also always been the type to jab.]

Does it offend you?

[He watches the other with sharp, unguarded eyes; the yellow has long-since dissipated from his irises, leaving his natural blue in its wake. Whether or not his humanity is temporary, Mello is going to operate as though it has always been this way. There was never any slaughter, no mindless feeding resulting in messes that took more precision than he cared to exact.]

[No, he won't move, because this is something that will mark him eternally and unlike the scars that will remain in raised patterns beneath: Mello has a choice this time. He doesn't offer over the bottle, has no intention of doing so. He'll need every drop.]

Wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure — [But ah when the smooth-sharp prick of claws draws against his sensitive skin, the hiss is barely concealed with a sudden, acute clench of his stomach, ribs clear and exposed along his thin frame. Somewhere beneath his eternal, glaring pride, Mello knows he's a weak thing beneath the demon's hand, something devoured and tossed away under any other circumstances.]

[And if he never regains any power from the Gods? What use will he be then? He's tipping the bottle up again before the shock of pain can truly set in, this time barely taking the opportunity to breathe before he's swigged more than he should.]

Tell me what you get. [Anything to distract him from the sting.] Marking us this way. [Because he doesn't believe for a second that it's all about an incurable need to possess. There's some dark magic in it; he's almost positive. Yet here he is, handing himself over to something that has nothing but impure intentions, staining him with something that has been a glaring symbol of purity for thousands and thousands of years.]

Ah-? [On his first swipe, the Sin gingerly presses his fingers. The swells of ink cupped in his nails spread out like a Rorschach test under a spider's spell. The lines thin and smooth over skin, the edges turn sticky and wet. Greed curls his middle finger to a hook and as a drop dangles from his claw, the single drip sinks into Mello's chest. A baptism for the foulest, permeating its way through scars, through flesh, to redesign their meaning. The idea that the image would somehow offend him is laughable. It's merely a thing: a symbol. A concept used one or twice, in the hopes of banishing him back to the proverbial pit. However, those rules - they simply don't apply.]

[Not then, not before, and certainly, not now.]

[The former homunculus leers in and as he inspects his work, a sigh of a laugh fumes from his mouth. It trickles out of his jaw in a cloud of steaming-smoke; the feel of it as humid as a lover whispering their intimate promise. However, there is a kind of intimacy here, isn't there? Not the kind he prefers, no, but one none the less. How Mello spreads out, how the dim glow of red-neon shrouds them like a secret. Greed shakes his finger, forcing a wad of ink deep below the surface.] I told you before, didn't I? Takes a lot more to offend me, friend. Besides, those don't really work. [For emphasis, he gives one of Mello's ribs a light tap. It wasn't like they didn't try. It had come up before, centuries ago. A devotee, thrusting their necklace forward. A priest, flashing his cross to bare, proclaiming: "Begone, begone, begone." But him, his: they were just that. A source for the stories and superstitions of monsters lurking, lurking, in the dark. But given time, rumors?]

[They eventually lose their original meaning.]

[Greed lifts his hand, motioning it back to the bottle. He dips his fingers again, two this time, before returning to the task.] No you wouldn't, would you. That's just not how you work. [Distracted is his tone - those eyes of his focused and ghastly still. What does he get, what he gains; the former homunculus pats his lips together. Despite their surroundings, the smile on his face is almost genuine. An expression of fondness that speaks of a far, different time. The Sin lifts a shoulder and while his eyes close, his eyebrows dip together. His look somehow soft, distant.] What I get, huh. Sorry - couldn't really tell ya. Seems to be a way to make sure we don't run into any more trouble. [The forks of his tongue smooth along the top of his mouth. No, what little he knows is just that: he can't track them. Can't sense them. The brand is simply a ticket in and out. A way to make sure history doesn't decide to repeat itself a third time, signed, sealed, and delivered. Greed mindlessly reaches out to his side, his soaked hand appearing an impossible dark.] Don't get the wrong idea, M. If I thought it was going to do anything else, I wouldn't have bothered. I may not be good, but I still have some standards.

[He smears a bit more black on his palm. The dye begins to boil, then. It pops atop the scales of skin, bubbles between his fingers. Greed lifts his other hand in the direction of the bottle and as the paint stretches, he knocks the side of it. Once, twice, a third time.] Sorry, this'll be a little unpleasant. Might want to take that first - [He cautions. The smudge on his hand is already beginning to swelter as he does; the look of it similar to fresh asphalt blistering beneath a desert's relentless sun. The Sin waits a second for it to finally cool. The stain fumes along his knuckles - the color of oil fresh from the vat. When he finally presses it against Mello's chest, the reaction is instantaneous. It shoots from his skin with a mind of its own, the trail of ink appearing to follow the initial design as if, somehow, he's trained it. Taught it. A mark guided up, up, up to blot out Mello's forever reminder.]

[An eclipse of history, stroked by the devil's hand.]

[Greed stops just short of the other's collarbone and with a flick, he cleans off the left overs. The splotches of ink seeping into the wood as light as a watered-down varnish.] Still with me?

[There's a trick to avoiding the conscious pain that comes with injury — be it willing or no — that Mello picked up a long time ago, when the acute sting of fire prickled at his skin for weeks after the initial bomb that tried to take him down with everyone else; something beyond medicating or actively soothing the source because in the end, it's all triage and when that wears off? It leaves him with a lingering discomfort that distracts from missions and breathing. Unacceptable, and while Greed speaks and works with a sharpness that should have him reeling, the human body beneath his claw is actively softening, relaxing while Mello focuses on the finer nuances of what's happening here.]

[Soot and reassurances, a forced surrender on his part that he gives to no one, but Greed always did stand out among the rest. Something in the demon's claim draws the blond's attention to the present, the here and now, and a smug, knowing smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. He knows these damn things mean nothing; he's an intellectual, after all — but there's something in comfort of the familiarity and what it represents. He's protected because he's above the rest — always has been — and the symbol covering raised skin and marred flesh that should have resulted in his death is a testament to how hard he's fought, how infallible he was, even then.]

[A mark of pride scrawled over his body disguised as something more intimate — it's always been about victory, in the end.]

No such thing as 'good,' yeah? People who draw lines in the sand never end up on the right side.

[And that's all he's saying, because with words come full awareness, and with full awareness comes a near-agony that will black him out if he lets it.]

[Somewhere along the line, sharp eyes have fallen shut, the bottle slack in his hand. The tap against his rib elicits a glance, nothing more, and he thinks that even L wouldn't be so brazen with something as volatile as Mello. Then again, he came here of his own accord — undeniably human and disgustingly weak — and if it were even a possibility in his mind that the sin had intentions to bring him more pain than necessary, he would have taken something smaller, quick. Hidden and effective; no one outside of Djävulenstad would know of his associations. Earlier, he wanted to keep low, and Kira was the mission.]

[Now? They can all burn in Hell for all Mello cares; he's found a place where status doesn't mean a fucking thing, and yet still somehow sets him apart from those who reside outside of their city's gates. There's an intimacy here despite their sprawling streets, one reflected in this — here where a human sets himself at the feet at something that could tear him apart with a trust reserved for no one.]

[Fingers grip the bottle's neck when the demon's hand knocks against it, and unpleasant is an understatement when Mello tips his head back to drain more than he should in a few, large gulps that go down like the fire that has burned, is burning, will burn — and oh, Greed makes good on his warnings, doesn't he? No matter his skill at distraction, the final swallow is punctuated by a long, sharp hiss between clenched teeth, and when the edges of his vision begin to hollow and go dark, it's only his innately stubborn nature that keeps him from snatching at the other's wrist; anything to make it stop.]

[But Mello chose this, so.]

[So he'll stop just short of cringing, gooseflesh rising in the wake of Greed's work — something intricate and permanent left with a fleck of a claw — and the buzz of dark liquor has taken its toll enough for Mello's head to swim where he should react; that was the point after all, wasn't it?]

Mm?

[He lifts his chin in some slow movement, offers a nod that hardly tells the story of how difficult it was to bear the pain of something that shouldn't have done a thing to someone who has seen death and walked out on the other side. A pale arm slips over his eyes, and focus isn't something that will come easy any time soon. Mello's never been much of a drinker, and the half-empty bottle is probably more than he's consumed in a short period of time, ever.]

[He was only nineteen when he Kira stopped his heart in his chest, after all.]

It's not so bad, [He lies, and oh it's a blatant one. Barely concealed because even now, pride is bleeding just beneath the surface, seeping out through sanguine droplets over ink and newly-damaged skin. When he stretches, it's with a languid sort of movement, and here is all right, for now. It's quiet, and Greed's company isn't all that unwelcome considering that while human, Mello is nothing more than a potential meal out there. Doesn't matter that he's armed to the teeth — and he's prayed for this so many times, and now that he has it? He would prefer to have his power back.]

[Being prey never did suit him, anyway.]

Edited 2017-08-17 21:00 (UTC)

You don't have to do that, y'know - [Greed tongues his teeth while he talks. Mello: he always has to put on airs. To put up a front, an armor, so that no one even has the opportunity. The Sin slides his fingers away from the other's skin and while his palm lifts, the last beads of ink drool of his hand; their drops drip-drip-dripping like the saliva of a carrier, born from disease. And it is a disease, isn't it? The infection of want, the sickness of need, terrible and incurable. Even so - the Sin brushes his leg, smearing the leftovers in one cool, clean swipe.] - must have hurt, getting this. [He remarks, absently. Whatever, whoever, gave Mello the scar: he won't ask, nor will he pry. There are assumptions, sure, however that's his secret. The mark is merely something for the Sin to keep in his back pocket: a trinket saved for the right moment when he can return the favor, inch for inch.]

[For no one, no one, touches what's his.]

[The former homunculus takes the ink well again and while his fingers dip, he idly snags a cigarette from an ashtray nearby. Already, the mark is beginning to take shape. It strikes along Mello's skin - a black cross blasphemously painted and smeared by the devil's own hand. Why Mello chose the design: it doesn't matter to him. The decision is his to make and with another healthy helping, the Sin lifts his nails out of the bottle; their shells soaked as heavily as a preacher cupping his holy water.] Though, you're right - what's good, what's not: it's never mattered to me. [Greed answers, thickly. The intimacy here; it's almost like a confession. A private booth reserved for him and his under a blanket of dim glow more suitable for a room rented out for one, particular purpose.]

[The irony isn't lost on him.]

[When he presses his hand back a second time, the burn's all but gone. What remains is lukewarm; like a massage in oil, rubbed to the right key. The former homunculus drags the backs of his knuckles upward, coaxing the dye to fill the shape. Mello isn't like the rest of them, not entirely. He comes and he goes: distances himself, then demands. It's as if he's committed to a point and whether or not that's his other "boss" talking or simply strategy, it's a moot point.]

[At the end of the day, he always comes back: one way or the other.]

[Greed eyes the tattoo. The ink's already thick in places; the touch of it soaking like water to a sponge. It won't take him long to finish the rest, but as he drags his nail closer to the thin of Mello's bones, he stops again; the top of his nail hanging along the dip of his shoulder like an appraiser testing a value.] Ehhh - take a second. Think you deserve it, right?

[The Sin plucks his fingers away and with a flick of his other hand, a shoo of fire erupts on his nail. He coaxes it low: benign. The flash of orange trickling down, down, down to a gas-fire's blue. Trauma is something he knows. Maybe not in the same sense, maybe not even close, but his? The ones before? They had had their share. Be it bullet holes from war, the misfires of an experiment gone awry. Something worse. Greed lifts his hand to his face and as the tip of his cigarette blisters, he quickly fists his thumb; forcing the fire out in one huff of wayfaring smoke. He doesn't ask where Mello got his scars because he doesn't have to: it's simply par-for-the-course. A history before him, written out in flesh and stained to memory as bitter as bile bubbling to the surface. He takes a drag, his one leg spread and stretched. And if it's too close, too near.]

[He simply doesn't notice.]

Still, I meant what I said. Taking it like that - it's pretty impressive. But if you think I'd hold it against you - [Greed exhales and while the smoke unwinds from his mouth, the turn of his eyes crawls into focus. They watch Mello like a beacon: a creature, a thing, reading for a pulse. Because, while Mello can certainly handle it, harming one of his own? Putting them through the wringer?]

[It just won't, won't do.]

[The former homunculus plucks his cigarette from his mouth, leaving it on the edge of the ashtray.] - kids like you should be energetic, don't get me wrong. [A hiss and the last of the smoke wheezes through his nostrils.] - but push yourself too hard. You don't need to prove anything to me, M. [A hum warms in his throat. No, he doesn't have to prove anything: he's already made his point by coming to him now with nothing more than naked flesh and mortal skin bared like teeth. Greed turns his eye back to the bottle again and as he positions his nails, the scoop of his shoulders rises around his neck.] Though, I guess it was always your choice, wasn't it.

This is the last part - get ready. [It's his last cue. One, final approach before his claws sink and as the dye seeps off the tips like an injection, the Sin keeps it steady; his glance watching and waiting for any skip or jump in Mello's throat.]

[Maybe not, but proving that he can take it to himself is more important than anything. That Greed is present only sweetens the victory: a witness to his pride and strength that while feigned at times, stands true when it matters most. Months of searing heat relentlessly itching at his skin far surpasses the significantly less drawn-out process of what they're doing here. The languid relaxation that rises slowly as the liquor seeps deeper into his blood makes it easier; that he thought he would possibly make it through without was a fool's game he'd intended to play — regardless of Greed's understanding, anything less than acute alertness has always been unacceptable in the company in any but one and he is long-dead, most likely never to arrive in this place where monsters masquerade as things with human hearts.]

Do what — [And even now, through the false comfort and ease, Mello will always, always have pride on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill lies if it suits the image he seeks to project in everything he does. Half-curious eyes watch the Sin's hand as it draws away, moves to the other's face for a sign of disapproval he knows won't surface in this situation. And Greed's reassurance confirms it; tells him that unlike other's he's operated under, this one doesn't hold judgment in menial demeanor. Above it, maybe: something as old as the demon has witnessed more than any crime-boss in a filthy city could ever hope to muster. It might be why the confession that comes doesn't hold the weight it should; he can only keep up a front for as long as it's believable.]

[And when it returns and soothes, his abused skin is grateful for the temporary alleviation — comes to light in a soft exhale and lashes brushing each other when hazy blue eyes fall nearly shut from the reprieve. Greed is terrible and merciful, more forgiving than anything the blonde's ever known. Paranoia remains on the back-burner; might not exist at all where their dynamic comes into play.]

Almost killed me, [a thousand times over. No amount of opiates were enough to quell the constant agony to where Mello felt anything less than the verge of death nipping at his heels until the skin began to heal over, deaden what was beneath in enough places to allow him to breathe long enough to go on with his then-mission without a stagger in his step.]

[Oh, but it didn't kill him, did it? No, something far worse than his own self-destruction took care of that well enough. And despite his hubris, despite the front he fights so hard to maintain, relief comes with the allowance of temporary rest; maybe the other can read him better than Mello had anticipated. He makes a note to never inebriate himself this way again, even as he uses the allotted time to hoist himself forward on an elbow, tip the bottle up and let the dark substance flow down his throat in too-large gulps that warm and burn his chest the moment it hits. He's bordering on dizzy, eyes unfocused when he regards the demon, and there's a trust here reserved for no one. Not even L would experience the pleasure of Mello letting go so easily in his presence, but he's not foolish enough to believe that Greed wouldn't have wiped him from the face of Ryslig a thousand times already if it suited him.]

[The withholding of power is what earns Mello's respect, in the end. Like Dante, who could level cities with a swing of his sword if he so chose, Greed keeps it beneath his skin, lets it show in small tufts of smoke and flame — heat he would cherish and actively seek if he were still a Manticore, but now? It's enough to torch his skin a second time if the other so desired. And no, the proximity doesn't go unnoticed, is something he would move away from out of sheer desire for the maintenance of personal space if the circumstances were more dire.]

[But here? Now? Mello's too lazy-headed and flushed to care at all.]

M'not a kid.

[And oh, there it is, rearing its head even though it doesn't mean a thing. By something so ancient's standards, maybe, but Mello hasn't been a kid since he went off on his own, even at the age of fourteen. Life hit him sharp and fast, and he's as hardened from it as any seasoned soldier poised to fight. If his stomach tenses when the Sin moves back to return to his work, it's a lingering memory of discomfort, nothing more. Mello prefers his games straightforward and brutal, smirks that turn to sneers and a determination that brings whatever he wants to his feet like an offering, a sacrifice unto his resilience. The thick swallow might be the only indication of anything resembling hesitance he might possess at this point, and if it's an indication of weakness, he doesn't notice. Doesn't notice much of anything at this point but the lack of space between something that could burn him alive and his too-human body that isn't truly resilient to a single thing.]

[He's silent, because words aren't going to do him any good slurred this way; he'll finish off the bottle when they're finished, erase any lingering sign of soreness that might yet arise.]

[The warning goes unheeded; even in this state, Mello is hyper-aware of a demon watching him like an insect, a thing to be analyzed and ascertained. It's when that pierce comes — sharp and invasive — that in a moment of clarity, he realizes he should have prepared as much as possible. It stings and throbs, inked wounds half-jerking him from his comfortable position, and when he grits his teeth and emits a hiss indicative of swift, agonizing affliction, the hand that instinctively grabs at the other's wrist is an unintended response to a heightened spasm through his nerves that he hadn't expected.]

Fuck — [Grit and downright shameful; teeth dig into his lip hard enough to draw blood, and a relaxed spine straightens to attention as he seeks to steady himself against it all. He'll deny it tomorrow, pretend he took this as calmly and nonchalant as ever, but now?]

[Oh, it hurts: a mark painting his skin as proof of ownership scrawled across the scars of failure, and if Greed takes this as an indication that Mello can't bear another moment, he'll insist, assure him that it was a fluke, nothing more.]

[Because even now, more than half-drunk and unbearably vulnerable, he'll claim his strength is infallible to the very end. What use is he if something so small causes such a blatant reaction?]

[Mello's scars - they're not so different. To battlefield blemishes of a detonated grenade, to the quick-slap patch jobs done purposely sloppy so that the chance of survival was slim at best. He knows the story like the back of his hand. Not the other's specifically, but the bones of it - it's close enough. A fate so similar, it'd be hard for anyone to ignore. Them: the ones from before - Greed's mouth visibly tightens and as the last drops of ink belly-out from his claws, he presses his hand along Mello's skin. The run-off of both dye and blood smearing under his palm like a paint brush in water color.]

[Because, despite his efforts, this is what he'll always be. His swipe a touch, a trace, so close and yet still, so very far. The movement of a creature removed, trying it's best impression of humanity. In the end, the Gods might exhaust themselves. Ryslig could collapse. But when the time comes, if it ever does, most of them will return to the standard. A life mortal and brief in the years that pass.]

[Human.]

[Greed plucks his hand away, the left overs of his work stained to his skin. Not that it matters. Given time, his heat will wash it all away. Days from now, of course, but in the meantime, it barely makes a dent. The dark pitch of his scales appearing to swallow the color and reflect it back in a deep, pitch-black shine. The Sin pushes the bottle of ink away. He caps it with a twirl of his middle finger, the points of his eyes trained hard and still on Mello's lip.]

No, you're not. [A brief pause fumes behind his teeth. Orange, yellow, a streak of white: they begin to draw pattern in his jaws. Like the slits of a window shade, stroked and prodded by a playful hand. It takes him only a second before he boldly reaches upward; the flat-part of his thumb rising, rising, rising to clean off the blood in a single stroke.] Watch it. No need to hurt yourself anymore than you already are. [He says, his hand all but shifting away. Whispers of smoke tease his exit. They're rich with the smell. Sulfur, ash, the scent of cherry-wood burning on a bonfire - they mix together with an undertone. Of liquor, of cigarettes, and the tell-tail presence of other company long before Mello arrived.]

[The former homunculus sinks his heels into the floor and as they grind against the boards, he pushes back his chair.] That should do it. I couldn't tell you how long it'll take to heal, but I'm sure you can handle it. You're not exactly like the rest - [His age, he means. Of course, he doesn't say it - Mello's sin, if nothing else, is his pride. He's too proud of his status; too stubborn to let anyone see his underbelly, least of all him. No, there's a facade he has to parade. A shield of sorts, keeping his secrets, his vulnerabilities, as hidden as possible. Whether that's due to his history, the current affair, or a mixture of both, well - ]

[Greed reaches over to the side table and as his thumb spreads, he gently plucks up one of the earpieces of his sunglasses. They snap open immediately on a hang - their weight canted and pried like that of a door on a loosening hinge. Instead of putting them on though, he keeps the pair leveled in his hand. Admiring almost, despite how many years it's been.] Humans - you're still full of surprises, even now. [He starts. The phrase is distant somehow; as if two-centuries of a lifetime are passing in his lenses, repaying each moment. The former homunculus shrugs his shoulders and as the screws of his sunglasses clck into place, he dips his hand; forcing them back over his eyes as comfortable as a shawl over the skin of a more prude and exposed shoulder.]

[Decades could pass, but that fact: it doesn't change. Not then and certainly not here. Against all the odds they have, humans will always find a way. Biting back the pain and pressing forward, with the same, stubborn desperation that keeps them going. Mello - he's not different. And maybe, maybe, that's the reason - ]

[Greed turns his hands inward, pushing them to the tops of his thighs.] You can stay here, if you want. Figured it's only fair - [Already, he's standing to move; the streaks of soot falling from his back crawling to replace his position like a polite ghost, waiting its turn. The Sin ushers one of his heels over the other - his walk drawn out and tasteless.]

[Mello may have his stubbornness, but if he decides to stay? If needs a breather?]

[It'll be sin who waits for him. The minutes, the hours: they're meaningless. Because despite the name, avarice?]

[Avarice will always take care of what's rightfully his.]

[And passive comments are enabling compliments to those who are receptive to things that preen and prick at a confidence so fragile that thin glass holds an unmistakable density in comparison. No, Mello isn't like the rest — never was — and he's gone above and beyond in this life and the last to prove just that. Always teetering on the edge of self-doubt, the acquiescent statement brings a tip to the corner of his mouth; if Greed has known humans for centuries and centuries, he's never known anything like the too-human blonde thing that follows the demon's movements with eyes sharp enough to cleave even when the edges are blurred, when Mello's movements are too slow and comfortable despite the throb and sting that will take far longer to heal than he'd prefer.]

[Because when the haze wears off, the memory of discomfort will return in lingering soreness and that is when he'll know the true extent of what they've done here, tonight. For the best: his skin would have healed over too quickly with the abilities with which the Gods have both blessed and cursed him. Better to let ink mark and blacken, let human skin take on the stain in the way it was meant to be.]

[Whatever comes after, well.]

Hey.

[Because influence and overt confidence streak to a human's eyes in spades beyond average perception — the same interest piqued what seems so long ago when Mello moved through throngs of humans and monsters alike with a confidence that could have gotten him killed. Some would call it ignorance, but nothing is ever accomplished without discarding the very base of caution and fear in favor of exploration.]

[It takes more effort that he expects to push his body upright, even if one hand clenches the bottle with a sureness that will prevent it from slipping out of languid fingers. His head will pound for this tomorrow; he'll tell himself he was weak to cheat with the bottle nearly empty in such a short span of time, but for now? It dulls what it needs to dull, and when Mello slips to his feet to follow in some show of unabashed curiosity, it's stubborn pride alone that keeps him from swaying where he stands.]

Tell me something.

[Tone softer than usual at the edges and if there are pinprick blood droplets peeking through ink over abused skin, he doesn't notice. Not when his focus is limited to the creature who is so far beyond anything he's known retreating with a lack of care that would raise Mello's caution if he were sharper, more aware. One step, another, and it takes a conscious effort to keep his direction in line as he follows the demon with an unshakable refusal to be dismissed and forgotten.]

Edited 2017-09-12 17:56 (UTC)

[On the other side of the room, the Sin drifts to a pause. He already has one of his hands spread open wide, the dangles of his claws hovering like that of a witch, churning her brew. An exhale slips through his nostrils only once; his smile thinning and flattening to a hazy, basement-lull glow. The pains, the aches, the stings of where he's been - against it all, M remains unfazed. Still pushing the envelope, prodding the seal, to get the answers he so, so wants.]

[Curiosity may have killed the cat, but really, who can blame him.]

[Greed pinches his thumb and finger around the glass head of a canter, slowly turning it open.] Hmn? What did you have in mind? [He keeps his tone airy and light - the hum of his voice capturing the air. It causes a shrink of soot to peel away from his throat. A drift grainy and distant. What M's thinking could mean a million things. Ryslig, the others, him and his. The stopper to the canter unravels and with snaring plck, he takes it into his claws. The carefulness of his touch more similar to that of a jeweler admiring a once-in-a-lifetime piece. A second later, he places it down on the flat top of the dresser. Leaving a print of ash to stain its edge.]

Never said you couldn't ask. Figured it would come up sooner or later. [A tilt of his head brings his eyes teasing over his shoulder. Unlike usual, the red in them is quiet this time; the purple-pink as cool as mist chasing out the midnight hour. Greed blindly reaches for a glass. He lets his nails play inside the lip - gliding it back, smooth. Timeless. Until glass chimes glass and with a casual push of middle finger, the former homunculus levels the canter's lengthy neck. The body of it balanced at the crook of his claw like that of a teeter-totter, rocking on a point. He makes sure to level it just shy of his knuckles - the pour of liquor thick and running.]

[Because the night, it heaves with the bleakest secrets. The shadows wait in the black. And Mello, Mello, Mello - ]

[He's awake, all right. Awake and aware with the devil on his back.]

[Greed chokes the bottle, bringing it upright with a tck. As is his standard, the scotch he's chosen is rich. A top-shelf flavor, squirreled away from the main bar below. The Sin rings his hand around the edge of his portion, clipping it.] So, what do you want to know? [He murmurs. Despite only being out for a few seconds, the exposure to his heat is already beginning to pick up a film. Sweat and steam rotates inside the glass - the look of it mimicking a light fog, rolling along the shore. Either he doesn't notice it, or he simply doesn't care; the scotch all but hanging at his side like an accessory.]

[In the moment, Mello?]

[He has all his undivided attention.]

[Cnk, and one of his claws strikes out a note.] Only fair, after all. Equivalent exchange - [The Sin sing-songs, his one foot sliding forward. No, Mello's given him plenty to tonight. His body, a canvas. His loyalty. Even parts of him he's made sure to kept hidden and locked away, out of a private need for security. What questions he has, he'll answer. One for one, two for two. For let it never be said. Let it never be mistaken.]

[Honesty may be a virtue, but there's nothing so pure, so raw, than sin, sin, sin.]

[Three for three, then — Mello has given more than he'd intended in such a short span of time: his body, his submission, exposure to something that no one — not even those he holds close — have seen. Be it the liquor that warms his head as much as his spine, be it a need to test the waters to gauge the extent of Greed's need to possess, Mello has gone far beyond what he would consider acceptable in the way of subjugation, whether or not the Sin realizes.]

[And his new 'boss' is a spectacle, isn't he? Trails of heat and a nonchalance that would put the most impassive to shame, Mello has it in him to provoke above all else. Test waters, nip at sharp edges until they give; the too-ambitious boy who grew into something so criminal never did have a taste for boundaries.]

[But first, first. He'll slip around the demon with the grace of the feline form he possessed before the Gods cursed him with eternal life within death, demand the utmost attention that he hasn't had enough of with languid, attentive eyes. Blood and ink and possession mean nothing in the face of exposure, and it's with no regard for personal space that the blonde slips his hand beneath the glass — possess the possessions — and seeks to pull it towards himself as though another ounce of alcohol is something he needs, right now.]

[Really, he's shared so much tonight. The least Greed can do is share a quickly-warming liquor that can be easily replaced.]

What's your endgame?

[The sanguine tint to his cheeks is irrelevant, the sway on his feet a mere side-effect. Mello's question holds the levity that it would on any other day — it's something he's always wondered, in the end.]

Gather what you figure is worthy of being yours, make Elias pay for treading on your territory — then what?

[Because there's always, always an after. No one with any sort of ambition exists in a state of comfort; contentment comes to those who aspire to nothing.]

[Ah, there it is. The shot between the eyes, the arrow making a bulls-eye, right to the heart of it. The former homunculus splays out his lips. They stretch from one corner of his face to the other - a chaste smile on anyone else, wide and hungry. He curdles a noise along the flats of his teeth as if savoring the idea and as the warmth in his chest billows up his throat, the Sin plucks up his own glass. His nails hum against the sides with a single note: like a dot on the line and boy, boy, what have they signed themselves up for.]

That's a pretty bold question - [He slurs. His endgame; they couldn't really know, could they? An idea, sure, but infinity - it's lost on the mortal lot, isn't it? There's no real concept to it. Something endless, intangible, and forever, stretching years and centuries after everything's already dead and gone. Greed's muscles visibly stiffen. The bones in his spine, the veins beneath his skin; they're rigid and taught. Like that of trap, powered by a live wire. He doesn't notice how much his nails are scratching, nor does he seem to care; the glass below them all but screeching as the tips of his talons sink their mark as subtly as a knife to a bedpost-conquest. What he wants, what he needs. The Sin lifts his glass and as the other squeezes in, he meets his movement toe-to-toe. His waltz drifting to keep just enough space between them, both apart and near.]

Elias, the Fog God - you don't really think it's just about revenge, do you? [As he talks, the former homunculus trails throughout the room. He wanders by the bedpost, cruises towards the furnace; the small flicker of flame trapped inside the grate meeting him in a feverish greeting. No, there's so much more. So much to have, so much to take, just inches from his too-demanding hand. Greed sets his portion down on top of the furnace and when he lifts his arm away, the crack in the side is clear and visible. The fissure seeming to stretch, stretch, stretch like his own making, clawing by desire.]

[Because what he needs, what he's hungry for.]

[The world just isn't enough.]

[The Sin smooths his fingers along the lip of the furnace, tracing it.] What I want - [He repeats. The tone of his voice is drippy and wet - as if he's stuck in a dream. A kind of delirium clouding him over more similar to that of an addict on a fix. Greed lifts his shoulder. His spine crunches into place, the flats of shoulder-blades punch at his skin. The expression of a creature possessed by its definition, brought down to the very raw of it. Mello's question is simple, sure. But he's already started the reaction. His inquiry merely a light to an inevitable, powder-keg fuse.]

[And oh, oh, is it too little, too late.]

[The tendons along his arms twitch and as they pull, the sound that follows is trembling. His claws animate themselves - their sharp slides and punctual tck-tck-tcks more similar to that of body on the third-rail, taking the juice. Greed sets his jaw and his wrists stagger(ly) twirl.] - men, women, money, henchmen - [The former homunculus rolls each word. The lead in his mouth is obvious now. It ways him down, slurps in his cheek. Every notion itching like an undying thirst in the back of his throat. However subtle it is though, the violent jerk of his back is anything but. The sudden yank forcing his wings to jaggedly unfurl to the tune of a spider stretching under the blink of a strobe light.]

[Didn't they teach him? Didn't they tell him?]

[Truth he may get, but there's so much more in Pandora's box.]

[A scathing scrrritch breaks up the stillness and as the Sin's claws rake up his thighs, the smoke they leave behind blots him out. His own eclipse, challenging the sun.] The Fourth isn't enough. The Fog isn't enough. I want everything you can possibly think of, M. And what they have - it's the top of the list - ! [He barks, excitable. Maybe, this isn't the time. Maybe, this isn't right. Still - ]

[When has he ever played by the rules?]

[Greed glides his foot out to his side. The roar in his belly calms not a second later - his phosphorous burn, short and sweet. He coaxes his wings back to a fold and as their gnarly hooks lock into one another, the crackles in the furnace immediately snuff themselves out. As if his composure alone commanded them to a quench. The former homunuclus lifts one finger.] Dante wasn't wrong back in Vandare, but don't get the wrong idea. Lying, killing - I've still got my standards. But this town, it's just too small. And my avarice, well - it runs a little deeper than that.

[While he finishes, the Sin carefully takes up his glass again. The sliver in its side has stopped its movement - leaving behind an imprint akin to a tree marred by a bolt of warning lightning. No, the world was and is ever enough. And where the Gods may think they have their place, well - ]

[It wouldn't be the first time he's has tempted the odds.]

Edited 2017-11-06 22:18 (UTC)

[The stretch of Greed's lips is matched in a subtle tip of Mello's own; he's always been bold, hasn't he? Strutting into unknown territory the way he did that first night — a mark of audacity that has tattooed him to his core, more so than the superficial ink and irritated raises of skin that line his chest, torso. That his boss would expect anything else is laughable, but he doesn't, does he? Just a taunt, a prod that the too-human blond takes in stride when he drops his hand in some small act of compliance.]

[It wasn't his intention to snatch, after all. Just a test — true greed knows no limits, does it? All right, then.]

[Step for step — subtle as the dance is — Mello's guerilla tactics for attention have no effect on something so ancient; obvious as this is, he'll persist. What does it matter, in the end?]

Think it's fair enough, yeah.

[Slurred, maybe. Just the edges, just the nuance. Questioning authority is a step down from obliterating it completely, and if Greed only knew — oh, that would be cause for strife, wouldn't it. A subtle shake of his head, half-takes the room with it. No, it's not about revenge, because revenge is nothing more than a means to an end. A cog, an instrument: Mello knows the concept well. His own revenge was nothing more than a tool to take and take until he stood on top because, well — ]

[The half-drunk human standing before Sin has always wanted the world too, hasn't he? There are nuances to this sort of thing; no explanation is needed. Someone with ambitions so high understands full well that obstacles are just those. An endgame is far beyond that, far beyond figureheads and posing entities.]

I'd be disappointed if they were your goal. [A one-shouldered shrug; nonchalance can be matched movement for movement. Dead at nineteen, Mello knows ambition more than the average 'human' Greed might have encountered, but hubris is something to be kept at bay until it's needed. Because I'm nothing you've ever known is an idiot's declaration.]

[Actions speak louder than words, when all is said and done.]

[But oh, prideful boy — don't mock the Devil, himself.]

And this town; it's a hub, I know.

[Semantics, really. But the Sin likes to speak in circles, doesn't he? Pull them round and round until their demand for answers fall to the wayside; Mello was never someone to be deterred so easily. Beneath it all, he's been trained to replace his world's greatest detective — not that he'd be particularly keen on sharing that information. A flick of his tongue over the corner of his mouth, and he'll step back if Greed thinks he's going to lead him along in a fruitless whirl.]

[Eventually]

The cities are yours — [The people? Well.] — the Gods are out of the way. [And Mello thinks he likes this game, pressing as it is. Skirt along the edges of sin; reach forward to flick a fingernail against the side of the demon's glass.] Everyone accepts your bargains —

[Demon at the crossroads.]

No one wants to take what's yours, which is — [Smirk.] everything. [A tip of his chin; Mello sways on his feet just a bit too much to make an argument for complete coherency, right now. Unimportant, dismissed with a quick righting on his balance.]

[He asks because — Because.]

There's nothing left. And you — [In this life and the last.] you're eternal. [As is Mello, as is everyone here, where immortality even after death is a curse that some of them would relish.]

Do you sit on a throne and bask in it all, or do you wait for someone to rise against you?

[If there's a hint of challenge to the question, it's unintentional. Really.]

[But for how much Mello is encroaching, the Sin returns the favor tenfold. His chest dips when the other crawls along his glass; his exposed neck open and wide as M slinks through every single one of his words like a firing-squad, lined up and packed with plenty of ammo. And he has enough to spare, doesn't he? Each one of his questions, digging further to the truth. To see the heart of it all, beat for beat.]

[However, even so, there's that little thing he's forgot. A little detail he's missed. Because while Mello may be his, while he may belong?]

[Nothing, truly, comes free.]

[The former homunculus scuffs the lip of his glass with his finger. The smear he leaves is oiled and grainy; the taste like that of charcoal coughed up and spat out from the mouth of a lead pipe. He gives his teeth a playful click. A porcelain chime.] Pretty persistent, aren't you. [Greed rolls his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It follows the arch of his gums, traces the grooves; his smooth talk as subtle and brazen as a lover-for-hire trying to raise the stakes. This town: it's just the start of his empire, isn't it? His very making binding him, choking him, and only the cure is more, God, more, more, more, more - ]

[Greed's expression bristles and as the forks of his tongue lap away, the spark they leave pops off in cheek; forcing the skin to hum from the inside out like that of a negative, thrown up for inspection. He pats the side of his glass.] Oh, don't I wish I was immortal - I may be built a bit tougher, but that doesn't mean I haven't died before. And taking from them - [The Sin pucker his mouth; his smile, now an appreciative purse.] - I don't care what anyone else does. Human, monster, something else. That'll be their choice. I did tell you, didn't I? I'm not a good guy, M. But forcing someone to do something they're not interested in - I wouldn't really be me, now, would I.

[It isn't a question. Mello isn't new to this. He's heard the song, seen the dance. Listened to the same rhythm, over and over, knowing that they would end up in the same place that they started. The former homunculus dips his chin and as the flats of his boots brush the floor, he begins to tighten his coil. The hold of his claws loosens, then drops - the glass and whatever's left all but given to the other without a word.]

[Greed pops two of his fingers into his mouth and with a brisk flick, he cleans the brim.] Everything's mine, friend. Now, later. [While he talks, the Sin's eyes dreamily drift. A hint of smoke teases in front of his face. Like a thin veil, it blurs his colors. Brightens his glow. The gassy fume carving him out and sinking in as jagged as neon paint, calling from an alleyway. No, he's not like the rest of them. And in the end, oh in the end - ]

[The Sin abruptly pulls himself away. A shred of soot chases him while he goes - its fingers trying, almost desperately, to weave their way along Mello's collar.] My turn. [His back to Mello, the former homunculus stretches out his hand. He makes a pile along the edge of his dresser: his sunglasses, his vest, a clip of keys, and a couple of loose coins tossed aside in a mound more suitable to a bachelor's uncaring collection. One of his claws traps a stray piece of copper and as his nail pins in, Greed slumps into his back.] That ambition of yours - you didn't get to finish everything you started, did you?

[The surface of the coin brightens. Slowly, the stray-orange copper starts to fade away. It warps and peels. Reddens and simmers. The shade of it, an electric grill, cooking, cooking, cooking. Greed lifts his talon away and when it breaks, the hole left is black and smokey. A bullet's exit wound, leaving behind a reminder. Mello isn't the only one in the 'Nest who's life was cut short.]

[Which -]

Even if you don't stay here, the possibilities are endless. There are other worlds out there, after all. [He pauses. At the corner of his jaw, a thin snuff of smoke twirls about his head. It delicately tangles in his horns - a touch soft, loose, and oh, oh, oh.]

[The Sin pats his foot and immediately, the halo around him drops.] You asked if I'd wait for someone else to try to take over, but that's not how it works. [Greed pinches the coin, lifting it into his palm.] What's mine is just that and my offer always stands. You, the others, and everyone else. It'll be your choice. A one time deal -

[After all, doors take a bit of effort to open, don't they? A key, something else, and if there ever was a payment to be had - ]

[Dnk, and his heel snaps back along the floor.] Think that's enough for now. If you want to stay, feel free - [Greed shoves his hands back into his pockets - his slight cant, chiding and sarcastic.] - you can have the rest of that, if you need it. [He motions to the bottle lazily with his elbow. A second goes by, another.] Unless you need anything else?

[Because, really, sin can only give so much. He's built in selfishness. Molded by desire. A serpent made, constantly and forever chasing its own tail.]

[There are very few times in Mello's short life during which he hasn't been completely on guard; as a child, he thrived on rivalry, made an enemy out of someone who was nothing less than indifferent. Later, a true enemy breathed down his neck with a dragon's heat, meeting him move for move, and the boy with too much to prove nearly burned the world to see the other sink into a grave that he so deserved. Now, human, he should be on guard more than ever — he's the thing that monsters eat — but this human's been granted sanctuary here, and the carefree back-and-forth doesn't hold the levity it would if the situation were any different. There's something else to Greed handing over the glass the way he does — Mello's sure of it as much as he's sure that everything is something in the Sin's intent — but the what of it will remain a mystery. Don't come off too insistent, too paranoid.]

[A soft grace in the way warm fingers slide just above the stem, attention falling momentarily to the small amount of liquid behind translucent glass. The Sin's words roll off of his shoulders — reminders and for someone always on-edge: veiled warnings — while something who does nothing aside from simply being is a near-entrancing spectacle; something a human could cast off the following day as a mirage — a trick of the light here and there; a glitch in his peripheral — but Mello knows better, doesn't he?]

[Ambitious? Him? What would give Greed that idea?]

[Tit-for-tat, but Mello was never one to divulge unnecessary details. That he never finished what he set out to do is a thing that nips at his back with every failure, every attempt unsatisfied. A living, breathing ghost trapped in an eternal loop to complete a series of events that have long-since unfolded: the stain of his end marks him so visibly, does it?]

[What's mine is mine — is mine — is mine; oh, but Mello's dignity is his to hold, but what's Greed's is Greed's — (one of his own) — so by extension, by logical order — ]

No.

[Low; confessions aren't for devils, but here they are. Mello drains off the glass in a single motion, fluidly places it nearby without a word of gratitude (never his strong suit, after all) and it's the alcohol alone that dulls the sting that comes with the memory of loss. But he'll cover it with a half-grin, a shrug that doesn't mean a thing. Appearances and all.] But that was a long time ago. [Just a few months; just a blip in the scheme of things — Mello never was one to let go of wins that were always his to take. Not when they were snatched away by a hand weaker than his own.]

[A tip of his head; copper charring and melting away, a breath of something intangible and near enough to give off a vapor — oh, the Sin's questions are always loaded. Succinct, convoluted; does it matter? What's his is his and it's enough when Mello says it's enough; the beat of silence is enough to fill nebulas and yet — ]

[A full flavor rests heavy on his tongue when he tests it against the backs of smooth teeth, mimics something like the sound of dissidence in his throat — brazen thing that he's always been. ]

You've always got somewhere to go, don't you — [Near-condescending; he glances at the bottle offered. He'll take that later, when sleep refuses to come as it always does. Mello should know; he was a busy person himself — king of nothing and no one important when it came down to the wire; someone who didn't have time for a thing that didn't suit his end-game, but this — now?]

[Call it impudence.]

[He's long-scarred from teetering too close to fire (lessons learned and filed away) and the first step takes thought, balance, determination — the next? A matter of leisure and poise, uneven as it might be. Twenty going on what might as well be a hundred with wisdom and experience and Greed will see him because that's what he's chosen as his 'something else,' misguided as his intentions tend to be where matters of dynamics are concerned.]

[The sting of the tattoo still bites into his skin; it bypasses the numbing effects he's consumed so much to put into place. Just enough to take the edge off; just enough to dull the throb.]

Do you make it a habit of shelving your things? [Blatant as the sentiment is; a mock-curiosity creases his brow — ever the antagonist, Mello will push and push no matter the price. He'd unapologetically paid with his life once before, after all. This?]

[A grand show of immature vanity.]

Edited 2017-12-09 02:04 (UTC)

[Mello may have his fear of fire, yet still he draws in. A moth by another name, testing the waters and dipping its toes, despite any harm that may follow. It's an impressive feat - a dangerous attempt. And as the other slips in and claims his place, the former homunculus tentatively lifts his lip. His sneer is nothing sort of a smear; one made in teeth and a brush-stroke of sulfur, hot and yellow. A note of something spoils in his throat and as it dies, bits and pieces leak through his scales. The remnants, a backwash of ash.]

[Greed puckers his eyebrows together.] Didn't realize that was a problem. [He licks his words. Savoring them, tasting them. The other may his point, but then again - if that's what he really wants.]

[A snare of soot wilts off the back of his neck and while it extends, the Sin slowly begins to wrap around the other. He curls in where Mello's started; his winding movement forcing his fallout to tangle between them like a loose-run rope, circling its noose. And isn't it just them? Their constant a dance, a space, inches apart. Greed's eyes heavily droop. He extends a single finger - the brunt of it curved back and aimed right to the shelf of the Mello's chin. Whether he gets to tilt it back or not, that's the other's choice. But considering his proposition, considering his vanity? Well - ]

[He's always considered himself lucky on his bets.]

[The Sin lowers his head, forcing his horns a breathless minute away from his present company. Mello. M. He has a habit of pushing. Whether it's personal boundaries, his worth, his standing: nothing is ever enough. He's not so different from others he's known. His desire is thirsty, his need to be noticed more-so. The former homunculus closes in and as his body looms, one of his legs stretches out. The sharp of his heel taps ever-so-lightly outside their personal bubble; the punctuation of brunt plastic and heat more similar to that of a gunshot in point-blank range. A whiff of smoke traps around his ankle. One wrap, two wraps, three, and it envelopes them. A personal curtain drawn and asking the single question:]

["Is that an offer?"]

[Greed purses his lip.] If you've got something else, I'm all ears, friend. Didn't mean any offense. [It's almost sick, how he says it. His voice is neon-toxic. A poison, better avoided. The Sin extends his tail. The spade of it unwinds with a sense of purpose; as if it's waking up from a deep slumber, only to eat up the sun. The former homunculus rolls the forks of his tongue behind his teeth. No, Mello's a gambler of a different kind. A poker player and all of his cards, oh all of his cards - ]

[Shrrrk. The prongs along the Sin's tail catch the wood floor. They drag themselves lowly - like that of a flat-bellied serpent, crawling towards a source. Greed wraps his hand around his hip and as he tilts, those eyes of his wander. They trace the arch of Mello's throat, follow his veins; his very look as warm and vacant as a forest-fire debating its direction. He taps his boot again just once.] Though, coming from you - didn't really think you were interested. [He teases his teeth while he talks. The prongs of his tongue peek out from his jaws; a brief flicker, to get the flavor. Because, if Mello wants his company, he'll gladly give it.]

[First thing's first - ]

[The Sin drums a finger against his hip.] You're going to have to tell me what you want, though. Not really interested if you aren't. [The insinuation should be pretty obvious. Talking is fine, but company? The kind he's looking for? It's an equivalent exchange. A bargain.]

[And all Mello needs to do is sign the dotted line.]

[Hm? Oh, it's a problem. One of moderate consequence; Mello is blatant intent where Greed is something asking to be chased — and he knows it. Has to — and pursuit is something that sets his nerves on edge. Lightning sparking in a silent clap that expands his pupils, widening orbs of increasing interest. His boss never intended to take anything that wasn't given freely, did he? Funny thing.]

[Never much of a predator in this area before the Gods went and made him a hunter; it bleeds over into his intent even now in this temporary human cage. The movement towards him is a devil's promise — one he accepts willingly with an upward tip of his chin; if Greed wants to touch him, the invitation's already been laid out: long ago; a wordless beckon in each encounter, each accidental bout of contact, vies to hold the demon's attention over and over and now — ]

[No, no, no, he's nothing Greed's ever known. Not so different. T'ch. Human, maybe. But the rest? Is it so bold to reach for something that holds the ability to tear him apart? Most would say yes; Mello simply views it as a natural course of action where the dynamics between monsters and humans lie. Warm, curious fingers stretch to pad skin over the rough surface of a horn — things feel so different when Mello's body is what it was before the first change — and if there's hesitation, it's been long ago tucked away.]

[A drawn-out waiting game between the two of them; Mello was never one to be taken at someone's pace and yet — and yet. The urge to pry and take overrules habit; liquor slows his reactions to a languid, heated measure. Greed is taking because that's what he does, and Mello's always been a selfish thing.]

[Offense. Taunt him, taunt him and — oh, Mello will retaliate the way he knows how. Avoidance isn't an option; he's already crossed a line that threatens to snap if he takes just one more step. Just one more and — ]

I think [He accentuates the K; maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's intentional. A moment of pause, a pensive silence that leaves way for speculation. Long enough to glance over the trap in which he's been entwined, whether or not it's calculated (ah, of course it is) on the Sin's part.] You play dense because you want to hear it. [And that slow, slow smile, it's for infatuation and enemies alike. Dropped almost as instantly as it appears; the tip of his tongue plays at the corner of his mouth for a split second — he was always one to delve head-first into risk, wasn't he?]

[Not interested. His pride would tell him a different story. His hubris would tell him that's a fucking lie; Mello is leather and intention, human or no, impossible to dismiss — he flaunts his own skin as temptation incarnate, and Greed isn't so hard to figure out. He wants and wants — more than any of them maybe — wants confessions that hold him in place while posing a question that Mello thinks was answered a long, long time ago.]

Coming from me — [Is he so difficult to read?] Is that right. [And Greed wants him to say it directly, doesn't he? A verbal contract, an agreement, an acquisition of something given freely. But what he will give, (what he has given) is an indignant, firm jerk of his chin away from the Sin's finger — claws be damned, scratches be damned — before he presses close, close, closer.] You want me to tell you what —

[And when he leans in to nip at the corner of the other's mouth, it's blood-thirsty, even for someone in human form.] Boss. [Low in his throat, and Mello's never played very nicely. Patience isn't a virtue; teasing will only frustrate him until he breaks, but Greed does love the back and forth, doesn't he?]

[Now? Mello will give it to him. Just for now.]

That I want to fuck? [His words come calculated, a backhanded mockery of having to voice it at all, but if this is what Greed needs — ]

[An unholy war: that's what this is. A game of sides, pushing, prodding, and invading each others' respectable territories with the subtly of a noose, weaving around a throat. Mello's touch is both inspection(ary) and curious; as if it's his first time seeing the world around him up close, and all he wants to do is feel, feel, feel it through.]

[Runs of sulfur key behind his teeth: white, yellow.] Oh - ? Can't say you're entirely wrong. [The former homunculus rinses his tongue along the roof his mouth. The heat locked inside squeezes smoke against his gums; the look of it, more similar to that of compacter, pressurizing its contents. Because no, he really isn't that difficult to figure out. Wants and needs; pleasure and company. They're an addiction he'll never shake. He's built by them: defined by them. And as the other's lips bite copper at this skin, the Sin's flashes back a pointed grin. His gesture, wordlessly filling in the blanks:]

["I know it's killing ya, and you gotta leave. But darlin', darlin', darlin' - " ]

["- it's all a little too late."]

[Greed drops his hand, allowing his claws to level just outside Mello's side. He isn't touching; not yet. And why would he? When he's getting everything he wants - it'd be a shame to waste the opportunity. M's interactions are always a participation of push and pull with the same tune. First, an "I'm right here." Next, the tease. The best though, he saves for last; a bored withdrawl, as blatant and smokey as a woman, chasing her shoulder over with a glance. He's seen it before. Hell, he sees it now. And if Mello's looking for a definite answer? Well - ]

[It's been said that the devil gives the warmest redemption.]

[Greed's teeth shallowly graze the other's lip - his killer-cut daggers, carefully placed.] See, that wasn't that hard, was it? [Slurring, his hand finally pries open. The underside of his palm is as slick as it is black and while he traces down the other's side and maps it out, the former homunculus nudges one of his legs closer. He guides his heel up against Mello's in a tap of plastic; the arch of his foot swinging, just swinging, as if he has the time.]

[Which - ]

[The Sin's tail unhitches from the floorboards. Prongs, gems, hooks, and steel: they slither between Mello's feet. A serpent for lack of anything else, making itself at home. For that's what he is. What'll always be. Temptation in its ultimate shell, breathing it all in. M knew it the moment they met, didn't he? That what day, they'd be here like so many others before him.]

[Greed runs the back of his knuckles down the other's spine.] You can still say no, y'know. I'm not about to force you into anything you're not interested in, friend. Just not my style. But if this is what you really want - [He leans his head in, giving his company plenty of room. Whatever he wants touch, where ever he wants to go - the choice?]

[It's so, decidedly his.]

[Shrrrnk, and the former homuculus presses his hip against Mello's; the meeting of leather to leather, sticky and shrill.] You're right, though: I wanna hear you. Everything you want, everything you need - give to me, sweetheart, and I'll be sure to return the favor. [As if mirroring M's K, Greed purposely clicks a tooth on his R. It's been a long-time coming for the two of them and his selfishness? It heeds no warning nor does it know any bounds. It's endless that way: his core all but a bottomless pit, opened to swallow. The Sin catches a piece of Mello's shirt on his claw and his nose tucks sleekly under his ear.]

[Mello may usually see himself in the company of saints, but in the end?]

[It's their cardinal opposite who'll always come creeping back.]

[If this is war, a sketched line drawn haphazardly in the proverbial sand has long-since been breached. Human on initial approach, human now — Mello's penchant for dipping curious fingers into poison has always held true. Never one to give (weakness and subjugation and everything in-between), that's precisely what he's doing now, isn't it?]

[Because Greed is methodical — dripping with intent — where Mello is throwing his vulnerability into the flames twice-over. A voice that wasn't quite so unearthly when Mello was more than human is something transcendent now; confident: the teasing dance between the two of them ends here, where the human's too-responsive flesh consumes touches and breaths and words alike.]

[I wanna hear you — ]

[And when has Mello ever been one to give in to demands? Oh, but Greed would phrase it as an exchange, wouldn't he? Give me what I want, and I'll give you, (I'll give you) —]

[A b s o l u t i o n.]

[There are no saints here.]

[The blond pinches the tip of his tongue between grit teeth; alcohol or no, nerves dance along with contact in prickles of electric staccato rhythm. A tip of his head to further expose a smooth, pale throat — (never give in to the hunter ) — he invites nips and wounds and everything so far-removed from heaven. A swallow, throat bobbing in nothing short of a blatant request, he peeks at the sin through lowered lids, grips at fabric to seal the frustrating minute distance between them once and for all.]

[All of the liquor in Ryslig wouldn't hold the ability to raise his body temperature enough to match a demon's; the warmth is engulfing as much as it is alarming and it's the minute hesitation that surges Mello's resolve. Thin, practiced fingers slide up the side of his boss's neck, find purchase in the hair just at the nape where he grabs and tugs toward him, hips inviting and clamoring in their insistence — never one for anything resembling patience, their mutual need to size each other up like enemies who are anything but plants an ache in him that tenses and tightens and begs to be absolved like an unspoken prayer.]

I want you —

[I want everything.]

— to stop fucking around.

[Sin incarnate, older than breath, born-again monster; Mello wants Greed unleashed in ways that would nullify religion in all its fickle forms. He punctuates the murmur with a hard, lingering press of warm lips against Greed's temple, with a chuckle low enough in his throat to be mistaken for a taunt. His next words are muffled against skin, bold in their clarity.]

Don't play coy with me. [Because they both know that either of them are anything but.] And don't give me a choice. [Breathless, anticipating.] I think you know I never had one to begin with.

[Not with his resolve upon first setting eyes on someone who Mello knew was so much more than he appeared.]

[It's one of the few times he actually listens. Sure, he acknowledges their grievances, their strict no(s), their wants and needs. But in this moment, in this precise second where heart beats thud and a drum pushes at the skin, demanding attention - the Sin's movements are both elongated and coy. The touch of Mello's lip at his temple is a breath; his tug at his vest, a demand. And really, he's always had a knack for it, hasn't he? Pushing himself forward, toeing the line, chancing his luck. Until finally, finally, salvation's opposite comes to collect its dues.]

[Ah, but what is they say about the devil?]

["How merciful he can be."]

[Behind the sway of Mello's back, Greed's nails suddenly skate together. They brush against each other with a sharpening trill; the sound, similar to that of a butcher's block, plucking out its best. The former homunculus shrinks his head a bit lower and as the other's fingers play at he dip of his skull, a longing hum fights behind his teeth. The world's desires, all but hissing like prisoners beating against an overcrowded cell.] Oh - ? Is that what you think? Maybe you did, maybe you didn't. But this - [He hushes and one of his claws barely skips down Mello's spine.] - sorry, but that's all you, sweetheart. Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I told you before: in the end, it is your choice. You just have to tell me exactly what you want, hmn?

[Though, he already knows his answer. Need. If anyone is an expert, he's certainly it. And as M's chuckle teases his ear, the Sin slyly pivots his heel. He forces his boot up and in; its dramatic tip, nudging aside Mello's legs as a wordless inquiry:]

["If you let me - oh, babe. I'll show you exactly what it's like."]

[A rush of soot shakes from his horns and the former homunculus plants a trail of kisses down M's exposed throat. He does it with a purpose - the bottom of his ear, first. Right outside his pulse, second. The action is continuous. Slow. The love of a sewer drain, sighing out its smoke, tasting the air, and feeling the life up above for the short, quick time that it has. No, even with all the centuries he's had, these are the moments he savors. And if he's taking too long, if he's dragging it out - ]

[Greed's mouth wrenches open; his exhale, humid and dank. One of his hands keys up Mello's side and as the tips of his fingers come upon his scar, a blatant pause steals his touch. All of his have their stories. Be it something they did, something out of their control, a mix of both, or just simply, an unfortunate case of wrong place, wrong time. Whatever the reason, the scale is vast. A human spectrum of the worst kind, bringing them here, here, here.]

[And what finds them but none other than avarice, avarice incarnate.]

[It's one of the reasons he hesitates. The former homunculus hovers his thumb above the start of Mello's blemish. The skin underneath's healed, sure enough, however - its wrinkled. Garish. Taut. The other's metaphorical rubber band, pulled tight and if one gets too close, if one pushes too much, the whole thing could snap right back. Greed skips over it, instead choosing to outline the mark with a soft, tracing touch of his own. No, here? Here, even he knows his limits.]

[And some things just aren't worth the trouble.]

Ah - you really are something, aren't you. [Whispered. Greed talks into Mello's skin like a promise. He maps him out with the very tips of his teeth and as one of his hands drifts further down M's chest, the other presses boldly into his back. Forcing their skin to meet as close as dancers, plotting inches of space. He leads and suggestions. Guides and coaxes. The clip of his heels and the not-so-subtle prod of his fingers, an effort to keep his lover stepping back, back, back.]

[Eventually though, he pauses again - the tips of his claws, barely tucked into the hem of the other's pants. One of his knuckles brushes Mello's hip.]Lovely - [The Sin's slurs, his mouth hitching a hair off Mello's neck. He pops the button to M's leathers not a second later and as his thumb circles, he gingerly brings his eyes upward. Unlike before, the thirst in them is more blatant. Red pounds in his sockets; a string of purple slinks between. The former homunculus hooks his talon at the inside of the zipper and as the tip of it connects with steel, he shoots an inspection(ary) glance over M's shoulder. The dresser behind them is anything but organized. Empty bottles line the mirror, odds and ends pile themselves dangerously on the edge. Yet, considering the circumstances -]

[Greed's smile splits and without even a hint of hesitation, he moves to snag the other's thighs. He makes an effort to snare both of Mello's legs behind the back of the knee - a notion to hold, to spread, and an offer for him to take, take, take.]

[Because if he loses a few bottles, a few trinkets? Well - ]

[Nothing in this world is free now, is it?]

[Old, latent Catholicism at work — humans turned monsters turned human still retain a conscience, when all is said and done — Sin is something to be avoided at all costs where intention is concerned. Because if he commits it — oh, and he has — if he lays his soul bare and delves into darkness: it’s conviction. But if Sin takes him, well. It’s only a slip, something to which humans have been prone since the beginning of time. The proverbial apple (and Eve was so innocent, wasn’t she) tempting, bright and sweetness laden with knowledge that was never theirs to have.]

[Too-sensitive skin tingles everywhere Greed’s mouth touches; some nerves have long-died, others so alive that it near-jolts his body upon contact, and Mello has never submitted for control. An old wives’ trick, something he’d always held his pride over but now now it’s a worthy method: give and give and he can take what’s his (and it is, it is, it is) with a feigned innocence that has never known someone like him.]

[Greed is smoke-wood and claws and teeth that can gnash him if the Sin so chooses and yet — Devil that he is, Devil that Mello’s sought — he vies for permission (let me in; let me in) and isn’t that what devils do?]

[The smooth tip of a moist tongue runs over the surface of his top lip, a human body presses and goads where it should tense in the face of something that it could perceive as a threat. Monsters know no honor — doesn’t matter what they tell themselves over and over — and the body that Greed so liberally handles and prods is a potential meal, a veritable plate thrown at his feet, willing and naïve as it is brimming with pride and a want Mello hasn’t known since the Gods made a monster of him.]

[Recognition sates him more than contact — Sin wants because Sin knows the firebomb he holds sway over, chaos incarnate shoved into a human body, a determined, unpredictable collection of sharp edges and stubborn will making himself malleable enough to lift, to urge. Mello presses closer and closer, tightens their bodies together everywhere the other touches, lifts his mouth at the corners, basks in the appreciation — (got your attention, huh) — of words and intention alike and when he snakes his arms around Sin incarnate’s neck, ghosts blunt, human teeth over a cheek, the permission there is as blatant as it would be if he’d asked for it directly and still — ]

[Yet.]

I want your attention — [Isn’t there merit in being righteous in the presence of devils? Honesty was never Mello’s mother tongue, but now — ] All of it. [And oh, Greed will say he has it won’t he? And that will be a lie in itself, but now — here — Mello will take what he can get. He tips his head back enough to put his eyes in the other’s line of sight, urges a knee against the demon’s thigh in a hard dig before he takes without permission (haven’t they long passed that?) with his mouth, fingertips digging deep into the back of the other’s neck. Teasing, tasting, tongue slicking over the prick-sharp ends of teeth, Mello’s body is svelte and pliant and if Greed wants — ]

[And he does want; that much is apparent.]

[Eager lips are trying to pry a mouth open with Mello’s own, a hunger that knows no name, a fleeting claim to something long-forgotten in the morning; this is a game he’s played too many times before to avoid the eventual outcome and right now?]

[Things like that don’t matter. Not when he’s hard and aching and as hungry as he would have been if there were a feast laid out before him after a fortnight of fasting.]

[It's a course he's walked down a million times. Asking with a glance. Questioning with merely a stroke of a knuckle. Mello has the notes keyed into his very fingers - the melody, the proverbial sheet, all but played back to him as smooth and egotistical as an apprentice, showing up the master. The former homunculus gives his mouth a sly test. The forks of his tongue dance briefly behind his sneer; the flicker of brimstone, the light of it, a hint of mere static to Mello's inquiry dragging him in, in, in. An inch, and the Sin hums. Another, and his teeth snag the other's lower lip. A devil's pricking kiss gentle, indulgent, and all-too familiar with suggestion.]

[For what were those words again? What was the phrase?]

["Just one bite, sweetheart. And I promise, it'll all be worth it."]

[One of the Sin's hands guides Mello by the dip of his back while the other makes short work of the nightstand. It flattens on top of it (over mounds of rolled up coins, through strands of last night's company) with a resounding thunk. What's there doesn't matter. What's in the way doesn't count. Instead, it all too-quickly goes belly-up; the cache, the collections, swiped away and over the side to the tune of a window, smashing under a brick. The former homunculus slurs something in the back of his throat and while a pulse of quick-fire melts behind his scales, the hooks of his fingers suggest at the inside of Mello's knee; motioning it up, wide, and atop the pedestal he so, so craves.]

["I want your attention," he says. The answer?]

[So be it.]

[Greed nudges his hips forward - his body, all but forcing itself between the other's thighs.] Do you now. Pretty bold, friend. But I'm glad to hear you can finally admit it. Just remember - [His thumb swipes Mello's jawline while he talks. He traces it out from one point to the other; the sharp angles, the jagged lines, the uneven skin as much as a defining characteristic as his stubborn disposition. To Sin, they're one in the same. Something to be admired and put to memory, inch by every, terrible inch. The former homunculus plucks his lips away with a satisfied smile and as his eyes focus under a toxic fume, he gingerly grazes his nose under the shelf of the other's chin. Leaving his smile, his voice, to plant at the skin of his throat.] - no regrets, hmn? If you decide you really don't want it, you need to tell me. After all, I may not be good, but I have some standards.

Now - [Two of his claws touch the sweep of Mello's thigh. They run across his leather in a skirt; the sound, more similar to loose muffler, scratching the pavement. No, he's sure Mello's plotted this entire thing out. He's weighed his options, counted the positives, the negatives. Sure, he's at a disadvantage. Being human, even for a second, is dangerous in Ryslig's terms. Though, then again; since when has he ever shied away from the idea? Since when has he hesitated? Even when they first crossed paths - M has always been the sort to cross the line. To dip his toes and challenge anyone, everyone, who dared to give him a run for his money.]

[And here? Here.]

[It's really no different.]

[The Sin's shoulders shallowly dip and as the fur along his neck peels off, the rest of his vest catches loosely at his elbows. It causes the lines across his body to steal at the air; their red color, bleeding to a bright, alleyway pink. A thin exhale of ash shakes free, then. A veil of another definition, tooling about, wrapping them, and ah, ah, ah.]

[Is it truly a shame when a saint marries the devil.]

[Greed's nails swipe the top of Mello's knee. Shrrnk.] You've got my attention, lovely. But having it all - [Purred, are his words. The way he whispers against the other's skin - it's like he has a secret. Like he has a thousand of them. And maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. Either way, the Sin creases his teeth close to Mello's pulse - their tips, a blade's delicate caress.] - I think that's asking a lot, don't you?

[Not that he won't give him what he wants. Far from it. However, avarice - it's a disease, isn't it? A vice without a cure. A cancer without a remedy. And as his thumb pulls away to nip at the zipper of Mello's pants, Greed arches his torso forward. His hips press, his bones grind. His own want creeping in, constricting, as if he could drain every inch of Mello dry, dry, dry. Because, in the end?]

[Sin's exposure will always, always, leave but a husk behind.]

[Regret — no; Mello's never regretted a thing he's done in his life. Matters of meticulous calculation lead to desirable outcomes: even this. A brush of an arm against an arm, an unprompted glance, suggestions veiled in casual movements and words — this encounter, impromptu as it might be, is a planned means to an end that Mello decided on from the moment he honed in on something infinitely more powerful than himself. And the wry chuckle he gives at the Sin's disclaimer is overconfident, assumptive.]

[What is there to regret, really?]

What, [he murmurs between the sounds of rustling leather and metal coming undone, fabric slipping over flesh, his own breath shallowing to accommodate the sharp rise in his too-human pulse.] you think you can hurt me?

[Challenges and taunts are second nature; Greed can hollow him out and leave him for dead if he wants — Mello knows. He lets himself be taken with ease (save the fight for when it's warranted) while curious fingertips trace lines and scales and skin. Let him be exalted at Greed's mercy; the one who doesn't give a thing is handing himself over with a willingness that comes as though he's done this a hundred times before.]

[if you only knew; if you only knew]

[Lovely, huh. Mello's a jagged thing — angles and scars, a face that lies to angels and Greed? Well. He's earned every flaw, and so Mello will give it all. Without regret, without remorse, he inhales a sharp breath, bumps his teeth against his boss's cheek, drops his hands to drag tight leather down over his own hips as far as he can manage given their proximity.]

[He's pliant and sharp at once, rigid and aching and impatient because the play, the buildup — oh, it's a divine thing — but when Mello wants, he wants and right now?]

[The fresh ink stings his skin even through the haze of alcohol — won't heal for a while, he knows — and there's something relieving in the discomfort. Hones his focus where it belongs because this? This would be downright shameful under any other circumstance, a sign of weakness, a loss of power. God but it's touched with a taste of freedom beneath it all; he presses himself back, drags a boot up the demon's leg in a silent demand to get on with it. An entitled teenager's demand, a brat prince's insistence. His mouth nearly burns everywhere it comes into contact with Greed's skin, the taste of smoke and soot something new that shoots fire through his veins with every lick, ever savoring bite.]

[He might not be a monster right now, but the affinity to prey on anything he sets his intent on has been written into his DNA; the Gods' signature scrawled in code, overwriting his own with heavy hands. But he doesn't belong to them right now, does he? Never will. Just Greed's — his need to possess puts Mello's need for power to shame.]

[Lay yourself bare; martyr for a cause — ]

[A twitch of his lips; Mello leans his head back, presses a bold, reckless thumb into the demon's jugular. Just a test, just a prod of boundaries.]

I'm not afraid of you.

[Pompous thing that he is. A lift of his chin, an unblinking stare into the abyss of a monster's eyes.] Now take it before I change my mind —

[Control is a hell of a thing to relinquish. Even now, he maintains whatever semblance of it his muddled mind can muster. The blunt nails of his free hand drag down the Sin's hip with damaging intent.] Boss.

[Regrets, doubt, complications - he's never had use of any of them. Not the second-guesses that come with indecision, not the hesitation between should-have(s) and what-if(s). No, he's a creature bound by his making; a thing dedicated to one motive and one alone, driving it close, close, close. It's the very reason he can take his time and while Mello pulls his teeth impatiently near his cheek, Greed merely slips himself into the space between his thighs. His own motion, as drawn-out and languid as a heavy curtain, lapping under a summer's idle breeze.]

[The Sin's nose pushes forward and as M's thumb digs in, the faintest trace of smoke forces itself out from his smile. In some ways, Mello is predictable. Where some may bend and beg, he grips, yanks, and pulls to get what he wants. All, under the salesman assumption that this, ah this, it's mutual beneficial, isn't it? Even if he is playing with fire, he's leveled out his options. The constant play, deliberately blowing and churning like that of a billows, coaxing the flame bright, bright, bright.]

[Yet, yet. He's still getting it oh, oh, so wrong.]

[Greed's mouth pries open and the wetness on his tongue quickly fizzles dry.] Hurt you? Ha - [A hiss of laughter slivers out of his teeth. The former homunculus presses his fingers across Mello's leg. He lets the smooth part of his skin skip atop leather; the look similar to that of rocks, easily lapping across a surface.] You should know me better by now, M. If I really wanted to do that, I would have done it already. [The crinkle-combination of leather and fur grinding down his back lingers. It causes his wings to pinch in, to invert; a contortionist's infernal display, alight with heat. It's only when the last hooks pass through, does his vest finally fall. The twist of his body, the weighted thwack that follows, more similar to that of a slippery something, emerging out of its shell.]

[Because Mello did this, didn't he. His curiosity, a cat's, killing inquisition, opening an unknown box.]

[The dull nails at his hips scrape dust and the Sin ushers his head under the other's chin - his jaws, an inch from his throat.] Good. If you were afraid of me, this wouldn't exactly work now, would it. [He emphasizes his point with a resounding clack of his teeth. No, it would do them little to no good. Sure, he needs, sure he wants, but as inhuman as he is, hurting his own? The very thought of it?]

[Well, let it never be said that the devil doesn't have his standards.]

[Greed turns his wrist. He coils his pinkie inward with a steely flick - a switch-blade's harrowing announcement. The tip of it snares the button to M's pants and as his arm casually jerks, he begins picking away at the clasp. His motion, as lethargic as loan-shark, shelling his coins.] That would be a real shame - [Purred. The former homunculus plants a trail of kisses down the other's throat. Over his pulse, he goes - the razor-edged hint of his mouth, ever-so-near. The zipper in his hand whines its protest and as the last of it unhinges, the Sin dips himself low. That grin of his, plucking at the hem as sure as a vulture, cleaning the bits off a bone.]

[Until:] Don't move too much, hmn? Wouldn't want you to make a liar out of me. [The Sin's warning is short lived and as the split of his tongue unwinds, he carefully motions his lips around the tip of Mello's cock. The sharps of his jaws, consciously in mind.]

[After all, honesty?]

[Oh, is it avarice's finest virtue.]

greed
have you seen dante recently

["Greed." Not "boss." That's... odd...]

?

no tt excttly. thou ghh it shoulnnt be ll too sssurposing

somm thin i sh uld kn ow ?

Edited 2017-07-25 03:48 (UTC)

[...Prophet, this feels strange. Superiors are for using, if you have them at all, not for having gotten attached to.]

[...]

mm
maybe
the lab cure worked

[The delay on his side is telling. How the seconds drag on, how lifeless the screen seems to flicker over the hooks of his claws like a camera shutter on the fritz. Greed reads the words once, a second time, before - ]

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN01

The cure, huh. [At the edge of the receiver, the waft from the furnace is alarmingly soft. It hisses along the line - like a bundle of rattlesnakes slowly unraveling to see who or what's decided to try their luck. The rumors about the cure have been minimal at best. Something Bavan cooked up and dished out; offering a chance, a hope, to regain the humanity so many have lost. Still, everything's got a price. Every miracle, a payment. And if history's anything to go by, well - ]

[The Sin presses one of his claws into an ashtray nearby. The tip of it skirts along the bottom; the forgotten cigarette all but snuffed out in a single, whispering hooof] Not sure what he has to do with it - [His tone hums between his teeth. Most, if not all, of his had been human before hand. Given the chance, the opportunity, the option seems pretty clear.]

[Still, he? Oh, he's just not interested.]

[The former homunculus picks his claws and on the recording, the quick-lit sparks let out a trickling flurry; the sharpness more similar to a match striking, striking, striking 'till lit.] - so, you took it then? Guess I can't really blame you. [A soft tck-tck-tck trills on the line; the barbs of his tail seeming to catch just out of eyesight.] Always said it was your choice.

[Though - ]

[Greed shrugs and the furnace curdles through the receiver. It's as if the fire is questioning that one, simple phrase; the flames themselves growing as trill and thin as porcupine under assault. Because there's something. A red flag, coiling and twisting like a tell-tale tick. It's been some time since Stocke's used his actual name, after all. And maybe, maybe - ]

Ehhh - never mind. [He waves his hand. The recording crinkles for a second on his side; the brush of both heat and smoke creating a brisk, suffocating static.] Just make sure to get back here when you can, hmn?

[The thing is, oddly enough...]

not willingly
[That's what Dante has to do with it.]

[...]

right
i'll be bringing raynie back when i find her

[...]

keep an eye out
mitsuhide is planning something

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN02

[For a while, the Sin's oddly quiet. He reads the message once, a second time. And as the points of his eyes thin, the furnace on the other side of the room begins to bang. The fire seeming to grow hotter, tenser, like the heckles of a dog rising to meet a threat. Because, while he doesn't know Raynie personally and Mitsuhide is a problem in itself, it's the other part that catches his attention. A scream in static that sends his teeth snapping with a quiet whine:]

["not willingly"]

[One of the laptop's keys plicks on the receiver and the Sin rolls his shoulder.] That so. Someone we know? [Greed's voice is viciously thin. It hisses into the recording; the trill similar to that of a kettle quickly coming to a boil. It could be anyone, really. Mitsuhide, one of the Fourth's followers - the former homunculus flattens his foot. Already, the broiler is beginning to slip through its gauges; the resulting squeal climbing, climbing, climbing to a persistent, petulant whiiiiiir.]

[Even as a carbon copy, the 'Nest? It still knows it's rightful owner.]

[However, the moment is just that. A minute, a second, and the pipes cool to a simmer. The Sin taps his heel. Something rustles out of view, then; the movement of leather and fur, a tell-tale sign.]

[If Stocke thinks he's about to wait, well - ]

Where are you? [Greed asks, further away. It's clear that he has no plans on sticking around. If the other is close enough, the distance should be easy to cover. A mile, maybe more. The Sin reaches and as his claws snare the ring of his keys, the collection chimes off.]

[Cnk.]

you could say that

[There's a sudden deep, intense conflict between the urge to force Greed to keep safe, whether the Sin likes it or not, and the urge to share his injected affliction. In the end, all Stocke types is:]

don't recommend heading out
but i guess that won't stop you

[He names a spot on the outskirts of Bavan.]

[And when Greed gets there, Stocke's perched on a low brick wall, waiting. Entirely human, of course, and maybe that's the only reason something about him might (might) feel marginally off.]

[But then again: he's smiling, faintly. You'd think it was a good thing - Prophet knows he doesn't smile enough - but it doesn't match the situation, nor the rest of his pose. He's too much on alert for it to fit. For all its friendliness, and for all that it is a smile you could genuinely get out of Stocke (not too wide, not too manic)...]

[It's a mask, much like his usual impassive one.]

[There's a battered leather bag slung over his shoulder. It's full of something that clinks faintly when he shifts.]

Greed, [he greets, tipping his head. Again, there's a distinct lack...]

[Off. It's the best way to put it. The way that smile seems to stick to his face as thin as a paper-glued mask. The way his voice is distant, far-off. Like that of a doppelganger's trying approach, getting so, so close. It causes him to pause, slightly. The strike of a visible nerve forcing the muscles in his back tense. Still. Because there's a familiarity in that ploy. One he knows, one he's seen, time and time again.]

[All that's left is the snide, puckered-lip punch line - ]

[Because how easier it is to hit, when the territory's personal one.]

[The Sin keeps a short distance. The brick wall separating them is worn down in places. Most of the stones have toppled to the side from disuse, leaving the structure uneven and worn like the remnants of a building wilted over time. It draws a kind of punctuation: a limbo between human and the not-so-much, striking its border. A pilfer of dust fades on his boots and as the former homunculus watches the other, the expression on his face begins to sour. His look darkening, stiffening, and questioning with a hint of a sneer barely twitching on his lip.]

Oh-? That's new - [Greed's tone hisses through his teeth. The lack of anything, save his name, is a sign all its own. Usually, it's followed: Boss, something else. The former homunculus wraps his fingers around the thin of his torso and as his nails trail of his thigh, a brief glare shines off behind him; the steel of his motorcycle seeming to bake under the coming afternoon as distant and sharp as salvation on a long, drought-stricken road. No, something is missing. Out of place. The sensation more similar to one of his own, preforming its best trick.]

[The points of his eyes shrink to still.] You were saying before - something about knowing who it was. [He starts back in, his voice airy. The list of culprits isn't exactly slim when it comes to Stocke. His involvement in the aftermath following the Fourth has put him in a delicate position. One wrong move, one false acquaintance, and - ]

[Greed's tail gives a petulant flick, sending one of the stones skipping across the dirt.] Got a name?

Boss, [Stocke amends, finally. The word feels strange in his mouth.]

[He ducks out from under the loop of that bag, setting it balanced on the brick wall, and slides off himself. Lands light on the ground - not so light as when he was a shade, but that's no surprise, is it? - and reaches up to transfer the bag back to his shoulder more safely.]

Hm? [He looks over his shoulder, then turns to face Greed again. His back settles against the wall, and that mannerism is very Stocke, as if in contrast to so much else being just a little wrong.]

[You'd think it would have been one of Stocke's enemies. It's not like he's got a dearth of them. But:] Dante.

[A short pause, and then he adds,] In his defense, it wasn't entirely of his own volition. [Or - no. Stocke tilts his head to the side slightly, as if considering. That's not quite right, is it? Dante was plenty willing.] ...at the least, being human's changed him far more than it has me.

[Or so he says. Nothing to prove Stocke isn't lying about not having changed that much. Maybe he doesn't even intend to - he just doesn't feel a large difference.]

[But he doesn't deny at least some change.]

[He can't pretend. Everything about Stocke: it feels like he's talking to a shadow. To a shell, trying to replace and shove itself in a slot that's decidedly saved. Yet, the mannerisms - the way he casually slinks down the wall: it's as if nothing's changed at all. And as Stocke lands, the Sin's mouth presses to a line. An enemy would have been so much easier, yet the change had come within. An attack from a face they know, striking where they least expect. Even so, there's something about it that's wrong. Dante may treasure his humanity, but to force it? To play a hand without even a hint of hesitation?]

[The numbers simply don't add up.]

[Greed watches the other, his neck tense. It's like he's being subtly robbed: what he wants, what's his, slipping through his fingers without a visible source. He doesn't notice when his jaw sets and as his teeth grate, the slits of his eyes wildly thicken and expand. The memories of a lifetime, trying to put the pieces together.]

Dante, huh. [He says without meaning to. Stocke looks just like he should: human. Mortal, frail, and with a fate that'll long burn out far before his own. The former homunculus unconsciously touches his thigh. He knows the other like the back of his hand. His scars, his wounds, his sacrifices, burned to his mind like a brand. Greed sucks briskly at the back of his teeth and if he's snarling, if there's a twitch of it on his teeth, it briefly goes unnoticed. That is, until sheer pressure lets itself known and in an instant, he dips his chin. The usual smile of his forcing to the surface.]

Doesn't sound right to me, but - [But, what. They were human before, weren't they. All of them. Dante, to a point. Heather, Kimbley, Lady. M, Dawn. Stocke. Greed lifts his shoulder, shrugging off the idea.] - guess it doesn't matter.

Nothing else has changed, has it? [He questions. Because, even while the physical changes are clear, it's the other half that catches him. Something below the surface, wiggling like a cancer. He can't place it - couldn't, if he tried. Yet, when the bag rattles, his glance quickly shifts. As if, somehow, the noise is a threat. One tolling, tolling, tolling as softly as a conscious instinct screaming to run.]

[Greed touches the lick of his pocket. The curl of his nail scratches into leather: the fume of smoke, tentative.]

[The Gods have already taken from him, the Bloody Bones have tried. To threaten anything else? It's practically a suicide mission.]

[Because avarice, oh avarice: it never forgets its dues.]

[Stocke, on the other hand, notices every uneasy twitch and tense. It's near his job to, and with someone else it'd put him on the alert, but -]

[Stocke's Hyde isn't quite so blind as Heiss was to the true thoughts of those he wanted to (hoped would) fall in line with him. But he's still overconfident as to the paths those thoughts will take. Greed won't harm him. Greed wouldn't harm someone he calls one of his, even if Stocke's acting strange. There's no reason to raise his guard.]

Did say he wasn't acting quite himself.

[The former shade stretches, eyes closed, hands laced together above his head. The bag clinks against his side.] If I said no, that'd be an obvious lie, wouldn't it?

[There's a pause, just long enough to seem as if he's done talking - then his arms drop, and one eye slits open.] ...relax, boss. You already know I can put on an act. If I were trying to trick you, I wouldn't be doing such a shoddy job of it. [Read: he'd be pretending to be the old Stocke, and there'd be no way to tell the difference.]

[Or is that just a different approach to smoothing down Greed's wariness?]

You did, didn't you. [Greed reiterates, the flat of his tongue tense. Dante, Stocke - how far the cure goes, the side-effects. He couldn't even begin to make a guess. But when the other smooths out the proverbial bumps, the intention meets its mark. The stiffness in the Sin's spine slacks, if only slightly; the comfortable slouch relaxed, yet hesitant. No, Stocke's more talented than that. If something were really off, he'd bury it as deep as he could. That training of his a poker face of sorts, swindling and trickling even the most veteran scrutiny.]

[Still - ]

[The Sin's brows scoop together, causing a ripple of wrinkles to crease along his forehead. His keeps his hands hanging at his sides; those claws of his ripe with sunlight and touched as delicately as a gathering of well-tended kitchen knives. The former homunculus chases a glance at the bag before, finally, he arches his shoulders. He gives off a nonchalant shrug; a gesture to shake off and bury the notion without a single shred of doubt.] Ehh -

[He crosses one foot over the other, the dust lodged in his heels freeing itself in a pilfer of smooth, skating sand.] You think it has something to do with the cure? [Greed tongues, his voice caressing and wet. Any sort of cure is bound to have its negatives. The science of such a thing, though - the art of it: it's beyond him. Of course, that doesn't mean he couldn't put together at least some of the pieces. Where some claim to have a miracle, there's always certainly a catch. A bit of fine print written in last minute mostly ignored by anyone desperate enough. Because, by definition, hope? It's just another want.]

[And want? Want is something he knows best.]

[The curb of his boot smothers a stray stone and as he closes in, the pressure of his heel forces it to a skitter. The small slab bounces atop the street - its movement similar to flat-rock skipped for good luck. Greed traces one his belt-loops with the shell of his thumb.] And you? Still all there? [Again, he watches Stocke. However, the suspicion in his eyes is gone now. Replaced by something like an inspection; as if he's trying to see, trying to evaluate, just how much the other's changed.]

[Because, even if Stocke is human, to him?]

[It truly, truly, doesn't matter.]

It'd have to be, wouldn't it? Only thing that's changed so many of us recently - wouldn't be surprising if it were more ways than one. [It's that or a god trying to leave that impression - and, well, neither of them are anywhere near that subtle. Not that Stocke's seen.]

[Even if both of them would have reason - the Fourth to call for reliance on only him, the Fog to have people avoid future attempts...]

[It'd have backfired, wouldn't it? There's something of addiction about this cure - the Hyde can feel his fingers shake when a dose fades to half, chills and an ache, something that'd pull on his monstrous self as much as his human one. And the Hydes - they want to live. They'll take more cure whether they'd normally resist or not.]

[Stocke's smile widens to a smirk; both eyes open again, now, he trails closer. Yeah, that's getting closer to the kind of response he was hoping to get.] Can't say a shade's advantages wouldn't be useful, but I've all my memories. Still all there, boss.

[For all that now he's the one invading Greed's space, the flip of their usual - and fearless-close to demon's fire, 'Yeah, boss, take a look,' - he doesn't reach for the glass chime inside his bag.]

[He could, and maybe - yeah, maybe later. He can feel that itch to share. But he likes Greed as the demon is, for now, and there's no harm in being a bit more... directed. Selective, while there's still so many monsters unaffected.]

Decided to keep it, then? [The Sin's question comes out distracted. The how(s), the why(s); out of the two of them, only the latter makes sense. Most of the 'Nest, if not all, had been human once. The desire to go back, the ability to choose who or what they are - the former homunculus leers forward. How close Stocke's slipping in doesn't matter. In the end, there's a unsaid trust here: a knowing that comes with years, with experience, and as the satchel rattles airily, Greed extends his hand. He tries to yank at the side - effectively peeling it back and inspecting like a creature curiously toying with an unmarked paper-bag.]

[No one said Pandora's box had to be ornate, after all.]

[The Sin grabs his hip with one hand.] Yeah, they would be. Could do a lot more with those abilities of yours. [He answers. Being normal: he's never understood it. Even before Stocke, Ryslig, he'd known a few who had wanted the same thing: a mundane life. Something base, plain, and missing all the perks the "other" had to offer. Of course, there had been exceptions. Those who had little choice or say as to what would become of them.]

[Still - ]

[A brief chnk tunes along the tip of his nail; his prodding finger all but rap-tap-tapping one of the buckles.] Little bit of a waste, if you ask me. But - [But. The Sin tongues the inside of his cheek. If Stocke wants to be human, not even he could stop him. He's said it before, hasn't he? Choice, the ability to do so - that much hasn't changed. Greed's shoulders visibly slouch. No, in the end, even the ones before had pained for the yesterdays. When things were less complicated and the world seemed so straight and simple.]

[Ryslig's really not so different.]

[The curve of his boot swings to the side and as it lifts, another puff of dry-dirt skirts beneath his boot. It dirties the leather - turning the black color dusty and dull. Greed winds his tail around his thigh.] - nevermind. Doesn't matter now. [He lulls. The afternoon sun glints off his shoulder; the image of him mimicking that of a dusty apparition. A line separating the mortal and the not-so-much.]

[Because this is how it's always been and while nothing's impossible, even here?]

[Some rules still apply.]

So, what do you want to do with it? I'm gunna guess it doesn't take just one dose. [It's a shot in the dark. Medicine, vaccinations, the rest: he only has the vaguest understanding. Maybe, Stocke'll need it constantly. Maybe not. Either way, from the sounds of it, there's plenty to go around. The Sin casts another look over to the side; the sharpness to the other's smile, missed by a mile.] Got some things to do in town. You interested? [He asks, his focus blatantly elsewhere. No, the changes are clear, but it's still Stocke. One of many, one marked, and they're his, his, his - ]

[Greed pivots and with one hand over his shoulder, he throws out two of his fingers; a gesture to follow.] We still have friends in Bavan that owe us some favors. They've been holding onto some things while we were getting situated. Think you can handle it? [From the dip of his throat, a lonely willow of smoke coils around his neck. It dives into his fur like a thread; weaving dip for dip, bump for bump, until the clear afternoon wipes it out completely.]

[Humans may not last long, but for however they do?]

[They always, always, leave an impression.]

[A Pandora's box it is, though it's got nothing so nice as hope hidden in the bottom. For all that it was meant to be hope the whole way through, top to bottom it's a promise of horrors.]

[Stocke doesn't raise an objection; Greed'll be able to peel the cover flap open, take a look inside. The thing's full to the brim with syringes; there's some cursory padding between the ones at the bottom, in the form of fabric, but it looks like Stocke ran out before he got through with all of them. They bounce off each other lightly, the tink of glass - though it's reinforced enough, or Stocke's taken enough care, that none have broken yet.]

Bit of a waste, [Stocke agrees, shoulders shifting up in a shrug.] Not so much of one as all the human souls I have to eat to sustain it, though. [Something in his voice sounds like, 'Isn't it?' Testing on edges.]

[The Hyde doesn't truly care - it's preserving himself he's looking out for. Preserving this way of thought. The normal Stocke... he's a little too hesitant to take advantage of opportunities, too lacking in self-preservation, for this one's taste.]

[But it's a good reason for the normal Stocke to have kept with it, right?]

[He inclines his head in response to 'I'm gunna guess it doesn't take just one dose -' that's right. He's in for the long haul. And another smirk to 'Think you can handle it?'] Of course. [He was human enough through all of Specint, though he misses his magic all the more sorely now that he can't be a monster.]

Let me drop off this somewhere safe, [he jerks his head toward the bag of cure,] And I'll be right behind you.

["Not so much of one as all the human souls - "]

[Greed's glance stills to a point. Stocke isn't wrong - the price for his abilities, the cost of being a monster. For them, it had been an inevitable. An undeniable part of their new lives, forced onto them without a solution or loop-hole to outsmart it. But for him, for his, well. That's what they are, aren't they? A by-product of the natural, spat out and reformed as an artificial blasphemy to the very idea. The Sin tests his teeth again. For a second, he forgets - the slice of his tongue all but snapping in his jaw, angry and raw.]

[Thankfully, he does catch it a second later and with a pressing smile, he turns towards the bike; the blood on his lip nothing more than a faint flight of ash.] Suit yourself. Just make sure no one else gets their hands on it, hmn? Don't want the extra trouble - [While the talks, the Sin lifts his arm out to the side. His splays his fingers open; that wave of his, curt and casual. A slip of sunlight rinses through his fingers. It bounces off his scales silvery-white - the color of a desert's high-noon, baking the hour.]

["-villains like you-!"]

[Greed snares his keys out of his pocket, letting them dangle on the hook of a claw.] Li's old place - that's where we'll start. [He lets the words slur around his neck. They develop through the fur of his collar in a noose of smoke; something light, something weaving, snaring, touching, as if it has a purpose.]

[The ring of keys claps in his palm and with a shrug, the Sin treks his way to the motorcycle. Stocke will keep up - one way, another. He doesn't have to take a look-see to know that. Human as he is, loyalty? It doesn't leave so easily.]

[Least, not yet.]

Edited 2017-09-25 05:03 (UTC)

[Not so easy, no. You might even say it hasn't left at all. But the expression of it...]

[That's only a surface game. The Hyde's goals, through that loyalty, are a distorted mockery of the shade's.]

Of course. [It's not something he'd want either, the lack of control over who gets and doesn't what he's collected. Not to mention the lack of cure to support himself.]

[The Hyde's true to his word - he catches up barely a minute or two later, circling the motorcycle to nab himself a seat. The bag's notably absent, but he doesn't voice where he's stashed it.]

['Ready.' He doesn't need words to say it, Hyde or not.]

[By the time Stocke's back, the motorcycle's already settled into idle. The pipes along the rear shake in their barrings. They jangle off in a pit-a-rat-pat - the force of the exhaust causing them to jump and bang like that of old bottles tumbling in a coffin. The Sin keeps one leg stretched out to hold the bike's weight and as the side car teeters, a fuming grin stretches along his face; the last shreds of a cigarette clamped in his jaw all but burned down, down, down to the filter. He pitches it between his claws and one of his nails sheers the tip clean.]

That was fast - [Greed lulls. A sharp spring of fire plays on the pads of his fingers and the butt of his smoke ashes in his hand. Where ever Stocke scurried away the stash is anyone's guess. It couldn't have been far. Somewhere in Bavan, perhaps a safe-house from one of their own. Still, there's still that nagging feeling - a slight itch teasing and heated just under his skin. The former homuculus nudges the kickstand into place; the side of his boot slipping against chrome, smooth and precise.]

[Tck.]

[The Sin drops his shoulders and with a throw of the gears, the cycle's tires start their trundle. His keeps his heel stretched - allowing it to graze over dust, to hover over stone, like a white-hot engine in cruise. A couple of peddles skip between the treads, but once the road flattens, Greed abruptly toes the throttle. The engine immediately rolls over in neutral - the motorcycle all but tossed into a long, burn-out skid.]

[One hop, one whirl, and the bike takes off.]

[The Sin pushes the throttle, causing the speed dial to steadily crank into the red. Thankfully, this part of Bavan is a place he knows. Small shacks stack together in rows while they pass - their tin-top roofs and rough construction merely a blur. Greed reaches past the handle bars. He pushes his knuckle along the dash, flicking the headlights twice.] You said something before, about Dante - [There's something distracted about the way he talks. Maybe, it's the task at hand; maybe, it's that feeling again rearing its ugly head. Either way, he doesn't elaborate and as the flicker of the high beams bounce, the former homunculus lifts his head. Two flares of sunlight answer him at a distance. The reflection of a mirror catching the announcement like a battlefield code. Greed drops the speed of the motorcycle down and the gauges atop its dash collapse. They drop breathlessly back - the movement as brisk as a bulb blown out in a power outage.]

[No, that information about Dante - he wouldn't have attacked without reason. There's more to it; something he can't quite put his finger on, waiting for an answer.]

[For now, though - ]

[The front of the bike hiccups along a step and the Sin tosses out the kickstand again. Li's place, for what's left, is still. Boards crisscross behind the windows, the locks on the front door have been unscrewed and popped out. The former homunculus swings his leg off saddle-side and as he moves to stand, he gives the cracked-flat stone out front a good tap. Once, for good measure. Twice, for assurance.]

[And a third time to let Li know that the coast, for now, is decided clear.]

[Stocke trades watching the Sin and the road sprinting by like rolling a coin from heads to tails over his knuckles, slowly, deliberately. The skip of asphalt, smoother than Vandare's cobbles, still has his eyes flickering sideways every once in a while. Now that he's human, and with any luck it'll be made permanent...]

[Humans don't have the strength or stamina of a monster, do they? They need tools. And while he can do an automobile, it's not convenient for the narrower streets. So:]

You'll have to teach me how to drive one of these, [the former shade notes. He doesn't raise his voice, and with the loud growl of the engine making it hard to hear, you'd almost think it an aside to himself. But the 'You'll' gives that the lie.]

[Dante again, huh. The Hyde's eyes shut, then open.]

...put it this way. I can't tell you exactly what he's thinking, but you don't want to be near the human Dante unless you've an itch to be human yourself.

[The bike rattles to a halt; Stocke slides off, turning his head slightly at the sharp tap of Greed's boot on stone. Then his focus returns to the building. Yeah, he remembers this place. He wasn't out this way nearly as often as Greed, he thinks; Li's Greed's the same way Stocke's posse of informants are his, or maybe the same way Stocke... is? Was? His. But enough. He can use that, the Hyde thinks - ]

[Has only a moment to think, because it's been hours since the last time they swapped and suddenly he can feel himself inverting again.]

[Let it not be said Stocke, Hyde or not, can't think fast. Yeah, he was dumb for not thinking of this, but then he knows his un-Hyded self would have warned Greed anyway. So maybe this is for the best.]

[He doesn't say anything - instead, in the last few seconds before he's a monster again, he goes for Greed's back with a chrome-tipped syringe. He knows he won't get another shot before the demon's warned, and eventually Greed will need to be turned. Not to mention the Sin'll be an enemy again as soon as his monstrous self is done.]

[The Hyde doesn't make it, just barely.]

[The first Greed will hear of this whole thought process - it's the sound of shattering glass, just behind him. If he looks behind him, he'll see: Stocke, staring at his hands, dripping with cure fluid and broken shards. He's close enough to reach out and touch - or to have reached out and tried to stab, if it had been only a moment longer.]

[More notably - the shade's fingers are clawed again, eyes glowing white. And his tendrils, back, are jittering slightly - as if shaking.]

[It's the same scene Li will probably see coming out.]

[Where he stands, the former homunculus seems to blot out the sun. A crease of orange-rinsed-gold plays on his shoulder in a trickle effect; as if the day's weaning hours are falling to his command, rinsing his soul and showering it with one of the things, one of many, he demands. Greed chirps a noise behind the flats of his teeth. One of the slats in the windows flutters in response - the dull shudder of a gas lamp, cranked and measured to a low, low burn.]

Ah, right. Didn't have these where you're from. If that's what you really want though, I guess I can teach you. [The Sin puckers his lip. With his attention hooked on Li's staggered signals, he doesn't even sense it coming. Instead, he merely carries on - the monster stepping to the day's drum, meeting it beat for beat. Ryslig, though, still has its unpredictable(s). And just like that, within a second, everything, oh, everything - ]

[He hears the glass first. How it strains and whines like a gun shot. How it shatters so, so close to his ear, brittle and sharp. Greed's muscles visibly stiffen. In the split moment between then and now, the seconds try to catch up with themselves: Stocke's sudden closeness, his now-clawed hand wide open and guilty. It's as if time's been gradually dialed to a drag - the actions, the reactions, like a slow-motion replay, pointing out the details. The Sin's neck cranes over his shoulder and as his eyes widen, the wrench of his lips is surprised. Vicious. He's rigid and raw; tense and still. Every muscle, every vein and tendon, as taught as a spring, loaded for the pull. The former homunculus sinks his heel back and as the point of his boot lifts, the stones caught below fume to a shine. Their sides turn red; their cores, an intense orange. The beginnings of a fire barely, just barely, contained.]

Oi, oi, oi - [Greed lifts his hand. He flits two of his fingers briskly to the side - the motion aimed at the window an all too-clear signal to get, get, get. Whatever just happened, whatever's going on - Greed cool(y) shifts his body. It's as deliberate as it is predatory. His whole demeanor, a killer in cold blood. The Sin's lips turn down at the corners and as he watches Stocke, the glow from his eyes begins to shift. A brittle hum pounds into the lenses - their constant throbbing as alarming as a check-engine light, blaring a warning.]

[Greed's mouth hesitates.] - that wasn't very nice. Guess that was for me, wasn't it. [With an arch of his head, he rolls his glance back to the broken vial. The liquid dripping out of it, the small pieces scattered across the ground - the Sin takes one step forward and as his boot falls, he traps a piece underneath. Forcing the glass to wheeze, wheeze, wheeze until the pressure becomes too much.]

[Crk.] So, that's it. Pretty rotten trick, if you ask me. [He touches his tongue to the backs of his teeth - the inside of his cheek, alight and airy. He may not know the whole picture, but the parts that make sense are beginning to draw it out for him: Dante, somehow being a threat. Stocke's odd behavior. Greed lifts his boot and with a none-too-subtle sweep, he kicks one of the pieces away; allowing the shard to skip and jump until a dark spot or a shallow hole takes it.]

[Whatever comes first.]

You really didn't think that would work, did you? Why don't we just cut to the chase - [As he talks, the tips of his claws start to click together. He keeps up a playful pace; as if he's running through the scenario and picking it apart, inch for inch. Doppelganger(s) aren't anything new in Ryslig, far from it. But - ]

[But.]

[The former homunculus shuts the space between them, giving only inches.] - becoming one of mine. It's a bold move. [He starts, the hiss of tongue as keen as heated switchblade.] So, why don't you tell me who you really are. [Again, he pointedly raps his nails together. Tap for tap, they draw up a series of sparks - the threat of them more similar to the end of a fuse, toyed and mocked by a faulty lighter. The spade of his tail lifts behind him and with a loathsome coil, it slips to his side. Effectively stirring both ash and fog to a thin, grainy sheet.]

[Because mock him, Ryslig has. But buyer, buyer beware.]

[The devil never forgets.]

[Stocke doesn't respond, not to the first few words or to Greed's increasingly dangerous tone. A snake baring fangs, coiling slowly to spring, claws clicking like the hiss of a rattle - but the shade's breathing a touch too fast, fingers slowly curling in on his palms. He's not paying attention.]

[He'd crushed the syringe in his own hand, needle bending under a monster's strength; the smaller slivers of shards still pierce his palm, thin streams of black-smoke-blood twining up. Some more of that cure's probably gone into his bloodstream, but honestly - with how much his Hyde had been injecting himself, that's probably the least of his worries. It had been so close, and just a second more... and even without that, the thought of his Hyde having been near Greed for this long -]

[Stocke's nothing if not good at compartmentalizing. He shuts it away and snaps back to attention to '- becoming one of mine. It's a bold move.']

[The shade's tendrils go abruptly very still. For a moment there's no expression at all on his face; then there's a flicker of resignation before he shuts down again. There's no way he can prove anything; the trouble with always having relied on subterfuge is when it comes back around on your own tail...]

[He doesn't have the time to try. Instead of answering the Sin's question, Stocke leads with a,] Boss - don't trust him. Me. Might be better if you just kill him - being like this never lasts long. Shorter each time.

[He pauses, then adds, short -] Get rid of the stash, if you can. It's - [and a hiding place, named, not very far from where they started.]

[And if the Sin thinks it's an ambush? ...might be for the best, really. Sure, it'd be nice if that supply of cure isn't squirreled away for someone to get at, but it'll just mean the Sin's already set on that whole not trusting thing.]

[He doesn't even notice when the gaslight behind him goes dim. Instead, he's focused elsewhere. The splinters of glass sticking out of Stocke's hand are intimate and sharp; like that of a suicide note, aching for someone to hear it. Greed's eyes momentarily tremble and as they try to figure out what color is more suitable (red, for his betrayal. Purple, for something more), the drum of his finger pauses in mid-strike. It stands crooked and kinked above his thigh. The look of a gargoyle, frozen and stilled by the dawn's coming tide.]

["Boss - " All together. "Don't trust him. Me. Might be better - "]

[The former homunculus lifts his heel. He chidingly avoids the other pieces of his glass - his purposeful swing as droning and chilled as murderer, stepping over his corpse. The stash isn't too far and it's just one problem out of the way he can take care of later. Whether or not the other's information is good? That's more debatable. Stocke had been merely inches from his target. He could have made it, if he chose. His quick strike, all but given ample opportunity.]

[Yet - ]

[Greed stops a foot from the other and as his body looms, that heat of his comes off in a wave. However, unlike the countless times before, the dryness of it is vile. The taste, vitriol. A house fire's smother, coming, coming, coming to close Stocke's chapter, once and for-all. But him, Stocke, this version of Stocke: they both know better, don't they. It's the very reason he had the opportunity in the first place. Because avarice may be endless, it may be selfish, but his, his, his - ]

["-sympathy? Who do you think you're talking to?"]

[A tendon in the side of his neck lifts to the surface and the Sin levels his chin.] Giving it up so easily - [The way his tongue prods at his cheek - it's almost a whisper. His hiss, a tea-kettle's warning. Maybe he's taking it at face value, maybe he's merely placating the inevitable. Either way, the former homunculus casually raises his arm. He laces two of his fingers together in a knot - their marriage, their twining, a ceremony in soot.] I really wish I could believe you, but thing's being as they are - [While he talks, the Sin extends his pinkie. Its razor(ed) edge slips underneath the earpiece to his shades and with one, simple pull, he removes them. The pair all but lost in a film of thick, black-tar ash.]

["You forgive too easily -"]

I am sorry, y'know. I didn't want to have to do this. [Greed's tone drops. The look on his face should say it all. The drag of his mouth sags on his lip, the hum in his eyes dials to a simmer. The former homunculus extends his neck and as his sunglasses sink into his collar, he traces his laced-in fingers to the side of the skull. The first tap loosens a quiver of ash from his horns. It ribbons about his wrist like a promise. A reminder of who he is, who they are, wrapped to a thin, choking noose. The Sin hesitates; leaving the seconds, the minutes, to a midnight's countdown.]

[A moment, and Greed knocks the side of his head a second time. He slurs his last word - the sound as strung out and drawn as hypnotist, obliterating consciousness:]

Xerxes.

[Stocke waits, unblinking and unflinching. Through the crackle of glass under the Sin's boots, and the press of fire's heat, so tangible it's nearly a wall - he doesn't step away, but nor does he step closer.]

['I really wish I could believe you,' and he dips his head, eyes falling shut. His tendrils curl to a halt, but - no, this way's for the better. He's deathly still, bracing himself.]

[Whatever he's expecting, it's not that word.]

[The shade's head snaps up, expression subtly between startled and confused - he doesn't know what happened in his own head, that time the Fourth God cracked everyone's open. He feels like he should recognize it, and yet -]

[Then he winces, one hand - shards of glass and all - rising to the side of his head. There's a flicker of shadow-black over all of his skin, even that which was shapeshifted to look human, as something clicks. (Something very like a key.)]

[...Stocke is getting really tired of having his head messed with today. Though this version's vastly preferable to the other one; he can feel Greed shook something loose, but it's still better than the Hyde. Bubbling deep underneath, his resignation's burning into anger - he wants to hunt down Dante, hunt down the lab that started all this, most of all hunt down the Hyde he can't reach because it's inside him -]

[- but he owes the boss first, yeah?]

[Absently, the shade shakes off his solid, human form, rising into the air. Glass splinters and shards drop from his hands, suddenly nothing for them to grip; Stocke lifts hands in front of him again, four eyes narrowing at the streams of smoke-blood flowing up. He extends an over-long white tongue, running it over the cuts to seal them shut.]

Hey, boss. Good to see you again. [Again? Why again? Stocke can't tell without the memories of his dreamscape, but it feels right to say. Either way, his voice now's more static than not.] Not sure if this'll take care of - [Telekinesis stirs the remnants of the syringe below. That. Still, the shade half-grins as he cuts off, jagged. That's fine. If this... looseness is what it takes Greed to trust that it's him, he can live with that - they'll screw his Hyde over, figure out some way to get him to stick monster, and then -]

[...then, why doesn't he stay this way? It's a lot better than Stocke usually feels.]

[The shade's hovering with his face above the Sin's eye level right now - he folds forward to match it, claws dangling lazily. For some reason, his gaze follows Greed's earring for a moment before returning to the Sin's face.]

[The chillness in his glance, the distance: it should say it all. Greed's frown is absent and distasteful; the image more similar to that of a sinner, accepting judgement's final call. The former homunculus takes one more step forward and as the glass splinters and broken shards see themselves through, he doesn't bother watching them. Instead, they collapse to the ground in a tnk'ling twitter. The ricochet of a mirror, broken in a fit.]

["Sorry to keep you waiting - "]

["-this isn't me trying to make it up to you."]

[Greed eyes arch upward. They're still in their focus: a deadly encounter and Lord, Lord, even the devil has his breaking point. Because this isn't the first time someone's tried to take what's rightfully his and Stocke's been the brunt of it. It's been repeated again and again, effort for effort. An attack on his very want, hitting him like that of a railroad spike, shoved to pin him down for good. The Sin's upper lip curls back and as his teeth claw their way forward, the lamp in Li's window suddenly brightens. The flame running high, uncontrolled, until its life quickly burns out.] Didn't give me much of a choice. [He starts in. Deep, is his tone. His voice more similar to that of a monstrous pit, cracking the earth. No, they didn't give him much choice. Whoever designed the cure had a purpose and while he probably wasn't the intended target, the end result - ]

[Greed's teeth grind and in the back of his jaw, something clicks out of place. A stray spark ping-pongs between his cheeks. It bounces from one side, races to the other; the devil's tennis match and now, now, now, now.]

[The ball's in his court.]

[The former homunculus shakes his head, clearing the fog.] Don't remember it, do you? Back then - [The stretch of his words is dreamy and tired. The exhaustion as drawling as time itself, watching the world pass it by. Greed straightens his neck and when his eyes meet white-socket static, he immediately swings his head over his shoulder. That usual smile of his turning reserved. Forced.] Wish it could have been different, but -

["-things are as they - "]

[Greed's shoulders pinch in. Ah, right. They had made an offer, hadn't they? An exchange weighed out, leveled, and equivalent to the end. The Sin closes his eyes and with a sway of his arm, he shoves his pointer finger just under the gem of his earring. It hovers above his nail in a drop of red; the poise like that of an axis and oh, could the entire world spin on the edge of his hand.] You want that, huh. Seems only right, though I can't really tell you what'll happen. [However, he can take a guess. If Xerxes calls Stocke's monster, this should be no different. An overload maybe. A desire, more so. To take, take, take, all that's been swindled away.]

[Thankfully, Stocke's already given the location. It shouldn't take them too long to deal with the rest.]

[A drop, and the Sin fans out his hand. The way he holds himself is poised. His very image that of the devil, holding out for the handshake.] Three times should do it. [As if to demonstrate, he raps his nail against the earring.] I can't promise it'll be too pleasant. Hope you won't hold it against me. [A pause. Greed swallows against his throat. The gloom of smog trapped in his gullet hushes between the plates his scales. It filters out, hovers around. A dead-chimney's last exhale minutes, seconds, before the scheduled demolition.]

[Because if there's anyone who could, it would be one of his, wouldn't it. One of his, pulling, pushing, to complete the bargain.]

[And truly, he wouldn't have it any other way.]

[The shade floats there, blinking out of sync with all four eyes, abruptly watching Greed a touch more carefully. There's a feeling of odd anticipation about him, like the air between two stormfronts - wet ground, a chill, a misty taste in the air, and the air of waiting for something to show.]

[The shade's mouth zips shut. He hums softly, buzzing electric. Then he's looping around the demon's back in a short whirl of shadow, settling to a stop behind the Sin's right side.]

[He rests his elbows on Greed's shoulder, head on his fists - "rests." Weightless shadows. But it's only for a second, and then he's abruptly solid, a light pressure on the demon's shoulder. Still levitating, but tangible.]

Don't know what you're talking about, [he agrees. But -] Boss. This is better. [Don't be sorry about it.]

[It's not gonna stop the cure from bouncing him back and forth, but as a monster? He's a lot less resigned to it. Besides, Greed can handle human-him, now that he knows.]

[This close, he can feel the demon's soul glowing in his chest. Souls. A collection, but one at the same time. He leans close to the demon's throat with a quiet static hiss.]

[But it's the earring his eyes fix on as it dangles in Greed's fingers. Right. There's something...]

[Equivalent exchange?]

[He doesn't know any better than Greed what'll happen. Perhaps even less so. But he's pushing himself up and forward over the Sin's shoulder almost immediately, reaching, overlong fingers curling around the red gem and pulling it back.]

[For a second he's balanced there, on one arm ramrod-straight from Greed's shoulder, a gaunt figure looming above the demon's head. Then he taps it three times. There isn't even thought behind it, only - a trade.]

["Don't know what you're talking about, Boss. This is better."]

You think so, huh. [The Sin drawls. No matter where Stocke goes, he's solid in comparison. He doesn't move when he feels the tail-end chill wrap about his shoulders. It grazes his skin, prickles the back of his spine; his own, hand-made ghost, coming to pay its respects. Greed wrinkles his mouth. No, he hadn't been given much of an option. Believing Stocke had been out of the question. Killing him, more so. This had been an act of desperation; the means finding its end and what, truly, is the price.]

[The strangle in his eyes blisters, only to recede in a trickle. The daggers, however - they aren't aimed at Stocke. They're pointedly focused elsewhere. The horizon, for an answer. The nameless culprit, for even daring. The splintering crunch from earlier creeps its way into his mouth and while the other's weight falls at his back, Greed's body cements; the feeling more similar to that of a rock, refusing to budge.] Not an ideal circumstance, friend. Your choice - [The former homunculus tapers his words. They wilt on his tongue. Die in his throat. Regret: it's never suited him. But in the moment, in the very second, a sensation solidifies in his chest. Like that of hot lead, rotting in his stomach.]

[The Sin bows his head, allowing the barest slink of a grin to yank at his face.] No use delaying it. Tch - [From his chin, the bulk of his skull arches in reverse. As if he's inspecting his fate and laughing at it, all in the same breath.] - they sure gave us a lot of trouble, didn't they. What a pain in the ass.

[Whoever started it, though: they're in for a rude surprise. The shade's nail stretches forward and as it taps once, a second time, he can sense it starting to swell. The veins along the side of his forehead go frigid beneath his skin. They pop to the surface - the look of them like a bundle of parasites, rising to a threat. A third strike, and Greed's hands gnarl. The final toll all but striking his core.]

[And what is he, but a blemish. The cardinal sort, coming, coming, coming, to a familiar drum:]

["Baby, don't you remember?"]

["It's a long way down - "]

[Greed's jaw hangs open and while Stocke's hand finishes its dead, a long thread of smoke huffs up from his chest. It tangles about his face like a string - a knot of black trying to find its shadow and tie it down, once and for all. The former homunculus hisses out a sound.] Ah, so that's it - [He smooths. The changes may be slim, but there's no denying the result. His temperature is scathing; his face, vicious. Avarice incarnate to the very T, and what it wants - ]

[A crt, and his neck resets.] Guess we should clean that mess up first, shouldn't we. [His tone brightens. There's no point keeping the cure around; it's already done enough damage. And even if altering his is the brunt of it, surely that? That.]

[It's enough.]

Boss.

h m ? ah rig ht

gussthatsth ena me yourrl y goby hu h

go t somthin ?

Edited 2017-09-29 02:35 (UTC)

[Maybe.]

No.

Did what I was supposed to do. Got held up by something. Need to know if things have settled down over there at all before I come back. I won't be leaving again.

[Font a while, at least.]

figre d as much. disappr ingliek that lamost thought you diceided to sikip ou t on us. you did mak ee som truble aftrall. cant rellly blam e them ri ght ?

back doorss open whenrbber youre done btt com e see me firs t

If I was skipping out, you'd know. I'm not a coward.

Figured you'd catch on to that by now.

Not blaming anyone for anything. I'm asking you if the humans are starting shit because of what happened. Whether I show up now or later depends on your answer.

I've had enough confrontation for a while, not in a conversational mood. If you tell me it's fine to come back, I'll come. If you want to scold me and set new limitations on me, I won't be part of it.

I'm in a fucking cell. I'm finished being cornered.

>>AVARICOUS has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN01

[At first, the feed's eerily hushed. The blades to the fan cut through the air in a cycle; a constant spin, twirling, twirling, twirling as droning as a hotel room left vacant. The quiet, though - it doesn't last. The furnace at the backside of his room abruptly huffs to life. It erupts in a series of pops - the leftover coals trapped behind the grate snapping off, one at a time, like bullets popping from a gun. The Sin's teeth touch and while it may be hard to hear, a distinct whine creeps into the recording. The shrill wheeze similar to brittle steel finally buckling under a weight.]

["I'm in a fucking cell."]

Oi, oi, oi - [Greed's tone is low - the ball of smoke stuck in his throat breathy and deep. A single scratch soon follows; the sound of grinding wood crisp, sharp, and tinged with a hiss of heat.] - you should have told me before. [He starts, the forks of his tongue cracking inside his jaw. Mello's already given his dues. Through his offerings, through his measures to pay off a debt he never, truly could. It had been a struggle no doubt, but the end result had been satisfactory. Not perfect, of course not, but then again - ]

[ - how does one pay off a life that's already spent?]

[The former homunculus skirts away - the thud of his boots bristling with ash.] You're in Bavan, right? [He slurs. Leather, a brush of fur - they crawl into the recording. His shifting movement quick and brisk. Greed snatches a set of keys and as he pockets them, the furnace suddenly dies out. As if it's been squelched; like that of a fire put out with a bucket.]

Word has it you've already taken care of things here. I'm not interested in punishing you, M. [The bite to his tone is scathing. Stocke, Dante, the others - there's no question that Mello crossed a line. But he made his amends, swallowed his pride. And now, now - ]

[The Sin pauses. A stagnant groan soon follows; the joints to his door wrenching themselves open, wide and aching.] As for the rest - not really much else you can do, is there?

Edited 2017-10-05 03:36 (UTC)

[Oh, shit. No. This wasn't his aim by any accord. Mello's side will initially reflect mostly silence, the occasional sound of a guard's footsteps audible to the most attentive, and the shift of his own leather against leather as he leans in close to the laptop is quick, near-insistent.]

Wait —

[He's in Bavan. Bars enchanted and bringing his power to a level of near-uselessness, small cell cracking him more and more each day. But it's almost over, almost paid — Mello's settled many debts in the last month or so, this being the final he intends on seeing through.]

[Voice insistent, near frantic. It can't happen this way; standing against L is grounds for Mello to make an enemy of anyone, regardless of their dynamic. A shift of knees against concrete, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower if not more severe.]

I need to do my time.

[No explanation will be given unless demanded. It's a weak stance to take, he knows. Something he has no intention of repeating, but Greed's immediate response was unexpected, welcome as it is.]

Just needed to know the stakes, figure out where to go from here. I can't have you — or anyone — interfering.

[And again, for what seems like the hundredth time since he first set foot near the Sin close enough to taste the soot coming from his scorching form.]

Need you to trust me on this, yeah. I just wanted to know the stakes, figure out how to handle things once I get out of here.

[And if it helps any— ]

Won't be more than a few days, now. I've been here for nearly a month; I'm not looking for rescue.

>>AVARICOUS has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN02

["Wait-"]

Ah-?

[Greed stops and along the recording, everything seems unwind. No longer does the door haunt on its hinges; no more do his boots thud along the floor. Instead, it's faintly quiet - the only hush, a meeting of keys, barely slapping together. The Sin slumps his shoulder. Making M for a Martyr. His need to sacrifice. In the end, he really wasn't that off, was he?]

[However - ] You want to stay there, then? [He mulls it over; that tongue of his pressing against his cheek with the idea. This is Mello's payment. An action he believes is right, a penance he thinks he needs. The former homunculus huffs on the other side of the receiver - his smile waning down to a sliver.] Humans - you still think you deserve it, after everything else. Ehh - [He lifts his chin. On his end, the feed lets off a crackle; as if a candle nearby has puckered to life, low and waxy.]

[No, given the choice? Freedom has always been his, but - ]

[Greed drops his keys and when they thwck against a wood surface, the resignation is clear. This is what Mello wants - this is his desperation. Someway of cleaning the slate to start fresh, new.]

[So be it.]

Suit yourself. Just tell me when you're out. [He waves his fingers while he talks; as if brushing off the idea and shooing it away as simply as dust in a corner. He couldn't force the other if he tried and really, what would be the point? It's his decision. And in the end, isn't that how it goes?]

["I've always been a fan of choice - "]

[The Sin draws up his heel again and in the receiver, the dull scrape of wood is relaxed and sluggish.] A few days. After that, I'll be there. [And he will. No one else, no one more.]

[Just the devil and his steel, waiting to take one more back with him.]

>>MELLO has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN03

[The exhale is forced, exasperated. Being imprisoned this way has essentially removed Mello's ability to manage his tone — an animal in a fucking cage: when he speaks his voice is raw, lacking the cool demeanor he tries so hard to maintain when conversing with Greed. If the grit of his teeth is audible, it's not something of which he's consciously aware.]

I don't want to stay here. About to tear these fucking walls apart if time doesn't pick up.

[Which it won't. The scrape of claws against cement is loud enough to cause a stir a few cells over, a rustle of fabric that even with his dulled abilities, Mello can pick up on with acute sharpness.]

Linden's got this system in place, yeah, and it's not going over well with anyone. If I call people in and get myself out — [A long, long pause. So tempting.] — it'll break this thing before it begins.

[And because he doesn't exactly possess a wide array of conversational partners right now — ]

No one wants this prison here; these laws are inane. If I don't do my time, it gives everyone the green to raid this place every time one of their own ends up in here.

[Breathe. Breathe.]

But they won't stop at that, yeah, they'll go after him. Then we'll have a bigger problem than someone playing cops and robbers where there's no place for it.

[Oh, but he'll gladly accompany Greed back to Djävulenstad when all is said and done. Rustling, and there's a click of bootheels on the floor when Mello begins to pace.]

He won't listen to me. [But.]

But you —

[He'll let that hang for a moment; whether or not Greed wants to become involved is unpredictable. If the prison affects him in no way, there's no reason to intervene, is there?]

>>AVARICOUS has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN03

[Linden. The former homunculus puckers his mouth on the other side of the line. For Mello, it all comes back to him, doesn’t it? Their connection is a web of sorts. Like a pair of birds tied by a string, where one goes, the other follows. And as time goes on, the knots only begin to tighten. The inevitable choke leaving both him and his tangled in a situation, both sticky and personal.]

[And here, oh here comes to the spider.]

[Greed sheepishly lifts his shoulders. While it’s impossible to see, the show of his grin is priceless. The wet smack of his lips practically peels into the recording. Like that of a pried band-aid gone sour.] Me, huh. [The Sin tastes his words. They trill down his throat in a sweet vibration; the sound of sweet-booze liquor, tumbling to its final destination. One of his nails grazes his thigh and as it traces the side of his leg, the leathery seam skips underneath. Once, twice, three times, then a fourth. As if the idea itself is somehow, somehow - ]

You really think he'll listen to that? You said it yourself - a prison isn't exactly very popular. [But. A hint of hesitation plays on the sharps of his teeth. L's got a debt to pay, doesn't he? His ledger is hefty, the interest even more so. The former homunculus sways the flat of his boot across the floor; its pass, only a whisper in the receiver.]

I'll see what I can do to. [While he talks, Greed leverages the door again. The smoke at his ankles, the suffocation around him; they trail about the recording. A haunting's presence slipping in, second by second, inch for inch, until it's far, far, too late.]

[For the Lord may forgive and the warden may release. But the devil - ]

[He'll always come back.]

[Greed hooks his keys into the lip of his back pocket, forcing the chrome plates to tnk-tnk-tnk out of focus.] Ah. I'm sure this goes without saying, but whatever you did, I want to know. [There it is. That little warning, that low-brow simmer. After all, this isn't the first time Mello's been on thin ice. He did it before. Back in town, without a single worry or care as to the consequences. However, actions? They have a way of catching up.]

[Hopefully, Mello doesn't need a repeat.]

[The former homunculus extends his tail and as that flat of his spade pats the top of the device, an airy crack interrupts the feed.] Two days. In the meantime, make sure you're ready. [He repeats. The lid of the laptop crch and cricks. Finally though, the wheezy hinges snap closed. Forcing the feed to abruptly cut as sure as a knife, tossed from its case.]

[Two days isn't long, but it's enough. And if Mello's true to his word, well.]

[There's no better friend than sin, sin, sin, sin at the back.]

I'll keep this short. No more secrets, right? Thought I'd tell you before it got back to you through other means.

I've aligned with the Fog God. I have no intentions of letting this interfere with the Nest, and my loyalties lie where they always have.

If it came down to her or you guys, I'd back you. Don't take it personally, yeah?

Edited 2018-02-16 19:33 (UTC)

[Fog God. Between her and the Fourth, there’s really no contest. She’s merely a starting point. The dealer on the other side of the table, playing Black Jack with oblivion, offering a sweeter alternative. Providing an out, a better hand, and an opportunity for more, more, more.]

[Mello could have chosen a worse option.]

[Still - ]

>>AVARICOUS has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN01

[The recording clicks on with a static(y) buzz, and the Sin circles the receiver.] No, I didn’t think so. Wouldn’t do you much good, anyway. [Dropped, is his voice; the tune of it, a jazz singer’s last call, holding to the cigarette smoke.] Though, I am a little surprised. Didn’t take you for the sort. What changed your mind?

[Because, something like that - it certainly doesn't happen overnight.]

[Greed's heels tease - his presence, merely hovering.] Oi, oi, oi - do you really think I would take it personally? You should know me better, M. [M, not Mello. It's his preferred title. The name he gave. And if nothing else, if only one thing's true, the devil?]

[He's always played fair.]

Ehh. Doesn't matter - couldn't stop you anyway. But - [The quiet on the other side is telling. As if all the pieces are clicking into place, one at a time.] - we could use that. Any information - you'll make sure to bring it to me first, right?

[Dramatically, the former homunculus stills; his nails, inches from the receiver.] I told you, when you first came to me: you're one of mine, M. What you do from there -

[A beat, then:] - it's always been your choice.

Edited 2018-02-23 12:06 (UTC)

[The decision isn't something he's proud of my any means; Mello's long-decided that sometimes, pride needs to take a backseat to necessity. In this case, it was a no-brainer. And it's that underlying shame that keeps him from switching to voice. Greed might pick up on the avoidance, he might not but in the end — ]

I needed a favor that mana couldn't provide. I had to do what I had to do.

[And because the details are important for the maintenance of the 'favor's' effects:]

She's going to wipe Linden from my memory altogether. I don't think I need to go into detail as to why I found it necessary. The mess I got us into was just the tip of the iceberg; this is something that won't see an end unless I end it.

[Of course Greed has his loyalty on the matter. Favors or no, allegiance or no: the Gods need to fucking go. All of them. Maybe it will even prove beneficial for Mello to work from the inside.]

You have my word, for what it's worth.

[Maybe not much, but Mello's promise is genuine this time.]

I don't like them any more than you do. Anything I do in Her name will only be to further my own standing. I have nothing to gain from seeing them thrive.

[But more importantly.]

I need one thing from you, and I'm willing to pay whatever trade you require. As of the end of this conversation, no one can mention him to me in any capacity beyond acknowledging he's the prison's warden. I don't want to end up chasing my tail on this.

Edited 2018-03-09 19:32 (UTC)

>>AVARICOUS has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN02

[Wiping a memory: oh, doesn't that hit a note. Greed's uncharacteristically silent on his side of the line. The furnace boils and bubbles; the static fizzes like the flat-line of a heart monitor. No, he doesn't have to guess the details - he already has an inclination. And as Mello briefly elaborates, the Sin subconsciously pats his fingers across the waist of his pants. The sound of pressed-on leather, airy, soft, but nonetheless present.]

["Father purified me - "]

I know I do. If I didn't think you were worth the time, I wouldn't have been so giving before. If this is what you want to do, I can't really stop you, now, can I. [A lull sinks itself behind his teeth. Perhaps, it's a little too personal. A little too close. Either way, the loss of his smile is all-too clear. As if as if - ]

[The Sin shifts, dragging his heel up and off the floor with a peel.] Having you on the inside makes things a little easier. Still, you're absolutely sure? There's no going back, after that. Those memories of yours - you sure you won't end up regretting it? [While he talks, the gem in his ear softly shivers. The chime of it is tinny. Bell(y). Like the last, beckoning call from a church and hasn't Mello always, always, favored himself the Martyr.]

[Greed pockets his hand and as he moves further away from the receiver, a grunt briskly interrupts the conversation. The former homunculus wrenches his window open - forcing the city below and all its activity to curl, just curl, inside.] Payment? Is that what you think I want? Don't be a pissant, M. You're one of mine still, even if your plan is stupid. [A beat and something pnks into the receiver.] I'll let the others know. What they do after is their choice.

Just remember what you're doing. [Ah, there it is: the bite. The Sin's lips set tight on the line and while the snarl is obvious, the anger? The bitterness?]

[This time, it isn't the other's cross to bear.]

Tell me when you're done. [His tone creeps and the Sin leans his elbow across the window frame. Loss. Giving in. Payment. In the end, he's said it before: nothing's free. Not in this world, not the next. Mello's made his decision.]

[And nothing, not even the devil, can change that.]

[Mello has always been more observant than most; the sounds coming from the message denote something, though if it were a direct disagreement with his choice, Greed would have no problem stating as much, would he?]

[If Greed is annoyed, taken somewhere that has nothing to do with Mello, personally — Mello feels the need to explain that this is a form of murder-suicide to him. Wipe L, wipe part of himself, scatter the evidence and cross his fingers while hoping for the best.]

[Anything can throw this off, in the end.]

[Anything.]

I'm sure.

[More positive than he's ever been, really. The defeat that comes with giving something away is secondary.]

She made a promise, and I trust that she doesn't betray those. For what it's worth, I believe her followers are loyal for a reason.

[The details, the details.]

If this thing gets too big, she'll return them to me. I hope it never comes to that.

[Is doing everything in his power to ensure it before the wipe hits. It's why he's contacting everyone he believes he can trust and the rest? He'll clean up as he goes along.]

I've already made the deal. The effects should kick in soon enough.

Consider it already done.

Edited 2018-04-06 00:29 (UTC)

>>AVARICOUS has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN03

[One of the laptop's keys lets off a staggering hitch. It sounds gluey. Stuck. Like that of a struggling fly trying to wrench itself free from a slap of sticky paper. Eventually, though, the former homunculus releases it - the pry of his claw, a single, solitary plck.]

[Promises. Betrayal. Following. Loyalty. And hasn't it all been said about him before.]

[Greed's heel claps distractedly on the other side of the line - his mind, all-too-obviously elsewhere.] I'm sure they do - that's nothing new. Humans. They'll always find something to follow, something to give them an answer. [An inhale dries at the backs of his teeth.] I can't really blame them, nor can I hold it against them. There's nothing wrong with wanting a little hope, after all.

[A hush of uncharacteristic silence slips in and for a while, the Sin's quiet. He reads the text once, a second time, a third. "I've already made the deal." "The effects should kick in soon enough."]

["Consider it already done.".]

[Whoosh: a strike of fire. Cnk: his nails. Greed sucks sharply and a wheeze of smoke envelopes the receiver.] Then it's already done. Suit yourself, M.

[Another pause, and the laptop's lid screeches a note. No - there's no more room to for convincing. No more time to change his mind. Mello's signed his signature and dotted the line; his sale of memories, a devil's contract.]

[And ah, ah, what is the price of piece of mind, anyway?]

[The former homunculus taps the window frame.] Just remember what you're getting into.

[Mello's never had to explain himself to anyone.]

[And it stands, but he does. Because he wants Greed's trust and respect, because those with whom he worked were always beneath him, and it blinded him to the truth that sometimes, he isn't at the top of the food-chain.]

[He's always been a pompous, stubborn thing.]

[The borderline annoyance is clear in the Sin's words. Suit yourself. He's come to learn that when Greed utters those words, it's a resigned dismissal, a blatant proclamation of disagreement.]

[But if he knew. If he understood — ]

[Mello's not going to plead his case any more than he already has. He's received the agreement he sought upon contacting his boss, and that's all he needed, isn't it?]

I know what I'm doing.

[No, really. He doesn't. But determination can lead to conviction that fools even the sharpest of minds.]

Linden shouldn't pursue the matter. [Always reassurances.] He threw his chance to intervene.

[And that's all he has to say about that.]

boss
go take a look at vandare when you get a chance
[...Stocke abruptly remembers the last time Greed went out by himself. Considering the situation he's in right now he really shouldn't be talking, but...]
take someone with you

[...]

got something else to take care of
should be home in a week
[Now that is technically true and a great filthy lie all at the same time.]

Edited (i swear i know dates) 2018-10-01 06:03 (UTC)

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN01

[To say that the following days have been tiring is an understatement. The situation in Bavan is tentative; the atmosphere in Djävulenstad is still clearing its air. It's weighing, the aftermath, and under a screen of sterile, static-blue, the Sin's claws play notes on the keys; the sound of them light, exhausted, but no less shrill.]

[The sharp side of a cigarette peels through the receiver. Shrrrrrt.] Vandare, huh. It's been a while. [Greed lulls. Every inch of him (the grind of his toes, swollen by the knuckles. The back of his throat, scorched raw from the ordeal), stiffens on the recording. Stocke's not known for his hesitations. He never has been. Even so, considering the circumstances - ]

[The former homunculus exhales through his nose, sending a spin of smoke barreling into the feed.] Ehh. Stop worrying so much, would you? I'm not really interested in a repeat. [One the bones in his spine crunches and the Sin lazily arches his head.]

[But it's the other half, the small note, the really catches his attention.]

[Greed taps his cigarette.] Oi, oi, oi - [Rolling, his tone dips low in his chest; the rumble of it, more similar to far-distant thunder, drumming its approach. Those words: they never mean anything good, do they? Not for him, not for any of them, and if history's a thing to go by, well - ]

[What's left of the smoke grinds along the inside of a tray. It scratches the circle, spin for spin; the dryness of it, as rough as sandpaper, filing a board. The Sin touches his teeth together.] - something to take care of, huh. Don't be stupid, Stocke. Whatever you're doing -

[The back of his chair skitters and Greed, slowly, moves to stand. Stocke's statement is both vague and concerning; alarming and quiet. His absence of an answer, far, far more telling. The former homunculus shallowly hisses and as his nails brace hard against his seat, the squares of his heels clap dull on the floor.] - Vandare, then. Shouldn't take me long.

Edited 2018-10-02 04:23 (UTC)

[It's at least an hour before Stocke responds, the next time he decides to juggle his laptop while still in motion. He hasn't got the extra attachment or he'd try an audio message himself, keep his hands free - but on the other hand, maybe it's for the best. He doesn't want anyone running him down from the surrounding noise.]

even without the repeat
you might be a target
if you're not taking anyone , keep an eye out

[...]

[For once, the shade goes with more honesty than he'd normally cop to.]
stupid's already over and done
just making sure i don't track any mud back to the city

don't worry about it
be back soon

[Stocke's already planning ahead. Either this curse will fade, or... well, he knows what it'll drive him to. If it's the second, he'll be back with the next fog. It's been long enough since the last that while a week's not guaranteed, two weeks probably is.]

[He might've hesitated a bit longer with his plans if he knew for sure dying would be the result, but when it was just a risk... well, it's done either way. Now he deals with it. Hearing the Sin's voice helps, somehow.]

[As for Vandare... whenever Greed ends up near the old Nest's ruins, the Fourth's influence is gone.]

[The problem with Stocke is that: he seeks it out. Whether intentionally or not, trouble always seems to be nipping at his heels. His reprieves are short-lived and often, they're few and far between - his urge to stick his hand in the next would-be hornet's nest, more habitual than anything else. Maybe that's why he isn't so much surprised as he is resigned when he finally gets to Vandare. The soreness from weeks prior still aches deep in his bones. Right shoulder, down. Torso, chest. Greed's boots touch on familiar cobblestone in a sigh of dust - the pat of his feet, like that of a ghost, (re)visting its old home.]

[How many months has it been? How many years? And at the end of the day, just how much was the cost?]

[The former homunculus lifts his chin, the promise of rain turning his shades milky and slick. It's been a long time, but he couldn't forget. With the event still fresh in his mind, the small things - they weigh as heavy as a burden. A lead anchor by all definition, making him sluggish out of eye shot and tiring him when there isn't an audience to watch. Greed visibly frowns. The remnants of the old Nest still blacken a pit of where it used to be. Of course, most of it has been picked clean, yet the evidence of what once was - ]

[A single plank of termite-snacked wood flops on the corner and the Sin touches his teeth together. Stupid's already done and over with, indeed. Whatever Stocke's done, it spells nothing good. Elias's grip had been a firm one. No amount of trying had loosened it. No visitations had cleared the air. To have it suddenly, alarmingly, disappear - well.]

[Well]

[The lid to the laptop creaks, its screen blinks blue-white, and under the scratchy tck-tck-tck of a street light, the feed belatedly flips on.]

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN02

Back soon, huh. [Greed's voice slinks low, low, low. On the other side of the line, the churn of his cigarette is as obvious as it is scathing. It bites into the receiver with a particular kind of whine; the cloud of smoke in his teeth, thick and rolling. Stocke. Stocke, Stocke, Stocke. It always comes down to him, doesn't it? It always comes down to this. The Sin's upper lip audibly peels upward. Dry, would be a good word for it - the sound of his sourness, more similar to age-stained fly paper, freeing itself from a wall.] I guess I don't have to ask you what you did, do I. Friend.

[Bitterness curdles on his tongue. After what they've been through, one would think it would have been enough. However, that's never quite been the case, has it? The world is never enough, nothing is ever enough. Greed's jaws grind harsh into the recording. No, nothing is ever, ever, enough. And yet.]

[Yet.]

[The cigarette in his hand topples into a puddle, hissing its demise.] Is that what you think I wanted. Didn't I tell you before? When will you get it - [The Sin snaps the forks of his tongue, letting his words trail faint.] - doesn't matter. Too late for regrets, right?

I'll be waiting.

[It's something like two weeks before Stocke responds. Greed might have seen his name on the network, a rare once, maybe twice, in the time in between - but not since over a week ago. And that the response is now, now that the fog's come back... well, that's telling, isn't it? No matter what Stocke tries to keep hidden.]

[In the forest, dark, Stocke plays the message aloud once. Then a second time. His claws, the black shadows of them oddly textured like bark, splay over the keys; the forest in him keeps real unease from roiling through his gut, but still there's... something. Regret. No matter what Greed says...]

[It's not at odds with the forest, after all. It wants them all to get along.]

[Finally -]

sorry to keep you , boss
[As always, an ironic echo.]

know it's not what you'd have wanted
it's not
[...]
if i knew all the cost beforehand
wouldn't have done it
i'm yours first
but so long as elias and the fog sit where they do
[...]

[Stocke's tendrils rub against each other with the creak of old, rotten wood as he pauses a moment.]
this is something we should say face to face
not like this

[And it's true. He does think that. But he's also -]

might need some help getting back
ended up in the forest
the one north of lake dala
it won't let me out
[Technically...]

[Another echo, another refrain, with an "I'll be back soon." and a "Sorry to keep you waiting.", picking up the pace. He should know the tune by now. It's Stocke's go-to when things haven't turned up quite right. His trump card by any account, spinning right back around to chase its own tail. He's lost count as to how many times he's heard the play. It's the same song, same dance, and as another long explanation whites letters on the screen, the former homunculus reads them over. Would have(s), should not(s): his shadow's full of them. He always will be. And yet. God, yet, yet, yet.]

[Greed's nail hangs over the keys, uncharacteristically hesitant. Until:]

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN03

[At first, the only noise on the feed is quiet. There's no cigarette to keep it company. No voices, trolling up through the floorboards. What does breathes into the receiver is his furnace - the metaphorical heart-beat of his world, of him entirely, forever burning on. The former homunculus doubles over on Stocke's words. He lets his eyes wander them a third time - his gaze, a smear of boiled-over purple, threatening dangerously into the red. Because he did warn him last time, didn't he? He warned him:]

["Lovely. Sweetheart. You're mine, mine, mine. So you don't forget - "]

You already knew that before, Stocke. Don't bullshit me. [Shrill. Greed raises his wrist. One of the bracelets wrapped around it vices together with a soft, penny-trill tnk; the points of his nails, more an indicator than anything else. Mad isn't the right word for it, no. It's resignation that breeds in his tone. An ancient thing, aware of the other's path and unable, just unable, to veer him in the opposite direction. The Sin loops another one of his bands around his arm and while they begin to click together, he remembers:]

[ "My judgement's been impaired." "I killed Kimbley." "You forgive too easily." But you're - the Nest's - whatever I do, you're worth - "]

[Three of the leather bracelets snap painfully against his skin - the sound of them, more similar to that of a whip, giving its lashes. Greed mildly grinds his teeth. Two, if not more, wheeze against the strain; a porcelain bowl's vain attempt at a plea.] I'm not Heiss, Stocke. If you think this is what I ever wanted - was it worth it to you? We left that place a long time ago. I already told you: I don't have any regrets. [A beat. The former homunculus calms his snarl. He can't be angry with the other, nor can he entirely hold it against him. But with disaster after disaster piling up, well.]

[Well.]

[The Sin shrinks his lip.] Even now, though, you'll still be one of those, won't you. [The note of his voice is chiding and cold. It spoils behind his teeth like bitter oil; like the remnants of a skillet, charcoal(ed) day after day. There are merits in the underworld, after all. Worth(s). And his? His.]

[A rustle of leather and fur shivers on the feed - their tremble, as biting as cactus needles, burrowing into skin.] Yeah. An hour - [The former homunculus snatches his keys. Even without a visual to go by, the squeal of heat playing at their steel is louder than any word. Brighter, still, than any star. His internal desire, fighting, writhing, to finally close the gap on Stocke's echo and swallow it, indefinitely. For what is it? What is it they so, so, say?]

["It ain't that hard to sacrifice. But when you know what you got, ah honey. Do you really think it's worth it?"]

[The edges of the Silent Forest sway slightly in the breeze. Everything still looks dead, as always - branches with wilted black leaves, scraggly bushes, skeletal undergrowth. And yet... it looks too dense, unnatural. A real dead forest would have started to rot away long before now, left behind just bare tree trunks. The Silent Forest, as always, plays its very own game.]

[Only... it seems to shiver with a little more energy than before, if Greed's been here anytime the past year.]

[There's no sign of Stocke at the entrance. 'it won't let me out'...]

[You sure you wanna go in there, Greed?]

[At the edge of the forest, where trees seem impossibly deep and rot, however fake, breathes a life all its own, a wisp of heat fumes at the entrance. Yellows and reds touch at the litter like an oil lamp's crude inspection; the licks of smog in tow, a specter's dream-thick fog. Greed waits on the outskirts. Dark as it is, the small beads of red bleeding behind his sunglasses brighten two-fold - their pricks, more similar to that of a midnight train, coming along the bend.]

["it won't let me out."]

[The former homunculus yanks his keys. The cream-white hum from the motorcycle's headlight drops to nothing; allowing him to sink, just sink, to the tune of an apparition, melting into the dark.]

["might need some help getting back. ended up in the forest. the one north of lake dala"]

[Greed slumps his shoulders and the tangle of keys in his hand rattle into his pocket. Whatever the forest is at its core (sentient, a hive collective, something more), it never did get the memo and it isn't the first time. What he is, what he has - they're just that. And anything, anyone, that thinks otherwise, well.]

["Watch your fingers, kid, The devil always counts his till."]

[A bundle of stray leaves curl under his foot; his permeating heat, turning them brittle and frail. Where the forest breeds in damp decay, he is the very opposite. He's dry, dusty; a wildfire, threatening inch by inch, hair by hair, toward its intended destination. The Sin bows his head. The upper part of his lip dangerously thins, then - the show of his jaw, as bold and white as a blue-moon, baring its teeth.]

["it won't let me out."]

[The former homunculus clicks his tongue and as frail bits of clutter snap under his heels, he lowly strolls under a half-fallen branch; his pace, brisk yet commanding. After all - ]

[- nothing, no nothing, will ever take what's rightfully his.]

[The forest parts before Greed in a way that's almost welcoming - the same way a bog welcomes you to sink in, dark water closing over your head. But there's no deep undergrowth in his path, no tripping roots or brambles; it's almost as if it wants him headed toward the center.]

[As long as Greed keeps stepping forward, even if he looks away for a moment, things don't seem to rearrange. The plant growth around stays stable, waving ashenly in the light breeze. But if he looks back - there it's still disorienting, changing every time. The Silent Forest isn't free of its old tricks.]

[It's almost like a promise: keep going in, and you'll stay on course. Try heading out... you'll lose yourself forever.]

[Though maybe there's a different sort of losing yourself further in...]

[Whatever the answer - it won't be more than ten minutes before Greed may feel the sensation of being followed creep up on him. But whether or not he looks, there's nothing behind him - until, suddenly, there is. A shade's materialized behind his right shoulder as if he never left.]

Boss, [Stocke says, soft.] Thanks for coming in after me.

[He sounds right. He looks almost right. But there's something deeply, deeply wrong in the air, a sense of penetrating rot. Stocke's tendrils drift stiff behind him, held more like branches than limbs, and in his eyes the static makes brambled shapes.]

[Whatever's going on there - he (or the forest?) seem content not to make a move for now. At least, Stocke stays at his usual comfortable distance right behind the Sin's shoulder for as long as Greed keeps walking, and what he says next is -] You're not Heiss. If you had been - [A pause, a short shake of his head.]

...I didn't do it for you. [Well. That's not quite accurate, but -] At least, not the way you mean.

[The sensation may be cold, but it's so, so known. Greed pauses in the middle of the overgrowth - his stillness, like that of a man, shocked to his senses. One of his heels hovers over the ground, the other plants itself to a sole full of dirt. Losing himself, least in the moment, isn't so much his concern. No. He's chasing the very ghost that's found him first; their same song, their same dance, now flipped to a similar, but altered beat.]

[Greed doesn't turn around. Instead, his eyes wander behind his shades, alight and flickering; a match's stroke, touching both steel and glass, an equivalent promise. "it won't let me out,". The former homunculus mindlessly counts his keys.] No, I'm not. [He starts, matter-of-fact(ly) and a knot of heat churns red in his throat. Bitter isn't exactly the right word for it, nor is disappointment. Instead, it's deflation that hints at the backs of his teeth; his wheeze of smoke, thin, frail, and fading, just fading, for a reason.]

[They had abandoned Vandare a long time ago. So, why the unnecessary effort?]

[The collective ring of keys snaps brisk in his hand; their shedding sparks, an unspoken threat.] And you did it anyway. All this time - you still don't get it, do you? [Lashing, his tail teases fire at the forest floor, though nothing lights. It's too damp for him to cause a blaze just yet and considering the last time Stocke had tried - the Sin shelves his keys deep into his back pocket.] You really are a lot more trouble than you're worth, y'know.

[Silence. Part of him, at least a sliver, has an idea. Maybe, it was retribution; an armistice. Stocke's interference of their former haunting, a last, ditch effort to put an old fight to rest. It's a grand notion, but the cost? Ah, the cost.]

["A fiddle of gold against your soul, sweetheart - "]

[Greed traces the other's reflection in his sunglasses and the small shifts of change mute, dull.] Just how many times are you wiling to risk it, before you lose it all? Don't play stupid, Stocke. You know the price as much as do. [The weight on his shoulders slops heavily; allowing his fur to drape low, low, low, like a balloon, losing its air.] Ehh - that's never going to stop you though, is it? You'll always be one of those. Even now, after everything, you'll put yourself on the line, if you think it means someone else won't have to.

It's pointless. [And ah, there it is: the bite. The former homunculus touches two of his teeth together. With one foot up, he languidly rolls back in the other's direction; the play of his feet, forcing dirt and mulch to skirt a semi-circle's design into the ground below. Holding a grudge has never been his forte and with his? It could be said it's an impossibility. Stocke's done this twice, now. Perhaps more. And every time, every time, the devil is the one who comes to collect.]

[Be his body, his soul, or all else in between.]

[Greed watches his tendrils.] I've told you, haven't I? Humans think greed is just for money and power, but that's not everything. You want to save the world. It's pretty admirable, I'll admit that much. But - [Close now, the signs of something are blatantly obvious. Stocke's static runs jagged in his glance; his eyes, like that of a radio-signal's plea, cutting in and out. The Sin's expression narrows. At present? He boldly ignores them. Something's wrong, something's not quite right. Yet.]

[Yet, yet, yet.]

[Brushing, the Sin slides past Stocke; his shoulder, a hair close to the other's.] Let's go.

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, avaricious. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 012.07.333.07 * avaricious has joined 018.07.154.55 <avaricious> ithsihoitiwrks ? <BANNED USER> SCREENED MESSAGE. UNSCREEN? Y/N -- <avaricious>thdvllsnst <avaricious>** vdndrere

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<avaricious> 2/2 I LIED

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<avaricious> 1/? NOT EVEN SORRY

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<avianavenger> How would you feel about a backdated log for them meeting up?

<avaricious> sounds good to me!

<avianavenger> Cool, I'll stick that up sometime today

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➥ Devil's Nest, March 1

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--> action?

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holy shit i just noticed that vomiting of letters in the text above

HAHAHA well I mean, they're accidentally demonic, maybe

PFFT ..

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action; 3/4ish

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