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.]
no subject
[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.]