[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.]
THANKS FOR THE PATIENCE ..
[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.]