[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 - ]
NO THIS IS SGBKSBJ FUCKING EXCELLENT THANKS FOR THE PATIENCE
[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.]