[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?
no subject
[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?