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?
no subject
[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?