[He can't pretend. Everything about Stocke: it feels like he's talking to a shadow. To a shell, trying to replace and shove itself in a slot that's decidedly saved. Yet, the mannerisms - the way he casually slinks down the wall: it's as if nothing's changed at all. And as Stocke lands, the Sin's mouth presses to a line. An enemy would have been so much easier, yet the change had come within. An attack from a face they know, striking where they least expect. Even so, there's something about it that's wrong. Dante may treasure his humanity, but to force it? To play a hand without even a hint of hesitation?]
[The numbers simply don't add up.]
[Greed watches the other, his neck tense. It's like he's being subtly robbed: what he wants, what's his, slipping through his fingers without a visible source. He doesn't notice when his jaw sets and as his teeth grate, the slits of his eyes wildly thicken and expand. The memories of a lifetime, trying to put the pieces together.]
Dante, huh. [He says without meaning to. Stocke looks just like he should: human. Mortal, frail, and with a fate that'll long burn out far before his own. The former homunculus unconsciously touches his thigh. He knows the other like the back of his hand. His scars, his wounds, his sacrifices, burned to his mind like a brand. Greed sucks briskly at the back of his teeth and if he's snarling, if there's a twitch of it on his teeth, it briefly goes unnoticed. That is, until sheer pressure lets itself known and in an instant, he dips his chin. The usual smile of his forcing to the surface.]
Doesn't sound right to me, but - [But, what. They were human before, weren't they. All of them. Dante, to a point. Heather, Kimbley, Lady. M, Dawn. Stocke. Greed lifts his shoulder, shrugging off the idea.] - guess it doesn't matter.
Nothing else has changed, has it? [He questions. Because, even while the physical changes are clear, it's the other half that catches him. Something below the surface, wiggling like a cancer. He can't place it - couldn't, if he tried. Yet, when the bag rattles, his glance quickly shifts. As if, somehow, the noise is a threat. One tolling, tolling, tolling as softly as a conscious instinct screaming to run.]
[Greed touches the lick of his pocket. The curl of his nail scratches into leather: the fume of smoke, tentative.]
[The Gods have already taken from him, the Bloody Bones have tried. To threaten anything else? It's practically a suicide mission.]
[Because avarice, oh avarice: it never forgets its dues.]
no subject
[The numbers simply don't add up.]
[Greed watches the other, his neck tense. It's like he's being subtly robbed: what he wants, what's his, slipping through his fingers without a visible source. He doesn't notice when his jaw sets and as his teeth grate, the slits of his eyes wildly thicken and expand. The memories of a lifetime, trying to put the pieces together.]
Dante, huh. [He says without meaning to. Stocke looks just like he should: human. Mortal, frail, and with a fate that'll long burn out far before his own. The former homunculus unconsciously touches his thigh. He knows the other like the back of his hand. His scars, his wounds, his sacrifices, burned to his mind like a brand. Greed sucks briskly at the back of his teeth and if he's snarling, if there's a twitch of it on his teeth, it briefly goes unnoticed. That is, until sheer pressure lets itself known and in an instant, he dips his chin. The usual smile of his forcing to the surface.]
Doesn't sound right to me, but - [But, what. They were human before, weren't they. All of them. Dante, to a point. Heather, Kimbley, Lady. M, Dawn. Stocke. Greed lifts his shoulder, shrugging off the idea.] - guess it doesn't matter.
Nothing else has changed, has it? [He questions. Because, even while the physical changes are clear, it's the other half that catches him. Something below the surface, wiggling like a cancer. He can't place it - couldn't, if he tried. Yet, when the bag rattles, his glance quickly shifts. As if, somehow, the noise is a threat. One tolling, tolling, tolling as softly as a conscious instinct screaming to run.]
[Greed touches the lick of his pocket. The curl of his nail scratches into leather: the fume of smoke, tentative.]
[The Gods have already taken from him, the Bloody Bones have tried. To threaten anything else? It's practically a suicide mission.]
[Because avarice, oh avarice: it never forgets its dues.]