[Ah, there it is. The shot between the eyes, the arrow making a bulls-eye, right to the heart of it. The former homunculus splays out his lips. They stretch from one corner of his face to the other - a chaste smile on anyone else, wide and hungry. He curdles a noise along the flats of his teeth as if savoring the idea and as the warmth in his chest billows up his throat, the Sin plucks up his own glass. His nails hum against the sides with a single note: like a dot on the line and boy, boy, what have they signed themselves up for.]
That's a pretty bold question - [He slurs. His endgame; they couldn't really know, could they? An idea, sure, but infinity - it's lost on the mortal lot, isn't it? There's no real concept to it. Something endless, intangible, and forever, stretching years and centuries after everything's already dead and gone. Greed's muscles visibly stiffen. The bones in his spine, the veins beneath his skin; they're rigid and taught. Like that of trap, powered by a live wire. He doesn't notice how much his nails are scratching, nor does he seem to care; the glass below them all but screeching as the tips of his talons sink their mark as subtly as a knife to a bedpost-conquest. What he wants, what he needs. The Sin lifts his glass and as the other squeezes in, he meets his movement toe-to-toe. His waltz drifting to keep just enough space between them, both apart and near.]
Elias, the Fog God - you don't really think it's just about revenge, do you? [As he talks, the former homunculus trails throughout the room. He wanders by the bedpost, cruises towards the furnace; the small flicker of flame trapped inside the grate meeting him in a feverish greeting. No, there's so much more. So much to have, so much to take, just inches from his too-demanding hand. Greed sets his portion down on top of the furnace and when he lifts his arm away, the crack in the side is clear and visible. The fissure seeming to stretch, stretch, stretch like his own making, clawing by desire.]
[Because what he needs, what he's hungry for.]
[The world just isn't enough.]
[The Sin smooths his fingers along the lip of the furnace, tracing it.] What I want - [He repeats. The tone of his voice is drippy and wet - as if he's stuck in a dream. A kind of delirium clouding him over more similar to that of an addict on a fix. Greed lifts his shoulder. His spine crunches into place, the flats of shoulder-blades punch at his skin. The expression of a creature possessed by its definition, brought down to the very raw of it. Mello's question is simple, sure. But he's already started the reaction. His inquiry merely a light to an inevitable, powder-keg fuse.]
[And oh, oh, is it too little, too late.]
[The tendons along his arms twitch and as they pull, the sound that follows is trembling. His claws animate themselves - their sharp slides and punctual tck-tck-tcks more similar to that of body on the third-rail, taking the juice. Greed sets his jaw and his wrists stagger(ly) twirl.] - men, women, money, henchmen - [The former homunculus rolls each word. The lead in his mouth is obvious now. It ways him down, slurps in his cheek. Every notion itching like an undying thirst in the back of his throat. However subtle it is though, the violent jerk of his back is anything but. The sudden yank forcing his wings to jaggedly unfurl to the tune of a spider stretching under the blink of a strobe light.]
[Didn't they teach him? Didn't they tell him?]
[Truth he may get, but there's so much more in Pandora's box.]
[A scathing scrrritch breaks up the stillness and as the Sin's claws rake up his thighs, the smoke they leave behind blots him out. His own eclipse, challenging the sun.] The Fourth isn't enough. The Fog isn't enough. I want everything you can possibly think of, M. And what they have - it's the top of the list - ! [He barks, excitable. Maybe, this isn't the time. Maybe, this isn't right. Still - ]
[When has he ever played by the rules?]
[Greed glides his foot out to his side. The roar in his belly calms not a second later - his phosphorous burn, short and sweet. He coaxes his wings back to a fold and as their gnarly hooks lock into one another, the crackles in the furnace immediately snuff themselves out. As if his composure alone commanded them to a quench. The former homunuclus lifts one finger.] Dante wasn't wrong back in Vandare, but don't get the wrong idea. Lying, killing - I've still got my standards. But this town, it's just too small. And my avarice, well - it runs a little deeper than that.
[While he finishes, the Sin carefully takes up his glass again. The sliver in its side has stopped its movement - leaving behind an imprint akin to a tree marred by a bolt of warning lightning. No, the world was and is ever enough. And where the Gods may think they have their place, well - ]
[It wouldn't be the first time he's has tempted the odds.]
no subject
That's a pretty bold question - [He slurs. His endgame; they couldn't really know, could they? An idea, sure, but infinity - it's lost on the mortal lot, isn't it? There's no real concept to it. Something endless, intangible, and forever, stretching years and centuries after everything's already dead and gone. Greed's muscles visibly stiffen. The bones in his spine, the veins beneath his skin; they're rigid and taught. Like that of trap, powered by a live wire. He doesn't notice how much his nails are scratching, nor does he seem to care; the glass below them all but screeching as the tips of his talons sink their mark as subtly as a knife to a bedpost-conquest. What he wants, what he needs. The Sin lifts his glass and as the other squeezes in, he meets his movement toe-to-toe. His waltz drifting to keep just enough space between them, both apart and near.]
Elias, the Fog God - you don't really think it's just about revenge, do you? [As he talks, the former homunculus trails throughout the room. He wanders by the bedpost, cruises towards the furnace; the small flicker of flame trapped inside the grate meeting him in a feverish greeting. No, there's so much more. So much to have, so much to take, just inches from his too-demanding hand. Greed sets his portion down on top of the furnace and when he lifts his arm away, the crack in the side is clear and visible. The fissure seeming to stretch, stretch, stretch like his own making, clawing by desire.]
[Because what he needs, what he's hungry for.]
[The world just isn't enough.]
[The Sin smooths his fingers along the lip of the furnace, tracing it.] What I want - [He repeats. The tone of his voice is drippy and wet - as if he's stuck in a dream. A kind of delirium clouding him over more similar to that of an addict on a fix. Greed lifts his shoulder. His spine crunches into place, the flats of shoulder-blades punch at his skin. The expression of a creature possessed by its definition, brought down to the very raw of it. Mello's question is simple, sure. But he's already started the reaction. His inquiry merely a light to an inevitable, powder-keg fuse.]
[And oh, oh, is it too little, too late.]
[The tendons along his arms twitch and as they pull, the sound that follows is trembling. His claws animate themselves - their sharp slides and punctual tck-tck-tcks more similar to that of body on the third-rail, taking the juice. Greed sets his jaw and his wrists stagger(ly) twirl.] - men, women, money, henchmen - [The former homunculus rolls each word. The lead in his mouth is obvious now. It ways him down, slurps in his cheek. Every notion itching like an undying thirst in the back of his throat. However subtle it is though, the violent jerk of his back is anything but. The sudden yank forcing his wings to jaggedly unfurl to the tune of a spider stretching under the blink of a strobe light.]
[Didn't they teach him? Didn't they tell him?]
[Truth he may get, but there's so much more in Pandora's box.]
[A scathing scrrritch breaks up the stillness and as the Sin's claws rake up his thighs, the smoke they leave behind blots him out. His own eclipse, challenging the sun.] The Fourth isn't enough. The Fog isn't enough. I want everything you can possibly think of, M. And what they have - it's the top of the list - ! [He barks, excitable. Maybe, this isn't the time. Maybe, this isn't right. Still - ]
[When has he ever played by the rules?]
[Greed glides his foot out to his side. The roar in his belly calms not a second later - his phosphorous burn, short and sweet. He coaxes his wings back to a fold and as their gnarly hooks lock into one another, the crackles in the furnace immediately snuff themselves out. As if his composure alone commanded them to a quench. The former homunuclus lifts one finger.] Dante wasn't wrong back in Vandare, but don't get the wrong idea. Lying, killing - I've still got my standards. But this town, it's just too small. And my avarice, well - it runs a little deeper than that.
[While he finishes, the Sin carefully takes up his glass again. The sliver in its side has stopped its movement - leaving behind an imprint akin to a tree marred by a bolt of warning lightning. No, the world was and is ever enough. And where the Gods may think they have their place, well - ]
[It wouldn't be the first time he's has tempted the odds.]