[Another echo, another refrain, with an "I'll be back soon." and a "Sorry to keep you waiting.", picking up the pace. He should know the tune by now. It's Stocke's go-to when things haven't turned up quite right. His trump card by any account, spinning right back around to chase its own tail. He's lost count as to how many times he's heard the play. It's the same song, same dance, and as another long explanation whites letters on the screen, the former homunculus reads them over. Would have(s), should not(s): his shadow's full of them. He always will be. And yet. God, yet, yet, yet.]
[Greed's nail hangs over the keys, uncharacteristically hesitant. Until:]
>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN03
[At first, the only noise on the feed is quiet. There's no cigarette to keep it company. No voices, trolling up through the floorboards. What does breathes into the receiver is his furnace - the metaphorical heart-beat of his world, of him entirely, forever burning on. The former homunculus doubles over on Stocke's words. He lets his eyes wander them a third time - his gaze, a smear of boiled-over purple, threatening dangerously into the red. Because he did warn him last time, didn't he? He warned him:]
["Lovely. Sweetheart. You're mine, mine, mine. So you don't forget - "]
You already knew that before, Stocke. Don't bullshit me. [Shrill. Greed raises his wrist. One of the bracelets wrapped around it vices together with a soft, penny-trill tnk; the points of his nails, more an indicator than anything else. Mad isn't the right word for it, no. It's resignation that breeds in his tone. An ancient thing, aware of the other's path and unable, just unable, to veer him in the opposite direction. The Sin loops another one of his bands around his arm and while they begin to click together, he remembers:]
[ "My judgement's been impaired.""I killed Kimbley.""You forgive too easily."But you're - the Nest's - whatever I do, you're worth - "]
[Three of the leather bracelets snap painfully against his skin - the sound of them, more similar to that of a whip, giving its lashes. Greed mildly grinds his teeth. Two, if not more, wheeze against the strain; a porcelain bowl's vain attempt at a plea.] I'm not Heiss, Stocke. If you think this is what I ever wanted - was it worth it to you? We left that place a long time ago. I already told you: I don't have any regrets. [A beat. The former homunculus calms his snarl. He can't be angry with the other, nor can he entirely hold it against him. But with disaster after disaster piling up, well.]
[Well.]
[The Sin shrinks his lip.] Even now, though, you'll still be one of those, won't you. [The note of his voice is chiding and cold. It spoils behind his teeth like bitter oil; like the remnants of a skillet, charcoal(ed) day after day. There are merits in the underworld, after all. Worth(s). And his? His.]
[A rustle of leather and fur shivers on the feed - their tremble, as biting as cactus needles, burrowing into skin.] Yeah. An hour - [The former homunculus snatches his keys. Even without a visual to go by, the squeal of heat playing at their steel is louder than any word. Brighter, still, than any star. His internal desire, fighting, writhing, to finally close the gap on Stocke's echo and swallow it, indefinitely. For what is it? What is it they so, so, say?]
["It ain't that hard to sacrifice. But when you know what you got, ah honey. Do you really think it's worth it?"]
<avaricious>
[Greed's nail hangs over the keys, uncharacteristically hesitant. Until:]
>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN03
[At first, the only noise on the feed is quiet. There's no cigarette to keep it company. No voices, trolling up through the floorboards. What does breathes into the receiver is his furnace - the metaphorical heart-beat of his world, of him entirely, forever burning on. The former homunculus doubles over on Stocke's words. He lets his eyes wander them a third time - his gaze, a smear of boiled-over purple, threatening dangerously into the red. Because he did warn him last time, didn't he? He warned him:]
["Lovely. Sweetheart. You're mine, mine, mine. So you don't forget - "]
You already knew that before, Stocke. Don't bullshit me. [Shrill. Greed raises his wrist. One of the bracelets wrapped around it vices together with a soft, penny-trill tnk; the points of his nails, more an indicator than anything else. Mad isn't the right word for it, no. It's resignation that breeds in his tone. An ancient thing, aware of the other's path and unable, just unable, to veer him in the opposite direction. The Sin loops another one of his bands around his arm and while they begin to click together, he remembers:]
[ "My judgement's been impaired." "I killed Kimbley." "You forgive too easily." But you're - the Nest's - whatever I do, you're worth - "]
[Three of the leather bracelets snap painfully against his skin - the sound of them, more similar to that of a whip, giving its lashes. Greed mildly grinds his teeth. Two, if not more, wheeze against the strain; a porcelain bowl's vain attempt at a plea.] I'm not Heiss, Stocke. If you think this is what I ever wanted - was it worth it to you? We left that place a long time ago. I already told you: I don't have any regrets. [A beat. The former homunculus calms his snarl. He can't be angry with the other, nor can he entirely hold it against him. But with disaster after disaster piling up, well.]
[Well.]
[The Sin shrinks his lip.] Even now, though, you'll still be one of those, won't you. [The note of his voice is chiding and cold. It spoils behind his teeth like bitter oil; like the remnants of a skillet, charcoal(ed) day after day. There are merits in the underworld, after all. Worth(s). And his? His.]
[A rustle of leather and fur shivers on the feed - their tremble, as biting as cactus needles, burrowing into skin.] Yeah. An hour - [The former homunculus snatches his keys. Even without a visual to go by, the squeal of heat playing at their steel is louder than any word. Brighter, still, than any star. His internal desire, fighting, writhing, to finally close the gap on Stocke's echo and swallow it, indefinitely. For what is it? What is it they so, so, say?]
["It ain't that hard to sacrifice. But when you know what you got, ah honey. Do you really think it's worth it?"]