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[nestingdevil]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, avaricious. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 012.07.333.07 *** avaricious has joined 018.07.154.55 <avaricious> ithsihoitiwrks ? <BANNED USER> SCREENED MESSAGE. UNSCREEN? Y/N -- <avaricious>thdvllsnst <avaricious> vdndrere

CONTACTS

0.0.0.0 ♦ "MASON" | Heather

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ STOCKE

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ AOBA

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ "JUSTINE"

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0.0.0.0 ♦ KILLUA

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0.0.0.0 ♦ ZOLF J. KIMBLEY

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ EDWARD ELRIC

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ "XANDER" | SANDRATH

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

Comments

<avaricious>

[nestingdevil]

[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?"]

-> action!

[makehistoria]

[The edges of the Silent Forest sway slightly in the breeze. Everything still looks dead, as always - branches with wilted black leaves, scraggly bushes, skeletal undergrowth. And yet... it looks too dense, unnatural. A real dead forest would have started to rot away long before now, left behind just bare tree trunks. The Silent Forest, as always, plays its very own game.]

[Only... it seems to shiver with a little more energy than before, if Greed's been here anytime the past year.]

[There's no sign of Stocke at the entrance. 'it won't let me out'...]

[You sure you wanna go in there, Greed?]

➥ ACTION

[nestingdevil]

[At the edge of the forest, where trees seem impossibly deep and rot, however fake, breathes a life all its own, a wisp of heat fumes at the entrance. Yellows and reds touch at the litter like an oil lamp's crude inspection; the licks of smog in tow, a specter's dream-thick fog. Greed waits on the outskirts. Dark as it is, the small beads of red bleeding behind his sunglasses brighten two-fold - their pricks, more similar to that of a midnight train, coming along the bend.]

["it won't let me out."]

[The former homunculus yanks his keys. The cream-white hum from the motorcycle's headlight drops to nothing; allowing him to sink, just sink, to the tune of an apparition, melting into the dark.]

["might need some help getting back. ended up in the forest. the one north of lake dala"]

[Greed slumps his shoulders and the tangle of keys in his hand rattle into his pocket. Whatever the forest is at its core (sentient, a hive collective, something more), it never did get the memo and it isn't the first time. What he is, what he has - they're just that. And anything, anyone, that thinks otherwise, well.]

["Watch your fingers, kid, The devil always counts his till."]

[A bundle of stray leaves curl under his foot; his permeating heat, turning them brittle and frail. Where the forest breeds in damp decay, he is the very opposite. He's dry, dusty; a wildfire, threatening inch by inch, hair by hair, toward its intended destination. The Sin bows his head. The upper part of his lip dangerously thins, then - the show of his jaw, as bold and white as a blue-moon, baring its teeth.]

["it won't let me out."]

[The former homunculus clicks his tongue and as frail bits of clutter snap under his heels, he lowly strolls under a half-fallen branch; his pace, brisk yet commanding. After all - ]

[- nothing, no nothing, will ever take what's rightfully his.]

[makehistoria]

[The forest parts before Greed in a way that's almost welcoming - the same way a bog welcomes you to sink in, dark water closing over your head. But there's no deep undergrowth in his path, no tripping roots or brambles; it's almost as if it wants him headed toward the center.]

[As long as Greed keeps stepping forward, even if he looks away for a moment, things don't seem to rearrange. The plant growth around stays stable, waving ashenly in the light breeze. But if he looks back - there it's still disorienting, changing every time. The Silent Forest isn't free of its old tricks.]

[It's almost like a promise: keep going in, and you'll stay on course. Try heading out... you'll lose yourself forever.]

[Though maybe there's a different sort of losing yourself further in...]

[Whatever the answer - it won't be more than ten minutes before Greed may feel the sensation of being followed creep up on him. But whether or not he looks, there's nothing behind him - until, suddenly, there is. A shade's materialized behind his right shoulder as if he never left.]

Boss, [Stocke says, soft.] Thanks for coming in after me.

[He sounds right. He looks almost right. But there's something deeply, deeply wrong in the air, a sense of penetrating rot. Stocke's tendrils drift stiff behind him, held more like branches than limbs, and in his eyes the static makes brambled shapes.]

[Whatever's going on there - he (or the forest?) seem content not to make a move for now. At least, Stocke stays at his usual comfortable distance right behind the Sin's shoulder for as long as Greed keeps walking, and what he says next is -] You're not Heiss. If you had been - [A pause, a short shake of his head.]

...I didn't do it for you. [Well. That's not quite accurate, but -] At least, not the way you mean.

[nestingdevil]

[The sensation may be cold, but it's so, so known. Greed pauses in the middle of the overgrowth - his stillness, like that of a man, shocked to his senses. One of his heels hovers over the ground, the other plants itself to a sole full of dirt. Losing himself, least in the moment, isn't so much his concern. No. He's chasing the very ghost that's found him first; their same song, their same dance, now flipped to a similar, but altered beat.]

[Greed doesn't turn around. Instead, his eyes wander behind his shades, alight and flickering; a match's stroke, touching both steel and glass, an equivalent promise. "it won't let me out,". The former homunculus mindlessly counts his keys.] No, I'm not. [He starts, matter-of-fact(ly) and a knot of heat churns red in his throat. Bitter isn't exactly the right word for it, nor is disappointment. Instead, it's deflation that hints at the backs of his teeth; his wheeze of smoke, thin, frail, and fading, just fading, for a reason.]

[They had abandoned Vandare a long time ago. So, why the unnecessary effort?]

[The collective ring of keys snaps brisk in his hand; their shedding sparks, an unspoken threat.] And you did it anyway. All this time - you still don't get it, do you? [Lashing, his tail teases fire at the forest floor, though nothing lights. It's too damp for him to cause a blaze just yet and considering the last time Stocke had tried - the Sin shelves his keys deep into his back pocket.] You really are a lot more trouble than you're worth, y'know.

[Silence. Part of him, at least a sliver, has an idea. Maybe, it was retribution; an armistice. Stocke's interference of their former haunting, a last, ditch effort to put an old fight to rest. It's a grand notion, but the cost? Ah, the cost.]

["A fiddle of gold against your soul, sweetheart - "]

[Greed traces the other's reflection in his sunglasses and the small shifts of change mute, dull.] Just how many times are you wiling to risk it, before you lose it all? Don't play stupid, Stocke. You know the price as much as do. [The weight on his shoulders slops heavily; allowing his fur to drape low, low, low, like a balloon, losing its air.] Ehh - that's never going to stop you though, is it? You'll always be one of those. Even now, after everything, you'll put yourself on the line, if you think it means someone else won't have to.

It's pointless. [And ah, there it is: the bite. The former homunculus touches two of his teeth together. With one foot up, he languidly rolls back in the other's direction; the play of his feet, forcing dirt and mulch to skirt a semi-circle's design into the ground below. Holding a grudge has never been his forte and with his? It could be said it's an impossibility. Stocke's done this twice, now. Perhaps more. And every time, every time, the devil is the one who comes to collect.]

[Be his body, his soul, or all else in between.]

[Greed watches his tendrils.] I've told you, haven't I? Humans think greed is just for money and power, but that's not everything. You want to save the world. It's pretty admirable, I'll admit that much. But - [Close now, the signs of something are blatantly obvious. Stocke's static runs jagged in his glance; his eyes, like that of a radio-signal's plea, cutting in and out. The Sin's expression narrows. At present? He boldly ignores them. Something's wrong, something's not quite right. Yet.]

[Yet, yet, yet.]

[Brushing, the Sin slides past Stocke; his shoulder, a hair close to the other's.] Let's go.