the name's greed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nestingdevil) wrote2014-11-10 09:21 pm
nestingdevil) wrote2014-11-10 09:21 pm
(no subject)
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"
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
0.0.0.0 ♦ KILLUA
TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.
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.
<avaricious>
[For a while, the Sin's oddly quiet. He reads the message once, a second time. And as the points of his eyes thin, the furnace on the other side of the room begins to bang. The fire seeming to grow hotter, tenser, like the heckles of a dog rising to meet a threat. Because, while he doesn't know Raynie personally and Mitsuhide is a problem in itself, it's the other part that catches his attention. A scream in static that sends his teeth snapping with a quiet whine:]
["not willingly"]
[One of the laptop's keys plicks on the receiver and the Sin rolls his shoulder.] That so. Someone we know? [Greed's voice is viciously thin. It hisses into the recording; the trill similar to that of a kettle quickly coming to a boil. It could be anyone, really. Mitsuhide, one of the Fourth's followers - the former homunculus flattens his foot. Already, the broiler is beginning to slip through its gauges; the resulting squeal climbing, climbing, climbing to a persistent, petulant whiiiiiir.]
[Even as a carbon copy, the 'Nest? It still knows it's rightful owner.]
[However, the moment is just that. A minute, a second, and the pipes cool to a simmer. The Sin taps his heel. Something rustles out of view, then; the movement of leather and fur, a tell-tale sign.]
[If Stocke thinks he's about to wait, well - ]
Where are you? [Greed asks, further away. It's clear that he has no plans on sticking around. If the other is close enough, the distance should be easy to cover. A mile, maybe more. The Sin reaches and as his claws snare the ring of his keys, the collection chimes off.]
[Cnk.]
<swordpacts> [1/2]
[There's a sudden deep, intense conflict between the urge to force Greed to keep safe, whether the Sin likes it or not, and the urge to share his injected affliction. In the end, all Stocke types is:]
don't recommend heading out
but i guess that won't stop you
[He names a spot on the outskirts of Bavan.]
-> action? [2/2]
[But then again: he's smiling, faintly. You'd think it was a good thing - Prophet knows he doesn't smile enough - but it doesn't match the situation, nor the rest of his pose. He's too much on alert for it to fit. For all its friendliness, and for all that it is a smile you could genuinely get out of Stocke (not too wide, not too manic)...]
[It's a mask, much like his usual impassive one.]
[There's a battered leather bag slung over his shoulder. It's full of something that clinks faintly when he shifts.]
Greed, [he greets, tipping his head. Again, there's a distinct lack...]
no subject
[All that's left is the snide, puckered-lip punch line - ]
[Because how easier it is to hit, when the territory's personal one.]
[The Sin keeps a short distance. The brick wall separating them is worn down in places. Most of the stones have toppled to the side from disuse, leaving the structure uneven and worn like the remnants of a building wilted over time. It draws a kind of punctuation: a limbo between human and the not-so-much, striking its border. A pilfer of dust fades on his boots and as the former homunculus watches the other, the expression on his face begins to sour. His look darkening, stiffening, and questioning with a hint of a sneer barely twitching on his lip.]
Oh-? That's new - [Greed's tone hisses through his teeth. The lack of anything, save his name, is a sign all its own. Usually, it's followed: Boss, something else. The former homunculus wraps his fingers around the thin of his torso and as his nails trail of his thigh, a brief glare shines off behind him; the steel of his motorcycle seeming to bake under the coming afternoon as distant and sharp as salvation on a long, drought-stricken road. No, something is missing. Out of place. The sensation more similar to one of his own, preforming its best trick.]
[The points of his eyes shrink to still.] You were saying before - something about knowing who it was. [He starts back in, his voice airy. The list of culprits isn't exactly slim when it comes to Stocke. His involvement in the aftermath following the Fourth has put him in a delicate position. One wrong move, one false acquaintance, and - ]
[Greed's tail gives a petulant flick, sending one of the stones skipping across the dirt.] Got a name?
no subject
[He ducks out from under the loop of that bag, setting it balanced on the brick wall, and slides off himself. Lands light on the ground - not so light as when he was a shade, but that's no surprise, is it? - and reaches up to transfer the bag back to his shoulder more safely.]
Hm? [He looks over his shoulder, then turns to face Greed again. His back settles against the wall, and that mannerism is very Stocke, as if in contrast to so much else being just a little wrong.]
[You'd think it would have been one of Stocke's enemies. It's not like he's got a dearth of them. But:] Dante.
[A short pause, and then he adds,] In his defense, it wasn't entirely of his own volition. [Or - no. Stocke tilts his head to the side slightly, as if considering. That's not quite right, is it? Dante was plenty willing.] ...at the least, being human's changed him far more than it has me.
[Or so he says. Nothing to prove Stocke isn't lying about not having changed that much. Maybe he doesn't even intend to - he just doesn't feel a large difference.]
[But he doesn't deny at least some change.]
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.]
no subject
[Stocke's Hyde isn't quite so blind as Heiss was to the true thoughts of those he wanted to (hoped would) fall in line with him. But he's still overconfident as to the paths those thoughts will take. Greed won't harm him. Greed wouldn't harm someone he calls one of his, even if Stocke's acting strange. There's no reason to raise his guard.]
Did say he wasn't acting quite himself.
[The former shade stretches, eyes closed, hands laced together above his head. The bag clinks against his side.] If I said no, that'd be an obvious lie, wouldn't it?
[There's a pause, just long enough to seem as if he's done talking - then his arms drop, and one eye slits open.] ...relax, boss. You already know I can put on an act. If I were trying to trick you, I wouldn't be doing such a shoddy job of it. [Read: he'd be pretending to be the old Stocke, and there'd be no way to tell the difference.]
[Or is that just a different approach to smoothing down Greed's wariness?]
no subject
[Still - ]
[The Sin's brows scoop together, causing a ripple of wrinkles to crease along his forehead. His keeps his hands hanging at his sides; those claws of his ripe with sunlight and touched as delicately as a gathering of well-tended kitchen knives. The former homunculus chases a glance at the bag before, finally, he arches his shoulders. He gives off a nonchalant shrug; a gesture to shake off and bury the notion without a single shred of doubt.] Ehh -
[He crosses one foot over the other, the dust lodged in his heels freeing itself in a pilfer of smooth, skating sand.] You think it has something to do with the cure? [Greed tongues, his voice caressing and wet. Any sort of cure is bound to have its negatives. The science of such a thing, though - the art of it: it's beyond him. Of course, that doesn't mean he couldn't put together at least some of the pieces. Where some claim to have a miracle, there's always certainly a catch. A bit of fine print written in last minute mostly ignored by anyone desperate enough. Because, by definition, hope? It's just another want.]
[And want? Want is something he knows best.]
[The curb of his boot smothers a stray stone and as he closes in, the pressure of his heel forces it to a skitter. The small slab bounces atop the street - its movement similar to flat-rock skipped for good luck. Greed traces one his belt-loops with the shell of his thumb.] And you? Still all there? [Again, he watches Stocke. However, the suspicion in his eyes is gone now. Replaced by something like an inspection; as if he's trying to see, trying to evaluate, just how much the other's changed.]
[Because, even if Stocke is human, to him?]
[It truly, truly, doesn't matter.]
no subject
[Even if both of them would have reason - the Fourth to call for reliance on only him, the Fog to have people avoid future attempts...]
[It'd have backfired, wouldn't it? There's something of addiction about this cure - the Hyde can feel his fingers shake when a dose fades to half, chills and an ache, something that'd pull on his monstrous self as much as his human one. And the Hydes - they want to live. They'll take more cure whether they'd normally resist or not.]
[Stocke's smile widens to a smirk; both eyes open again, now, he trails closer. Yeah, that's getting closer to the kind of response he was hoping to get.] Can't say a shade's advantages wouldn't be useful, but I've all my memories. Still all there, boss.
[For all that now he's the one invading Greed's space, the flip of their usual - and fearless-close to demon's fire, 'Yeah, boss, take a look,' - he doesn't reach for the glass chime inside his bag.]
[He could, and maybe - yeah, maybe later. He can feel that itch to share. But he likes Greed as the demon is, for now, and there's no harm in being a bit more... directed. Selective, while there's still so many monsters unaffected.]
no subject
[No one said Pandora's box had to be ornate, after all.]
[The Sin grabs his hip with one hand.] Yeah, they would be. Could do a lot more with those abilities of yours. [He answers. Being normal: he's never understood it. Even before Stocke, Ryslig, he'd known a few who had wanted the same thing: a mundane life. Something base, plain, and missing all the perks the "other" had to offer. Of course, there had been exceptions. Those who had little choice or say as to what would become of them.]
[Still - ]
[A brief chnk tunes along the tip of his nail; his prodding finger all but rap-tap-tapping one of the buckles.] Little bit of a waste, if you ask me. But - [But. The Sin tongues the inside of his cheek. If Stocke wants to be human, not even he could stop him. He's said it before, hasn't he? Choice, the ability to do so - that much hasn't changed. Greed's shoulders visibly slouch. No, in the end, even the ones before had pained for the yesterdays. When things were less complicated and the world seemed so straight and simple.]
[Ryslig's really not so different.]
[The curve of his boot swings to the side and as it lifts, another puff of dry-dirt skirts beneath his boot. It dirties the leather - turning the black color dusty and dull. Greed winds his tail around his thigh.] - nevermind. Doesn't matter now. [He lulls. The afternoon sun glints off his shoulder; the image of him mimicking that of a dusty apparition. A line separating the mortal and the not-so-much.]
[Because this is how it's always been and while nothing's impossible, even here?]
[Some rules still apply.]
So, what do you want to do with it? I'm gunna guess it doesn't take just one dose. [It's a shot in the dark. Medicine, vaccinations, the rest: he only has the vaguest understanding. Maybe, Stocke'll need it constantly. Maybe not. Either way, from the sounds of it, there's plenty to go around. The Sin casts another look over to the side; the sharpness to the other's smile, missed by a mile.] Got some things to do in town. You interested? [He asks, his focus blatantly elsewhere. No, the changes are clear, but it's still Stocke. One of many, one marked, and they're his, his, his - ]
[Greed pivots and with one hand over his shoulder, he throws out two of his fingers; a gesture to follow.] We still have friends in Bavan that owe us some favors. They've been holding onto some things while we were getting situated. Think you can handle it? [From the dip of his throat, a lonely willow of smoke coils around his neck. It dives into his fur like a thread; weaving dip for dip, bump for bump, until the clear afternoon wipes it out completely.]
[Humans may not last long, but for however they do?]
[They always, always, leave an impression.]
no subject
[Stocke doesn't raise an objection; Greed'll be able to peel the cover flap open, take a look inside. The thing's full to the brim with syringes; there's some cursory padding between the ones at the bottom, in the form of fabric, but it looks like Stocke ran out before he got through with all of them. They bounce off each other lightly, the tink of glass - though it's reinforced enough, or Stocke's taken enough care, that none have broken yet.]
Bit of a waste, [Stocke agrees, shoulders shifting up in a shrug.] Not so much of one as all the human souls I have to eat to sustain it, though. [Something in his voice sounds like, 'Isn't it?' Testing on edges.]
[The Hyde doesn't truly care - it's preserving himself he's looking out for. Preserving this way of thought. The normal Stocke... he's a little too hesitant to take advantage of opportunities, too lacking in self-preservation, for this one's taste.]
[But it's a good reason for the normal Stocke to have kept with it, right?]
[He inclines his head in response to 'I'm gunna guess it doesn't take just one dose -' that's right. He's in for the long haul. And another smirk to 'Think you can handle it?'] Of course. [He was human enough through all of Specint, though he misses his magic all the more sorely now that he can't be a monster.]
Let me drop off this somewhere safe, [he jerks his head toward the bag of cure,] And I'll be right behind you.
no subject
[Greed's glance stills to a point. Stocke isn't wrong - the price for his abilities, the cost of being a monster. For them, it had been an inevitable. An undeniable part of their new lives, forced onto them without a solution or loop-hole to outsmart it. But for him, for his, well. That's what they are, aren't they? A by-product of the natural, spat out and reformed as an artificial blasphemy to the very idea. The Sin tests his teeth again. For a second, he forgets - the slice of his tongue all but snapping in his jaw, angry and raw.]
[Thankfully, he does catch it a second later and with a pressing smile, he turns towards the bike; the blood on his lip nothing more than a faint flight of ash.] Suit yourself. Just make sure no one else gets their hands on it, hmn? Don't want the extra trouble - [While the talks, the Sin lifts his arm out to the side. His splays his fingers open; that wave of his, curt and casual. A slip of sunlight rinses through his fingers. It bounces off his scales silvery-white - the color of a desert's high-noon, baking the hour.]
["-villains like you-!"]
[Greed snares his keys out of his pocket, letting them dangle on the hook of a claw.] Li's old place - that's where we'll start. [He lets the words slur around his neck. They develop through the fur of his collar in a noose of smoke; something light, something weaving, snaring, touching, as if it has a purpose.]
[The ring of keys claps in his palm and with a shrug, the Sin treks his way to the motorcycle. Stocke will keep up - one way, another. He doesn't have to take a look-see to know that. Human as he is, loyalty? It doesn't leave so easily.]
[Least, not yet.]
no subject
[That's only a surface game. The Hyde's goals, through that loyalty, are a distorted mockery of the shade's.]
Of course. [It's not something he'd want either, the lack of control over who gets and doesn't what he's collected. Not to mention the lack of cure to support himself.]
[The Hyde's true to his word - he catches up barely a minute or two later, circling the motorcycle to nab himself a seat. The bag's notably absent, but he doesn't voice where he's stashed it.]
['Ready.' He doesn't need words to say it, Hyde or not.]
SORRY THIS AIN'T MY BEST
That was fast - [Greed lulls. A sharp spring of fire plays on the pads of his fingers and the butt of his smoke ashes in his hand. Where ever Stocke scurried away the stash is anyone's guess. It couldn't have been far. Somewhere in Bavan, perhaps a safe-house from one of their own. Still, there's still that nagging feeling - a slight itch teasing and heated just under his skin. The former homuculus nudges the kickstand into place; the side of his boot slipping against chrome, smooth and precise.]
[Tck.]
[The Sin drops his shoulders and with a throw of the gears, the cycle's tires start their trundle. His keeps his heel stretched - allowing it to graze over dust, to hover over stone, like a white-hot engine in cruise. A couple of peddles skip between the treads, but once the road flattens, Greed abruptly toes the throttle. The engine immediately rolls over in neutral - the motorcycle all but tossed into a long, burn-out skid.]
[One hop, one whirl, and the bike takes off.]
[The Sin pushes the throttle, causing the speed dial to steadily crank into the red. Thankfully, this part of Bavan is a place he knows. Small shacks stack together in rows while they pass - their tin-top roofs and rough construction merely a blur. Greed reaches past the handle bars. He pushes his knuckle along the dash, flicking the headlights twice.] You said something before, about Dante - [There's something distracted about the way he talks. Maybe, it's the task at hand; maybe, it's that feeling again rearing its ugly head. Either way, he doesn't elaborate and as the flicker of the high beams bounce, the former homunculus lifts his head. Two flares of sunlight answer him at a distance. The reflection of a mirror catching the announcement like a battlefield code. Greed drops the speed of the motorcycle down and the gauges atop its dash collapse. They drop breathlessly back - the movement as brisk as a bulb blown out in a power outage.]
[No, that information about Dante - he wouldn't have attacked without reason. There's more to it; something he can't quite put his finger on, waiting for an answer.]
[For now, though - ]
[The front of the bike hiccups along a step and the Sin tosses out the kickstand again. Li's place, for what's left, is still. Boards crisscross behind the windows, the locks on the front door have been unscrewed and popped out. The former homunculus swings his leg off saddle-side and as he moves to stand, he gives the cracked-flat stone out front a good tap. Once, for good measure. Twice, for assurance.]
[And a third time to let Li know that the coast, for now, is decided clear.]
i can't believe i took a month on this jesus (i'm very sorry)
[Humans don't have the strength or stamina of a monster, do they? They need tools. And while he can do an automobile, it's not convenient for the narrower streets. So:]
You'll have to teach me how to drive one of these, [the former shade notes. He doesn't raise his voice, and with the loud growl of the engine making it hard to hear, you'd almost think it an aside to himself. But the 'You'll' gives that the lie.]
[Dante again, huh. The Hyde's eyes shut, then open.]
...put it this way. I can't tell you exactly what he's thinking, but you don't want to be near the human Dante unless you've an itch to be human yourself.
[The bike rattles to a halt; Stocke slides off, turning his head slightly at the sharp tap of Greed's boot on stone. Then his focus returns to the building. Yeah, he remembers this place. He wasn't out this way nearly as often as Greed, he thinks; Li's Greed's the same way Stocke's posse of informants are his, or maybe the same way Stocke... is? Was? His. But enough. He can use that, the Hyde thinks - ]
[Has only a moment to think, because it's been hours since the last time they swapped and suddenly he can feel himself inverting again.]
[Let it not be said Stocke, Hyde or not, can't think fast. Yeah, he was dumb for not thinking of this, but then he knows his un-Hyded self would have warned Greed anyway. So maybe this is for the best.]
[He doesn't say anything - instead, in the last few seconds before he's a monster again, he goes for Greed's back with a chrome-tipped syringe. He knows he won't get another shot before the demon's warned, and eventually Greed will need to be turned. Not to mention the Sin'll be an enemy again as soon as his monstrous self is done.]
[The Hyde doesn't make it, just barely.]
[The first Greed will hear of this whole thought process - it's the sound of shattering glass, just behind him. If he looks behind him, he'll see: Stocke, staring at his hands, dripping with cure fluid and broken shards. He's close enough to reach out and touch - or to have reached out and tried to stab, if it had been only a moment longer.]
[More notably - the shade's fingers are clawed again, eyes glowing white. And his tendrils, back, are jittering slightly - as if shaking.]
[It's the same scene Li will probably see coming out.]
DON'T EVEN WORRY ABOUT IT
Ah, right. Didn't have these where you're from. If that's what you really want though, I guess I can teach you. [The Sin puckers his lip. With his attention hooked on Li's staggered signals, he doesn't even sense it coming. Instead, he merely carries on - the monster stepping to the day's drum, meeting it beat for beat. Ryslig, though, still has its unpredictable(s). And just like that, within a second, everything, oh, everything - ]
[He hears the glass first. How it strains and whines like a gun shot. How it shatters so, so close to his ear, brittle and sharp. Greed's muscles visibly stiffen. In the split moment between then and now, the seconds try to catch up with themselves: Stocke's sudden closeness, his now-clawed hand wide open and guilty. It's as if time's been gradually dialed to a drag - the actions, the reactions, like a slow-motion replay, pointing out the details. The Sin's neck cranes over his shoulder and as his eyes widen, the wrench of his lips is surprised. Vicious. He's rigid and raw; tense and still. Every muscle, every vein and tendon, as taught as a spring, loaded for the pull. The former homunculus sinks his heel back and as the point of his boot lifts, the stones caught below fume to a shine. Their sides turn red; their cores, an intense orange. The beginnings of a fire barely, just barely, contained.]
Oi, oi, oi - [Greed lifts his hand. He flits two of his fingers briskly to the side - the motion aimed at the window an all too-clear signal to get, get, get. Whatever just happened, whatever's going on - Greed cool(y) shifts his body. It's as deliberate as it is predatory. His whole demeanor, a killer in cold blood. The Sin's lips turn down at the corners and as he watches Stocke, the glow from his eyes begins to shift. A brittle hum pounds into the lenses - their constant throbbing as alarming as a check-engine light, blaring a warning.]
[Greed's mouth hesitates.] - that wasn't very nice. Guess that was for me, wasn't it. [With an arch of his head, he rolls his glance back to the broken vial. The liquid dripping out of it, the small pieces scattered across the ground - the Sin takes one step forward and as his boot falls, he traps a piece underneath. Forcing the glass to wheeze, wheeze, wheeze until the pressure becomes too much.]
[Crk.] So, that's it. Pretty rotten trick, if you ask me. [He touches his tongue to the backs of his teeth - the inside of his cheek, alight and airy. He may not know the whole picture, but the parts that make sense are beginning to draw it out for him: Dante, somehow being a threat. Stocke's odd behavior. Greed lifts his boot and with a none-too-subtle sweep, he kicks one of the pieces away; allowing the shard to skip and jump until a dark spot or a shallow hole takes it.]
[Whatever comes first.]
You really didn't think that would work, did you? Why don't we just cut to the chase - [As he talks, the tips of his claws start to click together. He keeps up a playful pace; as if he's running through the scenario and picking it apart, inch for inch. Doppelganger(s) aren't anything new in Ryslig, far from it. But - ]
[But.]
[The former homunculus shuts the space between them, giving only inches.] - becoming one of mine. It's a bold move. [He starts, the hiss of tongue as keen as heated switchblade.] So, why don't you tell me who you really are. [Again, he pointedly raps his nails together. Tap for tap, they draw up a series of sparks - the threat of them more similar to the end of a fuse, toyed and mocked by a faulty lighter. The spade of his tail lifts behind him and with a loathsome coil, it slips to his side. Effectively stirring both ash and fog to a thin, grainy sheet.]
[Because mock him, Ryslig has. But buyer, buyer beware.]
[The devil never forgets.]
no subject
[He'd crushed the syringe in his own hand, needle bending under a monster's strength; the smaller slivers of shards still pierce his palm, thin streams of black-smoke-blood twining up. Some more of that cure's probably gone into his bloodstream, but honestly - with how much his Hyde had been injecting himself, that's probably the least of his worries. It had been so close, and just a second more... and even without that, the thought of his Hyde having been near Greed for this long -]
[Stocke's nothing if not good at compartmentalizing. He shuts it away and snaps back to attention to '- becoming one of mine. It's a bold move.']
[The shade's tendrils go abruptly very still. For a moment there's no expression at all on his face; then there's a flicker of resignation before he shuts down again. There's no way he can prove anything; the trouble with always having relied on subterfuge is when it comes back around on your own tail...]
[He doesn't have the time to try. Instead of answering the Sin's question, Stocke leads with a,] Boss - don't trust him. Me. Might be better if you just kill him - being like this never lasts long. Shorter each time.
[He pauses, then adds, short -] Get rid of the stash, if you can. It's - [and a hiding place, named, not very far from where they started.]
[And if the Sin thinks it's an ambush? ...might be for the best, really. Sure, it'd be nice if that supply of cure isn't squirreled away for someone to get at, but it'll just mean the Sin's already set on that whole not trusting thing.]
no subject
["Boss - " All together. "Don't trust him. Me. Might be better - "]
[The former homunculus lifts his heel. He chidingly avoids the other pieces of his glass - his purposeful swing as droning and chilled as murderer, stepping over his corpse. The stash isn't too far and it's just one problem out of the way he can take care of later. Whether or not the other's information is good? That's more debatable. Stocke had been merely inches from his target. He could have made it, if he chose. His quick strike, all but given ample opportunity.]
[Yet - ]
[Greed stops a foot from the other and as his body looms, that heat of his comes off in a wave. However, unlike the countless times before, the dryness of it is vile. The taste, vitriol. A house fire's smother, coming, coming, coming to close Stocke's chapter, once and for-all. But him, Stocke, this version of Stocke: they both know better, don't they. It's the very reason he had the opportunity in the first place. Because avarice may be endless, it may be selfish, but his, his, his - ]
["-sympathy? Who do you think you're talking to?"]
[A tendon in the side of his neck lifts to the surface and the Sin levels his chin.] Giving it up so easily - [The way his tongue prods at his cheek - it's almost a whisper. His hiss, a tea-kettle's warning. Maybe he's taking it at face value, maybe he's merely placating the inevitable. Either way, the former homunculus casually raises his arm. He laces two of his fingers together in a knot - their marriage, their twining, a ceremony in soot.] I really wish I could believe you, but thing's being as they are - [While he talks, the Sin extends his pinkie. Its razor(ed) edge slips underneath the earpiece to his shades and with one, simple pull, he removes them. The pair all but lost in a film of thick, black-tar ash.]
["You forgive too easily -"]
I am sorry, y'know. I didn't want to have to do this. [Greed's tone drops. The look on his face should say it all. The drag of his mouth sags on his lip, the hum in his eyes dials to a simmer. The former homunculus extends his neck and as his sunglasses sink into his collar, he traces his laced-in fingers to the side of the skull. The first tap loosens a quiver of ash from his horns. It ribbons about his wrist like a promise. A reminder of who he is, who they are, wrapped to a thin, choking noose. The Sin hesitates; leaving the seconds, the minutes, to a midnight's countdown.]
[A moment, and Greed knocks the side of his head a second time. He slurs his last word - the sound as strung out and drawn as hypnotist, obliterating consciousness:]
Xerxes.
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['I really wish I could believe you,' and he dips his head, eyes falling shut. His tendrils curl to a halt, but - no, this way's for the better. He's deathly still, bracing himself.]
[Whatever he's expecting, it's not that word.]
[The shade's head snaps up, expression subtly between startled and confused - he doesn't know what happened in his own head, that time the Fourth God cracked everyone's open. He feels like he should recognize it, and yet -]
[Then he winces, one hand - shards of glass and all - rising to the side of his head. There's a flicker of shadow-black over all of his skin, even that which was shapeshifted to look human, as something clicks. (Something very like a key.)]
[...Stocke is getting really tired of having his head messed with today. Though this version's vastly preferable to the other one; he can feel Greed shook something loose, but it's still better than the Hyde. Bubbling deep underneath, his resignation's burning into anger - he wants to hunt down Dante, hunt down the lab that started all this, most of all hunt down the Hyde he can't reach because it's inside him -]
[- but he owes the boss first, yeah?]
[Absently, the shade shakes off his solid, human form, rising into the air. Glass splinters and shards drop from his hands, suddenly nothing for them to grip; Stocke lifts hands in front of him again, four eyes narrowing at the streams of smoke-blood flowing up. He extends an over-long white tongue, running it over the cuts to seal them shut.]
Hey, boss. Good to see you again. [Again? Why again? Stocke can't tell without the memories of his dreamscape, but it feels right to say. Either way, his voice now's more static than not.] Not sure if this'll take care of - [Telekinesis stirs the remnants of the syringe below. That. Still, the shade half-grins as he cuts off, jagged. That's fine. If this... looseness is what it takes Greed to trust that it's him, he can live with that - they'll screw his Hyde over, figure out some way to get him to stick monster, and then -]
[...then, why doesn't he stay this way? It's a lot better than Stocke usually feels.]
[The shade's hovering with his face above the Sin's eye level right now - he folds forward to match it, claws dangling lazily. For some reason, his gaze follows Greed's earring for a moment before returning to the Sin's face.]
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["Sorry to keep you waiting - "]
["-this isn't me trying to make it up to you."]
[Greed eyes arch upward. They're still in their focus: a deadly encounter and Lord, Lord, even the devil has his breaking point. Because this isn't the first time someone's tried to take what's rightfully his and Stocke's been the brunt of it. It's been repeated again and again, effort for effort. An attack on his very want, hitting him like that of a railroad spike, shoved to pin him down for good. The Sin's upper lip curls back and as his teeth claw their way forward, the lamp in Li's window suddenly brightens. The flame running high, uncontrolled, until its life quickly burns out.] Didn't give me much of a choice. [He starts in. Deep, is his tone. His voice more similar to that of a monstrous pit, cracking the earth. No, they didn't give him much choice. Whoever designed the cure had a purpose and while he probably wasn't the intended target, the end result - ]
[Greed's teeth grind and in the back of his jaw, something clicks out of place. A stray spark ping-pongs between his cheeks. It bounces from one side, races to the other; the devil's tennis match and now, now, now, now.]
[The ball's in his court.]
[The former homunculus shakes his head, clearing the fog.] Don't remember it, do you? Back then - [The stretch of his words is dreamy and tired. The exhaustion as drawling as time itself, watching the world pass it by. Greed straightens his neck and when his eyes meet white-socket static, he immediately swings his head over his shoulder. That usual smile of his turning reserved. Forced.] Wish it could have been different, but -
["-things are as they - "]
[Greed's shoulders pinch in. Ah, right. They had made an offer, hadn't they? An exchange weighed out, leveled, and equivalent to the end. The Sin closes his eyes and with a sway of his arm, he shoves his pointer finger just under the gem of his earring. It hovers above his nail in a drop of red; the poise like that of an axis and oh, could the entire world spin on the edge of his hand.] You want that, huh. Seems only right, though I can't really tell you what'll happen. [However, he can take a guess. If Xerxes calls Stocke's monster, this should be no different. An overload maybe. A desire, more so. To take, take, take, all that's been swindled away.]
[Thankfully, Stocke's already given the location. It shouldn't take them too long to deal with the rest.]
[A drop, and the Sin fans out his hand. The way he holds himself is poised. His very image that of the devil, holding out for the handshake.] Three times should do it. [As if to demonstrate, he raps his nail against the earring.] I can't promise it'll be too pleasant. Hope you won't hold it against me. [A pause. Greed swallows against his throat. The gloom of smog trapped in his gullet hushes between the plates his scales. It filters out, hovers around. A dead-chimney's last exhale minutes, seconds, before the scheduled demolition.]
[Because if there's anyone who could, it would be one of his, wouldn't it. One of his, pulling, pushing, to complete the bargain.]
[And truly, he wouldn't have it any other way.]
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[The shade's mouth zips shut. He hums softly, buzzing electric. Then he's looping around the demon's back in a short whirl of shadow, settling to a stop behind the Sin's right side.]
[He rests his elbows on Greed's shoulder, head on his fists - "rests." Weightless shadows. But it's only for a second, and then he's abruptly solid, a light pressure on the demon's shoulder. Still levitating, but tangible.]
Don't know what you're talking about, [he agrees. But -] Boss. This is better. [Don't be sorry about it.]
[It's not gonna stop the cure from bouncing him back and forth, but as a monster? He's a lot less resigned to it. Besides, Greed can handle human-him, now that he knows.]
[This close, he can feel the demon's soul glowing in his chest. Souls. A collection, but one at the same time. He leans close to the demon's throat with a quiet static hiss.]
[But it's the earring his eyes fix on as it dangles in Greed's fingers. Right. There's something...]
[Equivalent exchange?]
[He doesn't know any better than Greed what'll happen. Perhaps even less so. But he's pushing himself up and forward over the Sin's shoulder almost immediately, reaching, overlong fingers curling around the red gem and pulling it back.]
[For a second he's balanced there, on one arm ramrod-straight from Greed's shoulder, a gaunt figure looming above the demon's head. Then he taps it three times. There isn't even thought behind it, only - a trade.]
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You think so, huh. [The Sin drawls. No matter where Stocke goes, he's solid in comparison. He doesn't move when he feels the tail-end chill wrap about his shoulders. It grazes his skin, prickles the back of his spine; his own, hand-made ghost, coming to pay its respects. Greed wrinkles his mouth. No, he hadn't been given much of an option. Believing Stocke had been out of the question. Killing him, more so. This had been an act of desperation; the means finding its end and what, truly, is the price.]
[The strangle in his eyes blisters, only to recede in a trickle. The daggers, however - they aren't aimed at Stocke. They're pointedly focused elsewhere. The horizon, for an answer. The nameless culprit, for even daring. The splintering crunch from earlier creeps its way into his mouth and while the other's weight falls at his back, Greed's body cements; the feeling more similar to that of a rock, refusing to budge.] Not an ideal circumstance, friend. Your choice - [The former homunculus tapers his words. They wilt on his tongue. Die in his throat. Regret: it's never suited him. But in the moment, in the very second, a sensation solidifies in his chest. Like that of hot lead, rotting in his stomach.]
[The Sin bows his head, allowing the barest slink of a grin to yank at his face.] No use delaying it. Tch - [From his chin, the bulk of his skull arches in reverse. As if he's inspecting his fate and laughing at it, all in the same breath.] - they sure gave us a lot of trouble, didn't they. What a pain in the ass.
[Whoever started it, though: they're in for a rude surprise. The shade's nail stretches forward and as it taps once, a second time, he can sense it starting to swell. The veins along the side of his forehead go frigid beneath his skin. They pop to the surface - the look of them like a bundle of parasites, rising to a threat. A third strike, and Greed's hands gnarl. The final toll all but striking his core.]
[And what is he, but a blemish. The cardinal sort, coming, coming, coming, to a familiar drum:]
["Baby, don't you remember?"]
["It's a long way down - "]
[Greed's jaw hangs open and while Stocke's hand finishes its dead, a long thread of smoke huffs up from his chest. It tangles about his face like a string - a knot of black trying to find its shadow and tie it down, once and for all. The former homunculus hisses out a sound.] Ah, so that's it - [He smooths. The changes may be slim, but there's no denying the result. His temperature is scathing; his face, vicious. Avarice incarnate to the very T, and what it wants - ]
[A crt, and his neck resets.] Guess we should clean that mess up first, shouldn't we. [His tone brightens. There's no point keeping the cure around; it's already done enough damage. And even if altering his is the brunt of it, surely that? That.]
[It's enough.]