nestingdevil | (no subject)

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"Traitor pig, Black Mass
Candlelight vigil, I'm
I'm a breakneck city slicking dog, grab your gun
Turn their heads, rewind."

Light, the promise of safety - it's never suited him. Not before, in the hollow of drain-pipe secrets and certainly, not now. No, he's always preferred the opposite, hasn't he? Where the dim of a dying fire extends the space of swaying bodies, of slurring company, as waxy as candles, melting together in a lulled, drunken stupor. It's an option he prefers; an option he'll gladly take. And yet, the Hamlet. Ah, the Hamlet.

How unrelenting it is, on the kindness of choice.

Greed's fingers numbly pluck off his ripped-ribbon hat. The knuckles on the back of his hand are open and raw; the blisters of hours, of days, of months, digging into him like a festering wound, constantly prodded. With the tavern as empty as it is, the last dregs of a night well-spent simmer across his skin. Licks of barely-lit logs yellow at his face; a candle-hum whisper drowns in his shades. The Graverobber tests his wrist and as fingers splay out, he gently cracks them one by one - a death rattle countdown, clocking one, two -

Crck, and his middle finger slips back into its socket.

"Cut the chord, burn the house
Fake death, fake your suicide
Wash it all down with a bottle of regret
Till there's no time left."

The brandy in his throat worms into his chest. It's rich, thick; a molasses tar, turning each cut, each shot, every wound, into nothing more than a slick inconvenience. Greed urges his head backward. Down, down, down, the bottle goes - its contents, quickly slimming to his appetite. All things considered, it should have been an easy job. The amount of traffic in and out of the Weald had thinned out the dangers - the flow of heroes, all but paving the way. Everything was set up: he'd go in, finish the burials, and at the dawn of a new day, he'd reap his well-wanted rewards with nothing more than a shallow smile and an extended hand.

Greed's lips peel and as another rinse of blood squeezes through his fingers, the edge of his heel smears across the floor; the spring of his spur, drawing a line.

"Check the bottom line
Drain the bathtub
Put your friends in it
Burn the evidence
There's no turning back
No turning back
There's no time
There's no time."

The paper in his hand takes to what's left in the fireplace, forcing the red-seal stamp to a low, liquidity boil. Its browned corners coil in on themselves not a second later; their edges, like the toes of a witch, deflating in defeat. Greed nudges the empty pilfer of brandy out of the way with the tip of his boot and while it rocks against the stone hearth in a glassy shiver, he gingerly weighs his shoulder against the well of the staircase. It isn't a long climb upward - a flight, maybe two. However, at the moment, it may as well be forever. A sinner's walk to a set of pearly gates, stretching further and further away.

"Turn your stomach
Turn a cheap trick
Turn to violence
Burn the evidence
There's no turning back
No turning back
There's no time
There's no time."

Greed's shoulder buckles and as his body doubles over, he forces himself up with the help of dirty walls and rickety floors. Choice, he's reminded. This was all his choice. His decision and Lord, Lord, will he be damned otherwise. Because, at the end of it all, righteousness. That light. It's never, ever, suited him.

And there's no time, never enough, for regrets.

Edited 2019-03-05 03:10 (UTC)

The door to the tavern swung open, and the Crusader stepped inside, his massive frame silhouetted against golden shafts of sunlight. One could have easily mistaken him for a member of the heavenly host if not for the pits and scratches marring the surface of his armor, the deep lines of care carved around his mouth and the tired look in his eyes. He carried his armet helmet beneath one arm, a rarity for a man who was never seen in public without donning full plate.

The bartender fixed Rosch with a curious look while the other patrons spared brief, disinterested glances. A few outright sneered at the Crusader's presence, a not uncommon reaction to his somewhat holier-than-thou attitude. Rosch ignored them, however, his gaze quickly scanning the room with the same intense scrutiny as a general surveying the field of battle.

Finally, his gaze settled upon a certain man seated at the furthest corner of the bar, half-hidden in shadow. Rosch strode toward him with purposeful steps; the weight of his footfalls thumped loudly against the creaking floorboards.

He stood before the Grave Robber's table, his shadow nearly blocking out what little light was able to shine through the dirty windows.

"I need your help."

Clearly, he wasn't a man to mince words.

Daylight, sunshine: they didn't matter to him, not in the grand scheme of things. He did his business under the moon and finished it by the time dawn decided to rear its lazy, lapping head. Even in this place, he kept to the dankest corners; the small recesses, crooks, and dead-ends, a sanctuary from the impending, fiery morning.

"It's like he's allergic to the sun - "

He didn't have to guess how that rumor came to be.

Which was why it was so surprising when the door opened, revealing, almost ironically, a man so completely the opposite. Rosch stood not as a soldier, but as an engulfing eclipse, righteous to the very core. The Sinner noted the lack of face-plate, another irregularity. Something was different. What that was, well -

Greed's lips cracked beneath the shady brim of his hat. "Is that right?" The silver-slick wheels of his spurs rolled lethargically at the backs of his heels. Splayed out the way he was (legs outstretched on the nearest littered table, feet V(ed) in opposite directions), the metal pieces took on a particularly dangerous edge; the faintest wink of the afternoon highlighting their mud.

Then again, mud, grime: they were the natural state of things.

The Robber's wrist twisted and with it, his overgrown nails flicked away from the stitch of his hat. Thwk. "-not that I'm about to deny you, friend. But I thought you made yourself pretty clear last time." Greed dragged one of his boots off the table, leaving behind a rusty cake of graveyard dirt and clay. He dredged his hands deep into his pockets. One, two. Then, up he was - his whole body moving as one. A terrible, twisted angulation of all his long, long years.

Everything had a price. His was just a different kind of steep.

Greed snapped his tongue. "So-" He lifted his chin. Despite the coverage of his hat, despite all the trinkets and bones that shook beneath his jacket, it was that look that gave him away. The shine in his eyes was tainted, unearthly; like a smoking crystal ball, shaping, turning, coiling, to gift a man his fate. A piano playing in the background abruptly stopped and the keys choked in awkward dissonance.

The Robber lit his pipe.

"-what can I do for you?"

The Crusader's eyes flicked toward the gunmetal spurs adorning Greed's heels. His lip twitched with a barely disguised sneer of distaste. The right to wear spurs was reserved only for those knights who had sworn their oaths before the Light, who successfully completed their holy vigil within a church dedicated to the Flame.

To see such sacred regalia adorning the mud-spattered boots of a lowly charnel man, unearned and most likely stolen from the remains of a fallen knight, sparked a flame of righteous fury within the Crusader's breast. Had these been any other circumstances, he would have drawn his blade and cut the boots from this preying vulture's feet and bade him seek forgiveness from the Light for his transgressions.

But these were unusual circumstances, to say the least, and he had need of the Grave Robber's skills in order to serve a higher purpose.

He watched as Greed unfolded himself from his seat like a spider stretching languorously toward its wriggling prey, thin and black as the wrought iron railings of a churchyard. The scent of wet earth and decay clung to his garments like the stench of Death itself. Rosch wrinkled his nose but held himself firm, unshakable in his faith and holy purpose.

"The Heir has outlined the next mission," he said sternly. "I've been tasked with scouting out the Ruins in search of sacred icons that had been lost several years ago. The abbot is most anxious to see them returned to their rightful place, and I for one do not relish the thought of these holy symbols being left abandoned to those desecrated halls..."

He gazed deep into the Grave Robber's eyes, and not even Rosch could look unflinching into those dark orbs with their swirling depths; a window to the star-cursed abyss from which no man has ever ventured and returned unscathed.

"Unfortunately, this is not a mission that I can complete on my own, and I find myself in need of a man with your... unique skill set."

His face twisted as though he'd bitten into an apple and found it spoiled. It clearly pained him to ask for assistance from a man so steeped in foulness, who took his name from one of the seven deadly sins and embodied its tenants so proudly.

But even a holy man finds occasion to make deals with the Devil, so long as it's for the greater good...

"Have they now," Greed's tongue lolled between his cheeks; its delicate prodding and poking, as if a large wad of tobacco were stuck somewhere and he was trying to pry it loose. One at a time, his scaled-steel fingers wrapped around his hip bones, cutting into them. His choice of armor was one both of practicality and flair. The joints of his gloves were separated and woven together with nuts and bolts - the points of his jacket were nails plucked from the very graves themselves, needled and threaded into cloth. Everything that he represented was laid out cleanly on his sleeves quite literally, giving no second-guesses as to his intentions.

And what, in all honesty, was more pure than sin, anyway?

Greed bowed his head, making his face dip back into shadow. "Sounds like you two have a similar idea, then. So why come to me?" He took a step forward. The thorny backside of his boot skidded across the floorboards. It dragged, scrapped - the noise, more similar to that of gargoyle, ripping itself from the earth. "I image they'd desire anyone else. Let me guess, no takers?"

One the man's hands left his hip to gesture in a display of leather and cool-cut metal. "Must be pretty desperate asking me for help - " A smile spread, then. Something delightful, something coy, something awful. A wolf's hungry jaw, showing its teeth. "-fine. But it'll be double this time. I'll tell him myself, don't worry your pretty little head, lovely."

Greed arched and a stinging whistle cut itself over his lip. "Oi, you - ! Grab my shovel, would ya? I've got business down town." Down town meaning down: the desecrated remains where many ventured and few returned. One of the tavern's workers snatched a shovel off the wall. He tossed it and the 'Robber grabbed it out of the air - his fingers gripping tight, almost too tight.

"Why don't we get this started, hmn?" The Sin purred, hooking the shovel onto his back. "We wouldn't want to keep our dear Heir waiting." Sarcasm flicked off his tongue like a snake. "Anymore joining our merry band, or are you the only poor sucker they could bargain with? Eh - " Greed ushered out the thought with a wave of his hand. "-doesn't matter. Whatever they want, after all. Wouldn't be right for me to deny them."

The leftovers in his pipe went bottom up on the floor and the 'Robber stamped it out thoughtlessly with his boot.

"Lead the way Lionheart."

"Theophrastus is still recovering from injuries sustained during our last mission, and Paracelsus is embroiled in yet another one of her ungodly experiments..." The Crusader rumbled deep in his throat, giving voice to his displeasure. It was no secret he disdained the sort of research that bordered on heresy. "Which leaves you the only remaining mercenary with an intimate understanding of toxicology. Furthermore, your skills at lock-picking and disarming traps are rivaled only by Dismas, but he was... less agreeable to my proposal."

Dismas was, after all, Jackdaw's right hand man, which meant that he bore little love toward Julien and their hirelings. The feeling was certainly mutual on Rosch's part—he personally felt that Lord Beaumont was the rightful Heir to the Darkest Estate, and he was loathe to work with anyone aligned with the impostor Heir.

But desperate times call for desperate measures. And Greed could easily see the desperation in the clench of Rosch's jaw, the armored fingers curled into a tense fist at his side. He already anticipated the hungry grin full of pointed teeth, but that didn't lessen the feeling of disgust toward the obvious delight Greed felt at the prospect of easy pickings.

No matter. Let the charnel man reap his reward of glittering gold, trinkets and baubles. Such earthly treasures paled in comparison to holy relics imbued with divine power.

Rosch bristled at the mocking term of endearment. "I can assure you that Lord Beaumont is well aware of the cost of your services and is prepared to pay a premium to ensure this mission is successful." He watched as the Grave Robber made an unnecessarily theatrical show of retrieving his trusted shovel. "He's already enlisted the aid of the Vestal, and the final member of our party will be determined shortly."

Even now, Julien was negotiating with the Antiquarian, who was the leading expert on priceless artifacts and rare antiquities. Though his prowess in combat was subpar, what he lacked in raw strength he made up for in cunning. His keen eyes would surely make their search for the holy relics far easier.

The Crusader's eyes narrowed. Lionheart—it was the epithet he earned after completing his tour of duty to reclaim the Holy Land. But somehow, when Greed spoke, his viper's tongue poisoned the word, causing it to ring false within Rosch's ears. His mocking tone made the title sound false and hollow.

You think yourself brave, little lion man? Have you forgotten the taste of fear, like bitter bile in the back of your throat?

Rosch shook his head, banishing those thoughts to the back of his mind. He pivoted on one heel and marched toward the door, his golden spurs clinking with each heavy footfall.

The barkeep spared Rosch a curious look before glancing toward Greed in acknowledgement. Whenever the Grave Robber went "down town," he always returned with plenty of gold to grease dirty palms.

Hopefully, this mission would be as fruitful as the others.

While Rosch rambled on, the 'Robber kept his quiet. A pinch of tobacco squeezed between his fingers into the open bowl of his pipe, his nails scurried about aimlessly in his coat like a thousand, baby spiders searching the world for the first time. Greed closed his eyes and a festering sneer spread across his face under the brim of his hat.

"What you're saying is that no one else is going to take the job, so come to the source. Is that right?" He puckered his lips around the button of his pipe, making his teeth chitter briskly across the reed. "They know I don't belong to either of them - ha! That's pretty bold, I'll give 'em that." A match appeared, clenched between his middle and fore-knuckles as rigid as a cross. Greed swept it across the metal guards clasping his wrist and as the tip ignited, a wicked glow erupted under his chin.

He wasn't stupid to the goings-on inside the Estate: everyone knew it. Two heirs, two figureheads, fighting for the rightful title. But the rightful title of what. Decay? Blasphemy? Destruction? Death? There wasn't much to gain from owning a place already damned.

But, then again -

The Sinnerman inhaled, dragging a deep cloud of tobacco down into his lungs. "Another one, then. Got someone in mind?" A perk of interest twitched on his face and one of his eyes lazily opened, revealing a point-pricked inclination. There were numerous names, faces, and all else throughout the Estate. From the highest of the mighty to the lowest of the low, the masses stuck in the proverbial tar pit were a variety pack and he didn't know all of them. The excursion could be worth it, if not to find more. More to have, to claim, to enjoy in every sense of the word.

"You could show me numbers, I'll show you more -"

The Graverobber shrugged off a silent weight and followed after the Crusader as low and shallow as a shadow, following a wall. He kept his head bent at a particular angle, so that the brim of his hat crested over his face in a looming, hard-cut swoop. "Don't take it so personally, friend. This is just business, after all. What, are you still upset about before?" Another curtain of smoke disappeared between his teeth - the look of it, as pale and fleeting as a ghost evaporating under the coming sun. "Whatever you're thinking, you've got the wrong idea. What I want - " He trailed off, forcing the pipe do to the rest of the talking. What he wanted, what he needed, what he craved: no one could possibly know how deep it went. It was a disease; a disease for him and him alone to bear.

And he relished every moment of it.

Greed pocketed his hands. "Let's change the subject, then. Why are you so loyal to Their Highness, anyway? What makes them better than the other choice? Feels like the two of 'em are the same to me. Right, wrong. Good, bad. I've never believed in that." He tilted his head back and the bump of his throat exposed, showing the barest hint of something black underneath the choke of his collar. "Your kind - you put so much into believing your cause is the righteous one, but have you ever stopped to think if it is?"

The corner of his lip turned up. "Eh, never mind. I don't really feel like pissing you off even more. Would be a pain in the ass for you to go berserk down there." Greed swayed and his head turned on the axis of his neck like a vulture, scoping out a meal. "Mind giving me the name of the others you've got in mind? Or is that off limits?"

Arthur stirs awake when his nose hits something padded. He blinks in confusion as he lays in the darkness before reaching out to touch his surroundings. It was compact, not very comfortable and felt very similar to the time he woke up in a grave. He recalls speaking to Sandrath and something involving him taking care of things.

A wave of panic takes over Arthur as he bangs on the lid and calls out, "San! Open up! This isn't funny! San!?"
There was no response and the former paramedic was forced to take things in to his own hands. He starts shifting inside of the coffin, trying to find a weak spot or some opening on a side.

After a few minutes of struggling, the coffin spills out on to the floor and Arthur pushes the lid open. He slowly sits up and takes several calming, deep breaths before scanning the unfamiliar room around him. This wasn't the place he spoke to San, before everything went numb and he lost consciousness. Where was he now and what happened to Sandrath?

A sudden chill in the air makes him realize that he was naked and his paramedic uniform was no where to be found. He quickly raises himself out of the coffin and moves to the closest wardrobe. As he opens the door, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and notices that the scars he had before were no longer there. Odd. His attention shifts to the clothes that were hanging up inside. They were a little big in a couple of areas but they would do for now.

Once Arthur was fully dressed and procured some shoes, he leaves the room and finds himself in what looks like an apartment hallway. He closes the door behind him before venturing downstairs and out the main door to the street.

The sights, sounds and smells that greeted him were vastly different from the port town of Vandare. Various people and beings were freely walking the streets and interacting with each other with little to no hostility. It was still a weird thing for Arthur, he thought supernatural beings and creatures only existed in literature (with a few exceptions).

The former paramedic was unsure on where to go and didn't want to approach or bother anyone with animal features. So, he approaches someone who looks to be mostly human and gets directions to a bar called the Devil's Nest as well as the name of the owner.

Several minutes later, he passes through the establishment's doors and makes his way to the counter.

"Excuse me. Can you help me? I'm looking for someone known as 'Greed'."

Smoke drifts along the bar-top as subtle as an anonymous kiss. It dives and twirls, dances and twists; its playful banter, continuously held and manipulated by a none-too-holy hand. Greed pulls his fingers. The collection of bar-side candles stand, then; their flames, like well-bred soldiers, coming to a General's attention. It's a secret, the way the fire teases against the tips of his claws. An unspoken agreement known here, known elsewhere, and ah, doesn't the devil make for a strange bed fellow?

Maybe so. Yet in Djävulenstad, it's the status quo.

Another, nameless patron slumps over and as his hand makes its last-call spread across the counter, the former homunculus perks at the sound. Being called isn't uncommon; being sought out, even more so. The very nature of who and what he is dictates it. An integral piece, dialing in avarice's would-be digits.

Still -

The Sin visibly traces out the backs of his teeth. Immediately, a stroke of Hellfire roasts behind them; his internal temperature, cooking his piling set a soft, milk-yellow fume. "You've found him," he replies and two of his fingers swipe over his throat. The purr stuck in the back of his gullet illustrates itself like a bright, burning star. Soft red, orange, then white, white, white. Greed's eyes flutter behind his sunglasses. He unabashedly marks out Arthur with a swimming flick - the slits of his eyes, more similar to that of a cat, catching a particularly interesting spot of sunshine.

"-though, the real question is: what can I do for you, exactly?" The former homunculus leans his elbow across the bar. He sticks his thumb out. "Ah, but before that, I guess it would help if I got a name, hmn? Since you already know mine." A pinch of his thumb and forefinger extinguishes one of the candles nearby and the wick squeezes catch-blue smoke across his skin. New comers aren't so much a surprise: faces enter, faces leave.

It doesn't mean, however, that he isn't interested.

Whatever gusto the patron had before drains and while he topples in a parade of knocked-over glasses and spilling beer, Greed's lips cinch together as tight as a hardwired stitch. He snaps his finger and the line of sloshed booze quickly evaporates off the bar top. "Gunna guess you're new - that right?" Slurring, the Sin arches one of his eyebrows. It creases up his forehead to reach the bulk of his horns; their base, a wall by any other means, stopping his force. "Why don't you have a seat? I'm sure you and I have a lot we could talk about."

An empty glass appears in his hand, the bottom of it flips, and as the Sin lays it out on a fresh napkin, the ends of the paper turn up on themselves. A devil's X, waiting for a signature.

Because oh, oh, oh, oh, does it only take a name.

Arthur's attention shifts to the patron beside him, making sure the person didn't stumble and hurt themselves on the counter. He wasn't on duty, but he couldn't help himself from helping others if they need it.

His gaze moves to the demon barkeeper (who certainly fit the theme of the bar) and blinks in surprise at the colorful spectacle from the other being's throat. He didn't know if Greed was showing off or if it meant a certain emotion. A part of him wished he had spent more time interacting with supernatural beings instead of keeping his distance and not relying on information from Sandrath that might be true or false.

Just as he is about to answer, the patron from before collapses on the bar and causes a noisy mess. Arthur reaches over to check on them as Greed simply snaps his fingers -- claws to dispose of the spill. The motion reminded him of a certain archangel with the same ability. Thankfully, the patron was fine and would probably wake to a bruise along with a hangover.

This wasn't the kind of introduction or welcome he was expecting but he would have to deal. With a quiet sigh, Arthur takes a seat and shakes his head towards the glass before him.

"Arthur and I don't need a drink." He states, well aware of the effect booze has him and even if he wanted one, he couldn't afford it at the moment. Plus San warned him in the past about not making deals or owing a debt to a demon.

As for Greed's question about being new, he wasn't sure how to answer it. If this place was near or on the same peninsula as Vandare, then it would be a no and a bit awkward to explain. For now, his focus was on the confirmation of a certain person.

"Do you happen to know a man who goes by San--" He stops himself, recalling that Sandrath was going by another name. "Xan. I meant Xander."

Edited 2019-05-21 08:48 (UTC)

"You, lovely - you can call me, Greed."

The tone on the tip of his tongue laces in sweet honey-suckle and LA humidity. Even with all the distractions (the glimmer of lights, sparking off both dance floor and bodies alike; the flip and sway of vibrant jewelry catching neon, only to toss it right back), the point of his gaze seems to slice right through. It's still; stagnant. His look, more similar to the headlamps of a truck, splitting the night's highway wide, wide, wide.

Greed touches his chin; his too-long nail, scraping the sprouts of a four o'clock shadow. A wash of gas-line blue slips across his face and as the flooding color moves its way across the establishment, the smile on his lips - it stretches above his hand, toothy and wide. A great white shark's intent, promising more than just a bite.

"You've certainly got a reputation, friend." He starts, his fingers all but fanning along his jawline. To say he's coated would be an understatement. A collection of rings piles atop his knuckles in rich stones and heavy metals; a king's bounty, wordlessly drawing out its terms. Los Angeles has a reputation. Crime, illegal activities, questionable dealings - they're par for the course. But here? Here, he's at the top of it all; a jagged face, crooked and sly, pulling the odds forever in his favor. The man shrinks his lips and as the cruel-sharp tips of his teeth recede, he gives Kaito a slow-look over. He traces his shoulder, his throat - the slight tease of skin, poking out of his collar. It's almost as if he can see right through. As if he's watching for a pulse, as if he's counting the other's soul, beat by beat.

Greed reaches inside the silk of his shirt. "Rumor has it you're looking for a Horseman's card - is that right?" Both of his eyebrows curl above his sunglasses - a devil's horns in plain sight. "They aren't easy to come by, y'know," humming, the man lazily sags in his seat. The card pinched between his fingers slicks black against his skin. "- and they certainly don't come free. If you want this, then you're going to have to do me a little favor. Sound fair?" While he talks, the brunt of his wrist turns counterclockwise. It causes the hard-paper to tease under the swelling shadows like a precious diamond. One that's been locked away, that's been secured, that's been wantonly displayed in case of bullet-proof glass, so, so tempting.

Snck, and the Sin's movements freeze to a switch-blade's point. "Elias the Fourth - ever heard of him?" He doesn't bother looking at Kaito while he asks. Instead, his attention focuses on their mutual object of affection - the card's edges, reflecting white in his shades. The name should be familiar enough. Elias the Fourth, his world-wide computer operation - there's enough money passing through the business to catch anyone's eye. Enough intel to make anyone curious. And while money is key, while cash is king, information? Well.

There's value in words, isn't there?

Greed's eyes slide behind his sunglasses; a serpent's cool assessment. "He's holding a gala with the Mayor in two days. He plans on presenting something - a new project. I want you to find out what it is." He doesn't elaborate, nor does he have to. The intention is as clear as it is silent. A wordless addition:

"I want you to steal it."

A pack of cigarettes appears from his pocket. Greed coolly dips his head, snagging one by the filter. "There's a briefcase being delivered three hours before. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that'll it be going through the usual security measures. Get it, and this is all yours." As if to make his point, the Sin loosely sends the card through his fingers. It flips over his knuckles, dives under his palm - his look, like that of a magician, delighting a crowd. "I'll have one of mine fill you in on the details. Dol -," he purrs, distractedly. The man next to him perks a second later - the pipe clenched in his jaw, hanging in the breath of a freshly-struck match.

"Make sure our friend here has everything he needs, would you?" Lifting his chin, Greed purposely shows off his throat. The tangles of gold strung about his neck slither, then. They dive inside the open part of his shirt like slippery sweat; their slide, more similar to the nails of a woman, tracing him out. Dolcetto quietly lights his pipe and as he shakes the match, the small of his back tiredly peels off the side of the couch. Whether the Sin notices or not, he doesn't say. The trinket in his hand sticks against his thumb and with a light toss, he sends the card spinning across the top of the coffee table.

"That's yours, when it's done. Now, I think that's a pretty fair deal, don't you?" Greed adjusts his foot. The bottom of his heel seals the card to the table's surface - forcing the tip of his boot shooting sky-high. "And if it doesn't work, well."

The Sin licks his lower lip, showing his teeth a second time. "I'm sure we could figure something out."

Kaito slides warm, nervous palms into the pockets of his slacks. Blossom hadn't been kidding - these are stakes high enough to send any pro slinking back into their gilded holes. But the prize? If he can pull this off, it'll be worth every penny. He had come to make a name for himself. There's no better way to do it than by this.

He pointedly ignores the card save for a cursory glance as it stills on the table. Many a thief's downfall has come because they focused too hard on the reward and forgot to look at the crumbling edge beneath their feet. He's more than that. He hasn't climbed his way here inch by clever inch to be thrown off the precipice at the very end. There's more than money riding on the outcome of his thefts now: there's pride. That card? It may as well be Elias' briefcase now. The whys and wherefores don't matter. Only the process and the result.

His gaze slides to Greed's companion, Dolcetto, a cool and calculating front to cover the low-key anxiety he always gets with the anticipation of a big score. It's the only feeling which reminds him he's still human these days.

"That won't be necessary," he says calmly, flashing Greed a confident smirk in return. "I'll either get that briefcase...or I won't."

Kaito doesn't believe in running. You choose this life, you bet everything you have on it. There's no second chances in this game.

A hint of interest perks behind the Sin's shades. It'd be an easy miss for most; the subtle tick of his eyebrow, the way his eye seems to spin and swell like an ocean current, spinning down the remnants of a ship. Greed's mouth creases. A part of his lip yanks jaggedly to the side - its thin peel, a sharp reckoning of understanding.

Kaito will either get the briefcase or he won't. There is no in between.

"Usually, that's not how it works. But if that's what you want - " A single, audaciously curated nail touches down his chin, feeling out a link of chain. "-ha! I guess who am I to stop you, right? I like you, kid." He snaps his finger below the shelf of his chin, making his gold rings shine glitter to his throat. "Dolcetto here will have everything you need sent to your address. 205 Derby Lane, right?" Greed's brows knowingly bow together; their touch, a secret nod without the need of conversation:

"I know where you live, I know where you are. So, sweetheart, running just ain't an option."

"You'll find the rest by tomorrow morning. Don't bother waiting up for it," the Sin waves his hand and Dolcetto disappears behind a length of curtain. The weight of it drops at the backside of the lounge as hefty as a judge's gavel. "And I wouldn't try to trace the car either, if I were you. Those that work for me - they're friendly enough. But I'm sure even you understand how it is." Slumping, he casually pulls a fresh cigarette out from the hem of his pants. He taps it tip-down against his hip; once, twice. "No need to make things more complicated than they have to be. Besides, you get what you want, I get what I want. Everything else - " Fwwwhoosh. A match lights off the side of his boot and as the Sin's arm moves, the flame pulls with it - the gesture, more similar to a line of gasoline, licking up the heat.

Greed briskly tugs at the filter and his teeth lace in thick clouds of white, drifting smoke. "-ah, it doesn't really matter, does it." It's not a question. The who(s) and what(s) of the operation: their depth is an afterthought. Because this is how the underworld works, how it's always worked. Names are cheap, faces are cheaper, and at the end of the day, worth? Ah, worth.

Does it come directly on reputation.

The Sin shakes his wrist and the match cools to a dark, pitch-fire dim. "Now, unless there's anything else I can do for you," he trails, questioningly. Of course, Kaito could press him more. He could shake him for details. Yet, somehow -

Both of his heels glide back onto the table. Clck, clck. "Expect a visit sometime between now and then. One of mine will give you the ticket you'll need to get into the event." Greed flattens his shoulders back, forcing his chest to expose itself. "And Kaito?" He inhales and the tip of his cigarette slowly churns red, red, red.

"It's been a pleasure."

He nods along amicably enough, silently adjusting plans to do exactly what Greed warns him away from. It's the nature of this business to doubt, protect one's interests, cull dangerous variables from the equation. Does he trust this guy to keep his word? Sure - insofar as they both want something only the other can provide. Only a fool offers trust blindly. Even a hare does not walk straight into the wolf's jaws. He will play the game, but if the man thinks he isn't going to do at least some superficial digging, well... He isn't much of a thief then, is he?

He'll wait though. He'll walk out of whatever circle of hell this underground club sits in, wait for the promised delivery and contact, and then he'll set his little birds searching: stray city pigeons no-one looks twice at, friends who won't betray your trust outside a handful of seed. Plentiful. Expendable. With any luck, they'll have something for him by the time he returns from the mayor's little gala.

He does not allow the thought that he might fail to enter his mind.

The one called Dolcetto sends him ample resources, as promised. He buries himself in his work over the next day or so. The mayoral building is one he has examined before, and these updated blueprints tell him that very little has changed for the event. As ever, the true problem is--

"Security," he breathes.

There's not much time. Two days? He'd rather two weeks, or two months even to set up a truly infallible entrance and exit. But two days is all he has and so two days will have to suffice. Greed's man may have provided the tools, but theft is an art - you can hand any amateur a brush and oils and tell them to paint, but that won't give you a masterpiece.

He assembles his plan, sets his alarm, heads to bed for a solid six hours before his planned departure. He wants to be sharp when he wakes, not lethargic.

Shit.

It's always the unpredictable variables which send a plan spinning into a nosedive.

A child - the mayor's youngest daughter - wandering where she shouldn't, slipped out of sight of her caretakers. A protestor, disrupting the patrols. A guard, running into the men's bathroom for an urgent bowel movement and encountering him mid-disguise. Elias, fastidious turd that he is, immediately ordering a search when word reaches him of a man missing.

And Kaito, spotted with the metal briefcase in hand, when it should have been on its way back to Elias' corporation under heavy guard.

So much for the false prop he had left them with.

They open fire at him as he flees. Things going wrong is nothing new to him. He stays calm while he follows memorised routes through the building, dodging startled workers with graceful ease. He can see the window he plans to vault through and puts on a burst of speed, relief flaring in his chest. Almost there--!

A bullet ricochets and strikes the arm holding the case. He yelps and stumbles, the case landing heavily. For one panicked moment he considers turning back to snatch it up, but he cannot save himself without one good arm to climb. And so he grits his teeth and dives out the window to a hail of gunfire, ducking out of sight amongst the twisted, filthy alleyways of the city.

His bleeding arm leaves a damning trail, and so his first priority is to bind it before he returns to the streets. But all the while his thoughts churn under the horror of his failure. He can't return to his apartment; Greed knows his address.

Shit, he thinks, driving a fist into the nearby wall and getting nothing but aching, bloodied knuckles for his trouble. Shit...!

News travels fast, not by print of paper, but by simple word of mouth. For him, it had been a text; a reserved line, scrubbed out and dialed to the other side of a burner phone.

all cashiers are needed up front
bird with a broken wing

Greed flips his phone closed. He uses his thumb nail to drive out the SIM card - the silent pop, shooting it loose into his hand. A simple application of pressure does the rest and while the thin, metal plate snaps in half, the Sin unwinds himself from his slouch. He snatches his keys from the nearest table with a quick-jerk twist; the assorted set, opening like a toothy, industrialized fan.

The 'strip is already a'buzz by the time he rolls up. Red and blue flashers blink like a beauty's lashes, intent on painting the town; a few guests usher themselves into their lifts. Greed switches the headlamps from on to off, making his car disappear in the dark. He knows these streets, these back-alleys and complicated turns, like the brand permanently inked across his knuckles. And the fuzz? They're predictable. If he makes this quick, he can smuggle his would-be sparrow out before anyone even notices.

Finding him is the hard part.

His rear, fat-bottom tires roll through a puddle's slick. Switching gears from drive to neutral had been a smart move. The engine's too loud - the pipes, too smoldering. Greed nudges the emergency brake to the floor with the tip of his boot, pressing it into place. The car holds, then; its quiet heat, sighing through the hood's brim. The whine from the door is quiet against the screams of sirens and confusion, so he takes a moment. Takes his time. The curve of his back nesting, coiling, against framework steel and 400 horses worth of power.

He hooks his ankles together, dipping his chin just enough to nip the tip of a cigarette, fresh from a pack. He cranks his lighter once, a second time. It's his best at crude signal - one that could go unnoticed, unseen, by all the goings-on.

Here's the last stop.

He shrinks into the shadows when he sees the headlights flash by, cutting the corners of the rubble and refuse in the alley into sharp, monochrome panels. Everything aches his knuckles, his arm, his pride. But he'll face worse if he allows himself to be caught now.

Imagine the stories they'll whisper of him. The great thief who flew too high and burned his wings.

But just as he's hunkering down behind a pile of trash, hoping, praying the car passes on...the headlights switch off, the engine sighs and goes quiet. He can barely hear it over the sirens. Kaito freezes then, heart hammering away in his chest as his worst fears take sudden hold. What had given him away? No, stay calm. They're probably just checking the vicinity. Being thorough and all that.

Agonising minutes pass. No-one disembarks. The car continues to thrum quietly - as though waiting for something. Someone.

He shouldn't peek out. If it's a waiting game they want to play, then he is damn well going to win it. Yet...

Kaito swallows, leans over cautiously to peek at the car. Wait - isn't that--?

His breath catches. He can see the dim glow of their cigarette, the firefly glow of embers as sin burns through smoke. Is it...safe? Kaito weighs his choices. Weighs the costs. Makes his decision to bolt towards the car and slip into the back seat, door shutting with a muted thud on what he hopes won't be the final chapter of his short life. He can't make himself look at the rear view mirror. He's fucked up the best opportunity of his life and everything - everything - in this world has its price.

And it's there that he waits: in the moment of soft steel clicking together, in the stutter of another rain shower ushering in with a single, sly drop against his forehead. He's not thrilled with the added company. There are cops in every direction, there are faces in the crowd itching to get a look-see. So instead of picking up the pace, he lingers; the choice seconds burning beyond his fingers in the form of a last-call cigarette.

Greed sucks at the space between his teeth and a ribbon of smoke wraps itself around his tongue. With a flick of his finger, he skips what's left of the cigarette into a nearby puddle, extinguishing it permanently. The scenario he's in is a coin toss of the greatest degree. On one hand, he should hurry. On the other, if he makes one, wrong move -

The points of his nails find the driver-side door handle and, with a shallow shrug, he dips inside; the well-worn leather, barely making a sound. Greed shuts the door with a whispered thud. No, if he guns it, there's more than just a couple of jail bars the two of them will have to deal with. The courts in this town don't take kindly to anyone that doesn't have a named building or a corporate slogan lit up in a hundred-thousand volts. And while he has his own, particular brand, his form of currency?

It's not taken Uptown.

Greed grips the rear-view mirror with his thumb and index, cocking it slightly and flipping it to a sharp shine. "Sorry, but you're going to have to lay low for a bit, friend. You've got a lot of eyes lookin' for ya and I'm really not interested in the added trouble. Nothing personal." He pauses, allowing his eyes to reflect like fool's diamonds in the mirror's silver-side surface. Something beneath his seat utters a soft clck when he adjusts it and as he twists the key to roll over the engine, the Sinner man gently eases the car in reverse.

"Still with me, kid?" Greed cranes his neck and elbow over the back of his seat. He almost makes it a point to watch the road rather than the man in question. Kaito's physically hurt, that much he's sure. His pride, on the other hand, is probably in tatters; the pieces of it more similar to window meeting the swinging-side of a steel baseball bat. However, there are worse fates. And a shoot out with the law?

That's beyond any damaged pride.

The back of the Mustang takes a smooth curve outward, forcing the nose into a wide, crescent-moon arch. Greed adjusts the mirror back down as he cuts the wheel. Thankfully, most of the crowd has moved to the epicenter and the traffic this far back is minimal. Greed drops one of his hands to the top of the steering wheel. "Once we hit the city line, you're free to move. Just hold out until then, hmn? Would be a bit of a waste if you decided to die on me back there."

Rumbling like a hungry beast, the car grunts its way out of the alley and onto the main street. Blips of blues, reds, and headlamp-yellows pop off from behind, splashing the windows as bright as shattered Christmas lights. Greed casually avoids them, even turning and shifting as another news van screams by to join the pack.

"Ten minutes until we hit the freeway," the Sin slurs. Lazily, he forces the gear-shift up, inching the speedometer: 25, 30, 45, 50 miles per hour. In the same motion, he snares the lip of his folded-over sunglasses and instinctively waves them open - their resulting swing like that of a Xingese fan, cracked for attention.

Greed bows his head to shove them over his eyes. "What, did you think I was going to kill you? It wasn't a sure-fire operation, kid. Give yourself some slack," he puckers his lip, feeling it with his teeth. "-besides, what's the point? Elias isn't exactly easy pickings and you dead isn't worth the price. Better to get out of there when you had the chance. Ah, well - " He trails off, the tips of his fingers drumming as if to finish what he had to say.

"Won't take long to get to the 'Nest from here. Sit tight."

The thief nods wordlessly, still refusing to lift his head as the car pulls into reverse and gently coasts away from the scene. He sinks down beneath the window so the flashing lights can't catch his silhouette, nursing his injured arm without any outward indication of the pain it must be in. In spite of everything, he dares to begin to hope that he may, at least, survive the night. Either that or he's being driven elsewhere to be 'taken care of' - and not in the benign sense.

A good dose of paranoia keeps one alive in this business. Greed ought to know that as well as anyone else. It's especially true of thieves, for whom self-interest is a guiding force. Even when working as a group for a score, one never trusts the rest with anything but a name (sometimes faked) and burner number.

Once they near the freeway he finally stirs. He pushes himself back upright and hesitantly meets the Sin's gaze in the mirror.

"Lotta people don't give second chances," he mutters. "They don't want the ones they've hired to blab about whose money they took. Murder can be covered up but reputation's tarnished for life."

He stares out the window and watches the lights flicker past. He's had a few setbacks in his career, for sure, but nothing so disastrous as this. He'd gotten too cocky.

"...What're you gonna do with me?" he eventually asks. It's long practice which keeps his voice steady. "You're not gonna ask me to try again, are you?"

"I'm not a 'lotta people." Smoke peels off his lip like hot, Florida sweat. Inside the belly of the car, the puffs from his nose form cloudy shapes lit up in oranges and reds bleeding from the dash. Greed's ring-wrapped knuckles play with the knob of his clutch. There's a lot he could say to that fact: that he isn't even remotely like anyone else in the city, that he runs the under-dark not with a fist, but with a beckoning, crooked-claw hand. However, the conversation seems meaningless at a time like this. Especially when his passenger's a fraction hair away from months in a cast.

The streetlights lining the highway race the hood of the 'Stang, giving it a touch of silver-sun pickup. "What?" The man's body subtly straightens, alert. Kaito's question almost makes him do a double-take. Murder has not and has never been on the table, though he supposes that rumors and reputation can easily muddy themselves overtime. He looks the part, acts the part, screams the part with every inch of his skin. And maybe, at some point, he pulled the trigger; dug the knife. He's been around long enough to see his fair share. To say his hands are clean?

Well, that's a dirty fucking lie now, isn't it?

Greed's arm wanders around the back of the passenger seat, allowing his fingers to roam curves of worn, well-loved leather. "That's pretty harsh. Who do you think I am, exactly?" His thumb spreads and the collection of rings along his hand drink in the nightlife like a window, soaking in the light. The sinnerman makes an odd noise in the back of his throat (something between a click and a sigh) before tapping his index finger on the window. "If I really wanted you dead, which I don't, I would have already done it already. Nevermind the fact that that really isn't my style."

"No - " Greed twists his cigarette atop the points of his teeth, shoving it into the left corner of his mouth. "-Martel's already got the 'doc on call. Once we're at the 'Nest, he'll give you what you need. Better to avoid the ER anywhere within thirty miles right now." As much as he talks, he speaks a lot more with his hands. They wave and sway; dip and dive. It's as if all the missing pieces of the conversation are living between those moments - the silent gestures and fly fidgets, all but eluding to things left unsaid.

Wrrrfffpphsh: the driver's window, rolling down. Greed flicks his cigarette out and a spit of sparks clatters along the fast-moving road. "Someone tipped you off. Can't say who, but I've got my ideas." Kimbley, AM, just to name a few. "The fact that you even made it out is good enough for me. We - " He pauses, corrects himself. "-you didn't stand a chance. Learned about it after the fact. Well, the rumor anyway." Greed tilts his head towards the window, causing the spikes at the top of his head to whistle in the wind. The twist in his lip is missing its usual sense of humor. Instead, it's been replaced by something a bit more bitter; their tight knot, more similar to a draw string, cutting off circulation.

No, he has his guesses. He has his ideas. And when he finds out the culprit?

Oh, does Hell have a way of making someone pay.

The hood of the car slouches as he takes the next off-ramp and the speedometer slowly trickles down to something a little less haphazard. "Martel can be a bit of a pain in the ass when it comes to this kind of stuff." Greed yanks the clutch down and the vehicle's back-end lets out a throaty grumble. "She'll make sure you're takin' care of properly." The peak of the 'Nest blinks on the horizon: its red-hot lights, welcoming them home.

Greed slows the car up to the front. He pops the brake in place, cuts the engine. The keys fold into his hand a moment later like a swallowed-up pearl and with a throw of his elbow, he finally looks Kaito in the eye - his gaze meeting over the rims of his sunglasses like shark fins, circling the water. "Ah, right. Just some friendly advice. If you're thinking about being a pissant about it, don't. She'll knock you out before you even have time to think about it. There's a reason they call her The Viper."

Shadows play through the windshield, forcing elongated forms to spill into the cabin. Greed's mouth quirks. "Speak of the devil - "

"Someone tipped me off...?" he echoes. That would explain why they had come looking for the real briefcase so quickly. He had thought he would have more time even with the unexpected interruptions. It goes a small way to salvaging his stung pride, but in the end, he'd still failed to uphold his end of the deal. He lets his head loll against the window with a tired sigh. What a night this has been.

By the time they pull up, his head's starting to drift. Fading adrenaline, shock setting in, and loss of blood send his thoughts spiralling towards a black hole from whose edge he's barely stopping himself from falling into. He couldn't sass the medic even if he wanted to.

"Don' worry," he says faintly. "Met a witch doctor once...who nearly cursed me when I...tried to flip her skirt..."

He passes out before he can finish the thought.

A day or two goes by and nothing comes of the event. Least, nothing he couldn't handle personally; in the form of a few broken fingers, one fractured jaw, and someone who paid him dearly with three molars and a gold tooth. Questions, though - leads. They died as soon as the sun showed its ugly head the next day. Whoever tipped off the operation had disappeared, skipping town as cleanly and neatly as hotel's strip-room service. It's a loss, sure enough, but at the end of it? He's made his cut, called it even.

There's just, one more thing -

The door to the room swings open haphazardly, its groan a whining, haunted-house sigh. Greed tosses his keys onto the nearest pile and they hit something soft in the darkness, collapsing it in a airy, marshmallow-puffed sigh. "Y'know, you've been out for a while, friend. Almost has me thinkin' you like it here." Cheeky. The Sin's smile sharpens bright on his face, making his teeth stick out between the cracks of his lip like white-marble daggers. "Not that I'd deny you. But you never really seemed the sort - "

One of his shoulders arches, causing half of his vest to slip off his back. "It'll be a few months before you're back to normal, but the 'doc gave you the clear. Just don't do anything stupid in the meantime." Rather than look at him, the Sin purposely avoids eye contact. He distracts himself with the environment of the room instead; grabbing a pack of cigarettes off the dresser, snatching a coin from a dish, pushing away various cans and bottles with the side of his boot. Because, maybe, he does have a little guilt. After all, he had hired Kaito for the job: he should have been more thorough. More aware. More -

Greed leans towards the window, pries it open, and lights his cigarette as he halfway clambers out; his one leg firmly planting on the fire escape below. He takes a drag silently at first - the fresh hit of smoke, burning into his cheek like a long-lost lover's kiss, filling him up. "I'll give you a ride wherever you need to go. Just let me know when you're ready."

Kaito crawls unwillingly out of the oblivion he's spent the past days cradled in. The room is unfamiliar, but this is not an unusual thing for him to wake up to. What is unusual is having company whilst he's here.

He's vaguely aware of people passing in and out to check up on him. He wakes up, eats a few bites, falls back unconscious again with the room spinning, and when he opens his eyes once more there's just this dark room and tight bandages swathing his injured arm. The people Greed keeps seem to mean well, funnily enough, which is the only reason why he hasn't tried to skip out of the window at the first chance he gets (well, apart from the fact he wouldn't get too far in his condition). There's no such thing as charity in his world though, and he's acutely aware of the unspoken debt which mounts with each passing hour.

Greed's less harsh than some of the employers he's had the misfortune of working with, but Kaito's got his own code of honour to consider. One doesn't just take without giving back somehow. So when the man himself finally visits his sickbed and makes his offer, the thief opens his mouth with every intention of taking that ride out. It's not that he's ungrateful - far from it - but that's exactly the problem.

Greed's not making eye contact with him. It reads like nonchalance, but there's something else beneath it. It's that something which gives him pause.

"Aw, wanna get rid of me so soon?" he quips instead. A bit of humour to test the waters.

Edited 2020-08-06 03:57 (UTC)

A spider-line crack wrinkles at the corner of his mouth, turning up his lip and showing the barest hint of his teeth to the winking, cloud-shroud moon. Humor is easier for him to manage. The constant in(s) and out(s) of the days prior were nothing, if not daunting. Awkward, even. Kaito's shit-talker attitude is a breath of fresh air.

"Not that I'd deny you kid, but sleeping on the couch for the last couple of days has kind of put a damper on things," he hums and his arm sways out, causing his wrist to rotate wildly. One of his fingers snaps a second later - the connection of skin on skin clapping, as if to make some sort of point. As much as he does take, the Sin gives back as good as he gets. Yet, even while his lazy-lack eyes slide in the other's direction, a kind of shrill hesitation steadies in his gaze; the quick-trill glance, all but tallying up the damages like a cash register, ringing the till.

One broken arm, two possibly fractured ribs, a couple of sprained fingers, and an ankle that's seen better days.

"Will it be cash or credit, sir?"

Greed turns his eyes back onto the city; the dim slurry of another wee-hour morning waxing over his eyes like raw, painted glass. "When did you become such a pissant, anyway?" The man's shoulders shrink into his neck and without the company of his vest, he's left with nothing but the tight fit of his neck scratching shirt - one missing the sleeves, rough around the edges, and cut just enough that some of his tattoos peek out like stark, neon lines racing his skin.

The Sin grabs another cigarette from his pants pocket, pauses. "Whoever really ratted you out skipped town. Sorry we couldn't find more," he traces his teeth with the tip of his tongue while he talks; like a man mulling over a world-shattering secret. "As for our deal, consider your part paid in full. No need to make more a mess of this than it already is. Better to forget it for the time being. Now - "

Greed's signature smile lightly festers on his face, forcing itself through the cracks. "-do you want that ride, or not?"

Is this his bed? Kaito wonders with some surprise. He hadn't paid it much mind during his convalescence but now his eyes flick over the room with renewed interest. He'd love to poke around a bit (not steal; he'd never take advantage of Greed's kindness like that) but the man is right: he can't stay here forever. The cigarette smoke travels mostly outward but its acrid smell still hangs in the room. Nicotine sticks to the walls over the years no matter how hard one tries to scrub it clean. Kaito doesn't complain; he's used to it.

He carefully manoeuvres to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the edge. "Being a 'pissant' runs in the family I'm told," he quips back. "Ready to go whenever you are."

"Does it now," Greed's tongue wonders his mouth, stifling his voice to a scalding, fireside croon. Family traits are nothing new to him. Sure, he may not be considered part of the good ol'tree anymore and he isn't complaining, but there are habits engrained into him. Pieces he can't quite ignore.

Business is business, after all. And business?

It runs in the family.

A subtle click of his teeth and the Sin snaps up straight, his legs carrying him in a waltz better suited to a festive ghoul prancing around a cemetary. "Right. I'm sure you've got people that are worried about you. Let's get going."

He crosses the room just as quick, yanking keys, an extra pack of smokes, and a wallet that had definitely seen better days. Old notes and cards poke out of every small fray; like a book covered in notes and reminders.

"I should probably know where we're going first, shouldn't I?"

Oh, that's right. He chews his lip, mind flipping through every safe house and bolt hole within a few miles of here.

...Where IS 'here' anyway? He supposes that would be rude to ask, but the worst that Greed can do is blow him off, right?

"Um, where are we right now? I don't want to make you drive halfway across the city if I can help it," he says sheepishly.

His heel's in the lip of the door when he pauses; a man caught between one threshold and the next. Greed reaches up to the wooden frame and taps his finger against it.

"You don't know? Christ kid, I thought you would have figured it out by now." His shoulders slouch and with a swirl of his wrist, he pries his fingers loose and spins them. "We're not even near the city. Can't have trouble too close. It'll take you hours to get back."

He shoves his hands into his back pockets. "As for the exact place, sorry but that's a secret. You gave yourself away there, friend. So, you're going to have to forgive me for the next part. Nothing personal." Greed leans to the right and two of his men (though men isn't the right word for it) come through the door. One, a woman, has shaved her hair short and a thick, black cloth tenses between her swollen-raw knuckles.

"Blind him, but make sure not too tie it too tight, huh?"

His bottom lip slides out into a little pout. But he sighs. It's his own fault for falling unconscious in a stranger's car. He remembers driving out of the city but not much else beyond that.

He doesn't protest against the blindfold, although he does find immense amusement in the fact that Greed thinks a mere blindfold is going to be enough to stop him from working out backwards where the hideout is. Or perhaps Greed already knows and is simply making a point. Whatever the case may be, Kaito intends to remain alert this time.

"Just drop me off at the edge of the city then. I can find my own way from there."

As Kaito is led out to a pace of heavy footsteps and creaking floors, Greed takes the lead. His steps echo off every hole and corner like a dying, sputtering firecracker holding onto its final pop. It's sluggish, weighted; his guilt and sense of ease fighting each other for a pure sense of dominance.

He sighs when the door opens and the outside world spills in. The warmth is an obvious indicator that morning or noon of a new day has already settled. "Ehh. Don't take it so hard, huh? I really don't mean anything by it. But things as are they - well, you know better than most. There's plenty of people who'd want to take what's mine."

Greed waves his wrist and the sound of his bracelets clatter as softly as a rattlesnake lazily buzzing its tail. "I got it from here. Head back in before someone sees you."

Gravel crunches as his entourage disappears back from where they came and Greed gingerly pinches his fingers around Kaito's wrist. "This way, watch the door." When he grabs the handle, the rings on his finger chime off with a soft chnk of metal on metal. "I'll bring you to the closest stop. After that, it'll be up to you."

The door snaps shut behind Kaito, cold and definite. It isn't his first choice, doing it like this. But the hand they've been dealt is tipping; the scales aren't balanced. If someone knew, then more unsavory company knows, and Lord, Lord -

Greed climbs into the driver's seat and the leather wheezes under him, groaning and grinding until he starts up the engine. He throws the car in reverse with wild abandon, forcing the tires to kick up dust and broken asphalt like a man's dying cough. A punch of his wrist sends the car forward and out onto the wide, semi-open road.

"Really, this isn't supposed to be a punishment, kid. Think of it as," he hums over the radio, his free hand turning listlessly over and over. "-an insurance policy. For me and you. I can deal with the usuals. People always want something. But - " He chews on his words, slouches, and while his knees spread, the man named Sin scoffs at himself. "-forget it."

The car slows and Greed flicks on a directional. Tck. Tck. Tck.

"Watch yourself, that's all I'm saying. I'm not good, but I'm not so bad either. Others are just bad, kid. Bad enough that they'll make an example out of you just to send me a message. You understand?"

He manages well enough until it comes time to climb into the car. Deprived of sight, all other sounds and smells come into sharp relief: the sigh of the wind, the crunch of gravel, the bitter cold abruptly cut off by the snap of the car door, wrapping him with the stench of old nicotine.

"Don't worry about me. I didn't live this long by being careless." He tries to sound cheery. That bungled theft isn't the first near-death experience he's had. It likely won't be the last. No point in dwelling on past failures - you either learn from them or you quit.

And even then, quitting is not so simple for people like him.

"Close enough is good enough. Hey, maybe I'll visit when things die down!" he jokes. "I don't like failing a job. I've got my own reputation, you know?"

Thankfully, the steady flow of traffic and the need to pay attention saves him from a reply. It gives him a moment; a second to think of all the possibilities that could be waiting ahead. Would they even come? If so, who would show up? When? And how much damage would they leave behind to send their regards?

The car's engine rumbles with a ping of exhaust and as the nose turns sharply left, Greed silently stews. He nips furiously on the side of his cheek with enough pressure to split the skin and draw blood into his mouth, angry and bitter. And it's as bitter as he feels. His existence in the moment a tense and brittle quiet.

When he finally does speak up though, he hides it all. Buries the feeling and lets it writhe and quietly scream deep in his chest. "Ha! If you say so. Got a lot of pride, don't you?" The ashtray in the center console opens with a plastic pop.

Greed rolls down the window and as he knuckles the built-in cigarette plug, he lifts the hot coils to his face. In the corner of his vision, he can see the heat pouring off in lines; they make the horizon blur, landmarks quiver, and ah, isn't there something poetic in it all.

But he isn't a man for poems. He isn't a man for philosophy. No, he's someone made for the ugly side of life. Where morals spin down the drain only to collect in the raw sewage of reality.

A sharp inhale sucks fresh smoke into his throat and it burns just right. Greed turns the wheel. The parking lot he's chosen is a perfect intersection for what he needs. There will be witnesses, and it's close to public services (transportation, hospitals, law enforcement, good Samaritans). He jerks the car into park and taps a clump of ash from the tip of his smoke.

"But I don't think you'll be coming by for a visit," he hisses through the butt of his cigarette. "-least, not unless you forgive me." He's purposely vague. He has to be. This is the part he hates, and the way he exits the car speaks to that. The driver-side door rockets open, causing the springs and bolts to creak their displeasure. A second later, Greed's heels slap down on hard pavement. A horrible kind of resolve takes hold of him with every move. He's walking too fast. Too quick.

When the passenger door rips open, the man named Sin tries to snag Kaito violently by the collar. Better to catch him off guard, make him tumble over himself. Anything to make it look real.

Because while he has to make a show of it, he'd rather not cause more harm than necessary.

He yelps - perhaps exactly as Greed plans, or perhaps his underling really does yank Kaito a bit too hard. Either way, it adds to the theatre.

If he weren't already injured, he would catch himself before the fall. As it is, his cheek scraps the bitumen, clawing fresh lines of red over youthful skin. His arm jolts with a new wave of pain and it's echoed in his ribs and ankle as he sprawls across the unforgiving ground. It hurts. Fucking hell, it hurts.

Breathing hard and blinking past tears of pain, he rolls himself upright as his brain tries to parse what's going on. He has a rough idea of where they are, but why?

Public location. Sudden, rough treatment. Was the earlier kindness a bluff?

...No. No, he doesn't think so. Surely not. But...

Kaito tries to breathe carefully past all his hurts, gasping, "Greed, what--?"

With the midday sun blaring at his back, Greed's face contorts. He's fighting himself on so many different levels: anger, distaste, his internal conflict between his nature and what he has to do now. He's never been a man easily ruled by someone else. But in this instance, his choices are limited; his freedom's gone. Every precaution, every inch he's ever gotten, circling back to bite him in the throat.

"You'll never get out if they're in charge of your departure, Greed."

Another stray stone of asphalt scurries out from underneath the tip of his boot and skips across pavement like a flat rock on a summer's still lake. "What? Did you think I'd just let you get off that easily?" He steps closer, leering and baring a strained, manic smile. "Ha - ! You do remember who I am right?" His heel slams down. "I'm Greed, not a fucking charity case. And because you cost me, it only feels right that I return the favor. Equivalent exchange," his mouth spits venom and his tongue lashes his teeth. Lying has never been his strong suit, but that doesn't mean he can't adapt. And this? It's like any other show: give the patrons what they want, make it memorable, make it real, and never, ever let them forget.

A weight settles into his chest that he can't describe. It writhes in him, screams through every inhale of smoke he takes and strangles deep in his lungs.

"They'll never let you go - "

Greed grunts and reaches into the backside of his slacks. "You shouldn't have trusted me to begin with. That was your first mistake." He quickly switches one cigarette out for another, the motion a frantic gesture of fingers and desperation. The tip of the fresh smoke meets the new one and the Sin sucks in, clawing old tar deep into his chest and leaving an oily film of ash to linger in his cheek.

Greed flicks the spent butt to the pavement; his heel all but grinding it to dust. "Tch," he snarls around his smoke and nearly bites through the filter in the process. All of this, all of this - it always comes back, doesn't it? Ghosts of himself, of his own, haunting every step he takes. And while he can handle it, Kaito doesn't know the signs. How they move, where they go, the ways in which they work. It isn't fair to put the kid up to that kind of torment.

Better to cut the cord while they still have the chance.

Greed crouches down a foot away, his knees spread out and his hands sunk low. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth. The way it hangs between his knuckles feels heavy. The smoke twines in his fingers, the ash slowly sloshes off into thick, wadded clumps. There's a weight on his shoulders that's clear now, it almost hurts. As if his whole world could shatter in an instant. As if, no matter how far he ran, no matter his choices, it would all lead to the same conclusion.

He takes another drag and his fingers wrap around his face. "I need you to get as far away from here as you can. Anyone you care about, anyone you love," Greed watches the clouds pass them by. They move over his face and his sunglasses like a passing tide. To anyone else, the day is just that: another day. Another 9-to-5 for a paycheck, another call home, another jog to add to the routine. He'll never have those moments, not really. And he doesn't regret it.

Still, here, at the brink of it all -

Greed bows his head - the last cloud of smoke slowly escaping his mouth a tell of sorts. As if it's trying to desperately say what he can't.

"Pack it up and go. Just get as far away from here as you can, kid."

Edited (JUST .. didn't sound right the first time APOLOGIES ALL 'ROUND) 2022-08-30 01:32 (UTC)

A whiff of ash and nicotine makes its way down even here. Kaito struggles to sit upright but doesn't try to stand. He's winded, probably got another bruised rib - definitely the look of someone beaten down for a job not done.

He still doesn't quite understand. Greed's words ring in his ears and it seems like his surroundings do too but it all conflicts with the care he'd been given. The man has to be lying. Right? Kaito's always put more stock in verbs than nouns. Words are flimsy - words get broken all the time in his world but you can't take back a hand that's been dealt on the table.

One thing does get through to him though: get out.

Making use of his one good hand, he pushes himself backwards, scrabbling, scuffing shoes, cloth, and more skin as he puts distance between himself and the smoking demon.

"Th-thank you," he manages to stammer out. For what? Anyone watching might wonder. Kaito does too. For the mercy, probably.

Whatever the case, he manages to get to his feet and starts to run (stagger, more like). He can only hope that he doesn't get a bullet in the back for it.

Whispers, the hum of fluorescent bulbs trying under the strain of an already hard-pushed generator. The smell inside is a mix of high-pitched formaldehyde and rubbing alcohol; a drastic contrast to the green(y) steel and the distinct taste of gunpowder brushing against his skin. Greed's eyes loosely flutter, stunned. For how much he (he? he) is aware, most of the what is a blur. His circuits feel fried, tender - the buzzing in his skull, more a white-static slur begging him to come home.

Come home. Come home? Come home to -

"I hope you know what you're doing," a man's hush taps against the door. The handle to it twists in a metallic screech. It's reinforced as solid as a bomb shelter - a safe by any other means, sure enough.

But safe for who, exactly?

The Sin's gaze drops again and the haze at the corner of his vision statics red. White. He can see the letters, the numbers, trying to wash over the glare. He had an objective. He had something to do, something he wanted.

Another voice chimes in. A radio's scramble: "I didn't spend all this time waiting for nothing. Wake him up."

Two shapes swim in the dark. The first one is timid, nervous; the lab coat thrown over his shoulders practically drowning him. Immediately, a recognized registration blips in the Sin's vision and a series of flickers strike through his sockets: a name, an address, former occupation, status. Doctor Tim Marcoh. 1515 Bridgette Avenue. Lead Director of Laboratory Five, 1982 - 1994. Dismissed. Greed's lip pulls thin against his face. One down, one to go. The file in his right eye minimizes in a blink, reopening to scan the other. The cursor blips, shivers, blips.

Until -

Rrrzzzzt. The Sin's eyes squeeze shut; the sudden surge, forcing the sharps of his teeth snapping together. A Jammer? A Jammer. One of his hands tries to move. The nails on the tips of his fingers begin to coil, unravel. However, something stops the process - the sensation, as if a barrier is pushing them back, stiffening them, to hold his claws at bay. The Cleaner's lower jaw loosens and his tongue prods uselessly at inside of his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Number 003. We couldn't risk it," Marcoh nervously sucks in his lower lip. Whoever he's brought with him steals his attention, second by second. The Doctor watches his shoulder, his two o'clock, then back again. "Are you really so sure about this?"

"Do it," the man in the mask hisses, the plate over his face breathing in neon-yellows. The precautions he's taken are enough to be suspicious, delirium or no. A hood, to hide his features; layers of interconnecting helmet guards to shield his name. Market Type, too: not something one could easily get without some well-versed connections.

Because he knows it, knows them. He has to, given what he is.

What he is -

The Sin makes a sound in his throat that vibrates all the way down to his chest. "Doctor Marcoh. Now, isn't this a surprise," Greed's tone is missing the usual programming. It's oddly tinny. Vacant. A computerized slur, sticking to protocol. "Who's your friend?"

Marcoh lowers his head, shaking it. Instead of answering the question, he merely slinks over to where the Cleaner's been pinned along the back wall. Hovering, spread out and connected to a thousand cables, the creature looks like some sort of crude impersonation of a savior. A savior, crucified and tied in bundles of throbbing, wiry snakes. The Doctor tests one of the Prongs and the Sin's eyes shrink to pricks.

The anonymous benefactor is on the good doctor like a gunshot - his armored hand, digging into the man's shoulder. "What are you doing-!?" There's a sting to his words that almost comes through. As if this is personal, as if this whole moment is hanging on the inhale of a second, and Marcoh's hands just aren't steady enough to keep it from detonating.

The Cleaner's eyes roll back, tremble, and his chin drops weighted to his chest. "I told you, this is much more complicated!" Marcoh's shouts are muddled. Frantic. "This is a Cleaner we're talking about. I only worked with the idea of one, not the actual thing!"

"It was close enough," the mystery man again, chewing his words through enough layers that finding his true voice is impossible. "-you said you could sever the connection. I don't have a lot of time."

"Then you're going to have to find some. This kind of process - one move, and it's the Seventh Hour. Whatever you're hoping to get goes with it. Absolute purification."

"Him." The man snaps back and the flow of his torn-up scarf cracks against the air like a bat-wing, snapping on take off. The conversation dips into silent tension. One minute, two.

Three.

When the Sin stirs again, Doctor Marcoh is long gone. He can feel the cables now, driving into his spine - the Prongs, digging deep into his core, making it surrender. It doesn't want to, he doesn't want to. And yet.

And yet.

"You're awake." To the point. Greed watches the system glitch over his surroundings. Numbers, code, names, faces, pictures. Replays. They're growing darker. Dimmer.

The Sin briskly shakes his head. "Pretty bold, aren't you?"

The anonymous man touches something on the side of his helmet twice and a beep echoes: brrrp, brrp. He doesn't answer the question. "Number 003. The Lotus Eater." He pauses, letting his double-armored fingers slide against his ear piece. Hesitation - it's there, somewhere. As if something heavy is weighing on his shoulders and the ball, ah the ball.

It's just about to drop.

"Greed the Avaricious. You used to live up to that name," the man slowly pries himself off the wall and his boot skips over a bolt. "-want. Need. You told me that anything's possible. That there's no such thing as no such thing. Now - " Closer. The Sin feels his chin lift off his chest - the cool slick of a reinforced touch, sliding carbon to his skin where his can't.

"-it's Time for you to remember."

Pink as deep and bright as gum-drop gelatin floods the asphalt. It extends from all around; the black-mirror windows vomiting their guts, the sky-scratching advertisements flipping pixel after pixel until the whole world's numb to them. Down in the 'York, it's common ground - the night's favorite(d) paint brush, drawing every blank-slate citizen to the vice they crave the most.

And he? Ah, he. He's been in the business a long, long time.

Greed exposes his forearm to a humming tape-strip as it ignites from the front end, back. It strums on bright. Relaxed. The look of it like blood, following countless tubes to a source. He taps the thin plate of synth cauterized to his wrist and a single wheeze of steam slips through his claws. Bolts turn, twist, pop open, and sigh. The Sin shallowly inhales on his cigarette and while the smoke weaves a story's tapestry between his teeth, he eases a D-Cell sized vial out from his pocket. Much like the very limelight pouring in, the liquid behind the glass is a putrid red. A dead-rose shade twinkling, winking, with lives long-Expired.

He tests his knuckles, curls his claws, and with a lengthy hiss of vented-heat, the 'Pak snaps into its compartment. The timing, all-too-easily masking the jingle of a slowly-opening door.

Snccchnt.

The bar's silver-tongued smell teases inside with sunken-neon as its herald. Greed slides the case back over the crease in his arm and the skin above it squares itself together in a mapping pattern. "Boss," Dolcetto's voice vibrates above the noise. "-crowd's startin' to get heavy. Martel's runnin' check and Roa's got the door." Hinting at his voice is an edge of nervousness - a low-rank(ed) whine, caught in its throat. Greed's smile breaks thin. He rips himself off the gun-steel crate below him, making his body sway like palm tree that's taken one-too-many Miami hits. He edges his thumb between the swings of his sunglasses just so and as the pair spread for him as quickly as a set of fuck-ready legs, the Sin's eyes briefly fume. They throb, expand, engulf. Satan's hot-tipped poker, ready to set the night ablaze.

Lazily, the fur-thin collar of his jacket wraps his neck. "Oi, oi, oi. Don't be so nervous, Dol. You're starting to make me think you're still afraid of me or something. Didn't we go through this already?" Greed talks around his cigarette while he goes to work. He adjusts his rings, centers his chains. "You're one of mine, remember?"

"Doesn't mean I should interrupt," Dolcetto jumps in too quickly and practically shrinks inside the doorway. "Not - ah, shit."

"Oh-? You're doing it again, friend," Greed's thumb snaps and beneath the blue-violet hurricane of lights, the gold wrapped around his fingers shine like diamonds. He gives the leopard-print pattern on the front of his jacket a light stroke. "-anything interesting yet?"

Quickly, Dolcetto (re)centers himself, letting his pipe cliff off his lip. The LED lights on the side of it breathe yellow. "The usual, for now. Couple of Half(ers) had a tiff in the alley, but Ulch' took care of 'em proper." The man sucks and the fan inside the smoking bowl generates a cloud.

"Still too early to tell. Ha - ! Either way, it's Friday night. I'm sure it's bound to be interesting." With the last pieces in place, the Sin walks toe over toe - forcing his body to crack right 'round at the ankles. "Keep the floor busy. Have Bido and the 'Doc run flow to the main bulk." Greed slinks forward. The titanium spikes set on his shoulders flair out of his leather jacket like an artificial cobra, spreading its hood. "As for me, I'll make sure they get what they came here for." He extends his hand and the curtain of purple beads on the other side of the door frame part over his wrist.

➥ OOC NOTES|

➥ The Cardinals: Artificially made humans. Specifically classified and basically deemed fictional by any government source. They are said to have been created at the start of The Great Plunge. Exactly how they were made is up for debate, their existence more so. Rumor has it they run off an illegal Cell Pak called "ALCH-7". Other street names include: RedRUM, The Devil's Eye Socket, The People's Republic, and The Philosopher's Stone.

➥ Archs: Post-Plunge Cardinals. These are of public record, though few exist out of military compounds and most were decommissioned after The Cambridge Accord. Stories say some were made from young children orphaned after or duringthe 'Plunge. They don't have the same lasting properties as The Cardinals themselves, but they share some unique abilities including semi-regeneration, advanced combat, longevity, and unique abilities per Arch.

➥ Uranium children. Plutonium Pups. 'Nuke Fucks: Whatever the name (derogatory or otherwise), these people have different abilities following the 'Plunge. While these abilities are by no means a product of any nuclear fallout, popular media has created a slur campaign over the years to give these citizens a dirty/diseased prejudice. They aren't. Like the Arch(s), these people have a variety of abilities due to exposure after the 'Plurge, be it before they were born or otherwise. They don't have the same regenerative properties, but what they lack in immorality, they make up in variety. Some are also science experiments gone south that have either escaped, been released, or have slipped through The Expiration line.

➥ Grifts: Androids, robots, what have you. Some are formally living people put inside a machine. Others aren't. There isn't too much stigma about Grifts as other pieces of society, but there's a smaller, rumored group that have a complete consciousness, giving them more independent thought.

➥ Half Grifts: Cyborgs, AUTO-mail. These are people that have had some of their body parts replaced by mechanical/robotic means. Soldiers, ex-Military, citizens. Uranium Children can be Half-Grifts. Arch(s), Cardinals, and Grifts cannot.

➥ Shooters: Humans who dose themselves on a regular basis, giving them abilities, modifications, or transformations. These abilities are milder. Shooters are hooked onto whatever choice supplement they use. Depending on how strong or powerful the ability, the addiction's severity increases or decreases. Shooters can be Half-Grifts, Uranium Children, or just normal humans. Arch(s), Grifts, and Cardinals cannot be shooters. They can inject themselves, but nothing will happen.

➥ York: York is a huge city locked on the edge of No-Man's-Land desert. Leaving the city isn't a wise idea, but if you're looking for the truth, there's a few willing to make the journey. The desert outside the city is a wasteland of sand, buried military vehicles, and scrap from the 'Plunge.

➥ The Devil's Nest: Located in the District of Dublith-2, The Devil's Nest is an infamous bar shoved onto the first and second floor of a high rise building. It is known for criminal activity, housing unwanted(s), and overall, being a place where rumors and seedy characters mingle alike. Though who runs it, well.

No one entirely knows.

Edited 2019-07-22 00:38 (UTC)

Toss up an image, a tune, an idea, a quote, whatever. Or just go over this fucking way for a prompt and fling it my way. All's green!

Some fusion of DMC/Brotherhood and she didn't kill him on sight (might have tried too but w/e), she's done some work for him mostly in couriering items that would draw too much demonic attention and needs protection since he'd be able to handle his own demonic issues. So they've built up some good working relationship base and there's some trust cause she does the job and he pays on time. Enough that she'll pop in for a drink and a game of pool or two to relax and maybe be able to meet some of her less upstanding clients in a backroom or something.

Or we could go tried and true offshoot of Rys. I just miss their general magneticism so whatever sounds more interesting easier for you I'm down.

It's mutually beneficial, isn't it? This - whatever this is. Of course, it hadn't started that way - least, not the mutual part. She'd come to him down the barrel of a nine-shooter first, trigger already cocked, loaded, and pulled before he even had a chance at a proper introduction. He can still remember the finer details: the smooth-silver sides, the pitch black hole staring at him with empty disregard. It was only after, when the splinters of his skull had puzzled themselves back together, did she pause, question.

It was one of the more interesting cigarette breaks he had had in a long, long time.

Greed clips his sunglasses by edge of the frame. The metal between his fingers is cold to the touch, colored hot by the drool of medical-pink neon blinking from above. Honestly, the politics of the current climate aren't his issue, not entirely. They come into play here and there (be it an interest of his, an intrigue, a switch-up of the known players). She, though - she's involved. A renegade woman laced to the gills in pipe bombs, grenades, and enough ammunition to make even the most chest-pounding monsters question their routes.

Which brings them, this, whatever it is, meeting at the hairline of a crossroad.

"You're late," the Sin presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, his eyes drifting to a clock on the wall that doesn't exist. Amusement, deceit - they play on his crooked mouth, expressing his intentions. She isn't late, not really. Appointments aren't kept here. Instead, they're vague. Vague days, vague hours, vague circumstances in which they'll inevitably meet again. Greed folds his sunglasses on top of the bar and exchanges them for a half-spent cigarette smeared in an ashtray. Ambiguous is a good enough definition for what they share.

It's satisfying.

The fluttery-breath of a lighter brings his attention back and the Sin's eyes shrink to pricks. He sucks purposely at the filter, dragging not a whisper of smoke, but a cough, down, down, down. The day's weather's taken a turn and against the windows of the bar, pellets of rain stick to the glass like moths congregating around a single, blaring lamppost. "If she was in a mood before," he thinks and his smile only quickens across his face.

If she was in a mood before, the added rain could have one or two outcomes.

He almost hopes it's the latter.

The homunculus pockets his hands, letting his elbows puff out as sure as a fine-feathered vulture knowing the answer to a traveler's riddle, but foregoing any hints. Lady brings a little bit of the other side whenever she comes strolling in. Not good, no, but so unlike his usual company. She walks a fine line between righteous and practical, which is hard to come by these days.

One of the reasons he admires her, maybe.

Greed's heels hit the floorboards sharp and drumming. With the sign out front off and the bar empty, every nck and tck of his boots echo like a marching band coming in at a distance. He shoves his right elbow out while he walks on by, nudging the power button to a stereo that, in three hours or so, will be drowned out by an increasingly-drunken slur. For now, the music fills the building; the sound, like booze to an empty glass slowly drinking it in, in, in, until the brim teeters close enough for a spill:

"Don't get too comfortable with the man who has no history
Shadows climbing walls hide cracks we don't want other eyes to see-"

Melodically, Greed snatches up his sunglasses, swinging them over his fingers and keying the frames with the tips of his fine pointed nails. One of the ear pieces snaps open, catching gaudy light and shadow like a wash of fresh paint turned up by the wheel of a car. He pats a pedal with the point of his boot. The sign out front struggles, pops, buzzes.

She'll show up. Today, tomorrow, a week from now. And him, well.

Greed's grin ignites to no one but himself.

Sin will always be waiting.

The ever friendly neighborhood lunatic that comes to harass a certain Nest. :T I missed playing with you!

The bike's front treads pick up desert sand and toss it back in a spiral of crisp, white sparks. Under the heavy gaze of the moon, the land itself takes on a ghostly appearance. The silt bleaches white; the mountains, a deep, unsettling navy. Greed's claws play the throttle of his motorcycle, cranking the gears to their limit. This is his favorite time to ride: where night settles in crisp, echoing, and the only sounds he can hear are the rip-roar of the engine and the radio, thrown, tossed, to the highest possible volume.

Orange brightens on the console and the Sin yanks out its cigarette lighter. The red at the very end burns through the night like a lick of oil-lamp; the very color, a hot reminder of what he truly is.

"Oh yeah I'm a reaper man
Every good thing, I kill it good
Oh yeah I'm a hooligan
Out in the street making a mess - "

Idly, his heel bounces on a chrome lift. The former homunculus leans forward. The end of his cigarette meets hot-poker coils in a funnel of smoke - the initial cloud, more like a bomb's impact, breathing out poison, destruction, to the tune of a rising anvil. One, quick shake of his wrist cools it down and with a press of his thumb, he shoves the built-in lighter back into its nesting spot.

He wasn't always a devil, least not like this. Not with visible horns, visible wings, visible hellfire leaking out and announcing his every arrival. No, before it had been in name alone. Something a little more discrete. Now, it's more plain to see; a visible read. One of man's seven deadlies taking up the mantel.

Not that he's complaining.

Greed lifts his chin, sucking deep at the cigarette pinched between the knives he calls teeth. The bulge in his throat ignites with him - his black scales, cooking to a charred, cherry-popping red. Devil, demon. Sin, homunculus. It doesn't much matter to him, really. Not that much has changed. He's still just as rotten to the core; still just as corrupt and wanting as he's ever been.

Avarice, after all - it doesn't have much in terms of bounds, does it?

The former homunculus yanks upward and the front of his bike wrenches from the ground. Up and off, goes the wheel - the vehicle's back end, now, balancing precariously on a single point. Greed lets off a smokey bark and his proceeding howl gets buried under the motor's screaming exhaust. A couple of lights flicker on at the town's front gate. One, two, three. Four, five, six.

Greed shoves the front of his 'cycle back onto the coming paving, causing the rubbery tire to cough against the dust.

The pattern repeats itself three times. A sign, a code:

"Welcome home."

Ufufufufu...

His laughter wafts through the air -- high-pitched and tinged with melodious madness. It is like the screaming howl of some rabid beast before it comes charging into view.

The sound of the motorcycle drowns out his slow, lumbering steps. His feet drag across the ground; the tops of his hooves brown from how it lets them slide and push up dirt as he carries himself forward. A curtain of white covers his face -- his hair flopping forward to hide whatever expression that the madman might have. He doesn't move to push it out of his face. His hair only moves slightly each time he laughs, a curtain being disrupted by a harsh breeze blowing through an open window.

The flesh across his arms and hands are thin; the shape of his bones are visible. Antler horns protrude out of his head. People would tell him that he was not human and he believes he looks every bit like the monster that they've said he was. But he isn't a monster -- no, no, no, no. He is a friend! Drool slips out of the corner of his mouth, slipping down his chin and onto the ground.

Mitsuhide pauses before he draws himself up to his full height. Yet somehow, somehow, somehow, it doesn't seem like he is attempting to be intimidating. The air around him may feel heavy; it may feel suffocating, but there is no malice or hatred or violence within that space.

His hand lifts to carefully part his hair to expose his face. His smile splits across his mouth, bright and red, just like a blade was dug into the wendigo's face and dragged sideways to open a large gaping wound. "I'm home." In all honesty, he's forgotten his animosity towards the devil; he forgot why he felt such anger towards the man. Was it the man's greed that upset him?

Yes, it may have been that. Everything in the world belonged to Nobunaga. A person that attempted to reach their hands out to grab and possess everything was the enemy of his lord.

His eyes close as his smile softens. He looks almost peaceful; he looks almost at rest. "You look well. Has your greed been satisfied since I have been gone, I wonder?" He feels his shoulders shake as he laughs; his laughter carries as he did before. It adds a heaviness to the air that surrounds him.

It's a hard sight to miss. Against a clear sky and crisp moon, Mitsuhide's body wafts along the harsh-stone desert like a ghost forced to continue its relentless and unending march. The visit isn't so much surprising as it is past-due and while the distance begins to shrink, Greed's expression sinks. His look, more similar to the beginnings of a thunderstorm darkening a bright, summer-set afternoon.

The former homunculus throws out the cycle's kickstand by the clip of his heel, shoving it deep into the earth. A second later, he cuts the engine. He isn't thrilled for the company. But then again, Mitsuhide has never been a man to take no for an answer.

He can mildly respect that.

"I think you already know the answer to that question, friend," the Sin purrs and an insinuation of sickly-sweet tobacco runs wires over his tongue. "-why bother asking? What, you wanna cut right to the chase? After all this time - " He swallows the rest of the sentence, forcing it to burrow fire down his throat. The scales along his neck bristle in response and their layered charcoal shakes, mimicking a cactus's shivering thorns.

Last time, and every time before, the two of them had been at odds. Be it words, violent exchanges, or both. Greed splays one of his legs outward and his foot pivots across sand and stone, creating a crescent in the dirt. "So, what'll it be this time? Or have you finally come to your senses?" The Sin's upper lip wrinkles and, slowly, his teeth expose - their white sheen lit up as bright as a highlighter to a clean piece of paper. Because if it's the same old song and dance, he's down to jive.

A couple cuts, deep wounds, bruises, or a combination of all three be damned.

Greed's mouth puckers and he sluggishly shrugs. "I guess it doesn't matter either way. Couldn't convince you if I tried back then, why should it change now? You really are too similar." Similar to the rest of his: stubborn to the end, righteous in their own ways, holier-than-thou in the greatest mockery of the concept. The former homunculus snaps his thumb. A whiff of fire ignites on his finger a second later, traveling to his palm. Over his knuckles and across his wrist, it goes. His heat, tamed to his every, desiring whim.

Finally however, it takes shape: a dancing woman, a dancing man, shifting and twirling to a mental tune.

The Sin watches the fire with a dazed kind of intrigue and the image doubles over in his sunglasses. "Can't changed my nature, chief. But then again, neither can you, right? That loyalty of yours - your Master must be really something." He hums. The color in his throat immediately changes, then. Blue turns to orange, yellow turns to pink. After a couple of minutes, it decisively settles to a soft, cherry-picker red; the vibrancy, practically lost in his sloughs of ash and soot.

Greed's eyebrows coyly touch one another. "Why don't you tell me exactly why you're here, Mitsuhide?"

Mitsuhide opens his mouth. A line of spit connects his bottom lip to his top. His eyes widen for a brief second and the "line" abruptly breaks. He swallows down what other phlegm remains in his mouth as his lips curl into a mockery of a smile. The lips spread too wide and there are just too many sharpened teeth to make it look normal.

"This is an old conversation." His tone is, surprisingly, apologetic. He tilts his head to the side, another curtain of hair falls over half of his face. "I was going to say that it's not nice to ask questions that you know the answer to... but we've said that before to one another."

The wraith-like creature seems amused. Bony shoulders shake involuntarily as he turns his head to the side to chuckle. Each laugh comes out like a hissing, hacking sound. His body language shudders and laughs at a joke that only he is laughing at but he wants desperately for Greed to laugh with him.

"But isn't it nice, Greed? Isn't it nice when things never change? Isn't it nice to see the familiar?" The rotted deer ears wiggle. Perhaps, if the fur was not in clumps nor the skin of the ears an unfortunate blackened color, the gesture would look cute. Again, his mouth opens into a wide smile. His mouth looks only red smear with the white of jagged, sharp teeth coloring it slightly.

"But, oh, my master is horrible. He doesn't care for us at all... we are but stepping stones to his continued glory." He gestures with his hands in the air between them. He places one hand over the other, lightly slapping the space. "You have much more care for your things. You don't consider them to be disposable, but something to be cherished."

His mouth abruptly shuts. He fills his mouth instead with air, enough to puff out one cheek, in irritation. Turning his head, he spits the air out -- somehow the air has taken a sickly green shade. The bubble of air hovers in the air before it pops.

"Why am I here? Am I supposed to know?" He jerks backwards, offended. His hand lifts to rest over his chest -- his flesh stretches haphazardly over the bones of his rib cage, making every curve and shape prominent. "I suppose that I am supposed to know these things?" Mitsuhide can't help but sound a little reluctant to agree. His head tilts violently to the side; the bones of his neck protrude out and it almost seems like his neck is broken.

"I missed you. Yes, I missed you. I missed seeing your silly way of conquering." Again, his shoulders shake a little as he starts to laugh. It seems like one good laugh might actually cause his entire body to crumble. But he is not as frail as his wendigo nature has made him seem. Both of them know that he has come to revel in the disgusting sight of his body. He considers it to be funny, because he always thought of himself as little more than a rotting corpse ... and now he is one.

"But also... I wanted to make sure that you were all right." He blinks. His eyes are wide and round, like a child who has come to realize something greater than himself. "Ah, yes... I wanted to make sure you were all right. You do things that are going to end your life, you know... if that were to happen... those people that you treasure will end up suffering a fate worse than death..."

Greed hooks his angles casually and assumes his usual, languid position by propping up and leaning against the motorcycle's belly-round gas tank. He plucks another cigarette out of his pack while Mitsuhide talks; the lay of his head bowed like a therapist listening to the ravings of a mad man without comment. A strike of his thumb against the soft curve of his palm lights the cigarette and he inhales, if only for the feel of it.

"And here we are again, talking in circles. Haven't you ever heard the phrase? Don't threaten to steal honey from a hornet's nest," the Sin's voice travels out of his mouth in the form of pluming, silver-backed smoke. "Eh-" He raises his hand and the catches of his claws gently waft the air, escorting the smoke cloud out. "-I never wanted to fight you, friend. You just didn't give me much of a choice. You could have left it well alone the first time."

One of his eyebrows drastically shoots up, breaking over the frame of his sunglasses. "But you didn't listen to reason. So, we're stuck here - whatever here is. I won't lie to you, it's getting a little old." The former homunculus adjusts his shoulders and, as if answering Mitsuhide's own crunch, the bones of his neck pop ceremoniously.

Plnk, plunk, plnk.

"Why don't we just cut to the chase - if you're here for a rematch, I'm not interested." While he talks, Greed arches his hand clutching the still-lit cigarette up and behind his skull. He therapeutically kneads the tips of his fingers into the muscle, causing the smoke's firecracker tip to skip ash down his neck and across his chest. "Your master isn't here, the Gods are bullshit. What's the point continuing this crusade of yours when there's no one here to listen?" The former homunculus's face contorts into a faint, pleasing grimace - like a tiger in a three-pieced suit, signed for the heist of a lifetime. "Maybe you don't know those things, but you can certainly think for yourself, can't you?"

Of course he can. Mitsuhide is far from stupid. It's madness and madness alone that obscures him from -

Greed pinches his sunglasses by the silver semi-circle connecting the pair and lifts. The sunglasses pitch outward, then; like a door opening from the ground up. Dry lightning makes white-hot zigzags across the sky and the dull roll of thunder is quick to follow. "How about I make you a deal, hmn? You talk straight with me, and I'll consider taking you back to the main road." Purple blares as deep as a coffin's fire in his eye sockets - his pricking glance, paper-thin. "And if you don't? Well," he turns over his shoulder to map out the surrounding desert. It stretches forever in all directions. A vast wasteland so easy, so terribly simple, to get lost in.

"-without me or mine, you'll be stuck out here, chasing your own tail. Now, I don't know about you friend, but that sounds like a rotten way to go."

The former homunculus clips his sunglasses on the edge of his collar and as they dangle between his bones, another bolt of lightning singes the air, doubling itself in the bottomless, black glass of his shades.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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➥ GRAVEROBBER | Darkest Dungeon AU

slams in a thousand years later with Crusader!Rosch

LATE AS ALL HELL BUT

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Ryslig

LATE AS ALL AND APOLOGIES ALL 'ROUND ...

S'ok

➥ THE DEVIL'S NEST | 1980s Lingo | Closed to Kaito

hello yes I come a month late bearing gifts

I'M ALSO LATE TO THIS JAM ...

shuffles...this in...

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➥ SKIPPING HEAD | let me know if this works!

/thumbsup!

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surprise, one year later

JUST AS LATE...

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➥ TAKING IT TO THE CLEANER'S | After the Hotel Incident

THE 'YORK | ➥ THE DEVIL'S NEST

➥ QUARANTINE ROLL OUT | Pick your own shit and I'll start that jam off

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➥ DMC/Brotherhood | Always Open for Business

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