the name's greed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nestingdevil) wrote2019-03-04 06:30 pm
nestingdevil) wrote2019-03-04 06:30 pm
(no subject)
Open PSLs | Just throw up a subject line and GO FOR IT! All's green!
Open PSLs | Just throw up a subject line and GO FOR IT! All's green!
Open PSLs | Just throw up a subject line and GO FOR IT! All's green!
➥ QUARANTINE ROLL OUT | Pick your own shit and I'll start that jam off
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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.
➥ DMC/Brotherhood | Always Open for Business
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.
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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."
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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.
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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?"
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"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..."
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"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.