nestingdevil | (no subject)

"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)

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'."

"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."

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!

➥ GRAVEROBBER | Darkest Dungeon AU

Ryslig

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

➥ 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