Murmur has made himself to blend it. Oh, so many couldn't resist that unearthly beauty, the allure of shining the brightest among mortal kind even when they were on missions it would be detrimental to do so. Murmur found value in disappearing, in being underestimated and so he was here, being very easy to underestimate. Not particularly tall, not particularly striking, and yet even with all that there was still an air. A quiet certainty of action that was just a touch on the edge of unnerving, with such sharp focus and deftness of hand it would be easy to presume that this angel, whosoever he may be, was not one prone to failure in whatever it was he set his mind to.
He deigns not to answer the first question, whether he believed it rhetorical or he simply didn't want to was equally left to be pondered without reply. He was busy, after all, trying to make sure his current task wasn't interrupted. The comment about them being on better terms did earn the faintest hint of an amused glance from the angel, who continued to hold his silence for the moment. It wouldn't last long, of course, but Greed had been locked down there long enough he surely had plenty to say.
"I am no executioner, Avarice. I find such methods distasteful." Not to mention it wouldn't do any good, he knew as well as Greed that eliminating the manifestation wouldn't rid the world of its existence. Instead it would leave a vacuum, something all consuming and unpredictable until a new Sin came into existence. For Greed would always exist, must always exist, it was in the nature of all created beings, and could not be so easily expunged. They were fools, driven by their own pride and greed to think otherwise.
"Simple, really, we get you back to where you belong. They may be bold enough to draw you into a trap, but even they are not fool enough for a direct assault. To execute an act of war that would surely necessitate a response would plunge Heaven and Hell into full-scale hostilities once more. To risk tearing the mortal world apart would be too great a cost, even for your captor." Ah, the concern was appreciated, and Murmur did offer Greed a brief flash of teeth, something like a smile and a snarl trapped in one strange gesture. Amusement still twinkled in his eyes as he finished with his warding. A few softly spoken words and there was a brief flash of light throughout the chalk drawings before they faded into the concrete and wood alike, invisible yet humming with power. That would do for the silence, now for the restraints.
For this he began plucking reagents out of pockets, some of which he less than politely stacked on Greed's chest with a muttered "Hold these," And no further explanation given. Though he did pause, and smirking faintly at his own joke added: "And try to hold still." As if Greed had a choice in the matter.
Idly, he taps the tips of his fingers together in a slow, drawling rhythm. Being forcibly removed, pinned down, and pulled out of the game has never suited him. And while it hasn't been that long in the grand scheme of things, there's a sensation of something he can't quite place at first. An itch, a trembling, tickling deep in the pocket of his chest. Greed's teeth set quietly together. No, he does know the feeling after all, doesn't he? And it's as simple as his namesake: desperation. The kind that climbs the walls and claws the backside of his skull with a devotion both thunderous and grinding.
A snuff of sulfur puffs on his palm. "It's just Greed, angel," he lulls his voice, making it vibrate in his chest as low as a heater's rumbling exhaust. The smoke in his hand is dense; something thick, heavy, and yet weightless all the same. The Sin flicks his wrist. The smog in his hand gradually peels between his fingers and as it dissipates into thinning strands and eventual nothing, a small matchbox appears out of the gloom. For the most part, it's nondescript - an object so benign, it'd easily be missed.
Greed touches his nail to the side. "Are you sure about that?" How he asks is distant; like a man reminiscing about a story long gone. "You and I both know there's those of us who'd want that kind of reckoning. They've been after it for years." Again, he maps out his lower lip with his tongue; his expression both ancient and snide. "Who's to say this isn't part of the plan? C'mon, you're not that naïve."
Scrrch. The Sin's finger scratches and the matchbox ignites. It doesn't got up in flames like paper is supposed to. Instead, the top of it pops with a flurry of sparks - like a snap from a fire that hasn't quite died yet. "Then again, I've been wrong before. Ah - " The heat quickly dies down. What's left is a simple design on the top. Lines of red and ashy black sketch out what appears to be an impish creature of sorts. A caricature reminder of who and what he truly is.
Greed shakes the box once. "For the trouble," he starts back in with an offer. "-figured it could come in handy with whatever bullshit you have planned." Because he couldn't even begin to guess what the angel's up to. Devils have a different system with a whole different set of rules. Sure, there are similarities, but just like any other language, there's been variations and slight alterations over the centuries. Time, as well as their separate domains, have just increased their lack of mutual understanding.
When Murmur dumps his cache on his chest, the Sin rolls his eyes into the back of his head. Another clear sign of his discontent. "Not like I really have a choice, do I? Pissant - " His tongue lashes at his teeth, but the smile on his face says differently. Of course, Murmur couldn't help himself. He's always been like that. A little snark, a little spice, in all the Heavenly Father's pomp and circumstance.
It was, and is, a refreshing change.
Greed pushes the matchbox closed and the image on the top fades back into a matte black. "Can't keep my word on that, but it's not like I've been given a lot of wiggle room, lovely." His jaw curls. Even with the odds stacked against him, his disposition hasn't changed too much. He's still vicious, still wanting - a creature of habit through and through. "Just hope we don't end up making a habit of this, or I'll have to start asking a little more out of you."
Desperation is a rather potent motivator, is it not? Yet Murmur requires just a little more patience, they'll be out soon enough with very little in the way of explanation or trail to follow. So long as he remains diligent and careful to cover his tracks. And Murmur is not one who leaves things to simple chance.
"Very well, just Greed." There's that cheek again, spoken in a soft monotone it's almost impossible to pick up the gentle humor there. Despite his sass, he continues his work. Taking reagents one at a time to begin applying them to the iron bindings holding Greed in place. The trick was simple enough, utilizing methods available and known both to mortal and demonkind alike it would leave a trail unlikely to suggest an angelic presence. Something to throw off the hunt from his trail directly, not that Murmur wouldn't lay low until the heat died down all the same.
"I am," For the moment, busy as he was, he only glanced at the offered match box with interest. "Your captor is arrogant, not stupid. Others on the other hand..." They would be pursued, yes, but those he could redirect more easily. "I may require your spark here in a moment." He just snorted at the comment about being naïve, of course he isn't. And that's why they're not going to be leading their pursuers straight back to Greed's den. That would be foolish.
Once he finally finished laying out the trap he began gathering up his supplies stuffing them back into hidden coat pockets like some kind of wearable bag of holding. Only then did he finally reach out to take the offered match box, eyeing it curiously. "What's this?" Even while he asked he proffered a simple small slip of paper, no larger than a grocery receipt, scribbled with incantations and arcane runes. "Light this, if you would please, then hold very still." He's going to blow the bindings and he'd prefer it if that didn't come with too much damage to Greed in the process. He'll heal, it would just be inconvenient.
One more derisive look. "If I keep having to come to your rescue you're going to start owing me for the trouble."
The corner of his mouth quirks up a bit and under the basement's haze (the soft glow of a light bulb humming, the smear of an overcast sky pouring in, the ever-present hang of cigarette and hellish smoke alike), his face takes on a completely different look. Something softer, something amused. Like a man finally getting the end of a long-winded joke.
Greed's throat bobs under his collar. "Ha - ! What a fucking smart ass," a wheeze strangles his voice. "No, they're not stupid, you've got that right. But it's a little ironic - I never did like Pride very much." He practically kisses the air when he sucks in a breath; the noise behind his teeth, a stinging kind of snap. "Funny that yours always seem so wrapped up in it."
Pride was the oldest, so it really shouldn't have been that much of a surprise. After all, wasn't that how this whole thing started? A bit of pride, too much ambition. In the end, it had meant the collapse of it all. And while there had been those who fell to their demise, they had crept out of the craters left in the aftermath. Living distortions of all that was good, twisted and craving for eternity.
The Sin's hands splay out with as much of a shrug as he can manage. "It's a matchbox, but that's not what you're really asking, is it?" His fingers stroke the air. "You can call it a calling card. I only offer it to a few people, so consider it a favor. Equivalent exchange." Greed's eyes turn to try to take a look at the other. He can see a bit more of his work now: the small slip of paper, the various scribbles written on its surface. At this angle, they come through all backwards - like a passing sign in a rearview mirror. He can read the gist of it, but it takes him a moment. And as his cat-slit eyes flick over what's written, he can't help but be impressed. Leave no track, no trace. And ah, ah, ah, how faithful Murmur truly was.
"Oh - ? A please? That's a first." Nevertheless, Greed snaps his left thumb and another wandering flame trills over his fingernail. "Starting to like me a little better?" His smile wrinkles his face, making his lips thin out and his teeth expose themselves to the dim. He raises his lit finger to his mouth and as it touches his lip, the Sin shoos a low exhale out from between the cracks of his jaws; his look, like a coy librarian trying to quiet a rowdy bunch of children. The reaction that follows is immediate. The fire bursts out, its fingers reaching delicately to snatch at the piece of paper.
Murmur echoes that faint smirk, lost all too quickly to the haze and gloom of the basement cell. Still, the faint humor remained in his tone all the same. For all the fear and hate his brothers possessed toward the purified incarnations of Sin, this one wasn't so bad. Some of the others would have been unbearable in close quarters this long.
"It is among our greatest flaws," He concedes, and there's the faintest touch of sorrow to that. It's again whisked away by the business-like nature that seems to dominate this one. It's something he tries not to dwell on, the horror of watching his brethren fall, the pain of all that loss. These things happened so long ago and yet the wounds never do fully heal, do they? It's not something he's going to dwell on now. There's a job to be done and Murmur is very good at keeping it professional.
He doesn't answer the obvious question, only inspects the matchbox closer upon the revelation of what it truly was. With a sound of quiet approval through his nose he tucks it into an inner pocket on his coat, moving to resume the task at hand.
"As I said, I am not without my manners." He feigns haughtiness, but it's not very convincing, nor does he maintain the look for long. With the flames sparked he lets the paper catch, it spits and crackles far more violently than any tiny sheet of paper had a right to do. Quick as you will he touches the paper one by one to each prepared brace and with a crack and brilliant flash of light each blasts apart. One by one by one and soon enough Greed the bindings are broken and Greed can finally free himself. Once done he flicked the remaining ashes away from his gloved fingers, stepping back to allow Greed the room to extract himself from his bindings.
The relief that washes over him is one he hasn't felt in a long time. The sound of the chains cracking, the noise of steel collapsing on itself, the finality of it all. The Sin's mouth stretches wide across his face. It splits his expression from ear to ear, the curl of it pure in all its wickedness. There's no hidden agenda - no false pretenses. No, it's just plain satisfaction and as the last bits of metal slip from his skin, Greed's body visibly trembles. It's light at first: a jitter in his fingers. A quiver in his chest. Until, he slams his head back against the table with an audible thud and while his lungs fill (and do they fill), the laugh that billows of his chest seems to punch into the ceiling's very foundation. The sudden onslaught shaking filth and rust from their slumber in a billow of reddish gray.
Greed's eyes snap open, the whites of them wide and gaping. "HAHAHA - !" Where the chains had left their mark, his skin quickly begins to repair; the lapping of red electric and sizzling hisses effectively licking his wounds clean. The Sin flexes his fingers. "Oh, you do know how to work your magic, don't you?" He asks and his body slowly rises up from the table like reanimated ghoul. He tests his neck by rolling it to one side and then the other.
Cnch, cnch.
"Ah, that's much better." Greed shoves his palm deep into the muscle to push away any remaining kinks. Of course, he'll need a little more time to be at his full potential. But for now, he's functional. Upright. And as the venom from the binding slowly wanes, he can sense that spark of his igniting again; his core, all but calling back to him from the bowels below.
The Sin shifts, allowing his sharp-cut heels to clack against the basement floor. "Mnn. I guess we should get out of here, shouldn't we?" He tests his footing, stumbles, then rights himself again. "Ah, might still not be 100% here, friend. But first - " He licks the corner of his mouth, pushing a dry spot off to the side. His captors had done a good job denying him not just of his freedom, but of his things as well. And maybe, that had been the entire point. Choke avarice out, starve it, until it was nothing more than a husk.
Greed saunters about the basement towards a locker in the back corner. He doesn't bother trying the door, but instead shoves his fist through the steel at the side, leaving a toothy, bent-metal hole. "Not about to let them have what isn't theirs. I'm sure you can understand," he hisses. From inside, he pulls out a few things: a leather jacket with a fur-collar trim, a set of keys, and a black checkbook with no markings or company logo to distinguish it from anything else.
He gingerly tosses on his jacket with some effort and pockets the rest. "Now, we can go. Though, you might wanna be quick about it." A humming trill tickles the back of his throat, and Greed rolls another matchbox out from the inside of his sleeve. It catches between the points of his nails like a promise.
Because steal from avarice and Lord, oh Lord, you might get burned.
It occurred several moments too late that it might have been prudent to add sound dampening to his many wards. They would grant them some time, hold the door fast long enough for an escape but he certainly hadn't expected the demon to go howling like that. He winces, eyes darting warily to the ceiling as he strains his hearing for any response. It's hard to say with the storm raging outside, but if there were anyone within earshot they most certainly had run alarmingly short on time.
The angel does shoot Greed a firmly "must you?" look, at both the laughter and his trotting about collecting his things. He lets out something of a frustrated sigh, but so long as Greed didn't dally overmuch he wouldn't verbally complain until it became truly dire. "Do try to be swift," He hisses, already moving back to the window to vault himself up and begin scrabbling out. Still somehow managing to make even the less dignified escape look somehow graceful. Angels are cheaters like that. Bracing himself against the frame he offers down a hand.
"I might want to be quick?" He scoffs, gesturing for Greed to hurry up so he can pull him out. "Take any more time and I might begin to suspect you want to hear the trumpets sounding." He's only being snappish because now the chase was really on, and as swift as Murmur could flee by himself it would be much more difficult to pull Greed along with him. It would be extremely hard to explain why he was carrying a demon should he be caught in the act.
All the while, the angel's pleas fall on deaf ears. He's fixated on everything else: the way the lights glow as if they're trapped in an endless fog. How the basement sweat feels under his heels, slick and cold. The smell of it all - smoke, sulfur, dirt, and old wood settling in on themselves like old company. Greed fingers his sunglasses when he pulls them out from his pocket and as the matchbox in his hands explodes into brilliant oranges and foul, black pitches, he carefully places the shades over his face; their lenses all but caught up in the blaze of it all.
"Hmn. Yeah," when he finally answers, he's distant. A man caught in a completely different thought. The Sin shrugs his shoulders. He follows Murmur towards the window and the matchbox sails over him and behind his back. The fire doesn't take immediately. It leaves plenty of time; enough for him to scramble up and out the shallow window, his body twisting and writhing as nimble as a serpent squirming out of a trap. It's only when the square of his heel finds a crumbling piece of brick, does he finally pop loose.
And oh, isn't it poetic? Sin itself, back in the swill of it all.
Greed plants the flats of his hands into a puddle of water. "Might be more exciting otherwise - tch." Crnch, and another bone in his neck slides into place. The catching fire in the basement presses faintly against the glass. What had been murky before is now a low glow; a fever of reds and yellows licking where they can and setting beams alight in scales of burnt-crisp destruction.
The Sin staggers out of the muck on one foot, then two. Combined with the steady onslaught of rain, he looks like a drowning victim. His hair flattens across his forehead, the leather of both his pants and jacket cling to him for dear life. Greed casually shoves his thumb into a nostril. A snort later, and the last of the caked-in blood sizzles on the pavement.
"Kind of hard to be as fast as usual friend. Eh - " He checks the sky. Overhead, the clouds roll out their frustration. Lightning sharpens across the skyline like a warning and a low-howling wind batters the alleyway, turning trash into a concentrated funnel.
Greed shakes his head and runs his hand quickly through his hair to spike it out. "Lead the way, then. I'm sure someone's bound to visit pretty soon. Made sure it wouldn't all catch right away, but I only gave us a few minutes."
Of course he was going to burn it. Why wouldn't he burn it? Damn it all. Murmur could put out the fire, the Sin's power wasn't enough to overwhelm his own in this moment but he won't. It only makes sense in the grand scheme of things, but there's still a part of him that grimaces at watching a house of God turn to ash. No sense crying over spilled communion, they did bring this upon themselves.
Greed's display was very dramatic, he's sure, but Murmur had far more to worry about than to appreciate the aesthetic of the fire's glow glinting off darkened lenses or the winking flash of a baleful light in the storm. No, he has to worry about an escape route.
"Do you have a... what are they called? Vehicle?" Is that the word? He thinks it may be. They'd do much better in that than on foot. While the water drenches, soaks, and clings to the Sin it doesn't quite seem to seep so on the angel. Unlike so many of his brethren this one is not a being of fire, but of storms and ice. The sea and the rain are equally his domain, and while that water does dampen him, it rolls off him much as it does the feathers of a duck. He is quite decidedly in his element, something that will grant them a little cover for a time longer yet.
"Neither you nor I are capable of fighting off an enraged Holy Host, we are best slinking in the gutter out of their lofty gaze." Most would find that humiliating, but Murmur has never been a fan of Pride. He will do whatever is necessary, no matter the cost. He turns heel to begin leading them away from the crime scene. The mortals will catch on soon, better to be well out of their way before questions have to be answered. "You know this world better than I, where might one go should they wish to disappear?"
"Didn't exactly come here with one," Greed eases in. While he has noticed the angel's rather uncanny sense of luck, he doesn't say anything about it. Angels and their kin had different tricks than him and his. They'd been dealt different cards, hell a different deck in some cases. Murmur's inability to feel the storm about him (least not in the literal sense) fell into one of those variations. A specialty reserved for him and others like him to blend in with what life really gave without having to suffer through the discomforts of it.
Though, even that seems to have a catch.
The Sin clicks his tongue behind his teeth. "Follow me." He doesn't wait or even bother to check to see if the angel is following him. Rather, he appears to be more focused; tuned in. Like a big cat with hunger in its belly and ah, ah, ah, is there prey to be had.
Greed slouches against the rain, his shoes and heels making the slosh and muck pluck themselves into deep, steaming pockets behind him. While he exactly doesn't have a vehicle at the ready, that doesn't mean he can't find one. And in a town as winding as this, in a place full of empty holes to stick him in, it wouldn't be hard to find something of use.
Another shudder of lightning splinters above them, turning the sky into a purpling bruise. "As for that other thing, just leave it to me, hmn? Sometimes I wonder if you actually trust me, handsome." A shivering streetlamp surges above the narrow street they're on in a gassy yellow and while the bulb struggles to keep alight, the Sin's body visibly stiffens. He's caught something in his eye. Something suitable, right, and perhaps, God's chosen aren't the only ones with a little bit of luck.
Greed's arm shoots out from his side in a sudden, violent snap and the flesh on his hand quickly disappears. From his fingertips upward, a second skin begins to crawl itself into place. It turns his nails into talons, his knuckles bulbous and boney. The look of it like an oil slick with the ability to defend itself. The Sin lets out a soft whistle. "Looks like your prayers have been answered," he hums before the block of his fist meets the driver's side window. With a splintering crack and a sprinkle of shattered glass, he's in. All hands, all want, clambering to take what's his.
He shoves a button on the inside of the door and the lock on the passenger's side clicks open with a soft plunk. "After you," he slurs. The angel may have his perks against mother nature, but him? His have always been with the material. The needs of mankind, the desires of them, all but molding under his fingertips. Greed rips opens the plastic console under the steering wheel with little more than a pop and squeal of plastic, leaving the insides as open and raw as freshly killed carcass. Half outside the car, sprawled and stretched, he gets to work. A dash of hellfire there, an impish tweak here - a devilish mechanic, engrossed in his work.
Finally, the Sin leans below the steering wheel. He extends his tongue between two particular wires and a small electric current buzzes over his teeth. Greed grips the upper curve of the wheel to pull himself into the driver's seat, and he yanks the door shut. "It'll take a while to get there. Just don't judge them too much, hmn? They are mine, but they won't bother you unless you give 'em a reason to. Ah - "
A pleased sort of smile graces his face. It lights him up from the inside out; a breath of sorts, filling him up with all that fire, all that wickedness, that he had been missing. Greed thumbs a built-in lighter into the dash and as he turns to check the rearview, he haphazardly throws the car in reverse. Mud and water screams murder under the wheels as he wildly jerks the vehicle out of its parking spot. A second later, and he punches into first gear, forcing the car to zigzag out of the muck; its swinging spin, like a fishtail darting under the tide.
"I expected as much." It was still worth an ask, to place the idea in the Sin's mind that they would both do better to stop moving on foot. Not out of laziness mind, angels did not lack in stamina, but if they were to flee the eyes of their would be captors it might be best to make more haste than foot. The hounds of Heaven would be on their trail before long, best to hide their tracks with all means at their disposal.
"Trust? A tall order in times like these," He scoffs, but despite the monotone it's good natured coming from the frosty angel. He plays the distance and dismissiveness well, and yet here he is sloshing through the mud after the Sin whom he could have easily left to his own devices once the trap was sprung. Could have left him to his fate as well, though that would have proven to be a headache for all further down the line. The universe will always seek balance, a new Sin will rise, and that one might not be as accommodating as the one he's accustomed to.
Ah, their chariot awaits. Gleaming brilliant in the flash of lightning and sputtering of street lamps, just asking for the taking. Of course Murmur feigns a disappointed look at the act of theft and window breaking, but it bore no more venom than the rest of his haughty act did. It was merely the act of going through the motions, behaving as he should in the presence of Sin rather than with any real feeling behind it. Righteousness was reserved for very special occasions, and he did ask for a vehicle. Of course, he was grateful Greed broke the window on his own side, so he can spend the drive being wet and uncomfortable.
While Greed works away on getting the beast running Murmur makes himself comfortable in the passenger seat. He can't drive, so it's not like he'd try to anyway, he also doesn't bother with seatbelts because what are those anyway? So while Greed works, he's popped open the glove box and is taking the time to scribble arcane symbols inside with that chalk produced from within his coat once more. Might as well do a little work while the Sin's busy. He can ward it up more later, once they're out of the thick of it.
"Them?" He asks, ignoring the implication of him being judgmental. He already told Greed that's not his wheelhouse. "Come now, you should know by now I do not make a habit of instigation." He is very polite he'll have you know. As for the driving? He does cast Greed a sidelong glance as if to ask 'must you?' He won't protest, not out loud, but he will make faces of disapproval. "Try not to roll this over on the way, would you?" It wouldn't kill them, but it would be inconvenient.
The car's headlights expand like eyes when he flicks the switch. They open up the once bogged down alleyway with all of its slush and muck into something visible. The shadows chase back into the cracks, the rain sloshes from the windshield wipers like some sort of ritualistic cleansing. Of course, he doesn't notice any of it or (at best), he simply doesn't care. Instead, he's focused on the physical of it all. The whiplash of rain and how it's changed from something bitter to something freeing; how the engine rumbles under his frantically moving fingertips as they click and clack atop the sway of the wheel.
Greed plays footsie with the clutch and the gas as his free hand shoves the gears, effectively reversing his fate and throwing them forward in one fell swoop. At first, he seems to miss the angel's questions entirely - his attention drifting to the sensation of it all. He lets the cracked-tooth window spit rain in his face, he cranks the car a bit faster than is certainly legal. Everything. It's always boiled down to that simplicity: everything. It floods through him as entrapping as an addict to their substance of choice. And like a man chasing his poison, his thrill is just as deadly and just as plainly visible on his face.
The Sin's mouth warps into a lunatic's sneer and faint trails of black-rich smoke peel through his teeth. He starts in again with a small bark of laughter. "Ha - ! A tall order, huh? I suppose," his tongue lashes out and the tip languidly begins to split in a rake of hot, red coals. "Can't blame me for trying. Here - " He fishes a phone out from the pocket of his vest and haphazardly tosses it into Murmur's lap. "-dial 003-12-7. If someone picks up the line, just say Ouroboros. It'll connect you to our next stop."
Wildly, he lets the wheel spin through his fingertips and the car bounces onto a main road. "You do know how you to use one of those, right? Nevermind." He waves his wrist and the black screen statics. At first, it merely blues out in the dark; the sudden onslaught of fake light and bright colors all but washing the inside of the vehicle in a soft, foggy haze. The Sin makes a few, simple gestures with his fingers and as traffic lights blare their greens, their yellows, and reds, the phone begins keying in the numbers one at a time:
003-12-7
Greed takes another erratic turn onto the freeway. "As for the other thing - " He begins while the phone connects to the radio of the car. For a while, a dial tone is all he gets; its tolling noise a constant heartbeat waiting in anticipation. When it clicks to a receiving end, he wastes no time.
"Oi, oi, oi - coming in hot, sweetheart. And I've got company this time - "
"Where the FUCK have you been!?" A male's voice practically barks through the car's sound system, making it static as the Sin carelessly plunks into a rather large pothole.
"Oh - ? Sounds like the hound's a little mad with me. C'mon, don't be like that," Greed's voice curls out of his throat like a fire trying to flirt. The skin around his neck bristles in turn and flakes of pitched soot quiver off the dip of his collarbones. "Ran into a little bit of trouble and not the usual kind."
The man through the radio's silent for a second. "What kind of trouble? Are you ok? Where are you? And what do you mean company? Greed - Boss - "
The Sin's laughter hisses from his grinning mouth, wide and smoggy. "HA - ! Oh, don't stick that tail between your legs just yet. We'll just say I had a little divine intervention - " That earns a quick sputter of curses through the speakers and Greed jovially slaps the steering wheel a few times. "No, he's not that bad. Remember what I told you? There's - "
"-no such thing as no such thing, yeah. I know - ! But can we really trust this guy? I mean we're talking about - "
"Now, no need to be rude. He's right here," Greed gestures with his hand at nothing the man on the other side of the line could possible see and that shuts up the call real quick. The sound of a shattering bottle makes its way through the receiver. Whether the Sin hears it or is, as par for the night's course, ignoring it is tough to say. "Just close up early. Get everyone who doesn't need to be there out. And - " He pauses to shoot a look at Murmur.
"-if you've got things we need, now's the time to ask."
Greed was having far too much fun driving. Fortunately Murmur didn't have enough sense of what was legal, reasonable, or safe to be concerned about it. He's immortal and nearly impossible to damage under "normal" means, so he has no real concern for his physical integrity nor Greed's. At the moment inflicting a need for additional healing might be unwise, but not something he was going to bother bringing up. He's a big demon he can look out for himself.
It was fortunate that it didn't take Greed long to remember he was dealing with someone who probably rarely, if ever, touched anything even remotely technological. When he handed Murmur the phone the angel just looked at it in deep confusion. Brows furrowed, expression one of intense puzzlement as he rolled it over in his hands trying to figure out what exactly he meant by "dial" and how one was supposed to do such a thing anyway? To him it seemed nothing more than a shiny flat rectangle of plastic and glass, utterly alien as anything beyond something one might use to prop up an unbalanced table.
Whatever gestures and magic incantations Greed used to activate the device served in no way to clarify how it worked, and Murmur just held it up pinched delicately between his fingers like he expected it to explode or something. Eyes darting between the object and where he thought one of the speakers was, and Greed, as absolutely nothing manifested to answer the questions reeling in his mind. What was this, how did it work, what was this trickery? And who was this Greed was talking to anyway?
Murmur was going to protest them continuing to talk about him like he wasn't there, but Greed took care of that before his confusion slowed down long enough to get words out. Okay, so, whatever this strange rectangle was it facilitated ranged communication. That wasn't impossible to grasp, the how wasn't necessarily important at the immediate moment even if the question would chew him up all night until he got an answer.
It took him several more moments to realize he was being invited to speak. "Ah..." Hold on, the angel is rebooting. "Well. I suppose if you want to remain difficult to find I could arrange something. I will require goat's blood. A quantity sufficient for the size of your domicile." You're gonna need a lot, Greed, a whole lot. "Graveyard dirt, and soot I... think you can manage without additional preparation." Glancing at how much Greed soots all on his own, they'll manage that just fine.
An exit sign passes overhead warning them of the next runoff from the highway. Greed turns back to the road. "Did you get all that, Dol? Think you and the rest can round up what we need?" His hand yanks the lighter from the dash and another cigarette appears on his lip, ready to light. "Dol?"
"Yeah, fuck, yeah I got it. I don't know where the fuck we're going to find some of this, but I'm on it. I'll send Martel up to the butcher on the other side of town. She gets along better with the woman there anyway - " The Sin inhales his smoke as the man rattles on and the tip fumes a toxic orange-blue. "As for the rest of it, it's gunna take us some time. Boss, can you at least tell me what the fuck is going on?"
Greed shoves the lighter back into the console with an audible plnk. "I thought I was pretty clear about that. Don't tell me you're going deaf - " Again, his comment gets him a string-sputter of swears through the receiver. "-oi, oi, oi. All right, all right, calm down. The deal went south." He breathes in and the black coating on his throat begins to stretch upward, threatening both his jawline and ear. "The last one - the investor. Turns out he has friends with good information. Caught me off guard."
"Bradley? How in the shitting hell did he get his hands on - ?"
"Doesn't matter," the devil chimes back in, clipping the questioning off at its head. "-we'll be there in another 30 minutes. Just make sure you get it all handled, huh?"
"We'll take care of it. Just .. " The man trails off as if he's trying to find his words and pick them carefully. "Just be careful, would you? I know you'll be fine and nothing's taken you out yet, but - "
The cigarette shrinks in the Sin's teeth; his grin and insatiable hunger making short work of the tobacco. "Easy pup or I'll start thinking you've missed me. See you soon." With that, he waves his wrist and the call severs. Greed tiredly slaps his turn signal. "Sorry about all that. Dol tends to get a little frantic when things aren't ideal, but he's not so bad. A worrier sure, but he'll get you what you need."
He guides the car onto an offramp. Away from the highway, the signs of visible settlement quickly thicken. Houses and wooded off-shoots give way to bigger buildings and shopping centers. Wherever the Sin's made his home in this world, it's where people are. And while most places have either closed for the night or are on their way out, it's clear that he's planted himself in the midst of it all: a forest, a hiding spot, of steel, concrete, and lights that never truly go out.
A demon in a proverbial haystack.
Greed takes the main drag with little care of speed. "Try not to be too much for them, will you? They don't tend to like your kind very much." Another corner, a third. The deeper they go, the tighter the streets become until they're nothing more than one-way roads splintering out as confusing as a ball of knotted string. When he finally slows, it's under a brilliant, red light that he creeps. The sign above is damp under the weather; the paint of it old and well-loved. The Sin jumps the car up onto the curb as one of the floodlights strobes intermittently.
He cuts the engine. "Welcome to The Devil's Nest, angel."
"I would suggest trying a goat and a graveyard, respectively," Murmur muttered dryly, unimpressed with the lackey's complaints. He's already stuck his neck out further than he should have, and having to babysit more than one demon didn't exactly sit well with him. He shot Greed a look that clearly implied he thought the Sin's henchmen were morons, and continued. "It must be goat's blood, understand? No substitutes, no mixing. Unless of course you wish to experience what a smiting feels like. Oh, and a paint brush. Clean one." Can't be mixing unknown compounds into spell work, it will throw the whole balance off.
After that he's content to shut up and let Greed deal with his yapping comrade. Once the call was over and the strange device no longer needed he just set it in a convenient enough looking compartment, casting a sidelong glance at the Sin.
"You are certain they're competent?" They didn't sound competent. "And if I may... what was that about someone getting their hands on something?" Murmur didn't miss any of that, though he did note it had been cut off before Dol could say too much. He expected he'd be brushed off, but it didn't hurt to try.
Thankfully Greed knew how to hide himself, well... as well as he could among a world like this with little knowledge of the arcane. That said it would only do so much good, their adversaries wouldn't be traveling by vehicle or foot, they'd be traveling by air and use senses far above those of mortal kind to hunt their quarry. They had to work quick, and Murmur would have to make it harder for them to be sniffed out by Heaven's own forces. Hell might have their hounds... Heaven didn't need them. Meticulously Murmur memorized their streets, their signs, and whatever landmarks he could on their trip. He'd need to know how to get back there, for once he was finished with is work it would also become difficult for him to perceive.
Greed's comments about him being "too much" for his crew only earned another one of those flat looks. He'll be exactly as much as he pleases, thank you very much. "I am doing you and yours a favor, if you'll recall." So they're just going to have to deal with it, whether or not they like him. Besides, he was there to do a job, not make friends.
Finally at a stop Murmur opened his door, pausing to sniff the air before stepping out, nose wrinkled in distaste. Crawling with demons it set his teeth on edge and prickled every alarm bell in his senses. He'd tolerate it, of course, but that didn't mean he was any more comfortable being there than they were going to be having him around. He gestured for Greed to lead the way. "Best you introduce me." So they knew better than to start anything. Murmur wasn't one for a fight, that didn't mean he wouldn't defend himself should the need arise.
The driver's side door swings open with a brisk press of his heel. He practically kicks it wide, and all of the rain, all the gloom, comes flooding back. But unlike before, the chill's pointedly missing. Now, it's humid. A temperate, almost Cuban sigh pours into the car, bringing in a sweet, hard-to-discern smell.
It's the scent of the living: their foods and drinks, their fumes and industries, their nights and their lives washing over in a wave of cohabitation.
Greed shakes his cigarette and a spiral of smoke meets the fog like the embrace of friends meeting after a long departure. "What? Oh, that," he starts in while his body lifts itself out of the car. Much like before, his movements are ghoulish; he's heavy and light, tense and yet oh-so at ease. The Sin tiredly shrugs his shoulder while he passes under the roof of the car. "That's a long story. And like you said, we don't exactly have a lot of time."
Exposed to the weather, his smoke threatens to go out. The tip of it shivers under the neon overhang - a heartbeat more, and it could die out forever. Yet, it never does. Forcibly, the heat hangs on despite it all, and Greed idly shoos the driver's door closed. "Ha - !" He barks, forcing another peel of ash to shed from his throat. "That's a little harsh, huh? You haven't even met them yet."
He waves at something around his face before pocketing his hands and strolling toward the entrance. The alleyway he's chosen as his spot is nothing to write home about. Old, rust-toothed garbage cans stare back at the two of them like husked-out jack-o'-lanterns; their packaged insides, black and bulbous with garbage. The Sin nudges an empty bottle of something out of the way and as it scratches into a corner somewhere, he pauses.
"There's really only a few you need to know about," his back to Murmur, Greed begins to list things off on his fingers. "Dol's a hellhound and a pretty good one too. He's just a bit excitable. Martel's got a little bit of snake in her, so try to keep on her good side. Bido's harmless, just keep an eye on your valuables. As for Roa - " He trails off, and the silence fills with every clip and clop of his heels as he makes his way downward. "- he's a bit bullheaded, if you get what I mean. Silent type. He won't bother you unless you make him bother you. Other than that, if you need something brewed, it's the 'Doc you wanna talk to."
Finally, he closes in on the entrance. Whether on purpose or simply because he happened to like it, the door itself is pretty nondescript. A series of bolts lock it into place on the other side and a small slat at the top harkens back to a completely different time. The only thing of note are the candles. An arrangement of them melts softly in the corner; their blacks and golds mixing together in a raw, metal-worker's sludge.
Greed flicks out one finger and the nail on his hand curves, cutting raw sketches into the steel. "When I say three, try not to inhale. I know yours don't breathe, but trust me on this one." His hand arcs and sulfur lines begin to follow his movements. Up, down, around, sideways. The Sin breaks to put his cigarette back in his mouth. "You ready? One - "
He moves upward with his sketch and his earlier lines begin to ignite.
"Two - "
Sparks crack into life. They chase every inch of his design like a gunpowder fuse or a sparkler years past its expiration date. Whatever the source of the heat is, it's warmer than before. Stifling. White billows bleed into the steel, eating away small, hissing flecks until the small passage they're in becomes glaringly bright.
"-three."
And what crashes in is delirious. Shrill, violent static consumes the space - its presence both silent and impossibly loud; like that of an atom bomb dropped at a range far too close for comfort. For a few, horrible seconds, that's all there is: an endless white, a chamber of noise, clawing, biting, and scratching at wherever it can.
Then, comes the smell.
Putrid, raw, sweaty, sweet: they're all there, tumbled together and shaken just for good measure. The Sin makes some sort of noise in the back of his throat that's pleased, excited, and menacing at the same time; its tone akin to that of a man being both choked and willing to pay for it. When he exhales, the fantastic lights and nauseating sound fall back to nothing. Nothing save a dingy bar that (most certainly) wouldn't pass any current mortal codes.
Greed tests his neck. "AH - it's been a while since I had to do that," he takes his sunglasses from his face and swipes them once. A ceiling fan up above them trundles on its cables and as the dust and ash settles, he's met with the clambering of people. There's movement out back, soft shouts from below. The Sin weakly raises to his feet and with one hand out, he presses a single finger inside his ear.
"Boss - Boss - !" A man howls from the other side of the bar. It's the one from earlier, now made flesh. Where Greed may have height and demeanor on side, Dolcetto seems to have speed and maneuverability. The hellhound dodges obstacles (tables, a thrown aside chair, glasses) without missing a beat - his focus, trained on the Sin in question.
Greed sags his wrist to wave the hound away. "It's nothing, Dol. Just needed some insurance," the Sin purses his lips; his expression similar to someone from a dentist's office after a couple of numbing shots. "Did you get most of what we need yet?"
The hellhound fidgets. "No, not all. Martel's still out - " Dolcetto's eyes wander to Murmur and it's there, just there, that his true nature gives him away. His eyes aren't brown, they're yellow. His teeth aren't smooth, they're gnarled. The hound's upper lip twitches as if it doesn't know what to do with itself. "Gree - boss," he whispers.
"Yeah, I know. But he wouldn't be here if I didn't owe him one or didn't trust him. Angel, meet Dolcetto. Dol, meet the reason we're going to have a long night."
It's very obvious Greed's dodging the question, which Murmur expected. For the moment he decided to let it drop, but that didn't mean he wasn't sticking a mental pin in it and going to continue listening for clues later. His interest was piqued, and being the information broker that Murmur was meant he wouldn't stop hunting until that curiosity was sated. As far as the accusation of being harsh goes, Murmur just gave Greed yet another one of those flat and unimpressed stares. It didn't take much to guess that the general level of competency was suspect here, given how easily Greed himself had been captured, and Murmur wasn't expecting to be proven wrong on his hypothesis.
Having nothing further to say on the subject of Greed's minions or their location Murmur stays silent, eyes wandering about taking in the details. Old walls stained with ages past, faded and fresh graffiti layers deep, piles of rusted and rotting trash and debris forming twisted abominations in the dark. All the signs of human life in its stinking, twisted refuse that rolls downhill and piles upon the 'less desirable.' It was a matter of fact that the most interesting of their species could often be found in places like this. Even more a matter of fact one could gauge the quality of a society by just how deep these urban junkyards went. For how they treated their least fortunate directly weighed against the value of those sitting at the top.
This world was rotten. Fortunately they'd been sworn to never do another flood.
As much as he seems to no longer be paying attention Murmur was listening to Greed's instructions. Thankfully he in fact did not need to breathe, and was mindful not to inhale when the demon began forging the door to his domain. Were Murmur a fledgling to such things he'd likely have been startled by the sudden violence of it all. The light, the sound, the smell would have sent most angels reeling in a panic of holy light and lashing out. Greed's lucky he's not dealing with someone more skittish, or he might have had a few burns that would prove much harder to heal than the minor inconvenience of his capture.
As it was, Murmur appeared barely phased by it all. Once it was over he simply blinked down at the devil on his ass, reaching up to casually dust some rain off the shoulder of his coat while the one identified as "Dol" came crashing over exactly like an over excited pit bull terrier. To his credit, Murmur didn't move. Not to assist, nor to get out of the path of a rampaging hell hound. He, more than most, understood the song and dance of bluff and bluster. To flinch would be to show weakness, to puff up and display would be to show threat. To do nothing at all? Well, he's long found that to have a much more amusing effect. No threat, no bluster, no flinching or showing off. Only calm watching with his head canted ever so slightly to one side. Curious, but not too curious. Let the demons scrabble about finding their footing with an enemy in their midst, he can wait.
"What were you saying about competence again?" He asked lightly, flippantly even as he eyed Dol fidgeting and admitting his failure. Really, just how hard was it to go out with a shovel this time of night? He did offer something of a faint inclination of his head in greeting. Polite, if heavily reserved. One did not risk excessive deference to a hound they didn't know. "I suppose there is a point to be made, if not for me your night may have been cut tragically short." Do stop blaming him for your failures, Greed, he doesn't much appreciate it.
While Murmur may be an unphased statue through it all, the Sin's more like a bruised boxer at the end of a rather grueling night. His hand rubs at aches deep in the muscle of his neck; his face is relaxed, yet tired. And when he tests his footing, he does it in a way that's tentative - as if the world may just finally open up and swallow him whole without remorse, pity, or even the slightest bit of hesitation. Only once, does he falter and when the squares of his heels clck-clack out of sync, Dolcetto visibly stiffens.
But that's it. No comment, no exchange of words. The devil quickly corrects himself and sets his path back to the bar.
"I told you, they're mine. Stop worrying so much," Greed's back dips and his jacket falls like liquid off his shoulders. He takes the time to shrug it off on a nearby stool where it drops disheveled into a pinched-up pile of upturned leather and fur. "-at this point, it'll be almost impossible for them to track us down. We have some time, angel."
Blindly, he stretches out his arm and lets his fingers search the backside of the bar. "Besides, haven't you ever heard the phrase? When there's no gold left, turn right, go left - ah." Srct: his nails find something and dig in. A hungry connection, sharp and cutting. Greed lifts a hefty bottle of Hell-knows-what from a hidden compartment and as his teeth tear through the cork like a hyena to a bone, a sliver of a smile creases on his face. It's the same one as before, though haggard. A devil-may-care attitude flooding in as the liquor pours deep down his throat. Because demons, devils - they were like that, weren't they? Creatures with enough ego, enough of a complex, that they always kept crawling back.
One of the bar stools tips dangerously to the side and Greed settles in, his one leg kicked up and stretched out on the counter's beaten-in edge. "Pup, you already got the dead man's dirt, right? Then we're just waiting on Martel." He tosses the cork of the bottle onto the bar top, letting it spin like a dreidel. "That woman's someone you don't have to worry about."
"Martel hasn't been gone that long, anyway." Dolcetto chips in. He's pointedly avoiding looking at Murmur when he can, save for the few, chaste examinations and glares. It's all too obvious that the hellhound has some internal conflicts about the situation. On one hand, there's an enemy in their midst. An enemy, by all accounts, they shouldn't even be speaking to right now. On the other hand -
On the other hand.
Greed takes another healthy swig of his drink before slapping the bottle on the bar top, making the liquor skip a beat in the glass. "Our heavenly friend does have a point, though. Try to make him feel comfortable, huh?" The Sin lifts his head. In the muddied mirror of the bar, his reflection seems to warp. It's still him: that same face, that same pin-prick stare. Yet, his eyes: they're brighter than before. A red bleeds out of them like tail lights chasing in the dark.
Greed sways his wrist. "Get something ready in one of the spare rooms. Once Martel gets back, we'll get everything settled." Another flaking peel of ash tumbles off his knuckles and Dolcetto's mouth screws itself into a worried frown. Again, however, he says nothing and instead eyes Murmur one last time before disappearing back into the building's deep and numerous pits.
The Sin flattens his hand on the bar top. "Take a seat, angel. Could be another few minutes before Martel shows up." A noticeable change chokes in his throat. It clings there, holding on and debating. He can't let down his shield, he never could. Yet, pushing himself as he did -
Greed's teeth tighten together into a jeering grin and the black at his collar hitches up a little more over his jawline. "You've really got me in a pickle don't you, you little pissant? Tch." His nails dig into the wood of the bar. He doesn't bother hiding it anymore; that black skin (as dark as oil and just as slick), the way his nails have extended and bent like a vulture's ever-seeking talons. It's the monster underneath it all, finally coming to the surface. An ugly thing, rotten and consuming.
And now? Now he has a debt to pay.
The Sin's mouth opens and a cloud of smog exhausts from his lungs. "Guess I owe you. So, what is it you want? When all of this is said and done. I am fair, remember. Equivalent exchange." He waggles his claws. "Name it and we'll see what I can do. I'd really hate to have a debt hanging over me."
Angels are like that, statuesque, unyielding. As different at Murmur was from his brothers he was also just as much the same. Watching, ever watching, and very rarely do they act. Though being here was an act of rebellion in and of itself, one cannot expect him to be particularly emotionally invested in as much of a risk as Greed poses. His existence remained tenuous, and until the dust settled it would continue to be that way. However, Murmur wasn't one to do things in halves, he would put in his best effort as he had been all night. Their escape was reasonably clean, all things considered, and their trail rather efficiently disguised. They had time, even if that wasn't much comfort to the angel at the present.
The hound may be uncomfortable having such an intruder, but Murmur was in the thick of an enemy's nest and severely outnumbered. He was no more comfortable with the situation than they.
"I have not heard such a phrase, no." He confessed, only looking perplexed at the strange wording. So, while Greed dug around for whatever it was he was after Murmur helped himself behind the bar counter as well, but he was looking for something quite different. A bowl, simple stainless steel and exactly what he needed. He tossed it on the counter next to Greed. "Ash in that, if you would." He's going to need it for what he's brewing. Might as well collect everything they can while they wait for the main ingredient.
As for Dol, Murmur seemed content pretending he wasn't there. The hound could scowl and glower all he wanted, Murmur wasn't going to be bothered by it. Now it was just a waiting game, his least favorite. The offer of a seat was met with a flat stare for a few moments before he sighed and relented, moving back around to go perch on a stool, eventually settling with his back and elbows leaned up against the bar. "One would think you'd be at least moderately more grateful, all things considered," He quipped lightly, not acknowledging the 'pissant' accusation.
The offer, though, was met with something of a sly sideways smirk on the angel's part. "I'm afraid that is a debt you're going to have to carry for a time, demon. When it is time you will hear my request and not a moment before." Greed's just going to have to squirm on it. No one enjoys having a debt hanging over them, bad news for Greed is that Murmur rather enjoys collecting them.
Greed coolly slides one of his eyebrows up as soon as the bowl comes into view. What was that, about a pound of flesh? "Get right to the point, don't you. Fine." He gently ushers the bottle away to present his wrist. The second coating across his skin is smooth and lightless like steel smoked beyond recognition. Yet unlike metal, it seems to bend flawlessly where it needs to. It's like whatever it is, it was meant for him. A perfect design for a creature so far removed from the idea of purity.
"It's all in God's plan," they say. Perhaps that isn't so far from the truth.
A healthy clump of ash wafts off his hand and goes topside into the bowl. "You're missing a lot up there. Sure, you're watching it, but you're still missing the most important things. I don't get it." Humming, he reaches up to his throat to give his neck a light scratch. While his nails should, by all accounts, tear his flesh to ribbons, they meet the charcoal coating like gears grinding in the dark, and sparks fissure off his fingertips. "That's the problem with you and it's why yours always seem to have to resort to extremes. Tell me, when's the last time you really sat down with them? Really gotten to know them? You could learn a few things from the mortal lot."
When he yanks his claws away, the shells of his nails are thick with soot. Greed taps them off into the bowl. "Miracles aren't worth shit anymore. It's what you do that matters. Isn't that what they teach you up there? Eh." The lines he scratched in blister to gold. They make a map of his throat; how it dips in places, how it thickens out into the bottom of his skull, how it expands whenever he sucks in at the backs of his teeth.
Greed wraps his free hand around the neck of the bottle and plugs it with a finger. "As for that," he snaps his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "No one said I wasn't grateful, pissant. I just don't like it when I can't settle my debts. And considering you, well." He noncommittedly shrugs one shoulder. "Not that I don't like you, but you tend to be a bit of a pain in the ass sometimes. It's too bad, really. If things were different, I think you and I could be good friends."
But they were batting for different teams and playing for different masters. Angels and demons didn't become friends.
The Sin shifts in his seat and slowly drags his foot off the counter to notch it into one of the rungs of the stool. A rumbling laugh shakes his throat. "Ha -! See, I told you - you are a pissant and a greedy one at that. This is why I like you. At least you aren't afraid to set your terms. But don't get the wrong idea," he slurs and the claw he has shoved in the liquor bottle hooks, drawing a faint line inside the glass. "I don't work for anyone else. You can call in your favor, but don't expect anything other than that."
A light blinks off in his jacket. Greed slaps his foot outward to tilt the seat and drop the phone into his waiting hand. "That's Martel. She's on her way back with the last thing you need - " The Sin's expression softens, amused. "Sounds like she had a bit of a time with it, too. I won't hear the end of it."
"I am never 'off the clock' as it were." Murmur doesn't know what taking breaks means, he's a workaholic through and through. Wouldn't know what to do with himself with downtime, and even now he was barely containing his impatience at a lack of constructive activity. To his credit he wasn't pacing or perching weirdly... yet. He had every reason to be anxious. Quick as he might be able to flee if anyone so much as caught a whiff that he might be involved he was as good as executed. Angels did not typically believe in evidence or investigations, much less anything remotely like a fair trial.
"We cannot get involved, you know that. Our very presence is enough to nullify free-will, mortal kind cannot know of our involvement or existence. I am certain you see it still, the reverberations of our influence millennia after we stopped making contact remain." He gestures dismissively, letting out an impatient snort. "What's to miss? The destruction of this world, their greatest gift? The degradation of their souls? The efficiency by which they slaughter themselves? There may be no shortage of spare vessels to inhabit, but that is far from a ringing endorsement." That is to say it's been thousands of years for him since he'd last bothered to walk among mortal kind in any meaningful capacity.
Again a flippant and dismissive gesture, punctuated by Murmur lifting himself to perch on his stool more like a bird, rather than sitting in it like a normal person. It lets him keep his hands folded together in a triangular shape so that he resists the urge to fidget. It's unbecoming. "They teach us not to get involved. As I said, it is not our place. Only despair follows such acts, or has no one told you the truth behind the Flood?" He cants his head to the side curiously, now fixing Greed with that unnervingly heavy stare of his. A weight which feels as though it's peeling away at one's very essence layer by layer to lay beneath a microscope.
There's a disdainful huff at Greed's complaints. "You would hardly be useful to me on someone else's leash." Not that Murmur had any intention of putting him on one either, but it's amusing to hold the implied threat there all the same. Keep Greed guessing what might be coming down the line. "And you think we cannot now? Why?" It's not like he actually has any friends to speak of, so this is hardly different. Still, he did have to wonder what made it so impossible.
Then there was an interruption from their conversation, Murmur finally released Greed from his dreadful stare to stare blankly at a wall thousands of miles away. "Good. Finally." Once he was done perhaps he could just be on his way. Surely Greed could look after himself from this point, no? "Do they no longer keep a healthy supply of goats around?"
The Sin's finger idly slides out of the liquor bottle, leaving behind a smear of sludged sulfur in its wake. He wears an expression on face that's both jeering and thoughtful in the same breath; as if he has a million things to say, a million stories to tell, trapped behind his bear-trap smile. Angels are and were a complicated lot. They drew lines where there didn't need to be any, created rules that made little to no sense. Everything boiled down to absolutes: what was righteous and what certainly wasn't. And in all that black, all that white, they left little room for the cool, comfortably gray.
A shame. He always found that gray so much more inviting.
Greed cocks one of his eyes open to watch Murmur. "There it is. You're always thinking in absolutes. Sure, they aren't perfect, but it wasn't so long ago that yours weren't either," he tests his mouth again and a feather of ash lifts off his lip to join the rest of his growing collection. "I can't blame you, it's in your nature to see the worst of what they are. But tell me this: if you really think there's no point, why bother? Everything you do - " Trailing off, he eyes the bar's back mirror again. The points of him (the ones that pass as human anyway) are starting to fade more and more. His pupils trill in their sockets, threatening to pull apart and multiply like cells in a furnace, his skin is a pale, his teeth have elongated ever-so-slightly. Greed draws his shoulders up to his ears and as he pulls himself from his stool, the cloud he leaves behind is murky and thick. A devil's fog, whispering his movements.
"Why? Because you'll always be like that." He lifts his clawed hand and taps at the air. "You'll always be running to the morals that define you and I'll always ignore them. You can't help what you are, handsome and neither can I." The Sin tips his head to offer a cagey, toothy grin. "Doesn't mean I don't like you, far from it. If things were different, I'd have you in a heartbeat. Everything that you are, everything that you can do. But I told you: everyone wants something they can't have. I'm no different. Mmn."
Jerking, the Sin meets the sound of an opening door with an admiring look. "I'm not one to be on anyone's leash. And I think, at the end of the day, neither are you if you gave it a chance." Loud thumps rumble from the stairwell as he talks. Someone (something) has arrived with a hefty cache. "Save that thought, though. Seems beautiful has come back with everything you need."
Sure enough, a younger woman slinks into view from the bowed-out overhang making up the bar's entrance. At first glance, she could easily pass as human. Her nearly shaved head and face tattoo give her the look of a military brat gone rogue. Yet unlike Dolcetto, there's a cold demeanor about her that screams; that shouts, hisses, and silently rattles to keep far, far away.
Greed's smile brims when he sees her and he can't help the short, curt whistle as he watches her shoulder a rather burly, freshly slaughtered goat. "Well, well. That certainly is impressive, lovely."
Martel gives him a single, cool stare before shoving the goat off her shoulders and onto the floor with juicy thud. "Nothing impressive about it - what kind of shit did you get into anyway, boss?" She catches Murmur and her eyes narrow, if only by a hair. "I actually don't want to know all the details. Can Roa carry this to where ever you need it to go?" The knife strapped to her shoulder pops out after a quick play of her fingers and Martel casually wipes it on her pants.
"I'm sure he can. Good job, Martel," the Sin pockets his hands and shuffles his feet closer to the carcass. "No one bothered you while you were out, did they?"
Martel pauses, her knife held stiff and at the ready. After a moment, she shoves it back into its sheath with a leathery shhhss. "No, no issues. But - " Now that she's gotten a better look at him, her expression subtly shifts. She makes out Murmur again, chases Greed's ash. It isn't worry on her face, least not the normal kind. It's a hesitation. A concern buried under layers of defense and a need to coil up and constrict any feeling, any at all, until it chokes itself out.
She rubs her thumb against her index finger. A nervous fidget. "-you are ok, right?" She asks, softly.
Greed dips his spine to flash his extended teeth. "I'm fine, I promise. Just ran into some trouble. Our friend here is gunna fix it. Then, we'll all be on our merry fucking way." His lips shrink back together. "Don't worry about it. You've done everything you need to tonight. Go take a break. We'll let you know when it's all done."
The rules made sense to them, sometimes. Often they were methods of control. Not being creatures that adapted quickly like mortals they tended to swing in wild extremes, if something goes poorly it then becomes outlawed. Such they learned during the Fall, such they learned during other numerous mishaps. In the time it took them to learn a new lesson generations of mortals had come and gone in the blink of an eye. That wasn't to say they couldn't, and that wasn't to say things didn't change in subtle and dramatic ways over time.
"I never said there was no point, do not put words in my mouth. You also continue to make sweeping assumptions about me. You are not much different than that which you condemn." Maybe Greed touched a nerve, maybe Murmur is just getting tired of circular conversation and stress. It was hard to say, but there seemed to have been the very slightest cold edge that creeped into his usual monotone at that. Thankfully he was spared having to elaborate or continue with the tired argument not terribly long after. He does have enough time to cast Greed something of a puzzled look at the claims of being willing to 'have him.'
Not knowing how to respond to that, Murmur's happy for the distraction of Martel arriving with their package. Hopefully the slaughtering didn't involve cutting too many holes in it, they need all the blood they can get. At the very least this one looked more competent than Dolcetto did.
While they spoke Murmur hadn't moved, simply remained perched where he was like a weird bird, silently regarding the conversation. When he said he needed the blood he assumed that would come alongside a bucket... perhaps he should have been more clear? Well, nothing for it now. They'll make do with whatever they can find.
"You were setting up a room for this, yes?" Back to business as usual, all sign of emotion gone again. It's easier to be the impartial mask, he's been playing that game so long it just comes naturally.
As he leans down to grab the carcass, Greed slowly raises his arms to a mock surrender. It causes the fog of smoke hanging about him to gather thickly around his head - like swarm of buzzing, crop-hungry locusts readying themselves for their coming famine.
Shallowly, the Sin hangs his head. "Hey, hey - calm down, would you? You know I didn't mean anything by it." His spine writhes when he responds; as if a bundle of snakes were squirming just beneath his skin, ready and waiting to strike at whatever got too close. "I like you, angel. Haven't I said that enough?" His clawed hand stretches out and strangles the goat's bloated-belly carcass by one of its remaining horns. "I'm merely sayin' - it would be a lot easier if you weren't on anyone's side."
He pulls and the dead animal slowly slips off the floor, leaving behind a dreadful trail of loose hair and slop. Greed adjusts his arm to bring the goat's milky-eyed stare close for an inspection. "It's not like I'm taking orders from below. Haven't been for a while, actually." His pupils tense and shiver to brittle points as he examines the butcher's empty kill. There's no life left in those vacant eyes, just death. A nothingness, a void, where they should be something. Whether it bothers him or not though, it's hard to say. The way he turns his wrist to get a better look at the killing-cut, how he flippantly adjusts his hold to follow the puncture wound to the obvious cause of death: there's something disturbingly vacant about it. As if the concept of mortality is somehow foreign, impossible, for him to understand.
The Sin breaks the staredown with another even smile. "'Suppose it's just not who I am." Meaning he reports to no one. Not his wretched kin, nor any other masters of the dominion below that may try otherwise. No, he's a rogue prince and an aloof king a long way from home with no intention of ever going back.
Though many sure have tried.
Greed rolls the goat onto one shoulder and jumps to settle the body into the crook of his neck. "Besides, my greed's just too much. If I stayed with them, it would never be satisfied. And that's enough of a reason for me. I just hoped that maybe, someday, you could be the same." He jerks his head to the side and the swarm of soot trapped about his skull finally thins, revealing the splintered, veiny cracks donning the crown of his forehead. "Nevermind that, though. You needed a room, right? C'mon," the Sin's voice slicks hot at the back of his teeth. Already, his tongue has visibly split somewhere along the line and the forks of it run like liquid fire over his lower lip. "-should it just be us, then? Or do you need the rest of 'em around to seal the deal?"
Deeper, deeper, deeper into the building he goes, moving passed unmarked doors, unlit corners, and skittering eyes that are there one moment and gone the next. If his prison were the epitome of holy grounds, his sanctuary is the total opposite. Things and creatures dart and move through every piece of the building like permanent haunts. Even the structure itself seems off in a way: the pipes groan through the floorboards, the lights blink sporadic nonsense. To the mortal lot, the proper description might be a hell hole. And ironically? Well.
It isn't that far from the truth.
Greed pauses at one of the many vague doors down a hallway and with a soft kick, he forces it open, bringing with it musty cobwebs and the scent of wet-slick concrete and brick. "Been a bit since I've been down here, so watch your step." An unearthly glow throbs from down below as the Sin elbows a questionable light switch. Silt, dust, forgotten times: they plume out as he descends. Each step, every groan of a stair, only releasing more, more, more.
The Sin balances the goat as he shuffles and skips over a step or two to avoid a large hole. "I'll have to get that fixed eventually. Keep to the left. Don't need you falling today, hmn?"
"I am not asking for flattery or platitudes, I am asking you to cease making generalizations and assumptions about my motives and character." He doesn't think it's unfair to expect Greed to practice his own preaching. He's been making demands that Murmur give his goons a fair shake all night, something that he has largely done even if he was perhaps uncharitable toward the hellhound for asking stupid questions. While it was as much Murmur's fault for ever keeping his own council and that council closely guarded, if one were to take even the slightest look at his actions they might come to see that he is most certainly not driven by some Heavenly fervor. He hadn't burned the place to the ground, after all.
After another long flat stare Murmur just moved on, hopping down from his stool to start making his way toward the halls. The sensation of the conversation being brushed aside nigh palpable in that simple gesture. He wasn't interested in playing these games, he had a job to do and he'd get it done. The whole sordid affair was starting to leave a bad taste in his mouth.
Death was no more poignant to the Celestial. While he had tasted its bitter sting, the distinction between the life of an angel being snuffed out and that of a mortal creature was as distinctly different as the death of a star and the impact of an asteroid. Death was in their nature, some things required sacrifice, and this night was no exception.
"Oh, don't act wounded now. Do not preach at me then play the victim when your carelessness comes back to bite you." This time his words lacked the icy sting they had earlier, he was back to feigning boredom with the conversation. It wasn't like the angel was good at being conversational, not when he found the subject tiresome. Greed didn't know his stance on mortals nor was he inclined to spend the whole night defending himself. It was tiresome and pointless. No, words were deceptive, it was only in action one could best perceive another's intent.
"At least one pair of hands that can run a paint brush, otherwise whatever you need. Their presence is not required." He just needs them to do the heavy lifting because that's monkey work and Murmur isn't doing monkey work, even if he does like them just fine. He follows along silently, little more than a frosty shadow at their backs down the twisting hallways. The angel does not seem particularly bothered by the presence of spying eyes and skittering darkness. It is as much home to him as the blinding light of Heaven, but again... Greed wouldn't know that would he? Again Murmur only leveled a flat, unamused gaze at the demon telling him to watch his step. He could see just as well in the dark as he could in the light and scarce needed to concern himself with balance. Still, he makes no further comment, merely following along on the despicable path toward damnation's gut.
"I am hardly inclined to break a bone, you realize." He chides, still sounding bored as he skips over it with that obnoxious grace of the holy ones. Still unbothered, still barely even acknowledging the depths to which they were crawling. One would expect one of the holy ones to be complaining and squirming by now, fussing about the filth and degeneration. Not this one, he took it in stride and moreover managed to look wholly unimpressed with the whole thing.
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He deigns not to answer the first question, whether he believed it rhetorical or he simply didn't want to was equally left to be pondered without reply. He was busy, after all, trying to make sure his current task wasn't interrupted. The comment about them being on better terms did earn the faintest hint of an amused glance from the angel, who continued to hold his silence for the moment. It wouldn't last long, of course, but Greed had been locked down there long enough he surely had plenty to say.
"I am no executioner, Avarice. I find such methods distasteful." Not to mention it wouldn't do any good, he knew as well as Greed that eliminating the manifestation wouldn't rid the world of its existence. Instead it would leave a vacuum, something all consuming and unpredictable until a new Sin came into existence. For Greed would always exist, must always exist, it was in the nature of all created beings, and could not be so easily expunged. They were fools, driven by their own pride and greed to think otherwise.
"Simple, really, we get you back to where you belong. They may be bold enough to draw you into a trap, but even they are not fool enough for a direct assault. To execute an act of war that would surely necessitate a response would plunge Heaven and Hell into full-scale hostilities once more. To risk tearing the mortal world apart would be too great a cost, even for your captor." Ah, the concern was appreciated, and Murmur did offer Greed a brief flash of teeth, something like a smile and a snarl trapped in one strange gesture. Amusement still twinkled in his eyes as he finished with his warding. A few softly spoken words and there was a brief flash of light throughout the chalk drawings before they faded into the concrete and wood alike, invisible yet humming with power. That would do for the silence, now for the restraints.
For this he began plucking reagents out of pockets, some of which he less than politely stacked on Greed's chest with a muttered "Hold these," And no further explanation given. Though he did pause, and smirking faintly at his own joke added: "And try to hold still." As if Greed had a choice in the matter.
SORRY FOR THE DELAY bkgbsj
A snuff of sulfur puffs on his palm. "It's just Greed, angel," he lulls his voice, making it vibrate in his chest as low as a heater's rumbling exhaust. The smoke in his hand is dense; something thick, heavy, and yet weightless all the same. The Sin flicks his wrist. The smog in his hand gradually peels between his fingers and as it dissipates into thinning strands and eventual nothing, a small matchbox appears out of the gloom. For the most part, it's nondescript - an object so benign, it'd easily be missed.
Greed touches his nail to the side. "Are you sure about that?" How he asks is distant; like a man reminiscing about a story long gone. "You and I both know there's those of us who'd want that kind of reckoning. They've been after it for years." Again, he maps out his lower lip with his tongue; his expression both ancient and snide. "Who's to say this isn't part of the plan? C'mon, you're not that naïve."
Scrrch. The Sin's finger scratches and the matchbox ignites. It doesn't got up in flames like paper is supposed to. Instead, the top of it pops with a flurry of sparks - like a snap from a fire that hasn't quite died yet. "Then again, I've been wrong before. Ah - " The heat quickly dies down. What's left is a simple design on the top. Lines of red and ashy black sketch out what appears to be an impish creature of sorts. A caricature reminder of who and what he truly is.
Greed shakes the box once. "For the trouble," he starts back in with an offer. "-figured it could come in handy with whatever bullshit you have planned." Because he couldn't even begin to guess what the angel's up to. Devils have a different system with a whole different set of rules. Sure, there are similarities, but just like any other language, there's been variations and slight alterations over the centuries. Time, as well as their separate domains, have just increased their lack of mutual understanding.
When Murmur dumps his cache on his chest, the Sin rolls his eyes into the back of his head. Another clear sign of his discontent. "Not like I really have a choice, do I? Pissant - " His tongue lashes at his teeth, but the smile on his face says differently. Of course, Murmur couldn't help himself. He's always been like that. A little snark, a little spice, in all the Heavenly Father's pomp and circumstance.
It was, and is, a refreshing change.
Greed pushes the matchbox closed and the image on the top fades back into a matte black. "Can't keep my word on that, but it's not like I've been given a lot of wiggle room, lovely." His jaw curls. Even with the odds stacked against him, his disposition hasn't changed too much. He's still vicious, still wanting - a creature of habit through and through. "Just hope we don't end up making a habit of this, or I'll have to start asking a little more out of you."
No worries!
"Very well, just Greed." There's that cheek again, spoken in a soft monotone it's almost impossible to pick up the gentle humor there. Despite his sass, he continues his work. Taking reagents one at a time to begin applying them to the iron bindings holding Greed in place. The trick was simple enough, utilizing methods available and known both to mortal and demonkind alike it would leave a trail unlikely to suggest an angelic presence. Something to throw off the hunt from his trail directly, not that Murmur wouldn't lay low until the heat died down all the same.
"I am," For the moment, busy as he was, he only glanced at the offered match box with interest. "Your captor is arrogant, not stupid. Others on the other hand..." They would be pursued, yes, but those he could redirect more easily. "I may require your spark here in a moment." He just snorted at the comment about being naïve, of course he isn't. And that's why they're not going to be leading their pursuers straight back to Greed's den. That would be foolish.
Once he finally finished laying out the trap he began gathering up his supplies stuffing them back into hidden coat pockets like some kind of wearable bag of holding. Only then did he finally reach out to take the offered match box, eyeing it curiously. "What's this?" Even while he asked he proffered a simple small slip of paper, no larger than a grocery receipt, scribbled with incantations and arcane runes. "Light this, if you would please, then hold very still." He's going to blow the bindings and he'd prefer it if that didn't come with too much damage to Greed in the process. He'll heal, it would just be inconvenient.
One more derisive look. "If I keep having to come to your rescue you're going to start owing me for the trouble."
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Greed's throat bobs under his collar. "Ha - ! What a fucking smart ass," a wheeze strangles his voice. "No, they're not stupid, you've got that right. But it's a little ironic - I never did like Pride very much." He practically kisses the air when he sucks in a breath; the noise behind his teeth, a stinging kind of snap. "Funny that yours always seem so wrapped up in it."
Pride was the oldest, so it really shouldn't have been that much of a surprise. After all, wasn't that how this whole thing started? A bit of pride, too much ambition. In the end, it had meant the collapse of it all. And while there had been those who fell to their demise, they had crept out of the craters left in the aftermath. Living distortions of all that was good, twisted and craving for eternity.
The Sin's hands splay out with as much of a shrug as he can manage. "It's a matchbox, but that's not what you're really asking, is it?" His fingers stroke the air. "You can call it a calling card. I only offer it to a few people, so consider it a favor. Equivalent exchange." Greed's eyes turn to try to take a look at the other. He can see a bit more of his work now: the small slip of paper, the various scribbles written on its surface. At this angle, they come through all backwards - like a passing sign in a rearview mirror. He can read the gist of it, but it takes him a moment. And as his cat-slit eyes flick over what's written, he can't help but be impressed. Leave no track, no trace. And ah, ah, ah, how faithful Murmur truly was.
"Oh - ? A please? That's a first." Nevertheless, Greed snaps his left thumb and another wandering flame trills over his fingernail. "Starting to like me a little better?" His smile wrinkles his face, making his lips thin out and his teeth expose themselves to the dim. He raises his lit finger to his mouth and as it touches his lip, the Sin shoos a low exhale out from between the cracks of his jaws; his look, like a coy librarian trying to quiet a rowdy bunch of children. The reaction that follows is immediate. The fire bursts out, its fingers reaching delicately to snatch at the piece of paper.
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"It is among our greatest flaws," He concedes, and there's the faintest touch of sorrow to that. It's again whisked away by the business-like nature that seems to dominate this one. It's something he tries not to dwell on, the horror of watching his brethren fall, the pain of all that loss. These things happened so long ago and yet the wounds never do fully heal, do they? It's not something he's going to dwell on now. There's a job to be done and Murmur is very good at keeping it professional.
He doesn't answer the obvious question, only inspects the matchbox closer upon the revelation of what it truly was. With a sound of quiet approval through his nose he tucks it into an inner pocket on his coat, moving to resume the task at hand.
"As I said, I am not without my manners." He feigns haughtiness, but it's not very convincing, nor does he maintain the look for long. With the flames sparked he lets the paper catch, it spits and crackles far more violently than any tiny sheet of paper had a right to do. Quick as you will he touches the paper one by one to each prepared brace and with a crack and brilliant flash of light each blasts apart. One by one by one and soon enough Greed the bindings are broken and Greed can finally free himself. Once done he flicked the remaining ashes away from his gloved fingers, stepping back to allow Greed the room to extract himself from his bindings.
"And voila."
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Greed's eyes snap open, the whites of them wide and gaping. "HAHAHA - !" Where the chains had left their mark, his skin quickly begins to repair; the lapping of red electric and sizzling hisses effectively licking his wounds clean. The Sin flexes his fingers. "Oh, you do know how to work your magic, don't you?" He asks and his body slowly rises up from the table like reanimated ghoul. He tests his neck by rolling it to one side and then the other.
Cnch, cnch.
"Ah, that's much better." Greed shoves his palm deep into the muscle to push away any remaining kinks. Of course, he'll need a little more time to be at his full potential. But for now, he's functional. Upright. And as the venom from the binding slowly wanes, he can sense that spark of his igniting again; his core, all but calling back to him from the bowels below.
The Sin shifts, allowing his sharp-cut heels to clack against the basement floor. "Mnn. I guess we should get out of here, shouldn't we?" He tests his footing, stumbles, then rights himself again. "Ah, might still not be 100% here, friend. But first - " He licks the corner of his mouth, pushing a dry spot off to the side. His captors had done a good job denying him not just of his freedom, but of his things as well. And maybe, that had been the entire point. Choke avarice out, starve it, until it was nothing more than a husk.
Greed saunters about the basement towards a locker in the back corner. He doesn't bother trying the door, but instead shoves his fist through the steel at the side, leaving a toothy, bent-metal hole. "Not about to let them have what isn't theirs. I'm sure you can understand," he hisses. From inside, he pulls out a few things: a leather jacket with a fur-collar trim, a set of keys, and a black checkbook with no markings or company logo to distinguish it from anything else.
He gingerly tosses on his jacket with some effort and pockets the rest. "Now, we can go. Though, you might wanna be quick about it." A humming trill tickles the back of his throat, and Greed rolls another matchbox out from the inside of his sleeve. It catches between the points of his nails like a promise.
Because steal from avarice and Lord, oh Lord, you might get burned.
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The angel does shoot Greed a firmly "must you?" look, at both the laughter and his trotting about collecting his things. He lets out something of a frustrated sigh, but so long as Greed didn't dally overmuch he wouldn't verbally complain until it became truly dire. "Do try to be swift," He hisses, already moving back to the window to vault himself up and begin scrabbling out. Still somehow managing to make even the less dignified escape look somehow graceful. Angels are cheaters like that. Bracing himself against the frame he offers down a hand.
"I might want to be quick?" He scoffs, gesturing for Greed to hurry up so he can pull him out. "Take any more time and I might begin to suspect you want to hear the trumpets sounding." He's only being snappish because now the chase was really on, and as swift as Murmur could flee by himself it would be much more difficult to pull Greed along with him. It would be extremely hard to explain why he was carrying a demon should he be caught in the act.
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"Hmn. Yeah," when he finally answers, he's distant. A man caught in a completely different thought. The Sin shrugs his shoulders. He follows Murmur towards the window and the matchbox sails over him and behind his back. The fire doesn't take immediately. It leaves plenty of time; enough for him to scramble up and out the shallow window, his body twisting and writhing as nimble as a serpent squirming out of a trap. It's only when the square of his heel finds a crumbling piece of brick, does he finally pop loose.
And oh, isn't it poetic? Sin itself, back in the swill of it all.
Greed plants the flats of his hands into a puddle of water. "Might be more exciting otherwise - tch." Crnch, and another bone in his neck slides into place. The catching fire in the basement presses faintly against the glass. What had been murky before is now a low glow; a fever of reds and yellows licking where they can and setting beams alight in scales of burnt-crisp destruction.
The Sin staggers out of the muck on one foot, then two. Combined with the steady onslaught of rain, he looks like a drowning victim. His hair flattens across his forehead, the leather of both his pants and jacket cling to him for dear life. Greed casually shoves his thumb into a nostril. A snort later, and the last of the caked-in blood sizzles on the pavement.
"Kind of hard to be as fast as usual friend. Eh - " He checks the sky. Overhead, the clouds roll out their frustration. Lightning sharpens across the skyline like a warning and a low-howling wind batters the alleyway, turning trash into a concentrated funnel.
Greed shakes his head and runs his hand quickly through his hair to spike it out. "Lead the way, then. I'm sure someone's bound to visit pretty soon. Made sure it wouldn't all catch right away, but I only gave us a few minutes."
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Greed's display was very dramatic, he's sure, but Murmur had far more to worry about than to appreciate the aesthetic of the fire's glow glinting off darkened lenses or the winking flash of a baleful light in the storm. No, he has to worry about an escape route.
"Do you have a... what are they called? Vehicle?" Is that the word? He thinks it may be. They'd do much better in that than on foot. While the water drenches, soaks, and clings to the Sin it doesn't quite seem to seep so on the angel. Unlike so many of his brethren this one is not a being of fire, but of storms and ice. The sea and the rain are equally his domain, and while that water does dampen him, it rolls off him much as it does the feathers of a duck. He is quite decidedly in his element, something that will grant them a little cover for a time longer yet.
"Neither you nor I are capable of fighting off an enraged Holy Host, we are best slinking in the gutter out of their lofty gaze." Most would find that humiliating, but Murmur has never been a fan of Pride. He will do whatever is necessary, no matter the cost. He turns heel to begin leading them away from the crime scene. The mortals will catch on soon, better to be well out of their way before questions have to be answered. "You know this world better than I, where might one go should they wish to disappear?"
sdgkjbs SORRY FOR THE DELAY MAN ...
Though, even that seems to have a catch.
The Sin clicks his tongue behind his teeth. "Follow me." He doesn't wait or even bother to check to see if the angel is following him. Rather, he appears to be more focused; tuned in. Like a big cat with hunger in its belly and ah, ah, ah, is there prey to be had.
Greed slouches against the rain, his shoes and heels making the slosh and muck pluck themselves into deep, steaming pockets behind him. While he exactly doesn't have a vehicle at the ready, that doesn't mean he can't find one. And in a town as winding as this, in a place full of empty holes to stick him in, it wouldn't be hard to find something of use.
Another shudder of lightning splinters above them, turning the sky into a purpling bruise. "As for that other thing, just leave it to me, hmn? Sometimes I wonder if you actually trust me, handsome." A shivering streetlamp surges above the narrow street they're on in a gassy yellow and while the bulb struggles to keep alight, the Sin's body visibly stiffens. He's caught something in his eye. Something suitable, right, and perhaps, God's chosen aren't the only ones with a little bit of luck.
Greed's arm shoots out from his side in a sudden, violent snap and the flesh on his hand quickly disappears. From his fingertips upward, a second skin begins to crawl itself into place. It turns his nails into talons, his knuckles bulbous and boney. The look of it like an oil slick with the ability to defend itself. The Sin lets out a soft whistle. "Looks like your prayers have been answered," he hums before the block of his fist meets the driver's side window. With a splintering crack and a sprinkle of shattered glass, he's in. All hands, all want, clambering to take what's his.
He shoves a button on the inside of the door and the lock on the passenger's side clicks open with a soft plunk. "After you," he slurs. The angel may have his perks against mother nature, but him? His have always been with the material. The needs of mankind, the desires of them, all but molding under his fingertips. Greed rips opens the plastic console under the steering wheel with little more than a pop and squeal of plastic, leaving the insides as open and raw as freshly killed carcass. Half outside the car, sprawled and stretched, he gets to work. A dash of hellfire there, an impish tweak here - a devilish mechanic, engrossed in his work.
Finally, the Sin leans below the steering wheel. He extends his tongue between two particular wires and a small electric current buzzes over his teeth. Greed grips the upper curve of the wheel to pull himself into the driver's seat, and he yanks the door shut. "It'll take a while to get there. Just don't judge them too much, hmn? They are mine, but they won't bother you unless you give 'em a reason to. Ah - "
A pleased sort of smile graces his face. It lights him up from the inside out; a breath of sorts, filling him up with all that fire, all that wickedness, that he had been missing. Greed thumbs a built-in lighter into the dash and as he turns to check the rearview, he haphazardly throws the car in reverse. Mud and water screams murder under the wheels as he wildly jerks the vehicle out of its parking spot. A second later, and he punches into first gear, forcing the car to zigzag out of the muck; its swinging spin, like a fishtail darting under the tide.
It's all good!
"Trust? A tall order in times like these," He scoffs, but despite the monotone it's good natured coming from the frosty angel. He plays the distance and dismissiveness well, and yet here he is sloshing through the mud after the Sin whom he could have easily left to his own devices once the trap was sprung. Could have left him to his fate as well, though that would have proven to be a headache for all further down the line. The universe will always seek balance, a new Sin will rise, and that one might not be as accommodating as the one he's accustomed to.
Ah, their chariot awaits. Gleaming brilliant in the flash of lightning and sputtering of street lamps, just asking for the taking. Of course Murmur feigns a disappointed look at the act of theft and window breaking, but it bore no more venom than the rest of his haughty act did. It was merely the act of going through the motions, behaving as he should in the presence of Sin rather than with any real feeling behind it. Righteousness was reserved for very special occasions, and he did ask for a vehicle. Of course, he was grateful Greed broke the window on his own side, so he can spend the drive being wet and uncomfortable.
While Greed works away on getting the beast running Murmur makes himself comfortable in the passenger seat. He can't drive, so it's not like he'd try to anyway, he also doesn't bother with seatbelts because what are those anyway? So while Greed works, he's popped open the glove box and is taking the time to scribble arcane symbols inside with that chalk produced from within his coat once more. Might as well do a little work while the Sin's busy. He can ward it up more later, once they're out of the thick of it.
"Them?" He asks, ignoring the implication of him being judgmental. He already told Greed that's not his wheelhouse. "Come now, you should know by now I do not make a habit of instigation." He is very polite he'll have you know. As for the driving? He does cast Greed a sidelong glance as if to ask 'must you?' He won't protest, not out loud, but he will make faces of disapproval. "Try not to roll this over on the way, would you?" It wouldn't kill them, but it would be inconvenient.
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Greed plays footsie with the clutch and the gas as his free hand shoves the gears, effectively reversing his fate and throwing them forward in one fell swoop. At first, he seems to miss the angel's questions entirely - his attention drifting to the sensation of it all. He lets the cracked-tooth window spit rain in his face, he cranks the car a bit faster than is certainly legal. Everything. It's always boiled down to that simplicity: everything. It floods through him as entrapping as an addict to their substance of choice. And like a man chasing his poison, his thrill is just as deadly and just as plainly visible on his face.
The Sin's mouth warps into a lunatic's sneer and faint trails of black-rich smoke peel through his teeth. He starts in again with a small bark of laughter. "Ha - ! A tall order, huh? I suppose," his tongue lashes out and the tip languidly begins to split in a rake of hot, red coals. "Can't blame me for trying. Here - " He fishes a phone out from the pocket of his vest and haphazardly tosses it into Murmur's lap. "-dial 003-12-7. If someone picks up the line, just say Ouroboros. It'll connect you to our next stop."
Wildly, he lets the wheel spin through his fingertips and the car bounces onto a main road. "You do know how you to use one of those, right? Nevermind." He waves his wrist and the black screen statics. At first, it merely blues out in the dark; the sudden onslaught of fake light and bright colors all but washing the inside of the vehicle in a soft, foggy haze. The Sin makes a few, simple gestures with his fingers and as traffic lights blare their greens, their yellows, and reds, the phone begins keying in the numbers one at a time:
003-12-7
Greed takes another erratic turn onto the freeway. "As for the other thing - " He begins while the phone connects to the radio of the car. For a while, a dial tone is all he gets; its tolling noise a constant heartbeat waiting in anticipation. When it clicks to a receiving end, he wastes no time.
"Oi, oi, oi - coming in hot, sweetheart. And I've got company this time - "
"Where the FUCK have you been!?" A male's voice practically barks through the car's sound system, making it static as the Sin carelessly plunks into a rather large pothole.
"Oh - ? Sounds like the hound's a little mad with me. C'mon, don't be like that," Greed's voice curls out of his throat like a fire trying to flirt. The skin around his neck bristles in turn and flakes of pitched soot quiver off the dip of his collarbones. "Ran into a little bit of trouble and not the usual kind."
The man through the radio's silent for a second. "What kind of trouble? Are you ok? Where are you? And what do you mean company? Greed - Boss - "
The Sin's laughter hisses from his grinning mouth, wide and smoggy. "HA - ! Oh, don't stick that tail between your legs just yet. We'll just say I had a little divine intervention - " That earns a quick sputter of curses through the speakers and Greed jovially slaps the steering wheel a few times. "No, he's not that bad. Remember what I told you? There's - "
"-no such thing as no such thing, yeah. I know - ! But can we really trust this guy? I mean we're talking about - "
"Now, no need to be rude. He's right here," Greed gestures with his hand at nothing the man on the other side of the line could possible see and that shuts up the call real quick. The sound of a shattering bottle makes its way through the receiver. Whether the Sin hears it or is, as par for the night's course, ignoring it is tough to say. "Just close up early. Get everyone who doesn't need to be there out. And - " He pauses to shoot a look at Murmur.
"-if you've got things we need, now's the time to ask."
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It was fortunate that it didn't take Greed long to remember he was dealing with someone who probably rarely, if ever, touched anything even remotely technological. When he handed Murmur the phone the angel just looked at it in deep confusion. Brows furrowed, expression one of intense puzzlement as he rolled it over in his hands trying to figure out what exactly he meant by "dial" and how one was supposed to do such a thing anyway? To him it seemed nothing more than a shiny flat rectangle of plastic and glass, utterly alien as anything beyond something one might use to prop up an unbalanced table.
Whatever gestures and magic incantations Greed used to activate the device served in no way to clarify how it worked, and Murmur just held it up pinched delicately between his fingers like he expected it to explode or something. Eyes darting between the object and where he thought one of the speakers was, and Greed, as absolutely nothing manifested to answer the questions reeling in his mind. What was this, how did it work, what was this trickery? And who was this Greed was talking to anyway?
Murmur was going to protest them continuing to talk about him like he wasn't there, but Greed took care of that before his confusion slowed down long enough to get words out. Okay, so, whatever this strange rectangle was it facilitated ranged communication. That wasn't impossible to grasp, the how wasn't necessarily important at the immediate moment even if the question would chew him up all night until he got an answer.
It took him several more moments to realize he was being invited to speak. "Ah..." Hold on, the angel is rebooting. "Well. I suppose if you want to remain difficult to find I could arrange something. I will require goat's blood. A quantity sufficient for the size of your domicile." You're gonna need a lot, Greed, a whole lot. "Graveyard dirt, and soot I... think you can manage without additional preparation." Glancing at how much Greed soots all on his own, they'll manage that just fine.
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"Yeah, fuck, yeah I got it. I don't know where the fuck we're going to find some of this, but I'm on it. I'll send Martel up to the butcher on the other side of town. She gets along better with the woman there anyway - " The Sin inhales his smoke as the man rattles on and the tip fumes a toxic orange-blue. "As for the rest of it, it's gunna take us some time. Boss, can you at least tell me what the fuck is going on?"
Greed shoves the lighter back into the console with an audible plnk. "I thought I was pretty clear about that. Don't tell me you're going deaf - " Again, his comment gets him a string-sputter of swears through the receiver. "-oi, oi, oi. All right, all right, calm down. The deal went south." He breathes in and the black coating on his throat begins to stretch upward, threatening both his jawline and ear. "The last one - the investor. Turns out he has friends with good information. Caught me off guard."
"Bradley? How in the shitting hell did he get his hands on - ?"
"Doesn't matter," the devil chimes back in, clipping the questioning off at its head. "-we'll be there in another 30 minutes. Just make sure you get it all handled, huh?"
"We'll take care of it. Just .. " The man trails off as if he's trying to find his words and pick them carefully. "Just be careful, would you? I know you'll be fine and nothing's taken you out yet, but - "
The cigarette shrinks in the Sin's teeth; his grin and insatiable hunger making short work of the tobacco. "Easy pup or I'll start thinking you've missed me. See you soon." With that, he waves his wrist and the call severs. Greed tiredly slaps his turn signal. "Sorry about all that. Dol tends to get a little frantic when things aren't ideal, but he's not so bad. A worrier sure, but he'll get you what you need."
He guides the car onto an offramp. Away from the highway, the signs of visible settlement quickly thicken. Houses and wooded off-shoots give way to bigger buildings and shopping centers. Wherever the Sin's made his home in this world, it's where people are. And while most places have either closed for the night or are on their way out, it's clear that he's planted himself in the midst of it all: a forest, a hiding spot, of steel, concrete, and lights that never truly go out.
A demon in a proverbial haystack.
Greed takes the main drag with little care of speed. "Try not to be too much for them, will you? They don't tend to like your kind very much." Another corner, a third. The deeper they go, the tighter the streets become until they're nothing more than one-way roads splintering out as confusing as a ball of knotted string. When he finally slows, it's under a brilliant, red light that he creeps. The sign above is damp under the weather; the paint of it old and well-loved. The Sin jumps the car up onto the curb as one of the floodlights strobes intermittently.
He cuts the engine. "Welcome to The Devil's Nest, angel."
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After that he's content to shut up and let Greed deal with his yapping comrade. Once the call was over and the strange device no longer needed he just set it in a convenient enough looking compartment, casting a sidelong glance at the Sin.
"You are certain they're competent?" They didn't sound competent. "And if I may... what was that about someone getting their hands on something?" Murmur didn't miss any of that, though he did note it had been cut off before Dol could say too much. He expected he'd be brushed off, but it didn't hurt to try.
Thankfully Greed knew how to hide himself, well... as well as he could among a world like this with little knowledge of the arcane. That said it would only do so much good, their adversaries wouldn't be traveling by vehicle or foot, they'd be traveling by air and use senses far above those of mortal kind to hunt their quarry. They had to work quick, and Murmur would have to make it harder for them to be sniffed out by Heaven's own forces. Hell might have their hounds... Heaven didn't need them. Meticulously Murmur memorized their streets, their signs, and whatever landmarks he could on their trip. He'd need to know how to get back there, for once he was finished with is work it would also become difficult for him to perceive.
Greed's comments about him being "too much" for his crew only earned another one of those flat looks. He'll be exactly as much as he pleases, thank you very much. "I am doing you and yours a favor, if you'll recall." So they're just going to have to deal with it, whether or not they like him. Besides, he was there to do a job, not make friends.
Finally at a stop Murmur opened his door, pausing to sniff the air before stepping out, nose wrinkled in distaste. Crawling with demons it set his teeth on edge and prickled every alarm bell in his senses. He'd tolerate it, of course, but that didn't mean he was any more comfortable being there than they were going to be having him around. He gestured for Greed to lead the way. "Best you introduce me." So they knew better than to start anything. Murmur wasn't one for a fight, that didn't mean he wouldn't defend himself should the need arise.
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It's the scent of the living: their foods and drinks, their fumes and industries, their nights and their lives washing over in a wave of cohabitation.
Greed shakes his cigarette and a spiral of smoke meets the fog like the embrace of friends meeting after a long departure. "What? Oh, that," he starts in while his body lifts itself out of the car. Much like before, his movements are ghoulish; he's heavy and light, tense and yet oh-so at ease. The Sin tiredly shrugs his shoulder while he passes under the roof of the car. "That's a long story. And like you said, we don't exactly have a lot of time."
Exposed to the weather, his smoke threatens to go out. The tip of it shivers under the neon overhang - a heartbeat more, and it could die out forever. Yet, it never does. Forcibly, the heat hangs on despite it all, and Greed idly shoos the driver's door closed. "Ha - !" He barks, forcing another peel of ash to shed from his throat. "That's a little harsh, huh? You haven't even met them yet."
He waves at something around his face before pocketing his hands and strolling toward the entrance. The alleyway he's chosen as his spot is nothing to write home about. Old, rust-toothed garbage cans stare back at the two of them like husked-out jack-o'-lanterns; their packaged insides, black and bulbous with garbage. The Sin nudges an empty bottle of something out of the way and as it scratches into a corner somewhere, he pauses.
"There's really only a few you need to know about," his back to Murmur, Greed begins to list things off on his fingers. "Dol's a hellhound and a pretty good one too. He's just a bit excitable. Martel's got a little bit of snake in her, so try to keep on her good side. Bido's harmless, just keep an eye on your valuables. As for Roa - " He trails off, and the silence fills with every clip and clop of his heels as he makes his way downward. "- he's a bit bullheaded, if you get what I mean. Silent type. He won't bother you unless you make him bother you. Other than that, if you need something brewed, it's the 'Doc you wanna talk to."
Finally, he closes in on the entrance. Whether on purpose or simply because he happened to like it, the door itself is pretty nondescript. A series of bolts lock it into place on the other side and a small slat at the top harkens back to a completely different time. The only thing of note are the candles. An arrangement of them melts softly in the corner; their blacks and golds mixing together in a raw, metal-worker's sludge.
Greed flicks out one finger and the nail on his hand curves, cutting raw sketches into the steel. "When I say three, try not to inhale. I know yours don't breathe, but trust me on this one." His hand arcs and sulfur lines begin to follow his movements. Up, down, around, sideways. The Sin breaks to put his cigarette back in his mouth. "You ready? One - "
He moves upward with his sketch and his earlier lines begin to ignite.
"Two - "
Sparks crack into life. They chase every inch of his design like a gunpowder fuse or a sparkler years past its expiration date. Whatever the source of the heat is, it's warmer than before. Stifling. White billows bleed into the steel, eating away small, hissing flecks until the small passage they're in becomes glaringly bright.
"-three."
And what crashes in is delirious. Shrill, violent static consumes the space - its presence both silent and impossibly loud; like that of an atom bomb dropped at a range far too close for comfort. For a few, horrible seconds, that's all there is: an endless white, a chamber of noise, clawing, biting, and scratching at wherever it can.
Then, comes the smell.
Putrid, raw, sweaty, sweet: they're all there, tumbled together and shaken just for good measure. The Sin makes some sort of noise in the back of his throat that's pleased, excited, and menacing at the same time; its tone akin to that of a man being both choked and willing to pay for it. When he exhales, the fantastic lights and nauseating sound fall back to nothing. Nothing save a dingy bar that (most certainly) wouldn't pass any current mortal codes.
Greed tests his neck. "AH - it's been a while since I had to do that," he takes his sunglasses from his face and swipes them once. A ceiling fan up above them trundles on its cables and as the dust and ash settles, he's met with the clambering of people. There's movement out back, soft shouts from below. The Sin weakly raises to his feet and with one hand out, he presses a single finger inside his ear.
"Boss - Boss - !" A man howls from the other side of the bar. It's the one from earlier, now made flesh. Where Greed may have height and demeanor on side, Dolcetto seems to have speed and maneuverability. The hellhound dodges obstacles (tables, a thrown aside chair, glasses) without missing a beat - his focus, trained on the Sin in question.
Greed sags his wrist to wave the hound away. "It's nothing, Dol. Just needed some insurance," the Sin purses his lips; his expression similar to someone from a dentist's office after a couple of numbing shots. "Did you get most of what we need yet?"
The hellhound fidgets. "No, not all. Martel's still out - " Dolcetto's eyes wander to Murmur and it's there, just there, that his true nature gives him away. His eyes aren't brown, they're yellow. His teeth aren't smooth, they're gnarled. The hound's upper lip twitches as if it doesn't know what to do with itself. "Gree - boss," he whispers.
"Yeah, I know. But he wouldn't be here if I didn't owe him one or didn't trust him. Angel, meet Dolcetto. Dol, meet the reason we're going to have a long night."
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Having nothing further to say on the subject of Greed's minions or their location Murmur stays silent, eyes wandering about taking in the details. Old walls stained with ages past, faded and fresh graffiti layers deep, piles of rusted and rotting trash and debris forming twisted abominations in the dark. All the signs of human life in its stinking, twisted refuse that rolls downhill and piles upon the 'less desirable.' It was a matter of fact that the most interesting of their species could often be found in places like this. Even more a matter of fact one could gauge the quality of a society by just how deep these urban junkyards went. For how they treated their least fortunate directly weighed against the value of those sitting at the top.
This world was rotten. Fortunately they'd been sworn to never do another flood.
As much as he seems to no longer be paying attention Murmur was listening to Greed's instructions. Thankfully he in fact did not need to breathe, and was mindful not to inhale when the demon began forging the door to his domain. Were Murmur a fledgling to such things he'd likely have been startled by the sudden violence of it all. The light, the sound, the smell would have sent most angels reeling in a panic of holy light and lashing out. Greed's lucky he's not dealing with someone more skittish, or he might have had a few burns that would prove much harder to heal than the minor inconvenience of his capture.
As it was, Murmur appeared barely phased by it all. Once it was over he simply blinked down at the devil on his ass, reaching up to casually dust some rain off the shoulder of his coat while the one identified as "Dol" came crashing over exactly like an over excited pit bull terrier. To his credit, Murmur didn't move. Not to assist, nor to get out of the path of a rampaging hell hound. He, more than most, understood the song and dance of bluff and bluster. To flinch would be to show weakness, to puff up and display would be to show threat. To do nothing at all? Well, he's long found that to have a much more amusing effect. No threat, no bluster, no flinching or showing off. Only calm watching with his head canted ever so slightly to one side. Curious, but not too curious. Let the demons scrabble about finding their footing with an enemy in their midst, he can wait.
"What were you saying about competence again?" He asked lightly, flippantly even as he eyed Dol fidgeting and admitting his failure. Really, just how hard was it to go out with a shovel this time of night? He did offer something of a faint inclination of his head in greeting. Polite, if heavily reserved. One did not risk excessive deference to a hound they didn't know. "I suppose there is a point to be made, if not for me your night may have been cut tragically short." Do stop blaming him for your failures, Greed, he doesn't much appreciate it.
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But that's it. No comment, no exchange of words. The devil quickly corrects himself and sets his path back to the bar.
"I told you, they're mine. Stop worrying so much," Greed's back dips and his jacket falls like liquid off his shoulders. He takes the time to shrug it off on a nearby stool where it drops disheveled into a pinched-up pile of upturned leather and fur. "-at this point, it'll be almost impossible for them to track us down. We have some time, angel."
Blindly, he stretches out his arm and lets his fingers search the backside of the bar. "Besides, haven't you ever heard the phrase? When there's no gold left, turn right, go left - ah." Srct: his nails find something and dig in. A hungry connection, sharp and cutting. Greed lifts a hefty bottle of Hell-knows-what from a hidden compartment and as his teeth tear through the cork like a hyena to a bone, a sliver of a smile creases on his face. It's the same one as before, though haggard. A devil-may-care attitude flooding in as the liquor pours deep down his throat. Because demons, devils - they were like that, weren't they? Creatures with enough ego, enough of a complex, that they always kept crawling back.
One of the bar stools tips dangerously to the side and Greed settles in, his one leg kicked up and stretched out on the counter's beaten-in edge. "Pup, you already got the dead man's dirt, right? Then we're just waiting on Martel." He tosses the cork of the bottle onto the bar top, letting it spin like a dreidel. "That woman's someone you don't have to worry about."
"Martel hasn't been gone that long, anyway." Dolcetto chips in. He's pointedly avoiding looking at Murmur when he can, save for the few, chaste examinations and glares. It's all too obvious that the hellhound has some internal conflicts about the situation. On one hand, there's an enemy in their midst. An enemy, by all accounts, they shouldn't even be speaking to right now. On the other hand -
On the other hand.
Greed takes another healthy swig of his drink before slapping the bottle on the bar top, making the liquor skip a beat in the glass. "Our heavenly friend does have a point, though. Try to make him feel comfortable, huh?" The Sin lifts his head. In the muddied mirror of the bar, his reflection seems to warp. It's still him: that same face, that same pin-prick stare. Yet, his eyes: they're brighter than before. A red bleeds out of them like tail lights chasing in the dark.
Greed sways his wrist. "Get something ready in one of the spare rooms. Once Martel gets back, we'll get everything settled." Another flaking peel of ash tumbles off his knuckles and Dolcetto's mouth screws itself into a worried frown. Again, however, he says nothing and instead eyes Murmur one last time before disappearing back into the building's deep and numerous pits.
The Sin flattens his hand on the bar top. "Take a seat, angel. Could be another few minutes before Martel shows up." A noticeable change chokes in his throat. It clings there, holding on and debating. He can't let down his shield, he never could. Yet, pushing himself as he did -
Greed's teeth tighten together into a jeering grin and the black at his collar hitches up a little more over his jawline. "You've really got me in a pickle don't you, you little pissant? Tch." His nails dig into the wood of the bar. He doesn't bother hiding it anymore; that black skin (as dark as oil and just as slick), the way his nails have extended and bent like a vulture's ever-seeking talons. It's the monster underneath it all, finally coming to the surface. An ugly thing, rotten and consuming.
And now? Now he has a debt to pay.
The Sin's mouth opens and a cloud of smog exhausts from his lungs. "Guess I owe you. So, what is it you want? When all of this is said and done. I am fair, remember. Equivalent exchange." He waggles his claws. "Name it and we'll see what I can do. I'd really hate to have a debt hanging over me."
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The hound may be uncomfortable having such an intruder, but Murmur was in the thick of an enemy's nest and severely outnumbered. He was no more comfortable with the situation than they.
"I have not heard such a phrase, no." He confessed, only looking perplexed at the strange wording. So, while Greed dug around for whatever it was he was after Murmur helped himself behind the bar counter as well, but he was looking for something quite different. A bowl, simple stainless steel and exactly what he needed. He tossed it on the counter next to Greed. "Ash in that, if you would." He's going to need it for what he's brewing. Might as well collect everything they can while they wait for the main ingredient.
As for Dol, Murmur seemed content pretending he wasn't there. The hound could scowl and glower all he wanted, Murmur wasn't going to be bothered by it. Now it was just a waiting game, his least favorite. The offer of a seat was met with a flat stare for a few moments before he sighed and relented, moving back around to go perch on a stool, eventually settling with his back and elbows leaned up against the bar. "One would think you'd be at least moderately more grateful, all things considered," He quipped lightly, not acknowledging the 'pissant' accusation.
The offer, though, was met with something of a sly sideways smirk on the angel's part. "I'm afraid that is a debt you're going to have to carry for a time, demon. When it is time you will hear my request and not a moment before." Greed's just going to have to squirm on it. No one enjoys having a debt hanging over them, bad news for Greed is that Murmur rather enjoys collecting them.
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"It's all in God's plan," they say. Perhaps that isn't so far from the truth.
A healthy clump of ash wafts off his hand and goes topside into the bowl. "You're missing a lot up there. Sure, you're watching it, but you're still missing the most important things. I don't get it." Humming, he reaches up to his throat to give his neck a light scratch. While his nails should, by all accounts, tear his flesh to ribbons, they meet the charcoal coating like gears grinding in the dark, and sparks fissure off his fingertips. "That's the problem with you and it's why yours always seem to have to resort to extremes. Tell me, when's the last time you really sat down with them? Really gotten to know them? You could learn a few things from the mortal lot."
When he yanks his claws away, the shells of his nails are thick with soot. Greed taps them off into the bowl. "Miracles aren't worth shit anymore. It's what you do that matters. Isn't that what they teach you up there? Eh." The lines he scratched in blister to gold. They make a map of his throat; how it dips in places, how it thickens out into the bottom of his skull, how it expands whenever he sucks in at the backs of his teeth.
Greed wraps his free hand around the neck of the bottle and plugs it with a finger. "As for that," he snaps his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "No one said I wasn't grateful, pissant. I just don't like it when I can't settle my debts. And considering you, well." He noncommittedly shrugs one shoulder. "Not that I don't like you, but you tend to be a bit of a pain in the ass sometimes. It's too bad, really. If things were different, I think you and I could be good friends."
But they were batting for different teams and playing for different masters. Angels and demons didn't become friends.
The Sin shifts in his seat and slowly drags his foot off the counter to notch it into one of the rungs of the stool. A rumbling laugh shakes his throat. "Ha -! See, I told you - you are a pissant and a greedy one at that. This is why I like you. At least you aren't afraid to set your terms. But don't get the wrong idea," he slurs and the claw he has shoved in the liquor bottle hooks, drawing a faint line inside the glass. "I don't work for anyone else. You can call in your favor, but don't expect anything other than that."
A light blinks off in his jacket. Greed slaps his foot outward to tilt the seat and drop the phone into his waiting hand. "That's Martel. She's on her way back with the last thing you need - " The Sin's expression softens, amused. "Sounds like she had a bit of a time with it, too. I won't hear the end of it."
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"We cannot get involved, you know that. Our very presence is enough to nullify free-will, mortal kind cannot know of our involvement or existence. I am certain you see it still, the reverberations of our influence millennia after we stopped making contact remain." He gestures dismissively, letting out an impatient snort. "What's to miss? The destruction of this world, their greatest gift? The degradation of their souls? The efficiency by which they slaughter themselves? There may be no shortage of spare vessels to inhabit, but that is far from a ringing endorsement." That is to say it's been thousands of years for him since he'd last bothered to walk among mortal kind in any meaningful capacity.
Again a flippant and dismissive gesture, punctuated by Murmur lifting himself to perch on his stool more like a bird, rather than sitting in it like a normal person. It lets him keep his hands folded together in a triangular shape so that he resists the urge to fidget. It's unbecoming. "They teach us not to get involved. As I said, it is not our place. Only despair follows such acts, or has no one told you the truth behind the Flood?" He cants his head to the side curiously, now fixing Greed with that unnervingly heavy stare of his. A weight which feels as though it's peeling away at one's very essence layer by layer to lay beneath a microscope.
There's a disdainful huff at Greed's complaints. "You would hardly be useful to me on someone else's leash." Not that Murmur had any intention of putting him on one either, but it's amusing to hold the implied threat there all the same. Keep Greed guessing what might be coming down the line. "And you think we cannot now? Why?" It's not like he actually has any friends to speak of, so this is hardly different. Still, he did have to wonder what made it so impossible.
Then there was an interruption from their conversation, Murmur finally released Greed from his dreadful stare to stare blankly at a wall thousands of miles away. "Good. Finally." Once he was done perhaps he could just be on his way. Surely Greed could look after himself from this point, no? "Do they no longer keep a healthy supply of goats around?"
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A shame. He always found that gray so much more inviting.
Greed cocks one of his eyes open to watch Murmur. "There it is. You're always thinking in absolutes. Sure, they aren't perfect, but it wasn't so long ago that yours weren't either," he tests his mouth again and a feather of ash lifts off his lip to join the rest of his growing collection. "I can't blame you, it's in your nature to see the worst of what they are. But tell me this: if you really think there's no point, why bother? Everything you do - " Trailing off, he eyes the bar's back mirror again. The points of him (the ones that pass as human anyway) are starting to fade more and more. His pupils trill in their sockets, threatening to pull apart and multiply like cells in a furnace, his skin is a pale, his teeth have elongated ever-so-slightly. Greed draws his shoulders up to his ears and as he pulls himself from his stool, the cloud he leaves behind is murky and thick. A devil's fog, whispering his movements.
"Why? Because you'll always be like that." He lifts his clawed hand and taps at the air. "You'll always be running to the morals that define you and I'll always ignore them. You can't help what you are, handsome and neither can I." The Sin tips his head to offer a cagey, toothy grin. "Doesn't mean I don't like you, far from it. If things were different, I'd have you in a heartbeat. Everything that you are, everything that you can do. But I told you: everyone wants something they can't have. I'm no different. Mmn."
Jerking, the Sin meets the sound of an opening door with an admiring look. "I'm not one to be on anyone's leash. And I think, at the end of the day, neither are you if you gave it a chance." Loud thumps rumble from the stairwell as he talks. Someone (something) has arrived with a hefty cache. "Save that thought, though. Seems beautiful has come back with everything you need."
Sure enough, a younger woman slinks into view from the bowed-out overhang making up the bar's entrance. At first glance, she could easily pass as human. Her nearly shaved head and face tattoo give her the look of a military brat gone rogue. Yet unlike Dolcetto, there's a cold demeanor about her that screams; that shouts, hisses, and silently rattles to keep far, far away.
Greed's smile brims when he sees her and he can't help the short, curt whistle as he watches her shoulder a rather burly, freshly slaughtered goat. "Well, well. That certainly is impressive, lovely."
Martel gives him a single, cool stare before shoving the goat off her shoulders and onto the floor with juicy thud. "Nothing impressive about it - what kind of shit did you get into anyway, boss?" She catches Murmur and her eyes narrow, if only by a hair. "I actually don't want to know all the details. Can Roa carry this to where ever you need it to go?" The knife strapped to her shoulder pops out after a quick play of her fingers and Martel casually wipes it on her pants.
"I'm sure he can. Good job, Martel," the Sin pockets his hands and shuffles his feet closer to the carcass. "No one bothered you while you were out, did they?"
Martel pauses, her knife held stiff and at the ready. After a moment, she shoves it back into its sheath with a leathery shhhss. "No, no issues. But - " Now that she's gotten a better look at him, her expression subtly shifts. She makes out Murmur again, chases Greed's ash. It isn't worry on her face, least not the normal kind. It's a hesitation. A concern buried under layers of defense and a need to coil up and constrict any feeling, any at all, until it chokes itself out.
She rubs her thumb against her index finger. A nervous fidget. "-you are ok, right?" She asks, softly.
Greed dips his spine to flash his extended teeth. "I'm fine, I promise. Just ran into some trouble. Our friend here is gunna fix it. Then, we'll all be on our merry fucking way." His lips shrink back together. "Don't worry about it. You've done everything you need to tonight. Go take a break. We'll let you know when it's all done."
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"I never said there was no point, do not put words in my mouth. You also continue to make sweeping assumptions about me. You are not much different than that which you condemn." Maybe Greed touched a nerve, maybe Murmur is just getting tired of circular conversation and stress. It was hard to say, but there seemed to have been the very slightest cold edge that creeped into his usual monotone at that. Thankfully he was spared having to elaborate or continue with the tired argument not terribly long after. He does have enough time to cast Greed something of a puzzled look at the claims of being willing to 'have him.'
Not knowing how to respond to that, Murmur's happy for the distraction of Martel arriving with their package. Hopefully the slaughtering didn't involve cutting too many holes in it, they need all the blood they can get. At the very least this one looked more competent than Dolcetto did.
While they spoke Murmur hadn't moved, simply remained perched where he was like a weird bird, silently regarding the conversation. When he said he needed the blood he assumed that would come alongside a bucket... perhaps he should have been more clear? Well, nothing for it now. They'll make do with whatever they can find.
"You were setting up a room for this, yes?" Back to business as usual, all sign of emotion gone again. It's easier to be the impartial mask, he's been playing that game so long it just comes naturally.
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Shallowly, the Sin hangs his head. "Hey, hey - calm down, would you? You know I didn't mean anything by it." His spine writhes when he responds; as if a bundle of snakes were squirming just beneath his skin, ready and waiting to strike at whatever got too close. "I like you, angel. Haven't I said that enough?" His clawed hand stretches out and strangles the goat's bloated-belly carcass by one of its remaining horns. "I'm merely sayin' - it would be a lot easier if you weren't on anyone's side."
He pulls and the dead animal slowly slips off the floor, leaving behind a dreadful trail of loose hair and slop. Greed adjusts his arm to bring the goat's milky-eyed stare close for an inspection. "It's not like I'm taking orders from below. Haven't been for a while, actually." His pupils tense and shiver to brittle points as he examines the butcher's empty kill. There's no life left in those vacant eyes, just death. A nothingness, a void, where they should be something. Whether it bothers him or not though, it's hard to say. The way he turns his wrist to get a better look at the killing-cut, how he flippantly adjusts his hold to follow the puncture wound to the obvious cause of death: there's something disturbingly vacant about it. As if the concept of mortality is somehow foreign, impossible, for him to understand.
The Sin breaks the staredown with another even smile. "'Suppose it's just not who I am." Meaning he reports to no one. Not his wretched kin, nor any other masters of the dominion below that may try otherwise. No, he's a rogue prince and an aloof king a long way from home with no intention of ever going back.
Though many sure have tried.
Greed rolls the goat onto one shoulder and jumps to settle the body into the crook of his neck. "Besides, my greed's just too much. If I stayed with them, it would never be satisfied. And that's enough of a reason for me. I just hoped that maybe, someday, you could be the same." He jerks his head to the side and the swarm of soot trapped about his skull finally thins, revealing the splintered, veiny cracks donning the crown of his forehead. "Nevermind that, though. You needed a room, right? C'mon," the Sin's voice slicks hot at the back of his teeth. Already, his tongue has visibly split somewhere along the line and the forks of it run like liquid fire over his lower lip. "-should it just be us, then? Or do you need the rest of 'em around to seal the deal?"
Deeper, deeper, deeper into the building he goes, moving passed unmarked doors, unlit corners, and skittering eyes that are there one moment and gone the next. If his prison were the epitome of holy grounds, his sanctuary is the total opposite. Things and creatures dart and move through every piece of the building like permanent haunts. Even the structure itself seems off in a way: the pipes groan through the floorboards, the lights blink sporadic nonsense. To the mortal lot, the proper description might be a hell hole. And ironically? Well.
It isn't that far from the truth.
Greed pauses at one of the many vague doors down a hallway and with a soft kick, he forces it open, bringing with it musty cobwebs and the scent of wet-slick concrete and brick. "Been a bit since I've been down here, so watch your step." An unearthly glow throbs from down below as the Sin elbows a questionable light switch. Silt, dust, forgotten times: they plume out as he descends. Each step, every groan of a stair, only releasing more, more, more.
The Sin balances the goat as he shuffles and skips over a step or two to avoid a large hole. "I'll have to get that fixed eventually. Keep to the left. Don't need you falling today, hmn?"
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After another long flat stare Murmur just moved on, hopping down from his stool to start making his way toward the halls. The sensation of the conversation being brushed aside nigh palpable in that simple gesture. He wasn't interested in playing these games, he had a job to do and he'd get it done. The whole sordid affair was starting to leave a bad taste in his mouth.
Death was no more poignant to the Celestial. While he had tasted its bitter sting, the distinction between the life of an angel being snuffed out and that of a mortal creature was as distinctly different as the death of a star and the impact of an asteroid. Death was in their nature, some things required sacrifice, and this night was no exception.
"Oh, don't act wounded now. Do not preach at me then play the victim when your carelessness comes back to bite you." This time his words lacked the icy sting they had earlier, he was back to feigning boredom with the conversation. It wasn't like the angel was good at being conversational, not when he found the subject tiresome. Greed didn't know his stance on mortals nor was he inclined to spend the whole night defending himself. It was tiresome and pointless. No, words were deceptive, it was only in action one could best perceive another's intent.
"At least one pair of hands that can run a paint brush, otherwise whatever you need. Their presence is not required." He just needs them to do the heavy lifting because that's monkey work and Murmur isn't doing monkey work, even if he does like them just fine. He follows along silently, little more than a frosty shadow at their backs down the twisting hallways. The angel does not seem particularly bothered by the presence of spying eyes and skittering darkness. It is as much home to him as the blinding light of Heaven, but again... Greed wouldn't know that would he? Again Murmur only leveled a flat, unamused gaze at the demon telling him to watch his step. He could see just as well in the dark as he could in the light and scarce needed to concern himself with balance. Still, he makes no further comment, merely following along on the despicable path toward damnation's gut.
"I am hardly inclined to break a bone, you realize." He chides, still sounding bored as he skips over it with that obnoxious grace of the holy ones. Still unbothered, still barely even acknowledging the depths to which they were crawling. One would expect one of the holy ones to be complaining and squirming by now, fussing about the filth and degeneration. Not this one, he took it in stride and moreover managed to look wholly unimpressed with the whole thing.
He's very sure this building isn't up to code.
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