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[He doesn't make his way to the Garden that often, but when he does, it's usually to check the goings-on. See what's new, what's changed, what sort of bullshit might be up to bat this time.]
[So to say he isn't prepared for what he finds would be the understatement of the century.]
[The first thing he notices is the blood. And at first, it seems inconsequential. Someone, somewhere, had a scuffle maybe. That's not unheard of. But then, as he continues, there's more of it. More of it, and red isn't the only color spending its evening on the ground, is it?]
[He's moving faster than he realizes, his heels tearing up grass and dirt like they're nothing. Gold is a color he knows quite intimately. Even before here, he knew the color. It's a rich one. An expensive one. A shade made for emperors and kings and isn't it something he's always, always craved.]
["Greed - "]
[He doesn't acknowledge how the ground squishes underneath him. That ship's already left port. Because what he sees? What he sees makes the air (the air that should be clean, cool, crisp but isn't) catch behind his teeth.]
[It's carnage. Pure, horrible, gut-churning carnage, and if he wasn't a creature used to it, he probably would have been sick at the sight. Blood, a spin of red and gold, saturates all that is green like a black stroke cutting through a half-finished painting. It's final in the way all things like this are final. Something happened, something happened, and what the fuck happened.]
[Greed doesn't remember when he picks up the bodies (the pieces of bodies), but he does feel them in his arms: a weight of too many wings gone limp, the pulse of shadows beating like a bundle of headless snakes desperate for life, the very head they crave. A head sewn shut and silenced forever. It should all be a lot heavier, part of him distantly thinks. But that part of him is hard to reach and as the static fills his skull, all that he truly hears is his lonesome, rattlesnake warning.]
["Hey Greed - "]
[He's running again, as he's always done. Running with a core that screams where he can't. Through Hell's hotel lobby he goes, ignoring any protests or yelps that may be thrown in his direction. The "Hey sir - " and "Sir!" all going in one ear and out the other.]
[The Sin gets to his door, the door to his room, and immediately kicks it open. The impact alone is enough to make the frame of it crack and as the deadbolt splinters, he wildly makes his way inside. There's no lights on, and that suits him just fine. Better to do this all in the dark, anyway.]
[What's left of the entrance whines shut behind him, cutting off the light from the hallway.]
[In the end, he leaves Alastor (what little is left of him anyway) and Lucifer on the cool, red leather of his sofa.]
[And he watches. Watches and waits while a silent curl of smoke twists about his face.]
[Regenerate.]
[Greed's eyes narrow. He doesn't even notice the blood on his hands anymore nor the smears of it now slapped across his face. All he knows is the burn of his sixth? Seventh? Eighth? Cigarette as it turns cherry red in the dark of the hotel room.]
[Regenerate.]
[He's stark still for what feels like minutes, but is probably hours. And nothing happens. No sparks crackle to life, no weird magic breathes in to wipe the whole scene clean. Just nothing. Nothing, save the cruel drip of blood slowly soaking into the floorboards below. It'll be a stain that will stay for some time. A little reminder that even here, he can be stolen from so easily.]
[The former homunculus pulls himself out of his chair and drops the burnt end of a filter to the floor. He tips his heel numbly into it, angrily grinding it to dust.]
["What a second, Greed - "]
[He hears the voice finally. An echo of a prince in the back of his skull, begging for his honesty.]
[Greed's face shifts before he can stop it. His jaw grinds together, his lips pull back. Like this, he takes on the look of an animal; of a wolf with elongating teeth and electric in its mouth that runs as red as the awful monster he was made to be. Heaven, Hell - they wouldn't dare, would they? They wouldn't fucking dare - ]
[He's reminded again of loss. Of loss, of the inability to do a damn thing, about theft. And as the Sin slowly closes the gap between himself and the two, lifeless bodies slouched in front of him, his fingers tense into knives.]
[He stops short of Alastor and Lucifer, his body looming like a terrible and wicked omen.]
Yeah. [He says, and his voice is dead in his throat.] Yeah, sorry. That's not how this works.
[It's in his nature to take what he can. And take, he does. Small trinkets, little keepsakes. Whatever he can have off the bodies, he pockets away. These are two people he considers ... what? Does he actually have a fucking right to call them his friends? To call them his? No, he doesn't. But that's the thing with avarice, isn't it. It's irrational. An irrational and wild thing that burns so hot, it'll take the whole god damn world with it.]
[But he's careful with them. Privacy, tenderness, respect: these are things he understands when it comes to the dead. No need to make things worse than they already are.]
[When he's done, the former homunculus grabs a sheet to try to cover up the worst of the carnage (well, as best he can). No doubt, despite how he may try, the people who care for Alastor and Lucifer will likely want to see what's left of them one, last time. So, he wraps up what remains (while mindfully setting Alastor's head in his own lap). He can't hide that truth from anyone, no matter how much he may want to.]
[When he gets to Lucifer (to that face he's seen awkwardly smile and laugh and try to be something more than what another Hell gave him), he stops completely still again. His nails hover (dangerous, cutting) before he brings them into his mouth, licks them clean, and gingerly tries (with no luck) to wipe away whatever blood is left on the devil's cheek.]
[Greed hisses to the silence. Using claws that barely work, he makes the viewing scene as kind as possible. Then, he simply stands and takes two steps back. Two, heavy steps that bang off like death bells knocking.]
[A strike of a match brings the whole thing into an eerie, funeral-parlor light, and he places another cigarette into his mouth.] A deal. [The Sin feels out his mouth with his tongue, tasting nicotine that's as bitter as bile.] Fine. Suit yourself. You should have known better anyway, hmn? Morningstar. [He runs his hands down the fronts of his thighs, plastering them in a rinse of gold and red that runs faint against the black leather of his pants. The metaphor, of course, is lost on him.]
[Greed turns around and shoves two of his hands into his pockets. The hotel room is a mess, and it's only going to get worse. But first, he makes threephonecalls.]
[And if days from now, this room is abandoned? If the walls have been torn to shreds, if there's glass and broken pieces strung about? Well, at least then, maybe they'll all get the fucking message.]
[A creature that wants more, that craves more, will always collect on what's due.]
[There will be two boxes at the hotel's front desk. One addressed to a Miss Charlie Morningstar and Oz, and another, Acht. They'll contain whatever little reminders he could grab off the bodies. The box for Charlie and Oz has been wrapped up in his vest with a note:]
You don't know me, but your Dad was is a friend of mine.
The Devil's Nest is open. Ask for anyone there. If you need something, go there. Any one of them will take care of you. I'm going to find some answers.
There's no such thing as no such thing and nothing's impossible. Keep that in mind. I'll let you know what I find.
- Greed
[But the Sin in question will make himself very, very scarce. He has business to do and answers to get. And while he'll get none of them, he's said it before, right?]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
➥ Evening on the Ground (Night of July 10th) CLOSED
[So to say he isn't prepared for what he finds would be the understatement of the century.]
[The first thing he notices is the blood. And at first, it seems inconsequential. Someone, somewhere, had a scuffle maybe. That's not unheard of. But then, as he continues, there's more of it. More of it, and red isn't the only color spending its evening on the ground, is it?]
[He's moving faster than he realizes, his heels tearing up grass and dirt like they're nothing. Gold is a color he knows quite intimately. Even before here, he knew the color. It's a rich one. An expensive one. A shade made for emperors and kings and isn't it something he's always, always craved.]
["Greed - "]
[He doesn't acknowledge how the ground squishes underneath him. That ship's already left port. Because what he sees? What he sees makes the air (the air that should be clean, cool, crisp but isn't) catch behind his teeth.]
[It's carnage. Pure, horrible, gut-churning carnage, and if he wasn't a creature used to it, he probably would have been sick at the sight. Blood, a spin of red and gold, saturates all that is green like a black stroke cutting through a half-finished painting. It's final in the way all things like this are final. Something happened, something happened, and what the fuck happened.]
[Greed doesn't remember when he picks up the bodies (the pieces of bodies), but he does feel them in his arms: a weight of too many wings gone limp, the pulse of shadows beating like a bundle of headless snakes desperate for life, the very head they crave. A head sewn shut and silenced forever. It should all be a lot heavier, part of him distantly thinks. But that part of him is hard to reach and as the static fills his skull, all that he truly hears is his lonesome, rattlesnake warning.]
["Hey Greed - "]
[He's running again, as he's always done. Running with a core that screams where he can't. Through Hell's hotel lobby he goes, ignoring any protests or yelps that may be thrown in his direction. The "Hey sir - " and "Sir!" all going in one ear and out the other.]
[The Sin gets to his door, the door to his room, and immediately kicks it open. The impact alone is enough to make the frame of it crack and as the deadbolt splinters, he wildly makes his way inside. There's no lights on, and that suits him just fine. Better to do this all in the dark, anyway.]
[What's left of the entrance whines shut behind him, cutting off the light from the hallway.]
no subject
[And he watches. Watches and waits while a silent curl of smoke twists about his face.]
[Regenerate.]
[Greed's eyes narrow. He doesn't even notice the blood on his hands anymore nor the smears of it now slapped across his face. All he knows is the burn of his sixth? Seventh? Eighth? Cigarette as it turns cherry red in the dark of the hotel room.]
[Regenerate.]
[He's stark still for what feels like minutes, but is probably hours. And nothing happens. No sparks crackle to life, no weird magic breathes in to wipe the whole scene clean. Just nothing. Nothing, save the cruel drip of blood slowly soaking into the floorboards below. It'll be a stain that will stay for some time. A little reminder that even here, he can be stolen from so easily.]
[The former homunculus pulls himself out of his chair and drops the burnt end of a filter to the floor. He tips his heel numbly into it, angrily grinding it to dust.]
["What a second, Greed - "]
[He hears the voice finally. An echo of a prince in the back of his skull, begging for his honesty.]
[Greed's face shifts before he can stop it. His jaw grinds together, his lips pull back. Like this, he takes on the look of an animal; of a wolf with elongating teeth and electric in its mouth that runs as red as the awful monster he was made to be. Heaven, Hell - they wouldn't dare, would they? They wouldn't fucking dare - ]
[He's reminded again of loss. Of loss, of the inability to do a damn thing, about theft. And as the Sin slowly closes the gap between himself and the two, lifeless bodies slouched in front of him, his fingers tense into knives.]
[He stops short of Alastor and Lucifer, his body looming like a terrible and wicked omen.]
Yeah. [He says, and his voice is dead in his throat.] Yeah, sorry. That's not how this works.
[It's in his nature to take what he can. And take, he does. Small trinkets, little keepsakes. Whatever he can have off the bodies, he pockets away. These are two people he considers ... what? Does he actually have a fucking right to call them his friends? To call them his? No, he doesn't. But that's the thing with avarice, isn't it. It's irrational. An irrational and wild thing that burns so hot, it'll take the whole god damn world with it.]
[But he's careful with them. Privacy, tenderness, respect: these are things he understands when it comes to the dead. No need to make things worse than they already are.]
[When he's done, the former homunculus grabs a sheet to try to cover up the worst of the carnage (well, as best he can). No doubt, despite how he may try, the people who care for Alastor and Lucifer will likely want to see what's left of them one, last time. So, he wraps up what remains (while mindfully setting Alastor's head in his own lap). He can't hide that truth from anyone, no matter how much he may want to.]
[When he gets to Lucifer (to that face he's seen awkwardly smile and laugh and try to be something more than what another Hell gave him), he stops completely still again. His nails hover (dangerous, cutting) before he brings them into his mouth, licks them clean, and gingerly tries (with no luck) to wipe away whatever blood is left on the devil's cheek.]
[Greed hisses to the silence. Using claws that barely work, he makes the viewing scene as kind as possible. Then, he simply stands and takes two steps back. Two, heavy steps that bang off like death bells knocking.]
[A strike of a match brings the whole thing into an eerie, funeral-parlor light, and he places another cigarette into his mouth.] A deal. [The Sin feels out his mouth with his tongue, tasting nicotine that's as bitter as bile.] Fine. Suit yourself. You should have known better anyway, hmn? Morningstar. [He runs his hands down the fronts of his thighs, plastering them in a rinse of gold and red that runs faint against the black leather of his pants. The metaphor, of course, is lost on him.]
[Greed turns around and shoves two of his hands into his pockets. The hotel room is a mess, and it's only going to get worse. But first, he makes three phone calls.]
[And if days from now, this room is abandoned? If the walls have been torn to shreds, if there's glass and broken pieces strung about? Well, at least then, maybe they'll all get the fucking message.]
[A creature that wants more, that craves more, will always collect on what's due.]
[There will be two boxes at the hotel's front desk. One addressed to a Miss Charlie Morningstar and Oz, and another, Acht. They'll contain whatever little reminders he could grab off the bodies. The box for Charlie and Oz has been wrapped up in his vest with a note:]
You don't know me, but your Dad
wasis a friend of mine.The Devil's Nest is open. Ask for anyone there. If you need something, go there. Any one of them will take care of you. I'm going to find some answers.
There's no such thing as no such thing and nothing's impossible. Keep that in mind. I'll let you know what I find.
- Greed
[But the Sin in question will make himself very, very scarce. He has business to do and answers to get. And while he'll get none of them, he's said it before, right?]
["There's nothing wrong with too much hope."]