[As promised, it's not too long after their conversion that the Sin makes himself known. The drawl of his boots drums lazily down the steps connecting the living space from the bar in question. The rhythm of them, shaking the floorboards like an announcement all in itself.]
[The building's wiring still isn't perfect and as he slinks down the steps, the lights hung haphazardly over the bar quiver, dropping the place into a low dim. It's fitting, in a way. Men like them - they don't typically meet in the brightness of day.]
Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. [Greed hums, his body slumped over in its usual, carefree slouch. The mask latched to one of his beltloops sways while he walks. It teeters one way, then the other; its swing, matched beat for beat by the lick of his tail. This conversation hasn't been a long one coming, but it was only a matter of time. Silco had questions, he had answers. And no matter what the other man may believe, when it comes to a deal?]
[Ah, is he truly a creature of his word.]
[The former homunculus presses the toe of his boot against a makeshift side door fastened behind the bar, pushing it open with a groan of steel and angry wood.] Still working on getting some supplies, but - [He slips his hand under the lip of the counter, knuckling two, clean (as clean as they're going to get at any rate) glasses between his fingers.] - figured something is better than nothing, don't you?
[With a tip of his head, he gives Silco a look under the edge of his sunglasses before turning back to the lines of liquor on the shelf behind him. And it's there, that he passes by the usual suspects: the half-emptied bottles of vodka, the fastened handle of cracked-open gin, the blue concoction that is, by every means, questionable.]
[However, he does find what he's looking for eventually. And with his smile reflecting in both the pieces of the mirror and bottles alike, the Sin wraps his finger around the neck of one in particular. A scotch, still capped with a glob of red, dripped wax.] You a scotch man, Silco? [He asks, his claw making quick work of the seal.]
[Silco is a bit surprised, pleasantly so, by the offer. After everything he's dealt with since his arrival - including eating rats and surviving underground for weeks - being here feels like a bit of luxury. Naturally, his standards are based on Zaun, so someone else might not feel the same. But there are strong walls surrounding them, no enemies at their throats, and a drink on offer.
He can't complain.]
I won't say no.
[His tastes have refined, over the years. He used to drink any swill they had available, just like every Zaunite - though it's true Silco always had a bit of a preference for things like wine, a touch classier than the bottom-of-the-barrel liquor that was all they often had. But then he had power, and money, and acquired a taste for nicer things. Clothes, liquor, cigars. All part of the image, of course, but he did genuinely enjoy them.
A flick of his cigarette - nearly gone, by now - and a thin smile.]
You've been an excellent host. You found all of these things yourself? Scavenged across the city?
[Silco is used to having to ease into these sorts of conversations, manipulate the flow of things carefully so he can get the information he wants. He knows that Greed has essentially offered it freely, but he's too used to there always being a catch - he can't quite believe that there isn't one, this time.
Well, besides having to answer questions in return. Which he actually doesn't mind. What point is there in keeping secrets, here? Anything dangerous back home is useless now.]
You're an interesting man. Or - is that what you are?
[Sleephatten doesn't afford many luxuries, but the few he's found? He's gladly taken. The leftovers of people in high rises who thought, more than likely, that nothing in the world could ever catch up to them. Unfortunately, the pickings are still slim at best; a few stokes of good luck during some of his many, many, wanderings through what little remained.]
[Which is why he's saved the bottle for an occasion. A right moment for old, familiar comforts.]
Didn't think so. [Greed hooks his claw under the wax shell, flipping it off the top of the bottle with a flick of his wrist. It disappears onto the floor, skipping and tumbling down a gap in the boards.] Wouldn't say that. I already told you. Can't really call myself Greed if I don't take care of my own now, could I? [He turns to set both glasses side by side on the bar top, and a short laugh curdles up his throat in a spin of soot.] No, not everything. I can't take all the credit. Considering the circumstances, people are lot more willing to make a deal. [A deal for what, though, he doesn't say.]
[The former homunculus lifts the bottle to his mouth to sink his teeth into the cork. And with a jerk of his head, he tears it open; the harsh smell of high-proof, burning pleasant in his nose. He pulls the stopper out of his jaws a moment later, leaving it to sit on the bar like a still pin.] Could say the same about yourself. [With two of his fingers wrapped around the base of the neck, he tips the bottle over. Glug for glug, he fills their cups. A healthy portion for a, no doubt, intriguing conversation.]
[Greed pushes one of the glasses over to Silco.] Not quite. I'm a guy, if that's what you mean. But I don't think that's your question, is it. [With a stretch of his hand, he circles his drink, blatantly showing off his tattoo.] I'm a homunculus. Something artificial. I wasn't born like humans are. [He plucks up his glass and twirls it once, giving the inside a lick of rich, thin amber.]
[Then, he shoots it back; its contents, its burn, tumbling down his throat to the tune of warmed coals doused at the end of a long, long night.]
[Once he's finished, barely half his pour remains.] My turn. This world of yours - sounds like things weren't exactly fair, were they? [A common story, and not entirely a ground-breaking question. Yet, from the little he's seen from Jinx: there was something about it that felt the same. That stunk of the same kind of bullshit that had been writhing under the surface of Amestris's military might.]
[Because the worlds may be endless, they may be strange, but governments anywhere. Ah, they've always got something else bubbling beneath them, don't they?]
[Silco's eyes track Greed's tattoo, putting together a few puzzle pieces. Not human - that much is no surprise, though Silco supposes perhaps he's not human anymore either. Perhaps none of them are, since they arrived here. But being that from the beginning, being - what, created instead of born?
An interesting existence, certainly.
He takes a sip of the whiskey, slow, savoring the burn of it. Both because he hasn't had a drink in a long time, and because he'd rather keep his wits about him. Silco's not a lightweight, not with how he's lived his life, but he's also not exactly a large man. He knows his limits, and he has no intention of getting anywhere close to them.]
Is any world fair? [A rhetorical question, said with a twist of his lips that's almost a smile. He does intend to answer properly, though.] Of course they weren't. Zaun was nothing but a place to exploit, a place to dispose of things that the polished folk of Piltover didn't want to see. So long as it was down in the dark, they could pretend they were growing rich off nothing in particular - not the labor of people, choking in the mines, not lives barely scratched out of the bedrock. And when they were bored, the brave ones could come down for a thrill.
[His voice is relaxed. This is an old story to him, nothing to get heated about. The fire has never really dimmed, not even here - Silco would still fight for Zaun, if he could. But he keeps it carefully banked, cool and composed.]
I wanted to change that. I nearly succeeded, too. [And that's a bitter pill.
A pause, as he sets the topic aside, as near to his heart as it is. Silco has too many questions to dwell on old wounds.]
[And he takes in every word of it. The story isn't the same, not quite. But then again, Amestris had been built on a different kind of exploitation. The kind that came with a parade of tanks, an arsenal of artillery, a military march, and to the victor? Went the spoils, spoils, spoils.]
[Too bad it was all an elaborate game the people never knew they were playing until it was far, too late.]
[Greed slips away from the bar, walking his heels back until the dip of his spine finds the prep station behind him. And it's there, that he settles. A black cat by every definition, coiling up comfortably in its nest of observation.] But you didn't. [He answers, and there's not a single drop of snideness to his voice. The tone of it, more matter of fact.] I would say I'm sorry, but something tells me a man like yourself wouldn't want it. [He reaches out to his side while he talks, setting his glass close to his hip.] Do you regret it? Not being able to see what - Zaun, right? [The former homunculus fishes into his vest to pull out a barely touched cigarette.] Whatever it could have been?
[Mindlessly, he nudges open the lantern hanging from his horns, pressing the end of the cigarette into the lit candle inside. He rotates it three times for good measure; the smile on his lips, digging deep into his cheek.] Cut right to the chase, don't you. [Clap, and he slaps the lantern shut.] Good. No reason to hold anything back. Not with me, Silco.
[The end of his cigarette flakes away, black and tarry, and the Sin examines it a moment or two before sliding it between the points of his teeth.] I'm his greed. Good, ol'Daddy sir. [An exhale of smoke cuts through his jaw, billowing out like a passing thunderhead.] He wanted to remove us to become the perfect being. And in the process, we were supposed to follow his orders to bring about the Promised Day.
[Cool and collected as he is, there's no hiding the concept in his voice. The venom, spitting between the forks of his tongue like an adder that has every means of making someone think twice. Greed inhales, and the cherry at the end of his smoke drops away to ash.] I left them all 100 years ago. Couldn't really get everything I wanted if I worked under someone else's rules now, could I?
[The former homunculus peels himself from the backside of the bar with a push of his hand and as he reaches forward, he pulls a pack out of his vest. It's bent in all the wrong places, half its lid is missing, but there are cigarettes in there. Not many, but enough.]
[And what can he say? He's feeling a little giving.]
[Greed pushes one out of the box, flipping it over his fingers.] Didn't stop them from finding me, eventually. But that's a story for another time. [He sucks in low, bringing the spare smoke with him. And with one, long inhale, he coaxes the second cigarette flaringly to life; its play of smoke, tethering loose between his knuckles.]
[He hands it off to Silco once he's done and satisfied.] See, I am Greed. The living embodiment of it. And call it whatever you want, but I've always been a fan of the underdog. [He's a bit closer now, drinking Silco in through the lenses of his shades.] I don't expect you to believe me. It'd be stupid for you to. But I hope that, someday, you'll find that I'm a bit different than the rest. As I see it, humans have a lot more potential than most give 'em credit for. [Another wad of ash drops off his smoke to run a line across the bar.]
And the mortal lot? They'll always find a way to surprise ya.
[Silco takes the cigarette with a careful incline of his head, a subtle thank you. Despite his name, Silco has found Greed to be quite generous - but then, what did he say before? Something about taking care of what's his. Another question to add to the pile.
It's not difficult to believe that Greed is what he says he is. This place seems to collect people with remarkable origins, strange stories. Silco wouldn't have considered himself among them - no eldritch beginnings, no immense powers left behind. Never anything but himself, his goals, his own determination.
But he did make himself into something. So perhaps he's not so far outside the norm, here.
What Silco doesn't believe, at least not easily, is that Greed is any different from any human. Out for what he can get, power or money or pleasure, as base as anyone. But that's all right. It's what Silco's comfortable with, after all. He knows how to use those sorts of things, he knows what to expect.]
So someone decided to remove their vices, turn them into people, and use them for some sort of nonsensical scheme. No wonder you left. [And Silco can certainly respect that choice - walking away, becoming something entirely your own.] What does it mean to be Greed? A collector of things, of people? Of power?
[He watches Greed across the bar, one thin-fingered hand curled around the glass of scotch, the other holding his cigarette. On the surface, entirely at ease, but Silco is always just a bit tense in situations like this. Ready to run or fight, if he must. It's not personal.]
Yes. [An abrupt, definitive answer. Just a shade of bitterness, there and then gone.] I regret not being able to see it - not being able to finish the job. I spent my life fighting for Zaun, turned myself into a monster for it. [The briefest flash of a thin smile.] And I was excellent at it. It would have been sweet, to usher my home into a new era.
[He taps the ash off the end of the cigarette, dismissing that moment of regret, of desire for a different path.] But I always knew that I could die at any time. That's what happens when you become the one with all the power - everyone wants it. Any moment of weakness might be the end. I didn't expect the one I got, but I knew it was likely coming.
I don't know if you've encountered any of these strange voids yet, but if you see the lights flashing, turn around and go the other way. [ gotta look out for the dads ]
I don't know if you managed to tame one of those... spooky horses or whatever, but they're good at picking up on those spaces, too. Way more consistent than the light show.
Things could be worse. [And they will be, very soon, when he starts seeing things he'd rather never see again.] But they could be better, as well. Have you been safe?
Had a few close encounters. Those spaces are just... overwhelming. [ Every sensation. Every sound. It's draining, eats away at something in her every single time she walks into one. ] Feels like the danger in them isn't physical so much as something else.
Don't think it's safe to be stuck in them for any real length of time. I can't tell what the consequences would be, but... [ She is concerned. ]
Is there anything safe in this place? [It certainly doesn't seem like it.] These creatures seem to delight in our torment. I can see why you dislike them. [Though Silco does not, at least not yet, choose to blame Sleep in particular. They all seem somewhat at fault.]
[He'll probably hear him coming. The jittering of chains, shaking in the wind. The leathery snap of his wings as they beat against the current to take it for all it's worth. Unsurprisingly, the Sin doesn't bother with the route of least resistance. Much as Silco had mentioned that the door would be open, tonight? Tonight he has no plans, no wits, no thoughts about anything, save the gnashing, pounding at the side of his skull.]
[No. Today is the day he has to face the music and ah, here comes the orchestra.]
[Greed's claws announce him first. They slam into the building's face in a screech of heat and brimstone; the scorch of them, causing a few of the night-pluming spores to snuff away in blinks of gold. It's been hours since he last left. Hours, some of which he had company, but most were spent trying to beat away his fever. To dampen it, if only to make sure he wouldn't bring the whole house down in a flurry of fire and smoke.]
[Which may be why he's got his hands full at the moment. His boots, usually on, hang by the points of his teeth, leaving his crooked-toe feet to scratch at the brick. And around his back is a bag of sorts. Military issue (or a knockoff, at least) that's barely holding it together as is, never mind whatever odds and ends he's shoved haphazardly inside. They're all a distraction, really. Because the static in his head hasn't stopped. Hasn't stopped and the closer he got to the 'Nest, the louder and louder it had become.]
["Greed - "]
[The Sin nips at the leather tags of his boots to gain a better hold. He's frustrated, but it's more than that. It's that familiar taste. That familiar sting slowly making its way up the back of his throat like acid. Or, more specifically, like molten lead, popping, popping, popping.]
[He knew he would be walking into a mess, but that mess turned out to be a whirlwind. One pointed straight at him that he hadn't had the time to prepare for.]
[Well, no regrets, right? And besides, he couldn't turn back now, even if he wanted to.]
["-they're the only part of you that -" His skull, buzzing, humming, yelling, and oh, if he could bite the brat now, he would.]
[Irritably, the Sin knocks his knee against the window, shaking his leg behind him. It wouldn't take too much stretching of the imagination to guess what he's been up to, other than the talk he promised. Blood soaks the talons of his toes - the flecks of bone, of a skull or more, flicking off them like a cat that's stepped a little too close to the water's edge.]
[Silco's awake, poring over a map of the city, making plans that may or may not ever be needed. He doesn't know what to do with himself idle, he'll make work even if he doesn't need to. He's always been like that, at least a little, but he did know how to relax and have fun once upon a time.
These days, he wants something to do. Something to take his mind off the things he can't do anything about - Sleep and her games, Jinx and the tethers that might pull her away from him, Vander's continued presence. Greed, and the tangled web that Silco's found himself in. His own choice, he could have walked away. But he's still wary, still on edge. Especially when he considers Greed speaking to Vander, and what might come of it.
He hears the movement outside. It's not such a surprise, especially with that tether in the back of his mind. For a moment, Silco is still. There's some part of him that's reluctant to investigate, isn't sure he wants to know what Greed will say. Silco's first real - ally - in this place, and he ran off to talk to the man who hates Silco most in the world. He doesn't like it, couldn't prevent it, remains suspicious of the possible fallout. But avoiding it would be foolish, and even if Silco doesn't like the information he gets, he knows it's always better to have it.
So he folds up the map and sets it aside, going to the window. It's not locked, though Silco usually secures it when he's alone in his room - his concession to a possible visitor who could just as easily use the door. He tugs it open and looks out, taking in Greed, assessing.
Blood, but not his. No visible bruises, either. So he and Vander had a peaceful talk, then, which - isn't such a positive thing, from where Silco's standing. What did they talk about, what should Silco plan for? Should he expect to end up bloody himself?
Still, if he's being honest, he didn't have any particular desire to see Greed injured, even if it would have served the man right. He'll deal with whatever comes of this.]
Don't track your mess in here.
[With those comforting words, Silco steps back from the window, reaching out to hook a spare towel - threadbare, usually used for cleaning knives, perfectly functional for blood.
His place is minimal but tidy, without much in it. Enough furniture to live, scavenged notebooks and pens and pencils for his notes, maps, a few books that he's been learning the script of this world with. A crumpled, half-empty pack of cigarettes, his lighter next to it. An ashtray, a knife near to hand (just in case), a few collected bits of machinery: transistors, a screwdriver, spare fuses - things he's found to pass on to Jinx.
Silco likes nice things, but he doesn't have any real need for many things, and hasn't had the time or desire to go searching for nicer versions of the things he does need. It makes the apartment functional, reasonably comfortable, but not especially homey.]
[Greed scoffs from his nose. Yeah, that curt greeting is something he should have probably seen coming. He'd left Silco without so much as a word, disappearing into the night like bat with a single destination in mind. He can't hold it against the man for being even the tiniest bit short with him. After all, he had warned him. Going to Vander with anything, about anything, wasn't going get him very far.]
[And he'd been right. At the end of it, all he had left to show for his efforts were a few, tossed crumbs and a headache he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with.]
[Greed takes the towel, swiping it over one foot, then the other.] Good to see you too, Sil. [He slides the bag off his back with a roll of his shoulder, tossing both it and his boots haphazardly onto the floor. Near as he is now, he doesn't doubt Silco can feel at least a hint of it: that noise of his that rushes, flooding in like the hollow center of a storm. The way the blacks and whites are still, still, popping off behind his eyes like a den of snakes, stirred from their slumber.]
[The Sin bows his head and as he squeezes himself under the window's overhanging sill, he sets one of his feet pointedly down on the floor; his splayed toes, tap-tap-tapping as anxiously as a raptor, vibrating for the kill. He takes a moment (liberally, selfishly) to give the whole apartment a good once-over. Everything about it is utilitarian, functional. The less of it, more for the man who needs little to turn the world on his fingers. Practicality is something he's grown to bank on when it comes to Silco. Nothing he has is simply for the feel of it, nothing he does is merely for the moment. It's all a part of an end goal in mind. An end goal, whatever it may be, that's been balanced in the books three times before the execution.]
[Normally, he wouldn't bother with the sort. But, ah. Rusty knives, and all.]
Sure know how to make a place feel lived in, schatz. [He starts, dragging all of him out into the open room.] Suppose I should have expected that, man that you are - [His tail is the last thing that comes through and as it slinks between the horrors outside and the ache within, the former homunculus pads over to the bag. He drops down into a crouch, no bothering (or not wanting) to look at Silco just yet.] - you were right, y'know. If it's any consolation, you were right.
[What he means, though, he doesn't say. Not yet. Instead, he shoves both his hands into the mouth of the bag, ripping the head of it wide open. And what he pulls out are more distractions: the record player from when he'd held back, if only to save the man from heading down a path he might regret. Two cigars (stale, dry, brittle), but fine in a pinch. A bottle of whiskey, tied off in a shredded, mildewed ribbon.]
[He's delaying the inevitable, and he knows it. With each object he pulls out and with every breath held behind baited teeth.]
[The last, couple of things he yanks loose are more simple: a sheet of paper, a receipt, and an unopened can of rather passible-looking sardines sealed shut in a thin top of copper. Greed taps it twice with his nail.] Eat. I know how you are, and where she gets it from. You'll want it before we're done here.
[His tone, though: it isn't angry, it isn't vicious, it isn't even silky with that tease of his that's so second-nature at this point. No, what it is is hollow. Empty. A devil, defeated and waiting for the judgement of every, righteous spear Silco has to give him.]
[Which may be why he doesn't bother. Hiding it from him, no matter how much he wants to, wouldn't do him any good. So, he starts it slow - the trickle of his conversation with Vander, unraveling itself like a tightly wound scroll.]
I'll be quick. But I really need you to pay attention, Silco. If you don't listen to a single, fucking thing I say, this is the one thing I'll ask you to do. Then, well. [He tries to shrug, but his shoulders are too locked up, too knotted, to give him anything more than a half-hearted slouch.] Whatever you want. That's always been the deal.
[The playback continues, and nothing about is redacted. Everything he said, everything he didn't say: they feel themselves out between the tether. The smell of it like scotch, blistering inside an already cracked glass. Still, even as he bleeds himself out, the former homunculus is moving. A pen (bent and buckled by teeth marks) bounces between his knuckles as he fans out the sheets of paper. Drawing is not a skill he has, but he hopes he can get the gist.]
A failsafe. In case everything does work, and the hag decides to make things difficult. It's something Vander couldn't get through his thick skull - [The former homunculus hisses, sketching out two circles. One on a crude rendition of Manhattan. And on the other sheet, something larger. Larger and all encompassing, marrying itself around the vague idea of a country no one knows but him.]
[Silco can feel the noise, the static, the tension almost scratching at the inside of his head. It puts him on edge, but he knows it isn't his, and that - paradoxically - relaxes him a little. Whatever happened, it left Greed in a terrible mood, and in that Silco can sympathize, which isn't something he often does. He comes away from every conversation with Vander in a terrible mood, too.
And that Greed apparently managed to still find these things that seem to be - what? Bribes, gifts, part of an apology? Whatever they are, they're exactly the sort of thing Silco likes. He doesn't make his preferences secret, but he didn't really expect Greed to arrive bearing gifts, and even Silco isn't immune to that sort of thing.
Nor is he immune to hearing you were right. Though he's still angry, still wary, he listens - he listens to all of it.
It's the sharing that shocks him more than anything. Laying it out so fully, instead of picking and choosing, controlling the information Silco gets. Everyone does that, Silco included. The difficulty is always in determining where the lie is, what's hidden, what someone has chosen to tell you compared to what the reality is. This has none of that. It's just - everything, unscrolling out before him. He doesn't know how to feel about that. It's almost as if Greed trusts him.
Nothing Vander says comes as a surprise to Silco. Even after all these years, he knows the man as well as he knows the sting of a knife blade on skin. And some of it does sting, a little, even if it's not a surprise. I've been there before. It's fun until it isn't. He's seen it already, Vander's desire to repaint their history into something where Silco is the manipulator, the villain, even before he took that path of his own free will. It wasn't like that. It wouldn't have hurt so much if it had been like that.
But it doesn't matter. It's the same things, the same Vander he knows. It's Greed he wants the keys to, Greed he wants to understand. And - it's not what he expected. He picks out little things, things that affect him more than he would like. Things he'll tuck away to think about later - I won't let you kill him (for Jinx, surely) - and things that twist anger inside of him.
That fury, instantly, when he realizes Greed went to Vander to ask Vander to protect his people. To protect Silco. As if it wouldn't be faster for Greed to slit Silco's throat himself, as if Silco doesn't still have nightmares about Vander's hands around his neck, water in his lungs, the awful days afterwards. If Vander had agreed, or if Greed had pressed the request harder, it might have been a betrayal that Silco couldn't forgive.
But he knows, to some extent, it's his own fault. He kept that hidden. He showed Greed all the worst parts of himself, but he didn't show him that night. Even if he heard their argument - and who didn't - Greed doesn't know. Not really. Still, he lets the anger flash back along the tether. Then, for the moment, he sets it aside. Tabled, for now.
Because there's more pressing matters to attend to. Greed's plan, directly striking at Sleep somehow, in such a way that he expects or fears there'll be a backlash. The details aren't all there, but the intent is, and Silco already knew he was planning something. But something big enough to anger Sleep is much more audacious than he expected - though he supposes that Greed is, in all ways, audacious.]
Tell me everything you're planning.
[It's the first thing he's said, and it's not a request. Silco reaches out, takes the tin of sardines. Annoying to admit even in that small way that Greed is right, but he doesn't entirely remember when he last ate. Earlier in the day sometime. It's easy to lose track when he's busy.]
And then tell me why you're such a fool that you haven't asked for help until now. I may not be Vander, but I know how to create contingency plans, failsafes in case everything goes wrong. I know how to get people away from a blast radius.
[The anger along the tether hits him, and there isn't a single reply back. No retort, no snide remark, no shallow show of his teeth, glinting like the knives they truly are. No, the feeling is more vacant than that. As if he's letting Silco silently scream his rage, scream his everything, down into the pit of him, only to be tucked away for the time when he's left again. When he's gone like a shadow, slinking itself back between the floorboards and rafters so old, no one but him knew what was truly up there.]
No, you're not. You're - [A whole lot more, he fails to say. Because he doesn't have the time. He never has the time. No matter where he goes, no matter how many years pass, he never, ever has the fucking time.] - doesn't matter. What I'm planning has nothing to do with what I'm about to tell you, schatz. [The nickname, fond usually, clicks snappishly on the forks of his tongue; the resignation to him as clear as a river, untouched by the filth of it all.]
[The former homunculus laughs shortly to himself - a bit of steam, letting itself loose.] Gunna be honest with you, I don't know how well it's going to work, if it will at all. Really depends on if everything else does. Call it an out, and you can't let anyone get in the way. [And oh, he's serious. So serious for the first time he's ever been. How his muscles go rigid and stiff like he's looking down the barrel of a gun, knowing perfectly well where the shot will come from.]
[He begins to scratch X(s) into both drawings. 10 on the map, and 7 on the receipt.] It's your soul on the line. And I don't mean that like some cheap, religious bullshit. [He taps the center of his chest. A punctual knock to prove his point.] I don't have a heart, Silco. Never have. I'm just made of the thousands of souls that were taken the day Xerxes fell.
[And this is it. This is it, his everything (what he's really made of, his effort with Vander, his brutal, cruel, pure honesty). He doesn't lie, and he isn't about to start now.]
Sleep's been sloppy. She has her Hosts all over this place, so that'll be the easy part. But you have to kill enough of them for it to work. [As he talks, he points out each X on both maps. A parallel, drawing to an awful conclusion. An awful conclusion he's seen first hand, and what happens when Truth is tested to its limits.]
[The ultimate taboo, and it's the only key to unlocking its door.]
[Quietly, Greed bares his teeth. Long as it's been, he hasn't forgotten the first hundred years and their bloody, useless waste.] Crests, I guess you could call them. The rule is, you need to soak the ground with it. With all the blood, misery, however you want to put it. They're Truth's payment for opening up the door. [His tail flicks once, twice, three times. And with it, comes a moment. He can't stop the memory from slipping through. His history has had plenty of time to settle down. To bury itself under the sand and be forgotten about. This, though - it's all connected, isn't it? All connected and spinning over itself as it searches, wantonly, for the end of its tail.]
[The time period is earlier. The barn (or something like it) is lit up in the vaguest hints of kerosine. The night's a cold one and as a bitter wind rattles at its flimsy walls, it's not the weather that has the animals inside stirring. No, the way they panic (horses pacing in their stalls, goats slamming their skulls into every board they can find for a chance they might escape): there's something they don't like. Something they very much know is wrong. The coming of a man, of him, seemingly slinking in as dreadful as a bad, heralding storm.]
[The outfit he's wearing might be more of a shocker than anything else. Prim, proper, though scuffed up and frayed at the edges. He'd been traveling for some time, after all.]
[The Sin steps into a lick of shadow and where his eyes had once been, only a glow remains. The darkness all but revealing his true nature.]
[Greed pauses, lifting his head. There's a man at the other end of the barn. Older, late eighties, with white hair and a frown dug hard into the lines of his sun-soaked face. He stamps his wooden stick on the ground once, causing his jeweled sash to twinkle in the limelight.]
"You have my thanks for what you've done, plague. But you leave." [Broken English, or well, broken Amestrian.] "Be gone from here and back to the fiery pit from where you came. You tarnish the land just by stepping upon it."
[The Sin frowns around the neck of his pipe. Things like him can't be hurt, but oh, does it come close. The expression on his face, vague and distant.]
[Greed shrugs as he lights up his tobacco.] Mn. Yeah, sure thing, old timer. [He turns back to the door, leaving his coattails to writhe around his ankles like broken vines. He does stop once, though. Humans don't listen to him, they never will. That's just how it's always been.]
[Though he hopes, maybe, this time, they'll take the chance.] If you care about that daughter of yours and the kid she's got comin', do yourself a favor. [The pipe bursts, hot and rich with ash, and the heat of it brings back the ghostly purple of his eyes.] Get yourself over the border to Aerugo sooner rather than later.
[The memory snaps shut. A slam of static, then gone. Greed licks a dab of blood off his chewed-raw lip.] Good, because it'll be just that. [A blast radius, he means.] No one can be inside, Silco. Not unless they want to get really, fucking close.
Edited (you didn't see shit) 2026-03-29 02:31 (UTC)
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[ jinx's love runs deeper than sharon's, but... ]
She told me.
➥ Action
[The building's wiring still isn't perfect and as he slinks down the steps, the lights hung haphazardly over the bar quiver, dropping the place into a low dim. It's fitting, in a way. Men like them - they don't typically meet in the brightness of day.]
Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. [Greed hums, his body slumped over in its usual, carefree slouch. The mask latched to one of his beltloops sways while he walks. It teeters one way, then the other; its swing, matched beat for beat by the lick of his tail. This conversation hasn't been a long one coming, but it was only a matter of time. Silco had questions, he had answers. And no matter what the other man may believe, when it comes to a deal?]
[Ah, is he truly a creature of his word.]
[The former homunculus presses the toe of his boot against a makeshift side door fastened behind the bar, pushing it open with a groan of steel and angry wood.] Still working on getting some supplies, but - [He slips his hand under the lip of the counter, knuckling two, clean (as clean as they're going to get at any rate) glasses between his fingers.] - figured something is better than nothing, don't you?
[With a tip of his head, he gives Silco a look under the edge of his sunglasses before turning back to the lines of liquor on the shelf behind him. And it's there, that he passes by the usual suspects: the half-emptied bottles of vodka, the fastened handle of cracked-open gin, the blue concoction that is, by every means, questionable.]
[However, he does find what he's looking for eventually. And with his smile reflecting in both the pieces of the mirror and bottles alike, the Sin wraps his finger around the neck of one in particular. A scotch, still capped with a glob of red, dripped wax.] You a scotch man, Silco? [He asks, his claw making quick work of the seal.]
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He can't complain.]
I won't say no.
[His tastes have refined, over the years. He used to drink any swill they had available, just like every Zaunite - though it's true Silco always had a bit of a preference for things like wine, a touch classier than the bottom-of-the-barrel liquor that was all they often had. But then he had power, and money, and acquired a taste for nicer things. Clothes, liquor, cigars. All part of the image, of course, but he did genuinely enjoy them.
A flick of his cigarette - nearly gone, by now - and a thin smile.]
You've been an excellent host. You found all of these things yourself? Scavenged across the city?
[Silco is used to having to ease into these sorts of conversations, manipulate the flow of things carefully so he can get the information he wants. He knows that Greed has essentially offered it freely, but he's too used to there always being a catch - he can't quite believe that there isn't one, this time.
Well, besides having to answer questions in return. Which he actually doesn't mind. What point is there in keeping secrets, here? Anything dangerous back home is useless now.]
You're an interesting man. Or - is that what you are?
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[Which is why he's saved the bottle for an occasion. A right moment for old, familiar comforts.]
Didn't think so. [Greed hooks his claw under the wax shell, flipping it off the top of the bottle with a flick of his wrist. It disappears onto the floor, skipping and tumbling down a gap in the boards.] Wouldn't say that. I already told you. Can't really call myself Greed if I don't take care of my own now, could I? [He turns to set both glasses side by side on the bar top, and a short laugh curdles up his throat in a spin of soot.] No, not everything. I can't take all the credit. Considering the circumstances, people are lot more willing to make a deal. [A deal for what, though, he doesn't say.]
[The former homunculus lifts the bottle to his mouth to sink his teeth into the cork. And with a jerk of his head, he tears it open; the harsh smell of high-proof, burning pleasant in his nose. He pulls the stopper out of his jaws a moment later, leaving it to sit on the bar like a still pin.] Could say the same about yourself. [With two of his fingers wrapped around the base of the neck, he tips the bottle over. Glug for glug, he fills their cups. A healthy portion for a, no doubt, intriguing conversation.]
[Greed pushes one of the glasses over to Silco.] Not quite. I'm a guy, if that's what you mean. But I don't think that's your question, is it. [With a stretch of his hand, he circles his drink, blatantly showing off his tattoo.] I'm a homunculus. Something artificial. I wasn't born like humans are. [He plucks up his glass and twirls it once, giving the inside a lick of rich, thin amber.]
[Then, he shoots it back; its contents, its burn, tumbling down his throat to the tune of warmed coals doused at the end of a long, long night.]
[Once he's finished, barely half his pour remains.] My turn. This world of yours - sounds like things weren't exactly fair, were they? [A common story, and not entirely a ground-breaking question. Yet, from the little he's seen from Jinx: there was something about it that felt the same. That stunk of the same kind of bullshit that had been writhing under the surface of Amestris's military might.]
[Because the worlds may be endless, they may be strange, but governments anywhere. Ah, they've always got something else bubbling beneath them, don't they?]
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An interesting existence, certainly.
He takes a sip of the whiskey, slow, savoring the burn of it. Both because he hasn't had a drink in a long time, and because he'd rather keep his wits about him. Silco's not a lightweight, not with how he's lived his life, but he's also not exactly a large man. He knows his limits, and he has no intention of getting anywhere close to them.]
Is any world fair? [A rhetorical question, said with a twist of his lips that's almost a smile. He does intend to answer properly, though.] Of course they weren't. Zaun was nothing but a place to exploit, a place to dispose of things that the polished folk of Piltover didn't want to see. So long as it was down in the dark, they could pretend they were growing rich off nothing in particular - not the labor of people, choking in the mines, not lives barely scratched out of the bedrock. And when they were bored, the brave ones could come down for a thrill.
[His voice is relaxed. This is an old story to him, nothing to get heated about. The fire has never really dimmed, not even here - Silco would still fight for Zaun, if he could. But he keeps it carefully banked, cool and composed.]
I wanted to change that. I nearly succeeded, too. [And that's a bitter pill.
A pause, as he sets the topic aside, as near to his heart as it is. Silco has too many questions to dwell on old wounds.]
You were made, then. For what purpose?
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[Too bad it was all an elaborate game the people never knew they were playing until it was far, too late.]
[Greed slips away from the bar, walking his heels back until the dip of his spine finds the prep station behind him. And it's there, that he settles. A black cat by every definition, coiling up comfortably in its nest of observation.] But you didn't. [He answers, and there's not a single drop of snideness to his voice. The tone of it, more matter of fact.] I would say I'm sorry, but something tells me a man like yourself wouldn't want it. [He reaches out to his side while he talks, setting his glass close to his hip.] Do you regret it? Not being able to see what - Zaun, right? [The former homunculus fishes into his vest to pull out a barely touched cigarette.] Whatever it could have been?
[Mindlessly, he nudges open the lantern hanging from his horns, pressing the end of the cigarette into the lit candle inside. He rotates it three times for good measure; the smile on his lips, digging deep into his cheek.] Cut right to the chase, don't you. [Clap, and he slaps the lantern shut.] Good. No reason to hold anything back. Not with me, Silco.
[The end of his cigarette flakes away, black and tarry, and the Sin examines it a moment or two before sliding it between the points of his teeth.] I'm his greed. Good, ol'Daddy sir. [An exhale of smoke cuts through his jaw, billowing out like a passing thunderhead.] He wanted to remove us to become the perfect being. And in the process, we were supposed to follow his orders to bring about the Promised Day.
[Cool and collected as he is, there's no hiding the concept in his voice. The venom, spitting between the forks of his tongue like an adder that has every means of making someone think twice. Greed inhales, and the cherry at the end of his smoke drops away to ash.] I left them all 100 years ago. Couldn't really get everything I wanted if I worked under someone else's rules now, could I?
[The former homunculus peels himself from the backside of the bar with a push of his hand and as he reaches forward, he pulls a pack out of his vest. It's bent in all the wrong places, half its lid is missing, but there are cigarettes in there. Not many, but enough.]
[And what can he say? He's feeling a little giving.]
[Greed pushes one out of the box, flipping it over his fingers.] Didn't stop them from finding me, eventually. But that's a story for another time. [He sucks in low, bringing the spare smoke with him. And with one, long inhale, he coaxes the second cigarette flaringly to life; its play of smoke, tethering loose between his knuckles.]
[He hands it off to Silco once he's done and satisfied.] See, I am Greed. The living embodiment of it. And call it whatever you want, but I've always been a fan of the underdog. [He's a bit closer now, drinking Silco in through the lenses of his shades.] I don't expect you to believe me. It'd be stupid for you to. But I hope that, someday, you'll find that I'm a bit different than the rest. As I see it, humans have a lot more potential than most give 'em credit for. [Another wad of ash drops off his smoke to run a line across the bar.]
And the mortal lot? They'll always find a way to surprise ya.
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It's not difficult to believe that Greed is what he says he is. This place seems to collect people with remarkable origins, strange stories. Silco wouldn't have considered himself among them - no eldritch beginnings, no immense powers left behind. Never anything but himself, his goals, his own determination.
But he did make himself into something. So perhaps he's not so far outside the norm, here.
What Silco doesn't believe, at least not easily, is that Greed is any different from any human. Out for what he can get, power or money or pleasure, as base as anyone. But that's all right. It's what Silco's comfortable with, after all. He knows how to use those sorts of things, he knows what to expect.]
So someone decided to remove their vices, turn them into people, and use them for some sort of nonsensical scheme. No wonder you left. [And Silco can certainly respect that choice - walking away, becoming something entirely your own.] What does it mean to be Greed? A collector of things, of people? Of power?
[He watches Greed across the bar, one thin-fingered hand curled around the glass of scotch, the other holding his cigarette. On the surface, entirely at ease, but Silco is always just a bit tense in situations like this. Ready to run or fight, if he must. It's not personal.]
Yes. [An abrupt, definitive answer. Just a shade of bitterness, there and then gone.] I regret not being able to see it - not being able to finish the job. I spent my life fighting for Zaun, turned myself into a monster for it. [The briefest flash of a thin smile.] And I was excellent at it. It would have been sweet, to usher my home into a new era.
[He taps the ash off the end of the cigarette, dismissing that moment of regret, of desire for a different path.] But I always knew that I could die at any time. That's what happens when you become the one with all the power - everyone wants it. Any moment of weakness might be the end. I didn't expect the one I got, but I knew it was likely coming.
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mid-week one
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You doing all right so far?
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Don't think it's safe to be stuck in them for any real length of time. I can't tell what the consequences would be, but... [ She is concerned. ]
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march... !
I suppose you'll be wanting a dream dagger, now.
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[The armor, he's not sure about.]
Are you in need of a loan?
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No, of course. I certainly hope someone's out there looking after you, then.
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victim of the dw tag black hole of 2026 rip i'm sorry
nw dude!
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➥ After His Chat With Vander, End of March, CW: Mild Blood and Gore
[No. Today is the day he has to face the music and ah, here comes the orchestra.]
[Greed's claws announce him first. They slam into the building's face in a screech of heat and brimstone; the scorch of them, causing a few of the night-pluming spores to snuff away in blinks of gold. It's been hours since he last left. Hours, some of which he had company, but most were spent trying to beat away his fever. To dampen it, if only to make sure he wouldn't bring the whole house down in a flurry of fire and smoke.]
[Which may be why he's got his hands full at the moment. His boots, usually on, hang by the points of his teeth, leaving his crooked-toe feet to scratch at the brick. And around his back is a bag of sorts. Military issue (or a knockoff, at least) that's barely holding it together as is, never mind whatever odds and ends he's shoved haphazardly inside. They're all a distraction, really. Because the static in his head hasn't stopped. Hasn't stopped and the closer he got to the 'Nest, the louder and louder it had become.]
["Greed - "]
[The Sin nips at the leather tags of his boots to gain a better hold. He's frustrated, but it's more than that. It's that familiar taste. That familiar sting slowly making its way up the back of his throat like acid. Or, more specifically, like molten lead, popping, popping, popping.]
[He knew he would be walking into a mess, but that mess turned out to be a whirlwind. One pointed straight at him that he hadn't had the time to prepare for.]
[Well, no regrets, right? And besides, he couldn't turn back now, even if he wanted to.]
["-they're the only part of you that -" His skull, buzzing, humming, yelling, and oh, if he could bite the brat now, he would.]
[Irritably, the Sin knocks his knee against the window, shaking his leg behind him. It wouldn't take too much stretching of the imagination to guess what he's been up to, other than the talk he promised. Blood soaks the talons of his toes - the flecks of bone, of a skull or more, flicking off them like a cat that's stepped a little too close to the water's edge.]
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These days, he wants something to do. Something to take his mind off the things he can't do anything about - Sleep and her games, Jinx and the tethers that might pull her away from him, Vander's continued presence. Greed, and the tangled web that Silco's found himself in. His own choice, he could have walked away. But he's still wary, still on edge. Especially when he considers Greed speaking to Vander, and what might come of it.
He hears the movement outside. It's not such a surprise, especially with that tether in the back of his mind. For a moment, Silco is still. There's some part of him that's reluctant to investigate, isn't sure he wants to know what Greed will say. Silco's first real - ally - in this place, and he ran off to talk to the man who hates Silco most in the world. He doesn't like it, couldn't prevent it, remains suspicious of the possible fallout. But avoiding it would be foolish, and even if Silco doesn't like the information he gets, he knows it's always better to have it.
So he folds up the map and sets it aside, going to the window. It's not locked, though Silco usually secures it when he's alone in his room - his concession to a possible visitor who could just as easily use the door. He tugs it open and looks out, taking in Greed, assessing.
Blood, but not his. No visible bruises, either. So he and Vander had a peaceful talk, then, which - isn't such a positive thing, from where Silco's standing. What did they talk about, what should Silco plan for? Should he expect to end up bloody himself?
Still, if he's being honest, he didn't have any particular desire to see Greed injured, even if it would have served the man right. He'll deal with whatever comes of this.]
Don't track your mess in here.
[With those comforting words, Silco steps back from the window, reaching out to hook a spare towel - threadbare, usually used for cleaning knives, perfectly functional for blood.
His place is minimal but tidy, without much in it. Enough furniture to live, scavenged notebooks and pens and pencils for his notes, maps, a few books that he's been learning the script of this world with. A crumpled, half-empty pack of cigarettes, his lighter next to it. An ashtray, a knife near to hand (just in case), a few collected bits of machinery: transistors, a screwdriver, spare fuses - things he's found to pass on to Jinx.
Silco likes nice things, but he doesn't have any real need for many things, and hasn't had the time or desire to go searching for nicer versions of the things he does need. It makes the apartment functional, reasonably comfortable, but not especially homey.]
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[And he'd been right. At the end of it, all he had left to show for his efforts were a few, tossed crumbs and a headache he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with.]
[Greed takes the towel, swiping it over one foot, then the other.] Good to see you too, Sil. [He slides the bag off his back with a roll of his shoulder, tossing both it and his boots haphazardly onto the floor. Near as he is now, he doesn't doubt Silco can feel at least a hint of it: that noise of his that rushes, flooding in like the hollow center of a storm. The way the blacks and whites are still, still, popping off behind his eyes like a den of snakes, stirred from their slumber.]
[The Sin bows his head and as he squeezes himself under the window's overhanging sill, he sets one of his feet pointedly down on the floor; his splayed toes, tap-tap-tapping as anxiously as a raptor, vibrating for the kill. He takes a moment (liberally, selfishly) to give the whole apartment a good once-over. Everything about it is utilitarian, functional. The less of it, more for the man who needs little to turn the world on his fingers. Practicality is something he's grown to bank on when it comes to Silco. Nothing he has is simply for the feel of it, nothing he does is merely for the moment. It's all a part of an end goal in mind. An end goal, whatever it may be, that's been balanced in the books three times before the execution.]
[Normally, he wouldn't bother with the sort. But, ah. Rusty knives, and all.]
Sure know how to make a place feel lived in, schatz. [He starts, dragging all of him out into the open room.] Suppose I should have expected that, man that you are - [His tail is the last thing that comes through and as it slinks between the horrors outside and the ache within, the former homunculus pads over to the bag. He drops down into a crouch, no bothering (or not wanting) to look at Silco just yet.] - you were right, y'know. If it's any consolation, you were right.
[What he means, though, he doesn't say. Not yet. Instead, he shoves both his hands into the mouth of the bag, ripping the head of it wide open. And what he pulls out are more distractions: the record player from when he'd held back, if only to save the man from heading down a path he might regret. Two cigars (stale, dry, brittle), but fine in a pinch. A bottle of whiskey, tied off in a shredded, mildewed ribbon.]
[He's delaying the inevitable, and he knows it. With each object he pulls out and with every breath held behind baited teeth.]
[The last, couple of things he yanks loose are more simple: a sheet of paper, a receipt, and an unopened can of rather passible-looking sardines sealed shut in a thin top of copper. Greed taps it twice with his nail.] Eat. I know how you are, and where she gets it from. You'll want it before we're done here.
[His tone, though: it isn't angry, it isn't vicious, it isn't even silky with that tease of his that's so second-nature at this point. No, what it is is hollow. Empty. A devil, defeated and waiting for the judgement of every, righteous spear Silco has to give him.]
[Which may be why he doesn't bother. Hiding it from him, no matter how much he wants to, wouldn't do him any good. So, he starts it slow - the trickle of his conversation with Vander, unraveling itself like a tightly wound scroll.]
I'll be quick. But I really need you to pay attention, Silco. If you don't listen to a single, fucking thing I say, this is the one thing I'll ask you to do. Then, well. [He tries to shrug, but his shoulders are too locked up, too knotted, to give him anything more than a half-hearted slouch.] Whatever you want. That's always been the deal.
[The playback continues, and nothing about is redacted. Everything he said, everything he didn't say: they feel themselves out between the tether. The smell of it like scotch, blistering inside an already cracked glass. Still, even as he bleeds himself out, the former homunculus is moving. A pen (bent and buckled by teeth marks) bounces between his knuckles as he fans out the sheets of paper. Drawing is not a skill he has, but he hopes he can get the gist.]
A failsafe. In case everything does work, and the hag decides to make things difficult. It's something Vander couldn't get through his thick skull - [The former homunculus hisses, sketching out two circles. One on a crude rendition of Manhattan. And on the other sheet, something larger. Larger and all encompassing, marrying itself around the vague idea of a country no one knows but him.]
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And that Greed apparently managed to still find these things that seem to be - what? Bribes, gifts, part of an apology? Whatever they are, they're exactly the sort of thing Silco likes. He doesn't make his preferences secret, but he didn't really expect Greed to arrive bearing gifts, and even Silco isn't immune to that sort of thing.
Nor is he immune to hearing you were right. Though he's still angry, still wary, he listens - he listens to all of it.
It's the sharing that shocks him more than anything. Laying it out so fully, instead of picking and choosing, controlling the information Silco gets. Everyone does that, Silco included. The difficulty is always in determining where the lie is, what's hidden, what someone has chosen to tell you compared to what the reality is. This has none of that. It's just - everything, unscrolling out before him. He doesn't know how to feel about that. It's almost as if Greed trusts him.
Nothing Vander says comes as a surprise to Silco. Even after all these years, he knows the man as well as he knows the sting of a knife blade on skin. And some of it does sting, a little, even if it's not a surprise. I've been there before. It's fun until it isn't. He's seen it already, Vander's desire to repaint their history into something where Silco is the manipulator, the villain, even before he took that path of his own free will. It wasn't like that. It wouldn't have hurt so much if it had been like that.
But it doesn't matter. It's the same things, the same Vander he knows. It's Greed he wants the keys to, Greed he wants to understand. And - it's not what he expected. He picks out little things, things that affect him more than he would like. Things he'll tuck away to think about later - I won't let you kill him (for Jinx, surely) - and things that twist anger inside of him.
That fury, instantly, when he realizes Greed went to Vander to ask Vander to protect his people. To protect Silco. As if it wouldn't be faster for Greed to slit Silco's throat himself, as if Silco doesn't still have nightmares about Vander's hands around his neck, water in his lungs, the awful days afterwards. If Vander had agreed, or if Greed had pressed the request harder, it might have been a betrayal that Silco couldn't forgive.
But he knows, to some extent, it's his own fault. He kept that hidden. He showed Greed all the worst parts of himself, but he didn't show him that night. Even if he heard their argument - and who didn't - Greed doesn't know. Not really. Still, he lets the anger flash back along the tether. Then, for the moment, he sets it aside. Tabled, for now.
Because there's more pressing matters to attend to. Greed's plan, directly striking at Sleep somehow, in such a way that he expects or fears there'll be a backlash. The details aren't all there, but the intent is, and Silco already knew he was planning something. But something big enough to anger Sleep is much more audacious than he expected - though he supposes that Greed is, in all ways, audacious.]
Tell me everything you're planning.
[It's the first thing he's said, and it's not a request. Silco reaches out, takes the tin of sardines. Annoying to admit even in that small way that Greed is right, but he doesn't entirely remember when he last ate. Earlier in the day sometime. It's easy to lose track when he's busy.]
And then tell me why you're such a fool that you haven't asked for help until now. I may not be Vander, but I know how to create contingency plans, failsafes in case everything goes wrong. I know how to get people away from a blast radius.
CW: Historical Stuff, Slightly Sacrilegious, Mild Blood
No, you're not. You're - [A whole lot more, he fails to say. Because he doesn't have the time. He never has the time. No matter where he goes, no matter how many years pass, he never, ever has the fucking time.] - doesn't matter. What I'm planning has nothing to do with what I'm about to tell you, schatz. [The nickname, fond usually, clicks snappishly on the forks of his tongue; the resignation to him as clear as a river, untouched by the filth of it all.]
[The former homunculus laughs shortly to himself - a bit of steam, letting itself loose.] Gunna be honest with you, I don't know how well it's going to work, if it will at all. Really depends on if everything else does. Call it an out, and you can't let anyone get in the way. [And oh, he's serious. So serious for the first time he's ever been. How his muscles go rigid and stiff like he's looking down the barrel of a gun, knowing perfectly well where the shot will come from.]
[He begins to scratch X(s) into both drawings. 10 on the map, and 7 on the receipt.] It's your soul on the line. And I don't mean that like some cheap, religious bullshit. [He taps the center of his chest. A punctual knock to prove his point.] I don't have a heart, Silco. Never have. I'm just made of the thousands of souls that were taken the day Xerxes fell.
[And this is it. This is it, his everything (what he's really made of, his effort with Vander, his brutal, cruel, pure honesty). He doesn't lie, and he isn't about to start now.]
Sleep's been sloppy. She has her Hosts all over this place, so that'll be the easy part. But you have to kill enough of them for it to work. [As he talks, he points out each X on both maps. A parallel, drawing to an awful conclusion. An awful conclusion he's seen first hand, and what happens when Truth is tested to its limits.]
[The ultimate taboo, and it's the only key to unlocking its door.]
[Quietly, Greed bares his teeth. Long as it's been, he hasn't forgotten the first hundred years and their bloody, useless waste.] Crests, I guess you could call them. The rule is, you need to soak the ground with it. With all the blood, misery, however you want to put it. They're Truth's payment for opening up the door. [His tail flicks once, twice, three times. And with it, comes a moment. He can't stop the memory from slipping through. His history has had plenty of time to settle down. To bury itself under the sand and be forgotten about. This, though - it's all connected, isn't it? All connected and spinning over itself as it searches, wantonly, for the end of its tail.]
[The time period is earlier. The barn (or something like it) is lit up in the vaguest hints of kerosine. The night's a cold one and as a bitter wind rattles at its flimsy walls, it's not the weather that has the animals inside stirring. No, the way they panic (horses pacing in their stalls, goats slamming their skulls into every board they can find for a chance they might escape): there's something they don't like. Something they very much know is wrong. The coming of a man, of him, seemingly slinking in as dreadful as a bad, heralding storm.]
[The outfit he's wearing might be more of a shocker than anything else. Prim, proper, though scuffed up and frayed at the edges. He'd been traveling for some time, after all.]
[The Sin steps into a lick of shadow and where his eyes had once been, only a glow remains. The darkness all but revealing his true nature.]
[Greed pauses, lifting his head. There's a man at the other end of the barn. Older, late eighties, with white hair and a frown dug hard into the lines of his sun-soaked face. He stamps his wooden stick on the ground once, causing his jeweled sash to twinkle in the limelight.]
"You have my thanks for what you've done, plague. But you leave." [Broken English, or well, broken Amestrian.] "Be gone from here and back to the fiery pit from where you came. You tarnish the land just by stepping upon it."
[The Sin frowns around the neck of his pipe. Things like him can't be hurt, but oh, does it come close. The expression on his face, vague and distant.]
[Greed shrugs as he lights up his tobacco.] Mn. Yeah, sure thing, old timer. [He turns back to the door, leaving his coattails to writhe around his ankles like broken vines. He does stop once, though. Humans don't listen to him, they never will. That's just how it's always been.]
[Though he hopes, maybe, this time, they'll take the chance.] If you care about that daughter of yours and the kid she's got comin', do yourself a favor. [The pipe bursts, hot and rich with ash, and the heat of it brings back the ghostly purple of his eyes.] Get yourself over the border to Aerugo sooner rather than later.
[The memory snaps shut. A slam of static, then gone. Greed licks a dab of blood off his chewed-raw lip.] Good, because it'll be just that. [A blast radius, he means.] No one can be inside, Silco. Not unless they want to get really, fucking close.
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cw: violence, drowning
CW: Violence, Stabbing (in the image links), Gore, Blood, *Men*
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I used the wrong word in a tag before and it is STARING ME in the face forgive my sin
I'm sorry but your sin cannot be forgiven
TIME TO WALK backwards into hell then I GUESS. Also CW: Mild FMA:B Spoilers