[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)
[Silco doesn't fully understand, not all the details, though he's paying very close attention. There's no alchemy in Zaun, not like that, so it's like hearing someone talk about a skill you never learned - hard to grasp exactly what it means, what the subtleties are.
But he understands the gist. Blood, souls. A crest to open a door, to call - something. Power? Something that Greed hopes will strike back against Sleep, or at least piss her off somehow.
He tucks it all away, information he needs if he's going to get involved in this. And he's angry at Greed, that fury still locked away, but Silco knows he is going to get involved. And there are bits and pieces, scraps that grab his attention. One thing in particular.]
None of us choose how we were made. We choose what we make of ourselves.
[An inspirational, cliche sort of phrase, coming from anyone else. But Silco lived it, lived the whole bitter truth of it. He was born nothing, trash that should have died in a gutter like so many poor, unwanted Zaunites. He clawed his way to survival, lost everything, turned himself into something that couldn't be broken like that again, something terrible. That's what he made of himself.
But even in that memory, Greed was trying to look out for someone. No heart? What a joke. It's there in everything he does. Everything he's doing now.
Not that that makes Silco any less annoyed with him.]
So you want them protected, from that and from any backlash Sleep chooses to send your way.
[He does, of course, understand why Greed wouldn't ask him. Silco doesn't care what happens to anyone except Jinx, not really. He likes Sharon, knows Jinx loves her, would protect her because of that even if he doesn't care in the same bone-deep way. But the others? Yuuto, Kalmiya - Silco's never spoken to them, doesn't care in the least whether they live or die.
Silco has always been a knife, not a shield. When he cares, he'll do anything. When he doesn't, he'll do nothing. But he'll honor a deal, when it's made.
And with Jinx in the mix, of course. He'll do anything.]
You haven't told them about this, I assume. [A look of judgment, quick and cutting. He understands, but he thinks it was the wrong move.] You ought to. Not all the details, if you're concerned. Just enough so they know there might be some danger. They'll be better able to protect themselves than a stranger trying to do it for them.
[But that's the problem, isn't it - Greed is always saying he doesn't lie. That would make it harder. Luckily, there's an easy solution.]
You don't need to bare your soul to do it. Tell me what you want them to know, and I'll lie for you.
[Slowly, ghoulishly, the Sin rises to a stand. While every inch of him is tense (how his shoulders tighten in on themselves, the way the bones in his spine snap and click, as if he hasn't stretched in over a decade), that tail of his is moving. Its tosses and turns, whipping over the floor like a decapitated eel. No, he isn't happy about any of this. And while his talk with Vander hadn't gotten him anywhere, it had, at the very least, confirmed his decision.]
[If Sleep struck back, she'd pay the heftiest price he could think of. A ticket through the gate, whatever the cost would be for the both of them.]
[Greed impatiently snatches both cigars and with a swipe of his claw, he clips the tops of them clean off. A shear, hot to the touch.] If it comes to it - [He lets his tongue feels out the roof of his mouth, making the deep baritone of his voice purr at the back of his throat.] - I'm counting on you to tell them it's worth it. That it doesn't matter what happens to me. I've still got my Philosopher's stone in her dream, and it's not like I haven't lost a few souls in my time. I'll be fine. Always am.
[Until he isn't. Until he isn't, and that's a story he's not telling anyone.]
[The former homunculus pivots and as the balls of his feet skate off the floor, the hooks of his claws drag out their marks into the wood. A couple of scratches, snuffed out in smoke.] I told you, Silco. I'm greed, the living embodiment of it. And no one takes what's mine. [He's close again. Close with all his heat, with that fever of his, threatening under his skin like a dynamite's fuse. This time, though, he merely lifts his hand to Silco's face; his fan of fingers offering nothing more than one of the two cigars.] And no, I haven't told them. You're the only one who knows most of the story, schatz. And if it's all the same to you, I'd like to keep it that way.
[His other arm moves (too fast, too quick) to flip a matchbook from his pocket. The name on it no longer fits the bar in question anymore, but branding isn't exactly at the top of his to-do list.] Then, I leave it to you. I said it before, but out of the two of us, you're better at organizing things. Leave the messy part to me, hmn? [With his thumb, he urges the flimsy book open, striking the whole lot of unspent sticks up the side of one of his horns. They burst to life in an instant and as the fire plays tricks between his fingers, the shadow behind him grows. A looming thing, engulfing the wall for its inches.]
[Greed puffs on his cigar, drawing it to a glow before offering the flame to Silco.] That includes you. You can be angry with me all you want, but don't forget that. [The heat of the fire is nothing compared to him at the moment. He's running hot for all the wrong reasons again. For all the wrong reasons and oh, if he could claw Sleep right off her throne now, he would.]
[Thankfully, the cigar does calm him, if only a little. Its stale taste unpleasant, but not unwelcome.] There's more you should know. But I think that's enough for one night. [After all, he's been running around in circles for hours. The man, if nothing else, can cut him a little slack.] And I will tell you. Another thing, in case everything else fails.
[Backup plans, exits, a deck fully stacked. If no one else will listen, if no one else will understand, he hopes Silco will.]
[Greed plants his foot between the other man's feet, letting his toe click mindlessly against the floor.] Suppose you're gunna let me have it now, huh. Well, go ahead. Get it all out of your system, Silco.
Edited (I FORGOT A WHOLE FUCKING PART OF A SENTENCE.... jesus christ) 2026-03-30 01:28 (UTC)
[He pauses only for a moment, considering, before he takes the cigar. It's been too long, and even Silco is weak to small pleasures sometimes. He lights it in the offered flame and takes a breath, all smoke and satisfaction, for a moment. He's already thinking, planning.]
It's a deal, then. I'll warn them there could be danger, but I'll avoid getting too specific about why - and I'll do what I can to convince them there's nothing to be worried about. [Which is not something Silco actually believes, but he has no reason not to lie to other people about it. And he's not worried about their safety, anyway.] And if something happens to you, I'll tell them not to be concerned. That you'll be fine.
[And he will tell them that. But the note in his voice, all scorn and biting judgement, is enough to make it clear that Silco doesn't believe a word of it. Greed might be happy to lie to himself, might even believe it, but Silco won't practice the same self-deception.
He's not going to stop Greed from throwing himself into danger. He even thinks it'll likely be worth it, to bloody Sleep's nose a bit. But Greed taking it all onto himself - it sits a little uneasy on Silco's thoughts. Why that is, he's not in the mood to explore.]
If you need to add a name, let me know. I'll reach out to them once we've all had some time to settle.
[And he will want more, eventually. If there's more he should know, then Silco always wants to know it. But he can wait - this has already been quite a bit, and he's unsettled. Angry still. Not ready to unpack more of Greed's secrets.
But yes, angry still. And there's the invitation. He looks up at Greed, chin raised, eyes half-lidded, thinking.]
Let you have it, hm?
[It's not violence that will ease his anger. But he made a mistake before, by keeping too much locked away. And so it is a punishment, what he does next, even if it isn't violence.
Not that sort, anyway.
It's a tug at the tether between them, and then a rush. Memories. The worst night of his life, still as vivid as the moment it happened. A blow to his face, hard and heavy, nothing he could hope to prevent, blood splattering across the shore. Hands around his throat, water in his lungs, the sting of toxins in his wound. And he fights, he does, but Vander is far too strong and even as he fights the water drags at him. It would be so easy to let go, and maybe - maybe he should. When the one you love the most, the one you trust above all others, thinks you need to die?
Maybe you should.
But Silco's always been a survivor. And so he survives, with a stolen knife, a frantic, panicked escape - nearly caught again, knowing that if he is, that will be the end. But that's not where the memories end. He runs, he hides, and then the infection sets in. And then it's days of pain, fever, misery. Hardly human, just a thing surviving in the cracks, knowing he has nowhere to turn, that if he's found he's dead, that everything he once had is gone. That there isn't a soul he can trust. The misery, the desolation. He wasn't angry yet, then. That came later.
And when it's over, and Silco speaks again, there's venom in his voice.]
That's the man you asked to protect me. A good man, a protector - until he isn't.
[And he never will be again, for Silco.]
If you ever do that again, I'm gone.
CW: Violence, Stabbing (in the image links), Gore, Blood, *Men*
[And oh, is it a promise he delivers on. There's not a single thing held back this time. Nothing tucked away for later, when the time is right. Nothing saved, if only to use once the man's run through all his calculations. The moment is as raw and brutal as it probably felt the day it happened. The day he's finally getting a glimpse of, where whatever love they had went septic, clawing itself into both a physical manifestation and a permanent reminder of a loss that could never be paid back, no matter how many confessions either of them made. No, this - it's one of those cardinal things that can't be scrubbed away. A sin that couldn't be rinsed clean because the river was already too toxic to begin with.]
[It's a warning to him, too. It he ever tries it again, he'll lose Silco. Lose him in a different kind of way, the one where he would remember what regret really means, and how heavy it can feel, sinking like a solid, weighted stone.]
[So, he doesn't say anything. Not at first. Instead, his mind flashes, the pins of his eyes shrink, and through their tether, the experience is short. An echo, a mirror, to answer Silco like a hand, reaching through all his torrent waters. It's less an offer and more a vow of sorts. Should the opportunity present itself a second time, he'll have something (someone) to pull him out.]
[He'd been pinned, then. Pinned to the bottom of a sewer, the four swords sticking out of him, purposely matching the strange, red lines mapping his body like a split-cut circuit. He can't move. He can't do anything. But he knows what's happening all around him: a woman, pounding and screaming inside a suit of living armor as her cries are cut short by the slice of a blade. The bodies bobbing about him, split into pieces and gushing themselves down the drain like gut fish. Him, with the trickles of water tickling down his throat that won't infect him like Silco, but are putrid just the same.]
[The former homunculus eases his cigar from his mouth and as he lowers his arm to his side, he steps nearer again. His chest, an inch away, and his mouth close enough to Silco's ear that he can probably feel the breath that never comes. He hesitates only for a second. The beat of it, hanging like the throes of a dying pulse.]
[Then, it's gone, and Greed brushes his nose against the side of Silco's neck as his fingers (cigar and all) hover about his shoulder. A distance kept with a touch that doesn't come.] Got it loud and clear. [He talks against his skin - his voice, a slick of tar and smog, knotting him and his loosely together. Normally, this is where he'd say he's sorry. Sorry for everything he's gone through, sorry for everything that could have been. But they aren't the type. Monsters, after all, don't have or deserve the same kind of sympathy that even men rarely do.]
[And words, well. He's already said how cheap they can be.]
[Actions speak louder. Plans speak more. Which may be why he doesn't hold back this time. How he lets his hand wander, flat and spread, down Silco's shoulder, across his chest, and further still. He can't touch that scar (the ache of it, the sting of it, the pain he can never know and never will). However, he will put it to memory. He'll put everything to memory. Silco and all that he is, drawn under his claws and kept for as long as Sleep will let him.]
[The Sin pulls away, urging his cigar back into his mouth.] Then, let me sweeten the deal. But first - [He inhales again, letting the tarnished tobacco hold in his nose like a thunderhead. There's so many questions he wants to ask. Why Vander did what he did. What led the two of them to such a violent end. How it all had gone so wrong, so quickly. But he doesn't. Some secrets aren't worth the trouble, and he's again forced the man's hand. To show him things he probably never wanted to, probably never intended, all because he pushed it.]
[So, he goes for the option less personal.] How long. [He starts as he settles his elbows on the window sill. The night air (damp, cold, with its constant scent of rot) brings him down a bit. Enough that he can choke his internal fire out for when he's only got himself for company.] How long did he leave you like that?
[He could have asked the obvious, too. "Did you love him? Do you, still?" But he already thinks he knows the answer to both. Humans didn't infect personal wounds like that unless there was a history. Unless there was a rage broiling so deep that it burned not for days, but for years.]
[The Sin's teeth set warm against the cigar, and its blueish smoke makes a veil over his face. A funeral for the loss of what could have been.] The Ultimate Shield. [He answers his part, finally.] That's what good ol'Dad gave me. Consider it yours.
Edited (don't do tags with a headache kids) 2026-03-31 01:18 (UTC)
[Silco stays very still. He stays still, and he lets Greed touch him. He thinks about slapping the man's hand away, pushing back in his chair, putting distance between them, but he doesn't do it. Perhaps because he didn't expect it, perhaps because he's too busy turning it over in his head - those memories. Is that how Greed died?
They're the same, after all. Nothing to go back to, nowhere but here. A second chance neither of them deserves, not really, but given to them anyway. It's a miserable place, but they're alive, and to Silco that counts for something. To a man who's clung to survival with teeth and nails, it counts for a lot.
And the Ultimate Shield. He doesn't know what it means, exactly, but he remembers that creature that Greed turned into, in the dream. Was that what he was made for, then? To protect someone or something. To protect the things he considers his.
It does seem accurate.]
Mine? [A pause, and then a warning.] Don't give pieces of yourself away so easily. I'll use anything you give me.
[Information, protection, even kindness. Isn't he already? Silco is starting to understand Greed, to understand how he views those he thinks of as his, and he'll have no hesitation using that to protect himself, to protect his daughter. Right now, he knows, it's what they both want - Greed to protect his things, Silco to protect his, and for the moment those are the same. But they might not always be.
So, a warning, though he thinks he already knows how Greed will feel about that.
But he owes an answer, and so he gives it.]
I lost track of time down there. I was fevered, from the infection. I don't know how long it was before I could think properly again. [And then he crawled deeper, and found Singed, and Shimmer at least managed to save his eye. Somewhat. The rest of the damage was already done.] He looked for me, he says, and I have no doubt it's true. But I hid too well.
[There's the faintest hint of a humorless smile. Silco puts the cigar to his lips, and he hardly notices the scar tissue stretching most of the time anymore - it's just normal now. But he notices then.]
I was certain he would kill me if he found me, so I stayed away from anything I knew. He left a letter, Jinx says, somewhere he and I spent so much of our time together. But I never went back. I didn't see it.
[And the worst of it:]
I probably would have gone back to him, if I had.
[He's thought of it too many times, in the past weeks. Not for years, and then so much. Silco knows the man he was, frightened and alone, and he remembers how much he loved Vander. Yes, he would have taken any apology. Would have gone back, and for what? So that Vander could finish the job the next time?
What he doesn't think about, what he tries never to consider, is whether that might not have happened. Whether they could have gotten back what they had. Because Vander might try to rewrite their history now, but Silco remembers. They were happy, once. Stupid and young and reckless, but happy.
He's never felt that since.]
Don't lose any sleep over it, though. He's paid for it all, and more. He just tried to kill me. I succeeded.
I used the wrong word in a tag before and it is STARING ME in the face forgive my sin
[The Sin lifts his upper lip, giving a glimpse of his gums. He lets the cigar roll between his claws - a lull, to put the troubles of the night to bed.] Don't get smart, handsome. I can't give it to you like that, but you'll have it when the time comes. I already said I have no plans on stopping the two of you. There's no point. But - [He pulls one of his fingers off the roll of tobacco, and a loose leaf catches on the tip of his nail; its shrink of heat and soot, blinking out like a lost star.] - I will be the one to put an end to it before he gets the chance. Get it all out of your system, right?
[Greed hunches forward, forcing his chest level with the window sill, and the wad of ash at the end of his smoke drops. Its silent fall of stories, announced by the soft plnk of his shoulder as it pops in and out of its socket.]
And I know you will. You've already shown me what a man like you will do. Anything, hmn? [Languidly, he stretches two of his wings along the flattest part of the wall. They unfurl, slowly and tentatively; the stretch of them, skittering like the soft stroke of nails along a chalkboard.] Equivalent exchange, though, Sil. I expect you to make good on your end. We need to get this place up and running, and start figuring out our supply situation. [The change of subject is more comfortable. For him, for his. For them. Least, he assumes so.]
[And it is important: if they're going to start making moves, then they'll need the means to do it. Things to keep them safe, surviving, and ah, does he already have a list in mind. Some practical, some necessities, and others cherries to top it all off, if only to bring more of them in.]
[The Sin shifts and as his wings fold in on themselves, he shrugs his shoulders, causing his vest to slide unceremoniously down his back.] Zaun, Dublith. Here. It might not be the world we're used to, but some things never change. People need somewhere to go. I plan on providing just that. And you - [The former homunculus mouths his cigar with a lewd, tantalizing wrap of his tongue.] - you're going to help me do it.
[A cloud of smoke fumes from his nose, and the former homunculus settles his head into the corner of the window.] You did what you had to. No shame in that. [The tether between them, however, jumps briefly from his end. A skip, like a heartbeat that's forgotten its rhythm. Greed clicks his tongue as he closes his eyes.] And if he gave it to you now? [He asks - his voice, jazzy and smooth. There's no judgement from his end either way. Hell, it would almost be easier for him if they just got it over with and buried the hatchet once and for all.] Not that it matters to me. What you do is always going to be your choice, schatz. Think I've made that pretty clear by now.
[He knows, though, that it's a pipe dream. A pipe dream, formed and shaped into a solid, handheld grenade. Who will finally pull the pin is anyone's guess. But he did say it to Vander once, didn't he?]
[No one ever said there was anything wrong with too much hope.]
[Greed thumbs the waist of his pants, slipping his claw behind the hem to feel out his hip.] I'm not going to. Not like I sleep much, anyway. [Even here, where he's been forced to do so, it always came in waves. Chunks of time interrupted by his want or something else as he paced out the wee-morning hours.] We'll need people, too. Those with skills neither of us have. [Talking business, talking about anything that avoids his honesty, is simpler.] I only know how to make sure mine don't bleed out, but anything more than that - [Infection, disease. Rot. Silco may forget about his scar from time to time, but here, now, that's all he feels. All he feels, burning its bitterness at the back of his throat.]
[So, like always, he swallows it down. Any questions Silco has, he'll gladly answer. But there are some things he doesn't need to know. This happens to be one of them.]
As for Vander, think the guy's made it obvious that he doesn't like me very much. Suppose that gives us something else in common. [And maybe, Silco can read between the lines. Maybe, he'll make his own assumptions. Whatever the case may be, the man has him if he needs him. No matter how many nights he slips away, no matter how many hours he disappears in exchange for more intimate company. He'll always be back. A devil, returning to the house it's named for.]
I have to go take care of a few things in the next couple of days. In the meantime, might be a good idea to start putting those skills of yours to use. See if anyone is interested in making a deal, and which of 'em are more reasonable.
[There's a twitch of his lip, there and gone, at handsome. Silco knows he's not. He never really was, but especially not now, and he knows Greed doesn't mean anything by it - just another of the nicknames, like the one Silco doesn't understand - but it stings even so, because that memory is so close.
But he doesn't say anything about it. No point.]
If you're imagining some dramatic brawl to settle our differences, don't bother. I'm not going to go after him. I wouldn't win, and all it would accomplish would be to create more problems. [It's hard to remember that sometimes, when he's actually talking to Vander, angry and resentful, but the rest of the time Silco knows better. Even if he did win, what's the point in killing someone who would just come back? It would upset Jinx, and anyone Vander is friends with here, and Silco doesn't have the resources to be able to afford to make a lot of enemies right now.] If he comes after me -[A possibility Silco has to consider.] - I wouldn't mind the help.
[Because in any physical contest, Silco loses. He might be a bit faster than Vander, but Vander is stronger, larger, can take more damage. Silco only wins if he has help, time to plan, luck on his side. He knows that very, very well.]
As for your question, there's too much blood between us now. Didn't you hear me? I killed him. I was responsible for the deaths of two of his children, too. There's no possible forgiveness, even if I begged for it. Which I have no intention of doing.
[Silco wasn't the one who killed them, but Vander blames him for it, and that's good. He took Vander, they came to try to rescue him. They wouldn't have been there if it weren't for Silco. And what's the alternative? Silco isn't going to deflect the blame on Jinx. Vander can't hurt him any more than he already has, but there's nothing in the world that would make Silco give Vander a reason to hurt her.
Besides, he wouldn't have hesitated to kill them, back then. He wouldn't have hesitated to kill anyone. So it's all the same, in the end.
He feels that skip though, that brief moment. Wonders if that was too much for Greed, a step too far, admitting what he did to Vander. The man's heart is in better shape than Silco's own, he already knows. But it's not a secret. There's no point in trying to keep it like one.]
He doesn't like you because of me. I expect you'd be fast friends, otherwise.
[They aren't that similar, but Silco can see the little things, the ways they might get along. Not that he wants that. He can't imagine how anyone would manage to be close to them both, anymore, besides Jinx. Greed would have to choose one or the other, and in those situations, Silco always expects he won't be the one chosen.
Better that Vander doesn't like him.]
As for our plans - I'm not new to this, so you don't need to tell me what to do. [A rather gentle reminder, for Silco, though there's a slight sharpness in his voice.] As it happens, though, if you're looking for a doctor I may know of one. And I have some things in motion already that ought to bring us some goodwill, and perhaps more connections to skills that might be useful. I'll keep myself busy while you're gone. There is one more thing, though.
[Silco sets the cigar in his ashtray and stands, crossing the small room to put himself at Greed's back. Not touching him, but close.] I'll take care of your people. I'll warn them, and I'll ensure they're prepared for possible danger, and if it comes I'll do what I can to keep them safe. But what's your plan? When the danger you're putting yourself in comes for you, do you have an escape route? Backup? Someone to keep you from bleeding out, or at least to drag your corpse out and find somebody to bring you back?
[He heard everything Greed said, and it was all about the others. But Greed is the one throwing himself into danger, and Silco isn't going to let him go without putting his feet to the fire about that. About having some kind of plan besides just saying that he'll be fine and nothing more.]
And don't just tell me you'll be fine.
TIME TO WALK backwards into hell then I GUESS. Also CW: Mild FMA:B Spoilers
[No, what's he thinking is the worst-case scenario. Where the two of are left bleeding out in whatever hole they found themselves in, and Jinx is the one who has to see it all: the bodies left behind and the mess they've made, laid out before her to the tune of a death bell that'll never ring. He can't risk it. Jinx is already holding onto scraps as they are. And while he doesn't know her whole story, the way she puts up walls - pot to kettle, he can read the writing on them well enough.]
[The Sin grazes the forks of his tongue against the tobacco, prodding its poison into the inside of his cheek.] Then let me do what I do best. [His job, he fails to mention.] I won't kill him, but I'll make sure you both walk away in one piece. Least, as much as you'll give me. [Not unharmed. That's impossible, even by his standards. But alive nonetheless, and that's a promise he'll make good on, no matter what consequences come his way.]
[Greed pulls his head away from the window, raking his claws gradually through his hair. He wasn't wrong with his initial assumption. Silco was and is a man who can't help but keep himself busy.] Sounds to me like we've both got some things to check off our lists, don't we? [He lets his eyes briefly wander; the slide of them as slippery as oil, washing off the water's edge.]
[And it's funny. He should be more prepared by now. Should be more ready for the second jab Silco has waiting for him, coming to get him when he's already got his defenses down low. Does he have a plan for himself? What kind of question is that? Of course he doesn't. He never has. He knows what's waiting for him if this all goes tits up. Knows and still doesn't give a damn either way. Silco thinks there'll be a corpse to find, and part of him wishes he could tell him. To look him in the eye and give him all his truths right here and now, if only to save him the trouble of searching for something he'll never find.]
[Homunculi didn't leave anything behind, in the end. Save the ash of it, the ash they've ever been, thinning away as chaste and fleeting as snow.]
[But he can't. Because, for as much as the man might not care, for as much as the man might forget his face and wash his hands clean of all of it, part of him. Ah, well. Sometimes the mercy is the things left in the dark.]
Sorry, schatz. That's for me to know. [The Sin hums, thoughtfully, as he flips his cigar between his knuckles. He shoves the hot end against the building not a moment later, snuffing it out in a dance of twinkling soot. No, that's a part of the story he refuses to give, no matter how many times he's asked. The sewer hadn't been his only end, and it wouldn't be his last. However, one thing is true.]
[There's no going back for him, and he'd gladly do it again. Gladly throw all of his bet on the slim chance that his make it to a better day.]
[Greed nudges his cigar into his back pocket and with a dip of his chin, he latches both his arms up and around the outside of the window sill.] Don't lose sleep on it. [He chides back. A subtle, soft, but no less nipping scolding in return.] It won't come back on you and Jinx, so it doesn't matter. 'Sides, it takes a lot more actually kill me, Sil. [Before, at least. Here, he's not so sure.]
I'll make sure it doesn't take any skin off your back, if that's what you're worried about. [With a tight squeeze of his stomach, he flips over to examine the outside of the building and its pock-marked face. Complicated. Everything is so complicated and no matter how hard he tries, the note from his side of the tether betrays him. Its small notion as soft as a pin, dropped in the noise of a swift retreat.]
[The former homunculus grins (shark-toothed and wild), and the sensation dies.] Eat, rest up, and let me worry about the details. [His hands move while he talks, latching onto a ledge of brick poking out of the side wall.] Need your pretty head screwed on tight, Sil. Better that way. [Perhaps, he doesn't realize it. Or maybe, it's been done on purpose. Whatever the case, while he is obviously planning his exit, there are things he's leaving behind. The gifts, the trinkets. His boots and vest, a signature to everything he is. It could all be nothing, but for a man who wants everything, the gesture isn't a quiet one:]
["I'll be back, whether you like it or not."]
[Greed grunts, pulling himself halfway out of the window. His wings weigh him down, but with his thighs spread and his grip on the building, he manages to keep himself from falling.] A pleasure, as always, Silco.
[And with that, he releases. The sounds of him (chains jangling, claws scratching, leather whining) slipping through the frame as smooth as a reaper's ghost. He takes flight not too soon after; the low laugh in his chest seeming to chase him like a bolt of lightning, echoed in thunder.]
[And as he disappears, there's something else he leaves behind. The faint kiss of tobacco, avarice's incense, hallowing its own, holy(ed) ground.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
But he understands the gist. Blood, souls. A crest to open a door, to call - something. Power? Something that Greed hopes will strike back against Sleep, or at least piss her off somehow.
He tucks it all away, information he needs if he's going to get involved in this. And he's angry at Greed, that fury still locked away, but Silco knows he is going to get involved. And there are bits and pieces, scraps that grab his attention. One thing in particular.]
None of us choose how we were made. We choose what we make of ourselves.
[An inspirational, cliche sort of phrase, coming from anyone else. But Silco lived it, lived the whole bitter truth of it. He was born nothing, trash that should have died in a gutter like so many poor, unwanted Zaunites. He clawed his way to survival, lost everything, turned himself into something that couldn't be broken like that again, something terrible. That's what he made of himself.
But even in that memory, Greed was trying to look out for someone. No heart? What a joke. It's there in everything he does. Everything he's doing now.
Not that that makes Silco any less annoyed with him.]
So you want them protected, from that and from any backlash Sleep chooses to send your way.
[He does, of course, understand why Greed wouldn't ask him. Silco doesn't care what happens to anyone except Jinx, not really. He likes Sharon, knows Jinx loves her, would protect her because of that even if he doesn't care in the same bone-deep way. But the others? Yuuto, Kalmiya - Silco's never spoken to them, doesn't care in the least whether they live or die.
Silco has always been a knife, not a shield. When he cares, he'll do anything. When he doesn't, he'll do nothing. But he'll honor a deal, when it's made.
And with Jinx in the mix, of course. He'll do anything.]
You haven't told them about this, I assume. [A look of judgment, quick and cutting. He understands, but he thinks it was the wrong move.] You ought to. Not all the details, if you're concerned. Just enough so they know there might be some danger. They'll be better able to protect themselves than a stranger trying to do it for them.
[But that's the problem, isn't it - Greed is always saying he doesn't lie. That would make it harder. Luckily, there's an easy solution.]
You don't need to bare your soul to do it. Tell me what you want them to know, and I'll lie for you.
no subject
[If Sleep struck back, she'd pay the heftiest price he could think of. A ticket through the gate, whatever the cost would be for the both of them.]
[Greed impatiently snatches both cigars and with a swipe of his claw, he clips the tops of them clean off. A shear, hot to the touch.] If it comes to it - [He lets his tongue feels out the roof of his mouth, making the deep baritone of his voice purr at the back of his throat.] - I'm counting on you to tell them it's worth it. That it doesn't matter what happens to me. I've still got my Philosopher's stone in her dream, and it's not like I haven't lost a few souls in my time. I'll be fine. Always am.
[Until he isn't. Until he isn't, and that's a story he's not telling anyone.]
[The former homunculus pivots and as the balls of his feet skate off the floor, the hooks of his claws drag out their marks into the wood. A couple of scratches, snuffed out in smoke.] I told you, Silco. I'm greed, the living embodiment of it. And no one takes what's mine. [He's close again. Close with all his heat, with that fever of his, threatening under his skin like a dynamite's fuse. This time, though, he merely lifts his hand to Silco's face; his fan of fingers offering nothing more than one of the two cigars.] And no, I haven't told them. You're the only one who knows most of the story, schatz. And if it's all the same to you, I'd like to keep it that way.
[His other arm moves (too fast, too quick) to flip a matchbook from his pocket. The name on it no longer fits the bar in question anymore, but branding isn't exactly at the top of his to-do list.] Then, I leave it to you. I said it before, but out of the two of us, you're better at organizing things. Leave the messy part to me, hmn? [With his thumb, he urges the flimsy book open, striking the whole lot of unspent sticks up the side of one of his horns. They burst to life in an instant and as the fire plays tricks between his fingers, the shadow behind him grows. A looming thing, engulfing the wall for its inches.]
[Greed puffs on his cigar, drawing it to a glow before offering the flame to Silco.] That includes you. You can be angry with me all you want, but don't forget that. [The heat of the fire is nothing compared to him at the moment. He's running hot for all the wrong reasons again. For all the wrong reasons and oh, if he could claw Sleep right off her throne now, he would.]
[Thankfully, the cigar does calm him, if only a little. Its stale taste unpleasant, but not unwelcome.] There's more you should know. But I think that's enough for one night. [After all, he's been running around in circles for hours. The man, if nothing else, can cut him a little slack.] And I will tell you. Another thing, in case everything else fails.
[Backup plans, exits, a deck fully stacked. If no one else will listen, if no one else will understand, he hopes Silco will.]
[Greed plants his foot between the other man's feet, letting his toe click mindlessly against the floor.] Suppose you're gunna let me have it now, huh. Well, go ahead. Get it all out of your system, Silco.
cw: violence, drowning
It's a deal, then. I'll warn them there could be danger, but I'll avoid getting too specific about why - and I'll do what I can to convince them there's nothing to be worried about. [Which is not something Silco actually believes, but he has no reason not to lie to other people about it. And he's not worried about their safety, anyway.] And if something happens to you, I'll tell them not to be concerned. That you'll be fine.
[And he will tell them that. But the note in his voice, all scorn and biting judgement, is enough to make it clear that Silco doesn't believe a word of it. Greed might be happy to lie to himself, might even believe it, but Silco won't practice the same self-deception.
He's not going to stop Greed from throwing himself into danger. He even thinks it'll likely be worth it, to bloody Sleep's nose a bit. But Greed taking it all onto himself - it sits a little uneasy on Silco's thoughts. Why that is, he's not in the mood to explore.]
If you need to add a name, let me know. I'll reach out to them once we've all had some time to settle.
[And he will want more, eventually. If there's more he should know, then Silco always wants to know it. But he can wait - this has already been quite a bit, and he's unsettled. Angry still. Not ready to unpack more of Greed's secrets.
But yes, angry still. And there's the invitation. He looks up at Greed, chin raised, eyes half-lidded, thinking.]
Let you have it, hm?
[It's not violence that will ease his anger. But he made a mistake before, by keeping too much locked away. And so it is a punishment, what he does next, even if it isn't violence.
Not that sort, anyway.
It's a tug at the tether between them, and then a rush. Memories. The worst night of his life, still as vivid as the moment it happened. A blow to his face, hard and heavy, nothing he could hope to prevent, blood splattering across the shore. Hands around his throat, water in his lungs, the sting of toxins in his wound. And he fights, he does, but Vander is far too strong and even as he fights the water drags at him. It would be so easy to let go, and maybe - maybe he should. When the one you love the most, the one you trust above all others, thinks you need to die?
Maybe you should.
But Silco's always been a survivor. And so he survives, with a stolen knife, a frantic, panicked escape - nearly caught again, knowing that if he is, that will be the end. But that's not where the memories end. He runs, he hides, and then the infection sets in. And then it's days of pain, fever, misery. Hardly human, just a thing surviving in the cracks, knowing he has nowhere to turn, that if he's found he's dead, that everything he once had is gone. That there isn't a soul he can trust. The misery, the desolation. He wasn't angry yet, then. That came later.
And when it's over, and Silco speaks again, there's venom in his voice.]
That's the man you asked to protect me. A good man, a protector - until he isn't.
[And he never will be again, for Silco.]
If you ever do that again, I'm gone.
CW: Violence, Stabbing (in the image links), Gore, Blood, *Men*
[And oh, is it a promise he delivers on. There's not a single thing held back this time. Nothing tucked away for later, when the time is right. Nothing saved, if only to use once the man's run through all his calculations. The moment is as raw and brutal as it probably felt the day it happened. The day he's finally getting a glimpse of, where whatever love they had went septic, clawing itself into both a physical manifestation and a permanent reminder of a loss that could never be paid back, no matter how many confessions either of them made. No, this - it's one of those cardinal things that can't be scrubbed away. A sin that couldn't be rinsed clean because the river was already too toxic to begin with.]
[It's a warning to him, too. It he ever tries it again, he'll lose Silco. Lose him in a different kind of way, the one where he would remember what regret really means, and how heavy it can feel, sinking like a solid, weighted stone.]
[So, he doesn't say anything. Not at first. Instead, his mind flashes, the pins of his eyes shrink, and through their tether, the experience is short. An echo, a mirror, to answer Silco like a hand, reaching through all his torrent waters. It's less an offer and more a vow of sorts. Should the opportunity present itself a second time, he'll have something (someone) to pull him out.]
[He'd been pinned, then. Pinned to the bottom of a sewer, the four swords sticking out of him, purposely matching the strange, red lines mapping his body like a split-cut circuit. He can't move. He can't do anything. But he knows what's happening all around him: a woman, pounding and screaming inside a suit of living armor as her cries are cut short by the slice of a blade. The bodies bobbing about him, split into pieces and gushing themselves down the drain like gut fish. Him, with the trickles of water tickling down his throat that won't infect him like Silco, but are putrid just the same.]
[The former homunculus eases his cigar from his mouth and as he lowers his arm to his side, he steps nearer again. His chest, an inch away, and his mouth close enough to Silco's ear that he can probably feel the breath that never comes. He hesitates only for a second. The beat of it, hanging like the throes of a dying pulse.]
[Then, it's gone, and Greed brushes his nose against the side of Silco's neck as his fingers (cigar and all) hover about his shoulder. A distance kept with a touch that doesn't come.] Got it loud and clear. [He talks against his skin - his voice, a slick of tar and smog, knotting him and his loosely together. Normally, this is where he'd say he's sorry. Sorry for everything he's gone through, sorry for everything that could have been. But they aren't the type. Monsters, after all, don't have or deserve the same kind of sympathy that even men rarely do.]
[And words, well. He's already said how cheap they can be.]
[Actions speak louder. Plans speak more. Which may be why he doesn't hold back this time. How he lets his hand wander, flat and spread, down Silco's shoulder, across his chest, and further still. He can't touch that scar (the ache of it, the sting of it, the pain he can never know and never will). However, he will put it to memory. He'll put everything to memory. Silco and all that he is, drawn under his claws and kept for as long as Sleep will let him.]
[The Sin pulls away, urging his cigar back into his mouth.] Then, let me sweeten the deal. But first - [He inhales again, letting the tarnished tobacco hold in his nose like a thunderhead. There's so many questions he wants to ask. Why Vander did what he did. What led the two of them to such a violent end. How it all had gone so wrong, so quickly. But he doesn't. Some secrets aren't worth the trouble, and he's again forced the man's hand. To show him things he probably never wanted to, probably never intended, all because he pushed it.]
[So, he goes for the option less personal.] How long. [He starts as he settles his elbows on the window sill. The night air (damp, cold, with its constant scent of rot) brings him down a bit. Enough that he can choke his internal fire out for when he's only got himself for company.] How long did he leave you like that?
[He could have asked the obvious, too. "Did you love him? Do you, still?" But he already thinks he knows the answer to both. Humans didn't infect personal wounds like that unless there was a history. Unless there was a rage broiling so deep that it burned not for days, but for years.]
[The Sin's teeth set warm against the cigar, and its blueish smoke makes a veil over his face. A funeral for the loss of what could have been.] The Ultimate Shield. [He answers his part, finally.] That's what good ol'Dad gave me. Consider it yours.
no subject
They're the same, after all. Nothing to go back to, nowhere but here. A second chance neither of them deserves, not really, but given to them anyway. It's a miserable place, but they're alive, and to Silco that counts for something. To a man who's clung to survival with teeth and nails, it counts for a lot.
And the Ultimate Shield. He doesn't know what it means, exactly, but he remembers that creature that Greed turned into, in the dream. Was that what he was made for, then? To protect someone or something. To protect the things he considers his.
It does seem accurate.]
Mine? [A pause, and then a warning.] Don't give pieces of yourself away so easily. I'll use anything you give me.
[Information, protection, even kindness. Isn't he already? Silco is starting to understand Greed, to understand how he views those he thinks of as his, and he'll have no hesitation using that to protect himself, to protect his daughter. Right now, he knows, it's what they both want - Greed to protect his things, Silco to protect his, and for the moment those are the same. But they might not always be.
So, a warning, though he thinks he already knows how Greed will feel about that.
But he owes an answer, and so he gives it.]
I lost track of time down there. I was fevered, from the infection. I don't know how long it was before I could think properly again. [And then he crawled deeper, and found Singed, and Shimmer at least managed to save his eye. Somewhat. The rest of the damage was already done.] He looked for me, he says, and I have no doubt it's true. But I hid too well.
[There's the faintest hint of a humorless smile. Silco puts the cigar to his lips, and he hardly notices the scar tissue stretching most of the time anymore - it's just normal now. But he notices then.]
I was certain he would kill me if he found me, so I stayed away from anything I knew. He left a letter, Jinx says, somewhere he and I spent so much of our time together. But I never went back. I didn't see it.
[And the worst of it:]
I probably would have gone back to him, if I had.
[He's thought of it too many times, in the past weeks. Not for years, and then so much. Silco knows the man he was, frightened and alone, and he remembers how much he loved Vander. Yes, he would have taken any apology. Would have gone back, and for what? So that Vander could finish the job the next time?
What he doesn't think about, what he tries never to consider, is whether that might not have happened. Whether they could have gotten back what they had. Because Vander might try to rewrite their history now, but Silco remembers. They were happy, once. Stupid and young and reckless, but happy.
He's never felt that since.]
Don't lose any sleep over it, though. He's paid for it all, and more. He just tried to kill me. I succeeded.
I used the wrong word in a tag before and it is STARING ME in the face forgive my sin
[Greed hunches forward, forcing his chest level with the window sill, and the wad of ash at the end of his smoke drops. Its silent fall of stories, announced by the soft plnk of his shoulder as it pops in and out of its socket.]
And I know you will. You've already shown me what a man like you will do. Anything, hmn? [Languidly, he stretches two of his wings along the flattest part of the wall. They unfurl, slowly and tentatively; the stretch of them, skittering like the soft stroke of nails along a chalkboard.] Equivalent exchange, though, Sil. I expect you to make good on your end. We need to get this place up and running, and start figuring out our supply situation. [The change of subject is more comfortable. For him, for his. For them. Least, he assumes so.]
[And it is important: if they're going to start making moves, then they'll need the means to do it. Things to keep them safe, surviving, and ah, does he already have a list in mind. Some practical, some necessities, and others cherries to top it all off, if only to bring more of them in.]
[The Sin shifts and as his wings fold in on themselves, he shrugs his shoulders, causing his vest to slide unceremoniously down his back.] Zaun, Dublith. Here. It might not be the world we're used to, but some things never change. People need somewhere to go. I plan on providing just that. And you - [The former homunculus mouths his cigar with a lewd, tantalizing wrap of his tongue.] - you're going to help me do it.
[A cloud of smoke fumes from his nose, and the former homunculus settles his head into the corner of the window.] You did what you had to. No shame in that. [The tether between them, however, jumps briefly from his end. A skip, like a heartbeat that's forgotten its rhythm. Greed clicks his tongue as he closes his eyes.] And if he gave it to you now? [He asks - his voice, jazzy and smooth. There's no judgement from his end either way. Hell, it would almost be easier for him if they just got it over with and buried the hatchet once and for all.] Not that it matters to me. What you do is always going to be your choice, schatz. Think I've made that pretty clear by now.
[He knows, though, that it's a pipe dream. A pipe dream, formed and shaped into a solid, handheld grenade. Who will finally pull the pin is anyone's guess. But he did say it to Vander once, didn't he?]
[No one ever said there was anything wrong with too much hope.]
[Greed thumbs the waist of his pants, slipping his claw behind the hem to feel out his hip.] I'm not going to. Not like I sleep much, anyway. [Even here, where he's been forced to do so, it always came in waves. Chunks of time interrupted by his want or something else as he paced out the wee-morning hours.] We'll need people, too. Those with skills neither of us have. [Talking business, talking about anything that avoids his honesty, is simpler.] I only know how to make sure mine don't bleed out, but anything more than that - [Infection, disease. Rot. Silco may forget about his scar from time to time, but here, now, that's all he feels. All he feels, burning its bitterness at the back of his throat.]
[So, like always, he swallows it down. Any questions Silco has, he'll gladly answer. But there are some things he doesn't need to know. This happens to be one of them.]
As for Vander, think the guy's made it obvious that he doesn't like me very much. Suppose that gives us something else in common. [And maybe, Silco can read between the lines. Maybe, he'll make his own assumptions. Whatever the case may be, the man has him if he needs him. No matter how many nights he slips away, no matter how many hours he disappears in exchange for more intimate company. He'll always be back. A devil, returning to the house it's named for.]
I have to go take care of a few things in the next couple of days. In the meantime, might be a good idea to start putting those skills of yours to use. See if anyone is interested in making a deal, and which of 'em are more reasonable.
I'm sorry but your sin cannot be forgiven
But he doesn't say anything about it. No point.]
If you're imagining some dramatic brawl to settle our differences, don't bother. I'm not going to go after him. I wouldn't win, and all it would accomplish would be to create more problems. [It's hard to remember that sometimes, when he's actually talking to Vander, angry and resentful, but the rest of the time Silco knows better. Even if he did win, what's the point in killing someone who would just come back? It would upset Jinx, and anyone Vander is friends with here, and Silco doesn't have the resources to be able to afford to make a lot of enemies right now.] If he comes after me -[A possibility Silco has to consider.] - I wouldn't mind the help.
[Because in any physical contest, Silco loses. He might be a bit faster than Vander, but Vander is stronger, larger, can take more damage. Silco only wins if he has help, time to plan, luck on his side. He knows that very, very well.]
As for your question, there's too much blood between us now. Didn't you hear me? I killed him. I was responsible for the deaths of two of his children, too. There's no possible forgiveness, even if I begged for it. Which I have no intention of doing.
[Silco wasn't the one who killed them, but Vander blames him for it, and that's good. He took Vander, they came to try to rescue him. They wouldn't have been there if it weren't for Silco. And what's the alternative? Silco isn't going to deflect the blame on Jinx. Vander can't hurt him any more than he already has, but there's nothing in the world that would make Silco give Vander a reason to hurt her.
Besides, he wouldn't have hesitated to kill them, back then. He wouldn't have hesitated to kill anyone. So it's all the same, in the end.
He feels that skip though, that brief moment. Wonders if that was too much for Greed, a step too far, admitting what he did to Vander. The man's heart is in better shape than Silco's own, he already knows. But it's not a secret. There's no point in trying to keep it like one.]
He doesn't like you because of me. I expect you'd be fast friends, otherwise.
[They aren't that similar, but Silco can see the little things, the ways they might get along. Not that he wants that. He can't imagine how anyone would manage to be close to them both, anymore, besides Jinx. Greed would have to choose one or the other, and in those situations, Silco always expects he won't be the one chosen.
Better that Vander doesn't like him.]
As for our plans - I'm not new to this, so you don't need to tell me what to do. [A rather gentle reminder, for Silco, though there's a slight sharpness in his voice.] As it happens, though, if you're looking for a doctor I may know of one. And I have some things in motion already that ought to bring us some goodwill, and perhaps more connections to skills that might be useful. I'll keep myself busy while you're gone. There is one more thing, though.
[Silco sets the cigar in his ashtray and stands, crossing the small room to put himself at Greed's back. Not touching him, but close.] I'll take care of your people. I'll warn them, and I'll ensure they're prepared for possible danger, and if it comes I'll do what I can to keep them safe. But what's your plan? When the danger you're putting yourself in comes for you, do you have an escape route? Backup? Someone to keep you from bleeding out, or at least to drag your corpse out and find somebody to bring you back?
[He heard everything Greed said, and it was all about the others. But Greed is the one throwing himself into danger, and Silco isn't going to let him go without putting his feet to the fire about that. About having some kind of plan besides just saying that he'll be fine and nothing more.]
And don't just tell me you'll be fine.
TIME TO WALK backwards into hell then I GUESS. Also CW: Mild FMA:B Spoilers
[The Sin grazes the forks of his tongue against the tobacco, prodding its poison into the inside of his cheek.] Then let me do what I do best. [His job, he fails to mention.] I won't kill him, but I'll make sure you both walk away in one piece. Least, as much as you'll give me. [Not unharmed. That's impossible, even by his standards. But alive nonetheless, and that's a promise he'll make good on, no matter what consequences come his way.]
[Greed pulls his head away from the window, raking his claws gradually through his hair. He wasn't wrong with his initial assumption. Silco was and is a man who can't help but keep himself busy.] Sounds to me like we've both got some things to check off our lists, don't we? [He lets his eyes briefly wander; the slide of them as slippery as oil, washing off the water's edge.]
[And it's funny. He should be more prepared by now. Should be more ready for the second jab Silco has waiting for him, coming to get him when he's already got his defenses down low. Does he have a plan for himself? What kind of question is that? Of course he doesn't. He never has. He knows what's waiting for him if this all goes tits up. Knows and still doesn't give a damn either way. Silco thinks there'll be a corpse to find, and part of him wishes he could tell him. To look him in the eye and give him all his truths right here and now, if only to save him the trouble of searching for something he'll never find.]
[Homunculi didn't leave anything behind, in the end. Save the ash of it, the ash they've ever been, thinning away as chaste and fleeting as snow.]
[But he can't. Because, for as much as the man might not care, for as much as the man might forget his face and wash his hands clean of all of it, part of him. Ah, well. Sometimes the mercy is the things left in the dark.]
Sorry, schatz. That's for me to know. [The Sin hums, thoughtfully, as he flips his cigar between his knuckles. He shoves the hot end against the building not a moment later, snuffing it out in a dance of twinkling soot. No, that's a part of the story he refuses to give, no matter how many times he's asked. The sewer hadn't been his only end, and it wouldn't be his last. However, one thing is true.]
[There's no going back for him, and he'd gladly do it again. Gladly throw all of his bet on the slim chance that his make it to a better day.]
[Greed nudges his cigar into his back pocket and with a dip of his chin, he latches both his arms up and around the outside of the window sill.] Don't lose sleep on it. [He chides back. A subtle, soft, but no less nipping scolding in return.] It won't come back on you and Jinx, so it doesn't matter. 'Sides, it takes a lot more actually kill me, Sil. [Before, at least. Here, he's not so sure.]
I'll make sure it doesn't take any skin off your back, if that's what you're worried about. [With a tight squeeze of his stomach, he flips over to examine the outside of the building and its pock-marked face. Complicated. Everything is so complicated and no matter how hard he tries, the note from his side of the tether betrays him. Its small notion as soft as a pin, dropped in the noise of a swift retreat.]
[The former homunculus grins (shark-toothed and wild), and the sensation dies.] Eat, rest up, and let me worry about the details. [His hands move while he talks, latching onto a ledge of brick poking out of the side wall.] Need your pretty head screwed on tight, Sil. Better that way. [Perhaps, he doesn't realize it. Or maybe, it's been done on purpose. Whatever the case, while he is obviously planning his exit, there are things he's leaving behind. The gifts, the trinkets. His boots and vest, a signature to everything he is. It could all be nothing, but for a man who wants everything, the gesture isn't a quiet one:]
["I'll be back, whether you like it or not."]
[Greed grunts, pulling himself halfway out of the window. His wings weigh him down, but with his thighs spread and his grip on the building, he manages to keep himself from falling.] A pleasure, as always, Silco.
[And with that, he releases. The sounds of him (chains jangling, claws scratching, leather whining) slipping through the frame as smooth as a reaper's ghost. He takes flight not too soon after; the low laugh in his chest seeming to chase him like a bolt of lightning, echoed in thunder.]
[And as he disappears, there's something else he leaves behind. The faint kiss of tobacco, avarice's incense, hallowing its own, holy(ed) ground.]