[If no one else is to find out, then Marco can believe that Greed truly means him no harm. Unless he's lying, unless he's leading him to a roundabout trap -
But that's the fear talking again.
And it's more of that fear that seeps in when Greed stops and explains. Does Marco remember how they met? Of course. Yet, he needs a moment to remember precisely what the demon means - and when he does, his face goes pale. He'll be losing control of his body again-- No. This is different. He'll be giving it away of his own free will. Potentially giving away his free will.
Marco watches him melt away. It's a funny thing - one that he won't mention, not here, not to anyone but a select few, but the way Greed looks? Marco has felt it. To Greed, he imagines, it feels powerful; to him, it's the feeling of a night with no sleep and a trio of voices pointing to him, hailing him and damning him while he's powerless to stop any of it.
He doesn't like feeling invaded. He doesn't like feeling like he's not himself. Few things scare him more than that.
But the deal...
is fair.]
I...
[Marco gulps, closes his eyes. His arms open to welcome the demon in.]
[Even if he's no longer there, the tantalizing shiver in the air is enough to say otherwise. The silt from the soot quivers ever-so-slightly - his constant smile, both bold and glinting, like a tail-wind with a conscience. A tumble of sand tickles between Marco's ankles and as it piles in, the dusting it leaves behind blankets. Covers. All of it, oddly, yet distantly saturated by the Sin's tell-tale bark.]
Ha - ! Fine, then. A deal's a deal. Just make sure you hold up your side of the bargain, friend - [Greed's voice tries to breathe from behind Marco's ear. The world around them begins to dim, then and as the sky blackens, the stars up above slowly dwindle out. As if the universe itself is fading by nothing more than a simple handshake.]
[Because shake, the other has. Not with his hands, no, but by words alone. His own body an offering to a tempest and how, how does it go again?]
["And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from - "]
[Marco may feel it when the Sin finally sinks in. The scratching at the back of his skull, a needle-prick; the heat atop his skin, a furnace. Greed tastes the other's tongue. He presses it once to the side of his cheek; the bulbous push more similar to that of serpent, knocking at the membrane of its shell.] Not bad, kid. I almost thought you'd still be stubborn about it - [The Sin's tone bites at Marco's vocal chords. Like before, the sound doesn't belong. It's foreign and unfitting; the thick of it nestling as gooey as a parasite, consuming its host. Greed tests Marco's hands. The knuckles of his fingers try to skip; the tendons make an effort to pull. The sensation, a body-snatcher's stretch - feeling out every part, every bit, as casually as a man, trying on a suit.]
[The Sin closes his eyes and with a flick of his wrist, he pushes the butt of his palms along Marco's sides.] No, not bad at all. [The corner of his borrowed-lip quips upward - the stretch, his grin's desperate attempt to take control.] Though, that's not what we're here for. What I'm about to show you - [Greed trails off. He flips one of Marco's arms upward and as his palm springs open, he pointedly prods the dip of the other's throat. A warning, subtle and none-too-sweet.] - I'm sure I don't have to tell you that this stays just between you and I, hmn?
[He drops his hand a second later. No, this? This is their secret. A little offering to sway the tides and as Greed opens his eyes, the first trickles begin to bleed in. A dwelling of sorts scratches out his conscience. Odd pipes and never-ending tunnels root out from its center; the look of it similar to that of project, abandoned by time. There's steam where there shouldn't be, puddles that are questionable. And, almost saintly placed, a throne - its cold-slab construction, a combination of ancient and unfriendly. Whatever it is, whatever he's caring to show, something about it brings about a sting. Greed's teeth visibly tense; the forcefulness of the his sneer, sudden and brittle.]
You asked what I meant - [The Sin slurs. For a second, the image he's showing throws itself into static. White bleaches the contents, a smear of feedback skips ahead. It's only when it clears, do more pieces come into focus.]
[And, by the looks of things? They're no longer alone.]
[A series of eyes fume out of the shadows; their beady reds, steady, unyielding, and as predatory as a wolf-pack, closing in on a kill. However, the feeling he has: he isn't concerned. It's something else, an undefined, that pricks at his skin and as the Sin lulls Marco's head, a single hand peeks out atop the throne's arm-rest. Its clean fingers and white-cuffed sleeve, a stark blight on the surroundings.]
[For a savior, perhaps, he was. To him, once; to his, forever. A killer's mockery, bathed in white and oh, oh, do they call him - ]
Try as he might to brace himself - and despite not only having plenty of warning, but even inviting the demon in - nothing can prepare Marco for the feeling of relinquishing his body again. He isn't sure whether knowing that it's real, that it isn't some sort of bizarre illusion his own imagination is conjuring, makes it better or not; there aren't a lot of bright sides to feeling your tongue, your limbs, your throat controlled by someone else.
But, well, a deal is a deal.
Marco finds himself wondering if Greed is privy to any of his thoughts. Wondering if he should be careful what he thinks. Wondering if he's just playing tricks on himself again -
Then an image reveals itself. Greed's image. Whatever the demon wanted to show him, this is how it's going to happen, it seems - and as Marco remembers what prompted this, he feels a rising tension creeping up his neck. He means to say something like wait or hold on, but his vocal cords aren't his right now. All he can do is feel it.
What does Greed think he's going to show him about Elias? What is this place, and what does it mean to the demon? Who is...
[Again, a crease of white-noise interrupts their shared-conscience. Like the snow off a bad satellite, the image's reception sputters, only to violently flicker in and out of focus. The faces in the dark - fast as the sequence may be going, Marco should be able to pick out some of the details. There are six of them in total. Six oddly different, yet uniquely similar to the very sin, possessing his host. They have the same, matching features, the same red lines scorching their skin. And, of course, that distinctly-casual malice. As if, somehow, someway, a genetic code linked them together - ]
[Suddenly, the instance jolts back. The man on the throne leers in front of them. His face is a combination. It's cold and distant; blank and disgusted. The sheer disappointment like that of a high-grade parent, unforgiving of their child's transgressions. The man slips his hands out of the belly of his sleeves and as his hand teaches upward, he extends a single finger. One tap has him touching his forehead. The second one splits his skin. The formation of a third eye, as hideous and wide as that of an animal, brought back from the brink.]
[Whether he notices or simply doesn't care, the pressure in Marco's mouth tightens during the process. Greed sets his teeth together - a bear-trap's grin, showing all it has to offer. Yet, he says nothing; the emptiness all but resolved. If his host's tuned in enough, he might get a whiff of something. A burning, starting at the ankles - the thud of a heartbeat, throbbing harder and louder than should be physically possible. Greed opens the other's eyes - their erratic tick, feverish, boiling, as if, as if - ]
"Fine by me, Dad - ! Just don't blame me if you get a stomach ache - !" [Greed's voice hisses. It isn't from the here and now, but from a place long ago: a distant echo, riding the tides, and crashing to bring the past and the present scrambling into some kind of inbred harmony. The tone bites in their shared space; his laughter, a straggled reminder of a time they both shared. One that brought Marco to this very transaction and oh, oh, isn't it funny how life comes full circle.]
[After that, the memories flood in - like that of a cracked dam, finally giving to the pressure. From the perspective of a closet, a well-lit hallway blares to attention. Decorated coats of arms peer blankly up from its walls and as the seconds stagger, a couple of men wander into the frame. They're clean cut, well groomed; their pressed-blues done up and sported by the stars of soldiers who've seen a thing or two. The taller of the group shows a sickening grin to the other and when they pause at the frame of the door, he none-too-gently grabs his subordinate by the wrist. The wet-peel of his lips expose a boxy smile - the whites of his gums, a power-monger's pollution:]
"Don't think about it too much. Once we're done, we'll be immortal. We'll be the ones in charge. So what if we lose a few people in the process. It's not like they matter, anyway. Citizens can get replaced. There's a bigger picture here - "
[Another shift and he's perched somewhere high. A city expands in front of him: its vastness and details, lost to a circulating, blue dim. Whatever the light is, it stretches for miles; taking buildings, mountains, earth, in an unearthly halo. Eerily though, the former homunculus quiet through the process. As if he's merely pressed the button to play, leaving Marco to watch it all unfold. A helpless bystander, pried and shoved to view reality's horrors, front and center.]
[Because, he did say it, didn't he - ]
["Once you're done - "]
[Greed's glance focuses to the streets below. The people on the ground - their faces are agonizing. They grip at their throats, scratch at their chins; the very air appearing to suck right out of their lungs as shadowy wisps twist about to claim them. Even the two soldiers from before have suffered a similar fate and while the whites of their eyes roll upward, the reaction takes them. Leaving their bodies to drop like the dead-weight of a carcass, seconds after a heart attack.]
"W-e were supposed to be safe - "
[Safe. The notion is almost laughable.]
[The world blackens, quiets, then both he and Marco are back where they started. The former homunculus tests his voice.] I'm sure you can figure out the rest, right. [He's talking, but it's more like a narration. The six figures from before have circled about, each one puffing out of existence to their given fate. The one woman, burned alive. A fatter one, innocent looking enough, snapped in half by a pair of jaws more befitting that of a shade toying with its meal. A green and worm(ish) creature, reaching into itself to remove a splintering shard. He didn't see it all first hand, but given enough time and details, he can put the pieces together. The Sin tightens Marco's spine when the last trickles of dust finally disappear. The emotion, that of a man, a creature, who knows its time is coming.]
"-why would you betray your father - !?"
You shouldn't have been so surprised - [Greed starts. The grip on Marco's body, the invasion of his soul: it's gone as soon as the Sin speaks. Maybe, it's a relief. Maybe, it's exhausting. Either way, whether Marco keeps standing or simply falls, the devil has been beaten out of him. The shine of his boots, clear and silver, all but eating away at the moon.]
[Marco isn't sure how much of what he feels comes from Greed and how much of it comes from his own assumptions. He isn't sure if he particularly wants to know how demonic possession works. All he's here for is what he agreed to, after all... Whatever that entails.
Yet, it's undeniable that the man on the throne makes him feel uneasy, tense. Maybe it's the third eye. In fact, that sounds like a significant, plausible reason. But it's not just that - it's that pressure, that thumping--
This man... "Dad"... What did he do to Greed?
He expects he's about to find out, but he can't imagine how. The soldiers...
("There's a bigger picture here" - this machine will hurt people, this won't be pleasant, but it's for the greater good, it's to save everyone--)
... What is that light? It's not-- It's not good. People are suffering. Even those soldiers, those cold-hearted soldiers are paying the price, but it's hardly just because they're not the only ones.
Is it truly too much to keep up with, or is Marco simply overwhelmed? Is Greed's heart pounding, or is it his own? Death, death, death, a pull--
The string is cut and he collapses, barely keeping his glasses from falling. He adjusts them before he lets his hands feel the ground. It's there. He's there. He's back, but he doesn't quite feel like it yet. He sounds dizzy, out of breath, when he speaks:]
[A long trail of soot reaches from the back of his neck. It hasn't been so long since he first possessed Marco, but the time difference is stark enough. Where the sun had been a red-blister ready to pop, only stars remain; the clear skyline above and beyond all but lit up like crystal champagne at a New Year's crash. The Sin slips his neck into his spine and as the butt of his palm realigns his design, a touch of breath fumes around his mouth. His moment, a smokey exhale - one that hangs about, that lingers, until - ]
Hmn? [Greed slinks his head and his eyes briefly chase his shoulder. They shine across his skin in a bright contrast; their red hum pulsing and bright as beacon, calling from the desert floor. Him. His. The former homunculus picks his teeth together and as their jagged edges meet, the sound they give off is shrill. Steely. The clip like that of a knife, making its point. Marco's sympathy isn't entirely surprising, but this - the Sin sluggishly lowers his arms, allowing his hands to wrap around the thin of his torso.] For what? It wasn't like you were involved, friend. [He swings his index out from the jut of his hip, canting it to the side. No, Marco hadn't been involved then, but his actions with the Fourth; it hadn't been all that different, had it? The only thing removed the personal string and yet, yet, yet, yet - ]
["-if you really wanna keep them. If you really really want what’s ‘yours’ -"]
[“Mine?” “Mine?” “Mine?”]
["-think about where you stand, mister sin."]
[Greed abruptly pats his foot and beneath the pin of his boot, a small collection of pebbles begins to tremble. One jumps away, another rolls back; the look of them like the start of an earthquake, letting off a tremor. Eventually, they settle and as the Sin tilts his heel back, what remains is a char. The soft, sand-brushed wash now just one, more reminder.]
[Avarice, oh avarice. How it burns, burns, burns.]
[The Sin idly waves his wrist.] Now that I've shown you mine, think it's only fair - [He tests his own mouth. The brunt of his tongue fingers the inside of his cheek, the forks of his tongue rinse his gums clean. It's always odd, the sensation afterward; the little bit of his host lingering as an after taste, a glimpse, of who and what they are. But unlike the many humans before, Marco's is harder to point out. His layers, his emotions, his memories, and feelings - he's never bothered to dig too deep, nor does he plan to. Because while the other may be an enemy, the saying's not so untrue:]
[The devil's best leverage has always, always been his honesty.]
[The chord of his tail bounces across the ground and as the spade dusts, the former homunculus turns to face Marco. The moon at his back is large and engorged. It hangs behind him in a halo; Sin's makeshift crown, bathing him in everything, anything, he could possibly want. Greed wipes his fingers across the narrow part of his thigh, the pluck of his nails mild and soft.] I told you that you and yours would be off limits, that's true. I'm not interested in them. Your friend, though - [He takes a step closer while he talks - the narrow gap separating himself and Marco, shrinking in the seconds.] - so, why don't you tell me what you know about Elias. How he got his power, what he wants. After that, you're free to go. What you do from here is your choice. I wasn't lying before, y'know.
[Oh, and how near he tries. The Sin spares the other only inches; as if he's trying to read each throb and beat Marco has to give. It's part of his nature, really. How he was made, his purpose, a killer in cold sweat. Greed lifts his shoulders and as his smile blades across his face, the expression in his eyes clicks hot. The seer like that of Hell's gates, opening to take them in.]
I may not be good, but unlike that God of yours, even I have some standards.
[His justification peters out before it even really begins. Marco doesn't know if there's much of a point in explaining the reasons behind his sympathy, but perhaps most importantly, he doesn't know if he can. Feeling sorry is in his nature, whether it's to the point of unwitting condescension (poor Éponine, hardly even knows how horrid her life has truly been) or self-flagellation (mea maxima culpa).
He doesn't want to swing back into extremes ever again. That's part of the reason why he came here - to pay the price - and, at the same time, it still manages to be a symptom.
Marco stiffens as Greed nears him. His willingness to do what should be done doesn't mean he isn't still afraid. He'll accept whatever happens, but fear... it's physical too, isn't it? It isn't one of those things that's all in his head.
... The deal is on the table, and it continues to be all that is there. Greed's remark about Elias makes Marco's eyes narrow, but regardless, when he takes in the sight of the moon illuminating the demon, it serves as a reminder.
He forgets about the gradient between black and white so terribly easily.]
A deal is a deal. [Marco nods and begins.]
The Fourth God... Elias... Years ago, his father somehow took a part of the Fog God's power and forced it into him to turn him into a god, and then used him to power the RSDOS network somehow. Then - before I even got here, mind you, so I don't know the details - some of us freed him, and... I believe his father is the one the network runs on now. Dr. Liewen.
[As he goes on, the narrow-eyed, guarded look in his face turns into one of hurt.]
He still lives outside his own body. Elias, I mean. He hasn't aged. He's still just a little boy...
[The more Marco elaborates, the more the Sin draws near. He's like a moth to flame - a sick, mangled, disease-ridden flare as rich as gold and as toxic as centuries-old lead, disturbed from its roost. He may not know, he probably doesn't even have an idea. But everything the other's spouting? It stabs right to his core; like simultaneous bullets firing at a target. First: "...took a part of the Fog God's Power..." The second: "..forced it into him .." And the third time? Surely, it's the charm. Marco's information hits its mark. His aim steadied and level to one of the many things he so, so craves:]
["He still lives outside his own body ... He hasn't aged .."]
[Greed splays his teeth. Where his gums had been bleach-dry before, the slick in his mouth is savory; a big cat with a bigger picture and a belly starved for more, more, more. The former homunculus laboriously prods at the insides of his cheek. He can feel it coming before he can stop it. A copper in his spit, faint like swallowed pennies. The taste of a brush fire catching in his throat like a set-in drought.]
[No, truly? Marco just shouldn't have.]
[The Sin quietly constricts in their shared space and as he sways, the hum in his eyes vibrates. Purple melts away, a red replaces it. Until his sockets are nothing more than empty pits - alight and steaming like that of flare, floating atop a murky swamp. For as ageless as it is, avarice? Avarice - ]
[It's never, ever enough.]
[The former homunculus leans over, forcing his wings to pull a little more taut.] That so. [His words come out lofty on his tongue. They form in swills of smoke; in a smear of smog, like that of an engine running hot against the winter's chill. This isn't the first time he's stared down an answer to his question. Back then, all those years ago - the forks of the Sin's tongue split between his front teeth. They feather along the points; a split made of sulfur and burning just as bright. One of Greed's knuckles tenses and as the bones in his hand grow stiff, the curve of his claw bites into the leather of his pants. Allowing a thin scratch to squeal itself into a long, dangerous line.]
[Because, haven't they learned by now? Haven't they done this before?]
[Never, ever, tempt the sinner.]
Wouldn't happen to know how he did it, would you? The Doc - [Inches way, his residual heat is almost suffocating. The thin blades of grass nearby shrink under the influence. They crinkle in on themselves - the look of them more similar to plastic, tossed on the grill. The former homunculus stiffens his shoulders.] - if he's still around, then there's a possibility. Though, I'm gunna guess it's not that easy, is it? Sounds pretty personal. [Again, the brunt of his tongue rolls behind his teeth. No, Elias wouldn't make it so simple. There's a family connection there; a tenuous thread tied from himself, his power, and a father who succumbed to the very creation he sought to make.]
[It may be the only thing, the one thing, the two of them have in common.]
[Still - ]
[The earring in his ear chimes and Greed tentatively spreads his knees. He listlessly tosses his head over his shoulder and as he turns, a strike of white shifts across his face.] Ehh - you wouldn't really tell me anyway, would you? That's really too bad - [Another sliver of ash snakes out of his jaw. Whether Marco actually knows, whether he doesn't, the point? It's moot. Because there's an ability: a way to swindle from either Gods or both and, what is it he's always said?]
["There's no such thing as no such thing."]
[The Sin slumps.] - a deal's a deal, though. If you do know, it'd be better to just tell me. I'll find out either way. [For the last time, his glance slides in Marco's direction. With only the glint of a silvery sky and his own flame to guide them, the expression he takes is dark. The devil dancing in the pale moonlight, waiting, lingering, for someone to give, give, give.]
[And who better, than the very priest that cast him down in the first place.]
[Marco wonders if Greed acts this way deliberately; if he does it with everyone or if it's just him. He can steel himself all he wants, as much as he can possibly manage, but he's beginning to think he'll never stop feeling like Greed is about to swallow him up.
Maybe it would help if he knew for certain whether it's real or not.
Doubting yourself makes life harder to live, but Marco feels like he has to.
In this case, however, it doesn't really matter. What he's about to say is the complete truth.]
I have no idea. Sorry.
DUDE DON'T EVEN WORRY ABOUT IT sorry this is late as fuck
Ehh guess it can’t be helped. The one you work for - [Greed listlessly rolls his ankle. A second gust of sand quivers about his boots, its dry dust white and ashy. The Sin gives a tentative look over his shoulder. The clear sky and all its stars appear to melt by the time their reflections find him; like that of an insatiable pit, black and impossible, cooking the world alive. It’s how they always seem to meet - when the sun’s gone away and the night, well.]
[It makes for strange company, doesn’t it?]
[One of his wings unfurls from his back and as it stretches to the very tip, the former homunculus creases a grin.] You can make it back on your own, can’t you? Shouldn’t be too hard. [Which is true. The trail’s still patted down from the way they came. Small divots dish out the sand in uneven bowls, a couple of stones have charcoal(ed) since he passed. No. Marco could find his way here, he’ll have no trouble going back. However, if he happens to get a little lost on the way? If he stumbles in the process?]
[Call it a personal skim off his debt: a little satisfaction to his misery.]
Guess I’ll leave you to it, then. Ah, and Marco? [Humming, the Sin’s second wing snaps open to his right. He catches the barest hint of a breeze between his sails and while the air traps, the leather skin wrenched from point to point begins to throb. The tarry oranges and flecks of gold, a hot-air balloon’s nightmarish mimic. He flaps them once, twice, a third and the backs of his heels lift from the desert; their pull as wrenching and sticky as adhesive on the bad side of a fly trap.]
Don’t think we’re finished yet, hmn? I’ll keep my end of the deal. Make sure you keep yours. [It’s finality in a statement. A single, humid-sigh and the former homunculus takes off. Leaving his laughter to trickle in like a gaggle of coyotes, mocking the moon.]
[Because kill him once, sure. But try to swindle the devil a second time and boy, boy, boy:]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
But that's the fear talking again.
And it's more of that fear that seeps in when Greed stops and explains. Does Marco remember how they met? Of course. Yet, he needs a moment to remember precisely what the demon means - and when he does, his face goes pale. He'll be losing control of his body again-- No. This is different. He'll be giving it away of his own free will. Potentially giving away his free will.
Marco watches him melt away. It's a funny thing - one that he won't mention, not here, not to anyone but a select few, but the way Greed looks? Marco has felt it. To Greed, he imagines, it feels powerful; to him, it's the feeling of a night with no sleep and a trio of voices pointing to him, hailing him and damning him while he's powerless to stop any of it.
He doesn't like feeling invaded. He doesn't like feeling like he's not himself. Few things scare him more than that.
But the deal...
is fair.]
I...
[Marco gulps, closes his eyes. His arms open to welcome the demon in.]
I accept.
no subject
Ha - ! Fine, then. A deal's a deal. Just make sure you hold up your side of the bargain, friend - [Greed's voice tries to breathe from behind Marco's ear. The world around them begins to dim, then and as the sky blackens, the stars up above slowly dwindle out. As if the universe itself is fading by nothing more than a simple handshake.]
[Because shake, the other has. Not with his hands, no, but by words alone. His own body an offering to a tempest and how, how does it go again?]
["And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from - "]
[Marco may feel it when the Sin finally sinks in. The scratching at the back of his skull, a needle-prick; the heat atop his skin, a furnace. Greed tastes the other's tongue. He presses it once to the side of his cheek; the bulbous push more similar to that of serpent, knocking at the membrane of its shell.] Not bad, kid. I almost thought you'd still be stubborn about it - [The Sin's tone bites at Marco's vocal chords. Like before, the sound doesn't belong. It's foreign and unfitting; the thick of it nestling as gooey as a parasite, consuming its host. Greed tests Marco's hands. The knuckles of his fingers try to skip; the tendons make an effort to pull. The sensation, a body-snatcher's stretch - feeling out every part, every bit, as casually as a man, trying on a suit.]
[The Sin closes his eyes and with a flick of his wrist, he pushes the butt of his palms along Marco's sides.] No, not bad at all. [The corner of his borrowed-lip quips upward - the stretch, his grin's desperate attempt to take control.] Though, that's not what we're here for. What I'm about to show you - [Greed trails off. He flips one of Marco's arms upward and as his palm springs open, he pointedly prods the dip of the other's throat. A warning, subtle and none-too-sweet.] - I'm sure I don't have to tell you that this stays just between you and I, hmn?
[He drops his hand a second later. No, this? This is their secret. A little offering to sway the tides and as Greed opens his eyes, the first trickles begin to bleed in. A dwelling of sorts scratches out his conscience. Odd pipes and never-ending tunnels root out from its center; the look of it similar to that of project, abandoned by time. There's steam where there shouldn't be, puddles that are questionable. And, almost saintly placed, a throne - its cold-slab construction, a combination of ancient and unfriendly. Whatever it is, whatever he's caring to show, something about it brings about a sting. Greed's teeth visibly tense; the forcefulness of the his sneer, sudden and brittle.]
You asked what I meant - [The Sin slurs. For a second, the image he's showing throws itself into static. White bleaches the contents, a smear of feedback skips ahead. It's only when it clears, do more pieces come into focus.]
[And, by the looks of things? They're no longer alone.]
[A series of eyes fume out of the shadows; their beady reds, steady, unyielding, and as predatory as a wolf-pack, closing in on a kill. However, the feeling he has: he isn't concerned. It's something else, an undefined, that pricks at his skin and as the Sin lulls Marco's head, a single hand peeks out atop the throne's arm-rest. Its clean fingers and white-cuffed sleeve, a stark blight on the surroundings.]
[For a savior, perhaps, he was. To him, once; to his, forever. A killer's mockery, bathed in white and oh, oh, do they call him - ]
Hey, hey. Daddy sir -
no subject
Try as he might to brace himself - and despite not only having plenty of warning, but even inviting the demon in - nothing can prepare Marco for the feeling of relinquishing his body again. He isn't sure whether knowing that it's real, that it isn't some sort of bizarre illusion his own imagination is conjuring, makes it better or not; there aren't a lot of bright sides to feeling your tongue, your limbs, your throat controlled by someone else.
But, well, a deal is a deal.
Marco finds himself wondering if Greed is privy to any of his thoughts. Wondering if he should be careful what he thinks. Wondering if he's just playing tricks on himself again -
Then an image reveals itself. Greed's image. Whatever the demon wanted to show him, this is how it's going to happen, it seems - and as Marco remembers what prompted this, he feels a rising tension creeping up his neck. He means to say something like wait or hold on, but his vocal cords aren't his right now. All he can do is feel it.
What does Greed think he's going to show him about Elias? What is this place, and what does it mean to the demon? Who is...
... Daddy?]
no subject
[Suddenly, the instance jolts back. The man on the throne leers in front of them. His face is a combination. It's cold and distant; blank and disgusted. The sheer disappointment like that of a high-grade parent, unforgiving of their child's transgressions. The man slips his hands out of the belly of his sleeves and as his hand teaches upward, he extends a single finger. One tap has him touching his forehead. The second one splits his skin. The formation of a third eye, as hideous and wide as that of an animal, brought back from the brink.]
[Whether he notices or simply doesn't care, the pressure in Marco's mouth tightens during the process. Greed sets his teeth together - a bear-trap's grin, showing all it has to offer. Yet, he says nothing; the emptiness all but resolved. If his host's tuned in enough, he might get a whiff of something. A burning, starting at the ankles - the thud of a heartbeat, throbbing harder and louder than should be physically possible. Greed opens the other's eyes - their erratic tick, feverish, boiling, as if, as if - ]
"Fine by me, Dad - ! Just don't blame me if you get a stomach ache - !" [Greed's voice hisses. It isn't from the here and now, but from a place long ago: a distant echo, riding the tides, and crashing to bring the past and the present scrambling into some kind of inbred harmony. The tone bites in their shared space; his laughter, a straggled reminder of a time they both shared. One that brought Marco to this very transaction and oh, oh, isn't it funny how life comes full circle.]
[After that, the memories flood in - like that of a cracked dam, finally giving to the pressure. From the perspective of a closet, a well-lit hallway blares to attention. Decorated coats of arms peer blankly up from its walls and as the seconds stagger, a couple of men wander into the frame. They're clean cut, well groomed; their pressed-blues done up and sported by the stars of soldiers who've seen a thing or two. The taller of the group shows a sickening grin to the other and when they pause at the frame of the door, he none-too-gently grabs his subordinate by the wrist. The wet-peel of his lips expose a boxy smile - the whites of his gums, a power-monger's pollution:]
"Don't think about it too much. Once we're done, we'll be immortal. We'll be the ones in charge. So what if we lose a few people in the process. It's not like they matter, anyway. Citizens can get replaced. There's a bigger picture here - "
[Another shift and he's perched somewhere high. A city expands in front of him: its vastness and details, lost to a circulating, blue dim. Whatever the light is, it stretches for miles; taking buildings, mountains, earth, in an unearthly halo. Eerily though, the former homunculus quiet through the process. As if he's merely pressed the button to play, leaving Marco to watch it all unfold. A helpless bystander, pried and shoved to view reality's horrors, front and center.]
[Because, he did say it, didn't he - ]
["Once you're done - "]
[Greed's glance focuses to the streets below. The people on the ground - their faces are agonizing. They grip at their throats, scratch at their chins; the very air appearing to suck right out of their lungs as shadowy wisps twist about to claim them. Even the two soldiers from before have suffered a similar fate and while the whites of their eyes roll upward, the reaction takes them. Leaving their bodies to drop like the dead-weight of a carcass, seconds after a heart attack.]
"W-e were supposed to be safe - "
[Safe. The notion is almost laughable.]
[The world blackens, quiets, then both he and Marco are back where they started. The former homunculus tests his voice.] I'm sure you can figure out the rest, right. [He's talking, but it's more like a narration. The six figures from before have circled about, each one puffing out of existence to their given fate. The one woman, burned alive. A fatter one, innocent looking enough, snapped in half by a pair of jaws more befitting that of a shade toying with its meal. A green and worm(ish) creature, reaching into itself to remove a splintering shard. He didn't see it all first hand, but given enough time and details, he can put the pieces together. The Sin tightens Marco's spine when the last trickles of dust finally disappear. The emotion, that of a man, a creature, who knows its time is coming.]
"-why would you betray your father - !?"
You shouldn't have been so surprised - [Greed starts. The grip on Marco's body, the invasion of his soul: it's gone as soon as the Sin speaks. Maybe, it's a relief. Maybe, it's exhausting. Either way, whether Marco keeps standing or simply falls, the devil has been beaten out of him. The shine of his boots, clear and silver, all but eating away at the moon.]
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Yet, it's undeniable that the man on the throne makes him feel uneasy, tense. Maybe it's the third eye. In fact, that sounds like a significant, plausible reason. But it's not just that - it's that pressure, that thumping--
This man... "Dad"... What did he do to Greed?
He expects he's about to find out, but he can't imagine how. The soldiers...
("There's a bigger picture here" - this machine will hurt people, this won't be pleasant, but it's for the greater good, it's to save everyone--)
... What is that light? It's not-- It's not good. People are suffering. Even those soldiers, those cold-hearted soldiers are paying the price, but it's hardly just because they're not the only ones.
Is it truly too much to keep up with, or is Marco simply overwhelmed? Is Greed's heart pounding, or is it his own? Death, death, death, a pull--
The string is cut and he collapses, barely keeping his glasses from falling. He adjusts them before he lets his hands feel the ground. It's there. He's there. He's back, but he doesn't quite feel like it yet. He sounds dizzy, out of breath, when he speaks:]
I... I'm sorry about what happened to you...
[... It's all still coming together.]
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Hmn? [Greed slinks his head and his eyes briefly chase his shoulder. They shine across his skin in a bright contrast; their red hum pulsing and bright as beacon, calling from the desert floor. Him. His. The former homunculus picks his teeth together and as their jagged edges meet, the sound they give off is shrill. Steely. The clip like that of a knife, making its point. Marco's sympathy isn't entirely surprising, but this - the Sin sluggishly lowers his arms, allowing his hands to wrap around the thin of his torso.] For what? It wasn't like you were involved, friend. [He swings his index out from the jut of his hip, canting it to the side. No, Marco hadn't been involved then, but his actions with the Fourth; it hadn't been all that different, had it? The only thing removed the personal string and yet, yet, yet, yet - ]
["-if you really wanna keep them. If you really really want what’s ‘yours’ -"]
[“Mine?” “Mine?” “Mine?”]
["-think about where you stand, mister sin."]
[Greed abruptly pats his foot and beneath the pin of his boot, a small collection of pebbles begins to tremble. One jumps away, another rolls back; the look of them like the start of an earthquake, letting off a tremor. Eventually, they settle and as the Sin tilts his heel back, what remains is a char. The soft, sand-brushed wash now just one, more reminder.]
[Avarice, oh avarice. How it burns, burns, burns.]
[The Sin idly waves his wrist.] Now that I've shown you mine, think it's only fair - [He tests his own mouth. The brunt of his tongue fingers the inside of his cheek, the forks of his tongue rinse his gums clean. It's always odd, the sensation afterward; the little bit of his host lingering as an after taste, a glimpse, of who and what they are. But unlike the many humans before, Marco's is harder to point out. His layers, his emotions, his memories, and feelings - he's never bothered to dig too deep, nor does he plan to. Because while the other may be an enemy, the saying's not so untrue:]
[The devil's best leverage has always, always been his honesty.]
[The chord of his tail bounces across the ground and as the spade dusts, the former homunculus turns to face Marco. The moon at his back is large and engorged. It hangs behind him in a halo; Sin's makeshift crown, bathing him in everything, anything, he could possibly want. Greed wipes his fingers across the narrow part of his thigh, the pluck of his nails mild and soft.] I told you that you and yours would be off limits, that's true. I'm not interested in them. Your friend, though - [He takes a step closer while he talks - the narrow gap separating himself and Marco, shrinking in the seconds.] - so, why don't you tell me what you know about Elias. How he got his power, what he wants. After that, you're free to go. What you do from here is your choice. I wasn't lying before, y'know.
[Oh, and how near he tries. The Sin spares the other only inches; as if he's trying to read each throb and beat Marco has to give. It's part of his nature, really. How he was made, his purpose, a killer in cold sweat. Greed lifts his shoulders and as his smile blades across his face, the expression in his eyes clicks hot. The seer like that of Hell's gates, opening to take them in.]
I may not be good, but unlike that God of yours, even I have some standards.
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[His justification peters out before it even really begins. Marco doesn't know if there's much of a point in explaining the reasons behind his sympathy, but perhaps most importantly, he doesn't know if he can. Feeling sorry is in his nature, whether it's to the point of unwitting condescension (poor Éponine, hardly even knows how horrid her life has truly been) or self-flagellation (mea maxima culpa).
He doesn't want to swing back into extremes ever again. That's part of the reason why he came here - to pay the price - and, at the same time, it still manages to be a symptom.
Marco stiffens as Greed nears him. His willingness to do what should be done doesn't mean he isn't still afraid. He'll accept whatever happens, but fear... it's physical too, isn't it? It isn't one of those things that's all in his head.
... The deal is on the table, and it continues to be all that is there. Greed's remark about Elias makes Marco's eyes narrow, but regardless, when he takes in the sight of the moon illuminating the demon, it serves as a reminder.
He forgets about the gradient between black and white so terribly easily.]
A deal is a deal. [Marco nods and begins.]
The Fourth God... Elias... Years ago, his father somehow took a part of the Fog God's power and forced it into him to turn him into a god, and then used him to power the RSDOS network somehow. Then - before I even got here, mind you, so I don't know the details - some of us freed him, and... I believe his father is the one the network runs on now. Dr. Liewen.
[As he goes on, the narrow-eyed, guarded look in his face turns into one of hurt.]
He still lives outside his own body. Elias, I mean. He hasn't aged. He's still just a little boy...
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["He still lives outside his own body ... He hasn't aged .."]
[Greed splays his teeth. Where his gums had been bleach-dry before, the slick in his mouth is savory; a big cat with a bigger picture and a belly starved for more, more, more. The former homunculus laboriously prods at the insides of his cheek. He can feel it coming before he can stop it. A copper in his spit, faint like swallowed pennies. The taste of a brush fire catching in his throat like a set-in drought.]
[No, truly? Marco just shouldn't have.]
[The Sin quietly constricts in their shared space and as he sways, the hum in his eyes vibrates. Purple melts away, a red replaces it. Until his sockets are nothing more than empty pits - alight and steaming like that of flare, floating atop a murky swamp. For as ageless as it is, avarice? Avarice - ]
[It's never, ever enough.]
[The former homunculus leans over, forcing his wings to pull a little more taut.] That so. [His words come out lofty on his tongue. They form in swills of smoke; in a smear of smog, like that of an engine running hot against the winter's chill. This isn't the first time he's stared down an answer to his question. Back then, all those years ago - the forks of the Sin's tongue split between his front teeth. They feather along the points; a split made of sulfur and burning just as bright. One of Greed's knuckles tenses and as the bones in his hand grow stiff, the curve of his claw bites into the leather of his pants. Allowing a thin scratch to squeal itself into a long, dangerous line.]
[Because, haven't they learned by now? Haven't they done this before?]
[Never, ever, tempt the sinner.]
Wouldn't happen to know how he did it, would you? The Doc - [Inches way, his residual heat is almost suffocating. The thin blades of grass nearby shrink under the influence. They crinkle in on themselves - the look of them more similar to plastic, tossed on the grill. The former homunculus stiffens his shoulders.] - if he's still around, then there's a possibility. Though, I'm gunna guess it's not that easy, is it? Sounds pretty personal. [Again, the brunt of his tongue rolls behind his teeth. No, Elias wouldn't make it so simple. There's a family connection there; a tenuous thread tied from himself, his power, and a father who succumbed to the very creation he sought to make.]
[It may be the only thing, the one thing, the two of them have in common.]
[Still - ]
[The earring in his ear chimes and Greed tentatively spreads his knees. He listlessly tosses his head over his shoulder and as he turns, a strike of white shifts across his face.] Ehh - you wouldn't really tell me anyway, would you? That's really too bad - [Another sliver of ash snakes out of his jaw. Whether Marco actually knows, whether he doesn't, the point? It's moot. Because there's an ability: a way to swindle from either Gods or both and, what is it he's always said?]
["There's no such thing as no such thing."]
[The Sin slumps.] - a deal's a deal, though. If you do know, it'd be better to just tell me. I'll find out either way. [For the last time, his glance slides in Marco's direction. With only the glint of a silvery sky and his own flame to guide them, the expression he takes is dark. The devil dancing in the pale moonlight, waiting, lingering, for someone to give, give, give.]
[And who better, than the very priest that cast him down in the first place.]
sorry this is so short rip
Maybe it would help if he knew for certain whether it's real or not.
Doubting yourself makes life harder to live, but Marco feels like he has to.
In this case, however, it doesn't really matter. What he's about to say is the complete truth.]
I have no idea. Sorry.
DUDE DON'T EVEN WORRY ABOUT IT sorry this is late as fuck
[It makes for strange company, doesn’t it?]
[One of his wings unfurls from his back and as it stretches to the very tip, the former homunculus creases a grin.] You can make it back on your own, can’t you? Shouldn’t be too hard. [Which is true. The trail’s still patted down from the way they came. Small divots dish out the sand in uneven bowls, a couple of stones have charcoal(ed) since he passed. No. Marco could find his way here, he’ll have no trouble going back. However, if he happens to get a little lost on the way? If he stumbles in the process?]
[Call it a personal skim off his debt: a little satisfaction to his misery.]
Guess I’ll leave you to it, then. Ah, and Marco? [Humming, the Sin’s second wing snaps open to his right. He catches the barest hint of a breeze between his sails and while the air traps, the leather skin wrenched from point to point begins to throb. The tarry oranges and flecks of gold, a hot-air balloon’s nightmarish mimic. He flaps them once, twice, a third and the backs of his heels lift from the desert; their pull as wrenching and sticky as adhesive on the bad side of a fly trap.]
Don’t think we’re finished yet, hmn? I’ll keep my end of the deal. Make sure you keep yours. [It’s finality in a statement. A single, humid-sigh and the former homunculus takes off. Leaving his laughter to trickle in like a gaggle of coyotes, mocking the moon.]
[Because kill him once, sure. But try to swindle the devil a second time and boy, boy, boy:]
[”It’s your soul, kid.”]