It doesn't take Stocke long to figure out where he is.
...no, alright, scratch that.
At first, the city's loud and unfamiliar, screeching with car honks and cobblestone streets and a just slightly off style of building from the kind he's used to. It reminds him of Bavan, and it really doesn't, and he feels the absence of multicoloured candles in every windowsill like a gaping hole in his chest. He misses Ryslig, immediately. More important, he misses...
Then he finds the matchbox.
(After that is when it doesn't take long for him to figure out where he is.)
The shade (and he's still a shade - that's a not-unpleasant surprise) tosses the matchbox from hand to hand as he follows Dublith's streets, occasionally pausing to ask for directions. There's a tense, urgent energy to his footsteps: he knows, in broad strokes, what's going to happen here. He also knows it hasn't yet; people would tell him, when he asked after the Nest. What he doesn't know is how soon?
It's night, so the Nest is busy when he finally winds his way to a stop. Sounds ring out over the street - chattering, yelling, the splash of drink and a steady music beat.
For a moment, Stocke considers slipping inside through a wall. It won't earn him goodwill here, to sneak past whoever's serving as bouncer, but it could spark Greed's interest, infer more gravity to his warning, and besides -
Stocke's just been stripped of his home world for a second time. He's in no mood to deal in any way but direct.
Decision made, he grits his teeth and shapeshifts. His tendrils sink into his back, his claws smooth out to "human" skin. Nothing that could be taken as a sign of a homunculus remains - all he leaves is the glow of his eyes. And in he goes.
He's immediately in the middle of a crowd, and there's a startled exclamation from a chimera who saw him step out of the wall. Stocke ignores them, shoving his way through to the bar at the end.
"Greed," he says, once he's close enough. It's hard, so hard, not to say 'boss.' "Have something you should know."
Dublith has its reputation. On one hand, there's the center part of town. A bustling area, full of quaint homes and small shops, passed down from mom and pop, to sons and daughters, entrenched in its normality. It's where the main track in and out runs full schedule on Central's time; a locomotive, bustled by the military machine and civilian convenience, oh, so quaint. And then, there's the other half. A would-be shadow, slinking even when the sun is high and night's still hours, hours, away. It's the other side of the tracks both metaphorically and not. A dingy scene, a criminal collective, and what should wear the crown, what should covet it, but the very thing, the very creature, unknowingly beckoning in a rife of liquor and smoke.
Ryslig aside, avarice? He's always had a penchant for brimstone.
It should be no surprise, then, that the scene isn't so different. A cloud of burnt-black tobacco fumes into the room, yellow and sick; the patrons gathered are nothing short of questionable. Litters of tonight's, last night's, and every other's litter the front steps. The pile left behind twinkles under the street lamp in a slew of uneven pieces. The jagged glass, like that of broken stars, ripped out and collected if only because he could. And is there really any doubt? The signs are all there for Stocke to follow. A hoard of a different kind, a bread-crumb trail, and all he needs to do is take in the sights.
After that, it's simply a matter of logic.
Maybe, that's why he doesn't notice at first. The startled sound coming from out front, the small hiss of shock; they're par for the course. Busy as it is, there's bound to be some sort of trouble. Someone who's had a one-too-many. Another, perhaps, who overplayed his hand and failed. The homunculus lulls his head into his shoulder and as a hurried pat of boots lull in his direction, he can sense something. The sensation, like that of a live-wire, signaling in static.
The women under his arms sleepily shift and the Sin peels his finger off his drink. Still, are his movements; his position, that of a rattler, gathering up the energy for a strike. A trill of movement swills behind his sunglasses and as the slits of eyes shrink shrill, it's not so much Stocke that his attention, as it something behind him. The sound of a blade, the reflection of it, doubling twice over.
Because anyone so brazen, anyone with a scent of trouble - they're bound to catch another's attention.
Rccckt, and Dolcetto's sword swipes out from its sheath. The touch of it is cool and breezy; skilled and guided. A brunt end closing in and trying to trap, trap, trap whoever, whatever, has come a'knocking. And isn't it funny, how things work? The move - it's almost ironic, in its execution. So many years now, but hard to forget.
Somewhere, elsewhere, this exactly how the two of them met.
Greed lifts his lip, his smug hum churning airy in his chest. "That right. Y'know, it's a little rude, barging in like that. Ah, and you'll have to forgive our friend, here." The homunculus rolls his wrist. The liquor in his glass trundles; a lulling spin, lazy and hypnotizing. "Dol," he starts and the glass stops still in his hand. "-why don't we hear what our guest has to say. Seems he's gone through a lot of trouble just to get here."
With a languid slouch, the Sin urges himself away from his company. The women in question appear put-off, but not entirely annoyed. This is life, here. Things that come - they barely leave. Whatever reason draws them, it's the promise of something more that makes them stay. And if this one has something, if his mouth is as big as his proverbial wallet, well.
Greed leans forward and the drink in his hand goes table-side up. "First thing's first. Since you already know mine, I think it's only fair you do me the favor, don't you?" His body lowered, the haze of his eyes make rings of his shades. Purple, gassy, needy; if nothing else, it should be something familiar. A look the shade has seen a hundred, a thousand times over, and just, just as desirable.
Because, surely, the story is as old as time. The tale, more so:
When the final hour comes, when only desperation remains - it's better to seek out the devil that's known.
Stocke goes deathly still at the touch of steel at his neck. Were his tendrils out, they'd have twitched in wry amusement - yes. This is familiar, in a strange, flipped way.
The shade has no reason to fear a blade, when he can turn into a ghost in the blink of an eye. But there's something still faintly human in him, something even Ryslig's never entirely been able to shake, that sets his pulse racing static with the rush of fight or flight. An animal urge toward self-preservation. He can remember, faintly, the iron taste of coughing up blood.
...more practically, he doesn't want all his cards on the table yet. He doesn't mind if Greed knows - this isn't entirely his Greed, and he knows it, and it feels like a shard of ice to the chest every time he thinks about it, but it's still Greed. And he can trust the old Nesters to have their boss's interests in mind, he thinks. But the rest of this crowd...
Stocke doesn't move, watching the de - the homunculus; his shoulders relax, marginally, when Greed waves his hound off with his voice. The shade's abruptly struck by two warrings thoughts at once. That he should be Greed's sword instead, or in addition, and that - he doesn't have the right to think that. This isn't yet his Greed. And the only reason he was Greed's second was because Greed lost these people.
(He's determined it won't happen again. Even if -)
"Everyone knows you." Quiet. Not exactly true. But everyone who's been here once...
"...Stocke." His answer's nowhere near as sharp as his version of their first meeting.
(Familiar. The Sin's expression is that. It makes Stocke want to step closer, but though his boots shift in reluctant restraint, he won't do it while Dolcetto's sword is still at his neck.)
How much does Stocke remember? From ghosts, from mirrors. From what others from a world very like Greed's have mentioned. The shade gathers his thoughts.
"There's an alchemist coming to this city, soon - Fullmetal." He says it like he doesn't know how well-known Fullmetal is - and he doesn't, not really. It's not important, anyway -
Still, is how he waits. Every motion of him seems to halt to a pause; the curl of his finger hovers over his drink, dagger-still. The lax of his shoulders stiffens. That stare of his, though - despite all else (Stocke's sudden interruption, Dolcetto's quick-panic reaction), it's his look and it alone that gives him away. The pricks of his is eyes expand, shrink, and double-back again; their movement, more similar to that of a cat, ready to pounce. The homunculus guides his arms off and away from the two women keeping him company. He shrinks away, put-upon, but no-less curious; his slip, a familiar recoil, laced in bar-huffed smoke.
"Sorry, lovelies. Business," the Sin slurs, his thumb tracing the chin of the one coiled along his chest. He holds her delicately, light - the curl of his nail, briefly touching her lip. "Upstairs. Feel free to take what you like in the meantime, hmn?" Both women slouch in understanding. They plant their hands atop the leather couch with a shallow rhythm; a resign(ment) learned by years instead of days. Surely, this isn't the first time nor will it be the last. They all know it. They've all learned it.
Avarice - how it will always have a wandering eye.
The sword at Stocke's neck eases back and behind him, the muted crck of steel sounds off: the blade, no doubt, finding its sheath. Greed tilts his head. "I'll handle it from here, Dol. Go make sure everything else is taken care of out there, would you? Don't really want a repeat of last night." Purring, the Sin slouches in his seat. He lets both of his knees sway out to opposite ends of the couch. His entire demeanor, comfortable and nonchalant.
"Boss - " Dolcetto starts to protest. Concern, worry, suspicion: he doesn't bother hiding how he feels about the situation. However, whatever hesitations he may have - the homunculus brings his knuckles to his throat. He gives his skin the lightest of scratches; the white line, faint. It's a signal, a sign, and with an exasperated huff, Dolcetto turns back towards the door. He rummages through the front of his short before he disappears again - his exit, sounded by the jit-jit-jitter of his pipe.
And now, now, it's just him, him, him.
Greed leans forward, sliding his drink onto the table. "Stocke - did I get that right?" The homunculus noxious(ly) tongues his words. Intrigue, interest: they steadily breathe at the inside of his cheek. His heavy tone, as ripe and listless as lit cigarette, charring in an ashtray. The information about Fullmetal and his brother's already crawled its way into Dublith, but the other part - the Sin shows off his teeth. His viper's sneer, thin and yanked to a point.
Because oh, oh, oh. Is that, truly, something.
"Seems like you know a lot more than you let on." A pause, and two of his nails shiver against the glass. Where they had been normal before, something hints on his skin. It crawls across the pads of his fingers, skitters up his flesh - the look of it more similar to smooth-black sand, licking its coating. The Sin tests his lip. "You're not a regular here and you certainly aren't from Central, so - " The sunglasses on his nose slip down, exposing his eyes. Casual as he may be, there's still a hint of danger, lingering. A rattlesnake's expression, debating when and where to strike.
Greed plants his elbow on his thigh. "-why don't you tell me who you're really working for, hmn? And don't bother lying to me. Coming here - I'm sure you already know that it won't do you any good."
Sword gone, Stocke lifts the back of one hand to rub at his neck. In the dark and smoke, even if Dolcetto wasn't careful enough with his blade, it'll be impossible to see the shade's 'blood.' Even so, he checks.
His hand drops; he watches Greed steadily. Dolcetto's protests run raw over Stocke's spine, and for a moment his eyes flick to the side. There's nothing here Stocke can say or do to earn the other Nesters' trust so fast, and rightly so - he'd be the same, positions reversed. Even so. He wants to swear: so long as there's anything he can do about it, Greed won't come to harm through him.
Stocke doesn't say a word. The chimera's footsteps pad away reluctantly, the rustle of cloth and tap of his pipe announcing his exit.
It's surprising, how much it stings to be asked who he works for. It's not the suspicion; his Greed could use a tad more of that, truthfully. Who knew a mention of another Sin would bring it out? It's... what he can't answer with. His fingers curl halfway into a fist at his side, relax before completing the motion.
"Myself," he answers, meeting Greed's eyes. There's a taste of something bitter-black in his mouth as he adds, wry, "Hard as it is to believe."
His arms fold, crossed; it's a kind of shield, barely sufficient. Stocke lets his gaze drift down to the tabletop. Runs over everything on it, one by one, cataloging as if there's anything to it but a distraction.
"You did me a good turn once," he continues, quiet - yeah, as if that's anywhere near sufficient. A good turn? "Nothing you'd remember. But I owe you for it."
Nothing you'd remember - technically, that's not a lie. The next isn't either, though it's as much a truth of omissions as all the rest.
"I can't tell you where I know it from - only that I trust my source to be reliable." (Ha - when his source is Greed himself. 'Can't' - only because the chances of him being believed, after, are near-nonexistent. No such thing as no such thing, but when the simplest explanation is that he's a madman...)
"But if he finds his attention drawn to you here... I'm not entirely certain if he doesn't already know, and Fullmetal's but an excuse." The glow in the shade's eyes lights up bright and sharp, almost angry.
Stocke's made more than one miscalculation here, his information incomplete - this Greed's never yet met Wrath, and the public doesn't know of homunculi. Is nowhere close to it. Him knowing it is more suspicious fifty times over than what he thought to imply. Whether that'll stab Stocke in the foot...
One of the lights above quivers in its socket. It's a lot of information to take in: "You did me a good turn-" (which could have happened anytime from then to now), a confirmation of resources, clarified by details. Despite all the how(s) and questions that come with them, the Sin's expression doesn't betray him. Instead, it keeps up with a confident, steadfast grin; that poker face of his, mapped out and displayed in a row of unrelenting, unrepentant teeth.
Greed's lip quirks, his head tilts, and a sigh of withering smoke trundles across the strong of his jaw. "Is that so. Y'know, for someone I just did a favor for, you're sure going through a lot of trouble." He pauses. A hint of something darkens on his features, then; as if the shadows themselves are pooling in to draw him sharp, sharp, sharp. "I'll ask again," while he slurs, both of his legs dragged(ly) trudge off the table. They glide away, slick and smooth; his notion, egotistical, sure, and daring, just daring, for the other to try.
The homunculus picks a spare cigarette from the ashtray. He gives it a brisk rap-tap-tap of his finger, forcing a puff of dust to shoo from the filter. "-who are you working for." It isn't a question. Not really. There are plenty of options: the Government, the military, his own. Perhaps, a combination of all three. Still, that isn't it, is it? There's more to this story. Missing pieces, redacted notes, and maybe -
A bead of white strikes across the frames of his sunglasses, a heartbeat flickers, and as his signature pair slip down the bridge of his nose, the Sin meets Stocke's glance, point for point - his stare, as spindly as a spider, feeling out its thread. It causes his index finger to hover above his cigarette, pausing(ly). As if for a second, for a brief tick, he can feel something. A static tickle, an instinctual pull, finally, finally, meeting its match. Greed's mouth shrinks. The cigarette in his hand follows his arm in a slow, framing motion - his unwinding stand, as fluid and thick as tar, reacquainting itself with the ground below.
"Now that's something." The homunculus chirps. One of his heels lulls over the other. He sways about the curve of the table, wicked and coy; his very expression, more similar to that of alleyway tom, perked by chance of a meal. He snatches a lighter from the table while he goes and with a yank of his thumb, an erupting fire eats at the end of his cigarette. Deep, deep, deep, goes the smoke; its ribbons, all but wrapped around his smile like a ball of snakes, trying to untangle themselves from a knot. No, whoever he is, whatever he is, he's surely, surely, drawn his attention.
Greed pockets his hands. He leers himself forward, almost dangerously so; allowing his face to poke through the cloud of smoke separating him and Stocke. "-you're not human, are you?" While he talks, the homunculus distracted pinches his cigarette butt. The skin of his fingers bristles instantly, then - the light crackle of electric, stinging, wild, and shaking red, red, red. "So, what is it? Chimera? One of Pride's things? You know a little too much for the military." The smear from his smoke peppers off his hand. "And given the information you have, I'd say there's a little more than you're letting on."
One of his boots shifts and as the Sin brings himself close enough to touch, he lets his eyes unabashedly wander the other. Their proximity, a breath's space apart.
"Now, why don't you tell me what I really want to know, hmn? And in exchange," Greed tests his bottom lip. The points of his teeth make ripples of his mouth; the look of it, like that of a rib cage, forcibly pulled in tight. "-I'll hear what you have to say. Sound fair?"
Stocke's eyes settle, but the glow stays obvious - in the lights of the bar, it's something other than the reflection of neon. Clean isn't the word, and pure isn't either, but it's the white of the void around the Gate; something that shouldn't exist in this world. Or should, but only sideways, not together with the living, breathing pulse of it.
Greed leans close, eyes running down Stocke's body in naked hunger for something new and interesting. A sympathetic shudder slides up Stocke's spine at the proximity, something that'd set his tendrils curling if he hadn't shapeshifted them away. But this isn't - this isn't his Greed.
"...chimera's as good a word as any for it," the shade says, finally. What does he remember of the chimeras, from Greed and from Ed before that? He dusts off his memories some more, adding - "I wasn't combined with anything living." 'Just had something done to me,' it seems to imply, and once again there's no word of it that's a lie. It's only the whole impression it leaves that does.
His words are threaded with faint static.
The shade pauses, shakes his head. It's hard to keep a tired tinge from his voice as he tries again, doubly so when he's near someone with the mannerisms of a Sin he trusts. Maybe some of it slips through. "There's nothing else to tell. I haven't worked for someone since..."
Since whatever whims run behind Ryslig's great powers kicked him out and here. That's not something he can explain; Stocke decides to pretend it's a touchy subject, trails off with his fingers cutting into his elbows. What can he say? 'Since longer than I'd like'? It'd make sense it'd be hard to talk about, if he remembers right what Greed said of the chimeras and their military origins.
"Besides, don't think you understand the scale of the favour -" Stocke continues, and swallows the word that almost comes after it. Not even a sound escapes, but a blank spot does; an empty pause that's clearly missing something, a stumble. Something he was going to call Greed.
Perhaps the distance from Ryslig's hitting him harder even than he thought. By his own standards he's tripping left and right. Stocke lets his eyelids slide down, takes one breath, lets it out - settles handmade chains on his own thoughts. He's made his choice; where does he get the right to jerk himself about in self-pity? This isn't about him anymore.
His eyes open again, steady. "...I've told you as much as I know. If you don't believe it - there's nothing more here I can do."
It doesn't mean he's out of options. Just means he goes to find Bradley next. If (if) he can kill him before he ever reaches the Nest -
Words may be better talk for some, but it's the Sin's silence that speaks volumes. Stocke's static reflects in his sunglasses like abandoned Christmas lights, crushed under foot. White, for a distant, fond memory. The barest hint of blue, a misery of the truth. Silver, to tie them both together. Whoever this man, this not man, is, his language both inward and out translates as broken as an unfinished puzzle. There are pieces missing, things he isn't telling, details that are dropping as heavy as lead weights. It's normal, of course; why wouldn't it be? The military and all their secrets -
To say he knows a few or more would be an understatement.
Greed touches the corner of his sunglasses, hooking his finger behind the frame. "Fine. You've got my attention, Stocke." A jagged hint of something horrible taunts at the corner of his lip and the homunculus shallowly pulls down his shades. Ryslig, at whatever point, hadn't done much to the original design. Purples still flood in his glance, pale as a corpse. And at the center? There, there, they are - the points of his eyes, more like needles, shivering with anticipation. The expression on his face is a poisonous combination of preening and want; the dictation of his need, saying it all:
"Don't you fake it. Don't you dare. Now, honey, why don't you show me what you're all about? And in return, I'll get wasted on every, single drop you give."
A flicker of movement flashes in his gaze. Greed licks his lip. "Sounds like it was a pretty big favor. Suit yourself," he slurs, drawing in closer. Personal space or any resemblance towards it has never been forte. He's always pushed the envelope; always prodded the seal. The secrets, the buried-deep wants of others, scratched, picked, pulled, until finally. Finally.
The Sin's nose leers close to Stocke's throat. A predator's sizing up. "-you mentioned a few things earlier." His wrist laxly cocks. His thumb cricks open first, forcing the others to follow; his parading movements, as twisted and curling as a snake, (re)positioning to soak in the heat. The fact that Stocke knows about Fullmetal and his too-intriguing counterpart is one thing. Wrath, however? Greed's eyebrow arches slick up his forehead. The information is too good to give up and maybe, likely, his currently company is all-too aware. He's baited the hook, let it bob, and Lord, God, forgive him, he's going to bite.
First, though -
In one beat, his boots crisscross over themselves, allowing him to peel away. "You're right about one thing. That Alchemist - you could say we've got our eyes on him." Talking, the homunculus begins to lead the two of them out the door. The Devil's Nest here isn't that far from its Ryslig's counterpart. Scents of pungent liquor fill the halls, even this far back; scuffles and passions alike mud themselves in the walls. Greed traces his hips with his thumbs and while his hands wander (always wandering, looking, searching, for the next thing to have), he strolls deeper inside. Further and further, he goes. Until the dim from the bar and its patrons are only a whisper: a heartbeat, a set of lungs, still drumming their unconscious rhythm. The eyes watching them fleet between the dark and the light like skittering cockroaches. His network, an extension of him, of his, keeping watch.
Greed shoulders a door at the end of the hall, hinting it open. "That information should be classified. And considering how you look - you're former military, aren't you?" He asks over his shoulder and a low, hissing laughter quickens to follow. "Ha - ! Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me, friend." The room behind inks dark, dark, dark. A single lamp yellows in the corner and as the homunculus crosses inside, that shadow of his stretches outward; his sharpness, swallowing the room in a mere sliver. It's almost ironic, in a way. How his physical silhouette meets his former one, stroke by stroke. The Sin slides out his arm and as his nails touch sick under the light's dusty glow, he catches the leg of a chair in one, smooth move. The legs of it jump atop the floor.
Scrt, scrt, scrt.
"If you know me, then you should also know that I'm a little different than most. So, why don't you tell me why I should be so worried?"
"Shut up," Stocke says, cold. He's had a strange feeling ever since he stepped aside with Vlad, like there are extra eyes on them, and Stocke's used to trusting his instincts. It's nothing? He's lost nothing but a little bit of time, and he has that to spare now. Or it's something, and...
Best to get this over with.
"I couldn't care less," he tells the revolutionary, and it's true - he's only half-listened to what Vlad is saying. "My mission is to apprehend you, and that's what I intend to do."
It's not long before it escalates to swords.
...two minutes later, Vlad is crumpled on the floor, cursing weakly. Stocke shoves him with a foot, checking - he's judged the man is too proud to stay down if he's not physically incapable of standing. Sure enough, Vlad snarls about dogs at him, but an effort to get to his feet leaves him still slumped. Stocke should be able to bring him in without a fight.
First, though, first -
Stocke doesn't sheathe his sword. He spins in a slow circle, ignoring the dripping rain soaking him through. No one, at least not that he can see, and yet -
Months ago, the world fell. It didn't matter who was to blame (The Fourth, pushing reality too far to the point of shattering; the Fog, howling her last, final breath to wipe her creation clean off the map), the result was the same. For most, it had be a reset of sorts. They ended up in a scatter - back to their home worlds, their old lives, their decided paths, without a hint or hair of what happened before. For others however, for those who didn't have a choice? The alternative was less sure.
But cheating death has always been a devil's game, now, hasn't it?
A clean pattern of lightning scratches out the sky. Over a drum of down-pouring rain and clambering steel, the thunder that follows mutes completely. It causes a white light to flash silently over the city's cool metal. A camera lens's snap of the moment, their moment, practically captured in a frame. Seeing Stocke in his element isn't so new as it is refreshing - the glimpse, a missing page of sorts, putting together his manual.
The sky opens up a second time and beneath its deafening crrrriizck, the answer to Stocke's question finally reveals itself. The last notes of electricity glint sterile in response; the smile in the alleyway hovering, just hovering, like that of razor wire, given an edge. A slink of shadow floods back in soon after and as the clouds above retake their angry, black-blotted color, the Sin charmingly bows his head. This Stocke doesn't know him, couldn't know him. And given the tentative situation, most would be wise to air on the side of caution.
Thankfully, he's never been the sort.
"Ah, see. That's a little complicated," Greed slurs, his voice soothing along both cobblestone and brick alike. He ushers one of his feet out from his hiding spot delicately, yet oh-so slick; his poise, more similar to that of a man, who has the whole game planned out far in advance. The point of his boot grazes a puddle, a level of water eats at his heel, and as the homunculus dips into a slant of rain, the sneer on the upper part of his lip bites at the storm. A shark's would-be sneer, breaching the surface. Ruthless, effective: they had been a part of Stocke, even in Ryslig. Be it at the Fourth, the Toyotomi, or anything else that came a'knock, knock, knocking at the 'Nest's door. Yet, in all that time, he had softened some, hadn't he? Not enough that he wasn't sharp, but enough.
Now, though -
Clp, clp, and the Sin's legs bow out; allowing his spine to slouch, casual and watching. A sarcastic whistle passes through his grin. "Oh-? Looks like I caught you at a bad time. Still haven't learned yet, have you?" Greed pinches his lips together. The drops of water on his sunglasses reflect and smear while he moves - the pierce of his eyes, magnifying and shrinking like that of an inspector's glass, passing over a gem. He catches the sword, drawn and ready; chases the red he oh-so knows. It's aching, almost, to keep that secret. But there are rules. Fine prints. And as the homunculus slyly begins to draw a wide circle, his gaze slinks down the body of the other's blade - as if somehow, someway, a look alone could give him everything he wanted.
A deal, a wager: in the end, it doesn't come without cost.
"Might want to listen to him, y'know. He may have some interesting information." Greed side-steps while he talks. One heel sways over the other, one toe passes by its counterpart. It's a predatory walk, a size-up waltz, and one Stocke had been quick to point out:
"You've been searching for information - on this town, the peninsula, the gods. Whatever you find on the latter, I want to know."
The homunculus pauses just short of the other's shoulder; their three-foot separation, blatant and testing. He gives Vlad a brief glimpse before turning his attention back on Stocke. "Tell you what - why don't you let him go, hmn? And in exchange, I'll make sure that he tells you what he knows. Sound fair? Ah, and before I forget," the Sin rolls his tongue behind the backs of his teeth, his palm open and wide. "-as for your other question, I'm sorry. That part's a little bit of a secret." His name, who he is; to say it's complicated isn't giving it enough justice. And for the time being?
Well.
Greed skirts his collarbone with two of his fingers - his nails, practically hinting at his arrays. "So, do we have a deal?"
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risingstones2018-07-09 06:10 pm
Timeline A
...no, alright, scratch that.
At first, the city's loud and unfamiliar, screeching with car honks and cobblestone streets and a just slightly off style of building from the kind he's used to. It reminds him of Bavan, and it really doesn't, and he feels the absence of multicoloured candles in every windowsill like a gaping hole in his chest. He misses Ryslig, immediately. More important, he misses...
Then he finds the matchbox.
(After that is when it doesn't take long for him to figure out where he is.)
The shade (and he's still a shade - that's a not-unpleasant surprise) tosses the matchbox from hand to hand as he follows Dublith's streets, occasionally pausing to ask for directions. There's a tense, urgent energy to his footsteps: he knows, in broad strokes, what's going to happen here. He also knows it hasn't yet; people would tell him, when he asked after the Nest. What he doesn't know is how soon?
It's night, so the Nest is busy when he finally winds his way to a stop. Sounds ring out over the street - chattering, yelling, the splash of drink and a steady music beat.
For a moment, Stocke considers slipping inside through a wall. It won't earn him goodwill here, to sneak past whoever's serving as bouncer, but it could spark Greed's interest, infer more gravity to his warning, and besides -
Stocke's just been stripped of his home world for a second time. He's in no mood to deal in any way but direct.
Decision made, he grits his teeth and shapeshifts. His tendrils sink into his back, his claws smooth out to "human" skin. Nothing that could be taken as a sign of a homunculus remains - all he leaves is the glow of his eyes. And in he goes.
He's immediately in the middle of a crowd, and there's a startled exclamation from a chimera who saw him step out of the wall. Stocke ignores them, shoving his way through to the bar at the end.
"Greed," he says, once he's close enough. It's hard, so hard, not to say 'boss.' "Have something you should know."
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Ryslig aside, avarice? He's always had a penchant for brimstone.
It should be no surprise, then, that the scene isn't so different. A cloud of burnt-black tobacco fumes into the room, yellow and sick; the patrons gathered are nothing short of questionable. Litters of tonight's, last night's, and every other's litter the front steps. The pile left behind twinkles under the street lamp in a slew of uneven pieces. The jagged glass, like that of broken stars, ripped out and collected if only because he could. And is there really any doubt? The signs are all there for Stocke to follow. A hoard of a different kind, a bread-crumb trail, and all he needs to do is take in the sights.
After that, it's simply a matter of logic.
Maybe, that's why he doesn't notice at first. The startled sound coming from out front, the small hiss of shock; they're par for the course. Busy as it is, there's bound to be some sort of trouble. Someone who's had a one-too-many. Another, perhaps, who overplayed his hand and failed. The homunculus lulls his head into his shoulder and as a hurried pat of boots lull in his direction, he can sense something. The sensation, like that of a live-wire, signaling in static.
The women under his arms sleepily shift and the Sin peels his finger off his drink. Still, are his movements; his position, that of a rattler, gathering up the energy for a strike. A trill of movement swills behind his sunglasses and as the slits of eyes shrink shrill, it's not so much Stocke that his attention, as it something behind him. The sound of a blade, the reflection of it, doubling twice over.
Because anyone so brazen, anyone with a scent of trouble - they're bound to catch another's attention.
Rccckt, and Dolcetto's sword swipes out from its sheath. The touch of it is cool and breezy; skilled and guided. A brunt end closing in and trying to trap, trap, trap whoever, whatever, has come a'knocking. And isn't it funny, how things work? The move - it's almost ironic, in its execution. So many years now, but hard to forget.
Somewhere, elsewhere, this exactly how the two of them met.
Greed lifts his lip, his smug hum churning airy in his chest. "That right. Y'know, it's a little rude, barging in like that. Ah, and you'll have to forgive our friend, here." The homunculus rolls his wrist. The liquor in his glass trundles; a lulling spin, lazy and hypnotizing. "Dol," he starts and the glass stops still in his hand. "-why don't we hear what our guest has to say. Seems he's gone through a lot of trouble just to get here."
With a languid slouch, the Sin urges himself away from his company. The women in question appear put-off, but not entirely annoyed. This is life, here. Things that come - they barely leave. Whatever reason draws them, it's the promise of something more that makes them stay. And if this one has something, if his mouth is as big as his proverbial wallet, well.
Greed leans forward and the drink in his hand goes table-side up. "First thing's first. Since you already know mine, I think it's only fair you do me the favor, don't you?" His body lowered, the haze of his eyes make rings of his shades. Purple, gassy, needy; if nothing else, it should be something familiar. A look the shade has seen a hundred, a thousand times over, and just, just as desirable.
Because, surely, the story is as old as time. The tale, more so:
When the final hour comes, when only desperation remains - it's better to seek out the devil that's known.
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The shade has no reason to fear a blade, when he can turn into a ghost in the blink of an eye. But there's something still faintly human in him, something even Ryslig's never entirely been able to shake, that sets his pulse racing static with the rush of fight or flight. An animal urge toward self-preservation. He can remember, faintly, the iron taste of coughing up blood.
...more practically, he doesn't want all his cards on the table yet. He doesn't mind if Greed knows - this isn't entirely his Greed, and he knows it, and it feels like a shard of ice to the chest every time he thinks about it, but it's still Greed. And he can trust the old Nesters to have their boss's interests in mind, he thinks. But the rest of this crowd...
Stocke doesn't move, watching the de - the homunculus; his shoulders relax, marginally, when Greed waves his hound off with his voice. The shade's abruptly struck by two warrings thoughts at once. That he should be Greed's sword instead, or in addition, and that - he doesn't have the right to think that. This isn't yet his Greed. And the only reason he was Greed's second was because Greed lost these people.
(He's determined it won't happen again. Even if -)
"Everyone knows you." Quiet. Not exactly true. But everyone who's been here once...
"...Stocke." His answer's nowhere near as sharp as his version of their first meeting.
(Familiar. The Sin's expression is that. It makes Stocke want to step closer, but though his boots shift in reluctant restraint, he won't do it while Dolcetto's sword is still at his neck.)
How much does Stocke remember? From ghosts, from mirrors. From what others from a world very like Greed's have mentioned. The shade gathers his thoughts.
"There's an alchemist coming to this city, soon - Fullmetal." He says it like he doesn't know how well-known Fullmetal is - and he doesn't, not really. It's not important, anyway -
"Wrath's following him." This is.
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"Sorry, lovelies. Business," the Sin slurs, his thumb tracing the chin of the one coiled along his chest. He holds her delicately, light - the curl of his nail, briefly touching her lip. "Upstairs. Feel free to take what you like in the meantime, hmn?" Both women slouch in understanding. They plant their hands atop the leather couch with a shallow rhythm; a resign(ment) learned by years instead of days. Surely, this isn't the first time nor will it be the last. They all know it. They've all learned it.
Avarice - how it will always have a wandering eye.
The sword at Stocke's neck eases back and behind him, the muted crck of steel sounds off: the blade, no doubt, finding its sheath. Greed tilts his head. "I'll handle it from here, Dol. Go make sure everything else is taken care of out there, would you? Don't really want a repeat of last night." Purring, the Sin slouches in his seat. He lets both of his knees sway out to opposite ends of the couch. His entire demeanor, comfortable and nonchalant.
"Boss - " Dolcetto starts to protest. Concern, worry, suspicion: he doesn't bother hiding how he feels about the situation. However, whatever hesitations he may have - the homunculus brings his knuckles to his throat. He gives his skin the lightest of scratches; the white line, faint. It's a signal, a sign, and with an exasperated huff, Dolcetto turns back towards the door. He rummages through the front of his short before he disappears again - his exit, sounded by the jit-jit-jitter of his pipe.
And now, now, it's just him, him, him.
Greed leans forward, sliding his drink onto the table. "Stocke - did I get that right?" The homunculus noxious(ly) tongues his words. Intrigue, interest: they steadily breathe at the inside of his cheek. His heavy tone, as ripe and listless as lit cigarette, charring in an ashtray. The information about Fullmetal and his brother's already crawled its way into Dublith, but the other part - the Sin shows off his teeth. His viper's sneer, thin and yanked to a point.
Because oh, oh, oh. Is that, truly, something.
"Seems like you know a lot more than you let on." A pause, and two of his nails shiver against the glass. Where they had been normal before, something hints on his skin. It crawls across the pads of his fingers, skitters up his flesh - the look of it more similar to smooth-black sand, licking its coating. The Sin tests his lip. "You're not a regular here and you certainly aren't from Central, so - " The sunglasses on his nose slip down, exposing his eyes. Casual as he may be, there's still a hint of danger, lingering. A rattlesnake's expression, debating when and where to strike.
Greed plants his elbow on his thigh. "-why don't you tell me who you're really working for, hmn? And don't bother lying to me. Coming here - I'm sure you already know that it won't do you any good."
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His hand drops; he watches Greed steadily. Dolcetto's protests run raw over Stocke's spine, and for a moment his eyes flick to the side. There's nothing here Stocke can say or do to earn the other Nesters' trust so fast, and rightly so - he'd be the same, positions reversed. Even so. He wants to swear: so long as there's anything he can do about it, Greed won't come to harm through him.
Stocke doesn't say a word. The chimera's footsteps pad away reluctantly, the rustle of cloth and tap of his pipe announcing his exit.
It's surprising, how much it stings to be asked who he works for. It's not the suspicion; his Greed could use a tad more of that, truthfully. Who knew a mention of another Sin would bring it out? It's... what he can't answer with. His fingers curl halfway into a fist at his side, relax before completing the motion.
"Myself," he answers, meeting Greed's eyes. There's a taste of something bitter-black in his mouth as he adds, wry, "Hard as it is to believe."
His arms fold, crossed; it's a kind of shield, barely sufficient. Stocke lets his gaze drift down to the tabletop. Runs over everything on it, one by one, cataloging as if there's anything to it but a distraction.
"You did me a good turn once," he continues, quiet - yeah, as if that's anywhere near sufficient. A good turn? "Nothing you'd remember. But I owe you for it."
Nothing you'd remember - technically, that's not a lie. The next isn't either, though it's as much a truth of omissions as all the rest.
"I can't tell you where I know it from - only that I trust my source to be reliable." (Ha - when his source is Greed himself. 'Can't' - only because the chances of him being believed, after, are near-nonexistent. No such thing as no such thing, but when the simplest explanation is that he's a madman...)
"But if he finds his attention drawn to you here... I'm not entirely certain if he doesn't already know, and Fullmetal's but an excuse." The glow in the shade's eyes lights up bright and sharp, almost angry.
Stocke's made more than one miscalculation here, his information incomplete - this Greed's never yet met Wrath, and the public doesn't know of homunculi. Is nowhere close to it. Him knowing it is more suspicious fifty times over than what he thought to imply. Whether that'll stab Stocke in the foot...
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Greed's lip quirks, his head tilts, and a sigh of withering smoke trundles across the strong of his jaw. "Is that so. Y'know, for someone I just did a favor for, you're sure going through a lot of trouble." He pauses. A hint of something darkens on his features, then; as if the shadows themselves are pooling in to draw him sharp, sharp, sharp. "I'll ask again," while he slurs, both of his legs dragged(ly) trudge off the table. They glide away, slick and smooth; his notion, egotistical, sure, and daring, just daring, for the other to try.
The homunculus picks a spare cigarette from the ashtray. He gives it a brisk rap-tap-tap of his finger, forcing a puff of dust to shoo from the filter. "-who are you working for." It isn't a question. Not really. There are plenty of options: the Government, the military, his own. Perhaps, a combination of all three. Still, that isn't it, is it? There's more to this story. Missing pieces, redacted notes, and maybe -
A bead of white strikes across the frames of his sunglasses, a heartbeat flickers, and as his signature pair slip down the bridge of his nose, the Sin meets Stocke's glance, point for point - his stare, as spindly as a spider, feeling out its thread. It causes his index finger to hover above his cigarette, pausing(ly). As if for a second, for a brief tick, he can feel something. A static tickle, an instinctual pull, finally, finally, meeting its match. Greed's mouth shrinks. The cigarette in his hand follows his arm in a slow, framing motion - his unwinding stand, as fluid and thick as tar, reacquainting itself with the ground below.
"Now that's something." The homunculus chirps. One of his heels lulls over the other. He sways about the curve of the table, wicked and coy; his very expression, more similar to that of alleyway tom, perked by chance of a meal. He snatches a lighter from the table while he goes and with a yank of his thumb, an erupting fire eats at the end of his cigarette. Deep, deep, deep, goes the smoke; its ribbons, all but wrapped around his smile like a ball of snakes, trying to untangle themselves from a knot. No, whoever he is, whatever he is, he's surely, surely, drawn his attention.
Greed pockets his hands. He leers himself forward, almost dangerously so; allowing his face to poke through the cloud of smoke separating him and Stocke. "-you're not human, are you?" While he talks, the homunculus distracted pinches his cigarette butt. The skin of his fingers bristles instantly, then - the light crackle of electric, stinging, wild, and shaking red, red, red. "So, what is it? Chimera? One of Pride's things? You know a little too much for the military." The smear from his smoke peppers off his hand. "And given the information you have, I'd say there's a little more than you're letting on."
One of his boots shifts and as the Sin brings himself close enough to touch, he lets his eyes unabashedly wander the other. Their proximity, a breath's space apart.
"Now, why don't you tell me what I really want to know, hmn? And in exchange," Greed tests his bottom lip. The points of his teeth make ripples of his mouth; the look of it, like that of a rib cage, forcibly pulled in tight. "-I'll hear what you have to say. Sound fair?"
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Greed leans close, eyes running down Stocke's body in naked hunger for something new and interesting. A sympathetic shudder slides up Stocke's spine at the proximity, something that'd set his tendrils curling if he hadn't shapeshifted them away. But this isn't - this isn't his Greed.
"...chimera's as good a word as any for it," the shade says, finally. What does he remember of the chimeras, from Greed and from Ed before that? He dusts off his memories some more, adding - "I wasn't combined with anything living." 'Just had something done to me,' it seems to imply, and once again there's no word of it that's a lie. It's only the whole impression it leaves that does.
His words are threaded with faint static.
The shade pauses, shakes his head. It's hard to keep a tired tinge from his voice as he tries again, doubly so when he's near someone with the mannerisms of a Sin he trusts. Maybe some of it slips through. "There's nothing else to tell. I haven't worked for someone since..."
Since whatever whims run behind Ryslig's great powers kicked him out and here. That's not something he can explain; Stocke decides to pretend it's a touchy subject, trails off with his fingers cutting into his elbows. What can he say? 'Since longer than I'd like'? It'd make sense it'd be hard to talk about, if he remembers right what Greed said of the chimeras and their military origins.
"Besides, don't think you understand the scale of the favour -" Stocke continues, and swallows the word that almost comes after it. Not even a sound escapes, but a blank spot does; an empty pause that's clearly missing something, a stumble. Something he was going to call Greed.
Perhaps the distance from Ryslig's hitting him harder even than he thought. By his own standards he's tripping left and right. Stocke lets his eyelids slide down, takes one breath, lets it out - settles handmade chains on his own thoughts. He's made his choice; where does he get the right to jerk himself about in self-pity? This isn't about him anymore.
His eyes open again, steady. "...I've told you as much as I know. If you don't believe it - there's nothing more here I can do."
It doesn't mean he's out of options. Just means he goes to find Bradley next. If (if) he can kill him before he ever reaches the Nest -
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To say he knows a few or more would be an understatement.
Greed touches the corner of his sunglasses, hooking his finger behind the frame. "Fine. You've got my attention, Stocke." A jagged hint of something horrible taunts at the corner of his lip and the homunculus shallowly pulls down his shades. Ryslig, at whatever point, hadn't done much to the original design. Purples still flood in his glance, pale as a corpse. And at the center? There, there, they are - the points of his eyes, more like needles, shivering with anticipation. The expression on his face is a poisonous combination of preening and want; the dictation of his need, saying it all:
"Don't you fake it. Don't you dare. Now, honey, why don't you show me what you're all about? And in return, I'll get wasted on every, single drop you give."
A flicker of movement flashes in his gaze. Greed licks his lip. "Sounds like it was a pretty big favor. Suit yourself," he slurs, drawing in closer. Personal space or any resemblance towards it has never been forte. He's always pushed the envelope; always prodded the seal. The secrets, the buried-deep wants of others, scratched, picked, pulled, until finally. Finally.
The Sin's nose leers close to Stocke's throat. A predator's sizing up. "-you mentioned a few things earlier." His wrist laxly cocks. His thumb cricks open first, forcing the others to follow; his parading movements, as twisted and curling as a snake, (re)positioning to soak in the heat. The fact that Stocke knows about Fullmetal and his too-intriguing counterpart is one thing. Wrath, however? Greed's eyebrow arches slick up his forehead. The information is too good to give up and maybe, likely, his currently company is all-too aware. He's baited the hook, let it bob, and Lord, God, forgive him, he's going to bite.
First, though -
In one beat, his boots crisscross over themselves, allowing him to peel away. "You're right about one thing. That Alchemist - you could say we've got our eyes on him." Talking, the homunculus begins to lead the two of them out the door. The Devil's Nest here isn't that far from its Ryslig's counterpart. Scents of pungent liquor fill the halls, even this far back; scuffles and passions alike mud themselves in the walls. Greed traces his hips with his thumbs and while his hands wander (always wandering, looking, searching, for the next thing to have), he strolls deeper inside. Further and further, he goes. Until the dim from the bar and its patrons are only a whisper: a heartbeat, a set of lungs, still drumming their unconscious rhythm. The eyes watching them fleet between the dark and the light like skittering cockroaches. His network, an extension of him, of his, keeping watch.
Greed shoulders a door at the end of the hall, hinting it open. "That information should be classified. And considering how you look - you're former military, aren't you?" He asks over his shoulder and a low, hissing laughter quickens to follow. "Ha - ! Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me, friend." The room behind inks dark, dark, dark. A single lamp yellows in the corner and as the homunculus crosses inside, that shadow of his stretches outward; his sharpness, swallowing the room in a mere sliver. It's almost ironic, in a way. How his physical silhouette meets his former one, stroke by stroke. The Sin slides out his arm and as his nails touch sick under the light's dusty glow, he catches the leg of a chair in one, smooth move. The legs of it jump atop the floor.
Scrt, scrt, scrt.
"If you know me, then you should also know that I'm a little different than most. So, why don't you tell me why I should be so worried?"
Timeline B
"Shut up," Stocke says, cold. He's had a strange feeling ever since he stepped aside with Vlad, like there are extra eyes on them, and Stocke's used to trusting his instincts. It's nothing? He's lost nothing but a little bit of time, and he has that to spare now. Or it's something, and...
Best to get this over with.
"I couldn't care less," he tells the revolutionary, and it's true - he's only half-listened to what Vlad is saying. "My mission is to apprehend you, and that's what I intend to do."
It's not long before it escalates to swords.
...two minutes later, Vlad is crumpled on the floor, cursing weakly. Stocke shoves him with a foot, checking - he's judged the man is too proud to stay down if he's not physically incapable of standing. Sure enough, Vlad snarls about dogs at him, but an effort to get to his feet leaves him still slumped. Stocke should be able to bring him in without a fight.
First, though, first -
Stocke doesn't sheathe his sword. He spins in a slow circle, ignoring the dripping rain soaking him through. No one, at least not that he can see, and yet -
"Who's there?" he demands, sharp.
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But cheating death has always been a devil's game, now, hasn't it?
A clean pattern of lightning scratches out the sky. Over a drum of down-pouring rain and clambering steel, the thunder that follows mutes completely. It causes a white light to flash silently over the city's cool metal. A camera lens's snap of the moment, their moment, practically captured in a frame. Seeing Stocke in his element isn't so new as it is refreshing - the glimpse, a missing page of sorts, putting together his manual.
The sky opens up a second time and beneath its deafening crrrriizck, the answer to Stocke's question finally reveals itself. The last notes of electricity glint sterile in response; the smile in the alleyway hovering, just hovering, like that of razor wire, given an edge. A slink of shadow floods back in soon after and as the clouds above retake their angry, black-blotted color, the Sin charmingly bows his head. This Stocke doesn't know him, couldn't know him. And given the tentative situation, most would be wise to air on the side of caution.
Thankfully, he's never been the sort.
"Ah, see. That's a little complicated," Greed slurs, his voice soothing along both cobblestone and brick alike. He ushers one of his feet out from his hiding spot delicately, yet oh-so slick; his poise, more similar to that of a man, who has the whole game planned out far in advance. The point of his boot grazes a puddle, a level of water eats at his heel, and as the homunculus dips into a slant of rain, the sneer on the upper part of his lip bites at the storm. A shark's would-be sneer, breaching the surface. Ruthless, effective: they had been a part of Stocke, even in Ryslig. Be it at the Fourth, the Toyotomi, or anything else that came a'knock, knock, knocking at the 'Nest's door. Yet, in all that time, he had softened some, hadn't he? Not enough that he wasn't sharp, but enough.
Now, though -
Clp, clp, and the Sin's legs bow out; allowing his spine to slouch, casual and watching. A sarcastic whistle passes through his grin. "Oh-? Looks like I caught you at a bad time. Still haven't learned yet, have you?" Greed pinches his lips together. The drops of water on his sunglasses reflect and smear while he moves - the pierce of his eyes, magnifying and shrinking like that of an inspector's glass, passing over a gem. He catches the sword, drawn and ready; chases the red he oh-so knows. It's aching, almost, to keep that secret. But there are rules. Fine prints. And as the homunculus slyly begins to draw a wide circle, his gaze slinks down the body of the other's blade - as if somehow, someway, a look alone could give him everything he wanted.
A deal, a wager: in the end, it doesn't come without cost.
"Might want to listen to him, y'know. He may have some interesting information." Greed side-steps while he talks. One heel sways over the other, one toe passes by its counterpart. It's a predatory walk, a size-up waltz, and one Stocke had been quick to point out:
"You've been searching for information - on this town, the peninsula, the gods. Whatever you find on the latter, I want to know."
The homunculus pauses just short of the other's shoulder; their three-foot separation, blatant and testing. He gives Vlad a brief glimpse before turning his attention back on Stocke. "Tell you what - why don't you let him go, hmn? And in exchange, I'll make sure that he tells you what he knows. Sound fair? Ah, and before I forget," the Sin rolls his tongue behind the backs of his teeth, his palm open and wide. "-as for your other question, I'm sorry. That part's a little bit of a secret." His name, who he is; to say it's complicated isn't giving it enough justice. And for the time being?
Well.
Greed skirts his collarbone with two of his fingers - his nails, practically hinting at his arrays. "So, do we have a deal?"