♠ THIRD || ➥ VIDEO
[There's a pulse of static, a whip-lash of movement that's hard to make out. As if the feed itself is caught in some sort of whirlwind before landing with an audible clack. And a shiver cuts the recording, the fingers of a crack forming up the side as the device finally stills.]
[But the voices don't stop; some are muffled, gargled and spit back on the recording. But there's a catch of a ceiling light. Cased in steel, swinging on the threads of an old chain. Rocking back and forth to cast shadows in rolling directions. Like the rocking of a ship on bad waters.]
"This one's just a pain in the ass, boss."
[The voice that comes through is thick; heavy with the accent of the slum and punctuated by a rolling glob of spit. A wet sort of sound that comes paired with a set of boots. Heels caught in the feed, old military spec. From where or what time period is questionable at best.]
"Ain't like he's being cooperative."
[A tolling of chains on the line; a rattling like old bones before a resounding thud makes for eerie silence. And there's a man; fully dawned in the Serpent's banners with metal clinks binding him still. Head cast down, breathing hollowly with both legs cast out in either direction. When he speaks, it's as if the words are caught in his throat. Dragged through like heavy anchors.]
"I'm not telling you anything."
[And it's as if the statement is a calling card; a Siren's pull and there's the signature clacking of heels. A slow gait, toe over toe. The kind made for creatures like him. And as the feed buzzes out briefly, the catch of a curved-toe boot slides into the recording. Slices up to saunter against the side.]
Oh-? See, I didn't want to have to do that, friend. [Greed lowers himself to a crouch; thighs cast out ten and two to let a pair of hands sink between them. And for a second, there's a lick of black against his fingertips. A shivering of a pulse, though that could be a trick of the feed.]
I'm not interested in hurting you, but it wasn't like you gave me much choice. I don't let anyone take what's mine.
[A rolling of the shoulder, shades pitches of black. Empty sockets that stare back - that seem locked on target without a quiver of movement.]
[But all too soon, he's exposing a wrist. Fanning out his fingers, wristbands slipping down to the thick part of his arm.] After all, the name is Greed.
[There's a tapping of a foot; the military-issued boots shifting. One heel sliding up to grace an ankle.]
"I really don't think he's worth the time, Boss - "
[But the Sin in question merely raises a hand; extends a finger to tap at the Cultist's shoulder. Nail at the ready, a terrible grinding against the fabric.] Oi, oi, oi - let's just do this peacefully, hmn? I'm not interested in hurting you.
[For a moment, the feed buzzes out again; horrible static to make for non-descript snow. When the video finally comes back, Greed's standing again. Fingers holding his shades by the ear piece, a wicked sort of grin rising to the occasion.] Ha - ! No, friend. I'm not one of yours -
[And it's with wild gestures and grand movements that the creature speaks. Like a man in the spotlight and the dramatics aren't dropped. Instead, he flips out a palm - the one tattooed red with a serpent of a different color - flashes it over his face, parading around like a bird on display.] Homunculus - ever heard of it?
[There's the slightest movement; a raise of the head from the kidnapped-Cultist and the links that bind him scrape against the floor. Muted slightly on the feed, but the noise is distinct. When he goes to speak again, the video cuts out violently; sputters back into black, though there's a clear voice on the other side. Like a ghost's whisper through the radio static:] "Ouroboros - the end is the beginning and the beginning is the end."
[And for a while, there's nothing. Black on black and there's silence on the front. A few sputters in between, as if there's something trying to force its way back onto the feed. The garbled noises that loop back are nothing more than that; phrases, hisses. Until silence drops again and there's a jolting sort of noise. A wicked sort of shudder through the feed - thick and heavy, wet.]
[Like a slab of fresh-cut meat being dropped to the floor.]
[It's only a few moments later that the recording comes back again; quality having deteriorated a bit, the fuzzing and popping allowing only a glance at the circumstances unfolding. Greed's slowly massaging the back of his neck, jaw wide open, a trickle of blood down his chin as he snaps his skull forward. A resounding crack through the fingers and he motions a thumb over his nostril. Shoots out of wad of blood from the opposite side of his nose, graces his wrist over curve of his chin to wipe it clean.]
That's one time I've died, Chief. [Slit eyes flick down, pupils expanding and thinning out in the sway of the light above. And again, he's moving slowly. A sauntering sort of waltz to keep his hips moving, his heels clacking. It's only when he's inches from the Cultist does he stop. And he drops with a violent crack of the knees, head and teeth a little too close for comfort.]
So, now that I've been so kind - [A press of sharp features, the points of his razors practically grazing the other man's throat.] - why don't you tell me all about our mutual friend, hmn?
[And it's like the silence is deafening; the cruel roll of chains grinding on the other side of the line as the captive goes to speak. Raises his head to meet those dangerous teeth, that threatening line of a smile. But a yelp pauses him, links of metal holding still. Like baited breath sucked back in, held at the tip of a ready tongue.]
"Is this thing on? God damnit - !" [Said from that same slum-wet voice. For a second, Greed perks up at the sound. A surprised look on his face that drops the usual smile. Makes eyebrows raise on high, a peculiar look.] Ah-?
[But before he can continue, there's a snap. A crunch of a heel against the recording and the whole thing sputters out to black.]