(no subject)

[nestingdevil]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, avaricious. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 012.07.333.07 *** avaricious has joined 018.07.154.55 <avaricious> ithsihoitiwrks ? <BANNED USER> SCREENED MESSAGE. UNSCREEN? Y/N -- <avaricious>thdvllsnst <avaricious> vdndrere

CONTACTS

0.0.0.0 ♦ "MASON" | Heather

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ STOCKE

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ AOBA

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ "JUSTINE"

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

0.0.0.0 ♦ KILLUA

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0.0.0.0 ♦ ZOLF J. KIMBLEY

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0.0.0.0 ♦ EDWARD ELRIC

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0.0.0.0 ♦ "XANDER" | SANDRATH

TEXT ABOUT THEM GOES HERE.

Comments

<avaricious> 1/2

[nestingdevil]

>>avaricious has posted an AUDIO MESSAGE. If you wish to listen, type LISTEN01

[It takes a while for him to respond: minutes, an hour. When the message does come through though, there's a sharp buzz of static. A weighted kind of silence holds in response: as if the air around it is heavy, thick. Enough that it almost strangles the receiver - like that of paired hands slowly choking the life out of an offending throat.]

[Did he hear that right?]

Is that so. [Greed's voice slides on deadly pitch. Sarcastic, light, but undeniably sharp. Despite the lack of an image, it isn't that hard to picture: the curl of a lip drawn back, the show of teeth back-lit in a tint of sulfur. A lonely fire huffs from beyond the feed and as its flames condense, the sound turns biting and brittle. Like that of a meal left to char in the bottom of an unattended pan.]

[No, he did hear that right, didn't he.]

[A curbed laugh barks at the back of his throat. The furnace at the backside of the room gives a healthy rumble, then. It buckles on the air of the recording - the nuts, nails, and bolts practically aching to break free. Greed glides the flat of his foot across the floor and with a hollow thud, his heel etches into the surface.] Just who do you think you're talking to? Or did you forget already?

[As he talks, the fans inside the laptop begin to whine. They're working overtime, it seems: the strain of both heat and smog enough to make the recording skip a beat. When it returns, the devil's mouth is all-too-close to the receiver.] He's one of mine, friend. Workers, henchmen - they're my possessions. Killing one of them is stealing from me - [A rancid snap rattles along the feed. Whatever's happening on the other side, it tells of nothing good. The fire's louder, his baritone deeper. Greed's nails suddenly twist along the lid to the laptop and as the ends of them threaten against plastic, the recording picks up the pieces: one snap, one crack, and - ]

- and nobody takes what's mine.