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[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

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0.0.0.0 ♦ STOCKE

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0.0.0.0 ♦ AOBA

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0.0.0.0 ♦ "JUSTINE"

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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

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Comments

[nestingdevil]

[With the 'Nest as compromised as it is, there have been some measures: the trappings outside, the small wire-tangles left to snare a catch or two. However, that doesn't mean the place has entirely been abandoned and after some time, the Sin himself will check in. Taking supplies or anything else that may come in handy.]

[The blood on the floor is new. Whether it had been there before though, that's harder to say. Their exit had been fast: haphazard. Anything broken, any kind of cuts or scrapes - those would have been inevitable. But there's something about it that seems out of place: that seems too fresh. A small tsk touches on the inside of his cheek and with a tap of his boot, Greed idly pushes the broken bottle aside. The scrap of fabric all but catching his wandering, lazy eye far more than anything else.]

[Staying here too long isn't really an option. But, if someone's been here, then maybe, just maybe.]

[Gingerly, the tips of his nails pluck the piece from its snare. Whatever it is, it hadn't been there before they left. And considering how new it looks -]

Hey, hey -

[howtogetawaywithanon]

[ Later on, several days later it's obvious that someone's been there again. There's some strands of purple seaweed on the floor, along with some droplets of water like substance. ]

[nestingdevil]

[It's the second time that he follows the trail.]

[Keeping focus is more difficult each day he comes back. The static in the air sends the veins at the side of his temple jumping; the constant whirl of both machinery and white-noise effectively meshing together to form a kind of high-pitched squeal. Pop, goes a bulb. Crrrrk, goes a speaker. The voice of a radio signal's silent yet drumming demand:]

["Obey, obey, obey.".]

[But following orders, listening to someone else? Has never been his strong suit. And while the infection itches beneath his skin, while his teeth visibly set in a vice, it's that nature of his the urges him forward. The want, no the need, to reclaim practically latching through the fog like pair of claws snaring in the dark.]

[A piece of seaweed slops atop the floor. It pins under his boot in a signal slap; the sticky coils and jellied-top straining as surely as a tight-twisted sponge.]