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[nestingdevil]

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➥ TAKING IT TO THE CLEANER'S | After the Hotel Incident

[nestingdevil]

Whispers, the hum of fluorescent bulbs trying under the strain of an already hard-pushed generator. The smell inside is a mix of high-pitched formaldehyde and rubbing alcohol; a drastic contrast to the green(y) steel and the distinct taste of gunpowder brushing against his skin. Greed's eyes loosely flutter, stunned. For how much he (he? he) is aware, most of the what is a blur. His circuits feel fried, tender - the buzzing in his skull, more a white-static slur begging him to come home.

Come home. Come home? Come home to -

"I hope you know what you're doing," a man's hush taps against the door. The handle to it twists in a metallic screech. It's reinforced as solid as a bomb shelter - a safe by any other means, sure enough.

But safe for who, exactly?

The Sin's gaze drops again and the haze at the corner of his vision statics red. White. He can see the letters, the numbers, trying to wash over the glare. He had an objective. He had something to do, something he wanted.

Another voice chimes in. A radio's scramble: "I didn't spend all this time waiting for nothing. Wake him up."

Two shapes swim in the dark. The first one is timid, nervous; the lab coat thrown over his shoulders practically drowning him. Immediately, a recognized registration blips in the Sin's vision and a series of flickers strike through his sockets: a name, an address, former occupation, status. Doctor Tim Marcoh. 1515 Bridgette Avenue. Lead Director of Laboratory Five, 1982 - 1994. Dismissed. Greed's lip pulls thin against his face. One down, one to go. The file in his right eye minimizes in a blink, reopening to scan the other. The cursor blips, shivers, blips.

Until -

Rrrzzzzt. The Sin's eyes squeeze shut; the sudden surge, forcing the sharps of his teeth snapping together. A Jammer? A Jammer. One of his hands tries to move. The nails on the tips of his fingers begin to coil, unravel. However, something stops the process - the sensation, as if a barrier is pushing them back, stiffening them, to hold his claws at bay. The Cleaner's lower jaw loosens and his tongue prods uselessly at inside of his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Number 003. We couldn't risk it," Marcoh nervously sucks in his lower lip. Whoever he's brought with him steals his attention, second by second. The Doctor watches his shoulder, his two o'clock, then back again. "Are you really so sure about this?"

"Do it," the man in the mask hisses, the plate over his face breathing in neon-yellows. The precautions he's taken are enough to be suspicious, delirium or no. A hood, to hide his features; layers of interconnecting helmet guards to shield his name. Market Type, too: not something one could easily get without some well-versed connections.

Because he knows it, knows them. He has to, given what he is.

What he is -

The Sin makes a sound in his throat that vibrates all the way down to his chest. "Doctor Marcoh. Now, isn't this a surprise," Greed's tone is missing the usual programming. It's oddly tinny. Vacant. A computerized slur, sticking to protocol. "Who's your friend?"

Marcoh lowers his head, shaking it. Instead of answering the question, he merely slinks over to where the Cleaner's been pinned along the back wall. Hovering, spread out and connected to a thousand cables, the creature looks like some sort of crude impersonation of a savior. A savior, crucified and tied in bundles of throbbing, wiry snakes. The Doctor tests one of the Prongs and the Sin's eyes shrink to pricks.

The anonymous benefactor is on the good doctor like a gunshot - his armored hand, digging into the man's shoulder. "What are you doing-!?" There's a sting to his words that almost comes through. As if this is personal, as if this whole moment is hanging on the inhale of a second, and Marcoh's hands just aren't steady enough to keep it from detonating.

The Cleaner's eyes roll back, tremble, and his chin drops weighted to his chest. "I told you, this is much more complicated!" Marcoh's shouts are muddled. Frantic. "This is a Cleaner we're talking about. I only worked with the idea of one, not the actual thing!"

"It was close enough," the mystery man again, chewing his words through enough layers that finding his true voice is impossible. "-you said you could sever the connection. I don't have a lot of time."

"Then you're going to have to find some. This kind of process - one move, and it's the Seventh Hour. Whatever you're hoping to get goes with it. Absolute purification."

"Him." The man snaps back and the flow of his torn-up scarf cracks against the air like a bat-wing, snapping on take off. The conversation dips into silent tension. One minute, two.

Three.

When the Sin stirs again, Doctor Marcoh is long gone. He can feel the cables now, driving into his spine - the Prongs, digging deep into his core, making it surrender. It doesn't want to, he doesn't want to. And yet.

And yet.

"You're awake." To the point. Greed watches the system glitch over his surroundings. Numbers, code, names, faces, pictures. Replays. They're growing darker. Dimmer.

The Sin briskly shakes his head. "Pretty bold, aren't you?"

The anonymous man touches something on the side of his helmet twice and a beep echoes: brrrp, brrp. He doesn't answer the question. "Number 003. The Lotus Eater." He pauses, letting his double-armored fingers slide against his ear piece. Hesitation - it's there, somewhere. As if something heavy is weighing on his shoulders and the ball, ah the ball.

It's just about to drop.

"Greed the Avaricious. You used to live up to that name," the man slowly pries himself off the wall and his boot skips over a bolt. "-want. Need. You told me that anything's possible. That there's no such thing as no such thing. Now - " Closer. The Sin feels his chin lift off his chest - the cool slick of a reinforced touch, sliding carbon to his skin where his can't.

"-it's Time for you to remember."