[After hours of wading through the wet, the grime, the nest of things tangled and strung about the canal like a clog, years in the making, the Sin has found himself a little spot along the pathway to rinse himself off. A bottle of half-spent vodka waits next to him - its label, peeled and faded with muck. He lifts it up between his knuckles and as he dips down to rip it open, that's when he feels it: a familiar ping. The sensation of her, the tickle of it, turning his lips sly around the cork.]

[Greed sinks his teeth into it, tearing it from the neck with a soft plnk.] Pissant. [He starts, the tone of his voice wheezing like exhaust. It's affectionate, the way he says it - his grin, obvious and smokey through the Murmur.]

Sorry, haven't found anything yet. But something tells me that isn't why you're - [He spins his wrist, gesturing at nothing in particular.] - eh you know what I mean.

So, what can I do for you?