[There's the sound of rustling far too close to a microphone, as if a thumb is being rubbed across it, mixed with ambient noise. The thudding of heavy footsteps and heavier breathing, the clatter of a glass bottle, the squeaking of some unholy thing in the dark. In fact, it sounds suspiciously like the Master is butt-dialing you.
Another thud, long and scraping, a weary sigh abruptly cut off-- and then everything becomes strangely muffled. Someone is laughing, a slow chuckle that grows louder and clearer as it goes on. After a long while of this the Master finally speaks, his voice a husky, urgent hiss. If he could actually spit venom, he would.]
Of course. Of course. As if I'd help you again. Lord Master, King of the Wastelands. The diseased. I still hear them, you know.
[He begins to tap, against something large and metallic and hollow. The raps become faster, louder, until they're loud incoherent bangs.]
One-two-three-four! One-two-three-four! One-two-three-four!
[There's a louder crash when whatever it is tips over, and then a strangled sob.]
Oh, of course you know. You put them there. Why would you ever take them away? You broke me. You used me. And now-- well, look at that. You need me again after all to fulfill your little prophecy.
[Another bitter chuckle, abruptly cut off by a strange electric, sizzling sound-- and then a whimper.]
No. No, you can rot there for eternity instead. In fact, I'll make sure of it.
[Another series of thuds and clacks that are near-deafening. The audio feed cuts out periodically from overload. Then the video feed also kicks in. Have a blurry, off-kilter view of a hooded figure some distance away, huddled in an alley. Suddenly his head perks up, the hood falling back to reveal a face streaked in dirt and blood and who knows what else as he sniffs the air. A twisted grin crawls across his face.]
keep in contact, get in touch
- Voice ---> Video | Life handed us a paycheck and we said, "... We worked harder than this!"