}| 64 |{

Dec. 30th, 2012 04:14 pm
never_very_good: ([☼] there's nothing i can do)
[ UNEXPECTED VIDEO! | MEMORY THEATER ]

[Unlike most of the dirty laundry the curses air on days like these, this video takes place right here in the City-- specifically, the men's shower at the hospital. Here, among the haze of steam, two men are pressed against one another in one of the stalls, bare-chested, water-slick, and unaware they're being filmed-- or, perhaps, indifferent.

Frankie Dalton, expression a bit glazed, lifts his chin as Robert Chase leans against his chest, swaying slightly as he murmurs something that doesn't rise above the beating hiss of the water.

Slowly, leaning into Frankie's arm, the doctor sinks to his knees.

And that is where this video ends.]


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}| 49 |{

Feb. 22nd, 2012 07:04 pm
never_very_good: ([☾] oh no; not again)
[AUDIO | Sand City]

Fuck. Look, wha--

[A crack and roll of thunder drowns him out, the pattering of rain on sand turning into a persistent hammering as the wind changes, slightly. And over that, Frankie shouting unintelligibly against the storm.

Closer, now, an ugly, wet squish, and then Frankie again, breathing hard.]

Rain's not safe. Know we need the water, but... [A pause, and another squish, accompanied by a gritty crunching.] Fuck, these things...

[Maybe he meant to be more specific, but clearly squashing slugs is more important. The device cuts out.]



[ooc; backdated to earlier today (real time,) during the rain of slugs in Sand.]


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}| 16 |{

Jul. 22nd, 2010 11:57 pm
never_very_good: ([☼] right here right now)
[VIDEO]

[The feed opens with a crack and a long minute of static as the device is knocked to the ground. At first blurry and double-edged, the picture comes into focus slowly, as though the mechanism is damaged. The sound is indistinct at best, often nothing more than the hiss of empty tape.

It shows an unkempt but unremarkable apartment; dusty smudges on the cracked plaster and little piles of cobwebs and detritus in the dark corners suggest it's an uninhabited one. There are two figures visible as the image clears. One stands-- Amory Felix, his sleeve rolled up, his arm soaked and dripping with blood. His attention is on the other figure-- Frankie Dalton, bound to a chair, his head on an angle. A slow, viscous drip of blood creeps across his face, though the details of his injury aren't apparent. After a moment he straightens as best he can, looking up at Amory with a mocking grin, and says something the microphone doesn't register. His expression changes swiftly, though; to one of surprise, then doubt, then panic.

He thrashes against his bonds, the heavy chair tilting and threatening to topple, features contorted in apparent agony as Amory steps back a little. Frankie's face is flushed with effort, though he doesn't say anything; there's only the rattle of the chairlegs on the floor. At length he sags, falling forward against the ropes that bind him, head hanging low. Slowly the blood drips to the dusty hardwood below him; one drop, two, then something too big to be a mere blood clot, though it has that same slick red shine to it. It oozes a little, flattening out. No. Crawling.

Frankie's head jerks up suddenly; and he begins to shout, hoarse and incoherent, struggling again to escape, this time doing his best to get away from the thing on the floor.]


( OOC EXPLANATION )
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Frankie Dalton

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