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[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 )
[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 )
