1>> {audio | video}
{He's done it, finally, and only on the third or fourth smash into the ground.
Never fond of anything "new" or foreign to his range of knowledge, the screwy device Malfatto very nearly stepped on upon arrival was just a little more maddening than it seemed worth, moreso now that it was apparently coherent. Alive? It had a window, little buttons, a slight hum. Static. Static especially now that he'd activated something on that last smack, illuminating the window, the thing staring blankly back at him.
The camera watches. He blinks, a scarcely noticeable flutter beneath tinted goggles. Anyone observing would only see the mask and black, the murky sheen across those lenses an unsettling substitute for the kind eyes one normally hoped for in a physician. He looks like a bird from some zoo of the macabre, though his motions are hardly that of same-- fluid instead of that jolting way birds have of looking about. Tilting his head slowly to one side, the next, back again, he lifts the screen to eye level, closer. He moves it to his ear, listening for something. Instructions. Anything.}
Merda. I hate this.
{His breath is even in the mic, steady, words thick with the drawl of Roma. The mask gives his sound a wet effect, sickly, though this would be quite inaccurate. Besides the disorientation, he feels fine, if not angered by what's transpired. He's not where he should be, nowhere familiar, and more importantly, doesn't know how to get out. Not a good spot for an assassin, where knowing one's way out is typically detrimental to survival.
The camera goes dark, muffled as he shoves the device into a pouch on his belt, somewhere between the nightshade and the licorice.
Can you hear him? He can hear you.}
It's.... snow? It's snowing outside. Lo voglio andare a casa. Get me out of here.
Never fond of anything "new" or foreign to his range of knowledge, the screwy device Malfatto very nearly stepped on upon arrival was just a little more maddening than it seemed worth, moreso now that it was apparently coherent. Alive? It had a window, little buttons, a slight hum. Static. Static especially now that he'd activated something on that last smack, illuminating the window, the thing staring blankly back at him.
The camera watches. He blinks, a scarcely noticeable flutter beneath tinted goggles. Anyone observing would only see the mask and black, the murky sheen across those lenses an unsettling substitute for the kind eyes one normally hoped for in a physician. He looks like a bird from some zoo of the macabre, though his motions are hardly that of same-- fluid instead of that jolting way birds have of looking about. Tilting his head slowly to one side, the next, back again, he lifts the screen to eye level, closer. He moves it to his ear, listening for something. Instructions. Anything.}
Merda. I hate this.
{His breath is even in the mic, steady, words thick with the drawl of Roma. The mask gives his sound a wet effect, sickly, though this would be quite inaccurate. Besides the disorientation, he feels fine, if not angered by what's transpired. He's not where he should be, nowhere familiar, and more importantly, doesn't know how to get out. Not a good spot for an assassin, where knowing one's way out is typically detrimental to survival.
The camera goes dark, muffled as he shoves the device into a pouch on his belt, somewhere between the nightshade and the licorice.
Can you hear him? He can hear you.}
It's.... snow? It's snowing outside. Lo voglio andare a casa. Get me out of here.