The Sin Of Gluttony

Music: Paint it, Black Ciara

Hound, gripping Binge's horn with a vice-like hold, twisted the creature's overgrown head and slammed it into the nearest wall, the impact sending cracks through chipped concrete. Anger radiated from Hound with each motion, his knuckles white against Binge's twisted horn.

"You know," he began, voice lilting with derision, "I understand why you stood up to me. The Relay Core's got you all fired up. After all, it's the reason you're in this sorry state." His smile widened, eyes going bright with a twisted excitement as if savoring every pained breath Binge took.

"You've done me no real wrong. And I'm not even mad at you," he added, studying Binge's snarling face from the corner of those bloodshot, vein-riddled eyes. A low, menacing growl rumbled from Binge's throat, refusing to waver despite the pain.

"It's my nature to harm," Hound continued, pressing Binge's head harder into the wall until the grinding of bone on brick was audible. "And, well… being a leader takes that out of my hands, doesn't it? People look up to me now; I can't go around killing like I used to. But you—" his voice rose with a savage glee "—you're one durable motherfucker, aren't you?" Echoing laughter reverberated off the stone walls.

"Thank you… thank you for giving me an excuse," he hissed in Binge's ear, "because I'm going to indulge my gluttony to the fullest!"

Meanwhile, in a darker corner of Corpsehaven…

A battered metal door was ripped off its hinges and flung inward, crashing across the floor. Starving survivors, their cheeks sunken and eyes hollow, scattered to avoid the flying debris. They clung to each other—bodies trembling under the weight of trauma that no one should ever endure. Through the open doorway stepped a group of silent figures clad in sleek black armor, each plate designed for aerodynamic efficiency, every inch infused with glowing core lines that shimmered faintly along the seams. A rare luxury, even for the privileged.

They filed in one by one, surveying the grim scene while their respirators hissed in the quiet. Those huddled inside brandished makeshift weapons—bent pipes, sharpened scraps of metal—though hunger had whittled their strength to near nothing.

Lowering their rifle-mounted bayonets, one soldier spoke, their voice metallic through the mask: "We're looking for a group of scientists. They should have arrived a few weeks ago." As if for emphasis, they held up a portfolio featuring Vorn's likeness.

Whispers rippled through the ragged group, urgent and hushed. "Stop making noise! The wax moths will find us!" one individual finally managed to say above the panicked murmurs.

"Wax moths?" repeated the soldier, easing forward to keep the volume low.

"Moths mutated from the virus," a weary voice explained. "They mostly feed on rotting flesh, but if they don't find that, we become their next meal. They've been stalking us for days." He shook his head in warning. "We haven't seen that scientist you're after. Good luck."

With that, the soldiers eased back. "Apologies about your door," one whispered before retreating. A weak, fearful wave from the survivors bid them away.

Outside, the soldiers slipped into a tense march, each step measured to keep the metal plates of their armor from clanging. They understood these moths had keen hearing, and mutated ones might detect the faintest echo.

Soon, a low, resonant hum reached their ears, growing steadily louder, underpinned by a series of chitinous clicks that made the hair on their necks stand on end. The sky above seemed to dim as a mass of moths, tens—perhaps hundreds—of thousands, swarmed in a roiling, hive-minded cloud. A sticky, wax-like substance dripped from their underbellies, each drop hissing as it melted through anything it touched—crumbling walls, corroded streetlamps, even pitting the asphalt roads below.

The soldiers froze in place, hearts pounding in unison, while the monstrous moths swept overhead, guided by the clamor from the broken-down door. The realization sank in: the noise they caused had drawn the swarm right to the building's inhabitants.

Watching in silent horror, they stood as helpless witnesses to the horde flooding inside, powerless against the tide. Anguished cries pierced the air, rising to a crescendo of terror. With each scream, more moths descended in a gluttonous fury, and guilt weighed on the soldiers like lead in their lungs, tears gathering behind tinted visors they dared not lift.