Author's Note: Somewhat boring chapter. As you can tell, I'm taking my time with this. PG rating at the MOST. Biggest thing here is a flashback continuation of the last chapter. My BFF totally chose the prompt. : I'm still finalizing Sparda's personality since in Gluttony, only one real side of him showed (like in the flashback of this). I've only had one other one of him and Eva, where he accidentally trashed her rose garden with a car, so BARE WITH ME PLZ.

Piracy

By: Kara/Carmen Wayne

There was no quicker way to pissing Eva LaClaire off than for her husband to sit there, in the middle of the night, and help distribute films produced by her movie studio around on the internet. Torrents, mpgs, he did it all. Not to a horribly damaging level, of course—not that Eva would particularly suffer, considering she was as cheap as he. They were a couple greedy dragons, and while it looked like they lived rather gratuitously to the common person, the sad fact was: they could have lived so much better.

The sort of childish banter of action that they participated in was equal on both sides of the line. She would do things as equally childish, though not necessarily as extravagant, as his pirating her studio's copyrighted material on a comparatively small scale. Granted, those sorts of things had ways of rippling, but that was expected. Respected, wealthy, intelligent, Eva had some of Hollywood's finest modern royalty in her pocket those days. Ironic, considering the first time he met her, she was in their beds and appearing to be nothing more than a latching wanna-be that was hoping to make it big by slipping into their ranks. Honestly, that's what she looked like. Little did he know, her purpose was the same as his.

It wouldn't have been fair, to say that Eva remained wholly uncorrupted in her ventures in learning who was who, and who did what. She was hardly so, but for the better, he guessed. It toughened her up; made her more wise. Not that Eva was lacking strength to begin with, but she was less inclined to vomit on the scene of ritualistic homicide, or fall into tears when she failed to get enough information on a situation to get to someone in time. Essential steps to growing, unfortunate as it was. Important for her. Important for him.

…he never did like to see her cry.

"Who are you?" A strong French accent was dripped over her words. Figured, truly. A foreign girl, wandering the ranks of the American idle rich, sleeping with whomever she had to in the hopes that one would either whisk her away and marry her, or give her a chance to earn the riches of the rest of them. She would, no doubt, continue to do so for many years, as some sort of willing sex slave, until she became so used and worn that no one at all would pay the least bit attention to her.

"Abraham Williamson," was his reply. That was his name for the year, after all: Abraham Williamson, new money socialite and as sadistic as any of them, as far as others attending were concerned. Which was entirely true… just… not in the way they were banking on.

And that was what brought him to the present: standing there, in that wine cellar, looking for the large gasoline gas tanks that the owner of the house had drunkenly babbled on and on about the other night. It had been a long time since Sparda's attacks on those whom helped demons rise to power were forward; were known to those at the end of his attacks exactly who was rendering judgment upon them. It was tactical, really. Hell's binds were loosening, at no fault of his own, and until he had a firm grip on the powers involved in a situation, his attacks were underhanded, done by surprise. Sparda was no weakling, but he wasn't what he used to be, and two thousand years distanced, he wasn't entirely sure what new tricks Hell held.

"Lovely!" the blonde cheered sardonically, with an exaggerated clap of hands. They were clapped together, and swung around towards the stairs, index fingers both jutting out insistently. "Now, get the fuck out."

Sparda didn't waiver, instead simply saying, "That's incredibly cute when you say that in that accent."

How offended and ruffled the young woman looked, when he swung up his own index finger to poke her in the forehead. Humans were so cute, sometimes. "Now," he continued, despite how indignant she looked. "I doubt that you will want to play with Jean-Paul down here, hm? Run along elsewhere."

Honestly, he hadn't been expecting the gun in his face next, pulled free from her inner thigh. Not expected at all, and Sparda was starting to reevaluate the situation, when he took into consideration the weapon itself. A small revolver, nothing more than a .22. Not that he expected much else from a young woman with a gun on her inner thigh, but it just…

A small chuckle heaved out of him, and he leant forwards a bit as he did so. "Well, that must be absolutely the most threatening weapon I have ever seen," he said condescendingly. "Look at that long, powerful barrel. What do you intend to do with that? Take my eye out?"

The corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. As though he just said a secret word in order to trigger a sequence of events to start rolling. And when he saw her leaning to a side, to aim the gun past him, in the direction of some of the gas tanks down there, he realized that was exactly it, more or less. So yes, he did grab her hand to keep her from doing so, because although he would survive, she wouldn't stand a chance. Even if he covered her body with his own. He was about to snap that at her, as well, when her finger accidentally snapped closed on the trigger and a bullet hit the ceiling loudly, a puff of wooden splinters raining over the stone steps.

That wouldn't have been so bad, either, if not for the shouts from the security up above.

One of Eva's latest videos finished uploading to a remote server that he used for his minor escapades of media piracy, and just as the white haired man started to link it appropriately for exposure, his phone across the hotel room began to ring. Crimson eyes squinted, annoyed because he was sure it was someone under his current employ, and that his default ringtone was the same as his calling tone: the Chicken Dance. It was a simple amusement he had when out in public, but at eleven at night? Not so much.

It was most likely not Eva, since she was independent enough to not feel it necessary to bother him when he was away, or if she was away. Even in the days after she announced her pregnancy to him (astonishing, that, and he was still attempting to figure how in the world he was going to manage being a father), Eva remained as independent as always. A little more moody and emotional than normal, but nothing that she wasn't aware of and wasn't attempting to control. He did his best to help with that, as well.

Up to his feet, Sparda swept, swaying over for the ringing device. It was an expensive contraption. Far more expensive than he would have particularly chosen for himself, but Eva was particular on the sort of phone she wanted him to have. She felt the whistles and bells imperative to what they were up to most the time. Granted, Sparda couldn't argue with that, but he was used to infiltration when the only contact had with companions was face-to-face, so any plans had to be well thought out in advance. However, the camera and video capture on the small computer-like device proved handy more than once when contacting the few authorities in his pocket, as opposed to the more corrupt.

The phone just stopped clinking along in its annoying sing-song as Sparda's fingers wrapped around it. The stylus was pulled free from its hold, and he tapped the PDA screen to life.

One missed call.

A number he didn't recognize.

A moment later, one new voicemail of fifteen not yet listened to.

Yes, Sparda was awful with checking his voicemails. Mostly on account of his knowing several of those were from a little demon, a puck, that liked to leave five minute long messages of childish giggles, jokes, or absolutely retarded questions when he should have been busily doing what Sparda was paying him to do. It bothered him, however, that last call. No one knew his number that shouldn't, but he didn't wish to call them back if it was a misdial.

Something told him to suck it up, sit down, and to listen to all the messages. A gut feeling, that had him grasping for his Bluetooth earpiece, and slipping it on as he dropped to a seat on the bed that was dressed with sheets he brought from home (hotel rooms were filthy, after all). Stylus to device, Sparda took a deep breath and went to listening to the slew of annoying messages, hoping to get to the final one.