[Video/Action]

[chartom]

[If he were thinking clearly, Talbot would be approaching his first network transmission with a bit more finesse, restricting the communication to a voice or text message. But not only is he in a fix, he's fixated: if Drake or Sullivan were dragged down into this godawful place with him, he wants them to see his face; he wants them to experience the itching of a gaze on their backs every time they step outside.]

I need a surgeon. [The video feed is unreliable, but the splash of aged blood around the entry wound in his shoulder is hard to miss on the backdrop of his white shirt when it momentarily sputters into clarity. He tilts the screen up, putting his tired face into view.

There's a hiss of static, then:] --and I need information.

((OOC: If you're a castmate, your thread's probably going to get encrypted to prevent eavesdroppers!))

Comments

[chartom]

[Talbot's gaze slides lazily to his shoulder, and after a moment's pause, he chuckles. It's not an entirely sane sound, either, but she'll have to excuse him. Infection's setting in, after all. He's not at his most stable.]

I've a friend of yours to thank for that.

[His eyes on the screen again.]

I don't suppose you'd be willing to put him on the line.

[totallytrustworthy]

[What does that even mean. What the hell happened. Shit. Shit shit shit.]

What, that happened here?

[Nope. Ignoring that request because she's still trying to figure out which 'he'. There are three options, after all.]

[chartom]

[She's clearly not very well informed.

Well then.]

I would reevaluate the company I kept if I were you, Ms. Frazer. Your health--and theirs--may depend on it.

[The feed ends.]

[totallytrustworthy]

[She has her mouth open to protest when the screen goes blank, and with the urge to say something still stuck in the forefront of her mind, all that comes out is one very frustrated]

Son of a bitch.