[ It goes without saying that it took a decent amount of time for this particular individual to make his netbook navigable in any way. When he does, a video quickly appears on the network -- narrowed eyes, an annoyance and yet -- a curiosity so immense that it takes a second glance.

Mostly, however, is the anger. His voice is laced with it. ]

What is this?

[ Aaaand a polite, wordless cutting of the feed. Not really a man of many words right now, contrary to standard behavior. ]

→ video/text

[ here's a video feed! it's showing a rather annoyed looking face. but annoyance quickly dissolves into surprise once he realizes that it's broadcasting to the whole damn network. WHOOPS. THIS FEED GETS SHUT OFF QUICK.

oh well, damage is already done. might as well say hello....

the netbook is registered under the name of "M". ]

YOU KNOW WHAT FUCK IT! I DON'T EVEN CARE. THIS ISN'T EVEN THE WEIRDEST THING THAT'S HAPPENED TO ME I MEAN, I'VE GONE THROUGH SOME FUCKED UP SHIT IN MY LIFE BELIEVE ME.

(go on, ask me about the eye. i mean SOMEONE'S gonna ask eventually anyway. might as well be you.)

anyway hiya folks yall can call me THAT DEMON OF MATHIAS. or not. actually no one really calls me that because they're like, SHIT! THAT'S WAY TOO MANY WORDS! FUCK YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH! but i would just like to point out that "SON OF A BITCH" is also four words.

fewer syllables though i'll grant you that but come on no one ever says SHIIIT! THAT'S TOO MANY SYLLABLES! no one says that. NO ONE.

but anyway anyway now i got some questions for you:

1) where can a man get a haircut around here?
2) i'll play you a pretty song for a pretty penny
3) i need like a billion small plastic cups and as much glitter as i can get my filthy dirty hands on STAT

→ action

[ but mukhari of course doesn't trust a whole lot of strangers to get him all the plastic cups and glitter that he needs, so he's out a-prowlin' all around the hold.

watching him, you wouldn't think that he was paying attention to anything at all outside of his head -- walking with a exaggerated step, fingers strumming out some rhythm on an invisible guitar, singing quietly to himself as he goes. occasionally he bursts out into full, loud song, in a language that barely even exists even back in his own world. ]

[ ooc: OH, WHAT'S THAT, DID YOU WANT A DRAWLOG? THEN GO RIGHT AHEAD AND REPLY TO EITHER ACTION OR TEXT WITH A DRAWING AND I'LL GET RIGHT BACK TO YA HEH ]

So we’re all simply supposed to believe that we’ve not only been brought to the future, and that we’re required to fight battles for a purpose we’re not even aware of, but that we’ve no reason to be told who we’re fighting against.

Or why.

[ Emotionless, with a strong british accent, Sark sounds absurdly skeptical. ]

I’m almost equally inclined to believe that we’ve all been dosed with some newly created governmental drug, and we’re the trial run. Not that I have any qualms about fighting, but I prefer to be given a reason, or at the very least, a motive, of which I see none.

Which is why i’m led to believe that one doesn’t even exist. Unless someone here can tell me otherwise.
[ End feed... except not.

Though the voice portion is over, Julian throws a single anonymous, partially traceable, message behind into the ether to see if there's anyone here who he might deem even remotely capable. ]

Fn'an bcruu sdbc mxpb fjrcrwp oxa xamnab.