[Today, the message is brief - and Sonya's back to her usual excessive brightness, a deep contrast to the last time she sent out a message.]

So what are everyone's New Year's resolutions? I'm a big proponent of publicly announcing what you intend to do so that later, people can publicly shame you if you don't keep to it. And yeah, okay, no one bust in with "We've been chatting about them elsewhere on the network," I don't stalk you, you shameless egotists, so I haven't heard, and I totally want to know.

Anyway, my number one resolution this year is to quit smoking. Again. And to learn how to cook something - anyone have any suggestions as to where you should start when you're learning to cook?

[At eight-thirty in the morning the crisp voice of a young woman begins to drone.] So the holiday of Christmas is just around the corner. For those of you not in the know - of whom I'm sure there are many, I was such a one myself less than 2 years ago - Christmas is a winter festival, meaning its hallmarks are decoration in the red and green hues that are so rare in this desolate season. There is delicious food, and an exchange of gifts, and an overall pretense of universal goodwill. It is, as they say, the most wonderful time of the year.

That time of the year, Christmas Day, is the 25th of December. Celebrations often start earlier on Christmas Eve, or the 24th. If you're familiar with the calendar that governs timekeeping in Exsilium, you'll know that means we have less than a week left.

Now I happen to work with Vennett, the temporal programmer. There are two main things of public import I've learned from him. First, New York and Las Vegas are some of the most popular destinations for missions that procure physical goods and no other result. Second, encoding a unique destination is a non-neglegible drain on resources, especially when the goal of the mission is not related to the location.

If you intend to spend the holidays in Las Vegas, enjoying whatever entertainments it has to offer, I can't really stop you. On the other hand, I have a proposal for whoever else has Christmas shopping to do: We all go to New York, together. I've made this announcement early in the day hoping to organize an expedition this evening; if there are enough interested parties who consider this notice to be too short, a delay of a day or more is perfectly feasible. Either way, we meet in front of the Transporter at 6 o'clock.

And one more thing. Should you be repulsed by the location or perceived frivolity of this entire exercise, but still want to get out of here, for the sake of a [she says like it's a dirty word] 'vacation' or any other reason, why don't you consider the latest lovely selection of mission proposals? AI's new simulations are absolutely top-notch, and we've been getting excellent results already.

Alright, that's all for now. I hope everyone listening to this has a Merry Christmas when the day comes.

[Sonya appears on the screen without her usual preambles or cheerful introductions. Her manner is very, very controlled. The casual Bronx vowels that occasionally creep into her speech are gone. The profanities are gone. Every once in a while, she glances down; this is a prepared statement.]

Earlier today, Jesse Pinkman snuck into one of the prisoner cells under false pretenses. He’d been friends with one of the mutineers before all of this happened, so he claimed to merely want to visit.

While he was in there, he mutilated this prisoner in spirit and soul. He ripped from her her ability, her inborn gift, to cast spells. He tore away from her something as vital to her as eyesight or touch might be for you. And did he did this to defend someone? To stop an attack or a threatened attack? No: he did it to punish her. To make her suffer. And then he said to her that this is how things are running now.

( fuzzy drama funny drama drama drama fuuuck (ps not an ic cut) )

[Gently:] Good morning, Exsilium.

[It almost sounds like a reminder.

Saul's looking just as businesslike as he did in his last network post, this time broadcasting from the Observatory. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him, he leans in and addresses the camera with an expression that's a little too somber to pass for neutral:]

As of last night, Medusa's gone home.

[He hopes that's where she's gone, anyway. He's never sure what happens to people after they disappear.

After a moment, the look on his face softens.]

For the time being, I've assumed the role of Director of the Department of Initiative-Transport Relations. Medusa and I started this together back in May, when its purpose was to foster trust between us and the Initiative by way of hiring liaisons to make announcements on the Initiative's behalf. Friendly faces, right?

But it's clear to me now that there's no use for that in our current predicament, so the Department's getting a bit of a makeover.

( First of all... )

[There's a pause, then, as he runs a hand through his hair to move onto other business.]

( As far as supply runs are concerned... )

[And the feed cuts.]

[a mild, plain-looking face shows up on the screen, blue eyes tired but vaguely surprised as they look down at the screen.]

Well, would you look at that. Doesn't that just beats the shit out the old Macintosh. Not to mention chat rooms. And telephones, for that matter. At least, if I'm actually talking to people? [a quick, toothy smile and a fake little wave] Heya. Tobias Beecher, nice to meet you.

[he looks ready to lose it then, like a sudden bout of laughter's just going to erupt. It passes, and he says mildly:] So, Exsilium, huh? Doesn't exactly have the same fun fairytale ring to it as "Oz" or "Emerald City", but I guess you guys make up for it with all that "alternate universe" and "sentient weapons" crap. Mine hasn't started talking to me yet, but hey, maybe it's only a matter of time! [Beecher wiggles what looks like a bed-spring at the camera, although one end of it has been unwound and sharpened to a point.

He plays with it a bit as he continues, sounding awfully cheery, and awfully fake] So if I've got all this straight, I've been taken somewhere I can't leave, and I don't really have a choice about it, and I've been provided with a bed and the basic creature comforts and we're all expected to get along together all nice and civilized like. Now, gee, what sort of place does that remind me of...?

[Beecher tilts his head, his voice a sort of sing-song:]

Mary had a pretty bird,
Feathers bright and yellow,
Slender legs, upon my word!
He was a pretty fellow.

The sweetest notes he always sang,
Which much delighted Mary;
And near the cage she'd ever sit
To hear her own canary.

[there's a pause where Beecher gives a breathy chuckle, pleased with himself. Then,] ...You know, I'm... well, I was, supposed to be up for parole soon. So - what passes for a parole board in this shiny new shithole? [Beecher's lips twitch into a grin, blue eyes lit, and he titters into his hand. It's unstable, odd, a freak gurgle. It loses momentum. Beecher's expression cools, becomes pensive, and he ends the feed.]

[Lily's still nervous, even after discovering that she's free of that underground facility. Not only does she not know what happened to her fellow test subjects, but it's a big change, and there will still be fighting. Will she accidentally hurt someone? She hopes not. She flips on the video feed. There are two things worth noting about the young girl's features. The first is that her eyes are yellow. Perhaps the most notable, however, is the metal collar around her neck. It doesn't look like jewelry.]

I just have a question for everyone. What do you do to relax when you're scared or upset?

[She doesn't want to mention the extent of her problems, but she shouldn't lie either. So she just won't say anything if she's not comfortable talking about it, or she'll change the subject. That usually works for her.]

This place is very different than what I'm used to, so I'd really appreciate any suggestions. Oh! And I'm also looking for flowers. The place I lived in didn't have any, and I've always wanted to smell real flowers. Thank you for your time.

[Despite everything that's happened in the last few days, Steph looks positively cheery as she comes onto the screen, dressed in civvies with her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. She might not have worn the particular suit for a couple years now, but she's all Robin, all grins and charm, because she doesn't have the energy to be anything else.]

Hey, guys, I know this is kinda last minute, but there's been a change in plans with the whole cookie thing this month. [She holds up a hand as if silencing comments that aren't actually going to come, because this is pre-recorded.] I know, I know, I'm not exactly the regular guy that does this, but don't adjust your sets, Jesse's just come down with a hell of a cold, so I'm gonna run things this time 'round.

For those of you who don't know, I'm Steph, hi, I don't bite very hard.

[Steph pls]

Since Jesse's sick, we figured it'd be best not to cook in his kitchen, 'cause I'm sure we don't wanna give the newbies the sniffles when they first show up. If anyone who's normally involved would like to volunteer their kitchen to be the base of operations, I would love you forever, but if not we can just use my place, 104.

[And a briefly apologetic look because she hasn't actually asked her roommates. Sorry guys.]

We'll still be doing it on the 31st, starting early and hopefully finishing early so we can all head over to Ella's party, and the tent will be set up at the same time on the first, you'll just have me co-ordinating things intead of Jesse.

If anyone has any questions or concerns, now's the time to voice them, if not, I'll see you on the 31st, either at mine, or I'll update this if we get a volunteer.

Thanks.

[A lazy salute, and the feed cuts.]



[[OOC: Same ooc stuff applies; there won't be a log for this but feel free to say characters participated! The thread in the welcome log will still go up and everything will go the same, it'll just be Steph instead of Jesse wrangling things c: ]]

[The voice is measured, disciplined, but rather young:]

This is Armin Arlert, cadet of the 104th Scouting Legion, reporting. I arrived to an unknown location approximately one week ago, and have yet to meet any others from my group, or anyone with knowledge of our war with the titans. While I have currently determined the situation to be safe, even hospitable, all evidence suggests it will not remain so. Should anyone out there who serves under Generalissimo Dallas Zackley receive this message, please respond! [A pause, and there's a slight break in that resolve.] Please... I-I can't have been the only one to...

[After a moment, Armin clears his throat. He is shaken, but continues:] To everyone who arrived here prior to this month, I would appreciate any assessment of the situation or perspective on the war and the time-and-space transportation that appears to have taken place. Suggestions for further reading on the subject would also be appreciated.

[It's clear he's a bit worn out by making this message, though fighting to sound brave.] Thank you.

_{( Remy’s hanging out in what passes for one of the classier taverns, leaning back in a wooden chair as his hair falls over his eyes. He’s eyeing the communicator a little devilishly, and, as ever, he’s shuffling a deck of cards. And though the process is constant, he eventually pulls out exactly the card he meant to: the Ace of Diamonds. )}

Diamonds are called Coins, sometimes. If it was gonna be an element, it’d be Earth. Has ta do with the physical, your body an’ your wealth. People who do work like that, too—merchants, traders.

Sometimes it jus’ means you’re an achiever. Y’like gettin’ things done.

_{( He nods, solemnly, before replacing the card in the deck and continuing with his shuffling. He pulls out the Ace of Clubs, next. )}

Clubs’re different. Called Wands, in the old days. They’re Fire, willpower. People who do hard work, wit’ their hands. If you’re someone who likes destruction, that’s your suit. But that’s no so bad. The world needs breakin’ down an’ buldin’ up.

_{( Another nod, another tilt of his head. The next card is the Ace of Hearts. )}

Hearts’re special, some people think. Used ta be called Cups. They gotta do with Water, with emotion. People who do things spir’tually.

Hearts’re socializers. They like other people, more than things.

_{( He kisses the card lightly before shuffling it back in, pulling out the last. The Ace of Spades. )}

Now, Spades. Also called Swords, sometimes. They’re Air, freedom. But wit’ that comes unpredictability. If you’re a Spade, y’like havin’ authority. But that comes wit’ responsibility, an’ consequences.

Spades’re explorers. They like the unknown, seekin’ out what they might be ‘fraid of o’ what might bring ‘em joy.

_{( That card goes back into the deck, too. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Remy smiles at the communicator once more. )}

So, here’s a question. Which’re you?

[ Em doesn't very much enjoy talking or, in general, socializing. Not that she's anti social, it's just that she is very shy and social situations get her anxious and apprensive and she never really knows what to say. She's a quiet person outside her group of friends and she prefers a book to going out, but this time, it's clearly a very different situation she has found herself in. Her voice is quivering, a extremely faint French accent slipping in some syllables and words, but far from the cartoonish exaggeration that the French tend to speak English in. ]

This is a mistake. [ A long pause to suck in some air into her lungs, a shiver audible through her breathing. ] I cannot be here. Not alone-- not without them. Please, my children. I-- I can't leave them with him. Don't do this, please, someone. Take me back. They're alone with him.

[ There is a longer pause now, where she's just breathing. There's a sound which makes it look like she's slumping down on the floor or leaning back, and her voice comes a little muffled as she keeps herself together, possibly a hand over her mouth. ]

You can't do this to them.

[ This broadcast sounds a little staticy, like it's from a long way away. ]

Hey— any trackers out there? I could use one. I got a missing horse, the asshole threw me and took off.

Oh, yeah, related, who wants to come pick me up? I got no idea where I am, but I haven't seen any buildings in, like, hours. Sooooo, pretty far out, is my guess! [ A laugh. ] Think of it as a game. Whoever finds me first gets all my worldly possessions, horse aside. Esteban aside, too. You don't want him, trust me, he'd dump a load of shit on your pillow and take off.

No prize if one of these monsters out here tears my throat out first, though. So, chop chop!

[ Ever since that brief meeting within the courtyard, several questions plagued Cao Cao's mind. He had hoped to find the information on his own with the Initiative's help, but they weren't very...helpful in his opinion. Besides the whole notion of them using sorcery to unravel the United Earth's influences through a series of smaller skirmishes, Cao Cao wasn't certain as of how this war could possibly be won. From what little he's managed to understand, the enemy outnumbers them greatly and there's great dissent amongst the transports here.

Still trying to understand his role in all this, the King of Wei decided to act. He never used such a device before. These "tablets" as they call them were nearly two-thousand years ahead of his time. Though with some luck and minor concentration, he managed to operate one. He was still far from proficient with this odd device, but at least he got it work.

Now staring into the blank screen of the tablet, Cao Cao speaks. ]

Just how many generals sit amongst us? How many soldiers and how many strategists? If this is a war, then shouldn't we treat it as such?

[ He paused momentarily in hopes of hearing an answer, but nothing was said. So he continued. ]

I've won wars before but nothing resembling this kind of scale. Gathering the information necessary about my foes was never so daunting as this. Virtually nothing is known about the United Earth or their method of combat. I'm aware that they hold the most influence in this realm, but how so?

[ Mengde wondered if their were other factions out there who hoped to rebel against their federation. He wouldn't be surprised if there were, but they assist them? Surely this war doesn't fall upon the shoulders of a wayward few.

That would be suicide. ]

In truth, I see no victory in sight but I refuse to die a martyr's death.

[Here's Sonya again, with big speeches again, and with a big smile again. This time, however, she seems a bit less...peppy. A lot less peppy, really, and a lot more drawly and annoyed.]

Hi. Sonya Karimov. Most of us have met. The ones I don't know can do their homework as to who I am. Don't like repeating myself. Anyway. Pleasure.

So I'm about to use some salty language. Normally I'd say cover your children's ears, but I figure they could use some of this too, so here we go.

Apparently some people are being dicks to us. Cool. I want to say, before anyone gets any stupid fucking ideas: let it the fuck go. Always. Without exception. Don't retaliate. Honestly, I don't think you should even fight back, really. Not with any force. Some of you are soldiers and some of you are assholes, so you're probably thinking, No, I'm not letting that go, to which I say thanks for bringing it down on the rest of us. No. Don't punch or kick or stab; just get the fuck out of any confrontations, whether they're someone smacking you in the face or spitting on you or whatever.

Okay, part two. When in doubt, lawyers form committees, so I'm forming a committee. My tentative name for it is "The Committee to Keep Us the Fuck Alive," though I'm open to names that would look better on letterhead. Basically, we're a whole lot of talent who aren't the least bit organized, so I'm thinking we need some organization. Basically, if you have ideas for emergency response, as well as smoothing over things with the people around us, I want to talk to you. Chime in here.

[And, dryly:]

Third, and this goes out to everyone: chin the fuck up. We're alive, we're not puking all over ourselves anymore, we've got a future ahead of us. So no whining about wanting to go home. It's a waste of time and breath. Be useful. That's all.

[This is the breathless voice of someone in panic.]

Does anyone know how to get chewing gum out of hair?! It's kind of an emergency...!!

Please help me. I don't want to cut it!

W̷̴̨̜̥̗̟͚͇͕̹̗̻̝̯̠̺̰̼̏̽̋̆̃͆ͮͨͪͫ̋̊͋͒͂ͦͯ̓͟͡e͒ͩ̒ͤ̓̽̀ͭ̽̂͌́ͫ̓͋͑͏̸̵̝̹͖͓͈͔̥̬͙͍̟̜͓͎͢͜ ́̐́̐ͯͥ̓̿ͩ̽̏̽̒͏̵̱͚̥͈̱̣̼͇̟͘͜n̸ͣ̓ͨ̐͌̎ͥ̑͆͂ͥͪ̉̊͆̌ͤ͏̖̣̯͖͖͟͞o̸͉̮̲̩̗̺͕͕͓̠͎̤̤͓̭͙͚̺͖̒̇̄ͮ̏̀͠w̧͑͆̓̈́͂ͩ͑̈̂̍̀̎̿̓ͧͯͭ͒͏͇̘̱͇͉̩̘̝̳͔͎̦̠͎̱̫̝͈ ̫͕͚̱̥͕̰̟̏ͬͣ̊͢͡͝͞i̶̿ͫ̌̍̆̊̈́͑̉ͧ̒̑͏҉̩͉̯̣͓͉ͅn̶̴̝̬̩̥͔̹ͯ͊͛̏̂̑̒ͬ͊ͭ̈̊ͧͫͮͣ̊̀́͟͜ţ̷̟̺͔̠̫̭̦͉͈̱͑ͩ͗ͪ̈ͨͨͮ̏͐͗̒͆͌͊͐́̀͠ȩ̵͉̟̖̰͉̲̖̼̝̲̪̩͕̫͎̲͂ͬͪ́͒̽̌̎̿̚͢͢ṟ̭͙͖͍̰̼̻̬̱͍͈͉̞̋͌̈́̑̑̈́̓̈̽̀̀̈́́̿̾ͯ͘̕ͅr̵̨̞̭͔͇̖͖̳͎̝̮̲̎ͬ̃̑ͩ̕͡͡ṳ̴̙͚̯͚̮̉̽̔̅̎̒͡p̴̦̻̤̝̘͉̟͖̈́ͩ̏̆̊̇ͫͮͫͧͧͮͭ̐͒͜͟͢ͅt̉̎̈́ͪͥ̀̆ͪ̅͗͒̇̐͏̸͙̦̻̖̱̺̯̘̦̹̗̦̯̹̗͡͞ ̶͎̹̣̳̦̪͕̬̞̼̣̼̰͍̗͇̋ͤ̔̓̎̀́͡ͅt̸̨̛͈͎̗̙͈̄͒͌͌̄ͮͫ̎̔ͪ͒̎̓̂͒̎͝͞h̨͔̬͇̮̱̰̰̹͖̱̟̻͎̰̯̫̎̑̓ͨͬ̍̈͂͑͝͡ͅi̷ͧ̇̌͒̌͆̈̋̆ͯͬ̓ͮ͆̂͛̓̚͢͝҉̤̩̬̦̙̠̤̼̞̝̟͉̠͕͚̬̜͈s̷̴̶̶͋̍̍͒͏̫̥̤̮̙̺͙̼͖͉̖̱͉̰ͅ ̸̵̜͉̼̫̳̖͍͚̞̜̙̯̘ͨ̅̉̎̔̂̅̀̕b͓͓͖̬͍͈̲̥̒ͫ̍͛̕͜ͅŗ̛̖̼̆ͨ͛̑͌̈͐ͧ̔͌ͨͅo̠̘̦͍͈̩̺̩̞̘̼̩̮͍̰ͬ̓ͬͪ͑̄̆̏̇̓̍̈ͭ̏̔́̀̚a̵̢͙̲̦̤̻͙̠̜͖͎̤̰͓̩͈̹̮̔̽ͭ̃̄ͦ̏ͦ͐̀̒ͬ̂͛́͗ͪ͑̐ͅdͤ̀̓ͭͪ̍̾͂ͩ̃̔̌̄̂̏ͣ̚͏҉̯̩͍̙̠͖̫̟͓̘̬͎̞̣̰̲ç̟̳̳̥̽̓ͧͯͬ̆̈́̏̍̈͜͞a̸̴̢͙̙͖̠̠̯͕̞̭̤̣̳̤͖̪̻̮̋ͬ̾̇̾̏͌ͦ̓̾̐̒̽̍̒̉̀́s̷̵̙̤̫̹͑ͩͧ̓͒ͦ̍ͨ̓̚̚ţ̶̹̱̯̪̜̥̼̽ͭ͐͊ͭͬ͊ͤ̈̃̈ͦͬ͗ͨͣ͜͡ ̷̵̟̜̮̤͓͙̥ͬ̔̍̓ͥ̐̈̇͌̏t̵̷̲̳̜̺̖̲͙̠̙̳̔ͩ̆ͬͯͧ͘͘ǫ̢̗̳̪͕̥̮̣͌͌͒̈̐̅̔͒̅̾ͨ̉͝ ̴̸̺͍̣͔̩͉̗̻̖̭͙̦̟̪̣̂̍͆͋̾̈́̌ͮ͐̎̎̀̌͂ͪ̀ͪ̚b̡̫̠͔͉̝̣͓̞͙̝͍̣̖̜̦̈ͯ̆̂͒̃͗ͧ̉̿̆̚͢ŗ̥̗̥̻̬̝̞͕͖̖̼̬͙̬̼̫͈ͭ̏͌̋ͮ̒̇͋͌̿ͩ͟ͅi̮̰͙̖̰͉̰̠̜̯̖͙̺͙̱͔̦͛̆͊͑̆ͯͦ͢͜ͅn̶̴̶̜̞͔̲̹̣͈̱̬̈ͦ̏ͯ͜ģ̯̣͇͇̳̜̤̘͆̈́̇͂̆͒͗͜͞ ̨̹̲̘̤͙̼̫͚̞̪͎͕͆͛͑̄ͥ͑̐ͮͫ̓̀͢͞yͩͫͥͪͣ͐ͣ͛ͦ҉̵̳̭̯͇͍̻̭͕̭̼̹͇̘͞͝o̴͈͓̠͉ͤ̋̓̉̒̊̍͌̚͜u̸̶̬͕̤̞͚̦̘̞̪̯͕̜͍̝̘͔̱̞̣̾̍̉ͬͨͩ̅͆̿͊̒ͫ̆̋̾͆́̎͘͡ ̷̴̣͚͎̣̰͕̹̳̥̹̯̦̠ͫ̃̓̂̌̿̾͆͆ͣ̍̆ͥͦ͆̃̋͠ͅa̴̵̳̗̞͓̻̰̜͙͛̎̈̂̄ͧ̃͠ ̢̢̰̫̞̱ͫ͊̌͒̽͊̄̌̐̊ͩ̐̚͘͘f̴͇͈̭̥͈̯͓̤͔̯̔̿ͦ́̉ͤ̆ͧͦͧ̎͒ͦ͆͐̾͂͑̀̀͝r̡̭̳̯͈̘̗͖̹͙̺̭̭̗̠͆ͥͭ̓̓͂ͤ̐̒ͭ̎͌͊͐̊̽͒̚͘͞͞ȋ̴͍͇̼͍̖̻͓̺̗̙̯̺̦ͧ͒ͣ͋̈̾ͬ́̓ͪͧ͐̈́̚͞e̸̔̓̈̈̓ͪ̏ͮ̔ͬͬ̏̏͘͜҉̘͕͈͚̤̟̰ṅ̸̨̛̲͉̯̝̪̪̩̫̭̾̏͊̂͑́̍̀̊̐͊̈͌ͤ̂̚͟ͅd̛͑͂ͫ̽ͮ̎͗ͥ͆̃̄̍ͬ͒̋̇̓̉͏̨͓̬̭̣͍͈͟͟ľ̵̡̠̦͉̤̠͚̻̝̞̱͛̆͒̔̌̍̄̐̈́ͧ̾ͬ͂́́͝ͅy͑ͣ̋̍́ͮ̿̅ͭ̓ͭ͋̓͊ͩ̇̈̚҉̵̵̦̳͉͍̠͖̱̙͈̲͙͓̫͍͓̝͟͟ ̸̧̢̞̟͕͔̥͇̺͑̔ͫ̔̍ͦ̋̑͜m̷̉̿̆͛̏̈͆̈ͤ̊ͣ̍ͪ͐̽҉̴̮͔̠̟̥͚͉̥͝è̡͎̪͎̻ͧ͑̍ͧ̃͋ͤ̉̈̉̒̂ͪͤ̿͌̃̀͢͞s̵͎͇͓̼͙͙̰̭̲͖̯̯̳̠̦̮͇̗̐͌̌͂̽͆̃̊̇ͫ̈̓͊̋͘͠͝s̱̣̼̱͓̲̒̔ͪͯ͛̀͢ͅā̡̧͇͚̖̙ͫ̉̚g̛ͤ̊͒͐ͤ̊̈̉͘͏̷̨̟͚̪̖̪͙̲͖̪̜e̽̾̂͛̆̔̋̊ͨͧ̌̈́̈́̚҉҉̞̝̟͉̫̤̜͓̱̦̥̮ͅ ̡̧̖͔͔͙̖͍̪͖̥̣̯͉̖̿ͯ̅͋ͦ̈́ͫ̑̅ͅo̸̷͍͙͔̘̗̬̘̖̥̲̬̫͖͍̱̝̺̓̿́̿ͥͅͅf̞̩̬̙̼̙͔̞̯̭̘͒̿ͪ̋̀͘͢͝ ̶̢̗͕̳̰̬͑̏́̓́̉ͮ͗ͯͬ̑̃ͧ͂̈̊͋̂̚͝͞y̷̬̣̟̤̣̱̞̦̟ͪ͑ͬ̾̆̾́ͫͦͪ͌̽ͪ́͟ͅͅo̵͈̤̘̥̻̝͍̪̰̼ͯ͛̽ͨ̕͟͠ư̶̬̦͈̬̤̻̖̩̮̌͊͐̆ͣ̓̆̉̿ͦ̒̐ͩ͢ͅr͎̗̲͉͔͈͙̫̭͇͙͖̲ͣͦ̉̌̀͟ ͗̈̉ͤͣͬ̃ͪ̉͊̇ͥͩͮ̚͏̴̛̜̘͕̥̩͇͢͡t͌̈̇́ͧ̆ͥ̄̀ͤ̍̌ͬ̀ͬ̏͑ͦ̚͜͏̴͕͎͙̳͙͍͍̮̝͕͓̮ͅî̧̙̪͎͍̠̖̹̳̱͇̪͕̤̳̼͈͚̌̉ͦ̌̏̓͐̽̋̕͞m̶̅̅̊̾̍̊ͥ͗̓̊͏̺͖͎̯̞͠e̛̹̤̜̱̣̖͕̪̳̙̜͑ͧͤ͆͋̔͜͞ĺ̨̞̖͈͉ͦ̉̈̾ͨ͊ͩ̀̚͜y̵̶̻̺̣̟̭͙͉͍̻̱͓̟̾̇ͤ̆̋͌̾͜͠ ̷̡̺͕̙̝̜͉̳͓̃͋̑ͧ͘͘͘d̸̸̢͈͓̲̮̳̦̞̹̼͓͖͙̮͓̫͚ͪ̋͑̉́ͮ͒̒́ͭͭ̾͂̉̀̆̕ǫ̜̟͇̳̦̬͍̺̘̹̎̐͂̿ͧ͒̈́͟͢ͅo̩̠͎͉̙̮͈̫̺̞͖̺̝̦͉ͪͤ̽̅͆́͜͟m̸̴̵͔̦̝̳͉̳̥̪͔̗̖͈̮̤̔͆ͧ̄͛̏̍̍

Warning. Warning. As of 2100 hours, the island of Exsilium has been placed under complete and total quarantine. Any and all individuals caught attempting to leave the quarantine zone will be immediately executed. We repeat, any and all individuals caught attempting to leave the quarantine zone will be immediately executed.

O̵̓ͤ̀̾̌ͭ͒ͭ̔͑̑̔ͮ̈҉̸̙͖̩͚̻̪͔̤̙̙͙̥̻p̷̷̡̗͔̬̠͚͇̼̩̥̘͎̳̟̙͔̥̜̒́̐͛͞ͅȩ̴ͭ̅͑͋́͏̙̜̭͈̦̹͇̠̦̣̤͈̝̲͙͓̲̲ͅṛ̢̛͚̖̖̬̱͍͎̱͓̼̖ͧ̋ͧ̄ͯͣ̈́ͫ̆ͥ̒́̚ã̷̴̡͓̰͓̪̭̩̬̙̜ͧͦ̄̈́̋̚͞tͪ̈́͑ͫͤ̿ͫ͋ͭ͂̍̌̀̈̚͜͠͏͙̭̖̫̬͉͙̼͎̣̱͍̱i̴̝̟͍̣̥͉̙̦̖̩̼̭̞̩̜̥̥̓̒ͭͦ̒́̽̌͐ͨ̌ͨ͞͞͡ǫ̴̡̟͚̩̺̖͇̩̣̞̯͖̪̓̾͑͂ͭͭ̌̕͢n̡̼̟̺̉̌̎̍̊͊ͧ̆̀́ͅ ̷̛̮͉̦̞̜͒̒͑͆͑̑ͯͫ̕R̵̷̥͕̳̹̫̬̟̤͍̱̜͓̹̙̺͍̼͊̔̈ͮ̋ͫ͌̄̑̈́̀͢a̛͈̦̱͎̦̮͈͎̳̪͚̬͖̫͔ͪ̇͂̅ͦ̌ͥ̔ͨ̇͗͂͛̏͟t͑͗͋̓̀͋ͩ̇̒́̀ͩ̔̅̈́͂ͯ̿͌͝͠͏̷͍̣̪͍̩͈̣ͅs̢̛̲͓̣̝͓̱̖̩̖̻͎̠̮ͦ̄͑̔̊ͧ͛ͨ̄͗̎ͨ̚͘͞͠ ̢̞̤̥͓̺͍͔̩̻̦̪̙͔̺͓̦̭͎͈̊͆ͣͫ̓͂́͆̊̈́̇̀͘N̤̙̗̟̺̻̪͖̰̈́͗̏̿͌̾̄̈́̂́̀͘èͧ̉̉ͫ͂͏̴̠̤͈̞̙̪̲͡s̵̵̙͖̹̝̲͔̬̰ͩ̃́͗̊̅͘͢͠t̐̄͗͋͏҉̡̖̘̜͓̤̠̠̟́́ ̱̝͍̤̳͈̪̹̖̞̪̑͂ͤ̈́ͣ͐̏̾̾̋ͤ͛́̕͜į̤̼͓̬̳̗̙͖̻͇̯͍ͫͩ̋͊̈ͫ͑̐̒̐̕͘͞͝ͅn̷͕̘̜̭̙͇̤̤̰̭͓̂̾͆͛̋̽̊ͤ̃͗ͭ͗̚͟͢͞i̴̵̹͕͚̙̹̬͛́ͮ͋ͮ̉̌̍͛͘ṯ̥̦̝̮͉͉̤́͊̔̎̉̕͜i̵̢̯̳̞̮̬̳̍̅ͪ̄̈̃̓̏a̸̡̪̱͉̗̳̖͌̃̉̄̽͛ͦ̔̉̅̽ͣͅtͬ͆̽̑͗ͪͣͩ͊̿̒̋͛ͭ҉̪̻͇͚͕͓͇̮̦͓͓̀̕i̛ͬ́̒̏̈́̅̈͌͗͐ͪ̈ͣ͋̒͏͏͏̵̙̘̝̦͇͔̱̗͉̦̟̻̬n̶͎̝͚͈̝̤̻̺̘͍̫͔̭̋́͛͒̀̊̍̍̿̂ͭ͑ͦ͘g̓̓͊̆̓̽ͨ̒̒ͪͬ̋̚͢҉̷̰͙̞̣̩͖͠ ̶̢͙̥͚̩͊͌̿̋̆̓̑̓́͋͋̄͞i̸̧͋ͯ̂̾̄̎̇͛̋̑͘͟҉̥̤͔̼̖̟̜̼̘̺̟̖̳̠̖͍ṇ̴̶̢̩̩͔̟̝͎̼̜̟͉͙ͪ̆̿ͮ̓̓ͮ͝ ̸̮̺̰̥̣̯͖͍̣̰̰̯̜͙̟ͤͮ̓ͪ̓̈́̀̇́̐ͮ̈́͊ͥͬ̐͆͟7̷̡̡̋̇̆̉̓̌ͯ̒ͤ̈ͨͥͪ̿ͥ̈̌̽͏͍̼̰̩͔̯̝̪ͅ2̢̋̌͌̾ͨ̓̍̈̄ͪ̈ͫ͏̢̬͙̤̣̲̣̼̩̥̘͔̠̩̪̮͟͡ ̃̿̎̔̑̃̐̓ͪ͞͏̗̣̳͙̼̬̤̰̲͚sͮ͌̆̐̉̉͟͏͓̖̟͔̩̘̹̜́͠t̵̢̢͎̟̪̦͎̤͍̱̺̰̪͉̯̞̎ͪ͗ͪ̓͂̈́̓̇̂̈́̐͆̆ͯͭͤͥ͜͡a̵͙̞͇̮͆ͬͦ̎ͪ̅ͧ̊̐̈͝ń̵̢̧̩͖̯͖͙̺̥̱̾́̈ͭͯͭ̀̕ͅd̶̸̛̼̰̜̖̫̜̜͚̊̊̈͊̍̂̑̀ͭ͐͆̋ͩ̇ͫ͢ạ̢̪̩̟̾̊̈́͆͘͞r̴̹̺͙̻͕̙̈̆ͯ͋̅͌̄̃͐͑͗̓̒ͦ͆͊͐̓̚͘͝͞͡d̷̨̦̻̯̜̠̣͋̒̇͐͌̀́ͧ̽̓̓̈͊̔̅̉ͦ̚ ̸̲̤͍̘͎̲̖̝͙̜̦̘̥̟̝ͫ̏̑̿ͥ̐̽ͥ͋͠h͙̥͔̥̤̱̱̭̫̳̮̥͈ͯ͑͌̌̅͊͜͝ͅͅͅo̶̅ͥ̾ͫ͜҉̶̬̣̞̩̭̞̭̙͉͓̻̝͈̹͙̝͝ũ̅̓̋̋̉̉̉͋̐͌҉̵̡̬͔̞̞̯̕ͅr̵̪͔̫̞̱̟̼͐͒̂̽͋ͩͭ̆͒ͣ̾̇ͮ̽ͭ͐̎͐s̷̿̍͋͂̾̆̏͛̒͋̿̏̉̄̊ͩͦͤ̀̚͏̜͚̲̘̘͜
̴̴͈̫̝͈̟̥̜̳͉̖̘̝͕̤̠ͨͧͭͦͥ̐̿̄ͭ̊ͥ̚͡R̷̢̧̺͉̱̰̩̻̫̰̳̫͍͚͉̫̠̤̣͒ͣ̋ͨ́́̚ͅe͉͚̩̯̼̤̺̹̞̦̩͉̪͎̜̠̊͒̃ͥ̔̌ͩ̿̔͂̍̄͆́͢͢͞p̸̵͍̰͓̻̭͇̺̲̖̱̠͓̋̽͆ͩ͆ͦͩ̽ͤ͡eͦ̀̈́͌ͩ̍̒̀͢͝҉̼͈̞̣͙̣̜̟̙̣͕̻̤͔̥̗̺̼͟a̧͈͚̹̼͙̗͔̞͒͋̌͒̅͞ţ̨͑̀͑ͤͩͪͩͨͩͤͫ̑ͯ͌ͮ̎̀͏̗̳̥̲͟ͅ,̴̴̛͎͍̪̫̞̠̤͓͕͓͍̞̦͔̈̀̌͛ͨͮͭ̏̉̅̓̑́ ̢͕̖̼̠̯̠̯̪̖͇̮̠̜͙̣͉͕ͫ̒̇ͧ̔̐̊̐͛͢O̪̖̺͕̫̜̘̱͓͔̫̬̖͚̟̤̩ͨ͌͋͊̀̃̅̒͘͞͞ͅp̸̨͕̝̻̫̯͇͇͇̫̣͚̼̞͒͆͒͑ͣ͑̚͘ė̷͙͕̳̖̜ͫ͋̓ͧ̿̓̓̄̀́̎͐͊̈́͡ŗ̷̴͉̯͓̙̺̰͇͆̒̍̏͂ͪ̅̽̃̀͌̾̾̃ͩ̄ͤͤ́͠ā̶̛̄͋͂͐̃̽̈́͛͒͛ͮ͛̎͜͡͏͎̲̗̭͈͖̥̘̳͕̪͕ͅͅẗ̵̷͉̬̺̥̰̥̬͓̦̟̠̊̏͌̿ͭͬ̀͌̃̄̓ͮ̆̽͊̆͜͜͡ͅi̿̔ͯ̐͛̊ͯ͌ͬ҉̨̲̠͕̦̤̖̱̣̙͈̟̺̭̭̩̖̲̬̱o̙̜͔̣̘̐͛̓ͣ̈́͌͋͂̉͊͛̽͒̽̂ͭ̚͘͢n̠̳̥̘͚͔̥̥͖͈̦̳̺̗̮͓̅̍͌̊̊ͬ́͝ͅͅ ̨͓̺̼̭̱̹͕̟̙̺͐ͩ̿͒ͦ̇͑̉̎̿̉͐ͨ͂ͣ͒̔ͤ̆R̞̣̞̥̬͇̭͇ͥ̋̈̎̊̍̅ͯ̔̍̒͂̿̇́̚̕͡a̽ͬͮ̇ͤ͝͏̱͙̦̺̺̝̟̮͓̦̱̝tͯͫ̑҉͜͏̸͏̮̲̰̘͖̙̞͓̫͍͔̫̼̮s̸̶̄͋ͭ̊̏͏̨̳̩̭̙̥͕̝͝ ̘̩̟̤̙̖͚͇̖͈̯͔̝̯̟̮ͧ͌̈̆͛́̀̃͛ͣ̿̎͠͞N̛͓͚̘̙̭̻̭͊̄ͮ̄̄ͪ̆̓ͬ̽ͅę̵̴̦͖̞͕̬̰̟̳̫͚͓̳̱̩̺͑ͬͬ̓̿̿͊ͧ́̂ͣ͋ͨ͆̍ͣͭ̄ͅͅs̴̶̼͔̥͈̭̭̝̰̻̖͚͈͇ͣ͛̉̅͒͂̿̄̂̔ͨ̍̎̃͝͡ț̶̛͈̯͙͚̠͚̮͋̽ͪ̒͌ͮ̅ͥ͛̇̄ͧͦ͊̅ͩ̓̂̀̕͝ ̶̡̨̣͇̥̠̯̣͖̯̮̍ͬ̇͌ͤ̾̃͢͝į̴̨̥̪͕̥͈̼̙̱̬̪̝̌̾̽̊͋̽̎̀͟ͅn̓̎͗̍̈́̓̅ͪ͐̏̍̏ͧ҉̷̷̬̼͖̬͇̥̣̱͔̥͖̲̝̙̹̙̼̥͝ĩ͙̲̹̜̻ͤ̓ͧ͂ͨ̀̐ͨ̂ͨͦ͋̋͘͟͡͠t̴̴̷̹̳̘̘̥̟̲̮ͧ̇̈́̉̽̏̏̑ͬ́́̕i̶̷̴̺̠̬̳̝̟̪͙͙͚͎̣͙̥̘̫̝͓͍̋̈͒̑̾ͤͤ̿̌ͭ͒̄͛̐́̚a̧̛̺͓̭̥̞̫̩͇͔̟̻̘͓̒̐̅ͭ̽ͯ̄̐̉̆̔̓̅̈̈ͧ̇̾͆t̢̻͎̪͖̳̬̱͔͇̰̗̱ͣ͑̾̃͌͋ͧͫ̔̓̊̓ͫ͋̚͟ͅi̶̛̼̙̖̺̫̹͕̻̗͚̭̺̗̩̖̳̩̗͐̔ͪͬͩ̀̐̈́ͥ̚͠ͅň̴͔̗̭̫̠̗̫̲̤̮̹̺̭͈̬͖̰̠ͮ̎̓ͩg̔̂̍͗̑̿̑͊ͨ͌͒̌́͏̶̛̳͔̘̪͔̳̩͎̯̹̖̗̮ ̴̨̛̦͕̭̗̬̝̺̥̭͇͌̈̈̃ͥ͐̄̈́ͣ͂ͧͣ͟i̷̶̗͈̹̥̣͙͉̤̭͙̟͉̺͍̥͔̹͋̅ͩͫ͂̃ͣͫͬ͂̓ͭ̂̕͞ͅn̽̿ͮ͒̓̉͋͘͝͏̠͈͎͜ ̴̵̸̝͇̱̗͉̪̮͍̦͒̅̏̀͂̅̎̉̂͋̎͞͡ͅ7̶̢̟͇̰̱͎̳̟̋͋̒̆͛͊̔̃͐ͩ̅̄͐ͭ̓͜͜͢2̛̤̗̯̳͙̠͕̈́̊̐ͩ̈ͬ͘͘͞ ̧̨̘͉̰͚̹̣̻ͥ͊̔͆̋̄͂̈́̐͜ͅs̨͂̆ͣ̿ͮ̀͋ͦ̕͠͝҉̖̠̹̩t̡̨ͮ̈̃̐̔͛͆̅̑̏ͤ̓ͮͩ̊̽̀͢͏̧̗̤̹͙̻̖̘̱͔̯a̅̈́ͨ̏ͧͧ̃͒͆͊̽̌̈́̽̾ͥͤ̚̕͞͏̖̰͈̰͉̙̰ň̸̢̧͚̹̻̬͚͇̘̝̻ͣ̽ͪͦ͐̓̅̒̽͗́̅̉ͦͭ̏͌͠d̶̯͔̪͇̼̘̞̬̪̅͊̓̋͛̑̂̆ͨ͐͠a̷̹̤̬̲͖̠̮̹̝̝̘̣̖ͤ̈́͂ͧͮͫ̈͑̄ͦ͌̾̇̌͜͝r͖͈̻̥͙͍͉̗͍̠̖̠͕͔͓̋ͤ̔̆͌̍̇̆͢ͅd̸̷̜̣̝͚̺̤̣͎̱̻͇͉̻̗̦ͧ̾ͯ̀ͤ̓́̈̈́ͣ͑ͤ̀̌̇̾́͘͝ ̶̛̦̝͚̹͓̖̥͇ͭ̏̄̈ͯ͆̉̑ͨ͢͠͞ḧ̴̺̫͓̖̦̣͖̗̪͔͉̝̩̹͍̘̭̤̱́̑̉͛̒͐ͬ̾ͬ̀ͩ̔̍́̋̚̚͜͠ǫ̡̰̬͇͉̘̦͎̍̽̔̐ͪ̋ư̵̡̡͇̰͖̠̳̭̮̈́̓ͪͣ́ͥ̄͑̓̂͡r̵̢͕͚̦̘͙̙̤̟̪̞̤̓̿ͨ͊ͤ͌̐͆̈͂͛͗͋̈͞s̋͊ͫͩͥ̋͛̌͒̊̉̄͛҉̠͔͍̬̲̫͚͔͓̫̤̥̲̟͠ͅ

Stand-by until further notice.
̨̨̛̼̭̪̪̮̥̪̲̜̗̮̐̈̾͛̌͐ͭͤ̄͊ͭͪ̔́͗̆̆̚ͅ
̨̯͍̖̣͚͒ͪͣ̏ͮͣͥ͢͢͠͠Ĉ̶̙̮̬͉̣̰͉̱͚ͥ̄̀̌͒ͫ̓̉ͣ͗ͣ̚͡o̴̢̰̭͕̝͚̥̙̭̫͙̪̮̝̺ͤ̉ͮ̊̇́̔̓͌͒́̌̊͊͌̔͗ͤ̚͢ͅd͇̤̟͕͙̖̲̤̼̜̽ͪ͛ͤͫ̽̍̉́ͦ̾̎͘͢͞ͅę̸̱̙͈̫̰̣̭̬ͪ͒̍̎̉̒̋͋̐ͥͤͥ̒̆ͬ̀̕ ̴̟͉͚͇̠̻͓̲̯̩̆ͧ̓̑̈̈͒̚ͅ4̷̛̦͍̣̼͛͗͌̑ͭͪͫ́̌ͦͧ̔͠1̨̧̤̠͙̩͉̣ͫ̓̓̒ͥ̔̿͐ͦ͋̓ͮ̌̊̐̅6̷̠̰͓̥̟̗̪̼͎͚̪͖̫͖̘̌̄͊̔ͧ͆̊͑̌ͦ̀
̍ͮ̉ͣ̄̐̇̊ͦ͂ͬ̅ͭ͒̇͐́̚͏̴̨̛͉̞̤̥̜̜̠̫̬̣̝͡ͅR̡̛̙͉̗͖̦̳̹̼̗̘̦̺̠̱͈͇͎͔̱͐ͪͭ̍͗̃̄̎ͣ͋͛̑ͬ̒̂ͬ͆́̚ęͦͦ̽̔̏͒͢҉͇͉͍p̷͎̬͚͒͂ͧͣ͂̉̀e̡̲̣̝̩̣̒̓̽̒̕͝ͅa̵ͪͥͨ̎̓̈́̄͆͐ͯ̊̈́̚̚̚͜͠҉̱̤̯͖̬͎͕̯̟̲̙̜̰͚̯͇̳ţ̴̢̙̞̳͇̙̘̼̩̮̭̗̝̩͔͗̈́̊̽̽ͯ͢,̧͆̎ͧ͒҉̞͍͎͍ ̖͎͔̦̩̞̪̼͓ͨ̿̈̍̅͑͒̍̓̓ͤ̈͂̾̂͗͒͆́͢͟͠͞C̶̱͓̣̣̮͈̟͖͈̣͖̥͔͚͍̙͕̈́ͬ͑̅̽ͤ͗̍̓͗͢͢ͅo̷̢̪͕̞̬͈̮̼͈̹̯̟͍̭͇̙̱̦͚ͥ̍ͨ́ͨ̎ͧ̅̑̊ͫ́͘d̸̴̥̬̞̜̪͖̩̟̰̟̬͉̪͖̠̬̏ͦ̉ͥ͐̿ͦ̇ͪ͟ͅͅȩ̸̲͕̭͇̘̫͙̻̳̬̟̜̱̩̦͕͖͛̆̄̎̇ͦ̂͐ͥ̄̆ ̸̸̎̑ͨ̑̈̓ͬ̋͂ͩͬ̂̏̋̑̿҉̶̴̳͍̩͙̮̺̼̣̣̩̬̰̞̠̟͎̭̠4̪̮͓̮̜̙̩͉͖͙̓ͨ͗̓ͣ̈́ͯ̎ͣͭ̅͋̍̎ͨ̈́̏͝1̵̢ͪͯͦ͊͐̓̑͆̋̆̑ͫ͋̔̽ͭͮ͊͢͏̞̝̞̳̥̰̹̜̘͉͈͈6̠̼̬͍̻̤̫̭̩͖͕̮̹̪̟͇͌̆̉͆̽̎́͜͠
̡̛̳̱͇͕͔͖̟͖̭̯͙͑ͫ͐̈́ͪ̅
̥͈̬͈͓̹̰͙͕̤̮͇̳̥̙̇̎ͬ͆̓́̎ͪ͌ͫͫ͞ͅA̎̍͆̓̔̈̔̈́̏͒̐ͯͣ̀͗ͤ͂ͩ̚͝͏̩̤̠̹͓̤̮ļ̸ͨ̄̋̋̔́̓́͝҉̫̳̰͈̜͖̜͕͚͓̯l̛̛̰̼̥̳ͣ̐͛̏͆́̊̓̚ ̷̮̻̹̹͓̙͈̣̹̣͔̖̣̮̺ͯ́̋ͮ͐͘͟à̶̡̢͉͔̭̹̤̬͈̙̖̣̯̗͙̫͈̐̄̅͐͋̍̒̀̄̍̒̓͘t̨̂̈͒̃͘͏̮͔͇̰̟̤̗͖́ţ͒͋̐̒͐ͭ̅͋͗ͩ͏̷͓̖͍̼̝̺͚͝ͅe̸͓͚̝̻̘̞͚̙̼͈͇̰͂̋ͧ͒ͧͮ̋̌̂ͣ̋̉̋̔͛͊̔͂́̚͟͠m̵̶̵̧̳͓̦̲̮̒ͪ̇ͫ͂̍ͫ̄̄͑ͭͨ̓͒͠p̷̢̬̗̭̪̩̠̮̏̈́ͭ͂ͥͣ̔̒̑ͮ̽̂́ͪ͒ͮͯ͜͡͡t̵͇͙͔̥̬͙ͨ́̌͂͑͂͋͗͗ͮ͟s̸̨̠̟͉̹̲̾ͣ̉ͮ̉͒͑̍̌̍͗̿̀̚͝ ͣͦ̎́ͥ̏ͥ͑̎̾̇ͤ̃͂͌҉̣̣̝̗͍͈̙͈̩̩͍̙͔̕ͅţ̛̺̤̱̬̣̬͙̝̜͔̘̠̖̙͉̒͋̔̎̽̒̕͢͜o͐ͣ͊͋̊ͫ̉͜҉̸̵̬̟̖̟͓̥͇̫̻͚͞ͅ ̴̨̼̭̭̙͍͙̹̘̣̟͕̺̏̓̽͒ͮ̃͐͌ͧ̓ͣͩ̈́͒ͥ̇̀̀͟ĺ̶̙̟̥̱̣̞͚ͦ́ͬ̔̿̔̚̕͟e̷̶͙̯̜̣̩̭̦̯̭̱͓̖̝̣̪̗͍̙͚ͧ̈̿ͣͯͧͮ͂ͦͯͯͮͮ̐̾́̚͜a̸̵̧ͯ͐ͯͬ͐̿̽̉ͩ̔̀ͫͯ͏͙̜̘̺͖̯̗͉͈v̸̛̬̙͙͎̰ͤ̆̋̚͞e̴͖̹̝̤̬̲̔̎̐ͮͪ̀̕͝ͅͅ ̸̧̡̠͇̲͎̪̜̙̙̦͚̝͚̰͈̺̊̒͛̑͂̇E̛ͮ͐̍̇ͫͩͧ̌͆ͤ̚͟҉̸͕͔͖̘̰͟x̢̛̳̤̘̙̿ͯ͌ͩ̆̈̀̕͢ş͉̫̙̜̱̟̼̪͖̹̝̪̯̠̟ͨͧ̏ͧͣ͂̒͌͘i̡̛̜̲͉̠̥̣͚̰͔̖̩̘͕͖̰͗ͤͣ̃̎͒̐ͤͦ̍ͦ͆͆̒̂͌̒̔̀͠͝l̡̛̲͇̻̪̝͍̳͈͍̣̯̮̝̙̰̅̍̈̉͛ͭͤ̓̆́͐ͦ̿̄ͬ͊ͭͬ̇i̢̭͈̱͖͔͍͓̗̊ͬ̓ͦͧ̂ͥ͂ͮ͒̅ͨ͆̄̚̚̕͟ů̴̢̠̝̙͙̗̖̳̭̼̠̣̾̏͆͆̕͝͝m̧͉̟͎͓͖͔̤̮͇͈̦͈̭̻̟͈͉̻̑ͦ͆̐ͯ͌͛͆̋ͯ͌̒̄ͩ̒̉ͧ̌͝ ̶̨̦̦̬̼̠̮͔̥͚͚̩̳̖̩̯̭̩̒̔̓͒͒͒͌͝w̷̨̩̜̤̹̹̞̘̟̺̎͐́̒͑ỉ̵̸̷̢͙̱͈̰̫̯̫̪̮̼̇̎͆̎̒̐͐͠l̷̨̢͍͙̱̘̣̫͇̲̥̯̱̟̣̩̺͙̂͒̔ͥͮ́͗̔̓͑̊́͢l̴̶̛̻̼̻̮͕̟̻̠̬͉̞̤̹̻͚̞̘̣̝͗ͨͧ͒͑̄̚̕ ̡͙̥̖̩̘͓̻͓̜̠͍͕ͨ̈̅̑̎ͤ͒ͣͤ̓ͧͤ̍́b̸ͦͫ̈́ͫ̒ͪͩ̔͋͂̑̅̒ͨ̃͝҉̱̜͎̩̺̜͔͎̯̰̳̭́e̸̟̻̤̬̩̘̘̙̲͉͕ͩ͌ͬͬͬ̓ͧͫ͌ͬͮͪ̓͟͝͞ͅ ̸̶̹̭̜̙̤̲̳̹̝̹͕͒̓̎ͧ̏͗͗̇͂ͧ̑̐ͤ͂͒ͧ͘m̧̡̭͔̜̘̱̹̼̬ͨ̍͗ͩ̏̊̐́̈́͛̓ͥ͠ͅe̸̝̟͕̜̫̱͙͇̮̦͙͓̤̻͍̟̩̔͛̔ͦ̂̎̃̃t̸͑̊ͥͬ́҉̩͈͕͙̳̝̞̘̝͎̜̬̮̘͉̯̩̲ͅ ̷̢̝̲̰͇͇͓̙̹̖̻͍̥̜̭̹̗̯̜̀̉́̽͂͗͗̇͜w̵͇̠͓̗̻͎̟̬̺̠̻̲̿͆͋ͦ͗̓̈͢͝i̵̛͈̱̝̥͙̯̭̤̘̹̩͖͂̈̐͌̌ͬ͆ͤ̐̿͑͘ţ̒̌ͧ̾̊̐͏̣̤̝̭̞̣͕̮̫̠͇ḩ̵̢̤̙͖̭̩̺̰͈̫̺͍̼̬̯ͣͭ̾ͯͯ̌͂̈́ͦͮ̚͜ ͧ̎͐̊̊̊̓̉͒́ͯ҉̧͍̮͙̹̩̜͇̮̠̳̙̯̱͔͟͞͠ṣ̶̨̳͖̗̙͕͔͕͎̳͓̣̞̮̪̫͉̎ͯͬͦͭ̍̉ͤ̊̄̎̈́̅ͯͯ̓̑̂́ȅ̸̶̡̞̲̞̳͉̼͍͖̬̰̌ͮ̆ͥ̂͋͆ͮ̑̇̿̚̕͜v̡̛̤͙̪̙̫͙ͤͥ͒ͮ̃̔ͬ̇̕̕è̡̝͙̯͍̦͕̆͗͊̀ͤ̄̓ͩ̉̽̏͌̐ͩ̃̓͠ř̸̛̯̙̹͕̠̟̣̼̂̄͐͆̇̄ͅe̷̻̘͚̜͖̹̦͑ͬ̏ͮ̀ͨ͌̿̋̿ͬ͒ͭ̇̓̕ ̶̡̩̦͔̩͚͖͕̣̭̦̦ͯͥͧ͆͒̽͂͂̉̓̏ͧͭ͑̍̓̚͠p̵̞̙̜͕͉̫̤̻͖̜͈̹̜͖͔̗̥͛͌̑̓͑̈́̀́͢rͧ͗̈́͊̾̿ͦͧ̔ͧͯ̏̈́̌͐͞҉̷̴̸̘̼̝̳̲͉͖̜̼̮̯ḛ̢̥̲͔̩̤̮̱̪̻̪̟̤̌̏ͮ̑ͧ͛ͬͥ̌̆ͦ̓ͯͫ̏͢j̸̛͉͇̖͓͓̙̼̼̹̞̙̯̫͍̓̑ͭ̊͂ͬ̃ͬ̽ͣ͆̈̾̚ụ̡̰̖̻̣̰̤͉̞̩͊͌̏ͦ̇̎̍͘͟ͅd̍̈̄͗̇͢͜͏҉̤͖̘͈̦̩̭̯̤͔͎͈̳iͨ͋͌̐͊̓̒ͨ̎͗̉̏̆͑̈̚͝͏̴̛̳͇̳̟͚̻̣̫̀ć̟̠̭̲͚͍͈̹̳̜͈̝͊̐ͤ̏͆ͨ̃̉ͦ͒̓ͣ͒̂ͤ͘͜͟͟ẹ̡̛̻̖̟̲̝̼̻̄ͩͯ́̽̎͑̒̕͟

Unidentified contagions must not be allowed to spread beyond the borders of the island. Humbly submit to the greater good.

     - THE UNITED EARTH

[forward-date to around 3 or 4am 6/13. poster ID for this tablet is MARTIN DARKOV, but this is not the Martin you are looking for. here is a pretty face for you.

actually, no. this was a pretty face, but there is a lot of ugly going on here. scabs and grooved flesh all along the right side...eye nearly swollen shut.

this gal's brow is furrowed, straining, contradicting the lazy smile it wears.

slow, methodical, yet wavering after each letter:]

D. A. R. [swallow. a wider smile and a shakier voice.] K. O. V.

[it blinks a few times; there's a couple tears trailing from behind the monocle.]

Oh. Sh. Shh.

We solved a mystery.

[There's been a tremendous spike in patients recently, and the influx is only worsening as the days pass. The clinic doesn't have a robust staff as it is, so Adrasteius--and probably anyone else on the roster--is more than a little overworked. His expression over the feed is harried, haggard, and more than a little frustrated. Normally, diseases wither into nothing under the influence of the Light, but this illness has proved alarmingly resistant. He can treat the symptoms well enough, but the sickness itself keeps surviving. It would drive him to drink, if he even had time.]

This situation is getting out of hand. If you're still able, and you have the skill, the clinic needs you. I don't just mean healing skill, either--we need people to run supplies, prepare food, organize files, maintain records, all that sort of thing. Just tell me what you're able to do and I'll find you a place.

[Adrasteius runs a hand over his tired face, but his eyes are as bright and steady as ever. They might be bogged down, but he's damn sure not going to turn anyone away--not until taking in more people becomes unsafe.]

And if you think whatever this damn thing is has gotten hold of you, come see us. Not just because we aren't the Initiative--but because even their hospital is probably overflowing. We're busy, but we've still got clean beds and I'm still going to take care of you. I can't eliminate the disease, but I can mitigate whatever pain you're feeling, at least.

[ The video feed opens to the outside, a downfall of raining hitting the tablet screen and blurring out the details of buildings and shop signs nearby. Not too long after the feed begins its run that a hand – evidently a woman’s – passes over the screen, wiping the excess water off. ]

They did say it was water proof. I hope they were right. [ Comes her voice. Eventually the tablet focuses on her – in a glistening, green bodysuit, with a golden crown-like ornament resting atop her head. She’s drenched in the cold rain yet appears unfazed by it. Her bright eyes gaze intently into the feed instead. ] My name is Mera, and... well, I was on a different Earth until today. Our greeter did not carry out her duties properly, I suspect. I’m hoping someone out there can answer my questions as she did not.

I’ve been in other dimensions before. I’ve heard them claim no one has been able to leave of their own volition until this Transporter allows it. [ She pauses, her eyebrows knitting closely together in vague irritation. ] Does this Initiative truly have no control over their machine?

I have also heard in passing about a recent battle in another dimension. [ Mera’s expression is grim, but genuinely concerned then. Resolutely: ] I’ve seen and fought in many myself, but it seems we aren’t often given much choice in the matter. I would like to hear about this battle from those who were there and what happened in this other world. What became of it? [ She strongly suspects nothing but bad news and braces herself as much she can for it. She has many more questions to ask. ]

( She isn't the Oracle: she has very little faith in the security of this network. Either it has to be a tool for the Huntress, or for Helena Bertinelli. All things considered, Huntress feels a little more pressing.

When Helena speaks, there are traces of Sicily, it's all very charming. With the Huntress, it's all Gotham, rough and harsh, words bitten out more than spoken. )

Any Bats in the belfry?

( A beat. )

I'll rephrase that: keep your eyes on the skyline.

( There's a brief pause and for the trained listener, they might realise that is the sound of a fight happening in the background. Don't interrupt with Huntress with an attempted mugging when she is trying to talk, okay? Okay. )

Anyone else who's washed up here from Gotham, well. On the bright side, ( that was the sound of someone getting kicked in the face ) there's not much this place can throw at us that we didn't have to deal with back home.

( Look at her, being all optimistic. If only it didn't sound so close to scathing. She's on the move, and there's a breath - maybe she meant to say something more? - before a clatter, the pained cry of a male assailant, a sharp crack, and suddenly: silence. At best, she's faintly irritated.)

Nice to see some good, old-fashioned manners. I feel right at home.

( So much derision, and then the feed cuts. One can only imagine how much information she'll try to get out of that guy. )

[This lady might be a new arrival but she is going to be damned if she appears with anything less than perfect hair and perfect make-up.]

Good morning, everyone. First, thank you to everyone who welcomed me so warmly on this chilly day. I'm Sofiya Karimov, and I'm new to this city, and I'm asking for a little bit more help from all of you - trying to get in here before all the other people I saw rush to give their introductions.

First, I'd like a world map and a compass. Don't ask me what it's for, because I'm not going to tell you and I'll get really annoyed if you ask.

[She sounds cheerful, like she's joking.]

Second, I need the names of useful people. I mean really useful. You might think you're useful, but then you come and you start talking about your emotions, and that's not really all that useful to me. Smart people, literate, willing to work and put something in place. Heads down, getting it done. They're what I want. And if you're not them, then no complaining to Chicken Little when you don't like the taste of her bread.

I'm a lawyer. I'm going to be starting with the system of law here. You have things in place, and you've all done decently, but it's underdeveloped. There'll be more after that. Interested?

[And cheerily, with a little salute, she shuts it off.]