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Woooooooow! This is pro8a8ly the 8est day I have ever had in the history of ever! It's like I woke up and every terri8le thing I could ever have wanted was just suddenly right there in front of me! I must 8e the happiest little troll in the world right now!

I guess that's not quite true, though. I can think of one thing that would make me happier. Knowing your names! :::;D Who lives in this shitty design for a hive-analogue, and wh8ever could your stupid shitty names 8e-

Oh, w8, I must have miscounted!!!!!!!! Stupid me! There's a few things that would m8ke me even happier than something stupid like n8mes:

1) I
2) Want
3) My
4) Fucking
5) Arm
6) 8ack
7) Right
8) Now you st8pid fucking n8rses!!!!!!!!

[ A pause. ]

Sincerely,
~A Concerned Yellow 8rick Denizen~

Who: Francis York Morgan and OPEN
What: Smoke break and possible socialization
When: Post therapy, possibly around dusk
Where: In one of the designated outside smoking areas, near the gardens


( How do you move in a world of fog that's always changing things || Makes me wish that I could be a dog when I see the price that you pay )

[The camera in the small device flickers to life and the closely cropped face held within its eye smiles in triumph. The face holding the smile is male, typical - a little shabby and unshaven, but that's to be expected from one just recovering from an illness, no? The only things truly remarkable about him are the long scar running from the man's hairline to his left eye and the color of that same eye - a very pale brown, almost to the point of being colorless.]

[Satisfied that the device is working as intended, the man paces back from the camera and settles into an unremarkable chair. His body relaxes, but his eyes never leave the camera. Even as he stares, he reaches one hand to his lower chest - an obviously well-ingrained and almost instinctual maneuver - but he frowns when his fingertips brush nothing but plain white material. His fingertips move to tap an uneasy rhythm against his collarbone as he speaks an aside to himself.]

You're right, Zach. Wouldn't have the badge if they were telling us the truth about what happened - but I can't believe it just yet. Things, here, are...something isn't right. It doesn't add up. You feel it, too, don't you?

If there were such a widespread illness, an epidemic, word would be hard to keep quiet - someone would hear and the news reporters would jump on it in a second. The government would be breathing down necks looking for answers and containment - but there's no government presence here. The doctors, nurses, the whole staff - brief and efficient, yes, but nothing government about any of them.

Let's just hope it doesn't end up like that classic 1975 drama film...

[As if just then remembering that he is recording himself, the man pauses in whatever he had been about to recall and instead begins on a new tact.]

FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan. Please, just call me York. It's what everyone calls me. I understand that we're all in the same boat here and it sounds like the basics have been pretty well covered in everyone's notes to this system. Still, if you think of anything, please don't hesitate to contact me.

...and if anyone has information on either an Emily Wyatt or a Forrest Kaysen, I'll be needing that, as well.

[Seemingly satisfied with his message, York stands from his chair and crosses again to the transmitting device. Picking it up in a hand, he gives it one last considering glance before the camera lens goes dark.]