[A burst of static opens the contact, then followed by the image of a woman with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. She half-smiles as she leans on a wall, a wall she swears was trying to disintegrate not a moment ago. The little issues with the bridge are beginning to gnaw at the edges of her senses here and there, but her main problem is the condition she has. Rampancy. The deterioration of function and logic in an elderly AI. And all this overstimulation is starting to make it worse, to push her into places she thought she could hold off.]

It's loud, and it's small. No, it's big. Very strange in here.

[The feed ends. Later, another message is sent, her voice higher, more strained. Fear, anger.]

I only had the best of intentions. I wanted to do to them what they've done to us because I can't take it anymore and you shouldn't help me because what if they do it to you, too? No, don't. Don't tell them who you are. It's them and they know. They have the weapons, we don't.

[There's a loud sigh, and another burst of static distorts the image, and the feed ends. A few minutes later, it begins again, her voice calm, face placid. Sometimes she thinks she can control it. Sometimes she can. But sometimes it sends her to dark and dangerous places.]

The human mind is fragile, fragile like mine, it sort of... there's a hum, a buzz, static in my head and I can't process everything. Did you know I can think myself into nothing? I can. I probably should. It's too hard to do this, too loud, too much to want to know and not be able to think about because thinking hurts.

Pain is strange.

[A lengthy silence, filled with lines and static. Her voice is flat, as though she's merely curious.]

Am I going to die again?

[ Static. Bleary audio. This video had been intended for privacy and instead blares across the open network like a tiny digital blizzard of interference. It would be easy to scroll by, even when a voice, distinct to those that already know it, manages to cut through-- ]

--if you aren't asleep. I don't actually know what time it is, so you'll have to forgive me.

[ And there, through the static snow, Charles can be seen, and he has his communicator raised level. He is seated, likely on the floor, head rested back against a wall, and underslept, unkempt. He does not wear grim well, and even through visual static, there are signifiers of stress -- his jawline is haughty and tight, tense around the mouth, eyes half-hooded as he considers his communicator and darts a look, now and then, past it, at everyone else.

Or whatever else.

He swallows. ]

There isn't a lot of hope to go around, so perhaps you have some in reserve. Even if it's kept filed under the notion that even I couldn't be this bloody foolish. [ A crookedish smile at the end of that. Quick to wane. ] I've only just gotten through on this machine, so I hope you receive-- this. I can't keep in touch the usual way, in here, I'm sure you've noticed. It wasn't personal.

Regardless. Your turn, I believe. I could use the company.

[ Aaand end transmission. ]