Dr. C. mutters a groan of agony, the pandemic he observed first hand after contracting the illness has left him tired and weary, starting over again. "Smells of black magick." he tries to convey the message to Brantley through some unknown means of telepathic correspondence in the digi-astral. No reply though, the agent has been aloof at best since the TT mob have been seen snooping around his small northern province ever since that package arrived.
257 has grown old and uncontrolled cellular expansion is impacting the wires in her nervous system. Years of sensory derangement and unfiltered radiation are finally taking hold. Her finger and eyes twitch uncontrollably as she thinks on back on all the years in a brilliant quantum flash tuned to inperceivable bandwidths. A pang of an indigo colored hue drowned in the sensation resounds across her biomechanics, she can't place her finger on it but it feels temporally distant, old, buried under a layer of fog and mist that only time can usher forth. The light grows brighter, still somewhat opaque and grey, it begins consuming her vision in all planes. A high pitched squeel of a sound escapes her pineal gland, impacting the OSK central Metacube at a point in time long ago. It modulates and compresses the structure at a central point.
Somewhere outside of time, she walks in stride and balance with 9cubed, a mutual, even if illusionary, embrace of comfort cast in hues of green and blue astralscape. This may be one of the last dominions of serenity amidst such a mixed up world. Amber violet flares in the points between them. She awakens at dawn.
Agent 943.5's status remains unknown. All attempts to trace his bioresonant signal with Omni-dimensional ELF scans have thus far yielded no results. Rumors abound in the shadier underworlds of his contracting for a renegade branch of Orbital Control seeking solidarity and to "press play" on the invisible wars once again.