[ - there's the low, distant wailing of the sirens. The feed bobs drunkenly, up and down, and there's the sound of someone retching off-screen; it weaves some more and the face of a very disoriented blond man comes into view. He looks shell-shocked; he doesn't realise that the journal he's writing on is recording. The pen trembles.]
What -
[He
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[He's seen victims of traumatic events before, and the man is showing some of the signs.]
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Baseball...? Oh, yes, I believe I am in such a field. Shall it be safe in the morning?
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I shall speak to you again, Liquid. Cheers.
[And the feed cuts off.]
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