video;

[cantgetanyworse]

[Jane, who is not that good at puzzles, is picking casually at the cipher while people far more adept than her work on its solution. What she does wonder, after she sees Mollymauk's concerns, is something entirely different.]

This mystery is all terribly exciting. [She muses. She's sitting in her living room, a paintbrush in her hand and a smudge of grey on her cheek. The side of her hand is shiny with silvery graphite.]

But I don't suppose-- and, I'm not terribly aware of how all the technology works in this time period yet-- is there no way at all to find out just who these messages came from?

five ☾ video

[viciousmaukery]

Anyone else find it a little unsettling that someone sent every single one of us a bizarrely cryptic puzzle?

[Molly is definitely unsettled. His hand's shaking as he pushes it through his hair.]

I mean, the bizarre messages are one thing, but whoever they are, they somehow got their hands on everyone's numbers. And by everyone, I mean specifically imPorts, I showed this to a local and she thought I was fucking with her somehow. So it's just us.

It's creepy, right? I'm well aware everyone's excited over the chance to solve a puzzle, but this wasn't just a network post, this was a personal message. That's the strangest part about all this: why not just use the network? Why go through every single one of us, one by one, and send a private message?

[He scrubs his tattooed hand over his face, and lets out a mirthless chuckle.]

I hope I'm overthinking this. I really do hope I'm overthinking this. But I just—I feel like this is cursed, somehow.

text

[lonered]

I realize there's a lot going on right now with the weird cryptic messages and everything, but has ANYONE figured out a way to stop the whole bursting into song and dance thing?

I really need it to stop. Now.

[So there's a reason Keith is doing this post as a text post. But given the way all of this has been going, is it any wonder that his video flips on to show him, very dramatically silhouetted in a window, back lit and, well, let's just call it so emo. Music begins in the background, soft at first, but it slowly crescendos and Keith starts singing,]

On my own, pretending he's beside--

[And the look of horror on his face is the last thing the camera sees as he grabs for it and turns it back to text. He's still singing, dramatically, but at least it's not being broadcast anymore. Back to text. Nice, safe, un-mortifying text.]

I don't even know Les Mis.

This has to stop. I really need to go grocery shopping.

[Instead he's holed up in his room trying to smother himself with a pillow to make the singing stop. Why. Him.]