[Oh, look, it's no one's favorite troll! And he's smirking wickedly at the video feed from the safety of his room in Baldr. He taps out a rhythm on his desk with ring be-decked fingers, claws glinting dangerously in the light, as he attempts to formulate just exactly how he wants to address these peasants he's been surrounded by.

His thoughts have been dark, wildly violent and his anger far more intrusive than normal. He has always been quick to anger, to indignation, but something about this seems more extreme than his idle threats before.]

Y'knoww wwhat I think is real fuckin' funny--wwhat makes me laugh myself to sleep durin' the day?

After all a' your wwhinin' an' empty threats about makin' me pay if I culled someone, I massacred Ter an' nothin' happened.  You all are a bunch a' cowward human lowwlifes wwho can't evven compare to the grandness an' perfection that is Eridan Ampora.

It's really quite entertainin', to think a' you all scurryin' around like squeakbeasts, livvin' your meager existences. Just wwaitin' to be culled.

[He growls low under his breath, banging his fist on the desk suddenly.]

An' meanwwhile I think you'vve all forgotten just howw fuckin' dangerous it is to ignore or ridicule your BETTERS! So I'll just havve to remind you.

EQU!

[He has the good sense to filter the video now just to the blueblooded troll.]

You're goin' to be buildin' me a doomsday devvice. One that fuckin' wworks this time! You evven think a' talkin' back an' I'll kick that swweaty face a' yours in. You wwouldn't wwant to argue wwith your superior, noww wwould you?

[On screen is a patchy blue and magenta face, set with swollen, shining green eyes bubbling with tears.  Yes, bubbling.  In addition to fat drops spilling down her cheeks, there are bubbles forming in the corners of her eyes and popping on her cheeks or being scattered and floating away when she blinks.  The normally unclothed little fish-alien girl is wearing a loose cotton shirt that is obviously falling off of her, and might be recognizable as having belonged to one Gil Marverde.

In her hands is clasped a worn piece of paper that might not have been so worn an hour or two before, but is now splotched with tears and wrinkled from her wringing hands.  She babbles through her tears for a few seconds of the feed, not speaking coherently.  If you look behind her, you'll see a torn-apart mess of a room, empty of anyone else and especially empty of any tidiness.  Everything has been pulled down or thrown around; some stuff is even broken.

After a number of seconds, Nevy hiccups, and smears at her face with her hand.]  He's--  [She chokes around the words, cries for a few more seconds, and then blurts out:]  He's gone!

[She dissolves back into sobs, but continues trying to speak.  The only discernible words are "Gil" and "he's"; the rest is a blathery mess.  It's all that anyone really needs to know - every person who Nevy has talked to, on or off the network, has heard of her best friend Gil (her only friend, even) at least once.  Far from composed, she jams her face directly into the crumpled, damp note and presses it to her cheeks and gasps into the paper.  This continues for a few more seconds before she fumbles to turn off the feed.]