[On the evening of the 17th, there's a transmission; the NV is lying on its side - and the screen captures the lower half of a man's face, clothes obviously dishevelled, long blond hair tangled and strewn everywhere. He's lying on his side, curled up on some concrete.
He only chokes out one soft, strangled word:]
Help.
[Gilbert Nightray's
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Jack?!
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Jack, it's me. It's Re-l. Do you remember?
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[He laughs weakly.]
Don't look, my lady. Y-you - shouldn't see me l-like this.
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[Concern hidden with intrigue. Yes, these types of situations aren't to be touched til the last moment.]
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Goodness, I - I'm so..rry?
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Forgive me - for being so horrid.
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Are you alright!?
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S-stop it, please -
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I-I'm sorry. Do you need someone to go get you?
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[He tries to sit up and fails miserably.]
Don't look -- !
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