[color=f7941d][h2]Douglas Song[/h2][/color][color=f7941d][h3]Centerville Electric Corporation Windfarm[/h3][/color]

Answers may come from unexpected places and Song made no mistake in pursuing them where they came. The dorm room once belonged to a young girl, young at least in the sense she was straight from primary education and into college. Blonde, average in height and build, and pursuing a degree in science. What little more the man could gain was not worth recall, but Song took it as no mere coincidence that he had seen a woman by this very similar description not more than a day before. Perhaps coincidence, perhaps heavenly action, it all made no difference now. It constructed a narrative, one punctuated by the fact both women so described wore gloves, which the questioned party - a bit inebriated as he was - noted was really weird; like a weird quirk everyone eventually noticed.

For Song this confirmed his suspicions that something was afoot, but he did not end there. No, he bid his company goodbye with a simple smile and his thanks; it would have been more difficult and strange had the man not been slightly off as he was. To the outsider to the campus, it was evidence he needed and the direction came from there. Now to discern the coded messages they had sent and what better way to do that than the media itself? They had time to digest the information, now just to access it. On a college campus? A computer wasn't far, though the morality of using it without their owner's due attention was very, very grey to put it kindly. Song cared not for that either, the stakes were building higher after all; several "heroes", some seemingly antiheroes or villains at worst, a string of metaphors and secret messages, some of which were nods to other things.

Happenstance was eroding quickly and the man in scarf, hidden in plain sight here, noted the answer in short order. Tapping away slightly in his search, fingers deftly perusing the keyboard so as to not make any error in the process, the message was revealed. This created a number of problems, the most notable was that it was not too difficult to decipher and had seemingly multiple recipients intended, him apparently included. This was not just a meeting with the "me" mentioned and to assume otherwise would be folly. In fact, Song knew "me" to be "they". Pausing, coming to see his reflection in the dim screen of the room he so invited himself into, he deliberated with himself.

Was this worth it? Was finding out more, edging closer towards the truth and what darker leanings it had, worthwhile at all? The broadcaster, rather broadcasters, made it clear it was calling out others who had better time, resources, knowledge to answer this. They unquestionably would be falling in on it in short order. But if it were a trap, seemingly aimed at them, would it be wise to let them go into it alone? Song could... well, he could right some of his wrongs. That was what he had been trying to do for a time, wasn't it? It was not that they needed him, or that he needed them, but it was the right thing to do, to lend his aid in the face of a trap. Should it not be a trap, what issue would that even be then?

Sighing, closing his eyes, he set a hand upon the lid of the computer and closed it, having set it to sleep after clearing out his doings; the owner would be perhaps confused why things had so subtly changed, but none the wiser. Standing then, adjusting his clothes, he looked at himself once more in the confined room's mirror and its messy, disorganized life story strewn about. 

"We will go then, together." He commented, disappearing out the door and to his concealed cache not far away, left hidden high above in scaffolding among the tools of construction workers who had secured their equipment with locks and chain.

Browsing through the bag not just for a change of clothes which he soon donned, but for a companion piece of equipment. A firearm was mostly for show, but on a windfarm and likely open terrain? He resigned himself that it might be the difference between him seeing another night or that of others. The choice however, was subtle and small, concealed among his dress, joined by a set of short and balanced blades for throwing and more sources of its ammunition. This all would suffice, Song would need it to. At that point, having shifted shapes again from nobody to his identity, he layered one last liberal use of his jacket over.

The drive there wasn't long, the cab fare not expensive, and the walk into the night the worst of it; the going into the unknown. The gate leading in was the most obvious route, perhaps the most dangerous, but it was the first place to start, especially with a sign as forward and as obvious as the "Centerville Electric Corporation Windfarm", followed by a shack, an arm-gate, and a lone, sad little light.