human
Girl:  The people in the shelter who should have been working together were all staying away from one another, trying to protect themselves by not provoking anyone else. For their own sakes—for everyone else’s sake, it was best for everyone to not draw any unwanted attention, to remain apart and isolated. They waited for time to pass, desperation on their faces, trusting themselves to the faint, fragile hope that something, anything might get better. The girl suddenly looked up, noticing an omen of that change. Waiting quietly, eagerly for news of any development, the girl noticed a slight change in the air. Several people around her looked up for the first time in hours, too, noticing the same thing she had. It was a familiar feeling to anyone living in Pristella: The precursor of a broadcast by the metia at city hall. Sensing that, the girl tensed, holding back the urge to vomit welling in her throat as best she could. She had wanted a change, but she’d meant a change for the better. A broadcast could only mean the terrifying Witch Cult was about to say something again. What new impossibility would that earsplitting voice demand of the city while spewing so much bile? But the girl’s—the people’s—pessimistic prediction was—
gpt
Boy:  "Um, can everyone actually hear me through this? Mic test, mic test. One, two. One, two.”
human
Boy:  Unlike in the last two broadcasts, this was the voice of a boy who sounded unsure of himself, not the familiar, famous man from the daily broadcasts or the boisterous Songstress—this was a voice she had never heard before.
gpt
Girl:  The girl’s eyes widened, and so did the adults’ as they glanced at one another, wondering what was happening.
human
Boy:  Not noticing their reactions, the boy spoke several more times, making sure that his voice was heard by everyone across the entire city, before finally clearing his throat once he was confident it was working.
gpt
Boy:  "It looks like this is actually broadcasting, then. First of all, let me apologize for surprising you. I imagine a lot of you were worried or steeling yourself wondering what you would be told next. But please don’t worry. I’m not a member of the Witch Cult.”
human
Girl:  “…It’s not the Witch Cult…” The volume of the boy’s voice was wavering slightly as he used a metia he had never handled before. But the shock at what he was saying easily outweighed that, and no one bothered dwelling on that small point. The people’s gloomy expressions started to change as they looked up at the broadcast echoing down from on high.
gpt
Someone:  “A-are we…saved?” someone murmured, as the faint seed of hope they had been holding on to started to grow. The hope conveyed by that murmur spread to the whole shelter—to the whole city. It was natural.