Proudly, amidst the Atlantic's still waves, does Dora gaze at the isle where her potando sprayed so profuse and so seaward to create. No trace on her face could be seen of emotion, for there she stands, bold, firm and stick figure-esque on the spot of filth and maudlin mire, with a calm air that could never be imagined to be so vile as dire. But then she speaks, though the meaning of her words remains quite vague: whether or not it is her featureless desire to be on the TPOT set along with her EXITer comrades, she did not make it clear.

Dadadadadadadadadadadadada!