Battlefield 6 Outage Map

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Battlefield 6 Issues Reports

Latest outage, problems and issue reports in social media:

• 
  Woke Smeed (@mrburgerboy) reported 33 seconds ago

  @Viscountpost Okay then whoever your preferred moderate is should have no problem easily defeating her on the battlefield of ideas or whatever what are you even bitching about at this point

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  apt install soul (@nshttpd) reported 5 minutes ago

  @Thee_John_Brown @BFBulletin That's just the horrible net code. They'll never fix that. VPN and get a ping of around 80ms and you'll rule the Battlefield. (Pun intended)

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  Nikita Kabardin (@nkabardin) reported 7 minutes ago

  @langfuse It looked like a standard UI problem. How hard can it be? I've built filter UIs before (TV schedules, internal tools, a Battlefield server browser...), all with a fixed set of parameters.

• 
  Ju. (@lakewoodxlegend) reported 10 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm Can we please get a fix for the “not signed into PlayStation network” error that kicks us from multiplayer matches

• 
  MikeAnthony (@MikeAnthony) reported 10 minutes ago

  THE WINTER PUNCTURES Toronto had learned to fear winter, but that year the city learned to fear something colder. It began on a Thursday morning beside the harbour, when a dog walker found a woman sitting upright on a bench near the water. At first, he thought she was watching the grey lake. Her coat was buttoned. Her gloves were folded neatly in her lap. Snow had gathered on her shoulders like ash. Only when the dog began whining did the man step closer and see that her eyes were open. She was thirty-two, a marketing manager named Elise Morneau. No sign of assault. No stolen phone. No torn clothing. No footprints except her own, ending beside the bench as if she had calmly chosen to sit down and die. Her skin looked almost translucent beneath the morning light, and at the left side of her throat were two small punctures, clean as needle marks. Detective Mara Velez arrived before sunrise had fully reached the towers. Beside her, Detective Aaron Pike watched the forensic team work with unusual silence. “Animal?” he asked. Mara looked at the neat wounds. “What animal buttons your coat after?” The city gave them other explanations before lunch. Drugs. A medical episode. A secret lover. Toronto wore explanations like expensive coats. But by the end of the week, there was another body. Then another. The second woman was found in the stairwell of a condominium near King Street West, sitting against the wall between the twenty-first and twenty-second floors. Her name was Priya Shah. Twenty-six. Law student. The security cameras showed her entering the lobby alone at 11:08 p.m., smiling at her phone, scarf bright red against her black coat. At 11:11 p.m., the cameras cut to static. At 11:14 p.m., they returned. Priya was gone. The stairwell camera showed only three frames during the missing minutes. A blur of black fabric. A pale hand on the rail. Priya standing still, head tilted slightly, as though listening to someone whisper from inside the wall. The third victim was not a woman. He was a night cleaner at Union Station, a father of two named Tomasz Grzyb. He was found behind a locked service door. His keys were still on his belt. Two punctures marked his throat. His body held so little blood that the medical examiner used the word impossible twice. That was when the reporters named it. The Vampire Murders. Mara hated the phrase. It made the dead sound theatrical. It made terror marketable. But the city heard it and held on. The name spread through group chats, podcasts, news panels, and breathless threads where strangers argued over symbols. Everyone wanted a human monster, because human monsters could be caught. Mara was no longer sure this one was human. The first real lead came from a waitress at a private members’ club on Bay Street. She called the tip line at two in the morning, crying so hard the operator nearly disconnected. Mara and Pike met her in an all-night café off Spadina, where she gripped a paper cup under fluorescent light. “He was with Elise,” the waitress said. “Three nights before she died.” “What did he look like?” Mara asked. “Like money. Old money. Not Canadian old money. Older.” Pike’s pen paused. “He had black hair, not dyed, just too dark. Tall. Very pale. Beautiful in a horrible way.” She looked ashamed, then angry at herself. “He spoke quietly. Everyone leaned in. The room got quiet around him, like people forgot how to breathe.” “Name?” “He signed the guest book as Adrian Dragos.” The club’s cameras were worse than useless. The footage showed Elise sitting at a table near the window, laughing nervously, lifting a glass she never drank from. Across from her was a distortion. Not a black square, not a shadow, but a man-shaped failure in the image, as if the lens refused to agree that he existed. Mara watched the footage six times. Pike watched it once and crossed himself. “You Catholic?” she asked. “Not enough,” he said. They traced Adrian Dragos through hotels, flight logs, bank transfers, immigration databases, and Interpol notices. The name existed everywhere and nowhere. He had rented a penthouse near Yorkville with a passport from Romania. The same face appeared in New York, Prague, Singapore, and a private terminal at Pearson. Each image came from a different year. In one, dated 2003, he looked forty. In another, dated 2021, he looked forty. In a scanned newspaper clipping from London, 1978, he looked forty. Mara pinned the photos across the task room board. The detectives offered the usual ghosts: family resemblance, plastic surgery, deepfake, coincidence. Then the room became quiet. Mara looked at the eyes in every photograph. Dark, steady, amused. He looked like someone allowing himself to be seen just enough to make the chase humiliating. The penthouse was empty when they raided it. No furniture except a long dining table, one chair, and twelve black travel cases stacked beside the window. The table had been set with silver cutlery and a single crystal glass. The glass contained red wine, untouched. On the wall hung a framed map of the world. Red pins marked cities: Vienna, Istanbul, Manila, New Orleans, Buenos Aires, Tokyo, Cape Town, Reykjavik, Toronto. There was no bed. No mirror. No dust. On the table lay a handwritten note on thick cream paper. My apologies. I dislike being early. I despise being late. No signature. Forensics found fingerprints everywhere, but none registered in any database. They found hair too degraded to belong to a living person. They found soil in one of the cases, dark and mineral-rich. Analysis suggested central Romania, particularly around the Carpathians. Pike read the report and laughed once, without humour. “Transylvania. Of course.” Mara looked up. “Don’t say it like that.” “How should I say it?” “Like we’re detectives.” He leaned closer. His eyes were bloodshot from three days with almost no sleep. “Cameras break when he enters rooms. Bodies are drained. He doesn’t age. He keeps Romanian dirt in expensive luggage. What part of detective work covers that?” “The part where we keep going.” But continuing was not the same as understanding. The fourth victim disappeared before anyone found a body. Her name was Naomi Bell, a nurse from Scarborough. She finished a twelve-hour shift and sent her sister a voice note from the hospital car park. I’m exhausted. Going home now. Love you. In the background, after Naomi spoke, there was another voice. Male. Low. Almost tender. You should rest. Then Naomi laughed, softly, as if hearing the kindest thing ever said to her. Her car never left the lot. Mara listened to the recording alone in the task room after midnight. The voice crawled beneath the words. It seemed to know exactly where the listener was weak. She played it again and felt, horribly, the urge to close her eyes. Pike reached over and stopped the audio. “Don’t,” he said. She realised he had been standing in the doorway. “You heard it too?” He nodded. “What did you hear?” “My mother,” Pike said. Mara felt cold move through her. “That was not your mother.” “I know.” “What did it say?” He stared at the blank screen. “She told me to come home.” Two nights later, Mara saw Adrian Dragos. She had followed a lead to the Royal Ontario Museum, where medieval Eastern European relics had drawn donors, scholars, diplomats, and people rich enough to mistake history for décor. Mara carried her badge in a clutch. Pike waited outside. The exhibit’s centrepiece was a silver reliquary from a monastery near the old borders of Wallachia. Mara was watching the room when she found him near the far window. Adrian Dragos stood apart from the crowd, looking out at the city lights. He wore a dark suit without visible brand or fashion. His black hair was combed back. His face was not young, exactly, and not old. It had the stillness of a portrait kept too long in a locked room. Mara’s first thought was absurd. He is pretending to breathe. Then he turned and looked directly at her. Every sound in the museum thinned. The quartet continued, but the notes seemed distant. People moved around her with slowed expressions. Adrian smiled as if she had taken too long to arrive. She walked toward him. “Mr. Dragos?” “Detective Velez,” he said. His accent was faint, polished smooth by centuries or expensive schools. “You know me.” “I make a habit of knowing those who hunt me.” “I’m investigating several deaths.” “Yes.” “You’re not surprised.” “No.” “Should I ask where you were on the nights Elise Morneau, Priya Shah, and Tomasz Grzyb died?” “You may ask anything.” “And will you answer?” “I may answer nothing.” She stepped closer. “That sounds like something a guilty man says.” He looked amused. “A guilty man is still a man.” Mara’s hand tightened around the clutch. Pike should have been listening through her earpiece, but all she heard now was soft static and distant breathing. “What are you?” she asked before she could stop herself. Adrian’s smile faded. For the first time, his face became almost sad. “A consequence,” he said. The word unsettled her more than any confession could have done. “You took Naomi Bell,” Mara said. “I invited her.” “She’s missing.” “Many people are missing, Detective. Cities are built upon the missing.” “Where is she?” Adrian looked past Mara toward the reliquary. “Not all who are taken are dead.” Mara’s stomach turned. “Then bring her back.” “You speak as if I stole a purse.” “I speak as if I can arrest you.” At that, he laughed. It was quiet, almost delighted, and something in the glass cases trembled. “Arrest me,” he said. Mara opened the clutch. The lights went out. The museum fell into screams. Emergency lamps flickered red. Mara pulled her weapon, but a crowd surged between them. Glass shattered. In the alarms, she saw Adrian move through the panic untouched. Not walking. Not running. Simply appearing wherever the crowd opened. Then he was beside her. His hand closed around her wrist. It was cold enough to hurt. “You are brave,” he whispered. “That is rarer now. The century has made people loud, not brave.” Mara tried to raise the gun. Her arm would not obey. “Where is Naomi?” His face was inches from hers. His eyes were not black, she realised. They were red very deep down, like coals buried under ash. “In the dark between wanting and surrender.” She forced the words out. “I’ll find you.” “No,” he said gently. “You will find what I leave behind.” Then the emergency lights flared bright. He was gone. Mara staggered back. Pike burst through the crowd seconds later, shouting her name. Her wrist already showed the shape of his fingers, five pale marks blooming beneath the skin. The museum incident should have given them something. Witnesses. Footage. Physical evidence. Instead it gave them contradiction. Sixty-three guests remembered seeing a tall pale man in a dark suit. Not one remembered his face the same way. One described him as young. One as elderly. Another swore he had no reflection in the window. Every camera in the exhibit hall had recorded only snow: a blank white storm blowing sideways across the screen, though the cameras were indoors. The chief wanted silence. The mayor wanted reassurance. Reporters wanted blood. Mara and Pike wanted Naomi Bell alive, if alive was still a word that could apply. They found Naomi’s phone three days later inside St. Michael’s Cathedral Basilica. It was placed on the front pew before morning Mass, clean, fully charged, and set to record. Mara pressed play in the sacristy with Pike beside her and Father Callahan, an old priest with tired eyes, standing near the door. At first, there was only wind. Then Naomi’s voice. Detective Velez, if this reaches you, stop looking for me. Mara leaned closer. I’m not dead. I don’t know where I am. It’s cold here, but not like Canada. It smells like earth after rain. He says Toronto is only a station. He says the old roads are open again. Pike whispered, “Old roads?” Naomi’s voice cracked. There are others here. Women. Men. Some have been here days. Some say years. One girl keeps asking what year it is. He doesn’t hurt us when we obey. He says the world forgot how to believe in him, and that makes the feeding easier. A sound interrupted her. Not a door. Not footsteps. A scrape, like stone moving over stone. Naomi began to cry. He knows I’m recording. A second voice entered, low and close to the microphone. Of course I know. Mara’s blood turned to ice. Adrian continued, his tone mild, almost courteous. Detective Velez, your city has been generous. But do not think me cruel. Cruelty is waste. I am appetite with memory. I am hunger disciplined by centuries. I take what empires have always taken, only with better manners. Father Callahan muttered a prayer under his breath. Adrian’s voice softened. You believe this is a murder investigation. It is not. It is migration. The recording ended with Naomi gasping Mara’s name. Then nothing. For the first time since the case began, Mara went to church without irony. She sat in the back pew after everyone had left, staring at the crucifix above the altar. Pike sat beside her. Neither spoke for several minutes. Finally, Pike said, “My grandmother used to say evil never arrives ugly at first. It arrives charming, because charming gets invited in.” Mara rubbed the marks on her wrist. They had not faded. “You really believe we’re chasing Dracula?” Pike looked at the altar, then at the phone sealed in an evidence bag. “I believe whatever he is, he wants us to say the name.” “Why?” “Because names open doors.” That evening, snow blurred the city into shapes. Mara drove home after thirty hours awake, promising herself she would shower, sleep briefly, and return. Her apartment was on the seventh floor near High Park. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and knew before turning on the light that she was not alone. A man sat at her kitchen table. Not Adrian. This man was older, with a grey beard and a wool coat dusted with snow. He held his hands where she could see them. On the table before him was a wooden box bound in iron. “Detective Velez,” he said. “Do not draw your weapon. I am not here to harm you.” She drew it anyway. “Who are you?” “My name is Ionut Radu. My family has followed him longer than your country has existed.” Mara kept the gun raised. “Followed who?” The old man looked almost disappointed. “You know who.” Outside the window, a dog began barking. Then another. Then every dog on the street. Ionut pushed the wooden box forward. “He is not merely killing in Toronto. He is testing it. Its glass towers. Its cameras. Its disbelief. A city that does not believe in monsters is a banquet hall with unlocked doors.” Mara glanced at the box. “What’s inside?” “Old protections. Some true. Some useless. Faith matters more than objects, but objects help frightened hands remember faith.” “Why come to me?” “Because he touched you and did not kill you.” Her wrist burned. Ionut’s voice dropped. “That means he has chosen you for the game.” The kitchen light flickered. Mara looked toward the window. Seven floors above the street, on the outside of the glass, a hand rested against the pane. Long fingers. Pale skin. No reflection. The old man whispered something in Romanian and opened the box. Mara saw a crucifix, cloudy water, iron nails, old soil wrapped in cloth, and a knife with a handle carved from bone. The window fogged from the outside. Words appeared slowly in the frost. NOT YET. Mara lifted the gun with both hands, though she already knew how useless it felt. A shadow passed across the glass. The dogs below went silent at once. When she looked back, Ionut Radu was staring at the window with tears in his eyes. “He has been many names,” the old man whispered. “Prince. Count. Devil. Dragon.” Mara swallowed. “And now?” The old man closed the box. “Now he is everywhere.” Across Toronto, phones began to buzz. One alert, citywide. AMBER ALERT: MULTIPLE MISSING PERSONS REPORTED. Then another. Then another. Then twenty-seven more. By dawn, the city would count forty-three disappearances from hospitals, clubs, shelters, condos, subway platforms, and locked bedrooms. Every camera would fail. Every witness would remember a different face. Every scene would carry the same impossible trace of Romanian soil. But that night, before the numbers came, a private jet lifted from Pearson International Airport into the snow. On board, Adrian Dragos sat beside a darkened window with an untouched glass of red wine in his hand. Naomi Bell sat across from him, pale but breathing. Beyond her, in the cabin shadows, other eyes opened one by one. Adrian looked down at the city lights disappearing beneath the clouds. “Toronto was interesting,” he said. Naomi’s lips trembled. “Where are we going?” He smiled, and somewhere in that smile was a castle, a battlefield, a tomb, and a hunger that had crossed centuries without growing tired. “South,” he said. “There are warmer cities that have forgotten me.” The jet vanished into the storm. Below, Detective Mara Velez stood at her apartment window, holding the old crucifix from Ionut’s box. The frost words had begun to melt, but one mark remained on the glass: a small red pinprick, no larger than the wound on a throat. Her phone rang. Unknown number. She answered without speaking. For a moment, there was only the sound of wind over mountains. Then Adrian’s voice whispered through the line. “Detective,” he said, “when you are ready to believe, come and find me.” The call ended. And somewhere beneath Toronto, in a tunnel that did not appear on any city map, something ancient opened its eyes.

• 
  Ashish Bajpai (@AshishB60558222) reported 16 minutes ago

  BATTLEFIELD SITREP: THE 23,991 GAP-DOWN SHOCK Active Combat Feed (Friday, June 19, 2026) Commander, the Operator has just executed a violent, trend-shattering move. The tape is pre-opening at 23,991.20. This is a catastrophic ~177-point gap-down from yesterday's 24,168 close. This gap completely obliterates the entire bullish demand staircase we mapped yesterday (24,155, 24,121, 24,103). More importantly, it gapps the market back below the psychological 24,000 floor and slices straight through yesterday's absolute low of 24,036.95. The bullish structure is temporarily broken. Here are your condensed, trigger-ready playbooks for the open: 🔴 PLAYBOOK A: THE BREAKER BLOCK REJECTION (Short the Relief) The Logic: The gap-down is so severe that the entire 24,036 to 24,100 zone (yesterday's floor and demand voids) has instantly flipped into a massive overhead Bearish Breaker Block. The Operator allows a quick morning bounce to trap dip-buyers before resuming the FII distribution. The Trigger: Nifty opens at 23,991, rallies back up to test the 24,036 - 24,050 zone, and instantly prints a sharp Red Shooting Star on the 5-minute chart, violently rejecting the 24K level. The Action: Execute a Short (PE) scalp on the confirmed rejection. The Target: A flush back down through the 23,991 open, targeting the 23,950 macro support. ⚫ PLAYBOOK B: THE CASCADING WATERFALL (Trend Continuation) The Logic: The global panic is too severe. DIIs step aside completely, and the algorithms relentlessly hit the bids off the opening bell. The Trigger: Nifty drops immediately from 23,991. A 15-minute candle closes cleanly and fully below 23,950 with heavy volume displacement. The Action: Do not short the absolute bottom. Wait for a 3-minute micro-pullback (a tiny Bearish FVG) to execute a Short (PE) continuation. The Target: Price discovery into the 23,888 gap-fill vacuum. 🟢 PLAYBOOK C: THE EXTREME TURTLE SOUP (Buy the Reclaim) The Logic: The Operator engineered this massive gap-down purely to liquidate the late retail longs from yesterday's 3 PM squeeze. Once the panic stops are triggered below 24K, DIIs absorb the liquidity and initiate a violent V-shaped recovery. The Trigger: The tape flushes below 23,991 but instantly rejects the downside. It prints a massive Green Hammer on the 5-minute chart and aggressively reclaims and closes back above 24,040. The Action: Execute a strict, counter-trend Long (CE) scalp only on the successful reclaim of 24,040. The Target: A short-covering squeeze back toward 24,100. The Sniper's Rule: The 24,000 line is no longer your floor; it is your ceiling. If they bounce and fail at 24,036, the bears are in total control. Hold your fire until the structure confirms the trend!

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  Monifish 🙊🐟 (@spookyboogy24) reported 16 minutes ago

  @KyuniesBoyMikey The entire fandom knows this will be a big problem 🫣. That company must really hate us because they always throw us into a battlefield I'm so tired of fighting with hater 🥹

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  Robbie Blair (@TheRobbieBlair) reported 16 minutes ago

  @OhmanEU @BattlefieldComm I play RedSec too, when I need a good laugh But I'm on SeriesX with fiber optic internet and hard-lined with a CAT8 ethernet cable I usually have crossplay off, but you cant get a match Putting crossplay on brings many bugs/glitches/issues that don't exist without crossplay

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  Kołdrian (@ten_na_chmurce) reported 18 minutes ago

  Mistfall Hunter is, first and foremost, an extraction RPG. Yes, it borrows some soulslike flavor: slower combat, dodges, limited resources, danger around every corner and dark fantasy presentation. But after around two hours with the demo, I would not call it a proper soulslike. It is more of a PvPvE extraction game with fantasy loot runs and a few soulslike ideas stitched into the combat. And honestly, that concept is not bad. The loop of entering a zone, looting everything you can, wondering if another player is nearby, and trying to escape with your stuff does create tension. Even solo, you can feel the pressure. I played as a sorcerer, and PvP was actually easier than I expected. I fought mostly rogue-style players, probably Shadowstrix, and using AoE skills, monsters, and positioning against them worked pretty well. I did not lose a PvP fight, but I also did not feel like the combat was especially deep. The combat has some interesting limits. You cannot just spam attacks forever because your energy or mana has to regenerate. Dodging also works through a limited dash system, with three dashes that recover over time. On paper, that gives the fights some rhythm. In practice, I often felt like I missed not because my aim was bad, but because the game decided the hit did not count. Sometimes the visual effect of a spell looked bigger than its actual hitbox. Maybe that is just a demo issue, but in an extraction game where every mistake can cost you loot, this matters a lot. Technically, though, I have to give the game credit. I played on mobile 5G internet and still had around 30–50 ms most of the time, which is genuinely good in my case. I only had one short moment where the game felt like it had not fully loaded the server or had a sudden FPS/ping issue, but outside of that it was very smooth. No serious lag, no constant stuttering, no big technical disaster. That is a strong point. Visually, Mistfall Hunter is fine, but not amazing. It has that Unreal Engine look, with some decent views, but also some rough character movement, sliding animations, strange hair and clothing rendering, and places where I could look under assets or textures. As someone who also builds maps, that kind of thing always bothers me. I know why developers hide objects behind other objects, but I really do not want the player to see the trick. The atmosphere is harder for me to praise. It feels like a mix of Slavic and Nordic dark fantasy filtered through a more Asian fantasy style, but I did not really feel the weight of dark fantasy here. It is *****, full of monsters, ruins and loot, but more “designed to look dark” than actually heavy or oppressive. I skipped most of the dialogue because nothing really pulled me in. The world is okay. The mood is okay. But “okay” is basically the problem. Character creation is actually in a good spot. You choose from several classes, including Mercenary, Sorcerer, Blackarrow, Shadowstrix, Seer and Withered Knight, then pick from multiple male and female looks and customize things like hair, eyes, makeup, scars, tattoos, voice and skin tone. I like character creators that let me feel like I made my own hero without trapping me for an hour before the game even starts. This one is enough. And yes, of course the breast physics are already there in the character selection screen. Classic. Weirdly, that might be one of the smoother animations in the demo. The bigger issue for me is progression. You loot a lot. Really a lot. The inventory fills up quickly, and after two hours I still was not sure which items were actually useful and which were just there to be stockpiled. You can send companions on expeditions, craft better items, and some crafting takes 12 hours, which may be a balancing choice for this type of game. I do not have enough experience with extraction games to judge that fully, but it felt slow. Maybe there is base development later, maybe not, but I got tired of returning to the same battlefield and doing quests before I reached the point where the system truly opened up. So where does that leave me? Mistfall Hunter has a good concept. A dark fantasy extraction RPG with some soulslike flavor sounds interesting. The solo experience has tension, and I can imagine it being much more intense in a trio, where every fight, escape and ambush probably feels more alive. But after around two hours and a few expeditions, I felt more curiosity than excitement. I do not think I will come back to it. It is not really my type of game. Still, I would not completely dismiss it. If you enjoy extraction games, PvPvE tension, fantasy loot runs and slower combat built around limited resources, it might be worth watching. For me, based on the demo: 5.5/10. Not bad. Not pointless. Just not convincing enough yet.

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  RAHUL SHARMA 🇮🇳 (@KumarRahul65453) reported 18 minutes ago

  @unusual_whales "Iran's strategy in one sentence: survive the battlefield, win the bargaining table. The problem is when both sides think they're winning the same negotiation." 🤔

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  D💯 (@Blizzsane) reported 20 minutes ago

  @Battlefield Cool, now hire some people to fix the game

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  Pọ́ọ̀lù (@__abioye_) reported 21 minutes ago

  @WorldCupMedia That Canada vs. Qatar match was painful to watch—truly painful. Let's hope Ismail Koné is not badly injured, because that pitch was a battlefield of bad decisions and broken rhythm. The game was so poor, Qatar made Canada look like a Premier League side. Let that sink in. Absolutely amazing—and not in a good way.

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  RAHUL SINGH, EX-MAJOR Indian Army (@rahulexmajor) reported 23 minutes ago

  @SamSiff Before passing judgment, it is worth asking a simple question: do we actually know the facts? A social media graphic and a viral caption are not evidence. They rarely provide the full context of family circumstances, legal entitlements, personal relationships or events surrounding a death. If the officer's wife received financial benefits, that does not automatically establish greed. In law and policy, next of kin are entitled to compensation, pensions and other benefits precisely because the service member made the ultimate sacrifice. More importantly, using one unverified or isolated case to make sweeping claims about women, wives or military families is neither fair nor rational. The real tragedy here is the loss of a young officer who gave his life in service. That should remain the focus. A martyr deserves remembrance for his sacrifice, not for social media turning his family's private circumstances into a battlefield for ideological arguments. Facts first. Outrage later.

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  Biig Bo$$ (@Mike_so100) reported 23 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm Why don’t yall take down REDSEC like yall did STRIKEPOINT? Strikepoint conquest multiplayer is what funds redsec even right. Well strikepoint got wiped like it never existed @BattlefieldComm your doing nothin. Redsec is worse than strikepoint, it should be an easy fix strikepoint

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  FaresAlAbdalli (@Knight14015) reported 26 minutes ago

  @Battlefield Ok fix middle east servers