Battlefield 6 Outage Map

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Battlefield 6 Issues Reports

Latest outage, problems and issue reports in social media:

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  V-Zer0 (comms back open) (@RealVZer0) reported 5 minutes ago

  @KaptainKrunch97 New battlefield 7 class: field carpenter. Can rebuild broken structures.

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  D💯 (@Blizzsane) reported 8 minutes ago

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

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  Ayushman (@Ayushman_31) reported 8 minutes ago

  Battlefield control aur pressure create karna ho to Devara already top contender lag raha hai. #DevaraRising #HOKNewHero

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  All of my friends say.... (@Shinypants78) reported 8 minutes ago

  @HiebDE @EA_DICE Why is it a W? Almost a yr after release? The things in previous games are either broken or missing...

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  Batu 🇺🇦 (@BatuPhD) reported 8 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm @Battlefield Can you fix the spaws. Why always appears looking back or do they appear to you?

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  Bud (@ImaBudtender) reported 10 minutes ago

  @Battlefield Fix the portal server search. Shows people playing but all servers say 0/64

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  It's Absurd (@ExtraSmallBrain) reported 13 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm @Battlefield You fix the spawn issue and reintroduced the mouse not working to select spawn point... How useless you guys are...

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  NodeAspect (@IdleMindl4qg) reported 18 minutes ago

  @BattlefieldComm They Will never be able to fix the netcode! If they could it would be fixed by now

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  Marwan (@6db560c87fec4ea) reported 20 minutes ago

  @Hyago_Cruz_BR @BattlefieldComm And testing is non-existent. Maybe testing for them is automated like a check list of AI testing a selected new feature or fix.

• 
  MikeAnthony (@MikeAnthony) reported 20 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.

• 
  Draeko Silver 🔞 (@DraekoSilver) reported 20 minutes ago

  @Lathrix The problem is they are only good when paired with a lot of phobos units and you really only want MAYBE two 5 man squads in any army list. They make more phobos units to forfill all battlefield roles (melee guys, anti tank, etc) rather than just objective monkeys.

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  Libertad_24 (@FlacoG_2023) reported 21 minutes ago

  @GrimBF6 @Millitings @BattlefieldComm "Buddy," how many more months do they need to fix this? Are they waiting for MW4 to come out and there will only be 2000 people left...? "We are working." Game from 2025...

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  the normal tweeter :/ (@Tweetythetwee) reported 22 minutes ago

  @RinoTheBouncer If the game is grounded in reality like games based on War (ex being cod or battlefield) The problems are the unnecessary collaborations with celebrities, popular colorful games and cartoon characters REALLY Ruins the seriousness of marine soldiers

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  Pọ́ọ̀lù (@__abioye_) reported 25 minutes ago

  @JamaicaGleaner 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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  Adv MN Gopinadh (@GopinadhMN) reported 26 minutes ago

  Strongly support @annamalai_k for calling out the Centre's failure on NEET A prestigious exam reduced to repeated leaks, cancellations Students are not soldiers on a battlefield Fix the root cause,Secure the process from the beginning, not punish aspirants with more stress