Just hold me close to you
Maka pounds up the stairs of the Gauche to the roof and slams the door open, sending pigeons chirruping and cooing in spirals up to the sky. She races through the cloud of dislodged feathers and slapping wings to leap onto the roof's ledge. For a moment she totters, then steadies, takes a deep breath and screams at the top of her lungs.
"Sooooooooooul! Soul, you big stupid idiot, where are you?"
Someone saw a certain weapon's journal entry and didn't know she could reply.
Abby is wandering about the Kashtta, staring at the necklace she found in Grant Park. The pendant is kind of like opal, if the colors in opal could move. In the dark spaces of the empty halls it almost seems to glow.
Ragnar is also in the Kashtta. Ragnar has a typewriter. He's not sure WHY, but there you are. He stares at it. If it had eyes, it would probably be staring back.
Fritz stands next to Buckingham Fountain as evening starts to settle in. She stares at a letter in her hands. Her expression is totally neutral, which for Fritz is a surefire signal that something is not right in the world. She's tense, too, the abnormal movement under her coat indicating to the observant that her wings are out and mantled.
Then, quite suddenly, she tears the letter in half, into quarters, into eighths and sixteenths and smaller, and tosses the lot into the wind. Fritz drops her coat, her wings once more hidden away, and leaps into the fountain, splashing, twirling and rolling in the water until she's soaked through.
"Sooooooooooul! Soul, you big stupid idiot, where are you?"
Someone saw a certain weapon's journal entry and didn't know she could reply.
Abby is wandering about the Kashtta, staring at the necklace she found in Grant Park. The pendant is kind of like opal, if the colors in opal could move. In the dark spaces of the empty halls it almost seems to glow.
Ragnar is also in the Kashtta. Ragnar has a typewriter. He's not sure WHY, but there you are. He stares at it. If it had eyes, it would probably be staring back.
Fritz stands next to Buckingham Fountain as evening starts to settle in. She stares at a letter in her hands. Her expression is totally neutral, which for Fritz is a surefire signal that something is not right in the world. She's tense, too, the abnormal movement under her coat indicating to the observant that her wings are out and mantled.
Then, quite suddenly, she tears the letter in half, into quarters, into eighths and sixteenths and smaller, and tosses the lot into the wind. Fritz drops her coat, her wings once more hidden away, and leaps into the fountain, splashing, twirling and rolling in the water until she's soaked through.