Roxas has managed, somehow, to get rid of his Organization-standard-issue black leather coat - stashed, no doubt, in his room upstairs - and is sitting quietly by the fireplace dressed in his more casual attire ( Read more... )

The dark hall is free of Heartless, or any Heartless-bait; that's the best that can be said for it. He's still wet, he's still miserable, and his mission is this close to going down the drain with the rain outside.

At least the building seems to be empty.

The figure that comes through is both familiar and not. His clothes are worn from travel and covered with dust, and instead of the SoCal sun-bleached blonde coloring he's middle-eastern dark ( Read more... )

So here he is again, End Of The Fucking Universe.

Place gives him the heebie-jeebies, and that takes a feat, believe you-him.

So, he's like, nursing a drink someplace where he doesn't actually have to look at Space imploding (not that the drink does him any good; and man, what he wouldn't give for a good drunk every now and then), which in his ( Read more... )

The family drifts in, in twos and threes, ad occasionally bigger groups ( Read more... )