Lost in the crowd
Who: Joshua, OPEN~
What: Trying to treat his frustrations with food, but having no luck
When: Tuesday afternoon
Where: Nausicaa Cafe
Rating: PG to start, shouldn't get higher than PG-13?
It had been over 48 hours since the ghosts had shown up. Two days. Two and a half, really, but who was counting the minutes? Oh, right. Joshua was. He was counting every second that the voices were buzzing in the back of his mind. Hundreds, thousands of them all clamoring for his attention, just so they could all inform him, as if he wasn't aware, that their true deaths were his damn fault. He ran a ruthless Game--most of them hadn't even had a chance at survival--and the many, many who'd lost it were quite... irritated at that fact. Of course, erasure was supposed to return their Soul material to it's base form, but things weren't always so agreeable in Moksa University. Death should have been his realm, his charge, his chess board. But no, not here. Here, the small crowd of ghosts kept changing, cycling through faces and bodies, and hating him so vocally that he could hear every single one, whether the were visibly manifesting at the moment or not. And he couldn't make it stop.
At first, this phenomenon had been easy enough to tune out. The Composer of Shibuya was not so easily shaken, after all. But the chatter hadn't stopped at night, and by now he was lacking sleep and beginning to crack. He wanted them to go away, but they persistently followed him everywhere he went. Including Nausicaa, where he'd just wanted a god damned parfait. He was surprised the waiters were even inclined to wade through the mass of spirits to deliver his order, frankly.
And just his luck, they'd forgotten the whipped cream.
What: Trying to treat his frustrations with food, but having no luck
When: Tuesday afternoon
Where: Nausicaa Cafe
Rating: PG to start, shouldn't get higher than PG-13?
It had been over 48 hours since the ghosts had shown up. Two days. Two and a half, really, but who was counting the minutes? Oh, right. Joshua was. He was counting every second that the voices were buzzing in the back of his mind. Hundreds, thousands of them all clamoring for his attention, just so they could all inform him, as if he wasn't aware, that their true deaths were his damn fault. He ran a ruthless Game--most of them hadn't even had a chance at survival--and the many, many who'd lost it were quite... irritated at that fact. Of course, erasure was supposed to return their Soul material to it's base form, but things weren't always so agreeable in Moksa University. Death should have been his realm, his charge, his chess board. But no, not here. Here, the small crowd of ghosts kept changing, cycling through faces and bodies, and hating him so vocally that he could hear every single one, whether the were visibly manifesting at the moment or not. And he couldn't make it stop.
At first, this phenomenon had been easy enough to tune out. The Composer of Shibuya was not so easily shaken, after all. But the chatter hadn't stopped at night, and by now he was lacking sleep and beginning to crack. He wanted them to go away, but they persistently followed him everywhere he went. Including Nausicaa, where he'd just wanted a god damned parfait. He was surprised the waiters were even inclined to wade through the mass of spirits to deliver his order, frankly.
And just his luck, they'd forgotten the whipped cream.