Game 041 [Written/Action] - Empty Room
[ Joshua was used to empty space. For more years than he'd cared to count, it had been all he'd ever spent most of his time in. He didn't need friends. He didn't need companions.
Without his city, maybe he'd grown too attached to his Producer. That had to be what it was. The one bit of it all that stuck with him, even here. Even through all of it, Sanae was his one connection to what he was. To Neku, he was a friend. To Shiki, he was a bother. But to Hanekoma, he was the Composer, even here with no Shibuya to watch over. He'd said that if he ever found a way home, he'd be sure to bring Joshua with him. So was this an accident, or was that a lie?
Early Tuesday morning, a written message goes out over the journals. Joshua doesn't trust his voice right now. ]
Kat's Kradle is closed until further notice.
[ After that, he heads down the stairs, doesn't bother locking the front door, makes himself a cup of coffee, pulls a stool up to the bar, and sits. He doesn't drink the beverage. He just holds the cup in his hands and stares off into space blankly over the counter top. Not moving. Not thinking.
But there were a few things left behind, and at least one of them should be dealt with. So if the intended recipient doesn't show up at the formerly-a-cafe before the early evening, he's finally going to move and make his way to house 44, a note in his hand. ]
Without his city, maybe he'd grown too attached to his Producer. That had to be what it was. The one bit of it all that stuck with him, even here. Even through all of it, Sanae was his one connection to what he was. To Neku, he was a friend. To Shiki, he was a bother. But to Hanekoma, he was the Composer, even here with no Shibuya to watch over. He'd said that if he ever found a way home, he'd be sure to bring Joshua with him. So was this an accident, or was that a lie?
Early Tuesday morning, a written message goes out over the journals. Joshua doesn't trust his voice right now. ]
Kat's Kradle is closed until further notice.
[ After that, he heads down the stairs, doesn't bother locking the front door, makes himself a cup of coffee, pulls a stool up to the bar, and sits. He doesn't drink the beverage. He just holds the cup in his hands and stares off into space blankly over the counter top. Not moving. Not thinking.
But there were a few things left behind, and at least one of them should be dealt with. So if the intended recipient doesn't show up at the formerly-a-cafe before the early evening, he's finally going to move and make his way to house 44, a note in his hand. ]