Roommates suck.
WHO: Machi Tobaye and Kidomaru
WHEN: March 10th
WHAT: Machi and Kidomaru meet in their shared flat... apartment, whatever.
WARNINGS: Kidomaru.
Machi stood in front of the door to flat C14, fingering the key in his right hand. Just like a hotel room. This was the address that had been on the screen of that thing he had... knocking had produced no answer, even though he'd done so several times, waiting far longer than was generally considered normal for a situation where you actually had the key to the door in question. He didn't want to go in, though, even if he had a key and it fit perfectly inside the lock in front of him (he had inserted the key into it to test it, but hadn't turned it, pulling it back out instead.)
He was in a sour mood, and it didn't take a lot of guessing to figure out why--the imprint of the key's sharp edge was still pressed into his hand, and the skin had been broken slightly, although not quite badly enough to bleed. Daryan. The rage hadn't really subsided. Still, he was nervous about actually going in. It took a couple of false starts before he actually turned the knob and opened the door to look inside.
...it was a flat.
This would have been much less remarkable to anyone else, but to Machi Tobaye, who had spent the majority of his life sleeping either in doorways or roadsides, or, later, living in hotel rooms, and only recently making the transition to the equally impersonal confines of a jail cell, it was magnificently furnished and very surprising. Not surprising enough to knock the anger out of him, but surprising nonetheless. He called out, half-hoping--and not hoping--that someone would be home (to what end, he did not know), but there was no reply and he moved inside quietly, heeled feet making next to no sound as he shut the door behind him with a soft click. He pulled down his sunglasses slightly to get a better look around.
Exploration was cursory and hesitant, as he avoided touching anything, but finally he sat down on the couch, trying to figure out what had been going on. How? It was a pretty big question, and one that occupied him as he tried to straighten out the conflicting feelings and disorganised thoughts that were swarming his head. There--Daryan--some Phoenix Wright who was--Daryan How?! He held his head in his hands, his knuckles whiteneing as he applied pressure to his skull. That question, plus its compatriots what and why, kept him long enough for him for exhaustion to creep up and overtake him and lay him out on the sofa, dead to the world.
WHEN: March 10th
WHAT: Machi and Kidomaru meet in their shared flat... apartment, whatever.
WARNINGS: Kidomaru.
Machi stood in front of the door to flat C14, fingering the key in his right hand. Just like a hotel room. This was the address that had been on the screen of that thing he had... knocking had produced no answer, even though he'd done so several times, waiting far longer than was generally considered normal for a situation where you actually had the key to the door in question. He didn't want to go in, though, even if he had a key and it fit perfectly inside the lock in front of him (he had inserted the key into it to test it, but hadn't turned it, pulling it back out instead.)
He was in a sour mood, and it didn't take a lot of guessing to figure out why--the imprint of the key's sharp edge was still pressed into his hand, and the skin had been broken slightly, although not quite badly enough to bleed. Daryan. The rage hadn't really subsided. Still, he was nervous about actually going in. It took a couple of false starts before he actually turned the knob and opened the door to look inside.
...it was a flat.
This would have been much less remarkable to anyone else, but to Machi Tobaye, who had spent the majority of his life sleeping either in doorways or roadsides, or, later, living in hotel rooms, and only recently making the transition to the equally impersonal confines of a jail cell, it was magnificently furnished and very surprising. Not surprising enough to knock the anger out of him, but surprising nonetheless. He called out, half-hoping--and not hoping--that someone would be home (to what end, he did not know), but there was no reply and he moved inside quietly, heeled feet making next to no sound as he shut the door behind him with a soft click. He pulled down his sunglasses slightly to get a better look around.
Exploration was cursory and hesitant, as he avoided touching anything, but finally he sat down on the couch, trying to figure out what had been going on. How? It was a pretty big question, and one that occupied him as he tried to straighten out the conflicting feelings and disorganised thoughts that were swarming his head. There--Daryan--some Phoenix Wright who was--Daryan How?! He held his head in his hands, his knuckles whiteneing as he applied pressure to his skull. That question, plus its compatriots what and why, kept him long enough for him for exhaustion to creep up and overtake him and lay him out on the sofa, dead to the world.