Welcome to Gaia! ::

((Umm...excuse me?))

((He wanted to play. I let him.))

((I should have Paul do a mission.))

((All right, well, anyways...))

Joe and Jacob emerged from the airport. Joe looked around and sighed. "I always hated New York. And now we know why."

((How do I find Rose?))

((UP HIS BUTT.))

Fyrin rested.

In this state, he wasn't quite sure what was going on. The connection from his soul to his body was pulled back to absolute minimal, very much like the brain shutting partially down for sleep, and he was capable of roaming.

Almost every time he slept, she visited. Fyrin was almost positive she was nothing but a figment of his imagination; in a dream-like state, he couldn't be sure what was real, and since when he woke up she was gone, surely she couldn't be staying. He'd have found that soul if it had hung around here. He knew enough about that sort of thing. Somehow, though, it was still comforting, dreaming that she had forgiven him. It was difficult to suppress the memory of the knife in his own hands - once to the thigh, to the lower back, to the upper back, across the front of the neck - but he still managed to enjoy his pitiful little false world. The more he visited it, the more he discovered it was a supreme way to come up with philosophical theories, since it was downright depressing if it came right to it, and most of philosophy was either infuriating or depressing.

For hours he reveled in his foolish little personal deception, ignoring reality around him. Souls were wandering somewhere nearby, but it didn't make a difference. He could almost physically feel himself stabilize, return to sanity. Even after all his research into life, he couldn't quite explain how this mattered; the connections between everything else he'd ever made never deteriorated, and they stayed as stable as they ever did. All he could attribute it to was Ma'Krogeyna and the little chunk of his soul Ma'Krogeyna held onto.

Either way, his time was up. He'd had what he needed and he let himself be pulled back into the real world.

A few moments later they were back downstairs, standing before the door. He tried to push through it, even as he was; this was probably going to be a frontal assault. He had expected no less. Perhaps he could at least pose as someone from some mercenary organization. A plumber?

Nah.

((Ah, okay.))

Joe felt another paper in his pocket beside the Mapquest directions. He realized that he had, in fact, picked up the other paper, and not the directions, a moment later. The paper read Do not trust metal detectors in very neat cursive.

((I edited.))