Mica was trying hard to concentrate solely on the game, his face scrunched up and his body stiff. If he concentrated hard enough, his mind would be too busy too create voices, right? He wanted to build something epic, something awesome  in the game. Maybe a large penis statue or a fort. Or maybe a fort with a penis statue. He began to lay down the foundation, his finger clicking away as he counted out the blocks.<br/><br/>Twenty, twenty-one, twenty--<br/><br/>"--You can talk to me, champ, more than you can to that vodka bottle."<br/><br/>Mica froze, the blood draining from his face. He had hated being called champ, it felt weird when his brother talked to him like his was his sports coach. Mica was anything but sporty. His lanky frame carried no muscles, unlike his brother whose broad shoulders could probably bench-press a cow or something. Mica was no "champ", but damn. He had missed being called it.<br/><br/>"Thom...as?" Mica pushed off his headset, his brows furrowed as he glanced over his shoulder,  scanning the room. What was happening? He couldn't.... be crazy, right? It didn't happen like this. But dead people don't talk either,  nothing was making bloody sense.<br/><br/>He stood up, not even noticing as it turned to night in the game as his character began to be attacked by monsters, their groans echoing faintly from the headset on the desk. He shoved on his clothing and turned on the seashell lamp underneath. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the waves behind his ears as he went and secured the lock on the front door.  He came back into the living room, paused, and paced.<br/><br/>Should he try... talking to Thomas? Mica didn't really know what he believed in, so he wasn't about to knock the afterlife anymore than he was going to swear by it. But hey, if it just so happened that it was real and Thomas was ...here... "Now come on, jerkface, don't be weird about it, just show yourself," he told the ceiling, his eyes scanning it unsurely.<br/><br/>He felt absolutely ridiculous.