"Tokyo?" Sefton repeated, almost dumbly. That would somewhat (somehow) explain why someone who was obviously Japanese was hanging around such a small, American town. It wouldn't explain, however, how Kyouya could actually be in another country and not know. He then shook his head and corrected, "It's Newport, Kentucky. In America."

Before he could say or do anything else, like run away from the rapidly deteriorating situation, something appeared and stuck itself inside his head. Now? It was happening now of all times?

Ruthlessness and cynicism in the name of profit; ever accumulating things of merit, profit and value; protecting what is valued; valuing things close to him, whatever they may be; values for idealism hidden behind everything else, the cunning face, the guiltless actions.

The feeling faded, but Sefton knew by now what would come immediately after and was helpless to stop it. A room, large and mostly unoccupied. A table, covered in games of cunning and profit—chess; cards. Beyond that, a piano, surrounded by faces, some actually familiar to him (while some not). As always, everything is important... so, so important.

The image faded, and Sefton reached out for the wall to lean against. His balance was especially tricky thanks to the skates on his feet, and he would much rather not put too much pressure on the motors and careen right into Kyouya for a second time in the same day.