John listened to Muse's words, hopping from disbelief to hope to confusion. His world was killed? He was relieved that it was no fault of his that the roleplay had fallen, but still. And now he was being told that he was in control. Yes, he had made the world, become the GM. But surely he wasn't akin to what sounded like a [I] god.[/I] But he thought of bringing it all back, to restore one of the few things he called his own.

But what of the others? That was the question Muse posed. There were more, he said, in need of more help than John. He glanced over at his broken Puppet and studied his die. "You're likely right," he admitted. He stood, wincing as his migraine redoubled its efforts. Something told him he'd have to get used to that. "But I want you to remember this," John continued. "If I really can fix this, this world I made, I will. While I imagine your help would be useful..." John stared at the dripping roof for a moment. "I will do it myself if I must."

He looked Muse in the eyes, trying to find something. They were tired eyes, the kind of eyes he'd always imagined belonged to someone who held more stress than one person ever should. But perhaps he was mistaken. John nodded to himself. "Let's go, I guess." He tucked his die into a nich in his jacket, before pausing to grab a page he had glimpsed and very carefully tucking it into his cost pocket. "I can go ahead," he offered, unsure what to do next. "I don't mind the rain."