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Lt. Commander Data walked into an empty room. It was bigger then he had remembered, or maybe that was because all the people were gone.

"You really don't have the right to talk", he said to himself as he walked further into the empty digital room, that had once been so full of people that you literally had to duck sometimes to prevent being hit in the face by a ball of digital creativity, “You were one of the first to leave."

As he walked his feet left imprints in the thick layers of cyber dust that had accumulated over the years. He stopped in the middle of the room, his throat was dry and it had a lump in it. He wasn't sure if it was the dust, or the combination of nastalga and guilt. He thought again of the list of reasons of why he had left, and never quite gotten around to comming back here. It was true that he had been in his junor year, a hetic year, and that he had lost his password with his computer had been Bluescreened, but now these reasons sounded like crap. It was because they were. He had known people that had been thought much worse and got here atleast 3 times a month. He had hoped he might find somone here. He almost laughed, if he had opened his mouth he would have cried.

He noticed something in a corner of the room. Walking over to it, he bent down and picked it up. He began to wipe the dust away, but halfway through, he stopped. It was a picture of the League. The string holding it up and long ago broken, and it had fallen to the floor, sending several cracks zig-zaging through the class. Looking at it, he wondered why the last person out of the lounge hadn't taken it. Deep down, his heart told him it was Atrox that had shut the door (probably thinking he would be back in a day or two). He looked around the lounge again. The couches, were thick with dust, as was the floor and everything else, on the table that held the coffee maker, there was a pile of Announcements that, even when this place hands been ready to burst with people had never been checked until it was about 3 feet high, that had now spilled over onto the floor. It was dark in the room except for the rectangle of light cast by the open door. He hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. He walked over to one of the couches and sat down. Resting his elbows on his knees, he held the picture in his hands. He looked at it. It made him feel guilty. He felt ridiculously guilty, because for some reason he thought that after he left, everyone one else had too, like he was the proverbial straw. It was a stupid idea but he couldn't shake it. Looking at the picture he realized that is wasn't the dust causing the lump in his throat, and quietly he began to cry.