shadowguy-friday

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday shakes his head, both in an answer to Cassia's assertions and in an attempt to clear the haze of shame permeating his thoughts. Without thinking, he pushes his hands under the band of the beanie, fingers threading through his hair and tugging lightly, the sensation grounding.]

*[The music swirling in his chest had settled for a moment during the emotional outpour, going from a raging cyclone to a rumbling thunderstorm. Still, he hesitates to continue. Doing so would feel like waltzing through a melody filled with mines. One wrong step, one misplaced note, and the whole composition would crumble around him.]

*[She was right, he knew. Deep in his soul, he knew. But something else, something dark and insidious, dripping with honeyed poison told him otherwise.]

*[You're just not ready yet. Don't worry, I'll help you.]

*[Maybe if you learned to play the saxophone, like the others. C'mon, don't look at me like that. You know it'd be easier.]

*[No, no, no. Slow that down. You're spouting nonsense.]

*[You were doing so well, too...]

*[A high, whining viola note, a rising crescendo of restrained anguish emits from Friday as his grip in his hair tightens and relaxes repeatedly, as if attempting to knead away the venomous thoughts.]

*[Friends?]

*[Of course, we're friends. Just keep writing those pretty pieces, and we'll be golden, Cut Time.]

*[You like it? I think it's catching on with the rest of the crew.]

*[Is this what it felt like to suffocate under the weight of silence?]

*[I don't want to stay quiet.]

*[...but I have to.]

*[No, I don't.]

*[She's waiting for an answer.]

*[I need to say something.]

*[Why can't I say anything?]

*[I'm scared.]

*[What am I scared of?]

*[...]

*[She's still waiting.]

*[She's going to get bored soon. She's going to give up. I'll have driven away one of the only people willing or able to listen to me.]

*[That's what I want, isn't it?]

*[...no.]

*[Friday is struggling to find the notes.]

*[Seems he needs a cue.]

[*Play LIGHT?] [*Play SHADOW?] [*Play ???]

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[A protesting squeak—like air moving through a damaged reed—rings out, fracturing the calm that the musical conversation had brought. Friday leans forward, carefully setting the cup back onto the tray with one hand as the other comes up to press harshly on his collarbone. His hands are trembling.]

*[Do what you have to do—I need this piece finished by tomorrow morning!]

*[I know you won't let me down, Cut Time.]

*[Once the cup is safely situated on the tray, he looks to Cassia with a frustrated spiccato of viola strings. The hand on his collarbone presses harder. The notes crackle a bit as he plays.]

(Of course I wouldn't ask- I'd never-)

*[He makes a frustrated hand motion that looks vaguely like a maestro's harsh hand signal, calling for silence.]

(...your exper-ence is rare. I've only m-t a handful of darkners like you. Who can underst-nd, even a b-t. You can't possibly think that your understanding of my music is universal!)

*[He's pressing so hard into his chest that his hand is shaking. Realizing his outburst, he shuts his mouth with a resounding silence, pulling both hands up to tug the scarf further over the bottom of his face. He doesn't answer the last question, turning his head and swallowing thickly.]

*[A low, mournful tremolo of viola strings pulls itself from his chest, a regretful moaning sound.]

(I'm...sorry. That was uncalled f-r.)

*[He seems to shrink in on himself, pulling his knees closer to his chest. Stars, he feels so small, so pathetic.]

*[...I'd give anything for one of Button's hugs right now.]

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday settles into the couch a bit further, the weight of uncertainty lifted from his shoulders at Cassia's affirmations. The feeling of being heard and understood without having to fumble through his array of instruments for a more understandable sound was a relief.]

*[He looks up from his teacup in surprise, a note of protest dying on his lips as Cassia stands to adjust the temperature in the room. She's back in her chair before he can voice it, so he reluctantly accepts the gesture, a light flute trill playing for a half-note's length as he takes another deep drink from the cup.]

*[At his name being played—oh, he'd missed hearing his name played in musical form—Friday sits a bit straighter, directing his attention to his host once more.]

"(You seemed quite bothered saying "pretty noises", Friday, you mind telling me a little bit about that?)"

*[Oh.]

*[Friday's throat closes up a bit as he turns his head, gaze fixing resolutely on an arbitrary point on the wall. A low, rumbling double bass scale vibrates the floor with its sound.]

(It's... something I've been told. That it's not... practical to speak with a range of instruments so broad.)

*[He pauses for a moment, then switches intstruments, opting for a quiet, hesitant pizzicato of viola strings.]

(...and...they're right. I can't possibly expect to be understood like this.)

*[His fingers curl around the nearly-empty teacup, rubbing against the slowly cooling ceramic in a self-soothing gesture. The symphony becomes a mournful cry in his chest as he lets the poison he'd been fed trickle from his lips.]

(...sometimes... I wonder if anyone might notice if I stopped playing.)

*[Okay. Seriously, Friday. Pick a sound, I can't understand a damn word you're saying. Either figure out how to talk normally or just...stop. It's irritating.]

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Unheeding of his own apprehension, Friday takes another breath, still staring at the tiny ripples in the cup, at the reflection his shadow cast on the surface of the liquid. A low, resonant cello note hums to life, a thoughtful note that hangs heavy in the air and quickly followed by a sweeping, bluesy piano lick.]

(About me...? I'm afraid I'm not as... interesting as you might think. I'm just a stagehand. I spend m-st of my time moving set pieces and adjusting stage lights. I occasionally help with sound mixing, but those oppurtunities are few and far between.)

*[He pauses, shadows giving another shiver in the cool air of the room. A beat passes, the non-judgemental silence hanging in the air, a silent fermata encouraging him to keep speaking. The melody continues to churn in his chest, making him feel a bit nauseous.]

...

"You have more to say, don't you? C'mon, I wanna hear it!"

"(It's... not important.)"

"Of course it is! If you're thinking this hard about it, it has to be!"

"(...)"

"Just let it out, Friday. You know I'll always listen, even if I don't understand everything."

...

*[It starts harshly at first, a sudden burst of noise, but piece by piece, a cautious musical enseble begins to form. The harsh sound of a trumpet blast fades into a mournful lament, twined with the low crooning of bass clarinet and the resonant 'twing, twing, twing' of xylophone, each note a star winking into existance in a new, brilliant constellation.]

(That's not- I'm also-)

(I like composing. Concertos, ensembles, sonatas... It feels... freeing. To let the m-sic be heard. But somet-mes, it's difficult to p-rform knowning that some of my most tr-asured pieces sound like nothing more than... pretty noises to most.)

*[He curls into himself further, fingers rubbing over the warm surface of the teacup in an attempt to ground himself. If he stopped looking, if he stopped thinking, it almost felt like-]

...

"F-F-Friday, I'm fine-! It's just a l-little snow!"

"(You're shaking. Here, don't move.)"

"What ar-r-re you doing...?"

"(Making hot chocolate. Take your boots off, they're soaked.)"

"THUMP-THUMP"

...

"(...are you feeling any warmer?)"

"...yeah."

"(Good. What were you thinking? You could've frozen out there.)"

"...I'unno."

"(...)"

"...Fr'day? C'n you sit with me?"

"(I am sitting with you.)"

"No, sit..."

"SHFFF..."

"Sit with me."

"(...alright.)"

"..."

"(...)"

Prrrr...

"...what wuzzat...?"

"(...nothing. Quiet now.)"

"...m'kay."

...

*[Friday blinks, his vision coming back into focus. Distantly, he realizes his cheek is damp again. Before he can chastise himself for indulging his instinct to comfort himself, he shuffles in place on the couch, pulling his legs up onto the plush surface and curling into a more comfortable half sittting position as he nurses the tea, gaze fixed on the smooth edge of the cup.]

*[Wow, haha! You even sit like a spoiled housecat!]

*[He winces, considering returning to his previous position. However, the tea, the soft cushions of the couch, the welcoming smell of tea wafting through the air...]

*[He finds he doesn't want to.]

*[A soft, shy plucking of viola strings dances to life between them, a hesitant, almost apologetic phrase.]

(Is this... okay?)

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday echoes the harsh bar, exploring the name's composition with his own added twist of a low bass line.]

(Roland. I don't think we've spoken.)

*[He looks into his teacup, fingers drumming on the sides of the ceramic in a nervous rhythm. His tune changes slightly, shifting from a slow, legato melody to a punchier staccato beat, the 'tss-tss-tss' of a hi-hat cymbal accompanying his words.]

(I don't... speak to many studio staff. Communicating with someone like me isn't ex-ctly easy.)

*[He curls in on himself a bit. The room feels a bit cool for his tastes, but he can't allow himself to cozy up on the couch like he usually did at his or Chip's apartment. He was a guest here, after all, and behaving like that was just...]

...

"Oh, Friday, your shadows are all... shivery! Are you cold?"

"(I'm fine, Chip. Just a bit... drafty in here.)"

"Don't give me that, mister take-care-of-yourself! I'm gonna make us some tea! With lots of honey! That always helps me warm up! Oh- I think I might have a heated blanket somewhere, too!"

"(Chip, you don't-)"

"Ah, ah, ah! My turn to take care of you! Don't resist, or I'll have to break out the patented Chip charm!"

"THWUMP"

"(...that's far less effective when you're drowning in a pile of blankets.)"

"Is it working, though?"

"(...yes.)"

...

*[He takes another drink. The honey feels like a smooth symphony on his tongue, sweet and cloying and all too painful. He only wishes that he could share it with Chip. Unbidden, his music flickers to life again, a soft, murmuring cornet warming the air with its sonorous tones.]

(Please come home safe...)

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Her playing sounds so... earnest.]

*[Unconsciously, Friday finds himself lowering his arms, his shoulders slowly dropping from their tense position, hands still carefully cradling the teacup. With another soft, hiccuping breath, he lets a cascade of notes fall from his lips, a slightly off-kilter blend of low, rich viola and a shimmering score of bar chimes that hang in the air with an ethereal shine.]

(C-ssia...)

*[He ducks his head a bit, embarassed by the wobbling note interrupting the composition. He lifts the tea, taking a long drink in an attempt to soothe his throat. The honeyed drink flows through his shadows, a blessed reprieve from the cold, constricting thorns he'd grown used to.]

*[Lowering the cup and letting a shaky exhale permeate the silence, Friday finally plays again, music aided by the lingering warmth from the tea.]

*[Feels like a hug from a friend.]

(...it's beautiful. Where did you learn?)

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday is stunned into silence for a moment by the array of instruments laid out on the table in front of him, another aborted sob bubbling in his throat and cutting itself off before it can escape to embarass him further.]

*[She was playing to him. She understood what he'd said, and she was playing to him.]

*[Sure it was a fluke, that his ears were playing tricks on him, Friday wipes at his face with his sleeves, taking a deep, shuddering breath as his heel taps on the floor, a makeshift metronome.]

*[In. Two, three, four... Hold. Two, three, four... Out. Two, three, four...]

*[His thumbs trace the edge of the ceramic with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the dark, churning storm in his mind.]

*[He remembers the wonder on Chip's face when he'd said his name, his true name, for the first time in ages. The way Chip had asked him to play it again, then again, until he was able to hum a vague imitation of the phrase himself.]

*[A quick intake of breath.]

*[In his chest, the melody stirs, the pressure lifting ever-so-slightly as the floodgates begin to give way.]

*[My name is...]

*[A scale of bluesy double bass, accompanied by the jazzy chords of a piano, and blanketed by the velvety, dancing notes of a bass flute, twisting and weaving their melodies into one.]

*[Sounds like a rainy summer's night spent watching the world go by.]

(Friday.)

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[He's so tired. Tired of holding it all back. Tired of keeping it all in. Tired of feeling useless, of feeling afraid. So, so tired of feeling like a shadow.]

*[Well, that's what you are, isn't it? I mean, literally. Don't get so hung up about it.]

*[His spine feels tight, a harp string pulled to its limit, a fermata on an impossibly high note as he clutches the teacup like a lifeline, pressing its surface harder into his forehead.]

*[Stop it. Stop it. Stop that awful noise.]

*[The clatter of wood, the sound of zippers, of high, clear notes all swirl into a blur around him. When did the room get so dim?]

*[Ugh, do you always have to keep it so dark in here?]

*[Distantly, he's aware of Cassia speaking, a soft murmur that doesn't quite reach his mind through the haze.]

*[Then, a light, cutting through the storm, he hears it.]

*[It's wobbly, it's imperfect, but...]

(I'm here.)

*[It's music.]

*[His breath hitches, the choking sob settling into a wheezing hiccup of sound.]

*[Slowly, every so slowly, he raises his chin to look at Cassia, his now-wet cheeks partially hidden behind his scarf.]

*[A breathy, warbling reply, laced with a fragile thread of hope rings through the room.]

(What...?)

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday stares down at his hands, fidgeting with the loose thread on his scarf as Cassia speaks. His chin raises from his chest a fraction as she offers to adjust the ambience of the room. Was it a test of some kind...?]

*[As Cassia retreats to the kitchen, Friday is left with his thoughts, his music, a dark, tangled thing in his chest.]

*[So, here he was. Deep in the heart of Cyber City, riding on a desperate spark of hope that maybe someone might listen to the cacophony trapped inside.]

*[It felt sickening to be here again.]

*[Play something a little more upbeat, why don't you?]

(...)

*[His gaze settles on the viola, lying innocently on the table. It was a well-loved instrument, one that had likely seen many a practice session in its time. Though battered, she still played it with such dedication...]

*[Try something else, that's getting old.]

*[Friday's head snaps up as Cassia re-enters the room, carrying a tray laden with teacups, honey, and sugar. Though faint, the smell was painfully soothing.]

*[Cassia settles the tray in front of him and begins preparing the tea, but Friday's vision, blurry as it is, focuses entirely on the teacups. The melody siezes. His breathing stills. His throat closes up.]

*[Friday reaches forward with faintly trembling hands, breath catching in his chest as his fingers make contact with the cool ceramic, lifting it from the tray with a reverent gentleness.]

*[Distantly, there's a sound like glass fracturing.]

*[And all at once, the melody crashes down, crushing his chest and forcing a harsh, painful noise from his throat. It's a twisted amalgam of bar chimes, flute, and cello, all with little musical coherency. A single, grating sob reduced to a shaky, whining hiss of air that didn't sound at all healthy.]

*[He grips the teacup with both hands, holding it just below his chin as he dips his head, shoulders shaking slightly as he tries his hardest not to let the sound overflow.]

*[Friday bows his head, pressing his forehead against the slowly warming ceramic as he chokes on the barbs of the music.]

*[The symphony shrieks in protest, digging its icy claws into his chest. He maintains his grip on the cup.]

[-10 HP]

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday tries his best to ignore the light pressing in on him, making the boxes difficult to read through the slight blurring of his vision. He leans in, squinting at the boxes with a slight frown as he tries to discern the difference between the options on the table.]

*[He startles, giving a broken clarinet squeak that sounds closer to a recorder than an orchestral instrument as Cassia's hand plucks the box he was attempting to read off the table.]

*[What was that? Pull it together, this is therapy, not a performance review!]

*[Friday's hand shoots forward, fumbling for one of the boxes as Cassia returns, holding it up to indicate his selection. He still couldn't read the boxes very well, so he just reached for the one that most resembled the tea Chip usually bought him.]

*[He clears his throat, a low, embarassed flute trill beginning, but quickly cut off and replaced by a pizzicato of viola strings.]

(I'm s-rry, I-)

(I'll have this, th-nk you. With a sp-onfull of h-ney, please.)

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday's shoulders drop marginally at the warm greeting, his ears twitching with mild discomfort under his beanie. He wishes he could take it off. The scratchy material was really, really irritating in comparison to the cool, velvety inside of his usual hat. That, he could handle. But in conjunction with everything else, it felt like a constant gnawing at the edges of his psyche.]

*[Trying his best to project an air of nomalcy, he nods to Cassia, giving a soft bass flute scale as he steps into the apartment. The scent of tea in the air is a balm against his fraying nerves, one he is immensely grateful for.]

(Thank y-u.)

*[He pauses for a moment in the doorway, taking in the appearance of the cozy apartment with a low hum of bass clarinet. The room is clearly well-loved, full of subtle nuances that hint at the personality of its owner. It reminds him of Chip's apartment...]

*[With a harsh ripple of shadow, Friday lets a tiny, pained cymbal sizzle slip. The room was still far too bright, even with the muted lighting. He mentally chastises himself for reacting like that. He was a guest here. Not an overgrown housecat.]

*[Friday quickly busies himself with toeing off his shoes, trying not to be too embarassed by the dark purple striped socks underneath. Making sure the shoes were tucked securely against the wall, not in the way, he makes his way toward the living room, taking a seat on the couch.]

*[Not wanting to be too intrusive, Friday gives a quiet, murmuring scale in viola.]

(I... w-uldn't mind some t-a.)

*[He winces at the breaking notes.]

*[How am I supposed to understand you when you keep changing the way you speak like that?]

*[How was she supposed to understand him when he couldn't even sustain a simple viola note?]

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday stands frozen before the door, the harsh buzz of florescent lighting echoing in his mind. His shadows felt like they were made of television static, a harsh, prickling feeling that seemed to 'thrum' in time with the symphony in his chest.]

*[...maybe this was a mistake. I should go back. Help Button look for Chip.]

*[He tries to turn, to take a step away from the door, but his limbs refuse to obey. His head feels like it's underwater, the sound of the viola inside the room warping, becoming muffled. The frantic drumbeat of the composition in his chest intensifies, drowning out the strings, the woodwinds, the brass-!]

*[He forces down the pathetic noise threatening to climb from his throat, blinking back the blurry film creeping over his vision.]

*[The melody twists harshly, a sharp lance of pain shooting through him.]

*[It's too much, he thinks, head swimming. The lights, the sterile cleanliness, the impersonal greeting of the addison at the front counter, aknowledging him with as much attention as one might give a particularly interesting rock, the awful itchiness of the beanie he'd picked up to cover his ears...]

*[He's kneading the fabric of the scarf in his hands, he realizes distantly, vision focusing on the unraveling thread holding the loose star patch on.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[He rubs his thumb over the loosening patch, steeling himself with a low murmur of double bass that serves to ground his racing thoughts.]

(It's j-st one visit. Just one, and th-n I can go back to B-tton. Back to Ch-p. Back h-me.)

*[Besides, it's not as if...]

*[He shakes the thought away, raising his hand hesitantly and tapping out a quick rhythm on the door.]

*[Friday's awareness pools in the nooks and crannies, collecting like drops of rainwater in dark alleyways, shadowed underpasses, and under yawning stretches of darkness cast by immense skyscrapers.]

*[He'd forgotten just how overwhelming the sounds of the city could be, its neon lights flashing blindingly, the cacophony of car horns blaring around every corner, the constant, barking shouts of addisons insisting on showing off their products to any passerby unlucky enough to cross their path, always pushing, never taking no for an answer-]

*[He resists the urge to withdraw his consciousness from the chaos and curl into shadow. He had to be heard, and that letter had sparked a fragile, hopeful song in his heart. A hope that somebody might be willing, be able to understand.]

*[Focus. Find it.]

*[A sensation, like eyes sliding shut as the sounds of the city fade, warped and distorted as if he'd been plunged underwater. The shouting of sales pitches dissolves, discarded from the composition. Next, the honking, slowly decrescendoing until it becomes a faint whisper undertneath the thrum of the city.]

*[Listen. Where is it?]

*[The sounds swirl around him, pushing against the edge of his mind, an insistent push, a demand for attention.]

*[It was too much. He couldn't sort through the noise, couldn't surface under the crashing waves of sound.]

(Hmm, hmm, hmm...)

(...!)

*[There. Drawing him along like a gentle current, a guiding light in the storm of sound, the gentle, cascading scales of a viola echo in the darkness.]

(Hell- Hello... Hello, how... are you?)

*[He draws closer, slipping from shadow to shadow, trying to focus on the sound as it stops and starts, making minor adjustments, adjusting its tone and pitch.]

*[This had to be it. As his focus narrows in on the musical phrases, he finds himself wondering once again...]

*[Will they understand?]

(We-lcome. Welcome.)

*[He was close now; he could almost feel the vibrations of the strings rippling through his shadows. He takes a breath.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[The music stirs in his chest as he materializes outside the building.]

[Friday is now outside a massive apartment building. That's... odd? He was probably expecting an office building, but upon looking in through the windows, sure enough, the signage states that this is definitely just housing. It's far too bright inside to travel by shadows.]

[As Friday walks inside, he is immediately hit with blinding LED lights. The lobby is full of random plants, benches much too small to be comfortable, and other decorations.]

[An Addison greets him with what feels like an overly-cheery, rehearsed greeting. It's almost irritating. The way they hold themself almost feels like they're doing it all automatically like some sort of animatronic, like they don't see Friday as more than a spur of movement in front of them. They don't make any effort to stop him as he walks by.]

[The elevator is... also intimidating. Again, bright and uninviting. Off-puttingly clean. The walls are reflective... Friday makes his way to the stairs. Luckily, he only needs to get to the second floor.]

[The hallway isn't nearly as bright as the rest of the building. Let's see here... 210... 211... 213... ah. 219. The sounds of someone practicing their viola are quite clear now. It's not the greatest he's ever heard, but it's definitely not the sound of a beginner. The words have faded a bit, it sounds more like an actual piece now.]

[Knock on the door?]

[shadowguy-friday]

*[I don't want to let go.]

*[Friday's loose grasp on Button's back trembles a bit as he resists the urge to cling tighter, their embrace an answer to his desperate cry for help as he drowns in the cacophony of music churning like a dark, unforgiving ocean in his chest.]

*[What was it they'd said about home, again?]

*[With a start, Friday realizes his cheeks are wet. He quickly drops his arms, stepping back from the hug with an apologetic flute trill as he swipes at his cheeks with the back of his sleeve.]

(Th-nk you.)

*[He wishes he could say something more proufound, more grateful, but the notes feel caught in his chest, tossed like driftwood in the tide, too slippery to grasp. Instead, he steels himself, taking a half-step forward.]

*["...you should really let yourself be... well, you more often!"]

*[...he really hoped Button didn't hate him for this.]

*[He takes a breath, then leans forward, neck bowed as the top of his head gives a gentle 'bump' against Button's shoulder. His face feels as if it's on fire, burning with embarassment. The music in his chest writhes, thrashing about like a frightened animal.]

*[Why did I do that why did I do that why did I do that?]

*[A stuttered, hasty piano arpeggio tumbles from his lips as he backs away, nearly tripping over his own feet.]

(I- I'm so- I'm s-rry, I- I sh-uld be going now, there's pr-bably... traffic! Traff-c, yes-! In, in the city.)

*[Unable to face Button's reaction, whatever it may be, Friday turns, practically leaping into the nearest shadow cast onto the wall.]

*[He'd just made, quite possibly, the biggest mistake of his friendship with Button. Now he could only hope it didn't think less of him for the uncharacteristic display. Hopefully, in comparison, braving the lights and sounds of Cyber City wouldn't be so... overwhelming.]

*[He reaches out, his consciousness flowing through shadow toward the edge of TV World. The music thrums in his ears.]

*[Now, more than ever, he needed to be heard.]

[It’s a floral-smelling envelope. It’s addressed to… well, the designation is hard to make out at first, but written very clearly next to it is “Friday”. Inside is a piece of standard sheet music, in… alto clef? It’s not perfect, but it’s a letter written in musical notation. It reads…]

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composition skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office my friend.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

[There’s something else in here… there’s two tea bags of rhapsotea in here. That must be why it smelled so pleasant.]

*[Friday starts upright from his position on the couch, startled at the soft 'thwip' of an envelope materializing and falling onto the coffee table alongside the bottles of alchohol. His ears twitch as he peers down at the innocent rectangle staring up at him.]

*[He spares a glance over at Button. Still fast asleep. Slowly, he reaches out a hand, fingers brushing over the smooth paper as he reads the address line. To his surprise, it's not addressed to Chip, it's addressed to-]

Shadowguy #22

Friday

*[To him. By his chosen name, no less. A prickle of uncertainty crawls up his back. Who does he know that would send him a letter like this? If they needed anything, they'd usually just... find him at the studio.]

*[Friday glances over his shoulder at Button, still slumped peacefully against the arm of the sofa, then back to the letter. With a whisper of shadow, he stands from his seat and plucks the envelope from the table, moving to the kitchen with the previously forgotten mug of tea cradled in one hand.]

*[He leans over the counter, resting his elbows on the cool surface as he sets the mug down with a quiet 'clink', rubbing his thumb over the texture of the envelope. His ears perk in surprise as the floral scent reaches him. It's... pleasant. Strong, but not overpowering.]

*[With a beat of hesitation, he turns the envelope over, sliding his finger under the seam of the flap to break the wax seal, a pink, slightly shimmering depiction of a flower. With a soft 'shhh' of paper sliding on paper, he withdraws the contents of the envelope, unfolding it carefully and turning it back over to read.]

*[It's...]

*[Sheet music. His shadows ripple in gentle surprise, his tail flicking curiously behind him. The art of communicating through compositions was almost completely lost, the only exception being shadowguys themselves.]

*[Now intensely curious, Friday's gaze flicks to the key. ]

*[4/4 time, in... alto clef? He tilts his head, a single curious flute trill warbling quietly. As he began to read the first set of carefully penned phrases, another curious ripple moves through his form.]

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composting skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office friendly.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

*[He sets the letter down, tail slowly swishing from side to side as he absently smoothes the creases in the paper. Someone had actually reached out to him. In his own language. Without judgement or passive-agressive comments on its complicated structure.]

*[His gaze wanders back to the penned notes as he takes another sip of tea, and a hand flies to his mouth as a soft titter of chimes rings through the room, a bright silver bell in the gloom.]

(...c-composting?)

*[He has to fight the shaking of his shoulders, quietly pressing down the laughter at the simple translation error. It wasn't born of malicous intent, but rather, a fond amusement. The warmth spreading through his chest had less to do with the now soothing warmth of the tea, and more to do with the feeling of recognition, of someone truly trying to understand that the written music had brought him.]

*[As his amusement fades, Friday looks back to the living room, to the covered statue. Something twists painfully in his chest. He hadn't considered it before, but maybe...]

*[If someone cared enough to attempt communicating in musical notation, then maybe...]

*[His ears droop, eyes falling back to the letter. There would still be inevitable miscommunications, it seemed. Still, something cold and heavy in his chest cries out, begging him to accept the offer, to finally allow himself to be vulnerable without having to filter his words or simplifying his phrases.]

*[He raises the mug to his lips again, emptying it into his mouth. The last drops of tea send a ripple of warmth through his shadows, a gentle, hopeful 'thrum' of orchestral strings.]

*[He looks to the living room. He looks to Button, to the carefully covered statue on the bean bag chair.]

*[...he had to try. Just once. If it went poorly, it wasn't as if he was obligated to return. An anxious flicker shoots its way through his arms, distorting the shadow there. He bites back a noise of distress.]

(...!)

*[...and he really, really needed to let the churning symphony in his chest be heard. Supressing it was becoming... painful.]

*[Making up his mind, Friday makes his way back to the living room shadows weaving with ease around the familar furniture of Chip's apartment as he settles onto his knees in front of Button.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[Friday reaches out, settling a hand on its shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. Soothed by the dark candy root tea, Friday's music weaves through the air with gentle grace, a soft viola melody designed to coax the zapper from sleep gently.]

(Button... Button, wake up.)

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday's posture relaxes marginally as Button's reassurances wash over him. The words fall like a warm summer's rain, each drop gently washing away the rising pressure in his chest. He inhales slowly, the air drawing into his shadows a cool, calming balm against the storm of music inside.]

... We'll find him. I don't care how long it takes, arright?

*[His ears give a surprised flick as Button opens its arms again. For a moment, he wants to withdraw, to rebuff the affection. Why would Button want to hug him when he looked like this...? This wasn't him. He was supposed to be...]

*[A shiver ripples through his form, a memory floating to the surface of his mind, unbidden. "Hey, Friday... you should really let yourself be... well, you more often! It's kinda contagious, y'know? When you're happy, I'm happy!" Chip's words that day had followed a particularly embarassing incident where Friday had been caught napping contentedly in a perfectly placed patch of sunlight. Luckily, he'd stopped himself from purring before he was caught, but...]

*["When you're happy, I'm happy!"]

*[Friday's gaze flicks up to Button, waiting with open arms, and wonders if it feels the same way, too.]

*[It feels like a monumental effort, but he takes a step forward, his head bobbing with a timid nod as his ears flatten themselves back once more.]

*[Maybe he could allow himself this, a quiet, fleeting moment of comfort before weathering the storm.]

[It’s a floral-smelling envelope. It’s addressed to… well, the designation is hard to make out at first, but written very clearly next to it is “Friday”. Inside is a piece of standard sheet music, in… alto clef? It’s not perfect, but it’s a letter written in musical notation. It reads…]

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composition skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office my friend.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

[There’s something else in here… there’s two tea bags of rhapsotea in here. That must be why it smelled so pleasant.]

*[Friday starts upright from his position on the couch, startled at the soft 'thwip' of an envelope materializing and falling onto the coffee table alongside the bottles of alchohol. His ears twitch as he peers down at the innocent rectangle staring up at him.]

*[He spares a glance over at Button. Still fast asleep. Slowly, he reaches out a hand, fingers brushing over the smooth paper as he reads the address line. To his surprise, it's not addressed to Chip, it's addressed to-]

Shadowguy #22

Friday

*[To him. By his chosen name, no less. A prickle of uncertainty crawls up his back. Who does he know that would send him a letter like this? If they needed anything, they'd usually just... find him at the studio.]

*[Friday glances over his shoulder at Button, still slumped peacefully against the arm of the sofa, then back to the letter. With a whisper of shadow, he stands from his seat and plucks the envelope from the table, moving to the kitchen with the previously forgotten mug of tea cradled in one hand.]

*[He leans over the counter, resting his elbows on the cool surface as he sets the mug down with a quiet 'clink', rubbing his thumb over the texture of the envelope. His ears perk in surprise as the floral scent reaches him. It's... pleasant. Strong, but not overpowering.]

*[With a beat of hesitation, he turns the envelope over, sliding his finger under the seam of the flap to break the wax seal, a pink, slightly shimmering depiction of a flower. With a soft 'shhh' of paper sliding on paper, he withdraws the contents of the envelope, unfolding it carefully and turning it back over to read.]

*[It's...]

*[Sheet music. His shadows ripple in gentle surprise, his tail flicking curiously behind him. The art of communicating through compositions was almost completely lost, the only exception being shadowguys themselves.]

*[Now intensely curious, Friday's gaze flicks to the key. ]

*[4/4 time, in... alto clef? He tilts his head, a single curious flute trill warbling quietly. As he began to read the first set of carefully penned phrases, another curious ripple moves through his form.]

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composting skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office friendly.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

*[He sets the letter down, tail slowly swishing from side to side as he absently smoothes the creases in the paper. Someone had actually reached out to him. In his own language. Without judgement or passive-agressive comments on its complicated structure.]

*[His gaze wanders back to the penned notes as he takes another sip of tea, and a hand flies to his mouth as a soft titter of chimes rings through the room, a bright silver bell in the gloom.]

(...c-composting?)

*[He has to fight the shaking of his shoulders, quietly pressing down the laughter at the simple translation error. It wasn't born of malicous intent, but rather, a fond amusement. The warmth spreading through his chest had less to do with the now soothing warmth of the tea, and more to do with the feeling of recognition, of someone truly trying to understand that the written music had brought him.]

*[As his amusement fades, Friday looks back to the living room, to the covered statue. Something twists painfully in his chest. He hadn't considered it before, but maybe...]

*[If someone cared enough to attempt communicating in musical notation, then maybe...]

*[His ears droop, eyes falling back to the letter. There would still be inevitable miscommunications, it seemed. Still, something cold and heavy in his chest cries out, begging him to accept the offer, to finally allow himself to be vulnerable without having to filter his words or simplifying his phrases.]

*[He raises the mug to his lips again, emptying it into his mouth. The last drops of tea send a ripple of warmth through his shadows, a gentle, hopeful 'thrum' of orchestral strings.]

*[He looks to the living room. He looks to Button, to the carefully covered statue on the bean bag chair.]

*[...he had to try. Just once. If it went poorly, it wasn't as if he was obligated to return. An anxious flicker shoots its way through his arms, distorting the shadow there. He bites back a noise of distress.]

(...!)

*[...and he really, really needed to let the churning symphony in his chest be heard. Supressing it was becoming... painful.]

*[Making up his mind, Friday makes his way back to the living room shadows weaving with ease around the familar furniture of Chip's apartment as he settles onto his knees in front of Button.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[Friday reaches out, settling a hand on its shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. Soothed by the dark candy root tea, Friday's music weaves through the air with gentle grace, a soft viola melody designed to coax the zapper from sleep gently.]

(Button... Button, wake up.)

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday stares down at the stack of D$ Button was handing him with a bewildered expression. He reaches out, taking the money from it with careful movements. He briefly considers protesting, telling Button that they gave him too much, but stops himself. Maybe he'd be able to get something for Button, too? They deserved a treat after... all this.]

*[He pockets the D$ with a grateful flute trill.]

(I... Thank y-u, Button.)

*[He tugs at the scarf around his neck, its comforting warmth suddenly feeling a bit stifiling at Button's generosity. They were giving him so much... he had to find some way to pay it back once this was all over.]

*[Friday excuses himself to the hallway, quickly tucking his tail into his pant leg again before re-emerging, nervously fidgeting with the loose patch on his scarf as he strides to the kitchen, picking the still-scented envelope off the counter and turning it over to read the address again.]

*[Friday turns back to button, a timid pizzicato of viola strings dances through the air as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, trying to prepare himself to step outside the apartment without the usual shield of his hat to hide his ears.]

(Ok-y. Okay, I think I'm re-dy. You'll... y-u'll m-ssage me if y-u find anyth-ng, right?)

*[Friday's gaze is pleading, his reluctance to leave clear in his posture and the way his attention continues to flit between Button and the covered statue.]

[It’s a floral-smelling envelope. It’s addressed to… well, the designation is hard to make out at first, but written very clearly next to it is “Friday”. Inside is a piece of standard sheet music, in… alto clef? It’s not perfect, but it’s a letter written in musical notation. It reads…]

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composition skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office my friend.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

[There’s something else in here… there’s two tea bags of rhapsotea in here. That must be why it smelled so pleasant.]

*[Friday starts upright from his position on the couch, startled at the soft 'thwip' of an envelope materializing and falling onto the coffee table alongside the bottles of alchohol. His ears twitch as he peers down at the innocent rectangle staring up at him.]

*[He spares a glance over at Button. Still fast asleep. Slowly, he reaches out a hand, fingers brushing over the smooth paper as he reads the address line. To his surprise, it's not addressed to Chip, it's addressed to-]

Shadowguy #22

Friday

*[To him. By his chosen name, no less. A prickle of uncertainty crawls up his back. Who does he know that would send him a letter like this? If they needed anything, they'd usually just... find him at the studio.]

*[Friday glances over his shoulder at Button, still slumped peacefully against the arm of the sofa, then back to the letter. With a whisper of shadow, he stands from his seat and plucks the envelope from the table, moving to the kitchen with the previously forgotten mug of tea cradled in one hand.]

*[He leans over the counter, resting his elbows on the cool surface as he sets the mug down with a quiet 'clink', rubbing his thumb over the texture of the envelope. His ears perk in surprise as the floral scent reaches him. It's... pleasant. Strong, but not overpowering.]

*[With a beat of hesitation, he turns the envelope over, sliding his finger under the seam of the flap to break the wax seal, a pink, slightly shimmering depiction of a flower. With a soft 'shhh' of paper sliding on paper, he withdraws the contents of the envelope, unfolding it carefully and turning it back over to read.]

*[It's...]

*[Sheet music. His shadows ripple in gentle surprise, his tail flicking curiously behind him. The art of communicating through compositions was almost completely lost, the only exception being shadowguys themselves.]

*[Now intensely curious, Friday's gaze flicks to the key. ]

*[4/4 time, in... alto clef? He tilts his head, a single curious flute trill warbling quietly. As he began to read the first set of carefully penned phrases, another curious ripple moves through his form.]

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composting skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office friendly.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

*[He sets the letter down, tail slowly swishing from side to side as he absently smoothes the creases in the paper. Someone had actually reached out to him. In his own language. Without judgement or passive-agressive comments on its complicated structure.]

*[His gaze wanders back to the penned notes as he takes another sip of tea, and a hand flies to his mouth as a soft titter of chimes rings through the room, a bright silver bell in the gloom.]

(...c-composting?)

*[He has to fight the shaking of his shoulders, quietly pressing down the laughter at the simple translation error. It wasn't born of malicous intent, but rather, a fond amusement. The warmth spreading through his chest had less to do with the now soothing warmth of the tea, and more to do with the feeling of recognition, of someone truly trying to understand that the written music had brought him.]

*[As his amusement fades, Friday looks back to the living room, to the covered statue. Something twists painfully in his chest. He hadn't considered it before, but maybe...]

*[If someone cared enough to attempt communicating in musical notation, then maybe...]

*[His ears droop, eyes falling back to the letter. There would still be inevitable miscommunications, it seemed. Still, something cold and heavy in his chest cries out, begging him to accept the offer, to finally allow himself to be vulnerable without having to filter his words or simplifying his phrases.]

*[He raises the mug to his lips again, emptying it into his mouth. The last drops of tea send a ripple of warmth through his shadows, a gentle, hopeful 'thrum' of orchestral strings.]

*[He looks to the living room. He looks to Button, to the carefully covered statue on the bean bag chair.]

*[...he had to try. Just once. If it went poorly, it wasn't as if he was obligated to return. An anxious flicker shoots its way through his arms, distorting the shadow there. He bites back a noise of distress.]

(...!)

*[...and he really, really needed to let the churning symphony in his chest be heard. Supressing it was becoming... painful.]

*[Making up his mind, Friday makes his way back to the living room shadows weaving with ease around the familar furniture of Chip's apartment as he settles onto his knees in front of Button.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[Friday reaches out, settling a hand on its shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. Soothed by the dark candy root tea, Friday's music weaves through the air with gentle grace, a soft viola melody designed to coax the zapper from sleep gently.]

(Button... Button, wake up.)

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday looks to the side, a bit embarassed. Of course he'd need $D. He didn't think of that, and stopping to convert his POINTs while he was... exposed like this didn't sound appealing. He tries not to cringe as his nails accidentally dig into his tail a bit rougher than he intended. He reluctantly releases it, nodding at Button with a quiet chime of xylophone notes.]

(...that would be n-ce. I can trade you my POINTs f-r them.)

*[As Button rummages around for its $D, Friday's gaze falls to the Glowshard, resting innocently on the coffee table shimmering softly with a shifting rainbow of colors, like light dancing through a prism. The melody squirms in his chest as if reacting to the soft melodic hum emenating from the stone.]

*[Friday's ears twitch, a bit of heat rising to his face as he remembers his plan for the glimmering shard of light. He stoops quietly, scooping up the Glowshard and tucking it away in his inventory. Perhaps he'd be able to find a jewler in Cyber City, too...]

[It’s a floral-smelling envelope. It’s addressed to… well, the designation is hard to make out at first, but written very clearly next to it is “Friday”. Inside is a piece of standard sheet music, in… alto clef? It’s not perfect, but it’s a letter written in musical notation. It reads…]

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composition skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office my friend.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

[There’s something else in here… there’s two tea bags of rhapsotea in here. That must be why it smelled so pleasant.]

*[Friday starts upright from his position on the couch, startled at the soft 'thwip' of an envelope materializing and falling onto the coffee table alongside the bottles of alchohol. His ears twitch as he peers down at the innocent rectangle staring up at him.]

*[He spares a glance over at Button. Still fast asleep. Slowly, he reaches out a hand, fingers brushing over the smooth paper as he reads the address line. To his surprise, it's not addressed to Chip, it's addressed to-]

Shadowguy #22

Friday

*[To him. By his chosen name, no less. A prickle of uncertainty crawls up his back. Who does he know that would send him a letter like this? If they needed anything, they'd usually just... find him at the studio.]

*[Friday glances over his shoulder at Button, still slumped peacefully against the arm of the sofa, then back to the letter. With a whisper of shadow, he stands from his seat and plucks the envelope from the table, moving to the kitchen with the previously forgotten mug of tea cradled in one hand.]

*[He leans over the counter, resting his elbows on the cool surface as he sets the mug down with a quiet 'clink', rubbing his thumb over the texture of the envelope. His ears perk in surprise as the floral scent reaches him. It's... pleasant. Strong, but not overpowering.]

*[With a beat of hesitation, he turns the envelope over, sliding his finger under the seam of the flap to break the wax seal, a pink, slightly shimmering depiction of a flower. With a soft 'shhh' of paper sliding on paper, he withdraws the contents of the envelope, unfolding it carefully and turning it back over to read.]

*[It's...]

*[Sheet music. His shadows ripple in gentle surprise, his tail flicking curiously behind him. The art of communicating through compositions was almost completely lost, the only exception being shadowguys themselves.]

*[Now intensely curious, Friday's gaze flicks to the key. ]

*[4/4 time, in... alto clef? He tilts his head, a single curious flute trill warbling quietly. As he began to read the first set of carefully penned phrases, another curious ripple moves through his form.]

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composting skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office friendly.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

*[He sets the letter down, tail slowly swishing from side to side as he absently smoothes the creases in the paper. Someone had actually reached out to him. In his own language. Without judgement or passive-agressive comments on its complicated structure.]

*[His gaze wanders back to the penned notes as he takes another sip of tea, and a hand flies to his mouth as a soft titter of chimes rings through the room, a bright silver bell in the gloom.]

(...c-composting?)

*[He has to fight the shaking of his shoulders, quietly pressing down the laughter at the simple translation error. It wasn't born of malicous intent, but rather, a fond amusement. The warmth spreading through his chest had less to do with the now soothing warmth of the tea, and more to do with the feeling of recognition, of someone truly trying to understand that the written music had brought him.]

*[As his amusement fades, Friday looks back to the living room, to the covered statue. Something twists painfully in his chest. He hadn't considered it before, but maybe...]

*[If someone cared enough to attempt communicating in musical notation, then maybe...]

*[His ears droop, eyes falling back to the letter. There would still be inevitable miscommunications, it seemed. Still, something cold and heavy in his chest cries out, begging him to accept the offer, to finally allow himself to be vulnerable without having to filter his words or simplifying his phrases.]

*[He raises the mug to his lips again, emptying it into his mouth. The last drops of tea send a ripple of warmth through his shadows, a gentle, hopeful 'thrum' of orchestral strings.]

*[He looks to the living room. He looks to Button, to the carefully covered statue on the bean bag chair.]

*[...he had to try. Just once. If it went poorly, it wasn't as if he was obligated to return. An anxious flicker shoots its way through his arms, distorting the shadow there. He bites back a noise of distress.]

(...!)

*[...and he really, really needed to let the churning symphony in his chest be heard. Supressing it was becoming... painful.]

*[Making up his mind, Friday makes his way back to the living room shadows weaving with ease around the familar furniture of Chip's apartment as he settles onto his knees in front of Button.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[Friday reaches out, settling a hand on its shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. Soothed by the dark candy root tea, Friday's music weaves through the air with gentle grace, a soft viola melody designed to coax the zapper from sleep gently.]

(Button... Button, wake up.)

[shadowguy-friday]

*[Friday's torn for a moment. If Button was in contact with someone who could help Chip, he should be there, shouldn't he? Maybe he'd be alright for a while longer...]

*[The symphony writhing in his chest gives a sharp, painful twist, forcing him to grit back a strangled scream of violin strings. His shadows give a noticable, sharp flicker.]

*[...or maybe not. The ache was fading less and less every time now, a string pushed to its limit, a reed with one too many cracks. He needed to let the music out if he was going to find Chip and... finally tell him, finally show off that composition he'd been preparing for months.]

*[The soothing warmth brought by the tea was beginning to fade. Friday clears his throat with a harsh 'ksh, ksh!' of cymbals, tail sweeping behind him nervously.]

(Ok-y. Just... promise me y-u'll let me kn-w right away if you f-nd anything. Anything at all.)

*[His gaze lands on the second mug of tea he'd brewed for Button, now lukewarm, sitting on the coffee table next to the bottles of alchohol.]

(I m-de you some tea. Dark candy r-ot. You m-ght need to... reheat it.)

*[His tail bumps against the coffee table as it swishes side to side in embarassment. Letting out a low double bass hum of frustration, he turns and catches the end, forcibly stopping its motion. He turns to look at Button with a sheepish, wobbling series of piano chords.]

(Do you... h-ppen to kn-w somewhere in Cyber City I c-uld b-y a hat? D-n't want to upset anyone with... these.)

*[He gestures up at his ears with a motion that practically drips with shame.]

[It’s a floral-smelling envelope. It’s addressed to… well, the designation is hard to make out at first, but written very clearly next to it is “Friday”. Inside is a piece of standard sheet music, in… alto clef? It’s not perfect, but it’s a letter written in musical notation. It reads…]

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composition skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office my friend.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

[There’s something else in here… there’s two tea bags of rhapsotea in here. That must be why it smelled so pleasant.]

*[Friday starts upright from his position on the couch, startled at the soft 'thwip' of an envelope materializing and falling onto the coffee table alongside the bottles of alchohol. His ears twitch as he peers down at the innocent rectangle staring up at him.]

*[He spares a glance over at Button. Still fast asleep. Slowly, he reaches out a hand, fingers brushing over the smooth paper as he reads the address line. To his surprise, it's not addressed to Chip, it's addressed to-]

Shadowguy #22

Friday

*[To him. By his chosen name, no less. A prickle of uncertainty crawls up his back. Who does he know that would send him a letter like this? If they needed anything, they'd usually just... find him at the studio.]

*[Friday glances over his shoulder at Button, still slumped peacefully against the arm of the sofa, then back to the letter. With a whisper of shadow, he stands from his seat and plucks the envelope from the table, moving to the kitchen with the previously forgotten mug of tea cradled in one hand.]

*[He leans over the counter, resting his elbows on the cool surface as he sets the mug down with a quiet 'clink', rubbing his thumb over the texture of the envelope. His ears perk in surprise as the floral scent reaches him. It's... pleasant. Strong, but not overpowering.]

*[With a beat of hesitation, he turns the envelope over, sliding his finger under the seam of the flap to break the wax seal, a pink, slightly shimmering depiction of a flower. With a soft 'shhh' of paper sliding on paper, he withdraws the contents of the envelope, unfolding it carefully and turning it back over to read.]

*[It's...]

*[Sheet music. His shadows ripple in gentle surprise, his tail flicking curiously behind him. The art of communicating through compositions was almost completely lost, the only exception being shadowguys themselves.]

*[Now intensely curious, Friday's gaze flicks to the key. ]

*[4/4 time, in... alto clef? He tilts his head, a single curious flute trill warbling quietly. As he began to read the first set of carefully penned phrases, another curious ripple moves through his form.]

Hello.

My name is Cassia. I have heard from a mutual friend of ours that you have lately been struggling. I work in Cyber City and I am not only partnered with “Mr. “Ant” Tenna’s TV Time!” in mental health advertising, but I also work for a mental health clinic. I want to offer my services to you. I have heard much about you and your music, it is impressive from what I hear. I have worked with many shadowguys before, and I myself play various instruments. Although my composting skills are not as good as before, but I promise that my speaking and listening skills are much stronger. I hope to see you in my office friendly.

@ask-cassiaaddison 8^)

*[He sets the letter down, tail slowly swishing from side to side as he absently smoothes the creases in the paper. Someone had actually reached out to him. In his own language. Without judgement or passive-agressive comments on its complicated structure.]

*[His gaze wanders back to the penned notes as he takes another sip of tea, and a hand flies to his mouth as a soft titter of chimes rings through the room, a bright silver bell in the gloom.]

(...c-composting?)

*[He has to fight the shaking of his shoulders, quietly pressing down the laughter at the simple translation error. It wasn't born of malicous intent, but rather, a fond amusement. The warmth spreading through his chest had less to do with the now soothing warmth of the tea, and more to do with the feeling of recognition, of someone truly trying to understand that the written music had brought him.]

*[As his amusement fades, Friday looks back to the living room, to the covered statue. Something twists painfully in his chest. He hadn't considered it before, but maybe...]

*[If someone cared enough to attempt communicating in musical notation, then maybe...]

*[His ears droop, eyes falling back to the letter. There would still be inevitable miscommunications, it seemed. Still, something cold and heavy in his chest cries out, begging him to accept the offer, to finally allow himself to be vulnerable without having to filter his words or simplifying his phrases.]

*[He raises the mug to his lips again, emptying it into his mouth. The last drops of tea send a ripple of warmth through his shadows, a gentle, hopeful 'thrum' of orchestral strings.]

*[He looks to the living room. He looks to Button, to the carefully covered statue on the bean bag chair.]

*[...he had to try. Just once. If it went poorly, it wasn't as if he was obligated to return. An anxious flicker shoots its way through his arms, distorting the shadow there. He bites back a noise of distress.]

(...!)

*[...and he really, really needed to let the churning symphony in his chest be heard. Supressing it was becoming... painful.]

*[Making up his mind, Friday makes his way back to the living room shadows weaving with ease around the familar furniture of Chip's apartment as he settles onto his knees in front of Button.]

*[Inhale. Exhale.]

*[Friday reaches out, settling a hand on its shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. Soothed by the dark candy root tea, Friday's music weaves through the air with gentle grace, a soft viola melody designed to coax the zapper from sleep gently.]

(Button... Button, wake up.)