*[Friday's hands tense, his grip tightening on his instrument at Vestal's thinly veiled threat. His claws dig into the fingerboard, scraping along the polished surface with a discordant screech.]
*[Friday can't stop himself from looking into those glassy white voids in Vestal's face. He sees his own shadow, shrouded in static, standing alone and unsure, staring back at him.]
That's some pretty music you're making there, dear. A touch unrefined, perhaps, but it has potential.
*[A surprised flute trill, followed by a hesitant clarinet scale.]
Hm... now, that's something different! You can change instruments?
*[A low, hesitant hum of double bass, accompanied by an apprehensive, rising cello scale.]
Say, why are you out here by yourself? A pretty little songbird like yourself should be up on stage!
Oh, I see. That washed-up CRT doesn't appreciate you, does he? Well, that won't do.
*[A low, mournful baritone saxophone note, ascending into a questioning crescendo of woodwinds.]
It's my business card, dear. If you need a friend in the industry, you just give me a call.
I'll make your wildest dreams come true.
*[The memory is scattered by a bright flash of white shooting across Friday's vision, slamming directly into Vestal's face and sending the deranged Addison stumbling back, clutching at his face.]
You’se not takin’ ANYBODY away from Friday. I don’t care what it takes ta stop ya, but no way I’s EVA. LEAVIN’ HIS SIDE. Not me, not Cassia, not Chip, not ANYBODY.
*[Friday's grip on the viola wavers, the melody in his chest swelling in a joyous, sweeping crescendo as Button's words reach him.]
You’s a real sad excuse for a darkna, eh? Someone oughta teach ya ‘bout a lil sometin’ called “order”.
*[The smell of melting plastic is becoming more and more potent.]
A̵̲͔̾̋Ú̵̻̤G̷̪͓͝Ḧ̵̞́-̴͎̭̉!̸̘͂
*[Vestal keeps one hand over his face where Button's attack made contact, hissing through his teeth as his other hand blindly fumbles for his earpiece, missing several times before making contact. He freezes.]
*[The hand over his face slowly drags its way down, smearing the pixels in a grotesque imitation of melting plastic before the pixels glitch violently once more, snapping back into place. The room is getting opressively warm.]
*[Vestal's voice cracks, his hand digging into the side of his head as his face glitches violently once more. His chest heaves, the hand that was on his face now clutching the front of his shirt as he staggers from side to side, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.]
N̶o̷,̶ ̸n̷o̵,̵ ̶n̸o̵,̴ ̴n̶o̶,̷ ̷n̵o̵.̷.̶.̶
*[Friday's ears pin back at the disturbing sight of Vestal's condition worsening, the manic movements and distorted sounds an awful cacophony in his ears. He shuffles back a step to be closer to Button and Cassia, seeking support in their presence.]
*[He's seen Vestal overclock before—late night recording sessions, high stakes contract negotiations, even the odd fight with another Addison—but he's never seen it get so bad before. Usually, overclocking provided Vestal with an extra boost of processing power, making it easier for him to complete particularily strenuous tasks, but this was something else entirely.]
*[This was self-destruction in the pursuit of control.]
*[Friday brushes his tail against Cassia's leg this time, a simultaneous plea for support and a silent reassurance.]
*[Vestal, still clawing at the side of his own face, snaps his neck up to look directly at Button.]
W̸h̶a̸t̴ ̴d̵i̵d̸ ̸y̷o̵u̸ ̸D̵O̷?̶
*[His voice is fraught with frayed, synthetic noise as he lurches toward the Zapper with halting, jerky movements.]
Y̴o̴u̶ ̴b̸r̵o̶k̷e̴ ̴i̷t̷!̷ ̶Y̶o̴u̵ ̷B̸̹̟̪͚͑̀̌̚R̶̢̤̺̻̈́̈Ọ̸͆Ķ̵̪̺̣͗͗̑̽Ë̴͈̠ ̶̨̠̈́̏̔̓͜Ì̵̡̩̟T̸̡̗̔̀̓̿!̷͉̗̩̠̦͌̅
*[Vestal makes a clumsy swipe at Button. It can feel the heat radiating off of him as his hand misses their shoulder by inches. He lets out a frustrated shriek and lunges forward-]
*[A harsh cymbal crash and sizzle pierces the air as a blur of shadow jumps between Button and Vestal. Friday's viola clatters to the floor with a harsh ringing of strings.]
*[Vestal staggers back, clutching his arm—now sporting four gouges of nothingness, sparking wildly as if the pixels were forcibly torn out—screeching horribly as his form distorts, nearly tearing itself apart in shock.]
F̷̢̎͛͌̏ͅŲ̴͚̹̃́C̴̦̺͇͕̝̎̒̒̚Ḱ̷͇̪-!
*[Friday stands between Button and Vestal, claw-tipped hands still tensed in front of him. He's tensed, tail puffed in anger, ears pinned back. His mouth opens in a jarring snarl of grating strings and hissing cymbals.]
(I said, you won't hurt my friends.)
*[For the first time since the start of the battle, a flicker of genuine fear shoots across Vestal's face.]
[*The audience is silent.]
