Chica The Chicen

The stage is empty. Freddie and Bonnie had been taken away for maintenance that morning, and an unusual silence fell over the room. Only Bonnie's guitar—the very one he never leaves his side—remains where it belongs. Strange. Why didn't he take it with him? Perhaps Bonnie forgot, as usual, or they didn't allow it.

Chica stands to the side, nervously shifting from paw to paw. She'd dreamed of this for a long time. Back when Bonnie first arrived, she'd timidly asked him how his song program was set up, how he plucked the strings... He'd only chuckled and said nothing. But Chica remembered. Remembered everything.

She approaches the guitar cautiously, her metal fingers trembling. Slowly, afraid to make any unnecessary noise, she picks up the instrument and creeps into the kitchen.

Chica: her voice sounds childish, with delight
—"Oh my god... I've never held a real electric guitar in my hands!"

She runs her palm over the strings. A quiet, clumsy, yet melodic ringing is heard.

"I wonder how I'll do... I hope Bonnie and Freddie don't come soon."