Abilities: Machi is primarily a talented pianist, but he is actually musically talented in general, although he's never played any other instrument or even tried to learn one, and he still holds his greatest affinity for the piano. He almost certainly has perfect pitch, and is possessed of very sensitive hearing--hypersensitive, possibly, but either way he is basically a gifted and perceptive kid, very smart and hardworking in certain circumstances. His history expands on this a bit. Given an unfamiliar instrument and a basic demonstration (or even without one), he could mostly likely familiarise himself and learn out how to play quickly--which is to say, in a matter of minutes or hours (depending on whether it's a guitar or a theremin or a didgeridoo--the more obtuse the instrument, the longer it'd take.) He's also extremely adaptable--maybe too adaptable--and more than clever enough to take advantage of it.

First Person: [Descending from the train, Machi wanders the station in confusion, agitation, and no small amount of distress. A small, young-looking boy with pale porcelain skin and fine blond hair, he is dressed in the blue and white stripes indicative of prison garb. His shoes are blue loafers, the kind with no laces.

Much of his face is obscured by a pair of large black reflective sunglasses.

He has no idea what just happened or how he got here, but he can't be here--he doesn't know where it is, but he has to find out and get back immediately.

He clutches the watch tightly, fearfully; it is from the corner of his eye that he spots the posters, and it is from there that he reads it--slowly, perhaps, and with a bit of difficulty, but eventually he gets the point.

Except that the point is even worse.

He hesitates before opening the watch, making sure first that he is standing in an alcove, a little corner of obscurity where his back is to the wall, his shoulders against the bricks, before flipping the cold metal device open.

A few minutes later, the face of a fragile, doll-like boy appears on the network, his expression--and vision--hidden by the impassive black sunglasses over his eyes.]

.....I.... I am need help.

Third Person: Machi sat on the floor of the living room, impatient but quiet. The furniture around him was stripped, and actually much of it had been reorganised and repurposed--the better to support the comical structure in the far corner that Trucy had dubbed a blanket fort. Machi thought it looked more like a childish attempt at a shantyhome, but (predictably) hadn't actually said that.

What he'd said instead was 'okay.'

That was also what he'd said when she'd told him to take charge of it while she was gone.

Well, it was what he'd said after "but--" and she'd cut him off and told him it was very important, which he severely questioned, but (again) not out loud. Maybe if it hadn't been Trucy, but...

Oh, who was he kidding--he got pressed into a lot of things because he either had sense enough to keep his mouth shut or else not enough sense not to keep his mouth shut.

Either way, now he was in charge of a 'blanket fort.'

It wasn't like he had anything else to do today.