Chapter Text
Scaramouche hadn’t expected to run into a human amidst the thick woodland trees. Especially not alone, braving the freezing air and icy wind only hours before nightfall. The white-haired human thankfully hadn’t noticed him, preoccupied with investigating a frost-covered tree meters away. Still, Scaramouche silenced his breathing, clutching the bloodstained scalpel in his bandaged hand hidden beneath his worn and massive brown coat sleeve. He couldn’t let himself be seen.
He needed however much mora the human had. And there was only one way to get it. He realized that back in the city the moment he recognized that the group of humans cornering him were out for blood, demanding he hand over any mora he had. They wouldn’t answer his questions about what mora was or believe him when he said he had none. Slashing at one of their hands with his stolen scalpel had been the only way to escape, and even then, he cut it close.
If violence was the language of humanity, then he would learn it. Because he needed to blend in. The Doctor lied about many things, but Scaramouche was sure that wasn’t one of them.
Humans would never accept a puppet as one of their own. He’d be nothing but a plaything to them. A tool for anything they saw fit. Being a test subject was the best outcome humanity could offer him as a puppet. It was his purpose. His-
Blinking rapidly with a shiver, Scaramouche willed the Doctor’s words out of his mind. He didn’t want to think about them anymore. Not when every tall shape in the forest around him could easily blur and transform into the Doctor’s imposing figure, or every gust of wind could carry with it a hint of the man’s smooth, detached voice. His hands had already started to tremble from his thoughts alone, and he nearly took a reflexive breath to calm himself before he remembered where he was.
Right. He was in the middle of the woods, far from the lab, planning to steal a human’s mora. There was no Doctor. Bandages hid any puppet joints his bodysuit and long coat did not, and he had a weapon to defend himself.
He took one last peek at the human. The person appeared close to his size, dressed in a thick maroon coat and a black and red scarf, still oddly focused on the tree. Now was likely the best time to take action, he realized. He needed the element of surprise.
Scaramouche stepped out from behind the tree only seconds before realizing that he had no clue how to go about any of this. At the same time, the white-haired human turned around to face him, his red eyes lit up with curiosity. When he spoke, it sounded cautious, but friendly.
“... I haven’t come across a fellow wanderer in quite some time. Are you-”
“Give me your mora,” said Scaramouche. When the human just blinked, he held out his scalpel, willing his hand to remain steady. “If you give me everything you have, I’ll let you live.”
The human let out a tiny ‘oh’, having the nerve to blink at him again before checking his pockets.
“It seems I’ve brought none with me,” he said, having come up empty handed. He showed Scaramouche his palms as flimsy proof.
“Do you seriously think I’d believe that? All- everyone has mora.” Scaramouche took a threatening step closer, reminding himself of how the city humans went about trying to rob him.
Aside from a quick glance at Scaramouche’s weapon, the human didn’t react. He kept his hands where Scaramouche could see them. “Yes, but there’s no purpose carrying it out here in the woods. It has no use here.”
His confusion toward the human’s lack of urgency quickly blossomed into a boiling frustration. He had all the power here. The human had to realize that. Yet there he stood, calm as if Scaramouche had asked him about his evening plans.
“Stop lying. My patience is limited,” Scaramouche hissed.
“I’m telling the truth,” the human said. “But if you need mora, I can spare some. My home is nearby, I can take you to it.”
Scaramouche narrowed his eyes. No matter how unassuming, humans were still humans. They almost always hid ulterior motives beneath simple requests. However, that didn’t change the facts of the situation. This human was both visibly unarmed and under the impression that Scaramouche was also human. Which meant that as long as the human remained ignorant to his status as a puppet, Scaramouche had the upper hand.
“Fine.” Scaramouche lowered his scalpel but kept it visible. “Take me wherever you keep it. Walk in front of me slowly. Try anything, and you’re dead.”
“Understood,” the human said. “It isn’t far from here.”
The human did as he was told, even keeping his hands where Scaramouche could see them as he headed down a woodland path back in the direction of civilization. Scaramouche followed a few paces behind him, his free hand tightly clenched. He kept his eyes laser focused on the back of the human’s head while he walked ahead of Scaramouche, his steps calm and consistent. Unbothered, despite the knowledge that a dangerous stranger holding a clearly bloodstained scalpel walked behind him, able to attack at any moment.
Were the previous group of humans who scattered the moment Scaramouche cut one of them cowards? Or was this human just crazy? Scaramouche had no way to tell, and thinking of the possibilities caused anxiety to claw at his insides like blades of acid.
I am in control, he silently repeated to himself, continuing to repeat it until the sensation lessened. Because it was true. He had control. Not the human. Him.
“Your thoughts are almost loud enough to drown out the wind,” the human called out without turning around.
Scaramouche froze, his mind coming to a halt. “... What? How do you-”
“You’re thinking a lot,” said the human. When Scaramouche didn’t respond, the human took it upon himself to continue, sounding slightly confused. “It’s an expression that means you’re thinking a lot. That’s all.”
They moved on through the trees, passing through a few patches of bare bushes. Silence lingered for a few minutes, but for some reason, the human didn’t let it go on for long. By the time the woodlands began to thin out, he spoke again.
“My name is Kazuha. Care to share yours?”
“None of your business. Move,” Scaramouche replied, purely to prevent further attempts at conversation.
“Okay.”
The human, Kazuha, sounded confused again. Names were important to humans, Scaramouche remembered. Not having one had to be strange. And if he wanted to ensure Kazuha believed he was human, that meant he had to come up with something.
Truthfully, he didn’t have a name. ‘Scaramouche’ was simply a code name used to refer to him, the puppet, subject number six. No one personally addressed him that way. Even the nameless child had only known him by his number. But ‘Scaramouche’ was the closest thing to a name he had by human standards. It would have to do.
“It’s Scaramouche,” he said. It felt odd. Most balked at the idea of calling him by a name. It made them uncomfortable. “My name, that is.”
For a few long seconds, Kazuha said nothing, and Scaramouche began to wonder if he had said something wrong. Before he could think any further about it though, Kazuha answered him with a tiny hint of warmth in his voice.
“Thank you for telling me.”
Unwilling to dignify such a strange response with an answer, Scaramouche followed Kazuha without a word. Soon enough, the silhouette of a small structure appeared through the bare, spindly tree branches on the wood’s edge. Tall city buildings loomed behind it on the distant horizon, contributing to how profoundly out of place it looked. Any human constructions Scaramouche had seen consisted of metal and concrete shaped into sharp angles, towering high into the air.
This building, in contrast, was low to the ground and made of wood covered in faded yellow paint. Its sloped roof was in a similar condition, with a few icicles hanging off the edge. The open space in front of the house was cluttered, with some of the dead plant matter even having grown onto the outside of the house itself.
Kazuha stopped at the entrance of the property, marked by a worn down, chipped wooden fence surrounding the land.
“My apologies for the state of the yard and my home. I wasn’t expecting visitors,” he said, turning around to face Scaramouche wearing an embarrassed smile. It confused Scaramouche just enough to make him let Kazuha turning around without permission slide.
Scaramouche had to force himself to look away from the collection of strange things in this ‘yard’, glancing repeatedly from Kazuha to the dark blue painted door until Kazuha got the message and led them to it. As they got closer, Scaramouche tried to catch a glimpse of the interior through the window, but frost across the glass blocked his view.
After unlatching the door with a click, Kazuha let them both in. He went first, allowing Scaramouche to shut the creaky door behind him. The moment it had fully closed, Scaramouche clutched the scalpel handle even tighter, having to will himself to take a breath.
“Welcome,” said Kazuha. He removed his boots at the door, only moving to take off his coat and scarf when Scaramouche nodded approvingly, revealing a red and white high collared shirt underneath.
When he finally allowed himself to take his eyes off Kazuha, Scaramouche blinked once. Then twice, trying to take in the sheer absurdity of how messy the place around him was.
Overgrown plants, rocks, and other things from outside sat on shelves, tables, and even counters in the food-preparation areas. It was a massive contamination hazard in every sense of the word. Not a single piece of furniture matched with another, including sets of chairs that should have matched as a set. Instead, they all looked to have come from separate places and times. Cushions larger and fluffier than he had ever seen covered the larger chairs in the other seating area, the white material inside them sticking out here and there from between worn threads.
Even the colors were off: natural tones instead of bright white, warm lights instead of bright fluorescent ones. There was only one screen, a powered-off television in front of a large, wide cushioned chair. Books and clutter of infinite varieties had piled up on nearly every surface, but despite that, there were no actual tools or instruments in sight.
How did Kazuha get any work done here?
“It’s not much, but it’s home,” said Kazuha, seemingly unaware of Scaramouche’s bewilderment at the state of his house.
Scaramouche opened his mouth to reply, but shut it just as quickly. Whatever, Kazuha’s living environment and its flaws were not his problem. He hardened his expression into a glare once more.
“Where’s the mora?”
“I’ll get it. If you need food and water, I’m also happy to share some,” Kazuha answered, heading for a narrow hallway. How he would find the mora in all this mess, Scaramouche had no clue. He followed behind Kazuha anyway, making sure to lock his focus on Kazuha rather than the dimly lit walls surrounding him.
Kazuha led them to a wooden door at the end of the hallway, slightly ajar. Opening it revealed a room with a bed—much larger than any bed or cot Scaramouche had seen before. The chaos from the rest of Kazuha’s home had carried its way to this room as well, all lit with only the fading daylight coming in through a window.
It suited Kazuha. Strange disorder and all.
The sound of a nearby drawer opening made Scaramouche visibly jolt. Kazuha stood by a stack of drawers, also made from wood, and placed a gray pouch down on its sturdy surface. Scaramouche could tell from the sound it made that it was full of small metal objects, likely mora.
“I can also lend you some clothes, if you’d like. We probably wear the same size,” Kazuha said.
Looking down at his tattered brown coat and ruined muddy shoes, Scaramouche realized that he had to take the offer. Going back into the city wasn’t an option, and accepting Kazuha’s offer would be far easier than stealing from the next human he crossed paths with. He nodded, having to resist the urge to look away when Kazuha smiled back at him. Within a few minutes, Kazuha had a navy sweatshirt and gray pants laid out on the deep red colored bed.
Scaramouche took a breath before placing his scalpel down on the bed cover. He had to will himself to let it go, repeating to himself again that bandages covered any of his joints not hidden by his bodysuit. It would be fine. He would be fine. Undoing the buttons of his thick brown coat, he allowed it to slide off his shoulders and pool onto the floor at his feet.
“W-wait?”
Nearly startled, he looked to Kazuha for an explanation on his sudden outburst, only to end up more confused when he noticed a shade of red dusting his cheeks, brought out further by the red streak in his hair. Of all the things to bother Kazuha, this, rather than having a blade pointed at his face, finally did it?
Humans were strange, but Kazuha was truly the strangest of them all.
“You can change in the bathroom,” Kazuha stammered. “Or I can leave the bedroom. Whatever you want.”
“I’ll use the bathroom,” Scaramouche replied, deciding that it didn’t matter as long as he got his mora. So what if he was unsure of what a bathroom was, or why a human would enter one to do anything other than take a bath.
After gathering the surprisingly soft pile of clean clothes from the bed into his arms, he followed Kazuha out of the room and into the tight hallway, then over to another door they had passed earlier. The sight of white tiled walls greeting him when Kazuha opened the door nearly froze Scaramouche in place, until his eyes drifted across the rest of the room. Much like everywhere else, it retained Kazuha’s characteristic messiness. Much too messy to be a hidden lab, at least.
“Help yourself to anything else you might need,” said Kazuha. “I’ll be in the living room. Call out if you need me.”
By the time Scaramouche nodded in reply, Kazuha had left, leaving him unsure if Kazuha’s quick exit was due to his strangely trusting nature or his odd embarrassment toward the act of changing clothes. Once he heard the telltale click of Kazuha activating the television from the other room, Scaramouche turned away from the door, finding himself face to face with his own reflection in a wide mirror spread across the wall above the sink.
Now, he understood why Kazuha wasn’t afraid of him. He looked pathetically miserable.
His dark bodysuit, covering his entire body from his neck down to his ankles save for his hands and feet, hid no part of his frame. It clung tightly everywhere, accentuating just how small he was. The stained bandages wrapped around his hands and feet only made him look more destitute. He needed to change them.
With a sigh, Scaramouche slipped on Kazuha’s sweatshirt and pants, the thick, soft fabric catching him off guard for a moment. Kazuha had also included a pair of socks in the pile, thankfully. His stolen shoes were worn down and filthy with freezing cold mud, and socks hid his puppet joints better than bandages. As for his hands, Kazuha had a tube of bandage wrappings on the counter, which meant he could unwrap and dispose of the ones he currently had.
After unraveling the bandages on his hands, he took a moment to observe himself again before re-wrapping them with new ones. Humans had an almost infinite variety of appearances in skin color, hair type, body shape, and facial structure. Still, though, he worried.
Did he look human enough?
Scaramouche looked himself up and down. The navy sweatshirt and dark gray pants, both slightly long on him, decently hid most of his body’s shape in a way he almost immediately grew to like. Only the collar section of his bodysuit was visible from underneath. Passable, he decided. There wasn’t much he could do about his face, though. Many humans in the past had called it perfect, both in its structure and in the way his dark hair framed it.
His hair. Perfectly cut and styled, it stood out painfully from the rest of him. At first, he tried pulling up the hood from his sweatshirt, but that only hid some of it, which wouldn’t do. If he wanted to look fully human, he had to mess it up. It needed to look less symmetrical and more free, like Kazuha’s.
That meant he needed scissors. Opening a small drawer beside him, he started rifling through it. He couldn’t even name what most of the items in there were, and it took him half a minute to find a painted glass box crammed in the back corner of the shockingly deep drawer. Sure enough, it has scissors in it, visible through the transparent sides painted with leaves.
“Some argue that your growing influence over society is dangerous. What would you say to reassure them?”
Voices echoing from the television room reached his ears. Ignoring them, Scaramouche pulled the glass box out of the drawer, holding it up to try and figure out how to open it. The light shining through it made the transparent painted leaves become a vibrant green.
“The medical division of the Fatui Research Institute has the best interests of humanity at heart.”
Scaramouche knew that voice. It brought both his mind and body screeching to a halt, just as he found the latch to open the box.
“Through the pursuit of knowledge, we hope to not only solve humanity’s current issues, but to uncover the path to its bright future.”
A chorus of voices followed, with only the occasional word being clear. Some that were said multiple times stuck out though, such as ‘unethical’ or ‘children’. The noise only quieted down when the first voice spoke over them, returning with another question.
“And what of your previous controversies?”
“We assure you that our research has adapted beyond the point of risking the health of both animal and human subjects,” the Doctor replied, his voice eerily calm despite the audible fuss from the rest of the crowd. That was how it always was. Unflinchingly controlled.
“For the last six years, early testing of our innovations has been performed using artificial human systems, lowering both the cost and the potential risks of later clinical trials. Although we cannot elaborate on…”
The glass box slipped out of his hands, shattering onto the tile below into a mess of green painted shards. Despite having hit the ground right next to him, the noise sounded distant and far off. Almost unreal. This couldn’t be happening. Kazuha didn’t know what he was, and the Doctor wouldn’t have started looking for him. Not yet. He had timed his escape while the Doctor was away. No one should even know he had left.
Kazuha rushed in seconds later. His voice came out frantic.
“Are you okay?” Kazuha went to step forward and then stopped, likely noticing the glass all over the floor. Instead, he slowly moved around it until he reached Scaramouche. He reached out to touch Scaramouche’s hand, which had fallen to his side, only to hesitate just before making contact.
“Can I-”
Without a thought, Scaramouche held out his hand. His mind had become stranded somewhere between the present and the past, where there were no requests, only orders. Yet still, Kazuha didn’t grab him roughly. When he did touch Scaramouche’s hand, his fingers were gentle, brushing across his ball-jointed knuckles as if they were fragile.
… Wait. His joints?
“I don’t see any cuts. That’s good,” Kazuha said. “Try and stay where you are until I can clean this up though. It shouldn’t take long.”
Kazuha turned away, opening another drawer Kazuha, who had most definitely seen his exposed puppet joints. Scaramouche had to run. Had to escape. But there was nowhere to go. The scissors had landed somewhere behind Kazuha, his scalpel was back in the room with the bed, and he wouldn’t make it to the door in time with Kazuha right there.
He was trapped. Trapped with no way to defend himself with a human who knew what he was.
When Kazuha placed a pair of rubber gloves on the white countertop, something inside of Scaramouche fractured and broke. Not once in his entire life had he shied away from an experiment. Being a perfect test subject was the reason for his existence, and he embraced anything that came with it.
However, he had run away from that life. He thought he had found freedom, dangled in front of him like a hopeful prize. But now, faced with the reality that his life hadn’t changed at all, he felt nothing but pure terror. Every unsightly emotion he buried deep inside for all those years clawed its way back to the surface, tearing through his walls and spilling out like a dark, suffocating wave. The weight of it sent him stumbling backwards until his back collided with a wall. Nowhere to run.
He should fight back. He had more strength than a human, and had come too far to give up now. But overwhelming fear overpowered him, leaving him unable to do anything else but slide down onto the cold floor and curl up against the wall, knees held tightly to his chest in a pathetic attempt to protect himself.
Someone sat down beside him. They spoke, but he couldn’t hear them. Not over the phantom sensation of clinical gloved hands trying to drag him away, wrapping around his neck and choking him even though he didn’t need to breathe. Not over the sound of pen gliding across paper as the Doctor took notes, watching him with an unfeeling stare. Condemning him to yet another pain-filled trial, the first of many more to come.
You were made for this. Don’t ever forget that.
Holding himself so tightly it hurt, he waited for the ghostly hands to become real, grabbing his face and forcing him to look his fate in the eyes and submit to it. Because the Doctor was right. He was made for it. And no amount of escape attempts or altering his appearance would change that. Whoever sat beside him must be saying the same thing, their voice soft and-
Soft. No one ever spoke to him softly. That realization was enough to momentarily startle his ears into functioning again, and he heard the tail end of the person’s words.
“... not upset that you broke the container. It’s okay.”
The sincerity in the person’s voice almost made him open his eyes and look up. Almost. He wanted to hear it again. Their voice contrasted too much with the sensation of cold gloved hands for his mind to process both at once. Hearing it made him feel safe, even if he definitely wasn’t.
“I won’t hurt you,” the person said.
Scaramouche shouldn’t believe them. The person knew what he was, and therefore couldn’t be trusted. Any human who promised not to hurt him lied. They always did. Yet he wished he could believe them, just this once. He wished for it so powerfully that he risked peering out at the human from behind his arms. White hair with a red streak and matching warm eyes, a concerned but gentle expression—right, he knew this human’s name. Kazuha.
Gradually, awareness of his surroundings returned. The tile floor beneath him, colored with a swirling mix of whites, blues, and grays, was too cracked and worn to be that of a lab. The lights were too dim to work under, the temperature too warm, and the smell of the air was too fresh. There were no other humans, no Doctor, just Kazuha’s television, which now played a completely different set of human voices talking about the weather.
It was just him and Kazuha. Alone.
His eyes darted back to Kazuha’s face, which broke into a soft smile. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Scaramouche didn’t give him the chance. By the time Kazuha could blink, Scaramouche had him pinned to the floor with his arms held above his head in a firm grip, dangerously close to some shards of broken glass.
“Listen to me.” Scaramouche fought to keep his voice level, his chest still tight with panic. He channeled it into his grip that held Kazuha in place, squeezing tightly. “I am going to take the mora you gave me and leave. You will stay right here in this room and let me go. Or else you die.”
“Will you hear me out?”
Scaramouche glanced to the side, where a piece of broken glass lay within reach of his free hand, before looking back at Kazuha. Wide eyes met his own, pleading, but sincere. After a lingering pause, he nodded, but still inched his hand toward the glass.
“You’re running from something dangerous. Something you don’t want to go back to. I can tell,” Kazuha said, breathing heavily. “But I don’t have any interest in turning you in. I won’t, no matter what happens.”
Narrowing his eyes, Scaramouche wrapped his fingers around the glass shard. “Why,” he asked. “So you can keep me for yourself? I know what the uneducated public thinks of puppets.”
The Doctor had told him, repeatedly. It echoed in his head whenever he laid eyes upon a human, or whenever he felt a human’s eyes on him. Average humans would never accept something like him. They’d only use him to fulfill any filthy desire they may have. It was a simple fact.
“Neither myself nor anyone else I’ve ever spoken to knows a thing about ‘puppets’, at least not in the sense you’re talking about.” Kazuha swallowed. “I… I didn’t know such beings could even exist.”
“Your television says otherwise,” Scaramouche spat. He gripped the shard tighter.
“No one has ever been able to prove that artificial humans exist. Even the Fatui Research Institute has zero proof. The man they interviewed refused to explain any details. Still.” Kazuha locked eyes with him. “Even if you are… artificial, a puppet, or however you describe it, I don’t want to hurt you.”
Years and years of encounters with human subjects had taught Scaramouche what an average human looked like while lying. Especially lying out of desperation and fear. Such behavior was common in humans who knew they had no way out. Kazuha’s words contradicted everything Scaramouche had ever been told about humans, the world, and himself. Kazuha was trapped and desperate, too.
But Kazuha wasn’t lying. He could see the confusion in his face, genuine and true. He had no clue what Scaramouche was.
Slowly loosening his grip on Kazuha and releasing the glass shard, Scaramouche’s anger began to fade, replaced with countless questions. Kazuha still made no move to scramble away until Scaramouche fully released him and backed away. Even then, Kazuha sat up slowly rather than leaping to his feet.
“Thank you for trusting me,” Kazuha said once he sat up, leaning on his arms. When Scaramouche nodded, he smiled. “I’m going to finish cleaning this up, alright?”
Scaramouche let him, closely watching Kazuha’s gloved hands as they disposed of the broken glass and placed the spilled contents of the drawer back into the drawer. Kazuha only approached the wall where Scaramouche sat once to pick up a stray glass shard. Even then, he asked before reaching into Scaramouche’s space, a gesture that despite being unnecessary, put Scaramouche at ease.
After cleaning everything up, Kazuha washed his gloves in the sink and returned them to a drawer, doing one last check over the floor before brushing himself off.
“Care for some tea?” Kazuha asked. Like Scaramouche hadn’t just made a mess of his bathroom, attacked him, and threatened him. Multiple times for the last part. Like all this was a normal day for him.
“Why?”
Kazuha should kick him out, should want him out. Puppet or human, Scaramouche had been nothing but awful trouble to him. Instead, Kazuha still looked at him with frustratingly soft red eyes, filled with undeserved consideration and care. It made no sense.
“Tea can be quite calming for the mind,” Kazuha answered. He took a step forward and held out his hand to Scaramouche as an invitation.
Only then, still curled up and fraught with tension, did Scaramouche realize how exhausted both his panicked state and the entire day as a whole had left him. Constant stress had a way of wearing him down, even though he didn’t require sleep.
It was stupid of him to trust Kazuha. It went against everything he had ever known. Kazuha could turn on him in seconds, and he’d be unprepared. But he wanted to. He wanted to so, so badly, and for just this once to not suffer for it. So, too tired to resist the desire any longer, he did. Scaramouche took Kazuha’s hand, letting Kazuha help him to his feet and lead him back to the main area of the house. He sat down in one of the mismatched chairs beside the table, watching Kazuha move about the room he called ‘the kitchen’.
Kazuha opened one of the kitchen’s many drawers, once again made of wood. His face grew concerned when he seemingly couldn’t find something. After checking a few more drawers and even some cupboards up above, he turned back to Scaramouche with an apologetic look on his face.
“It seems I’ve run out of sweetener, I’m sorry,” he said. “The tea might be bitter. I hope you don’t mind.”
Scaramouche, who had never had tea before and knew nothing about it, shook his head. “It’s fine,” he answered in a low voice. Most of his focus was on running his fingers along the soft inside of his sweatshirt sleeve.
Despite looking unconvinced, Kazuha took his word for it. “Can I get you something to eat?”
“No.”
They spent the rest of the time waiting for the tea in silence. When it finally finished, Kazuha poured some of the dark, steamy liquid into an off-white cup with a painted handle, passing it across the table to Scaramouche. Scaramouche went to grab it with a nod of thanks, but stopped after wrapping his hands around the ceramic cup.
It was warm. Comfortably warm.
Ever since his escape from the lab, everything had been cold. Roads coated with icy mud guided his path through the city, and frosted paths replaced them once he reached civilization’s edge. It has always been cold, now that he thought about it. Whether frigid as ice or just slightly chilled like filtered air and cold tile floors, ‘cold’ defined his entire existence—save for the small period of his life spent with a nameless child. A kind of cold he couldn’t escape, with only his thin lab clothing as protection.
He held the cup to his chest, savoring the way the heat transferred to the fabric of his sweatshirt to his core. Warmth was the opposite of cold, an imitation of the kindness a child described as inherent to the outside world. Which meant that maybe, in feeling warmth, he was experiencing the closest thing to kindness a puppet could achieve.
Neither warmth nor kindness were meant for him. Yet by running away, he had already forsaken many other truths he used to live by. Abandoning this one, even if just for a little while, was no different.
Sensing Kazuha’s eyes on him, Scaramouche glanced up. The sad expression on Kazuha’s face surprised him. What could he possibly-
Oh. Right. Kazuha had made the tea for him to drink. Of course he’d take offense to Scaramouche not drinking it. Humans took favors quite seriously.
He downed the warm liquid in a few gulps, pleasantly surprised at the sharp taste of it. Whatever tea was, he decided that he enjoyed it. It both tasted good and spread its warmth to his insides in a way that nothing else ever had. When he looked at Kazuha again, though, it had grown even more sad. The sight made something inside him twist.
“I liked it,” Scaramouche said. He wanted that sad look on Kazuha’s face gone. “You cook nice tea.”
“... Thank you.” Kazuha smiled, although it seemed a little forced. “Would you like some more?”
Scaramouche drank three full cups of tea before Kazuha ran out. By then, the sun had left the sky, leaving only a few lamps here and there to light the house. Kazuha had something quick to eat before heading to the sink to wash the dishes he used, headed to the bathroom for a few minutes, and then came back. He could have sworn he caught a speck of relief in Kazuha’s expression when he returned to find Scaramouche still there.
“I’m headed to bed.” Kazuha gestured to the hallway, presumably toward the room with the bed. “Do you plan to stay for the night?”
Deciding to go along with whatever idea Kazuha had, Scaramouche said yes. He could always sneak out later. So, he followed Kazuha to the room with the bed—likely called either a bedroom or a sleep room. Or maybe not, Scaramouche didn’t know the exact rules behind the annoying human urge to name rooms.
Kazuha pulled some thick blankets out of a small closet, laid them on the floor and then grabbed a fluffy pillow off the bed to complete a… floor bed beside the table with a lamp. Scaramouche watched the strange ritual, confused. His confusion only doubled when Kazuha pulled aside the floor blankets to lie down under them, looking up at Scaramouche expectedly.
“I’ll take the floor tonight,” Kazuha said after a long pause of them both staring at each other. “You can take the bed. You likely need it more than I do.”
Scaramouche opened his mouth to correct Kazuha. He didn’t need to sleep. After a few seconds, though, he decided against it. He had to at least make an attempt to go along with human customs. Plus, the sad face Kazuha made when he didn’t drink his tea still lingered in his mind, and he’d rather not see it again. And if he had to sit in a bed to do that, so be it.
The way he sunk into the cushiony mattress nearly startled him. No human bed he had ever seen before looked so squishy, even with a human occupant. The dark red covers on the bed were also surprisingly thick and soft to the touch, so different from the thin, scratchy ones he saw occasionally. He couldn’t help but squeeze the plush fabric between his fingers a few times.
On the other side of the bed on the floor, Kazuha shifted his position, likely moving to sit up.
“Are you okay?”
Right. Kazuha’s question shocked him back to reality. Humans were supposed to lay in beds and sleep, not sit on the edge.
“Yes, just trying to get comfortable,” Scaramouche answered quickly.
He pulled his legs up onto the bed and rested his head back on the fluffy cream-colored pillow, instinctively straightening his back and legs into a flat position. Within sixty seconds, he had to turn onto his side, nearly breathless from nervous energy and the beginnings of panic. He’d stay there for a few minutes, catching his breath, before trying once again to lay on his back, but the cycle would repeat.
For no matter how many times he told himself he wasn’t prone on an operating table or restrained to a cot, he could almost feel the ghostly bite of restraints around his wrists, or cold gloved hands across his bare skin.
This had never happened before the nameless child’s death. Before the experiments went from a normal, albeit painful and unpleasant, part of his life to an endless series of trials designed to test his physical and mental limits.
There was no boundary the Doctor wouldn’t cross. And like the perfect subject he was, there would never be a single piece of evidence left behind on Scaramouche’s body. No scars, bruises, cuts, or burns. At the start of every new trial, he was a blank canvas for whatever the Doctor had planned. However, it came at a cost. His mind made up for his body’s resistance by permanently engraving everything he experienced into his thoughts.
Being locked in a freezing or boiling room for days on end to see if his system would adapt. Countless medicinal trials that left him either paralyzed, in agony, or both for hours. Entire sections of his body being dismantled and put back together again in an attempt to deduce how he functioned, or during the medicinal trials to see what had gone wrong.
When Scaramouche acted out, the Doctor abandoned the pursuit of knowledge and instead sought out his pain and suffering. Drowning, electrocution, suffocation, poisoning—the list went on. And when he wasn’t in a trial or being punished, he was left to reflect upon it all. Alone in a rectangular holding room with white and gray walls and a light that never went out.
Despite the looming weight of his memories threatening to overwhelm him, Scaramouche forced himself to stay where he was, on his side clinging tightly to the bed covers with shaking fingers. He could tell from Kazuha’s breathing that he wasn’t fully asleep yet. So, until he was, Scaramouche would have to bear with it, counting Kazuha’s breaths as they went in and out.
Keep counting, stop thinking.
He continued that until Kazuha’s breath gradually slowed to a sleeping pace, and then for a few minutes longer just in case. Only once he was sure that Kazuha was deeply asleep did he finally allow himself to sit up, holding his knees to his chest and waiting for his trembling to cease. Now, he could actually plan.
Kazuha made a genuine offer to help him. Kazuha then figured out he was a puppet, and he stuck to his offer anyway. Scaramouche found that incomprehensible, but so far, Kazuha had done nothing to suggest it was a lie.
There was a second option, of course. Scaramouche could silence his footsteps enough to evade even the lightest of human sleepers. He knew where Kazuha kept his mora and other valuables, and through helping himself to more of Kazuha’s things, he could further improve a potential human disguise. Then, he could leave, and would be long gone before Kazuha even woke up.
But where else would he go?
Going back to the city wasn’t an option. It was dangerous and far too close to the lab. Meeting Kazuha had also made him realize how little he knew about being human. Even if Kazuha had told the truth about humanity being unaware of puppets like him, Scaramouche would still horribly stand out. He couldn’t even lay in a bed. The chances of finding another human strangely accepting as Kazuha were slim to none, too.
So, his circumstances made his choice for him. Assuming Kazuha kept up at least the facade of kindness, he would take advantage of the situation and stay.
Kazuha slept until just past sunrise. If seeing Scaramouche awake and watching the scarlet-tinted sky out the window surprised or upset him, he didn’t show it. He simply muttered a sleepy “good morning” and began his morning routine. Scaramouche waited out on the large cushioned chair for him, curious to see what Kazuha did for work.
He soon found his answer: nothing.
After eating some fruit for breakfast and getting ready in the bathroom, Kazuha went out to the yard. He swept dirt off a pile of stones and checked on an empty section of ground near a tree called ‘the garden’, which just looked like a well-maintained patch of frozen dirt to Scaramouche. The occasional cat wandered through the yard, but Kazuha paid it no mind. Midway through collecting some twigs that had fallen into this ‘garden’, he turned back to face Scaramouche, who stood nearby with his arms crossed, unsure of what to make of all this.
“You seem on edge,” Kazuha said. “I promise, I never have visitors, aside from some feline friends.”
Scaramouche ignored most of Kazuha’s statement. There were more pressing matters at hand. “Is this seriously your job?”
“It’s one of the many jobs that comes with caring for my home. Spring will arrive soon, so I need to prepare the garden.” Kazuha placed another twig in his growing pile beside the stone border of the garden.
Upon finishing that, he spent the rest of the morning cleaning the windows. Then, back inside, he cooked himself a meal and wrote in a notebook for a while—writings Scaramouche doubted had any scientific value, considering he spent his time not writing staring out the freshly clean window. The same could be said of everything Kazuha did, though. It was impractical, and utterly nonsensical.
What made it harder to understand was Kazuha’s obvious capability. He had to be a capable human to maintain an entire house by himself, even if it was a messy house. But other than that, he did nothing of value with his life. Living in the woods away from society, he had no interest in a greater purpose. In fact, he didn’t even seem to consider it.
The notebook he had spent nearly an hour writing in? He filled the page with flowery, overly lyrical descriptions of frosted dew on a glass window pane. Kazuha had allowed him to read it when he finished writing, and then watched him curiously from across the table, as if awaiting a comment.
“It’s an observation,” Scaramouche said plainly. “You’re trying to study dew on the glass.”
“That’s an interesting way of describing it. I suppose I did study it.” Kazuha brought his hand to his chin with a hum, like Scaramouche had enlightened him on the basic purpose of writing. “Do you study things?”
On top of his general lack of direction in life, Kazuha loved asking Scaramouche questions, yet seemed unconcerned with correct answers. Scaramouche had even tested it himself, lying a few times or saying something he knew was wrong, wondering what Kazuha would do. Nothing. Kazuha still wasn’t bothered. Sometimes, Kazuha would even try pointlessly to discuss the answers with him.
“No,” Scaramouche replied. “Studying is for humans.”
He realized what he said the second he closed his mouth and tensed, waiting for a negative reaction. It never came, though. Instead, Kazuha just looked curious, another thing he did that made no sense.
Researchers in the lab hated it when he said anything about his inhumanity. Some hated it when he spoke at all, or if he even made eye contact with them. Humans had no interest in conversations with their tools. Save for Kazuha, apparently, who had a downright unnatural fascination with anything and everything Scaramouche had to say.
“I think anyone can appreciate the world as it is if they choose to,” Kazuha said.
Because that was what it came down to for Kazuha. Not pursuing knowledge, advancing society, or achieving a purpose, but appreciation. Such a mindset was so frustratingly simple, Scaramouche found it maddening to think about.
By the time it reached late afternoon, Kazuha had gathered his things to go into the yard again. The number of cats in the yard had grown, with Scaramouche being able to count at least four upon a first glance. They watched him and Kazuha with bright and curious eyes, which soon burst into a flurry of excitement when Kazuha opened the door to a smaller house on the side of the yard. The cats ran to the door meowing, their tails straight up, and determined to get to Kazuha. Scaramouche had to step out of their way, they came so close.
Kazuha left the miniature house a minute later, holding a small green bucket filled with dry pellets and a plastic scoop. Cat food, Scaramouche realized. The cats wove in and out between Kazuha’s feet, continuing to meow while he made his way over to a set of metal dishes. He then scooped some food into each bowl, wishing each cat a happy dinner before doing so.
Unsure, Scaramouche kept his distance, staying near the fence post until Kazuha called him over to sit on a log close to the now happily eating cats. They watched the cats devour most of the pellets in the bowl before Kazuha spoke.
“Are you not fond of cats?”
“They’re fine. Just not particularly useful,” Scaramouche answered. At least they weren’t to someone like Kazuha.
“I suppose my idea of usefulness might differ from yours,” said Kazuha. “The happiness and company they provide is suitable enough for me.”
Scaramouche sighed. Of course, Kazuha would say that. In front of them, one cat finished eating and promptly helped itself to another’s bowl. The other cat didn’t react, too focused on the food under its nose to care that another had chosen to steal the remainder of its food from the other side of the dish.
“But,” Kazuha continued. “I don’t feed them because of what they provide for me. Cats in their current form, even strays, exist because of humanity. We made them reliant on us, therefore it’s our responsibility to give them fulfilling lives.”
So, the most valuable thing Kazuha did with his life was feed a bunch of cats. Scaramouche shouldn’t let anything about Kazuha surprise him anymore, but somehow, Kazuha managed it again. Kazuha didn’t just feed the cats out of a sense of obligation. He cared about them—weak, silly creatures who could give him nothing of value in return for his efforts and investment.
It was impractical and wholeheartedly foolish, much like every other choice Kazuha made. Scaramouche knew that. Yet the more he thought about it, the more his emotions twisted themselves into stinging knots, searching for an answer as to why Kazuha’s treatment of the cats caused traitorous hope to blossom inside him.
“Here, I’ll show you what I mean about their companionship,” said Kazuha. He moved from the log to kneel on the icy ground and hold out his hand. Immediately, one of the cats, a white one, padded over to him and brushed up against his hand, allowing Kazuha to pet it.
“Crouch down and hold out your hand,” said Kazuha, looking up at Scaramouche expectedly while still petting the cat. “Being low to the ground will make them feel more comfortable. Just wait for one to come to you, like this one did for me.”
Scaramouche did as he asked, settling down beside Kazuha on his knees with his hand outstretched. Now that most of the cats had finished eating, their bright eyes had once again turned to him and Kazuha. One orange cat had laid down and seemed content to just watch them, but another gray and white one approached Scaramouche slowly, its tail raised and curled at the end as it made a small chirping noise. He didn’t dare move, not even when the cat finally brushed its soft fur up against his hand, staring up at him with big green eyes.
He had seen cats before, kept by researchers in the lab. Crammed in pristine metal cages with only a box of sand and two silver bowls, they never chirped or brushed up against outstretched hands. They made themselves as small as possible in the cage’s corners, ears flat atop their heads, hissing at anyone who passed by. At the time, Scaramouche paid the creatures no mind. He assumed they were angry. But now, he realized that they had been afraid. So, so afraid.
The gray and white cat in front of him meowed and rubbed its face on his hand again, encouraging him to pet it. He did, imitating Kazuha’s actions. His mind couldn’t help comparing this cat to the one he had seen years ago, picturing it in place of one of the many he had seen caged. The thought made him shiver from the tight, sharp pain it sent through his chest.
Confused at the sudden awful feeling, he blinked and brought his free hand to his chest. The cats in the lab were simply living out their purposes, similar to himself. There should be nothing upsetting or painful about that. Yet now that the thought had entered his mind, he couldn’t prevent it from taking root and spreading further.
Cats in the lab lived a life defined by confinement, unhappiness, and fear. They knew nothing outside of white walls, bright lights, metal bars, and gloved hands that brought pain. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the world, other cats lived free of these things. They were happy and relaxed. Their singular purpose, much like Kazuha, was to appreciate life and bring joy to others.
The only difference between those two groups of cats was where they came into existence. Their place of origin decided whether their purpose was to appreciate life or to suffer for the sake of humanity.
Such was the reality of this world, but how was it at all right?
Scaramouche knew the researchers were corrupt. He knew it the second he learned of the nameless child’s death. They had no regard for human life, no matter how much they insisted otherwise. But now, looking down at the purring cat in front of him, he developed a new understanding of how wrong they were.
He could never look at the creature in front of him and choose to hurt it or allow someone else to hurt it. Even if it was the cat’s purpose. Not when he knew that there was another path the creature’s life could take. Because even if the cat wasn’t human, it still felt. He saw it in the cat’s eyes, looking up at him with relaxed curiosity. He saw it in the cat’s behavior, how it leaned into his hand and almost asked him to keep petting its soft fur. He saw it in the cat’s vulnerability, in how small it was compared to him, and in how it trusted him despite that.
Those things made him want to protect it, made him feel like he had to protect it. Because the cat deserved to live a life where it could look up at him, where its only concern was food and receiving affection.
The cat let out a confused meow when Scaramouche’s hand running through the gray fur on its back became shaky, looking back at him. He soon realized that it wasn’t just his hand, his whole body had started trembling, overcome with the weight of an emotion he didn’t have the words to describe.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Kazuha move, unwrapping the deep red scarf he wore. He held it out to Scaramouche, who turned to face him, confused.
Kazuha knew the cold didn’t affect him, at least not this mild cold. He had accepted that earlier this morning when Scaramouche shrugged off his offer for a thick coat, and went along with it the whole day. Still, though, after some time passed and Scaramouche made no move to take the scarf, Kazuha slowly wrapped the scarf around him, giving him ample time to back away if he wanted to.
He didn’t stop Kazuha, simply too confused at the meaningless gesture. But quickly rising beneath that confusion was a deeply foreign emotion, one that Scaramouche could only identify when it breached the surface, spilling out into his chest.
Comfort.
It was something he had never felt before, something the nameless child had described to him one day during one of their conversations. He had never expected to experience it himself, but the feeling was unmistakable.
Comfort at the warmth of the red fleece wrapped so carefully around him, and at the sheer gentleness of Kazuha’s touch. Yet something even more powerful than the physical sensation followed it, and that was what nearly left him breathless.
Comfort at the feeling of being valued. Of being protected. The sense that although being a flimsy piece of fabric, the scarf would somehow keep him safe from all who wanted to hurt him.
And even though doing so went against all that he knew, he wanted to believe in the miniscule chance that somehow, he deserved it.