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“Hide! Run!” Mr. Silvair’s voice booms, echoing around the room much like how your heart thumps about in your chest. The heels of your shoes click against the floor as you run, your mouth open as you pant and keep your pace. You hear the monster somewhere from behind and if there’s one thing you’ve learned since you came to this place, it’s to run away. The way Mr. Silvair hurries along with you only confirms the entity behind you, whatever it may be, isn’t friendly.
You stumble for the door ahead, but it’s gaining on you. Loud clicking footsteps, almost similar to the heels of your shoes, echo from behind. The clicking is getting closer and closer, and there’s some terrible sound it’s making. You grimace, unable to tell if it's a screech or a growl or what, but it's entirely inhuman either way. With how loud it’s getting it’s surely right behind you—you must reach the door up ahead. Just a little further…
There’s a horrible roaring sound right before the door slams shut. You whirl around, eyes wide as you step back from the door and clutch your hands close to your chest. The monster bangs against the door, almost shaking it for a few moments until the clamoring wanes. That frantic sound of someone slamming their fist and bare hands repeatedly into the steel door peters into a soft knock. An insistent knock, as it repeats again and again, but you finally let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
You step away from the door, then bump into something solid and warm from behind. You startle, yelping and whirling around before letting out a relieved chuckle when you only find Mr. Silviar standing there.
“You alright?” He asks, angling his head your way.
“Yes, I’m okay. I’m just…out of breath,” You say, trying to gather yourself. A moment later you straighten up and glance back at the door again, as if somehow it could open up at any moment. You part your lips, nearly voicing your next question aloud in your native tongue, but you pause and catch yourself before the first syllable escapes. “What Them?”
What was that?
Mr. Silvair stares at you for a moment, and with the way his head tilts, you swear he’s glancing at the door. Maybe he also worries the monster will somehow break-in, or perhaps he’s considering your question. There’s a noticeable delay before he begins to reply, and even though his head is mostly angled in your direction it still feels as if his hidden gaze resides elsewhere.
“Very little Sentience Someone else.” He explains with furrowed brows. Your expression soon mimics his as you take a second to make sense of his words: that monster is someone with little sentience? Clearly that checks out, although you still hear it gently knocking against the metal door. It’s almost like it's asking to be let in—as if! It nearly killed you!
“What Them Do? Where From?” You ask, trying to grasp more about the monster. Not every ghost or creature you come across in this place is inherently dangerous, although sometimes your greatest flaw is giving these things the benefit of the doubt. Some of the individuals here were a bit frightening at first glance, but many turned out to be kind. Ms. Nurse goes out of her way to lend a helping hand despite her appearance, and Mr. Hood doesn’t even have a proper face but still goes out of his way to teach you the basics of this language. Mr. Crawling, Mr. Silvair, and even Mr. Chopped have all been pleasant enough people despite their appearances.
Still, there’s no denying this thing came after you with the intent to kill. Even Mr. Silvair had been concerned for your safety and told you to run, but even now it lightly taps against the door.
“Them Desire Want Body,” He reaches into his pocket. “Me Recover Their Likeness. Them Change Sentience, Them Possible Not Talk…” He turns to the door, and a moment later he adds in a strange tone, “My Investigate Wrong.”
As you stand there silently replaying the conversation and making sense of his words, Mr. Silvair pulls out a strange device with a single red button at its top. He frowns at the small gadget, his finger hovering over the button. You face the door again as you piece together his words: the monster back there desired a body? And Mr. Silvair gave them one, but it went wrong? The details blur together, there’s the question of their sentience, their ability to talk, but something about the four words Them Desire Want Body loops around and around your head. Why is it so familiar?
“Should Kill Unsafe Someone.”
You blink at him once, twice, and your eyes go wide as his finger lowers towards the button. The word wait flies out of your mouth as it all comes back to you...
“Desire Me Body Have?” He’d asked, bright irises fixed on you. How could you have missed the way his brows had furrowed or the serious way he asked, entirely uncharacteristic of the Mr. Chopped you knew?
The conversation had been innocent at the start. You’d only wondered where his body went, because who wouldn’t wonder such a thing? At the time your focus wasn’t on Mr. Chopped when he asked the question, no, you’d taken a moment trying to imagine Mr. Chopped with a body.
Like most of the others you’ve encountered here you’re sure he’d be taller than you, but with your hands gently cupping his cheeks as you hold him now, it’s difficult to imagine. Even the thought of him having hands and being able to care for himself is strange, as Mr. Chopped almost always needed to be held, carried, or rescued. It’s a wonder he’s made it this long, and if he wasn’t always requiring assistance in some way or another, what would he do? He’d probably be happier with a body, right? He wouldn’t be so scared all the time or end up kidnapped, and while he doesn’t seem entirely opposed to being carried so frequently, you like to think he’d appreciate having the autonomy.
So you’d answered honestly, for his sake:
“Desire You Body Have.”
“I see…” Is how he’d replied. You hadn’t given it any thought at the time. Your mind still lingered on who Mr. Chopped would be with his body; what would he even be called? Mr. Red Hair? Mr. Braid?
A moment later you’d noticed Mr. Chopped troubled expression and quickly spoke up in your usual language.
“I was just trying to have a conversation, don’t worry about it!” You reassured, thinking that’d be the end of it.
If only you’d paid more attention, then maybe you would’ve noticed how much your words impacted him. . .
“Is that—is that Mr. Chopped?” You shove the memory away, your voice a pitch higher than before. “Them Friend, Do Not!” You grab for Mr. Silvair’s arm without thinking, latching onto any part of him you can grab. He lets out a surprised sound and you both stumble back, but your attention locks onto the device between his fingers. With a speed you didn’t know you possessed, you snatch it from him and bring it close to your body.
“Them Unsafe. Them Change Sentience, Them Kill Us.” Mr. Silvair counters, causing your heart to drop within your chest. So it is Mr. Chopped, he doesn’t deny it at all. You weren’t able to look at the monster before, not with it chasing after you, but is it him? You haven’t seen Mr. Chopped ever since your brief amnesia, and there’s no telling how long you’ve been in and out of sleep while Mr. Silvair helped you recover your memory.
“Investigate More! Teach Them Word. You Teach Me, You Help Me—Help Them!” Your voice rises as Mr. Silvair takes small steps towards you, his lips still curled into a frown. He’s looking at you, but you can’t tell whether he’s truly seeing you or if he’s focused on getting his device back. “Recover Them Sentience Again. Help Again, Investigate Again.” Your grip tightens around the device as Mr. Silvair looms over you. He stares down at you with that same unreadable expression, and the longer it lasts without him uttering a word, the more your muscles tense and your eyes search his face.
“Alright.” He finally steps away. That alone causes your shoulders to slacken, but you still keep a tight grip on the device even as Mr. Silvair heads toward the wall. His axe rests alongside it and the moment he reaches for it, you’re getting worked up again. Your worry must be written across your face because he pauses, tilting his head at you. “Me Investigate Them More. You Go, Them Unsafe.”
“But…what are you going to do with that?” You nod at the axe and step aside as Mr. Silvair approaches the metal door. You might have the strength to get a small device out of his hands, but you doubt he’ll let you do the same with his axe. You aren’t keen on trying either. When Mr. Silvair doesn’t reply, you try again in his tongue. “You Tool Kill Them? No Kill, You Investigate.”
“Tool No Kill Them. Them Afraid Fire, Tool No Kill,” You can’t see Mr. Silvair’s expression anymore, not with his back to you, but there’s something different about his tone. Is he amused? Nothing about this situation is a laughing matter, not if Mr. Chopped is out there and not if this is all…potentially your fault.
“You Like Them?” Amusement still lingers in his voice, but you don’t pay much attention to it this time.
“Me Like Them. Me Worry…Them.” You decide not to explain to Mr. Silvair how you worry this might all be your fault, partially because you aren’t even sure how to phrase it in his language, but also because of the sudden pit in your stomach. Your chest is tighter now and although the device is small in your hands, you’re suddenly grateful to have it to hold onto as the weight of the situation begins to dawn on you.
“I see,” he draws the word out as if sincerely contemplating it. “You Go, Them Unsafe. You Danger Here, Go. Me Investigate Again. Come Later.”
Right. You can do that. Since Mr. Silvair says he’ll try again, all you can do is trust he’ll keep his word. With a nod you begin to walk away, heading for the end of the hallway. As you’re about to leave Mr. Silvair behind, you glance back over, finding him still standing before the steel door. From down the hallway, the sound is nearly inaudible, but it’s there: quiet, soft tapping, confirming Mr. Chopped is still on the other side.
You linger for a moment, as if Mr. Silvair might not realize you’re still around and he’ll open the door and allow you a glimpse of the supposed Mr. Chopped on the other side. He does no such thing and after a moment you leave, but from behind you faintly hear the echo of a screech, the exact one you heard when you were chased the first time. . .
It’s difficult to tell how much time passes in this place. When you woke up in the cage Mr. Silvair had kept you in, he’d said it’d taken many attempts at investigating before your memory returned. The memories of that time are dull and fuzzy around the edges, but you’re certain you wanted to hurt someone back then. It comes back in fragments, but you remember your hand twitching and lifting with the desire to kill. Mr. Silvair said you’d been unsafe during that time and ever since you came out of your cell and were chased by Mr. Chopped, you’ve wondered if it’s the same way for him. It’s a terrible enough concept that you were reduced to nothing but a thoughtless killing machine, and while you’re grateful Mr. Silvair managed to restore your memory, your heart squeezes at the thought of Mr. Chopped enduring the same thing all for a body…
And that’s only if the thing chasing you had been Mr. Chopped. You’re sure it is, Mr. Silvair practically confirmed it, but you’d been so focused on running away that you never dared to look back and see what chased you. Mr. Silvair said to run and hide, and you weren’t foolish enough to do otherwise. Looking back, now you wish you’d gotten a glance of Mr. Chopped so you could confirm it really had been him.
You aren’t sure how long it’s been since Mr. Silvair agreed to try investigating Mr. Chopped again, but he hasn’t let you see his progress yet.
“Them Unsafe. You Go, Not Come Here.” Is what he told you last time you visited, so when you wake up today you decide you’ll try to give it more time.
Even so, you find yourself lingering in the hallway outside of Mr. Silvair’s room.
“Not Go In?” Mr. Crawling asks from below. You don’t look down to address him properly, your mind currently elsewhere as you lean back against the cold, dirty wall.
“No. Me Wait,” There’s a pause as you rack your brain for how to phrase it, then you give it your best shot. “You No Wait Me. You Desire Go? You Go.” Because chances are, Mr. Crawling’s waiting for you to get chased off from Mr. Silvair’s room. It’s how your days have been lately: you check to see if you can see how Mr. Chopped is doing, get told to leave, and spend the rest of your time hanging out with Mr. Crawling and others until deciding to sleep away the rest of your time. As nice as it’d been hanging out with Mr. Crawling yesterday, the more time that goes on without hearing anything from Mr. Silvair, the less you want to do.
“Me Worry You.”
You aren’t sure what it is about the words, but they sting. You sink deeper against the wall and spend a moment swallowing.
“Thanks, but I’m fine. I just want to see how he’s doing. If anything, waiting to find out if he turned out okay is probably the least I could do.” The more you say the more composed you feel, and the tight grip around your throat loosens. “Me Alright.” You tag on, if only for Mr. Crawling’s sake.
Even without looking at him, you feel him watching you. He’s likely contemplating your words or trying to figure out what to say, and a part of you hopes he says nothing at all. You still don’t dare to look down at him and face him directly, not with how quickly his words made your chest tighten.
“I see. Me Leave, Me Come Later.” You hear the shuffling sound of him leaving a second later. It’s exactly what you wanted to happen, and somehow the palpable disappointment in his voice makes it worse. You breathe deeply and try to get a grip; this is what you want. You want to be alone for a bit, no, you need to be alone for a bit. Hanging out with Mr. Crawling is always a great time and you hope he won’t take your behavior today to heart, but with how long everything’s taking with Mr. Chopped, you aren’t up to it today.
“Me Leave Item. Item Next to Leg. Me Desire You Like Item.” You finally turn towards Mr. Crawling’s voice, surprise lacing your features to see him at the corner of the hallway. He pauses before a wide smile spreads across his features before he drags himself out of sight. Something about his smile screams reassuring and maybe, despite his previous disappointment, he understands your need for space. It’s hard to say, but curiosity does get the better of your mood, so you look down towards your leg and…
Oh.
You need to leave. Everything’s suddenly too much and you hurry in the opposite direction, your heels clicking rapidly until you reach your designated room. It’s not much, only a small room with two beds and a curtain that reminds you of something from a hospital, but you fling yourself inside and slam the door behind you. You’re grateful for the space, for the closed door that hides any prying eyes, and for the bed you flop down onto as your vision begins to blur. You don’t lay down, no, your hands ball into fists around the white covers and your eyes water and water as you stare down at the pillow.
You won’t cry. You won’t cry at all. Nothing’s wrong with you, your mind is perfectly intact and you’re not the one in some cage trying to regain your sentience. You’re not the one who risked it all to get a body because some idiot suggested it, so you aren’t going to throw yourself a pity party over this.
Still, as you dare to squeeze your eyes shut and get control of yourself, you see that stupid pair of cat ears Mr. Crawling left at your feet. It’s the same pair you put on Mr. Chopped in the past, back before he’d…
You snap your eyes open to force the image away. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, but it’s getting slower. You strain to keep your eyes open, dig your nails into the sheets, and bit by bit your body gradually begins to relax. Your breathing returns to normal, then you’re able to release the wrinkled sheets and wipe at your eyes a bit. Slowly but surely you’re alright again. Good. It’d be embarrassing for anyone to see a cute girl like this, but you also have no right to be crying. There’s no telling what kinds of medicines Mr. Silvair is giving Mr. Chopped right now, or even what kind of ‘investigation’ he might be doing. Somewhere in the back of your mind, there’s a question of whether or not Mr. Chopped will return to normal. The ‘Mr. Chopped’ you know might be gone forever, but you try to shove the thought away. You’ve been shoving it away, because what else can you do? Because what will you do if that’s the case, and you’re the reason he’s gone forever?
Nope. You can’t think like that. The thought alone makes you want to sink into your bed and let out everything you’ve been forcing back in, but you won’t. You can’t. You’ve already gone this far to compose yourself so with a deep breath, you neatly lay yourself down on your back. See? Like this you aren’t crying at all, you’re perfectly alright and maybe you’ll try to relax like this for a while…
Those cat ears come to mind again; you left them there in the hallway. You didn’t want to take them with you, they were a reminder of everything, and yet a few moments later you pull yourself to your feet. You find yourself at your bedroom door, lingering there a moment before you leave your room to retrieve them. You aren’t sure why you’re doing this, you don’t want to hold onto the ears and think about all that they mean but here you are retracing your steps down the hallway.
It isn’t long before you’re at the spot where you’d been lurking before, but the dirty floor is empty. The cat ear headband is gone. Your eyes lift towards Mr. Silvair’s room up ahead, confirming this is where you’d been earlier before you scan the floor a second time, then a third. Did someone take them? Mr. Crawling might have come back this way and picked them up, but you haven’t been gone from this spot for very long, so it seems unlikely. Someone else could’ve come through and taken them, but no one else here would know what the cat ears are. To anyone else the ears were probably strange human junk, so why grab them?
There’s an ache in your chest again. You aren’t sure why it’s there at all, not when you didn’t even want the ears in the first place. As you give up on finding the headband, you straighten yourself and pause. You lift a hand and nearly recoil at the sight; why is your hand trembling slightly? They were only cat ears. Just cat ears.
There’s a wetness streaming down your cheeks and your head lurches forward, your bangs falling over your eyes. All you see is the floor and even it blurs, growing wobbly around the edges as droplets dribble from your face. No, this isn’t right, you shouldn’t be crying about this. They’re a stupid random pair of ears, but you can’t keep telling yourself that. It’s more than the ears, but what are you supposed to do about everything that’s happened? You wish you could go back to that day. You wish you could put the ears on him again, get a haircut together, and this time you’d set things right and let Mr. Chopped know he’d been perfect without a body. You didn’t mean for things to turn out this way, you didn’t mean for him to do this all because of what you said.
Something suddenly touches your head. You stiffen, your entire body going rigid as something slides onto your head.
“Cute!” The voice makes your eyes to grow wide, but you can’t bring yourself to lift your head yet. There’s a gentle clicking sound from behind, and then someone else’s feet appear on the ground before you. “Cat Ears Cute You. Ears…Cute? Yes? Cat Ears?” You know that voice. It can’t be, can it? A sniffle escapes you as your head struggles to lift, and through the snowy filter of your bangs, you see him.
Mr. Chopped. There’s no mistaking it’s him, not with his bright irises and his reddish hair, but even with more tears escaping and clouding your vision you can tell he looks different. For starters, there’s a neck attached to his head, but his usual tidy hair is incredibly chaotic and long, with sharp strands resting on his shoulders and down his back.
His mouth falls open as he takes in your features, then his face quickly knits into concern as he steps closer, his face suddenly incredibly close to your own. Up close like this, his irises almost seem to glow against the black backdrop of his eyes, and a quiet hicc escapes you as you stare at him like a deer caught in the headlights. “You Cry! You Scared? Surprise Scared You? Sorry.”
You begin to bawl. Mr. Chopped lets out a sound that sounds like a mix of being surprised and confused, but you duck your head back down as the waterworks escape you.
“Sorry! Do not Cry, Me No Surprise You Again! Surprise Ears Bad, No Again—” Without warning, you grab onto Mr. Chopped. Your arms fling around him and your face finds his chest, hiding there as you try to rein in your crying. His slender frame is entirely unfamiliar to you, as is the fact you’re holding onto a body and not a head, but none of it matters. He’s here. He’s here and he’s okay, he’s back.
Mr. Chopped takes a step back as if to pull away from you. You won’t stop him if he does, but much to your relief, he doesn’t leave. Vaguely you remember he doesn’t like to be surprised like this, at least not when it comes to being touched or grabbed without any warning or permission at all, but you can apologize for it later. Right now having him here like this is proof he’s here, and it’s a way to hide the total mess you are.
“You…Okay?” His voice is softer than before. He shifts slightly, almost as if he’s adjusting his arms, but he doesn’t grab onto you.
It takes you a few moments before you’re able to gather the words, replying in a quiet, albeit croaky voice. “I’m fine—Okay, Me Okay. You just—You Body Now. You Here, You Body.”
“Not Like Body? You Desire Me Body Have?” Hearing the phrase again now causes your grip on him to tighten, and the words come out of you in a stumbling rush.
“I didn’t mean like this! I didn’t mean for you to change yourself, I liked you the way you were before, I thought you’d like having a body!”
“...Not Understand. Desire Me No Body?” You shake your head against his chest, that isn’t what you're trying to say at all. “Me Wanted You To be Happy.” Much like before, his voice sounds uncharacteristically somber, but this time it doesn’t go unnoticed. Not again.
“Me Happy Together You! Desire You, With Body, With No Body, Desire You.” You try again, hoping he deciphers what you’re trying to get across. “Me Happy You Sentience Came Again. Worry You…Gone.”
Did he get it? Your tears are finally drying up but your face is still damp and surely a mess, so you don’t dare look up at him yet. If he gives you a moment longer, you’ll pull yourself entirely together and get off of him. Now that you’re certain Mr. Chopped is back, your shoulders feel significantly lighter, and you’ll only need him as a crutch for a little longer—
Arms wrap around you and pull you into a tight embrace. It’s an odd thing knowing these arms belong to Mr. Chopped, and that it's his hands currently patting against your back in an obvious attempt to soothe you.
“...Not Surprise Scare You? Ear Surprise Not Bad?” His voice is tinged with uncertainty and you let out a quiet, breathy laugh before confirming that no, his sudden surprise appearance isn’t why you’d broken into tears. The mention of ears does get a small pause out of you, and although you’re ready to face Mr. Chopped properly you don’t pull away yet. Just a second more like this won’t hurt.
“Ears?” You repeat.
“Ears You Head. Cat? Word Cat? Cat Ears, Cute?” He shifts against you slightly and something on your head moves.
Oh! Finally pulling away from Mr. Chopped, you wipe your face with the sleeves of your raincoat before reaching to your head. Sure enough, you feel the fluff of the cat ear headband. Right, he did mention those earlier didn’t he? You can’t blame yourself for not paying much attention to them at the time, and even now the cat ears quickly fall underneath your radar a second time as you face him.
Mr. Chopped has a body. His face is almost entirely the same as before, though the sharp ends of his hair shape the edges of his face, making his features appear sharper and wilder. Large protruding stitches run neatly across his throat, one of his forearms, along his wrists, and you swear you even spot one near his ankle, but your eyes catch on his feet. His feet are clawed and as your gaze trails back up his frame, you find his fingertips harbor the same pointed claws, but they’re much longer. When you tilt your chin up to see his face again, you’re struck by how odd the motion is; since when do you have to look up at Mr. Chopped?
He’s staring at you with an odd expression, and you realize you never did answer him. “Cat Ears, Yes. Cat Ears Cute. You Like Body? How You Feel?”
His lips curl into a smile at the first bit, then his mouth twists into something thoughtful at the latter question. At least his expressions are familiar to you. He’s as expressive as always, and despite everything that’s happened, it’s as if he’s back to his usual self.
“Strange, Me Strange Body New,” he lifts a hand, flexing his digits as if the notion is unfamiliar. “Me Like Body, Feel Good. Strange Good…” Mr. Chopped trails off, following your gaze. You’re eyeing his hair again, unsure what to make of the long, feral strands. He makes a face the second he realizes what you’re looking at before frantically trying to smooth his hair with little success.
“No Like New Hair, Bad! Not Cute. Hair Need Cut, Hair Need Help.”
“You can’t do your own hair? Are you trying to style it the way it’d been before?” You ask, then pause as you’re met with a look conveying one meaning: what? “You Cut Hair? You Help You Hair?”
“Me Cut My Hair?” Mr. Chopped's voice is incredulous, but he considers the idea before frowning. “Not Know How. Hair Cut Person Helps Hair, Me Not Know How. Body New.”
That makes sense, how would he know how to deal with his hair? He’s never had to mess with it before, not being a chopped-head and all. You’re not sure if he’ll let you try cutting his hair, especially with how little he actually gets cut off, but its current length is reminiscent to what yours was like before getting it cut. Maybe you won’t try to be his hairdresser, he already has someone for that, but maybe…
“Me Teach You. Teach Help Hair.”
“You Teach…?” Mr. Chopped considers it, his hand idly toying with a few strands of his hair. It’s hard to tell exactly what doubts he might have about the idea, but you don’t miss the way he does a look-over at you. You hope your hair isn’t a terrible mess, although with the moods you’ve been in lately, you might’ve neglected taking as much care of yourself as you typically would. You find yourself tucking your hair behind your ears as if the gesture alone could tidy up your appearance drastically.
“You Teach! You Teach Me Help Hair! Me Together You Fun,” Much to your relief, you take care of yourself enough to convince Mr. Chopped you’re the right person to teach him! Or maybe you’re being a bit overly self-conscious, but either way, you’re confident you can teach him how to manage his hair. After a good brush you’ll show him how to weave it into his usual braided style, but for now, you smile slightly at the last phrase he tagged on.
“Happy You Come Back.” You tell him, waving a hand for him to follow as you start towards your room. You have a hairbrush in there, and your bed is large enough for the two of you to sit on.
“Me Happy, Miss You.” You almost pause mid-step, but you manage to continue even though the phrase makes something warm and fuzzy bubble up inside you.
“Me Worry You Gone; Miss You. Happy You back.” The words come out of you effortlessly, as they’re entirely true. You missed Mr. Chopped. It might take some time to adjust to him having a body, but it’s not his body you care about: it’s him.
You’re only a few steps from where you started when suddenly something warm grabs your hand. You turn back, blinking to find Mr. Chopped’s clawed fingers weaving between your own. He gently grips your hand without hesitation, squeezing it softly and smiling brightly.
“Desire Hold Me. You Carry Me Before; Hand Hold Now.” He says it all as if it’s no big deal, but your face is growing warm. Chances are it isn’t a big deal at all, after all: what’s holding his hand compared to carrying him around in your arms? It shouldn’t be anything at all and as you nod your head and begin to lead the way, you find yourself slowly squeezing his hand back. The tips of his claws rest on your skin and even when he returns the squeeze and begins to explain how he’d like to return his hair to the way it’d been before, they never pierce your skin. . .