[ He hasn't even been alive long, and already hangs from the noose of his own longing to belong, he gasps for a whisper of acceptance. What a dreadful hunger it is to be seen for what he is, and accepted anyway, but the one he craved love from the most discarded him without a second thought. The unwanted, the unworthy, who absconded with a heart that was never meant to be his.

So he's learned to covet with long claws and sharper teeth. He has left a horrible, bloody trail behind, and there are still citizens alive in Krat who whisper with trembling lips about the puppet of Geppetto, the way they used to shudder to speak of the riddle-loving specter who would steal away the lives of their children. He did it because he wanted a father's love.

It was never for him.

What if you don't like what you find?
What if there's—more that isn't "easy to like" than there is the rest of it?

As easily as the fragile eggshell fractures, he feels his mechanical heart laboriously churn, gears creaking as they process the swell of recognition. It's loud only to him, but his metal hand fans out over his chest like he means to smother its muted chatter. Oh, his throat feels tight. It's only happened once before, when the thing that once drew breath lay cold in his arms.

He manages to clear it with a bitter sound: ha. ] They become disappointments to their fathers who wish for good sons.

...This conversation— [ He almost laughs, but it sounds like a gasp. ] —took a surprising direction, didn't it? What a strange week it's been.