Chapter Text
Rudo did not remember the first time he heard them.
There was no beginning. No clear moment where silence existed and then was broken. As far as his memory could reach—blurred, fragmented, distant—the world had always carried something beneath it. Something that did not belong to people, yet lingered closer than breath.
The voices.
Not voices in the way people spoke, with intention, with lies or truths shaped by lungs and tongues. These were different. They did not belong to bodies of flesh and blood. They were still something. Something constant. Something that breathed without lungs and spoke without mouths.
Not human voices. Never quite human. It was the voices of the objects.
Rudo had never known a world without them, so he learned to live with their presence. He never questioned it—children don’t question what has always been there.
It was a variety of sounds and voices. Thin whispers, dragging murmurs, fractured sounds that clung to the edges of his thoughts. A quiet, persistent hum stretching through the air, brushing against his ears in uneven waves.
They were always there.
A low, continuous hum stretched through the air, thin but unbroken, like a thread pulled too far yet refusing to snap.
[bzzzz...nn...nn...]
A dry, uneven tapping echoed somewhere close, then far, then nowhere at all.
[tck... tck... tck...]
And beneath it, quieter, fragile and dragging, something tried to form meaning out of what little it had left.
[don’t... leave...]
Sometimes they screamed [SCRRCH—STOP!... HURTS].
Sometimes they cried [...mm... mmh... why?].
Sounds, noise, and voices filled every space, scraping against his small ears, yet Rudo could still tell the difference between human voices and those that came from objects.
—
The moment the objects realized he can hear them, something shifts.
[you... hear...?] The rhythm stuttered, repeated, gained intensity: [hear... you hear... you—].
[he does... he does... he listens...].
[YOU— YOU HEAR?] [He hears—! He hears—!][finally— finally—!] [KRK—KRRR—!] [Look at me! Look— look—!] [here... here... here...]
[no... louder... he needs to hear...] [don’t scare him... don’t—no—] [hummm…] [stay... just... stay...] [HOW—DO YOU LISTEN—TO US?] [Don’t scare him away.]
The voices surge all at once, overlapping, uneven, desperate. Some call out to him softly, afraid he might disappear if they are too loud. Others cling to him with urgency, their presence pressing closer, as if they have been waiting for this moment for far too long. There is no order, no patience—only the raw need to be acknowledged.
For the first time... they are not alone inside themselves. They were being heard. And beneath all of it—whether loud or quiet, desperate or restrained—there is one shared feeling.
They do not want to be unheard again.
—
Rudo was abandoned before the world had the chance to explain itself to him.
There were no memories of a goodbye. No face turning away. No voice promising anything. Only the cold continuity of being left behind in a place where nothing stayed unless it had already been discarded. The ground had been cold, uneven, scattered with things that no longer belonged anywhere. Objects broken, bent, or simply unwanted, thrown together in careless heaps as if their existence had become inconvenient.
Left in a corner of a place that no one looked at twice, with hands marked by something no one wanted to understand. The skin there was wrong — scarred, uneven, something between injury and omen.
A child like that... was easier to ignore.
His father was already gone by then—thrown into the pit. A murderer, they said. A man who deserved nothing. A name that was better forgotten.
That judgment extended, quietly but completely, to the child left behind.
No one wanted to help the son of something like that.
.
People passed. They always did. And they always had something to say.
“Still here?” someone scoffed once, voice sharp with irritation. “Thought it would’ve died already.”
“Don’t get close,” another replied quickly. “Look at those hands.”
Rudo flexed his fingers slightly, the uneven marks across his skin catching the light just enough to draw attention.
“Disgusting,” came a quieter voice.
“Like father, like son.”
That one made Rudo jaw tighten. Anger rose in his throat; he wanted to retaliate, but if he did, he would end up with even more bruises than he already had.
“Don’t go near that thing.” A woman’s voice—sharp, immediate. Her grip tightened around a child’s arm, pulling them back as if the distance itself needed to be corrected.
“But—”
“I said don’t.”
Her eyes flicked toward Rudo, not with curiosity, but with something colder.
Disgust.
Rudo lowered his gaze.
Beside him, a torn strip of fabric shifted slightly in the faint wind, its voice thin, fraying at the edges like its own threads.
[Don’t... listen to them...]
Rudo reached out, his fingers brushing against it with quiet familiarity, “I’m not...”
For a moment, the fabric’s voice grew steadier—only slightly, but enough to be felt.
[...good...]
[you shouldn’t...]
[whsss... they hurt...]
.
Whispers, murmurs, and cruel, mocking laughter lingered in the air as people picked apart lives that were never theirs to judge, caring little—if at all—about the damage they caused. Their tongues were laced with venom, their words cutting deep like sharpened blades, deliberate and merciless. They said Rudo should die, that he should rot and be forgotten, that he should have been thrown into the pit alongside his father.
They never tried to hide their hatred; it showed in every glance, every word spoken without restraint. And when words were no longer enough, they used their hands, striking him, beating him, making it painfully clear that, to them, he was worth less than nothing.
—
A child alone should not have survived. Yet Rudo did. Because the world, though cruel, was not entirely empty.
Because he was not alone. The Objects helped him.
Rudo learned from them.
Old newspapers whispered letters into his ears, their pages yellowed and fragile. But they taught him how to read.
[...read out loud...]
[...your voice helps... your mind understand...]
“Th... this one... ‘wa... te’...? ...no... ‘w... a... ter’... water...”
“...water...”
It took time, but he learned.
A pen, dry and nearly useless, guided his grip with faint insistence.
[hold tighter— no— softerr... yes...]
[sloow... don’t rush...]
He pressed it against a surface, scratching faint lines that carried no ink but formed shape nonetheless.
“Like this...?”
[yes... like that...]
That was enough to understand writing.
Torn wallets, their seams frayed, murmured of value and exchange, its understanding of worth shaped by countless transactions it had once contained.
[that coin... too much...]
[keep... keep it...]
Rudo watched people from a distance after that, observing how they exchanged things, how they valued them. Gradually he learned how money works and how to do basic math.
Clocks, broken or not, had rhythmic voices, anchored, repeating cycles without deviation. They always knew the exact time.
[one... two... three...], [again...], [again...].
[It's... 4 PM.]
Rudo learned to have a better understanding of time, distributing it between morning, afternoon, and evening. He also learned to apply this time management more efficiently, even if only slightly.
Books varied, and so did the knowledge they carried, each one shaped by its own subject and purpose. Some spoke in clearer voices, patient and structured, guiding him step by step, while others were denser, filled with layered meanings that took time to unfold. They did not all teach the same way, but each, in its own manner, tried to pass something on—lessons, facts, fragments of understanding—quietly offering what it knew to anyone willing to listen.
Books with missing pages, dirty and torn. They taught him things that helped him survive.
[...running water... is safer… than still...]
[...if it doesn’t move... it keeps what can harm you...]
[...boil it... if you can...]
[...heat chases away... what your eyes can’t see...]
“Yeah... I get it.”
Bandages and discarded medical tools spoke with quiet clarity, their voices precise.
[clean... first...]
[wrap... gently...]
“It hurts a little less, thank you for teaching me.”
[...cover wounds... quickly...] [sssrr... srrk...]
[...what enters... is worse than what bleeds...]
His scars were no longer exposed and unprotected. He couldn't do much for them, but it still helped a lot to make it less uncomfortable.
The objects contained various pieces of information and knowledge. They observed without eyes and heard without ears. That's all they had to do, besides being used.
Even objects that did not speak clearly still contributed.
.
Not all objects had voices or internal sounds. It was as if they were empty shells. Some became conscious the moment they existed, while others, even after so many experiences and a long time of existence, remained empty.
Rudo never understood how it worked—what governed these unseen “rules” of the world. Even so, he treated them all the same. He cared for them, repaired them... even those that never spoke, even those that felt as if they had no soul at all.
Objects were honest—brutally so. They never pretended to be kind, nor did they bother to hide their cruelty.
Some were gentle, [your hands are... gentle.] [you’re not like... the ones who threw us away.]
Others bitter, [pathetic... crrk] [garbage has... whirr... more use than you...].
And some were openly hostile at first—only to soften with time. [Don't... touch me.] [s—sorry... I treated you... very badly.] [leave...]
Unlike humans, they never lied about what they felt. But objects are still better than people.
Rudo realized early on that no one else could hear them. Whenever people saw him talking to objects, they looked at him like something was wrong—like he was strange, or worse, like he had lost his mind.
When he spoke back—when he answered what only he could hear—they called him strange.
So Rudo learned to stop speaking to them openly when others were around. At most, he would whisper under his breath, or murmur so quietly it was barely sound at all. Sometimes, a glance was enough—a small movement, a subtle shift.
It was safer that way.
—
Then... there was Regto.
Just a man who looked at him—and didn’t look away.
He didn’t flinch at the dirt, the silence, or the way Rudo kept his distance. He offered him shelter, food, and warmth without forcing anything in return. No demands, no expectations—only quiet patience. Regto stayed, not because he had to, but because he chose to, even when no one else would.
Rudo didn’t trust him. Not at first.
He watched him carefully, like something that might turn without warning. He spoke out of turn, pushed back, snapped when he felt cornered. Sometimes he ignored him completely. Other times, he tested him—waiting for the moment Regto would lose patience, raise his voice, or raise his hand.
But it never came.
Regto never struck him. Never let his voice turn sharp in that way Rudo had learned to fear. Even when Rudo lashed out, he remained steady—firm when needed, but never cruel. And somehow... that was harder to understand than anything else.
Rudo didn't know exactly what to do with this kindness shown by another person.
Regto saw the scars. The old ones, the newer ones, the ones Rudo never spoke about. He noticed them, but he didn’t stare, didn’t pry, didn’t treat them like something shameful or something to erase. He simply acknowledged them—quietly, as if they were part of Rudo, not something that made him less.
Regto helped him take care of them. The scars were grotesque—twisted, uneven, and raw-looking, the kind that made people recoil or look away in disgust. Rudo stayed tense at first, waiting for the usual reaction. But Regto treated him so kindly.
And little by little, something in his chest eased—just enough to feel it.
The house itself... was different.
Its objects spoke too. Not loudly, not urgently—but steadily. The worn table, the utensils, the fabric he used... They were calm voices, just like their owner's. They spoke well of Regto.
[he is kind...] [he was alone too...]
[...careful... always careful...] [fssssss...]
Slowly, cautiously, Rudo began to let his guard slip. He accepted Regto as his guardian and stayed with him.
Regto taught him many things, how to avoid conflict when possible, how to control his anger before it controlled him, how to place himself, even briefly, in someone else’s position. He showed him that not every situation needed force, that sometimes stepping back was not weakness, but a way to survive longer.
He corrected him when needed. Stopped him when necessary. Reminded him, more than once, to avoid conflict when possible.
.
The pain never really left. It lingered in his scars, constant and dull at times, sharp and unbearable at others. His hands ached the most—old wounds pulling and burning as if they refused to heal properly. Some days, it got so bad he could barely move them, his arms going stiff, unresponsive, like they no longer belonged to him.
Sleep didn’t come easily. Most nights, he lay awake, staring into the dark, waiting for the pain to fade into something he could ignore. Sometimes it did. Most times, it didn’t.
Until one day, Regto handed him a pair of gloves.
They were old—worn down from years of use, the leather dark brown and rough, marked by time and countless repairs. They didn’t look like much, just something practical, something that had lasted longer than it should have. There was a strange symbol etched into them, faint but deliberate, as if it had been placed there for a reason.
Rudo took them. The moment he did, They spoke. Not in fragments, not in whispers. A clear, grounded voice, rough around the edges and far too present compared to anything he had heard before.
*[Well, damn... they gave me a brat for an owner, huh.]
Rudo froze.
This one was different.
Not broken. Not distant. Not fading.
It sounded... whole.
“Uh...? You’re... different from the others...” Rudo said, his voice unsteady, almost catching in his throat. He stared at the gloves as if he could pierce through them, his eyes faintly shining with curiosity.
*[What the hell is the kid talking about?]
“I... I’m talking about you, Gloves.”
*[...you hear me...? heh... no... no way...]
Around him, the objects began to stir, their voices rising all at once.
[He... hears us...] [Yes... yes...] [Sssshhh...]
[He listens... he listens...] [Clink... different... from the others...]
“Yes... I hear you,” Rudo said quietly.
*[Seriously? Damn... didn’t think that was even possible...] The gloves’ voice came out louder now, sharper, more alive.
*[hah... finally... someone who’s not deaf as hell...]
Rudo kept staring at them. “It’s the first time I’ve seen an object like you.”
*[Yeah, no shit. I’m better than the rest of them.] The gloves sounded completely self-assured.
*[You hear all this noise... all of us... and you’re still standing...?]
*[...you’re an interesting kid...]
Rudo hesitated, a little awkward under the attention.
*[Well, you’re my owner now. So I’m counting on you from here on out, kid.]
Rudo held them a bit tighter.
“I’m counting on you too... Gloves.”
.
It didn’t take long for the gloves to notice.
*[Hey, kid... these scars... they’re not normal.]
*[...Do you know what they are?] Their voice dragged slightly, rougher now, edged with something heavier than before.
Rudo’s gaze dropped, but he didn’t pull his hands away.
“I’ve had them for as long as I can remember... these are injuries caused by my father.”
A heavy, suffocating silence fell. But it didn't last long.
*[...]
*[Your father... was a real fucking piece of shit.] The words came out low, sharp, without hesitation, without restraint.
*[No one does this to a kid. No one. Not unless they’re completely fucked in the head.]
*[He doesn’t deserve to be remembered...]
*[Forget him. You’ve got that guy now, Regto. He’s a hell of a lot better than that... bastard.]
Rudo’s fingers twitched.
For a moment, it felt like something in his chest tightened—like old words, old memories trying to crawl back up. But they didn’t come out the same way they used to.
“...yeah...” he muttered, quieter this time. “...he is.”
*[...]
“...”
*[It hurts... doesn’t it...]
Rudo gave a small nod. Almost hesitant.
*[You don’t like people seeing them, right...]
*[if you don’t want them seen... I’ll cover them... every damn inch!]
Rudo’s eyes widened.
Something unfamiliar pressed against his chest—not pain, not anger. Something warmer. Something he didn’t quite know how to hold.
*[And the pain...]
*[I think I can help with that.]
A brief hesitation.
*[Don’t ask me how... but I can.]
*[I’ll keep it down... as much as I can... can’t erase it... but I’ll choke it quiet...]
Rudo stood there, frozen. The ache in his hands—constant, suffocating—shifted. Just a little. But enough to notice.
Enough to matter.
His breath caught slightly. His cheeks flushed without him realizing, and he lowered his head, unable to meet something he didn’t understand.
“...thank you... Gloves.” His voice was quiet. Softer than before.
Rudo pressed the gloves against his chest, holding them tighter than he meant to.
A faint warmth spread through his hands—subtle, steady—easing the edge of the pain just enough to be noticed.
*[Heh... look at you, holding on like that...]
*[...don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.]
Rudo’s grip trembled slightly. The ache didn’t disappear, but it felt... quieter. Less suffocating.
*[Alright... listen up...]
*[...from now on, those hands are mine to protect too...]
*[...so don’t do anything stupid with them...]
Rudo lowered his head, holding them just a little closer.
“Yeah...” He said, in a low voice, almost a whisper.
.
Rudo did try to tell him. Regarding his ability to hear objects.
[nnn... nnhh...] [tck...]
At some point, cautiously and without much expectation, he spoke about the voices—about how objects weren’t silent to him, how they carried something more, something that spoke and lingered.
[...the man doesn’t hear...]
[...he can’t... he can’t...] [sssrr... careful... careful...]
Regto listened. Patiently listening to what Rudo was talking about.
He didn’t interrupt, didn’t dismiss him outright, but there was a quiet hesitation in the way he responded. To him, it sounded like the imagination of a child who had grown too attached to the things others threw away—a child who saw value where no one else did, who refused to see anything as truly disposable.
[...he thinks it’s imagination...]
[...they always do...]
He didn’t call Rudo a liar. But he didn’t believe him either.
[...even if he doesn’t hear us...] [...he hears you...]
Instead, he accepted it gently, as something harmless. Something that didn’t need to be corrected.
And Rudo... noticed. He noticed the way Regto’s eyes softened, not with understanding, but with something closer to concern. The way he didn’t ask questions, didn’t press further.
[...don’t be afraid...] [...we’re here...]
[...you’ve said harder things...]
So Rudo stopped explaining. Not out of anger, but because he understood that this was one thing he couldn’t share.
*[Don’t let it get to you, kid. It’s normal he doesn’t get it.]
*[And for the record... even after all this time I’ve been around, you’re the first one I’ve seen who can actually hear us.]
Rudo nodded slightly.
—
The voices continue to echo, coming from all places and directions, loud or soft. The pain continued, relieved now, not completely, but it was still great.
Rudo lowered his gaze to his hands, the worn gloves resting over scars that still throbbed beneath them.
*[...don’t get used to the pain... get used to me.]
*[...you’re stuck with me now, kid.]
Rudo didn’t answer.
For a moment, he just stood there, listening. His fingers tightened slightly.
It wasn’t gone. The pain, the voices... they were still there. But something felt... different.
Quieter. Steadier.
Rudo held his hands a little closer, as if testing that feeling, as if afraid it might disappear.