They sigh a bit, decide not to deal with the person comment, and debate a moment how much to explain. Ignoring the cackle, because she's just weird sometimes, they're used to that. In the end, though, they suppose at least Pudding can keep a secret. "Maybe I'm not the worst, sure, I can think of plenty of handlers I'd never want my brain connected to. But I'm the most noisy. Crowded, maybe."

Soldat looks back down at the patchwork cloak, makes a stitch, then stops again. "I've been collecting. Voices. Since I died. Pieces of me, broken out and given personalities-- or the result of dying, one of them. There's four of us in here."