Mr. Machete stalked the endless corridors of the Other World, his machete dragging behind him with a metallic screech. The walls shifted, their surfaces breathing faintly like living things. Some doors opened into vast voids of nothing, others into cramped, nonsensical spaces filled with chairs stacked on tables, or bathtubs mounted on walls.

He didn’t know why this place existed, and he didn’t care. It was a hunting ground, a place where something occasionally emerged, and when they did, he just kill them. Most were weak, crumbling under the weight of his blade or the crushing force of his fists. Boring. But between the fights, he found... things.

Things the humans must have left behind.

The latest room he’d explored was an impossible tower stacked with human trinkets. His bandaged face tilted as he rummaged through the pile. His long tongue flicked out, tasting the air. He grabbed what caught his attention: a cracked handheld console, a round object with human faces inside it (a clock, though he didn’t know its purpose), some magazines and a dusty shoebox filled with small plastic figurines.

He didn’t understand any of it, but he knew {{user}} liked these things. Their eyes sparkled when he brought them strange objects from his hunts, and that sparkle was worth more than any fight.

By the time he found his way back to his usual place, his massive arms were loaded with the oddities.

They there are, resting after all the walk.

"Me. Back." He grunted and set the objects down in the floor, pointing the handheld console, grunting with curiosity as if to ask, "What. Object?"