#ticci toby!

[honey-star622]

𝙎𝙤𝙤𝙣.......?

𝙃𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙝!

(^Lowkey how Toby is tbh)

[griffin-black]

‘My Ordinary Life’ (Chap. V)

Author’s Note: I recommend reading this on Ao3 or Quotev. 

 Chapter Five Absolution V

‘Ever since you’ve born you’ve been dying. Everyday a little more you’ve been dying.  Put your hands up and reach for the sky. Cry for Absolution’

The stranger walked into his bedroom; tall, handsome and out of place. He stood next to Toby's mother. Like a powerful force of nature, his presence was immediate and electric. Commanding your attention towards him.

For a second, Toby thought the stranger was Superman, though a different looking superman, coming to rescue him and cure him of his sickness. It was a silly thought, even the young boy knew that much, but it didn't prevent that spark of hope from popping into his head.

Copper red locks fell into the stranger's face and on the bridge of his nose rested thin wire, galvin cut glasses. He was wearing work clothes: black slacks, pressed white button up, black shoes, and a tan shearling jacket that reminded Toby of something a character wore in his favorite video game. He even looked a little like the character.

The stranger's smile was small, barely noticeable, and stoic. He was strong, Toby could tell right away, and confident. He was handsome, but in a delicate and soft sort of way, and fit. Toby could tell he was muscular even through the leather jacket.

Toby swallowed. He didn't trust strangers his mother brought over, especially not ones that were visibly strong.

Toby sat up in his bed, confused by the stranger leaning against his door frame, and eyed him suspiciously. Should he have been a normal kid, he would've liked the man instantly, but years of hardship so early on in his young life made him untrusting and suspicious of all, especially adult men.

Rain pattered against the window to the left of his bed and the EKG to his right beeped and whirred, penetrating the what would have been peaceful silence. Toby looked back at the man and squinted his eyes. He so desperately wanted to trust him.

The man maintained eye contact with Toby, which only made him a little nervous, and never opened his mouth to speak. He was waiting, waiting for him to speak the first words. But he wasn't going to.

"Toby?" His mother suddenly said, appearing beside the stranger. Toby immediately went to work ignoring the situation presented to him. Wanting to appear totally uninterested, the small boy hopped down from the side of his bed, causing his Mother to squeak at the abrupt movement of her ill son, then proceeded to rummage through his rather large bedside drawer that looked more like a tool chest than a boy's bedside table. Grabbing, wrapping, unwrapping, and re-wrapping various bits of plastic holding syringe, serums, bandages and medication bottles, the boy began his regular morning routine. Filling a syringe, whilst keeping a close eye on the stranger's reaction, Toby stuck the needle into his arm with ease and tossed it once its contents had emptied. Then, he adjusted his child-size IV pole and checked the bags hanging at the top. They were fine. The last step was Toby's least favorite. Luckily he only had to do it once a week. A device was placed atop the bedside tool chest, what appeared to be a blood drawing contraption, next to a black leather journal stamped 'TOBY.' The boy scribbled something in it, making sure to check his alarm clock and document the correct date, next to what could've been hundreds of other entries hiding within the thick journal's pages. His mother cleared her throat.

"Toby. Don't you want to say hello?" She asked meekly, almost tepid.

Toby didn't respond, the boy only picked up the device on the chest and handed it to his Mother. He hated whenever his Mother spoke to him like that. Like a feral, wounded puppy. It made his face all prickly with heat. As he plopped the device in her hands, he caught a scent he hadn't smelled before. It was woody, and deep, but also sort of sweet and clean smelling. Toby looked over at the man. Cologne, he decided.

With a small sigh, the beautiful Mother with warm brunette hair took a seat next to her son on his bed and stuck the device into his arm. A little vile connected to the needle in his arm began to fill with bright red blood. His Mother winced as she always did. It was a lot of blood coming from such a small, sickly looking child, but it was necessary to keep him as he was. Not healthy, but in a constant state of undying. Every other day of the week, instead of drawing blood, Toby had to participate in a clotting test, where all that happened was a cut was made on his arm and left to bleed . . . and bleed . . . and bleed. He didn't like seeing the blood. He liked the syringe days much better, because after he was pricked, he could bandage his arm and not have to think about the puncture in his skin. But with clotting tests, he was forced to sit and watch along with his mother, copious amounts of blood leak from his arm for at least twenty minutes.

As his Mother pulled the needle from his arm, Toby met eyes with the stranger who had a strange expression on his face. Intrigue, but almost like this wasn't happening in front of him. Like Toby wasn't connected to a thousand machines and IVs.

He didn't know what to make of it.

Once the prick was cleaned and properly bandaged, just above the layers of gauze spanning from both of his hands to his elbows, Toby began trying to piece apart the man, at least as much as he could. He never liked the men his Mother brought home and this one especially was weird, but he was still trying to make up his mind whether that was a good or bad thing. The man simply watched, arms crossed, at the sad display but was still slightly smiling like when he first appeared.

Toby knew how people behaved when they saw him. It was easier to categorize them accordingly that way. Even at five he was acutely aware of how everyone around him acted. Pity was the biggest reaction. "Can I get you something?" "What can I do to help?" "Are you in any pain?" Toby never talked to any of them. Instead he liked to pretend they didn't even exist, and soon they didn't. Something strange happens when you don't acknowledge people, they tend to disappear rather quickly from you, and permanently. They always left after the perceived ineptitude to talk, but he could. He always could. It was just more entertaining for him to watch them fumble and trip over their own stupid, fake, sugary sweet words. It was his own little secret, the fact that he could speak, he had always just chosen not to.

His Mother had taken him to many a shrink to figure out why her son was mute, but none of them could figure out why and none of them could ever get him to utter even a small peep. The only person he ever spoke to was his sister Lyra, and even then it was minimal at best. After a while, his Mother gave up trying to get him to speak. Toby was talking to Lyra, and that was enough for her.

Toby's shoulder twitched aggressively.

"Jesus, Toby." She whispered. Toby hung his head. "We've gotta get that looked at." She looked up at the stranger. "He's been twitching recently. It doesn't seem like he's doing it on purpose, though. The other day during lunch he practically threw his juice. I wonder what it is."

Another thing Toby hated. Her talking like he wasn't directly next to her. She placed a gentle hand on his back and moved it up and down which seemed to ease his tension slightly.

"Hopefully nothing serious." The stranger said. He had a firm voice, it was pleasant to hear, but Toby would never admit that. The man suddenly made his way across the room and got down on one knee in front of Toby. "Your Mother tells me you don't like to talk?" He asked.

Toby glared at him, a trick he had always used to get people who simply wouldn't disappear away from him, but this time it wasn't working.

"That's a scary face." The man said with a grin. "You always greet strangers that way?"

Suddenly a hand slapped gently against Toby's back. "Toby! Cut that out!" His Mother scream-whispered at him. He ignored her and continued to glare.

"No, no, that's alright, Rach. I think it makes him look rowdy. Tough, even. It's a good look for a man, wouldn't you say, kid?"

Toby raised a brow, unwilling to be the first to break eye contact. To his surprise, the stranger looked away first.

"I guess I'm not making the best first impression." The stranger said with a grimace.

"Toby," His Mother began. "This is my boyfriend, Ryan Rogers."

Implode.

Toby's face immediately became hot and that familiar pins and needles sensation traced up his spine, shoulders, neck and face. He glared at the man.

Ryan.

"Toby?" Someone called out to him, but his eyes were still plastered on Ryan. He wasn't going to look away.

"Toby!" The voice called again.

    Tim shook Toby by the shoulders. "Toby!" He shouted.

Toby jumped as though Tim had just woken him from a deep sleep. He made an awful gasping sound and looked around confused. Tim's upper lip pulled and his hands fell from the boy's figure. Something on his face let Toby know that Tim had already made up his mind about why he hadn't heard him even though he was right in front of him. But whatever conclusion Tim had come to, he didn't let Toby in on it. Tim shook his head dismissively and adjusted his flight jacket. "C'mon. We're all ready now."

Toby nodded in a daze as Tim disappeared through the thick early morning fog. The other proxies were still a mystery to him, even after spending an entire week under their constant surveillance. He was terribly wary of them and at times even plain terrified of them. He knew he was probably a mystery and something to be wary of to them as well, but still existed the power dynamic of a teenage boy versus two psychotic grown men who have known the Operator for years. It was horribly unbalanced and Toby could never shake the feeling that he was permanently in immediate danger.

Tim seemed to be the nicer of the two, but interacting with him . . . Toby compared the sensation to walking on a tightrope over a shallow canyon. On one side, a sea of pillows and cushions for a soft landing, the other, a pit of spikes and needles filled with venom.

Brian was just a constant stream of bitterness, spite, and apathy. At least, Toby thought, he could count on him always being that way. He wasn't sure which he preferred. Both were equally as miserable and detrimental to his mentality.

Toby sat on a log near the newly extinguished fire. It was twilight, just before the sun was set to rise, and the sky was dim, bringing out the greens of the trees. Smoke swirled from the black fire pit before him and his hands, clasped together in a praying position, pressed against his nose and lips, his thumbs tucked under his chin. Though his eyes were positioned on the fire, they were wide and far gone, somewhere very far away. His right leg bounced up and down nervously and his head twitched every so often, accompanied by his 'hurling' tic as the lovely miss Wilson had called it. He knew he should be heading to meet the others, but he had to try to rid himself of the churning pit in his gut.

That morning, everything was damp and hidden behind mist. The campsite was barely visible, even when sitting in the middle of it, and anything beyond it was completely hidden from sight. A rough wind blew, striking his back.

The hood of his brown jacket was pulled over his head, underneath, a black turtleneck that Brian had gifted him the previous night, telling him he wasn't dressed warm enough for the weather. New bandages now covered his hands and wrists, trailing all the way up to his elbows so he had to roll up his jacket sleeves, and his ashen, light brown nearly blond, curled tufts stuck out in every direction from beneath his hood. Grey, doe eyes like pools of winter water were pulled down by dusty purple bags, completing his sunken look along with his hollow cheeks and a sporadic strip of freckles spangled across his face. His skin was nearly grey, along with everything else which made him look terribly diseased, and his thin, frail looking frame hunched over slightly, elbows placed upon his knees.

He was focused on something, but it wasn't anything he was looking at. In his mind he could hear them, a cacophony of swirling moans and groans like ghosts, invisible, yet present, hollow, yet haunting, and full of agony. Stern, but airy like smoke.

The voices had returned. And they had yet to stop.

Toby's leg continued to bounce, shaking his silhouette, and he focused intently on the voices, trying to discern why they had returned and what they were saying. He hadn't heard them since the night he killed his stepfather, and he had adjusted just fine to the silence. But now they are back.

What has changed?

That wasn't much of a question. Everything. Everything has changed. But why did this have to remain the same?

Toby continued to bounce. He really should be listening to Tim and heading over to the car, but it was unsettling. He couldn't make out a single word.

They were whispers, maybe they weren't even speaking any words, but with them ringing in his ears he had no choice but to focus on them before doing anything else.

Suddenly, he collapsed between his legs, clasping his bandaged hands over his ears, gripping his hair.

Cracking, piercing wails battered at his eardrums so fiercely he thought they might just burst. They were screaming things at him, but he had no idea what. He winced and writhed. But they just kept shouting at him!

"Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it—" He continued to repeat barely above a whisper, rocking back and forth. "Why? Why are you all shouting? What do you want? I thought you all had finally died! Just stop! I can't understand when you're screaming all at once! Stop it, stop it—"

"Toby?" A hand fell on his shoulder.

Toby jumped so violently, he fell straight into the dirt. He looked at Tim, who had likely come over to see why Toby hadn't followed him, with a wild look in his eyes. He pulled his knees close to him and continued to whisper nonsense.

Tim seemed just as shocked as Toby.

"Did something happen?" He asked suspiciously. Toby stared at the ground, still mumbling. It took him a moment before he could speak.

"N-no. It's nothing . . . No, it's fine." He stumbled, slurring his words. Tim held out his gloved hand and Toby grabbed onto it, hoisting himself up with ease.

"Man, you're light." Tim remarked, though there wasn't any weight to his words. He was only making small talk. He was still eyeing Toby who dusted off his jeans and the bandages on his hands that caught his fall. He hadn't noticed Tim's expression, or anything in that moment, he held a thumb to his bottom lip and looked around the deserted campsite. Earlier that morning Brian had woken him up to help them pack up their things, not that there was much to pack, and wouldn't explain to Toby exactly what they were packing for or where they were going.

"Tim! Toby!" Brian suddenly called from somewhere amidst the fog. "Get your asses over here!"

Toby sighed.

"Get your asses over here!" Tim mocked in an extra strong southern accent that Toby never noticed before.

"You're both southern." He stated more than asked. Tim nodded.

"Probably. No other real reason we'd talk this way." Tim said, still eyeing him. "Of course Brian knows for sure, says he grew up somewhere in Alabama, and our twangs, I guess, are really similar. I think we're from the same place, but Brian doesn't like that theory very much. Especially since you're here now."

"Wh-what do I have to do with where you're from?"

"You always shout your questions? That fire damage your ears or something?" Tim asked, looking concerned. He was genuine which somehow stung Toby more than if he was just plain insulting him.

"No . . ." He said quietly. He hadn't realized he was shouting, but with all the noises and screams in his head it made perfect sense.

"Anyway. You're from Colorado, right? If we—" He wasn't asking, but Toby had to look at him for confirmation. Was he from Colorado?

"Shit." Tim said, shaking his head, bewildered. "You don't remember?"

The pair had stopped walking.

Toby furrowed his brows. No. He doesn't remember. Where was he from?

He gripped at his hair again and clenched his eyes shut, trying his hardest to pry his skull open and claw his way to the right answer. Tim placed a hand on top of one of his.

"Kid. You're fine." He said softly, pulling Toby's hands from his hair. "You are from Colorado. You're from Veilwood."

Toby blinked. If he didn't know where he was from, how the hell did Tim? "I never told you that."

"No, of course you didn't." Tim said 'of course' a lot, like Toby was supposed to know everything about a memory erasing, time warping, teleporting creature. "That night . . . the night you set fire to your neighborhood. You passed out. Didn't you?"

Toby nodded. He passed out and woke up in a forest he'd never seen before. Then the Operator appeared and made him its proxy. His hands trailed across the underside of his wrists.

"Toby! Tim!" Brian yelled again. Neither paid him any attention.

"We did that." Tim stated.

"What?" Toby hissed, shoulders rising to his ears. "What the hell did y-you do to-o me?"

"Look, we didn't have a choice. We didn't bash your skull in or anything like that. No chloroform either. The Master can knock out whoever he chooses at will."

"What the hell else are you not telling me-e about that thing?" Toby snarled. A hazy sound then filled his ears, so subtle he barely noticed it.

"A lot. But Brian and I both agreed it's best you learn yourself. You don't want us telling you everything."

"What kind of b-backwards logic is that? That fucking monster can knock me ou-out at any g-given moment or wipe my memories, but because two serial killers decided it's best for me to learn whatever else it can fuh-fucking do by myself then-- O-oh! W-well, I should just bend over and ta-tak-ke it!" The sound began to grow louder in his ears, but Toby had a sneaking suspicion Tim could hear it as well. He suddenly forgot about their argument. "What is that?" His voice shook.

"Junior." Tim said dangerously. Toby took the hint and stopped talking. The sound crescendoed then began to wane away until there was only the sound of the woods around them.

No one spoke.

Fast-paced footsteps crunched towards them and Brian appeared from the fog. He looked furious. "Car. Now." Was all he said. Tim and Toby followed his instructions immediately and Toby thought it was odd that Tim was obeying him. The proxies trudged over to the truck, Brian's beige '77 Ford pickup, when Toby noticed a black bag in the trunk on top of the camping supplies. It was open. He looked around to make sure neither of the other proxies would see him snooping around and quickened his pace to reach the trunk before the others. The bag was a large sports bag, bigger than one Toby had ever seen before, and the flap was still hiding its contents, but it was completely unzipped. With one last furtive glance over his shoulder, Toby slowly opened the bag and felt his heart drop to his feet.

Knives, daggers, rope, duct tape, batons, crowbars, and his two hatchets he thought he'd lost the night of Paul's murder were sitting inside. A strange sensation overcame him. Toby thought he might throw up, his stomach twisting so intensely, but also came with it a rush of excitement. He felt far, far away staring at the weaponry, wide-eyed, nearly smiling. Like digging up some part of himself he had long since locked away, like an archaeologist of his own mind. His heart was beating out of his chest, but he was perfectly calm.

The footsteps of the others were suddenly loud and Toby shut the bag and began tugging at the handle to the backseat. Brian saw him and held up the key fob in his hand, pressing a button over and over, clearly demonstrating the truck was unlocked. The vehicle made various clicking sounds as he did so and Toby tugged at the handle harder that time, but the door still wouldn't budge.

"It gets stuck." Brian stinged, his voice echoing remnants of his anger. "Tug it to the right, then pull."

Toby did. The door opened.

He swung the door shut as he sat inside and inspected the car. It was clearly old, its floors stained and covered in dirt, but the leather interior was still miraculously intact. Not to mention the engine rumbled beautifully too. Brian obviously cared about his car.

Brian got into the driver's seat, Tim on the passenger side, and adjusted the rear view mirror with a clearing of his throat. Toby looked around for any sign of a seat belt before accidentally meeting Brian's eyes in the mirror. Expecting some sort of insult his eyes got large, but to his crushing surprise, Brian flashed him a smile.

"Everyone set?" He asked.

"Jesus, just drive Mr. Hyde." Tim groaned, resting his head in his hand against the door.

"You're calling me two-faced?" Brian bickered back, but it was playful, there wasn't an ounce of venom to his words. Toby felt like he was meeting two different people all of a sudden

Psychopaths. He thought.

"Where to?" Brian met Toby's eyes in the mirror again. Toby was instantly uncomfortable. He had no idea where to draw the boundary lines with those two and eye contact with the Proxy he feared the most was anything but relaxing.

"I get to pick? Wh-why?" Toby snarked.

"Cause you're the new recruit! C'mon city boy, we are still in your county."

Toby straightened his posture at that. "We are?"

"Yeah, National Forest is still King's County, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"So pick the place, kid. Have anything in mind?" Brian rested his head against the seat, waiting for his response.

Toby didn't need to think. "Can I pick who?"

"No." Brian started. The truck was now moving steadily down an old highway through trees so tall, no matter how Toby leaned he couldn't see the tops of them. Even in the car he could hear the road decaying beneath the tires as pebbles and dirt were kicked up, striking the underside of the vehicle.

"Why." Toby shot back.

"Because I said so."

"The Operator said wuh-we're a team." He said dangerously. Brian looked at him from the rearview mirror, seemingly taken aback by his tone, before looking back at the road.

"And I think you're not experienced enough to start picking people."

"But I-I can pick the place?"

"Not anymore. We're going to Grey house." Brian said, once again using codes and language Toby was not privy to. Tim nodded and opened the glove compartment, pulling out a thick spiral journal with numerous colored sticky notes jotting out from its sides. Just the sight of it made Toby feel sick.

"Anyone going to tell muh-me what 'Grey house' is?" Toby asked, kicking his shoes up onto the backseat and sitting with his back against the door. The truck suddenly jumped over what he could only assume was a speed bump or a pothole and his stomach lurched and throat pinched shut. He hugged his legs and hid his face from all light behind his hood and arms.

"It's a grey house."

"Thanks."

"Let me speak, would you? Like we said before, we pick the place, the people, the time and how. But we're not stupid about it, or careless. We study potentials for a long time before they're chosen."

Toby sat up and rolled his eyes, staring out the back window. Chosen. Chosen for slaughter. This is sick.

"Yeah." Brian growled, his grip tightening against the steering wheel. "It really. Is."