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The kid's haunted eyes stared straight through them as he gnawed on his fingers, the chewed skin tapering into bloody, broken fingernails. "Wuh-why don't y-you guh-guh-guys e-eh-ever try t-to escape?"
It barely came out as a mutter, and Tim glanced blankly in his direction. "You said something?"
Toby took a breath and repeated himself, louder, his Adam's apple working as he forced the words out. "Why duh-don't y-y-you eh-eh-ever try to eh-escape?"
"Oh," Tim said, nodding, his eyebrows raised. His face broke into a cynical grin as he laughed. "Trust me, we tried. When we were still wet behind the ears we tried every other day."
"He's always there, you know," Brian added, regarding the teenager's glare with little surprise. "Watching, waiting, always one step ahead. We can never stay ourselves for long when He's around. It's like He's a magnet for Hoody and Masky. If you learn anything here, it's that you're better off dead then messing with the Operator."
"S-so that's ih-ih-it!" Toby slammed his hands into the table, perhaps a little harder than intended. "Yuh-you j-juh-just guh-gave up? Luh-like that? Tuh-tuh-tuh-talk a-about the c-coward's way out!"
Brian grimaced, as if he'd been slapped. Tim lunged across the table, clenching the fabric of the Toby's collar in one white-knuckled fist. "Listen here, you stuttering freak." (Ouch. As mad as he was, he felt bad about that later.) "Consider yourself lucky that you remember almost nothing He put you through. Because Brian and me? We remember every facet of suffering He brought on us. We can't go a night's rest without dreaming about it, and He wants it that way. You think you're some kind of hero? You don't understand. You're just like us, Rogers. You're a killer."
Toby shoved him away, scowling. "Kih-kih-kiss my a-ass, Wright."
Rolling his eyes, Tim sat back and took a swig of his coffee. No sugar, light creamer, already gone cold. Toby kicked his chair away with a bang and stood before them, his eyes flaming.
"I'll shuh-shuh-show you," he whispered, his body wracked with agitated twitches. "Buh-both of y-you. H-He's no guh-god, juh-juh-just some e-eh-egg ih-in a suh-suit. I-I'll p-prove it!"
With that, he stormed out, knocking his cup of coffee off the table and leaving it to shatter on the floor. Tim put his head in his hands, massaging his temples.
"He's gonna get himself killed," he groaned.
"Probably," Brian sighed, rubbing his back. "You shouldn't have spoken to him like that."
"Tell me about it. He's just so damn insensitive sometimes, and it pisses me off."
Brian hummed in agreement. "I get you. But he's a kid, Tim. He doesn't know any better."
"Then he needs to grow up quick. At least, if he wants to live."
As the sun melted, bloodred, into the horizon, the workday began. Brian and Toby sat in ancient lawn chairs on the porch, waiting for Tim to give the word. Brian tried to strike up a conversation with Toby, but, his arms crossed, the boy wasn't talking.
The screen door shrieked as Tim pushed his way outside, using his shoulder as his hands were busy securing his gun into its hip holster. He looked at the two expectantly. "Masks?"
As though it were coordinated, all three covered their faces at once. "Copy."
"Weapons?"
Everyone was at the ready. "Copy."
Tim nodded. "Good. Let's get this over with."
Leaves and dead branches crunched under their feet as they trekked through the woods, Brian in the lead as navigator. They were never very talkative when they travelled, aside from simple commands such as "this way" or "watch out." The silence was heavier since Toby dragged behind, though he still mumbled nonstop to himself, and swore quietly when he stumbled over the occasional root.
Eventually the darkness let lead to light as their first target's home came into view. It was a secluded little cabin with a natural fenceline (that is, to say, there wasn't a fence), a vacation house for the family of five sleeping inside.
"We've arrived at the target location, five individuals, aged thirty-two, thirty, twenty, fifteen, and seven, surname Sierra Mike India Tango Hotel," Brian confirmed, and they all stepped forward.
Suddenly, however, there was a crunch as Toby fell to the ground, clutching his head. "NUH-NO!"
Tim and Brian turned, both grabbing him under the armpits and dragging him back into the woods without thinking. Since he couldn't feel pain on the regular he could go completely ballistic when he did. Getting caught would've meant big trouble. Still, it puzzled them on why he was throwing a fit now.
"We're working," Tim hissed, watching as Brian kneeled to remove Toby's mask— a hard task with the state the teenager was in— and gently slap his cheeks. A ribbon of blood trickled from Toby's nostril. "Seriously, why the hell is He here?"
Usually, if the Operator had a message for them, He'd be filling all of their heads with TV static. That's what got them. Why only Toby?
"Tobias!" Brian whispered fiercely, giving the teen a light shake as the boy's eyes rolled back into his head.
Toby could barely gurgle a response. "I-I cuh-can't... H-H-H-He's huh-huh-here... please..."
His back arched and then he went limp against the dry leaves, his eyes focusing, unfocusing, focusing, unfocusing. When they focused again, Tim and Brian knew exactly who they were dealing with.
"Slender, what are you doing here?" Tim growled, pulling Brian behind him.
Toby— the thing that took Toby's form— merely looked at them. Those twitchy hands not even shaking, he slipped a hatchet from his belt and sank its blade into his wrist. Tim's quick reflexes kept him from hacking his hand off completely, but blood still splattered across their jackets, the leaves. Meanwhile, Brian had snatched Toby's other hatchet and thrown it into the brambles.
As a result, Tim and Brian were brought to their knees by the static. Snowy, endless, excruciating. The pain bubbled out of them as coughs and grunts.
NEVER DISOBEY ME AGAIN. YOU ARE MINE. YOU WILL BEHAVE AS SUCH.
Brian curled up on the ground. Tim, who had managed to stagger to his feet, fell against a tree. Their focus was broken by the agony of it, dissociation falling upon them both like a heavy, dusty veil.
When Masky and Hoody came to front, they saw stars dotted across an inky black sky. The Operator growled at them, impatient.
TEACH THIS BOY THAT I AM MORE THAN JUST A SIMPLE OVUM, AND MAKE IT A LESSON THAT HE WILL NOT FORGET.
Carelessly throwing Toby from His control, He left the teenager sobbing and shaking on the ground. Unlike their humane counterparts, Masky and Hoody did not show mercy. Hoody yanked him to his feet; Toby kicked back at him, to little effect.
"I-i wuh-wuh-wasn't g-guh-gonna d-do eh-eh-eh-anything!" Toby pleaded with the Operator, knowing he was listening. "I p-promise!"
He fell silent when he heard the click of a gun. His mouth went very dry; his head snapped just in time to see Masky aiming Tim's pistol at him. Because he wasn't able to feel pain he didn't fear it, and death never quite worried him either, but he was terrified of guns. The noise and the mess were simply too much for him to stand.
"NO!" he screamed, but his voice was drowned out by three gunshots. He felt as if he were being shoved in the thighs and his uninjured arm by something very small but very heavy; warmth soon spread through those areas. Hoody released him and he could only stagger a few feet before collapsing.
The Operator's static wiped through the minds of all three of them, the agony forcing unconsciousness upon their bodies.
Toby saw leaves when his eyes opened. Brown, dead, crunchy leaves, dotted here and there with red. He'd been in the business long enough to know what the spots were.
He pushed himself to his knees, wincing with the stiffness of his muscles and the tackiness of the drying blood soaked into his clothes. His arms barely supported his own weight. He saw Hoody slumped against a tree a few yards away, and Masky was laying on his side right near his, Toby's, knee. With a small yelp of fear he skittered away, the leaves rustling under him.
He saw another tree, this one barely a sapling, and dragged himself towards it. It was bathed in the comforting glow of the rising sun, but Toby didn't care. He sat with his back against its thin trunk and curled into a ball, instinctively beginning to gnaw his fingers. The slimy-coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, but he didn't care about that, either. Actually, he didn't notice it at all.
With all of the voices screaming at him, in fact, he couldn't notice much of anything, and apathy filled him in cold waves. He was woozy with blood loss and still aching from the Operator's static, and therefore unresponsive to any outside stimuli.
He was too trapped inside his own demented mind that he didn't hear Brian groan as he, freed from Hoody's grasp, made it to his feet.
Brian, quite disoriented as well (if not more), shook his head to steady himself, letting his hood fall. When his eyes focused, he first saw the blood that splattered the ground, then Tim.
"Oh, my God," he croaked, stumbling over to his partner. He fell to his knees and shook the man's shoulder. "Tim. Tim!"
Tim's eyes fluttered behind his mask; he was alive, and Brian could have wept with relief. He took Tim's groggy stillness for granted for a few moments by feeling his pulse, unzipping his jacket, checking for any injuries. He was unscathed.
"Okay, okay, geroff me," he muttered, shoving at Brian's hands, and Brian grinned despite himself. He watched Tim push himself into a sitting position and tear off his mask, looking around with an expression that soon went from sleepy confusion to wide-eyed shock.
"Oh, hell... Bri, what happened? Are you okay?"
"Just fine," Brian sighed in response, shaking his head. "But..."
They said it at the same time.
"Toby."
Almost immediately after they saw the thin figure that sat shaking against the thinner tree, and as if they were one being rushed over to the teenager.
"Rogers?" Tim snapped his fingers in front of the boy's face. "Tobias, you with us?"
Toby looked up at them. His eyes widened behind his goggles and he screamed weakly, trying to cringe away from them. "N-N-No! I dih-dih-didn't... I-I neh-never..."
"The poor thing, he's petrified," Brian murmured to Tim, gesturing for them to take a few steps away from the teenager. Then he spoke to Toby himself, his voice a low, soothing undertone: "Hey, Toby. Don't worry, little guy, we're not gonna hurt you. Alright?"
"Don't call me that," Toby hissed back at him, his voice shaking too much to be as threatening as intended. He seemed to sense that he was safe, however, and relaxed enough for Brian to stretch him from his terrified ball and check his injuries. Tim winced when he saw the dark holes where the bullets had gone to nest in the boy's flesh. He checked his gun— cold, but empty— and cursed himself. Even though he knew that it wasn't him whom had shot Toby, he felt it was still his fault.
"Damn it... Toby, I'm so sorry, man," he muttered, but Toby was staring off, and apparently hadn't heard him.
"Save the apologies for now. We gotta get him back to base," Brian told him, shaking his head. They both lifted the teenager (who seemed to have made a quick recovery, as he was twitching less and swearing at them and trying to shove away from their grasp) under the armpits and began to half-drag, half-carry him back to their abandoned house.
It was a long journey back, Toby's tics causing an occasional fall or two for all three of them, and when they arrived back Tim strode forward and kicked the door open with a sigh of relief. "Thank God."
"There is no God, only us," croaked a passing Toby, who lolled in Brian's arms as the latter carried him to the bathroom. Tim scoffed. That boy was a mess.
He leaned against the bathroom door frame guiltily as he watched Brian patch the boy up. Considering Toby's inability to stay still it took hours longer than it had to, and everyone was reasonably surly by the time Brian cut the last bandage. After getting the man's reassurance that he was done, Toby stood from his position on the rim of the tub and bolted from the bathroom, almost knocking Tim over in the process. Though this only soured his mood, Brian seemed to get a kick out of it; he snickered along with the bloody suds running down the drain as he washed his hands.
Toby stayed out of sight until later that afternoon, when the two were savoring some well-earned idle time. Tim was trying to stave off a migraine. Brian had a book in his hands and Tim's head in his lap. The husky whisper came from the corner of the room.
"I-I'm suh-suh-sorry..."
Their heads snapped up. The teenager was standing awkwardly near the doorway, his expression stiff and his hands folded primly in front of them. Brian was the first to relax.
"Don't worry about it, kid," he said, putting his book aside to stretch. "Consider it a lesson learned."
"What lesson?" Tim said snarkily. "He didn't even do anything and the Man just clapped him."
For the first time in the past twenty-four hours, Toby actually managed to laugh. "I-I know, h-huh? H-H-He muh-must be scuh-scuh-hared of muh-me."
Tim actually grinned through his migraine.
"Sure is, kid. But if He finds out you said that, He'll kill you for real next time."