Chapter Text
Winter in Denver has always been dangerous. Bitter wind and thick coats of mud-stained snow fill the forests that Tobias Erin Rogers calls home.
The air was painfully cold, and any other person would feel the snow settling on the tip of their nose and the frost coating their eyelashes. But not Toby. Toby’s pain receptors were useless. He could be stabbed through the chest and he wouldn’t notice until he felt the blood dripping down his torso. As a teen he’d hated it. But he’d hated pretty much everything when he was a teenager. Now though, as an adult, Toby didn’t mind his disorder. He thought it was fitting. He was unfeeling, in every aspect of the word.
Today was November 8th. Not that it was particularly important to Toby. All of his days were the same. Stalk the woods with his battered hatchet, careening for ‘prey’. Though his idea of prey wasn’t the average one.
Like any other day in winter, Toby had his mouthguard pulled up to his nose, his glasses so fogged up that the forest was little more than an amber smudge. That was fine, Toby knew these woods like the back of his hand. He knew his personally trodden pathways well enough to side step around protruding roots without a second glance. He was used to hearing the squelch of snow and mud underfoot, with the interruption of a crunch of a dead leaf. His breathing was heavy, and his tics were relentless, but he’d learnt to tune that out. Just like how he’d learnt how to tune out the liquid song of the birds that filled the forest, and like how he’d managed to turn a blind eye to the golden sunlight streaming through the branches of trees that had long lost their leaves, dappling the paths he walked through in a soft light. Toby saw life as much grimmer than it really was, but who could blame him? More often than not he was stalking and killing the people of the local town like a plague. And a life like his doesn’t leave room for ‘enjoying the small things’.
You, on the other hand? November 8th was pretty significant for you.
You’d woken up early, not by your own choice, and as usual the morning was foggy and grey. You would’ve slept in longer if you could’ve, but the bus you needed to catch only came by once a day. And it just happened to be preposterously early.
You took one last look at your empty apartment, expecting a rush of something melancholic, but that never came. You hadn’t made any real memories here. But that’s why you were leaving, wasn’t it? Life had felt so stagnant these days, almost to the point where you wanted to double over and tear your hair out, just to feel something different.
You walked out of the crappy old building, met with the bite of the morning chill. The grey horizon had nothing to show for. As usual.
That morning, and part of the afternoon, was spent in the only bus that ran to Tungston, an old town known for its mediocre lumber production. It was tacked onto the side of a mountain, apparently it had nice views. It was also your new home.
The bus ride hadn’t been great. The seats smelt damp, the floors sticky and grim, and the closer you were to Tungston, the rockier the roads got. Hell, you hadn’t had motion sickness since you were like, 7, but that seemed to come hurtling back to.
After enough travelling to put a stubborn ache in your lower back, the bus came to a slow stop at some old crossroads, surrounded by desolate fields and a forest. This was definitely not the right place. The bus was meant to go straight to the town centre, and right now there wasn't even a town in sight. You got up and walked to the front of the bus to consult the driver, a frail old man with grey broom bristles for a moustache.
“This can’t be it? I mean, how far even are we from Tungston?” You protested after the bus driver informed you that this was in fact the end of the road. The elderly man tugged the map from your hands, scrutinizing it with a low browed stare.
“You get this map from y’ grandfather or something’, ma’am? This bus hasn’t stopped at that town since the ‘70s.” He said in a gruff voice.
You sighed.
Well, it seemed you’d be getting to Tungston on foot from here. So much for a fresh start.
You looked around. To your right there was a field, shrouded in an uninviting mist and a worn layer of snow. The sky was overcast and seemed to stretch on for far too long. On the left, there was a thick pine forest. And for a moment, you peered into the woods. You didn’t know what it was, but something about that place gave you chills.
Looking down at your map, you found yourself biting back a groan.
Of course you had to go through those damn woods.
Turning to the left, you skulked along the outskirts of the forest before finding a footpath, which admittedly looked like it hadn’t been used for decades.
You stepped into the woods and shivered, pulling your coat closer.