Ark Awaits

Fleshy, beige, steaming and grotesque. Toby was gutting Mrs. Frazier. Like a fish. Someone’s Mother. Like his own. Probably a better Mother, a Mother whose daughter clearly loved her, cared about her enough to make her own life forfeit at the hands of three serial murderers, who cherished her, maybe even worshiped her . . . and he had assisted in her death, and he was desecrating her corpse. Numbly.

Even when hearing her scream and beg for mercy, and feeling her own flesh and blood pounding against the door which he held shut, even when he had simulated a choked apology, “It’s better this way.”

He felt nothing.

Face as blank as a limp puppet’s, eyes as dull and unpresent as fish and body pressed plainly enough, though with devastating effect, against the door, refusing to let the girl out though not trying particularly hard, thoughts of sowing even more trouble spun flirtatiously around his mind, and he wondered what should happen if he were to simply step away from the door, and let fate take its course.

Toby’s head fell back against the door, taking on an aloof air.

Would she run? Or would she fight, heading straight towards the chaos in an attempt to save her parents? He could see himself now. Pinning her arms behind her back like an officer of the law after letting her run a few feet into the hall, allowing false hope to marinate, then forcing her to stand in the doorway of her parent’s bedroom and have the house seat to the horrors. An experience of a lifetime.

He would hold her forehead back so she couldn’t look away from her parents being slaughtered like pigs as the hot blood streaked across her face and clothes. And he would bask in her shrill shrieks, the power he held.

A shiver would tingle up his spine like the cold claws of death trailing his back and he was simply enthralled by it all.

Yet as he fondled the entrails of her Mother weaved between his fingers, sliding over the bloodied creases and folds with a morbid curiosity, he felt reproachful. This wasn’t what he’d expected. This was disappointing. All the emotion he felt before, just at the thought of killing and now . . . nothing at all.

He was a monster. Monsters should still feel, but he did not. Therefore he had ascended beyond the realm of just a ‘monster’ and had breached something else entirely. Demon? Or better yet Devil?

The guts splattered back into the concave abdomen of the cadaver. Tim’s knife ended up in his hands, though at the moment he had no recollection of how, and adjusted himself, leaning in closer and closer still, to the stiff remains until he was practically nose to nose with the dead woman. He had expected something greater, something more, something enthralling. Watery eyes trailed over her blue-hued skin, drained of blood, and over her blonde hair that swam through the air from an incoming breeze from the broken window. For a moment Toby almost felt remorse for taking part in ending this woman’s life. He thought she looked nymphish, like something of the sea. Magical, pure and untouched by death’s cold hands. He could smell the salt in the air.

The memory of killing her husband was hazy and muted. Toby couldn’t remember what had happened, how it happened or even how he felt. It was like watching himself through someone else’s eyes. Was killing him satisfactory and enthralling?

Hunched over the woman, he made a shallow cut with the knife along the length of her cheekbone and watched quizzically as the wound failed to bleed for a long time. Maneuvering the knife so the blade stuck away from the corpse, he placed a gentle hand on her face; thumb on her cheek, palm caressing the back of her head, knife handle against her jaw. The blood from the cut seeped slowly like molasses until it had pooled enough to form a drop and Toby swiped at the cut with his thumb, finding it unsightly, and stared into her eyes.

She coughed out a gurgle suddenly, but Toby didn’t jump.

She wasn’t dead, not yet. She— was— HIS.

With a peculiar, audible gasp Toby fell forward, and in one swift movement his forehead hit the carpet, his face touching hers, and raised the hunting knife.

“Goodbye.” He croaked softly.

He plunged the blade back into her open abdomen, just above the pelvic bone, and pulled upwards, finishing the gutting. Leaving the knife at her sternum, he switched to strangling her, his hand shaking from the sheer force it took to choke her and her weak form began to retort, thwarting and scratching at his back, neck and wrist. Toby made another sound, like he was the victim of strangulation and tears streamed down his face. A mirthless smile stretched at his skin, burning like he was being torn apart from the inside and he gripped the knife once again, letting go of her throat as she was now clearly dead, and stabbed her chest over and over again. Each sound escaping his lips more pitiful, desperate and primal than the last. He couldn’t stop, but she had. Her arms fell, dead weighted, with a macabre thud.

Toby’s chest expanded and caved, his entire body quivering, and he grabbed a lock of her hair, feathering it in his hands.

Uh, oh. Looks like you’ve really killed her now. How naughty. Naughty, naughty, naughty. Do you think she deserved it? What was your motive, Mr. Ripper?

Toby managed to struggle out a weak, “It doesn’t matter.”

I’m sure it matters to her. Her family. Her daughter. Don’t you? Then why did you do it, Gein?

“Because— Because I . . . I have to.” He whimpered.

Hm. Because of him you have to, you mean?

But are you certain?

Toby sat up, finally peeling himself away from the now certainly dead woman and sat on his knees, hugging himself. He brushed his own hair from his face, leaving behind a streak of red across the bridge of his nose then tilted his head. From her neck to spilling over gut he dragged his hand down and slowly rose to his wobbling feet. His jacket and jeans were drenched and clung to his skin as he bent down to grab Tim’s knife from her chest. It made an awful sound. He cleaned it against his thigh.

How do you feel right now?

He paused, not expecting to think about that. He felt . . . He felt . . .

“Electric.”

The adrenaline coursing through his system felt amazing, like some kind of high. His heart was beating fast and heavy, but it wasn’t painful or shortening his breaths. He closed his eyes, enjoying every violent pulse echoing throughout his limbs. Toby felt something. Really, truly felt something. And it was almost too much.

It wasn’t that manic kind of emotion. The type that comes in hard and fades in a matter of minutes, like nothing happened, like the fear and confusion he’d felt the past week that had made him question his grasp on reality. He had felt so little, so shallowly, yet so manically. Neurotically. Then it’d disappear in a snap. Perhaps he was desensitized to the point of numbness.

Nothing stuck, nothing clung. So he felt nothing mattered. He didn’t even have memory of the emotion. Nothing could kick it back up again, like kicking up dust. No actions had consequences if emotion failed to resonate. He hadn’t felt real emotion ever. Only the watered-down, numb yet stirring beneath the surface, festering like a rotting, infected wound, “emotion.”

But this was real. So real.

He was shaking from the thrill, the high. He stared at the dead woman, admiring what he’d done to her, what she’d done to him and rolled his neck. He’d had enough of fear. This one moment wasn’t enough to completely snuff out the terrified little boy he still was nor completely override the immense pleasure of the crime he’d just committed, but he was done with fear, just for that night. He knew tomorrow he’d be in the exact same place as he always was, scared and shaking with his knees up to his chin, but not then. At that moment, he was someone else. He had ascended above whatever “Toby” was and reached something he thought was intangible. Greatness.

But as he basked in thought, something began to spill from between his lips and nose, something that wasn’t blood. It was pitch black like tar, but slick like blood and thicker. Toby hardly paid any attention to this, instead still smiling while his shoulders trembled from silent laughter. The mystery substance continued to leak from his face in massive waves that, should they have been blood, would’ve killed him from hemorrhaging.

He fell to his knees, something crawling up his throat and his skull was pulsating, banging beneath his skin. Every breath traveled instantly into his head. Something was worming around in his mind, swimming around, shifting everything like an incorporeal lobotomy, pulverizing it all to sludge. Toby’s hands went to his temples, gripping at his hair, pulling, pulling, pulling.

Whatever this was wasn’t going to stop him. He held his sleeve to the lower half of his face and made his way to the master bathroom, stumbling inside. Toby wasn’t sure if he was swaying from “blood-loss,” adrenaline or plain clumsiness, but he had a hard time walking in a straight line.

The bathroom was as pristine and perfect as the rest of the house. Grotesquely “white-picket fence” which made Toby all the more proud of the owner’s deaths. Looking into the mirror he was almost shocked with what he was greeted with. Soaked in blood, black as ink mess all over his upper-half, eyes dilated and unfocused, body trembling. He removed his hand which caused a flood of the black to splatter onto the white countertops and flooring and stared at himself. Toby gagged once more, placing his hands around his neck as he coughed, and slammed his fist into the counter, rattling the various toiletries.         However, this caused him to notice a strange marking on his tongue, something black, something . . . familiar.

His heart dropped to his feet, melting into the tile.

Another symbol.

He shut his mouth and glared at the mirror.

He didn’t care. The Operator was helping him. That much was obvious. The Master was allowing him to do all of this, to feel again, so it wasn’t his place to question it. He was loyal. He had killed for it. There was no turning back now. That’s what the symbol meant.  

It owned him.

Toby left the bathroom when something, he didn’t know what, came over him. He didn’t know if he was even himself, then, but using the copious amounts of blood that spilled from Mrs. Frazier, and even then still needing some from the dead dog, he painted on the wall of the bedroom using his sleeve. Pulling it over his hand, he moved it back and forth over the blood pool allowing the cloth to absorb the lukewarm liquid and marked on the wall the same symbol that had now been branded three times into his skin. His symbol.

When he was finished, he stepped back, taking a moment to appreciate his work. His shoulder ticked, causing him to realize how long it had been since his tourette’s acted up, then sighed.

“Thank you.”

Toby stepped over Mrs. Frazier, using his Taylor’s to turn her cheek and see her dead face one last time, then carelessly let her head fall back and ambled out of the room. As he made his way to the other Proxies, he had heard them making noise in the den, it was then he understood why Tim smoked. He was instantly addicted to the excitement of killing, feeling dependent on that feeling. Toby knew he could never go back after he’d had his taste. But with any addiction came withdrawals, and he was already feeling it. Adrenaline withdrawals.

The young Proxy stumbled into the den, seeing Tim and Brian occupied in their own right and he jutted both of his arms out, using the archway to support himself. He thought he might faint.

Toby felt giddy, like a child during a sugar rush, and restlessly tapped his shoe. Brian finally noticed him and tore off his hood with wide eyes.

A murderer that’s not used to a murderer? Toby wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t afraid of him or Tim.

Brian continued to glare at him, looking him up and down no doubt due to the sheer amount of blood covering him, and Tim sighed. Mr. Frazier’s body was propped up against the wall, and from the path of blood leading from the backyard Toby could tell they had dragged him inside. Brian had taken one of Toby’s hatchets, the newer, sharper one, after he had killed Mr. Frazier and Toby now saw it attached to his belt.

“The girl ran off. No idea where she is now.” Brian said, though still eyeing him.

Waltzing over, Toby snatched the hatchet from him and walked past, not caring to see his expression.

“Looks like the kid had to do your job this time.” He spat, leaving the house through the screen door.

He heard footsteps behind him, but continued walking. Someone grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at them.

“What was that?” Brian hissed. Tim slowly made his way to them, though he was completely different, once again. He was quiet, almost reserved, and small in his movements.

“What was—” Toby looked directly into his eyes, trying to be serious, “What was what—” but burst out laughing. His arms were wrapped around his gut as he could hardly contain himself, and he fell to the dirt. It felt like he couldn’t breathe.         

Brian merely watched him, shocked and slightly disgusted. “He’s crazy.” 

Tim arrived silently next to him, crossing his arms, both watching Toby.         

As Toby rolled on the floor, giggling like a manic toddler, he landed on his side and suddenly felt his insides twist, teeth bare and eyes squint. For a moment the laughter ceased, making Tim and Brian believe it was over, until, it started as a hiccup, a strained inhale, scarcely something miserable. Arms still holding himself in a pitiful hug, Toby couldn’t stop the stream of tears which soon cascaded down his face. He rolled onto his back, palms pressing harshly against his eyes and cried.         

And sobbed.         

And screamed.

Tim and Brian reacted severely, pulling Toby from the ground, only for him to fall back down or pull the hair from his scalp, or try to quiet him in every possible way. With anger, compassion, violence, threats. Nothing could quiet him. They were starting to panic.         

Toby was between his legs, pulling at his hair and screaming nonstop. Though he didn’t show it, Brian was terrified of his reaction. Tim, however, seemed nonexistent, like nothing that was happening was happening before him. He was virtually catatonic.         

Brian understood this, and realized quickly he was now alone in this. That no amount of reasoning would get either of his partners to snap out of it and shouted a curse.         

He decided to deal with Tim first. Grabbing his arm and dragging him back to his truck, Brian locked him in the passenger seat so he couldn’t leave, which took just under twenty minutes due to how far away he had left the vehicle. Then, when he finally came within earshot of Toby, his throat was absolutely shredded from the primal shouting. Brian came up to him and sighed. Toby looked on the verge of passing out from the strain he’d put himself through and as he grabbed Toby’s hand, hoping that taking a gentler approach wouldn’t arouse him back to screaming and further incapacitating himself, he heard the sound he had dreaded.         

Police sirens.         

“Shit.” Brian pulled his junior from the ground and gripped his shoulder, then placed a comforting hand on his face. “Listen, Toby. Y’here that? Not good. So we’ve gotta get outta here, alright, kiddo? C’mon, Toby, gimme something . . . “         

Toby was far gone, but managed to give Brian a subtle nod.         

“Okay, good. Now, run with me before we become cop food.”         

The two remaining Proxies sprinted from the house, the sirens getting closer before they could make distance. Jumping over logs, rocks and nearly tripping a few times on tree roots, the two made it to Brian’s truck without much of a battle, though a few branches had whipped across their faces, but other than that, mostly unharmed.         

Brian forced Toby into the backseat, then sat in the front himself and started the engine, before taking off into the night.

******

Trees like beams of wooden light zoomed past the vehicle, blurring to darkness once the headlights moved on down the road. A hazy radio blurted out bytes of music, static-y and gravelly from the ill reception caused by the extreme winds that battered through the trees and against the car’s sides. The sky was moonless and cloudless, but the feeling of an impending storm permeated the air.         

Brian sat behind the wheel gripping it tightly with one hand. He blinked slowly, fighting sleep in the dreary yet restful atmosphere. The wind continued to whistle and howl which only dampened his attempts at remaining awake, as the sound was a sound he had always associated with sleep since he was a young boy. 

A finger landed over his lip as he reached forward and blasted the A/C to full. Cold could keep him awake a little longer. Though the air stung his eyes, they were already bloodshot from the stress of the Proxies’ most recent job. He had taken to performing something like dissociating during their jobs. Brian imagined it like his soul, his shadow self, escaping from his body for those few minutes of evil, then slowly taping itself back to him once the deed was done, and the adrenaline kick diminished. But each time he did so his shadow was a little more torn than before and it was taking longer and longer for him to return to lucidity, as the shadow was fading and becoming more translucent with every murder.         

Toby had taken him out of it, his shadow self had sewn itself back together in record time, and he was beginning to see the problems that would arise with the addition of the young Proxy. Outside stressors was the last thing he or Tim needed. They were already too fragile, and Toby was the greatest possible stressor. He was easily the most mentally handicapped on top of being the youngest, he brought down the duo’s strength immensely. The Proxies were only as strong as their weakest link, and at the moment Toby was that rusting chain.         

But that freakout . . . Brian wasn’t sure how he would deal with that in the future. He hoped it was just a one time thing, but he wasn’t the type to just sit back and hope. He was a planner, and probably the only reason the team was still together. Even if they were only held together with brittle string and loose stitches.         

He felt a kind of jealousy towards Toby. He had two older partners to take care of him whilst they had nothing. Brian wasn't granted the privilege of breaking down and screaming and crying and losing his mind for a moment. He had to be the glue to hold the Proxies together, and it was a thankless job. At least from the kid it was.         

Tim was useless against himself, so he was the exception. He was much easier to forgive than Toby, and even then Brian couldn’t hate the boy. He felt . . . paternal towards him. Like an older brother. He resonated with him, after all they were in the same situation, but all parts of their relationship’s short lifespan were conflicting. Brian felt the need to take care of him, but also hated him for making him responsible for his well being. He hated Toby’s brutality, and his mental issues were a whole other problem and constant irritability, but Brian had to wonder how much he was responsible for. He already knew the important bits of the boy’s life, knew that God seemed to hate him for whatever reason, but how much was mental disorders and how much was their Master, he didn’t know.         

Brian glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Toby spread across the backseat, fast asleep. The hood of his jacket rose and fell with his shoulders after every deep breath, and his light hair gently waved from the A/C. Blood covered nearly every part of him, and usually the thought of the blood hitting his car seats would’ve bugged Brian, but in that moment he didn’t care. Toby actually looked peaceful then. Almost like how he imagined he would normally appear if all of this hadn’t happened to him.

But it did. 

Toby Rogers was a murderer and so was he. Even flirting with the thought of hating him for being a killer was irrational and he knew as much, but it was tempting. Brian was insatiable when it came to pondering right and wrong. His life at the moment was all consumed by good and evil, morality. And it felt to him, especially recently, that every second was spent contemplating not only himself, but his colleagues as well.         

Was he innocent or guilty? But, he supposed the terms and differentiation wasn’t between innocent or guilty, it was guilty or not guilty. Was he not guilty? Was Tim? Was Toby?         

Could any of them be pardoned for what they had done? He looked back at Toby, and for a split second became the ultimate judge and decided that the boy was in fact guilty on all charges, sentenced to death, but willed that thought away. Toby needed him, just as much as he needed Toby. Even if for different reasons.         

He could prove to be a valuable asset just like Tim, but Brian had to take control of himself and stop being so impulsive. One too many times he’d let insults shoot out of him out of pure animosity, and that would be damaging to their relationship. He had to play nice, even if he wanted to be anything but, since he could already tell Toby and Tim have a rocky relationship, neither fully understanding the other, and he didn’t feel the need to bridge that gap of understanding. They’d either figure it out or they wouldn’t. As long as he was the common denominator shared by the two, things would work out.         

He blinked, feeling the weight of his eyelids as they remained shut for just a moment too long, then jumped back awake.         His elbow accidentally struck Tim who was asleep next to him, causing him to stir awake.         

Tim sat up and zipped up his jacket.         

“Sorry.” Brian said shortly. “It’s to keep me awake.”         

“Where’s the fire?” Tim asked groggily. Brian figured out he was not fully awake and shook his head.         

“No fire. Just go back to sleep.”         

It was moments like these. Moments of utter normalcy that drove him mad. They didn’t deserve normal, or quiet, or peaceful. Only chaos and pandemonium. But he, along with them, was completely selfish. He still craved these moments where nothing was happening and it was almost like they were average, everyday, good people. He still believed he deserved something like shelter, warmth, a hot meal, music, maybe even a little fun. And he allowed himself those privileges when they presented themselves, but deep down he always knew he was no longer deserving of them, but he was still selfish and felt as though he was.

******

Chief Detective Lincoln didn’t know what to make of this case. The sheer brutality of it had led a few of his senior officers to leave the scene with their hands over their mouths. They had never seen anything like this. Not in their small town. Not in Veilwood.         

The Detective scoffed, rubbing his bald head in the middle of the Frazier’s den, which was covered in blood, photographers and markers, as an EMT team rolled a black body bag past him.         

“God damn it.” He sighed, tired from the 4AM emergency call. A woman stood next to him holding a clipboard and a styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand. She had curled blonde hair and perfectly manicured nails and a pair of sleek glasses rested on the bridge of her nose. Even at the early hour her makeup was flawless and clothes neatly pressed. She handed the cup to the Detective who took it without thinking, then tightened her ponytail.         

“What a mess, Dr. Kelley. What a mess.” He lamented.         

“Seems like ever since that Rogers kid made Pompeii of his neighborhood Veilwood’s been in murky waters.”         

Detective Lincoln nodded absentmindedly, taking a sip of the hot coffee and relishing its warmth. “You can’t possibly think he has something to do with this? Do you?”         

His associate shrugged. “It checks out.”        

“And she’d be right to think so.” A man’s voice piped up from the front door. “She was his Psychiatrist, after all.”         

“Clark.” Lincoln groaned. The Detective and his associate turned around and saw exactly who they had suspected pulling on a pair of black latex gloves.         

“Special Agent Ashton L. Clark. The FBI has control over this scene now, please tell the rest of your men to leave before they pollute the crime scene.”         

“Fine.” Detective Lincoln said. Pollute. Typical choice of words from him. He whistled and instantly all the officers, EMTs, and photographers left the house in an orderly fashion.         

The Agent was tall, standing at just over six feet, and wore a perfectly tailored suit and trench coat. Though Lincoln would never admit it out of pride, the  Agent was in better shape than any of his men and likely better looking. Clark’s hair was dark and always parted to the side and his misty, grey eyes were always shielded with a pair of glasses. But the salt to the wound, the one thing that insulted Lincoln the most, was the Special Agent’s age. Twenty six. Way too young for an FBI Agent, even for their own requirements. But Clark was something like their pet, their champion athlete piece de resistance, so rules and laws didn’t seem to apply to him.         

The Detective had met Agent Clark many times and he was always as disagreeable to be around as the last chance encounter. He was haughty, arrogant, and snarky. He had something like an ego, though it was in proper balance with his feats, but he was also irreparably dark, tempered and quick to violence. The amount of times the FBI had assisted in covering up his brutality Lincoln couldn’t count on his fingers or toes, but every ill natured action Clark had made was always swept under the rug.         

He was a genius. He was young. He was good looking. And he was intimidating. He had everything going for him and the government was willing to pardon him over and over for his crimes, no matter how vicious and malaise. At sixteen the Agent had solved every major cold case the Pasadena PD had on record, then went on to solve the two biggest cases in NYC in living memory. Clark was something like an unstoppable force amidst the FBI Intelligence Branch and always, without fail, had their blessing. He had the government on their knees for him. So he could act as much like a vigilante as he wanted, with the government’s money.         

Detective Lincoln seemed to be the only one that didn’t fear the Special Agent even slightly. Everyone else quivered at the mere mention of his name. Lincoln inspected his attire and rolled his eyes.         

“I see daddy government spares no expense when it comes to darling Clark.”         

The Agent stepped into the house, taking a wide perusal of the space and smiled grimly, though no ounce of happiness flashed behind his cold eyes. He didn’t bother looking at Lincoln, likely thinking he was wasting his time, but shot back with a remark nonetheless.         

“And I see the small town Detective still can’t keep his city in order. How . . . exactly has the rebound of Tobias Erin Rogers’ case been? Do your men still question your authority after your temporary suspension?” He tutted. “Six more teenagers died under your careful watch.”         

“You bastard!” The Detective marched towards the Agent, getting right in his face. The Agent didn’t even reel. Clark adjusted his glasses. “Anger never did suit you, Detective. I’d try reading some more. We all know your intellect needs further advancement. Maybe then your temper will actually cause something like . . . mild discomfort?” The Agent said with a stern expression.         

Detective Lincoln sputtered in fury so Dr. Kelley placed a hand on his shoulder.         

“Now if you don’t mind, Detective. My men need this crime scene completely void of contamination. So if you would . . .”         

Dr. Kelley guided the Detective out of the home with a quick meeting of the Agent’s eyes, and nearly crashed into a reckless force in the doorway.         

“Ash!” The force shouted.         

“Grant, I don’t even want to ask what you’re doing here.” The Agent said, still inspecting the house.         

“Heard you got called out here. Got Mueller to swap my assignment with Richards’. I am from Colorado, y’know.” Grant stood beside Clark, crossing his arms. He was an Agent like Clark but specialized in forensics and violent encounters. “Maybe you need someone who knows this state. Details?”         

“So,” The Agent sighed, annoyed. “Are you officially on the case, or did Mueller just send you here to ‘assist’ me?”         

“I’m officially on the case, Ash, when did that ever matter to you? You always hand me the files of your cases regardless.” Clark grit his teeth, lost in thought. Then, “Two dead. Husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Frazier. They have a daughter, Sylvia, who is currently missing. Police were called a few times by neighbors after hearing screaming coming from their backyard, though it doesn’t seem to fit the timeframe of when Mr. Frazier was still alive. He was killed in the backyard, then dragged in here.”         

“God. It’s soup in here.” Grant gasped, finally seeing the hellish state the house was in.         

“Believe it or not this isn’t nearly as bad.”         

“Compared to?”         

The Agent motioned for his partner to follow him upstairs then led him to the master bedroom where the highly brutalized corpse of Mrs. Frazier lay, parallel to a bloodied painting on the wall. Clark scanned the room, lips pulled into a line. Blood was everywhere.         

“I . . . The Operator killer?” Grant remained in the doorway, hesitant as he always was to step further in and potentially contaminate the scene. “So that’s why you were called out here . .. But I don’t understand. What is he doing in Colorado?”         

“Killers.” Clark corrected, crouching down to get a better look at the body. “This feels different. I was starting to think the Operator Killer could actually be more than one person, but this actually confirms it.”         

“And the higher-ups forced you out here or?”         

“That. And I asked to be here.” Clark paused. “I think Toby Erin Rogers had his hand in this murder.”         

Grant made a face, taken aback by the Agent’s theory. “That’s a leap.”         

“Is it? I guess we’ll see. When forensics determines the weapons used to slice up Mr. Frazier, a hatchet is going to be among them and probably a knife.”         

“So either Toby Erin Rogers is a copycat killer or he’s been . . .  recruited? Ashton this is a stretch. And even if it was Toby, which is still very unlikely, what would the Operator Killer want with him? As far as we know Paul Jacobsen was a crime of passion. A revenge kill. He’s not the type to go serial.”         

“Why not? What if there was something we missed with Toby? Like those—”         

“Like those teenagers. You still think that was him?”         

“Six dead kids from his high school?” Clark scoffed. “Grant, I know it was him.”         

Grant sighed and crossed his arms. “I don’t think a seventeen year old, mentally disturbed boy is capable of something like that.”         

“That’s another thing. Why does everyone call him a seventeen year old boy? I hear it all the time on the news and from our colleagues. Seventeen year old boy. That doesn’t sound odd to you? He’s practically a man— a few months from being a man, actually. Everyone treats him like an innocent party or a victim.”         

“Because he is.”         

“No. Toby Rogers may appear small and weak and too naïve to perform such heinous acts, but I know better.” Clark walked around the room, completely at home amidst the death, blood and gore. “He’s a monster. A Bundy, Dahmer, or Gein in the making. Our only saving grace is he’s more intelligent than even he knows, so people better start believing me and fast cause in time he’ll see how smart he is, and by then he’ll be impossible to catch.”         

“Okay. Let’s say he was recruited and go back to what I asked. What would the Operator Killer want with him? You’re a profiler! You said the Operator killer is likely a white, middle-aged, intelligent psychopath. What does he want with an emotional teenager?”         

Clark sighed, feeling frustrated with his partner. “Well, for one thing, I’m beginning to think the Operator Killer is younger than middle-aged, like twenties or thirties and— Oh, I don’t know. A friend? A partner in crime? Fresh meat? Someone to toy with? Family? There’s many reasons serial killers team up. A shared delusion, maybe?” The Agent already knew the answer to this, he just wanted to see his partner’s reaction.         

“Absolutely impossible, genius. A shared delusion? They didn’t even know each other before how could—”

The Agent fiddled with his cellular and pulled up a photo from the crime scene of Paul Jacobsen. It was small on the screen, but easy to make out as a bedroom even amidst the piles of ash and fire damage. Grant squinted to get a better look.         

“Tobias’ room. The drawing in the sketchbook on his bed. That look familiar to you?” Clark snapped.         

There on the bed, a sketchbook laid open with a symbol crudely drawn in red ink on the exposed page. The same symbol that was painted on the wall next to them and carved into Rodney and Eliza Schuart’s bodies, the Operator Killer’s first known victims.         

There was a crash downstairs. The kind of crash that your mind instantly registers as a threat, waking you up in a shaking, cold sweat like a clammy dog. Lo had only gone to bed an hour prior and now found herself shivering uncontrollably in her hot, damp room. Her door must have closed while she was sleeping, or maybe her parents closed it since she had a tendency to snore. Whatever the reason, the block of wood still didn’t mute the deafening crash. Any possible innocent explanation hadn’t even crossed her mind. In some instinctive way, Lola knew it was a threat.

         She fell out of bed, pulling her robe from the bedpost she always hung it from and tip-toed across the rugged floor, only stopping in front of the door to press her ear against it.          At first she heard nothing. Then, “Hellooo!” A man’s voice chimed.. Lola backed away with a gasp.          It was not her Dad’s voice, it was a voice she had never heard before, but somehow she knew whose voice it was. The man from the park. Who else could it be?          As frightened as she was, Lo knew she needed to act, and fast. She ran to the wall beside her bed’s right side and knocked on it urgently, but just quiet enough so only those on the other side could hear it. The wall was connected to her parents' room. Lo rapped again and again but her parents didn’t even stir.          Now, in a panic, Lo made one final loud BANG! against the wall. This time it worked.          Lo heard her Dad start awake and then her Mother shortly after.          “Hon?” Her Dad whispered groggily.          Her Mother responded with a groan.          Lola banged against the wall again four times in rapid succession. “That’s Sylvia. We should check on her.” Lo heard her parents shuffle out of bed then heard her own door creak ominously. She whirled around. On the floor where a beam of light from the hallway always gleamed were two shadows. Someone was blocking her door.          Lola ran across her room and slammed the weight of her whole body against the door. And just as she suspected, the door without a lock refused to budge as someone’s weight was pushed against it.          “Let me out!” She shouted, slamming her palms against the door.         “Sylvia!” Her Mother gasped. “Sylvia!”          Then, the blood curdling sound of her parent’s bedroom door being kicked open cracked against Lo’s skull.          “Mom! Dad!” She screamed, still smacking, pushing, and jostling the door and its handle with all her might. Now she knew there had to be multiple people breaking in.          “Who the hell are you? Get out of my house!” Her Dad suddenly shouted.          “Hey Mom and Dad! Sorry about all this.” The same man’s gravelly voice said. “On such a great night too . . . Listen, if it’s any consultation, any consolation at all—” Lola suddenly heard her parents shout and her Mother made an awful gagging noise. “Sylvia will be just fine.”          The man had to be threatening her Father with her Mother, she was choking. Lola went into a frenzy, pounding and kicking at the door with a speed and strength she had never had before.          “Let me out! Let— Me— Out!” She cried, tears turning her face into a fountain. She kicked until her toes cracked and became numb, she screamed until her throat was raw and punched and scratched until her nail polish was chipped on every finger and blood leaked from her knuckles and cuticles. Her skull buzzed in fear. “Please . . .” She begged. “I’ll do anything . . . just please don’t hurt Mom and Dad, please.”          “. . . I-I’m sorry.” A low voice rasped from the other side, almost like he didn’t want to be heard. “I’m sorry.” He repeated.          “Let me go if you’re sorry! Tell them not to hurt my parents!”          Her Father was shouting from the other room as her Mother wheezed and gagged. “You’re killing them!” Lo continued to push at the door.          Though nothing had changed, she felt like she was making a difference. With every slam of her body into the door, more light filled the room.          Her jailer was growing weak.          Furniture clattered in her parent’s bedroom and it was clear a full fight had broken out, though who was winning . . . the thought was killing her. She needed to help them “Mom . . . Dad . . .” Lo sobbed. “You’re killing them! Please, sir! If– If you need money, I can show it to you! I can take you to it! My Dad keeps a safe in his office, there’s gotta be thousands in there! I, please let me take you to it! Or– or jewels? Would you prefer jewels? Jewelry? My Mother has a ton of it in her room! Maybe your friends missed it!” Lo pleaded. “We don’t own any guns, all we have are knives, and I don’t have anything. I’m not lying! Please I have nothing, I’m no threat to you! Just let me take you to the money! Just—”          Her parents had gone silent, she was suddenly blue in the face.          “ . . . let me say goodbye.”          Her jailer was silent, taking no empathy in her pleas . . . or so she thought.          “It’s better this way . . .” The voice cracked, almost like he was crying. “You don’t want to c-come-muh out.” He spoke oddly, but Lola had no time to notice.          “You’re wrong!” She shrieked. “Please let me out, stop them! You’re making me an orphan! Is that what you want? To make an orphan out of me!” She cried, still pounding away at the door so much it’s hinged rattled. “Is that what you want? I have no one, you hear me? NO ONE! If you’re so sorry, then let me go! Let me help them!”          Still silence from her parents . . . but they weren’t dead, just knocked out. “I’ll do anything! Anything, anything, anything!” Lo wailed. “Money! Jewels! I’ll give it all to you! Myself? Is that what you want, cause I’ll give myself to you, all of me! Just don’t kill them . . . don’t hurt them anymore, please . . . You’re my only hope.”          Suddenly, Rocky began to bark. Instantly she turned on her jailer. “Rocky, boy! Come here, Rocky! Oh, please, boy, Rocky! Rocky!”          “They’ve got a fucking dog?” The man in her parents room said.          “Yeah!” Lola shouted. “And he’s big and mean and—” She didn’t need to get the rest out, the man shouted as Rocky growled, attacking him.          “Good boy, Rocky! Good boy!” Lola suddenly felt hopeful as an obvious struggle was taking place with the man and her dog. Then—          “He’s not dead!”          Footsteps echoed down the hall and down the stairs.          “Dad!” Lo shouted.          “Sylvia? Are you alright baby? Where are you?”          “Dad, I’m fine just GET OUT!”          Lo prayed her Father would listen to her, but as she was listening intently to his footsteps getting further and further away, the shadow disappeared.          Right away Lola left her room and threw herself into the railing of the balcony, eyes darting frantically across the living room. Through the broken screen door leading to the backyard, Lo saw her Dad still in his pajamas running through the grass as a hooded figure followed close behind. . . He was holding a hatchet.         A man suddenly appeared in the hall and Lo ducked back into her room just in time to not be noticed. She didn’t dare be seen nor lay eyes on him. He must have seen the other outside with the hatchet and sprinted after him, jumping down from the balcony. Lola went to check on her Mother when her own door slammed in her face, again.          “No!” She screamed.          Three. There were three of them.          “Oh, God. Dad!” She cried hopelessly. She tried slamming against the door again, but this time it wasn’t budging at all. Someone much stronger was now keeping it shut.

Lola eventually strayed from the door, her breathing so shallow she thought she was going to faint. She sat beside the wall connected to her parent’s room and leaned her head against it.          “Mom?” She whispered, too tired and defeated to continue screaming. “You’re still alive, right? You’re not dead . . . you can’t be . . . you can’t leave me alone.”          The third man beyond her door groaned in pain. Lo scowled.          “I hope Rocky gave you a hard time.” She spat.

******

Toby ran after Mr. Frazier without thinking. The rottweiler was preventing Tim or Brian from stopping him, so in a split second, disregarding Tim’s orders to ‘stay put’ against the girl’s door, he chased after him.

They had made it all the way into the backyard when headlights beamed in the distance, likely from somewhere in the park.          “Hey!” Mr. Frazier screamed. “Hey! Hel—” He fell face first into the dirt. Toby caught up to him, pulling his hatchet from the Father’s spine with a splintering crackle. In a panic, the rookie had thrown one of his hatchets at him, never in a million years thinking it would land, but something had to be looking out for him, as it landed squarely between Mr. Frazier’s shoulder blades.          Mr. Frazier, with a terrible sputter, began to crawl towards the headlights that in that moment, turned and disappeared into the night.          “No . . .”          Toby flipped Mr. Frazier over and onto his back. The man raised a hand as blood spurted from his mouth and drooled down the side of his face, pooling around his neck.          “Please.” He gurgled, likely choking on his own blood. “Don’t do this.”          Unfortunately, Toby wasn’t interested in hearing whatever he had to say.          It was quiet. So, so quiet. And that was all that mattered.          He heard nothing but his own breathing and Mr. Frazier’s gagging. Toby’s head tilted quizzically at the man, as though he was trying to figure him out, as his shoulders rose and fell with every heavy breath. He shook his hatchet up and down, flicking blood everywhere and ridding the blade of the disgusting substance.          “Kid!” Tim called from behind. In one fluid movement, as quick as lightning flashes, Toby dropped the hatchet and turned around, snatching the knife Tim threw from mid air. He fell to his knees on top of the man and drove the blade into Mr. Frazier’s chest, over and over and over again.          Once, twice, three, four, five, six, seven, eight . . . thirty times the blade plunged into his torso. 

Everyday she walked home from school. The bell rang, students filed out, and she began the thirty minute walk to 6224 Wellwood Circle. Headphones placed over her hood, she bit the inside of her sleeve as she shuffled through music on her MP3 player.

A group of students caught up to her from behind and laughed loudly. It was the same group that always trailed behind her, walking the same path as her for a few minutes, before turning right on Jefferson.         

A truck drove past, and a boy sitting in the backseat met her eyes. She looked at him and smiled ever so slightly.         

Her name was Sylvia. Sylvia Lola Frazier. She was sixteen. with fiery long hair, essentially orange, and deep brown eyes. She was the quiet Lo at school, Sylvia at home standing at five foot four, Miss Frazier to the neighbors, and Haunted according to her best friend Cassie Overbeck, the spunky girl with an obsession for the macabre, mystical, and undead. “You have the energy of them.” She had whispered to her during history. “Someone being loomed over by death.” Specks of rain landed gently onto her grey jacket and music flooded her ears. Calculus homework was due the next day, as well as an English paper. A personal narrative. She really didn’t like writing those.         

The sidewalk became a grey gradient as she trudged closer to home and black spots of chewed gum grew more frequent with every dividing crack of the cement.         

Lo had a babysitting job in an hour. The Watson’s just across the asphalt had a little girl, Josephine, who had grown quite fond of Lo after meeting her a few weeks prior. Josephine was bright and joyous, taking great pleasure in little things like most children. Always donning a light blue garment of some sort or extravagant princess dresses, the girl was an absolute angel, and Lo had no complaints looking over such a child. She always complimented her hair, calling her ‘Ariel’ while dragging her outside to play mermaids out by the pool even in winter, and was fond of combing through it, watching it luster and shine. Bonding with the girl was a treat. It made Lo a bit more attached to her then she thought she would be. After all, she was just the neighbor’s kid.         

But now, Josephine Watson had become something much more to her. Something like a sister. The sister she was supposed to, but never had. The door to 6224 Wellwood was a dusty purple, surrounded by grey walls. Unconsciously, Lo checked the wooded park next to her and the neighboring homes to her right. Something like a habit had formed in the past months, but it wasn’t a habit in need of being broken.         

Three months ago it started. A man was standing behind a tree near the park, completely black from the shade of the pine nettles. Lo thought nothing of it at first. Just someone from the neighborhood enjoying the park.         

Until it happened again.         

The next day the man was there, behind the same exact tree merely yards away from her home. Though shaken, Lo managed to contain her extravagant and free-spirited emotions. Plenty of people go on walks to the park. Maybe it’s someone else.         

Then the next day. Maybe he just likes going on daily walks. He just likes that spot. He’s not looking at you.

But the fourth time, Lo struggled to unlock her front door. Keys jangling, metal hitting metal, she fought against her shaking hands as she attempted miserably to insert the key into the lock. He was definitely looking. Lo tried to act normally. She was just heading home. She hadn’t noticed anything. Not anything at all.         

Finally, the key slipped into the lock and she exhaled, turning it quickly. The purple door swung open. Lo got as far as one foot inside the threshold, before noticing a slip of paper on the ground. She picked it up. I’ve been noticing a man hanging round by your house the past few days. He just lurks and watches you walk home, then leaves once you get inside. But last night I saw him when I was about to turn in. Around midnight. He was tugging at your door. Just thought you should know. Ethel Greene A hand clasped over her mouth. Ethel Greene was her next door neighbor. A sweet elderly woman with a tendency to stay up late writing short stories, a passion of hers. Of course she would’ve noticed something like this.         

Lola crumpled the paper in her hands and immediately slammed the door shut behind her, pressing her back against it, heart thumping so fast it hurt. A cough escaped her lips, accompanied by a rapid fire fit of wheezing as her eyes scanned the living room. Paranoia was a nasty fiend, and soon, Lola found herself checking every inch of her house, flipping over mattresses, checking broom closets, the garage, and locking all the doors.         

The next few days she spent in mania. Paralyzed by fear of the mysterious man sneaking around her house. Even though her parents had called the police, nothing came out of it. Nothing was found. And life moved on. But ever since, she always checked the park and the surrounding block. If that man reappeared, she was certain to catch him.         

Unlocking the door, Lola stepped inside to a clatter in the kitchen.         

“Oh, I find it just wonderful that Casey’s taken up tech! With those new smartphones and ‘i’ things coming out, I think he’d make it just fine. It’d be a wonderful opportunity, dear. Oh! Hi, Sylvia! The Ramsay’s are over!” Her mother bent backwards to peek through the doorframe of the kitchen, her poofy blonde hair falling back elegantly, and waved in a girlish manner to her daughter. She was wearing her favorite white and pink frilly apron and holding a tray of what smelled like cookies. The scent enticing Lola to the kitchen.         

Casey Leonard Ramsay, or as Lola called him ‘Leon,’ was sitting at the kitchen table next to his mother, looking positively miserable. Leon was her friend from school and she had known him since they were both children. She hadn’t seen him in a few months ever since his family went on a four month long vacation to Florida. The Ramsay’s liked to disappear. Routinely, Leon was plucked out of school for months on end to feed into his parents' apparent undying need to travel.         

A smile etched across Lo’s face as she looked at him, pulled off her headphones and turned off her player. He smiled back.         

“Hey.” He said softly.         

“Hey.” She said back at barely above a whisper. Her sleeve landed over her mouth, a shy habit of hers. Mrs. Ramsay and Lo’s Mother made knowing eye contact before making a grand scene of shoveling the pair out of the kitchen.        

 “Grown up things to talk about. Grown ups only.” Lo’s Mother chirped.        

 “Mhm! Only big people allowed here!” Mrs. Ramsay agreed. The kitchen door shut and the two mother’s excited banter sounded from the other side. Both of their Mothers liked to tease them, talking to them like they were still toddlers. Lo and Leon looked at each other and burst out laughing. Their Mothers were both nuts. Loving, fun, but just straight up crazy!         

“I was awkward turtling the whole time. I thought you were never gonna come home!” Leon laughed.         

“Awkward turtling?” She repeated, looking at him like he’d spoken another language.         

He shook his head. “Seriously. Are you ever on Facebook?” Lo didn’t have to answer, Leon knew she wasn’t tech-savvy in the slightest. With a sigh, he placed one hand on top of the other and stuck out both thumbs, rotating them in circles. Lola still didn’t really understand but she smiled politely.         

Both were silent for a moment, but that was why they got along in the first place. They were the two quiet kids in their class. Rarely ever did their voices raise above a soft murmur, but they were comfortable in each other’s silence. Lo was about to suggest heading up to her room to surf the web or draw some pictures with her art supplies, when she remembered.         

“I’ve got to babysit a girl next door. You want me to ask Mr. Watson if you can come too?” She suggested.         

Leon raised a hand. “No. My Mom and I only popped in to say hello. We’ve gotta get back.” Lola was a little disappointed.         

“Oh.” She sighed. “You going to be at school tomorrow then?”        

 Leon nodded.         

“Okay.” She smiled airily. “I’ll see you then . . . then.” Lola slipped her backpack off her shoulders and headed towards the door, but before opening it she looked over her shoulder and waved goodbye. Leon did the same. Josephine was a delight as always, this time wanting to sculpt cats and ‘doggies’ in rainbow play doh, and before Lola knew it the three hours were up.         

Her Mother, insisting Lo take Rocky, their rottweiler, for a walk before they ate, made a casserole for dinner, cookies for dessert, and nothing of note took place. Her Dad came back home from work, he was the manager of a local car repair shop, and told the tale of a customer he had that day, demanding a free oil change because of “unfriendly service.” Lo pretended to be interested.         

After a quick shower, Lo sat at her desk and opened the window before it, though only slightly. The crisp night air was fresh and welcomed and she stood there for a moment, eyes closed, breathing it all in. She pulled her hair out of the band it was tied in and shook it out, letting the cool breeze evaporate the water, then sat down to get to work.         

Calculus was the easy part. She finished the Problem Set in around twenty minutes. English, on the other hand, was a whole other issue.         

Personal Narrative.         

Yuck.

  ******

  “I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it and you can’t make me. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I CAN’T DO IT—”

“Quiet down, would you, Toby? . . . It’s not like you even have the choice.” Brian groaned, wiping down a large combat knife with an old cloth.         

“No. No. Please don’t make me, please don’t force me. I can’t do it.” Toby cried, knees tucked into his chest. The boy was sitting in the backseat, practically ripping his hair from its follicles as he rocked back and forth. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot and he whined with every heaving sob. Static was buzzing in his ears to the point where he could barely hear even his own cries . . . and the voices. The voices were shrieking like ghouls in his mind. Primal, ringing, shrieks.         

“Please, please, PLEASE!” His voice crescendoed to a scream. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. His throat was tightening, enclosing in on itself, tightening, tightening along with his chest. His heart suddenly jumped rapidly as he felt himself choke on nothing, nothing at all, and he was being strangled; he was being punched in the chest; he was shaking and he had no control over his limbs; and he was crying; and he was screaming; and he tasted blood; and he had no idea where he was, or who he is, or what he’s doing, or who’s around him or what time it is or what color his shoes were or what year it wasorwhathewasdoingtherewhathewasexpectedtodowhatthatmonsterwantedhimtodowhatthatmonsterwantedhimtodowhatthatmonsterwantedhimtodo—         

“TOBY!” Someone shouted. He looked up. But felt strange. Something had happened. Now it was quiet. No static. No voices. Only breathing. His breathing. Toby’s fist was through the now shattered right window of the backseat. Glass shards sprinkled across the leather seat and the floor mats and sharp edges of the destroyed window jutted out from its frame. Blood. Everywhere. Face blank, Toby blinked as he turned his hand over, examining it. Mouth slightly agape, he watched his bandaged hand open and close. The gauze was now torn and red.         

Brian mumbled something, hands supporting his head as it fell back. Both front doors of the truck were open. Tim left the passenger seat and angrily opened the door to Toby’s seat while the other remained standing by the driver’s side. Toby was dragged out by his collar before being tossed to the dirt.         

“I’m sorry! I’m ss-sorry, I’m-muh sorry.” He cried, still sobbing and shaking like a newborn deer. The asphalt was hard and had a layer of rain that soaked him to the skin, he felt perfectly at home there. “Just leave me. Just leave me.” He was stuck in a loop, constantly repeating his words. Tim inspected the car and groaned. Brian hadn’t even turned to look, seeming like he was trying to suppress his rage by not viewing the damage, but was otherwise unreadable. “Leave me. Please just leave me here, I don’t wanna come a-anymore. I don’t want to d-do-oo this anymore . . . Please.” Toby breathed. “Please.”

 Tim watched the pathetic display, looking injured. Almost like he was on the verge of silent, bitter tears. He had gotten to know the young Proxy over the past week, and even with all his flaws and the atrocious scenario they were both tangled up in, he had grown a much mightier deal of affection for Toby than he ever thought was possible for a Proxy to feel. He was just a kid. Tim could see that now. A disturbed, messed up, beaten and abused kid. How he would react to his first job was a thought that hadn’t crossed Tim’s mind, but now, with the young man a whining mess on the ground, it was inescapably clear this was going to be a much bigger problem than he had originally thought.         

Though that wasn’t to say the situation wasn’t incredibly confusing.         

Tim had assumed right away that the kid was a psychopath. Knowing that he had stabbed his Dad over two hundred times in cold blood, then as if that wasn’t enough, proceeding to set his entire neighborhood and the surrounding forest aflame, how could he not? It wasn’t possible that the Operator would select someone as a Proxy . . . that wasn’t capable of killing outside of a one time crime of passion . . . was it?         

Toby was still crying, mumbling to himself. He assumed his usual fetal position, something Tim had already begun referring to as the Toby Pose, and Tim couldn’t bear to see him in that state.        

 Brian was still wiping off his knife even though it had been properly cleaned and polished long ago. He was the only one that remembered his first kill. Tim didn’t. So he had no idea what Toby was going through currently.         

Moving around the vehicle, Tim leaned against the driver side door, facing Brian and crossing his arms. “What do we do about him? The poor kid’s a mess.”         

“We ignore it.”         

Tim blinked. “Don’t be so cold.”         

“Oh, that’s rich. ‘Don’t be so cold,’ the serial killer says to the other serial killer.” Brian said softly. “What the hell else should we do? He’s a proxy now. The Master’s not going to cut him any slack, so why should we?” Brian sighed. “Being nice is only going to hurt him further. No . . . it’ll kill him. Not to mention the punk broke my window.” Brian set down the knife on the car seat along with the cloth. Tim was not amused.         

“Brian, this is shallow. Even for you.” He said.         

“Oh, yeah?” Brian scoffed, smirking. “Y’know. That’s really, really something. Funny. Almost comical. Aw, so the poor murderer doesn’t want to kill another person? Fine! Let’s just give him a big ol’ hug and a motivational speech, that’ll put the pep back in his step! That’ll make him forget the fact that a force stronger than the universe is out for his blood!         

“No, Tim. The fact that the kid is losing his fucking mind at the prospect of killing someone is a good thing. It means underneath all of his disorders and shitty past he’s still human. Let him feel something, truly experience emotion while he’s still capable. That way, he’ll be forced to learn fast how to lock up every scrap of humanity he has left. However he does it, I could care less. As long as he doesn’t screw us up like this the next time, or get us killed or worse . . . I really . . .” Brian got into the car, slamming the door shut in Tim’s face, refusing to finish his thought.         

Tim didn’t fully believe what Brian was saying. He could tell by his face that he did care, but in typical Proxy nature, he was apathetic and tense since they were about to carry out orders. Even so, Tim could see where he was coming from. If they all wanted to remain alive, Toby would have to get over this quickly. If not . . . Tim shuddered to think about it.         

Brian was probably right. Offering comfort was something they could still do, but not for this situation, jobs. There was no tiptoeing around it. The kid was about to kill someone. He had to face that fact with his fellow Proxies or face it with the Operator.         

Tim was set on that not happening.         

He walked back to where Toby still remained on the ground and hoisted him up, dusting off his jacket. He was shaking, eyes wide and unfocused and still mumbling. His hands were held in front of his chest, concave from his hunched shoulders, and his head twitched nervously. Toby wasn’t looking at Tim and he was starting to wonder whether or not the boy was actually present at the moment or if he was locked away within the recesses of his mind, protecting himself from the situation. Tim’s hands wrapped around his arms.         

“Toby.” He said. “Toby!”         

Toby snapped out of it with a jump, staring frantically at Tim, eyes darting around madly. Deja vu. How many times had he snapped the kid out of his own head?         

“C’mon. We’ve gotta go.” He said softly. Toby shook his head, looking like a toddler.         

“No . . . no . . . please don’t make me.” Toby whispered. Tim winced, so he looked away and began to pull Toby back to the truck.         

Toby fought back, digging his heels into the asphalt and grabbing at Tim’s arm, trying to free his own. “No, Tim! Please, please, please— Just leave me. Leave me here. Let me die. Let me.”         

Tim stopped, taking a moment. “You know I can’t do that, Tobs.” Toby continued to shake his head like a kid, gasping for air. The atmosphere had changed completely. The frenetic energy and anxiety of shattering the window had made way for a calm, deep-seated misery and desperation.         

“This wa-as a muh-mist-ta-ke. I never should’ve agreed, why did I do it? Why did I do it . . . Nuh-never wanted to be a damn Proxy.” Toby rambled. Tim began pulling him towards the truck again and though the boy fought, it wasn’t nearly as desperate as before. Toby let himself be placed in the truck, and the door to be closed. Tim remained outside.         

He desperately needed a smoke, but he knew Brian would never allow it. So he got inside the truck and slammed the door, shutting his eyes and resting his head in his hand.         

“Proxy’s life for me.” Brian sighed, starting the engine and speeding the truck away.

  Everything had become black. The sky was overcast and everything was death. Suddenly being back in civilization after all that had happened felt like some strange fever dream. Passing by the rows of houses in calm suburbia and seeing the faces of strangers walking past, burned something in Toby’s soul.         

A group of teenagers walking back from school on the sidewalk drew closer, and as the Proxy’s truck passed them by Toby met the eyes of a redheaded girl who weakly smiled at him. He felt crushed. Her grey jacket hood was pulled over her head, and he couldn’t help but feel she felt out of place too.  A few days ago, Toby was exactly where she was. A normal teen too focused on . . . human issues to truly see what he had. Then, he would’ve given anything to be where he was, what he thought this life would be. Free from his parents, out of his house, a supernatural being, demon or angel, watching over him. But now, the roles have reversed. He’d give anything to be back. Or so he thought.         

Toby kept his eyes on the girl until she was nothing but a dot in the distance, and even still he tried to look at her, but she was long gone now. He imagined this was what it must be like during the drive to a funeral. Paul’s death and his sister’s death were much too close in time for him to ever experience that, but he knew with certainty this was how it felt. Death surrounded him, shrouding him in darkness, and a reaper sat next to him, nothing more than a black figure of smoke, flipping through an obituary, waiting for Toby to do what he was expected to.         

Kill . . . again. His eyes clenched shut and he gasped for air, wrapping his arms around his middle. His head leaned against the window. He had switched sides so the cold air from the shattered window wouldn’t unknowingly freeze him, and he prayed. Though to whom, he had no idea. Toby wasn’t religious, he never had been. As a child his mother would take him to church, but he never once believed in any of it. He found it all to be one big fascinating story everyone participated in, never was it ever real to him. But . . . maybe there was a reason for all of this. Some kind of divine intervention. But what had he done? What did he do to deserve any of this? Eventually he did commit the worst sin one possibly could, but everything that came before? He was just a kid. A baby. Born with everything that ruined him. He had no control over that.         

Toby sighed bitterly.         

Original sin. Was that possible? Was his original sin that much worse than everyone else's? Or was it because God always knew what Toby would end up being, he cursed him from the very start?         

No. God didn’t work that way. Why didn’t he just curse Eve before she ate the apple?         

It was something else.

 Help me. Forgive me. Angel . . . of light. I need you. Take me back. I don’t want to do this.

 Toby had never prayed before. He didn’t know how to do it, but he was sure if there was something looking over him, something guarding him, it would forgive him for that.        

“Toby . . .”         

His eyes immediately shot open. The low and rumbling cadence of the Operator’s voice resounded within his mind. His breathing quickened, being rapidly struck by a bolt of fear.         

Tim and Brian remained unbothered, both staring at the road. They clearly hadn’t heard it, but Toby wouldn’t put it past them to ignore the Master for the express purpose of leaving him in the dark. Neither had helped him just a while before. They just forced him back into the car and kept going.         

Bastards.         

Slowly and hesitantly, Toby closed his eyes once again.         

Yes?         

Then it spoke. “Forgive Me, Child. You Do Not Deserve This Fate . . . But, I Am Afraid, This Is Necessary For You To Reach Greatness.”         

Toby could hardly believe he was talking with it again. Wh-why have you done this to me? That void with the voices and Lyra . . . The test with the pages? You didn’t even tell me about the other Proxies, a dream did. And now,  this?         

You . . . You’ve betrayed me.         

“No, Toby. I Would Never Betray You. You Are My Fledgling. My Child. My Proxy . . . I Warned You And Guided You Every Step Of The Way. I Have Been Here From The Start.”         

 The image of Paul storming up to Toby’s room appeared, hazy and grainy. He saw himself in his room, drawing a picture of a bird in a notepad. The Operator appeared in the woods beyond his window and something whispered in his ear. He looked up, and saw it outside.        

Instantly, he jumped up, throwing what was in his hands, and opened the window, climbing out of it and falling from the second story into the bushes below. He made no noise, and pressed his back against the wall of the house. The sound of Paul slamming open his door erupted from inside. “Toby!” He shouted. “Damn it, where is that boy? RACHEL—” The image withered and died.         

“Love Was Something You Hadn’t Felt Before Me. There Are Rules, Toby. Rules Not Spoken In Any Known Tongue Or Written In Any Known Language. Rules Beyond The Facilities Of Your Mindscape. Everything I Do, I Do For The Sake Of My Proxies.

“I Am Inside You, Just As You Are Inside Me. I Am Part Of You, Just As You Are A Part Of Me. My Proxies Are Connected To One Another. A Family.         

“That Is What We Are. Family Does Not Lie To One Another, Just As Family Does Not Betray One Another, Just As Family Is Devoted To One Another, I Am Devoted To You, As You Are To Me.” The Operator continued.         

“It Pains Me Beyond Mortal Comprehension Watching My Proxies Suffer, Argue And Live In Fear. But As Any Great Being, All Is Necessary. All Is Written To Be. Balance, My Child, Is The Mightiest Rule. Believe Me When I Say I Reprehend Any Harm That Comes Your Way. I Detest It. And I Grieve It. I Am Sorry That It Must Be.”         

It must be. Toby repeated.        

Silence.         

I think I understand. It’s just . . . hard to keep a level head about. All of this has been so awful. But you really were always looking after me. Like an Angel. A Guardian Angel, do you forgive me?         

“Always, My Child.”         

Are you an Angel?         

Silence again . . . Still silent.    

     Toby’s disappointment began to grow. After a minute of waiting, he opened his eyes again, feeling worse for wear, though the dread and darkness he felt before speaking to him seemed to have disappeared completely. He felt comfort and warmth in its place, even if demystified.         

Toby sniffed and went to pull his hood back over his head. At least it wasn’t for nothing. He felt better.

He raised his hand to tug on his hood when he noticed . . . the bandage . . . was white. He raised a brow and felt his hands, they were no longer wet with blood from breaking the window. Quickly, he undid the gauze and a knowing smile gleamed across his face. His hand was completely . . . fine. No cuts, no glass bits, no blood, nothing at all. It was like nothing had happened. Then, he undid his other hand’s gauze. Exactly the same. The mysterious cuts from the night he had forgotten were gone. He made an airy laugh and threw the gauze to the floor, staring at his hands that healed like magic . . . like the magic of an angel.         

Thank you, He thought. Angel!

  The truck had stopped, and not a grey house was in sight. Toby looked around and over his shoulder, but still, nothing.         

“Glad you’ve calmed down.” Tim sighed, rubbing his forehead. Toby’s upper lip pulled.         

“You’re not going to find the house, kid, we park at least three blocks away.” Brian said.         

Toby ‘hurl ticked’ as he glared at the pair and his leg jerked rapidly and struck the back of Brian’s seat. “HUHT!”         

Brian was pushed forward and glared at Tim while it happened. Tim just coughed. Toby thought he deserved it.         

“Okay, new game idea!” Brian turned around to face the backseat. “Toby!” He said in a sing-song voice. “How about you tell us what tics you have so when I beat you I know whether you deserved it or not!”         

“Bite me!” Toby grit his teeth, behaving unusually confident.         

“You sure you want to go there, Rogers?” Brian spat, slightly shocked by his rebuttal.        

Tim’s coughing suddenly became worse. Toby was prepared to ignore him and defend himself against whatever Brian was going to do, but to his surprise, Brian moved on instantly and shifted back to facing the windshield.         

Tim sounded like he was barely breathing. Toby moved forward.         

“I-is he alright?”         

“Quiet, Toby.”         

Tim continued to gag, but Brian was completely nonchalant, resting his head against his gloved fist. Toby stared on in horror.         

“Hey— Aren’t you going to help him?”         

Nothing.         

“What’s happening to him?”         

“Toby.”         

“H-he’s practi-practically choking!”         

“Toby, shut the hell up for once and listen to me, please.”         

“Listen To Him, Child.” Toby immediately shut his mouth and fell back into the backseat, crossing his arms. That one rebuttal was all he had in him, and his fear of the other Proxies had returned in a flash. Toby tried to ignore Tim’s fit as the Proxy opened the passenger door and stepped outside of the car. Brian followed and met up with him on the other side, leaving Toby alone in the vehicle.

        He didn’t want to follow. He was fuming and at the same time terrified of what the others might do. The last thing he wanted to do was cause a real fight. Who knew what Brian and Tim were capable of when really angry. The fighting, though, wasn’t that bad. At all. It wasn’t real fighting. Toby had plenty of experience with real fighting and the pure, vile ugly disdain that accompanied it. Something that wasn’t present in their arguments. Which he thanked his lucky stars for.         

Their fights were petty. Likely fueled by stress. Easily forgiven. Easily forgotten.

Brian looked back into the truck and the two met eyes. Toby bit his lip, preparing himself for the awful look he was certain to receive . . . that never came.         

Watching, the boy forgave Brian silently for the encounter and could tell he had understood, an echo of a smile creasing his eyes. It was a stressful situation. Of course they snapped at each other.         

Tim had stopped coughing and Brian was saying something to him, but even with the smashed window Toby couldn’t hear a thing.         

Tim was facing away from the car, so Toby couldn’t see his face, but he could tell something was different about him. The truck’s oxygen grew heavy on his shoulders and his heart was thumping out of his chest.         

Tim looked up and down the street. “Grey house? Finally?”         

“Yeah.” Brian said, sounding annoyed.         

“Rock and roll.” Tim grabbed a cigarette from his pack and lit it with a speed only an experienced smoker could. Toby’s mouth fell open. Brian didn’t respond to the cigarette, nor was he even looking at him, he merely checked his watch with a sigh. Toby crawled out of the truck.         

“Are you insane? Smoking after tha—” He stopped. Brian was giving him a weird look and he wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

Tim glared at the boy and he immediately went rigid. Apologetically, Toby took a few steps back, raising his hands, feeling as though he had alerted a hungry wolf to his location.         

“What happened to those bandages?” Brian asked, clearly making an attempt to cut through the danger that leaked from the air.         

“Uh-h. Um. I—” Tongue clicking and neck cracking aggressively, Toby really had to focus to get his words out.         

“Are your cuts healed?” Brian gawked, striding forward and seizing Toby’s wrist. This time, Toby let the Proxy examine his hands.         

“It was hhh-him!” He gasped. “They’re all fine now-w.”         

“Fine.” Brian hissed quietly, not believing him. Suddenly, Toby was pulled forward. “Keep yourself in check. You won’t be easily forgiven for mistakes.” He threatened in his ear.         

“What are you—”         

“I guess they are fine.” Brian interrupted, throwing Toby’s hands down. Tim eyed the two of them menacingly, smoke escaping through his nose.  Toby realized then he had no handle on the situation, no grasp of what was happening, but at this point, he was more than used to it. If there was one thing he’d learned over the past weeks, it was how to disappear when he needed to. Rolling his shoulders over, he stared at his Chuck Taylor’s and focused hard on keeping his tics to a minimum.         

“C’mon and get back in the truck. We’ve gotta park in the woods and give Rookie, here, a run down.”

  ******

 “See this gun?”         

“Yeah.”         

“We don’t use them.”         

“Great. Helpful. S-so what should I use?”         

“Whatever you want.”         

“My hatche—”         

“Except your hatchets. That’s extreme.”        

Too extreme for murder? “Okay.” Toby exhaled. “What should I u-use?”      

The Proxies were now standing about a mile deep into the Grey house neighborhood’s forest. The truck’s trunk was opened and the black sports bag was unzipped, its deadly contents spilling out. Tim leaned against the car, sharpening a hunting knife, chattering Toby’s teeth with every grating swipe. SHHHK!         

Brian thought for a moment, looking the Rookie up and down. “What are you good at?”         

Toby was starting to get sick of how vaguely Brian spoke. “Muh-meaning?”         

SHHHK!         

“Like, are you agile? Fast? Can you think quickly in stressful situations?”         

Now it was Toby’s turn to think. But only for a split second. “How the hell should I know?”         

“Toby . . .”         

“Give ‘im a knife.” Tim spoke rather loudly. Another SHHHK!         

Toby had only a flash of a moment to turn around, and when he did, he saw the hunting knife flying towards his head.         

The boy swiftly dodged to the side, but not without stumbling. He fell to the dirt, the knife landing a yard away from him.         

Breathing.         

And then,         

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” Toby howled. Tim cackled gruffly and shrugged.         “

Well, you dodged it, didn’t you?”         

“BARELY.”         

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist.” Tossing the sharpener, Tim crossed his arms and made the same smug look from before when Toby scolded him for smoking. Brian hoisted Toby from the ground. He was sick of being pulled from the floor.         

“You’ve made your point.” Brian spat. “Quit doing that.”         

“He’s done that before?” Toby gasped.         

“Now you know he’s agile, and fast, and quick-witted. You’re welcome.” Tim added with a cocky wink. Now Toby couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself.         

“Brian, you need to tell me what’s happening.” He whispered furiously.         

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He replied lazily, grabbing the hunting knife from the ground by the flat side of its blade, handing it to Toby. He squinted. “Speaking of, how come you’re no longer . . . freaking out?”         

Toby gulped. He didn’t know whether to tell Brian about his encounter with the Operator or not. “I—”         

“Nevermind, I don’t even want to know. Don’t want to jinx it. We’re all psychopaths here. Take it, wouldya?” Toby took the knife, its blade glimmered.         

“TCH!” He ticked, “So . . . who are we . . .” He couldn’t say killing no matter how hard he tried. It was all so surreal, like some sick dream, a dream that refused to let him reference the monstrosity he was about to commit.         

“Mr. and Mrs. Frazier. Around forty, each. Mr. Frazier is a little out of shape, but big. The wife is small and thin, she’ll be easy.” Brian responded, matter-of-factly.         

Toby felt dizzy at the implication.         

“They have a daughter. We’re not touching her.”         

“ . . . But why?”         

“She’s sixteen.” Brian stated, as though that was obvious.         

“I’m seventeen.” Toby remarked.         

“Not the same. We’re not killing you, are we?” Brian said. Toby felt that was a threat. “And if we were, we wouldn’t lay a hand on you, either.”         

“Is that a rule? The Op-pe-perator says so?”         

“It’s . . . Tim’s rule. Speaking of . . .There’s a few more of them.”         

Toby frowned.         

“Don’t be seen. You cannot be recognized no matter what.”         

“That’s why you and Tim have those masks?”         

“Yeah, but we’re using different ones now. Those other ones are too . . . comical.” Brian continued. “Don’t use anyone’s real names. And no one escapes.”         

For whatever reason, Toby was expecting much more extreme rules. “That’s it?”         

Brian nodded.         

“Okay-y. But I don’t have a mas-sk.”         

Looking back to the truck, Brian grabbed something from a zipped hiking bag and handed it to Toby.         

“. . . Y-you’re joking.”         

“Nope.” Brian remarked, unbothered. “Maybe you can wear those goggles too. They’re in the same bag.”

In his hands, Toby held what appeared to be a broken, metal mask. The “mask” appeared more like a dog muzzle, being only a few rows of thick metal bars attached to a strap to secure it in place. The top half of it was completely missing leaving the bars jagged like it had sustained heavy damage, and when he held it up to his face, it barely even covered his nose. The sharp bits of metal were sure to be a hazard, and he had a hell of a time discerning if it was even worth wearing at all since it failed to hide anything, but decided he would anyway, not wanting to face the wrath of Brian or Tim.

  ******

  Brian had eventually wandered back to his truck and started talking with Tim about something Toby was apparently left out of, again. The boy found a tree to lean against and squatted down, dropping his head in his hands, daydreaming, coming up with anything his mind could create to get him out of where he was. Away from the woods. Away from death.

Air was being sucked out of him as he breathed. Every breath shallow, and every sigh long. Pinched throat, tight and taut from excess use and stressors choking him every hour. The sun had set. The tree’s spindly, bone-like leaves illuminated it seemed. Yellow spine striking the blue hue of the unending woods. Golden lights of another house far away blinked at him, mocking him. Warmth, comfort, light . . . all things he has not received. Not recently. Not ever. Not from humans, anyway . . . A harsh wind struck his exposed skin, cutting him. Eyes set forward, not sideways, not down, not up, Toby’s hands pressed together in a praying position up against his lip.         

At this time, the sky was brighter than the surroundings. It was a pale, dusty blue, yet every tree and rock melted together into one nearly black mess. The trees were tall, stretching as time crawled on, extending their branches and their reach atop the canopy they created. The moon was locked away with her stars. There were no birds, no frogs, no crickets, no people. Only silence and the eerie shaking of the bone-leaves. Shadows upon shadows shaded the ground to pitch nothingness, frightening him. What if he stepped and found the ground missing from beneath him?         

Stirred. Everything stirred. There was an unseen, unheard desperate rumbling of impending doom. Nerves shot, adrenaline drilling into his ribcage, his heart pumped fiercely, but he couldn’t feel it at all. He thought maybe he was calm, but everything pointed far and against that theory. He was almost shaking.         

Like nerves before the curtains rise, the darkness of the world at the time of the evening show, a familiar buzz and dread rattled the surroundings. Toby had begun to hate the color blue. When the world was shrouded in that blood curdling shade, bad things were barreling towards. Evening, twilight and night. Lustful in their attempts to frighten and perturb. Hate seeped from his fingertips, stars glittered in his eyes, his heart wrenched, for himself or someone else, unsure, teeth ground. His shoes against the dirt connecting himself to this world he had long since come to scorn with a bleeding, antagonistic venom, encompassing as lightning, obsessive as worship.         

The others were nothing but silhouettes like his first encounter with them, eyes glowing white. Groggily the wind came to a close, leaving them with nothing to soothe their ears but ominous ringing. Church bell? School bell? Something like a siren. Something chilling. Smoke danced upwards, shadowing the ice blue sky, before being put out. They looked at him, but he looked back only with his eyes. They hadn’t trained him in the slightest, or even disclosed the plan. It was a procedure he would have to improvise as it carried on.         

Yet he couldn’t help but discern a strange hint of familiarity . . . with all of this. The feeling, the way the world was painted through his eyes. Scenery generated stories, he knew as much, but this was different. Something deja vu.         

Death emerged, looming over them, overshadowing any and everything. Three reapers marched forwards, parading with nothing but apathy, sounding impassivity, and a resounding sense of mysticism. It was a job. Simply a job. What awaited them, calm and dangerous as a slimy snake should they refuse, was objectively worse. Each member of the lurid trinity donned a knife, in hand, pocket and sheath. Archangel, Seraph and Cherub equal in rank in their strides.       

   In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.         

Chrome Archangel, head to toe wear as sallow as the skin stretched over his contused immortal soul, was outfitted with a Beretta M9 should things take a catastrophic turn, as well as a link of chain as long as 12 feet clipped by carabiner to a tactical belt he snagged from the sports bag and strapped on moments before. His expression was pulled downwards in a seething grimace, cruel and cold.

        With the intercession of Mary, the Immaculate Virgin Mary, the Blessed Archangel Michael, the blessed Apostles Peter and Paul, and all the Saints,          

With an unmistakable empowered spring in his step, trenchant Seraph, gaze as sharp as his blade, stepped with haste, an unbearable hunger for what was to come. The bases of his fingers glinted over their leather gloves, a silver wink of brass knuckles, and dangling from his hands, a black, metal bat swung lazily back and forth, just grazing the dry grasses beneath their feet. Eyes as steely as an ascetic killer, he radiated energy, vicious, dangerous energy.        

 and entrusted with the authority of our sacred ministry, we proceed with an ax to repel the infestations of diabolical fraud.         

And Cherub, belial in nature, grasped a sense of inadmissibility. Every wrong action, premeditated or otherwise, was certain to reap a lashing, lash out or otherwise means of punishment. Outfitted with nothing but a hunting knife and duct tape, he felt overt, naked. The others hadn’t put much thought into him, his safety, or if his outfit was sufficient. Nonetheless the little Cherub strode beside them, not behind, falling into place, feeling the others remain beside him.    

     Per Aspera, Ad Inferi.

 The back porch of the house was in front of them. There was a swinging bench, a bird bath, and a row of flowers near the sliding glass door. The three Proxies positioned yards away all crouched behind a large bush, a strange mix of excitement and terror emanating from them. Toby’s back was against the plant and ducked down further than the others as he had been instructed.         

“Whatever happened to not-t being see-seen?” He whispered contentiously. Brian was stalking the house like a wildcat would a cardinal, even angling his head in a remarkably animalistic nature. Toby seemed to have snapped him out of it, however.         

“No one would recognize us if they tried. This is our first time in Colorado. Plus, we won’t be seen.” He said, eyes still plastered to the back porch.         

“But you can’t know that for sure.” Toby shot back.         

“We’re sure.” Tim suddenly spoke up, startling him.         

“Then why do I have to wear this stupid thing, it doesn’t eve-even cover muh-my face.”         

“Because you could still be recognized.” Brian said.         

A feeling of iniquity coursed through the boy’s veins, but he once again said nothing.         

“It’s more of an intimidation thing anyway. We’re never seen. And if we are, the witness doesn’t tend to remain alive for very long.”         

“You said their daughter is going to live, though. Won’t she see us?”         

“Boy, Toby, you sure ask a lot of questions.” Brian groaned.         

“Oh, excuse me. This is my first tim-me being forced to muh-murd-der for an entity, I apologize.” Toby snarked.         

“Just keep barking, dog.” Tim piped up.         

“Is my question that unreasonable.”         

Brian looked down. “No. It’s not. Here, we’ll give you a run through of the plan.” Toby perked up, straightening his shoulders. Finally.         

The chrome Proxy coughedt, ducking further behind the bush. “We decided you’re not going to lay a hand on anyone tonight.”         

“What?” Toby growled indignantly.          

“You’re just going to tag along.” Brian continued, ignoring him completely. “Just stay around us and watch.”         

“Spectate a murder.” Wouldn't sitting along the sidelines be disobeying the Operator?         

“Keep interrupting. No, please. Keep doing that. See where it gets you, Rogers.” Tim added.         

“I told you not to call me that.” Balling his fists, the young Proxy suddenly felt he was being dogpiled by the others.         

“And apparently I don’t give a shit. Just spectate. Stay out of trouble and stay out of the fight. Just sit in a corner or something and watch. Ain’t that hard, kid.” Tim said, adjusting his flight jacket. Squinting, Toby stared down at his shoes, feeling hurt by Tim’s unusually harsh words. Early on he had assumed Tim was the easy going one, the temperate one that he could count on to be somewhat reasonable in comparison to Brian, at least sometimes, but now that idea was crumbling before his eyes. “Okay, we ready?”         

“Wait!” Toby accidentally shouted. The two homicidal men glared at him. “I . . . Can I please get my hatchets?”         

They both groaned, rolling their eyes.         

“If you’re going to keep bitching? Fine.” Brian said after a while.         

Not wanting to keep them waiting, Toby sprinted back to the truck and returned in a matter of minutes.         

“You ran that distance . . . that fast?” Brian gawked. Toby’s two hatchets now dangled beside his thighs, edges facing behind him. He nodded. Brian made a face, something that meant he was impressed and Toby grinned. Finally, he’d managed to please at least one of them.         

He was much more relieved now that he had his hatchets beside him. Something about their handles and familiar weight felt comfortable in his grip. Even if he wasn’t going to hurt anyone as Brian said, he still liked having them there . . . just in case.         

“Nuh-now I’m r-ready.”         

“Muh me too.” Tim mocked with a raspy laugh. Another devastating blow. Toby’s face flushed, though he couldn’t feel it, and pulled his hood over his head, just wanting to disappear. Tim was on a roll tonight, crushing Toby completely. What had happened after that coughing fit? Toby wondered. It was like he was a different person.         

Brian shot Tim a look, reminding him to keep in line, and he responded by standing up and strolling nonchalantly to the back porch. Toby could see the change in Brian, the hair stood up on the back of his neck.         

“Tim! What the hell are you doing?” Brian scream-whispered, leaning around the bush on his hands and knees. Tim turned around, now walking backwards towards Grey house. Arrogantly, he shrugged with an imperious stretch of his lips.         

“What does it look like, Brian? Just walkin’.” With a small skip and a kick of a rock, Tim advanced to the porch and pulled at the handle to the sliding door. Loudly, the handle rattled and the door rebounded around the frame.         

CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK!         

Tim then became very interested in the ground.         

“Tim!” Brian shouted. His heart was racing. Looking at Toby, he decided right then that they had no choice but to go along with whatever the lunatic was doing. “C’mon.” he said. “It’s not like we had much of a plan to begin with.” He stood up from the ground, his knee cracked painfully from crouching for too long, but he shook it off. Toby trailed behind.         

CRASH!         

“Helloooo?” Tim shouted in a sing-song voice. Brian grimaced darkly, shoulders rising to his ears, and fists balling, he wanted to say something. Tim had picked up a rock, tossing it through the door and kicked at the remaining glass.         

‘Interesting all of this, very, very, very interesting.’         

“What?” Toby asked.         

“Don’t you think that’s a little risky?” Brian hissed.         

“No, what you just s-said.” Toby’s head fell to the side. Brian cocked a brow, a face he often made. He had no idea what Toby was talking about. He ignored him and stepped inside after Tim.         

‘I hated him. For what he had done. All of what he had done.’         

Toby collapsed to a crouch, hands cupping his ears once again. Now they were back, again. But why? What was it now? There was never any rhyme or reason to them appearing.         

Someone screamed and he winced.         

The cacophony of ghouls erupted in his ears again. Screaming, crying, cursing and pleading. Detailing gruesome crimes with bone chilling wails.         

“Kid! C’mon!” Brian shouted. Toby stumbled up and sprinted forwards, tripping over the sliding door frame and falling into Brian, gripping his hoodie. Reacting rather severely, Brian grabbed onto him to stop him from falling. Surprisingly, though, he said nothing after that, too focused on Tim who was now making his way through the house.         

“Damn Proxy.” Brian hissed, chasing after Tim.         

Even though he was already inside, Toby hesitated when stepping further in. This wasn’t his house. This wasn’t his stuff. This was intruding.         

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.