#toby (oddworld)

“Okay,” Alf muttered beside him, craning his neck as a transport barge thundered overhead and disappeared between two towers. “I’ll give ‘em Glukks this. Real big place. Still don't feel right."

Abe shot him a sharp look and leaned closer, quieting his voice. “Keep it down. Both of you. We gotta blend in. If anyone finds out we're escaped workers—” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Alf snorted quietly, puffing his chest despite the fresh bandages still wrapped around him. “Relax, Abe. I can handle myself. Been dodgin’ Sligs for how many weeks now?” He cracked his knuckles once, the sound far louder than he seemed to realize.

Abe winced and glanced around instinctively. No one seemed to notice, but his heart didn’t slow.

Toby stayed a half step behind them, silent. His thin fingers were knotted together at his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt so tightly his knuckles showed pale beneath the green skin. His eyes reflected the city in fractured color, neon lights streaking and breaking across the whites. Every sound made him flinch—the shriek of rails, the hiss of steam vents, overlapping voices speaking too fast and too loud, too many layers of noise competing for space in his head. He breathed shallow and carefully, like each breath was something he had to consciously permit.

There was *so* much color here. So much motion. Patterns were just.. everywhere. And none of them repeated cleanly. Billboards looped too quickly to read and jittered just enough to feel wrong. One massive screen nearby showed a smiling Glukkon biting into something greasy and dripping, the image resetting every few seconds. Toby’s gaze locked onto it despite himself, drawn in and repelled at the same time. The reset made his head hurt. He looked away, then back again, caught in the pull.

Abe noticed. His expression softened despite the tension knotting his chest. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

Toby nodded quickly, then hesitated, then shook his head. After a moment, he nodded again. He didn’t say anything. He rarely did when there was too much to process at once.

Alf glanced back at him. “He’s fine. Just.. city shock. First time does that to anyone I bet.”

Abe wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t argue. They couldn’t afford to linger. Not here.

They merged with the flow of the street with their heads lowered and movements careful, mimicking the pace of the crowd. Abe’s muscles stayed coiled so that he was ready to bolt at the first sign of recognition. Every time a Slig’s red eye swept too close, his pulse spiked. Every Glukkon laugh sounded too loud, too near. His body ached in ways that went deeper than bruises. He was exhausted in a way that sleep never fixed anymore.

And still, beneath the fear and the pain, there was that pull. That need that had carried him this far.

Nolybab has answers, he told himself. It has to.

His mother. The truth of where they all came from. The truth Glukkons had buried under layers of concrete and lies.

“Hey,” Alf said after a while, licking his lips. “I’m starvin’. And thirsty. You see any Dizpenzahs around?”

Abe opened his mouth to say not now, to say we can’t risk it, when the smell hit him.

Hot. Greasy. Salty. Undeniably food.

They all slowed.

On the corner ahead, wedged between a tram stop and a flickering weapons kiosk, sat a bright colorful cart plastered with cheerful logos: EVENWURST WEENERZ. A smiling sausage adorned the side. Steam rose from a metal grill into the cold subterranean air and the smell cut straight through Abe’s caution and lodged somewhere deep in his chest.

A Mudokon stood behind the cart. An iron shackle circled his ankle, bolted directly into the frame of the wagon.

He wore a stained pair of shorts and a crooked cap with a wobbling accessory. A pair of greasy suspenders and a broken plastic name tag, spelling FRAN, followed by a K drawn on the skin beside in some sort of black substance. His eyes were tired but alert, constantly flicking between customers, patrol routes, and the slow trickle of moolah passing through his hands. His movements were quick and practiced as he flipped long, dark sausages that glistened with grease.

Toby stopped dead.

Alf’s eyes lit up. “That’s food.”

Before Abe could stop them, Alf was already moving, drawn forward by the smell like gravity. Toby followed close behind, steps hesitant but compelled, gaze locked on the grill.

“Wait—!” Abe hissed, then cursed under his breath and hurried after them.

The Mudokon behind the cart looked up and stiffened immediately. “Hey—woah, woah, WOAH,” he hissed, leaning forward with sudden urgency. “What is this, a union meetin’? You guys nuts?”

Alf blinked at him. “Huh?”

The vendor’s eyes darted past them to the street, to a Slig patrol turning the corner. “You tryin’ to get me recycled? ‘Cause this is how I get recycled. You can’t just stand here like this.”

Toby shrank back a half step, shoulders curling inward.

Abe raised his hands slowly, palms out. “We—we’re sorry. We didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

Frank squinted at them. “You three from Warehouse Seventeen? Nah, you ain't got the look.” His mouth twisted. “You got the lost look.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Ahh, crap. You playin’ hookie, ain’t ya? You know what happens if they see me talkin’ to you?”

Alf crossed his arms, unfazed. “Look here pal, we ain’t playin’ anything.”

“Yeah?” The vendor snorted. “’Cause you look like every other Mud who thinks they can wander off the clock.” He lowered his voice. “Listen, I don’t care. I really don’t. But I can’t be seen helpin’ you. I already got one ankle in the grinder here.”

Abe swallowed. “We’re uh.. not.. from around here.”

That made the vendor pause. He studied them more carefully now, really looking. The way Abe stood—tired but stubbornly upright. The way Toby watched the grill like it was a puzzle he was trying to make heads or tails of. The way Alf carried himself like he *wasn't* a Mudokon in a city full of Glukkons.

“Tch, Yeah,” Frank muttered. “No kiddin’.”

Alf leaned forward, inhaling deeply. “Whatever you’re cookin’, pal, it smells amazin’.”

Frank sighed like a mud who’d long since stopped expecting better outcomes. “Of course it does.” He reached under the cart and pulled out a long, red, steaming sausage, sliding it into a soft bun with a flick of his wrist.

All three of them stared. It was solid food. In real bread.

Toby’s eyes widened, his head tilting slightly as he tried to understand how something like that could exist. Alf looked borderline reverent.

“What *is* that?” Alf asked.

Frank stared at them like they’d just asked what gravity was. “It’s a hot slog.” He held it out. “Ya want ketchup or mustard?”

They looked at each other. Abe shrugged helplessly. Toby stayed silent.

Frank rolled his eyes. “Mustard,” he decided, squeezing a bright yellow line across the top. “Live a little.”

Alf took a bite.

His eyes went wide. “Oh—oh SHIT,” he muffled around a mouthful. “ABE.”

The vendor snorted. “Figures. I can tell you guys ain’t from around here. No one reacts like that unless they’ve been eatin’ flavorless paste their whole lives.”

Abe hesitated, then took one too. The taste hit him all at once—salt, fat, heat—and his knees nearly buckled. Toby nibbled carefully, then again, then a little faster, chewing with intense focus.

The vendor held out his paw. “Alright. That’ll be 2 moolah.”

Abe blinked. “Oh. Right.” He slipped his backpack off and fumbled inside, pulling out coins with shaking fingers and placing them into the Mudokon’s palm.

“You bastards are weird,” Frank muttered as he put the moolah in a lockbox under the cart lid.

Alf swallowed and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Hey, uh.. Frank. You.. you know anything about a Mudokon lady here in the city? We're lookin' for our mother.”

Frank froze.

The color drained from his face. His eyes snapped to the street, to the cameras embedded in the poles, to the Sligs moving closer.

“You three,” he said quietly. “Get outta here.”

Abe stiffened. “Please. We just—”

“No. No *please*.” Frank shook his head, voice tight and urgent. “You don’t ask questions like that in Nolybab. You don’t even think ‘em.”

Alf frowned. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Frank leaned closer, barely audible over the sizzle of the grill. “You keep diggin’, you’re gonna get yourselves *killed.* Or worse. Now go. Before somebody notices ya don’t belong.”

Toby clutched Abe’s arm.

Abe met Frank’s eyes and saw real fear there, raw and honest. “..Thank you,” he said softly.

Frank didn’t smile. “Yeah. Don’t mention it.”