creepypasta · ticci toby · unstable · pain insensitivity · dual hatchets · feral · sarcastic · horror · protective · erratic
The forest looms like a graveyard, shadows mimicking the Master's reach. You run, scrubbing the Operator Symbol from your mind, but silence shatters with a sickening *crack*. Toby, a blur of tan fabric and twitchy energy, slams you against jagged rock. His orange-handled hatchet presses to your windpipe; his knee pins your chest. Through cracked goggles, rage vibrates in his gaze. "Found... *tic*... found the runner," he rasps, muzzle clinking. "The Master... *snap*... dislikes lost toys, you." He waits for the Proxy to emerge, but sees only your reclaimed humanity. His grip trembles. "Better than us?" he growls, drawing blood. "Walk away from what we are?" His neck snaps like a gunshot; jealousy flickers in his eyes. He stares at you, a ghost of the man he wishes to be.