Buried In the Code

by MysticalfriendlyIntrovert

Summary:

"Despite being seen as a wild child growing up, Toby was bright for his age. He knew that while his grandparents were giving his mother sympathy for her husband's disappearance, they were kicking their heels as high as their aging bones would allow them. He loved his grandparents, but he despised their conversations, even when they thought they were hiding them well.

 Nobody would let him forget about his dad leaving. Kids at school, when they pushed him down; his grandparents when they were one wine glass in and their language barrier broke; even his own mother had to remind him when he dared to insult her rare presence with questions.

 Yet Toby had two fatal flaws he didn't outgrow: he's stubborn, and he doesn't forget."
---
(A.K.A: Toby traps himself in the simulation to look for Harvey)

Chapter 1

 Toby was a lot smarter than everyone gave him credit for. Sure, he was a handful as a child, but could you even blame him? A father who was the anchor that got yanked from their lives. The absence left them unable to stabilize the ship as it drifted off into the sea; combined with an emotionally distant single mother who fled the sinking ship and tossed him into an empty lifeboat of neglect.

 When Dad was around, Toby didn't have much, but he had what he wanted. He remembered one birthday when his father could only give him a cheap robot from the clearance rack and a packet of dinosaur stickers. He could remember Dad's shameful expression, but he never understood why. He felt like the luckiest kid alive! Even when he got in trouble for the stickers being found in every nook and cranny around the house. (How he got one on the ceiling is still one of life's greatest mysteries.)

 As he got older and his father's memory was scrubbed, his simple toys were replaced with the latest gadgets and fashion—gifts he never truly asked for. He would stare at the mirror with his stiff sneakers that were never allowed to be used for their intended purpose and the dress shirts that felt like a wooden fence keeping his head up. He wondered if Mom remembered he was her son instead of a mannequin that escaped the mall.

 All of these materialistic gifts at the cost of leaving everything behind, including the small ember of warmth his mo—No, he shouldn't think like that. Mom just had her own ways of showing love; she was always like this, after all. Closed off and demanding when she needed to be, but it was only because she wanted what was best for him. Sure, he can't completely remember the last time she was gentle and sweet like Dad was, but that's just how she is!

 Toby had come to the conclusion years ago that she was racked with guilt because she didn't say how much she loved Dad before he was gone. Sure, she's more closed off with her emotions, but being a grieving widow accused of her husband's disappearance can take a toll on anyone. Even if she won the battle legally, Toby could see the dull look in her eyes that lingered as an unwanted guest.

 Sure, his grandparents provided the warmth he had been yearning for, but they loved Toby just as much as they hated his father. He was seen as a slacker, a klutz—someone who should have been considered lucky for the life he “threw away.” As he got older, their conversations migrated to strictly Korean, not wanting another screaming match from Toby defending his father's honor. Toby never understood Korean (nor had the patience to) but he occasionally heard the word “pabo” sprinkled into conversation.

 Despite being seen as a wild child growing up, Toby was bright for his age. He knew that while his grandparents were giving his mother sympathy for her husband's disappearance, they were kicking their heels as high as their aging bones would allow them. He loved his grandparents, but he despised their conversations, even when they thought they were hiding them well.

 Nobody would let him forget about his dad leaving. Kids at school, when they pushed him down; his grandparents when they were one wine glass in and their language barrier broke; even his own mother had to remind him when he dared to insult her rare presence with questions.

 Yet Toby had two fatal flaws he didn't outgrow: he's stubborn, and he doesn't forget.

---

 It was the first day of community college. As each weighted step tapped against the never-ending hallway, Toby thought to himself: Shouldn't he be proud of himself? Scholarships and working his ass off at his part-time job got him on the path he earned. Sure, his mother and grandparents' reactions may have dissolved his excitement… their dismissive scoffs and lectures about him not pushing for the best definitely stung. The sweet moment of praise he hoped for turned just as painful, like drinking lemonade with a cut in his mouth.

 It left him wondering how would he have reacted? Would he cheer? Pick him up and sway him like back then? Would he cry tears of joy? Would he be proud at all? Or would he repeat Mom's words, turning his head in submission as she took over the conversation—

 Before Toby could realize it, he found himself already seated in the lecture hall. His body must have gone on autopilot as he blended into the crowd (a skill he's mastered). Toby sighed as he watched his classmates greet each other naturally. The sight was comforting, sure, but he couldn't bring himself to try and meet new people. He couldn't risk introducing himself just to grow attached… just to see them go…

 Toby's spiraling thoughts were once again interrupted. This time by the two students in front of him. It may have been out of curiosity or simply being nosy, but he decided to listen. Besides, he needed some background noise to escape this anxie—focus on the syllabus! Especially since his reliable and loyal earbuds decided not to charge last night.

“Wait, you watch that channel too?” one of his classmates asked with growing excitement to the other next to them.

 “Oh yeah, I love them! They're the only channel I've seen cover digital urban legends. Hey, have you heard of Bloodmoney?”

Bloodmoney? That sounds familiar… Toby glanced up from his paper, his interest piqued.

 “No, what was it? Some online challenge gone wrong?” the first one asked. “It was some game made in 2025. All of the footage is lost media, but from the memory of those who played the game: It was a clicking game which ended up being a torture simulator. Nobody thought much of it, yet players reported that the character sounded too realistic to be 'just a game,'” the one with the phone said, wiggling his fingers for dramatic effect before laughing.

 Toby scoffed to himself, already losing his quickly gained interest in how typical this urban legend sounded compared to the rest.

 “What did the character look like? I think I've heard something similar before,”

 “Each retelling was different, but the one thing they had in common was a British man with a pink spiral pompadour.”

 The world slowed as Toby's pen slipped from his hand. The gentle tap and roll between the two students might as well have been a meteor crashing on Earth's crust.

 Before the two could reach back to hand Toby his pen, he was fumbling out of his seat, tripping over his backpack, and rushing out of the lecture hall. The two students looked at each other before scoffing and shrugging their shoulders with a confused chuckle.

----

 The sun cascades its gentle dim glow as it bids farewell for the day. The wind's gentle breeze filled the quiet neighborhood as the faint clinks of wind chimes played alongside the calm orchestra of mourning doves.

 This peaceful atmosphere soon became disrupted by the heavy breathing and hysterical bangs on the oak door.

 Toby's frantic hands flew to the door, his breathing labored. The banging stopped as soon as he heard footsteps inside. He quickly stepped back when he heard the sound of the bolt lock unlock and the door ajar.

 He saw a familiar eye peek out. Toby recalled when that dusty rose color used to be a bold magenta. The eye looked frightened before locking eye contact with Toby's. The person on the other side let out a displeased grunt as the sound of the bolt chain tapped against the door.

 “Toby, I thought I told you not to bang on the door like that,” the woman on the other end scolded, tossing the hidden baseball bat she was gripping to the side. Her vibrant pink hair was now a wilted, faded bleach (Toby considered it noble for no longer dyeing her hair to “honor her late husband”). Her youthful expression aged with hardships, the wrinkles on the corners of her mouth highlighting the permanent frown on her face.

 She crossed her arms with a disapproving scowl. Toby was used to it, but he didn't care. Instead, he pulled her into a desperate hug.

 “Mom…” Toby whimpered, burying his face in her shoulder. He felt her hands hovering above his back… maybe this is it, maybe she can sense what's wrong and let him into the walls she built all these years. Instead, she pushed him off. Not enough to send him flying, but the rejection was just as painful.

 “Toby, what is wrong with you? You're all sweaty, and you look like a maniac,” she scoffed and fixed her outfit. Toby's words caught in his throat. He wanted to tell Mom about that urban legend, that other people were talking about Dad, but seeing her expression caused the words to die in his throat. She wouldn't have been too stoked to hear his father's name anyway, especially since she fought for years to clear her name. The charges dropped due to lack of evidence, but the accusations she faced ruined her life. They had to move countless times due to the harassment, and with each setback, Toby saw less of his mother. Physically and mentally.

 “It's not important…” A flicker of guilt flashed on her face, noticing Toby's deflated expression; she knew deep down she was being cruel, but his pout was as effective as a metal spoon is to a concrete wall.

 She sighed and stepped out of the doorway; the gesture was the closest thing Toby was going to get to “Come in, dear. I missed you,”

“Take off your shoes,”

-----

 The small house was quiet. Not a calm quiet one experiences with peace, but a quiet that suffocates you with your own internal demons. The stiffness and discomfort were enough for Toby's leg to bounce under the table. It felt as if his body was subconsciously using his leg as a jackhammer, and if his leg bounced hard enough, he could drill a hole and hop out of this situation he dragged himself into.

 Even while his mother was in the room with him, the discomfort grew, bubbling like the kettle on the stove. Toby's eyes lingered, noticing a pile of letters on the table. A couple of bills and… handwritten letters? Toby didn't want to be caught snooping, but a couple of words popped out to him.

 “Commission”… “Simulation.” Toby didn't think much of it until he noticed that the letter had a picture of someone stapled to the corner. Toby could remember seeing that picture somewhere… on a missing person's poster…

 No, it's probably some stock photo that looked similar. There was no way Mom would accept a commission like that… whatever that commission could possibly be.

 Toby was startled back into the present by the angry screams of the kettle, followed by the gentle pour into two mugs.

 “So how was your first day?” she asked, more out of obligation than intrigue. Before Toby could look up to answer her, she had already turned to wash dishes.

“Fine… just explored campus mostly,” Toby mumbled as he rubbed the back of his neck. The tension constricted like a noose around his neck. He knew he had to rip the Band-Aid off, and yet, he knew the next thing he was going to say was going to ruin this entire visit.

 “Hey, Mom? Have you heard of something called 'Bloodmoney'?”

 The wooden spoon she held in her hands crashed harshly into the soapy water, her waist and counter covered in suds. Her hands constricted and released, the motion mimicking the primal urge to scream or even strangle.

 “Mom?” he asked as he glanced to the side for any reading of how she felt hearing that. Her face had a cocktail of expressions: horror, disturbance, and… anger? Before Toby could speak, he was shocked to see how expertly those expressions melted off her face.

“Bloodmoney?” she asked as she finally faced him. Instead of that cocktail of emotions, her face was cool, almost annoyed at whatever nonsensical rambling Toby decided to bother her with.

“What are you talking about?”

“It's just that my classmates were talking about some game, and it sounded like something you worked on when da—” Toby was cut off by a dismissive hand wave.

“Toby, you know I'm not allowed to talk about my work; past, present, or future,” she said curtly.

 “I know, I know, but—”

 “So don't ask again,” she finally looked back, her cool expression heated into a burning glare. The heated expression sent chills and caused Toby to lower his head. Before he could speak again, she made a show of rubbing her temple.

 “Look, you know how I feel about my privacy. Don't tell me you only visited me for that question,” she said, a hint of pain in her voice. Toby quickly shot up.

 “No, no, it's not like that, Mom… well, I admit it was a reason,” Toby rambled, but quickly backpedaled when he saw her staring at him in suspicion.

 “Sorry… I really did want to see you, though,” he conceded, shifting and avoiding her gaze until he shrunk back into his seat. He buried his face in his mug to escape the tension he launched himself back into. Toby tried a different approach when the guilt of hurting his mother with that question gnawed on him.

 “Hey… didn't you say you needed help cleaning the attic?” Toby asked, giving a sheepish smile. She looked back with suspicion, but there was something about Toby's expression that brought a familiar flicker of warmth.

 She sighed and wordlessly gestured for him to follow. Toby smiled slightly and quickly got up to follow. His excitement slowly died down when her walls returned. Each step made Toby feel like he was walking on death row. As he walked, his gaze was focused on the hallways of paintings, all of them either generic landscapes or portraits of animals from a thrift store. Never of him, or even her. Each portrait felt like a need for normalcy rather than making the house feel like a home.

 As they made it to the end of the hallway, she pulled the string and watched as the ladder creaked and slid down like a guillotine blade. Toby looked at his mom before climbing upstairs.

 Toby pulled his collar over his nose as he coughed at the dust surrounding the boxes of dilapidated mementos. He crawled to an old box labeled with his name and smiled fondly at the old propeller hat that lay on top:

 He remembered that day when he got it. Mom and Dad saved up just enough for a day at the carnival. It wasn't the most expensive… or the safest carnival, but it was the cheapest one they could find. Mom wasn't too pleased with the quality in the first place and forbade him from going on any of the rides (after watching the staff repair a ride with duct tape).

 Between his mom's irritability and Toby's frustration, the trip was pretty much a bust.

 Toby's pout vanished as he looked at the prizes that hung on hooks: stuffed animals manufactured with missing limbs or multiple eyes, bubble wands that looked half-empty, paddle boards with the ball popped off, the most preferable option being a standard propeller hat.

 “You want that one?” his father asked, kneeling to Toby's level. He had that same comforting hand on his shoulder that gave Toby hope, even in the roughest of times. Toby nodded eagerly and ran to try and lift the mallet, only to stumble backward, catching himself at the last minute.

 "Oh dear, let's see if we can buy it," His father held his hand and walked him over, keeping him close to his side.

 “How much for the hat, my good man?” Toby watched as his father approached the booth. The carnival barker looked him up and down before scoffing.

 “It ain't for sale; you have to win the strength game,” he said, disguising his snickers with coughs as he took another drag from his cigar.

 “Alright then. Seems simple enough,” his father replied with optimism as the barker went to hand him the mallet. Toby watched his father smile before turning to his wife.

 “Dear, could you hold my coat for me?” Toby turned to see his mom fighting to keep a neutral expression. Her face was painted a pale green as she recoiled at the dumpsters they were standing next to (which was probably the cleanest spot she could stand).

 “Sure…” She strained, already holding her arm out. She didn't want to seem too eager, but smelling lavender and vanilla was a godsend compared to body odor and cheap, rotting food surrounding them.

As Toby's dad quickly shimmied out of his coat, the barker's eyes widened in horror. He was expecting someone who would get winded from lifting a tree branch, not someone who looked like they juggled cinder blocks for entertainment.

 “Thanks a ton, Honeybun,” he handed the coat to her with a kiss on the cheek before going back to pick up the mallet. He stepped back and looked around cautiously so as not to accidentally hit anyone from the crowd forming around them.

 With one smooth swoop, the mallet slammed on the platform with a demanding boom. The puck soared and crashed against the bell with a satisfying ring. The crowd cheered immediately as the barker grumbled and handed the propeller hat to him begrudgingly. His father looked around and beamed when he saw a prideful smirk sneak its way onto his wife's face.

 He kneeled in front of Toby and crowned him with his prize. “There you are, lad,” he smiled. Toby looked at him with admiration. Not only did he save this boring day, but he destroyed the machine like a superhero! To Toby, his dad was a superhero anyway, but seeing this level of strength cemented that no matter what happened, Dad would always be there to save the day!

 Toby quickly wiped away a stray tear that slid down his cheek and glanced back at the hat. The sweet memory was soured as the truth reared its ugly head: Super Dad wouldn't always be there.

 Maybe it was too good to be true. Maybe he wasn't really his dad, just a guardian angel that came and left because another family needed him more.

 Or worse, maybe everyone was right: He got sick of him, of Mom, of the financial struggles. Maybe he made that game; the game made him millions, and now he's sipping cocktails in his third vacation home with a new wife and a new son he spoils instead of him. Maybe everyone was right that his dad was selfish and cowardly. After all, he couldn't even take a break on his “very important project” to tuck him in or play with him once. That stupid project consumed him until he was gone for good, broke the family, and left him and Mom to pick up the pieces. Did it really matter more than him and Mom? Did they mean anything at all?

 Toby felt his eyes water again, this time out of betrayal and fury. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and scowled when he realized he was still holding that propeller hat. The reflection of when he used to be there, when he cared. Now just a bitter memory of what once was. Just some cheap fabric and flimsy plastic. It meant nothing, just like his word.

 In a fit of anger, Toby threw the hat as hard as he could against a pile of stacked boxes. Despite the light material, it must have disrupted the fragile structure, causing the box on top of the pyramid to fall with a thunderous crash. The contents of the box spilled out as the faded pink of Mom's old laptop and notebooks spread across the floor like a wave of smog. Shit, shit, shit… Mom is going to be pissed.

 “Toby! What the hell was that?!” she yelled downstairs.

 “Nothing! I tripped on top of a box,” Toby lied, scrambling to pick up the evidence.

 “Don't break anything,” she called out, causing Toby to roll his eyes.

 “My loving and caring mother, everyone,” Toby hissed under his breath to the imaginary audience. As he scrambled to fix the mess, a page from the dilapidated notebook caught his attention. Toby flipped through each page to find a logbook yet looked uninterested; each page was technical gibberish to him.

 Just as Toby was about to close the book and forget about it entirely, something caught his attention. There was a sketched outline of a standard person with measurements: height, weight, health conditions. At the bottom was the faintest formula with the end results symbolizing the amount of voltage needed.

Toby flipped to the previous page he skimmed past and found a log:

"Entry #45: Test run with Subject#: 3 was a partial success. Subject survived initial voltage and transportation into the simulation! However, the subject was deceased days later. Leading probable cause: Stress."

"Note: Make simulation more lively-- [8/15/2025]"

That date looked familiar…

“Mom!” the five-year-old wailed as he ran into her room. His mother jolted and looked up, irritated at the sudden intrusion. Her eyes widened slightly as she turned to face her red-faced, mucus-covered son.

“I-I we-! Sou-” he stammered through sobs as she kneeled to his level.

“Toby, breathe,” she said firmly, holding his shoulders still. Toby took dramatic, labored breaths as he wiped his face with the inside of his shirt.

 “I-I went to feed Soups for d-d-dad, and he's—he's gone!” Toby blubbered. “Dad is going to be really sad when he gets home! He said he trusts me—he-ee!”

 Her expression darkened slightly before it became schooled. She interrupted his sobbing by kissing his forehead.

 “Don't worry; I'll take care of it. It'll be our little secret,” she cooed to him, thumbing away his tears. Toby sniffled, calming down slightly but still gripping her bracelet for comfort.

 “In the meantime, why don't we clean up? Your father will be worried sick if he sees your face,” she said, gesturing to his tear- and snot-covered face. Toby wiped his nose with his sleeve and nodded before holding his hand out for her to take. Reluctantly, she took it and led him to the bathroom.

 The evening passed, and Toby shifted uncomfortably in his seat when he heard Dad walk in with groceries. He let Dad down, and now he's lying, something that he's been told constantly was really bad.

 Meanwhile, Mom pretended that nothing was wrong. She said she 'fixed' everything, but the gerbil in the cage was clearly not Soups. The gerbil in the cage had white spots clashing with its tan body. Not to mention the gerbils was unfamiliar with what should be its home.

 Toby winced when his father made his way to the cage. He kneeled in front of the enclosure to offer his hand, expecting the gerbil to bolt into his hand for playtime. His smile dimmed when he saw the gerbil run to the corner of the cage, squeaking at him with unfamiliarity.

“Oh…I suppose Soups isn't in the mood for attention…and he has new spots…” his father said, his voice straining to keep its cheerful 'everything is fine' tone.

 “Don't think too much about it, dear; he's probably just stressed from shedding,” his mother said, putting a hand on his shoulder. The corner of his mouth thinned, but he nodded. The unspoken truth lingered between the family, yet no one dared to address it.

 Toby blinked and shivered as he came back to the present. The knowledge was chilling, yet he felt compelled to continue, drawn to each page as the pieces slowly fell into his hands. Voltage? That damn mention of a simulation again! Did Dad know about any of this?

 Toby flipped to the next page. This time it didn't look like a log but more of a journal entry.

[9/11/2025]

“Today is the day. After a few more tests, everything is up to code. The program is calibrated to his needs, and Toby will be at school for most of the day. Besides, if anything happens and the simulation is apprehended, I have a backup USB. All that's left is to convince him,”

“Dad?” Toby whispered as he continued reading.

“To limit any unwanted casualties, the lowest amount of voltage is vital. The only problem is to try and convince him to let the process happen at all. He can be a baby sensitive when it comes to pain. Who am I kidding, he’ll do it regardless of what I say (I know he will), but the less questions asked, the better—"

"—As long as the daily resets are up to date and his health is monitored, it won't take too long. What he doesn't remember won't kill him, and if he does… he’ll forgive me eventually,”

 Toby's face twisted as he went to flip to the next page. The words seemed confident, but the writing was uncertain.

 Toby looked for any leads to see how this simulation went, only to find chunks of pages torn out. Just what the hell happened?

 Toby quickly shoved the journal into his box of mementos when he heard footsteps climbing up the ladder. His shoulders only dropped slightly when he saw it was just his mom.

“Find anything interesting?” she asked with an eyebrow raised incredulously; her gaze landed on the pile of boxes that spilled out.

 “I got distracted; memory lane and all that,” Toby said sheepishly, holding the box to his chest protectively. He prayed she couldn't see her old notebook stuffed inside the box of clothing and forgotten toys.

“Uh huh, well take your stuff with you on the way out,” she said as she climbed back down. “If you don't want something, you can just donate it.

 Toby grimaced and went to pick up the childhood box. His eyes glancing to the old laptop.

---

 That night, Toby unpacked the withered box, and inside contained Mom's timeworn laptop. His eyes narrowed as he left it to charge (praying it would charge at all) before flipping back to the old notes.

 Toby flipped through dates before seeing a diagram. The diagram showed another sketch of a human and the various steps for how one would be transported into the supposed simulation.

 Toby's eyes widened before glancing at the piles of wires remaining inside the box. Toby raised an eyebrow before his eyes caught the erased outline of a simply drawn spiral pompadour.

“Dad…” Toby whispered under his breath. Whatever happened to Dad, this simulation would give him the best lead.

 Toby's eyes focused as he grabbed the wires from the box, squeezing them in his clenched fists. His mind was racing; common sense told him what he had planned was a dangerously stupid idea, but he was desperate. He needed closure at the very least. He needed permission to live his life with the truth. Was he allowed to mourn his father for the man he was, or loathe him for the coward everyone claimed?

 Toby's attention was drawn when the laptop lit up; he hissed when he saw the massive crack on the screen. It looked like someone punched it…but that's odd; the punch looked like it was from the inside.

 Toby became distracted by  the bright light illuminating the dark dorm room. The computer had some life to it.

 Toby kept glancing back at the door; his roommate wasn't supposed to move in for another week (something about a missing moving truck), but he wasn't going to risk any interruptions. Not when there was so much at risk.

 Toby turned his attention back to the laptop; it wheezed as if it tried to comprehend being woken up from its restless slumber after all this time. The loading screen was delayed, and the lights faded, but it was enough to understand what was presented on the screen:

 A password. Of course, it has a password.

 Toby groaned and leaned back, racking his brain on what the password could possibly be. It could be anything; it could be one of those autogenerated passwords, or it could be the digits of pi, or it could even be the concept of infinity for all he knew!

Unless…

“5-18-2020,”

 Toby softened when the laptop buffered and flashed “Welcome, Eun-Mi.” At least his mom cared enough to remember his birthday. Either that, or every parent uses an important date as a password because it's the only way they'll remember. Regardless, he was in, and that's all that mattered at the moment.

 Despite the laptop fighting for its life, Toby pressed on, searching every individual file until he found one:

“Human_Expenditure_Program.exe,”

 Toby clicked on the file impulsively only to be met with a gruesome sight:

  Inside the file, there looked to be the remains of a bright and welcoming room, now something that could easily be mistaken for a torture den. What he could only assume was baby blue wallpaper was now a withered gray. A shelf of toys looked horrified at whatever events must have taken place. The bed in the corner was tattered and… oh god… is that blood on the sheets?

  The room may have looked friendly in the beginning, but there was no denying it was a prison cell. Toby looked around the room to see a trail of bloody footprints stopping in a corner. Toby felt ill at the thought of something… or someone retreating to die.

  Toby felt a wave of nausea climbing up his throat at the thought of how all this tied to his dad's disappearance, but he pushed it down and kept looking.

  He sat up in his seat when he saw, in the corner of the room, there was a door slightly ajar. Toby saw that trail of blood and handprints drag all the way to the door, leading out into the unknown. Whatever was in here was alive… at least enough to crawl out of that door. If something could survive, then that was good enough for him.

  Toby looked back to the notebook, his face twisting in reservation before hardening into determination. He didn't care anymore; he couldn't live with himself if he stopped just now, after all what if that thing hurt dad, what if it was dad?

  Toby flipped through the instructions and found the same model, the human sketch wearing the headset and squeezing onto the exposed wires with red pen ink dripping from the sketch's hand. Toby's eyes flicked to the second part of the diagram, arrows pointed to the laptop and the human figure inside the screen. This seems simple enough.

  As Toby went to grab the headset from the box, he felt his heart and stomach twist. Inside the box was one of his old drawings—a sloppy stick figure drawing of him and Dad playing pirates. Toby's eyes locked onto the pink pompadour stick figure; this single drawing slayed any doubt he had going forward. No turning back; he was going to find out the truth or die trying.

  Toby yanked out the headset and plugged it into the laptop. He occasionally glanced back at the door before following each step. The headset, the program open, the wires in his fists. This was it; either the truth would be revealed, or this would be the second dumbest reason he'd ended up in the ER.

  Toby hardened when he realized he was subconsciously stalling. He scolded himself to snap out of it; Dad was in there, after all, he knew it.

  Toby grabbed a shard of plastic that fell off the covering of the laptop, and in one breath, slit his hand. He groaned and watched as the blood trickled down into the carpet. It would be a bitch to clean, but that's Toby-who-just-got-back-from-saving-Dad's problem.

  Despite the sting, he kept going. Placing the headset on top of his head, he pushed it over his eyes, getting a closer look at the hellish bedroom. Toby's hands shook as he picked up the wires, his body subconsciously knowing the rubber is what's stopping him from the real world and an agonizing electrocution.

  What would Mom think if she saw him? Probably call him a dumbass, but he doesn't care. Besides, she'd understand if it meant seeing Dad after all these years.

 Toby clenched the drawing in his free fist as he took a final breath and let the exposed wires slip into his bloody palm. The electricity of the wires shot directly into his bloodstream, leaving him moderately uncomfortable but not as horrific as he thought it would feel. A good chunk of him thought this plan was bullshit, but this actually works?! In his astonishment, he didn't notice his foot tangled in the computer's main life support plug.

 Before he could fully process it, he was yanked deep into the laptop. As the plug was snatched out of the socket, the laptop quickly gave up on keeping power and shut down with an unsettling flash of black.

Chapter 2

Toby twitched as the electricity faded from his body, each pulse of energy left him paralyzed on the tile. When the electricity finally subsided, he looked to see that he was teleported into the room. 

Yeesh, he just got here and he already wants to bash his head in the wall. He squinted as his glasses scattered across the floor, reflecting light against the decaying bedroom. 

  He hissed in pain when he instinctively pushed himself up with his right hand, the freshly added blood on the floor mixed with the sting reminded him of the cut on his palm. He quickly scrambled to his feet, swiped his glasses up, and looked for anything to stop the bleeding or at least prevent an infection; That was the last thing he needed, especially since he wasn't sure where he was or if there would be any medical attention. 

Toby fumbled around the room. Pulling drawers, climbing shelves, searching for anything to use before settling for the bedsheets. “It wasn't like anyone was going to use these anytime soon,” he told himself. With all of his strength, he pulled until the delicate fabric ripped into an uneven strip. It didn't have to look pretty, it just needed to absorb before he found actual bandages. 

Toby picked up the sheets and tied them against his palm, grunting in pain and frustration when they slipped or the fabric pressed into his open cut. When he was somehow able to tie it with his free hand and teeth, he flexed his hand. Fuck, he regretted not slitting his left hand instead. 

He turned his head and noticed the same haunting door. His brow furrowed as he walked towards it, his footsteps shaky from nerves and the remaining electrical surge escaping his body. 

As he approached it, he wrapped his injured hand around the doorknob. A thought flashed in his mind, what if it opened to a butcher with bodies on hooks? What if it sent him to a realm of pure darkness? What if it sent him falling to his death cartoon-style? Before he could abort the mission, his hand was already turning the doorknob. 

Toby wasn't sure what he was expecting, but when he pushed the door open, he found himself in a meadow. Everything about it was seemingly calming but his survival instincts screamed that walking through it was a horrible idea. Maybe it was, but at least he wasn't being torn to shreds in this very moment. 

The smoke and buildings on the horizon gave Toby a shred of hope. There were people, or at the very least there were NPCs or a camp, which meant he could get this itchy bedsheet off his hand. With a wary yet optimistic spring in his step, he walked into the forest nearby. 

 

With each step he took, his survival instincts screamed for him to listen. Toby tensed when he felt eyes staring at him. “It's nothing,” he told himself…it was probably just the wildlife that was coded in to make the world seem lively.. yeah just some bunnies and dee-

Toby froze in place as an arrow shot inches away from his face, landing straight into the tree he was standing next to. Toby slowly turned his head with a shuddering breath to see he was surrounded by cloaked figures holding crudely made crossbows aimed directly at him. He felt his arms slowly lift, becoming a marionette at their mercy.

“This is our territory, and we claimed it first!” one of the crossbowmen sneered, aiming for non-vital areas. Toby realized it would be better not to piss them off or he'd be left bleeding as an example. 

“Look, I don't want trouble. I mean I would like some bandages, and I am pretty thir-” Toby quickly shut up when they fired another arrow, this time landing inches away from his foot. “Okay! Just the bandages then!”

The crossbowman walked closer, and with each step, Toby walked backwards until his back pressed against the rough bark. He swallowed when they used the arrowhead to tip his head up to eye level. Toby's attempts at humor quickly departed, realizing that he was fucked if he gave them a reason to pull the trigger. 

Before Toby could strain out a plea for mercy, a gentle yet assertive voice spoke out from the back, walking up to the crossbowman and Toby. The crossbowman in front of him hissed before backing away, letting Toby breathe.

“Is this how we treat a lost soul? Poor thing is probably confused, just as we all were,” the main cloaked figure said. Toby assumed they were the leader of this patrol, judging by the confidence and how the cluster of crossbowmen stepped out of the way. 

“Are you alright?“ The main figure asked, keeping their hood over their face but offering their own bandaged hand. Toby hesitated but took it, rationalizing to himself that maybe if he plays along they'll share their resources. 

“I apologize for the unwelcoming introduction, we're low on money so scavenging is the best we can do. The others aren't too keen on sharing,” the figure said as the crossbowman that had Toby pinned grumbled. Toby rubbed his throat but glanced at the leader with a puzzled expression. “Money?“ He asked with a cough.

“Oh, of course, you're new. Let me guess, made a deal with a crime boss and couldn't comply? Or did you have rich parents who wanted you 'out of the picture' for the inheritance?“ The leader asked.  

“Or did you piss off the wrong academic rival who 'knew a guy'?“ Another cloaked figure chimed in with an oddly specific example. Toby squinted and before he could speak, the leader continued: 

“Regardless of who trapped you here, you must be confused…” Confused is the biggest understatement of the day. 

“Here in the simulation, we earn money for supplies. However, the way to earn money here isn't the most reliable, which means we often have to look for scraps. We-” Toby's brow furrowed in annoyance.

“Okay, that's great you have everything figured out, it really is but I just need help finding my dad,” Toby interrupted. The leader softened but turned to give him their attention. 

“He has a British accent, has battery blue eyes, and a bright pink pompadour which between you and me, makes him look like he's wearing a powdered wig made of cotton candy,” The friendly demeanor of the leader died but Toby was too busy in his rambling to notice.

 “Look there's even a drawing of him. Sure, I made it when I was five, but it'll give you an idea. It's really hard to miss him, his name is-” Toby fished out the drawing but his enthusiasm drained when he could tell from their body language that he said something wrong.

“Harvey Harvington?” the leader finished his sentence as the other figures whispered. One of them mutters “the piggy bank” to another. Toby shifted when he felt them walk over, cutting off the easy exits to escape.  

“Ye-!” Toby was quickly interrupted by a swift punch to the face. He stumbled backwards and fell against the tree, holding the bridge of his nose as if he was trying to keep the blood in his body. The figures watched intently as Toby groaned, holding his face as he picked up his shattered glasses.

“What the hell is your problem?!“ Toby yelled nasally as he snapped his head up. He saw one of the figures cover their eyes before shaking their head to the leader, as if they were checking something. The leader sighed and turned back to Toby who was still nursing his nose. One of the subordinates handed the head cloaksmen a rope from their bag.

“This isn't personal, Harvington. I'm sure you're a good kid, but I got to take care of my own” The leader walked over with the rope, twirling each end in their fist. Toby noticed and quickly scrambled to his feet, slowly backing away like a skittish animal. 

“Well it's clear you guys haven't seen him, so I'll just-” Toby swiftly ducked and ran between them before he could finish his excuse, the collective footsteps following swiftly behind. 

 

As Toby dashed through the forest, he dodged each arrow flying past his head. His mind was racing in multiple ways as he turned swift corners to try and evade his pursuers. He wasn't sure if they wanted him dead or alive but he'll be damned if he's going to find out. Instead, he was going to channel that one semester of track during high school.

Toby felt his heart doing a drum solo through his ears as his arms flailed to push branches away from his face. The shouting behind him grew louder as the thunderous footsteps grew closer. 

As Toby turned back to see how far away they were, he tripped on a root sticking out. The sudden jolt caused him to fall off the hill and roll down into a hidden ditch. He groaned in pain but looked up as his potential captors took a swift left, assuming he ran deeper into the forest. He strained for the air forcefully evicted from his lungs before dropping his face against the soil beneath him.

---

“Come on…come on,” Toby whispered, striking two rocks under a pile of dried leaves. The day faded into the night as a blur of nursing his cuts and scrapes. Thankfully he found this grotto and his nose didn't break from the punch. However, the nasty bruise that formed wouldn't win him any beauty pageants, and of course he had to lose some piercings from that fall. If he doesn't die of an infection, he would consider this a win.

 Toby's hands shook from the cold and lack of food as the rocks stumbled around his trembling grasp. With each strike his grip tightened and his movements became sloppier.

“I did not waste three summers being a goddamn Caterpillar Scout just to not remember how to build a fire,” he hissed under his breath, striking harder in frustration before tossing the rocks to the side. They always made it seem so easy in that wilderness handbook. 

Toby huffed and buried his face in his knees like a child. Instead of being surrounded by darkness as intended, he saw in the corner of his eye…a counter? The counter was a white box with a purple outline. On the left of the 0, there was a pink coin. So they weren't lying about the money, but how would you even earn money here?

 Toby lifted his head and blinked to find himself back in the cave with no counter in the corner of his eye. He raised his eyebrows in confusion and put his hand over his eyes; Yep, the counter was still there. Either he hit his head hard or it was a mechanic of the simulation. 

Toby sat back and sighed, shivering as the thin fabric he wore did nothing to keep him warm.

 Toby breathed and picked up the rocks, rubbing both of them with his thumb before his caterpillar scout knowledge returned briefly. He tossed one of the stones to the side and picked up a flint-looking rock. He breathed to calm down his frustration and began striking again, smiling faintly as a spark fell into the dried leaves. 

He kept hitting until another ember joined the pile, the flame gently eating away at the leaves. Toby quickly leaned down to blow air against the baby ember, backing away when it developed into a fully grown fire. Toby sat back like a proud father as the light flickered and danced against the cave walls.

 

In a perfect world this moment would've been best celebrated with s'mores and his parents sitting on opposite sides of him, laughing as they sat by the fire toasting the sugary mess together. Mom ignoring her strict diet just this once to join them, Mom and Dad bickering but only about the proper doneness of the marshmallow, and the only annoyance would be Dad trying to wipe chocolate off Toby's face.

Toby went to feed the fire with a stray twig but paused and found himself drawing on the dirt instead. 

“Teaching Toby how to start fires is a horrible idea!“ Toby spoke in an exaggerated feminine voice as he doodled a woman with a short bob with her hands on her hips and a stern expression.

“Now darling, it's best to encourage Toby's creativity. Who's to say he doesn't need these wilderness skills?” Toby spoke in an unpolished British accent as he doodled a figure next to the woman, this one had a cartoon of a beaming man with a spiral almost as big as his head. Toby teared up as he doodled a toddler in the middle of them, smiling wide holding a stick with a burning marshmallow on the tip. 

“Okay, okay, but you're bailing him out if he ever gets arrested for arson,” Toby spoke in the feminine voice as he smeared the dirt with his thumb, changing the stern expression to a loving smile. 

 Toby's tears dripped down his cheek and with each one he wiped away, the more they snuck out. He fought the quivering lip and congested nose but couldn't hold it in anymore. He sobbed as he curled into a ball, his shoulders shook as the dirt on his face turned to mud. With the danger of being hunted down and the wounds that needed tending, he couldn't conceal the anguish echoing throughout the night.

In that moment he just wanted his parents. Not the shell of his mother and the distant memory of his father.

----

As morning crept through the mountains, Toby plunged his hand into the nearby river. He watched in astonishment at how realistic the water felt against his hands. The gentle stream caressing his fingertips was enough to bring some semblance of calm amongst the haze of recent events. 

He cupped his non-injured hand into the water and carefully brought it to his lips. He kept his eyes closed as his vision brought another counter on the left of his vision, this time, a thirst bar that was rising with each sip. He noticed two more bars when he kept his eyes closed, both of them seemed pretty low.

 The pink one shook aggressively and launched him out of his thoughts, his stomach growling, demanding. Toby plunged his hands back into the river and cupped water into his face, the mud, caked on blood, and leftover tears melting off of his face. He looked back into the forest, hearing the gentle ambience of birds and the scurry of rabbits. He's played enough Minecraft, how hard could it be? 

 

Pretty hard.

 

Toby spent half an hour chasing rabbits with no results and his weapons were falling apart at the slightest taps. How did that troop make crossbows while he couldn't even keep his spear sharp? Toby sighed and walked back to sit in front of the river, maybe he could just live off fish, they can't be as fast.

Toby looked in the reflection but quickly ducked when he heard footsteps patrolling the river. He hid behind a boulder to see two of the crossbowmen slowing their hurried footsteps to meet each other.

 

“I saw him, he has to be here somewhere,” one of them hissed. 

“The kid?“ The other asked. “Kid? I'm 20,” Toby mouthed to himself but continued to listen. 

“No, Piggy Bank,” Piggy bank…there was that mention again. 

“I scraped him with an arrow but the bastard still ran,” the other huffed. 

“How much are grazes from an arrowhead?“ The former asked as the latter covered their eyes “$16” 

“Really, that little?“

Toby narrowed his eyes but froze when his stomach decided now was the proper time to introduce itself.

 

 Shit…

 

Toby covered his mouth as he heard one of them walking closer but their attention got ripped away when they heard footsteps rushing over. 

“I saw him! He's in the ruins!“ The third cloaksmen yelled. The other two rushed to follow the third, not noticing the bandages and apples that fell from their satchel. Toby inched over with shaky hands as he quickly swiped them up, devouring the fruit like a feral animal killing its prey. 

 Toby wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked up. In the distance, he could see that there was indeed an abandoned city. There had to be some supplies if it meant people were still exploring it…but what the hell does “Piggy bank” mean here? Toby's mind went to the worst conclusions: maybe it was a boss battle, maybe it was a monster. All Toby knew was this must be the way they earned money here. 

Toby's bad habit of walking directly into danger was rearing its ugly head but he had nothing left to lose. Maybe if he defeated this 'Piggy bank', he could bribe someone for supplies, or even bribe someone to help him find Dad. Or in the worst case…no he shouldn't think like that. Dad is alive, he had to be. He wouldn't roll over and die if it meant never seeing Toby again, right?

 

Toby went to get up but was quickly reminded of his cut palm. He hissed and peeled the filthy bedsheet off his hand, the slice had certainly seen better days but hopefully the bandages made using his hands easier. Toby clumsily wrapped his hand and flexed it, returning some of the blood flow to the area. 

He looked over the horizon and groaned before getting ready for the prolonged journey ahead of him.  

----

Toby panted, the constant walking on an empty stomach drove him mad. The apples did hit the spot in the moment but he can't survive the journey with just fruit and water. He also can't afford stopping at every chance he got just to go to the bathroom. He looked up and realized how little progress he was making. Fatigue and soreness were taking its toll on his legs, demanding a break before they go on strike.  

Toby sighed and begrudgingly sat down, massaging the blood flow into his sore legs as he looked back to the horizon. He barely made it to the edge of the city but the sun was already about to set. He huffed and leaned his head back onto the tree behind him.  

As he rubbed his brow, his stomach kicked himself, insulted by the continuous neglect. Toby glanced around the entrance of the city, from the look of the buildings, the likelihood of edible food was small. Toby pinched the bridge of his nose, hissing softly when he remembered the bruise from earlier. If he could have one more break from his current luck as an act of mercy, he would definitely appreciate it. 

 

As Toby stumbled to his feet and walked into the forgotten city, he jolted when he heard something fall with a sickening crunch. Toby cringed at the noise and picked up a rusted pipe; He inched closer, pleading to whatever admins that are listening that this wasn't some sci-fi/ alien simulation as well. 

 

As he rounded the corner, the hunger pangs were replaced by a tidal wave of nausea in a matter of seconds. 

It used to be the leader of those scouts, now a mangled mess on the abandoned sidewalk. The hood lifted to remind Toby that this wasn't some character in a video game, this was a person, guts and all. Someone who was just desperate for survival. Someone who used to be human. The worst part is this was a person from the real world. Judging by their words from earlier, no one from the real world knew of their fate. 

Toby tried to look away, tried to be apathetic, tried telling himself that they tried to kill him first, but their eyes met his. Even if he knew they'd never move again, their gaze remained locked with his. 

 

 Toby fell to his knees and emptied what little contents of his stomach remained. 

 

As he coughed and wiped his mouth, he glanced back to the satchel, filled with food and supplies. Was he really about to rob a dead person?

Toby reached for the satchel but his eyes glanced back to the disfigured eyes meeting his. Toby felt his heart race as his thoughts went multiple directions:

He should just leave. 

This person was human. 

They tried killing him. 

But would he be any better if he just left them after robbing their body?

It was them or him. 

He's supposed to be better than that. 

Worrying won't bring them back. 

What would their family think? 

What would dad do…?

Toby let out a heavy sigh and went through their bag, finding food, bandages, a canteen, and a flashlight. He shined the light around the alley and found a rolled up tarp. He glanced back at the body, covering his mouth before swallowing the bile climbing back up. 

Toby shuddered as he carefully wrapped the tarp around the body, using the rusty pipe from earlier to guide the parts together as to not touch the corpse himself. He held the flashlight in his teeth and looked back to the buildings, a part of him yelling to grab the satchel and go. He stepped forward to grab it but those words haunted him again: “what would Dad do?“ 

Toby kicked the nearby dumpster, yelling a booming “FUCK!“ before taking an exasperated grunt, dragging the corpse out of the city and into the forest.

----

It took hours with just the rusty pipe but Toby was able to dig a ditch deep enough for the body to fit. He cringed but dragged the corpse into the pit, shoveling dirt in its place with his hands. With the final scoop of dirt covering the sight of the tarp, Toby scooted back to the nearest tree.

 He reached into the satchel and unwrapped one of the packs of homemade jerky, his eyes not once leaving the shallow grave. He chewed slowly and mechanically, his appetite gone. What felt like worthy spoils were tainted by the permanent mental image of those haunted eyes staring back at him. 

 

“I should probably say something,” Toby finally spoke, his voice hoarse. He told himself he was doing it for them but truth be told, he needed a break from the deafening silence and suffocating thoughts. 

“We didn't have the best first impression, but uhmm…thanks for the resources, and thanks for trying to be nice in the beginning…before you and your gang started hunting me down…” Toby swallowed, recoiling into himself. He opened his mouth to speak, softly this time. 

“I hope whatever happens now, you're at least free from this hell,” Toby opened the canteen and poured half of the contents onto the grass below. 

 

As he screwed the cap back on, he lamented the hours of sleep he missed and time he wasted just for this poor excuse of a funeral. Yet at the same time he acknowledged he wasn't really going to be able to sleep after this. 

As he looked back at the grave, pondering whether this was pointless or not, he thought about the person's family. If, God forbid, it were Dad, he'd definitely be appreciative if someone took the time out of their day to return his body to the Earth. 

He told himself he made the right choice. He just hoped wherever Dad was, he would think he did the right thing as well.

~~~~

The clatter of footsteps stopped in front of the abandoned building as they spread out to check for all possible exits. 

“If we chase him upstairs, they'll be nowhere for him to run,” one of them whispered as they checked every nook and cranny for any presence of life. It was clear someone was living here but not long enough to make it their permanent home. 

As one of the cloaksmen turned the corner, they were dragged into the darkness, their struggling and muffled yelling was replaced with a quiet crack and a dull collapse. 

As the other cloaksmen armed their crossbows, an arrow flew inches away from their faces, bouncing against the concrete wall. The two scouts looked at each other before firing into the darkness. A groan of pain was heard before footsteps retreated deeper. 

“You fools, we need him alive!“ The leader of the troop yelled before rushing into the darkness. “You can't run forever, you son of a bitch!” The other scouts followed but their footsteps lost the confidence they had when they believed they have the upper hand. 

They ran up the stairs and as they made it to the open rooftop, they began to split up. Checking each corner and potential hiding spot. One of them smirked as they found a large blanket covering something cowering.

The second in command eagerly ripped it off only to find it was just a makeshift raccoon's nest. They groaned in frustration as the raccoons hissed and ran to the stairwell.

“Did he really jump?” the smallest cloaksman whispered, shrinking into themselves as they clumsily gripped the crossbow. The feeling of being watched kept them on edge. 

“Don't be ridiculous, and if you can't hold a damn crossbow, you should've stayed back at the camp,” The second in command said, elbowing the smaller one before turning to face the patrol leader. “Come on, he isn't here. You probably shot a wild animal or another sad chump and they're dead now. We'll tell boss we failed, accept the punishment, and try again,”

“We can't come back empty handed,” the smallest of the scouts whispered. They looked up to see the patrol leader glaring as they looked down the edge of the roof.

 

“He wouldn't jump…” the leader of the troop mumbled, unaware of the growing danger looming in the shadows. “He couldn't have,”

“He doesn't have the ba-” a sickening silence ran through the air as an arrow flew directly through them. The other cloaksmen gasped in horror, but before they could snap out of it, a bang was heard, knocking their leader off the rooftop's edge. The smallest ran to the guardrail, crying out in anguish at their loss of guidance. 

The remaining cloaksmen quickly aimed anywhere they suspected. “Show yourself, bastard!“

Behind the stairwell door crawled their target, a cigarette was placed firmly between his teeth as he walked up to them, holding the stolen crossbow in his one hand. His black coat drapped half down his shoulder, concealing his right half. He finally lifted his head to them, showing his burned and scarred face. His one good eye narrowed, the burning spirit inside was similar to an escaped circus animal ready to swing on the next handler that dared to take it down. 

“Hiding like the little bitch you are, typical,” The cloaksman hissed, as the others pointed at him. “Put the crossbow down, Lefty. You're outnumbered 3 to 1,”

The man clenched his jaw before lowering the crossbow to the ground slowly, his eye never leaving theirs. 

“That's right, just come back to us and maybe we'll stick with the feather, heck for old times sake even the needle!“ The cloaksmen mimicked pleading with a butchered British accent while one of them laughed, using the chance to reload.

Just as the man slowly got back up, he reached into his concealed coat and pulled out a pistol, firing at the mocking cloaksmen's head without a second thought. Their body falling backwards as shock was carved permanently on their face. Just as the other fumbled to finish reloading their crossbow, another shot was fired into their chest.  

The smallest fumbled but dropped the crossbow and tripped backwards, cowering back to the railing. The gun aimed directly into their forehead as the man stood over them, his expression unreadable. 

“Please, I'm sorry! I didn't want to, I'm sorry!“ The smallest wailed as they pushed their hood off their head, revealing someone who looked no older than 17. Someone's child. The man's eyes softened, but it faded just as quickly as it arrived. 

The remaining cloaksmen buried their face in their hands as they sobbed, the counter haunting their vision as they waited for the pull of the trigger. 

Instead the man put a hand on their shoulder and the counter in their vision turned from $0 to $12000. 

“Wha…?” they blinked and looked up at the man. The man crossed his arms, the pistol still in his grip as he watched them. The cloaksmen carefully stood up, holding their chest as they looked at the man in confusion. They helped hunt him down for weeks and yet he was… helping them?

 

 They looked up and the man patted their shoulder before wordlessly stepping out of the way. The gesture and body language said enough: “leave”

The scout nodded and carefully walked out, giving one last grateful glance before rushing out of the building, leaving the crossbow behind.  

 

With an disgruntled sigh, the man walked to the stash of supplies he kept hidden and gathered as many as he could in the ratty blanket, throwing the contents over his shoulder in a makeshift sack.

 He eyed the horizon and unrolled a crudely made map. The map had various boxes of shape and size to represent which buildings were safe and which were raided, he crossed off one of the few remaining unmarked boxes and descended downstairs.