Proxies

The night was silent, eerily and hollowly, too still to be comforting. The gas station's blinking sign hummed faintly, casting a dim light on the cracked pavement. The smell of gasoline permeated the air, sharp and sour, mingling with the faint aftertaste of blood and sweat that still lingered on all of you.

You were sitting, leaning against the building's wall, your knees bent, one shoulder brushing against Masky's robust frame. He lit another cigarette with firm, practiced movements, shielding the flame with his gloved hand. He didn't talk much—he rarely did—but the silence between you wasn't awkward. You took a drag when he passed it to you; the paper tingled your lips, the smoke rose and vanished into the night sky.

Across the parking lot, Toby's frenetic energy hadn't waned despite the mission. He was half-hunched over the vending machine, tapping the glass with his fingers at an erratic pace, while Hoodie crouched beside him, trying to pry open the panel with a knife.

"Do you think there's anything worth eating in there?"

you asked, as smoke billowed from your mouth as you spoke.

Masky snorted, a sound halfway between a laugh and a huff.

"I doubt it. They'd both eat sawdust even if it came in a bag."

"Hey, I heard it!"

Toby shouted without turning around, his voice echoing in the silence. The machine vibrated as he shook it, and Hoodie held it with one hand to keep it from falling.

Masky threw ash onto the cracked concrete, his posture hunched with exhaustion, though his mask almost completely concealed it.

"Let them waste their energy."

he murmured under his breath.

"That keeps them busy."