Dawn Chorus (Proxies x Reader)

Dead shops form a curling tail at the end of the boardwalk. We settle at the base of it, swaddled like giant infants in glossy blue and white tarps. Even stillness has a sound in the forest of thick, plastic sheets. At least they buffer the wind.

The shops curl and turn at odd angles, jutting into the pathway so every twist feels like the last in an endless cycle. Tarps worsen the maze, hiding blimps of ocean blue and beige sand that would normally pop up in between wooden walls. It no longer feels like the real world is still there, waiting for when you get out.

Tim sets us up at the very back of this maze, where a wall of colliding wood and concrete finally offer reprieve from shop doors and tarps. It is a more solid backing then the glass and plastic of the store fronts. Something that is nice to rest up against and feel secure, feel immune to a creature bursting through and snagging one of us. I curl up tight against it to hide from the cold and my own vulnerability.

Toby leaves shortly after we pick a spot. He wanders off as Tim and Hoodie wrestle our surroundings into something akin to a tent. No explanation is offered, but he has been cracking his shoulder and neck and has been humming tunelessly far more than normal. Bursts of twitches and involuntary sounds occur in rapid intervals until he strains his face red and neck tight trying to suppress them. Several times he throws his head back. Twice words slip out and they have been all he has said since he got here. Tim lets him go, or he fails to notice until Toby is already gone and doesn't want to leave to chase him down.

"We'll need food, water, preferably some blankets or some type of fabric to make it through this cold," Tim says.

It comes out as a small rant. Once the rustling dies down and we are mostly covered from the chill racing between the buildings, he begins to pace. Annoyance warps his face into a sneer.

"We should have packed up the car," Tim grumbles.

"Stop," Hoodie says, stepping forward to catch Tim's shoulder and disrupt his pacing. "We didn't know."

"You didn't know what?" I ask. "That you'd need supplies?"

Tim and Hoodie both turn to me. Tim's focus is shifting in and out, tightness flooding then leaving his jaw. Hoodie has his head cocked to one side at a comical angle.

Tim huffs and drops to the boardwalk. "It's..." He pauses, sucking in a deep breath and his left eyebrow twitches ever so slightly.

"We don't always get clear jobs," Hoodie cuts in.

"Your boss doesn't tell you what your supposed to do?" I ask and fail to hide the snip in my question, anger starting to rumble in my gut though I'm uncertain its source.

"Our boss," Hoodie corrects me.

Tim picks up from Hoodie's simpler explanation, "It can't communicate with you, so you don't know what that's like. It's messy. I don't think the fucking Thing really cares much for clarity. We get some distinct orders, voices in our head that won't stop until the job's done. Mostly we get images, just enough to make a mental picture book of what we're supposed to do. Occasionally we get urges, like an itch at the back of our brains that aren't useful in knowing what has to be done until we are already doing it. All of it's in our heads."

"Most of it," Hoodie corrects. When Tim does not expand on that, he continues, "Most of It's communication is in our heads. Sometimes It influences our surroundings."

"Such as?" I urge when there is no further information.

Hoodie's posture has gone stiff and Tim is rubbing his arm.

"Ch-chased meh-me th-thr-ree b-bl-bl-bl-blocks with a d-d-d-d-dog," Toby says, appearing around a blue curtain. "Lo-lost ha-half a th-thigh before-before I re-realized He wa-wanted me to st-steal a ki-kid and drop them o-off in a pa-park sev-veral mi-miles awa-wa-way."