Beginning of something big
The shed light flickered—casting harsh, blinking shadows across the dusty floor.
And behind him…
Something moved.
Tobey spun around, his spine locking, his throat tightening—
Only to see Bella, the cat, standing just beyond the doorway, rain mist clinging to her fur, a mouse dangling limply from her jaws.
She stepped forward with deliberate pride, paws soundless against the concrete floor.
A soft plop echoed as she dropped the mouse at Tobey's feet.
[Tobey, blinking at the offering]
"Mouse?? What am I supposed to do with a mouse, you weirdo cat?"
The scent of damp fur and wet soil drifted in from the rain outside. A faint, coppery odor wafted up from the mouse.
Tobey wrinkled his nose.
"Anyway… I've got bigger things to deal with."
Bella let out a soft prrrr—then padded to a quiet corner and curled up like a self-satisfied statue.
Tobey turned back toward the towering shelf, dimly lit by the old ceiling bulb struggling to hold power. The air was thick—stale, but electric, like a storm had passed through years ago and left its memory behind.
He dragged over a crate. The wood creaked beneath his weight as he climbed on top, his fingers brushing layers of dust from the book spines.
[Tobey, reading aloud as he scanned]
"Cell Biology 1... Advanced Cell Biology 1... Advanced Cell Biology 2... 3… 4?! Seriously, how advanced is this going to get?"
"Origin of Species, Modern Medicine, Biotechnology... who even owns this stuff?"
The paper felt soft, almost fragile. The scent of aged parchment and ink filled his nose—sharp, dry, and oddly comforting.
His hand paused, trembling slightly from excitement.
[Tobey, whispering with a grin]
"If I read all of this… maybe I really could build my parasitic suit."
Then—
A glint in the corner.
Something peeking from under a broken wooden panel.
Tobey hopped down, his foot landing with a muted thump, stirring dust motes into the air like lazy spirits.
He reached under the panel and pulled out a sheaf of papers—yellowed, cracked, and humming with mystery.
Symbols.
Equations.
Ink that bled like veins into the parchment.
[Tobey]
"These… these look like research papers."
He held them up, the pages rustling like leaves in the wind.
"But in what language?"
Under the warm hum of the dying ceiling light, he saw:
Complex diagrams.
Unrecognizable helixes.
Protein chains looped with alien symbols.
A faint watermark shaped like a key… or a neuron?
His fingers ran across the ink. It felt slightly raised, like it had been scorched into the page.
He flipped a sheet.
Then another.
Each page heavier than the last.
Drawings of a humanoid body. Tendrils. Tubes.
He blinked.
[Tobey, whispering]
"…Was this… Dad's?"
Silence pressed in around him.
No wind. No creaks. Only the hum of the bulb… and the distant pitter-patter of rain against the shed roof.
[Tobey]
"I'm not the first one to read these…"
A flicker of motion caught his eye.
He looked up.
The fingerprint on the typewriter page was gone.
The TV—once dead—flickered on for two seconds.
A strange sigil flashed across the screen.
No sound. No static.
Then it cut to black.
The plug? Still not connected.
His heart skipped a beat.
The silence now felt... aware.
The metal case in the corner let out a faint hummmm.
[Tobey]
"I swear I didn't imagine it."
His hands were slick with sweat now.
He backed away, mind racing.
He grabbed a faded, bedsheet-like cloth and began wrapping a few of the less alien books.
He flinched as the rough cloth brushed against his neck.
[Tobey, muttering with a shaky laugh]
"I look like a robber right now."
And how did he look, truly?
Tool belt: sagging slightly under the weight of pliers and nails.
Black pants and black t-shirt: dusty, damp around the hems.
DIY monkey cap: knitted chaos, snug over his forehead.
Books: wrapped like contraband and slung over his back like sacred cargo.
Headlamp: flickering weakly, like it too was watching what just happened.
The shed door groaned as he pushed it open.
The night air hit him—cool, fresh, grounding.
The rope hung over his shoulder.
The questions tangled in his mind.
The wind whispered.
The mission?
Still on.
The mission had not ended.
It had merely crossed the threshold of legend.
With each step out of the shed, it was as if the world itself bowed.
The stars blinked in reverence.
The moonlight crowned him—a soft halo falling on the shoulders of a boy who had touched forbidden knowledge.
He was no longer just a child.
He was the Bearer of the Rope.
The Collector of Truth.
The one who walked between shed and sanctuary with secrets clutched close to his chest.
A whisper moved through the air, from tree to tree, like angels gossiping in panic:
"He has the books."
"He saw the schematics."
"He touched the papers not meant for mortal hands."
Tobey's boots hit the soil like drums in a sacred march.
The rope slung across his back bounced against his DIY monkey cap—
his torch flickered like divine flame, cutting shadows like a blade blessed by the First Engineer.
And then—
Fate blinked.
A sound cracked through the night:
a cry.
A cry not from heaven.
Not from hell.
But from a small, mortal girl.
Tobey froze mid-step.
The winds halted.
Even time, the eternal trickster, hesitated to turn.
He turned his head slowly—so slowly.
And there, framed in the glowing window of a nearby house…
She stood.
The Oracle of Misunderstanding.
A young girl, eyes wide with terror,
pointing directly at him.
Her finger?
A divine spear.
Her voice?
A siren's wail of judgment.
"HELP! MONSTER! HEEELP!!"
The gods above wept.
The angels dropped their harps.
Somewhere, a deity of mischief howled in laughter.
And Tobey?
He looked down at himself.
Rope.
Book bomb.
Monkey cap.
Toolbelt.
Filthy from head to toe.
He looked like an escaped spirit from a cursed lab.
A demon-child forged in caffeine and bad ideas.
The girl sobbed louder.
[Tobey – voice cracking]
"IT'S JUST A ROPE!!"
And then—he ran.
He ran like the Archangel of Embarrassment was hot on his heels.
He ran like fate itself was collapsing behind him.
Through the yard, over the cursed rock of falls past—
Back to his sanctum.
He didn't open the door.
He dived through it.
Slammed it shut.
Collapsed to the floor, gasping like a sinner on holy ground.
[Tobey – whispering]
"I was just… just getting a rope…"
He stayed on the floor for a while.
Face pressed to the cold wood.
Heart racing like it had seen god—and god pointed and screamed.
The room was silent.
The storm outside had calmed into a whisper, like the sky itself was tiptoeing not to disturb him.
His breath finally slowed.
The rope lay next to him, coiled like a question.
[Tobey, eyes closed, whispering to himself]
"...Why does everything I do feel like a crime?"
The books he carried sat by his bed now—wrapped like stolen relics.
The flashlight flickered on his monkey cap, casting little dancing shadows on the ceiling.
He was still a kid.
Still in his mismatched clothes.
Still just one boy in one small room.
But somewhere deep inside—
beneath the layers of mischief, courage, and misunderstood genius—
he wondered…
Was this all meant to happen?
Was there a reason for the key?
The shed?
The research?
The divine embarrassment?
He looked toward Subject 10's container.
The frog just blinked.
[Tobey, quietly]
"...You wouldn't rat me out, right?"
No reply.
Just the sound of Bella softly meowing.
And for now…
that was enough.
Knock Knock.
[Mother]
"Tobey, are you up? I hear noise from your room."
[Tobey]
"Just had a bad dream."
Ah yes, the classic excuse.
Spoken like a true little liar with the stealth skills of a raccoon and the honesty of a discount magician.
Bad dream? Sure. Because climbing into your room like a mythological goblin thief with a bag of illegal science textbooks is definitely dream-related.
But hey—he said it with a straight face. That's what counts, right?