Chapter 34

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    Pain - aching and throbbing like a parasite stirring deep within your arm. The sensation melded into a dream you couldn't recall, soon waking you into reality. You groaned. This was never your favorite way to start a day, but it was becoming a common occurrence the longer you endured the Creepypasta lifestyle.
    Groggy with lingering medications and the sleep-spell Slenderman had put on you and your teammates, you rolled over and wiped the soggy drool from one side of your face. Then, you reached out to the night stand beside your bed. You knew there would be more pills waiting to relieve you of the major discomfort. Just as you predicted, your hand landed on a small, plastic cup, which rattled slightly with the tablets and capsules inside. You couldn't see exactly what they were, nor how many you were about to ingest, due to the blur of your still-focusing eyes, but you hoisted the cup and dumped its contents into your mouth anyway. Immediately, you swallowed, following up the sticky pieces of chalk and plastic with a healthy dose of water from the glass accompanying the medications. Even though you emptied the large glass, you still felt some pills sitting in your esophagus, fighting their slow descent.
    Breakfast would fix that. You were pretty hungry, anyway. The sensation of emptiness grew ever stronger as your stomach began to awaken with the rest of you.
    You rubbed the sleep from your eyes before collecting the glass and pill cup to carry them to the kitchen. It was when you finally stood from the bed that you noticed the thick, sophisticated splint holding your broken arm together. Was that there before falling asleep? Or did your master apply it during your slumber?
    No matter. It was just a silly curiosity. You shrugged it off and shuffled your way down the hall, the stairs, and to the mansion's kitchen. By then, your stomach was churning and growling with anticipation. Hopefully, it would hold up, for fear of regurgitating the medication you had preemptively taken.
    Just as you approached the kitchen doorway, the sounds of frustration echoed faintly to your ears; grunts, wet slaps, curses, and the like. Your mind could only imagine what oddities were occurring just beyond your view.
    Rounding the door way, you found Toby trying his hardest to prepare a,  usually, simple peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. Splatters of the two spreads decorated the counter top in his immediate vicinity. The bread slices he so stubbornly tried to garnish were torn and smashed nearly in halves. At this point, Toby may as well have mixed it all in a cup. His dilemma was the lack of a second hand. The gunshot wound from last night seemed to render an arm useless for a time.
    “Uh,” you uttered, trying to casually announce your presence as you began conversation. “If you can't feel pain, shouldn't you still be able to use your arm?” You soon crossed the kitchen floor and reached Toby's side, making sure to keep a distance so not to be in the line of fire.
    Toby growled when the slice of bread he attempted to spread some peanut butter over finally gave way to death and tore completely in half. “Just b-because I can't...can't feel p-pain doesn't mean I c-c-can keep-p moving when I'm tor-n apart.” His lingering tone from the bread incident caused your chest to tighten in fear that you had irritated him.
    His response was a rather extreme version, compared to his actual situation, but you gathered the point easily. Toby simply couldn't feel pain. All other symptoms of taking damage were still sufferable. Still, his condition was more disappointing that it originally seemed, to which you sarcastically teased, “You mean you're not a real-life Deadpool?”
    “Who?”
    With an eager grin, you decided to introduce Toby to the comic book character - after successfully making breakfast, of course. “You're gonna love this guy. He regenerates fast and pretty much can't die. Crazy, too.” To this, Toby released a dark chuckle full of curiosity and anticipation.
    The two of you worked together, using each other's only good arms to make a pair of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It was, oddly enough, easier to do than you expected - not that there was much unfamiliarity with preparing such food. There was still a mess, though. You couldn't deny that fact.
    Gobbling his sandwich down, Toby chugged a bottle of water that you hadn't noticed. He strained to force down the compacted chunks of food stuck in his throat; the water helped clear things up. You weren't too far behind, though the risk of choking was much less, in your case. The awkward silence between the two of you was soon dashed away when Toby crumbled the empty water bottle and tried to toss it under his leg, aiming for the nearby trashcan, “So, where does t-this guy live?”
    Rim shot. The crumpled bottle fell to the floor after tapping the edge of the open-faced trash container.
    “He's a comic book character,” you corrected Toby. “Deadpool is a fictional person.”
    “What?” Toby's attention was stolen from picking up his trash, focused on your devastating news. His disenchanted expression reminded you of a child who had just learned that Santa Claus wasn't real. Toby had only learned about Deadpool a few minutes prior, and already he had high hopes. “Man!” He through his arms in the air, or what he could of the injured appendage, “You had me exc-c-cited.”
    You couldn't help but giggle at your teammate, “You barely know anything about him. What if he has other qualities that really tick you off?”
    Toby leaned back against the counter top, gazing across the kitchen, “Y'know, I haven-'t read a comic in a l-ong time. It'd be cool t-to find one of his.”
    “We'll have to keep a look-out during our missions,” you smiled. “For now, you want to read about him on a wiki page?”
    “Slenderman doesn't give Proxies access to the internet.”
    “Oh.”
    That plan was quickly shot down.

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