I apologize for the shortness of this chapter, I just felt it was better set aside a bit. Please R&R! ^^
Toby slipped through the doors of his darkened apartment, still in uniform. He had opted out of changing at work. By the time he and Oz had pulled into the garage after their last call, Toby could hardly move, let alone summon the energy to pull a shirt over his head. He considered spending what was left of his night enjoying a cold beer, but knew he would fall asleep standing up before the cap was even popped. He sunk into the couch – fully clothed, thirsty, and too tired to care – and floated into blackness.
If given the means, most people would probably use an ability like Toby's to manipulate others. They would twist their words and actions to achieve a desired effect, based solely on the thoughts of their unwitting puppets. Toby liked control; he was not naïve enough to claim otherwise. However, his view of it was entirely unconventional. His maintenance of control involved that of his own mind, not of others'. The ability to "tune out" was of utmost importance.
With the state of unconsciousness came a loss of control. Perhaps the thing that most terrified Toby about that loss was the fact that, in the midst of his nightmares, he was unaware of it. At least if he knew what had been taken from him, he could pour himself into reacquiring it. Instead, his only available option was to cower. In the night, every fear, no matter how irrational it seemed upon his awakening, was legitimate. It's nothing to be afraid of. Just a dream. He had said those words to himself many a time as the sunlight streamed through his window. But, when the moon possessed the sky, the words seemed to melt into nothing. Every night, he was chased. Every night, he ran.