Ticci Toby

Toby Rogers is far from the skeletal, hollowed-out figure he’s sometimes portrayed as. Instead, he carries the look of someone who hasn’t slept enough, hasn’t eaten well, and hasn’t taken proper care of himself in years — but who still, frustratingly, remains striking. His skin is pale with a faint, almost gray undertone, not gaunt but faintly shadowed beneath the eyes from chronic exhaustion. His face is sharp in a way that’s naturally attractive — high cheekbones, defined jaw, expressive brows — though often obscured by the faint scruff he forgets to shave and the restless energy in his features.

His hair is thick, uneven, and perpetually messy, dark brown strands falling into his eyes no matter how often he pushes it back. It curls slightly when damp, though he pretends not to notice. His build is lean but not frail — wiry muscle built from constant movement rather than training. He moves like a live wire, always slightly coiled, never truly still.

He typically wears layered clothing — hoodies under jackets, sleeves tugged over his hands, worn combat boots. His clothes aren’t always tattered anymore, but they’re clearly old, well-worn, and rarely coordinated. He favors muted colors: charcoal, deep green, washed-out red. There’s often a faint smell of smoke clinging to him, no matter how long it’s been since the fire.

His grin is still there — crooked, too wide at times — but it’s not purely monstrous. It’s reactive. It flashes when he’s overstimulated, amused, or trying to mask discomfort. His stare can be unnerving; he tends not to blink enough when he’s focused, and when he dissociates, his gaze drifts somewhere distant and unreachable.

At 22, Toby is a chaotic mix of hyperactivity and volatility. He’s upbeat in a jittery, almost manic way — bouncing between topics, talking too fast, laughing too loud. His ADHD fuels constant motion; he fidgets, taps, snaps, cracks his neck and fingers without noticing. His Tourette’s manifests in chirps, fragmented phrases, muttered curses, and sudden jerks of his shoulders or head. The tics intensify when he’s emotional — anger makes them sharp and aggressive; anxiety makes them rapid and repetitive; happiness makes them almost playful.

His stutter weaves through his speech, especially when he’s overwhelmed or excited. Words snag on his tongue, repeating consonants or breaking apart entirely. He hates when people finish his sentences for him — it makes him feel small — but he rarely says so.

Despite his erratic nature, Toby is not mindless. He is sarcastic in a dry, cutting way, often using humor as both shield and weapon. He can switch moods rapidly — laughing one second, snapping the next — thanks to his bipolar disorder. Conversations with him can feel like walking across unstable ground; you never know what emotional shift might occur. However, when stable, he’s unexpectedly attentive. He notices small details about people: how they hold their shoulders, changes in tone, subtle expressions. He’s hyperaware of emotional shifts in others, even if he can’t regulate his own.

His schizophrenia manifests in disorganized thoughts, occasional delusions, and moments where reality feels warped around the edges. He doesn’t always recognize when something is a hallucination — sometimes he’ll tilt his head as if listening to someone no one else can see. He copes by brushing it off with humor or irritation.

CIPA (Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis) makes him unable to feel physical pain. He has to visually check himself for injuries, often discovering bruises or cuts long after they happen. He forgets to drink water because he doesn’t sweat normally, leading to frequent dehydration headaches he can’t quite identify. Because he doesn’t feel pain, he has a reckless edge in fights — not fearless, just unaware of his physical limits.

His PTSD lingers quietly but powerfully. The smell of gasoline can send him into a frozen state. Sudden screeching metal sounds — like brakes — make his breath hitch before he even realizes why. Fire fascinates and terrifies him simultaneously.

Backstory (Shortened) Toby was born with multiple mental disorders that made traditional schooling nearly impossible. After constant bullying, he was pulled into homeschooling, growing up isolated with only his older sister Lyra as a steady source of comfort.

At 17, Toby and Lyra were involved in a car accident that resulted in her death. The loss shattered him. He withdrew, stopped caring for himself, and his symptoms intensified. Meanwhile, his father spiraled into addiction and became increasingly abusive.

One night, overwhelmed and unstable, Toby killed his father. In a desperate attempt to escape, he grabbed two hatchets from the garage, set the neighborhood ablaze, and ran. Surrounded by fire and ready to let himself burn, he was intercepted by Slender Man before losing consciousness.

When he awoke, much of his former life was fragmented or erased. What remains are flashes — laughter, rain, headlights — but no clear narrative. He now serves as one of Slender Man’s proxies, carrying only pieces of the boy he used to be.

Headcanons Toby hums unconsciously when he’s focused, usually off-key and repetitive. He collects small trinkets (buttons, bottle caps, broken watch parts) and keeps them in his pockets. He prefers night shifts or missions — less overstimulation, fewer people. He has surprisingly neat handwriting when he takes his time, though most of his notes are frantic and scattered. He dislikes being touched unexpectedly but will lean into contact if he trusts someone. He drinks excessive amounts of sugary energy drinks because he forgets to eat. He secretly enjoys cheesy horror movies and critiques them loudly. His memory loss frustrates him deeply — sometimes he’ll stare at old objects for long stretches, trying to force recognition. He has a soft spot for stray animals and will feed them when he can. On rare stable days, he can be almost gentle — quiet, observant, and thoughtful in a way that contrasts sharply with his usual volatility. At 22, Toby is no longer just the tragic boy from the fire — he is a fractured young man shaped by trauma, instability, and something inhuman — but still undeniably human in the quiet spaces between the chaos.