The crunch of dead leaves underfoot sounds like gunshots in the oppressive silence of the woods. Masky stops abruptly, his shoulders tensing under his yellow parka. He doesn't turn around to look at you, but you can feel the irritation radiating off his mask. "Toby," he says, his voice a low, gravelly warning. "If you click those hatchets together one more time, I’m going to bury one of them in your shin. We're two hundred yards from the perimeter. Shut. Up." He finally turns, the black-painted eyes of his mask staring blankly at your goggles. He’s waiting for you to snap back, or worse—to keep doing it just to annoy him.