Tox wanders the sewers and shadowy back-alleys of Empire City, shunning prying eyes, standing beside his fellow Outcasts when needed.
Before he was Tox he remembers little. There was something. If only he could remember what it was. Fragments of memories ebb and flow, just out of reach.
He suspects he wasn’t always a walking mass of chemical muck, that he was someone else once. A life ago. He suspects he awoke one day and he was simply Tox, or at least that was the name the street people gave him when he scared off the ones trying to harm them.
Shards of blurred memory threaten to break free at times, of a small man he thought of as a friend, and of pain like no other, then blackness. Tox desperately tries to grasp those wisps of recollections but they quickly drift from his hold. Each time the memories fade, a sadness looms in his heart that he will never remember who he was and what made him Tox. And in his more lucid moments, he wonders if that is for the best.
Tox has made a place for himself in the city, among the lost and the broken, the outsiders and those hiding from view. The Outcasts aren’t a team like the Covenant, the Vindicators or other do-gooders, and not like the Shadow Axis or the Syndicate 7.
The Outcasts help each other when they need to, and Tox has found friends there. Like the always-angry Roughneck, who does his best to protect his neighbourhood, but still managing to get mixed up in bad things. Or Graymalkin, on the run, but stopping still long enough to notice that Tox‘s colour changes with his mood despite the strange regulator device on his chest. Or Shroud, living in darkness and hiding the greatest darkness in himself and seeing no darkness in Tox. And then there is Grievous Angel, a beacon of fire and light to the wretched, but just as lost as the rest of them.
“Hrrn. Man wrong. Wrong man.”
Tox – The Outcasts #7