Chapter Text
Day one in Trollstopia, Branch made his first impression, and it wasn’t a good one. The other tribes quickly learned to steer clear of him—his gloom, his gruffness, his unwillingness to join in the joy that came so naturally to the others. But so much had happened since then that most had put him out of mind entirely. The Pop Trolls never mentioned him, and he didn’t show up to talk about Bergens anymore, so he might as well not exist.
That suited Branch just fine. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.
But then there was Synth.
Something about the Techno Troll drew him in, though he couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was the effortless way Synth moved through the world, like he belonged in every space he entered. Maybe it was his laugh, always easy and bright, the kind of sound that could make a grey troll pause. Maybe it was just… him.
Branch wanted to talk to him. But he couldn’t. So he watched from afar, peering from behind trees, lurking on the edges of town. He told himself it was harmless. It wasn’t like Synth even knew he existed.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Because Branch had been there. He had seen the moments, the laughter, the music, the light. He had watched Synth at the river, shimmering water reflecting the glow of his vibrant colors. He had seen him dance when he thought no one was looking, had listened to his melodies floating through the air. He had been a witness to so many things. And to Branch, that meant something.
But to Synth, Branch was a stranger.
Still, when Synth’s birthday approached, Branch saw an opportunity.
“This is my chance,” he whispered to himself.
He wasn’t invited—of course, he wasn’t—but gifts were left in a big pile, and he had one. A poorly wrapped thing, something he had tried his hardest to make special. It was either too practical or too ugly, but it was his. He left it among the others and hung back, hiding in the farthest shadow he could find.
As the party buzzed around him, Synth picked up the gift.
“This one’s from… Branch?” he read aloud, tilting his head. “Who’s Branch?”
Branch’s heart clenched. He shrank deeper into the darkness.
Pop Trolls tried to jog his memory. “Oh! Remember the first day? That rude guy? That was Branch!”
Synth blinked. “Uh… nope, doesn’t ring a bell. I must’ve blocked out all those bad vibes because I remember that day being the best!”
Tears welled in Branch’s eyes. He clamped a hand over his mouth, forcing himself to stay silent. Synth had erased him so completely that he may as well have never existed.
The gift was unwrapped.
Confusion filled the air. “What is it? A lump of wood? Did he just pick something up off the ground?”
Laughter rippled through the crowd, stinging like needles in Branch’s chest. He turned and slipped away before he could hear Synth’s reaction.
Someone mentioned that Branch never gave gifts. That it showed.
But then Synth’s voice rose above the others. “No, I love it. Especially if it’s his first gift ever! That’s special.”
Branch never heard those words.
He walked alone outside, head bowed. “I’m so stupid. Why would someone like him ever want to be friends with someone like me?”
The sky was dark, the world silent. And then, for the first time in over twenty years, Branch sang.
The words ached, spilling from his soul. A song of loneliness, of regret, of wanting so badly to be part of something but never knowing how.
He didn’t realize he had an audience.
Synth had stepped out for fresh air, unsettled by the way his friends had mocked the gift. Poppy had caught him sneaking away, whispering, “I’ll cover for you. By the way, I think it’s a nice present. Not everyone gets to be someone’s first gift—that’s a huge deal in our culture.”
Then he heard the music.
Following the voice, he found Branch sitting on a log, lost in his sorrow.
“Hey,” Synth said softly. “How come you’re not at the party?”
Branch startled but didn’t look up. “I wasn’t invited.”
Synth gasped. “I’m SO sorry! I thought I invited EVERYONE—I have no clue how I forgot you—did you just move here from Volcano Rock City?”
Branch finally met his eyes. “No. I’ve lived here my whole life. You probably just blocked me out because of my bad vibe.”
Recognition dawned on Synth’s face. “YOU’RE BRANCH! I wanted to thank you for the gift—”
Branch cut him off. “You don’t have to lie. I know trolls like to do that to spare feelings, but I prefer honesty. It’s ugly. You don’t have to pretend to want it. Just… throw it away or something.” He got up, mumbling, “This was so stupid. Why did I think this would work?”
Synth reached for him. “Wait—”
Branch pulled away. “No. I don’t do parties. I don’t do friends. Now leave me alone.” He fled before Synth could stop him.
The party went on, but Synth was quieter, his usual energy dimmed. People noticed. He insisted he was fine.
The next day, things changed.
Synth began to see something—just at the edge of his vision. A shadow, a flicker of grey. He paid attention. And then he realized: Branch had always been there, always watching, always lingering just outside the light.
One afternoon, alone in the forest, he caught sight of grey again.
He forced himself to keep his eyes forward. “You can come hang out, you know,” he said casually. “I know you want to. You don’t have to keep hiding, especially when it’s just us. I want us to be friends.”
Silence.
Then, a quiet voice. “No, you don’t. Not if you knew me.”
Synth exhaled. “At least let me decide that on my own. If you’d give me a chance, I could give you one too.”
No answer.
Then footsteps retreating.
Desperate, Synth reached out, grabbing Branch’s hand.
For a moment, Branch lingered. Just long enough for hope to bloom.
Then he pulled away.