Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John Dory had lived alone -with the exception of Rhonda- for the past ten years. And during that time he had done a lot of reflecting. Over everything. Why he ended up like this, what went wrong, everything. There was only one true conclusion he could come to. It left him reeling, his heart torn open from the pain.

It was his fault.

Back when Mom and Dad were eaten, he had been saddled with a responsibility no teenager should have: raising his brothers.

Too young.

Too stupid.

Too foolish to understand how his words, and more importantly how his actions impacted others.

And it was because of what he did, what he said and did not say that he ended up without them.

His brothers.

Spruce.

Clay.

Floyd.

And little baby Branch.

Where were they now? Were they happy? He hoped that him leaving had finally allowed them to all be happy. And yet the more he thought about it the more he worried about each of his little brothers.

“Rhonda . . . do you think they miss me?” He found himself asking. It was nighttime, the fire was crackling in front of him. The Neverglade trail was peaceful on a night like this, where it was so chilly out. Many of the more fearsome animals hibernated this time of year. And it was his luck Rhonda was not one of those creatures, despite being an armadillo.

“Hmmmmrrrrrrmmm . . .” Rhonda’s low rumble filled the entire indoor space. John Dory felt it vibrate throughout his skin. Back when they had first met, going inside Rhonda had been a bit scary. Growing up in a society where you were terrified of giant creatures called Bergens snatching you and/or your loved ones out of the Troll Tree you called home and eating you. That did things to trolls, forcing them to live in constant fear.

It was a fear he thought would never fully fade.

And it had not.

Not when it concerned Bergens at least

But now it felt like second nature, climbing inside Rhonda. Because she was no Bergen. He knew she could be trusted.

“You think so?” He queried.

Rhonda rumbled again, the low sound lasting longer this time. A small panting sound escaped her next, the sensation of her tail swaying happily behind her swiftly followed.

“Okay, okay. I get it.” John Dory chuckled.

Rhonda continued rumbling as she came to a slow stop. John Dory peeked out of the front window. A wide landscape of soft green grass sprawled before them. With it being the colder months, it was a smart choice to be out here, where the weather was less abysmal. If they had stayed in the Neverglade Trail right about now Rhonda would be leg deep in snow.

Not exactly a fun time, for him or his girl.

“You found a good stopping point girl. Time to get some shut eye.”

John Dory patted the dashboard before making his way back to the small bed he had in way back of his living space. It was inviting enough, the soft blankets piled in a small heap from last night’s slumber. He smoothed the sheets down with his gloved hand, pulling it off and minding the little spikes on the knuckles. Back when he first started wearing it there had been another glove on his other hand. And as helpful as it was on the Neverglade Trail, he had to restrict himself to only wearing one.

Too many accidents.

And being accident prone.

It did NOT mix well.

He pulled the glove off, jagged lines revealing themselves on the skin there. Thin lines, no longer the tender pink they used to be back when it first happened. The first winter in the Neverglades was the hardest, proclaimed by many travelers for a reason. Most trolls were incapable of surviving in such a place during that time of year. Probably why his Dad warned him not to go during that time of year.

Not that they ever got to go together.

Just another one of the longstanding regrets John Dory lived with.

“Hah . . . some shut eye will do me some good too.”

He fixed the covers before slipping under the mattress. Staring at the ceiling his eyes slowly blinked. With Rhonda curling up to slumber the lights inside were dimmed. But even then, he could still see the photos on his nightstand. John Dory reached out, pulling one over to stare at.

It was a BroZone one.

He was in the center of the photo, his goggles reflecting the light of the camera flash. Spruce and Clay had their arms slung around each other off to the side. Clay’s wild yellow hair was frizzed out for once, like the middle brother enjoyed keeping it when there was no big performance coming up. Spruce’s abs were on display, and he was winking at the camera. Then there was Floyd, the second youngest leaning against himself. Floyd’s purple eyes -a trait he got from their Mom- sparkled happily. But Floyd’s happiness did not hold a candle to the last troll in the photo. Baby Branch was being held up in Floyd’s arms. The little guy was laughing, his sapphire indigo hair almost as wild as Clay’s -the two had been playing tag earlier if he recalled- and his little glasses did nothing to hide the happiness in his eyes.

It was a good day, that memory.

He pulled the frame close, hugging it.

“I wonder how they’re doing now . . .”

To which there was no real answer.

Well, for two of them.

Floyd would have stayed behind with Branch. It was for the best, because Floyd was young and Branch deserved to have one big brother stick around. Grandma would take care of them, and they would take care of Grandma. A symbiotic relationship. Out of all the brothers, they were the only two he figured would be happy to see him again.

But as for Clay and Spruce.

There was no telling what they would think.

Right before BroZone’s disbandment, things were tense. Spruce was annoyed with him, while Clay was straight up mad. It was hard to talk to them without eyes rolling or heated glares. He missed when they all got along. Back then, everyone looked up to him. He was the oldest after all. He was the role model.

Or, at least, he was supposed to be.

He had tried to be.

“But trying doesn’t amount to much, not when they hate you.” John let out a sigh.

There was no point thinking about it.

Spruce made it clear he wanted out.

Clay said he wanted to find trolls who took him seriously.

And John apparently could do neither of those things. But now, alone in Rhonda, some part of him wished things went differently. Because while being by himself gave him freedoms he previously did not have, it was awfully lonely.

And while he liked it at first.

He hated it now.

It was with this in mind that his blue eyes slipped shut, and sleep took hold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was back in their family pod again. The soft walls and warm lighting a soothing balm to his soul. The living room’s soft carpet cushioned his feet. John Dory barely had time to recognize how much younger he felt when a small voice grabbed his attention.

“Johnny! Johnny!”

He looked down, and staring up at him was a familiar face. A small little troll with big blue eyes and neatly combed hair. A little diaper was on him, as were his favorite BroZone glasses. Baby Branch was making grabby hands up at him, a bounce to his step.

“Hey there Baby Branch. You want up?”

“Yeah!”

He reached down and scooped the toddler up, the little boy giggling. John Dory found his happy energy contagious, swinging him around. Branch’s little legs wiggled, the diaper he wore crinkling softly. John Dory tossed him once, catching the little troll in one easy movement.

“How do you like that?”

“Hehehe! More! More!” Branch chirped.

“I think you’re forgetting something~” John sing songed.

“Please!” Branch stared at him with big eyes, placing his small hands on John Dory’s arms, his little lip puckered out pleadingly. There was no way any troll in their right mind could say no to his baby brother’s cute face.

Saying no would be a crime.

“Alright! You got me.” He tossed the little guy again.

“Hehehe! Yay!”

“Remember little guy, I won’t be able to do this forever. You’ll get too big eventually. Just ask Floyd. Or Clay. Or Spruce.”

At the mention of their other brothers, the happiness disappeared from Branch’s eyes. The little troll stopped laughing, the bubbly sound which was filling the air disappearing as quick as it had come. John Dory stopped tossing the little troll. The mood in the air shifted. He tensed up, Branch’s light weight seeming heavier in the moment, or maybe it was just because of how serious Branch looked in the moment.

Or how he said his name.

“John Dory.”

John took in a surprised inhale. When was the last time Branch had used his full name? It was almost always John, Dory, or Johnny, with the use of his full name nonexistent. A part of that was because when Branch was little, long names were too hard for the tiny troll to pronounce. And when he got old enough to talk properly, it was already a long held habit.

“Huh? Something wrong little bro?”

Branch stared at him with an intensity rare for someone his age to have.

“Why did you leave me?”

“I-“

Tears began to well in Branch’s blue eyes. His little hands gripped John’s arms, tiny but intense in their hold. Branch was sniffling, his form beginning to shake.

“I miss you. Why did you leave me?”

“Branch I-“ he could form no response, the words leaving him.

Because what was there to say.

He HAD left Branch.

He HAD left them all.

“I’m so lonely. I want my big brothers. Please come back.”

Branch began to sob, little hiccups escaping him. The tears rolled down Branch’s cheeks. They were swift filled with misery. Branch’s lips trembled, little sobs escaping him.

“You left me! All of you left me!”

“Branch, I-I’m so sorry.” He apologized.

Branch continued crying, his little body shaking as he tried and failed to comfort him. “N-no you’re not. You’re not so-sorry.”

John Dory reeled back a bit at that, flinching at the sheer despair to Branch’s tone. He tried rocking the little guy, but Branch refused to stop crying. If anything, attempts to comfort him were only making it worse.

“Come on little guy. It’s okay. Please stop crying. You shouldn’t cry.” He pet Branch’s head, carding his fingers through Branch’s blue hair.

“Hic- You left meeeeeeee. Whyyyyy?” Branch’s face was scrunched up, more tears streaming from his eyes that were becoming increasingly puffy.

“I-I didn’t want to leave you.” John Dory began, and then winced, because was that entirely true?

The last few months leading up to the breakup, so much of him was tired. So much of him had enough of everything. The stress was weighing him down. Raising four little brothers, leading a band, keeping them all together . . . it was too much for one teenager to handle.

But how could he expect a toddler to understand?

Branch seemed to sense his dishonesty, his little face crumpling as he sobbed harder. “You’re lying!”

“I-I’m not-“

“YES YOU ARE!” Branch cried.

John Dory pulled Branch in again, holding the trolling close. Branch would not stop shaking. The little guy trembled like a leaf in the wind. The hair petting was doing nothing, when normally it was the perfect solution. Branch was a very happy baby. Even when he was scared or upset, it usually was not too hard for him to be calmed down. Branch was easy to make happy.

All of them were when they were little, if what Mom said was right.

“I- you’re right. I did want to leave.” He admitted reluctantly. Lying to Branch felt wrong. And it was clear Branch was well aware he was doing it. “But it was never because of you Branch.”

Branch never did anything wrong.

None of them had.

It was all his fault.

Not theirs.

“You didn’t even say goodbye . . .” Branch sniffled. His cries had quieted, but the sadness remained.

“Branch . . .”

“Please come back. I don’t wanna be alone anymore.”

Branch stared at him with the same pleading look. But this one was not the same as the happy one from before. This was coming from a trolling that was filled with despair, from a child so lonely and sad his heart was breaking.

How could he say no to that face?

“Okay. I will.” John Dory told him.

“You promise?” Branch asked.

“Yes, I do.”

Chapter Text

Yellow hair stuck out in all directions, wild and free. He crept forward, his feet making small steps towards the door. Voices drifted from beyond the pod. A warm feminine voice -Mom- and then another, younger voice belonging to an all too familiar older brother. He clutched the small mold in his hand. It was essential he keep his balance, essential he was ready to strike at any moment.

“Hehe! I’m gonna get him good!”

Cher —CLICK.

The door swung open, hitting the wall. And with the opening of the door stepped in a young troll with teal hair stepped in. The goggles he wore sat on top of his head. They clashed a bit with the leaf vest the boy always wore, but he never cared. And it was hard to blame him. A gift from Dad was always a treasured item. Not to mention how cool both made him look. But too bad for him, neither the goggles nor the vest would protect him from what was coming his way.

“I’m home little bros ack-“

The boy staggered back as he was hit square in the face with a whip creme pie. Whip creme smeared all over his face. It did not get on his pants or hands or vest, a good thing too.

“Hahaha got you!” He stepped out, triumphantly making his appearance. The little wristbands he wore went up and down with each waving gesture, but he was determined to keep them on. Just like goggles and vest were John Dory’s.

“Guh! Bluh! What was that?” John Dory looked around for a few seconds. A layer of whip creme covered his face, but that did nothing to obscure his blue eyes which showed just how surprised he was.

“It was me Johnny. I got you good!” He cheered, throwing his arms up. The little wristbands he wore were still too big on him, so they slid down to his elbows. The little yellow haired troll approached his big brother with enthusiasm. It was always a good day when he managed to prank his oldest brother.

“Oh. That you Clay?”

“Yep! Here. Got you a towel.” He scooped up the little towel he brought with him, passing it off to the teal haired troll.

“Ah, thanks little bro.” John Dory accepted the towel, his eyes half shut, keeping the creme out of his sensitive eyes. He scrubbed at his face until the creme was gone, the towel collecting all the sticky creme. When it was gone John Dory’s blue eyes opened again, staring down at him with slight amusement. “You did get me. Don’t know how.”

“I hid! That’s how!” Clay gleefully explained.

John Dory chuckled, scooping up the little trolling. “You’re so funny Clay. Good job.”

“Hehe! Thank you big bro!” Clay beamed. He made little grabby hands, wanting to be closer. With Johnny at school all day that meant they got less time to spend together.

So he had to make up for it everyday when Johnny came home.

He got his Sprucie time in during the day, and his Johnny time in the afternoon. Though he would have to plan things out again when Sprucie went to school next year. But that was for future Clay to deal with.

John Dory walked further into the living room, his steps slightly staggered from carrying Clay around. “So what else you been up to besides planning pranks?”

Clay’s dangling legs wiggled around in the air. “Sprucie and I played lots of tag! And then I fixed the chair.”

“The chair? You mean the one with the broken leg?” John Dory asked.

The two brothers both knew that chair very well.

It was the one that Spruce broke on accident when he jumped on it last week.

They might have ALL gotten in trouble for breaking it. But who was to tell little trolls not to have a pillow fight in the dining room. Ridiculous.

“Yep! Dad got me some wood and showed me how to do it! Said someone else has to be handy when he goes to work!” Clay told John Dory.

Work lasted even longer than school. And with Dad being so busy, and Mom also often at work, that left Grandma to watch them. And Grandma was NOT going to fix it. Her bones were too old for it or something along those lines.

“That’s really cool little bro! You’re so smart too. Just like Dad.” John Dory praised, setting Clay on the couch when they got over to it. The older boy scrambled onto it a few seconds later, the two brothers sitting together.

“Mhmmm! Imma be just like him when I get older!” Clay replied.

John Dory grinned. “No, you’ll be just like you. And that’s just as good.” He pat Clay on the head.

“Okay! Then I’ll be the greatest me there is!”

“Yes. You will.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clay opened his eyes, blinking out the blurriness of sleep. Faint light trickled in through the slatted window. He groaned. Cramping pain pricked at his shoulder blades and down his spine. The small space which made up his room was brought into view. The bed he laid on barely fit inside.

“Hah . . . another dream.”

Sighing, he got up, pressing his hands to his face. After ten years without seeing his doofus of a big brother, Clay thought these dreams would stop happening. But no, life probably just liked messing around with him. There was no stopping them though, so he resigned to getting up for the day instead of worrying about it.

He swiftly changed out his bed clothes and into his golf jumpsuit, sliding on his wristbands. They fit snuggly on his wrists, so different from the dream. Clay pressed down the memory of it. Those dreams, as real as they were, happened but not now. In the past.

A long time ago.

“Mr. Clay! Your up!” Viva cheerfully greeted as he walked out into the main square. The lights were left off, the natural dawn light keeping everything lit with a pinkish yellow glow. He closed his eyes, basking in the warmth before opening them again.

“Hey Veevs. You know you don’t have to call me mister right?” He responded.

“I know! But it’s too fun not to.” She replied.

“Uh huh.” It was nicer to hear her call him Clay. But he would take what he could get. Working with her for almost ten years now had proven to him more and more why staying with her was the right choice.

If he had not went with her on that day, there was no telling what would have happened, to him and to her.

“So, what’s the agenda for today?” Viva asked him, swaying in place. Her golden blonde hair was as curly as ever it bounced with each step she made. She reached out and pulled him into a hug, her warm frame pressing against him in an expression of affection which had his heart ticking up its pace.

Clay tugged on his wristbands a little, looking out over the Putt Putt Golf Course. While the area had clear signs of aging and even decay to some of the buildings, it had been their sanctuary, their home of ten years now. The celebration last week had been a reminder of just how far they had all come since their days trapped inside the Troll Tree by the dreaded Bergens. The thought of that place, and her kindness had him hugging back, taking reassurance from her hold.

“Hmm. Well, we need to announce the new watch schedule, and then shore up the defense systems. Gotta make sure everything is running perfectly before I-“

“Before you go?” Viva cut in, her brows furrowed with worry. She had stepped back, her gaze sweeping over him.

Clay looked at her, really looked at her. He knew Viva well enough to read all the minute changes in her expression, all of the feelings she felt but tried to hide.

And right now, the one she was hiding most was fear.

“Yes. Before I go.” He agreed, keeping his tone serious.

Because that’s what he was.

A serious troll.

Fun boy Clay died back at the Troll Tree.

Like a lot of other trolls he chose not to think about.

But not THEM; they were still alive.

“Okay. Then let’s get to work then.” Viva murmured, the warmth from her tone fading a little.

Clay did his best to ignore how the lack of warmth in her tone made him feel. He knew she did not like this whole plan he had come up with, but it had to be done.

Because how could he live with himself if he did not?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took no time to announce the new watch schedule. All the trolls that took up that duty had been waiting for them at the watchtower when the duo rolled up to it. Clay was relieved that this part of the job went off without a hitch. Should something dangerous approach the golf course, there would always be some troll guaranteed to see it.

Which left checking over the defense systems.

Checking over all the traps, escape routes, hiding holes, weapons, and everything in between would understandably take a lot more time. And while he had designed MOST of them, therefore he knew where they were, it still took time to check off all the boxes.

“How many weapon stores was that just now?” Clay asked Viva as they walked out of the damaged golf ball, its opening carved out to place spears and stakes.

“Twelve I believe.” Viva scanned the scroll she carried around with her, ticking off another weapons store on the map. “That makes fifteen more to go.”

Clay looked up at the sun. It was well overhead now, and he felt relieved they were making good pace. All of this needed to be done before night settled in. By then, some of the trolls would be on night patrol duty while others turned on the golf lights for fun games, dancing and singing. It would be hard to finish the list when that was happening. So it had to be done before.

Before he packed up.

And then he left.

Clay swallowed back the unease rising up in him. Just because he had decided to leave did not make the reality of it any easier. This would be a dangerous journey. There was no telling what he would find, or if he would make it back.

“Good. We just need to get to those and then we’re all done right?” He asked her.

Viva scanned the map before nodding. “Yup. All thirty eight exits have been checked, and all one hundred twelve traps are secure. The weapon stores are the last thing to check.”

“No.”

Her tone was far too clipped for his liking, but he brushed off the desire to confront her. The past few times he had always ended in arguments. And contrary to whatever popular belief some might have of him Clay was not a fan of arguing.

Especially not with Viva.

The troll he felt so much for.

“Okay, then let’s get to it then.”

Clay led the way, rolling up into a ball and zooming forward. Viva quickly followed, her energy making him move faster. After ten years here they could navigate this place with their eyes closed. And soon enough they had finished with their check over.

Which led to it finally being time for him to pack up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clay walked back into his small Administrator office, navigating around his bed to the dresser he had set up. There were several small stacks of clothes inside. Clay put in a few changes of clothes, folding them neatly into the satchel. A spare set of wristbands went in too, along with a multitool. The one he had in his hair would be reserved for main use, but if he ever lost it, Clay figured it would be good to have a spare. Next came a few small bags of food, and two canteens of water, another resource he would need for the journey. It had been sometime since the escape from the Troll Tree, but he recalled there was a river on the way there. He planned to restock his water when he hit that place, but before then he would have to rely on the water from these and any clean puddle he found.

“Hmm, what next?”

Clay’s hands roved over to the leaf wrap stashed in the bottom drawer. The string which kept it bound up had seen better days, but it would do. He grabbed another small rope, planning to tied it to the satchel when he was done packing. It would make the perfect sleeping bag for the journey. After that he went on to the nonessentials. Like two of his favorite sad books, and a photo of his family.

That was a bit harder for him to decide on.

“Which one should I take . . . ?”

Clay set the photo album down, sifting through the pages. While he had refused to look through it for the longest time, the sense of nostalgia he had examining it now was hard to ignore.

“Mom . . .”

He gently touched a photo of her. Bellerose with her magenta hair and eyes so similar to Floyd’s. He was the most like her, both in personality and demeanor. How much closer to it would Floyd be now? What would Mom think of any of them now, if she was still alive.

“Dad . . .”

His fingers brushed over his photo too. It had been way too long since either had been alive. The loss was still hard to bear. So much had changed after the indigo haired troll died. The last thing Rowan left behind for the brothers was something they promised to cherish.

A blue egg, hair sprouting out of it just like Rowan’s.

Branch.

“I’ll take photos of them, and a photo of . . .” He trailed off, landing on that photo.

One of the last ones BroZone took together before the breakup.

John Dory was striking his leader pose in it. Clay stared at it in disdain. It was a far cry from the relaxed, easygoing poses John Dory had done in the earliest days of BroZone, back when he had only been a member for a few years and Floyd was about to join. Back before any of them considered how Branch would eventually join them.

Spruce was next, his back pressed to John Dory’s and his vest pulled back revealing his abs. The very abs Clay remembered Spruce working so hard for at first. But maintaining them had been a struggle for his immediate older brother.

A struggle John Dory never truly acknowledged.

Sighing, his gaze drifted to Floyd next. His immediate younger brother, the one who mediated BroZone through so many arguments. If there was ever a troll who asked why BroZone was able to hold itself together as long as it did Clay would just show them Floyd and they would understand. The reddish pink haired “sensitive one” of BroZone was in tune to all of his brothers’ feelings.

But not even he had been capable of averting the break up. Not that Clay could blame him. Floyd was not to blame.

And Floyd, along with the tiniest figure in the photo were the reasons why he was setting out on this dangerous journey to begin with.

“Branch.” Clay’s thumb gently tapped the tiny troll’s hair in the photo. He was beaming in the photo, being held up by Clay. And what an odd sight it was, to see himself smiling with all his brothers, standing right between John Dory and Floyd like he was truly happy to be there.

“I wasn’t happy. Not really.”

How many nights did Clay say as much after the band first broke up? Back when he wondered if he made the right choice leaving his family behind. It was difficult walking away. His heart ached even more the next day with the sinking realization he did not say goodbye to anyone. Not Spruce, not Floyd, not Grandma, and not even baby Branch.

He was a terrible big brother for not saying goodbye to Branch, the baby brother who idolized all of his brothers so much. If Branch hated him now, Clay would hardly blame him. But hopefully when they met again Branch would be capable of forgiving him.

“If he’s still alive, Branch would be a teenager by now . . .”

It was a weird concept to consider. Clay decided to cross that bridge when he got to it, because surely Branch, Floyd and Grandma were all alive and waiting for him in wherever the rest of their tribe escaped to in Pop Forest.

He was still lost in his thoughts when a new, familiar presence stepped through the door.

“How goes the packing?”

Clay kept his gaze on the photos, carefully sliding them out from the special sleeves before putting them in a safe frame to tuck into his satchel. He should have grabbed one of Grandma too but he was running out of space. Two photos -one of his parents and one of him with his brothers- would have to do.

“It’s fine. Almost done.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be sure?” Clay asked as he tucked a map of Pop Forest into the satchel too. There was no telling when he might need it to help navigate. And with this in mind, he decided a compass would be good to grab too.

Viva stepped closer, her feet shifting. “I dunno. Maybe because this is like, a SUPER not amastic journey, and there’s like no way you can fully be prepared for it.”

Clay turned so he could face her and keep packing at the same time. Like all the previous times they had talked about him leaving, there was no mistaking the anxiety the princess carried. Her hands were jittery, like she needed to do something with them but had nothing on hand.

“I think I can be. Just got to pack a little more and I can be on my way.”

“But Clay-“

“I have to go Viva.” Clay murmured, continuing to pack his satchel.

“But Clay, what if no one’s out there. What if you don’t find any of them?” Viva asked, her eyes round with worry.

Clay thought about it, how he would feel. If he got back to the Troll Tree and found that there was no sign of survival, then what would he do? How would he go on finding out that Branch, Floyd and Grandma were gone? It was unfathomable.

He refused to let the possibility fester.

His family survived.

They just had to have.

And he was going to find them, no matter what.

“I will. Find them I mean.” Clay answered firmly.

“But Clay. It’s not safe.” Viva protested.

“Can you honestly say here is much better?” Clay asked nonchalantly.

“Clay you can’t just say things like that.” Viva murmured.

Clay gave her a firm stare. “I’m only repeating what you said at last year’s safety meaning. Regardless of where we are in Pop Forest, we aren’t truly safe as long as there are still Bergens lurking out there somewhere.”

“I only said that because some of the routine patrols were missing patrols.” Viva stared at him, her gaze pleading. “You know that, I TOLD you that.”

“And I also know that you ALSO said it because even with the safety patrols the Bergens could still find us someday. Sure, we made this place our home, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s an abandoned golf course. An abandoned BERGEN golf course,” Clay said pointedly.

Viva sighed, her ears drooping. “You’re right. I just, I don’t want you to go Clay. I don’t know what I’ll do without you. You’re my coleader Clay. I need you.”

At that, something inside him softened. The relationship they had was complex, not easily explained by labels or titles, as much as Viva loved giving everyone in the golf course one. She was the one who led them out of the danger so long ago, the one who he worked with to build this place.

She was the one who treated him seriously.

Viva was the one he cared for most in this world.

Clay’s appreciation for her could never fully be expressed. And he hoped she understood that. Because his way with words was nothing like Spruce’s charm, Floyd’s thoughtfulness, John Dory’s simplistic summaries, or Branch’s boldness. They were filled with nerves, rambling monologues, fun jokes and sometimes math.

“And I need you. I-I’ll always need you. But I also have to do this. For my sake, and for yours.” Clay explained gently.

Viva nodded, her eyes gleaming with emotion. “You really think they’re still out there?”

Clay said nothing for a moment, fixing his satchel so it would stay shut. During the process he took the few seconds to harden his resolve.

“I do. It’s just a matter of finding them.”

Chapter Text

Rhonda pulled up to a stop, a small trill leaving her as the door opened. John Dory ran a hand down her side -a small appreciative pat- before stepping down. The steps creaked with every movement, making him wince. They were at the same divot he had hid in the first night he had left the Troll Tree. It may as well have been a lifetime ago with all that had happened since then.

Yet this place seemed to be a spot frozen in time. The earth was a dug out as he remembered, fronds of grass smoothed down. A few pebbles with their rounded surfaces lay out at the top of the dip, an overhang of thick weeds springing up to shield outside eyes from looking in. This was the perfect spot for hiding. And the perfect spot to keep her safe in.

“Today’s the day Rhonda,” he said.

Rhonda let out a little rumble, her tongue lolling out. He stepped back just in time to avoid a slobbery, glittery kiss. To this day he still did not know if the gesture was pure affection or a mix of marking.

“Yeah, love you too girl. As much as I wish I could take you in it’s not safe. So you’ll have to stay here.”

“Rrrrrrrrr . . .” Rhonda tilted her head. It was adorable, just like everything Rhonda did, besides eating dirt and attacking predators as well as prey.

None of that was pretty.

And always resulted in cleanup of some kind.

“Yes. You have to stay put.” John Dory affirmed.

“Rrrrrrrrruuuuu?” Rhonda’s tail swished before her, her expression getting closer to a frown.

“Yes, and there’s no debating it.”

“Rrruru ru.” Rhonda hummed, clearly not happy with this decision, her paws stamping in the dirt.

“I know you want to come. But like I said it’s not safe. Remember those Bergens I told you about, they all live in BergenTown, and they love eating things smaller than them. ESPECIALLY trolls.”

Rhonda started growling at the mention of eating. But unlike normally when the growls were from excitement, these were not friendly by any means. These were angry, aggressive growls, low in the armadillo bus’s throat.

“Grrrrrrr . . .”

“And they are NOT to be played around with. You’re tough as they come girl, but I’m not sure even you’d stand much of a chance against them. So stay here and I’ll be right back.” John Dory promised, hoping he was not telling a lie.

Getting out ten years ago in the midst of midnight was one thing.

Going back in during the daylight was another.

And if he got this wrong . . .

No.

He refused to think that way.

They needed him; Branch needed him.

He had a lot to make up for, so he would start now.

“Mmmmmrrrp.” Rhonda nudged at him, her round eyes filled with worry. John Dory stumbled back a bit from the slight nudge. He regained his balance and patted her gently, giving Rhonda a gentle squeeze.

“It’s gonna be okay girl. Just wait here for me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John Dory crept up to the outskirts of BergenTown, his footsteps as silent as he could make them. Fog swathed the ground, white and fluffy like wispy clouds. The grass was drying here. The crinkling of dead fronds was the only sound in his raised ears as he continued his approach.

“The entrance should be right around here . . .”

He remembered how he left the tree all too well. There was a tunnel at the top of the Troll Tree’s branches, hidden beneath the stage BroZone performed at. To his knowledge King Peppy had been having many trolls working on them, planning for a day when they would someday all escape. Grandma Rosiepuff had been in on it, as had his parents, the only reason why he knew of it to begin with.

But back then, most the tunnels were unfinished.

“Woah . . .”

It seemed like things had changed now.

Standing before him was not just ONE tunnel, but what looked to be endless tunnels. It was hard to tell with the weak light of the early dawn -a must have time to be here, considering that he needed to see without some sort of extraneous light that would attract Bergens’ attention- all of the openings dotting the cliff.

“So many . . . did the Escape happen already?” He pondered aloud.

It was something trolls had talked about in whispers, always careful to keep quiet, lest the Bergens somehow find out. But with so many tunnels surely the trolls were either doing one or two things: escaping or planning to escape soon.

“If it did, then none of them should be here anymore. They should be safe somewhere else.”

At least, he hoped as much.

“Well HELLO there . . .”

“Ah!” He about jumped out of his skin at the new, unfamiliar voice. John Dory looked around, whipping out his glitter star weapons. His chest rose and fell. This close to BergenTown, there were plenty of reasons to be afraid. Especially with Rhonda hidden some distance away. His blue eyes roved around the landscape, trying a failing to pick out where the voice was coming from. The fog was still present, coating the ground ominously.

“My, my, what a jumpy fellow you are.” The voice continued, seemingly unbothered by his reaction.

“Show yourself!” He called out, trying his best to keep his voice even.

“Haha and why should I?” The voice asked, amusement drifting from the owner.

John Dory stiffened, his earlier panic turning to anger. Whoever the voice belonged to, it clearly was NOT a Bergen. If it had been, the fog would not be able to hide them. This voice clearly belonged to someone more troll sized. And if that was the case there was nothing to be afraid of.

So John Dory straightened, swapping his ninja stars out for a machete. A red stain was dried at the tip, no amount of cleaning able to make it fully go away.

“Don’t make me hurt you.” He warned.

Because he would.

The NeverGlade Trail had taught him the danger of leaving the unknown free to do whatever it wanted. There were times when doing so had almost cost him everything. John Dory was not about to make the same mistakes here.

There was a pause.

An inhale of breath.

And then . . .

“Well sheesh. You’re no fun.” The voice said.

John Dory’s grip tightened on the machete as he heard footsteps approaching. His stance lowered, ready to strike if whatever was about to make itself known appeared threatening. Out of the fog came a fluffier, more condensed white form.

A cloud with purple legs.

That was strangely wearing socks with no shoes.

And was blinking at him with what could only be a bored expression.

John Dory did not lower his weapon. “Who are you?”

“The names Cloud Guy. And if I judge by appearance I’d guess you’re Square Head Joe.” Cloud Guy introduced himself with a wave of his hand, still offering a lazy smile.

John Dory glared back. “Hey! My head’s not that square. And that’s NOT my name. My name’s John Dory. What exactly are you? And why are you so close to BergenTown?”

Cloud Guy stated at him. “Wow. Clearly you’re not one for pleasantries Square Head.”

Maybe it was the lack of interaction with those who could talk -excluding the trolls he met sparsely throughout his travels- but his patience was already starting to run thin. He was here for an important reason. This Cloud Whatever either needed to cooperate and be of use or get out of the way.

So he did the most reasonable thing and stepped forward, resting the tip of his machete blade on the cloud’s chest? Fluff? Well, whatever it was, John Dory put the blade there and made sure his voice carried the same rumbling edge he used when he needed to appear dangerous on the trail.

“Answer my questions or get out of my way. I’m done being nice,” John Dory said.

“Ah! Gosh, you’re really not up for anything are you. All business Square Head-“

“John. Dory.” He pressed the machete pointedly at the cloud.

“Yes! Yes! S-sorry. You’re kinda scary Squa- John Dory. To answer your questions, I’m a cloud, like the name implies. And I’m close to BergenTown because I live here.” Cloud Guy explained.

Not sensing the dumb cloud to be a threat, John Dory stepped back, stashing his machete back into its sheath before retreating it to the hidden space in his dark teal hair. There had been a time when the strands had been a bright teal, warm and inviting. But years on the trail and age itself had took a toll.

All male trolls went through it eventually.

The shifting hue.

Females could too, but rarely was it to the same extent commonly seen in males. It made him wonder had any of his brothers experienced drastic changes to their colors. Not that his was overly drastic by any means, but a change was still a change. The only one he could be certain of changing had been so angry with him when he last spoke to him. And then there was his littlest brother, who he could not imagine changing at all, despite it being ten years. Because Branch was a teenager now.

But thinking about Branch no longer being the same baby troll he left behind caused an awful ache inside him, so he pushed the thought down.

Best to focus on Cloud Guy, even if he was annoying.

“You live here? Where? And why?” His blue gaze swept the scenery. The fog was beginning to thin, yet his gaze spotted no pods, houses, caves or anything of the like for the cloud to live in.

“Silly Troll, I don’t live on the ground. I live in the air.” Cloud Guy explained.

John Dory just stared at him, unimpressed. “Okay. You still didn’t answer my other question though.”

“Okay? I thought you’d find it more cool.”

“I really couldn’t care less,” John Dory admitted. “I’m here-“

“To look for trolls? You’re not the only one,” Cloud Guy said. “And for the record, I live here because I have a job to fulfill.”

At this point, knowing the cloud had some job here hardly registered. Instead, he zeroed in on Cloud Guy’s other words.

“Another troll is here to look for trolls? Don’t you mean come back to the Troll Tree? It’s where all the Pop Trolls live. Well, almost all the Pop Trolls.” He tugged at the hem of his vest, smoothing the leather a bit. “Hence myself.”

“Well aren’t you special Square Head. NOT.” Cloud Guy strutted past him, walking right over to the several holes dotting the cliffside. “You must’ve been living under a rock to not know what happened.”

“What . . . happened . . . ?” Those words were a bit odd. A wave of concern washed over him. “What happened here?”

Cloud Guy tapped on the rim of a tunnel, his gaze sharper than it had been moments before. His eyes met John Dory’s blue ones. “The Great Escape.”

John Dory froze.

“The what?”

“The Great Escape. That’s what the writers will call it, and the trolls too. See, almost ten years ago, the trolls had enough of being eaten by the Bergens, and the Bergens were planning to serve the Princess as the first troll at the last Trollstice-“

“Princess Viva. They were going to serve her?” John Dory could hardly bear to think about it. He did not know the princess personally, but he knew how close she was to one of his brothers. If she was gone, his brother would be heartbroken.

“No, not Viva. Poppy.”

And then his stomach twisted for a different reason.

“T-they were going to eat a baby.”

Princess Poppy had only just been close to one year old back when he had left. And if the Great Escape happened shortly afterwards, then Poppy was still a baby, completely incapable of defending herself.

It would be like if a Bergen had went after Branch.

His brother.

His baby who he had watched over, incubated in his hair, practically raised. Because with his parents gone there was no one else to step up to the plate.

The same little troll he left that night.

Without saying goodbye.

Some mistakes he would never forgive himself for.

“Yes. Because she was the happiest troll in the whole tree. One entirely unaware of the suffering of her people.” Cloud Guy explained.

“T-that’s awful. D-did the King manage to save her?”

If not, everyone would have been so upset. Especially Viva. And if Viva was upset, so was Clay.

Clay, who he also left behind.

Cloud Guy nodded. “Yup. Watched the whole thing happen. The Trolls tricked the Bergens and made their escape. But not all of it went to plan.”

The conclusions he drew from that statement were far from pleasant. “Let me guess, some trolls died during the escape?”

“Yeah. And others were separated.”

“Separated? What does that mean?” John Dory asked.

“Let’s just say . . . two groups made it out and went their separate ways.” Cloud Guy had a smirk now, a knowing look he decidedly did not like.

“Did they, did they find each other?” He asked.

“Hah. That’s for me to know, and for you to find out. Now off you go, take the main tunnel right here.” Cloud Guy tapped the rim of the tunnel he stood beside. “And be on your way. Someone you’ve missed is waiting for you on the other side. I’ll let you be in charge of relaying what I told you. He was a little too fast for me to catch before he snuck inside, and a lot less friendly. Ugh, seems to be a theme with your family.” And with that, Cloud Guy began to walk away, dipping into another of the tunnels that dotted the dirt hillside.

“Wait! What do you mean?”

But as John Dory looked inside the tunnel Cloud Guy disappeared into, he found the cloud was already gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Walking through the pitch black tunnel had his stomach twisting in knots. The walls, while well-carved, still reminded him too much of that time, that place where he thought he would never see the light of day again. But unlike then, at least this tunnel was not containing the same frigid cold of the trail during the winter months. It had been almost unbearable. A time he never thought it would be possible to be warm again.

“Can’t believe we really escaped.” He whispered, his voice sounding so loud in the empty space. “Grandma always talked about it, so did Mom and Dad. But to know it actually happened . . .”

The Trolls wanted to be happy.

Wanted to be free.

And DID NOT want to be eaten.

For as long as anyone could remember back then, being trapped in the Troll Tree, surrounded by the metal cage the Bergens built, was their reality. There were only stories of another time, before being trapped. They depicted a perfect society where everyone was safe, happy, loved, and able to sing whenever they wanted. Those stories were ones parents told their children. To make them smile. To give them hope.

His parents told them enough times.

And when the time came, John Dory made sure to tell them to Branch.

He stared at his hands as a weak light began to filter into the tunnel. They were blue, just like all of his brothers, even with the dirt coating his fingertips. John Dory did his best to feel relieved he was reaching the end, instead of allowing the apprehension of what he was about to see take hold in his mind.

“It’s amazing. But it had to be pretty scary too. I wish I had been there.”

Grandma had no doubt carried a burden which should have been his that day. Taking care of Clay, Floyd, Branch, and possibly Spruce if the second oldest returned: it was his responsibility.

Grandma told him so.

So did Mom.

And Dad.

Even if he failed to remember much about when Spruce was born, he could not forget the others. How when they were born, it became his responsibility to love and protect them as their big brother.

He let them down enough as it was.

And he hoped with time they were capable of forgiving him.

“If I had been there, I would have made them feel safer.” He swore to himself. “But there’s no changing the past, just going forward.”

And go forward he did. The tunnel with its dirt walls began to expand, transferring over to wood. John Dory ran a hand along the mostly smooth surface. Small bits of wood stuck out in tiny clumps. He was in the trunk of the tree now. Taking a breath to steel himself, John Dory began the last leg of the trek to the top of the Troll Tree. The light was taking up more space, encompassing his vision. He grabbed what hand holds he could, hauling himself up the rest of the way.

“Hah!” John Dory let out a grunt, flopping onto the junction of branches at the top of the tree. His chest rose and fell with each recovering breath. When enough of his energy returned he sat up, taking in his surroundings. He was expecting to see the beautiful pods of several troll families -bright and lively even after being abandoned- and the lush, leafy branches of the tree.

“Here at last . . . huh?”

But what he was met with was nothing short of the ruins of the very home he sought to return to.

A home that clearly could no longer be considered one anymore.

Chapter Text

Darkness still coated the sky when Clay arrived at BergenTown. The lime haired troll crouched down in the brush, ignoring the dew on the grassy fronds dampening his sweater romper. The town seemed just as imposing as it was the day of the escape, a looming evil that left his stomach in knots.

“Ugh. Focus Clay, focus.” He slapped his cheeks, attempting to gain some clarity.

It helped, if only a little.

The distant crowing of a bird had him crouching lower to the ground, the flapping of wings fluttering somewhere overhead. Clay held his breath, waiting for the potential predator to pass.

The last thing he needed was to get swooped up.

Viva would never know what happened to him if he died here, and that thought was enough to help him swallow down the remaining nerves, even if tension still riddled his frame.

Rustle.

Clay ran a hand along one of the soft leaves, pushing it away as he began moving once again. The grass was just as dead as he remembered, the dew making it appear like it was weeping for care. His ears were raised, perked in alert. The closer he got to those murderous monsters the more uneasy he knew he would feel.

But it had to be done.

“Remember, stick to the plan.”

Yes, the plan.

The one he kept carefully store in his hair.

Viva and he worked on it together.

Thud.

Thud.

His heart kept beating, so loud and clear amidst the silence. There were more rustles coming from somewhere. They were getting louder, like the howling of the wind. Clay bit his lip, pulling out a knife. If anything approached him right now, it would not live to regret it.

“Whatever you are, don’t come near.” He warned, though his voice might as well have been a whisper compared to the blustering gust whirling around.

And then more silence stretched out, much like the path before him. It felt like forever before he reached the tunnel he, Viva and the others escaped out of. But when he did a sigh of relief escaped him. This tunnel, while it had been a dangerous place to be the day of the escape, provided shelter from the elements, and the fear of lingering out in the open so close to town.

Clay pulled out his plan paper, clicking his pen.

“Step one: Get back to BergenTown and safely into the tunnels complete.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next step, the one which would require the most precision of Clay, was sneaking inside the Troll Tree. Clay kept himself pressed close to the shrubbery as long as he could. His hair, which normally sprung out all over the place was more concentrated inside his yellow and white striped headband. Normally, he would stick to his sweater romper, but it soaked up waaay too much moisture earlier, so he swapped it out with his yellow shorts and the golf patterned socks. Viva had given him several pairs, and wearing one now helped give him courage.

Right now she would be sending out the pre-dawn patrols.

Customary routine at the golf course, like just about everything they did.

And despite trolls normally being carefree by nature, everyone knew adhering to the strict protection protocols was what kept them safe from the terrible Bergens.

“Stick to protocol. Out of sight, out of mind. Run and hide if danger arrives. Be smart and stay alive.” He repeated the mantra to himself as he progressed through the tunnel. Clay used one of the glowing fungi he had brought for the occasion to give him some light while traversing the dark space.

Sure, the tunnel was wide, but it was easy to bump into walls with no light to use as a guide.

Drip.

Drip.

Clay frowned at the noise.

Back before the Great Escape, he was certain the tunnel was made waterproof. But perhaps the years of disuse had weakened the tunnel’s infrastructure. He ran one of his blue hands along the tunnel, finding the wall slightly damp. It could have been raining here recently.

“A wet tunnel is unsafe tunnel. Infrastructure failure such as flooding may occur . . . Wait a second. Who told me that?” He frowned.

Who had told him that?

Blue.

Small.

A big smile behind an unfurled paper.

A child who -if he was still alive- had planned on building a hideout for all of them to live in together someday.

“Branch. It was Branch.”

There was a time when he was jealous of the youngest of the family. The same for Floyd. He loved both of his younger brothers dearly, but as an young boy it had been hard to distinguish that emotion from the overwhelming jealously he got from watching all of John Dory and Spruce’s attention go to them when they were little.

Looking back on it, the feeling was ridiculous.

All trolls -especially babies- needed love and care.

“I’ll see you soon buddy. Just gotta find where you, Floyd and Grandma went first. Need to be cautious though. If the tunnel is wet for any reason besides rain then it’s not safe. I might not be able to take it back out to leave again. Gives me all the more reason to see if there was another successful escape tunnel.”

Clay continued forward, his feet growing muddy the further along he went. The path rose and fell with all the dipping designs, leaving Clay to keep steady by digging his toes into the dirt, clutching the wall with one hand while the other kept hold of the fungi. Its luminescent sheen kept the pocket of space around him lit.

Something he was beyond thankful for with what came next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

HISS.

Clay froze. His blue eyes darted around.

“What was that?” He whispered.

SNRRRRRRR.

The low rumble was coming from up ahead. If his map was right -Viva insisted it was before he left- then the transition from dirt to carved out wood started here. Those noises were NOT troll noises. But they also were not Bergen sounds either.

Unless Bergens started impersonating critters.

And then he saw IT and smiled nervously.

“Well hello there. Now I know why the tunnel was damp.”

For larger beings like Bergens, what laid before him on the ceiling would not be a threat.

It would be a slimy, slippery annoyance, with some sharpness to it, but not a threat.

But Clay was no Bergen, meaning that SnarkSnails were menaces to him and the rest of troll society.

“SNARK!”

The SnarkSnail with its twelve eyes and green whiskers, was a strange amalgamation of a tube snake, slobber snail, and puff meow. Its body was a puffy pink at the top, its stomach covered in a disgusting snot green slime. Yellow spots dotted its neck, back and nose. They were meant to ward off predators, or so John had told him when he read him that adventure book back when Clay was seven. These things were the type to blind their enemy or slow them with slime before eating them. The Troll Tree rarely had a problem with them back when trolls lived here. But back then, the Bergens killed any of them that they found.

Because the Bergens did not want these slimy creatures tampering with their food source.

Clay remembered a few being at the golf course when they first arrived, but Viva, himself and a few others swiftly dealt with him.

So he knew what needed to be done now.

“Snark to meet you too, you overgrown slug.” He called back.

“SNARK! SNAAAAARRRRRK!” The SnarkSnail cried out.

Plop.

Clay winced at the SnarkSnail landing back on the ground, its slimy body wiggling in place. He could sense its eagerness without having to see it. SnarkSnails’ were prone to wiggling when they thought they had found the perfect prey. He imagined that was exactly what this thing saw him to be after so many years with no trolls around.

“Oh. You’re a hungry guy. Nice, very nice.” He smiled at it, watching the snail sliding closer. Clay slowly reached into his hair.

“SNARK. SNARK. SNARK!” The SnarkSnail responded with an agreeing crow.

“Hmm, very clever too. But not clever enough!”

“Snark?”

Clay expertly pulled out his boomerang. The blades he built into its edges flicked out with ease, and then he was tossing it. The boomerang spun forward swiftly, its arc clean and deadly with precision.

“SNARK!”

The SnarkSnail’s cry of pain had Clay covering his ears. But he knew better than to look away. Looking away meant providing an opening. And the Putt Putt trolls had not survived as long as they had by providing openings to their enemies.

So he watched with rapt attention as the boomerang successfully cut the SnarkSnail’s head clean off.

Thud.

The cry was the last sound the disgusting creature made before its end. And then it was a matter of stepping around the slimy creature, picking up his boomerang and retracting the blades to stash the weapon back into his hair.

“Moving on from Step Two: Clear the Tunnels. Now onto Step Three: State of the Tree and Viva’s Pod . . . and my home.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had set no assumptions of what the Troll Tree would look like. Which was a good thing, considering how unprepared he was for what he found once he reached the top.

Shriveled.

Decay.

Death.

Clay took in the tree’s unhealthy bark, the bent branches and the sparse few leaves which remained. The smell of decay hung heavy in the air, and it mixed with the smell of dead leafs to leave behind a ghastly scent.

“This is awful. Ive never seen the tree look so, so, so . . .” The words escaped him.

None seemed good enough for what he was looking at.

The brightly colored pods were all faded.

The branches were bent and gnarled.

And without the cheerful harmonies of trollkind weaving through the air the place was not simply empty, it was eerie. The missing rustle of the leaves did not go unrecognized either. Without their shelter the full force of the breeze briskly swept through. Clay grabbed onto the bark, keeping his balance as a strong blast whistled in his ears. Despite how tough and sturdy trolls could be for their tiny size, none of them were capable of evading strong winds sending them into the air.

“Creepy. That’s the word I’m looking for.”

The wind continued to whistle, as if acknowledging his words.

“This is no good. No leafs and fewer branches mean less coverage. Sure, it’s night out, but I could get spotted by a night patrol. It’s imperative I get in and out as quickly as possible.”

There was no time to waste, so Clay did the sensible thing and went to Viva’s pod first. The place was hardly recognizable aside from the crown symbol at the top. All the bright oranges, pretty pinks and blues that colored it were faded into somber grays and greens. Being one of the largest pods, it was a surprise the structure was still attached to the tree, but the large crack running down the side was not as much.

“Get in, get out. And if the crack worsens, really get out.”

Clay used his hair to swing inside. The carpet was still soft to his muddied feet as he stepped inside. The furniture in the main space was just as he remembered, with the doily covered couch pressed to one wall and the many family pictures right behind it. Clay stared at them, photos of Viva with her Mom, Viva with King Peppy, Viva with a bright pink egg, Viva with Poppy, Viva with all her family. The photos were numerous. His cheeks tinged when he saw there were plenty of him and Viva together too.

There was even one of Viva, himself and a bright blue egg.

Branch’s egg.

He may have gotten in trouble for sneaking out with the egg, but how happy Viva had been getting to play “pretend parents” was worth it.

“I know I’m not here for this buuuuuuuut . . .” he snatched a few photos, placing them neatly inside his backpack. “Taking a few of these wouldn’t hurt anyone. And Viva will love them. Hmm . . . as for the plans, they should be on the kitchen table.”

He maneuvered around the wide coffee table, careful not to bump into it or the propped out armchair before stopping at the kitchen. It was just how he remembered from that day, aside from the dust piling onto everything. Poppy’s highchair was situated by the table, pink and covered in glitter marker doodles. King Peppy’s newspaper was left folded on the table. Clay carefully brushed it aside.

And there it was.

The plan.

While he and Viva were deemed far too young to know all the details to the escape plan, other trolls, older trolls like Grandma had been let in on the key details.

“Build the tunnels, pack the night before, have the young and elderly prioritized first to get out, try to have as many out as possible before the Bergens arrive . . .”

So much for the last one.

At least half of the population was still in the tree when the Bergens got there.

To be fair, Trolls were not morning creatures.

Clay tapped the list, the paper fraying at the edges. Smudge marks decorated the top corner, where King Peppy’s signature was. Even then it was legible enough to read.

“The plan was meant to take place two months after Trollstice. That way all the tunnels were finished and everyone had more time to go over the escape plans. But plans changed.”

He remembered.

How could he possibly forget?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week before the Great Escape . . .

He was sitting at the kitchen table in King Peppy’s home. Teenage Clay’s eyes welled up with tears. His chest rose and fell with the emotion bubbling up at his core. His free hand clenched.

“And then Twig cried out into the night, his young voice filled with desperation for a family he missed dearly. Just where were they? Where were his brothers?”

He swallowed down the sadness.

Poor Twig was so lonely without his four older brothers.

It was crazy to think any older sibling would leave their younger one(s) for so long. He could hardly think about it.

“Twig resolved to keep pushing himself, because if all he had was himself he had to be better, become strong enough to bear the burden that came with surviving alone. And maybe someday she would notice him, the dear princess with her vibrant pink hair and warm eyes. Anytime Twig thought of Peony-“

“CLAY!” A voice shouted.

“AH!” He yelled, falling out of his chair startled. His book landed in a heap in the corner, pages bent and bookmark stranded on the kitchen tile.

Clay hardly had a moment to breathe. Viva was crowding him, kneeling over him. Her eyes were round with worry, full of tears, that unlike his own -which remained clinging to the corners of his eyes- were falling. Her hands were on his arms, squeezing tightly like she needed to ground herself.

“Clay! You won’t believe it. What’s happening right now. I-It’s so, it’s so, it’s so wrong! Awful, terrible, horrific! I just, I just-“

“Can’t believe it?” He asked, noticing how heavily the princess was breathing. Clay placed a hand on her chest, unsurprised by the thunderous heartbeat lying beneath. “Viva. I need you to take some deep breaths. You’ll make yourself sick otherwise. Here.” He moved to sit up, carefully maneuvering her to give him room. When they were both sitting together Clay grabbed her hand, ignoring all the tingly warmth THAT action caused, and placed it on his chest. “Copy my breathing. In for three, out for three.”

This continued for a few minutes, just the two of them sitting together as Clay helped Viva calm her breathing. He took in her flushed face, her blonde hair frizzier than normal, and knew without words that something was horribly wrong.

“Clay. T-thanks,” she said once her breathing leveled.

He retracted his hand, as she did hers. Clay ignored the absence of warmth the action caused. Making sure she was alright was far more important.

“Don’t mention it. Are you okay to talk about what happened? Or do you need to relax a little longer?” He left it up to her. Because while it was rare to see the eldest princess this on edge, the last thing he wanted was to send her back into hyperventilation.

“Uh huh. I can.”

“Okay then.” He sat back a little, giving her his full attention. “What happened?”

Viva’s breath hitched, her eyes glassy. “It’s about Poppy. T-they’re planning to on gifting her to the Prince on Trollstice. S-she’s going to be the first troll eaten.”

He froze.

Of all the things she could say . . .

“T-they’re going to eat her?”

Viva nodded weakly.

Clay felt sick. The Bergens were known as monsters, rightly so, but this was a whole new level of evil he did not think they were capable of possessing.

Eating a baby.

An innocent troll who had done no wrong.

“I’m sorry Viva, I’m so sorry.” He told her.

Because what else was there to say?

Viva looked at him with watery eyes. “Dad says we have to leave ahead of time now. It’s the only way we can save Poppy.”

And he could understand where the King was coming from, but . . .

“The plan required two more months though. Will we be ready in time?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in the present . . .

“If we hadn’t had to move the timeline up, maybe all of us would’ve escaped together. But instead . . .” His fingers ghosted over the scratched out original timeline for the escape, the newer one written in blotchy pink ink below it.

Leaving early meant saving Poppy.

Leaving early unknowingly meant separation.

“How many lives were lost that day?”

He did not have an answer to his question, but it made his stomach twist to think about it. Could he blame King Peppy for the change? No. Poppy was his youngest daughter, and the last piece of Poppy and Viva’s mother, the late Queen Valeria. Her death was what inspired the escape plan to begin with. Viva told him Queen Valeria had insisted to the King she did not want her daughters to grow up ensnared by the Bergens for their entire lives.

He never really listened until after her death.

Her death would lead to plans for escape, plans for freedom.

“The plans are here, now where’s the map . . . aha!” Clay pushed aside a few more papers haphazardly left on the table.

And there it was.

The map.

There were so many labels on it, names he did not recognize. He took each piece of it in, searching for what he was looking for.

“Funk Kingdom, Techno Kingdom, Country Kingdom, Rock Kingdom . . . what in the world?”

These foreign names left him with more questions than answers. Especially with the little drawings drawn beneath each kingdom. The figures looked like trolls except waaaaay different. It made his head spin trying to piece it all together.

“Okay. Never mind that stuff. Where was the tribe supposed to go?” He scanned until he found the Troll Tree on the map, and then some arrows. They were all pointing to a place called Pop Forest.

“Pop Forest. That’s where they went.”

But to his knowledge Pop Forest was a massive place, filled with trees and wildlife. It was colorful, yet dangerous. And traversing it alone as a troll was a terrible idea. SnarkSnails were pushovers compared to most of what dwelled in the woods.

“It doesn’t say where in Pop Forest they went though.” He refused to acknowledge the small part of him questioning if the group managed to make it there. It was stupid and annoying, therefore it was useless.

There was no way Branch, Floyd and Grandma were gone. That would leave him with John and Spruce. Spruce was fine, but John-

Again, now was not the time to dwell on personal feelings.

“Pop Forest is in the other direction of the Golf Course, so we went entirely different directions then.” A mix of relief and sadness filled him. “No wonder we didn’t hear anyone on our way to the course.”

Plus, King Peppy’s group would have received a head start in the likelihood they survived. A head start put them out of earshot, out of reach.

“Is there anything else . . . Huh? Well, looks like I might be right.”

It was time to head back home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grandma Rosiepuff’s pod was in the same place he remembered it being. But its state was far from what he remembered. Clay swung from the sparse branches to get a closer look.

The pod, which formerly was a soft creamy white, was now a muted eggshell. Pale, lifeless, and from the look of things very empty. The outside was peeling a little, the leafs surrounding the top were shriveled with decay.

He took one breath, then two.

The sun was beginning to peak up over the horizon. And with the lack of thick branches swarmed with leafs there was near nowhere to hide. The town outside the caged area was sleeping for now, but there was no telling how long the peace would last.

“I’ve gotta be quick.”

It went without saying that regardless of what he found inside, he needed to keep as silent as he could. Clay crouched, preparing himself for the lung, and then off he went.

Thud.

His feet landed lightly on the edge as Clay placed his hands on the sides of the opening to pull himself in the rest of the way. Inside, only the natural light was filtering in.

And it was thanks to the natural light he saw all of what was inside.

And moreover, the state of things.

“W-what happened here?”

The living room looked like a hurricane zone. Chairs were tipped over, pictures were barely hanging on the walls. The couch was covered in blankets, like someone was sleeping there, the pillow beside them carrying a small indent of what was likely where a troll’s head rested. A pile of clothes was heaped near the entrance.

“Wait a second . . . some of these are mine!” Clay picked up an old wristband from the pile. It was the one with ketchup smudges. Spruce told him to throw it away, something about keeping a clean appearance, but Clay kept it because he always wore it for dance battles.

A good luck charm.

From back when he was the “cleverest little brother”. Back when Jo-

Nope. Clay pushed the thought away, because getting lost in memory lane was far from productive.

“Why is all this stuff here? Mine, John’s, Spruce’s, Grandma’s and even Floyd’s. None of it seems to be Branch’s though.” Clay double checked, filtering through the pile with swift hands as he thought about it. “Hmm . . . maybe on the day of the escape Floyd was trying to bring everyone’s stuff with him? He was the sentimental type. But then he must have gotten distracted . . . Grandma could’ve told him no. Or maybe Branch needed help? None of his stuff is here . . . Yeah, likely one of those.”

Both possibilities were pretty likely.

And were far more favorable outcomes than anything else he might come up with.

Drip.

Drip.

“Huh? Water running? Let’s see . . .”

He went to the most obvious place and found the sink in the kitchen was still switched on. It was more than a little bizarre that it was still running after ten years, but with the plumbing system connected to the Bergens, he supposed it made sense enough.

Not like Bergens were the type to notice a troll sink stuck on. The water a troll needed was a drop in the bucket compared to a Bergen.

“Fixed that,” he turned it off with one swift motion, then looked around. “But how did so many dishes get stuck lying around?” A stench hit his nose, pungent and disgusting. “And the trash wasn’t taken out either.”

Plates were stacked on the counter, the trash overflowing. Clay ruminated over tossing the bag outside, but decided against it. Best not to do anything to attract Bergens’ attention.

“Hah. Grandma, Floyd and Branch really must have been in a hurry. Grandma loves packing a lot for trips too. That must be it.”

He was going to ignore the feeling of wrongness continuing to build up inside. None of these things he was finding were helping, nor was any of his findings what he was actually here for.

Grandma’s room.

That was where he needed to go.

Yet some part of him, perhaps the part which missed all of them, needed to go there first.

To the room all the brothers shared together.

So Clay moved forward, passed the tipped over chairs. He ignored the shriveled red rose with the missing petals -when Grandma had decided single flowers were good decorations were beyond him- and let his fingers brush the one wall with paint markings. The little drawings were blocky and childish. The five trolls beneath the message were all smiling, their stick figure arms a crude representation clearly all the brothers. The one in the middle was the smallest, and also the happiest surrounded by the bigger trolls.

“Brothers forever. Hah . . . Branch. You always simplified the deepest things as a baby.”

He wondered if Branch would still feel the same when they met again.

Would he forgive Clay for being gone for ten years?

He hoped so.

“We’ll meet again soon little dude. Just you wait.”

It was a happy daydream he allowed himself on the coldest nights. Finding Branch, Floyd, and Grandma in their new home. Spruce would be there too. John was also always there, despite the mixed feelings.

Together.

Happy.

It was a good dream, the best dream.

Besides the ones with Viva; those were good too.

Clay patted the little Branch figure one more time before making the turn in the hallway. The bathroom was dark, leaving him to ignore it while he got closer and closer to their room.

When it came into view, a smile upturned the corners of mouth. The old BroZone logo was painted on the door, with the familiar scrawl of “bros only” beneath it. Not that anyone else in the family adhered to the writing. Grandma always popped in, as did Mom and Dad when they were still around.

Off to the side were the heights of each of the brothers. Small pencil marks notched out into the wall beside the door, dictating the age each of them were at a given height. Hair height was never counted, despite Spruce’s argument for otherwise when he competed with John Dory when they were all small. This measurement happened much less by the time Branch was born.

Because they were gone.

John Dory kept it alive as best he could, but only Floyd and Branch were participating in it by that point.

“It’s kind of strange looking back on it all. I wonder if Floyd got any taller?”

It went without saying Branch had to. But from what he remembered Floyd was always a short stack. Even now, he doubted his immediate younger brother was as tall as him.

That was a pretty high bar with his height though.

So maybe unfair.

“Welp, let’s just look in for a moment then head off to her room. Hopefully this place is less of a mess than the living room. And the sad books I left here are still intact.”

But just as he went to put his hand on the blue doorknob to turn it, there was a voice. And while the years they were apart had been long, there was no way it faded from his memory.

“Clay? Is that you?”

Clay’s breath caught in his throat.

He knew that voice.

And as he turned and saw the troll with skin with a similar blue hue to his own, goggles sitting at the top of his head, a more defined square shaped head, and of course the dark teal hair he knew who was standing before him.

“John Dory.”

Chapter Text

Before the Reunion . . .

It was the Troll Tree.

The outer part of the Troll Tree.

He blinked.

The scenery before him did not change.

Blink.

And for the second time, John Dory found himself unable to escape seeing what laid out before him.

The Troll Tree.

The very place he had once cherished as his home.

Was no more.

Shriveled decay surrounded him, bark faded from years of mistreatment and neglect. There was no music here in this barren place bereft of cheerful troll voices and sparkly troll pods. Now there was seemingly nothing left of the trolls who used to live, breathe, and sing in this very same tree. As for the pods, all the natural colors interwoven into the leafy stitched together leaves and casing was drained away. In its place remained opaque pods, smudgy gray and stained. The faint light avoided them.

John Dory placed a hand to his heart, taking a shaky breath. “What happened here?”

Only the breeze answered him in the silence. Rattling the few remaining leafs that kept themselves attached to the tree. The absence of trolls, the absence of leafs to conceal, insulate and shield left him feeling more vulnerable than ever. He knew if he stepped to the edge of the tree’s top what he would see.

Bergen Town.

Bergens.

“D-did trolls escaping kill the tree? Or was it the Bergens? Did they kill it in an act of rage over the escape?” He swallowed down the bile rising up in his throat. The Bergens were beyond cruel, and capable of doing such a horrible thing. So many trolls had died over the years because of the Bergens picking them right off the tree to eat.

He knew all too well.

His parents had been taken too.

On the very day John Dory met him, he also lost them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

13 YEARS AGO . . .

Times like this were always hard. The loud commotion from below terrifying with the screams of trolls and the cackles of hungry monsters. Even as the eldest of his brothers, it was impossible for him not to feel fear. Together with Grandma Rosiepuff, all of them were hidden in the safest space they could be.

The attic space at the top of their pod.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Unfortunately, not a soundproof area, meaning they could perfectly hear what was going on outside. Which was hard on all of them, especially one sensitive little troll.

“Johnny, I’m scared!” Little blue hands clung to his arm, big purple eyes glistening with tears.

He placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on his youngest brother’s head, rubbing the younger troll’s pinkish red hair gently. “I know Floydie. But it’ll be okay. We just all need to stay quiet and hide remember?”

John Dory hoped his tone was level enough, hoped that the fear tightening his chest was not trickling out. Judging by the small nod he got from Floyd, he guessed it was enough.

“O-okay Johnny. Y-you’ll stay with me?” Floyd clung to him some more.

He was about to respond, his eyes roving over all of his family. For John Dory, making sure ALL his family was together was the most important. Even as a young teenager, his parents had drilled that much into him. Spruce was with Clay, holding his immediate younger brother close as he cried and cried. He could hardly blame the yellow haired troll for lacking his usual goofball personality. Grandma Rosiepuff was busy with setting up the blankets and pillows, rightfully expecting them to be stuck up here for hours and in need of somewhere to rest. Which just left . . .

“Where are Mom and Dad?” He asked.

Rosiepuff looked up from her blankets, her expression troubled. Clay paused in his sniffling, as did Floyd. Spruce, keeping his hold on Clay, was the one to answer him.

“They said they had to go out.” Spruce explained.

John Dory froze. “What?”

Spruce swallowed, his indigo eyes filled with the same worry John Dory was sure was reflected in his own. “They said they needed to make sure everyone else on our branch was safe in their pods. Dory, I tried to tell them not to-“

“I know.”

Because he did. This was far from the first time Mom and Dad had went out into the fray to make sure other trolls were safe. Because to them, friends were considered family too. And it was something they considered to be their duty, protecting other trolls especially the young and old too weak to protect themselves.

It was as admirable as it was terrifying.

“John-“

“How long have they been gone?” He asked Spruce then, trying to remain focused. There was no point in being angry at Spruce.

Only in himself.

Because he SHOULD have been paying attention.

“I-I don’t know. I think it’s been ten minutes,” Spruce said. “Right Clay?”

John Dory and Spruce looked at Clay, who offered a trembling nod and said “yeah, ten minutes,” before hiding his face in Spruce’s shoulder at the sound of another heart wrenching scream.

He gently pulled back from Floyd, his feet backing up. The floorboards barely creaked as he moved. Despite his anxiety his movements remained cautious. There would be far more trouble if they alerted the Bergens.

“John Dory, where are you going?” Floyd asked.

He forced back the wave of guilt he felt looking at the youngest of the family. Floyd was barely eight years old and was already going through so many scary things. It was so unfair. To all of them really. And he hated to add to it, but there was no real choice to be had.

“I have to look for them.” Was what he answered.

Floyd’s little face paled. “No! Y-you can’t go Johnny!”

“Floyd’s right, it’s too dangerous.” Spruce agreed.

“I know, I know but-“ he paused, looking down. “Clay?”

Clay had reached out a hand to grab at John Dory’s wrist. His grip was tight, unwavering. And the look on Clay’s face, so troubled yet firm, was one to be seared into his memory.

“Don’t go. We don’t know where Mom and Dad are, and it’s not safe to go looking for them now.”

The truth in those words were undeniable.

And yet, something inside him refused to listen.

He knew he needed to go.

“I’m sorry, but I have to. So stay safe, and I’ll be back soon.”

Then he was stepping out the door, shutting it tight behind him. John Dory, ignored the cries and pleas for him to come back. He had to go, willing his legs to move as fast as they could out of the attic and down to main room.

“AHHHHHHHH!”

“GYAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

John Dory’s hands pressed up against his ears, the screams of the trolls being snatched away unbearable to hear. His body shook, breath hitching. The teal haired troll leaned against the wall. With all the trembling he needed to calm down.

“Come on, come on . . . they need me. I can’t waste anymore time.” He pulled at his face, letting the slight pain help to ground him.

Then he was running again. Bursting out of the hallway, finally brushing past the kitchen and last bathroom before the living room.

His eyes widened.

The pod’s door was open, moonlight trickling in. Most of the Trollstice Troll gatherings happened the night before Trollstice, something about food preparation that left all the trolls sick to their stomachs, especially when considering they were the main course. What an awful concept. Seeing the Bergens -huge purple monsters with gnarled hands and faces- reaching out and snatching up trolls had his stomach churning.

But then, there they were.

“Mom! Dad!”

Even in the darkness of the night there was no mistaking them. Their shapes were always recognizable to him, the determination on their faces unmistakable. As was their fear.

And his own.

One of the Bergens -the one wear the biggest chef’s hat with the nasty smirk- had Mom. Bellerose with her light green skin was flailing with panic in the Bergen’s grip. Her magenta hair waved around wildly, unable to latch on to anything as her purple eyes flashed with terror. A look she should never have when all his memories of her were of kindness, love, and endless adoration for her family.

And then there was another presence, much closer to John Dory.

His Dad.

Rowan, with his goggles and indigo sapphire hair, was hanging right by their pod, out of sight of the Bergen for now. Like all the BroZone brothers, Rowan’s skin was a cyan blue. And while none of the brothers (so far) had hair quite like Rowan’s, each of them felt deeply connected to him. Their Dad, so smart and loving, held their family together even in the darkest moments.

But John Dory doubted Rowan could fix what was happening now.

Rowan was panting, his gaze landing on John Dory. There was a flicker of something that passed across his face, a resolve so firm nothing could break it. Rowan placed a hand on his shoulder, indigo hair rippling with energy.

“Son, what are you doing out here?” Rowan asked, his gaze switching between John Dory and Bellerose who was still fighting the Bergen in a vain attempt to free herself.

“I had to come get you both! It’s not safe out here!” John Dory tried to explain. “Mom’s in danger! We have to-“

A finger was pressed to his lips.

“I know my boy, I know. I’m going to help her. But I need you to do something for me first,” Rowan said.

“Anything Dad.” The answer was immediate.

Rowan reached into his hair, his movement careful yet swift. John Dory failed to retain an audible gasp as Rowan pulled out a little blue object. It had little ripple indigo streaks around it, and a tuft of soft sapphire hair at the top.

An egg.

A Troll egg.

“I-I thought-“

“That we weren’t planning to give you anymore brothers?” Rowan asked, a brief glimpse of happiness flickering in his eyes. It was gone in the blink of an eye. “We weren’t, but sometimes life happens. Sometimes there are miracles. And Branch here,” Rowan hugged the egg gently. “Is a miracle.”

“Branch.” John Dory echoed.

It was the first time he ever said Branch’s name.

“Yes, that’s his name. I need you both to get to safety now. Please take care of him.” Rowan extended the egg out to John Dory. With shaky hands, he took the egg into his arms. It was unmistakably warm, the little egg pressing close to him as though the tiny, growing baby troll inside could sense his presence. Rowan gently pressed John Dory’s fingers to curl around the egg protectively. The look on his face was tender, the kind a parent who loved their children with their whole heart gave.

It would have been a more sweet moment, if not for the chaos below.

“Dad I-I don’t want to leave you and Mom. She needs help.”

‘You need help’ went unsaid but was fully meant too.

“I know you don’t, but I need you to do this for me. Branch is counting on you, and so are they.” Rowan gestured over John Dory’s shoulder, to where their family was hiding.

“But-“

“No buts son. And please remember, your mother and I love you and your brothers so much. Please promise you’ll take care of them for us.” Rowan’s expression was unreadable, but the seriousness of his words were undeniable.

Which was why John Dory answer answered in the way he did, his arms holding the blue egg -Branch’s egg- protectively.

“I promise.”

Rowan nodded, smiling then.

And then, he was gone.

John Dory ducked behind the pod, just as a new scream joined the fray. The shouting was worse now, shouts that he knew the voices of. And it was only thanks to the shiny blue egg in his arms that he was able to keep silent.

Out of sight, out of mind of the Bergens that night.

The night that took Mom and Dad.

And gave them Branch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PRESENT . . .

Getting back to his family’s pod was easier said than done. There were several branches that were simply gone from the tree, and plenty more were worse for wear or missing most of their pods. If the escape truly happened like the annoying Cloud Guy said it had, hopefully none of them were still inside when they were yanked off. Either way, getting back to his home was his best chance at finding clues.

“One of the bros surely left something, and I can use that to find them!” It was a simple plan, but hopefully an effective one. And when they met again, he would make amends.

They were going to be a family again.

And after years of no one to talk to for months on end, besides the Country Trolls and Rhonda of course, it was going to be so nice.

He would apologize.

And if that was not enough, he would apologize some more. Some of them were more prone to forgiving than others after all. Floyd was especially kind, and Branch was always quick to move on from something sad, probably a toddler thing.

“It’s been years though,” he muttered as he swung over another branch using his hair, landing on a longer one with smoother bark. “No telling how everyone’s changed. And it’s on me for not being there.”

Back then, it seemed like the right choice. Leaving home so everyone else would stay together. Stay a family. No matter how many times Spruce said he wanted to see the ocean or Clay hung out with Princess Viva they had never left home before. No matter how many times they had fought.

Because family sticks together.

Something all of them had been taught.

Something he had only disobeyed when he could not take it anymore. The responsibility, the stress, it had all become too much.

“I shouldn’t have left. I won’t make the same mistake again.” He promised.

And it was with that thought he finally reached it.

Home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Home was a mess.

It left him filled with unease at each broken plate he found in the kitchen, overflowing trash he found in the bathroom, the overgrown plants in the den, the rack of BroZone puffy vests completely empty, and piles of blankets left haphazardly on the floor. Dust coated the picture frames and all the furniture. John Dory put a hand to his nose, resisting the urge to sneeze the further he went inside the house.

He passed by their shared bedroom -the one he and all his brothers slept in- ignoring the blue door knob and heading straight up the stairs. Better to save it for last, his mind whirling with all the memories and emotions held in that room. The floorboards creaked as he ascended up to the next floor.

The attic was even dustier than he remembered. It took a moment of blinking and sneezing to grow accustomed enough to the darkness to find the light switch. It flicked on, a soft yellow light coloring the space.

Boxes were piled high, a few pictures leaned against them. The formerly green wallpaper decorated with leaf patterns was faded to a more yellowish hue. He ignored that, focusing on the photos. John Dory’s eyes roved over them. The photos of Mom and Dad on their honeymoon, Dad and him wearing their goggles together, Spruce and Clay high-fiving, Floyd giggling in Grandma’s lap, and then the five brothers all together in their BroZone vests. Back then, Branch’s vest was far too big on him, but oh so cute! He picked up that photo, gently tucking it into his hair. One could never have too many cute Baby Branch photos.

“Bet you could wear it now. Couldn’t ya little bro?”

He was so lost in memories he almost missed what came next.

CREAK.

His head shot up, slamming it against one of the holiday decorations they had stored inside.

“Ow!” He groaned, rubbing the back of his head. “What in the name of pop was that?”

He listened closely, pressing his ear up to the wall. There was a rustling sound, but from what he could tell that might have just been the wind. Whatever the case, none of the noises were loud enough to be from a Bergen. So he headed back down the stairs. Back to the last room he needed to search.

The BroZone bedroom.

And just as he was about to arrive at the door, there was a voice. Conversationalist, the owner talking to himself.

“Welp, let’s just look in for a moment then head off to her room. Hopefully this place is less of a mess than the living room. And the sad books I left here are still intact.”

His eyes widened.

Even after all the years apart, there was no mistaking one of the voices so fondly retained in his memory.

“Clay? Is that you?”

The owner of the voice took an inhale of breath. John Dory stepped closer, the troll’s shape becoming more defined now that he was closer. Blue with a hint of green to his skin, and yellow hair that was undergoing the shift to a lime hue. The troll was wearing a diamond patterned outfit, with a headband that matched the two yellow and white striped wristbands he had on. The owner turned, a sharp blue gaze meeting his own as Clay responded.

“John Dory.”

It was him! It was really him!

John Dory moved.

“Ack!” Clay yelped as John Dory pulled him into a tight hug, squeezing his younger -and surprisingly lanky- brother close.

“You’re okay! I’m so happy you’re okay!” John Dory spun the younger troll around, hugging him with all his strength.

“Ahhh John Dory s-stop! Stop it!” Clay called out, his hands pressing against John Dory’s own.

John Dory released Clay after a few more seconds, allowing his lean little brother to stumble back and regain his balance. It was to his great relief that Clay seemed to be perfectly alright, save for a few scratches along his arms that looked relatively recent. But in all likelihood they probably came from climbing up the Troll Tree’s hollow tunnels.

“Ah, sorry about that. I just haven’t seen you in so long brother,” he said apologetically.

Clay brushed himself off, dirt flecks drifting off his arms. “Yeah, yeah, whatever man.”

John Dory looked around searchingly. Maybe Clay had brought the other bros with him? He doubted Spruce, Floyd or Branch or even Grandma -if she was still alive, though it was hard to be sure as she would be getting up there in age at this point- would want him traveling alone. When he found no one besides Clay he raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“So . . . Where are the rest of our bros?” He asked.

Clay frowned, his lip curling. “That’s what I’m here to find clues for.” The younger troll crossed his arms.

Now it was his turn to frown. “What you’re here for? Have you not been with them?”

Clay thew his arms up, glaring at John Dory. “Of course I haven’t been. I haven’t seen any of them in ten years. Not like you would know, seeing as you left.”

The snide remark at the end, while fair, still stung. John Dory clenched his hands into fists. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to assume that.” Another thought crossed his mind, one that had his chest tightening. “If you haven’t seen them in ten years, what about-“

“What about everyone else?” Clay finished the question for him.

John Dory nodded. “Yeah. Did the rest stick together?” Judging by Clay’s expression, he was NOT going to like the answer he was about to get. “Clay, please tell me.”

Clay sighed. “I went and stayed with Viva. Spruce left that night same as you. Said he was done being the heartthrob.”

He remembered Spruce saying as much. How could he possibly forget the look on his immediate younger brother’s face? There was a time where they never argued; a time where they never fought. But it had ended a long time ago. What he did not recall was Spruce saying he was going to leave. Clay had left too apparently, in his own way. And that just left . . .

“What about Floyd and Branch?” He asked.

Clay rolled his eyes. “What about ‘em? Do you seriously think Floyd would ever leave Branch behind. Nah man, no way. Floyd adored the little guy too much. And there’s no way Branch could’ve traveled. Not back then.”

John Dory let out a breath of relief at that. Floyd stayed with Branch. Good. And if those two stayed together then they also had Grandma around to take care of them. He hated not being there for Branch and Floyd or any of his little bros for so long, but it was a comfort knowing at least the two youngest had each other.

Maybe his dream was nothing but paranoia after all?

“That, that’s good.”

“Good? No, I don’t think you get it. There’s a chance they’re dead!” Clay expressed angrily. “There’s a chance they died in the escape!”

John Dory stepped back a little, startled. “Dead? They can’t be dead.”

Clay looked even more frustrated, tugging at his yellow hair as if to calm himself. “They weren’t with Viva and I’s group on the day of the Escape.”

That gave John Dory pause.

Groups?

The Cloud Moron did say something about groups.

“Cloud Guy said there was two groups who escaped the Troll Tree. Said they went in different directions.”

Clay froze, his eyes going wide.

“T-two groups. There was two?” Clay asked, a bit of hope trickling into his voice.

John Dory nodded minutely, relieved Clay was seeming to lose the angry edge he was wielding moments ago. “Uh huh. And if you and Viva were in one group, I’m guessing Branch and Floyd and Grandma went in King Peppy’s group.”

Clay nodded shakily then, the relief in his voice palpable. “If that’s true then that means everyone is alive then,” Clay sniffled. “I’m so glad.” Clay put an arm to his eyes, wiping away the tears.

John Dory stepped closer to his little brother. “I’m sorry you went so many years without knowing. That had to be hard.”

Clay nodded through his sniffles. “It was.”

John Dory opened his arms up, extending them. “You want a hug?”

Clay peaked out at him through his fingers, both of his hands having pressed up to his eyes to hide the tears. “I guess so. Even if it’s you, and I’m still mad at you.”

“Fair enough. Come here little brother.”

The two embraced, the second time far gentler than the first. John Dory let Clay decide how long the hug would last. Which turned out not to be long at all. Clay’s arms snaked around him for a few seconds, his face pressing into John Dory’s shoulders.

And then he was pulling back, eyes red rimmed but not crying anymore.

“Okay, I’m okay.” Clay breathed.

“Good. Now, since you’re here I’m guessing you’re also looking for clues?” He asked.

Clay nodded. “Yeah. I found a map at the King’s pod, so I know everyone went to somewhere in Pop Forest. But . . .”

“You don’t know where exactly?” John Dory guessed.

“Yeah, I really don’t. That’s why I came here. Grandma was always close with the King, so I thought she might have had something in her room. But-“

“It was a mess. I saw.”

Clay shook his head. “Grandma would’ve never let the pod get in such a state.”

That much they both agreed on.

The trash piles, broken dishes, strewn blankets, ripped pillows . . . something happened here.

Something not good.

“Maybe it was just the hectic energy of packing up to leave?” He tried, even though it sounded like a poor excuse to him.

Clay looked at the blue door knob, his expression darkening. “I hope it’s only what you said. But I don’t think it is.”

His heart sank.

Clay, for all his attitude, usually had good intuition. If he said something was wrong, chances were it probably was.

“You don’t think they were caught, do you?” He barely dared to voice the thought. How cruel would it be, for so many other trolls to escape back then, only for Branch, Floyd and Grandma to die?

“I hope not, but there’s only one way to find out.” Clay’s gestured towards the door.

John Dory nodded. “Then let’s do it. Together.”

The blue door knob slowly turned, the door opening into a room both of them knew all too well. Inside, everything was pitch black. The only light filtering in can from the windows that had been covered up with looked to be some sort of paper covering.

“What in the world?” Clay asked to no one.

John Dory coughed on some of the dust lingering in the air. “Ugh. It’s like this place was sealed up for ages.” In retrospect, it undoubtedly had been. “Let’s find the light switch.”

“Found it.” Clay flicked it on.

It took both of them a moment of blinking to adjust.

When they did, both gasped.

The bunk beds were exactly as they remembered them being left. Which was the only thing in the room he could soundly say remained the same aside from the walls.

Everything else was completely different.

His eyes immediately went to the crib. He walked over to it, his unease returning like a cold wave washing ashore. Branch’s crib was torn apart, fluffy light blue blankets tossed aside, the wooden crib flipped over with some of the bars yanked out and the rails completely ripped off the hinges. He found a few bars on the floor nearby sharped to precise points at the end. A small, rusted knife laid beside it.

“W-why . . . Why are these like this?” He picked up one, noting how sharp it was. Sharp enough to hurt, sharp enough to stab with. Who could have dismantled it so thoroughly? Who could have turned the bars of an innocent, peaceful crib into deadly weapons?

“John Dory, you might want to look at this.” Clay called to him.

He looked up, walking over to Clay with one of the bars still in his hands. Clay had went to the far wall. That was where the clothes cabinet was supposed to be, right by the entrance to the closet. But the cabinet was pushed off to the side, the closet door left open to display a mountain of clothes thrown into a heap. He could see items belonging to all the brothers in it, from his sweatpants to Branch’s tiny t-shirts. But that was not what Clay wanted him to see.

It was the drawings.

The drawings of Bergens on the wall.

Bergens, with Branch and Grandma.

And blood.

Lots of depictions of blood.

“Oh my stars . . .” He placed a hand to his chest. “Who drew this?”

Clay shook his head, eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know, but it’s not just the drawings. There’s words too.”

John Dory stepped closer. The drawings with a hand around Grandma, a screaming Branch, a crying Branch were already too much to look at. But then the words were there too, just as Clay had said.

They were large letters, scrawled in what looked to be a shaky hand. It was like the writer was terrified while writing them. The words were written in a bloody crimson color, almost as though written in blood. And while based on the smell it was not blood, the words were still alarming.

“Help, Bergens, Run Away, Nowhere is safe . . .” He swallowed. “Something happened.”

Clay nodded. “And from the looks of it,” he tapped the one drawing. In it, Grandma was held in a Bergen’s hand, screaming. “It happened to Grandma.”

“Do you think she’s . . .” He did not finish.

“Dead?” Clay bit his lip, looking down. “Judging by this, I’d say so. Mom and Dad couldn’t survive against a Bergen, and I doubt Grandma Rosiepuff could either.”

“Grandma. We lost Grandma.”

“Yeah, we did.”

Chapter Text

Clay’s vision blurred.

He stumbled forward, his body trembling.

Nothing seemed right anymore.

Not when Grandma Rosiepuff was gone.

Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. Sweat, pine needles and warmth encompassed Clay. John Dory’s teal hair took up most of his blurred vision and it was only then that he realized just how dark his oldest brother’s hair had gotten. He had thought nothing of it at first, assuming it to be the lighting. But clearly John Dory’s hair was darker now.

Darker.

Older.

More mature.

There was movement up and down. Warm hands drifting across his back. Clay blinked against the tears still spilling from his eyes. His stomach roiled, bile climbing to the back of his throat. An ache gripped him, so intense he shuddered.

“I know Clay. I know it hurts.” John Dory let out a shaky exhale. The grip around Clay tightened, a firm weight of comfort. “I’m sorry little brother.”

Clay let out a gasp, the sound somewhat choked. “We never said goodbye to her Dory.” He kept on sniffling, a sob escaping him. “None of us said goodbye to her.”

John Dory tensed, a quiet pause. Lost in his own pain, Clay did not think about the why John Dory tensed up, his own heart broken. There would be no more hugs from Grandma, no more games where she gambled and almost always won, and no more of her yummy cooking. Grandma had been there at their lowest lows, as well as lifted them up at their highest highs.

She was there when each of them hatched.

Back when BroZone first formed.

When Mom and Dad died.

And she stayed with Branch and Floyd when John Dory, Spruce and he left.

But now, she was gone.

“She’s not the only one we didn’t say goodbye to.”

Clay blinked, looking at his oldest brother. Square jaw set tight. John Dory was frowning, his eyes shut. There was no time to dwell on what he meant. John Dory answered his unspoken question soon enough.

“Branch. We never really said goodbye to him either. Did we?” John Dory looked away. Clay followed his gaze to the crib with its broken bars. The ones carved on the floor into stakes seemed to judge him silently.

Why did he not say goodbye that night?

He wished there was a good reason as to why, one not broiled in the emotions he felt. But there was none. Back then, anger was a white hot coil in his chest. Everytime John Dory told each of them to act a certain way, some part of him wanted to snap. Eventually, it all started to boil over.

First with judgmental glares.

Then with snide remarks.

Followed by full blown fights.

And back then, the only trolls who stood in the way of outright coming to blows with John Dory were the rest of his brothers. Most would think it was Floyd who broke apart all of their fights. And to a certain extent that was true. Every time one of them squabbled during BroZone practices or performances Floyd would be there trying to get them to cool off. This was especially true after Branch was born.

But outside of the band, the one who took charge of keeping Clay and John from butting heads was, of course: Spruce.

Spruce would act as a strange bridge between his immediate older and immediate younger brothers. Clay hardly understood how the purple haired heartthrob managed it, but he did.

As for Branch, he had been too little to fully understand why they were fighting, yet one look from his baby brother begging them to stop was often all it took. Branch never liked it when they fought. And-

“The last time we saw him we were all fighting.” Clay whispered. “We were practically yelling at each other, and Branch had to watch all of it happen. How we all fell apart.”

John Dory nodded against him. “Yeah, he did.”

“It wasn’t fair. Branch didn’t deserve that,” Clay murmured.

“Floyd didn’t either,” John Dory said.

Clay sat back from JD, his hands falling to his knees. Branch probably cried after they all left, Floyd too, even if his immediate younger brother was trying to be less sensitive towards the end of BroZone. Not that it mattered now.

“No. He didn’t. So why did you do it?”

~~~~~~~~~~~Perspective Change~~~~~~~~

John Dory let go of him, sitting back as well. His goggles had slid down his face a little, covering the wrinkles to his forehead. The two of them were on the floor together, on the woven rug their Mom made what felt like a lifetime ago. It was sown with little blue trolls all along the border. Some dancing, some singing, and a few just hugging. She started making it shortly after Floyd was born, saying it was a “blue rug for my blue boys.”

“Why did I do what?” John Dory asked.

Clay stared at him, expression unreadable. Tears still littered the corners of his eyes. A part of him wanted to reach out to brush them away, but Clay’s next words had him tensing up all over again, his hands stuck frozen in his lap.

“Why’d you ruin everything?”

“I-“ he cut himself off, the words dying in his throat.

Ruin everything? Was that how Clay saw it? Was that how all of his brothers saw it? The fight had started because of him. He would admit to it, own up to it. But blaming him for everything?

No.

“I didn’t ruin it all,” he answered.

Clay’s nose scrunched up, like he was disgusted by John Dory’s words. “Yes, you did. If you weren’t so obsessed with being perfect then none of this would’ve happened!”

Now it was his turn to frown. He gestured around with a wide stroke, his hands numb with the ache of grief. “You’re saying I caused the Bergen attack? Trollstice of all things. Be realistic Clay.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it!” Clay huffed in exasperation.

“Then why don’t you spell it out for me.” John Dory told him.

Clay seemed to vibrate with anger now, his hair frizzier than normal. “If you weren’t so obsessed with being perfect we never would have split up.”

“You don’t know that.”

It was a conclusion he soundly made on his own. One he used to help him sleep on the hard nights. Even if he made different decisions back then, there was no guarantee something else could not have happened that would separate them all. The what ifs left his head spinning sometimes, and reminding himself that was all they were, “what ifs” helped.

“Maybe I don’t, but I know we would’ve had a better chance without your ego!” Clay was yelling now, hands tugging at his hair. His lanky younger brother was leaning close, getting up in his face. And he was brought back to a time where Clay did this back then. When they were both teenagers and so easily riled up.

“Hah, my ego? You should look in the mirror. You complained about everything!” He shouted back, the hurt in his heart a wound that could not go ignored.

“No I didn’t!” Clay snapped, getting to his feet.

“Yes, you did! You wanted to be seen as more than the ‘fun one’ but you could never be bothered to do anything more to prove it.” He explained, his words sharp.

Clay spluttered. “Well, you never changed either. We told you to cut the perfection stuff out. But you didn’t! And it drove us all insane! We couldn’t stand you anymore, and that’s why we all fell apart. It’s your fault we didn’t stay together!”

John Dory placed a hand to his chest, feeling it tremble. With grief or anger, he hardly was able to place which was stronger.

“I KNOW! WHY DO YOU THINK I LEFT?” John Dory shouted, getting in Clay’s face in return.

“BECAUSE YOUR A SELFISH JERK!” Clay yelled, butting his head against John Dory’s own.

More rage built in him, fizzling out like an erupting volcano Dad told stories about. “NO! ITS BECAUSE IF I LEFT YOU COULD ALL STAY TOGETHER AND BE HAPPY WITHOUT ME!”

Clay’s eyes widened. “Wait. What?”

John Dory opened his mouth to respond again, but then something inexplicable happened.

The pod itself shook around them.

Loud, thunderous noise sounded from outside the pod. Too loud to ignore. And waaaaay too loud to be the annoying cloud from earlier.

John Dory and Clay stared at each other, one word escaping them both, encapsulating their situation.

“Bergens!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John Dory knew the terrible things Bergens were capable of, had seen them first hand. So the second he heard the thunderous footsteps approaching, he knew what needed to be done. John Dory lunged at Clay, knocking his lanky brother to the ground. Clay was about to say something, but he shoved his gloved hand over Clay’s mouth to keep him silent.

This was no longer a tough conversation.

This was survival.

He scrambled to grab a thick blanket from the bed nearby. Flinging it over himself and Clay, he flopped down on top of the yellow haired troll. There was no time for niceties or comfort adjustments. Just immediate hiding.

“Mmmphh!” Clay exclaimed, voice muffled.

“Shhh!” John Dory told him, heart beating loudly inside his chest.

“I heard noise!” A new voice, much louder and gravelly bellowed.

“Me too!” A more feminine, but still rocky voice shouted.

John Dory felt something trembling, unsure if it was him or Clay. The Bergens were close, definitely inside the gates now. If they tried escaping right now they would no doubt be seen. Staying silent and hidden was their only option. Wait the Bergens out until they went away.

“Keep quiet Clay and I’ll take my hand away.” He shakily did as he promised at Clay’s jerky nod.

“Huh . . . You sure there was a noise? I’m hearing nothing now!” One of the Bergens grumbled.

“I-I could’ve sworn there was a noise.” The feminine voice protested.

The footsteps were getting closer now, too close for comfort. John Dory felt a hand close around his arm and almost jerked away from it, before realizing it was not a Bergen grabbing him, but instead his little brother. And from the faint light pouring in through the blanket they had on them, he saw the open fear on the younger troll’s face. Fear he knew was reflected inside himself too. He closed his eyes, forcing a reassuring smile onto his face.

“They’ll go away soon,” he spoke in the tiniest whisper through gritted teeth. “Just keep silent and still.”

Clay gave another jerky nod, eyes watery. The two stayed close. It was the weirdest hug they had done since reuniting. And yet they managed to avoid making any noise. The blanket was a heated shield over the top of them.

“Did you shake any of the branches? Sometimes the trolls squeak when you do.” One of the Bergens chimed in.

“Sure! I’ll start over on the branch that way.”

John Dory and Clay shared a glance. Shaking the pod ran the risk of it falling off. Getting out of the pod ran the risk of them being discovered. If the pod fell, chances were they would not be able to survive the crash to the ground. Trolls were resilient, but not THAT resilient.

None of the options were good.

John Dory tightened his hold on Clay. With such bad choices, their best option was still a risky one. Staying put.

They could feel the branches the second they started to shake. Every shifting branch made the whole tree tremble a little. The Bergens were meticulous, shaking each branch. And when they arrived at the branch their pod was on the brothers felt the shaking. Hearts pounding, they kept huddled together.

Until eventually . . .

The Bergens argued.

“Bah, cut it out already. None of the branches made a noise!” The female Bergen barked.

“But, maybe I just need to shake it a little harder?” The male Bergen asked.

“No! Trolls are dumb, they would’ve made a noise by now if they were here.” An older voice croaked.

“But they did manage to escape. Maybe they’re smarter than we give ‘em credit for?” The male Bergen asked thoughtfully.

“Yeah right! When trolls fly. Let’s get out of here.”

As the footsteps faded, the grumbles of Bergens going with it, John Dory and Clay were able to finally let out sighs of relief.

Now, they were safe enough to leave.

Chapter Text

“I thought they’d never leave,” John Dory said before letting out a sigh of relief.

Clay, his hands sweaty and hair frizzed from all the adrenaline, rubbed his palms on his shorts. His heart was still beating fast, too fast for his liking. Despite John Dory being right, some part of him was responding on reflex to his older brother’s very loud, albeit normal, not quiet at all voice.

“Would it kill you to whisper?” He ended up snapping.

John Dory tilted his head, the goggles resting at the top remaining snuggly in place. They had remained perfectly in position even when the teal haired troll held Clay down earlier. The younger figured there were probably imprints on John’s skin from wearing them for so long there.

“Says the troll who started the shouting in the first place. Me talking at a normal volume won’t bring them back.” John Dory explained, his expression calm despite everything they had just went through.

And what was up with that?

How was John Dory not scared?

Clay glared at him. “You don’t know that! Can’t know that!” He paused, chest heaving. “And I didn’t start it, you did. When YOU left.”

John Dory sighed. “I understand that now, and I’m sorry for it. But please listen to me. Arguing is the last thing we need to be doing right now.”

Clay hated that he was right. Because arguing felt like the PERFECT thing to the teenager from ten years ago. The teen who had wanted to be seen by a brother who couldn’t seem to care less. Spruce would try to defend John Dory, say he had a lot on his plate, but Clay never believed him. Because family was supposed to be priority, not the “perfect” obsession John Dory had.

The obsession that tore them all apart.

But, they wouldn’t be able to keep arguing if the Bergens came back and killed them.

Clay knew as much.

So, reluctantly, he put away his anger. Shoved it into the box in his brain reserved for all the angry words he had voiced to himself over the years, the things he would say to John Dory if he ever saw him again.

There would time for it later, probably.

And no amount of apologies felt like it would be enough to dispel the deep rooted anger in his heart.

“Ugh, fine. I’ll stop.” He looked around, the room more of a mess than when they first entered it. “Let’s just get out of here. Those images are creeping me out.”

More like what they implied creeped him out, but the semantics felt trivial as they reminded him of the new reality they were in. One where Grandma was gone, and they would never see her again.

The bunk beds were a mess, there was no colorful and happy fan mail in sight, clothes were in piles too, the drawings on the wall nightmarish as Branch’s broken crib was with its bars carved into stakes. What had happened here had to be awful, and Clay’s stomach twisted as he thought about the circumstances which led to those stakes being created.

Who had carved them?

Floyd?

Branch?

Neither seemed likely, but some part of him hoped it was the former and not the latter. That it was just Floyd trying to protect Branch from danger in the wake of what had happened to Grandma. Had the two witnessed it? Likely so, judging by the drawings.

The drawings that left him dying to leave the room.

Because what they represented, both physically as well as what they implied for him too, was too much.

So when John Dory glanced around the room before settling on him again, asking: “Are you ready to leave?” He knew his answer.

“Yes, let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~

Clay kept his thoughts to himself as they snuck out of Grandma Rosiepuff’s pod. His mind was stuffed full of them, but he crammed them down, chewing on the inside of his mouth as he mulled over them.

“Clay? You okay?”

He must have been silent for too long. If he recalled correctly, John had hated when things were too silent during their BroZone days. There had to be movement or talking or something to fill the space with noise. Otherwise John Dory would get noisy himself.

“I’m fine I guess.”

Lie.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to lie to me Clay to make me feel better.” John Dory told him, his head turned sideways.

Clay glared daggers at the older troll, whose back was thankfully still turned. What would the older troll think to see him so mad. Well, he guessed it was far from the first time at the very least.

“Who says I’m doing it for you?” Clay retorted. “Maybe I just like keeping my feelings to myself.”

John Dory sighed, something he seemed to be doing a lot today. They were almost back to the tunnels at the top of the Troll Tree, their footsteps light on the flaky bark. It was still strange to see the Troll Tree so . . . so . . .

Dead.

That was the word.

“You can, but take it from me, keeping feelings inside doesn’t help. It only makes them fester,” the admission came out with a surprising amount of intensity. It made Clay think about just what it meant. Had John Dory been carrying thoughts of his family ever since BroZone broke up? He supposed it made sense.

Clay himself had done so.

“Like I wanna take advice from you.” Clay muttered, the anger ebbing inside him, for now. He still had questions to ask.

Like what John Dory meant during their argument when he said he left for them to stay together. Had he truly done it for them? Clay doubted it. Back then, the eldest only seemed focused on BroZone, and himself. But maybe . . .

“You can choose to take it or not. But dwelling on your thoughts for too long, especially bad ones, won’t end well,” John Dory said, pausing for a moment to hop over a clump of bark. “I would know.”

And there it was again.

Clay hopped over the same clump, grunting a little. He had made jumps like this before, sure, but usually he was either in what Viva called “hairball form” or he was using his hair to help him by swinging from a higher branch. Neither was a good idea here. The tree branches were cracked and pale. The bark still remaining on them was peeling, black spots dotting some of the pale strips. Clay was no tree doctor, or herbalist, or whatever it was called, but he was pretty certain that meant the Troll Tree was sick.

And dying.

Just another dead thing to add to the list from his childhood, a morbid part of his mind noted.

“Whatever. So what’s the plan for when we get out of here?” Clay asked, choosing to change the topic. Better than confronting the maelstrom of feelings he brought with him on his journey. Feelings he thought would remain stored away.

He didn’t plan to run into the troll responsible for so many of them. But life had a funny way of working. Or a jerk way in this case.

John Dory did look at him then, his blue eyes searching. “I plan to keep looking for Branch, Floyd and Spruce. I-I want our family to get back together.”

Neither of them acknowledged the words John Dory refused to say.

What was left of it.

Of their family.

“You really want to reconnect?” He remembered to clearly that night, when John had said bye forever.
This seemed to be the end of forever now, if the older troll was interested in reconnecting.

“Yeah, I do. What about you? I know you said you were out on a mission for Princess Viva to find the rest of the Pop Trolls.”

Clay frowned at the words ‘pop trolls’. All trolls to his knowledge sung Pop music. That was the only music there was. So what exactly was John Dory getting at? He wanted to ask, but held his tongue. There were more pressing matters.

“I am, and I’m not going to stop until I find them.” Clay told him. “So don’t tell me to stop, or it’s too dangerous. I’m going to do this.”

No matter what he promised himself.

John Dory’s ears perked, as did the corners of his mouth. “Good. Glad to hear it. And I won’t tell you to stop, because I’m coming with you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clay had tried.

He really had.

But, with how John Dory was, there was no convincing him otherwise.

“You really don’t have to come with me. It’s fine.” Clay insisted for what felt like the thousandth time. A road trip with John Dory of all trolls was the last thing he had in mind.

But again, life was not listening.

“Nah, it’s no problem little bro. Plus, we have the same goal anyways, to find our other bros!” John Dory said the last part cheerfully, swinging an arm around Clay’s shoulders.

“Ack! Get off me man!” Clay squirmed to get away as John Dory’s hold tightened.

“Hahaha same old funny guy. Glad to see you haven’t changed.” John Dory ruffled his hair, chuckling.

Clay’s mouth twitched.

Funny?

He thought Clay was funny?

The urge to push John Dory was very strong, almost as strong as the desire to kick him in the shin. But, he kept it in, because a serious troll like himself wasn’t prone to resorting to violence.

Not when trolls had experienced so much of it because of Bergens.

Clay wriggled out of John Dory’s hold, shaking out his limbs. “Get off me. And I’m not funny anymore. So cut it out with the comments!” He snapped, shooting his oldest brother a heated glare he hoped got the point across.

John Dory stepped back a little, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay there little bro. No need to get snappy.”

Clay’s tense shoulders relaxed a little. “Ugh. Let’s just get out of here. We don’t have any other clues besides Pop Forest, so I guess that’s where we go next.”

Bringing John Dory along on a dangerous trip was not his idea of a good time. But leaving John Dory behind near Bergens seemed equally stupid. And as annoying as John was, leaving him here was a bad idea.

At least get him away from here, then maybe I can split off from him. No hard feelings.

Well, besides the ones he was storing in his mind, but that was beside the point.

“Oh. Did you come here by yourself? On foot?” John was asking him then, their journey through the tunnel transitioning to the exit. Clay was relieved this one did not have any pesky snails or spiders.

Clay raised an eyebrow. “How else would I have gotten here?” He thought for a moment. “Why? Did you come here with someone, or on something?”

None of the Putt Putt Trolls had seen any passenger critters -critters trolls could ride on or inside- since before the Great Escape. Perhaps the golf course scared them away? It was the only possible explanation he came up with over the years. That, and none of them were keen on leaving the course to go looking for them.

“Yeah I did actually. Her names Rh-“

“SNARK!”

A slimy, wet sound came from behind them. Clay and John Dory turned in unison as the wet squelching grew louder. A rank smell had his nose wrinkling. And there it was, the very creature from before.

A SnarkSnail.

The SnarkSnail with its twelve eyes glowered at them, its green whiskers twitching, as did the puffy pink fur on its back. Clay’s stomach dropped when three, no, four more SnarkSnails were slithering right behind it, the yellow spots on their noses and necks glowing brightly, the slime on their bellies nasty snot green.

Clay met John Dory’s gaze, unsurprised to find the same panic he felt reflected in his blue eyes.

There were too many to fight.

Too many to even attempt fending off.

Those eyes and the sharp teeth the SnarkSnails had seemed to glitter, a promise of what they intended to do should their prey find themselves unable to escape.

“RUN!” John Dory shouted.

Clay did not need to be told twice.

The two ran as fast as they could, feet pounding on the packed dirt. The SnarkSnails hissed and snarked, slithering after them with terrifying speed. There was light at the end of the tunnel, the two brothers breaking out into the open space.

Too bad the SnarkSnails didn’t know when to quit.

“Ahhh!” Clay yelped, moving his body away just in time to avoid one SnarkSnail’s slimy teeth.

“Clay, keep running!” John Dory was grabbing him again, his hand this time, yanking Clay forward and putting himself between Clay and the SnarkSnails.

Clay didn’t have time to snap at John Dory for protecting him, didn’t have time to do anything but force his legs to keep running as they scrambled over tree roots and dived around fallen leaves. John Dory was right behind him, as were the SnarkSnails. His heart pounded in his chest, body slick with sweat and ears ringing.

Despite how quick they were running, the snails were gaining. Clay’s mind whirled, the trees offered no place for escape, their branches too high for them to reach up to with their hair.

“Snark!”

“SNark!”

“SnARK!”

“Snark! Snark!”

“SNARK!”

The SnarkSnails were letting out what was probably their version of a battle cry, determined to catch the two brothers.

“What are we gonna do! What are we gonna do!” Clay knew he was panicking, but what could they do. There was no escaping these monsters. The stench they exuded was making everything even worse. His stomach felt as sick as his lungs felt, working overtime to get him to move as fast as he could.

Black dots were beginning to dot his vision.

He knew what they meant, what their progression would cause.

“Not now!” He coughed, dizziness beginning to creep inside. “Not now!”

John Dory, despite the terror of the situation, seemed to sense his panic as he managed to get beside him, matching his strides. His older brother had been keeping pace with him, his face carrying a sheen of sweat. The square headed troll seemed to be moving with just as much determination as the SnarkSnails. Clay hardly understood why John Dory seemed to be lacking the terror that was consuming him now.

“Clay, hold on!” John Dory yelled.

And then, Clay watched as John Dory put his fingers to his mouth.

And whistled.

The long, shrill sound carried on the wind, as did the shout John Dory coupled with it shortly after.

“RHONDA!”

Clay had no time to think, his sole reaction a loud cry of horror as another monster, this one a puffy white-red thing with green legs and round eyes, came out of the ground with an open mouth.

And swallowed him and John Dory whole.

Chapter Text

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

Screaming.

John Dory’s ears felt like they were ringing, his body warm, hot and sticky with moisture slicking his clothes, hair and the glove on his hand. The trip through Rhonda’s stomach and into the passenger area was normally a simple one.

“Clay! Clay stop!” He tried yelling over the sound of his younger brother’s screams.

But either Clay didn’t hear him, or simply did not care to listen. The screams continued. And in the strange lighting -where there should be none realistically but when had Rhonda’s physics ever made sense, what with being accordion like in terms of her body- John Dory could barely make Clay out in the surprisingly large space.

“Ahhhhhhhh! We’re gonna die!” Clay was still yelling, and it was that and the younger troll’s flailing blue arms allowed him to be found.

“I’ve got you Clay! It’s going to be okay!” He lunged out at the lanky troll, reaching out and slamming into him.

“Guhhh!” Clay let out a choked gasp.

John Dory held to his younger brother tightly, his goggles slipping down to cover his face. With the pinkish tint to his vision, he managed to spot the glimmer up ahead. He let out a breath of relief internally, glad to see the exit. John Dory kicked his legs in the space, the strange physics propelling him forward.

“Hold on!”

“Hold on for whAAAAAAA-“

CRASH.

Light exploded into his vision, so fierce it would have blinded him if not for the goggle frames protecting his eyes. He winced at the impact of the two of them being thrown against the top of the inside of the bus before hitting the ground again.

THUD.

Thud.

The world spun around in a tangle of blue limbs and teal and yellow/green hair. John Dory felt each bump in the rolling, doing what he could to assure his body would stop them at the wall on the far end. It left him curled on his side, back wedged against the wall. Clay was plastered against him. The younger troll’s head was shoved beneath his own, face pressed against his chest where his heart pounded from the adrenaline of it all.

“Ha . . . Ha . . .” John Dory wheezed, stomach and insides tossing still. “Clay, you oka-“

The words died in his throat.

Clay wasn’t screaming anymore.

No.

He was doing something much worse.

Or, maybe the better way to put it was he wasn’t doing something, which was worse.

John Dory sat up fast, having Clay’s prone form rest in his lap. His hands fumbled, roving over sweaty skin with a desperation that left his skin crawling. Dread was climbing up his spine, the hair on his head bristling.

“Where is it? Where is it?!”

No breathy exhales.

No rise and fall.

No BREATHING.

Clay wasn’t breathing!

“Clay!”

“CLAY!”

He shook the younger troll, trying to get a response.

A word.

An exhale.

Something.

But there was nothing.

Just a pulse growing weaker with each passing second.

John Dory’s chest was heaving, his heart pounding. And while he couldn’t see them, he knew his ears were drooping too. Clay wasn’t breathing. What was he going to do?! The ringing in his ears was growing louder, the world spinning. Spots were gathering in his vision, creeping around the corners. And then the world was shaking, or maybe that was just him.

He couldn’t tell.

Not anymore.

Any noise was beginning to die around him. The SnarkSnails with their hissing jeers were no longer heard, his body getting hotter and his chest aching.

What could he do?

Clay was getting pale, his heart rate dropping even more. Soon he would still entirely. Soon, Clay would be gone. The coldness John Dory felt over this situation would ensnare Clay’s body for good, taking him away forever.

And there would be no more arguing.

No more joke.

No more laughter.

No more Clay.

“No . . . No . . .” His vision was swimming, moisture gathering in his eyes. John Dory’s breath quickened, his body continuing to shake. He couldn’t let Clay die, he just couldn’t!

“Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr?”

The sound, the vibrations such a loud rumble it shook the entire vehicle, brought him back out of his stupor. It wasn’t just him and Clay here. There was also-

“Rhonda! Are you okay?” He called out.

“Rrrrrrnnnnnnn rrrreeeeeeeeehhhhhrrrr!” Rhonda called back, the armadillo bus shaking.

Okay, so she wasn’t entirely okay either.

Then the faint sound of hissing entered his ears, and he realized with a start there was another problem, one that got his adrenaline pumping again. The noise was getting louder, the scratching of the ground entering his ears too.

“Snark! Snark! Snark!”

“SNARK!”

SnarkSnails.

They must still be following Rhonda.

“Rhonda! I can’t drive right now! I need you to get us as far away from those guys as you can.”

“Rrrrrrrrrraassss?”

“Any direction will do. Just go!” He told her.

And when the armadillo bus lurched in another direction, speeding forward fast, he was relieved Rhonda did not need any further directions. They would be safe from the SnarkSnails. Now he just needed to help Clay.

He set the younger troll on the ground, putting his hands one over the other. The rhythmic motion of chest compressions began, John Dory counting the beats in his head. As trolls spent their lives singing, CPR was a skill all of them picked up relatively easily.

“Seven . . . Eight . . . Nine . . . Ten . . .”

His hands were starting to ache once he reached forty, but it did not matter. Sweat dribbled down his arms, landing in a splatter on the ground. The breaths he gave Clay were shorter than he would’ve liked, but it was all he could manage.

“Come on little bro, come on!”

John Dory hastened his pace, the process of chest compressions and breaths continuing. With his hands on Clay’s chest, he could feel just how lanky the younger troll had got during their time apart. He felt the younger troll’s ribs easily. Clearly, Clay needed to eat more. He would make him eat more if he came back.

No.

When he came back.

He kept pressing harder and harder.

Until . . .

“Huh . . .”

Clay’s body let out a gasp, small but there. Done on its own. John Dory’s eyes watered. He had to blink back the tears to see Clay was breathing on his own again, unconscious but alive.

“Thank Troll you’re okay.”

Clay was breathing steadily now, chest rising and falling like it was supposed to again. John Dory sat back, sighing in relief. The last thing he had expected in this crazy day was finding one of his brothers again, despite that being the end goal of his trip in the first place. He had been overjoyed to find Clay, despite the apprehension which came with arguing over the past. But then, even more unexpected was the ambush. First the Bergens, which he probably should have planned for in hindsight -it wasn’t like they moved away the same as the trolls- and the error in judgement could have cost them everything. Then there were the SnarkSnails, which had been angry and determined to eat them. Expected behavior, but terrifying nonetheless.

Not terror for himself.

He had fought snails just as disgusting as those before, the monstrous creatures on the Neverglade Trail worse arguably than those.

The terror was exclusively for Clay.

Who he had almost lost.

John Dory carefully leaned forward, taking Clay into his arms. For once, the yellow haired troll was peaceful. No arguing, no yelling, just calm exhales and inhales.

“Everything’s going to be okay Clay. Let’s get you settled in for the night.”

His feet felt shaky as headed towards the bedroom with Clay nestled in his arms. The younger’s arms hung limply in the air. With how heavy Clay was now, it was all he could manage to keep Clay in his arms like this. Gone were the days of carrying Clay in his hair, a reality he figured was true for all of his little brothers.

Even Branch.

Branch, who loved being nestled in his hair.

Branch who loved cuddles, hugs, and snuggles.

John Dory wondered if his littlest brother would still love them when they met again. His shoulder brushed against the door frame as he made his way into his bedroom. One of the walls his eyes gravitated towards. The years were marked on them, milestones which might have been celebrated together if they had not split apart.

“Branch is thirteen now.” He murmured to himself, setting Clay on the bed in the middle of the room.

It had happened a month ago.

Each of his brothers’ birthdays were remembered, toasted to in the quiet space of Rhonda’s passenger space.

“Hope he and Floyd had a good party over it. Branch deserves the best.” John Dory sighed, methodically working to pull the covers of his bed up around Clay. The younger troll was sleeping steadily, his head tilted away from him. It would have been funny, even in sleep Clay not wanting to face him, if the day wasn’t so exhausting.

“Hah . . . sleep well Clay. I’m going to rest on the couch.” He patted Clay on the head gently, then walked off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John Dory trudged with tired steps, his eyes blinking in the dim light. His feet treaded against the carpeted flooring, hands ghosting over the pod walls. Pictures hung in a zigzagging row. Faces he knew all too well. John Dory ignored them, carrying onwards until he reached the end of the hallway. It opened up into a lit space.

He was back.

He passed by a mirror, pausing to regard it with a glance. What he saw inside was telling enough.

In Grandma Rosiepuff’s pod.

The scars on his skin from his present age were gone, the darker shade to his teal hair replaced with the lighter teal of his younger years, a time when everyone was still together, and nothing was wrong yet.

The light fountained out from the overhead bulbs, a soft sheen of white pooling out. He stared at it, frowning.

“I don’t recall the lights being this bright . . .”

His thoughts wavered. A splash of memory. A trashed room, the stench of a kitchen long overdue for a cleaning, pillows and blankets in piles. Another room, this one crowded with dusty memories, albums and boxes full of stuff that might have been junk to some, but never to them.

The most important room.

Where there were four bunk beds and a crib.

A crib where the bars were yanked out, sharpened into stakes in a precarious pile on the floor.

A room where there were drawings on the wall, dictating a story dreadful to accept because of what it meant.

John Dory blinked again.

Footsteps.

There were footsteps.

He turned. Another figure, much smaller than himself, was standing behind him. A little boy, wearing a pair of white shorts. His cyan skin was much like John Dory’s own, his eyes the same blue too.

And his hair.

He knew that hair from anywhere.

“Branch.”

His toddler sized youngest brother was staring up at him. The little troll was crying, tears spilling down his tiny face. He stood there, silent as Branch approached him. The little troll took one of John Dory’s hands, staring up at him with those big eyes of his.

“It’s my fault,” Branch said, his face scrunching up in sadness.

“Huh? What? What are you saying little bro?” He stopped down to be eye level with Branch, keeping his hand in Branch’s.

“It’s my fault you all left. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” Branch was crying harder, his little body hitching with pained breaths.

His eyes widened.

Branch thought them leaving was his fault?

He put his hands on Branch’s tiny shoulders, remembering just how small they were. Branch was still looking at him with big, sad eyes.

“Branch, it wasn’t your fault-“ he began, only to get cut off.

“Of course it was my fault! I messed up, and now you’re never coming back! None of you are!” Branch yelled, his voice trembling.

“No that’s not true.” John Dory tried to tell him.

But then there were more footsteps.

And new voices, but not ones he was capable of forgetting.

“He’s right you know.”

John Dory kept his hold on Branch, turning towards the source. Purple entered his vision. Purple and abs.

“Spruce.”

“None of us are coming back.” Spruce said, his gaze devoid of emotion just as his words were. They carried a finality that left his stomach churning. The outfit he wore was the same as the one from that night, where everything went wrong.

Where they failed.

Failed to do something John Dory never should have asked them to do.

Something he wished he never obsessed over, because it cost him years with his family, years he would never get back.

“No. You are. You will. I’ll find you.” He promised.

“Hah, just like you found me. You almost got me killed.” Clay was standing there, his arms crossed over his chest in a way he was all too accustomed to seeing from the middle brother.

“I didn’t get you killed.” John Dory kept his eyes back on Branch, tightening his grip on the small boy. Branch continued to sniffle, his little body trembling. “I never wanted you to get hurt.”

“But he did, didn’t he? That’s the problem. You can’t stop hurting the people you love.” A new voice, one he knew for its calmness in times of crisis, chimed in.

He knew that voice, but John Dory still looked up anyways. Branch seemed to turn too, recognizing the voice the same as John Dory did. “Floyd.”

Floyd was standing there, between Spruce and Clay. Like the other two, he was wearing his BroZone outfit. Come to think of it, so was John Dory. His teal vest was just as he remembered it, the same one carefully stored in a chest inside Rhonda. The only one wearing a different outfit was Branch. Those white shorts were ones Branch had been capable of wearing back when they had all left. When he thought about it, the only reason why Branch -who had been perfectly potty trained before he turned two- was wearing a diaper at three years old was because of him. Because it was what the fans were used to.

And how many times had he used the same logic for all his other little brothers when they wanted to try something different? When they wanted to change? When they wanted to grow into themselves a little bit more?

But then Floyd was speaking again, his tone so sharp, so unlike him, John Dory drank in each word.

“You know I’m right. And if you do find us all, you’ll just hurt us again. Just like you did then.”

The sharp pain stabbed at John Dory. Of all the trolls to be so blunt, Floyd was not the one. But it had been a decade. There was no telling how much the second youngest might have changed.

“N-no. No I won’t! I won’t do that!” He swore.

“YES YOU WILL!”

John Dory froze.

Froze just like he felt the entire room did.

Because the speaker then was beyond normal. High pitched, filled with hurt. The voice was known for sounding angelic, for being sweet.

Not Spruce.

Not Clay.

Not Floyd.

John Dory looked down at Branch. The little troll was gazing up at him again. But he was different now, alarmingly so. The little boy wore a leaf vest far too big for someone his size, one he belatedly recognized as Floyd’s. The shorts he wore were stained, as were his hands, the liquid sticky.

It was red.

Blood.

“Branch!” John Dory took the youngest troll’s hands. The blood was real, it seeped into his larger hands, dripping to stain his white shorts.

Where was it coming from?

Was it Branch’s blood? And if not his, then whose?

He was torn between looking for the source of the blood and talking to Branch. So he settled for an in between.

“Branch, what, what is this?”

Branch was still sniffling, his little face blotchy with tears. The sight of Branch crying was heartbreaking. Branch should be happy, giggling with the sweet little laugh that was music to the rest of his brothers’ ears. Just what happened to him?

“It’s my fault you left. And now you’re all gone.” Branch whimpered. “This happened because you were all gone.”

“No! That’s not true!” John Dory’s heart raced again. “Y-you should be safe. Floyd is-“

“With him? How do you even know if that’s true?” Clay’s expression was stone cold, his words icy. “How do any of us know if he didn’t leave just like everyone else?”

“Floyd, tell him he’s wrong.” John Dory swapped his attention to Floyd. The reddish pink haired was being awfully silent. But it was not abnormal for Floyd to be quiet. Usually Floyd thought more than the rest of them.

Floyd’s words brought little comfort. “I don’t know. And neither do you clearly.” There was a pause, followed by: “did you ever even know me at all? Or just the parts of me you wanted to see?”

John Dory’s mouth gaped open. “Floyd.”

“Stop pestering him!” Spruce snapped. “He always hated it.”

“Wha-“

And then there was more crying, loud, hiccuping sobs escaping the troll closest to him. “Please stop fighting! Please stop fighting!”

“Branch, hey, it’s okay-“

“No it’s not!” Branch wailed. “It’s not okay! It’ll never be okay again!”

“Branch,” John Dory said, a wave of helplessness washing over him. What was he supposed to say to reassure the little troll who seemed to be hurting so badly.

“You did this John Dory. It’s not Branch’s fault. It’s-“

“Mine. I know it’s mine Clay.”

He knew.

He always knew.

Anything else the rest of his brothers were about to say was cut off. A harsh grip tugged at his arms, yanking him forward, up into the ceiling.

Up where the now blinding light awaited him.

Chapter Text

“C’mon Clay!”

A hand was tugging his arm, the small owner of the voice happy and bright. The figure was little, blue, and wearing glasses that were almost too big for his small face.

“Whoa! What’s got you in a hurry Bitty B?”

“Sprucie is gonna play today!” Branch exclaimed, a wiggle of excitement to his skipping steps.

“Oh! Thought he was too busy working out?”

“Nah uh. Not today! Johnny gave Spruce the day off.”

“Did he now,” Clay said, not entirely sure he believed it. John Dory was always serious about Spruce’s workout regimen, making the purple haired troll the second most busy of all the brothers.

Which made sense.

Spruce having almost as much responsibility as John Dory when both of them had started BroZone together, back when they were kids who were just having fun, before they learned the true depth of what BroZone would mean long term to the trolls in the Troll Tree. John and Spruce prided themselves in doing the best for the fans.

But Clay didn’t miss the way Spruce would come home exhausted most nights, the quiet, yet heated discussions the two oldest would sometimes have.

How far they came from the days where Clay was an eager little kid, hopeful his big brothers would give him the chance to sing.

“Claaaaaaaay! Hurry up!” Branch was climbing up his arm a little, offering up the puppy eyes to his big brother.

“Okay, okay! I’m going!”

“Yay!”

The two made their way down the hall out to the living room, where Spruce was waiting. Clay looked at the mirror as he passed by it, seeing the reflection it gave off. A teenage troll with yellow hair, and a puffy vest. He frowned at it, but wasn’t able to think about the creeping sense of wrongness beginning to prickle at his temple as Branch was tugging him forward with the excitement toddlers were known for mustering.

And then they were in the living room. Instruments were neatly hung on the right wall, photos displayed in the room showing off memories Clay recalled half of. There was the soft green table, with the six stools around it.

But nothing in the room was as important as troll in the middle of it.

Spruce.

The purple haired second oldest was sprawled on a yoga mat, his body in a planking position. His brows were scrunched in concentration, sweat beading down the right side of his face.

“Sprucie!” Branch cheerfully called, running over as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Spruce barely had time to react as Branch rammed into him, attaching to the older troll’s face with gleeful affection. “B-Buh Branch!” Spruce responded through the squirming form kneeing his cheeks a little.

“Hehehe! We’re gonna play today!” Branch declared.

Clay watched, amused as Spruce adjusted with Branch still clinging to his face. The second oldest brother had the patience of a saint when it came to his younger brothers, detaching Branch carefully only on a he was sitting up in full. Spruce held Branch in both arms, the toddler happy to wiggle around in the strongest among the brothers’ hold.

“Yes we are. I see you brought Mr. Fun Guy with you.” Spruce looked over to Clay with a smirk, even as one of Branch’s tiny hands pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Clay rolled his eyes. Of all the brothers to be teased by, Spruce’s comments rarely bothered him. Perhaps it was because he knew Spruce did not mean it, that Spruce saw him as someone with intelligence and capacity to take things seriously, something a certain teal haired troll no longer seemed able to do.

“Haha very funny,” Clay remarked dryly.

Branch squeaked a little in agreement, patting Spruce on the cheek before turning to look at Clay with a toothy smile. “Yeah! You’re the funniest!”

Clay chuffed, reaching out to scoop the tiny troll back up. Branch went easily, detaching from Spruce’s face like a limp slug. Clay tickled the little boy’s tummy. “And don’t you forget it Baby Branch.”

“Hehehe staahhhhhp!” Branch squeaked out his laughter, arms flailing.

“Okay, okay, letting go . . . After a few more tickles.” Clay gave him a few more light scratches for good measure, then set him back on the ground, where Branch stumbled a little on shaky legs.

“Hehe . . . Hehe . . .” Branch flopped out onto his tummy, a small puddle of laughter.

Spruce and Clay watched him for a seconds. Then they conversed while Branch slowly calmed down. Clay gestured to the workout gear nearby Spruce’s mat.

“Were you getting some more reps in before Branch got here or what?”

Spruce sighed, dragging a hand through his purple hair. The sheen to it came from the hair gel the muscular troll insisted on wearing. “Well, I wanted to just take some time off but . . .”

Clay huffed, frowning. “Let me guess, John Dory said you needed to work out more.”

It would not be the first time John had said such things.

Spruce shot him a look. The kind that said ‘be quiet or else’. “It wasn’t like that. I remembered I haven’t got all my reps in for the week, that’s all.”

“Uh huh,” Clay said, unable to sound convinced.

Spruce sighed. “I know he ticks you off, he does the same to me sometimes. But you don’t understand how much John carries.”

Clay rolled his eyes. “Like what? Running a band? We used to have trolls for that, and then John Dory got too controlling like he always does so they left. And now everyone has all this pressure to do what he wants. Like, Floyd doesn’t even leave the pod half the time cause he’s too busy writing songs.”

Spruce straightened, his body language no longer the relaxed slouch it was moments before. Clay watched Spruce’s expression change, a sea of emotions swirl behind his indigo eyes before settling on something deeper, more serious than the purple haired troll usually showed.

“You really have no idea little brother, what John Dory does for this family.” Spruce let out a breath, slowly through his nose, holding up a hand when Clay tried to interject. It was no surprise Spruce could sense his immediate need to chime in, having been close to him all this time. Close to all of them, really. Spruce always tried to find time for everyone in the family, even if that was hard at times. “Maybe if you understood him more, you’d be able to communicate better.”

Clay scoffed. “Yeah right.”

“Yes exactly. And, to your other point, Floyd doesn’t stay stuck in the pod like he does cause of Dory. He does it because he loves songwriting. Wants to have a solo career too one day.”

Clay frowned, his face scrunching. Branch had recovered from his laughter, walking over with all the concentration of a toddler to the toy chest. He saw the little troll sifting through the toys within, and the puzzle boxes Branch loved doing so much. He paid the toddler little mind, pondering over Spruce’s words.

Floyd wanted a solo career?

Sweet, sensitive little Floyd.

Floyd who was so shy at the start of his debut in BroZone.

Floyd who had stage fright, to the point where he threw up before one of their big performances less than a year ago.

That Floyd.

Clay could almost laugh.

Sure, Floyd did like songwriting, the reddish pink haired troll was musically inclined since the day he first hatched. All of them were -Dad called them “musically gifted”- but what else would a troll expect from a boyband family. Because John Dory and Spruce had already been gaining popularity as a band before Clay or Floyd ever joined.

He fixed Spruce with a skeptical stare. “Floyd wants a solo career? I’ll believe it when I see it happen.”

Spruce just shrugged, completely unsurprised by Clay’s lack of confidence. “We might be waiting awhile. Floyd wants to have more confidence first. That, and he’d never leave us hanging with BroZone. But I’m sure he’d find a way to do both.” Spruce smiled then, the look reaching his eyes. “I have faith in him.”

“Heh. I guess I would too.”

“Is Flo coming to play?” Branch asked, the little troll panting. He dragged a big puzzle box behind him, the description detailing over 500 pieces inside.

Clay and Spruce shared another glance. Of course Branch would ask about Floyd. The two youngest had a unique bond, kind of like the one they had, where they always liked being together. Floyd always spoiling Branch probably added to their bond, even if all of them spoiled the tiny troll in their own way, there was an extra layer to everything Floyd did with Branch.

The layering that had Branch asking for him even if he had two other brothers ready to shower him with attention.

“Nah little bro, not today,” Spruce said.

“Yeah, he’s busy.” Clay agreed.

“Awww. Fiddlesticks.” Branch pouted, shuffling a little. But then his blue eyes were brightening, like another thought occurred to him. “What about Johnny?”

Johnny.

Clay resisted the urge to tug at his hair.

Because of course Branch would ask for John Dory.

Branch asked for him about as much as he asked for Floyd. Clay tried to attribute this to how busy John Dory was. Branch was a toddler, he did not understand why. Also, it was hard to be mad at Branch. John Dory was never harsh on the little troll. It was no wonder Branch thought highly of him.

Thought highly of the brother who incubated him in his hair.

Thought highly of the brother who fed him, changed his diaper, bathed him and rocked him the most when he was a baby.

Clay understood it. But that didn’t mean he had to like the other intellectual genius of the family hero worshipping John Dory.

Spruce gave Clay a side eye, again knowing him all too well. “John Dory is busy. Sorry Bitty B.”

“Oh. Okay.” Branch blinked up at them. The little guy had resorted to sitting on his puzzle box now, patiently waiting to get started. Another great quality Branch carried in spades. But Clay sensed the hesitation in Branch’s voice, noted how the little guy was biting his lip.

“Is something wrong Branch?”

Branch looked up at him, his small voice honest and filled with certainty. “I wish Johnny and Flo were here too. I’m happiest when we’re all together.”

Clay’s mouth twitched, a wave of bitterness washing over him then. The brothers had all been together, had all been happy.

Until HE ruined it.

But that realization came with another, as his mind clicked with reality. Clay closed his eyes. This scene was familiar, not just because he had went through it before . . .

But because this particular instance had happened a long time ago. All of what he had went through so far were things that already came to pass. And it was at this point Clay and Spruce comforted Branch, then sat down to do puzzles with Branch for several hours before it was time for dinner.

Clay opened his eyes, about to say something, anything to express how he felt about the whole situation. Being forced to relive memories of happier times was the last thing he wanted to do. They were not reality, not the truth, and they were far too kind to John Dory, when he deserved none of it.

But as his eyes landed on the scene before him, the words died before they could fizzle out of his mouth.

The living room space had lost its cheerful glow and macrame decorations. The lights were dim, the faint scratching sound of a dying bulb coming from somewhere overhead. The blue-white light gave the room a ghastly aura. With the muted colors of the wall every speck of vibrant, vivid color stood out all the more.

Clay gasped, his stomach sinking.

Red hot liquid spattered against the wall from him, the acrid metallic scent recognized for what it was.

Blood.

It was smeared, and to his horror tiny handprints were outlined in the mess. The imagery the blood painted was purposeful, strokes made by an artist who meant every depiction. And it was to his own horror that he recognized what these depictions were.

And where he had seen them before.

“No no no no . . .” Clay sunk to his knees. The haunting image of a Bergen hand closing around his screaming Grandma had everything inside him wanting to come back up, spill out on the ground before him.

“Where were you Clay?”

“H-huh?” Clay managed weakly, his breath coming in short, shaky pants.

Branch had grabbed his arm, tugging it in the same way the little troll usually did to get his attention. But as Clay gave him his full attention, the yellow haired troll realized there was something different about Branch.

Namely, the sticky red substance coating Branch’s hand all the way up his arm to his elbow. In the hand not grasping Clay’s arm was a stake, also coated with blood at its sharpened tip.

“Where were you Clay?” Branch asked again, the same eerie persistence coating his tone. It was like this version of Branch was asking a question as simple as what the weather would be like.

“B-Branch what happened to your-“

“Where were you Clay?” Branch asked again, ignoring his question entirely.

“What do you mean Branch?” Clay asked, his dread escalating with the suspicion of what Branch was referring to.

Branch’s gaze no longer held the same innocence it held mere moments ago. The light in those blue orbs had died, just like Grandma Rosiepuff did. Branch blinked slowly, taking his time before speaking again. When he did, the words lacked the same emotion his eyes did.

Which was any at all.

“You weren’t there. For the Escape.” Branch breathed out with that hollow expression that chilled him to the core. “I needed you Clay. But you weren’t there.”

Clay’s chest tightened. His skin was chilly, frosting over like the blood in his veins. The blood on Branch’s tiny hands felt hotter than the hands it coated. Branch was devoid of warmth too, and that sent another wave of dread coursing through him.

“I-I was there . . .” His traitorous mouth opened, the words weak but real. Clay was there back then, back during the most terrifying day of his life. “But I didn’t know Branch. I didn’t know you needed me.”

“Didn’t know? How couldn’t you know.” Branch accused, except that wasn’t Branch’s voice anymore. Clay felt even colder, a shadow settling over him. He turned and saw her.

“Grandma,” Clay’s voice cut off, his throat choking up.

Grandma Rosiepuff stood there, but every part of her was wrong. She was no longer the pleasant purple hue, alive and warm. Clay saw through her, her entire frame transparent.

“All of you boys left us. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Grandma reprimanded, her voice as loud as thunder in his ears. Branch left Clay and walked to stand beside her, still covered in blood.

He sniffled, tears welling in his eyes. “I am Grandma! I am!”

“Sorry isn’t good enough.” Floyd was there now too, taking Branch’s hand in his own. The little boy clung to Floyd like he always did. Floyd’s face held an emotion he rarely recalled seeing on him. The anger was so livid it had Floyd’s features morphing into a snarl, all teeth and purple eyes blazing in anger.

Anger that had Floyd shielding Branch’s trembling form. The fourth eldest held the youngest for comfort, as tears began streaming down Branch’s face.

“I-I just wanted us to be together.” Branch sobbed. “I just wanted us to be a family.”

Clay’s heart quickened, his hands instinctively reached out. “We can be together Branch. I promise.”

“Hah. You promise?” Grandma Rosiepuff scoffed.

“Yes, I do.”

“Like you promised to come back soon.” Floyd whipped out a stack of paper, and Clay knew what it was the moment he saw it.

Letters.

His letters.

The ones he wrote before the escape. Grandma wrote to him several times, pleading with him to come home. She found out one way or another that he hadn’t left the tree -likely through her network of friends, as well as being friends with King Peppy- and sent them to the King’s pod. The letters always detailed how much Branch missed him, how he and the others needed to come home soon. Clay wrote back a few times, saying he would return soon. An open ended promise made by a teenager who wanted nothing to do with his family back then. The family who failed to take him seriously.

In the end, that promise went unfulfilled.

And he never went home until a decade later, when there was nothing left to return to.

“You lied Clay. You lied to me.” Branch was looking at him then, his eyes full of heartbreak. Shards of pain stabbed him in the chest, choking up the words he sought to say, the apologies wanting to spill from his heart.

“I-I’m sorry. So sorry.” He tried, but the words fell on death ears.

Because the three were circling him now, each with a hand jabbed out, a finger pointing at him.

“Liar!”

“Lies!”

“Nothing but lies!”

Clay put his hands to his ears, dragging them down. The voices continued, ferocious like a murder of crows. Stabbing remarks, cutting blades. All of it was too much.

“Stop! Stop! STOP!!!!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“STOP!” Clay cried, his hands shooting up into the air.

Light flooded his vision, and it was then he realized two things.

One, he was in a bed.

Two, he was alone.

“Hah . . . Hah . . .” Clay breathed out in shaky pants, his stomach clenching up. The golden sheets fell to his lap, the cottony fabric bunching around him. Sweat slicked the thin sheets beneath those. Clay slid them off, exposing his legs. He almost felt overwhelmed by the sheer relief he felt at seeing them unharmed.

“It’s okay. I’m okay . . . it was just a dream.”

A very, very awful dream.

Clay dragged a hand through his hair, taking a few more moments to just dream. The haunting imagery of the dream lingered in his mind. Branch’s bloody hands, Grandma’s transparency, and Floyd’s anger. All of it struck a chord inside him, a reminder of sins he could not undo.

Mistakes which refused to let him rest until he found them again. For too long Clay had let his family slip his mind, pushed to the recesses where family trauma and hurt took root.

“I’ll find Branch and Floyd, and Spruce too if I can. And then we’ll all be together again. Even if that means John-“ he cut himself off.

John Dory.

Where exactly was John Dory?

Clay racked his brain, trying to remember. They had met up back at the Troll Tree, argued, were nearly found by a Bergen, managed to evade it.

And then what?

“What happened?” Clay tapped a finger against his temple in thought. “We were leaving the tree and then something, wait.” His mind caught up to him, presenting Clay with a memory. “SnarkSnails. They chased us, but then something else came . . .”

And swallowed them whole.

Or at least, he thought whatever the monster was had? Clearly something else happened? Perhaps John Dory saved him? The idea of giving the teal haired troll credit for saving him made him frown. But if that did happen then Clay would be grateful.

Even if it was begrudgingly.

“Where is he?”

Clay looked around, taking the photos hanging on the wall next to him.

All of them were of family.

Clay’s eyes slid over each one, kept in pristine condition despite the years. Sighing, he got out of bed. His legs wobbled slightly, and he stumbled at first down the ladder, Clay grabbed at anything to help him keep balance. The metal rack he failed to notice before was at the right place, and his hands latched onto it for balance as his feet steadied on the soft blue rug they stood on when he reached the bottom.

Taking another breath, Clay took a moment to get used to the strange feeling beneath his toes. The rug was fine, the soft surface something he was used to. But underneath it all, there was a humming. A faint noise like a rumble, but this one was not threatening.

Just there.

Clay frowned, wondering where exactly they were.

“Just find John then. He’ll tell me.”

He made his way away from the bed he was sleeping in above, looking around. The space opened up to a larger room of sorts, stretching far out. There was a kitchenette set up, another rug, steps leading to somewhere else, a chest pressed along the far wall.

And then his eyes landed on the couch.

The couch where someone else was resting.

“John Dory.”

The teal haired troll had a blanket thrown over him. Clay watched his legs kicking beneath the blue material. John Dory’s eyes were closed, his jaw clenched tightly in sleep. With the way his eyebrows scrunched up and the frown on the older troll’s face Clay understood what was happening.

“You’re having a nightmare huh? Guess that makes two of us.” Clay brushed off the memory of the horror filled dream, focusing on his older brother instead. John Dory seemed locked in the dream, stuck in whatever haunting images his mind managed to conjure up.

And he knew then what he needed to do.

“John. John Dory. Wake up.” Clay shook the older troll, hand gripping John Dory’s exposed blue arm.

“Nhhhhh . . .” John Dory let out a groan, stirring slightly.

“C’mon. Wake up man.” He shook John Dory harder now, jostling him.

“Ugh . . . Huh? Who is it?” John Dory’s sleep laden voice came out gruff and confused.

“It’s me, Clay. Where are we man?”

“Nhhhh,” John Dory let out a yawn, turning over on the couch. Clay got a closer look at the rings of exhaustion under John Dory’s eyes. The blue gaze was staring back at him now, opened but sleep glazed. “Ah, it is you. Real you.” John Dory yawned again, smacking his lips. “Good.”

‘Real me? What’s that supposed to mean?’

He ignored the pop up question, deciding to press on with the more important one. “John, where are we?”

“Where are we? Inside Rhonda of course.” John Dory explained, like that answered everything.

Clay gave him a deadpan look. “Rhonda? What the heck is that?”

“Sheesh. You’re snappy. Rhonda is my girl.” At Clay’s continued deadpan stare, John Dory added. “She’s like . . . my armadillo bus. Guess that’s the easiest way to describe her.”

Armadillo bus.

They were inside an armadillo bus?

Clay thought about it, what the last thing he remembered was.

Screaming. He remembered screaming.

Some creature coming out of the ground and swallowing them whole.

Then nothing.

“Did she eat us?” Clay asked.

John Dory looked at him, puzzled. “I mean, I guess that’s one way of looking at it. Normally I don’t introduce Rhonda to someone by going through her mouth, we use the door. But desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Desperate times . . .” Clay stared at him in disbelief. “That was terrifying!”

John Dory shook his head. “I know, and I’m sorry it freaked you out. But if I hadn’t called for Rhonda we probably would have died.”

“Died? What do you mean-“

“I meant exactly what I said. We would have died. I’ve lived on the NeverGlade Trail long enough to know we were in a situation we couldn’t win. So I got Rhonda to come get us.”

Clay reluctantly knew John Dory was right. With how persistent the SnarkSnails were there was no way they were escaping the predators alive. But getting swallowed by another, much larger creature -armadillo bus- was also far from ideal to someone like him, who associated being swallowed with Bergens, the monsters who had taken so many family members and friends away from them.

“I see.”

John Dory sat up on the couch, throwing the blanket aside. The crumpled pillow he had been pressing his head against looked damp, making him wonder just what John Dory had seen while he was asleep.

“Are you doing alright Clay?”

“Alright? I’m fine,” Clay said, ignoring the nightmare pressing at his skull. Not important, and the last thing he wanted was pity form John Dory of all trolls.

But, judging by the worry John Dory wore plainly, he was getting something akin to it anyways. “A—are you sure Clay. You kinda-“ John Dory swallowed, looking down at his hands.

“I kinda what?”

“When Rhonda swallowed us, you were screaming, and then you, well, stopped.”

“Stopped?” Clay was lost.

“You stopped breathing Clay.” John Dory told him.

“Stopped breathing?” He didn’t remember that at all.

“Yeah,” John Dory’s eyes were glistening then. Tears? Was he about to cry? “I thought I was going to lose you.”

Lose him?

“I stopped breathing. I-I almost died.” He went still.

What was that like for John Dory, to watch his younger brother stop breathing? He couldn’t imagine it, didn’t know what he would’ve done if he was in John Dory’s place.

“If the CPR I did didn’t work, you wouldn’t be here right now.” John Dory’s chest was heaving, the tears glistening in his eyes slipping down his cheeks. “I was so scared Clay.”

Scared.

Was this the same John Dory he had spent years despising?

He was so openly crying now, another thing he never expected John Dory to do around him. John Dory was the strong one. The bold one. The brash one. The one who always did and said stupid stuff.

But this John Dory, so honestly and openly crushed by the idea of Clay being gone, ripped out his beating heart and squeezed it tight. So tight tears sprang to his eyes too.

“I’m sorry Johnny.”

Johnny.

Yes, the name he refused to use since becoming a teenager slipped out of him. Because it was the right word for his older brother now. Johnny was associated with an easier, simpler time. Back when responsibilities were less pressing and John Dory acted like the oldest brother he thought he would always look up to. Johnny was the troll he had loved and admired.

Johnny was the troll who felt like he went away one day and never came back.

And nothing had been the same between Clay and John Dory since then.

John Dory’s eyes welled with more tears. Without further prompting, Clay found himself pulled into a hug. All encompassing, and fierce, John Dory held him close. Clay found himself returning the hug, slotting his face into John Dory’s shoulder.

“It’s okay Clay. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

And if they stayed like that for a long time, it did not matter.

Because there was no one there to judge them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where in the heck are we?”

After walking out of Rhonda with John Dory, and being somewhat convinced Rhonda was not going to get them, the brothers made their way outside of the armadillo bus together. They had decided to give Rhonda a little bit of a break, seeing as she had apparently been running since yesterday and now it was the afternoon.

An armadillo bus could only take so much apparently.

Which was fair.

John Dory frowned, equally puzzled. “I don’t know.”

They were surrounded in lush green nature. Dappled sunlight streamed in overhead. They seemed to be in a forest of some kind.

But there was something off about it all.

Clay poked at what seemed to be pool noodles, except they were extremely huge and made up the weird trees surrounding them. “This is weird.”

Colorful, but weird.

“Hmm,” John Dory gave a small nod, reaching into his hair and pulling out a map. Clay peeked over John Dory’s shoulder to look at it. “I’ve never been here before with Rhonda and we’ve travelled to a lot of places.”

“So you don’t know where we are then?” He held back the accusation that almost slipped out. After the night they had, it was understandable to be a little lost.

John Dory closed his eyes in thought. When they opened again his finger trailed down to a spot on the map, near the coast. “If I had to guess we’re somewhere near here.”

Clay followed the finger. “Vacay Island?”

“Yeah.”

“Surprised you haven’t been to Vacay before. It sounds like the perfect vacation spot.” Clay studied the map some more. It focused on one small continent, stretching out to examine what John Dory had called confidently called ‘Troll Territory’. He still didn’t understand what that meant, or that there were other trolls outside of trolls who liked pop music, but whatever.

He would figure it out later.

John Dory tugged on his goggle straps. “Well, this place is to the far east, and we would’ve had to go through Bergen territory to get here. We stayed inland to the west and up north in the NeverGlades.”

With how much John Dory was talking about Rhonda now, he understood “we” referred to him and Rhonda. It was weird to think of John Dory traveling around with a giant critter, but on the growing list of weird things he had been experiencing lately this just landed among the top ten.

“I guess that makes sense. But if you’re right that means we’re off course.”

John nodded. “We need to make sure that’s where we are though. If we set out again without knowing we could end up more lost.”

“More lost than we already are?” Clay asked, eyebrow raised.

John Dory shot him a meaningful look. “More lost and likely somewhere not safe for trolls.”

Again, Clay knew John Dory was making a good point. This seemed to be a time of wins for the teal haired perfectionist. He avoided commenting on it -because that would be TOO NICE in his opinion- and gestured to the scenery around them.

“Okay, but I don’t exactly see anyone around here.” Clay gestured to the scenery around him, pleasant but void of other trolls to talk to.

John Dory squinted at the map one more time before stuffing it away and whipping out a round device. It flipped open to reveal a compass. The needle spun before stopping. John Dory nodded at it before clicking it shut and putting it back in his hair the same manner he had with the map.

“If we head this way we should reach the strip leading to the island.” John Dory gestured to the right, his gaze focused in that direction, where more of those pool noodle trees stretched out before them.

Clay nodded. “Alright then, let’s get moving.”

“Rrrrrrrr!” Rhonda let out a cheerful rumble of agreement, stretching out her limbs with a small yawn.

“I hear ya girl. We’ll make sure to find a nice place for you to rest on Vacay for a bit, get directions, and then head out.” John Dory gave the armadillo bus an affectionate pat on the cheek that the critter leaned into.

“For now we should pile in pretty quick and-“

“Stop right there!”

Clay and John Dory froze, as did Rhonda, even though she did let out a questioning “mmrrp” sound.

“Huh?”

“What? Who’s there?” Clay looked around, as did John Dory.

“Could it be . . .” The voice trailed off with a gasp.

Clay turned as the trees rustled overhead. A figure launched themselves down from above, landing on the ground in front of him. And despite all the years apart, the recognition dawned on him immediately.

Purple hair.

Indigo eyes.

A wide smile.

He opened his mouth, the words about to leave him.

But someone else -John Dory- was quicker.

“Spruce!”

Chapter Text

Many Years Ago . . .

John Dory panted, his chest heaving from effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping off his chin. He sat back, eyes staring at the ceiling. The slow blinking felt appropriate, as did the water bottle being pressed into his outstretched hand.

“That was a good practice today bro!”

He let out a breathless laugh, the sense of satisfaction filling him. He managed a weak shoulder bump to the troll next to him. “Right back at you.”

“With how good the shows have been going, I have no doubt we’ll be selling out a tour in no time!”

“Definitely.”

The two stayed like that for a while, sat in their practice room. They had been begging their parents to let them use the hollow near their pod for BroZone stuff, but Dad and Mom had both chuckled, insisting they’d need to get a little more popular before Dad was willing to clear out all the storage Dad had put away. His years of working as a builder building pods had been cut short after his back injury, but his main job as an architect designing pods was still ongoing.

As were the many blueprints stored in storage.

Dad had wanted one of them to show an interest in his profession, but none of them had so far.

John Dory had tried to, once upon a time, but building things just wasn’t his style. The closest to it seemed to be Clay, but Clay was more into math and banking than he was building. Floyd and Spruce showed the same amount of interest as John Dory did, which was basically none at all.

“Mom and Dad should’ve had another kid. Maybe fifth time’s the charm.”

“What was that bro?”

John Dory jolted from his thoughts. The colorful rug they were sprawled on with its stitches along the borders felt damp from two sweaty boys sitting on it. He rubbed the back of his neck, unsurprised his teal hair was in a similar condition.

“Sorry, just thinking out loud.”

“Didn’t know you could do that,” Spruce said, a smile widening his lips.

“Do what?” John Dory asked, adjusting his goggles. They had fogged up a little from all the sweating.

“Think,” Spruce said simply, his smile transitioning to a smirk.

John Dory rolled his eyes, shoving Spruce. “Oh come on. I can think, despite what other trolls say.”

“Like your math teacher last year.”

“Yeah, exactly like that.” His nose wrinkled at the mention of her. How exactly was it his fault he got the wrong answer to the same problem twice? He was a musical troll not a mathematical one. He would save that gibberish for Clay.

“So what did you mean then?”

John Dory knew what Spruce was asking. He rolled his neck, appreciating the stretching relief that came with it. Practicing for four hours could do that to a troll. He had aches in places he didn’t know it was possible to ache in.

“It’s a shame none of us are into architecture like Dad.”

Spruce snorted. “That’s where your head went during water break. Weren’t you supposed to be coming up with another song for our next album? What happened to that?”

John Dory huffed. “I am, I am,” he said defensively. “Don’t worry about it. D’you think Floyd will ever show an interest, cause I doubt Mom and Dad plan on having anymore kids.”

Spruce dumped his water bottle over his purple hair, and John Dory watched the rivulets of water stream down the younger troll’s face to his chin then to the rug below. It was one of Grandma’s older ones, a good thing too. Mom always got mad when they got her rugs dirty. The red stitching in it reminded him of the reddish pink of the youngest troll in the family. The five year old was only two years younger than Clay, and always getting into everything. But with how sweet he was -always loving every troll he came across- no one ever seemed to mind.

“Yeah, not unless it’s a miracle. The last egg made Dad so tired and all. But . . . Mom always wanted a girl at some point, so maybe he’d try again for that,” Spruce pondered.

“And what about Floyd?” He asked.

“What about him?”

“Think he’ll want to be an architect.”

Spruce shook his head. “Nah. If anything, he’ll be begging to join the band in a few years, like Clay’s doing now.”

The mention of the yellow haired troll stirred up a wellspring of emotions in him. Clay had went from being the lovable youngest of the family, always so eager to please and get everyone attention, to being pouty.

Pouty for two reasons he was aware of.

Reason one: not being the youngest anymore.

Clay had disliked Floyd back when he first hatched. And he understood why, even if he no longer felt those emotions himself. John Dory was used to having little brothers by that point, used to how that meant the attention his parents afforded him was split between his other brothers. It was okay.

But for someone like Clay, it was his first time.

Clay, who was used to being the center focused. Clay who was used to being spoiled. Clay who was the smartest, brightest little troll he ever met. And while some part of him could have been jealous of that, he found that feeling never came. He was proud of having little brothers who were smart and capable. Proud to show them off, proud to brag. He knew Spruce felt the exact same way. It was something they shared in common.

But Clay had struggled with becoming a big brother.

Thankfully, with a little -or a lot- of help from John Dory and Spruce, it seemed like Clay had gotten over his animosity of Floyd.

A good thing too, with how much Floyd seemed to love Clay. The tiny troll was attached to Clay at the hip on most days. And when he wasn’t he was usually asking Spruce to play or John Dory for cuddles. He did take pride in being labeled by Floyd the “best hugger.”

“Yeah. We’ll have to let him in eventually.”

“We could let him in now if we wanted,” Spruce pointed out. “We do make the rules and all.”

“I know, I know.”

It all sounded so simple when Spruce talked about it. He just had a way with words, one John Dory had always admired. But things were never that simple. Because there was a second reason Clay was so pouty.

Reason two: not being in BroZone.

A little over a year ago, back when they had first founded BroZone together, they had decided the age when any brother wanted to join had to be nine. Spruce had been eight at the time, but close enough to nine that it counted (Spruce’s words, not his). And so they gained an age requirement.

One Clay was highly against.

Because Clay wasn’t content to watch the same way Floyd was. Clay wanted to sing with them.

Which he understood, but . . .

“But I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Spruce asked.

John Dory pictured their seven year old brother. Clay was so playful, so silly. Being in a band would take away from some of the freedom Clay carried with him everywhere.

He crossed his arms, looking anywhere but Spruce. His words came out more even and measured than he felt, a small puff of an exhale. “Being in a band . . . it’s a big responsibility. If Clay joined, he might not stay the same.”

Spruce huffed beside him. “What’s so bad about that? Dad says everyone changes.”

John Dory met Spruce’s gaze then, recognizing the certainty in those indigo eyes. Floyd and Spruce both had eyes with purple hue, though Floyd’s seemed like they would always be more pink. But despite how different Spruce’s were, it hardly made a dent in the similarities they shared. All the brothers had the same blue skin, the same singing talent, and most importantly . . .

“He’s right, but he also says they change at their own pace. If Clay joins the band too soon, it might take away from that.”

“From what?”

“Clay’s happiness.”

Spruce gave him an incredulous look. “Pretty certain being in the band would make him happy.”

And yes, John Dory could agree with him.

To an extent.

He shook his head. “This isn’t about the short term. It’s the long term. Being in a band is a big commitment. Clay’s only a few years younger than us, but he’s so smart already. Like, a future leader in the troll tree smart. Mom and Grandma were talking about it the other day.”

“So?” Spruce frowned.

He could hardly blame Spruce for not understanding. It was something he himself had struggled with at first. The desire to share BroZone with the rest of his brothers as an interest they could all enjoy had been strong. But the longer he took the time to think about it, and the more he listened to them, the more he understood.

“So, he might not like it, but he’s going to have to wait. He deserves to grow a little more. Be free and happy. Invest in all the knowledge he wants. And if he still wants to be in the band with us when it’s time, then we’ll let him audition,” John Dory said, letting the certainty of his words encompass him.

He was willing to wait for Clay.

Always.

That’s just what brothers did.

“You know, I didn’t think you were capable of saying such smart stuff,” Spruce murmured.

John Dory shouldered his younger brother’s shoulder, rolling his eyes. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of saying smart stuff.”

“Says the guy who got his head stuck in the honey jar last week.”

“I’ll have you know that wasn’t my fault. I only did it cause Clay lost his protractor and thought he dropped it in there,” John Dory defended.

Spruce raised an eyebrow. “Really? You sure he wasn’t just pranking you? I mean, who drops a math tool in a honey jar?”

“Clay didn’t know, so better to be safe than sorry,” he said.

“More like better to be sticky.”

“Whatever. Let’s just finish our water break and get back to practice,” John Dory said, standing up with his eyes settling on the guitar rack. They probably had at least another hour’s worth of energy to afford to practice before being done for the day.

But then Spruce’s hand was on him, gentle yet unrelenting in its hold. He froze. John Dory’s feet stuttered to a stop as he waited for Spruce to speak again. This time, Spruce presented a new clarity.

“Thanks John. For telling me why you’re against letting him in yet.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s only fair you knew,” John Dory told him.

“Yeah, but I doubt Clay will understand though.”

At that, John Dory sighed. “I know.”

Because Spruce was right.

Clay didn’t understand.

And little did John Dory know, but that would mark the start of the misunderstandings between him and his little brother Clay.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The world seemed to come to a fumbling halt. Time went at a standstill as everything narrowed down to one finite point in the universe. A blue troll with purple hair.

Spruce.

It had been so many years since he had seen his immediate younger brother, but John Dory would never forget that face. No matter the change in clothing -the orange swim shorts with the white flower petal pattern at the waist band paired with a flowery vest and a puca shell necklace- or the change in hairstyle -purple hair swept back like an ocean wave- he still recognized him.

For Spruce was the one who had practically been there with him since the beginning. And he hardly recalled a time at the start when it wasn’t John Dory and Spruce or Spruce and John Dory.

“Spruce!”

The words left his mouth on a reflex, one he didn’t know he even still had after all those years apart. Somewhere in the background he figured Clay had been about to do the same, but it hardly mattered. Spruce was right there in front of them.

Spruce, who he missed dearly.

Spruce, his best bud.

Spruce, his confidant.

Spruce, the one he thought would always be with him.

That hadn’t ended up being the case, but all the nostalgia he felt -and the possibility that maybe now that desire of staying, being together forever- filled him up to the brim.

Those indigo eyes, not like his or Clay’s or Floyd’s or Branch’s but still familiar nonetheless, still familial too, widened in surprise.

“John Dory?”

Spruce was speaking again, and oh how nice it was to hear his voice. John Dory didn’t know how badly he needed to hear it until it was speaking now. All those regrets could finally have a chance at a relief. Finally, things could be righted.

“Clay?”

Spruce’s mouth hung open, right below a nose also engraved in his memory. His heart squeezed, making him stagger slightly. But his feet corrected quickly.

And then he was running.

Fast.

Any other words Spruce might have been about to say died on his tongue. John Dory crashed into him like a dog would there owner who had been gone for too long. The only differences were his arms wrapping around Spruce to pull him into a tight embrace and the tears stinging blue eyes.

“Spruce! You’re really here!” The words were filled with so much joy, and his face ached with how wide of a smile it was being pulled into.

Spruce was frozen at first, his limbs rigid. John Dory felt the moment when they slowly relaxed around him, curving around him to return the hug. They embraced for several seconds, the sensation ending all too soon with the clearing of a throat. Clay was still very much present, and watching his two older brothers embrace had seemed to stir up some emotion in him, despite how hard it was to discern in his blue eyes.

“Eh hem, I’m here too. In case you both forgot.”

Spruce detached rather quickly after that comment, and John Dory did his best to ignore the sense of longing that hug left him. Back when they were growing up, hugs were almost an hourly occurrence -and this was before hug time which he had no clue if it ever managed to pass the planning stages- and they always were happy to give them. He never thought about the when those hugs started to dwindle in number -maybe it was when Branch joined BroZone- but it had hurt.

“Right. Sorry little brother.” Spruce focused on Clay immediately, reaching his arms out to him. “C’mere.”

He watched as Clay went eagerly into Spruce’s arms, accepting the hug without any further invitation. He pushed down the feelings worming their way into his gut. Clay had been avoidant of any of the affection John Dory had given him for the most part. None of their hugs had been as simple as an unspoken question.

“Mmmm, it’s good to see you Spruce.” Clay murmured, pressing close to Spruce.

John Dory stared at them. Spruce was still the same troll he remembered, but new additions registered in those few seconds. Physical additions. Spruce’s abs that had been so prominent in the height of BroZone, were almost gone now. In their place was a chubbiness unseen on the purple haired troll since the early years before BroZone.

“Right back at you Clay.” The two were doing the little handshake they always did now, the one John Dory had tried and failed to learn from watching it so many times. When he had asked either of them to teach it to him back then -years ago when they first made it- but the two had just looked at him and laughed. The handshake was their thing and he needed to “butt out”. That had hurt, but he listened then.

His brothers had been mad at him for enough other things by that point.

He waited till they were done with their handshake before interjecting again. Rhonda’s presence was warm against his back. John Dory could tell by the breathy exhales she was letting out just how tired she felt. As much as he wanted to simply catch up with Spruce he needed to get his girl’s needs handled too. So he made a noise, a quiet hum from the back of his throat, just loud enough to draw his brothers’ attention back to him.

“Hey, so um, Spruce. We’d love to catch up with you and all. Think you could show us where you’re staying so we can hang? Rhonda here needs to rest.” He placed a hand on Rhonda’s head, petting her lightly.

“Huh?” Spruce looked at him, his eyes traveling. John Dory watched as realization dawned on Spruce’s face that it wasn’t just the brothers out here in the strange pool noodle throng, but a critter too. “Oh! Sure, we can do that. But since when did you get a critter? You couldn’t take care of a pet back at the tree.”

A response came to mind. One of a cold, harsh reality freezing the air around them with a bitter intensity. It had been ten years. Plenty could have changed -almost certainly had changed- since they had last seen each other. John Dory befriending a critter -while not something his teenage self would have had the time for- was far from what he would consider implausible. Finding Rhonda had been one of the best things he had done in the years wandering the Neverglade Trails.

But what came out of him was far from the chill. He had missed Spruce, just as he had missed Clay. And he couldn’t afford to lose his brothers anymore. He knew as much.

Understood what was most important.

So jabs had to be brushed aside. John Dory needed to forget and move on. “Funny how things change,” he let out a small chuckle, hoping it didn’t sound as humorless as he felt. “I always wanted a pet back then, but I never had the time.”

He ignored the pressing feelings.

Reminders ghosting along his skin.

Little hands clinging to him, wanting hugs and attention.

Little trolls who relied on him.

Parents who trusted him to take care of a small blue egg.

Trusted him to take care of all his brothers after they were gone.

He was the oldest; it was his responsibility.

How much was a sacrifice really worth if in the end you crack under the pressure? John Dory clenched his jaw. Mistakes were mad, but Branch was with Floyd. And they would find the two remaining brothers soon enough.

He had to believe it.

When he found them then he could finally do what he had wanted to for so many years.

Spruce’s eyebrows scrunched together, the familiar look sending him another pang of nostalgia. His immediate younger brother had a way of knowing what he was thinking even when it was not said out loud. And even after all these years, it seemed that had not changed.

“Yeah, guess you do have a point,” Spruce said, the words leaving him in a small sigh. “That’s why you left right? So you’d finally get to be alone.”

That.

There it was.

Well, he probably should have figured this would happen, but with the whirlwind of Spruce’s arrival he had no time to prepare.

“I did.”

Spruce nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did it treat you well? The experience.”

Clay went to stand beside Spruce again. He ignored how in effortlessly in sync the two looked. There had been a time when all of them had been like that together. But resentment had a way of driving wedges between even the most well-meaning trolls.

“From what he’s told me it was fun. He went on all sorts of adventures with Rhonda,” Clay said.

“Did you now?” Spruce kept his attention on John Dory, his indigo eyes never leaning John’s blue ones.

“I did.” John Dory admitted.

Because it was true. Rhonda and him had fun together. But that wasn’t the end of it all, and putting it so simply was hardly fair. There were several layers to the years without his family, the silent moments broken only by Rhonda’s rumblings or the quiet hum of nature.

“So I guess it was worth it then, leaving everyone,” Spruce said.

John Dory recognized the hostility brewing in Spruce’s tone. It translated to the way the slightly younger troll carried himself. Back stiffening, eyes narrowing, even the slightest flair of his nostrils. He knew the pattern. Clay would get in your face when he was mad, but Spruce was not the same. His anger was colder, quieter. It brewed beneath the surface, lurking in a tightly drawn expression just waiting to jut out.

When it boiled over, it was far more dangerous.

Thankfully, he knew what to do.

There was no barriers or time restrictions keeping him from speaking the truth. In a different set of circumstances -one of danger and desperation like the ones he had encountered on the trail plenty of times- then he would keep his thoughts to himself, revert to taking charge. It was a safe response, the one that got him out of trouble more times than he cared to count.

But it was this same response that had landed him in a BroZone separation to begin with.

He needed to do better; had to.

It was the only chance he had to try again with them.

Because while the freedom had been nice, the loneliness was painful. And it had grown. And grown.

And grown.

“No. I needed space, but I never should have went about it in that way,” John Dory said, glad to feel confident again.

Spruce’s eyebrows raised. John Dory could sense the surprise even if it wasn’t so blatantly obvious. Spruce took a few moments to gather himself before speaking once more. Calm, tentative, and an underlying hint of curiosity.

“Guess you might have changed after all then.”

A laugh bubbled out of him, chopped and springy. It fizzled out as quickly as it came, serving its purpose just as rapidly. He knew Clay’s eyes were on him too, as were Rhonda’s. Rhonda’s tail was wagging. He felt the telltale swishing in the air. Rhonda liked the laughter, the sound was soothing to her, and usually made a sort of giddy sound escape her too. With how tired she was, such a sound did not escape her now, and he hardly knew if she ever fully understood why he was laughing. But it was nice all the same.

“Yes, I’d guess so too.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey Bruce!”

“How’s it goin’ my main man Bruce?”

“Wanna catch some waves later Bruce?”

John Dory walked alongside Clay, Rhonda keeping a few troll lengths behind them. Spruce was leading them with a confidence he hardly felt as they walked on golden sand. The sun was pulsing overhead, heat making sweat prickle at his brow.

The heat was sweltering, staining hands with sweat and warming up the trolls with its warmth. He blinked back some of the sweat, right before the salty mixture got into his eyes.

But the heat, as annoying as it might have been, was far from his greatest concern.

And the strangeness of his brother being called Bruce instead of Spruce hardly seemed to register with how tense he felt.

Vacay Island turned out to be an island paradise. The living structures seemed to be sandcastles built with a sand made to last. Waves with their beaded water splashed onto the shore, the pleasant song of weird beachball birds and voices filling the air.

Voices belonging to giants.

Giants, while they were not Bergens, were still giants.

Clay seemed to feel just as uneasy as John Dory felt. The headband he had settle around his hair pushed up just that little bit more as his eyes darted around each one they walked past, his footsteps always keeping him close to his two older brothers.

The giants, for their part, were hardly paying the trolls any mind, which he hoped was a good thing. They were cheerful, walking with a sway to their step. And yet, with how big they were he could hardly relax. How Spruce was doing it was beyond him. Having grown up in the Troll Tree together, all the brothers were well aware of the dangers of trusting giants -especially if they were Bergens- easily.

That was an easy one way trip into a stomach never to be seen again.

“Uh Spruce. How are you so . . .” John Dory trailed off, his throat tightening as yet another large giant passed them by. Its footsteps felt like large thumps against the sand, the vibrations traveling up his spine.

Spruce looked at him over his shoulder, the relaxed expression on his face doing little to unwind the tight anxiety building in his chest. “Hmm, something up bro?”

“Is something up bro? Man, how are you so nonchalant about all this?” Clay said, the words snapping out of him like a fish darting out of the water so close by.

Spruce turned to face them fully now, stopping in place. John Dory went rigid again as another one of the giants got a little too close for comfort, the giant’s thumping footsteps feeling like loud reservations vibrating in his skull. He clenched his teeth, allowing Clay to do the talking. All these large . . . creatures, no, not creatures, he had no clue what to describe them as, but despite how harmless they acted, the part of him deeply ingrained with the need to stay at all costs from giants was blaring its warning bell.

He wanted to leave.

And some part of him NEEDED to leave.

But Spruce was talking again, and he found himself listening, no matter how distantly. The words Spruce was saying felt like it was being filtered through to him underwater. “Nonchalant? I’m just taking you to my restaurant where I live upstairs. What’s there to be worried about?”

What was there to be worried about?

Was Spruce serious?

“Are you serious?” Clay asked, throwing his arms wide. John Dory was glad Clay seemed to share his opinion, which he proved further with his next words. “It’s not about your home man. It’s about all these giants! Aren’t you worried at all?”

John Dory watched the exact moment as realization dawned in Spruce’s eyes. Indigo widened, a light to them glimmering in with the sun’s rays. An understanding grew in those eyes, sponging out from them to register in Spruce’s brain. When it did manage to get there, his response sopped out like a dripping sponge.

“I’m not worried. And neither should any of you. The Vacayers, or Vacationers if you want their full name, are completely friendly.” Spruce told them, sincerity steeped in his tone.

John Dory found it hard to be convinced. Giants -Vacayers or not- were still giants. And trolls were small. And easy to pick up. And grab. And eat.

He shuddered at the thought, the memory of screams and cries pressing in his head.

“How can you be so sure?” Clay asked with a frown.

Spruce opened his mouth to speak again. John Dory placed a hand on Rhonda’s paw, trying to calm himself down. All these giants were bringing back memories he would rather forget. The screams, cries of pain, all of them were trickling back in. Trolls he would never see again in this life.

The uneasy he felt from it all was unsettling.

“I can be so sure because-“

Whatever Spruce was about to say was abruptly cut off. John Dory looked up just in time to see the newest giant Vacationer step right into view. She was tall, yellow with a stripe along her stomach. The smile on her face was wide, her words cheerful and startling.

“There’s my fiancé! Who are these trolls Bruce? Friends of yours?”

Chapter Text

Many Years Ago . . .

“291, 292, 293 . . .”

Up and down.

Clay watched in his peripheral the constant motion. It was like a seesaw, ever going with its momentum. Sweat clung to his older brother’s frame, the “heartthrob” of the group getting his push ups in for the day. The book in front of him crinkled with each turn of a yellowed page. New books -ones of knowledge and practicality- made their way to him just as often as his other favorite genre these days. A diagram sat in front of him now, displaying a building network.

Specifically an underground one.

It had only been a few days ago that he had learned about the tunnels. Viva had mentioned it in that offhanded way she did a lot of things, like she didn’t realize no one else outside her royal family and a select few adult trolls knew.

To be fair, she probably didn’t. That was just how Viva was. He knew well enough by now to keep her shared info a secret though. But it left him to his own spiral of thoughts.

Like, why did the King keep the tunnels a secret? Surely the rest of the tribe deserved to know about them. But then there was the other pressing concern, the one that twisted his gut and left his chest feeling tight.

His Dad.

Dad knew about the tunnels.

Because Dad helped make them.

He faintly recalled the days when Dad came home from work covered in dirt. At the time, he had thought little of it. Dirtiness seemed to be part of the job description, and somehow the older troll always managed to get cleaned up by the time dinner was set out on the table. It hardly seemed to matter . . .

But now all those exchanged whispers from his parents made sense.

And so did one other thing.

“What are you thinking so hard about over there little bro?”

Clay looked up then, his forgotten book still clutched in his hands. Spruce stood before him, sweaty and tired. A towel hung around the older troll’s neck, damp with sweat too. The six pack Spruce showed off at all their BroZone shows sat on proud display as they normally did.

“Who says I’m thinking about anything?” Clay asked. He held up his book. “Can’t you see I’m reading?”

Spruce shook his head, an amused smirk playing on his lips. “I know you little brother. Whenever you’re reading you always look like this.”

“Hey!” Clay yelped as the book was plucked from his hands with ease. “Give that back!”

Spruce actively ignored him, opening the book up to a random page. Clay no longer saw those indigo eyes as they hid in the page. Spruce’s ears poked out from either side of the opened book, and the sight would have been comical had the bubbling aggravation in his gut not been as present.

“Spruce!” Clay reached again.

Spruce annoyingly dodged, hopping back with a practiced step he chose not to acknowledge came from the choreography Clay himself taught everyone last week.

“Give it back!” Clay demanded, swiping this time for Spruce’s hair. If he snagged onto it maybe Spruce would let go.

“No can do Clay. I’m reeeeeeeading~” Spruce singsonged, continuing to avoid Clay’s hands. He hopped back again and again, still holding the book in front of him in an attempt to “read”.

“C’mon man, you’re being a jerk!” Clay protested, his voice rising.

“No I’m not,” Spruce responded, finally lowering the book to stare at Clay. “I’m just proving a point.”

Clay put his hands on his hips, raising an eyebrow in accusation. “And what exactly would that be?” Agitation prickled along his spine, rearing up to hiss out of him in an angry outburst if that book was not handed over. Limited edition copies were NOT to be messed around with.

As if sensing his growing rage, Spruce extended the book out to Clay then. Clay wasted no time snatching it back, dusting off the spine of the book with careful hands despite his frayed patience.

“That when you read you have your head in the book. You had the book held out, and whenever you do that it’s always because you’re too busy thinking to read.” Spruce explained. “So I’ll ask again, what were you thinking about?”

Clay huffed. It was no surprise Spruce figured him out. It always seemed to be the case these days. Despite the addition of two younger siblings Clay was sure Spruce would always be the brother he was closest to. The closeness with him had only continued to grow stronger as he got older. Something he could not say for his oldest brother, who he had been just as close to before.

Years ago.

Back when things were different.

Back when John Dory was different.

Clay sighed, his shoulders sinking. “Fine, guess there’s no harm in saying this to you. You know how to keep a secret right?”

Spruce nodded. “Of course. Look who you’re asking.” He gestured to himself with a broad sweep of his hand.

“Well, I just . . . you know how Dad got on this big project. It was a few years ago, back when he-“

“Back when he came home muddy everyday and would always talk with Mom in whispers while we were in the living room playing?” Spruce hazarded a guess.

Clay nodded. “Yeah, exactly that.”

“Let me guess, you know more about that time now,” Spruce said, his words not a question at all.

“Wh-what? How do you-“ he stammered.

“Know anything about it?” At Clay’s nod Spruce continued. “I know because of John.”

“Because of John? John Dory, the guy who’s always busy and never just hangs out anymore. That John Dory? Are you serious?” Clay asked, exasperated. Memories of the last time John Dory truly felt present amongst them all was rare. The oldest was always busy doing something.

Always too busy to play.

To hang out.

To be.

To be Clay’s bro-

Spruce’s eyebrows scrunched together. The sigh he let out had Clay’s skin prickling. “I know you and John Dory don’t have the best relationship right now-“

“When did we ever?” Clay snorted, the words coming out as an annoyed question.

Spruce sighed again, but to his credit continued. “You did. Before you did.”

“Whatever.” Clay crossed his arms.

“John Dory cares about us, and he knows a lot more than he lets on,” Spruce said in explanation.

And those words, they did make sense. He could believe them to an extent, but not as wholly as he was sure Spruce wanted him to. Spruce seemed to want a lot these days. Most of it he found himself unwilling to give, because as much as Spruce understood, there were still some things he could never agree with the purple haired troll on.

Even if Spruce was the troll he felt closest too.

The divides existed, as did the misunderstandings.

“I’m sure he does. Fat lot of good it does us when he doesn’t say anything about it.” Clay muttered.

“Hey hey. He doesn’t say anything for our sake, to protect us all.” Spruce argued. “I know he’s not really acting the way he used to but he’s still our brother.”

“Hah. Doesn’t feel like one. Not to me.” Clay muttered, ignoring the sinking sensation in his chest.

“Clay,” Spruce said, Clay’s name leaving him tiredly. “You really shouldn’t say that. Things aren’t simple. You’ll understand someday.”

He doubted it.

He really did.

But Spruce was looking at him the same way he would sometimes look outside their family pod on rainy nights. The pitter patter of the wet droplets brought back memories of those lost. Spruce always missed Mom on those days. The solemn, drained look he bore now was all too similar. And suddenly Clay could no longer continue with his angry musings. It was hardly Spruce’s fault things were so strained between Clay and John Dory, and it wasn’t his job to fix it overnight.

So, he did the only thing he could think of to say.

“Uh huh. Guess we’ll just have to see.”

“What do you want to know about that job?” Spruce asked, moving the conversation along with an easy subtly Clay wished he possessed.

“It was for the escape tunnels right?” He asked. When Viva had talked about it, his mind connected the dots quickly. The question was less for him and more for Spruce, making sure they were on the same page.

And by the way Spruce’s eyebrows scrunched together and the frown that deepened on his face, Clay was certain they were.

“Yes, it was.” Spruce ran a hand through his purple hair absentmindedly. It was a gesture plenty of trolls did to calm themselves, or to simply gather their thoughts. “Back then, escape had always been a dream. But after King Peppy rose to power with the untimely murder of the former king and queen, he was determined to follow through with the escape plan they wanted.”

Clay nodded, processing. What he knew of the former King and Queen could be summed up in textbooks. Viva had never met either, and her stories about them were filled with “what ifs” and “could have beens”. They paired nicely with the occasional stories of King Peppy growing up with his parents.

“Why doesn’t anyone talk about the tunnels now?” Clay asked next.

Spruce shrugged, much to his disappointment. “Not sure. Guess King Peppy doesn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. Grandma said they still weren’t done yet, and after Dad’s death, well, production was slowed to a halt.”

Clay’s eyes widened. Was their Dad truly that instrumental to the tunnels that things had stopped without him? “Did they stop? I don’t understand why they would.”

“I think so yeah. Losing Dad was a nasty hit to morale-“

“Who cares about morale!” Clay protested. “Think about all the more lives that’ll be lost.”

Spruce’s huffed, and Clay recognized the moment when frustration settled on Spruce’s face. It was rare, but the feathering of a muscle in Spruce’s jaw and the hardness of his stare had Clay shutting up.

“Of course I know that Clay. And I’m sure the King does too. It wasn’t just Dad that was lost though. Most of the tunneling workers were taken too. So new trolls had to be trained and sworn to secrecy before work could get started again. You know how the King is. He wants things done safely. Tunnels are dangerous, especially when they’re built poorly.”

“Yeah yeah, I know. Branch’s said it enough already,” Clay said, practically hearing the voice of the tiny trolling playing in his ears. Branch had a love of all things building. His drawings were either all of them -Branch loved drawing the brothers all together- or of some sort of structures. For a baby he was startlingly intelligent, picking up skills and speaking in full, coherent sentences in a matter of months. It was as surprising as it was adorable.

Seriously, Branch was incredible.

Understandably all of them loved the little guy, even if Clay himself wasn’t as open about it as others.

“Do you have any other questions?” Spruce asked.

Clay bit his lip. “I guess I do have a few more, if you wouldn’t mind answering them that is?”

A faint smile returned to Spruce’s face. “Sure little brother. Go ahead.”

Clay fidgeted with his hands, glad the tense atmosphere from seconds ago was starting to slip away. He didn’t know what he would do if he ruined his relationship with Spruce. After Mom and Dad had passed, Spruce was the one who understood him best.

Him, and Grandma too, of course.

He didn’t know what he would do without them.

Probably spend more time angrily brooding, like he did whenever he thought about his once good, but now tarnished, relationship with-

No, there was no point dwelling on him.

“Why do you think Dad was so eager to be involved?” He asked. Bergens had warned of the consequences for trolls trying to escape. They ranged from just the escapee troll getting eaten to the whole family of the escapee getting eaten in front of said troll before they too were eaten. The Bergens were unforgiving when it came to trolls trying to flee. For a troll with a large family, many of whom were notable for being in BroZone, getting caught would be disastrous.

Spruce was dragging a hand through his hair again, the purple strands drooping slightly. That smile was beginning to transition to something sadder, bittersweet.

“I didn’t know at first myself, but after Dad and Mom were, well, y’know, I understood.”

“Understood what?” Clay asked, leaning forward slightly.

Spruce stared past Clay then, out to the scenery beyond. Golden light filtered in through the tree branches. Beyond that was the slated metal of the cage. It left far too big of gaps for the trolls to escape from, but the guards that patrolled took care of that problem.

“Dad never wanted for any of us to be in danger. Part of being a good parent is always wanting to give your kids a better life than the one you had.”

“What? He thought putting us at risk was okay if everything worked out?” Clay asked, puzzled.

Spruce shook his head. “You know how Dad was, always optimistic, he never planned on getting caught.”

“Okay, but even if we managed to escape that wouldn’t take away from all of us living in the cruel environment of Bergen danger for many years . . .” Clay trailed off, the words dwindling from his throat.

Because that wasn’t exactly true was it.

Spruce seemed to recognize the glimmer of recognition dawning in Clay’s eyes. “C’mon Clay, use that big brain of yours.”

“It was for Branch, wasn’t it?”

“For us and him. But yeah, I think Branch was the biggest part of it,” Spruce agreed.

“Oh.”

It made sense, way too much sense.

“It all adds up,” Spruce said.

Clay found himself nodding. Spruce was right. Dad getting the chance to save any of them from ever having to experience life under the threat of Bergens . . . he would have done whatever it took to achieve it. And despite all the risks that could’ve came with -and did in a sense- with that decision, Clay found himself accepting the decision with ease. Because if he had been in his Dad’s position he probably would have done the same.

“It was, wasn’t it.” Moisture began to gather in his eyes. If there was one certainty Clay could have about his father, it was that the older troll had loved all his children. He sniffled then, overwhelmed by it all. “I just- I just wish he wasn’t taken away.”

Spruce stepped forward, bridging the distance between them. His blue arms reached out, hands extending to wrap around Clay. He relaxed into the hug easily, his vision swimming with tears.

If Clay had broken into sobs shortly afterward, neither of them had ever spoken a word about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Present Day . . .

Clay had to will his mouth to stay shut. The past hour was still processing in his brain, making his head spin. Spruce and Brandy -Spruce’s fiancé if he could believe it- had led them over to a huge sandy structure they had explained was their restaurant they ran together. The place was filled with glowing pools and patrons ordering food. There were servers milling about with trays and a sway in their step. The giants should have had him resisting the urge to flee.

But his mind was elsewhere.

Spruce, the brother he was supposed to be closest to, was getting married.

How had he missed all this?

His head hurt with all the new knowledge, but the ache a short distance below outdid it easily. His gut churned with the reality of years missed. Sure, some part of him had distantly known that separating from his brothers meant they would have a life beyond what he knew. But a much younger, more stubborn teenage Clay had never fully considered how it would hurt years later when he realized all that he had missed. All that he had lost.

Not even a remembered handshake from years past could erase that pain.

Clay looked at John Dory over his shoulder, wanting to glare at him with the full brunt of his anger forged from the dismay he was feeling. He almost did so, the feelings teetering on the edge of his control. But then he saw a look that was becoming strangely familiar on John Dory’s face, a look a younger Clay never thought he would see on his arrogant older brother.

Regret.

Remorse.

Sadness.

There was a wariness that plagued John Dory too, a highly alert observance the older troll had been displaying since Clay first reunited with him. But those other emotions were cloaking John Dory like a heavy blanket. It had the words draining from Clay.

They all had regrets.

Perhaps the guilt was punishment enough, for now at least.

‘You’re just as guilty’ his mind whispered.

“So what do you think of the restaurant brothers?” Spruce’s cheerful question brought Clay out of the whisper in his mind.

Clay blinked, looking around. There were four exits he could spot aside from the obvious one they had walked through, and what looked to be a staircase obscured by a draping curtain hidden in a back corner. He took a calming breath, grounding the information into his brain. Safe, there was plenty of exits here. He would be safe. Aside from the fact that the giants here seemed friendly -especially so if Spruce was going to marry one- this place seemed to be a troll friendly environment despite the many, many giants.

His blue eyes breezed over the troll objects in the room.

Smaller menus neatly piled beside larger ones.

A stage for trolls to stand on.

A small -compared to the vacaytioner size- table.

Pictures of Spruce and Brandy hung up on the wall.

“Yes. This place seems nice,” John Dory said.

“Yeah,” Clay said in agreement.

Spruce was smiling then, the tall yellow vacaytioner who had led the way kneeling down to whisper something in his ear. Clay watch the small exchange, the gesture feeling very intimate from the quiet words and Brandy’s hand gently running through Spruce’s purple hair.

“Haha, will do love,” Spruce said when Brandy leaned back. Clay could only watch as Spruce planted a kiss on the corner of Brandy’s mouth. Then Brandy was walking away.

“Take care Bruce dear. We’ll talk more over dinner,” her gaze was directed towards Clay and John Dory then. Clay held her gaze, hoping he was not stiffening up too badly. The internal instincts of avoiding the attention of a giant at all costs pressed down on him, making it a herculean effort to manage. He doubted John Dory was faring any better, but did not chance a look at him. “It was nice meeting you both. I’m excited to learn more about Bruce’s family.”

“Uh thanks. It, uh, was nice to meet you too,” Clay managed through his thundering chest.

“And thank you for allowing us to stay here and rest for the time being. We appreciate it and so does Rhonda.” John Dory added, his words reminding Clay of the other reason they had decided to trek through the woods -and even ended up close to this strange island- to begin with. Rhonda was being oddly silent now, her tail dragging and her breaths coming out in tired pants.

Spruce cast a glance at the armadillo bus, Rhonda’s glittery tongue flopping out as she continued to pant. While at first the sight of the critter had freaked Clay out, having been inside her and travelled a sizable distance helped to quell the nerves he initially had felt.

“Bye love! See you later.” Spruce offered to Brandy.

Brandy’s face scrunched slightly, a laugh bubbling out of her. It was bright and airy, like a fountaining spring with crystal clear water. It reminded him of another laugh, one he sorely missed. Clay could imagine what she was doing now. Out on patrol of the golf course most likely, helping other trolls with their tasks.

Viva was always like that.

A good queen despite the adversity.

Someone he treasured, someone he lo-

“I don’t know how you managed to get a giant as your fiancé Spruce, but I think we’re more curious about the name change,” John Dory spoke, his words cutting off Clay’s train of thought. “Right Clay?”

Spruce stopped staring at Brandy, her tall form receding into the back of the restaurant, and focusing on Clay and John Dory once more. “Oh, I definitely have a lot to tell you about Brandy. She’s the best! Ah, I’m so lucky to have met her brothers, she really is amazing.”

With the amount of enthusiasm pouring out of Spruce, Clay could tell his immediate older brother wholeheartedly meant it. There was a warmth to the smile Spruce bore whenever he said Brandy’s name, like even saying her name was a cause for happiness for him. He wondered if he looked the same whenever he said Viva’s name.

“And what about the other thing Spruce?” Clay asked.

Spruce blinked, like it just occurred to him there was another thing being asked of him. “Oh, right, that.”

“Yeah,” John Dory said. “What about that?”

Spruce sighed. “I doubt you’ll like my explanation, but it’s only fair you know.” Clay watched as Spruce gestured to the stage. It was a small, set up space. A cassette tape lay there, no music coming from it now. “Come with me, we can talk better somewhere less crowded.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It turned out that behind the stage was a pocket of space. Warm colors made up the room, just as pleasant as the shades the sandcastle structure was on the outside. Clay’s feet pressed against the soft carpeting lining the floor, relishing in the way it felt underfoot. It brought with it the ghost of a memory. A soft blue rug knitted by a troll who had only ever given him love.

While there was plenty of uncertainty to be had regarding his two missing brothers, he knew her fate without a doubt. Mom and Dad, despite being gone for so many years now, still popped up in his memories with a mix of nostalgia and sadness. Viva had told him that eventually the sadness would never fully leave, just melt away, blending into the quiet happiness that would grow in his heart. Because death was sad, but getting to have those trolls in your life -no matter how short the time- was something worth being happy for.

Viva had given him an appreciation for many things.

He was thankful for her too.

Thankful, for reasons such as the one he felt now.

Understanding.

Understanding why Spruce felt the way he did around Brandy, the feelings that came with a love deeper than familial ties.

“I don’t have anything against my name,” Spruce began once he made sure they were fully alone. The only sound beside Spruce’s speech was Rhonda. She had found a place against the wall to slump against. Snores were escaping her now, a testament to how tired she truly had been. “Don’t get that twisted.”

John Dory frowned. “Then why change it? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Just like you don’t understand a lot of things,” Clay felt the words slip out before he could stop them, sharp and biting.

Viva had given him a lot of things.

So had time.

An understanding of John Dory was not one of those things.

“What?” John Dory said, and Clay watched how the older troll’s face scrunched up. Of course John would pretend to be confused about all this, like he didn’t know exactly what Clay was referring to.

Sure, they might have had a moment together back when he had allegedly died for what, a few minutes, but that didn’t erase his feelings.

“Clay, don’t start,” Spruce warned, cutting in before John Dory could get another word in edgewise.

His eyebrows raised. “Don’t start? Since when were you-“

“Clay,” Spruce said his name again, stressing each syllable of it. “Please. Just don’t.” Spruce swallowed, taking a small inhale. “John has a right to question the name change, so do you.”

Clay wasn’t convinced. “What do you mean?”

John Dory’s voice carried. “Spruce is a family name. Mom named you. She loved the name Spruce.”

The words have Clay tensing, and he could only watch as Spruce went rigid. Clearly the mention of Mom struck a chord in the purple haired troll. It made sense. Spruce had always held a close knit bond with her.

Floyd too.

Floyd, who wasn’t even here, and that knowledge hurt too. Clay wondered what Floyd was doing now, how the fourth youngest of the family had grown and changed since he had last seen him. Would Floyd look entirely different now, feel different like Clay himself did? There was no telling.

Just like there was no telling what emotion welled up in him at the tears gathering in Spruce’s eyes, and John Dory’s too. How rare a moment to see them shedding the clear droplets. But Mom always had a way of bringing out deep feelings.

“Yes, it is,” Spruce said quietly.

“Then why?” John Dory’s voice shook, emotion traveling out as he stared down Spruce. “Why go by another name?”

Spruce exhaled through his nose, a half sigh stuttering out. “My name will always be Spruce. I don’t plan to get it legally changed, if that’s what you’re wondering. I just-“ he cut himself off, fiddling with the puca shell on the necklace he wore. “I wanted to move forward with my life.”

“Move forward?” Clay questioned. His heart felt heavy, the weight of discomfort pressing on his rib cage. “What? Did you want to forget about us?”

Forget about me?

Clay didn’t ask, but he doubted he needed to. Spruce had a way of understanding all the unspoken things Clay wanted to know. It came from a bond forged what felt like ages ago, back during a time when Clay relied on Spruce. Without him, he might have never learned to talk properly. That encouragement, the persistent practicing back when forming words was oh so difficult, it had done wonders.

Spruce had taught him.

John Dory too.

Praise.

Words.

Love.

They made him want more of it, want all of it.

Spruce shook his head. “I could never forget my family, not really.” At the frowns from Clay and John Dory he hurried on. “I never planned to either. But being in BroZone as Spruce made starting over as Spruce hard. There was just so much associated with my name. And if I wanted a fresh start somewhere new -a true fresh start- it was better to start with a new name.”

“Huh.” Clay murmured. “I guess I can understand that. If you want to be called Bruce I can try to start.”

Spruce was looking at them with an imploring look, like he really hoped they understood his reasoning. Clay supposed he did, in a way. When he left home that night ten years ago, Clay had wanted nothing more than to shut the past out and move on. All the fighting, the lack of helpful communicating between brothers, had taken its toll. He had told himself mentally that eventually he would come back -once John Dory got the stick out of his butt and apologized- but John Dory had left the tree like he said he would. When he fully accepted this, some part of him had thought about going home. There were enough letters begging him to do so, mostly unsigned that he assumed were mainly from Floyd but likely from Grandma as well. Viva told him going home was a good idea -Branch missed him- but going home was just . . . problematic to say the least. Every time he tried a part of him just stopped halfway.

How could home be his when Spruce wasn’t there?

And what about John Dory?

What would home be like without him?

An angry part of him had said it would peaceful, a far more pleasurable place to be. But even with all the anger driving him to be viciously satisfied, Clay never went back home. And all too quickly it became too late for him to take the chance.

He had failed Branch.

He had failed Floyd and Grandma too.

And he had no one, not even John Dory, to blame for it.

“John Dory, what about you?” Spruce turned to their eldest brother, looking at him with the same hope. “Do you understand?”

John Dory, who had glanced over at Rhonda for a moment, looked back at Spruce. His lips were turned downward, eyes half lidded. He crossed his arms. Clay noted the lines along the older troll. Marks marring blue skin. None of them looked fresh at least, but each told a story of hardships passed without any of the other brothers. “I know the why you did it, but I don’t think I can accept it. Not as easily as Clay.”

“Why not?” Clay asked. “Why can’t you just go along with it man? Especially if it makes him happy! Just go along with what he wants for once!” Anger was bubbling again, a familiar emotion.

John Dory met his angry expression with a steely gaze of his own. “I can go along with things, have before. But I don’t understand. There’s nothing in the past for Spruce to be ashamed of. We had a good band, can still have a good band if we find Floyd and Branch. Just because Grandma is gone doesn’t mean-“

“What? Grandma is gone?”

Silence encompassed them quickly.

All that was left was the faint background of vacaytioners in the restaurant behind the noise cancelling curtains that acted as a shield for backstage.

Clay realized, likely the same time as John Dory, that there was something they had forgotten to tell Spruce.

“Grandma is gone, yeah,” Clay said, the admission replacing the boiling anger with a cold bucket of water dumped over him.

“W-what. H-how did it, why did- what?” Spruce said, the look on his face going from the understandable disappointment to horror. It dawned on the purple haired troll’s face with a realization Clay wished they never had to tell him.

“She died a while ago,” John Dory said. “Before the Great Escape.”

“The what?” Spruce seemed to be at a loss for words, those two coming out choked and quiet.

John Dory and Clay shared another glance. Because of course, Spruce didn’t know about the Great Escape either. Not really.

Clay remembered the conversation he had with Spruce all those years ago about the tunnels then. Spruce had been a comforting presence then, explaining things he struggled to grasp. Now seemed to be his turn.

“It wasn’t long after we broke up BroZone,” Clay started, the band’s name strange on his tongue. It carried with it a weight he couldn’t explain, one from years of feelings never truly sorted. “That they managed to finish the tunnels. I was there, as were Floyd and Branch.” At Spruce’s raised eyebrows he pressed on. “But something happened before the Escape. Likely right before,” he admitted, hating that tidbit of information. For Grandma’s pod to be such a mess, her getting taken had to have been a recent thing. Floyd prided himself on keeping things clean so there was no way if Grandma had been taken several months before the Escape that he wouldn’t have cleaned the home up. “The drawings we saw made it pretty clear.”

He remembered them all too well.

The red drawings on the wall.

A hand snagging around Grandma.

Blood, so much blood.

The stakes from the crib.

Something had went horribly wrong. He could only imagine the trauma it had put Floyd and Branch through. It was a small relief, to know they had each other. Those two were close the way Clay and Spruce were. That closeness would get them through the tragedy.

Made him sure that Floyd and Branch had escaped the tree and were with the other group. Safe and sound.

“I-I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Spruce murmured.

John Dory went over to Spruce then, putting a comforting hand on his arm. “What don’t you understand about the Great Escape brother. Clay and I can explain more if you-“

“No, I understand that the trolls escaped. That’s great. What I don’t get is what you mean by Floyd was there too.”

Cold crept along his skin. It seeped underneath the layers of his clothes to leave him chilled. A wellspring of dread rose within him, from his toes up to the tips of his hair. His heart thumped, pressing heavily in his chest. So heavily that the air escaped his lungs, voiding the words he wanted to say.

But the same could not be said for John Dory.

“What do you mean Spruce?”

Spruce stared at the both of them, blinking. And when his mouth opened he said something Clay never expected to be said, could have never predicted in a million years.

“The night BroZone broke up Floyd left too.”

Chapter Text

The Night of BroZone’s Breakup . . .

The stars glowed in the night sky, illuminating the branches of the Troll Tree. The bark was cool to the touch as he ran along it, the distance between himself and the pod growing with every step. His white shorts bunched from his longer strides, the vest he still had on unzipped. It did nothing to hide his bare, toned stomach from the chill of the night air.

Hardly any troll was out this late, the darkness making them retreat inside to their pods. This left him free passage mostly, little interruption getting in his way. And after the show they had just had, he was glad to see no one lurking in the corner of his view, begging for an autograph.

“We’re finished . . .” The words trailed out of him like a cup of cold water poured on his head. He wished he could say this was a surprise to him, a shock he had never seen coming.

But that would be a lie.

He knew it.

And so did the rest of his brothers.

Well, maybe not Branch.

And Floyd, who could be too hopeful for his own good.

He came to a stop ten more pods down, his body demanding a break from all the running. Or maybe it was just the iciness in his lungs, the brittle air carrying an unpleasant chill to it.

“Ugh Spruce, you should have brought a jacket with you,” he berated himself, the sigh he let out exasperated at the bad habit. How often had he forgotten to bring a jacket or scarf during this weather? Too often. The hand Spruce dragged through his hair was just as much another habit from years past. “How can you be by yourself if you forget a jacket of all things? Chances are you probably forgot something else . . .” He trailed off, his hand reaching for his backpack, where all the items he packed were stored, reaching towards that one pocket he had on the side. Spruce’s hand came up empty. “Oh.”

Oh.

Of course.

Really?

Spruce sighed again. “I just had to forget THAT didn’t I?”

The leaves rustled as if in agreement to his exasperation. Some of them drifted into the night sky. He watched a few collide with the metal of the cage around the Troll Tree. The rest snuck out through the gaps, a sneaking trick no troll in their right mind would try.

Everyone knew that was a death sentence.

The few trolls brave enough to leave the tree always used the tunnels, the ones his father had built with his own two hands. But to Spruce’s knowledge anyone who had left had never come back. It seemed bizarre to him, and bizarre to the others who talked about it too. Leaving your family forever was something he would never be comfortable with, no matter how much they fought sometimes.

“I need some time to cool off, but I’ll be back,” Spruce promised. No one else was around, but saying it left his chest feeling lighter. “And then everything will be okay.”

Hopefully a break would be just the thing everyone needed. And when they all came back together -which they would, he was certain of it- then they could be a happy family again. Spruce thought back to the days of the break. The time right after their parents had been eaten. The grief had weighed so heavily BroZone had went on hiatus. A hiatus they were uncertain they would ever come back from.

The sadness had been too heavy then to feel like smiling. All the brothers felt it, the camaraderie of their pain knitting them tighter together.

And then it happened.

An event that drove them closer than they’d had ever been before.

Spruce would always remember the day Branch hatched.

It was one of the best moments in his life.

That little smile, and the tiny troll it belonged to flickered in his mind. Spruce stared at the moon. The bars that caged the trolls inside the cage had his view partially obscured through slanted gaps.

“I need to go back for the brush. I can’t leave without it.” He knew as much, the decision made without any further consideration. The brush had to come with him wherever he was going. It was too important.

Spruce’s hand stilled in his hair, a memory from years ago bubbling to the surface.

~~~~~~Flashback

“Mama! Can you brush my hair?”

It was night time, the sun disappearing from view. The low lights of the family pod were warm like twinkling fireflies, the cream walls of the room soft and reassuring as the day dwindled in preparation for the next one. Spruce held his hair brush in both hands, holding it close.

A purple gaze turned to look down at him. He had been smaller back then -five years old was an age to be little- when John Dory and Clay were his best friends and Floyd was his favorite baby brother, being an actual baby. He was just too cute and cuddly. Floyd always had the brightest baby giggles too, which made him want to carry the tiny troll around all the time. It was a new hobby of his, finding things that made Floyd happy, which wasn’t hard. Floyd liked all sorts of pretty, shiny things. For whatever reason Clay didn’t like playtime with Floyd, but he figured Clay was just being silly. That’s what his Mama said at least. Spruce studied her with admiring eyes. His mother’s slender form with its light green skin and magenta hair reminded him of the prettiest roses grown in their family garden.

Bellerose kept a hand on the small crib she sat beside. One of her hands rested on the occupant inside the crib. The sound of cute baby snores was the only background noise in the small nursery room. Floyd was snoozing away, hugging his stuffed crocodile plushy the baby loved so dearly.

“Sure. Come sit over here sugar,” she patted the spot on the bench beside her.

Spruce rushed over, scrambling to get up on the seat next to her. Bellerose grabbed him by the back of his nightshirt, pulling him the rest of the way up. A small giggle left him, his hands twitching excitedly around the brush.

“Can you sit up straight for me baby? With your back to me?”

“Course mama! Here’s the brush!” He hand it to her eagerly.

Bellerose chuckled as he adjusted himself on the bench. He wiggled a bit, fixing the bunching of his wave patterned pajama pants until they were straightened out. They were one of his favorite sets. Soft and smooth, the knitting along the hems from his Mama. She always made clothes with love.

And whenever any of her sons had clothes that needed repairs -from rough housing- she always managed to fix them like there was no damage at all.

“Hold still now Spruce. You’ve got a few tangles here,” Bellerose said, combing the brush through his hair with slow, measured strokes.

“Okay!” He sat up as straight as he could.

“Thank you baby. Did you and Johnny get Clay to bed yet?” She asked in that absentminded manner that never truly was when it came to her. She retained everything her boys told her, even when she spoke like she was lost in thought. Spruce knew she was listening, so did his other brothers, whenever she asked a question.

He nodded, the action a minute jerk when he remembered why he was keeping still. “Course Mama.”

“And you read him a story?”

“Yes Mama. But Clay likes it better when Daddy’s here to do the voices,” Spruce said.

They all liked it when Daddy was there to do the voices. But work had been keeping Daddy from coming home at dinner time on the weekdays. Mama said he was doing important stuff at his job, and that he’d explain it when they got older.

“I know dear. But I’m glad you two stood in for him,” Bellerose told him, continuing to brush through Spruce’s purple locks.

Spruce’s little legs swung beneath the bench. They were the only part of him which could move without disturbing Mama’s progress. Her hands move elegantly through his messy purple locks. He tried keeping them neat like hers, but always managed to get them messy by the end of the day. But still, it was better messed up than whatever his younger brothers managed to do.

Clay with his glue and paper crafts.

Floyd will cereal, frosting, and pretty much any liquid- his baby brother got into everything.

“We got him to laugh today Mama,” he added. “Clay was really grumpy earlier, so I was surprised!”

She chuckled again, a light and airy sound. It was music to his ears whenever she laughed. Like a most pleasant wind chime. “Oh, I would’ve been too. Clay does love his pouting, my little sprout.”

“Uh huh. Don’ know why he was so mad today. I was just playing blocks with Floyd.” He gestured to the snoozing baby troll with his eyes. Floyd, asleep as he was, remained unaware of the gesture.

“Hmm, probably because blocks are something you do with Clay,” her answer left him frowning.

“But I offered Mama! And he said no. I don’ get it.” He huffed, remembering Clay’s frown from earlier, and the way the younger troll stomped off. He was so moody lately, it was weird. The way his face scrunched up whenever Spruce was playing with Floyd . . . it was odd. Clay never had a problem playing with Spruce when John Dory was with him. It was super strange to the five year old.

“Ah sugar. I don’t think it’s the playing he’s upset about.”

“Then what’s got him all mad?” He really wanted to know. And it seemed Mama was the troll with all the answers. Not even his big brother Johnny knew why. And Johnny said he knew everything (which Spruce doubted but still).

The brush in his hair stilled. “I’m not sure if this’ll make sense dear. You sure you want to hear?”

“Yes! Please Mama!” He turned and rested his hand on hers. It was the hand placed on the crib’s railing, a reassuring presence for a sleeping Floyd. His Mama’s hands were the warmest. He always loved holding one whenever she took them on trips to the market.

“Oh alright. But only because you asked so politely.” Bellerose let out a soft exhale before continuing. “The reason why Clay’s been upset lately isn’t because of the playing, it’s because of the who he’s playing with.”

At that, Spruce frowned. “Huh? I-is he mad at me Mama?” Then another, more worrying thought occurred to him. “Does he hate me?”

Mama gently rubbed the back of his scalp, her warm fingertips pressing at the spot behind his ears he could never truly itch on his own. It was soothing, easing the building worry from his small chest. He saw Bellerose shake her head out of the corner of her eye.

“No baby. Clay doesn’t hate you,” she assured him with her calming tone and pleasant touch.

“You sure Mama?”

“Yes dear, I’m sure. Clay will always love you.” She told him sincerely. Bellerose would never lie to him, his trust in her absolute. The knowledge helped him to relax, but it brought with it another question. Pressing against his skull with needy fingertips, it tumbled out from his lips. The brush was moving in his purple locks again, teasing out the knots.

“What about you?”

“Hmm dear? What was that?” The brush in his hair continued its stroking. A hair went out of place just to get brushed back into the fold. All the loose ends were dwindled off, snipped or combed back out of reach. Neat, pristine, and ideal.

Mama, will you always love me too?”

Another chuckle, soft and sweet. “Yes sugar, Mama loves you always.”

~~~~~~End Flashback

 

He was reluctant to push back the recollection of that peaceful moment, the warmth rejuvenating him in a way few things had recently. The memory of Bellerose and her care would stay with him forever. Despite there being nothing special about it, the quiet care and attention the brush was used with made the brush’s value immeasurable.

“I have to get it. There’s no way I can leave without it,” repeating such words helped solidify what he wanted, and put firmly in place what he had to do.

Spruce looked out into the distance.

The darkness shrouded the troll tree at this late hour, the stars and moon the sole light as lanterns started switching off for the slumber of trolls within their cozy pods. However no darkness could prevent Spruce from reaching his destination. He had been there enough times to have the steps seared into his brain, a permanent map for him to view whenever he so desired.

And right now, as his destination became certain once more, he desired it greatly.

“One quick trip back and then I’m gone,” he promised, ready to disappear after he had gotten what he needed.

~~~~~~~~

The trip back to Grandma’s pod ended soon enough, though his lagging footsteps may as well have made it felt like an eternity. Spruce knew by the moon’s position he could not have been gone long, not by any means, so he was unsurprised when familiar voices carried over to him. They lighted down with recognition in his ears. And try as he did to ignore them as he snuck in through the back entrance -his own hidden route back to their shared room- to grab the hairbrush he needed, there was no way he could.

Not with what was being said.

His stomach felt like a stone sank in.

Floyd.

Floyd was leaving.

Hidden in the hallway -out of sight- he heard them. Branch was pleading with the desperation of a small child who felt alone. He could easily picture the look on his baby brother’s face. The sadness; the pain.

Spruce flinched.

He never wanted to cause any of his little brothers pain. All he had ever wanted was to make them happy. And John Dory had felt the same too, once upon a time at least. His hands clenched. The brush he stored in his hair for safekeeping weighed heavily.

She wouldn’t want this either.

Mom, who had never gotten to meet Branch, would have rushed to wipe away the tears Spruce was certain were threatening to form in Branch’s wide, innocent eyes. At this age Branch’s trust in his big brothers was absolute. He believed they would always be there for him; he believed they would always love him.

And he would.

Spruce promised he would.

‘But how can I stay when I feel so unhappy?’

It was never Branch’s fault. Not once had he settled the blame for his feelings on Branch’s tiny shoulders. Branch didn’t deserve to deal with consequences, but at the same time, as they were all still kids themselves, none of the brothers deserved to feel unhappy either. BroZone had started off as something beautiful. It was a personification of the brotherly bond and love they shared for each other. Dances were made with delighted smiles, songs were sang with happy nods of their heads. It had been wonderful. But somewhere along the road that vision had been lost. The brothers became overwhelmed with all the fame their success brought them.

Among other things of course, things he didn’t want to dwell on. A brother who he needed time a part from.

The brother who was supposed to always be his best friend.

The one who used to understand him better than anyone.

The one he thought he understood better than anyone.

But he could not say so now, could he?

“See you later.”

The words snapped him out of his stupor, the flash of teal hair with those goggles and square faced smile going with it. Branch’s voice was small, hesitant and sad. And despite the hope that it carried the sadness laced with it was unmistakable. There was no covering up how sad all this was making Branch, the baby who had his heart on display for everyone to see. Branch who loved strongly, had been tested for his giftedness, where he passed with flying colors. The baby the doctors said would have strong feelings along with his intelligence, meaning he would need both love and support in equal measure.

But now all his older brothers were leaving it seemed, if Floyd was truly going.

Spruce moved.

His footfalls stayed silent in those next few moments, instinctively knowing what parts of the floor to step around to avoid alerting Branch, who was now getting cuddles from Grandma. He wondered what she thought of all this. She had witnessed the slow fall of BroZone, heard their fights through the walls . . . he was certain she had to be angry with all of them.

Not for the band.

But for Branch.

And that made him pause at the exit.

And for that briefest moment, one he would come to think about, to dream about, for years to come he considered staying. But one look at the pictures in the hallway -of their once happy family- had him moving.

He had to leave.

But he would try to leave Branch with one last, certain parting gift.

A brother who stayed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He knew the younger troll. From the magenta of his hair -just like their late mother’s- to the eyeliner he used for their shows . . . Spruce knew all of his second youngest brother’s habits. So he knew what path Floyd would take, it was simply a matter of tracing his steps.

The branches cris-crossed in diverging paths. With all the trolls cooping up in their pods for the night there was hardly any activity mulling about. But this part of the tree was crowded nonetheless. Stalls for the marketplace were fixtures at all angles. With troll’s hair making movements so versatile almost every inch of space had a purpose here. All the occupation took awhile to take in. The shops with their vivid signs changed often, the colors so bright he almost missed the splash of magenta hair slipping between the carts on a plump branch.

Keyword being almost.

Spruce twisted around one of the stands left out -empty but an obstacle still- to bring himself closer. That guitar, those shorts, and the white earring . . . there was no mistaking who was in front of him.

“Floyd!” He called out, his voice carrying with the wind.

The figure in front of him, who had kept his head down and body hunched forward, turned. Purple eyes that also came from a loved one long gone met his own. Floyd had one of the kindest faces. It was a trait he knew came from their mom Bellerose. And while some trolls at school had made fun of Floyd for his love of makeup and fashion, Spruce had appreciated Floyd’s unique interests. It was another way to express individuality in their family, and BroZone too.

Floyd’s eyes widened, the moonlit sky giving them a silvery hue. “Spruce! I-I thought you’d already left the tree by now.”

At that, a sheepish chuckle escaped him. Floyd was right, he would have been gone by now, if not for the brush. Again he felt its weight in his hair. Nestled amidst his long purple locks, safe and sound. For an object so light weight it felt like he was hiding a troll up there instead. His mind went to the last trolling that made his hair his personal hiding space. Branch would always be giggling and rolling around while up there. A few times he’d kicked Spruce in the head on accident. And while yes, he had been mad at first, the huge amount of baby kisses he got afterwards made up for it tenfold. But thinking about Branch now made the brush gain more weight, so he pushed it away to respond to Floyd, his second youngest brother. Floyd who was still giving him that look of startled surprise.

“Heh. Well, I wish I could say there’s some big reason why I stuck around longer, but there really isn’t much,” he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Isn’t much? What do you . . . Oh,” Floyd said when Spruce teased the end of the brush out of his hair, just enough for Floyd to see. Recognition fluttered across Floyd’s face quickly. They all knew the brush, knew how Spruce treated it as his most treasured possession. His barbells, weights, fan letters . . . none of them compared to it.

Nor did they compare to Mom’s necklace, an item he had NOT forgotten earlier unlike the brush. Wearing it now however, when the string was damaged and frayed was a bad idea.

“Yeah. Almost forgot it. So I had to go back,” Spruce said.

Floyd was regarding him with a different expression now, a scrutiny that would have surprised their fans. For all the persona of the “sensitive one” BroZone had Floyd set up as, it didn’t make him incapable of being harsh at times. Especially not when the magenta haired troll deemed it necessary.

Like now apparently.

“That’s not the only thing you forgot,” Floyd told him.

Spruce tensed. “What do you mean?”

Floyd shot him a look icy enough to make the blood in his veins freeze. “You know exactly what I mean.” Floyd’s eyes squeezed shut for the briefest moment, like he was trying to will himself to stay calm as he spoke. “You didn’t say goodbye to Branch. None of you did.”

Ah.

So that’s what it was.

“I-“

“Just because Branch is a toddler doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve a proper goodbye,” Floyd explained.

“I- . . . you’re right,” his shoulders sagged with the admission. “I- we all should have said goodbye properly.”

Floyd nodded, fiddling with the leather on his guitar strapped to his back. “Branch doesn’t really understand any of it, but he deserved a goodbye.”

Spruce nodded. “He does. And I’m sure you gave him one.” He decided to neglect to mention how he had been there, how the faint murmur of it reached his ears when he snuck back into the pod. It hardly mattered, and bringing it up would likely land him with another heated glare.

“I did. I-I hated saying goodbye to him,” Floyd said, proving his point with the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “But it had to be done.”

Spruce nodded.

He got it.

He did.

And who would he be to judge Floyd to begin with?

Considering he had done the same, if not worse.

Because unlike Floyd, he had not said goodbye. He had left without a second thought, without a single word of farewell. Not to Grandma, not to Clay, nor Floyd, and certainly not Branch. His heart squeezed. He placed a palm over it, finding it colder than expected. It was as though the chill of the night had seeped into his veins, claiming him as one of the gusts of wind in the night. For the wind had allowed itself no home to return to, so it was left to travel in the darkness prevalent at this hour alone.

“I think I know why you’re going . . . but I’ll ask anyways. What do you plan to do? After you leave that is?” Spruce asked, holding back a shiver as the chill in the air grew worse. It was no wonder Branch had been shivering on the way home earlier, the cold creeping in even a few hours before.

Floyd glanced at the strap of his guitar again- something he had been doing a lot. “Remember when I told you I wanted to try going solo?”

“Oh. So that’s it.”

“Yeah,” Floyd nodded.

“I do remember.”

Spruce did.

And he remembered how it came about to. Floyd had always loved music, and when it turned out he had a knack for writing tunes -that started back in his second diary which Clay had “borrowed” (stole) to be funny- which got John Dory and Spruce’s attention quickly once they discovered the fourth youngest’s writing. From there Floyd tagged along to every writing session John Dory held. Those two would spend hours working on songs together, in sessions Spruce and Clay would join sporadically. And when the teal and magenta haired brothers were songwriting as a duo, they took charge of the band’s style and choreography. The new dynamic had taken the band to even further levels of success than they had before.

Everyone had thought Floyd was brilliant, even John Dory. The compliments the eldest -who before had been the primary source for songwriting in the band- had been immense. Spruce knew that it came with some other strings attached of course. Clay’s feelings on the matter were less and less understood by John Dory then, the lack of recognition spurring more resentment and anger stemming from a need for acknowledgement. But none of it was Floyd’s fault. Not by any means.

“I’m going to get out there, make my own music. I-I’ve always wanted to.” Floyd admitted, a little bit of the familiar shy joy seeping into his words.

Spruce felt a wave of fondness wash over him amidst the turmoil of other feelings swirling around inside him. Floyd had dreamed of this for years. Spoken in quiet conversations, drawn in little doodles . . . Spruce knew about it. He recognized Floyd’s dreams in a way few could, and that even the other brothers could not. But like many things, Floyd’s dreams were something rarely spoken of out loud.

‘Because they weren’t about BroZone. And that meant they couldn’t happen.’

Because as encouraging as John Dory was to Floyd, the idea of Floyd exploring a solo career would have been awful to the eldest brother. And as much as some part of Spruce understood the why that was, it didn’t mean he had to enjoy it. Happiness shouldn’t have to be sacrificed. Not in a family who all were supposed to love each other.

He placed a hand on Floyd’s shoulder, the action his attempt at pushing back the memories of a lack of support for the fourth youngest. Spruce hoped Floyd could sense all the sincerity he put into his voice as he said: “I’m sure you’ll do great Floyd.”

He meant it.

And if Floyd’s eyes watered a little more, there was no one there who would judge him for it. “Thanks Spruce. It means a lot to hear you say that.” Floyd sniffled, rubbing at his eyes. “Sorry, I just . . . can’t help being emotional.”

A small chuckle escaped him. “Heh, it’s okay. You were always the Sensitive One, right?”

While that was true -and Floyd was likely the one who matched his role best even now- the reference to BroZone brought with it a solemnity. It cloaked the atmosphere with a wave of mixed emotions, like a shadow creeping up from behind.

“Ugh . . . I guess it’s too late to say I never really liked being called the Sensitive One,” Floyd admitted.

The revelation brought more laughter out of Spruce, but it was far from cheerful. He knew the feeling. Getting shoved into a box had been find at first, all about building brand. But no one was ever meant to stay the same forever, especially not trolls who had started a band as children. Over time they developed new interests and traits. And for Floyd, he stayed sensitive but became increasingly more creative, and a dreamer who desired more than what BroZone could offer.

“Ah, probably so. Not that it’d make a difference now. The band’s over.”

Floyd looked down then, his eyes still teary. When he blinked a few of them fell. “Is it bad to say I miss it already?”

“If you mean the good times? Then no. It’s not bad. I miss them too.”

He would always treasure those early years. When Mom and Dad were their number one fans right before Branch was born. Clay was happy to be silly and smart at the same time, Floyd would be coming up with new music every day, and Spruce could hang out with John who had been available to do anything and everything. John who wasn’t just spending time with him because it was for working out or arranging fan dates to boost Spruce’s image as the heartthrob. Things were easier back then, the warmth of innocence and freedom to be themselves despite the titles still upon them.

But, as always when he yearned for those days, a tiny blue troll popped up into his mind. A reminder of the happiness which came with the pain. Branch had been the brightest spot for all of them after Rowan and Bellerose were eaten.

They were able to smile again thanks to him.

BroZone was able to perform again.

He didn’t know if any of them would have been able to move forward if Branch had never been born. And luckily, he would never have to find out.

But . . .

“Floyd, are you really okay with leaving Branch behind? I always imagined if BroZone ever did break up that you would stay with him,” Spruce said. It was one of the few things he had been certain of in that reality. But how wrong he had been apparently.

Floyd’s expression tightened. “I never want to leave Branch. I don’t think any of us do, right Spruce?”

His nod came immediately. “Of course I don’t. Branch is our baby brother.”

He could never leave his baby brother forever.

Especially when leaving for even this short time left him with heavy guilt.

“So I won’t be. Not for long at least. I just want to start my solo career. And once I have a solid income I’ll come back to get Branch and Grandma . . . and we’ll find you and the rest of the bros too. Then we can be a family again and maybe a band too,” Floyd said, with the certainty of someone who had already figured everything out.

“Uh huh. I don’t know Floyd. John-“

“John Dory let his obsessions get the better of him. If we give him a year to cool off on the NeverGlade Trail I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Spruce decided not to express his doubts. What good would voicing them to Floyd do? Floyd deserved to carry hope with him. This would perhaps be the first time Floyd was truly doing something important for himself, and Spruce would encourage that selfishness because Floyd needed a chance to chase his dreams.

“Something tells me you don’t entirely agree,” Floyd said.

Spruce waved him off. “No, no. I- well,” he thought for a moment. What could he say? He settled on a partial truth. “I guess I still can’t get past the Branch thing. You’ve been practically inseparable ever since little bro hatched.”

Floyd more than anyone had dealt with John Dory’s overprotectiveness so he could hold Branch those first few days after he hatched, unlike everyone else who had to wait a week. John Dory had been protective of baby Branch in a way most first time parents were, if what Grandma Rosiepuff said was to be believed.

“To be honest, I don’t think I would be able to. Not if I didn’t know one of us was staying here too.”

The words echoed in Spruce’s mind.

Everything else seemed to become silent around him as the words sunk into his brain.

“One of us is staying?” He questioned.

And then Floyd looked at him like he was saying something strange. “Of course. Clay’s not going anywhere. He’ll cool off from being mad and go home, so Branch will have one of us with him while I’m away.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Present Time. Unknown POV

Adrenaline pulsed in his veins. His cold palms were drenched in sweat. The forest was a blur as he ran, feet moving quickly over thin roots that rose out of the ground. Pop Forest, for all its great acoustics, was a placed filled with consistent changes to the environment, with only small pockets of space -like Troll Village- where huge changes didn’t occur every season.

“Come on. I have to make it in time.”

He leapt over a tangled thicket, barely avoiding the outstretched thorns. This was coupled with a barrel roll past carnivorous plant, the action just fast enough to avoid its mouth snapping shut on him. And then he was on his feet and running again.

Running right to the clearing.

He skidded to a stop, reaching the thicket he was aiming for. There the sling was set for use, with its pile of rocks and the trigger rope.

“Perfect, everything’s going as planned.” He glanced up at the sun, which was in just the right position.

The timing was perfect, all he needed was.

THUMP.

CRICK.

CRACK.

The ground vibrated. His body instinctively tensed, eyes daring to look up. Leaves were fluttering down from trees. Branches were snapping close by. His blue eyes roved back to the clearing, finding the source of the noise now coming into view.

Large.

Fluffy.

Purple.

Its legs were thin but many. So many he struggled to count them all. They were striped like candy canes, yet fuzzy like caterpillars. The creature’s mouth had multiple mandibles, each of them snapping at the air with greedy hunger. He knew it was tasting the air, searching for what he had laid out the night before.

It was the perfect trap.

It had to be.

Because an Oddsmog with its fourteen eyes, vicious teeth and acidic spray was a threat to all the trolls in Troll Village. And it was up to him to stop it.

So he prepared his slingshot, the stake sticks in his hair a ready weight too. He allowed himself a smirk, ready for the incoming attack on the looming monster four times his size.

“You’re going down.” He vowed.

He listened as the Oddsmog let out a bellowing cry of rage as the first trap ensnared it, he let out a battle cry of his own. And then he lunged at the beast.

Chapter Text

(John Dory)

Silence.

The world was silent.

Spruce-Bruce’s words echoed in his head, swirling around his brain like assaulting stingers from wasps. His chest tightened, and it felt as though all the air had left his lungs. It ran away, just like any false realities he had moments ago of a baby brother with someone who stayed. That reality of two youngest brothers sticking beside each other through terrible, life-changing tragedy shattered in that moment.

Or, it would have.

Branch’s face from his dreams came back again. Begging, pleading for someone to come home. The same little troll who he had carried in his hair as an egg before he hatched, the same baby who melted his heart and was the exception to so many things. Branch was the baby troll he let climb in his hair whenever he pleased, the same baby whose first words were a suspicious mix of “Dada” and “Dodee” when looking at him. John Dory had adored that little troll. Branch had only ever been a bright spot in his life that had become filled with hidden challenges and struggles after Mom and Dad were eaten. Branch truly was the little boy who didn’t deserve any pain or hardship; he deserved happiness and smiles.

And the mere idea of anything else happening . . . John Dory’s heart hardened.

He refused to believe it.

“You’re lying,” the words breathed out of him with an icy chill. Everything was still around, his breaths like thunder in his ears. They drooped, burdened with the weight of what he just heard. It was a weight he would much rather force off his body.

Bruce’s eyes did the thing they always did when he was surprised. They widened, and his mouth opened up like he was the one who was in disbelief.

“John . . .” Bruce began.

“Don’t John me. Tell us the truth!” He exclaimed, sucking in another breath that hurt his lungs. “Tell me what you said was just a joke.”

He felt a surge of dismay when all his purple haired brother did was shake his head, indigo eyes rounding with sympathy. His voice went soft, consoling in the same way it was whenever the second brother was trying to deliver bad news, the kind he knew would hurt whoever it was delivered to. “Johnny, I wish it was. But it’s not. I met Floyd the night we broke up BroZone. I-“

“Liar!” There was another shout.

John Dory and Bruce both turned to see the troll responsible. Clay had been silent for a time, the information likely just as shocking to him as it had been to John Dory. But he was no longer silent now. Clay’s face was twisted in an expression only described as anger, an outrage so deep it had his lips pulled back in a near snarl.

“How dare you lie about something like this?!” Clay’s hands were in fists as he stormed over to Bruce, his sides heaving with utter rage.

John Dory watched distantly, like one might watch a train wreck about to happen with no ability to stop it, his feet rooted in place. Bruce backed up as Clay neared, his hands raised defensively. “Woah! Woah, Clay. I’m not lying man. There’s no need to get so heated.”

“But you have to be lying!” Clay yelled. His rejection of Bruce’s words were so loud John Dory had to resist covering his ears.

“I’m not lying Clay,” Bruce said, growing less sympathetic by the moment. “I’m telling the truth.”

“YES YOU ARE!” Clay shouted.

And Bruce, eyes narrowed, seemed to give in that moment. John Dory could practically see it the instant the shift happened, where something inside the purple haired troll snapped. His patience had clearly worn thin, and no amount of sympathy could overcome the defensiveness bubbling out of Bruce.

“NO I’M NOT!”

“YES YOU ARE!”

The two kept shouting, getting up in each other’s faces. Their voices were growing louder and louder, too noisy. His brain was still on the fritz from earlier, and trying to bring it back may as well have been a hurculean task.

“JOHN AGREES WITH ME! RIGHT JOHN?” Clay whirled to him, a fierce blue gaze meeting his processing one.

And if the situation had been different, perhaps he would have been excited. When was the last time Clay asked him to back what he said up? Probably when they were kids, but he could hardly recall the exact moment. Not with all the ringing in his ears.

‘Your brothers are fighting John. It’s your job to keep the peace as my eldest son.’

Those words came to him then, a whisper from the past. The original memory filtered up with it, almost like a fever dream. It ran through his brain like a rocket. And he let it in, along with the face of a troll who had been dead for years now.

~~~~~~~~Over Two Decades Ago . . .

“Nuh uh! It’s not fair!”

“Yes it is!”

“Is not!”

He could hear the yelling, the shouts of two of his little brothers as the warred over yet another toy. It was a rarity for Spruce and Clay to fight, but whenever they did it was never a pleasant time for him. He never wanted to get caught up in it, but as always the trouble seemed to find him regardless of what he wanted.

“Johnny! Tell Clay it’s mine!” Spruce’s voice was shouting at him now, his big indigo eyes filled with aggravation. But not towards him.

The receiver of said aggravation growled out in annoyance, the noise squeaky and high pitch for the little troll it belonged to. “Noooooo! Johnny it’s mine! Tell ‘em it’s MINE!” Clay’s voice climbed to an angry scream.

John Dory put his hands to his ears. His ear drums rang, reverberating in his head. All the noise was going to give him a headache. The beginning of one was already coming on, inching its way closer to an all encompassing ache. The tinier trolls were still yanking at the stuffed blue crocodile. It was a miracle the stuffed animal refused to rip with how much it was yanked at. The toy had been his when he was a baby, a gift to his brothers once he started deciding he didn’t need to sleep with a stuffy every night.

Only problem was . . .

Neither of them particularly liked sharing.

Which lead to situations like this one, that he wanted to avoid at all costs. Taking a side would likely end poorly for him, but the same could be said for taking one.

“Uh . . .” He said, unsure what to follow it with. He licked the top of his teeth, trying to gather his thoughts before closing his mouth. When he opened it again, the words came out slow; thoughtful. “I don’t know. Why not just take turns?” John Dory settled

Wrong thing to say.

“But it’s mine!”

“NO MINE!”

“NUH UH ITS MINE CLAY!”

“GIVE IT HERE YOU DUMB BABY!”

He watched as Spruce shoved Clay to the floor, using his slight difference in strength to overpower the youngest brother. Clay hit the floor with a thump, the baby troll’s diapered bottom doing little to cushion the fall. The effect was immediate. John Dory watched as Clay’s yellow hair drooped, his face scrunching up. The tears swiftly followed, along with another worse noise.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

Anyone who thought yelling was painful on the ears had probably heard a baby cry at one point. In his home, baby crying, especially where Clay was concerned, was more like baby wailing. The whole pod had no refuge from it. And as John Dory once again scrambled to put his hands over his ears -a relatively ineffective tactic that did virtually nothing- he doubted the neighbors down the branch were spared either.

And it was perhaps that loud volume that finally got the response some part of him was internally hoping for. Footsteps thumped down the hall. The door swung open and with it a familiar face with sapphire indigo hair popped in.

“WHAT’S GOING ON!”

~~~~~~~

The pod had reached a state of calm.

John Dory could hear the faint sniffle snirking of snores from his youngest brother. He could easily picture Mom rocking him to sleep, and Spruce holding her free hand. The purple haired brother said it was his favorite way to fall asleep, holding Bellerose’s hand as she sang to them. Under normal circumstances he would be in there too, listening to her whimsical singing.

But not tonight.

He wasn’t even in his pajamas yet.

His overalls with one button undone was a minute distraction to the troll he was sitting at the table with. Rowan carried a presence with him that was hard to ignore. The older blue troll was still in his work clothes -rolled up arm sleeves, goggles like John Dory’s own sitting at the top of his head, cargo pants with tools hanging out and the tool belt they were supposed to go in but was overflowing with different gadgets- wrinkled from a hard day’s work. Yet his hair was pristine with its eye catching blue. It went with his eyes that commanded eye contact be returned when he looked at you. John Dory had always admired his Daddy, but right now, sitting alone with him, he would much rather be going to bed.

“So tell me again exactly what happened,” Rowan said.

John Dory fiddled with a strap on his overalls. Rowan’s voice was serious, and the longer he dawdled with answering the worse things would be. He knew as much, but figuring out where to start was still a struggle. He licked his lips nervously, opening his mouth. “I-I-it wasn’t my fault Daddy.”

Silence.

Rowan sighed, clasping his hands together on the table. Workers hands, cracked in the corners, faint dirt residue clinging to them. While most architects were strictly about the designing of things Rowan often partook in construction as well. Something about helping others and gaining a better understanding of the process of building. Dad was known for being hands on in all the projects, so it was no surprise he was the most acclaimed architect in the entire Troll Tree. He was just the kind of troll that wouldn’t take half way answers like the one John Dory just offered him.

“That’s not what I asked you son.”

He gulped, the tendrils of worry climbing up his throat. He was perfectly aware Rowan asked for something else. But how mad would he be to hear the truth? John Dory studiously stared at his lap, his legs swinging beneath him. None of the brothers were old enough yet to have their feet touch the ground, even if he prided himself on being the closest.

“I know. Jus’ don’t want you to be mad,” he murmured quietly.

“Johnny, can you look at me?”

“Yes Daddy.”

He looked up when prompted. Rowan’s expression still held the same waiting look to it, but the lack of anger to it had his shoulders relaxing a little. The loosening tension came with the return of deeper breaths.

“Son, I’m never going to be mad at you for telling me the truth. Disappointed maybe, if I don’t like what I hear, but never mad,” Rowan said.

John Dory fidgeted less then. His lap wasn’t as important to look at anymore. “Promise?”

“Of course Strong John. Of course.”

The nickname, the same one Grandpa called him sometimes, got the rest of the tension clinging to his small frame to leave. John Dory slumped back in his seat a little, staring right back at his Father. He had come early today. But it was a Friday, and that was the norm. Work ended early on Fridays. A cause for celebration when it meant late night games and a weekend of fun. Dad always came up with the most fun games. And when Grandpa came along -his very namesake- it was extra fun.

“Well, um, uh . . .”

“Take your time son. Gather your thoughts if you need.”

“Okay.”

He close his eyes, hands twisting in his lap. The images of the earlier argument came back like a film reel in his mind. John Dory watched them play out the same as before, wincing a little at the ending. Clay had cried a lot after Spruce snatched the toy away. Mama was mad too, just like Daddy, and Mama was almost never mad. It was scary. Spruce apologizing for the next hour over Clay’s wailing had only seemed fair, even if the apologies were less directed at Clay and more so at Bellerose.

“So we were playin’ and all. And then someone -I forget who- got out Croco. He’s my old stuffy,” John Dory began. “You remember?”

“Ah yes, I remember him,” Rowan said, before gesturing at John Dory to continue. “Go on.”

“Well, they started fighting over him and all,” John Dory explained, glad the words came out easily. If he stuttered Dad would ask him to repeat it again, and the nerves would come skyrocketing back into his system.

“Uh huh. And may I ask what you did?”

He fidgeted with the strap of his overalls again. This question was back, with it came the decision. Fibbing never ended well, even if it painted him in a good light. His Dad always knew when one of them was lying. He was a genius for a reason. Telling the truth sent a wave of uneasiness through his frame, but lying would be worse. So the choice, while unpleasant still, was simple.

“I, um, I-“ he stuttered now, just like his heart did. John Dory swallowed back the tingling nerves. They prickled the hairs along the back of his neck. “I didn’t do anything Daddy,” his voice quieted to a whisper at the end, the answer barely passing out of him.

Rowan frowned. Clearly the older troll recognized the shift in his voice. “Can you repeat that for me son?”

He fiddled with his hands, looking down at them. They rested on the table, right across from his Daddy’s. Rowan’s hands were much larger than his own. They were strong enough to carry his family, support them all in the ways they needed.

He didn’t know what they would do without him.

Rowan was needed.

Rowan was loved.

Rowan was everything he aspired to be like.

His voice carried a tremble, but held a clarity to it formerly unavailable. “I didn’t do anything Daddy.” John Dory’s lip trembled. “I’m sorry.”

A breezy huff escaped Rowan then, like those words had clicked the last puzzle piece in place. The older troll nodded. “I figured as much.”

Tears gathered in his eyes. Wet with moisture, he blinked to clear them. “Are you mad at me Daddy?”

He couldn’t make Dad mad at him.

Not his favorite troll in the world.

He just couldn’t.

John Dory pictured a scowl on Rowan’s face, a firm expression followed swiftly by angry words. He should have done something besides watching. Now Dad would be angry at him, Little sniffles escaped him at the thought, and suddenly he struggled to keep them at bay.

He startled when Rowan reached across the table, scooping him up. His father’s movements were natural, an ease to them only parents deeply involved in their kids’ lives were capable of having. Rowan hugged him. Rowan was warm, the leaf vest he so often wore weathered yet gentle. John Dory snuggled in close. Hugs from Dad were his favorite.

They made everything feel better.

“I’m disappointed, but I’m not mad,” Rowan told him seriously.

“R-really?” John Dory asked, the words muffled with his face pushed against Rowan’s chest.

Rowan ran a hand through John Dory’s teal hair. He leaned into it, soaking up the affection as much as he could. “Course not son. We all make mistakes.”

“I don’t like making mistakes,” John Dory admitted. “I want to be perfect.”

‘And I want you to be proud of me, not disappointed’ he thought, but very much did not say.

At that, Rowan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Being perfect isn’t all it’s cracked up to be Johnny. Trust me on that. You don’t need to be perfect, you just need to be you.”

His brows furrowed, lips puckering in thought. A thought niggled in the back of his brain. The story Dad was fond of telling jumped out at him like an eager firefly wanting head pats. “But what about the Perfect Family Harmony? You have to sing perfect to get it right?”

And Rowan was laughing again, a fondness in his timber. A look darted over his blue eyes, a hidden feeling. John Dory tried and failed to figure out what it meant. “For the harmony I’m afraid you’ll just have to find out when you’re older kiddo.” Rowan pulled him closer. He ruffled John Dory’s hair, the gesture bringing a wave of delight with it. He didn’t like it when anyone played with his hair.

But Dad was an exception.

He always would be.

“Hehe!” A little giggle slipped out of him, breathless and real.

“Just keep being a leader Dory. Always put the best interests of yourself and your siblings in mind. Keep them happy, make them feel loved. Support them, stand by them. They’ll do the same for you. If you do that then I’ll be proud,” Rowan said with certainty.

John Dory looked up at him again. “You sure? What if they don’ like it? I don’ wanna be bossy.”

“You won’t be John, not if you hold their best interests in mind. Actions out of love are just that.”

“Okay Daddy!”

And it was those words from Rowan he would carry with him for years to come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The memory played out, almost like a nostalgic dream. What Rowan had said was true. Actions done out of love would be perceived as much. And for the longest time he had done his best to follow his Dad’s advice, but somewhere along the way he lost sight of what those best intentions were.

The desire, no, the NEED for perfection overrode everything else.

And it was all because of-

Another memory, of stern faces and tight lips. Grandma had tried so hard to prove herself, he would never forget her struggle. But it was not enough. Not enough to make them go away, and certainly not enough to solve their problems. There had been so many, secrets locked between the two of them he never planned to share even now. Because what good would it do? It was all over with anyways. He had paid the price for poor management, for failure.

It was his burden to bear.

But he wouldn’t regret the time he gained.

So small, but together.

It was enough.

And as the yelling got louder, John Dory came to a decision on what else he had enough of.

“STOP IT!” His voice boomed.

John Dory’s chest was heaving, his hands planted on his hips, palms making an active effort to stay put despite the sweat. Clay was grabbing Bruce, his hands fisting in the vest the purple haired troll wore. Bruce hung in his hold, a strange twist on a scene he might have seen years ago, back when Bruce was the one winning fights. They were paused, watching him.

Paused, looking at him.

Waiting for him.

Waiting for what he would do next.

“That’s enough,” his voice dropped. “Stop fighting you two. Spr-Bruce is right Clay.”

“Stop fighting?! What are you talking about? Why aren’t you backing me up John Dory?” There was a wild look in Clay’s eyes then, the kind that demanded agreement.

And again, the desire to do just that was there, a trembling beat in his veins. The last time Clay had wanted his help and actively sought it out was so long ago. They had all been younger then, back when Clay didn’t scowl whenever he said John Dory’s name. But those times were long gone. He doubted another opportunity would come like this one.

And yet . . .

He remained firm. “Let him go Clay.”

Clay’s expression -full of anger and frustration- was shifting to another palate of emotions: dismay. His brows furrowed, and his grip on Bruce slackened. “W-what?”

“Ugh!”

Bruce didn’t waste a moment. He detached Clay’s hand, falling to the ground in a heap. It took but a few moments for him to spring back up again, hair a little out of place and frizzled. The pain was plain on his face, as was the sadness. It was the kind of look that could not be faked. The same kind Bruce held years ago when Mom and Dad had been eaten. Each of them missed their parents in their own unique way -even Branch despite never getting to meet them- but for Bruce it had been a quiet pain. Bruce would get this expression and recede into the background. He would be found sitting alone staring at nothing. The worst came whenever he was sitting in the Nursery room, right in front of the vanity on that little bench he sat on. Mom would comb his hair there, Bellerose singing little tunes while a baby Floyd or Clay (depending on the time) was rocked to sleep. The tradition carried on even after Floyd and Clay got older, and the duo would wind down for the evening talking together. All laughter and smiles.

Until there weren’t any left.

Bruce’s grief was the kind which stayed; John Dory could not forget that grief even if he tried.

And that same grief carried in Bruce now, who truly believed what he was saying. So the truth -painful, awful, and horrible- sank in with its cruel grip.

“I’m sorry Clay. I-I didn’t want to believe it either,” he bit his lower lip, gnawing on the overwhelming pang radiating in his chest. It rattled his ribs with its painful beats. “But Spr- ugh, Bruce wouldn’t lie about this.”

‘He wouldn’t lie about this because he has no reason to.’

A harsh but true reality.

“But-but . . .” Clay stood there, hands opening and closing, hanging out from his sides. It was as though they too were unsure what to feel, whether to remain clenched or unclenched. Clay’s ears drooped then, another sight he hadn’t seen in a long time. “He has to be John. I-if he isn’t then-“

“Then Branch has been alone,” John Dory finished, a finality hanging in the air with his words. Even Bruce winced when he heard it, the blunt words shaping a brutal reality none of the three brothers wanted to be living in.

But life had a funny way of not caring about what you wanted. And on those bitter days of regret and loneliness he remembered the painful lesson he had come to terms with. It resurfaced in his mind again, a ship floating on tremulous waters.

“Johnny,” Clay’s ears were drooping now, a realization making its claim on him too. John Dory almost looked away, not wanting to see the moment the defiant hope died out in his middle brother. But he remained watching rigidly. If he had to shatter Clay’s false sense of fragile hope, his dream of finding Branch happy and safe with Floyd, then he would be brave. Only the cowardly hid from what they had done. Perhaps this was why Bruce had made sure to keep eye contact when he broke the news. He understood how terrible it would be to look off into the distance instead of facing the brothers whose hopes he had crushed. Clay’s face was crinkling -sadness spilling out from a scrunched nose and wet eyes- and he continued. “I-it can’t be true. Can it?”

John Dory shared a glance with Bruce then for the briefest moment. Bruce’s face was somber, his hands being wrung together in front of him. There was a ripple of muscle there, like the ripple of unease reaching the depths of his soul.

“I’m sorry Clay, but we have no evidence to prove Bruce wrong. So, even if it pains me, I have to admit that Branch has been without any of us for all this time.”

His heart thudded painfully as he watched the moment those words were fully accepted. It came into Clay’s eyes first, the darkness of despair. The swimming tears did little to hide the prevalent anguish surfacing on the outside. And then Clay was sinking to his knees. He fell forward in what felt like slow motion. Clay’s hands held him up as his body shook with the force of his sobs. They came out with pained breaths, choked gasps that left the yellow haired troll staggering side to side in his abundant pain.

“Branch is all alone . . . I-we left Branch all alone . . .”

It was all John Dory and Bruce could do to stumble forward to comfort Clay. Sobs wracked the youngest of the trio’s frame. The view Clay had kept, the one John Dory knew had kept Clay grounded, was gone. And now he had no idea what to say.

Because what was there to say?

That he was sorry? No.

That it would be okay? No.

Those words of reassurance felt like false barbs on his tongue. So he bit his lips. John Dory’s brow perspired, and the goggles normally so nestled on his head were beginning to crawl towards a descent down his face. He would have reflexively pushed them back up, maybe even stepped back to adjust them, but not here.

Not with Clay like.

“I’m sorry Branch, I’m so sorry . . .” Clay was trembling, tears spilling from his eyes and wetting his cheeks. John Dory held the yellow haired troll, patting the top of his hair. The movements -once practiced and routine- were foreign now, little slips of fingers threading through hair were an oddity. He tried remembering exactly how Bellerose did it. She was the best soother in the family. It felt like Spruce was trying to do the same. Indigo eyes met his blue ones, and he was met with someone who was going through the same emotions he was. Despite all the anger and years of separation, grief could push it all aside in the skip of a heartbeat. The tremulous happiness he felt whenever his immediate younger brothers let him be close -something they actively avoided toward the twilight era of BroZone- had to remain internal, shielded within all the other emotions piling on.

What exactly did Clay mean?

“Uh, Clay,” John Dory began.

But it was clear Clay was not listening, as he continued like John Dory had not spoken at all.

“I should have went back . . . I should have went back!” Clay’s voice cracked. A pained wail left him, and those long arms were clinging to John Dory then, grabbing at Bruce as well blindly, wildly. “Why didn’t I go back?!”

The anguish, so raw, pure, and unfiltered had John Dory freezing up. And without even looking, he sensed Bruce was doing the same. He was likely wondering the very same thing John Dory was too.

Which Bruce confirmed when he bravely voiced it.

“What are you talking about little brother?”

And then the dam burst free.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(?????)

“15 minutes!”

“15 minutes to showtime!”

“The show’s starting soon, let’s get moving!”

“Got it boss! Is he ready yet?”

“Don’t think so, still in the dressing room. Lad will be out in a minute I’m sure. He doesn’t keep the fans waiting.”

The voices were a familiar background in his ears. Their downwards droop did nothing to block out the many sounds of workers setting up for the performance outside his room. The stage was ready, and it was easy to picture the crowd of excited fans piling into the concert hall.

The walls held so many pictures, albums hanging up in the spaces between. It was a big space made cozy by all the decorations and furniture set up for his comfort. Yellow light spilled from the bulbs lining the mirror in front of him. They were warm lights -unlike those high powered LED ones- the kind that made everything take on the slightest yellowish tint. From the walls to his blue skin. Even the eyes staring back at him, normally a pleasant purple, had earned a yellow hue. Eyes that were right now fixated on a very obvious, decently annoying problem.

“Ugh, this is what, the fifth time today?” His hands reached above his head.

Up, up, up.

Right on up go the wild spreading strands. Sticking up at all angles, the exact opposite of how they were supposed to look. He sighed. Carding his fingers through his uncooperative hair only served to make the situation worse.

“It just had to be twelve minutes to show time . . .”

He shook his head, hair moving with it. A magenta strand flopped right over his eyes. He swiped it back up, and when that worked he swiped the others right on up too. The action -unlike all the others he had done for the past half hour- seemed to be working.

“Hmm, let’s do this,” he tilted his head, pushing up more strands with his brush. Tongue poking out between his teeth, one of his hands dipped into the gel right in front of him. The bowl rattled in place, the glass jar’s swirly design making the otherwise clear gel look purple from where it resided. “And this,” the gel smoothly got the next strand to stay up. It was all becoming uniform. His hands continued to fiddle around, his whole concentration focused on getting the hair to look less like a mess and presentable. And as he had hoped the hair was getting out of his face and up, up, up.

Until at last . . .

“There, now it’s all good,” he said, relieved.

Well.

Until he saw exactly what was staring back at him in the mirror.

Magenta hair, standing straight up.

Not a bang in sight, nor any of the solo persona he had worked so hard to establish for the past several years.

“Ugh, and here I thought it was perfect.” He stared at himself in the mirror a little more, squinting. A memory from a long time ago came back.

His gaze flitted over to the photo clipped to the mirror. The five figures -a younger version of himself included- stared back at him. Those five trolls were sometimes warm. The fondness he felt brought with it a sense of comfort, and a calm, quiet confidence. On those days performing felt like it could be done with ease, ignoring the shaky tremors and stuttering. The stage was a big place, even bigger when you were standing alone on it.

But on happy days it wasn’t so bad.

It felt like he wasn’t alone.

Like he wasn’t without them.

But on other days . . .

Like today.

Things were different.

“It looks just like it did in the photo,” he surmised, feeling the twist in his gut. A pang from time before came with it. He reached out, thumbing the photo gently. With how old it was the small square had to be treated with respect or crumpling would be inevitable. “Thought it never would again.”

He had never held any ill will towards them.

Not John Dory.

Not Bruce.

Not Clay.

And certainly not him.

Not his baby brother.

But those final months in the band had been rough. All attempts to mediate, all the things he did to fix what was a sinking ship . . . none of it had worked. For the one who was supposed to be in touch with feelings, capable of understanding all sides, the disappointment of failing to patch up the increasing holes in a once tight knit family structure. His therapist said it was not his fault, not when he was a child himself back then.

But words did not alleviate all guilt.

He would never feel perfectly right with himself. Not until he saw all of them, safe and sound.

Something he still had not managed to do to this day.

Another strand of hair -somehow escaping the wall of gel smoothed into the waves of magenta- sprang out. It wiggled faintly, as though mocking him. The stubbornness of it all had his eyes rolling.

“Ah . . . Darn it all.”

Creak.

The door whacked open, flapping against the wallpapered walls. The coat rack with the infinity scarves, jackets and hats rattled with the vibration. Then there was talking, a stagehand with green confetti cascading around him. The name tag he wore was nowhere in sight, lost amidst the layers of confetti. The troll’s ears twitched slightly as the confetti stagehand started speaking, his hands waving wildly.

“Floyd you’ve got four minutes to showtime. What’s the hold up man?”

Floyd pressed a hand into his hair. The stubborn strand was refusing to behaved properly. He looked at the mirror, scrambling to get the look right. Bangs came into shape. Then came the curl of his hair at the top.

“Uh, nothing really Reggie. Just hair,” he said, which was half true, and clearly good enough for Reggie, who went back to looking at his clipboard promptly after his words.

When the door clicked shut another sigh escaped him.

Floyd dropped his head to the tabletop. The cool metal covered in sticky notes taped on top. A small trail of makeup littered the notes. It always seemed to get everywhere, just like the eyeliner he applied.

“Just the hair, yeah right . . .”

It was never just the hair.

The photo seemed to be staring at him now. Those five faces were holding judgement. A silent reminder of everything absent in his life. Because no amount of fame could replace what had always been the most important thing.

Family.

“I miss you,” he said in the relative silence. There was the crowd to deal with, but they came second to them.

His brothers.

A little brother who thought the world of him; a little brother who hung on his every word. The same little brother who he made a promise to. Whatever happened to it?

“Where did the time go?” Floyd pondered.

No answered greeted him, not that he expected one.

Because he knew where it went.

Knew it, like he knew the walls around him. All his accomplishments followed him. Fame, fortune, glory. He had achieved what he had set out to do, but at what cost?

“I was supposed to come back,” he admitted to the still photo. “I did try,” Floyd said.

He had.

But what he had found was NOT what he was expecting. It was a horror show made reality, the kind that came with built in nightmares for years to come. The possibility of nothing left had crashed down, wiping out any sense of happiness for that first month. And even though hope had been restored it didn’t change the lack of direction he had. Even now, years later, there was no telling where Branch was, or any of the rest of them.

“I’m sorry I didn’t find you,” tears sprang to his eyes then. What would Branch think when they finally met again? “I broke our promise brother. I’m so sorry.”

Tears dripped from his eyes, ruining the eyeliner and makeup he had worked an hour on. But no part of him could care. On a day like this everything became too much, and the crushing weight made doing anything near impossible.

Something had to be done.

Floyd held the photo to his chest, letting out a shuddering breath. “I will see you again brother.” Floyd’s heart pounded in his chest, anticipation for the very day he had been trying for rising once more. He stared down at the photo again, at Bitty B with his gleeful little face. “You will be found.”

And that was a promise he would keep.