Chapter Text
The fifth anniversary of the loss of Branch’s grandma came and went with little fanfare. He shouldn’t be surprised, as loss was something that trolls just didn’t let themselves feel for some reason. People came and went during their time under the Bergens, and by the end of the week they were partying like nothing happened. Even funerals were not exempt from being a party, getting banners and three layer cakes. For that reason he was almost glad that no one seemed to care enough to have hosted a funeral for grandma. If someone had tried to feed him cake after the worst day of his life he couldn’t be blamed for what he would’ve done or said. Well he shouldn’t, that is. In all likelihood he would have been blamed, called a ‘party pooper’ and maybe even been made to leave.
So he wasn’t surprised that five years later nobody seemed to care what the day was, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t still fill him with anger. These people claimed to be her friend, lied to his face and told him how much his grandma meant to them, and yet each anniversary came and went with not a single mention of her name. Maybe he was the only troll who actually said words they meant, and to everyone else the word ‘friend’ was used to mean ‘nice person you see once in a while’. It would make sense, seeing as everyone threw around ‘best friend’ so freely too.
As the last few hours of that day faded away, it felt like the last of something faded too. What that was he didn’t know, as he didn’t have an ounce of color or happiness left in him. Faith, maybe, as he’d been handed off from home to home as King Peppy tried to find someone to look after him. Grey or not, he wasn’t keen on a child having no caretaker. But as each family found some reason it just wouldn’t work, he’d felt that fading feeling in his stomach. Eventually he just wandered off to the edges of the village and began to look after himself. The idea of his bunker was never meant to be the marker of him leaving society for good, it had once been something he was meant to share, before becoming his plan to survive should the Bergens ever find them. Now, as his shovel broke dirt, it felt like he was burying something that died on that day. It felt like he’d lost something even greater than his color, and he had no idea what it was.
Following that day, Branch spent almost every hour working on his bunker. It was a slow and grueling process, lasting from sun up to sun down. Dig, haul dirt up, collect supplies, eat, sleep and then dig again. His visits to the village got shorter and now only the princess still even attempted to talk to him. She’d wave, toss glitter in his face and try to invite him to their next loud party that was practically a beacon in the sky to come take everyone back to be eaten. No matter how many times he’d tell her, or how loud he’d tell her, she’d come back with the same old party invites and attempts at hugs.
That was the pattern he was currently attempting to avoid by venturing slightly further out of the village than he normally went to gather vines strong enough to (hopefully) restrain a Bergen for his next trap. Poppy and her friends were of course out in the field, looking at clouds or something equally as time-wasting. It was dangerous, heading outside his self-made safe zone without his scouting gear all to avoid a few trolls. Normally, this would be an entire process of mapping out the area inch by inch while armed to the teeth. In hindsight, that would have likely prevented this whole encounter from ever happening.
Someone else was here. That in and of itself was cause for alarm, as even he didn’t venture this far away from the village. If it had been any other troll, he would have lectured them on how unsafe the area was for trolls who couldn’t pay attention and randomly broke out into song, but the words died in his throat. Any other troll should be a walking neon sign. Pink or cyan or yellow, possibly half a pound of glitter covering their body. Trolls didn’t look like him. Grey, muted, dull. Trolls didn’t look like him, and yet a troll with grey skin like his was picking up rocks from a small trickle of water. Unlike him, her hair was still vivid red.
As he shuffled closer, a twig snapped under his foot. He wanted to punch himself, in all his shock he’d made the most amateur mistake there was. The other troll’s head snapped towards him, looking him up and down.
“Hey! Pipsqueek!” She yelled at him, “Weren’t you listening when dad was talking? Babies like you don’t leave the group!”
The stranger marched towards him and tossed him over her shoulder like a sack of berries. Again, in his confusion, Branch said nothing. Just looked blankly back toward where he’d come from and wondered what was going on. This was another troll, probably a teenager, who looked more like him than any of the trolls in the village. He didn’t know her, but she seemed to recognize him enough to know he shouldn’t be by himself. Maybe her family was the next one King Peppy had asked to look after him? Normally he would have brought Branch back to the village while explaining why he was sure that this next family would be one hundred percent perfect for him, then introduce them formally and Branch would follow them to their home awkwardly. There hadn’t been any change in that, aside from the fact Branch was now working on his bunker. Maybe King Peppy had gone to grab him to meet the family while Branch was off collecting stones or while he was underground digging out a new room?
His theory was somewhat falling apart as he noticed they were walking away from the village. His eyes caught a flash of pink movement before the two walked through thick brush into a new clearing. Other dark grey trolls were loading into sharp looking… metal fish?
This wasn’t right.
Unfortunately, he’d picked too late to start trying to fight back. The stranger’s grip didn’t let go and kicking her in the face only served to make her more annoyed.
“Brat!” She set him down inside one of the contraptions, the interior similar—if Branch was being generous—to a caterbus, “Dad! Whoever was in charge of the babies needs a boot to the face, I found this one wandering around.”
The stranger's dad, an elderly grey troll with frizzy black hair sitting in a spiked wheelchair, turned around, looking between Branch and his daughter in confusion.
“What was that, dear?” He asked.
“This brat just wandered off! Found him out where I was gettin’ obsidian.” She held up a shiny black rock, “This is gonna make some gnarly guitar picks and we all agreed that babies weren’t supposed to be there.”
Her dad seemed to realize something, concern flashing across his face, “Oh Barbara… that’s not one of ours.”
“Huh?”
“Like I told you, we’re near Pop Troll territory.”
Barbara gestured to Branch, “Yeah, Pop Trolls! Sparkly, brightly colored, annoyingly cheerful. This,” She gestured to him harder, “Is not a Pop Troll. I mean right, you are- you are a Rock Troll? Back me up here.”
“A what?” Branch asked.
“A Hard Rock Troll.” Barbara’s dad answered, “That’s what we are. Hasn’t your king talked about the other types of trolls?”
Branch shook his head.
He scoffed, “Bah, figures. Well, guess that’s up to us. Long ago, all trolls lived in harmony with the six strings. The strings could play any kind of music, and each of the six main groups had their own string. Pop, however, wasn’t satisfied with their own songs. They took the strings and our songs, trying to make everything Pop. The rest of us—Rock, Techno, Funk, Country and Classical—we all grabbed our strings and ran, never looking back.”
“Which is why Pop sucks!” Barbara said, jumping onto a beat up looking couch, “Which brings me back to my original point. You said Pop Trolls are all sunshine and rainbows and breaking out into annoying earworms every ten seconds.”
“Hmmm, yes that’s normally the case.” Her dad looked him over.
“I wouldn't be caught dead singing, and if I have to see any more glitter in my life I’m gonna throw up.” Branch crossed his arms.
“Preach it, brother!” Barbara threw her hand up in a weird gesture with her index and pinky finger.
Her dad rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “I’ve heard of this, but never seen it. He’s gone grey. When a troll loses their love for music, they lose their colors.”
“Hardcore. He just looks like a Rock Troll to me.” Barbara said, “A badly dressed one, but a Rock Troll.”
“We need to turn back, before your family notices you're gone. If your king hasn’t mentioned that we exist, we would appreciate it if you could keep this between us.”
Branch panicked. He was finally with people who were actually talking to him. Not telling him to smile and cheer up. Not telling him he was ruining their day just by being unhappy near them. Not trying to drown out his feelings with lollipops and soda. Greatest of all, Barbara’s dad knew why he was grey. He’d never heard anyone, even King Peppy, able to explain it. All anyone could ever tell him was that it was wrong, he shouldn’t look like that. That he must have something wrong with his head to look like that, and if he changed the way he thought, he could be better in an instant. It was his fault he wasn’t happy, he didn’t want to be happy, he wasn’t trying hard enough to be happy. Branch wasn’t ready to go back to that.
“No!” He grabbed onto Barbara’s dad’s hand, “Don’t make me go back.”
He looked Branch over, and Branch hoped the fact there was nothing for him to go back to was evident. He didn’t want to say it. Even if it was his reality every day, admitting there was no one for him to go back to made the wound reopen.
Eventually, the older troll nodded, “Alright then.”
And that was it. King Thrash, as he introduced himself, would let Branch come back with them to Volcano Rock City. As it turns out, they occasionally made stops for supplies in other areas, and when Pop Village had escaped from the Bergens, they’d settled right next to where the Hard Rock trolls would harvest ores, unknowingly pushing closer to the borders of Rock. After Branch had pointed out where they had built their town, King Thrash began making plans to move their mining operation back to avoid any further encounters.
Meanwhile, Barb—as she preferred to be called—began introducing him to the other Rock Trolls. For the most part they laid around, barely acknowledging the both of them with a head nod or a lazy wave. Then the speakers would blare music that shook the walls and they’d all be up doing what Branch assumed to be what Rock Trolls considered dancing, or throwing each other around. It was almost as overwhelming as Pop Village, but in a completely different way, so Branch just sat on a couch in the back silently. Alone.
Maybe things weren’t going to change that much from Pop Village after all.
“Sup, dude?” Barb fell back onto the couch into the seat beside him, one of her legs sprawling across his lap and her head hanging back over the arm.
“Hey.”
The two sat in silence for a few minutes. Barb didn’t seem uncomfortable with the quiet, even with her fidgeting and chewing on her necklace. It wasn’t even awkward, like the long dinners he’d have with his (many) failed foster families where his lack of reply led to them squirming around, throwing out as many conversation starters as they could think of. He lost count of how many times he’d been asking his favorite color, or if cupcakes or ice cream were better. Then when that failed they’d come up with all sorts of games or activities that they were sure could “force a magical family bond with even the most miserable troll”. Each attempt had him digging his heels in further, and most parents would give up within the week.
“We’re sorry,” They’d say, despite the relief on their faces as he was passed back to King Peppy, “But he doesn’t try to connect with us over anything. We can’t build a bond with someone who refuses to meet us halfway. Maybe if he could learn to have some normal interests, but he won’t talk, and if he does it’s Bergens and doomsday and bunkers. What are we supposed to do with a child like him? Maybe some other family would be able to fix–I mean help him.”
Back home—if it could be called that seeing as he was never going to return—the idea of not talking or doing anything together for even five minutes was up there with all the other weird social faux paus Branch couldn’t make heads or tails of. There were all these rules for interacting that no one bothered to inform him of until after he’d broken one, to the point he decided to give up on keeping track of them. It only served to make him more aware of the fact that there was something wrong with the way he thought. As himself or when trying to be on his best behavior he still managed to offend everyone else. Some days it seemed like his very existence was some sort of slight against everyone.
“This is nice,” He said, his voice barely above a whisper. Barb looked up at him and tilted her head. He clarified, “Just sitting here like this.”
“You mean hanging out? Yeah dude, hangin’ with the bros is always good.” She laid her head back, but then shot back up, “Oh! You gotta meet Debbie! Debbie, come ‘ere girl!”
Something small and fast launched itself into his face, growling and snarling loudly. He most certainly did not scream loudly and panic until Barb pulled it off his face.
“Here she is! My little hairy baby!” She cooed, “Isn’t she the most precious thing you’ve ever seen? She’s so sweet, and so friendly. Aren’t you, girl?”
Debbie, a white ball of fur and teeth with dark grey wings, snorted in response. Branch had never seen anything like her in Pop Village, but he did remember reading a survival manual years ago which mentioned a winged creature called a ‘bat’. Nearly blind, somewhat aggressive and capable of carrying rabies. Not exactly what he considered ‘pet’ material.
“Does she bite?”
Barb rubbed her face into Debbie’s fur, “Noooo, not at all! She… nibbles. It’s how she shows love.”
Branch, preferring his blood to stay inside his body, refrained from attempting to pet Debbie. Instead. he let the two of them fall back into a comfortable silence. By now he was sure he was several days of walking away from the village, and the reality of his impulsive decision was beginning to set in.
He wasn’t exactly sure what his plan was now, seeing that he was on a one-way trip away from everything he’d ever known. He wasn’t even sure he’d had a plan at all, past the building of the bunker. His only goal when he started building it was to stay alive. Well, maybe keep everyone else alive. Without him, he wondered what would happen if the Bergens ever were to show up. Would everyone be caught and brought back to the tree? Would some escape thanks only to the distraction of their friends and neighbors getting caught? Would anyone stop and remember he tried to warn them? That even after everything he wanted to protect them?
He knew he couldn’t just live off the good fortune of these trolls forever. If he was an outcast even with his own kind, how could he hope to fit in with trolls he’d no idea even existed until now? Just because he and Barb disliked pop tunes and scrapbooking and Hug Time didn’t mean they had anything they actually liked in common. Not liking pop didn’t mean hating music, like him. As the angler bus continued on towards the city, Barb was playing riffs on her guitar while the other trolls banged their heads along to the music or were otherwise rowdy.
“Come on, little dude. Cleanse your palette with some real music.” Barb nudged him in the side with her elbow.
“I don’t sing.” Branch said, as flatly as possible.
She held the guitar out to him, “Come onnnnn.”
“Fine, may I?” He held his hands out.
She thrust the guitar into his hands. Not breaking eye contact, he tossed it into the barrel fire the trolls next to him had made. The previously chaotic rumble of the angler bus stopped as Branch felt the crawling sensation of everyone’s eyes on him, the only noise now being the fire crackling and the sharp ‘twang’ sounds of the strings violently snapping from the heat of the fire.
Why did he do that? Barb’s dad was helping him and he–
Loud yelling and cheering broke out, Barb herself jumping onto the back of the couch while grinning, “Metal!”
Branch shifted his eyes towards the couch and rubbed part of his vest between his fingers, “You’re not mad?”
She waved him off, “Hard Rock is all about destroying stuff! Do you have any idea how many guitars we break a day?”
Riff, who was introduced as Barb’s friend, twirled a drumstick, “Normally we just smash them. Setting them on fire is like, ten times more hardcore… or something.”
“Uh, it’s a hundred times more hardcore!” Barb jumped off the couch and put an arm around Branch, leading him away from everyone and lowering her voice, “But bro, what’s your issue with music? Isn’t rock the coolest thing you’ve ever heard?”
Branch scowled. Hoping that someone else would understand him was too much to ask for. Even with their different appearance, the Rock Trolls still loved music just as much as the Pop Trolls, they just were weird about how they showed it. For some reason, even without the threat of Bergens looming just behind the trees, the idea of singing still made his stomach hurt and a burning feeling to creep up his back. He blinked away the burning sensation in his eyes and shouted, “Music ruined my life! Singing a bunch of dumb songs and pretending that it will somehow make you happy is just stupid! If singing some stupid song about being happy would magically make me actually happy don’t you think I would have done it by now?!”
“Music is about more than happiness, Branch.” King Thrash said, rolling over to the two, “If you aren’t happy, your music doesn’t have to be happy.”
“That’s not what King Peppy says. Music is supposed to make people happy, and you make music because you’re happy. If it doesn’t make you want to dance and smile, then it’s not music.” Branch mumbled.
“Then it’s not Pop, maybe. Rock can be whatever you want it to be. You can pour all those terrible feelings out into your lyrics. Music is only music if you’re singing your true feelings.” King Thrash winked at him and whispered, “Trust the King of Rock on that.”
“Especially when those feelings are anger! The best songs are all about all-burning rage!” Barb ran off, shredding on a new guitar and jumping into a full on brawl with the others.
Thrash smiled at his daughter, then turned back to Branch, “Branch, when we get to Volcano Rock City, you’ll be staying with Barbara and me.”
“You? But you’re the king, aren’t you supposed to ask around and find some other family to deal with me? Or better yet, just leave me alone. I can take care of myself.” Branch said.
A king couldn’t look after him, he had way more important things to worry about. Besides, if King Thrash could take him in, then it stood to reason that King Peppy could have done the same. And if King Peppy could have but didn’t, it meant he didn’t want to. Which meant that Branch was left on his own simply because King Peppy couldn’t find anyone else to pawn the task on. Which meant that… King Peppy had given up on him too.
King Thrash looked at him strangely, like he was torn between being disappointed and amused, “Is that how they do things in Pop Village? You’re my responsibility now, sorry to say. Now where did Barbara go? Barbara!”
“What, dad?!”
“Branch will be living with us, so be good to your new foster brother.”
“New brother? I’m a big sister! Carol, did you hear that?! I’m a big sister!” Barb yelled excitedly, slamming her guitar into the ground.
While Barb seemed ecstatic with the news, the word ‘brother’ stirred up some old and painful memories of a time when he had everything he could have wanted. Before the feelings could fester any further, however, a red glow appeared on the horizon. The dark and sinister looking silhouette of the home of the Rock Trolls, Volcano Rock City, was quickly growing closer, and with it, a future that Branch couldn’t even begin to imagine.