Reprise

by Han_is_v_Tired

Summary:

Dear Branch of the Pop Trolls,

We are connecting you in regards of a one John Dory and his children. We are caring for them and will continue to do so till the 4th of this coming month. At that point, we will give them over to a foster family(s). We cannot guarantee that they will all stay together if this occurs, so we have notified you in an effort to keep them together.

If you are unable to take custody of the children by the specified date, please respond to this letter with either your refusal or willingness to take them in.I look forward to hearing from you quickly.

Best regards,

Regions Protective Services

 

That’s it. That’s all that was written in the letter. After years of silence, that is the only form of contact Branch has had from John Dory, from any of his brothers.

Notes:

This is inspired by WonderingWind's Maybe Too Similar?
I really like the concept of it and wanted to put my own spin on it. You should really go check it out.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Branch POV

Dear Branch of the Pop Trolls, 

We are connecting you in regards of a one John Dory and his children. We are caring for them and will continue to do so till the 4th of this coming month. At that point, we will give them over to a foster family(s). We cannot guarantee that they will all stay together if this occurs, so we have notified you in an effort to keep them together.  

If you are unable to take custody of the children by the specified date, please respond to this letter with either your refusal or willingness to take them in.I look forward to hearing from you quickly. 

Best regards, 

Ragions Protective Services  

 

That’s it. That’s all that was written in the letter. After years of silence, that is the only form of contact Branch has had from John Dory, from any of his brothers.

If he was being honest with himself, he remembers very little of his brothers. He remembers how Spruce used to toss him around and swang him around as they walked around the marketplace in the old Troll Tree. He remembers Clay always being quick with a joke or a pun when he felt sad, but he also remembers Clay reading to him on rainy days. He remembers Floyd always having a comforting word or hug when the world around him got too loud or scary. But he remembered even less of John Dory. 

He remembers the arguments between the older three while Floyd tried to calm everyone down. He remembers him always having something more important to do and never actually being there with them. However, if Branch thought about it, and really thought about it, he could remember small moments here and there. They weren’t memories but something closer to feelings. Warmth. The feeling of being held and protected. A melody that he could never place no matter how hard he tried.

And now he is on his way to meet the children of the brother he knew the least about before he disappeared for twenty years. Ones he didn’t even know existed. Muses it wasn’t even John Dory who contacted him it was the Rageons Protective Services.

Branch grip tightens on the steering wheel of the van, John Dory, what did you do?

— — — — —

Mount Rageons were tall, taller than the Bergens, but they were built very differently. While Bergens were more sturdy and stout, Rageons were thin and wiry. If Branch was being honest they kind of reminded him of noodles, very loud, flashy, and ignorant noodles. Finding the RPS was easy enough getting someone's attention was another story.

“Hello?” Branch called up to the desk. The blue-haired rageon didn’t pay any attention to him. They just played on their phone.

Branch let out a groan as he felt a headache building up behind his eyes. He cleared his throat before calling up louder, “Hello! Excuse me?”

The rageon finally looked up from their phone and looked around for him. They must never have to deal with trolls or small folk in general. “Well hello!” they yelled down with a smile when they finally located him, “Aren’t you just the cutest thing!”

Branch just let his face fall into a scowl at the comment, “Thank you.” he answered back threw his teeth trying to appear as friendly as he could. He really should have argued for Poppy to come, but he couldn’t do that, not with Bridget's wedding only a few days out. “I received a letter from here informing me about my brother and hi…”

“Oh!” they exclaimed, “You’re one of those trolls I've heard about on the news!” Before Branch had time to react the rageon was shoving their phone in his face, “You little guys have been all that people are talking about.” It was a news feed talking about two teenagers and their rise to fame. Branch tried to read more but was cut off by the rageon scrolling to the next feed. This one made his bristle with anxiety, there in big block letters was,

 

FIVE TROLL CHILDREN FOUND, TRAPPED IN SUPERSTAR’S VELVET AND VENEER DRESSING ROOM.

 

Branch felt his breath caught in his throat at the words.“What do they mean trapped?” 

“Like trapped,” they answered as if he had grown a second tail, “I hear they were being kept in these diamond bottles.” Branch grabbed the sides of the phone trying to read as much as he could. 

 

Okay, important information:  

Five kids - Okay five kids. Five new nieces and/or nephews.  

Oldest nineteen and the youngest five - Nineteen to five. Nineteen, only a few years younger than him. Branch had to grind his teeth to keep a growl from escaping his mouth. They put a five-year-old in a bottle.

Very minor injuries - Injuries? Why would they have injuries? How could they have injuries? A young troll could fall out of a tree and pop up like nothing happened, what did they do to hurt them?

They are recovering - They are okay, physically at least.

 

This is good information. Well maybe not good, but it was more information than what the letter gave me. However, there is still nothing about John Dory. Where was John Dory? He wouldn’t just let this happen. Not without a fight.

“Jubilee!” A new voice cried angrily, “What are you doing!” Branch turned to see a new older rageon with dark blue hair. 

“Oh, this troll is here about the trolls that were found with Velvet and Veneer,” they answered back.

The dark blue rageon just gave a look of disbelief before “Go see if Ruby needs any help.”

“But” the younger tried to argue only to be cut off by the older.

“Now!” they snapped. 

Branch watched the younger flinch before scurrying away.

The older watched the younger retreat before turning to Branch with a strained smile, “Hello, sir” they asked watching him, “How can I help you?”

How can you help me?! You can help me by telling me what's going on! Or what were Velvet and Veneer doing to them? Or tell me where my brother and his children are… Children focus on them. You need to make sure they are safe, John can take care of himself. He would want them to be taken care of, wouldn’t he? Honestly, he didn’t know what John would want, but Branch knew what he wanted, “I got a letter from you about my brother and getting custody of his kids?” Branch answered, trying to sound as calm as he could, but that didn’t stop his tail from twitching back and forth in irritation. He watched as the strained smile morphed into one of sympathy.

“Yes,” they started out uneasy, “we sent out letters to your other brothers as well.” they continued before moving to dig through the desk, “You are the first one to arrive.” They murmured before pulling out some paper and starting to organize them, “We didn’t know you were coming. If we did we would have had someone… better equipped to inform you about your brother and his children.” Once they were done talking they reached down to give him some papers. “Now if you could give me your names and which brother you are then you can take these and fill them out.”

Branch took the papers, unlike the letter he received, these were not small folk sizes, “Yeah. I sent a letter before I left, but it must be running behind.” He said uneasily, “My name is Branch and I am John Dory’s youngest brother.”

“Okay,” they responded before there was a small hue in the conversation as they wrote down his information. “Anyway, I assume you are here to resume custody of the children.” their voice turned professional like they had done this several times before tapping the papers in his paw, “These papers will allow you to get temporary custody-”

“Temporary?” Branch interrupted, surprised. That's not right. In the village, after the escape, orphan trolling was placed with whoever was willing to take them. There were no temporary placements. Once a trolling was placed there was no moving or switching. He should know he was one of them, for a while, until they just stopped trying and left him to his own devices. 

“Yes.” Their voice was official as they continued to talk, “We don’t know how these cases are handled in your community, but here you have to be evaluated on whether you are equipped to take on a child, let alone five.”

“And if I’m not equipped?” evaluated? Why would he need to be evaluated?

“If you are not equipped…” they trailed off for a moment, “Hopefully one of your siblings will be able to take them.”

“If not, they will be separated.” Branch said coolly as anger started to rise in his chest, “And that will be decided by your people.” They don’t know anything about us! Why should they get to decide? “People that know nothing about me or my kind and didn’t even know five children were being held captive by two ‘Superstars’.” He finished bitterly as he stared the rageon down.

They didn’t answer for a while. They just stood there in mild surprise before letting out a sigh, “Yes,” they agreed quietly, “If you or your sibling can not take proper care of them, they will be separated.”

A familiar twist of dread pulls in the back of Branch's mind,That’s not going to happen. That is never going to happen, not to them. “I need a pen.”

— — — — —

Once Branch finished all the paperwork needed to be done he was finally able to see his new nieces and nephews. While he was getting the papers filled he managed to get some information about them. Apparently, he had three nieces and two nephews. Five. There are five of them. The oldest was nineteen from what rageon at the desk said, she was the loudest of them when they found them in the dressing room. She had, allegedly, attacked one of the police forces when they had tried to pick up one of the others. Next, was a nephew who was fourteen. They think he’s fourteen. There wasn’t a lot to say about him, only that he was quiet but was always watching. Next were twins, maybe around ten, one boy and one girl. The rageon just says they were quiet, like the older boy, and only answered when a question was directly pointed at them. The last was a small girl no older than five. She did not talk to them, only whispered to one of her siblings when she needed something.

It wasn’t much but it was some kind of information. Information that he needed because he knows nothing about these kids. He hated not knowing. For years knowing kept him alive. Knowing what food to eat and what was poisonous. Knowing how to set traps for different critters. Knowing how to clean a cut so it wouldn’t get infected. Now he is about to walk into a meeting knowing almost nothing and he hates it.

They were being kept in a separate room and had been there for a week. Once they had been rescued from their…. cages they were kept in cages like the Bergens did to them before the escape. They were checked by doctors and nurses to the best of their ability, but many don’t have medical knowledge of trolls. Another negative outcome from, not just Pop but the whole of the Troll Kingdoms, being isolated for so long.

When Branch finally arrived at the door, he paused. He’s never been good at this, meeting new people, or even doing something new. He wished Poppy was here, she would know what to do and what to say. Guilt quickly washed over him. These kids have gone through something traumatic and here he was hiding like a trolling. Taking a deep breath, Branch pushed the door open. He was met with a large room with a rageon-sized bed in the corner. On top of the bed, he could see five figures sitting in a small group.

Branch flicked his hair out to the edge of the bed and made his way to the top. He landed with a small, quiet thump. They hadn’t noticed him yet, softly he cleared his throat, “Uh,” Branch started, causing five pairs of eyes to snap to him, “Hello.”

“Who the hell are you?” John Dory's eldest, his niece, asked with a glare. She was a Pop Troll or at least had the look of one. She wasn’t gray like he once was, but had more of a faded or muted blue coloring with dark teal hair that could have once matched his older brother. She wore her hair differently from him, instead of the standard updo that was popular for most Pop trolls, she had her hair lying down with a majority flipped to the right side. On the left, he could make out what once were braids running down the side of her head. They were disheveled and tangled now. Come to think of it now he looked at the whole of her, she disheveled. The well-loved jacket was crumpled and torn in several places along her shoulders and upper arms. Mud caked her pants and stained her paws turning her already dark blue fur into a dirty burnt brown. Branch hoped it was mud. The only thing that looked like it was well taken care of was the goggles on top of her head. 

Branch felt his stomach twist with anxiety as a realization appeared in the back of his head. She looked like John Dory. A very haggard and windswept version but it was him. It was as if he looked at John Dory to see if he was a girl. It was weird after not seeing or hearing from him in twenty years. Before he could answer her, he assumed her brother moved to stand behind her. He was different. He was taller than Branch, with muted dark blue hair and lime-colored fur. However that wasn’t the part that surprised him the most, it was the hooves and the small horns that peeked out of his hair. 

Country troll? No, he may lean into the country aesthetic but he didn’t have enough legs for a standard country troll. Adopted? No, he was definitely John’s kid, he shared the same blue eyes as John Dory’s doppelganger- John’s eyes. Mixed genre? Most likely maybe even a mixed subgenre if the horn were anything to go off of. John knew about the other tribes, maybe knows more than any other Pop troll, and has for a while. Guess hiking the Neverglades trail can only last for so long. 

What were his other nieces and nephews like? As he shifted to maybe get better at his new nieces and nephews, only to be blocked by the two eldest repositioning themself in front of their younger sibling. 

He turned his attention back to the eldest of his new nieces and nephews, “Branch.” he answered, earning a confused look from the two, “My name is Branch. I am your dad’s brother, one of his brothers, the youngest one.” Did they know about him? Did they know about any of them? 

Branch watched as the boy’s gaze turned to his sister, it was clear he was unsure of him and looking for some kind of reassurance from the older. Only the girl didn’t return his look instead she glared- no a glare is too nice of a word this is more of a glower- at him. It was as if she was trying to set him on fire with her eyes.

“Lair.”

Lair ? Branch felt the fur along his shoulders bristle. She has some nerve to call him a liar, especially when she didn’t even kn— Don’t get mad, don’t get mad. Remember what the rageon at the desk said, the oldest was more defensive. She doesn’t know you. Getting mad won’t help anyone. Take a breath. “Excuse me? I’m not lying.” He answered back trying to sound calm. It came out more defensively than he meant to, but his new niece didn’t back down from the challenge.

“Yes, you are.” she threw back, with a hiss, her tail lashing out behind her, “Dad’s brothers are dead, I know I was there.”

Dead. Dead? Why did she think he was dead? Does John think he's dead? Any anger Branch felt at her accusation melted away. Branch never thought any of his brothers were dead despite the years that passed. “I’m not dead?” His brothers aren’t dead either…right? He would have heard something if they were….wouldn't he? What if they were dead and he just didn’t know? Twenty years was a long time, clearly, he was talking to his brother’s nineteen-year-old daughter!

She just gave him a bored look as she looked him up and down, “Well, no shit.” she deadpanned, “The troll you’re trying to impersonate is. If you are going to pretend to be someone you’re not, you might want to check your information about them. If you did, you would know Branch and the rest of Dad’s brothers have been dead for almost twenty years.”

Almost twenty years. John Dory thought he was dead for twenty years. Branch swallowed the dread building up in his throat, but he had to ask “Why does he think they are dead?” 

“No one could survive what happened in that tree. He looked, but with the amount of damage and…” she glanced behind herself before looking back at him, “and everything else. He said no one could possibly survive.”

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks, John went back to the tree. He went back to the tree after they had escaped and thought they were all dead. It was hard to stop the relief and happiness from appearing on his face, He had come back. Someone had come back for him. Someone cared enough to try and find him. Did anyone else come back? Did anyone else try to find him only to be met by the broken remains of a long-dead Troll Tree? He quickly tries to school his face into a more neutral expression, but Branch has never been good at hiding his emotions causing his niece to scowl at him. Before she could say anything, “We escaped!” he blurted out leaving her surprised by his quick outburst, “I don’t know when you returned to the tree but everyone escaped a few months after he left.” 

She still looks skeptical. 

Slowly he reached into his hair and pulled out a picture, “I know you don’t trust me and I wouldn’t either if I were you but I’m telling the truth.” He walked forward and held the picture out to her. He hadn’t shown anyone this picture, not even Poppy. It was a picture of him, his brothers, and his grandma on his last birthday before the final concert that ruined everything. He had been two and thought it was a good idea to start throwing cake leading to all of them, except his Grandma who knew to stay away from the carnage, to be covered in cake in the picture. It was the last time he felt whole and it was the last picture he had of all of them.

She took the photo and for some reason, he may never know she relaxed. A small smile spreads across her face as she runs her finger over the picture.

He was about to ask for it back when a pair of bright green cat-like eyes peeked over her shoulder. A techno troll? They had the coloring and look of one, grayish dark midnight blue scales with navy accents and white freckles across their cheeks. His hair had more of a pop troll look but had a techno troll texture and was pulled back into a messy bun of gray-tinted dark midnight blue hair with neon green, purple, blue, and pink streaks, one for each color. 

They were young, Must be one of the twins they talked about. Maybe ten they said. Briefly, their eyes met before they shrunk down behind their sister. Okay, they are scared. It makes sense. Just don’t scare them more. With a breath, Branch just waved at them. Hoping that all the practice to appear more inviting with Poppy worked for once. It must have been because a reptile-like hand returned the wave, their hand faded from the dark midnight blue to an aqua blue.

“Iris.” Her voice cut in like a knife, breaking the moment he had with her sibling. She held out the photo back to him, “My name, it’s Iris.”

“Cash.” His nephew said suddenly. Between the conversation with his new niece, Iris her name is Iris, and the small exchange with one of the twins, he has forgotten about the other troll standing a few feet away. 

“Nice to meet you,” he said with a smile hoping it would have the same effect as it did with his younger sibling. It didn’t he just stared at him inquisitively like Branch was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out.

“This is Ronen,” Iris said moving to the side so he could get a better look at the green-eyed trolling. 

The small troll, wearing a black and neon-accented hoodie and sweatpants, walked forward with a smile, “Hi.” 

Now, with a better look, he could see they were more techno troll than pop troll. Like their brother, Cash, they also had a surprising look to them. They were half his height which was standard for most ten-year-olds, but most ten-year-olds he’s met didn’t have reptile-like feet and claws or a long lizard-like tail. The more Branch looked at them the more he wasn’t so sure they were part techno troll, but some sub-genre he has yet to meet. 

“Hi.” He smiled back, causing Ronen’s lizard tail to flick from side to side at him being acknowledged, before turning to the next sibling.

“Here is Wynona.” They were not twins, whoever thought they were was an idiot and should really reevaluate their job. Because this is a half-rock troll, not a techno (?) troll. She had grayish-pink and orangish hair cut into a messy bob with gray-blue fur. She didn’t say anything to him, just watched with unblinking, familiar, purple eyes. Her eyes were the same color as Floyd's. It never occurred to him that any of John’s kids could look like his brothers but here it is. Staring at him with a mix of anxiety and hesitation. 

“Lastly we have, Jolene.” Iris finished as she pulled the youngest into her lap. Five. That's how old she was supposed to be five years old but she appeared much younger and she was gray. So very gray. A very familiar gray.

They were all forms of gray. They all stood out in their own way. Anyone could see they were a mix of very different trolls forming a very different kind of family. But that didn’t hide the fact that they were all in various stages of graying. Something else must have happened. Something that could make an adult troll start to go gray. 

“Where is your dad?” He asked, whatever was wrong he could talk to JD about it, he would know what was wrong. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the group of them flinch while Iris just tightened her grip on Jolene. That’s not normal. What is he missing? Where is John Dory? , “What?”

“You don’t know?” Iris asked unsure.

Should he? The rageon at the desk didn’t mention anything about him and when the younger one was showing him the different newsfeed no one talked about an adult troll being found. Worry began to crawl up his throat. Did they not find John? Was he still with the two teens that had kidnapped his niece and nephews? No, someone would have had something to say if that was the case, but where was he?  “No.” Branch answered her honestly, “Have they not told you anything?”

“They haven’t told us anything.” Cash answered quietly.

Branch let out a sigh before he clapped his hands together, “We're going to fix that.” he said making his way to the edge of the bed. Before he hopped off he looked back, they all just stared at him in confusion. Were they not coming with him? “You can come with me if you want, you know.” The moment the words left his mouth they were up and following after him. They were thin, far too thin for it to be healthy. Okay, ask about John Dory and food.  

— — — — —

Hospital. They were taken to the hospital.

This is not how Branch wanted to see JD again. Branch wanted to see him dancing around with a smile on his face. Instead, he is lying motionless on a bed like he is already dead. He wasn’t the blue hue he remembered from his childhood replacing it with this icy cold pale blue. His teal hair has turned into an ashy white leaving nothing but the very tips of his hair its normal color. It was like someone had completely sucked all of the color from him leaving him with a ghostly appearance. This isn’t right. He’s too quiet, he’s supposed to be loud. He’s supposed to be annoying, anything but this.  

Branch glances over at his nieces and nephews and realizes this is a terrible idea. He should have never brought them here. They should not have to see this. Iris stared at him as if he was going to wake up at any moment. Cash was looking at the steady beeping of the machine, the only thing indicating that JD was alive. Ronen and Wynona stood together hand in hand and watched their two older siblings unsure of what to do next. And Jolene, Jolene didn’t look anywhere, just stared blankly at the floor as she half hid behind Iris. None of them are saying anything. Should he say something? Maybe they want to say something, but they don’t want to in front of him. They don’t know him. 

Breaking the silence, “I am going to go talk to the doctor.” Iris was the only one who turned to look at him, “I’ll see what I can find out. If you have anything to say, do it because when I get back we are going to head out.”

This caught Iris by surprise, “We’re leaving?” she asked in disbelief.

Five pairs of eyes focused on him. Branch let out a sigh, “For now, I need to get you back to the village so I can get all of you settled in. Once that's done, I am going to come back and see if we can get your dad moved to a troll hospital.” they all looked uncertain, “I know you may not like it but JD, your dad, would want all of you to be taken care of first.”

Iris opened her mouth, most likely to argue, but was cut off by Cash, “Okay.” he answered for the group, “we’ll go with you as long as we can come back with you when you come back.”

Branch nodded, “You can come with me if you want.” With the discussion over, Branch left to find a doctor. Once he left the room, Branch let out a breath he didn’t reason he was holding but the world still felt like static. J D was not supposed to look like that! It felt wrong. Everything feels wrong. He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t see, and his tongue felt like sandpaper. He had felt like this only once before and that was when his Grandma died. Tears burn his eyes, but he can’t cry not yet. There is still so much he has to do.

“Sir?” a voice cut through, “Are you alright?”

Branch looked up to see the blurry form of a rageon in a nurse uniform, “Yes,” his voice cracked, he was crying and he didn’t even know it, “Sorry, it's been a long day” he answered as he rubbed his eyes, “and there has been a lot of emotions.”

“Can I help you with anything?” they asked with pity in their eyes.

“Yes,” he said, forcing the tears to stop, “can you find me someone who can tell me what happened to John Dory.” Within minutes, a doctor stood in front of him.

“What happened to my brother?” he asked, wasting no time for pleasantries.

“Your brother was drained of his ‘talent’.” the doctor answered calmly.

“ Talent ?” Branch asked, confused. 

“Yes, it is akin to a life essence for you trolls.”

“Why did they need his talent?”

“They used his talent to make their own singing voices better.”

“They were using him like a drug?” Branch said blankly but his tail didn’t hide the anger he was feeling. This felt familiar too.

“Yes, like a drug.”

“How long was he there?”

“From the deterioration of his color, around two months.” The Doctor answers.

Two months. JD has been here for two months, and no one knew- he didn't know, “Do you know when he will wake up?”

The doctor at least had the decency to look uncomfortable. “We do not. The device he was placed in was a one-of-a-kind and was invented by their assistant.” They continued “And we are unsure about what kind of effects it had or will have.”

A mix of dread and anger mixed in his stomach, “What do we know?”

“He is stable and the possibility of him dying should be slim to none.” The doctor answered, “Any injuries he received have been taken care of and are healing nicely,” Injuries? No one said anything about other injuries, “and his emergency contact has been notified of his condition.”

“Okay,” Branch muttered. They weren’t any help, not really. They contacted JD’s emergency contact, which was good. Spruce was most likely to be the one listed. However JD needs a troll doctor or at least someone who knows our biology, “Thank you for the information.” Once the doctor left him alone, Branch pushed the palms of his paws into his eyes. He was about to go back into JD’s room when he heard a voice he never thought he would hear again.

“Branch? Is that you?”

It was Floyd.

Notes:

Voice Cast for JD kids
Iris: Jessica Vosk. Most know her as the voice of Lute in Hazbin Hotel, but she also in Wicked as Elphaba in 2018

Cash: Gareth. He is a singer I found on Instagram. I love his voice and here is a link to his insta- https://www.instagram.com/garethmusic_?igsh=ZXBueWNubXgzOGI3

Ronen: Jack Met. He is one of the singers of the band AJR

Wynona: Pink. I really love her voice.

Jolene: Martina Mcbride. Love her voice

Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Branch POV

Twenty years

Twenty years since he had last sung with his brother.

Twenty years since he had last danced with his brother.

Twenty years since he had last hugged his brother.

Twenty years since he had last seen his brother.

Twenty years since his brother had promised he would come back.

He wants to be happy. He wants to run and hug him like he used to when he was young and tell him how much he missed him. 

He wants to be angry. He wants to push and throw things at him while he yells at him for never coming back.

But he doesn’t do any of that. He didn't say anything. Instead, he just stood there dumbfounded, like an idiot. Branch had stopped believing he would ever see any of his brothers again and now he has seen two in the last twenty minutes. 

They stood there for a few more minutes, just staring and waiting for the other to say something. Branch wanted to say something, anything, but the word wouldn't pass his lips. No matter how hard he tried. Say something! You have had all of these feelings for years and now you have the chance to actually say something about how much it hurt for him not to come back, you can’t? He left you, promised to come back and he never did! He never even wrote to you, or grandma! You spent years feeling like something was wrong with you like you deserved it! And now you have nothing to say?

When it became clear he wasn’t, couldn’t, say anything, Floyd took a step forward. And another. And another. And another. Until Floyd was standing in front of Branch and then pulled him into a hug.

It was weird. It wasn’t bad. It was just different. And Branch didn’t know how to feel. It wasn’t like what he remembered. Branch remembered Floyd’s hugs being something he could borrow. This one felt strained. Maybe it was him that was wrong? It's not like someone could change the way they hug, but people could change and people have changed. He..he has changed. 

“Branch,” Floyd stammered as he pulled back from the hug. His face was racked with guilt as he looked down. 

The vest. The last thing his brother gave him before he left. That and a broken promise. Branch suddenly felt his stomach twist at the memory.

“Wow. You've really grown into that vest.” Floyd’s paws never left his old leafy vest just running it through his fingers, “I’m so sorry I never-”

Branch tuned him out as his ears flicked back with discomfort, I can’t deal with this right now. I have five kids to deal with. JD is on the other side of this door possibly dying for all he knew. I can’t add this to the pile, not right now. “You’re here because you got a letter about John Dory, right?” He said completely cutting Floyd off. 

Floyd just looked surprised at the topic change, “Yeah, I-uh- I went to the RPS building but they just took down my information and told me to come here instead.” He answered by pulling the letter identical to Branch’s out of his hair. 

Silence. A very awkward silence. They both knew what was in the letter, but neither knew how to approach the topic. For sparkle’s sake, Branch had met and talked to the kids and he didn’t know how to say it out loud. While they sat in this never-ending silence, Branch finally took the opportunity to look at his brother. His reddish-pink hair had grown into a dark magenta pink. Half of his hair is twisted around his head and partly covers the left side of his face. He is now smaller than Branch. He was shirtless and had black ripped shorts and a large belt buckle. His earring is now dark black in color. People really do change.

Floyd, apparently, grew tired of the anxiety, “I went to the RPS building, but they sent me here.” He repeated himself, as his paws started to play with the edge of the letter as his tail wrapped around his legs in a form of comfort, “Are they okay? Normally you don’t get sent to a hospital. Is something wrong?”

What a loaded question. They, the kids and JD were not in a good place. JD got his talent sucked out of him and may still die. And the kids were, Muses, the kids probably had to watch it happen. Branch didn’t know how to talk to them let alone how to approach that topic, “They are, well, they are there.” Branch answered as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Floyd only nodded, “And John, where is he? Is he in with them?”

Branch looked at Floyd confused, ears perked, Where was John? Were we not also talking about him? Did they not tell him about who was in the hospital? Of course, they didn’t. They didn’t even tell him. Which means he was going to be the one to break the news to his brother, Branch let out a shaky breath, “Floyd-” before he was cut off by a different voice.

“Floyd? Branch?”

It was Clay.

If Branch thought Floyd had changed then Clay was a whole nother beast. Clay was tall and slender. Gone was his bright yellow hair replacing it with messy lime green hair. He wore a green one-suit sweater romper with a diamond pattern on it. He still wore the yellow and white wristbands that Branch remembered. 

Will he be seeing all of his brothers today? Branch knows the RPS had sent out letters to all of his brothers, they had told him that much, but were they all actually going to come?

“Clay?” Floyd said with a smile, “Look at you!” he exclaimed, holding his arm out.

“Floyd!” Clay smiled as he ran up and hugged the magenta-haired troll. Branch heard him let out a light laugh before releasing Floyd and gave him a long serious look up and down, “I dig the hair.” The green-haired troll said with a smile before he turned his attention to Branch.

“Baby Branch!” He ran up to Branch for a hug before grabbing Branch by the face and started playing with his cheeks. Clay had done this before, and he had laughed at it. The only difference between now and then was Branch was no longer two. 

“Uh,” Branch started while Clay played with his face. He was making baby noises at him, “It’s actually Branch now.” Branch said as he felt discomfort tug at his stomach his ear pinned back in annoyance. They are in public! And he’s not a child! “And can you stop doing this? I’m not a child.” Branch glanced at Floyd hoping to find some kind of help only to see a wide smile spread across his face.

It took a minute but Branch finally made eye contact with Floyd. With a pleasing look Floyd finally came to his rescue, “Clay, how have you been?” he asked to pull Clay’s attention away from Branch.

Immediately Clay dropped Branch’s face, letting him rub the soreness out, “Oh, I’ve been good.” he answered, slightly dully. It was like all excitement from their reunion had disappeared. Replacing it was a more serious mood, nothing like Branch remembered, but people changed.

“That’s good.” Floyd said, noticing the mood change, “Anything new with you?”

“A few things actually.” Clay answered, “I am CPA- a certified public accountant,” He clarified with a touch of smugness, “And I am a business partner slash co-leader of a group of trolls.”

Branch’s ears flicked forward at the comment, Co-leader, not bad. Branch was genuinely impressed. The last few months he had been helping Poppy to the best of his ability, but he has been stressing him out, and he isn't even really a leader but rather an advisor, I wonder what kind of group he helps lead.

“Wow,” Floyd said, also sounding genuinely impressed, “business partner and co-leader. That must be fun, it sounds fun?” He said clearly not sure what kind of compliment to give their older brother.

Clay replied in a blunt tone, "There is nothing fun about it, it is just serious grown-up stuff." Branch could tell Clay was trying to sound serious, and yet he could hear the giddiness in his voice as he tried to hide it.

Okay? That didn’t sound right. Helping Poppy may have been stressful but there had always been fun parts to it. Must be a serious group- country trolls maybe? They had always led a bit to the more serious side, Delta Dawn at least did.

“I’m sure there's still some fun,” Floyd said, sounding a mix of confused and unconfident. 

Briefly, Floyd made eye contact with Branch, but Branch didn’t know what to say either. If Branch was being honest with himself, he hadn’t really thought about being reunited with Clay, or any of his brothers for that matter. If anyone should know what to say it should be Floyd. Floyd was the one who had actually lived with him for nine years of his life. Not Branch, who was only two when he left, when they all left.

“But enough about me.” Clay said, turning the attention away from himself, “What about you two what have you two been doing?”

“Music, mostly.” Floyd answered with a smile, “After I left the tree, I traveled for a bit before I actually settled here in the city. Ever since then, I have been working on music and it's been going pretty well. But I don’t know what Branch has been doing.”

Clay gave Floyd a look of surprise, “You two didn’t stay together?” He asked looking between his two younger brothers before he started to wring his hands together as his tail flicked with confusion. 

“No,” Floyd answered with a guilt-filled look at Branch, “I left an hour or two after you did.” Clay followed his gaze.

Now they were both looking at him. Great. He was going to need to tell them what had happened after they left. With the tree, the escape….with Grandma. Why did Clay think Floyd had stayed? His mind went back to the first conversion he had with Iris. Iris had said that all of her dad's brothers, him and his brothers, were dead, and she knew that was true because she was standing there when he found out. And why would he think any differently? JD had left first, he had also returned first but now is not the time to think about that. As far as JD was concerned, all of his brothers had stayed in the tree and therefore had died, not just him, but all of them. It is unlikely that JD would have known that everyone had left after he had left. The same thing seems to have been thought by Clay as well. That’s what happens when you leave and never look back. When you don’t say goodbye or write.

“Yeah,” Branch admitted reluctantly, the tip of his tail flicked with anxiety. He was not comfortable with the automatic attention, “After Flody left, it was Grandma and I…” Muses, how was he going to explain what happened to Grandma? Floyd had asked him to watch their Grandma. How was he going to tell them he had gotten her eaten? He can’t…he can’t worry about that right now. There is a reason why he’s here. JD, maybe dying, and his kids, are definitely traumatized. He needs to focus on them. Quickly Branch changed the subject, “Clay, you got a letter about JD and his kids.”

“Yes, I did,” Clay said following Branch’s topic change. He pulled it out and opened it, “Man, what did John do this time? Must be pretty bad if they revoke custody. Also kids?” he said waving the paper in front of them there was an edge to his voice that made Branch’s fur bristle. 

There was something about that that rubbed him the wrong way. It is true that Branch had considered the same thing when he was traveling to Mount Rageons, but after talking to JD's kids and finding out what had happened had changed his opinion. Guilt, he felt guilt . For thinking that this was somehow JD's fault. For automatically thinking JD had done something wrong. For thinking so lowly of his brother. What kind of troll does that? The kind that has been abandoned by their family, that’s who. Floyd hadn’t mentioned anything about their oldest brother, he only wanted to know if everyone was ‘okay’. But Clay has been thinking the same way as Branch had, “Well, actua-”

“Guys?!”

Oh, come on! He was cut off again! Is he ever going to be able to tell them anything about the situation? Who was it this tim-  

It was Spruce. 

Of course, it was. Branch was pretty sure it was. His hair was still a deep purple color Branch remembered from childhood, but that was about all that reminded him of the teen Branch knew. His hair was styled down back hair instead of the updo that Clay and Floyd still wore, and it was large- maybe even larger than Branch in size. Spruce was wearing what Poppy would call a "surfer dude" style outfit. Complete with beach shorts, a necklace, and a loose shirt. He was taller than him and Floyd but still shorter than Clay. He has a plump face and body and he looks happy. Happiness seemed to radiate off of him. That was oblivious from the smile line around his eyes.

“Spruce!” Floyd cried out with a smile. They ran to meet each other in a bone-crushing hug. Spruce wasted no time as he lifted Floyd off the ground with ease. After a minute Spruce sat Floyd down before giving the magenta-haired troll a once over. Once he was satisfied with whatever he was looking for. Spruce turned to Clay and Branch. Before Branch could say anything, Clay walked over.

“Clay! Look at you!” Spruce exclaimed looking Clay up and down, “Is that a sweater romper? Very respectable.” With a tone that suggested a joke that only the two of them know.

“Spruce, man, how have you been?” Clay asked, returning the smile.

“Actually it's Bruce now.” Sp- Bruce corrected, “I changed it a few years back.”

“Oooo,” Clay said, gone was that serious tone he had a few minutes ago, replacing it with a mocky yet playful tone, “Fancy.” It was a tone Branch was familiar with. He had heard it a lot when he was younger.

Bruce just returns with a teasing smile before pulling Clay into a bear hug. In response, Clay let out a cry of complaint that sounded like a mix between a hiss and a laugh. While Floyd just watched with amusement…. It was like the twenty years part had never happened. Had it not affected them? They slipped back into their old ways so easily, the way they talked to each other was so natural, filled with laughter and shared memories. It was as if the two decades apart hadn't actually happened. Why weren't they affected by the separation? 

Branch’s thoughts were cut off by someone grabbing and tossing him in the air ! As he became weightless in the air, he let out his own cry of complaint. The moment he felt the arms around him, he hooked his claws lightly into them. “No, tossing!” He demanded more than said to his purple-haired brother, “I am a grown-up!” He only got a teasing smile in return causing him to panic and struggle more in his grasp. Branch got a creepy suspicion he was about to be tossed again, only for Flody to pull Bruce’s attention away from him.

“Sp- Sorry- Bruce, how have you been?” He asked, still smiling. Giving Branch a chance to wiggle out of Bruce’s hold.

“I’ve good!” he said with a never-ending smile, “Everything has been good. I own my own restaurant, I am married..”

“Married?” Clay asked, cutting him off, surprise evident in his voice.

“Bruce, that's great!” Floyd said before quickly congratulating him. 

Married? Branch was shocked. Out of all of his siblings, Bruce would have been the last one to be married, Were any of his other brothers married? None of them had mentioned it yet, but that could be because they hadn’t had the time. 

“And I am a dad now.” He finished and then waited for the ensuing outburst.

“You're a dad now?” Floyd asked surprised ears preaked forward.

“Bruce!” Clay said with a smile, “That's great!”

A family. Bruce had a family. Twenty years had passed and Bruce had a family. A family.

“Yes, I am. To thirteen of them.” Bruce answered with a laugh tail wagging behind him with delight, “And apparently,” he started pulling out his letter from RPS, “I’m not the only one.”

Cloud above! Thirteen?!

“You’re telling me,” Clay added once the shock of Bruce’s information had worn off, “it's not exactly what I expected.” Clay said looking at his own letter, “I wonder what he did.”

“I would be careful not to say that in front of any of the kids.” If any of the kids heard them talk about JD in that way they would never earn their trust.

“Why?”

“Alright look.” Branch began, “I am going to tell everything I have been told. Now keep in mind, I haven’t gotten the chance to talk to any of JD’s kids for details. Everything I’ve learned is from the agent at the RPS building or the doctor.”

“Branch,” Floyd asked, eyes never leaving his face, “What's going on?”

“Uh,” Okay, how do I tell them that JD, their older brother, is on the other side of this door and maybe dying…..There is no possible way to drop that on them and have it be okay. He is just something you have to say, “When you first got here, you asked why they sent you to a hospital. It's because JD’s here” he finished by pointing to the room where an unconscious JD resided. Branch didn’t give them a chance to talk, “The doctor said he is stable, all of his minor injuries are taken care of, but they don’t know why he is asleep or if he is going to wake up.”

Silence remained in the hallway for a long time after his confession had been made. There was a look of shock on Clay's and Bruce's faces as they stared at him. As they looked away from each other, they shared the same look of shame and guilt. Although, Bruce’s face had less shame and more regret. However it would appear all three of them- Branch, Clay, and Bruce- had assumed JD was in the wrong.

“What happened?” Floyd asked, a voice clearly filled with concern. He didn’t think JD was in the wrong, did he? No, he didn’t. Not the kind one.

Branch let out a sigh as he let the shame-filled thoughts leave his mind, “The doctor said, his talent was sucked out of him.”

“Talent? ” Bruce asked just as confused as he was thirty minutes ago.

“They said it was like a life essence for a troll.” He answered him. He had no idea if it was true, but it was what the doctor had told him.

“Who would do something like that?” 

“Why would someone do that?” Clay asked, completely confused like none of this made sense. Branch could see he was chewing the inside of his cheek but he still wasn’t making eye contact with anyone.

“I don’t know why.” Branch answered him honestly before turning to Bruce, “All I know is that their names are Velvet and Veneer and that the two of them were teen pop stars until they found JD’s kids in their dressing room leading to JD being discovered as well.”

“For how long?” Floyd asked. There was an edge to his voice, one that Branch had never heard him use before. He was angry, that was easy to see from the way his ears were pinned back and his fur was bristled, but his voice had something more sinister in it.

“Two months.” Branch answered eyeing his immediate older brother, “The kids were with him and-”

“And watched it happen.” Bruce continued vacantly.

“There's five of them in total.” Branch said not wanting to think about the five kids trapped with no way to escape, or knowing if help was coming for them while having to watch their dad slowly get drained of any life, “Not as much as Bruce, but still a few of them.” He said trying to joke, to do anything other than feel the weight of what he just said on his shoulders.

Bruce gave a small smile but he was clearly thinking of something else. Maybe it was the same thing he was. “Okay, you’ve met them.” he said trying to steer the topic away from the two months they had suffered, “Tell us about them.”

Met them? A ten-minute meeting does not mean he knows anything about them. Okay, he knows some things, at least he can come to a conclusion about some things. Start with the basics and work your way to the maybes, 

“Iris is the oldest.” he said eventually “She’s nineteen.”

“Nineteen?” Floyd questioned.

“Nineteen.” Branch confirmed, “She’s, well, she’s prickly,” He said, still trying to find a nice word to describe her, but he had only just met her and their first conversion had been prickly. “but she cares about her siblings.” That fact had been evident from the way she interacted with them, “They also seemed to follow her lead. It was only after I convinced her of who I was, that I was able to learn their names.”

“Convince her?” Clay questioned, “Convince her of what?”

That I was who I said I was and that we were all alive. But Branch didn’t say that. The bomb of JD may be dying and his kids watching the whole thing still hung thick in the air, so he decided to ignore his green-haired brother and move on to the next sibling, Cash.

“Cash is next.” he continued, thinking of the second eldest. Cash had been very quiet during their first meeting and left the talk more to his sister, “I don’t know how old he is, the RPS thought he could be fourteen, but they also thought the two middle kids were twins. They are not.” he commented, still annoyed by the stupidity of the rageons working at the RPS. “There's not much to say about him, for now. He seemed to be more amenable, but that could have been him trying to make a good first impression.”

“Then there is Ronen and Wynona.” Branch moved on with a smile thinking of the small half-subgenre techno troll, who had come right up to him without fear. While his sister just stared at him with eyes full of anxiety, “The rageons working at the RPS thought they were twins, but they’re not.”

“How do you know?” Clay asked. It was a fair question.

It was. Back in the tree, and even now in the village, it was hard to tell if someone was a sibling sometime let alone a twin. If someone needed any proof they only had to look at him and his brothers. The only thing that was really common among them was the light blue fur color they shared and even that was pushing it considering the different hues of blue. However with Ronen and Wynona, it was obvious they weren’t twins, some might question them being siblings at all with one being of techno descent and the other rock. Did they know about the other genres? They are going to have so many questions, but there was time for questions once everyone was settled and they were on their way to Pop Village. There will be a time for questions, from and for everyone

“They’re not.” Branch answered back, “Ronen, who I think is older, is the more outgoing of the two. While Wynona is more on the shy side.” 

“That could have been because she doesn’t know you.” Bruce commented, “For some kids, it can take a while for them to feel comfortable around a new person. Considering what has happened over the past few months it might take longer for her to warm up to you or any of us.”

“Maybe.” Branch said, trying to sound hopeful, “Lastly we have Jolene.” He remembered the small, very gray, trolling, “She’s five, and that’s all I really know. She hasn’t said anything nor has she acknowledged me.”

“Five?” Floyd asks in disbelief. Whatever good talking about his nieces and nephews had done to relax Floyd was over. His fur was standing on end now as he glared at the ground.

“Five.” Branch confirmed, “I don’t know what is going to happen with them, not really.”

“What do you mean?” Clay asked, “In the letter, they asked us here to claim custody.”

Branch felt a stab of annoyance, he knew what the letter said, “Temporary custody.” Branch almost growled, “Whoever wants to get custody they have to be evaluated first. If they find you are not equipped they will find someone else.” A pit in his stomach started to form, “And if none of us are found equipped enough, they would be put in foster care and maybe separated.”

“That's not going to happen,” Bruce said, immediately. He sounded so sure, how did he sound so sure, “We are not going to let that happen.”

“How do you know?” Branch asked in irritation. There are a hundred different ways this could go. Why was he so sure it was going to be okay?

Bruce stared at him surprised by his outburst, “I just do.” He said back sternly, “We all knew leaving with a kid in tow was a possibility, it said so in the letter. We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t prepared for it and everything that comes with taking care of a child.”

Branch didn’t say anything, just scowled at the ground.

Bruce must have taken his silence as an agreement because he kept talking this time addressing Clay and Floyd, who were just watching their interaction, “Now let's go in.” he said pointing at the door, “And meet our niece and nephews.”

Notes:

I love all of the brothers, I do. There are just moments that I felt like could have been addressed. Floyd promising to come back is the main one. If they had giving him a throw away line about coming back I would be fine.
Another is none of the other brothers (other than JD) coming back or trying to get in touch. I guess Bruce tried, but a post card saying "wish you were here" and nothing else, is something I would throw away because I would see it as junk mail. If they had given any of the others a line like JD's I would be fine but they didn’t so now we’re here.
Clay kind of gets a pass because he was at the golf course, but I also don't know if he was still at the tree during the escape or not (also haven't decided where he was in this story).
Personal opinions aside, here was ch.2. I don't know when ch.3 is going to be out. I am working on ch.5, for some reason working ahead and keeping that two chapter lead like this has made my ADHD brain happy and wanting to keep writing so I am sticking with it. So once ch.5 is done I’ll post ch.3

Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Kids POV

Iris POV

Iris watched as her Uncle(?) walked out of the room. Finally, she felt like she could relax. Sparkles, her uncle. Her dad’s brothers are alive, the youngest one is at least. Maybe all of them are and Branch is just the one they sent to pick them up. She should be happy, and she was, but she also felt a heavy sense of unease. It was like there was something watching her just out of sight, but she couldn't find it no matter how hard she looked. She had only felt like this once before when they visited the tree. Iris was young- very young- when they went back to the tree. She had been told not to leave his hair and that it was dangerous so she had to listen. But this was a whole new place and she wanted to see a new place, a place that her dad had called home. 

There will always be a part of her that wishes she hadn't done that. She could still recall the way the color seemed to disappear from the world. Despite her best efforts, she could remember how the smell of rot and decay clung to the back of her throat. She remembered the twisted and mangled tree that had once been her dad's home. She remembered how faded his colors had become and how they had never been as bright as they had before. She remembered how he had cried for months after when he thought she was asleep. She remembered how he would apologize to trolls that weren't there.

It was all she wanted for her dad to wake up so that she could tell him everything that she had learned. So she could hug him, hear him sing, and see him smile. But none of that happened, instead she was staring at him in a hospital bed looking as though he could die at any moment. 

Iris could feel the tears threatening to roll down her cheek. It wasn't fair, none of this was fair. It made her so angry. They hadn’t been doing anything wrong. They had been safe like they always were when passing the eastern trail, they weren’t even on the actual eastern trail. How had they found them? They had always managed to avoid the giant-folk before. Who had told them they were there? 

However, Iris could not worry about that, not right now. What she should actually be worried about was her siblings. Until Dad wakes up, they need to be looked after. She had taken care of them before, the only difference was this time it would just be longer. This is what Dad would want, for everyone to be taken care of. She could do that. So to take care of them properly she needs a plan. She needs a plan for whatever happens next. A part of her wants to rely on her dead- but not really dead - uncle, but she doesn't know him. So she needs to get ready for whatever is going to happen. If there was one thing her dad taught her over the years of survival it was how to plan a route. Even after her….mistake, her dad had to push for her to retain that skill.

~~~~~~

There’s a reason her dad loved the Neverglades. When she was younger she hadn’t always understood, but each time she visited she began to understand a little more. For some trolls, the Neverglades could be seen as something simple, but for her family, they were a second home. The forest was nestled in a mountain range creating a serene and beautiful place. Tall pines, oaks, and maples created a canopy overhead, with sunlight peeking through. The air is always fresh and earthy, filled with the sounds of rustling leaves and chirping critters. Someone, anyone really, could follow multiple rugged trails some leading up to the snow-powered mountains or down to the winding rivers and streams.

It was beautiful, but her favorite part was the floating mountains. Huge masses of rock floated across the sky and would land in different parts of the trail, leading to ever-changing landscapes and new paths to explore. Each mountain seemed to hold a secret, a mystery waiting to be uncovered. Some days, they would discover hidden caves filled with glowing crystals; other days, they would find waterfalls cascading down into sparkling pools. The floating mountains created a dynamic and magical environment that made every hike an adventure, always promising something new and wondrous just around the corner.

It had been years since she had been here, but a simple smell could remind her of those first few months of her life when it was just her and her dad. She had been four when she first hiked in the Neverglades. 

“It's really tall.” She mumbled looking at one of the trails leading up to the mountain. It was so much taller than she remembered it being.

“Yes, it is.” her father responded while adjusting his backpack with a smile his tail flicking with delight as he watched her.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Iris asked, using her hand to rub her arm, “I mean how are we even going to do this?”

She heard him let out a light chuckle, “Well, we are going to plan our route.” he paused a moment, “Well, actually you are.”

She snapped her head to him in surprise, “Me?” She had never done something like this before. Not to mention the last she had tried to do something on her own. A mix of guilt and dread climbed up her spine as she thought of that night. Unconsciously she reached up to rub the missing part of her ear.

Dad must have noticed her anxiety because he gently took hold of her hand and detached it from her ear, “Yes, you.” he answered as he knelt in front of her to check the buckles on her pack.

“Are you sure?” She asked still wanting to rub her ear. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” He answered rubbing his still bandaged thumb over her hand, “Iris, you have planned our route before.” 

She looked at the mountain before looking back at him, “I know, but are you sure it’s a good idea?” As soon as her eyes reached the newly healed cut that ran from the corner of his cheek to the tip of his ear, she dropped her eyes, “After last time.”

“Iris..” He let out a sigh. It wasn’t a sigh of disappointment, she had heard him use that sound many times with Carter and Rush. This was a sigh she wasn’t used to, “What happened last time was a mistake.”

“But I-um-I..” It had been a few weeks since the accident, but just the mention of caused her chest to start to tighten. It had been a mistake, but a mistake that had gotten her dad hurt. Before the overwhelming feeling of some pushing on her chest could grow she was pulled into a gentle embrace. It made her feel safe and protected. Quickly, faster than she thought possible, the tension, worries, and stresses melted away. 

“Iris,” He started to say softly, “What happened was a mistake. Mistakes happen, you need to learn to trust yourself again.” he said softly into her head, “You know what to do” He pulled back slightly to look her in the eyes. “Take a deep breath, think it through, and try again. And if you need help, I will be here."

She nodded, taking a shaky breath. It won't be like last time. It can't be like last time. He's not here, "Okay, Dad."

He smiled, giving her another squeeze before letting go. "I believe in you, Iris. Let's tackle this together." he finished with a smile, “Now, remind me, what are the steps to plan a route?”

~~~~~~

Gather as Much Information as You Can, Gather your gear and supplies, and Consider the Group. There were others but these were the ones Iris felt were most important.

Gather as Much Information as You Can, Alright, Branch wants to take us to the Village. However, we know very little about the Village or the trolls who live there. Will they even allow us to stay? They were gray. Dad said there was nothing wrong with it, but what did other pop trolls think about it? Do we even want to stay? They escaped the tree but how far did they get from the Bergens?…Do we want to stay in a place where trolls were eaten only for everyone to act like everything was fine?And what about Branch? We don't know much about him either. Can we trust him? He is Dad's brother, so we should be able to trust him...right? Our lack of knowledge about both the Village and the Branch makes this situation uncertain. 

Gather your gear and supplies, We can't get supplies here. Branch wants to take us to the Village, where we can find what we need. In the Village, we could discreetly pick up a knife or a can of food without anyone noticing.

Consider the Group, Cash should be able to manage until we get back home. However, Ronen, Wynona, and Jo haven't had the opportunity to learn survival skills in harsh conditions. They haven't needed to. While they know the basics, their experience is limited to surviving in spring or summer weather, and that's only if they were paying attention when Dad was teaching them. Cash will definitely want to be involved in forming our plan. Ronen and Wynona will likely want to contribute as well, despite their limited experience. 

Iris tore her eyes away from her comatose dad. She couldn't deal with that right now. She removed Jolene from her leg and passed her over to Cash. 

Cash in return eyed her in confusion as she rubbed the tears out of her eyes. She can’t be crying right now.

She moved to stand in front of her younger siblings managing to pull all of their attention to her. They all stared at her expectantly. There is no time for crying. You need to get things under control. You need to plan. You need to take care of your siblings. You can do this.

“Okay, we need a plan.”

— — — — —

Cash POV

“Okay, we need a plan.”

Cash stared at his sister in confusion. What is she talking about, a plan? They have a plan, or at least one made for them. He could tell she is trying not to cry, they all had been crying. Had the lack of sleep and overwhelming emotions finally taken their toll on her? “A plan? Iris, what are you talking about?”

It was Iris’s turn to look confused, “A plan, you know something to follow.” she said before wiping her tear-stained cheeks, “I know you know what I am talking about. Dad taught you just like he taught all of us.”

Cash took a breath before he looked down to see Jo attached herself to his unguligrade leg. He is really starting to get worried. Jo hasn’t said anything since everything began- since everything went wrong- and she is gray. It hurts to see her hurting like this. He didn’t know what to do; they were supposed to take care of each other. That’s what Dad had taught him. If Dad were awake, he would know what to do. But he’s not. Instead, he is lying in that hospital bed, unresponsive and fragile. Cash felt helpless. He hated being so weak.

We watch out for each other That's why they should be worried about not trying to come up with a plan.

~~~~~~

He was standing backstage, he had just peeked out from the curtain. He had hoped that it would provide some kind of comfort. It did not. It only made it worse. Cash could feel his heart pounding in his chest while sweat covered his palms causing his guitar to become slick. He could feel the anxiety prickling all over his body. This only caused his fur to stand on end and he couldn't make it lay flat no matter how hard he tried. His mind raced with worry, What if he forgot the lyrics? What if he messed up the cords? He had spent months working on this song with his dad. Months of being excited and now this? What changed? Why is he now having issues?

Before he dived over the deep end, a voice managed to cut through the static, “Hey Cash, you okay?”

Shit dad! Okay, okay calm down you’re fine. You. Are. Fine.

“Cash?” he called out for him before finally finding Cash, “What's going on?”

Cash just waved him off, “It’s nothing.” When his dad didn’t leave he stood up straighter and adjusted his shirt, “Really, I’m fine.” He insisted on putting on his best smile. 

His dad just got closer. He adjusted Cash’s shirt at the shoulder before asking, “You sure?” Technically Cash was taller than his dad but at this moment he felt small like he was still a child, “Ronen, said you were looking a little green.”

That little pest. Why would he do that?  Cash had told Ronen to leave him alone.

When Cash didn’t answer, he continued, “You know, stage fright can be overwhelming, but it can make a world of difference to talk it through with someone. It's normal to feel like that before stepping into the spotlight in front of people you don’t know.”

“Is it?” Cash asked quietly.

“Yes,” He answered quickly. There was a pause before he continued, “You know, I used to get so nervous I would throw up.”

That caught his attention, “Really?” he asked. The thought disturbed him. His dad had always seemed so sure of himself. The thought that he would get so nervous he would throw up doesn’t fit into the picture.

His dad just laughed at his shock, “Yes, do you want to know what made it better?” He questioned with a smile.

Cash didn’t say anything, just gave a nod.

“I talked about it with my family.” That shocked him. Dad barely ever talked about his family, but Cash knew they were the subject of a lot of regret for his dad. “And with that, I learned it is okay to be nervous. And it helps if you talk to someone.” 

“I’m nervous I am going to mess up.” Cash answered reluctantly “I don’t want all of these months to be worthless.” This has to be worth something.

“Why would they be worthless?”

“Why?” Cash asked in a tone dripping with sarcastic confusion. “Maybe because you’ve been helping me for months, adding up to countless late nights and little sleep. I know an extra hour of sleep would have made a big difference, especially with baby Jo around.” His voice rose, frustration boiling over. He knew he shouldn't be yelling, especially when his dad was only trying to help. “Maybe because we’ve been working on this for months when we could have been doing anything else.” Cash let out a sigh as the tension left his body. “This has to be worth something. All of this work has to be worth something.”

His dad took a deep breath, maintaining his calm demeanor. "Cash, I understand why you're frustrated," he said gently, his voice soothing. "You've put so much effort into this, and you're tired, but all this work, all those late nights—they've made you stronger and more prepared. It isn't just about the performance; it's about the journey we've taken together.”

Cash's shoulders slumped slightly, the tension starting to release.

"And you're right, an extra hour of sleep would have been great," his dad continued with a small smile. "But what we've gained in this process is worth even more. You've learned resilience, dedication, and how to push through tough times when all you want to do is smash that guitar. Those are lessons that will stick with you long after tonight."

Cash looked down, absorbing his dad's words. "I guess," he muttered, feeling a bit embarrassed by his outburst.

His dad placed a hand on Cash's shoulder before gently pulling him forward and placing his forehead against his. It was a reassuring gesture, one that they had started doing when his horns began to come in. His father used to do it when he was around, his father used to do it with his dad too. "It's okay to feel like this, Cash. It shows how much you care. And no matter what happens out there, remember that you gave it your all. That's what truly matters." He paused. “You know you don’t have to go out there if you don’t want to, right?”

A small wave of warmth and relief washed over Cash. He did know this, but hearing it made a world of difference. He took a deep breath, feeling his heartbeat slow down. "Thanks, Dad," he said quietly. “And I know I can, but I do want to do this. Everything just feels like a lot.”

“As long as that’s what you want to do.” His dad smiled, pulling him into a quick, comforting full-body hug. "Okay now, go out there and show them what you've got. You've worked hard for this moment, so enjoy it."

Cash nodded, feeling a newfound sense of determination. As he stepped onto the stage, his dad's words echoed in his mind, steadying his nerves and giving him the confidence he needed to face the audience.

Just before stepping into the spotlight, Cash turned to his dad and said, “I need to apologize to Ronen.”

“Yeah,” his dad agreed, “you do.”

“He was just trying to watch out for me.”

“He was.”

“He’s just so annoying sometimes.”

His dad let out an amused sigh. “He’s not annoying, he’s just a younger sibling.” he said before adding, "And because he's your sibling he gets to worry about you and wants to watch out for you. Like you watch out for Iris even though she doesn't ask you to."

Cash managed a small smile. “Thanks, Dad. For everything.”

His dad gave him one last reassuring nod. “Go knock 'em dead, Cash.”

With that, Cash took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage, feeling more prepared and supported than ever before.

~~~~~~

We watch out for each other, you don’t have to shoulder everything

“Are we going to be separated?” Ronen asked looking between him and Iris. At his question, Cash could feel Jo tighten her grip on his leg.

So that's what he's been worried about, Cash shook his head, “No, unc- Branch would not have come all this way if he wanted us to be separated.” he tried to sound reassuring. Ronen should not be worried about that.

“Cash,” Iris said pulling his attention away from their younger brother, “It might not be up to him.” She sounded so tired. She was going to start pacing soon, as she always does when she gets stressed. Dad and her, both do it.

“Why wouldn’t it?” Wynona asked anxiety clear in her voice. She was also picking at the fabric of her sleeve. She had been doing that more and more since they were rescued.

“Because he wants to go back to the village. Where the pop trolls live.” Ronen answered his voice was quiet. He’s never been so quiet.

Iris is right. Although he does not want to say it, she was. Considering that they are mixed-genre and half-pop trolls while Iris and Dad are full-pop trolls, it has never been easy for them to fit in with the main genres.

“Where the pop trolls live,” Iris confirmed there was a pause before she seemed to get more irritated. She let out a small growl before she started to pace, “and that’s not even the only issue.”

“What do you mean?” Wynona asked as she wrapped her tail around herself while Jo put her head into the crook of his leg. Iris isn't helping. This is making everyone's anxiety worse. She isn't helping like she thinks she is.

“Well, look at us.” Iris answered waving her paws at herself and us, “Do you think they are going to be very accepting of any of us? Pop trolls aren’t known for their emotional acceptance.”

They could hide it- No, Dad had made sure we all knew that it was okay to show other emotions and that we didn't always have to be happy. Dad would be upset if he knew he was even thinking that way, “Unc-” No that feels weird, “Branch didn’t seem to mind.” 

“He also seemed to be faded too.” Wynona interrupted, “Kind of like dad.” It's true, maybe he had been gray at some point in his life.

Iris only let out a sigh and stopped pacing, “Okay, maybe he will be okay.” she related,  “But what about the rest?”

“Maybe they changed?” Cash added trying his best to calm everyone's nerves, “It has been twenty years, people change.” 

"Maybe" she answered back reluctantly, "but we don't even know if it's safe there. I mean there is a reason why Dad never went back." Another valid point, Dad hasn't told Ronen, Wynona, or Jo yet but Iris and he knew. Bergens, they had been the main source of his dad's nightmares for years.

Cash thought a moment, "Maybe they moved farther than we think. Maybe they are not in pop territory." He paused a moment, Why would Branch put himself in danger like that? "I don't think, Branch would not be so okay with going back if it wasn't safe." he said before sighing, "And I don't think we have much of a choice. Where would we even go?"

"Home." Iris answered without hesitation, "We could go home." Home, He wants to go home too. Home was safe.

"We can't go home without Dad." Cash said back after a long time, "And if Branch is going to move him, we need to stay with him."

Before she could argue Ronen cut in, “You’re back!”

He must be talking to Branch. Thank the Muses, this troll is going to be taking them. They can’t appear ungrea- Who are they?

— — — — —

Ronen POV

They weren’t really arguing. No, Ronen had seen an actual argument. Ronen had also been in one too. This is more of a heightened discussion. Yeah heighten discussion, that felt…right. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to feel. On one hand, Iris was right they needed to get ready for what could be coming. But on the other hand, Dad doesn’t look good. He feels like they should all be focused on that, but instead, they were argui- having a heightened discussion- about leaving and going to a place that Dad didn’t even want to stay in.

Ronen had met a lot of different trolls in their family's travels some were nice and welcoming and some were rude and judgemental. What were the Pop trolls going to be like? Were they going to be territorial and confrontational like the main Rock Trolls? Or are they going to be skeptical and reserved like the Country Trolls? Or are they going to be like some of the subgenres they have met? Would they be okay with his scales and horns? Would they be okay with Cash's and Jo's hooves?

Ronen wishes he could ask his dad, but was… He might never be able to ask his dad anything ever again. That thought felt like it took the air out of his lungs. He hated that thought. He hated what had happened. Every unanswered question felt like a weight pressing down on his chest, suffocating him with the fear that he might never get closure. His dad had always been his rock, the one he turned to for advice, for comfort, for understanding. Now, all Ronen could do was sit and wait for him to wake up. He hated being so useless. He hated-

New trolls. His uncle Branch, his “uncle Branch” it's weird to think about, had just walked in with three new trolls. The first one had dark magenta-pink hair that covered the left side of his face. The next had bright green hair and wore a kind of weird sweater romper fusion. The last one had long purple hair and looked like he belonged on a beach somewhere rather than in a city. 

He glanced back at Iris and Cash they hadn’t noticed just kept discussing in a half whisper, half-raised voices. Well someone has to point them out, 

“You’re back!” He yelled louder than he probably should, but he’s good at being loud and drawing attention. It worked because now both his siblings and the three new trolls were looking at him. His siblings he could handle, but the new trolls are something else. They looked at him in confusion like something was wrong with him. Not just him, but all of them. This was not the first time new trolls had looked at them like this, but each time it made his scales crawl.

~~~~~~

It was winter so they were in Country territory. They had a house here, when the snow would get so treacherous on the trail they would come here. Ronen loved it here, the weather was always nice and so were the trolls after a bit of talking, but sometimes he felt like he didn’t belong here.

He sat on the porch steps, staring out at the yard where other kids were playing. He pulled at his sleeves, trying to hide the distinct scales on his arms. He didn’t look like the other kids. His siblings didn’t look like them either, but even among his siblings, he knew he was different. Sometimes that made him feel like he didn’t even belong in his family.

His dad must have noticed, he always noticed, him sitting on the porch because he walked outside and sat down next to him with his tail half curled around him. “Hey, Ronen,” he said softly. “Mind if I join you?”

Ronen shrugged, not looking up. “Sure.” They were going to have a talk, he knew they were. It was like his dad had a weird sick sense when it came to having a talk.

Dad placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. “You seem a bit down today.” he commented before looking at the other kids, “Why aren’t you playing with the other kids?”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Do you ever feel like something is wrong with you?”

“Ronen, there’s nothing wrong with you.” his dad insisted.

Of course, he would say that Ronen glanced at his dad, tears welling up in his eyes. 

His dad was quiet for a moment, “Did someone say something?” 

Ronen quickly wiped his eyes, “What? No, no, no one said anything.”

“Ronen, I'm being serious.” his dad’s voice had become icy. It made Ronen nervous because his dad didn’t get mad. In his eight years of life, the only time he had seen his dad mad was when a pair of trolls, yodel trolls was what his dad had called them, had gotten too close to Cash and Jo. Iris had also gotten angry at them.

“I know and I’m telling the truth, no one has said anything,” Ronen said trying to reassure his dad before he went off to find someone’s parents.

His dad took a deep breath, “Okay,” he paused searching for the right words. “and yes I have felt like I don’t belong.” 

Ronen looked at him, “Really?”

“Oh yes, all the time. Growing up, I felt like everyone around me was perfect and that there was wrong with me.” He said with a sad smile, “But with that, I learned that everyone has something different about them, even if it’s not always visible.”  

That surprised him, his dad didn’t talk about his childhood a lot, “Really?”

“Yes, and let me tell you something, your scales and horns are part of who you are and there is nothing wrong with them.” 

Ronen leaned into his dad’s side, feeling a bit of comfort in his words. “I know there's nothing wrong with them. I just wish they didn’t make me look so different.”

His dad said softly, hugging him closer. “Ronen there is nothing wrong with being different and you shouldn’t feel like something is wrong with you just because you look different.” His dad wiped a stray tear from Ronen’s cheek. “Remember, being different isn’t a bad thing. It’s what makes you, you. And I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

~~~~~~

There was nothing wrong with him. There was nothing wrong with any of them. Yet, they still looked at him as if something was off. This made him shrink into his hoodie. Maybe there was a good reason why Dad left the pop trolls.

Before anyone could say anything, Iris stepped in front of him, arms crossed and glaring. Ronen watched his older sister assist the new trolls just as she had with their uncle Branch. She examined each troll carefully, her normally warm eyes now cold and vigilant, as if searching for a threat. Slowly, he wrapped his tail around her’s, hoping to ease the tension. Ronen noticed her glance back at him before she gradually began to relax. 

Iris gave him a slight nod. "Who are they?" she asked nodding her head toward the new trolls, her voice flat and filled with distrust.

— — — — —

Wynona POV

"Who are they?" Iris asked, nodding her head toward the new trolls. The tone of her voice was distinctly flat and filled with distrust, which was understandable. New trolls had never been welcoming. As the new trolls appeared to be startled out of their trance, their eyes grew wide with surprise.

The purple-haired one was the first to step forward. Despite the shock that was still evident in his eyes, he gave a modest wave and attempted to give a reassuring smile despite the small wave he gave and the small wave he waved. "My name is Bruce."

Wynona glanced at Iris, not knowing what to do. But Iris just stared at the purple-haired troll, Bruce, she didn't seem to be impressed with him. "Okay? And?"

She watched him take a deep breath, Bruce swallowed nervously, his smile faltering as he did so, “And I am your uncle.” he paused a moment, “Your oldest uncle.”

An uncle named Bruce? No, Dad’s brothers were named Spruce, Clay, Floyd, and Branch. She had seen pictures of them when she was younger. She has drawn them before too.

~~~~~~

Drawing had always been a challenge for Wynona. She loved it, but it was also stupid. She had found an old picture in one of her dad’s photo albums. It was a picture of him and his brothers when they were younger. She wanted to draw them for her dad, but they looked wrong and she didn't know how to fix it. She was good at flowers and some critters, but other trolls never looked right. Their heads were always too big or one of their limbs was bigger than the other. The paper was covered in erased marks and half-finished attempts. She glared at the paper in frustration; she didn’t want to admit it, but she was on the verge of tears. Why did it never come out right?

Dad’s birthday was coming up and she just wanted to make something special. He always made her things for her birthday, and they were always special and perfect. She just wanted to give him something like that, but it never looked right.

"Hey there," Wynona jumped; she wasn’t expecting anyone. "Whatcha drawing?"

"Nothing," she tried to lie and hid the picture in her hoodie, not wanting to ruin the surprise, but she couldn’t hide the crack in her voice.

"Do you want some help with your nothing?" he asked with a smile.

"No." She wanted to do this herself. She shouldn’t cry like a baby. Wynona let out a groan of frustration. "I can’t get it right. Your birthday is coming up and you deserve something perfect, and I can’t make it perfect." Tears were starting to burn her eyes, “You always make me these amazing things that I love. Why can’t I make you something like that?”

Now it was her dad’s turn to be surprised. That surprise quickly turned to concern then to a soft smile. "Wynona having something be perfect isn't what matters.” She was about to argue but there was something in the tone of his voice that stopped her, “It's the effort and thought that count.”

“Here,” he said then turning her to face him, “Think of your hoodie, the one I made you for your sixth birthday.”

“But I love this hoodie. I love how big it is.” She interrupted as she grabbed the front of it, “It makes it feel more like a blanket and not like it was squeezing me like other clothes.” 

“I know you love it, but honestly I didn’t mean to make it that big.” He said with a smile, “I know you would like it on the bigger side, but you were swimming in that hoodie. Remember how we had to tie it up with a hair tie?”

Wynona smiled at that. It was still really big, but she loved it. She never thought it was too big before, “I love how big it is and I love that you made it.”

“See, it's the effort and thought that count. When I was making it I was worried you weren't going to like it because it didn't fit you.”

That didn't make sense, she would have loved it if it was too small just like she loved it when it was way too big.

He looked down at the paper, “But if you're stuck, I can show you a few tricks. How about we try together, and you can take over when you feel ready?"

Wynona hesitated, her pride warring with her frustration. "Okay," she finally whispered.

He picked up a pencil and showed her how to sketch the basic shapes first, starting with simple circles and ovals for the trolls’ heads and bodies. He explained how to balance the proportions and add details step by step. Wynona watched intently, her frustration melting into curiosity.

"Here,” he said, handing the pencil back to her. "It’s just a matter of breaking it down and being patient."

Wynona took the pencil and started drawing again, following her dad’s advice. Slowly, her trolls began to take shape, their heads fitting their bodies, their limbs in proportion. It wasn’t perfect, but it was much better.

~~~~~~

Maybe this troll could be Spruce, they had the same purple hair and the name wasn’t that different.

"Uncle?" Iris repeated, her voice tinged with skepticism. "My dad doesn’t have a brother named Bruce." Her eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms over her chest, signaling her distrust.

That's when Uncle Branch interrupted, “It's true.” he said stepping in between the Iris and the three new trolls. It was as if he was trying to be some kind of barrier between the two. Which was useless, if Iris wanted to get them she would. One troll would not stop her.

Wynona looked closer at them. Maybe they were their uncles. The colors matched and Spruce, or Bruce, would have been their oldest uncle. All of Dad's brothers are alive, not just his youngest, but all of them. She wished he could wake up and see them. She knew how much it hurt her dad to think they were dead. He didn't talk about it out loud, but every now and again Wynona could see how much it hurt him to live with the regret of not being there. It was like a shadow that never left him, a silent burden he carried.

Uncle Branch continued to talk, “They are your uncles.”

— — — — —

Jolene POV

Mr. Branch continued, “They are your uncles.”

As he continued to step back as if to present the trolls, he announced, "This is Bruce, formerly known as Spruce." His hair is the same color as a heliotrope.

Mr. Bruce smiled, "Yes, I changed my name a few years back," he replied, gazing at us as if he were trying to memorize the faces of everyone who was in front of him. 

The green-haired monsters did the same thing when they were first put into bottles, it bothered Jo a lot.

It was the tall troll, who stepped forward next with slight apprehension as Mr. Branch introduced him, “This is Clay.” 

There was no wave from him, he just picked at his wristband a little bit. He used to have yellow hair. Yellow like a petunia.

"And last but not least, Floyd," he said as the one with dark magenta hair stepped forward.

In response, Floyd didn't say anything, only offering a small smile of his own. Floyd? Like the rose? 

They don’t look like Dad, but then again Jo didn’t look like Iris and Dad said she was her sister. They remain her of flowers: same color steam, but different blooms. 

~~~~~~

One bright morning a week before they were going to be going back onto the trail, Jo had saved the flowers from the previous spring. She had picked hyacinths, pink roses, petunias, heliotropes, delphiniums, sea hollies, sunset roses, and hydrangeas. They had been so bright and colorful, but now they were dried and dead-looking. She didn’t want to throw them away, but what else was she supposed to do with them? So now she just sat at the table trying to figure out what to do. That's how her dad found her, sitting and staring at a table,

“Hey, Joey.” he acknowledged before sounding confused, “What are cha doing?”

“I don’t know what to do with these flowers.” She answered, “I want to keep them but..”

“But what?” he encouraged, while coming to stand next to her.

“But what am I suppose to do with them?” she mumbled, “They are old and dried, normally we throw them away by now.”

“Do you want to keep them?” He questioned before starting to rearrange the flowers.

“Can we?”

“If you want.” he reassured, before looking at her, “I didn’t know you wanted to keep them.”

Jo returned his look, “I want to keep these ones.” she answered before tapping her paws on the table. 

“Okay, lucky for you,” He said as he picked her up and placed her on his hip, “I know a way you could keep them.” 

After a few minutes, the kitchen table was covered with colorful dried flowers of all shapes and sizes, along with a wreath frame, some floral wire, and a pair of scissors.

“Are you ready to make a wreath with your flowers, Jo?” her dad asked with a big smile. He sat her down in a chair before finding his own set.

“How are we going to do it?” Jo replied, with a smile while she looked at all of the supplies.

“Okay, first things first,” her dad began. “We need to choose the flowers we want to use. Let’s pick a mix of colors and sizes so our wreath looks interesting.” He picked up some delphiniums, sea hollies, sunset roses, and hydrangeas and handed them to Jo. “We need to make little bundles of flowers. Take a few stems and group them together like this.” He showed Jo how to gather the flowers into small bunches and secure them with a bit of floral wire.

Jo followed his lead, carefully selecting flowers and making her own bundles. “Like this?” she asked, holding up her first little bunch of flowers.

“That’s amazing, Jo! Now, we need to attach these bundles to the wreath frame,” her dad said. He positioned a bundle on the frame and wrapped the wire around it to hold it in place. “Make sure the flowers are facing outward and overlap each bundle a little bit so the wreath looks full.”

Jo nodded and began attaching her flower bundles to the frame, just like her dad showed her. They worked side by side, chatting and laughing as they went. Her dad showed her how to tuck in some green leaves and tiny white flowers to add more texture and color.

“Here’s a tip, Jo,” her dad said as they worked. “Try to cover the wreath frame completely so you don’t see any of the wire or frame. It will look more natural that way.”

“Okay,” Jo said, concentrating hard on her task.

As they neared the end of the wreath, her dad said, “Now, let’s look for any gaps and fill them with extra flowers or leaves. We want our wreath to look nice and even.”

Jo examined their work and found a few spots that needed more flowers. She added some hydrangeas and bits of lavender, and her dad helped secure them in place.

“And we are done!” Finally, when the wreath was full and beautiful, her dad said, “Our wreath looks amazing. What do you think?”

Jo beamed with pride. “It’s so pretty! Can we hang it on the front door?”

“Well of course! Let’s go find the perfect spot,” he replied. They walked to the front door and carefully hung the wreath. 

“Every time we see this wreath, we’ll remember making it together,” her dad said, giving Jo a hug.

Jo hugged him back tightly. “I love it. Can we make another one!”

“Definitely, Jo. Anytime you want,” he promised.“How about this, we go find some flowers now and lay them out in the sun. That way when we get back from the trail, we will have flowers ready.” He thought for a moment, “We can even pick some wildflowers out on the trail and bring them back.”

“Really?” Jo asked excitement clear in her voice. This was going to be her time hiking the big trail. Normally she stays in Rhonda for the more difficult parts, but Iris had managed to convince their dad to let her try.

“Yeah, the trail is a great place to pick wildflowers.” 

~~~~~~

Jo doesn’t know why her dad taught her how to make flower wreaths. Jo doesn’t like flowers. 

Jo sneaked a peek at her oldest sister, Iris still didn’t look impressed in fact she just looked angrier. She was angry at Mr. Branch when he showed up, why is she so angry now that the rest of them are here? It was quiet after the introductions. Their new uncles seemed to be waiting for them to say something. While Iris appeared to be waiting for them, for what Jo didn’t know, it made her nervous.

Mr. Floyd seemed to not like the silence either, “It’s nice to meet all of you.” He said with a small nod.

Iris didn’t respond, only narrowed her eyes at him. 

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” Cash answered for her, “We weren’t really excepting you. Considering unc-Branch was already here.”

“Why were you only excepting Branch?” Mr. Clay asked.

“I just assumed, you all lived together or close by.” Cash said warily, “So Branch was sent up here to get us.”

Mr. Bruce looked embarrassed, “Oh. We don’t live together. This is actually the first time we have seen each other for the first time in a while.”

“Why?” Ronen asked abruptly.

Jo could feel the guilt pour off of them.

Mr.Branch seemed to have had enough of this conversion, “Okay, so here’s the plan.”

Iris peeked up at that.

“We are going to get you guys back to Pop Village.” He said not giving anyone a chance to talk, “Once you are settled in, I will be coming back to get JD then I will take him to a troll hospital.”

Jo didn’t want to do that. She didn’t want to leave her dad. She just wanted her dad to wake up. Why couldn’t he wake up? She could see the steady rise and fall of his chest, the only sign that he was still with them. The room was filled with the quiet hum of machines, their rhythmic beeping both a comfort and a torment. She watched for a sign that he knew they were there, that he was still there somewhere behind closed eyes, but nothing came. Tears blurred her vision as she buried her head into Cash’s leg.

In response, Jo felt Cash reach down and pick her up. He placed her on his hip, letting her bury her face in his shoulder. Then she felt him lean down like he was trying to take someone’s hand, must be Ronen or Wynona, before saying,

“Okay, let's go.”

Notes:

Sorry this took longer than intended. I decided to rewrite a few things here and there. I am not a 100% confident with it, but I like where it’s at. I the future I might go back in and edit it

Chapter 4: Chapter 4: Bruce, Clay, Floyd POV

Bruce POV

Five. Five new nieces and nephews. Three nieces and two nephews. Five in total. Five very, very unique kids. He really shouldn’t be surprised; someone could call his own kids unique. And they were unique. Each one of them is different in their own special way, they brought a fresh kind of chaos and joy into his and Brandy’s life. They were all so different and it is amazing. His heart swelled with pride and love for each of them. For the life of him, Bruce could not fathom why any parent would willing to choose to not be involved in their child's life. He couldn't grasp why his own parents had distanced themselves from his and his brother's lives, and now from their grandchildren's as well. 

Bruce didn’t like thinking about his parents. He wasn’t sure how his brothers felt, but the thought of their parents was always an upsetting topic for him. They left them, leaving John and Grandma, a child and a woman in her late 70s, to pick up the pieces. The only reason their mother ever returned was to drop off a new sibling. Each visit brought a fleeting hope that maybe this time they would stay, but it always ended the same way: another uncaring goodbye, another child who would never know them, and another round of heartbreak for those who stayed.

Back then, Bruce often felt a mix of shame and insecurity when he thought about his parents. Those thoughts only led to self-destructive behaviors that hurt him deeply. It took years of inner struggle and personal growth for him to finally accept and feel okay with who he was. It had been a long journey and filled with setbacks, but with time and the support of a beautiful woman he was lucky to call his wife, he learned to embrace his own identity and let go of all the pain and hurt their abandonment had caused him. There were some days where it was still hard, but they were easier to bear.

Now older, Bruce understood the immense burden placed on John and Grandma, who had to step into roles they hadn’t planned for. He wished things could be different. He wished he hadn’t yelled. He wished his older brother could have known that it was okay to come to Bruce when he was hurting or needed help. He wished he could apologize for how angry he had been at things out of his control and for John getting the brunt of it. He had been so angry back then. To the point where that troll didn’t feel like him. He wished he could talk things out in a real conversation with John and be honest with him about how he felt, how John felt, and how John had hurt him even though Bruce knows he didn’t mean to. John was a lot of things: stubborn, a loud-mouth, annoying in the best way possible, but he was never cruel. Bruce knows he would never intentionally hurt him or any of them. He wishes he could tell him that- tell him that he understood more now, but he couldn’t. At least, not right now.

No, right now his brother is lying half-dead in a hospital that is not equipped to take care of him. He remembers John being larger than life, the rock who fought to hold their family together during the first few years of their parents abandoning them. John was always the dependable one, the one who seemed invincible despite what others said or the challenges that showed up on their doorstep. Seeing him now, so frail and vulnerable, filled Bruce with a profound sense of helplessness and regret. Tears began to burn in his eyes, but he knew he needed to focus on what was important. Until John woke up, he had to get things under control. John had done it for years when they were children; now it was Bruce’s turn to step up. 

Bruce watched John's kids as they formed up, a pang of nostalgia hitting him hard. There was something so familiar about them. John’s mini-me, Iris, was in front with Ronen only a few steps behind. Behind them was Cash with Jolene perched on his hip, holding Wynona's hand. 

It brought a smile to his face, he and JD used to do that. Back when B had first hatched and they were still on their hiatus. He would lead the way with Clay in hand, so he wouldn’t get lost. While he followed with baby Branch and Floyd glued to his leg.  

Upon seeing them for the first time, he was surprised. He was prepared for them, yes. He had talked to Brandy about bringing them to live with them. Well not so much as talk, more of Brandy pushing him out the door when he had first tried to approach the subject. Only telling him to go take care of his brother and his children and that they would come up with a plan when they got back and everyone was safe.

Bruce has had a few run-ins with rageons and their people, they were different than the Bergens. They didn't eat them, so there was a plus, but they also didn't see them as equals. In all likelihood, it wouldn't be hard for John to say something or do something that wasn't considered the rageon's way of "normal" and get in trouble for a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding. It was supposed to be a misunderstanding. 

Bruce had been prepared to come here explain how this was just a whole misunderstanding, talk and reunite with his brother, and meet his nieces and nephews before inviting them to Vacay Island. However, he wasn’t prepared for John being hurt. He wasn’t prepared for this not being a misunderstanding and that someone had intended to hurt maybe even kill his brother. He wasn’t prepared for how curious the new additions to his family were. 

They had been talking when he first walked in. Iris, or who he believed was Iris, had been doing most of the talking from the looks of it. They would have continued if it hadn’t been for one of the middle children, the one in a hoodie, who seemed to sense his presence first. The sudden shift in their conversation made him wonder what they were hiding. What secrets or fears were they keeping from him, from all of them? 

The middle kid was the first big surprise. Unlike the others, they stood out front, unshielded by siblings. Allow Bruce to see him. He had scales. He had more predator-like teeth and long sharp claws. He had bright green cat-like eyes. He had a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. And it had made Bruce filter. 

Once the shock had worn off, he had tried to meet him openly with a smile, trying to convey something more welcoming than the shock that was clearly on his face. But as he observed, he saw the child begin to shrink in on themselves. The bright smile and the curious look in their eyes faded, replaced by a wary almost fearful expression. It made Bruce’s heart sink. He wanted so badly to reach out and comfort them, to let them know that they were safe now and that he wasn’t going to hurt them. But before he could, Iris stepped forward and placed herself between them.

Iris was a different kind of surprise, and the easiest one to overcome. If he was being honest, she was what he had been expecting when he received the letter. She wasn’t prickly in the way he anticipated; she was more guarded than anything else. He could see it in her eyes—there was a warmth there when she stepped in front of her siblings, a protective instinct that spoke more about her than the cold tone she used in response when he introduced himself. 

Her gaze was wary but not hostile, a mixture of caution and an unsaid warning. Bruce could tell she had been through a lot, and her primary concern was the safety and well-being of her siblings. 

Behind them slightly peeking out around Iris was a dark gray-blue troll with dull pink and orange hair. She was quiet and just watched him and his brothers interact with her oldest sister. This must be Wynona, meaning the one who had announced their presence first was Ronen. Wynona's silence and observant nature contrasted with their immediate sibling’s more outgoing personality. Wynona's reserved demeanor didn't mean she was disengaged. On the contrary, her wide eyes followed every movement. Bruce could see her mind clearly processing everything around her before making a move. 

Behind her was Cash. Branch had mentioned that he was quiet and seemed to be the more amenable one. He was tall, only slightly taller than Clay, and he looked strong. From the way he stood, Bruce could tell that Cash was waiting to see what Iris was going to do. He was like her backup, ready to step in if needed. Bruce saw the quiet strength in Cash's posture, a silent assurance that he was there to support his siblings. It was a trait that reminded him of John, always ready to protect and defend at a moment’s notice.

As he observed Cash, a new movement caught his eye. He looked down to see a small trolling peeking out from behind Cash’s… hoof? They both had hooves. Okay, that was definitely a surprise. But one that Bruce would address later. You have questions, so they probably have questions too.

This must be Jolene. She didn’t look at them, just stared at the ground. Bruce could see tears in her eyes as Branch talked about leaving for Pop Village. His heart went out to her, the smallest one in the group, clearly overwhelmed and scared. She looked to be the same age as his daughter.

They were gray. All of them were varying shades of gray. Bruce doubted that Clay, Floyd, or even Branch knew what happened to the gray trolls in the tree, but Bruce remembered. Gray trolls didn’t survive long in the tree. The Bergens didn’t like how they tasted, so they were routinely cleared out, like someone would do to a tree with rotten fruit. Cut the disease out before it could spread. It was a harsh, painful memory that pushed the idea of always being happy to the forefront of their everyday life. If you saw or knew a gray troll, you were told to stay away. It would only lead to you and your family being eyed for the next Trollstice.

Bruce’s mind wandered back to those days, were they going to be safe?  From the way Branch talked about the new village it seemed like things had changed, but old habits die hard and in his experience, trolls were a creature of habit. But it would be okay, if John’s kids were not welcome there they could still come live with Bruce. Brandy and her family had always been welcoming to him; they would surely be happy to have them on the island. Or they could go with Clay or Floyd. They could even cycle between the three of them if needed. They would find a way to make this work until John wakes up.

A thought popped into his head as he looked across his new nieces and nephews: Where are their other parents? They all had John as one parent, so where was the other? Bruce didn’t know what kind of trolls John was into; growing up, there wasn’t much time for relationships between taking care of the house and the band. But the other parents should have been contacted when the children were sent to the hospital, right? So where were they? Did John not have a partner? He had to have someone—multiple someones, by the looks of it. It was clear they all had a different second parent. Had he been doing this alone. Again?

The realization hit Bruce hard. John had been raising these kids on his own, without the support of another parent, or any of the other parents. Had John been doing this all on his own, again? Bruce felt a deep pang of guilt. He wished he had known. He could have helped. Wait, wait you don't know if that's true. For all you know, John could be in some kind of polyamorous relationship. For all you know, they could be back at the place they call home. For all you know, they could be out looking for them. But if that's true then where are they? And why weren't they with them when John and the Kids were taken?

— — — — —

Clay POV

When Clay walked into the room, the sterile scent of antiseptic hit him, burning his nose. It mingled with the soft beeping of machines and the rhythmic hum of various monitors. Causing him to be more on edge. Not a lot of good came out of the hospital. it was always something bad. He looked at the hospital bed, his heart heavy and his mind twisted with a tangle of emotions. John Dory, lying motionless, almost blending in with the white sheets, a shadow of the troll Clay once knew. It was discomforting to see. Seeing John so broken, so frail, a flood of memories and feelings surged through Clay. A gnawing resentment simmered just beneath the surface.

For what felt like his whole childhood, Clay had been put into a box. He had done what he was asked, put on a smile, and became the fun one. The one that no one took seriously. The one to be laughed at. No matter how hard he tried, how much he accomplished, there was always a sense of inadequacy that clung to him like a shadow. John’s expectations had been high, his standards even higher, they had been Perfect. And Clay often felt he was running a race he could never win.

As he stood there, watching the steady rise and fall of John’s chest, Clay's heart ached with a mix of love and bitterness. He loved his brother deeply, more than he could ever express, and the thought of actually losing him was unbearable. But he couldn’t shake the questions that gnawed at his soul: Why was he never good enough? Why wasn’t he perfect enough for him? What was wrong with him?

He could remember a time when he had looked up to John. He recalled the pride in John’s eyes when Clay would create a new dance or bring home something he had made at school. Those were moments when Clay felt seen, appreciated, and loved. But those moments were fleeting, overshadowed by the constant pressure to meet John's relentless, perfect, expectations. Clay clenched his paws, the conflicting emotions tearing at him. He wanted to scream. Wanted to cry. Wanted to ask John Dory what he had done to make him so inadequate. Why was he never good enough? None of his friend’s parent ever treated them like that, so what was so wrong with him?

Tears welled up in Clay’s eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. For all the resentment and hurt, he would give anything to see his brother smile again, to hear his voice, to feel the reassuring presence that he had missed for so long. The presence he wished was there for him those first few months at the golf course when they didn't know if they would survive to the next month. But instead, all he got was silence. All he got was five kids that reminded him too much of John Dory.

Clay honestly didn’t know what to expect when he received the letter from the RPS. No one could prepare you for getting a letter about your older brother and getting custody of his children—children you didn’t even know existed. The shock had been immediate. It made time feel like it had fully stopped. It could have been hours or it could have been minutes, he didn't know. Yet, it was enough to make Viva bristle with worry. 

Viva. Oh, Viva. He wished she was here right now. She would know what to do. She would know how to actually help these kids. She has also been better with kids. She would know how to help him with his emotions and what he was feeling. Emotions he has been pushing down and refusing to acknowledge. If she was here she wouldn’t be angry at a dying troll who couldn't defend himself. She was too good of a troll to do that. But she wasn’t here, was she?

No, she didn’t even know where he was. He had just left without telling her where he was going or if he was coming back. Old habits die hard.

But that wasn’t important right now. He would apologize to Viva once he got back. Like Viva’s feelings in that moment, he couldn’t worry about it. In that moment, what Clay was really concerned about was what John Dory could have done to lose custody of his kids. What could have led to such a drastic, life-altering moment?

Nothing. The answer was nothing. John Dory hadn’t done anything.

The realization was both a relief and a burden, but it also brought a crushing weight of shame. John hadn’t been careless or negligent. No, the reason was because he was near death because two psychos had decided fame was more important than a living being with young children. Clay felt a wave of guilt wash over him, intensifying his shame. He had assumed it was John's fault, that he had done something to lose custody of his kids, and that assumption now felt like a betrayal.

At that moment, Clay had let himself believe the worst about John Dory. What kind of person thinks like that? The thought that his brother, a troll that had taken care of him when his own mother couldn’t care less what happened to him, must have failed his children. It had been easier to accept than the harsh reality of John, maybe, being innocent. It was a defense mechanism, a way for Clay to maintain his belief in what was right or wrong. For years, John Dory had been in the wrong in Clay's mind. But now, standing in the stark white and sterile hospital room, he felt the full weight of his misplaced blame. He had judged John, assumed the worst, and now he had to live with that knowledge. Now he had to face John’s children knowing he thought the worst of their father.

Iris was the spitting image of John Dory, and it unsettled him. She had his eyes, his determined expression, and his unwavering sense of purpose. She even carried herself with the same sure-footedness, it was unsettlingly reminiscent of John Dory. Clay watched her as she stared them down, her gaze piercing and unwavering. John Dory used to have the same look whenever he did something John saw as wrong. Her every movement, every tilt of her head, and every subtle shift in her expression mirrored John so precisely that it was almost eerie. She even stood the same way as his brother, her feet planted firmly on the ground as if nothing could shake her. It was a stance he had seen countless times in John, a posture that exuded confidence. 

That confidence almost overshadowed the young troll next to her. This must be Ronen, they were different, to say the least. His appearance hinted at a lineage that Clay couldn't quite place—aquatic was the only inclusion Clay could come up with. Clay couldn't help but wonder where John Dory had been to father a child-like Ronen. He had barely left the golf course until now. What places had John Dory seen? What adventures has his brother had? What stories could he tell? The boy's presence was a mystery, a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit the picture Clay had of his brother. 

Yet, despite these physical differences, there were undeniable similarities between father and son. They shared the same smile— it was a smile Clay remembered well from John, a smile he often wore when in an interview or before going on stage. Ronen’s smile had the same effect but still carried its own unique spark. It was in their mannerisms, too, Clay glimpsed echoes of John. Ronen had inherited his father’s knack for drawing attention without even trying—a quiet magnetism that drew people in and made them feel at ease. It was a trait Clay had admired in John, a natural charisma that seemed effortless. It was something he could never imitate.

Clay’s eyes landed on Cash next. It was a surreal experience to see a teenager who exudes such quiet strength, a boy who could easily beat him in a fight if he wanted to. There weren’t many trolls taller than him, but Cash was one of them. He looked sturdy with his broad shoulders and muscular build. There were pieces that confused him. Cash carried himself with a certain grace that Clay could attribute to a dancer. Clay could see the quiet intensity in Cash's eyes. They were the same eyes that John Dory had, filled with a steely determination and a hint of something unspoken. 

Movement in front of Cash brought Clay’s eyes down, to Wynona. She and Ronen must be the assumed twins. Branch was right these were not twins, but she wasn't so much curious of them as she was anxious. Her eyes, sharp and observant, seemed to take in every detail as if she were constantly assessing her surroundings for hidden dangers. You are a danger to her. She is watching out for you. It was a strange and disconcerting feeling for Clay to see this side of a child. All of the children in the Putt-Putt trolls were loud and rambunctious, even with the logical fear of the Bergens. But she was different, her body language was closed off, her shoulders were hunched, and her fingers twisted the hem of her sleeve nervously. 

Where was the last one, Jolene? There were supposed to be five of them.

Clay's eyes traveled over the siblings before finally landed on Jolene, the youngest of John Dory's children. She was hiding behind Cash and with Cash’s general presence, he had also most missed her. Unlike her siblings, who had each displayed distinct traits and personalities, Jolene seemed withdrawn, almost as if she were trying to disappear into the background. And it had almost worked on him. She didn’t look at them, her gaze fixed firmly on the ground, her small frame trembling slightly. Jolene’s demeanor tugged at his heartstrings in a way he hadn't expected. It made him want to reach out, to comfort her, but he felt that if he made a move to approach her he would face a different issue. One that was still glaring at them like he was a threat. 

They needed to be placed somewhere secure, somewhere where their safety could be guaranteed. Clay wasn't certain about how safe it was in the Village, but he was confident about the golf course. It was safe. He had helped make it safe. He had put in countless hours to ensure its security, creating a safe haven in an unpredictable world. Even if Clay couldn't keep them safe, he knew Viva could. Viva was resourceful, vigilant, and fiercely protective. She had the skills and determination to keep them out of harm's way. The golf course wasn't just a place; it was a fortress of safety and peace. Under Viva's watchful eye, it was the best option for ensuring their protection.

— — — — —

Floyd POV

Floyd stood frozen at the doorway of the hospital room, his heart pounding in his chest. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled his nostrils, mingling with the faint odor of sickness that seemed to permeate the air. He despised hospitals. The antiseptic smell that clung to everything and everyone, the faint but persistent odor of illness that hung in the air—it all made his stomach churn. The sounds were no better: the steady beep of monitors, the hushed conversations of nurses, and the occasional moans of patients in pain. It all added to a cacophony that seemed to mock his sense of helplessness.

Oh, Johnny. John was almost unrecognizable from the strong, vibrant troll Floyd remembered. And where were you? This is your city, you should have known.

Because Floyd had never known his parents, John had become something more than just a brother to him. He had been a protector, a father figure, and a guide. From a young age, John had shouldered the responsibility of raising his four younger brothers after their parents had left. Floyd remembered the unwavering support John had given when Floyd tried to write his first song or when he was learning to play the guitar. His first song was garbage and those first few weeks of guitar had been awful, but John supported him without asking. 

In those early years, Floyd remembered countless nights when John had sat alone at the kitchen table, bills and paperwork spread out before him. The worry lines on John’s face spoke of the heavy burden he bore, a burden Floyd was too young to understand. It was only when Floyd left the home did he truly realized the kind of burden John had been under. 

For so long, Floyd had taken for granted the stability and support John had provided. He didn't understand the full extent of John’s sacrifices until he was out in the world on his own. Floyd remembered those first few months vividly, a time marked by struggle and frustration. He had set out with dreams of making it in the music industry, filled with the optimism of youth. But reality hit hard and fast. No matter what he did, it seemed like he couldn't do anything right. Every attempt to get his music heard was met with rejection or indifference. He spent countless hours in small, cramped recording studios, working tirelessly on his songs, only to be told they weren't good enough or it wasn't what they were looking for.

He recalled nights spent in rundown apartments, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he had made a huge mistake by leaving. Back then the isolation and the overwhelming sense of failure used to suffocate him to tears. He felt a constant pressure to succeed, but the music industry was unforgiving, and Floyd quickly learned that talent alone wasn’t enough. He needed resilience, connections, and a stroke of luck—none of which seemed to be in his favor.

During that time, Floyd gained a new perspective on John’s life. He remembered how John would sometimes disappear into their manager’s recording studio, working on various songs late into the night. John would return home exhausted, with bags under his eyes, but he never complained. Floyd realized now that those late-night sessions were not just about chasing a dream but were also a desperate attempt to provide for the family and secure a better future for his brothers. Floyd understood the crushing weight of responsibility that John had carried, the sleepless nights filled with worry, and the relentless pursuit of a dream that often seemed out of reach. He saw how John had shielded him from the harsh realities of life, giving him the freedom to pursue his passion without the added burden of financial strain or familial duty.

In those first few months on his own, Floyd’s respect for John deepened immeasurably. He felt a profound sense of guilt for not having appreciated John’s efforts more when he was younger. The realization that John had faced these same challenges—alone and without complaint—made Floyd’s own struggles seem both smaller and more significant. As Floyd navigated the treacherous waters of the music industry, he started to draw inspiration from John’s example. He pushed through the rejections, learned from his mistakes, and kept honing his music. He remembered John’s unwavering determination and used it to fuel his own resolve and music.

When Floyd first received his letter, he didn't believe it was real. Or maybe it was sent to the wrong troll. Whenever he first visited Mount Rageous, he often got asked if he knew this troll or that one. He never did, but they always assumed he did. Yet, that wasn't the case this time. No this time they had gotten it right. This time he had to read about getting custody of John's children. He had hoped it wasn't real. He had begged for it to be fake, but seeing baby Branch in the waiting room at the hospital had crushed that hope. Muses, seeing baby Branch, or just Branch now, all grown up. It had hurt, his baby brother was an adult now and he had missed all of it.

And now, here he was standing by the brothers who had left him and the one he abandoned watching John on the brink of death while his kids watched them like they were a threat. A surge of anger welled up within him. Anger at the people who had done this to John, anger at the world for being so cruel, and anger at himself for not being there when his brothers needed him the most. You weren’t there for Branch and now you failed John. Some brother you are. He clenched his fists, trying to control the rage that threatened to consume him. You rather face years of rejection than reach out to your own family, how pathetic.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one seething with anger. As Floyd glanced at Iris, he could almost feel the heat of her fury, a protective anger radiating off her as she stood firmly in front of her siblings. Her eyes were burning with a fierce determination that mirrored John’s in so many ways. Iris's stance was resolute, her fur bristled at the maybe threat his brothers and he posed. She stood as a barrier between them and her younger siblings, her fists clenched tightly as she kept them crossed in front of her. It was like she was daring them, for anyone, to try and come in between her and her siblings. Floyd could see John in her: the same unyielding spirit, the same readiness to fight for those she loved.

Behind Iris stood Ronen. Floyd had witnessed many beings in his life, each unique in its own way, but Ronen and his siblings were something extraordinary. Ronen was a mesmerizing blend of troll and something otherworldly to Floyd. His skin was a dark gray midnight blue scales that shimmered at the slightest movement, and he had delicate gills on the sides of his neck. Yet, despite these extraordinary features, Ronen bore John’s unmistakable smile—a smile that could instantly put those around him at ease. But it wasn’t just the smile that linked Ronen to John. There was an undeniable underlying layer of curiosity that Floyd recognized all too well. It was the same insatiable curiosity that John had, to go out and see the world. 

Then there was Cash, John’s oldest son. Cash was an imposing figure, standing tall with a presence that demanded attention without having to utter a single word. He had hooves instead of feet and a pair of small curved horns that crowned his head. His eyes, however, were the most striking feature—deep and expressive, filled with a blend of wisdom and the smallest hint of mischief that reminded Floyd so much of John. Cash carried himself with quiet confidence, and a sense of responsibility. Despite his formidable appearance, there was a gentleness about him, an inherent kindness that shone through in his interactions with his siblings.

Behind Cash was small Jolene. She shared the same kind of hooves as her older brother, but in every other way, they couldn't be more different. While Cash stood tall and resolute, Jolene seemed to shrink into herself, her eyes fixed on the ground. She was hiding behind Cash, and with his imposing presence, Floyd had almost missed her entirely. Jolene’s small frame and quiet demeanor made her a stark contrast to her siblings, who each displayed distinct traits and vibrant personalities. Unlike them, Jolene appeared withdrawn, almost as if she were trying to disappear. Her shoulders were hunched, and her tiny hands clutched at the fur on Cash’s leg, seeking the safety and comfort of his presence. 

Lastly, there was Wynona. She had a glint of curiosity in her eyes, one that mirrored Ronen's and that reminded him so much of John. The way she watched him and his siblings was both thoughtful and intense. Her sharp, observant eyes seemed to take in every detail, constantly assessing her surroundings for hidden dangers or opportunities. She didn’t just look around; she analyzed, her mind clearly working behind those keen eyes. It was as if she were piecing together a puzzle only she could see. Floyd felt a pang of recognition. He had seen that same look in John countless times—a mix of curiosity and caution, always thinking a few steps ahead. He knew that look well; it was the look of someone who had learned to expect the unexpected and was always prepared for it. 

They all looked so tired and scared. It made him angry; they were just children, and they shouldn't have to face something like this. No one should have to deal with losing a parent at such a young age. He hoped that whoever was responsible for this would be spending a long time in jail. And if the system failed... Well, Floyd wasn’t the same naive trolling he was when he first arrived, he had friends. Friends with connections, the kind that could make life very difficult for someone. He knew people who could ensure that the culprit wouldn't find it easy to lead a normal life. Floyd was determined to protect John's children. And whoever hurt them and his brother would not get off scot-free.

Notes:

So here are the brother’s thoughts. Next up some conversations and getting to know one another

Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Branch POV

Once everyone was settled in a seat, Branch plopped down into the driver’s seat with a sigh. The introductions didn’t go as badly as he thought. It wasn’t great, but that’s okay. There wasn’t any yelling or threats, which is what he thought was going to happen when he saw the way Iris glared at them. He glanced up at the rearview mirror. On one side sat his brothers, and on the other were the kids. Branch could see the awkwardness between the two groups. Anyone could see it. It was clear they didn’t know how to act or what to make of each other.

Clay sat near the front. He wasn’t looking at them exactly, more around them. Branch could see him picking at the sweatband on his wrist, a common sign of nervousness. Behind him was Floyd. Floyd sat with his back against the wall of the van, his body facing the kids. He looked ready to talk to them, eager to bridge the gap. Bruce was in the back, glancing at the kids intermittently like there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t find the right words.

On the other side of the van were the kids. Iris was in front with her back against the wall of the van, her legs spread out across the rest of the seat in a relaxed, but defiant manner. Ronen and Wynona sat in the seat behind her, half watching Branch's brothers, half looking out the window with a mix of curiosity and caution. Behind them were Cash and Jolene. Cash sat near the walkway and Jolene by the window. 

The atmosphere in the van was thick with unspoken tension. The awkward silence was only interrupted by the hum of the engine and the distant sounds of the city. Branch hoped that as they started moving, the tension would ease, and some form of conversation would begin. Should I be the one to start the conversation? Or should I wait until we’re further away from the city? It's going to take over a day to get to Pop Village, maybe more if we need to stop. We probably will need to stop, considering it’s already two o’clock. After today, we’re all going to need some sleep.

Branch took a deep breath, “So, it may take a little over a day to get to Pop Village.” he called back as he started the van, “Depending on how long we stop for it might be a few hours longer.” 

After a moment he glanced in the rearview mirror again, trying to gauge the reactions of his passengers. Floyd gave a small nod, acknowledging the information. Clay continued to fidget with his sweatband, eyes still avoiding direct contact. Bruce seemed to be contemplating something, his brows furrowed in thought.

Iris shifted slightly getting more comfortable in her seat, her expression still unreadable. Ronen and Wynona exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued but still cautious. Cash leaned back in his seat while crossing his arms, and closed his eyes, while Jolene just stared out the window, seemingly lost in her own world.

Branch knew that breaking the ice would be important for however long they were going to be together. "Feel free to let me know if you need a break to stretch your legs or if you need something else. If there's anything you want to discuss, I am open to questions," he added as his tail started to tap on the ground. Come on, someone pick up the conversation.

For a long moment, no one said anything, until Floyd seemed to get the hint, “So, a village now? What happened to the tree?” 

Okay, not the worst question to ask. And it seemed to get everyone's attention. Bruce looked at him, clearly waiting for an answer. Cash opened one of his eyes, watching for his reaction. Ronen and Wynona both leaned forward, curiosity evident in their eyes. Iris subtly shifted to look at him, her expression still unreadable. Even Jolene appeared interested.

Branch felt a mix of relief and anxiety. At least he had their attention now. He took another deep breath, steadying himself for what he hoped would be the beginning of a productive conversation.

But before Branch could answer, Clay surprisingly cut in, “There was an escape.” So- how does he know that?

"Yeah," Branch began, glancing at Clay while carefully choosing his words, "around seven months after all of you left. There was a mass escape through the tunnels that King Peppy had been working on."

Bruce looked confused at that, “King Peppy was working on escape tunnels?”

“Yeah,” Branch answered, confused by his question, Grandma had known about them. Had she not told them about them? They weren’t finished when they left, but why would she not tell them? How did they escape the tree if they didn't go through the tunnels? “They took a well for them to get done, but once they were we escaped. It was on..” Branch paused. Do JD’s kids know about the Bergens? About Trollstrice?

Bruce seemed to understand what he was avoiding, “That day?”

"Yeah," Branch answered, but he caught the look Iris and Cash shared, a silent exchange that made him feel like they were keeping something from him. Ronen and Wynona seemed to catch the look as well, but they didn't have the same quiet understanding that their older siblings had. Maybe Iris and Cash do know, but not the younger ones. "After that, we settled down a ways away."

Ronen, curious for more details, peeked over the seat in front of him, "What's the Village like?" he asked, his eyes wide with anticipation and an underlying nervousness.

Branch gave a small smile at the excitement, “Well, the village is mostly up in a tree, but it has grown over the past few years so it has started to take over some of the closer trees and bushes.” Branch answered as they finally started to make their way out of the city, “Most of the trolls live in Pods in the tree, but I live in a bunker underground.”

“You live underground?” Clay asked with a look back at Floyd and Bruce.

"You live underground?" Ronen echoed, his eyes wide with amazement.

"Yes, I do," Branch said, his smile widening. Normally, no one cared about his bunker; only Poppy had ever really shown interest. "I built it myself. I have a full kitchen, living room, and a small library," he added, glancing at the mirror to see Cash perk up at the word 'library.' "There are also enough rooms for everyone. You guys can double up if you want, but having your own space is an option."

"What are the trolls like?" Iris asked, now fully invested in the conversation.

Branch leaned back, thinking about how to describe the trolls in the village. He should be honest, but he didn’t want to overwhelm them. The village could be stressful- everyone had good intentions though. How could he describe the village in a way to not stress them out? How would he describe Poppy? Poppy was a lot easier to describe.

"Everyone in the village is... unique.” That's a good word. If he was being honest with himself, he would have said everyone can be a bit too much, but Poppy is unique and she is the best part about the village. “They're colorful, in every sense of the word. Very vibrant, full of life, and incredibly musical. There's always a song in the air, and they're the best at finding joy in the smallest things." They should know more about the other tribes. I wonder what JD told them about life in Pop?

Iris nodded slowly, still looking a bit skeptical. "Okay, good to know," she murmured quietly. She doesn't believe me- what does she know about the village? What has Jd told her? What had he told to them?

The conversation dulled after that, neither group knowing what to say or ask next. The hum of the engine and the rhythmic sound of the tires on the road filled the silence. Branch focused on the road ahead, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror to check on everyone. 

Clay resumed fidgeting with his sweatband, eyes darting around but avoiding contact. Floyd leaned back, his gaze alternating between the kids and the passing scenery outside. Bruce still looked thoughtful. what was he thinking about? And why was it bothering him so much?

Iris shifted slightly, crossing her legs and resting her head against the window. Ronen and Wynona whispered quietly to each other, most likely sharing their thoughts on the trip ahead. Cash closed his eyes again, though he seemed more relaxed now, and Jolene returned to staring out the window, her expression distant.

Apparently, Branch wasn’t the only one unhappy with the silence because Wynona popped up from her seat and turned around to face Bruce. She gave him a quick once-over before stuttering out, “Are y- are you married?”

The question seemed to shock everyone, especially Bruce. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked causing Wynona to sink in her seat slightly.

Ronen turned around with his tail wrapped around his sister before echoing his sister's question. “She asked, are you married?”

This caused Iris to turn around as well, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “Guys!”

Branch couldn't help but chuckle softly at the unexpected turn of events. Bruce, still flustered, cleared his throat. "Yes, I am." he replied, looking both amused and bewildered by the sudden personal question, “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you know?”

“Uh,” Wynona paused for a moment before she started to play with her sleeve again, “there is a tan line on your ring finger,” she answered pointing at the faint line.

A tan line? That’s all it took for her to notice and ask something like that. Branch’s mind raced with shock. If she could pick up on something as subtle as that, what else had she observed about everyone else? Wynona’s sharp eyes had clearly been taking in more details than anyone had realized. He glanced around the van, wondering what else she had picked up on. He glanced at her, now sitting quietly as if she had done something impressive. Okay, just a little longer. Once they were out of the city, he could switch to autopilot and join the conversation.

The others seemed to share his thoughts. Floyd's expression was one of cautious intrigue, and even Clay, usually reserved, looked slightly uneasy but impressed. Bruce seemed to notice the shift in the atmosphere and decided to steer the conversation forward, hoping to maintain the newfound conversation.

Bruce glanced at his hand and smiled, a bit of nostalgia in his eyes. “Good observation,” he said, clearly impressed. "Yeah, my wife, Brandy, and I have been married for a little over twelve years. We don’t live in the village. We live in a place called Vacay Island, she is keeping things in order while I'm away."

All Wynona said was, “That’s nice,” before turning back around and shrinking into herself.

However, Ronen wasn’t done asking questions. “Why don’t you wear it?”

“Because where I work, it’s very likely I could lose it and I don't want that to happen,” Bruce answered easily. “I usually put it back on when I’m not working, but I must have forgotten when I was leaving to head to the city."

Floyd, intrigued, looked at Wynona. “It’s very interesting you noticed that. What else have you noticed about us?”

Wynona shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips as she played with her nails. “He wears glasses,” she said, pointing at Clay and turning the attention to him. “I know because there are small indents on the sides of his nose and because the sweater is made from knitting, you can see some of the thread is stretched out.”

Clay looked surprised but nodded. “Yeah, I do,” he said as he pulled them out of his hair to show them off. "Good catch,"

Wynona turned to Floyd with a more confident expression. “You play guitar.”

Floyd raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “How do you know?”

“You have the same scars on your hands that Cash does,” Wynona replied as she looked at Cash.

Floyd looked to Cash, who was just watching with a small smile. “You play guitar?”

In response, Cash held up his hands, revealing the same telltale calluses and small scars that marked Floyd's paws. "Yeah, I do. Been playing for a bit now, Dad has been teaching me."

At the mention of JD, a somber mood enveloped everyone. The lively conversation dulled, and a heavy silence settled over the group. Each person seemed to retreat into their thoughts, their expressions reflecting a shared sense of loss and melancholy.

Before the conversation was completely lost, Floyd held up his own hands after studying Cash’s hands for a moment, then chuckled. "Guess we're both in the same club, then. What's your favorite kind of song to play?"

Cash gave him a small smile. "Depends on my mood, but where we live there is more relaxed music. So I guess songs like that. I find myself gravitating toward softer melodies, like more acoustic tunes. How about you?"

Floyd nodded, chiming in with his own preferences. "It depends on my mood too, but in recent years I have been enjoying songs with a heavier bass."

Branch, catching the interaction from the rearview mirror, felt a warmth spread through him. These small connections, these shared interests, were exactly what they needed to bridge the gap between them. This is good.

Bruce, watching the exchange, felt a sense of connection building. “Seems like we’ve got a lot more in common than we thought,” he said, trying to keep the momentum going. “Anyone else here play an instrument?”

“Iris plays the piano,” Ronen answered proudly, pointing to his sister.

Iris blushed slightly at the unexpected mention. “Yeah, I do. I’ve been playing since I was a kid.”

“Have you ever played together?” Clay asked, his tone laced with suspicion. “Or in front of others?” He's looking for something.

Iris glanced over at him, sensing the skepticism in his voice. Her own eyes narrowed slightly as she tilted her head to the right. “No, I don’t like playing in front of other trolls,” she replied bluntly, her voice firm and resolute, leaving no room for further discussion.

“Cash has played in front of people,” Ronen interjected, shifting the focus away from Iris. He turned to look at Cash with a proud smile. “He played in a contest last winter. Got so nervous he almost threw up.” Ronen chuckled, remembering the moment vividly.

“He also won that contest,” Wynona chimed in with a grin.

“Really?” Floyd asked with a smile, “Cash that’s amazing.”

Cash only shrugged and sank a little deeper into his seat, a hint of embarrassment clear on his face. 

Clay remained quiet, observing the exchange with a skeptical gaze. His suspicion seemed to linger, hinting at deeper thoughts or concerns. What is going on in his head? Whatever it is Branch needs to put a stop to it. The last thing they need is for a screaming match to start.

The conversation dulled a bit after that, leaving everyone unsure of where to go next. Now that Branch finally felt they were far enough away from the city's heart, he engaged the autopilot. With the van running smoothly on its own, he seized the chance to join his family in conversation. There was a longing to connect more deeply with his nieces and nephews and to reacquaint himself with his brothers.

Moving through the van, Branch noticed Jolene asleep against Cash, his protective arm around her. The sight brought back memories of a time when he used to do the same with Floyd. 

Finding a seat next to Clay, Branch restarted the conversation, hoping to bridge the gap that had formed. "So," he began, glancing at the group with a warm smile, "let's actually get to know one another. It has been a while since the four of us have been in the same room." he said before gesturing to his brothers, hoping that that information would make this go easier, "You don't know anything about us, we don't know anything about you, and we need to relearn things about eachother. So how about we take turns sharing a bit about ourselves—like our hobbies or interests?" Poppy had done something similar during the first tribe leader meeting after the Rockapocalypse, and it had worked wonders in breaking the ice. Hopefully, it would work this time too.

He was met with silence. Branch glanced at his brothers, who were all looking expectantly at JD’s kids, waiting for one of them to start. Across the way, the kids were watching Iris, waiting for her to take the lead. Iris, however, just stared back at him, her expression barely readable. Her eyes held a mix of challenge and curiosity as if she were daring him to make the first move. It was a subtle but unmistakable look, one that conveyed both skepticism and a challenge to see if he could really break the ice.

She wants me to start. Of course, she does. Well, it is your idea, Branch took a deep breath before putting on his best smile and continued, "Alright, I'll go first."

The moment the words left his mouth, her expression changed. The skepticism in her eyes softened slightly, replaced by a hint of surprise and perhaps even approval. The shift was subtle but noticeable, a small crack in her guarded demeanor. It was enough to encourage Branch, to let him know that he was on the right track in bringing them all closer together.

“Okay, um, I’m Branch. I’m twenty-three... um,” Branch paused for a moment, thinking about what else he could include. Okay, something fun... Poppy might be the most fun thing about him, but he can’t just rely on Poppy this time. “And a fun fact about me is I enjoy puzzles.”

“Hi, Branch,” Ronen responded with a sarcastic monotone voice, the words hanging in the air awkwardly.

Great, so this wasn’t going to go very well. It was a joke, he knew it was, but it won’t help them bond. But to his surprise, Iris turned around in her seat and shot Ronen a look. Her eyes were sharp and assessing. Ronen instantly avoided her eyes. Once she was sure that Ronen wasn’t going to say anything else, she turned back to him. Her challenge in her gaze was still there, but now there was something else—a hint of curiosity, perhaps a flicker of approval.

Branch felt a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t going to be so bad. "I know it might sound a bit boring, but puzzles really help me unwind," he added, trying to keep the momentum going. "There's something really satisfying about figuring out how all the pieces fit together."

Iris's expression softened just a touch, and she nodded slightly. "Okay, I'll go next," she said, her voice steady but with a hint of warmth. "I’m Iris. I’m nineteen. Everyone knows that I like playing the piano and it is something I’ve done since I was young." She paused before letting out a sigh, “I also like photography.”

Floyd spoke up genuinely curious, “How did you get into photography?”

“Dad,” she answered shortly before looking out the window, “It is something we do together.” Okay, good to know. Cash and JD bonded over playing guitar. While Iris and JD bonded over photography. I didn’t even know JD liked photography.

There was a tense silence, but before it could drag out Floyd spoke up again, “I guess, I’ll go next.” he said with a tense smile, “I’m Floyd, I am thirty-two.” His smile changed to something more relaxed, “As you now know I also play guitar, side note John- your dad- also helped me learn to play.” he said shooting a smile to Cash, who watched him with interest, “And a fun fact about is, I like playing card games.”

“Like poker or rummy?” Wynona asked.

“Yes,” he replied reluctantly, before giving her a confused look. “How do you know what poker is?”

“Dad taught us,” she answered with a smile. “We play for candy.”

Bruce’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Really? Poker for candy, huh? Your dad must have been quite the card shark."

Ronen nodded, his smile widening. “He is. He makes it fun, though.”

“Really?” Clay asked, disbelief evident in his voice. If he keeps this up we may not make it to Pop Village in one piece.

“Yes, really,” she replied bluntly, her gaze firm as she looked him up and down. “It is a good game for learning how to read others and it's important to know how to read people.” she said sharply, "Don't you think?" And she is meeting him step for step. If this is anything like JD and Clay's arguments, it's only a matter of time before one of them has had enough.

Clay was about to say something, his brow furrowing in thought, but before he could speak, Cash interjected with a hint of eagerness.

“I’ll go next,” Cash said, casting a quick glance at Iris before continuing. “I’m Cash. I’m fourteen. Y’all know I play the guitar. So, my fun fact is, I like dancing.”

Bruce, catching on to the change in topic, turned his attention back to the conversation with a small smile playing on his lips. “Really?” he asked, glancing over at Clay, who just rolled his eyes. What is his deal? It's like he doesn't want to get to know them.

“Oh yeah,” Iris added with a purr, her own smile widening. “He’s into partner dances like line-dancing, two-stepping, and swing.”

Cash's cheeks flushed slightly in response to the attention on him, a mix of embarrassment crossing his face. He shifted in his seat, clearly not comfortable with the attention being on him.

"Okay, okay, I'll go next," Bruce said, drawing the attention away from Cash. "I'm Bruce. I'm thirty-five. Everyone here knows I'm married, so a fun fact about me is I know how to surf."

"You can surf?" Ronen asked, surprise evident in his voice.

"Yes, my wife taught me," Bruce responded with a nod. "Do you know how to surf?"

"Is it like snowboarding?" Ronen asked, his brow furrowing as he tried to make a connection.

Bruce thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't really know, to be honest." he answered honestly, "Do you know how to snowboard?"

"Yeah, we all do. Wynona is really good at it." He answered, "But if surfing is not like snowboarding then I don't think I know how to do it," Ronen concluded after a moment of consideration. He glanced around the van, excitement in his eyes. "Can I go next?" he asked no one in particular.

"Sure," Branch answered with a smile, encouraging him to continue.

"Well then, I am Ronen. I am ten, and a fun fact about me is I like to record things on my video camera."

"What kind of things?" Branch asked, genuinely curious. The subject of recording was new for most of the tribes. Funk Trolls had been the one who introduced it to them and it had taken Pop Village by storm. 

"All kinds of things," Ronen replied enthusiastically. "I recorded Cash’s singing contest and I have recorded some of our trips to the Neverglades."

“You went to the Neverglades?” Clay asked, his eyes widening with concern. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Where is your camera?” Floyd asked quickly before anyone could answer Clay. At least I'm not the only one to notice.

Ronen turns to Iris. They watched as she reached into her hair, pulled out a handheld camera, and passed it to Ronen. Ronen just held it up with a smile to show them, “This is it. It doesn’t have any film though.” he said quietly as he looked it over. "So I can't record anything right now or show what I've recorded."

Branch looked at Ronen. "I'm sure we can find some film once we get to the village." Copper was getting more interested in video cameras. Maybe he knows where to find some film.

There was a brief pause in the conversation. Branch turned to Clay, giving him an encouraging nod. "Clay, you're up."

Clay let out a sigh. "Okay, I’m Clay. I’m thirty-four. A fun fact about me is I like to read."

Wynona’s eyes lit up with curiosity. "What kind of books do you like to read?"

Clay shrugged before answering shortly, "Any kind, sad ones."

Branch noticed the way Clay’s answer shut down any further discussion and it rubbed him the wrong way. From the corner of his eye, Branch could see Iris shooting Clay a glare.

"Alright," Bruce said, eyeing his brother with a mix of concern and confusion. "Wynona, it's your turn."

Wynona gave Clay a wary glance before turning back to the group with her tail circling around herself. "Okay," she began, her voice quiet. "I’m Wynona. I’m eight, and a fun fact about me is I like to draw."

"That’s wonderful, Wynona!" Floyd said, genuinely interested. "What do you like to draw?"

"Everything," she replied with a shy smile. "Animals, landscapes, critters. Sometimes I just draw what I see in my head."

"Wow" Bruce commented, "It takes a special kind of artist to be able to do that," he said causing a blush to spread across her cheeks, "What kind of art supplies do you like to use?"

Wynona thought for a moment, a long moment, before answering, "I don't know. I like using colored pencils, but I don't know what kinds of supplies there are." she answered before chewing on her lip, "Whenever we go somewhere new Dad looks for any kind of new supplies, but I don't always use them."

Ronen glanced at Bruce. "She doesn't like using new things because they are expensive."

Wynona shot back a blank look. "They are expensive, and I don't want to mess them up. They're hard to find."

Branch thought for a moment. Was it really that hard to find art supplies? Pop Village always seemed to overflow with them. "In Pop Village, we have more than enough to share and I know a few trolls who would love to show you them. If you need anything, just let me know."

— — — — —

The conversation continued, flowing from one person to the next, each sharing a piece of themselves. By the time they were done talking to each other, the sun had fully set and the kids were struggling to stay awake. Wynona leaned against the window, her eyes barely open, while Ronen, half sprawled, leaned on her, almost fully asleep. 

Branch was about to tell them they could sleep when Iris started talking, “Guys you can go to sleep.” she said with a small yawn of her own, “We are probably not going to make it to the village tonight, so you might as well sleep.”

Wynona looked like she was about to argue when Cash cut in, “We will make sure all of the doors are locked before we sleep don’t worry.”

She seemed to relax after that, the tension leaving her small frame. With a sigh, she adjusted Ronen, who grumbled at her in response but didn't wake up. Wynona closed her eyes, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to her.

Branch watched the scene unfold, a sense of warmth spreading through him.

It was quiet for a bit, but that ended when Iris turned to face Branch and Clay. “So,” she started, her eyes cold and hard. A far cry from the troll they had just watched put her sibling to sleep, “I’m sure you have questions.” She then looked to Floyd and Bruce, her gaze just as icy. “Let's not beat around the bush. You have questions, just say them out loud.”

Branch felt a knot tighten in his stomach. The atmosphere, which had been so calm a moment ago, now crackled with tension. Clay shifted uncomfortably, his earlier detachment replaced with curiosity. Floyd glanced at Bruce for a cue, and Bruce, ever the steady presence, met Iris's gaze evenly, though his eyes reflected the gravity of the situation.

"I think it's fair to say we all have questions," Bruce said carefully, his voice measured. "But it's also fair to give you the chance to feel safe before asking any questions." He glanced at a sleeping Jolene, Wynona, and Ronen. "We also didn't want to cause anyone any more emotional distress, especially since it has only been a few hours since you saw your dad in the hospital."

Iris looked like she was about to say something sharp, but she stopped when Cash shot her a look.

Iris's jaw clenched, and she took a deep breath. "Fine, I can accept that," she relented with a sigh. "But I am giving you a chance, so ask what you really want to know. And no sugar-coating," she said, pointing at Bruce.

"Okay sounds fair," Bruce agreed.

Branch felt the tension in the room shift slightly, a tentative truce forming. He knew Bruce was trying to create a space where Iris and Cash could open up without feeling cornered. Bruce's calm voice and gentle demeanor was meant to ease them into conversation, to make them feel safe enough to let down their guard. But Iris's eyes told a different story. They were sharp and watchful. It was as if she held the upper hand, making Branch feel like he was the one being cornered. Like he should be the nervous one, not her.

“Okay,” Floyd said, with a tense smile, “let’s start with an easy question.”

“Did John Dory really take you to the Neverglades?” Clay asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

That was not what Branch was expecting, and it seemed to shock Iris and Cash just as much. Iris's eyes widened slightly, and she exchanged a quick, puzzled glance with Cash, who only shrugged in response.

“Yes,” she answered, her confusion evident. “We go there every spring and summer to hike.” Every spring and summer, where do they spend the rest of the year?

Clay let out a scoff, shaking his head as he mumbled. “Didn’t know he could be that irresponsible.”

Great, Branch thought, tension creeping back into the room. 

“Excuse me?” Iris questioned back, her tone sharp as the tip of her tail started to flick back and forth. A defensive edge quickly replaced the small window of openness she had given. He could see her claws starting to pierce into her seat as she glared Clay down.

Branch could feel the fragile truce threatening to shatter. He glanced at Bruce, hoping he could steer the conversation back on course. Bruce cleared his throat, ready to intervene, but the damage seemed to have been done. The atmosphere in the room was thick with unspoken accusations and rising tempers. Awesome. I guess we are having this conversation sooner rather than later.

But Clay didn’t seem to notice. “I just mean,” his tone patronizing as if he were explaining something to a child, “that the trail is—”

“I don’t give two shits what you mean,” Iris cut him off. She didn’t yell, but there was an edge in her voice that commanded Clay to pay attention. “You don’t get to call my dad irresponsible when you don’t know him.”

Clay looked at her in disbelief. “I think I know your dad.”

“You believe that. You really believe that, don’t you?” Iris asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm and disdain. “But it’s been twenty years, and it’s not like you have ever tried to contact him.” She laughed, a dark, spite-filled sound. “Hell, from the sound of it, you haven’t been in contact with anyone. What kind of brother does that?”

There was an edge to her voice like she knew something they didn’t. She knew a lot that they didn’t. Branch’s mind raced. Why did she say it like that? Did John Dory try to get in contact with them before the escape? Before he came back? What did she know? There was so much he didn’t know. The unspoken questions hung heavily in the air, adding another layer of tension to the already strained atmosphere.

The room fell silent. Clay’s face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger his own tail starting to match beats with Iris's. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Branch glanced at Bruce, who seemed equally taken aback by the sudden escalation. This was a bad idea. It hasn't even been a day and here they are, screwing up. They should have left this for a different day, one when they had built more of a relationship with them not when they are still basically strangers.

Bruce took a deep breath, stepping in to defuse the situation. “Let’s take a step back,” he said calmly. “This isn’t helping anyone. We’re here to understand, not to attack each other.”

Quick as a flash Iris snapped her glare to Bruce, "He doesn't need you to save his ass. He is not a child. If he can't handle his own arguments then he needs to learn to keep his mouth shut." Iris turned back to Clay, her eyes blazing with anger and defiance, “And you, I am only going to say this once- you do not know my dad. He is not the troll you remember,” she said, her voice steady. “He’s changed and you have no right to judge him.”

Clay swallowed hard, his bravado faltering. “Maybe I don’t know everything,” he admitted grudgingly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that taking a kid to the Neverglades is reckless.”

Iris let out a bitter laugh “I didn't know you had been to the Neverglades." Clay went to say something but was cut off by Iris, "Oh, there is no need for you to answer because you haven't." It was her turn to sound patronizing, "My dad knows the trail better than anyone else I know. And guess what I’ve never felt safer than when I’m with him. So you can keep your judgmental opinions to yourself.”

Clay didn't seem to have anything to say to that, but Iris was apparently not done, "And another thing, what is your problem?" Yeah, no beating around the bush for her, just asking the question flat out, "Ever since you walked into that hospital room you have had a problem. Don't think I haven't noticed, don't think any of us haven't noticed."

"I don't have a problem." Clay almost growled back.

Iris looked like she had more to say but was stopped by Floyd.

“Okay, okay,” Floyd said, looking between the two with his hands up in a non-threatening manner. “Let’s calm down. Everyone take a breath.”

Everyone seemed to follow Floyd's suggestion, the tension in the room easing just slightly as they took a moment to collect themselves.

Branch felt the tension slowly start to slightly ease again, the heated exchange leaving a heavy silence in its wake. He could still see anger in her eyes, this conversation was far from over. Another aspect occurred to him, she didn't yell. During that whole conversation, her voice never rose above her normal talking voice. It had gotten cold and harsher than he had thought possibly for someone only nineteen, but she didn't yell.

Bruce noticed the shift and stepped forward, trying to regain control of the conversation. “Iris,” he began gently, “we’re not here to judge anyone." he stated calmly earning a scoff from her, "We just want to understand what happened. Can you tell us more about your time in the Neverglades?” he asked with a smile, “I’m sure you have a lot of good memories.”

Iris just rolled her eyes with a huff before turning to look at the purple-haired troll, "What do you want to know?"

"When did you start hiking the trail?" Floyd asked.

Iris sighed and answered begrudgingly, “We first hiked it when I was four.” When she was four? Where were they beforehand?

Floyd seemed to have the same question, "You hiked the trail when you were four, but where were you before that?"

Iris paused a moment like she was trying to decide if she wanted to answer, "We just moved around a lot."

"That's it?" Floyd asked, gently pressing her for more information.

Iris just shrugged before running the tip of her finger along to edge of her ear, "That's it" she affirmed, “After hiking the trail, we traveled on the edge of some of the territories" Vague. She is keeping everything very vague. "After that, we went through the Lonesome Flats. We ran into some trolls..” She glanced at Cash for a moment and hesitated.

Branch had fully forgotten Cash was still awake and part of this conversation. 

Cash just gave her a small nod.

“We settled in Lonesome Flats for a while after,” Iris paused, her expression conflicted as if weighing her words carefully. “Dad had Cash—”

”Is that where John met your other parent?” Bruce interrupted. Is this what Bruce has been thinking so hard about?

Surprisingly, it was Cash this time who answered, "Yes."

"Can we ask where they are?" Bruce asked with a smile. That is actually a good question. If their other parent was here, there would be no need for him or his brothers to get custody..... If their other parent was here, they would have never known what happened to John Dory or that he had kids.

The smile didn't seem to faze Cash. "He's not around." From his tone, it was clear he didn't want to talk about it.

Bruce, seemingly oblivious to Cash's reluctance, pressed on. "Where is he?"

Cash's jaw tightened, and he shot a quick glance at Iris who just shrugged, before responding. "I said he's not around. That's all you need to know." His voice was calm but firm, leaving no room for further questions.

“Can we ask what his name i-” Bruce began, but was abruptly cut off.

“No," Cash replied sharply. "We aren't close enough for you to ask a question like that.” His voice was cold and... unsteady?

Cash's cold voice seemed to snap Bruce back to his senses. The room fell into an uneasy silence, with tension thickening the air once again. Bruce exchanged a quick glance with Branch, both unsure how to proceed. Iris looked at Cash, concern evident in her eyes, but she didn’t press him further or continue their original conversation.

This was a mistake. They should have waited until they were settled in the bunker. If they had waited, Iris and Cash could have had the option to leave if they wanted to. Now, in the confined space of the van, they were forced to either answer the questions or endure the uncomfortable silence. And now they would rather endure the silence than talk to them. 

Floyd shifted uncomfortably, breaking the silence. “Let's move on to something else” he suggested cautiously, his tail tapping nervously against the seat. “Something easier to talk about.”

“Or we could just stop while we’re ahead,” Clay muttered under his breath, his frustration still clearly evident.

Floyd shot Clay a warning glance before turning back to Iris.

"You know what,” Branch said finally, as he got up to turn off autopilot and find a safe place to rest for the night, “It has been a long day, we are all very tired and stressed from everything. So how about we all get some sleep and we can pick up this conversation once we have had a few days to process everything.” At least that way we can’t make things worse than they already are. 

— — — — —

By the time Branch found a safe place for the night, his brothers were already asleep. Floyd was curled up on his side, letting out a soft snore. Clay was leaning up against the wall, sleeping quietly. Bruce leaned back in his seat, emitting what Branch could only assume was a "dad snore" that seemed to shake the van.

Branch made his way to the back where the last open seat was when he noticed Iris was still awake. She looked tired but made no move to get ready for sleep. She noticed him too but didn’t say anything just stared out the window.

Should he say something? Would she want to talk to him? The conversation ended badly. He feels like he should say something. That's what a good uncle would do. Branch hesitated for a moment, then decided to break the silence. "Hey," he said softly, careful not to wake the others. "So we are going to stop for a few hours." he said rubbing the back of his head, “It’s unsafe to drive when you are tired.”

Iris glanced at him, her eyes wary but not hostile, “I know.”

Branch gave her a skeptical look. Critter vans weren’t that common, they were only recently becoming popular because of the visits to the other tribes, “You do?”

Iris just nodded, “My dad has one we named Rhonda. She's a sweetheart.”

Rhonda, interesting name, “So it is safe to assume you know how to drive?” he asked, feeling the strain of the conversation from earlier leave his mind.

“I sure do,” she answered with a smile, “Cash does too, but he gets very nervous behind the wheel so it falls to me and Dad to drive.” She glanced back at Cash, who was asleep with his arm still tightly around Jolene.

"Sorry about earlier." She said quickly not looking him in the eye, "I didn't mean to lose my temper and it was rude to say stuff like that."

Branch sighed, "It's fine. It has been a long day and emotions ran high."

Iris just nodded in response.

It was quiet for a moment. Branch desperately wanted to ask her some more questions. He had been about to earlier, but everything seemed to fall apart the more they talked. The uncertainty and tension in the air had made it hard to find the right words. But now, the need to know more overwhelmed him.

“Can I ask you something?” he ventured cautiously.

“You just did,” Iris replied, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

He let out a dry laugh, appreciating her attempt at humor. “For real though, can I?”

She shrugged, “I’m not going to stop you.”

Branch hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, but... how did all of this happen?”

Iris looked at him with uncertainty, as if weighing whether to trust him with her story.

“I mean, how did they get you?” Branch clarified. “I’m going, to be honest, I don’t remember a lot about your dad. But what I do remember is that he was always safe, always prepared. What happened?”

She sighed deeply. Branch could see the weight of the past pressing down on her. “I don’t—I don’t know.” There was a crack in her voice as tears appeared in her eyes. “We were hiking like we normally do, when a hand came out and—” She got angry then, her voice rising slightly with frustration. “We didn’t do anything wrong. We were safe like we always were, but it was like they knew we were going to be there before we even got there.”

Branch felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, “What do you mean?”

“I have never seen someone like them in the Neverglades before and I have been going there once a year for almost my whole life.” Iris shook her head, her expression conflicted. “I don’t know how to put it, but it felt like a trap. Like they were waiting for us.”

Branch felt a knot tighten in his stomach. That’s... unsettling. Like they knew they were going to be there. Could someone have planned for them to be there? No, if that was the case, then they got very lucky. However, Hickory and his brother got lucky when they were trying to find him and Poppy. Branch took a deep breath, drawing Iris’s attention.

“I don’t know what to make out of all of this,” he admitted. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but he continued, “But I do know some trolls who could help. If someone is coming after our family, we need to be prepared.”

“Do you?” Iris asked, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.

“Yes,” Branch replied confidently. “Once we get to Pop Village, I’ll send a letter and see if they know anything.”

“Pop Village,” Iris repeated thoughtfully, her brow furrowing. “Are we really going to be welcome in Pop Village? Main genre trolls have never been the friendliest to us, country trolls are alright but we got lucky with them.”

Branch hesitated, his mind racing through memories of past encounters with trolls of different genres. “You’re going to be welcome in Pop Village,” he assured her, trying to sound confident. The village had been one of the more open and forgiving out of all of the tribes after everything was calmed down. Iris and them shouldn't have any issues in the village.

“Even though we are gray?”

“Yes, you are going to be welcome even though you’re gray.” Branch’s tone was firm, though a trace of uncertainty lingered beneath the surface. If she had asked him that a year ago, he would have given her a different answer without hesitation.

Iris nodded slowly, absorbing his reassurance. “Okay. It’s just... I’ve heard stories, you know?” Stories? I bet you have heard and dealt with more than just stories.

Branch sighed, understanding her concern. “I know, but Pop Village is different. They understand the importance of unity, especially in times like these.”

“I hope you’re right,” Iris murmured, her gaze distant as she thought about what may lay ahead.

Branch squeezed her hand reassuringly. “We’ll face it together. And if they give us any trouble, I’ll make sure they understand.”

She didn’t say anything, only nodded. She didn’t quite believe him, but that was okay. They could work on that.

Branch let out a yawn before turning to Iris. “You should get some sleep. We’re back in troll territory so we should be safe.”

“Um, my... uh, my sleep schedule or internal clock got messed up.”

Branch gave her a confused look.

She avoided his eyes, her voice barely above a whisper. "In the bottles, they didn't... um... they either kept the lights on or left us in the dark for hours, or days. Time got weird for a bit so I don’t really know." She paused, struggling to find the right words. "After a few months of that, it's been hard to fall asleep at a reasonable time."

Branch felt a surge of anger at her simple statement. Who does this? Who kidnaps someone? What kind of person sucks the life out of another? What kind of person goes after children? They're just children, he thought bitterly. They should be worrying about normal kid things, not whether they're going to live or die in some bottle. They shouldn't have to fear for their dad's life.

He clenched his fists, trying to contain the rage simmering within him. “There is nothing I can do to fix that,” he said through gritted teeth, "but what I can say is that they will never come near you, your siblings, or your dad again."

— — — — —

It was into the night, when Branch woke up to the snores of everyone and to Iris speaking softly, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but your brothers are alive. All of them. I met the youngest one first, the one you always said he likes strawberries and would be so happy to have a friend his own age to play with.” Her voice cracked with despair. “I... um... I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Branch says we’re going to go to Pop Village. He says things are going to be okay," Her voice became shaky as she tried to get ahold of her breathing, "but I know it's only temporary. I want to trust him, but I heard the doctors talking about how we are going to be separated.”

Branch turned his head slightly and saw her holding what looked like goggles—JD's goggles. She was crying, fully unhindered, tears streaming down her face. This was the first time he had actually seen her cry. “That’s not going to happen. That’s never going to happen. We are not going to be separated and I know what to do.” She paused, gathering her thoughts, “I know you never wanted me to worry about looking after them, but I can... I can look after them,” she finished with a sob.

Branch vividly recalled the stress JD endured while caring for them. There were photos of him with bags under his eyes and some with glimpses of him in the background cooking or cleaning something. And Branch remembers the pain he felt when his brother left and how it had hurt to be separated from all of them. He would never let the same happen to her, to any of them.

Notes:

Here is ch. 5 it is a bit longer than I intended but I also didn't want to break it into two part, so long chapter.

It might be a bit before I have ch.6 is out. My summer class is starting to get more heavy handed with the classwork and I need to focus on that just a little more then I have been.

I will say the kids get to meet Poppy next chapter so we are going to be in pop village

Also my ages for everyone is:
John Dory - 37
Bruce -35
Clay - 34
Floyd - 32
Branch - 23

Kids:
Iris - 19
Cash - 14
Ronen - 10
Wynona - 8
Jolene - 5

Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Poppy & Branch POV

Hey Poppy,

Just giving you a heads-up that we will be arriving a little past lunch. I've got the kids with me—five of them, if you can believe it. Iris is the oldest, then there's Cash, Ronen, and Wynona in that order leaving Jolene as the youngest. They're quiet and a bit skittish. They are also mixed genres. I currently have temporary custody for now.

John Dory's in the hospital. The doctors say he's stable, but they don't know if he's going to wake up. Once everyone is settled in the bunker, I'm planning to go get him and take him to a troll doctor. His oldest, Iris, told me he tried to come back for me but didn't make it before the escape. He thought I was dead- he thought all of us were dead.

While I was there, my other brothers showed up. I haven't seen them in twenty years. I'm really sorry I never told you about them before now.

Needless to say, a lot is going on. There is so much more I want to tell, but it would be better in person. Just wanted to keep you in the loop. See you in a few hours.

See you soon,

Branch

 

Wow, five kids! Typically, Pop trolls only have two or three, so having five is unheard of. I wonder if that's the same in the other tribes too? She’ll have to ask at the next leader meeting. Even if it is normal for some, it still sounds like a lot of kids for one troll to handle. But Branch can manage it. 

And they’re mixed genres? Which is, incredible! The other tribes are still so new to them, each bringing its own culture, traditions, and quirks. Poppy wondered what genres they were mixed with—funk and pop. Classical and pop? Rock and pop? Oooo, that would be interesting to see. From what the other leaders have told her, Rock has been pretty reclusive until the whole Rock World Tour. She couldn’t wait to meet them. She was excited to learn about them and to see how they would fit into their lives.

She couldn’t wait to help them feel welcome in Pop Village. A new place can be scary, especially if you have never been there before. They have been living around the other tribes their whole lives. How was she going to make them feel welcome? Everyone in the village had been learning about the new genres, but it had only been a few months. Maybe she should reach out to the other leaders and ask what might make them feel comfortable.

Branch mentioned that the kids were mixed genres. Did that mean they all had different genes? The other leaders had said, as far as they knew, there was very little crossover between territories and the trolls living in them, so had they spent time with other genres? Do they even know about the music barrier everyone has been living with? Or did they just live without that idea?

Did they even see themselves as Pop trolls? Or were they just trolls? If they did identify as a certain genre was it like Cooper, who was raised Pop and identified with Pop? Or was it like Prince D, who was raised Funk but identified with something new like Hip Hop? Maybe talking to Cooper and sending a letter to Prince D wouldn’t hurt. She doesn’t want them to think they are not welcome here or that they have to be a certain way. Maybe she’ll send letters once she has met them. Yeah, that feels like the best option.

What’s another way to make them feel welcome? She could throw them a welcome party. Would they like that? She threw one for Barb when she came to help fix the pods as a part of the Apology Tour, and that hadn't gone too well. Barb ended up punching someone—though to be fair, she thought they were about to attack her. Still, it made Poppy wonder if a party was the best idea for everyone. Maybe something smaller would work better?  

By this point, they would be traveling for over a day—they're bound to be tired by the time they get here. So maybe some comfort food and welcome cupcakes? Yes! That’s what she’ll do. Everyone loves cupcakes! She'll go to Branch’s bunker and get things together for a small welcome gathering—not a party, but a gathering.

Is Branch’s bunker safe for children? How old are these kids? Branch never said in his letter only their names and who was older. Which was good, she could personalize a cupcake for each of them. She'll have to make sure the bunker is child-friendly. Maybe some cozy blankets, some snacks, and a warm, inviting atmosphere would make them feel welcome and more at home. She'll check if there are any toys or activities they might enjoy. They must be really scared right now, with their dad in the hospital. The uncertainty and fear must be overwhelming for them, especially in a new place surrounded by unfamiliar faces. So whatever it takes, she'll make sure they feel welcome and cared for from the moment they arrive until the moment John Dory wakes up.

John Dory. John Dory? Why does that name sound so familiar? She knows that name. Her brain has been trying to place it since Branch left. Where could she have heard it before? There was a band, Brozone, with a member named John Dory, but that band was composed of just brothers and Branch would have told her if he was a part of a boyband. Branch does have more than one brother- it says it right there in his letter. But Brozone was the biggest boyband from twenty years ago, Branch would have been three at most during that time, there's no way this is the same John Dory. Maybe she had met him at a party or one of the many gatherings between the tribes? Or perhaps it was a story someone had told her long ago? The name carried a sense of familiarity that she couldn't quite pin down. It wasn’t a memory—more of a beat or a rhythm—but she knew it meant something significant.

She could worry about that later. Right now, she needed to focus on getting everything ready for his kids so that when he wakes up, he can concentrate on healing. It’s a relief he’s stable, but she hopes the troll doctor can help him wake up. The uncertainty must be so hard for Branch, knowing his brother is lying there in the hospital, unable to wake up. It's heart-wrenching to think about; she had always wanted a sister, and while there are many she considered like a sister, she still couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to know they are in the hospital and there is nothing you can do.

She can’t imagine how difficult it must be for Branch, after not hearing from his brother for twenty years, to now see John Dory like this and learn that he had looked for him. But she knows Branch is strong, and they will get through this together. Twenty years. It has been twenty years since Branch has seen John Dory or any of his brothers.

And his other brothers! She can’t believe they showed up after all these years. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t shocked. Not only does Branch have an older brother, but he has four of them and five new niblings. Which is aaamazing, but everything was just so much at the time. It's overwhelming to think about how much has changed in such a short span. She’s never imagined Branch having such a big family, let alone finding out about them all at once.

But why weren’t any of them here? Where were they when Branch’s—when their—Grandma died? Did they leave? If so, why? Why would someone just leave their family? Why would someone just leave their little brother? Anger started to burn in her stomach as she thought about the pain Branch must have gone through, feeling abandoned and alone during such a difficult time. How could they have just disappeared when he needed them the most?

Wait, she needed to wait. She didn’t have the whole story. Branch wrote that John Dory had tried to come back- he never said anything about the other three. Maybe something happened. Maybe they were separated? What if there were circumstances beyond their control, forces that kept them apart despite their wishes? Even her dad admitted some trolls disappeared on days when it wasn't Trollstice, and they hadn't kept the best records of which trolls were still around leading up to the Great Escape. Not everyone made it out of those tunnels. Not everyone made it to the tunnels either. Her mind raced with possibilities—perhaps they had been taken away, or maybe there was some danger that forced them to leave. She had to consider that they might have had no choice in the matter.

And John Dory did try to come back. He was just too late. She couldn't imagine what John Dory must have felt all those years. Coming back to the Troll Tree only to find everything in ruins, to have everything you've ever known torn away from you. The emptiness and silence of the tree would have been haunting. When she had gone to Bergen Town to save her friends it had been haunting. To live with the belief that your family was gone, wiped out by some terrible fate. It must have been beyond hard to manage.

Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that jumping to conclusions wouldn’t help anyone. She needed to stay calm and give Branch’s brothers the benefit of the doubt until she learned more. The most important thing now was to support Branch and be there for him as he navigated this emotional storm. There would be time to ask questions and understand the full story later. Right now, what mattered was helping Branch and his newly found family through this challenging time.

She couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions herself. Excitement, curiosity, a bit of anxiety—it was all there. She was sure if someone was watching they would know just from one look at her frizzy fur. The anticipation of meeting his brothers and his new niblings, and getting to know them, was thrilling yet daunting. She had never met any of his family before. His family... why was it that the only family she knew about was his grandma, may she rest in peace, and now his brothers? Where were his parents? Branch was raised by his grandma, so maybe they weren’t around either. Maybe she could ask his brothers about them. Branch has such an interesting family.

At the same time, she felt a bit of anxiety about how everyone would adapt to these sudden changes. Integrating new trolls into their lives wasn’t just about physical space; it was about emotional adjustments too, especially after twenty years of not being there. Will they all get along? It has been twenty years someone can change a lot in twenty years. Will they be upset the Branch isn't the same? And the kids have whole different personalities. How will they handle that? What if the kids struggle to adapt to their new environment? What then? These questions lingered at the back of her mind, creating a flutter of nervousness. She has never had to deal with something like this, no pop troll has. How is she going to be able to help?

They’ll find a way to make this work. They always do. If she and Branch can teach the Bergens about happiness- while getting her BFF a boyfriend and helping Branch be happy- and stop a music-ending apocalypse and teach them about where real music comes from, then they can handle this. This situation, while unexpected and overwhelming, is just another hurdle for them to overcome together. She trusts in their ability to adapt and grow, to support each other and their new family members through the transition.

She can’t wait to see him soon, to hug him and remind him that they’re in this together, no matter what. She wants to be his rock, to reassure him that he’s not alone in this. She’ll be there to support him, to listen, and to share the load. He is not going to be alone in this. He never has to be alone in anything anymore.

Now she needs to get to Branch’s bunker and get everything ready. That means a lot of tasks to tackle. First, she has to find and remove all the traps. Kids running around a booby-trapped bunker is a recipe for disaster. Next, she needs to locate and remove any weapons. Branch’s bunker is a fortress, and while that’s great for security, it’s not exactly kid-friendly.

Food is another big concern. Branch still keeps enough food down there to last for years, but kids eat a lot, and they should have food they like. She’ll need to check the stock and maybe do a grocery run to ensure there are plenty of kid-friendly options. 

Then there’s the issue of sleeping arrangements. Branch mentioned he always has a spare room ready just in case, but with five kids, one room won’t cut it. She’ll need to clear out the storage rooms and convert them into cozy bedrooms.

Finally, there’s the matter of what to cook. Comfort food is a must, something that will make everyone feel welcome and at home. Maybe a big pot of spaghetti, a favorite among the trollings in the village, and some fresh-baked welcome cupcakes for dessert. She could also make a few of Branch’s favorite meals and some pre-cooked meals that will keep for a few days until everyone gets into an easy rhythm.

With so much to do, she felt a surge of energy and determination. This was her opportunity to show Branch and his newfound family how much they meant to her. She would transform his bunker from a survivalist’s hideout into a warm, inviting space for everyone, while still keeping it unmistakably Branch’s home.

— — — — —

Branch POV

Home. He, they, were finally home. After driving the whole morning, he was relieved to be back. All he wanted was to go to his room, curl up, and sleep, but he couldn’t—there was still so much to do. Before he went to bed last night, he had sent Poppy a letter to keep her in the loop. It looked like she understood the hint and kept most of the village away. No one was outside his bunker, allowing him, the kids, and his brothers to arrive in peace. It was a relief since everyone still seemed a little wary of… well, everything. If anyone new had shown up, he didn’t know how they would have reacted, let alone the entire Pop village.

A small part of Branch hoped she would be there to meet them, but she probably had work to do around the village—she definitely had work to do in the village. Bridget should be on her honeymoon by now, and with him gone, Poppy likely had a lot of queen-related work to catch up on. He would find her later to let her know they had arrived and tell her everything that was going on. She would know what to do to help these kids. She would know what to do with his… brothers. She would know how to make this easier.

Right now, he had to get everything ready. He had room for everyone—even if his brothers decided to stay or not—but they were not ready for anyone to live in them. He needed to show everyone where the showers were and find a change of clothes for everyone. After that, he needed to make something to eat and find out if anyone was allergic to anything. Then, once everyone was asleep, he would work on childproofing his bunker. If he was going to be evaluated, he needed to make sure everything was safe. These kids would not be separated. And he couldn't have anyone getting hurt.

With a sigh, Branch stood up and stretched. He let out a small groan as he heard his back pop, “Okay,” he began as he turned to the other passengers in the critter van, “we’re here.” He was only met with a mix of groans and half-hearted cheers. Go figure.

One look at his brothers told him they hadn’t slept well during the drive. Floyd seemed to be faring the best, though he was rolling out his neck, trying to ease the tension. Clay appeared completely stiff, moving slowly and carefully. Bruce, on the other hand, seemed to have had the roughest time, his expression one of sheer exhaustion as he tried to stretch.

John's kids, however, seemed to be holding up a bit better. Cash looked like he could still use a few more hours of sleep, his eyes drooping low, but he moved with ease, taking only a few minutes to stretch and loosen his muscles. Ronen and Wynona seemed to be managing well, offering only mild complaints about tired eyes. Jolene appeared much the same as the day before, except for her tousled hair and fur, giving her a wild, just-woke-up look. Iris, though, seemed to have had the hardest night, her eyes red and puffy from crying, dark circles underscoring her tired gaze.

"Alright," he said, trying to sound upbeat, "let’s get inside and settled in. There’s a lot to do, but we’ll take it one step at a time." He climbed out of the crittervan, feeling a sense of relief as he breathed in the fresh air. 

He turned back to help the kids down, offering a hand to each as they exited the van. They looked around with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, still adjusting to their new surroundings. Branch had not expected their curiosity. JD must have taken them traveling with him, so they likely had seen many different places in their lives. Still, he wondered what they had been expecting.

He noticed Cash’s eyes widen slightly as he took in the sight of the towering trees and colorful flowers. Ronen and Wynona exchanged glances, the trace of sleep in their eyes almost completely disappearing as they surveyed the unfamiliar territory. Jolene's wild hair framed her face as she stepped down, her eyes darting around as if she were trying to find something or someone. Iris was the last to exit, her hand gripping his tightly. Her tired eyes scanned the area, and Branch could see the flicker of anxiety still lingering in her gaze.

In response, Branch gave her hand a small squeeze of reassurance, hoping to calm some of her anxiety. Branch tried to see his home through their eyes. What must they be thinking? Did they expect something more imposing, or perhaps more welcoming? He hoped this place would appear somewhat familiar to what they were used to, but after learning JD had settled down in Lonesome Flats….this couldn’t be further from what they were used to.

His brothers followed their expressions a blend of fatigue and confusion. They weren’t accustomed to different surroundings. Bruce had mentioned living on an island, which suggested he might have been more used to open spaces and natural environments, but Clay and Floyd hadn't shared much about their living situations. However, Branch knew they weren't exactly the outdoorsy type. None of them were.

He could tell they were feeling out of their element here, surrounded by the unfamiliar forest, but they were taking it all instride. Clay moved cautiously, his stiffness from the long drive evident in every step. Floyd, while more relaxed, still had an air of unease as he surveyed the area. The three of them were clearly trying to adjust. This was a lot to take in, especially after such a long separation. 

Branch cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention, “My bunker is this way” As they moved toward the bunker, Branch felt a surge of resolve. This could be good. This was a new beginning, an opportunity to build a connection with his nieces and nephews and to rebuild and reconnect with his brothers. 

As he guided them toward the entrance, he spoke softly, trying to reassure them. "This is your home until your dad wakes up, guys. It might seem different now, but hopefully, it will start to feel more familiar soon." 

He looked at each of the kids, making sure they understood that this place was safe. "I’ve got plenty of space, and I'll make sure you have everything you need. If there's anything specific you want or miss, just let me know, okay?" He could see the mix of emotions on their faces—uncertainty, fatigue, but also a glimmer of understanding. 

Branch glanced at his brothers. "And that goes for you guys too," he added. "I know it's not what you're used to, but we'll make it work." He paused, then uncertainly added, "If you even want to stay."

Before any of them could answer, he turned back to the kids, feeling the weight of their stares on his back. "The entrance is hidden, so unless you're a pop troll or a close friend, you have no way of finding it," he commented, noticing their curious gazes as they looked around.

The kids' eyes widened a bit, taking in the information. Branch could see the mix of relief and curiosity on their faces, and he hoped it would help them feel a bit more secure in this new place. "I know it's a lot to take in," he continued, his voice gentle. "But we'll make sure you're comfortable and have everything you need. If you have any questions or need anything, just let me know." 

He led them all inside to the automatic lift. As the lift started to move, he could feel the small jump of surprise from everyone. He let himself smile a bit; it always amused him how startled people got when it first moved.

Turning to the kids, Branch said, “Once we get down, I’ll show you where the bathroom is. While everyone gets cleaned up, I’ll start on something to eat.” He could see the mix of anticipation and nervousness on their faces, maybe warning them about the lift would have been a good idea. He was hoping a warm meal and a chance to freshen up would help ease some of the tension.

As the lift reached the bottom of the tunnel, they were greeted by the savory smell of spaghetti. The moment the smell hit Branch’s nose, his mouth started to water. He could almost taste the rich, flavorful sauce, and the perfectly cooked pasta. The simple yet profound pleasure of a home-cooked meal promised a brief respite from the chaos and confusion of the past few days, offering a comforting sense of normalcy and warmth.

Out of the corner of his eye, Branch could see Floyd sniffing the air. “Muses, that smells good.”

It does, it really does... Wait... Why do I smell food? The thought was enough to stop him in his tracks, causing everyone to freeze behind him. Who is in my bunker without my permission? His mind raced through possibilities. Everyone in the village knows you have to have permission to come into his bunker. It had been one of the first rules he made clear after making peace with the Bergens. It had taken some time for everyone to learn this rule, but eventually, the trolls had started to respect his boundary. 

He instinctively shifted into a defensive stance, ready to protect his family.

Suddenly, a pink head popped out of the kitchen doorway. “HI!” Poppy's voice rang out, cheerful and bright as always.

Poppy! Relief and surprise flooded through his body at the sight of her. He felt his tension dissolve, replaced by a wave of warmth and gratitude. She stood there, beaming, her energy as infectious as ever. The savory aroma of spaghetti wafted stronger now, mingling with the comforting presence of his best friend.

"Hey, everyone!" Poppy greeted with a wide smile, her eyes twinkling with excitement as she walked forward. "I’m Poppy, It is so nice to meet all of you!” 

To someone just meeting her, she would appear to have a normal amount of excitement at the prospect of meeting someone new. But to him, it was clear that she was holding back, using all her self-control not to rush at them in full force. He could tell from the way her tail wagged and her paws kneaded the air that she wanted nothing more than to hug them tightly. He didn’t even try to stop the smile from spreading across his face.

Branch watched, surprised, as Poppy's smile faltered slightly when her eyes landed on his brothers. Oh, that’s weird. But her expression quickly brightened as she waved enthusiastically at the kids behind him. “It’s wonderful to have you all here.”

Noticing the kids still looking a mix of curiosity and shyness, Branch stepped to the side. “Come on, guys,” he encouraged them gently as he held out a paw for Poppy to grab. “This is Poppy, she is my girlfriend.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his brothers sharing a look.

Poppy's eyes lit up even more at Branch's introduction, and she squeezed his paw warmly. "Hello!" she said, her voice bubbling with excitement. “It’s so nice to meet you all. I hope you like spaghetti.”

Branch smiled and turned to face her. “Poppy, you didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”

“Oh, I wanted to,” Poppy replied with a smile. “I figured after a long drive, everyone could benefit from a home-cooked meal.” 

As they moved further into the bunker, Branch noticed the decorations Poppy had put up. Colorful banners and streamers adorned the walls, and a large "Welcome Home" sign hung above the dining area. The effort she had put into making this place feel inviting did not go unnoticed. The kids started to relax, their initial hesitation melting away as they were drawn in by Poppy’s welcoming demeanor.

Branch, meanwhile, kept an eye on his brothers. Bruce seemed the most relaxed, but Clay and Floyd were still on edge. He couldn’t blame them—this was a big change for everyone. Before everyone goes to bed tonight, they need to have a talk. What happened last night was not good. He didn't know why Clay was so upset or why Bruce was so insistent on finding the kids' other parent when they clearly didn’t want to discuss it. But it needs to stop before it gets out of hand, especially if they are going to be evaluated for custody. They need to work together this one time and be a supportive family, even if it's just an act.

Branch cleared his throat, quickly getting everyone's attention with his best smile. He looked at Iris and said, “This is entirely up to you, but we have had a long drive so you guys can eat first, or you can get cleaned up first. Whatever you prefer.”

Iris glanced at her siblings, considering their weary expressions and rumbling stomachs. "What do you think, guys?" she asked as she looked down at her dirt-covered paws.

Cash shrugged, looking torn between the lure of food and the desire for a shower. "I'm hungry, but after two months a shower would be nice."

Wynona nodded in agreement, “Yeah, maybe we should clean up first. It'll make dinner feel even better."

Ronen chimed in, “I’m fine either way, but cleaning up first sounds good."

Branch nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s get everyone sorted. Bathrooms are this way,” he said, gesturing down the hallway. “And across the hallway, on the other side, should be one of the open rooms-”

“There should also be a few extra sets of clothes,” Poppy added with a smile. “Branch sent a letter late last night, and I thought a change of clothes would be nice after... everything.” 

Clothes. Of course, they needed clothes, and he hadn’t even thought about that. Branch felt a wave of relief flood through his body as he realized Poppy had covered for him. She is amazing. She didn’t have to do this. Her thoughtfulness was exactly what he needed in this chaotic moment, and he couldn't help but feel grateful for her just being her.

As the kids walked away, Branch glanced at his brothers. “You guys good with this plan too?”

Floyd yawned before answering, “Works for me.”

Branch waited until he heard the click of the lock on one of the doors. “Good, because we need to talk.”

“Talk?” Floyd asked confused.

“Yes, talk,” Branch nodded, glancing at Bruce and then finally landing on Clay. “About last night.”

They needed to clear the air before moving forward. Whatever tensions and misunderstandings had arisen couldn't be allowed to fester. They needed to present a united front, at least until they could sort out the mess that had been thrown into their lives.

Branch took a deep breath before he started in a hushed tone, "I don’t know what you two were looking for last night, but that can’t happen again." Clay looked like he wanted to say something, but Branch cut him off, "No, no arguing. We can’t argue about this, not when we still have to pass an evaluation to even make sure we get custody. We have to be on the same foot now, so no arguing."

“What happened last night?” Poppy asked, looking up from the pasta she was stirring her tail flicking slightly.

Before Branch could answer her, Floyd did. “It was supposed to be a moment where we could ask more tough topic questions without stressing the younger kids out.” He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It was a complete mess,” he admitted honestly, his tail hanging low.

Branch scoffed. “That's putting it lightly,” he said, gesturing to Clay. “Clay and Iris couldn’t say two sentences to each other before it turned into an argument.” He then turned to Bruce. “I don’t know what answer Bruce wanted, but as long as he got the answer he wanted, he didn’t care how uncomfortable Cash was.” Finally, he turned back to Clay. “And Muses forbid Iris or anyone else say anything kind about JD or show appreciation for how he has raised them. I don’t know what you were thinking or who you were mad at, but you can’t take it out on those kids like that.”

"Okay Branch, we get it," Bruce said, looking genuinely guilty about the stress they had caused. "We will work together from here on out. You don’t hav-"

"No, you don’t get it," Branch snapped back, his frustration boiling over causing his his fur to bristle and tail to lash out behind him. "I don’t want to be the reason JD's kids get separated." He looked at them, willing them to understand. How did they not understand? "Just because the separation didn’t affect you guys doesn’t mean it won’t affect them."

"Branch-" Floyd started, looking hurt.

Branch cut him off again, his voice softening slightly but still firm. "Floyd, this isn't about you or Bruce or even me. This is about those kids. They’ve already been through so much. They need stability, not more chaos. They need support, not us questioning every single thing they say-"

“We get it, Branch,” Clay said through gritted teeth.

“Do you?” Branch asked, looking directly at Clay, his eyes intense and searching. “Because from where I stand, it sure didn’t seem like it last night. Do you understand how scared and lost they must feel? They may have just lost their father, and now they’re stuck with a bunch of strangers who can’t even get along for their sake.” 

Muses, what was wrong with them? They couldn't set aside their own issues to work together. If JD's kids did get separated, how would they ever explain that to JD? How do you tell your own brother that they couldn’t put aside their difference to help his kids? Could they even get along? He couldn't remember a time when they were all genuinely happy to be around each other. They don’t even need JD to be dysfunctional….maybe they were just like this.

Clay’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Branch turned to Bruce next. “We need to earn their trust, not force it out of them.”

Bruce looked down, shame flickering across his face. “I didn’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable. I just...I wanted to understand their situation better.”

“And I get that,” Branch replied, his tone softening further. “But there’s a right way and a wrong way to go about it. We need to let them come to us when they’re ready. Forcing the issue is only going to push them further away.”

He glanced at Poppy, who was watching the exchange with a mixture of concern and hope. Her presence was a comforting reminder that they weren’t alone in this.

“Look,” Branch continued, addressing all of them. “This is hard for all of us. But we have to remember why we’re here. Those kids need us to be their support right now. They need to know they can rely on us, that we’re not just another source of stress and tension in their lives.”

Floyd sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re right, Branch. We need to do better. For them.”

Clay nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I get it. I’ll try to keep my cool next time.”

Bruce looked up, determination in his eyes. “We all will. For JD’s kids.”

He doesn’t know if he believes that.

Poppy smiled warmly, stepping forward to place a reassuring hand on Branch’s arm. “Good. Because we can do this. We just need to remember what’s important: giving those kids the support and stability they need right now.” she smiled at him “And we will do that. Together.”

He does believe that.

Notes:

I know what I said last chapter the kids will meet Poppy, technically didn't lie we just did get her POV, but the next chapter will be her full reaction to the kids and getting to know more about them.

As I was writing this I realized this is a lot for everyone involved but they all seem to have a master's degree in pushing things down and worrying about them later. But Poppy doesn’t and this is a lot for Poppy who only has a few pieces of the story. So I do hope this came across as her trying to understand what is going on with the small amount of information she has and wanting to do her best to help.

Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Iris & Poppy POV

Iris POV

Once the door was locked, Iris finally let out a sigh she hadn’t realized she was holding. You're okay. You’re okay. They are here, and everything is fine. She took a moment to collect herself, the tension in her shoulders slowly dissipating.

“Ms. Poppy seems nice,” Wynona said quietly, her voice tinged with a hint of hope and rensurement.

Iris let out a small groan, allowing her forehead to rest against the door with a soft thud. “Yeah, she did,” she muttered, the reality of the situation settling in. Poppy’s kindness and warmth were undeniable, but it was overwhelming. Everything was so overwhelming.

Turning around, she looked at her siblings. Cash was already rifling through the clothes Poppy had set out, a faint smile on his face. Jolene was examining the room with wide eyes, while Ronen and Wynona were whispering to each other, probably sharing their thoughts on the new surroundings. Those two are always whispering to each other.

Iris took a deep breath, trying to shake off the residual anxiety. “Alright, let’s get cleaned up. Lets just do the basics, later tonight we can take showers,” she said, attempting to sound more composed than she felt. “We’ve had a long drive, and Poppy’s right—a warm meal and fresh clothes will do everyone some good, so let's not keep them waiting.” She mustered a reassuring smile, hoping it would ease some of the tension still lingering in the room. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jolene give her a side-eye, her skepticism evident. It was clear she was still on edge, not entirely convinced that everything would be okay. Iris couldn't blame her, a lot had happened in the last forty-eight hours. Or in the last two months.

“Come on,” Iris said more softly, her voice gentle but firm. “Let’s try to make the best out of this, okay?” She reached out to run her paw through Jo’s hair, hoping to give some kind of comfort as their dad would do. However, one of her claws got caught in Jo’s hair, causing a brief, awkward moment. She quickly disentangled it and smiled sheepishly. “Let’s start on your hair,” she suggested, trying to lighten the mood.

Jo didn’t say anything, just shrugged. Still not talking. She had barely talked at all in the bottles.

As they moved towards the sink, Iris glanced around the room, taking in the small but significant details that Poppy had thought of. The extra sets of clothes, the neatly arranged toiletries—everything was meant to make them feel welcome and comfortable. It was a stark contrast to everything they had been living with the past two months.

Wynona was already exploring the new clothes, her face shifting to confusion as she started to hold up different pieces. "Iris, are these really for us?" she asked.

Iris nodded, “That’s what Poppy said.” She said as she worked out a tingle.

Ronen and Cash were inspecting the toiletries, their curiosity temporarily distracting them from their worries. "Look at all this stuff," Ronen said, holding up a bottle of shampoo. "I haven't seen so many different kinds before."

Cash added, "And it all looks so... nice. Like, really fancy." They did look expensive.

Iris nodded as she ran her paw over her hair, "Well, let's make the most of it," she said reluctantly, starting to gently work through Jo's tangles with the comb. "Maybe we deserve a bit of comfort after everything we've dealt with." Best not to look this gift fluffelhorse in the mouth. Don’t want to appear ungrateful.

Jo remained quiet, but Iris could see a faint glimmer of relaxation in her posture as the knots were carefully worked out of her hair. Good, she’s finally starting to relax.

"Almost done," Iris assured her, making sure to be as gentle as possible.

With Jo's hair finally tangle-free and braided, Iris looked around at her siblings. "Alright, go get washed up and find some clothes. Who's next?" she asked with a bit more energy, trying to keep the mood light.

Ronen approached, holding up a pair of pants and a shirt that looked just about his size. "I guess I'll go," he said with a small smile. Iris nodded and motioned for Ronen to sit in front of her. As she started working on Ronen’s hair, she noticed Wynona and Cash rummaging through the clothes Poppy had laid out for them, their faces lighting up a bit at the sight of clean, fresh outfits.

As Iris combed through Ronen’s hair, carefully working out the knots, her mind wandered to her other siblings. Cash’s hair is going to be easy to fix, but I’m going to need help holding Wynona down to even touch her hair. She glanced over at Wynona, who was examining a bottle of shampoo with a skeptical look. Maybe I can bribe her with some extra dessert or something .

"These clothes are really nice," Ronen said, pulling Iris out of her thoughts. "Poppy must have spent a lot of time picking them out for us." He held out the shirt for her to look at, it had a logo for some kind of band on it. It reminds her of the ones dad would repurpose for her when she was younger.

"Yeah," Iris agreed, smiling. "She seems really thoughtful. We are really lucky she chose to help Branch with us."

As she continued to work on Ronen’s hair, she noticed the tension in the room starting to ease. Wynona and Cash were chatting quietly, with Cash looking through the clothes and holding them up for Jo to see while Wynona was helping Jo with the buttons on her overalls.

"Alright, Ronen, you're all set. Go finish getting clean and change," Iris said, tying off the second braid. "Who's next?"

Cash stepped forward, holding a simple shirt and pants. "I guess I’m up," he said, grinning. "And don’t worry about my hair, Iris. It’s not as bad as Wynona."

Iris laughed, shaking her head. "I know, but it’s still been two months since any of us have had any real hair care. Come on, sit down." She gently guided Cash to sit in front of her, her fingers deftly untangling the mess of knots in his hair. As she worked, she felt a sense of calm settle over her. For the first time in what felt like forever, things were starting to feel normal again.

Memories of her dad flooded her mind. She remembered how they would sit together in the Neverglades after a long day of hiking, her dad patiently working out the tangles in her hair while she did the same for her siblings. It was a simple routine, but it brought them closer, creating a sense of unity and comfort. Now, as she carefully combed through Cash's hair, she felt that same sense of connection and peace.

"This reminds me of Dad," Iris said softly, more to herself than to anyone else. Cash looked up at her, his eyes reflecting a mixture of surprise and understanding. 

"Yeah," he replied quietly as he reached up and took hold of her paw. "Me too. He always knew how to make things better, didn’t he?"

Iris nodded, a small sad smile playing on her lips. "He did."

She wished he was here. She wished he was awake and not in that hospital bed. The ache of his absence was a constant presence, it felt like a shadow that loomed over every moment he was not there. She wanted nothing more than to hear his comforting voice, to have the warmth of his embrace, and the wisdom of his guidance.

She wished they had gone to the Neverglades a week later like they had talked about. Maybe then, things would have been different. Maybe then, he wouldn't have been drained. Maybe then, he wouldn’t be dea- No he’s not dead. He is going to wake up. He just needs time. The only good the what-ifs did was to haunted her and gwan at the edges of her mind. She wished she could have done more to help her dad, to prevent the accident, to change the outcome. But she can’t focus on that not now. All she could do now was carry on, and do her best to take care of her siblings the way he would have wanted. 

"He always knew how to make things better," she echoed, squeezing Cash's paw gently. "And we’ll do the same. We’ll keep making things better, one step at a time."

Cash nodded, his grip tightening slightly as if to reassure her. "We can do this," he said with more conviction than she had felt in the last month, "Together."

Iris felt a surge of pride and love for her first little brother. Despite everything, they still had each other. And as long as they stuck together, she knew they could face whatever came their way just as their dad had taught them.

As she continued to work, she noticed the room's atmosphere becoming more relaxed. The tension that had been so thick when entering the bunker was slowly disappearing, replaced by a comforting sense of routine and familiarity. Ronen and Wynona were chatting animatedly about the clothes they’d found, and even Jo was beginning to open up, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Finishing Cash's hair, Iris stepped back to admire her work. "There, much better," she said with a satisfied nod, brushing a stray lock back into place, “You know if you grow it out a little more, I could braid it,” 

Cash let out a small laugh as he ran his paw through his newly brushed hair. "Nah, you know, I like how I keep it," he said with a casual shrug.

“What, scared of losing your ‘good looks’?” Iris jokes, a playful glint in her eyes.

Cash rolled his eyes, a grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, something like that," he replied, his tone light and teasing. 

She smiled before giving him a sigh and whispered, "I’m going to need some help with Wynona." 

Cash gave a slight nod, understanding the challenge ahead. None of them could figure out why, but Wynona had always hated having her hair touched. This was one of the main reasons why she keeps her hair so short. It was one of those quirks that had persisted despite everything they had faced. Dad had been the only one who could manage it, and even then, it was only when absolutely necessary. She had gotten better about it in the past couple years, but after spending time in the bottles she seemed to be regressing backwards.

Cash stood up and stretched, rolling his shoulders and giving Iris a look that said he was ready. "Alright, let’s do this," he murmured.

As they moved toward Wynona, who was reading the labels on the toiletries with a mix of curiosity and wariness, Iris felt a pang of nostalgia. Dad had always made this seem so easy. He had a way of turning even the most mundane tasks into moments of comfort and connection. She hoped she could channel some of that calm and reassurance now.

"Hey, Wynona," she called softly, trying to sound casual. "How about we get your hair sorted out next?"

Wynona’s eyes flicked up to her, suspicion clear in her gaze. "I don't need it," she mumbled, already inching away with her tail wrapped around her legs. 

Iris could feel her eye twitch, Don't need it, my ass. 

Wynona was the only one who never let her touch her hair, even in the most chaotic moments in the bottles. Every time she tried, she would twist and turn, avoiding her hands like they were the plague. She didn't blame her, really. Everyone had their quirks, and after everything they'd been through, she understood the need for some semblance of control. But her hair was bad and she didn’t want it to get worse.

As she and Cash settled next to her, Wynona crossed her arms, a scowl already forming on her face as her tail started to tap against the floor. "This better be quick," she grumbled, eyes darting to the door like she was planning an escape route.

"It will be," Cash reassured her, picking up the comb. "Just relax, alright? We'll be done before you know it."

Iris knelt down, holding Wynona’s hand. "Remember how Dad used to do this?" she asked softly. "He always said it was easier if you didn’t fight it."

Wynona’s eyes softened slightly at the mention of their father, but her shoulders remained tense. Iris and Cash worked together, gently untangling the knots and smoothing out her curls. Despite her initial resistance, Wynona gradually relaxed, the familiar rhythm and the presence of her siblings bringing a sense of calm.

"See?" Iris said after a while, her tone light and teasing. "Not so bad, right?"

Wynona huffed but didn’t pull away. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

As they finished, Iris stood back, surveying their work with a critical eye. Wynona’s hair was now smooth and neat, a far cry from the tangled mess it had been. "There, much better," she said with a satisfied nod.

Cash patted Wynona on the back. "See? That wasn’t so bad. Now you’re all set."

Wynona glanced at her reflection in a nearby mirror, a reluctant smile appearing. "I guess it’s okay," she conceded.

Iris ruffled her hair lightly, earning a swat from her. "Thanks for being a good sport," she said, her tone sincere.

Wynona rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. "Fine. But next time, we do it Dad's way. Quick and painless."

Iris laughed, the sound light and genuine. "Deal. Now let me get my hair taken care of, and we can get something to eat.” She lowered her goggles from her forehead, causing it to fall into her eyes, and, slowly, started to unbraid the hair on the side of her head. Once she was done she took a look at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a tangled mess, sticking out in multiple directions. Only her goggles kept it from falling into her face. She suddenly felt a familiar weight on her shoulders. She didn't want to deal with it. She couldn’t deal with it right now. The more she stared at the tangled mess, the more overwhelming it felt.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cash reaching out towards her hair. She waved him off. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it tonight."

"Are you sure?" he asked with concern clear in his voice.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she answered with a sigh, tying her hair up in a very messy bun. "Let me get changed, and we can head out." Quickly, she found a shirt and a pair of pants that looked like they would fit her. Once she was changed, she gathered her mud-stained clothes, but to her surprise, Cash had already collected them. 

She wanted her jacket back; she didn't care how dirty it was—Dad gave it to her, and it also had the only weapon she still had since they had been taken two months ago. "Always keep your knife on you. It could save your life one day," Dad always said, and many times it did save them. She wasn't the only one who wanted her favorite jacket because Wynona also had her hoodie on. It made her smile.

“Okay now," Iris said, her voice growing serious, "before we go out there, remember to say please, say thank you... Look, plain and simple, we don't overstay our welcome or appear ungrateful." She looked each of her siblings in the eye, ensuring they understood the importance of her words. "Branch has taken us in when he didn’t have to, so let's not bother him more than we need to." She needed them to understand—they can't have Branch start to regret letting them stay. After last night, she could only assume that they were on thin ice. She should have kept her cool better; she shouldn’t have let Branch think they were hard to manage.

"If you need anything, tell me, and I will talk to him about it," she continued. If he’s going to get upset with anyone, it might as well be someone who can handle it.

Wynona nodded solemnly, her earlier defiance replaced with a sense of responsibility. "We’ll be good, Iris. Promise."

Ronen, still holding his new clothes, gave Iris a reassuring smile. "We know how important this is. We'll be on our best behavior.”

Iris felt a swell of pride in her siblings. Despite everything they'd been through, they understood the gravity of their situation and were willing to do their part. "Good," she said, her voice softening. "Let's go out there and show them how grateful we are. We're a family, and we stick together."

With that, they made their way out of the room.

— — — — —

Poppy POV

Poppy honestly didn’t know what to think of Branch’s brothers. 

Clay was tapping on the table, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm, eyes unfocused and staring into the distance. His posture was tense, shoulders hunched slightly as if bracing himself for something. Bruce, on the other hand, sat leaning forward, elbows resting on the table, his arms crossed in front of him. His gaze was fixed on a point on the floor, brows furrowed in deep thought, lost in his own world of concerns. Floyd’s expression was the most pitiful of all—he watched Branch with a sad and guilty look, eyes filled with a mix of remorse and longing. His shoulders slumped, and every now and then, he would glance away, unable to hold Branch’s gaze for too long, as if the weight of their shared past was too heavy to bear.

John Dory. Bruce. Clay. Floyd. Those were the names of Branch’s brothers— brothers he hadn’t seen in twenty years. They weren’t what she had been expecting. Poppy had anticipated them to act more like Satin and Chenille, seamlessly synchronized with an effortless sibling bond, but they were far from that. The awkwardness between them was clearly visible, a stark contrast to the easy going, easy conversation she had imagined.

From the looks of it, they didn’t know how to be around each other or talk to each other. Every interaction seemed forced, every word carefully measured, lacking the natural flow that, to Poppy, would usually define a sibling relationship. Poppy felt a pang of empathy for Branch. Reconnecting with family after such a long time should have been joyful, but instead, it seemed full of tension and uncertainty. And whatever had happened last night only seemed to make things worse.

Poppy couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity from them, though. The way they carried themselves, the subtle inflections in their voices—it all tugged at the edges of her memory. They remind her of Brozone. But that couldn’t be possible…right?

If they really were Brozone, then it explained a lot about the tension and the awkwardness. They had lived through fame and then disappeared into mystery. From the way they acted they each likely carried their own thought and perspective from those years. It also meant that reconnecting wasn't just about bridging a twenty-year gap; it was about reconciling their past identities with who they had become. 

John Dory. Spruce. A third member with a C name. A fourth member, whose name no one knew. And the youngest and newest member, Bitty B, who only had one show before the band disbanded. That was all anyone knew about the names of Brozone... right? There wasn’t one named Bruce... unless the entire Brozone fanbase was wrong . But Clay didn’t seem to fit the relaxed, fun-loving troll the third member was shown to be. But it had been twenty years. That would also make Branch, Bitty B ...They have the same blue coloring...Branch would also have been three...that feels very young to be a part of a boyband- Why would a three year old be a part of a boyband? Who would let a three year old be part of a boy band?

Could it be that Branch and his brothers were the former members of Brozone? It seemed unlikely, but the names and the familiarity of their voices tugged at her memory. If it was true, then a lot had changed in those twenty years. This would be so much easier if they ever used their actual names in any magazine and not just at the first shows of the tour. Instead, in any interview they did or meet-and-greet, they were always referred to by their stage names. Everyone had theories about what the Brozone members' real names were.

John Dory was the only name everyone agreed on. The band started with him as a solo act and evolved into a boy band as the other members grew older and joined. Spruce was the one people were pretty sure of; there was still some discourse about what it could also be, but everyone had more or less come to an agreement about it being Spruce. It was easier with just the two of them.

A year later, a new brother was added, and so were the stage names. Gone were the semi-familiar names trolls knew, only to be replaced with “Leader,” “Heartthrob,” and “FunBoy.” Some trolls said that “FunBoy”’s name was only ever used once, at his very first show before he was an official part of the band. There were a lot of different names thrown around about what it could be; the only thing anyone agreed on was that it started with a C.

The fourth brother only added to the discourse. No one knew what his name could be. There was no hint or clue, just a stage name, “Sensitive One.” Everyone speculated about what it and the third brother’s name could be, even trolls who would have been the same age as them. No one could find it; it was like once they stepped off the stage, they were different trolls entirely. The trail only went colder when they had officially disbanded.

And now here they, maybe, were. Sitting around a dinner table unable to even talk to each other and it felt weird. Poppy prides herself on knowing about her friends and their families. Apparently it didn't extend to Branch’s family. She didn’t know anything about them. Even if they were the members of Brozone. All she had were snippets from magazines and tales shared at fan gatherings by those who were actually there, but those didn't paint a complete picture. She had no insight into their home life, their experiences in school, whether they liked their school, or even what their favorite colors were. Their personal stories were a mystery to her. She had never heard about them from Branch or anyone in the village.

It puzzled her. They must have had friends when they left, right? Someone would have missed them. Someone did miss them. Missed them a lot. Yet, any discussion about a missing troll would have been overshadowed by the sensational news of Brozone disbanding and the following radio silence from its members. The village had shifted focus to the band's breakup, leaving the individual lives and stories of Branch’s brothers shrouded in obscurity.

This was a lot to take in. But she couldn’t worry about that right now, she didn’t have time. Right now she needed to focus on helping Branch and the kids. Poppy could approach Branch when the time was right, gently probing for more information about his brothers and their past. If they, and he, really were the former members of Brozone. But right now, the kids took priority.

Speaking of the kids, they were so quiet and reserved, a clear difference from the lively and outgoing nature of most Pop Trolls. Poppy couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for them. They had been through so much already, and she wanted to make sure they felt safe and welcomed.

The first thing Poppy noticed when she popped her head out of the door was Branch, standing in a defensive stance, ready for someone to do something to him. The second was Iris, mirroring Branch's stance but with one notable difference—she was reaching for something behind her back. A weapon maybe? Branch had a few and it would only make sense for them to have some kind of protection, especially if they spent a lot of time in the woods. Poppy’s heart ached at the sight. Iris seemed so used to danger that even in a safe place, she was on high alert. She looked rough.

Iris was a Pop Troll, Poppy was sure about that, she had the look of one. She reminded Poppy of Branch in some ways—Poppy could see it in the way they held themselves and that cold, calculating stare. She was not as gray as he once was but had a more faded or muted blue coloring and dark teal hair. She wore her hair differently from most Pop Trolls Poppy had met, and even among the other genres, it would have been considered unique. It lay down with the majority flipped to the right side. On the left, Poppy could make out what were once braids running down the side of her head, now disheveled and tangled. In some ways, it resembled something a Rock Troll might wear, but there was also an unfamiliar element to it, something so distinctively her own.

Looking at Iris, Poppy saw a picture of dishevelment mixed with a large amount of love and care. Her jacket, though crumpled and torn in several places along her shoulders and upper arms, was clearly well-loved. Embroidery lined the sleeves, forming a music staff adorned with half notes, whole notes, and eighth notes—a ballad woven into the fabric of her mud-stained jacket. Something that would have taken months to complete. Despite the state of her clothes, the goggles perched on her head were the one piece that seemed meticulously cared for, standing out in sharp contrast to the rest of her worn appearance.

It was this juxtaposition that struck Poppy the most. Iris's appearance told a story of hardship and resilience, of a troll who had been through a lot but still held onto pieces of her past that mattered to her. The well-loved jacket with its complex embroidery suggested a deeply creative troll, while the pristine goggles hinted at a sense of preparedness and practicality. Iris was a complex blend of strength and vulnerability, much like Branch had been when Poppy first met him.

Behind Iris stood Cash, at least Poppy assumed it was him. He was taller than Iris, with muted dark blue hair and lime-colored fur. What stood out most were the hooves and small rusty red horns peeking from his dark blue hair— features Poppy had only seen before on Hickory and his brother Dickory .

Although, Cash’s country-inspired outfit reminded Poppy more of Delta Dawn’s style of clothing. His body language and expression also mirrored Delta Dawn’s, particularly the look Delta had worn when Branch and Poppy had first arrived in town and interrupted her singing with their own. Cash's attire had the same rugged charm that was typical of Country Trolls. He wore a once-white, now mud-stained, button-down shirt that showed signs of wear and tare. Over this, he wore a tan brown vest with rusty red accents that matched his horns and added a touch of rustic flair.

His dark blue pants, stopping just below his knees. They were practical and sturdy, suitable for the rough terrain they had likely hiked. His legs were wrapped in dark fabric, extending down to his hooves, which seemed to be designed for extra protection. This detail gave him a sturdy and grounded appearance, emphasizing his readiness for any physical challenge. His overall look was a blend of practicality and style, reflecting a life lived in the outdoors and the knowledge needed to survive it.

Behind Cash's leg, Poppy could see three pairs of eyes. The first set were bright green, cat-like eyes belonging to a troll with dark midnight blue scales, navy accents, and white freckles scattered across their cheeks. Their hair, a gray-tinted dark midnight blue, was pulled back into a messy bun streaked with neon green, purple, blue, and pink, one streak for each color.

Though most of their body was obscured, Poppy could see reptile-like feet with claws and a long, lizard-like tail curling slightly behind them and the two trollings next to them. They wore a black hoodie decorated with neon accents that matched the vivid colors in their hair, giving them a vibrant and somewhat edgy appearance. Sweatpants added to their casual look, and a white plaid shirt wrapped around their waist completed the outfit, adding a touch of practicality and style to their overall look. This troll's unique blend of Pop and Techno elements made them stand out from the rest.

The second pair of eyes were a deep violet, belonging to a trolling that appeared to be half-Rock Troll. Their striking hair was a blend of grayish-pink and orangish hues, cut into a short, messy punkish bob that framed their face. Their gray-blue fur added to the unique mix of colors, creating an appearance that was both striking and rare.

They wore loose black pants, practical and suitable for hiking, indicating a readiness for travel and an adventure. The oversized hoodie they had on was a mismatched patchwork of styles, with the main body in black, while the sleeves, front pocket, and hood were made from red plaid fabric. The hoodie, despite its mismatched design, seemed to be a source of comfort, its large size enveloping them almost protectively. 

The last set of eyes were a sad storm gray, reminiscent of Branch’s when Poppy first met him. This small trolling, there was no doubt she was the youngest of the five, was Jolene. Her tired, worn-out expression caught Poppy off guard, a sharp contrast to the typical energy and outgoing nature of young trolls. What surprised Poppy even more were Jolene's hooves. Hooves like Cash had. Hooves like Hickory and his brother Dickory had .

Jolene wore dark green overalls with a pale pink shirt underneath, the colors muted and worn. The overalls were frayed at the edges, and the shirt bore faint stains, evidence of their journey and the trouble they had endured. Despite her young age, Jolene's eyes carried a weight of experience and exhaustion far beyond what should have been normal for a child her age. 

The sight of all of them tugged at Poppy's heart. It had filled her with a renewed determination to ensure these kids found the safety and comfort they desperately needed.

Suddenly, there was the quiet sound of a door unlocking. Poppy turned to see all of the kids slowly coming down the hallway. She glanced at Branch and his brothers, taking a moment to observe them, noting the tension still lingering in their bodies. Branch’s earlier reprimand still hung in the air. No one said anything; they just exchanged wary glances. It was clear they were still on edge.

Letting out a small sigh, Poppy quickly filled a plate with pasta before turning and clearing her throat. "Hey there," she said softly as Iris led her siblings into the kitchen. "We weren’t expecting you out so soon." They weren’t. She had assumed they would at least have another hour before they came back. Hopefully giving the brothers time to think, but that was not the case. She could see Branch coming up behind her and start filling more plates while his brothers all snapped out of their own thoughts.

They looked much better than when she first saw them. Their hair was detangled, their clothes were changed, and the dried mud had been washed off. Although they still appeared a little shaken, tired, and too thin for Poppy’s liking, they were definitely improved. 

Iris gave a small smile. "Yeah, we didn’t want to keep you waiting so we decided to wait to do a full shower and everything until later," she answered, her siblings nodding behind her. "After all, you put so much effort into cooking and I’m sure everyone is hungry." She said her eyes wandered around the kitchen before landing on the three brothers at the table.

Poppy noticed the change in the room's atmosphere as Branch's brothers began to focus on the task at hand, rather than their brooding. Clay stopped tapping on the table and turned his attention to the kids, looking more present and engaged. Bruce, who had been deep in thought, unfolded his arms and straightened up, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Floyd, whose expression had been sad and guilty, now watched the interaction with a softer look in his eyes. Overall it felt more inviting than before.

Poppy's heart lifted at the sight of Iris and her siblings stepping into this safe space. "Oh!" she exclaimed, suddenly remembering the card. She reached into her hair and pulled out a small, handmade card. "I almost forgot. I made this for you all." 

As Iris got closer, she also noticed that Iris had a nick in her right ear. Where had that come from? Branch did say anything about them being injured. Before Iris could notice any change in her behavior she widened her smile as Iris gently took the card. "Oh, thank you. You didn't have to do that," Iris said, her siblings leaning in closer to look at the card. Cash peered over her shoulder, Ronen pulled at Iris's arm with his mouth agape, Wynona stood on her toes trying to get a better look, and Jolene watched Poppy with wide eyes.

Poppy bounced on the tips of her paws as Iris began to open the card. "Oh, I wanted to," she said, trying to sound casual while shooting Jolene a reassuring smile. Jolene, however, took a small step back.

As Iris opened the card, she was met with a pop-up scene of a scrapbook featuring Poppy and Branch holding out a small tray of cupcakes with a welcome sign above them. Poppy heard a small gasp from Iris as she brought the card closer to inspect it.

And queue the glitter.

Iris dropped the card in surprise as glitter sprayed from the scrapbook cupcakes. "Oh, it’s in my eyes!" she exclaimed, rubbing her eyes with her paws.

“It’s in my mouth!” Ronen complained, frantically trying to spit out the glitter.

Cash took a step back and started to sneeze repeatedly, while Wynona seemed unfazed. She picked up the discarded card from the floor, looking at it in wonder. And Jolene stared at the glitter on the floor with wide, confused eyes, seemingly mesmerized by the sparkling mess.

There’s more glitter than normal. Poppy bit her lip, a mix of amusement and concern on her face. Oo maybe that was too much glitter too fast, "Oo sorry," she said aloud, stepping forward to help. "I didn't mean for it to be so... explosive." Did they not like glitter?

Branch, who had been watching from the side, chuckled and stepped in to help. "Poppy has a thing for glitter," he explained, handing Iris a napkin. "Here, let’s get you cleaned up."

Iris gave a small laugh despite the glitter in her eyes. "It’s okay," she said, giving them a tight smile and accepting the napkin. "It’s actually really sweet. Thank you for the card."

Branch handed her another napkin, and she carefully dabbed at her eyes. Ronen was still spitting out glitter with Cash sneezing in the background, but Wynona and Jolene seemed more curious than bothered. Wynona held the card, admiring the intricate pop-up design, while Jolene continued to watch the glitter on the floor, seemingly entranced by the tiny, sparkling particles.

"Let's get you all seated," Poppy continued, motioning toward the table. "We have plenty of food, so help yourselves. If you need anything, just let us know."

Branch moved to pull out chairs for Iris and her siblings, his usual stoic expression softening slightly as he interacted with them. "Come on, sit down," he echoed with his own encouraging smile. "We've got a lot to eat, and it's still warm."

Iris guided her siblings to the table, taking the lead as they settled into their seats. Cash, still wiping his face, muttered a quiet "thanks" before sitting down. He gave Poppy a quick nod of appreciation, his eyes still a bit watery from the glitter, but the corners of his mouth turned up in a small, grateful smile. 

Ronen finally stopped spitting glitter and plopped down next to Wynona on her left. He shook his head, trying to get the last bits of glitter off his tongue. Wynona, meanwhile, was still clutching the card with a look of awe, her eyes wide as she traced the pop-up design with her fingers. 

Jolene hesitated, glancing at Poppy with a mix of curiosity and caution. She took a deep breath and slowly made her way to the table, her small frame slipping into the seat next to Iris. She looked up at her older sister for reassurance, and Iris gave her a warm smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder. 

Branch's brothers, who had been watching the scene unfold, shared a look of surprise and a smile with each other. Clay’s eyebrows shot up, and he exchanged a glance with Bruce, who nodded slightly, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Floyd just had a small, hopeful grin to spread across his face. 

The sight of the children settling in, the tentative smiles, and the easing tension filled the room. Branch, who had been busy serving the food, paused for a moment to take in the scene. He caught Poppy’s eye and gave her a grateful nod, a silent acknowledgment of the effort she had put into making this moment. 

As they settled in, Poppy watched with a mix of hope and determination. This meal was more than just food; it was an opportunity to build trust and connection, to start weaving these disparate lives into a tapestry of shared experiences and mutual support. She was determined to make it work—for Branch, for his brothers, and for Iris and her siblings. They all deserved a chance at a better, more secure family.

Okay, conversation starters. They always help ease tension. She was great at conversation starters; just look at the first Tribe Leader meeting. But what was a good conversation starter for this group? Four brothers who had not talked or seen each other in twenty years. Their five niblings, who they didn’t know existed, had just escaped being kidnapped, held captive, and had to watch their dad slowly die.

Before she could ponder further, Wynona’s voice broke through her thoughts. “How did you make this?” Poppy looked to her right to see Wynona holding up the card.

Poppy's face lit up, "Oh! I made it by using some special paper and glitter—maybe a bit too much glitter," she added with a chuckle, looking at the mishap on the floor.

Wynona's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "It's really cool. I’ve never seen anything like it."

“It’s a little project she likes to do,” Branch chimed in, setting another plate on the table. “Poppy’s always full of creative ideas. I’m sure Poppy would love to show you how to make them.”

“I would love to show you how to make a pop-up card!” Poppy exclaimed, nodding enthusiastically. “I actually help teach a crafting class at the base of the main tree. I would love to have you join.” She could feel her excitement bubbling over; this was a perfect way to bond and help the kids meet other trolls in the village . “Do you like to do crafts or making things?”

Wynona nodded shyly. “I like to draw.”

“She really likes to draw. And she is really good at it,” Ronen added, causing Wynona to blush.

“There are also specific classes for drawing at the main tree if you want to join those,” Poppy said, her eyes brightening at the thought. “There are all kinds of activities, like crafting, drawing, photography—” Behind Ronen, Poppy noticed Iris perked up at the mention of photography, going to remember that for later . “—sewing, gardening—” She saw Cash gently bump Jolene at the mention of gardening, only to have her shake her head at him. That was something to discuss with Branch later, and it seemed he had noticed it too. “—baking, instrument classes, and the newest one, music appreciation.”

“ Music appreciation? ” Floyd asked, confused, but clearly interested.

“What’s that?” Ronene asked, his own excitement starting to show.

“Yeah!” Poppy said with a smile, “It's where we bring in some of the other genres and have them teach about different kinds of music.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Clay giving Bruce a confused look before mouthing ‘ other genres? ’. Bruce only shrugged in response. Did they not know about the other genres?

“Really?” Wynona asked, bringing Poppy back to their conversation, her eyes widened with interest. 

Poppy nodded eagerly. “Absolutely! You can join the drawing classes and meet other trollings who love to draw,” she said, then turned to the rest of the kids. “I can bring some interest-pamphlets tomorrow. That way, you can look at them and see which activities you might like to try.”

“That sounds very interesting, Ms. Poppy,” Iris said with a polite smile. “I’m sure we would all love to look at them.”

Ms. Poppy? Only small trolls have ever called her that. “Just Poppy is fine,” she said, waving her paw with a warm smile. Iris gave her a look but before she could say anything Poppy turned to Branch’s brothers, “The offer is for you as well.” 

She paused for a moment. This was the first time she was actually addressing them. After Branch’s talk with them, she hadn’t felt the need or desire to say anything to them. Poppy's first introduction to them hadn't been the best. She could let their absence in Branch’s life slide because she didn't know what had happened, but their rudeness to their niblings, who had just gone through something unimaginable, made her feel icky.

However, her feelings seemed to go unnoticed by them. Bruce watched her with a smile, giving Branch a knowing, smug look that Branch did not return or acknowledge. Floyd appeared pleased with the conversation happening between her and the kids. Clay observed her with a kind of familiarity in his eyes, as if he knew something she didn’t. Despite her reservations, they hadn’t done or said anything further to warrant her discomfort.

“Seriously, there are a lot of activities,” she continued, trying to sound more enthusiastic. “It could be a great way for all of you to connect with others and maybe find something you enjoy.”

Bruce’s smile widened. “Thanks, Poppy. We’ll definitely consider it.”

Floyd nodded in agreement. “It’s nice to have options. The kids seem interested, and it could be good for all of us.”

Clay leaned back, his gaze still thoughtful. “We appreciate the offer.”

Poppy nodded, feeling a bit of the tension ease. This was a start, at least. “Great! I’ll bring the pamphlets tomorrow, and we can go from there.”

— — — — —

After a while, the conversation lagged as everyone started to focus on their food. The room grew quieter, filled only with the sounds of eating and the occasional clink of cutlery against plates. Once everyone was done, the kids tried to help clean up, but Poppy and the others gently shooed them away, insisting they go take a shower and relax. 

Poppy was about to help with the dishes when Bruce stepped in, waving her off. “ You cooked; the least we can do is clean,” he said with a reassuring smile.

Grateful for the gesture, Poppy took a moment to pull Branch into the hallway near the lift. She had to check on him. Too much was happening for her no to. Once she was sure they were out of earshot, she turned to him, concern etched on her face. “Are you okay?” she asked softly, her eyes searching for any signs of distress.

Branch took a deep breath, his entire body seemingly relaxing once he was out of ear and eye shot of his brothers. His eyes meeting hers with a mixture of fatigue and relief. “I’m fine, Poppy,” he said, his voice steady but tired. “It’s just... a lot to process, you know? Seeing my brothers again after all this time, dealing with everything that’s happened…and no one wanting to address it.”

Poppy nodded, reaching out to squeeze his paw. “I know,” she paused, then asked gently, “Do you feel comfortable talking about it?”

Branch hesitated. “Muses, I don’t even know where to start,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He thought for a moment, and Poppy let him. "I guess the only place to start is the beginning," he said, running the pad of his thumb across his palm. "My brothers left twenty years ago."

"They left?" Poppy asked, suddenly feeling very unsure. "Willingly?"

Branch swallowed. "Yes, willingly," he said, still not meeting her eyes. "They had had blowups before, but this one was different." Branch paused as if trying to decide if he actually wanted to tell her. "... You know that boy band, Brozone?" he asked after a while.

Poppy's eyes widened. "Yes..."

"Well, my brothers and I were-"

"You were the members of Brozone," Poppy interrupted, maybe a little too excited. She couldn't help it. It had been on her mind for the past few hours, and it was Brozone. She loved Brozone!

Branch looked at her in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I figured it out," she answered, calming herself down from her initial excitement. "Not many trolls are named John Dory, or have enough siblings to make up a boyband known for being composed of only brothers...."

"...Oh..." Branch thought for a moment. "Well then, I guess, you know about the final concert?"

Poppy thought for a moment. "Yeah, it was a few months before I hatched," she said. "They, you, were trying to perform the Perfect Family Harmony." Poppy paused. It was Branch's first and last performance . "...and you failed."

"And we failed," Branch echoed, and Poppy could see him start to curl into himself as he scratched his claws on the side of his arm. "You know, they left that night." He stared at the ground, his voice growing harsher. "They left without saying goodbye or even saying if they were ever going to come back." A bitter laugh escaped him, a sound Poppy hadn't heard in a while. "One of them promised he would come back, but he never did. I don't know why. I don't know what I did wrong-" His voice cracked before he stopped.

Poppy's heart ached at his words. What you did wrong?

With a growl, Branch rubbed his eyes with his fist. "And the one who said they were leaving forever is apparently the only one who ever came back. Only for him to return with a trolling, thinking everyone had died!" His voice was rising, and tears welled up in his eyes. "Now, I am back with my brothers, who wouldn't come back for me or even write to me, because of something I did—I don't even know what I did wrong! But they were willing to come see the brother who they all couldn’t stand. What does that mean for me?” he questioned, tears starting to slide down his cheeks. “They didn’t even care enough about me to contact me, but for the brother they clearly have issues with, they show up at the drop of a dime? And I'm pretty sure they only went to see how bad he had messed up, but they were still willing to come as soon as a letter was sent."

He was fully crying now, his breath coming too fast. "Even if they were still angry with me, I would have loved to have them back! Why didn't any of them come back? What was so wrong with me that-"

Before Branch could say anything else, Poppy grabbed him and pulled him into her arms. The moment Branch was in her embrace, he let out a sob. In response, Poppy tightened her hold and started to purr, trying to calm him down. She could feel his body shaking with the weight of his emotions, and she wished she could take away his pain. But for now, all she could do was hold him close and let him know that he wasn't alone.

They stood there for a long time, holding each other in silence. Finally, Poppy spoke, her voice gentle yet firm as she felt her own tears fill her eyes. "Branch?" she asked, "It wasn’t your fault."

He didn’t respond, his face still buried in her shoulder.

“I’m serious, Branch,” Poppy continued, keeping her voice steady. “You were three years old. It wasn’t your fault.” This wasn’t fair! He didn’t do anything. 

“That’s not what it feels like,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“You are the smartest troll I know,” she said, looking him in the eye, “but your brain is lying to you right now. Just like it lies to you about what happened to your grandma.” He shouldn’t have felt that way then and he shouldn’t have to feel that way now!

“I am so tired,” he said, leaning his head against her shoulder.

“I know,” she responded, letting her purr grow louder to soothe him. “How about we get you to bed? You’ll feel better once you’ve had a good night's rest in your own bed.”

“But there is still so much I have to do,” he said, his voice tinged with exhaustion.

“Tell me,” she said, “Tell me what all you have to do.”

“I need to get the bunker ready,” he said. “It’s not safe for kids.”

Poppy hummed in acknowledgment and let him keep talking.

“Then I need to make a trip to the market,” he continued, “and I need to make sure the kids have everything they need at the moment.”

Poppy hummed again. “Well, those first two are already done, and that third can be handled tomorrow.”

Branch pulled back and looked at her in surprise. “Done? What do you mean?”

“I did them earlier today,” she explained, wiping his tear stained cheeks . “I thought you’d be tired when you got back, so I went ahead and took care of some basics. There are pre-made meals in the fridge, the rooms are cleaned, I hid any weapons I could find, and if you need anything from the market, it can wait until tomorrow.”

He let out a shaky sigh of relief, “Tomorrow I need to go get JD and bring him here.”

“I can go with you.” Poppy said quickly, she did not want him to go back there alone.

“No,” he said reluctantly, “I need you to stay here, for the kids. They aren’t the biggest fans of their other uncles yet, but they seemed to like you.” he said sullenly, “I need you to make sure they are okay while I am gone.”

“Then I’ll go to the market for you tomorrow,” she offered, she needs to do something more to help him. “Maybe bring the kids so they can see and meet the village.”

“I also have to send a letter out to the bounty hunters.”

Poppy felt a shiver crawl through her fur. “Why?” she asked, confused.

“Iris mentioned something about how the people who took them seemed to know they would be there,” he answered. “It really freaked her out, so I said I could send a letter to some trolls I know and ask.”

“That would mean this whole thing was planned,” Poppy said, her eyes widening.

“Yeah. Either they just got very unlucky, and if that’s the case, we need to warn the village and the other tribes,” he hesitated. “Or someone was specifically after JD and his kids.”

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No, there’s nothing to prove it,” he answered. “If I’m going to bring this theory to them, I want more proof first.”

“Probably for the best,” Poppy agreed. “Okay, I can do that too.”

Branch sighed. “Poppy, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” she interrupted gently. “Besides, it’s just sending a letter. You need to focus on getting JD here and helping him.”

Branch looked at her, his expression a mix of gratitude and fatigue. “Thank you, Poppy.”

She smiled softly then pulled him into another hug. “Always, Branch. Now, let’s get you to bed. You need rest more than anything right now.”

Notes:

I had a lot of things I wanted to write so long boy. Also some Brozone lore/headcannons

I don't know when the next chapter will be out. School is starting up soon so I will update when I can

Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Branch POV

Branch POV

Branch felt the weight of his decision pressing on him. He knew he should have been gone by now and it was gnawing at him. Every logical part of his brain screamed that he needed to leave—JD was waiting, and the responsibility of transporting his brother safely was a task he couldn't afford to delay. But something stronger, deeper, tugged at him, keeping him rooted in Pop Village.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to see this through, to be there for his nieces and nephews as they started to settle into the village. After everything they had been through, it didn’t feel right to abandon them at such a critical moment. They had just escaped a nightmare, and now they were being thrown into a new environment, surrounded by strangers, unsure of what to expect. Branch understood that anxiety more than anyone, and the thought of leaving them unsettled gnawed at his conscience. JD wouldn’t want him to just leave his kids in a whole new place.

It wasn’t just about the kids either—his brothers had decided to explore the village, and from what Branch had overheard, they planned to bring the kids along. Pop Village had changed since the last time any of his brothers had been there. The once-familiar rhythms of the village had shifted. JD’s kids had never seen this place before, and Branch worried about how they would react. The village could be overwhelming for anyone, let alone for kids who had just escaped captivity and were struggling with what was happening with their father.

Poppy would be with them, of course, always her sunny, supportive self, but eight trolls—five kids, and three of his brothers—were a lot for anyone to handle. Poppy was capable, no doubt about that, but Branch couldn’t just leave her to manage everything on her own. Not when there was still so much uncertainty in the air, not when his presence could help ease some of that burden.

He had promised JD’s kids that he would leave by or after lunch, trying to strike a balance between his want to make sure they are okay and their need and want of for their dad. He had seen the panic in their eyes that morning when they realized he hadn’t left yet. It wasn’t that they didn’t want him around, but a fear of being separated from their dad for too long. They weren’t trying to push him away; they were just scared—scared that him staying for too long meant something could go wrong at the hospital.

When Branch explained why he was staying—not just for their sake, but to ensure the crittervan wouldn’t break down on the way back with JD—the kids had relaxed a little. He hoped they realized his delay wasn’t out of hesitation or lack of care, but because he wanted to make sure everything was safe here and with the crittervan. Branch needed to leave with the peace of mind that they would be secure, and protected and that nothing would go wrong here while he was away.

And so here he was, standing in the middle of the village market with his brothers on one side and the kids on the other. His brothers wandered around, wide-eyed at the different stalls, clearly amazed by how much had changed. Branch couldn’t help but wonder how different the Troll Tree must have been compared to the bustling, colorful village around them. 

The kids, however, were another story. While his brothers eagerly explored, the children stuck together, hovering close to Branch. Iris, the farthest from him, positioned herself as a protective barrier, quietly deterring any overly friendly trolls who tried to approach them. Despite being the only one who could reasonably blend in with the Pop trolls, she couldn’t have stood out more if she tried. While they danced and sang around the market without a care in the world, she moved with quiet caution, as though every step was calculated, every glance filled with careful awareness. It was her demeanor. The Pop trolls close to them seemed to radiate joy, always eager to greet, to laugh, to welcome. She, on the other hand, stayed back, observing rather than engaging. It was like looking in a mirror- a year ago he had acted the same way.

Ronen, on the other paw, looked like a coilbug ready to launch at any moment. His wide eyes darted eagerly across the market stalls, soaking in the vibrant colors, the buzzing energy, and the endless curiosities on display. Every fiber of his being seemed to itch with the need to explore, to dive headfirst into the excitement that surrounded him. Yet, despite his barely contained enthusiasm, he remained tethered to Iris’s paw, his grip firm and constant. Despite his vastly different appearance—with his aquatic scales and sleek, reptilian features— his attitude at this moment was unmistakably in sync with the general Pop Troll populace. There was a lightness in his step, an almost contagious sense of curiosity that fit right in with the joyful chaos swirling around them. For a moment, despite his unique look, Ronen’s boundless energy made him seem like he belonged there like he was just another pop troll caught up in the rhythm of the village. 

Wynona, ever curious, mirrored Ronen’s wide-eyed wonder at the market around them. Her eyes gleamed with fascination as she stared at the various stalls. She studied every detail intently—the crafts, the trinkets, the colorful foods—but her excitement was quieter, more measured than her brother's. If a vendor offered her something or a stranger approached too quickly, the brightness in her eyes would dim, and she’d instinctively retreat. She'd duck behind Iris or Cash using them as a safe shield between herself and the bustling world of Pop Village. It looked like she wanted to reach out, to explore and connect, but the unfamiliarity of it all was still too much for her to step out from behind her siblings’ protective presence.

Then there were Jolene and Cash, the pair who seemed to drift through the market with a calm detachment. Out of all the kids, Jolene appeared the least interested in the bustling atmosphere. From the moment they stepped into the marketplace, Branch had caught the softest groan of annoyance escaping her lips—a surprising sound, given how quiet she had been up until then. Her disinterest was evident in the way she glanced at the vibrant stalls and cheerful trolls with barely concealed boredom.

Cash, of course, had heard it too. Without a word or hesitation, he had scooped Jolene up and plopped her onto his broad shoulders, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Jolene initially resisted, wriggling in his grasp and grumbling softly under her breath, but after a few moments, she gave in with a resigned sigh. She settled onto his shoulders, resting her head atop his with an air of quiet acceptance. From her new perch, she gazed out over the market, still uninterested but at least more comfortable.

Cash, on the other paw, moved through the market with quiet purpose. He didn’t seem particularly captivated by the lively scene around him, nor did he express much of an opinion about the market or the trolls bustling by. Instead, he remained focused on his siblings, offering quiet support whenever they needed it. Whether it was a reassuring word, a steadying paw, or, in Jolene’s case, simply carrying her through the experience, Cash seemed content to play the support role. His calm presence seemed to anchor the group's anxieties and instead allowed them the space to explore—or retreat—at their own pace, while he remained a constant, stable force amid the chaos of the marketplace.

"This place is amazing," Floyd said in awe, his voice filled with wonder as he strolled up to Branch with Bruce and Clay by his side. His eyes danced around the bustling marketplace, soaking in the vibrant sights and sounds.

“Yeah, it’s so different from the Tree,” Bruce agreed, watching a group of trollings dash between the stalls, carefree and full of energy.

"It really is," Clay added, flipping through a book he'd picked up before snapping it shut. He turned to Branch, curiosity sparking in his gaze. "You grew up like this?" he asked, gesturing toward the bustling market with a wave of his paw.

Well, no —he hadn’t grown up in the bustling village life his brothers were now admiring. After Grandma died, he’d withdrawn into self-imposed isolation, his world shrinking until it was just him and the walls he’d built around himself. But Branch wasn’t ready to get into that right now. He still hadn’t even worked up the courage to tell them what had happened to Grandma. That conversation would have to wait. Forever if needed.  

Maybe once things settled—once the kids were stable, the custody evaluation was over and won, and JD was awake and well—he’d tell them. He’d open up about Grandma’s death, about the loneliness that had followed, about the way his world had lost its color, both literally and figuratively. Though, judging by how none of them had seemed to bat an eye at Jolene being gray—or the fact that all the kids were some sort of muted color like him— maybe that last part wouldn’t be as bad as he’d feared.

“Kind of,” Branch said, offering a half-truth. "It took time after the escape for everyone to feel safe. Some of us needed more time than others." By "some," he mostly meant himself, but they didn’t need to know that—at least, not yet.

Clay hummed in a way that suggested some vague understanding, though it felt somewhat off as if there was more beneath the surface. His expression didn’t entirely match the easy acceptance he was trying to project. It's like he's hiding something or purposely not telling them. Maybe he's not the only one keeping secrets. 

As they continued walking, Branch noticed Bruce’s attention kept drifting toward Jolene. The purple-haired brother had been discreetly monitoring all the kids, yet, his focus repeatedly returned to Jolene the most. His eyes were sharp, watching the way other trolls interacted with their youngest niece as if he were expecting something to happen. It wasn't just a casual watchfulness—there was a sense of quiet watch as if he was preparing himself for a moment that hadn’t yet come but could happen at any second. 

Branch, preoccupied with his thoughts and the conversation with his brothers, hadn’t noticed Iris creeping up beside him until she spoke.

“Are you sure it’s safe to be out here?” she asked, her voice soft but startling enough to make him jump.

Muses above, this was the fifth time one of them had managed to sneak up on him or his brothers. How did they move so quietly? And more importantly, why did they feel the need to do so? “You need a bell,” he commented dryly, running a paw over his puffed-up fur in an attempt to calm his nerves.

Iris, unamused, gave him a look of pure exasperation. She sighed and rolled her eyes, repeating her question more firmly. “Are you sure it’s safe to be out here?”

Branch eyed her warily, glancing around the bustling market. There was nothing out of the ordinary, no signs of danger. “Yes?” he answered, slightly confused. “Why wouldn’t it be safe?”

Iris returned his look with one of pure disbelief as if his question were ridiculous. “Well, for one, predators,” she said matter-of-factly. “Pretty sure they exist no matter where you go.”

Branch chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Oh, there are no predators this close to the village,” he assured her. It was a fair question, but they had never had any issue with predators before. It had bugged him too when they had first settled here.

But Iris wasn’t done. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice to a whisper, “What about... the Bergens?”

The Bergens? So she did know about them? Branch’s surprise must have shown on his face because Iris frowned slightly. “You know about the Bergens?” he asked, maybe too loudly. How much did she know? How could she possibly know about the Bergens? Had JD talked about them?

Before he could say anything else, Ronen’s head suddenly popped up beside them. “What’s a Bergen?” he asked innocently, his wide eyes gleaming with curiosity as he looked back and forth between Branch and Iris.

Branch’s stomach twisted. Ronen didn’t know. Does Wynona know? Jolene? How on earth was he going to explain what a Bergen was in a way that wouldn’t terrify the kids? The thought of Trollstice alone made his throat tighten. How had JD managed this conversation? Clearly, he had shared something for Iris to be aware of, but what exactly?

Before Branch could stammer out an answer, Poppy seemed to materialize out of thin air. “You don’t know what a Bergen is?” she asked brightly as she crouched to Ronen’s level, a wide smile on her face.

“No,” Ronen answered, watching with wide eyes as Poppy pulled out a large scrapbook from seemingly nowhere. Branch felt a rush of relief. Thank muses Poppy didn’t have her original Bergen scrapbook with her—the one with the more complicated images. This one was much safer.

As soon as the scrapbook appeared, Wynona crept closer, drawn in by the allure of the big, colorful book. Cash and Jolene weren’t far behind.

“Well,” Poppy began cheerfully as she opened the book to a page with an illustration of her and Bridget. The paper cutout showed Poppy standing in the hand of the enormous pastel purple Bergen. “This is a Bergen,” she explained.

Ronen and Wynona let out a small chorus of "oohs" and "aws" as they admired the intricate illustrations, and Branch felt a small sense of relief. 

“Are they friendly?” Wynona asked with wide-eyed wonder.

“Yes!” Poppy replied enthusiastically. “This is my BFF Bridget. She’s on her honeymoon right now, but when she gets back, I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

“Your friends?” Cash asked, stepping up beside Iris, who was now visibly anxious. Her tail had curled tightly around her leg, her unease growing. Clearly, she knows more about Bergens than she let on. But how much did Cash know? Was he aware too?

Out of the corner of his eye, Branch noticed his brothers watching the interaction with a similar sense of unease. It was clear they weren’t entirely comfortable with the idea of Bergens and Trolls being friends. Honestly, Branch couldn’t blame them. Most of the Trolls who had lived in the Troll Tree their entire lives weren’t the most forgiving when it came to Bergens. The memories of Trollstice, of living in fear of being eaten, were still too fresh for many of them. 

Poppy, however, nodded sincerely. “We are now,” she said honestly, her smile never faltering. “Within the last year, we’ve become friends.”

The younger kids stared in amazement at the pictures in the scrapbook, completely absorbed in the idea of a Troll being friends with a Bergen. Branch, on the other hand, couldn’t help but glance at his brothers again, wondering if this was the right time to have such a conversation. Maybe they should have waited until they were back at the bunker before explaining the Troll-Bergen friendship. But here they were.

"You know about Bergens?" Floyd whispered to Iris uneasily, his voice barely audible over the lively hum of the market. The younger kids were still huddled around Poppy, fascinated by the scrapbook. His eyes flicked nervously between Iris and the book, as if afraid it might suddenly come to life.

"I know enough," Iris replied flatly, her gaze never leaving the scrapbook, though her lips curled in distaste. She shifted slightly, her body tense with her tail tightly curled around her leg.

"Which is?" Clay pressed, his curiosity piqued but cautious.

Iris turned to face them, her voice low but filled with a cold certainty. "I know they scared Dad. Enough that even after being away from them for twenty years, he still had nightmares." She glanced pointedly at Clay, her eyes hard. "Real nightmares."

Nightmares? The word hit Branch like a punch to the gut. JD, their invincible older brother—the one who had always seemed fearless—wasn’t supposed to have nightmares. As a teenager, it had seemed like nothing could scare JD. He’d been the unshakable one. But that wasn’t true, was it? JD wasn’t the invincible troll Branch had always remembered. If he were, he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed. 

Branch wasn’t the only one shaken by this revelation. The shock and disbelief were clear on his brothers’ faces, their expressions mirroring the turmoil that twisted inside him.

"And if something out there can give my dad nightmares," Iris continued quietly, her voice trembling with suppressed fear, "then I don’t want anything to do with it. None of us do."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and final. She wasn’t just stating facts; she was scared. Whatever JD had said—or hadn't said—about the Bergens had clearly left a scar on her. Even if her understanding of them was skewed by her own imagination or assumptions, it didn’t change the fact that she was deeply afraid of them. 

"So he never mentioned them?" Branch asked cautiously, trying to piece it all together.

Iris shook her head. "He didn’t have to," she replied with a shrug. "It’s not like we were ever going to cross paths with any of them. It's not like we were ever going to come back here. They were just another reason to add to the list of reasons to stay away."

Iris's words cut deep, not just into Branch but into all of them. Clay visibly flinched, as if struck by a sudden, unexpected blow. Floyd and Bruce exchanged glances, their faces a mix of hurt and shock. The thought that their brother had a list of reasons for deliberately avoiding this place—and, by extension, them—hit harder than any of them had anticipated. Branch could see the questions forming in their minds: Were they on that list? Did JD stay away because of them?

The tension between them was strong, and Branch realized, painfully, that he hadn’t been prepared for their reaction. But... why is this bothering them? They had their reason for staying away. Why was this any different?

Iris, too, seemed taken aback by the effect her words had caused. She stiffened slightly as if realizing too late that she’d struck an unknown nerve. Her eyes flickered with uncertainty, not sure how to smooth over the sharpness of what she'd said.

Did she assume Branch had told his brothers about JD coming back to the tree? The truth was, that Branch hadn’t shared everything about JD with them. He doesn’t know why he hadn’t yet— he had a few moments to do so, but he just hadn’t. Branch hadn’t had the time—or maybe the will—to fully process what JD had endured. The thought of JD believing for so long that his family was gone forever was something too heavy for Branch to think about right now. But Branch had gone through something similar when Grandma had died. Maybe Branch just didn't want to put himself through that thought process again.

As he stood there in the bustling market, his brothers' stunned expressions piercing through his guilt, Branch felt the weight of everything he had been holding back from them. He needed to keep things calm and controlled until everything was in place—the kids’ stability, the custody evaluation, and JD’s recovery. But as Iris’s words hung in the air, he began to question whether it had been the right decision after all.

Branch felt a wave of conflicting emotions crash over him. On one hand, he wanted to reassure his brothers that they weren’t the reason JD had stayed away—that JD had come back for them, only to find a ghost town where the tree used to be. But on the other hand, he couldn’t ignore the bitter satisfaction bubbling up inside him. They were finally getting a taste of what he had felt all these years—abandoned, believing they were the reason why, wondering why the people he cared about had disappeared without a word.

His chest tightened, and for a brief moment, it looked like Iris was about to say something. Her eyes flickered with a mix of understanding and hesitation as if she could sense the storm brewing inside him. But before she could speak, Ronen tugged at her hand, pulling her away. The chance to address this slipped through Branch’s fingers, leaving him standing there, grappling with the weight of what had been left unsaid. He watched her go, silently hoping that maybe—just maybe—she could have helped lift some of the burden he was carrying. But now, that moment was lost.

But once she was gone, the tension in the air didn’t ease. In fact, it grew worse, thickening between him and his brothers like a fog that refused to lift. Every unspoken truth, every lie by omission, every misunderstanding was there between them, heavy and palpable.

Branch swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment settle heavily on his shoulders. Slowly, he turned to face his brothers. Floyd, Bruce, and Clay stood there, their expressions a tumultuous mix of confusion, frustration, and something deeper—hurt. The sight of it tugged at Branch’s heart, and he was surprised by the brief, unwelcome flicker of satisfaction that flashed through him, only to vanish as quickly as it had appeared. That wasn’t what he wanted. Not really.

They needed to talk—now. If Branch didn’t clear this up soon, the situation would spiral out of control, leaving them all drowning in misunderstandings and resentment. Branch could see the questions in their eyes, the silent accusations they were too hurt to voice. It was clear that they had been left in the dark for too long, and if Branch didn’t speak up now, that darkness would only deepen. JD had come back for them—he had been the only one to come back. They needed to understand that, and they needed to know that they weren’t to blame for JD’s absence. The truth might hurt, but it was better than the lies they had started to form. 

But before Branch could speak, Clay's voice sliced through the tension, bitter and sharp. "Can you believe that?" he spat, anger flashing in his eyes. "'They were just another reason to add to the list of reasons to stay away.' What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

It wasn’t about them. Well, part of it was, but not in the way they thought. There were other reasons someone might not want to go back to the Troll Tree. Taking a deep breath, Branch tightened his paws into fists at his sides. “She didn’t mean it like that,” he began, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Oh?” Clay shot back, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Then what did she mean?”

There it was —that condescending tone that always seemed to push Branch’s buttons. His fur bristled on instinct, and he could feel the heat rising in his chest. Muses, why does he make it so hard to want to comfort him? Before Branch said something out of annoyance he had to take a deep breath, his emotions were running high. He’s just angry…. He’s not angry with you.

Before Branch could respond to try and calm Clay down, Floyd stepped in. “Branch is right, Clay,” he said, though the hurt in his voice was unmistakable. “We can’t just assume she meant it that way.” He exhaled slowly, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. “There’s more than one reason to stay away from Bergen Town.”

The way he hissed out Bergen wasn't natural. Branch would have expected it from Clay but not from Floyd. Never from Floyd.

Clay let out an exasperated sigh, his frustration clearly bubbling to the surface from the way his tail lashed out behind him. “Oh, come on, Floyd. When are you going to stop giving everyone the benefit of the doubt? You know some trolls don’t actually deserve it.”

“Maybe I’ll stop when you stop assuming you’re always right and thinking you know everything,” Floyd shot back without hesitation, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. His glare locked onto Clay, his usually soft gaze now hardened with unspoken pain.

Branch blinked in surprise at Floyd's sharp response. Where did that come from? Floyd was usually the peacemaker, not the one to lash out. But as Branch looked closer, he noticed the tears welling up in Floyd’s eyes, betraying the emotion simmering beneath his words. 

It struck Branch that Floyd didn’t fully believe what he was saying. He was trying to hold on to some shred of hope, to the belief that JD hadn’t stayed away because of them. Because of him. But the doubt was there, however small—a nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, he was part of the reason JD had kept his distance all these years. 

Branch's heart tightened at the sight. Floyd was struggling with the same fear that Branch had been struggling with these past years—the fear of being the one that had driven their brother away, that they were somehow to blame for the years of silence. It hurts to see someone else go through the same thoughts.

Clay opened his mouth to argue, but something in Floyd's words made him hesitate. There was a flicker of emotion in his eyes—doubt, maybe, or perhaps a hint of shame. Whatever it was, it kept him from lashing out like he usually would. “Well, then what did she mean?” he asked, his voice calmer this time, the edge of anger replaced with a genuine need for understanding.

“I can think of a one, a big one,” Bruce said quietly, his voice carrying a gravity that instantly drew his brothers' attention. His gaze remained on the kids, but it was clear his thoughts were far away, “With the threat of the Bergens, I wouldn’t— and I didn’t—come back.” He finally turned to face them, his expression somber, tinged with the weight of old scars that had never fully healed, “I thought about it sometimes, but whenever I did, it was like those memories would rise up and pull me down. The fear, the helplessness… it all came flooding back.”

It was quiet, though trolls moved all around him. Branch was aware of their presence, but at this moment, everything seemed muted, as if the world had gone silent. No one ever talked about life in the Troll Tree. King Peppy had made it clear—discussions about those days were allowed, but not the emotions tied to them, not the true extent of how bad it really was.

“Bruce—” Clay began, his voice softer this time. The sarcasm and condescension that had colored his words before were completely gone, replaced by something gentler. It was a tone he slipped into so effortlessly, almost as if it were second nature to him.

“Oh, don’t tell me you forgot what the Tree was like, Clay,” he continued, letting out a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the burden of years. “The fear that hung over us in the days leading up to Trollstice… it was like a dark cloud that never lifted. Every year, we lived with that gnawing dread, wondering who might be next. Remember how trolls would go missing leading up to Trollstice?”

Bruce’s voice faltered for a moment as he relived those memories. His eyes, now filled with a mix of sorrow and anger, met his brothers’. “And then there were the preparations. We spent hours, sometimes days, trying to ready ourselves for something that we knew, deep down, we could never truly be ready for. There was no way to prepare for the kind of terror we lived under. We stocked up on supplies, barricaded our homes, and trained ourselves to stay silent, to hide. But no matter what we did, it never felt like it was enough.”

Bruce’s voice grew quieter, tinged with the bitterness of a fear that had never truly faded away. “And then, the worst part… the waiting. Those endless, sleepless nights where all you could do was listen. Listen to the screams of other trolls outside, knowing you couldn’t help them. You wanted to—Muses, you wanted to so badly—but stepping out there would’ve been a deathwish. If you tried to save them, you’d only be putting yourself and everyone you loved in danger. It would’ve been like painting a target on your back for every Bergen to see.”

Branch's mind raced with questions. How long has Bruce been keeping this in? The pain in Bruce's voice hinted at wounds that had never truly healed. Did the other survivors of the tree feel this way too? Branch wondered if, beneath the surface, they all carried the same scars, the same fear that had quietly festered over the years. If they did then why have they never said anything? Branch's gaze flicked to Floyd and Clay, trying to read their expressions, searching for any sign that they had harbored similar feelings. Had they been silently grappling with the memories of the tree? Had they ever truly escaped the shadows of that place, or had they simply buried their fear under layers of time and distance?

Bruce paused, letting his words sink in. The weight of what he was saying, the reality of what they had all endured, hung heavy in the air. “After escaping that, why would JD ever want to go back? Why would anyone? Even now, if I was given the choice, I don’t think I would go back to living like that and have to raise my kids like that.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of past traumas. Then, Bruce’s gaze sharpened, his tone shifting to one of hurt and disbelief. “You made peace with the Bergens?” It was less of a question and more of an accusation, laced with a sense of betrayal.

“Yes,” Branch admitted, his voice low. “It happened almost a year ago.” As he spoke, he felt his fur start to bristle, the memories of that time surfacing against his will. The pressure of the Bergen Chef’s fingers digging into his ribs, the hot breath of King Gristle’s mouth as he was slowly pulled closer to those sharp teeth—it all came rushing back. Branch shook his head, trying to push the memories away. Gristle had apologized for nearly eating him, and the eating of Trolls had been banned. But the fear still lingered, even now.

He turned back to his brothers, only to find them watching him with a mix of worry and concern. Clearly, he hadn’t hidden his anxiety as well as he thought. “After nearly twenty years of peace, the Chef found us again,” Branch continued, his voice tense. At the mention of the Chef, he saw his brothers react almost instinctively. Floyd’s fur bristled as he curled his tail around himself, trying to shrink into the background as if he could disappear. Clay’s ears twitched back and forth, his hands fidgeting with his wristband as if he were listening for something—someone—approaching them. Bruce, on the other hand, stood straighter, his eyes scanning the market before relaxing slightly when he spotted JD’s kids a stall or two away being led by Poppy.

The anxiety and fear radiating off them was palpable. Branch knew he needed to end this quickly before it spiraled out of control. “She kidnapped a few of us,” he said in a rush, “but Poppy and I went to save them and realized that those who had never eaten a Troll could still feel happiness.” He watched their faces closely, but his words didn’t seem to reassure them. If anything, they only deepened the tension.

“Oh, it was that easy?” Clay asked, his ears still twitching in every direction, his tone dripping with skepticism.

“You said the ones who’ve never eaten a Troll could feel happiness,” Floyd added, his voice shaky. “What about the others?”

“We made peace with all of the Bergens,” Branch answered slowly, knowing this wasn’t the response they wanted to hear.

“All of them?” Floyd repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Do they know where the village is?” Clay asked.

“Yes,” Branch answered with a calm voice, “Bridget has been here before and we can trust her.” She had risked her life for theirs, they could trust her.

“Can we?” Clay asked, his voice laced with doubt, “What happens when one of them decides to follow her and thinks that their newfound happiness isn’t enough? What happens when they start eating us again?”

Branch opened his mouth but found he had no answer. How could he explain something that even now felt fragile and uncertain?

When Branch didn’t respond, Bruce stepped in, his voice distant and tinged with a deep sorrow. “They ate thousands of us,” he said, the words a stark reminder of the horrors they had all lived through, “How can you make peace with something that does that?”

A part of him felt shame at Bruce’s words, but another part of him- a stronger part- felt angry. He thinks I don’t know what it’s like, Branch thought, his anger simmering just below the surface. He thinks I don’t know what it’s like to live in fear every single day, to be constantly on guard, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He- they- had left, they had walked away from the tree, from the memories, and from him. And now, after all these years, they dared to question what he had done.

But even as the anger bubbled up inside him, Branch knew that it wasn’t entirely fair. They had suffered too. The pain they carried wasn’t something he could dismiss or belittle. And yet, the anger was there, a reminder of the loneliness and fear that had shaped his life for two decades.

His fur bristled slightly, his paws curling into fists at his sides as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. He wanted to lash out, to make them understand what he had been through, but he also knew that wouldn’t help anything. They were all victims of the same nightmare, and fighting each other wouldn’t bring them any closer to peace.

“I know what it was like,” Branch finally said, his voice tight with a mixture of frustration and sadness. “I’ve lived with that fear every day, Bruce. But I had to make a choice. We all did. And maybe it wasn’t perfect, but it’s what we needed to survive.” His eyes met Bruce’s, searching for some sign of understanding. “We- I- made peace because I couldn’t live in fear anymore. Because if I did, I’d never truly feel safe and free.”

Branch paused for a moment before turning to Clay. “And I do have a plan if a Bergen ever tries to take another troll.” Clay’s interest piqued, leaning forward slightly as Branch spoke. This was something he hadn’t shared with Poppy, but they needed to be prepared. “With our new connections to the other tribes, I have a few friends who are ready to help us escape and find a new place to live if it ever comes to that.” It wasn’t a plan he had devised on his own, but rather a safety net that the other tribal leaders had put in place once they learned about the Bergens and the horrors of the past few decades. Delta had been the first to approach him and Poppy about it and had refused to let up about it until they had heard her out.

Clay looked at him with surprise. “Other tribes?” he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean, other tribes?” He paused, thinking for a moment before adding, “And you keep saying things like ‘other genres.’ What does that mean?”

Branch felt a cold wave of realization wash over him. They don’t know…..Oh, who was he kidding? Of course, they don’t know. How could they? The only reason anyone in the Pop village knew about the other tribes was because of the Rockpocalypse. But his brothers had been out of Pop territory for twenty years and yet they never met a Techno Troll? Or a Country Troll? Or any of the other sub-genres?  It seemed impossible, yet here was the proof, staring him in the face. He wondered how much they had missed, how isolated they had been all this time.

Before he could find the right words to explain, Floyd stepped in taking the heat off of Branch, “The other genres are just other trolls who play different kinds of music,” he said, looking at Clay confused.

Okay, one of them knows. But had did he know, but the Bruce and Clay didn’t? “How do you know?”

Floyd just looked at him and shrugged, “I lived outside of the general troll territory where you meet all kinds of people.”

I guess that's how. Where had he lived at all these years? Where had any of them lived? Bruce lived on a beach somewhere with a wife and kids, but Branch had no idea where it was. Floyd had been working on music, but he didn’t say where. While Clay hadn’t said anything about where he was living or who he was with. They knew a lot about his life, but they didn’t talk about theirs.

“There are whole tribes out there dedicated to different genres of music. We are Pop trolls, but out beyond our territory there is” Branch began slowly, trying to gauge their reactions. Clay was much more interested than Bruce, “Rock, Funk, Country, Classical, Techno, and even more in the form of sub-genres. Each tribe has its own unique culture and its own way of life. For a long time, we were all separated, living in our own bubbles. The Pop trolls didn’t even know about the others until… well, until recently.” 

Clay looked stunned like the ground had just shifted beneath his feet. “You’re telling me that all this time, there have been other trolls out there—different from us, living different lives—and we never knew?”

Branch nodded. “Exactly. And the only reason we know now is because of the Rock trolls. They tried to unite all the music under Rock, and in the process, we discovered just how many other tribes there were.” He said, “We’re at peace with them too.” Now is not the time to tell them about the almost extinction of all music.

Clay fell silent, absorbing the weight of what Branch had just said. It was a lot to take in, it had shocked Branch when King Peppy had first told him and Poppy. The idea that there were whole other tribes of trolls out there, each with its own music, its own culture, and that these tribes had been living alongside them all this time without them knowing was mind-blowing. Branch’s attention was brought back when Clay turned his gaze toward JD's kids, who were still milling about a few stalls away, oblivious to the weighty conversation happening among their uncles.

“They’re other genres, aren’t they?” Clay asked, the realization dawning on him.

Branch nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’d say they’re definitely half Pop troll—they have to be since JD is their dad—but they’re also something else. We can make guesses, but we won’t know for sure until JD wakes up.” He followed Clay’s line of sight to where the kids were. “As for what kind of music they identify with, I honestly don’t know.”

Floyd chimed in, his voice thoughtful. “Based on the short fur, the hair, and the more pointed ears, I think Wynona’s half Rock troll.”

Branch shot him a look of confusion. He was most likely right, but was this really the time?

“Cash and Jolene… they might be half Country troll, but I’ve seen other trolls with hooves before, so maybe a sub-genre.” Floyd hesitated, glancing over at Ronen. “And Ronen… I’ve never seen anything like him before.”

Branch and Clay exchanged surprised glances. Floyd had clearly been thinking about this for a while—longer than either of them had realized. The revelation left them both wondering why Floyd hadn’t mentioned any of this before now.

Clay was the first to voice what they were both thinking. “Why didn’t you say anything before now?” he asked his tone a mix of curiosity and frustration.

Floyd shrugged as if what he was saying should have been obvious to everyone. “I thought you knew. I mean, stepping one foot outside of Pop territory, you can run into like five different genres without even trying. I guess I figured it was common knowledge.” He let out a small chuckle, trying to lighten the mood, but it came off more like a nervous laugh. “Someone would have to live in total isolation not to know about them.”

Bruce, who had been listening with a growing sense of weariness, finally cut in. “Does any of this really matter?” His voice was heavy, reflecting the same exhaustion that Branch felt.

Floyd glanced at him, his expression softening as he paused, weighing his next words carefully. "Only a little," he said, almost hesitant as if he wasn’t sure how much more to say. “I just mean, you were the one who wanted to know about their other parents, sooo... it’s a little important to know.”

Branch had not been expecting that answer from Floyd. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who was upset with how the conversation in the crittervan had gone. 

Behind Bruce, his tail started to flick. Branch could practically feel the growing annoyance simmering between them, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Oh, let’s see how he handles this.  

Bruce shot Floyd a sharp look, his patience visibly fraying. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” he said, his voice firm and edged with frustration. “What I’m saying is, does any of this really matter? Because it doesn’t change anything—they’re still JD’s kids.”

Floyd sighed and any annoyance or frustration seemed to leave with it. The usual lightness in his tone was gone, replaced by a somberness that seemed to drain the air around them. “Well, when you put it like that, of course, it doesn’t matter,” he admitted, his words tinged with resignation. “But if you’re going to dig into who their other parents are, it might be worth understanding a bit about where they come from. And when you learn about them, you can learn about what Johnny has been doing this whole time.”

Floyd paused, letting his words settle between them, heavy with unspoken implications. It was something Branch had only started to ponder about but it was clear they all had questions. Branch had them since that day he had received the letter about getting custody of JD’s kids, seeing his brother lying unconscious in the hospital, and learning he had come back. What had Johnny been doing all these years? Where had he gone after finding the broken Troll Tree and assuming his family was gone? How had he managed to keep going, to survive and rebuild, when he believed his brothers—everyone he ever knew—was dead?  

The answers weren’t just locked away in the past; they were woven into the very fabric of the children standing before them, into the music that might pulse through their veins, and into the stories they might not even realize they carried.

Floyd continued, his voice gaining strength as he spoke, “And it’s not just about knowing for the sake of it. It’s about understanding the choices Johnny made and the life he built. We can’t just ignore that. We owe it to him—and to ourselves—to try and understand what he did.”

He looked around at his brothers, each of them lost in their own thoughts, wrestling with emotions they hadn’t expected to face. Clay’s brow was furrowed in thought, torn between the desire to uncover the truth and the fear of what they might find. Bruce’s earlier anger had faded, replaced by a deep, quiet sadness that seemed to settle in his eyes. And Branch… Branch stood silently, his gaze distant as he tried to piece together the puzzle of their brother’s life, a life that had been hidden from them, a life they had only glimpsed in fractured moments.

Floyd’s voice softened, almost pleading as he spoke. “It’s about more than just the kids,” he said, his words carrying a weight that was impossible to ignore. “It’s about Johnny. And it’s about us, too. We’ve been apart for so long, but now that Branch is leaving to go get Johnny, we have a chance—a real chance—to start taking steps toward being an actual family again.”

The idea hung in the air, fragile and uncertain, but it could shatter under the weight of everything unsaid between them. If they were going to move forward, they needed to be fully honest with each other—no more half-truths, no more unspoken wounds. Branch felt the weight of what he was about to reveal pressing down on him, knowing that these words could change everything between them. He took a deep breath, steadying himself before he began.

“JD came back to the tree,” Branch said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, yet the impact of his words was immediate, like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of shock among his brothers. “He came back after the village had escaped.”

The silence that followed was deafening, each of his brothers processing the words in their own way. Branch could see the confusion and questions start settling into their faces as he continued, “Iris told me when I first met them at the Rageons Protective Services office. She didn’t believe it was really me at first. It wasn't until I showed her an old picture of us together did she believe me.”

Clay was the first to speak, his voice hesitant, almost as if he didn’t want to know the answer. “Why didn’t she believe you?” There was a vulnerability in his question, a fear that what Branch was about to say would make everything worse.

Branch hesitated, the next words lodged in his throat like a sharp edge. “Because she, the kids, and JD…they all thought we were gone,” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “JD thought we were all dead.” Saying it out loud felt strange as if the words themselves had the power to solidify the reality of the situation.

But then, another thought struck him—one that was even more unsettling. JD would never have known they were alive if he hadn’t been kidnapped. The realization hit Branch like a cold wave, sending a chill down his spine. The kids would have grown up believing the same lie. And Branch would have never gotten to meet them. Branch’s mind spun with the implications. He could have crossed paths with JD’s kids one day, maybe at one of the tribe gatherings. They could have walked right past each other, like strangers, never knowing they were family. It was a sobering thought.

Floyd’s voice was shaky when he finally spoke, the disbelief clear in his tone. “Why would he think we were all dead?”

“Because he didn’t know you left after him,” Branch explained, his voice filled with a mix of sadness and understanding. “And by the time he came back, the Troll Tree was empty. It must have looked like everyone had been taken like there was nothing left.” He stopped, letting the gravity of JD’s belief sink in. 

The silence stretched on, the weight of the truth settling into each of them. The shock was etched into their faces, their expressions shifting from confusion to hurt, and then to something deeper—regret.

Bruce was the first to break the silence, his voice trembling with the effort to understand. “He came back?” His words were barely above a whisper as if he was afraid to say them out loud. “And he thought we were—?”

Branch nodded slowly, meeting Bruce’s eyes, his heart aching at the pain he saw there. “Yes,” he confirmed, his voice steady but soft. “He thought he had lost everything. That’s why he stayed away. Not because of us, but because he believed there was nothing left to come back to.”

The impact of his words was like a physical blow, each of his brothers reacting in their own way. Floyd’s eyes welled up with tears, the full weight of everything crashing down on him. Clay turned away, as he started to mess with his wristband while he struggled to process what Branch had just told him. Bruce’s face twisted with a mix of disbelief and sorrow, the reality of everything cutting deep into him.

As Branch looked at them, he could see the questions forming in their minds, the guilt and regret rising in them. They hadn’t just left—they had unknowingly compounded JD’s pain, turning what could have been a reunion into years of grief. They had each gone their separate ways, believing they were doing what was best, never realizing what the effects of their decisions had. What the effects of their decisions had on everyone.

Notes:

School and I are in a constant battle for just being, so thank you for your patience.

This was not the original ch. 8, but as I was writing I realized Bruce, Clay, and Floyd don't really know a lot. So they needed to catch up on the first two movies and have a lot of feelings about it (I get to expand on it with them individually later). They also get to have feelings about them being dead without themselves knowing about it (again, going to look at that more later)

and Branch just gets to have all of the complex feelings that come along with having a soap opera for a life

I like the Bergens, but you can't tell me that everyone was okay with making peace with them. and you also can't tell me they didn't mess up some of the trolls for life.

Just in case anyone is wondering, Iris's fear of the bergens comes from JD's fear of them and is inspired by my mom being terrified of snakes after a bad experience with them, and that rubbing off on me and my brothers despite us never actually having any bad experiences with a snake.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9: Floyd POV

Floyd POV

Branch had been gone for only a few hours, but Floyd was still reeling from everything. A part of him wanted to believe he could have handled the news about Bergen-Troll peace—though, honestly, who was he kidding? Even on his best day, that would have been a challenge. But now, that revelation seemed almost insignificant compared to the bombshell Branch had dropped after: Not only had Johnny returned to the tree, but he thought they were dead.

The news hit Floyd like a punch to the gut. He had always assumed that Johnny had spent the last twenty years simply living his best life—exploring, having adventures, and doing all the things he wanted to do. Learning that Johnny had kids without ever bothering to tell him or reach out stung deeply. You could have reached out if you actually wanted to. You could have reached out to any of them, but you never did.

Then he assumed that maybe Johnny just didn’t have a safe way to get in contact. After all, he had said he was going to the Neverglades- But that was twenty years ago. It doesn’t take two decades to hike a trail, - and the idea of reliable mail service out there was laughable. Still, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, You never bothered to reach out either. Maybe all of this could have been cleared up if you had bothered to reach out.

Then, on some of the low nights, doubt crept in. Maybe Johnny didn’t want to contact him, or any of them. Maybe Johnny had simply moved on with his life and never bothered to look back- You had. But that wasn’t true, even in the darkest nights he had spent alone he knew John Dory loved them. 

Yes, in those last few months before the final concert, Johnny had been more tired, more stressed, and even short with them at times, but it was never anger directed at them. No, it was always aimed at their manager, Finch.

Floyd never fully understood what had happened between Johnny and Finch, but their clashes had become a regular occurrence. Sometimes it was over something as trivial as the way a dance looked or a disagreement about marketing strategies. But mostly, it was about the music. Johnny had written so many songs during that time—he had notebooks filled with them. Floyd had seen them all—he even remembered helping name some of them, one of his favorite things to do with his older brother. Johnny could write music effortlessly, but he was terrible at coming up with names. Yet despite all the work Johnny put into them, most of those songs never saw the light of day. When Floyd asked why, Johnny had simply said, " ‘Finch doesn’t like them.’ "

But Finch wasn’t the only one who had been rubbing Johnny the wrong way. There was another troll, someone Floyd didn’t know, but he vividly remembered overhearing an argument between Johnny and this troll in the market. At first, Floyd thought it was just another spat between Johnny and Clay—Clay had a habit of disappearing into the market whenever they got there, and sometimes it led to arguments. So, Floyd had gone over to break it up. But as he drew closer, he realized it wasn’t Clay on the receiving end of Johnny’s sharp words. It was someone else, and Johnny’s tone was sharper than Floyd had ever heard it. Johnny never yelled at any of them like that, no matter how mad he got. This was different. It was personal. 

Floyd had no business listening in, but he couldn’t help it. He only caught the tail end of the conversation, but it ended with Johnny spitting, “ ‘Go back to your ‘girlfriend’ ” and warning the troll to never come around again. The way Johnny spat the word " girlfriend " with so much venom and bitterness left Floyd shaken. For a moment, he wasn’t sure this was the brother he knew. After that, Johnny seemed more worn down, as if a weight had settled over him that he couldn’t shake. He even looked sickly for a while.

There were a few moments in his life where Floyd wished he could go back and redo it. That night he left Branch was one of them. Another that had recently climbed up the ladder was this moment. Ten seconds, just ten seconds was all he wanted. Maybe if he got that he would know who Iris’s other parent was. 

Floyd couldn’t understand Bruce’s obsession with finding out who their other parents were. It wasn’t like any of them would know anything about their past. The only parent they might be able to trace would be Iris’s. She was nineteen—Brozone broke up twenty years ago. That meant Johnny must have gotten pregnant during those last few months before the band split. How had he not seen it before? The signs were there: Johnny’s exhaustion, his heightened stress, and even him getting sick. All of it pointed to one conclusion, and once Iris revealed her age, the thought had been nagging at him ever since. It was another detail Floyd had completely missed, lost in the chaos of those final months.

He wondered if anyone else had figured it out. Bruce certainly hadn’t, considering he was more focused on grilling Cash about their parentage rather than Iris when he had the chance. Maybe Clay had pieced it together, but if he had, Floyd figured he would have said something by now. The only other person who might’ve connected the dots was Branch, but Johnny hadn’t been around much during that period, so Branch probably wouldn’t have noticed either. The more he thought about it, the more Floyd felt like he had overlooked something so blindingly obvious. He didn’t even know Johnny was in a relationship let alone a serious one. Did anyone know?

It was a lousy excuse, but that last year and a half before the band’s breakup had been hard on all of them. Bruce had nearly stopped eating unless it was one of those mandatory family “sit at the table” meals—meals that even Grandma herself had joined in on. They had more of those family meals in those months than Floyd could count, sitting tense around the table, trying to hold together the fraying edges of their family.

Meanwhile, Clay had been preparing to start high school a year earlier than expected, a decision Johnny had fiercely opposed. Johnny had insisted Clay should slow down, have fun, and enjoy being a kid, but Clay had been determined, and the arguments that followed only made things worse. Johnny did everything he could to block the early enrollment paperwork, dragging it out for months with long bouts of silence between him and Clay. Eventually, Clay bypassed Johnny entirely, going straight to Grandma to get the approval he needed.

As for Floyd, he could remember how stressed he had been during that time. With Finch constantly demanding Johnny’s attention, it had fallen to him to help care for baby Branch. Floyd loved taking care of his little brother but juggling that responsibility along with school, homework, and the band had pushed him to his limits. He had been tired, more exhausted than he realized at the time, and the stress had seeped into every part of his life.

And then there was Finch’s gradual disappearance from their lives. Johnny seemed to be deliberately keeping them away from the studio and all the drama surrounding the band. Slowly but surely, Johnny had begun to take on more and more of the band's management himself, going to the studio alone for meetings that he should never have attended without them. It was only now, with the clarity of adulthood and a better understanding of the music industry, that Floyd could see how wrong it all had been under Finch. 

There were meetings where Finch should have taken the lead, but instead, Johnny went alone— ones where he shouldn’t have gone at all, let alone by himself. Bruce had been dragged into interviews that Finch insisted on, interviews he had no business being part of. And then there were the bizarre brand deals Finch forced on them, deals that never made sense for Clay to be involved in. The whole situation had been toxic, unhealthy, and anything but normal.

Johnny had been trying to shield them from something—something dark and twisted that had been eating away at him long before the final concert. Floyd had been too young, too naive, and too caught up in the whirlwind of his own life to see it then. But he could see it clearly now: Johnny had been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, trying to protect them from it all while it slowly crushed him.

As Floyd sat with this new knowledge, he couldn’t help but wonder what those twenty years had been like for Johnny. How had he managed to keep going with a child, believing that his family was gone? How had he carried on for so long without breaking? None of the kids had said anything regarding his mental state, or if they had even noticed anything was off. Why would they tell you anything? You're basically a stranger to them.

Floyd pictured Johnny in those early years, still reeling from the loss, trying to make a life for himself and his kids while drowning in sorrow. How many times had he wanted to reach out, only to stop himself, because to him no one was there? No one would ever be there.

Floyd’s thoughts spiraled as he considered how deeply this must have affected Johnny. Had he kept up a facade of stability for the kids, hiding his pain behind a forced smile and an unwavering sense of duty? Or had the grief seeped into every aspect of his life, making it impossible for him to fully move on? And what about the kids? Had they ever noticed their father’s sadness, the moments when his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes? Had they sensed the loneliness that must have clung to him like a shadow, even in the happiest of times? 

As these thoughts tumbled through Floyd’s mind, he felt an overwhelming mix of emotions: sadness for the brother he hadn’t known was suffering, guilt for not being there when Johnny needed him most, and a fierce determination to make things right. The past twenty years had stolen so much from them, but now, they had a chance to rebuild what had been lost. Johnny might have believed they were dead, but they were alive—and they were here for him now.

A part of Floyd wanted nothing more than to rush to Johnny, even if he was still unconscious, to tell him that he was alive, that he was here, and that he was sorry for never reaching out. But another part of him was overwhelmed by the weight of it all. How did you fix something like this? How did you make up for twenty years of lost time, for all the pain and heartache that could have been avoided if they had just stayed?

AAAHHHH

All of this was starting to give Floyd a headache. He needed a break—a cup of tea or, better yet, coffee. Definitely coffee. As he made his way to the kitchen, he was greeted by the sight of Wynona’s muted pink and orange hair as she rummaged through the drawers. The once spotless counter was now cluttered with an array of miscellaneous items: paper clips, rubber bands, screws, and scraps of random paper. It was clear she was looking for something, but whatever it was, it didn’t seem like she was having much luck finding it. She hadn’t noticed him yet.

“Whatcha doing?” Floyd asked, just loud enough to catch her attention. He couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corners of his lips as his niece, his niece -still weird to think about-, jumped slightly in surprise.

She turned to face him, wearing the same guilty expression Clay used to have whenever he was caught sneaking a cookie from the jar. “Looking for something,” she replied vaguely, her tone a little too innocent.

Floyd raised an eyebrow, glancing around at the minor chaos she’d created. “I can see that, but what are you looking for?”

Wynona glanced around as if just now realizing the mess she’d made. “I’m gon- I'm gonna clean it up,” she stuttered quickly, almost defensively.

“Oh, I’m not worried about the mess,” Floyd assured her, waving off her concern. Earning him a confused look. “I just want to know what you’re looking for, so maybe I could help you find it.”

Wynona hesitated for a moment as if weighing whether or not to share her secret. “Something to draw with,” she finally admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Floyd’s memory clicked—Branch had mentioned that the village was full of art supplies, something that had really caught Wynona’s interest. “Did you not find anything at the market?” he asked, curious.

“No, I saw some at the market,” she answered quietly, almost as if she was afraid to say more.

Floyd frowned slightly, confused. “If you saw some, why didn’t you say anything?”

Wynona seemed to shrink a little under his gaze. “By the time I saw them, everyone seemed very upset,” she murmured, “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

Floyd’s heart sank. They must not have done a great job of hiding their frustration after discovering the truth about the Bergens or their disbelief about learning that Johnny had believed them to be dead all these years. “No, we weren’t upset,” he tried to lie, but the words felt hollow even as he spoke them.

Wynona shot him a look that told him she wasn’t buying it.

“Okay,” he relented with a sigh, “We were upset, but it was because of a misunderstanding. But it’s cleared up now, and we were never upset with you or your siblings.”

“What were you upset about?” Wynona asked, her voice tinged with concern.

“Grown-up stuff,” Floyd answered quickly, hoping the vague explanation would suffice. It was a cheap way out, but he figured it might work.

Wynona gave him a skeptical look, one that Floyd had seen countless times from Johnny. “That’s not an answer.”

Floyd couldn’t help but smile at her persistence. “Well, sometimes grown-ups get upset. It’s complicated.”

“I’ve never seen Dad upset like that,” Wynona countered, her eyes narrowing as she tried to make sense of it all.

“I guess you haven’t,” Floyd replied, glancing around the kitchen. He paused for a moment, feeling his smile fade a bit. Of course, she hadn’t seen Johnny upset like that—Johnny had always been good at hiding his true feelings. It made perfect sense that she, or any of his siblings, had never seen him mad or upset. It was the same thing Johnny had done with Floyd and the rest of their brothers for years. Johnny had always been the strong one, the one who kept it all together, even when everything else was falling apart. But how much had that cost him? Floyd wondered, his mind drifting back to the revelation about Johnny’s belief that they were all dead. How much had Johnny hidden from them, and from his own children?

Floyd was brought back to the present when he noticed Wynona shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, clearly uncertain about what to do next. Quickly, without thinking, he asked, "Do you think if we went back to the market, you could find the art supplies you saw again?"

Wynona looked up at him, surprised, before nodding slowly.

She shouldn’t have to hold off on getting art supplies or doing something she loved just because the grown-ups were upset. She shouldn't be scared of making things worse, and that thought weighed on him. She had been so careful, so considerate of their emotions when she should have been allowed to just be a kid, excited about her interests.

"We still have time before the market closes," Floyd said, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was even four yet. They could go to the market and be back before anyone had a chance to work on dinner. "Do you want to go get them?"

Wynona’s face lit up with a cautious but growing smile, and she nodded more eagerly this time. Floyd felt a warm sense of relief wash over him. He couldn’t fix everything, and he certainly couldn’t undo the years of pain Johnny had endured, but he could do this—he could help Wynona find her art supplies and, in some small way, show her that things could be okay again.

“Alright then,” Floyd said, returning her smile. “Let’s go get those art supplies.” He reached out his hand, and Wynona took it, her small fingers wrapping around his. Together, they headed out of the kitchen, leaving the mess behind for now. There would be time to clean up later.

— — — — —

How can there be this many different types of art supplies? Floyd stood in the front of the stall stirring shocked at the sheer amount of art supplies this troll was selling. He stood there half surrounded by rows upon rows of paints, brushes, canvases, and sketchpads. The colors were a blur—rows of vibrant acrylics, muted watercolors, and thick, oil-based paints lined the walls, each promising endless possibilities. 

He reached out to grab a tube of paint, his fingers hovering uncertainly over the label. Cadmium red? Cadmium red deep? Was there even a difference? He couldn’t tell. The names alone were intimidating. Floyd couldn’t remember the last time he had even thought about painting, let alone tried to decipher the subtle distinctions between shades of red.

His eyes drifted to the brushes next. There were so many types—flat, round, filbert, fan. Some looked delicate and precise, which would be nice for fine details, while others were thick and sturdy, built for broad strokes. He picked one up, turning it over in his hands, but it felt foreign and unfamiliar. The weight was wrong, the bristles were either too stiff or too soft. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking for, and the more he tried to figure it out, the more overwhelmed he became.

The canvases, stacked neatly in rows, only added to his growing sense of unease. Each one was a blank, white surface, pristine and intimidating. They seemed to mock him, reminding him of all the times he had stared at an empty page, unsure of where to start. There were sketchpads too—some with thick, textured paper for charcoal or pastels, others with smooth surfaces meant for ink or pencil. The choices were endless.

Even something as simple as choosing a pencil became a monumental task. There were graphite pencils, colored pencils, charcoal sticks, and pastel crayons, each offering a different texture and a different feel. He picked up a set of pencils, only to put them down again, unsure if they were the right ones.

Wynona, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She moved through the stall with confidence, her eyes bright with excitement as she examined the different supplies. 

“Look at this really cool set of colored pencils,” she said, holding out a box for him to see. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and her ears wiggled with excitement as she admired the array of colors. “They have so many shades—I’ve never even seen some of these before!”

Floyd glanced down at the set she held, noticing the vibrant hues that filled the box. “Yeah,” he replied, trying to match her enthusiasm as he looked at the pencils. He could see how much this meant to her, and that was enough to pull him out of his own head, at least a little. “Do you not have art supplies where you live?” 

Wynona looked up from the array of colored pencils she was studying. “We have some, but not like this,” she replied, glancing around at the abundance of options. “Most trolls where we live like making things with their hands, though,” she continued. “Like out of wood or metal. Cash once took a woodworking class with one of the neighborhood boys.”

“Oh really?” Floyd responded, surprised. “Does he like woodworking?”

“No, not really,” Wynona answered, shaking her head slightly. “He joined because the kids in the neighborhood did. But he did make a really cool chessboard in the class, though.”

“That’s cool,” Floyd said, his mind wandering for a moment as he thought about Johnny settling down in Lonesome Flats. “You live in Lonesome Flats or do you just live close?” he asked, trying to connect the dots.

“We live very close,” she replied offhandedly, her attention still focused on the colored pencils in her hand, "Close enough that Dad can look out of the window and see us playing."

Huh. Floyd hadn’t expected that. Lonesome Flats wasn’t exactly where he pictured Johnny settling down. He hadn’t met many Country Trolls, but from what he’d heard, they were a kind-hearted bunch who sang rather gloomy music. “Do you like living there?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

“I do,” Wynona answered, finally tearing her gaze away from the art supplies. “It’s quieter there than here,” she said, glancing around at the bustling market.

Floyd nodded, understanding what she meant. The market was loud, vibrant, and full of life. It was a stark contrast to the silence they had been forced to maintain back at the tree. In the tree, noise was a risk—too much of it, and they could be discovered. The market they used to have inside the tree had been a covert process, hidden away in the spiraled interior of the trunk, with stalls nestled against the bark to avoid attracting any unwanted attention. The outside world had been too dangerous for gatherings in the open, and they had learned that lesson the hard way.

Wynona’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I like it when we have monthly potlucks. It’s like a group party where everyone brings food, with dancing.”

Floyd smiled at that, imagining the scene. “Are the trolls nice?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager for an answer. He knew the main genre trolls who still lived in the territories weren’t always the friendliest to outsiders and with them being half genre… Floyd can only hope that Johnny has found a good place to raise his kids.

“Some,” Wynona replied after a pause. “They’re nicer than some of the other trolls we've met in other places we’ve lived.”

Other places? Floyd’s mind raced. Where else had they lived? What other trolls had they encountered that hadn’t been so nice? Before he could ask, a cheerful voice interrupted them.

“Hello, do you need any help?” A gold glitter troll approached them, his rainbow hair catching the light as he smiled brightly. He wore a blue vest with matching shorts, his energy radiating a contagious cheerfulness.

Floyd turned to face the glitter troll, trying to remain polite despite the unease creeping up his spine. “Hi, I think we’re doing alright,” he said, though out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wynona shrink slightly and move to stand behind him. Instinctively, Floyd wrapped his tail loosely around her, hoping to offer some comfort. It was a gesture that had always helped him when Johnny or Bruce did it for him as a kid.

“Actually, I think we’re ready to check out,” Floyd added, hoping to wrap things up quickly.

But the glitter troll didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, he just stared at Floyd, a puzzled expression on his face. The silence dragged on uncomfortably, and Floyd and Wynona both took a small step back, unsure of what to make of the situation. The troll’s intense gaze was unnerving as if he was trying to solve a riddle that didn’t quite make sense. Weird

Finally, the glitter troll spoke, his voice tinged with realization. “Are you Branch’s brother?”

Floyd hesitated for a moment before answering. “Uh, yes?” He wasn’t sure where this was going, but at least it seemed the glitter troll knew Branch. Maybe this wasn’t as strange as it seemed. The glitter troll looked to be a few years older than Branch, maybe twenty-six.

“I thought Branch’s brother was in the hospital?” the glitter troll questioned, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Different brother…” Floyd clarified, feeling a bit more at ease.

“Oh!” The glitter troll’s voice squeaked with sudden understanding. “That makes sense,” he said thoughtfully, before turning his attention to Wynona. “That would make you one of the new niblings.”

Wynona just edged farther behind Floyd, her discomfort clear. She really wasn’t a talker, especially not with strangers. Floyd could feel her tension through the tail he had wrapped around her.

"Yeah, that’s us," Floyd said after a long pause, reaching back to grab the colored pencils from Wynona. "We just need these," he added, passing them to the glitter troll.

The glitter troll took the pencils, turning them over slowly in his paws as though appraising them. After a moment, he looked back at Wynona with a bright kind smile. "These are a very good choice. You really know how to pick them."

Floyd noticed Wynona relax slightly, her grip on his tail loosening. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible but steady.

The glitter troll let out a dramatic sigh, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. "But you know," he began, "you can’t get new pencils without getting a new sketchpad. It’s like, a rule!"

Floyd raised an eyebrow. Right, someone’s trying to make a quick buck. He glanced down at Wynona, who hesitated and then looked up at him for approval. He gave a small nod. There wasn’t any harm in letting her get a new sketchpad. If she was anything like how Johnny used to be with his notebooks, she probably went through them fast.

"Go ahead, find one you like," he said softly.

As Wynona drifted off to search for a sketchpad, Floyd turned back to the glitter troll, sighing. "So, in total, how much?"

The glitter troll paused, tapping his chin dramatically. "For Branch’s brother, we can say half price." he declared, then quickly added, "But for what she’s been through? It’s free."

Floyd blinked in surprise. "What? Oh, we can’t just—" he began, but the glitter troll cut him off.

"I mean it. It’s free," the troll insisted, his voice firm yet kind. "If even half of what I’ve heard is true, she deserves something to make her smile like she did when she saw those pencils." He ran a finger over the packaging, a sad look flickering across his face. "I’m Boom, by the way," he added, extending a paw. "I’m a friend of Branch."

Floyd hesitated for a moment before shaking Boom’s paw. "Floyd," he replied, “so you’re a friend of Branch?”

”Oh, yeah,” Boom answered with a smile, “I’m like his best friend.”

Very faintly, Floyd could just make out the sound of someone sneezing far, far back into the crowd. Hmm, weird. If Floyd had to pick someone to be Branch’s best friend, he would have picked Poppy. Maybe this isn’t as weird as I thought. Some people are just trying to be nice …

But still, a slight unease settled over him. What did Boom mean by ‘from what I’ve heard’? His fur prickled slightly as the thought crossed his mind. Were trolls talking about them? Of course, they were. If there was one thing Floyd didn’t miss after being away for so long, it was how fast rumors could spread in Troll Village.

Floyd lowered his voice, leaning in slightly. "If you don’t mind me asking," he said quietly, "what exactly have you heard?"

Boom’s eyes widened in surprise, and he stammered, "Oh, well, I—I just mean… it’s nothing bad." He shifted nervously on his feet, clearly caught off guard by the question.

"I’m not mad," Floyd assured him, though his voice might have come out a bit sharper than intended. He wasn’t angry at Boom, but the idea of people gossiping about Johnny’s kids made his chest tighten with frustration. "It’s just… these kids need something normal after the past few months, not trolls talking behind their backs."

"That’s what I’ve been saying!" Boom squealed, guilt flashing in his expression.

Floyd raised an eyebrow, waiting for more. "Okay?" he said, prompting him to continue. Come on, you’re the one who brought it up.

Boom hesitated, long enough that Floyd wondered if he was going to drop the subject altogether. Finally, after what felt like ages, Boom blurted out, "I heard they, along with their dad, were kidnapped by some tall folks. And that their dad… well, he got the life sucked out of him." Boom's voice quickened as he spilled the details, almost stumbling over his words. "And… uh… that the kids have hooves, scales, gills, and sharp teeth."

Okay... all of that was true ... but what was Floyd supposed to do now? Boom hadn’t said anything bad or wrong about the kids, or about Johnny. He was just stating facts. Were trolls actually talking about them without any malice? That would be a first.

Wait. These were Pop Trolls. Of course, they weren’t being spiteful. Floyd doubted Pop Trolls had a mean bone in their bodies. Sure, they gossiped— everyone did —but it wasn’t done out of cruelty or to hurt others. Pop Trolls were all about positive vibes, and even when they talked about others, it was more out of curiosity or concern, not judgment. You could think what you wanted, but in this community, no one openly put others down.

That was something Floyd hadn’t experienced in a long time. In the city, whispers were often loaded with malice or jealousy, and people were quick to turn rumors into weapons. But here? It was almost... innocent. The thought made him pause.

"Not that there’s anything wrong with having hooves, scales, gills, or sharp teeth!" Boom added hastily, his voice growing higher. "I mean, lots of trolls from other genres have those things."

"Look, it’s fine," Floyd cut in, trying to keep his voice calm. "Just… if you hear anyone talking about them, do me a favor and put a stop to it, okay?"

"Oh, I have been!" Boom said earnestly. "We all have."

We all? Floyd’s mind buzzed with questions, but he forced himself to relax. Boom was being nice, after all. And maybe Wynona didn’t need him picking fights with friendly glitter trolls trying to help.

Boom shifted his weight, his smile more subdued now. "I mean it about the art supplies, though. Branch is a good friend, but he’s never been great at asking for help. So if this can help him and is going to bring her even a little happiness, I’m glad to help."

Before Floyd could thank him, Wynona returned, holding a new sketchpad in her paws. "Did you find one you like?" he asked, forcing a smile.

She nodded and handed it to him, and Floyd passed it over to Boom. "Well, this is it," he said with a more genuine smile this time.

Boom returned the smile as he placed the sketchpad in a bag along with the pencils. "You’re all set."

Floyd took the bag and handed it to Wynona, who peeked inside, her face lighting up with a small but unmistakable smile. "Thanks for all your help," Floyd said, turning back to Boom.

"It’s no problem at all," Boom waved him off.

"No, really," Floyd insisted. "Thank you." He turned to Wynona, her smile still in place. "Ready to head back?"

She nodded, her grin never faltering. "Yeah."

"Alright, let’s go," Floyd said, his own smile growing as they walked away from the stall.

— — — — —

They were almost to the bunker door when Wynona's quiet voice broke the silence, "Can I ask you a question?"

Floyd glanced down at her, confused. “Yes…?” His brows furrowed. What could she possibly want to know now?

“What am I supposed to call you?” she asked, her voice uncertain. “What am I supposed to call any of you?”

Oh. That’s what this was about. She wanted to know what to call him—whether it should just be Floyd or something like Uncle Floyd. The question caught him off guard, though. He hadn’t thought much about titles, or what role he was supposed to play in her life, "What do you want to call me?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

Wynona shrugged. “I don’t know,” she mumbled, her eyes fixed on the ground as they walked.

“That’s okay,” Floyd said, giving her an easy smile. “You don’t have to know or choose right now. We’ll figure it out when you're ready.”

“Okay,” she said softly, her voice more thoughtful now as she began to swing the shopping bag from side to side. “You know... I’ve never met an uncle that was actually related to me.”

Oh? That caught Floyd’s attention. ‘Actually related’... So, was there someone in her life that was like an uncle, even if they weren’t blood-related? But she also said she's never met one related. Did she have another uncle that she hadn't met? Maybe her other parent?

“Oh, really?” Floyd replied, curious where she was going with this.

“Yeah, I think Mama has a brother, but I've never met him,” Wynona continued, her tone casual.

Mama? That word made Floyd pause. Before he could process it, Wynona kept talking.

“Cash and Jo have an uncle that’s actually related to them.”

Oh… Wow. This was a lot more information than Floyd expected to learn just by listening. He could already feel the excitement bubbling up—oooh, he couldn’t wait to rub this in Bruce’s face. So, Cash and Jolene, or Jo as it seems she prefers to be called, had an uncle they were related to. And that would mean…

“Cash and Jolene have the same parent?” Floyd asked, the realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. He prided himself on being observant, but this was news. Sure, he wasn’t the smartest brother—that title definitely belonged to Clay—but he was sharp. And yet, here he was, floored by the idea that Cash and Jo were full siblings.

“Yeah, they have the same dad,” Wynona confirmed, her voice matter-of-fact.

Floyd blinked, trying to let that sink in. Same dad? But before he could even process that bombshell, Wynona was already moving on.

“Can I ask you another question?” she asked, not giving him a moment to catch up.

“Yes, you can,” he said, feeling the familiar weight of a headache start to creep back in. He needed to sit down with Bruce and Clay when Branch got back and talk with them about this. He braced himself for the question. “You can ask me whatever you want.”

“And you’re going to answer honestly?” Her tone had sharpened, and Floyd suddenly felt like he was walking into dangerous territory.

That made him pause. A knot formed in his stomach. "I'll try my best," he promised, giving her a small, uncertain smile. But deep down, something told him this wasn’t going to be an easy one.

"You promise?" she asked as she started to pick at the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

"I promise, I'll answer the question to the best of my ability." He said honestly. He wasn't just going to lie to her or any of her siblings.

Sure enough, her next question hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from his lungs.

“Is my dad going to be okay?” Wynona asked, her voice so small, so fragile. There was a weight to her words, a kind of fear no child should ever have to carry.

Notes:

Guess who avoiding schoolwork!….me, the answer is me.

So here is some Floyd and Wynona bonding! And Boom showed up! Up next is a Wynona chapter.

I want to have a few chapters that focus on the brothers and kids. I planned to have a brother and a kid in one chapter, but I wanted to have a reasonable length chapter so I am splitting them up.

Also, any art knowledge came from Google.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Wynona POV

Wynona POV

“Is my dad going to be okay?”

Uncle Floyd hesitated. "Well..." he started, his words trailing off.

Wynona felt her heart sink. He’s going to lie. It was a bitter thought but she knew it was true. She could see it just from the look on his face, He was going to lie like everyone else.

All she wanted was an honest answer, but it felt like no one would give her one—not the Rageons, not Iris, and now, not even Floyd. Whenever she had asked Iris anything about Dad, the answers were vague or carefully worded. That wasn’t normal for Iris. Iris didn’t lie unless something was very wrong. Wynona had hoped that by asking an adult—an actual real adult—she might finally get the truth. But it seemed like that wasn’t going to happen.

The past few weeks had already turned her world upside down, and finding out that her uncles were alive had been just another shock in a long string of them. Her dad had always been brief when he spoke about them, but she remembered the sadness in his voice whenever he did. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about his brothers; it was more like he couldn't without that heaviness weighing down his words.

Dad had described Uncle Bruce—though back then he’d called him Uncle Spruce—as someone outgoing, able to talk to trolls easily and draw them in without even trying. Trolls had liked her dad too, but he said Bruce had a way of getting trolls to like him; that they were naturally drawn to his presence. Then there was Uncle Clay. Dad said he was always smiling, smart, and sharp—smarter than him. Uncle Clay had been the one to make everyone smile, with his quick wit and ability to lift spirits no matter the situation. And then Uncle Floyd, the musician, who loved music even more than Dad did, which had always seemed impossible to Wynona. Her dad was incredible at music, so how could anyone be better?

But now that she had met her uncles... they were not at all what she expected.

Uncle Bruce wasn’t the outgoing, charismatic figure her dad had described. Instead, he was quiet, guarded—at least around the Pop Trolls. Earlier at the market, he had hovered near them, as if watching over them, always on alert. It was like he was waiting for something to happen or for someone to do something. Trolls still gathered around him, but he didn’t engage with anyone unless he had to. He seemed to pull back, like he didn’t want the attention- or didn’t want to interact with them -, which confused Wynona and put her edge. And then there was Cash, who got along with everyone and seemed tense around him. That was even weirder.

Uncle Clay? Well, he was nothing like she had imagined. Wynona had tried talking to him, asking about books and what kinds of things he liked to read. But…he didn't seem interested in talking to her or any of them. She didn’t think he liked them very much. He hadn’t said or done anything that struck her as particularly smart, and honestly, he didn’t seem very... kind. The word she wanted to use was jerk, or something worse, but she wasn’t allowed to use those words. Iris didn’t like him either, and Iris’s judgment was usually spot on. If Iris didn’t trust him, maybe Wynona shouldn’t either, no matter what Dad had said.

Uncle Floyd, on the other hand, was the closest to what she expected. He liked music and had talked with Cash about playing guitar. Wynona hadn’t heard him play yet, but she had seen the calluses on his hands—signs of a musician, just like the ones Dad had. And then there were the faint ink stains under his nails, the same kind her dad got when he’d been writing for a long time. There was a familiarity about him that made her feel... almost safe. The safest she had felt in a while.

...And Uncle Branch...

Dad had given him the title of uncle just like the others. He said Uncle Branch liked strawberries, was full of sarcasm even at the age of three, and loved burrowing under blankets and pillows. But there was only so much Dad could share. Uncle Branch had passed away when he was only three—three. That was younger than Wynona was now, younger than Jolene. The thought hit her hard, a sad ache settling deep in her chest. She tried to imagine what it would have been like, losing someone so young, someone you barely got the chance to know.

She thought about Jolene when she was that age—so small, so delicate. Wynona had spent so much time just watching her, marveling at how tiny she was. Dad and Iris used to say Cash had been that small too, but Jo had seemed extra small as if she could blow away in the wind. It was hard to imagine anyone that young being gone forever, and it made Wynona feel a strange mix of sadness and gratitude. Sadness for Uncle Branch, and for Dad who must have felt that loss so deeply. Gratitude for the time they had with Jolene, even if things felt broken now.

Wynona’s mind drifted to the day Dad had told them Jolene was coming. They called it Jolene’s "egg day," a moment etched in her memory like a favorite chapter in a book. Iris had immediately jumped into action, making a list of everything they would need, her. Ronen had started with his usual sly remarks—he could never resist teasing—but he’d wandered off when Iris tried to get him to help find the old baby stuff. She could picture it so clearly, his playful smirk fading as he quickly excused himself, pretending to have more important things to do.

Cash, though, had been surprisingly quiet. Awkward, even. Wynona remembered how, at first, he seemed unsure, hesitant to show excitement. There had been a brief moment when it felt like he was trying to figure out his place in all of it, like the idea of a new sibling, unsettled something inside him. But it hadn’t lasted long. A quiet conversation with Dad had changed everything. Wynona didn’t know what they talked about, but after that, Cash was more relaxed, more himself—enthusiastic, even.

For Wynona, the news had been nothing but pure excitement. She’d been the youngest for so long, and the thought of having a baby sister or brother filled her with a joy she could barely contain. She’d always wanted a younger sibling, someone to care for, someone to share all the things she loved with. Jolene had been that for her, her tiny, precious baby sister. But now, thinking about Uncle Branch, about Jolene at that same age, Wynona couldn’t help but feel sad.

Wynona looked up at Floyd, still waiting for an answer. She didn’t want comforting words or reassurance. She just wanted to know if her dad was really going to be okay. Not the "okay" people told her to make her feel better, but the truth. Even if it hurt

She wished her mama was here. If her mama were here, she’d know what to do. Mama always knew what to say, always told her the truth—even if it hurt. Wynona could picture it so clearly: Mama wrapped her in a warm hug, holding her paws tight, whispering that it would all be okay. And Wynona would believe her because Mama never lied. But Mama wasn’t here. She hadn’t been in a long time.

Wynona used to see her mama a lot. Every time they traveled, Dad always made sure to stop by Volcano Rock City, where Mama lived. It had been a big deal—every visit was special. Mama always made sure Wynona and her siblings were included, even though Iris, Cash, and Ronen weren’t really her kids. Mama treated them like they were family too, and Wynona loved that about her. She’d always have a list of things to try—new food, concerts, places to see. It was fun, and those visits were some of Wynona’s favorite memories.

But things changed five years ago. Something happened—something that made Mama scared. Wynona hadn’t understood it at the time, but she knew it was serious. Mama had been afraid for them, and the visits stopped.

Wynona had overheard a conversation she wasn’t supposed to. She knew eavesdropping was wrong, but Mama had sounded so upset, she couldn’t help herself. Mama had been arguing with Dad about something to do with Wynona’s grandfather—her mama’s father. Mama kept asking how he could do this to her. Wynona didn’t know what this was, but it had clearly shaken Mama. Dad eventually calmed her down, but it took a long time. Wynona never really learned what the argument was about. But her grandfather had been what caused it. She had never met her grandfather, and from what she had heard, he didn’t sound like a friendly troll. Wynona had heard more about Mama’s brother, though. He was a drummer, still in high school. When Wynona had asked if she could meet him, Mama said she hoped so one day, but not right now. Not with everything going on.

Wynona never told anyone about that argument, but the next day, Dad told her that the Rock King had fallen ill and that his daughter was stepping up as the active ruler. It didn’t make much sense to her back then, but she remembered the look on her mama’s face later that night when Mama had sat her down, wrapped her in the soft blanket she always kept at her house, and told her that they wouldn’t be able to visit as much anymore. 

Wynona had asked why, of course. She didn’t understand. Mama had said something about Volcano Rock City not being safe for them anymore and that it wasn’t a decision she had made alone. Dad had agreed too. But the way Mama’s eyes had shimmered with unshed tears—that wasn’t something Wynona could forget. Mama rarely cried. Seeing her like that had scared Wynona more than anything else. 

The next day, they left, and Mama hugged her tightly, her smile sad and teary. Wynona didn’t know it then, but it was the last time she’d seen her in person. She’d tried to keep in touch—writing letters, sending little drawings—but every letter came back unopened. It was like her connection to Mama had been cut off, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t reach her anymore.

Now, standing there with Uncle Floyd, Wynona felt that familiar ache rises in her chest. She just wanted her mama. She wanted the comfort of her voice, the warmth of her hugs. Mama would know what to say. Mama would be honest with her. But her mama wasn’t here. She wasn’t coming, and Wynona didn’t know when she ever would again.

As the seconds ticked by, Wynona felt the tears starting to burn her eyes. She already knew what was coming, that Uncle Floyd wasn’t going to give her the answer she desperately wanted. Not because he didn’t care, or because he was trying to shield her from the truth, but because some things were too complicated, too uncertain. And she was just a kid. Kids weren't supposed to deal with this, yet here she was.

She glanced up at Floyd, still waiting for him to say something—anything. But he just stood there, meeting her gaze with the same uncertainty she felt deep down. Neither of them moved like they were afraid that whatever came next would break something inside them.

Finally, Floyd broke the silence. His voice wavered, and she saw the tears beginning to gather in his eyes. "I don’t know," he whispered, his words heavy, raw. "I don’t know what’s going to happen with your dad... and it scares me." The crack in his voice seemed to echo through the forest.

She had wanted the truth, and now she had it. Wynona had hoped—begged silently—that he would tell her something solid, something she could cling to. But instead, she got the truth, and the truth wasn’t comforting, but it was what she wanted. The painful truth. The same fear she had been carrying alone for days now was mirrored in Floyd’s tearful eyes, and it hurt even more knowing he was scared too.

"But what I do know," Floyd continued, trying to steady his voice, "is that your dad is strong. He’s always been strong, Wynona." He paused, taking a breath like he was trying to reassure himself. "Branch is out there right now, bringing him here so that the best doctors—doctors who know about our physiology—can take care of him. But… I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’ve never heard of anything like this before."

This. They both knew what this was. Neither of them wanted to say it out loud, but they didn’t have to. The “this” was the fact that her dad had been hurt—by two people who wanted to hurt him. And why? Wynona didn’t understand. She didn’t know why they had wanted to hurt him, but they had. And now everything was so uncertain.

Hot tears streamed down Wynona's cheeks, blurring her vision as her emotions spiraled out of control. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. Her dad was strong like Uncle Floyd had said, but that didn’t mean he was invincible. That truth—the one she had been wanting to hear so badly —was crashing into her faster than she could handle. The knot in her chest tightened, the weight of it squeezing her heart until it hurt.

She hated crying. She hated how it made her feel heavy, how it left her face blotchy, and her nose running, and how it always ended with her struggling to breathe right, exhausted, and unsure of what to do next. But more than anything, she hated that it was a reminder—loud and clear—that nothing was within her control. The fear, the uncertainty, the helplessness—all of it came crashing down like an unstoppable wave, and she was too small to push it away.

Dropping the bag she quickly covered her face with her paws, Wynona let the tears fall freely. She didn’t care anymore if she was a mess. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the cold, heavy truth that she might lose her dad, and there wasn’t a single thing she could do to stop it. It made her feel useless.

She wanted her dad. She wanted her mama. She wanted someone who knew how to help her dad. She wanted a hug—a real hug that made her feel safe like everything might still be okay.

As if he could read her mind, Floyd crouched down beside her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight, protective hug. He didn’t say anything—didn’t tell her to stop crying or promise that everything would magically get better. He just held her, his arms solid and warm, like a barrier against the world. 

It wasn’t her dad, and it wasn’t her mama. But in that moment, it was something, and Wynona clung to it.

It was warm and steady—one of those hugs that made you feel like maybe, just for a second, you weren’t completely alone in the world. And in that moment, it was the only thing she needed. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer comforting words that wouldn’t have helped anyway. He just held her, and she could feel his tears, too, dripping silently onto her shoulder.

Eventually, Wynona’s tears slowed to a stop. She sniffled and slowly pulled away from Floyd, leaving behind a smear of snot on his shoulder. Gross. The sight made her feel embarrassed, but she was too tired to care. Her head and body felt heavy like all the energy had drained out of her.

“Are you okay?” Floyd asked gently, wiping the last of the tears from her cheek. “Do you want to go back inside, or stay out here a little longer?”

She didn't know. She wasn’t sure of anything at the moment. So she just shrugged, feeling a bit lost.

“Do you want something to eat?” he offered, trying again to help her settle. 

Maybe? She wasn't really hungry, but it seemed like something to do.

“We still have leftover pasta,” he added with a soft smile. “How about that? Does that sound good?”

That sounded fine. Wynona gave a small nod.

“Okay,” Floyd said, standing up, taking her paw in his before grabbing her bag of art supplies. “Let’s go get some pasta.”

As they walked back to the bunker door, the sound of their footsteps was the only thing filling the quiet space between them. Wynona stayed close to Floyd’s side, clutching his paw like it was the only thing tethering her to the moment. She still felt drained, but having her uncle there made things a little more bearable.

When they finally reached the bunker door, Floyd paused, glancing down at her. "You good to go inside?"

Wynona hesitated for a second— it was going to be weird in the bunker. Everything had felt strange ever since they arrived. The air between Uncle Branch and Uncle Bruce, Clay, and Floyd felt tense, and heavy, like there were things left unsaid. And the air between her, her siblings, and their uncles... well, that felt weird too. Not as much with Uncle Branch, and Uncle Floyd wasn’t so bad, but there was still this invisible weight hanging over them. It made everything feel... off.

She didn’t want it to be that way. She wanted to go back to the way things were before all this. Before her dad got hurt before they were taken before her world flipped upside down. She wished she could go home, back to where things made sense, where her dad was okay, and everything wasn’t so confusing. But she knew that wasn’t an option right now.

Still, she nodded slowly, her hand still held tightly by Floyd’s as they headed back into the bunker.

They stepped inside, and the quiet hum of the bunker greeted them. The space was dimly lit, cozy but a bit cluttered. Wynona felt a little better now, though her head still buzzed from crying so hard. Quietly they moved to the kitchen. It was clean. Wynona had made a mess, a big one, but someone had cleaned it up.

“Why don’t you sit down? It’ll warm up the pasta for us,” Floyd said, guiding her toward the table. He also looked surprised at the clean kitchen.

She sank into the chair, feeling the weight of the day settle in her body. Uncle Floyd gently took the bag with her new colored pencils and sketchpad and placed it on the table next to her.

As Floyd moved around the kitchen, clinking pots and pans quietly, Wynona stared down at her paws, absently rubbing her thumb over her palm. Everything felt weird—like nothing had settled in properly. Her mind was still tangled up in thoughts about her dad, about whether or not he would really be okay. She kept hearing Floyd’s words echo in her head: “I don’t know what’s going to happen… and it scares me.”

The truth hung heavy in the air, even after all the tears had dried. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that things were never going to be the same.

“Wynona?” a voice called out, tinged with slight panic. It was Iris.

Wynona’s heart sank a little. She hadn’t told anyone she was leaving the bunker, not even Iris. But she had gone with Uncle Floyd, so she figured it was fine. Dad always said she could go into town as long as she had someone with her and told him where she was going. But... Dad wasn’t here.

“Wynona, where have you been?” Iris asked breathlessly, her eyes wide with a mix of relief and frustration. She was about to continue, but then she stopped as she looked over her. Then her gaze shifted over to Uncle Floyd.

Wynona watched as Iris’s eyes narrowed, her fur started to bristle, and her tail lashed out behind her like an agitated whip. Wynona had only seen that look on Iris’s face once before—when Cash’s and Jo’s dad had randomly appeared. A cold shiver ran through her as she swallowed hard, feeling a knot of guilt form in her stomach. She hadn’t meant to make anyone worry.

Wynona quickly wiped her nose with the back of her paw, “I was with Uncle Floyd…” She said quietly, reaching for the bag beside her. “I told him about the art supplies I saw at the market, and we went back to get them,” she said as she pulled out her new colored pencils. 

Iris’s expression softened slightly at that, the tension in her shoulders easing just a bit. Her tail stopped its wild movement, though her eyes still held a hint of concern. Iris let out a long breath, the last bit of frustration fading. “Sorry, it’s just... with everything that's happened lately..” 

Floyd stepped in then, his voice calm but firm, trying to take responsibility. “Hey, I should’ve told everyone we were leaving. It’s on me, Iris. I didn’t realize anyone would be worried.”

Wynona nodded again, still clutching the bag of art supplies tightly, guilt swirling in her stomach. She hadn’t thought about how much things had changed in the past two months, and how it made perfect sense for Iris to worry about her just disappearing like that.

“Well,” Floyd’s voice broke through the lingering tension, “I’m reheating the pasta Poppy made for dinner,” he said, gesturing toward the big bowl on the stove. “Since you're here, could you go tell your siblings?”

"Oh," Iris said as she started to move towards the stove, "You don't have to do that. I can.."

"It's no trouble and I want to," Floyd said blocking her way to the stove, "But if you could get your siblings that would be a great help."

Iris hesitated for a moment, glancing between Wynona and Floyd, uncertainty flickering in her tired eyes. It was clear she wasn’t used to stepping back, but something in Floyd's gentle tone had convinced her. She took a small step back, nodding slightly. “Okay,” she said softly, still sounding a bit unsure. “I’ll be right back.”

As Iris left the room, the tension seemed to ease just a little. The sound of her footsteps faded down the hallway, and the faint clinking of dishes being set on the table filled the silence. Uncle Floyd turned back to the stove, stirring the pasta as it slowly warmed up. For a while, he didn’t say anything, just letting the quiet settle between them.

Wynona hugged the bag of art supplies a little tighter, her mind still spinning from everything that had happened.

After a minute, Floyd broke the silence. “So... I have a favor to ask,” he said, his voice gentle but curious.

Wynona blinked, a little surprised. No one ever asked her for anything—except maybe her dad when he needed help setting the table or cleaning up. She gave Floyd a curious look, wondering what he could possibly want.

He smiled, a little sheepishly. “I was hoping you could tell me what the Neverglades are like.”

That caught Wynona off guard. "The Neverglades?" she repeated.

Floyd nodded, his eyes warm and patient. “You see, I don’t know much about them,” he admitted, scratching the back of his head. “And I figured... well, you or one of your siblings probably know a lot more than I do. I thought maybe you could tell me about them. What it's like living there.”

Wynona blinked again, feeling a little caught off guard. No one had ever asked her what her second home was like in this way before. Most of the time, adults didn’t seem that interested in what kids had to say about anything important. But Uncle Floyd was looking at her like he really cared like her thoughts and experiences actually mattered.

And she was ready.

Before Uncle Floyd could even think about changing his mind or moving on to something else, Wynona’s hands were already moving. She reached into her hair—where she kept all of the important stuff—and pulled out a small stack of four books, all tied together with a piece of twine.

The first one was her personal sketchpad for the trip. It had once belonged to her dad, but he had given it to her to draw whatever caught her eye, just like when he first visited the Neverglades. The pages were filled with quick sketches of animals, plants, and strange, twisting vines that grew there. Her dad always encouraged her to practice drawing the wildlife, telling her that it would help her notice things that others might miss. It had become one of her favorite things to do on these trips.

The second book was her dad’s original notebook on the different types of poisonous and safe plants to eat in the Neverglades. Apparently, no one had ever made an official record of what was okay to eat out there, so her dad had taken it upon himself to do it. The pages were packed with his notes, small sketches, and little descriptions of the plants he had found over the years. Wynona knew this book by heart, her siblings did too. 

The third book was a copy of the second, but this one had a bunch of annotations and sticky notes from the publisher. They wanted to release a new edition, only this time in color. Most of the notes were suggestions for things like adding more vibrant illustrations of the plants and making the diagrams clearer. Wynona thought the notes were kind of silly—her dad’s book was already perfect just the way it was. She loved the way he sketched things with such care, and even the little scribbles in the margins seemed important.

And last, there was a blank copy of her dad’s book, the one he’d given her to color in herself. He had asked her if she wanted to be the one to bring his illustrations to life, saying she was much better with colored pencils than he was. The idea had made her proud, knowing her dad trusted her to finish what he’d started. Inside the cover, taped carefully to the pages, were copies of photos that Iris had taken of the plants in their natural habitats. The pictures showed every little detail—the texture of the leaves, the color of the flowers, and even the way the vines twisted and grew around each other.

Wynona loved that her dad thought of everything. He knew she didn’t always like sitting in one place for too long, so with the photos, she could color the plants at her own pace without having to spend hours outside drawing them. It was a small thing, but it meant a lot to her. He always found ways to make things easier for her, even when she didn’t ask for it.

She held up the stack, a determined look on her face. “I can tell you everything,” she said with a small, confident smile. “And I can show you too.”

Floyd raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Umm, I only have drawings," Wynona said, a little shyly, as she spread the books out in front of her on the table, "but I know Iris has more pictures, and Ronen has some video recordings." 

Floyd stepped away from the stove, his expression genuinely interested. "That sounds perfect," he said, nodding encouragingly as he walked up to her. "I’d love to see what you’ve drawn and see Iris’s pictures and watch what Ronen recorded later on. I bet it’s all amazing."

Wynona hesitated for a second before flipping open the sketchpad to one of her favorite pages. It was a drawing of a small critter from the Neverglades, with detailed shading that made its fur look soft and its eyes bright. The creature was tiny, tucked into the underbrush, surrounded by plants and flowers. She’d worked on it for days, adding in little details until it felt just right.

“This one’s called a Swamp Glider,” she said, her finger gently tracing the lines of the drawing. "They like to hang out by the water, and they’re really good at blending in with the moss and trees. Dad says they’re kind of hard to spot, but once you see one, you can’t unsee them."

Floyd smiled as he studied the drawing. “Wow, I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

She smiled as she flipped through a few more pages, showing off plants she had sketched from memory and a few animals that were common in the Neverglades.

She paused at the pages of her dad’s book, hesitating for a moment. “This is the book Dad wrote,” she explained, running her hand over the cover. “He knows all about what’s safe to eat and what isn’t in the Neverglades. No one really had that kind of info before him, so it’s a big deal, I guess.”

Floyd glanced at the pages filled with careful, hand-drawn illustrations of plants, each one labeled and described with notes in the margins. “He wrote it?” Floyd said, he was clearly impressed, but there was something else in his voice that sounded very close to regret or sadness. Why did he sound so sad?

Wynona turned back to the book and tried to not pay attention to the sadness in his voice, “Yeah, he also drew these.” she said as she flipped through the pages showing off the various drawings, “The publisher wants a second edition, with all of the plants and creatures in color. Dad asked if I wanted to do it.”

“Really?” 

Wynona nodded enthusiastically, her fingers flipping through the pages of her dad’s book with a mix of pride and excitement. “Yeah, Dad said he’s not that good at coloring. So he asked me.”

Floyd’s expression softened as he watched her, the admiration clear in his eyes, but there was also something else—something more somber. His smile was warm, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s a really big deal, Wynona. You must be pretty proud of that.”

“I am,” she said, her own smile faltering a little as she glanced up at him. “It’s fun, but it’s also kinda hard. I want to make sure I get everything right, so it looks like how it does in real life.”

Floyd nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on one of the intricate drawings. “ I understand. You’re doing something you think is important and you want it to come out just right.”

Wynona smiled, though it was a little smaller now. She wasn’t used to being praised like this—especially not for something as serious as her dad’s work. “He trusts me to get it right,” she said softly, her fingers tracing the edge of a page. “And Iris helps me too. She takes the pictures so I can get the colors right. And Ronen records the sounds some of the animals make so we can study them later.”

Floyd’s eyes flickered with that same mixture of admiration and regret. “It sounds like you and your siblings make a good team.”

Wynona nodded again, her voice quieter this time. “Yeah, we do…” 

Before either of them could say anything else on the matter, Ronen suddenly scrambled into the kitchen, nearly on all fours, his cat-like eyes wide with excitement. “Why’d ja say my name?” he asked, his bright eyes flicking between Wynona and Floyd.

Uncle Floyd gave him a warm smile, clearly amused by her brother's sudden entrance.

Wynona shot her brother a look. "Why were you snooping?" she asked, folding her arms, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"I wasn’t!" Ronen answered quickly, his voice indignant. “Iris said the food was being cooked, so I came for the food." His nose twitched as he sniffed the air, his eyes locking onto the pot of reheating pasta. "Speaking of which..." he added, stepping toward the stove, his hand inching toward the pot as if drawn to it.

“Ahn-ahn,” Floyd called out, stepping in front of Ronen before he could get any closer. “You’re gonna have to wait. It’s not ready yet.”

Ronen groaned dramatically, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh as he stared longingly at the pot. “But it smells ready,” he muttered, his tail flicking behind him as he half-heartedly pouted.

Wynona rolled her eyes at her brother’s antics, but she couldn’t help but laugh under her breath. Leave it to Ronen to turn the serious atmosphere on its head in an instant.

“Why’d ja say my name, anyway?” Ronen asked again, his curiosity clearly not letting go of the original question.

Uncle Floyd raised an eyebrow, glancing at Wynona before answering. “We were just talking about how you, Iris, and Wynona work together when it comes to your dad’s book,” he explained. “Wynona was telling me about how you record the sounds of the animals in the Neverglades.”

Ronen’s eyes lit up at the mention of his recordings, and before anyone could stop him, he launched into one of his rapid-fire rambles. “Oh yeah, that’s me,” he said proudly, his words spilling out in a rush. “I’ve got all kinds of recordings. Some of the creatures make the weirdest sounds! One time, I heard this Barkfrog, but it wasn’t like a normal Barkfrog—it had this really weird croak like it was stuck in its throat or something—"

He was talking too fast. Way too fast. Wynona could already tell where this was going. He did this sometimes—got so excited that his brain couldn’t keep up with his mouth. She wasn’t sure how Ronen could even breathe between the barrage of words. She glanced over at Uncle Floyd, whose eyes were widening as he tried to follow Ronen’s rapid speech. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration, but it was clear he was already lost. 

“They make this super cool noise, it sounds like this…” Ronen paused dramatically, taking a huge gulp of air like he was preparing for some grand performance.

Wynona felt her ears instinctively pin back against her head. Oh no, not the Barkfrog sound. She braced herself, already knowing what was coming. Barkfrogs had the loudest, most high-pitched croak she’d ever heard, and Ronen could mimic it perfectly—unfortunately. Without thinking, she reached up and covered her ears, preparing for the ear-piercing noise.

But just as Ronen was about to unleash the sound, a lime-colored paw shot out from the doorway and clamped firmly over Ronen’s mouth, stopping him from making any noise at all.

“Enough with the talk about the Barkfrog,” Cash said, stepping into the kitchen with a calm but annoyed look on his face. He removed his paw from Ronen’s mouth once he was sure his younger brother wasn’t going to continue, giving him a stern but playful glare. “We’ve heard that noise about a thousand times already.”

Ronen shot him a sheepish grin, shrugging innocently. “I was just trying to educate them.”

Cash rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he joined the group. “Yeah, well, you’ve educated us all plenty.” His tone was light, but Wynona could tell he meant it. The Barkfrog noise had gotten old fast, even if Ronen never seemed to get tired of making it.

Uncle Floyd chuckled at the interaction, glancing at Cash with an amused expression. “I take it the Barkfrog’s a common topic of conversation?”

“You have no idea,” Cash replied with a sigh, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Ronen’s basically made it his life’s mission to imitate every weird animal sound in the Neverglades,” he said as he sat down at the table next to Wynona. 

As he sat, Cash noticed the bag of her new art supplies and gave her a curious look. Wynona smiled, turning back to the table and holding up her new set of colored pencils for him to see. Cash raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed, and mouthed, Very nice.

“Not just the Neverglades!” Ronen interjected, plopping down into the seat next to Cash. “I’m expanding my sound collection. Gotta keep things interesting.”

Cash smirked and was about to say something when Iris walked in with Jo close behind. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” Iris teased, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorway.

Ronen puffed up, ready to defend his growing collection. “Yeah! You are just jealous of my superior audio skills.”

To be fair, Ronen did have the best audio skills. All it took was for him to hear something once, and he could mimic it almost perfectly—whether it was a bird's chirp, the croak of a Barkfrog, or even the rhythm of a catchy song. His ability to capture sounds had always impressed Wynona, even if he could be a bit too enthusiastic about it sometimes.

Iris raised an eyebrow, not missing a beat. “Oh. So jealous that I wish I had your magical frog-calling abilities,” she said with a sarcastic grin.

Cash, smirks from his seat before looking to Iris and chiming in, “He’s like a walking sound recorder, and he knows it. You gotta give him credit for that.”

Ronen beamed proudly at the compliments. “Exactly! I’m like a troll jukebox, but with sounds—and trust me, I’m only getting started!”

Uncle Floyd, watching all of this with wide eyes, asked, “Wait, so you can make any sound?”

Ronen, pleased by the attention, turned confidently toward him. “Yup! Anything. Animals, instruments, you name it. Got any requests?”

Before anyone could respond, Cash cut in with a grin. “How about we eat first?”

That seemed to snap Floyd back into focus. He glanced at the pot on the stove, suddenly remembering the task at hand. “Yes, food,” he said, his voice warm but a little flustered. “Iris, could you set the table? I’ll check on the pasta.”

Iris nodded and grabbed a stack of plates. 

Wynona kept her eyes on her siblings as they moved around the kitchen, but her mind wandered back to better times. For a fleeting moment, she could almost hear the melody that would have been playing if Dad had been there. It was always the same—Dad would hum or whistle a tune as he strolled into the kitchen, usually with something from Mrs. Shelly in hand. She could picture it perfectly: his deep voice rumbling with a chuckle as he set a pie on the counter, joking that Mrs. Shelly insisted he take it after helping her with some small task. 

It was always the same story. Dad would do a favor, expecting nothing in return, but Mrs. Shelly never let him leave without a pie—usually blueberry because she knew it was Wynona’s and Iris’s favorite. 

But that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

The reality hit hard. Dad wasn’t going to walk through that door. He was still in the hospital, and Mrs. Shelly, with her warm smile and delicious pies, was back in Lonesome Flats. Wynona’s chest tightened, aching for those simple, normal moments.

For a split second, the kitchen had almost felt normal. The clinking of plates as Iris set the table, usually while sneaking a taste of Mrs. Shelly’s pie when Dad wasn’t looking. Ronen bouncing in his seat, chattering excitedly with everyone. Cash throws sarcastic remarks to keep things light, with Jolene listening and matching him quip for quip. 

But this wasn’t that. There was no Iris sneaking bites, only her tired eyes as she made sure everything was set. Ronen still had his boundless energy, but it felt forced, like a performance. Cash wasn’t tossing out his usual sarcastic remarks; instead, he watched everyone like he was waiting for something bad to happen, something he needed to be prepared for. And Jolene... she hadn’t spoken much since that day, her silence heavier than what any of them were used to.

Wynona glanced at her little sister, the girl who used to fill the house with laughter and chatter, now so quiet it was like she had forgotten how to speak. Jolene’s eyes stayed fixed on the table, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the wood. It wasn’t like her to be so still. She was always the one dancing around, making up silly songs, half in tune but always full of life. Wynona missed that—missed the way Jo would light up any room, her energy warm and contagious.

Now, it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Wynona’s gaze shifted to Cash. He caught her looking, but instead of the teasing but reassuring smirk he’d usually flash, his expression was guarded, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. He had changed too. The lightness in him had dulled, replaced by a quiet tension. He was always looking out for them, but now it felt different—like he was carrying a weight none of them could see, something too big to put into words.

Wynona felt the familiar ache of missing Dad, his absence like a cold breeze cutting through the room. She knew they were all feeling it, even if none of them said it out loud. Maybe they didn’t know how. How do you explain the hollow feeling of waiting for someone who’s not going to walk through the door? How do you describe how everything feels off, even when you're going through the same motions?

The sound of plates clinking against the table brought Wynona back to the present. Iris moved methodically, placing each one down with care, but Wynona could see the exhaustion weighing her down. Her sister's shoulders slumped under the invisible burden she carried, and the dark circles under her eyes hadn’t faded in weeks. Iris was trying so hard to hold everything together, to be the one they could all rely on, but it was clear that the effort was taking its toll. Her hair was still tied up in the same messy bun she’d thrown together when they first got here, strands falling loose around her face, a quiet reminder of just how long they’d been in this strange limbo.

Ronen, of course, was still talking, filling the room with stories about the latest critter he’d recorded. But Wynona could hear the strain in his voice, the excitement that felt just a little too forced. He kept glancing around the room, waiting for someone to laugh, to tease him like they always used to. But when no one did, his words came faster, tripping over each other as if he thought sheer volume could drown out the silence that had settled over them. It hurt to watch. Ronen had always been the one to lift their spirits, to bring lightness to any room, but now it was like he was trying too hard like he didn’t know how to handle the quiet anymore.

And yet, here they were, sitting at the same table, going through the same motions, but everything felt different. It felt too quiet. The familiar routine was there, but it all seemed hollow—like a song missing its melody.

Music.

Dad always had music—a tune on his lips, no matter where they were or what they were doing. Whether they were trekking through the Neverglades or sitting around the kitchen table, there was always a hum, a whistle, a quiet song threading through their moments. And it wasn’t just Dad. It was all of them. Iris at her piano, Cash strumming his acoustic guitar, Ronen turning bird calls and frog croaks into quirky melodies, and Jolene twisting notes into something playful and uniquely hers.

Music wasn’t just background noise; it was part of who they were as a family like it was for every troll. It was woven into their lives, connecting them, grounding them no matter what was happening around them. Even if they couldn’t agree on what kind of music to play—whether it was Iris’s booming, rhythmic bass, Cash’s soft, acoustic melodies, Ronen’s creative mashups, Jolene’s playful tunes, or Wynona’s classic songs like Renegade or More Than a Feeling that Mama had introduced her to—there was always something.

But now, the silence was deafening.

Without the music, everything felt off. The silence wasn’t just the absence of sound—it was the absence of Dad.

Dad’s music was more than just melodies. It made everything feel alive, warm, and safe. His songs filled the space with familiarity, like a thread holding them together, even on the hardest days. Without him, without his music, it felt like a part of them was missing, leaving behind a heavy, unbearable quiet.

And Wynona hated the quiet.

Notes:

so here are Wynona's thoughts and feelings about everything.

Gave some info about Wynona's mama. And an idea of why she is not around. With Wynona being part rock troll it just seemed more fitting for them to be affected by Barb and the pre-world tour beliefs on the different genres than just having JD have shit taste in all romantic partners he's ever had. I do plan on her (and the other parents) making an appearance at some point but it won't be for a bit.

I mentioned two songs near the end, Renegade by Styx and More Than a Feeling by Boston. Wynona's mom is more of a classic rock troll- so music from bands like Styx, Boston, Journey, Meatloaf. Those were all bands my mom grew up with and she raised me on so I wanted to include them somehow.

Things are getting busy for me so I don't know when the next chapter will be out. but it is going to be a Bruce POV.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11: Bruce POV

Bruce POV

"We need to talk."

That was it. That was the first thing Floyd had said to him and Clay when they woke up that morning—no pleasantries, no small talk—just straight to the point. Bruce could still picture the night before, walking into the kitchen and seeing all the kids sitting around the table with Floyd, picking at the leftover pasta Poppy had made. At first glance, it had seemed like a sweet, normal moment—everyone together, eating and talking. But then, Bruce had felt it, that strange tension in the air. Something was off.

Bruce couldn't begin to imagine what Floyd had learned that was so pressing, so urgent, that he needed to have this conversation now. After everything that had come out in the last twenty-four hours—heck, the past four days—he wasn't sure he had room to process anything more. The emotional overload had been staggering, and the newest revelations had only added to the weight. Seeing John in the hospital had been hard, but Bruce kept telling himself that John would bounce back—he always did. 

And then there was the news that he was an uncle. That hadn’t rattled him as much as he thought it would. After all, hadn’t he been guilty of something similar? Keeping secrets from the family? He hadn’t told any of them about his own kids or his marriage. He had tried to reach out at one point—sent a letter to the tree. But no one would’ve gotten it. Clay and Floyd had left right after he did, and Branch and Grandma had escaped before the postcard even arrived. He’d sent another to the Neverglades, but who knew if John had even been there at the time? Had John already returned, believing them all to be dead? Where had John been for the past twenty years? What had he been doing? The questions spun endlessly in Bruce’s mind, unanswered and unsettling.

And then there were the Bergens. The idea that Branch had helped make peace with them was... unimaginable. Bruce still couldn’t wrap his head around it. Years— decades —of living in fear of being eaten, of watching Bergens celebrate Trollstice like it was some grand, cruel holiday. He couldn’t believe that centuries of horror could be wiped away with a single conversation, no matter how much Branch insisted it was so. 

Then came the shock of discovering the existence of other music genres. Bruce vaguely recalled hearing snippets of different styles during his time on Vacy Island, but even there, they stuck mostly to one kind of music. Now, learning about whole tribes that lived with their own distinct sounds—rock, funk, country—was a revelation. It made him realize just how small and sheltered their corner of the world had been.

And the hardest part of all: John had come back only to leave believing that they were dead. Dead for the last twenty years. How do you even begin to process that? How does someone move on from thinking their entire family is gone? How had John coped with that, and what had it done to him? Bruce had no idea how to even begin addressing it, let alone untangling the mess of emotions tied up in that revelation.

It was all too much. Too much to think about, too much to feel. And now Floyd wanted to talk. Of course, he did. Bruce wanted to talk, too—just not like this. Not yet. Not so soon after everything had come crashing down. What could Floyd possibly have to say after everything that had happened? What conclusion had he already reached? What had Floyd seen or understood that Bruce hadn’t? 

Because there was a lot Bruce had missed. Too much.

Looking back, Bruce could see all the things that had flown right over his head growing up. He’d been blind to Grandma and John’s struggles, too wrapped up in his own world to notice the deepening rift between himself, Clay, and John. That rift wasn’t just something that had happened—it was something they’d built, stone by stone, with every unspoken word, every misunderstood gesture. Floyd’s quiet burden of responsibility, the weight he had carried without a word, had slipped past Bruce as well. He never saw it, never thought to ask if Floyd was okay.

Therapy had opened Bruce’s eyes to it all, and showed him just how hurtful things had been back then—for his family, and for himself. It had helped him heal, little by little, piece by piece. And he knew it could do the same for his brothers if they could just find the right person to talk to. But that wasn’t going to happen here. The village had its charm, but Bruce knew that beneath the surface, mental health had never been high on the list of priorities. It was all about keeping up appearances, staying upbeat, and acting like everything was fine. There wasn’t even a proper therapist here, he was sure of it. Honestly, it was a wonder they had a doctor at all.

But that didn’t matter—there were good therapists back home, ones he knew could help. They just had to get there. His brothers had their own scars to work through, scars left over from their childhood, and their unresolved issues with their parents. And then there was John. How do you even begin to heal after spending who knows how many years thinking your entire family was dead? How do you recover from nearly dying yourself?  

And the kids—Bruce hadn’t forgotten about them either. They needed help too. They’d seen too much, been through too much. And just like the adults, they were dealing with their own complicated feelings about their parents, feelings that would only get messier if left untended.

They needed help. All of them.

Bruce was pulled out of his thoughts by Clay’s voice. “Okay, Floyd, we’re here. What do you want to talk about?” His tone sounded more tired than annoyed, but the frustration from the previous day’s info dump was still there, simmering beneath the surface.  

Floyd let out a deep sigh while his tail mindlessly waved back and forth. “We need to keep each other up to date on what we’ve learned about the kids—and Johnny.” He glanced at his brothers, his voice distant, like his mind was still sorting through everything. “I found out some new information you two should know.”

Another sigh, this one heavier, as if Floyd was still debating how to begin. Bruce could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he paused, searching for the right words. 

“Okay…?” Clay pressed, his patience thinning. “What is it?”

“I learned some things about Wynona’s, Cash’s, and Jo’s other parent,” Floyd finally admitted, his reluctance clear. His eyes flicked to Bruce, and Bruce felt a pang of guilt tighten in his chest. That first night, Bruce had been the one to push the issue, and it hadn’t gone well. He had pushed too hard, too soon. He was going to apologize to Cash—he needed to apologize. But every time he thought about bringing it up, the fear that it might make things worse held him back.

Still, this was critical information. They needed to know about their nieces’ and nephew’s other parents. Right now, they were in the dark, and that was dangerous. Who were these trolls? Were they a threat? Were they people John trusted once, but something changed? If so what changed? Or were they trolls he loved, who just couldn’t or wouldn’t be there? Bruce’s mind spiraled with questions. The fact that JD hadn’t involved these trolls in the kids’ lives told Bruce there had to be a reason —and not a trivial one. John would never keep someone from their child unless something serious had happened. Growing up without any parents around had been hard for them all, and Bruce knew John wouldn’t want to do the same to his own kids. 

That’s why this was so important. They needed to understand who these trolls were. And right now, Floyd was the only one who seemed to know anything.

Bruce straightened, his nerves tightening as he prepared for whatever Floyd was about to share. “Is it bad?” he asked, breaking the tense silence.

“I don’t think so,” Floyd replied, crossing his arms. “At least, not with Wynona’s mother.”

Mother. Wynona’s other parent was a she. 

“Okay,” Clay said, the impatience in his voice giving way to curiosity. “Why do you think that?”

“Because Johnny was willing to make an effort to have her in Wynona’s life,” Floyd answered, his tone still cautious.

“Alright, cool,” Bruce chimed in, trying to keep calm while he tapped his fingers on the kitchen counter. “Where is she now?”

“Well, if my theory about Wynona being part Rock troll is right, then her mother should be living in Rock territory somewhere.”

“Did Wynona say anything else about her?” Clay asked. The annoyance that had been etched in his face was starting to fade. Whatever frustrations Clay had were draining out of him, leaving only the desire for answers.

“Not really,” Floyd said, shaking his head as he leaned back against the counter. “Only that she has an uncle she’s never met… other than us.”

Bruce let that sink in. If Wynona’s mother was alive and somewhere in the Rock territory, why hadn’t she been contacted about her daughter’s custody? “If Wynona’s mother is around, why wasn’t she here when Wynona was in the hospital? If she cares enough to be in her kid’s life, why wouldn’t she show up when it matters?”

“She may not know they were even in the hospital,” Floyd suggested.

“What do you mean?” Clay asked.

“Well,” Floyd continued, “from what I was told, the different genres have always kept to themselves and haven't been all that open to each other. But since King Thrash stepped down and let his daughter have control, Rock has pretty much cut itself off completely. Very little news comes out of there, and even less goes in, especially from other genres.” He shrugged. “John has four other mixed-genre kids. If Rock wasn't safe anymore it would make sense for him to keep his distance from it.”

At least they had some information now. Wynona had another parent who, at one point, had wanted to be part of her life. John hadn’t been raising the kids completely on his own—he’d had someone at his side, at least for a time. Now they just needed to find her. 

“This is good to know,” Bruce said, though his mind was already moving on to the next question. “What about Cash and Jolene?”

Floyd hesitated for a moment before answering. “Cash and Jo—her siblings call her Jo, by the way, so that might be her preferred nickname—they’re full siblings.”

Full siblings. That meant whoever their other parent was, JD had loved them enough to have two kids with them—two kids almost ten years apart. And one of those kids had happened after John had already had two more with two other trolls else. Yet, Cash didn’t seem to want to talk about this troll at all. Every time the subject came up, Cash shut down. Bruce felt his fur bristle along his spine. Even if this troll was someone John had cared for, Cash’s reactions were enough to put Bruce on edge.

“Cash doesn’t seem to like them,” Clay said aloud, eyes fixed on the floor, echoing Bruce’s unease.

“Johnny and he must’ve had a falling out,” Floyd commented, sounding just as wary.

Him. So Cash and Jo’s other parent is a he. 

“And they got back together,” Bruce added, trying to keep his voice steady, “or at least had another kid together.” The pieces weren’t adding up. If John had cared about this troll so much, why had they separated? Why was Cash so against even mare mentioning them? Everything pointed to something bad, and Bruce didn’t like it. It made Bruce’s fur prickle even more. 

“You know,” Clay said with a groan, “I never thought we’d be up at the crack of dawn discussing John Dory’s dating history.”

Bruce let out a light chuckle. “At least we’re actually getting somewhere now.”

“True,” Clay agreed.

Floyd, however, seemed more serious, his brows knitting together in thought. “And why do we care about this?” he asked.

Bruce sighed, feeling a weight press onto his shoulders. He had his reasons for wanting to find these trolls. The main one was to confront them for not being there for their kids—for not helping John. What kind of troll abandons their children and leaves their partner to handle everything alone? To Bruce, it was all too familiar. It reminded him of their own childhood, of parents who were never there when they should have been and he hated it.

“They should be here,” Bruce said, his voice thick with anger. “They have a responsibility to these kids. They should be here, caring for them, protecting them.”

But they weren’t. Instead, John had been doing everything on his own, again. The memory of growing up without his own parents came rushing back—how it hurt to watch his friends spend time with their moms and dads while he and his brothers were left behind, wondering if theirs would ever come back. That pain had never really gone away.

Bruce’s words seemed to quiet Clay and Floyd, both of them looking suddenly disheartened. Did they not remember how it felt, growing up without parents?

“At least now,” Clay said softly, his voice losing its usual edge, “we know some of them were in the kids’ lives, at some point.”

It was a small consolation, but it mattered. They weren’t starting from zero. They had a few pieces of the puzzle, enough to start figuring things out, at least with Wynona, Cash, and Jo. Bruce was still trying to wrap his head around it all, but the more immediate concern weighed on him: Iris and Ronen. Their other parents were still a mystery, and Bruce couldn’t shake the feeling that uncovering those details was going to be complicated.

“All we need to do now is figure out who Iris’s and Ronen’s other parents are,” Bruce added, his thoughts still tangled. “And if they’re good trolls, we can decide if we want to reach out.”

“Ronen’s is going to be the hardest to find out about,” Floyd commented offhandedly like he was already bracing for what was to come.

Bruce shot him a confused look. “Why do you say that?”

“Becauuuusssseee…” Floyd dragged out the word, his reluctance obvious, making it clear he was regretting even starting this conversation.

Bruce watched as Clay, ever the impatient one, rolled his eyes and let out a dramatic sigh. “Becauuuusssseee… what?” Clay demanded, stepping closer to Floyd as if he could pull the answer out of him by force.

Floyd shot him an annoyed look, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. “Okay, look, this is just a theory,” he started taking a step forward to meet Clay, his voice reluctant and cautious. “But… Iris is nineteen, right? And we’ve been separated for almost twenty years now.” He paused, his words slowing like he didn’t want to say them aloud. “For her to be that age right now… John would have had to have been…” He trailed off again, the implication hanging heavy in the air.

Bruce felt the lump forming in his throat before Floyd even finished. “Unless Iris is lying about her age—which, let’s face it, she has no reason to.”

Clay blinked, stepping even closer to Floyd, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “Woah, hold up.” His voice wavered between skepticism and shock. “Are you implying that in the months leading up to our breakup, John Dory was…”

“Pregnant,” Bruce finished, the word like a punch to the gut.

The room seemed to freeze at that moment. It couldn’t be true. Could it?

Bruce’s mind raced, struggling to piece together the fragmented memories of those last few months before everything fell apart. John hadn’t been in a relationship, or at least not one Bruce had known about. No one had mentioned anything—nothing that hinted at this. But then again, Bruce thought grimly, maybe John had tried to say something, and none of them had listened.

Bruce felt that lump in his throat grow, his thoughts swirling in painful clarity. How many times had John tried to talk to him, only for Bruce to brush him off? How many times had he turned a cold shoulder when John needed someone? Anger had consumed him back then, and John—well, John had been too much to deal with, or at least Bruce had thought he was. The constant need for control, the way John always had to involve himself in everything, always trying to parent everyone.

Had Bruce missed something that huge? Had John been carrying that burden all alone, thinking they wouldn’t care? Or worse—that they didn’t care? 

Clay seemed to catch onto the tension as well. His voice softened, cutting through the thick air. “Wait… if John was pregnant, why wouldn’t he have told us?”

Bruce couldn’t meet his brother’s eyes. Maybe he did, he thought bitterly. Maybe John had tried over and over again, only to be shut down. John had always been the one to reach out, to try to fix things. But how many times had Bruce ignored him? How many times had his anger gotten in the way?

The realization hit Bruce hard, a wave of guilt crashing over him. Maybe John couldn’t tell them. Maybe John had tried, but they were too wrapped up in their own lives to notice. Too busy being angry, too busy blaming John for things that weren’t even his fault.

“I don’t know,” Bruce finally said, his voice tight. “But if that’s the case, then we missed something… something big.”

The tension hung heavy between them. No one moved. No one spoke. They were all trapped in their thoughts, each grappling with a deep sense of guilt and uncertainty. Bruce’s mind raced. There was nothing they could do now—John was the only one who could answer their questions, but he was asleep in a hospital bed, hundreds of miles away. Iris likely didn’t know anything about this, and even if she did, Bruce doubted she had any reason to share it with them. 

So they waited. They had to. There was no choice but to sit with the unknown until Branch came back with John, and then they’d have to wait for John to wake up.

The silence broke when Clay abruptly walked out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Floyd asked, his voice tinged with irritation.

“For a walk,” Clay answered without looking back.

Bruce just watched him leave. There was no point in stopping him—not when there was so much to process. Clay needed time, just like Bruce did.

The air in the room felt thick with unresolved tension as Bruce watched Clay walk out, leaving him and Floyd alone in the uncomfortable silence. Floyd’s tail flicked back and forth, frustration evident in every movement.

“For a walk?” Floyd repeated, his irritation growing. “I tell him something mind-blowing, and he just wants to go for a walk?”

Bruce let out a heavy sigh. He understood Clay needed space—he felt overwhelmed too. “What do you want him to do, Floyd?”

Floyd threw his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know, maybe sit down and talk about this like an actual family for once!”

Bruce rubbed a paw over his face, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. “We will, Floyd. I think Clay just needs a moment to process everything. I mean, I still haven’t had time to even sit and really think about the fact that John’s in the hospital and has five kids.” He huffed lightly. If my own kids don’t give me gray hair, John’s sure might.

Floyd gave a short, humorless chuckle before leveling Bruce with a pointed look. “You mean you two will come back together and talk this out.”

Bruce frowned, confused by Floyd’s tone. “What are you talking about?”

Floyd looked at him sharply, his frustration bubbling over. “Don’t act like you don’t know.” Floyd snapped. “You and Clay do this all the time when we were younger. You always have. 

Bruce’s confusion deepened. “What do you mean? We didn’t—”

“Oh, come on, Bruce.” Floyd cut him off, his frustration bubbling over. “Anytime something big happened—whether it was about the band or life in general—you and Clay would run off and have your little side conversations. You’d leave everyone else out of it”

Bruce blinked, taken aback. “That’s not—”

“Yes, it is!” Floyd insisted, his voice rising with emotion. “It’s always been that way. You two make sure to come to the same conclusion about everything. You did it with Johnny when it was just the three of you, and you kept doing it when I joined. Every time there was a group decision, you’d make sure you and Clay were on the same page first. It was like no one else’s point of view mattered. At least when Johnny made a lone decision, he asked for our opinion first.”

Bruce stood there, stunned. He hadn’t realized Floyd felt this way. The words echoed in his mind—had they really been excluding him all this time?

It wasn’t intentional. Growing up, Bruce and Clay had always been close, practically inseparable. Only a year apart in age, they shared almost everything—inside jokes, chores, even their frustrations about how things were run at home. John, being two years older, had always been busy with his own things—school, music, or simply being the responsible older brother. Floyd, on the other hand, was two years younger than Clay and had always been quieter, more reserved, often slipping into the background.

What had started as a way for Bruce and Clay to voice their opinions—to get their say in decisions about chores or dinner—had somehow evolved into a pattern, one they hadn’t realized they were creating. Bruce thought back to when Clay first joined the band. He and Clay had naturally fallen into the same rhythm they’d always had, discussing things, making plans, and handling problems the way they always did—together. They hadn’t stopped to think about how their closeness might be leaving Floyd and John out.

But now, as he replayed Floyd’s words, Bruce realized there were countless moments—moments he hadn’t even noticed—where Floyd might have felt exactly that. Excluded. Left on the outside looking in. Not just by John, but by him too. Floyd was shy, sure, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to be part of things. It just meant it was harder for him to insert himself into the conversation, especially when Bruce and Clay were so wrapped up in their own world.

Bruce could picture it now—those long afternoons when he and Clay would be talking about band stuff, music, or anything else that mattered to them at the time. Floyd would be there, nearby, listening but never quite joining in. And they hadn’t noticed. Maybe because they assumed he was fine with it, or maybe because they were just too focused on their own bond to see that he wasn’t.

And John... well, John had always been the eldest, the one who seemed so independent, so capable of handling things on his own. Bruce realized now that maybe he had made the same mistake with John too, assuming his older brother didn’t need him or Clay as much because John always seemed so self-sufficient. But John might have felt excluded too, in his own way.

“We didn’t do it on purpose, Floyd,” Bruce said quietly, the weight of the realization settling heavily on his shoulders. “We weren’t trying to leave you out.”

Floyd’s eyes were still sharp, though some of the anger seemed to dim, giving way to something more vulnerable. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter anymore,” he repeated, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Because we’re not starting that again. Branch is supposed to be back tonight or tomorrow morning, so I’ll tell him everything I’ve learned, and then we’ll all talk it out. Together.”

Bruce nodded slowly, the weight of Floyd’s words settling over him like a heavy fog. There was so much unspoken history between them, things they’d never really addressed or even acknowledged. Floyd had every right to be angry. This wasn’t just about what was happening now, with John and the kids—this was years of unresolved hurt, built-up frustrations, and old wounds that had never healed. The ways they’d unintentionally hurt each other, the things they’d ignored or buried to avoid confronting their own pain. 

“And the kids need to be included too,” Floyd said abruptly, cutting through Bruce’s thoughts.

Bruce blinked, taken aback. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked, concern lacing his voice. “After everything that’s happened, wouldn’t that just add to their stress?”

Floyd paused, his brows furrowing as he weighed Bruce’s words. His expression softened as he began speaking, quieter this time. “Wynona asked me yesterday if Johnny was going to be okay,” he said, the sadness clear in his voice. “She sounded so small and scared. I hated telling her that I didn’t know.”

Bruce exhaled, understanding Floyd’s struggle. “Floyd, that’s a hard conversation to have with anyone, let alone a kid.”

“I know,” Floyd interrupted, his voice growing more insistent. “But she still wanted to know what was happening. She deserves to know. I remember feeling the same way when I was her age—asking questions about Mom and wondering if she’d ever come back.” He sighed deeply, a mixture of frustration and pain in his tone. “I used to ask Grandma, but she’d just say, ‘Your mother will come back when she’s ready.’ It never helped. It just made me feel more confused, more alone.”

Bruce could hear the weight of old wounds in Floyd’s voice. The years of unanswered questions, the uncertainty that had plagued their childhoods—it was all still there, bubbling just beneath the surface.

“But that’s not the point,” Floyd continued, shaking his head as if clearing away the memories. “The point is, the kids want to know what’s happening. They should know. I don’t want them to go through what we did—being left in the dark, wondering if it’s okay to ask questions, or worse, feeling like they can’t. We’ve already seen what happens when there isn’t enough honest communication.”

Bruce flinched at Floyd’s words, knowing exactly what his brother was referring to. Floyd wasn’t just talking about Wynona’s question or the uncertainty surrounding Johnny’s situation. He was bringing up their past, the years they’d spent as brothers not talking about what really mattered—their feelings, their fears, their frustrations with each other and their parents. Floyd was right to be frustrated. If they’d communicated better back then, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe they wouldn’t have spent twenty years with so much distance between them.

“It’s true,” Bruce said, his voice heavy with the weight of old regrets. “We didn’t handle things well back then. We kept too much bottled up.”

Floyd nodded, a grim look on his face. “Exactly. And I don’t want to repeat those mistakes with the kids. They’re already dealing with so much. They need to know what’s going on, even if it’s hard. They’re smart. They can handle more than we think.”

Bruce paused, letting Floyd’s words sink in. “I get what you’re saying,” he admitted. “But they’re still so young. They should be able to spend their time being kids, not worrying about all this adult stuff. That’s why we’re here—to protect them from that.”

Floyd shook his head. “Protecting them doesn’t mean keeping them in the dark. It means being honest with them, giving them the chance to understand what’s happening, so they don’t feel blindsided or scared because they’re left out.”

“You’re right,” Bruce said finally, nodding. “They should know what’s happening. We’ll have to figure out the right way to tell them—what details to share, how to talk to them about it without overwhelming them. But we need to do it together, as a family. When Branch gets back, we’ll come up with a plan.”

Floyd gave him a small, appreciative smile. The tension between them wasn’t gone, but it felt like a step in the right direction.

“And if we’re going to include them in what’s going on,” Bruce continued, his voice taking on a more determined edge, “we also need to think about getting them the right kind of support. They’ve been through so much, and they’re going to need help processing everything.”

“Like a therapist?” Floyd asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Bruce sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s what I’d prefer. Someone who can help them with their emotions, with everything they’ve been through. But that’s another conversation we’ll need to have with everyone.”

Floyd nodded thoughtfully, his expression more serious now. “Okay, that seems fair.”

“I was going to go back to the market later,” Bruce continued, shifting topics, “I’ll see what they have in ways of counseling, see if there’s anyone local who specializes in trauma or family issues.”

“Why were you going to go back to the market?” Floyd asked curiosity in his tone.

“I saw some things I wanted to grab for dinner,” Bruce replied with a shrug. “I was also going to ask about some of the kids’ favorite snacks so we can have them around the house. I figure, if they’re staying here for a while, we should make the place feel more like home for them.”

Floyd hummed thoughtfully, then said, “You could take Iris and Cash with you.”

Bruce’s stomach twisted. The idea didn’t sit well with him. It didn’t take a mind reader to see that Iris wasn’t exactly fond of him. Cash, on the other hand, seemed to downright dislike him. He’d probably soured that relationship from the start by being too pushy about Cash’s dad, and now the thought of spending time alone with the kid made him uneasy. He was just about to protest when Floyd spoke again, cutting off his chance to argue.

“This would be a great opportunity to apologize to Cash,” Floyd pointed out, his tone knowing, as if he could predict Bruce’s every thought. “And it would give Iris a chance to see how you actually are when you’re not in the middle of a crisis. You need to build some trust with them, Bruce. Start small.”

Damn it. Floyd was right. Bruce hated how he always had a way of backing him into a corner like this, leaving him with no valid excuse. Apologizing to Cash *was* something he needed to do, even if he felt awkward about it. And Iris… maybe if she spent a little time with him outside of the house, she’d stop seeing him as just another authority figure looming over her. 

Bruce exhaled deeply, surrendering. “Alright,” he said, reluctantly. “I’ll ask. But if they don’t want to come with me, I’m not going to force them. I’m not in the business of dragging kids along who don’t want to be there.”

Floyd held up his paws in a gesture of surrender, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “That’s all I’m asking. Just reach out. See where it goes.”

Bruce nodded, watching as his younger brother turned to leave the kitchen. But before Floyd could disappear entirely, Bruce spoke up again. “Floyd?”

Floyd stopped in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“We’re going to talk about these things,” Bruce said, his voice firm but softer than before. “All of this… we’re going to work it out.”

Floyd’s expression shifted, a flicker of something almost hopeful crossing his face. “I know,” he said quietly. Then, with a final nod, he left the room, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts.

Bruce stood there for a long moment, processing everything. There was still so much to navigate—mending relationships with the kids, rebuilding trust with his brothers, and figuring out how to handle the unknowns around John and the other parents. But at least now they were starting to move in the right direction. Small steps forward. Now he just needs to find Iris and Cash.

— — — — —

Well, Bruce found them.

Not that it was difficult—they were all living in the same house, or more accurately, bunker. Branch's place. He wasn’t sure what to call it, but it felt like a house in all the ways that mattered. The point was, that Bruce found them. 

Were they happy about it? Not really. Were they angry? Also, not really.

When Bruce asked about their favorite snacks, Iris met him with that familiar skepticism—the same guarded look she seemed to have for anyone who wasn’t one of her siblings. It was becoming her default expression around him, and while Bruce couldn’t blame her, it still made this more awkward than it needed to be. He tried to keep things light, mentioning he was heading back to the market and thought he might pick up some snacks for the house. That’s when the language switch happened.

“ Also, was willst du tun? ” Iris said, turning to Cash and completely ignoring Bruce as if he wasn’t even standing there.

Cash hesitated for a second, looking unsure. “ Ich weiß nicht... ”

Bruce watched as Iris flicked her tail, clearly annoyed. She glanced at him, and Bruce just smiled, trying not to let on how out of the loop he felt. Whatever they were saying wasn’t a language Bruce had ever heard before. The only thing he could do was hope it wasn’t something too harsh. Did John know this language? Did the other kids?

“Ich vertraue ihm nicht,” Iris said bluntly.

Bruce wasn’t fluent in body language, but he knew enough to recognize distrust when he saw it. Her narrowed eyes, the way her tail flicked quicker—it all screamed, I don’t want to be here.

“Vertraust du einem von ihnen? ” Cash responded with a small shrug, his tone much softer, more neutral. 

That made Iris pause. Her tail stopped flicking so quickly, though it was still swishing back and forth, a clear sign of agitation. She seemed to consider something before glancing at Bruce again, this time a little less guarded. 

“Wenigstens versucht er es,” Cash added quietly. “Papa wäre verärgert, wenn wir einfach ignorieren würden, wie einer seiner Brüder versucht, Kontakt aufzunehmen.”

Bruce wasn’t sure what Cash had just said, but whatever it was, it worked. Because now, here they were, on their way to the market. 

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, silently thankful that the conversation—whatever it had been—ended in his favor. He knew building any kind of trust with these kids would take time, but maybe, just maybe, this was a small step in the right direction.

"Thanks for coming along," Bruce said after a few minutes of walking, hoping to break the awkward silence that had settled over them. Iris was a few steps ahead, her eyes scanning the path like she was on patrol, always alert. Cash stayed close to his sister, glancing at Bruce now and then, but keeping quiet.

Bruce couldn’t help but notice how different their dynamic was from what he had been expecting. He was still learning about who these kids were, and every small interaction felt like a new piece of a puzzle he didn’t fully understand yet.

“Listen,” Bruce began again, trying to keep his tone light, casual. “I know things have been... a lot lately. But I’m really glad we’re doing this. I don’t expect it to be easy, but I want to try.”

Iris didn’t respond, her tail flicking slightly as she kept her gaze ahead. However, Bruce noticed the faintest twitch of her ears—like she was listening, even if she didn’t want to show it.

Cash looked like he wanted to say something, but every time he glanced up at Bruce, he seemed to retreat back into himself, as if gauging what was safe to reveal. He wasn’t quite ready to step forward, and Bruce realized with a pang of guilt that *he* would have to be the one to bridge that gap.

You are going to need to be the one to reach out first. You can't expect them to step onto the bridge when you're not willing to do so first. He took a deep breath, letting the weight of the moment sink in. 

“And to start,” Bruce said, his voice steady but soft, “I’d just like to say I’m sorry.”

That stopped Iris in her tracks. She actually turned to look at him, eyes wide with surprise. Cash looked equally shocked, but Bruce couldn’t figure out why. Had they really expected him to not apologize? That didn’t matter right now. What mattered was following through.

"Cash," Bruce continued, making sure to look the boy in the eye. "I let my own experiences with my parents cloud my judgment, and I overstepped a boundary. That’s not okay. I shouldn’t have done that to you. And for that, I am sorry. In the future, I’ll do better to not let that happen again."

They both looked hesitant, unsure. But Bruce could see something shifting in their expressions—whether it was belief or just the shock of hearing him apologize, he couldn’t tell. Cash glanced at Iris, waiting for her cue. She didn’t say anything, only giving her brother a slight shrug before continuing ahead.

Cash stood there for a moment, tapping his fingers nervously against his leg. Bruce was struck by how young the boy seemed at that moment—despite his tall, strong frame, there was a vulnerability in his posture that made Bruce painfully aware that Cash was only fourteen. And Iris? She was just nineteen. Kids, both of them, are thrust into a situation far too heavy for their age.

"You know, Dad’s never talked about his parents before," Cash said quietly, almost as if testing the waters with that admission.

Bruce nodded. That wasn’t a surprise. John had always been private about their parents—there wasn’t much to talk about when their only interactions with them had been limited to fleeting, cold visits, or being dumped at their grandma’s doorstep.

“They weren’t really around when we were growing up,” Bruce said, choosing his words carefully. He wasn’t ready to unload the full weight of their dysfunctional upbringing onto Cash, but he also didn’t want to lie.

“Oh,” Cash muttered, looking down at the ground.

“Yeah,” Bruce continued, the air between them growing heavier. “I thought I’d worked through those issues, but... there might still be some things I need to figure out.”

Cash just made a small, noncommittal sound, clearly not eager to dive deeper into that conversation. But Bruce wasn’t done yet.

“I really am sorry, Cash,” Bruce repeated, hoping to drive home that he meant every word. “I’m trying to do better.”

“It’s fine,” Cash said, though his voice sounded weary, almost defeated. But it wasn’t fine. Not really.

Before Bruce could respond, Cash added quietly, “You’re not the first. And you’re not going to be the last.” He shrugged, the movement almost resigned.

Bruce felt a pang in his chest. That wasn’t the kind of thing a kid should ever have to say. “So it happens a lot?” he asked, concern lacing his voice.

Cash shrugged again, but this time his expression was harder. “I have hooves and a pair of horns,” he said, almost dismissively. “Trolls have questions. It happens.”

Bruce clenched his fists, trying to keep his anger in check. Not at Cash, but at the fact that this kid—his nephew—had learned to accept this kind of treatment as just part of life. It shouldn’t happen, not ever. But there it was, a reality that Cash seemed resigned to. And Bruce knew, now more than ever, that he couldn’t fix everything overnight. He could only start with small steps: apologies, listening, and being present.

“Trolls back home don’t ask anymore,” Cash continued, his voice quiet but steady. “They don’t ask any of us about it anymore, honestly. And if anyone outside of home asks Dad normally deals with it.”

Bruce caught on to the subtle pain in his nephew’s voice, and a question formed in his mind. “Home?” he asked gently. “Lonesome Flats, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Cash agreed, his tone shifting slightly as he mentioned the place.

Bruce decided to press further, curious about the place they called home. “What’s Lonesome Flats like?” he asked, hoping the question would draw Cash out a bit more.

“It’s home,” Cash replied simply, but there was a protective warmth in his voice. “It has a desert’s nature, dry and harsh, but it’s ours. The whole place has a Wild West theme—saloon doors, old wooden buildings, you name it. It’s small, and everyone knows each other.”

Bruce nodded, trying to picture the dusty streets and the tight-knit community Cash was describing. “Sounds like a pretty close community.”

“Yeah,” Cash said, a flicker of a smile passing over his face. “It’s small, so word gets around fast. Sometimes it’s annoying, but... it’s also kind of nice. There’s a lot of freedom out there, y’know? You can ride for miles without seeing another troll, but when you come back, everyone’s there. It’s home.”

Bruce could hear the affection in Cash’s voice as he spoke about Lonesome Flats, and it gave him some comfort. At least Cash had that—a place he felt connected to, where the rest of the trolls had stopped asking questions.

“Sounds like a good place to grow up,” Bruce said, his voice warm with genuine interest.

Cash gave a small nod, though Bruce noticed a heaviness behind his nephew’s response. “It is,” Cash said, his tone quieter now. He paused for a moment as if weighing his next words carefully. “My father wasn’t around much when I was younger.”

The statement hit Bruce like a punch to the gut. He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden confession. “He wasn’t?”

Cash shook his head, his expression distant, eyes focused somewhere ahead but clearly not seeing the path in front of him. “He was always off doing something more important. At first, Dad said he was working, but... I don’t know if that was true or just something he told me to make me feel better,” he said, voice steady but layered with an emotion Bruce couldn’t quite place. “He was around sometimes, but only if it was something really important.”

Bruce felt his stomach twist. Something more important? What could possibly have been more important than being there for your own son? He glanced at Cash, wondering how long the kid had carried this feeling around—this sense of being second to whatever "important" thing his father had been doing. Did Cash feel like he hadn’t mattered enough? The thought gnawed at Bruce.

“Important?” Bruce asked, his voice softer now, careful not to sound judgmental, though the question itself held a weight neither of them could ignore.

“Yeah,” Cash said, his tone matter-of-fact, but there was an edge beneath the words. “Like a matter of life-or-death important.”

Bruce’s chest tightened. He wanted to push, to understand more, but he could already sense the protective wall Cash had built around this topic. Before Bruce could even think of asking more questions, a high-pitched scream ripped through the air, jolting him back to the present. His head snapped around, scanning the small clearing. Iris! Where was she?

His heart raced as he realized she was nowhere in sight.

“Where—” Bruce started, but Cash was already gone, sprinting down the path without another word. It was like he knew exactly where the scream had come from. Without a second thought, Bruce sprinted after him, pushing through the trees until they emerged from the forest into the bustling market.

Except it wasn’t bustling anymore.

Chaos reigned. Trolls were running in every direction, their once calm and relaxed atmosphere shattered. Some were shouting, others fleeing, and the energy in the air felt frantic and dangerous.

Another scream rang out, higher-pitched and full of panic. Bruce turned toward it, his chest tightening.

At the center of the commotion, a massive creature—something Bruce couldn’t quite identify—was causing havoc at a vendor’s stall. The creature looked like a bizarre mix of a beige and red striped armadillo....cat.....caterpillar, and a bus, covered in mud and towering over the stall. Its green limbs flailed awkwardly, and on its head, headlights blinked as if trying to make sense of the chaos it was creating. But despite its size and strangeness, the creature didn’t seem aggressive—it looked more confused, sniffing around the market’s supplies.

Behind the vendor’s counter, Bruce spotted two figures cowering. The scream hadn’t come from Iris; it came from a gold-glittered troll with rainbow hair, who was currently hiding behind an orange troll with purple hair streaked with white. The orange troll—clearly frightened—was waving a stick, trying to keep the enormous creature at bay.

The creature wobbled, letting out a strange sound, almost like a low hum, as it continued sniffing the stall. Bruce could tell it wasn’t trying to destroy anything—it almost seemed careful, like it was searching for something specific. Maybe it had lost its baby and the vendor’s high-pitched screams resembled the sound it was searching for?

Then a sharp whistle pierced the air.

The creature froze mid-motion, its head-turning, confused. The vendors behind the stall stopped screaming, their wide eyes watching in shock as the creature backed away.

Bruce’s eyes followed the sound and found Iris standing a few yards back, her posture steady and composed. She hadn’t moved during the commotion, hadn’t panicked like everyone else. He watched in stunned silence as she brought her paw to her mouth and let out another whistle, this one longer and more deliberate.

The creature let out a strange, excited wobble, its confusion disappearing before it responded instantly, an excited wobble shaking its massive body. Then, without warning, it charged toward Iris, barreling down the path at full speed.

Bruce’s heart dropped. His entire body tensed, panic surging through his veins. He had just found her, and now she was about to be run over—or worse—by this monstrous thing. He wanted to move, to yell, to do something, but he was frozen, forced to watch as the creature barreled toward her.

But just as quickly as it had charged, the creature skidded to a stop right in front of Iris, its hindquarters lifting into the air, nearly causing it to tumble over itself. For a moment, Bruce could hardly breathe. 

But Iris didn’t move. She stood her ground, calm and unafraid.

Just when Bruce thought the creature would flatten her, it skidded to an abrupt halt right in front of her, its massive back end lifting into the air as it nearly toppled over from the sudden stop. He braced himself for the sound of impact or for Iris to scream, but instead, there was laughter.

Pure, unfiltered laughter.

It was Iris.

Bruce blinked, caught off guard. It was the first time he’d ever heard her laugh, and it was infectious, full of joy. He watched as the creature—now much less menacing—wobbled excitedly, its massive head gently nudging against Iris.

“Rhonda!”

Notes:

Hey sorry for the late update. School is slowly draining me of the want to do anything.

So here are some of Bruce's thoughts, him reevaluating some of his decisions, and him trying to bond with Iris and Cash.

Rhonda is also here now

The language Iris and Cash are speaking is German. I don't speak German so I used Google Translate. If anyone out there reading this speaks German please tell me don't be nervous about telling me what's wrong with it. I will fix it. but until then here's what I was trying to say:
Iris: "So what do you want to do?"
Cash: "I don't know.."
Iris: "I don't trust him."
Cash: "Do you trust any of them?" "At least he's trying... Dad would be upset if we just bluntly ignored one of his brothers trying to reach out."

Also, I am sure many of you have already guessed who Cash's and Jolene's father is. I haven't done much to hide it and there are many references to him in previous chapters. I am showing him in a certain way because it is important to the plot later on, he would have been a different troll when he and JD met to who we know now, and because Cash is an unreliable source about him. (I love unreliable narrators in any media)

Lastly, I want to include some of the characters from the Trolls series, I have just never watched them so I don't know anything about their personalities. If anyone has any insight about them go ahead, put them in the comments, and I'll see how comfortable I am with writing them in.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12: Cash POV

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who comments, likes, and just reads this fic. I was very nervous about posting this and about the idea of writing it, but y'all have been very supportive and its just really nice to see. So thank you.

Cash POV

Cash sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him, heart pounding in his chest. Rhonda! Rhonda was here! Alive, big, loving, and her happy self, the armadillo-bus had found them. He didn't slow down until he collided headfirst into her large, familiar head, wrapping his arms around her with a grin so wide it made his cheeks hurt. Rhonda, with her usual warmth, nuzzled him back, bringing Iris along with her. This lets the two siblings be enveloped by their old friend with a purr.

They hadn’t seen her in two months. She’d been with them when they were taken, trying her hardest to defend them. But there was only so much she could do on the ground when they were high in the trees above her. None of them had known what had happened to her while they were imprisoned in those bottles, but Dad had assured them she could take care of herself. He had said she would find them again, and now, here she was. The sight of her made Cash want to cry.

A voice interrupted the moment, pulling him out of his thoughts. Still resting a hand on Rhonda, Cash turned to find his uncle Bruce, looking nervous, standing in front of maybe two dozen pop trolls. All of them standing at a cautious distance. Their eyes were wide with fear, and Cash felt a flicker of confusion. 

Were they… scared of Rhonda? That couldn’t be right. Rhonda would never hurt anyone. She was gentle and friendly—at least, not intentionally dangerous.

“What is that thing?” an orange troll with purple and white-streaked hair cried out, pointing at Rhonda.

“Trickee!” a glittering gold troll scolded, still looking slightly fearful.

Thing? Cash felt the fur on his spine prickle. Rhonda wasn’t a thing . She was their friend, their protector, family. Before Cash could snap back, Iris beat him to it, her ears flattened and eyes blazing.

“She’s not a thing!” Iris shouted, glaring daggers at the orange-haired troll.

For a second the orange troll, Trickee, looked surprised but then he squared his shoulders, his own fur puffing up. “Well, she,” he spat, gesturing at Rhonda all while matching Iris’s energy, “has caused massive amounts of damage and terrorized the village! For all we know, she could have eaten someone!”

“Rhonda would never!” Iris shot back, stepping forward, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. Her ears were pinned back, and her whole stance bristled with defiance. To anyone watching, it was clear she wasn’t going to let anyone insult Rhonda without a fight.

But Trickee didn’t back down, “How do we know that?” he challenged, his voice sharp. “For all we know, she could’ve hurt someone!” He took a step of his own.

That was all it took for Cash to react. Without thinking, he stepped up beside Iris, planting himself firmly next to her. 

As soon as he moved, Rhonda growled, a deep, rolling sound that seemed to vibrate the very ground beneath their feet. It wasn’t loud, but it was powerful—an unmistakable warning.

Trickee’s bravado wavered, his confident stance faltering as he darted a glance at the massive armadillo-bus towering behind the two siblings. He might have been used to asserting himself, but Rhonda was something else—something no one could easily stand up to when she was in protective mode.

The effect was instant. Every troll in the crowd froze, wide-eyed and tense, as if they were rooted in place by fear. Then, like a wave, they all took a step back, glancing nervously from Rhonda to each other.

Cash’s eyes roamed the marketplace, confusion gnawing at him. This didn’t make sense. Rhonda had never hurt anyone, so why were they so afraid of her?

That’s when he saw it. The stalls around them weren’t broken, but they had definitely been shifted—pushed off-kilter, leaving a path of disruption. It wasn’t random; the trail followed the same route he and his siblings had walked the day before. A realization sparked in his mind, and he remembered Wynona saying she’d gotten her art supplies from a gold glitter troll with rainbow hair—the very vendor Rhonda had been sniffing around earlier.

Rhonda had been following their scent, Cash realized, feeling a pit form in his stomach. She hadn’t meant to cause any harm. She had just been trying to find them this whole time.

Before things could escalate further, Bruce stepped in between Iris and Trickee, raising a hand to calm the growing tension. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the noise. “What happened was an accident.”

Cash, still noticing the fear in the eyes of the trolls around them, blurted out, “Rhonda doesn’t eat trolls or attack them,” maybe that was a little too fast. The sudden attention made his fur prickle with discomfort. He wasn’t used to this many eyes on him. “She eats bugs, like beetles or grubs,” he explained, rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants. “And she didn’t mean to scare anyone. She was just looking for us by smell,” he said backing up to place a paw on her snout to show she was nice.

The crowd’s murmuring hadn’t fully stopped, but Cash could see that some trolls were still skeptical. He swallowed nervously, his mind racing for something more—something that would make them understand and trust them. Sympathy. “We’re Branch’s niece and nephew—” Cash started, his voice a little shaky. It was a gamble, he knew it was, but Cash didn’t have anything else to go off of. Before he could even finish, the tone of the crowd shifted. 

The moment they heard "Branch," a chorus of “ohs” and sympathetic sounds rippled through the group. Faces softened, and the tension in the air seemed to ease. Even Trickee looked more subdued at the mention of their youngest uncle. Cash could almost feel the collective mood change as if the mere mention of their connection to Branch had instantly made them more trustworthy and given all the information they needed to know. Maybe more trolls knew about them than he and Iris originally thought.

The crowd’s murmuring faded to a low hum as Ms. Poppy landed gracefully in front of them, her eyes scanning the scene with concern. Cash instinctively took a step back, until his back was against Rhonda’s head. He could feel Iris shift beside him, tense but relieved, her glare from earlier now replaced with wide-eyed surprise.

“What happened here?” Ms. Poppy’s voice was calm but firm, very different from the upbeat tone she’d used when they first met her. Her gaze moved from the off-kilter market stalls to Rhonda, then to Cash and Iris, clearly assessing the scene.

Before Cash could respond, Trickee spoke up from the crowd, some annoyance still clear in his tone. “That...She" he corrected, "caused a mess! Almost knocked over half the market.”

Iris tensed beside him, a sharp breath escaping her. Cash placed a gentle paw on her arm, a silent plea for patience—he knew Iris wasn’t great with other trolls, especially with trolls she saw as threats. 

Taking a steadying breath, Cash locked eyes with Ms. Poppy, feeling the weight of the moment press down on him. His heart was pounding, but he spoke anyway, knowing Rhonda’s future might depend on this. “Rhonda didn’t mean to,” he began, his voice both pleading and strong. “She was just looking for us. She’s our armadillo-bus. She’s... big, yeah, but she’s friendly.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully, knowing he had to convince them. “She belongs to our dad,” he added quietly.

As soon as he mentioned his dad, an ache surfaced in his chest. He hadn’t wanted to bring up his dad’s situation, hadn’t wanted to use the fact that he was still in the hospital as a way to win sympathy, but he couldn’t let Rhonda be forced out, not when they’d only just been reunited. The crowd didn’t understand what she meant to them—what she meant to him. Rhonda was more than just a pet; she was family. She was a constant, a piece of stability in a life that felt like it had been constantly shifting since everything happened. 

Cash could feel a prickle behind his eyes, but he swallowed it down, standing straighter, hoping Ms. Poppy would see the sincerity and desperation on his face. Rhonda had been through just as much as they had, and he wasn’t about to lose her again—not after everything they’d all endured to find each other again.

Ms. Poppy’s expression softened as she looked up at Rhonda, her initial wariness shifting to a thoughtful gaze.

Bruce stepped forward, backing up Cash’s explanation. “Cash mentioned she was just following their scent.”

Cash nodded, relieved someone understood. “Yeah, we were separated for a while. She was just trying to find us.”

Ms. Poppy gave a reassuring nod, then turned to the crowd, holding up her hands. “It sounds like this was all just a big misunderstanding,” she said, her gentle authority washing over the group like a calming wave. “Rhonda isn’t dangerous—she was just trying to reunite with her family.”

The crowd murmured again, but this time the fear was fading, replaced by a more understanding tone. Some trolls nodded, others exchanged glances, and even Trickee seemed to soften, though he still crossed his arms with a huff.

Ms. Poppy smiled, then turned back to Cash and Iris. “Let’s make sure everything’s fixed up,” she said. “And, Cash?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

Ms. Poppy looked at him, a little surprised. “Just Poppy is fine.”

Cash couldn’t stop himself from making a face—calling her “Poppy” felt strange, almost too familiar. She just laughed, though, and went on, “Maybe we can find a safer place for Rhonda to rest? Somewhere she won’t accidentally knock over any more stalls?”

Cash nodded eagerly, grateful that Ms. Poppy had stepped in and that the crowd was finally calming down. Taking her lead, he and Iris moved quickly to guide Rhonda toward the edge of the clearing, steering her gently away from the crowd before anyone could second-guess their intentions. When they were far enough from the market stalls, they paused, giving Rhonda a chance to settle.

Then, unexpectedly, Bruce cleared his throat from behind them. Cash hadn’t realized he’d followed. Bruce stood a few paces back, his gaze lingering on Rhonda with a mix of curiosity and caution. “So,” he began slowly, eyeing the massive creature, “who’s this?”

Rhonda fixed him with a calculating stare, her large, expressive eyes trained intently on the unfamiliar troll. Cash watched, half-amused and half-anxious, as she seemed to size Bruce up. But after a moment, she relaxed, her tongue lolling out in a soft pant—a sign that, at least for now, she’d deemed him trustworthy.

“Rhonda,” Iris replied blankly, already examining their armadillo-bus for any signs of injuries or wear and tear. She ran her hand over Rhonda’s side, checking the sturdy shell paneling for dents or scrapes.

“And... she belongs to John- your dad?” Bruce asked his tone somewhere between interest and disbelief.

Iris glanced at him briefly before going back to her inspection. “Belong to or has chosen to stay with us, it doesn't matter.” Iris answered with a shrug, “She’s been with us since I was three,” she said quietly, lovingly patting Rhonda’s side. 

Cash, standing beside her, noticed that Iris was acting a little unusual. She was being unusually talkative, a side of her that only showed when she was fully comfortable. It was strange to see. However, Rhonda always had that effect on her, providing a calming presence whenever Iris or their dad was feeling tense.

Just then, Cash noticed Bruce fiddling with something in his hair. 

“What's that?” he asked.

“Oh, it's a letter,” he answered pulling out an envelope from his hair. It was still strange seeing him—this uncle who, not long ago, had been a stranger—now standing there, looking like he had something important to say.

“Letter?” she asked, her eyes still on Rhonda but her attention clearly on Bruce. Normally, she wouldn’t have been so engaged, but there must have been something about Bruce’s tone that held her interest. Cash noticed the flicker of surprise on Bruce’s face as if he hadn’t expected Iris to engage.

“Yes,” Bruce replied. “I need to keep my wife up to date.”

Iris tilted her head, still petting Rhonda. “About what?”

Bruce cleared his throat, clearly trying to navigate the conversation carefully. “What the plan is now, how it may change, and how everyone is doing.”

“The plan?” Iris pressed, finally pulling her gaze away from Rhonda and focusing fully on Bruce. Cash tensed, sensing where this was headed. Ever since everything had happened, "the plan" felt like something decided about them, not with them. Before all this, their dad had always included them in his plans, whether it was something as small as deciding on dinner or as big as where they were going next.

Bruce shifted uncomfortably under Iris’s questions. “The plan for you and your siblings,” he explained.

“What was the plan?” Iris asked her tone a mix of curiosity and wariness.

Bruce hesitated before answering. “Well, my original plan was to take you home with me.” He paused, and Cash could feel the weight of everything Bruce wasn’t saying. Then he added, “Actually, my original plan was to get John out of whatever trouble he got himself in.”

Trouble? Cash’s chest tightened. Trouble? What trouble? Did Bruce think all of this was their dad’s fault? Did he still think that? Had he even tried to understand what had really happened?

Iris’s ear flicked with irritation, and before Cash could say anything, she muttered, “Oh, well, we didn’t think any of you would show up.” Her tone was casual, but the words landed like a punch.

Bruce flinched, visibly stung by her words. Cash’s stomach sank; he could see just how deeply that comment had hurt him. In an effort to soften things, he added, “That’s because Dad always said how y’all were dead and everything.” He meant it to clarify, though he realized too late that it probably didn’t help much. Great. I’m really not helping.

Bruce’s expression flickered—hurt, confusion, maybe even regret. Did he know that Dad thought they were dead? Did any of them know? Uncle Branch knows….well he knows now. Did he tell them? They seemed so disconnected, and fragmented, like a family that had once fit together but had somehow come apart over time. Cash couldn’t imagine his own family being that way. Can we please just change the topic?

After a long, tense silence, Bruce finally spoke, his voice quiet but tinged with disbelief. “If you don’t mind me asking, who did you think would be coming to get you?”

Finally, a safer topic. He answered without even thinking, “I thought it was going to be Aunt Delta.”

Bruce blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. He looked puzzled, and Cash realized that the confusion made sense. Of course, Bruce wouldn’t know about Aunt Delta.

Aunt Delta wasn’t related to them by blood, but through friendship—a bond that for them was as strong as any family tie. She had been part of their lives for as long as Cash could remember. She and Dad had met when Iris was just shy of four years old, long before Cash was even born. Their friendship had started with a misunderstanding, one of those stories their dad liked to tell with a chuckle while Delta blushed in embarrassment. Aunt Delta had mistaken them for cattle thieves because the ranch owner hadn’t told her someone was coming to take pictures of the bumble-cows. After things were cleared up—thanks to a shared meal and a warm place to stay—their friendship blossomed. 

Aunt Delta had always been Cash’s favorite person outside of their immediate family. And from what Cash could tell, she was tied for first place with Uncle Styx—another of their dad’s friends, but still practically family in all but blood—who happened to be Iris’s favorite. Delta and Styx were the kind of people you could count on no matter what, and Dad valued them deeply. Before she was elected sheriff, Aunt Delta had made regular visits to spend time with them, something that became a cherished tradition.

Cash had started it when he was just three years old, right after a difficult time for their family. It had been about a month after the bounty hunter incident—a mess of chaos and danger that left his dad wounded and on edge. Cash remembered overhearing his father being asked to “go figure things out for a change” after the whole ordeal by his dad. It was one of the few times his dad had actually yelled at someone. After that, his dad had been so jumpy, and nervous about them leaving the house without someone trustworthy by their side. That’s when Aunt Delta had shown up with a home-cooked meal and a listening ear, her quiet way of helping when things got tough.

Then Cash, being the impulsive three-year-old he was, decided to follow Aunt Delta when she left one day, slipping out without so much as a word to his dad. By the time he finally returned, he was in so much trouble. But a month later, when he’d finally served out his grounding, his dad surprised him by agreeing to let him spend an entire day with Aunt Delta. A couple of weeks later, Iris joined in, and soon, these days with Aunt Delta became a regular thing, a little tradition woven into their lives. Even now, nine years later, that tradition has held strong even with each additional sibling. It was something they had all looked forward to. 

Iris turned to him, “I thought it was going to be Uncle Styx.”

Of course, she did. If Aunt Delta was his person, Uncle Styx was hers. Styx was practically a second dad to Iris, having been in her life since she was just eight months old. He is an alternative troll from the neutral territory close to the Rock broader, Styx had first crossed paths with their dad when he approached him, with his nephew Carter’s encouragement, to see if he’d be willing to write songs for a band he managed. This was back when dad and Iris were living in the Neverglades full time and only ever went into town when they needed something they couldn’t get in the forest. From what Styx had told him, dad had become quite known for being a wild troll who would come to town, sell a song, buy what he needed, and leave without another word to anyone.

From what Cash had gathered over the years, Styx had to do some serious persuading to get their dad on board. At first, their dad wanted nothing to do with what he called “that toxic mess” from his old music life. Styx, though, had been patient, eventually offering him the chance to bring along any family he wanted, any and all family he wanted to bring. It was that promise of safety and stability for all of his family that made their dad finally consider it.

Iris had told him once that Styx gave their dad a week to think it over, during which they’d returned to the tree where their dad had grown up. Iris, being only a trolling, remembered their dad telling her to be quiet because what she had called “monsters” lived nearby—a story that, at the time, sounded like something made up to scare him. Cash had gone straight to their dad, curious and a little scared, only to find that the truth was even more complex but just as scary. 

It had taken their dad a long time to talk about his brothers and why things ended with them as they did. All his siblings knew there had been a falling out and that his brothers were dead,- well supposedly- but only he and Iris knew the real details of how it happened. It’s something none of them liked to think about it.

After that visit to the tree, their dad had finally accepted Styx’s offer, and they’d stayed for two years before having to leave again. Cash knew those years were significant for his dad—finding a path back to music on his own terms and dealing with the loss of his brothers and grandma all with Styx’s support. Styx had been the first real support for their dad and Iris when they needed it most. And even when they had to move on, Styx had stayed a steady presence in their lives, visiting regularly or having them come to see him and his band. That band had also become like family, close enough to be cousins—a mix of friendship and loyalty that had been there for them through all the ups and downs.

For Iris, it was only natural that Styx was the one she’d expect to come if something went wrong. Styx was her person, her constant—he’d been there for her and her dad from the start, through every difficult moment. To Iris, he was as close as a family got, not because of blood, but because he’d always shown up when they needed him most. And Delta, too, had always been there for Cash, guiding him and giving him a sense of normalcy amidst the unpredictable life they led.

Learning they had uncles out there, that they still had family, was incredible—a shock, even. But it didn’t carry the same reassurance. They’d grown up knowing Styx and Delta, trusting them, building memories, and relying on them as family, even without the official title. It was hard to feel the same about strangers who’d only just reappeared.

Bruce’s voice interrupted Cash’s thoughts. “Who are Delta and Styx?” he asked, his gaze flicking between Cash and Iris, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

“They’re... family friends,” Cash replied, knowing the words didn’t come close to capturing who Delta and Styx really were to them. But how could he explain it? How could he tell Bruce that these two trolls were more like family than distant second hand memories of uncles, who hadn’t even known he and his siblings existed?

“Oh,” Bruce replied awkwardly. “That's nice. Have you known them long?”

Iris gave him a sharp look, like he’d just asked the dumbest question imaginable. “Does it matter?” she said, her tone edged with irritation. She’d been unusually open today, but the conversation was veering into territory she wasn’t ready to share with him yet.

Bruce seemed to take the hint, his gaze dropping briefly as he answered his own question. “So... for a while,” he murmured, almost as if to himself.

Cash nodded. “Yeah.”

“Long enough to see them as family,” Bruce murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a strange edge to it, a mix of guilt and something close to resentment, as though he was grappling with something that had been buried for a long time.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick and awkward. Cash shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Iris, who was pointedly focused on Rhonda and showed no sign of caring if they continued this conversation or not. Cash felt a nagging urge to fill the silence, but he had no idea what to say. He felt he should respond, but with what? Sorry, your brother thought you were dead? Sorry, your brother made friends outside of your family? Sorry, we found people who were there for us when you weren’t? Sorry, we barely know you because no one tried to keep in touch?

He glanced over at Bruce, who was staring off as if lost in thoughts he didn’t dare voice. Was Bruce going to say something? Did he want to? Or maybe Cash was the one who was supposed to break the tension. 

Finally, Bruce spoke, almost as if to himself. “I don’t think we’ll be welcome back to the market any time soon.”

Cash blinked, caught off guard. That wasn’t what he’d expected Bruce to say, not in the least. He could feel his own surprise mirrored on Iris’s face as she looked up, equally unprepared for the comment before it quickly shifted into a smile.

“Well,” Iris began, a hint of a grin tugging at her lips, one that Cash could practically hear. “We may not be welcome back, but that’s not the case for you.”

Bruce gave her a curious look, eyebrows raised. “I guess that’s true.”

Iris stepped around to Rhonda’s front, giving her a gentle pat on the shell before glancing at Bruce. “If you wanted to take care of any errands, you still could.” She took a careful step closer to him, and Cash noticed the subtle hesitancy in her movement. After years trailing Iris through the Neverglades, he knew her tells—confident Iris moved without a second thought, but quiet steps meant she was treading carefully. She was nudging Bruce toward something, though Cash wasn’t sure exactly what.

Bruce’s gaze drifted back to the market, fingers clutching the edge of his letter. “I suppose I could… but I don’t feel right just leaving you both here on your own.”

Iris looked around with an exaggerated casualness. “We can see you from here, and you can see us. We’ll stay right here and wait until you’re done.”

Bruce’s hesitation softened, his glance shifting back to the market. “You’re right… and I do need to send this letter.”

Cash fought back a grin, amused as he watched Bruce start to cave, unknowingly falling for Iris’s oldest trick.

“That’s right! Besides, we wouldn’t want your wife to worry,” Iris added with a knowing smile, before turning more genuine. “By the way, what’s her name? I don’t think you mentioned it.”

“Brandy,” Bruce replied, his voice almost shy as he spoke her name. Then he cleared his throat and continued, “Alright, I’ll send this off. But while I’m at it, could you both make a list of the kinds of snacks your siblings might want in the bunker?” He fished a small notebook and pencil from his hair and held them out.

Iris seemed momentarily caught off guard- it caught him off guard too-, glancing down at the notebook as if it were an unexpected offering. “Oh, you really don’t have to… We can just grab stuff later.”

Bruce shrugged, giving her an encouraging look. “We could, but we’re here now, and I said I’d do it, so I am.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Iris nodded. “Okay,” she said, still sounding a little uncertain.

“Jo likes anything with peanut butter,” Cash offered quickly, eager to keep the momentum going before it grew awkward. Bruce’s expression softened, and he nodded as he scribbled it down.

“Wynona likes dried mangoes,” Iris added, a bit more quietly. “If you can’t find dried, though, regular’s fine—we can dry them ourselves.”

Bruce chuckled, nodding as he continued to jot down notes. “Got it. And Ronen?”

“He’s not picky,” Cash replied with a shrug, and Iris chimed in, “He’ll eat anything, as long as it fits in his mouth.”

Bruce chuckled again, murmuring, “Noted. I’ll make sure it’s bite-sized.” Then, he looked up at them, brow raised. “And you two?”

Cash shared a look with Iris, “We’re good,” Cash started to say, not wanting to be any more trouble, but Iris quickly interrupted.

“Cash likes roasted pecans. Really, any kind of roasted nut,” she said, giving him a look that dared him to argue.

“And Iris likes blueberries,” Cash countered just as swiftly, not letting her pretend she didn’t have a favorite too.

Bruce wrote it down, nodding thoughtfully. “Alright, got it.” He glanced back up at Rhonda, who was currently sniffing the ground, blissfully unaware of the trouble she’d just caused. “While I’m gone, maybe you two can start thinking about where we could put Rhonda once we’re back at the bunker.”

Iris’s head snapped up, clearly surprised. “You don’t mind if she comes with us?” Her tone held a mix of surprise and hope.

Bruce’s expression softened with genuine confusion. “Why wouldn’t she? You explained it was just an accident, and you were right—she didn’t hurt anyone on purpose. I trust you both on that.” He gave Rhonda a look that had a hint of amusement as if he was already beginning to accept her as part of this makeshift family. “Besides, it’s clear she’s important to you. I don’t see why she can’t come along.”

For a moment, Iris just stared at him, as if waiting for him to change his mind, but when he didn’t, her shoulders relaxed, and a small smile slipped through. “I just figured… after all that happened at the market, you might be against the idea.”

Bruce shook his head. “I believe you. Rhonda may be a bit… unpredictable,” he admitted with a chuckle, “but I can see she wouldn’t hurt anyone intentionally. We just need to work out the logistics. She may not fit inside the bunker itself, but there’s plenty of space outside where she can stay safe.”

Cash watched as the tension between Iris and Bruce eased slightly, a shared understanding settling between them. Rhonda huffed in contentment, her tongue hanging out in that relaxed way she had when she felt secure as if even she understood she was officially coming along. 

Cash and Iris stood side by side, watching Bruce make his way down the road toward the market. Cash waited until Bruce was a good distance away before he turned to his sister with a raised eyebrow.

“What was that about?” he asked, curiosity lacing his words.

Iris just gave him a steady look, brushing his question aside. “Come on,” she replied, a sudden seriousness settling over her, “we need to check out Rhonda’s living quarters.” Without waiting, she headed to the door of Rhonda’s compartment.

Cash rolled his eyes but followed after her, stepping into Rhonda’s interior, which was in disarray he hadn't fully registered before. The place was cluttered, the usual mess amplified. He recognized their family’s scattered belongings in every corner: photos and notes that had once decorated the fridge now lay scattered across the floor; clothes, possibly his or any one of his siblings, were tossed around carelessly as if frozen in time from that day. Colored pencils lay strewn on the floor from Wynona and Jo’s last creative burst. Even his dad’s spare glove lay across the console, forgotten but waiting to be used. Everything was exactly where it had been—just covered in the haze of an abandoned mess.

Iris took a sharp breath, catching Cash’s attention. He saw her tense, her thumb claw pressing hard into her palm, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she looked around. Seeing her like that hit Cash with an ache he hadn’t been expecting. Lonesome Flats was the home he knew, but for Iris and their dad, Rhonda had been their home once, their safe place on the road.

He reached out, placing a comforting paw on her arm. “We can worry about fixing things later,” he said softly, sensing that now wasn’t the time to bring up the clutter. “What was it you wanted to do so badly that you had to get rid of Bruce?”

Iris rubbed her eyes with the palm of her paw before reaching into her hair, pulling out something small and unassuming, yet heavy with meaning. It was a tape—a familiar one, with worn edges and a handwritten label smudged from tears. Cash’s heart skipped. He knew this tape.

“We need to hide this,” she said, her voice steady but carrying a weight that Cash recognized all too well.

The tape had been in Ronen’s camera that day—the day they’d been taken. He hadn’t known Iris had kept it. As the realization hit, Cash felt a dull ache spread across his ribs, a tightness creeping around his sides as if something invisible had clamped down, squeezing too hard. His mind flashed back to fragments he didn’t want to remember, images of a hand reaching out at him and sounds of his little sibling's screaming that haunted him every night in that bottle. He didn’t want to think about it, not now—not ever.

He looked at her, wide-eyed. “Why do you still have this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Iris’s gaze drifted back to the tape in her hand, her fingers tracing its worn edges as if it held every answer they’d ever need. “Because,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “this is the only proof of what really happened. No one else saw it but us.” Her eyes rose to meet his, her expression resolute yet somber. “Something tells me we might need it someday.”

Cash felt a twist of frustration in his chest. “If it’s so important, then why is it still here? Why didn’t you hand it over to someone?”

Iris shook her head, biting her lip. “I tried. I thought maybe one of the Rageon cops would take it seriously, but they wouldn’t listen. And then…” Her voice caught. “Then Branch showed up, and I just—I couldn’t.” Tears began to well in her eyes again.

Cash’s voice softened. “Why didn’t you give it to him? Or Floyd, or Bruce, or even Clay? Ms. Poppy, even… anyone.”

She blinked, her expression hardening. “And let them see what’s on it?” Her words came out sharper than she intended, her grip tightening on the tape. “No. I’m trying to protect this family.”

“They’re supposed to be family too,” Cash insisted, his own voice quiet but firm. “Maybe they’d understand… that it was an accident.”

Iris let out a low, mirthless laugh, her tail flicking in agitation. “You and I both know what happened,” she said, her voice edged with bitterness. “We were supposed to look out for each other, and we failed.”

Cash swallowed, his throat tight. “Maybe they won’t see it that way.”

Iris fixed him with a fierce stare, her voice unsteady but intense. “So you trust them?” she demanded. “You trust them not to blame her? Or us? Or Dad for allowing that situation to happen in the first place?” Her voice shook as she continued, each word laced with disbelief. “Didn’t you hear Bruce today? ‘My original plan was to get John out of whatever trouble he got himself in.’ And Clay… the way he talked on the Crittervan. They’re ready to blame him without even knowing the truth of what really happened.” She paused, taking a shaky breath. “So tell me, Cash—do you really trust them?”

Cash felt the sting of tears at the edges of his eyes, his vision blurring slightly as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice thick. Branch, they could trust him. And Floyd. “Branch and Floyd… they don’t seem so bad. They at least—” He stumbled, searching for the right words. They could trust them…right? “They… I just don’t know, Iris.”

She shook her head, frustration breaking through her sadness. “No, don’t do that, Cash. Don’t start down this road again.”

“Start what?” he shot back, feeling his own frustration simmering beneath his sadness.

“This,” she replied, exasperation sharpening her tone. “Every time we meet someone new, you get this feeling, something you won’t share. It’s like you’re just waiting to see if they’ll disappoint us.” She sighed, her voice softening. “Would you please, just this once, trust your gut and tell me what you feel?”

Cash’s gaze lingered on the tape as he tried to gather his thoughts, his words slow and careful, almost as if he were talking to himself as much as to Iris. “If I’m being honest, I don’t really know what to think about Dad’s brothers. There’s nothing wrong with them, but they’re just… different. Different from what we’re used to, different from Dad, different from Delta and Styx, and different from what is expected of Pop trolls." At the involuntary mention of Delta and Styx, another thought came to him, "And calling them ‘Uncle’ feels weird, you know? Like it’s this title I’m not sure they’ve really earned yet.” He glanced at Iris to see if she understood. “I mean, I didn’t grow up around them, so they don’t feel like family the same way Dad or any of our honorary family does. To me, they’re more like strangers with kind of familiar faces—people who should’ve been close, but just… feel distant.”

Cash had felt awkward every time he thought about calling Branch “Uncle.” The word just didn’t feel right. But then again, Wynona had already started calling Floyd “Uncle,” so maybe it wasn’t so strange. Branch, after all, wasn’t like most trolls. He didn’t have that fake cheerfulness that Cash had come to expect. His kindness was the sort that didn’t expect anything in return.

“Branch is…” Cash paused, searching for the right word. “He’s nice, in a way that doesn’t make me feel like I owe him anything. He doesn’t ask a lot of questions and doesn’t act like he gets everything we’re dealing with. He just… lets things be.”

Cash realized how rare that was, especially in a world where everyone else seemed to demand answers. “Most trolls ask too many questions,” he went on, his voice softening. “Or worse, they assume things without asking. But Branch doesn’t do that. He just… lets the quiet happen. And somehow, that makes it easier. Like I don’t have to be on guard all the time. I know it might sound weird and may not make any sense to you,” Cash continued, “But I actually feel okay around him. Like I don’t have to explain myself every second or feel like I have to.” He glanced at Iris, "And I see it with you too."

Iris was someone who barely trusted anyone outside their family. Cash knew she didn't mean anything hurtful by it, she had just trusted the wrong trolls one too many times. However, it seemed she was okay with Branch. She wasn’t exactly open, but she was different around him, and that was surprising. She wasn’t tense and didn’t snap or glare like she usually did. For Cash, that was enough to consider that Branch might really be as good as he seemed and that it wasn't all in his head.

“Floyd is nice too,” Cash continued, thinking aloud. Floyd was nice—no doubt about that,“but he’s… different. He kind of hovers, you know? Not in a bad way, but it’s like he’s not sure if he’s helping or overstepping. It’s like he’s always second-guessing himself.” Cash shook his head, still trying to work through his mixed feelings. “He really wants to be there for us. I can see that and I appreciate that but it's like he isn't always sure how to do it without intruding." Sometimes it was like Cash could feel Floyd’s uncertainty and it put him on edge.

Still, Cash knew Floyd’s effort mattered, and it helped that Wynona trusted him. She seemed comfortable around Floyd, and his genuine effort to be part of their lives did count for something, "Wynona really seems to like him. He even got her those art supplies from the market, and she hasn’t stopped talking about it since.”

Iris smirked a little, a glimmer of amusement breaking through her somber expression. “Yeah, he did.”

Cash gave a slight smile, but something still nagged at him. “It’s just… there’s this awkwardness. He’s not pushy like Bruce, but there’s this hesitation like he doesn’t know where he fits in yet. It’s its own kind of uncomfortable.”  

The mention of Bruce brought a heaviness back to the conversation. “Bruce, though… he’s a different story,” Cash sighed, his shoulders slumping. “He’s pushy. It’s not that he’s a bad guy—I can tell he means well—but he goes about things in a way that’s just… hard to deal with.” Bruce wasn’t the first troll to be curious about their lives, but he didn’t just ask questions—he practically pushed answers like he could fix things that weren’t his to fix. Cash had dealt with plenty of trolls like him over the years, ones who thought they had a right to dig into your life. Cash had learned how to handle them, how to deflect and dodge their questions. But Jo wasn’t ready for that kind of pressure.

He looked at Iris, noticing how Iris’s jaw tightened. She was thinking about Jo too—he knew she was. Jo didn’t need that kind of pressure, especially with their dad still in the hospital. Cash’s frustration spiked—not because of Bruce’s questions themselves, but because he felt the need to protect his siblings, especially Jo, from trolls who didn’t know when to back off. Yet, Bruce did something unexpected, something that no other troll had really done before—he’d apologized. That had caught Cash off guard. Most trolls didn’t bother apologizing for overstepping, but Bruce did. It didn’t erase Cash’s frustration, but it softened something. Bruce was at least trying to make things right, and that was more than most trolls ever did.

“And Clay…” Cash hesitated, unsure of how to even begin. “Do you remember that stray critter we tried to befriend when I was five or six?"

"The grumpy one?" she asked looking at him confused, "The one that no matter how much we'd tried to coax out with food and kind words, it wanted nothing to do with us?"

Well, that's not how he would have put it, "Yeah," Cash answered, "Clay reminds me of that critter. He just keeps to himself, and barely talks to us unless he has to. It feels like he’s just… tolerating us.” He wasn’t outright mean, but he didn’t try to connect either. He kept his distance like he preferred his own company. The only time Cash had seen him show any real emotion was on the Crittervan, and even then, it was just irritation.

Meanwhile, Ronen seemed to find Clay fascinating—or maybe just amusing. Cash couldn’t quite tell. But there was always that glint in Ronen’s eye whenever Clay was around like he was trying to see how much he could push him. It made Cash wonder if Ronen was doing what he couldn’t—figuring out what made Clay tick. A dry chuckle escaped him. “Ronen seems to find it funny, though. He’s always watching Clay like he’s some puzzle he wants to solve like he’s trying to see how far he can push him before he snaps.” And Ronen was the one sibling with a good sense of judgment.

Cash sighed, feeling the weight of it all settle over him. “They’re family, but they’re still strangers. I mean, how am I supposed to just… trust them? It’s only been like a week since we first met them!” A week? It didn’t feel like a week. “I didn’t grow up with them, and now they’re here, and we’re supposed to act like it all just makes sense. I want to trust them. Really, I do.”

There was a gap between them—between him, his siblings, and all of his dad’s brothers. It wasn’t their fault. They hadn’t been around. They hadn’t known to be around. But that’s what made it weird. How was he supposed to feel close to trolls who were basically strangers? Sure, they were family, but what did that mean when he didn’t really know them? Was he supposed to just trust them because they were related? Or was it okay to keep his guard up, at least for a little while longer?

He looked down at the ground, his voice quiet. “But do I trust them? I don’t know, I really don't know.”

Iris studied him for a long moment before her expression softened, her gaze growing distant. “Yeah,” she said quietly, her thumb brushing over the tape as she looked away. “I don’t know either.” 

Notes:

Hi I wasn’t expecting to post so soon but I know if I didn’t it would be for another month so here!

So here is Cash’s POV. He was hard to write. Fun but hard. I knew I wanted to give a small lore dump and Cash’s mixed emotions it became a small monster to write.

In canon, I know that JD was basically a hermit but saying that he never came across a different genre or lived with some is weird. So he gets Delta (who I love) and Styx. I know DeltaDory is a ship but the idea of them being the best of friends is something that I love to read. And Styx is named after the band classic rock band Styx (I really do recommend them)

A few hints at why Cash and Jo’s father left and what happened leading up to it. That will be explored later.

There is no other way to say this besides Iris and Cash is not a very trusting trolls. Cash is a bit more on the trusting side. While Iris is the one with the major trust issues and there are few reasons for this and we will get into it later.

Also got some timeline information. I will be giving more timeline pieces as I go, but for now, we have some thing like this:

Brozone Timeline:
JD started Brozone as a solo act at 11yrs (B:9, C:8, F:6)
(S)Bruce was added when he turned 11yrs (JD: 13, B:11, C:10, F,8, Branch: egg)
Clay joins at 11yrs (JD:14, B:12, C:11, F:9, Branch: 9m)
2 years later Floyd joins (JD:16, B:14, C:13, F:11, Branch:2&9m)
1 year later Branch joins (for reasons...) and Brozone breaks up (JD:17, B:15, C:14, F:12, Branch:3&9m)

JD and Kids Timeline:
JD was 8 months pregnant when Brozone broke up (JD just turned 17yrs) (@ time of break up (S)Bruce: 15yrs, Clay: 14yrs, Floyd: 12yrs, Branch 3yrs&9m)
1 month later Iris was born
2 months Post Brozone (PB) Grandma Rosiepuff dies (JD: 17yrs & 2m, Iris:1m)
3 months PB escape from troll tree (JD: 17yrs & 3m, Iris:2m)
9 months PB JD meets Styx (JD: 17yrs & 9m, Iris:8m)
10 months PB JD returns to the tree (JD: 17yrs & 10m, Iris:9m)
They stay with Styx for 2 years
They have to leave (JD:19yrs & 10m, Iris:2yrs & 9m)
Hop a year- they meet Delta (JD: 20yrs & 10m, Iris:3yrs & 9m)
6 months later JD meets Cash's father (JD: 21yrs & 4m)
3 months later JD pregnant with Cash (JD: 21yrs & 7m, Iris:4yrs & 6m)
9 months later Cash is born (JD: 22yrs & 4m, Iris:5yrs & 3m) (PB 5ys & 4m)
Hop 3 years- the incident (JD: 25yrs & 4m, Iris:8yrs & 3m, Cash: 3yrs)
Hop 1 year & 3m- Ronen is born (JD: 26yrs & 7m, Iris: 9yrs & 6m, Cash: 4yrs & 3m)
Hop 2 years & 3m- Wynona is born (JD: 28yrs & 10m, Iris: 11yrs & 9m, Cash: 6yrs & 6m, Ronen: 2yrs & 3m)
Hop 3 years & 1m- Jolene is born (JD: 31yrs & 11m, Iris: 14yrs & 10m, Cash: 9yrs & 7m, Ronen: 5yrs & 4m, Wynona: 3yrs & 1m)
Hop 5 years- the kidnapping (JD: 36yrs & 11m, Iris: 19yrs & 10m, Cash: 14yrs & 7m, Ronen: 10yrs & 4m, Wynona: 8yrs & 1m, Jolene: 5yrs) (PB 19yrs & 11m)
They are held for over a month (almost 2 months)- JD: 37yrs, Iris: 19yrs & 11m, Cash: 14yrs & 8m, Ronen: 10yrs & 5m, Wynona: 8yrs & 2m, Jolene: 5yrs & 1m (PB almost 20yrs)

Chapter 13: Chapter 13: Clay POV

Notes:

Happy 1 year of Trolls Band Together!

Clay POV

Today was not his day or his week. That much, Clay knew. It was probably the best—and only—way he could think to put it. He’d tried to find a different way to say it, something more specific or refined, as he paced the small clearing he found himself in. But nothing came to mind. Nothing ever did when he felt like this.

The annoyance buzzed in him, prickling under his skin and fur, making his tail twitch in irritation, his ears flicking almost subconsciously. He felt coiled, like a spring wound too tight, ready to snap at the smallest thing. It wasn’t just one bad day or one frustrating moment. No, this was a slow build-up, layer upon layer of things going wrong, and today felt like the tipping point. 

He paused mid-step, clenching his jaw as he tried to ease the tension flooding through him. But it only seemed to intensify the buzzing he felt in his head. Everything felt sharper, louder, and more irritating than it should. It was like he was on high alert, but with nowhere to go, nothing to fight against. Just pacing in circles, the same thoughts running through his head.

What he wouldn’t give for one thing— just one —to go smoothly. For one moment of peace, something he could hold onto. But even as he wished it, he knew it was far off, if it was coming at all. So he kept pacing, ears twitching, trying to burn off the frustration clinging to him, trying to ignore the nagging sense that he was trapped in this cycle, with no way out.

Okay, okay… take a breath. You can handle this, he told himself. Just break it down. Like Viva does—break it down and make it more manageable.

He took a slow breath, focusing on each piece of his frustration like they were puzzle pieces he could examine one at a time.

First, there was seeing John Dory in the hospital, a sight Clay had never imagined he’d have to face. The image was seared into his mind—his older brother, once full of life, now lying there empty and fragile, a mere shadow of himself. Just thinking about it made Clay’s stomach twist, bile rising in his throat. But even more overpowering than the grief was the anger— it was so strong he could hardly see straight. 

What kind of monster would drain the life out of another living being? And to do it in front of children, no less. Clay had seen monsters before; living in the tree had exposed him to all kinds of horrors no trolling should ever have to witness. It made him proud to know that the putt-putt trollings he helped protect would never have to see or even imagine something like that. Yet this… this was beyond anything he’d ever known, beyond any he’d encountered. The rage simmered inside him, a bitter taste that refused to fade, filling him with a helpless fury he could barely contain.

Then, there was the meeting with his new nieces and nephews. He and his brothers had barely begun to wrap their heads around John Dory’s condition, and suddenly they found themselves responsible for children they’d never met—kids who, somehow, already seemed to know them. What struck him most was how composed they appeared, considering everything they’d endured. Despite the tragedy that hovered over them, they were surprisingly well-behaved, even calm at times. And yet, it didn’t sit right. Kids who’ve lived through trauma like that shouldn’t be so calm; he could see the strain in their eyes, how they clung to each other in a quiet, unspoken way. When he actually watched them, he sometimes saw something else—a spark, a resilient defiance that hadn’t been snuffed out by everything they’d been through. It was as if they’d been built to endure, even after witnessing their father, their last true guardian, endure the unthinkable.

And then, there was the drive to the village—a disaster that had quickly spiraled out of control. He’d let himself get into an argument with Iris in front of the others, which he knew wasn’t the best way to handle things. But could anyone blame him? The Neverglades was a dangerous place, even for experienced trolls, and the idea of bringing trollings into that kind of environment made his blood boil. And he couldn’t get past the frustration he felt toward John Dory for even going into the Neverglades. Just thinking about it made his insides twist. What had his brother been thinking, willingly hiking those trails, putting himself in a position where predators and dangerous plants were around every turn? He could have gotten himself hurt, or worse.

It made Clay so angry, angrier than he’d ever admit out loud. He’d read every book he could get his paws on about the Neverglades. Granted, there weren’t many, and they were mostly speculative and filled with half-truths. But he read them anyway, hoping to find some clue about what made those trails so special to his brother. What had been worth risking everything? What made John Dory, at seventeen, abandon everything to explore them? And now Iris, with all her nineteen-year-old “wisdom,” seemed dead set on challenging him every step of the way. She acted like visiting the Neverglades since she was a kid gave her some immunity to the dangers. It was maddening, how much she took after her father—stubborn, and too proud to admit she might be wrong. 

Then came the discovery about the Bergens: they were close. Not just close, but welcomed in the village—as friends . It made Clay’s fur prickle, every instinct screaming a warning. How could anyone call a Bergen friend? You couldn’t trust them. For generations, they’d hunted trolls, devoured them, and reduced their lives to nothing but a path to Bergen's happiness. All it would take was one—a single Bergen who wasn’t happy with the new rules, who craved the old way, who missed the taste of trolls, who believed that the only true path to happiness lay in taking it from trolls. One wrong Bergen, one with even a flicker of that bloodlust, and they’d be right back in the cage, trapped with no way out.

Just the thought of it made Clay feel like he was back there: the cage walls closing in, the damp earth pressing down, the echo of distant screams, the cloying stench of old blood, and the weight of the dirt that had threatened to bury them. He could feel it in his bones, the helplessness that had never quite left them. Knowing that Bergens could walk freely among the village, that they were trusted—it turned his stomach. How could they forget what the Bergens had done? How could they forgive so easily?

The Bergens had nearly driven them to extinction, eaten trolls by the hundreds in the name of happiness, year after year. And now, just because things had changed, they were expected to move on, to forget? To believe that these ancient predators would simply abandon the instinct that had ruled them for generations? No. That instinct was still there, lurking under the surface. All it would take was one Bergen—just one—who thought that happiness was worth taking by force.

Clay’s mind reeled. Friends with Bergens? It was laughable if it didn’t fill him with dread. All he could see was the past flashing before him. He could almost hear it: the terrified cries, the endless screaming, the helpless sobs of friends. He could smell the earth and blood, the mold in the damp darkness. He remembered the feel of dirt against his skin, pressing in as the ground caved above them, trapping them all in that suffocating space. The final, bitter silence that had fallen when he thought they were all about to die. Was it safe here? Could it ever be safe with those faces wandering nearby?

The memory clung to him, and he shivered. This place couldn’t be safe if Bergens walked it freely, without any safeguards. No matter what others said, he knew it wasn’t safe. His gut screamed it, a deep and primal fear that no amount of logic could quiet. One Bergen, one slip, one old urge, and they’d be back in that nightmare all over again.

Maybe John Dory had been right to stay away after all. To keep his distance, to find somewhere new and safe for the family he’d hoped to raise—the children he hadn’t even met. Clay knew that John Dory had every right to protect his future kids, to search for a life where they would never know the kind of fear that lived in the heart of every troll under Bergen's rule. John Dory had every right to leave behind the pain, to make a break for freedom. As much as it hurt Clay to admit it, to think about how his brother’s absence had left him more alone than he’d ever been when his own mother did it, he understood why John Dory would want to keep his distance. Maybe Clay should have done the same.

But John Dory didn’t stay away. He came back. He came back to the tree, to the fear, to the monsters he’d tried so hard to escape. He returned after saying goodbye to it all, after convincingly saying good-bye forever. Yet, he returned to the life he’d left behind. And when he finally returned, all he found was the broken shell of what used to be home. Empty rooms, dust-covered memories, and the remnants of a world that had been torn to pieces. He thought the worst—thought he was too late. In his mind, everyone he’d left behind was gone. Everyone was dead.

How do you live with that? Believing everyone you’ve ever loved is dead.

Clay couldn’t imagine that kind of despair. Even in the long years since he’d walked away from the pod, through the silence and the distance, he’d never once thought his brothers were dead. In his mind, John Dory was out there somewhere, living those grand adventures he used to dream about. Bruce, he thought, was finally free—able to just be himself without the weight of expectations on his shoulders. Floyd was getting to be a kid, maybe even playing and laughing, just an eleven-year-old without the worry of what others thought of him. And Branch? Branch was growing up, living in peace, without the glare of a spotlight or the stresses the rest of them had learned to bear.

Even when they were separated in the cave-in, Clay held onto hope. He knew that John Dory, Bruce, and Floyd had made it out months before the escape and were somewhere safe. He always believed that Branch and Grandma had made it out the other side, safe and happy, building a life- they didn’t need him, not like the putt-putt trolls did. Maybe they’d stumbled, maybe they’d faced dangers along the way, but he never thought any of them were dead. Not once. 

John Dory, though—he had returned thinking he was alone, that everyone he loved was gone. The weight of that grief, that isolation, must have been unbearable. For Clay, the idea of his brothers being dead never took root; he couldn’t bear the thought of it himself, but John Dory had lived in a world where they were. He’d shoved down for years, something he’d never let himself linger on, always comforting himself with the certainty that, somehow, they were all still out there, somewhere.

But now, confronted by the idea of John Dory’s grief, that hidden fear clawed its way up, piercing through Clay’s defenses. The truth was, any one of them could have vanished forever… and he would never have known.

Branch. His baby brother, only four back then, barely more than a toddler—so small, so delicate. Small enough to be caught underfoot in the chaos, to disappear into the shadows of the winding tunnels, swallowed up like the countless others. The image rose unbidden: Branch’s tiny, innocent face slipping away into the darkness, his small voice calling out, lost in the cold, unforgiving stone.

Why were his ears ringing? When did everything feel so loud?

Then there was Floyd. Sweet Floyd, eleven and open-hearted, trusting in a way that hurt to imagine. Bright-eyed and gentle, always smaller than the others, more vulnerable in ways Clay had never wanted to think about. It wouldn’t have taken much—a single encounter with someone crueler, someone who would take that trust and crush it. Floyd was his little brother, the one he’d always thought he’d protect, even if Floyd never needed it. But now the thought pressed in, an image of his kind, innocent brother hurt.

His heart raced, a fierce, erratic rhythm pounding in his chest. Why couldn’t he catch his breath? His chest felt tight—too tight.

And Bruce. Fifteen, bold and fearless, charging ahead with that unstoppable confidence. He was Clay’s best friend and his older brother, always so sure, never doubting his ability to handle anything thrown his way. Clay loved that cocky certainty, that reckless bravado, but he knew how quickly it could turn fragile. One wrong step, a misplaced grip—and he’d have been gone. One misstep on a ledge, and Bruce’s fierce, fearless strength would have vanished in an instant. Bruce, his best friend, is so close to being lost.

His throat clenched, his eyes burning as he blinked against the feeling pressing hard behind them. Why was he shaking?

Then there was John. Seventeen, stubborn and unyielding, convinced his choices were right, no matter the cost. The Neverglades held countless ways to take him; every book Clay had read warned of their danger; they all agreed on that much at least. How many close calls had John faced out there, alone in that hostile wilderness? He’d had no one to catch him if he fell, no one to pull him back if he pushed too far. How many nights had he walked that line, one misstep away from being gone? Had he even cared? Until Iris hatched, he’d had no one. John had walked the wild alone, carrying himself through a place that could devour him at any moment, and somehow, he’d come back. Back to a home that had splintered apart in his absence. Would he even have survived if Iris hadn’t been there, giving him a reason to hold on?

Why was his face wet?

A light tap on his shoulder pulled him back, and Clay turned sharply to find Ronen standing beside him, looking up with an expression that was both serious and a little puzzled. Ronen’s head was tilted to the side, his oversized ears flopping slightly in the way only trolling ears could do, his large yellow-green eyes fixed on Clay with a mixture of concern and curiosity. 

What was Ronen doing out here? Did he know how dangerous it was? Had he followed him again? Ever since they’d moved into Branch's bunker, Ronen had seemed to shadow him everywhere, like some observant echo. It usually took Clay a moment to realize he was there, always lurking just out of sight but never far behind. And now… Ronen was here, talking. Or, at least, his mouth was moving. But Clay couldn’t hear a thing. No words, just the silent motion of Ronen’s mouth.

Suddenly, Clay felt the press of Ronen’s paw against his own—how long had his paws been covering his ears? He hadn’t even noticed. Ronen’s oversized, scaly paw gripped his, grounding him. Oversized ears, oversized paws, oversized tail. Clay had always thought Ronen was the strangest, most mismatched little troll he’d ever met—definitely the most peculiar out of John’s kids. Logically, he knew it was just because Ronen was only ten, not yet grown into himself, but still, there was something about him that looked oddly out of place, like he was made of parts from different puzzles. 

Ronen gave his paw another squeeze, and Clay felt his focus start to sharpen. Ronen’s gaze was steady as he took a slow, deliberate breath and then released it, his eyes never leaving Clay. He repeated it—another slow, even breath—and paused, waiting, watching Clay with a patience beyond his years.

What was Ronen trying to do? Why was he looking at him like that?

Ronen’s paw squeezed his again, pulling Clay back from his scattered thoughts. Another breath. The boy’s eyes softened, giving Clay an encouraging look, as if saying, Try it with me.

Clay took a shaky breath with Ronen, filling his lungs and then releasing it, matching the young troll’s steady rhythm. Slowly, with each inhale and exhale, he felt the tension in his chest begin to loosen, clarity filtering through the fog that had clouded his mind. He blinked, feeling the dampness on his cheeks, surprised by tears he hadn’t even noticed forming.

Ronen’s paw gripped his, solid and grounding, his wide, unflinching eyes meeting Clay’s with a calm understanding that was startling in one so young. Clay blinked hard, the sting of tears making everything hazy, but still, Ronen’s small form remained steady beside him.

The younger troll took another slow, deep breath, and Clay followed. The ringing in his ears started to fade, the world around him gradually sharpening, sounds creeping back in as if someone was turning up the volume one notch at a time.

Finally, Clay found his voice, rougher than he intended. “Why… why did you come out here?”

Ronen glanced away, his eyes darting around before he answered. “I saw you leave early this morning and… I just wanted to know where you were going,” he said, his voice stretching out as if he was carefully choosing each word. “Iris and Cash went off with Unc—Bruce—a little while after you, so I figured it was fine.” He paused, then added, “Wynona and Jo are having an under-the-bed day…”

A what day? What is an under-the-bed day? Clay wondered, picturing the two young trollings huddled together, maybe hiding out or finding some comfort in the small, dark space. He hadn’t heard of that before, and the thought stirred something in him, a pang he couldn’t quite name.

“So… I thought I’d follow you.” Ronen glanced back up at him, big eyes full of concern. “Are you… are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Clay managed, rubbing absently at his chest, where the tightness had been gripping him. He hesitated, looking at Ronen with a mix of curiosity and concern. “How did you… know how to help me calm down like that?”

Ronen shrugged slightly, though he kept his small paw wrapped around Clay’s. “That’s what Dad does when any of us wake up from a nightmare,” he explained softly. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, his voice dropped even quieter. “It’s what Iris did with Jolene when we were… in the bottles. And… it’s what Iris does when any of us have a nightmare.”

The word nightmare hit Clay hard, like a sudden punch to the chest. Nightmares. The weight settled in, a heavy ache spreading through him as the realization sank in. How long had they been suffering in silence? Had they been carrying these fears quietly, all while he hadn’t known, hadn’t even noticed?

It made sense in a grim, terrible way. After all, they’d been snatched while hiking, trapped in bottles, and forced to watch helplessly as John slowly withered away. If they weren’t having nightmares, it would be almost more alarming.

Questions flooded him, pulling him under like a rising tide. How many nights had they woken up, hearts racing, desperate for comfort? How many times had Iris—barely more than a teenager herself—been the one to calm them, to pull them from their fears? Did she have nightmares too? Of course, she did; the tired look on her face wasn’t just from watching over the others. She was carrying her own burden, just as much as they were.

She shouldn’t have to bear this weight, Clay thought, his chest tightening as he looked at Ronen’s solemn expression. Iris was only nineteen. She was barely out of her teenage years herself—just a few years younger than Branch, barely into adulthood. Nineteen. And already she’d seen too much, shouldered more than anyone her age should have to. The thought made a long quiet protective instinct flare.

Then there was John—he’d been so young too, barely seventeen when Iris hatched, still trying to figure out the world and his place in it. He’d been sixteen when he’d first carried that egg, a kid carrying a kid. And to think, he hadn’t even had anyone by his side. Whoever that mystery troll was, the one who had left him to deal with it all had walked away when John needed someone most. How could anyone just abandon him like that and abandon their own trolling?

It hurt to imagine how alone John must have felt. Clay remembered the way his brother’s energy had always filled the room, his endless optimism. John would have told them if there’d been someone he was excited about. He would’ve gone straight to Grandma with the news, eager to share, to gush about finding someone special. She would have been the first to know; John would never have kept something that important a secret. Yet no one had heard a word. This mystery troll must have come and gone in the shadows, slipping away without a trace, leaving John to carry all of that alone.

And the timing couldn’t have been worse. Those months leading up to the band’s final concert had been fraught with tension, Brozone stretched thin from too many long, late nights, and endless pressures from their manager, Finch. If anyone had known John was pregnant, it would have stopped right there. Grandma wouldn’t have let him perform. She would have pulled him from the band without a second thought, defending him fiercely against any backlash Finch or anyone else might have thrown her way. 

John would have told her… did she know? Had Grandma known about the mystery troll? Had she known about Iris all along? The thought felt unsettling and strange, especially because she’d never said a word about it. Not even that night, the night everything unraveled. When Brozone fell apart, Grandma had simply sat there at her little table, shuffling her cards with that steady, practiced rhythm, her expression calm. She hadn’t blinked, hadn’t asked a single question, just gazed at them as if the whole thing had already been written out and she’d expected it all along. It was almost as if she’d been prepared for that night like she’d seen the fractures forming and had resigned herself to the inevitable.

No, she couldn’t have known. Grandma wouldn’t have just sat by if she’d known John was carrying. There was no way she’d have let him take on the stress of the band, the tours, the grueling performances. She would have pulled him out of Brozone in a heartbeat, no questions asked, no debates, nothing their manager Finch could’ve said to change her mind. Family was everything to her; protecting them was more than instinct—it was her creed. When Grandma set her mind to something, she became as immovable as a mountain, a force of nature that not even Finch, with all his control over the band, would have dared to challenge. 

If she’d known John was even a day or two pregnant, she would have insisted he stop, that he take a step back and rest. She would’ve made sure he was safe. And Finch—he’d have listened. 

Finch wouldn’t have allowed it, either. Well, at least not the Finch Clay knows now. Back then, their former manager had been a lot of things—strict, judgmental, overly cynical—and he certainly wasn’t Clay’s favorite troll. In fact, Finch was the one he and his brothers had all dreaded being around. They would spend countless hours complaining about him when he left the room, venting about his endless critiques and sarcastic remarks. But, for all his faults, Finch understood the weight of carrying an egg, the toll it took on the parent. 

After finding his way to the putt-putt trolls, Finch had changed, softened in ways that would have seemed impossible years before. Finch was still no one’s idea of easygoing, but there were times, Clay could admit, that he’d been helpful—sometimes. Following the escape, he’d been out on his own for over two years, facing the wilds alone, sustaining the injuries that had taken his left eye and scarred his face. By the time he’d finally settled among the putt-putts, and healed from his burns and bruises, he’d become something new, something better—a fierce advocate for new parents, especially those haunted by that traumatic escape. 

The mystery troll seemed like the missing piece, the shadow cast over every difficult memory, the one who’d left John to face everything alone. What had they done—or perhaps not done—that made John feel he couldn’t reach out to his family? How long had they been in his life, and what kind of burden had they left him to carry? The questions felt endless, the answers were as unreachable as the troll who had vanished without a trace.

Back then, John Dory had seemed so put together, as though everything was fine. He’d been calm, and steady—a picture of control that had fooled them all. But things hadn’t been fine. Iris’s memories and everything she’d shared made that painfully clear, and Floyd’s story about the mystery behind her birth only reinforced it. Clay found himself wondering: had things ever really been okay? Or had John been hiding the cracks beneath a carefully maintained exterior, trying to keep everything from falling apart?

Had the absence of that troll been the first tug at the seams, setting off a slow breakdown none of them could stop? Or had they all been slipping all along, just one frayed edge away from collapse, unable to see how close they were to losing everything?

“Uhm, Unc-Clay?” Ronen’s voice broke through the tangle of thoughts swirling in Clay’s mind, yanking him back to the present. The boy’s wide, worried eyes locked onto him, his tone careful but insistent. “Are you okay? You started to get... spacy again.”  

Clay blinked, refocusing on the kid standing in front of him. Ronen’s paw was still wrapped tightly around his, and those big, solemn eyes carried a patient concern that made Clay’s chest tighten. The kid didn’t deserve to carry anyone else’s burdens.  

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Clay said quickly, the lie rolling off his tongue too easily. “Just thinking.”  

“Thinking about what?” Ronen asked, tilting his head like a curious bird.  

Clay froze for a moment. That face—the tilt of his head, the inquisitive furrow of his brow—it was John Dory’s face all over again. The memory shot through him like a pang, sharp and sudden, and he shook his head to brush it off.  

“Things,” he replied vaguely, his shoulders tightening. “Nothing you need to worry about.”  

Ronen frowned, unconvinced. “Are you sure?” he pressed, his tone carrying a persistence that tugged at Clay’s mind. The cadence was so familiar it was uncanny—John always sounded like that when he wouldn’t let something go.  

“Yes, I’m sure,” Clay said firmly, releasing Ronen’s paw and turning slightly, trying to end the conversation.  

“But maybe I can help,” Ronen offered, stepping closer, his resolve unshaken.  

Clay barely suppressed an eye roll. Why did John’s kids have to inherit his stubbornness of all things? “Ronen, I’m fine,” he said, sharper this time, angling his body away from the boy.  

“But maybe I—”  

“Ronen!” Clay snapped, harsher than he meant to. The boy flinched, and guilt clawed at the edges of Clay’s irritation, but he managed to push it away. He softened his tone, though his frustration still clearly lingered. “It’s fine, okay? There are other things to worry about.”  

Ronen’s shoulders slumped, his gaze dropping. “Oh,” he murmured, his voice smaller now. “Like what?”  

Clay huffed, crossing his arms. “Like the fact that you decided to follow me into the forest by yourself without thinking about how dangerous that could be.”  

Ronen’s head snapped up, his expression shifting from guilt to confusion. “But you came out here by yourself,” he countered, his tone more curious than defiant.  

Clay opened his mouth to retort but stopped short. …Okay, fair point. The kid wasn’t wrong.  

“That’s… different,” he said, though even he could hear how weak the excuse sounded.  

“Is it?” Ronen pressed, eyes glittering with amusement with one eyebrow arching in a way that reminded Clay uncomfortably of John.  

Clay groaned inwardly, already regretting where this conversation was headed. “Yes, it is.”  

Ronen narrowed his eyes, his expression shifting into something between defiance and amusement. “How?”  

“Because I said so,” Clay blurted before he could stop himself, instantly regretting it. The words hung in the air, weak and unconvincing. He cringed inwardly. That was such a terrible answer.  

Ronen crossed his arms, unimpressed. “That’s not a real answer,” he retorted with a smile, his tone carrying that relentless John Dory edge that Clay was beginning to recognize all too well.  

Clay sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ronen, you don’t need a real answer. Just trust me on this, okay?” His patience was wearing thin. Why was the kid so pushy about this?  

The boy tilted his head again, his persistence unrelenting. “But isn’t trust supposed to go both ways?”  

Clay froze, caught completely off guard. Was he really being lectured by a ten-year-old? Worse, was the kid… right? He let out a groan of frustration, rubbing his temples. “You know what? We’re not having this conversation.”  

“What?” Ronen’s voice rose, shocked. “Why not?”  

“Because—”  

“Because you said so? ” Ronen interjected, sarcasm sharp and cutting.  

Clay shot him a look, his ear twitching. “Gods, you are way too much like your dad.”  

Ronen froze, his playful tone vanishing, replaced by something heavier. His expression hardened into a glare, and his voice took on a serious edge. “And that’s a bad thing?”  

The sudden shift caught Clay off guard. He faltered. Was it a bad thing? …No? …Yes? …Sometimes? Right now, it was just annoying, but he couldn’t exactly say that. “I never said that,” he muttered.  

Ronen’s ears flattened against his head, and his glare deepened. “Then why do you make it sound like it is?”  

Clay stared at him, stunned into silence. The kid’s words hit harder than they should have. Ronen wasn’t just being stubborn—he was genuinely hurt.  

Clay shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the forest floor. He hadn’t meant to make it sound like that. He hadn’t even realized how his words might come across until Ronen threw them back at him. The boy stood there, waiting, his small frame tense, his expression expectant but guarded.  

“Ronen,” Clay began, but the words felt heavy. Apologizing wasn’t his strong suit, and explaining himself… well, he wasn’t sure he even could. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he tried again, softer this time. “Your dad—he’s… complicated.”  

“So are you,” Ronen shot back without missing a beat.  

Clay couldn’t help but snort. “Fair point,” he admitted grudgingly. “But your dad… he’s… well…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “We just have a complicated relationship, you know?”  

“No shit,” Ronen retorted, not backing down. “You’ve made that perfectly clear. It’s the only thing you’ve made clear.”  

“Hey, language,” Clay said reflexively, but the words felt hollow. He sighed, already regretting his tone. The unimpressed glare Ronen shot him only made it worse.  

“You’re not my dad,” Ronen said bluntly.  

Clay ran a paw through his hair, feeling his frustration mount. “I know I’m not,” he said.  

“You’re also not my legal guardian,” Ronen added sharply. “You’re barely even an uncle.”  

That one hit harder than Clay expected, the truth of it landing like a blow. He flinched, the sting settling deeper than he cared to admit. It wasn’t like he could argue.

When Clay didn’t respond, Ronen frowned, crossing his arms. “So, what? It’s bad that I’m like him because I want to know what’s wrong with you?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Clay said quickly, holding up his paws in a placating gesture. “It’s just… it’s hard sometimes. Your dad could get under my skin like no one else, and, well, I guess you’re pretty good at it too.” He attempted a small smile, but Ronen didn’t return it.

“You don’t have to lie,” Ronen said, his voice quieter but just as pointed. “I’m not five. I know exactly what you think of Dad, we all do.” He glared, tail flicking behind him “It's not like you’re very good at hiding it—or anything else.”

Clay winced, his chest tightening at the boy’s honesty. For a moment, he was at a loss for words. Ronen wasn’t wrong—subtlety had never been Clay’s strength, and his feelings about John Dory were… messy at best. But John was still his brother. Clay did love him, even if that love was tangled up with frustration, lingering anger, and the undeniable fact that John was the most irritating troll he’d ever met.  

“Okay, fair,” Clay admitted reluctantly, his tone softer now. “I’ve got… opinions about your dad. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about him. Or about you.” He met Ronen’s gaze, fumbling for words that felt honest but reassuring.  

Ronen didn’t budge, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest. His voice was low but piercing. “You don’t act like it. You just act annoyed. All the time. Like we’re some big problem you have to deal with.”  

The words hit harder than Clay expected. He opened his mouth to argue but stopped short. Was that how he’d been coming across? Maybe it was. Maybe that was why Iris was so quick to call him out.  

“That’s not…” Clay dragged a paw down his face, letting out a heavy sigh. “That’s not what I mean to do. I guess… I don’t always know how to handle stuff like this, Ronen. Your dad—he’s not easy to figure out. Never has been. And I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. But you?” He leaned forward slightly, his tone more deliberate now. “You’re not a problem, neither are your siblings, okay? None of this is about you guys being a problem.”  

For a moment, Ronen just stared at him, his expression unreadable. Clay’s heart pounded in the silence, unsure if his words were enough.

Ronen tilted his head slightly, skepticism still etched into his features. “Then what’s it about? Why won’t you just talk to me? I just want to help.”  

Clay hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. What was it about? His own baggage with John? The unresolved mess of the past? The sheer exhaustion of trying to keep everything together while barely holding himself afloat?  

“It’s... complicated,” Clay said finally, the words weak even to his own ears.  

“You already said that,” Ronen countered, his voice sharp. “But that’s just another way of saying you don’t want to tell me anything.”  

Clay rubbed the back of his neck, frustration, and guilt swirling inside him. “I’m trying, kid,” he muttered. “I really am. But some stuff… It's just hard to talk about. Especially when it’s tied up in things I don’t even know how to make sense of myself.”  

Ronen’s expression softened slightly, his arms falling to his sides. “You don’t have to make sense of everything,” he said quietly. “Sometimes it just helps to say it out loud. That’s what Dad always said.”  

Clay blinked, caught off guard by the wisdom in the boy’s words. “Your dad said that?” That didn’t sound like the John Dory he remembered. The John he knew didn’t talk things out—not to anyone. But maybe back then, he’d done it quietly, alone, when no one was around. Based on everything Clay had learned recently, that seemed like the most logical explanation. Then again, that was the John Dory from twenty years ago. It would seem that he didn’t know John then and he doesn’t know him now. 

Ronen shrugged, his gaze dropping. “Yeah. He always said bottling stuff up only makes it worse.”  

Clay let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Always had to be the one in the right, didn’t he?”  

Ronen’s lips curved into a faint smile, the tension between them easing just a little. “He’s not the only one.”  

Clay smirked despite himself, a reluctant warmth spreading through his chest. “Fair enough.”  

Ronen paused, his voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper. “It only makes it worse.” His gaze flickered away, then back to Clay, lingering in a way that made something in Clay’s gut twist. The kid’s expression had shifted into something unreadable, heavy. Something was bothering him, something bad.

Clay’s smirk faded. “Ronen? You okay?” he asked, his tone cautiously light.  

Ronen didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared, his silence stretching longer than Clay was comfortable with. The air between them thickened. Clay’s mind raced. Was something wrong? Why was he looking at me like that? He wasn’t acting like this a second ago. What’s with the sudden change?

Finally, Ronen mumbled, “Can I ask you a question?” His voice was low, uncertain as he chewed on his lip.

Clay let out a sigh, brushing off his initial unease. Nothing’s wrong. He just has a question. “You asking for permission hasn’t stopped you yet,” he said, trying to sound casual, even though the beginnings of a headache pulsed at his temples.  

Still, that look in Ronen’s eyes lingered, and it made Clay feel like he was bracing for something he wouldn’t be ready for.  

“What’s going to happen if we can’t stay with Uncl— with Branch?” Ronen’s voice was hesitant, barely above a whisper.  

Clay’s head snapped toward him, his brows furrowing deeply at the sudden change in topic. “What?” 

“If Branch doesn’t get custody of us… what happens then?” Ronen’s voice tightened as he spoke, his fingers nervously picking at the skin around his claws. “I just mean, he’s only a few years older than Iris. Why would they trust him when they wouldn’t trust her?”  

Clay stared at him, the weight of the question hitting like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. One moment we’re talking about my issues opening up, and now we’re on where the kids are going to live? The thought of Branch not getting custody hadn’t even crossed his mind. But how long had Ronen been worrying about this? Were the others thinking the same thing?  

The worst part was that Ronen’s logic wasn’t wrong—Branch was young, younger than most people probably thought he should be for taking on five kids. Their odds weren’t exactly great, either. But seeing Ronen this anxious? That was a whole other level of gut-wrenching.  

Ronen’s voice quickened, edged with panic, as he pressed on. “And she did try, you know.” The words spilled out of him in a rush, as though he couldn’t stop now that he’d started. “When they said they’d be looking for someone to take us in, she argued with them that she could take us. She really fought to keep us under her guardianship, but… they wouldn’t listen.”  

Clay took a deep breath, steeling himself against the ache rising in his chest. “Well,” he began carefully, hyper-aware of the uncertainty in his own voice, “if it came to that… then Bruce, Floyd, or even I would apply for custody. We wouldn’t just leave you, Ronen, any of you. That’s not an option.” 

Ronen’s brow creased, and he looked away, struggling to contain his worry. “And if that doesn’t work?” His voice had shrunk to a whisper, unguarded, with an almost childlike fear in his eyes. “Uncle Bruce already has a family. What if they tell him no? I don’t even know where you or Uncle Floyd live.” His voice cracked, and tears gathered in his eyes. “Are we going to be separated?”  

The question hit Clay harder than he expected. He leaned forward slightly, his chest tightening. “Now, what makes you think that?” he asked, a hint of alarm threading through his voice.  

Ronen stared at the floor, his voice barely above a whisper. “I… I heard some of the Rageons talking,” he murmured, his shoulders hunching inward. “They said… they said that if they can’t find someone to take all of us, they might split us up.” His breathing hitched, and he swiped at his eyes with a rough, hurried motion, as though wiping the tears fast enough could make them stop altogether.  

He started pacing, his small steps tracing a path back and forth, each movement sharp with nervous energy. “Iris… she’s nineteen, so they can’t keep her in foster care. She’ll just… have to be on her own.” His words spilled over one another, his voice gaining speed. “Cash and Jo… they’re full siblings, so they’ll probably keep them together. Or at least they’ll try.”  

Ronen’s hands twisted together as he spoke, his tail flicking anxiously behind him. “And Wynona has her mom. Her mom actually wants her,” he said, his voice thick with something heavier than fear. “They just have to find her, and she’ll come for Wynona. Just like that.” He stopped pacing abruptly, his body stiff with tension, his eyes glistening.  

The weight of Ronen’s words struck Clay hard, the phrase actually wants her echoing in his mind. It stirred something deep, something he didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t ignore. The words tumbled out of him before he could stop them. “What about yours?”  

As soon as he asked, regret flared in his chest. Ronen’s already dim colors seemed to drain further, his gaze fixed on the floor. His voice cracked with something beyond sadness, something heavier—a quiet resignation no kid should carry. “I don’t think they want me… they never really have been there before.”  

The finality in Ronen’s words was a gut punch. Clay’s breath hitched as he watched the boy curl into himself. “Dad wanted me, though. And now… now he’s…” Ronen’s voice broke, trailing into silence. Pressing his palms against his eyes, he seemed desperate to hold the tears at bay, though his shuddering breaths betrayed him.  

The weight of Ronen’s words settled heavily on Clay, cutting deep and pulling memories from places he hadn’t touched in years. They don’t want me. That ache—it wasn’t unfamiliar. He’d been Ronen’s age when the same bitter truth began to seep into his life when he first understood what it meant to be left behind. He could still see himself sitting on those crumbling steps, waiting, his chest tight with the fragile hope that this time, his mother would keep her word. That she’d come. That the promises she made—of afternoons spent together, of being wanted—meant something.  

But the sun always sank low, dragging his hopes down with it, leaving him alone as the quiet realization crept in: she wasn’t coming. Not this time. Probably not ever. The sting of it hollowed him out, carving a space where something warm and steady should’ve been.  

In those moments, it was John Dory who found him—always John Dory. He’d never scold Clay for his tears or tell him to toughen up. Instead, he’d sit beside him on the cold, crumbling steps, his arm draped over Clay’s shoulders in a wordless offering of comfort. Sometimes he’d crack a soft joke to lighten the moment, other times he’d promise—quietly but earnestly—that it wouldn’t always be like this. Clay hadn’t fully believed him, but he’d clung to those words anyway because they came from someone who stayed.  

And now, here was Ronen—a child, but more than that, a mirror of his own younger self. Clay saw it in the way his nephew’s shoulders curled inward, in the tears that streaked his face, heavy with fears no kid should bear. It was in the way his voice wavered, holding onto a threadbare hope that someone—anyone—would prove that he wasn’t alone, that someone wanted him.  

The sight hit Clay hard, and all he wanted was to say something that would fix it. Something that could pull Ronen out of the crushing weight of loneliness he knew too well. But words wouldn’t be enough. Not for this. Because he understood, better than most, that wounds like these weren’t healed by promises or platitudes. They needed time. They needed proof—day after day, moment after moment—that someone cared enough to stay.  

Taking a slow, steadying breath, Clay stepped closer, crouching down to meet Ronen at eye level. He couldn’t shake the memory of John Dory doing the same for him—those moments when he felt like the world had abandoned him. Back then, John hadn’t fixed everything. He hadn’t had magical words to make the pain go away. But he’d been there. He’d let Clay feel what he needed to feel without judgment, offering the reassurance that he wasn’t alone.  

Now, staring at Ronen’s tear-streaked face, his small frame drawn tight with the weight of fear and self-doubt, Clay wanted to give him that same gift.  

“Ronen,” Clay began softly, keeping his voice low and steady, “can you look at me?”  

Ronen hesitated, his paw still pressed against his damp face. Slowly, he dropped it, revealing red-rimmed eyes and trembling lips. His arms stayed wrapped around himself, his tail coiled protectively at his feet.  

“You’re not going to be separated,” Clay said firmly, the conviction in his voice unshakable.  

Ronen sniffled, his brow furrowing in doubt. “How do you know?”  

“Because,” Clay replied, leaning in just a little closer, “if it comes to that, I’ll come and find you. I’ll take all of you—Cash, Iris, Wynona, Jolene. No matter what, we’ll stay together.”  

Ronen’s lips quivered, his eyes searching Clay’s face for any sign of hesitation. “Really?” he whispered. “But what if they try to stop you?”  

“They won’t get the chance,” Clay said, his voice firm and certain. “Where I live, no one will be able to touch us. And if anyone even tries, we’ll be gone before they can blink. You’re safe with me, Ronen. I promise.”  

Ronen blinked, the raw fear in his eyes gradually giving way to cautious hope. His posture loosened slightly, but his gaze dropped to his scaly arms, tracing the textured surface with a paw. “And they won’t care that we’re not… normal?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.  

The question hit Clay like a punch to the gut, but he kept his expression steady. “Where I live,” he said gently, a faint, reassuring smile curving his lips, “nobody’s normal. Being different isn’t something we hide. everyone has their own kinks, it’s just part of who we are.”  

Ronen’s claws stilled, his eyes lifting toward Clay’s, uncertain but a touch more at ease.  

“And if it ever comes to that,” Clay continued, his voice firm, “we’ll go somewhere else.” A thought stirred in his mind, a memory of Iris mentioning where John had settled down. “You lived in Lonesome Flats, right?”  

Ronen nodded, his expression softening further. “Yeah,” he whispered.  

“Then that’s where we’ll go,” Clay said, his tone carrying the certainty Ronen needed to hear. “It’ll be safe. You’ll be safe. No one’s splitting you up. Not while I’m around.”  

For a moment, Ronen simply stared at him, his wide eyes searching Clay’s face, weighing the sincerity in his words. Finally, he gave a small, tentative nod, and the tension in his frame seemed to ease further.  

But just as Clay thought the moment had settled, Ronen’s voice came again, quieter, almost trembling. “...Dad can come too, right?”  

Clay hesitated for only a beat, then smiled crookedly. “If he wants...I don’t know where else he’d go.”  

A faint, hesitant smile touched Ronen’s lips, and for the first time, a glimmer of relief broke through his fear.  

Notes:

So here is Clay's chapter, and his emotions are high. He has a lot of hard-to-address feelings, and Ronen also has them.

A big part of my requirement for school has passed so I am going to try and write more, but the holidays are coming up so....life.

Chapter 14: Chapter 14: Ronen POV

Notes:

Hey everyone. Sorry for the silence my mental health took a nose dive, but I also really like writing this story and I will keep writing even if it breaks me. Don't know when the next chapter will be out but it will be worked on.

Ronen POV

Uncle Clay was… weird. Not bad weird, just different. Mostly prickly. He wasn’t the worst troll Ronen had ever met—honestly, he wasn’t even the meanest. He was just... prickly. Like a thorn-hog or maybe a cactus. Actually, the more Ronen thought about it, the more Clay did kind of remind him of a cactus. Tall, sturdy, and covered in spikes that made it hard to get close. But there was something else about cactuses, wasn’t there? They could survive in harsh places, places most others couldn’t handle. And they stored water deep inside, hidden away, even when they looked all tough and thorny on the outside.

Ronen tilted his head, considering the comparison. Iris could be prickly too, especially when she was in a new place surrounded by new trolls. She had her spikes up the second she felt uncertain or unsafe, ready to poke anyone who got too close. It wasn’t a bad thing—at least, Ronen didn’t think so. It just made it hard to talk to her sometimes, to really know her. Maybe that’s why she and Uncle Clay kept butting heads. Both of them were just too prickly, and when two prickly trolls bumped into each other, all they managed to do was poke.  

Dad could be prickly too, though. But it was different. Dad knew when and how to turn it on and off. His prickliness wasn’t constant—it was more like armor he could pull on when he needed it. Like when a troll wouldn’t leave them alone, and Dad had to make them back off. Ronen could remember those moments so clearly, the way Dad’s voice would shift, his posture changing just enough to let whoever it was, know they were messing with the wrong troll. And then, once the danger passed, he’d go right back to being his warm, reassuring self, as if the spikes had never been there.  

That was the difference, Ronen realized. Dad’s prickliness wasn’t a wall—it was a tool. Something he could use when he needed to, then set aside just as easily. But for Iris and Uncle Clay? Well, it felt more like they didn’t know how to turn it off. Like the spikes were stuck there, always out, making it hard for anyone to get close—even when they didn’t mean for it to be that way.  

With Iris, she could turn it off, especially with family or trolls she liked. But when it came to strangers or new places, her spikes were almost always there, sharp and ready, as if she was expecting someone to do something to her or someone in their family. Ronen had seen her relax, though. When it was just them—just their dad, her, and their siblings—her edges softened. Her voice lost its sharpness, her shoulders loosened, and her pokes turned into playful jabs instead of defensive ones.  

Uncle Clay was... similar, in a way. Ronen hadn’t really seen him let his guard down yet, but he had to, right? Nobody could stay prickly all the time. There had to be moments when even Uncle Clay set down his spikes and let himself breathe. Ronen was almost sure of it. Maybe it was when he was alone, far from anyone who might judge him or press too hard. Or maybe it was with trolls he trusted—though, judging by the way he acted, Ronen figured that list was pretty short— and he wasn’t on it…or his siblings.  

Uncle Bruce on the other paw… was very watchy. That was the first thing Ronen noticed about him, especially during their trip to the market. He seemed to have this way of watching everyone that walked by, like he was sizing them up or waiting for something to happen. Ronen hadn’t expected anyone to be so alert here, in Pop Village of all places. The trolls here weren’t like the ones from some of the other genres.

Ronen hadn’t lived in many places himself, other than Lonesome Flats, but he’d visited plenty and met all kinds of trolls. Dad always preferred to visit neutral territories, where sub-genres tended to live, but sometimes they ventured into the main genre lands. Of all of them, they’d visited Rock territory the most—mostly because that’s where Mama Trish lived. She may not be his mom, but she was Wynona’s soooo she counted. 

The Rock Trolls were... interesting. The kids his age were fun—loud, energetic, and funny in ways that made it easy for Ronen to laugh. The adults, though? They were strange. They always gave him and his siblings odd looks, like they’d done something wrong just by being there. Mama Trish was different. She was fun —the kind of troll who had all the coolest instruments and always made you feel welcome. They used to visit her in the city, but it was too hot there for Ronen’s liking, so then they started to meet outside the city limits. There wasn’t as much to do, but there were better crystals and rocks to find. Ronen couldn’t wait to go back someday—he had so much to tell her, and she hadn’t even met Jolene yet!  

They’d been to other territories, too, like Funk and Classical. Funk was interesting but a little mysterious. The Funk trolls rarely came down from their sky city, and even if you were invited, you still had to find the floating ship to get there. Classical was even harder to reach. Their cities were perched so high in the mountains you couldn’t climb to them; you had to fly. Ronen didn’t know much about them, but the animals in their regions were some of the coolest he’d ever seen.  

They’d never been into the actual Techno territory, just to its edges. Going into the underwater realm required a critter that could breathe underwater, and Rhonda couldn’t do that. The Techno trolls they’d met on the surface were friendly, but they never stayed long—they had to return to the depths before too much time passed.

Now they were in Pop territory, and... it was okay. It was a lot greener than Ronen had expected. From the way Uncle Branch looked—dark-haired and perpetually serious—Ronen thought Pop territory might be shadowy or muted. But no, it was bright, vivid green, with splashes of color everywhere. The Pop trolls blended right in, their vibrant hues matching their surroundings perfectly. The Pop trolls themselves? They were softer—softer in personality, and even softer to the touch. And they were nice. Not the fake, polite kind of nice Ronen had seen before, but genuinely kind. Which is why Uncle Bruce being so watchy here felt strange.  

At first, Ronen thought it might make him nervous. But he realized he was already used to people being watchful—especially Dad and Wynona. They had their own ways of keeping an eye on things in new places. Still, Bruce’s way of watching was different. It wasn’t the same as Dad’s calm presence or Wynona’s curious awareness. It was familiar, yet entirely its own.  

With Dad, his watchfulness was almost invisible. He scanned a crowd so naturally, it was like second nature—calm and deliberate, never drawing attention to himself. It felt steady like Dad always had a plan tucked away for whatever might happen. There was no rush, no urgency—just quiet control like he knew he could handle anything.  

Wynona’s way of watching was the opposite. She wasn’t looking for threats or guarding against danger. She watched everything—how people moved, the colors of their clothes, the way the wind shifted through the market stalls. She noticed the little things no one else thought to see. Wynona’s gaze wasn’t heavy or tense; it was wide open, curious, and fully present, soaking it all in.  

But Bruce? Bruce’s watchfulness had weight. It wasn’t casual or relaxed; it was sharp and focused, dissecting every movement, every glance, every subtle shift around them. It was purposeful and intense, as though he was bracing for trouble—something no one else even suspected yet. His vigilance wasn’t just about being aware of the world around him. It was about preparing for the moment when the world might turn dangerous.  

Oddly enough, Ronen didn’t find it unsettling. If anything, it made him feel safe. Bruce’s sharp focus carried an unspoken promise: I’m ready for whatever happens. I’ve got you. Even though it was so different from Dad’s calm steadiness or Wynona’s open curiosity, it delivered the same reassurance in its own way.  

Uncle Floyd… he was nice. He was, he really was. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Ronen had figured it out during the drive to Pop Village.

Uncle Floyd had this way of asking questions—not prying ones, but thoughtful ones that showed he genuinely wanted to know more about them. Ronen could tell there were other things Uncle Floyd probably wanted to ask, bigger, more important questions but he had held back. He was curious, of course—who wouldn’t be? Meeting five new family members out of the blue, especially with his brother unconscious in the hospital after twenty years of no contact, was bound to raise some questions. Ronen had questions, all of his siblings did. But Uncle Floyd didn’t let those unasked questions hang in the air. He didn’t push or pry, even though he could have. Instead, he focused on them, making them feel seen and heard without crossing any boundaries.

It wasn’t just the way he talked to them that made Ronen think of him as nice—it was in the little things he did. Like when he got Wynona colored pencils. He didn’t have to do that, but he remembered she liked them and made it happen. Or the way he cooked for them, making sure they had something warm and filling, even though he didn’t owe them anything. It was more than his own parent ever did for him. And most impressively, he managed to get Iris to sit down, eat a proper meal, and stop worrying for at least an hour. That alone felt like a miracle since Iris hadn’t stopped stressing ever since they were trapped in the bottles.  

It reminded Ronen of Dad and Cash in a way that felt both familiar and comforting. It was a new dynamic he’d noticed with Dad recently. In the past, Dad would usually tell him exactly how to handle a problem, explaining why his solution was the best option. But now, Dad had started doing something different—something Ronen had only ever seen him do with Iris and Cash. When something was wrong, Dad brought a steady presence. He was always supportive but rarely overbearing anymore. He didn’t swoop in to take over or make decisions for Ronen anymore. Instead, he asked thoughtful questions—the kind that really mattered and made him think. Dad helped him think through what options they had, offering guidance but ultimately stepping back, trusting him to decide for themselves.    

Cash had a similar way of offering support, one that felt just as steady and reassuring. He wasn’t the type to push you when you were upset or demand answers you weren’t ready to give. Instead, Cash had this quiet patience about him. You always knew you could go to him when you needed someone, and he’d be there—fully present, listening without interruption or judgment. He didn’t try to fix everything or offer immediate solutions, and that was what made his support so comforting. Cash had a way of letting you work through your feelings at your own pace, never rushing or making it about himself. His calm presence alone had a way of making the weight of your worries feel a little lighter, a little less lonely. 

Uncle Floyd seemed to have that same quiet understanding. He didn’t try to step in and solve all their problems or act like he had all the answers. He wasn’t pushy or intrusive. Instead, he just… was there. He asked questions that showed he cared, not because he was nosy but because he genuinely wanted to understand them. He didn’t hover or pry into their pain. He helped in small, thoughtful ways—ways that made a difference.  

Uncle Branch… Uncle Branch was hard to figure out. Ronen hadn’t really had the chance to talk to him yet, which made sense since Branch had left quickly to get Dad from the hospital. Still, even with the brief interactions they’d had, it was clear Branch was different—not just from other Pop Trolls but from most trolls Ronen had met.

He wasn’t like Ms. Poppy at all. She had practically sparkled with energy, her sunny personality shining through in everything she did—especially in the glitter-filled card she’d given them. Branch wasn’t bright or overly cheerful like the other Pop Trolls they’d met at the market. But he wasn’t cold or unfriendly either. He was kind in a quieter, more subtle way, the kind that didn’t overwhelm or demand attention. That kind of calm was comforting, especially for trolls like Ronen and his siblings, who were used to being different.  

Ronen couldn’t help but notice the ways he and his siblings didn’t quite fit in with most trolls. It wasn’t just in how they looked—it was in how they acted, how they thought, and even how they connected with music. It wasn’t hard to see or hear their differences.  

Iris had always stood out, no matter where they went. As a Pop Troll, she was a rarity in places unaccustomed to seeing anyone quite like her. In neutral territories, Ronen often overheard comments about how she was too standoffish for trolls who thrived on openness and easy connections. In the rigid, structured worlds of the main genres, she was considered too “open,” and her miscellaneous taste in music was deemed out of place. But Iris never wavered. When confronted, her only response was a defiant shrug and a sharp reply: she refused to be boxed into one style, one sound, or one identity.  

Watching the Pop Trolls now, Ronen couldn’t help but wonder if there had ever been a time when Iris—and maybe even Dad—might have truly fit in among them. Both had their moments of brightness, moments where they could light up a room with their energy and charisma. That kind of warmth seemed to reflect the Pop Trolls’ cheerful, colorful nature. But those moments felt like distant memories now, buried beneath the weight of everything they’d endured. They’d changed too much. Even if they wanted to, Ronen wasn’t sure they could return to that kind of lightheartedness.  

Cash and Jo stood out in ways that were impossible to ignore. Their hooves alone marked them as physically different from most trolls, but it was their attitudes that truly set them apart. They shared an unshakable optimism—a way of tackling challenges with hope and determination that didn’t quite align with the more pragmatic, sometimes melancholic outlook of the Country Trolls. Even in a community that valued resilience and welcomed diversity, their radiant positivity made them different. They were like beacons, always shining, no matter how out of place it made them. That shine might have dimmed a bit after the last few weeks, but it was still there.

Then there was Wynona, quiet and artistic, never quite fitting into any mold. Among the Rock Trolls, her gentle nature was a stark contrast to their edgy, commanding presence. She wasn’t loud or forceful, but she didn’t fade into the background either. Her softness stood out in a world of sharp edges, leaving her adrift even in the genre she was most connected to. Wynona didn’t seem to belong anywhere—not because of any flaw, but because she was simply herself in a world that seemed to demand her be something else.  

And Ronen? He knew he was the most different of them all. His scaly skin and sharp, predator-like features marked him as an outlier wherever he went. Among the sleek, aquatic Techno Trolls, his appearance was an oddity, clashing with their shimmering aesthetic. To other trolls, he was simply strange—alien in a way that made him stand out no matter what. Ronen didn’t hate it; being different was part of who he was and his dad made sure to let him know that it was amazing being different. But that didn’t make it any easier to find a place where he truly felt like he belonged.  

That’s why seeing someone like Branch was so striking. Branch didn’t fit the mold of his kind either. Unlike the vibrant, cheerful Pop Trolls, Branch was quieter, more grounded, exuding a calm confidence that didn’t demand attention. He didn’t try to force himself to belong, nor did he bend to fit anyone’s expectations. He simply existed as he was. And yet, somehow, he still belonged—not in the loud, obvious way the other Pop Trolls did, but in his own understated, steady way. For Ronen, that was both remarkable and deeply comforting. 

All these thoughts swirled in Ronen’s head as he walked back to the bunker with Clay. The walk was quiet—too quiet. Ronen didn’t like it. Silence always bugged him. Growing up in a house with four other siblings, it was never quiet. Even at night, there was always some kind of noise—a creak of floorboards, muffled laughter, the faint hum of Wynona sketching, or Iris shuffling her music. Silence felt unnatural like something was missing.

“So, what’s your home like?” Ronen asked, breaking the quiet.

Uncle Clay flinched, as if he’d forgotten Ronen was even there. “Oh, uh...” He hesitated, and Ronen could almost see him trying to piece together the right words. “It’s a lot like Pop Village in some ways—closer together, a bit more organized. We don’t have a market, but we do a lot of trading when trolls pass through.”

“Do a lot of trolls pass through?” Ronen asked, curious.

“Not really,” Clay admitted, a hint of reluctance in his voice. “We’re pretty well hidden.”

“Oh,” Ronen said, unsure of how to respond. He couldn’t imagine living somewhere so cut off from the world. “What’s the environment like? Is it hot or cold? Is it far from here?”

“The weather’s a lot like here,” Clay replied, his tone steadying. “Hot summers, cold winters—it depends on the season. And it’s not too far from here, I think. As for the environment...” He paused, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s kind of what we make of it. It’s an old golf course, so there’s a little bit of everything.”

“An old golf course?” Ronen repeated, his brow furrowing. “That’s... different.”

Clay chuckled, catching the confusion in Ronen’s tone. “Yeah, it’s unique. But we’ve made it work. Oh, we do have a library, though. All kinds of books.”

Ronen’s nose scrunched up instinctively, a reaction he hadn’t meant to show but couldn’t quite hide. It wasn’t that he hated books—it was just that reading felt more like a chore than anything enjoyable. The words never seemed to stick, and he always had to reread things so many times just to understand. Audiobooks? Those were great. Actual books? Not so much.

Clay tilted his head, noticing Ronen’s reaction. “Oh,” he said, a little surprised. “Do you not like reading?”

Ronen hesitated, then shrugged, his voice dropping to a mumble. “Not really. I’m just... not good at it,” he admitted quietly, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Dad says it’s okay, that it’s normal, but... I don’t know. It doesn’t feel normal.”

“What do you mean?” Clay asked, his tone gentle but curious, like he wasn’t pushing—just trying to understand.

Ronen felt the groan bubbling at the back of his throat. He hated talking about this. It was embarrassing enough when it came up at school—when his teacher called on him to read aloud, and the words on the page blurred together, refusing to make sense. The awkward silence that followed, the muffled whispers from classmates, the way the teacher tried too hard to be patient—it all made his stomach twist into knots.

But worse than that were the meetings after school. His dad, sitting across from his teacher, nodding quietly as she went on and on about strategies and accommodations and whatever else they thought might “help” him this time. Ronen would sit there, staring at the ground below his feet, wishing he could disappear. He didn’t need anyone else to tell him he was different. He already knew. And no matter how much his dad tried to reassure him afterward, telling him it was fine, that everyone struggles with something in school, the words never quite stuck.

“Dad says he had trouble reading when he was in school and that he still does now,” Ronen said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. He tried to make it sound like it didn’t bother him, but he knew he wasn’t convincing anyone—not even himself. “He says it’s normal, that it just takes time. But... I don’t know.” He shrugged, his chest tightening with frustration. 

He didn’t mean to say that last part. It slipped out before he could stop it, and as soon as the words were out, his face burned with regret. He shoved his paws into his pockets and kept his eyes fixed on the ground, waiting for Clay to say something—or worse, pity him. That would be the worst.

"Your dad did have trouble in school," Clay answered after a moment, his voice steady, as if he’d been thinking it over carefully. "I don't remember exactly what it was, but I do remember him staying up late to get his homework done. He’d sit at the kitchen table, sometimes with a pencil in his hand and sometimes just staring at the papers like he was trying to make sense of it all. It wasn’t easy for him."

Clay’s expression softened as he spoke, his gaze far away as if he were picturing a younger version of Ronen’s dad. “I’d pass by and see him rubbing his temples, frustrated. Sometimes he’d mutter to himself, going over things again and again until they stuck. Other times he’d just get this determined look, like he wasn’t going to let whatever was giving him trouble win. Your dad was stubborn like that.” He chuckled lightly, the sound carrying a warm fondness rather than mockery.

“What did he do to make it better?” Ronen asked hesitantly, his voice quieter now. He knew his dad had struggled in school—his dad had mentioned it before—but hearing it confirmed by someone else felt both strange and oddly comforting. It made his dad seem more real somehow, more relatable.

Clay paused for a moment, considering the question. “I honestly don't know. I know it must have gotten better because he wrote all the songs for Brozone,” he said with a shrug, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Ronen blinked. Brozone. His chest tightened slightly at the name. Brozone was… complicated. It wasn’t just some piece of family trivia or a funny story from Dad’s past—it was loaded. A touchy subject that no one in their family ever brought up unless Dad did first, and even then, it was rare. All of Ronen’s siblings knew what Brozone was—how could they not? But Dad had always been so quiet about it, like even saying the name brought back memories he didn’t want to relive. Memories that hurt. Ronen had never been bold enough to push, but maybe this was his chance to learn more.

“Brozone?” Ronen asked, carefully letting a hint of confusion slip into his voice as he tried to sound casual. His eyes stayed locked on Clay, watching for his reaction.

Clay’s face immediately soured, his expression twisting in a way Ronen hadn’t expected. For a moment, Clay just stared at him, his mouth opening slightly as if to speak, then closing again like he couldn’t decide what to say. There was something almost unsettling about his expression—a mix of shock, anger, and… was that hurt? Clay blinked a few times like he was trying to process what he’d just heard, before his eyebrows shot up, his face shifting from that sour frustration to outright disbelief.

“Wait—you don’t know what Brozone is?” Clay asked, his voice rising slightly, laced with shock and maybe a hint of exasperation.

Ronen felt a prickle crawl up his spine at Clay’s tone. The way his uncle was looking at him, the way his voice sharpened—it made him wonder if maybe there was a good reason Dad didn’t bring Brozone up much. Had he just stepped on some kind of emotional landmine?

“Well—uh—I mean, I know it was a band Dad was a part of,” Ronen said quickly, backtracking as his mind raced. “But… Dad’s been in a lot of bands.” He shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant, though the prickling at the back of his neck wouldn’t go away.

Clay tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing, as if he were trying to read Ronen’s expression. “He was in other bands?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost cautious as if the idea of it caught him off guard.  

“Yeah,” Ronen said with a small nod, relieved to steer the conversation away from whatever nerve he might have hit. “He writes for a lot of them, so technically.”  

Clay’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, his expression unreadable for a moment. “Huh,” he murmured. There was something in his tone, a weight that Ronen couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t judgment, but maybe curiosity—or something deeper. He looked away briefly as if turning over Ronen’s words in his head, before glancing back at him.  

“Yeah, I videoed some of the songs with my camera—” The moment the words left Ronen’s mouth, he regretted it. His stomach dropped as the realization hit him like a wave. Why had he said that? He hadn’t thought about those recordings in weeks, not since he’d given Iris that last one—the one he’d taken that day.  

No. Stop thinking about it, he told himself firmly. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’d given Iris the tape, and she’d gotten rid of it. No one was going to see it. No one was going to know what happened. And, most importantly, no one was going to get blamed. Iris took care of it, she always does.  

“But I don’t have any of them here,” Ronen mumbled quickly, hoping to brush the slip-up aside. He focused on keeping his tone casual, but his voice wavered just enough to betray him. He avoided Clay’s eyes, staring at the ground as though the dirt path could swallow him whole.  

Clay didn’t respond right away. Ronen could feel his uncle’s eyes on him, studying him again, the silence stretching just long enough to make him squirm. “You videoed them?” Clay finally asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant, like he was treading carefully.  

Ronen’s chest tightened, and he shrugged, forcing himself to keep his movements loose like it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah, sometimes,” he muttered. “It’s just... something I do. Or did. For fun.”  

Clay hummed thoughtfully, the sound low and contemplative, but he didn’t press further—not immediately, at least. Ronen let out a small breath of relief, though his heart still raced. He could feel the weight of his uncle’s curiosity hanging in the air, and he knew Clay wasn’t blind to the tension. His uncle wasn’t stupid. But for now, Ronen clung to the hope that the topic would fade, that Clay wouldn’t dig too deep.  

Because if he did... there were things Ronen wasn’t ready to explain. Things he wasn’t even sure he could explain. The very thought made his stomach twist uncomfortably.  

“I remember you mentioning you had a camera,” Clay said after a moment, his voice careful, like he was testing the waters. He began rubbing his arm absently, his gaze flicking away before settling back on Ronen. “Do you record a lot of things?”  

Ronen froze for a split second, his heart skipping a beat. He forced himself to move, to keep his expression neutral, even though he could feel the tension creeping into his limbs. His fingers twitched at his side, itching to fidget with something—anything—but he shoved them back into his pockets instead.  

“Uh, yeah,” Ronen answered finally, his tone trying to sound casual but coming out a little strained. His claws scratched at the fabric in his pocket as he spoke. “Normally, before we go on our trips to the Neverglades, Dad gets all of us new supplies. Stuff we can use on the trip.” He glanced at Clay briefly before continuing, “Wynona gets a new sketchpad. Cash gets a new book to read. Iris gets more film for her camera. Jo gets a new book to press flowers into. And me? I get new film for recording.”  

Clay nodded, his expression softening as he listened. “What kind of things do you like to record?” he asked gently, his curiosity genuine and unthreatening.  

Ronen hesitated, his mind racing through the countless things he’d filmed over the years. His siblings laughing around a campfire. A hawk taking flight against a blazing sunset. His dad humming to himself as he strummed his guitar in the quiet of the evening. But then his thoughts veered toward other videos—ones he didn’t want to think about, ones that carried too much weight. He swallowed hard, shoving those memories back into the shadows of his mind.  

“Uh, like... trees, sunsets, animals sometimes,” he mumbled, his words coming out rushed. “Stuff like that. Just... normal things.” But the words felt incomplete. There was a pause, and Ronen could feel the tension in his chest starting to ease, though not entirely. Maybe if he kept talking, he’d feel better. Maybe.

Ronen continued, his voice still cautious but less tight now. “I liked recording things like that. Stuff that felt... important, I guess. Even if it wasn’t at the time.” He shifted his weight, his claws still fidgeting in his pockets. “I have some of Iris. She has this way of playing the piano that is always cool to watch. She gets so focused, you know? Like she’s in her own little world.”  

Clay gave a small nod, encouraging him to keep going.  

“And Dad...” Ronen’s voice softened as he continued. “Sometimes he’d play a new song for Uncle Styx. I think they were practicing or something, but I liked filming it. They’d sit there for hours, just messing around with chords or lyrics. It was... nice.”  

For a brief moment, Ronen thought he saw his uncle flinch ever so slightly, his ears flicking back as if the mention of Styx had stirred something. The reaction was quick, subtle, but it stuck with Ronen as he hesitated, unsure if he should press on.  

He chose to push through. “And then there was Cash’s first concert,” he said, his voice lifting slightly as the memory came back to him. “Oh, I recorded the whole thing—from before the start until after. He was so nervous he almost threw up before going on stage. But then he won.” A faint smile tugged at Ronen’s lips as the scene played out in his mind. “He was so shocked when they called his name. He just stood there for, like, five seconds until Iris and Jo had to shove him forward to grab his trophy.”  

Clay smiled faintly, but there was something in his expression—something sad, almost wistful. “That sounds...” he started, but his voice trailed off for a moment before he finished, “That sounds nice. To have all of those memories.”  

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter now. If only they could go back. 

“Do you have any of them here?” Clay asked, tilting his head slightly. "I'm sure everyone would love to see them." 

Ronen stiffened. It's gone. It's gone. “No,” he answered, his tone clipped. “When we were—uh—taken, we were trying to get away as fast as we could, so we didn’t get a chance to grab anything.” His voice tightened as the words left his mouth, and he could feel the weight of that day creeping back in. He didn’t like to think about it. None of his siblings did.  

Clay’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he seemed completely thrown. “Oh,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I—I—uh—” He stuttered, clearly struggling to find the right words. It might have been funny if it weren’t about such a raw, sore topic. “I’m sure we can get some more film,” Clay finally said, his tone awkward but well-meaning. “That way you can video things again. You know, so you can show John Dory—your dad—when he wakes up.”  

At the mention of his dad waking up, Ronen felt his ears droop fully, his chest tightening with an ache he couldn’t shake. “Yeah,” he muttered, though his voice lacked any conviction, barely more than a whisper.  

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the weight of everything neither of them could say. Ronen shifted his gaze to the ground, his claws fidgeting against the fabric of his pockets. He tried to steady himself, taking shallow breaths to keep the knot in his throat from rising. He didn’t want to cry—he wouldn’t cry—but the pressure building behind his eyes was harder to fight than he expected.  

Clay seemed to notice. His gaze softened, and when he finally spoke, his voice was shaky, uncertain in a way that made Ronen’s chest ache even more. “Hey,” Clay started, his words hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was saying the right thing. “Your dad is going to be fine.”  

The statement hung in the air, and Ronen couldn’t help but notice how unconvincing it sounded. Clay must have realized it too because he quickly added, “Once Branch gets back—which will honestly, be within the next twenty-four hours or so—and takes him to a real doctor, he’ll wake up in no time.”  

Ronen looked up at Clay, his uncle’s face painted with forced optimism. Clay’s words were meant to be reassuring, but Ronen caught the slight tremor in his voice, the flicker of doubt in his eyes. It scared him. 

He wanted to believe him– needed to believe him. But the truth was, promises didn’t make anything certain. Uncle Clay could say all the right things, could give Ronen every reason to hold on to hope, but none of it could erase the terrifying what ifs that loomed over them.  

What if Branch didn’t get back in time? What if the doctor couldn’t help? What if Dad never woke up?   

The thoughts twisted in his chest like a storm, and Ronen's tail hugged around himself tightly, “I hope you’re right,” he said quietly, the words barely audible. He didn’t trust his voice to say much more.

Clay hesitated, his own uncertainty clear in the way he rubbed the back of his neck and glanced away for a moment before meeting Ronen’s gaze again. “I am—I usually am,” he said, a little more firmly this time. But the forced confidence only made the moment feel heavier, like a blanket that couldn’t quite keep out the cold.

Ronen nodded, though the motion was stiff and reluctant. He didn’t want to argue. He didn’t even want to talk anymore. Because deep down, no matter how much he hoped Clay was right, he couldn’t shake the fear that he might not be.

They walked in silence for a while, the sound of their footsteps on the forest floor the only thing breaking the quiet. Ronen kept his gaze fixed on the ground, his thoughts churning, while out of the corner of his eye, he watched Clay fidget uncomfortably. His uncle’s hands kept moving—rubbing his arms, adjusting his wristband, brushing against the edge of his vest—like he was trying to find something to do to fill the silence.

Finally, Clay seemed like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. “You said Jo gets a new book to press flowers into before you go on your yearly trip?” he asked, his tone light, almost casual, but there was an edge of effort behind it.

“Yeah,” Ronen nodded, not looking up.

“I didn’t know she liked flowers,” Clay commented thoughtfully. “Poppy mentioned something about a gardening club—do you think that’s something she’d be interested in joining?”

Ronen sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, the question hitting him in a way he hadn’t expected. Honestly, he didn’t know. He wasn’t surprised Clay or any of his uncles didn’t know about Jo’s interest in flowers. She hadn’t shown much interest in anything over the past two months.

Two months ago, Jo would have jumped at the idea of a gardening club. Two months ago, she would’ve been the first to throw herself into learning everything about their new uncles. Two months ago, she’d still be talking and laughing and filling the air with her constant chatter.

Two months ago, everything would have been...normal.

“I don’t know,” he answered finally, his voice quieter than he intended. “Maybe.”

“That’s okay. We can always ask her,” Clay said, his optimism sounding forced.

If she talks to you first, Ronen thought but didn’t say.

Clay, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Ronen’s hesitation, pressed on. “You also said Cash gets a new book before you go on your trips?” he asked, his tone brightening slightly as he shifted topics. “What kind of books does he like to read?”

The sudden question threw Ronen off, but he realized quickly that Clay wasn’t waiting for a response to his earlier comment about Jo. He wanted to keep the conversation going, to keep Ronen talking—probably to distract him from the heavier emotions that he had opened and were now left lingering in the air.

“Uh... fantasy, mostly,” Ronen said after a moment, his voice a little steadier. “Stuff with quests and dragons and big, epic battles. Cash likes the kind of stories where everything feels... bigger than life.” He paused for a beat, glancing at Clay. “You said you liked to read too. What do you like to read?”

“Oh, uh—” Clay looked caught off guard by the question, his eyebrows shooting up as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Sad ones,” he said finally, his tone half-embarrassed.

Ronen made a face, wrinkling his nose. “Why do you like the sad ones?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine confusion.

Clay opened his mouth to respond, clearly fumbling for the right words. “Oh, well—” he started, but he was abruptly cut off by a loud thump that echoed through the trees, causing both of them to whip their heads toward the pathway leading in the direction of the market.

There, in the middle of the road, was the unmistakable squishy, smiling face of Rhonda.

“Rhonda!” Ronen called, his voice lighting up with excitement as he recognized the armadillo-bus. Her beady eyes turned toward them, and she wobbled happily, her massive frame bouncing slightly as she made her way closer, the ground trembling faintly beneath her steps.

Without thinking, Ronen started to take off in her direction, his relief at seeing a familiar member of their family making his chest feel lighter. But just as quickly as he moved, he felt his feet leave the ground, a sudden pull yanking him backward.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, twisting to see Clay’s hand gripping the back of his shirt, holding him firmly in place. “Let go!”

“No way!” Clay snapped, his eyes locked on Rhonda, his fur bristling in what could only be described as full-blown panic. His tail was puffed out, and his stance was rigid, like he was bracing for a fight. “What is that creature?”

“It’s Rhonda!” Ronen answered easily, wriggling against Clay’s grip and trying to pull the back of his shirt free.

“Okay... and?” Clay shot back, his voice sharp with confusion as he yanked Ronen a step further behind him.

“She’s friendly!” Ronen said, exasperation creeping into his voice.

Before Clay could argue, a voice rang out, loud and winded. “She is friendly!”

Both of them turned toward Rhonda, where a figure had appeared, leaning against the armadillo-bus with his hands on his knees, clearly out of breath.

“Uncle Bruce?” Ronen blurted, blinking in surprise, his voice cutting through the tense air.  

Bruce straightened up slowly, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. His usual laid-back demeanor was gone, replaced by a rare urgency that made Ronen’s stomach twist. His fur was ruffled, and there was a seriousness in his eyes that Ronen wasn’t used to seeing. “Yeah, it’s me,” Bruce said, waving a hand dismissively before patting Rhonda’s massive side. “And yeah, she’s friendly. Big, squishy, and weird—but friendly.”  

Clay didn’t budge. His grip on the back of Ronen’s shirt stayed firm as his narrowed gaze darted between Bruce and the armadillo-bus. “What’s going on?” he asked, his tone low and guarded, his fur still bristling.  

Before Bruce could respond, Rhonda’s side door burst open with a thud, and Cash stepped out, his face lit up with the first genuine smile Ronen had seen in what felt like forever.  

“Ronen! We found Rhonda!” Cash called, his voice brighter than it had been in weeks.  

Hot on his heels was Iris, her camera slung over her shoulder. She had her camera! She had a small smile of her own—a rare, relaxed expression that softened her usual sharp edges. But the moment her eyes landed on Uncle Clay, her smile disappeared, replaced by a cold glare.  

Ronen flinched slightly at the sudden shift in her demeanor. Iris’s glare lingered on Clay just long enough to make things awkward before her expression settled back into neutral as she looked at Ronen again. “Well,” she said, her tone even, “technically, Rhonda found us.”  

“We’re heading to get Wynona and Jo,” Cash added, his excitement clear in his voice as he leaned back against Rhonda’s side and gave her a loving pat.  

“Okay,” Ronen said, without sparing either of his uncles another glance, he stepped toward the open door. “I’m going in.” And before anyone could stop him, he climbed into Rhonda, leaving Clay and Bruce behind to sort through their own unspoken questions and awkward silences that had become normal in the past week.  

The interior of Rhonda greeted him like an old memory—messy, chaotic, but strangely comforting. It was clear someone had attempted to tidy up, but the effort barely made a dent in the disarray. Photos, clothes, and random belongings were scattered across the floor, remnants of the life they’d lived on the road. It was the kind of mess Dad would have hated, but the familiarity of it made Ronen’s chest ache with bittersweet comfort.  

“Oh,” Clay’s voice rang out behind him, hesitant and curious after a moment. “This is where you all lived?”  

“Kinda,” Ronen replied, glancing back over his shoulder as Clay stepped cautiously inside. “We mostly camped outside when we went to the Neverglades, but yeah, we stayed in here when we traveled.” He paused, noticing Clay’s eyes drifting to the cluttered floor. Ronen moved to pick up some of the scattered clothes, suddenly self-conscious. “It doesn’t normally look like this. Dad and the rest of us usually kept it clean.”  

“I’m sure he did,” Clay said softly, his voice tinged with something Ronen couldn’t quite place—sympathy, maybe, or regret.  

“What are you doing in here?” Ronen asked, still gathering clothes into a small pile. “I thought you didn’t trust Rhonda.”  

“I never said I didn’t trust her,” Clay corrected, his tone defensive but without any real bite. “I just didn’t know who—or what—she was.” His eyes roamed around Rhonda’s interior, eventually landing on a lone photo still pinned to the wall. It was clear he wanted to take a closer look, but his paws stayed firmly at his sides, as if he didn’t dare disturb anything. “Uh, Iris and Cash went to get Wynona and Jo, and Bruce went to grab Floyd. Figured it’s better to ease everyone into the whole ‘giant armadillo’ thing. No sense in sparking another panic.”

Ronen snorted softly at that, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, though he didn’t lift his gaze from the clothes he was organizing.

Clay wandered further into Rhonda’s cluttered interior, his steps cautious as if afraid to misstep in the chaos. As he moved, something clicked in Ronen’s mind. He straightened and walked to a small drawer, pulling it open to reveal a neatly arranged row of tapes. Each tape was carefully labeled, these tapes were safe—no uncomfortable memories or painful reminders, just some birthdays, concerts, and fun family moments. Some even dated back to a time before Ronen or Cash were born.

“Actually, you might like this,” Ronen said, glancing over his shoulder at Clay. He picked up one of the tapes and held it out. “You said you wanted to see some of the stuff I recorded, right?”

Clay’s ears perked up slightly, his curiosity evident as he stepped closer. He took the tape with both hands, handling it with a care that surprised Ronen. “I’d love to see them,” he said, his voice soft but sincere as he studied the tape like it was something precious.

“And I’m sure everyone else would, too,” Clay added after a moment, his voice quieter but no less sincere. He placed the tape into a small drawer with careful hands, a simple gesture that carried a surprising amount of weight. Ronen noticed, though he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he returned to organizing the scattered tapes while Clay busied himself trying to straighten up the lived-in part of Rhonda. The two worked in comfortable silence for a while-the only sounds were the soft shuffling of their movements and the occasional creak of Rhonda’s gentle wobbling as she shifted slightly in place.

That quiet was abruptly broken by the sound of hurried, stumbling footsteps approaching. Both of them froze, their attention snapping to the door. The steps were clumsy and urgent, but Rhonda’s delighted wobble reassured them that whoever was coming was friendly. Moments later, the footsteps stopped, and a familiar voice rang out.

“Ronen!” Wynona called, her pink-and-orange hair appearing in the doorway as she leaned in, breathless and wide-eyed.

“Yeah?” Ronen replied distractedly, the tension in his shoulders easing when he saw his little sister. He didn’t stop what he was doing, still gathering tapes in his arms.

“Uncle Branch is back!” Wynona gasped, the words tumbling out between heavy breaths.

Ronen froze mid-motion. His hands slackened, and the tapes slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the floor around him. He turned to Wynona, his heart pounding in his chest. “What?” he asked hoarsely, his voice barely audible. The words hit him like a bolt of lightning, sparking a whirlwind of emotions. If Branch was back, then… Dad was back too. The thought sent a wave of anticipation and disbelief crashing over him. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

“Uncle Branch is back with Dad!” Wynona repeated, her breath still catching, her excitement unwavering. “Come on!” She disappeared from the doorway as quickly as she had arrived, her hurried steps fading as she ran off.

Without thinking, Ronen surged toward the door, tapes scattering further as his feet knocked them aside. Some slid under the table, others disappeared beneath the chairs. His frustration bubbled over, and he growled, stooping to grab one of the tapes off the ground.

Before he could grab more, a firm yet steady paw landed on his, halting him. “Ronen,” Clay said softly, his voice calm but resolute. “I’ll take care of this. Go see if they need help.”

Ronen hesitated, looking up at his uncle. Clay’s expression was understanding, almost encouraging. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Ronen nodded. Without another word, he straightened and rushed out the door, his heart pounding as he raced to catch up with Wynona’s call.

Notes:

So here is chapter 14 Ronen's POV with all of his feelings and thoughts with a side of Clay stumbling his way through a conversation with his nephew.

Going to be honest (and it is probably never going to come up so might as well say it here) Ronen is my weird little guy that I came up with how he looked before knowing what kind of genre he would fit into. I knew he was going to be part Techno troll but I also knew he didn't fit into the Techno trolls. It wasn't until I watched pieces of the show that I learned about the Party Crashers and it fit. To clarify Ronen is half Pop Troll, quarter Techno Troll, and quarter Party Crasher. he is my weird little guy and I like him weird

Ronen's reading issue is his having dyslexia. I know there is a headcanon of JD having dyslexia and being a person with dyslexia I wanted to include that so now Ronen also has it.

Last thing: in the next chapter, we are back with Branch and see how things are with JD.

I don’t know if I will be posting again before the New Year so Happy Holidays and Happy New Year

Chapter 15: Chapter 15: Branch POV

Branch POV

(Two Days Earlier)

As Pop Village slowly disappeared in his rearview mirror, Branch felt an uneasy tension begin to crawl over him. There were so many things that could go wrong while he was away. A part of him tried to reassure himself that JD's kids would be fine under the care of his brothers—at least, he hoped they would—and that his brothers were not the same trolls they once were. But if the ride to Pop Village was any indication of how things might play out in the next few days, Branch knew his brothers were in for a rough time.

Their biggest challenge would be Iris. She didn’t seem naturally hostile, but she clearly didn’t trust them—not yet, anyway. Her guarded demeanor wasn’t as sharp with him or Floyd; she came across as cautious rather than combative. However, her attitude shifted dramatically with Bruce after he asked questions that made Cash visibly uncomfortable. And with Clay, there wasn’t even caution—there was outright hostility, and Clay, in typical fashion, seemed all too willing to meet her energy head-on.  

Still, Branch held on to a sliver of optimism. Things could improve. They just needed to find common ground with Iris, to show her they were on the same side. If they could manage that, the rest would likely follow. Based on the way they’d behaved during the ride, Ronen and Wynona would probably be the easiest to reach. Ronen’s loud optimism and Wynona’s shy but perceptive nature suggested they might warm up quickly if they saw Iris begin to soften. Cash didn’t seem like he’d be much of a problem either, as long as Iris felt secure enough to drop her guard.

And then there was Jolene. She was the one who worried him the most. Since the moment they’d met, she hadn’t spoken a single word. She moved like a shadow, slipping through spaces with a presence so faint it was almost ghostly. Her eyes, distant and hollow, carried the weight of something too heavy for a kid her age to bear. It hurt to see that look again and on someone her age. Branch had been too focused on the immediate chaos of the situation to address it properly, but Jolene lingered in his mind long after he left.  

If he’d had more time, he would have pulled Iris aside before heading out. But the urgency of getting back to JD had gnawed at him, leaving little room for anything else. Now, on the road, he felt a pang of regret for not leaving someone behind to stay with JD in case he woke up while they were gone. If he had then maybe he would have had time to talk to Iris. It had been a gamble, and the weight of that decision sat heavily on his chest. He resolved to talk to Iris about Jolene the moment he got back. Maybe the girl just needed time, or maybe—more likely—she needed to see her dad. To see with her own eyes that he was alive, that he was okay, and that things would get better.  

Still, Branch reminded himself, they could handle it. If his brothers stumbled, Poppy would be there to pick up the slack. She always was. Sure, she had the village to run, but when Branch brought that up, she’d just waved him off with that easy confidence of hers, claiming it wouldn’t be a problem. She’d even volunteered to handle the Bounty Hunters when they contacted him back.

After hearing Iris’s account of how the Rageons had found them, Branch had sent letters to the Reggaeton trolls and the K-Pop gang. If anyone had information—or connections to someone who might—it would be them. The post-Rock Apocalypse had left everyone scrambling to rebuild in their own ways, but the Bounty Hunters, along with the Rock Tribe as a whole, had made a surprising effort to make amends. That effort had helped forge an odd friendship between Branch, Tresillo, and Wani- who was Tresillo’s… what were they, exactly? Partners? Archrivals? Both? Whatever they are, they should be able to help.   

And if they couldn’t? Well, Branch might have to reach out to Chaz or, clouds forbid, Hickory and his brother. The thought made his stomach turn. If it came to that, though, Poppy would have to be the one to make the call.  

There were a lot of things Branch admired about Poppy—her laugh, the way her smile showed her overbite, the way she could find a reason to smile even in the bleakest moments. But the one thing he admired yet struggled with was her ability to forgive so easily. It was a quality that could move mountains, but it could also blind her to people’s true intentions. Chaz always left Branch with a slimy, unsettling feeling, like he was waiting for the right moment to pounce. And Hickory? Branch trusted him even less. Hickory had looked Poppy in the eyes, gained her trust, and then handed her over to Barb. Branch couldn’t shake that betrayal, even if Poppy seemed to have moved on.

But this was Poppy. She had a way of making even the most daunting tasks seem manageable. If she said she could handle it, Branch believed her. It wasn’t blind faith—he’d seen her pull off the impossible too many times to doubt her now. Poppy wasn’t just optimistic; she was relentless. Whether it was rallying the village, forging alliances, or defusing the tension between trolls who had no reason to trust each other, she always found a way. That belief in her gave Branch the breathing room he desperately needed. She had things covered back home, which meant he could focus on everything waiting for him up ahead: like figuring out how to retrieve some of the kids’ belongings from JD’s house or preparing for the evaluation— whenever it happened — or, most critically, convincing the hospital to release JD into his care.  

He tightened his grip on the wheel, his knuckles turning a pale blue, and set his jaw with quiet determination. One step at a time. That’s how he’d always managed. The path wasn’t clear, and the challenges felt insurmountable, but Branch wasn’t the kind of troll to back down. He’d see this through—he had to. For the kids, for JD, and for himself.

(Twelve hours later)

Okay. Branch had laid everything out in his mind—his points, his questions, the exact tone he needed to strike. Confidence, but not aggression. Determination, but not desperation. This conversation had to go well, because JD’s release hinged on it. He just needed to stay focused, to keep his composure. That’s why he was here, pacing anxiously on the ground below JD’s hospital bed, trying to steady the rhythm of his thoughts as the hospital buzzed around him.

The hum of machines, the faint squeak of shoes on linoleum, and the antiseptic sting of the air didn’t help. They only heightened his sense of unease. Every few seconds, his eyes darted to the door, willing the nurse to return with the doctor. The waiting was unbearable. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be alone with his still-unconscious brother—it just felt... weird. Wrong, even.

In some ways, JD looked better. When Branch first saw him, JD had looked like he was minutes away from death. His entire body had been overtaken by that pale, icy blue hue that didn’t belong to him. Now, though, it seemed to be retreating. The frosty tone still clung to him in patches, but it no longer covered his entire body. Branch could see glimpses of his brother’s natural fur color. His hair, though still mostly that ashy white, now had faint streaks of grayish teal beginning to peek through. It was progress, but it wasn’t enough to set Branch at ease.

Now that Branch had time to really look, he noticed details he hadn’t before or hadn't been there before. JD’s left hand, all the way up to his elbow, was wrapped in bandages and set. His left leg was also set and wrapped. As well as his ribs, tightly bound in pristine white gauze. The doctor hadn't said anything about him being hurt anyway else other than getting the talent drawn out of him. The bandages almost blended with the icy blue of JD’s fur, but they were too clean, too precise to have been applied by Rageons. Trolls were simply too small to work with precision on beings that large. No—this was the work of someone their size, someone who knew exactly what they were doing. But who? And why?

Before Branch could dwell on it, a sharp clearing of a throat snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned quickly, his heart skipping a beat.

“Can I help you?” The voice was sharp, more like a challenge than an offer of assistance. It wasn’t curious or kind—it was an accusation wrapped in a question.

Branch felt his body tense as he sized up the speaker. His first thought was Rock Troll. No, not quite—maybe Rock Troll adjacent? Or maybe a sub-genre? The troll standing before him was an older troll, older than him and maybe a few years older than JD. He had a dark brown, yellow-tinted fur. His shaggy, dark gold hair framed his face like a lion’s mane, wild and unkempt yet somehow intentional. His ears were decorated with an assortment of piercings—hoops, studs, chains, and a few pieces that glittered when the light hit them just right. The jewelry didn’t stop there. His neck was weighed down with layers of necklaces that clinked softly as he moved, his fingers were adorned with a myriad of rings, and even his tail—long and swishing with discomfort—bore a few decorative bands.

It took Branch a moment to realize the troll was glaring at him, his dark lavender eyes framed by what Branch initially thought was just makeup. Smudged and uneven, it gave the troll a haggard, edgy appearance, like someone who didn’t care enough to fix it but wouldn’t be caught without it, either. But the longer he looked, the clearer it became—it was pure exhaustion.

“Well?” the troll pressed, his voice sharp and accusing. His tail flicked sharply behind him, a clear sign of irritation. “Are you just going to stand there staring, or are you going to answer me?”

Branch straightened, squaring his shoulders. He wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation, but he also wasn’t about to let some stranger intimidate him. “I’m waiting for JD’s head doctor,” he replied evenly, his tone steady and firm. “I’ve got things to discuss.”

The troll tilted his head slightly, his shaggy mane shifting as he studied Branch with narrowed, distrustful eyes. “And who are you?” His tone dripped with suspicion, as though Branch’s very presence was a personal threat.

Branch fought the urge to bristle. He wasn’t here to argue with some random troll who clearly didn’t understand the situation. “Branch. John Dory's brother,” he said, keeping his voice calm but resolute.

The other troll froze. His dark lavender eyes widened slightly, but the moment was fleeting. Before Branch could continue his sentence, he was grabbed by his vest and yanked off the ground with startling ease. The world tilted, and suddenly he was staring into the angry, smudged face of the other troll. His grip was iron-tight, the rings on his fingers pressing uncomfortably against Branch’s chest.

“I don’t know who you are or what you’re trying to pull,” the troll growled, his voice low and dangerous, “but you’ve got five seconds to tell me the truth—or else.”

Branch’s pulse spiked, and instinctively, he grabbed at the troll’s wrists. “What’s wrong with you? Put me down!” he hissed, his voice sharp with both irritation and alarm.

“Not until I get answers,” the troll snapped back, his eyes blazing with suspicion. “One.”

“I gave you answers!” Branch shot back, his voice rising slightly as frustration began to bubble over.

“Don’t lie to me! Two!”

“I’m not lying!” Branch snarled, yanking at the troll’s grip, though it didn’t budge.

“Yes, you are! Three!”

“And how do you even know that?” Branch demanded.

“Because JD’s brothers are dead!” the troll bellowed, his voice cracking with emotion like it hurt him to say it out loud. “I helped bury them!”

Branch’s mind reeled. What? Who was this troll?

“Styx!” A sharp voice sliced through the tension, heavy with a Southern drawl. “Put him down!”

Branch froze. He knew that voice.

In an instant, he was dropped unceremoniously back onto his feet, his knees buckling slightly as he stumbled to regain his balance. The troll—Styx, apparently—was shoved backward by a firm hand as another figure stepped into the space between them.

Delta Dawn.

She looked like she hadn't slept in days, but that didn't stop her from standing tall and unyielding between them. Her hands firmly planted on her hips, her sharp, no-nonsense gaze locked on Styx. Her presence commanded the room like a crack of thunder, daring him to try anything else. Even Styx seemed to hesitate under her scrutiny, his tail flicking nervously only for it to reignite with anger when his eyes landed on Branch once again.

But it wasn’t just Delta Dawn.

Standing beside her, with that infuriating air of calm he always carried, was Hickory.

Branch’s fur bristled instantly, his pulse pounding in his ears. He straightened his vest, his eyes darting between Delta and Hickory as he tried to process what was happening. Delta’s presence brought a flicker of relief. But... why was she here? Shouldn’t she be back in Lonesome Flats, leading the Country trolls? Did she know JD? Iris had mentioned they lived in Lonesome Flats before the Rageons took them. Could JD and Delta Dawn have been friends?

And then there was Hickory.

Branch’s jaw tightened as his gaze settled on the smooth-talking troll. If Delta’s presence brought relief, Hickory’s did the opposite. His mere presence set Branch on edge, the memory of his betrayal flashing through Branch’s mind like a fresh wound. If Hickory was here, then trouble wasn’t far behind. It never was.

“What’s going on here?” Delta’s voice cut through the tension, calm but carrying the weight of authority. She kept her piercing gaze locked on Styx, who still refused to meet her eyes, his attention fixed squarely on Branch.  

Styx’s tail flicked sharply, his jaw tightening. He didn’t seem to care what Delta wanted, but she wasn’t about to let him off the hook. “Styx,” she repeated, her voice firm, laced with warning. “I expect an answer. I know you’re not stupid enough to attack someone without good reason.”  

Before Styx could respond, Hickory shifted his stance, his eyes landing on Branch with a flicker of confusion. “Branch?” His tone carried genuine surprise. “What are you doing here?”  

Delta turned at the sound of Hickory’s voice, her brows furrowing. “Branch?” she echoed, and for the first time, her surprise broke through her otherwise steady demeanor. It was as if she hadn’t fully registered who he was—or why he was here—until now.  

"You know this guy?" Styx asked, before turning to Hickory with his ears lying flat against his head, "You both know this guy?"

Branch chose to ignore the troll and met Hickory’s gaze, his eyes narrowing into a glare. “I could ask you the same thing.”  

Hickory raised his hands in mock surrender, his exhaustion evident in the droop of his shoulders. “Now, now, Branch,” he said, his tone light but cautious. “Let’s not start off on the wrong foot.”  

“We’re already on the wrong foot,” Branch snapped, his voice low and sharp, brimming with mistrust. “You being here guarantees that.”  

Hickory’s easy demeanor faltered for a split second, his brows knitting together in something that might have been hurt—or frustration. Styx, however, let out a harsh snicker, clearly enjoying the tension. But his amusement turned venomous when his gaze shifted back to Hickory. Whatever mistrust Styx felt toward Branch paled in comparison to the sheer contempt he seemed to reserve for Hickory. His eyes burned with an intensity that made it clear Hickory’s very presence felt like a personal attack.  

Delta adjusted her position, placing herself squarely between all three trolls with raising her hand sharply to silence them all. “Easy.” Her tone was sharper now, brooking no argument. She turned her full attention to Styx, her expression stern. “Styx, what were you thinking, grabbing him like that? I need an explanation, and I need it now.”  

Styx crossed his arms over his chest, his tail flicking angrily behind him. “I don’t trust him,” he said flatly, his glare fixed on Branch. “He says he’s JD’s brother, but we all know that’s a lie. I don’t know who he really is, but I sure as heck don’t trust him around JD.”  

Branch took a step forward, his fur bristling with irritation as his own tail began to lash out behind him. “I already told you who I am,” he shot back. “And I’m not lying. I am JD’s brother.” Who does this guy think he is? First, he attacks me then threatens me, and now he is calling me a liar? 

Styx’s eyes narrowed, and he mirrored Branch’s step forward, the tension between them crackling like static. His tail lashed behind him, a clear sign he wasn’t backing down.  

Before Styx could say anything else, Delta intervened, stomping one of her hooves between the two trolls with the air of someone who had done this far too many times. “Enough, Styx,” she said, she sounded tired. “If Branch says he’s JD’s brother, then he might actually be JD’s brother. He has no reason to lie and I know he is not the lying type. Calm down, I don’t need you making things worse.”  

Styx opened his mouth to argue again, but Delta’s sharp glare cut him off before he could even begin. His jaw snapped shut with an audible click, and he huffed in frustration, crossing his arms so tightly it looked like he was trying to hold himself together. A low mutter slipped out under his breath, though it wasn’t loud enough for Branch to catch.  

Delta satisfied that Styx wouldn’t push further—for the moment—turned her attention back to Branch. Her expression softened slightly, though there was still an edge of impatience in her tone. “Now,” she began, “since you’re here, why don’t you explain what’s going on? We’ve been trying to get answers from the doctors, but they won’t tell us anything.”  

“Yeah,” Styx interjected, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Apparently, we’re not ‘family.’” He practically spat the word as he sent another icy glare in Branch’s direction. “You’d think knowing JD for almost twenty years would count for something.” His sharp, golden gaze flicked pointedly to Hickory, his tone growing even sharper. “And actually being there for him.”  

Hickory looked away, his shoulders tightening under Styx’s accusatory glare. Styx didn’t let up. Instead, he squared his shoulders and took a deliberate step closer to Delta, aligning himself with her as if making a statement. “We,” he emphasized, motioning to Delta and himself, “are the ones on his emergency contact list. The ones the doctors should be talking to.”  

Branch’s fur bristled, but Styx wasn’t done. His steps grew more predatory as he stalked forward, his tail lashing like a whip behind him. “Oh, and let’s not forget,” Styx continued, his voice dropping to a venomous growl, “we’re also the ones specifically named to receive custody of our nieces and nephews.”  

Branch froze, his breath catching. JD had someone specifically named to receive custody? His thoughts spiraled, trying to make sense of it. JD had planned for his children—had gone so far as to officially designate someone to take care of them in case something happened. And that someone wasn’t him or any of his brothers, because they were apparently dead... and buried...JD buried them. Styx’s words hit him like a hammer, and he barely had time to recover before the brown troll pressed further.

“And that,” Styx said, his voice dropping to an icy calm, “does open up one very important question.” His glare darkened as he closed the distance between them, his lavender eyes piercing. “Where are my nieces and nephews?”

Branch’s pulse spiked, his fur bristling as his mind scrambled for a response. Your? The word slipped from his mouth before he could stop it. His voice carried sharp disbelief, his brow furrowing as he stared at Styx. “Your?”

Styx tilted his head, his eyes never leaving Branch. “Yes,” he hissed, his tone as cold as his expression. “Mine.”

Branch straightened, willing himself not to be rattled. “Custody was given over to me,” he explained carefully, though the edge in his voice betrayed his frustration. “I was the first one here, and I didn’t know JD had already named someone.” He glanced briefly at Delta and Styx, realizing this might explain their presence. “They’re safe. They’re in Pop Village with our other brothers.”

But that explanation did not land well.

“You what ?” Styx’s disbelief turned quickly into anger, his voice rising as he took another step closer. “You took them to the same place where trolls used to get eaten as a holiday treat? Why in the world would you take them there?”

He knows about the Bergens? That was a  secret that Poppy had only shared with the other leaders. How does he know? Did JD tell him about them? He told Iris and Cash....JD had nightmares...

Before Branch could respond or question him, Delta stepped in, holding up a hand to de-escalate. “Whoa, whoa,” she said firmly, glancing between the two of them. “They don’t live there anymore, right? The Pop trolls moved to a safer spot, didn’t y'all?”

“Yeah,” Branch said quickly, latching onto her words as a lifeline. “Also, the Bergens don’t eat us anymore. We worked things out with them years ago, and everything is… better now.”

Styx’s tail lashed behind him as he eyed Branch skeptically. “You’ve met with them?” His voice was dripping with incredulity as if the very idea was absurd.

Oh no. Branch suddenly felt like he was treading on thin ice. Was this how Poppy felt every time she had to explain their peace with the Bergens? His mind raced, trying to figure out how to justify it without making things worse. 

“Yes,” Branch said slowly, carefully, as though each word was fragile and might shatter if spoken too quickly. “We’ve met with them. A lot has changed since then, and the kids are safe. I wouldn’t have taken them there if they weren’t.”  

The tension remained thick, nearly suffocating. Styx's glare burned, his narrowed eyes locking onto Branch like he was waiting for him to mess up, to say one wrong word.  

“Would you calm down?” Hickory cut in, his tone annoyingly calm. “I’m sure wherever Branch took them, they’re fine. More than fine if Poppy’s with them.”

Branch’s stomach sank. Great. Now Hickory was defending him. That was the last thing he needed. Why was Hickory even here? It was obvious that Styx knew him, but there was no chance Styx would have invited him along. The two of them stuck in a Critter Van together would have ended in an assault charge—or worse. Maybe he’d come with Delta? No, that didn’t track either. This felt far too personal for her to involve someone like Hickory in it. So why was Hickory here? And why did he care?  

“You know,” Styx said, his voice cutting through Branch’s spiraling thoughts, “you could at least try to care about the safety of your kids for once.”  

Branch froze. The words hit him like a thunderclap, rattling through him as his thoughts stumbled and tripped over themselves. What? His heart raced, his mind grasping for some other explanation— any other explanation—but the words had been clear as day.  

“What?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. His disbelief colored every syllable as he stared at Styx. Please, he begged silently, please let this be a misunderstanding. Maybe I misheard him.  

“Excuse you?” Hickory asked, stepping forward, his voice sharp as he addressed Styx’s accusation.  

Styx tilted his head slightly, his glare softening just enough to reveal an undercurrent of disappointment. The weight in his eyes felt heavier than any anger could have been. “You heard me,” he said, his voice low but deliberate. “You barely cared twelve years ago—”  

What?! Branch’s stomach turned violently, his thoughts crashing into one another like an avalanche. Cash. Cash is fourteen. Was Styx saying that Hickory was Cash’s dad? His pulse pounded in his ears as his mind scrambled. And Ronen. Ronen is ten. Is—no. He shook his head internally. Hickory can’t be Ronen’s dad. Cash, maybe. Ronen? No way.   

“Hell,” Styx continued, his voice heavy with a mixture of bitterness and disappointment, “you barely cared five years ago.”  

Five years ago? Branch’s thoughts ground to a halt. Jolene? His chest tightened. Was Styx really implying that Hickory was also Jolene’s dad? His mind reeled. There were countless trolls in the world—there had to be some mistake, right? JD couldn’t have—JD wouldn’t have— Hickory?  

He tried to push the thought away, but it clung to him, heavy and suffocating. If what Styx was saying was true, then Hickory and JD had two kids. Two kids? Branch’s heart raced as he fought to piece everything together. Styx’s glare burned into him, but it wasn’t just anger now—it was hurt, betrayal, and maybe even sadness.  

Branch swallowed hard, his voice cracking as he finally managed to speak. “Are you saying… Hickory and JD…?” His words trailed off as the weight of the question hung in the air, unanswered but heavy with implication.

Styx didn’t flinch. “Yes,” he said bluntly, his voice cutting through the suffocating tension like a blade. “JD and this- this- well whatever you want to call him.” No elaboration. No softening. He didn’t need to. The words hit sharp and undeniable, leaving a charged silence in their wake.

Branch froze, his mind grinding to a halt as it struggled to process what Styx had just said. Hickory and JD? Two kids? How had this been kept from him? How had Poppy, of all trolls, worked alongside Hickory for weeks and not known—how had he not known? Wait, Delta knew about him too. Why hadn't she said anything? A lone Pop troll, living among the other genres, and no one had ever thought to mention it? It was too much, too fast. 

“Now, hold on just a minute,” Hickory interjected, stepping forward with his hands raised, his usual easygoing air replaced with something sharper, almost defensive. “That’s not exactly fair, Styx. You’re makin’ it sound like I up and abandoned them, and that ain’t the truth.”

Abandoned? Branch suddenly felt a familiar anxiety start to crawl up his spine and a sad pang in his heart. He left JD?

“Oh, isn’t it?” Styx shot back, his tail snapping behind him like a whip. His voice was dangerously low, venom dripping from each word. “You walked out, Hickory. You left JD to clean up the mess you made, again.”

“I didn’t walk out!” Hickory retorted, his voice rising sharply. The frustration was seeping through his calm facade now, his tone laced with desperation. “I didn’t even know about Jolene until a year ago, and by then, JD didn’t exactly want me around.” His gaze flicked to Branch, his expression almost pleading as if willing him to understand. “And as for Cash—”

“Don’t,” Styx growled, cutting him off. He stepped forward, his posture rigid and coiled, like a spring on the verge of snapping. The room seemed to shrink as the air between them thickened with tension. “Don’t you dare. Not after what you did, bounty hunter.”

The way Styx spat the words “bounty hunter” was venomous, dripping with contempt. It might as well have been a snake’s hiss, the weight of it coiling around the room like a suffocating presence. The accusation hung heavy in the air, bristling with implications, each one sharp enough to cut.

Hickory flinched at the label, his jaw tightening as his eyes darted away. For the briefest moment, his mask slipped, revealing a flicker of guilt—or was it shame? He looked like he wanted to respond, but the words caught in his throat, tangled in emotions too raw to unravel.

“Enough.” Delta’s voice cracked through the tension, her sharp tone silencing both trolls instantly. Her piercing gaze swept over the two as though daring them to keep going. “You two are worse than children,” she snapped, her tone laced with disappointment and command. “Hickory, the only reason I told you what was happening is because I thought you deserved to know.” Her eyes narrowed as they locked onto Hickory. “Don’t make me regret that decision." 

Like Styx, she held no sympathy for Hickory either, just a cold stare of contempt and disappointment. This was more than just about Hickory leaving JD, although Branch will need to discuss that with him later. What had Hickory done to make these two so furious with him? What had he done to his brother? His brother who was on his own with five kids, two of which were his and one who didn't want to talk about him.

The silence that followed was heavy, the air practically vibrating with unspoken tension. Styx’s glare burned into Hickory, and Hickory’s jaw tightened, but neither said a word. 

Delta’s voice softened just slightly, enough to defuse the tension without losing its commanding edge. “This is not the time or place for your grudges,” she said firmly, her gaze sweeping over both Styx and Hickory like a stern warning. “We’re here for JD. Keep your personal issues out of it, or I swear, I’ll throw both of you out myself.” She took a deliberate step back but kept her stance firm, her posture radiating control as if daring either of them to challenge her authority.

“Now,” she continued, her tone shifting slightly as she turned her focus to Branch. “When you originally came here, were you able to ask the doctors any questions?”

Branch blinked, his attention snapping away from the standoff between Styx and Hickory. “Uh… yeah,” he answered hesitantly, his voice still wary as he cast a quick glance at the two, as though expecting them to erupt again at any moment. “The short version is… JD and the kids were kidnapped. The people who took them—they were siphoning JD’s talent to make themselves famous.”

Delta’s eyes narrowed, her expression hardening as she digested the information. “For how long?” she asked, her gaze shifting to JD’s unconscious form. She moved toward the bed, her steps measured but purposeful, her sharp eyes scanning JD as though she is started to put the visible evidence of the ordeal together.

“Two months,” Branch said, his voice heavy.

Delta paused, her brow furrowing as the weight of those two words hit her. “So during the rock tour, they were here? Along with the kids?” she asked, her tone carefully controlled, though there was a simmering anger beneath it.

Branch nodded, his gaze dropping. “Yeah,” he confirmed, his voice quiet.

"The Rock Tour," Styx began, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "that's the thing that started as an attempt at world domination, only for it to end with everyone holding hands and singing Kumbaya, right?" He turned to Delta, raising an eyebrow.

Kumbaya?

"Close enough," Delta replied dryly, eye remaining on JD.

"Weird, after centuries of separation it can all be fixed by one song," Styx said absently. 

"Wait," Branch interjected, his brow furrowing. "You don’t know about Rock’s World Tour?"

"Only bits and pieces," Styx admitted with a shrug. "I live out in neutral territory. Most of the main genre drama flies right over us. It’s not like we get the play-by-play of your musical escapades. So, I take it you were a part of it?"

“I was,” Branch said, nodding. His voice softened slightly, a mix of pride and lingering unease seeping into his tone. “It’s actually how I learned about the other genres. And... how I met Delta.” He hesitated, his eyes darting briefly toward Styx, before adding, “And Hickory. He was on a job.”

“A job?” Styx’s gaze sharpened instantly, his posture shifting back to a predator ready to pounce. His voice turned icy, “Let me guess, a job that involved hunting people down for money?” The disdain in his tone was unmistakable, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he locked onto Hickory like a hawk.

Hickory stiffened, his jaw tightening visibly, but he didn’t speak. His silence only added fuel to the fire.

Styx snorted, leaning forward slightly, his glare unwavering. “If Branch really is JD’s little, baby brother,” he said, his words cutting like a finely honed blade, “then it looks like your list of apologies just got a whole lot longer and a lot more challenging.”

Hickory’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, but he still didn’t respond. Whatever fragile truce might have existed between them felt as if it was seconds away from shattering. But before it could, Styx turned to Branch, his expression softening slightly—not much, but enough to be noticeable.

“How are the kids?” Styx asked, his voice quieter now, though there was a sharp edge of concern beneath it.

Branch exhaled, running a hand through his hair as if the weight of the question was suddenly too much. “About as well as you can imagine,” he said slowly. “Iris is taking it hard. She’s trying to appear strong, but...” He paused, his gaze falling to the ground as a memory flickered in his mind—waking up to the sound of her quiet sobs as she clutched the goggles, “She wants her dad.”

He swallowed hard before continuing. “Cash is following her lead, trying to support her in any way he can.” A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it was tinged with sadness. “He’s got her back.”

Branch hesitated, his brow furrowing as his thoughts shifted to the others. “Ronen and Wynona?” He sighed, shaking his head. “I really don’t know. They’re talkative, sure—on the Crittervan, but it felt like they were talking just to fill the space.”

He glanced at Styx again, his voice quieter now. “And Jolene?” He paused, clearly struggling to find the words. “She’s quiet. I mean, really quiet. I know she can talk, right?”

“Yes,” Delta answered confused, her gaze sharp and focused as she studied him.

“Well, she hasn’t said a word. Not one. And…” Branch hesitated, the next part catching in his throat. “She’s gone gray.”

A heavy silence fell over the group, the weight of those words settling like a stone dropped into still water. Branch watched them carefully, his chest tightening as he studied their reactions. For months now, there had been peace between the genres—two months, to be exact. They’d learned so much about one another, about the struggles and triumphs of each culture. But one thing no one ever brought up—at least not openly—was gray trolls.

In Pop Village, being gray was now tolerated, even accepted in some circles. But before? It had been a stigma, a mark of shame. As someone who had once been a—well, still is a part of the time—gray troll, Branch couldn’t help but feel a pang of fear for his niece. What would her life be like now? What would it mean for her?

Delta and Styx exchanged a look, one that Branch couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn’t shock, exactly—more like a grim acknowledgment, as if this revelation had been expected all along. Hickory, on the other hand, looked deeply saddened, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

Okay,” Delta said, at last, her voice steady and determined. “We can handle that. We know how to help her.” Her tone carried a no-nonsense confidence as if she was already making a mental list of what needed to be done.

“Yeah,” Styx added, his sharp demeanor softening into something more practical. “Once we get settled, I’ll message Vi. She helped JD before—maybe she knows someone who can help Jo.”

“Are any of them hurt?” Hickory’s voice broke the momentary calm, hesitant but laced with genuine concern. His gaze flicked briefly to Branch, his expression guarded but searching.

It was like a flip of a light, the shift in the room was almost instantaneous. Any softness Styx had shown only moments ago vanished like smoke in the wind. His fur began to bristle, and his tail flicked with thinly veiled irritation. Styx did not want Hickory here. While Delta was willing to work with him, Styx was trying to push him away.

Branch stepped in before the tension could spiral any further, his tone calm but firm. “They’re fine, Hickory. Physically.” He emphasized the last word, hoping it would diffuse the rising storm. His eyes flickered between the two trolls—Styx practically radiating hostility, and Hickory, who stood stiff and silent.

Branch exhaled quietly, the weight of the situation settling in his chest. He didn’t like Hickory. He’d never been shy about that. But even he couldn’t ignore the subtle cracks in Hickory’s exterior. For all the tension and bad blood between them, this must be... complicated for him. For him to hear about his children this way. Children he has not seen in years. He shifted uncomfortably, reluctant to admit what was obvious but inescapable. Hickory’s connection to JD’s kids—Cash and Jolene—was undeniable, no matter how much Branch wanted it to not be true. 

"Styx," Delta said sternly bringing Branch back out of his thoughts and into this mess, "Don't."

Styx’s tail lashed behind him as he glared at Hickory. For a moment, it seemed Styx might ignore Delta’s warning, but finally, he let out a sharp exhale and stepped back, though the contempt in his lavender eyes lingered.  

Hickory ran a paw through his hair, his shoulders slumping slightly even as his jaw tightened. “Look,” he began, his voice calmer but still firm, “I didn’t know. If I’d known—”  

“You would have what? Fixed it?” Styx interrupted seizing the opportunity to restart the argument.  

“Maybe!” Hickory snapped, his anger finally spilling over. “I came back because I thought I could help. Because I wanted to make things right, but JD—” His voice faltered, and a flicker of pain crossed his face. “JD didn’t want me around.” 

So he did leave. Branch suddenly remembered all of the nights he waited up for Flo- for any of his brothers to come home. He suddenly saw a smaller, younger Cash- one that barely reached his hip- doing the same.

“Can you blame him?” Styx shot back, his voice rising. “You weren’t there when it mattered, Hickory! And then you left him for years to deal with everything on his own—raising the kids, managing the fallout, all of it! And for years you never even tried to come back!”  

“Because he told me to leave!” Hickory exploded, his voice echoing through the sterile hospital corridor. He turned toward Branch, desperation flickering in his eyes. “I wanted to stay, Branch. I know I messed up, but JD told me to—”  

Branch held up his paws, taking a step back as the weight of Hickory’s words settled over him. “Don’t bring me into this,” he said firmly, his voice low but resolute. His mind was still reeling from the whirlwind of revelations, and he wasn’t ready to take sides—not yet.  Why would JD tell him to leave? Why would he do that?

“Alright, that’s enough,” Delta snapped, stepping fully between the two trolls. Her expression was thunderous, and her tone left no room for argument. “I’m not about to let you two air all your dirty laundry here, and I’m sure as sugar not letting you drag Branch into it. This is a hospital, not a battlefield. If you want to keep at this, take it outside.”  

Styx growled low, his anger simmering just below the surface as his glare bore into Hickory. Hickory looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, his posture deflated as the fight drained out of him.  

“I didn’t know about Jolene,” Hickory said quietly, his voice raw with emotion like he was moments away from crying. “If I had, I would’ve been there. And when I did find out, I went to them. But JD... they didn’t trust me after everything that happened.”  

“And for good reason,” Styx muttered darkly, but Delta silenced him with a sharp look.  

Branch’s brow furrowed, his voice steady but tinged with accusation. “But Cash is fourteen. You’ve known about him all this time and just... what? Pretended he didn’t exist?” Like he didn't matter. Like how he felt about his family leaving didn't matter?  

“That’s not what happened,” Hickory said defensively, his voice rising slightly as he stood straighter. “I knew about Cash, and I was there for him when he was young. I was there for Iris too.” His face darkened as the weight of old memories pressed down on him, his features twisting into a somber expression. “JD and I... we were—”

“They were going to get married,” Styx interrupted his tone sharp and cutting, like a knife slicing through Hickory’s words.

Branch blinked, stunned by the revelation. “Married?” he repeated, his voice almost a whisper. The word felt foreign in his mouth like it didn’t belong in the same sentence as JD and Hickory. JD and Hickory barely belong in the same sentence.

“I even got a save-the-date card,” Styx continued, his bitterness pouring out like venom. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, his tail flicking with rage. “But the date just kept getting pushed back... and back... and back.” Each repetition of the word felt heavier, dripping with resentment. His gaze fixed on Hickory, unrelenting. “And then, surprise, surprise, it never happened.”

Hickory’s face tightened, his jaw clenching as he looked away. For a moment, the room was filled with a tense silence, broken only by Delta’s heavy sigh. She pinched the bridge of her nose, as though she could physically push the tension and bitterness out of her head.

“You said the kids are safe,” she prompted, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Now, what’s your plan for JD? Because he can’t stay here.”

Branch hesitated, still grappling with the new information Styx had just thrown into the room. “I was going to take him back to Pop Village,” he said at last, his voice measured, though the lingering shock was clear. “The doctor there should be able to help him more than anyone here can. And the kids are there.”

Delta nodded thoughtfully, her gaze never leaving Branch as she mulled over his words. “That makes sense,” she said slowly, though her brow furrowed as if calculating the risks. “The doctors here don’t know how to treat an injured troll, much less what to look for.” Her sharp eyes shifted briefly to the bandages wrapped around JD’s unconscious arm. “We've done what we could, but this needs more than basic care.”

Branch nodded. The weight of her words sank in deeper than he cared to admit, but he didn’t have time to second-guess himself. He had to keep moving forward, for JD’s sake.

“I assume you brought a crittervan?” Delta asked, her eyes scanning the room as if she expected to see one parked nearby.

“Yes,” Branch answered, his mind already shifting to the logistics of getting JD back to Pop Village. “It’s parked outside.”

“Good. Now let’s find the doctor and get going,” Delta said, her voice firm and decisive.

(Twelve hours later….. And a very awkward car ride later)

If the world ever wanted to open up and swallow him whole, now would be a good time—now would be a fantastic time. Branch gripped the steering wheel of the critter van so tightly his knuckles turned pale, his fingers aching from the strain. His back was stiff from hours of driving, and his legs protested every time he shifted between the gas and brake pedals. Yet he kept his focus locked on the road ahead, the glowing lights of Pop Village now visible in the distance.

They were only ten minutes away, but it felt like the longest ten minutes of his life. They’d been on the road for nearly twelve hours, twelve hours in a cramped critter van that somehow felt smaller than it had when it was him, his three brothers, and JD’s five kids. Now, with an unconscious JD sprawled in the back and tension so thick it was almost suffocating, the van felt more like a cage than a vehicle.

Branch’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. Delta sat in the middle row, her posture upright and her expression focused, like she was holding the entire van together by sheer will. Her presence was the only thing keeping the fragile peace intact. Styx sat next to JD in the back, staring silently at the still figure as if his stare alone could wake him up. Meanwhile, Delta had managed to keep Hickory as far away from Styx as possible, placing him in the passenger seat next to Branch.

It wasn’t much of a barrier. Branch could still feel the tension radiating off Styx like heat waves. Every so often, Styx’s tail flicked sharply against the van wall, an unmistakable sign of his growing uneasy. Hickory, on the other hand, was unusually quiet, staring out the side window as if he could avoid the growing uneasy by simply pretending it didn’t exist.

Branch’s jaw tightened as he glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was late, far later than he’d hoped they’d arrive, and the thought of pulling into Pop Village with an unconscious JD and all this unresolved tension made his stomach churn. He clenched the wheel tighter, as if sheer force alone could get them there faster.

“Branch,” Delta’s voice broke the silence, calm but firm. “Keep ya grip steady. You’re going to snap the wheel in half.”

He blinked, loosening his hold slightly. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice rough from hours of not speaking.

Hickory shifted in the seat next to him, glancing over. “You okay?” he asked, his voice tentative.

“I’m fine,” Branch replied curtly, keeping his eyes on the road. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk—especially not with Hickory. He still hadn’t figured out how to feel about him being here at all.

“Almost there,” Delta said from behind, her voice steady as she glanced out the window. “Five more minutes.”

“Good,” Styx muttered under his breath, though it was unclear whether he was relieved about nearing the village or just done with being stuck in the van with everyone else.

Branch’s eyes flicked back to the mirror, catching a glimpse of JD’s pale, bandaged arm. His chest tightened at the sight. He hadn’t let himself dwell too much on JD’s condition during the drive—he couldn’t afford to let his emotions distract him. But now that they were so close to help, the weight of it was pressing down harder.

Notes:

So here’s what we’ve all been waiting for, we are back with Branch and JD. And Delta, Styx, and Hickory get to join the story. While Branch gets his own info dump. It is going to be a long time before he is not overwhelmed with information.

Delta is here and is probably the best person to have in this situation. She is... is she keeping it together...someone has to.

Styx is a ride-or-die type of friend. He is the one who will respond to "I don't like that person" with "Why don't WE like them?". He had known JD the longest and they are each other's family. So him finding out JD is in the hospital and from his POV the kids are missing- puts him in a very confrontational and very protective mindset. That being said Styx is ready to fight Hickory for just being in the same room as JD after their separation (and Branch but not Delta. Never Delta, that would be a fight he would not win) If Styx can get a dig at Hickory he is taking it and Styx has a lot to say.
Styx voice cast: Bon Jovi

For all of the people who have not already guessed- Surprise!! Hickory is Cash and Jolene's dad.
I love JD and Hickory together and I really do ship them. My only problem with it is, that I don't think JD would be okay with bounty-hunting. I also believe having a bounty hunter as a partner and parent would cause some kind of issue. How could it not?

Chapter 16: Chapter 16: Iris, Branch POV

Iris POV

Iris ran as fast as her legs could carry her, her heartbeat hammering so hard it drowned out everything else. The world around her blurred—voices, movement, sights of the village—all of it faded into the background the second she saw the van pulling in.  

She knew.  

Branch was back.

And if Branch was back, then that meant—  

Dad was here.   

It didn’t matter if he was still unconscious. It didn’t matter if he was too weak to stand. She wished—muses, she wished —that he was awake. That he’d step out of the van himself, smirking like he always did, cracking some dumb joke to break the tension. She wanted to hear his voice, wanted to see the light in his eyes, to feel his arms around her and know—really know —that he was here and awake. But even if he wasn’t awake yet, even if he was still fighting to wake up—he was here. That was enough.  

The first to notice had been Jo. Her sharp eyes locked onto the van the moment it rolled past the tree line, and she hadn’t hesitated—not even for a second. The instant the headlights came into view, she bolted.  

Iris barely had time to register what was happening before instinct took over. "Jo—!"  

The name barely left her lips before her feet were moving, pounding against the dirt as she lunged forward. She raced after her baby sister, breath tight in her chest, muscles burning with the singular purpose of catching up.  

Behind her, hurried footsteps echoed on the dirt path, but they were fading, falling behind. A quick glance over her shoulder showed Cash and Wynona veering toward Rhonda—toward Ronen, who was still with her.  

Her momentum faltered for just a fraction of a second.  

Do I stop? Do I go back? But Jo didn’t stop. 

And Iris couldn’t— wouldn’t —let her run off alone.  

Cash is with them. He’ll take care of it. He always does. That was who he was. Reliable. Steady. She had to trust that, had to trust him.

So she faced forward and kept running. After Jo. After the van. After Dad.

The world blurred around her as she weaved through the unfamiliar streets, barely noticing the startled glances from passing trolls. Someone called out—her name, maybe—but their voice was just a distant hum, lost beneath the deafening roar of her own pulse. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the van. The family inside it. The father she had waited far too long to see again.  

She pushed herself harder, ignoring the fire in her lungs and the ache in her legs. She could see the van more clearly now, could make out the familiar figures clustered around it. But Jo—Jo was still ahead, still outpacing her.  

That wasn’t how it used to be. Jo had always been fast, quick for her size, but Iris was bigger, stronger—she had always been able to catch up before.  

Before the bottles. The realization clawed at her, but she shoved it down, gritted her teeth, and forced herself to close the gap. She could feel the strain in her muscles, the way her body protested with every step. But she wouldn’t slow down. Not now. Not when she was this close.

Up ahead, the van jerked to a stop in front of the clinic, its tires skidding against the dirt road, kicking up a thin cloud of dust that swirled in the fading evening light. The doors swung open, and figures spilled out. Their faces were blurred by distance, but Iris could see the familiar outline of Branch.  

He wasn’t alone.  

Three others stood beside the van—two on two legs, one on four. They were talking with Branch, their postures tense. Not hostile, but not exactly welcoming, either. A silent standoff.  

Iris’s heart leapt. Delta?   

The four-legged figure—it had to be her. The stance, the shape, the way they held themselves—it was just like her. And if Delta was here, then maybe… maybe everything was going to be okay. Because Delta always knew what to do.  

And if Delta was here, then maybe the two-legged figure beside her was Styx. If he was here, then—  

Her gaze flicked to the last figure, uncertainty gnawing at her. Who was that?   

But she shoved the thought aside. Doesn’t matter. Just get there.   

Jo never slowed. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t call out—just ran. And Iris didn’t bother yelling after her. Jo wouldn’t listen.  

They were close now.  

A few more feet—  

Jo reached the van first, a blur of gray against the vibrant surroundings, her small form darting past Branch with reckless speed. She barely missed colliding with him, earning a startled yelp from their youngest uncle, who jumped back just in time to avoid being toppled over. But Jo didn’t stop—not even to acknowledge him.

Iris watched as her little sister skidded to a halt, hesitating for just the briefest of moments. Her wide eyes locked onto the four-legged figure standing beside the van. Her breath hitched. And then, without another thought, she lunged.

The impact nearly knocked Delta off her hooves.

"Sweet Dolly’s Melody!" Delta gasped, stumbling back a step as she caught Jo against her chest. Her thick accent rang with shock, but her front legs immediately wrapped around the little troll in a steadying embrace.

"Great power cord... Jolene? "

The deep, familiar voice sent a jolt through Iris’s entire body.

Styx.

He was here.

The weight in her chest—the constant, suffocating tension that had settled there for weeks—suddenly cracked, loosened, lifted. It wasn’t gone, not completely, but for the first time in what felt like forever, she could breathe.

She barely noticed the last few steps as her legs carried her forward. She wasn’t thinking—wasn’t even trying to think. Instinct took over. One second, she was moving, and the next, she was following Jo’s lead and launching herself at him.  

Styx barely had time to react.  

“Oh, shi—”  

The rest of his words were lost as the air was forcefully driven from his lungs. They hit the ground hard, rolling slightly from the momentum before coming to a stop in a tangled heap of limbs. A cloud of dust billowed up around them, catching the fading evening light.  

Iris barely noticed.  

Her fingers clenched into the fabric of his vest, holding on so tight her knuckles ached. He was solid beneath her, real— here. She could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to catch his breath. Somewhere above them, someone sucked in a sharp breath, like they were grimacing in secondhand pain for Styx. Maybe Delta. Maybe even Branch.  

Styx let out a wheezy laugh, his voice rasping against her ear. "Damn, kid. Warn a guy next time."  

His tone was rough, but he wasn’t annoyed. He never was. Beneath the gruffness, there was always something fond in his tone —warm, familiar, exasperated in that way only Styx could manage. His arms twitched around her, hesitating for a second before he gave her a stiff, slightly awkward pat on the back. Like he wasn’t sure whether to comfort her or check if his ribs were still intact.  

"You know," Styx muttered, a teasing lilt in his voice, "taking a hit from you used to be a lot easier when I could hold you in one arm."

For a fleeting moment, guilt prickled at her. She wasn’t a little kid anymore—she was full-grown, and he… well, he was getting up there. But even as that thought crossed her mind, she still didn’t let go.

She couldn’t.

Because if she let go, maybe she’d wake up. Maybe she’d realize this wasn’t real—that she was still trapped in that nightmare where Dad was slipping away, where they were still in the bottles, where no one was coming for them.

Her breath hitched. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her face deeper into his vest, as if she could anchor herself there, as if holding on tight enough could make this moment stay real.

"Hey, easy, Squish. I’m not going anywhere."

She barely registered the nickname, but the sound of it—the familiar rumble in his chest, the warmth of his voice wrapped around it like it always had—unraveled something deep inside her.

She still didn’t let go.

When she didn’t respond, Styx exhaled, the tension in his frame easing just slightly. His fingers twitched against her back—hesitant but more confident than they were before—before his arm curled more securely around her shoulders, pulling her in closer. Holding her steady. Holding her here.  

"Hey, hey. You’re okay. I gotcha."  

His voice was softer now, quieter than she’d heard in a long time. Gone was the usual teasing edge, the sarcasm he used like armor—there was no distance in his voice, no hesitation. Just warmth. Just him. 

Then, a familiar sound rumbled from deep within his chest—a low, steady purr.  

"I gotcha."  

The vibration thrummed against her cheek, steady and grounding, a sound she hadn’t realized she’d missed until now. It was something Dad used to do a lot when she was little—on restless nights when sleep wouldn’t come, when the world outside felt too big and uncertain. He did it with all of them, a quiet reassurance that words couldn’t always give. A promise. I’m here. You’re safe.  

She wasn’t sure when the tears started, only that they wouldn’t stop.  

And Styx never let go.

Minutes passed, though it could’ve been longer—time felt distant, unimportant. But then, the quiet was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps pounding against the dirt road.  

Iris knew who it was before she even looked. 

Ronen.

His gait was always just a little off-rhythm, a result of his uncanny ability to move on all fours when he really needed to. She could pick out his run in a crowd, could hear the uneven pattern of his steps even over the sound of her own breathing. His movements were quick, light, almost animalistic, and growing closer by the second.  

A few paces behind, she caught another rhythm—heavier, steadier. The familiar clatter of hooves against the dirt. Cash.  

Above her, she heard the soft impact of a hug—bodies colliding, arms wrapping tightly, breathless voices full of relief. She didn’t have to see it to know what had happened. Ronen and Cash must have run straight to Delta. She could almost picture it—Ronen launching himself at her without hesitation, just like Jo had, and Cash, less frantic but just as eager, pulling her into the kind of hug that said, you’re here, you’re safe, you came back to us.   

Where’s Wynona— WHAM!   

Something—or rather, someone —slammed into her from behind, knocking the wind clean out of her lungs.  

Her vision blurred for a second, her breath catching in her throat as she lurched forward against Styx. Below her, she heard a deep, pained groan as the added weight pressed down on both of them.  

"Muses—!" Styx wheezed, his whole body jolting from the impact. "For the love of—who the hell—?"  

Iris didn’t need to look to know.  

"Wynona."  

Of course, it was Wynona.  

The weight on Iris’s back didn’t ease, but Wynona’s grip shifted slightly, her fingers tightening in the fabric of Iris’s hoodie. She was still trembling, and Iris could feel her warm breath against her shoulder—shallow, unsteady.  

She didn’t push her off. Didn’t tell her to move. Instead, she just let her stay there, holding on as tightly as she needed.  

"You good back there, PopRock?" Styx’s voice broke through the quiet, still winded from the pile-up.  

Wynona didn’t answer right away. There was a long pause, the kind that stretched and settled deep in the chest.  

Then, finally, a muffled, almost reluctant, "No."

Iris swallowed hard, her throat tight.  

"Yeah," she whispered back, "me neither."

And still, Styx didn’t let go.  

For a while, no one moved. The world around them kept spinning—trolls passing by, the occasional hushed voice murmuring in curiosity—but none of it mattered. The only thing that did was the weight of Wynona at her back, the steady rise and fall of Styx’s breathing beneath her, and the fact that, for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel alone.  

Then, Iris’s ears twitched at the sound of approaching footsteps. More than one set.  

Her grip on Styx’s vest slackened as she slowly turned her head.  

The rest of them were here.  

Her uncles.  

— — — —

Branch POV

There was a lot that Branch was prepared for—ambushes, emergencies, the unpredictability that came with having a large and chaotic family. But nearly being bowled over by his youngest niece? Yeah. That hadn’t been on his list of expectations.  

One second, he was standing there, processing the reunion happening in front of him, and the next—Jo was a blur of gray, rocketing past him with such force that he had to jump back just to avoid getting flattened.  

"Hey—!" he yelped, arms flailing slightly as he struggled to steady himself. But Jo wasn’t listening. She didn’t even seem to notice him.  

Her focus was elsewhere—locked onto Delta with an intensity that made Branch’s chest tighten.  

And then—she lunged.   

The impact sent Delta stumbling back a step, her hooves kicking up small clouds of dust as she barely managed to keep her balance.  

"Sweet Dolly’s Melody!" Delta gasped, her thick accent wrapping around the words, breathless with surprise. But despite the shock in her voice, her arms came around Jo instantly—steady, unwavering, like she’d been waiting for this just as much as Jo had.  

Branch opened his mouth—whether to ask what was going on or simply to make sense of the situation, he wasn’t sure. He had yet to see any of JD’s kids act like this—so unguarded, so vulnerable. 

"Great power cord… Jolene ?"  

Branch felt the sharp intake of breath, even if he didn’t know whose it belonged to. His own? Someone else’s? It didn’t matter. Because in the next instant, he saw it—  

Iris.  

She wasn’t just moving. She was running.  

Her expression was unreadable, but Branch knew—instinct was what drove her forward. No caution. No hesitation. Just something deep, something primal, something he felt more than understood.  

She didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. And then she launched herself at Styx.  

"Oh, shi—"

The rest of Styx’s words were lost as the air was forcibly driven from his lungs. The two of them hit the ground hard, rolling slightly from the momentum before coming to a tangled stop. A thick cloud of dust kicked up around them, swirling in the golden light of the fading sun.  

For a moment, Branch could only stare.  

Iris clung to Styx, her fingers twisting into the fabric of his vest like she was afraid to let go. Her knuckles were pale, her breath shaky. And Styx—  

Styx, still winded, let out a wheezy, breathless laugh.  

"Damn, kid. Warn a guy next time."  

His voice wasn’t annoyed. Not even close. If anything, it was fond. Soft. It was a far cry from the sharp, guarded way he used to talk to Branch when they’d first met. For a split second, Styx hesitated—like he wasn’t sure what to do with her clinging to him like that. Then, slowly, he wrapped an arm around her, his voice lowering into something almost gentle.  

"Hey, hey. You’re okay, I gotcha."  

Branch felt something shift in his chest.  

Styx’s voice had never been particularly warm—it was rough, often laced with sarcasm, anger, or some kind of teasing edge. But not now. There was no distance in it. No hesitation. Just quiet reassurance. 

Then, Branch heard it—  A low, steady rumble reverberating through the air.  

A purr.  

His breath caught in his throat. It was a sound he hadn’t heard in years, one that carried the weight of old memories. A purr was something instinctual, something deep-rooted in a troll’s nature. Parents used it to soothe their trolling, to calm them when they were scared, when they couldn’t sleep, when the world felt too big and uncertain. It was a promise of safety, of warmth, of home. 

And yet, that sound had been absent from Branch’s life for a long time. Not since he was young. Not since his brothers left. Not since his grandmother— his last real tether to family —was gone.  

Hearing it now, here, in this moment, sent a ripple of emotion through him.  

Iris wasn’t letting go. She was holding onto Styx like he was the only solid thing keeping her from falling apart. Her fingers were clenched in his vest, her face buried against his chest, and she didn’t seem to care who was watching. She just held on.  

And Styx…Styx let her.

That was the part that caught Branch the most. Styx, who was usually distant, sharp-edged, never one to invite closeness, simply held her. He didn’t pry her off, didn’t make some sarcastic remark to deflect the emotion of the moment. Instead, his arms stayed firm around her, his body steady, his purring a quiet reassurance. A comfort.  

Branch swallowed hard, shifting where he stood. He should look away. Should give them privacy. But before he could move, before he could even think, a new sound sliced through the stillness. 

Footsteps. Fast and uneven.  

He turned to see Ronen and Cash go straight for Delta, the same way Jo had. Branch exhaled, something in his chest loosening—

WHAM! 

Branch barely had time to register what happened before a blur of movement came crashing down on Styx and Iris.  

Styx let out a pained groan.  

"Muses—!” he wheezed, his whole body jolting from the impact. "For the love of—who the hell—?" 

Branch’s head snapped toward them, his gut twisting as he took in the scene. 

Wynona. She had practically tackled them, clinging to Iris’s back like she belonged there. Her breathing was unsteady, her hands curled into fists against Iris’s hoodie.  

She didn’t speak right away. The silence stretched, heavy, and loaded. 

"You good back there, PopRock ?" Styx rasped, still winded from two collisions in less than five minutes.  

A long pause.  

Then, in a small, muffled voice—  

"No."

Branch felt something in his chest tighten at the sad, muffled voice.  

Iris swallowed hard. Then—  “Yeah," she whispered. "Me neither."  

Styx didn’t let go.  

The world kept moving around them—passersby whispering, curious glances thrown their way—but none of it mattered. 

Branch could see it in the way Wynona clung to them like a lifeline, in the same way Iris held onto Styx as if letting go would make it all disappear. And he could see it in the way Styx—appearing so sharp, so distant—simply held them. No teasing remarks, no sarcasm, just quiet, steady reassurance. A solid presence that wasn’t pushing anyone away.  

His gaze flickered to Delta. She stood firm, one arm wrapped securely around Cash’s shoulders while he buried his face against her, his trembling subtle but noticeable in the way she tightened her hold. Her other arm rested atop Ronen’s head, fingers smoothing down his wild curls as he pressed himself against her torso. It looked so natural, so effortless—like this was something they had done before, something familiar. Like Delta had always been their safe haven.  

For a moment, Branch felt his heart race. Something was missing.  

Jolene.  

He had seen her run to Delta, had watched her fling herself at the centaur-troll with reckless abandon. But now, she was nowhere to be seen. A flicker of panic shot through him before he noticed the slight movement in Delta’s hair. His breath eased, but confusion settled in its place.  

Was Jolene in her hair?  

It wasn’t unheard of—trolling instinctively sought refuge in the hair of their parents or caregivers. It was where they felt safest, warmest, home. But that kind of closeness was usually reserved for the very young—those barely two or three years old. By five, most were simply too big to fit comfortably.  

But Jolene wasn’t like most five-year-old Pop trollings.  

She was small. Smaller than she should be. But then again, she wasn’t just a Pop troll—she was a Yodel troll too. That changed things. Or at least, it might.

Was this…normal for Yodel trolls? Was her size normal for a Yodel troll? Branch didn’t know. Hickory’s brother, Dickory, was on the smaller side for an average troll, while Hickory himself was tall—one of the tallest trolls Branch had ever met. Cash had followed in his footsteps, only a hair or two shorter. So, where did that leave Jolene? Was her size simply a Yodel troll trait, or was it something else?  

Maybe Hickory would know.  

The thought struck him like a jolt of electricity, and suddenly, Branch remembered— Hickory was here.   

Less than ten feet away.  

His head snapped around, scanning the space, and sure enough—there he was.  

Hickory still stood in the doorway of the van, unmoving. Watching. He looked stiff, like he was trying to fold in on himself, as if he could somehow disappear into the metal frame. But his eyes gave him away.  

He wasn’t just standing there. He was staring. His gaze followed the scene unfolding before him, tracking every movement with an intensity that made Branch’s stomach twist. But it was Cash and Jolene; his eyes lingered on the longest. Watching them with something that wasn’t quite longing wasn’t quite regret—something that looked an awful lot like hesitation. Or maybe uncertainty.  

Like he wanted to step forward but couldn’t. Like he didn’t know if he should.  

Branch swallowed hard. When was the last time Hickory had seen them?   

Not just in passing. Not from a distance. But really seen them? Or spoken to them?  

There was something in the way he stood—his weight shifted slightly back, his fingers curled just a little too tight at his sides. Like he was resisting the urge to move forward—or maybe forcing himself not to retreat. His gaze flickered between the different groups, his expression tense, like he was trying to piece together something he didn’t fully understand.  

And then, Branch realized—Hickory wasn’t just looking at Cash and Jolene. He was looking at all of them.  

Hickory knew about Cash. At some point, he must have learned about Jolene. He had to know about Iris—she was the oldest, after all. But Ronen and Wynona? Branch’s stomach twisted. They had been born in the in-between. Between Cash and Jolene. Between… whatever had happened between Hickory and JD. During their break? Their separation? That undefined, murky space where everything had fallen apart.  

Had Hickory ever met them before? Had he even known they existed before now?   

Branch barely had time to process the thought, to even consider how to approach the subject, before a familiar voice cut through the air.  

"Branch!"

Floyd. So they did survive without him.   

He turned just in time to see Floyd running up to him, his face bright with relief. "You're back!"  

Branch exhaled, running a hand down his face before giving a tired nod. "Yep." The exhaustion in his voice was unmistakable. "Decided it was best not to waste time."  

More footsteps. Quicker this time, heavier.  

"Where is he?" Bruce. His voice was slightly winded, like he’d been running to catch up.  

"He's inside already," Branch answered evenly, adjusting his stance. "Still asleep. The doctor is running some tests to see if they can find anything the Rageons didn't."  

"Did they miss something?" Clay’s voice carried a slight edge of concern.  

Branch glanced over at Styx, his stomach knotting. Oh, yeah. A full reunion. This should be a blast. Clay could barely handle Iris’s... distinct personality—how in the world was he going to handle Styx? Styx was a whole other level of complexity, wrapped in sarcasm and sharp edges. Branch could already feel the tension in the air grow thicker, and no one had even said anything yet. 

Branch sighed, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him. He rolled his shoulders back, steeling himself for whatever came next. He didn’t have all the answers—not yet, at least. But one thing was certain: they wouldn’t stop asking until they got them, and that was something he couldn’t avoid. He knew better than to try to dodge the questions. This was a mess waiting to happen, and it was all headed their way.

"Did they miss something? " Styx echoed, his voice thick with mockery, the words dripping with disdain from beneath Iris and Wynona. "Of course, they missed something. Tall-folk have never been the best at diagnosing us small-folk." His tone cut through the air like a knife, sharp and deliberate, as he carefully shifted both girls off of him with a slow, practiced motion.

The warmth and softness he had shown earlier—the kind that had seemed almost protective, kind even—vanished as quickly as it had appeared. In its place came something colder, something more distant, sharp-edged like frost. It was the same cool, detached tone that Branch had first encountered when Styx had spoken to him, a voice laced with something that was hard to decipher. Something unreadable, almost like a wall that he was putting up between himself and everyone else.

Branch’s gaze flickered toward Clay. He could feel the change in the air before he even saw it, could almost hear the tension building between them. Clay was stiffening, his posture becoming rigid with barely contained irritation. Oh, great.  

Clay’s tail snapped sharply against the ground, and Branch saw his head snap toward Styx. His eyes narrowed dangerously as he met Styx’s gaze, his voice dripping with suspicion. "Uh, who are you?" 

Branch could see the way Clay’s eyes dragged up and down Styx’s frame, taking in every detail—the messy hair, the sharp, too-wide grin, the casual way he sat like he belonged there, like he had always belonged there.  

Styx blinked at him, then tilted his head slightly, his smile stretching just a little wider. It was unsettling, but none of the kids seemed bothered by it.  

"Who are you?" Styx shot back, his tone an exact mirror of Clay’s.  

Clay frowned. "I asked you first."  

Styx’s grin turned downright lazy. "I asked you second."  

Clay bristled, his tail thumping against the ground in irritation. Out of the corner of his eye, Branch caught a glimpse of Iris, trying— failing —to fight back the smile creeping onto her face.  

"Okay—" Floyd said suddenly, stepping between them with an easy, good-natured grin. "Here." He extended a paw toward Styx. "Let me help you up."  

Styx waved him off without hesitation. "Oh, I can get up." He groaned as he finally pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulder with a wince.  

"Damn," he muttered, pressing a paw to the joint just as it let out an audible pop. "Not as young as I used to be."  

Iris snorted. "You’re, like, fifty."  

Styx gasped—actually gasped—placing a dramatic paw over his chest like she had just mortally wounded him.  

"Hey, now! I am forty-four," he corrected with a scoff before leveling her with a look. "And do you know how many times I’ve been thrown, trampled, or otherwise had my ass handed to me? I’ve got mileage, kid."  

Clay, still standing off to the side with his arms crossed, watched Styx like he was some sort of particularly baffling puzzle. His brows furrowed, skepticism practically dripping from his tone as he asked, "So what, exactly, are you supposed to be?"  

Styx pointedly ignored him, casually dusting himself off before turning toward Delta, who was still standing nearby. One arm was wrapped securely around Cash’s shoulders, the other resting atop Ronen’s head like it was second nature.  

Styx gestured vaguely at them before throwing his arms out with an exaggerated huff. "How come I’m the only one getting bowled over?"  

Delta blinked at him, then grinned. "Well, sugar, maybe it’s 'cause you make such a good crash mat."  

Cash snorted. Ronen looked up with wide, amused eyes.  

Clay, however, just scoffed under his breath, muttering something that was probably less than flattering.  

Styx’s ears twitched, his grin sharpening, a flicker of challenge dancing in his eyes. "Sorry, what was that, Sunshine?"  

Clay’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.  

Before the tension could spiral further, Bruce stepped in, his voice steady but carrying an edge of curiosity. "So I take it you're Styx?" he said, then glanced at Delta. "And that makes you Delta?"  

Styx’s grin faltered just a touch, his eyes narrowing as suspicion bled into his features. "And how, exactly, do you know that?" His gaze flicked quickly over to Bruce before shifting to Cash and Ronen. "Y'all been talking about us?"  

“Only the bad things,” Cash shot back, his tone dry, never missing a beat.  

Styx barked out a laugh, the sound rough but undeniably amused. Ronen couldn’t help but smirk at the exchange, his lips curling into a knowing grin. "Good," Styx said, his voice filled with dark humor as he threw a sharp look at Cash. "Wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation."  

Clay’s eyes flicked between Styx and Delta, his brow furrowing as confusion settled deeper on his face. "Styx and Delta?" he repeated, as if trying to piece together something that didn’t quite add up.  

“Or Uncle Styx and Aunt Delta,” Styx corrected casually, rolling his shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. The ease with which he said it—like it was a title he wore with pride—sent a jolt through the air, thickening the already charged atmosphere.  

Clay’s brows lifted slightly, the disbelief clear on his face. "Aunt and… Uncle?" His voice held an edge now, one that betrayed not just confusion but something deeper—something hurt.  

Well, that stings, Branch thought, his stomach turning.  

He wasn’t sure if JD had ever introduced him and his brothers as uncles, but hearing Styx use the term so flippantly left a sour taste in his mouth. It didn’t sit right. It wasn’t just the words; it was the casualness of it, the way Styx made it sound like he’d always been part of the family. Branch’s thoughts tangled for a moment as he realized that this—this familial bond Styx so easily slipped into—was something that just felt alien.

Styx’s expression remained mostly unchanged, but there was a subtle shift in his stance—a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation, a flicker of something that might have been regret. Then, with a casual flick of his paw, he waved it all off. "Oh, yeah," he said with exaggerated nonchalance, shrugging as though it was all insignificant. "JD’s best friend—"

Delta let out a soft, disapproving tsk, clearly not agreeing with that particular title. 

"Unofficial brother and all," Styx continued, his voice smooth, though there was a hint of something unsaid. "We’ve known each other since before Iris could talk properly, so might as well make it official, right?"

Clay’s frown deepened, and his tail lashed behind him, a clear sign that he wasn’t fully convinced. His eyes darted to Branch, searching for some confirmation or explanation, but before Branch could even think of what to say, Delta’s voice broke through the tension, smooth and warm as ever.

"We’ve been in their lives for a long while now, sugar," she said, her smile unwavering, soft but steady. Her words carried a weight of finality, the kind of tone that left no room for argument.  

Clay’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling subtly against the fabric of his arms where they were crossed over his chest. His discomfort was palpable, and Branch could feel the tension in the air rise with each passing second. 

Branch understood it, he really did. Something about this conversation—about the weight of the words, the history behind them—didn’t sit right with him either. There was a deeper undercurrent to this reunion, something that felt off. Something he couldn’t quite name yet, but it gnawed at him the same way it gnawed at Clay.

— — — —

Iris POV

They looked upset. Really upset.

Iris hadn’t expected them to take it this hard—hadn’t anticipated the honorary titles of "Aunt" and "Uncle" for Delta and Styx would stir up emotions like this. But it did. It absolutely did, and it made the tension in the air so palpable it practically buzzed.

Clay and Branch were the worst at hiding it.

Clay wasn’t even trying to hide it. His posture screamed frustration. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest as if he were physically blocking something out. His ears were flattened against his head, the very picture of annoyance, while his tail flicked sharply behind him, twitching with agitation. His jaw was clenched so tightly that Iris could almost hear his teeth grinding together in a steady rhythm. He was holding something back, barely containing whatever anger or hurt he was feeling. It was an emotion Iris hadn’t expected to see. 

Branch wasn’t doing much better. His fur stood slightly on edge, a clear sign of agitation, and his tail tapped against the ground in a restless rhythm. Iris couldn’t help but wonder if he even realized he was doing it. She doubted it. The tension in his posture spoke volumes. He stood there, caught between confusion and something deeper, something heavier that gnawed at him. His brows furrowed slightly, lips pressed into a thin line, as if he was struggling to piece something together, but the answer remained elusive. 

While Clay’s frustration was obvious and explosive, Branch’s agitation was quieter but no less potent. The weight of the situation was clearly getting to him, and Iris could feel the thick, heavy air between them, filled with questions neither of them seemed able to answer just yet.

Floyd and Bruce were at least trying to keep themselves in check, but even they weren’t immune to the tension that hung thick in the air. 

Floyd didn’t seem outwardly upset—he wasn’t glaring or tensing up like Clay and Branch did—but there was something in the way his tail curled protectively around his body, the slight slouch in his shoulders that betrayed the unease he was trying so hard to hide. He wasn’t vocalizing it, wasn’t letting it show in his face like the others, but Iris could tell—his frustration simmered just below the surface, quiet but present.

Bruce, however, was a different story. He was the hardest to read of them all, his expression remained guarded, distant. Cash and Iris had already told him about Styx and Delta, so maybe that softened the blow for him a little, but that didn’t stop Iris from catching the fleeting sadness that flashed across his eyes. It was so quick, a mere blip in time, but she saw it. She recognized it. 

It was strange, seeing them like this.  

Dad had always been quick to call Branch, Floyd, Clay, and Bruce her uncles—after all, they were his actual brothers. It had never seemed like something to question, never something to second-guess. It just made sense. But now that she had met them it didn’t feel that easy. Not like it appeared to be for Wynona. Wynona had seamlessly adopted the title, like it was natural, like there was no hesitation. Iris, though? It just never felt… right.

No, right wasn’t the right word.

It felt off.

Comfortable. That was the word. Iris didn’t feel comfortable calling them that—not yet. Not the way she was with Delta and Styx. The relationship was different with them, the bond deeper, rooted in years of trust and shared history. With Delta and Styx, the title made sense. They had been in her life since before she had even all of her grown-up teeth. 

They had been there for her, for her siblings, for her dad, through thick and thin. Through the more difficult nights and the days when every step forward was a struggle. They weren’t just figures in the background; they had been constants —always there, always reliable.

Branch, Floyd, Clay, and Bruce? They’d been around for what— a week? Maybe a little more? Sure, they were her dad’s brothers. And they had helped. They had been there when things got bad, but still…

That should have made this easy. Simple. It should have been enough to ease the twist of discomfort in her chest. The logic was clear. But that should didn’t match the weight of the knot in her stomach. The guilt that tightened her chest, as if she was doing something wrong by not embracing them like everyone else seemed to.

It should have been easy. But it wasn’t.

And maybe—maybe—that shouldn’t be such a big deal. Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe she was just being stubborn, or selfish, or unfair. Maybe her feelings on this were just wrong. 

Iris stole a glance at Cash, hoping— needing —to see some sort of confirmation that she wasn’t alone in this. That he felt it too. That it wasn’t just her. But Cash wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t even looking at them anymore.  

His gaze was fixed on something behind her, his expression unreadable.  

Iris turned, and the moment her eyes landed on that all-too-familiar lime-yellow fur and bright orange hair, her whole body tensed, a sharp, involuntary reaction she couldn't suppress.  

Hickory.  

A flick of her tail followed, quick and agitated, as the fur along her arms bristled. It wasn’t just the sight of him that had this effect on her—it was everything he represented. The memories he dragged along with him, memories she had buried deep in the darkest corners of her mind, clawed their way back to the surface, raw and unwelcome. They surfaced with an intensity that made her chest tighten, her heartbeat picking up pace. 

It had been years since she’d last seen him— years. Not since he had found them on the trail, not since that random day, two years after Jo was born.

Iris had convinced herself it would be at least another seven years before she saw him again. Seven. Just like the last time. Hickory had shown up out of nowhere back then—unannounced, unplanned, and just as suddenly as he had come, he had disappeared. It was a pattern she had come to expect. Hickory always left and reappeared when he wanted. 

She smoothed a hand over Wynona’s back, pulling her closer, before rising to her feet in one smooth motion, her movements steady despite the tightness in her chest. Without hesitation, she crossed the space to stand beside Cash—by extension, beside Delta.

It was safest to keep Hickory at a distance. Not because she thought Hickory would hurt them. Iris didn’t think he would personally harm any of them—no, Hickory wasn’t dangerous in that way. It wasn’t him she needed to worry about. However, she couldn’t say the same about the danger he brought with him wherever he went. 

The danger wasn’t just in the jobs he took or the enemies he made. It was in the consequences of his actions, the people, and situations that followed him. His choices had hurt them before. But that’s what happens when you choose to be a bounty hunter. 

Her movement hadn’t gone unnoticed. She had barely taken a step before the atmosphere in the group shifted. Every set of eyes was on her now, yes—but more importantly, they were on him. Hickory.

No one spoke. No one moved.  

It wasn’t a long silence, not in real-time. A minute, maybe two. But it felt longer. It stretched, thick and heavy, wrapping around them like a vice, squeezing the air from the room until every second felt like an eternity.  

And then, finally, Cash broke the silence.

"What are you doing here?” His voice was detached, emotionless—like he was asking about the weather.

Iris tensed. That tone… she had never heard it from him before. Not quite like this. It was too cold, too distant to be her little brother. It didn’t sound like Cash at all. But then again, this was his dad. Cash had every right to talk to Hickory however he wanted. 

Hickory, at least, had the decency to look abashed. His mouth opened, then shut again, like he was struggling to find the right words. His fingers twitched at his sides, his weight shifting slightly like he wanted to move but wasn’t sure where to go. Finally, after a beat of hesitation, he settled on, " Well, I—I heard about your dad," he said, his eyes flickering toward Delta. "And well…"  

Cash didn’t let him finish. 

"I would’ve thought you’d be on a job right now." His voice was eerily calm, but there was something sharp beneath it, something bitter. A quiet anger that didn’t need to be loud to be heard.

Hickory hesitated again. Just for a second. Then he shook his head.

"No," he said finally. His voice was quieter now, but firm. "No more jobs."

Cash hummed, a low, skeptical sound, his expression unreadable. "Sure."  

From the corner of her eye, Iris saw Bruce stiffen, his entire posture going rigid. His gaze flicked first to Clay, then to Floyd, as if silently searching for confirmation, before finally landing on Branch with barely concealed confusion.

Iris knew that Cash had hesitantly told Bruce about their dad—his and Jo’s dad, at least. What she didn’t know was how much he had actually shared with their oldest uncle, it was his decision on what he wanted to share. She had no idea if he had said anything to Clay or Floyd either; she wasn’t going to pretend to be surprised that Bruce told them. But there was one thing she was sure of—the only uncle here who didn’t know about Hickory was Branch.

And then something even more unexpected happened.

Branch stepped forward.

"He’s here to help," he said, raising his paws in a mock-peaceful gesture, as if trying to smother a fire before it had the chance to fully ignite. His tone was calm—too calm. It was the kind of deliberate, measured calm that came from someone carefully walking the edge of something volatile, fully aware of just how badly things could go if handled the wrong way.

And he wasn’t wrong to be cautious.

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut. Every muscle in Cash’s body was coiled tight, his jaw set, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. But he wouldn’t cause a scene. Not here. Not in front of Ronen, Wynona, and Jo. Cash could be sharp-tongued, even ruthless when provoked, but he knew when to hold back. When to swallow whatever anger or resentment burned beneath his skin and keep himself in check.

Still, just because he wouldn’t lash out didn’t mean he was okay with this. Not by a long shot.

‘He’s here to help’, Iris turned sharply toward him, eyes narrowing. Did Branch know Hickory? Did he know what Hickory did? Who he was? And—more importantly— did Branch actually trust him? The thought made her stomach twist uncomfortably. If Branch felt sure enough to put his trust in a bounty hunter—even for a second—then maybe she had been looking at this situation the wrong way. Maybe she had misjudged Hicko— No, more actually maybe… maybe she had misjudged Branch.  

"Help?" She and Cash echoed in unison, the skepticism thick in both their voices.  

"Yes," Branch answered immediately, without even a flicker of hesitation. " Your dad is in the clinic getting tests done. The doctors want to make sure the Rageons didn’t miss anything. We were sent to come get you all while they finished setting up, but since you’re already here, we can go ahead and head inside."

His words were level, factual—an attempt to keep things moving before the weight of the moment could fully settle. But his expression? That told a different story. There was something uncertain in the way his brow creased, a flicker of hesitation in the slight tension of his shoulders.

He didn’t fully believe what he was saying.

Okay, maybe she hadn’t misjudged him. At least… not completely.

Notes:

Everyone is now back together. In the next chapter, we are going to get more info about JD, the relationship between him, the kids, and Delta, Styx and Hickory. Maybe sprinkle in some more bonding between the bros and the kids.

A lot of different emotions for characters going to be fun to explore in future chapters.

The convo between Styx and Clay is from a YouTube series called the Most Popular Girls in School

Chapter 17: Chapter 17: Delta, Styx, & Hickory POV

Delta POV

Well, that introduction went about as well as throwing a handful of salt into an apple pie—unexpected, unwelcome, and leaving a bad taste behind.  

Delta closed her eyes, resisting the urge to rub at her temples. A part of her wasn’t surprised. In fact, she’d expected this. Styx meeting new trolls was never going to be a smooth, easy affair. It hadn't been when she first met him, so why would it be any different this time? He wasn’t exactly the warm and welcoming type and subtlety? Yeah, that definitely had never been his strong suit.  

He was a prickly troll, even when he didn’t mean to be. That was just who he was. Rough around the edges, blunt to a fault, and not the kind to sugarcoat anything. Most trolls mistook it for hostility; others assumed he just didn’t care. Delta knew better. She knew him.

But knowing him didn’t mean she could change how others saw him. Styx was always going to be a tough pill to swallow for trolls who weren’t used to him, and from the way, Clay’s glare had sharpened, and the tension in the air coiled tighter with each passing second, it was painfully clear—that introduction could have gone a lot better.  

She sighed internally. She was going to need to have a conversation with him sooner rather than later. These weren’t neutral territory trolls or Country trolls he was dealing with—these were Pop trolls. And if there was one thing that had become glaringly obvious since the main genres started reconnecting, it was that Pop trolls wore their emotions on their fur.  

They weren’t like Styx, who had spent years keeping his emotions locked behind sharp words and unreadable expressions. They felt everything, and they felt it loudly. A careless comment here, a pointed remark there—it wasn’t just brushed off like it could be for someone from another genre. It stuck. And if Styx kept talking the way he always had, assuming his blunt honesty or his childish tail-pulling would be taken in stride, then this wasn’t going to be the last time he rubbed someone the wrong way.  

Who knows? Maybe Clay would get over his dislike of Styx by bonding with him over their mutual and quick distrust of Hickory. Stranger things had happened, like a Pop troll uniting the genres.  

Delta knew she was going to catch flack for inviting Hickory here—she was prepared for that. Styx had already given her an earful, nothing a sharp conversation couldn't fix, though. Still, leaving him out hadn’t sat right with her. Whether she, or Styx, liked it or not, Hickory wasn’t just some outsider. He was Cash and Jolene’s father. He was Iris’s adopted one, too. And that did count for something. He had a right to know what was happening with his kids, even if he hadn’t been actively involved in their lives for a long time.  

If Cash or Iris had a problem with her decision, she could handle them. She’d stand her ground on this. The real problem wouldn’t come from them—it would come when, or if, JD’s brothers found out the truth. When they found out why JD and Hickory had fallen out in the first place.  

Because if their reaction was anything like Styx’s had been… then it wouldn’t matter that Hickory hadn’t been the one to hurt him. Wouldn’t matter that Hickory hadn’t been the one to physically hurt him. The damage was already done, the line crossed, and the consequences were unavoidable.  

They would still see him as responsible. She had—at least, she thought she had. Maybe she still did. Maybe she always would. Delta wasn’t sure how she truly felt about the yodeler. There was too much blood between them, too much history steeped in things neither of them could undo. But at the end of the day, none of that mattered as much as the simple fact that his choices had led to her friend getting hurt, had put her niece and nephew in danger.  

And she wasn’t sure if she could ever forgive that.  

Or if she even wanted to.

But that wasn’t something she could worry about right now. Right now, her focus needed to be on her nieces and nephews—and on making sure John was getting the care he needed. That was why she was here, sitting in his hospital room, waiting for him to wake up.  

It had been a few hours since they had gotten the diagnosis. As expected, the Rageon doctors had missed something: a couple of bruised and cracked ribs, an injured knee—nothing dramatically life-threatening, at the moment —but still enough to make her stomach twist. At least now, with proper care, he could start to heal.  

Then came the questions. Not about his current injuries, but the old ones. The ones that had long since faded into scars.  

Delta had seen plenty of scars in her life—her own fur covered its fair share. But among Pop trolls, they were rare. Uncommon enough that the doctors had taken notice. And when their attention landed on John’s right paw, Delta had known exactly where that conversation was going.  

A third-degree burn wasn’t something you could just ignore. It wasn’t something that happened by accident.  

When they asked about it, Iris had stepped in before any of them could answer, smoothly diverting the conversation elsewhere. Delta wasn’t surprised. John’s hand injury was something that was acknowledged but rarely ever discussed. He had gotten it years ago, back when he and Iris were still touring with Styx and his nephew’s band. It wasn’t a fresh wound, but it had never faded into something forgotten either. He kept it clean, well cared for, and always covered with his compression glove. It was a part of him, just like any other scar—except this one carried a weight that never seemed to lift.  

And from the looks Iris had received from John’s brothers, Delta could already tell—there were going to be questions.  

Questions that Iris would not want to answer.  

Questions Delta hoped they wouldn’t push for. Because if they did, if they demanded the truth, then everything—John’s past, his choices, the scars that went deeper than the ones on his skin—would be laid bare. And Delta wasn’t sure if that was something any of them were ready to face.

Although, if she was being honest with herself, she doubted any of them would be able to get Iris to talk, no matter how hard they tried. John had told her plenty about his brothers, his grandmother, and his life at the Troll Tree. And from what she had learned, none of them—not Clay, not Bruce, not even Floyd—were anywhere near stubborn enough to break through Iris’s walls if she didn’t want them to. If there was one thing she got from John it was her stubbornness. Both of them are so bullheaded they might as well be part bull.

The details John had shared about the Pop trolls’ living conditions had been... grim, to say the least. Learning that the Pop tribe as a whole was gone had been devastating. Yes, the ancient Pop trolls had tried to destroy the other genres' music, but that didn’t mean they deserved what had happened to them. That kind of loss, that level of destruction—it wasn’t justice. It was annihilation. And after the Rock-apocalypse concert, after everything that had come to light, Delta had felt nothing but relief knowing the lost tribe had been found.  

Originally, she had been preparing to tell John about it herself when she saw him again. But now, with everything happening so badly, she wasn’t sure if she was going to have the opportunity to break it to him gently like she wanted to.  

Still, even with the time that had passed, she couldn’t ignore the tension simmering beneath the surface. It was an unspoken weight pressing down on all of them, thickening the air with questions left unasked, and answers left unsaid. It was only a matter of time before someone finally broke the silence. And if Delta had to guess, Clay would be the first.  

From what John had told her, and what he now had the clarity of age to see, Clay was the type of troll who needed to know things. Not out of malice or nosiness, but because he couldn’t stand being left in the dark. He wanted clarity, understanding, a way to make sense of the situation in front of him. If something didn’t add up, he would dig until he found the missing pieces. And right now, there were too many missing pieces for him to ignore. If anyone was going to press for information, it would be him.  

Bruce wouldn’t be far behind. He was sharp, observant—less brash than Clay, but no less determined when it came to protecting the people he cared about. According to John, Bruce had a tendency to push for answers, but at least he had the sense to know when to back off. He could read a room, recognize when a line had been drawn, and—most importantly—respect it. That was something, at least.  

Floyd and Branch, though… they were the wild cards. Floyd, from what John had shared, was more likely to sit back and let the truth come to him rather than demand it outright. He had a patience the others didn’t, a willingness to wait and let things unfold naturally. That was a relief. One less person actively picking at old wounds.  

And then there was Branch. He was different. He had only been three when John had left the Troll Tree—too young to truly remember the unanswered questions and too young to carry the same burdens as his brothers. But now Delta was looking at an older Branch, a Branch John had yet to have the chance to meet. Delta’s relationship with him was still new, still growing, but even so, she had a feeling that, of all of them, Branch would understand the most. He wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t pry. Wouldn’t dig his fingers into scars that weren’t his to uncover.  

Delta had a feeling that Branch knew better than most that past trauma wasn’t something you could just unearth like buried treasure. Some things were meant to stay buried, at least until the person carrying them was ready to bring them to light. And if that day never came? Then so be it.  

For now, that was enough.  

“You’re a Country troll?” Bruce asked, breaking the silence. His voice wasn’t accusatory, just curious, but Delta could still hear the underlying uncertainty in his tone.  

This—sitting here, waiting—was the plan they had settled on. Someone needed to stay with John in case he woke up, and after a small war of stubbornness— seems to run in the family— Delta had won the argument. Everyone had pushed to take the first watch, but she'd been the one to make the final call.  

Branch had spent the whole day driving, so he was out. Styx needed to stay with Iris and Jo—the poor girls looked like they hadn’t slept a wink since they got here. Rhonda needed to be cleaned out, so Delta had sent Cash, Clay, and Floyd to handle that. No one thought it would be a good idea for Hickory to be the first person John saw when he woke up. And, of course, leaving Ronen and Wynona alone in the hospital wasn’t an option.  

That left Delta and Bruce, keeping watch with the kids.  

So, here they were, waiting.  

“Yes, I am,” she answered evenly, shooting him a look that warned him not to make a big deal out of it.  

Bruce nodded slowly, as if processing the information, before offering a small, awkward smile. She knew that smile, John has the same one he uses when he tries to fill in the silence, “Cool. Never met a troll from another genre before.” He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly searching for the right thing to say. “Actually… I just learned about the other genres, like, three days ago.” He let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh. “Feels kinda surreal, y’know? Finding out there are other genres, other trolls out there… Feels like something we should’ve learned about in school.”  

Delta couldn’t help but chuckle at that, shaking her head. John had said something very similar when they first met all those years ago. It was nice to see Bruce was going the conversation route and wasn't trying to show off Pop music like Poppy, Branch, and their friend had. “Don’t worry,” she said with an amused smile. “The rest of the Pop tribe just found out about us two months ago.”  

Bruce blinked. “Seriously?”  

“Yep.” She leaned back slightly, crossing her arms. “So don’t worry you are not the only one.”

“Wow, that’s insane.” He paused, glancing at her with curiosity. “So, uh… what’s Country like?” 

“Country territory is awesome,” Wynona said enthusiastically, swinging her feet back and forth as she spoke. Her eyes lit up just thinking about home. “There are open fields, big blue skies, and music everywhere. And Delta is the sheriff there.”  

Bruce’s head tilted slightly. “Sheriff?” He echoed, turning to Delta with curiosity.  

Delta shrugged, trying not to let the pride she felt show too much at his reaction. “It’s what we call our leader,” she explained casually. “Like how Pop uses King or Queen for yours.”  

Bruce stared at her for a moment, eyes wide with realization. “So, wait. You’re not just from Country territory—you run it?”  

Delta smirked. “That a problem?”  

Bruce quickly shook his head. “No, no problem. Just… wow. That’s kinda—” He let out a low chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did not see that coming.”  

Wynona beamed. “Delta’s the best! She keeps everything running smooth, helps everyone out, and makes sure we all stay safe.”  

Bruce let out an impressed whistle. “That’s… actually really cool.” He paused, then added, “So which of your parents was sheriff before you?”

“Oh, leadership isn’t inherited in Country territory,” Delta explained. “Sheriffs are chosen by the tribe, not born into the role.”

Bruce’s expression shifted from curiosity to intrigue. “Really? So how does that work?”

“Well,” Delta continued, “three candidates are selected from the tribe, and then the current sheriff chooses one of them to train under them, after a probationary time for each candidate of course. Until the sheriff thinks they’re ready to take over.”

Bruce let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s…a really interesting system.”

Delta smirked. “Yep. Right now, my deputy—the troll I picked to be the next sheriff—is getting their chance to run Lonesome Flats while I’m away.”

Wynona tilted her head. “So does that mean you’re stepping down soon?”

“Oh, no,” Delta said quickly, shaking her head. “Growls Pete is there with them. They’re still far from ready to take over completely. I’ll be sheriff for a good while yet.”

Bruce nodded, “Are the leaders in the other tribes similar to ours- Pop trolls? or like yours?” he asked, stumbling over the word 'Pop' like it was foreign to him.

Delta thought for a moment, considering how much to share. The monthly meetings between the tribe leaders—Poppy’s idea, of course—had been useful for establishing communication and cooperation. If nothing else, they’d given her a clearer picture of how each tribe functioned.  

“Techno runs similar to Pop,” she said finally, keeping her explanation to the basics—things most trolls already knew. “Rock used to as well, at least before the Rock Apocalypse.” She paused, then continued. “Funk is structured a little differently. They have a council, but the King and Queen still have the final say in all major decisions. And Classical…” She exhaled slightly. “They have what they call a Conductor.”  

"Huh, interesting." Bruce hummed in thought. “I guess by now Viva would be queen.”

Delta’s brows furrowed. Viva? “Who’s Vi—”

"Aunt Delta?" Ronen’s voice broke through her question before she could finish it, muffled slightly by a mouthful of sandwich. She turned to look at him, resisting the urge to sigh. This boy really needed to learn not to talk with his mouth full.  

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Ronen," she chided softly, raising a brow.  

"Thorry," he mumbled around another bite.  

Delta shook her head, but there was no real bite to it. "It's okay. What do you need?"  

Ronen didn’t answer right away—mostly because he had taken yet another bite of his sandwich. She waited, watching as he chewed, still half-lost in the mess of her own thoughts.  

From the other side of the room, Delta heard Bruce let out a low chuckle. She glanced over, catching the amused glint in his eyes as he watched Ronen struggle to take another bite of his overstuffed sandwich without dropping half of it on himself.  

"You gonna survive over there, kid?" Bruce teased, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair.  

Ronen, still chewing, gave an exaggerated thumbs-up, clearly unbothered. Wynona, sitting beside him, just rolled her eyes and handed him a napkin before going back to her own meal.  

Delta smirked, shaking her head. "At least try not to make a mess, Ronen. This place is already enough of a disaster without adding crumbs to the mix."  

"I got it, I got it," Ronen assured through another mouthful, though Delta wasn’t entirely convinced.  

Bruce chuckled again, quieter this time, before his gaze drifted toward John. His amusement faded slightly, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful. "So," he said after a moment, voice dropping to a more serious tone. "How long do you think it'll be before he wakes up?"  

Delta sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Could be any time now. Could be hours. Could be longer. The doctors said it depends on how fast his body recovers from everything." Her eyes flickered to John, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. "There’s not really a protocol for what happened." How does someone come up with the idea of sucking the talent out of someone's body and think that it would not lead to consequences? 

Bruce hummed in agreement, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Yeah. That much is obvious." He was quiet for a moment- 

"Are Velvet and Veneer going to go to jail?" Ronen asked. Delta and Bruce both looked at Ronen; even Wynona was looking at him. 

"Who?" both Delta and Bruce asked in unison. Delta and Bruce exchanged a glance, their earlier conversation forgotten in an instant. Of all the things Ronen could have asked, this was not what she’d expected.  

"Why are you bringing them up?" Wynona asked, her brow furrowing as she turned to her brother.  

Ronen swallowed his bite of food before clarifying, "Velvet and Veneer. The Rageons who took us… Are they going to jail?"  

The question hung in the air for a moment, heavier than it should have been. Delta had been so focused on John, on making sure he was stable, that she hadn’t really let herself think too hard about what would happen next—about what justice would even look like for everything those two had done.  

Bruce exhaled through his nose, sitting forward slightly as he rested his forearms on his knees. "Well… I’d sure like to think so," he said, voice even but laced with something firm, something almost protective. "They deserve to be locked up for what they did."  

Delta nodded in agreement. "It’s not really up to us, though. That’s for the authorities to decide." She hesitated, then added, "But after everything they’ve done, I doubt they’ll just get to walk away."  

Ronen seemed to consider that for a moment, his fingers absently picking at the crust of his sandwich. "Okay," he mumbled, voice quieter now. "I don’t want them to be able to do this to anyone else."  

Delta’s chest tightened at that. No kid should ever have to think about things like this. About kidnappers. About whether or not the people who hurt them would be punished.  

Wynona reached over and placed a hand on Ronen’s arm, offering a small, grounding squeeze. "They won’t," she said, with a certainty that made Delta wonder if she was reassuring Ronen or herself. "They won’t get away with it."  

Bruce nodded, his expression darkening slightly. "Not if I have anything to say about it."  

Delta didn’t doubt that. And deep down, she knew—one way or another, justice would come for Velvet and Veneer.  

But before the silence could settle again, Ronen spoke up. "Do you think Crimp is going to jail, too?"  

The question caught both Delta and Bruce off guard. Bruce’s brow furrowed as he tilted his head slightly. "Who’s Crimp?"  

"She’s the one who called the cops when Dad started to look bad," Ronen explained, like that fact alone should’ve been enough to clear things up.  

"Oh," Bruce hummed, a note of mild surprise in his voice.  

"She also made the device," Wynona added, her tone sharper—less forgiving.  

That made Bruce pause. "Oh," he echoed again, but this time, it was more uneasy.  

Delta’s eyes narrowed slightly as she processed what the kids were saying. A third player. One who had been involved enough to create the very thing that had drained John—but also the one who had called for help when things went too far. That complicated things. It was easier when the lines were clear, when there were villains and victims, and nothing in between. But Crimp? Crimp sat right in the middle of that mess.  

"So… she helped them, but she also helped you," Delta clarified carefully, her voice slower, more thoughtful.  

"Yeah," Ronen admitted, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I mean, she was, like… nice. And she wasn’t like Velvet or Veneer—but she also didn’t do anything to stop them."  

Wynona snorted softly. "She didn’t stop them," she pointed out, her voice harder. "Not until she thought Dad was going to die."  

Delta exchanged a glance with Bruce, reading the same uncertainty on his face that she felt twisting in her stomach. This wasn’t going to be simple.  

"Sounds like the authorities have their work cut out for them," Bruce muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.  

Delta nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Yeah. They do."

— — — —

Styx POV

Styx leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. Now that they were finally alone, everyone had eaten, and each person had their job to focus on, he could finally let himself breathe. The last month had been relentless—a whirlwind of confusion, fear, and frustration.  

JD and the kids were supposed to meet him, Carter, and the others at the end of the Trouble Cliff trail. Despite the name, it was one of the easiest trails in the NeverGlade, perfect for beginners and new hikers like Jo. Sure, unexpected weather could slow things down, maybe add half a day or a full one to the trip. But when four days passed with no sign of them, Styx knew something was wrong.  

For the next month, he and the others had searched. Every possible route, every potential detour, anywhere JD and the kids might have ended up. Nothing. No word. No sign. And then, two weeks ago, a letter arrived from the Rageon hospital. A letter about JD.  

Styx had wasted no time, rushing to his best friend’s side as fast as he could—you don't leave family. But when he arrived, the kids were already gone. Delta was there, and… so was Hickory. That alone had thrown him for a loop. But hearing that JD’s kids were with one of their uncles? That had been maddening. JD’s brothers were dead. At least, that’s what Styx had been told. That’s what JD had believed. It was one of the few things that had finally shattered JD’s carefully maintained illusion that everything was fine—that he was fine. And the aftermath of information from JD had been brutal.  

JD’s family. His past. The band and its management. The Pop troll way of life. The reality of the entire Pop Troll tribe. All of it, piece by piece, had come to light. It was bad. 

Now learning JD's brothers were alive. Had been alive this entire time. Styx had believed it was a lie. That someone was messing with him, with JD. But no. It was real. All of the sleepless nights full of tears, the confrontations about self-worth, and the need to be perfect that had come forth because of their deaths felt…not for nothing but different. And now, the kids were with them...in Pop Village- the main root of JD's issues. 

Styx forced the thoughts from his mind, focusing back on the present. His gaze flickered to Iris, now that it was just the two of them, he could see the way her shoulders curled inward, how she seemed to fold into herself as if trying to disappear. The weariness in her eyes wasn’t just from lack of sleep—it was deeper than that, heavier. He took a slow breath, watching her carefully before speaking. 

“So, now that we’re alone,” he started, his tone even but gentle, “how have things really been?” 

Iris hesitated. Her head rested on her right paw, her fingers absently running over the fabric of her sleeve. Muses, she looked tired. Jo was in bed after she had eaten something— the kid nearly fell asleep at the table. 

“I don’t know…” she murmured, voice quiet. “Fine, I guess.” 

Styx raised a brow. She didn’t sound fine. Not even close. 

“You don’t sound so sure, squish,” he said, keeping his voice light but laced with enough warmth to let her know he wasn’t pushing—just asking. Just listening. 

Iris let out a soft breath but didn’t answer right away. 

He watched her closely, giving her the space to gather her thoughts. She was never one to spill her feelings easily—none of them were, really—but this was different. This was heavier. And Styx had spent enough time around her to know that sometimes, silence said more than words ever could.  

After a long moment, Iris exhaled, her ears drooping slightly. “It’s just… a lot,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. She pressed her palm into her forehead like she could physically push away the weight pressing down on her.  

Styx nodded, encouraging her without saying a word.  

She let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I mean, what do you want me to say? That I’m fine? That everything’s great?” She shook her head, eyes fixed on the ground. “Because it’s not. None of this is.”  

He figured as much.  

Iris dragged a hand through her hair, her fingers catching on a tangle. “Jo barely eats unless I make her. Cash keeps pretending he’s fine, but I know he’s not. Wynona has gone quieter than normal and when she does talk it's..it's a lot more sharper than normal. Ronen keeps smiling and cracking jokes like everything is normal, but I see how sad he looks when he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.” Her voice wavered for just a second before she steadied it. “And then there’s this —this whole mess with dad’s brothers and Pop Village and Hickory is here and—” She exhaled sharply, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before forcing them open again. “I don’t know what to do with any of it.”  

Styx hummed, thoughtful. “You’re not supposed to have all the answers, squish.”  

Iris snorted. “Feels like I should.”  

“Nope,” he said simply, shaking his head. “Not your job.”  

She shot him a tired look, but there was no real fight behind it. “Then whose job is it?”

Styx leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Theirs. Mine.”  

Iris blinked, confused.  

“The adults, Iris. JD’s brothers, me, Delta, hell even Hickory. We are the ones who actually owe you answers. You are nineteen the only answer you should be giving anyone is what your plan is now that you are out of school.” He tilted his head slightly trying to release tension in his neck. “If you’re asking who’s supposed to hold everything together in the meantime… I would say we, the adults, are suppose to, but...well, I hate to break it to you, kid, but you’re already doing that and you are doing a good job.”  

She huffed, shaking her head. “Doesn’t feel like I’m doing anything right.”  

“Don’t sell yourself short, Iris,” Styx insisted, “You’ve kept Jo from falling apart, kept Cash from isolating himself in his own head, and you’ve been the rock that Wynona needs. And let’s not forget about Ronen—he feels safe because of you.” He gave her a pointed, serious look. “Sounds like you’re doing a hell of a lot right, more than anyone should have to at your age.”  

Iris swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on her paws, twisting together in her lap. She pulled them apart, then clenched them again, as if trying to keep everything inside. “It doesn’t feel like enough,” she murmured quietly. “No matter what I do, it never feels like enough.” 

Styx’s expression softened, he leaned back in the chair with a small sigh, his eyes studying her carefully. Muses, he hated how lost she looked right now. “It never does,” he said, voice quieter now, understanding in his tone.

After a long moment of silence, he spoke again, his voice calm but thoughtful. “Do you want to know what can help?”

Iris didn’t immediately answer, her fingers picking at the hem of her sleeve. She just hummed in response, a sound of uncertainty that still held a thread of curiosity.

“Talking to someone,” Styx said simply, leaning forward again, his tone steady. “You can’t keep it all bottled up, Iris. It’s not meant to be handled alone.”

She blinked at him, her brow furrowing slightly. “Talking to someone?” she repeated, the disbelief clear in her voice. “Like one of Dad’s brothers? I’m pretty sure they either hate me or are too caught up in their own mess to actually listen to anything I have to say.”

Styx shook his head slowly, the faintest, almost rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “They don’t hate you, Iris.”

Iris tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with skepticism. “Really? Because it sure feels like they do.” She hesitated, her voice quieter now, almost uncertain. “Why does it feel so… wrong around them? Shouldn’t it be easier than this?” It was as if she were voicing a thought she wasn’t entirely sure she had the right to say aloud.

Styx watched her carefully, his expression unreadable. “Easy how?” he asked, his voice gentle but laced with curiosity.

Iris let out a soft sigh, her fingers fidgeting in her lap, as if searching for the right words. “I don’t know… It’s just… when I watch you and Carter, you make it look so simple.” Her voice trailed off, frustration creeping into her tone.

Styx paused, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. Of course, she would feel that way. He had to fight to keep his expression neutral, not wanting to make her feel worse about the comparison. He kept his voice soft and calm, “You can’t compare your relationship with your uncles to mine and Carter’s. You just can’t.”

Styx exhaled, “Carter and I… we’ve had years to build what we have. It wasn’t instant, and it sure as hell wasn’t easy.” His expression darkened for a moment before he forced it away. “He came to live with me when he was fourteen, after the whole music thing and things with his dad fell apart. And, honestly? Things hadn’t been the same since Bennie—his mom, my sister—passed.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, choosing his next words carefully. “What I have with Carter isn’t just some perfect uncle-nephew bond. It’s built on time, on circumstances—on the fact that, for a long time, we were all the other had left.” His voice softened. “You and your uncles? You’re still figuring each other out. That takes time.”

Iris lowered her gaze, her paws twisting together as Styx’s words settled over her. She looked troubled, like emotions were stirring in her head that she wasn’t ready to name. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts, until finally, she spoke—her voice quiet, almost hesitant.  

“It doesn’t feel hard with you, or Delta, or Carter,” she murmured with a tone either of them wanted or had the knowledge to unpack. “And it didn’t feel this way when any of my siblings were born.” She exhaled, frustration creeping into her tone. “Shouldn’t it feel more natural than this?”  

Styx studied her for a moment before letting out a slow breath. “Look, you’re right—they’ve got their own baggage and you have yours,” he admitted, his tone softening. “And I’m not saying y’all aren’t dealing with their own mess right now. But that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t listen if you actually talked to them. Talking to them might also help you bond as well and help make things feel easier.” He held her gaze, letting the words sink in. “And if not them, then someone. They’re not the only trolls in this village.”

Iris frowned, crossing her arms as if bracing herself. “You want me to go find someone to talk to? In this village?” She shook her head, skepticism clear in her voice. “The same village that couldn’t even handle trolls going grey? That village?” She let out a short, humorless laugh. “Never thought I’d see the day you of all trolls would be advocating for Pop Village.”  

Styx exhaled slowly, his fingers curling against the back of his head as he searched for the right words. “Yeah, well… I guess I am,” he admitted, the weight of it pressing against his chest in a way he wasn’t sure he was ready to unpack. His gaze flickered around the unfamiliar room, taking in the colors, the atmosphere, the small details that set this place apart from the world they had known. It felt different—safer, maybe. But he wasn’t about to say that out loud. Instead, he met Iris’s guarded stare and pressed on.

“Look, all I’m saying is—it doesn’t feel the same. It’s not what your dad described,” he said slowly, carefully. This wasn’t a conversation he could rush. It wasn’t a memory anyone—especially Iris—wanted to relive. “The Pop trolls here… they’re not like the one we met before.”

Iris scoffed, rubbing at the small nick in her ear, her fingers moving in that absentminded way Styx had come to recognize. She always did that when she was trying to shove memories down—especially the ones she felt guilty about.

But she shouldn’t feel guilty. She was four. It wasn’t her fault. That troll was lucky JD had been the one who found him. If it had been Styx… well, let’s just say the outcome wouldn’t have been as merciful. Who uses a child to get to their parent? Who does that? They shouldn’t have been alone in the first place.

“Really?” Iris said, her voice edged with disbelief. “You’ve been here, what, five hours?” She shot him a tired look—not just the kind that came from lack of sleep, but the deep, bone-weary kind of exhaustion that settled in when someone had carried something heavy for too long.

“And even if I did talk to someone,” she continued, her voice quieter now, “what would I even say?” Her fingers stilled against her ear, but her shoulders remained tense. Her tone wasn’t mocking, not exactly. It was more like she genuinely couldn’t see the point, like the idea of opening up felt as impossible as sprouting wings and flying out of the village.

Styx leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I dunno. Maybe that you’re tired? That you feel like you’re holding everything together with spit and hope? That you’re scared?” He shrugged. “That’d be a good place to start.”  

Iris stiffened at that. “I’m not scared,” she muttered, the words coming a little too quickly.  

Styx just raised a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah? Then why are you acting like everything’s about to fall apart if you stop moving for five seconds?” He tried to keep his tone even, but he knew she could hear that there was something knowing behind it—like he’d seen this before. Because he had. JD had done the same thing when they first started writing together, pushing forward like stopping wasn’t an option.  

Iris opened her mouth, then closed it.  

Styx let the silence stretch for a moment before exhaling through his nose. “How about this,” he said, shifting slightly in his seat. “You give the village a real, honest try—no half-measures—and I’ll give JD’s dead-but-not-really-dead brothers the same.” He tilted his head at her, his expression unreadable. “Sound like a deal?”  

Iris studied him for a beat before asking, “You don’t trust them, do you? You think they’re lying about who they are?” She hesitated, then added, “If that’s the case, Branch showed me a picture of them when they were younger. It’s them, Styx.”  

Styx sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not that I don’t trust them… I just don’t know them.” His voice was steady, but there was something careful about the way he said it, as if he were still working through his own thoughts. He met her gaze. “And with them being who they say they are, I really hope they’re telling the truth.” His tone softened. “For your dad more than anyone.”

The room seemed to grow quiet after that, the silence hanging thick, filled with unasked questions and unresolved thoughts. Iris didn’t speak, and Styx didn’t feel the need to fill the air with more words. He knew how to give space when it was needed. The conversation seemed to settle into a lull into Styx updating her about Carter and the band, and before he knew it, Iris had drifted closer and closer to sleep. 

Her body slumped a little more, her paws curled under her as she sought out a more comfortable position. Styx watched her, his expression softening. After a while, she was almost completely asleep, her breathing slow and steady. Styx let out a quiet exhale, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. She needed this sleep—who knew when the last time she’d actually slept longer than a couple of hours had been? 

He stood up quietly, not wanting to disturb her, but there was no point in waiting. He knelt beside her, his voice gentle but firm. “Come on, let's get you to bed.” 

Iris just groaned at him, not fully awake but still unwilling to cooperate. 

He smiled softly, shaking his head. Slowly, he guided her to her feet, and though she wobbled a bit, he steadied her. "There we go," he said, leading her to the bed with careful steps. “Tomorrow, we’ll go see your dad.” 

Iris didn’t respond immediately, her voice muffled as she buried her face into the pillow. “You’ll be here tomorrow?” she asked, her words slurred with sleepiness.

“Yeah, I’ll be here tomorrow,” Styx assured her, his tone steady.

“Promise?” Iris mumbled, her voice small, fragile even.

Styx’s heart gave a quiet tug, and he knelt down beside her bed, making sure she could hear him clearly. “I promise, squish,” he said softly. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face before standing up and leaving the room. His heart felt heavy as he closed the door behind him, the weight of everything still lingering. Before his mind could fully shut off, he went to check on the rest of the kids who had returned not long before Iris started to crash. 

Cash and Ronen were fast asleep in their beds, the room filled with the peaceful sound of Cash’s soft snoring. Ronen, on the other hand, had found a very unflattering position, half-draped over his pillow with drool pooling at the side of his mouth. Styx couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped him. The kid had a knack for looking completely unbothered by everything, even while he slept.

Wynona and Jo were also tucked in, the two of them barely visible under a mountain of blankets that had somehow accumulated throughout the night. Wynona had her arm draped protectively around Jo, and Styx couldn’t help but admire how natural it seemed for the older girl to look out for her little sister. 

Everyone was safe. For now, that was all he needed to focus on. He stood in the doorway for a moment, his gaze sweeping over them all, before he turned to leave the room. His steps were quiet as he headed back to the small living area, where the weight of everything he'd been carrying still pressed against his chest. But right now, in this moment, he allowed himself to breathe a little easier. 

At least tonight, they had peace.

— — — —

Hickory POV

“HICKORY!!”

The shriek was so piercingly high that Hickory’s ears rang, the sheer force of it nearly making him flinch. It was honestly impressive—how could such a tiny troll produce a sound so loud? Before he could fully recover from the auditory assault, a pink blur barreled into him with the force of a stampede.  

The last time Hickory had seen Poppy in person had been a week after the Rock Apocalypse. A lot had changed since then, but clearly, one thing hadn’t—Poppy’s enthusiasm.

He barely had time to blink before she had him in a near-airtight hug, her arms squeezing with an unexpected strength for her size.  

"Hello, Miss Poppy," he greeted, wincing slightly as he reached up to rub his ringing ear. But the moment the words left his mouth, he realized he wasn’t getting out of this hug anytime soon.  

Poppy only squeezed him tighter. “I can’t believe you’re actually here! Like—right here!” she gushed, her voice still loud enough to make his ear twitch.  

Hickory let out a small, breathless chuckle. “Well, I reckon I am.” He gave a light pat on her back, though it was difficult to do much else considering she had him locked in a vice grip. “Now, uh… how are you doing?” he asked, his voice slightly strained from the lack of air.

Poppy finally let him, “Oh, I’ve been amazing.” She answered with a smile, “I’ve been working at helping the tribes bond and thinking of ways to show our different ways of life. But enough about me, how have you been? Where have you been? You left so quickly after the Rock apocalypse, there was barely any time to say goodbye or ask any questions.”

Hickory let out a slow breath, already feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. How was he supposed to explain all of this?  

How do you tell someone you left because you were searching for your ex-boyfriend—ex-fiancé? The father of your children? The love of your life? The one troll you’ve never been able to move on from, no matter how hard you’ve tried?  

And then—how do you admit that you hadn’t seen him in three years but knew, deep in your soul, that you couldn’t go another moment without him? That even knowing he might never forgive you, even knowing the danger you brought into his life and your kids’ lives just by existing, you still had to try?  

Then, just when you think you’re ready to face him, you find out he’s been trapped—sealed away in diamond bottles, his talent drained by two psychos who saw him as nothing more than a resource to exploit. And you don’t even hear it from him—you hear it from his best friend, who happens to hate your guts for all the ways you hurt him.  

And as if that wasn’t enough, the cherry on top of this mess? You find out that the troll who despises you most is actually his long-thought-dead brother.  

What had his life even come to?  

Hickory blinked, pulling himself out of the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in his head. He had been silent for too long. Poppy was still staring up at him, eyes wide and unblinking, her entire body practically vibrating with anticipation. She was waiting—no, demanding—an explanation, and knowing her, she wouldn’t let him off the hook until she got one.  

Yeah… this was definitely going to be a long conversation.  

Hickory exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face before finally meeting her gaze. “Oh, Miss Poppy,” he started, his voice rougher than usual. “I fucked up. Muses, I fucked up so bad.”  

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, and for once, he didn’t even care that he was cursing in front of a lady. Normally, his mama’s voice would be ringing in his head about manners and showing respect to his elders and ladies, but right now? Right now, there was no polite way to describe just how badly he had screwed everything up.  

And judging by the way Poppy’s eyebrows shot up, she wasn’t expecting that either.  

Still, she didn’t interrupt. She didn’t scold him for his language or demand he clean it up. She just tilted her head slightly, all that buzzing energy now focused entirely on him.  

That was almost worse.  

Hickory let out another slow breath, shaking his head. “I don’t even know where to start,” he admitted, more to himself than to her.  

Poppy hesitated for a moment, then offered a small, understanding smile. “Well, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she said, her voice gentle. But Hickory could hear it—the barely restrained curiosity beneath her words. She wanted to know. She wanted to help. “But if you ever need an ear, just someone to listen, I’m your troll.”  

He sighed, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his paws before dragging his hands down to rest on the back of his neck. “I honestly don’t even know where to start.”  

Poppy tapped a finger against her chin, thinking. “Well,” she said after a moment, “whenever I have something hard to say out loud, I find someone I trust, someone who won’t judge me, and I just… blurt it out. Say it really fast so it’s out in the open and not rattling around in my head anymore.”  

That… actually didn’t sound like the worst idea. And out of everyone here, Poppy was probably the least likely to judge him for what he was about to say.  After all she didn’t judge him for being a bounty hunter.

He took a breath, steeled himself, and then—

“I-left-so-I-could-find-my-ex-who-I-also-had-kids-with-but-I-haven’t-seen-them-in-years. My-ex-is-also-Branch’s-brother-who-was-trapped-in-the-diamond-bottle.”  

Silence.  

Poppy’s eyes went comically wide, her mouth falling open in a perfect little gasp. She blinked at him, clearly trying to process what he had just dumped in her lap.  

“……What?”

Hickory sighed, shifting his weight as Poppy continued to stare at him like he had just told her the sky was green and the ocean was made of lemonade. She blinked rapidly, as if trying to reboot her brain, her paws twitching at her sides like she didn’t know whether to grab his shoulders, shake him, or just collapse onto the ground.  

“Okay,” she said finally, inhaling deeply. “Okay. So just to make sure I’m actually hearing this right—because, Hickory, this is a lot—you left, to go find your ex, John Dory.”  

“Right,” he confirmed, feeling like his stomach was tying itself into knots.  

“Who you have kids with. You have kids?”  

“Yep.”  

“The same John Dory who also happens to be Branch’s brother .”  

“That’s the one.”  

“The same John Dory who was just rescued after being trapped in a diamond bottle for two months?!”  

Hickory let out another slow breath. “Yeah.”  

Poppy stared at him, completely frozen, her hands now pressed together like she was silently praying for the strength to process all of this. Then, without another word, she grabbed his arm and started pulling him along.  

"Uh, where are we going?" he asked, stumbling slightly at her sudden movement.  

Poppy didn’t slow down, her strides quick and full of purpose as she led them away. She didn’t glance back at him, but her voice was sharp with determination. “To sit down before my brain short-circuits.”  

Hickory let out a weak chuckle, shaking his head as he followed her lead. “Fair enough.”  

She found them a quiet spot—far from curious ears, far from interruptions. Only once they had settled, with steaming mugs of hot chocolate in their paws, did she finally seem ready to speak. The silence stretched for a beat as she gathered her thoughts, her fingers curled tightly around her mug. Then, with no hesitation, she asked the one question he had been expecting.  

“So why did you leave?”  

Hickory wasn’t surprised. He shouldn’t have been surprised. And yet, something in his chest still tightened at hearing the words out loud.  

He sighed, taking a moment to stare down at his hot chocolate, as if the swirling liquid might somehow soften the weight of the answer. He took a sip, just to buy himself another second before answering. Then, finally—  

“Which time?”  

Poppy froze mid-sip, her eyes snapping up to meet his in pure disbelief. She nearly choked, coughing into her sleeve before setting her mug down a little too hard.  

“Which time?!” she repeated, her voice shooting up an octave as she gaped at him.  

Hickory exhaled through his nose, rubbing the bridge of it with his fingers. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, his voice low. “The first time I left was when Cash was three, an—”  

“That time,” Poppy cut in, her tone sharp with urgency. “Why did you leave that time?”  

Hickory’s hands tightened slightly around his mug. That time. The words felt heavier than they should.  

He sighed, shoulders hunching forward slightly as he rested his forearms on his knees. “Did you know I’ve been a bounty hunter since I was sixteen?”  

Poppy blinked at the sudden shift in conversation, but she didn’t interrupt.  

Hickory didn’t wait for a response. “It’s the one thing I know how to do. I was already working jobs by the time I met JD. At first, I thought I could balance it—being with him, being a dad—but when you live that kind of life, you make a lot of enemies.” His grip on the mug tightened. “And I didn’t realize I was putting a target on their backs until it was too late.”  

Poppy’s expression softened slightly, but her voice was careful. “What happened?”  

Hickory let out another slow breath, staring down at his drink. “Before Cash was born, I only took a job every now and then. After he was born, I started picking up more and more. The money was good, and I wasn’t good at anything else that could support them. But that meant I wasn’t around as much as I wanted to be.” He paused, his jaw tightening slightly before he continued. “One job, I pissed someone off. Badly. And I wasn’t careful enough. They followed me home.”  

Poppy inhaled sharply, her hands tightening around her mug.  

“I was out on a job one night,” Hickory continued, his voice quieter now, almost like he was confessing something he still hadn’t fully forgiven himself for. “And they came for them.”  

He didn’t look at Poppy, didn’t dare meet her eyes. Instead, he stared down at his mug, fingers tightening around the handle as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “I got home in time. Took care of it. But…” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, forcing the words out. “JD’s never forgiven me. For putting the kids in danger. For not telling him the truth about what I really did for work. And he shouldn’t.”  

And honestly? Hickory didn’t blame him.  

He could still remember the way his heart had nearly stopped when he saw Cash that night—alone, scared, his little body shaking as he ran past Dickory and straight into Hickory’s arms. The way his tiny fingers had clung desperately to his vest as he choked out through trembling sobs that someone was at the house.  

The fear in his son’s eyes, the sheer panic in his voice…  

It was something Hickory would never forget. And something JD would— something he should— never forgive.

Poppy’s voice was softer now, cautious. “You never told John you were a bounty hunter?”  

Hickory let out a humorless chuckle, wanting nothing more then to sink rather into the dirt. “It’s not exactly something you bring up over breakfast.”  

Poppy’s expression shifted, her gaze gentle but tinged with something else—something like quiet disbelief. She gave a small shake of her head, as if trying to process everything he was telling her. Hickory wished he knew what was going through her mind. He almost wanted her to be angry, to yell at him, to tell him how awful he was for the mess he had caused. At least then, he’d know where he stood. At least then, the weight in his chest might make sense.

Instead, she stayed quiet, and the silence pressed down on him like a stone. 

Hickory exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the mug in his hands. He didn't meet her eyes. “No, I never told him” he admitted, voice low. “I couldn’t handle the way he’d look at me differently.” His throat felt tight, the words heavier than he expected. “Like I was a monster.”  

The confession lingered between them, heavy and immovable, settling into the quiet like a weight neither of them could shake. Hickory exhaled slowly, his posture sinking as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers gripping the warm ceramic of his mug like it was the only thing grounding him.  

“After that night… he told me to leave,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath. “And I listened.”   

For a moment, Poppy said nothing. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts, the gravity of his words settling between them. Then, at last, her voice broke through, soft yet pointed.  

“Did you ever think… maybe he didn’t want you to listen?”    

Hickory’s grip tightened around his mug. He stared into the dark, swirling liquid as if it might hold an answer—some kind of justification for the choices he had made. But all it did was reflect his own tired face back at him, the weight of regret staring him down.  

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough, rawer than he intended.  

Poppy studied him carefully, her expression unreadable, but there was no anger there. No accusation. Just quiet understanding. Hickory hated that. Hated that she wasn’t tearing into him, wasn’t saying the things he had already told himself a thousand times over. Hated that her words made something inside him ache in a way he wasn’t ready to deal with.  

Poppy tilted her head slightly, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her mug. “You left because he told you to.”    

“Yeah,” he answered simply.  

“And you listened. You stayed away.”    

“Yeah.”

She paused, her gaze steady. Then, with quiet curiosity, she asked, “Then why are you back now?”

Hickory inhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening on the mug as if it were the only thing anchoring him. That was the question, wasn’t it? The one he had been trying not to ask himself.  

He swallowed, his throat dry. “Because I had to.” The words felt flimsy, barely scraping the surface of the truth.  

Poppy didn’t press him, just waited, letting the silence do the work. It made his skin itch. He exhaled and shook his head. “Because… I couldn’t stay away anymore.” His voice was quieter now, like he was admitting something he hadn’t even let himself believe.  

Poppy’s gaze didn’t waver. “Why now?”  

Hickory let out a humorless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because I’m a selfish bastard, that’s why.” He dropped his hand back to his lap, his shoulders slumping forward. “Because I thought I could live with it—being away from them, letting them be safe. But I couldn't. I went looking for them, and by the time I found them…” His jaw clenched. “By the time I found them, they were already in trouble. And I wasn’t there to stop it.”   

Poppy’s fingers tightened around her mug, but she didn’t interrupt.  

Hickory let out a slow breath, finally forcing himself to meet her eyes. “I came back because I couldn’t keep pretending that staying away was the right thing to do. Because no matter how much JD hates me, no matter how much I’ve messed everything up…” His voice wavered, but he forced himself to finish, “I still love him. And I still love my kids. And I want to try… even if it’s too late.”   

Poppy’s expression softened, her lips pressing together like she was carefully choosing her next words. Hickory braced himself for whatever she was going to say, “I don’t think it's too late.”

Notes:

So, how we doing?

We have Delta's, Styx's, and Hickory's POV mixed with a bit of lore/headcanon throughout.

Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Branch & Poppy POV

Branch POV

It had been three days.

Three days since Branch had brought an unconscious John Dory to the village clinic, still weak from months of captivity, was what the doctor had said. Three days since Branch had led Delta, Styx, and Hickory into the village, an uneasy reunion wrapped in too much history and too many unspoken words.

Three days since the kids had finally seen their dad again— even if he had still been unconscious, it was clear the kids felt more at ease with him close. Three days since Jo and Cash had been reunited with their father. Three days since the brothers had met the trolls who had stepped in as family in their absence, the honorary aunt and uncle.

So, were things getting worse? No. That much, Branch could say for sure. But were they getting better? Well... no one was fighting anymore or made any threats of violence, so better...ish.

They were all still here, on the edge, and waiting for something to happen.

Waiting for someone to push too hard.

Waiting for something to break.

Waiting to see if healing was even possible.

Awkward silences stretched longer than they should, and glances were exchanged with too many unsaid words. But at the very least, no one had walked away. No one had thrown a punch. No one had shut the door on the chance that, somehow, this mess of a family could piece itself together.

There had been moments, small but still there, that made Branch hopeful. Nothing grand or groundbreaking, but enough to make him think that maybe, just maybe, his family could figure things out for once.

One of those moments had happened when Iris approached Poppy about learning more about the Interest, Hobbies, and Fun Things Center or, as her friends had affectionately dubbed it, the Bud Hub.

The request had caught both of them completely off guard.

Not because Iris wasn't the kind of troll to be curious, Branch knew she was; the sharpness in her eyes told him that she noticed far more than she let on. But Iris rarely asked for anything, especially not from adults and especially not from Poppy. If she needed anything, she preferred to handle it herself, which also extended to any issues her siblings might have. With her siblings, she was very attentive, but to any adult, she usually stayed a step back, cautious, like she was always waiting for the moment something would be taken away.

It bugged him to an unimaginable degree that she felt like to had to be the one to take care of her siblings. It made him wonder if she would be acting the same way if JD were awake.

So when she showed up, arms crossed tightly, words short and a little defensive even before she spoke, Branch had known it meant something.

"I just... I think it might be a good idea to check out," Iris said, her words slow, like she was testing them before letting them go. "You said there are different activities, right? Arts and crafts, photography, baking, gardening... music classes too?"

Poppy blinked at Iris for a moment, her fork still in her mouth, before she glanced at him.

Poppy didn't know what to do right now, and honestly, neither did he. Most of Iris and Poppy's interactions had been brief, stiff exchanges-polite but distant.

But this wasn't small talk. This was deliberate. A quiet signal that Iris was trying and willing to try.

They must've stayed silent too long because Iris shifted her weight and started to fidget with the edge of her sleeve.

"If you're busy, I can come back later," she muttered, casually, but not convincingly. "Or if the offer isn't—"

"No!" Poppy blurted out quickly as she stood up, nearly knocking over their drinks, "I mean," She said with a softer volume, "the offer still stands. And if you're interested, I can grab this week's schedule for you."

Iris nodded but remained tense, her fingers still picking at her sleeve. It was clear she wasn't used to putting herself out there like this.

However, this wasn't about Iris doing something for herself. This was for her siblings —for their comfort, their sense of stability.

Iris shifted her weight again, fingers still toying with the hem of her sleeve. "That'd be... helpful," she said after a pause, her voice quieter now. "I think it could help everyone relax."

Poppy smiled at her, a smile she did not use as often. It was the one she used when a trolling was being particularly shy. It was warm and steady, a way of letting anyone who saw it know they were welcome. It made Branch's chest warm up at the sight of it, and knowing she wasn't going to let any of them feel unwelcome-not ever.

"I think so, too." She answered softly before the excitement started to slip in, "There's a little bit of everything. They can try whatever they want, or nothing at all. It's open to trolls of all ages, no pressure." Iris didn't reply right away, and Poppy didn't push for one.

"If anything catches your eye," Poppy added, her tone soft, "let me know. More trollings go to the earlier classes, but some classes for older trolls run in the evenings, and you don't even have to join. Some trolls just like being in the space-watching, listening, and doing their own thing. It's more about being somewhere safe. About finding what makes you happy."

Again, Iris was quiet. Her eyes flicked around the kitchen, and for a moment, Branch wasn't sure what she was thinking. She wasn't shutting them out, but she wasn't fully letting her in either.

"And they won't mind that we're not like them?" Iris asked, her voice edged with uncertainty. A familiar kind that crept in when you were used to being othered. Used to being different.

Being gray. Of course, she meant being gray.

It was a fair question. Even if things were better now, even if trolls weren't as hung up on that sort of thing anymore, there were still whispers sometimes. Still, sidelong glances from older trolls who clung to the old ways like barnacles. But at the Bud Hub? No one there would bat an eye at her or her siblings.

Poppy tilted her head, confused. "Not like them?" she repeated.

Before Branch could step in, to soften the question or to reassure Iris the way only he could, Poppy kept going.

"You are like them," she said simply, without hesitation.

Iris gave her a look-dry, doubtful, like she couldn't tell if Poppy was serious or just naive.

But Poppy dian't back down. "You're a troll," she said again, gentler now, "and you want to learn something new. That's it. That's what matters." She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it didn't even need explaining.

That made Iris pause.

She didn't look skeptical anymore, not exactly. Just... quiet. Like something had snagged in her mind and was now unraveling in slow, careful threads.

Maybe she needed time to think. Maybe she needed to talk to her siblings. Either way, Branch didn't want to rush her. He knew what that kind of pressure could do- how quickly a good thing could turn into something suffocating. And Poppy, for all her boundless optimism, wouldn't want her to feel cornered either.

So, Branch offered a softer path, "How about this," he said, keeping his voice light but steady, "once we're done with lunch, Poppy and I can grab a few pamphlets from the Hub. Nothing too flashy- just something to look through. Then, after dinner, you and your siblings can sit down and take your time with them. And tomorrow morning, you can let us know what you've decided. No rush. No pressure."

Iris hesitated a second longer, then gave a small nod. "Yeah... that'd be great." Her voice was quiet, but not uncertain. Just... careful. Like she was letting herself want to believe this was a good idea.

They stood there for a few quiet moments, watching Iris disappear around the corner. Once her footsteps faded and it was clear she was out of earshot, Poppy whipped around to face Branch, eyes wide with barely-contained excitement.

"That was good!" she half-exclaimed, half-whispered. "This is good! ..Right?"

Branch nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I think so. I mean... she's reaching out."

Poppy clapped her hands together, practically bouncing. "Yeah, she is. Oh, tomorrow is going to be great!"

He nodded again, matching her enthusiasm for a moment before something cold and tight started to coil in his stomach. A bundle of nerves began to prickle just beneath the surface.

Yes, this was good. Iris reaching out was more than good. But that didn't stop the creeping anxiety from pressing in around the edges.

The village had changed a lot since he was a kid. Trolls were more open-minded now, more welcoming. But that didn't erase the memories of how things used to be. It didn't silence the question gnawing at the back of his mind: What if the others don't see them the way Poppy or my brothers or I do?

His biggest worry wasn't the younger trolls. It was the older ones. The ones who fully accepted the new way. It was a small group, very small, less than fifteen, but all it took was one Creek for things to go south.

"Branch?" Poppy asked, her voice softer now.

She was watching him closely, her smile fading into something more concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah," he said quickly. "I'm fine."

But Poppy didn't let that slide. She tilted her head, calling him out gently but firmly. "Branch, we promised, if we had an issue, we'd tell each other."

Branch sighed, his shoulders dropping a little. He glanced down at the ground, pawing lightly at a patch of carpet with his foot before looking back up at her.

"I know," he said quietly. "I just... I don't want to ruin this moment. She said yes. She didn't shut down or push us away. That's huge."

"It is," Poppy agreed, watching him carefully.

"But I'm scared," he admitted, his voice just above a whisper. "Not of her. Or the kids. I'm scared of them. Of the other trolls. Of how they'll react when they see a bunch of gray-toned kids walking into the Bud Hub and make the kids think they don't belong. Like they're not... like us."

Poppy's face softened. "But they are like us."

"I know that," Branch said, a little too quickly. "I know that. But I also know how trolls can be when they see something unfamiliar. When something doesn't fit into their perfect little idea of what a 'troll' is supposed to look like."

Poppy stepped closer and gently took his paw in hers.

"They're not going to be alone," she said. "They're going with us. And if anyone says anything-anything-they'll have to answer to me."

Branch huffed out a small laugh, more breath than sound. "I believe you."

"Good," she said with a smile. "Because I mean it."

There was a pause between them-quiet, but not heavy. Branch gave her paw a small squeeze, grounding himself in the moment.

She returned it and gave him a tiny nod. "We're doing this together. All of it."

Branch looked at her, a little bit of the tension nisshed dengething to ease. "Yeah," he murmured, “Together.”

That night, Poppy returned with a small stack of pamphlets for the most popular classes, like arts and crafts, and a few newer ones just starting to gain traction, like photography. She kept them next to her all through dinner, waiting for the right moment to hand them off.

Dinner itself was uneventful... but not comfortable. The air was thick with tension, the kind that pressed on your chest without saying a word. Everyone was there. Everyone-including Hickory.

At the head of the long table sat Delta, looking every bit like someone who had expected this kind of family meeting to happen eventually. To her right sat Jolene, who now spent nearly all her time at Delta's side. If Delta was in the room, Jolene was there too-like a quiet shadow. And Delta let her.

Over the last three days, it had become normal to see Delta carrying Jolene-on her hip, in her arms, or tucked into the thick waves of her hair like she belonged there. Like it was second nature.

Who was he kidding? It probably was.

The kids called her Aunt Delta. And from the way Jolene looked at her-completely trusting, completely at ease-it was obvious Delta had never felt like a stranger to any of the kids.

Next down the table were Wynona and Cash. Cash alternated between picking at his food and glaring daggers at Hickory across the table. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tenser, and he barely touched his plate unless it was to shove something aside with his fork.

Whatever Hickory had done had made a lasting impact on him. It was like watching a timer count down but it kept resetting at the five second mark.

Occasionally, Ronen leaned forward from his seat beside Iris to chat with Wynona, speaking casually around Cash like the tension simmering beside him wasn't there at all. It wasn't ignorance, Ronen knew. He just had a way of pretending things were normal even if they weren't. Wynona responded with small smiles and quiet hums, her eyes flicking between her brother and Hickory with the kind of weariness that came from too many days spent walking on eggshells.

Iris and Styx sat beside each other, heads tilted close, speaking in hushed tones. Every so often, Styx's gaze would flick toward Hickory with something unreadable in his expression-unease, maybe. Distrust. Or something sharper. Something that looked an awful lot like a warning.

With Delta and Styx in the mix, the group dynamic hadn't just shifted-it had sharpened. The kids still moved as a unit, but when given the choice, they began gravitating toward certain trolls in quiet, consistent ways.

Iris stuck close to Styx. Jolene rarely left Delta's side. Cash lingered near Delta when he could, though there were a few quiet moments when he ended up beside Bruce, like when Bruce volunteered to stay with John Dory. They didn't talk. The air between them still felt new, unsure. But they were there. Together. So it counted.

Wynona seemed drawn to Styx, too, though Branch had noticed she had started to seek out Floyd here and there. Usually it was to show him a drawing or a book she kept in her hair. It was a new development, subtle but growing.

Ronen, as always, floated between them-chatting with Wynona, laughing with anyone he could, and every so often turning to Clay. Those moments with Clay were briefer and quieter lacking the hyper energy Ronen normally carried around the bunker.

In a group like this, where every choice of proximity spoke louder than words, these quiet moments mattered.

To Delta's left sat Poppy then him. Next came Floyd and Clay, heads tilted together in easy conversation. Whatever they were discussing stayed low and light. Every so often, one of them would glance up-at Wynona, at Ronen, sometimes at Jolene-as if keeping quiet tabs on the mood in the room. It was a contrast to the tension simmering everywhere else.

Bruce sat just beyond them, his gaze shifting between Hickory and Cash. His brow furrowed, worry etched plainly across his face. His whole posture was tight like he was trying to make sense of something with only half the pieces.

What did he know?

And at the far end of the table sat Hickory, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. His shoulders were tense, his eyes fixed on his plate, and he barely touched his food. Between him and Styx sat one last empty chair-a quiet, conspicuous gap in the circle that felt louder than it should have.

After dinner, with plates being cleared and conversations thinning into silence, Poppy passed the stack of pamphlets to Iris. She offered a soft, encouraging smile as she did.

Iris returned it-small, but real-then quietly gathered her younger siblings and slipped away into the deeper corridors of the bunker, the colorful flyers tucked neatly under one arm.

"Are they gone?" Styx asked without looking up, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest.

"I think so," Delta called from the sink, where she was rinsing off the last of the dishes.

"Good," Styx said curtly. "Then let's get started."

Poppy glanced between them, brow furrowing. "Start what?"

The question hung in the air, but the answer came quickly. This was that last-minute idea from Floyd, something about sharing information to make sure everyone was on the same page.

Styx waved a paw vaguely at the now-quiet room. "Well, your boyfriend and his band of brothers decided it'd be a great idea if we all aired out what we know. You know for transparency."

The way he said it was offhanded, bordering on sarcastic, but not entirely. There was a thread of actual cooperation, maybe. However faint. Still, it was enough to earn him a sharp glare from more than one of the brothers.

"Styx," Delta warned, her voice cutting in before any of them fire something back.

"What? She asked," Styx said, gesturing towards Poppy. When Delta just looked at him with a hard stare, he raised his paws in defeat. "Fine," he turned back to Poppy, "We are just having a small chat, so everyone is in the loop. You know the usual I-just-met-you-a-few-weeks-ago-and-know-nothing-about-you talk."

Poppy glanced at Branch, eyebrows raised.

Branch let out a quiet sigh, then gave Poppy a small, tight nod. This needed to happen. They had to know more-about the kids, about what they'd been through-if they were going to help. Especially if they wanted to be ready for when JD finally woke up.

Turning back to Styx, Branch pulled on his most reassuring smile, the kind that said I'm trying here, really. "The idea's just to make sure we're all on the same page," he said calmly. "There's too much going on out there, and in here-for us to be keeping secrets from each other."

"Especially," Bruce added carefully, "with how fast things are moving now. Any day now, someone could show up to evaluate how they're doing living with Branch.

At the word evaluate, Styx inhaled slowly, his shoulders easing just a little like he'd been waiting to hear someone else acknowledge the looming possibility.

"Yes," he said with a short nod, "there's still a chance they might end up placed with one of us, but moving them again, especially so soon, could be damaging to their mental health."

Floyd nodded, his voice lighter but steady. "We don't even know the full extent of what they went through at Mount Rageon. I vote we at least try to keep them here. Here, we know they're safe. And we're a long way from that place."

Styx let out a breath, "Alright, guess I'll start us off. As you probably guessed, most of the parents haven't exactly been present in our nieces' and nephews' lives." His gaze flicked, briefly but deliberately, toward Hickory. "And for some of the kids it is a touchy subject. I can only anticipate that with the condition JD is in this is where they're going to struggle the most."

"Wynona' mother was around, right?" Floyd interrupted, cutting in before Styx could finish.

Styx paused, turning to give him a sideways glance, brow creasing slightly. "Yeah," he said slowly like he was still trying to figure out what Floyd was doing. "Trish was one are the ones who was around consistently."

Branch blinked. Wait-what? "When did you learn about Winona's mother?" he asked, keeping his tone even.

Floyd gave a sheepish shrug, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck. "Uh... a few hours after you left to go get Johnny," he admitted. "She saw some colored pencils at the market, and we went back to grab them. On the way back... we ended up talking."

"Oh." Branch's reply came short and flat like a door shutting. His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking in his cheek as the silence pressed down between them. Then-"I've been back for three days, Floyd. Why didn't you say anything?" Why didn't you tell me something that important? Even a heads-up would ve been better than nothing.

Floyd's gaze dropped to the table, guilt flashing across his face. "I-I meant to," he said, stumbling over the words. "It's just... things have been kind of nonstop since you got back. And honestly? I thought it might be something better to bring up in private."

Branch didn't say anything for a moment. He just looked at Floyd, "Maybe. But I still would've liked to know sooner."

The room fell silent for a moment before Delta, leaned forward, her voice calm but pointed.

"Well, that's actually a good question," she said, her eyes moving from Floyd to Clay, then Bruce. "What else did you guys find out while Branch was gone? If any of the kids said anything, even in passing, now's the time. Might save us some time."

Nobody moved at first.

It wasn't the kind of silence that screamed tension, not exactly-but it was cautious. Careful. Like everyone was waiting to see who'd speak first and how much they were willing to give.

Styx raised an eyebrow, his tone even but with an unmistakable edge. "Well?" he said, leaning back in his chair with slow intention. "What do you know? And if you're not sure about the details, Delta and I can clear it up."

Still nothing.

Floyd shifted in his seat, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold in on himself. His eyes darted sideways-first to Bruce, then to Clay-as if searching for backup, or maybe permission.

Clay didn't look back. His arms were locked tight across his chest, jaw rigid, eyes fixed on some invisible point far off. If he didn't acknowledge the others, maybe they wouldn't acknowledge him either.

Bruce, on the other hand, looked like someone holding something too delicate and too dangerous all at once. His jaw was clenched, his brow pulled taut in a mix of guilt and dread. He didn't look angry, just braced. Like he knew what was coming, and had already started preparing for the impact.

Branch glanced between them, chest tightening. Why were they so reluctant? What were they holding back?

After a few long seconds of silence, Clay finally broke it.

"As long as we're still on the topic of parents," he said, voice flat but clear, "I learned something about Ronen's."

"You did?" Styx asked, surprise flickering in his tone.

"When?" Floyd added, brows raised. He sounded just as caught off guard.

Really? Branch blinked. Clay hadn't exactly been the warmest with any of the kids— distant, careful. But apparently, he'd learned something the rest of them hadn't.

Clay gave them both an irritated glance like he was already regretting speaking. "Yes, I did."

"Well... what did you find out?" Bruce asked gently, sensing the tension under Clay's words.

Clay's jaw worked for a moment before he spoke.

"I found out his other parent's not around," he said simply. "Never has been." For a moment he looked like he was going to say more but must have decided against it.

The weight behind the words settled over the room like dust. It wasn't a foreign concept to any of them. Absent parents had been a quiet thread in all their lives. A familiar ache.

Branch felt it twist in his chest. The thought crept in, uninvited-how different things might've been if their parents had stuck around. If they'd made good on even half their promises instead of vanishing like dust in the wind...Branch didn't even know what his parents looked like.

"That's true," Styx said quietly, reluctantly like even he knew it was a touchy topic...he probably did if JD really trusted him. "I took Johnny to a party. One thing led to another, and... a few months later, Ronen was born. We tried to look for them but couldn't ever find them again."

"You took John to a party?" Hickory asked, brows raised then he pause and got a puzzled look on his face, "He went to a party?"

It was the wrong thing to say. The wrong tone. The wrong moment. And especially the wrong person to say it.

Styx's entire body stiftened. His gaze snapped to the yodeler with an icy glare, “Yes, I did." He sneered, “I thought maybe-just maybe-he deserved one night to just not worry about anything. After raising two kids on his own while crawling out of a relationship that was an absolute shit show."

Styx's words still hung in the air, sharp and bitter, and now Bruce's voice cut through the silence with a weight of its own.

"So," Bruce said, his tone steady but cold, "are you going to tell us what you're about?" His eyes locked onto Hickory, hard and unflinching. "Because this is the first time you've said more than five words to any of us."

Branch's eyes flicked to Hickory, just in time to catch him flinch.

Hickory looked up, briefly met Bruce's stare, then glanced away. "I'm sure you'll hear a lot about me... in time.'

Bruce leaned forward, not aggressive, but insistent. "I don't want to hear about you in time. I want to hear about you right now-from you." His voice didn't raise, but it got heavier with every word. "I want to know why you only showed up when, in words from your own son, it was actually 'actually important.' Why you thought it was okay to walk away from your child and from my brother."

Branch stiffened, his shoulders locking tight as a low, cold ripple moved down his spine. 'actually important? What does that mean?

This wasn't a shot in the dark. Bruce wasn't throwing out vague bitterness or fishing for guilt-this was personal. There was weight behind every word, anger sharpened into clarity. Bruce wanted answers.

For a long moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the bunker, the kind of quiet that presses in on your ears. Even Poppy didn't say anything-didn't try to soften the edges like she usually did. This wasn't her moment to soothe. It was Hickory's moment to own.

Branch's eyes narrowed as he studied the other troll. Is he going to do it? Is he actually going to tell the truth? He had one shot here to lay things bare, and Branch wasn't sure if he would take it.

A knot formed in Branch's stomach at the thought of what might come next. How are his brothers going to take this? How would they react to this? To Hickory being a bounty hunter? To the fact that Hickory and John hadn't just been a fling-they'd been close. Closer than any of them had realized. They were on the verge of something as big as Marriage.

Branch's jaw tightened as he stared down at the table, his claws unconsciously digging into the edge of the wood. That wasn't his story to tell. But it would come out, one way or another. He was going to make sure of it, he wasn't just going to let Hickory lie to them like he did to him......

Hickory could lie to him and Poppy, then who's to say he hadn't lied to John too? He must have. Why else would John have told him to leave?

The thought made his chest burn. Branch swallowed down the rising heat in his throat. The anger was prickling under his fur now, slow and sharp, crawling up his spine. He looked at Hickory again-really looked this time.

How long did he lie for? How long did Hickory lie to his brother, who was out there with only his daughter? Was it weeks? Months? Years?

The room stayed heavy, the air thick like it was holding its breath.

Eventually, Hickory let out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging as he ran a hand through his hair, dragging it down his face like he was trying to scrub the weight of the moment off with it.

"I messed up," he said plainly.

Styx scoffed, voice sharp and cold. "That's an understatement."

Hickory didn't bite back, but Branch saw it-the tight clench of his jaw, the flicker of frustration that crossed his face like he'd bitten down on a sour memory. Still, he let it pass.

"Badly," Hickory admitted, his voice low. "I messed up badly. I wasn't as honest as I should have been."

Branch's brow furrowed, eyes narrowing. So he did lie to JD. That explained more than Hickory probably realized. Maybe that was what finally drove JD to ask him to leave- maybe John and the kids hadn't been hurt. Maybe it was just the fact that Hickory had lied to him.

"Honest about what?" Floyd asked, the tension in his voice making the question land heavier than it should have.

Hickory sat still for a beat longer, jaw tight, as though he was trying to decide just how much of himself to lay bare. His whole body tight, like he was bracing for something bad to happen. Then, with another sigh-lower this time, heavier-he finally spoke again.

"About... a lot of things," he admitted, voice low, rough around the edges. "Mostly about what I did- What I do for a living."

Branch didn't move, but his eyes darkened, jaw locking tighter. There it is.

"I am a bounty hunter," Hickory said plainly. No softening. No euphemism. Just the truth, finally spoken aloud, "I've been one since I was sixteen. It was the only thing I knew how to do that paid enough to keep a roof over our heads. To keep food on the table. To give Johnny and the kids some kind of stability." He paused, the weight of the words settling like dust. "Or at least, that's what I told myself."

Across the table, Bruce leaned forward, his expression unreadable but tense as his tail started to flick back and forth behind him.

Floyd's fingers had stopped tapping his claws against his glass, now wrapped around it like he was anchoring himself. Clay stared at a spot on the table with narrow eyes, his face hard to read.

Branch stayed quiet, not because he didn't have anything to say, but because he was waiting. Waiting to see if Hickory would keep going... or fall back into the safe shadows of vague half-truths.

"I didn't tell Johnny," Hickory continued after a pause. "Not at first. Not when we first met, and... not even after we had Cash. I just kept thinking I'd find the right time, that I could fix things first. That I could clean it all up so he'd never have to see that part of me. But that time never came."

There was a long, loaded silence.

"And then what?" Bruce asked quietly, but pointedly. "What happened that made him finally find out?"

Hickory looked down at his hands. "Someone followed me home. From a job. I didn't even know they were tracking me until it was too late."

The tension in the room ratcheted higher.

Poppy's lips parted like she wanted to say something, but didn't. Not yet.

“I wasn’t there when they came,” Hickory said, voice low. “I was out. Johnny was home alone with the kids.” He paused, shoulders heavy with the memory. “I got back in time. I handled it. But it scared the hell out of him—and rightfully so. And once he realized I’d been keeping everything from him—the danger, the job, the lies…” His voice cracked on the last word. “He told me to leave.” A beat. “And I did.”

Branch’s chest tightened. His mind drifted back to the moment at the clinic when the doctor had quietly asked about JD’s left paw. The old burn scar. It was severe—fur long gone, the skin underneath shiny and thick like leather. It had bugged Branch to see it like the rest of his brothers, but they had not had the chance to ask if anyone knew about it. But now, after hearing Hickory's story, Branch wondered. Did it happen that day? Was that the cost of Hickory’s secrets?

His voice came out cold. Controlled. “So… he found out because you brought danger into his home. Because you put him and the kids at risk.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Hickory said quickly, softly, but earnestly. “But… yes.”

“You lied to him,” Floyd said, cutting in with a sharp edge, eyes narrowed in distrust.

“I thought I was protecting him,” Hickory snapped—too fast, too defensive. Then he caught himself. Shoulders sank. His voice dropped again. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

Clay’s jaw tightened. “And you just left?” he asked, teeth barely unclenched.

Hickory nodded, slow and full of regret. “He told me to go… so I did. I thought it was what he wanted. I didn’t think I had the right to stay.”

A heavy silence followed his words, thick with judgment, confusion, and something else—grief. Old grief that had never been spoken aloud. And now, it was finally out there, raw and messy, sitting in the center of the table like a wound no one could ignore anymore.

Branch watched as Clay cast a subtle glance toward Bruce and Floyd. The three of them exchanged a look, brief but unmistakable. Something silent passed between them. Something decided. Then, almost in unison, their eyes shifted back to Branch, each offering him a small, pointed nod.

Branch hesitated, puzzled, before slowly returning the gesture. He wasn’t sure what had just been agreed on, but the weight of it settled over his shoulders like fog. This conversation wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

“So why are you here now?” Clay asked, his voice flat, unreadable.

Hickory inhaled slowly, “Because I never stopped caring,” he said softly. “And after meeting Ms. Poppy… after everything that happened with Barb and her Rock World Tour…” He shook his head, the motion small but heavy. “It made me realize how much time I’d wasted convincing myself I couldn’t fix things. That I didn’t deserve to try.” He looked up, finally meeting their eyes. “So I came back. Not because I expect forgiveness… but because I had to try. Even if it’s too late.”

The room fell still again, the weight of it all settling like dust in the silence.

Then Floyd cleared his throat, his voice barely more than a murmur. “I…”

He hesitated, the words catching like they didn’t want to come out. But then he glanced at Hickory, something unreadable in his eyes, then back down at the table.

“Okay,” he said at last, quietly resigned. “We can figure out what to do with you…” He paused, looking back at Hickory again. “Later.”

His tone wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t forgiving either. Just… tired. Like everything else could wait. Because right now, there were more urgent things.

Floyd straightened in his seat and looked around. “Back to what we learned while Branch was gone. All I know about Wynona’s mom is that she was around. That she’s… involved. But not anymore.”

Delta nodded. “That’s Trish.”

“Why isn’t she around anymore?” Bruce asked, frowning slightly.

“Because when Barb stepped into power,” Delta explained, “a hairy situation got worse. So they decided to hold off on visiting until it was safe again.”

There was a pause. Then Floyd spoke again, quieter this time, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should.

“There’s another thing I figured out,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck before his hand dropped into his lap, limp with the weight of what he was about to say. “The second thing…”

He took a breath. Let it out. “I learned—or maybe just… pieced together—that during the last year. Right before the band broke up. Before we all went our separate ways…” He swallowed hard. “Johnny was… well… he was pregnant.”

Branch blinked, mind racing to catch up with something that, in hindsight, should have been obvious. Iris was nineteen. JD was thirty-seven. He was seventeen… His heart thudded once, deep and strange in his chest. JD had been seventeen when he had her. And none of them had known.

…Iris’s birthday had to be coming up soon…

Delta stared, eyes wide in disbelief. “You didn’t know?” she asked, incredulous. “Seriously? Y’all didn’t know he was pregnant? You lived together. You were in a band together.”

No one answered. None of them could. Just silence. Thick and suffocating.

The question hung in the air, and it wasn’t just about a pregnancy anymore. It was about everything they didn’t ask, everything they’d let go unsaid for years.

For a moment Styx looked like he was about to say something mean, but instead he only took a deep breath. He sat there a moment before he leaned forward slightly, his voice laced with disbelief. “Did you not read the letters he sent you?”

The entire room shifted. Heads turned. Letters?

Branch’s stomach twisted, a slow, sinking weight pulling at his chest. “He wrote to us?” he repeated, voice a little thinner this time—like if he said it again, it might somehow make more sense. But it didn’t. It only made the knot in his chest tighten.

“Yeah,” Styx said, this time with more hesitation, eyes flicking between them all. He glanced at Delta, brows furrowing slightly. “I never saw the letter myself, but that’s what he told me. Said he needed a few weeks to get things settled. Wanted to send a letter first—said it was important.”

Bruce shifted in his seat like something heavy had just landed in his lap, and he didn’t know where to set it down. “When was this?” he asked, his voice almost too low to hear.

Styx squinted, thinking. “Muses, Iris was eight months old?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “So… yeah. That’d be about nineteen years ago.”

Branch felt his pulse hammering behind his eyes. Nineteen years ago. Not only had JD come back to the tree, but he had tried to reach out to them. He had written—and none of them had known. He had tried to keep in touch. He had tried.

Delta's voice cut through the silence, soft but stunned. “Y’all seriously never got them?”

“No,” Branch said, barely above a whisper. “We didn’t get anything.”

His voice was strained, pulled tight like a fraying wire. He looked over at his brothers—Clay, Floyd, Bruce—and none of them could meet his gaze. They didn’t have to say it out loud. He could see it in their faces: the same stunned disbelief, the same slowly dawning guilt.

Clay's brows were furrowed, a storm brewing behind his eyes. Floyd looked like he might be sick. Bruce rubbed a hand over his mouth, then let it drop into his lap, his expression blank—too blank. They left the same night JD did. Everything had fallen apart. The band. Their family. They just… scattered like it meant nothing.

Branch's mind was spinning. Nineteen years ago. JD had tried. After everything, he still wanted to reach out. Still wanted them to be in his life and him in theirs. 

Did Grandma know?

The thought hit Branch like a punch to the chest. Grandma had been the only one left behind. She’d kept the house running. She’d taken care of what little remained. And she’d never once mentioned a letter. And maybe it didn't matter, there was only one thing that did matter right now,

"We need to find those letters."

— — — —

Poppy POV

The next morning, the kids decided they wanted to check out Arts and Crafts, Photography, and Gardening. Out of the three, Arts and Crafts seemed to generate the most excitement, particularly from Wynona, Ronen, and, to Poppy’s surprise, Cash. But even more surprising was just how vocal Wynona was about it.

“Come on, come on, come on!” Wynona practically vibrated with excitement, pulling at Cash’s arm and tugging at his wrist with all the strength her small frame could muster. Unfortunately for her, the fourteen-year-old remained firmly planted in place, watching her struggle with mild amusement.

“We’re gonna be late!” She huffed, still pulling with all her might.

"And how do you know?" Cash asked, not moving at all.

“We—” Wynona froze mid-struggle, opening her mouth as if to answer, only to realize she didn’t have a good response. Her brow furrowed, lips pressing together in thought before she finally settled on, “We just are!” as if that was explanation enough.

Ronen snorted from the side, clearly entertained by the whole ordeal. “You’re not gonna move him, Wynona. He’s like a tree.”

“A lazy tree,” Wynona shot back, crossing her arms with a scowl.

Cash chuckled, a teasing glint in his eye. Finally, he shifted his weight, but not forward like Poppy expected. No, instead, he leaned back toward Wynona, pressing just enough of his weight to make her panic.  

“No!” Wynona cried in panic, scrambling backward as Cash started to lean on her. “Iris!” she yelped, calling desperately for her oldest sibling like she had just been sentenced to an unfair fate.  

Poppy couldn't help but laugh at the drama of it all. Beside her, she heard a quiet chuckle. When she glanced to the side, she saw Bruce grinning as he nudged Clay’s side. Clay, for his part, tried to maintain his usual composed demeanor, but the way his lips twitched betrayed his amusement.  

It was moments like these that made Poppy’s heartache in a way she couldn’t quite describe. She had always wanted a sibling. Growing up, she had imagined what it would be like to have someone to confide in, to share memories with, to bicker and laugh and grow alongside.  

Most of her closest friends had that kind of bond. Satin had Chenille, and Chenille had Satin. With a connection so deep, they moved as one. Hickory had his older brother, Dickory, who, despite their clear differences, still seemed to share an unshakable bond. Barb had Riff, who, while not her biological sibling, was becoming something just as strong. Copper now had his brother D, who was now forming a connection after so many years of being apart. And Branch… well, Branch had his brothers again.  

Poppy found herself wondering—if she had a sibling, what kind of relationship would they have? Would they be inseparable, like Satin and Chenille? Would they be like Hickory and Dickory, caring for each other in their own unique ways? Or maybe something entirely different?

She quickly shook the thought away, refocusing on the scene in front of her. Wynona had finally managed to escape Cash’s teasing and was now tugging at Iris’s sleeve, clearly hoping for backup. But Iris merely raised a brow, her expression unreadable, as if silently questioning why she was being dragged into this.

Before the teasing could escalate further, Delta clapped her hands together. “Okay, okay,” she called out, watching the group with mild amusement. “Enough roughhousing. We’ve got time, but if y’all keep playing around, we are going to miss the class entirely.”

That wasn’t entirely true. The interest classes were designed to be immersive, spanning a few hours and covering a wide range of activities. In this class alone, they would be exploring scrapbooking, different drawing techniques and mediums, jewelry making, sculpting, beadwork, and more. The whole purpose of these sessions was to expose trolls to as many aspects of an interest as possible so they could discover what truly excited them. Once they found their niche, they could move on to more specialized classes.

“Well, we’ll miss part of it,” Branch corrected, holding up his color-coded schedule with the seriousness of someone presenting an official document.

Poppy chuckled, shaking her head in fond exasperation. “Of course, you made a schedule.”  

Branch shot her a small, knowing smile. “Some of us like to be prepared.” He handed her a neatly printed copy, then passed one to everyone else. Clay let out an impressed “Oooh,” flipping his between his fingers like it was a prized treasure.  

Delta rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, simply jerking her head toward the entrance. “Alright, let’s get moving before Branch has a meltdown about being off schedule.”  

And with that, the group set off.  

Poppy and Branch took the lead, followed closely by Branch’s brothers—Bruce, Clay, and Floyd. Behind them, Delta, Iris, and the kids fell into step, the older trolls naturally keeping a watchful eye on the younger ones. The brothers had decided this would be a good chance to bond with their nieces and nephews, especially with Styx staying behind at the hospital with JD.  

As they walked, Poppy couldn’t help but smile as the kids’ excitement grew. Wynona had latched onto Ronen’s arm, still grumbling about Cash’s teasing, while Bruce and Clay chatted amongst themselves but kept gesturing toward the niblings, clearly trying to involve them in the conversation. Jo stuck close to Delta, her small grey hand occasionally reaching out to clutch the older troll’s sleeve like she needed a little extra reassurance.  

And then there was Iris, hovering near the back, keeping to herself but not quite separating from the group either. That was until Floyd drifted beside her, schedule in hand, striking up a conversation about the activities she was interested in.  

That just left Poppy and Branch walking side by side.  

She knew he was nervous—he’d said so himself yesterday during lunch while they were talking. But ever since the dinner conversation, things had clearly gotten worse. It wasn’t the stuff about the kids’ other parents or JD’s old letters that was bothering him the most, though. What really had him on edge was the thought of how the other trolls would react to his nieces and nephews—and more specifically, to their gray coloring. 

And honestly? He had every right to be worried.

The village had made progress—there was more open conversation now about greying and mental health—but that didn’t erase years of misunderstanding and neglect. Poppy had seen for herself how badly the village had failed Branch when he was younger. And worse, she knew she’d been part of that failure. Maybe she hadn’t meant to be, and she hoped it was never intentional… but that didn’t change the truth. She’d laughed along when Creek made cruel jokes. She never asked why Branch kept to himself. She didn’t realize—didn’t see—how deeply her own words had hurt him.  

She swallowed hard, glancing at him.  

He was focused on his schedule, his sharp blue eyes scanning the page. She noticed the way he had color-coded everything, matching each nibling to the activities they had shown the most interest in when the family had talked about it. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the paper, a subtle tell of his nerves. He wanted this day to go well. 

Without thinking, Poppy reached out and took his paw in hers, gently running her thumb over his knuckles in slow, reassuring circles.  

Branch stiffened slightly at the unexpected touch before exhaling and squeezing her paw in return.  

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.  

Today was going to be great.

Notes:

Sorry for disappearing for a month without warning. Got done with school for this semester, had to deal with health/mental health things that could not be sidelined anymore, and then had to move apartments

I want to say thank you to everyone who has read, kudos, commented, bookmarked, and subscribed it really does mean a lot to me.

Chapter 19: Chapter 19: Branch & Wynona POV

Branch POV

Today… yeah, today could’ve gone better.

Looking back, Branch could see that it had actually started off well, hopeful even. But somewhere along the way, things unraveled into a kind of chaos that only a room full of kids, paint, and a few easily distracted adults could truly create.

It was messy from the start. Naturally. It was an arts and crafts class, after all. Paint splattered across tables and floors, chalk dust hung in the air, and glitter—somehow—had made its way into places glitter should never be and would never leave. Half of them were elbow-deep in color by the first fifteen minutes, and it quickly became apparent that whatever anyone wore today was going to be stained for the next few days at least. But honestly? That was expected. Even fun to an extent.

What Branch didn’t expect was for Iris to be the one to run into the first issue of the day. The problem came from one of the junior instructors.

It started when the embroidery on the back of Iris’s jacket caught the instructor’s attention while they were setting up the embroidery section of the class. Her name was Paula, or maybe Petunia; Branch couldn’t remember, but she seemed friendly. The moment she spotted the detailed stitching, she zeroed in on it.

“This is very impressive,” the junior instructor said, leaning in with respectful distance to get a better look. “These stitches take years to master. If you don’t mind me asking… who taught you?” She asked taking a step forward with the standard Pop troll enthusiastic smile.

Iris shifted, her fingers brushing the hem of her sleeve, a small nervous tick that Branch had started to pick up on. “My dad,” she said simply, her tone clipped but not rude but just cautious. She stepped slightly back, instinctively creating space between herself and the junior instructor.

Branch hummed beside her, eyebrows lifting in surprise. JD could embroider? That was news to him. He’d never pictured his brother as the sewing type.

“And who taught him?” the junior instructor asked genuinely.

“He said his grandma,” Iris replied, trying to return the smile. “So… my great-grandma, I guess. She taught him the basics, and he took it from there. Later, when we were on the road, he taught me.” Her voice softened, and her eyes lingered on the embroidery, like her mind had drifted to a memory.

Her answer made Branch pause.

Of course it was Grandma. She had always loved crafts. Knitting, sewing, embroidery—she was good at all of it. But what she loved most was crocheting. Muses, nearly everything in the pod back at the Troll Tree had been covered in yarn at one point.

He glanced down at Iris’s jacket really looked at it for the first time since they’d met. She wore it like a second skin, day in and day out. When she’d first arrived, it had been torn, stained, even slashed in a few places. But now, those same spots had been carefully cleaned, patched, and reinforced with precise, loving stitches.

There was a lot of care in that jacket. The same kind of care Grandma used to put into everything she made.

“Interesting,” the junior instructor said as she stepped closer again, then reached out and began running her paw over the stitching. Without asking.

Oh no.

Iris, it’s not going to be like that, Branch thought quickly, watching her tense. 

Touching was normal for Pop trolls; casual, physical, tactile interactions were just how they communicated. But outside the Pop territories, that wasn’t always the case. In fact, it had caused issues before.

Riff had once told him how furious Barb had been when Poppy wrote to her saying they were “best friends” without ever meeting. According to Riff, Barb was upset because real friendship takes time, years of shared experience, and mutual respect. You don’t just declare someone your best friend out of the blue. 

They were close now, sure, but it hadn’t started that way.

Sure enough, Iris’s fur bristled, her body shifting uneasily.

Branch moved to stand beside her, ready to step in. But before he could—

“You know, it’s very rude to touch someone without asking,” Iris snapped, her voice icy and sharp.

The junior instructor quickly yanked her paw back, as if she were the one who’d been wronged. Offended, even. Her expression tightened with the clear expectation of an apology.

But Iris didn’t flinch. She wasn’t budging. If anyone owed an apology, it wasn’t her. A tense beat passed, a standoff that hung heavy in the air. And the junior instructor was not going to win.

Then, just as the moment threatened to boil over, her expression shifted. Confusion flickered across her face. “You look familiar…” she murmured.

“Excuse me?” Iris asked, her tone suddenly sharper, more suspicious, like she was being accused of something.

“I know you from somewhere,” the instructor insisted, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to place a face in a half-remembered dream. “Yeah, I know you from somewhere,” she repeated, stepping forward and into Iris’s personal space.

Iris didn’t move. She paused, looked the instructor up and down with a slow, measured glance, then met her eyes with a stare as cold as steel.

“I highly doubt that,” she said flatly.

“Umm, is everything okay over here?” a new troll asked, approaching with a clipboard in hand, clearly the lead instructor.

“That depends,” Iris said coolly, completely ignoring the junior instructor. “Is it considered okay around here to touch someone else’s things without asking?”

“Excuse me?” the lead instructor blinked, caught off guard.

“Your junior instructor touched my niece’s jacket without permission,” Branch cut in, stepping forward.

Iris glanced at him, eyes widening slightly, not just surprised he was there....was it because he was defending her? 

The lead instructor let out a sigh, already sounding tired. “Paula, we’ve been over this. Trolls from other territories don’t always appreciate being touched.”

“But she’s not from another territory-she’s a Pop troll.”

“No. Don’t argue,” the instructor said sharply, cutting Paula off with a look. “Just go finish setting up. I’ll handle the rest.”

Paula huffed but turned away. As she did, Iris’s voice cut through the air, clear, cold, and sharp as glass:

“By the way, I’m not a Pop troll. And even if I were, it’s still rude to touch things that aren’t yours.”

Branch glanced at her. Her fur was bristled, her expression locked in a quiet glare that made it clear she wasn’t backing down. 

Okay, he thought. So she doesn’t see herself as a Pop troll. Good to know.

It tracked, she hadn’t been raised in the Pop village, after all. Cooper might’ve been a Funk troll raised as Pop and embraced that identity, but Iris… she wasn’t that. She clearly didn’t want to be.

The lead instructor cleared her throat awkwardly. “Well… It’s lovely work,” she said, trying to smooth things over. “You should be proud of what you’ve created.”

For just a moment, a flicker of something softened Iris’s face, pride, maybe. A quiet, rare smile pulled at her lips as she murmured, “Thanks,” and turned to go find her seat.

Branch let out a slow breath. Okay, he thought. That could’ve gone worse. It’s cleared up now. Things can only get better… right?

He really wanted today to go well. The kids needed a good day, just one day where they didn’t have to sit with the weight of everything going wrong. No fighting, no guilt, no lingering thoughts about those letters…

Those letters.

They were probably still sitting near the door. Or tucked away in Grandma’s room. Letters that were addressed to them. Letters that, if Styx’s reaction to them was any indication, might hold answers to every question they were too scared to ask.

But he couldn't think about them right now. He needed to focus on today.

After the introductions and the basic instructions were finished and the class had transitioned into self-paced embroidery practice, Bruce and Clay discovered, rather painfully, that embroidery required far more finesse than they were used to. Apparently, Grandma’s legendary sewing lessons hadn’t been as important to them as it was to JD. Between the two of them, they had managed to prick their paws enough times that the instructor finally handed over the bandages with a tired sigh.

“You two really are bad at sewing,” Floyd said as he inspected Bruce’s reddened fingers.

“This isn’t sewing. It’s embroidery,” Clay corrected flatly.

Branch, seated nearby, rolled his eyes. The clarification didn’t help their case.

“It doesn’t matter what it is,” Floyd said, turning to give both of them a pointed look. “Grandma taught all of us how to properly handle needles. You shouldn’t have more holes in your paws than in the fabric.”

As if summoned by the argument, the instructor, still as kind as she could be but clearly over it, appeared beside them just as Branch finished wrapping the last bit of gauze around Clay’s palm.

“Alright,” she said with forced cheer, “as a safety measure, I’m going to move the two of you down to the practice needles.”

She held up two oversized, plastic, and completely harmless needles, the ones they gave out to anyone under ten. The kind Jolene and Wynona were using.

From across the table, Branch caught the muffled snort Floyd tried, and failed, to hide.

“Oh, it’s okay,” Bruce started, trying to salvage their pride. “We’re just a bit out of practice and—”

“No, no, I must insist,” the instructor cut in, voice still polite but firm. “For your safety,” she added as she gently pressed the fake needles into their hands with a look that said she had already mentally filed an incident report.

With muttered “thank yous,” both brothers returned to their seats, grumbling under their breath like kids in detention. The table quieted again as everyone returned to their projects, trying to refocus.

Then a small voice broke the silence.

“Do you need help?”

Branch looked up. The voice was barely above a whisper, but the concern was real and unfeigned. Wynona, seated across from Clay, was watching him carefully as he struggled to thread the oversized plastic needle.

From Branch’s angle, he could see both Iris and Floyd watching too, each trying and failing to suppress amused smiles.

“I’m good,” Clay replied, a little too fast, a little too flat.

“You sure?” Wynona asked again, leaning in slightly. “I’m good at threading needles. I do it for Dad all the time when his paws shake.”

Clay’s ear twitched. “Yes,” he said, pausing to exhale through his nose. “I’m sure.”

Wynona nodded once. “Okay,” she murmured, returning to her work with quiet grace.

Another lull. Then—

“You’re doing it wrong.” The voice was familiar, mischievous, and absolutely not helpful.

Ronen.

He had somehow appeared behind Clay, peeking over his shoulder with an impish grin, eyes full of trouble.

Clay stood up so fast that his chair gave an angry squeak, legs scraping against the floor. “I’m going to the restroom,” he announced, voice flat and clipped, his tail stiff and swishing behind him as he walked—no, marched—out of the room without another word.

Branch sighed through his nose. One day. One day without someone storming off, shutting down, or getting into it with a sibling—that’s all I ask. But apparently, that was too much.

There was a beat of awkward silence before the inevitable happened.

A quiet, poorly stifled snort came from Floyd’s direction. Of course.

Then Iris caught Ronen’s eye across the table and gave him the kind of smirk that could only mean: your joke might’ve gone too far, but it was still funny. Ronen didn’t return it, exactly, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to.

Fantastic, Branch thought, this is going great.

Bruce, still holding his blunt practice needle with all the confidence of someone who had just been demoted to preschool tools, glanced toward the door. “You think he’s coming back?”

Floyd, unfazed, casually finished threading his needle on the first try, “Depends,” he said, not looking up, “how bruised is his pride?”

From the look on Bruce’s face, they might be waiting a while.

After a while, Clay did return once he had calmed down enough, his pride slightly bruised but mostly intact. Once he was back, they moved on to the drawing section of the class. The instructor set out different mediums and allowed them to try out anything that caught their eye. It was during this more relaxed period that Branch started to notice something he hadn’t before: Cash.

He’d shown a bit of interest in the beginning, enough to at least try to participate, but that spark faded quickly. Now he was just going through the motions: sketched a few lines there with some colored pencils, half-heartedly attempted shading with chalk, dabbed some paint on a canvas. But it all felt distant.

Maybe something more structured would suit him better—photography, maybe. Gardening. Something with more structure and guidelines might be more his speed. 

Then there was Jolene…

Like Cash, she joined in this section without fuss or fanfare. But her attention was different. While the other kids explored the prompts they could draw, Jolene sat turned away from all of it. She ignored the prompts entirely. Instead, she focused on a single sheet of paper, slowly layering dark pencil strokes over each other.

At first glance, it looked like a vague, shadowy mass. Nothing defined. But the longer Branch stared, the more his unease grew. It wasn’t random. There was a precision to it. Something specific. Something almost… familiar.

“What is it?” Poppy asked, tilting her head as she leaned in for a closer look.

Branch mirrored her, hoping a change in angle would help him make sense of it. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

It still looked like a rough, shadowy mass, nothing clearly defined, but something about it tugged at the back of Branch’s mind. Like his head was trying to tell him where he had seen this before. The four smudges near the front weren’t just random shapes. They were starting to curve, almost like they were reaching to grab something. The central shape was thick and solid, grounded somehow. And behind it, long lines stretched upward in all directions, like roots or twisted branches.

The whole thing was drawn from a strange angle, it felt like they were looking up at… something. Something large. Something looming.

Branch frowned, unease coiling tighter in his gut. He still couldn’t make sense of what he was looking at, but whatever it was, it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel safe.

And he wasn’t the only one who felt it. The air around them shifted, subtle but unmistakable, as more eyes landed on Jolene’s drawing. His brothers all exchanged a look of confusion before turning to him with questioning stares. When Iris saw the drawing, she glanced from the drawing to Jolene, then to Delta. Her face was unreadable, but behind her eyes was something small, quiet, and heavy.

Guilt, maybe? But why would she feel guilty?

The other trolls nearby were beginning to inch away, their gazes flickering back to the sketch with growing discomfort. A few leaned toward one another and whispered. Others just stared, unnerved.

And Jolene? She remained completely still, except for her hands. Her fingers worked steadily, dragging pencil across paper, darkening the shadows, shaping the figure with eerie precision. She didn’t seem to notice the growing tension around her, or maybe she did, and just didn’t care. She stayed locked in, deepening the contours of something only she could see.

The only ones who were completely oblivious to the tension growing among the adults were Wynona and Ronen, who were having the time of their lives.

From the start, Wynona was drawn to every word the instructor said. When the instructor asked the group a question, she was one of the first to raise her paw to answer. If they needed help switching out activities, she was one of the first to help. When the instructor asked to see what she was drawing, Wynona proudly held it up for her to see.

When the scrapbooking section of the class began, she was like a moth to a perfectly organized flame. Branch had seen and heard her interest back when Poppy gave them their scrapbook pop-up welcome cards on the first day. Now, with Poppy’s help, she threw herself into the activity. She took her time selecting color schemes, arranging decorations with precision, and spending nearly five full minutes agonizing over two sticker sheets that looked practically identical. She seemed to be well in her element.

But as the usual crafting chaos crept in. The paper's edges curling, glue sticks rolling off tables, and glitter somehow managing to land on every surface in a five-foot radius. This led to her enthusiasm starting to falter.

Branch noticed it first. The way her paws began to fidget, the twitch in her tail, the way she started picking at her teeth with the edge of one claw—subtle signs, but ones he’d come to recognize.

However, it was Clay who spoke first, his voice calm and quiet but unmistakably grounded. “Something wrong?” he asked softly.

Wynona didn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicked toward him before shifting back to the mess in front of her. She glanced at the scattered colored paper, glue smears, and colored pencils rolling between bits of glitter. She hesitated, clearly debating whether or not to admit her discomfort.

"Umm," she hummed, eyes darting over the scattered colored paper, glue smears, and colored pencils rolling between bits of glitter. Her ears flattened slightly. "...Ye—."

Before she could finish, a fresh stack of colored paper sailed through the air and landed squarely on top of her cluttered workplace, scattering everything in its path.

“Here!” Ronen chirped, grinning as he flopped the paper across the table like it was a gift, not an accidental avalanche. There was no meanness in it—just pure, well-meaning enthusiasm from a ten-year-old who didn’t yet grasp the concept of too much.

The stack hit her workspace and exploded outward like a rainbow bomb. Some pages tumbled to the floor. Wynona froze, her eyes wide as she stared at the new layer of chaos that had just blanketed her carefully curated order. 

Branch let out a quiet breath through his nose. While Clay visibly winced.

“Ronen?” Branch asked, keeping his tone even.  

“Yeah?” Ronen replied, holding up his own painting with wet streaks of color still dripping down the page.  

Branch’s eyes tracked the drips as they slid from the bottom of the paper to Ronen’s fingers, down his arms, and finally splattered onto his already paint-stained shirt.

“Do you need some help getting things cleaned up?” Branch asked.

Ronen looked down at himself, considered the mess for a moment, then grinned sheepishly. “Maybe…” he stretched the word out before shrugging. “I mean, it’s just paint.” 

“If you need help getting cleaned up, I can help,” Poppy offered, eyeing the colorful chaos Ronen had left in his wake.

Branch watched as Poppy led Ronen toward the sink, then turned his attention back to the quiet scene unfolding between Clay and Wynona.

“Wynona?” he said gently. He didn’t push. Just said her name, softly, intentionally.

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the cluttered table in front of her. Fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against each other, like she was trying to anchor herself. 

Clay shifted slightly, his voice calm and steady, “Do you want help getting everything sorted out?”

Wynona’s fingers paused. Her ears gave a small flick. The fidgeting stopped.

A long silence followed.

Then, in a voice so soft it nearly got lost in the noise of the room, she whispered, “I don’t know where to start.” Her words trembled as her tail wrapped around her legs. “Dad usually helps… but… umm, but—”

Oh. Branch felt it settle in his chest like a stone. 

“Okay, okay,” Clay said gently, nodding with the kind of understanding that didn’t need to be explained. He was trying to keep his tone warm and reassuring and not pushy. However, there was the smallest hint of uncertainty like he was waiting for her to refuse him. “I can help… Would you like me to?” he offered, giving her the space to say yes or no.

Wynona hesitated again, then asked softly, “Do you know where to start?”

A faint smile curved across Clay’s face. “I do,” he said confidently. “I’ve had a lot of practice getting things organized.”

“You do?” Wynona looked up at him, head tilted in quiet curiosity.

“Oh yeah,” Clay said, casually gathering a few sheets of scattered paper. “If I can keep a group of teenage trolls in order, I think I can handle a crafting table.”

Branch’s ears perked up at that. That’s right, Clay had mentioned once that he co-led a group of trolls. But he hadn’t brought it up since. Almost two weeks had passed. There have been no messages, no visits, no letters, at least none that they have told him about. Wasn’t anyone looking for him? Branch frowned slightly. If Clay was really a co-leader, why hadn’t anyone come to check on him? Why hadn’t he tried to check in? Branch made a mental note, he needed to talk to Clay about it.

Back at the table, a flicker of amusement lit Wynona’s eyes. She gave a small nod.

And just like that, they got to work, Clay gently stacking the papers while Wynona began sorting them by color, slowly bringing order back to the chaos one careful piece at a time.

It was peaceful until Branch noticed Poppy making small talk with Iris...without Ronen. Branch turned to look around the room for his youngest nephew until his eyes landed on Ronen.

Ronen had found the good glue. And the really nice dyes.

Branch didn’t know if it was a natural impulse or if he just wanted to get a rise out of his siblings, but the moment he got his hands on both, he immediately started trying to touch everything and everyone within reach.

What followed could only be described as absolute chaos.

Wynona shrieked with laughter, scrambling to shield her newly organized materials and the beginnings of her newly assembled scrapbook. Iris and Cash dodged out of the way with ease, clearly impressed, but not interested in becoming the next victim. Clay and Floyd attempted to intercept but only succeeded in earning a pair of sticky, paint-covered handprints on their arms and clothes. Jolene barely avoided being tagged before Poppy swept her off the floor with a laugh, earning herself a large red-orange stain down the side of her dress in the process.

Eventually, Delta and Bruce had to step in, wrestling the glue and dyes out of Ronen’s hands before things escalated any further.

Near the end of the rampage, Branch caught a flash out of the corner of his eye. He turned and saw Iris looking down at her camera with a smile.

In the middle of all this chaos… she took a picture.

By the end of class, everyone was marked in one way or another, streaks of color in fur, bandaged paws, glue and dye-flecked clothes. And through it all, Ronen was still grinning like he had won a grand prize.

And that was how their arts and crafts day ended.

It started with the junior instructor managing to put Iris on edge within the first few minutes. Two trolls ended up with bandaged paws thanks to some needles. Clay stormed out halfway through in a mood. Cash spent the entire class looking like he was mentally counting down the minutes until he could leave. Jolene’s drawing was so unsettling that it put almost the whole group on edge. Then it ended with Ronen going full chaos gremlin with the glue and dyes, coating half the room in an unholy mix of stickiness and color. And in the middle of the chaos, Iris calmly took a picture, as if to immortalize this failure for anyone who wanted to see.

Branch could already feel the migraine coming on like a tidal wave.

So yeah… today was an absolute trainwreck.

Maybe tomorrow won’t catch fire.

— — — —

Wynona POV

Today was sooo much fun! A whole day dedicated to arts and crafts? It was basically the best day ever! Wynona had never seen so many different kinds of art supplies all in one place. There were paints in every shade she could imagine—some even sparkled!—and so many tools and textures and little things she didn’t even have names for yet. It was like walking into a dream.

Back home, when Dad managed to find art supplies, it was usually just the basics. If she wanted paint, she had to be really careful with it, because they never knew when they’d get more. Mama had been able to find her darker paints—the deep reds, the shadowy purples, even black—but they hadn’t had those in a long time. Not since… well, not since the last time they went to see her.

But today? Today, the world opened up in color. And Wynona soaked up every second of it.

Some of it became a lot—too messy, too loud, too unorganized. It was something that Dad would help her with, but Uncle Clay had helped, and slowly, it started to feel okay again. He didn’t rush her or take over. He just helped sort the chaos into something she could manage. That made it easier to breathe.

And then, of course, Ronen happened.

It started as Ronen “testing” the glue and dye, but his version of testing quickly spiraled into a full game of mud tag. Only, instead of mud, it was streaks of brightly colored dye and glitter glue flying through the air. The instructor had said they were free to use the supplies however they wanted… and okay, maybe this wasn’t what they meant, exactly.......But they hadn’t said not to either.

Besides, it reminded Wynona of home.

Back in Lonesome Flats, when the rainy season hit, the ground would turn to puddles and thick, squelchy mud. She and her siblings would run wild through it—laughing, falling, wrestling—until they were soaked and coated from head to toe. Aunt Delta would scold them half-heartedly while Dad just shook his head and started the fire to warm them up. It had been messy and loud and theirs.

So as she dove to protect her scrapbook—barely missing a flying splatter of neon orange—Wynona couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of her. It was chaos, yes. But it was the most normal things had felt in… well, a long time.

Not since they’d been taken and stuffed in those bottles.

Not since Dad wouldn’t wake up.

Not since meeting her uncles, and not knowing what was going to happen.

No. No, she wasn’t going to think about all that right now.

Right now, she wanted to think about the little box of art supplies Ms. Poppy had let her take home. She wanted to think about how she could show them to Uncle Styx later. How she’d will show it to show Dad when he woke up.

Because he would wake up.

And when he did, she’d have something beautiful to show him.

Wynona already knew what she was going to draw: all of them. Her whole family—her siblings, Dad’s siblings, Aunt Delta, Uncle Styx... and... Mr. Hickory...?

She frowned slightly, causing her to pause mid-set up. Was she supposed to include him? Leaving him out felt rude, and she didn’t want to be mean. She didn’t dislike him. She had only just met him, but everyone else seemed off around him.

Cash and Iris always seemed to stiffen when Hickory was around, their eyes guarded in a way she didn’t see with anyone else. Uncle Styx and Uncle Branch didn't say much, but the glares they gave were very clear.

It had only gotten worse since that night they picked their activities. Uncle Floyd went from semi-friendly to frosty. Uncle Clay got distant. Uncle Bruce flat-out ignored him. And Aunt Delta had kept her ice-cold demeanor whenever Mr. Hickory was nearby.

And when she finally worked up the courage to ask Ronen about it. He just frowned and shrugged, before he reminded her of the Yodel trolls they’d run into a few years ago—the ones Dad had yelled at. She remembered that. She remembered the way Dad’s voice, which never yelled, had filled the entire clearing. She remembered how they had left right after that. That had been the first and only time she’d heard him yell, and it scarred her.

…Mr. Hickory didn’t look mean. And Mrs. Poppy liked him. And he knew Dad, knew him well enough for Mr. Hickory to have a nickname for him. But… if everyone else was being careful around him, then maybe there was a reason.

Maybe she’d draw him in the corner. Small. Smiling, maybe. But not too close. Not yet. Or maybe she could draw him on another page. Just in case.

Okay—everything was planned out. Wynona just needed one last thing. Where was her pencil sharpener?

She glanced under her paper, shuffled through her supplies—nothing. She knew she’d packed it. She had a bad habit of losing them, but her mama got it for her, and there was no way she would’ve left it behind.

She looked around her workspace, digging through her things, lifting papers, moving crayons, but there was nothing. It made her ear twitch with frustration.

Not under the paper stack.

Not in the side pouch.

Not in the zip-up pocket.

Where was it?

Her tail gave a small, irritated flick. She knew she brought it. Maybe one of her siblings had borrowed it?

She turned to Jo, who was sitting nearby with her nose buried in the same book Dad had given her before they left for the Neverglades. Since arriving at Branch’s bunker, the two of them had been sharing a room. Wynona only shared a room with Jo when they traveled. Doing it now, honestly made it kinda fun. It felt kind of like a slumber party.

“Hey, Jo?” Wynona asked softly.

Jo looked up.

“Did you borrow my sharpener?”

Jo shook her head. No words—just a quiet shake.

She hadn’t really spoken since the bottles. Since the Neverglades. They’d all tried to coax her out again, but unless it was a yes or no, or she had paper, Jo stayed silent. Wynona was pretty sure her uncles didn't know Jo could talk.

She had also fully grayed out. Eyes, hair, her bi-colored fur, all of it grayed out. She was gray to the point where you couldn’t see the markings she had anymore.

Dad and Uncle Styx had explained that color-shifting could happen when emotions got really strong. It could fade in and fade out, but eventually, it would even out to your natural color if you talk about those strong emotions. Jo was still gray, and seeing her sister like that still made Wynona’s chest ache.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Do you know if someone else borrowed it?”

Jo shook her head again.

“Do you remember where you last saw it?”

Jo furrowed her brow, thinking… then gave a slow nod.

Wynona leaned in, hope flickering in her chest. “Can you show me?”

Jo quietly closed her book, set it aside, and stood. Her hoof steps were soft, almost soundless, as she padded from the room. Wynona followed close behind, careful not to step on the back of her foot.

They moved down the hall, past a few doors where they could hear Iris playing music and Cash and Ronen talking, until they reached the entrance to the kitchen. Inside, Uncle Bruce was sliding a sheet pan into the oven, humming something under his breath, completely unaware of their presence.

Jo simply lifted her paw and pointed across the room toward the kitchen counter.

Wynona followed her gaze—and there it was. Her cactus-shaped sharpener, sitting right next to the fruit bowl, looked like it had been there the whole time.

She let out a small, relieved gasp. “There you are!” she whispered, darting forward. “Thank you, Jo—” But when she turned to her sister…

She was gone. No sound. No warning. Just gone—like she hadn’t been there.

Behind her, Uncle Bruce startled slightly at the sudden sound of her voice. He turned, blinking as he shut the oven with a quiet thunk. “Oh—hi, Wynona,” he said, wiping his paws. “Everything okay? You need something?”

Wynona hesitated, then held up her prize like it was a rare treasure. “Oh, uh… I was just looking for this,” she said, offering a small, sheepish smile. “My pencil sharpener.”

Bruce leaned down slightly, squinting at the little object in her paw. “Huh. A cactus?” His ears perked with interest. “Very cool.”

Wynona's smile grew as she looked down at it fondly. “Yeah. I kept losing the normal ones, so my mama got me this one instead.” She held it up between two fingers, giving it a little shake so the tiny top rattled gently. “It’s got a clip, see? I can hook it onto stuff so it doesn’t disappear on me again.”

She demonstrated by clipping it onto the front pocket of her hoodie with ease, the little cactus bouncing slightly with the movement.

Bruce gave a low whistle. “Wow. That’s actually pretty clever. Functional and stylish.” He straightened up again, grinning. “Your mama’s got good taste.”

“Yeah,” Wynona said softly, fingers brushing the sharpener once more. Her voice dipped into something quieter, more thoughtful. “She always found ways to make stuff easier to keep track of.”

Bruce shifted and moved to sit at the kitchen table. He glanced over at Wynona as she followed suit. “She lives in Rock territory, right?”

Wynona nodded. “Yeah. Near a place called Volcano City.”

“Volcano City?” he echoed slowly, lifting an eyebrow with a half-smile. “That sounds… intense.”

“It kind of is,” Wynona said, her gaze drifting to the table. Sitting near her elbow was a small practice embroidery kit—partially finished, the needle dangling free from the last stitch. “Why do you have this out?”

“Oh,” Bruce said, following her line of sight. He gave a sheepish grin. “Well, I’m a bit out of practice, and I figured this was a good chance to brush up.”

Wynona’s ears perked, and a small, surprised smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You do embroidery?”

“Used to,” he said, nodding. He held up his paws to show the little bandages from earlier that day, the corners lifting in a wry smile. “Been a while, but I’ve got a few stitches left in me.”

“Who taught you?” she asked, tail flicking back and front with curiosity.

“Grandma,” Bruce said with a fondness in his voice. “Same as your dad. She taught all of us, actually.”

Wynona looked down at the kit again. “You’re not very good,” she said absently—then her eyes widened actually realize she said that out loud. “Sorry! That was rude.”

Bruce let out a short, amused sigh. “Maybe,” he admitted, chuckling, “but you’re not wrong. I am stuck on trying to get that small thread through the eye of the needle.”

“I can help!” Wynona said quickly, reaching for the needle and thread with bright eyes. “I help Dad when his paws shake, too.”

Bruce blinked, surprised, as she carefully took the needle. “Just be careful—I don’t want you to prick—”

She held it out to him, the thread now neatly through the eye. “Here you go.”

“Oh, that was fast,” Bruce said, taking it gently from her paw. “You must have a lot of practice… Do your dad’s paws shake a lot?” he asked quietly.

Wynona nodded slightly, her voice softening. “A little bit. It’s mostly his left one—the one with the burn. It makes it hard to keep small things steady.”

Bruce looked down at the threaded needle, his smile fading. “That makes sense.” His voice was quiet. His shoulders dropped slightly, his eyes still on the needle. He looked sad now, and Wynona frowned. Why does he look so sad?

“You wanted to know more about Mama and where she’s from, right?” she said quickly, trying to brighten the mood—his and maybe hers too.

“Everything’s made of black stone, and there’s smoke rising from these vents in the ground. It smells like sulfur sometimes, but… you get used to it.” She gave a small laugh. “It’s also really warm. Lava flows through the cliffs, but there are bridges and tunnels, so it’s safe.”

Bruce’s eyes widened, “Wow… Lava, huh? That…uh, sure is something.”

“Yeah,” Wynona said, her tail giving a small flick. “Mama says it keeps you strong, living in a place like that.”

Bruce gave a low whistle. “Sounds like she’s one tough troll.”

Wynona nodded, “She is. She’s strong and loud and really, really smart. She used to be in a band, but she retired. Now she paints huge murals on the volcano walls—using ash and melted rock and stuff.” She said, matter-of-factly “She taught me how to make some of the paint, too.”

Bruce stayed quiet, listening with full attention.

“She always said art wasn’t just about making something pretty,” Wynona continued. “She said it was a way to speak when words didn’t work.”

Bruce nodded slowly, his expression soft.

She was about to say more—Ding!

The oven chimed.

She turned at the sound, then looked back at Bruce. “What are you cooking?”

“That?” Bruce followed her gaze. “That would be the garlic bread that will go along with the pasta,” he said as he stood and crossed to the oven.

Her ears perked. “Can we add cheese?”

He looked back at her, surprised. “Cheese?”

“It’s something Dad does,” she explained quickly, tail flicking with excitement. “He cooks it until it’s almost done, and then—”

“—he sprinkles parmesan on top and lets it finish cooking,” Bruce finished for her, a fond smile tugging at his mouth.

Wynona blinked. “Yeah… how do you know that?”

Bruce chuckled as he opened the fridge. “Well, your dad’s cooking techniques haven’t changed much. He used that same recipe when we were kids.”

“Really?”

“Yep. He used to cook for all of us that way. Now I make it the same for my kids, too. Alright, let me get the cheese—and then you can help me put some on.“ He said reaching into the refrigerator. 

“Okay!” Wynona chirped, hopping down from her chair, padding over to the oven and opening it, her tail flicking eagerly behind her. The smell of warm bread had her mouth watering. She loved garlic bread, especially with cheese. Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed the edge of the sheet pan with her paw, brushing the hot metal as if it were nothing.

“Whoa—HEY!” Bruce’s voice spiked with alarm. In a blur of movement, he was at her side, scooping her up by the waist and twisting her gently but firmly away from the oven. “Did you just touch that pan?!”

Wynona blinked up at him, ears twitching in confusion. “Yeah?” she said, unsure why he looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

Bruce’s eyes were wide, his whole body stiff. “Okay, okay—hang on,” he muttered, half to himself. “We’ve gotta cool the burn down before it sets in—fast—” Before she could say another word, he was already guiding her to the sink, flipping on the faucet and testing the water with shaking paws. “Not too cold,” he said under his breath. “Ice water makes it worse. Just cool. Steady. Gentle—”

“But it doesn’t hurt,” Wynona interrupted, holding her paw up for him to see.

“Yeah, right now it doesn’t,” Bruce said quickly, frantically looking around the kitchen for something, “but that’s adrenaline. It will. Trust me, kiddo—burns sneak up on you.”

Wynona gently pulled herself away and looked at him. “No, I mean… really. It doesn’t hurt.” She gave it a little flex. No flinching. No redness. Just… normal.

Bruce paused, frowning as he leaned in to examine it more closely. There were no signs of a burn at all. No pink. No swelling. Nothing.

“…What the—?” He looked from her paw to her face. “You really touched the pan?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged.

He leaned back slightly. "How?"

“Mama says I’m a little fire-resistant. It’s kind of a Rock troll thing, I guess?” She clarified.

Bruce blinked at her, still trying to catch up. “Fire… resistant?”

Wynona nodded. “Uh-hu. Dad thinks it's because Rock trolls lived near lava. Volcano City’s really hot, and it doesn't bug me and Mama like it does everyone else.”

Bruce slowly straightened up, rubbing his paw down his face with a breathless laugh. “Okay. Alright.” He let out a deep sigh and gave her a look that was half exasperated, half relieved. “Muses, you scared the absolute fur off of me, kid.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Wynona said quietly, her ears lowering just a little as guilt crept into her voice.

Bruce’s expression softened. “I know you didn’t,” he said gently, reaching out to ruffle her hair in a way that was more comforting than teasing. “Just maybe… give your old uncle a warning next time before grabbing something out of a hot oven.”

“Okay,” she mumbled, though her shoulders stayed slightly hunched.

Before either of them could talk, a low, deliberate hum came from the kitchen doorway.

“Hmm. Am I interrupting something?”

Both she and Bruce turned. Standing just inside the threshold was Mr. Hickory, a stack of papers clutched in one paw. His tone was polite, but something in his posture—rigid shoulders, slight tilt of the head—suggested he already knew the answer.

The moment Bruce laid eyes on him, something in his body language shifted. His shoulders squared, his jaw tensed, and the easy warmth he’d carried just moments before faded. His expression went from soft to cold.

“Can I help you?” Bruce asked, voice flat.

Mr. Hickory cleared his throat, clearly aware of the chill in the room. “Um. Branch got some letters,” he said, holding up the papers slightly, as if they might defend him. “They showed up at Mrs. Poppy’s pod. The envelopes were addressed to her and Branch… so she opened them.”

Bruce’s ear twitched, just slightly.

Mr. Hickory went on, words quicker now, like he was trying to fill the silence before it could turn into something sharper. “She told me to make sure Branch sees them—and to have him explain what’s going on.”

Bruce didn’t say anything. But the look on his face said plenty.

Mr. Hickory shifted awkwardly. “So… do you want me to go find Branch, or… do you want to go find him?”

There was a long pause. Bruce didn’t answer right away—he just looked at the other troll, ears motionless, jaw set. He didn’t seem angry, exactly. Just… very annoyed.

“I mean,” Mr. Hickory added with a strained chuckle, “I’m more than willing to search the entire bunker myself if that’s easier.”

Bruce finally stirred. “No, no,” he said quickly, raising a paw. “He wouldn’t like that.” Then he paused, eyes flicking down to Wynona. “Can you—?”

She tilted her head, ears perking up. “...I don’t know where he is,” she said with a shrug.

Bruce made a face, then sighed. “Okay,” he relented. “Stay here. And don’t touch the bread until I get back.”

Wynona gave a firm nod. “Okay. I’ll stay right here.” She even stomped her feet to emphasize her point.

“Good,” Bruce said, offering her a small smile. Then he turned to Hickory, his expression icing over. “You stay too. Don’t move. Just stay right there in the doorway.”

Mr. Hickory raised both paws in mock surrender and mimic her stomps. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Bruce gave him a flat look, then hummed suspiciously before turning and walking off to find Branch.

They stood in silence for a moment.

Neither of them spoke. Mr. Hickory rocked back and forth slightly on his hooves, the faint creak of leather straps filling the stillness.

Wynona stared. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him before—Iris had kept pushing her behind her. But now, standing still, she studied him carefully.

He was tall—just a little taller than Cash—with the same bright green eyes Jolene had. His upper body was covered in lime-colored fur, with reddish-orange hair and two horns sweeping back over his head. The same reddish-orange fur covered his hooved legs, patterned with subtle markings in warmer shades.

He wore black… overalls? Not quite. They stopped at his knees, more like the pants Cash sometimes wore, held up by sunflower-embroidered suspenders. A crisp white button-up shirt peeked out from underneath.

There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she couldn’t quite place it.

“So you’re Wynona, right?” he asked, glancing at her.

Wynona gave a small nod, her ears twitching as she studied him. Uncle Bruce said to stay put, but he hadn’t said anything about talking, “And you’re Hickory?”

“That’s right,” he confirmed, offering an awkward smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

This… felt weird.

She couldn’t explain why exactly. Maybe it was the silence. Or the way he kept glancing at her, but it was like he was trying to figure something out.

He seemed nervous. Not in the way adults got when they didn’t know how to talk to kids, but more like he was standing on the edge of something he didn’t know how to approach. Or something he didn't want to.

He cleared his throat. “It’s, uh… nice to meet you,” he added, his voice gentler now, a little softer around the edges.

"It's nice to meet you, too," she said politely.

They stood there again in awkward quiet, both unsure of what to say.

She tried to figure out why it felt like he was waiting for her. Like he was hoping she’d say something specific, though she didn’t know what that was. He seemed… sad, almost. Or maybe just tired.

“I like your suspenders,” she said after a pause, unsure why she offered the compliment—only that it felt like the silence needed something else in it.

His smile came back, real this time, if only a little, before he glanced down and ran a paw over the right strap. “Thanks. They were a gift,” he said softly, almost wistfully.

“Did you embroider them yourself?” she asked, hoping it would make things feel less weird.

Mr. Hickory let out a quiet chuckle. “Oh, no,” he said, meeting her gaze again. “The most I can do with a needle and thread is sew up a cut.”

“Oh,” she replied. “Then who embroidered them?”

“It was J—” He stopped himself, and for just a second, his whole face seemed to twist in something she didn’t have a name for. His eyes darted away, and when he spoke again, his voice had changed—quieter, more distant. “Someone I used to be really close to.”

“They must have meant a lot to you if you’re still wearing their gift.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, gaze dropping again. “They really did.”

Did. Trolls usually only used that word when someone had moved on. Wynona’s ears drooped slightly. What did Dad say you were supposed to say?

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said gently.

He blinked, visibly startled. “Huh?”

She rubbed the side of her arm. “I didn’t mean to bring up sad memories about your lost one.” She clarified.

“Oh, no,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “He’s not gone. We just haven’t talked in a while.”

Wynona gave a small, thoughtful nod as her body relaxed slightly. “Oh… Still, I’m sorry you haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“It’s okay.” He offered a soft smile, his fingers still absentmindedly brushing the sunflower embroidery. “You don’t always have to talk to someone to feel close to them.”

“I get that,” she said honestly. “My dad made me this hoodie.” She tugged at the hem and held it out so he could see her mismatched hoodie better, “And I can’t really talk to him the way I want to right now either, but… having this helps.”

Hickory looked at the hoodie a little too long. His smile didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered—softened, dimmed, maybe both. He nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter than before, “Yeah, it really does.”

He went to say something else, but before he could, the sound of quick footsteps cut him off. Uncle Branch rushed into the kitchen like his tail was on fire, scanning the room with sharp eyes, with Uncle Bruce following behind.

He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m here,” he said, voice flat—not unkind, but it was close. He looked directly at Wynona first. She just gave a small shrug and blinked up at him.

Then Branch’s gaze cut to Hickory. It wasn’t hostile. Just… cold. Watchful. “What do you need?” He asked crossing his arms.

Hickory blinked at the interruption but didn’t flinch at the tone. “Right. Uh—you got some letters Mrs. Poppy wanted you to explain to me… they’re from Tresillo and Wani.”

Branch nodded once, sharp and short, before glancing again at Wynona—so briefly she almost missed it. “Fine, let’s head outside.”

Hickory glanced at Wynona, then followed Branch without argument.

They didn’t say another word as they walked to the lift, but Wynona’s ears twitched and tilted back slightly.

“Are they gonna be okay?” she asked quietly.

Bruce let out a long breath next to her. “I think so,” he said. He stood in place for a moment longer, then turned back toward her with a small smile. “But we have a very important task to finish."

Wynona tilted her head and gave him a confused look.

He bent slightly, lowering his voice like he was letting her in on a grand secret. "Garlic Bread.”

She blinked—then giggled, her ears flicking back up. “Right! You said I could do the cheese!”

Bruce gestured grandly toward the counter like he was knighting her. “The parmesan awaits."

Whatever was in those letters… whatever was happening outside… could wait.

At least until after dinner.

Notes:

So here is chapter 19 with arts and crafts day with Branch and Wynona’s reactions while also including some small bonding moments and an official Hickory meeting for Wynona. Next will be photography day and some more POV switching.

I know what time of year it is, so to anyone who have or just finished finals good luck and I hope you get some rest in the coming days.

Chapter 20: Chapter 20: Clay & Ronen POV

Clay POV

After arts and crafts day came photography, and for those interested, a bit of videography. Clay had hoped it would be an easy, laid-back day. The past week had been overwhelming, and everyone could use a break.

Having John Dory nearby helped. Even though he was still unconscious, just knowing he was close and stable made things feel more grounded. Not just for Clay and his brothers, but for the kids, too. There was a noticeable shift—less tension, more breathing room.

Then there were Delta and Styx.

Clay hated to admit it, not even to himself, but they had helped. A lot. Somehow, they’d managed to ease the kids' nerves almost instantly, in a way that Clay and his brothers hadn’t fully been able to. These were the trolls John Dory treated and saw as family. Trolls, the kids clearly treated and saw as family too. Delta and Styx weren’t just guests—they were familiar, trusted.

Delta was fine. Very no-nonsense and by-the-book. Probably John Dory’s best friend, from the sound of it. That part didn’t make sense to Clay; she and John couldn't have been more different, almost polar opposites, but the connection was there, and Clay couldn’t deny it. 

Then there was Styx..... Clay did not like Styx.

He was loud, cocky, constantly sarcastic, and casually rude in a way that grated on Clay’s nerves. Clay couldn’t understand what John Dory saw in him—what any of the kids saw in him. Clay could at least understand John wanting to be friends with someone like Delta. But Styx? What was so special about him?

And yet… John had chosen him. Trusted him. From what little Clay had gathered, Styx had been around since Iris was less than a year old. He and John had stayed in touch all this time—not just casually, but consistently. Styx hadn’t drifted in and out. He’d stayed involved. In ways Clay and his brothers hadn’t been able to.

He had answers to questions Clay hadn’t even thought to ask. He knew the kids’ habits, their histories, and their stories.

And the worst part?

The kids were comfortable around him. Drawn to him. Every time they looked his way, it was with that easy, effortless trust.

Clay tried not to let it show, but it stung. Watching how naturally Styx and Delta stepped into the kids’ lives—how seamlessly they seemed to fit—while he was still trying to figure out where he belonged.

It wasn’t anger. Not at the kids. Not even at John Dory.

It just hurt, seeing that the trolls he was only just beginning to connect with might not have the room for him. And no matter how many times he told himself it shouldn’t matter… a part of him hated just how much it did.

Then they met Hickory.

A small, petty part of Clay, whether he wanted to admit it or not, had wanted to like the hooves troll just to spite Styx. It wasn’t the most mature reason, but it was honest. That instinct, however, vanished almost immediately.

Because the moment attention shifted to Hickory, Clay saw it—the change in Branch. A cold, visible shift. And Cash? His reaction wasn’t subtle in the slightest. His whole body went stiff, shoulders squaring as he stepped protectively between Hickory and his siblings. His glare could’ve cut through stone.

Iris followed his lead without hesitation, ready to back up her younger brother if it came to that. Branch, despite his own feelings, had tried to intervene—calm the situation before it boiled over—but it hadn’t really worked. The only thing that had kept the confrontation from escalating was the presence of Ronen, Wynona, and Jolene.

A part of Clay couldn’t help but wonder what might’ve happened if they hadn’t been there.

After that, it didn’t take long for the pieces to click into place. Hickory wasn’t just another familiar face. He was Cash and Jolene’s father. And now that Clay knew, he couldn’t unsee it.

The resemblance was undeniable. Cash and Jolene's ears—long and narrow with a slight roundness at the tips—weren’t like most Pop trolls’ wide, softly pointed ones. They were Hickory’s. 

Their tails were the same: short and sturdy, unlike Iris and Wynona’s long, tufted ones or Ronen’s lizard-like tail with its row of spines.

Then there were the hooves. The horns. The height. Even the pattern of their fur had echoes of Hickory’s markings. It was all there, clear as day.

And then Hickory started talking—about his past, about John Dory, about what he had been or is.

A bounty hunter.

Not the kind from old storybooks or wild tales. A real one. The kind of troll who hunted others for money, and who had once brought that danger straight to their doorstep. 

To John Dory’s home. A home where John had been alone. With two kids.

No wonder Cash looked ready to explode. No wonder Iris looked like she was ready to fight. Clay didn’t need the details to know what that meant. 

And once Hickory finished speaking, Clay couldn’t shake the chill that settled deep in his bones. It was the same cold he’d felt as a kid, hiding in crawlspaces too small for Bergens to reach—spaces John swore were safe because nothing could follow them inside.

But what if something could? What if something didn’t need to be big to be dangerous? What if it were like them? Where would you hide then?

Clay’s stomach twisted as the memory came back—John’s left paw, the scar the doctors had pointed out. When the doctors had mentioned it, Delta and Styx had brushed it off quickly and changed the subject.

But Clay had seen it. He’d seen all the scars.

Now that John was healing—really healing—the icy pale tone that had taken over his body was finally starting to fade. His natural coloring was coming back, slowly but surely, and with it came the truth: the marks left behind. There were more than Clay had expected.

Pop trolls didn’t scar easily. They bounced back too fast, too strong. Cuts and bruises disappeared like they were never there. But John had been out in the wild, far from help. Anything could’ve happened.

Most of them weren’t too bad—scrapes, cuts, things that didn’t worry Clay. And then there was the one on his cheek, a faded line that ran to his ear, a bit too close to his eye for comfort. It was old, almost gone, but that one looked like a close call.

But the burn on his paw? That was different.

The way the skin twisted and pulled, like it had melted and reset wrong. Like he’d grabbed something burning. Not by accident, but on purpose. Maybe he’d tried to stop something. Shield someone. Protect someone. 

Clay couldn’t shake the feeling that it hadn’t just happened during a random fight or fall. Not with the way everyone avoided talking about it.

Could that scar have come from that night? The night Hickory brought danger to their door? To John. To the kids.

They’d also talked about Ronen’s mystery parent and Wynona’s mom, Trish. Styx confirmed what they already suspected: Ronen’s parent wasn’t in the picture. While Delta confirmed that Floyd had been right about Wynona’s mom not being able to be around. According to Delta, things had gotten bad in Rock territory. That was why Trish hadn’t come with them.

But… that still didn’t sit right with Clay.

If things were so bad, why didn’t she go with them? Why didn’t she stay with her daughter? A mother should want to be with her kid, should fight to stay, not just go silent for years. How could you just disappear like that? Why would anyone willingly choose not to be around their child?

Then they told Branch how old John would’ve had to be for Iris to be nineteen. That revelation clearly caught him by surprise; at least he wasn't the only one who hadn't put two and two together, but the realization had hit hard. 

It earned them a talking-to from Delta, who couldn’t believe they hadn’t known John had been pregnant. And she was right, they all knew she was. They should have known. He should have known. And maybe he would have—if he had ever gone back to Grandma’s pod after that day.

It had been twenty years, and Clay didn’t even know why he hadn’t gone back. Nothing had stopped him, not really. But instead of facing it, he’d stayed with a friend on the far side of the Troll Tree, waiting for things to blow over. Normally, John would send Bruce to find him after a fight, once tempers cooled, once things could be fixed. But not that night. John didn’t send anyone. He didn’t even stay.

He left the tree like he said he would.

And then Bruce left.

And then, unknown to him, Floyd too.

One after another, they all disappeared. And Clay never said where he’d gone, never told them where he ran off to after the shouting. He figured someone would come looking—someone always did. But no one did.

Grandma and Branch had been the only ones left in the old pod. Now, Clay figured they must’ve assumed he’d left the tree, too. But he hadn’t. He’d just stayed away—quietly, guiltily—thinking maybe they didn’t need him.

Then Styx had asked the question that hit like a punch to the gut: Had they ever opened the letters? 

Letters. John had sent them letters.

Even after the fights, the silence, the distance, John had tried to reach out.

Clay didn’t know what was in those letters. Didn’t even know where they were. Had John written something personal? Had he written to him? After everything he had said? Or had it just been a formal message to the whole family, one final attempt to say what needed to be said? He wanted to read them, desperately, but now wasn’t the time.

They’d all agreed not to talk about it while doing the activities, not when they’d promised the kids a chance to check out the village activities. Branch had been firm: no stress, no tension, no fights. Just a simple, quiet day. A chance to feel normal. A chance to be a family.

All of this had led up to arts and crafts day, which, in Clay’s words, had been interesting . He’d never been especially into crafts himself, but the kids had seemed to enjoy it... more or less. Even if he’d spent most of the evening combing dried paint out of his fur, scrubbing at an orange dye stain on his arm, and plucking stray flecks of glitter off everything. Still, for all its chaos, it had its moments.

But today was different. Today was photography and videography day.

That was something that genuinely excited him. Iris and Ronen had been the first to perk up when the day’s schedule was announced, but Clay couldn’t deny he was curious too. 

Photography and videography weren’t exactly new to the Village, but they weren’t popular either, but not anymore. Once upon a time, cameras were everywhere. Life was documented constantly, joy frozen in snapshots. But after the Bergen escape, the obsession with preserving the moment seemed to fade. Trolls had become more focused on living in the moment, rather than recording it. The need for proof of joy had given way to just surviving it.

Not so for the Putt Putt crew, though. Among them, cameras still clicked. Videos still rolled. Memories weren’t just felt—they were saved. 

Poppy and Branch had told them that a troll named Copper had been the real champion behind bringing photography and videography back into focus—pun fully intended. Apparently, after reconnecting with his long-lost brother, Prince D, the two had become inseparable, using cameras to do what time couldn’t: Rebuild. Reclaim. Remember. Capturing moments they had missed, and preserving the ones they never wanted to lose again. Copper had been so passionate about it that he’d eventually volunteered to lead the class himself. 

As the group filtered into the room and began to find their seats, it didn’t take long to figure out who the most excited students were.

Front and center, of course, were Iris and Ronen, cameras in hand, practically glowing.

Ronen, normally a ball of energy, had set his wild antics aside in favor of something close to reverence. Not stillness, exactly, he was still bouncing slightly in place, tail flicking, ears twitching, but the energy was focused. He flipped his camcorder over in his paws, checking it over, testing each button, squinting at the tiny screen, like he was preparing himself.

Iris, by contrast, was all quiet control. Her hands were steady, her grip confident, her focus locked in. She adjusted the settings without needing to look, her claws deftly navigating the dials with the ease of someone who already knew what she was doing. The only sign of the anticipation buzzing inside her was the soft, rhythmic tap of her tail beside her foot.

Cash and Wynona, on the other hand, weren’t quite swept up in the excitement. Cash looked mildly curious at best, his eyes flicking toward the front of the room now and then, but never quite appearing interested like he had seen this all before. He was more focused on the growing number of trolls filtering in.

Wynona, ever the quiet observer, stayed further back. She didn’t so much as glance at the table of example cameras. Instead, her attention stayed on the trolls —studying movements, noting reactions, watching who drifted where. 

Jolene hovered close to Cash, hands folded neatly on the table, her usual quiet demeanor as quiet as ever. Her eyes swept the room, not with judgment, but with that same kind of deep, scanning curiosity that always made it hard to tell what she was thinking. She didn’t seem intimidated. Just…waiting.

Among the brothers, Clay was the one most clearly engaged. Bruce and Branch followed close behind, both intrigued but less outwardly expressive. Floyd seemed mildly interested. Apparently, he’d seen plenty of photography and videography during his time away from Pop Village. He didn’t say where exactly, but his tone made it clear this wasn’t new to him.

Delta, meanwhile, had opted to sit this one out. She was spending the day with John Dory and Hickory in the clinic. And Styx hadn’t made an appearance at all—last anyone saw, he was still curled up asleep in the guest pod Poppy had set up for him, curled so tightly under a blanket that only the tips of his ears were visible.

All in all, it was shaping up to be a very different kind of day. Quieter, maybe. But with any luck, less glitter.

As everyone began to settle into their seats, a new troll strode—no, trotted?—into the room and called out cheerfully, “Good morning, everyone!”

Clay turned toward the voice and blinked.

The troll in question was not like any troll Clay had ever seen before. He walked in on four long, blue legs, and his fur was striped with red and pink. His neck was long and almost giraffe-like, and beneath a bright green cap, a burst of blue hair stuck out in every direction.

Clay wasn’t the only one staring. Bruce and Floyd both mirrored his expression of open surprise, their ears slightly perked in confusion. Poppy and Branch, on the other hand, didn’t look shocked at all. In fact, they both smiled in return, clearly familiar with the new arrival.

Then Clay looked at the kids.

Most of them weren’t alarmed exactly, but their wide eyes and hushed murmurs confirmed they hadn’t been expecting this. Even Iris looked a little startled, camera lowered for a brief moment.

The new troll, completely unfazed by the attention, made his way to the front of the room and hopped, quite literally, behind the desk in one fluid motion. Then, with a little bounce and a twist, he shifted from four legs to two like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Okay, so I’m Cooper!” he said brightly, like that alone should clear up any confusion. “And I’ll be your instructor for this class!”

There was a scattered chorus of hellos, waves, and polite nods from the group.

“Alright! Welcome to the wonderful world of photography and videography!” he announced, his energy infectiously bright. “Now, I know what some of you are probably thinking— ‘Why bother capturing a moment when you could just live it?’” He shrugged, conceding the point with a playful grin. “And hey, fair. But here’s the thing: memories fade, details get fuzzy, and sometimes, having something you can hold in your hands, something you can see, makes those memories even more special.”

His gaze swept over the group, noting the range of reactions—from excitement to mild disinterest—but he didn’t seem the least bit discouraged.

“I can already see a few of you have been playing around with your own gear—” Copper’s eyes flicked to Ronen, who had just flipped his camcorder upside down for what had to be the tenth time. “—and that’s great! Amazing, even!"

Ronen grinned sheepishly, tail still twitching as he adjusted the grip on his camera. Iris, by contrast, seemed to be only after listening and had already begun adjusting her lens, tail swishing with focused interest.

“But before we jump into the fun stuff—filming, editing, posing, taking those action shots! —we’re going to start with the basics.” Copper gestured widely with his arms, still riding the wave of his enthusiasm. “Trust me—a few simple tricks can take your photos and videos from ‘meh’ to whoa in no time.”

He turned to a small table set up beside him, stacked neatly with printed photographs. Some were faded and grainy, clearly from before Pop Village’s freedom. Others were bright, crisp, and vibrant, full of color and light, mostly from more recent celebrations.

He picked up one of the photos from the top of the stack and held it up for everyone to see. In the picture were two trolls, nearly identical—one clearly Copper, and the other bearing a striking resemblance. The second troll had gold tinsel-like fur along his neck, slightly shorter and thicker dreadlocks with gold rings woven through them, and an earring in his left ear. The two were frozen mid-laugh, arms draped over each other's shoulders, their joy practically radiating from the photo. It looked like a moment that hadn’t been staged—just pure, genuine happiness caught by the lens.

“This right here?” Copper said, his voice lowering, a softer, more sincere tone slipping through. “ This is why I love photography.”

He paused, letting the group take in the image before continuing. “Some of you might know this already, but I’m not your average Pop Troll. I’m a Funk Troll by birth. But I identify as Pop… because this is where I was raised. This is the music that shaped me. This is the rhythm that feels like home.”

That… that is an option?

Clay blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Honestly, he hadn’t given it much thought before. Growing up, it wasn’t really presented as an option. You were Pop or you were...or you were Pop. And growing up, the other genres weren't known. He honestly hadn't given the other genres much thought, so much had been happening that it had just become something else to address later. 

But Copper’s words had a way of opening something up. Clay found himself wondering—really wondering—for the first time: What was life like in the other genres? What did their music sound like? What were their traditions, their daily lives, their stories?

His gaze drifted toward the kids.

They were focused, more attentive than he’d seen them all day. They would know. They’d lived it—some of it, anyway. They weren't raised in Pop Village but in Lonesome Flats, surrounded by Country music. They’d been raised by a Pop Troll, but they'd also lived with Delta, the Country Troll who had clearly left a strong impression.

So what genre did they identify with?

Cash and Jolene were half Pop and half Yodel Troll, but Clay hadn’t seen anything that connected them to the Yodeling side...He also didn't know what that would look like. But if anything, they followed Delta’s steady pace more than Hickory’s.

Wynona was half Rock, but Clay hadn’t met a Rock Troll yet. Floyd pointed out that Wynona's shorter fur, the hairstyle, and the more pointed ears were commonly found in Rock Trolls. But other than that, he had no idea what other traits she might have inherited.

And Ronen…Ronen felt like a whole genre all on his own. Unpredictable, vibrant, full of chaos and creativity. He didn't fit in a box—not Pop, not Country, not anything that Clay had been told about. Before Clay could think about it more, he was brought out of his thoughts by Cooper's voice,

“I wasn’t raised with my twin brother,” Copper continued, holding up the photo again. “We missed out on so much time. But we’ve been making up for lost time, and photography helped with that. This picture? I don’t even remember the joke he told me. But I remember how it felt. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

'Missed out on so much time'...Yeah, that felt familiar.

“Alright! First things first—who here already knows how to use their camera?”

Iris raised her hand immediately. Ronen followed, though his movement was more hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if his video camera counted as “knowing how to use a camera.” Bruce, Poppy, and he all raised their hands with varying levels of confidence while Floyd and Branch lifted his halfway, giving a casual shrug as if to say sort of.

Cash and Wynona exchanged glances. After a moment, Cash slowly raised his hand, too. Wynona hesitated, then lifted hers shortly after.

Copper nodded as he made a mental note. “Good, good. And who’s completely new to this?”

The rest of the group raised their hands.

Except Jolene. She didn’t raise her hand for either option.

Copper’s gaze lingered on her for a brief second—curious, but not pressing—before he turned back to the class.

“Awesome! No worries if you’re new—we’re gonna take this step by step,” Copper assured them, keeping his voice upbeat. “Now, cameras and camcorders are different, sure, but they’ve got a lot in common.”

He paused, letting that settle in, then continued. “We’ll be starting with the basics, so no matter how much experience you have—or don’t have—everyone’s going to get a chance to learn. We’ll cover how to focus, how to frame a shot, and how to play with lighting. Trust me, these simple things can make a huge difference.”

There was a soft murmur of interest among the group—some leaning in, others straightening up, ears perked.

“Once everyone’s had time to get a feel for photography,” he added, “we’ll move on to videography.” Then, clapping his hands with energy, he gestured to the table behind him. “Now, if everyone would come up and grab a camera, we’ll go over all the buttons together. After that, you’ll have time to explore and take some pictures on your own.”

There was a scrape of chairs and the soft shuffle of paws as everyone began to stand. As the group moved toward the table, Clay took the opportunity to quietly scan the room, noting each of their reactions.

Iris and Ronen were already at the front. No surprise there.

Iris stood quietly watching everyone as they grabbed their cameras, her fingers moving with practiced care as she adjusted the dials on her camera. From the way she adjusted the dials, it looked like it brought her some kind of comfort. Despite her calm demeanor, her tail flicked lightly behind her. That was the only sign of how excited she was.

Ronen, by contrast, shifted from foot to foot like he had too much energy and nowhere to put it. His camcorder, which had been practically glued to his paws earlier, was gone, swapped for one of the class-provided cameras. Still, he didn’t look disappointed. His attention flicked between Iris and the buttons on the camera, and then back to Iris again. Every few seconds, he would murmur a question.

And Iris would answer without missing a beat, still adjusting the same set of dials as if muscle memory had taken over, but this time showing him what she was doing. Once she was done, she watched him repeat the movement.

Clay’s ears perked slightly. That was new. So far, Iris hadn’t struck him as the type to teach. She watched, noticed things. Occasionally stepped in to correct when someone got something really wrong—but not like this. Not this quiet, steady back-and-forth. It was... gentle. A side of her he hadn’t seen before.

It reminded him of coming home to find JD teaching Floyd guitar chords—JD’s paws guiding Floyd’s, both of them leaning in close, the room filled with a soft strum of trial and error and encouragement. No pressure. Just shared space and patience.

Soon, they were joined by Wynona with her own camera. Head tilting to get a better look at what they were doing.

Then his eyes drifted across the room—wait. Where were—

Cash and Jo. Standing beside Cooper and Poppy.

Clay blinked.

He wasn’t surprised that Cash and Jo were at the front—of course they were—but what did catch Clay’s attention was that they weren’t just tinkering or waiting for instructions. They were actually talking to the instructor.

Cooper was crouched down now, balanced on the balls of his paws to meet Jolene eye to eye. He was holding out a smaller camera to her, one clearly lighter and easier to grip. Jolene reached for it slowly, her movements hesitant but curious. Beside her, Cash stood like a silent guard, arms crossed, posture stiff—but his ears were angled toward the conversation. While Poppy stood slightly to the side, rocking back on her heels.

Without thinking much about it, Clay grabbed one of the standard cameras from the table and made his way over.

“Is everything okay?” Clay asked gently as he approached the group.

Jolene glanced up at him, blinking once before quickly looking away, her focus dropping back to the camera in her paws. Cooper looked up, too, but didn’t rise from his crouch—he just offered a friendly smile.

“Yep,” Poppy said brightly. “Just helping Jo find a camera that fits her style.”

Cooper nodded, “The standard ones can be a little bulky for smaller paws,” he clarified. 

“Oh,” Clay hummed, nodding. Before he could say more, he caught the sharp look Cash shot him—an arched brow and a skeptical expression. Still, he offered a polite nod. “Well, thank you for your help. I’m Clay, by the way.”

Poppy let out a small gasp, lighting up like she’d just remembered a surprise birthday. “That’s right! You haven’t gotten the chance to meet yet!” she exclaimed, grabbing Cooper’s paw and pulling him gently to his feet with her usual enthusiastic flourish. “Clay, this is Cooper—one of my very best friends.”

She quickly danced around to Clay’s other side, effectively swapping positions and bouncing a little on her toes as she gestured between the two of them. “And Cooper, this is Clay.”

Clay couldn’t help but smile at Poppy’s antics, because Muses, she was so much like Viva. The energy, the way she pulled people together like it was the most natural thing in the world, the way she filled a space with warmth. It made something twist in his chest at how alike they were. It made him miss Viva even more.

There was no telling how Viva had reacted when he vanished. No —that was wrong. He did know.

They had emergency plans for this kind of thing. He had made sure of it. In case something went wrong, in case someone didn’t come back, in case the worst happened—there were protocols, stashed supplies, files in marked drawers. She would’ve known exactly what to do.

But emotionally? He knew she would be a wreck.

Waking up and finding he was gone, no warning, no note—nothing. She would’ve scoured the golf course, checked the perimeter, reread every note in those emergency binders twice, just in case she missed something.

She was probably sick with worry. And he needed to go back. Or at least send a letter. Something to let her know he was alive, that he was okay.

But every time he tried to plan it, every time he thought this was the moment, something pulled him back. The idea of leaving—of stepping away, even for a second—filled him with guilt. The kids were here. His brothers were here. It felt like, if he were to step back, everyone would disappear.

But then he thought of Viva, alone. And he felt a different kind of guilt. One that gnawed even deeper.

He’d been meaning to bring it up. To bring them up. But how do you say something like that? How do you tell someone that you’ve been living with a group of Pop trolls everyone else probably thinks died twenty years ago? Trolls who didn’t make it past the shovels or the cave-ins. Who were buried under the dirt. Trolls who watched their friends get eaten in front of them. Who had nowhere to run.

How do you say they’re alive?

How do you look someone in the eyes and tell her that her sister, her big sister, is still out there? How would she take that? How would she take knowing that for twenty years, Viva has been alive?...

....How was John Dory going to take it? How would he react to them being alive this whole time?

“Nice to meet you. You’re Branch’s brother, right?”

Clay blinked and turned to Cooper, like he hadn't just been lost in thought. “Yep,” Clay said, trying his best to return the smile. “Well—one of them.”

Cooper chuckled, nodding. “Right, right—big family, huh?”

Clay gave a small nod and tilted his head toward where Jo and Cash were still standing, Jo quietly examining the buttons on her camera while Cash stood beside her, half-listening. “And getting bigger.”

He didn’t miss the way Cooper’s smile softened just a little at that, like he understood more than he let on.

Clay’s gaze flicked briefly to Cash. The kid wasn’t scowling, but his eyes were sharp, guarded, watchful. Clay didn’t blame him. Their first meeting hadn’t gone well. Tense words and a mutual sense of not quite knowing how to trust.

And Clay hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to repair it. Not because he didn’t want to—but because… well, because it was hard. Because he was still trying to figure out where he stood in all of this. With his brother. With the kids. With himself.

Clay glanced down at Jolene again. She hadn’t handed the camera back, which, honestly, felt like a small victory. Her fingers were still trailing over the buttons, brow furrowed in quiet concentration, like she was already trying to figure out how it all worked. Then, without a word, she gave a tiny nod and reached up to tug gently on Cash’s pant leg.

He looked down and leaned slightly to hear her better. But Jo didn’t speak—just pointed over to where the rest of their siblings were waiting, alongside his brothers.

“Yeah,” Cash said with a nod, already understanding her without her needing to say a word. “We’ll head over in just a minute. I still need to grab a camera.”

Clay, without really thinking, held one out to him. “Here.”

“Oh—are you sure?” Cash asked, taking it.

“Yeah,” Clay said with an easy shrug. “I want to ask Cooper a few things anyway. I can wait.”

“Okay,” Cash replied, giving a small nod. “Thanks.” Then Jo tugged his hand, and he let her lead him toward the others.

Once they were out of earshot, Clay glanced back toward Cooper. “You think she’ll like it, this?”

“I think she’s curious,” Cooper replied, voice low and thoughtful. “And that’s a good start.”

Clay gave a small nod. “That’s good, things haven't been the easiest.” There was a pause, "I should warn you, “Iris and Ronen know a thing or two."

There was a pause, then Cooper smirked, “You mean the two that showed up with their own camera and camcorder? The ones that sat up front?”

"Yeah, that's them."

Cooper, laughing. “Yeah, I kinda figured. The older one looked like she was hardcore judging me the moment I walked in. Like she was just waiting for me to mess something up.”

“Well,” Clay said with a half-smile, watching the group in front of them, “if it makes you feel any better… she’s like that with everyone she doesn't know.”

Once everyone had a camera in hand, Copper clapped to get their attention and waved them outside. The light filtering through the trees gave everything a warm, golden glow, perfect for a photography lesson. The trolls chatted among themselves as they gathered in the clearing, voices rising and falling with energy and curiosity.

Then Copper’s voice rang out, bright and clear. “Alright, we’re gonna start with a simple exercise. I want you to take a photo of something interesting. Anything that catches your eye—the way the sunlight hits a leaf, the texture of tree bark, the swirl in someone’s hair. We’re not aiming for perfection here. We just want to get comfortable with the camera, to notice the little things.”

The group scattered with enthusiasm, disappearing into smaller clusters or going off alone in search of inspiration. Laughter and the soft shutter clicks of cameras filled the air.

About an hour passed, with Copper occasionally calling out small tips and new techniques to try—angles, lighting, framing. Clay quickly discovered that while he wasn’t bad at photography, he was far from a natural. His shots were fine, average, really. A few came out decent, but most were a little off-center or weirdly lit. He figured that was fair, considering this wasn’t exactly something he’d practiced before.

Still, he wasn’t the worst.

That title, unfortunately, belonged to Bruce.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” Bruce muttered, frowning down at his camera like it had personally offended him. “These buttons make no sense.”

Clay glanced over. Bruce had somehow managed to take eight blurry close-ups of his own fur and one accidental picture of someone’s foot.

“I think you hit the wrong button,” Clay said, trying not to sound too amused. He gave a small shrug. “I’m surprised mine’s still working, honestly.”

Bruce sighed and tried pressing another button—only for Ronen to suddenly appear beside them, moving with his usual quick, silent steps.

“Whoa—okay, hold up,” Ronen said, gently lowering Bruce’s arms so he could peek at the camera settings. His tail twitched behind him as he adjusted the dials with ease. “You’re in the wrong mode. See this symbol here? That’s for macro. It’s why everything’s blurry.”

Bruce blinked. “Macro?”

“Close-ups. Like… really close. You were trying to take a picture of that tree from ten feet away with a setting meant for like… flower petals.” Ronen clicked a few buttons. “There. Now it’s on auto. That should help.”

Bruce grunted. “Huh. Thanks.”

Ronen didn’t reply, just gave a thumbs-up and zipped off to his next target.

Clay chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “He’s everywhere at once.”

Bruce grumbled in agreement. “Yeah, but he knows what he’s doing.”

They both turned to look out across the clearing, where trolls were crouched in flower beds or perched on tree roots, cameras in hand, searching for that perfect angle.

Clay let out a slow breath. Despite everything—the tension, the uncertainty—he had to admit… it was kind of nice.

— — — —

Ronen POV

The photography part of the day was… okay . Not bad, just not really Ronen’s thing. Taking pictures was more of an Iris thing. She did it a lot with Dad. Both of them got all focused and quiet, adjusting dials and muttering about lighting like it was some ancient language only she could speak. Ronen had tried, just like he had really tired when he was younger, he took a few pictures, messed around with angles like Cooper said, but the whole thing felt a little too still. Too quiet.

But the day really got fun when Mr. Cooper brought out the video cameras.

Now that was more like it.

Ronen didn’t care what Iris said, taking videos would always be way more fun than taking pictures. You got to move around, follow things, make it all come to life. He didn’t just have to capture a moment; he could create one. He could add sound, movement, timing—tell a story. That was way cooler than freezing one tiny second and hoping it looked good.

He wasn’t sure the rest of the Pop trolls in the class agreed. Honestly, they hadn’t looked all that thrilled to be taking pictures either. A lot of them seemed more interested in chatting, posing dramatically, or pretending their cameras were fashion accessories. Which was fine—Ronen wasn’t judging…. Much.

Mr. Cooper had given them a choice: they could either stay and keep practicing with photography or try out the handheld camcorders. For Ronen, it wasn’t even a real decision. The moment Mr. Cooper rolled out the video equipment, Ronen was already hovering nearby, eyes wide with interest. He didn’t reach for one—Dad always said it was rude to grab things without being told—but he stood close, watching intently, practically vibrating with anticipation.

Mr. Cooper had noticed, of course, and offered him a warm smile. “You look just like your big sister,” he said.

That threw Ronen off a little. Most trolls couldn’t tell they were related. Sure, Dad said there were similarities—little things, like how they smiled or tilted their heads when thinking—but no one outside the family ever seemed to pick up on it. That Mr. Cooper had? That was... cool. And kind of strange.

Ronen decided pretty quickly that he liked Mr. Cooper. He’d never met a Funk troll before, but if this was what they were like, then Funk trolls were awesome. Cooper was upbeat, creative, and way less serious than some of the other adults Ronen had met on the tour. And even though some of his photography tips didn’t seem to make sense—“Try taking a picture using a mirror!” or “Spin while you take one!”—the results were surprisingly cool. Unpredictable, weird, sometimes wobbly... but definitely cool.

Ronen was surprised when Uncle Floyd and Uncle Branch grabbed camcorders too. He hadn’t expected them to join in—especially not Uncle Branch, who usually acted like anything remotely artsy was a personal attack. But there he was, squinting at the screen and mumbling something about “frame rate” like he knew what it meant.

Uncle Bruce, on the other hand, was having a much harder time.

“There are too many buttons,” Bruce grumbled, holding the camcorder upside down for the third time. “The old ones worked just fine. Why’d they have to go and change everything?”

It was kind of funny—actually, it was really funny—watching him try to figure out what button did what. Every few seconds, he’d poke at the camera like it had insulted him, and then squint at the tiny screen like it was purposefully being difficult. A few other trolls had stopped to watch, chuckling softly behind their hands.

But after a while, it stopped being as funny. Ronen saw the look on Uncle Bruce’s face—frustration turning to disappointment, and maybe a little embarrassment. That didn’t sit right.

So Ronen stepped over. It was a simple fix—Uncle Bruce had somehow set the camera to "macro mode," probably from randomly pushing buttons while trying to figure things out. Ronen toggled it back with a few quick presses, then handed the camera back before returning to his own camcorder.

After that, the group had mostly split off, each doing their own thing—testing buttons, framing shots, or wandering the area in search of something interesting to capture. Mr. Cooper moved among them, giving pointers and the occasional encouraging comment, but mostly letting them explore on their own.

It was near the end of the class when Ronen found the perfect thing to film. Ronen grinned to himself. When Dad woke up, he was totally going to be bummed he missed this. So Ronen did what any responsible child would do—he hit record.

He was focused on keeping the shot steady when someone sat beside him. He glanced sideways and saw Uncle Floyd settling onto the grass, his magenta hair catching the soft light of the setting sun.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Floyd said gently as he settled down beside him, casting a side glance toward the camcorder. “You doing okay?”

Ronen gave a little shrug, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Yeah. Just… watching.”

Floyd followed his gaze for a beat before asking, “What are you recording?”

Ronen nodded toward the group without looking away. “Them.”

He turned to look where Ronen had his handheld camcorder set up. Uncle Clay was trying to explain something about aperture to Uncle Bruce, who was clearly only half-listening and half-pretending he understood. 

“You mean Bruce and Clay bickering over how to take a picture?” Floyd asked with a soft chuckle.

Ronen gave the tiniest smile and nodded. “That, and what’s behind them.”

In the background, Uncle Branch, Mrs. Poppy, Cash, and Jo were watching them. Mrs. Poppy and Uncle Branch kept sharing amused glances, occasionally biting back laughs, while Cash smirked and Jo tilted her head, visibly trying to figure out what was going on.

“Behind them?” Floyd blinked, sitting up a bit straighter to follow Ronen’s line of sight. “You mean Branch and the others?”

“Yeah.”

Floyd tilted his head. “What about them?”

Ronen was quiet for a moment, his thumb gently adjusting the zoom ring. “Just… look at them.”

Uncle Floyd did. 

Ronen guessed that the moment didn’t look like much—just a small group standing around. But Ronen saw what was there. Uncle Branch had this little genuine smile, the kind you wouldn’t notice unless you were really paying attention. The kind you couldn't force. Mrs. Poppy kept glancing between Clay and Bruce like she was watching a funny play. Cash was smirking, arms crossed, amusement in his eyes. And Jo was biting her lip, watching everything like she was trying to decode it all, but not in a bad way.

Floyd furrowed his brow slightly. “Okay... I see them. Can you explain it to me?”

Ronen hesitated, eyes still glued to the screen. “It’s like… for a second, everything’s okay. They’re not thinking about the next thing or worrying about the past. They’re just… here, having a good time.”

Floyd looked at the group again and nodded, “You’re good at this,” he said quietly.

Ronen shrugged again. “I like it. Filming things. You catch stuff people miss.”

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the faint sound of Clay yelling “It’s called an aperture, are you even listening?!” in the background.

Ronen snorted and kept the camcorder steady. “See? How could I not record that?”

Floyd laughed softly. “Clay wanting to pull his fur out?”

Ronen shrugged, “I just… I think Dad would want to see this when he wakes up.” He said quietly as his ears drooped, the tinies bit.

Floyd’s smile faded just a little, but the warmth in his eyes didn’t. “He will and he’s gonna love it.”

Ronen nodded and kept filming, trying to keep his expression calm as he watched. They sat like that for a while—uncle and nephew—watching the scene unfold through a lens.

Floyd leaned back slightly, glancing over at Ronen. “So… JD taught you how to record?”

“Yeah,” Ronen said, not looking away from the viewfinder. “I tried to get into photography, but it was so boring. I really don't know why he and Iris like it so much. You have to sit still for such a long time.” He shook his head lightly. “One day we were going through some old boxes, and I found this.” He nodded toward the camcorder in his hands. “I asked if anyone was using it. Dad said no… then I asked if I could.”

Floyd tilted his head, smiling. “Did you even know what it was?”

“Nope,” Ronen replied quickly, a tiny grin tugging at his mouth. “But Dad said he’d teach me. So he did, showed me how to frame shots and follow movement. Said the most important part of filming was learning how to really see people.”

Floyd chuckled softly. “That sounds like JD.” he paused for a moment, then asked, “Where did he get it?"

“Well, actually…” Ronen fiddled with the zoom a little, his tone a touch more thoughtful now. “It used to belong to Iris.”

Floyd blinked. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. Cousin Carter gave it to her.”

“Cousin Carter?” Floyd repeated, his brow furrowing. “Who's that?”

“Uncle Styx’s nephew,” Ronen explained with a small shrug. “He’s not really our cousin, but we still call him that. Like how Uncle Styx and Aunt Delta aren’t really related, but they’re family, y’know?”

Floyd nodded slowly, his smile faint but warm. “Yeah. I know exactly what you mean. And it was really kind of him to give her the camcorder.”

He paused for a moment, then asked more gently, “Do you know why he gave it to her?”

Ronen was quiet, thinking. “Kinda… I asked him once, and he said he gave it to her when they were leaving. So that when they met up again, she could show him everything they saw on their adventure.”

Uncle Floyd hummed, “Did he ever say why they left?” Floyd’s voice was softer now, more careful.

Another pause. Ronen’s brows knit together slightly. He knew pieces of the story, but never the full thing. “Not really. All he ever said was that someone was giving Dad trouble… and Iris didn’t feel safe anymore.”

Floyd didn’t respond right away. His gaze drifted back toward the others across the lawn. The sunlight hadn’t dimmed, but something about the moment felt a little heavier.

“Oh,” he murmured finally. His voice stayed light, but there was a flicker of something darker behind his eyes.

Ronen shifted slightly. "Iris recorded a lot of stuff. We still have most of it. Dad made sure to keep it all safe.”

“That’s cool,” Floyd said, giving a slow nod. “So… why’d she stop? If she used to be so into it, why does she avoid it now?”

“I don’t know,” Ronen admitted, this time softer. “She just… stopped.”

“You said JD kept the recordings?” Floyd asked after a moment. “I know you’ve recorded some animal sounds and Cash's concert, but what else have you filmed?”

“Oh, all kinds of stuff,” Ronen said, brightening a little. “Dad usually gives me some film at the start of each trip, and I get to use it however I want.”

“Really?” Floyd raised a brow.

“Yeah,” Ronen nodded. “But I only get so much of it, so I have to be smart about what I film.”

“Wow,” Floyd said, impressed.

Ronen leaned back slightly, grinning now. “Yeah, but one time I didn’t plan things out right, and I wish I did." he turned more toward Uncle Floyd, "We were visiting Styx and everyone, and Iris wanted to get her ears pierced. Dad told her to wait, but she asked Jovi—she is in the band with Carter, by the way—to take her without telling Dad.”

Floyd blinked, already amused. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Ronen said, picking up speed as he started to talk with his paws. “Turns out Iris is allergic to nickel, and she didn’t tell Dad when it started getting infected. So by the time he found out, her whole ear was swollen and gross, and she was in so much trouble.”

Floyd winced, instinctively touching his own ear. “Yikes. That’s rough.”

Ronen nodded. “Yeah, it was a whole thing," he smiled, "She was grounded and Jovi wasn't allowed to watch us by herself for a long while.”

"I bet," Floyd chuckled, then hummed, “You know… your dad did the same thing with me.”

Ronen blinked, startled. “Wait—what? He took you to get your ears pierced?”

“No,” Floyd said, laughing. “He pierced my ear himself.”

Ronen looked completely shocked. “He what? Dad did that?”

Floyd grinned, his tail flicking slightly, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Yup. We were told no, just like Iris. So JD decided he could do it himself.”

Ronen stared at him, then burst out laughing. “That does not sound like Dad! He hates needles!”

Floyd chuckled. “Yeah, well… we were young, and a little dumb, and boy were we in trouble.” Floyd laughed, "Grandma was so mad."

Ronen was just about to launch into the story of how Mama Trish had actually taken Iris to get her ears pierced properly—at a real studio, with real earrings, and a lot less drama—when Uncle Clay plopped down on the other side of Uncle Floyd with a loud, theatrical groan.

Floyd turned his head. “You okay, Clay?”

Clay dragged his paws down his face like he was trying to wipe off the entire afternoon. “Your older brother is so annoying.”

Floyd raised a brow, clearly amused. “My older brother? You do remember he’s your older brother, too, right?”

“Not right now, he’s not,” Clay grumbled, crossing his arms.

That earned a snort from Ronen. Iris had once said something similar when Wynona and Jo had gotten into her makeup.

“So,” Clay said, glancing between them with mock suspicion, “what are you two talking about over here?”

“We’re talking about what Ronen’s recorded in the past,” Floyd said casually, leaning back on his palms. “From the sound of it, there are some very cool things on those tapes.”

Clay raised an eyebrow. “The tapes that are in Rhonda, right?” he asked, turning to Ronen.

“Yep,” Ronen nodded. “Those are the ones. I wish I could show you some of them.”

Uncle Clay froze mid-motion, like someone had just hit pause on him. His brows furrowed, his eyes flicked to the camcorder in Ronen’s hands, and then—without a word—he stood up so abruptly that Floyd blinked in surprise.

“…Clay?” Floyd called after him, confused.

But Clay didn’t answer. He was already walking across the yard with purpose, heading straight toward Mr. Cooper.

Ronen blinked and turned to Uncle Floyd, who just gave a helpless shrug and a quiet, amused “your guess is as good as mine” kind of look. Without hesitation, Ronen closed his camcorder and got up to follow. He didn’t need to ask; he wanted to know what had clicked in Uncle Clay’s head just as much as anyone.

They caught up to Mr. Cooper, who was crouched near one of the folding tables, adjusting the legs on a slightly wobbly tripod. He looked up when he noticed them approaching.

“I have a question,” Clay said, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing down at Ronen like he was making sure it was okay to speak on his behalf. “So, uh—Ronen has these tapes…”

“Tapes?” Mr. Cooper repeated with interest, standing upright. “Like cassette tapes? Or…?”

Clay gestured vaguely with one hand. “No, I mean like video tapes. He’s been filming stuff for years—little clips of the family, scenery, places we’ve been, that kind of thing. I was wondering if you had, or knew someone who had, like… a projector or something? So we could actually watch them.”

Mr. Cooper’s ears perked up, his expression shifting instantly to one of curiosity. “Oh, you mean like actual film reels? Or digital tapes? VHS? Mini-DV? Super 8?”

“Uhh…” Clay trailed off, looking down at Ronen, who was already digging into the front pocket of his hoodie. He pulled out one of the small rectangular tapes he’d taken from Rhonda and held it up for Mr. Cooper to see.

Cooper leaned in, squinting slightly, then snapped his fingers. “Ah—Mini-DV. Got it.”

He blinked, thinking for a moment, then nodded to himself. “Yeah… yeah, I think I can find something that works with those. And if not, D definitely has something, or at least knows someone who can transfer the footage.”

Clay looked relieved. “So we could actually watch them?”

“If the tapes are still good, and it sounds like you’ve been taking good care of them, we should be able to play ‘em no problem,” Mr. Cooper said. He placed a reassuring paw on Clay’s shoulder, then turned his attention to Ronen. “You’ve kept these safe all this time, huh?”

Ronen nodded. “Dad helped. We always make sure they stay dry and rewound.”

“Then let’s do it,” Cooper said. “If you’re willing to give me some time, I can dig out the equipment.”

Ronen’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Really,” Mr. Cooper said with a grin.

Ronen’s tail flicked back and forth, quick and excited. The idea of rewatching his tapes made something tighten and swell in his chest all at once.

There were so many.

Tapes from the Neverglades, full of rainy days and fireflies. Ones where Iris and Cash practiced harmonies until they became nonsense, leading to them bursting out laughing halfway through. There was one of Jo and Wynona in the middle of a full mug war, squealing and chasing each other through the trees. 

And ones where…

Ones where dad was singing.

Notes:

Clay and Ronene's thoughts. Clay has a lot of thoughts, along with some bonding between Ronen and Floyd. Next will be gardening day.

Chapter 21: Chapter 21: Floyd & Cash POV

Floyd POV

Gardening. Gardening?

What did Floyd know about gardening?

...Absolutely nothing. 

Okay, maybe not nothing. He knew seeds had to go in dirt, they needed water, sunlight, and…..didn’t some trolls talk to their plants or sing to them or something? He remembered someone saying that some plants liked music and that it helped them grow, but he wasn’t sure if that was real or an old wives' tale. Either way, he hadn’t exactly planned on spending part of his day surrounded by seed packets and trowels, wondering how deep a "shallow hole" actually was.

Gardening wasn't exactly the activity he thought his nieces and nephews would go for. If he’d been a betting troll—and sometimes he was, but rarely—he would've put good money on something related to music. After all, Iris played piano, Cash played guitar, and knowing JD, those kids were probably raised with lullabies instead of bedtime stories. Poppy even brought up a music appreciation class when she first told them about the Bud Hub.

But no. No, no, no. Arts and Crafts. Photography and Videography. Gardening. 

Okay, to be fair, Arts and Crafts made perfect sense. Wynona had been open about her love for art. She’d talked about it during the critter van ride to Pop Village, and she’d shown him her sketchpad more than once. Her pages were just filled with drawings and color testing. She’d also started coloring in some of JD’s old Neverglade sketches, too. So yeah, that definitely checked out.

And the Photography and Videography? That wasn’t a surprise either. Both Iris and Ronen had their own equipment, real equipment, not a simple throwaway item you get for someone for when they have a passing interest, only to get bored later. Theirs was the kind of equipment you handled with care, the kind you get for when someone was serious about the hobby. It was also the first thing either of them had mentioned during introductions.

But gardening? 

That was the curveball.

No one had ever really mentioned an interest in it before. Well, Floyd paused, squinting into the memory, that wasn’t entirely true. 

On their first night in Pop Village, Poppy had listed off all the activities available—arts, crafts, photography, gardening. When she mentioned gardening, Cash had nudged Jolene with that quiet kind of intention only siblings shared. The kind that said, "This one’s for you," without needing any words.

But Jolene had just shaken her head. No reaction. No spark. Her face gave nothing away, and she didn’t look the least bit interested….she looked more anxious than anything.

Floyd remembered that moment now and couldn’t help but wonder—did she even still like gardening? If she used to, then what had changed? Was it because of what happened to JD? 

And if that was the reason… then why hadn’t it affected the others the same way? Iris and Ronen loved using their cameras. Wynona still sketched and colored whenever she could. These things brought them comfort, and they were still holding on to them.

So why had Jo let hers go?

Why had this been the thing she pulled away from?

Floyd couldn’t say for sure—and that bothered him more. He didn’t know much about Jolene, not the way he was starting to know the others. All of the kids carried some shade of grey or dullness in their coloring. He knew what it was; it was the physical memory of what they'd been through with JD while in the bottles, but Jo was different. She was entirely greyed out. So much so that Floyd wasn’t even sure what her original colors had been—hair, fur, eyes—all of it washed in the same muted grey tone.

And she didn’t talk. Not once since they’d arrived. Maybe she could, none of her siblings had said otherwise, but she hadn’t. Floyd had tried to get her to talk. They all had. Asked small questions, but if Jo couldn’t answer with a nod or a shake of her head, she didn’t respond at all.

He shook the thoughts off. Now wasn’t the time for unraveling mysteries. There were plenty of them, sure—like why JD had really left Styx and his band in the first place, or how exactly he’d gotten burned so badly, or… what he’d written in those letters they still hadn’t found or read.

But that could all wait.

Today wasn’t about answers. It wasn’t about fixing anything. Today was about gardening—about just being together. A day to feel normal. A day where no one had to brace for what came before or worry about what might come next.

They’d been working toward having more of those days. Quiet, intentional routines meant to build structure, to offer safety so everyone could start being comfortable around each other. Meals are at the same time every day. Everyone at the same tables—no skipping, no drifting off to eat alone. Mornings had purpose, afternoons had rhythm, and evenings were given space to exhale.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was something. And over the past week or so, it had started to take root. Floyd could feel it.

Things were leveling out.

The kids looked like they were sleeping a little better. They laughing a little more. Even Jo had begun to linger after meals, instead of vanishing the second her plate was clean.

But then Delta, Styx, and Hickory arrived—and the balance shifted.

Not in a bad way. No one had done anything wrong—at least, not Delta or Styx. But their presence stirred the waters. Like someone had opened a window in a room that had grown too still. The air was different now—fresher, somehow.

It was a helpful kind of disruption.

The kids had changed, subtly but unmistakably. Their shoulders sat a little lower. Their laughter came a little quicker.

They didn’t say it out loud, but Floyd could tell. Delta and Styx made them feel safer.

Meeting Delta and Styx had been… nice. Surprisingly so.

Floyd hadn’t met many County Trolls in his time, and the few he had crossed paths with weren’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type. The kind of trolls who didn’t bother with small talk unless it served a purpose.

Delta fits that mold in a few ways—straightforward, sharp in her delivery—but not in a cold or closed-off kind of way. She spoke plainly, didn’t waste time, but there was something steady and grounding about her. She said what she meant and meant what she said.

Honestly, it was refreshing. 

Styx, though? Floyd had met a dozen trolls like him before. All snark and slouch, emotionally armored to clouds and back, always ready with a dry quip or a half-lidded stare that said "I’m over it" before anything even happened. But Floyd had learned how to spot their tells early on—the way their eyes tracked everything, the way their hands hovered when someone looked upset, how the sarcastic jokes came faster when the silence got too real.

Styx wasn’t fooling him. Not even a little. He deeply cared. He just didn’t know how to show it without wrapping it in barbed wire first.

But what struck Floyd most, more than their personalities, was how much of them he could see in JD’s kids.

Sure, there’d always been pieces of JD in them. A smile here, a tilt of the head there. A sense of rhythm that lived deep in their bones. But there were other pieces—parts Floyd could never quite place. Things that didn’t match JD or anyone in the family.

Until now.

With Delta and Styx standing in front of him, it was like someone flipped on a light.

Cash had Delta’s rhythm when he spoke—smooth, confident, playful with a very slight twang to it. He had been slipping into that twang more since Delta arrived.

Jolene carried parts of Delta, too, but it showed quieter. The way she tilted her head when she was puzzling something out. The unimpressed stare she gave when someone said something stupid—the kind of look that could punch straight through your pride. That wasn’t just Delta. That was Styx, too.

Ronen had Styx’s wit, no question. He’d drop a sharp one-liner with a blank expression and without even thinking. But there was a quiet confidence underneath that was all Delta.

Wynona? Styx was stamped into every inch of her. Not just in the words she said, or the withering little frown she gave when someone interrupted her train of thought, but in the fine print. The way her shorter fur bristled when she was frustrated. The way she cracked her knuckles when deep in thought.

And Iris, Muses, Iris moved like Styx. Back straight. Shoulders squared. That cool, confident stride like she didn’t owe the world a thing. She didn’t just carry herself like him. She wore her guard like he did.

To be honest, if Floyd hadn’t already known the truth, he would’ve bet good money that Delta was Cash and Jolene’s mom, and Styx was Wynona’s dad. It wasn’t just a hunch—it fit. These weren’t just old friends. They could be trusted because they we’re family.

And just when Floyd thought he had a handle on a part of JD’s past then they got to talk to Hickory.

And oh boy … JD sure knew how to pick them.

First, there was Iris’s other parent, the one JD had fallen out with when he was seventeen. A serious fallout from what Floyd had overheard in half-caught conversations. From what he understood, JD wouldn’t have spoken to them again before leaving home. Maybe he’d wanted to. But even if he had, he couldn’t—not after the village vanished just a few months later…... Not when he thought they were all dead.

Then there was Ronen’s other parent. Or, more accurately, wasn’t. Styx had explained it in the vaguest way possible, said he’d met the troll at a party he dragged JD to once. They’d tried to find them afterward, but came up empty. No trace. No leads. Just gone. And if they couldn’t be found back then, they sure weren’t going to be found now. Not after ten years of silence.

Wynona’s mom, at least, had wanted to be in her life. Still did. And that counted for something. A lot, actually.

And now?

Now they met Hickory. Cash and Jolene’s other parent. Someone who Cash didn’t have the warmest feeling towards

Someone who was an actual bounty hunter.

Because, of course, JD would end up dating—and having kids with—a bounty hunter. Muses forbid, anyone in this family have a normal relationship.

Floyd couldn’t help but laugh under his breath as the pieces fell into place. Not because it was actually funny. More like disbelief. JD had surrounded himself with the most chaotic mix of trolls Floyd had ever met, and then had the nerve to co-parent/pseudo-parent with them like it was just a normal Tuesday.

And it wasn’t like they were bad people. Far from it. Delta and Styx had clearly been great for the kids….

Hickory, though? The jury is still out on him. He’d messed up, badly messed up, to the point where Floyd and everyone else had every reason to be wary. The kind of screw-up that made it hard to even know where to start forgiving.

But JD? JD was still willing to have another trolling with him despite what Hickory did and being apart for years. Willing to bring him back into his orbit, however briefly.... Well, at least sleep with the troll, but not tell him he had another kid..... Muses, what a mess. 

What. A. Mess.

Still.

JD clearly had a type.

Bold. Maybe a little difficult. Unavailable in some shape or form. Sometimes emotionally. Sometimes legally. Sometimes geographically. Maybe even spiritually.

And yet... it all kind of made sense. JD wasn’t the type to do anything halfway—not his music, not his convictions, and definitely not the people he let into his life. So why wouldn’t the same apply to the trolls he raised kids with?

Floyd shook his head, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

Boy, JD sure knew how to pick them.

“Why are you so smiley?” Branch asked, pulling Floyd out of his thoughts. 

His brow furrowed, eyes squinting at him with visible confusion. He was holding a small shovel in one hand and a bundle of gardening tools in the other, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was about to plant something or defend himself.

It was a simple, honest question, and yet it still made his smile falter slightly. A wave of guilt and unease rolled over Floyd like a chill.

They hadn’t really talked. Not one-on-one, the way Floyd wanted. He’d tried to bring it up at the hospital, but then Clay had shown up. And Bruce. And the moment was gone before he’d even figured out how to start. Since then, the days had slipped by in a blur of group activities, long sibling talks that should have happened years ago, and too many small distractions that conveniently got in the way of the one thing that actually mattered: saying what needed to be said. Or maybe Floyd kept letting it.

Telling Branch the truth.

Telling him how sorry he was for not coming back like he’d promised. Chose, you chose not to come back. You could have if you wanted to.

Floyd forced a breath out through his nose and looked away, pretending to look at the bags of seeds in front of him like that would help ground him. His hands were too clean. He should be elbow-deep in dirt by now. He should be doing something useful.

But that was the truth, wasn’t it? Not circumstance, but a choice. And one he still hadn’t had the courage to own up to.

He and Clay hadn’t said a damn word about why they hadn’t come back.

Bruce, at least, had been honest. He’d admitted he was too scared, that the trauma was too deep, too raw, and coming back would’ve ripped it all wide open again. And Floyd believed him. He remembered the look on Bruce’s face when they talked about the reasons JD had to stay away—how quiet he’d gone, how pale. Like he was already halfway somewhere else.

But Floyd? He didn’t have that excuse.

He hadn’t stayed away because of the terror. He’d stayed away because he didn’t want to be seen as a failure. Because he didn’t want to admit just how badly he’d messed up. Once he got out, the Bergens had barely crossed his mind. Not the way they should’ve.

Looking back, he could see just how naïve he’d been.

He could’ve argued with Grandma. He could’ve insisted they both come with him. Begged her to leave. Maybe she would’ve listened. Maybe not. But if he’d had Branch backing him up, she might’ve changed her mind. He should’ve fought. Should’ve done something.

Instead, he left them behind.

Left them, his three-year-old brother and an aging grandmother, alone in a tree surrounded by the constant, creeping threat of being snatched and eaten.

Sure, they’d been lucky. The Bergens had mostly avoided their pod back then. But that luck was always temporary.

They were a family of six who’d somehow dodged every tragedy that hit the smaller families around them, and no one ever quite understood why. That alone had been enough to feed a dozen conspiracy theories in the tree. Floyd remembered them—rumors about how the Bergens had a quota. How they never took more than a certain number from any one family, so they could “spread the harvest.” Some pods had split themselves up to play the odds. But not theirs. His family had stayed together.

Too lucky, some said. But luck always runs out.

And still, he left.

Muses, he hadn’t even asked about Grandma. Not once.

Twenty years gone, and he didn’t know when she passed, or where she was buried, or if there had been anyone left to sing her a proper parting song.

He’d assumed she was gone. Another thing you missed.

Floyd swallowed hard, trying to push down the shame he felt, and looked back at Branch, who was still watching him, quiet, unreadable, older in the eyes than any troll their age had a right to be.

“Now, you look like you’re thinking too hard,” Branch said flatly.

Floyd let out a short, breathy laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.” He had always been told that it was easy to tell when he was thinking.

He glanced over, half-hoping the comment would pass without follow-up. It didn’t. Branch just kept watching him with that patient, unnervingly calm look, like he was waiting for Floyd to catch up to himself.

Floyd wanted to say something more. To finally get to the conversation that would help ease the distance, but the words wouldn’t come. They rose in his throat like stones—sharp-edged, heavy with guilt, and impossible to move without cutting something open.

“I was smiling because I was thinking about how weird of a type JD has,” he said instead, before looking over at his nieces and nephews, “And them.”

Coward.

He nodded toward the small group not far off, where Ronen and Wynona were locked in what could only be described as a full-scale floral standoff.

Ronen held a clump of orange blooms like they were evidence in a court case. Wynona stood opposite him, cradling a spray of vibrant purple ones with the air of someone defending sacred ground. Their expressions were equal parts intensity and petty dramatics—like both were fully prepared to duel over center placement.

“They’re acting like siblings,” Floyd added quickly, trying to cover up the real reason he had been stuck in his own head. “They feel comfortable enough to bicker like that, you know? That’s good. They are feeling stable enough to act like kids and siblings.”

Things were becoming stable. Stable enough that they could trust. Stable enough that they could do something without being pulled down by everything. Even now, with JD in the hospital and going through a nightmare that lasted two months, they were still managing to settle into something that felt like family.

Behind the squabbling duo stood the older siblings, watching with thinly veiled amusement. Cash had his arms loosely crossed and a wry, lopsided smirk on his face. Iris stood next to him, eyes flicking between Ronen and Wynona with a kind of detached fondness, as if she’d already decided to let them tire themselves out before stepping in as the self-appointed adult. They didn’t say anything, but the shared glance between them said enough— siblings, through and through.

But then there was Jo.

She sat just a little ways off, not far from the group, but not really in it either. Her back was to the flowerbeds, posture slightly hunched, knees drawn up like she was trying to shrink herself. She hadn’t joined the arguing. Hadn’t glanced at the blooms. Hadn’t looked mildly interested during the planning talk that morning, like she had the previous days.

She hadn’t fought against being there, but she wasn’t there, not really. She was somewhere else.

Floyd watched her from the corner of his eye, the way her fingers idly picked at the hem of her sleeve or plucked at a stray blade of grass, twisting it around until it split in her grip. She didn’t look bored. She looked unsettled. Like the dirt under her was too soft, too unstable. Like she was sitting on the edge of something and didn’t trust the ground not to give out beneath her if she shifted even slightly.

And that was new.

The past two days—arts and crafts, photography, all of it—she’d been quiet, sure, but she’d engaged in her own way. She hadn’t said much then either, but her paws had been busy. She’d taken photos, shared glances with Ronen, and nodded along when Cash teased Iris. She’d been present. 

Not today.

Today, she looked folded in on herself. Like she was trying to disappear without actually leaving.

“Does she seem off to you?” he asked quietly, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. He nodded subtly in Jo’s direction.

Branch followed his gaze. The crease between his brows deepened almost immediately.

“Maybe,” Branch said after a long pause. “She’s been like that since Iris woke her up this morning.” He kept watching her, the way her shoulders curved slightly inward. How her hands never stayed still, “Iris tried to get a reaction out of her earlier, but she didn’t give much of one,” Branch continued, his tone laced with reluctant worry. “Maybe she didn’t sleep well. Just tired.”

Floyd made a soft sound, something noncommittal. He didn’t want to dismiss the theory, but something in his gut told him it wasn’t just that, “Maybe,” he echoed. “Clay mentioned that Ronen said they’ve been having nightmares.”

Branch blinked, startled. “They have?”

“Yeah,” Floyd said, a touch sharper than intended. “Apparently, for a while now. I mean, it makes sense, after everything they have been through. From what I was told, Iris has been the one taking care of it. I think Cash has, too.”

Branch’s expression hardened, his mouth pulling into a tight line, jaw working. Something passed through his eyes—concern, frustration, and something heavier underneath. Guilt, maybe.

“Iris shouldn’t have to be the one handling that,” he said, “Cash shouldn’t either.”

Floyd nodded. “No. They shouldn’t.”

They both knew they would anyway.

Iris had been subtly doing it this whole time. While Cash only ever did it a few times, at least from what Floyd had noticed. 

If Floyd, or one of his brothers, didn’t get up first in the morning, it was Iris who woke everyone. If one of them didn’t start breakfast first, Iris took charge. Floyd had seen her pass out plates and make sure Ronen got more fruit and Wynona got less syrup because she hated how sticky it felt on her hands. He’d seen the way she hovered, as if she didn’t personally supervise every piece of the day, something would fall apart. 

It reminded Floyd of JD. Not just in the broad strokes, but in the quiet details—the way Iris stood just a little too straight when she thought someone needed her to. The way she scanned the room, always checking, always assessing, as if she didn’t stay three steps ahead, something would break. He remembered JD like that, too. Back when they were kids. Before the breakup. Before everything fell apart.

JD had carried the weight of the world on his back long before anyone asked him to. And now Iris was standing in that same space. 

Floyd didn’t know how long she’d been like this. Maybe it started the moment JD landed in the hospital. Maybe even before that. But one thing was clear: this wasn’t her natural state.

Iris wasn’t used to being the one in charge. She wasn’t used to having her siblings look to her for direction, for stability. But she was doing it anyway.

She was stepping up. Taking care of everyone. Not because she wanted to. But because no one else had moved fast enough, someone had to fill the gap.

So she did. Without hesitation. Without complaint.

But Floyd could see it, the strain behind her eyes when she thought no one was watching. She was holding it all together. Holding them all together. But it was costing her. It was only a matter of time before she started to crack.

Floyd exhaled slowly, the breath catching in his throat before he released it. His fingers clenched tighter around the trowel, grounding himself with the rough metal handle.

“I’ll keep an eye on Jo today,” he murmured. “Can you keep one on Iris? Let’s try to give her a normal day.”

Branch didn’t say anything. He just nodded once. 

The class moved on after that.

Floyd was vaguely aware that the instructor was still talking—something about soil depth and watering schedules and how you need to keep a strict schedule—something he should probably be listening to, but his mind was elsewhere. Listening for shifts in tone, for uneven breaths, for any of the small signs he knew that would tell him that something was wrong.

This activity had a different rule from the others, for some reason.

At the start of the session, the instructor made one thing perfectly clear: any troll under the age of eight had to be paired with an adult. She didn’t say it unkindly, but the way her eyes lingered on Ronen, Wynona, and Jolene—with thinly veiled distrust, maybe even a hint of distaste—was enough to put Floyd on edge while also getting some wary looks from the rest of his brothers.

He wasn’t sure why this particular class had stricter rules than the others, but he had a pretty solid guess. Unlike the more laid-back instructors from previous days, this one ran her garden like a boot camp and didn’t seem happy to have anyone else in it. Seeds were pre-measured and sorted into tidy little portions. Flower beds were marked with exact dimensions, not an inch out of place. The tools were arranged with a kind of obsessive symmetry, laid out like silverware at a formal dinner.

Floyd had watched with quiet curiosity as another troll accidentally brushed the supply table, nudging one of the trowels out of alignment. The instructor noticed immediately. She didn’t say a word, but she swooped in, reset the tool with surgical precision, and shot a sharp, silent glare at the other troll, who never even saw anything out of place.

So, when the time came to choose partners, Floyd didn’t wait.

Before Iris could jump in—before she could step into that big-sister role again—Floyd quietly volunteered to partner with Jo. It was gentle, purposeful. He didn’t frame it as stepping in. Just… being available.

That left Iris free to work a few beds down beside Branch, only a few feet away. But even then, she kept glancing over—watchful, like her protective instincts couldn’t quite shut off. She was trying, though. And that mattered.

Cash, for once, actually seemed to be enjoying himself. Of all the activities they’d cycled through, this one clearly clicked. He and Bruce worked in quiet sync, moving with a calm, methodical rhythm that stood out in the swirl of younger sibling chaos around them. No fuss, no drama—just smooth teamwork and the occasional shared smile, like they’d been doing this for years.

A few plots down, Clay and Wynona had, predictably, turned their section into a war room. What started as gardening had evolved into a full-blown design debate—Wynona waving her hands like an orchestra conductor while Clay countered every point with exaggerated sketches and impassioned gesturing. Dirt smudged both their cheeks like war paint. It was intense and definitely loud.

Further down the row were Ronen and Poppy.

Poppy was doing her best to stay on-task, planting a flower or two before inevitably getting distracted, sculpting tiny dirt creatures on the edge of the bed. Ronen, meanwhile, had completely abandoned any pretense of following the lesson. Not one to be outdone, he was elbow-deep in soil, building what looked like a miniature fortress, grinning proudly as he added towers and trenches to his creation. 

Whatever the instructor thought of that, she hadn’t said a word or noticed. Not yet, anyway. Floyd suspected it wouldn't be long before she did, or maybe she was picking her battles.

And then there was Jo...She hadn’t joined in. On any of it.

She just sat beside him in the dirt, small and still. Her knees tucked tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around them like she was trying to fold herself into the smallest space possible. She wasn’t crying. Wasn’t fidgeting. She wasn’t doing much of anything. Just... quietly existing.

At the start, Floyd had gently tried to get her to participate. He’d asked what seeds she might want to plant, held out the little shovel, and pointed to the bulbs lined up beside them. He’d kept his voice soft, hoping to spark some flicker of interest. But she hadn’t responded. She’d only buried her face into her knees, disappearing just that little bit further into herself.

So he backed off. The last thing he wanted was to push too hard and close her off completely. 

Now, some time later, she was still quiet. But every so often, her eyes would drift toward the flower bulbs he was planting. Like she wanted to ask something, like there was a spark of interest still flickering under the weight of whatever she was carrying, but the words stayed trapped somewhere deep inside. That was what worried him most.

She was here. Right next to him. But not really. Not fully.

He had to try something new. Anything new. What he was doing—waiting in silence, hoping she’d come around on her own—wasn’t working. She was still curled up beside him like a stone, small and unreachable.

So Floyd set the trowel down. Then he shifted, turning to face her a little more fully, not to confront her, but to offer himself. He didn’t try to catch her eye. Didn’t press in or lean too close. He just let his voice slip out, low and careful. The kind of voice you used was with something fragile. Or a child who’d gone quiet in the wake of something she shouldn't have gone through.

“You really don’t want to do this, do you?” It was okay if she didn’t; he just needed her to know that. To hear someone say it.

She didn’t answer. Just stared at the patch of grass beside her hoof.

Floyd let out a quiet breath, more exhale than a sigh. “You know, gardening isn’t just about flowers.”

The tiniest twitch of her ear. Subtle, but enough to let him know she was listening.

“If flowers aren’t your thing, that’s totally fine,” he said gently. “No one’s gonna make you do something you don’t want to do.”

The tension in her shoulders loosened just enough.

“I saw some fruit seeds earlier,” he added after a moment, voice soft and even. “Over on the equipment table. If you’d rather grow something like that, we can check with the instructor—see where they’d let us plant them.”

That did it. She glanced up, just for a second. 

Floyd gave her a small, quiet smile. “How does that sound? A little better?”

There was a pause. Then a nod. Hesitant, but real.

“Okay,” he said, pushing gently to his feet. “You can go take a look at the seeds if you want. I’ll clean up here and return the extras.”

She nodded again, more certain this time, stood up, and made her way over to the equipment table.

Floyd watched her go with a smile tugging gently at his lips. Small steps.

By the time Floyd finished tidying up their little patch of soil, the last seedlings were tucked neatly into the bag they had been given, and the dirt brushed from his knees and arms. 

Was when he heard it.

A sound, thin, and breathless. It cut through the warm hum of the garden like a wire pulled taut.

It wasn’t loud. Just a soft, wavering whine, trembly and tight with discomfort. A half-swallowed noise that might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. But Floyd heard it like it had been meant just for him. It shot straight through him, sent a shiver skittering up his tail, and rooted a chill deep at the base of his skull.

He knew that sound.

It was a sound only a trollling could make. He hadn’t heard it in years, not since he was small himself. Not since his own worst days, back when words were too much and feelings came in tangled, overwhelming knots.

It was not quite a cry and not quite a call, but it was a signal. A signal a trolling would commonly make before they could talk properly, one used when you didn’t know how to say, I’m not okay. I want my mom or dad.

The tools slipped from his mind. His body had already decided. He turned, scanning the garden, eyes flicking over every trollling. Some of the other adults were doing the same. He kept looking until—

There. By the seed table.

The instructor was speaking in wide, exaggerated gestures, hands slicing the air like she was performing for a crowd rather than talking to a child. Her voice carried that particular strain: too loud, too sharp, like she’d been holding her patience by the thread and had just decided to let go of it.

And in front of her stood Jo.

Half-curled in on herself, shoulders high and tight like a shield. Her eyes were wide and fixed, not on the instructor, but on something far beyond her. Every part of her screamed the same thing: Get me out of here.

Floyd’s stomach turned.

He didn’t know what the instructor was saying, or if she even realized the damage she was doing, but it didn’t matter. He knew the signs. This was a complete shutdown.

And Floyd didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t rush. The second he reached them, he placed himself between Jo and the instructor.

The instructor recoiled a step, clearly caught off-guard, lips parting in offense as if Floyd had just committed some unspoken breach of etiquette by inserting himself where she thought he didn’t belong.

He didn’t look at her right away. His attention was on Jo.

Gently, wordlessly, he let the tip of his tail curl around her, not touching, just there. A soft arc of presence. A message: I’ve got you. You’re not alone.

And when his eyes finally met the instructor’s, they were steady and unreadable. He didn’t know who she was and really didn’t care. From the way she’d been speaking, from the look on Jo’s face, she’d already told him everything he needed to know.

“Can I help you?” Floyd asked, voice low and flat. It came out colder than he meant it to, but he didn’t care enough to fix it.

The instructor’s expression twisted, part sneer, part scoff, like she was offended by the mere question. She opened her mouth, probably to defend herself, maybe to play the victim, but Floyd raised a hand, slow and deliberate, cutting her off without a word.

“She,” the instructor hissed, stabbing a finger in Jo’s direction, “was over here—”

“Looking at the seeds?” Floyd finished flatly. “The ones you told us to choose from? The ones you laid out?”

“She is a reckless five-year-old,” the instructor snapped, arms folding with the finality of a judge’s gavel. “She shouldn’t be over here alone.”

Floyd’s fur started to rise.

“Did she touch anything? Break anything? Hurt anyone?” His voice was low, tight. “Or were you just yelling because she was there?”

“That’s not the point—”

“No,” he cut in, voice suddenly sharp enough to slice bark. “That is exactly the point. You yelled at a five-year-old for standing near some seeds. And when she froze up, when she shut down, you kept going. You didn’t stop.”

“I told everyone we were planting flowers,” the instructor barked, louder now, voice carrying. “That was the activity.”

“She didn’t want to plant flowers,” Floyd said, teeth gritted. “So I told her to look at the other seeds. Because gardening’s supposed to be about something. Growing what makes you happy.”

“I don’t care what she wanted to do!” the instructor shouted. “I said flowers. So we’re planting flowers. Period.”

Floyd’s jaw locked. His tail lashed once.

“I see why no one wanted to take this class,” he muttered.

Her face flushed, her voice turning sharp and ugly. “No,” she spat, “trolls don’t take this class because they don’t follow rules. They want to toss seeds in the dirt like it’s some kind of party. Chaos gardening, like little animals.”

Floyd’s eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah,” he said, voice thick with sarcasm, “I’m sure it has nothing to do with you. Keep telling yourself that, maybe one day it will be true.”

Her arm shot out, finger stabbing the air like a blade. “I think it’s time you left.”

She was nearly shrieking now. “I’ve had enough of trolls like you showing up here and ruining everything. It was bad enough when a whole pack of kids joined. But kids that obviously don't belong here? That’s where I draw the line. And I'm not even going to start with how gray they are.”

Everything stopped.

Every muscle in Floyd’s body went rigid, coiled tight like wire strung too hard. His fur rose in a sharp wave along his arms and spine. His tail stilled. His ears flattened. But before he could say whatever he was going to say someone beat him to it.

“Excuse you?” Iris had come up behind him and was glaring at the instructor.

Before the instructor could spit out another word, a loud crash cut through the tense silence.

Every head turned.

One of the nearby tables had toppled over—pots, trowels, and seed packets scattered across the ground in a chaotic mess of clattering metal and fluttering paper. And standing beside the wreckage, cool as ever and utterly unapologetic, was Ronen.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just looked the instructor dead in the eye, his expression flat, “Oops.”

Floyd didn’t even try to hide the flicker of satisfaction that sparked in his chest.

The instructor sputtered, eyes bulging. “You—! How dare y—!”

But before she could finish that sentence, someone slid between them.

Poppy.

And to everyone’s surprise, she didn’t bounce or beam or chirp a cheerful hello. No—this was a different Poppy. Her expression was tight. Her jaw clenched. Her bright pink hair looked like it had bristled with the force of her fury, and her voice, when she spoke, was ice over fire.

“I-um—I—” the instructor stammered, clearly caught off guard.

“We need to talk,” Poppy said, leaving no room for discussion.

She didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned on her heel and walked toward the Bud Hub building with quiet, purposeful authority, leaving the instructor to scurry after her.

Floyd watched them go, jaw still tight, but some of the tension in his shoulders started to ease.

And then he noticed the others.

Ronen hadn’t moved, but Branch now stood just behind him with his arms crossed, still glaring at the instructor. A few feet over, stood Clay, Wynona, Bruce, and Cash. Each watching with a cold expression.

Floyd exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of him one breath at a time. Then he felt it.

A small, tentative tug at his tail.

He looked down.

Jo was staring up at him, her tired eyes rimmed red but dry, her expression unreadable save for one clear truth: she was done. Exhausted in a way no trolling should ever have to be.

Floyd’s heart twisted.

His shoulders slumped slightly, and he gave a soft nod.

“Okay,” he murmured, voice quieter now. Softer. Just for her, “Let’s go home.”

— — — —

Cash POV

Muses, this was a terrible idea.

Cash didn’t know why he’d pushed so hard for it. He’d been the one who suggested the gardening class, practically begged Iris for it, and convinced her it would be good for Jo. That she’d like it. That it would help.

Because Jo used to love flowers. She used to spend hours with her nose in the soil, her fingers carefully pinching leaves and gently patting down dirt. She knows every flower by name—even the weird ones with hard-to-pronounce names—and could talk for ten minutes straight about the different meanings a certain flower could have. He’d seen the way her eyes used to light up when something bloomed. Everyone had. It wasn’t a secret.

So yeah, it made sense. On paper.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Jo wasn’t the same anymore.

None of them were.

Cash dug his hooves into the dirt, his chest tight with frustration. He’d thought maybe something familiar would help. Something she used to love. Something that might break through that weird, heavy silence she’d been wrapped in since… everything.

But this? This didn't help. This was just another reminder that nothing made sense anymore.

Everything was weird, and it kept getting weirder.

Meeting their dad’s supposedly dead brothers? Weird. Wildly, weird. Like something he would read in one of his mystery novels.

But he could handle that. He was handling it, more or less. All of his uncles were a different kind of awkward, but they were trying, and that counted for something. Aunt Delta and Uncle Styx showing up out of nowhere wasn’t exactly shocking. He’d expected them eventually because they always showed up when they needed them.

But Pa—No!—Hickory showing up?

Cash clenched his jaw. That was different.

Hickory just showing up after years of silence, like he was entitled to be here?

Like, he hadn’t ghosted Jo and Iris and their dad for most of their lives? Cash didn't care that Dad had told him to get out; Hickory had still chosen to stay gone, all those birthdays and performances and hospital visits? Anything important that he should have been here for had passed without so much as a word. That wasn’t just weird. That was wrong. Rotten wrong, the kind that left a sour taste in your mouth.

And now—now—he wanted to be involved?

Now that Jo was cracked and quiet? When Iris couldn’t even sleep through the night without jolting awake like she’d been chased through her dreams? When Ronen kept grinning widely and cracking jokes like everything was great, like pretending hard enough would make it true? When Wynona was being too damn agreeable, saying yes to everything and nothing like she was afraid to upset the balance?

Now that everything was chaos and raw nerves and too many things left unsaid, now Hickory decided he wanted to come back?

To swoop in and play the role of the concerned parent, like that was a costume you could just slip into when it suited you? To act like some good partner to Dad, like he hadn’t already burned that chance into ash?

Cash wasn’t buying it, not for a second.

So yeah. Maybe he had pushed for this class.

Maybe he’d argued too hard, made it sound like a guaranteed good time, like this would be the win they needed. Something normal, routine—something familiar that Jo used to love. Flowers. Dirt under her nails. Knowing that tiny things grow from what she did. He just wanted to give her a piece of that back. Something that didn’t hurt.

But now she was curled against Uncle Floyd like a shadow trying not to be seen, while the group left behind the wreckage of a ruined garden, overturned tables, and a mud-slicked path of tension in their wake.

Muses.

This really was a terrible idea.

They walked for a bit in silence, the kind that wasn’t peaceful but thick—filled with everything they weren’t saying. He kept his eyes on the ground, watching his muddy hooves scuff the path, trying not to glance back at Jo. Or his sibling. Or his uncles.

Then came a light tap on his shoulder.

Cash turned and found Uncle Bruce beside him. Cash let out a small breath, schooling his face into the calmest, most pleasant expression he could manage.

“Yes?” he asked, trying not to sound brittle.

It didn’t work. His voice cracked around the edges—too forced, too light.

Bruce caught it. Because, of course, he did.

“Hold up a moment?” he asked gently, a nod toward the side of the trail.

It wasn’t a command. Just a soft request. The kind you could say no to, but somehow… you didn’t want to.

Cash stopped and watched as the rest of the group continued ahead. Once the group disappeared around the bend, Bruce spoke.

“You okay?” he asked, concern softening every word.

Cash shifted his weight and shrugged. “I’m fine.”

Bruce didn’t blink. “Are you?”

He gave another shrug.

“A lot’s been happening around you,” Bruce continued gently. “Big things. Emotional things.”

Cash stared at the trees lining the trail, refusing to meet his uncle’s gaze, “I said I’m fine.”

Bruce paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be noticeable, but not uncomfortable.

“It is okay if you are not, I mean, seeing your father—”

“Hickory,” Cash cut in quickly, sharp enough to sting. “His name is Hickory. If we’re going to talk about him, we should use it.”

There was a flicker of something in Bruce’s expression, but he gave a small nod. “Hickory, then. Seeing him after so many years can't be the easiest.”

Cash swallowed hard and looked away.

Bruce waited a moment before continuing. “I imagine that’s stirred up a lot.”

“That assumes he stirred anything,” Cash muttered, eyes narrowing. “It’s not like anyone was sitting around, waiting for him to come back.” He said, trying not to think of the month after the blowup. Of him sitting by the window, waiting.

Bruce didn’t flinch. “You know it’s okay to be upset, right?”

“I’m fine,” Cash said quickly, too quickly. “I mean… all he did was show up like no time had passed.” His voice cracked then, just a little. But he kept going, using anger to swallow it down. “He left, and we had to learn how to breathe without him. And now he’s back and I’m supposed to be—what? Grateful?”

Bruce stayed quiet, just listening to him.

“I mean he picked a good time to do it, with Dad is still being in the hospital,” he said suddenly, and this time the words came out small—barely a whisper. Muses, he wanted his dad, his voice, his hugs.

“I want Dad.” He said without thinking, “Not Hickory. Not this mess. I want him. I want things to go back to how they were before.”

He sucked in a shaky breath and shook his head, trying to get a grip. If he started to cry right now, everything would go downhill. He couldn't think straight when he was crying.

“I thought… maybe this class. Maybe if I got Jo out here, she’d remember something good. Something simple. That she could plant a flower and smile, and maybe things wouldn’t feel so…” His throat closed up again. “So broken. Everything feels so broken.”

Finally, he looked up at Bruce. His eyes burned, “But I messed it up. I made things worse. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Bruce stepped a little closer, “You didn’t mess anything up, Cash.”

Cash gave a bitter, humorless snort. “Didn’t I?”

“No,” Bruce said gently but firmly. “You did what people who care do. You tried. You wanted to give Jo back something, something you knew she would have like, even if she couldn’t take it. That’s not failure. That’s love.”

Cash’s throat tightened. He blinked hard, but still no tears fell.

“You’re not supposed to have the answers, Cash. You’re not supposed to fix this alone. Neither you nor Iris are meant to carry all this on your own.” Bruce paused, letting the words settle, “And don’t think we haven’t noticed. We see you. You’ve been holding so much, trying to be strong, trying to fill in gaps no kid should ever have to.”

Cash dropped his eyes again, shame prickling at the edges of his ribs. “But someone has to, and Iris shouldn't be doing it by herself.”

“Yes,” Bruce said softly. “Someone does. But that someone is not you. You’re fourteen, Cash. And even if Iris is nineteen, neither of you should be the ones holding all the pieces and trying to patch this family together alone.”

He let the silence settle for a beat, then added—heavier now, quieter still, “You all went through the same things. You’re hurting too. You don’t have to earn the right to grieve, Cash. And you can’t keep pretending your pain doesn’t count just because you’ve been busy taking care of everyone else.”

Cash stood frozen in place. His lip trembled. He wanted to believe him—really, truly wanted to—but that weight in his chest, that knot of guilt and pressure and helplessness, refused to let go. If he stopped holding it all up, who would?

He really didn't want to think about this anymore. He was so tired of thinking about this and really wasn't in the mood to fight his uncle on this. So he let his shoulders sag, just a little, and let Bruce win this one for now.

“…I’m really tired,” he admitted in a quiet voice.

Bruce nodded, quiet and steady. “I know.”

Then, without a word, Bruce opened one arm. There was no command or pressure. Just a space held open. A promise that it was okay.

Cash didn’t move at first.

But after a moment, tentative and slow, he stepped into the space and let his forehead thunk onto Bruce’s shoulder. And let himself be held. Because a hug sounded too nice to pass on right now.

They stood there like that for a while, tucked into the side of the trail. Just two shapes against the trees, one holding steady, the other learning how to breathe again.

When Cash finally pulled back, his breathing was steadier. His eyes are clearer, a little red around the edges, but dry.

Bruce ruffled his hair gently. “Come on,” he said, his voice soft. “Someone has to get dinner started before Clay—or Muses forbid, Floyd—tries.”

That got a snort from Cash, a real one, "Yeah, wouldn't want a fire." He said before rubbing his paws over his eyes. Muses, his head hurt.

As they started walking back toward the bunker, Bruce glanced over. “Is there anything you want for dinner?”

Cash shrugged. “I’m fine with whatever.”

Bruce gave him a look. “No. What do you want?”

Cash blinked, caught off guard. He thought for a moment, then said, “I wouldn’t say no to taco soup.”

Bruce wrinkled his nose a little. “Taco… soup?”

Cash paused, then raised an eyebrow. “You have heard of taco soup, right?”

Bruce looked sheepish. “I've heard of it... Kinda of.... No, but I can figure it out." he paused for a moment, "And while I figure it out, you can take a nap."

Cash blinked at him. “I don’t need a nap.”

“Yes, you do,” Bruce said without missing a beat. “A stress nap can work wonders. Clears the system. Resets the brain.”

Cash tried to muster a glare but failed. “You sound like Aunt Delta.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bruce replied, smiling faintly.

And with that, the two of them continued on down the trail towards the bunker.

Notes:

Happy Pride, everyone!

Here is ch.21 with Floyd and Cash POV and their big emotions that are hard to talk about.

Chapter 22: Chapter 22: Bruce & Iris POV

Notes:

Hello everyone. Reprise is officially 1 year old. I just want to say thank you to everyone who stopped and gave this fic chance. It really does mean a lot to me to see all of the comment and kudos.

Bruce POV

Bruce hummed softly to himself, the tune barely audible over the gentle clatter of pots and the simmer of the one on the stove. It was calming to move around the kitchen like this again. After years of practice, the movement had become easy. It was like a dance to him—well, part dance, part distraction if he was being honest. Dinner wasn’t anything fancy, just something warm and familiar. Something that might help the kids settle after everything that happened today.

Taco soup, was what Cash had called it. A strange name, but the idea behind it was solid, hearty, warm, full of vegetables and spice. There were a lot more vegetables than he or any of his brothers would’ve been willing to add in when they were his age. But Cash had asked for it, so that made it important.

Normally, he would’ve enjoyed having this much time to cook. It wasn’t often that things were calm enough for slow dinners. But today, the calm wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that settles in after something ugly happens—something that shouldn't have happened in the first place.

Their family activity had been cut short. Ruined, really. Not by rain or bad luck, but by a troll who should never have been allowed near children in the first place.

A downright witch of a troll, Bruce thought grimly as he stirred the pot a little more forcefully than necessary. The nerve of her. That smug, tight-lipped scowl. The way she’d spoken to Jo like she was less than. Like she was trouble just for existing. A five-year-old.

He shook his head as the thought of her came into his mind. What was the point of volunteering to teach a community class, especially one for new or younger trolls, if you were going to sneer at the students, shame them for how they looked, and yell at a little girl who hadn’t done a thing wrong? What kind of troll does that?

What kind of troll yells at a trolling?

Bruce felt his shoulders tense at the memory of Jo, small and quiet, shrinking in on herself while the others stood frozen. That instructor hadn’t just been rude—she had been cruel. And while Poppy was handling it, thank Muses for Poppy, the damage was already done.

Bruce closed his eyes and took a steady breath, and glanced down the hallway, where the others had tucked themselves away. Clay was helping Wynona with something quiet. Cash was probably crashed on the couch by now. Ronen was off somewhere doing his usual “I’m totally fine” routine. And Jo… hopefully asleep, or with Floyd. He hadn’t seen Iris or Branch in a while either.

He turned back to the stove and gave the soup another stir. He wasn’t entirely sure if taco soup was supposed to look like this, but he was giving it his best shot.

The kitchen stayed quiet for a few minutes longer. Peaceful, in a way. Then—

“What are you making?” Iris walked in.

Bruce jumped, nearly sloshing the pot over the stove because he didn't hear her come in. Of course, he didn't hear her, because none of these kids seemed to make a sound when they walked. 

“Muses—!” He steadied the pot and looked over to see Iris standing right next to him. “You kids have got to start making noise when you walk.”

Iris just smiled at his reaction, “We do. It’s not our fault you can’t hear it.”

He gave her a long, flat look—the kind that said I’m too old for this, and yet here we are. If John's kids were anything to go off of, the one thing he was not looking forward to from his own kids when they got older was the sarcasm.

She just shrugged casually. Then her eyes flicked back to the stove, a hint of curiosity breaking through her usual even tone. “So what’s for dinner?”

He let out a slow breath, stirring the pot again, the tension in his shoulders easing now that his heart had stopped trying to escape his chest after she’d appeared out of nowhere.

“Taco soup,” he repeated, glancing down at the pot. “Or… at least my attempt at it. Cash said it’s a thing.”

Iris leaned in slightly, hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket, peering into the pot with a raised brow. “It looks like the thing,” she said noncommittally. “Smells like it, too. So that’s already a win.”

Bruce gave her a dry look. “You know, I used to think sarcasm was a defense mechanism. But with you kids, I’m starting to think it’s genetic.”

Iris smirked faintly but didn’t deny it. “You have no idea.”

Iris leaned against the counter beside him, her arms still crossed. Her gaze flicked toward the hallway before drifting back to the pot. “He’s asleep, by the way,” she said quietly. “Cash. On the couch, snoring and everything.”

Bruce glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Iris wasn’t exactly the chatty type—definitely not one for idle small talk, especially not with him. Still, her question wasn’t sarcastic or critical; they were just curious. Or she was easing her way into what she really wanted to talk about.

Bruce nodded, relief softening his shoulders a bit. “Good. He needed it.”

“I know.” Her voice dipped slightly. “I heard some of what he said… after. When you two stopped.”

There it was.

Bruce didn’t reply right away. Just let the bubbling of the soup fill the space, "You did?" he asked, testing the waters.

"Yeah, you two just disappeared without letting anyone know." She said before softly adding, "The track record with family membering just disappearing has not been the best."

Bruce grimaced, “Yeah, we did do that,” he murmured. He hadn't thought about anyone being concerned that they weren't with the group.

“So what all did you talk about?” Iris asked carefully, but Bruce was sure she already knew the answer.

“Just a check-in,” Bruce replied honestly. He had no reason to lie. “A lot’s been happening: your dad being within walking distance again, Delta and Styx suddenly appearing…” He hesitated, then added carefully, “…and Hickory being back.”

Iris’s face soured instantly as her ears pinned back slightly. “So it must not have been a very fun conversation.”

It was understandably a touchy topic; his own feelings about his parents were still touchy at best.

Bruce gave a small shrug. “He made it pretty clear how he felt about Hickory showing up.”

Iris studied him for a beat. “And what do you think?”

Bruce blinked. “About…?”

She arched a brow as her tail flicked back and forth slowly behind her. “About Hickory and him being back.”

Ah.

Bruce took a breath and turned back to the pot of soup, stirring it slowly as he thought. He could feel Iris still watching him from the corner of his eye—quiet, still, but not detached. No, she was paying attention.

This felt like a test.

The kind of test that came without instructions and without a clear right answer. The kind where you didn’t know if you passed until long after it was over—maybe not until years later. The kind where the grade was for whether she trusted him more or a little less tomorrow.

And from the way she was watching him… she’d know if he lied. If he sugarcoated it. If he gave her the answer he thought she wanted instead of the truth.

So he didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he stirred the soup, slow and steady, like that could buy him time. Like vegetables and broth, and spices might tell him what to say.

There was a part of him, the logical part, the steady parent part, the one that had sat through a dozen parenting classes and read all the books he could get his paws on, that told him to offer comfort. To land on something easy and round, and generally agreed on. Something like everyone deserves a second chance, or sometimes people leave and come back better, or forgiveness is the right thing, even if it hurts.

Those words had their time and place. He’d said them before. He believed in them. Or… he wanted to believe in them.

But there was another part of him—quieter, older, wearier. The part that remembered what it felt like to be a child left behind. The part that had carried the weight of his own parents’ absence, even into adulthood. The part that had watched John and Grandma practically raise him and his brothers, and had seen with his own eyes what that cost him, what it cost them.

That part didn’t want to offer platitudes. That part didn’t believe Hickory deserved to be let back in with open arms just because he’d finally decided to show up.

That was also a parent who was having a hard time being away from his own kids and couldn't imagine how Hickory could do it without going crazy.

So Bruce kept stirring, collecting his thoughts carefully, deliberately.

And then he spoke.

“…I think,” Bruce said slowly, “that showing up after years of silence doesn’t earn you a parade. Or a hug. Or a seat at the table.”

Iris didn’t interrupt, just watched him with eyes that still reminded him of his older brother.

“I think,” he continued, his voice steady, “that when you decide to stay away, you don’t get to be shocked when people stop waiting for you. And you definitely don’t get to act like nothing happened.”

He shook his head, lips pressed into a tight line. “From what Cash said, Hickory wasn’t even really around before the fallout. Sure, he ‘worked a lot,’ but Cash said he was only there when it was something important.” Bruce glanced at Iris. “And what could possibly be more important than just being there?”

Iris’s expression hardened, but she didn’t speak.

“He chose to stay gone,” Bruce said. “He’s never claimed someone stopped him from coming back. And I know your dad—John would’ve been angry, yeah. But he wouldn’t have stopped Hickory from seeing Cash or Jo. He wouldn’t have done that. Not after everything we went through growing up.”

He exhaled, heavy. “Our mom flaked constantly. And our dad… he just wasn’t there, I am not even sure I ever met him. We had to raise each other half the time. John wouldn’t do that to his kids.”

Bruce gave the soup another stir, more for something to do than anything else.

“And then there’s the lying,” he added, quieter now. “Hickory lied to John. To you. To the kids. For years. And those lies got you hurt.”

He let that hang in the air for a moment before turning to look at her.

“So, no,” he said simply. “I don’t think I’m ready to celebrate Hickory being back.”

Iris didn’t respond right away. Her arms were still crossed, but her posture had shifted—her shoulders had dropped, and the tightness around her eyes eased. She looked less like someone bracing for a blow and more like someone finally allowed to exhale.

She looked relieved.

“Yeah,” she murmured after a beat. “Me neither.” She agreed.

Well, that went well, now here comes the part that might break it.

Bruce gave a small nod, but then added, gently, “That being said… from the conversation we had with the group, Hickory does seem to understand how badly he screwed up. He owned it. No excuses, no spin. And he seemed genuinely ashamed. He wants to do better.”

Iris opened her mouth, something sharp in her eyes, but Bruce raised a hand, not to silence her, just to finish his thought.

“I’m not saying you have to forgive him,” he said quickly, voice calm but firm. “I’m not even saying you should. What I am saying is that… trying to do better counts for something. Not everything. Not enough to erase the past. But something.”

“You think we should, what?” Iris asked, eyes narrowing. “Just let him back in?”

“No,” Bruce replied flatly without hesitation. “And honestly, that’s not even my call. It’s yours." He said, earning himself a surprised look from Iris, "You’re nineteen, Iris. Older than me, or your dad, or any of your uncles, were when we left home. You get to decide what you do with your hurt. If you want to forgive him, that’s your decision. If you don’t, that’s your decision, too.”

He paused and leaned back against the counter, folding his arms now, mirroring her posture.

“Same goes for Cash,” he continued. “He has his own mind, his own heart. It should be his decision on how to handle his relationship with Hickory." He watched her for a moment. She wasn't the happiest with his answer, but she wasn't rejecting it either.

He continued, "And I don’t know what Wynona or Ronen think of Hickory yet, maybe nothing. I mean, they don't have any real relationship to him, so that is going to depend on whether John wants him around when he wakes up.”

Another breath. He felt the weight of the name before he said it.

“And Jo… Jo’s going to be the hard one.”

That pulled something in Iris’s expression. Bruce saw it. The flicker of pain. Of protectiveness.

“She’s five, has gone through something traumatic, and Hickory is her father,” he said, voice softer now. “She might still want a relationship with him. Even after everything. That’s not weakness. That’s just… kids. She’s already lost too much. If she wants something back, anything, I don’t think anyone can blame her.”

Iris stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, almost imperceptibly, her stance shifted again—arms still crossed, but no longer defensive. More like she was holding herself together.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” Iris admitted, her voice quiet, uncertain. “It’s like… every time I think I’ve finally sorted it out, something shifts again.”

Bruce gave her a small, knowing smile. “That sounds about right.”

She let out a slow exhale, tipping her head back until it rested against the cabinet behind her. “I was kind of hoping you’d have an actual answer for me. Some wise, ‘here’s what to do’ advice.”

Bruce chuckled softly under his breath, “I know,” he said, his voice gentle. “And I wish I had some.”

Iris didn’t laugh. She just kept staring at the ceiling. “What if I—we—choose wrong?” she asked. “What if the decision we make ends up hurting? It already hurt when it happened. And I don’t want them to go through that.”

“That’s a very valid fear to have,” Bruce said, keeping his voice clear of any judgment. “But there’s something different this time around.”

That made her glance at him, her expression guarded but curious. “What?”

“You’re not alone,” he said. “Whatever you choose, whatever any of you decide—this time, you won’t have to face it by yourself. None of you will.”

There was a pause. A long one. Iris’s gaze lingered on him, as if searching for any cracks in what he’d just said. Bruce watched as she absentmindedly touched her right ear, the one with the nick in it. Then something in her eyes shifted, which was then followed by a nod, like she had just confirmed a decision in her head.

Her voice dropped slightly, barely above a murmur. “Did you know that Hickory adopted me?”

Bruce blinked, caught off guard. For a second, all he could do was look at her, his head tilting slightly as the words sank in. Adopted. It reframed pieces of her story he hadn’t fully understood—the way she carried herself, the tension that sometimes showed when family came up, the complicated way she talked about Hickory… and the way she didn’t talk about her birth father at all.

He hadn’t known. And now that he did, it made a few things click into place.

Bruce didn't know whether John had ever told her the full truth about her birth father, but he knew this much: to have someone step into the role of a parent, to accept them, to trust them, and then have them disappear… that kind of hurt left marks.

His voice was soft when he finally spoke. “No. No one has told me that.”

"I haven’t told anyone," Iris admitted, eyes fixed on the wall across from her, like she couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him. She hesitated, then added, quieter still, “I’m not even sure if Cash knows.”

That confession lingered in the air. There was a weight in her words—not just the secrecy, but the uncertainty that came with it. How much had she protected herself from others simply because she didn’t know what would happen if she let it show?

Bruce didn’t press her; instead, he simply said, “Thank you… for telling me.”

She nodded slowly, eyes distant. “It was a few weeks after Dad found out he was pregnant with Cash,” she said quietly. “I remember being so happy. I thought… I thought it meant he really wanted to be my dad. A real family.”

She paused, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Dad never really talked about my bio-father. When we came back to the Troll Tree, I thought maybe that would be the time. Like, maybe I could ask, and maybe I’d even get to meet him.” Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “But then the tree was ruined… and everyone was gone… and I just dropped it.”

Her gaze lowered, following her thoughts down into the spaces she hadn’t visited in a while.

“Then I had Styx,” she went on softly, a small ghost of a smile crossing her lips. “He is like family, in his own weird way.”

Then her voice dimmed, shadowed again. “And then Hickory came along.”

She looked down at the floor. A shadow flickered across her face, and when she spoke again, it was little more than a breath:

“And then he left.”

Bruce didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Iris shook her head, scoffing softly at herself. “And now he’s back. And I don’t know if I’m angry, or sad, or just tired of caring. But it’s all still in here,” she tapped her chest, “and I don’t know what to do with it.”

Bruce finally stepped a little closer—not touching, not crowding, just near enough to let her know he was really here.

“Then don’t rush it,” he said gently. “You don’t owe him anything. Not forgiveness. Not closure. Not even a conversation, if you don’t want it. But if you do want something... that’s okay too. There’s no right answer here, Iris.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze drifting back toward the pot on the stove.

“So taco soup, huh?” Iris said, changing the subject, and Bruce let her.

Bruce huffed. “Allegedly.” 

She stepped closer and peered into the pot like it held the secrets of the universe. “You put too much cumin,” she said after a moment, reaching for the spice rack.

“Oh, and how would you know?” Bruce muttered sarcastically, but stepped aside and handed her the wooden spoon without resistance.

They moved easily from there, Bruce chopping the leftover bell pepper, Iris taking charge of the seasoning. There was no snapping, no edge to her tone. Just calm direction, subtle humor, and something Bruce couldn’t quite name. Trust, maybe, or at least the beginnings of it.

And it struck him how… simple it felt. How normal. For the first time, he was just spending time with Iris—no crisis, no clashing egos, no tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Just two trolls in a kitchen, fixing soup.

Is this what it could’ve been like?

If he and John had just talked, really talked, back when things first started to fray. If they hadn’t shoved each other away with pride and silence. If someone—anyone—had stepped up before the cracks turned into chasms. What if they’d all just been a little more honest, a little more brave?

Everything might’ve been different.

Clay could have felt safe to explore his interests. Floyd might not have spent his childhood feeling like the odd one out. Branch wouldn’t have grown up with just Grandma, and would have a relationship with them and not be building one now when he was an adult. Maybe Branch and Iris would’ve been raised together. They were only a few years apart, Floyd and JD have a larger age gap between them. They could’ve grown up like siblings.

But if things had gone differently… Iris would have been an only child.

Which meant no Cash. No Ronen. No Wynona. No Jo.

They wouldn’t be here now, wouldn’t be part of this messy, healing, stubborn family. And maybe he wouldn’t have started therapy. Wouldn’t have done the slow, grueling work of figuring himself out. He might not have met Brandy. He might not have had his own kids.

Those thoughts hurt and felt wrong to even think about.

Even the good what-ifs—the ones where things were simpler, easier, cleaner, felt like a betrayal. Because they meant losing the family he had now. He wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Muses, he missed his family. His whole family. The one waiting for him back home.

He’d been writing to Brandy almost every night, keeping her updated on everything. And she always wrote him back, even if his letters probably didn't make any sense. Her latest letter had said things were under control at the restaurant, that her parents and brother had stepped in to help, and that the kids were doing fine. She told him not to worry about rushing back.

Take care of things there, she’d written in her familiar, looping script. Then bring them to visit. I want to meet them, all of them.

She’d always wanted to meet them, even when Bruce hadn’t believed reconciliation was possible. Even when he barely wanted to think about the past, much less face it.

And now, somehow, it was possible.

He was halfway lost in thought when a voice cut through the house:

“Anyone home?”

Bruce blinked, startled. Styx.

“I went to the gardening class and no one was there,” Styx called out, somewhere near the front. “If no one answers, I’m going to start selling off your things.”

Beside him, Iris let out a soft huff of laughter, eyes still on the pot.

“In here,” she called back, loud enough for Styx to hear.

A moment later, he appeared in the doorway. “There you are. What happened to gardening today? I showed up after sending off my letters, and no one was there.”

Iris exhaled slowly, her expression unreadable for a beat, like she was debating whether to say anything at all.

“We ran into a slight issue in the class,” Bruce said before she could decide.

Styx’s posture changed immediately, more alert, more protective. “What kind of issue?”

Bruce still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Styx or Delta. He hadn’t spent much time with either of them. But if John trusted them, really trusted them, and the kids loved them? That was enough for now.

“With Jo and the instructor,” Iris said carefully, “The instructor wasn’t exactly… welcoming.”

“Is Jo okay?” Styx asked, his voice quiet but firm.

Iris glanced at Bruce, who offered a small shrug.

“Shaken,” he said. “But physically fine. She might need a little reassurance, something to help her feel safe again. Like she belongs.”

Styx nodded slowly, already beginning to work through a plan in his head. But then he paused, glancing toward Iris. “Maybe now’s a good time to try your idea.”

Bruce blinked. “Idea?”

Iris shifted where she stood, brushing an imaginary wrinkle from her jacket—a subtle stall. “Well,” she began, reluctant but determined, “I was thinking… maybe we could take a short trip. Back home to Lonesome Flats.”

Bruce tilted his head, brow knitting. “Okay?” Bruce mulled the thought over in his head, and it didn’t sound like a bad idea. The kids hadn’t been back since everything had happened. And picking up some of their stuff, bringing it here—it could help this place feel more like home.

"And it’d just be us,” she added quickly.

Oh. Bruce’s eyebrows rose slightly. That part wasn’t so easy to agree with.

They’d only been here for two and a half weeks. Two and a half weeks after being found. After being held for two months. John was still unconscious. Still fighting his way back. And now Iris wanted to leave—and only the kids?

“It’s just,” she rushed on, “if it’s just us, we can… take our time. We wouldn’t have to be worried—”

“—about being overheard?” Bruce finished for her, his tone gentle but pointed.

She winced. “Not like that,” she said, defensive despite herself. “I just meant… we could be honest with each other. Actually talk. And not pretend everything’s fine when it’s not.”

Bruce stirred the soup slowly, letting the silence stretch. He didn’t respond right away. He let her words hang in the air.

It wasn’t a bad idea. Not at all. It had thought behind it. The kind of thought that took maturity. And she was right. None of the kids were talking about how they really felt. He could tell Cash was still holding something back during their brief conversation.

He exhaled slowly. “That’s not the worst idea I’ve heard.”

Iris gave him a flat look. “Uh… thanks?” she said, dry.

Bruce chuckled softly. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ll still have to run it by Branch. He’s got temporary custody, remember? It’s his call.”

Iris opened her mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to negotiate, but then stopped. “Okay, but… will you support it?”

Bruce met her gaze. Measured. Considering. He didn’t want to overpromise. But he also didn’t want to make her feel like she had to carry this alone.

“I can go with them,” Styx offered suddenly. “Keep things steady. Keep it safe.”

Bruce nodded once, then turned back to Iris. “Alright. Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll back the idea after dinner tonight. I’ll tell Branch I think it’s worth doing. If Styx goes with you. And if you promise to let us know if anything comes up, if any of your siblings say something that’s concerning, or if they tell you we’re doing something that’s hurting more than helping.”

Iris frowned slightly. “Concerning how?” she asked, cautiously.

“You’ll know when you hear it,” he said gently. “Look… I know we haven’t gotten everything right. But we’re trying. We want to be here for you. All of you. We just can’t help if we don’t know what you need.”

He paused, letting that sit. Letting it land.

“If we can get Branch on board, you could go as soon as tomorrow.”

Her ears flicked up in surprise. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. He’s supposed to meet up with a couple of friends, Tresillo and Wani. And Clay’s going to talk to Cooper about getting a projector, so Ronen can show up some of the tapes he has." He said honestly, "So nothing major’s planned. It could be a good time to make it a day trip.”

Iris studied him—expression unreadable, mind clearly spinning. Then, slowly, she nodded, “Okay.”

Bruce offered his paw. “Deal?”

“Deal.” She took it. A firm, confident shake.

— — — —

Iris POV

She’s got this.

It was just a simple, straightforward conversation: sit down, tell him the idea, explain why it made sense, and prove that it was a good one. Easy.

"Plan out what you’re going to say," her dad had once told her when she’d asked how he pitched his songs to other trolls. "If you sound like you’ve thought it through, people will think you have—and they’ll trust your reasoning more, even if you haven’t put that much thought into it."

So that’s what Iris had done. She’d been working on it for days, talking it through with Styx, rehearsing it by herself, picking apart every possible objection until she’d arranged her points into neat little rows. Her argument was solid. She was sure of it.

And it had already worked once. She’d managed to get Bruce on her side. It made things a little easier… but only a little. Because now she was sitting across from only three instead of four of her uncles. None of them looked even remotely pleased, especially Branch.

Once, she had asked her dad how he knew if something he said was working. He’d just grinned and told her, "Watch their face. Trolls always show you what they’re going to say—before they’ve even decided to say it."

That advice had seemed smart at the time. It made sense. In her head, this had all gone smoothly. Out loud? Not so much.

Especially not with the way Branch was staring at her right now.

And wow… he looks pissed. There was weight behind it. Some kind of a mix between judgment and disbelief.

It hit her like a splash of cold water.

That look?

She’d seen it before, more times than she could count. This was the look. The exact expression her dad wore whenever one of them said or did something outrageous— something bold, reckless, or downright baffling. The kind of thing that made his blood pressure spike just by existing.

Yeah. She knew that look. She’d seen it on her dad, though it was rarely aimed at her. Not unless she’d done something really stupid. The kind of stupid where you just didn't go home for a few days, stupid.

The narrowing eyes, like she’d just proposed the dumbest, most reckless idea ever thought of in all six genres. The tight press of his mouth, like he was biting back a full-blown lecture. The stony, deliberate silence that lasted just long enough to make her question every word that had just left her mouth.

Branch wore it just like Dad did.

In this moment, more than any other, Iris could see the resemblance. None of her uncles looked too much alike, just like she and her own siblings, but expressions like this? This steely expression, that tightly coiled tension, that very specific brand of “are you serious right now?”—that ran in the blood.

In this moment, more than any other, Iris was certain they were brothers.

This look was usually reserved for her siblings or one of their band-cousins. Ronen had seen it more than anyone. Jovi had gotten it once, and by extension, so had she, when they didn’t tell Dad about her new piercing.

But today? Today, it was aimed directly at her. She had tried to look somewhere else, but that had only let her know that it wasn’t just Branch giving her a look, theirs were just less severe.

Clay was staring at her like she’d just suggested taking on a Bergentown royal with nothing but a glitter stick and good intentions. While Floyd blinked slowly, like he was waiting for the punchline. Even Bruce, who’d known she was going to be mentioning the idea, looked uneasy.

To be fair, the plan did sound kind of stupid, especially after everything they’d been through. It wasn’t the idea of going back to Lonesome Flats itself that had them gawking at her. It was how she planned to do it. Just her and her siblings. No adults. That’s what made it sound reckless.

That’s what had their jaws slack and their expressions stuck somewhere between are you serious and have you lost your mind.

But she had thought it through, for days she had. She had reasons. Real ones. Good ones. She just needed to help them see it the way she did.

Branch let out a long, slow breath, dragging a paw down his face in the universal sign of parental frustration that could rival her dad's before fixing her with a look sharp enough to slice through her nerves.

“Okay,” he said, his voice tight, like he was holding back everything he really wanted to say. “Run this by me again. You want to do what, exactly?”

Iris took a breath and straightened her back, summoning every ounce of confidence she had left. “I want to go back to Lonesome Flats with my siblings. And it’ll just be us.”

She paused for a split second before adding, with a slightly forced note of reassurance, “...And Styx.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Styx casually throw her a thumbs-up, like this was all part of some totally reasonable plan. That tiny show of support helped her stand a little straighter.

Even if her uncle looked two seconds away from exploding.

Behind him, Bruce gave her a small, steady nod and a forced, encouraging smile. It was subtle, but it helped…kind of.

Branch must’ve noticed she wasn’t paying him her full attention, because he suddenly turned to glance over his shoulder, straight at his eldest brother.

“Did you know about this?” he asked, his voice low, suspicious.

Clay and Floyd both followed his gaze.

Bruce had the expression of a troll deeply regretting his life choices. “Technically,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “Yeah, I did.”

Clay’s brow furrowed. “And what does technically mean in this situation?”

Bruce shot him a look. The kind of look that clearly said drop it. It was a look Iris had used on her siblings plenty of times herself.

“We talked about it before dinner,” Bruce said simply, “And came to a small agreement about it.”

And now Iris had a front-row seat to the slow, tense shift as the brothers turned toward each other, each with their own unique blend of disbelief, tension, and secondhand rage.

“And in that agreement, you explained to her how bad of an idea this is, right?” Branch asked, his voice deceptively calm, but his eyes sharp.

Bruce shrugged one shoulder. “I told her she’d have to convince you. You’re the one with temporary custody, not me.”

“That’s not an answer,” Branch shot back.

“But it’s the truth,” Bruce said. “And for the record, I don’t think it’s the worst idea.”

Branch’s eyebrows shot up, like that might’ve been the most baffling part of this whole discussion. “Yes, I have temporary custody— keyword being temporary,” he said, turning the full weight of his gaze back on Iris. “What do you think is going to happen if the Rageon, the one who’s literally supposed to conduct the evaluation, shows up and they’re gone? That we let them leave without supervision?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His voice was rising now, each word clipped and charged.

“Do you think they’ll even consider letting any of us have a chance to get full custody if they find out we let five kids—who were just rescued after they were being held for months and have only just been in someone's unevaluated temporary custody for three weeks —take off unsupervised to Lonesome Flats. A place the Rageons know nothing about?”

Iris sucked in a breath through her nose. Okay. Way to be negative.

Muses, she’d had an easier time convincing her dad to let her watch her siblings for the evening while he went to a moonlit dance festival with Delta in the same town. At least that hadn’t come with the full-force judgment glare of ‘you better say this is a joke’.

But... to be fair, she hadn’t thought about that part. About the Rageon. About how it might look to someone deciding whether or not they get to stay together.

She should have thought of it. She knew— knew —everyone was still on edge about being separated. That fear hovered just under the surface like a bruise they could never get to heal. She was pretty sure it was the reason Ronen still stayed up too late some nights, blinking at the ceiling long after everyone else had drifted off.

But instead of thinking about that, she had thought about how wrong it felt here.

Branch’s bunker—safe as it was, with warm meals and soft beds—just wasn’t theirs. It didn’t feel like home. Not really.

Even the clothes they’d been given, as nice and thoughtfully picked as they were, didn’t feel right, didn’t sit right. They weren’t theirs. The rooms were filled with someone else’s furniture, someone else’s memories. Every corner held pieces of a life lovingly built—but not for them.

This place had been made with care, but not for them. Not with them in mind. Nothing here held their laughter, their arguments, their stories. Nothing smelled like home. Nothing sounded like Dad.

There wasn’t a single scrap of him here.

There wasn’t a single piece of home.

There were no creaky floorboards under her paws that groaned with familiarity. No thick, humid air that clung to her fur and smelled like river water and summer dust. No constant buzz of her siblings talking over each other from opposite ends of the house.

No, wind dancing through the chimes hanging on the porch.

No, soft, persistent hum of her dad singing to himself as he cooked breakfast or when he was listening to one of them ramble on about something that felt so important at the time.

No, Cash reading a mystery novel on the porch swing with his head tilted just so, mouthing the words to himself, as he tries to solve the mystery before the main character does.

No, Ronen crouched by the creek, fingers muddy as he searched for “really weird rocks”. Ones he swore had magic in them, but even if they didn’t, they would still be put in a place of honor with the rest of his collection.

No, Wynona spread out at the kitchen table, carefully drawing up a new deck of playing cards, her tongue sticking out in concentration, for a game she only knew the rules to.

No, Jolene humming as she arranged wildflowers in a mason jar, fussing over the colors like it actually mattered what clashed with what, knowing full as well that Dad would always place them in the center of the kitchen table.

None of it.

Nothing here felt like them.

Nothing here was theirs.

Nothing here felt like home.

“Would you at least let me attempt to explain why I want to do this before you shut it down?” Iris asked, keeping her voice calm and measured, though she could feel the heat rising in her chest.

All four brothers turned to look at her.

She took a steadying breath. “I know you probably think this idea is reckless. Maybe even stupid,” she admitted, meeting each of their gazes in turn—Branch, then Bruce, then Floyd and Clay—before returning to Branch. “But I have reasons. Good ones. And I think they’re worth hearing out.”

They watched her curiously.

She lifted her chin slightly. “I'll admit, yes, Branch, you made and have a valid point about temporary custody. I won't lie, I hadn’t fully thought that through from your perspective or how my idea could affect it. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other factors worth considering.”

Branch opened his mouth, looking very much like he was about to cut in—but surprisingly, it was Clay who spoke first.

“Okay,” he said, sighing as he leaned forward, arms crossed. “Let’s hear them.”

Branch and Floyd both shot him, matching seriously? looks. Branch's was one more filled with confusion, while Floyd's held genuine surprise.

Clay ignored them completely and kept his attention on Iris. “Once we’ve heard them,” he added plainly, “then we can shut it down.”

Wow, Iris blinked at him. Thanks for the confidence boost, Uncle Clay. I don't know what I would have done without it.

But still, she gave a small shrug and decided to work with what she was being handed. “Fine. As long as you actually think about what I’m saying.”

Clay nodded. “Deal.” Then he turned and raised a pointed brow at the others.

Branch gave Clay a look of pure disbelief, like his brother had just betrayed the core tenets of reality. Floyd looked between Clay and Bruce, clearly confused. Then his eyes settled on Bruce, and suddenly, his expression changed.

The air shifted. Floyd’s jaw clenched as he turned that look cold and sharp.

“Fine,” Branch muttered, throwing up his hands. “Let’s hear it.”

Floyd didn’t even glance at Iris. His gaze stayed locked on Bruce. “Yeah,” he said, tone tight and offhanded. “Only seems fair, right? To talk about things as a family. Come to a decision together.”

Something unspoken hung in those words, family and together, and it wasn’t directed at her. His voice was sharp, but his eyes didn’t move. He kept staring at Bruce, who—tellingly—refused to meet his gaze. The older troll’s eyes dropped to the floor, guilt written all over his face.

Okay, Iris thought. There’s something going on there. And whatever it was, she definitely didn’t want to get in the middle of it.

From the way Branch raised an eyebrow at Floyd—and Styx shot him a confused side-eye—she wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Right,” she said, slowly pulling the attention back to herself. “Okay. There are two main reasons I thought this trip might be a good idea.” She cleared her throat, steadying herself.

“First, so we can bring back some of our things—things from home. We’re grateful for everything you’ve given us, really. The clothes, the space, the food. It’s more than we’ve had in a long time.”

She paused, letting herself take a breath before she started to talk fast. “But none of it is ours. Not really. And it doesn’t bring the kind of comfort I think we-I need right now.”

She let that hang for a moment.

“We don’t have anything familiar here. No personal stuff, no smells, no reminders of our lives before… all of this. If we’re going to be here for a while—maybe even longer—it would help to have things that make us feel like ourselves again. Clothes, books, blankets, dumb little knick-knacks that make a room feel like our room. That could help this place feel like somewhere we belong.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. Just quiet. Thoughtful. Clay seemed to actually be considering what she'd said, and Branch’s shoulders eased slightly as he gave a nod, like he understood where she was coming from.

Floyd turned to her and let out a sigh. The sharp edge he'd been wearing—aimed squarely at Bruce—finally softened. “If that’s the case, we could all go together,” he said, trying to find a middle ground. “There’s no reason it should just be you, your siblings, and maybe Styx." He glanced at Clay and Branch, "I’m sure we’d all like to see where you’ve grown up.”

In return, both Clay and Branch gave him a nod.

“And that leads into my second reason,” she continued, her voice a little more careful now. “This could give my siblings and me the time and the space to talk. To really talk and be honest.”

That got their full attention.

“It’s not that we don’t trust you,” she added quickly in an attempt to reassure them. “But we’re still adjusting. And there are things we haven’t said. Things I know they haven’t said. Things they probably won’t say with adults in the room, especially adults we are still building trust with. Things that need to be said and addressed. This trip could give us that chance.”

She drew in a breath. “Bruce and I already talked about it. The plan only moves forward if Styx comes with us. And I’d let you know right away if anything concerning came up.”

Her voice softened, but it didn’t shake. “This isn’t about sneaking off. It’s not about pulling away from you. We just need a moment that’s ours. A chance to breathe.”

She stopped. Let the silence settle.

Now, it was their turn to speak.

They didn’t say anything for a while.

Instead, the three of them just looked at each other, passing entire conversations back and forth through glances, furrowed brows, and those subtle, almost imperceptible shifts in expression. That quiet, wordless language only siblings ever seemed to master. The kind that didn’t need sound to be understood.

And Muses, did it suck being the one on the outside of it.

Iris stayed still, watching the exchange like someone pressed up against the glass of a closed door. Whatever they were saying to each other, it wasn’t meant for her. Not yet.

Eventually, Branch broke the silence. His gaze moved to her—not sharp, not hostile, but not exactly welcoming either.

“And when would you want to do this?” he asked. His voice was steady, but the flatness in it gave him away. He wasn’t thrilled.

Iris hesitated just long enough to glance at Bruce before replying, “Bruce said… maybe tomorrow.”

Floyd’s head turned toward Bruce as well, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Tomorrow?” he echoed, though it came out more like he was double-checking than actually asking.

Iris nodded, trying to keep her voice level. “Yeah. He said there’s nothing on the schedule for tomorrow. No group activities. No check-ins or planning sessions.”

Clay, who had remained quiet so far, gave a small nod to confirm that was true.

Floyd leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming absently against his arm. Still processing. Still weighing everything.

“And how long would you be gone?” he asked after a beat.

“A day, if that. Twelve hours at most,” Iris said quickly and confidently. She wanted that part to be clear. “We’d leave after breakfast and be back by nightfall. No overnight. No wandering off. Just… go, grab what we need, have the conversation, and come home.”

Branch’s expression didn’t change much, but his eyes flicked back to Bruce.

“And you think this is a good idea?” he asked, with the slightest edge in his voice. Not accusatory—just skeptical.

Bruce shrugged, meeting his uncle’s gaze without flinching.

“I don’t think it’s the worst,” he said dryly. It was a carefully chosen answer. Not exactly a vote of confidence—but not a rejection either, "I support it."

Iris held her breath. Not obviously, but enough that her chest ached from how tight everything had gotten inside her.

The silence stretched again, this time more loaded, more strained. She didn’t dare look away from Branch, even as the weight of all three men’s attention pressed down on her.

Clay didn’t speak, but he didn’t look troubled either. He sat with arms loosely crossed, nodding ever so slightly like he’d already made peace with the decision.

Floyd, on the other hand, looked like he was still thinking his way through a maze. His eyes shifted between her and Bruce, then lingered on Iris a little longer. She saw something soften in his expression. The edge of doubt was dulling just a little as he turned back to Branch.

“I don’t think it’s the worst idea,” he whispered finally, echoing Bruce’s words from earlier. “And maybe… maybe it’s time we start trusting her a little more,” he added just barely loud enough to hear.

That left Branch.

And, clouds above, was he taking his time with it.

His fingers tapped restlessly against the table. His jaw worked once, twice, like he was chewing on a comment he wasn’t sure he wanted to spit out. Then he ran a paw down his face, sighing like someone who knew the inevitable was coming and hated every part of it.

“I don’t like it,” he said, not bothering to hide his disapproval.

Iris kept her face still. She didn’t expect him to like it.

“I don’t like any of it. I especially don’t like the idea of you being out of reach for a full day.”

Iris’s mouth opened—but Branch raised a finger before she could get a word in.

“But—” he growled, already annoyed at himself, “—I’m not going to be the one to say no when the rest of them are already halfway to yes.”

Her heart skipped.

He leaned forward slightly, pinning her with a look so sharp it made her sit up straighter. “You want a chance to breathe? Fine. But don’t make us regret this. I swear, Iris—if anything goes sideways, I’m not waiting until nightfall to come after you.”

The heat in his words wasn’t anger. Not exactly. It was fear, buried under the usual gravel and grit.

Iris swallowed and nodded. “We won’t give you a reason to.”

That was as much of a thank-you as she could manage without making it weird.

Branch grunted and pushed himself up from the table. No more words—just the sharp flick of his tail as he walked out of the kitchen. Clay gave her a small, approving nod before following him, quiet as ever.

Floyd lingered a moment longer, his eyes flicking to her, unreadable. Then he turned to Bruce.

It looked like Bruce was about to say something—mouth half-open, maybe an attempt at smoothing things over—but Floyd just shook his head and walked out before a single word could escape.

Bruce exhaled hard and drummed his fingers once on the table. He gave her a crooked thumbs-up. “Good job,” he said, and then he, too, disappeared after the others.

And just like that… it was happening.

Iris let out a long breath and let her body fold, forehead dropping to the cool surface of the table with a dull thud. Her hair spilled forward around her face, muffling the sound of the room going quiet again.

They had said yes. Begrudgingly. Hesitantly. With strings attached and nerves all over the place, but it was still a yes.

She sat there for a few seconds, eyes closed, just existing in the stillness.

Then she heard the scrape of a chair being pulled out.

She tilted her head to the side and cracked one eye open.

Styx had settled into the seat across from her, with the chair turned around and his arms draped over the top. He looked way too casual for someone who had just watched an emotional minefield get disarmed in real time.

He leaned forward onto the backrest, a lopsided smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Well,” Styx said, voice dry but genuinely impressed, “that went better than expected.”

Iris groaned and let her face drop back onto the table with a soft thump. “Don’t start.”

“Too late,” he replied, grinning like the chaos spirit he was. “You just convinced your four overprotective uncles to let you and your emotionally stunted siblings take a solo trip back home without them.”

“I’m aware,” she mumbled into the wood.

For a moment, the room settled again. Not heavy—just quiet. But she could still feel Styx watching her, like he was sorting through what to say and what not to.

Then, softly, he asked, “Are you really going to tell them what you and your siblings talk about?”

Iris let out a breath, heavy and conflicted. She slowly lifted her head, propping her chin on her arms as she looked across the table at him. “I don’t—I just…” She sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t want to betray my siblings’ trust, and Bruce never gave me a clear definition for what ‘concerning’ means. He just said I’d know it when I heard it.”

Styx gave a thoughtful nod. “He did say that.”

“But at the same time,” she continued, picking at a groove in the table’s surface, “we’re supposed to be building trust—with them, with each other.”

He tilted his head. “From the mood I walked into, it seemed like you were building trust.”

She had done that. Even if it made her throat tighten. Even if she felt like she was sinking through the floor.  She had done it. "I guess.”

After a quiet moment, he asked, “If you don’t mind me asking… what did you talk about?”

Iris gave a small shrug. “I asked about Hickory.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Really? Why?”

“I took a chance,” she said simply.

“But… why with him?”

She paused, then answered slowly. “Because he has been honest. Because he talked about his own issues with his parents. Because he’s a dad, too.” She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve. “And… because he actually apologized for being pushy when we first met.”

They both sat with that for a second, Styx leaning forward in his chair, processing, and Iris letting herself finally relax just a bit more.

The kitchen had fallen into one of those soft silences. Not awkward, not heavy. Just… still. Like the kind that settles after a storm, when the air is damp and the light is different, and everything feels strangely calm.

“I think,” Styx said eventually, “that’s a pretty solid list of reasons.”

She stood up, finally, the scrape of her chair loud in the quiet kitchen. Styx mirrored her, stretching dramatically with a groan.

“I’ll let the others know,” she said, more to herself than him.

“Better do it before they start stress-packing six backpacks each,” he quipped.

That earned a real smile from her this time. Small, tired, but real.

She turned toward the hall, but paused with one hand on the doorframe. “Thanks, Styx.”

He gave her a two-fingered salute and a grin. “Anytime, squish.”

Notes:

So here was a Bruce and Iris POV. With Bruce getting to use some of his parenting skills and his own issues to try and help Iris. While Iris lets her guard down a bit to get some advice, shared some things about her past with Hickory, and is very homesick.

So this was part 1/2 of one of Reprise's Anniversary. Part 2 will be posted later today.

Chapter 23: Chapter 23: Branch POV

Branch POV

Why did he think this was a good idea?

Branch stood in front of the hatch to his bunker, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he watched Rhonda rumble down the hill and disappear from view, a faint dust trail in her wake.

The silence that followed was somehow louder than the Rhonda's engine wobbles had been.

He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this.

No—scratch that. He could believe it. Because he had. He’d nodded. He’d said yes. He’d even here to wave them off like it was fine. Like it didn’t tie his stomach in knots.

But… after sleeping on it, even he could admit it wasn’t the worst idea.

He still didn’t like it. But he’d seen far worse ideas said out loud—and worse ones followed through on.

And the kids… they needed it.

He remembered the first few weeks after the Great Escape. How the sky looked wrong. How the ground felt too still. How everything —the colors, the sounds, the very air—felt like it belonged to someone else.

And how much he’d missed the smell of home, even though by this point he had not lived there for a few weeks. He missed the sound of Grandma playing rummy in the kitchen or humming to herself as she crochets. He missed the feel of holding something that was  his in his hands.

Iris might not realize it, but he did understand. The craving for something that reminded you of who you were. Something that tied you to something real when everything else had gone sideways.

It made him think about Croco.

His old, battered stuffed toy. He’d been devastated when he lost it in the tunnels. Just gone , swallowed by darkness and chaos. He hadn’t cried, not out loud, but he’d felt like the last real piece of himself had been ripped away. And when Poppy found it again, tucked deep in one of the cracks left by a Bergen shovel, torn in places and a bit dull with time, but still intact. He remembered how his knees nearly buckled with relief.

Clouds above, he could’ve kissed her right there.

He didn’t sleep with it much anymore. But Croco still lived on his bedside table, always within reach. Just in case.

And that’s what this trip was for.

Not just clothes or supplies. Not just books or blankets.

It was about taking back something that mattered. Something personal. Something that reminded them they were still themselves, even after everything.

And he couldn’t be mad about that.

Not really.

Maybe if Bruce hadn’t backed Iris up so quickly, he would’ve shut the idea down. Maybe if Clay hadn’t sat there, calm and quiet, clearly listening, or if Floyd hadn’t given him that look—that silently pleading “maybe this isn’t the worst idea” look—he would’ve said no without hesitation. But somehow, by the end of the conversation, they were nodding. Hesitant, sure—but nodding.

And maybe that was the most surreal part. That they’d all agreed. Somehow.

It probably had something to do with how awful that morning’s gardening class had gone. Everyone felt it—irritation, discomfort, the weird silence that hung over the group the rest of the day. 

There was guilt. A lot of it. Especially from Poppy.

The Bud Hub was her pride and joy. It was her first big idea that her father let her have full control over. She had her paw in everything there: what activities were being hosted, the time of the activities, and she had personally hired every instructor. So when things didn’t go right—when someone she had hired had been so hurtful and rude—she took it to heart.

And maybe that’s why this conversation, this idea Iris had, wasn’t immediately thrown out. Maybe that’s why Branch had said yes, even though he was still trying to convince himself he hadn’t lost his mind hours after.

“We should be back tonight,” Iris had said, once everyone had piled into Rhonda and had double-checked the route. Her voice was steady, measured, like she’d practiced this moment in her head more than once. But it wasn’t fake. It was sincere. “We’re just going to grab some clothes. A few of our things. Some of Dad’s stuff, too. And let everyone know that Delta found him—that he’s alive.”

She’d paused then, watching him.

He hadn’t said anything. Just looked at her, the weight of a hundred things clawing at his throat—concern, worry, guilt, protectiveness, all tangled and pulling in different directions.

“And I’ll bring back some of the photos,” she added more gently. “Some that Dad had taken over the years of all of us. And ones he took with us." She hesitated a little."....After we came back to the tree."

Photos?

Branch’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t known John had taken photos. Or maybe—maybe he had, once, in the way you vaguely register details during a storm. But after everything, when he’d gone back to Grandma’s old pod, photography hadn’t even crossed his mind. He hadn’t gone looking for specific memories—he’d gone to just remember. To walk through the place that had raised him. To make sure it was still intact.

Not to search for images frozen in time.

Iris must’ve seen something shift in his expression, because she stepped in a little closer.

“Thank you, by the way," she said quietly. "For letting us go. And for trusting us. Trusting me.”

Her voice didn’t shake. It was quiet, but steady and honest. And a little older than he remembered her sounding a few hours ago.

“I know you’re not thrilled with this idea,” she added, a small, knowing smirk curling at the corner of her mouth.

No. He wasn’t. Not even close.

But still, he gave her a nod. A small one, slow and reluctant, but a real one.

“Just be careful,” he had said, voice a little rougher than intended.

“We will. And we’re not leaving Troll territory,” she promised. “We’re just going home.”

Then she’d smiled—really smiled—and added, “And when we get back… I’d like to show you some of the pictures and the things we bring back. If that’s okay.”

Branch let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders dropped a little.

“I would like that as well,” he said softly.

And then they were gone.

Now, Branch stood there, arms still folded, the wind tugging gently at his fur. The slope of the hill stretched quiet and empty again. Behind him, the hatch to his bunker gaped open, the familiar dark stillness pressing out like a breath held too long.

The silence felt like a weight.

He didn’t know if this had been the right choice. But he had made it and understood why it was needed. He’d nodded. He’d said yes. He had trusted her.

“Branch?”

Poppy’s voice was soft, gentle. Right now, it felt like a rope tossed to him before he could start drifting too far away. He felt her paw slip into his, warm and steady. Then he felt himself take an involuntary breath.

“You okay?” she asked, peering up at him, concern clear in her eyes.

Branch blinked, then gave a shallow nod before turning to face her fully. “Yeah,” he said. “Just nervous.”

Poppy squeezed his paw, grounding him with the smallest gesture. “I’m sure they’ll be okay. They’re not alone, and Lonesome Flats is one of the safest territories in the region. And it’s their home.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Lonesome Flats wasn’t exactly bustling, but it wasn’t dangerous either, not like some of the places they could be going. It was safe. And the kids had grown up there. They probably knew every path, every crooked tree, every voice. It was a whole lot better than when he and Poppy went to the other territories. 

Still didn’t quiet the nerves churning in his gut.

“I know,” he admitted, honestly in a low voice. “It just doesn’t make me less nervous.”

Poppy gave a gentle nod, then leaned in and nudged her forehead softly against his. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know—” Branch started, but his voice cracked, sharp and sudden. He swallowed hard, throat thick. “I just… It’s like everything’s going wrong.”

Did anything feel right?

“Wrong how?” Poppy asked softly, tilting her head to keep his gaze. “What do you think went wrong?”

He gave a helpless shrug, shoulders tense, like they were bracing for collapse. “Everything,” he breathed out, and even that sounded too tight, too small. “Arts and Crafts Day? Iris got judged by that junior instructor two minutes in. Cash and Jo barely looked interested. It ended with everyone covered in paint or dyed orange—orange, Poppy.”

She didn’t interrupt. She just stayed with him, present and patient.

“Photography day was… fine. Probably the best one. But even then, I could tell—nobody was really having fun. Not really.” His words started picking up speed, tumbling faster, sharper, more brittle with each breath. “And then gardening day—clouds above. Muese. Could anything have gone worse?”

“Branch—” Poppy said gently, reaching for him, but it was too late. He was unraveling.

“I told them they’d be safe here,” he said, voice rising. “I told Iris this place was different now. That being grey didn’t matter anymore. That the Pop Village had changed. That it was better. That we were better. But—" His breath hitched, ragged now, “I lied. I lied to them.”

His throat burned. His chest felt too tight. “They were supposed to feel safe here. They were supposed to feel wanted. And I couldn’t even give them that. I couldn’t even get one day right.”

The thoughts were tripping over each other now, piling on like a landslide. His chest heaved. Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe?

Too loud. It’s too loud.

“JD’s gonna wake up,” he choked, “and his kids—his kids are gonna be worse off than before. Worse than when he went under. And he’s gonna know. He’s gonna know it’s all my fault.”

His hands were shaking now. Breathe shallow. “Muses, I’m failing them, Poppy. I’m failing everyone. John’s gonna hate me. He’s going to leave again. They’re all going to leave—”

"Branch!”

Her voice cut through the spiral—firm, but not harsh.

He startled, blinking.

She stepped closer, reaching out gently, and took his trembling paws in hers. The warmth of her grip, the steadiness of it, pulled him just enough out of his own head.

“Breathe,” Poppy said softly. “Just breathe with me, okay?”

Branch nodded. His chest still felt tight, like there was a rope pulling it inward, but he tried.

They stood there, close, matching their breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Again. Slowly. The chaos began to retreat. The buzzing in his ears faded. His throat loosened. His heartbeat, wild just moments ago, started to find a rhythm again.

Once she felt him start to settle, Poppy reached up and cupped his face, guiding his eyes gently to hers.

“Branch,” she said, voice firm but still impossibly kind, “you didn’t lie to them and you haven't failed them.”

His mouth opened to argue, but she shook her head and spoke before he could say a word.

“One grouchy troll being awful doesn’t undo everything you’ve done. That’s not on you. And these past few days? They weren’t failures, Branch. Not even close.”

She reached into her hair and carefully pulled something free.

A photo.

She unfolded it and held it up between them. It was the picture Iris had taken on Arts and Crafts Day. Poppy must’ve asked her for a copy.

Branch stared.

In the background, Cash sat cross-legged on a table with Wynona in his lap, holding her new scrapbook, the group had been working on before Ronen found the good paints and dyes. Both of them had soft, genuine smiles as they watched the scene in front of them. 

To the side, Clay and Floyd were caught mid-attempt to clean paint off their clothes and furs. Clay looked mildly annoyed, but there was laughter in his eyes. Floyd had orange streaks across his cheeks and a grin wide enough to hurt. Both of them were looking towards the center of the picture.

Across the frame, Poppy held Jo in her arms. Jo’s expression was lit with awe, her wide eyes fixed on the center of the picture. Poppy beamed, mid-laugh, the kind of joy that couldn’t be faked.

And at the very center of it all: Delta, holding up Ronen like a prize, while Bruce tried—and failed—to dodge the toddler’s paint-smeared paws. Ronen looked delighted. Bruce was laughing.

Everyone, everyone, was smiling.

Everyone looked like they were having fun.

“You didn’t fail,” Poppy said gently, holding the photo between them. “You gave them a memory. Even if parts of it were messy.”

Branch blinked hard. Something behind his eyes burned—not painful, just full. Too full.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he tried again, slower this time. “I didn’t… see it like this.”

“I know,” she said, squeezing his paw. “You were so focused on making everything perfect that you didn’t see what actually happened.”

His jaw clenched, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He just kept looking down at the photo, brushing his thumb lightly across Jo’s awestruck face. That feeling, the fear that he’d ruined everything, was still there, but it had dulled. It had room now to be something else.

He exhaled, long and steady, and looked up at her. His mouth twitched, just barely.

“Thanks, Poppy.”

Her grin returned instantly, bright and full of relief. She leaned in and bumped her forehead gently against his.

"Anytime,” she said warmly. Then, with a sparkle in her eye, “Now come on.”

She gave his paw one last squeeze before releasing it.

“Tresillo and Wani should be here soon. We need to find Hickory and be ready to meet them.”

Right. The meeting.

Branch straightened, tucked the photo carefully into his vest, and nodded. He shook out his fur before starting back toward the hill path beside her.

Tresillo. Wani.......And Hickory.

He’d almost forgotten—in the haze of anxiety over Iris and the kids—that today wasn’t just about waiting around for the kids to come back. Today had its own weight.

The moment he got back to the village, he had sent word to Wani and Tresillo. He’d barely let himself sit down until he had. The moment Iris told him how the Rageons found them, how prepared they seemed, how it all felt orchestrated. He’d known something wasn’t right. Something about it gnawed at him. Something tight and cold. It hadn’t left his mind since she told him.

So he’d immediately sent letters to Wani and Tresillo. And they’d responded quickly. Their letters had arrived earlier that week. Already en route, they said, planning to help however they could.

Originally, the plan had been simple: four trolls. Him, Poppy, Tresillo, and Wani. Small and manageable enough not to raise an alarm. These were trolls he trusted, but then Hickory had to get involved. Of course he did.

Branch had said no. Flat out.

Hickory wasn’t in his top ten favorite people. He wasn’t in his top fifty. And now, after hearing about Hickory's relationship to John and what happened, he honestly had a harder time thinking of someone he liked less.

But then Poppy—reasonable, maddening, relentlessly practical Poppy—had pointed out that Hickory had experience. And if there was a threat, Hickory might see something the rest of them wouldn’t.

Branch hadn’t liked it, but he hadn’t argued again after that. Just grumbled and kept him up-to-date on what he was planning.

Now, the meeting was less than an hour away.

“ B!"

The voice rang out across the clearing—loud, warm, and unmistakable. A second later, a familiar arm slung around Branch’s shoulders in a half-hug.

Branch barely had time to brace before he was pulled slightly off-balance.

“Long time no see, man! How’ve you been?”

Despite everything, the nerves, the tension, the fact that he’d been stress-simmering for the last forty-eight hours, Branch couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his mouth. It had only been a little over two months since he last saw Tresillo, but the Reggaeton bounty hunter had that effect.

If he remembered right, Tresillo and his sisters had still been helping finish the final phase of reconstruction in Funk territory when Branch had sent the letter.

“Like he has to answer,” came another voice—equally familiar, equally smug.

Branch turned just as Wani approached, light on her feet as always, her bright blue K-Pop-styled hair bouncing with every step. She had a thin envelope in her hand, which she waved theatrically.

“From what you wrote,” she said, raising an eyebrow with a teasing smirk, “Pop boy’s been very busy.” She tapped the envelope against her palm. “Apparently, you’ve got a few nieces and nephews now. You never told us you had a sibling.”

Branch opened his mouth—maybe to deny it, maybe just to sigh—but Poppy beat him to it, her tone light and playfully scandalized.

“To be fair, he didn’t tell anyone.”

Wani gasped, mock-horrified. “He didn’t tell you either, Pinkie-Pop?” she said dramatically, spinning on her heel to face Poppy. “How dare he?”

That earned a laugh from both her and Tresillo, and even Branch let out a quiet huff of amusement.

Poppy stepped forward to hug Wani. “It’s good to see you,” she said genuinely.

“You too,” Wani replied, hugging her back. “Honestly, it’s been way too long since we've talked in person.”

When they pulled apart, Tresillo gave Branch a friendly slap on the back. “So what’s the situation, man? We were halfway through a peaceful week of rewiring and arguing about color swatches, and then your letter hits us like a record scratch.”

Branch snorted, his expression sobering. “I’ll fill you both in once we’re inside. There’s... a lot.”

Wani tilted her head. “Heavy kind of ‘a lot’ or ‘this-could-end-with-a-chase-scene’ kind of a lot?”

“Maybe both,” Branch and Poppy said at the same time.

Tresillo let out a low whistle. “Guess it’s a good thing we’ve got experience in both,” he said, as casually as if he were listing skills on a résumé.

Wani flipped her bangs out of her face, her grin sharp. “Then let’s get to work.”

Branch exhaled. “Before we start, there’s one thing—” he said, reluctantly. “Hickory is going to be joining us as well.”

That earned him a look.

Tresillo blinked, then frowned. “Hickory? As in the bounty hunter Hickory? I thought he and that brother of his were helping out in Country territory.”

“They were.”

Tresillo squinted like he was trying to determine if this was a joke. “Wait. Hold on. You—” he pointed at Branch, “—sent a letter to Hickory... asking for his help?” He said it like it personally offended him.

“Not exactly,” Branch muttered.

Wani folded her arms, her posture tense, and her eyes narrow. “What does 'not exactly' mean?”

Branch sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with a quiet groan. “Technically,” he said, slow and grudging, “he’s here because of the information I gave you in the letters. But more than anything, he is here because he is a part of this.”

There was a beat of silence as Wani and Tresillo exchanged a look.

“Okaaay…” Wani drew the word out, suspiciously. “You want to expand on that a little more before I start jumping to my own conclusions?”

Branch inhaled through his nose, bracing himself. “Let’s take this somewhere private,” he said. “There’s a lot to talk about.”

Poppy stepped in immediately. “Let’s go to my pod. No one should bother us there—and Hickory will be meeting us, too.”

No one needed to be told twice.

The four of them moved quickly, slipping through the winding paths of the village. The familiar buzz of chatter and music slowly faded behind them, replaced by the hush of the outer woodlands—soft breeze, rustling leaves, birdsong that felt too delicate for what was coming.

Inside the pod, the mood shifted. The cheerful warmth of the space, usually a comfort, now sat at odds with the weird, heavy, and confused energy they were carrying.

Branch flopped into the wide armchair with a long exhale, scrubbing a paw down his face. He didn’t sit up. Didn’t try to compose himself.

But when he spoke, his voice was steady.

“Okay,” he began, eyes flicking between Tresillo and Wani, “the reason I asked you both to come here in the first place is because my oldest brother—John—was kidnapped.”

The words fell like a stone. The room froze.

Any playful energy that might have lingered from before evaporated. No one moved. No one breathed.

“What?” Tresillo said sharply, his casual slouch gone as he sat forward, tense.

“When?” Wani asked, nearly over him, her tone clipped and low.

“Two and a half months ago,” Branch replied. “Him and his kids. All of them. They were out hiking. From what I’ve been told by a troll who went looking for them, there was no sign of a struggle. No note. Nothing. They were just… gone.”

He paused, jaw tight.

“We didn’t even know anything had happened until weeks later. My brothers—there are four of them—we haven’t exactly been close. We have just now started to reconnect. So none of us realized anything was wrong.”

“But you found them,” Wani said, voice trying to tread the line between hope and suspicion. Her posture eased—but her eyes didn’t. They narrowed, calculating. “You wouldn’t be telling us this if you hadn’t.”

Branch’s expression darkened. His voice dipped quieter.

“I didn’t find them.”

Another silence, longer this time.

He looked down, paws clenched. “Someone who was involved in the kidnapping started second-guessing everything. They waited until my brother was nearly dead. Nearly dead. And then they finally broke and called the authorities. That’s how he was found. That’s how the kids were found.”

The stillness that followed felt dense.

No one touched the tray of prepared lemonade Poppy had made for this meeting. Its presence suddenly felt surreal, like something left behind from a different conversation in a different world.

Wani leaned back slowly, crossing her arms, her expression unreadable now. Tresillo stared at a spot on the floor, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

Poppy didn’t move. Her eyes stayed on Branch, quiet and steady, waiting, not pushing.

Branch swallowed. “He’s stable now. Recovering. But he’s not awake. He’s not back. And I don’t know when—or if—he’s going to be.”

His voice cracked then, just faintly, and he quickly cleared his throat.

“I know this is a lot,” he added. “I didn't write it in the letters because I thought it was something better discussed in person.”

“You said kids,” Tresillo said slowly, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. “As in… more than one?”

Branch nodded. “Five of them.”

“Five?” Tresillo echoed, like the number couldn’t possibly be right.

“Yes,” Poppy said gently, settling beside Branch. “Iris, Cash, Ronen, Wynona, and Jolene. Ages nineteen to five. It’s… been a lot.” She didn’t say traumatic, but the word was there anyway, hanging in the quiet.

Wani raised an eyebrow, eyes sharp and narrowing. “Okay. So what happened? Where were they taken? Who did it? And more importantly—where does Hickory fit into all this?”

A new voice answered before Branch could.

“Because I’m John’s ex,” Hickory said, smooth as silk, stepping into the pod like he’d been there the whole time. “And Cash and Jolene’s biological dad... and Iris’s adoptive one as well.”

All heads turned.

Hickory stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable. His presence was sharp—quiet but coiled, like someone ready to dodge a punch or throw one. There was no ease in his stance. No smile. Just a barely-contained tension beneath the surface.

It was a far cry from the troll who had once curled into himself in a moment of raw confession, explaining how his relationship with his brother John had shattered—how a lie he told had spiraled, leading to John getting hurt, and Hickory walking away from him, from Iris, and from his son, Cash.

For a long second, Branch could do nothing but stare.

Adoptive?

That hadn’t come up. Not once. He knew Hickory and John had been engaged. He’d known some of their history, that it had ended messily. But this? This?

His mind scrambled to make sense of it.

No one had mentioned it. Not Iris. Not Cash. And definitely not Styx or Delta. Had the others known? Had Hickory told anyone else? No. No, Iris and Jo had been the guarded ones. Protective with every sliver of personal information. Iris wouldn’t have told anyone unless she had a reason.

Poppy's eyes flicked between Branch and Hickory, sharp enough to slice bark.

“That,” she said slowly, “feels like a pretty big thing to leave out.”

“It wasn’t Branch’s secret to share,” Hickory replied coolly, stepping farther into the room. His gaze didn’t shift from Wani’s, steady but unflinching. “It’s mine. And Iris’s. And Jo’s. And even Cash’s, whether he likes it or not.”

Tresillo blinked. “What the—how long were you standing there?”

“Long enough,” Hickory said mildly. “Sorry to drop in like this without knocking. Poppy told me where to go.”

He stepped fully into the room, the soft light catching the wear in his clothes and the edge in his eyes.

Wani's posture stiffened like a drawn bow. Her voice, when it came, was cool and smooth as glass. “Billy Goat Gruff, the younger,” she said with a cold smile.

Hickory’s smile matched hers, sharp and thin. “Wani. It has been a while.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “How have you been?”

“Good, good,” Wani replied, her smile not reaching her eyes. “You know, working, hunting, not burning bridges with someone who wants to help. You know the usual.”

Tresillo, beside her, visibly tensed. His easygoing nature was still there in his eyes, but his body had gone still in that subtle way that meant he was gauging threat. A finger tapped against his leg once, twice.

Branch glanced at Poppy. She met his look with one of her own, both uncertain and wary. Neither of them knew this part of the story. Clearly, Wani and Tresillo did.

“You never told us you had a kid or two,” Wani continued, voice even but edged with ice, her stare locked on Hickory like a pin. “And after all the jobs we did together. All those months in Jinglethorn. Remember that time in the Echo Gorges? When you swore you’d protect your family—even if they weren’t blood related?”

Her voice didn't rise, but the accusation in it was loud enough.

Hickory’s jaw ticked. Just slightly. A flicker of something sharp behind his eyes.

“I didn’t lie,” he said simply. The words came out flat. “It’s not my fault you assumed that included you. Someone who—let’s not forget—shot me with an arrow not even a week earlier.”

That did it.

Wani stiffened like someone had pulled a wire in her spine. Her fur bristled, her fists curled, and she stood in one swift, clean motion. Tresillo rose beside her without hesitation—silent but present, a familiar wall of calm backup.

Hickory didn’t flinch. He met them step for step, like he’d been expecting this since the moment he walked in.

Branch stood fast, Poppy just behind him, close enough to catch him if things tipped too far. He didn’t move between them, not exactly, but he planted himself where it mattered—enough to draw the room’s gravity toward him.

“That’s enough,” he said firmly, tone slicing through the heat. His gaze cut between Wani, Tresillo, and Hickory like a scalpel. “We’re not doing this right now.”

He turned toward Wani and Tresillo, arms crossing tightly. “Look, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea either,” Branch admitted. “Still not. But he’s here. And whether we like it or not, he’s involved. And he wants to help.”

There was a long beat of silence, drawn and tight.

Wani’s jaw worked, clenched, and unclenched. Then, finally, she turned away with a short, sharp breath through her nose. Her tail twitched once behind her.

“Fine,” she muttered, shoulders tense. “But if we’re all working together, we need transparency. No more surprises. No more secrets. If I’m going to have to watch his back, then I need to know he’ll watch mine.”

“That sounds doable,” Poppy said gently, her voice threading through the room like silk as she glanced at Hickory. “Right, Hickory?”

All eyes turned toward him.

Branch watched as Hickory’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together in a movement so subtle only someone who knew him would have caught it.

Then—“Fine,” Hickory said, clipped and low.

“Good,” Wani replied, still facing the wall.

She turned back, expression blank, professional, measured, but her eyes hadn’t softened. Not even a little.

Poppy exhaled quietly, the way someone does when the temperature in a room drops a few degrees. She gestured to the couch. “Everyone, sit. We’ve got a lot to go through.”

Tresillo hesitated. His eyes drifted between Branch and Wani, then to Hickory. Slowly, he sat, though his posture remained upright, ready. Watching.

Wani followed, easing onto the other end of the couch with military precision. She sat with a clear line of sight to Hickory and her arm resting along the back, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all.

Branch lowered himself back into his chair. Poppy settled next to him again, and even just sitting there, she anchored the room—calm, grounded, steady. Like she always did.

Hickory stood a moment longer, unmoving. Then, finally, he walked around the edge of the pod and dropped into a low chair near the far wall. He didn’t lean back. He didn’t settle. He sat on the edge, spine straight, like a coiled spring waiting for the next blow to fall.

The silence that followed was tight, but not quite brittle.

Branch let out a breath before turning to Poppy, who met his gaze with an encouraging smile and a steady nod. He took the cue, steadied himself, and turned back to the three bounty hunters.

“Okay, first off, I do want to say—thank you for coming,” he began, his tone earnest. “I know you’re both really busy helping with the rebuilding in Funk and Classical territory.”

That acknowledgment seemed to help. Wani’s shoulders eased a little, and Tresillo’s posture lost some of its stiffness. They both nodded in quiet agreement.

“It’s not a problem,” Wani said simply, giving him a short nod of respect.

“We were more than happy to come,” Tresillo added. “And we know you wouldn’t have called us unless it mattered.”

Branch offered a brief but grateful smile. “Thanks. I appreciate that. Really.”

Then he took a breath and let it out slowly, steeling himself as he eased into what was clearly weighing on him.

“So… let’s get started,” Branch said, shifting forward in his chair, elbows resting lightly on his knees. “On the drive back from picking up the kids, after I received temporary custody, Iris, the oldest, said something… concerning.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Branch caught the shift.

Hickory stiffened. It was subtle, but unmistakable. The fur along the backs of his arms bristled. His already-tense posture leaned forward another inch, every line of him suddenly sharp, like a lit match just waiting for wind.

Wani and Tresillo exchanged a glance.

“Concerning how?” Tresillo asked, voice low and steady.

Branch exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. He dropped his gaze for a beat, then looked up again.

“She said it felt like the Rageons were waiting for them. Like they knew they were going to be there… before they ever showed up.”

A thick silence settled across the room.

Tresillo’s brow furrowed deeply, his head tilting ever so slightly, like he was trying to look at the words from a different angle, hoping they might make more sense turned on their side. Wani didn’t speak, but her lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line. The change in her posture was subtle but telling: shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes razor-sharp.

Hickory stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a muted scrape. He started to pace, long, controlled strides that carved lines through the room. His paws settled on his hips, then dropped, then clenched again. Shoulders hunched. His whole body stormy, cold.

“Like they walked into a trap,” Wani said quietly, more statement than question. Her gaze flicked back to Branch. “How exactly did she put it?”

Branch nodded once. “She said it felt like a trap. Like they were supposed to feel safe, like they always had been there before, but something was wrong this time. He swallowed, then added, “She said it was like… the Rageons already knew they’d be there. Like someone told them. Or they were being watched.”

Tresillo’s unease was written plainly across his face now. Wani leaned forward slightly in her seat, the light catching in her narrowed eyes.

Branch’s voice dropped a notch—quieter now, not from fear, but from something heavier like a mix between worry and frustration. “She also said she’d never seen someone like that in the Neverglades before. And she’s been hiking there once a year since she was a kid.”

That hit harder than expected. Even Hickory froze mid-step.

Because if Iris was right… they weren’t just targeted.

They were chosen.

“The Neverglades?” Wani repeated, her voice suddenly sharper with confusion. “Did you say the Neverglades?”

Before Branch could respond, Hickory cut in, already shaking his head. “That’s not the part we need to focus on.”

“Not important?” Wani echoed, incredulous. “The Neverglades are one of the most undocumented, unpredictable places out there—and you’re just brushing that off?”

“For most trolls, maybe,” Hickory shot back, voice steady but edged. “But not for John. He lived out there for months when Iris was a baby and even longer before we met. No one knows those woods better than he does, except maybe one of his kids.” He glanced toward the others, like clarifying something he’d said before. “Iris was born out there. They know it like a second home.”

His gaze turned fully to Branch then, and his tone dropped, dark and biting.

“What does matter,” Hickory said, “is why you’re only now bringing this up." The words cracked across the pod like a whip—clean, cold, accusing.

Branch’s fur bristled. His back straightened, a slow rise like a storm front moving in, and when he turned toward Hickory, his glare was knife-sharp.

“You really want to go there?” he growled, low and dangerous. “You, of all trolls, have the audacity to question me about timing? After everything you’ve pulled?”

Hickory’s jaw worked. His fists curled tight, knuckles blanching as if holding back something worse. Wani’s hand drifted toward her belt—instinctive, cautious. Tresillo opened his mouth, stopped, and thought better of it.

“Branch,” Hickory snapped, trying and failing, to keep his cool, “do you have any idea how much time you’ve wasted? If this was planned—if someone put out a hit, a bounty, a target on JD and the kids—I could’ve been doing something. I could’ve started digging, leaning on sources, calling in debts. You have any idea how much intel I could’ve had by now?”

Branch’s lips curled, a snarl bubbling up from the heat in his chest, but underneath it, beneath the fire, a cold flicker stirred. A twinge of something uncomfortably close to guilt.

Because—as annoying as he was—Hickory had a point.

Branch hadn’t told him. Hadn’t even considered it. He didn’t trust Hickory, didn’t like him, didn’t want him near the kids more than necessary.

But this time, Hickory, obnoxious, unpredictable, untrustworthy Hickory… might actually have been useful.

And maybe… just maybe… he could’ve helped.

Branch shoved that thought down. Smothered it. Locked it behind his teeth where it wouldn’t show.

Not now. Not here.

“That doesn’t matter now,” Branch snapped, cutting Hickory off before he could press the advantage. He turned sharply to Tresillo and Wani. “I asked you two here because I want to know if you’ve heard anything. Has anyone been whispering about a bounty? Especially one targeting a Pop troll? Or do you know anyone who might know something?”

Wani and Tresillo exchanged a look. Not in surprise—just shared reluctance and irritation. Then they grimaced.

“Yeah,” Tresillo said finally, voice low and dark. “We know someone.”

Branch straightened, a flare of hope sparking in his chest.

But Tresillo didn’t look remotely pleased about it.

“Trouble is…” he went on, dragging a sigh through his nose, “…he’s standing in this room right now.”

Then he lifted a finger and pointed.

Directly over Branch’s shoulder.

Right. At. Hickory.

Oh, come on.

Branch turned slowly, the muscles in his jaw tightening with every degree of the pivot. He stared at Hickory like the words might rearrange themselves into something that made sense.

“You?” he said, low and sharp. Controlled—but just barely. “You’re the one troll who might know?”

Hickory gave him that maddening smile—the one that always sat one breath away from a smirk. Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. Like this was some kind of joke, and he was the punchline.

“Yes,” Hickory said coolly. “Me.”

Branch inhaled through his nose, short and fast, every part of him screaming, don’t lose it, don’t give him the satisfaction. “And why,” he ground out, “are you the one who might know?”

But before Hickory could open his mouth—before he could get a single cocky word in—

Wani cut in. Cold and flat.

“Because anytime there was a bounty on a Pop troll,” she said, voice like flint striking flint, “Hickory was the one who took it.”

The room dropped into stunned silence.

What.

Branch blinked.

His brain short-circuited on the spot. That sentence had no place in reality. He turned his head back toward Hickory in slow motion, like maybe—maybe—he’d misheard.

But the look on Hickory’s face told him he hadn’t.

His posture stiffened. He threw Wani a sharp, exasperated look, more frustration than guilt. “Okay, you’re making that sound way worse than it actually is.”

Branch’s jaw dropped. “How is there a not-bad version of that?!” he snapped, voice rising dangerously.

Poppy looked like she was gripping every thread of composure she had left. “Okay, okay, everyone just breathe,” she said quickly, stepping between them, paws raised in that classic Poppy, Peacekeeper gesture. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for this.”

Then she turned—fast—toward Hickory, wide-eyed and pleading like she needed that logic right now. “Hickory… please tell me there’s a logical explanation for this.”

“There is,” he said, softer now. No more smugness, just calm, careful words. “You probably don’t know this, but… up until the Rock Tour? Most trolls believed the Pop Tribe was extinct. Like, completely gone. For decades.”

Poppy’s brows shot up. “Extinct?”

Hickory nodded. “Wiped out in the aftermath of the six tribes separated. No one had heard anything from Pop territory in decades. No visitors, no messages, nothing. After a while, folks stopped asking. A few trolls tried to find y'all, but… none of them ever came back. So the investigations stopped.”

“That’s true,” Tresillo said quietly, voice low and edged with something that might have been guilt. “When Queen Barb put out that bounty on the two of you, most of us thought she’d finally lost it. Hardly anyone believed a real Pop troll still existed.”

Branch stared at him. “So you… what, hunted ghosts?”

“No,” Hickory said with a faint shake of his head. “Up until recently, there were only three rumored Pop trolls thought to still be out there… Two full-blooded and one half.”

Branch’s brain clicked into place like a lock catching. He looked up, eyes narrowing. “John… Iris… and Cash.”

Hickory nodded. “Right. And now we can add Ronen, Wynona, and Jolene to that list.”

His voice dropped—low, hoarse, and quieter now—and something in his shoulders slumped. The tension didn’t vanish, but it eased, like a storm finally letting up.

“Look…” He turned to Branch, and for the first time, the edge was gone. No smirk. No challenge. Just exhaustion in his eyes, like someone who’d been running on nothing but fumes.

“I know I messed up,” Hickory said, voice steady but worn. “And if you want to remind me of that every day for the rest of my life? Fine, go ahead. I won’t argue.” He paused, his gaze steady. Not defensive. Not begging. Just honest. “But don’t think, not for one second, that I ever stopped caring about them.”

The words hit like a weight in the room.

“I knew how much danger they were in. John could disguise himself. He could hide the kids. But that didn’t change the fact that they were lone Pop trolls in a world where not everyone had forgiven what the first Pop Queen, or what the Pop genre, had done.” The fight drained out of him completely. His hands dropped to his sides. His shoulders sank. He just looked… tired.

“JD was mad at me,” Hickory said quietly. “He had every right to be. So I stepped back and gave him some space.”

His gaze dropped for a second, then lifted again, steadier, but not without weight.

“But I still kept watch. I had to," he said earnestly, "So yeah, I took those bounties when they came up—not to collect them. Never to collect. I took them to find out who else was watching. Who else might be hunting. And then I’d… convince them to back off. Pull the posting. Erase the trail. Whatever it took to keep the heat off John and the kids.”

He fell quiet.

Branch didn’t respond right away. His jaw worked like it was caught on something. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, the tension rolling off him like a rising tide.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, tight, controlled—but only just.

“Why didn’t you say any of this before?” His eyes narrowed. “Styx didn’t mention it. Delta didn’t mention it. Do they even know?”

Hickory’s expression twisted, guilt flashing like a crack in glass. His eyes dropped again, and for a moment, he looked like someone standing in the wreckage of his own choices.

“They didn’t need to know,” he said quietly, like the very idea of telling them left a sour taste in his mouth. “It wouldn’t have helped anything.”

Branch’s brow furrowed. He was about to speak again when Poppy stepped in, softer but no less concerned.

“Does anyone know?” she asked gently.

Hickory shrugged one shoulder, gaze fixed somewhere far off. “Dickory,” he muttered. “He knows… he knows about all of it.”

There was something in Hickory’s voice, not just resignation, but self-reproach. Like every word chipped away at something inside him, another mark on a long list of regrets he couldn’t erase. Like just saying it aloud was a fresh reminder: JD was hurt because of him. And he hadn’t stopped it.

Branch felt a small tug of guilt coil in his stomach. No, he didn’t trust Hickory. Not fully. Maybe never again. But he also couldn’t ignore what Hickory had done… or what he hadn’t let happen.

He cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said, the word thick like it had to be dragged out of him. “Would he—Dickory—know anything? About the bounty?”

Hickory shrugged, his honesty cutting through the weariness. “I really don’t know. Things kinda… stopped once the World Tour kicked off. He knows I’ve been looking for them, but he doesn’t know I actually found them yet. I sent him a letter, but it probably hasn’t reached him.”

“Is he still in Country Territory?” Tresillo asked, brows raised.

Hickory nodded. “Yeah. We were both helping with the rebuild when Delta got the letter from the Rageon hospital about custody. She told me, Dickory told me to go. Said he’d stay behind and keep working.”

“Then he might run into them,” Poppy said suddenly.

Everyone turned to look at her, while Branch let out a sigh as his head started to hurt. He did not want to talk or think about this again.

“What do you mean?” Hickory asked, blinking like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

“The kids,” Poppy said simply. “They’re heading to Country Territory, right now.”

“What?” Wani’s voice spiked, sharp, and incredulous. “You let them leave? Alone? After everything that just happened to them?”

Poppy flinched slightly at the tone but held her ground. “No—no, of course not. They’re not alone.” She shook her head quickly, trying to ease the tension. “Styx went with them. He’s JD’s friend—basically family. And it is just a quick trip. In and out. Just long enough to pack what they need.”

Wani exhaled slowly, the rigid line of her shoulders easing—but not relaxing completely. “That still seems risky,” she muttered.

“I know,” Branch added quietly, his ears angling back in a subtle mirror of her concern. “But they need this. A bit of closure. Some familiar ground. They’ve had everything ripped out from under them… they deserve something of their own,” he said, defending a decision he still didn't fully agree to.

Hickory took a small step forward, voice stronger now, more certain. “They’ll be fine. Honestly? They know that land better than I ever did. And it’s not like they’re helpless.”

Poppy turned toward him, frowning. “What do you mean ‘not helpless’?”

He hesitated—but only for a beat. Then he met her eyes, steady. “They know how to fight.”

Branch’s head snapped toward him, disbelief flaring like a spark. “They what?” His voice cut through the room like a whip. “They know how to fight?” No one had said anything about them knowing how to fight.

Hickory gave a slow nod, his tone even, but shaded with something—regret, maybe. “Yeah. They do.” He glanced toward the floor, then back up. “I taught them.”

The silence that followed was tight and immediate.

“You taught children how to fight?” Tresillo asked, his voice flat and unimpressed, brows raised like Hickory had just confessed to arming toddlers.

Hickory offered a weak smile, scratching at the back of his neck. “Well… it started with JD. He asked me to show him a few things, just in case. Self-defense stuff.” His gaze flicked to Branch, then back to the others. “But Iris… she asked, too. She was serious about it, so I taught her the basics.”

Wani and Tresillo exchanged a look, somewhere between disbelief and reevaluation.

“And what exactly counts as ‘the basics’ to you?” Wani asked, arms crossed tight against her chest.

Hickory rolled his eyes a little, but the movement lacked real bite. “Nothing extreme, alright? Just enough to help her defend herself. How to throw a punch. Where to aim. And most importantly—what to do if someone tries to grab you.” His voice dropped slightly, quieter now. “I told her: nothing’s off the table. Punch, kick, headbutt, bite, claw—whatever it takes to get away.”

Poppy’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to something far heavier. “And she was how old?”

“Seven. Maybe seven and a half.” Hickory tried to keep his tone casual, but it couldn’t hide the shadow beneath. Like it still burned, somewhere deep, that she’d needed to know that kind of thing at all.

Branch swallowed, his voice rough. “Did any of the other kids learn?”

Hickory shrugged. “That depends on whether Iris or John taught them. But if Iris passed anything on… wouldn’t surprise me.”

Branch’s brow furrowed, the weight of it settling somewhere between disbelief and reluctant understanding. “And John was okay with this?”

“Oh, yeah,” Hickory said with a short nod. “He really believed in being able to protect yourself. He carried a knife with him to most places. A machete if we were heading anywhere close to tall-folk territory.”

Branch blinked, caught off guard. That… he hadn’t expected. But the longer he sat with it, the more it made sense.

It wasn’t reckless. It was practical. He had his own hidden stashes. After a lifetime under the shadow of the Bergens, always bracing for something sharp and cruel to come out of the dark, it didn’t feel strange at all. It felt smart.

And it made sense—of course it did—that JD would want his kids to be prepared. That he’d give them every tool, every scrap of knowledge he could to keep them from ever being helpless.

A quiet settled over the group, just for a moment, each of them lost in thought.

Poppy was the one to finally break it. “Okay,” she said, voice soft but decisive. “I think that’s enough for today.” She looked tired now, the weight of the conversation pressing behind her eyes. “Tresillo, Wani—if you want to talk to the kids about what they remember, we’ll check with them tonight, see how they feel about it.”

Wani gave a thoughtful nod. “Sounds good. We’ll also send out some letters, get the K-Pop Idols and the Reggaeton crew to keep their ears open.”

“If there was a bounty,” Tresillo added, “someone out there will know something.”

Branch gave them both a grateful look. “Thank you. Seriously. Even if it leads nowhere… at least we’ll know we tried. And maybe Iris can finally sleep a little easier.”

With that, the meeting ended. Poppy led Tresillo and Wani to a guest pod where they could stay the night, gently reassuring them that they’d reconvene in the morning. Hickory slipped away quietly, heading back to the clinic to sit with JD for a while—Delta would be there too.

And Branch…

Branch was left sitting outside, alone with his thoughts.

Muses, that was a lot.

He hadn’t known about Hickory’s history with the K-Pop trolls. From the way Wani and Tresillo bickered, Branch had just assumed bounty hunters shared some kind of rough camaraderie—professional allies, if nothing else. But clearly, it was more complicated than that.

And everything with JD…

He’d been so focused on what Hickory had done wrong—so wrapped up in his own anger and distrust—that he hadn’t stopped to think about what Hickory might’ve done right. He still didn’t trust the guy, not entirely. But maybe… maybe Hickory really had been trying. In his own backwards, infuriating, secretive way.

Branch let out a slow breath. The wind stirred the trees gently, cool against his fur. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice Clay had walked up beside him.

“Hey, B,” Clay said softly.

Branch startled, head jerking toward him. “Geez—you scared me.”

“Sorry.” Clay offered a sheepish smile. “You okay?”

Branch hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s just… been a lot. Today. This whole week.”

Clay nodded. “Yeah. I figured.”

Branch’s eyes flicked toward the bag slung over Clay’s chest. “Is that the projector Cooper gave you?”

Clay followed his gaze, then grinned. “Yep. He showed me how to hook it up and everything.”

“Cool,” Branch said, genuinely. Clay had been quietly working toward this ever since they’d found the tapes—sorting them, cleaning them, figuring out how to make it all work. “You thinking of doing a movie night once the kids get back?”

“Definitely,” Clay said. Then, more hesitantly: “But I was also thinking we could do a small one tonight. Just us.”

Branch tilted his head. “Without the kids?”

“Just a few tapes,” Clay clarified. “Ronen set some aside. He said they might be better for a quieter watch. Like Cash’s first contest. Apparently, Cash would crawl under a table if we showed that one in front of everyone.”

Branch raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah, it was his first public performance.”

Branch huffed a quiet laugh. “What else did Ronen pull?”

“A handful. Said we could pick,” Clay said, holding out a hand to help him up. “Though… they’re kinda out of order. He dropped them all over Rhonda when you got back. Took me forever to dig them out from under the couch and front seats.”

Branch grabbed his hand and let himself be pulled up with a grunt. For a moment, he stood there, brushing the bark from his fur. The thought of watching those tapes—just him, Clay, Bruce, and Floyd, no expectations, no pressure—settled warmly in his chest.

No fixing.

No talking.

Just… watching.

He looked at Clay and nodded. “Yeah. I’m down.” He offered a small, genuine smile. “Let’s go find the others and make it happen.”

Notes:

Here is part 2 of Reprise's anniversary special, with Branch POV. Here we had his perspective on the past few activity days with a bit of that "wanting everything to go just right and if not it's bad" attitude, and Poppy reminding him not to look on the negative side. Then the bounty hunter meeting. And some more info about Hickory (I may have started to make him a weird mix of deadbeat/accidental deadbeat, but I refuse to say he just stopped watching out for John and the kids and just disappeared. Cut to Hickory being far in the background of several photos.)

Chapter 24: Chapter 24: Branch POV

Notes:

Sorry, this one took a little longer than intended. This one was a bit of a challenge for me because of what I was trying to do and how long it originally was.

A few things. The format is different in this chapter. I tried to format this in a way to show the different jumps between the brothers and the tapes (if anyone has any advice to help make it easier to read, let me know):
Normal text- hasn't changed. normal conversation. nothing changed
Bold text - is the tape.
Bold, Italic & underline text - singing

There is a song in this chapter. I am including the name and the artist's name in the notes at the end. I have never put a song into a fic before, nor have I done a song fic either. And if you are someone who does that on a regular basis, I applaud you because it was weird to do.

Branch POV

It had taken some convincing, but in the end, Branch and Clay managed to talk Floyd into sitting down and watching a few of the tapes.

Floyd was reluctant. He clearly wasn’t in the mood to be around Bruce. And Bruce, at least from what Branch could see, looked quietly guilty about it.

Branch could guess why.

And honestly? It was fair to be upset. Branch hadn’t appreciated being blindsided either. It hadn’t just been the decision; it was the way it happened. There was no heads-up or conversation about it. Just here’s what’s happening. Get on board or get left behind.

"Okay," Clay said, holding up a worn-out tape, the sticker on it barely clinging to the plastic shell. At some point, it might’ve had a label, but whatever was written there had long since faded into nothing. "This one looks like the oldest out of the bunch."

“Ronen set aside a few he definitely wanted us to watch as a group,” he added, “but these? I figured we'd start with this one, and then go from there.” He looked up at the others, shrugging a little. “Sounds good?”

“Sounds good to me,” Bruce said, settling onto one end of the couch with a soft exhale.

“Let’s see what’s on the tape,” Floyd added from the opposite side, arms crossed, but his tone more curious than annoyed.

“Okay,” Clay said, more to himself than anyone else, as he carefully slid the tape into the slot on the small projector. “Here we go.”

The projector whirred softly to life. A small flicker of static danced across the wall before the screen settled into a warm, grainy image.

The screen flickered to life, filled with static for half a second before settling on the smiling face of a troll none of them recognized.

He looked young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with light brown-orange fur with hints of yellow in the light. His hair was a wild tangle of shaggy orange-gold. Around his light blue eyes, he wore thick black makeup, and both ears sparkled with mismatched piercings—at least half a dozen between them.

Definitely some kind of Rock sub-genre. Maybe even the same as Styx...actually, now that Branch was really looking, there was a faint resemblance.

“Good morning, everyone!” the troll said brightly, his voice bubbling with excitement as he leaned a little too close to the camera, jostling it with the sheer force of his enthusiasm. “My name is Carter, and I am so proud to welcome you to the first day of our very first tour!”

His grin widened as the shot flipped around, revealing the inside of what looked like a repurposed cargo van—band gear crammed into every corner, worn-out cushions thrown across mismatched seats, and a stuffed lizard-duck dangling from the rearview mirror like a mascot.

“So this is the mysterious Carter,” Floyd muttered, watching the screen like he was trying to memorize Carter's face.

Branch turned to glance at him, “Carter?” he echoed. “You know who this is?”

“Not really,” Floyd admitted, eyes still on the screen. “But Ronen mentioned him. Said he’s the one who gave Iris the camcorder. Then she passed it to Ronen. He’s in a band with someone named Jovi.”

“John was in another band?” Bruce asked, shocked.

“No,” Clay said slowly, like he was thinking. “…Ronen said something about John writing for a few songs.” He paused, brows furrowed. “With everything that’s happened, I guess I just… forgot about it.”

Branch blinked and turned back to the screen.

While they’d been talking, Tape Carter had kept chattering away, completely unaware of his future audience.

“So that’s our timeline for the first week,” he said, his voice still chipper. The camcorder jostled slightly as he walked, facing toward him and showing the hall behind him.

“We’ve still got an hour and a half before we have to leave. Let’s see what the others are doing,” he said like he was talking to a diary. “Some should be in the kitchen. We’re supposed to be up in, like, fifteen minutes for breakfast—”

He pushed something open,   “Ah! Here we are!”

The camera flipped again, turning to face the room. A small, cozy kitchen came into view. There were five tall chairs lined up at the bar and a high chair nearby for a small trolling. Someone was slumped forward at the bar, face hidden by a curtain of hair, their entire upper half practically molded to the counter in a posture of dramatic exhaustion.

Further in the background, at the stove, another figure stood with their back to the camera, humming quietly while stirring something in a pan.

Branch leaned in unconsciously, a familiar itch pulling at the back of his brain.

Carter’s voice from behind the camera: “Breakfast roll call!”

The video jolted as Tape Carter took off running. The camera bounced in his grip until he skidded to a stop beside the slumped-over figure at the bar. With absolutely no warning, he threw an arm around them and hoisted them sideways, half-dragging, half-hugging the poor troll out of their chair.

The only thing that stopped them from hitting the ground was Carter’s arm anchoring them up.

The screen flipped suddenly, Carter turning the camcorder around to reveal both himself and the troll now swaying against him.

“This!” Carter beamed into the lens, completely unbothered by the weight practically sagging against him, “is my uncle Styx!”

Branch blinked. This was Styx?

The troll slumped beside Carter looked a decade younger—his fur was a little darker, a little messier, and his piercings were more mismatched. Even half-asleep, Styx still managed to level the camera with a look of pure irritation.

There was even a tiny line of drool running down his chin.

“He’s our manager,” Carter went on, completely unbothered by the annoyed glare boring into him. “He makes all the big decisions!”

He turned toward Styx with a grin, only to wince a little and gingerly loosen his grip. “Okay, okay, sorry—sheesh.”

Styx immediately slumped back into his original position with a grumble, face buried in the crook of his elbow like a critter going into hibernation.

Carter turned back to the camera and stage-whispered with a mischievous grin, “Not a morning person.”

Then he looked over the lens. “But she is!”

The camcorder turned.

And there, perched in a booster seat just one chair over, was a tiny, grinning trolling.

She couldn’t have been more than two years old. Her pale blue fur looked soft, and her bright teal hair stuck out in wild, frizzy tufts like she’d slept on it sideways. She was covered—covered —in fruit. A banana smeared down one cheek, blueberry juice darkening her little paws, a mangled wedge of mango clutched proudly in one fist like it was treasure.

She turned toward the camera, let out a delighted giggle, and waved.

“This small, fruit-covered trolling,” Carter’s voice came through with a bright laugh, “is Iris! She’s our mascot.”

The camera lingered, just a beat too long, catching the moment she squealed again and reached forward with sticky fingers, palm pressed against the lens.

Iris...

Branch’s breath caught, hitched halfway between surprise and something far heavier.

That was Iris. 

But not the guarded teen with a clipped voice who kept her shoulders squared and her secrets close. This was someone else entirely. A little trolling, round-cheeked and covered in fruit, sitting in a high chair and laughing like the world was never going to hurt her.

She was so bright, Pop troll bright. Her colors weren’t faded or muted by time or trauma. 

A version of Iris before.

Before the Bottles. Before the scars and silence. Before she learned to be wary and armor herself in sharpness.

This was just a little girl in a kitchen, laughing with her whole face. Sticky with mango pulp and banana, cheeks smeared with joy. Like nothing bad had ever happened, or ever could.

On the screen, Carter’s voice filtered back in, warm with laughter.

“So, what are we eating today?” he asked, clearly amused.

Tiny Iris lifted the sticky remains of a fruit chunk with the kind of unshakable pride only a trolling could manage. Her tiny paw smudged juice across the camera lens as she grinned like she’d just invented sunshine.

“Mango!” she declared, high and sweet, her whole body lighting up with the announcement.

Branch felt something tug deep in his chest. Because it was cute—achingly cute.

That tiny voice. That goofy grin. The way she radiated pure joy, like breakfast, was the most exciting event of the day.

Carter turned the camera back toward himself and grimaced at the lens. “Oh, you are a sticky one,” he muttered, wiping it with the heel of his paw. The juice only smeared, leaving the screen hazy and his expression unimpressed.

“Very sticky,” he added dryly, glancing back toward Iris, who rewarded him with a delighted giggle and a proud little squeal, clearly pleased with her handiwork.

Then, from offscreen, a voice.

A very familiar voice.

“Carter, what are you doing?”

Carter lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He spun toward the voice wildly, causing the image to blur, and threw an arm around the troll who’d just stepped into frame.

“This is our awesome songwriter, John Dory!” he announced, eyes sparkling, chest puffed with pride.

And just like that, the air in the room shifted.

John Dory.

Everything stilled. The noise, the movement, even the breath in Branch’s lungs. The room felt quieter. Heavier.

On screen, John was eighteen. Moving. Smiling. There and wearing the same bright orange goggles he’d had on the day he left.

His fur was a soft, pale blue-gray—muted, like the shade Iris wore now. But there was nothing dim about him. His eyes were clear, sharp, full of life. He smiled without hesitation, and there was warmth in his voice as he looked at Carter.

It hit Branch like a punch to the chest—sudden, cold, and breath-stealing.

Because the John Dory they had now, the one lying in that hospital bed, was so still. So quiet. Wires and machines surrounded him like a barrier. His fur was too pale.

But this… this was a version of him they hadn’t seen in twenty years.

A version Branch wasn’t sure he’d ever truly seen.

Carter’s grin widened. “Just showing everyone the first day of our tour,” he said brightly, “When we think back on today, I want to be able to see it again.”

John let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head like he’d heard that a hundred times before. John gave Carter a sideways glance. “So that means you have everything ready to leave?”

Carter’s bravado faltered. “Well, I umm—I…”

Before he could fumble his way through a sentence, another troll appeared in the shot.

“Jovi!” Carter exclaimed in relief, spinning the camcorder toward her like a lifeline.

This new troll looked to be around Carter’s age, maybe sixteen. Same Rock sub-genre. She had reddish fur, deeper in color than Carter’s, and her hair was a darker red with streaks of blue and violet running through it.

She didn’t say a word to Carter. Instead, she raised a paw silently and flipped on the sink. The water ran, and without warning, she bent over and shoved her entire head underneath it.

There was a beat of silence, then a gasp. She snapped upright, water flying as her hair flipped into a spiked mohawk.

Carter cackled behind the camera. “Every. Single. Morning,” he muttered fondly. “Say hi to the camera, Jovi!”

Jovi shot the lens a half-lidded, unimpressed stare.

“Charming as ever,” Carter deadpanned.

Branch cracked the smallest of smiles.

“You know, you could at least pretend to be excited for the tour?” Carter said, “Come on! Say something for the people!”

Jovi raised a single unimpressed brow as she reached for a towel and began blotting the water from her face.

“I’m thrilled,” she deadpanned, completely monotone. “Can’t you tell?”

Carter snorted behind the camera. “She’s lying. She’s actually super excited. She’s just allergic to enthusiasm before noon.”

Jovi paused mid-dry to shoot him a dry glare, but didn’t argue. 

Offscreen, John’s voice called, “Come on, you two—breakfast is ready! And we’ve still got a lot to do before we leave.”

“Like what?” Jovi called back, draping the towel over her shoulder.

“Like packing,” John replied, his tone carrying just enough weight to imply he already knew the answer. “I know Carter’s not done. Are you?”

Jovi opened her mouth… and then hesitated. Slightly abashed, she looked offscreen like maybe her bags were magically going to appear.

Before she could respond, a loud crash echoed through the space—something heavy toppling over, and then another something… and another. It sounded like a whole heap of supplies or bags hitting the ground all at once.

The camera jerked, swinging around to capture the commotion.

Another troll stepped into frame, the same age as Carter and Jovi. His fur was a deep greenish-blue, his thick black hair puffed out wildly and fell straight over his eyes, completely obscuring them.

He stood in the middle of what could only be described as a mountain of bags. Not a pile or a stack. A mountain, and far too many for a standard tour.

“I'm packed,” he announced proudly, placing both hands on his hips like he’d just conquered a mountain.

Everyone stared at the troll.

Even Styx, who had been half-asleep and slouched forward at the counter, tilted his head just enough to glance at the pile with visible disbelief.

“Geez—Rush, what all did you pack?” John asked, shocked.

The green-blue troll, Rush, apparently, looked a little sheepish, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Oh. Well, I’ve never been on a trip before, and I just… wanted to be prepared.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Carter laughed. Hard. The camcorder shook wildly in his paws, catching a half-blurred shot of Jovi rolling her eyes and Styx groaning into his coffee.

Rush gave a shy little grin.

Carter’s laughter was suddenly cut short by a soft whack, like someone had lightly smacked the back of his head.

“Hey!” he yelped, spinning the camera toward John, who gave him a dry look.

“At least one of you is responsible,” John said. “Maybe if you ask nicely, he’ll help you pack.” He then turned to walk away from Carter.

Carter’s voice piped up again from behind the lens,  “And where are you going?”

John looked back at the camera, his expression a little exasperated, a little fond, “I have to go give Iris a bath.”

The shot shifted just in time to catch Styx, barely upright but somehow functioning, passing a syrup-drenched slice of pancake to Iris.

Iris let out a delighted squeal and immediately abandoned her mango, grabbing the pancake with both paws. Syrup smeared across her fingers, her face, even her hair. She was in heaven.

John sighed audibly offscreen.

He came back into the shot just in time for them to see him shoot Styx a look, one that said, Seriously?, and Styx, unapologetic but slightly sheepish, turned back to his own plate without a word.

Then John scooped Iris into his arms like it was second nature with the sticky pancake and all, and gave her an exasperated, amused look.

“I just gave you a bath yesterday,” he muttered under his breath, but there was no real annoyance in his tone. Just tired affection. The kind that said this isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.

He turned and started down the hallway, Iris giggling in his arms as she continued trying to cram the soggy pancake into her mouth. Syrup clung to her fur, her fingers, even John’s shirt—but she didn’t care. She looked completely content.

The camera lingered for a few extra seconds, watching them disappear around the corner.

Behind the lens, Carter let out a snort.

“This is gonna be the stickiest tour in history.”

The video paused there, freezing on a blurry frame of John Dory disappearing down the hall with a fruit and syrup-covered Iris in his arms.

Branch couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop thinking.

These trolls—Carter, Jovi, Rush, even a younger Styx—were the ones John had found after he thought everyone was dead. They were the ones who had helped raise Iris.

The thought settled heavily in Branch’s chest. He knew John had lived a whole life out there, beyond Pop territory. The kids had talked about it before. But seeing it now made it real in a way words never had. John had something out there—something full and real. And he’d had it without them. Without him.

“Let’s try this one,” Floyd said, as he passed a tape to Clay.

Clay took it gently and loaded it into the projector. Like the first, it was old—its label long faded, its corners worn down from time.

The screen flickered to life again, static crawling along the edges as the tape fought to play. Then, with a soft snap, the picture came into focus—blurry and slightly tilted, as if someone had set the camera up in secret, hoping not to be seen.

Branch leaned forward. This one was different already.

Then the piano began.

Soft and slow, faintly familiar, the melody drifted from the speakers, tender in a way none of them expected. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just… simple.

It wasn’t a Pop song. It wasn’t Rock, either. Or even a mix of the genres. It felt older somehow. It felt like a lullaby someone sang to a small trolling. 

The image sharpened just enough to show a dim, quiet room—scattered soundproofing panels on the walls, tangled cables on the floor, the soft glow of a lamp casting everything in a muted haze. A recording studio. A warm and lived-in recording studio. The kind of place where late nights bled into early mornings.

And there he was.

John.

Younger than in the last video. Maybe only by a year, but the difference was striking. His face looked thinner and paler. Tired in a way that didn’t just come from lack of sleep.

He was sitting at a piano, his orange googles off and resting on the side. His head tilted like he was trying to hear something distant, some melody he couldn’t quite catch. His left hand moved slowly over the keys, hesitant but steady.

In his right arm, tucked close against his chest, was Iris. And he held her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

Even smaller than before, a year old at most. Her bright hair stood in soft tufts, her face half-buried in his shoulder. She was wrapped in a blanket that had slipped halfway off, thumb in her mouth, eyelids fluttering like she was trying to stay awake but losing that battle one blink at a time.

None of them spoke. Branch just watched like he was intruding on something private, something he wasn't supposed to see.

Then Bruce's voice broke the silence, low and thoughtful.

"You know..." he said gently, eyes never leaving the screen, "he used to hold you two like that."

Branch blinked, head turning slightly toward him.

Floyd looked over, too. "Really?"

“Oh yeah," Bruce murmured, a faint, faraway smile tugging at his mouth. "When one of you couldn't sleep... or just wouldn’t. He’d stand at the old piano in the living room, play with one hand… and hold one of you with the other.”

He trailed off, brow creasing, something quiet and heavy moving behind his eyes. A memory shifting into focus.

Clay picked it up without missing a beat. His voice was soft, almost to himself, still watching the screen. “Only back then, it wasn’t this calm…nothing was.”

Then, a voice spoke.

“She still awake?” It was Styx.

John didn’t answer right away. He only adjusted his hold on Iris, gently tucking her closer as she gave a soft, sleepy sigh against his shoulder. One tiny paw curled into the fabric of his shirt. Her thumb slipped from her mouth, but she didn’t stir.

“She’s trying,” John murmured at last, voice barely above a whisper. “But she won’t last much longer.”

The camera shifted slightly, like whoever was holding it had leaned in.

“You know,” Styx said lightly as he walked across the frame, “it might go faster if you sing to her.”

John gave a quiet sigh, “Styx…”

“Come on,” Styx urged gently from off camera. “It’s just us. No one’s here. You always write these amazing songs, but you never sing. And besides,” a pause, “she loves your voice.”

John didn’t respond right away.

He looked down at the toddler nestled in his arms, at her tiny paws clinging to his shirt. His expression shifted, barely.

After a long moment, he gave the smallest nod.

“Okay,” he whispered. “What should I play?”

“Whatever you were just playing seemed to be working,” Styx replied, his voice gentle like he was trying not to show how excited he was. “Try that.”

John looked like he might argue, but then Iris stirred, just a tiny, tired mumble against his shoulder.

“Fine,” he said quietly.

He turned back to the piano and rested his fingers on the keys, exhaling a breath as if to steady himself. His gaze flicked up toward Styx, almost shyly.

“Just letting you know… I don’t have all the lyrics yet.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Styx murmured back.

And then John began to play.

The same soft melody from earlier returned, slow, warm, and careful, like each note was being cradled. Then, his voice came in, quiet but sure, full of something raw and earnest.

"Dud Deadaa, what to say to you?
You have my eyes, you have your grandmother's name
When you came into the world, you cried…
And it broke my heart."

Branch’s breath caught. He blinked as his eyes started to sting.

That melody.

Something about it stirred deep in his mind. It was hazy, but there. He couldn’t remember when he’d first heard it, only that he had. A long time ago, when he was small. It was the kind of song he used to go to sleep to.

And now, hearing it again, John’s voice wrapping around it, full of love, exhaustion, and quiet hope, the memory fully thawed.

"I'm dedicating every day to you…
Domestic life was never quite my style…
When you smile, you knock me out, I fall apart…
And to thought I was so smart…"

Next to him, Floyd hadn’t moved. His hands were clenched tight in his lap, knuckles white, eyes locked on the screen. Like if he so much as breathed wrong, the moment would vanish.

Clay was silent too, but in a different way. He looked younger somehow like the years had peeled away, leaving behind the boy who used to sit by the window, waiting for someone to come home.

Bruce was utterly still. His jaw was tight, but his eyes… his eyes were softer than Branch had ever seen them.

"You will come of age with a new generation…
We'll sing and fight for you…
We'll make it right for you…"

John shifted Iris just slightly, her thumb slipping back into her mouth as she finally began to relax fully, melting into his arms.

"If we lay a strong enough foundation…
We'll pass it on to you, we'll give the world to you…
And you'll blow us all away…
Someday,… someday "

A deep breath.

"Yeah, you'll blow us all away…
Someday,… someday…”

Then it was quiet again.

Just the soft hum of the tape.

The four of them sat in that silence, still, breathless, and hurting in a way they couldn’t quite put into words.

They had just heard someone sing. Someone they hadn’t heard in twenty years. 

Faint voices murmured in the background of the tape, but none of them were really listening.

Then quietly, a little too sharp, Floyd spoke.

“Can we move on?” His voice cracked, even though he tried to hold it steady. “I don’t care what it is. Just… something else. Please.”

Clay didn’t say a word. He just gave a small nod and reached for the next tape.

Once again, the screen flickered to life, static rippling across the edges before settling into a shaky image.

A tiny baby troll stared back at them from the screen.

It was Cash.

Maybe a month old at most, swaddled in a soft onesie with cactuses and tumbleweeds, eyes wide and curious as he blinked at the camera. His big, round teal eyes were unmistakable. Without the gray tint that had dulled his color in recent months, the rest of him was almost unrecognizable.

His face was a soft yellow, with pale yellow stripes that started above his eyes and ran down his cheeks to his snout. A dusting of reddish-orange freckles dotted his nose.

His arms were the same pale yellow at the bottom, fading to a richer yellow higher up, giving the impression of tiny socks. His lower half, in contrast, was a deep reddish-orange that lightened slightly below his knee, completing the look.

His ears looked oversized and floppy, too heavy to hold up, tipped with pale yellow at the edges.  And his hair, wild, puffy, shapeless, sat like a soft cloud on his head.

Floyd let out a sharp, surprised laugh. “Oh! He had the same hair color as Branch did when he was that age!”

Branch blinked, caught off guard. “Does he?”

He hadn’t thought any of the kids looked much like him. But now that Floyd had said it… maybe there was. 

“Oh yeah, he does,” Floyd said with a grin. “Might be hard to tell now, with the age gap and all, but if we dug up a baby picture of you and set it next to Cash’s? Total match. I wouldn’t be surprised if, once he gets a little older, his hair darkens the same way yours did.”

Branch forced a smile.

He hoped that wouldn’t happen.

Because if Cash’s hair darkened like his had, it wouldn’t just mean growing up. It would mean the gray stayed. It would mean Cash had been carrying the weight of it the same way Branch had… for years.

But Floyd didn’t know that. None of them did.

He’d talked it through with Poppy. More than once. She reminded him it wasn’t his fault. That Grandma had made a choice. She’d put herself between Branch and Chief without hesitation. She had saved him. She had loved him.

He’d thought about telling them more than once, but he’d only just gotten them back, and every time the words rose in his throat—every time he imagined explaining what happened to Grandma, why he had turned gray so young—his chest seized.

What if it changed everything?

What if they blamed him?

What if they left again?

“Dad?” a young voice called from behind the camera, bright and curious. “Why does he keep staring at me?”

The question cut clean through Branch’s thoughts, grounding him.

It was just in time to catch Baby Cash give the camera a slow, deliberate blink. His teal eyes were wide, curious, fixed entirely on whoever was behind the lens.

A second voice, likely John, answered from somewhere off-screen,  “Because he wants to know where the voice he’s been hearing for the past three months has been coming from.”

As if he understood, Cash turned toward John's voice. His little head wobbled and swiveled slightly, looking for its source. But when he didn’t find it, he turned back to the camera with his head tilted and brows furrowed in the softest, most confused expression Branch had ever seen.

Down the couch, Bruce let out a quiet coo at the trolling.

Iris let out a dramatic sigh. “I know that part,” she said, a bit huffy. “But why’s he still doing it? He doesn’t look at you like this anymore.”

Then, a third voice chimed in. Gruffer and deep. Carrying a thick, familiar accent, but light with teasing.

“Maybe if you put the camera down and let him see you, he’d stop starin’,” the voice teased.

A beat. Then Iris again: “But if I do that, then how’s Uncle Styx and everyone gonna see everything, Hickory?”

Somehow, in the idea of seeing these tapes, he hadn’t let himself imagine Hickory being part of it, too. 

But he had been. 

Of course, he had. Hickory had been in their lives, had mattered to them. It was stupid to think otherwise.

On the screen, Hickory laughed,  “I’m sure all the videos you’ve recorded will be plenty,” Hickory said lightly, the sound of hoof steps tapping closer across the wooden floor. “Besides, it’s about time for lunch. You might as well set the camera down for now.”

Then he stepped into frame.

First his hooves, then his paws, as he leaned down and gently lifted baby Cash into his arms. His movements were careful, but casual. Like, this wasn’t the first time. Like it was something he did every day.

The camera wobbled slightly as Iris shifted her grip, tilting just enough to give a clearer view of Hickory. He hadn’t changed much. The only noticeable difference was his hair, a little longer and more unkempt, giving him a slightly scruffier look.

Hickory made a face as he looked Cash over. His eyes landed on the baby’s onesie, which was covered in little cactuses and tumbleweeds.

“What in the world did he put you in?” Hickory asked, voice full of mock offense, as he lifted Cash slightly to get a better look.

“It’s a onesie,” Iris chimed in from behind the camera, matter-of-fact.

“I can see that,” Hickory said, shooting a quick, playful look toward the lens.

“It was a gift from Aunt Delta.”

“Ahhh,” Hickory said, nodding like that explained everything. “There it is.”

He shook his head affectionately and leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to Cash’s. The baby troll giggled and bumped his head back in return, clumsy, but happy.

Then Hickory turned toward the camera and Iris, baby Cash cradled against his chest.

“Are you ready for lunch?” he asked the lens.

The camera nodded.

“Alright,” Hickory said, adjusting Cash in his arms. “Make sure to turn the camera off and set it on the counter. I’m going to get your brother in his high chair.”

"Okay,"

The footage wobbled and flipped suddenly, and Branch’s stomach turned with it. The image settled sideways, tilted a full 90 degrees—but no one moved to fix it.

On screen was a dining table, bathed in soft daylight from a nearby window. Outside, a grassy field stretched out, speckled with wildflowers and cut through by a winding little creek. It looked peaceful.

At the table, Iris was climbing into her chair. She looked about five now. Her colors were still bright, cheerful. But there was a small nick in her right ear now. Barely noticeable, but there.

One seat over, in a high chair, sat Cash.

They weren’t speaking. Just staring at each other.

Iris had her head resting sideways on the table, so she could meet his eyes.

And Cash was looking right back, his head tilted, his gaze wide and unblinking.

Two siblings. Just watching each other.

And watching from the couch, Branch felt something warm settle in his chest.

Off-screen, soft voices resumed, not knowing that the camera was still recording.

“What’s wrong with the onesie?” John asked, his tone quiet but teasing.

“Nothing,” Hickory said. Too quickly. Too smoothly.

John made a clicking noise with his tongue and teeth. “You are a terrible liar, Hickory.”

A beat.

Then a sharp intake of breath, followed by the rustle of someone shifting.

“You okay?” Hickory asked, his voice shifting lower, more serious.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” John said. There was a pause. “Just a flare-up in my paw.”

“Sure you’re okay?” Hickory pressed, concerned but still soft. “If you need, I can massage it later.”

There was a quiet snort, then a low laugh from John. “A massage? You really think that’s a good idea?”

Hickory didn’t miss a beat. “Worked in the past.”

John laughed again, fuller this time, familiar and fond. “Oh yeah. It worked so well that we now have a son.”

A pause.

Then, like Hickory had been waiting for the perfect comedic timing, he quietly added, “Well—I mean—if you wanna do that too, I wouldn’t object to it…”

Branch’s brain stalled and looked away from the screen as he felt his ears get hot. 

Bruce blinked once, very slowly. Like he didn't know if he should be grossed out or make a joke.

Floyd choked on a laugh as he tried, and failed, to hide his grin.

And Clay. Clay made a strangled noise like a teakettle and lunged for the projector. “Ahhh—NOPE,” he declared, getting up from his spot. “Nope, nope, nope! I do not need to hear my brother flirt!”

Floyd coughed into his hand. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Clay had already jammed the next tape into the projector with muttered curses about ears and mental scarring. “It is traumatizing,” he grumbled.

Bruce just chuckled, “We’re putting that one in the ‘never speak of again’ pile?”

“At the top of the pile,” Clay muttered.

Branch didn’t laugh, but he didn’t stop the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth either.

This tape began with an unsteady shot of a hardwood floor. The footage wobbled as if the person holding the camera wasn’t quite used to it. A moment later, the view flipped, and there she was.

Wynona, maybe three or four years old.

Like her siblings, there was no gray tint to her colors in the video. Her fur was a misty gray-blue, leaning more blue than gray, with slightly darker shading along her snout and a dusting of darker freckles across her cheeks.

Her hair, a blend of bright pink and warm orange, was a little longer than it was now, pulled into two uneven French braid pigtails that had clearly been slept in. Stray wisps framed her face.

She grinned up at the camera with two front teeth missing, her violet eyes sparkling—Floyd’s exact shade.

“Ronensss isss in throuble,” she lisped cheerfully.

She glanced from the camera to someone just offscreen, barely containing her glee.

Branch’s smile brightened. 

Off-camera, something clattered to the floor, maybe a chair, followed by a sharp, unmistakably furious hiss.

Wynona giggled.

The camera jostled, then flipped again.

Now on screen was the same dining table and front window from the third video, but this time everything was askew. Two chairs were toppled over, and the table had clearly been shoved out of place. From where Wynona stood, it looked like she was filming from a hallway, slightly farther from the action.

At one side of the table, facing the camera, stood a young Ronen—maybe five or six years old. He was dressed in a loose hoodie and sleep pants, the sort of thing a kid might throw on before going to bed. His hair was a deep midnight blue streaked with vivid neon green, purple, blue, and pink—nothing like the muted gray-tinted version Branch had grown used to.

His webbed, clawed paws lay flat on the tabletop, like he was bracing to launch himself in either direction if needed.

But he wasn’t panicking.

If anything, he looked thrilled, grinning like he’d just pulled off something spectacular. His bright green, cat-like eyes sparkled with mischief, and his long, lizard-like tail swished back and forth, betraying his amusement.

He was using the table as a makeshift shield, something to keep space between himself and the troll across from him.

That troll was Iris.

Her normally teal hair was now a bright neon yellow; it was half-wet, clinging to her face in uneven clumps. Her fur, normally a pale blue, now had a greenish tinge, as if someone had dumped yellow something over her. She was bristling with fury. Her now vibrant green ears were pinned flat against her head, and her tail whipped the air behind her like a warning.

She’d dug her claws into the table, trembling with frustration.

Branch could practically hear the moment before the storm.

“You little pest,” Iris growled, voice low and dangerous. “When I get my paws on you—”

“You’ll what?” Ronen shot back, all false bravado and teasing grin. “What are you gonna do?”

Wrong thing to say.

Iris surged forward, clearly intending to circle the table and grab him. Ronen darted sideways to maintain the gap, but his eyes widened in alarm as Iris didn’t bother with the long route. Instead, with a snarl, she vaulted right over the table.

The confidence drained from Ronen’s face in an instant.

He screeched as Iris’s paw swiped through the air inches from his hoodie. She was fast and older, stronger too, but Ronen was smaller, quicker, and running on pure chaos-fueled instinct. He dove under the table and scrambled out the other side, still shrieking, barely ahead of Iris’s grasp.

He bolted for the hallway where Wynona had been filming, feet thudding wildly against the floor.

But before he could reach her, the image blurred, someone stepped directly into frame, back to the camera, tall enough to block most of the view.

Ronen didn't even hesitate. He slid behind the new arrival like he’d just found a life raft in a hurricane.

“What is going on in here!” boomed a familiar voice, stern and exasperated.

John Dory.

Before anyone could answer, laughter rang out, entirely unbothered.

Iris’s head whipped toward the sound, her wet fur bristling all over again. “Don’t laugh!” she snapped, voice cracking with indignation.

But the laughter didn’t stop.

“Cash,” John said, dragging a hand down his face, “you’re not helping.”

Between breathless snorts, Cash managed, “I’m not trying to.” He snorted again. “Look at your hair!”

John looked over to where Cash was standing off camera, and Iris’s expression turned from furious to scandalized in a blink.

Cash’s laughter seemed to re-embolden Ronen. Still half-hiding behind their dad, he let out a high-pitched giggle of his own, tail swishing with smug satisfaction.

“Dad!” Iris shouted, turning to John with a mix of betrayal and disbelief, soaked hair clinging to her cheeks. “Seriously?!”

John gave Ronen a pointed, disapproving look but said nothing at first. Instead, he sighed, the kind of sigh that only came from years of dealing with exactly this kind of chaos.

“Can’t even leave for ten minutes,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough to be heard. Then, louder, “Okay, Cash, since you find this so amusing, you can help Iris wash it out.”

Cash stopped laughing, “Help wash it out?” he echoed, scandalized. “Her hair is the same color as an unripe lemon! That’s not coming out tonight!”

“Well,” John said, far too calm, “we don’t know that for sure. Go help. Iris.”

“But Ronen—!” Iris protested, still dripping, still fuming.

John turned to her with that steady dad voice, the one that ended all arguments. "I will take care of Ronen. You just focus on getting the dye out of your hair."

"But-!"

John, however, wasn't finished, "And if it’s still that color tomorrow, we’ll go to the store and find something to cover it with.”

Iris opened her mouth, probably to argue more, but shut it again with a frustrated growl. Ronen, meanwhile, peeked around John’s legs, tail flicking with amusement.

Then Iris turned toward the hallway and froze. Her eyes widened in horror. “Are you recording this?!”

There was a sudden shift in the footage as the image jostled, blurring wildly as Wynona let out a gleeful giggle and bolted.

“Damn it,” John muttered just offscreen, right before the hurried stomp of Iris’s paws took over the audio.

“WYNONA!” Iris shouted.

“Save the video, Wynona!” Cash called after her, cackling again. “Don’t let her erase it!”

The video ended with Wynona’s laughter echoing.

“I wonder where I’ve seen that before?” Bruce mused aloud, slowly turning to give Clay a pointed look, one brow arched high.

“Oh, don’t start.” Clay groaned.

Bruce ignored him. “Pretty sure that’s exactly the prank you pulled on John when we were younger,” he added, smirking as he gave Clay an elbow-nudge. “Unripe lemon color and all.”

Floyd let out a snort of laughter. “And he was just as mad as Iris in the video. Though I don’t remember him vaulting a table like she did.”

Branch watched his brother curiously. He hadn’t known about that particular story; it must’ve happened before he was born. But hearing that same mischief play out years later through Ronen's hands felt oddly poetic. Like some unruly family tradition passing itself down without anyone realizing.

Clay picked up a tape that had been set aside, the sticker curling at the edges like it wanted to be forgotten.

“Let’s try this one,” Clay said, turning it over in his paw.

Branch looked at it. “Do you even know what it is?”

“I think it is one of the newer ones. Ronen said it should be Cash’s first concert.” Clay gently slid the tape into the projector, and with a mechanical click, the screen came to life, static fizzing, then clearing like fog burned off by the sun.

But what appeared on screen wasn’t a concert hall or a familiar stage.

It was a forest. It was vast, ancient, and utterly unreal.

Towering pines, wide oaks, and gold-tipped maples stretched skyward, their branches tangled in a canopy of green and gold. Sunlight peeked through the leaves, casting dappled shadows over the mossy earth. In the distance, critters called out, warbles, chirps, and whistles.

And farther back, slowly floating across the sky, were massive mossy stones.

None of them spoke, because whatever this place was, it wasn’t from anywhere they knew.

Ronen’s voice crackled into the room, sounding about the same age he was now.

“So here we are,” he said, his tone easy but a little breathless as the camera panned slowly across the tree they were standing in. “We’re about halfway to the end of the trail.”

The image swayed slightly with each step, catching glimpses of towering trees and golden light flickering between the leaves. Then the camera stilled, landing on Wynona.

She hadn’t noticed she was being filmed. She looked much like she did now. Her familiar multicolored hoodie slung over her shoulder, and her pink-and-orange hair was held back with a headband.

“As you can see,” Ronen went on, “we’re all still alive.”

The camera zoomed in on Wynona, who was sitting beside her pack, rummaging through it.

“Here’s Wynona,” Ronen narrated with mock seriousness. “Retrieving her sleeping bag for the night.”

That got her attention. She looked up, caught off guard, but only for a second. Then she gave the camera a wide, bright smile and an exaggerated wave.

“Wynona,” Ronen said, slipping into an exaggerated ‘reporter’ tone. “In your professional opinion, how’s this hike been going so far?”

Wynona crossed her arms with theatrical gravity, then leaned on her bag as if contemplating the fate of all music. Her tail flicked lazily behind her.

“You wanna know what I think?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “Well, in my professional opinion, I think it’s going great. Dad says we’re making really good time, even with the rain.”

Ronen made an exaggerated gasp from behind the camera. “So the hike is going good?”

Wynona gave a bright, affirming grin and nodded.

“Even when it’s someone’s first full hike?” he pressed, letting the teasing slip into his tone.

“Yep,” she replied without hesitation, popping the ‘p’ and sitting back on her heels like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The camera suddenly shifted, quick and jerky, until it landed on Iris. She was already staring straight into the lens with a flat, unimpressed glare. But more than that, she looked different. Not just younger, but different. She looked comfortable in her fur, in a way that didn’t quite match the present-day Iris who stood stiff and out of place.

“You hear that, Iris?” Ronen said with mock triumph. “Everything’s going great despite your worrying and nagging.”

Behind Iris, Cash cracked a small smile.

Iris rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “I wouldn’t have to nag if some of you listened.”

From somewhere out of frame, a loud, unapologetic raspberry sounded—pure childish defiance. The camera jostled as Ronen burst into laughter.

“Okay, everyone, we’re setting up camp here,” came a voice from the background. John strolled into view, an old, creased map in his paws. The camera shifted to follow him. “Our normal spot’s too muddy, and it’s safer staying up here in the tree.”

He didn’t look up as he spoke, eyes scanning the map. “It’s still early, so we can take our time setting up for tonight.”

When he finally glanced up, it was straight into the lens, his expression tired, “Ronen. Again with the camera? You know I’m not getting you more film when you run out.”

In the background, Iris, Cash, and Wynona had already started drifting away, their laughter faint but present.

“I know,” Ronen replied, keeping the camera trained on John for another beat, “but someone has to document Jo’s first full hike—”

He turned the lens, expecting to catch the little one nearby. But instead, it landed on a hiking bag, sitting by itself. No Jo.

“—Hey, where did she go?”

“Over there,” Iris called off-camera. “Playing with flowers. I told her to stay with the group, but she didn’t want to.”

The camera shifted again, zooming slowly toward a branch with bright pink and white wild flowers. And there she was.

Jo.

She stood there in a patch of sunlight, crouched low to the branch and fully absorbed in whatever tiny blossoms she’d discovered. The sunlight lit her up, revealing her natural colors.

Her fur was a soft, icy blue, with paler stripes that started above her eyes and ran down her cheeks to her snout. Blue-white freckles scattered across her nose like stardust.

Her arms faded from that same paler blue into an icy blue tone, the effect like little socks pulled up to her elbows. Her legs, in contrast, were a warm reddish-orange with a lighter shade below her knees.

Her oversized ears flopped down with weight, tipped with paler-blue edges. And her hair was a bright orange with slight curls over her shoulder.

“Leave Jo to me,” John said calmly, “I told her she could pick some wildflowers she liked. We’re going to make a wreath when we get home.”

Ronen kept the camera trained on Jo.

“Still,” Iris protested gently, “I went over how important it was not to wander off—”

“I know, I know,” John cut in, his tone easy, reassuring. “And you did an amazing job teaching her. We’re setting up camp here. As long as she stays where I can see her, she’s fine.”

A low, unconvinced grumble rumbled from Iris.

“Don’t grumble at my grumpy,” John teased, flashing a grin. “Go get your sleeping bag set up. And take some pictures. I know you haven’t taken any.”

She grumbled again, but this time it was less stern and more out of pettiness. But she didn’t argue further.

John turned and stepped into frame, unintentionally blocking the view of Jo. “As for you,” he said, raising an eyebrow at Ronen, “you need to get our area set up too.”

“It is ready,” Ronen replied, adjusting the camera. “I figured the normal spot was too muddy, so I—”

John stepped in front of the lens again. “So you just assumed? What if I said we were going to keep moving?”

“I’d pack everything back up,” Ronen said simply, swinging the lens back to John.

John sighed but smiled. “You know, one of these times you’re going to need to wait before you unpack.”

“Maybe,” Ronen said with a smirk. “But today isn’t that time…” He trailed off.

The camera dipped slightly.

“Ronen?” John asked, brow furrowed. “You okay?”

Ronen didn’t answer.

His paw, suddenly unsteady, lifted from the camera’s side grip and pointed past John, toward the canopy.

John looked towards the canopy.

A massive, bright green hand pushed through the thick canopy of branches above. It was heading straight for the limb Jo was standing on.

Everything seemed to go silent. 

Jo hadn’t noticed. Oblivious to the approaching threat, she stood with her back turned, her small figure haloed in the late golden light like a spot light. One tiny paw extended toward a blossom that clung to the far edge of the branch.

And the hand kept coming.

John’s breath caught in his throat.

Then he moved.

He bolted forward, fur bristling with instinct and panic, claws scraping rough bark as he tore across the length of the branch, “Jolene!” 

Jo turned at the sound of her name, the soft pink and white blossom cradled in her small paw. Her expression shifted from curiosity to confusion, then to fear.

She saw it.

And she froze.

Her eyes went wide, pupils shrinking as the towering green hand bore down on her. It was massive, so massive it blotted out the sunlight, casting a heavy shadow over her, the branch, the fading flower in her fingers. Her mouth opened, a startled gasp barely forming, but no sound escaped.

The flower slipped from her hand.

The hand was almost upon her now, ready to close around her.

Then, with a shout, Jo went flying to the side, her small body thrown clear of danger.

And then the hand closed.

Around him.

The branch trembled violently as the hand yanked back into the canopy. A deep, rustling laugh surged through the trees as the unseen creature pulled away with its prize.

And just like that, John was gone.

Jo, thrown clear but not far enough, struck the branch hard. Her body tumbled, rolling helplessly before momentum dragged her over the edge. She let out a high, panicked cry as her claws grasped at nothing, then vanished from sight.

Ronen’s breathing filled the audio, loud, uneven, every inhale a struggle, every exhale a half-sob. 

Then  Iris sprinted past him, “Cash!”

“On it!” Cash was just behind, leaping over the side of the branch with ease, already reaching for handholds as he dropped into the tangle of branches where Jo had vanished.

Iris flicked a glance back at Ronen, just for a moment, her expression like stone, “Ronen. Wynona. Hide. Now. I’ll get Dad.”

Then she was gone, too, vanishing into the foliage.

The camera started to shake.  It remained fixed, focused on the branch, on the empty space where Jo had stood, where John had disappeared in the grip of that massive green fist. 

Ronen’s breathing grew louder. Shakier. Each inhale was tight, every exhale nearly a sob. The lens began to shake harder.

“Ronen!” 

Wynona's voice burst through the haze, shrill with fear. “We have to go! ”

The camera jerked violently as Ronen turned toward the sound.

And then—

Another shadow.

The leaves above rustled unnaturally.

Another hand, just as massive, just as green, pushed through the canopy. Fingers unfurled slowly, deliberately. They moved with intent…

Heading straight for the camera.

Branch stared at the screen, unmoving. The images played on, flickering with movement and sound, but none of it registered. It was all just shapes and noise, colors bleeding into each other, voices warping into static.

He knew his brothers were talking, heard the sounds of their voices somewhere behind the pounding in his ears. But their words barely brushed the surface of his awareness. They were too far away.

He was too far gone, pulled backward—years, decades—to a memory he tried to push away.

The sun had been warm that day. He remembered that, filtering through the canopy as he sat perched alone on a high branch of the Troll Tree. He’d been singing. And he wanted her to hear it.

And she had.

Grandma.

He remembered how her face had changed, a split second from calm to sheer panic, mouth opening in a silent cry. Her arms flew out, reaching for him as she sprinted to him. 

The sun vanished behind something massive. He hadn’t seen the hand coming. Not until it was almost too late.

But Grandma had.

She reached him just in time.

He could still feel her push, the sudden surge of force against his chest, a strength he didn’t know she had. Her hands braced him as she shoved him away. His breath ripped from his chest as he pushed away and sent tumbling through the air.

He had looked up as he fell. 

She looked at him with a soft, steady smile, as if everything would be okay.

Then the hand closed around her.

And she was gone.

A sound cut through the air like a blade. High-pitched. Piercing. Fragile.

It painfully yanked him out of the memory. His breath caught mid-chest, chest heaving as if it had been kicked.

Was that him?

Had he made that sound again?

No. Not him.

It came from somewhere else. But it hit like it came from him. That sound—thin and desperate, trembling on the edge of breaking. A sound that was more than just noise.

It was a call.

Every troll knew it.

It was etched into their bones, into the heartbeat of generations; it was the cry no one ever wanted to hear. Not from anyone, especially not from a child.

It meant something had gone wrong. Horribly and deeply wrong.

Branch finally looked up. 

No one was looking at him. Every gaze had snapped toward the doorway. Eyes wide. Ears pinned. Fur raised in a ripple of alarm as the sound echoed in the still air like it was still reverberating through them all.

Branch turned, slowly. 

And his heart sank.

Jolene.

She stood there like a ghost. Small, trembling, and overwhelmed. 

Her posture was tight, like the very act of standing was taking all her strength. Her eyes were glassy and unblinking, fixed on the screen like it had hypnotized her. But she wasn’t watching. She was remembering. Reliving something that gripped her too hard to escape.

Her arms hung stiff at her sides, tiny fists clenched so hard her claws had begun to dig into her own palms. Tear tracks glistened on her cheeks, soaking the fur beneath her eyes. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts—too fast, too uneven. 

“…It was an accident…” 

A broken whisper slipped out of her like it had been buried for too long.

“I… I… I di… I didn’… I didn’t mean to,” she choked out, her voice breaking apart between sobs. Her words came in pieces, like they hurt to say. 

Branch flinched.

She was blaming herself.

Then she curled in on herself. Her shoulders hunched. Her head dropped low, chin nearly buried in her collarbone, as her paws covered her ears like she was trying to block everything out.

She was trying to disappear. As if hiding might undo whatever terrible memory had clawed its way loose from the dark.

And then that sound, that terrible sound.

That piercing, primal, high-pitched whine ripped through the air. It didn’t sound like it came from her throat. It sounded like it came from somewhere deeper.

Bruce was the first to react. His fur still on end, but now he stepped forward with his paw outstretched, moving slowly and carefully.

“Hey, Jo, it’s okay-” He said softly, like he had done this before, "It's okay. You are okay-"

A blur, a streak of dark blue color, sharp and fast and sudden, shot into the room from nowhere, so fast it barely registered before it was there.

Sharp teeth sank deep into Bruce’s arm.

Notes:

Hey, y'all. How are we feeling?

Song:
1) Dear Theodosia, written by Lin-Manuel Miranda, song by Leslie Odom Jr. and Lin-Manuel Miranda
https://youtu.be/X318sAjj168?si=FOdVvSJ97E_mC7Bx

I know the song I used is a well-known song, and because it is from Hamilton, maybe even more so. But on the off chance someone doesn't know it, here is the name and the man who wrote it.
I love this song. It never fails to make me cry, especially the reprise. Leslie Odom Jr. has the most beautiful voice.

Because of the tapes, I got to share what the kids actually look like.
Both Cash and Jolene's fur patterns are based on an Alpine goat with Swiss markings.
Ex: https://images.app.goo.gl/6cmXRSha3i8gfuJW8
Ex: https://images.app.goo.gl/F3YYAdNAyfjK4fwk9
Wynona's fur patterns are based on a Blue Point Ragdoll cat
Ex: https://images.app.goo.gl/U86jRigs2Secsd8j8

In other news, my roommate has started to draw on her iPad and has been letting me try. Now, I am not the best at drawing, I do like coloring things, but I am willing to give it a try. I have also found some Free 2 Use bases, so there might be something in the future.