Look Out the Window

by Tibki

Summary:

"I don't EVER write about real people. Art is supposed to be better than that. If you want a slice of life, look out the window." -Barbara Kingsolver

In which I try to kick that Kingsolver lady in the face because I'm writing slice of life about people who are not real.

One-word prompts leading to longer-than-expected drabbles. My contribution to the newborn Trollhunter fandom. :)

Chapter 1: Hospital Scene

Notes:

Follows Jim falling unconscious after beating up goblins and Ms. Nomura in episode 12.

Claire had never before really looked twice at Jim’s friend. He was round, bouncy, and chatty—he was ever-present at Jim Lake’s side, and that was about all she knew about the guy.

That was all she needed to know, though. The kid was a red and yellow-floral-print barnacle, so there was no way he didn’t know everything about whatever it was that Jim was involved in. Any doubts she had about that were erased at the lack of surprise he showed at Jim’s injuries, as well as the obviously fake story he stammered out to the EMT’s when they finally arrived.

Coyotes. Seriously?

But the doctors seemed to buy it. Probably because pack of snarling green goblins followed by a crazy double-sworded purple marble lady whistling the Hall of the Mountain King didn’t really cross their minds as the true culprit.

The ER was all chaos all around them, but it was a strange, muted kind of chaos. Sharp movements, quick feet, but also calm and steadiness in hands and the faces of doctors. There weren’t any shouts or yells, just beeps and announcements over the intercom. TV shows and cop procedurals had lied to her, not that she was surprised. There wasn’t even any panic in the waiting room—the air was thick and laid heavily across the chairs and tables, and it felt like it was going to push her shoulders right down to the ground, but it was quiet.

A waiting room was where panic came to die, Claire figured. But anxiety was taking its place, because the yellow and red eyes of the goblins, the green slits of the—the other thing—they were festering in her gut, and Claire’s hands were shaking in a way they never did when she was onstage.

“Oh mija,” her father soothed, closing his hands around hers. His fingers were warm, and it settled something young and small and scared in her. Sort of. “What were you thinking? Running out into the woods at night…”

“They thought they heard Enrique in there!”

Claire and her father both looked up, surprised. For all that her thoughts had revolved around him for a moment, Claire had forgotten that Tob—Colb—God, she didn’t even know his name—Jim’s friend. Jim’s friend was there with them, looking extraordinarily pale and with a thin coating of Jim’s blood over his arms.

A smile stretched over his face like bad elastic, horrific against the forced light in his eyes. “Y-yeah, Jim, uh, texted me about it. Just before they went in. He knew the woods were dangerous, so he wanted to let someone know, in case he needed, uh, backup?”

“You heard Enrique in the woods?” Claire’s dad sat up straight, like he’d been hit with a cattle-prod, and Claire was reminded of the first two weeks of her brother’s life, when her father hadn’t let the baby touch any surface for longer than five minutes without supervision. There was a fear in his eyes again, one that now scared her, even though she and her mom had laughed over it back then.

It wasn’t funny anymore, not when she knew the baby at home was not her little brother.

Except then she remembered that there was no baby at home anyway. She didn’t even know where the thing that had replaced Enrique was.

Claire’s father immediately switched his hands to his pants, patting them down and fishing into his pockets. They came back empty. “I—I need to call your mother—Enrique—my phone—”

This time Claire put her hands on her father’s, stilling him. “Go back home, check on him,” she found herself saying, with a detached sort of calm. Her father looked at her, desperate and obviously torn. “I’m fine. I don’t want to leave Jim, he got hurt for our family, but you need to make sure Enrique’s safe and the landline is still down from, uh, that rave. I understand, Dad. It’s okay, go.”

Tension left her father like a rope had been cut. “Mi valiente hija,” he said, laying a kiss firmly on her forehead. “Te amo, mantenerse a salvo.”

“Papá, estoy en un hospital, creo que estaré a bien.” Claire forced herself not to look towards Jim’s friend, who was definitely doing something on a tablet or phone. Coordinating the lie, now that he’d made it up? Who else was there to coordinate with? “Yo también te amo. Ahora ve.”

Her father planted another kiss on her crown before standing and jogging out of the ER. Claire waited for the doors to close before turning to the only other person in the waiting room, who was tapping away at his phone with his tongue peeking between his lips.

She swallowed thickly, before saying, “Um. C-Coby?”

“Toby,” he corrected. Right. Green eyes flicked up to her before going back to the screen. The tongue disappeared as his lips flattened into a white line. “You might as well call me the right name, since you almost got my friend killed.”

A shock bloomed in her chest and trickled down her spine like ice. Claire felt her hands go numb, and figured she was probably paler than she’d ever been. She opened her mouth, unsure if she could even find the words to defend herself, but the mental image of Jim's face bleeding, red flowing down onto the black and silver of his armor, followed by Jim unconscious on the ground with no armor and blood everywhere, blocked any air from moving.

Toby stopped, closing his eyes and sighing. He scrubbed a hand down his face. “…Sorry, Claire. I didn’t mean that, and even if I did, it wasn’t fair. Just—ignore me. I just… this is the first time he’s been hurt bad.”

Claire nodded, and though feeling was coming back to her fingers, the chill didn’t leave entirely. She figured it was the start of an impressive amount of guilt, but shoved that to the side to think about later. “S-so he hasn’t been doing this very long?” she asked, carefully.

Toby’s face was searching, before he relaxed some into his chair. “He told you?” he asked, sounding somewhat relieved. Claire shrugged a shoulder. “Guess that was his Amulet that flew past us when we were running after him, then—did you see him…?”

“Y-yeah? There were—um, goblins? I think he called them?” Toby nodded, and she clutched at her arms, continuing just as quietly as she’d started. “A lot of them. They scratched him, all over, he was bleeding, but we managed to hold our own, sort of. He kept screaming something, about Merlin or sunlight or—”

“It’s how he summons the… stuff,” Toby said, with a glance to the nurses at the admittance station nearby. As if that explained it. How can you summon a suit of armor and a sword? He ignored her incredulous look, instead choosing to stand and walk over and take the seat her dad had left empty.

“But Jim wouldn’t lose to a bunch of goblins, and that was not a goblin dragging him around when we arrived,” Toby said, hissing but perfectly audible now that he was closer.

Claire shook her head. “There was a lot of light and noise, and then he had—he was—glowing.” Toby nodded. “The rest of the… goblins… they were just, goo, in like five minutes.” She tried not to think about the half-proud twitch of his lips at that. “But then there was whistling, and this weird purple lady with long black hair—”

Toby went incredibly pale quickly. “Ms. Nomura,” he muttered.

“The museum director?”

“Sort of. Yeah. She’s a changeling—servant of the bad Trolls, the Gumm-Gumms. Bad news. She’s hard core, it would’ve been tough for him to beat her even at full strength. After getting injured by a horde of goblins?” Toby shook his head. “Not surprised he ended up in here.”

“The bad Trolls are called Gumm-Gumms?” she repeated, bewildered, before freezing. “Hold up. Jim called Enrique a change-thing.”

Toby cringed. “NotEnrique,” he corrected. “That’s what we’ve been calling him.”

“My brother—whatever replaced my brother—is one of those things?” she demanded. The chill came back at the thought of another purple monster sitting in her brother’s bedroom, sharpening its swords and facing the door, waiting for— “Toby, my dad is going back there, my mom is still there, I—”

Horrified and scared, she lurched to her feet, but Toby caught her arm and pulled her back down. “Relax,” he hissed. “Your parents are safe. Even the real Enrique is safe. Changelings can only last in our world as long as their originals remain unharmed in their world, so Enrique is probably the safest out of all of us right now, and NotEnrique really likes his set-up at your house, so he won’t try and hurt your folks. Besides, he’s different than Ms. Nomura. Different sub-species, anyway. Less deadly, probably, definitely smaller.” Claire collapsed back into her chair, feeling his words sink in with stunned disbelief. “He came to my place earlier today to give us the heads-up that the goblins were after you. I just texted Aaarrrgghh!!—he’s a good Troll, he’s holding onto Jim’s phone—to let him know to head back so your parents won’t find an empty crib.” Claire covered her face with her hands. “Claire?”

“I just—good Trolls?” she parroted. She threw her hands out. “Bad Trolls! Changelings, and Gumm-Gumms, and subspecies of magical creatures and freaking glowing armor and a sword that looks like something out of an anime—that thing was huge!”

Toby chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he admitted, “we’re pretty sure the armor’s giving him some kinda super-strength until he’s strong enough to hold it up on his own. Blinky said he glows a little more than your average Trollhunter, it might be feeding him magic like that.”

“How is that a sentence I heard just now?” Claire demanded, still whispering but with her voice pitched high. “I—I need a minute. This is all too much.”

She cradled her head again, trying to absorb everything crowding for her attention. It felt like that one time when she’d tried to stuff an entire pizza slice into her mouth as a kid—almost drowning in something too-hot and sticky. There was a mountain sitting on her shoulders, trying to fall into her brain in one massive, sudden rockslide. Her mind was getting crushed under the weight.

A warm hand settled on her shoulder. “Jim needed a night too, when he found out,” Toby said, a gentle smile on his face. “Do you want me to stay with you, or go? I can give you space if you need it.”

Claire stared at him for a moment, his dumb grin and lopsided teeth. The metal in his braces caught the hospital light harshly, but there was kindness in his eyes. She found herself relaxing. “…Thanks, Toby. You don’t mind staying?”

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he replied, sitting further back in his chair. “Take as long as you need,” Toby told her, rubbing her back gently. “It’s a lot, we know.”

She smiled at him, grateful. “You’re a good friend, Toby. I can see why Jim holds you close.”

“Eh, doesn’t hurt that I won’t let go either,” Toby admitted with a wink. “Best friends forever, come hell, high water, or Chicken Surprise.”

“Don’t the homicidal troll killers make the list,” Claire asked with weak humor.

Toby snorted. “You are obviously underestimating the Chicken Surprise.”

Notes:

I spelled Aaarrrgghh!! based on both the cc Netflix uses for English and his own explanation ("3 R's").

Hope you liked it!

Chapter 2: Dash

Notes:

Word Prompt was: DASH

“You dodged every single ball like some kinda skinny white Simone Biles! It was a thing of beauty, Lake! I’ve never seen anything like it. Are you sure you don’t want to try out for the football team? I know it’s late in the season, but with a talent like yours as wide receiver, we’d be able to pull out of our six-decade slump!”

Personally, Jim was of the opinion that he could walk onto the field in full Trollhunter armor and the Arcadia Oaks Moles would still lose any game they played in. Even the shock value that would come with the sheer size of his sword wouldn’t do enough good.

Eh heh. Size of his sword.

That was not a joke to make to Coach Lawrence. “Really, sir, I’m not interested,” he said instead, closing his locker door. “I’ve already got the lead in the play, and my mom to help out, and, uh… chess club…?”

“You’re on my chess team?” Coach Lawrence asked, frowning in confusion. “I didn’t see you on the roster.”

Shit, that’s right, he coaches that too… “Uh, community chess!” Jim said, spotting a volunteer signup sheet on an opposite wall. “Not a school thing, so, uh, you wouldn’t have any record of it! I, uh, teach kids how to play it after school? Yeah! Y’know, uh, gotta get those volunteer hours before graduation. Looks great for colleges!”

Coach Lawrence jutted out his bottom lip, and for a moment, Jim was scared he wouldn’t buy it. “Alright,” he said, and Jim struggled not to make his relief noticeable. “If you’re stubborn about it, I won’t push. Impressive that you’re determined to prepare for your future though.” He looked over and scowled a little at the sight of Toby running towards them. “Maybe you could convince Domzalski to put as much effort into his workout regimen. He could use some discipline in his life.”

Jim frowned, but didn’t say anything until Coach Lawrence was gone and Toby had arrived. He already had one teacher out for his head (literally), he didn’t need to end up on another’s shitlist.

“Hey,” he greeted Toby instead, smiling. “Ms. Perth let you out?”

“Eh, one little fake sick note. It’s not like I stole the Declaration of Independence or anything. What did Coach Lawrence want?”

“For me to sign up as wide receiver.” At Toby’s confused face, Jim chuckled. “That’s the one that grabs the ball and runs around like a Troll at sunrise, ducking everyone in their path? I think. He said my dodgeball skills were impressive.” Jim frowned, a thought coming to him. Maybe he should fake a little in gym? Would it be too out of the ordinary if he got really good really quickly?

Eh. It’s not like people would think oh, he’s good at dodgeball and immediately jump to he must be fighting for life and limb every night trying to protect two civilizations from evil chaotic Troll monsters!

Plus, the GPA boost was too sweet to turn down.

“Phew, see, that is why I’m glad you’re the big fighter, and I’m the hero support,” Toby said, strapping his backpack on and following Jim as they headed for their bikes. “Getting hounded to try out for contact sports… count me out! Aren’t you glad we don’t live in some dumb kid’s TV show where we're stupid enough to think that popularity is a good thing to have when we've got double lives to lead? I mean, honestly, how does anyone with two brain cells to rub together think its a good idea to volunteer for something that'll just get you even more beat up than fighting bad guys already does?"

Jim frowned, wondering at the odd sensation that someone, somewhere, was sneezing. He shook it off.

“You’re just saying that because Coach hasn’t seen you sprint yet,” he teased. Toby shot him a dangerous look. “What? I saw you book it from those goblins. If Coach Lawrence had been there and didn’t faint from seeing Aaarrrgghh!! and Blinky, he would’ve snatched you up for the 100m dash like that!” He snapped in Toby’s face, and earned himself a face-full of Toby’s palm in return.

“Don’t give me nightmares,” Toby said after pulling away. He shuddered. “Merlin’s Amulet might be Gunmar’s Bane, but organized sports are mine.”

Notes:

I've got two more of these. If you wanna leave a word you like (no pairing names) as a prompt in the comments, I won't argue... hungry authors need feeding.

Chapter 3: Smoothies (pt. 1)

Notes:

Accidentally did 'SMOOTHIES' twice, so I'll post both today, maybe write one more. One word a day seems nice, yeah? Pre-Series.

Benedict’s Hospital was always a place of controlled chaos, and it was a chaos Jim knew how to navigate like it was his own kitchen.

Which was good, because though his package was in a spill-proof thermos—pink, with turquoise curling vines across it, her favorite—experience told him that the spill-proof guarantee meant exactly jack and shit if he fell and popped the lid off. Again.

Jim really didn’t want to piss off the ER janitor again. The dude was still about ready to scalp him for the tomato soup incident of 2015.

Luckily, even though his growth spurt was now starting in full, Jim was still thin as a reed and fit between bustling doctors and nurses and hospital beds easily. People greeted him as he passed with smiles and calls, some he knew on sight—Dr. Lanz, Dr. O’Shaunessy, Dr. Oxaca, Nurse Layton—and some he didn’t, not that it bothered him. Too many people worked here for him to know everyone, after all.

“Kid, watch out!”

Jim barely had enough time to register the shout before something huge and white was taking up the majority of his field of vision. He yelped and jumped on instinct, cradling the thermos close to his chest in an effort not to let it spill.

His hand slapped onto a cold surface with a dull-sounding thunk—he felt it move even as it took his weight, his legs swinging up and over with the drive of his run and leap, and he launched off it before it could ruin his balance. The world spun around him, the muscles in his middle stretching as he twisted, and then his converse connected with the tile again, followed by his forearm as his momentum continued.

The next thing Jim knew, he was crouched, muscles tense, looking back at what had been a chest-high runaway phlebotomy cart and several stunned nurses. The liquid in the thermos sloshed, but it was still dry against his shirt.

“How did you just…?”

Jim blinked, then stood himself up. “Uh…” He looked at the area between himself and the place where he’d just been. What had he… A beep got his attention away, and Jim swore at the time displayed on his watch. “Shit! Gotta go! I’m gonna be late!”

Down two more halls and he found the room that served as the office for the doctor on-call. His mom sat behind the largest desk, leafing through papers with her glasses pushed up onto her crown, a focused line between her eyebrows. Predictably, there were books and folders scattered all over the surface of the desk, some of them stained with the remains of…

“Did you get take out for lunch?” Jim asked, unable to hide the horror and betrayal in his voice.

“Jim!” Dr. Lake jumped and moved quickly, shoving the damning white Styrofoam off the desk and into a trashcan, if the following clang was any indicator. Jim did his best not to lift his nose at that; exactly where it belonged, in his opinion. “I—I—hey, sweetie! What are you doing here?” she asked, frowning. “You’re not cutting class, are you?”

Jim rolled his eyes. “No,” he responded. “It’s lunch. I asked Mr. Strickler if I could leave campus to bring you this, and he said yes.” He walked forward and put the thermos on a clean area, kissing her head as he dropped it off. “It’s your favorite, mango and strawberry smoothie. Happy birthday.”

“Oh, thank you sweetie. You really didn’t have to, on top of the wonderful breakfast this morning,” she said, hugging him tightly. “You are eating right, though?”

“Yeah, I ate half of my sandwich before leaving.” That was true, but Jim wasn’t going to mention that he would likely have to sneak the other half during the breaks between his next classes. He was already flirting with a tardy as it was.

“Good. I’m a little curious, though, about this Mr. Strickler. What kind of teacher lets a 14-year-old out on his own?”

“The cool kind,” Jim answered with a grin and a shrug. Dr. Lake rolled her eyes. “And the kind who’s a sucker for birthdays. Anyway, I’ve got to head back. Don’t work too hard! And I’m making you lunch tomorrow, just so you know!”

“Stay safe on the ride back!” she called as he disappeared through the door again. Dr. Lake shook her head. Making her lunch, it made her chuckle even as her mouth watered at the thought of it. “Honestly, one of these days I’m going to have to remind him who the mother is here….”

A knock on the doorjamb had her looking back up, revealing one of the nurses she’d befriended recently. “Oh, hi Jack. Is something wrong?”

“Nah, just have these papers,” he answered, putting the files on her desk. She fought back a scowl as her mountain grew. No one ever mentioned the sheer amount of paperwork she’d get stuck with when she applied to medical school. “Hey—did you know the kid who just ran outta here?”

Dr. Lake blinked in surprise, taking her glasses and putting them back on her nose. “What, Jim? Yes, he’s my son. Why?”

“You might wanna consider the kid for the local parkour club. Paulie and Denice’s cart—y’know, the one with the broken brakes?—it got loose and I thought we were gonna have a kid pancake in the hall.”

“A phlebotomy cart? Is he—was he okay?” Dr. Lake went pale at the thought of one of those massive carts hitting her boy, but… Jim hadn’t even seemed winded when he arrived. “What happened?”

“I don’t know, he just pulled some kind of front handspring with one hand off the thing, landed in a Zelda-roll, and kept going! It was kinda awesome, some’a the patients even started clapping, though I don’t think he noticed. He’d already run this way. Did you have him do tumbling when he was little or something?”

Dr. Lake stared at him, thrown and still a little worried. “I… no?” She shook her head. “Maybe he’s been practicing while I’ve been at work. I’ll ask him when I get home tonight, thanks Jack.”

Two hours later, there was a three-car pileup involving a Vespa just like the one Jim wanted. The driver was seventeen and ended up breaking both legs. She was so shaken by the sight of it that Dr. Lake never did ask Jim about the runaway cart.

Which was good, because up until the day he heard his name coming from a pile of K-spar, Jim had zero explanation for his sudden and growing proclivity for acrobatics.

Chapter 4: Smoothies (pt. 2)

Notes:

Here's the other SMOOTHIES chapter! Have a little Nuñez pseudo-sibs domestic scene.

2017: Edited for grammar

“So… this thing’s meant ta make food, then?”

“Well yeah,” Claire answered, holding the lid down on the machine and flipping the pulse switch a few times. The handful of colorful fruits, submerged in thick milk and sugar, were obliterated into one smooth yellow soup. “What did you think it was for?”

NotEnrique laid out on the counter in front of her, head cradled in his hands as he watched the smoothie swirl. “Torture,” he answered simply. “Looks like ya can fit fingers in there pretty easy.”

Claire cringed at the mental image, before pausing. “I think I know what we need to watch after this,” she decided, stopping the machine and pouring out the smoothie into her glass. “You’d probably love Supernatural, as long as you don't take the anti-monster stuff too personally. Now, what do you want in yours?”

NotEnrique rolled over with a thoughtful hum as she washed out the plastic cup. “Do you like milk or baby formula more?”

“The formula,” NotEnrique decided quickly. “It’s more filling, plus its warm.” Claire shuddered at the thought of a warm smoothie, but put the formula in the microwave. “Think ya can put socks in there? The tubby kid gave me a good set for chewing on his homework the other day. I woulda done it for free if it was any good, but urgh, it was C work at best.”

So that was how Toby had gotten Señor Uhl to give him an extra day on the Spanish essay. She should’ve recognized those teeth marks. Claire leaned against the counter, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “The sock’d probably mess up the blades,” she admitted. “I can cut it up into pieces and drop it in, though. It’d be like bubble tea, except not. You’re okay with the rotten fruit?”

“Abso-lutely, sis!” NotEnrique said, flashing a thumbs up. “Oh, ooh, and a mushroom or two? I ain’t had any of those since the Darklands.”

Obligingly, Claire opened the fridge and fished out the fruits that had been sitting in the bottom of the crisper long enough to grow mold—NotEnrique was cleaner and marginally less stinky than the composter out back—as well as the last of one of the packages of mushrooms her father had recently bought.

She put on gloves and did her best to emulate Jim’s blade-work while slicing the black bananas, brown apples, and green oranges—she nearly cut herself open for her troubles, and stuck her tongue out at NotEnrique when he laughed. She was the one laughing when he fell off the counter, though.

“Go get those socks you want,” she told him, and he was gone into the rest of the house. “You want the rinds too?” she shouted after him a while later. With both her parents gone at work, she could be as loud as she liked—and NotEnrique could be as Troll-like as he liked, too, for that matter.

“Not the banana peels,” NotEnrique yelled back, making sounds in the room above her. “Those’re poisonous ta Trolls.”

“Noted,” she said, tossing the peels for composting later. She hesitated when her hands found the mushrooms—NotEnrique arrived back, a mismatched pair of horrible argyle socks in one hand.

Claire glanced at him for a moment. “Are you… are mushrooms popular in the Darklands?”

NotEnrique shrugged, picking lint off the socks and popping it into his mouth. “They’re about the only thing that’ll grow naturally,” he explained. “Damp and dark and rocks everywhere? Mushrooms are commoner’s food. Stronger Trolls get us changelings or goblins ta sneak ‘em other stuff through Fetches. That’ll be how they get milk or whatever for your baby bro.”

Claire nodded, and dropped the subject. NotEnrique didn’t usually mention the Darklands too much, and even though she wanted to know everything about the world her brother had ended up in, she didn't want to break the new peace she'd built with the changeling either.

He wasn’t a bad little monster, once you got used to him.

She accepted the socks, grabbed an old pair of metal-handled scissors that could take the boiling she’d use to clean them later, and started cutting the fabric.

The processor ran quick and shortly, and soon there were two smoothies sitting on the counter, one significantly better smelling than the other. Claire put the supplies away—the processor cup and blades went right into the dishwasher, a simple rinse was not good enough this time—as NotEnrique grabbed the drinks and went to set up Netflix.

“So what’s this we’re watching?” he asked, stubby fingers oddly nimble on the remote control.

“How to Train Your Dragon,” Claire answered, falling into place on the couch beside him, accepting and then taking a sip from her smoothie. “You’ll like the Terrible Terrors. They remind me of you, except better. They can’t talk.”

NotEnrique clutched at his chest. “Oh, you cut me deep sis!” He chugged at his smoothie, releasing a satisfied, happy gasp when he was halfway through it. “Absolutely disgusting,” he proclaimed as the boy and moon logo came up on the screen. “You’re a disgrace to chefs everywhere.”

“You cut me deep, bro,” Claire told him, hand on her chest.

Notes:

Hope you liked it!

Oh, and happy New Year's Eve! 2016, rest in f***ing pieces

Chapter 5: Lost

Notes:

Word of the Day, from Robin: LOST. Thank you Robin and everyone else who's volunteered/ing words! I'll get to them in the order they're received! You're lovely lovelies!

Little less edited than the others, probably a little OOC too. Blinky's hard for me. I found it a little frustrating how little we see of Troll culture, but I guess its excusable seeing as it's supposed to be a kid's show. So I dropped in Troll-lore/culture of my own, some of it mined from a headcanon I have in the Blue Beetle fandom, some of it original, like headcanon having to do with Troll births.

I aimed to make it sad, but I think I rambled so let me know if I epic-failed.

Hero’s Forge probably felt rather cold, Blinky figured.

It was hard to tell, exactly. The stone that made up Troll skin was near-impenetrable, to both weaponry and changes in temperature—Blinky had known the definition, but never the true sensation of ‘cold’ or ‘hot’, ‘rough’ or ‘soft’ until his temporary transformation into a squishy human form. Sensing physical characteristics of the environment required a somewhat malleable surface in contact with it; stone was not malleable, so sensations were dulled in his native Troll form.

But the fires and glow-stones that lit the area were dimmed, kept low and near dead and shrouding most of the open area with obliquely shaped shadows. The echoes from his footsteps had died, lonely and fading in the empty halls of the stands. Worst to see, at the moment, were the posed and macabre figures that had once been noble warriors, each standing on their own pedestal, each with slated eyes and, though he couldn’t see them at the moment, spider-webbed cracks that signified their death-wounds.

Blinky had discovered there to be an exchange between Troll and Human form. Humans, vulnerable and sensitive to the world around them, were able to interpret and interact with their world in ways Trolls could only begin to imagine; however, they were without something Blinky had missed very dearly at the time, and missed all the more now.

The Hero’s Forge was often empty and cold like this—every dawn, when Trollkind went to sleep in their beds and homes, the fires were doused and the stones dimmed to conserve fuel and power. It wasn’t odd to see it, as Blinky was often the first to arrive here as Trollmarket awoke and would therefore be the one to set everything back up and turn everything back on.

But it was very different today, when the ringing shine that had been Aaarrrgghh!!’s presence was as cold and dead as stone under his skin.

The connection between Trolls was something sacred, not to be mentioned in casual conversation. Blinky wasn’t even sure that Jim or the other humans in their group knew about it yet. But it was an integral part of Troll society nonetheless, and though it was vigorously well-studied, it remained a mysterious one as well. Veraminta the Veritable had spent centuries studying it, and only determined that it arose from the way that interacting waves of magic resonated in adjacent birthstones.

Which, in simpler terms, only stated what even the just-calved knew: something formed between Trolls who spent large amounts of time together, and these somethings were strong enough to be felt in every pebble that made up an individual. It shone like glow-stone, it rang like orichalcum bells… in the same way that light scatters in a crystal prism and sound against smooth walls, connections reverberated between Trolls.

Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, brothers and sisters and Trollkin of every manner and relation.

In Troll, the word for the dimming of a connection, following another’s death, is Edaduaz. It is an all-encompassing term, portraying, among other things, sadness and longing and love and something akin to a phantom pain for a resonance and love no longer there.

Blinky had studied the English language for sixty years, but there was no direct synonym. Only one word came close.

Cold.

There was a pile of gabbro sitting on the floor of the arena. Jagged edges and pebbles, mostly, nothing larger than three human fists put together. Angor Rot had not been a large Troll, even taking into account his intimidating height.

A few places in the pile had little but dust left, these spots shaped like neatly cut squares—the remains of Tobias’s last attacks on an enemy already defeated. Blinky had heard the boy shriek when Aaarrrgghh!! was lost, and the memory of it twisted at his heart. His voice was so young, still pitched so high, to have held that amount of anger and hate. That amount of grief.

The humans were together in front of the statue now, performing some kind of human mourning ritual. Visiting the dead. Trolls did no such thing—the dead were gone, the statue was but an empty remnant. There was nothing to visit. In the case of glorious and legendary warriors or other influential, it was cared for, yes, kept intact for as long as possible, but only in order that their stories and legends to be passed on to those still living. There was no other purpose.

But humans… Jim and Claire and Toby had insisted on seeing ‘Aaarrrgghh!!’ once more, privately, quietly. To say their goodbyes. Blinky could not join them; as a Troll, in his mind, no goodbye was said, and therefore no farewell could ever be said again. It was yet another tragedy of the day.

Perhaps they pretended, for closure. Blinky felt the thought idle in his mind, curious, but he had no drive to follow the path it laid out for him. It would’ve been a fascinating thing to observe, human mourning rituals, if the price to see it had not been so high.

He rubbed a hand down his fourth arm. His skin felt wrong without Aaarrrgghh!!’s resonance inside of it. The sensation would fade over decades, he knew from experience, but it would never really go away. Not until his own death left holes in others.

Still, there was work to be done. The closest thing to satisfying work that could be done, at the moment.

Blinky was no warrior. He was a historian, he had been marked for intellectual pursuits from birth due to his numerous eyes. He could fight, yes, but not in the traditional way; he was a Troll of strategy, of magic tricks and cleverness.

Of pettiness, his teacher, the Honorable Grunthill, had told him with half a smirk, when he was still but a calvling. The larger trolls, the warriors, they are expected to show respect and honor at all times. We win battles through their strength, yes, but wars are claimed through dirtier tricks than that. Demoralization! Destroy their will to fight, rebuild your own, and victory is yours. Be civilized whenever possible, Blinkous, be eloquent and dignified and better than your enemy every waking hour, lest you find yourself falling to their level... but when it gets to be too much, it can be acceptable to sometimes be petty.

Even if it doesn’t destroy their moral, it might just lift your spirits enough to allow you to continue.

And so Blinky retrieved the broom and dustpan from the arena’s closet and swept together the remains of Angor Rot. When it was all in one pile, he picked up a piece of what remained of his friend’s killer, inspecting it lightly and turning it over in his hands.

“Humans seem to think some essence of the spirit can be found in the remains,” Blinky murmured thoughtfully. “I am no human… but I was for a while. I might as well give their method of closure a shot.”

With a strong wind-up, he threw the rock off the edge of the arena. It hurtled through the air and collided with the opposite cliff in a loud clack!, shattering into dust and pebbles that poured down the rest of the face. Some of it fell all the way down and splashed into the magma river at bottom, the larger pieces remaining solid for a moment as the current dragged it towards the depthless falls on the other side of the arena’s bridge.

Blinky was breathing hard. His arm ached a little, he’d overextended it. But it was good to see that piece break. Something still angry, still roaring inside of him, was quelled at the sight.

The loss was still there, but doing something with the emotion, even if it was, in the greater picture, completely ineffectual… was helping.

“Humans might be onto something with this,” Blinky muttered, picking up another piece and hurling it at the wall with a cry. Clack!!

He was on his seventh or eighth piece when Claire came sprinting into the arena.

-=-=-=-

They made it just in time to see Jim in black and red armor—what in Deya’s grace did he do?!—vanish into the portal, and for Killahead Bridge to collapse after him.

“JIM!” Claire and Tobias screamed, sharp cries made sharper by the echoes that followed, and Blinky’s knees hit the ground at the same time as Merlin’s amulet, a dull thud to its ringing ching!. It rolled around and then fell on its back, like a dropped coin finally stilling. No light shone from it without the Trollhunter there; it was dead.

His old friend was dead.

The boy who was all but his son, was all but dead.

Blinky felt like one of the shards of Rot he’d just thrown. Shattered, collapsing. Cold.

We won the battle, he thought, a piece of that costly enemy still in one hand. Why? Why would victors be granted such heavy loss?

-=-=-=-

“I’m home!”

Dr. Lake opened the front door and turned on the lights. “You would not believe how hard it was to get them to discharge me. I’m going to be a lot more sympathetic to my patients from now on, I’ll tell you that—you’d think they’d realize that a doctor would know the symptoms of a subdural hema…”

A shine caught her eye, and she frowned at the odd hook screwed into the ceiling to her left. “What in God’s name?” she wondered, putting her coat on the rack and moving towards it. There was nothing on the hook, it was just—there. Where it certainly hadn’t been when she left for work the day before.

Only one person could’ve put it up, but why? Did he set up a punching bag or something? Why would Jim want a punching bag in the front hall?

“Jim? Could you come down here sweetie?” she called. No answer, and the house was dark and silent.

Dr. Lake checked her watch. He wouldn’t be asleep at 5PM, and he would’ve left a note if he was hanging out with Toby… “Jim?” she tried again, and something curdled in her heart when there was still no answer. “Jim? Are you here?!”

Her bag fell to the floor, and she ran for the stairs, aching body be damned.

When she broke down and called the police, reporting her missing boy, the first suggestion the dispatcher made was that he was simply lost.

Technically, he was right.

Notes:

If you take the Troll word I made up, spin it backwards and replace the z with an s, you get Saudade, which is Portuguese. One of those words without an English equivalent, wikipedia defines it as "is a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves."

Figured it fits.

I start work in a couple days, except updates to lessen dramatically. Sorry...

Hope you liked it! :)

Chapter 6: Cartoon

Notes:

Word of the day: CARTOON. Thank you to MewWitch for the idea, I hope you enjoy!

I hope you all enjoy! All the enjoyment for everyone!

Mentions of a dumb ghost show that appeared on Nickelodeon for a couple years and had a finale that few like to acknowledge exists. If you don't know the premise, don't worry about it, I think its understandable without context. :)

2017: Edited for grammar

Oak Grove cul-de-sac never looked so inviting.

It was still a handful of hours before dawn—that darkest part of the night when even the owls and other night creatures had gone to sleep, leaving the world empty and still. What had been a brilliant collection of stars were beginning to wink out of sight, thanks to a rolling wall of fog that was overtaking Arcadia like an aerated tsunami. Silent, still, waiting for the sun to finally rise so that something could happen.

The silence was shattered where they walked, though, given both the constant clanging of Jim’s armor and the heavy booms of Aaarrrgghh!!’s footsteps, steel and stone on concrete. Toby was laid across Aaarrrgghh!!’s shoulders, already half asleep. Jim couldn’t blame him—they’d been halfway through his training session when imps, of all things, had attacked Trollmarket.

Apparently the anti-Gumm-Gumm enchantment meant exactly fuck all against the little orange balls of mischief and anger. They were cousins to goblins, apparently, but, thank God, were a bit more mobile—like locusts, they came, they wrecked everything in sight, and then they left.

Bular, the Trollhunters had been able to handle. Ms. Nomura, no problem. Angor Rot? The worst permanent damage he’d been able to do was turn Aaarrrgghh!!’s arm into stone, as everything else had gone back to normal after Toby had found the cure to Troll cementation.

But imps.

They’d been fighting off that horde since school ended the day before. None of them had gotten any homework done. Toby had already decided to call in sick with a dark gleam in his eye that made Jim worry, a little, for Ms. Fife the attendance lady at the front office if she tried to argue his excuse.

Jim was tempted to do the same, honestly. Every bit of his body ached, and he was pretty sure more of it was bruised—imps liked throwing things, and while his armor kept him from getting impaled or crushed, it didn’t protect him from getting slightly squished. His joints were protesting even the walk from the bridge, and he’d had to put Daylight in its place on his back or risk his fingers falling off.

He was not looking forward to explaining the split lip and black eye to his mother.

Jim touched the area gingerly, hissing at the new spike of fire the contact created. Aaarrrgghh!! rumbled worriedly to his left, but Jim waved his concern away. “What kinda gem do you think I’ll need to cut to get a helmet?” he wondered aloud. “Because I’m calling it, right now. Next armor upgrade has got to be a helmet. Kanjigar wears one. Wore one. What tense do you use for a dead guy that you see on a weekly basis?”

“No,” Toby groaned, “no quests. No battles, no bad guys, no thinking, no more anything. Just bed.”

“Agree,” Aaarrrgghh!! agreed. Which was fair.

The group stopped on top of the manhole at the center of the cul-de-sac. Jim let his heartrate fall at the sight of his house, easing back into his comfort zone. The armor vanished around him in a flare of blue fire, and he slouched where he stood, exhausted and beaten. He said his goodbyes and good nights to Toby and Aaarrrgghh!! before turning away from them and walking into the house.

There was a blue light coming from the living room. Jim tensed, for a minute, expecting spells or changelings or Troll magic, before recognizing the dull drum of conversation that came with it. The TV was on.

Heh. What did it say about his life, that he assumed Troll magic before something as normal as a TV?

Jim slipped the amulet into his back pocket, stepping into the living room to turn the set off—they didn’t need the electricity bill skyrocketing, on top of everything else. A flash of color caught his eye, though, and he paused.

There was a show onscreen, not one he’d seen before. A cartoon, one of the older ones by the look of things. One of the characters had a blocky grey piece of technology that was… a PDA? Wasn’t that what they called smartphones before smartphones were a thing?

There were green monster-looking things all over a street, flying and attacking people with evil grins on their faces. Excepting the fact that his monsters had been imps and that his civilians had been six-foot-plus stone-skinned Trolls, it almost exactly matched the scene and streets Jim had just returned home from.

“Oh man,” a Gothic-looking girl character said into the camera, “I’ve never seen this many ghosts attacking at once!”

“Ghosts?” Jim repeated, thinking about Kanjigar and the other Elder Trollhunters. They’d attacked him during training before. That hadn’t been fun.

“I’m gonna need a bigger thermos!” said another, this one a boy who pulled out a white and green cylinder, before getting body-checked off screen.

“And a medic!” the final character, the one with the PDA, cracked.

Jim snorted, though his face ached in sympathy for the hit. It wasn’t too different from the one that had landed him those injuries in the first place.

Really, he should’ve turned the TV off and headed upstairs to bed. If he didn’t want to skip tomorrow, catching a handful of hours of sleep was probably the best idea before tackling his Spanish homework. But his bones felt like he was still wearing his armor, and some of his muscles were protesting the idea of standing for another minute, and the couch looked so soft, and he was fifteen, for God’s sake. He could make the dumb decision and just… watch a cartoon for a half hour.

Besides. The theme song was pretty catchy. And informative, too.

-=-=-=-

“See where the future takes us—?”

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

Jim’s head snapped up at the sound. His alarm was going off upstairs—he had no idea it was set loud enough to be heard from the first floor.

A soft groan came from his right, and Jim turned again to see his mother, sitting at the dining table with her head resting in her arms. She was still in her scrubs and had probably fallen asleep there last night… waiting for him to come home.

Whoops. Jim cringed, suddenly feeling the weight of his promise to tell her sit heavy on his shoulders. He’d meant to tell her… but there hadn’t been any good time to do it. Angor Rot stole the horngazel the same night that his mom had gotten hurt, and laid siege to Trollmarket right after. Then everything with Aaarrrgghh!! happened, and he’d done the stupid thing and gotten into the Darklands with Eclipse—he still didn’t know if it had been a good or bad thing, seeing as he saved Enrique and technically Aaarrrgghh!! (as the components for the reversal spell had been in the Darklands) but lost Eclipse and had to leave all those other kids there, but everyone had agreed after dragging him back out that good or bad, it had definitely been a Stupid Thing—and—and—

And it had been a month since he got back, and he still hadn’t told her. She was asleep at the dining table, there were black rings under her eyes that made her look like a raccoon, and that was because he hadn’t told her.

What was wrong with him? He took his promises seriously, he always had. Why had he barely even noticed that he was breaking this one?

Jim’s eyes tracked back to the TV, which were playing the credits for the show he’d just watched… like six episodes of. The main character had hidden a secret from his folks too, though he had a much better reason for it. Dissection sounded like it would suck. Of course he’d been afraid of it—his whole life would change after that one conversation, for better or worse.

Jim’s whole life would change after this one conversation.

Barbara Lake looked like Maddie Fenton, a little. Red hair, blue eyes, teal uniform. She was even a martial artist, though her preferred art was krav maga, and a doctor. She loved her son.

Her son who was hiding something from her. Her son who came home tired and (probably) injured with no explanation. Her son who got in trouble constantly, who disappointed and worried her…

“I really could have it worse,” Jim muttered, scratching at an ear and thinking about the anger Maddie Fenton had unleashed on the ghost of her son. His mom had no reason to react like that—she would only be scared, worried. But in the end, it would be the same: sheer, unwavering support.

Jim was still aching. Still exhausted. But he was used to doing the hard thing even when he’d gone through tough jobs already. He’d been stressed out over his mom’s injury but hadn’t hesitated to help take down Angor Rot. He’d been put in the hospital by a goblin horde but that hadn’t stopped him from battling at Killahead Bridge. A conversation after an imp infestation? Psssht.

Jim turned off the TV, and walked over to the dining room. There was a cold cup of coffee sitting in front of her, which he took to the kitchen and replaced with simple water. They’d make a hot pot later.

He pulled out a chair and took a seat next to her, tapping gently on her arm as he sat. “Mom?” he asked quietly. “Mom, wake up. I… I’m home. And we need to talk.”

Notes:

Hope you liked it!

Thoe of you who've watched Danny Phantom... you can't deny there are similarities between these two. Those of you who haven't watched it, I highly recommend it if you like Trollhunters. Also angst. Lots of angst. The fandom has a little problem with torturing the main character.

Hey, did you hear about the Hollyweed sign? Even if 2017 ends up being the year of dumb pranks, I will still gladly take it over 2016.

Chapter 7: Sword/Fencing

Notes:

I had a little extra time, and since I won't have ~any~ free time until Sunday starting tomorrow, I figured I'd get ahead of myself. Word: SWORD/FENCING. Thanks again to MewWitch!

My sister is into fencing, though she doesn't have a ranking. This is my formal apology to her for anything I get wrong concerning the sport. I admit, I didn't try very hard (seeing as it's for a page-long drabble), but a Google attempt was made.

Enjoy!

“WRRONG!”

Toby had his phone out. After the second time, he’d gone ahead and deleted all the extra photos of Aaarrrgghh!! reacting to the taste of a feather pillow for the storage space. This was too glorious not to capture, and he could only hope that the shaking from having to hold in laughter wasn’t wrecking the video.

“WRRONG!”

“Do the French even roll their R’s like that?” Claire asked from her place sitting beside him. She was fighting a smirk too, her helmet tucked under an arm as she watched the spectacle.

“Don’t know don’t care,” Toby answered, his voice pitched high.

“WRRONG!”

CLANG! Buzz!

“Halt! Ze victor of ze match ees Meester Palchuk!”

“YEA-AH! SUCK IT, BUTTSNACK!”

“What? But he barely grazed me!” Jim ripped off his helmet, his hair doused with sweat and turned incredulous eyes on the visiting fencing coach. Madame Berton was stiff, poised, and seemed to be made up of angles as sharp as Daylight.

Which was not what Jim was holding.

“Touché ees touché, Meester Lake,” Madame Berton sniffed. “Meester Palcheck scored ze point, therefore he ees ze victor. And even eef he had not, I vould hardly haf counted your performance satisfactory.” Jim turned roughly the color of a tomato. So did Toby, for a very different reason. Little snorts of laughter were fighting their way through his nose. Even Claire had put a hand to her mouth to hold it in. “Deed you leesten to a vord I said vhen I intrrroduced you to ze sword? You fight like a fool! Von hand, Meester Lake, von! Singular! Your lunge vas atrocious and your parry left you vide open! You use zis delicate and deadly instrument like eet was a bludgeon! Zis is epée, Meester Lake, not American baseball! I shudder to zink of you handling a lighter sword, much less in a real match!”

“In a real fight that hit wouldn’t’ve done more than a scrape!” Jim complained. Toby and Claire finally gave in, their laughter ringing through the gym and mixing with the sounds of the rest of their class fighting. He curled a fist at the sight of Steve making a face at him from the side, waving his epée like a stick.

“Irrrrelevant! Go back to ze outside of ze strip and practice your lunges! Ze basics for you! Try to appreciate ze grace ov your weapon! Swordsmanship is a delicate art, Meester Lake, it will not tolerate buffoonery!”

Fuming and red enough to possibly be mistaken for Ms. Nomura (in terms of skin tone, anyway), Jim stormed away from the piste, passing his friends. Toby stood and managed to say, “M-maybe you’re just n-not cut out for the sword, huh?” before dissolving into laughter again.

“This is not a sword,” Jim hissed, “this is an aluminum can with a handle!” He sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to unlearn battle instincts that kept you alive for a year? And with her shrieking in your ear?”

“T-try and look on the bright side,” Claire offered, trying to be sincere. “Imagine how badly you’d’ve creamed Steve with Daylight.”

Jim did look a little happier at the concept, at least until she continued, giggling, “Until Madame saw you.”

“Veet on ze floor!” Toby said in a shrill wheeze that sent Claire into a fit and Jim stomping away. “Ze floor! Zis ees not gymnastics class Meester Lake!”

Notes:

Eh heh. Sorry, Jimbo, but buster swords are not a Real Thing, especially not in Olympic Sports.

Hope you liked it!

Next up will be CHESS.