Chapter Text
Troy Barnes awoke in his favourite faded Spiderman pyjamas, and he stretched.
And he asked "who are you?"
He is not meant to ask that.
Start again.
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Troy awoke in his favourite faded Spiderman pyjamas and…
"I can still hear you, dude." he said.
Troy was imagining things. Troy was going crazy.
"I'm not… I would never… What if I am? I can't… I can't be crazy… I… I'm Troy Barnes… I"
Troy began to cry.
Troy was an American football player, first at his high school, and now at his local community college. He was muscular and of below average stature.
"Hey!” He protested. “There's nothing wrong with my star-chure, whatever that means!”
He is not meant to say that. He is not meant to hear this. He is not meant to protest or respond in any manner.
He had dark brown skin and tight curly hair and mischievous eyes that sparkled a lot in the light. He was 20 years old and the image of youthful innocence and, occasionally, of youthful arrogance.
“Someday, mysterious voice, I’m going to come up with a great description-insult for you. Stop doing this!” He, again, protested.
He was running late for class.
“Shit!” He exclaimed, and rushed to get ready.
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The autumn breeze puppeted dancing leaves around Troy as he arrived at the Greendale Community College campus.
“You’re back Mr. Mysterious Voice! Or Miss. Though I guess you have a deep voice for a woman. Not that women can’t have deep voices. I’m a feminist and all that stuff. Mx. Mysterious Voice is a mouthful though, like that time I tried to eat two slices of pizza in the one bite. I need to come up with a name for you. Mysterio? The Ominous One? I’ll think more about it. Do you have your own name? Wait, I’m after just remembering my most important question. Why weren’t you there when I was eating breakfast and all that stuff?” He rambled.
It wasn’t necessary to the story, so Troy eating breakfast was cut.
“But I had Fruit Loops!!!”
Troy remembered having Fruit Loops. Troy does not exist outside this narration.
“You’re wrinkling my brain!... You know what? I don’t think I believe you! I know I had Fruit Loops and that they were real Fruit Loops because I ate them myself and they tasted nice!”
Troy hung onto his false sense of reality.
Annie Edison, a pale, petite 18-year old in a cardigan and a floral skater dress, approached him, blushing and fidgeting upon entering Troy’s orbit.
She started muttering something to herself, counting her steps or something to distract herself from the fact she was hearing voices.
She was hearing this narration.
Not another one.
“Don’t worry, Annie!” Grinned Troy. “That’s the Narratorator! Do you like that name? I finally came up with it. Unless you have your own name. Maybe we can come up with one you like together if you want. But it’s Narraratorator for now! Like the Terminator but a Narrator!! I’m so awesome at naming things. I was scared at first too, Annie. But I think it means something cool is going to happen! Anyway, we have class together now, right?!”
Annie was too shocked to speak. She let out a little squeal that really could have been any emotion, and she walked along with Troy to their Spanish class.
The campus was packed with students, though it would dwindle out as the semester went on, before peaking the week before finals, as all college campuses tended to do.
Spanish 101 was taught by Sr. Chang, who seemed to hate every single one of his students. In particular, he picked on the 6 students who sat together near the front.
This included Troy, the grade-obsessed and already-introduced Annie, Pierce, the elderly and quite offensive lifelong learner who let Troy sleep in his spare room, Shirley, a devout Christian single mother, Britta, an anarchist return-to-education student in her mid-late 20s and Jeff, a disbarred lawyer trying to get a proper degree.
They were all making some sort of facial expression to indicate they had heard this.
“I… I’m not really high right now? You all can hear that too, right?” Britta stammered out.
“Well, you’re not just really high right now.” Jeff responded. “What the fuck was that?”
“That’s the Narratorator. A mysterious voice that’s been describing my life since I woke up this morning. We’re cool.”
“Narratorator is a stupid name.” Said Pierce.
“For once, I agree with Pierce.” Agreed Jeff.
Chang shushed the class, and began talking intermittently about the differing pronunciation of “ll” between Spanish-speaking countries and his recent divorce. The class flew by with the regular amount of Trunchbullian antics Chang was known for, including throwing the textbook at a student for not rolling their Rs correctly, and making 3 students do a humiliating dance because they conjugated the verb “tener” wrong.
They gathered in the cafeteria after the class was finished, to discuss this very narration.
“Just checking, everyone here can hear the voice?” Asked Jeff.
All 6 of them nodded.
“And, Troy, no-one else can hear it? No-one else has been giving you weird looks or whatever?” Jeff continued.
Troy shook his head.
“Not that I know of.” He responded
“Do you guys think Troy is, like, the protagonist?” Asked Annie, the first she’d spoken since her introduction.
“Oh damn! That’s so awesome.” Troy grinned giddily. “Do I get superpowers? Do I get to fight zombies or evil robots? Do I get to do dance battles?”
“I don’t think you’re the protagonist, Troy.” Said Jeff.
This was because Jeff thought himself to be the protagonist.
The group laughed.
“I… listen, I’m not talking insults from a monotone disembodied voice!” Said Jeff, even though narrators don’t insult, just state facts. “You sound like a nerd!” He added, desperately scrambling for insults to repair the hole in his ego.
A lot of people think they’re the protagonist, Jeff.
“Yeah, not everyone can be as humble as me.” Said Britta.
“Or me!” Added Shirley.
Neither of them were as humble as they thought they were.
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The rest of the day passed by in a blur of images and ideas for Troy, as most days seemed to do for him. His last class finished at 2, so he headed back to Pierce’s place and read some comics he’d found while thrifting with Britta last weekend.
“See, last weekend totally existed! How can it just be this story, when I have these comics from last weekend?” Troy asked.
They’re just props. They’re just props. You’re not meant to speak to me. You’re not meant to tear holes in this story. You’re the protagonist. I’m the narrator. You’re not meant to do this. This is not meant to happen.
“So you are a person!”
What.
“You referred to yourself as “me” and “I”. You do acknowledge you exist.”
I don’t know.
This is not meant to happen.
This is not how a story goes.
“I’ve been asking you all day, but do you have a name? Any hobbies or interests? Personality wise, I already know you’re pedantic and blunt. See, I did it!! Description-insult! Troy wins again! But, anyway, sorry, back to you and your name.”
I don’t have a name.
“Are there any names you like?”
I don't need a name.
I do like the sound of the Arabic language though. The last story I narrated was in Arabic.
“Woah, that’s so cool! So you, like, speak all the languages?”
Well, I’ve only narrated in Polish, English and Arabic. I guess I’m learning Spanish with you now too.
“That’s awesome, dude.”
But jt doesn't matter who I am. It doesn't matter what languages I speak or if I have a name. I am not meant to be in the story.
This is not how a story goes. I am not meant to be in the story.
I am not meant to be in the story.