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The forest had a heartbeat.
Not that distant, woodsy thump-thump, of early morning walks in the dense, multicoloured wilderness that one would expect from the Works of Dreams these days, but more a rhythmic, toe-tapping pulse—like the world itself was counting down to a chorus it absolutely refused to miss.
You might think that would be problematic somehow. A warning from the Earth itself that something was going DOWN. That all that was sacred had fled for fears of the Drums of WAR (or ROCK). At the very least, such a din could only result in an incessant headache that absolutely refused cease. An inescapable tinnitus that was obligingly shared by all.
But… that was the dawn rhythm of the Pop Trolls. And the jam was as necessary as the air, the sun on the leaves, the glitter and confetti remnants shimmering around Pod windows…
After all, it was the Village of Pop, and nothing here existed without at least some sense of timing. From the on-point to the…
…
... Hum… what were we doing, again...?
Sunlight spilled through the canopy in glittering ribbons, catching on leaves that shimmered as though dressed for great social importance (for good measure, as under the rule of beautifully bright, and deucedly spontaneous Queen Poppy, this was a standard and focal point of Pop Troll existence).
Trees curved and twisted in cheerful defiance of straight lines, their trunks hollowed into glitter-dappled pathways up to the winding branches where cosy teardrop pods hung as nature’s most enthusiastic suburban complex. Every window glowed with colour, every doorway shaped into a heart, oval, circle or other amygdaliform and positive styling. No bad vibes. Even in the building foundations.
Not in the Village of the Trolls of Pop.
In the same note, Pop Village did not believe in quiet mornings.Nor bad hair days. Nor facing the unknown without at least three friends and catalogue of b-songs as a makeshift first-aid kit. It breathed colour, exhaled music, and stood rooted in a belief as old as the forest itself: that happiness was louder when shared.
And that day—oh, that day—the forest felt especially alive. Right down to its ROOTS.
That is where we are focused today.
So... forget all that jazz.
Pop Energy pulsed with such a radiance that it could penetrate everything, to mercifully varying decrees, so that below the earth the morning breathed you awake softly. Like the gentle, melodic thrill of a sleepy falsetto sounding from deep within a cavern. That’s how Branch, desaturation-recovering lone wolf Pop Troll, resident Hero of Troll-Kind, Brozone Lead, and most importantly, the chief village candidate of “troll I wanna hug-bang” polls as of late, liked it.
Deep in the blue loner’s bunker underground, the brothers of Brozone had been moving themselves into Branch’s sanctuary for weeks. It had been made for them, granted, but still made through the bright blue eyes of a troll-babe. Times, needs, and preferences change, aight? Branch had considered this at length, and in a frenzy that spiralled with his deep-set, yet forever denied need for acceptance.
The young, blue stud in question had prepared the room three different ways before his precious idol brother Floyd ever stepped inside it.
The first variation had been practical: reinforced walls, extra exits, emergency supplies hidden behind decorative panels. All varying shades of Floyd palette complimentary pink and violet.
The second version had been softer still: better lighting, warmer heather and moss stuffed cushions, a sound system tuned perfectly to Floyd’s gentle yet powerfully moving voice range.
The third version had been… excessive.
Which was the version Floyd was currently standing in.
“Okay,” Branch said, darting forward with blue-lightening velocity, for the fourth time in under a minute, “so the humidity levels are adjustable, the ceiling glow can shift between sunrise and sunset tones, and if you don’t like the bed height I can lower it— or raise it— or rebuild it entirely—”
“Branch,” Floyd said softly.
The taller troll boy sweated, kneading his smooth chin as he looked into a distant corner with the glare of a compulsive perfectionist, “I been trying to get rid of the cobweb in the far-right corner there for months, but the guy pulled squatters’ rights law on me, so’s I--”
“Branch.” Floyd laughed out with affection.
Branch froze, one hand halfway to a lever, ready to resort to...untrolly measures.
Floyd smiled at him, calm and warm, the way he always did when things got a little too much. When the nightlight had been just a little too dim for Lil’ Bits to bear.
“It’s perfect,” Floyd said.
Branch blinked, uncertain. Almost critical. “It is?”
“Yeah,” Floyd nodded. “It’s safe. And quiet. And it smells like you.”
Branch flushed instantly, resisting the urge to sniff at his underarms. Aw, heck! He KNEW he oughta wash more’n he used to! He could meet a troll more than once in a month now! “That’s just the ventilation system. I can reroute it—”
Floyd laughed softly.
“I like it,” he said again.
Branch stared, wide-eyed, like he was looking into the maw of a Bergen and seeing rapture. He swallowed and nodded, and was suddenly very interested in straightening a magenta and black pillow that was already perfectly straight. Oh man, that felt good. Real good. The corner of his mouth turned up a little despite himself.
He shot a short glance around the room, as the magenta-haired Indy troll pottered around, happily getting into making his mark on his new home. What looked to be a really, really small mark.
Barely even a crayon scratch.
Floyd’s belongings were like…super minimal. Clay was still flitting to and fro from the Hole’a’Fun with binders, a 1000-bead rainbow abacus, couple’a Bergen-sized protractors, fruit roll-ups, rompers, glow sticker palms, an’ lil’ glitter baggies of like… sugar or somethin’ he took up an away real quick. Heh, same old big bro Clay! Really loved the sweet stuff.
So when his pink-toned bro made his move to move to move in… Branch really noticed the lack of noticeable stuff to… well, notice. A lone guitar case, lovingly dappled with felt art in blue, pink, lime, purple, and teal leaned carefully against the wall. A small bundle of photos bound up in troll hair wool — ageing, edges soft with thumbing, passing time, and predator run-ins — that Floyd carefully removed from his hair and placed on a shelf. Then, something dark and frayed, rolled up reverently around a 2-troll-stack high wooden pole…
Branch squinted.
“Is that—”
Floyd followed his baby brother’s glance, and then stepped forward, twisting a bit at the felt coat of his earring, “Oh, that, it’s…” he looked decidedly uncomfortable, and Branch had to fight his own perception of privacy and natural, unbridled curiosity and genuine need to know all there was to know about his ido- his big bro, before he finally raised two blue palms up.
“Hey, you don’t gotta tell me, I-” he tried to look coolly disinterested, swaying his arms with a little too much vigour to be natural, “I mean, us guys gotta have some secrets an’ stuff, right?”
Floyd blinked at his little brother’s performance, smirked, and cocked an eyebrow, before he gave his head a short shake, and let the roll unfurl into a tapering neon green and black flag that flowed from the head of the pole right down to the earth under their heels. So tall to them, but in the same note that rod would fit perfectly into the furred, calloused fist of a--
“Bergen?” Branch squinted, looking from the moody merch, with its haphazard artwork that depicted a throng of dour, desolate-looking young Bergens. From its markedly platinum blond pretty boy (if that were a Bergen possibility?!) lead to his now somewhat bashful brother, “A Bergen BAND?!” Heck, other than Bridget, Branch had never heard a single Bergen sing with any great beauty or passion before the abolition of Trollstice!
“Yeah,” Floyd answered, tugging the ends of the old hand flag out further to let Branch take a better look, “Bergen Park,” he continued. “They were a band I liked way back… just before your first tooth came in, baby bro,” he remarked with fondness, his eyes warm, which made Branch’s cheeks tingle in a confusion of happiness and frustration. Baby, baby, baby… he life was starting to sound like a b-track romance record.
“But weren’t they around when they still-” the blue troll asked warily.
“Oh, yeah. Totally,” Floyd answered quickly, nodding, trying to ignore his little brother’s understandable concern, “But Chester- I mean, the band lead was vegan,” the tiny hairs on the back of Branch’s neck began to smooth out, “the fans weren’t, so I had to really up my hide and go seek game when I tried to get to a concert one time…” he laughed despite himself, “John Dory caught me and dragged me back home. He really blew up! Confetti, glitter, spittle everywhere,” he waved a blue palm around himself as he joked, before letting the flag fall as he looked into a distance that Branch couldn’t quite see, “It’s just that… they sang about hurt, hopelessness, frustration... anger…” Branch’s baby blues shimmered as they locked with Floyd’s for a moment of shared, emotional understanding, “Everything we’re not supposed to feel, you know?” Floyd bumped his bare chest once, “What we keep inside. Beyond the sweet sound. Under our colours.” he then lightened, and smirked in a brief mischief, “Grandma always told us that curiosity gives the kitty critter tummy cramps, little bro.” he patted his own bare stomach, “And the fam gave me some REAL cramps before I ended up the cause of a Bergen’s.”
“Whoa.” Branch commented, eyes glazing, just trying to imagine how amazingly brave and as equally amazingly stupid such a feat had been for a troll so young, for any troll in truth, to go into the nest of a predator in search of something new and forbidden. Real.
Branch snorted despite himself, wanting to ask so much but not knowing how to start. So he went back to his tried and tested method of cynicism. “An emo Bergen band.”
“They were very sincere,” Floyd said, reading his brother entirely despite their years of separation.
Branch shook his head, smiling. “I can get you more stuff. From other villages. Other kingdoms. I know a bug who knows another bug whose second cousin knows a cloud guy who knows a troll who knows a guy who owes me a favour—”
Floyd reached out and gently stopped him, fingers warm around Branch’s wrist.
“Hey,” he said. “I don’t need much. I’ve got what matters.”
He glanced around the room, already full with more than a troll could ever want or need to live comfortably, beyond comfortably, for a couple of decades at least.
“And I’ve got you guys.”
Something in Branch’s chest twisted — tight, bright, rare… a little scary.
He nodded again, feigning indifference. “Right. Yeah. That’s cool.”
As Branch bustled toward the storage alcove, mumbling about optional shelves and emergency snack drawers despite himself. Floyd wandered a few steps further into the room.
A panel in the wall — one Branch had opened earlier, absent-mindedly in his eagerness — shifted.
A bundle of thick, glitter and crayon laden papers slid free.
They fluttered, well, fell with a crackled splat, to the floor.
Branch turned at the sound, and felt his soul leave his body in a hiss and scream not unlike steam whistling from the spout of a treacle tea kettle.
“Oh—!”
He lunged too late.
Floyd had already crouched, lifting the top page carefully.
To his keen violet Trollish eyes, the garish, purposeful, heartfelt colours were unmistakable.
Crayons. Big looping lines. Arrows everywhere. Accents in sparkle glue.
“10 STORY SUPER SPLASH SLIDE SHOWER”
Delighted recognition glimmering in violet.
Branch straightened slowly, heat flooding his face, bare, strong chest tightening.
“That’s— I can explain— I mean— it’s nuthin’ special, it’s just—”
Floyd’s eyes lit up.
“Branch,” he breathed.
He flipped a page. Crackle snap. Glitter spat out on his short-shorts.
Then another.
Notes in uneven handwriting. Diagrams. Stick trolls sliding, laughing.
FLOYD GOES FIRST WITH ME. Troll stick figures beaming in an unending “wheeeeeeeeee!”
Floyd laughed — not teasing, not pitying. Delighted.
“You remembered,” he said.
Branch rubbed the back of his neck, trying to smooth down the mortified hackles. “I— yeah. Sometimes. I mean. Not a lot. Just— when I was—”
Lonely.
He didn’t say it. He absently gave his precious leave jacket a tug, just to know it was still there.
“It’s incredible,” Floyd said, looking up at his little yet not so little brother in genuine awe. “You really thought this through.”
Branch blinked, guardedly raising his head. “You don’t think it’s stupid or somethin’?”
“Are you kidding?” Floyd grinned. “Ten stories? That’s ambitious. That’s visionary.”
Branch’s heart gave an uncomfortably prideful little leap.
“I never built it,” he said quickly, before Floyd could say anything else. “It was complicated. And unsafe. And impractical. And dumb. And—”
Floyd registered the words, tilted his head, and looked back down, studying the drawings again with that same gentle admiration. He registered his baby brother’s uncertainty and self-deprecation, and wanted to take it all away.
“You could do it now,” the pink-haired Brozone sweetheart said. “If you wanted.”
Branch’s mouth opened — then closed.
He looked away.
“Yeah,” he said, all too casually. “Maybe. I guess.”
But the thought was already there, warm and dangerous and glowing brighter by the second.