by Darr, Brian
IRIS—I’M NOT DUMB.
“Then what do you propose?”
IRIS—GIVE IT TO SOMEONE ELSE.
“Who?”
IRIS—ARE YOU ACCEPTING MY CHALLENGE???
“Maybe.”
IRIS—I WANT AN AGREEMENT.
The Moderator’s neck twitched and he clenched his teeth while he gained his composure. “First, you don’t get to make demands. Second, if you’re making a suggestion, you shouldn’t be so vague. I’m willing to take you up on your challenge, but tell me what it is you want.”
The dash flashed for a few moments. Everyone watched silently. The Surfer had risen to his feet, watching in fascination and hope. Finally, a ding.
IRIS—I’LL GIVE YOU A NAME AND YOU GIVE HIM THE RAINBOW. IF HE SUCCESSFULLY TAKES IT TO THE MAINFRAME THAT CAN DESTROY PSI, WE WIN.
“What’s to stop me from sending people after them?”
IRIS—NOTHING. I ASSUME YOU WILL. BUT I CHALLENGE YOU TO PLAY FAIR.
“We’ll iron out the details later. I assume if we catch this person, you’ll accept defeat without crying about it?”
IRIS—IF YOU CATCH THIS PERSON, YOU CAN PUT A BULLET IN THEIR AND THE SURFER’S HEADS. I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING INVESTED IN THIS BECAUSE PSI HAS ALREADY RUINED MY LIFE AND I WILL NEVER RECOVER. I ONLY CHALLENGE YOU, BECAUSE YOU USED TO BE A PERSON, RIGHT? IF YOU’RE DEMANDING PEOPLE TO TREAT YOU LIKE A GOD, THEN PLAY FAIR…
“Give me a name and I’ll send them out with The Rainbow. The Surfer and Wigeon are off the table though. Pick your candidate and I will give them a fair shot, but understand that when they are caught, I will have Rainbow destroyed.”
The Surfer watched the screen, hypnotized by it. He didn’t know if he even knew who Iris was, but she was smart. She knew what she was doing. He just hoped she had someone in mind who really could get an impossible job done. He hoped she’d pick The Guide, or The Wrestler, who was one of his more athletic warriors, or anyone on team Surfer.
IRIS—THE TROLL…
“The Troll?” The Moderator asked, his brow creasing. “Did I hear that right? Troll?”
IRIS—THE TROLL WILL GET THE JOB DONE.
Chapter 4
The Troll spoke with his fingers. He spent more time typing than talking, and even when he talked, his hands would motion the act of typing. In fact, he was incapable of talking without moving his fingers because before the words were out of his mouth, he was thinking about typing them and felt the impulse to reenact the sensation.
He was only comfortable with keyboard and mouse in hand. When he woke up in the morning, he rushed to the Boards. Most of the Midwest was filled with warehouses that housed members of the Boards. When the world shut down, access to information was limited, but computers were accessible, only to interact with other people via the Boards, which were closely monitored by the good folks in Chicago.
The Boards were a kind of comfort zone for the bulk of population who needed interaction, but didn’t want to live in the world without technology. The Troll was an appropriate name for Bobby Bryson. Long before Psi, he would frequent all the big message boards—the ones with heavy traffic—and he would antagonize the masses, whether it be teenage girls who were head over heals in love with the latest boy band, or fans of the films he hated. Politics, religion, the media, social topics, ethics, paranormal beliefs, people who love poetry; No topic was too big or small for The Troll to make an appearance, take the unpopular opinion, play devil’s advocate, and rile the other users.
He was, to the Boards, an asshole, a provoker…a troll.
Then the world ended and everyone began going by labels instead of names, and he happily and proudly took the name before anyone else could grab it up, but no one else wanted to be called The Troll.
Of all the fights he instigated, there was one topic he refused to address, and that was the moral implications of Psi, the revolution of Surfer and Wigeon, and Circular Prime. He had Psi injected at a young age, younger than most, and loved it. Suddenly, he was sitting in his basement, watching Westerns and interacting on message boards just by navigating with his mind. Throughout it all, his fingers typed away at thin air.
The takeover by the disgruntled engineers at Circular Prime was a sensitive subject. There had been too many stories of people who conveniently disappeared or had a stroke in the night for speaking out against Psi. The revolutionaries in the early days after the shutdown were dead before they could start a revolution. The idea of an uprising often prompted The Moderator to deactivate the minds of the rebels. It seemed that the only way to survive was to agree, and the Troll had too much work to do. He wasn’t much use to his world dead.
He wore a black hoody all the time and didn’t groom himself, which was too bad, because if he did, he might have been considered cute, maybe even attractive, but he abandoned those types of desires years ago. People generally didn’t like him because he liked to speak his opinion in a loud voice and condescend those he spoke to. For a 26 year old who stood at 5’6, he had a way of making people around him feel small.
The Troll spoke fast. He moved faster. He was a man who appeared to always have an agenda, more to do, more to say, not enough time to say it. His hair was a mess and rarely cut. There was a puffiness under his eyes which had formed from too many days staring at a screen and those days would have never ended if not for Iris's nod in his direction.
The day after The Surfer's trial, he plopped into his chair and readied his fingers with a wide stretch of his sprawled hands. He placed them on the keys and closed his eyes momentarily at the sensation of the keyboard lightly pressed against his fingertips. He let out a breath.
Trolling had begun.
He searched the boards for topics that needed his Internet brand of vigilantism. He found a site for film and television—something no one had actually watched for years, but that people reflected on and picked apart from what they could remember. Though he often agreed with what the users said, he often conjured a good fight anyway. He hammered his point home, made fun of those who had bad grammar, and treated people like they were beneath him. When they snapped, he laughed to himself and would write something to the effect of: DUDE, RELAX…IT’S JUST A MESSAGE BOARD. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW ME, to minimize their emotional outburst into something petty.
He hadn’t watched the trial. He was aware of the fact that The Surfer and Wigeon were caught. He hoped Wigeon wouldn’t be killed because he thought she was hot. He declared how tragic it would be to kill someone so hot all over the boards. People screamed in all caps at his insensitivity. He apologized and said he’d take a moment of silence and bow only one of his heads because the other was too hard when he thought about Wigeon. He made everyone believe he was a sexist bigot, a middle aged entitled, spoiled, immoral, asshole who saw user-names as less than people.
He chuckled to himself as he typed, only taking breaks to pop his knuckles or grab a soda from the machine.
Up until the moment a woman named The Chameleon entered his life, life for The Troll was great. He didn’t notice as she sat next to him. She didn’t type. She just blended in, somewhat literally. Somehow, when he finally noticed her, he could see why he didn't initially catch her in the corner of his eye. She was almost invisible, the colors of everything around her bouncing off the surface of her clothes and skin.
“What the…?” he asked, and trailed off. From what he could tell, she was pretty hot too, except it was hard to tell because her presence played tricks on the eyes.
“You are The Troll?” she asked.
Not many people approached him or talked to him—especially people of this caliber. She had something special—an ability. It was almost as if…
“I’m from Circular Prime,” she said.
“Okay?” he responded and turned back to the screen. He suddenly hated that she was there. He knew he’d inevitably one day say the wrong thing on-line or poke a bear and make the wrong person angry.
“Did you not watch the trial of The Sur
fer?”
“No.”
“You’ve been invited to Chicago.”
“Sorry,” he said quickly, turning his body toward her to offer his sincere apologies. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t mean what?” she asked, noticing his fingers moving as he spoke.
“I never mean anything I say on here.”
“I don’t know what that has to do with anything,” she said. “You’re not in trouble for anything you did on the boards, though I’m sure it will be reviewed extensively. You’re in trouble because your girlfriend Iris threw you under the bus.”
“Iris?”
“Come with me,” she said. “If you have any goodbyes, say them quickly.”
He didn’t have anyone to see off, but he considered pretending like he did so he could run. But if he ran from an employee of Circular Prime, he’d likely be tracked and zapped within the hour.
“Can you tell me what this is about?” he asked.
“I’m limited in what I can tell you,” she said. He thought she was smiling, but it was hard to tell. Her skin grew more transparent, but when she grabbed his arm, he knew she was no hologram. “The Moderator will want to tell you the rules himself.”
“Rules of what?” he asked, trying to pull away from The Chameleon. “I think you have the wrong person.”
“You were elected,” she said. “You’re the one chosen to destroy Psi.”
Chapter 5
The Troll wasn’t dragged to Chicago. He was escorted quietly. The Chameleon got him to a private plane, and just disappeared. It was the first time he’d ever been in a plane. They were only used for important people, but whatever he was being called for must have been important business. They fed him well and treated him like an important guest.
The whole way, he internally questioned what he must have said or done to deserve this treatment. He didn’t watch the trial and he barely knew Iris from the boards, but other than that, being in a plane felt like a dream. Not knowing why was a nightmare.
The other men in the plane were friendly enough, but the Troll got a bad vibe from every one of them—as if they thought they were better—and he supposed they were better. They were the leaders of the world who’d tricked them all. The Troll had always accepted that fact so easily, but being face to face made him feel…bitter.
A large burly man with a black polo hugging his large chest appeared. The man’s gut stuck out, but was otherwise a bulky man with a crop of messy blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He managed a smile, but the Troll saw it was forced.
“I’m The Coach,” the man said.
The Troll smiled and made a point to be as respectful as possible. “I remember you. You led The Scorpions to the Super-Bowl in 55.”
The Coach smiled genuinely as he recalled the memory. “That was a good year.”
“So what is this?” The Troll asked. “Did I do something wrong?”
“You’re not very patient.”
“Well…you know how it is. Usually you guys just stay in Chicago and we do our thing, and all I ever do is post on-line but a lot of people get pissed at what I say, so I just want to make sure I didn’t offend anyone in Chicago. If I did, I’m really sorry.”
“We don’t browse the boards Troll.”
The Troll knew it was a lie, and that worried him more. Especially because he knew he wasn’t being dragged to Chicago for doing something right. He could see it in Coach’s eyes. He didn’t like the Troll. Maybe for no other reason than he was a board browser.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“You’ll have to talk to The Moderator.”
“I’m really talking to him?”
“Of course you are.”
“Does this have anything to do with Surfer and Wigeon?”
“Why would it?”
“They were caught,” Troll said with a smile. “Congratulations by the way.”
He sounded like he was sucking up, which was far below who he was, but when he saw The Coach didn’t care for kudos, he shrank. He was used to being in control of his world, picking at people until they snapped, or blocked him, or tried and failed to rally against him.
“I take it you didn’t watch the trial,” Coach said.
“No, what happened?”
“If you watched it, you’d know why you’re coming to Chicago. I half expected to have to chase you, but you don’t watch TV.” The Coach laughed to himself. “You get ten minutes of television a month if you’re lucky and you don’t watch it.”
“I don’t need to. I’m perfectly happy without.”
“You congratulate us for catching Surfer and Wigeon, but you didn’t watch the trial.”
Troll froze in place momentarily, trying to detect just what he was being accused of. “I assumed they would be guilty.”
“They are.”
Troll faced forward, unable to carry the conversation further. They rode in silence. The Coach was seemingly unaffected by the confrontation—as if he knew something more—as if he knew The Troll’s days were numbered and anything he had to say was irrelevant. The Troll directed his attention into the cockpit at The Pilot—which was also his name—who wore a white shirt and metal wings on his pocket and stared forward through his sunglasses, focused only on moving ahead. The Troll watched for a long time, waiting for The Pilot to do something: Cough…scratch himself…even glance in another direction. Instead, The Pilot held a focus The Troll would have believed impossible. He only stared into the sky, as if hypnotized by it.
When the plane landed, The Troll was taken to a cab where only he and The Pilot spent the ride in silence. The Troll wanted to ask him questions, but The Pilot was clearly the silent type. He was in his own head, and The Troll was afraid of what would happen if he tried to interrupt The Pilot’s thoughts.
They were taken to Circular Prime, and from ten blocks away, The Troll watched in awe. Whatever the reason he was here, he was lucky enough to see sights others had only heard of. The days of skyscrapers and vehicles were long gone, but somehow The Troll had been significant enough just to see what others eyes weren’t meant to see. It thrilled him and frightened him at the same time. They drove into the parking lot, which had no guard, no security, nothing…
The few who ran the world were a small group and there was clearly trust. The Troll supposed an outsider could be recruited to join them but it would take a lot of patience and time to earn that trust. The way in which The Moderator had taken over, while brutal, The Troll couldn’t help but admire. Few people could do so much damage alone, and he certainly understood the motives behind The Moderator’s reasoning. Maybe by the time this meeting was over, he would be recruited to live among them in Chicago. He’d have access to electronics, information, technology, steak dinners…
He held onto that hope as he was escorted into the building and to the elevators, admiring every plant and piece of art along the way. The elevator ride was a thrill, and so was exiting on the 35th floor, knowing he was so much higher up than most of the world. The floors were shiny and the walls looked like they had a fresh coat of paint. He could smell it and it was fantastic. The feeling of superiority filled him and he suddenly knew this was where he wanted to stay.
The double doors opened and The Troll looked into a small meeting room. Only two people sat inside and the sight was so surreal to The Troll, that he stood motionless for forty seconds flat.
“Come on in,” The Moderator said with a smile and a motion of his hand. Sitting opposite, The Surfer, who was bound, sized The Troll up, a hint of disappointment in his eyes at the look of him. “Have a seat.”
The Pilot walked another direction, leaving him in silence. When he was gone, The Troll let go of a tension he hadn’t known he was holding. The Pilot scared him—the silence and intimidation, the way it seemed as if he was looking through The Troll…not AT him.
“So you’re The Troll,” The Moderator said. He looked pleased—almost on the verge of laughter.
“I
go by that name.”
“Why?”
“It’s a term people use on-line.”
“I know what it means. It carries a negative implication, does it not?”
“I believe that’s relative. It doesn’t bother me, so even when people say it…” He trailed off. “It’s like when people call people stubborn as if it’s bad, but stubborn is actually quite good.”
“I agree completely,” The Moderator said. He was polite, though he was so wide eyed and twitchy that The Troll wondered how much control he really had over his countenance. “How was your flight?”
“It was fun.”
The Troll caught The Moderator staring at his hands. He’d been air-typing on the table as he spoke and The Moderator was seemingly intrigued. He quickly hid his hands under the table.
“Never been on a plane?” The Moderator asked.
“I’ve never been on a moving vehicle of any kind.”
“How was your dinner?”
“Didn’t know food could taste so good.”
“I’m delighted to hear that,” The Moderator said. He seemed genuine, but The Troll caught The Surfer’s eyes and detected his annoyance.
“Let’s not waste any time,” The Moderator said. “I hear you didn’t tune into the broadcast.”
“No sir. I was busy.”
“Trolling?”
“Uh…” The Troll laughed. He suspected The Moderator wouldn’t mind. “Something like that.”
“Have you heard the name Iris?”
“Uh…yeah. User-name anyway.”
“Who is she?”
“I’m not sure. If memory serves me, she hangs out on a few boards. Animal rights…National Parks…all that happy horseshit that some people get all up in arms about.”
“You don’t?”
“Not really. I don’t have a strong position on those things.”
“But you interact on those boards?”
“I interact anywhere that people easily get pissed off.”
“What do you have a strong position about?”