by Darr, Brian
“Nothing. I just take the opposing side of everything. I guess you could say I strongly favor the underdog.”
“Why?”
The Troll thought. “I don’t know,” he said, meaning it.
“Can we get on with this?” The Surfer finally asked. It was the first he spoke, and he sounded so disappointed that The Troll immediately understood that their revolution—the image they portrayed—it was all a farce. He was comfortable with The Moderator, but The Surfer made him nervous. It confirmed what The Moderator had said all along: It was people like The Surfer and Wigeon who were the bad guys.
“We’re having a nice conversation,” The Moderator said, defensively before turning back to The Troll. “Troll…something came up during the trial of Surfer. A user-name popped onto our screen. ‘Iris’. No numbers or symbols. Just ‘Iris’.”
“You don’t know who she is?”
“She doesn’t seem to have Psi.”
“Doesn’t pretty much everyone?”
“There are few who don’t. It was a special moment for this Iris, but in the grand scheme of things, pretty insignificant. She wanted to set a game in motion. She believes that one person could put the world back to the way it was before we changed the rules. Do you believe that?”
The Troll considered for a moment. “I don’t know why anyone would want to, but maybe. I guess they would have to be without Psi, but…no…not really. You guys run a pretty tight ship.”
“It can be done,” The Surfer said with a sigh. “You are going to have to start believing that. Iris thinks you’re someone who is worthy.”
A feeling of dread overcame The Troll with that comment. Whatever he was there for, it wasn’t to be on The Moderator’s side. He was being forced to take the opposing position—a position he was fond of in all other circumstances.
“Why would Iris believe you would be right for this?” The Moderator asked.
“I don’t even know what this is.”
“Have you heard of this?” The Moderator asked, pulling a stick shift from his inner pocket and setting it on the table between them. From the side, The Surfer fixated his eyes on it. The Moderator watched, satisfied in knowing that his foe was two feet away from the holy grail he’d been after so long, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Yeah, it’s a memory stick.”
“It’s more than that. It’s called Rainbow.”
“What’s on it?”
“The password needed to terminate Psi. If Psi is destroyed, we no longer control it. You’ve been challenged Troll. You’ve been nominated by the user Iris to represent those who don’t believe in Psi…that want the world to return to the chaos it once was. I granted an opportunity for the opposition, and they were to choose one person to represent them, and you were chosen.”
“I don’t know why. I don’t want the world to go back any more than you do.”
The Surfer closed his eyes with deep frustration.
“We’ve been sifting through your message board interactions, looking for a sign that you are against us, searching for code or something that says you’re not just antagonizing people, but it appears that IS what you do. Your interactions with Iris have been scarce, but they were heated—at least on her end. She felt passionately about issues, and your messages were short…funny…to the point…persuasive.”
“Yeah, that’s all I’m doing. I seriously have nothing against you.”
“I believe that, but Iris seemed to think there was something more to you. Or maybe she hates you so much that she wants to get you killed.”
“Wait…why would I be killed?”
“Because she nominated you and I promised I would allow this game to happen.”
“What’s the game?”
“The Rainbow would need to be plugged into the mainframe, which is housed in Las Vegas into a terminal in a room in what was once known as Ceasers Palace. For this resistance to deactivate Psi and undo all the progress we’ve made, all they would need to do is get Rainbow to that access point and follow the prompts. It’s simple, except no one was ever able to get their hands on Rainbow.”
“I don’t get it. So you’re giving this to me and I have to take it to Vegas?”
“Yes, but here’s the catch…” Suddenly the Moderator’s eyes grew dark and the friendliness was gone. “Ten of my best will be hunting you.”
The Troll felt faint. He thought about making a run for it, but stayed planted to his seat. He wanted to protest, to beg and plead, to reason, but The Moderator enjoyed this. He wanted it. It may not have been his idea, but he loved every moment of it.
The Moderator went on. “Here at Circular Prime, my friends and I strive for perfection. We don’t watch television or play video games or blow things up for amusement, but we do train to be warriors. We’ve taken all the values that were once the best values in the world, but in which very few men carried. Values like intelligence, a strong physique, hard work, qualities that weren't prominent in the old world. It was always about money and women and booze and people just stopped caring about evolving. My friends and I have the world wired to our liking and that is why we aren’t afraid to rid it of such imperfect immoral people. We keep it in line and give very few privileges. People learn not to always ask for more and the idea of superiority is diminished.”
“With the exception of you,” The Surfer said, but it fell on deaf ears.
“The game is that I send you out with Rainbow, the only remaining potential to end Psi in existence, and you bring it to Vegas without my top ten bounty hunters capturing and killing you. If they do, they destroy Rainbow and Psi lives on forever.”
“No no no, please,” The Troll said, begging. “Pick someone else. Get a volunteer or something.”
“I agree,” Surfer said.
“…Anyone else.”
“Let me do it,” Surfer said.
“The idea was proposed by Iris,” The Moderator said. “I let her choose and you’re the guy.”
“It’s a mistake then,” The Troll said. “Like you said, she’s probably just trying to kill me for going against her.”
“I don’t care about intent,” The Moderator said. “Someone disrespected The Surfer’s trial by challenging me for the world to see. They tried to make a point and I’m allowing it, because, I dunno: I’m a compassionate guy. I even let her choose her candidate. The world saw. They saw a user-name tell me that the majority don’t want Psi…that they think I’m nothing more than a criminal. If the world feels this way, and if the world believes that any individual can fight back, then I’ll call the bluff and see what happens.”
“But how’s sending someone on your own side going to prove that? I’m with YOU, man.”
“There are no negotiations. I’ve brought you here. I’ve fed you. Tomorrow I’m releasing you from the city with Rainbow in hand and I’m taking Psi out of you.”
“What?” The Troll said, getting to his feet.
“Surfer and I worked out the rules. If we’re hunting you, we’re not allowed to track you.”
“Please…”
“Stop begging. I’ve read your posts. You’re better than this.”
“That’s why they call him a troll,” The Surfer said bitterly. “He’s a big talker on the boards, but a coward in person.”
“Tonight we’ll feed you well. You’ll have dinner with my ten bounty hunters. You can get to know them. Maybe observe and work out an advantage if you’re able. You will get a day head start. You’re welcome to try to find help along the way, but keep in mind that others have Psi and we can track you through them.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re at a large disadvantage no matter what you know. This is the best I can do to level the playing field.”
“Please…I don’t want to die.”
“After dinner, you will be spending the night in one of our suites with The Surfer. He’ll do his best to coach you. After that, you won’t have any contac
t. Just you and Rainbow.”
“And what happens if I make it?”
“I suppose I’ll be powerless. We’ve already taken Wigeon to Vegas and she’s there to instruct you if you make it.”
The Surfer looked up. This was news to him and it added a new element to the game. Wigeon was waiting, ready to help if all Troll did was make a journey. It sounded easy enough, if only the right person had been chosen. What the hell had Iris been thinking?
“I’ve read your words about Wigeon.” The Moderator pulled up a screen with his mind and The Troll’s vulgar words were displayed in message board form, to the disgust of others users. The Moderator read the words aloud. “I’d put more nails in her than a hardware store, Rodger her more than a walkie talkie, give her more Wangs than a Chinese phone book, more cocks than a hen-house, more Johnsons than the witness protection program…”
“Okay, we get it,” The Surfer said, disgusted by The Troll.
“He's clearly fond of her,” The Moderator said with a smile.
“I was just trolling,” The Troll said in defeat.
“You’re the guy Troll, and there’s no way around that. Trying to persuade me is only going to piss me off and it’s going to waste your time. I’m going to get you a nice wardrobe, a hot shower, and a haircut. Dinner will be in two hours. I need you to say you accept.”
“But…”
“You’re doing it either way, but the world will not be watching you curl into a ball and die. You’re going to give them an honest fight. That’s what I promised, and you will accept.”
The Troll closed his eyes briefly and gathered himself. He needed to go through the motions—at least until he found a way out.
“I accept,” he said.
Chapter 6
The Troll was taken for a haircut and shave. His hotel was luxurious and the bathroom was stocked with hair products, cologne, and all things that made the man. He cleaned up and admired himself in the mirror, but he found no smile. Instead, his body shook with fear. He felt naked without his hoody and pulled it over his head, finding little comfort. He sat on the bed and waited until he was given instruction. The Surfer wasn’t in the hotel yet, which was a relief. He fell asleep waiting, but awoke by a knock and The Chameleon escorted him to what he knew would be the strangest dinner anyone on Earth would ever have.
They walked quietly through the hall and to the hotel lobby where he entered an adjoining restaurant and was taken to a back room. He would sit head of the table—each side with five people lined up who would be hunting him the next day. When he entered the room, it suddenly became too real upon seeing the faces of the bounty hunters. Some he recognized. Others were new. All ten had already arrived, except for an empty seat which was quickly filled by The Chameleon. Her body quickly blended in to the colors around her and she nearly turned invisible. While they waited for dinner to start, The Troll watched as the bounty hunters wrapped up their ordinary discussions. To see the dining room from the outside, one would assume it was just a dinner among an old group of friends.
“Have a seat,” a voice said and then the man stood. With The Moderator gone, it was clear who led the group. The Magician grabbed attention every time he spoke, and when he entered the room or stood up, suddenly the rest of the world disappeared, as if by…magic. The Troll didn’t know if it was an illusion. Maybe The Magician had fairy dust that was invisible to the naked eye, and being in his presence automatically commanded respect, but when The Magician spoke, everyone listened. “How nice to meet you Troll. I am The Magician, your master of ceremonies for the evening.”
The Troll smiled and nodded. He’d already decided his demeanor would be polite, cooperative, friendly…he’d give a human face to the game and hopefully, when their plates were empty, he could bargain for his life. Judging by the looks of the group, he might have a shot. The only person in the room who wasn’t very welcoming to Troll was The Pilot, who sat at the far end on the left and didn’t say a word all night. The Troll began to wonder if The Pilot couldn’t actually speak. He never made eye contact or looked directly at The Pilot. He’d have to win the hearts of nine others instead.
The Magician moved aside to allow waiters to deliver salad to the table. “Tonight’s menu will consist of an Arugula salad with caramelized onions, Feta cheese, and Kalamata Olives, followed by one of my favorites: Chinese Duck with Plum Sauce and Chinois pancakes. For dessert, we will be enjoying a cranberry cream cheese tart, The Chef’s specialty and award winning dish.”
There was some applause at the table. The Troll quickly followed suit, playing the part of a man who belonged in Chicago. He was clearly out of his element and didn’t know what to expect one minute to the next, but he’d pick it up as he went along and show the others he was a respectful friend. His foul mouth, sarcastic responses, and poking and prodding were all cast aside. He would keep the trolling in check, as long as he didn’t habitually get sharp with his tongue, he would display himself as an impressive asset to team Psi.
“I think the best way to get acquainted would be if we all go around the room and introduce ourselves to The Troll and say a little something interesting or share an anecdote. How does that sound?” The Magician only got a few murmurs, but clapped his hands and jumped up and down wildly with a large toothy grin plastered to his face. He was delighted to proceed. He pointed at the first man in line, another recognizable face.
“I’m The Coach. I know you already know this, but I led The Scorpions to the Super Bowl. What else you wanna know?”
“Tell him about your team,” The Magician said, pointing to a duffel bag at The Coach's side.
“I'd rather he meets the team later,” The Coach said. “Assuming we cross paths.”
“Okay?” The Troll said, slowly, wondering if that was the right response. He reminded himself to smile, and did, but it came off as phony and The Coach didn’t bother to respond. He only sat and turned the floor to the next in line.
“I’m The Acrobat,” the man said and shrugged as he tried to think of what to say. “I used to be an acrobat. My whole family was circus.” The Acrobat fidgeted and hesitantly sat with nothing more to say. The Troll couldn’t imagine being killed by The Acrobat…he seemed harmless…nervous even. Maybe even a potential friend.
The Pilot was next in line, but never moved. He stared forward, the same way he had in the plane. It was scary at first, but The Troll found it annoying now. He wondered if The Pilot would be too focused to come after him, but feared what the man would really be like if he came out of his trance.
“He won’t talk,” the next in line said, standing and straightening his collar. The man was The Mortician. He had a pale face, slicked hair and wore a black suit. He was tall and skinny and The Troll wondered if he really had wanted to be The Vampire until he found the name was taken. “He is The Pilot,” The Mortician said. “I’m The Mortician. Death is a hobby…in the sense that I’m intrigued to know what happens when we pass. I’ve watched many men die. I look deep into their eyes. I want to know what they see…what they think…in that moment… I am death. My very touch will rot your insides until your last breath is taken...”
The Mortician went on, but seemed only to be talking out loud to himself in a long drawl, pausing between random words mid-sentence. The Troll watched him carefully, trying to find the threat. The man seemed as if he was just a gentle giant…too slow to kill. But he’d watched many die…whatever that meant. He was creepy, but not in a violent way. He finally sat and a minute passed before the next decided to break the awkward silence.
He had a gray beard and bloodshot eyes, and a drunken swagger. He was a mess of a human being, with scars on his face and pockmarks on his nose and cheeks. He was cross eyed and under his cowboy hat, leather jacket, and boots, was a man dying on the inside. “The Gambler,” he said with a slur. “Interesting fact: My mama and papa took their lives. Papa first. Used to walk around with a noose tied round his neck. Went to work at the factory with that rope tight arou
nd his neck sometimes. Finally went through with it. Mama followed a week later after she shed all her tears. I didn’t have the balls…”
He sat down and the room became quiet again. The Troll almost slipped. He wanted to ask “what the hell?” but stopped himself. He’d always assumed Chicago was a little classier, a stronger group of people. Hadn’t The Moderator told him they dispelled the bad habits and valued strong character? The Gambler was another non-threat, but The Troll refused to believe that he was supposed to survive this game. Something about this group of people was a very real threat.
The sixth man stood. He was more along the lines of what The Troll had expected. He had a firm tanned body and a neatly combed part in his hair. He stood six foot two and wore a red scarf around his neck. He smiled politely. “I’m The Telepath,” he said. “I was one of the founders of Circular Prime and assisted in the creation of the product line. The reason I am called The Telepath is because I have a special version of Psi in my brain. It was experimental, but the design was destroyed when we lost our jobs, but not before I had it injected.”
“What does it do?” The Troll asked, fascinated.
“I can connect with anyone within a quarter mile radius. I can tap into their Psi and take over their body by using their Psi to control their neurological system through the brain.”
The Troll stared at him in disbelief. The Telepath caught his eye and saw his disbelief, and before the Troll could say anything, his hands were suddenly moving without permission. He stuck a finger into his salad bowl and began to stir it around. He wanted to fight it, to pull away, but his body was taken over. Moments later, he was released. He grabbed his hands and shoved them under the table, afraid to lose control again.
“You see? Complete takeover,” The Telepath said. “Psi will be removed from you before this begins, so you won’t have to worry about that again.”
The Troll understood, but he wasn’t worried about The Telepath taking control of his body. It was how he could control others around him. He suddenly had more motivation to stay away from crowds.