by Darr, Brian
The seventh stood, but The Troll barely noticed. He saw movement, but it hardly looked like a human being. “We’ve already met. I’m The Chameleon. All of my clothes have been engineered using very small mirrors which absorb the light around me. If I’m moving, you’ll see the shape of my body breaking apart from my surroundings, but if I hold still, I’m easy to miss and will slowly disappear in the scenery. I was once a calendar girl in magazines, objectified for my body, men cat-called when I walked down the street. I have found that being hidden but strong gives me unbelievable power. There is greater power within than what is on the surface. My persona is proof of that.”
The Troll couldn’t help but say “wow” and she seemed to be satisfied by his awe. She sat down, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of her until the next stood.
“I’m The Poet,” the man said. He had wavy hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. The Troll made a mental note to keep his mouth shut and have greater control over his voice. He’d spent a lot of time on the boards talking trash to poets and The Poet demonstrated why. “I am only but a delicate flower in a field of thousands like myself, but I am my own shape and size, my own idiosyncrasies and characteristics that I can see and feel but others can not.”
No one was amused, least of all The Troll, but he remained respectful. He suspected if he was on the run and The Poet was on his tail, and they came face to face, The Poet would be the one with his head bashed in.
“I have seen what you have had to say about my passion on the boards that you frequent, and I begged to be a part of this until alas, The Moderator granted my wish.”
The Troll blocked him out and his eyes wandered the room, observing the others again. He couldn’t take The Poet seriously, but had to play the game for now. When The Poet stopped speaking, The Troll found his eyes again and The Poet couldn’t hide his disdain for The Troll. He tried to remember everything he’d ever said about poets and poetry—there was far too much. He wanted to believe The Poet to be a non-threat, but something burned in his eyes…
“I’m The Weatherman,” the ninth man said. The Troll watched as a morbidly obese man with curly hair and thick glasses pulled himself out of the chair. “I worked for the government in a previous life on a program called HAARP.”
“What’s that?” The Troll asked.
“High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program. I helped create the Ionospheric Research Instrument, which is a high power radio frequency transmitter which could temporarily excite a limited area of the ionosphere. What we were trying to do was control weather patterns. We were headed in that direction but funding was cut. The Moderator believed in what we were doing and I’m the only remaining member of HAARP and have access to everything. Most importantly, I have this.”
He held up a small remote, with only a few switches on it.
“This little device links to a satellite that can manipulate echos and frequencies with a little control from a combination of Psi and pointing and clicking. I’d love to demonstrate what it can do, but hopefully you’ll see for yourself later.”
“What can it do?” The Troll asked.
“Create single bolts of lightning, strong winds, rainfall, magnify heat...”
The Troll hadn’t been scared of The Weatherman at first sight, but this changed things.
“We were going to use the weather to win wars at one time, create natural disasters that our enemies blamed mother nature for. Then Psi came along and solved all our problems. Now, it’s just experimental, but the concept will still work if it’s ever needed.” The Weatherman sat, smiling at his remote, just as a proud father would. The Troll took a deep breath, the realization that he would be dead soon hitting him all at once.
“The Magician!” the last man said with some fanfare. “Smoke and mirrors, tricks up my sleeve, sleights of hand, more than meets the eye, all those cliches rolled into one. I won’t waste time talking about me. Just do me a favor and reach in your pocket.”
The Troll frowned and tried to remember a time that The Magician was near enough to put something in his pocket. He couldn’t recall, but before he reached, he knew something would be there. He pulled out an Ace of Spades.
“Of course, the trick is better if I make you pick the card first, so let’s just back up a second. Name a card.”
“What? Just name any card in a deck?”
“Yeah.”
“Eight of clubs.”
“Reach in your pocket.”
Impossible. The Troll had no idea there was so much technology and gimmicky weapons in Chicago, but what The Magician was doing felt like real magic. He reached in his pocket and his index and middle finger grabbed a single card. He pulled it out and the eight of clubs surfaced. “How…?”
“Great magicians are always in control. They never show doubt, never falter, and they never reveal their tricks.” The Magician gave him a wicked smile, and though he was just a man without a special suit or a remote control, he felt like the most dangerous of all. “Let’s eat,” The Magician said.
Dinner was served and it was the best meal The Troll had ever eaten. Four conversations were held at the table at all times and The Troll was never excluded. He talked about his life, shared stories, had some laughs, and by the time dessert was served, it seemed as if everyone was friends—The Poet and The Pilot being the exceptions. The Troll had teetered back and forth with what they really planned for him, but by the end of the night, he realized he’d made friends. No one was going to hurt him. The dinner was being broadcast and everyone could see that Circular Prime and people like The Troll could co-exist after all.
He ate the last forkful of his tart and wiped his mouth. The conversation quieted and The Magician raised his glass. “I’d like to toast The Troll. He may not be loved by the boards, but he’s just an average good guy who wants the same things we all want.”
They all drank and The Troll smiled wide. “Thank you,” he said.
“Iris picked you because you’re perceptive,” The Poet finally said.
“Excuse me?” The Troll responded.
“I read an interaction between the two of you. It was heated, and you ranted, picking her apart and evaluating her personality based on her posts, and then, even though she didn’t agree with you, she called you perceptive.”
“I remember.”
“Why would being perceptive be reason enough for you to play this game?”
“Do I still have to do that?” The Troll asked, in disbelief.
“Of course you do,” The Poet said. Everyone was quiet. “We’ve all bet on how long you’ll last.”
“What?”
“The one who kills you will be in The Moderator’s good graces and on the side, we’ve all wagered something on how long you last.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“We ate dinner together. We’re not friends.”
“But The Magician’s toast…”
The Magician shrugged with a smile. “You can’t escape what you were chosen to do Troll. We had some laughs, but we each hope to be the one to end you.”
The Troll looked from face to face, The Coach, The Acrobat, The Pilot, The Mortician, The Gambler, The Telepath, The Chameleon, The Poet, The Weatherman, and finally to The Magician. Each one of them was in agreement—each wanted his blood.
“If you’re so perceptive…” The Poet said, taunting,”…then how did you read this situation wrong?”
The Troll burned inside. He wasn’t used to being teamed up on, outwitted, outmaneuvered in every way. He was backed into a corner, and without thought, he let loose the only weapon he had: His tongue.
“If I’m going to do this no matter what, would you like to hear my perceptions of all of you? Since I’m allegedly usually right?”
The Magician smiled, welcoming it. Everyone else gave The Troll the room, not expecting his board personality to be revealed.
“First of all, I was told that I was here to get to know you so I could have some advantage, but that
’s not why we’re here. We’re here so you get to know me. You all want to know if I’m a rebel…if there’s more to me than just a troll. That’s why you read my messages and pretended to be kind to me and get me to open up. But I really am just a troll, which makes me the most honest person at this table.”
He turned his attention to The Coach.
“Your biggest accomplishment in life happened before Psi, so why you’re sitting at this table, I have no idea. You’re not a coach anymore and never will be again. The men you led to victory are most likely dead because of you, but you still wear your Super-bowl ring, bitter that you can’t find a place in this world and are forced to name yourself after a former glory that you’ll never relive. Your only bragging right was pre-Psi, so even though you pretend to be with these guys, maybe you’re the one we should all be hunting.”
He moved on…
“Acrobat…you’re so nice and nervous that I don’t even want to hurt your feelings. What are you doing here? Are you just a case of nepotism or do you just go along with this because you’ll be the one who’s hunted if you speak out? This group of Avenger rejects is far below you.”
“And Pilot, you had me going at first with the silent treatment, but one thing I learned from the boards is that when people have nothing of substance to say, they block me. You’re the dumb one of the bunch who doesn’t fit into the big picture and can’t keep up with the conversation. You’re way of creating the illusion of being scary is to not say anything at all, but in the end, that just makes you a guy that doesn’t say anything. You hope people will mistake stupidity for intimidation.”
He turned to The Mortician.
“Count Chocula, if you want to know about what it feels like to cross over so badly, why don’t you just kill yourself. I would if I saw what you see in the mirror every day.”
“And The Gambler, I’m not even going to bother to try to hurt your feelings because you seem to already hate yourself enough, and believe me: You’ve earned it.”
“Telepath, I’ll give it to you: You’ve got a pretty sweet thing going with your nerve control Psi, but I can only think of one reason you’d invent that kind of technology to begin with and don’t be fooled: Just because you’re tapping into their brains and driving their bodies, doesn’t mean it’s consensual.”
“You wait one second!” The Telepath shouted, but The Magician shot him a look that quieted him.
“Must be nice to be a part of the sausage fest Chameleon. There’s no better way to promote yourself as equal and promote girl-power than to cover yourself with mirrors so no one can actually see you. I understand you want to hide how you look, but is there any type of mirrored invention in the works that will hide what’s on the inside as well? You’ll never be recognized for you brain either Sugar.”
“Don’t ever call me Sugar again,” she said, her teeth grinding.
The Troll came face to face with The Poet. “I don’t even know where to begin with you. You had to beg to be a part of this thing? That alone should tell you all you need to know, but you did it because you’re a delicate flower and I made you sad with my message board commentary? Holy hell Poet, I’m a troll. You reacted in the exact way you’re not supposed to react if you want to defeat me. I don’t hate all poetry. I only hate the 99% of it that’s written by recently dumped teenage girls named Madison or Brittany who wear black makeup and cut themselves, and how a grown man falls into that category is beyond me, but I certainly don’t think you’re a poet because you know a few words that have been in a few poems. I think you have the best shot at killing me out there, because if we run across each other and you start talking, I’ll just kill myself. From now until the end of my life, I can’t in good conscious actually call you The Poet. You will be Brittany.”
“You will show me the respect I’ve earned or…”
“Sorry Brittany, I’ve got two left. Write it down for later.”
He turned to The Weatherman.
“And look at you. You were too fat to take seriously, but you play at the cool kids table because you get to remote control everything. That’s just pathetic man. If you happen to catch me on your motorized scooter and strike me down with a bolt of lightening by pushing a button, is that going to be something you consider an accomplishment? I know the food around here is pretty top notch, but miss a meal once in awhile. It looks like The Telepath tosses you a doughnut every time he fucks your mother just to buy your silence.”
Everyone’s eyes went wide and suddenly, just about everyone in the room wanted to kill The Troll. He didn’t react though. Instead, he turned to The Magician.
“Pick a card,” The Troll said.
The Magician laughed, but it was nervous. He didn’t like his own sch-tick being used against him, and was even more unsure of how The Troll planned to pull it off, but he was enjoying the rant the most and played along. “Same card. Eight of clubs.”
“Reach in your inner pocket,” The Troll said, fixating on him.
The Magician displayed a confused smile, momentarily thinking about what could possibly happen. He reached in his pocket and when he pulled his hand out, came up with nothing. “No card jackass,” he said with a smile.
The Troll stepped forward and raised his eyebrows. “A great magician is always in control. A great magician never shows doubt. You reached in your pocket. What kind of magician does that make you?”
There was silence all around,until The Poet asked the question that finally silenced The Troll: “Now tell us about The Moderator,” he said, leaning in with a smile. It was clearly a trap. To disrespect The Moderator was to commit suicide. The Troll was on a roll and the only reason he was able to go through with it was because no matter what he did, he knew these ten men would try to kill him tomorrow anyway. He’d tried being nice, befriending them, he’d used every verbal weapon in his arsenal until all that was left was to fight back. “Nothing to say about The Moderator?” The Poet asked with a clever grin.
“No,” The Troll said. “I have no problem with him.”
Chapter 7
The Troll returned to his hotel to find The Surfer sitting in the bed, waiting. Something in his face was different—some kind of hope. The Troll supposed while he was sabotaging himself at dinner, The Surfer saw a small victory in his rant. He knew that hope wouldn’t last. It was a matter of time before they realized he wasn’t going to fight for them, and if he did, he’d be dead within a day. Whatever hope he held onto that they would show mercy was gone. He knew now more than ever that this was going to happen. And his only hope for a plan was sitting in front of him.
“I think you made a strong impression,” The Surfer said. “I see what Iris is after here. I don’t agree with it, but I see what she’s hoping for.”
“What’s that?”
“The power of persuasion.”
“You don’t think that could work?”
“Maybe if you were on our side.”
“I don’t really have a choice anymore,” The Troll said.
“You need to embrace it.”
“Impossible. I can’t accept the situation I’m thrown into. I was perfectly happy before.”
“Are you aware that your family and friends were all either enslaved or murdered by The Moderator? You carry in your head the very thing that caused the downfall of civilization, and while I understand why people are afraid to rise up when all The Moderator has to do is fry their brains, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t fight when they take it out of you and give you the one thing that can end it all.”
“If this was a message board debate, maybe, but it’s not a fair fight.”
“The world will see that. The world sees an underdog without a chance, who also happened to stump ten of The Moderator’s most trusted men at dinner. It would have been nice if you would have dragged The Moderator’s name in the mud too, but eventually you’ll be angry enough. I have a hard time believing that most of the world isn’t secretly rooting for you right now. Have you tho
ught about the string of events that would occur if you did happen to get to Vegas?”
“No, because I won’t.”
“You shut Psi down, making you a hero to 99.9% of the world. You rescue Wigeon, who is every male’s dream girl, the people rise up and take back Chicago, recreate the world as it once was—probably better, with you at the center of it all. If you want to retire in the mountains or along the coast, you can do so peacefully. You’ll be written about as a hero for the rest of time. How is that not worth a shot? How is trolling on the message boards more appealing than that?”
The Troll spoke slowly, as if he needed to enunciate the obvious point that The Surfer was constantly overlooking. “I. Won’t. Get. There.”
“If you want to, you will.”
“If it were you, how would you do it?”
“Without Psi, you’re off the grid. They will count on the action of others with Psi to find you—to see through their eyes. They know you’ll try to recruit the populations or find a vehicle or weapon in a museum or a scrapyard. They’ll search the grid for areas of movement.”
“I certainly can’t walk to Vegas. How can that be avoided?”
“There are a lot of resources off the grid that the folks in Circular Prime haven’t found. We’ve found weapons, which we’ve buried. The world was too big and the guys in Chicago to scarce to confiscate everything. It's all out there to be found. We’ve squirreled away many items that we planned on reviving when a day like this came.”
“And how do I find them?”
“Honestly Troll, if you can get on board, I don’t have to coach you at all, other than to tell you where to go first. I have a group of people who will stand with you. There’s a man who is called The Guide. If he doesn’t find you first, I can tell you where to find him. It’s likely that he’ll be racing them to find you though. If you live long enough to meet up with him, he’ll take the lead. You can hand off Rainbow and go into hiding until he gets it to Vegas if you want.”