by Darr, Brian
The Troll stood on a large metal beam, which was one among many beams that criss-crossed under the bridge, reinforcing its strength. It was a long fall to the water below, and above, the bridge blocked out daylight, which only reflected on the water below. Everything under the bridge was silhouettes. The beams below and to his sides were all just shadows, making it harder to maneuver without losing his footing and falling to the water below.
The only light at the end of this tunnel was that The Pilot would face the same problems. The Pilot’s shtick wasn’t the one The Troll needed right now. He needed to face someone who was afraid as he was to be balancing himself in the dark. The Pilot wouldn’t flinch. He wondered if that was a good thing. The Pilot was too busy staying in character to realize when he was in over his head. Crashing his ride was proof that the man could be distracted. But The Troll had no element of surprise left.
He ducked behind a large beam as he saw The Pilot lower himself into the opening in the street. Chunks of the street fell with him and cascaded to the river below, but The Pilot landed on his feet, causing an echoing clang. He put his arms out for balance, faltered for a moment, but stood straight a moment later and surveyed the area. The Troll could see his silhouette from where he was crouched, but The Pilot would have to come closer to see him, especially since the sunglasses never left his face. He carried on in the dark, so unafraid that darkening the world more wasn’t enough deterrent to break character.
The Troll watched, mindful of his upper-hand. If he could manage not to be seen until The Pilot was close enough to give a good shove, he would win. Somehow, he didn’t believe that would happen, and if he waited for that instead of acting, he’d be dead.
He’d constantly felt as if his world was turned on its head. The whole last week was too surreal to process. Was the same guy crouched in the dark the same person who not ten days ago prioritized bothering people? His environment had changed and he’d changed too, but without choice. Something was different though. He didn’t want to beg for his life and he didn’t want to necessarily find his way to Chicago to live among the men at Circular Prime.
All he could think about was defeating The Pilot, and when that was done, he wanted Rainbow, and to show The Guide he wasn’t so bad, and to see Iris and make sure she was okay. For all he knew, they were all dead and Rainbow was as good as gone, but if he had to be forced on this journey, he wasn’t going to walk away without some kind of trophy. If no other damage was done, he wanted to at least rub it in everyone’s face that this smug bastard couldn’t get the best of him.
His fingers started moving, but not because he had something to say. He only told himself over and over that he couldn’t fall, that he had to focus. He shadow-typed “focus” repeatedly, using it as his only motivation. The feel of the keyboard wasn’t there, but he’d spent so much time with it, that he knew how to keep his hands steady. Shadow-typing was his balance beam and hopefully it was better than whatever it was The Pilot had.
He slowly stood, and backed away down a beam, holding a cable in his right hand and moving backward just by feel.
“I think I called it at dinner that night,” The Troll spoke loudly, causing The Pilot to turn in his direction and freeze, as if he was trying to figure out what The Troll was up to. “I think you use silence as intimidation, but I have yet to see what you can do. Fighting me isn’t an accomplishment. I’m not a fighter, and you knew that from the start. You could have showed up wearing a pink tutu and I would have run from you, but that’s the thing Pilot. I’m not going to run. I wouldn’t be able to if I tried. I’m going to test this theory and see if you’re actually everything you try so hard to personify, or if a vidiot like me can beat you.”
The Troll could still only see the shape of The Pilot, but he stood still long enough to make The Troll believe he was faltering. Whatever he was doing, it lacked his usual confidence.
“You know what the problem is Pilot?” The Troll went on, backing up as The Pilot started moving forward. “I’ve known from the beginning that I wouldn’t make this journey. I didn’t expect to. None of you thought I’d do as much damage as I’ve done, and when I’m dead, you’re all going to have to explain that. The world saw your plane go down. You can’t hide it this time. Who knows what my friends have done to your friends? You guys have lost the very thing that is the most important to you: Invincibility. I may not have a fight with you , but when I’m dead and gone, you’re going back to a world that knows how flawed you are and how a random person exposed that. You see Pilot, I accepted my fate days ago, but I just want to remind you that I’m going to die feeling victorious for what happened, and because I’ll forever know, your reputation is broken because of me.”
The Pilot kept moving, but he wasn’t focused. In fact, he looked conflicted, as if he had something to say, but knew he couldn’t say it. The Troll was playing a game he’d played many times on the boards: Offense. When others played defense, they were too busy defending themselves to pay attention to the accuser. The Troll had an advantage: A man who wouldn’t defend himself with words would easily become frustrated, conflicted, make mistakes.
Anything to take The Pilot’s attention off of his own footing would work just fine.
The Pilot tried to move faster forward than The Troll moved backward. Shadows crossed their faces as they pursued in a very slow chase. The Troll tried to pick up the pace, but realized his foot had been on the very edge of a beam. He shifted back to the center and began sliding his shoes back, as if moon-walking.
“Everyone else has these built in superpowers,” The Troll said. “All they did was give you an airplane? What you guys do? Line up and proclaim what you wanted to be and everyone else had a talent except you? You just stared silently because you’re too dumb to say anything intelligent and they said ‘how about we just put him in a vehicle’? It’s pathetic Pilot. It really is. What exactly makes you special? Wait…don’t answer that,” The Troll mocked. “Silence.”
He realized The Pilot was really moving now, one foot expertly stepping over the other with both hands on the cable.
“You know the problem with silence though?” The Troll asked. “Everyone thinks you’re a joke and you just have to take it up the tailpipe. And if you did talk, you’d make an even bigger fool of yourself. You don’t have talent. You can’t fly. You’re not as strong as all the others. You Pilot, are a professional failure.”
A window suddenly opened. The Pilot had closed enough distance and was a few feet away. The Troll could see the features on his face and the hardened jaw he was famous for. They stood on the same beam and held the same cable, and The Pilot was too focused on gaining on The Troll to see the whole picture.
The Troll suddenly yanked the cable toward them both with a sudden pull of the hands. He reached out and balanced himself immediately after, pressing his hand against another beam opposite the cable, but The Pilot didn’t see it coming and suddenly was pulled backward with nothing to hold onto. He tried to grab the cable, but only managed to hook his index finger around it. The Troll shook it again, and suddenly The Pilot’s body was in a moment of free-fall. The Pilot flailed wildly, catching onto the beam he'd previously been standing on at the last second with his fingers, his weight dangling below him and working against him. His sunglasses fell off his face and after a few moments, hit the water below.
The Troll stared down at The Pilot, who looked up at him with desperation in his eyes. He tried to reach his hand up, as if asking for a hand to pull him up.
“Use your words,” The Troll said, taunting him.
The Pilot said nothing. He grabbed the beam again for leverage and reached his other hand up, moving his fingers desperately.
“I don’t read sign language,” The Troll said, and then pulled himself down into a sitting position and straddled the beam right above The Pilot. “Let’s face it: You’d kill me. I can’t pull you up.”
The Pilot’s eyes begged and finally, he managed words. “I don’t…wa
nt...to die.”
The Troll was almost sympathetic but something else came to him instead—something very real, and as he said it, his fingers typed it.
“I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t choose to do this. I was forced to pick the side I wasn’t even on. And to top it all off, you still treated me like an enemy. You still acted like I was less than you. And even though I was on your side when this started, the only reason I’m not anymore, is because you forced me to be the opposing side. You forced me to fight back. You don’t have the right to complain that your life is going to be ended by the same monster you created. I didn’t kill you Pilot. You killed yourself.”
Before either could say anything more, The Pilot let go and fell.
When The Troll found the pavement again, he squinted as he adjusted to the light. The sun was high enough in the sky now and everything was surprisingly quiet. He started his walk to the end of the bridge and to Heritage Square. It wasn’t long before he realized something was wrong. At a distance, he could see Iris standing on the edge of the bridge looking back at…
The Poet?
That loser wasn’t supposed to be here. He started walking faster, trying to register the situation. Iris looked on the verge of jumping, but paused when she saw The Troll coming at a distance.
The Poet turned his attention too and smiled upon seeing The Troll. “Draw near young knave,” The Poet said. “I undergo a judicious journey to bring vengeance to you, you insolent mushroom.”
The Troll stopped and frowned. “Um…I doeth not und’rstandeth how this works argal I will not useth it. Doeth though wanteth to shove a rotten hog up thy asshole?”
The Poet held Rainbow high, ready to toss it into the water. “Join her,” he said, his smile gone.
“And do what? Jump? No way.”
“Do it or this is gone forever.”
“Good,” The Troll said. “I love Psi. Always have. It’s the tools who control it that are the joke.”
“Your call,” The Poet said and brought his hand back.
“Wait!” Iris shouted, desperately. The Poet paused as she turned to The Troll. “Please…don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?” The Troll asked. “He’s the one doing it.”
“Don’t let him destroy it.”
“He’ll destroy it either way,” The Troll said. “And even if he didn’t, if we jump and die, there’s no one left to use it anyway.”
“Someone will someday,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. “If it’s destroyed, there will be nothing left that can shut Psi down.”
“So what?” The Troll said with a shrug.
Her sadness turned to disdain. “You’re an awful human being,” she said, and though he pretended it didn’t, it wounded him. “The Guide was right about you. Everyone was. I shouldn’t have picked you. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You’re asking me to die for something that can’t be done and never will be. We will drown and he’ll either destroy it or they’ll lock it up. Best case scenario is they let another troll try to bring it across country and he wouldn’t make it out of state either. There is no way that Psi will ever end, unless they decide to end it.”
Iris turned to The Poet instead. “Please…” she said, begging him with her eyes.
“Please what?” The Poet asked. “Don’t flatter yourself my delicate rose. I have no favors for you. You've wounded me where no man shall feel pain.”
The Troll looked to Iris quizzically.
“I kneed him in the testicles,” she said.
The Troll grimaced, but it disappeared a moment later.
“No jesting?” The Poet asked, studying The Troll's face.
“I honestly assumed you didn't have testicles,” The Troll said.
“Your troll was right,” The Poet said, facing Iris. “You never had a chance.”
And then he threw it over the edge, so simply and quickly that it took half a minute to realize he’d really thrown it. “There,” he said, and pulled a gun from the back of his pants. “I’m reminded of a sonnet…”
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Rainbow flew back up over the edge, over The Poet’s head, and landed in the middle of the street. If tensions weren’t so high, it might have even been humorous, but in the moment, it only perplexed everyone. The realization that someone had to have thrown it took a long time to sink in, but when it did, The Poet turned and looked over the edge.
A second before, The Acrobat leaped from a beam at his side, grabbed a cable, swinging in an arc over and around The Poet, and just as The Poet realized something was happening, The Acrobat crashed into him, wrapping his arms around The Poet and letting the momentum of his motion send both of them off the bridge to the water below.
Everything was silent again and all that remained was The Troll, Iris, and Rainbow.
The Guide’s world was moments away from ending, but he felt one last burst of energy within. The problem was that whatever that burst caused him to do, it would only buy him moments before two bounty hunters and five bots came down on him at once. What The Guide needed was for a burst of energy to be enough to eliminate everyone and everything in one shot.
He felt cold steel stuffed into his shoes, digging into his ankle, and remembered he still had a keepsake from his time in the jail. He’d used a pair of handcuffs to lock The Troll up. He’d kept a pair for himself.
The bots pushed him further into The Mortician’s radius, but he frantically inventoried the placement of everything around him. He was a leap over the railing to the floor below. It would be a hard landing, but would buy him time before the bots could catch up. Above him was the pipe that ran to the faucet. If broken, water would cascade down, washing away the metallic gel. And if everything worked the way he’d played it in his head, that left The Coach—who would walk one floor down with one of his pouches and put a fresh coat on him immediately after.
He knew he had to move fast, but was interrupted by The Mortician, who grabbed his wrist and sent a surge of electricity up his arm. The Guide winced as his skin slowly started to rot, his veins turning blue and protruding from his skin as he felt the poison spread past his elbow and up his arm. He could control the rest of his body, but only until it reached his heart.
He let out a scream, partly from pain, but the true motivation was to initiate a burst of energy that only had to carry him for about thirty seconds.
The bots were moving away, letting The Mortician have his fun, and his window of opportunity had opened, but would close just as fast. He felt the pain shoot though his shoulder and reach his chest.
With his other arm, he reached down and brought his foot up, clinging onto the handcuffs with his fingers. He strengthened his grip and brought one end down over the pipe above him. The other, with some finagling, he clasped over The Mortician’s wrist, causing The Mortician to loosen his grip. The Mortician was suddenly aware of his own predicament, his arm reaching out of the elevator cage, fastened to a pipe outside the cage. He tried to track what The Guide intended to do, but by the time he figured it out, there was no power to stop it.
The Guide let himself drop to the ground with all his weight, and suddenly, the cuffed hand of The Mortician was bound to the pipe above and unable to reach The Guide. The Mortician’s other hand pulled back into the elevator, and he didn’t bother with The Guide. Instead, he began to tug at the handcuffs, desperate to free himself without pushing any buttons that could result in ripping his hand off.
The Guide used every bit of momentum he had to send himself souring over the rails and to the platform below, landing on his feet and knocking the wind out of him as he crashed to the ground. He ignored the pain as he pushed himself back up and ran back to the elevator and hit the button with the arrow pointing down. A moment later, the elevator hummed to life and started moving to his floor.
The Coach’s eyes went wide and he ran to help his friend, but as the elevator slowly went down, The Mortician found himself suspended in midair
within the elevator, held in place by the handcuff while the elevator around him kept moving descending. The Mortician looked to his friend with desperation in his eyes. “Help!” he shouted. “Get it off me!”
The Coach only stared, frozen in place as he watched the situation helplessly. The elevator reached The Mortician’s head, and suddenly was pushing his body down, while his arm pulled the opposite direction. Two things happened at once: The Mortician let out a terrifying scream as his body all at once disjointed and everything inside him shattered, and the pipe above him bent, sending a waterfall to the floor, which then seeped through the metal wiring, falling onto The Guide below.
He worked quickly, washing himself of all traces of the gel. The bots had already started the chase, but slowed as the gel mixed with water and fell to the ground below. Finally, they stopped, with nothing left to chase.
When it all became clear to The Coach that The Guide had beat the majority of them at once, he knew he had to act fast. He hurried down the stairs, reaching into his jacket and pulling another pouch. “You’re going to pay for this!” he shouted, but his words only echoed in the factory. When he reached the third floor landing, there was no sign of The Guide. He walked slowly with the pouch in his upturned palm, ready to throw it on The Guide the moment he figured out where he was.
“You got nothing left Guide,” he shouted. “You might as well give up.”
He quickly turned a corner, expecting to see The Guide standing there, but moved slowly again upon seeing it was just another empty landing. At every corner was darkness. The Guide was tired and every moment wasted, he could be recovering, rebuilding his strength, and ready to strike.
Then he did from behind. He wrapped his arms around The Coach, but The Coach wasted no time to back him into the wall, smashing his body against the brick and sending him to the ground below. The Guide scurried away backward on his hands and feet, crab-walking quickly, but The Coach towered above him, gripping the pouch and holding it above him with a sadistic smile on his face. Before he could throw it, The Guide was on his feet, running toward him again, his arms wrapping around The Coach and trying to wrestle him down. The Coach brought an elbow down on his back and The Guide flattened face down on the platform again, rattling the ground. He slowly rolled to his back, wheezing, breathless.