Chapter Text
Once they were beloved, the hope for the future.
That was until the perfect family harmony failed.
The older members of BroZone stormed off that night, but unlike the version told later, they tried to come back. They were at the base of the tree, apologizing, when they were surrounded by King Peppy and the other trolls. Each member of BroZone had to be punished.
The older four took the worst of it. Floyd was the first, forced into a furnace, his screams echoing throughout the troll tree until they were silenced by smoke and fumes. Spruce was made to eat and eat until his body could no longer hold food, then a mask made of flesh was sewn to his face. Clay was injected with something to make him sick—a creeping cancer that rotted him from within. Finally, John Dory was forced to watch it all before being drowned.
But they did not stay gone. Other trolls spoke of nightmares, of claws raking through their dreams, and of some who never woke again. They spoke of a chainsaw revving in the night, of a troll wearing another troll’s face. They whispered about traps hidden in the shadows, set to maim and kill, and of a troll in a hockey mask stalking the woods with a machete.
The elders acted quickly. They bound the brothers’ souls to a book—a book written in trolls’ blood, a confession of their sins. They even bound Bitty B to the book, convinced this trolling had driven his brothers to fail the perfect family harmony.
When they escaped, Branch was left gray.
He locked himself away in a bunker for almost twenty years until Poppy convinced him to save the other trolls. Then she convinced him again to unite the tribes and stop the Rock-pocalypse. Together they confessed their love, and harmony was restored.
But Branch never felt right. There was always an itching in his brain, something tugging at him, whispering that none of this was right.
That was until someone brought the book out for a scary story night. Cooper and the other Funk trolls refused to participate, and Guy Diamond carried Tiny Diamond home. That left the rest of them to read.
They read of the punishments.
No names were written, but Branch could feel something unlatching. With each voice taking a turn, another lock came undone. The itch in the back of his skull stilled with every passage, soothed by words that should have burned.
Then the night critters stopped making noise. The wind went still, yet the air grew colder. The fire began to flicker, not with warmth, but as though it were being smothered, its light dying one ember at a time.
When they reached the end of the book, thunder rolled in the distance. The smell of rain flooded their senses, heavy and metallic, but no storm came.
Instead, the fog rolled in.
It slithered low across the ground at first, clinging to roots and stones, then rose higher, swallowing trunks and branches. It thickened until the trees themselves blurred, their shapes warping into long, gray silhouettes.
Someone shifted uneasily. Another whispered, “What’s happening?”
The mist swallowed the sound.
From the lake came ripples. A shape broke the surface, water sheeting from broad shoulders, a mask gleaming pale in the moonlight.
Somewhere deeper in the fog, a chainsaw coughed, sputtered, then roared to life, its growl carrying through the silence like a promise.
A tricycle wheel squeaked once, twice, then faded into the mist.
And still the fog thickened, curling around ankles, clinging to throats, choking the fire until it guttered out.
No one saw clearly what emerged.
No one knew where the sounds came from.
No one had a chance as the fog closed in.
The fog pulled them apart.
DJ Suki, King Trollex, Laguna, Ludwig van Beetrollven, and Kim-Petit found themselves sitting beneath a tree. Golden sand sifted down from nowhere, sparkling as it drifted, clinging to their lashes and making their eyes heavy. Sleep tugged at them, slow and irresistible.
Biggie, Smidge, Legsly, Ari, Tresillo, and Gomdori stumbled into a clearing by a cabin leaning near the water’s edge. A rickety dock reached out into the lake, a rowboat creaking against its rope. The water stretched wide and endless, black under the moonlight. Across its surface they swore they could see the faint glow of Pop Village, impossibly far away.
Satin, Chenille, Marimba, Tambora, Minuet Sonata, Demo, and Wani came to their senses in a sterile room. The air smelled of metal and disinfectant, the floor too white, too clean. In the center sat a puppet on a tricycle, its painted eyes fixed on them. It began to laugh without moving its mouth, the sound bouncing off the walls.
Delta Dawn, Barb, Blaze Powerchord, Dante Crescendo, Sid Fret, and Val blinked against the fog to find themselves standing before a battered old pod. Its windows were shattered, streaked with suspicious red stains that ran like dried rivers down its shell. The door hung ajar, darkness yawning inside.
Finally, Branch, Creek, Hickory, Baby Bun, Poppy, and King Peppy were still huddled around the fire. The mist swirled at their feet as they realized everyone else was gone.