Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Branch POV

It had taken some convincing, but in the end, Branch and Clay managed to talk Floyd into sitting down and watching a few of the tapes.

Floyd was reluctant. He clearly wasn’t in the mood to be around Bruce. And Bruce, at least from what Branch could see, looked quietly guilty about it.

Branch could guess why.

And honestly? It was fair to be upset. Branch hadn’t appreciated being blindsided either. It hadn’t just been the decision; it was the way it happened. There was no heads-up or conversation about it. Just here’s what’s happening. Get on board or get left behind.

"Okay," Clay said, holding up a worn-out tape, the sticker on it barely clinging to the plastic shell. At some point, it might’ve had a label, but whatever was written there had long since faded into nothing. "This one looks like the oldest out of the bunch."

“Ronen set aside a few he definitely wanted us to watch as a group,” he added, “but these? I figured we'd start with this one, and then go from there.” He looked up at the others, shrugging a little. “Sounds good?”

“Sounds good to me,” Bruce said, settling onto one end of the couch with a soft exhale.

“Let’s see what’s on the tape,” Floyd added from the opposite side, arms crossed, but his tone more curious than annoyed.

“Okay,” Clay said, more to himself than anyone else, as he carefully slid the tape into the slot on the small projector. “Here we go.”

The projector whirred softly to life. A small flicker of static danced across the wall before the screen settled into a warm, grainy image.

The screen flickered to life, filled with static for half a second before settling on the smiling face of a troll none of them recognized.

He looked young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with light brown-orange fur with hints of yellow in the light. His hair was a wild tangle of shaggy orange-gold. Around his light blue eyes, he wore thick black makeup, and both ears sparkled with mismatched piercings—at least half a dozen between them.

Definitely some kind of Rock sub-genre. Maybe even the same as Styx...actually, now that Branch was really looking, there was a faint resemblance.

“Good morning, everyone!” the troll said brightly, his voice bubbling with excitement as he leaned a little too close to the camera, jostling it with the sheer force of his enthusiasm. “My name is Carter, and I am so proud to welcome you to the first day of our very first tour!”

His grin widened as the shot flipped around, revealing the inside of what looked like a repurposed cargo van—band gear crammed into every corner, worn-out cushions thrown across mismatched seats, and a stuffed lizard-duck dangling from the rearview mirror like a mascot.

“So this is the mysterious Carter,” Floyd muttered, watching the screen like he was trying to memorize Carter's face.

Branch turned to glance at him, “Carter?” he echoed. “You know who this is?”

“Not really,” Floyd admitted, eyes still on the screen. “But Ronen mentioned him. Said he’s the one who gave Iris the camcorder. Then she passed it to Ronen. He’s in a band with someone named Jovi.”

“John was in another band?” Bruce asked, shocked.

“No,” Clay said slowly, like he was thinking. “…Ronen said something about John writing for a few songs.” He paused, brows furrowed. “With everything that’s happened, I guess I just… forgot about it.”

Branch blinked and turned back to the screen.

While they’d been talking, Tape Carter had kept chattering away, completely unaware of his future audience.

“So that’s our timeline for the first week,” he said, his voice still chipper. The camcorder jostled slightly as he walked, facing toward him and showing the hall behind him.

“We’ve still got an hour and a half before we have to leave. Let’s see what the others are doing,” he said like he was talking to a diary. “Some should be in the kitchen. We’re supposed to be up in, like, fifteen minutes for breakfast—”

He pushed something open,   “Ah! Here we are!”

The camera flipped again, turning to face the room. A small, cozy kitchen came into view. There were five tall chairs lined up at the bar and a high chair nearby for a small trolling. Someone was slumped forward at the bar, face hidden by a curtain of hair, their entire upper half practically molded to the counter in a posture of dramatic exhaustion.

Further in the background, at the stove, another figure stood with their back to the camera, humming quietly while stirring something in a pan.

Branch leaned in unconsciously, a familiar itch pulling at the back of his brain.

Carter’s voice from behind the camera: “Breakfast roll call!”

The video jolted as Tape Carter took off running. The camera bounced in his grip until he skidded to a stop beside the slumped-over figure at the bar. With absolutely no warning, he threw an arm around them and hoisted them sideways, half-dragging, half-hugging the poor troll out of their chair.

The only thing that stopped them from hitting the ground was Carter’s arm anchoring them up.

The screen flipped suddenly, Carter turning the camcorder around to reveal both himself and the troll now swaying against him.

“This!” Carter beamed into the lens, completely unbothered by the weight practically sagging against him, “is my uncle Styx!”

Branch blinked. This was Styx?

The troll slumped beside Carter looked a decade younger—his fur was a little darker, a little messier, and his piercings were more mismatched. Even half-asleep, Styx still managed to level the camera with a look of pure irritation.

There was even a tiny line of drool running down his chin.

“He’s our manager,” Carter went on, completely unbothered by the annoyed glare boring into him. “He makes all the big decisions!”

He turned toward Styx with a grin, only to wince a little and gingerly loosen his grip. “Okay, okay, sorry—sheesh.”

Styx immediately slumped back into his original position with a grumble, face buried in the crook of his elbow like a critter going into hibernation.

Carter turned back to the camera and stage-whispered with a mischievous grin, “Not a morning person.”

Then he looked over the lens. “But she is!”

The camcorder turned.

And there, perched in a booster seat just one chair over, was a tiny, grinning trolling.

She couldn’t have been more than two years old. Her pale blue fur looked soft, and her bright teal hair stuck out in wild, frizzy tufts like she’d slept on it sideways. She was covered—covered —in fruit. A banana smeared down one cheek, blueberry juice darkening her little paws, a mangled wedge of mango clutched proudly in one fist like it was treasure.

She turned toward the camera, let out a delighted giggle, and waved.

“This small, fruit-covered trolling,” Carter’s voice came through with a bright laugh, “is Iris! She’s our mascot.”

The camera lingered, just a beat too long, catching the moment she squealed again and reached forward with sticky fingers, palm pressed against the lens.

Iris...

Branch’s breath caught, hitched halfway between surprise and something far heavier.

That was Iris. 

But not the guarded teen with a clipped voice who kept her shoulders squared and her secrets close. This was someone else entirely. A little trolling, round-cheeked and covered in fruit, sitting in a high chair and laughing like the world was never going to hurt her.

She was so bright, Pop troll bright. Her colors weren’t faded or muted by time or trauma. 

A version of Iris before.

Before the Bottles. Before the scars and silence. Before she learned to be wary and armor herself in sharpness.

This was just a little girl in a kitchen, laughing with her whole face. Sticky with mango pulp and banana, cheeks smeared with joy. Like nothing bad had ever happened, or ever could.

On the screen, Carter’s voice filtered back in, warm with laughter.

“So, what are we eating today?” he asked, clearly amused.

Tiny Iris lifted the sticky remains of a fruit chunk with the kind of unshakable pride only a trolling could manage. Her tiny paw smudged juice across the camera lens as she grinned like she’d just invented sunshine.

“Mango!” she declared, high and sweet, her whole body lighting up with the announcement.

Branch felt something tug deep in his chest. Because it was cute—achingly cute.

That tiny voice. That goofy grin. The way she radiated pure joy, like breakfast, was the most exciting event of the day.

Carter turned the camera back toward himself and grimaced at the lens. “Oh, you are a sticky one,” he muttered, wiping it with the heel of his paw. The juice only smeared, leaving the screen hazy and his expression unimpressed.

“Very sticky,” he added dryly, glancing back toward Iris, who rewarded him with a delighted giggle and a proud little squeal, clearly pleased with her handiwork.

Then, from offscreen, a voice.

A very familiar voice.

“Carter, what are you doing?”

Carter lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He spun toward the voice wildly, causing the image to blur, and threw an arm around the troll who’d just stepped into frame.

“This is our awesome songwriter, John Dory!” he announced, eyes sparkling, chest puffed with pride.

And just like that, the air in the room shifted.

John Dory.

Everything stilled. The noise, the movement, even the breath in Branch’s lungs. The room felt quieter. Heavier.

On screen, John was eighteen. Moving. Smiling. There and wearing the same bright orange goggles he’d had on the day he left.

His fur was a soft, pale blue-gray—muted, like the shade Iris wore now. But there was nothing dim about him. His eyes were clear, sharp, full of life. He smiled without hesitation, and there was warmth in his voice as he looked at Carter.

It hit Branch like a punch to the chest—sudden, cold, and breath-stealing.

Because the John Dory they had now, the one lying in that hospital bed, was so still. So quiet. Wires and machines surrounded him like a barrier. His fur was too pale.

But this… this was a version of him they hadn’t seen in twenty years.

A version Branch wasn’t sure he’d ever truly seen.

Carter’s grin widened. “Just showing everyone the first day of our tour,” he said brightly, “When we think back on today, I want to be able to see it again.”

John let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head like he’d heard that a hundred times before. John gave Carter a sideways glance. “So that means you have everything ready to leave?”

Carter’s bravado faltered. “Well, I umm—I…”

Before he could fumble his way through a sentence, another troll appeared in the shot.

“Jovi!” Carter exclaimed in relief, spinning the camcorder toward her like a lifeline.

This new troll looked to be around Carter’s age, maybe sixteen. Same Rock sub-genre. She had reddish fur, deeper in color than Carter’s, and her hair was a darker red with streaks of blue and violet running through it.

She didn’t say a word to Carter. Instead, she raised a paw silently and flipped on the sink. The water ran, and without warning, she bent over and shoved her entire head underneath it.

There was a beat of silence, then a gasp. She snapped upright, water flying as her hair flipped into a spiked mohawk.

Carter cackled behind the camera. “Every. Single. Morning,” he muttered fondly. “Say hi to the camera, Jovi!”

Jovi shot the lens a half-lidded, unimpressed stare.

“Charming as ever,” Carter deadpanned.

Branch cracked the smallest of smiles.

“You know, you could at least pretend to be excited for the tour?” Carter said, “Come on! Say something for the people!”

Jovi raised a single unimpressed brow as she reached for a towel and began blotting the water from her face.

“I’m thrilled,” she deadpanned, completely monotone. “Can’t you tell?”

Carter snorted behind the camera. “She’s lying. She’s actually super excited. She’s just allergic to enthusiasm before noon.”

Jovi paused mid-dry to shoot him a dry glare, but didn’t argue. 

Offscreen, John’s voice called, “Come on, you two—breakfast is ready! And we’ve still got a lot to do before we leave.”

“Like what?” Jovi called back, draping the towel over her shoulder.

“Like packing,” John replied, his tone carrying just enough weight to imply he already knew the answer. “I know Carter’s not done. Are you?”

Jovi opened her mouth… and then hesitated. Slightly abashed, she looked offscreen like maybe her bags were magically going to appear.

Before she could respond, a loud crash echoed through the space—something heavy toppling over, and then another something… and another. It sounded like a whole heap of supplies or bags hitting the ground all at once.

The camera jerked, swinging around to capture the commotion.

Another troll stepped into frame, the same age as Carter and Jovi. His fur was a deep greenish-blue, his thick black hair puffed out wildly and fell straight over his eyes, completely obscuring them.

He stood in the middle of what could only be described as a mountain of bags. Not a pile or a stack. A mountain, and far too many for a standard tour.

“I'm packed,” he announced proudly, placing both hands on his hips like he’d just conquered a mountain.

Everyone stared at the troll.

Even Styx, who had been half-asleep and slouched forward at the counter, tilted his head just enough to glance at the pile with visible disbelief.

“Geez—Rush, what all did you pack?” John asked, shocked.

The green-blue troll, Rush, apparently, looked a little sheepish, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Oh. Well, I’ve never been on a trip before, and I just… wanted to be prepared.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Carter laughed. Hard. The camcorder shook wildly in his paws, catching a half-blurred shot of Jovi rolling her eyes and Styx groaning into his coffee.

Rush gave a shy little grin.

Carter’s laughter was suddenly cut short by a soft whack, like someone had lightly smacked the back of his head.

“Hey!” he yelped, spinning the camera toward John, who gave him a dry look.

“At least one of you is responsible,” John said. “Maybe if you ask nicely, he’ll help you pack.” He then turned to walk away from Carter.

Carter’s voice piped up again from behind the lens,  “And where are you going?”

John looked back at the camera, his expression a little exasperated, a little fond, “I have to go give Iris a bath.”

The shot shifted just in time to catch Styx, barely upright but somehow functioning, passing a syrup-drenched slice of pancake to Iris.

Iris let out a delighted squeal and immediately abandoned her mango, grabbing the pancake with both paws. Syrup smeared across her fingers, her face, even her hair. She was in heaven.

John sighed audibly offscreen.

He came back into the shot just in time for them to see him shoot Styx a look, one that said, Seriously?, and Styx, unapologetic but slightly sheepish, turned back to his own plate without a word.

Then John scooped Iris into his arms like it was second nature with the sticky pancake and all, and gave her an exasperated, amused look.

“I just gave you a bath yesterday,” he muttered under his breath, but there was no real annoyance in his tone. Just tired affection. The kind that said this isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.

He turned and started down the hallway, Iris giggling in his arms as she continued trying to cram the soggy pancake into her mouth. Syrup clung to her fur, her fingers, even John’s shirt—but she didn’t care. She looked completely content.

The camera lingered for a few extra seconds, watching them disappear around the corner.

Behind the lens, Carter let out a snort.

“This is gonna be the stickiest tour in history.”

The video paused there, freezing on a blurry frame of John Dory disappearing down the hall with a fruit and syrup-covered Iris in his arms.

Branch couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop thinking.

These trolls—Carter, Jovi, Rush, even a younger Styx—were the ones John had found after he thought everyone was dead. They were the ones who had helped raise Iris.

The thought settled heavily in Branch’s chest. He knew John had lived a whole life out there, beyond Pop territory. The kids had talked about it before. But seeing it now made it real in a way words never had. John had something out there—something full and real. And he’d had it without them. Without him.

“Let’s try this one,” Floyd said, as he passed a tape to Clay.

Clay took it gently and loaded it into the projector. Like the first, it was old—its label long faded, its corners worn down from time.

The screen flickered to life again, static crawling along the edges as the tape fought to play. Then, with a soft snap, the picture came into focus—blurry and slightly tilted, as if someone had set the camera up in secret, hoping not to be seen.

Branch leaned forward. This one was different already.

Then the piano began.

Soft and slow, faintly familiar, the melody drifted from the speakers, tender in a way none of them expected. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just… simple.

It wasn’t a Pop song. It wasn’t Rock, either. Or even a mix of the genres. It felt older somehow. It felt like a lullaby someone sang to a small trolling. 

The image sharpened just enough to show a dim, quiet room—scattered soundproofing panels on the walls, tangled cables on the floor, the soft glow of a lamp casting everything in a muted haze. A recording studio. A warm and lived-in recording studio. The kind of place where late nights bled into early mornings.

And there he was.

John.

Younger than in the last video. Maybe only by a year, but the difference was striking. His face looked thinner and paler. Tired in a way that didn’t just come from lack of sleep.

He was sitting at a piano, his orange googles off and resting on the side. His head tilted like he was trying to hear something distant, some melody he couldn’t quite catch. His left hand moved slowly over the keys, hesitant but steady.

In his right arm, tucked close against his chest, was Iris. And he held her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

Even smaller than before, a year old at most. Her bright hair stood in soft tufts, her face half-buried in his shoulder. She was wrapped in a blanket that had slipped halfway off, thumb in her mouth, eyelids fluttering like she was trying to stay awake but losing that battle one blink at a time.

None of them spoke. Branch just watched like he was intruding on something private, something he wasn't supposed to see.

Then Bruce's voice broke the silence, low and thoughtful.

"You know..." he said gently, eyes never leaving the screen, "he used to hold you two like that."

Branch blinked, head turning slightly toward him.

Floyd looked over, too. "Really?"

“Oh yeah," Bruce murmured, a faint, faraway smile tugging at his mouth. "When one of you couldn't sleep... or just wouldn’t. He’d stand at the old piano in the living room, play with one hand… and hold one of you with the other.”

He trailed off, brow creasing, something quiet and heavy moving behind his eyes. A memory shifting into focus.

Clay picked it up without missing a beat. His voice was soft, almost to himself, still watching the screen. “Only back then, it wasn’t this calm…nothing was.”

Then, a voice spoke.

“She still awake?” It was Styx.

John didn’t answer right away. He only adjusted his hold on Iris, gently tucking her closer as she gave a soft, sleepy sigh against his shoulder. One tiny paw curled into the fabric of his shirt. Her thumb slipped from her mouth, but she didn’t stir.

“She’s trying,” John murmured at last, voice barely above a whisper. “But she won’t last much longer.”

The camera shifted slightly, like whoever was holding it had leaned in.

“You know,” Styx said lightly as he walked across the frame, “it might go faster if you sing to her.”

John gave a quiet sigh, “Styx…”

“Come on,” Styx urged gently from off camera. “It’s just us. No one’s here. You always write these amazing songs, but you never sing. And besides,” a pause, “she loves your voice.”

John didn’t respond right away.

He looked down at the toddler nestled in his arms, at her tiny paws clinging to his shirt. His expression shifted, barely.

After a long moment, he gave the smallest nod.

“Okay,” he whispered. “What should I play?”

“Whatever you were just playing seemed to be working,” Styx replied, his voice gentle like he was trying not to show how excited he was. “Try that.”

John looked like he might argue, but then Iris stirred, just a tiny, tired mumble against his shoulder.

“Fine,” he said quietly.

He turned back to the piano and rested his fingers on the keys, exhaling a breath as if to steady himself. His gaze flicked up toward Styx, almost shyly.

“Just letting you know… I don’t have all the lyrics yet.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Styx murmured back.

And then John began to play.

The same soft melody from earlier returned, slow, warm, and careful, like each note was being cradled. Then, his voice came in, quiet but sure, full of something raw and earnest.

"Dud Deadaa, what to say to you?
You have my eyes, you have your grandmother's name
When you came into the world, you cried…
And it broke my heart."

Branch’s breath caught. He blinked as his eyes started to sting.

That melody.

Something about it stirred deep in his mind. It was hazy, but there. He couldn’t remember when he’d first heard it, only that he had. A long time ago, when he was small. It was the kind of song he used to go to sleep to.

And now, hearing it again, John’s voice wrapping around it, full of love, exhaustion, and quiet hope, the memory fully thawed.

"I'm dedicating every day to you…
Domestic life was never quite my style…
When you smile, you knock me out, I fall apart…
And to thought I was so smart…"

Then it was quiet again.

Just the soft hum of the tape.

The four of them sat in that silence, still, breathless, and hurting in a way they couldn’t quite put into words.

They had just heard someone sing. Someone they hadn’t heard in twenty years. 

Faint voices murmured in the background of the tape, but none of them were really listening.

Then quietly, a little too sharp, Floyd spoke.

“Can we move on?” His voice cracked, even though he tried to hold it steady. “I don’t care what it is. Just… something else. Please.”

Clay didn’t say a word. He just gave a small nod and reached for the next tape.

Once again, the screen flickered to life, static rippling across the edges before settling into a shaky image.

A tiny baby troll stared back at them from the screen.

It was Cash.

Maybe a month old at most, swaddled in a soft onesie with cactuses and tumbleweeds, eyes wide and curious as he blinked at the camera. His big, round teal eyes were unmistakable. Without the gray tint that had dulled his color in recent months, the rest of him was almost unrecognizable.

His face was a soft yellow, with pale yellow stripes that started above his eyes and ran down his cheeks to his snout. A dusting of reddish-orange freckles dotted his nose.

His arms were the same pale yellow at the bottom, fading to a richer yellow higher up, giving the impression of tiny socks. His lower half, in contrast, was a deep reddish-orange that lightened slightly below his knee, completing the look.

His ears looked oversized and floppy, too heavy to hold up, tipped with pale yellow at the edges.  And his hair, wild, puffy, shapeless, sat like a soft cloud on his head.

Floyd let out a sharp, surprised laugh. “Oh! He had the same hair color as Branch did when he was that age!”

Branch blinked, caught off guard. “Does he?”

He hadn’t thought any of the kids looked much like him. But now that Floyd had said it… maybe there was. 

“Oh yeah, he does,” Floyd said with a grin. “Might be hard to tell now, with the age gap and all, but if we dug up a baby picture of you and set it next to Cash’s? Total match. I wouldn’t be surprised if, once he gets a little older, his hair darkens the same way yours did.”

Branch forced a smile.

He hoped that wouldn’t happen.

Because if Cash’s hair darkened like his had, it wouldn’t just mean growing up. It would mean the gray stayed. It would mean Cash had been carrying the weight of it the same way Branch had… for years.

But Floyd didn’t know that. None of them did.

He’d talked it through with Poppy. More than once. She reminded him it wasn’t his fault. That Grandma had made a choice. She’d put herself between Branch and Chief without hesitation. She had saved him. She had loved him.

He’d thought about telling them more than once, but he’d only just gotten them back, and every time the words rose in his throat—every time he imagined explaining what happened to Grandma, why he had turned gray so young—his chest seized.

What if it changed everything?

What if they blamed him?

What if they left again?

“Dad?” a young voice called from behind the camera, bright and curious. “Why does he keep staring at me?”

The question cut clean through Branch’s thoughts, grounding him.

It was just in time to catch Baby Cash give the camera a slow, deliberate blink. His teal eyes were wide, curious, fixed entirely on whoever was behind the lens.

A second voice, likely John, answered from somewhere off-screen,  “Because he wants to know where the voice he’s been hearing for the past three months has been coming from.”

As if he understood, Cash turned toward John's voice. His little head wobbled and swiveled slightly, looking for its source. But when he didn’t find it, he turned back to the camera with his head tilted and brows furrowed in the softest, most confused expression Branch had ever seen.

Down the couch, Bruce let out a quiet coo at the trolling.

Iris let out a dramatic sigh. “I know that part,” she said, a bit huffy. “But why’s he still doing it? He doesn’t look at you like this anymore.”

Then, a third voice chimed in. Gruffer and deep. Carrying a thick, familiar accent, but light with teasing.

“Maybe if you put the camera down and let him see you, he’d stop starin’,” the voice teased.

A beat. Then Iris again: “But if I do that, then how’s Uncle Styx and everyone gonna see everything, Hickory?”

Somehow, in the idea of seeing these tapes, he hadn’t let himself imagine Hickory being part of it, too. 

But he had been. 

Of course, he had. Hickory had been in their lives, had mattered to them. It was stupid to think otherwise.

On the screen, Hickory laughed,  “I’m sure all the videos you’ve recorded will be plenty,” Hickory said lightly, the sound of hoof steps tapping closer across the wooden floor. “Besides, it’s about time for lunch. You might as well set the camera down for now.”

Then he stepped into frame.

First his hooves, then his paws, as he leaned down and gently lifted baby Cash into his arms. His movements were careful, but casual. Like, this wasn’t the first time. Like it was something he did every day.

The camera wobbled slightly as Iris shifted her grip, tilting just enough to give a clearer view of Hickory. He hadn’t changed much. The only noticeable difference was his hair, a little longer and more unkempt, giving him a slightly scruffier look.

Hickory made a face as he looked Cash over. His eyes landed on the baby’s onesie, which was covered in little cactuses and tumbleweeds.

“What in the world did he put you in?” Hickory asked, voice full of mock offense, as he lifted Cash slightly to get a better look.

“It’s a onesie,” Iris chimed in from behind the camera, matter-of-fact.

“I can see that,” Hickory said, shooting a quick, playful look toward the lens.

“It was a gift from Aunt Delta.”

“Ahhh,” Hickory said, nodding like that explained everything. “There it is.”

He shook his head affectionately and leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to Cash’s. The baby troll giggled and bumped his head back in return, clumsy, but happy.

Then Hickory turned toward the camera and Iris, baby Cash cradled against his chest.

“Are you ready for lunch?” he asked the lens.

The camera nodded.

“Alright,” Hickory said, adjusting Cash in his arms. “Make sure to turn the camera off and set it on the counter. I’m going to get your brother in his high chair.”

"Okay,"

The footage wobbled and flipped suddenly, and Branch’s stomach turned with it. The image settled sideways, tilted a full 90 degrees—but no one moved to fix it.

On screen was a dining table, bathed in soft daylight from a nearby window. Outside, a grassy field stretched out, speckled with wildflowers and cut through by a winding little creek. It looked peaceful.

At the table, Iris was climbing into her chair. She looked about five now. Her colors were still bright, cheerful. But there was a small nick in her right ear now. Barely noticeable, but there.

One seat over, in a high chair, sat Cash.

They weren’t speaking. Just staring at each other.

Iris had her head resting sideways on the table, so she could meet his eyes.

And Cash was looking right back, his head tilted, his gaze wide and unblinking.

Two siblings. Just watching each other.

And watching from the couch, Branch felt something warm settle in his chest.

Off-screen, soft voices resumed, not knowing that the camera was still recording.

“What’s wrong with the onesie?” John asked, his tone quiet but teasing.

“Nothing,” Hickory said. Too quickly. Too smoothly.

John made a clicking noise with his tongue and teeth. “You are a terrible liar, Hickory.”

A beat.

Then a sharp intake of breath, followed by the rustle of someone shifting.

“You okay?” Hickory asked, his voice shifting lower, more serious.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” John said. There was a pause. “Just a flare-up in my paw.”

“Sure you’re okay?” Hickory pressed, concerned but still soft. “If you need, I can massage it later.”

There was a quiet snort, then a low laugh from John. “A massage? You really think that’s a good idea?”

Hickory didn’t miss a beat. “Worked in the past.”

John laughed again, fuller this time, familiar and fond. “Oh yeah. It worked so well that we now have a son.”

A pause.

Then, like Hickory had been waiting for the perfect comedic timing, he quietly added, “Well—I mean—if you wanna do that too, I wouldn’t object to it…”

Branch’s brain stalled and looked away from the screen as he felt his ears get hot. 

Bruce blinked once, very slowly. Like he didn't know if he should be grossed out or make a joke.

Floyd choked on a laugh as he tried, and failed, to hide his grin.

And Clay. Clay made a strangled noise like a teakettle and lunged for the projector. “Ahhh—NOPE,” he declared, getting up from his spot. “Nope, nope, nope! I do not need to hear my brother flirt!”

Floyd coughed into his hand. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Clay had already jammed the next tape into the projector with muttered curses about ears and mental scarring. “It is traumatizing,” he grumbled.

Bruce just chuckled, “We’re putting that one in the ‘never speak of again’ pile?”

“At the top of the pile,” Clay muttered.

Branch didn’t laugh, but he didn’t stop the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth either.

This tape began with an unsteady shot of a hardwood floor. The footage wobbled as if the person holding the camera wasn’t quite used to it. A moment later, the view flipped, and there she was.

Wynona, maybe three or four years old.

Like her siblings, there was no gray tint to her colors in the video. Her fur was a misty gray-blue, leaning more blue than gray, with slightly darker shading along her snout and a dusting of darker freckles across her cheeks.

Her hair, a blend of bright pink and warm orange, was a little longer than it was now, pulled into two uneven French braid pigtails that had clearly been slept in. Stray wisps framed her face.

She grinned up at the camera with two front teeth missing, her violet eyes sparkling—Floyd’s exact shade.

“Ronensss isss in throuble,” she lisped cheerfully.

She glanced from the camera to someone just offscreen, barely containing her glee.

Branch’s smile brightened. 

Off-camera, something clattered to the floor, maybe a chair, followed by a sharp, unmistakably furious hiss.

Wynona giggled.

The camera jostled, then flipped again.

Now on screen was the same dining table and front window from the third video, but this time everything was askew. Two chairs were toppled over, and the table had clearly been shoved out of place. From where Wynona stood, it looked like she was filming from a hallway, slightly farther from the action.

At one side of the table, facing the camera, stood a young Ronen—maybe five or six years old. He was dressed in a loose hoodie and sleep pants, the sort of thing a kid might throw on before going to bed. His hair was a deep midnight blue streaked with vivid neon green, purple, blue, and pink—nothing like the muted gray-tinted version Branch had grown used to.

His webbed, clawed paws lay flat on the tabletop, like he was bracing to launch himself in either direction if needed.

But he wasn’t panicking.

If anything, he looked thrilled, grinning like he’d just pulled off something spectacular. His bright green, cat-like eyes sparkled with mischief, and his long, lizard-like tail swished back and forth, betraying his amusement.

He was using the table as a makeshift shield, something to keep space between himself and the troll across from him.

That troll was Iris.

Her normally teal hair was now a bright neon yellow; it was half-wet, clinging to her face in uneven clumps. Her fur, normally a pale blue, now had a greenish tinge, as if someone had dumped yellow something over her. She was bristling with fury. Her now vibrant green ears were pinned flat against her head, and her tail whipped the air behind her like a warning.

She’d dug her claws into the table, trembling with frustration.

Branch could practically hear the moment before the storm.

Branch stared at the screen, unmoving. The images played on, flickering with movement and sound, but none of it registered. It was all just shapes and noise, colors bleeding into each other, voices warping into static.

He knew his brothers were talking, heard the sounds of their voices somewhere behind the pounding in his ears. But their words barely brushed the surface of his awareness. They were too far away.

He was too far gone, pulled backward—years, decades—to a memory he tried to push away.

The sun had been warm that day. He remembered that, filtering through the canopy as he sat perched alone on a high branch of the Troll Tree. He’d been singing. And he wanted her to hear it.

And she had.

Grandma.

He remembered how her face had changed, a split second from calm to sheer panic, mouth opening in a silent cry. Her arms flew out, reaching for him as she sprinted to him. 

The sun vanished behind something massive. He hadn’t seen the hand coming. Not until it was almost too late.

But Grandma had.

She reached him just in time.

He could still feel her push, the sudden surge of force against his chest, a strength he didn’t know she had. Her hands braced him as she shoved him away. His breath ripped from his chest as he pushed away and sent tumbling through the air.

He had looked up as he fell. 

She looked at him with a soft, steady smile, as if everything would be okay.

Then the hand closed around her.

And she was gone.

A sound cut through the air like a blade. High-pitched. Piercing. Fragile.

It painfully yanked him out of the memory. His breath caught mid-chest, chest heaving as if it had been kicked.

Was that him?

Had he made that sound again?

No. Not him.

It came from somewhere else. But it hit like it came from him. That sound—thin and desperate, trembling on the edge of breaking. A sound that was more than just noise.

It was a call.

Every troll knew it.

It was etched into their bones, into the heartbeat of generations; it was the cry no one ever wanted to hear. Not from anyone, especially not from a child.

It meant something had gone wrong. Horribly and deeply wrong.

Branch finally looked up. 

No one was looking at him. Every gaze had snapped toward the doorway. Eyes wide. Ears pinned. Fur raised in a ripple of alarm as the sound echoed in the still air like it was still reverberating through them all.

Branch turned, slowly. 

And his heart sank.

Jolene.

She stood there like a ghost. Small, trembling, and overwhelmed. 

Her posture was tight, like the very act of standing was taking all her strength. Her eyes were glassy and unblinking, fixed on the screen like it had hypnotized her. But she wasn’t watching. She was remembering. Reliving something that gripped her too hard to escape.

Her arms hung stiff at her sides, tiny fists clenched so hard her claws had begun to dig into her own palms. Tear tracks glistened on her cheeks, soaking the fur beneath her eyes. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts—too fast, too uneven. 

“…It was an accident…” 

A broken whisper slipped out of her like it had been buried for too long.

“I… I… I di… I didn’… I didn’t mean to,” she choked out, her voice breaking apart between sobs. Her words came in pieces, like they hurt to say. 

Branch flinched.

She was blaming herself.

Then she curled in on herself. Her shoulders hunched. Her head dropped low, chin nearly buried in her collarbone, as her paws covered her ears like she was trying to block everything out.

She was trying to disappear. As if hiding might undo whatever terrible memory had clawed its way loose from the dark.

And then that sound, that terrible sound.

That piercing, primal, high-pitched whine ripped through the air. It didn’t sound like it came from her throat. It sounded like it came from somewhere deeper.

Bruce was the first to react. His fur still on end, but now he stepped forward with his paw outstretched, moving slowly and carefully.

“Hey, Jo, it’s okay-” He said softly, like he had done this before, "It's okay. You are okay-"

A blur, a streak of dark blue color, sharp and fast and sudden, shot into the room from nowhere, so fast it barely registered before it was there.

Sharp teeth sank deep into Bruce’s arm.