The Troll (7 page)

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.

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.