Floyd shuddered, despite the sweltering heat and humidity in the air. He didn't even remember what it felt like to be cool, let alone cold. He remembered when he was younger he preferred to be hot over cold. He could remember spending hours just sitting on the branches near the top of the tree, feeling the sun on his skin. When it snowed he would refuse to set foot outside, preferring to stay curled up with a blanket on the bed.

Now, he would give anything to go out in the snow. He wanted to feel cold, beyond just the chills he would get when his body had enough and he got sick. And though he would love to see the sun again, he would probably shy away from its warmth.

Floyd could feel his eyes start to itch with tears at the thought of avoiding something that he had once loved so much. He bit his lip and pressed his hands over his eyes, determined to stop the tears from fully forming. He couldn't cry. That was the easiest rule to remember here, and the hardest one to follow, because he just couldn't stop himself.

Floyd tucked several calming breaths, just like Clay had taught him…no. He couldn't think about his brothers. That was just going to get him crying again. He couldn't wish they were here. He couldn't wish he could see them one more time. He couldn't wonder what things would be like if none of them had ever left home.

Thoughts like that did him no good. He couldn't change the past, and no matter how hard he wished things weren't going to change. He was always just going to be a prisoner for the crime of being different.

When he'd left home he'd tried to find his voice. He traveled around, listening to different types of music. He didn't have a problem with pop music. It would always hold a special place in his heart. It was the rhythm of his soul.

Floyd found all kinds of music during his journey. He didn't necessarily enjoy all of it, but he appreciated it, because he knew that music wasn't just pretty sounds, it was the connection between people. It was community, and communication, and culture.

When Floyd first heard rock music he felt drawn to it. It sounded like some of his favorite pop music, except harsher and more raw and sincere. When Floyd first heard rock music, he'd been at a really bad place. He was missing his brothers like crazy, but at the same time he was scared to go looking for them, because what if they hadn't changed? What if they didn't want anything to do with him?

All pop music reminded him of Brozone, and it hurt to listen to, which was confusing when pop was always cheerful. It was why rock spoke to him, because it wasn't always happy. Sometimes it was weird, or angry, or sad. It was real, instead of the facade that Brozone had always been forced to put up during their shows.

While Floyd had listened to all kinds of music, and he'd met a few wandering other types of trolls, he'd never sought out other civilizations. He'd known that he wouldn't be accepted, because even during his short travels he was able to figure out that different tribes of trolls just didn't get along with each other. Their default reaction was suspicion and anger. Floyd hadn't wanted to deal with that, so he'd been content with listening to albums he found along the way, and talking to the occasional troll he met.

Floyd felt a connection to rock music, and he wanted to see if he felt that same connection to the trolls. Though he hadn't been able to admit it to himself at the time, he'd been feeling more sentimental than usual, longing for a real connection. He wanted his family, but because he was too afraid to look for that again he tried to find something to replace them somehow, or at least fill the hole they'd left in his heart.

He'd gone to Volcano Rock City, and it was okay at first. The rock trolls were fascinated with him. He learned their music, and shared some of his own. They seemed to like what he had to share, but they also seemed a little confused by it. Apparently his music could be counted as rock, but it was softer than what they normally played.

Not everybody liked it, but enough did. Floyd continued to find places to play in Volcano Rock City until he was invited to play for the princess' tenth birthday. It was a big deal and a huge honor, and Floyd had been proud to play the music he had written. Music that was real, and spoke to one's soul, but still catchy and maybe a little fun. Everything was going well.

And then he sang a cover.

It was of his favorite rock song ever. The first one he'd ever heard. The Eye of the Tiger. At first Floyd was drawn to it for the rhythm and sound, but the more he listened to it the more he felt like it resonated with him.

He saw it as a song about not giving up. About getting back up after the struggles of the past, and continuing no matter what. For a teenager who didn't know how he was going to get through the next day, it hit him in his very soul.

Floyd had started playing along with the song, and then when he had every chord memorized he started to switch things up a little. He played it slower, focusing less on the beat and more on the heart. He changed a few lyrics that didn't quite feel like him. He sang it the way he heard it. In a way he made it his song. Not in the way that he owned it, but in that he could feel it.

He'd never played his cover for anybody else, but he wanted to. He wanted to show the rock trolls how much he appreciated them and their music. He wanted to show them how much their music touched him. He saw it as paying homage to a song, a genre that he had come to love.

Princess Barb, as well as many rock trolls, saw it as stealing. He took a song that wasn't his. He changed it, taking the 'rock' out of it. He tried to 'pop-ify' it, because he didn't think any song was good unless it was a pop song.

Floyd had been given weird looks up to that point, because even though he was a little grayed and more muted than he was as a child, he was still far more colorful than the rock trolls were. Before his blasphemous performance, it was just seen as a quirk. Now, it marked him as 'other'. He wasn't a rock troll. He didn't belong there, and they needed to take care of him before he 'stole' any more of their music.

Princess Barb had just been a child, but she'd been ruthless. She ordered that he be taken down to the dungeons and locked away, and he'd been in this cell ever since.

Twelve years. He hadn't seen the light of day for twelve long years. For the most part they left him alone, and he just had to cope with his own thoughts. If he did something wrong in their eyes though, he was punished harshly.

He wasn't supposed to sing, for obvious reasons. He couldn't talk to the trolls that brought him his meals, because he'd befriended one of them early on, and Barb had been furious when that troll had asked her to let Floyd go. She didn't want him to have the chance to try to 'manipulate' his way out, so he wasn't allowed to talk.

And he couldn't cry. If they caught him crying, they'd yell at him to stop. If he didn't, then they would come into the cell themselves and give him something to cry about.

That had been Floyd's life for so many years. Silence and isolation. For the longest time he despised the quiet, longing for when his meals would be dropped off just so he could hear the sound of someone else, even if it was just their footsteps on the stone. He was desperate for that small reminder that he wasn't completely alone.

These past few months though, silence had been his sanctuary. As long as it was quiet, and he was alone, he couldn't get hurt.

"When everybody's under Rock, then everything will finally be perfect."

~Perfect, perfect, perfect.~

Floyd whimpered and slammed one hand over his mouth to stifle the sound while he pressed the other hand harshly against his chest. He could feel his heart beating, but only if he really looked for it. He couldn't hear the rhythm of his heart pounding in his ears. He couldn't feel the energy of his soul surrounding him. He was fine. He was safe. Everything was normal and as it should be.

"Hey, pop troll!" There was the slamming of a door and a shout that made Floyd's hair stand on end. His breath quickened as he watched the hallway, hyper aware of the multiple sets of footsteps approaching. This wasn't his daily delivery of food and water. This was something different. He didn't like that. Last time something different had happened…

"You should be thanking me. I'm trying to turn your nothing music into something worth listening to."

"If we're not perfect we're nothing."

The tears that Floyd had tried so hard to hold back were falling again. He was scared. He didn't want to do that again. He couldn't. But he didn't have a choice. He never had a choice.

Floyd saw the trolls approaching, and while he recognized his regular guards he also recognized the queen's right hand man. This was not a normal visit. His panicked breaths turned into gasps as he frantically pressed himself against the wall, actively crying now. But if they saw him crying, he was going to get punished for it. He didn't want to get hurt.

Floyd squeezed his eyes shut tight and whipped his head to the side, slamming it against the wall. He groaned and slumped slightly, instinctively holding his head. It was pounding, and it sounded like the beating of drums in his brain. He didn't like it, and he wanted it to stop, but if he stopped then the guards would just do worse to him. They always did.

If he didn't have a reason to cry, then they would give him one. If he gave himself a reason to cry, then they left him alone. That was the deal.

Floyd clenched his teeth, drew his head back, and slammed it into the wall again, even harder than before. He actually felt stunned that time, staggering back and falling to his knees as his vision grew spotty.

"Whoa, whoa, hey!" Barb's right hand sounded almost worried, but Floyd had to be imagining that, because why would he be worried about him? Floyd's ears had to be playing tricks on him. He faintly heard the cell door opening. He wanted to growl and glare at whoever had come in, or try to escape, but his head was spinning. He couldn't really do anything until he felt a grip on his arm that was shockingly gentle.

"Hey, look at me, pop troll." Barb's right hand said. "What'd you do that for?"

"He does that kinda thing all the time, Riff." One of Floyd's guards said. "He's been doing it for years."

Riff helped Floyd to his feet, supporting him awkwardly. "And you guys didn't stop him?"

"Were we supposed to?" The other guard said. "He's just a prisoner, man."

"Not anymore." Riff muttered. He adjusted his hold on Floyd. He tried to find his feet under him, but it was strangely difficult. His legs just wouldn't stop shaking. "Come on, man, you don't want to keep Barb waiting."

Floyd whimpered. He didn't want to see the queen. For the most part she ignored his existence, and sometimes he wondered if she forgot about him completely. He's only seen her once since he had been locked up. If she tried to do that again…

Floyd didn't know if his brain was fuzzy because he'd hit his head too hard, or if it was because of his anxiety, but he felt like he was moving in a dream as he was brought out of the cell and up out of the dungeons. Riff practically carried him to the throne room, and far too soon Floyd was dropped down at Barb's feet.

Floyd kept his arms wrapped around himself, all too aware of how loud and frantic his sobs were. He was still crying, and he knew the queen wouldn't like that, no matter how hurt he was. She hated his tears. He kept his head lowered, both as a sign of submission, and to hide his tears. Maybe if he avoided angering her then she would leave him alone and forget about him again.

Floyd flinched when he felt a firm grip on his face. His head was lifted and he was forced to look Barb in the eyes. Her gaze was mostly indifferent, but there was a look in her eyes that was hard to understand. It wasn't quite remorse, but it was something along those lines.

"You're still so soft." Barb muttered. It wasn't said in anger or judgement. She just sounded fascinated and confused, like all he'd been this whole time was an experiment. He wasn't truly a troll to her. He never had been. He had been a test subject for her months ago, and he was terrified of being the same thing again.

She brushed his hair out of his eyes, brushing aside his tears. He flinched at the oddly soft touch. What was going on?

"Your hair was brighter before." She said. That was an understatement. Floyd knew he was gray. He had been for years. It was hard to have hope when he was a prisoner because of where he came from. "But I think the pop trolls will take you back. Queen Poppy seems happy to accept anybody. And you're not that much duller than Boytoy."

Barb's hand brushed against the part of Floyd's head that he'd bashed against the wall, He whimpered and cringed. Barb drew her hand back, a flabbergasted look on her face.

"Are you hurt?" She sounded more aghast than concerned. She looked at Riff. "How'd he get hurt?"

"He was bashing his head in when we got to him." Riff said. "I think it's normal?"

"Huh." Barb tilted her head at Floyd. "Why are you doing something like that?" And Floyd didn't know how to respond to that. Why was she asking? She saw the tears in his eyes, didn't she? They were a little hard to ignore.

And her question sounded like something he was supposed to answer. But Barb had forbidden him from talking. How was he supposed to answer if he couldn't speak?

Floyd just looked at Barb, and she just looked at him. After a long moment she shrugged and released him. He breathed a sigh of relief between his gasping sobs. "Bring him to my angler bus, and make sure he doesn't hurt himself anymore. We don't need him damaged any more than he already is."

Floyd felt fear and confusion at those words. He whipped his head up and looked at Barb. Was she taking him somewhere? And she had mentioned the pop trolls before. Was this part of the takeover that she'd mentioned months ago? He hoped not. He didn't want to be a tool in her plan any more than he already had been.

Barb smiled at him, and for once it didn't look predatory. It looked genuine, and…nice? Why was she looking at him like that?

"Things have changed, pop troll." Barb said. "Bridges are being mended, for real. Truces are being built, and alliances are being made. And as a sign of good will, I'm releasing you back to your people."

Floyd felt like he couldn't breathe. This was too good to be true. He had to be dreaming. Twelve years of pain, and loneliness, and fear, and it's all over just like that? No. No, it couldn't be that easy. This was a trick. It had to be. But Floyd couldn't quite push down that little bit of hope. Though he didn't see it, a touch of purple came back to his eyes. Barb saw it, and her smile broadened.

"Yeah, you heard me right." She said. "We're taking you to Pop Village."