Hey, hey, hey! What?
I now I'm not supposed to, but I just received an epiphany to make this story about the delightful movies and series from DreamWorks Trolls!
I loved the movies, from the original to World Tour, and even Band Together to some extent, though not by much. And I absolutely love The Beat Goes On, and especially Trollstopia, my absolute favorite!
The songs are top notch! So yeah, enjoy this new story I made, and hopefully I can update my other stories as soon as I can.
Also, I'd like to point out how dark this story will get sometimes, but there are lighter moments in between. That's the beauty of it.
Peave V
A pulse.
That was all that could be heard.
It sounded sharp, and measured.
Beep… Beep… Beep…
Like a calm rhythm in an uneven stanza.
Until… eyes fluttered open.
A gasp followed, turquoise eyes meeting the gray-toned ceiling. A faint blue glow overcame the chamber as mechanical thumps began to beat. A tone that was all too familiar in this monotonous routine called — life.
A man laid still inside a small pod, lying upright with his arms crossed over his chest, with no movements whatsoever. Until his senses started to return.
The faint pulse and whirring of a machine began to turn and soon enough, the pod made a hiss before it opened up. The man took this chance to breathe, a deep inhale of oxygen, coursing into his lungs and through his veins as he blinked away the haziness that clouded his senses.
With the pressure keeping him in place gone, he began to twitch his fingers, wiggle his toes, until he had the strength to move his body fully, albeit weakly. He groaned, raising a hand to cradle his head as he stood on wobbly legs.
He looked around the room, the faint glow of the pod being the only color in this lifeless chamber. The man then cracked his joints, loosened his muscles, and stretched his body before making his way to the automatic steel door.
His body moved like a machine, a force of habit and the weight of monotony pushing him onward. The hallway was dim, lit only by the low flicker of synthetic lights lining the ceiling, their glow soft against cold metal walls.
His feet moved without thought, each step landing with a quiet, echoing tap against the grated floor below. There was no warmth to the place, only routine. The same sterile corridor, the same dull hum of machinery coursing through the walls like blood in veins long removed from anything organic.
The scent of processed air was sharp in his nose, laced with recycled chemicals meant to simulate freshness. It didn't. But he breathed it in anyway, his body adjusting with a sort of mechanical grace, as though his bones remembered what his mind didn't need to.
He turned a corner, his reflection flashing across a strip of polished steel along the wall. His eyes, still soft with sleep, stared back. A reminder that he was awake now. That another cycle had begun.
'Hopefully something new will happen.'
He heard them before he saw them, voices drifting through the corridor. Laughter. Familiar. That same too-early energy only a close-knit family could pull off after years of isolation. They were already up, already gathered, and already too loud for his tastes.
He made one final turn before meeting face to face with another steel door, it opened for him as he was met with the full force of the noise by none other than the very people he had to live with for the past few years.
He shielded his eyes from the bright artificial light that greeted him before more noise followed.
Crossing the threshold, he was then met with an arm slinging over his shoulder, "Well, well, well, it seems like Sleeping Beauty is finally awake, bros!"
He groaned, pushing the arm off before muttering, "Please, not until I've had my morning coffee."
A chorus of laughter erupted at his expense which only made him grumble under his breath, but then someone else approached him with two warm mugs in hand.
"Here ya go, I made it just like you preferred." A soft voice rang, to which he was grateful, knowing who was speaking to him. He gave a gentle smile, taking the pot of joe, and offering low thanks in response.
"No problem," the gentle voice responded as they enjoyed their warm brew together.
Finally able to think properly, the man then opened his eyes fully to scan the surroundings. They were in the lobby where morning processions are done before debriefing to the meeting room which would start right about—
BUZZ! [All personnel report to Room A-113 immediately!]
The speaker buzzed which garnered the men's attention as they cleaned up and went to the room in question.
After a minute or so, they finally gathered into the sealed chamber, where more screens, secure walls, and important gatherings were confined within. They sat around a circular panel where digital screens depicted various information and surveillance footage of the outside.
"Good morning, I'm glad to see you all still kicking." One of the men stood in the center as all eyes were trained on him. He had deep green hair at the roots which faded at the tips and wore a military vest with black shades, while bearing a stern expression.
"Field Specialist, status report on the samples we retrieved the other day?" The leading man called.
"Codename; Spruce, reporting in, so far, the selection of flora from yesterday's expedition poses no threat to us and are in fact safe for consumption, sir!" A man with deep purple hair and wearing a vest which was left unzipped, revealing rows of hard-rock abs reported.
"Good. Medic, how goes with those toxic samples, and are you close in making antibodies for our next expedition?"
"Codename; Floyd, here, and I'm afraid that's a negative, captain. The toxins were simply too foreign for a quick scan, but rest assured, I'll make great progress on those antibodies soon enough." A man with reddish-pink hair stated. He was wearing a lab coat and gloves during the debriefing.
"Affirmative. Lab Technician, any breach in our defenses since last week's report?"
"Codename; Clay, at the ready, and so far the defenses are in tip-top shape, captain. No cyber attacks and unknown intruders as of yet." A man with wild blonde hair answered. He was wearing goggles and was fiddling with a tablet, showing any updates in his report.
"Excellent. And finally, Supply Manager, how are we regarding rations and supplies, are we able to last before the next shipment?"
"Uh, yeah, after tallying what we've consumed thus far, we should be able to hold out until the resupply at the end of the month." The man with half-dead eyes answered, with as much professionalism as he could muster.
"You forgot to announce yourself, agent." Their captain pointed out as he could only groan in response.
"Seriously?" he grumbled.
"Follow protocol, agent." The captain insisted, as he bore a disgruntled look.
"Codename; Branch, reporting in." He said with a scowl and a sigh at the end.
"See, that wasn't so hard now, was it?" The captain said, pushing down his shades while sending 'Branch' an amused look, coupled with his mischievous tone.
'So stupid.' he thought.
The room settled after the last response, the glow from the monitors casting soft hues over the circular table, giving the illusion of a calm environment — an illusion they'd all grown used to. The air was still, save for the hum of the systems running around them, feeding data, filtering input, processing life outside in a language only the machines understood.
But behind the quiet, there was always something waiting. Their captain adjusted the sleeves of his vest before clasping his hands behind his back. A shift in stance, one they all recognized.
"As Team Captain, Codename; John Dory," he began, his voice taking on the weight it was meant to, "I will now proceed to discuss today's mission."
The screens flickered as new data compiled itself in real time — maps, topography, weather patterns, and readings of unexplained energy signatures slowly formed on the table's center interface. All of them leaned in. Not because they were told to, but because this was the part where it always got interesting.
"Today's survey will take us to the northeastern sector — Grid T3. A dense area, lightly charted. What caught our attention was the fluctuation in atmospheric pressure… coupled with thermal drops. The region has shown to be roughly six degrees cooler than the rest of the forest. It's... grim," the captain said, letting the word sit, "and oddly quiet."
That earned a few glances around the room.
"It's shady, and I mean that literally," John Dory continued. "The canopy there absorbs too much light. The drones had to kick on their night vision just to make it through the fog. We'll be conducting a deeper sweep. On foot."
That last part sparked reactions.
Spruce was the first to lean forward, eyes gleaming with the spark of someone far too used to flirting with danger. "Finally! Something new. You're telling me there's a whole chunk of this place we haven't seen yet? Man, this could be big. Unknown flora, undiscovered species, hell, maybe even more of those weird minerals we found two weeks ago." His excitement was barely contained, practically vibrating in his seat.
"I don't like it," Floyd muttered, arms crossed, expression pinched in clear concern. "Anyplace where the sun don't touch ain't right. That cold patch messes with the body's internal sensors, not to mention the dampness. It's a breeding ground for fungal spores and toxic gas. We should wait until I've cracked those antibodies."
"I'm with him," Clay said, adjusting his goggles as he pulled up a separate scan on his tablet. "That quadrant's data isn't clean. Drone signals stuttered, vitals on the machine dropped halfway in. If our tech can barely survive in that zone, what makes you think we can?"
All eyes slowly turned to the last one who hadn't said a word.
Branch exhaled slowly, not in defeat, but in that quiet way he always did when irritation had taken root behind his eyes.
"We shouldn't go," he stated plainly, cutting through the others' voices with simple finality.
"That zone is barely within the reach of our strongest surveillance drones. That means we won't have comms, visuals, or atmospheric support. We'd be going in blind. Which is a stupid idea. If you ask me, we should stay close to the perimeter. Keep within drone range. Survey from a distance. There's no point in charging into a zone like that without backup or guarantees."
The room was quiet for a moment.
He could feel their eyes on him. Some amused. Others unreadable.
John Dory tilted his head, then gave a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "And what would life be without a little risk, Branch?"
"Longer," Branch replied, deadpan.
Spruce snorted. "C'mon, man, where's your sense of adventure?"
"Buried under my sense of self-preservation," he replied without missing a beat, lying back in his chair like that was the end of the conversation.
Floyd shook his head, muttering something under his breath about idiots and fungus, while Clay just stared at the captain, clearly waiting for the final word. They all were.
John Dory tapped a finger against the console, watching the data shift beneath the glass. "Your concerns are valid. All of them. But orders are orders — and I don't like this sector either. That's why we go, not a drone. We're the best chance of getting answers if something is wrong out there."
There was no dramatic pause. No attempt to sugarcoat it.
It was simply the way it was.
He straightened his vest again.
"We leave at 0900."
Branch stared down at his hands, before he clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. An uneasy feeling washing over him.
He knew it.
Something was wrong out there.
And it wasn't the cold.
The debriefing had ended. Voices faded. Orders were acknowledged, and the rest of the team moved like gears in motion, already shifting into their next roles with habitual ease. Branch, however, didn't follow.
Instead, he walked alone, each step a beat out of sync with the rhythm the others carried. He kept his head low, hands shoved in his pockets, letting the metal corridor swallow the sound of his boots. He wasn't headed anywhere urgent, but his mind was louder than his footsteps.
He found himself in the corridor outside the Supply Room before he even realized it. His body moved on autopilot, pulled by the familiar pattern of routine. Yet his mind — his gut — refused to settle.
He reached for the panel to unlock the door when he heard footsteps behind him. Soft. Rhythmic. Familiar.
"You alright?"
The voice was calm. Gentle. It came from just behind him, but it didn't startle him. If anything, it softened the air like rain on metal. Branch turned slightly, enough to see the pink-haired medic approaching with his usual unhurried pace.
Floyd's expression was casual, but there was a quiet edge of concern in his eyes, the kind only someone who actually paid attention would notice. He came to a stop beside him, arms loose at his sides, not pressing, not imposing.
"You don't look too hot, man," Floyd said, the edge of a smile on his lips but not mocking. "Head somewhere else?"
Branch hesitated, then sighed through his nose, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. "I don't know. Just... something feels off. About today."
Floyd tilted his head. He didn't speak right away. He let the silence breathe between them.
"You nervous?" he asked, softer this time. Not teasing. Just asking.
Branch gave a half-shake of his head, but it wasn't a full denial. "I don't know if it's nerves or... instinct. Something's gnawing at me. The mission — Grid 3T, that place — it doesn't sit right. I just can't shake it."
Floyd watched him a moment, expression unreadable, then gave a slow nod. "You don't have to go, y'know. I could talk to JD, maybe get you pulled from this one. Say you're not fit. He'll listen."
That made Branch turn fully toward him, eyes a little sharper now, but not angry. Just sure. "No. I'm fine. It's probably just... paranoia. I don't want to be that guy, holding everyone back over a bad gut feeling."
"You're not 'that guy,'" Floyd said simply. "You're the guy who keeps us alive when the rest of us are running headfirst into danger. That gut of yours has saved our asses more than once."
Branch let out a small breath, the edge of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself. He didn't reply at first, just looked away for a moment, collecting the calm Floyd had lent him without saying much at all.
"As long as you're okay, then that's enough," Floyd said with a light shrug. "But hey — if you're ever not okay... you know you can come to me, right? Doesn't matter if it's your head, your health, or just your heart running hot. I'm around."
Branch met his eyes again, the weight in his chest easing, just a little. He gave a single nod, then held up his fist. "Thanks, bro."
Floyd bumped it with his own, no hesitation. "No problem, lil' bro."
With that, Floyd turned and wandered off, humming some half-tuned melody as he headed back down the hall. Branch lingered a second longer, watching him go before letting out a final sigh, this one clearer, emptier of cluttered thoughts.
The door to the Supply Room hissed open in front of him, welcoming him into the sterile order of shelves and crates. He stepped inside and began to sort through the equipment. Rations, battery packs, tools, field scanners. Counting, measuring, organizing — something familiar. Something he could control.
His thoughts were quieter now.
The storm had passed.
For the moment.
Everything was ready.
Straps secured. Boots laced. Packs loaded and weighed. Guns holstered, blades sheathed, minds focused. The team moved with quiet purpose, each member caught in their own thoughts, centering themselves in different ways before the mission truly began. Some in silence. Others with murmured quips. One with a prayer muttered beneath breath.
No words were needed to understand — they all felt it. The air. The pressure. That quiet hum of the unknown creeping closer.
John Dory fastened the last strap of his vest, his face unreadable beneath the shade of his glasses. A combat knife was sheathed with practiced ease at his side, and his fingers curled around the grip of his modified bolt-action assault rifle. He gave it a swift cock, a satisfying click resounding through the stillness of the room. The sound alone was a declaration.
He turned to face them, shoulders squared.
"Let's move," he said.
The reinforced metal gates groaned open, gears grinding against steel as thick slabs of armor split apart to reveal the living world outside.
Light spilled in.
A wall of green met them — dense, humid, untamed. No more steel. No more sterile air. Just the wild, breathing thing they had sworn to understand.
They stepped out one by one, boots meeting dirt. Metal gave way to moss. Leaves rustled beneath their gear as they crossed the threshold from science to survival. From lab to land.
Branch was last to cross. He paused at the edge, eyes trailing over the terrain before them, uncertainty lingering like a shadow over his mind.
A hand came down on his shoulder, firm but reassuring.
Floyd gave him a quiet smile — one that didn't need words.
Branch nodded back, the storm in his chest easing just enough to let him move forward.
The forest was thick with twisting vines and chaotic beauty. Tangled roots broke through the ground, while canopies above filtered sunlight through shifting leaves, casting mosaic patterns across their path.
Flowers bloomed in unnatural colors — vibrant, surreal, as if they didn't quite belong in this world. The air buzzed with the sounds of alien insects, strange chirps, and low croaks that pulsed through the underbrush. Every noise seemed to come from a place just out of sight.
Captain John Dory led from the front, his rifle never pointing down, eyes scanning, senses sharp. He moved like a soldier who knew the land didn't care what rank you held. You respected it — or you bled in it.
Spruce hauled the largest of the packs without complaint, his broad frame seemingly unbothered by the load. His footfalls were heavier, but stable — he was their muscle, and he wore that badge proudly.
Floyd stuck close behind, his supplies carefully secured across his vest and belt. The clink of vials was faint beneath the sounds of the jungle, each one a possible solution to whatever might poison, sting, or bite them. He moved with care, never letting anything brush against his skin unless he meant it to.
Clay veered slightly from the group's path, trailing behind but never straying too far. His eyes darted between mosses, fungi, and bizarre roots that didn't match any database entries. A scanner in one hand, his personal datapad in the other, he muttered brief notes and snapped images of anything new. His work was constant, quiet, and vital.
Branch kept inventory. Even while walking, his hands moved with practiced grace, marking down weight changes in their packs, double-checking sealed containers, making sure their food, tools, and medicine hadn't been jostled loose or lost. It was a distraction, but a productive one. Something solid he could hold onto.
The sun had already climbed high overhead by the time the trees thinned, revealing a clearing just ahead.
John Dory raised a hand. The group slowed to a halt.
"Seems like as good a place as any. We'll rest here for the time being, team." No one argued, as a matter of fact they were relieved.
Spruce dropped the supply packs onto the grass with a grunt of relief before collapsing next to them like a felled tree. "Wake me up when there's food," he muttered, already dozing off with his arms behind his head, mouth half-open, snoring not long after.
Floyd crouched near a cluster of known herbs and one particularly strange flower, "Fascinating." Plucking a few and crushing them into a small metal dish with other tonics and chemicals, his fingers moved with purpose, creating something entirely new, and hopefully life-saving. Always preparing.
Clay sat with his back to a tree, eyes locked on his screen as he began syncing recent data logs. New foliage types, ambient temperatures, water purity — nothing escaped his record.
Their captain stood just outside the clearing's center, surveying the perimeter with eyes behind black shades. His fingers hovered near his rifle, his posture casual, but alert. Always the watchtower.
And then there was Branch.
He had set up a small field stove from their supplies, using a collapsible pot and a few filtered water pouches. With little more than dehydrated ingredients and basic rations, he crafted something that could only be described as a miracle under the circumstances.
The smell hit them first.
He didn't need to say anything. The aroma alone pulled them in like wolves catching wind of a fresh kill.
"Lunch is ready," he called, setting out bowls with careful portions.
The response was immediate — Spruce jolted awake, Floyd and Clay abandoned their tasks, and even JD let his stance loosen just enough to join them at the makeshift campfire.
They surrounded him in seconds.
Say what you would about their differences, their habits, or their faults — there was one universal truth among them.
Branch's cooking was the absolute best.
One by one, he handed them their bowls, a quiet satisfaction blooming in his chest as the scent of the food curled into the trees. Warm, savory, somehow rich despite the humble ingredients. Impossible, almost. But real.
"Bless you, Branch," Floyd mumbled through a mouthful.
"This is better than any field ration has a right to be," Clay added, already slurping.
"Straight from the gods," Spruce declared, crumbs clinging to his chin.
Even JD, reserved as always, gave a nod. "You outdid yourself."
Branch just shook his head, trying not to smile. "You guys eat like wild animals."
"You cook like a five-star chef. Fair trade," Floyd replied with a grin.
And for a moment, the forest quieted. The danger that loomed beyond the trees was forgotten. In the center of that clearing, with the sun overhead and warm food in their hands, they weren't soldiers, or explorers, or specialists.
They were just brothers.
And lunch was peace.
They lingered for a while longer in the clearing, finishing off the last bits of food and allowing themselves one final breath of comfort before reality returned. But even as they joked and exchanged idle banter, something in the air had changed. Not immediately. Not in some dramatic, obvious shift. It was subtle. A gradual crawl beneath the skin, like a shadow stretching just a little longer than it should.
The team gathered their things in silence, this time without the usual chatter. Spruce fastened the packs to his back with a grunt, brushing a few leftover crumbs from his vest. Floyd stored the last of his grounded herbs, slipping them into a vial marked in precise ink. Clay closed his tablet with a soft click, already glancing toward the trees beyond the clearing. Branch did one final count of their supplies, noting every ounce shifted from storage to travel. Everything was accounted for.
Then, JD stopped walking.
His eyes fixed on the edge of the forest that loomed ahead — darker, thicker, silent in an unnatural kind of way. He didn't turn to look at the others. He didn't have to.
"We're here," he said.
The weight of those words sank in immediately.
There was no need to check the maps, no reason to confirm the coordinates. The change was too distinct to mistake. Even the earth beneath their boots felt different now.
The temperature had dropped. Not drastically, but enough to notice. A creeping chill rolled through the air, slipping beneath their gear and brushing against exposed skin. The sun, which had bathed the earlier forest in golden light, now struggled to pierce through the canopy above. The trees had grown tighter together, their trunks twisting unnaturally, bark thick and ridged like hardened sinew.
The green that once painted the forest in vibrant shades had faded into duller tones—moss blackened at the roots, vines hanging limp like old ropes, leaves shriveled but still clinging as if refusing to fall. And the light... it bent here. Shadows stretched too far, and everything held a faint blue-gray tint that dulled color and warmth alike.
Even the sounds had changed. The jungle's usual chorus of chirps, buzzes, and distant bird calls had gone mute. What remained was low and ambient. Breathing, almost. Or was that just the wind?
Branch took a single step forward, and already his instincts recoiled. The temperature, the air pressure, the strange pull in his gut — it all screamed at him.
Floyd walked up beside him, silent for a moment as he scanned the surroundings with narrowed eyes. "Yeah," he said under his breath, "definitely colder here."
"No breeze either," Clay added, fingers tightening around his scanner. "But it's still dropping. That's not natural."
Spruce cracked his knuckles, not out of confidence, but readiness. He didn't like what he saw, but he was never one to back down either. "So what now, Cap?"
JD finally turned to face them all, removing his shades for the first time that day. His eyes were sharp, unwavering. "Now," he said calmly, "we tread carefully. No one wanders. No one rushes. Stay in formation. If anyone sees something strange, don't ignore it — say something."
His hand rested lightly on his rifle, a silent warning against whatever lay beyond the treeline.
"Keep your heads clear. Let's move."
And with that, the five of them crossed the boundary into Grid 3T — where light struggled to survive and the forest itself held its breath.
They moved with caution, steps deliberate and soft against the dampened forest floor. No one spoke unless it was necessary. The mood that once carried the scent of camaraderie now hung low and heavy, like a storm building just beyond the horizon. The sounds of the jungle, once a chorus of distant life and chirping wonder, had gone silent. No insects. No rustling trees. No birds. Just the sound of their boots pressing into moss and earth, and the occasional crunch of dry bark underfoot.
It was unnatural.
Captain John Dory took point, weapon raised, the soft white beam of a mounted light guiding their way through the darkening underbrush. The further they went, the less the sun seemed to matter — its presence smothered by the thick canopy above. No gaps in the trees. No chance for light to filter through. It was like walking through the belly of a sleeping giant.
"We getting all of this?" JD asked over his shoulder, voice low but firm.
"Yeah," Clay answered, gaze locked to the monitor in his hand. "Manually deployed two short-range drones. Got them skimming canopy and undergrowth. It's recording now."
Though Spruce held the Field Specialist title, the duty of cataloging new flora and fauna often fell to Clay's capable hands. His gear flickered with life — data readings, internal scanners, and the low hum of rotors above — though the sounds were almost swallowed whole by the oppressive silence around them.
Branch trailed a few paces behind, his attention divided between inventory logs and the stifling pressure sitting at the base of his spine. Every breath felt shallow. The air was thick — wrong. It clung to his skin, sticky with moisture, and left the taste of copper on his tongue.
"Hey," Floyd said gently, reaching back without turning. His hand found Branch's forearm and gave a steady pull. "Stay close."
Branch didn't speak. He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat as he closed the distance between himself and the others.
The trees grew stranger the deeper they went. Their bark was coarse, splitting at odd angles, roots sprawling over the ground like veins. Some glowed faintly in places—pulses of muted blue light barely visible through cracks and crevices. Clay tried to scan one, only to curse under his breath as the signal scrambled.
"I'm losing sync," he muttered.
"Keep trying," JD said, eyes moving constantly, never resting.
The weight in the air only increased. Something intangible pressed down on them. The silence was no longer quiet — it was suffocating. Every inhalation felt like breathing through soaked cloth.
Until, something snapped.
The sound came from behind them.
Not loud. But sharp. Sudden.
Weapons were raised, lights turned, movement froze.
"Something's there," Spruce hissed, his fingers twitching near his hip blade.
JD pointed his light back, the beam cutting through hanging vines and drooping ferns. Nothing. No eyes. No figures. No movement. Just forest.
Then — another sound. This time to the left. A low rustle in the undergrowth, like something dragging across leaves. They spun, eyes wide, bodies tense.
Again — nothing.
"What the hell was that?" Spruce whispered, voice cracking. His breaths came faster now, uneven.
Clay quickly activated his remaining drone, attempting to maneuver it toward the disturbance. The small device rose into the air with a gentle whir, its sensors scanning — but then, static.
It dropped from the sky like a stone, striking the ground with a dull thud.
"No, no, no — dammit!" Clay hissed, falling to one knee to inspect the wreckage. The screen on his tablet flickered with distorted lines. "It didn't even make it five meters!"
Spruce began to backpedal, gripping his sidearm like it was a lifeline. "This is wrong, man. This whole place is wrong. We need to go!"
Floyd was already at his side, fishing into his satchel and pressing a small white pill into Spruce's hand. "Deep breaths. Take it."
Spruce nodded shakily and swallowed the pill dry.
Branch, meanwhile, stood completely still. Eyes wide, scanning — watching. He ignored the arguing. The sounds, the movement, the shifting pressure in the air. Something was off. He didn't know what. But he could feel it like a pulse beneath the soil.
And then — movement.
Just at the edge of his vision, something shifted between the trees. No shape. No form. Just motion. Fast. Unnatural.
His breath hitched.
"I'm telling you, we should go back!" Floyd said, voice louder now. "Something's wrong here. We're not ready for this zone. The drones can't even operate."
"I agree," Clay chimed in. "Let's regroup. Rescan the area with better gear. At least until we figure out what's scrambling the signal."
JD shook his head, lips tight. "We don't have the luxury. The board's already breathing down our necks. If we delay again, the entire program loses funding. And I'm not letting this—" he gestured to the canopy "—go undocumented."
"You'd risk the whole team for funding?" Floyd snapped.
"I'm doing my job," JD snapped back.
But Branch didn't hear them. Not really. He completely ignored the nearby squabbling in favor of something more interesting.
He stared deeply into the brush, feeling like something was waiting… watching him.
Branch knew he saw something in the brush. Something that didn't belong. Not part of the forest's natural rhythm. It wasn't a movement caused by the wind or a bird shifting through the leaves. It was something else. Something that drew him in.
He crouched low, his knees brushing against damp soil as he bent down, careful to avoid snapping twigs or disturbing the foliage. His fingers hovered near the bush, waiting for his eyes to fully adjust. The darkness here wasn't like night — it was deeper, heavier. Artificial in its stillness. Slowly, his pupils widened, the details of the bush beginning to take shape through the gloom.
He reached out, pushing apart the leaves with slow, steady hands. At first, he saw nothing. Just layers of twisted green and black, the muted colors of the forest smudging together.
Then a flash.
A streak of color — vivid and sharp — cut across the corner of his vision.
He gasped softly, caught off guard, eyes darting toward the source. But when he looked directly, there was nothing. Still, he knew he wasn't imagining it. That hue didn't belong here. It clashed too violently with the forest's tone, like a smear of paint on ash. His hands moved faster now, parting more of the bush, tearing back layers of dense growth to find the source. But the more he uncovered, the more empty space greeted him.
Until there was nothing left to uncover.
He let out a quiet sigh, more frustration than fear. Maybe it was his nerves. Maybe the pressure of this sector was finally getting to him. He started to turn back, his boots crunching lightly against the roots as he stood.
Then he heard it.
A small sound, too faint to place. Not threatening. But distinct. Like something breathing through the leaves.
His ears perked up. He paused, scanning the dark, trying to pinpoint the direction. The sound was gone, but the feeling remained. That gentle tug, like a whisper telling him to keep going. One foot moved forward instinctively, the other following as he veered slightly off the path.
"Branch." A voice broke him out of his daze. Floyd approached with a look of concern.
Branch looked at him, blinking as if waking from a dream. His fingers brushed his eyes, then the side of his face, like trying to shake something off.
"You good, bro? You were spacing out back there," Floyd asked, voice low but grounded.
Branch rubbed the back of his neck, then picked lightly at his ear. "Yeah… yeah, I'm fine. I thought I saw something, but… I don't know. This forest's probably just messing with my head."
Floyd didn't press. Just nodded once and motioned with his head to come back.
They returned together, rejoining the others who stood in a loose circle, their discussion already underway. JD stood at the center, arms crossed, his expression unreadable behind his shades.
"We'll do one last sweep of the area," he said, voice firm. "Then we're heading back to base. That's final."
No one argued. They were tired. Shaken, maybe. But they understood the routine.
They split into their pairs — Clay scanning low, Spruce watching the rear, Floyd keeping eyes on both the path and Branch, who double-checked their equipment one last time while walking.
Minutes passed.
They performed their duties in silence.
Just as Clay reached to document a strange, colorful pod shaped plant hanging from the branch of a crooked, spiraling tree, something shifted in the atmosphere around them. It wasn't just a sound, nor a movement — this change was something deeper, felt in the pressure within their chests and the subtle tension in their shoulders.
Their instincts screamed louder than reason could argue, warning them that the air no longer felt safe, no longer familiar. In a single, fluid motion, the team gathered close, their backs turned toward one another in a protective formation that ensured no blind spot was left exposed. Their weapons were drawn, safety catches clicked off, as their eyes searched the surrounding dark for any trace of movement or sign of threat.
Then it came.
The silence broke with a noise they had never heard before — deep, ragged, and guttural, like the labored breath of something too large and too wrong to belong in this world. It wasn't the growl of an animal or the groan of shifting trees — it sounded alive, and yet far from natural. It echoed through the dense foliage, coming from everywhere at once, impossible to trace, impossible to ignore.
They couldn't see what was approaching, but the dread clawing at their spines told them whatever it was, it was close. Too close.
John raised his rifle and aimed into the dark, his grip firm and unwavering, jaw clenched tight as he stepped slightly forward.
Spruce rolled his shoulders, adjusting his stance as he positioned his body like a wall between the threat and his team.
Floyd calmly removed his pistol from its holster, fingers already wrapped tightly around the grip as he controlled his breath to steady his aim.
Clay, ever the tactician, activated the miniature drones strapped to his forearm, their systems primed to respond to any sudden movement.
Branch unsheathed his knife, holding it low and angled, not as a soldier would, but as a survivor might — close to his side, with eyes wide and heart pounding hard against his ribs.
They waited, muscles tense, barely breathing.
Seconds ticked by in silence, and with no further sign of movement, the tension began to slip from their shoulders, ever so slightly. It was just enough.
A terrible mistake.
Without warning, something erupted from the shadows.
Clay was the first to be taken — one moment he stood at the ready, and the next he was being pulled backward, a distorted figure seizing him with inhuman strength as it dragged him into the undergrowth.
His drones fell uselessly to the ground, their lights blinking out one by one, unable to function in whatever energy warped the area around them. His cry of alarm was cut short, swallowed whole by the darkness that consumed him.
"CLAY!" Floyd shouted, already rushing forward, but another blur of movement broke through the thicket.
This one collided with Spruce, a mass of thrashing limbs that latched onto his back and shoulders, clawing and shrieking without form or face. Spruce let out a roar of panic, flailing violently, stumbling backward as he tried to pry it off with brute strength alone. His footing gave way as the thick underbrush overtook him, and with a final cry, he vanished into the jungle's depths.
John didn't hesitate. The moment their numbers fell to three, he turned toward Floyd and Branch with a hardened stare, every word that followed laced with command and urgency.
"Get out of here," he said, his voice sharp, eyes fixed on the brush. "Back to base. Now."
Floyd froze, torn between instinct and loyalty. "We can't just leave you—!"
"That's an order, Floyd!"
The weight of his tone struck them both. There was no room for argument. No time for sentiment. Only survival.
John turned away, raising his rifle once more as he took several steps toward the source of the noise, firing into the dark with calculated precision, each shot accompanied by a bright flash and the metallic report of recoil.
Floyd grabbed Branch by the arm, and before either of them could second guess their choice, they turned and ran.
Their legs carried them through the thick jungle, hearts hammering against their chests as panic drove every step. The forest no longer felt like trees and soil — it felt like a maze of closing jaws, each branch reaching like a hand, each root tripping like a trap. They heard gunfire behind them, each shot echoing louder than the last, until eventually… there were no more.
Tears blurred Branch's vision as he ran, his breaths shallow and sharp, throat tight with a mix of sorrow and fear. He didn't know where they were going — only that they had to keep moving. They were still being followed. He could hear it — low growls just beyond the line of vision, heavy footsteps that weren't theirs, whispers of motion through branches that never stilled.
Eventually, their bodies gave out.
They collapsed behind a wide, crooked tree, its roots large enough to form a shelter, a temporary shield from whatever pursued them. Floyd fell first, pressing his back against the trunk as his body trembled, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm.
Branch dropped beside him, panting heavily, eyes darting through the trees.
He turned to Floyd, only then seeing the way he clutched his side.
"Floyd…" he said, voice low, breathless, "what's wrong?"
Floyd didn't respond at first. He pulled his hand back from the wound, and that's when Branch saw it — dark, wet, and large. Blood soaked through his vest, staining the fabric black in the low light.
Branch's face twisted in horror. His voice dropped. "Why didn't you say anything?"
Floyd managed a weak smile. "Didn't wanna slow us down."
Branch's throat tightened. He didn't know what to say. There was too much blood, too much heat radiating from the wound, and not enough supplies. Not here. Not now.
And somewhere, behind them, the growls returned.
They were still being hunted.
Floyd's hand trembled as he lifted his pistol up and presented it towards his brother.. He held it out, shakily, the barrel angled away from them as he pressed it into Branch's hands.
"Take it," he whispered.
Branch stared at it, unmoving, his face pale and breathless as if the words themselves hadn't yet registered.
"Go," Floyd said again, quieter this time. "Leave me here."
But Branch's grip tightened around the gun before he immediately shoved it back into Floyd's lap, shaking his head with growing disbelief.
"No," he said. "No, I'm not doing that."
Floyd looked up, his smile faint and weak beneath the beads of sweat on his forehead. "You have to."
"I won't," Branch hissed, his voice cracking under the weight in his chest. "We already lost them. John, Spruce, Clay — I'm not losing you too. I'm not leaving another one of my brothers behind."
Floyd's expression softened again. His head tilted slightly, resting against the tree bark behind him as his tired eyes locked with Branch's. "Y'know… for someone who always says that he doesn't care about anything,'" he muttered, "you're the one who ended up caring about all of us the most."
The words shattered something inside him.
Branch let out a sob, sharp and sudden. His hands clutched at Floyd's vest, fingers trembling as he struggled to find the air to speak.
"Of course I cared…" he choked. "Why do you think I always complained about you guys? Because I knew how much you all meant to me. You, and your damned hippie jokes, your soft voice like you've got all the time in the world. Clay, always getting distracted and so stiff, acting like a robot most of the time. Spruce, such a muscle for brains, only thinking about his looks and saying that he'll be getting all the girls when we get home. And John… always so calm, always acting like he was the best, like nothing could touch him — like he was immortal."
His shoulders shook as the tears fell freely now, his forehead pressing into Floyd's shoulder as his words broke apart in sobs.
"I loved all of it. Every weird habit, every argument, every stupid nickname — I loved every part of what made us… us. All of you are my family. The only family I have left."
Floyd's hand weakly reached up, and with the last of his strength, he pulled Branch in, arms wrapping around his shoulders in one final, warm embrace.
"Then don't forget us," he whispered against his ear. "No matter what."
And then… Floyd went still.
The rise and fall of his chest slowed, then stopped altogether. His breath, once shallow and strained, slipped away like the last sigh of wind before a storm, quiet and final. His head lulled forward, the strength that once kept it upright fading from his body as though the last thread holding him to this world had snapped in silence.
Branch remained frozen, unable to process the weight of what had just happened.
His eyes were wide, locked on Floyd's face, refusing to believe the stillness he saw was anything but temporary. A trick. A moment. Something that could still be undone.
His mouth opened, but no sound came. It caught in his throat, caught between disbelief and heartbreak, before it broke loose in a single word that escaped him like a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"No…"
His voice cracked, hoarse and uneven as the tears spilled over.
He pulled Floyd against him, shaking his limp form with growing desperation. Gentle at first. Then harder.
"No. No, no, no… please, not you too…"
He pressed his forehead against Floyd's chest, now still and growing cold beneath the layers of gear and fabric. His body trembled, his sobs spilling out into the heavy silence that blanketed the forest like fog.
"You said not to forget… how am I supposed to do that if you're not here anymore…"
His fingers dug into Floyd's vest before something hard slipped into his palm, unnoticed until now. He leaned back, blinking through the blur of his tears, only to find the gun.
And in his other hand… something else.
A small glass vial, capped in metal, the liquid inside glowing faintly in soft, pulsing waves — green, then blue, then back again. He hadn't seen Floyd put it there, hadn't even realized his brother had the strength left to pass it along.
He stared at it, confused. Uncertain.
He didn't know what it was supposed to do. If it was meant to help. If it was even meant for him.
But he had no time to think.
The growls returned, sharper now, splitting through the stillness with the promise of what came next. The dark twisted around the trunks of the trees like smoke, and the light in the forest continued to dim, like the very shadows were devouring it.
He stood, one hand gripping the gun, the other curling tightly around the vial.
He ran.
His feet pounded against the earth, pushing him forward through the brambles and broken roots, his breaths ragged and uneven as he charged through the dark. He didn't know where he was going — only that it had to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. But the forest wasn't letting him go. It twisted around him, pulling tighter with every step, the growls behind him never growing louder, but never falling away either.
It was chasing him.
He pushed past one final curtain of low-hanging moss only to find the ground disappear from beneath his feet. The cliffside waited, jagged and sheer. No path forward. No more forest to run through. Only the wind and the drop.
He spun around, back pressed against the cold stone wall, his chest rising and falling as he tried to calm the panic rising in his lungs. The noise was close now. Just behind the trees. Shapes moved — shifting, flickering.
Not solid. Not real. Or worse — too real.
He raised the gun, arm shaking, eyes wide, the barrel aimed into the dark.
But he didn't fire.
There was no point.
Blind shots would do nothing. The ammo was limited, and even if he hit something, more would follow. His thoughts ran wild, darting from idea to idea, none of them answers. Until his gaze dropped again to the vial in his hand.
It glowed brighter now, almost beckoning him.
Maybe it was a last resort. Maybe a final experiment. Maybe a miracle, or maybe something worse.
But it was the only thing left.
He hesitated for only a second before uncapping it and raising it to his lips.
The liquid touched his tongue like fire at first — bitter and chemical — but then shifted into something strangely sweet. It coated his throat, sticky like syrup, the taste lingering even after he coughed and gagged at the unfamiliar texture. It settled heavy in his stomach, yet warm. Almost… comforting.
The warmth spread quickly, crawling through his veins, reaching his fingertips, his toes, even the crown of his head. His vision shimmered. Not with darkness. But with light.
It poured from beneath his skin — gentle at first, then more intense. Colors shimmered across his arms and chest, flowing outward like ink in water, wrapping around his form in radiant hues. Blues and greens, reds and golds, each color bleeding into the next like the stroke of a thousand brushes painting across his very soul.
His limbs felt weightless. His breath calmed.
He looked down at his body — not lifting, but unraveling.
It was as if his physical form was coming undone, dissolving into something brighter, something lighter, as if the light wasn't simply around him… but becoming him.
He looked to the sky above, eyes wide as the color swelled and swirled. The cliff, the forest, the gun — all faded.
And in that final moment, he felt the last tear leave his eye.
He closed them.
And allowed the colorful light to swallow him whole.
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