The Toll Troll

The afternoon sun hung high above them, the wagon cover saving them from the bite of the summer heat. The wagon rattled steadily along the dirt road, and most of the group had settled into a lazy rhythm.

Most except Rico.

He sat in his mess of crates at the back, goggles down, sleeves rolled up, fully concentrated as he polished a metal contraption the size of a small toolbox. Glints of metal shards flecked every so often, but he only grinned wider when they did.

Although he was the driver, or better described as operator of the wagon, his watchful eyes were not necessary for it to keep moving. This gave him time to get back to his projects he brought from home.

“There we go,” he murmured, tightening a screw inside the plated handle. “Alignment’s lookin' real good. Everything seems mostly stable.”

Gus leaned in from the side, blinking at it. “So… what does it do?”

Rico didn’t look up. “Launches things.”

Joren raised an eyebrow from the other side of the cart. “Like what?”

"Not sure yet, could be whatever it needs to be." He said plainly. "It's not completely finished yet, so it can be modified."

Gus squinted at the contraption. “So you built something without knowing what it’s for?”

Rico snorted. “Gus, that’s how inventions work. You build the frame first, then decide what creature it needs to be later.”

Willow peeked from her seat, chin propped in her hands. “Well it looks cool, at least."

Rico couldn't help but smile at the compliment.

Joren, listening quietly with his arms folded, tilted his head. “How do you even know it works if you don’t know what you’re launching?”

Rico adjusted a bolt with sharp precision. “Just from intuition. I've made hundreds of contraptions over the years, so I know what the right ideas are."

He wiped the outer plating with a small cloth, almost lovingly, like a jeweler polishing a gem. “My dad used to say, ‘Experience is the greatest teacher, so be ready to learn.' I've done plenty of learning for him."

Gus nodded approvingly at the sound advice. “So you really built all your stuff by figuring it out as you went?”

Rico nodded. “Pretty much. My dad was all about trial and error. Mostly error.” He tapped the side of the device with a knuckle. “But that’s how you earn the instincts. You mess up a thousand times, then suddenly you stop messing up as much.”

Willow grinned. “That’s actually kind of inspiring. Chaotic… but inspiring.”

Rico gave a half-shrug. “I don’t do chaos. I do craftsmanship. People confuse the two far too often."

"So where is your dad? He seems like a great person from the way you've been talking about him."

Rico didn’t answer right away.

He tightened a bolt that didn’t need tightening.

Then another.

Then he set the tool down with a soft metallic click.

For the first time all morning, he wasn’t smirking.

“He died,” Rico said quietly.

The road hummed beneath the wheels.

Willow blinked, the joke she’d been preparing dissolving instantly. “Oh...”

Rico exhaled slowly, releasing the air he’d been holding in his chest for years. “He was working on the east side of town. Some kid awakened his auspex powers on the wrong day and my dad was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Whole thing dropped before anybody could blink.”

Willow's hands tightened together. “Rico… I—I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked that."

The air in the cart was hushed, yet so very loud.

Gus shifted in his spot. His voice was gentle and solemn in a way he rarely used. “That… must’ve been hard.”

Rico shrugged, though it wasn’t his usual confident shrug. It was smaller. Tight around the shoulders. “Yeah. It sucked, but it’s been years. He raised me with everything he knew so that I could take over as the town's inventor one day."

No one interrupted.

Not even Bart, who for once knew better than to say something stupid.

Rico slipped his goggles back down, hiding whatever was left in his expression. “Anyway,” he said, turning back into his usual self, “don’t be weird about it. People die. Machines break. Life goes on.”

Willow nodded quietly.

Joren tried to help change that pace after the obvious deflection. "Well… your dad would probably be proud. Pulleytown’s basically built on your stuff at this point.”

Rico didn’t look up from tightening something. "Oh, you know it. I've put that place on the map for one reason or another."

Gus pointed ahead. “Speaking of maps… is that a booth?”

Everyone leaned slightly to look.

A lonely wooden hut sat planted at the mouth of a narrow stone bridge, crooked sign hanging half-off its hinge, as if held together by spite alone.

Joren squinted. “Is that… a checkpoint?”

Willow leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Do people really guard bridges out here? That seems like a lot of effort for one road in the middle of nowhere.”

As the wagon slowed, the figure inside the hut came into focus. They could make out broad-shoulders, green skin, long ears, and a body that looked like a overfilled pillow. Very overfilled.

It was a troll.

Wearing a tiny vest.

Reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

Rico let out a long breath and hopped off the wagon. “Alright. I got this. I've dealt with plenty of situations like this during the Flex-Off."

Bart raised an eyebrow. “What, like angry fans?”

Rico shook his head. “Worse. Event coordinators.”

Joren visibly winced. That sounded serious.

The wagon rolled to a gentle stop beside the booth. Inside, the troll sat perfectly still, hands occupied by a book titled ‘BRIDGE SAFETY: IT STARTS WITH YOU.’ He hadn't noticed that the bridge had visitors yet.

Rico cleared his throat loudly and knocked on the open window. “Afternoon.”

Nothing.

The troll turned a page with surprising delicacy for someone built like a sandbag.

Rico tried again, louder. “Hey. Sir. Troll guy.”

A slow blink.

Then the troll finally lifted his head, eyes drifting up from his page. "It's Mr. Santana to you. Please state your purpose and destination of travel."

Rico raised an eyebrow, taken aback by the abruptness, then gestured toward the bridge behind him and talked energetically. “We’d like to cross, we're on our way to Carnival City!”

The troll nodded thoughtfully, as if this was a noble quest for warriors. He scribbled something onto a clipboard two sizes two big for his tiny hands.

"I'm sorry sir, but your request is denied." The troll said.

Rico stared, dumbfounded. “W—why?”

The troll shifted slightly in his big chair. “Bridge is closed.”

Rico frowned. “Closed? It looks open to me.”

The troll nodded. “Correct. It is open.”

Rico leaned forward into the post. “So… we can cross?”

“Incorrect.” Mr. Santana adjusted his glasses. "The right side is under maintenance, and the left side is one way only. It's very straightforward.”

Rico stared at him. “That— that isn’t straightforward at all. What does that even mean?”

Mr. Santana flipped a page of his book again, studying its contents. "It means the bridge is both operational and non-operational, depending on which side you are on." Then he added. "Besides, you need to pay the toll anyways."

Rico kept a smile on his face, but it was the kind of smile that had visible cracks forming at the corners. “Oh great,” he said brightly "We can pay the toll just fine. Maaaybe even add a little extra to let us observe the right side of the bridge with our cart for a bit?"

Mr. Santana didn't react but pulled out a binded set of papers. "Please fill these out before anything else, then bring it back to me."

“Wonderful, we will do just that.” Rico replied, grabbing the stack as he brought it back to the cart.

Rico returned to the wagon with the stack tucked under his arm, flipping through the pages with a practiced eye.

“Travel declaration, livestock disclosure, weight estimate…” he muttered. “Why in the world would he need all of this? Isn't the country open borders?"

Bart leaned over his shoulder. “You sound impressed.”

“I am not impressed,” Rico said.

He braced the papers against a crate and began sifting through them, creating piles that he could delegate to the other occupants of his caravan.

“Name, origin, destination of travel, and axle width?” He glanced back at the wagon. “Gus, how wide do you think we are?”

Gus looked at the wheels, then shrugged his shoulders. “Beats me."

Rico pinched the bridge of his nose, then scribbled something down anyway.

“Ok, I've divided these into a few piles, can each of you work on a stack?" Rico asked, practically pushing a pile onto whoever was nearest.

Sheets were taken with reluctant acceptance.

Willow skimmed hers. “Passenger affiliations, dietary restrictions, emergency contact information,” She looked up. “What are these questions?"

Gus held his page out at arm’s length. “Why is it so small?"

Clearly they were going to be here for a while.

---------------------

An hour later and hundred papers filled out between the five of them, Rico made his way back to the toll booth with a bundle of papers in his grasp.

Mr. Santana accepted the bundle without comment, flipping through each page with oddly long fingers and examining each line meticulously. He paused on one page, adjusted his glasses, then continued reading another. This went on for at least fifteen minutes.

Rico remained at the counter the entire time, his hands resting lightly on the wood and posture straight to maintain a polite facade, one he was not so familiar with.

The troll lifted one sheet toward the light, perhaps studying the ink. He stamped another page, wrote something at the bottom of another, and stamped a few more randomly in the stack.

He rested both hands on the counter, the anticipation killing Rico.

“Denied.”

Rico blinked like he didn't hear him correctly. He rubbed his ears a few times just to make sure they were working. "What did you say, I'm not sure I caught that."

Mr. Santana replied indifferently. "Denied, sir."

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice twinging with annoyance, “could you clarify the issue with our paperwork? Maybe we can fix it right now.”

Mr. Santana rotated the top page toward him and tapped a line. “Form B-13 was signed in blue ink.”

Rico looked down, acknowledged that it was signed in blue ink, and nodded. “Yes. Why is that a problem?”

“Only black ink is valid for B-13.”

Rico inhaled slowly through his nose. "You only gave us a blue pen."

By now the entire group was behind Rico and wondering what was taking so long. Bart was somehow on Gus's shoulders and peering over Rico's head.

“It is the applicant’s responsibility to provide compliant paperwork.”

Rico nodded once, pretending that he was absorbing the information like it would matter after today.

“Understood. If we correct the ink color, will the application be approved?”

Mr. Santana considered this with grave seriousness for a few moments.

“No.”

Rico’s eyelid twitched.

“Why not?” Willow asked from behind. “It would only take a few minutes.”

The troll flipped to the next page.

“You listed today’s date.”

Rico stared at him. “Yes.”

“This bridge only accepts filings dated the previous week.”

From behind Rico, Gus whispered, “That feels unfair.”

“So you are saying that we have to wait an entire week before we can cross the bridge?”

“Yes.”

Rico nearly lost his cool but reigned himself in before going ballistic.

“Is there any way,” he continued, “to fix these issues now?”

Mr. Santana flipped one more page, scanning it with quiet focus.

“Yes.”

Rico straightened slightly, perked up by the notion of being able to cross the bridge now and avoid this nightmare any longer.

“You may return next week,” the troll said, “with black ink.”

A dry breeze drifted through the valley, carrying dust across the pass.

“Let’s try this again,” Rico said carefully. “Hypothetically speaking, if we were already on the other side of the bridge, could we cross to this side?”

Mr. Santana folded his hands. “Correct.”

"So why not this side? I don't see anything being done to the bridge that would require it to be blocked for travel."

The troll adjusted his glasses and looked past Rico, as though confirming the bridge was still, in fact, a bridge. He flipped through his manual and checked a random page.

“Maintenance,” he said.

Rico followed his gaze. Nothing indicated there were even plans to sweep the dust off of it.

Mr. Santana lifted one finger and pointed toward a small sign nailed to the railing several yards out. MAINTENANCE IN PROGRESS

“So there is no active work being performed,” Rico said.

“Correct.”

“And the bridge is safe.”

“Correct.”

“And structurally sound.”

Mr. Santana considered this carefully, but once again nodded in agreement.

“Yes.”

Rico inhaled slowly. “But we cannot cross?”

“Correct.”

“And if we step onto the bridge,” he asked carefully, “what happens?”

Mr. Santana folded his hands over his manual. “You would be in violation of the closure.”

“What does that entail?”

“Execution."

"What if I pay you a little money to let us cross?" Rico asked, his last resort riding on a greedy toll troll.

"I could not accept and would have to report you to my supervisor."

“And where is your supervisor?”

The troll flipped a page. “On leave.”

“For how long?”

“Indefinite.”

Willow covered her mouth, the absurdity of the situation funny to watch.

Bart whispered to Gus, “He is undefeatable.”

Rico tried again, this time without any politeness.

“If a traveler were to mistakenly interpret the bridge as open, and proceed with—”

“Execution,” Mr. Santana repeated.

Gus shifted his weight. “He really likes that word.”

Rico was all but fuming now.

Joren decided to lead the charge before Rico strangled this troll.

“Mr. Santana,” he said, calm and even, “we’re not trying to cause trouble. We’ve been on the road for days. Carnival City is the only place ahead for miles. Is there any circumstance where we can cross today?”

The troll did not look up from his manual.

“No.”

The breeze moved through the valley again, lifting dust across the stone span.

Somewhere within the shack, an alarm went off.

"Ope, my shift just ended. I'll be leaving now," Mr. Santana said to them.

He stood, removed his reading glasses, and placed them carefully into the neck of his shirt. With careful attention, he set the book on the desk and stepped out of the booth.

Without ceremony, he flipped the hanging sign from MAINTENANCE IN PROGRESS to OPEN and walked past them.

“You may cross,” he said, continuing down the road without slowing. “Have a safe day.”

They watched him go in stunned silence.

Rico stared at the bridge, then at the departing troll, then back to the bridge.

“I have negotiated with city councils,” he said quietly. “But I have never felt so powerless as I have today.”

Joren climbed back onto the wagon. “We won, though.”

Rico exhaled, long and steady, and climbed into the back this time.

“Just drive,” he muttered.

Willow couldn't stop laughing as she hopped into the driver's spot.