NEW WORLD ORDER

Independent Walter Strickler from Trollhunters

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NOMURA:

If the memory of coming so close - not for the first time - to getting crushed into a paste were less fresh, Nomura might have enjoyed the fantasy of ripping the smarmy look off his face more. As it is there has been far too much talk about their disposability within the Janus Order. The closer the bridge comes to completion, the more antsy Bular seems to become, or frustrated, which translates to rages. It’s taking all their efforts to just to keep him placated.

Stricklander no doubt knows more than she does about the larger plans, of course. Which, despite her high standing, seems to put her more in danger - no one can let the master of machinations get eaten, but his second is replaceable under the circumstances.

“I do have a life outside of you, you know.” A sickeningly sweet smile thrown over her shoulder as she starts down the stairs to her basement offices. “It was actually very inconvenient,” Nomura replies. Tracking it down had taken a while, even with the help of Otto and a large number of changelings the world over to see if there were hints she’d missed. “But now that we have it, we can use it. Is that not your point, after all, to have changelings in every position we can?” The ploy with Bular had not merely been Nomura talking herself out of a corner, but a legitimate plan.

Further into the museum, he stole a glance past the curtain where it happened. Just last night, Bular was grinding his sword against the stone of his arm before lunging at her, Nomura crashing hard onto the waxed floors, clawing for the Fetch and her life. She made it out. Good, perhaps, but still.

She was lucky that the troll thrashing a sword at her also had no semblance of a brain to speak of. Think how proud your father will be to see his legion grow. He ate that out of her hand, no questions asked. Stricklander already had people--police chiefs, news editors, and even state senators--scattered all around the world, ready for Gunmar and the final coup de grâce. He had everything in control, no random variables to account for and no room for mistakes, but now?

Nomura flashed a smile, sickeningly sweet. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“The die has been cast. To invite another now will not only risk uncertainty, but with it, our exposure,” he explained. And if this new changeling, new to this environment, tripped up, another cover would be blown and everything they worked for could fall apart. Stricklander lifted his chin, swiping the dust off a lamp. “Odd. It’s as though we’d have a liability.”

Another one. But, surely, he brought her here for more reason than to spite her?

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I have what’s important… I CONTROL THE CHAOS.

Independent Walter Strickler from Trollhunters

Home | Rules | Dossier

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@dontmakeitweiird

And so Kanjigar’s son again, twice the stone, horns three times the size of his father’s, and in his intense eyes, enough spite to burn down a man where he stood. Strickler knew that given the chance, Draal would love nothing more than to throttle him and crush him to pieces against a wall for working with Bular, for helping the brute kill his father, but he can’t. Not without killing Barbara. Not without destroying young Jim.

The great Kanjigar’s son, the mightiest trollhunter, reduced to a three-legged dog in a human’s basement. All he could hope to do was growl a dig. The feeling was mutual. 

”And to think it might have been you who acquired the amulet,” Strickler scoffed back, stirring his tea. He threw a glance over his shoulder without turning. “How disappointing.”

[augresource]

Of course not. I brought you a midnight snack.

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@hestiakept

Not long ago, this was all different. He was their teacher, under the Gumm-Gumms, under Gunmar and then no one, owner of the Inferna Copula and master of Angor Rot. Then in some freak turn of events, everything fell. He was stuck underground with his arm in a sling and all of Trollmarket torn between ripping him apart and keeping Barbara alive. 

He disappeared shortly after.

In that time, he heard everything. 

Strickler glanced down at the boy and could no doubt sense growing resentment. He held his hands behind his back. “Word has spread of your recent triumph over Angor Rot,” he finally said. In his eyes, the reflection of Trollmarket’s purple lights. “You would have my support, if it’s any consolation.”

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@silrouette

Trollmarket buzzed with life. Even through the rock walls, he made out whispers of how they were afraid of Angor Rot, how the assassin had a horngazel, how the trollhunter’s mother was here and how they had to throw away the changeling, snuff him out. Strickler’s mouth turned down and his neck flashed purple with a surge of pain. He could see her. 

Claire Nuñez. Not too long ago, she sat near the front of his class trying hard not to be bored as she stared at some off-color map of France on a projector. It could’ve been a lifetime ago when she was just his student.

It was.

“What you hold is far beyond your understanding.” His voice was sudden. Strickler came out from the corner of her eye, looking to the staff. “I’d wield it carefully.” 

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Random thought, but since there’s a piano in his office, it can be assumed Strickler plays. So imagine one evening, in some rose-colored world, while Jim’s cooking dinner, Strickler, who’s just moved in, is playing the piano as Barbara leans with an arm around his neck, listening.

And also imagine Jim waking up to the sound of a piano.

This has been a random thought you never asked for but got anyway.

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@dctorlake

Jim had said she’d be out all night. She wasn’t.

In a faraway corner of the neighborhood, he could hear it: the wheezing of a starting car, a dog howling. The front door was open behind him, Strickler, halfway out, and as the hallway’s hazy yellow lights slipped through, spilling out all over the porch, there he could see her standing unexpected and home early, entirely too early, from work. Barbara Lake.

To her, he’d just dropped off the face of the Earth. Dropped off like her husband. But he remembered Trollmarket, the binding spell, you’re the one thing I’m looking forward to forgetting--

“Barbara-- A surprise.”

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NOMURA:

The sharp, focused gaze slides from where she’d been inspecting her nails to the changeling beside her. Involuntarily her eyes flash in the dark, belying her deeply held anger. ‘Necessity’, as if she is disposable. Nomura relaxes, a calculated move to appear at ease and in turn ease the minds of others. Affecting false calm has saved her skin more than once, and it’s so fun to watch it infuriate others. Stricklander has known her a long time, however, no doubt wise to her tricks, but mirroring his own cocksure confidence did stop her from starting a fight on the steps of her beloved museum.

Water under the bridge. What a tool. “Of course, Strickler,” she purrs. It takes more effort than she’d care to admit not to dig her perfectly-manicured nails into his arm as she passes by to reach the doors. “No hard feelings. You know I’d do the same for you.”

Maybe a lie. Allowing one of her own kind to be hurt always left a bad taste in her mouth - and one that had asked for her aid - well, it would weigh too heavily on what conscience she has. But after that fiasco, Nomura would hardly mind watching Strickler get a little humiliated, or even roughed up. What’s a little callousness between friends? “I assume this isn’t a social call. Are you here about the Fetch?”

”Naturally.” It came out with a sneer. 

Naturally, she’d bite back. Always so surly, Nomura, ready to sink her claws in if no one was looking. He had no doubts that right now, as they walked together to the empty entrance of museum, she was fantasizing some way of lobbing his head off or at least wringing his neck, cackling and glowing-eyed all the while. But she won’t. Bular--he was so ready to have her thrown away without a thought. So close to it. And that should’ve said something. In case we’re ever one changeling short. Changelings are expendable. Impures.

Maybe he wouldn’t have lost any sleep if she’d died. Maybe they’d never confide in each other. But it wouldn’t have been his lifelong wish, having her killed.

“Let bygones be bygones---a lesson you would do well to remember,” he retorted back. At least when it came to him. Stricklander held his hands behind his back and walked past her with all his dignity and arrogance. She mentioned the Fetch, and a glint came to his eye. “Which reminds me: how convenient of you to have found it.” 

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YOUNG ATLAS:

Jim expected many things after the exclaimed repetition of ‘Trolls?’ left his teacher’s lips. A strong affirmation that he would go directly to his mother about it, an utterance of disbelief and ridicule, yet none of that compared to the hopeful one that he had centered in his mind: Understanding.

He released a slow exhale of breath he didn’t realize he was holding when it appeared that Strickler seemed to.. believe him. If not the supernatural existence of trolls – but the fact there was very real stress and pressure on him. His body looked like it deflated with the minor relief. He had to admit, there was a childish part of him that thought the world would’ve imploded the second he revealed ‘The Secret.’

Jim felt the need to still add in; “ – You know I’m not being, like.. metaphorical, right? There are actual, literal, trolls.” Yes, he’d made that point quite clear, any louder and certainly the loitering students outside the class would’ve heard. But he knew if anyone had come to him about such a thing, before the amulet, he’d have thought them, well. Over-stressed.

“In any case.. even if I am overwhelmed or have other obligations, the relevance escapes them.” To quote Blinky, he thinks. “ – I mean, I do what I can and I’m trying. I’m really trying – but I.. I think my best is not enough and I’m going to end up..”

Killed or dead wouldn’t be wise words to use. He swallows thickly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and tugs on his bag’s strap. “Well, you’re right, in that if I don’t help myself then I’m not much use to anyone. I just.. don’t really know how to help myself, I guess..”

He was trying. 

Jim let go of a low, slow breath like he’d almost forgotten how to breathe, had to remind himself. He must’ve known how this all sounded. Trolls, real trolls, made of stone and moss and four too many eyes blew by his doorstep needing him to train, to save the world and kill Gunmar. If he had been anyone else, Strickler would have been dumbstruck and bewildered before slipping away to make an appointment with the counselor and Barbara.

But he wasn’t anyone else. 

He couldn’t tell the boy yes, you’re right, trolls exist with the wave of a hand. And he could continue writing him off, tell him that he just needed more sleep and to focus on what’s important. Or... he could believe him.

Jim, all tension and coiled nerves, was offering him a chance to come into his life, to get closer to not just James Lake, but the trollhunter. The amulet. 

It’d make it easier to take.

Bular wouldn’t have to.

“You know I’m not being, like... metaphorical, right?”

“Of course,” Strickler finally caved, his smile weak. The feigned uncertainty was so thick it could’ve suffocated. “If you'd forgive my reluctance.” 

But that wasn’t to say he didn’t believe. Not yet. At least not without something to prove this was real. What had he said the last time they tried to talk about this? Calm down. I’ll believe you. More cackles and sneers outside, the sound of Eli screeching before a rumbling crash and Señor Uhl. Strickler remained, gaze intent, appearing deeply troubled.

“And why ever might you concern yourself with these---'trolls?'” His eyes were still concerned and he seemed to be hung up on what the boy had said about where he was going to end up, about not knowing how to help himself. Something crossed his face. “Jim, are you alright?”

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YOUNG ATLAS:

He wasn’t certain. If there was anyone who would believe him, it would be Strickler, right? Even if he personally didn’t think things like magic or trolls existed, it clearly distressed the boy enough that it was effecting his personal life to the point of utter exhaustion. It was very real to the world, but importantly, to him as well. The inner struggle to tell him, not tell him, reached a crescendo, though the only sign of it was the slump of his shoulders and the slow sigh.

“Okay.” he said, like it cracked the imperceptible tension within him, eyes glancing to the door. There weren’t any close shadows of the kids that would barge in and learn something they shouldn’t, but Jim inched closer towards Strickler for privacy’s sake. His finger tapped at his bag’s strap, stalling for time to muster the courage to finally admit it. “Okay.”

“ – Remember.. w is coming frohen I came into your office and, uhh, I started babbling on about trainers and chess.” He barely conceals a cringe. Of all the things he could’ve said, that was the single most transparent lie. “W-well, what if I told you, that the trainers, were actually.. trolls.”

There. There it was and still, even if it was the honest truth, he tried to ignore the tips of his ears burning in utter embarrassment for how he must sound like.

“And.. I don’t mean they were so ugly or brutish, no – I mean, they were actually trolls. Stone skin, one with multiple limbs and eyes, the other covered in moss.. fur? Literal trolls. A-and, you see, I kinda, got this duty to do and it’s really, really stressing me out.”

He bit his lip, eyes imploringly watching Strickler for what sort of reaction he might give and yet, surprisingly, the first thing Jim added was:

“.. Oh, and I’d, appreciate it, if you.. uh.. didn’t mention this to my mom at all.”

"Trolls?”

He hadn’t expected it.

What to say. Every day that passed, he would get closer to learning about Killahead Bridge. Every day he was Trollhunter, he would get closer to knowing about Gunmar, Gumms-Gumms, changelings---and one wrong move, by him or anyone else, and Jim would know that in the dead of night when everyone slept, blissfully unaware, his own teacher had glowing yellow eyes, horns, and a starved warlord aching to break free. 

Jim would see, one day, the surface world swarmed by a flood of trolls desperate to snag humans in their jaws. But that’s if Bular didn’t kill him first. If he didn’t die. 

His ears burned red. The boy cringed, the corner of his eyes crinkling as if he thought, ‘no point now, you already started this. You’ll finish it,’ and quickly somersaulted into another explanation. He bit his lip and Strickler caught the look in those eyes.

Wide and blue. Expectant. 

Strickler’s pen clicked shut and a lingering silence passed. As long as he didn’t know he was a Changeling--

"I can see where this is coming from.” He does? “It’s as I feared. You have a great deal of responsibility--on your own, no less--and it’s beginning to make you feel overwhelmed. You have far too much. And these ‘trolls’ have done you no favors.” Strickler tucked his pen away and offered his best warm look, teacher-ly and paternal. It betrayed nothing. “Sometimes you do what you must, and that's all you can do.”

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BARBARA:

Her encounters with Walt were always a relief, a well-deserved and needed break from an incredibly demanding job and from trying desperately to reach out to her increasingly distant son. They were, of course, best enjoyed on the few occasions Barbara was well-rested, but even on the days she could barely pull off the energy to keep her eyes open, her son’s teacher was something of a flicker of light in a dark room.

Today, however, she was just… not quite herself. The past two days had been so demanding, and full of losses. She didn’t want to cancel their… “date”, though, so there they were, looking at that painting. That story always made her sad, but it was a fine piece of art. And to see one finer still, she thought that might brighten the day. “Is there?”

“One need only a mirror.”

Strickler turned, certain she would’ve understood, but when he glanced down, he knew. She was quieter today. Less alert. As if she smiled less, but that wasn't true, not really. More as if she smiled without hearing the words, her mind drifting off to some faraway place, and when he saw the painting reflect off her glasses, it occurred to him that not even the museum’s warm, orange glow could throw a spark in her eyes.

What was it now? No sleep. Jim and work. The usual. Maybe they should go. Strickler lowered his head and his fingers, cold and long, set on her arm. “I may be no doctor, but I believe some rest is in order.”

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YOUNG ATLAS:

Jim shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hand nervously tugging on the strap of his backpack, before his hands both fell to shove in his jacket’s pockets. A part of him tried to get annoyed that Strickler seemed to, for a lack of a better word, care about him outside of just his class. Yet, Jim truthfully felt nothing but appreciation. It was nice to have someone looking out for him, especially since the one figure that should have walked out on the family.

He frowned, then. The last thing he wanted to think about was his deadbeat father.

“Well..” Again, he hesitated. He cautioned, eyes narrowing as he fought with his inner turmoil. Tell him? Don’t tell him? He rocked a bit on his heels, as if that’d stall out the need to answer, gaze drifting away to be anywhere but on Strickler before it returned sheepishly.

“ – Maybe.. one of the things that I’ve.. picked up, isn’t something that can be dropped so easily.. because.. uhh.. a lot of – people depend on me! Yeah. And.. I’d really, REALLY let them down if I just decided not to.. do this thing. Even if they kinda didn’t want me in the first place, ‘cause I’m not what they expected..” A pause, dancing hoops and circles around what he really wants to say.

He practically jumped out of his skin when a notification hit his phone and he offered an apologetic look before taking it out of his pocket to check. As expected: Toby. He could use this to excuse himself, but.. he still felt a bit bad about lying so obviously to Strickler.

“If I’m honest, sir,” he began, a lot more truthfully and easily once he slipped his phone back into his pocket. “ – I doubt you’d believe me even if I told you.”

“...if I just decided not to... do this thing.”

"’Thing?’”

It was obvious. This ‘thing’: trollhunting. What they didn’t expect: the trollhunter. Jim was dancing around it, his wide eyes dropping to the floor and the words tumbling out of his mouth, flopping pathetically by his feet. Lying there.

But who could blame him.

He couldn’t jab his fork into a snow pea and say, ‘Oh, by the way, mom, I’m a trollhunter’ over dinner. He couldn’t throw his hand in class and go, ‘About not paying attention, Mr. Strickler? I found this magical amulet and I guess I’m saving the world now so, between you and me, I’m distracted.’ There was no handbook or procedure. Almost no one to turn to. But it was clear... even as Jim bumbled around, falling face first over every word, this was the second time he came to him.

He trusted him. Strickler.

A changeling.

Just then, a notification blipped. Jim jolted, suddenly sorry, and pulled out his phone.

“I know you have a lot on your hands, and I know you want to see to things personally. But if you’re no help to yourself, then you’re no help to others,” he advised, noting the blue glow of the screen on Jim’s face. True advice. Now more than ever. A clock ticked down above the door, and just outside, the clattering of a slammed locker, an echo of laughs. Strickler offered an encouraging look and did not move as Jim slipped his phone away.

“And you’re quite certain?”

If he was, he wouldn’t be here, would he?

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@changelingynt

Near 11PM, most of Arcadia was tucked into their beds dreaming their insignificant dreams beyond their insignificant lives. Strickler could hear a car screeching down the street, faster than the posted speed limit, its taillights drawing closer together, smaller and smaller, before disappearing in a ghosting streak of red. Once again, silence. The street lamps hummed and flickered. 

How do you talk to someone after you invited them to die? Nomura’s heels clicked softly beside him, and his heightened sight could make out a squirrel furrowing in the corner. “You must know it was of sheer necessity. Nothing more,” he said, his eyes roving up the grand museum doors. He didn’t turn back to face her. “And in light of yesterday’s events, I’d venture to say this is all--how shall I put this?--water under the bridge?”

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YOUNG ATLAS:

Jim quietened to a pensive pause, bottom lip bit as he forced himself to stop rambling on and risk exposing himself. For perhaps a second, there was a pleading look that passed his eyes, a search for help even if he wasn’t ready to tell anyone about the amulet or his duty, yet.

He was fond of Strickler, though. He was – different than the other teachers. It wasn’t a secret that Jim excelled in his class and it wasn’t entirely because he was great at History. He just enjoyed the way he taught the class. But could he really trust him about what truly was troubling him..?

He’d probably think you were crazy. Or over-stressed to the point of hallucination. He thought. So Jim remained silent until Strickler finished, dipping his head in a slight nod.

“I.. understand, Mr. Strickler. I guess it’s hard to think of the future when the present’s enough to worry myself over.” He quickly added; “ – Like with the exams coming up, the theatre play – heck, even Spring Fling much later in the year is a worry. And that’s just the school stuff! I haven’t even gotten into – well.”

He trailed off a little awkwardly. He’d rather not mention home or his mother, even if that, as well, was no secret. Instead he finished lamely with; “You know. Stuff.”

He didn’t miss the look on Jim’s face. Unsure, the gears in his head turning, maybe thinking about how he needed to make a break for his friends, Trollmarket, something. 

Whoever holds the Amulet of Merlin, I shall destroy him. Bular’s voice was still in his head, the words lying down in his ears and dying there. Jim Lake, Jr., his favorite student who’d bend over backwards being a mother to his own mother, now the first human Trollhunter just big enough to snap inside the beast’s mouth, snap in two.

A couple of days ago, Jim had come to his office rambling on about things with eyes and chess. How badly did Jim want to tell him?

“You know,” the boy waved. "Stuff.”

Not enough, apparently.

"’Stuff?’” Strickler’s brow rose so high it could’ve touched the ceiling. “Jim, while I both admire and support your most recent endeavors, I’m concerned you’ve begun to take on more than you can possibly bear. Not even the great wars of Alexander occurred all at once.” Slow down and focus on what’s important. But juggling two lives when you can hardly control one? Strickler’s mouth quirked down. “What ever has you so restless?”

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@amulatlas

The dining room was choked with the smell of steak and mashed potatoes, the hints of the pinot noir still swirling in his mouth. Barbara had just left for the kitchen on the warpath to whip up a godforsaken apple pie, and in front of him, bad-tempered and suspicious, Jim. Strickler did not flinch when the sound of a blender started whirring. He smoothed his finger down the blunt edge of his knife.

"I always knew you were full of surprises. Why, Jim, when your mother told me you would best any chef, I’d seriously considered.” And coming over, even if he told the boy, must’ve been off-putting, a shock. He raised his glass. “I’m well aware that my being here will require time for you to adapt. I’d hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

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YOUNG ATLAS:

“C-Career..?” He parroted, his notebook stalling into his bag as he blinked owlishly before it dawned on him. Oh, right. A career. He still had to think about that. It wasn’t like he could forget being a human just because of the whole Trollhunting business – no no, that’d be too easy.

He dropped his book into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and rose from his seat. Even still, he had to tilt his head back to meet Mr. Strickler’s eyes. Well, he couldn’t exactly answer with ‘Yeah, my career is going to be not getting slaughtered by strange stone-creatures’, so he instead went with:

“Oh, yeah, totally. Tons of plans. Tons of.. options.” His voice is braced and even Jim could tell how obvious his lying was. “I’m, absolutely.. planning for the long term. Because nothing bad is going to happen between now – and.. and graduation.”

A deluge of babbles dribbled from Jim’s mouth. Tons of plans. Tons of options. The long term. If he rambled any more, he’d flood the room and drown the school in it.

What could he possibly have planned, anyway, besides feeding his mother and staying alive another day?

“I understand just how daunting this all seems,” Strickler started, leaning back onto a desk. His eyes seemed to soften. “It is no easy task, determining one’s future. And given how you care for your mother, time must be a precious commodity---all the more.” Now with the amulet. As the Trollhunter. He glanced down at Jim, and the sound of his pen uncapping echoed through the classroom. “But do remember: only you can move forward. No one can do it for you.”