Title: Appomattox (Chapter 3 of "Battlefields")
Featuring: Troy Douglas
Date: Colossus VI
Location: Various

July 9, 2009
New York City

The phone wasn't going to just dial itself.

Sadly, that's exact what Troy Douglas had spent the past 90 minutes desperately hoping for. That this iPhone, with all it's great and many bells and whistles, would read his mind, magically make the connection and spare Troy the overwhelming agony and anxiety of having to do such a monumental task as picking up a damn phone.

Suffice to say, the 90 minutes Troy had spent rocking like a Weeble on the edge of his bed, socks scraping against the deep carpet so much he was likely to set off a lightning bolt from all the static buildup, were not among the proudest moments of his 33-plus years on the planet.

And all because of a woman.

A wholly random meeting in an uptown subway station had thrown Troy for a complete, 360-degree loop, and two days later he still wasn't sure what to do.

After all, he'd never exactly been someone who'd had to make this kind of call before. He grew up falling in love with a girl who'd been his closest friend since the pair were seven years old, and the courtship wasn't exactly garden variety. There were no nervous nights waiting by the phone on either side, he and Lauren had just slipped straight from friendship to relationship like nothing had ever changed.

February 5, 2003 changed that. February 5, 2003 changed a lot of things. A phone call to his hotel room in Edinburgh in the middle of the night shattered his world, putting a permanent rift in Troy's lift.

There was before That Moment, and after That Moment.

After That Moment, Troy wasn't the type to make romantic liaisons over the phone for an entirely different reason.

Six and a half years since he'd last forayed into the mystical valleys of the male/female relationship, and here he was, 33 years old, twitching nervously like a schoolboy as he tried to decide whether or not he should just go ahead and make the next damn step.

The persistent voice from across the room -- or in his head, he wasn't quite sure anymore -- wasn't helping either.

"You sure you want to do this, chief?"

That was his phantom tormentor's consistent refrain. For two days, this godforsaken apparition, or psychological manifestation, or whatever the hell it was had reveled in performing what seemed to be its purpose for existing; planting seed after seed of doubt into Troy's head until a veritable jungle of second guesses threatened to burst out of his skull and turn this midtown hotel room into Jumanji.

"Trying to make a phone call here," Troy said.

From his perch on the bay window 18 stories above Times Square, the hallucination smirked, the same dismissive gesture that had plagued Troy's every moment, waking or sleeping, for the past two months.

"If you say so, pal," he replied. "Seems to me like if you were actually, y'know, TRYING to make the call, you might've picked up the phone by now."

Troy growled and shifted in his seat, hanging his head, afraid to look anywhere. Towards the window, or towards the phone. Both options scared the hell out of him.

"What the hell do you have against me going on with my -- and here we go again with the talking to the guy that isn't really here."

"Me? Nothing," the ghost said. "Like I've said all along, buddy, I'm just here to do my job, fulfill my purpose."

Throwing his head towards the ceiling in abject frustration, Troy allowed himself to flop back onto the bed, arms spread wide. The impact of his 260-pound frame sent the bedspread into disarray, his right hand swatting a pillow towards his night stand, knocking both a lamp and his phone to the floor.

His phone.

"Wanna pick that up, boss?"

Troy didn't move an inch.

"You know, I can't exactly pick that up for you."

The voice was closer now. The vision had risen from his previous roost and was just inches away from Troy, his mouth hovering right next to Troy's right ear.

"What a fucking coward."

That was the last straw. Troy had teetered on the edge for months now, standing on the brink of sanity as this menace from the depths of his own mind needled him relentlessly, but this was the breaking point.

Much like Marty McFly, nobody - not even his own subconscious - calls Troy Douglas a coward and gets away with it.

"Damnit, will you finally SHUT THE HELL UP!"

Troy reached down and grabbed the discarded pillow, winding up and firing it towards his harasser. Predictably, it had no effect on the ethereal hallucination, passing through him like he was nothing at all and slamming into the window with a dull, resonating thud.

"Been waiting for you to perk up a bit."

Troy looked down to where he'd just thrown his pillow from and saw the phone sitting idly on the carpet. With a sideways glance to his tormentor, Troy reached down, picked up the phone and quickly dialed the 10 digits he'd spent the last 36 hours memorizing.

Pick up...

The wait for the call to connect was agonizing, every second that went by without a ring on the other end hung in the air like an eternity. Finally, mercifully, Troy heard the trademark static of connection as the phone began to ring.

Pick up...

Once, twice the phone rang, and Troy began dreading the beep or click that sent his call to voicemail. It took every ounce of willpower left in him to make this call - the prospect of waiting for a return threatened to turn Troy's already fragile psyche into overdone rice pudding.

PLEASE pick up...

"Hello?"

The second the voice called out, it took nearly everything Troy had left in his soul not to pump his fists in the air like a wild man, shout until the air had left his lungs and make every imaginable obscene gesture at his invisible menace. He restrained himself to a smirk and pointed stare, evoking little more than a sardonic grin from the ghost at the window.

"Is anyone there?"

Troy blinked, finally regaining his bearings. There was, after all, a conversation to get on with. Much as he badly wanted to hear Samantha Wade's voice again, if he didn't come out with a word or two in the near future, he'd be up the creek sans paddle.

"Sam? It's Troy Douglas. You -- uh -- you doing anything later tonight?"

*****

August 4, 2009
Boston, Massachusetts

A month ago, if someone had told Samantha Wade she'd been sitting on a Boston park bench sharing an ice cream cone with a man who looked like he could crush large rocks with his fists, she'd have placed a quick call to have some nice men in white coats come to have a look at you.

Smiling as she felt a cool drip of melted vanilla land on her bare right knee, Sam wasn't quite sure if she shouldn't be committed herself.

After all, an adjunct history professor who'd just spent three years in the crucible of a doctoral dissertation wasn't supposed to fall head over heels for a guy who spent a good part of his week beating the living tar out of sweaty, oiled-up, half-naked men in front of live crowds of thousands and TV audiences of millions.

Was she?

Of course, as she felt his hand land softly on her knee and wipe the errant puddle away with a napkin, she smiled again and realized exactly why she'd let this man - a complete stranger a month ago - take her on a whirlwind roller coaster ride.

He was nothing like she'd expected a professional wrestler to be, and while he'd teased her about her stereotyping time and time again, it was part of Troy's charm. He was intelligent, funny, sensitive, shy, reserved and self-effacing almost to a fault. All that wrapped up in six feet, five inches and 260 pounds. It was an odd combination, to say the least, but one that Sam enjoyed far more than the string of bad fits and absolute disasters that dotted her relationship history for much of her adult life.

But this, this was easy.

When Troy smiled, she smiled. When Troy laughed, she laughed. It was perfect. In all likelihood, far too perfect.

Because for as wonderful as this month had been, as wonderful as Troy had been, as open as he'd been with her about his entire life, about the loss of his father and his fiance, there was still something she felt he wasn't telling her. She saw it in his eyes. It was faint, but it was there, the ghost of a story she knew he never wanted to tell.

But, as Sam Wade finished the last few licks of her ice cream cone, watching a group of children storming by as the chased after an errant soccer ball, she made a choice.

She waited as Troy finished his ice cream, and when he tilted his head towards her, her determined eyes met his.

"Troy..."

He pulled back, his posture slumping ever so slightly. He could see from the look in her eyes that she wanted to know something.

"Troy," she said. "This has been so -- amazing. But, I know there's something you're keeping from me and I--"

Troy's lips pressing down on hers stopped Sam from finishing her assertion. Troy held her for a moment, then broke the kiss, and hung his head as he pulled away.

"What was that for?"

"Because," he said, "because I want you to know how I feel before I tell you this. I'm not proud of what I'm about to tell you, but I think you deserve full disclosure..."

*****

Later that night...

Once again, Troy found himself on a hotel bed.

He wasn't twitching nervously this time, though. No rocking back and forth, no frightened apprehension at the thought of picking up a telephone.

Things, amazingly enough, had gone perfectly for Troy Douglas. He'd told Sam everything; the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Every sordid detail about the places his mind had taken him in the past several months was poured out on that park bench, and after the whole tale, what did she do?

She took his hand, curled up closely to him, and thanked him. Thanked him for trusting her enough to confide his deepest fears and secrets with her, despite knowing her for just a month.

Then she kissed him, right in the middle of Boston, in a way Troy Douglas hadn't been kissed in a very, very long time.

Too long. Far, far too long, he reckoned.

So now, Troy Douglas leaned comfortably back against the soft pillows, flipping through the channels on the TV as he waited for Sam to come back from a quick sojourn to the ice machine down the hall.

At last, things were going well for Troy Douglas. Until, of course, he heard the voice again.

"Having a good time, boss?"

Troy instantly stiffened in fear. The past few perfect, unspoiled hours shattered around him as he sank back to the reality that his mind was rapidly plunging off a steep cliff.

"No. Not you. Not here. Not now."

The hallucination only nodded.

"Yep. Me. Here. Now," he said. "Just doing my job, pal."

"Your job?" Troy was incredulous. "Your fucking JOB? You're a goddamn hallucination! A figment of my imagination, and you've got a JOB to do? Is it to make my life a living hell? Because right now, you're doing a pretty fucking good job of it, pal. Six years, and I finally find somebody that can replace what I lost, and you just have to stay around and fuck it all up royally, don't you?"

The phantom strode towards Troy's bed, smiling.

"Actually, I was just leaving."

Troy was startled into silence. He couldn't move, think, talk, anything. Finally, he regained his senses.

"Leaving?"

"Yeah, boss," he said. "I came here to do a job, and I did it."

"What damn job?"

"To get you to move on, of course. To take you to that point where you finally couldn't take anymore and let you finally reach out and let someone into our life. Tough nut to crack, you were, but it looks like it's 'mission accomplished' on my end."

Flabbergasted, Troy could only think of one retort.

"OUR LIFE?"

Another smirk, but this one softer, less menacing, more reminiscient of ... his own.

"Why do you think you first saw me in a mirror?"

And just like Keyser Soze ...

POOF

The door swung open, and Troy half expected to see his imaginary companion once more. Thankfully, the sight was far, far more pleasant.

"Somebody call you, Troy? Thought I heard you talking."

Troy smiled and slid towards Sam, cradling her lightly in his arms.

"It was nobody."

THE END
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