Trolly Disclaimer: We don't owned LotR!!!1! We r only borowing it for phun!!!11! Teh PPC r teh branechilds of Jay & Acacia & tis spinoff wuz created wiht there permishun!!!!!!!1


PPC: Troll Division

by Meir Brin, Leelee, and psychicsaphie


Chapter One: Of Lawn Gnomes and Meatloaf


With a faint whirrz-it and a splat-thump, a luminous portal opened up and coughed out an agent in the Department of Bad Parody. On second thought, saying that this agent was a member of the Department of Bad Parody could, in fact, be misleading. The division that she worked for was merely under Admiral Pansy's supervision, and was perhaps more of an automaton than anything else.

In any case, the agent got to her feet sorely and promptly sat down in one of the chairs placed methodically around the room. Let it be known before this tale proceeds much further that this agent's name was Marokee Brin, and she was not particularly known to be mentally stable. The agent slumped into the seat, then folded her arms over her chest, blowing stray bits of hair out of her face. If she had to deal with another Sue-Troll with more syllables in her name than in the rest of the fic combined, she doubted that her sanity would last much longer.

At that second, Marokee realized that something was wrong. Very wrong.

My pack! she thought with anguish. I can't have left it in the fic! Scrambling around the room, Marokee checked under the consoles, in the hammock, and under the shelf which housed Herby's terrarium. On the verge of having a spastic fit, Marokee rushed over to the portal, which was still glittering in the air, seeming to exude smugness.

"Give it back," said Marokee, stamping her foot. Giving her a look akin to Terry Pratchett's Luggage, the portal glared back in a superior manner.

"Now!" cried Marokee angrily. The portal was unyielding. Marokee started to bounce on the balls of her feet, pleading to the point of whining. "Plee-ee-ee-a-se-e?" she asked, voice jumping chromatically.

The silver portal seemed to cough, and a backpack the size of a large dog landed on the floor at Marokee's feet. The agent sighed in relief and clicked the remote activator clipped to her belt. The portal blinked out of existence, but not before blowing a rather staticky raspberry.

Marokee knelt down by her pack and undid the zipper, obsessively checking each compartment to see if she was low on anything. Twenty-four grapnades, hmm . . . she was almost out of those, she would have to restock later. And maybe she should put another set of pliers into her bag, just in case she lost the other three . . .

At that moment a button started to flash on the computer console, and Marokee darted over to check the screen. Another fic-cloud had been sighted near Erebor, about fifty miles from Long Lake. The Parody crew was checking it, but their suspicions were that it was a Troll. Expect reply in two hours if assistance needed, said the transmission.

Marokee bit her lip. Two hours? What would she do until then? Clean the room? She had done that five times in the past two days, it probably wasn't worth it. But wait--could it be? There was another light blinking on the control panel!

More messages! Marokee thought happily to herself.

"Do you hear that, Herby? I have another message!" proclaimed Marokee excitedly, looking over her shoulder at the small, red, winged, amphibious, frog-like creature which required a minimum of four adjectives to describe. "I have a message."

The creature known as Herby rolled its eyes and flutter-hopped over to a toadstool. The fact of it was, Marokee hadn't had human contact for the past two weeks, with the exception of a visit to "Admiral" Pansy (the Head of the Department of Bad Parody), Herby, and the portal. And as that didn't really count as "human" contact, that did tend to make her a little awkward.

But back to the point of the matter. The transmission appeared on the screen as Marokee impatiently clicked the icon, reading as follows:

Agent Brin,

Yes, I know you want a partner. And yes, I do remember that Agent Gelaremi's psycho attack and subsequent mashed potato hallucinations were not your fault (directly). We have a batch of new recruits coming in now. You can take your pick if you want.

Following this was the remark: And if you ask them what type of meat loaf they like best more than once, I will put you back in Bad Slash. It was signed "Sunflower Official".

Marokee shuddered. She did not want to go back to the Bad Slash Department. But this was good news. Partner! The agent started to bob up and down on her feet excitedly. Partner, partner, partner! Grabbing her pack the size of a mini-refrigerator, Marokee Brin ran happily out of her quarters and headed for the lobby.


There was quite a crowd in the Headquarters foyer when Marokee reached the room. Assassins desperate for partners were sizing up the new recruits like kids picking teams for kickball, while the Bad Slashers were searching for the most worldly-looking people. Marokee passed people with cacti, rubber duckies, and water lilies printed on their shirts before coming upon the group of newbies.

Most looked nervous. Others appeared excited. Some looked downright sick.

Something hard shoved against Marokee's leg angrily, and the Sunner looked down to see Smurly the garden gnome trying to push her back. Bending down to look at the PPC receptionist, Marokee cracked a rather odd smile.

"Hullo, Smurly," she said.

The garden gnome looked up at her annoyedly, his painted eyes showing a degree of impatience. Smurly's little red hat glinted in the light of the room, and his suspenders seemed to buckle slightly.

"Marokee Brin! I thought I told you if you sent me one more picture of table wax I would put you back in Slash!"

"You said you were looking for wax to shine your hat!" protested the agent.

"But you sent me five hundred and forty copies of different waxing products! I only wanted one!" the garden gnome glowered at her angrily. "And what are you doing down here?"

"Getting a partner," said Marokee. She bounced slightly on her feet. "Can I have that one? Or that one? I'll feed it, I promise!"

Smurly shook his head. He could deal with the best of them, but Marokee's nervous impatience was beyond him. "The SO sent you?" Marokee nodded excitedly. The two-foot gnome looked down at his clipboard and sighed. "So it did. Come here, I'll show you what the cats dragged in."


Leelee squirmed in the orange, plastic chair impatiently. She looked around at the other recruits who also squirmed in their identical orange, plastic chairs. The girl sitting on her right looked like she was about to vomit. Leelee was about to shift to her left when she noticed that the girl on her other side had the same look. So she stayed perfectly balanced between the two nauseous women.

Leelee was a reformed Troller. A tired-looking agent had picked her up a few days before. Leelee's masterpiece of literature: "Legolas and the Mermaid" had been identified as a troll and she had been summarily charged with a long list of Canon violations as well as impersonating a Mary Sue writer. The agent, who seemed overworked and underfed, saw a glimmer of hope in Leelee, and decided to recruit her. Even if she had been a Troller, she still had the odd talent to be able to crawl into a Sue writer's mind. Even if the space was rather small.

So she had been dumped in the Headquarters foyer and left for dead. There seemed to be suspicious looking characters circling the new recruits like buzzards. These were probably working assassins since they had that patented "half-mad, half-crazed" look in their eyes. A garden gnome leered at her when he noticed her staring. Leelee tried to leer back, but ended up looking like she was gloating instead. She never could quite perfect the leer. She considered kicking the garden gnome instead. Then she stopped considering that and started to think about gazelles.

The garden gnome smiled evilly. Assassins and recruits within a two meter radius shuddered and scurried away. Somewhere, a baby cried, although there were no babies in the HQ. This reaction seemed to satisfy the gnome, so he returned to leering at the new recruits. His look seemed to say: "I dare you to kick me."

Leelee was down to chewing on her last fingernail and was getting even more impatient.

"Do you think they have a brochure to read or something?" she asked the sick-looking girl on the right.

"Elrond . . . and Arwen . . . can't think anymore. Please, help me," the girl murmured, shaking uncontrollably.

Leelee patted her hand then backed away slowly.

What was with the people who worked here? Maybe she should reconsider her plans as a future agent . . .

She noticed the garden gnome was having an animated discussion with a tall, dark haired girl. They seemed to be deep in conversation and didn't look like they should be interrupted.

Therefore, it was the perfect time to interrupt them.

Leelee walked up to the mismatched pair and tapped the garden gnome with her foot.

"Hey, uh, you. I don't think I'm cut out for this kind of thing. I'm thinking about going home."

Garden gnomes don't take kindly to being tapped. He grabbed one of Leelee's blonde braids and pulled her face to his level. The gnome served up his patented "glare-sneer" and retorted (rather rudely): "Look, Heidi, I'm busy right now! I'll get to you and the other new recruits later. So sit down and stop whining."

Just then a flash of pure glee crossed the garden gnome's face. This was even more frightening then the look of evil that had graced his noble features earlier. Somewhere, a different baby cried out. Leelee tried to move away, but the gnome was still clutching her braid.

"Okay, Heidi. I've got a job for you. Meet your new partner, Marokee Brin. Marokee, try not to break this one."

Heidi, er, Leelee looked up with some hope at her new partner. Maybe this Marokee would be a little saner than the garden gnome.

Marokee smiled and waved wildly.

With a sinking feeling, Leelee realized she should have taken her chances with the gnome.


"Hmm, yes, yes, very interesting."

Saphie Ellings was walking down a hallway of PPC Headquarters and reading something very interesting.

"PPC Headquarters was founded in . . . hmm . . . to protect fandoms from the scourge of badfic . . . using devices called remote activators to go into bad stories and repair the damage they do to canon . . . split into many departments and divisions, and covering many fandoms . . . Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter fandoms are highly afflicted . . . Mary Sue division . . . Intelligence . . . Makes-Things makes things, and creates many devices and useful gadgets . . . hmm, interesting. Oh, I would love to meet Jay and Acacia. That would be so awesome!"

She licked her finger and turned a page.

"Heads of Departments, hmm, Sunflower Official . . . Wisteria . . . Kelp . . . hmm . . ." She lifted her head and looked thoughtful. "They must need a lot of windows in this place to get enough sunlight, and I wonder if other people water them or they water themselves . . ."

She stopped babbling to herself and looked at her booklet again.

"'PPC Headquarters is not liable for an agent's death or mental breakdown' . . . hmm, wonder what they have as far as health benefits go . . . Gotta be better than working at Joe's Meat Barn, at any rate . . ." She shuddered slightly at the memory.

So much grease! So much filth! It was almost a blessing that she'd knocked down that giant ceramic cow's head and had gotten fired . . .

It seemed that she had a lot of little "accidents" like that, and they made it rather difficult to keep a job. So far, she hadn't had any "accidents" at PPC HQ though, and she hoped she never would. Then again, she hadn't been there very long yet . . .

"PPC Headquarters is not liable for an agent's death or mental breakdown" . . .

This didn't seem the type of workplace where you could have an "accident" more than once.

She continued reading, unconsciously bumping into people and knocking piles of papers out of their hands as she walked down the hallway. Flurries of paper filled the air, and profuse cursing went on behind her, but she didn't notice.

"Hmm, 'welcome to the PPC, the career of a lifetime . . .'"

Had a seasoned agent been reading over her shoulder, they may have added: "of a very short lifetime . . . or at least one that includes flame-thrower incidents, 9' talking grasshoppers, mashed potato hallucinations, and takes place partly in a room with padded walls . . ."

But there was no seasoned agent there, so Saphie merely smiled dopily to herself and said, "You, know, I think this is the career of a lifetime! I have a really good feeling about this one! It'll be a piece of cake."

As everyone well knows, saying "it'll be a piece of cake" is up there on the Infamous List o' Last Words right above, "Hey, what does this button do?" and right below "Oh, don't be such a worrywart! You don't have to turn the electricity off firs--"

Saphie closed the booklet and tucked it into the back of her jeans. Many recruits, and even agents, would wonder how she had gotten it, as such a book wasn't even known to exist. In truth, Saphie was not the brightest bulb in the drawer, so what she lacked in intelligence, she compensated with resourcefulness. It was sort of an inverse relationship, so she was really, really resourceful.

As she walked down the hallway, thinking about the interesting and challenging career ahead of her and her wonderful prospects for the future, a horrible though crept over her mind.

She suddenly realized that something was wrong . . .

Mainly that the other recruits and the testy little garden gnome that had been leading them . . . were gone!

"Bugger!" she cried. She must have taken a wrong turning somewhere. Further up the hallway, she saw two female agents. She ran to catch up.

"Now we go complain to Upstairs about getting paid more?" said the shorter of the two. "Before they send us on another mission five minutes after we sit down?"

"We're both a little bloody." The taller one looked down at her clothing, which was stained with sticky, silver gunk. "More than a little, really. And we've still got the skin."

They looked at each other. "Good," they declared together.

They started marching away . . . when Saphie came up behind them.

"Er . . .excuse me?" Saphie asked, tapping the taller one gingerly on the shoulder (she was a little frightened of the shorter one, though she wasn't quite sure why.) She tried not to touch the sticky silver gunk on her, and failed miserably.

They both turned around.

"What?" the shorter one snapped.

"Er . . ." Saphie looked at her hand with a disgusted frown and wiped it surreptitiously on her jeans. "Er . . . could you direct me to the lobby?"

The two agents looked at each-other with a knowing glance.

"Recruit," they said simultaneously.

"Find it on your own. You're going to have to learn how to get around Headquarters anyway," the shorter one said with a dismissive wave.

The tall one nodded in agreement. "Besides, we have to see the SO right away. And get showers. Sorry. I'm sure somebody else can show you the way."

They continued walking.


"We need to see the SO. And we really need showers. Ask somebody else," snapped the shorter one.

Saphie stood there with her fists clenched indignantly at her sides.

"Er . . . I'm close, personal friends with Jay and Acacia, I'll have you know!" Saphie bursted out.

The two paused, turned around, and stared at her.

"Really," the shorter one said. It wasn't a question. It was more a neutral-but-threatens-to-be-not-so-neutral-in-a-few-seconds statement.

Saphie found it unnerving, but she mustered up her courage. It was too late to back out now . . .

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," she said smugly.

The two stared at her, and she found herself fearing that another "accident" was imminent in her near future.

"Well," said the taller one, "You can tell Jay and Acacia to--" She said a good many colorful things here, that in pictographs would probably be represented with a dog relieving itself. "--and tell them I said so."

The short one piped in at this point. "Also tell them--" [Urinating dog] "--and that they should go and--" [Urinating dog] [Urinating dog] "--and then go jam--" [Urinating dog] [Urinating dog] [Two llamas mating] "--and tell them I said that while you're at it."

The two agents turned around and continued towards their destination, leaving the shocked recruit gaping after them.

"You know," Jay whispered to her partner as they walked away. "I almost feel bad about doing that."

"Almost," Acacia answered with a slight grin. "But to make a claim like that . . . that's just immature."


"And we can't have any of that in the PPC."

"Nope. She's going to have a hard time if she doesn't drop that 'the world owes me' attitude fast."

Acacia nodded in agreement. "Won't last a week."

Saphie didn't hear any of this. She remained in a state of shocked terror and stared after the two for a moment before turning and walking back the other way she came.

The NERVE of some people! Saying such horrible things about Jay and Acacia, and not dropping what they were doing to help a poor, lost recruit in need!

She raced back up the hallway, and people that had just spent the last five minutes picking up piles of papers had them knocked out of their hands again.

She ducked around several corners and hoped desperately that she wasn't going in circles.

Or squares, to be more accurate.

She should have asked someone for help, but decided against it. She wanted to figure it out on her own now. Just to spite those stupid, ignorant, unhelpful . . .

After what seemed an eternity, she turned into a hallway and saw an open room beyond it. There were orange, plastic chairs everywhere, in which very nervous people were biting their nails and rocking back and forth in fetal positions. Circling around them, like vultures in a nature documentary, were PPC agents. Many different departments were there, judging from their insignias.

Over slightly to the left was a large, gaily colored sculpture that looked like it belonged near someone's fishpond next to a pink, plastic flamingo. All the departments were represented on it, by sculptures of their insignias. It had taken Smurly three months to make it, though Saphie did not know this. Saphie sighed in relief, and stepped forward.

That's when the Universal Laws of Comedy kicked in . . . and metaphysically bit her in the arse.

Her foot slipped on a patch of silver. In a comical way that nearly defied the laws of physics, she skidded wildly across the floor, until-- with the sound of a wet sack of oats being dropped off of a barn--she slammed into the sculpture's pedestal.

It rocked unsteadily for a nearly eternal, breathless moment, but righted itself . . .


Then it toppled over and shattered into several thousand pieces.

"Oh, bugger."

Saphie turned and saw that the whole room was staring at her. To her surprise, a garden gnome was also staring at her. He did not seem happy. He did not seem happy at all. In fact, he seemed like someone who was not at all tolerable of "accidents."

"Urgh," Saphie croaked as she sat on the ground, and then she was running, having miraculously forgone the process of getting up that normally took place in between. She didn't particularly know where she was going, but at the moment, she didn't particularly care as long as it meant that it wasn't there.

Then she spotted a means of escape. Two young women were getting into an elevator. One had a bookbag the size of a t.v. on her back, and the other looked like the main character from a charming book about some orphan in the Alps.

Ceramic feet thudded behind her, and a gruff, irate voice yelled in anger.

"Take me with you!!" Saphie cried.

Then she was diving, the doors were closing, and two girls were gasping in surprise.

Bing! There was a last flash of an angry, painted face and a red cap, and then the doors closed.

Saphie stared at the door and panted. She looked up.

"Er, hi."

They stared.

"Er, I suppose I'm working with you two now." Saphie nodded enthusiastically at them, almost as if trying to get them to nod back.

"Okay . . ." the Alpine women murmured.

"Er, what fandom and Department are we in?"

"We're Department of Bad Parody: Troll Division," said the one with the giant bookbag. "Lord of the Rings."

Saphie nodded. She was quiet for a while, thoughtful. Then she asked, "No gnomes in Lord of the Rings, right?"


She breathed out in a whoosh of relief. "Then it's fine by me . . ."


Marokee tried to stop fidgeting nervously as she watched her new partners. And there were two of them also! That meant that if she were to break one, there would be another partner there on backup. Joyous days!

"So--" began Heidi.

"What kind of meatloaf do you like?" asked Marokee quickly, cutting off the blonde girl.

Saphie bit her lip and raised an eyebrow. Heidi just stood and started fidgeting nervously.

"Er, soooo . . . what are your names?" asked Saphie, completely avoiding the subject of meatloaf. Not only was it an odd thing to talk about, but it also made her hungry.

Marokee rocked back and forth on her feet, balancing pent up energy. "I'm Marokee Brin; this is Heidi."

"Actually, my name's Leelee," said the blonde agent self-importantly.

Marokee appeared curiously suspicious. "Then why did Smurly call you Heidi?"

Leelee sighed and shrugged. "Search me."

"They did," jumped Marokee, nodding sagely. "When they bring you here they do sensory thingies. So that you don't bring dangerous things into Headquarters. Like parasites, diseases, or sugar. Or vegetation killer."

Leelee pulled out a stack of glossy "women's" magazines. "I hope these aren't considered contraband. I like to read them to keep up on the latest trends in the subjugation and objectification of women. Not that I'm bitter. I won't get in trouble, do you think?" Leelee worriedly chewed on her lip.

"As long as it isn't 'Better Homes and Gardens'," replied Marokee, watching the buttons on the wall light up.

"Er, I guess I better not bring any Weed-Be-Gone into work any time soon," said the other recruit. "I'm Saphie, by the way." She looked at Marokee furtively. "And, er, I like my meatloaf covered in ketchup and cooked with bacon strips on top . . .?"

Marokee grinned enthusiastically, which gave her a rather maniacal look. "Great! I can do that, and with onion sauce and linguini, just don't tell the custodial staff, because the Onion's been looking for her pets in our wing, and I think she suspects me--"

She was cut off by a short bing! The elevator doors sprang apart, and with a groan from the machine the three women were pushed out of the elevator and onto the thirty-fifth floor corridor.

"Is this where we work?" asked Leelee, glancing at the shining black walls. It appeared as if whoever had designed HQ had had a monolith fetish from "2001: A Space Odyssey".

Marokee nodded. "I have the corner response station. Most of the people here are Bad Parody Agents, but we won't see them much. I don't think they like me, after I dumped my coffee into the Pansy's flower-bed. He got really excited, and sent the whole department out on double missions, you see."

"The Pansy? Do we get to meet him?" asked Saphie, far too excitedly.

Marokee shrugged. "Probably, but remember to call him 'Admiral'."


"Because he likes to be called 'Admiral'."

The three women reached the door at the end of the corridor, complete with a plaque that read "Troll Hunter(s)." It also carried the insignia of a decapitated rubber chicken, which was in turn surmounted by a bright red "T-D." Marokee kicked the door open, as her hands were full with the bookbag.

Leelee and Saphie wandered into the room, taking in the walls of the pentagon-shaped response center. Marokee tossed her pack aside and sat down at the console, checking the flashing buttons. "New messages!" she cried ecstatically. "Mission! Whee!"

Leelee looked around her in awe and just a little bit of fear. So far Marokee had confirmed her fears: the woman was obviously insane. And had a strange obsession with meatloaf. Saphie seemed a little more low-key and approachable. She turned to the girl to reintroduce herself properly.

Saphie noticed that the blonde girl was looking at her. In response to the nonverbal hello, Saphie turned around and said animatedly: "Hi! My name's Saphie! Yours is Heidi? Oh wait, no it's Leelee, that's right! That's a weird name, where'd you get that name? Hey, this place is pretty cool, don't you think? Why'd you join up? Do ya' think that we get free pens and pencils and office supplies and stuff like that? Hey, can I look at one of those magazines?" Saphie seemed to be a perpetual-motion machine: she waved her arms and seemed to hop up and down all while carrying on a conversation.

Leelee took a step back from the hyper girl. She had obviously misjudged Saphie--she was as insane as Marokee! All she could manage to say was, "My name isn't weird . . ."

Marokee turned around to examine her two new partners, and looked as if she was foaming at the mouth, but without the foam. "Have you two been briefed about our department's purpose and jurisdiction? Have you been issued your standard equipment, including your Fixie Dust (Registered Trademark) and Grapnades (patent pending)? I like to carry a few extra supplies with me, you know, just in case of emergency. It pays to be prepared at all times."

Marokee looked expectantly at Saphie and Leelee and waited for them to answer. Neither of them spoke up fast enough, so Marokee continued in an annoyed tone: "It just FIGURES! We have a mission to go on, and my new partners aren't even EQUIPPED for the field!"

"And we don't even know what we're doing," Leelee added helpfully.

"No, I know what we do!" Saphie cried. "Right, so we go in, kill the Mary Sues . . ."

"Um, not exactly . . ." Marokee said.

"Er, we go in, exorcise the canons, neuralyze them or whatever . . ."

"Um, wrong again."

"We go in, and take the canons back to their world?"


"Well, what do we do?"

"We hunt down trolls." Seeing their blank stares, Marokee slapped herself in the forehead. "Arg! Well, the mission will have to wait until I catch you two up and get you outfitted." Marokee's words were remotely calm, but her eyes kept sliding to the blinking console. She seemed like she was on the verge of a panic attack, and, let me remind you, she probably was.

"I'll start with our department: the Troll Division. You know what a Troll is? Trolls are bad, very bad," she began hurriedly, her voice jumping slightly with impatience. "You know when someone writes a fanfiction story it has an effect on the Continuum. Well, when an author writes a parody, it comes off as a little invisible cloud that helps the Canon, just like goodfic. Trolls, on the other hand . . ." her face appeared shadowy for a moment, like a person who finds their job exhausting yet enjoys it anyway. In fact, if Marokee didn't have a job to do she probably would have been, if possible, even more hyperactive.

"Trolls, or intentional badfic meant to solicit a flame (paragraph five subsection seven), come off as great, lumbering, invisible, troll creatures. If they get their mitts on the Canon Characters they hurt them, and it's very bad because we can't take Canon Characters to PPC offices, or at least we're not supposed too, but I heard that Agent--" The console beeped, and Marokee jumped back on topic, speaking, if possible, faster then before.

"So we go in and diffuse the bomb, you see. That's why we're called Sunners, you see, because Trolls can't take sunlight. We turn the Trolls into respectable parodies, make them Benevolent Parody Clouds to help the Canon. And . . . we're going to have to go, so I'll explain how that's done once we get in. Here, this is the portal thingy, you click it and we get a--"

Marokee then noticed Saphie waving her hand and gestured for her to speak. "What is it, Saphie?"

"Er . . . were--were you saying something?"

The explosion was heard across headquarters.


Next chapter: Leelee and Saphie finally go to Middle-Earth, Marokee in the lead (gulp!).

Will they be able to hunt down the troll in time, before any Lotr characters are hurt? Will Saphie and Leelee ever figure out what they're doing?

Next chapter the plot thickens as the recruits discover that PPCing is nothing like the training manuals . . .