<aside> ❕ Dear you,

 *Since Troy, Joseph, and Tim were so young when* Marble Hornets *was their life—from 2009 to 2014 when its stars were ages 21 to 26—I feel it would be impossible to tell the story of the internet series they made without telling how each of the three friends got to be there.* Marble Hornets *exists only because of their imagination, ingenuity, teamwork, and whatever honest-to-God good fortune came their way. Pretty soon, you’ll be right there with them.*

 *The important thing to remember is that the following is from a work in progress. It’s a long road to the ARK, and this is where it starts.*

Nothing but love,

Tony Vacation.

</aside>

 One afternoon before he graduated high school in 2006, Troy Wagner left his parents’ place with his friend Daniel from drumline and took a short drive, just a neighborhood away, to where a man with a video camera waited for them in a house that wasn’t his.

 He explained that the house belonged to a friend who was away at work but didn’t mind them being there. Then, he told Troy they were going to tie him up and film him answering the phone. There was a gun, and he made Troy look at it closely while he explained that it wasn’t real. He showed Troy where the barrel had once had an orange tip, as is required by law for all prop guns. All you need is a can of black spray paint to make it look real enough for an audience.

 Troy took a seat without hesitation and let them bind him so that he could better play the part of a prisoner in his own home. Daniel is only visible on camera as the hand holding a gun to Troy’s head. By the time the narrative reaches this scene, the protagonist (whose presence wasn’t necessary to shoot this half of the conversation) needs help; so he calls in a favor from a friend. Unfortunately, this friend is played by Troy, who is forced under duress to answer the phone when it rings, only to deadpan, “Now’s not such a good time.”

 The shoot itself took less than an hour of their day, and then both boys were on their way. Troy left that stranger’s house with a lot to think about. Sure, the film crew on location was literally one guy, but here was someone who clearly knew what he was doing behind a camera. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t pay either of them for their time; besides, they had volunteered to help when he said he might need some on his current project, an indie thriller called *Scratch*. Not to mention that being able to make time pass agreeably for two teens closer to twenty than not is itself a precious commodity.

 Troy couldn’t speak for his friend Daniel, but the entire experience left him invigorated. It was his first taste of being on an actual set, and as small of a production as it may have been, it felt as if he had been given permission to do so much more. He wondered how long he’d have to wait before he worked with Clint Till again.

 Troy first met Clint three years before in 2002, when he was fourteen, fresh out of middle school, and determined to survive band camp so he could march with the drumline section for Pelham High School in the fall.

 Clint was only ten years older, but for someone as young as Troy it was enough distance in age to make him a terrifying figure in his role as the drumline instructor for band camp. Shaved head and goatee, dressed like a coach, Clint was a presence that loomed over these kids, shutting down any misconception that, because it was summer, this was going to be easy.

 No adult had ever talked to Troy with such unwavering severity as Clint did when he dressed him down for making a mistake. Miss a step or miss a beat, and Clint singled you out in front of everyone with a shout as good as a pistol going off. This happened again and again until you learned to get it right. Not that Troy was a lonely target for this treatment—there was no room for shoddy showmanship under his command. Every kid on the drumline knew what it felt like to have Clint on your case.

 However difficult it seemed, his brother Neal had survived band camp for the past three years; and here he was again, now a senior trombonist, and soon to be on his way to four more years of performing at Auburn University. So coming out alive on the other side was possible. Then again, Neal had never been on drumline, which trained separately and under a different instructor than the rest of the marching band.

 But it wasn’t like Troy hadn’t been warned about Clint and the way he drilled a drumline as if he were readying a regiment for imminent warfare. As the date for tryouts approached, Troy’s mother looked for any leg up she could find for him. One of Neal’s good friends was a percussionist for the marching band, and she paid the teen to give her younger son a crash course in basic drumline competency.

 Geoff, though not much older than Troy, was a true drumline veteran. His role in the marching band was among the most challenging: he played quads for the tenor line, wearing a half circle of drums in front of his waist. Troy wanted to play the quads too, but the upperclassman leveled with him that an incoming freshman landing that position was not likely.

 What Troy needed to know was how to read musical notation for the bass drum, because this was where most newcomers to drumline ended up. Being able to keep up with the others in the bass line without embarrassing yourself too much was the best advantage Geoff had to offer. And comprehending sheet music on the wing is a feat to be respected, especially when you’re talking about a drummer. Among other instrumentalists, there’s a joke that the surest way to confuse someone playing the drums is to put some sheet music in front of them.

 When you play an instrument like the trombone, you need sheet music to even know what you’re doing with yourself in a composition. You’re going to have flats, you’re going to have sharps, there will be a key to play in and you better know it. With a drum on the other hand, it’s either time to hit it or it isn’t. If it gets more complicated than that, then what you need is a different drum.

 Not that Troy was a stranger to reading sheet music, but doing so never felt like second nature for him. In fact, he already had three years of experience reading for and playing the clarinet in middle school band. This had been a prolonged and excruciating, even humiliating, experience for Troy. To be crystal clear, the clarinet was considered universally among his male peers to be an instrument best-suited for female performers. Once his fellow classmen clocked that he was stuck with the miserable thing, they were predictably brutal about letting Troy know that they knew he was the only male clarinet player in all three grades at Riverchase Middle School. This made him indisputably a wimp.

 At eleven, Troy had agreed with his parents to sign up for band class, following a similar trajectory through public education as his brother. If Neal played a sport or an instrument, why shouldn’t Troy give them both a try? It was a reasonable enough way to encourage their second son to experience new things, but they never pressured Troy to continue any of these pursuits if he didn’t enjoy them.