Chapter Text
“33… 34… 35? 36-“
“All of them?”
“Almost; 37, 38, 39, 40.”
“Don’t forget, 41 and 42” He strains his arms to bring two identical metal crates onto the table, inside with twin markings is a long slithering and hissing creature from the lowest and less frequented caving systems in their galaxy. Notorious for being nearly impossible to keep in captivity, but that wasn’t their problem.
They got the shipment, they loaded it, they don’t know the names or ship codes of their suppliers but there are 10s of thousands, they are one piece in the long, long, path of these creatures, merely responsible for keeping them alive for the three-week journey between suppliers and distributors.
Best in the business, no questions asked, never once stopped by the galactic affairs, they were well known for those who know them, who need to know them. To everyone outside of their work sphere, they might as well be frequent tourists, invisible and annoying, but they are blind.
They are SBI.
And they are the best live creature smugglers in this century, and this is their newest shipment, 42 creatures of varying size, capabilities, intelligence, beauty, and obscurity.
Technoblade puts down his tablet and looked upon the loud creatures in the loading dock of their ship. Wilbur, whose arms are now wobbly and his face is slack with exhaustion, is learning against the cage of a docile Mumming Bow to catch his breath, and Philza, whose feathered wings are occasionally twitching with familiar excitement of a new batch of creatures, is nodding his farewell to the last masked informative of the night before they put everyone into their spaces and took off for the first night on their long journey to the nearest distribution drop off.
He walks to Philza’s side, long cape catching on his extended heels as he walks, and gives a silent nod to the smaller alien. In response, he cowers, taking a step back and spewing out a few words in his native language to Philza, who smiles with no teeth and turns to his ship.
They watch it leave the atmosphere and Philza opens his mouth before Techno can even begin, “I know, I know, you don’t like their method of delivery, but this is the most reliable case of hatchlings we’ve had in years,”
“I’m just saying, Phil, that their ships can be more discreet,” He huffs, clicking his teeth together a little in agitation, “Did you see the sonic disturbance when it breached the clouds? Unbelievable how they haven’t been permanently marked as a suspicious vessel yet,”
Phil hums and walks back onto the ramp. He walks over to the small crate that Wilbur had just loaded, and he gently smiles when they switch their hissing mouths to Philza’s figure.
He glides a hand over the smooth edge of their cage and walks past, noting all the creatures hastily piled together.
Wilbur abandons his post on the Mummings and snatches Techno’s tablet from the table, scrolling through their list.
“A lot more younger variants and generic types, a big case full of crawling bats from the eastern districts, oh! And a long-necked bottle bottle from my home planet, that’s nice,”
Techno takes it back, using his bulk to his advantage as he shoulders past the spiny alien, “Phil take a look before we start sorting,”
He hums and takes off his gloves, revealing 4 pointed fingers, he does his own calculating observations of the list, sometimes his eyes would catch on a name and he would scan the array of creatures to find it before going back to scrolling. Then, he pauses, “Didn’t know we were taking mystery crates again?” He muses.
Technoblade didn't know that either, he turns to Wilbur, already knowing it's his fault. Wilbur grins, all canines and unashamed, “I like the mystery crates, makes my job more exciting!”
“We don’t always have the supplies for them, it’s not always safe either, Wilbur.” Phil scolds.
“It always works out!”
Techno rolls his eyes, “You're not the one who had to deal with minus temperatures in their bedroom for a month when we got a mystery Cold Leecher.”
“Besides that, last run was boring, I wanted something fun!”
Philza sighs but tucks the tablet into his belt, “Fine, let's put away the immediate accommodators and then we can open our mysteries,”
Wilbur crows his victory and then rushes over to the fragile boxes they had set up. They are long used to certain creatures being transported and have entire rooms and stocked shelves of medicine, food, and enrichment for specific species.
Such a bunch being the easily startled but brightly coloured Eradacas, who are brilliant for sitting still and being used as decoration in the richest mansions and tea parties, but will die if their brains get too overloaded with sound, a few are bound to be lost in between supplier and transporter and transporter to distributor but Wilbur loves caring for the quiet species.
Their room is on the farthest side of the ship, a long way away from the engines and already soundproofed and tall for them to climb up to. Wilbur is quick at setting them up and returning to the docking bay where Techno has taken to ignoring the transport crates entirely and handling the squirming Bows and Bonds in his firm grip.
His thick skin is perfect for many types of creatures, Wilbur has never seen him bleed, so Techno uses it to his advantage, often climbing into the cages of creatures meant as pets as well as those who are soft enough to be skinned and turned into clothing or other items. Technoblade loves interacting with them as has his own way of calming them down during their trips, familiar with a lot of the larger ones.
Philza, a gentle predator, also loves to get close to even the most dangerous creatures that they handle. Poisonous, bone-crushing, evil creatures are meant to be gentled in his eye.
No amount of convincing from Wilbur or Technoblade will get him to stop sending his species’ familial coos and warbles to the most dangerous creatures in the galaxy.
He does this weird thing where he fluffs up his wings to be big and tall and scary and makes the creatures know he is boss, then reassures him that he is the nice boss, eventually that turns into Wilbur and Techno being the bad bosses, but Philza is never mad about being the favourite, in fact, he strives for it no matter how gruesome and inevitable the fate of his stock will become.
With every shipment, there are new friendly and unfriendly creatures to reassure, play with, feed, take care of, and despite this, their actions will eventually lead them to their demise. It’s been a long time since any of them have cried over watching their creatures get turned into meat or pelts or be sentenced to digging for eternity is just the beginning of it.
It isn’t an easy job but they do it, and they do it well.
Wilbur is practically bouncing on his toes when most of the creatures have been stored away. They left behind the more sturdy and heavy creatures as well as the mystery crate which is taller than Techno and, as the mystery goes, completely encased in dark panels.
He circles it, ears and fingers twitching. Techno rests against the table to watch from a distance and snorts when Wilbur leans in to rest his ear as if to hear something, he then shakes his head and knocks the side of his hand lightly on the outside. Immediately, something inside shuffles around, sounding heavy-footed and too big for the cage it’s in.
Techno’s interest is immediately captured.
Philza closes the docking ramp, it whirs and spreads the planet’s dust around the edges of the hinges and Philza flaps his wings to brush a bit off it out before it closes.
Technoblade walks over to the crate and inspects the panels further. It’s tightly packed against the crate but if one were to pull on the top notches it would be able to slide away, he can see some small circles are cut into both the panels and the bottom forcefield to let the creature breathe. It doesn’t seem overly fortified so the creature inside apparently can’t push its container over with its own strength despite how big it sounds. Techno estimates it barely has enough room to walk in there.
“Ready?” Phil asks, tilting his word up.
Wilbur grins and rubs his arms together, palm to forearm, and then unlocks the bottom clasps from one side of the crate and lifts.
He removes it completely and then steps back to observe. His mouth drops open, pointed ears pressing back against his skull.
The creature inside shuffles some more but doesn’t make any sound.
Techno and Philza, on the other side of the crate, can’t see inside, and they immediately look at each other, “Uh Will? You good?” Phil asks, wings giving a quick flick before settling against his back.
Wilbur stands in shock for a bit longer, then the creature lets out its first noise, a low grumble similar to Techno’s own sleepy murmurs.
Technoblade’s ears perk up, imagining a baby of his species being smuggled on their ship while they were unaware, and he walks over to unclasp another side of the crate, leaving the creature exposed on two different sides.
It’s not a Boarish stout, it doesn’t share any resemblance to Techno’s kind, if you ignore the thick jaw, in fact, it looks similar to-
“A human!” Wilbur breaths. He drops the panel onto the ground with a bang and tilts his head.
The human, the first live one has ever seen in the history of ever, is in their smuggling ship. Techno is immediately put off by its strong eyes and pale skin. It’s barely awake, probably drugged for the trip. It’s leaning heavily against the walls of its crate, exposed bulging knees trembling and bending falling towards its belly to keep itself upright. Its head is limply rolling from one side to the other as it watches them through dangerously narrowed eyes.
A white gaze with a circle of blue, its face reminds Technoblade of Philza’s kind, bird-like and soft along the edges, but unlike Philza, humans are infamous for their breaking bones, bumpy skin, and miscolored when under pressure. They are known as a bit fragile, at least that is what Techno knows.
“A what!” Philza approaches. His wings are wide, and the human, with the third presence, has had enough, and slides against the walls to sit on the flooring, head pressed against one side but its eyes are still open, slowly flicking between all of them.
Phil’s eyes widen, “Live humans haven’t been recovered, ever? How is this possible?”
“We are making history today boys!” Wilbur crows.
The human twitches at the sound of Wilbur’s excitement but can’t find the strength to push itself up, instead, it opens its mouth and bares its teeth in a grimace, and turns his head to dully thunk against the other side of the container.
“I think the people who captured it made history,” Techno mumbled, unsettled by the creature before him.
Wilbur is blinded by the unknown and crowds further, knocking a little on the glass and getting no response. Phil tutts at him.
“He’s probably stressed and tired from the trip, let him breathe.”
“We don’t know anything about humans!” Wilbur refutes, he turns to look at Philza with pure excitement, always an adventurer.
“There is some information floating around, we are going to have to hunt down everything to keep this one alive, and quick.” Phil puts his hand on Wilbur’s shoulder, “We don’t want to be the ones who kill him before the sellers get to him, I’m sure they’ve already been informed they are getting a live specimen, no room for error on this one,”
Wilbur furrows his eyes when he thinks about that, and then nods, standing with a flourish and taking a step backwards.
Philza takes the tablet from his side and immediately goes to search the surface-level information databases for Human things. Techno takes a step forward.
He can’t tell what it eats or what sounds it makes, or even how tall it is. While it’s cramped in this container, it has small hairs all over, along with coverings. Some creatures they smuggled have clothing or furs, customs from rituals or mating patterns to show something of importance but the Human’s covers are unlike anything he’s ever seen, it's probably straight from their planet.
There isn’t a mark on him, not that he would be able to tell what’s natural for it, a few darker speckles on its face and arms, five fingers, he can see blush imprints of veins on its wrists and connecting to its knuckles. On its face, there is a pointed nose, two eyes, a mouth that is obviously used as a weapon if its grimace and flash of sharp teeth is anything to base off of, and it has two smooth ears, very similar to Wilbur’s but as if they were stunted while growing.
Philza speaks up behind him, “It looks like he needs room temperature areas, or else its skin will turn colours, it needs nesting, obviously because of its lack of natural hairs or appendages, omnivore which is convenient, apparently its organs are fragile and it has a lot of nerves throughout its body?”
He scrolls through the information, some of it seeming dubious to him, but as far as they know the greater universe has only interacted with dead humans, this is an entirely different thing.
“Nerves? Like it would be in constant pain?” Wilbur points out.
“Poor design is what it is,” Techno huffs.
“We can put him in one of the softer areas close to the engine, the sound shouldn’t bother them, but we need to make sure we don’t grab him too roughly, or else it could cause skin damage.”
Technoblade hums, running a hand over the crate and beginning to shift it. The human’s eyes finally fall shut, but its eyelids move. Techno shivers a bit at the thought of valuable organs so close to the open air, unprotected by layers and layers of blood and skin.
“Let’s get him out of the landing bay, we are still on the clock,” Philza reminds them, “You got your mystery, Wilbur?”
Wilbur’s eyes glint, “I think I have.”
——
He has been in the dark, that fucking 3 by 4 fucking whatever sized boxed for so long. He spent his awake hours poking at the holes at the bottom and top of the container, a shipping container like for an animal traveling overseas.
He doesn’t know where he is or where he was being sent to. He is thirsty and hungry and his neck is in pain from being unable to comfortably lay down. He’s angled his arms in all sorts of ways to try and get some rest only to burst awake at the last second, hit his head on the wall of his box, and panic again.
Over and over the cycle continues. Sometimes he would hear people moving outside the box, sometimes he would see shapes and shadows, but it became less and less frequent until he found himself falling asleep basically standing up.
It was bliss, freedom from the constant edge of unconsciousness and uncertainty, he felt himself begin to doze but something felt off.
He shut his eyes, only for a second, and then the next time he opened them he was on the move, his box on wheels. He couldn’t hear people talking and when he fell against one side of the box to get their attention.
There is a human in this box, if you even care. Tommy isn’t an animal, he isn’t meant to be here, he wants a bed and a drink of water, and maybe some light.
He can’t speak, his lips are numb like he just came home from the dentist, he can barely open his jaw to breathe in much less form coherent sentences.
After hours stuck in the dark Tommy was almost completely certain he had been kidnapped, that there were people out there transporting him to certain doom like some freaky cult or fighting ring or something where he would be stuck for labour and he is uselessly compliant in it, in his dozes he imagines himself strung up in lights, or opened from his prison to take a swing at his captors, or even imagines himself waking up in bed again.
The noise and weird tips and turns of his half awake state, while he was physically changing locations, was a much better alternative to the constant silence in his opinion, kept him aware.
But to think about it like that, almost unable to keep standing while at such a steady pace, he can barely keep his eyes open despite feeling like he is going to throw up. Instead of feeling bile rise in his throat and immediately kicking him into overdrive, it's like he is allowing it to suffocate him, letting his body go through the motions while his mind races elsewhere.
So maybe it's not better than the quiet darkness. Then, he stops moving, and just when he feels like he can finally rest, back into evil familiarity, someone knocks on the side of the box.
Tommy’s head perks up, through half lidded eyes, he tries to lift his own arm to knock back, letting them know he is still alive, still fighting, still worth it. He stumbles into the side, feet barely able to brace themselves against the edges of the container.
The darkness is cut through, he cringes, teeth pressing together as he squints into the sudden change, blissful, it’s everything he wanted.
Light, blurring his eyes, but a blessing all the same. He can already feel his skin warm under the new hue. There are people here, walking around him, at least two he sees, maybe three or four.
He doesn’t remember shutting his eyes against it, but when he remembers to open them, it’s almost immediately obvious he is out of his previous box, thrown into another unknown.
A room, bright and nearly empty. There is no door, no windows, and no trim or difference between the ceiling and the floor, like a psych ward softbox for the crazy people but without the padded walls.
Tommy isn’t crazy though, and modern-day therapists don't put crazy people in boxes. Right?
He tries to stand but his arms and legs are asleep and immediately paralyses him with pins and needles.
Tommy inhales sharply and leans back down, curling and uncurling his fingers to return feeling to them as he wakes up.
His mouth is still dry, cottony against his gums. The light in this room, despite no obvious fixtures where it would be coming from, is bright and not yellow-tinted like most bulbs are.
Turning his head and wiping the crust from his eyes, he sees a corner of the room with blankets and a few pillows scattered around it but no mattress, an empty bowl on another side of the room that is wide enough that he could dunk his whole face into.
A small ledge or stick of the same material of the walls sticks out against one of the walls, on the underside of it is like a watering can spout, filled with holes.
Tommy tries again to sit up, with much more success, groaning as he lifts himself with his arms. All of his bones are lightly cracking and he twists his neck to feel it loosen as well.
He shakes out his arms lightly and rises to a crouch, spinning in a circle. His mind is blank for a moment until it clicks, this is a bigger box, this time, no air holes.
“Hello?” He brokenly whispers into the open air. No one answers him, he doesn’t even know where to look to ask.
There are no seams on the walls, when he tears apart the smattering of sheets to look under it it's the same white flooring. The bowl on one side of the room can’t be lifted or moved, it's attached to the floor and no pushing or kicking from his bare feet can budge it. The one ledge he has he can’t even reach, even when he jumps to it but it appears to be seamless too.
He runs around the edges of the room like a hamster running around a wheel. He feels the walls for any raised spots, he even stops once or twice to knock on the walls and the floors to hear if it’s hollow but he can’t tell.
Tommy stops, breath heaving, in the middle of the white box, and lets out a loud scream, just to hear himself.
Clenching his hands and raising his shoulders against his lonely sound. He screams and screams until he runs out of breath and then he does it again until it becomes too painful against his dry throat.
He falls silent, there is a ringing in his ears and his mind feels hollow and painful. Licking his lips with a dry tongue, panting, like an animal. He is stuck here.
Tommy falls into a crouch and allows his back to slide down the wall until he hits the floor then allows his body to slide fully so he is laying sideways of the metal flooring, his shoulder blades pressing against the cool floor with each breath. He casts his eyes upwards, looking up at the blank ceiling.
He is here now, what’s different from the box? He knows there are people out there, who moved him, who touched him and brought him here free of injury or pain besides dehydration and starvation, he will survive this but for what.
Where is he going now?
Useless, useless thoughts, he tilts his head as if to listen but there is only silence, the one thing he can move and touch in this room is a sturdy blanket and a few firm pillows that smell like they have been soaked in fresh metal. So he drags himself over to the pile and feels the texture against his fingers.
He reaches and pulls it to him, wrapping it tightly around his arms and leaving his back exposed as he curls into it, blocking out the world, he is too thirsty for his eyes to water but he blinks away the sting.