Chapter Text
Techno had, objectively, an awful power.
He didn’t use it. He refused to—at least, not in the normal sense. Most powers required effort. They were something like sprinkling commands into your voice, to setting things ablaze, to spreading new wings.
He didn’t have anything like that. His required no effort. All it required was a single condition.
He did not enjoy meeting that condition.
He didn’t even know he had a power until it was too late. Until that condition had been met.
It was a Monday evening. He was heading home after a long day on campus. He’d worked for a couple hours at the mailing center before attending his classes. He’d been up since four in the morning. He wanted to go home, eat a cup of spicy ramen, and fall asleep.
He didn’t know there was a villain there before it was too late. He didn’t know to watch out for a hero coming and swooping in to save the day.
The hero had set the area ablaze to rid it of the villain.
Burning alive wasn’t the way he wanted to go. The pain was unbearable; he could remember nothing but the pain and the fire in that hero’s eyes.
He woke up that Monday morning to his alarm going off again.
Going through that day was hell. He was numb. The packages were the same. The lectures were the same.
He took the long way home.
The news broadcasted a story that night about the fantastical, fire-powered hero that beat the evil villain. They sang his praises.
Because of him, only three civilians died.
He wondered how many of them burnt.
It happened again a few times after that. Over the next two years, Techno earned his PhD in history. Over the next few years, Techno died four times and woke up again. Same day, same morning of his supposed death. One time it even happened on the day of his final, most important exam.
He felt grossly thankful. He passed with flying colors.
He didn’t die again for another year. It was lucky. Ever since the first time, he thought the world was out to get him. There was no way it was normal for him to be in so much danger.
The world was definitely out to get him.
A few days before his work promotion, the hero drafts started. They called in every citizen and ran them through a test of some sort.
Techno was sure he’d fail it. How the hell did you measure something like his power?
The hero drafts were an awful concept. If this country had so many villains, maybe they should make some changes to the government.
He entered the testing room. It wasn’t what he was expecting. Some sort of gadget stood in the middle of the room.
They told him to put his hand to it. He did so.
Twenty minutes later, he was in a room with some sort of important hero. He didn’t like the look of them. He wore a mask. It was ugly. It reminded Techno of a teletubby.
He asked Techno questions. First, they were normal.
Did he know he had powers?
Yes.
Did he register them in the association?
No.
Why not?
Techno didn’t think it would be particularly useful to them.
What was his power?
…
Techno hesitated on that one. It felt awful. Having to admit he’d died five times already. Twice to fire, once to drowning, one to a fall, and another to electrocution.
He explained it, anyway. The masked man looked intrigued. He looked fascinated, even though Techno couldn’t see behind his mask.
The man asked him about his deaths.
He told him that all of them were caused by different heroes.
The room became tense after that. Almost as if the masked hero expected him to snap. But what could Techno do? Die? And then what? Would he go on the run from the government?
He huffed a little as the interview continued. The masked man let him go and said they’d be in touch with him about his drafting results.
Techno once thought they were fools. They were foolish idiots, and that’s why heroes caused the death of civilians.
Now he knew they were just plain evil.
…
He supposed life at the association wasn’t all that bad. He had a television, and they gave him access to YouTube and a bunch of subscription services. Ad-free, too. Sure, they kept him locked up, but he had, essentially, an entire ass apartment. Free of charge.
Well, not really.
When a battle went horribly wrong, they just… killed him. He didn’t know how. He’d be sitting on the couch or playing the violin, and then he’d just wake up that same morning.
He told them every time it happened.
They were always grateful. No one seemed to know how to act around him. He didn’t know why he stayed so… casual. Maybe he knew he had no chance of escaping. Maybe he knew he wouldn’t ever see the outside world again.
After all, his power was useless in this situation. Maybe he could keep killing himself over and over to make the perfect escape plan with every new piece of information.
He didn’t want to try that, though.
They didn’t treat him badly enough for him to want to do something like that. (After all, he didn’t even know if it would work if it was self-inflicted.)
A long time passed. He kept track through the dates on YouTube.
He’d been stuck in the association for two years. His twenty-fifth birthday just arrived.
But maybe it was time for something to change.
He startled awake in bed, his head pounding. He glanced at the clock. Six in the morning. He’d just been eating dinner in front of the TV.
This was the sixth time he’d repeated his birthday.
He scrubbed at his face and stood up. He dressed himself in some semblance of proper clothes—they weren’t his style, but he liked it better than the pajamas. It made him feel a bit more normal—and headed for the entryway.
He passed by the bathroom, the living room, then the kitchenette. A wall stood in front of him. It didn’t look like an entryway at all; not if you didn’t look closely. Once you did, though, you could see the cracks on the wall, a thin line that broke a seamless white.
Next to it sat a little button. Like a harmless doorbell.
He had to press it every single time he came back. If he didn’t, the day would just endlessly repeat itself. He had tried it once. It had just been incredibly boring.
He pressed a pale hand against the white doorbell. He held it for a few moments; his hands were shaky. Maybe he should’ve eaten before this. Eh, whatever. He’d just get interrogated, and then they’d be on their way. Maybe he could even make himself something before then.
Moving towards the kitchen, he glanced at the stove. Still off. That was good. He opened up the fridge and ended up taking out a single apple.
He wished they’d given him a home gym. Then maybe they’d let him eat unhealthy stuff. He missed spicy ramen so very much.
The door behind him sunk to the floor, and in came the associates. He lifted his head and stalled.
…
A different man strode in. He wore some sort of military outfit; decked in dark green, gold trims, and metals.
The man’s eyes bored into him. Techno didn’t look away.
“Can I help you?” Techno’s eyebrows raised, and he took a bite of his apple. What was the guy gonna do? Kill him?
“How many times have you come back?”
Techno paused, taking his time to chew and swallow. “This is my sixth twenty-fifth birthday, if that’s what you're asking. Who are you?”
The man paused, too. He didn’t move his gaze. “My name is Dante. I’m the head director of the Association.”
“Doesn’t seem too good if you came down to visit me yourself.”
Dante shifted. “Take a seat, Technoblade.”
“Nah.”
The man’s eye twitched. Techno’s lips twitched upwards in response. He hid it with his apple as the man continued, “Fine. We’re changing up how we do things.”
“How’s that?” His eyebrow perked.
“You’re coming with us.”
Techno couldn’t hide his emotions this time. His eyebrows raised. “...What?”
“I can feel it when you use your powers. A lot of heroes can,” Dante said with a shrug. “So we’ve decided on a plan. Instead of making you sit in here, we’ll have you watch the battle. See what we can do. You’ll tell us what they did, how we can prevent it.”
He swallowed thickly. His pulse picked up. “Why weren’t you guys doing that in the first place?”
Dante rolled his eyes at the apparent bad memory. “The director of the humanities thought it wouldn’t be humane to do so. That you should be kept away from anything painful. I think it’s bullshit.”
Techno licked his dry lips. “Good to know someone’s fightin’ for me.”
The man ignored him and continued on. “We’ll still make your death painless. Your duty is to watch the battle, and watch it closely. Tell us how to improve. Tell us how to win.”
“I’m just some guy, Dante,” he said. He hoped using the military guy’s name would annoy him.
It did. Dante’s eyes narrowed. He stayed quiet for a few moments before he simply settled on, “You’re not. And we’ll do this however many times it takes to get these fuckers into our custody.”
Techno swallowed once more.
He was taken out without another word.
He met a batch of heroes. He stared down at them. Some of them looked far too young. The hero drafting must not’ve stopped. The masked man was there, too. Techno, briefly, just for a moment, wanted him to die.
But Techno was a pacifist. He took in a deep breath as everyone introduced themselves. Everyone seemed uneasy around him. He felt uneasy around them, too.
Surely he’d see them all die soon.
Chitina. A boy dressed in a bee costume. Techno almost laughed at him.
Obsidian. Another boy—albeit one taller than him—who just wore some sort of… admittedly unsettling suit and mask.
Masked. The masked guy. Techno did laugh at him.
It would just be the three of them for now. Masked to supervise. They said it was just a scout mission.
The boys would surely die. His heart squeezed in his chest.
They brought him to the battlefield. A man went with him. A nurse, they’d said. He didn’t quite believe it.
But they were already on a nearby rooftop. They were already watching the fight below.
Techno watched closely. He was afraid of the punishment he’d receive if he didn’t. They’d never punished him before, but…
If heroes could sense the time he kept rewinding, then they might now. At least he could be relieved of his fear, that he was hopping multiverses and killing himself in the world he left behind.
He puffed out a breath as two people emerged. He laughs under his breath. The man shoots him a glare.
Listen, just… he didn’t expect it. The one in the lead wore a literal blindfold over his face. Maybe he was blind; like the Daredevil or whatever. Then he would, admittedly, feel bad for laughing. He probably shouldn’t. Villains weren’t good, either. Right? Yeah, probably. Then again, he shouldn’t be ableist.
What was most definitely a child walked behind the older one. His hair was golden. It shimmered in the sunlight. He was shocked they were doing this in the day. It would’ve been more dramatic at night.
He lifted his head a little, towards the nurse. “Who’re they?”
The man scoffed. Techno’s eyebrows twitched.
“I’m supposed to report everything back after we all die, mate. Wanna keep dying because you won’t tell me shit?”
That seemed to loosen him up. Techno watched his face pale. “...The brunet’s name is Siren. Tiny kid is Apollo.”
“They’re big names, then?”
“Sort of.” He glanced to the side. Techno kept his gaze on the growing, heated discussion. “They… They work with the Angel of Death.”
“Who’s that?”
“You don’t know who the Angel of Death is?” The man sounded incredulous. He ran his hand through black hair. “He popped up a bit over a year ago. He’s… awful. Siren and Apollo have been out here for years, but ever since that damned old man…”
Techno wanted to upset him further. Scare him a little more. He didn’t know why. Dryly, he said, “I’ve been held captive by the Association for two years. Of course I don’t know who he is.”
The man’s face dropped, his mouth forming a little ‘o’.
Techno’s attention was dragged back to the fight. He stilled to watch. To take in every little detail.
It looked sort of fun.
The fight seemed rather evenly matched. Siren did most of the work. “Why isn’t Apollo fighting that much?”
“His specialty is in healing.” The man’s voice was dry. “He can fight, still, but… that’s not what he’s here for.”
“I see.”
The battle continued on. Techno was surprised Siren kept up so well. But, it was practically three against one. Apollo had jumped in to start properly fighting now.
But then the sky went black.
Techno’s shoulders tensed. His eyes flicked up to the sky as the man gasped beside him. The sun was still there. He could see a blue sky not far from here.
“It’s—” The man gasped, panicked. “He’s coming. ”
“Who?” Techno asked. Purely curious. He couldn’t force himself to be panicked, too. Not even fake it.
“ The Angel. ”
Techno almost wanted to laugh at how dramatic it was. The entrance. The way the heroes below tensed up, the way the nurse started to squeeze his shoulder.
A man stepped out from behind a building. Techno could hear the clicks from up here. He wore a large bucket hat, a large robe. Even larger wings spread behind him.
“W-We… We have to tell the Association that the Angel is back,” the nurse breathed. His nails dug into Techno’s skin from where he squeezed. “That’s why our mission has been failing so often.”
Techno couldn’t tear his eyes away.
The Angel seemed keen to slaughter.
He opened his mouth to say something. He thought it might’ve been something like… admiration.
Something stabbed into his neck.
He woke up in the morning of the same day.
Dante appeared before him again. He told him everything; every detail. About how the Angel remained hidden until the other two were in trouble. The way Apollo refrained from doing much at all, not until Siren was in trouble.
They cared deeply about each other, he noted. His gaze flicked to the wall.
So they tried again.
Dante had gone for a mean sort of plan. To send out heroes meant to weaken. Meant to wear Siren and Apollo out.
Then they would slaughter them before the Angel could swoop in.
It didn’t work. The only ones slaughtered were the heroes.
Techno woke up again.
He woke up again.
And again.
And again.
And again, and again, and again, and…
He lost track of how many times he’s gone through this day. Every plan Dante or some other director came up with ended up in blood.
The ends of Techno’s hair kept growing longer. They were starting to turn a different color. Techno didn’t like it.
His neck started to sting. The nurse—Quackity, he had learned—was starting to get worse at injecting whatever that was. Maybe it’s because, with every loop, he got more panicked. More worried. Less confident.
It was almost amusing.
He woke up again.
A new batch of heroes. He would watch them die. He would watch their blood splatter, and he’d try not to stare.
He always stared.
He woke up again.
If Dante could notice, then surely someone as strong as the Angel had noticed by now. But what could they do? They might feel a sense of deja vu, but he couldn’t put it anywhere. He wouldn’t know what it was. Who did it. How to stop it.
The anonymity was nice. He had a sort of… power over the Angel. This almighty man, one who screamed of death, who slaughtered those who stood in his way.
He couldn’t escape Techno’s powers. Nobody did.
After all, if he had to stay in the Association’s chains for the rest of his life, he might as well seek power wherever he can get it.
The fights continue.
Techno knows… so much about Siren and Apollo now. Siren likes to fight on the defensive. He likes to taunt. He guides his opponent into attacking first, and then he slips out of the way just in time, using the heroes’ weights against them. Techno appreciated it. It was fresh. Fun to watch.
Apollo had the exact opposite problem. Techno couldn’t help but assume that Siren must beat him up all the time. He’d fall for every single taunt given. He charges and he screams and he rages and he grins and he laughs, and…
It’s an odd sight.
He’d been able to catch more glimpses of the Angel. Quackity usually injected him before he could study the man fully. But he watched. Excitement coursed through his veins every time the man appeared. The way the darkness stretched. Every single time, silence washed over the crowd, and all he could hear was the clicking of the Angel’s shoes on the concrete.
He wanted to know more. He didn’t know enough. He only ever saw the man swing once or twice, with what seemed to be a sword made of sickly, wisping shadows.
He wanted to know how the man painted the ground in blood so efficiently.
And that’s when it started.
The voices in his head.
Phil, Wilbur, and Tommy were having a hell of a day. This morning, the three of them would wake with pounding headaches. This morning was filled with deja vu. They were all hit with it hard.
Phil would say, “I’m going to stay behind—”
“–-until something goes wrong—” Wilbur would chime in.
“—but I’m sure you both will do fine,” Tommy would finish.
It would make them sit in stunned silence. Because something was off. Even more so than it had been in the past two years. Phil had come home due to the oddities, anyway.
It had to be due to the hero battle.
They all agreed on that. But they stuck to their original plan. Phil would scout the area while Tommy and Wilbur fought.
Something in his mind told them that they were tricky hiders. As if he’d looked for them before.
He’d find the problem. He’d fix it. Or kill it.
So he scouted. Wilbur and Tommy were getting on fine. He searched, and he searched, and he stopped at a surprisingly tall building.
He could sense something. It was almost like bloodlust.
He entered the building. He slid up the stairs, keeping his ears perked for any danger. Wilbur and Tommy were just fine.
He took the steps quickly. He somehow still appeared graceful.
The entrance to the roof was locked behind a keypad. He gripped the door’s handle and simply tore it off, his gaze landing on the two figures on the roof. They both peered off the edge of the to watch the fighting below. One sat on the edge, and the other stood behind him, a tight grip on his shoulder.
They both turned to look when the door went flying.
And he stepped forward. His shoes clicked. The standing man shifted, lifting some sort of syringe. A clear liquid sloshed inside of it.
Phil’s shadows warped, beginning to envelop the sky. A tendril gripped the man’s hand, squeezing so hard that he dropped it.
The syringe fell and shattered against the floor.
“Well, well,” Phil murmured, stepping forward. “What do we have here?”
The bloodlust had disappeared. His gaze shifted and landed on the man who still sat.
“Who are you?”
The man swallowed. “...No one.”
“You’re always somebody, mate.” Phil’s eyes perked. “What have you been doing to us?”
“No clue what you mean, ‘mate’,” he said, slightly mocking. Phil rumbled with laughter. He didn’t seem to have any fear.
“This day. It seems to be—”
He cut himself off when the other pulled something out—a gun. His shadows rushed forward, to ensure the gun was aimed away from himself, but—
The man shot his companion in the head.
And then Phil woke up that same morning.