Chapter Text
Six months later, and Technoblade finds himself in a familiar port, sans one hand and a ship.
After the sinking of his ship and subsequent loss of his entire crew in the wake of the freak storm, he’d taken it upon himself to resign his mantle as a captain of the Navy. No self-respecting captain allows his ship to go down without him, and yet, intentionally or not, that’s exactly what he did all those months ago. He can scarcely get a good night’s rest without remembering the sounds of splintering wood and strangled screams and the feeling of icy water crashing over him again and again—let alone getting behind the helm again.
And his hand?
It’d been taken from him as punishment for his failure. It was only fitting, really. He’d stood before his superiors, in disgrace and disarray, and confessed his sins for all to hear. How he, a captain of the Royal Navy, had abandoned his ship and his crew to a watery grave. How he’d stretched out that same hand, and in turn taken the hand of a criminal, of a pirate, and accepted his aid. And his superiors had looked upon him with cold disdain and asked him but one question:
“Which hand?”
His fighting hand.
It still hurts, most days. The metal of the prosthetic is cold and unyielding, rubbing against the scarred joint in a way that makes his bones ache with phantom pain. It’s a constant reminder of what he’d done, of the mistakes he’d made, and of the cruelty of those he’d sworn his allegiance to for the majority of his life. He’s learned to live without it as best he can, training into the late hours of the night, relearning what had once been instinct, retraining his muscles to balance on the opposite side. It’s discouraging work, and some days he takes more steps back than forward, no matter how the sweat drips from his back from the labor of his efforts.
He’s begun to lose hope in ever regaining what was lost.
He works at the docks now. It’s mediocre work, but he’s good at it.
He misses the sea.
Sometimes he stands at the window of his room and stares out at the tide as it pulls in and out from shore. He watches the sailors as they pass by on shore leave, milling about purchasing supplies and regaling their loved ones with stories of their trip. He sits in the pub and listens to the pirates, and for once doesn’t shudder with distaste at their fanciful, exaggerated tales of heroism and daring escapes; instead, clinging to them for whatever comfort of familiarity he can get his hands on. It’s not his position to apprehend them anymore, anyway. And so he leaves them be, and dwells in his envy, and tries to remind himself that the situation he’s in rests on his shoulders; that the only one to blame for his distance from the sea is himself, for he could have found his resting place there instead.
He blames the storm, sure—the wind and the waves and the thunder each deemed his enemy. He blames the pirate, Philza—his captor, turned his rescuer—for being the reason they traveled those waters, for pulling him free from the sea’s grasp to live another day with the guilt of the lives of his crew resting upon his shoulders.
But most of all, he blames himself.
He keeps a journal. In it are the names of every single member of his former crew—every life lost to the wreck. He inks their names, again and again, committing them time and again to his memory for fear of ever forgetting how much they meant to him. They were his comrades, and he their captain, and he thinks he’ll live forever with the burden of being the only one to make it out of the wreckage alive. There are no bodies to recover, no belongings to return to their grieving families. Everything went down with the ship, now resting somewhere on the ocean floor.
All he has left is the memories.
He distracts himself with his work, mostly. He puts his shoulder to the grindstone and works the docks from sunrise until sunset, carrying crates of cargo and helping the ships make port, securing them to the docks with lines, and helping to lower the gangplanks. He wakes up, watches the sun rise over the horizon, goes to work, and returns just in time to see it set. He loses himself in the familiarity, though a persistent tug remains in the back of his mind, forever calling for something he can’t have anymore.
It’s on a day like any other that the monotony finally comes to an end.
He’s helping a crew of tired merchants unload their supplies to the dockside market. The docks are unusually busy today, teeming with crews from all walks of life, pirates and wealthy lords walking alongside one another without so much as batting an eye. He’s feeling a bit of the stress from such a crowded dock, struggling to navigate around clusters of unaware bystanders as he and the other dockhands carry the precious cargo. He sets down his barrel and leans on it for a moment as the hot tropical sun beats down on the back of his neck, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve as he casts his gaze out over the scene before him.
And then, across the crowd, he sees him.
A shock of blonde hair, tied up messily with an old bandana. A worn green coat, a dirty face, a cocky smile. He stands amidst a smattering of men beside the docks, alongside a small, sleek vessel, built for speed and swiftness across the waters rather than the brute force of the Navy’s ships. His laughter rings out through the open air amidst the cry of the gulls and the roar of the waves, and for a moment, Technoblade is back in the dinghy, clinging desperately to consciousness as he’s regaled with tales of adventures past.
And then he’s back, and the laughter has stopped.
And Captain Philza, the Angel of Death, is staring back at him.
He’s moving before he can even think—pushing through the crowd on feet with wings, faster and faster until he’s practically jogging. He rushes at the man, intent on—well, he’s not quite sure yet. He’s torn between a few options, but nevertheless skids to a halt directly in front of him, watching as a myriad of emotions flicker across the pirate’s face. Shock, confusion, anger, speculation, and—
Happiness?
“Hey, mate,” Philza says brightly.
And Technoblade punches him.
Philza reels, the sound filling the air with a heavy thunk, the crowd around them falling silent to watch the confrontation unfold. A crow, previously perched unnoticed on the man’s shoulder, takes to the sky with an indignant squawk. Philza staggers backward, clutching at his jaw, and for a moment, Technoblade forgets how to breathe. He’s just punched Philza. The most renowned captain in the seas, a man with two dozen sunken ships to his name and a reputation of death and destruction that follows him like a shadow wherever he goes. The Angel of Death, the menace of the western sea, former captain of the Styx herself.
And then Philza straightens, looks him in the eye, and laughs.
“S’pose I deserve that one,” he chuckles, and Technoblade is left to stare as he rubs at the rapidly darkening mark along his jawline. “Fucking hell, mate, felt like getting hit by a brick.”
“Uh.” It’s only then that he realizes his knuckles aren’t stinging.
He’s just punched Captain Philza with his prosthetic. His iron prosthetic.
“Sorry?”
Philza waves him off, even as a few concerned companions step forward toward him—a young blonde boy sputtering insults while his smaller companion grabs at his sleeve to stop him. He spits out a little blood and blinks the fresh tears out of his eyes, his smile never faltering. He looks so jovial, so unconcerned, that it’s almost hard for Technoblade to remember why he was mad in the first place.
“S’all good, mate.” He pauses his ministrations, wincing as he presses a little too hard against his new bruise, and casts a thoughtful look down.
“New hand?”
Ah. Now he remembers.
All of the emotion from the past six months comes flooding over him, unbottled and unrestrained. He grabs the man by the shirt, yanking him forward until they’re nearly nose-to-nose, and his anger only grows when that damned smile, coy and mocking, refuses to slip away at the threat. He wants to wipe it right off of the man’s smug mug. It’s the least he deserves for what he’s done, for how he’s ruined his life; for as much as Technoblade blames himself for the loss of his crew, he blames Philza for the subsequent loss of his career and his hand.
“You bastard,” he growls.
“That’s me,” Philza quips, his grin suddenly all-too-sharp.
“I lost everything.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” The pirate wrenches himself free. “Hardly everything. You’re still alive, aren’t you? You’re still here?” He huffs. “Could’ve left you there, but it seems ol’ Philza’s still a big fuckin’ softie, after all.”
“You should’ve left me!” And oh, he’s shouting now, shoving his finger in Philza’s face. “At least then I wouldn’t be the only one left!”
“I saved your life!”
“You ruined my life!”
Philza bares his teeth then.
“You ruined your own life, joining them.”
Technoblade’s hand aches with phantom pain.
“Don’t you dare. You cost me my ship, my crew, my hand—!”
“Now that just isn’t fair,” Philza snarks, but his brow is furrowed, his obnoxious smile beginning to drop, his hackles raising. “You wanna blame me for saving you? Fine. But don’t take your self-pity out on me. We’ve all lost people. Get over it.”
Crack. His knuckles, this time flesh and bone, connect hard with the pirate’s nose.
Philza reels.
“Oh, you motherfucker.”
And then Technoblade draws his sword, and the fight begins.
There’s a shrill scream from a passing woman as the crowd parts around them, tripping and stumbling in their haste to get away from the weapons that have been drawn. Someone is calling for them to stop, but Technoblade pays them no heed, surging forward to clash against Philza’s cutlass. The pirate grits his teeth, a low, breathy snarl slipping past his lips as they duel, his steps light and swift as he dances around Technoblade’s blows.
His fighting style is infuriating. It’s in such striking opposition to Technoblade’s own that it makes him nearly impossible to hit. Whereas Technoblade fights with force and hard, heavy strokes, Philza is light on his feet, ducking and weaving around every strike, his own lightning-fast as they nick at Technoblade’s arms and calves. They’re shallow, but they sting like all hell, and Philza’s face quickly shifts back to that damned smirk, and soon the spaces between blows are filled with teasing laughter and short, mocking quips.
“That the best you can do, mate?”
Technoblade grunts as the tip of the blade catches his cheek, streaking the side of his face in warm crimson. He retaliates with ferocity, landing a graze across the pirate’s ribs, delighting in the hiss it elicits.
“Stand still!” He hisses, when Phil darts away once more, narrowingly avoiding a strike that sends a few wisps of his hair floating through the air. And Philza laughs again, bell-like and bright as he hurdles up onto a nearby stack of crates, brandishing his weapon as he stands to finally tower over his opponent.
“C’mon, then! Let’s see what you’ve got!”
He’s quickly catching on to the smallest of indications—a slight tilt of the head, a shifting of the feet as the man prepares his next attack. He finds himself almost enjoying the fight as it progresses, the initial adrenaline of his anger dwindling into a pleasant focus as he meets the man strike-for-strike, beginning to even the playing field and following the pirate around as he leads them on a lap of the docks, leaping from obstacle to obstacle and pushing through startled crowds. They play cat and mouse, exchanging blows and insults, the cries of the bystanders swelling into a muted roar as they have eyes only for one another. It doesn’t help that the captain never stops laughing—taking clear delight in their battle. It’s almost contagious, and he catches himself chuckling aloud when the man stumbles, providing the perfect opportunity for Technoblade to shove, throwing his next blow completely off course and very nearly sending him head-first into the water.
“Not too bad,” Phil grins, through his bloodied nose and newly-tattered jacket as they both step back for a moment to catch their breaths. “Gonna have to patch this thing up again, thanks to you. You’re quicker than I thought you’d be.”
“Thought I’d make it easy for you?”
“Nah,” Philza says with a shake of his head. “‘S fun, though. Haven’t had a fight this good in ages.”
They return to battle with renewed vigor. Technoblade strikes harder, faster—filled with a sudden, inexplicable determination not just to kill, but to win. He doesn’t just want revenge—not anymore. He wants to beat this man. He wants to prove him wrong. He wants to prove himself wrong, wants to do what once came so easily to him. And so he grits his teeth and pushes forward, and waits for the perfect opportunity to strike, putting Philza on the defensive this time, backing him into a corner, pressing him further and further back until he has nowhere to go but forward, surrounded on all sides by water as they make their way down one of the docks.
And then he sees it. An opening.
He abandons his sword in favor of kicking out, catching Philza right in the sternum with the heel of his boot. The air whooshes out of the man’s chest in a rush, and his knees wobble. Technoblade takes the opportunity to knock them out from under him, sending him toppling to the ground.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
Philza wheezes on the ground, clutching at his ribs while grappling blindly for his cutlass, which Technoblade kicks out of reach. His own lungs are heaving, his head spinning, but—he’s done it. He’s bested his enemy; he’s bested the Angel of Death himself. His opponent looks up at him, cheeks flushed and hair askew, bleeding from his lip and bruises painting his face, gritting his teeth as the point of Technoblade’s longsword dips beneath his chin, pulling it upright. The pirate looks up at him, wild-eyed and defiant but defeated, and then he does the inexplicable.
He smiles.
“Knew you had it in you, mate,” he says.
“...What?”
Philza laughs at that, and with one hand carefully guides the blade away from his throat, brushing the dirt off of his shirt with the other. And then he stands, and Technoblade lets him, too confused by the sudden change in mood to do anything but stare—though his sword remains fast in his grip, held close in preparation of some dirty, underhanded trick.
He is a pirate, after all.
“That hand of yours? ‘S not holding back shit, mate. You’re holding yourself back. You just beat me, right?” Philza’s grin widens then, and it lacks the malice it held before; this time something a little warmer, a little more genuine. Technoblade’s grip on his sword loosens. He stares numbly at his prosthetic, used to block blows and knock his opponent off-balance, and for the first time begins to appreciate its help. He’d thought it useless, but perhaps there’s something to be appreciated after all.
“Useless? Nah, mate. Just took some time to get used to it, I bet.” It’s then that he realizes he’s spoken aloud, and his opponent is watching him with a curious look in his eye, something akin to amusement and fondness flickering across his face. “You’ve still got plenty of room to improve, mind you—” and Technoblade glares, because he’d beaten him, hadn’t he? “—but you’re wasting yourself on these docks.”
That makes Technoblade pause.
“...There’s nowhere else I can go.” Gods, he longs to return to the sea. But the Navy won’t take him anymore, not after his shame, and he doesn’t want to waste away his days aboard a fishing vessel or guarding some stuffy merchants on their voyage.
Something shifts in Philza’s face, then.
“Isn’t there?”
“...What are you sayin’?”
“Well…” Philza tilts his head ever-so-slightly toward the vessel docked beside them, where a ragtag crew is still watching with eager, awed eyes.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Well, you see, Techno—can I call you Techno?”
“No.”
“You see, Techno, I seem to find myself in possession of a ship, a crew, and a quest. But there’s one thing I’m still missing.” And he eyes Technoblade like some prized possession, an eager glint in his narrowed blue eyes and a cat-like grin stretching across his lips. “I’m in need of a captain, Techno. And I’m pretty sure you’d fill that position just fine.” The business-like nature of his words does little to disguise the playfulness of his tone, as if he’s treating this recruitment as some sort of game.
“A captain?” Technoblade raises an eyebrow, perplexed, and folds his arms, doing his best to loom over the shorter man. Philza is unfazed.
“Yep. Been thinking of retiring from the whole ‘captain’ thing, ‘s all. Leadership isn’t quite what it’s cracked up to be. Could use someone to fill those shoes.”
“Uh-huh.”
It’s a weak excuse, and they both know it. After all, the pirate had practically poured out his life story to the former naval captain while they were both stranded at sea. As conniving as the man might be, there’s no hiding the flicker of reservation in his eyes—not from a man who’s spent a fair number of days interrogating prisoners in the past. He can read Philza like an open book—and he can practically smell the distrust rippling off of him in waves as the pirate shifts uncomfortably with his back to his waiting crew. Philza catches his eye and quickly moves on, his shoulders squaring and their gazes locking.
“They’ll listen to you. They saw you beat me, you’ve earned your merit.”
“You want me to—to become a pirate?” The words are bitter and distasteful on his tongue, scarcely suppressing a shudder at the thought of becoming what he’d spent his whole life fighting.
“Only temporarily.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Just one trip—one treasure. That’s all.”
“Me. A pirate.”
“Aww, mate, you’ll be a natural!”
He doesn’t know whether to be flattered or offended by that implication. He curls his lip either way, and Philza snorts, shaking his head as Technoblade starts to turn, starts to move away, prepares to leave this moment behind forever. He wants nothing to do with piracy, nothing to do with being a criminal. He’s spent his whole life fighting against it, working his way up the ranks, clawing for every scrap—every opportunity he could to succeed in the Navy. The last thing he wants to do is throw it all away on a fool’s whim, to abandon his morals for some foolish pirate who just so happened to save his life. He steps away, makes it a few feet into the ground, ignoring the murmurs of the bystanders. And then—
“Don’t you miss it?”
Technoblade freezes.
“Don’t you miss the tides? The wind in your hair? The smell of salt? The rocking of the hull beneath your feet, the rigging against your hands? Don’t you miss the water stretching as far as the eye can see? I know the ocean calls to you. She calls to us all.”
Technoblade turns, slowly.
“The ocean’s in your blood, Techno. You can’t just walk away from her forever.”
And it’s true. Even now, she calls to him. Amidst the cries of the gulls and the surge of the ocean against the docks and the bustle of the trading crowds, he can feel a tugging in his heart, a bittersweet nostalgia that chokes him, that urges him to take to the seas once more and follow his true calling. He remembers the melancholy of watching ship after ship depart from the harbor, of watching white sails catch the wind and leaving him standing alone, watching each vessel leave, while he stayed stranded on land. He thinks of the future—how this could be his life forever, cursed to live beside the sea but never venture back into her domain—and it’s more than he can bear. He knows what Philza is saying is true, and it’s clear the pirate knows it too, because he’s watching him with the smug satisfaction of a man who knows he’s won. But of course, he takes just one step further to gloat.
“Besides…” Philza hums contemplatively, stroking at the stubble on his chin. “If I remember right, you owe me a favor.”
Damn him.
“So, what do you say, Captain? Shall we set a course for the horizon?”
“...”
“Well?” Phil stretches out a hand expectantly.
And Technoblade takes it.
“One. Trip. That’s all.”
Philza laughs brightly, nods, and shakes it.
There’s no going back now.
“We’ll set off shortly then! Gather your things and meet the crew back here by noon. We’ll be waiting for you on the ship, so don’t take too long!” And just like that, he’s moving, giving Technoblade no indication of what he’s just signed himself up for—no course of action or even the briefest of introductions to his new crew. Just a smile and a wave and a wink, and the barest of instructions.
Somehow, it’s almost freeing.
“And Techno, mate?” Phil stops, halfway up the plank, and looks over his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Call me Phil.”