Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Really Wilbur? Skipping family night? Again? You know it’s mandatory.” He has finally picked up after the dozenth call, but Philza has been trying to reach his son for an hour and is more than a little exasperated. For a man like Philza, time isn’t money. Of course not, he has all the money in the world and exactly as much time as everyone else. As infinitely valuable as his hours are, when he schedules family movie night he’s deathly serious about it. “Your little brother is going to start crying, Wilbur. Oh no he’s tearing up, ahh the floodgates are open. I’m going to drown, Wilbur, you’ve killed your own father.” Actually, Thomas is cuddled up into his side contentedly, digging into a massive bowl of popcorn a servant brought. 

He blinks as he’s referenced, and leans in even closer to the receiver. “I’m gonna talk about tonight in therapy twenty years from now,” Thomas threatens. Yelping as Philza scruffs up his hair, he eases up a little. “You said you’d watch Moana.” Not that Thomas wants to watch that movie for the umpteenth time either, but Wilbur hates it even more than he does. 

“Please?” Philza asks gently. “I know you’re an adult now-” no, he’s barely eighteen and thinks that makes him independent, “-but family is still family-”

“I’m not—” Wilbur interjects. 

“And you promised to be here! You don’t spend enough time with Thomas as it is-”

“That’s not what’s happening, alright, he’s-”

“Missing his brother is what he is!”

“I'M NOT WILBUR. I’m just the guy who has him.”

Thomas asks what’s going on as Philza tenses beneath him, but Philza shushes him harshly as his worst nightmare unfolds and his world teeters on the verge of collapse. “Where is Wilbur?” His voice comes out dangerously low. 

“He’s with me.” At once he begins cataloging the voice. Deep, masculine, and American. Verging on hesitant; good. So he knows exactly who he’s dealing with. 

Furthermore, he’s telling the truth, as far as Philza can tell. Wilbur’s phone can only be unlocked with a thumb print, and not even the finest hackers in the world can change that. Wilbur is close to his kidnappers for the time being at least, though all that means is he’s in the heart of danger. “What have you done to him?”

“Nothing.” Yet. 

Wide blue eyes stare up at him, scared. “…Wilbur’s been taken too?”

Philza kisses his forehead. “No, sweety. I won’t let anything happen to our family.” He can’t afford to lose another son. He can’t. Fear penetrates to his very core. It’s been eighteen years since he discovered the empty cradle, but still it haunts his every waking breath. He can feel the ghost of Alexander watching, waiting for Philza to fail his twin the same way. But like so many times before, the grief in his chest trickles out in icy ire. “Let me talk to my son this. very. instant.”

“He’s knocked out.” A tremor of unease wavers the man’s voice, but Philza senses it like a bloodhound. The crack in the façade is what jumps him into motion. There’s a chance. Slim, maybe astronomical odds, but Philza has done the impossible before. 

Untangling from Thomas, a quick snap has guards coming, shepherding the boy to safety. “I hate the bunker,” Thomas mumbles, but he’s sheet white. Philza pulls up a contact, texting an order to track the origin of the phone call. 

“Uhhh, are you still th-”

“Listen closely,” Philza hisses like a viper, hearing a click on the other end that can either be a jaw snapping close or the safety of a gun being turned off. “You’ve made a grave mistake kidnapping my son. This isn’t a hostage negotiation; I don’t play like that. The moment you hurt him it’s a hunt. I will personally chase you to the ends of the earth, do you understand?”

“Wait-”

“Oh it’s too late for that. Nothing will save you. Do you hear me? Nothing.” The mansion becomes a flurry of activity, impermeable barriers dropping over the windows. “I’ll bring you back from the dead since Hell won’t torture you to the degree I will.”

“Stop, I only want you to-”

“If you think demands are going to work you don’t know me enough. The only ransom reward you’ll be paid is agony.”

“Hey! Can we just take a second to chill out-“

Checking the magazine of his M16, Philza ducks into his armored limo, rolling out in a fleet packed with the world’s finest soldiers. “Don’t expect mercy now, not after you’ve kidnapped my son.”

“I HAVEN'T! He’s DRUNK, okay!? OKAY!?!???”

Philza doesn’t buy it for a second. “It’s too late for a cover up-”

“Dude I don’t know what to tell you! He’s drooling in my bed at a party!” The voice gets dampened, like the caller is turning away from the receiver. Just faintly can Philza make out the words: “Bruuuh. What is wrong with your dad!?”

Philza immediately erases all vitriol from his voice. “Oh! I'm so sorry, haha, my bad.” He proceeds to hire extra snipers. “I’m such an overprotective Dad, you know how it is.” 

The person on the other end calms down. Good. If they’re put at ease they’ll be easier to catch off guard. “Uh. Right. Sorry about the…misunderstanding. Can you come pick him up? He keeps hitting me in his sleep.”

“Where are you, by the way?”

“Uhhh. At his college? The dorms, on the east side.”

“Which room?”

“I’ll. I’ll walk him out to the parking lot.” Suspicious. His source finally gets back —it took 9 whole minutes! He’s going to skin someone— confirming the location is on campus. Still he comes prepared for an ambush. Philza Craft isn’t taking risks. Not after last time. 

The entire college is surrounded. There isn’t a chance of getting in or out without Philza knowing. It could’ve been rigged to explode in a moment's notice, but unfortunately Wilbur is kidnapped currently. And very unconscious, though if that’s the effect of alcohol or something far more sinister he doesn’t know yet. He holds back for now, anticipating the moment his opponent reveals himself. Snipers line the buildings, waiting for his signal. Waiting for—

There. A pair of shadows hobbling out to the curb. One is clearly being dragged by the struggling other. Philza raises his binoculars as they step into a flickering street light. His son is recognizable in a heartbeat, but it’s the other he narrows in upon, searching for any way to identify the threat. The angle has their features shielded by a curtain of pink hair. They must know his vantage point, but that won’t save him for long. He scours the distant figure for details. Same height as Wilbur, skinnier. Philza’s eyes narrow on their garb. It’s not a bulletproof vest, or a suit, or anything else he expects a kidnapper to wear.

The man is in pink pajama pants and a Taylor Swift t-shirt. 

Uh. Huh. Okay, maybe this isn’t a hostage situation. Oops! Happens to the best of us lol. 

Techno is having a great time in college. His parent’s can’t bother him, even if they aren’t happy he went overseas. But with grades like his, scholarships come with lots of zeros, and he wants something prestigious. How else is he going to be the next great American author? Sure he’s having to work his butt off, but his plagiarism gig is really picking up, especially with all the legacies following their rich parents footsteps but unwilling to put the elbow grease in, so Techno’s raking it in hand over fist. Basically, his five year plan is going perfectly so far. Or, would be if his roommate Skeppy would stop throwing insane parties, the type where drunk strangers fall asleep in his bed. Especially when that drunk stranger looks nearly identical to him. 

…..wait what? Haeh? 

And like, technically they aren’t identical, but the guy’s a dead ringer for the Techno of a few years ago. Of course Techno’s hair straightened when he grew it out, and also the drunk guy hasn’t dyed it, but it’s kinda freaking him out, man. It has to be a prank right? He keeps glancing around expecting someone to jump out and scream ‘GET PUNKED LOSER!’ But time keeps going on and nothing happens except for more drool getting on his pillow. Ew. 

When yelled at, the dude proceeds to snore louder. When shaken, he swings sloppy punches. Uuuuuuugh. Techno was hoping to get at least six and a half hours of sleep tonight but noooo. The world is out to get him apparently! 

Okay, okay, maybe he screams like a little girl when the phone starts ringing. Sue him, his body double from age 16 is sleeping in his bed, it’s basically the start of a horror movie. Or a time travel movie! Ooo there’s a thought. Techno gets out his phone to jot it into his notes app before the drunk guy’s ringtone blares again, reminding him to stay on task. Digging through pockets nets him…an interesting array of items, from string cheese to weirdly textured white putty to just a lot like an insane number of 20 notes (one of which maybe slips into his pockets but hey! The dude’s sleeping in his bed! It’s called rent!). Eventually the phone is recovered, the screen displaying a caller ID belonging to a ‘Dad’. At first he figures there’s nothing he can do to answer, but the phone unlocks after just a press of the home button. Man, does this guy not have any security? Even having 1111 for a password would be better than nothing. 

But then…Jesus Christ what’s wrong with this guy’s dad?? Bro went from 0 to 100 in a second. ??? Chalk up another point for this being a horror movie. 

Anyway, Techno somehow gets even more freaked out, like the stunt double wasn’t bad enough already. Thankfully he manages to diffuse the situation but both his social and normal anxiety are pretty unhappy with the state of things. Is it really too much to ask for a normal night where he can just go to bed at a reasonable hour? It doesn’t have to be a reasonable hour, Techno really isn’t picky, but now he has to lug this Wil guy out to the curb since he’s a little paranoid about their father knowing where he lives. For some reason, getting death threats is a bit off putting for a first encounter. 

Techno braces himself for the unpleasant ordeal of touching a wasted stranger. God he hopes this guy hasn’t puked on himself. Ugh. Nothing for it. Attempting to touch the guy gets him slapped in the face. Ahhh. And Wil’s breath is positively rank. He hates his life. But eventually he manages to drag the guy out to the parking lot to wait. Is Wilbur getting heavier the longer Techno props him up? Maybe the laws of physics change exclusively to inconvenience him specifically. Really that’s just the type of luck Techno has. Techno swears every car rolling past slows down around him, and the hairs on the back of his neck raise like he’s being watched. Sue him for being antsy after some rando swore to track him to the ends of the earth and torture him. Sure it got cleared up eventually but– wait. Waiiiit hold on a second. 

…

……..is that a limo..?

………………….ohh god it’s stopping right in front of him. 

The man that steps out is immaculate, crisp to a point that is frankly absurd at this time of night. Not a strand of his shoulder-length golden hair out of place from where it’s pulled back, not a crease in his suit. Techno assumes it’s the latest fashion but frankly has no idea what that means. Something about the man just oozes, although Techno doesn’t know what word is supposed to follow the verb. Confidence? Power? Capitalism? Danger? Anyway the man oozes whatever it is like a palpable aura that makes Techno’s hair stand on end. Maybe rich people got built in static electricity generators. Or maybe it’s just late and his meds have worn off. 

A smooth duck through the door, a smooth extension to shake hands, a smooth smile, and then the man just stutters to a halt. Wil’s father simply stares. Fascination bordering on reverence fills his gaze. It’s almost naked and vulnerable in a way utterly foreign to everything he understands about the man. Oh…kay…sure. Why not? He might as well get even more whiplash from this guy. If Techno gets trapped another half hour from his bed while some father profusely thanks him for getting his son home, he’s gonna cry. Techno’s heel bounces against the pavement, and he lets his rose strands fall in front of his vision to avoid uncomfortable direct eye contact. Still, he can’t look away from the man, an atavistic instinct marking the danger too important to ignore. Because even though Wil’s dad stares like he’s personally hung every star in the sky, Techno only feels more uneasy. 

It’s him. It’s Alexander. He can’t help it. Philza steps forward in a trance, and at once the boy leans back, his dark eyes -Kristin’s eyes- wary. He’s imagined this moment for so, so many years. Piles of villains beneath his feet, sweeping his rescued prince up into the air and a tight embrace, finally, finally going home. Their family finally complete. 

Now, as to the reality of the moment…Philza could never have imagined in a million years the figure before him. Probably because his son isn’t actually a baby anymore, despite all expectations, though it’s far more than that. For some reason, he’s never pictured one twin would be wasted and draped over the other. Never imagined little moth holes in the collar of Alexander’s Taylor Swift t-shirt, or the ratty red and white jacket for a middle school he’s never heard of. Close up, he can see the little pigs and splashes of ‘oink!’ across the pink pajama trousers that end too far up the calf from an obvious growth spurt. Least of all could he have predicted physical differences. Long hair dyed bright pink, though there’s the reassurance of brown poking at the roots, and the natural part in the same place. The collar bone and cheeks sharper than Wilbur’s, chronic eye bags. Worst of all is the dark eyes that don’t look at him with instant adoration like Wilbur’s do. 

No. Never had he considered for a second that Alexander wouldn’t immediately recognize him. So no, actually, this isn’t what he wanted at all. It’s better in every way possible because the Alexander before him is real and therefore perfect. 

And then he hears his precious son speak for the first time in eighteen years: “Dude, your son drools. I’m talking buckets. My pillow would be cleaner if I threw it in the river. I don’t think bleach is enough to salvage it.”

Wil’s dad blinks at him. What? It is getting awkward out here. Not like Techno has anything else to talk about. “Where are my manners? I’m profusely sorry for my earlier comments. I don’t ever want you to feel unsafe.”

He looks at Techno intensely, but he’s starting to think that literally everything this guy does is intense. “Uh huh. It’s fine dude. Maybe wait till I start making demands before you jump to the hostage situation conclusion.” Honestly it sounds like the sort of logical leap his own head often makes, but Techno takes great pains not to actually say stuff like that out loud because it’s mortifying. 

“It's been said I can be a tad…over reactive. I am a wealthy man; kidnapping has happened in the past. My family is the most important thing to me in the whole world.”

Techno’s eyebrows crawl into his hair. Oh. So that probably was a reasonable response. “Jeez dude that’s freaky. Man, I can't even imagine something like that really happening.”

Philza waves a hand to dismiss Alexander’s worries (alongside the snipers he forgot to call off). “Still I jumped the gun on that one, I'm so very sorry for frightening you. Can I make it up to you?” Can he ever? How does Philza fix eighteen missing years? 

“Can you take your kid? He’s kinda heavy.” Though he had to struggle to carry Wil out, his dad scoops him up with ridiculous ease and gently delivers him to the limo. Unfortunately he turns back around and keeps talking. 

“You know, I almost couldn’t tell which of you was which when I pulled up.”

Oh thank god it’s not just him that sees it. “Weird right? Kinda cool I guess, could use it for pranks.”

“What are the odds of finding your identical twin?” he asks curiously. 

“I wouldn’t go that far. Plus, I mean, there’s like seven billion people. It’s bound to happen.” 

He laughs a bit too much, like there’s a joke Techno isn’t catching. “Could say it’s fate.”

Alexander shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Could also say it’s 2 am. Right. Uh. I’m gonna go now, it’s late.” Panic spikes in Philza’s chest. The conversation hasn’t been long enough! It hasn’t been eternity yet! 

“Wait, I really should thank you for making sure my son finally came home safe. What did you say your name was again?”

“I, uh, didn’t. And really you’re doing me a bigger favor by making sure he isn’t drooling on my pillow.” 

“Here, have my business card.” It’s taken and shoved unceremoniously into a jacket pocket. “I do insist on some token of my gratitude.”

The boy jitters, glancing back to the dorms. “I think my best reward would be sleeping.”

He doesn’t know anything about his son, but Philza is plenty familiar with human nature. He reaches for the inside of his jacket in a way that causes the kid to tense up. Really now, it’s just a checkbook. The gun is on the other side. Philza leans the paper just enough that his son can see. “Who do I make it out to?” 

“Really it wasn’t a big deal…” his posture belies wariness. Not bad instincts, especially around a man like Philza. Of course, his child has nothing to worry about from him, but it’s not like he’d have any way of knowing that. Stolen too young to have any impression of his own father. Philza’s heart aches. The boy's eyes go incredibly wide the more zeros he adds to the sum. “Technoblade,” he blurts. Philza hides the smirk in his smile. “Technoblade Piglin.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Technoblade. I’m Philza Craft.” He savors the name on his tongue. Not one he’d have chosen himself. It has lots of…spunk. He holds out to shake hands, and after a hesitation Ale— Technoblade takes it. The contact is too brief, Technoblade untangling just about as fast as humanly conceivable. 

Bro if Techno’s going to make 2k every time a drunk idiot drools in his bed, maybe he can learn to tolerate Skeppy’s parties. Holy hell. He does not need to remember the conversion rate to see dollar signs. This guy is kinda like actually insane, but you know what? He can cope for that sweet sweet bank. “Yoooooo. Thanks dude. Uh, good night. Hope your kid doesn’t get kidnapped again.”

“It was an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, Technoblade.” Still creepy, but can he really complain with extra thousands in his account? Oh my god he’s going to buy so much coffee…

His son waves as he leaves into the dimly lit night, padding over to a dorm and disappearing inside. Impossible to tell where he precisely lived, but Philza carefully counts to the fifth floor where the lights blare with the suggestion of the party his boy mentioned. He wants to sweep Technoblade back home right now, but this has to be a planned endeavor. Surely whoever has stolen his boy still has strings attached. Philza quickly ducks back into the car, calling a contact and demanding they find every scrap of information ever produced about Technoblade Piglin within the hour. A few threats go a long way, and soon he’ll know everything about the last eighteen years from his child’s perspective. Family movie night just got a whole lot more interesting. 

“Your genius has reunited our family,” Philza whispers in a kiss pressed to Wilbur’s forehead, before catching the sleepy punch aimed for him. 

Now, all that’s left is to convince Technoblade. 

Plan 1: Get Wilbur to befriend Technoblade. It goes poorly, because Techno can be a bit shy and Wil a bit intense, so it’s viewed as kinda creepy how much Wil wants to know. But it’s tolerable since he can absolutely BLEED Wil for sweet, sweet cash. Unfortunately Wil likes to hang over his shoulder while forging his essays. Mostly it’s benign questions, almost like the guy doesn’t care as long as he learns something about his life. It’s…off putting, but Techno gets a little bored writing A+ essays (premium! And at ten times the normal rate since he’s price gouging the rich jerk who drooled in his bed, even if Wil never seems to care how much he’s forking over). What can a few trivia pieces about himself hurt? Wil is weirdly persistent, but hey it pays the bills. Since he doesn’t want to lose his best customer, he answers about as few questions as he thinks he can get away with.  

Wil has his feet propped on the library table like the entitled jerk he is, spinning a pen between his fingers while Techno works on a 575£ essay. Not bad, and it’s only two pages. Of course, it would be easier if his customer would stop pestering him with inane questions. “Can you sing?”

“No. Too much smoke as a kid.”

“Oh, you smoke too? We’re so alike.”

“No.” Techno distinctly does not want to be like Wil at all. Extroverts. Eww. But at least he brings coffee, which Techno is sipping when yet another question comes. “Heyyy Tech. What were your parents like?” 

He very carefully doesn’t spit out the coffee everywhere, his back prickling. God, can’t this guy stop being invasive for two seconds? He’s trying to outline 18th century war strategies and it’s not helping him concentrate. “Suck,” he replies shortly. “But everyone’s do.”

“No, my dad is fantastic.” A strange note of persuasion carries in his voice, but drama majors are just like that sometimes. “I’m sure you’d love him.” 

Techno makes a face, remembering their thankfully singular encounter. Wil’s moods can be flighty, but that Phil guy is capricious in ominous fashion, flipping from graphic threat to kindness in a heartbeat. “Your dad is literally terrifying.” Won’t stop him from draining his coffers, though. 

Philza stares intently at the weekly powerpoint presentation he’d required from Wilbur. Pictures of his new son flitter past, most consisting of strange angles from passing security cameras and blurs in the edge of other’s photos that were posted online. But the last one is crisp, Wilbur having wrangled Technoblade into a selfie. Their smiles crook in the exact same way, though Technoblade is decidedly the less comfortable of the two, a brow raised as he stares at Wil instead of the camera as he removes the arm slung around his shoulder. Oh to have those dark eyes trained upon him once more like they had been weeks ago. It is a gaze that's haunted him for 18 years, and it's all Philza can do to stop himself from gathering his lost son to his chest and never letting go again. But he needs to handle this delicately. Technoblade didn’t go missing, he was stolen, and whoever had the resources to defy him certainly must be contended with first. 

He sighs in longing, then looks at the notes he’s compiled from this week’s meeting. He reads through every single earthly file ever generated about Technoblade Piglin at night before going to bed, but it’s the personal details he wants. Wilbur’s vicarious accounts aren’t filling; he wants his son. 

But he looks up and thanks Wilbur for his time, asking if there’s any other details that weren’t included in the report. He can’t help it, he’s voracious. Wilbur…squirms. Philza frowns and prods the conversation. “Uhh. I’m just warning you, you won’t like it.”

“I love everything about him.” 

“Tech finds you, erm. Off-putting.”

Philza is inconsolable for the rest of the evening. This clearly isn’t working.

Plan 2: Hire Technoblade to tutor Thomas. One afternoon with some toddler? And he makes HOW MUCH? Yah he’s sold. Visibly uncomfortable in the manor he may be, but does it really matter if this family is basically paying for his college at this point? Tommy is annoyed and doesn’t really know what the plan is, but at least the weird guy is funny and explains things in an interesting manner. 

Philza tries to be as ‘un-off-putting’ as possible and fails miserably. The friendlier he is the more Technoblade seems to balk, and the kid is distressingly good at seamlessly dodging out of physical affection. Then, a few weeks in (Philza can’t stand to wait any longer) and they simply lock the mansion doors so Technoblade can’t leave that night. 

It’s, like, midnight, and Techno’s tired from trying to convince an eleven year old that Shakespeare isn’t boring. Unfortunately it ran long enough that he is roped into staying for dinner. Sue him, it’s better than anything he’d get from the campus caf. And all reservations are dropped completely when he sees the feast. Why eat the rich when you can eat like the rich?

That, uh, mumbled comment goes down like a lead balloon. Techno really sticks out like a sore thumb in his ratty red and white jacket amidst the hand tailored suits and designer clothes. Wil snorts and the conversation keeps going but maaan is his anxiety not built for this. Especially when Phil asks about his politics and he has to sit there in front of gold statues and indoor waterfalls and god knows what else and say, “if I reveal I’m an anarchist, do I at least get to finish the meal before I’m kicked out?” 

“Of course not,” he soothes his son. “I love a boisterous dining room table. It’s dull without filled chairs. Tell me, did you have siblings?” Philza reminds himself to pause like he doesn’t know the answer.

“Uh, nah,” he says through a bite of food. His table manners are atrocious, hunched over almost possessive of his plate. 

“Did you ever want any?”

“Probably— probably not. I don’t think my parents were planning any more.”

“I’m not asking about them. I want to know about your thoughts on the matter.” The words are a little sharp, but Philza doesn’t like reminders of the people who ruined his life. 

Technoblade hesitates at his tone, then shrugs. “I dunno. Little kids are kinda sticky.”

“Oh, what about your age? Or maybe a younger one, say, around Thomas’s size?”

“Wouldn’t, uh, affect me much. I’m an adult now.”

“Family is forever.”

“True,” he nods easily enough. “Family: no matter what they do, you still gotta love them.” All these years Philza’s loved a million different imaginations of the same boy, only to find him wonderfully amazing in ways he’d never even dreamed of. “Uh then I guess…” Technoblade watches, weighing his reaction. “…sure?” When Philza beams at him, he’s rewarded by an awkward baffled grin. 

Just about every time he tries to talk to his son, Technoblade looks like he’s being held at gunpoint. It’s adorable, albeit frustrating, especially since they’ve met a number of times now. He gets along fine with Wilbur, and tolerates Thomas, but he’s just so…awkward. Like he has no idea what to do with his paternal attention. But hopefully tonight’s enforced sleepover will get him a bit more comfortable with living here. Given how he loosened up a bit when the banquet for his prodigal son was all laid out, Philza reckons the enforced bonding time will do just the trick. Plan 2 is going swimmingly. 

Techno feels like he might explode, either from everything he’s eaten or from the stress of Phil asking how school is going. His social battery is running low, but then he’s all but begged to stay for family game night and he does have a competitive streak and needs to covertly get back at that middle schooler for being a brat and well…he lost track of time, and is just trying to get back to his crummy dorm but for some reason the front door won’t open. Bruh, all this money and they can’t get doors that don’t jam? Whatever. The windows open just fine. The guards at the entrance seem weirdly surprised when he waves a goodbye, but he chalks it up to rich people not giving their own employees the time of day and goes to collapse into his own bed. 

Philza is fond and annoyed in equal measure. Obviously he knows Technoblade is resourceful and determined, but when it’s used against him it’s slightly less adorable. Cue another two weeks of Wily Coyote and Roadrunner antics, with Technoblade perpetually oblivious to the fact they’re trying to kidnap him. 

What his twin DOES notice, however, is the increasing number of people following him. Skeppy just says he’s paranoid, but it’s clearly making him antsy. Whatever, who would need to tail him? Definitely no long lost fathers desperately trying to figure out what surveillance is active on his son, no, that would be crazy. Haha anyway Wilbur tells Tech it might just be the extra expensive coffee he splurges on now. 

There haven’t been any countermeasures by the people who kidnapped his brother, but it’s bound to happen eventually. Now is the moment when they have the upper hand. Sure, Tech might still be a little uncomfortable right now, but that’s bound to drop once he learns the truth. As closed off and awkward as his brother is, it might be months before he’s ready, and frankly Wilbur can’t stand to wait that long. 

At the same time, Tech just got a publishing deal on his latest book and it is super quickly accepted unlike the headache of his last two novels. Of course strings are being pulled behind the scene, but Tech doesn’t know that and he’s riding the high of success. He manages to fit an evening to celebrate into his busy schedule, and actually invites Wilbur to something for once. He supposes it qualifies as a fancy dinner by Tech’s standards. Still he can’t complain watching his twin’s broad smile all night. This is what life should have been, celebrating birthdays and accomplishments and holidays side by side. 

And, well, opportunities multiply as they’re seized, and Dad is getting antsy, and he’s tired of pretending to be a stranger around his own twin, so Wilbur takes the initiative on a plan Father has been debating for a bit. Drastic, perhaps, but after tonight Tech will be safe at last. 

Perhaps it’s a bit of a personal fantasy. That he’d be the one to save his twin. That he’d be the one to fill the missing seat at the dinner table, the room always kept clean, the empty holes in family portraits. All his life he’s been incomplete, but no longer, with his twin finally back. Finally rescued by Wilbur. 

It’s not like he isn’t given the go ahead, Wilbur doesn’t exactly have his own contacts for these types of drugs. Phil raised him better than that, of course. But past that it’s all up to him. Wilbur is going to be a hero. 

Plan 3. The world is spinning. Techno feels nauseous and clouded and ohhhhhh god. Relaxed. He is NEVER relaxed. Something is seriously wrong. Techno can’t find Skeppy, he must’ve slipped into a party nearby. This was supposed to be HIS celebration. Lousy roommate. Driving has to be highly illegal in whatever state he’s in, so Techno blearily orders an Uber. 

An arm rests on his shoulder, someone leaning on him, and that isn’t right, Techno hates being touched, but he can’t react at all for some reason. “Hey, Tech? You don’t look so good. Too much to drink?”

“I don’t. I dooon’t drink, Wil.”

Wilbur stiffens against him. “You…don’t?” It’s almost worry, but Techno can’t process what that means. “Maybe you should? It could make you feel better. Here, you can have mine–”

He pulls a face. “I hate the smell.” He rises. “I’m going home. I’mm sick..” Wilbur simply sighs and texts his bodyguards as his brother leaves the restaurant. 

“Here, sir, allow me-” someone’s touching him. He doesn’t know who, but something in his gut clocks a masculine adult voice and a hand pushing on his back and all he knows is jolting panic. His right hook catches them square on the jaw, but retaliation is swift and brutal, his head exploding in stars. Techno stumbles back, clutching his left eye. He surprisingly doesn’t hit the floor, mostly since a second person catches him. Someone is dragging him and he can win this fight, he knows he can, but only if his arms would move like they are supposed to. 

Something clicks in his mind. Phil mentioned people tried to kidnap Wil before. Techno looks like a dead ringer for him. “‘Mm not Wilbuuur,” he slurs. It doesn’t help much, especially since he’s immediately punched so hard in the stomach he pukes. Not that he was far from that, in his nauseous state, but it still hurt. This sucks. He tries to have a nice day off for once in his life, and suddenly he’s getting beaten up by people who target drunks stumbling from restaurants. He can try to inform them he is sober, but they might hit him again.

The last thing he sees is himself. It has to be. From a few years ago, before he grew out his hair. Young Techno is framed in light and he can’t help it, he bucks off the hands grabbing him and is running for his younger self. “Dooon worry. It geeets beetterrr,” he promises teenage Techno, before proceeding to trip over nothing and face plant into the ground. 

“Sir?” says the man scooping him up. 

The hallucination simply pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s going to have the head of whoever hurt Tech. At what point did I say this was a business rival?” 

Oh, Techno suddenly realizes as he’s shoved into a limo and kidnapped. I have been drugged. Likely there would have been a thought after that epiphany, except the world stopped existing. 

His head is in someone’s lap as they tie back his hair. He tries to swat them away and is snickered at.

Ok maybe the hair tie wasn’t a bad idea if he is going to be puking up his guts this often. 

Something is wrong with the car seats but he can’t figure it out. They’re made of leather and taste really bad. Is the car really this long or is he hallucinating again? Why would someone need a car this long? The mileage must be atrocious.

“You gave him HOW much!?”

“Sorry, for some reason I’ve never roofied someone before, Dad!” 

“We only needed a few hours-” Techno groans. The conversation stops, a face swimming into view. A man he doesn’t recognize waves warmly at him. “Hello, Technoblade. Are you up for good this time?”

Does he look like he is? His focus catches on the pretty way the man’s fingers move. Techno waves back. What is his name? The other guy had said it, right? “Hullo, Dad,” Techno replies dreamily. 

The man melts. 

Hellooo. Starting the streaaam of consciousness. The light hurts his eyes. Or, just the one, he can’t open the other. His head pounds and the chair he’s in is horribly stiff, a blur of silhouette suggesting a man looming over him. Armed guards dot the periphery. It’s an interrogation scene, his mind happily supplies. Oh. Huh. That’s no bueno. Someone gently cups his chin and lifts his head upward, causing the world to do cartwheels. 

The moment is utterly ruined. The one dark eye Philza can see is dazed beyond recognition, destroying the bright spark that’s supposed to be there. The other is swelled shut under what’s swiftly becoming a black eye. Whoever did this to his child is going to be fired. Literally.  

But that can be personally attended to later. For all that’s wrong he’s holding his baby boy for the first time in eighteen years and the moment has to be savored. If only Kristin could see this. I’ve done it, he found himself praying. I’ve brought our boy back. For eighteen years there had been the waning, desperate hope that Alexander had survived. But there hadn’t been for Kristin. Philza still curses himself that his grief over his wife’s death allowed his own son to be stolen beneath his nose. He’d been a cutthroat before, but it was after his son was stolen that Philza became ruthless. He tried to move Heaven and Hell to get back his kid, but it hadn’t been enough. 

But here he is. Alive and beautiful and finally in his clutches once again. The prodigal has wandered back all on his own, almost like fate drawing them together. A moth wandering to the safe beacon of home, like on some deep level Technoblade sensed his family and came running. Philza will never let him go ever again. 

His son is crying, he realizes. Philza gently brushes the fallen strands of pink hair out of his eyes -something can be done about the color later. “Shh, it’s okay, mate,” he soothes, wiping the tears away. “No need to worry ever again. Why are you crying?” 

“Hoow am I going to main- maintain a 4.0 if I’ve been kidnapped!?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t been kidnapped. You’re finally home.” 

His cloudy gaze wanders over the room. With a hiccup, the sobs stop. “Oooh. Sorry. I didn’t recognize it…” he frowns. “No. No, this isn’t right at all. This isn’t home.” Not yet. “I need to get hoome. I think I’m sick. No, drugged. Someone. Someone put something. Something, somethin’…am I being hazed? You got the wrong guy. I’m not in any frats. You’re looking for Wil. We look the same. Like clones. It’s weeeird. He’s the party guy, not me.” 

“You’re not being hazed.”

“Or. His dad said...doesn’t he get in hostage sitsuwations? I’m Not Wilbur,” he enunciates clearly, or tries to, still slurring a lot. “Sorry! I have no money, and my parents won't pay up. Better luck next time!”  

“You aren’t kidnapped,” he reminds his dazed son, a little annoyed at this talk of ‘parents’. He fervently hopes they won't matter to his Technoblade soon, not now that he has his real father. 

“I’m not? Oh. Why am I in trouble…? I’m a good boy. Alright? I didn’t— there’s noo proof on the essays. Nope! I’m on the Dean list, I wouldn’t pla–plag— uh.” His gaze suddenly sharpens upon Wilbur, glowering. “You dirty rat! I knew the money was too good! May your stocks plummet, your assets liquid-quate, and your land be salted!” 

He pulls Technoblade’s face back to focus on him until he’s the only thing in the boy’s world. “You’re not in trouble, mate.”

“Then why are there cops?” Cops? Crap, where? His head jerks to the vague direction Technoblade waves in, but there’s only his guards there. Ah. Perhaps they weren’t the best set dressing for a family reunion. “I’m innocent, I swear.” There’s an intense look in his eye, desperately latching onto Philza and trying to ascertain if he is believed. “I’m a writer, man, my search history means nooothing.” 

Very familiar with Technoblade’s search history, Philza supposes it is a valid concern. “I know,” he assuages, signaling for the guards to leave. “I’ve read all your books. I love them.” Technoblade lights up like the sun, happily rambling about his novels. If only this can be the rest of his life, basking in his son’s mind. This must be what Heaven feels like, and it was the only way Philza was ever going to experience it. 

Unfortunately the bubbling chatter faded away, Technoblade losing focus. “Sorry. I talk too much. I just like stories…” he mumbles.

“Would you like to hear one?” His son smiles languidly up at him. “Once upon a time-“ 

“Cliché,” Technoblade critiques at once. 

“It’s thematically appropriate, and tropes are tools like any other. Once upon a time, there was a loving royal family. They were perfect and happy as can be, especially since the queen was about to have a baby. Or, two babies, as they found out. Identical twins.” He boops Technoblade on the nose, who scrunches it at once like a confused rabbit. “They were the most beautiful princes the work had ever seen, with dark eyes like midnight-” he rubs a thumb along the high ridge of his cheekbone to underscore the eye, then traces down to arc along his jaw. “-a face like a heart. With sharp ears and an even sharper smile. The twins are as perfect as can be. They are so, so loved.” Even through the haze, Technoblade squirms under the touch. Philza supposed he’s a stranger still, but not for long. In his heart he’d been practicing this story for years for a little boy with dark hair. “But the king in his dealings had wronged a wicked pair. They were filled with jealousy and loathing. And so they stole one of his precious babies, never to be seen again. Until now.”

Despite the drugs poisoning his mind, Technoblade’s brow furrows. There’s something calculating in his brilliant mind that can’t be destroyed, unfooled by it being dressed up as a fairy tale. His midnight eye widens, darting at once to his long lost twin. 

“Wow Wilbur, you’re adopted? You never mentioned.”

Er. Maybe this would be better conveyed in the morning. 

Philza stays with him through a blur of a night. Technoblade dips in and out of lucidity, and he gently explains every time that, no, you haven’t been kidnapped, you’re finally home. If he had wished for this reunion a thousand times over, each one must be cashing in now. Philza gets to explain it differently every time, gauging Technoblade’s reaction and adjusting for the next time. I love yous, while true, tend to be balked at. Starting with the fact he’s Wilbur’s father makes Technoblade as skittish as he can be under severe relaxants. Really it’s a testament to his determined anxiety that he manages to be this high strung even while drugged. A paranoia inherited from Philza, alas. 

He groans and begins to wake again. “Oh. Oooh no,” Technoblade says, looking up at him utterly horrified. Philza pauses in stroking the hair spilled over his lap, fingers caught in the dark brown roots just barely growing out. 

“Oh no?” he asks, curious about what Technoblade thinks is happening this time. Usually he freaks out about being kidnapped, but this isn’t fear, but severe distress. Though, in all fairness, half his visage is hidden by a warm compress to help his blossoming black eye. Still, he is clearly distraught. 

“I’m in bed with Wil’s dad. This is soo far outside the bro code.” Philza begins to wheeze. “He’s going to kill me,” Technoblade whispers. “Or a hitman will. He can afford them.” 

“No,” he choked around his laughter. “No, mate, you’re sick. You’re just a child delirious with illness.” That’s the lie that tends to work on him, at least. It’s not really so far from the truth, even. “You don’t need to worry about anything at all. I’m taking care of you.” 

“Oh. Why?” Philza takes too long to try and parse if Technoblade is asking about the origin of his ‘illness’ or if Technoblade can’t imagine someone taking care of him. Both are worrisome, but Technoblade wanders back out of lucidity before Philza can ask what he means. 

Philza greets him everytime he resurfaces, and it’s a little exhausting to sit by his side all night, holding his hand and soothing his confusion, but Philza would rather be nowhere else. There are plenty of staff, but Philza has always made a point to be the one at his children’s bedside when suffering from illness or nightmares, and this is no different. 

Despite Philza’s best efforts, he does nod off eventually, waking when the door creeeaks open. He quickly shepherds Technoblade back in, the boy leaning on him heavily. He practically dwarfs Philza, since he’d gotten Kristin’s height. “Run,” he mumbles. “Run run. This lil piggy went wee wee wee all the way home. Let me hooome. ‘ve been kidnapped.”

“No, you haven’t,” he sighs, tired of repeating himself. “You're home, Technoblade.”

“This isn’t my house.” He insists on it over and over again, no matter what Philza tells him. He doesn’t say it everytime, but it’s a near enough thing that Philza suspects something will have to be done about that little scruple.

Techno wakes up in his childhood bed. Dang. He’d hoped the hallucinations would have stopped by now. Guess it was never meant to be. He scowls at the room. It isn’t even correct. Sure the stuff is all there, but it is too organized. Or, improperly organized, neat but definitely rearranged to fit different room dimensions. The world is still spinning though, so who is he to judge his delusions? The smell of fresh paint isn’t helping, either. He groans as he rolls up, clutching his head. Owww. Ow, Ow, Ow! What happened last night? It feels like he’s been kicked in the head. Maybe that explains his swollen eye. 

“Good morning, Technoblade,” a kind voice says. He immediately regrets whipping around to face the man. “Careful there, you’re not doing too well, are you?” Huh. So that guy is real, or at least a very convincing illusion. Good to know. He hadn’t been very sure. Techno replies with a very intelligent zombie noise, swaying out of the way of the hand reaching to pat his shoulder, squinting at the man. It takes a second to place him, since Techno has never seen the great Philza Craft in a plain t-shirt and anything short of perfect complexion, and those dark rings under his eyes certainly aren’t typical. 

“Uuuh. Phil???”

There’s a beat of…disappointment? before Phil smiles and nods. “You’ve had a rather rough night of it, haven’t you, mate?”

He tries to nod and discovers it to be a rather horrendous idea. Staring down at familiar sheets, with a start he realizes he doesn’t recognize the yellow sweater he’s wearing. “Uh. Where’s my clothing?”

Phil points to where they’re folded neatly on his childhood desk. “Freshly washed, since you were spewing last night. That’s one of Wilbur’s shirts, and honestly you’re adorable in it.”

But Techno petrifies on spot. “You changed me..?” he asks weakly. Oh no. He needs some type of explanation, but he can’t get past that, more colorful swears and cries escaping him at the moment.

A blink, and the concern registers. Phil smiles reassuringly. “Ah, don’t worry, mate. It was completely dark. And you were hungover and needed help, and I wasn’t going to leave you wearing your own vomit.” 

Techno buries his aching head in his hands. “Oh god. I’m so sorry you had to take care of me last night. I don’t know what happened.” He’d never done something like this before, but trying to scour through his memories nets a colorful blur of delusions that clearly aren't out of his system yet. He’s almost afraid to ask Phil about some of the stuff he did, even if apparently he knows all of it. Nice of him to watch over Techno. Weird though. Right? He isn’t crazy for thinking that is a little weird, is he?

“Don’t be sorry at all. You aren’t a burden of any type to me.” Aching sincerity is poured into his crystal gaze, honest and wholesome in a way that catches Techno off guard. “I just want to support you in any way I can. Whatever you need, I’m here for you, alright Technoblade? No matter what. I’m always here to help.” 

Huh. Maybe he’s misjudged Phil. Extreme in everything he does, perhaps, but clearly a man with so much compassion inside him, even for near strangers. Maybe the world is still spinning and unreal, but there’s at least some comfort to know Phil was watching over him last night. Overbearing and unnecessary, but appreciated to some degree. “Uh. Thanks dude. That’s, uh, really nice of you.” Techno fumbles to replicate the sincerity. He’s not really a heart to heart type guy if he’s honest. 

“Anything for you, Technoblade. Would you like breakfast?” He chuckles at the awful face Techno makes. “Coffee?”

“God yes.” Techno grabs his clothes as he stumbles his way to the kitchen, waving off any attempt to help him Phil makes. The house is weirdly not mansion shaped, but frankly he does not have enough brain cells to do anything but slide into a seat next to Wil and down an entire mug of heavenly coffee. Feeling slightly more human, he turns to his friend and thanks him profusely for making sure he was safe last night. “I’m honestly still freaked about what might’ve happened if you weren’t there for me.” 

Wil gives him a lopsided grin. “Anytime. Seriously, I got your best interests in mind.” 

“What’s wrong with him?” Tommy chirps. 

“He’s hungover, sweetie,” Phil explains. 

But that doesn’t make sense. Why doesn’t it make sense? There is something important in the carnival house of memories he has, if only he can find it. He’s not hungover, and he’s definitely not sick even if the smell of chocolate chip pancakes makes him want to barf. A thread of panic links all his fragments of recollections. “‘m not hungover,” he realizes. “I was drugged.” 

“You do drugs?” Tommy appears deeply impressed. “Oh I guess that makes sense if you're Wilbur’s mate.”

“Don’t say that! I’ll lose my scholarships with accusations like that.” 

“What’s a scholarship?”

“The only way I’m able to keep my student visa.” He blinks, realizing he’s lost focus. “Unimportant. I should go.” He pats down his pockets to find his phone missing. Probably stolen. Ugh. At least Wil’s plagiarism racket can probably be stretched to cover that. Hopefully. “Does anyone know where the nearest police station is?”

Phil laughs. “That’s a bit dramatic, it’s just a hangover.”

“No. I don’t drink. I was drugged.” 

“You must’ve had some if you’re like this.”

“I. Don’t. Drink.” 

“Alright, then you’re sick. Might be a fever, you were saying some silly things last night. Thomas, get going before you’re late. Have a good day at school, love. Really now, Technoblade, sit down and have more coffee. You’ll feel better soon. If you want we can call in a doctor to confirm what I’m saying. They’ll get you some medicine for that stomach bug.” 

He sways a bit as he stands. “I’m. I’m going now.” 

“No you aren’t.” It’s edged and abrupt, the exact same cold tone from when Phil had treated him like Wil’s kidnapper. The thought pings something in his head, but before he can chase it Phil is speaking again, voice as warm and kind as usual. “You must be contagious. You could get half the school sick.”

He stares uneasily. Phil has always been a tad unnerving, but there’s a special type of disturbing reserved for a man who insists a victim experienced nothing. “I should be alone, then. I don’t want you to catch it.” The words feel clunky on his tongue. 

“Oh, we’ve all been exposed at this point. Really, you have no reason to leave. Rest a few days, if you need. We’d love to have you.”

Have. A possession, something stolen, something kidnapped. And it finally clicks in place, little clues swirling in his head. Nausea overcomes him, and this time it isn’t the drugs. He stares at Wilbur Craft, really looks at the guy. A stranger shows up, looking exactly like him, wanting to know everything about him? Persistently invasively familiar? He’s seen Wil lie when claiming credit for the essays Techno wrote. He is unbelievably convincing; only difference is the words came out a little too smooth. Something sinks to the very bottom of his gut, and it’s so, so familiar, this feeling of being utterly trapped. But he has to try. 

“You alright, mate? Are you going to puke again?”

He feels like a child asking permission, testing the waters. “I want- need. I need to get back to my dorm. Can I go now?” 

Wil cocks his head. “You really think you’re in any state to drive after last night?” 

No. He knows he’s right. A normal person would offer a ride, would have believed him. He catches Wil in a scarily level gaze, speaking low and slowly. “You tell me, Wilbur. Only you’d know how long it’ll take to get out of my system, since you’re the one who spiked my drink.”

Wil snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I drug you?”

Techno sighs in relief. “Oh thank god. Sorry man, my anxiety is SCREAMING like you wouldn’t believe right now.” 

“You have nothing to worry about,” Phil soothes. “We’ll take excellent care of you.”

“That’s not the problem here. But, really, I should be going, my roommate will be worried.” Skeppy won't be up till noon. “And I don’t want to mess up my perfect attendance.” 

“Your dedication is admirable, but you’re going to run yourself ragged if you push yourself like that. It’s really not healthy. Besides, you work so hard, don’t you? And you’re so clever, surely one sick day wouldn’t even affect your grades. Self-care is important.”

“I kinda just want to be alone. I’ve had enough people for today.”

“There’s plenty of free rooms in the house.” 

“Look, dude, I’m going to be honest. You’re getting weirdly insistent at this point. It’s kinda cringe.” 

“I just want what’s best for my son.” 

The world just sorta. Freezes. “...haeh??” 

Phil smiles warmly. “You’re my son. Isn’t that wonderful? Technoblade Craft. Stolen from your twin’s side all those years ago, only to wander back on your own. It feels almost too good to be true, like a fairy tale, or a dream.”

Or a nightmare. "Ah," Techno says weakly. "I thought the hallucinations were over. Apparently not, haha. Um. I should go see a doctor now." He wants to close his eyes and wait till this all goes away, but instinct tells him that will be a mistake immediately punished. No, some sickly warm stress in his guts knows this is real, but he's trying to give Phil an out here. 

The blatantly crestfallen look on Phil's features kindles panic in Techno. "I realize your captors likely hid everything from you. You're probably confused, have questions. But I can give you the answers you sought all these years." 

Techno braces, muscle memory creeping into place for the moment he has to shove the chair back and bolt. He glances between the pair, then looks to Wil, desperate for some sort of salvation. His smile is nervous and pleading. "Hey, um. Is your dad okay? ...mentally?" 

"He got hit pretty hard by your kidnapping." Techno's stomach plummets. 

Phil begins launching into some fairytale, and Techno cuts him off. "No, I remember that-" kinda, the memories swirl unpleasantly "-but I mean-- I mean, come on, it's obviously not real. Listen, sorry about your baby or whatever, but know what my family’s like. Believe me, I’ve checked the birth certificate. I’m a Piglin through and through. Be reasonable, the odds have to be astronomical, and I don’t need a stats degree to tell you that one. Sorry, I’m not gonna play along with your pipe dream, alright? Alright?”

Philza knew Technoblade had rejected the truth earlier, but had hoped being sober would cure that resistance. Distress rises in his chest. He's practiced the story so many times, over and over with the drugged Technoblade until he found the version the boy responded best to. Philza was so certain he'd share their joy to finally reunite. 

But now his son is on guard, shoulders elevated around his ears and gesticulating defensively. The dark eye that’s not swallowed by bruising darts between him and Wilbur and, only once, the exit. Only once. But he can see the calculating look in his boy, sharp and strategic just like Wilbur can get. Oh, how precious that they have the exact same expression when scheming. 

“Come on, Tech,” Wilbur smoothes him with a honey voice, crossing over to Technoblade and throwing an arm around his shoulder, who goes rigid beneath his twin’s touch. “I mean, just look at us! We’re identical. Aren’t you curious? I’ve wanted to know everything about you the moment I found out. And now I don’t have to lie to you anymore about who I am.”

Technoblade runs a hand through his cerise hair, feeling like he really is losing it. “Oh my god. Oh my god! You really did drug and kidnap me. This is really happening.” 

“It’s not kidnapping if you’re finally home,” Philza reminds him. 

“This isn’t my house. This isn’t even your house, either, it’s literally a place I’ve never seen.”

“I thought it would be more comfortable for you to be in familiar lodgings.” He’d always been so awkward in the manor. Something closer to an average-sized abode was bound to be more agreeable to him. 

“You’ll like this one more,” Wilbur asserts. “It’s cozier. Less a house home and more a home home.” 

“Stop touching me,” Techno snaps at the guy who drugged him. “That doesn’t make it any better, it’s still a prison.” 1. Ugh rich people logic 2. He lives in a dorm so hell no is this familiar, this place has to cost eighteen times his tuition, and 3. He would be far less uncomfortable if he HADN'T BEEN KIDNAPPED. 

“Come on, Tech, you’re over reacting-” Techno shoves his arm off. Like, really shoves, pushing Wil backwards while kicking his legs out from under him. He goes down in a tangle of thrashing limbs and a hard thunk, but Techno is already sprinting away full throttle. 

Escape attempt 1: Feet are pounding after him. Techno has half a minute head start, since Phil checked on Wil first. He’s confused and scared and doesn’t understand the layout of the house, but he can feel people chasing him like a sixth sense. He jumps off the stair railing, kicking off the walls and landing in a deep crouch that only has him launching forwards. His hunters lag behind, and Techno grins a wild feral rictus as he spots what has to be the entrance. “Not even close! Later, losers!” he shouts over his shoulder, throwing open the door leading to freedom.

Techno immediately slams into a bodyguard. Oww. He is dangled by the scruff of his white hood like a kitten and deposited in front of Phil. 

Escape attempt 2: “Let me go.”

“Sorry. But I can't lose you a second time.”

Escape attempt 3: He lunges for the front door again. It is locked.

Escape attempt 4: So are the grand sweeping windows. The view is lovely, of course, but not when behind (metaphorical) bars. They are also not very breakable, even when he swings a chair into one of them. 

Really now, doesn’t Technoblade know the windows are bulletproof? A basic assumption, really, for any house Philza is going to occupy. This isn’t going how Philza wanted at all. Not that any of his brood have ever been anything but willful, but this is just absurd. He feels shorted of his long-imagined tearful family hug. A rocky start, but Technoblade will come around eventually. Philza is a patient man. He’s waited eighteen years for his son to come home, he can wait the few days it takes for him to settle down. Love and patience will win him over eventually.

Techno is thoroughly convinced the Craft family are completely insane. Obviously he can’t be related, these are grade A nut jobs he is dealing with, and Techno is super mentally normal. Better than normal, even, he is brilliant, and confident he’ll find a way out soon. 

Escape attempt 20: Techno pulls a knife on Phil. Phil pulls a bigger knife on Techno. …okay maybe this is getting a little inelegant for his preference. 

After that, Tommy comes home from school. Phil joyfully introduces his long lost brother. Techno swiftly corrects to say that the kid’s father is a wacko and that Tommy should call the police. Tommy is unsure of what to do, but is gently lured into siding with his father. He kind of just shrugs and tells Techno, “sorry, but Dad always gets what he wants.”

Still, Tommy has been the only hint of sympathy out of everyone. Phil is crazy, Wil has literally not changed at all, being just as intensely curious about him as ever, and the few staff he manages to catch slipping around are deathly loyal. Techno is out of luck. He just has to manage by himself, but that isn’t anything new. 

Escape attempt 21: Tommy groans. “Why do I still have to get tutored! Dad isn’t paying you anymore! This fu-”

“Language,” Phil interjects. 

“What!? You never get on to me about that??”

“You should follow your brother Technoblade’s example.” His red pen scratches clean through the page as he flinches. 

“Uuuuuugh. Fine. Why don’t you swear, Techno?” 

“Tastes like soap.” Techno drifts his eyes over the social studies short answers, knee bouncing rapidly. He’s trying to buy time to think in a way where Phil won’t butt his head in. He figures Tommy’s grades must be important to his father, or at the very least his education has to be pretty expensive, if what he got paid for tutoring was any indication. Techno pauses. Ah. They had been bribing him through the cover of paying for Wil and Tommy’s grade improvements. He’d just assumed they had no idea what a normal amount of money was. Wil tipped with twenties for crying out loud! For Starbucks!

“I don’t think I should have to do lessons anymore,” Tommy grumbles as Phil tousles his hair and leaves. “Especially if I can’t swear about it.”

“You’re literally the only tolerable person in this entire house.” It’s more a barb for the other two but Tommy brightens. 

“Really? Thanks! Everyone says I’m irritating, but I’m really not once you get to know me!” His legs swing happily as they chat, Tommy flourishing under attention. Techno waits about half an hour, once he’s sure Phil isn’t lurking anymore. Time to try a little subterfuge. A quick glance confirms no one is listening, and Tommy immediately picks up on the focus drawing away from education like a fighter noticing an opening and lunging for it. “What’s up?”

“You’re a good kid.” Tommy practically glows. “Your answers are great, you just need to work on getting them out of your head and onto the paper. You’re pretty smart, and nice, and by your mouth you’ve got an independent streak.” More like a rebellion desperate to get notice, but it qualifies. “So, I’ve been thinking of a question I want to ask you. What do you think about the fact I’ve been imprisoned by your brother and father?”

Tommy’s face twists, and he taps his mouth like he’s thinking. “Sorry, but Dad always gets what he wants.” It’s even creepier to hear the second time. “I mean, if he says you’re a Craft you probably are. Dad doesn’t make mistakes like that. He definitely investigated.”

“Sure, he’s convinced himself. He’s surrounded by yes-men, of course his delusion was supported, but now it’s full on obsession and it’s ruining my li-”

And he taps his mouth harder, pointedly staring right at Techno. Not a thinking gesture; a shushing one. Techno nods very, very slightly, and Tommy’s gaze darts to the corner of the room. Cameras. He hadn’t even thought of cameras. Well. Perhaps the only person he can get on his side hasn’t even hit puberty, but Tommy certainly notices more than he let on. “I guess it’s weird. But…I dunno. Dad’s really nice. And he got so happy every time you came over to teach me. And Wilbur has been ecstatic to find his other half. I love it here, they’re the best. I think you could like it too, once you’re used to it. Plus you’re super nice to me! And helpful, Wilbur is pants at explaining stuff. I want you to stay.” And then Tommy’s voice goes soft, and a little…jealous. Oh no. He’d picked up on the attention hunger, but hadn’t stopped to consider what conditions generate a kid like that. “Dad talked about you a lot, before we even found you.”

…huh. Well, if Tommy wants him gone because he sees Techno as some type of competition for his father’s affection, at least he knows their goals align. 

“I don’t. I don’t think that’s going to happen, kid. I just want to carry on with my life. This is really putting a wrench in my five year plan.”

“A what?”

Right. This is still an eleven year old. Welp. He just has to accept what help he can get. “It’s not important.” Like hell it isn’t, that plan is his entire purpose for existing. He's going to be the next great American author and some deranged family isn't getting in the way of that. “Right. Guess I know where you stand now.” Tommy shrugs, and all Techno can wonder is, in a family of liars, how much of Tommy is a performance? 

Escape attempt 22: A coded message worked into Tommy’s history essay. Phil points it out and congratulates him on such a complex cipher, though critiques the fact it was only ever going to be delivered to people already eating from his palm. Honestly? Techno forgot he put one in. Tommy is miffed that he has to rewrite the essay. 

Escape attempt 23: He’s finally gotten through Tommy’s mound of homework. Uuugh. It’s easy, of course, but getting Tommy to see that is much more difficult. It doesn’t help that his attention is flighty today. Not that it takes much focus to get through the papers, it sorta runs on autopilot once he gets into it, but he has a killer headache. There’s a nasty feeling in his gut that refuses to go away, some danger lurking that he can’t shake. He can’t stop nervously fidgeting, something important prodding the back of his head. And where is his bag? Maybe it got left in the car??

He waves at Phil on his way out. “Hey, he did pretty well today. Send the check to my account by Friday.” 

A completely bewildered expression greets him. “What?”

“Huh?” Techno stops completely in his tracks. Something about Philza Craft makes his head go haywire. Then Techno’s eyes go comically wide, or would if not for the black eye. “Oh. Oh my god.”

“Are you alright??”

“No! You’ve kidnapped me!” 

His captor glances at his watch. “Ohh that’s not good, mate. The Rohypnol should have worn off hours ago, we should get that checked. Did that fool give you a concussion? Being fired was too good for him, he should have been quartered,” Phil hisses. 

Techno blanches. “You’re going to draw and quarter someone?”

“What? Of course not, dear, I meant confined to quarters. Is your black eye hurting? Where’s your warm compress?” That is a very good question. Techno pats his jeans, then begins to look around for it. Has it disappeared somehow? Phil is staring at him in amazement. “That distraction worked?”

“Huh? Do you know where it is? Also my keys, and phone, I’m not sure where they went.”

But Phil simply frowns. “This…isn’t a scheme, is it? That’s a bad sign. I’m going to call my personal doctor, okay son?”

“I’m not your kid.”

“Mhm, whatever you say, Technoblade. Don’t worry, we’ll get this sorted out. Have you had lunch?”

“...maybe?” 

Escape attempt 24: The doctor is shining a bright light directly into his eyes in a way that is very unappreciated, but that doesn’t stop Techno from attempting to persuade her to try to bust him out. She snorts and says her loyalty is well bought, only laughing more when he retorts about the Hippocratic oath. “Funny. That old promise means nothing when it’s my head on the chopping block.” 

Techno squints at Phil. “Just how ruthless are your lawyers?” His captor laughs like he made a joke. 

It’s not a concussion, whatever it is. He takes the pills given to him, panics when he remembers he shouldn’t consume anything these people want him to, but is distracted again by wondering how much a personal doctor gets paid. 

He spends the whole day trying to escape. Fondly, Phil mentions determination runs in their blood. Techno ignores him. He can’t focus, practically scratching at the walls. He keeps kinda forgetting he’s been kidnapped, asking if Tommy’s lesson is done and then scowling at them when he remembers. 

Restlessness doesn’t cease by the time he's shuffled into a bedroom. His bedroom, Techno figures, mostly because it’s the exact same shade from his house. It still reeks of fresh paint, which implies this is a recent job to completely replicate his childhood. The furniture, unfortunately, is not a hallucination, and looks exactly like the kind back home. He isn’t sure how many more heebie-jeebies can be wrung out of him today, and Techno only gets more and more wound up as the night wears on. 

No. It’s not a simple replica. Honestly, of course it isn’t, knowing these loonies. This is the bed from his childhood bedroom. He recognizes it from the crayon drawings on the underside. Don’t ask why he’s under there as a full grown man who can’t really fit (a fact he’s highly aware of). Techno is entitled to a little insanity, considering the circumstances. And yes, he’s absolutely losing his mind over the implications that someone broke into his childhood home and stole all of his furniture, but really that’s like the dozenth major felony committed against him in the last thirty odd hours, and the surprise has worn thin. It might be 2 AM and perhaps he’s been pacing like a caged tiger for hours, but it’s right there, looking at the little crayon drawings he made as a kid, that he has an epiphany. Alright, he should have thought about it ages ago, but he is very stressed and can’t sleep, okay? Anyway, Techno is an adult. And a prisoner. And a well documented bad prisoner. Really, there shouldn’t be consequences if he leaves his room at night. So far his captors have actually been surprisingly chill about his restlessness. Then again he hasn’t been very successful. Yet. 

He throws the door open and stalks through the halls. A blur in the corner of his eye has Techno screaming the most shrill shriek of his life and decking the dude in the face. He sprints around the corner, and after a few seconds footsteps pound after, only to run directly into Techno’s ambush. The floor lamp shatters against their skull and they go down fast once he kicks out their knees. Scrambling in the dark for tools, he ends up pinning the man beneath a couch. 

“Who are you!?” Techno screeches, wielding the broken floor lamp like a sword. People come running and the light blares on painfully. 

Wilbur wakes up when the shouting starts. Unfortunately, he thinks it’s something he should deal with. He rolls out of bed, stretches like a cat, then saunters down the hallway, guards shadowing him. 

Flicking on the lights reveals his bedraggled brother jabbing a broken lamp at a pinned guard, interrogating him. Wilbur snickers, and then ducks as a lamp head is hurled across the room directly at him. Tech is disheveled and panting, pulling the pole back for a spear throw before recognizing him. Really, it’s so out of character for the chill guy that Wilbur can’t help but laugh. Man, he’s really gotten riled up hasn't he? It’s entertaining enough that Wilbur hopes it lasts a bit before Tech settles back down. 

His brother blinks owlishly as his howling twin, slowly lowering the improvised weapon. Tech points at the man trapped under the sofa. “Someone broke into your house Wil. Crap! There’s one behind you!”

“Tech. Oh my god. That’s your bodyguard.”

His own dark eyes stare at him with utter bewilderment. Clearly Tech hasn’t slept a wink. “…haeh? My what now? Why would I need a bodyguard??” It’s probably the most naive thing to ever come out of his mouth. And Dad said he was the brightest kid in the world. Tch. “The worst thing I do is bully nerds online, no one is going to come after me for that.”

“You’re one of us now. People like us have enemies, naturally.”

“You, maybe,” he scoffs. “I’m a normal guy. And I can take care of myself. Wouldn’t you agree?” He prods the bodyguard with his foot. A moment of realization, and he lifts the couch enough to be escaped. “Oh geez, my bad, bro. Uh, sorry for decking you I guess. Really Wil, I’m fine. Plus I handled him didn’t I?”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. “He’s not allowed to hit you, is he? What are you even doing outside your room?”

An awfully confused look crosses his twin's features as he looks at the broken lamp in his hands. “I don’t, uh, remember. Aw crap, sorry about your lamp, Wil. I can pay for it. Er, maybe. I can try at least.” 

Wilbur assures his sleep deprived brother that it’s fine, taking his hand and leading him back to bed. It feels perfect, identical fingers interlocking. A cracked mirror finally put back together. He’s found his other half after missing half his soul his whole life. Their family is complete again. It will be perfect, he tries to tell himself, just like Dad always said it would be. 

By morning Techno’s a jittering wreck incapable of staying in one room for more than fifteen minutes. He checks all the exits for the millionth time, halfway starting escapes before remembering exactly how they failed the last time. But eventually his stomach rumbles consistently enough that even he can’t forget it, and so Techno blearily stumbles towards the dining room.

Unfortunately, it’s rather occupied. At once Techno flips about face and tries to march out. “Stay.” He can feel Phil’s stare digging between his shoulder blades. Deep survival instinct tells him to measure his recalcitrance. His temper has gotten too loose as of late. There haven’t been consequences yet, but you have to measure what’s worth it. He can spare his dignity and play the family game if that’s what it takes. Maybe. He doesn’t particularly like the Crafts, for obvious reasons. Perhaps hanging around them will go the other way, if his loathing is too blatant. So he plops down next to Wil and tries not to grimace when an arm is slung over his shoulders. He hates being touched. Especially by people who drug him. It’s not a large pool of people, exclusive to Wilbur and dentists, but the point still stands. 

Techno stares at his morning coffee. On the one hand, he needs it if he’s going to keep up the escape attempts. On the other, the last time he drank something the Craft family gave him, it went, you know, pretty badly. He’s been squinting at the cup in his hands for about five minutes before Phil asks what’s wrong with it, given it’s his preferred blend. But can he really be blamed for trying to see if it looks or smells weird?

“Don’t be daft,” Wil snorts. “You wouldn’t be able to detect it, since it’s odorless, flavorless, and colorless.”

“You’re going to upset him,” Phil chides. “Why would we have any reason to drug you?”

“Funny you should say that, because that thought didn’t cross my mind the last time I accepted a beverage from Wil. Why? BECAUSE I DIDN'T THINK MY FRIEND WOULD SPIKE MY DRINK.”

“Aw, glad to hear we’re friends.”

“We’re not,” Techno replies irritably as Wil steals his cup and sips it. 

“We can be both friends and brothers, they’re not exclusionary. There you go. Not drugged or poisoned or anything.”

Techno snatches his mug back. Coffee is vital to his escape plans. “We’re neither. You’re my kidnapper.” He chugs down the sweet, heavenly caffeine, trying not to think about the fact it’s made exactly how he likes it. 

“Rude. And for the future, just because I take one sip of a drink doesn’t mean it’s fine. I could have built up tolerances, or taken the antidote beforehand. Maybe it only works at a large dose.”

Techno spews coffee everywhere, scraping at his tongue with a napkin. “Wilbur,” Phil reprimands. “Don’t tease your brother like that.”

“If he put spikes in your drink, wouldn’t your tongue get sliced up?” Tommy asks. 

As he begins to carefully drink his coffee, Techno scowls. “The drink was spiked, not ‘has spikes’. Roofies. The kind of stuff bad guys put in girls’ drinks on dates in order to-”

“Technoblade,” Phil says sharply. “He is a child.”

“You were the ones who-” the glare he gets makes his stomach tie in knots. Yes, remember who you’re talking to, boy. Best not to make assumptions about what moral boundaries are at play. There haven’t been consequences yet, and that is a very important yet. But words seem to get under Phil’s skin more than acts of rebellions, and Techno has always, always been bad at controlling his tongue, but it’s especially bad today with his nerves going haywire. His back prickles. 

He’s pacing again. Techno doesn’t know when he started. But he’s not supposed to leave till breakfast is over, family rule. His parents don’t like pacing, always teasing he’ll leave furrows on the floor. Do I have to tie you up to make sure you stay put, boy? Maybe the Crafts will try that, actually. Put him on a leash. Wait, who’s going to walk Floof now?? Crap he’s getting side tracked. He’s always getting side tracked, forgetting about the dishes or projects or birthdays. Mom and Dad had always gotten frustrated about that, honestly their relationship had gotten so much better ever since he was diagnosed. 

Wait. 

“MEDS! I HAVEN'T TAKEN MY MEDS FOR-“

“Your ADHD! Sorry I forgot about that, mate. That explains so much about yesterday. Don’t worry, we’ll fetch your Adderall.” 

And Techno pauses and squints at Phil. “How’d you know that?”

“I know everything about you.”

Well that’s tooootally not creepy. “Then you know I have a 10 AM class I need to get to.”

“Not on Thursdays.” What- how long has he been out? He hasn’t missed a single class all semester! No, no, no! 

“My schoolwork! Crap I had assignments due! And seven essays to deliver—!” his 100% refund policy for delays or misjudged letter grades is an act of hubris that is going to annihilate him. “Bruuuh. I’m going to fail,” he moans. “I’m going to fail and get kicked out and have to go back home.”

“Of course you aren’t. For one thing, you’re brilliant, two missed days won’t change that. For another, you’re already home, love.” Techno recoils, tasting copper. 

Technoblade Piglin is officially violently ill and will be for months. Philza writes the sick note himself, signing off as Technoblade’s guardian in a way that is immensely satisfying. Of course he isn’t yet, not legally, but the paperwork should be filed by the end of the week. Soon the documents will all reflect the fact Technoblade is a Craft. Really, it shouldn’t be such an endorphin boost, but every time he refers to himself as Technoblade’s father his brain goes hehe. I have a son. A baby. And he’s mine! Precious baby boy. It’s not particularly conducive to work, but he deserves a vacation. He built his empire so that no cruel hand could ever destroy his family again, stretching his influence globally all for the hope he might find his long lost son. It would be foolish not to maintain, not when it is so profitable, but the driving desperate determination is unnecessary now. He deserves a break. After all, he has eighteen years to catch up on. From now on, his attention is reserved exclusively for his sons. 

His work is done by no means. There are still plenty of loose ends to tie up, such as ensuring this little transition period isn’t even a blip on Technoblade’s academic career, as the boy cares so deeply about it. What furious passion. Naturally Philza will do everything in his power to further that interest. It’s not hard to sign off on doctor’s notes and explain why Technoblade can’t continue in-person studies. 

He doesn’t appreciate the fact he’s forging another man’s signature. It should be his name on the dotted line claiming Technoblade, not the moniker of the villain who’d taken his precious son. While Philza had lovingly studied everything about Technoblade, it was with ire he researched those who had stolen his rightful parental position. But the Piglins disappeared the moment his sights had set upon them. They escaped him, for now, but that will change soon enough. No one hurts his family and gets away with it.

No one.

Of course there is the benefit of having free reign of Technoblade’s childhood home, drab and cramped as it is, and he hopes the familiar decorations put him at ease. Though likely not being off his meds will be greatly beneficial. Such a crucial detail shouldn’t have slipped his mind, but, well, he’s a little distracted. Technoblade obviously got it from somewhere, after all. 

Oh. My. God. He can decorate the fridge with Technoblade’s scribbly crayon artwork and report cards! How adorable.

Wil fetches his meds, favorite clothing, backpack, and a few personal items important to him, demonstrating attentiveness to what Techno values. Basically, it’s salt in a wound, but he has to grin and thank Wil since he still isn’t quite sure at what point the Craft’s might give up and kill him. 

What hurts most is the response from Skeppy. It’s short, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever hear anything from the outside world until he escapes. It’s a nice enough message, Skeppy wishing him the best and hoping the doctors figure out what’s wrong with his sudden failing health. But couldn’t he have seen through the obvious lie? When has Techno ever let something like that stop him? Why can’t anyone notice everything is wrong? He consoles himself with the fact Skeppy wouldn’t be able to do anything anyway.

Techno’s laptop is delivered after some delay, and when it’s finally booted up it’s been utterly gutted. Any ability to contact help has been basically destroyed, with a cheery note informing him all messages will be monitored and filtered before reaching anybody else. 

Escape attempt 27: A coded message sent to Skeppy. It is never delivered. 

Escape attempt 28: A half finished email for his parents. He erases the entire thing four times. There’s not a chance in hell Phil will let him talk to his actual family, even if he figures out what to say. He doesn’t buy the outrageous accusations, of course, but the topic of family is, for obvious reasons, really freaky at the moment. Techno gives up before he can work himself into a mental crisis. There’s an awful weight in his stomach that their last phone call might be all he gets for a long time. 

‘Family’ meals are now mandatory if he wants to make sure he gets his meds. Lunch is worse without Tommy, because at least there was one person in the room he didn’t loathe. He doesn’t want to talk about himself to his stalkers for some reason. But maybe it can be a chance to gather information. After all: you can't plan a war if you don’t know the enemy. “So. Uh. What do you even do for a living?”

Phil looks delighted at the question. “You’d like to join the family business?”

“I already have my future planned.” Nobody, not even some rich monster, is going to mess with that. Getting kidnapped better not interfere with his five year plan or he’s gonna be furious. 

“I understand perfectly. Also congrats on your third novel, by the way. It’s doing so well, too, very impressive. I’m proud of you.” 

It smells like a diversion. He pushes his food around his plate since it’s really hard to force himself to eat around Wil. “Thanks.” It isn't Phil he wants to hear it from, though. “Now, what do you do?”

“What do you think?”

“Kick puppies and burn orphanages?” Ah, those are the type of comments you filter, Techno, get with the program, hm? 

Phil snorts. “Really now. As crass as that? Do you really think that pays this well?”

“Human trafficking?” Why did he ever think he was going to control a single word he ever said? Really. Pure hubris. 

“That’s morbid.”

“I mean, you say to your captive.” 

He waves vaguely. “Nothing so exciting and villainous as that.” Techno doesn’t buy it, for whatever reason. “It’s more so managing finances, smart investing, networking, and so on. I’m afraid it’s more dull than you’ve been imagining.” 

“And what does your wife do?” The room falls completely silent, the pair of villains staring at each other. “Uh. Husband? Spouse…s?”

“I’m sorry, Technoblade,” Phil says softly, pinning him with a somber expression. “Your mother is dead.”

He bites down on his automatic vitriolic barb for once, since it would make his life a whole lot easier if both of them were dead. Civility. The key word is civility. He desperately needs to endear them to him when he can manage, since it’s a lot harder to hurt someone you like. Techno would rather die and his pride is screaming, but this is survival. A good son survives the bad days. The hesitation before a blow makes all the difference. He needs every iota of grace and approval he can earn if he’s going to wrack up over 30 escape attempts in just the first day and a half. 

So he swallows his dignity and the acid on his tongue. “I’m…sorry to hear that. Sorry for your loss.”

Phil gives him the most bittersweet smile. “She would have loved you so dearly. One of the last memories I have of Kristin is her holding you and your brother after your birth. You remind me so much of her. You have the exact same eyes.”

Techno uncomfortably looks down at his plate as Phil stares at him, hiding behind the pink strands of hair that fall in front of his face. But he isn’t supposed to leave during meals. So he sits rooted in his chair, and meets all further conversation with stony silence, since it’s that or say something that will only sabotage himself. 

Escapism attempt 1: Techno tries rather hard to write. It’s difficult with the way Phil leans on the back of his chair, watching with deep fascination. The shadow falls over his laptop. Heat prickles uncomfortably on his back from the proximity. For some reason it’s hard to brainstorm a fourth novel with everything going on in his life. He pokes through old projects and writing prompts, and types a few words every fifteen minutes, but for the most part the cursor is blinking at him tauntingly. It’s not really making him any less stressed, more so angry that the overhanging shadow of Phil is ruining an activity he normally loves. He’s made the font small to hopefully avoid the old man being able to read over his shoulder, but all it’s really doing is forcing him to squint at the screen. It’s starting to give him a headache, so he sighs and zooms in. 

“Can you not read it?”

He cants his head back to look at his captor and accidentally bumps into his chest. Quickly, Techno flinches away. “Can you?” he asks grumpily.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe you need glasses like Wilbur? There’s probably an old pair around here somewhere that you can use,” he suggests a little too eagerly. 

“Pretty sure it's because your goons gave me a black eye,” he curtly responds. No thanks. Techno wants to look nothing like Wil, basically changing out of the guy’s clothes the moment he could. Given the type of surveillance he now knows is implemented, it seems Techno is getting dressed in the dark for the time being. “And I don’t need glasses,” he tacks on. 

“I’m pretty sure you do. You squint at everything, dear.”

“I’m glowering.” 

“Aren’t you a bit old for being a moody teen? I think the glasses would help you. I reckon your vision is exactly as bad as your twin’s is.”

“He’s not my brother.” A hand lands upon the top of his scalp. Ah. So that was too far then. Techno freezes, and he wishes he wouldn’t, but he can’t help it. He’s lost the knack for silencing his turbulent stubborn streak and now he will reap the results. 

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” Phil says lightly, carding his fingers through Techno’s hair. He hates this, hates this power play, but all he can do is wait for the moment the fingers turn into claws, for the moment roots rip against his scalp and he’s dragged up by the hair to face his captor. Philza takes his time, parting long strands, sweeping it back behind his hurting back. Waiting is pure, unadulterated agony. Techno stares straight ahead at nothing, failing to breathe. 

Phil sighs, tucking a rose strand behind his pointed ears. “Really now, no need to be so tense. I’m not mad, simply disappointed.” Aren’t those the same things? But Phil stops holding him, and Techno sucks down air fast. He really, really hates being touched. He’s seething. At himself, for overreacting over nothing. At Phil, for making him feel so scared. And, finally, the words seem to come easily, spilling across the page. Not a plot, or a summary, no. Just a simple dedication. He shouldn’t, not immediately after the last exchange, but he wants to make Phil hurt in the only way he can. 

To my parents, he writes, who support me in everything I do. 

“...That’s the wrong plurality,” Phil says at last, stumbling a little bit. 

“Naaah,” he drawls. 

“Ah.” Techno is thankful he doesn’t have to spell out the two fold affront. Phil is smart, if nothing else, though Techno prefers to interpret it as being conniving. Well. Eventually he’ll out scheme the old man. “It’s rather different to your last two dedications. The cockiness of ‘not even close’ was rather fun, don’t you think?”

His discomfort only cements Techno’s belief it’s a well chosen dedication. “I like it.”

“Hm. I hope that changes by the time you revise it.”

“I don’t really edit. I don’t have the patience for it.” 

“I’m aware. But you make up for it with intricate plots and fantastic, fully realized characterization.” 

Something familiar pings at the phrase and on a hunch he pulls up his recent emails with his publisher. Techno highlights the quote when he finds it, and it’s word for word what just came out of Phil’s mouth. “You’ve been reading my emails,” he accuses. 

Phil skims over it. “Ooh, it’s selling rather well! That’s marvelous. But no, I don’t think I’ve seen that one.” That one? That one?! How many of his private conversations does Phil know about?! 

He is distracted from the privacy invasion, unauthorized access, stalking accusations -felonies! Honest to god felonies- by the next thing Phil says. “He just used the same phrase when we last spoke.” 

“Why have you spoken with my publisher?” he demands.

“I had to grease the wheels somehow, didn’t I?”

Red fills his vision. “You–you bribed them to sell my book.”

“Not really. I just pointed in the right direction. It takes so long, doesn’t it? I just expedited the process.”

“You took my legitimacy!”

“No one will know,” Phil soothes dismissively.  

“I will! It’s a hollow victory if you just give it to me!”

He crosses over to sit on the coffee table in front of Techno, clasping his hands together. “Please do not get upset over this. It’s really not so malicious as you paint it to be. I loved your work. Genuinely. I’ve read everything.” Yeah, but just how much everything did that entail? How much of his life has been seen by this man? His skin crawls. “The brilliance of the mind games the protagonist plays is the best political drama I’ve seen in years, let alone the intricacies of how agriculture affects and even drives warfare. Honestly I don’t think I can ever eat a potato again without tasting its bloody history in your series. I just wanted to make sure other people get to appreciate your genius. What I did was recommend your work to a few contacts of mine in the industry. They liked it, put in some good words. I did a little bit of advertising to boost sales since the first week is very important, as you’re no doubt aware. It’s all business, alright? Nothing to do with stifling your creativity or heavens forbid trying to control your work. I’m not some corporate entity interfering with your vision as a ploy to tick off demographic boxes and appease stockholders. All that happened was I wanted to make it easier for you. I love everything you do. Am I wrong to support your talent?”  

“Of course you like everything I do, you’re trying to project your dead kid onto me!”

There’s a hardness in his tone. “You’re making this rather difficult.”

Escape (?) attempt 35: playing video games with Tommy. Okay, look, it counts, alright? He has to build up rapport with the kid if he’s going to convince him to switch sides. And he has a lot more free time now that he has been…relieved of his side gig. Bluntly pointing out that financial control is an abuse tactic only causes Phil to laugh and ask what he’d need to buy. 

“A plane ticket to the Arctic,” he retorts, because he can be classy when telling someone he’d rather be literally freezing to death than in the same room as them. 

But Phil simply looks thoughtful. “I haven’t been in awhile. Maybe a family vacation can be arranged.” Techno grimaces. He should keep his mouth shut. Escaping a house is already a struggle. Having to survive the Arctic wilderness on top of that might be a little more than he can handle. But he will if that’s what it takes. Techno will escape, it’s only a matter of time.  

Even half paying attention, he’s still wiping the floor with Tommy. What, like it’s hard? He gives tips about proper shielding and how to time combos, but he’s not giving the brat a win. Tommy is getting better, but also getting frustrated, and begins to complain. 

“Let your little brother win,” Phil chides. Techno abruptly pauses the game and begins to stalk out of the room. As it’s crucial he doesn’t scare Tommy, he’s not shouting like he wants to, but his temper still boils up. “Where are you going?”

“I need to work on my essays. I’ve been procrastinating. Don’t you care about my grades?”

“Don’t you care about your family?”

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. “He’s not my brother,” Tommy grumbles, echoing his own thoughts. 

“Don’t say that,” Phil responds sharply. 

“I think he should get to leave, if he wants.”

“Thomas.”

The boy goes quiet. 

Escape attempt 36: Another day, another round of homework with Tommy. The kid glances at where Wil lounges across the couch, texting. Phil has been gone for hours, too, though may appear at any time. There’s a shifty look in Tommy. Perfect. “Can you check this sentence? I think I spelled a word wrong.”

Tommy slides him a piece of paper that reads as follows: the smaller windows aren’t usually locked.

Escape attempt 37: Unfortunately, just a shower. He HAD intended to bust open the tiny window once he didn’t look disheveled. It will take some serious parkour and the window is barely wide enough to fit his shoulders, but the bathroom is just about the only place he has privacy. It’ll take some climbing, since it’s on the second floor, but at least Tommy’s tip is good. 

But when Techno gets out, his clothes are gone. While getting arrested for indecent exposure certainly will mean talking to the police faster, it won’t make for a very covert escape. 

He storms out in a bath towel, forming a sizable puddle on the carpet that costs more than his dorm as he towers over Phil and demands to know where his clothes are. The abductor lowers his book, slightly apologetic but wholly unfazed. “Sorry, you take faster baths than I expected.” Yeah? Did how long he takes showers not make it in the report when he was learning literally everything else there is to know about Techno? 

“It’s called a utility bill.” He wrings out his long hair, splashing the novel’s pages on purpose. “Where are my clothes?” Phil waves a hand in some direction, and Techno flips around smartly, furious that his escape attempt is thwarted. 

But the horror in Phil’s voice roots him to the spot as he realizes the mistake. Because there is one thing about Techno no amount of stalking and privacy invasions will ever dig up, because none of them wanted even a breath of a paper trail about this. There’s almost a vicious satisfaction that he managed to keep this secret from the all seeing eye of Phil, but it’s overshadowed by the awful feeling of waiting with baited breath for the reaction. He’s so, so glad he can’t see Phil’s response to realizing the perfect little son he’s concocted in his head well and truly never existed. 

“What happened to your back, Technoblade?”

Techno stands rigid even as needles trail down his spine. He doesn’t care, normally. It simply doesn’t define him. He doesn’t want sympathy, least of all from Philza Craft. But what he wants has never mattered, not now in this golden birdcage, and certainly not in his childhood home. And so he holds himself proud, since pride is the only thing that’s ever saved him. Even then, he can still feel his captor’s eyes raking over every single scar where the belt cut too deep. 

“That’s not your business,” he snaps at once, glaring over a shoulder. 

“Everything about you is my business,” Phil responds quietly. He hates that welling pity in the man’s eyes. 

And Techno turns away, movement stiff but precise. He’s not running but only by a technicality. He doesn’t want to see his captor cry. “Your fault for buying used goods.”

Three hours later, Mr. and Mrs. Piglin are found. They are given very, very little mercy.

Chapter Text

Phil treats him like broken glass afterwards. He just looks at him with the most miserable expression and wrings his hands and it’s driving Techno more than a little crazy. The abductee drags his hands across his face. “Oh my god you’re insufferable. Tons of kids get beat, Phil, you don’t lose sleep over any of them.” 

“Of course I do! I donate to lots of charities. Actually I’ve sent hundreds of millions to kids shelters and orphanages because I was looking for you.” Ding ding ding and that’s called an ulterior motive, folks! “I should do more, I will, but still, if I’d only known-” 

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better? I haven’t been waiting my whole life to be rescued by you. I managed perfectly fine on my own, thanks,” he says dryly. 

“It all makes so much sense now. No wonder you hate me, your father was a threat to you,” he whines, pacing around the laundry room. Unfortunately, Techno’s clothes are still drying, and the fact his back is still exposed is making everything worse.  

“No, I hate you because you kidnapped me.”

“You’ve never had a safe home environment, of course you’re uncomfortable!”

“Literally shut up it is so not what you’re making it out to be. Not everything has to do with my crummy childhood, alright!?”

“Thought patterns learned as a child are replicated later on in life.”

“What shrink told you that? I’m a perfectly normal adult.”

“You try to escape all the time! It must be second nature to you to run away from home. Trying to welcome you into the family must’ve had all your abused instincts screaming. Oh no I’ve stepped over all your trauma!”

“You know what’s actually traumatizing? GETTING DRUGGED AND ABDUCTED.”

“Technoblade, how many times have you tried to run away from home?”

“Never.”

“Oh no, he doesn’t feel safe enough to open up to me,” Phil mutters to himself. “The truth is too much for him to accept. Is it even possible? Will his defenses ever lower? Has he been too damaged to ever love again?”

“OH MY GOD WILL YOU SHUT UP?!” 

“How many signs have I missed? Think, Philza, there should be warning signs.”

“I’m right here you know!” The door opens and a maid eeps to see them in what’s supposed to be her territory. Techno sighs and waves her away. “Sorry Bernadette, he’s kinda insane right now. I can take care of my own laundry, thank you, don’t worry about it in the future.” Maybe there’s less chance his clothes will get bugged that way. Is that the right level of paranoia? He has no idea. 

“Are you sure sir?” Her eyes are wide and locked on his shoulder blades where the worst of the scarring is. 

“I’m not that useless. I’ll clean up the puddle too. Have a good day.” She ducks out fast without Phil even noticing her. Lucky. When the load is finally done Techno pulls on the first shirt he can find. It’s too hot, and is just going to get wet from his hair, but honestly he needs something to stop the pity welling up in his captor’s eyes. “Are you over it yet?”

“Short showers. To limit vulnerability time? Or does it hurt your scars? We can try to do something about that, if you need medicine, surgery, anyth-”

Apparently not. Techno starts pulling out clothes into a basket. “It’s literally to not waste water. I’m trying to save the planet here and you’re making a whole narrative out of nothing. It’s NOT a huge deal.” 

“You don’t like being touched.”

“Yah, I don’t like you? What isn’t clicking ??”

“Wilbur said you were like that before everything.”

Oh. Huh. Maybe there is something there. But Techno sure as hell isn’t going to admit that! “Yah, around the creepy guy who kept interrogating me about my personal life. This doesn’t…define me. It happened, sure, whatever, but it doesn’t affect me like you think it does. I don’t care.”

“But I do, Technoblade, I care.” He grimaces, and Phil’s frown deepens, tailing after Techno as he begins walking to his room. “You flinch when I say I love you.”

He nearly drops the laundry basket, then scowls at proving Phil right. “You don’t love me, you’re obsessed with me. It’s horrifying when you say it.” 

“Or because it hurts because your own parents wouldn’t say it but I will.” His expression becomes tender. “You are so amazing, Technoblade. No matter what they’ve said and done to you. You are talented, and brilliant, and determined, and you deserve to be loved.”

“I was!” he snaps, shoving the basket down sharply on his bed. 

“People don’t do stuff like that if they love you! They don’t beat you, or hurt you, or-”

“Trap you in an environment where you don’t feel safe?” Phil looks at him guiltily. That’s a new one. Huh. Maybe this can be weaponized. “Yah. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“I can admit I have made a mistake,” Phil says graciously. “There were…things I didn’t know before. I should have handled it better. I knew you were a little skittish, but I think I’ve moved too fast and startled you.”

So that’s how he saw all this? Exasperated, Techno raises an eyebrow. “Yah, cause my last owners didn’t treat me well? I'm not a second hand dog, Phil.”

He frowns. “Please don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re so much more than a dog.” Yeah, duh, he’s the next great American author. “And you’re not– not used goods,” he insists, completely distressed. “You are a child who has been hurt. That is not your fault. That does not make you worthless, or disgusting, or whatever they made you feel. They can’t hurt you anymore, or ever again. I just want to protect you. You’re safe now, Technoblade, you don’t have to…to keep pretending to be strong. It’s allowed to hurt. You can talk about it, if you need. Whatever weighs on your mind I want to hear. I will always, always be here for you.”

“Fine,” he relents quietly, dropping down onto his childhood bed. The words are allowed to linger, the silence unbroken. He catches the way Phil goes still, completely enraptured, but carefully keeps his gaze on the hands in his lap. “I’ll…I‘ll admit it. You remind me of my father.” Phil reacts like a gut punch. Hell a bullet might have been kinder, and Techno inhales deeply as if to steady himself. Really, it’s to stop his mouth from twisting into a vicious smile as he finally draws blood from Philza Craft. He might hold all the power, but Techno has earned every heartbeat he’s ever had. His entire life has been warring against people who control his entire existence. Phil is no different. “You walk the same way, laugh the same way, touch me the same way. You— you scare me a lot.” He lets his voice crack on the way out. “I just wanted to come to college to get away from him, only to run into the exact same man.”

Really, they’re nothing alike. And it wasn’t just his dad, but Techno thinks the singular comparison will cut deeper. Honestly his parents weren’t bad, but if Phil has villainized them so much he might as well use that distorted mirror to reflect back at his captor. 

He can forecast his parents moods like the weather. More accurate than meteorologists, too. They’re predictable. Familiar. With Phil it’s the same breezy summer day, or so he pretends. Techno can sense anger bubbling beneath the surface, always smoothed over, always hidden with a sugary smile. That’s what makes him uneasy about Phil. His parents were honest, they knew what they were. Just two people struggling. But Phil is something else. He doesn’t see how monstrous he is. Convinced of his own delusions, and you can never trust someone who doesn’t see the world for what it really is. Techno can only guess at the narrative Phil has concocted about all this, and what he doesn’t know haunts him. 

“I escaped just barely. But then I got dragged in here, and it’s nicer-” it’s really, really not “-but it’s just so recent. It feels like I’m back with my parents all over again, even if I know I’m not.” And normally, he has no idea what Phil is really feeling, but for just one second he does because Techno is playing him like a fiddle and making his heartache sing. “Please,” he begs, “just let me go. I can’t— I can’t do this right now. Maybe once I’ve had time to heal, to get him out of my head. But I can’t be in a family right now. Not so soon.”

Tears brim in Phil’s eyes. He reaches out to hug Techno, and for once he’s glad for his automatic demur. The flinch is the nail in the coffin, and his captor begins to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, son. I didn’t know you felt this way.” Soaring hope is carefully kept off his features. “I didn’t know how much it hurt you. But I can’t let you go back to the place that ruined you.”

Ruined. The word tastes like acid in his mouth. Ruined? He isn't ruined. Technoblade Piglin is perfectly fine. Maybe a little wary and cold, but it’s not a sin to not be a touchy-feely guy. His anxieties are perfectly justified in the given circumstances! He hopes there are too many tears for Phil to detect the frustration and anger bleeding through. “I won’t be going back there. Just to my college. Independent of them. Don’t you want your son to feel safe?”

It was a mistake to fuel the delusion. He realizes it in an instant, as it only buttresses Phil’s paranoid possessive streak. 

“You are. You’ll realize it eventually. I can’t ever let you out of my sight again. The college isn’t safe, if you were stolen from me once you will be again. We’ve too many enemies, my boy.”

He wants to tear his hair out. “Please! I can’t do this!” It’s far too genuine an appeal for his liking, but Techno’s a little desperate at this point.

Phil looks at him somberly. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to do this alone. I’m going to help you. I’m going to heal what they’ve done to break you. I promise you, Technoblade, I will be a better father than he ever was.”

Phil absolutely REFUSES to let him leave his sight. It’s infuriating. Maybe Techno overdid it on the manipulation tactics, but he thought it would work! He gets tailed around by Phil like a lost puppy for TWO WHOLE DAYS. He keeps dithering and apologizing, but at least he shuts up around Wil and Tommy. They’ve obviously noticed the change, and Tommy in particular appears betrayed, but Phil is not going to tell them and Techno is definitely not going to. Tommy is too young for that crap, and he’s worried Wil will be convinced this kidnapping thing was in his best interest. Or who knows, he’s so obsessed with the idea of them being twins that maybe the fact he isn’t ‘perfect’ anymore will swing him the other way. But with how Phil reacted, Techno isn’t risking anything. 

Right now, he’s perched at the very end of a comically long couch, about to fall off, with Phil hovering near inches away next to him. Obviously he’d started at the more reasonable middle, but Phil kept leaning in and he kept scooting away and now he has nowhere left to run. Not that Phil is actually touching him, since he’s finally respecting that boundary at least. Nice. Still, a little privacy is appreciated. Man, does Phil have no respect for the guy he abducted? 

Given his constant vigilance, Techno figures that escape attempts are a no go for now. Best to do some snooping, then. 

“What are you writing?” Phil asks worriedly. He does everything worriedly now. It’s an adverb beginning to get on Techno’s nerves.

“It’s called ‘research’. You do it if you don’t want your book to be what we call ‘literal garbage’. Can you understand that much?”

“Those are some…interesting topics you’re looking into. Are you sure? And you haven’t finished your school work today.” 

“That’s because, for some unknown reason, all of my classwork is suddenly about discussing my mental health.”

“Maybe it’s a sign that you should write about your feelings,” Phil says earnestly, like he obviously isn’t controlling all emails coming to his laptop.

“See, I don’t want to write about my feelings. So I won’t. My muse isn’t speaking to me about that at the moment. She wants me to write about organized crime, so that’s what I’m going to write about.” 

“Really now, why would you need to worry about that?”

“Call me inspired. Unfortunately, the parental controls are a bit strict…shame. Guess I’ll never get a fourth book in. My hopes and dreams and ambitions are in shambles…”

“You’re very creative, I’m sure you’ll think of something more…tasteful.” 

“What happened to ‘not controlling my work’? Makes me wonder just how many promises you actually intend to keep to me.” 

“No! That’s not it at all. Here, give it to me, I’ll adjust some things…” God just the slightest arm twisting and he gives in. Marvelous how easy it is. Shame this is such a one trick pony. Not like Techno has any other massive horrifying things to reveal about himself, unless he starts lying. Now there is a thought…

Anyway, Techno had no such plans for a fourth book. Like, obviously, he’s in a crisis here! But a lot of little off hand comments are adding up, and he really wants to know who exactly Philza Craft is. Maybe the paranoid rich guy has something to hide, no? All those talks about enemies? Besides, stalking a stalker is fair game.

Wil corners him after a few days. Like, honest to god corners, hands on either side pinning him to the wall. Nooo thanks. Techno ducks beneath and begins briskly walking away. A hand lashes out to wrap around his wrist, but it’s thrown off with a quick, violent twist. 

Huffing with annoyance, Wil follows after. Techno speeds up, and is unfortunately trapped walking way too fast to be comfortable. And since he can’t leave the house, escape is basically impossible, both literally and for the conversation. But like hell is Techno going to stop.  

“Slow down,” Wil insists.

“No.”

“I'm trying to talk to you!”

“I can tell.”

“Listen, please?” Techno hesitates. He didn’t know Wil even knew that word. “I tried to give you space since I know you’re shy.”

“I’m not shy, I have social anxiety. And it’s not because of that, it’s because I hate you guys.”

“Which I noticed. And tried to give you a break about. But it doesn’t seem to be working.” No really? “I think we need to work on our communication skills, because this relationship isn’t going very well at the moment.”

“I feel like a broken record. We don’t have one. We’re not related.”

His eye twitches, but he holds his palms out and shrugs. “Fine.” Techno halts, completely thrown by the fact one of the Craft’s actually admitted he’s just some guy. Progress? Yoo?? Wil bumps into him from the abrupt stop, and Techno shuffles out of the way, but he’s listening now. Wil blinks, then flashes a triumphant grin. “I can be reasonable, Techno. You don’t think we’re brothers, I can get that, but there’s still a relationship here. Our friendship, if that’s the only one you’ll recognize.”

His fault for expecting a Craft to be anything but delusional. “Naaah. You think we’re friends? Hysterical. You’re a riot, Wil, really.”

Wil deflates, disappointed. “Why don’t you like me?”

“Bruh you’re the reason I got kidnapped.” 

“No, you’re the reason you’re kidnapped. We like you.”

“There’s a term for what you just said, actually. Victim blaming? Ring a bell?”

“If you say so. I’m just how you got kidnapped, not why.”

“Yeah, cause that makes it so much better,” Techno snaps. 

“Here. I apologize for spiking your drink. Better?”

“No!”

“Ugh. Listen, I’m not saying it's ideal. I don’t like it anymore than you do.” Doubtful. “It wasn’t as clean as it could’ve been, I should’ve been more explicit with my men what the goal was, the blackeye was completely unnecessary. And I swear it was a last resort, I wish it had gone differently too. I’m sorry. Truly. I wish it had been easier.”

“And I wish it had never happened at all.” 

Frustration crawls across his features. “I don’t know what you want from me. Honestly you’re overreacting.”

“I don't— I don't think you get how terrifying that is.”

Wil gives him a flat look. “I do, actually, I’m familiar with drugs.” Mentally, Techno decides to investigate if the Craft family has any cartel ties. 

“That’s not the same. That’s recreational, that’s something you chose to do. I didn't consent. I had no choice, or say, or anything in that situation. You stripped away my agency, and left me with no control of myself or situation, and destroyed my life, and- and I don’t remember what happened.”

“Then why are you upset?” 

“Because I don’t know! I don’t know what you guys did to me, I couldn’t fight back, I couldn’t save myself. You forced me into a very vulnerable position and can’t see why that’s terrifying.”

He retreats. “We wouldn’t— no, that’s just paranoia, we would never hurt you.”

“No? Just beat me up and take my phone and wallet, take my cognitive facilitates, take my freedom? You drugged me and took advantage of the state, Wilbur, I don’t know how else you can look at that!”

And the quick retort on Wil’s tongue dies. He stops, stills, and simply stares. “...oh. I didn’t realize how scary that must’ve been. You were so languid for the most part, so it’s not like I could’ve really seen how panicked it must’ve made you. From my perspective it was mostly annoying since the plan didn’t go smoothly, but I was just so happy you were finally with us. But from your perspective…” Actually contemplating it for the first time, dawning horror scrawls across his features. 

“Phil said you’ve been kidnapped before, right? Are you really that desensitized to that?”

“...oh.”

“Yeah.” 

“I– sorry. Genuinely. I know what that feels like, but I didn’t even think to consider that’s what it would be. Even worse, possibly, since it’s not like you’d know why you were being abducted. Not like you could’ve known it was just us, you were too out of it. I’m sorry I did that to you, Tech. I want to take it back, but I know I can’t. I’d like to do better in the future.” 

It’s not perfect, certainly. And like hell is Techno ever going to actually forgive him. But at least it’s some type of progress. “...I think you know how you could actually help.” 

Wil sighs regretfully, but it’s not the right type of it. “You know I can’t do that. I understand the transition was frightening, but please believe me. You are completely safe with us. We’ll make sure of it. It might be hard to trust right now, but in time you’ll realize I’m telling the truth. You belong here.” 

“I really, really don’t.” 

Sorrow flickers in his eyes. “No. No, I guess you’re right. You used to, but it’s been so long you’re a stranger now. It’s not fair to any of us, least of all you. It has to be this way, you’ll see that eventually. I know we botched the start, but it’ll get better. Just know that from the bottom of my heart, I wish one of the other, nicer kidnapping attempts had worked.”

Wait huh?? “Haaaaaeh?”

Wil gives him the most disbelieving stare. “Tech, we’ve wanted you from the very start. You really think there was only one attempt? Think for one second, you’re supposed to be smart. All those times the doors to the mansion were locked? Or your car had a flat while visiting?”

“You— you slashed my tires!? Bruh, that cost so much to replace!”

“It happened on three separate occasions.”

“I thought you had a messed up driveway from— from throwing diamonds like confetti or whatever. You have to be pulling my leg, I would have noticed you guys trying to abduct me.” But Wil proceeds to list off shenanigans employed to capture him, and by the time he trails off knowing the point has been made, Techno has buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god this is so embarrassing. You were trying for a month to abduct me and I didn’t even notice? I must be the densest guy in the whole world.”

“Honestly, we're waiting for at least something to click. We’re twins for crying out loud, but you always just shrugged off literally everything.” 

Perhaps Techno just didn’t have the best frame of reference for normal. “That’s not fair, I have anxiety. I spend my entire life coming up with bonkers impossible scenarios and ignoring them like a sane person would. It’s not my fault I randomly jumped genres.”

“Surely you noticed something though. The fact that dorm prices got raised so much? Still don’t know why you turned down my offer of a room.”

“Because I sensed something was wrong with you guys?” Actually it was because of the illegal dog Skeppy and him were sharing custody of. Floof probably saved him an entire extra two weeks of freedom. Extra treats for him, then, once Techno finally breaks out. “Also you screwed over so many people besides me. And that was completely offset by how much you were paying me for essays! That one act means you’re stupid in two different ways!”

He scoffs. “I’m a great writer, that was just to get close to you.”

“You said you didn’t know how to spell ‘library’ bro.”

“The fact you believed that speaks more to you than to me. You wouldn’t be able to tell if someone was lying even if they had a shirt declaring it Opposite Day.”

“Wait. So you’ve been lying about doing all this stupid crap to kidnap me, right?” Right? Oh god please. 

“Oh no, that was all real.” Bruuuh. Seriously? He’d pull his hair out, but it’s the one thing that differentiates them. “Some of it even got written off on our taxes.”

“You pay taxes?”

“Obviously.”

“Oh.”

“See? You believed that! It’s actually set up so that we appear bankrupt every year, so the government actually pays us.” Well geez. Not that Techno pays his taxes either, but that’s a moral and principled decision! When they do it it’s malicious!

“Wait. Actually no! That’s embarrassing for you! You guys suck at kidnapping lmaoooooo. Losers! Can’t even kidnap a guy who isn’t paying attention.”

“We didn’t want to scare you off!”

“Wow, really? So you admit this is a HORRIFYING and TRAUMATIZING experience?”

“I think being forced to interact with Tommy qualifies for that.”

“True. He’s a menace.”

“You’ll be sorry you said that,” Tommy says suddenly from the vents. 

“Your grade will never recover if you cross me.” 

“….nevermind.” Muffled thumps overhead indicate the kid wiggling away, on to more interesting shenanigans. 

Wil’s lopsided grin widens as a very dampened swear is followed by a crash a room over. It slowly fades to somber. “Genuinely, I’m sorry it didn’t go better. I wish this was a story with a smoother, kinder rescue. It was a messy reunion, none of us are denying that. But can't you just accept this is happily ever after?”

And Techno wonders how many bedtime stories ended with and then Technoblade comes home. 

Wil searches for something in his hard gaze. Regret spills into his dark eyes. “I didn’t want it to be like this. I didn’t know it would affect you so much. Just- we tried so many other ways, and nothing was working.”

“Didja try asking?” he asks sardonically.

“You would’ve said no.”

“Bingo. So what does a normal person do? They accept a no.”

“You don’t…get it. Family is family no matter what. We couldn’t just abandon you, not once we finally found you. We spent so, so many years trying to save you, Tech.” 

“I wasn’t lost in the first place.”

“To us you were. We needed you back, safe and sound.” A hesitation, and his words become carefully placed. Not a lie, no, then he’d be comfortable. It’s words that Wilbur has run over a million times but never spoken aloud, like a mantra, or a prayer. “I needed you back. You’re…you’re supposed to complete me.” Techno sees it, then. How isolated Wil grew up, not for any lack of company. Told his whole life he was half a person, part of an incomplete set. A reflection missing its subject, or vice versa. So constantly told his life is a shallow, broken tragedy, of course the child believed what his father said. 

But that is not, and will never be, Techno’s burden to carry. He is not responsible for the expectations cast upon him. It would be a far greater sin to betray himself trying to be the person the Craft’s dreamed of. He chews on his response, and begins gently, as such a situation warrants, but firmly. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you are your own whole person. We’re two entirely separate people. Even if -and that’s a BIG if- we’re twins, it’s literally just random biological chance. This is real life, Wil, there’s no poetic significance to it. If your life is empty, that’s not on me to fix.”

“I– no. No, I’ve been waiting eighteen years for you, it has to be–”

“I’m a person, Wil. I’m not the– the solution, I’m just a guy. Not the missing piece, or the prize, or the damsel waiting all this time to get rescued. I’m not your happily ever after. If you feel empty inside, there’s only one person who will change that, and he’s you.” 

Wil bites down on his sharp response. He’s almost furious, jaw clenching. Wil needs to be irate, or else he’ll have to accept Techno is right. But denial runs out fast because, really, what other option does he have? Wil has to realize the truth, and obviously he suspects something if he cornered Techno about it. “Then…then what? What am I supposed to do about all of this?”

“Bro I have literally no idea. The world is not going to give you purpose. That’s up to you to figure out.”

Running his fingers through his hair, Wil sighs. “Right. Right, that’s fair. Can I at least get some advice though?”

Techno shrugs helplessly. This is so far out of his comfort zone he has no idea if what he’s saying is actually useful. But it’s worth a shot if it gets Wil off his back. “Shoot. But so you know, I charge 75 bucks an hour and you have no patient confidentiality since I’m a huge gossip.” 

Wil snorts. “Yah? With who? There’s no one here but us.” 

“Bernadette? Chloe? Michael? Steve? Hannah? Jacobs? The house is literally filled with people, what are you talking about?” Not that any of them will help bust him out, but Techno can understand why. They needed to keep their jobs. And possibly their lives, if he can ever pin down exactly how ruthless Phil is. “Whatever. Just know they’re all going to hear about your dreams or whatever embarrassing crap you want to talk about. We’re going to talk smack like you wouldn’t believe, and I got to bring something juicy next session or I’ll never hear about what Damian’s ex did with the lawn flamingos.” 

“The– the lawn flamingos??” Wil laughs. 

“You can fit a lot of them in one bathtub. Anyway, what were you going to ask?”

“What fills you, Tech?”

“Uh. A lot of things, I guess. I like to make people laugh.”

“Really? Something as simple as that?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but life sucks, Wil. It gets dark and ugly. But if I can make someone laugh, it’s like for just a moment I’ve lifted some of that weight.” It’s escapism, sure, but escapism can be life saving. Technoblade read so much as a child, devouring just about everything so long as he didn’t have to return to the real world. “And I like writing, too. Just. An entire world, solely mine from beginning to end. If I don’t make it, no one else can. It’s my art to release upon the world.”

“Those are so small though.”

“It’s not bad to live for small things. But nah, I don’t just want to be an author. I’ve already got that one in the bag, obviously. I’m going to be one of the greats, the type that goes down in the defining literature of the period. People everywhere will read my work. I’ll make them laugh till their hearts soar. I’ll make them weep till they find catharsis. Millions of copies sold, insanely successful all on my own.” His broad smile dims as he remembers how Philza poisoned his dream. He’s been wildly successful, but how much of that was really him? How much of his victory was simply bought? It’s an impossible allegation once released into the world, never to know what is the brilliance of his work and what is nepotism. Technoblade exhales. “I’ll prove them all wrong, blow them away with my work.” He’d be untouchable then. “People will remember me for centuries.” 

“So which is it? Which is the driving force?”

“I’ll do it for love, for clout, for money, for spite. I’ll do it all. A goal can encompass so many different purposes. Find something that fills a variety of your needs, whatever it is. Make a plan. Work for it. No one else can do it for you, Wil. You’re the only one who can live your life.” 

Escape attempt 108: He cannot fit in the vents even if Tommy can. 

Phil becomes, if possible, even more supportive of his writing after that conversation. The fact he’s always listening to everything Techno does barely phases him any more. Like it probably should? That’s a pretty bad sign if he’s getting used to extreme privacy violations, but really it’s a footnote in everything Phil has done.

Or, at least, everything Techno knows he’s done. Most people aren’t normal one day and abductors the next. Call it a hunch, but Techno is dead certain there’s more atrocities under Phil’s belt than just this. He needs to know exactly the type of man he’s dealing with if he’s going to survive, not just the wise and patient father figure the man tries to project. 

Unfortunately, even as the week drags on and Phil becomes less clingy, he’s finding absolutely nothing. After the conversation with Wil even more things became unrestricted, no doubt to support his passion or whatever, though clearly more finely filtered. 

Still. N o t h i n g. Zilch. Nada. Not even a hint of what Phil really does, though he still is being rather cautious with how directly he searches. And Phil has to know everything he’s looking up, Techno would have known that for a fact even if Phil didn’t keep striking conversations about it. Every day or so they play a little mind game where Techno pretends he’s researching for a book and Phil pretends (???? Is he?? pretending????) he isn’t some sort of crime boss. Sharing little ‘fun facts’ that drive Techno insane, especially the niche details about organized crime that contradict his sources. He furiously digs into those, trying to figure out if they disagree because the sources are being filtered by Phil, because the outside information is simply incorrect since syndicates tend to be covert, or because Phil genuinely has no idea what he’s talking about. Might be he’s just messing with Techno! And that’s in between trying to come up with a plot on the spot since Phil wants to know how the story is going. 

So hyper focused on research, it’s only a few days in that Techno remembers he’s supposed to be trying to escape. Ugh. Technically this is part of it, since he needs to know what kind of resources he’s up against. Unfortunately, the answer seems to be ‘all of them’. He has no idea how he’s going to evade recapture. Wil mentioned loads of doomed covert efforts to kidnap him, but that was before the cover was blown. They don't exactly need to be subtle anymore. 

Basically, his headache is only getting worse and worse by the time the piano playing starts. 

Fun fact about the house: there wasn’t a piano yesterday. How is it someone can sneak a whole grand piano in and he can’t even sneak one scrawny freshman out? It’s absurd. Off the top of his head Techno can’t think of a way to use a piano to escape, but neither can he think of anything else because of the racket. Groaning, he closes the laptop and storms over to give them a piece of his mind.

Unfortunately the pianist is Tommy, so he can’t say anything or risk jeopardizing his one ally. Even worse, he’s actually really good, so Techno can’t even tease him. The kid brightens when he walks in, then turns to punch Wil repeatedly in the arm. “Stop the song he’s here!” 

Rolling his eyes, Wil stills the strings of his guitar. “Fine, I get it, he’s more important than me.”

“Good, so you know your place. Techno! Join in! What do you play?”

“Uh. I don’t play anything. What are you doing..?”

“I’m taking your advice,” Wil responds with a meaningful look.

“Oh.” Huh. He hadn’t thought that conversation would actually work. “So, that’s music for you?”

A shrug. “Maybe. We’ll find out. But it’s creating something, at least. Sometimes I think I’m only good at destruction.”

Uh, okay, edge lord. Or. Ohhh crap, is Wilbur in on the family business? He’s been so focused on Phil— “HEY! Pay attention to me!” Tommy insists. “Now you’re here you have to play something!”

“I was, uh, actually coming in here to ask you to keep it down, I have a headache-”

“Tough luck,” he scoffs, patting the bench beside him. “Come here! I finally get to teach you something. Heh. I bet I’m a much better sensei than you.” 

“No.”

“If you don’t do it I’ll cry.”

“No you won’t.”

Almost immediately Tommy begins to tear up. “You never spend any actual time with me. Am I really that annoying? Do you hate me?”

Techno panics. “Wh- how did— no, geez kid, I’m sorry, it’s not that at all. I’ll stay. Teach me how to play the piano. Just stop crying.” Tommy doesn’t, but he does smile and start explaining the different keys while weeping. “…do you really know how to cry on command??” Tommy pulls a sliced onion out of his pocket. Disbelief fills Techno, but he can’t help his lopsided grin at the kid’s antics. “Man, between your onions and Wil’s play dough, I pity the poor pickpocket who tries to target you.”

Wil snorts. “You think it’s play dough?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” But Wil shakes his head and smirks and refuses to elucidate his statement. Making a mental note to research whatever that is, Techno sighs and gives in. 

And thus, Techno is roped into music lessons. Unlike his boasting, Tommy is an awful instructor, though Techno brings his own brand of dunce, managing to hit every possible wrong note. “Uh…okay. If you just do the complete opposite of what you’re doing, you’ll be perfect!” For some reason, such advice doesn’t work. 

Wil tries to coach him through basic guitar chords, but it manages to turn out even worse. Probably because he keeps trying to lean over his shoulder to correct finger positions which Techno really despises. For the record? He still hates the guy. Sure he’ll support his music hobby or whatever, but only so Wil stops obsessing over him. It’s exclusively a defense mechanism, alright? Alright? This isn’t a bonding activity at all, it’s survival. Also he was manipulated into it by a middle schooler. Get off his back. 

Techno is not destined for the guitar. Or the bass guitar, for that matter. Or the flute, or saxophone, or singing, or anything. Tommy’s face twists as he considers Techno. “You can rap…?”

“Absolutely not.” 

Bongos. They give him a set of bongos. Techno can almost even manage a not awful rhythm. Almost. Bahp. ba BA dah BAP. Yah, he’s definitely getting the hang of this. Now if only he had any sense of timing. Tommy and Wil can carry on being musical geniuses or whatever, he doesn’t care, Techno can sometimes hit a drum at the right time. That’s basically just as good. Better, even. And all those hours of butterfly clicking means he can go super fast. Practical life skills, baby. 

Phil claps politely after they finish a song, and Techno jolts, not aware he’d joined. Pay attention, boy, you better not be ignoring me. Techno isn’t going to make that mistake a second time. “Thomas, your cord work is impressive! Wilbur, your vocal range is so amazing. And Technoblade–! Erm.”

“I basically carried these two talentless losers.” 

“Ah, not quite what I was going to say? Very energetic playing style, your dynamics are very effective. Though I was expecting the violin?”

“Huh? Why would-” oh right, he’d played in middle school. Then, of course, the second realization, more exasperated. Oh, right; Phil has memorized literally every public record he ever made. “I mean, there isn’t one. So. Bongos.”

He waves a hand. “I got one for you, it’s hanging above the mantel.” Techo thought it had been decorum. “Careful, it’s a Stradivarius.”

If that’s supposed to, like, mean anything to Techno, he sure doesn’t know. The instrument looks old though. Wow. They really can’t afford a new one? Techno pulls his hair out of the way, settling on the chin rest. A moment to tune, and he’s off struggling to keep up with the other two. Sight reading like his life depends on it, although stressful, is kinda fun. It takes enough focus that he doesn’t have time to think about everything else happening to him. By the end of the session, his playing skills are almost mediocre. Which, honestly, is a massive improvement. Sometimes he even plays in tune! The last note rings in the air, and he’s breathing heavily but he’s grinning. In the silence after there’s simple warmth, uncomplicated, untainted. 

“POG!” Tommy shouts in delight, then slides his fingers across all seven octaves in raucous triumph. 

Phil laughs, and gives them a standing ovation. “Bravo! Encore, encore!” 

Swinging his bow, Techno goes to return the violin to its display place. “Nice, uh, instrument. Probably sound even better if it was played by someone who knows how to use it.”

“I should hope it sounds good, given the millions it cost.”

Techno nearly drops the violin and his life flashes before his eyes. “What?” he squeaks, carefully putting the instrument down and backing away slowly. 

“I mentioned it was a Stradivarius.” 

“It was middle school! You seriously expect me to actually know anything about orchestra? I just needed a music credit. I think I’m done for now,” he says weakly. 

“The purpose of a violin is to be played. It doesn’t matter the quality of it if it hangs on a pedestal collecting dust.” 

“Yah, but not by a guy who only passed because he played so quietly the teacher couldn’t hear the wrong notes! You can not pay me to risk holding that thing ever again.”

“400 pounds,” Wil replies.

“Sold. What song is next?”

Escape attempt 143: Money isn’t very useful if he doesn’t have a way to spend it. Phil of course says he’ll buy anything Techno wants, but Techno figures any manufactured dependency is a fast ticket to Stockholm syndrome, and curtly responds that he’s an adult. A round of negotiations ensues, in which Techno barters participation in family movie night for the ability to order things from Amazon with heavy oversight, using his own money, with the stipulation that he never has to set eyes on the Frozen franchise. Tommy still cackles evilly anyways. He tries not to feel like this will be a grave mortal error, but that’s not actually how his brain is wired to work, so terrible doom fills him at the thought of what movies he’ll be exposed to. 

Still, the benefits of the deal are huge. With the obvious means of egress off the table (weaponry, improvised explosives, pinecones, plane tickets, the like) Techno is reduced to the inconspicuous. He has to write half a page explaining all the normal human things he’s going to use each item for, which is completely unfair since Phil doesn’t have to explain when he vetoes things.

Research, he finds, is much more tolerable in a massive bean bag shaped like a pig. Unfortunately he’s required to keep it in the main living room, even though he insists he’s an introvert. Why’s it matter if there’s already a million cameras watching his every move? But it’s tolerable. Also, apparently the trash is checked before being taken out. So, no, he doesn’t get out by hiding beneath the mountain of styrofoam in the cardboard box the bean bag came in. And his back hurts from sitting in a cramped box for hours. 

But he knows the address of the place he’s held captive now. That’s something, at least.

He’s getting frustrated, and even though he knows it’ll be logged and flagged as important, he gives in and looks up his captors. Techno isn’t stupid about it, of course, he waits till well past midnight when the house lays silent and Phil is bound to be slumbering. But he’s only finding article after article praising Philza Craft for his success, philanthropy, and family, and he scowls at the screen, convinced his information is being filtered. Seriously, not even a minor scandal pops up! Not even negative tweets! But Techno is thorough, and if you scrape over fluffy platitudes enough you find trends. Patterns of behavior. He rakes through the internet with a fine toothed comb and eventually he finds the first thread. It’s small, and disappears nearly as fast as he finds it. But it’s proof. 

Techno’s had maybe two hours of sleep when he’s confronted with a knock on his bedroom door. He scrambles to consciousness, blearily rubbing his face. Apparently, Josh the guard is ‘requesting’ that he comes to breakfast. Techno likes Josh. Josh doesn’t like Techno, mostly because Techno smacked him upside the head with a lamp and threw a couch on him. Accidents happen? Anyway, Techno stumbles around, eventually deciding he doesn’t actually need to be dressed or any stage of proper presentation. If they’ve dealt with drugged out of his mind Techno, they can deal with sleep deprivation Techno. Feeling like roadkill, he slumps into a chair, downing his meds, enough coffee to give a horse heart palpitations, and some unnecessarily fancy crepes. 

Phil looks disgustingly well rested. And very interested in him. Bad sign. Ugh. He tries to poke his little gooey pile of brain matter in the hope it starts working. It does not. But at least he waits till Techno’s finished eating before speaking. “Why, son, I got the most interesting notifications about your research endeavors. Reading through the search terms was rather…eh, flattering? Care to share with the class what you learned?”

Ugh. What was it he did last night? “No.” 

“Really? What was it…five hours spent on it? More or less?”

“Is he in trouble?” Tommy asks. “Was he looking up how to build a bomb?”

“I don’t need to look up bombs, I did that two years ago and still have the notes I took.” 

“Are those the ones with the explosions doodled in the margins?” 

“Uhhh. Maybe. Wait, how would you have– nevermind.” He has enough of a headache as is, and it’s only getting worse as he remembers what he’d been doing. Though, there had been a skimming to refresh him on the subject, since the stuff Wil kept in his pockets was either modeling clay or C4. “Uh. Tommy, I research explosives for normal, peaceful reasons. Trust me, I’m an anarchist. And anyway that wasn’t what I was doing last night.” 

“Were you looking up cute girls?”

“Wh– no!” 

“Cute guys?”

“No, Tommy, I-”

“Wow, you don’t think I’m cute? I’m heartbroken, Technoblade. And here I thought the paparazzi only ever captured my good side.” Can he scream? Techno would like to scream so very, very much. A list of horrible atrocities the man has committed runs through Techno’s head as Phil makes a silly face at him. “Honestly skimming the wikipedia page should’ve covered most of everything you need to know. I’m nothing more than a wealthy philanthropist, five hours scouring public forums was never going to tell you more than that.” His brain catches on the word public. Perhaps his specific searches hadn’t been filtered; Phil’s PR team had gotten to it long before Techno had decided to look into it. “Did you not think you could just ask me? I love to talk to you, really dear. This was needlessly roundabout. Let’s chat.”  

Techno might be injecting the intimidation into his interpretation, but after the scraps he found last night the threat should likely always be presumed into anything ever that Phil does. 

“If you get to know everything about me, I think it’s only fair to do my own investigation.”

“I don’t know everything about you.” A week ago, it would have been a hand waved dismissal. Now it is a subdued admission. No, Phil doesn’t know everything, but no doubt it only got more intensive after he realized such a blaring gap in his understanding of Techno’s fraught childhood. 

“Didn’t you memorize the time I water my plants?”

“If you always do it at the same time, it’s not my fault for noticing a pattern.” 

“Uh huh.” Actually, he’d pulled that example up randomly. Nice to know Phil’s sources really were that exact. He wonders if Phil has an excel sheet for every time he’s sneezed in the past month. He won’t put it past him. Perhaps now is not the time for confrontation– or rather, NEVER will be the time for it, but, again, two hours of sleep, and he’s newly incensed by the reminder not one part of his existence was sacred. “Actually, you know what, if I don't get privacy you don’t either. So why are you called the Angel of Death?”

And the dinner table goes silent.

Phil sits up. Not that he ever lacks anything but full attention regarding Techno, but his interest certainly peaks. Appearing almost delighted, Phil smiles at him fondly in a way that makes his skin crawl. It’s correct then. He wouldn’t be looking so proud otherwise. “Oh my, that’s rather dramatic. How’d that get through?”

“Misspelled.”

“Ah, that’ll do it. Right, Thomas, I do rather think you should be getting to school now–”

“Oi! I haven’t finished my cinnamon roll!”

“Carry on then. That’s a rather large one, don’t you think?”

“I’m a growing boy.”

Philza smiles fondly. “I bet you’re going to be taller than me.” The conversation rambles around light, meaningless subjects as Tommy gets through multiple helpings of breakfast. But the moment his footsteps trail down the stairs, Techno leans in, deadlocked on answer. 

“So. What’s it mean, Mr. Angel of Death? What does one have to do to earn such a title?” The way his abductor chuckles is, all things considered, light and amused. Not a hint of malice or danger, for all that there should be. His instincts scream that it’s a threat display, it has to be, but for the life of him his senses can’t detect anything. It’s throwing him, the expectations versus the observations, only making him more uneasy. Techno can handle shouting and anger, he’s fluent in violence, but this…he had no idea what to do with this. The image of an intimidating, villainous crime boss overlays upon the normal man before him. Laugh lines crease his features, a bit of syrup from breakfast on the collar of his tee-shirt, eyes that only ever fasten upon him in simulacrum of paternal affection. 

The laughter trails to a content hum. Phil spreads his hands wide, palms up, almost a shrug, a dismissal. The words, again, are light and amused, because that’s all Phil ever allows himself to be, infinitely patient and kind in a way that contradicts everything he’s supposed to be. But despite the casual, benign tone, the response haunts Techno for the months to come. 

“It’s been said I’m a purveyor of doomsdays.”

Apparently he didn’t actually make it back to his room before he crashed. Feeling well rested, he stretches, groaning, the bean bag shifting beneath him. His mouth tastes awful. Instinctively, he reaches for his phone, only to remember it was never returned. With no idea what time it is, and with no semblance of a schedule to curse him, Techno decides it doesn’t matter all that much, and rolls on his side, ready for round two of nap. 

Or, well, he would’ve been ready, if Phil wasn’t watching him. There’s an abandoned book in his lap as he perches on a cozy armchair pulled around to face Techno. His smile is fond, brightening when Phil catches his movement, chin propped in hand. Bean bags seem tailored made to stop frantic scrambling, and eventually Techno gives up and accepts his death in the embrace of pink softness. “What. What are you doing?”

“I like watching you sleep. It’s peaceful.” 

“How is it you always find a new way to be an utter cree-” his mouth clicks shut as his brain catches up, remembering what type of man he’s talking to. “What time is it?”

“Mid afternoon. You really shouldn’t do things like this, it’s terrible for your sleep schedule.”

“I. Didn’t want my research to get interrupted.”

His head cants. “And do you think it even netted anything? You got a silly little moniker that tells you nothing. I’m always open to conversation. You can just talk to your father, you know.”

“I can ask anything? And you’ll tell the truth?”

“You’re cute. I never said that. But it’s not like you have many other sources of information, save the dregs of propaganda. People can be rather uncharitable to me.” 

“How many people have you killed?”

He laughs at his bluntness. “Come now, I’m not a monster. You really think so little of me?”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I’m not a murderer. I hate to think of the image you’ve painted for me. You’re rather creative, but I do believe that will be to your detriment here, Technoblade. I’m a simple businessman, I’ve told you that from the start. I don’t make war or conflict, I only profit from it. If both sides ask for my services, I provide. There’s no morals involved, it’s mere economics.” 

“You destroy lives.”

He hums a note, not quite a warning, but it sends alarm bells ringing all the same. “Mm, I make it easier to destroy lives, but if not me someone else would. Merchants of war have a long history, so I don’t think I agree with your assessment of blame. Why? Would you say I’ve ruined yours?” Techno bites his tongue till blood fills his mouth. Stiffly, he shakes his head. But Phil only sighs, and panic trickles into Techno’s veins, not sure how he went wrong. “I don’t like lying, Technoblade. I know full well what you think is true.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Whatever you like. I’m not going to punish you for being an independent person, that would be horrible parenting. I understand your sentiments, and they’re certainly not going to change if I prove you right. I realize you can’t recognize a safe home environment, but believe me, I do not not run my household with violence.” 

“Why?”

Sadness lights in his features. “I could never hurt my family. I cannot think of anything more abhorrent.”

“No, I d-” on’t care about that. He stops the mistake in time. He's never been good at controlling his tongue. Careful, boy, you’re asking for it. “I meant, why are you doing this? The crime, not the…me part.” Techno feels like he should get a trophy for not saying the word ‘abduction’. “I understand that.” 

The tacked on sentence visibly soothes Phil, and he rewards Techno with a smile. Instinctively Techno wants to correct the misunderstanding that he approves, but he doesn’t. He even manages not to glower. Apparently one can reteach a dog old tricks. “Essentially, I was trying to get you back. I deal in information, too. That’s what it started as, really, me desperately trying to find any way to return you. It’s networking, just like I told you. My influence rapidly became global as I hunted for you.” Techno can see how that may be profitable, especially given how extensive it can get, considering the level of detail Phil has gathered about him in so little time. Thinking about what someone can actually do with that type of surveillance data is sickening, though he’s sure he’ll come up with even worse scenarios when he’s lying awake at night. “And since I was so thoroughly increasing my own security to ensure none of my other children were stolen, I figured I might as well offer others a fraction of my protection. My empire grew, it’s true, but every single step of the way I was doing it all to find you. Every drop of harm I’ve ever done was to protect my family.”

“...You said it the exact same way when talking about donating for charities.”

“Everything I’ve done the past eighteen years, be it weal or woe, was for you.”

You don’t get to use me as the justification for your sins. He wants to spit it out. He doesn’t. Anyway, the guilt still seeps into his chest regardless. It can in no way be his fault but that doesn’t stop the horror closing his throat like a vice. 

“And now that I’m- home,” he nearly chokes. “What now? What gives you purpose?” 

“Now? I only want to make up for lost time. I’m on leave at the moment, letting operations slow to a trickle. I’ve gotten what I want. As I’ve little use for that life anymore, I suppose now you look upon a clean man.” 

“Oh. Um. Thank you.”

Phil smiles warmly. “Of course, gemstone. I can move onto something else, if that makes you more comfortable, though your twin may be a little disappointed.”

“And, uh, what’s Wil’s part in all this?”

“Clean up operations. More of a janitor than anything.” Not modeling clay, then. Techno has a lovely moment of wandering how much of anything Wil has ever laid hands on is rigged to explode. So, not just checking food and drinks anymore, but literally anything ever given to him by Wil. Good to know. “But that’s all behind us now, you don’t need to worry about it,” he assures. 

Even if it wasn’t a lie to appease him, Techno knows Phil can’t leave such a life. By his own admission, at the very least he’d continue the procurement of defense to appease his paranoia. And after such a career, wouldn’t it be justified? Surely the Angel of Death will not be allowed a peaceful retirement. Enemies still linger, wanting their pound of flesh. 

Techno’s eyes narrow as he notices the incongruence. Not just with the end of the story, but with the beginning, because from the start too lingered foes. It’s messy from either end. He knows he’s being fed watered down stories, already through the eyes of a delusional man. But even the tale laid at his feet is flawed by its own logic. “When– when they kidnapped me,” he begins, trying to appease Phil for the challenge he’s about to propose. Unconsciously Phil straightens, staring intently. “Do you know why my parents-”

“Your abductors,” he corrects.

“Right, my abductors. They had a reason, didn’t they?”

Phil tilts his head, considering the question appreciatively. A smile with a bit too much teeth peels his lips back, a chill seeping into the air in a way that can’t be intentional. “That…is an excellent question, son. I would love to know as well. But I have to imagine, deranged individuals as they are, every single time they raised a hand against you they were imagining me. And for that I can never apologize enough.”

For a moment white hot rage boils in Techno’s heart before he remembers it’s not real. No, Phil will take credit for every aspect of self he has, if he can. But he doesn’t get to claim a single moment of Techno’s past, and like hell is he going to take the future, too. His existence does not revolve around this man in the slightest, despite what Phil’s delusions claim. 

“People aren’t kidnapped for no reason,” he tries. One doesn’t simply create a world spanning crime syndicate overnight. “There must’ve been something, if you say it was a type of revenge. Surely you’d have some idea of what you’d done to make them mad.” 

But instead of any confirmation of timeline, or hint at what dealings he has brushed over in his kid friendly reinterpretation of his work, Phil carries on as ever. “No harm I’ve done has ever compared to the pain of losing you. What they did was monstrous.” Yeah, yeah, so when they supposedly kidnap some baby who is too young to be affected it's monstrous, but when Phil abducts a full adult it’s totally no biggie? Sheesh, the double standards on this guy, amiright? Uh, not that Techno is pro yoinking babies. 

“There’s something I need you to know, child. This is very important.” His eyes lock on Techno. “It’s all an act. I’m simply a normal person.” It can’t be, though. The staff go sheet white every time even the most minor of mistakes occur. Not one of them dreams of saving Technoblade. That type of terrified loyalty needs acts of proof to reinforce it. Philza may think it’s an act, but everyone else takes it with deadly seriousness. “But if I can project fear, I can control others, and if I can do that…Well. Then I don’t have to worry about my safety. I’m the untouchable Philza Craft. People do not dream of harming me in the same way they would not even consider fighting a force of nature. Hence that silly moniker you brought up.” But that can’t be true, given the massive security. They’re not just trying to keep Techno in, they’re keeping enemies out. You don’t destroy lives without creating opposition. 

“It’s all just strategy. You understand the theory, you’ve researched mental war tactics. You got, ah, nearly everything right in your writings upon the subject. Don’t worry, it’s only a few details here and there, nothing you should worry about! And you can’t be blamed for that, of course, theory and practice never really line up.”

“Which scenes?” Thinking about some of the things he’s written, he feels sick. But maybe he can pinpoint exactly what Phil has done based on his familiarity. 

“I’m not going to say, it’s bad form to criticize to that degree. And it’s already published, it will just needlessly drive you crazy that it can’t be fixed. No art is perfect (though yours is close!), and that’s part of the process. It’s a sign of growth, to look back and want to change things, it’s natural. But chasing elusive perfection is just going to run you ragged.”

“You’re diverting.”

“Am I? I apologize. I’m prone to rambling in my old age.” But he doesn’t elaborate. Seems Techno is left to speculation. 

“What. What does it feel like? When you’re trying to be intimidating?” As haywire as his nerves have been, Techno can’t imagine actually contending with intentional malice. 

“Oh, you don’t need to know that. And it won’t even work, you already know I’d never hurt you. You’re more precious to me than diamonds and emeralds. You’re family, Technoblade. You have no need to fear me.”

But Technoblade hears the unspoken part, the words Phil’s warm, gracious tone cannot fail to hide. Because, of course, Technoblade cannot believe them to be family, and should he convince Philza of that, his protection will be revoked. 

He knew it subconsciously, before, that prodding too much at the delusion was risky. He’d known the man to be deranged, suspected he was dangerous, but now he knows for a fact his captor is deadly. 

Sitting on Techno’s bathroom counter, Tommy brushes his teeth. He’s been coming around the last few nights before he goes to bed. It’s not a bad way for Techno to make sure he gets to sleep on time, save for yesterday. It’s a little relaxing, especially since Tommy pointed out there aren’t cameras in the backroom, which has to be true else Phil would’ve known about the scars. Not that he tends to think things through enough to not speak his mind, but at least he’s free of consequences here. 

Techno finishes flossing. “I think I’m going to lose it,” he says. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll find it. I’m good at hide and seek.” 

He snorts. “God you’re a nerd. For real though, one more day and I’m going to start foaming at the mouth.” When Tommy laughs, he snaps his teeth at the boy, earning another bout of giggles. Techno grins. “Snicker all you want, but they’re going to cart me out in a straight jacket next month.” Honestly, probably even that won’t get him out of this awful house. At least he’d learned about the personal doctor before he tried landing himself in the hospital to escape. He’s starting to feel like not even a body bag will get him out, since there’s probably a personal graveyard so the Crafts don’t have to be buried in the same dirt as the peasants. 

“So what does dad do?”

Techno hesitates. “He’s an arms dealer.”

“Eww,” Tommy says with his tongue out. “What’s someone need an arm for? And where’s he getting all them? Wouldn’t you see more people walking around missing arms?”

“No. He sells weapons.” 

“Really!? That’s sick! Why would he keep that from me?”

“I suppose it sounds fun. Until, of course, you’re the person getting murdered.”

“Yeah, but I want a rocket launcher!” 

His fault, really, for expecting a middle schooler to understand the gravity of the situation. “Listen. Tommy. This might be the last night we see each other.” 

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugs. “You’ve said that every night.”

“This is different. I need to get out this time.”

“Give it a break, Techno, it’s never going to work.”

“You said you’d help me, kid.”

“I will! I did! Just. I thought you could manage since you’re bigger than me, but guess not. I told you, there’s more guards than usual. Just wait a few weeks for it to die down a bit and it’ll be easier. Dad’s just like that sometimes, phases of the moon or something. Maybe he’s a werewolf. With a gun. That’d be cool.”

“Tommy. Look at me.” The boy’s half smile turns inquisitive. “Your dad terrifies me.”

“You haven’t seen anything, wait till you fail a test.” 

“This isn’t a joke. Alright? I know he seems nice, but he’s a deeply horrible person. I’ve been his prisoner for two weeks now. You get that, right? This isn’t some sleep over for me, my entire life has been uprooted. And guessing at some of the things he’s done, I can’t wait until his delusion fades or his good will runs out. Your dad is the type of guy who doesn’t leave witnesses, Tommy. I need to get out before he realizes it’s not going to work.”

“You’re…leaving me?”

He shifts uncomfortably, not having considered that angle. “I guess. Sorry. If it helps you’re probably the only reason I’ve made it so long. Hopefully I’ll be out of your hair soon, and you’ll have your dad all to yourself again.” He holds his fist out, and slowly Tommy reaches out and completes the fist bump. “Don’t let them change you, alright? You’re a good kid.”

Dad looks up the moment he enters the room and throws his arms open wide. Tommy runs up and leaps into the bed, bouncing on the wonderful mattress. He’s scooped into the warmest hug imaginable. “Little troublemaker,” Dad laughs into his curly hair. “I have been terrified all day imagining your exploits.” 

“You should be shaking and trembling. I was a real badun, ask anyone.”

“You give me every gray hair I ever had.” 

“And I’ll give you more every time you complain!” Tommy rambles about his day, periodically injecting questions to make sure Dad is listening. He is, naturally, since Tommy is incredibly entertaining and exciting, so Dad is laughing and gasping right on cue. 

A servant hands Dad the book, informing him of the page number they’d left off on. Tommy’s too old for bedtime stories -obviously! He’s ELEVEN!- but even if he doesn’t care about the story, it’s the guaranteed time of day that Dad's attention is solely reserved for him. He snuggles into his arms, their breaths intertwining. Dad’s chest vibrates with his deep voice, rumbling against where Tommy’s cheek is pressed over his heart. His narration is comforting, lulling Tommy’s worries. 

But a story can only last so long. He drags his feet a bit on the way out, and Dad senses the turbulent ambivalence within him. “What’s troubling you, Thomas? You can always talk to me about anything.” Tommy immediately runs back, opening his mouth. Closing it. He’s rehearsed this a thousand times and still doesn’t know if he wants to say it. “I can fix whatever it is that’s troubling you. You know I can.”

Two weeks ago it was all he wanted. Techno has stolen all of Dad’s attention and it isn’t fair, and it worked for a bit when they were on the same page and both wanted Techno out of the house. But then Techno started being really nice to him because Tommy was the only one helping him, and he gives Tommy attention and calls him a good kid and now Tommy doesn’t know anymore. And now all his emotions are muddled in his head and he needs help to sort it all out, so of course he turns to his father. 

“I think Techno is going to leave tomorrow.” 

Cupping his face, Dad sighs. “He shouldn’t tease you like that.” Tommy’s skin prickles at the disconnect, not understanding why Dad sugarcoats it. Maybe it’s just ‘cause he thinks Tommy can’t handle the truth (wrong. He is eleven. Almost twelve. Why can’t anyone seem to remember that?), but Tommy is starting to suspect it’s because Dad can’t actually admit it to himself. Which is kinda stupid, so that can’t be it, ‘cause his father is super smart. “Your brother is a little restless. He’s very energetic, that’s all.” 

“He’s serious about it this time.” Something sours in Tommy. He’s betraying Techno, right after Techno called him good, too. But… “I don’t want him to leave.”

“No one is going to take your brother away, sunshine. I promise.”

But that isn’t what Tommy is worried about at all. “He’s scared of you.” 

Something flickers in Dad’s eyes, a shadow of doubt quickly erased. “Can’t be. He’s a firecracker, that one. He never backs down. And why would he be scared? I love him.” 

Tommy frowns, puzzling away at it. Because Techno is really stinking smart and understands stuff like long division. “…he knows that. He makes plans using that. But he doesn’t think that love will stop you from hurting him.” Tommy thought it might be the opposite, even, that Technoblade thought because Dad loved him he’d hurt him. But that makes no sense at all. 

A strange look passes over his father’s features, like he’s weighing how much to tell him. “I…probably shouldn’t tell you this, I don’t wish to invade his privacy of course. But Technoblade had a difficult childhood.”

“Like, because he was poor?”

“Not exactly.” 

“Was he really bad at maths or history or something?” 

“No. Haven’t you looked at his report cards on the fridge?” Tommy pulls a face. He’s been pointedly not looking at them. “But, no, essentially he doesn’t trust easily because it was dangerous for him to.”

Mulling it over, Dad’s theory makes some sense. Techno was always tense and awkward around them at the very start, even before he got nabbed. “Are you sure it isn’t because he’s a nerd?”

“I reckon that could play a role. He’s very calculating, often unnecessarily. But don’t worry. I have proof he’s opening up to us.” Dad pulls out his phone and opens Excel. Squiggly data fills the screen, a large graph catching Tommy’s eye. 

“That’s a…decaying exponential curve, right?”

Dad smiles in a way that makes Tommy fill with pride. “Very good, Thomas.”

“It was in one of the lessons Techno helped me with a month ago. Your y-axis isn’t labeled. That’s a bad graph so you get an F, Dad. Sorry! You flunked a grade and will have to take summer school.”

He chuckles appreciatively. “Thank you for the correction. But that is intentional, since I don’t want others to know what I’m tracking. But if you insist…” he enters in a label titled ‘attempts’. “There you go. Better?”

Tommy is utterly bewildered. “Okay, but what’s any of this got to do with Techno??”

Pointing at the graph, Dad proudly declares, “that IS Technoblade.”

Oh. Ohhh. Everything makes so much more sense now. “So you’re senile?” Dad splutters. “It’s okay Dad. That’s a scatter plot. Not a guy. I understand they look very similar, but it’s not even pink.”

“I’m not that old! It’s a graph of his exploits, Thomas. Look. So the first day he tried to escape 32 times, and the second day is actually higher since he’s actually medicated, but from then on it decreases. You say you’re worried he’s going to try again, which this trend suggests is correct. You also say he’s serious about it, so we’d expect a recent increase in attempts, which we also see. But if we run a Chi-squared test, the p-value is above the alpha level, so that means…” Tommy blinks at the round of nonsense Dad utters, unsure what he’s supposed to get from that. Dad pauses. “These statistics might be a bit above your grade level. Essentially, you see this end bit here? Where there’s an uptick? That’s today. It’s quite a bit higher than the last few days. But it’s well within two standard di— ah, a reasonable amount of wiggle room. So it’s not something to be worried about.”

“You do math about how much Techno tries to escape?” That sounds extremely boring and nerdy. 

“I find it reassuring. Look.” He traces the downward slope. “In general, each day he tries less. That means he’s becoming more comfortable with us. Settling down. That’s why I wanted to show you this, because it’s proof he’s coming around. What he said might have scared you, but if you look at the numbers you’ll see there’s nothing to worry about, and in a few weeks…” Philza runs a finger to underscore the way the graph flat lines. Technoblade is bright, which is a mixed bag, given his near endless creativity for methods. But as smart as he is eventually he’ll concede to the obvious trend in data. Repeating the same thing over and over is the definition of insanity, after all.

“Techno says those types of curves approach zero but never reach it. Does that mean he’ll never stop trying?”

“Of course he will, you can’t escape 0.000001 times a day. That would be silly.” It kinda makes sense, if one reduces it all to data points. But that completely erases the certainty in Techno’s voice, the haunted look in his eyes. Reducing Techno to a little squiggly line makes it easy to dismiss his actions. Dad senses that he’s unconvinced, though, since he knows everything. “You don’t really need to understand any of it, just one fact. What does the axis say?”

“Attempts.”

“Exactly. Attempts, not escapes. 100% of them have been unsuccessful. If it helps for you to understand it, think of him like an indoor cat. Sure he meows rather loudly to be let out, but you know he’ll just get fleas if he goes outside. Perhaps even run over by a car, and none of us want that.”

Tommy shivers. “You promise he won’t get out?”

Dad pulls him in tight, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I promise, sunshine.”

Escape number 1: Turning the faucet on to full blast, Techno gets to work. Suddenly he really is cursing the fact he doesn’t take longer showers, but the key is to not rouse suspicion. Given that  security beefs up overnight and he wants to keep to his typical routine, it’s only after breakfast that he slips away for a shower, though not without some difficulty. Tommy had practically thrown himself at Techno the moment he showed up. He endured the hug as best he could, even managing to pat the kid’s head, barely catching the murmurs thanking him for not leaving. Crap. 

Techno kinda feels bad, if he’s honest. It’s possible he may have gone overboard with the subjugation, but that literally isn’t his fault, Tommy is the only likable guy in the whole equation. It’s probably just Stockholm syndrome. Yep. So he definitely felt no guilt when he promised he’d spend all afternoon practicing songs so they could do a concert for Phil. Besides, the kid has a brother who now spends more time with him thanks to Techno. Who knew he’d be killing two birds with one stone when he told Wil to get a life? The loose ends are all tied up. 

With that thought, he tightens the knots of the rope of towels he’s fashioned. He made it last night in preparation. Not that he slept well due to anticipation; he wants this time to be perfect, spent hours pouring over everything. Escape attempt 170 is going to be the one, Techno is sure of it. Just like he was sure for the last 169. 

Next, weaponry. Using a bottle of shampoo, Techno breaks the mirror. It shatters into hundreds of pieces, and he pries off one of the larger shards. It slices his fingers. Excellent. Using hair ties he fashions a rag into as much of a handle as he can manage. A shoddy makeshift shiv at best, but he’s thrilled at having successfully put theory into practice. 

Last shower, he’d timed the maid’s arrival. Technoblade glances at the clock habitually, and when it reaches 8:25 his preparations are hurried out of sight, Technoblade ducking out of view. Around the corner he angles the mirror shard enough so that he can see what’s happening. Right on time comes Bernadette, ignoring what he’d asked and snatching his clothing to be added to the basket on her hip. An order then, calculated. Too bad he’d already stolen some of Wil’s clothing during that conversation with Phil in the laundry room. The moment the door closes, he wedges a chair under the knob. Now, why a bathroom needs a chair is beyond him. In fact, there are several, a little seating area set up next to the giant sunken bathtub. It’s ridiculous in his opinion, as is the original paintings that’re no doubt going to be damaged by the humidity and the clear vase full of little colored marbles. To add a splash of color, no doubt. Now if only Phil was the type to hang decorative swords on the wall…

As a last touch, Techno piles his hair up in a tight bun, tucking every last strand beneath one of Wil’s stupid beanies. The tiny window opens just like Tommy said it would. Not that he wasn’t desperate before, but he’d checked the drop and didn’t think it survivable if he messed up. But it’s that or whatever Phil comes up with, and that’s guaranteed to be worse. So Techno grits his teeth and pops his head through. Weighing what will grab more attention, he chucks a shampoo bottle at a security camera, knocking it out of position so he won’t be seen. Scrambling up a set of drawers, Techno just barely manages to hook a leg around the sill, and after a sharp tug to check his rope, then begins to shimmy out. He nearly gets stuck at his shoulders, but with a grunt and a sharp pain manages to snap something in the frame. But the force is too much, and Techno yelps as he slips, scrambling to catch the tied up towels. He manages to wrap fabric around his wrist, friction burning but hold secure. Well, on his end at least; apparently the other end wasn’t fastened well enough and he’s plummeting. 

Techno doesn’t even have time to scream, his pitifully short life flashing before his eyes. It’s, uh, actually way more boring than expected. Great, he’s going to die while feeling like a loser!

Or, he would, if he was still falling. Apparently his weight dragged the furniture he’d tied the rope to forward to the window, but it was still attached. Techno unclenches his jaw, and there isn’t time to catch his breath because his arms are already burning from carrying him. Carefully, he works his way over to a rain gutter and scales down. 

And then he just…pauses, realizing he’s outside for the first time in weeks. Techno sucks down fresh air, a grin slowly working across his face as a breeze dances past. He takes it all in greedily, eyes darting. The azure sky broad overhead, actual grass and shrubbery, no walls to push in and entrap him…

Okay, that’s an exaggeration, there’s definitely walls, a massive fence wrapping around the perimeter. Techno steps out of the flower beds, catches his breath, then waltzes around the corner, trying not to jump out of his skin when he almost immediately runs into a guard. He brushes past without comment, biting his tongue as he tries to limit himself to a walk and not a sprint. Normal. He’s absolutely normal and definitely supposed to be here. Hell, he owns the place, he’s Wilbur Craft. Or, close enough. Techno waltzes up to the exit, covertly scanning the entire scene for options. 

The gatekeeper looks up at him and…frowns. Oof. Off to a bad start already. “You aren’t scheduled to leave today.” 

Haeh? Phil really out here with assigned schedules for his kids?? “Just going out with some friends,” he dismisses. Oh god he sounds nothing like Wil. Smooth, not gruff! Buttery, like…uh, butter. Talks fast, a little note of disdain, anything else…? And British too oh god how did he miss that?! “...mates.” 

“Have to run that past Mr. Craft. As always,” they emphasize, and Techno relaxes a little. At least this seems to be a stunt Wil tries of his own accord. That might give him leeway, but judging by the tone Wil likely wasn’t able to bluff his way past, and Techno has lousy charisma compared to him. 

“It’s jus’ a few hours, innit?” He wants to curl into a ball and DIE this is AWFUL. He would have never tried to escape if he knew it meant interacting with strangers. 

They squint. “Where’s your security?” 

“I can ‘andle myself.” 

“Clearly not. What happened to your eye?” 

Ah, right, his black eye. It’s healed a lot but there’s still a ring of bruises. “...I have a cold.” Nice! Now his voice is excused! Wait a minute that doesn’t answer the question. Think, Techno. You’re supposed to be good at thinking. “Doorway. Hit a doorway.” 

The frown only deepens. “I’m going to contact your father.” 

Techno huffs, finding he’s not half bad at replicating one of Wil’s smirks, and slips his hands into his pockets. “Nah, there’s a totally reasonable expl-” he lunges, smearing shampoo in their eyes, and books it. Pocket shampoo: gets them every time. Wil isn’t the only one who can keep weird crap in his pockets. Techno jumps on the counter of the guard post and leaps for the fence, just barely catching the top. Struggling to lift himself up, Techno kicks off the swearing guard blindly reaching for him and launches to the top. Oh no. It’s a much further drop on the other side, the architecture clearly more focused on keeping people out than in. Any takers for the odds that the bushes below aren’t roses? No? Techno sighs and tries to lower himself as safely as possible, but there’s another two yards to drop. Nothing for it. 

The thorny shrubs almost slow him enough to break his fall, but still sharp jabbing pain jolts up his foot. Actually, there is a rather lot of sharp jabbing, he is in a rose bush, but specifically the throbbing in his ankle is not a good sign. Techno untangles from the flowery home defense, limping away. 

The gate slams open. “Master Wilbur is rebelling again,” the blinded guard spits into a radio. Alright, no more recovery time, then. Techno ignores the spears of pain and sprints like his life depends on it, mostly because it probably does. 

A soldier peels off from a station at the corner, arms outstretched to block. “Sir, you really shouldn’t leave without secu–” Techno shoves past, only for his wrist to be caught in a tight yet professional grip. He wrenches but can’t get free, and can spot reinforcements beginning to pour out of the gate. “You’re not a teen anymore, this is unbecoming.” Techno slashes his mirror knife through the sentry’s arm and they release him with a startled yelp. A swipe of the feet and they go down, Techno scrambling away as fast as possible. He thunders down the street, vanishing around a corner. Frantic, he scours the neighborhood for a quick hiding place, but there isn’t enough of a head start, and Phil knows everything. He’s still caught in the heart of the man’s territory even if he’s directly off premise, time would only prove to be his enemy. Oddly formal shouts demanding he return follow his back, a mob pouring around the corner hot on his heels and only gaining fast. Unfortunately, Techno is not an action hero, and these are people paid to be stupidly athletic. They close around fast, but they’re still too hesitant to try anything against Wil. Being the dude’s stunt double is coming in handy for once. 

Someone aims to catch him by the collar but rips the beanie off his head, and would have taken a chunk of hair with it if Techno hadn’t pinned it so tight. With it spills out hundreds of little decorative marbles, and suddenly the mob behind him goes down like dominoes beneath the makeshift caltrops. He lets out a wild whoop of a delighted laugh, not foreseeing how effective that would be. 

“Who is that?” someone in the pile asks, gawking at his bubblegum hair. “That’s not master Wilbur.” 

“Oh great, that's the prisoner. Get him!” Oops, there goes that advantage. You know, a second wind would be lovely right about now, but no, Techno just has to ignore the fire in his leg and pathetic gamer lungs screaming for mercy. It’s just pain, he tells himself. It’s a mantra that’s underscored his whole life, it seems. 

“What? Craft security is too tight, no prisoner would even get close-”

“Not a prisoner, THE prisoner!” How flattering. 

“Less talking more capturing, you dolts!” The tangled heap of fallen guards is beginning to escape their self imposed dogpile. Dang, he’d hoped that would last longer. 

“Do we shoot him?” That’s bad. 

“NO! Craft likes to do it himself.” That’s worse.

Post reveal, all bars are off. Nothing to protect him from the full force of the guards, harsh blows and claws aimed freely at his back. Techno begins to holler at the top of his lungs with what little breath he has to spare. “HELP! HELP I’M BEING KIDNAPED!” 

Dark armored cars pull up at the end of the street, forming a makeshift barricade. Techno slides over the hood of one as the doors crack open, stumbling back into a sprint. Annoyed shouts echo behind as the mob is caught in their own choke point, but there’s still plenty chasing after. Particularly, the ones in the vehicles, who aren’t worn out from running. Techno is beginning to curse every single day of his life he chose not to exercise. Desperation has carried him pretty far, but at the end of the day he’s a lousy introvert of a college student up against trained security forces. Dark hunters begin to edge into his periphery, boxing him in, closing around like a pack of wolves. 

And then someone punches him in the spine and the world goes white.

Agony. Pure, unadulterated agony, pouring through his every nerve. Every fiber of muscle seizes as hell claims him for eternity. 

The world comes back to find him in a heap on the ground, face a bloodied mess of roadburn. Techno pants into the asphalt, throat raw from screaming. Fire pours down the arc of his spine, but it’s fading fast, acute pain replaced by a throbbing in his entire body. His back is the worst, though his face is also screaming, and slivers of glass dig into his palm from where the mirror shattered in his convulsing hands. A tight grip digs into his shoulder, rolling him supine, and all he can do is limply accept it. “Ready for round two, or are you going to stay down?” Blearily, Techno’s eyes latch onto the bulky taser knuckles. 

His tongue feels like lead. Trying to move is a hellish nightmare. The soldier grins at him and the hum of electricity burns in his ears. It would be so, so much easier to simply give in. But somewhere in his brain a switch flips from escape to survive. Pushing past the pain, Techno seizes their wrist and shoves the guard’s own taser into their face. Thank god he was already kicking the guy off, because apparently currents pass through people, and so a number of the surrounding soldiers go down too. 

“How’d he recover so fast?!” What? It’s only agony. Techno’s been fighting all his life, and he fights dirty, a whirlwind of elbows and blows. He aims for eyes. He aims for groins. Techno can’t care, not if he aims to be free. Shrieking like a banshee, he fights with everything he’s got. 

It’s not enough, of course. It was never going to be. What’s one normal guy against a dozen hired muscles? He’s dogpiled to the ground, tasting asphalt yet again. “He’s going to eat you alive,” someone chuckles darkly. Their knee digs into his lower back, pressing into the area the taser hit. Techno snarls and twists, but dozens of hands latch onto him, pinning him utterly. 

“HELP,” Techno screeches, only for a grubby fist to slap over his mouth. For chomping down hard enough to draw blood, Techno is rewarded with his head being slammed into the ground. Mmph. That feels soo great on the road burn. As they drag him back to the house, Techno screams and kicks the whole time, biting anyone who tries to shut him up. Toxic adrenaline roars in his veins, and he can’t give up even when useless resistance only earns him more bruises. 

They haul him in and present him like an offering to Phil, still spitting curses and wrenching at too tight holds. His captor looks livid, and Techno meets that energy with his own snarling vehemence. Wil stands behind, somewhere between amusement and disappointment. 

And Tommy. Of course he’d be here, tagging after his older brother. His eyes are wide and horrified from where he tucks into Wil’s side, shrinking when Techno looks at him. A tiny part of him sinks that Tommy has to see him like this, but it is dwarfed utterly by his pounding anger, fear, desperation. All he can do is bare his bloodied teeth as Phil approaches slowly. 

Technoblade glares at Philza, pants hissing through a clenched snarl. His lip is busted, blood smearing in the corner. Scratches and dirt coat one half of his face, a friction burn no doubt. Philza can’t wait to review the footage to discover who is responsible for that. He tallies up weaknesses, the bloodied knuckles, the way his weight shifts to reduce pressure on one foot, the little rips across his clothing, the lingering bruising around his eye. Battered and completely outnumbered, and still determination glitters like fire in his eyes. His son through and through. Technoblade strains for release, twisting and jerking from where Philza’s men hold him as if he has a chance of success. 

“Are you done yet?” he asks tiredly. “Shouldn’t you have realized by now this isn’t going to work? When are you going to give up?”

“Never,” Technoblade spits. 

The back of his knee is kicked out, and Technoblade drops to a kneeling position with a grunt. “Want to try that again?” the guard growls. 

“Did you just attack my son?” The words drip with malice, and Philza advances slowly, bleeding pure fury into the air. The guard chokes on it, backing away. Although of the towering, hulking breed hired guns tend to be, he wisely retreats from the small man. Philza feels about ready to rip the guard’s throat out with his teeth for the incense. “You’re fired.”

The guard goes pale. Good. People don’t tend to survive Philza’s retirement plan, and those that do wish they hadn’t. Before he can run, Philza snaps. The offending soldier is seized by his peers and dragged off. Impatience boils in Philza’s chest, annoyed at having to wait for his first session with the ex-employee, but there are far more important matters deserving of his attention.

Offering a hand up, Philza smiles apologetically. “So sorry for his behavior, gemstone, it was completely uncalled for and will be dealt with accordingly.” Technoblade flinches from him, wary. But he accepts the hand, pulling sharp in an effort to make Philza fall. Predictable, really, and Philza’s bracing stance is hardly budged. All Technoblade succeeds in is pulling himself in too close to his father. Before he can demur, Philza steps back, respecting his personal space. “I thought you were getting better. And you lied to your brothers, too, you didn’t intend to spend the afternoon with them at all.”

Technoblade looks to where they linger behind Philza, realization passing over his features. Too late, Philza differentiates between what he perceived as regret and what is in actuality inspiration. 

Techno rams past his captor, tackling Wil to the ground. A second of shock is all he gets before Wil responds. The pair fall into wrestling, nearly impossible to tell apart. Screaming inarticulately, Techno rips into the person who ruined his life. If it weren’t for his stupid stunt double he wouldn’t be in this situation at all. Though desperate, Wil is a skilled fighter in his own right, slugging Techno across the face. Techno responds with a knee in the gut, and is shoved sharply to the side, Wil rolling on top of him. Though pinned, Techno still claws into Wil’s thigh, fingers finally closing around the item he was looking for. His bright, triumphant grin bewilders Wil for a second, before he throws him off with a powerful kick. Techno scrambles up, swinging it around to ward off the rapidly descending reinforcements. 

“I’ll blow everyone here to smithereens. Don’t test me,” Techno snarls, holding the C4 up for all to see. The room freezes, attention caught upon the explosives in his hand. The guards all look to Phil, who is utterly horrified. Wil, for his part, looks almost comically betrayed to see his own weapon of choice turned against him. And Tommy– he’s rooted to the spot like a deer in headlights, terrified out of his wits. Techno buries his feelings. There’s no room for anything but survival. No matter the cost, he must succeed. To fail now must surely seal his fate. 

“Technoblade,” Phil begins gently, trying not to provoke him. “Think about what you’re doing for a second. You’ll die too.” 

“Freedom or death,” he hisses. It’s not a bluff. It’ll be a far kinder death than anything Phil will concoct. Fast and easy, not this hell he’s trapped in. “I’d be doing the world a favor to get rid of you.” Pain flashes in The Angel of Death’s eyes. “Here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to call off every last goon. I’m going to walk out of that front door and never look back. I will never see you again. You hear me!? If I meet you in hell it will be too soon!” 

“Please,” he whispers. “Just put it down. We can talk. There’s no need for drastic measures.” 

Techno takes a step back. Then another. The soldiers part before the threat of gruesome and total annihilation, Techno keeping his motions slow and cautious to avoid triggering action. Eventually Phil’s logic will take over, but he’s capitalizing on the overwhelming sentimentality. 

“You’re forgetting something, Tech,” Wil sings. 

“What,” he snaps, not taking his eyes off the people surrounding them. He’s almost to the front door. All he needs is Phil to agree, or he’ll be recaptured immediately. One word, and Techno will be free. 

“I still have the detonator.” A glance finds it to be truth, Wil dangling it teasingly. Going cold, Techno lunges for it, only to have to dive out of the way as the horde descends upon him. Thinned, to be sure, by the guard carted away for hurting him, and the plaguing visions of whatever Phil has threatened with them offers hesitation enough that he manages to wrench past, hurtling away from the thicket. His adrenaline hadn’t stopped pumping for a minute, and Techno flies like an arrow up the stairs, tearing towards his room. The window is still open if he can just get to it, and though his head start is closing panic pushes him faster and faster. He weaves past startled staff, hurling things behind to slow down pursuers. 

He slams the door behind like it’ll really make a difference. Thundering footsteps pour down the hallway after him, but it’s too late. He’s made it to his exit. Dashing for the bathroom door, Techno throws it o–

It doesn’t budge. Frantic, Techno rams it, but his earlier sabotage is too effective. He slams himself against the door over and over and it does absolutely nothing, the chair he lodged doing its work. Hopelessness swallows him. No, no, he’ll come up with another plan. He’s scoured the room a million times before, but surely he can– can–

The bedroom door bursts open, and he screams, scrambling away. But there’s nowhere to go. Techno’s been trapped from the very start. He made it out, what, not even fifteen minutes? And only once, captured immediately. And nothing will stop Phil from finding him again, he knows every single detail of Techno’s life. He has infinite knowledge, infinite connections, infinite resources. Even should he escape he’d be found in a heartbeat. It had been impossible from the start. If he’d realized sooner, maybe he could have played along, earned enough trust to live a shallow puppeted life. It would have been a horrid existence, but at least he would have lived. He’s ruined any chance he had. 

He backs into the corner of his bedroom as guards spill in. And it is his bedroom, the stolen contents of cheery childhood memories blotted out by the soldiers encircling him. Not one drop of his life hasn’t been utterly gutted and reassembled into a cage. Techno was doomed from the moment Phil laid eyes on him. 

When he sees Phil his blood drains. Fury crackles at the edges of the man, spilling palpably into the air. With each approaching step Techno presses even further into the wall, frantically searching for another escape and finding none. There is to be no deliverance from the Angel of Death for him. 

That poor guard who forced him to kneel flashes through his mind. What did he know? What had he been told the consequences were? Will knowing what’s about to happen just make it worse? He broke out, assaulted Wilbur, threatened Phil and his family’s lives. 

Techno’s heart pounds painfully, faster and faster to the point of bursting. This is it. This is the point where he’s gone too far, and is going to be punished. He can handle pain, he knows he can, but his parents were just bad people, not kingpins. It’s going to be so, so much worse. 

He wounds up tighter and tighter, tension pouring through, and fight has never been an option and flight impossible, the world closing up until it’s only Philza Craft approaching. He’s drowning, which makes no sense considering how much he’s breathing, sucking down useless air faster and faster and yet it doesn’t stop the black creeping in the edges of his vision. Techno sinks to the floor, curling up to protect his vitals and shelter his head with his arms. 

And he waits.

Philza has seen this position before. Many times, even, it’s human instinct after all. Reduced to prey, knowing nothing will save them. Petrify in a little ball and hope the danger passes. He’s only ever ended a situation like this one way. The easy way, really, once an animal is backed into a corner it’s infinitely more difficult to pacify it than to just put a bullet through its head. 

Philza lowers to the ground, kneeling before the frightened child. “Technoblade–” the boy jerks into himself, tight to the point of pain. Philza softens his voice, and tries again. “Gemstone,” he croons, “love of my life, you don’t need to be scared of me.” Crawling forward only causes Technoblade to shrink back more. “I know you’re in pain right now, and panicked, but if you just calm down I can tend to your wounds, alright?”

His muscles are wound tight to the point of trembling, bracing as Philza reaches out to touch him. From where his arms are thrown up to protect his head, Technoblade claws into his hair in painful fashion. Still murmuring assurances, Philza gently takes a hand, massaging until the vice eases, slipping tangles of rose strands out from between fingers. His knuckles are split open, crusted with blood, though still they’re white from force. No doubt the nails are digging into his palms, so Philza pries at the fingers, easing them open. Technoblade attempts to wrench away, failing inevitably, and so seizes back, latching onto Philza like a vice. Crescents break Philza’s skin, the grip almost bone crushing. 

Still, to Philza it counts as holding hands. He draws the arm away from where it wraps over Technoblade, revealing frantic, darting dark eyes. Still trying to build strategy no matter how hopeless, assessment limited to opportunities and threats. Caught in the throes of survival, unaware of the reality of the situation. 

“Technoblade,” he soothes. “I’m not mad, please calm down.” But the boy jerks his head to the exit, gaze darting between employees. Philza, too, is highly aware of their intrusion. It’s unfortunate, really, that they might see this. Two mistakes to be taken: The first, that Technoblade is weak. The second, that Philza is merciful. The last thing he needs is a rumor like that spreading. Even if it’s only word of rust on the iron fist, it’s still more propaganda than tolerable. But, on the other hand, he can’t exactly trust Technoblade anymore, can he? “Shh. It’s alright. Don’t pay attention to them. If you relax they can leave, alright?” The bargain goes ignored. “Technoblade, they aren’t important,” he says sharply. “Eyes on me. You need to stop hyperventilating or you’re going to pass out.” For some reason, he fails to be swayed by the logic. Really now, if he were so scared, wouldn’t he want to avoid going unconscious in a room full of perceived enemies? 

Still his panicked boy refuses to listen. Philza takes a calming breath. As annoyed at Technoblade as he is right now, letting that bleed through will not help. Gently, he reaches for his son, who shrinks away. He lifts Technoblade’s chin till their gazes meet, only for him to jerk away. Philza sighs, then recaptures his jaw in both hands, using a little more force this time. His fingers dig in as Technoblade tries to wrench away. But, really, he’s the one who backed into a corner, he chose to limit his options. Realizing he can’t escape affection, Technoblade finally stares at him. 

And still, the recognition isn’t there. The jaw trembles in his hands. Techno freezes up, bracing to be hit. “Shhh, no, no, no, no, none of that. I’m not going to hurt you.” He strokes the boy’s cheeks soothingly. “Look at me, Technoblade. It’s me. It’s only me, not anyone else. You’re not in trouble, love. It’s safe. You’re safe.” His chest convulses with each brief breath, panting uselessly in the midst of hysterics. Each short exhale hisses over the back of Philza’s hand. But eventually it begins to ebb, the panic deteriorating. 

“Easy now. Nothing's going to happen. Nothing to be scared of. Home will always be safe.” Dark eyes latch onto him, scouring him for truth. Philza pours every scrap of sincerity, every ounce of ocean's deep affection he possesses, into his words. “I love you unconditionally, Technoblade. Nothing you ever do will change that.”

And then Technoblade chomps down hard on his hand. 

“Jesus Christ!” Philza shrieks, wrenching away from his son. Technoblade lunges for freedom. “Oh no you don’t-” he grabs the escaping boy, dragging him back to wrap in a tight embrace that traps his arms. Right. So the blood on Technoblade’s mouth wasn’t from a busted lip; he is just a biter. “You’re too old for teething,” Philza chides flatly. “And sorry for touching your back, but you’ve proven you can’t be trusted.” Technoblade struggles in the hug ineffectively, straining for freedom that will never come. But the thrashing eventually slows even if his respiration doesn’t. Finally his strength is fully spent after continuous fighting. “Can you breathe for me? Nice and slow, alright? Match my rhythm…” he exaggerates his inhales as his son is pressed into him. Philza gently rocks the boy cradled in his arms. “Easy now. You don’t need to fight anymore, because nothing’s going to happen. Be at peace, love, you’re alright.” 

And, slowly, it works. The adrenaline dwindles out, finally spent. Philza is well acquainted with fear; it’s not sustainable without new threats. As he murmurs patient reassurances, bit by bit Technoblade stops shaking. His back is still knotted with tension, but his breathing fades to normal, frantic heartbeat slowing to tangle in tandem with his father’s. 

Philza isn’t expecting the words, when they finally come. He almost wishes the silence would have continued. “...When are you going to kill me?” Technoblade asks quietly. 

“I’m…I’m not.”

“Oh god,” Technoblade chokes. His hands squeeze from where they’re trapped against his chest. 

“I’m not going to torture you to the brink of death, either,” Philza unfortunately feels like he should clarify, based off that reaction. “I would never hurt you.” 

“Of course you would. You’re the Angel of Death.” 

“That silly little nickname is doing your anxiety no favors, hmm? I think it would be good for you to forget about that.” 

“I can’t. Just– tell me what the punishment is already. I can take it, I just need to know.”

“Why would I punish you?”

“I– I escaped, I attacked people, I bit you–”

“Mmm that’s certainly true. I’m certainly disappointed in your recent endeavors, angry, even,” and Technoblade tenses against him, “but I’m not going to retaliate against you.”

“I threatened your family! I was going to blow us all up!” His agitation is rising again, and that certainly won’t do. “You basically have to punish me or I’ll try again! It’s the only thing that makes sense for you to keep control. Fear tactics, you said that’s what you use, but there has to be something to enforce it.” 

He’s rather glad Technoblade can’t see the distasteful expression he’s making. “Interesting that you think that, son. Because I’ve done some research of my own recently, and hitting children doesn’t tend to make them act better. Quite the opposite, even. Why? Do you think it worked on you?” he murmurs, and Technoblade goes very, very silent. “I’m sorry to disappoint your wild fantasies, but that’s not how I run my household. There will not be punishment, much less torture, much less murder. Boring, I’m afraid, but I’m really not such an exciting villain.” 

“I know what you’re really like. One day the mask is going to drop and it’ll be over.” But it’s less an accusation and more miserable resignation, his worst fear slipping out. As if it is really so impossible to genuinely love him. 

“And what do you think I’m really like?” Technoblade falls silent. “Come now, I’m curious.” But he refuses to elaborate, no doubt fearing the retribution afforded honesty, that he may speak his fears into existence. Philza sighs. “Fine. I’ll guess. You think me a monster, don’t you? Cold and cruel and evil. And to give you credit, some of that may be true. But never to you, Technoblade. Never. You’re family.”

“And that’s supposed to save me?”

…ah. Of course that reasoning wouldn’t soothe a boy who only ever knew family as a trap. Philza pauses, unsure how to explain it any other way. Family is his whole world, his sole purpose. All else pales in comparison to the holiness of his own flesh and blood. 

“Yes. More than that, even, it’s supposed to shelter you, to heal you, to give you purpose. And it doesn’t for you, not yet, I know that. But I promise one day you’ll feel that. And I will prove it to you every day, however long it takes, until you can believe it.” 

He loosens his embrace, rising. Philza offers a hand to Technoblade, who simply stares warily. “Come on. Let’s get you healed.”

Technoblade doesn’t accept the hand. But he does accept the help. It’s progress, at least.

It takes three guards to bust down the bathroom door. Techno winces as the chair breaks, but he’s shepherded in without comment. Phil admires the broken mirror, luring out an explanation. “A knife made of glass? Really Technoblade, that’s rather dangerous, very double edged.”

“I made a handle,” he defends mulishly. “Worked fine until I fell.” Phil isn’t particularly convinced, especially as he begins to wash Techno’s bloodied fingers in the sink, picking out the shards of glass crushed into his dominant hand. It stings in an awful way. Their reflections distort into strange corruptions of the pair, forms reiterated dozens of times, not a single one catching the truth of the situation. 

He cranes his head to watch as the window is fitted with a lock. His hope sinks, though it was already pretty despondent to begin with. Phil bullies him into sitting, which is far kinder to his throbbing ankle, not that he’d admit it. His other leg keeps bouncing, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Techno doesn’t like sitting, makes him feel less ready for an attack, though really in as rough a shape as he is it likely doesn’t change much. Everything aches after the taser volts and all he wants to do is sleep. He can’t imagine his overactive imagination will be kind in his dreams, though. 

Phil insists upon tending to him himself, saying a stranger will only spook him. The first-class doctor called in controls her features and hands over supplies without comment. Techno clenches his jaw so the wet cloth dabbing at his friction burns doesn’t cause him to wince. With his captor in the way, he can’t watch the one window that tricked him into thinking he’d earned salvation be blocked off for good. Not that he wanted to, anyway, watching hope get buried hurts like hell, but it was something at least. Techno doesn’t want to watch the tender expression on the Angel of Death's features, either. But he can’t look away for even a second, warily watching Phil for even a hint of anger. 

It can’t be soothing. Medical attention hurts, and the fact it’s Phil is only unnerving. Still, it’s less that he relaxes and more the extreme tension eases to a normal level of anxiety. But when he catches that Phil has finished and has covertly begun to run his fingers through his hair, Techno jerks away. 

“I’m just undoing your bun,” he defends guiltily. 

“I can do that.”

“No, your hands are covered in cream. Don’t mess them up. Sorry, I’m sure your hair looked very lovely before the scuffle.”

“I just put it up so it couldn’t be pulled in a fight.”

“Very sensible of you,” he brushes past the curt response, removing pins and ties. His fingers comb through in simulacrum of affection, but there’s not much Technoblade can do about that without risking getting his hair yanked. “Do you ever do anything with it?”

“Mom taught me how to braid.”

“...ah. You don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to.” But Techno knows exactly who’d be the more uncomfortable between the two of them. 

“Oh, no, I do. Love my mom, she’s great. I’d just started growing it out and she sat down and showed me a bunch of different styles. Helped me pick out the dye, too.” The later half of his teen years actually had been getting better, which is why he has hope. He’s not really sure of the catalyst, if they were finally healing or if he just got better at dodging and fighting back -certainly he’d had a severe number of growth spurts to end up at 6’5- but whatever it was he is thankful. He tries not to think about the fact he might never see them again. “Dad said I looked like an entirely different person.” 

“Mm. That’s…nice,” Phil offers, unconvinced. He’s still playing with his hair, which Techno supposes is his revenge. And no longer how long he waits on edge, Phil doesn’t pull it. Yet. 

Phil insists on tending to literally every single wound, and thanks to the rose bush encounter there’s a lot of them. With the road burn and twisted ankle it was understandable, but he is legitimately putting little colorful bandaids on nearly every conceivable nick. Wil’s shirt is thrown out, which is ridiculous given how perfectly serviceable it still is. Honestly these people probably get rid of anything with the slightest of stains. Wasteful.

Which, of course, only leads to Phil being angsty about his scars again. Techno rolls his eyes. Can he never catch a break? He barely stops himself from burying his head in his hands and groaning, but only because Phil would interpret it as a woebegone expression of his unending inner turmoil or whatever. God, no wonder Wil is a theater major if his dad is just Like That.  

Phil ghosts tenderly over the layered wounds. “Does it hurt?” 

“You’ve asked that before. No. Sometimes it’s a little tight, but that’s it.” He’s pretty sure the prickling sensation is psychological. 

“Could become painful as nerves regrow,” the doctor suggests. Her expression hasn’t changed the whole time, which is honestly such a relief. “It can happen years later, which…appears to be where we are.” He’d argue that he thinks over a decade is well enough time window for that to be a possibility and not happen, but he doesn’t want Phil to know how old some of them are. 

“What can be done about that?” She details short term reliefs, most of which Techno is well familiar with. Then she gets into the long term options, physical therapy and skin grafts and the like. It would leave its own scars, of course, but far more minor comparatively. 

Annoyed at his own medical decisions being taken out of his hands, Techno decides to step in. “You need consent for surgeries,” he throws over his back dryly, as if that’s really something that will stop it. 

“You have parental permission.”

“You’re not my father and I’m not a minor, so it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not what your medical files say…” Suddenly, Techno is hit by a vision of piles and piles of legal documentation he’s going to have to fix once he gets out, and he groans. 

“If I wake up on a surgery table I’m going to kill you for real.” Threat. He’s just threatened a kingpin. His bouncing leg gets faster. 

“You wouldn’t wake up till long after. And straining exertions like homicide would be bad for your recovery process. Wait. This should have definitely been on your medical reports. I should have known about this from the start. Why didn’t I?” 

“Never really went to the doctor that much. Shouldn’t you know that?”

“Of course! That makes so much sense, though, if they ever let anything too intensive occur, their villainous deeds would have been unveiled.” 

“Bruh, it was America, that crap is expensive.” 

“Did you even get your shots?”

“Uh…” did he? “You’d know that better than I would.” 

“We’ll fix that once you’ve recovered from this ordeal. Really, love, we could fix all of it. Why don’t you want that? You’re so resistant, and I’m only trying to help.”

“It doesn’t bother me. I don’t care.” But he does care, in a weird way he doesn’t understand fully. Phil is trying to erase every little piece of his past, the medical records rewritten, positive discussion of his parents dismissed, insisting over and over they’re family and always have been. Apparently even the history carved into his skin isn’t safe. It’s not good memories, he doesn’t like them, but it’s his own body. He should get control of at least that, if nothing else in his life is sacred. “It’s called bodily autonomy. My body, my choice. You hate women or something?” There’s definitely a dead wife joke to make there, but he has at least some sense. 

Phil ignores the jab. “Whatever makes you happy, Technoblade,” he says lightly in a way that suggests this is a debate that will not be put to rest for a long time. No, Phil will always act in his perceived best interests, regardless of what Techno actually wants. But then he pauses in his survey of his back. “...this one is recent.”

“What? Shouldn’t be. It’s probably just agitated. By the rose bush or something.” Rose bushes are a safe thing to blame. They can’t feel pain like people can. Phil pokes at the base of his spine where he got tasered, and Techno instinctually flinches away. “Alright, big surprise, I lied earlier. Sometimes they get inflamed during exercise, but that’s not–”

“I know what a fresh wound looks like, Technoblade. Care to explain this?”

No. No, he does’t. “Road burn. Just like the face. I tripped. Told you, my laces got untied by the rosebush.” 

“And you stopped mid chase scene to tie them, did you now?”

“Safety first.” Phil doesn’t seem particularly convinced, which causes Techno’s stomach to churn. If the only thing Phil cares about is family, he worries about those who threaten that. He’s vaguely convinced he’s in a protected position, but isn’t sure how far that extends. Whatever makes you happy, Technoblade. Time to see how much that means. “Um. That man. The one who made me kneel.”

“Yes, gemstone? What do you want done to him?”

That was exactly the type of answer he was dreading. “Nothing. I don’t want– no. Don’t hurt him.” 

Philza dismisses all the wonderful things that can be done to the human knee from his mind’s eye. “Of course I wouldn’t.” 

“You said you rule with fear.”

“I never said I wouldn’t annihilate his financial prospects. I’m not going to physically hurt him, that would be barbaric.” No, it will be cathartic. “It’s your anxiety speaking, dear. You drove yourself into a panic attack over the person you imagine me to be, when that can’t be further from the truth.”

“I want proof.” 

A pity he’s so smart. “And you’ll have it. What type? And when?” 

“Video. A week from now, with the day’s newspaper and everything.” Techno’s not sure how far he trusts that, but it will at least mean the man is uninjured for a few days. “And he better not look like someone behind the camera is pointing a gun at him.” Philza hums. It will be laughably easy to forge, especially when given advanced specifications, assuming the offender can scrape together enough acting talent in exchange for the illusion of mercy. If not– well. Not like Technoblade really knows the man. An actor can be readily procured. Philza agrees amicably, and it seems to soothe the child to a degree. “Same with the others.” 

“Others?” There’s the same note of interest as a hawk who just spotted a mouse.

“Everyone who helped bring me in. No one else hurt me. Don’t touch them.” 

“As you wish, although you’re making an awful lot of demands for someone who’s grounded.” 

“Like I haven’t been for two weeks.” 

He’s dragged away from his god given right to take a lil nappy nap a few hours later. The ache of Techno’s escapade is setting in, and he grumpily limps over to the music room, because APPARENTLY he’s being held accountable for the lie he said to prevent suspicion. Seriously, his fingers are completely wrapped up! He doesn’t exactly have even a lick of talent in the best of circumstances, and like hell is he going to play the bongos after his palms got filled with glass shards. 

Techno isn’t the only one displeased with the situation. “I don’t want to be in a room with him,” Wil protests. “He literally attacked me!”

“And I’d do it again! Square up if you want round two!” he declares from beneath a mound of bandages. 

Phil turns upon him with a fixed rictus, eyes like icicle shards. Death pours out from him in a tangible aura. “No, you won’t.” 

Techno wilts. “...no, I won’t. Sorry for attacking you, Wil. In my defense I thought it would work.” 

Wil’s eyes only narrow at him. Techno spirals a bit trying to figure out power dynamics. It’s Phil’s household, but Wil distinctly keeps explosives on him -or is Phil also always armed? He’s managed to earn Phil’s theoretical protection, god knows how, but what happens if he doesn’t keep Wil’s favor? Will Wil be forbidden from hurting him? Will that even stop him? Or does it go the other way, Phil harming him as a gift for Wil? Who is the bigger threat? Who’s the bigger risk? 

“Technoblade,” Phil begins, drawing him out of panicked mental 6D chess. “If I put this tambourine in your mouth so you can hold it, are you going to bite me again?” 

“Want to find out?” 

The door creaks open. “Please go away,” he groans face first into his bed. He’s had enough Phil for a day. For a lifetime, even. It’s a useless petition, because if Phil had even a modicum of respect for privacy or boundaries he wouldn’t exactly be in this situation in the first place, would he? 

“Sorry,” Tommy squeaks, pivoting completely out the door. 

“Not you, my b, thought you were Phil.” 

“Oh, all right then.” Tommy pivots in the exact same about-face, like a little toy soldier. He waits, swinging his arms idly, like he didn’t plan this far. Techno unpeels from his pillow, rolling off his bed. Like Tommy, he pauses, then catches a glance at the bathroom. Right, privacy. He hobbles over, then realizes extended time in the bathroom is probably flagged after this morning stunt. Tired, he finds it simply easier to pull over the kid sized chair for his desk and slump into it. 

“So…so Wilbur keeps TNT in his pockets..?” Tommy opens awkwardly. 

Techno rubs a hand against his face. “C4 is stronger than TNT.” 

“Nerd.”

“You got me there, pipsqueak.”

He should fire back immediately, but fails to, oddly quiet. “...were you really going to blow us up?’

“Nah,” he lies easily. “I’m not that crazy.” Though, at the moment, he kinda had been, verging on survivalistic hysterics. Obviously he would have regretted it. Well, if there is an afterlife, since he’d be super dead lmao. 

It’s the correct answer, since Tommy immediately relaxes completely, bouncing over to him. “How far didja get? What’d you do? Why’d it fail?” 

“You ever read Rapunzel? Okay, so, it started like this…” He recounts it like a fun adventure for Tommy, skipping over tactics he wants to retry later. Mostly the ones he doesn’t think Phil can figure out from review. Tommy ohs and ahs at the appropriate times, enthralled. “So, you see, it was a clever bluff with the bombs to buy time. Alas, I thwarted myself in the end. Realizing I was cornered, I accepted capture by the enemy, relenting to the worst torture of all: a doctor’s appointment.” Yeah, just skip over the bit where he had a breakdown between those steps. That would make him super lame in the kid’s eyes. 

“They attacked you?! Woah, they never did that for me, that's mental!”

“No, they didn’t,” Techno corrects harshly, flicking his gaze to a camera. Tommy catches it, but only appears confused. “I was a bit reckless, and that’s on me and no one else.” 

The kid bites his lip. “I didn’t think you’d get injured.” 

“It’s just pain, Tommy. It’s not the end of the world. I can cope.” 

“I don’t know if all this is a good idea anymore, Techno.” Tommy is actually a little relieved, since now he has an easy reason to point at. Ignore the complicated bits. He just doesn’t want his friend to get hurt. Of course he still wants Techno to be free, eventually, just…just if he maybe comes back to visit. And help Tommy with his homework. And give his little dry quips at meals. And doesn’t leave Tommy. 

“I accepted the risk. Not your problem, anyways.” But Tommy’s knit brows seem to disagree. 

“Why do you keep trying to get out if you’re just going to get hurt? That’s kinda stupid. If. If you didn’t have the perfect plan worked out yet." 

“I– I saw the world for the first time in weeks, Tommy.” He isn’t expecting how plaintive the words come out. “I don’t know how to explain the taste of fresh air after so long to you. The sun on my back. The ability to run, I was chased, but I could run. And I don’t know, I just– just can’t.” 

“Can’t what?”

He slumps, the ache in his wrung out body growing. Techno cradles his head in his hands. “Can’t survive being cooped up. Can’t escape. I can’t stop trying, either, it’s hopeless, I know it is, but I can’t just give up. Something won’t let me.” Technoblade simply doesn’t know how to stop fighting. It’s hardwired into his brain. Don’t ever, ever roll over and show your belly or you’ll be gutted. 

“I’m sorry.” Tommy approaches cautiously, guilt devouring him. A small hand reaches out, hesitates, then rests on Techno’s shoulder. 

Instinctually, Techno reacts at once, lashing out and shoving the boy away full force. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls. Tommy stumbles back, hitting the bed frame roughly. Massive blue eyes welled with shock and fear and tears stare at Techno. His own widen with what he’s done. 

Technoblade simply doesn’t know how to stop fighting.

“Tommy—” the kid bolts and without thinking Techno trails after, trying to apologize. He knows he’d be absolutely terrified to be chased down after getting hit, so he more cautiously walks after, trying to control his pace even as stress tries to quicken it. “Sorry, I was startled, I didn’t mean—“

Tommy disappears into Phil’s room. “Tommy!”

“Technoblade!” It’s distinctly not Tommy’s voice. Techno scrambles back, growing frantic as the footsteps begin to pound towards him. He’s sprinting by the time the door is thrown open. Phil thunders behind, not running, but prowling. Techno can taste the anger emanating from him like blood on his tongue. He flees to his room. Instinct throws him to the bed, but it’s no refuge for an adult, and so he desperately grabs the only weapon he can find and hurls it at Phil the moment the door slams open. 

“TEC-mphf!” The pillow hits Phil straight on. He catches it, yanking it away, then just stares at it, blinking. But then the ire flickers in his eyes, and he looks up slowly. A horrific polite smile seething with rage pins Technoblade to the spot. “Technoblade. Did you hit Tommy?”

Every drop of harm I’ve ever done was to protect my family. The threat rings in his ears. His instincts roar in his head, because every iota of malice before had been conjured in his own head, or mere glimpses of the wrath beneath his façade, and now that Phil’s true ire really does fall upon him it is blistering. “I. I— maybe. I dunno. It was an accident,” he manages quickly. 

“Which is it?” he snaps. “Either it was an accident, ergo real, or you don’t know if it happened. I can look at the footage if it comes to that, but I want to know what you think transpired.”

Tommy watches with wide eyes, tucked behind his father. He’s in over his head, not knowing what landmine of a situation he accidentally triggered but regretting every second of it. “A-Actually, Dad, it’s fine, really-”

“I’m talking to your brother at the moment, sunshine. Don’t interrupt.” His expectant look falls upon Techno like stone. 

“...I did.” 

“Why?”

Technoblade hesitates, unfamiliar with this part. No one ever asked why. It didn’t matter, actions totally uncoupled from intention. It’s a trick, somehow, he’s sure of it, but he can’t see how yet. Gingerly, he takes the bait, waiting for the metal teeth to slam close. “He came up from behind and touched me while my defenses were down. I. I thought he was…” attacking. His voice trails off weakly. It’s stupid, he knows it is, it was all an over reaction and normally he kept that lashing panic trapped in his head but after today his restraint was frazzled and escaped to disastrous effect.  

“Me?” Phil finishes his sentence in a dangerous tone. “You took your frustration with me out on him?” Techno shakes his head. He doesn’t know if it’s truth or not, he hadn’t been thinking, really. He has to imagine every drop of pain Phil inflicts is a calculated thing, scientific almost. With his parents it was an emotional thing, still just as measured if by a different metric. But Techno hadn’t been thinking at all, like there wasn’t even a choice, like it was inevitable. He simply inflicted harm without consideration. 

Almost like violence is ingrained into him.

Techno feels sick.

Something flickers in the expression Phil wears as he scrutinizes Techno. “I’ve tolerated a lot, believe me Technoblade. But the moment your instincts get my child hurt, you’ll find my patience runs very thin. This is unacceptable. You’re an adult. Get therapy if you must.” Yeah right, like he’s ever going to believe in patient confidentiality after meeting Phil. “Tommy wouldn’t hurt you, surely you know that. Why can’t you just trust people?”

“Trust? You want me to trust!? The last guy I trusted poisoned my Dr. Pepper and kidnapped me, and now there’s 8 bazillion cameras on my every move and the first time I tasted fresh air in weeks I got dragged back kicking and screaming because someone can’t accept his kid got murdered eighteen years ago!” It’s stupid. Techno knows that, has known it for years. But his words were all he ever had to fight back with when he was too small to do physical damage. Like all things, it’s lashing out, thoughtless. Isn’t he supposed to be smart? Isn’t that the one good thing about him? He’s always caught in reactions, responding in split seconds. 

It’s useless, anyways, even that bravado dies the moment Phil takes a single step forward, Techno’s jaw clicking shut. He should have known Phil’s earlier mercy was to lull him into false security. “Rave at me all you want, call me a lunatic, I. don’t. care. But the moment you hurt my son there has to be consequences.”

“Alright,” he says evenly, even if dread scrapes out his insides in coiling, asphyxiating knots, the familiar leviathan tumultuous in his gut. Techno shifts back, muscles tense. Judging by the murder in his eyes, Techno is only going to survive this one if he fights back. Like hell does he have a chance against the Angel, especially as battered as he is. But all he has to do is last till it’s out of Phil’s system. Maybe this time he’ll be left to lick his wounds in peace. 

Guess Phil really did mean it when he called them family. 

Phil takes him in just as much, calculating with a frown on his face. “…I don’t think you believe a single thing I’ve told you.” Then, he frees his hands by dropping the pillow into Tommy’s hands, but instead of advancing, he points. “Get your revenge, Tommy.”

Techno lunges out of the way of the pillow that’s hurled at him, eyes still locked on Phil. The room pauses, waiting. Then Tommy sets his hands on his hips. “You’re supposed to throw it back, moron.”

Techno simply holds still, wary and waiting for his promised violence. Eventually Phil reinforces Tommy’s command, and he slowly creeps over to where the cushion landed on his bed, snatching it, gaze caught on his captor the whole time. Another order and he tosses it back over, to be handed back to Tommy. Instead of throwing it again, the kid lets out a war cry and charges, sending Techno rolling over his bed to the other side and suppressing a wince as pain jolts up his ankle. 

Expectantly, his gaze is trained on Phil, waiting. What for he isn’t actually particularly sure anymore, but he’s going to be prepared. Tommy scrambles to stand on top of his mattress, hurling a pillow that Techno bats away without looking. “You’re supposed to catch it,” Tommy chides. Techno does, and backs away sharply as he jumps down from the bed with an overhead blow. Tommy swings relentlessly. Retreating sharply, Techno’s back hits the wall, and he darts out of the way of the next hit. Circling round and round, skittish, trying to avoid attack. Position always considered in regards to Phil first, careful to never expose his back. 

“You’re not very good at pillow fights,” Tommy frowns.

“That’s what this is?” he looks to Phil for confirmation. Tommy takes the opportunity to smack his legs with a cushion, though it does little to deter his attention.

“Do you not know what a pillow fight is?” Phil asks, pity tainting his tone. Of course Techno knows what a stupid pillow fight is, he’s just trying to figure out what won’t get him shot in the head.  

“I do. Why?” That isn’t any sort of punishment.

Phil seems to hear the thought. “I told you I don’t run my house with violence,” he reminds softly. “And Tommy needed revenge, and it’s as good a way as any to reconcile. Far more fun at the least. You need to move anyway, you spent a lot of adrenaline today. If you don’t stretch you’ll wind up even more sore.” 

“I don’t want to attack Tommy.”

“You’re not. You’re playing with him.”

Playing. Playing. What on earth is he supposed to do with that? His mental gymnastics are working over time to find the trap, but honestly Techno has no idea. Get his guard down? Maybe? But why bother, as injured as he is? He’s weak, mind games aren’t necessary. Does Phil like toying with his food?

Tommy keeps attacking him. And. And Phil probably won’t attack with Tommy present, will he? Tommy would definitely act super different around his father if he was exposed to violence regularly. By that logic, he’s safer when around Tommy, and it would be advantageous to play along so Tommy is entertained and stays longer. Maybe…maybe lure him into a sleepover or something, to extend the protection. Yeah. Yeah, that might work. 

Very, very cautiously, Techno baps Tommy on the head with a pillow. It’s the lightest possible touch he can possibly manage, and Tommy immediately goes down like a sack of bricks. “AHHHH! HOW COULD YOU!?”

Oh no. Oh no he killed the small child. Techno stares at the murder weapon in his hands, then hurls it away from himself. Oh god it has his fingerprints all over. He should burn it! No, he doesn’t have a lighter. Wait, if he can steal Wil’s glasses and break them, he can use the light of the sun to start a fire. Burn down the entire house. Leave no witnesses. Alright. Alright, he can do this. 

Tommy is a little puddle on the floor, with his tongue sticking out. Techno nudges the corpse with his foot. Ha. Haha. Hahahahhahahahah! Philza is going to MURDER him. His entrails are going to be strung up for the crows. Techno’s wonderful brain devises about a million different tortures in a second, and dismisses them all for not being creative enough for a crime boss. Is it really his fault he’s so good at obliterating orphans?

Tommy seizes his ankles and Techno jumps. “Zombie!” He scrambles away, bashing at the undead’s head with a pillow. Tommy crawls after him, and Techno jumps on the bed for safety. Making wretched noises, Tommy claws at the bedsheets. 

It’s Phil’s chuckle that makes him realize it’s a little absurd. Mayhaps even extremely absurd. Techno reddens a bit. “Hey. If you want to stay down there where it isn’t safe and get killed by a baby zombie, that’s not my fault.”

“I’m not a baby zombie!” Tommy insists from somewhere under his bed. Wait, when did he get under there? Techno cautiously leans over the side, squinting at the dark ravine between the ground and his blankets. He can’t see Tommy at all. But waiting for any sort of movement fails, and he begins to draw up. Is Tommy sneaking up beh–

“RAAH!” Tommy roars, lunging out from beneath. Techno shrieks at a super high pitch and loses balance, falling off the bed. Tommy blinks down at him. “Woah that was super convincing.” Ah. Right. His acting ability. Mmmhm. Yep. All natural charisma, baby. You know, there’s a good possibility his anxiety is running a little high today. For just some completely obscure, undiscoverable reason. And now he’s collecting his umpteenth bruise for today, lucky him. Ow. Owww. Just about everything in him wants to lay there groaning, but Techno scrambles to his feet, checking positions, then shifting so Tommy is between him and Phil. Tommy whacks him with a pillow, trying to jump high enough to bonk him on the head. “Give! Me! Your! Brains! I wish to feast! To consume.” He chomps his teeth in a rather unthreatening manner. Cute, one might even say. 

“Your dad is shorter. You’d have better luck eating his.” 

“But your brains are better.”

“True.” Then, he cautiously checks to see Phil’s reaction. He’s smirking. Alright. That might be okay. 

“Careful, Thomas. You’re pretending to bite; Technoblade actually will.” 

“I can bite him too! I don’t care if it messes up my braces!

“I’m not worried. He’s tiny. There’s no way.”

Tommy is enraged by the incense. “I AM NOT A KID,” the small child yells. Seething, he scrambles on top of the bed and still isn’t as tall as Techno. He attempts to bounce to gain height, which definitely goes so very far in convincing everyone that he’s a mature adult. “I’m almost taller than you I reckon!” 

“You’re going to break the bed,” Techno warns with a lopsided grin. “Or, well, you might if you didn’t weigh as much as a raccoon.” 

“My bed now bit- brother. I'M KING OF THE HILL!” Tommy declares in delight. 

“Anarchy!” Comes Techno’s succinct political response. He yanks the kid’s leg, catching his back so the fall isn’t too rough. Tommy shrieks as he collapses onto the mattress, scrambling away, but Techno is too fast, climbing over the wriggling boy and pinning him. He raises his cushion over his head in threatening fashion. “Sic Semper Tyrannis!” He brings it down dramatically slow, drinking in Tommy’s peels of laughter and pleas.

“No! No! I’m not the evil king! Don’t kill me! It was actually my best friend’s fault! Get Tubbo instead! He’s the one who spent the treasury on stupid stuff.” The kid’s giggling is muffled as his cute little face is squished in. Tommy squirms beneath him to little avail, but eventually Techno pulls back the pillow. Tommy pretends to gasp for breath. “Ahh! I’m being waterboarded!”

“How— how do you even- know, who told you about— about—” it’s too much. Techno barely suppresses his laughter into snorting.

“You sound like a pig,” Tommy grins.

“You’re the one squealing. Get ready to become bacon!” 

“NOO!”

Techno gets so caught up he forgets to watch his back, caution abandoned. But he senses the presence stalking behind him, even if alarm takes a beat to kick in. There shouldn’t have been even a second of hesitation, but Phil is the crafty sort. Oh, duh, it’s in the name. Anyway, a glance over his shoulder reveals Phil almost directly behind him, pillow raised up over his head. A flash of a wicked grin sends a jolt down his back. Techno vaults across the bed, ducking down to hide on the other side. 

Trap. Definitely a trap, he knew it from the start. Tommy makes for a far too effective distraction. Strategy whirrs up in an instant, his eyes darting for the exits. Maybe he can make a break for the bedroom door? But then what, he doesn’t have anywhere to get to? He can’t even manage to hide until the anger dies away, there are too many cameras, he can’t-

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” That…didn’t sound like anger, much less someone chasing after him. Techno peeks over the bed slowly. Philza raises his hands into the air. “I surrender. I won’t try to join again, I’ll sit at the desk. Is that acceptable?” A moment of that frozen scene, before Techno realizes it really is a question. As in, he gets a choice. Huh. He nods, and Phil walks away and everything, pulling back a kid sized chair to sit in. Cautiously the play begins anew, the awkward moment forgotten. There’s something infectious about Tommy’s smile, even if he doesn’t share in the boy’s giggling. Perhaps it should have been bittersweet. Sure he loved the sound, but he thought after this morning he’d never see Tommy again. He can’t say he’s happy to be wrong. He can’t. But the sting of failure isn’t as bad as it could have been. 

Techno pushes through as long as he can. He would’ve gone even longer if he could, ignoring the soreness pressed into every fiber of his being from the electricity poured through him. It is only pain. It doesn’t matter when Tommy smiles. Honestly Techno would have continued matching the kid’s energy, but dinner is called. It’s far more tolerable than earlier instances, though Wil just about glowers the more the two grin at each other. Whatever. Not like he likes Wil anyway. Techno finishes as fast as possible to get back. He can’t maintain his earlier antics, the ache setting in more and more, but making a pillow fort is a lot less energy intensive. Tommy loves it, bringing out stuffed animals to act as subjects. 

“Ever consider cutting it?” Phil suggests a little too eagerly as Techno has to pull his hair out of his eyes for the umpteenth time when bending over to rearrange cushions. The dye is, of course, coming out, which Phil adores and Techno hates. The twins look more and more like each other every week. 

“I like it long.”

“Why?” Tommy pesters. 

“Short hair can’t be pulled.”

Tommy is incredulous at the response. “You like getting your hair pulled?” 

“No. But I can keep it long now because I don’t have to worry about it anymore.” His eyes flicker up to catch Phil dead on. He smiles a little too sharply at the horrified pity in his captor’s features. “But, you know. If you think I need to cut it.” Problem is, it’s a bit too genuine of a question, especially after today when it was distinctly used against him by the guards. Techno doesn’t want to look even the slightest bit closer to Wil, but it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make, be it for the sake of limiting methods of attacking him, or if Phil offers something good enough in exchange. It won’t be the first thing Techno has bargained off.  

“It looks lovely long,” Philza squeaks. Alright. Good to know what type of household Phil thinks he runs. Not that he isn’t delusional, but at least he’s trying to pretend to keep up the pretense. 

Tommy is befuddled by the whole encounter, but it doesn’t matter much in the long run, the conversation turning to lighter topics without undercurrents of double meaning. After that, it’s actually fun, when he isn’t checking over his shoulder. It’s not much of a surprise when Tommy whines that he wants to stay. Frankly, Techno doesn’t know how Phil’s consequences worked. But he and Tommy are thick as thieves again like nothing happened, so maybe there was something to it. Not that he’s going to say thank you, though. And while he puts up a front complaining about the kid’s snoring, it’s probably the best night’s sleep he can hope for, considering how worn out from the day’s events he is. With the comfortable defense of his injuries, Techno slumps in his bed like normal, though with the comfort of a hot pad. Tommy is perfectly content to sleep in his throne of cushions. Some habitual ritual plays out, Phil reading a bedtime story to his kid. Techno drives off slumber till the last word is read, making sure the door is shut between them before he accepts the embrace of slumber. 

True punishment for the escape comes in the form of all of his tops missing the next morning. In their place, a single shirt remains. 

Caution: He Bites 

It fits Technoblade perfectly, which is honestly just ridiculous. It’s a t-shirt for crying out loud, it doesn’t need to be tailored! 

Tommy is still snoozing by the time he’s done brushing his teeth, so Techno pulls back the blanket forming the fort’s roof. Tommy is curled in the heart of a mountain of pillows, quilts, and stuffed animals, drooling happily. Techno automatically reaches for his phone to take a pic before remembering it is confiscated. Maybe he can bribe Phil for the security camera footage? Unfortunately he does not have a large stick to poke Tommy with. He’s cautious, given Wil’s habit of sleep slapping. Techno nudges the kid with his foot until the boy arches like a cat and yawns. 

“Nice shirt,” Tommy teases once he’s finally wiggled out of the tangle of the fallen fort. 

Techno pushes his noggin away. “Give me a break. I’m a long suffering man.” Everything aches something awful, but he stretches anyway. Tommy mimics his motions in miniscule. 

Later, Philza grins at him fondly over breakfast. “My personal doctor checked me for rabies because of you, I hope you know.” 

Techno is never going to get used to this family.

Chapter Text

“Thank you very much for coming to my emergency meeting,” Philza graciously opens his presentation with. He has everyone’s rapt attention, faces ranging from pale to green. Though large, the room is filled to the brim with staff. Not everyone, of course, there’s a skeleton crew still operating the vital missions, but they can be contacted later. “I know this was on very little notice, and likely disrupted some of your duties, but this shouldn’t take long and is crucial to address given the most recent disaster.” He pauses to stare every single security officer in the eyes. Though each a dangerous individual in their own right, they wilt beneath his gaze. “Apparently some of my goals weren’t very clear to all of you, which resulted in mixed signals, some of which I’m afraid may be blamed on me. However, the consequences are intolerable, and so I would like to rectify that error now. I apologize in advance if it isn’t very polished, I only just finished with my last…appointment.” Someone whimpers. 

Philza fumbles a bit with the presentation remote, as it’s a little slippery. The projector turns on to the title slide:  

Re: your recent major screw up

Important things to know :)

(A presentation by Philza Craft)

He clicks to the next slide, which is covered with photographs of Technoblade. His child’s beautiful face fills the screen as he forces all of his staff to go through a reel of some of his favorite photos of his kid. Most are of the current Technoblade, him pushing his hair out of his face as he leans over a textbook with Tommy, a rather wide eyed one where his photo was snapped rather unexpectedly, him dozing in the pig bean bag, but there are a few younger versions mixed in, flashes of a dark haired child growing up laughing. Not taken by Philza, of course, a sour fact, but at least there’s one with the infant twins curled up next to each other in Kristin’s arms. Oh what might have been…

Technoblade would be utterly mortified if he were here, but this isn’t a presentation for him, held in a hall completely locked off to his escapades. Watching TV with a hot pad, last Philza checked his reports three minutes ago. No, he’s much better off recuperating from his ordeal. 

“This, in case some of you aren’t aware, is MY SON.” He circles the photos with a laser pointer for emphasis, as most eyes are still caught on him. “Not a prisoner, or an enemy, or someone you tase.” The crowd winces, especially what few guards are in the room. One of the maids pukes. “Yes, I saw the footage, and I am distinctly not pleased with how he has been treated as of late. This should be rectified immediately. The offenders have been dealt with, but I would like to clarify for everyone else.” 

A myriad of bullet points neatly list one side of the screen, with such data points as:

• Precious baby boy
• Shy (adorable)
• More important than any of you will ever be
• Careful he bites
• I love him so very very much

The next slide is rather bare compared to the collage of the last one. Its message is stark and to the point, because Philza would hate for there to be any possible misunderstanding. 

Touch him and you die

Philza gives his staff a winning smile and drives home the point. “As a reminder, I’m a philanthropist, and out of the goodness of my heart I don’t limit myself to monetary offerings. I’m also a highly respected organ donor, and unless you want to be a hero and replace some sickly orphan child’s lungs, I highly recommend improving your future behavior. Understood?” The entire room is silent until his smile drops, then a thunderous round of assent is heard. “Excellent!” He moves onto the next slide, which only has a handful of bullet points and his sources listed in MLA format. “Thank you for coming to my presentation, most of you are doing your jobs wonderfully. Reminder that quarterly reviews are coming up, and also we have new vacancies in guard positions if anyone has any friends they’d like to recommend. Or enemies, haha. Ah. Well, that should be it. Does anybody have questions?” He clasps his hands together expectantly. Blood trickles down his soaked arms, still hot with fresh viscera. “Then you are dismissed. Have a pleasant evening.” 

Escape attempt…uh, god, what was it? Techno forgot to check the white board in the second floor west boardroom, but it’s getting close to 200. He doesn’t remember who started it, but it is a rather dizzying array of tally marks. Tommy has begun to poorly draw the more interesting endeavors. Occasionally bets are held for tactics and time spans and at least half the staff participate. It’s infuriating, especially since no one bothers to make any wagers that he’ll actually succeed. Whatever, he knows the odds are astronomical, and it hasn’t stopped him yet. 

Anyway, there's already a big wrinkle in his next plan. Apparently Techno is not allowed to shower alone anymore, which has to be the most humiliating thing ever. He doesn’t care and throws the guard out of the room (literally), locking the door. It won’t last long, they’ll have keys. It doesn’t need to, though. The window has a newly added lock, but with a little ingenuity he’s dismantled the haste job and is halfway through when he spots the guard stationed on a balcony below. 

“Hello sir,” they chirp. It’s Malachai, if Techno is properly putting a name to a face. A heavy better, has at least a fifty in the pool at the moment, and apparently he plans to personally enforce his winning chances. Techno groans, then yelps, kicking at whoever is tugging at his legs. 

“Fine, fine,” he relents, since, squeezed as he is, being dragged back is more pain than it’s worth. He wiggles back to find the guard he’d thrown out and Phil swinging a ring of keys around his finger. The warden is waved off, but Phil remains, perching happily on the counter.

“Go on. Shower. I’m not stopping you.”

His face is more than a little rubescent, a state he prefers to avoid since it clashes with his hair hue. “I’m not showering with you watching me.”

“I won’t see anything,” he dismisses. “It’s a large bathroom.” True, but that’s not the point. 

Whelp. He asked nicely. That probably counts for something, right? Can’t be any more effort than the last time, since Phil is a geezer. 

Techno shrugs, stretching. It’s been a few days, and most of the aches from the taser have worn off, but it’s always good to stretch before a fight. “I warned you.” He lunges for Phil, war cry blossoming in his throat, hurling a haymaker at his head. Phil jerks out of the way surprisingly swiftly and his fist splinters into the already busted mirror. Techno swipes out only for Phil to duck under, rearing up and planting a kick right in the center of his chest. Oof. He stumbles back, half winded, while Phil hops off the counter and rolls up his sleeves.

“If you really want to do this we can, mate, but I don’t think you understand how- rude.” His cocky speech is aborted by another attack. “Can’t fault you for that, it’s good tactics,” he shrugs as he swerves out of the way. Phil is, he unfortunately learns, really stinking good at avoiding him. He’s as agile as a bird, even if he doesn’t peck. In fact, Phil doesn’t hit him at all, simply nimbly getting out of the way and complimenting him on his fighting technique.

“Stop dodging!” he demands. 

“As you wish.” His next punch is caught. Oh no. Techno is yanked forward, scrambling to maintain his footing on his still injured foot. His follow up blow is captured by the wrist and without further warning he’s flipped. Phil crosses Techno’s arms, trapping him from behind in a rather restrictive embrace, careful as ever not to brush against his back. “Are we done yet?” 

“You’re. You’re hugging mid fight?”

“It’s more a restraining technique. Can you move your arms?” 

Techno attempts to yank his arms from where they wrap around himself and can’t even budge. Bruh. “…no.”

“Then it’s working. Very adorable you think this is a hug, though. Have you, eh, ever been actually hugged before?” he inquires delicately. Technoblade stills in his arms, coiled up tensely. Philza’s heart breaks just a little more. All these years, bereft of the love and support he deserved and so desperately needed. The child is nearly brittle in the embrace, not knowing what to do. Philza vows to fill that void. One day Technoblade will automatically melt in his arms, not grow tenser and tenser like he does now. Philza is flipped up and over his son’s head, landing roughly on the floor. Little devious devil, he thinks fondly, staring up at the boy leaning over his prone form. 

Technoblade rolls his eyes at him, though he’s breathing a bit heavily. “Duh, of course I have.” His eyes go comically round as he’s yanked down by their still interlocking hands to join Philza on the floor. 

In retaliation, Techno jams an elbow into Phil’s gut. They scramble up quickly, the fight only beginning. Phil is fast like he can’t believe, darting around him constantly. They untangle to different sides of the bathroom, circling and looking for an opening. Wheezing, Techno throws a loofa at Phil’s head. He doesn’t even bother to move out of the way, catching it. “You need to work on your stamina.”

“I’m— fine,” Techno pants. Perhaps he’s still too sore from his escape, but Techno doesn’t know how to quit. “You’re the old man here.” Actually, Phil appears perfectly fit, bouncing on the balls of his feet a little. What the hell is this guy made of??

“I’m forty one!”

“Wait really???” 

Phil is outraged. “How old did you think I was!?”

“I dunno. Like. sixty five?” The loofa hits him smack in the face.

“My crow lines are NOT that intense.” 

“Hey! All those war crimes and mafia plots didn’t age you gracefully! That’s not my fault!” 

Phil cracks up. “You— you think I’m an honest to god war criminal?”

Techno huffs. “Clearly you don’t mind all the other felonies you’ve committed. Do you even pay taxes?”

“No, why would I?”

“I hate the government too, but you can clearly afford to dish out a couple million. I’m going to report you to the IRS the second I get out.”

“No, no, it’s all legal. Offshore accounts and the like. Taxes are for people who can’t afford to make it impossible to tax them.”

“Get out. You’re insufferable.” 

“I don’t think so. I’m ready for another round unless you’re ready to yield.”

“I’m not ever going to give up.”

Phil smiles. “I know, kid. I’m well aware. But I do believe I have more stamina than you.”

“I can handle pain.”

“I’m sure you can,” he replies softly. “You shouldn’t have to. I’m never going to hurt you.”

“Bro you kicked me in the chest!”

“That was a shove,” he dismisses. “You would know if I’d really kicked you.” The both of them know it, too. It seems Phil is good on his promise, which is great cause otherwise Techno suspects he’d be a blood stain after like escape number 20. Ah the good old days before all the weapons in the house were confiscated. It’s insulting that Phil doesn’t think Techno is a threat to him, but he’s unfortunately rather right. 

“Laaame. Come on, I don’t even get a fair fight? Rigged! Boo! This is propaganda to make me look like the bad guy for beating up a geezer who won’t fight back. And what if I just sit here? Cause there’s no way in hell I’m taking a shower with you in the room.”

“I don’t mind waiting. I find spending time with you rather enjoyable. Is my company really so deplorable?”

“Sorry, your company is actually going out of business. Went morally bankrupt, couldn’t be helped.” Phil snickers, and Techno waltzes over, grin lopsided. “We lost all our stalks ‘cause they called the police about us following them, and now our stalkholders are super mad. Happens to the best of us. Or, well, the worst of us, you get what I mean.”

“Ar, son, it’s not a big deal, a little fire never hurt anyone.”

“Yes it literally does.”

“No one important.”

“You got me there. Nobody cares about the orphanages, I mean, everyone knows they aren’t profitable! I’m still mad they sprung all those child labor laws on us, absolutely ruined our enterprise.”

“At least we can burn it down for the insurance!”

“Yah. If only we let the orphans out first, their screams are giving me a headache. A real shame we went under; all that unpaid child labor made our prices such a steal!” He scoops the laughing Phil up, hoisting him over a shoulder. 

“That’s not— not fair,” Phil wheezes. “I’m laughing too hard to fight back!” 

“It’s called tactical warfare. Oldest trick in the Art of War, Phil, which you should know given you’re even more ancient than it.” He deposits the man on his bed and walks into the bathroom, slamming the door behind. Unfortunately, he discovers all the chairs have been stolen to prevent his earlier makeshift barricade. Nothing is going to stop Phil from waltzing in like he owns the place. Which, obviously, he does, multiple places, even, given his blood money, but still. A little privacy bro? 

But Phil does not re-enter. Suspicious, Techno checks his room to find it empty. Huh. Guess he took the memo. Really, what can Techno realistically do? There’s guards waiting outside if he tries that stunt again. He sets the water to heat up and peels out of his shirt. Techno is halfway out of his pants when the door opens and he screams and falls over. Scrambling for protection, he chucks his shirt across the room. 

“OW!” Tommy yells as it smacks him in the face. “WHAT WAS THAT FOR!?”

“INVADING MY PRIVACY!” He dashes for the corner, peering out to shoot a glare at Phil. “No. Absolutely not.”

He smiles and dangles a ring of keys. “Sorry, you didn’t like the last wardens very much, so I decided to find one you do.”

The confusion in Tommy’s face drops to outrage. “You’re locking me in while he takes a shower!?”

“There’s a corner, you won’t see anything.”

“What’s the point of watch duty then? I was about to finish my mob farm!” 

“Technoblade: I hereby order you to sing in the shower. If you stop for even a minute Tommy will check to make sure you aren’t up to shenanigans. Understood?” 

“I can’t sing.”

“Doesn’t matter. If he tries to leave, scream really loud, alright love?” 

“What if I scream really loudly for no reason and then run out the door when you come to check?”

“I would give you a very disappointed look.”

Tommy’s eyes widen at the threat. “What if I don’t scream at all?”

“Then your brother will go out and get himself bruised up again.” Tommy is stricken as he realizes the position he’s put in. He looks at Techno…guiltily. Oh no. Patting his head, Phil delivers the most nausea inducing surgery smile, and Tommy melts utterly beneath fatherly affection. “I’m depending on you to keep him safe, alright sunshine?”

“Yes Dad! You can count on me!” 

“I have full faith in you.” Dangit. What’s Techno supposed to do against a Machiavellian trick like that?! He has no possible counter! His plans are ruined! RUINED! Techno wants to cry as his turncoat becomes loyal once more. 

He glowers at the smile Phil flashes him before locking the two in. Ugh. He waits a few moments, both for the minor hope Phil will get bored and stop listening, and for the glow of paternal praise to wear off. “Tommy, are you actually going to scream?”

Tommy blinks at him. “Um. I dunno.” His ethics seem to be entirely based on what will get him liked most, and unfortunately it’s a bad match up between his father’s approval and some guy he met like maybe a month and a half ago’s. Might as well try some arm twisting though. 

“You realize you’d be betraying me, right?”

The kid gulps. “I’m– I’m not, I just don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“Staying here is hurting me. I thought we were friends, Tommy.”

“We are! I’ll still help you get out, just– just in a way where you don’t get beaten up.” But his voice wavers on the promise. 

“I'm not actually planning to escape right now,” he offers, and Tommy visibly slumps with relief. Oh that’s— that's a pretty bad sign. Techno sighs as he goes from one ally to none. Perhaps spending so much time with Tommy was always going to inevitably backfire. He doesn’t stand a chance, not that he ever did. Techno resigns himself, and starts his shower, noting his favorite shampoo has been replaced with a tear free version. Curse you, Philza the pilfering! Thwarted from even the smallest of weapons, he serenades Tommy just as instructed. “Don’t be afraid, we’ll make it out of this mess / it’s a love story, baby just say y-”

“If you sing one more Taylor Swift song I’m going to murder you and the police will say it’s justified.”

“Bruh I can’t remember all that many songs!” He racks his brain for content, Tommy quibbling with his repertoire at every turn. 

“See, this is why we don’t let you be the singer. Wilbur would cry hearing you.”

“We can’t all have voices like angels, Tommy. I never at any point claimed to have musical talent. But if you suggest I sing anything by Bruno Mars ever again I’m going to pummel you.” He turns off the water, beginning to wring out his hair. 

“Oh yeah? You won’t want to do that! Or else!”

“Or else what?”

“I’ll cry!”

“Get dehydrated, loser, I don’t care. Phil’s going to stop buying onions for you one of these days.” 

There’s a pause in the conversation as he towels off. “…you can’t see me right now but I’m making so many faces at you.”

“Don’t, your expression will get stuck like that.”

“Really?”

“Yep. You should see my roommate. Skeppy’s been stuck in a derp face since 2007. It makes job interviews and funerals super tough.”

“And you wanna get back so bad just to look at that?”  

“Among other reasons.” God he misses Skeppy so much. 

The kid hesitates, snickers stilled. “Um. Why do you want to leave so bad?” 

“Well, for one thing, I’ve been told I don’t know how to quit. But for the most part…I have a whole life out there, one I was just starting to really build momentum on, and now I’m just…trapped. Caught in stasis.”

“Can’t you still do school? You’re a nerd, you like that, right?” Tommy offers it like a consolation prize. Right, like he needs another person trying to convince him this whole kidnapping deal is good for him. 

“I can’t see my friends. Or my family.”

“You have one of those? I thought you were an orphan.”

“Nah. I got parents, Tommy, and neither of them are Philza Craft.” 

“Yah? What are they like?”

He slips into his shirt, struggling with the wet cloth. But he doesn’t want Tommy to see his back. “They’re uhh…parents, I guess. Got their ups and downs like most people.”

“And you like them more than Dad?”

Techno hesitates. But if he goes down that rabbit hole, he won’t know what to do with the answer he finds. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Yes.” 

Techno pops around the corner, startling Tommy slightly. “Why?” Tommy’s face twists, conflict on his boyish features as he tries to figure out how to say ‘he’s your dad now’ without saying that. Phil’s propaganda runs deep. Techno advances to the counter he’s sitting on, digging through the drawers for supplies. Phil doesn’t give him a lot to work with, and after nearly a month of…creative uses, the cabinet is rather barren. But he traded taking 1 (one) family photo to keep hair ties, and even after using them for his shank they weren’t confiscated. So, maybe it was worth it. Not that his face hasn’t been edited into a number of the photos hanging on the wall…it’s usually best to ignore the details like that, so he can sleep at night. 

Tommy decides on a shrug for an answer as Techno begins to comb through his hair, dividing it into parts. Techno frowns at the roots growing out, since they’re a similar color to Wil’s hair. He’s not sure what he can trade for more hair dye, and unfortunately thinks the answer might be nothing, since Phil pounces on just about anything that makes him and Wil look more alike. He’ll just have to get out before it grows out much more. At least he doesn’t look much like Tommy, which helps further disprove Phil’s delusion. 

“I guess, just. You know. Since you live with him right now. I just wonder who you prefer, between your parents and Dad.” 

“I don’t prefer either.” He waited eighteen years to escape one house only to get trapped in another. It’s distinctly vexing. “But if I have to pick, my parents actually love me.” 

“Dad loves you.” 

“He’s certainly convinced himself of it.” He begins to braid his hair, looping intricate strands into tributaries feeding into larger weaving plaits. Perhaps pulling his hair out of his face isn’t the most attractive option at the moment, given his scratched up features and the wet strands stinging against his raw knuckles, but he wants something to do. It almost feels safe here in the bathroom, where the cameras don’t reach, even if it isn’t. Techno mulls over how to phrase it to a kid. “Your family is trying to use me to fill a gap in their lives. Phil and Wil built up this imaginary kid in their heads. They love him, not me.”

“No. No, that’s just what it looks like with Dad. It’s genuine,” Tommy insists, almost like he needs to believe it. “He’s like that, extreme. It’s not an act. They care about you.” 

“Even if they really did…love isn’t– doesn’t protect you, Tommy.” His back prickles. “People can love you and still hurt you, often because of that love. It’s…complicated.” 

“I’m eleven. I can understand complicated.” 

“But maybe I can’t.” It comes out too fast, before he can stop it. “Maybe I don’t have it figured out yet. Maybe I never will.” His hair tugs painfully at his scalp from where his fingers have become claws. Techno carefully releases, and the braid unravels in his hands. “People are…messy. Sometimes you can repair that relationship, sometimes you just need to run away.” Maybe it is never going to work. He is never going to figure out how to fix his relationship with his parents, to make them stop hurting him. Love tangles around his neck like a noose, and he could escape if he tried but he just can’t. Techno hates family. Techno needs family. And now because of Phil he hasn’t talked to his parents for so long, and they must be worried sick. Maybe they think he’s cut himself off completely from them, which is the last thing he wants. 

(Is it? Is it really?)

“It doesn’t matter if your family loves me. I can’t let it ensnare me again.” 

“Haven’t you gotten used to them yet?” Maybe. And that’s the part that scares him. That’s why he has to keep trying to escape, even if it’s useless, because if he loses sight of it for even a second he’s scared he could grow to accept it. He dreads the day the constant surveillance fails to unnerve him, the day he goes unphased by the bloody violence committed in his name, the day he calls Philza Craft a father. Complacency would be the death of him, for surely whatever Technoblade remained, willingly caged, apathetic to atrocities, incapable of fighting, could not be him. If he falls into that illusion of family he’ll be doomed. Techno is deeply aware of the flaws he’s vulnerable to. 

“No. And I never will. I don’t want to get used to them.”

“Why not? I did. And I’m happy.” 

“...uh, Tommy,” he begins carefully, icy trepidation suddenly rearing its head. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“They adopted me too.” 

And Techno goes very, very cold, turning to Tommy slowly. The kid squirms beneath the scrutiny, swinging his legs. Techno never paid attention before, but now he can see where the resemblance fails. Past the blond hair and blue eyes, to where his skin is too rosy, his features less refined, squatter. Tommy frankly makes for an even less convincing son than he does. Oh. Oh god. No wonder Tommy has so many useful tips about escape. 

He isn’t the first. He isn’t alone. Relief. He isn’t alone. Pure horror. Tommy is a child, just a child, and he’s been kidnapped too. 

“Just. I know what it’s like. I adjusted, but I was also kind of little. Might take you longer.” No. No, that’s not adjustment, that’s Stockholm syndrome. But what other option would Tommy have even had? Techno knows perfectly how impossible it is to escape as a child, everyone bigger and smarter and faster than you. Tommy wouldn’t have had a choice, he was a child, he needed to think he was safe and loved even when he wasn’t. He needs this to be a family to survive. 

(Don’t think about that one too much, ay?)

“So. So I turned out fine, so you’ll be okay too. Alright? Now you know it’s fine. Dad loves us, and none of the rest of it matters.” Tommy pauses, and then his voice drops. The morose expression on his features is distorted by the cracks ripping through the mirror’s reflection. “...I think he adopted me because of you,” he admits quietly.

“...because of me?” 

“He was trying to replace you.”

Techno’s fingers twist in the familiar, comfortable patterns his mother taught him, weaving strands together. “And he, uh, told you that?”

“Naw. But I’m not dumb. There’s always two empty chairs at the dining table.” Or, only one, he supposes, now that he’s here. 

“He’s trying to replace that kid with me, too,” he mutters. “Wil’s twin had, like, a name, right? Did he ever say what it was?”

“Alexander.”

“Alexander. Huh.” How pretentious. “Well, there you go. You’re a Thomas, not an Alexander. So, you aren’t supposed to be him. Better?”

Tommy blinks at him, then nods. “Yah. That’s a really good point.” 

Actually, it kinda makes Techno feel better also. He wonders if all three of them feel like this, measured against the ghost of Alexander. Impossible expectations to fill. He pokes Tommy in the stomach. “You don’t look much like a baby, either. Everyone has expectations for their kid, but you can’t ever fill them all.” Then again, most parents aren’t crazy obsessives who try to force their kids into boxes they made up at birth. Or, he hopes not; for some reason Techno’s parental experiences have been a little skewed. “What, you expect you’re going to be a doctor and a lawyer and an astronaut? You wouldn’t have enough free time to sleep!”

Tommy scoffs. “I reckon I could manage it. I’m very talented. I’m fine not being Alexander.” He glances back in the mirror running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to look like Wilbur anyway. Maybe I’ll grow it out.” He pulls a face. “But it’ll just look messy ‘cause of the curls.”

“Nah. It’ll straighten out once it’s long enough.” That’s what his did at least. 

“Nice. Do you think there's enough to braid, too?” 

Something clicks. Tommy wants to look like him. Warmth creeps from his chest to his smile. “I hope so.” But then he squints at Tommy’s short curls. It will take a real triumph of hair engineering. “I can try,” he offers dubiously. Tommy brightens like the sun. Ouch. His eyes. 

“Really!?”

“Shh, keep it down. It echoes.” A plan is starting to hatch in his mind. “But you gotta be quiet so I can concentrate, all right?” Tommy agrees at once. Again, all the chairs were stolen, so he hops up on the counter next to Tommy, nudging the kid into place. He hesitates; it’s going to require a lot of contact. But it’s usually better when he’s prepared and making the decision. A deep breath, and he begins, combing through Tommy’s short hair and carefully working out tangles. He’s still strategizing by the time all the knots are gone, and absently keeps carding though his curls, trying to visualize what will work best. War plan decided upon, Techno begins his attack, tightly lacing short locks together in a braid that wraps around Tommy’s head like a crown. 

He’s just barely finished when the silence is finally investigated. Good, they are well past how long his showers normally take. There’s a creak from Techno’s bed, footsteps padding over, a knock on the door. “Everything alright in there?” Techno cups his hand over Tommy’s mouth, placing a mischievous grin over his features. Catching him in the reflection, Tommy’s eyes crinkle in impish glee. “Thomas? Say something, please. What’s happening?” Silent as shadows, the pair slip into a closet, the door shutting just as keys twist open the escape’s lock. Tommy shivers with suppressed giggles as Phil walks past, Techno still carefully covering his mouth. There’s a klang as the keys are tossed onto the counter and his hope soars. “Technoblade?” There’s panic in his voice now, rushing to the window. “Thomas, has he hurt you? Tom!” 

Quietly, Techno creaks the door open, shoving Tommy forward. Unfortunately, the keys jangle as he snatches them, Phil whipping around. He catches the heat of Phil’s glare as he drags Tommy away. It burns like fire. Techno slams the door shut and locks it seconds before Phil bangs into it. “Technoblade, open the door this instant and I’ll murder you!” he roars, pounding on the wood. 

That, uh, seems like a rather important conjunction to mess up. Techno doesn’t linger to find out, fleeing through the hallway with Tommy. It’s exhilarating, footsteps thundering together, a small hand clutched safely in his. They fly through the home together, laughing freely, though Techno skids to a halt as he reaches the front door. 

Oh. Right. The house is still completely inescapable. Just because he has keys doesn’t mean he won’t be stopped. Stupidly, he hadn’t gotten much further from the instinct to take Tommy and run. Huh. This is pointless. Not that he’s likely to get more than chastised, but still. Phil’s roar carries through the house as he’s finally released. Seemingly crawling out of the woodwork, guards begin to approach the pair. 

“It’s alright we’re just playing,” Tommy waves them away. Surprisingly, it actually works, though possibly they’re scared of what happened to the last guards. Tommy tightens the grip on his hand, tugging. “Come on! Follow me!” Blinking at the soldiers, Techno stumbles after the giggling kid, getting dragged off to the kitchen. Usually it’s locked off to all but the staff, though Techno has managed to sneak in on a couple of occasions. Something spooked the employees after a few of his more creative endeavors using cooking supplies, and since then they’ve kept very good track of their keys. He obviously doesn’t want anyone to get hurt, but keys Phil leaves are fair game. The kitchen is excessively large, an apt description for most rooms in the house, the bustle of preparations for lunch already in swing. Tommy and Techno slip through the chefs, who slowly begin to notice the intruders and gawk. 

“Boost me,” the tiny Tommy demands, his survey of the Samsung smart fridge not yielding what he is looking for.

“Just tell me what you’re getting.”

“Boost. Me.” Bruh. Techno makes a face, then hoists the kid so he can reach whatever shelf he’s after. Work has completely ground to a stop, and Techno can feel a dozen eyes pinned on his back. “Uh.” He’s not quite sure of Tommy’s plan, but he has an inkling. “We’ll clean up after.”

“No we won’t.”

Techno sighs. “I’ll clean up after,” he corrects. Indicating he’s gotten what he was after, Tommy cackles worrisomely as he’s set down. He bolts off once more, Techno jogging after, apologizing to the people the gremlin gets in the way of.  

It isn’t particularly hard to find Phil, given he’s swearing at the top of his lungs and tearing through the house. The trick is sneaking up behind him while stifling snickers. “TECHNOBLADE!” he bellows at the top of his lungs. “GET BA-”

Twin eggs hit him in the back at the exact same time. He freezes as Tommy and Techno howl with laughter. Oh god. Oh god he can’t breathe. It’s smearing down Phil’s rigid back and has got to be horrifically cold and wet. Some yoke is splashed into his golden hair, too. 

Phil turns around slowly with murder in his eyes. “You.” Oh. Oh no. His back prickles as palpable fury pours from Phil’s aura. He shoves Tommy behind him, safely out of range of Phil now that Techno is in between. He’d never had someone to step in front of before. Neither had he anyone to hide behind, either. 

Philza has made a dangerous mistake leaving his son alone with Technoblade. When Thomas wasn’t immediately kicked out of the room he’d assumed it was fine. The perfect choice. Someone Technoblade wouldn’t hurt. But only now does he think about how Technoblade attacked him a few days prior, intentional or not, and how easy an eleven year old is to over power, and how Thomas doesn’t stand a chance if Technoblade knocks him out and runs. If Technoblade murders him to get what he wants. 

There’s not much relief when he sees Thomas get shoved away. The threat is far from over, if the echoes of mocking laughter indicate anything. Positioned just out of reach, out of safety. He has never played the hostage game nicely, not once in his life. Philza seethes at the man standing between him and his son. 

Standing between. Technoblade gives him a wolf stare as he shields his little brother. Protecting, he realizes. He’s protecting Thomas from me. He feels like he’s torn in half as he sees unconscious love spilling out. Little details all adding up to family. His heart wants to explode from the way Thomas pokes his head out from where he tucks into his brother’s side. His round face is especially boyish with his hair pulled out of the way, padded with baby fat for an upcoming growth spurt. Technoblade did his hair, his brain gushes. They have matching braids! And Technoblade wants to protect his baby brother, how precious. 

Protect Thomas from him, the thought finishes nastily. Because he can see the way Technoblade’s stance shifts, muscles coiling. It lacks the deliberate confidence from before, no, this is pure instinct. 

“Thomas. Come here.” Technoblade snaps out to grab Thomas’s shoulder, but the boy simply gives him a weird look and shrugs him off. He is more visibly stressed the closer Thomas approaches his father, but does nothing, almost rooted to the spot. “You’re not in trouble,” he tries, but Technoblade’s jaw hardens, eyes locked on his movements. 

This isn’t right. He needs to ease this instinctual fear but he doesn’t know how, his son was laughing for the first time and he ruined it. Not a sarcastic huff or a derisive snort or a bitter bark but a pure, beautiful laugh, distorted by his wrath till he only heard cackling. All Philza wants in the entire world is to hear it again. 

Philza holds out his hands expectantly and Thomas gives him the egg carton. In a flash he knows exactly how to fix this. He picks one up. “Do you boys think it’s funny to egg me?”

“Uh, yah, a little,” Thomas mumbles. 

“Good, because you’re right.” In a second he’s crushed the egg against Thomas’s shirt. The boy shrieks and scrambles away. Unadulterated shock widens Technoblade’s dark eyes. Philza flashes him a wicked grin. The second egg smashes into Technoblade’s shoulder. He looks at the yolk dripping down, then slowly back up to where Philza is tossing and catching a third. “Five,” he says.

“…five?” Technoblade asks, utterly bewildered. Confusion eases his fighting stance as fear is forgotten in place of shock. 

“Four,” Philza continues with a broad smile. Technoblade doesn’t cotton on, but his little brother yelps. 

Thomas pushes Technoblade with all his child might, vaguely budging him. “RUN!” Thomas screams. “RUN TECHNO HE'S GONNA CHASE US!” 

“Haeh??” He shuffles forward automatically, looking back over his shoulder at his father. Technoblade gives him the most baffled grin, like his features can’t even understand what he’s supposed to express. Philza beams back at him. 

“Three.” It’s enough, and suddenly Technoblade is bolting, dragging Thomas along by the hand. The boy’s tiny legs don't move fast enough for Techno’s liking and he scoops his brother and books it. Thomas sticks his tongue out as they round the corner and vanish. 

Philza allows himself a soft, private smile. Then, he’s sprinting after his kids, hollering at the top of his lungs. “I’M GOING TO SCRAMBLE THE BOTH OF YOU!” They learn quickly he doesn’t do warning shots, and he never misses. Perhaps it’s more tactical to split, but they never do. Philza stomps around the house, loudly declaring his presence with exaggerated wrath. 

Mostly, because it makes when he begins to actually sneak highly effective. He’s been poking around the room rambunctiously, loudly asking if they’re under tables or beyond curtains or other obvious places. There’s a stifled giggle in the closet, a short sharp ‘shh!’ 

“Oh no! I seem to have misplaced my children! Who ever shall I torture now!” he calls out, moving into the next room before doubling back. Utterly silent, Philza stalks over to their hiding place, careful to keep his shadow from darkening the threshold. Thomas shrieks as he yanks the door open, Technoblade’s dark eyes widen in shock. Philza grins sharply, egg poised to slam into him, till Technoblade catches his wrist, slamming the weapon to ooze in Philza’s hair while Thomas dives between his legs for freedom. “I’ll get you for that!” he calls after them. 

A flash of color through a doorway, and he hurtles through the threshold. A foot shoots out and trips him, the carton flying from his grasp. Philza tucks into a roll, catching the precious eggs seconds before they hit the ground. Without even a moment’s pause, he’s pulled one out and is taking aim, only to see the room vacated. Then, Technoblade’s face pops around a corner and is immediately yolked. “WHAT THE HELL DAD!?” Wilbur screeches. Oh. Oops. 

“I, uh, thought you were your twin?” he tries. Inarticulate invectives barrage him, and suddenly Technoblade and Thomas are being chased by Philza, who is being chased by Wilbur. 

Or, well, until the point Wilbur realizes Philza is completely willing to simply pelt him with more eggs. He schemes to steal the carton, but mostly gets rewarded with more yolk caking his clothes. Philza has no mercy as he hunts down his slippery sons. 

He’s finally cornered the twins. Philza stalks closer, spilling out a villainous monologue, the carton of eggs poised threateningly. “At last! You have fallen into my trap! There is no escape for the likes of you!” Or, rather, there is; he doesn’t want to actually corner Technoblade after last time went so poorly. The both of them can easily escape, as long as they don’t mind getting pelted with yolk. Trapped only within the confines of the game, both cower, each fighting to hide behind the other. 

“So, it appears we have a common enemy,” Wilbur posits. Philza pauses in his attack, since as of yet only Thomas and Technoblade have been cooperating. 

“Charge him on three?” 

“Deal.” He clasps the hand Technoblade offers, shaking it to seal the pact. “1.”

“2,” Technoblade grins.

“3. GOOOO!” Technoblade runs forward, and Wilbur immediately ducks behind him for protection, finally claiming the corner now that there is no competition.

“HAEH?!” Technoblade cries in outrage as an egg crunches against his chest. Wilbur smirks at him cruelly. “WE LITERALLY JUST SHOOK ON IT!” 

“You fools, you shall never defeat me without the power of friendship,” Philza cackles. “Your lack of cooperation betrays you! Mwahaha!”

Technoblade turns to stare at his twin. “Bruh, we could have taken–” an egg splatters against his back. “Excuse me, I’m trying to talk to someone, rude. Wil, we could’ve had an epic team up and you just let me charge in by myself.” 

“I’m the lancer of the group, what can I say? I’m a bad boy lone wolf-archetype who plays by his own rules.” 

Philza taps his foot impatiently. “Excuse me, I’m trying to do a villainous monologue here, and I’d appreciate it if you could respond with gasps and terror.” 

“Shut up, we’re bickering. Tech, you’re reckless, it’s your fault for always rushing in.” 

“How are we supposed to beat the egg-overlord without teamwork! It’s the only way we’ll ever topple his vile regime! Think of the orphans, Wil, they’re starving because someone is wasting breakfast on warfare!” 

“My atrocious acts are egg-regious on every level!”

“Was that a pun?” Thomas scowls. Wait, Thomas?

Wilbur face palms. “Why the hell are we wasting our time planning a distraction if you’re just going to ruin it?”

Philza whips around to find Thomas snuck up behind him, reaching for the carton. He lifts it over the boy’s head, jerking it up when he jumps. As tiny as he is, it’s not particularly difficult, and Philza gleefully mocks his son. Thomas stamps his foot in frustration, beginning to tear up. “Thomas, you can’t just cut an onion everytime you want to manipulate someone, you need to learn how to fake cry like a big boy–” he lunges for the carton and snatches it, sprinting away. Philza catches him in a heartbeat, seizing his wrist. Philza lets a horrendous smile scrawl across his features, grip tight as Thomas tries to frantically wrench away from him. He turns upon the twins, cackling maniacally. “It’s over. I have your baby brother. Surrender now or terrible harm shall befall him.”

“Nah keep him.”

“He’s pretty useless.”

“Smelly, too.”

“You hear that Thomas? Looks like you’re trapped forever in my evil clutches, abandoned by your brothers. Join me on the dark side, our empire will cover the globe.” Technically it already does, not that Thomas needs to know that. “Be my apprentice! Take vengeance on the family that has abandoned you!”

“I could never! I love my family!”

“Ah, but Thomas, I am your father.”

“No!” Thomas giggles. “No. That’s not true. That’s impossible!” 

“Search your feelings. You know it to be true. Join me, and we can rule the small apartment we bought for Technoblade.”

Thomas mulls it over. “Uhh. I’ll tell you my answer, but I don’t want those two to know what I say. I’ll whisper.” 

“Of course, young Thomas.” He leans forward expectantly, only for Thomas to suddenly slam the entire carton directly into his chest. The boy screams in triumph, the family erupting into wild reaction to the twist. It’s horrifically cold, seeping into his shirt. The texture is ungodly. “Well. Well, well, well. You vile backstabbing cur. You think you’re so clever?”

“Yah, of course I am,” Thomas flaunts. His brothers protest at once, claiming credit in their portion of the scheme, but Thomas offers them the eloquent rebuttal of sticking his tongue out at them. 

“But you have failed to consider one crucial detail.” And he traps the boy in a bear hug, tightly squeezing him in a loving embrace. 

“No! No, let me go! EWW!” Tommy shrieks as he’s pressed face first into the eggs. Philza complies at once, acting while everyone is still caught up laughing at their little brother. He seizes Wilbur in a hug, getting yolk all over him. Wilbur shoves him, desperate to get away but laughing a little too hard to have much strength. 

“GET OFF ME DAD!”

“Mmm don’t you love me? Can’t I show my wonderful sons affection? I just have so much joy and love in my heart, is it wrong to share?” He grins at Wilbur, and gets his face pushed away. “That being said. Thomas?” The boy scowls at him. “Get Technoblade.” At once an evil expression crawls across his features. Technoblade jolts, forgetting he’s not just a spectator. Bolting away with a hyperactive kid hot on his heels, he throws a half hearted dirty look over his shoulder for Philza. Wild laughter echoes down the hall as the chase begins anew. Philza sighs in contentment, leaning his head against Wilbur’s shoulder. This. This is exactly what he’d wanted all those years. 

His twin is trapped beneath a passed out Tommy, staring very intently at the boy draped over him. Drool is spilling into his scruffy jeans, though he’s already disheveled from the hours-long war. “I thought you don’t like being touched?” Wilbur muses, leaning on the back of the couch. Certainly doesn’t seem like it now, what with Tommy curled in his lap. It’s cozy, and adorable, and makes Wilbur irrationally annoyed. 

Tech looks up, utterly bewildered, like even he doesn’t understand it. “I don’t.”

“I can move him, if you want.”

Tech blinks at the kid cuddling into him. “...he might wake up.”

Melancholic envy spreads heat across his chest. Why are Tech and Tommy brothers, and yet he isn’t? They were supposed to be twins. Inseparable ever after once reunited. Wilbur ruined that. He hadn’t known how far Tech could take a grudge. Hell, he still checks any food or drinks Wilbur passes him. He’s not as skittish as he can get around Dad, but it hurts. Wilbur has spent his whole life waiting for a soulmate that doesn’t want anything to do with him.

“Did you, uh, make it out?” He has no idea what to talk about. He wants to try though, or thinks he does. “I assume this was initially an attempt.”

“Sorta,” Tech sighs. “Maybe…five seconds of fresh air?” 

“Wow, really? Ugh. I’ll have to inform the other gamblers, they’re going to go ballistic. No one thought you’d get out again so quickly.”

Tech groans. “God, you’re also in the betting pool? Seriously? Did you kidnap me just to rake in the pot?”

He shrugs. “It really improves workplace relationships to have friendly competition. You’ve really brought the staff together.” 

“Please. Just tell me Phil isn’t also gambling over my freedom.”

“Nah. He thinks it’s disrespectful.”

“Obviously not, or he would’ve shut it down.” Wow, he saw through that one quickly. Wilbur at least tries to match everyone else’s price range, but Dad certainly has an interesting effect on the gamblers given the thousands he’ll toss in at seemingly random. Taking into account how much data he has and his control of everything, it certainly rearranges people’s assessments in a flurry of panic, though Wilbur is sure half the time he’s just doing it to mess with everyone. “Did. Did you at least wager on my success?”

Wilbur snorts. “I don’t play to lose.” 

“You bet AGAINST ME!?”

“I just looked at the odds. If it helps, I predicted you’d get out a lot sooner than the majority of people.” Mostly because Wilbur has access to Father’s excel sheets when no one else does. Beyond simple tally marks, he has a better understanding of severity and degrees of success. While it’s true Tech has been decreasing in quantity of schemes, they’re a lot more advanced than the initial ones. Plus he knows the guy a lot better than most of the staff. “Anyway, I’m in the pool that says you’ll never stop trying.”

It appeases him a little. “Good. And I WILL get out.”

“You’re that sure, huh? And I suppose Technoblade never lies?”

“Positive affirmations, Wil, they work wonders.” He pauses, calculating something. Tech considers Wilbur like he’s seeing him for the first time, voice dropping very low to avoid Dad’s surveillance. “You know, Wil, there’s one way to really juice your odds. The staff can’t help for fear of retaliation, but you’re safe from Phil. No one would see it coming. The betting pool would be pre-tty massive…”

He’s not sure if Tech is starting to trust him, or if he’s just that desperate. Either way, Wilbur stills, forced to confront his mixed feelings about their relationship. Does he like Tech enough to help? Hate him enough to? “I’m not really in it for the money…” He lets the end trail up upwards invitingly, though. 

“I’m the crazy guy who attacked you,” Tech dangles enticingly, grin sharp. “Come on, don’t you want me out of the house? Don’t you hate me?” 

Wilbur contemplates that angle, and dismisses it. Tech doesn’t have the guts for any serious damage. It’s not even fear of Phil’s wrath, Wilbur senses he couldn’t do it to the staff either. Tenacious, to be sure, but he’s missing that ruthless quality that really makes a Craft a Craft. Wilbur is pleased to find the weakness, since he beats out Tech in at least that arms race. Tech might feign it, but he could never go for the throat. He’s smart, but not sly. He would not survive in an actual negotiation with his life on the line. No, his twin isn’t a threat. 

Physically. 

Because it isn’t just Tech that he’s looking at. Tommy is still curled up in his lap, sleeping peacefully. The boy’s fingers clench onto a fistful of Tech’s shirt, in slumber snuggling even closer. Perhaps he’s too soft to replace Wilbur in his work, but it’s that exact quality that makes him so dangerous elsewhere. Everyone else in the family is star struck by him, leaving Wilbur watching from the outside. He hasn’t had a job in weeks, and the last one was to lure Tech in. Dad doesn’t need him anymore, and Wilbur has no idea how to cope. 

At the same time, Wilbur doesn’t know if he wants to be the brother Tommy cuddles with, or the brother resting in Tech’s lap. 

“...I’ll consider it.” Tech smiles at him hopefully. It only further proves how atrocious his negotiation skills are, completely undermining his earlier threat. He’s just too genuine of a guy. Only an idiot and Philza would ever be fooled by Tech. Still. It’s not entirely unpleasant to have his twin beaming at him. Wilbur smiles back, since it works in his favor either way. If he says yes, it’ll just make Tech like him more. If not, it’ll grind his hope under heel even further. 

Skeppy brightens the moment he sees him. His cheeks are a little flushed from the alcohol, but it makes his grin no less genuine. “Techno! Oh my god you’re alive! I haven’t seen you in ages.” He tears up a bit. “I thought you were dying, man.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Wilbur says a little flatly, flopping down on the couch next to the college student. The party is loud, but it’s a bit quieter here. The buzz of ethanol in his system isn’t doing enough to suppress his thoughts. Wilbur distinctly plans to fix that, but of course then he just had to be mistaken for his twin, making his mood worse. 

“Ah my bad! No I’m happy to see you too, it’s just— I mean it’s been like a month now, so…”

“I get it. He’s more likable.” Wilbur’s family seems to agree at least. He sighs. “Now if only he liked me.” 

“What? Techno is so friendly though! Of course he likes you! Don’t worry, he hasn’t been contacting me a lot either. It’s nothing against you, he’s just going through it at the moment.” 

“No. No, I know I’ve done something to get on his bad side.” Not the only one he’s on strained terms with. Dad took away his explosives after the escape attempt that nearly worked. Not all of them, obviously, but still. Wilbur rolls a ball of clay around in his hands, molding it into different soothing shapes, but it’s just not the same for de-stressing. “Do you know a way to appease him?”

“I dunno, what did you do?”

“Uh, none of your business, actually?” 

Skeppy gives an easy shrug. “Fair enough my guy. I guess, like, just talking to him? I dunno. If you ask me, he forgives too easily. Not on small things, no, I owe him like a twenty and he’d bring it up nearly every time I saw him, though it’s really just cause he thinks it’s funny. But where it counts…” Skeppy shifts, like he’s thinking of something very specific. “Honestly I think he needs to stand up for himself more.”

If attacking people is considered passive for Tech, Wilbur doesn’t even want to know what growing a spine would look like. “I don’t feel very forgiven.”

“You’re probably just over exaggerating, it can’t be that bad. Come on, he’s such an easy going guy!”

“More like a walking advertisement for Xanax.” 

“I think he deserves to be a lil stressed given what’s happened. Happening. I keep trying to ask him about his health, but I swear he only responds to one in every three emails.”

“I can mention you next time I see him.’

Skeppy’s eyes go wide. “You get to visit? Wait, I thought he flew back to America to be with his parents or something?” Oops. Hopefully Skeppy doesn’t remember this conversation in the morning. 

“I don’t see him often. He’s, ah, not doing well.” He’s a bit too tipsy to remember the whole cover story’s intricacies. Hopefully that piece of vaguery doesn’t contradict anything. 

“I’m his best friend, shouldn’t I get at least a little bit of time?” He’s genuinely upset in a way that intensifies Wilbur’s headache. 

“It’s not something I control. And weren’t you sick last week? You don't want to ‘spose him to anything do you?” 

“Oh. Right, I don’t…don’ want to make it worse…” Wilbur can’t quite muster any guilt for his barbed diversion. Skeppy is moreso Tech’s friend, he just got familiar with the guy when scoping out the situation. Besides, Tech is perfectly fine, and it’s not any of his business. “But if there’s any way for me to see him– if it’s through a thick foot wall of glass, I don’t care, I’ll wear a hazmat suit or whatever it takes. I just want to talk with him where he can’t just ignore me. I need to make sure he’s alright, especially after the call about his p-”

“Hold on, I think I’m getting one right now.” Wilbur fishes through his pockets as his ringtone buzzes. Finally, Dad should’ve called hours ago. For once, he actually answers. “Took ya long enough to notice I was gone,” he slurs into the phone. It’s on speaker since he can hear Tommy’s dulcet tones crooning to the soundtrack of High School Musical 3. 

“Wilbur– just, why? You were supposed to be back by dinner, why aren’t you here?” It’s almost midnight. It’s been nearly six hours since he could be counted late, and only now is he getting a call. “Is something wrong? What are you trying to prove?” 

Well, for one, he’s way better at escaping than his twin is. For another…erm, for another…well, Wilbur assumes he had a reason before he started drinking, but it’s gone now. 

“Where is he?” Tech. That’s Tech’s voice, at family movie night, where Wilbur belongs. 

“Probably partying,” Dad sighs. He doesn’t even sound mad, not managing to care about him enough to really miss him. Whatever. They have Tech now, what could they need him for? 

“I’m at a frat party. Say hi, Skeppy,” he announces loudly to make sure he’s heard. Maybe it’s cruel. No, there’s no maybe about it. Wilbur does it anyway. 

“Skeppy’s there?” Tech asks, getting closer. There’s muffled sounds of a tousle, the phone apparently ending up in his brother’s hands. He’s far too loud and desperate when next he speaks. “Let me talk to him, Wil, I need to–”

“Whaaat’s uuuuuup?” Skeppy drawls happily into the receiver, unable to hear his frantic friend. Wilbur shuffles the phone onto his shoulder.

“We’re having a fantastic night. I don’ feel the need to figure out what happens to Sharpay for the millionth time.” 

“Wil, please let me speak to Skeppy, we haven’t talked in weeks-” Fumbling sounds again as the phone swiped at. He can hear footsteps, apparently Tech sprinting away from his father. “Please Wilbur,” he begs. 

“Sure thing,” he replies, not moving the phone one centimeter. 

“Thank you so much,” Tech pours out in heartfelt gratitude. “Skeppy- listen to me, this is serious, I’ve been kidnapped. Call the pol-” 

A crash and the phone slides across the ground. The sound of distant shuffling, shouting, swears. And then slow, leisurely footsteps, the device approached and scooped up. “Thank you for that needless risk, son,” Dad says drily. “Diffuse whatever situation you just caused with Technoblade’s friend. And get home safe, would you?”

He’s hung up on before Wilbur can formulate a response. Staring at the phone in his hands doesn’t resolve any of the feelings tight in his chest. “You ever. You ever feel like you tried to convince yourself something was your dream? Tellin yourself that’s all you ever wanted? And then it turns out to be…”

“A nightmare?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

He wants to be mad. Anger would be so much easier, he knows what to do with hatred running in his veins like venom. But Wilbur can’t seem to quite get there. He gets close, to be sure, boiling every time he thinks about this guy just waltzing into his life and replacing him. But Tech clearly hates the situation just as much as he does, and despite that he still tried to give Wil actual life advice. He wants Tech to like him. He wishes to never see Tech again, or maybe that they were actually proper brothers. He regrets ever meeting his twin, yet here he is, replicating the exact same situation of their convergence. 

Wilbur doesn’t know what he wants. Tech was the one who pointed it out, and now it’s all he can see. The little threads composing his life are unraveling in every direction, and he doesn’t know how he lasted this long. It all seems hollow when he looks back, a life built on a single false hope. What’s the point of any of it? School is fun but he’s getting a degree he doesn’t care about. Wilbur likes working for his dad, it’s thrilling as hell, but when the adrenaline’s done what really mattered? He’d coasted by thinking there was some greater plan, that he was somehow helping to find Alexander, but in the end it was all random happenstance. Fate’s laughter rings mockingly in Wilbur’s ears.

Or, he’d thought saving Alexander was what he’d been working for. Only now is he realizing it was Dad’s dream, not his. Wilbur had just been doing it for— what? Fun? Because he had nothing better to do with his life? For his father’s approval? 

It’s all jealousy. Technoblade has been sought after for nearly two decades, and where does that leave Wilbur? Tech has it all figured out, he knows exactly what he wants from life. He has a goal and the fire of a purpose that refuses to be doused no matter what the world throws at him. Meanwhile Wilbur can’t even figure out what he wants. He’s been without tangible purpose for so long he doesn’t know what he should do.

But Wilbur does know what he will do: get blackout drunk and blame how awful his head is tomorrow on the hangover. 

“Skeppy, pass me another beer, would you?”

Wilbur spends the next day hungover, but the day after that…okay he kinda avoided everyone, holed up in his room writing overly angsty song lyrics. But the day after THAT, he tells Tech he’s in. The guy practically lights up like a pink Christmas tree. He temples his fingers together. “Excellent. This pleases me greatly.” Wilbur rolls his eyes and drags his twin to his room, since there theoretically won’t be surveillance there. “Huh? There’s not? Man I should’ve been more thorough, I just assumed there would be.”

Wait, when would Tech have ever gotten to check? “You broke into my room!?”

“Obviously?” Wilbur seethes at the invasion of privacy. “I thought there might be a way to escape. Why aren’t there any? Tommy’s room is bugged.”

“Tech. I’m an adult.”

He blinks obliviously. “How does that change anything? Your father’s an s-tier paranoid, I don’t think that would stop him.” Wilbur rolls his eyes but doesn’t elaborate. In truth it’s more complicated, a system set up that only Wilbur can turn on or off. Used to be a thumb print based set up, but ever since Tech popped up in their lives that had to get more elaborate. Regardless, it’s definitely not off right now. Inconsiderately, Tech pushes a space off the desk, no doubt mixing up Wilbur’s music sheets. “Alright, scheming phase. Got any ideas? Based on your skills I think your use will mostly come from diversions and procurement, but I’m open to brainstorming. You escape.” He says it like a fact, which is fair, because it is. “How?”

“It’s not really something you can replicate. I slip away from my handlers, which is a lot easier than getting out in the first place.” Of course, Dad also cares more if Tech leaves. 

“Why?” Wilbur pauses. He’s not really sure why he does it, but that applies to a lot of the things he does. “Are you a prisoner like I am?” It’s less a challenge, and more an honest question. What? Is he crazy? Wilbur belongs here, always had. This has been his family from day one, he’s not the intrusion here. 

“You’re not a prisoner. And I’m not either. Are you trying to imply he’s some sort of serial abductor? Because that’s entirely wrong. We’re all his kids whether you like it or not. Only thing he’s done is get you back; that’s fair game.” 

“I’m just saying, you don’t look a lot like Phil, it’s possible.” 

“I’m a dead ringer for mum,” he argues. And so are you.

“And yet you’re trying to escape.” 

“It just gets stifling! I’ve never really liked being told what to do. Obviously. Nothing more than that. Just call me an attention whore and move on, it’s not deep.” 

Tech blinks at him. “Uh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to provoke you,” he backpedals awkwardly, cautious of retaliation. “Let’s just. Just move on. Yep. Alright. Planning.” Grabbing a pen, he searches for fresh paper amongst the stacks. He squints at some of the pages. “Nice, uh, poetry?” Upon deciding it’s probably easier to just look elsewhere, he begins to rifle around the desk.

“Wait! Don’t open that drawer.”

“Why, it got your baby pics in it or something? You’re too late on that front, I’ve been tortured for hours looking at family photos. I’m pretty sure the Geneva Convention prohibits that but what do I know?”

“No, it’s rigged to explode.” 

Tech freezes. “Your room is booby trapped?” he squeaks. 

“Duh. It’s called security.” Tech puts his hands up in the air and backs away slowly. “Stop! You almost stepped on the pressure plate beneath the carpet.” He eeps and turns into a statue. It’s only after Wilbur begins to snicker that he relaxes, turning to glower at him. 

“Bruuuh, I thought you were actually insane for a second there.”

“You seriously think I actually leave that stuff laying around?? I live with an eleven year old, that would get Tommy blown up faster than you can say nitroglycerin!”

Tech grins at him. “Think you could rig my room too? He keeps trying to steal my shirts. God he’s such a kleptomaniac.” Tommy never tries to steal Wilbur’s clothing. He’s irked, but doesn’t let it show…wait, why would he want Tommy to nab his stuff?? Whatever. It’s probably because Tommy actually respects him too much to pilfer from him. Definitely. 

“Would take too much effort. And that pen actually is a detonator. Use the blue one.” 

“Fool me once, Wil-”

“No, I’m serious about that one.” He imbues gravity into his tone. “Don’t.” 

“Like I’m falling for that ag-” Wilbur rushes over and seizes his wrist.  

“Don’t,” he orders harshly.

“Allllright. Uh. Can you actually get me explosives? ‘Cause that could make getting at least outside a lot easier.” 

Wilbur huffs. “The structural frame for this house is atrocious, I wouldn’t trust the support beams to handle much. Presumably you’d want to do it on the first floor, too, and multistory buildings always have more risk, especially from the inside. That’s how you get yourself and a lot of people killed.” He could do it, naturally, but he doesn’t mind using fear tactics to ward off that line of thinking. 

Perhaps it’s too effective. Tech shifts away from him. “...right. You’re the demolition expert,” he mutters warily. 

Wilbur wonders if his brother would faint if he told him his estimated body count. Either one, honestly Tech grew up so sheltered. But he doesn’t want to scare him off. Maybe. If he could actually figure out what his goal is, maybe he’d know whether he wants Tech to be scared. “Also, I’m helping you because I don’t want to live with a guy who’s threatening me, the last thing I’d do is hand you a weapon. I don’t aim to be a hostage in your next attempt.” 

“Ooh that’s a pretty good idea actually, we should try that. You’re a theater major, right? I’m sure you could be convincing for me.” Oh that’s a horrible idea, Dad doesn’t do hostage negotiations. Maybe Wilbur should encourage him? “But if you’re that insistent you could set it up yourself in a way that will be controlled and blame me.”

“Dad took my explosives after your stunt with the C4.” Now, he does have secret compartments in the room filled with supplies, since obviously he doesn’t want Tommy finding anything by accident. He wasn’t lying about that part. Still, he’s not trusting Tech with deadly force.

Thankfully he relents on that angle, switching tracks in his schemes. “So what have you been fidgeting with?”

“Oh it’s just clay.”

“Good, I need that, as much as you have. Do you have your cigarette lighter on you?” …yeah? Like hell if he knows how those two questions are related. But he’s curious enough that he’ll let Tech use it, figuring if it’s going to end up in arson he’d recognize the build up fast enough to put a stop to it. Or maybe not, Wilbur hasn’t had a job in a while and if they get rid of this house they can move back into a mansion. Tech sets about forming two bricks, very meticulous about their evenness. Then he pulls out a ring of keys. How on earth did he get a hold of that? Tech begins carefully creating molds of each one, apparently not satisfied to have just the one set.

“It was a plot point I looked up once but never ended up using,” he says, like that is any type of actual explanation. “Just hope Phil doesn’t remember that set of notes.”

“You research in depth enough to replicate processes like that? For stuff that doesn’t even end up in the book? Why?”

Tech huffs a strand of hair out of his face as he greases the clay with some sort of cooking oil and proceeds to bake the keys in with the help of a desk lamp. It’s fascinating to watch. “It’s been, uh, said before that I might be the obsessive type.” Clearly, based on his incessant escape attempts. “Sometimes I hyperfixate on details that won’t end up mattering. But you don’t become the next great American author without a little bit of insanity.”

“You realize we’re literally in the UK?”

“Yah, but I’m from America.”

“We were born in England, Tech.”

He freezes in utter horror. “No. Absolutely not. Just further proof I cannot possibly be related to you guys. Anyway, I’m assuming there’s smoke alarms?”

“Not on the balcony.” 

“It’s locked though, and not by a key.” God, what a snoop. 

“I know the passcode, obviously. But, uh, it changes pretty frequently,” he says to curb the way Tech immediately latches focus on him. Or, it will now, since he wants to know in advance if Tech is going to try and use his window to escape. “I can tell you the code for the day if you ask in advance.” He rattles off the current one and Tech jabs it in, then pauses. 

“Wil. I don’t know if you know this, but I don’t actually have your thumb print for the scanner unless I start cutting off your fingers.” 

“Sure you do, go ahead.”

“No.” It’s firmer than expected. “It’s not going to work, and I don’t want to trigger security. We don’t have identical fingerprints.” But they do. Wilbur knows that for a fact, otherwise he wouldn’t have completely changed the security on his phone to prevent his brother getting in. But Tech’s jaw clenches, a hard look in his features. Perhaps not the time to get insistent. 

Wilbur huffs, and finishes unlocking it, pushing wide the balcony doors with a flourish and sarcastic bow. “There you go, your majesty.” 

And then Tech goes…quiet. Just stares, drinking in the outside. It’s almost a sigh that sinks his entire form. He leans over the railing, eyes closed as a breeze ruffles through his long hair. The most bitter, worn smile Wilbur has ever seen before plays over his features. He’s seen Tech silent before, of course, usually glowering, or sometimes embarrassed. This is entirely different, uncoiled. Or perhaps simply tense in a different fashion, drawn outward instead of in. Blatant yearning is written across his never subtle features. 

But he isn’t still. Far from it, his leg starts bouncing about the fastest Wilbur’s ever seen it go, bleeding pure energy, eyes darting over the world below. It’s contagious, Wilbur beginning to tattoo a rhythm into his thigh with his fingertips. He’s suddenly worried this is a mistake, that Tech will hurl himself off the balcony just for the chance to get out and end up breaking a leg or something. When he braces a hand on his shoulder, Tech nearly does, just about jumping out of his skin with a startled yelp. His twin shies away from the touch. “You, uh, alright?” 

Tech laughs weakly at his own reaction, waving him off. “Nah, I’m fine. Just uh– it’s nothing. Nothing at all. Just miss it, that's all. These days I’m only ever getting hunted down out here. Hard to appreciate it when your face is getting slammed in the asphalt. Though, I mean, I like the asphalt too, I’m not ungrateful, it’s a nice change of pace. Sure all your five star chefs are great, but you just can’t beat eating the pavement.”

“You care that much? I thought you’re an introvert, being cooped up inside all day is your thing.” 

“It’s different when it’s not allowed. You know. Forbidden romance and all that.” 

“Ah, so that’s why they’re called tree huggers.”

“Yep, got it in one. And I do like the outdoors, I used to…” He glances around, spotting a camera Wilbur hadn’t even known was there. “Hm. Think that picks up audio over the wind?”

“I doubt it.” Really, he’s so paranoid. Does he seriously think Phil wants to watch every little thing he does? Conceited. Though, worst of all, he might be right. 

“Good enough, I guess.” Still, his voice goes quieter just in case. “Anyway me and Dad used to go for walks around the neighborhood when I was little. It was really nice.” 

For a moment envy strangles Wilbur, until he pieces through the impossibility of it. They were still looking for Tech, it would be impossible for Dad to take strolls with him as a kid. And Tech doesn’t call Dad ‘Dad’ anyway. Honestly, Wilbur forgot Tech had parents, or at least what substituted for them. He’s kind of been imagining a cloth mother/wire mother set up, for some reason. “You, eh, don’t talk about them a lot.” 

“You think I want to deal with Phil getting jealous? He’d probably sue them somehow. Or.” Fear bleeds through. “You don’t think he’d…would he hurt them?”

Oh. Ohhh. The longer he hesitates the paler Tech gets, till Wilbur schools his expression. Right, suggesting his parents were hunted down like rabbits isn’t the best way to get on his good side, even if his reaction would be funny. “Nah. You know how he is, he wants to sweep the fact you were ever gone under the rug. Can’t do that if he admits others raised you.”

“I don’t think you understand how much he hates my parents.” In conviction, he is deadly serious. 

“They're safe across the entire Atlantic.” Tech doesn’t seem particularly convinced. Which is far, the both of them know Dad runs an international crime organization; it’s not far fetched to doubt, especially if Tech is delusional enough to insist his kidnappers are normal parents with no means of protecting themselves. Hell, perhaps they were just hired to raise Tech, Wilbur doesn’t know. “Hey,” he soothes, “I can ask him, alright? Make sure they’re fine.” There is nothing in the world that could possibly make Wilbur ask Dad such a loaded question. He can imagine about a dozen different disasters that conversation could end with. But the soft gratitude radiating from his brother is well worth the easy lie. 

“Thanks, Wil. I’m just…worried. I mean, of course I am, something would be terribly wrong with me if I wasn’t!” Wilbur can’t pinpoint if that’s a joke about his anxiety, or a comment implying he’d be a horrible son to not worry. Frankly, Wilbur has never lasted a full day without some type of contact with Dad. “But I haven’t had any contact at all and I just have this awful suspicion…well. I’ll see them faster if I can get out. Um, do you think you can stand in front of the camera for me?” Wilbur agrees, and Tech begins to fish utensils out of his sleeves. 

“Wh- do you always keep silverware on you?”

“They’re not bad weapons in a pinch,” he defends. “You can do some real damage with a fork, especially to eyes. Plus the psychological threat of eating someone.” But instead of attacking, he sits down on the balcony, positioning cover for himself with the artistic use of chairs, flower pots, and Wilbur. He holds off Tech’s demands for his lighter by insisting he at least get a cigarette in before Tech wastes it all, but scarcely has he taken the first drag before Tech snatches the lighter from his hands, proceeding to slowly melt the silverware into the molds he’s made. 

“Tch. He already got rid of the steak knives because of you, and now you’re going to get us to eat with our fingers.” 

“Well. If he finds out. Which he won’t, unless you want to find a way to eat soup with your bare hands.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to sell you out, no need to threaten me.” 

It takes several hours and more than one attempt, but eventually Tech gets a copy of keys he’s happy with. He thanks Wilbur for his time, promising he’s going to make good use of them even if he doesn’t trust him enough to elaborate on how. Wilbur’s smile slowly fades as he watches Tech’s retreating back, waiting till his brother’s door clicks firmly shut. Then he sighs and stalks through the halls, mentally composing his report to Dad.

Wilbur is going to betray Tech. God, why wouldn’t he? Everyone knows Tommy is trying to help him escape; Tommy isn’t exactly subtle and Tech can barely lie. And it clearly worked if the two are so close now. It’s the perfect way to become actual brothers. The more Tech fails, the more he’ll have to rely on Wilbur for help, and he’ll never succeed if Wilbur sells him out to Dad the whole time. It’s a foolproof way to bond with his twin. Or maybe it’s because he hates Tech and wants to thwart him at every opportunity. Or because it’ll make Dad love him more. Or to prove the great Technoblade is a blithering moron, because he has to be an idiot if he actually trusts Wilbur for a second, even if all Wilbur wants is for him to be the first one Tech turns to. Whatever. He can figure out what his motivation is after the fact. 

Unfortunately, Dad is delighted at the replicant key scheme. Wow, isn’t Technoblade so cool and clever? Wilbur had assumed the meeting would be more along the lines of working together to sabotage Tech, but no matter how much he tries to steer the conversation in that direction Dad is more focused on Tech’s ingenuity and determination than on foiling him. 

“He said he misses his parents,” he responds, after Dad asks one too many times about their non-scheme-related conversations. Wilbur doesn’t know exactly who he’s trying to hurt when he says it. Perhaps all three of them. Wilbur’s always had a problem with collateral damage. 

Dad sits back, expression cold but not intended for Wilbur. “They didn’t deserve Technoblade.”

“None of us do,” he says more than a little acerbically. He can feel the question on the tip of his tongue. Not that he’d tell Tech the truth, but there’s a nearly smug tinge to Dad’s aura that makes him wonder. What did happen to Tech’s kidnappers? But he fails to ask. 

“Erm. That’s not guilt, is it? Please don’t let that get to you, we’ve been perfectly justified all these years. Of course you’re worthy, son. You’re entitled to happiness and love.” 

Wilbur sighs. “No, Dad, I’m not having a crisis of conscience. I haven’t since I was twelve.” That, at least, hasn’t been a problem recently. It’s a bit too late for remorse for him. He honest to god doesn’t care.

“Glad to hear it. Did you at least have fun with Technoblade?”

Rolling his eyes, Wilbur shifts his weight. “That wasn’t the point. It’s espionage, not a playdate.”

“I care if you’re getting along. You two never clicked like him and Thomas, and I’m happy to see you spend time together.” 

“I’m like actively trying to stab him in the back.”

“Well, yes, but I do that too. It’s just to make sure he stays, not so dramatic as you put it. But, eh…you did make a number of comments while talking to him…are you alright, son? You know you can always talk to me.”

“No, I can’t, because you won’t shut up about him for five seconds,” he snaps. 

Dad startles. “Wilbur, don’t yell at me. Is there a problem you’d like to bring up? I haven’t been aware of anything wrong.” No. Of course he wouldn’t be. 

“It’s just– we spent my entire life trying to get him back. And now he’s here, and he hates me, and I have no idea what I’m even doing with myself.” 

“He doesn’t hate you-”

“I’m not delusional like you, Dad. He’s not trying to leave just for kicks. Tech’s not going to stop trying, and you know it.” 

“For now, maybe, but he’ll settle down. A few months, maybe years, but he’ll adjust. He’s just not used to a proper family, but in time he’ll fit right in.”

“And where does that leave me?! He’s supposed to be my other half, but instead of completing me he’s just crushing me.”

“You’re not half a person, who ever told you that?”

“You did! For my entire life, Phil, that’s all you’ve ever told me!” 

Wide eyes greet his outburst. “I…” Dad doesn’t know what to say, the epiphany bleeding regret and sorrow into his features. He’s stricken, and Wilbur wants to take it back at once, even if it’s the truth. “I…didn’t know I made you feel like that. I’m sorry, love, I didn’t…notice.” 

“That’s because you only ever pay attention to him now,” he responds bitterly. 

“I’m sorry I gave you that impression.” Philza reaches to cup his son’s jaw, having to stand on tip-toe to reach comfortably. His caress is warm against Wilbur’s cheeks, firm and reassuring in a way he hadn’t known how desperately he needed. “There will always, always be room in my heart for you, songbird. Please don’t doubt that for even a second. Our family is growing but that doesn’t mean there’s any less space for you. You are not being replaced, or forgotten. You are loved. Forever and always, Wilbur.” His thumb runs across the crest of Wilbur’s cheekbone, and he sinks into the touch. 

“I– I know that, I guess, but it doesn’t feel like it. He’s the only thing we’ve talked about for months.” He feels ridiculous, of course he knows Dad loves him, but there’s also a massive ravine between what Dad says and the growing resentment that has been festering in him for weeks. 

“I suppose that’s true. You were also jealous when we first got Tommy, though you might not remember. But look at you two now. That’s not to belittle your feelings, but to give you hope. Do you imagine our family wouldn’t be missing something if he were gone?”

“No, of course not, he belongs with us.” 

“But at the time, it must have felt like an intrusion, even if now it’s unthinkable for him to be gone. Love is not a finite resource, Wilbur. This expansion of our family doesn’t mean there’s less affection to go around, far from it. Our capacity for love increases with each person we cross paths with throughout our lives, and with each moment we spend with those people.” Touch runs down his arms to where Dad sweeps up his hands, squeezing reassuringly. “His addition does not subtract yours. You are two wholly wonderful, separate people.”

“...that’s what he said, too. Still. That doesn’t mean anything if you like him better.”

“You are irreplaceable, songbird. No one could ever take you away from me or make me love you less. He is not better than you, he is merely a different person.”

“Tommy seems to think so. He spends far more time with Tech than me.” 

“But you’ve also been a little distant with him recently. He could be responding to that. If you want to be close to someone, it’s up to you to try.”

“I’m trying with Tech and it’s not working. He still hates me. He said he’ll never forgive me for drugging him.”

Frowning, Dad replies, “weird. You can use me as a scapegoat if you need, it’s not your fault you were the first success, it just means you’re talented. Did you tell him we would’ve captured him regardless?” 

“Yes,” he replies sullenly. “Something something still being the type of man who could do that to someone.” 

“For a supposed anarchist, he’s awfully hung up on crimes.”

“Well, when they happen to him.” Thinking of their earlier conversation about his parents, “or his family,” he amends. Then, of his fear for the staff. “Actually, maybe just everyone. His morals are strong-“

“More's the pity.”

“-I think it’s more distrust of institutions. Doesn’t think they’ll actually do what they’re supposed to.”

“Aw, but the corruption is the most useful part of the system. Though…I suppose he’d have no reason to trust the government, given CPS never properly intervened.”

Wilbur feels like he’s missed a step. “What? Why would they?”

“His parents are horrendous people,” Dad hisses. Wilbur picks up the present tense first. Alive, then, or at least Dad assumes them to be. Tech will be pleased to hear that. Or— or will he? Based off what Dad’s saying? But no, Tech talks about them so fondly. Complained a bit, sure, but like he said everyone does. It’s the same manner Wilbur sometimes moans about Dad being overbearing. No, there wasn’t child abuse, surely not, he can’t have misread that yearning expression. Besides, Dad’s research would have netted that early on. It’s starting to get exhausting trying to pick through everyone’s different delusions to find the truth. 

“And yet, he wants them, not us.” 

“He’s too compassionate for his own good. But I suppose that means there’s a chance for us; if he can love even them, there must be hope for the monsters he thinks us to be. He’ll realize that’s not what he really wants eventually. But what about you? What do you want, songbird?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you really not? Or are you telling yourself that because you don’t want to accept it?”

Wilbur has to think about that one. Strange that Dad of all people would call him out for denial. Has he just over complicated the whole thing in his head? Made things hard when they never had to be? He’s tangled up the entire situation in his insecurities so much that he can’t parse out anything. What does he want? Not what he’s scared of happening and the irrational responses he’s concocted to avoid them at all costs. What does it look like, if his wildest dreams come true? Past the insecurity that he’d be replaced, the panic of his existential crisis, the feeling of being lost swallowing him whole. Easier to reject everything, to try to shove it all back to how it used to be no matter how impossible that would be. What does he really want, when not driven by fear? Where is Technoblade in all this? Where is Wilbur?

Side by side, comes the answer. Not conjoined, or twisted into something neither is supposed to be. Simply equals, but not equivalent. Each his own in entirety. 

“...I wish we were actually brothers.”

“Then that’s something you’ll have to work for, I’m afraid. There really won’t be shortcuts, not if you want it to be real. Be slow, and patient, and loving. He’ll recognize it eventually.” 

“What if he never comes around? What if he never loves me?”

Dad hugs him tight, and his worries melt away. “I promise he will.”

Wilbur leans against the bathroom doorway casually. He’s known about their nightly meetups for awhile now, neither are properly subtle. His brothers don’t notice for a second, caught up in bickering gleefully about something meaningless. Tech is undoing his hair while Tommy breathes on the mirror, drawing little smiley faces in the condensation and insisting on some argument that’s utterly absurd. Something about making a girlfriend out of dirt, though Wilbur doesn’t glean any more context than that before Tech notices him and frowns at Tommy. “Why’s he here? Did you invite him?” 

Tommy gives Wilbur an almost territorial glower. “I didn’t. Shove off Wil.” Not, ah, particularly intimidating coming from a pipsqueak. The light aura becomes a degree off from hostile, his intrusion clearly unwanted. 

“I figured you wanted to hear what happened to your parents.” Tech goes sheet white. Maybe Wilbur would have enjoyed that, once, but now he swiftly corrects the misconception, slipping inside the bathroom and letting the door thump shut. “They’re alright. Or, I think they are. Dad can’t find them at all, they must’ve dropped off the grid.”

He buries his face in his hands. “They’re…alive. Oh god they’re alive. They’re safe.” He looks like he’s almost going to collapse with relief, but opts to slump against the wall.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Tommy chirps. 

“I keep having nightmares where he gives me their severed heads as a Christmas present,” he confesses into his palms, mumble barely audible. Mm. That’s certainly a mental picture. And judging by the way Dad talked about them…

“Well, they’d leak blood through the wrapping paper, so you’d be able to tell,” Tommy offers as a condolence. “So it wouldn’t be a surprise.” 

“Tommy, in case you are wondering, that doesn’t help.”

“Well, I’ve never ever gotten head-” Wilbur snickers and both brothers look confused “-'s but if you want I can list off every Christmas present I’ve ever gotten so you’re sure. I got a Wii U, and a cow, and that trip to Italy, and-” 

“Is this just a chance to flex?”

“Maybe. But if you don’t like distractions, I can do logic! All psy-co-logical. Like– like they wouldn’t have a chance to be hurt! Their bodyguards would stop that, so your mum and dad got to be a-ok!” 

“Normal people don’t need guards, Tommy.” 

“You don’t think it’s a little weird your totally normal parents managed to escape Dad?” Perhaps an easier lie would be one aligning with Tech’s self-deception, but it’s more convincing if he tries to push the point now. 

“Rats always find nooks to hide in,” he hand waves, in an…oddly inconsistent level of care for the parents he was freaked out about getting murdered. 

“Well if they can turn into rats, maybe you ought to be worried. One run in with a cat and uh-oh, you’re an orphan!” 

“Can’t have that,” Wilbur chimes in. “Self-loathing is a terrible thing.”

“But then he gets to be Batman! Come on, don’t you want to be Batman? And I can be Robin, but I’m not wearing his stupid outfit.”

“What’s that make me?” Wilbur asks.

“Two Face,” Tech says firmly. Wilbur hums a questioning note, not sure which of his deceptions Tech has parsed out. 

“I was thinking Batgirl, but I’ll take it.” He can’t fail to notice that he’s being typecast as the villain in contrast to their hero roles. But they’re including him. It’s a start. The next time he barges in for the nightly meet up, the pair are a lot more amenable. The night after that he’s welcomed with a grin by Tommy at least. Wilbur starts keeping his tooth brush next to theirs. It’s a start. 

Techno is informed he has a meeting with Phil in fifteen minutes. Bruh?? He’d thought when Wil mentioned making powerpoint presentations for his father it had been a joke. Presumably, as he’s been given time to prepare, he’s supposed to fancy up. Small problem, Techno doesn’t have fancy stuff, beyond a single button up that isn’t anywhere up to snuff. So, he’s rifling through Wil’s drawers when the balcony doors open up, Wil wafting in from a smoke break. He’s angry, but suppresses it quickly. “It’s for an escape attempt,” Techno tries in one of his more blatantly absurd lies.

“Uh huh. I’m just impressed you got a date while grounded.”

“I’m a prisoner, not grounded!” he protests as Wil pulls out something for him. 

“Didn’t deny the first part…”

“I– I’m not dating anyone! This is slander!” he splutters. Why would he think about romance at a time like this??? Techno has always found it absurd that characters try to form love triangles in life-or-death scenarios. If that was him (which it halfway is) kissing would be his last priority. Not that, uh, it already isn’t in normal circumstances, given that would just mess up his schedule and would require actually talking to a human being, two things that are unbearable. 

Shoving a shirt and tie into his hands, Wil smirks at him. “Here. This one brings out our eye color.” 

“They’re entirely different shades of brown! Yours are umber while mine are CLEARLY mahogany!”

He rolls his umber-not-mahogany eyes. “Whatever you say. I don’t mind if you change in here.”

“But I do.” Given his rapidly decreasing time frame, he half jogs back to his room and quickly learns that rushing buttons only takes a longer time when you inevitably mix them up horribly. Dad’s instructions ring in his ears as he frowns at his tie and tries to make it come out right. It’s still crooked. Techno never had the knack for it. Now where the hell is the boardroom? Probably where, well, people are bored; hence the name. 

He’s late from trying to find the correct meeting room, but Phil doesn’t seem to care. In fact, his hands slap over his mouth, eyes practically turned to stars. An intimidating smile spreads across his face, and Techno’s stomach drops, realizing this is a massive mistake. He freezes, till Phil’s hand goes for his jacket and Techno lunges. 

Oh god no. Phil has a bad habit of putting the absolute WORST photos on the fridge. On pure instinct, Techno sprints over, hands out in an attempt to cover the lens. Based on the flash -of course he has the flash on, what an old man- he’s failed miserably. Techno seizes the phone and dangles it over the kidnapper, for once his height coming in handy for more than bruising his forehead on doorways. Phil, honest to god, begins to jump for it, and, failing that, scrambles onto a chair. Techno yoinks it out of range, then gets body-tackled. A quick game of tug of war, and Phil triumphantly holds the phone. But his victorious gloating falls quickly. “Aww, why’d you delete them mate? You look so dapper.” He pouts as Techno shoves him off and sits up. 

“You’re the one who gave me an official invite! I figured I’d get shamed for being underdressed, I didn’t know it would just be you.” Bruh, isn’t that the natural assumption? That there was going to be an auditorium of fabulously dressed people pointing and laughing at him? 

“And the tie matches your eyes so well.”

“Mahogany! Mahogany, not-”

“Not umber, I know dear. And I can recover the photos, you didn’t empty the trash can. Oh look!” he tilts the screen so Techno can see, yanking out of the way as he swipes at it. “You’re blushing in this one. Adorable.” 

“You’re the absolute worst.” To think, he genuinely thought this guy was revenge-torturing his parents in the basement or something. Not that he isn’t acutely aware Phil is a multifaceted man, but the uncontrolled beaming at a stupid photo sure makes it hard to remember. This is a calculated, ruthless murderer, Techno reminds himself. Kicks puppies on the weekends. Poisons babies. He takes the hand to get up when he’s offered it, brushing off his pants. 

“Are you aware your tie is crooked?”

Techno looks down at it. “Uh, yah. It just kept doing that and I didn’t want to be late.”

“Here-” Phil reaches for him, nimble fingers unraveling the sloppy tie. “Let me just fix this for you, hm? It’s easy once you have a little practice. First, make sure it’s the same length…” Techno’s brain almost splits in half. On the one hand, it’s almost cozy. A familiar thing, warm, affectionate. Phil grinning up at him as he explains where he messed up the process, gently ribbing him. But it’s echoing oddly with his actual father, a ghost overlaying the scene in a way that shatters the illusion. This can’t be wholesome, not when it’s his kidnapper essentially tying a noose around him. Shouldn’t he be worried about Phil lunging for his throat? But he doesn’t. He knows Phil won’t hurt him. This is bad. It’s getting bad, he shouldn’t let this happen, this should feel like some type of violation, but it doesn’t. Phil doesn’t get to be this comfortable with him. He can’t get sucked into the illusion. But he doesn’t say anything, and he keeps not saying anything. 

Phil tenderly fixes his collar, and steps back, admiring. “There you go. You certainly pull it off well. Perhaps it might not be a bad idea to update your wardrobe, if you’d like? I swear I recognize some of your shirts from middle school photos.” Uh, yeah? Why would he throw out perfectly good clothes? Phil reaches for his pocket to sneakily snap a pic, only to realize he’s been pickpocketed while he was busy using overplayed tropes. “You do realize I’ll just look at the security cameras?”

Dang. Wait, he had Phil’s phone on for a bit, why didn’t he call the police? Deleting stupid photos shouldn’t be a priority. Agh. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, he consoles himself. “I’m not giving it back till you learn boundaries.” Yeah right, like Phil’s capable. 

Phil spreads his arms out wide. “Either you hand it back or I take it, and one of those options involves a lot more hugging, so I’m sure you know which I prefer.” 

Techno grumbles and hands it over, no doubt to Phil’s disappointment. “You know, I’m pretty sure taking someone’s picture without consent is illegal.”

“Aside from specific circumstances, no, not really.”

“Yeah, pretty sure the stalking still qualifies as pretty illicit, Phil, but whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Usually thinking about you does that perfectly well. But if you insist, I won’t directly take photos.” Uh huh, that caveat means absolutely nothing. “Shall we begin the meeting? We’re a bit late at this point.” Techno shrugs and pulls up a chair. The stately spruce table is rather long, and entirely unnecessary given it’s just the two of them. He can’t imagine why Phil would bother to call a meeting instead of simply talking to him, but he’s certainly dramatic enough. “Essentially, I have a business meeting that can only be attended to in person this weekend. It’s in Marseille, which means a bit of travel.”

“Don’t throw any parties, or burn down the house, etc, while you’re gone?” he asks drily. But the gears of his mind are already turning. With Phil gone, surely security would be laxer since it wouldn’t have a multi millionaire to protect. Staff might be a bit looser without threat of immediate retaliation, though that’s a bit of a long shot. The perfect opportunity to get out without Phil to thwart him. This might just be his ticket to escape. But then…

“No, you’re coming with me.”

It takes a beat to process. Techno leans forward from his previous habitual slouch, complete focus caught utterly on Phil. “I’m going. Like, outside the house, going?”

“Yes.”

“Like, walking in grass, fresh air, outside? Me? Outside?”

“Yes, Technoblade, that is what the word means. Very difficult to get to France from inside one home. You’ve been rather cooped up. I think some varied scenery could be good for you.”

Something in the back of his head says gratitude is dangerous, that the slightest decrease in pressure of the fist tightened around his throat shouldn’t be cause to celebrate, but he can’t stop the wild excitement bubbling up in his chest. He’s getting out of the house. They’re going to let him out. 

It’s probably the biggest smile Philza has ever seen on his boy, completely unguarded and only growing the more it sinks in. God but his boy is so radiant. Philza vows then and there to try and see that smile as frequently as possible. 

“Now, I expect you to be on your best behavior. Is that understood?” He nods enthusiastically at once, though Philza doesn’t particularly believe it. Nonetheless, he slides over the itinerary. “Now, this won’t be particularly detailed given you’d only use it for your…antics.” He shudders to think what Technoblade could do given a few days to plan and an exhaustive schedule. But he will give him at least a vague outline of the vacation because Technoblade’s brain needs enrichment activities, so it’s good to throw him new things to scheme over every once in a while. School work helps some in that regard, but introducing variety into his enclosure, like instruments or periodic vacations, is healthy for him. “And if you are good, at the end there will be a reward, alright?”

“When do we go?” he asks eagerly, already pouring over the documents, calculating. 

He debates how much time he wants to give Technoblade to prepare. “After lunch. Now. I’m giving you an option here, alright? Either you promise to behave on the trip there, or we give you sedatives. It would just seem like you fell asleep in this house and woke up in another, though perhaps with a little lingering drowsiness.” It’s the option his security is trying to push for, at least. They have enough of a job looking outward with also having to focus on inward security as well. 

“I’ll be good,” Technoblade swears in a heartbeat. “Won’t try to escape at all.” 

“Wonderful news. Quick question: are you lying to me?”

“Oh yes, 100%, but I won’t talk to you for two days if you drug me again.”

“Noted! Glad that’s settled. Don’t worry about packing, your things will be delivered. Meeting adjourned.”

“Wait, settled in which direction?” He simply smiles and pushes his chair back. “Are you drugging me again? Phil?” The man walks away, humming to himself. “Phil! Answer me!”

“You didn’t see fit to give a direct answer to my question.”

“If this is some type of revenge it isn’t funny! I’m not eating anything you give me!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it would be in a needle, not in your food,” Philza hand waves over his shoulder. 

“PHIL!”

It’s only a weekend. Techno can’t help it, though, he’s vibrating with excitement. He presses his face against the window of the armored car, absorbing as much of the world as he can. His hair is a windswept mess from earlier when the window had been rolled down, and also from when he subsequently launched himself out of the vehicle the moment they were through the gate. After that he’d been given the barest crack so the breeze could still ruffle past him, till he started shouting at pedestrians for help. 

Techno is continually distracted from attempting to memorize the layout of the neighborhood by the most mundane things, passing cars and flowering trees and people. Just normal people, going about their days, moving and breathing and free. They pull up to a private runway, and he’s so mesmerized with actually being outside the house he only tries to bolt twice. Slightly exasperated, Phil takes his hand and pulls him along with his surprising strength. Techno still digs his heels as much as he can, less that he figures he can get out and more he just wants this to last as long as possible. The dark V of a flock cuts across the azure, Techno tracking their migratory movements, when he realizes they aren’t moving anymore. With a start, he looks to Phil, who is simply still, smiling fondly. Like he isn’t the reason Techno is so starved for the outside world. Techno looks away quickly, painfully aware of the brush of warmth against him where Phil holds on. 

“Would you like a minute, mate?” Techno nods shortly. Where their hands are interlocked, Phil rubs presumably comforting circles against his skin with a thumb. It’s impossible to ignore, but he does attempt to, trying to force himself to immerse once more in a gulp of fresh air before he’s inevitably shoved back down into captivity. It’s too soon when Phil begins to gently tug him forward, but Techno supposes that’s all the time he’ll get for now. This last gasp will have to last him till next he can break the surface. 

Then he steps one foot on the plane and practically chokes. Like, logically, he knew it wouldn’t be a public aircraft, since it’s not like Phil would let him get anywhere close to a normal, sane person who would help him, but it hadn’t really registered exactly how luxurious a private jet could get. It practically looks like a living room, though the most opulent version that can still fit in a plane, needlessly large televisions and entire couches and artistic flourishes and what not. Instinct suggests there’s got to be something here he can exploit, but before he can begin surveying his options he’s pushed onto the softest sofa he’s ever experienced and trapped like a sardine between Phil and Wil. Perhaps it could have comfortably fit the three of them, but the pair are unfortunately far too cozy and have no concept of a personal bubble. 

He almost gets out a suggestion of wow, would you look at that, there’s so many other seating options, but unfortunately Tommy choses that moment to complain. The couch is only designed for three people -rather intentionally, Techno is figuring out, as apparently the three usually share it on flights. Instead of retaking his proper place from Techno, Tommy’s astounding problem solving skills land on laying across everyone so that he has the benefit of being a nuisance to three people at once. And so Techno is wedged right in the middle of the family, caught between the father and eldest, with the baby’s legs sprawled over him vaguely like a seat belt. Tech doesn’t care and is fully willing to dump Tommy on the ground, but then the aircraft starts taking off. Clearly he is despised by fate, as Techno is trapped in the center of the Crafts. And, since it is transportation entertainment, which is legally distinct from family movie night, Tommy cackles maniacally and to the shock and horror of everyone else starts up Frozen II, refusing to watch anything else no matter how they plead and beg. Techno, personally, has never seen the first, and has legitimately no idea what is even happening. Hell. Pure hell. What in the world could he have ever done to deserve this? Is plagiarism really that bad of a sin? 

As soon as the roaming light turns on, Tommy is unceremoniously shoved off, Techno poking around the plane regardless of the myriad of protests at him fleeing. Next compartment he finds is a rather lovely sleeping area. Techno raids the mini-fridge for soda cans. He can decide if he wants to drink it or shake it up and douse someone in carbonation later. At this point he can diagnose something as an improvised weapon at a glance. Combined with the breath mints in the meeting room section, it could be something. 

The next door is firmly locked, to a degree that is a little ridiculous. Techno frowns at it, realizing the key copies he shoved into his left sock aren’t really going to be useful outside the house. Not that he could just leave it there, though, not with the chance of being found. Man, he’d hoped those would be a bit more useful. Later, he promises himself. 

He taps at the blackened glass. Every other door window is see through. But Phil called this a business deal, so it’s not impossible to assume whatever lies behind is highly illegal. So, could be like. Idk. Guns? Yeah probably. Lots of them. And venomous vipers, really big ones. Maybe a superweapon to blow up the moon or Techno’s childhood house. Figuring his imagination is getting him nowhere, he supposes the worst thing that can happen if he asks is to receive a lie. So, he pokes his head in the compartment everyone occupies. “Hey what’s the locked room for?”

“If someone needs privacy. Are you done exploring?”

Uh huh. Guess he isn’t getting a real answer. “You know I’ve always wondered what the cockpit looks like…” Techno suggests.

Phil is enthusiastic for a second, before catching himself and snorting. “Like I’d let you get anywhere close enough to hijack the controls.”

“Worth a shot.” Techno roots around and finds the emergency parachutes, but Phil dissuades him, saying movies are rather poor portrayals of how they work, and that extensive training is needed to properly use them. 

“Nervous?” Wil asks.

“Yes.”

“Is this your first time?”

“No, I’ve been nervous lots of times. Though sometimes I get nervous on airplanes. And off airplanes. And existing in general.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re paranoid?”

“It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.”

“True!” Phil chimes in. “I keep telling my psychiatrist that.”

“Did they suggest going on a crime diet? Try to cut down on screwing people’s lives over? I hear that really helps with not making lots and lots of enemies,” Techno recommends. 

“You know Technoblade, I’m working on it. Self improvement is a process, and I’d say I’m making great strides. That’s what this trip is for, I’m cutting certain business ties. Withdrawing funds, the like. You ought to be proud of my growth.” Yeah, because no longer threatening lives is the same as saving them, is it? 

“Does this mean you aren’t making bazookas anymore?” Tommy asks, apparently not as absorbed in the Disney musical as everyone presumed. 

Phil’s smile freezes, an almost worried tinge to his plastic expression. “Where, ah, did you hear about that, sunshine?” 

“It’s true? You make bazookas? That’s AWESOME! I want to use one! Give me a tank for Christmas, Dad, I want to be powerful.”

He relaxes. “Once you’re an adult, like Wilbur.” 

“WILBUR GETS TO EXPLODE SH- STUFF AND I DON’T?!?!?!?” Tommy protests in outrage. “I’m almost twelve! That’s old enough!” 

“No it isn’t,” all three adults say in tandem. Tommy pouts.

The moment they’re in the villa, Technoblade and Thomas are off running, exploring every nook and cranny. Philza smiles at their backs, then gently pushes Wilbur towards them. “Go.” Wilbur hesitates, weighing his own perceived acceptance. He seems to settle on glum doubt, till Philza gives him another nudge. “You’re only ever going to feel like you belong if you try to.” Finally, he begins to stroll after his brothers. “They’re going to leave you in the dust at that pace,” Philza calls, and Wilbur snorts and begins to jog. 

Unlike the last house, this one has clearly been Techno-proofed in advance, to an actually impressive degree. Not that it stops him, especially with Wil and Tommy helping out. He’s about a dozen failed attempts in when it’s finally time for Phil to leave. Lacking the master sergeant is the perfect opportunity to disrupt the chain of command. 

Unfortunately, his soda cans are commandeered by the Craft children, which he allows given he doesn’t think his plan would be any more effective. So, he crouches behind the balusters with the two, waiting for the moment to strike. Tommy is giggling like the gremlin he is, and judging by a single glance Phil is well aware of their lurking. Still he continues talking with the door guard below, giving last minute instructions as he adjusts his cufflinks and prepares to leave for his Important Business Meeting. Mid lecture about not touching a single hair on anyone cough cough no idea who he’s talking about who tries to leave the house hack cough not a clue wheeze no matter how…creative they get, Phil is interrupted by a trio of war cries and a sudden shower of soda. The mentos’d geysers are incredibly impressive, though Techno is aghast, not foreseeing the full consequences. “Oh god that’s a white rug…”

“Yeah? The Armani suit is not the concern? Some rug is?”

“If you are going to say fashion words at me and expect a result you’re sadly mistaken, Wil.” 

“You pitiful fools,” Phil chuckles darkly. “You underestimate how prepared I am!” He rips away his suit to reveal a second one. It, however, is equally soaked. Phil frowns. “...I thought you boys would go for eggs again. Or the glitter. Why were you gathering glitter if not for this?”

Techno thinks about the drawer he found filled to the brim with his personal information, and the vast quantities of glitter and glue and ink and thumb tacks he subsequently poured into it. “Uhhh no reason.” 

“Making gifts,” Tommy suggests. 

“Yeah! It’s a Father’s Day card,” Wil tacks on. 

“Exactly!” Techno agrees, glad they’re quick thinkers. “...wait, wait, no, ignore the thing I just said–” it’s far too late, Phil is grinning ear to ear. “We were lying! L Y I N G.” Wil smacks his arm. “Ow! We didn’t make cards, I put glitter in your underwear drawer.” Technically, it’s only one of the numerous spots Techno has sabotaged. 

“That’s a…unique gift, but thank you son.”

“Bruh it’s like December, Father’s Day isn’t for months.” A beat, because Phil is still beaming at him. “And you are NOT my Dad,” he remembers to clarify. 

Phil hums. “That’s not what the birth certificate says.”

“Yeah, because you changed it!”

“Correction: I changed it back. And I let you keep your new first name and everything, it’s so cute and fiery, like you. You never thanked me for that.” Why would he?? Thanks for not completely destroying all his documentation? It’s going to be a headache to fix when he finally gets out. Techno huffs everytime he has to type in Technoblade Craft for an assignment, because anything labeled correctly isn’t actually sent to his teachers. Or, well, he used to; it’s been long enough that it’s automatic to write, but that’s beside the point. “Anyway, I gave you the results of the genetic testing and you still weren’t satisfied.” 

“Yeah, because it isn’t hard to use photoshop on the data from a DNA test? Or even use an enzyme that cuts in the same place for one or two genes we share. Or put his cell sample in twice. There’s a million ways to doctor the results, and you already have a history of messing with my data.” 

Phil sighs theatrically. “I try so hard and it’s never enough for you. Oh. Fu- crud, I do still have that meeting to catch.”

“No!” Tommy protests. “You’re sticky and gross and can’t leave us! You have to at least stay long enough to change!”

“Clingy. Actually, I don’t respect these associates, so I don’t care if I show up soaked head to toe in Coke products. Au revoir, don’t cause too much trouble,” he waves, disappearing out the door. The three foiled boys sit back, frowning at the door. Then Tommy elects to race between sliding down the bannister and running down the stairs, and the disappointment is forgotten, especially as Techno decides to beat the other two by climbing down a decorative column. 

The flourishes of the villa are far greater than that of what is supposedly a quaint apartment by Craft standards, and though pretty and interesting, for the most part they aren’t particularly useful for his endeavor. But it certainly means he isn’t bored, especially with Tommy and Wil around. Frankly he’s still exploring by the time the weekend is over. Sure, it’s still a prison, but Techno can’t lie, it’s a hell of a view. 

Obviously, it wasn’t that Technoblade had been particularly good at staying out of shenanigans. There was practically an explosion of attempts, as to be expected given the sudden array of brand new opportunities to him. Philza would have been more worried if there hadn’t been, as it would have meant something was wrong. Technoblade is simply testing the new confines, of course there’d be a spike in the data. But that had never really been the metric Philza measured success by, focusing more on how relaxed he is comparatively, how much time he spends with the rest of the family, how happy Technoblade is. By that scale, the weekend experiment has been fantastically successful. 

Techno stares at the menu blankly. It’s all Greek to him. Or, actually, if he squints, he can almost recognize it as French, though that just makes him feel worse, since theoretically he’s supposed to be passable at the language. The rest start commenting, pointing out options in flawless French to one another, Tommy getting clowned on by Wil, who roughly scuffs up the boy’s hair to great protest. Techno vaguely pieces enough together to guess that Tommy tried to order something from the wine section, but that’s about as far as his linguistic skills carry him.

It would be impossible to shift uncomfortably in his seat, given how wonderfully cushy it is, but boy does Techno try. There’s a slight echo to it all, the prestigious restaurant rather grand and empty of anyone save them and the waiters that seem to vanish whenever he blinks. Techno could try to subjugate them –if he actually knew the language. Though if Phil has been throwing around enough money to have the place all to themselves, he figures everyone is sufficiently bribed to the gills, even if he could string a sentence together. For some reason, ‘help help I’ve been captive for months’ wasn’t covered in his high school course. And even then, he can’t say he’s being held in the restaurant entirely against his will. It’s incredibly swanky, though that term is probably far too informal to cover the high ceilings glittering with chandeliers, or the indoor waterfall, or the gilded everything that Techno is increasingly certain isn’t fake gold. And it’s a new place. Techno likes new places. He didn’t even try to hijack the car, or sprint for the exits, or anything, that’s how excited he was to figure out what his surprise was. He’s positively domesticated at this point.

But while pretty, now that he’s here the social anxiety of being put in a completely foreign situation is growing on him. “Technoblade? What are you ordering?” Possibly, just possibly, Techno is trying to hide behind the menu, desperately scanning for even just one dish he can try to pronounce without completely butchering it. The fact he can’t see a single price listing is also really, really not helping. “It’s rather hard to choose, isn’t it. We can help you narrow it down. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…I’m thinking…” He raises the menu until his face is completely covered. “...I’m thinking I can’t read literally any of this,” he admits, feeling heat rise in his face. 

“Don’t you speak French? I thought you had lessons?”

“I think you wildly over estimate public schools.”

“Oh.” He frowns, as if having never contemplated the difference between a world class education and the bare minimum the state of California could get away with. “If there’s anything you feel your education is lacking, we can of course get tutors-”

“No.” Wait. Crap. That would be the perfect opportunity to get another person in the house to subjugate. But like hell is Techno’s pride going to take that. “Does my 4.0 look like I’m missing something?” And while in extremely stressful circumstances, no less. Like he said, getting kidnapped is NOT going to be even a blip in his grades if he has anything to say about it. “It’s just. Been a few years. And it didn’t cover millionaire eating options, for some reason.” 

Phil rises, pulling his seat over next to him, despite his protests. “Here, I’ll read it for you.”

“It’s fine! Really it’s fine, I can just get the same thing as someone else-”

“No, this is your reward, it’s going to be proper. Let’s see, this is the drinks section…” Philza bends over the menu with him, explaining the words. And, honestly, most of the dishes, since Technoblade has little cultural experience due to his sorry upbringing. Philza intends to rectify that, slowly letting him acclimate to the proper luxurious lifestyle he deserves. Eventually, he settles on a dish, Philza guiding him through the pronunciation since he insists on ordering for himself, dropping out of the conversation to determinedly mutter the name over and over in a way that’s just so adorable. He’s interrupted from smiling with paternal fondness by Wilbur calling him an utter sap in French. 

“It’s not my fault you three are the most perfect things I’ve ever created.” 

“I think Mum did most of the work.” 

Thomas makes a face. “Maybe for you. I’m a self made man.”

“I still raised you.”

“So now I know who to blame.” 

Likely even if English, the conversation would have sailed over Technoblade’s head, still furiously studying his order with the same fervor he devotes to just about everything. The accent is atrocious and he stumbles a bit, but the order is passable. “Uh. Por favor,” he tacks onto the end, appearing infinitely relieved when the servant disappears. His eyes widen to a satisfying degree when the plates are served. He finally tears his eyes away, staring at Philza. “Why’s the portion so small?”

Philza snorts. “Oh, just eat already.” He doesn’t have to say it twice, Technoblade digging in with gusto, pure bliss on his face. Though allowances must be made given he was raised by monsters, Technoblade doesn’t have much in the way of etiquette, particularly the way he snipes forkfuls off of his brother’s plates, much to their vehement protest. Well. Thomas doesn’t argue too much about the filched vegetables, but still Philza calms their rambunctiousness before a food fight begins. It would be a shame given the complimentary formal wear he’s wrangled them all into. An impressive feat, truly, given Wilbur’s preference for the tortured artist attire, Technoblade’s insistence that it not restrict his movement so he can still get up to his escapades, and Thomas’ commitment to wearing exclusively the same raglan sleeved tops. Unfortunately for their personal fashion tastes, Philza has decades more experience in being of willful disposition, and so got his way. 

“What can I bribe you with to get a family photo after this?” Philza inquires of Technoblade, already mentally picking through expert artists to transform it into a portrait. 

He hesitates, and for his blunder loses another bite of his meal to Wilbur. His smile fades as he begins to think. “Uh. Could we do stuff like this more often?”

Philza considers, or pretends to. He raises an eyebrow. “So you have more opportunities to escape?” 

“...Exactly.” But he hesitated. Philza’s breath catches, but he’s in negotiation mode and doesn’t give even a hint of it. Technoblade notices it as well, and he gains the strangest tinge to his expression, a slight furrowing of the brow, gaze losing focus and turning inward. 

Philza hums a little. “It would be awfully risky on my end.” True, but not particularly. He’s well aware of all Technoblade’s tactics by now, and should he ever succeed it shan't be terribly difficult to gather him back home where he belongs. Only worry is if someone else gets to him first. “I think it reasonable to raise my price. Would you agree to five photos for monthly outings?” 

“Yes.” He doesn’t even bother to bargain, which is absurd, especially given Philza already planned to do them anyway. Joy bubbles up in his heart. His boy is finally feeling at home. 

He shakes off the instincts that demand he not leave family dinner, because Techno can’t do this anymore. He drops his mask the moment the bathroom door shuts. What is he doing? What the hell is he actually doing, is this a scheme? Is this playing along to lower their guard? Because it sure doesn’t feel like it, and that’s starting to terrify him. Techno can’t be doing this if he ever wants to get back to his real family. 

What is he even trying to get back to? Because it’s pounding in his head, over and over, that Phil would never hurt him, and it’s a guarantee he’s never had before. He doesn’t have a chance of ever getting out, so why is he still resisting so much? Techno’s always been so stubborn, and it’s never done him favors. Never can he forgive them, naturally, but he’s at a loss to see how his resentment is serving him. 

Maybe if they’d been slower. Lured him in, let it be his choice. All this horror could have been avoided. Perhaps it would have taken time, he’s too wary, too skittish. Never could they replace his actual family, but Wil could have been his friend, Phil some type of support, someone he could lean on, Tommy– whatever they’re doing now. Techno doesn’t think friendship covers it and he’s too scared to unpack that. It could have been nice, not this awful mess. And as oblivious as he can get, it might’ve been years before he realized their true colors, and no doubt it would’ve been too late. 

But it’s useless speculation, the Crafts could never have done it in a sane, palatable manner. They just can’t help being themselves. As good a façade as they manage, it’s not a perfect illusion. 

Techno wishes it was, almost. He hates how badly he wants it. 

Splashing water on his face doesn’t help much, and Techno is left staring at the features that got him into all this trouble in the first place. But no, he doesn’t look like Wil at all. Sure his jaw is the same shape, and his ears, and his nose, and– well, he wouldn’t be in this mess if they weren’t pretty close. His back begins to hurt from leaning, and Techno decides he doesn’t actually care. He’s losing his mind alone in the most grandiose bathroom he’s ever seen; keeping up appearances doesn’t mean much anymore, and so he crawls on top of the elegant counter. He stares closer and closer, trying to find every single detail of difference. Techno frowns at where his hair is growing out, but, really, brown is like the most common option, it means absolutely nothing, even if it’s a similar shade. And their cheekbones are entirely different, his far sharper. Even if they’re starting to pad out after weeks of fantastic food. He shifts closer. No, and their eyes are an entirely different shape. Or, they’d appeared so, when dark eyebags underscored his, but that’s starting to fade since it’s hard to lose sleep with mattresses you can practically melt into. Plus, with recorded lectures it’s way easier to make comprehensive notes. Strange to think this situation could have reduced certain stresses in his life. He gets even closer to the mirror, scowling. They’re practically as different as possible for two basic white guys to be, and he’ll definitely prove it, their faces are incredibly different, even if that can just be chalked up to the way their different personalities fill the features. There’s got to be some detail that cements the truth, if he can just–

Bonk.

Techno rubs at his forehead. Ouch. He’d gotten too close, but it does little to deter him. He’s distinct from Wilbur. He has to be. It grows painful the longer he desperately looks for some innate disparity. Techno turns his back to the mirror, drawing himself up till his knees tuck to his chest. If he’s honest he’s been avoiding actually looking at mirrors for awhile now. He dreads what he’ll see, but more so what he wants to see. Techno will not and can not ever be part of that family. 

And what if they really are twins? What does that mean about his parents? It’s a terrible accusation to throw at Mom and Dad. And if they aren’t, what does that mean for his safety? Except, even then, he’s not entirely sure genetic distinction would put him in danger, not if Tommy is still clearly beneath the Angel of Death’s aegis. Techno buries his head in his knees, but it does little to ward of his swirling confusion. 

“Technoblade? Are you alright in there? You haven’t been poisoned, have you?” There’s a courtesy knock before Phil opens the door. “Ah. I was halfway convinced you’d be trying to make a trebuchet out of toilet paper somehow.” He should’ve tried, probably. That’s what he should have been doing, not getting consumed by doubt. “Dessert is almost here, it would be a shame to…are you…crying?”

Techno isn’t aware of that. But perhaps that explains why his eyes burn and the world blurs to abstract. He’d been hoping that was some type of special effect intended to wow rich patrons. Sharp footsteps ring out, echoing in the marble chamber. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he manages, only now noticing how much his throat squeezes. 

Phil reaches for him, then hesitates. “Can I…?” 

“I don’t know.”

Accepting it as some half permission, Phil gently takes his face, a thumb wiping the first tear that finally spills over. “Shh, it’s alright.”

“Why don’t I know? I’m supposed to.” He’s the smart one, the guy who has it all planned out. Techno’s known what he wants since day one, and no one will ever stop him. Determination runs through his veins just as surely as blood, and yet he has no idea now. 

Philza tilts his head down till their foreheads rest against one another. “Emotions can be extremely complicated. You’re allowed to be confused, Technoblade. I’m afraid it’s rather normal for the rest of us mere mortals. Trying to know everything all the time, while impressive, dear, must be utterly exhausting.” Oh, but of course his son would be scared. Family scarred him so horribly last time, survival instincts must be screaming in his ears. Philza strokes his head, offering soothing whispers, pulling him into a hug he doesn’t resist. Technoblade is still, frozen in the incomplete embrace. He can’t return it, not yet. It’s alright, really. He doesn’t have to be ready. 

Maybe– maybe this would be nice, if it were real. For a moment Techno can see it. They go to dinners like this once a week. He’s upset over some trivial detail, but Phil will ease his worries with soft affection and fatherly advice. If he could just give into the illusion that half this family wasn’t kidnapped, ignore the way this luxury is purchased. If Techno could just pretend it had always been like this it would all be so much easier. 

But he can’t. He can’t ever. He doesn’t know how to stop fighting. If for a moment he ignores the instincts that insist he’s in danger, the worst could come to pass. Or the best.

Phil only muddles his head further, murmuring soft assurances as he strokes Techno’s hair. Techno knows exactly what type of man he’s supposed to be, and Phil contradicts at every turn, patient where he should be intolerant, kind where he should be cruel, loving when he should be heartless. The image is almost perfect, save the brief instances of deadly anger. Techno has to believe in those flashes. In the moment when the façade slips and pure wrath bleeds out. They’re all he has. Though impossible to rectify the two images, he knows it's important to focus on the bad things in life, cause if you miss a pretty flower, it doesn't really matter. If you miss ONE BEAR, you’re dead. Forever. To mistake the Crafts for the mask they present will destroy him. 

This is the honeymoon phase, the apology part of the cycle, where Phil has to work to rekindle the love he injured. Techno is so achingly familiar. Eventually it’s going to deteriorate, his anxiety coiling tighter and tighter until Phil snaps. He just doesn’t know in what way. If the first incident was kidnapping, how could that escalate? Restrict his freedom to the point of cutting off circulation? Completely cut off outside contact until there’s no one anchoring him to reality outside of Phil’s story? He won’t hurt Techno, not by his own logic. No, Techno will be protected and suffocate beneath it, he just doesn’t know what form it will take yet. But whatever it is, Phil will apologize, and promise it’ll never happen again, using soft words and gentle touch and extravagant gifts as balm for the harm he’s done. Again, the false peace fading, and then tension growing again, and on, and on…

“I won’t ever stop trying,” he croaks. It’s compulsive at this point. 

“I know,” Phil soothes. He isn’t particularly concerned. Techno feels so, so small as he’s guided into place till his head is tucked into Phil’s shoulder, positioned neatly into the role of an upset child. “That’s perfectly alright, gemstone. I will never hold that against you.” It’s like he’s just some kid receiving unremarkable mercy for their rebellious streak. Like all his desperation is simply a fun quirk to his personality, not a bone deep need that’s consuming him whether he wants it to or not.  

“Why?”

“You’re not a father. You don’t know what it’s like to see little eyes open for the first time and have your entire existence just…change. To hold your baby -your very own flesh and blood- and feel his tiny heart fluttering against you, see him smile for the first time, hear him laugh. And all your other priorities just fall away because nothing in the world could ever be more important.” His touch tightens, almost hungry, clawing. Painful only in the sense it reflects how Phil will never let him go. “And then you were stolen from me. I don’t think I can describe the unadulterated anguish of realizing you were gone. But before that moment, when my life fell apart. When I cradled you both in my arms, I made a promise that I would be there for you always, no matter what. That I would love you unconditionally, and above all, that you would know that. And then I was utterly absent for nineteen years.

“I know you won’t understand that. You can’t, you’re still a child. But there’s a different feeling I think you’ve known before, like stepping into the echo of a ghost. I won’t say I was in any way comparable to your suffering, because I don’t know if my father was a violent man. I scarcely knew him at all, which was the problem.” Techno’s chest tightens as he remembers the time he hit Tommy. Because this he can understand, the horror of falling into pattern, of being predestined to be a monster. The shadow of it passes over, chilling his spine, because he’d have no idea how to raise a kid based only on what not to do. Not that it’s going to be a problem he actually has to deal with, but it’s still a horrid thought to contend with. “I swore I wouldn’t be anything like him, that my children would never ache for my presence. But I was made into him against my will. I abandoned you utterly. I let you fall into the hands of those contemptible people, and I can’t ever be forgiven for that.” A man forced into his personal nightmare, incapable of moving on from his grief. Desperate to not be negligent to the point of overbearing, controlling, possessive. No doubt he was destined to be proprietary from the start, but the loss of his child and wife exacerbated it. Phil said it himself. Priorities shift. What else could possibly matter at that point? Not morals or human lives or his own child’s wants. It’s unconditional love, alright, on both ends. He is the only thing Phil cares about. A declaration like that can only leave Techno breathless with terror, with yearning. 

“I only ask that you let me try to make it up all the years I wasn’t there to you. That’s all I want. I don’t ask that you ever accept me, but please, love, just let me try.” 

Techno closes his eyes, recognizing his answer doesn’t matter here. Nothing he ever does will affect Phil’s unwavering affection. There is both horror and comfort in that, in realizing his agency is gone. He cannot escape. He cannot stop trying. And even then, he will lose nothing in the eyes of his captor, his struggle so meaningless it doesn’t even matter. The promise of soft comfort is almost too much, no matter how it under mimes him. 

So Techno nods into the crook of Phil’s neck, cocooned in the prison of his warm embrace. 

Phil holds his hand and leads him back to the table, where dessert and the rest of the family wait. It’s like nothing happened at all in the bathroom. Warmth settles back over the scene. There’s loud laughter, and delicious food, and endearing teasing, and love, and…

and…

And he needs to get out. He needs to get out right now, or else he might not ever want to. If he leaves, right now, they won’t have a chance of being a family. He’ll be safe.

Escape 2: The door creaks open and he’s awake in a pounding heart beat. He takes a second to disentangle himself from fear as he realizes he’s not in his home at all. Techno’s sigh is half laughter at himself. He really is paranoid. But no, it’s just Phil finding new ways to be creepily affectionate. “This one’s low even for you,” he grumbles, voice low and rumbly from his interrupted sleep. “I don’t want a bedtime story or whatever crock you’ve concocted as bonding this ti-”

The gag is shoved into his mouth to stop him from screaming. Techno swings wildly, blindly dodging out from hands reaching for him. Fist connecting with their skull in a meaty thunk, Techno leaves the assailant tangled up in blankets and lunges for the door, tearing the gag off just as thick hands worm into his hair and pull him back. “PHILZA-”

The world explodes into nothing as Technoblade gets exactly what he wanted.

Chapter Text

Tommy knows it’s going to be a bad day when he goes to sleep in France and wakes up in the bunker. Tommy hates the bunker. Not that it isn’t nice or whatever, and it doesn’t scare him like it used to once he realized Dad just gets stricken by paranoia occasionally. Like, technically he knows Techno got kidnapped as a baby, but besides crazies, who would want to hurt them? Wilbur says not to worry about it too much, so he doesn’t. Still, they’re usually super weird after a bunker day. But he usually gets extra hugs, so that makes up for it a little bit. 

Tommy rubs the sleep from his eyes, tumbling out of bed. He wishes he’d gotten a heads up, since he would’ve texted Tubbo prior. But now he has to survive with only staff for company, which sucks since most act like wooden dolls, but there’s few vital enough that they feel safe enough to let personality show. Tommy understands it though. Dad’s disappointment is like the scariest thing in the whole world. He just looks so sad, like you kicked a puppy in front of him or something. 

Sam, at least, is an exception to the rule, important enough to be irreplaceable. Unfortunately his personality that does show up is still kinda boring, but it’s better than nothing, which is what Tommy has at the moment. The bodyguard offers him a little wave as Tommy rolls over in his bed and groans. “Is Wilbur here this time?” It’s inconsistent at best as to his presence, though he tends to be fuming when here. But apparently he’s going to be missing for this one. “Oh. Well, is Techno here?” He doesn’t think the bunker has been Techno-proofed, and technically he’s an adult, but Dad is super overprotective over him, which makes sense. Maybe this will be tolerable if Techno stays with him. However, he is equally absent. Tommy pouts, realizing he’s going to be alone. Ugggh. He rolls out of what is evidently going to be the wrong side of the bed. 

With a running start, Tommy slams a headbutt into Sam, bouncing off the body armor. Sam snorts and does a complicated maneuver that leaves Tommy being hoisted upside-down by the ankle. Dangling, Tommy squirms, crawling on the man until he ends up sitting on his shoulders. His nimble fingers fiddle with the buckles strapping Sam’s mask on, until a gloved hand swats him away. Tommy lets up, instead commanding Sam to carry him to the kitchen. Never has he actually seen Sam’s face, given the frankly freaky lookin’ gas mask he alway wears. His bodyguard kinda looks like a B-grade horror baddie, or Darth Vader, what with the ventilation slits that look like a scowl. But that’s alright, Dad says it’s so the wronguns get scared away so they can’t hurt Tommy. Still, it gave him nightmares when he was little, especially since Sam never takes it off. 

Which makes it hard to eat. Actually, he’s never seen Sam consume like anything. Maybe he’s a robot? Regardless, Sam doesn’t join him for breakfast. Tommy’s legs swing, not quite brushing the ground. Save for him, the dining room table is completely vacant. Four empty chairs watch his every move, possibly to never be filled again. Tommy shakes the thought away. There’s no actual threat, just Dad getting spooked again. 

Though, Techno’s information causes Tommy to hesitate. Dad apparently sells weapons. And weapons are dangerous. Ergo, there might actually be danger. Maybe. Tommy still isn’t entirely sure of the ramifications. “Saaaam. What’s an arms dealer?”

“You’re bright, Tommy. Put it together. It’s someone who deals arms.”

“If you don’t give me a proper answer you’re going to be dealing with my arms alright,” Tommy threatens. He proceeds to follow through as well, wrestling with the soldier.

He’s not usually in the bunker for a whole day. Tommy’s about ready to start scratching at the walls. But he’s shepherded into getting ready for bed. The bathroom feels surprisingly empty as he brushes his teeth now that his brothers aren’t in there joking with him. He almost takes the braid out of his hair, but then decides he can wait till Techno’s back since he likes the feeling of his fingers meticulously moving through his hair. 

By the third day, he’s starting to get rowdy. Well, Dad would say he’s always rowdy (which is true) but you better believe it’s extra bad now! Not that he hasn’t ever been in the bunker for that long, he once spent two mind bogglingly dull weeks in here. Tommy is pretty sure it’s basically persecution, which is very unpoggers. It’s un-be-lievable! He’s trapped in a little hole for god knows how long! He’s probably going to go insane! Tommy’s going to report Dad for child abuse if this keeps going on. 

Though it’s hard on his throat, Tommy diligently pesters Sam for about half a day straight when he FINALLY gets confirmation that Dad should be coming later that day. Waiting is absolute torture, probably the worst kind there is. Not even swimming in the pool, or playing games that aren’t publicly released yet, or harassing Sam can save him from boredom. The moment Dad steps out of the elevator, Tommy sprints for him and jumps into his arms. Naturally he’s caught, wrapped up in Dad's embrace. He throws his arms around Dad’s neck, snuggling in while he bemoans how abhorrent and dire his circumstances have been. Dad says nothing, simply squeezes him a little too tight. Nice. Affection. Just what Tommy deserves in recompensation for his terrible plight. He sticks his tongue out at Wilbur to lord it over him, but Wilbur just has the most worn out expression, drawing in close and joining the hug. Oh. That’s a new one. Usually Wilbur doesn’t join hugs super willingly. Must be a family hug then. He looks around eagerly for Techno, then realizes he’s probably going to do just about anything to escape given how much he dislikes contact. Then, he realizes he can’t actually see Techno. Then, he realizes Dad’s hands are digging in a bit too much. 

“Where’s Techno?” he asks. 

“He’s gone,” Dad croaks out, and Tommy is suddenly caught in a vice grip, the embrace painful. 

It takes Tommy a minute for it to sink in. He tries to be happy for Techno, he really does. After the last three days Tommy is all too sympathetic to feeling cooped up. But still, his heart sinks. He doesn’t want to admit he hoped Techno would never succeed, but Tommy has harbored the selfish desire for a while now. “...okay. Okay. How’d he escape?” 

“He didn’t.” His words are fragile, trembling, till Tommy realizes it’s not only Dad’s voice that’s shaking. The pit of Tommy’s stomach drops as Dad collapses to his knees. He only draws him closer and closer, and it ought to be painful but Tommy can’t register it as confusing emotions swirl in his head. 

“What? Dad, what does that mean?” But he can’t answer, his face buried in Tommy’s braided hair. Tommy glances up to Wilbur for help and only finds a face that looks like it’s seen hell and back. “...Wilbur?”

Wilbur sinks to the ground. “He’s been taken, Tommy.” His voice is low, and level, and like he’s practiced saying it a million times and is still finding his throat unexpectedly failing from stress. In short, he sounds like Techno. 

It’s this closest thing to him Tommy will have for a long time.

Techno wakes with familiar pains across his body. His scalp is sore enough that he can tell chunks of hair are missing without even seeing it. Blood fills his mouth. The headache is kinda killer, too. Most of the blows peppered across him are tolerable, though there’s a pretty tender one from what feels like a kick to the ribs that makes breathing painful. Nothing on his face. Good. He doesn’t have to worry about applying makeup before school.  

It’s a swift inventory, which is good, because he doesn’t have more than a few seconds before a bag is pulled off his head. That’s, uh, new? Techno blinks at the quartet of strangers surrounding him like a pack of voracious wolves. Atavistic instinct tells him one false move and he’ll be ripped apart. Not that he has much of an option there, his wrists are tightly zip tied to the chair just a few hair widths away from cutting off circulation. Combined with similar restraints on his ankles and the additional rope binding his chest, it leads to the odd impression they’re rather scared of him getting out. About all he can move is his head, which Techno takes full advantage of, counting up the exits, number of people, the gunbarrel inches away from his temple, the acrid scent of cigarettes, the table of concerning ‘supplies,’ the dingy floor well stained with human misery. A large man next to him, a woman leaning in the corner, a teen trying to copy her to a lesser degree of ‘tall dark and mysterious,’ and some presence lurking behind that he can feel like a sixth sense. Bruuuh. Is he double kidnapped?? Or triple kidnapped, if Phil is to be believed, which he isn’t. 

Oh, right, the gun resting on his face. Yeah, Techno figures if they were going to kill him they would’ve already. Sure easier than abducting a guy, which Phil can probably attest to. These goons find use in his life, even if only to get in a bit of torture before his body is shoved into a backalley dumpster later. It is essential to his survival to find out their goals before it’s too late. Judging by the blotching color of contusions on his arms, it’s been a few hours at the minimum, in which time he hasn’t been rescued. As intensively familiar as Techno is with severe Craft security, whoever he’s dealing with must have massive resources and capabilities. They must be powerful if Philza Craft has no way of getting him. 

Philza Craft has no way of getting him.

The epiphany comes quietly, for all that his entire world has completely changed. Techno has no idea how, but these people have done what he could not. It’s not impossible, then. And though battered and bleeding in the heart of the wolf den, he can’t help the massive smile scrawling across his face. “Oh my god,” he whispers. “I’m…free. I think I’m going to cry.” 

For the insolence of speaking -over someone’s monologue, he belatedly realizes, having zoned out- a fist is slammed into his solar plexus hard enough that he coughs up blood. Which, in full fairness, he already has blood in his mouth, but still. Techno’s still gasping for air when fingers dig into his jaw and jerk his head up fast enough to get whiplash. “I’ll have no more of that silver tongue,” the man growls into his ear, “unless you’d like me to save you the trouble and cut it out for you. The Angel can’t save you now.” 

Techno has the lovely thought of: oh. Haha. I’m in danger. It is followed, naturally, by the corollary: when am I not? He’s slackjaw in fear till there’s a flash of steel in his periphery. His jaw snaps shut, teeth slicing into his cheek and drawing blood, but he only clenches down tighter as a wicked knife peels back part of his lip. The man chuckles darkly, then pulls away. With his eyes not narrowed on the blade, Techno can take quick stock, finding the man to be of intimidating size, shockingly pale in a way that makes the slices of scars stand out against his skin, slits like gills through his cheeks and replica tear tracks ripping down his face. Hatred burns in bloodshot eyes, his visage truly ghastly. “Never thought you’d give in so quickly. We’ve all dreamed of this day for years, believe me, Wilbur. Least you can do is make it fun.” 

Wilbur. Oh god they think he’s Wilbur. No, no, no, that’s bad. “I’m not Wilbur Craft,” Techno insists desperately through still clenched teeth, realizing it’s not merely abduction but something far more sinister. Revenge, this is for revenge, he’s going to take the punishment for every sin laid at Wil’s feet. The thought is cold and horrifying. He grimaces as his hair is yanked. On instinct Techno chases the force to avoid chunks of his scalp from being torn out. He recognizes that as a mistake only once the knife is pressed against his newly exposed jugular. His own heartbeat slams against the cold steel. 

“You’re funny. No, go on, keep talking. We’d love to be entertained,” the ghastly fellow hisses. Vultures begin to circle in, passing in and out of his periphery, spiking panic. 

Right. This is going to be something to be handled extremely delicately. His gulp only presses his throat closer to the promised death. “Thank you for saving me.” 

There’s a sharp laugh from the person wrenching his hair, smoke blown into his face. Techno holds still as a cigarette is put out against his shoulder. Ah, a classic. A hand twists tighter around his locks, his head pulled back even further, just enough to glance a shock of blond hair and wisps of smoke peeling from the corners of a darkly bearded mouth. “Don’t thank us yet, because you sure as hell aren’t seeing those pearly gates once we’re done with you.” 

But his throat hasn’t been slit yet. The pressure increases, droplets of blood bubbling up, but he’s starting to think the fact they want to draw out Wil’s death might work out for him. Not the, uh, torture part, but if living with Phil has taught him anything, Techno knows he’s resourceful and determined. He might just make his way out of this one. “This Craft family is utterly insane, you gotta believe me. They abducted me weeks ago and I’ve been trying to escape ever since. This is the first time I’ve gotten away from those wackos.” Okay, he is bruised and battered and tied to a chair, but that counts as a rescue, right? 

The knife dude snorts at him. “Oh yes, the insanity is clearly inherited.” 

“No! No, I’m not Wilbur! Ahh! My name is Technoblade Piglin. Got it? Tech. No. Blade. Not whatever fancy British royalty name theme they got going. I’m not Wilbur! And I do NOT look like him!”

“Technoblade…Piglin. That’s an interesting name.” The energy of the room shifts, but not in a way he can put his finger on. But the knife no longer presses against his throat, instead twiddling in the man’s hands. 

“Yah my mom picked it out for me,” he responds automatically, given how often he’s dealt with that comment. Might not be a bad idea to lighten the mood, though, unless they get irritated and kill him for not being properly intimidated. 

“Sounds fake,” Smoker challenges.

“It’s literally just my name. I’d tell you to check my birth certificate but the Crafts altered all my legal documents. Listen. I’m really not Wil. I’m just an unfortunate rando who happens to look like him. The Crafts are delusional, kidnapped me because of it. Surely you understand they’re awful people if you’re, uh, doing this. You don’t know how much I never want to see any of them again.” Because, if he’s honest, even Techno doesn’t know how much he wants that. But now is not the time for any sliver of doubt. Shoving down all his complicated feelings, Techno compartmentalizes it all. Doesn’t matter. He’s out now, if he can manage to successfully navigate these villains. He’ll be whatever he has to be to survive, and can unpack it all later. 

Scarface and Cigarette lean together and have a conversation that was definitely not covered in Honors French II. Or is that Italian?? Techno has no idea. It’s a heated debate, Scarface gesturing far more sharply with the knife than he’d prefer, but eventually they turn to him and demand proof. “Uh. My hair? No, no, he can grow that out. Uh. I could say something Wil never would? Wait! I’m American! My accent is entirely wrong! And believe me, I’ve tried to mimic his voice. Locked him in a closet and stole his clothing and everything. It was over literally by the time I opened my mouth. It was atrocious. I mean, do you hear how gruff and deep my voice is? It’s ‘cause my real parents smoked like a bunch.” They, obviously, are not particularly convinced, and demand proof. His first attempt is abysmal to the point where even he is embarrassed. “No, no, I can do better than that.” He clears his throat and gets his voice up about as high as he can manage. “‘Ello. I’m Wil-buh Croft. I reckon I love the Queen and e’splosions and drugging slahsh kidnapping poohr Tech-No.”

“Eh, it’s kinda convincing,” a younger looking goon covered in nautical tattoos mutters, before getting elbowed by Cigarettes. 

“You dolt! That isn’t even the right dialect!”

“Wait, there's more than one British accent??” Techno asks. “I have no clue then.”

“Supposedly they’ve held you hostage for months and you don’t know what they sound like?”

“If I’m real honest I prefer to tune out when they’re speaking. It tends to freak me out. Phil once rattled off my social security number to win an argument.” It’s almost as bad as the attempts at fatherly advice. Not that he wouldn’t give anything to have Phil telling him how to get through this encounter alive. He bets Phil deals with crap like this all the time. Probably deserves it too. 

The knife flashes in Scarface’s hands. “Need something a bit more substantial evidence wise for what you’re trying to peddle, Wilbur.” 

“I mean, you guys are on some type of revenge quest, I feel like the bar for normal situations is screwed.” Uhhh. Crap. He needs some gotcha, not the tiny little details about his appearance that are DEFINITELY different from Wil. “I can tell you what a loaf of bread actually costs?” No, they want something more impressive. “Uh. What does Wil do…oh, he’s a theater major, and I have stage fright.” A beat, in which the criminals stare at him. He’s rambling, he knows he is, but Techno has no idea what detail will save him. Hopefully he’s entertaining before they start waterboarding him or whatever. “OH RIGHT! Right, the, uh, kingpin’s kid part.” Techno still isn’t entirely sure what Wil does? “I can’t tell you the first thing about explosions, except that the one time I stole his C4 and tried to blow the whole family up I forgot to get the detonator.” The smoker holding his hair at least finds that one funny, snorting. “I mean, the fact I don’t carry explosives on me at all times is a pretty solid indicator that I’m not Wil.” 

“He always has explosives on him?” Cigarettes demands. Techno nods hesitantly, bracing as his scalp is suddenly yanked at, but then the tension is released entirely, Cigarettes letting go of him entirely and pacing excitedly. “That’s so– so– cool,” they hiss, incensed. “I should start doing that. No, better, I need to top that somehow–” he stops abruptly, leaning right into Techno’s personal bubble, who crinkles his nose at the smell of smoke that Techno is suddenly less sure can be entirely blamed on cigarettes. “What types? Were they powder? He strikes me as a powder guy. How long does he set his delay caps? What’s his preferred primer?”

“I dunno, I’m pretty over my head. I’m just a writer.”

“Clearly, by the tale you’re concocting,” Scarface sneers. “You expect us to believe these absurd lies?”  

“I don’t know. He seems legit,” Cigarettes offers, his smile toothy. Techno nervously returns it. At least one guy seems to be warming up to him. Unfortunately, that turns out to be a bad phrase in context. 

“I don’t buy it. Light him up.” The apparent pyromaniac’s eyes visibly dilate, and suddenly every instinct Techno has is screaming at him to run. Techno wrenches with all his might at the zipties and only succeeds in scraping his wrists. The wolves are starting to circle closer, save for a tall woman in the corner who looks away as the inked teen seizes a bucket of water. Scarface’s bloodshot eyes latch onto him. He’s not gleeful like Cigarettes, but there’s a glimmer of deep hatred in his gaze. “One mistake, Wilbur. Desperate men aren’t reasonable men; and the Syndicate has made desperate men of us all. But you don’t carry yourself like a desperate man. That’s the detail that gave you away, you’re too cocky for being abducted.”

“I told you!” Techno jerks away as Cigarettes begins flicking a lighter. “They kidnapped me, I’ve gotten a little used to it. I’m not Wil, I hate that guy, he’s the one who lured me in and– Torture doesn’t– doesn’t work, you know,” he panics, because apparently he hasn’t been panicking enough for their liking. “That’s a well documented fact! I’m not lying, you’d know if I was lying, everyone always does. I’m only going to tell you what I already have!” 

“Normal people don’t have as high a pain tolerance as you clearly do.” Okay, sure, SURE, he woke up in immense pain but like, okay? And??? He has more important things on his mind!

“That’s thanks to my par-”

Something is burning. Techno freezes. It’s a noxious smell, and it’s going to be one he can’t forget for the rest of his life. His stomach nearly upchucks, and his head whips around to see little orange lights crawling up rose strands, horrid smoke billowing up around his head. It doesn’t click for a second, that he’s choking on the scent of his own hair burning. But when it does, Techno is screaming and thrashing in atavistic instinct. It doesn’t hurt, not yet, but curls of flame race upwards. It’s more fear than any real pain, threatening warmth spreading. Or, it was, till the back of the chair no longer protected him. Heat spreads across his back in searing ripples, eating holes in the fabric of his shirt and pressing burning hell into his skin. It’s only a moment of agony before the tattooed kid shoves him face first into a bucket of water. Cool salvation pours over, soothing the first degree burns. Techno relaxes, till he realizes the hand gripping the back of his neck refuses to let him resurface. His lungs begin to burn, but a moment before they give out he’s pulled back up. 

“Oh he could’ve gone a little longer,” Cigarettes whines as he gasps down air. The inked kid murmurs assent. 

“Shut up, Blaze. Save the cremation for later.”

“I’m not– ‘m not Wil, I’m not,” Techno wheezes, spluttering on the water and blood and ash on his tongue. Fear wraps around his throat like a noose, but it’s a familiar feeling. “I don't know what I can do to prove it, but I’m not. I’m not. One room over and you’d have been right. An easy mistake, I know, but if you go back you’ll find the real guy.” If he’s honest, he’s not keen on Wil being tortured either, but self preservation is running high at the moment. 

“Yes, because we’re going back now that security is swarming over everything.” 

“Hey Ghast?” Blaze pipes up. “I think I found your proof.” 

The scarred man snarls but walks over, and Techno’s head twists to try to keep an eye on him as he passes behind the chair. “...huh. That wasn’t in any report.” His old scars are traced over by a rough hand, though there’s not much room for him to jerk away from the touch. 

“That’s what I was trying to tell you about,” Techno mutters. “My parents made sure I had a high pain tolerance.” Frankly, he’s just annoyed. Seriously? That’s the thing that convinces them? Bruh. Thanks, Mom and Dad. Saved yet again by the tragic backstory. Whatever, he should seize the opportunity. He kicks his brain into focus, but for some reason it’s hard to match his earlier energy after they set him on fire. “Right, well, if I were Wil, I’d have gotten plastic surgery or something, wouldn’t I? And it would probably be in the news or something, that Phil’s brat was attacked. Spinning public sympathy in his favor. I feel like your organization at the very least would know about something like that, right?” 

“Huh,” Ghast finally admits. “You really aren’t Wilbur Craft. The Angel of Death won’t care one whit. What do we do with you?” 

“We end him,” the dark woman in the corner says softly, sending a chill down his spine. She’s been silently watching the whole time, or he thinks she has. It’s hard to tell given the long hair hiding her gaze. She’s probably the tallest person he’s ever seen, and in only a blink she moves from the wall to looming over him. From between ebony strands he catches a glimpse of a cold, lethal eye, and he ducks his head, terrified. 

Oh. Right. These are people that kidnapped and assaulted him. Maybe. Maybe not the best crowd to suddenly hold no value to. “Listen. I’m literally just some guy. But! But, here’s the thing: I know their exact security set up. Had to if I was going to try and escape so many times. I can tell you everything about these loonies, when they take their tea, how many guards they employ, everything. Keys! I have keys, check my left shoe. I stole the keys once, made duplicates.” The tattooed teen is ordered to check and glowers, but sure enough pulls out a jangle of forged keys. “Probably should’ve checked me when I was unconscious,” Techno continues. “If I really was Wil I’d have probably blown us all up to high hell. Anyway, yeah, those work on the house I was being kept in.”

“You’re…resourceful,” Ghast begrudgingly admits. “How’d you manage that?” 

Techno brightens, since he personally considers that one of his more brilliant endeavors. He explains it, perhaps bragging a little, but he figures it’s not a bad idea to outline exactly how useful he can be. Not that they really need a pair of crappy keys if they managed to break past immense security, but it’s more like…a job interview. Yeah. Only difference is if he fails he’ll die, but honestly his anxiety already treats a normal one like that? So actually it’s exactly like a job interview. “I can give you the address, of course, I was able to work it out based on one time when I escaped and ran through the neighborhood. I memorized the surroundings and once recaptured I crawled through Google Earth to pinpoint the location.” Actually, he’d figured out the address based on Amazon deliveries; he’d only checked the veracity through Google Earth. But he can embellish the truth a little if it gets him a position that isn’t six feet under. “Look. There’s clearly gaps in your data about the Crafts if you didn’t even realize they had me prisoner. I can fill that for you. I have invaluable knowledge that you can’t get if my brains are splattered on the wall.”

There’s a moment of silence where all Techno can hear is his own pounding heartbeat. Then Blaze splits into a wide, manic grin. “I think I like this one.” 

Ghast’s bloodshot eyes pin on him. “...you got bravado, Piglin. I’ll give you that. Sure, I suppose you seem sharp enough to have some use.” 

“Uh, most people call me Techno.” 

“Alright, Piglin.” He tosses a look to the tall woman in the corner. 

“No.” Her voice is sharp and raspy, and she doesn’t budge from her position. Ender, Techno mentally dubs her, since all he knows is she wanted to end him. “Waste of resources.” 

“Well it’s settled two to one. Congrats, you get to live another day.” 

“Stop! I haven’t voted yet!” The tattooed kid insists. Squidkid, Techno lands on, given how much ink he has. 

“You’re not old enough,” Blaze smirks. He’s handed a fake ID and pockets it, shrugging. “Sure, what’s your vote?” 

“I say we kill him and throw his body in the river!!” 

“Seems we’re tied,” Ghast sighs.

“No, actually, I’m the one tied,” Techno pipes up from where he’s roped to the chair. Typically, how good a pun is should be measured by the quantity of murderous looks received; however, given the circumstances, Techno goes absolutely rigid and tries not to look like his throat is as easy to slice as it is. 

“Boss should settle it.”

Squidkid pales. “This isn’t important enough for her. She’ll be mad we botched it. Besides, he’ll just betray us the first moment he can.”

“I’ll sell them out in a heartbeat! I hate them just as much as you guys do.” Well, probably not, given the fact they were crazy enough to kidnap Wil and also the possible Stockholm Syndrome that Techno is adamantly Ignoring at the moment. He can sort out emotions later once he has a later. 

“No. No you don't, you have no idea what the Angel’s done to me,” Ghast hisses. They proceed to go around in a circle and share all the ways the Craft family had ruined their lives. It’s actually a great bonding experience. Honestly very relieving to know Techno isn’t the only one being screwed over. It’s not hard to piece together the kind of torture Ghast faced under the Angel of Death’s hand given he wears it on every inch of his skin. Blaze clicks his lighter the whole time he talks, almost like it’s some sort of comfort, as he talks about the day half his town exploded under the whims of Wilbur. Squidkid mumbles about being the one to find his butchered family, and Ender refuses to speak but from gist Techno gathers she now has hydrophobia for a very good reason. 

And, past their personal experiences, the conversation turns to dark gossip, colleagues and friends no longer left in any state for revenge, careers imploded and families torn in half and bodies that couldn’t even be identified afterwards. Technically Techno had suspected the Crafts were ruthless, but the number of torture-murders popping up in the conversation is somehow making Techno feel like he has gotten off light in his dealings. In fact, he feels a little sick hearing about some of their exploits. He’d known it was blood money but Jesus Christ. He’d thought he’d understood the name before, but only now is it finally, finally, sinking in why Philza is heralded as the Angel of Death. 

(He’s wrong, of course. Technoblade has so much more to learn.)

There’s a sort of kinship between them all. Not that Techno is stupid enough to lower his guard for one second. If he listens he catches the undercurrent, in the words they toss around so carelessly that they don’t even think to censor them. Surely their hands bloody, violence stitched into their bones in a way that is deeply familiar. But there’s a thread of sympathy he can latch onto so he can function enough like they’re normal people. It’s what he needs to carry himself with a lighthearted aura to diffuse the lethal tension. Tell a few jokes, murmur a few sympathies. He’s just your friendly neighborhood Techno, no need to torture him. He understands what you’re going through. 

“Hi, my name is Techno.”

“Hi, Techno,” the funnier members of the gang chorus. 

“I’m 18, from California, and this is my first time at an AA meeting. I’ve been struggling with Angel for a little over two months after he introduced himself by threatening to torture me for calling about his son being drunk at a party…uh. Idk I don’t think I had it as bad as any of you, it was mostly obsessive stalking and abduction.”

“He cares about you then?” Alarm bells ping in the back of his head at the hunger in Ghast’s voice, but they’re entirely unnecessary. 

“Nah,” Techno lies. Genuinely, Techno is scared by the fact Phil would most of all see this as an opportunity to tenderly nurse him back to health post proving his love by piling dead enemies at Techno’s feet. He weighs how much protection he can use from the Angel of Death’s aegis versus the risk of being perceived as valuable as a hostage. “More like…I was a new thing to entertain him. Phil found my struggling amusing. He'd be frustrated he wasn’t the one who got to break me.” The only thing Phil tried to break was his resistance, but they certainly don’t need to know that. Maybe if he threads in enough truth they’ll buy it. “Might be extra harsh in retribution, but at the end of the day he only cares about his family.”

It’s safer if he buttresses their empathy for him. Harder to discard him that way. He picks his words as carefully as his reckless tongue can manage. “I suppose I caught his eye since I looked like his kid. Wanted a body double. I mean, it clearly worked if you guys got me instead of Wil.” He emphasizes the moments of fear, the feeling of being trapped in a cage with a lion. And as much as he really can’t tell them everything without risking his life, it’s cathartic to finally talk about his experience and not have someone try to convince him he's crazy for being upset and scared. It’s infinitely relieving that after weeks of isolation there’s finally people he can talk to that won’t just insist his abductor is a great person. “I don’t know. He starts to get in your head the longer you’re around him,” Techno says a little too quietly. And if they mistake his words to be exclusively about fear, that’s their error. “Twists your thoughts all up. But I don’t have to worry about that now because you’ve saved me. Um. So, just for the sake of my own curiosity…who exactly are you guys?” 

“You really have no idea how deep you’re in, do you?” There’s a bite to Ghast’s chuckle, sharply reminding Techno his wits are the only thing keeping him unharmed, and it’s best not to reveal how little he truly knows. The ringleader spreads his arms out wide, his smile twisting the slits carved into his face. “We are the underworld thriving beneath the peaceful surface of society. Welcome to hell kid, because you’re now in the hands of the Nether.” 

“Like. The Netherlands?” The smile drops. Right, maybe Ghast’s one to watch his tongue around. Which, Techno should’ve been doing after the dude THREATENED TO CUT IT OUT, but impulsivity is literally part of his neurodivergency, and for some reason getting kidnapped got in the way of his morning meds. Again. Oh boy this is going to be a fun ride. 

His wish came true, too. Wilbur finally has work again and a sense of purpose, and it makes him want to vomit. 

Dad insists the Nether already knew about Tech, but Wilbur knows that lie is designed to make him feel better. There’s not a chance anyone would know they had him, the Crafts had made dead certain of that. There were about eighteen layers of technological confabulation just for the simple act of Tech doing stupid school assignments to ensure the signal originated from his childhood home. Like hell was there any indication of his presence here beyond the staff who’d been thoroughly informed Tech wasn’t to be acknowledged in any way. And after a long day spent with one on one conversations with the staff, Dad confirmed there wasn’t a leak. 

No, they couldn’t have known about Tech, which meant they thought they were kidnapping Wilbur. His twin is going to face unimaginable torture on his behalf. And Wilbur has ways to cope with that situation, trackers and contacts and experience and torture training. And Tech has nothing.

They’ll get him back. Of course they will, it’s inevitable. Soon he’ll be back with the Crafts, right where he belongs. Only question is whether this family is even safe for him. Wilbur tastes the answer like bile on the back of his tongue.

Techno struggles to keep awake. Currently it’s Ender’s shift, which is pretty bad given, you know, her vote to kill him. Maybe he can hold out till one of the less murderous ones, but he’s fading fast after a long day. Not that he thinks he’ll rest well anyway, between the hyper vigilance and hunger pangs sure to drag him out of slumber. If he was suspicious of any food Wil gives him, the resistance is tenfold for these guys, to the point he really can’t choke anything down even if he wanted to. Anxiety is already tying his stomach in knots anyway. Hands are starting to get numb from the restraints, and his ankle is chafed to hell and back from anxious stimming which is, unsurprisingly, really stinking hard to do when bound to a chair. After hours of interrogation where he desperately tried to dance around the subject of exactly how the Crafts treated him, his brain feels completely wrung out. He’s terrified he slipped up somewhere and didn’t even notice. It feels like he’s walking on eggshells, but Techno can’t really remember a time when it hasn’t felt like that. Or, more accurately, him stomping down on eggs carelessly and then freaking out afterward about the omelet he needs to make. Maybe if he messes up he’ll get egged, like that time with the Crafts. That was fun. Techno liked running around the house, scheming with Tommy…

Techno doesn’t like his odds the further he gets away from his last dose of medication. Though, it could be compounded by complete immobility. They don’t trust him enough to let him out of the chair, which is about to be expected, but is hellish on his pent up energy. The need to move, to run, is twitching his every fiber, though whether that's the general ADHD or the kidnapping is hard to tell. But Techno is pretty sure trying to escape will get him killed, which is pretty bad since that’s what he’s been basically doing on autopilot for the last few weeks. 

Techno has to earn his every next heart beat. It’s far removed from the unconditional love that Phil offered. But Techno knows his merits, he’s pretty sure he can scrape by. This is simply new opportunities against a force that surely has far less resources to pour into his exclusive capture. More cruel, to be sure, and one false move and he’s dead, but Techno certainly has a lot of practice. Even so, it’s only now that he’s realizing how much freedom Phil really gave him. Glittering opportunities to escape were practically handed to him on a silver platter, though tantalizing freedom was always yanked away seconds before he could actually seize it. Maybe Phil found watching him struggle amusing. 

No. Not even Techno can really buy that slander. It’s a bad time to concede even the slightest thing to Phil, not when it’s in his best interest to utterly loathe him. Because as awful as everything that’s happened to him is, it pales severely in comparison to what could have transpired. Next to stories of annihilation, the Phil Techno encountered was…sweet, and loving, and merciful. It’s still just as impossible as ever to reconcile the image of the ruthless Angel of Death with the warm man Techno knows. In his care all danger was only phantoms in his own head, which is adamantly untrue of his current captors. 

Yeah. Of course he’d miss the Craft family. Their prison was a lot softer than captivity in the Nether. A bird cage padded with lush velvet and gilded with the finest gold. It is inevitably more appealing than a cold shackle, even if the result is the same. Techno refuses to accept it’s anything more than that. He’s free now, or a lot closer to being so. It doesn't matter anymore. Techno is never going to see any of them again, and that’s a good thing. He doesn’t have to think about what might’ve been. Just…shove it all down. He isn’t going to make it out if doubt gets in the way. 

But in the quiet night of his first night of captivity (of his fortieth night), Techno allows himself a single moment of grief, because he does miss Tommy. That, at least, is very easy to admit to himself. How desperately he’d hoped he’d find a way to get Tommy out too. He misses exchanging quips over dinner, and the way Tommy would light up when he finally figured out a problem, and the three of them in the bathroom unwinding before bed. And if there’s any other factors of being in the Craft’s family that he misses, Techno doesn’t have to acknowledge that. He can’t. Not if he’s going to so utterly betray them. 

The morning finds him confused and aching, particularly an awful crick in his neck. Strange. Usually when he falls asleep in odd places Phil carries him to bed. Slowly memories filter in, and Techno sighs as he remembers where he is. Great. He’s put to work pretty immediately, and as the concepts he’s attempting to convey reach to more visual, his right arm is freed so he can sketch the layout of the house and then, given he doubts how effectively they’d even remember what he’s saying, Techno begins to just write things out. Likely it works out better for everyone, since Ghast doesn’t have to stay to gather information, and Techno doesn’t have to die in a little puddle of stress beneath his interrogation. Squidkid is his guard at the moment, occasionally asking questions to prompt him. In Techno’s opinion they’re rather bad, but if he’s wasting time on comparative drivel it just means more time bought. 

“You ain’t half bad at planning, are you? Was that what he was using you for? Needed a nerd on standby and you couldn’t be bribed?”

“The Angel could certainly get far better strategists than me. Natural talent is no substitute for actual experience.”

“Well it certainly wasn’t for your drawing skills,” Squidkid critiques, pointing at a rather squiggly map. “And your handwriting is atrocious,” he accuses as Techno slides over the most recent page. 

“Ooh, that’s a big word for you, good job,” Techno responds vaguely, before remembering, oops, that’s his abductor, not Tommy. 

“At least I don’t write in chicken scratch!” 

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m a laptop author. My editor can hate me for many things, but at least I can use a standard font.” 

“Oh, right, your cover story. Prove it. What did you write?” he dangles a phone tantalizingly close. The opportunity has Techno itching to lunge, but it’s guaranteed to end poorly. “Gotcha. You don’t have any proof. I’m going to tell the others.” 

“Look up the Potato Wars.” Squidkid’s jaw drops, but he furiously types it in, scowling as he finds the author. Techno is suddenly pleased to remember that all the editions printed before Phil’s intervention irrevocably have his real name plastered over them. “You want me to summarize them? Trust me, there’s nothing I love more than gushing about my story.”

“So that’s where I recognized your name! You wrote the Potato Wars?!” Squidkid screeches. “I HATE those books! They’re so overrated, and pretentious. I swear to god they’re just some industry plant, no one actually likes them.” Techno bristles. One for the accusation, two for the fact he’s technically right. When Techno imagined meeting a real life stranger who’d actually read his work, this was certainly not in his wildest dreams, no gushing admiration or weeping inspiration or parental praise. No, this is some BRAT who has him HOSTAGE who is WHINING about how his prose is too complex. And Techno can’t strangle him unless he wants to get shot in the head. This is torture. 

Blaze comes in for a shift change, only to find the two furiously bickering over character motivations and (Nonexistent!) plot holes! God! Just because you don’t explain EVERYTHING to the reader doesn’t mean there isn’t a diegetic explanation! It’s not his fault Squidkid didn’t bring two brain cells to rub together when consuming his work. 

Storming out the cell, the teen’s threat about waterboarding the moment he makes a mistake is interrupted by a voice crack. Blaze is entertained by the ordeal, but eventually plops down backwards on a chair, lighting a cigarette as he skims over the information Techno has already supplied. But before the flame catches he frowns and gets distracted, squinting at the page. Dark eyes flick up. “...this some type of code?” 

“Haeh?” Techno pulls it back over, and pales as he realizes what’s happened. Crumpling up the diagram of a web of character relations and how they connect to self perception, Techno shoves down mortification and slight mortal terror and asks Blaze to burn it. The pyromaniac gleefully complies. Unfortunately, Techno discovers little tangents litter the entire report. With growing worry he pours through everything he’s written, and is lucky enough to not find anything that conflicts with the story he’s going with. “Bruh. Okay. Uh, sorry about that, it’s unintentional. It’s not code, or sabotage, or whatever.” Well, self-sabotage, maybe. Techno berates his brain. NOT the time nor place, kidnapping situation remember??? “My ADHD is acting up without Adderall. I’m still useful! I am. But you might have to wade through a few digressions.” 

“Hmm. I guess we could get you meds for that, since we need your head to be working.” 

“Ok. But. But you understand why I wouldn’t take it, right? Like. I mean, I’m not being unreasonable here, I’d have no way of knowing what I’m actually putting in my body. If I’m not even eating, why would I swallow an unmarked pill?”

Blaze gives him a toothy smirk. “You’re a paranoid one, aren’t you?”

“Look at me. I’m tied to a chair after my second kidnapping of the year. I think it’s a little justified at this point. Plus, that’s how the Craft’s got me. I was literally just having a nice dinner with some friends and then Wil went and roofied me.” Even given the context, his dehydrated mouth still yearns for that Dr. Pepper that ruined his life.

Blaze pauses, thinking it over. “He drugs people? Not the most interesting thing to put in someone’s drink…would be more interesting if you swallowed nitroglycerin. Chalk it up to spontaneous combustion. Heh. He’s losing his touch.” Actually, Techno is pretty sure the target (which, tracking the conversation, is Techno) would just get sick, not explode, but probably best to guide the conversation away regardless. 

“Wil’s not just an explosions guy,” Techno stresses, since he’s starting to notice the one sided rivalry thing Blaze is doing. “He’s also a theater nerd. Writes bad angsty poetry.” 

“I could write better bad poetry than him!” 

“Man, you’re nearly as distractible as me.” 

Blaze stands up sharply. “Right. Yes. I’m going to fix that. And get food, you need food to think.” 

“I’m not going to–”

“You will. Hold on.” Without further consideration for his protests, Blaze abandons the room. And suddenly, Techno is completely unguarded, with an entire arm free. Well. Don’t mind if I do, he thinks. At once Techno starts a fresh sheet of paper, writing out a few copies of short notes explaining he’s kidnapped. Perhaps to slip onto one of his captors, perhaps only so the body can be identified later. He hides them quickly on his person, then begins to see how well a pen does against a zip tie. The answer? Not very. He knows he can make a half decent shank with a pen, but that’s a contraband a little hard to explain. Best to stash it in his sleeve and claim it got lost, since building up supplies is always the first step. Techno is careful to make sure to rehearse a cover story if any given tactic is discovered, repeating it a lot. He knows he can come up with airtight logic, the problem is believability and the stress of failure. Unlike with Phil, second chances don’t exist here. 

The quartet file into the room about an hour later to find he’s somehow crawled onto the table while still strapped to the chair. Techno blinks at them, wracking his brain for an explanation that isn’t him trying to find a way to break a chair leg with gravity to use as a weapon. But Blaze simply waves as if it’s a perfect demonstration of a point he’s trying to make. “See? He needs it. Heads up kid I got you meds.” He hauls him back to the ground and pats his shoulder, though there’s not much Techno can do to avoid that given the bonds. 

“What? I already told you, I’m not trusting pills.” 

“I don’t think you have the safety margins needed to willfully limit your use,” Ghast suggests dangerously. 

“I’m more useful if I’m not dead,” he shoots back. 

“You’re already kidnapped and eeked out your survival. What’s the point?” 

“I’m not risking it!”

“Alright, Kraken. He’s all yours.” What a stupid name for Squidkid, he’s nowhere near that impressive. The intentionally threatening aura the teen is trying to put out frankly doesn’t phase Techno. What does is when Ender pales and leaves. 

Quick as lightning, Squidkid seizes his face, trying to pry his jaw open. Techno clamps down, swinging out with his free hand to wrench away the grip. It works, though it’s a resistance solved by Blaze capturing him by the wrist. Techno jerks his head around wildly, hissing like a cat at the vet, but eventually his jaws are ripped apart. Though doing everything in his power to snap shut, Squidkid tosses the pill in and begins pouring water down his throat. Suddenly it becomes impossible to open his mouth at all as Squidkid shoves it closed to stop him from spewing everything out. Still, there’s nothing they can do to make him swallow. Techno smiles victoriously. Squidkid matches it, shoving his face up and pinching his nose closed. “Swallow or suffocate.” 

Techno completely refuses, even as his lungs start to burn. Water presses at his throat, the taste awful as the pill dissolves. But Techno is a determined little git, even once his diaphragm starts heaving in desperation. Even a few minutes in he refuses to relent, terrified of what could be entering his system. It’s survival instincts that betray him, finally sucking it down to get to the air beyond. He’s immediately released, spluttering and gasping for air. Techno immediately jams his fingers down his throat in an effort to puke it back up, but is thwarted. 

“It was your meds, now calm down.”

“Yeah right! I have no way of knowing that!” Even if it kicks in like half an hour from now, he has no idea what else they mixed in. If he even survives that long.

“Stop hyperventilating, you’re fine.” 

“No, I’m not, you just half drowned me-”

“You’d know if I was really trying to drown you,” Squidkid mutters.

“Not helping! And so for some reason the anxiety is not really digging the forced medication!”

“Oh you got anxiety too? You need Xanax?”

“NO!” 

“More for us then. Here, so if by your logic the poison was in the pills, that means the food got to be safe right?” Blaze holds out a granola bar that Techno refuses. Squidkid rolls his eyes. “It’s clearly unopened.” 

“You can reseal wrappers with a lighter.”

Ghast aggressively snatches the granola bar, takes a violent bite, then shoves the snack in his face in a threatening manner. “Not poisoned. Get over yourself.” Techno scowls, then figures that’s the best guarantee he’s going to get. Can’t be any worse than the time Phil basically pinned him down and made sure he got just about every vaccine under the sun. When, inevitably, he felt like utter crap, Phil had insisted on doting on him like a sick day, as if it wasn’t entirely manufactured. At least they aren’t trying to read him bedtime stories. Techno yoinks the food and devours it in nearly one bite.

Actually, what is he talking about, of course it could be far worse! He could’ve just been super duper double poisoned. Too late though. Blaze blinks. “Man, I think your jaw unhinged. I got more. You want chocolate chip or marshmallow?” Techno grabs both and scarfs them down, only seeming to become more ravenous by the second. 

“Need protein,” Ender critiques, causing everyone to jump, having not noticed her return. The goons scramble together something closer to a balanced diet under her scrutiny. It’s certainly not as fine as his last meal at the French restaurant with the Crafts, but given that was something like thirty hours ago it’s just as good. They even release his other arm, and after rubbing the circulation in he digs into the food with gusto. At the end he isn’t put back in the wrist restraints, either. And as time passes and Techno fails to spontaneously combust or decay into a little pile of bones, and more importantly as his brain starts being able to actually focus, he tentatively considers there to have been at least some measure of veracity about the medication he was given. Some type of hella traumatic, no doubt, but there was some degree of honesty. Not that something like that is going to build his trust; at this point, Techno doesn’t think he CAN do trust anymore. But at least he gets a blueberry muffin for dessert. When next they offer him medication, he decides it’s just easier to take it willingly. If they wanted him poisoned, it’s just going to happen, and there’s not much he can do about that.

It’s been a week as far as he can tell, and he’s scraping the barrel of things he can say about Phil and Wil without revealing the nature of his initial kidnapping. He’s not tied to that stupid chair anymore though, and the ability to move is wonderful, even if he can’t get beyond the room he’s trapped in and a little side restroom with a not insignificant ability to hide him from minimal searching. Not that Techno can’t be a formidable foe armed with only cleaning supplies –absolute morons left him with both bleach AND vinegar– but he has enough restraint to wait until he has a more concrete plan. Techno isn’t really sure of his longevity here, and doesn’t see a way out. Judging by banter, he thinks most of them like him well enough that he might not get tortured before he’s gutted. A massive improvement, to be sure, but still not ideal. 

Finally, Techno gets a chance. Not for a break, no, but he’s taken out of the cell for the first time. He keeps careful track of directions, committing the layout to memory. “So uhhhh am I being taken to a back alley to be shot or…?”

Blaze snorts. “Nah kid. Turns out the boss is interested in you.” His tone is light and casual, but he’s flicking the wheel of his lighter.

Techno’s stomach drops. “Is that a good thing? What should I say? What are they like?” Unfortunately, Techno can’t fancy up for this meeting with a criminal mastermind, unlike the last one. Best he can do is try to tuck in the oversized shirt borrowed from Ghast to replace his burned up one. Technically Blaze is far closer to his size, but he couldn’t stand the cigarette smell. If only he had a rubber band, maybe then his hair wouldn’t be so noticeably burned. 

“Hell if I know. I’m just a grunt. Try not to die, I guess, you’re fun to hang around.” They stop at a well fortified door, Blaze jerking his head in invitation for Techno to enter alone. “Good luck, Piglin. You’re going to need it with the Wither.” 

It’s cold. That’s the first thing he notices, skin prickling as he steps into the stronghold. Three sets of eyes lock on him immediately, clearly anticipating him. And suddenly it isn’t the chill in the room that’s dotting goosebumps up his arms. Techno freezes. The woman at the table beckons him over, framed by a daunting duo of bodyguards. The Wither is draped in coal and cobalt fabric, armor stretching across her chest in arching ribs. Set within a skeletal visage, electric blue eyes pierce through him as Techno stumbles forward, causing every instinct he has to panic. 

Wil would know how to navigate a conversation like this, where one altered word could be the difference between salvation or doom. The thought does little to help him. Wil would be charming and clever and contort the whole thing until he came out on top with the boss none the wiser. The best Techno can hope for is to not get completely screwed over. 

The chair squeaks as he pulls it out to sit down, and he winces. “Uh, sorry about that, didn’t mean for that to scrape the floor. My name’s Technoblade. Nice to meet you. Uh. I’m your new hostage turned informant.”

“I am extremely aware of who you are, little Piglin.” Her voice is low, raspy but with an airy rush to it. “I’ve been tracking your work very closely. So far it has been invaluable.” Techno, frankly, walked in prepared to justify his continued existence, and so hesitates. Weight settles on him from the focus of an entire criminal empire’s leader. While perhaps a less lethal position to be in, pinned like a butterfly for examination, it certainly feels no safer to have the Wither’s attention than her apathy. “But it’s not simply not enough to justify the resources we’re bleeding to maintain you. You will need to defend it somehow.” Ah. He’d wondered when that would come up, given how desperately Phil must be trying to retrieve him. He'll likely never give up. The last eighteen years certainly proved that. “Thankfully, your talents readily supply another option. So far you’ve been limited to a data well, but I think your use far exceeds that. I want to hear what tactics you can imagine to take Philza down.”

“Oh thank god, because I feel like I’m running out of actually useful stuff to say,” Techno sighs, already flipping through possible schemes and discarding a few. 

The Wither’s brow arches. “And you would admit that?” 

Techno’s jaw clicks shut. “...uh. Anyway. I’d say? Hit him in the finances. He’s a dealer, basically, so you can either outcompete him or sabotage his efforts. Slip misinformation into the stuff he’s selling, interfere with the weapons -services? I don’t, uh, have enough data there to give detailed ideas. Trade out ammo for blanks or jam guns or whatever it is.”

“Small word of advice: you don’t tamper with nukes. You just don’t.”

“Ah.” He goes silent for a bit. Phil boasted he dealt in doomsdays. Not an exaggeration, then. “...well. It’s about making his clients not trust him. Degrade the base of power that way, so he can’t back up threats. If he can’t follow through, that gets rid of the fear control. It would be slow, but it could be safer than direct attack.” 

“And when he notices the sabotage?”

“Change tactics. Or distract him some other way, maybe pin it on someone else. It doesn’t have to be all at once, the end goal is reputation degradation. It’s sorta positive feedback, once you undermine his power he has less ability to retaliate. Plus if you offer yourself as a more consistent supplier, say, selling the information or weapons you stole from him, competition can also further harm operations.” 

“Philza doesn’t deal kindly with competition. What’s our insurance?”

Techno pauses, thinking. “Are we a small operation? Comparatively?” 

“That isn’t something you know in this hypothetical. I want creativity, not feasibility.” 

Dang. He’ll just have to figure out exactly how powerful his current captors are in a different fashion. “Well, there are presumably many small operations. He can’t suppress them all, there’s simply not enough time and motivation to. So if we appear like an insignificant competitor, even if we don’t avoid detection we might not be worth the resources to quash, since that would imply action against all small operations, which would just spread him thin.” 

“Very good. Someone clearly raised you right,” the Wither muses. There’s a bit of a grin to it, some joke Techno feels like he’s failing to catch. It only widens as his blood boils, no doubt intended to get a rise out of him, he realizes a little too late. 

“I prefer to think of myself as a self made man,” he replies stonily. 

“We all do, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t products of the world that molded us.” His skin prickles uncomfortably, feeling like he’s being cornered again by Phil’s parental advice. Combined with the earlier guidance through the hypothetical, there’s a strange undercurrent, like he’s being nudged in the right direction. Like she wants him to succeed. It’s an uneasy suspicion. 

“I don’t know. I think at some point you got to own up for your actions. Like, the Angel could’ve chosen to just take a chill pill at any point in the last eighteen years.”

“Call him by his name. A title like the Angel of Death makes him seem untouchable. Which, of course he is, to the level of people you’ve been interacting with. To them, Philza must be unto a natural disaster, or an act of divine wrath. Under that lens, he becomes incomprehensible. They see no motivation in his acts, which makes it impossible to counteract. An insurmountable threat is all he is to them. They lack the vision to actually harm Philza.” 

“I don’t, uh, imagine that I'm in a different position than they are.” 

“I do,” she corrects sharply. “You have the potential to cause unfathomable damage to him, little Piglin.” The Wither certainly has more confidence in Techno than he does. For the first time, Techno begins to worry about the possibility of proving himself too useful. Perhaps bringing a chronic overachiever into a life-or-death situation wasn’t a good idea. 

He fumbles for any way to respond that threads the needle of exactly how useful he’s going to be, and decides not to risk anything. “Uh. For the record, my name is Techno.”

“But the name is what you are. Just a piglet trying not to become breakfast.”  

Techno’s eye twitches. “It’s, like, German,” he explains for the umpteenth time. “I’m not named after a pig, that would be stupid.” Just another reason he isn’t Wilbur. 

Her smile takes a bemused turn. “Oh? Well then, if you insist.” It’s distinctly not a yes. He’s not sure what that means, in the argument she’s put forth, if she’s failing to use his name. Well. It’s a last name, not a code, so it probably doesn’t count. The Wither is definitely not threatened by him. 

“So what’s your name, then?” 

It’s not that her expression really changes, beyond some sort of warning in her eyes. Techno’s periphery catches the dual bodyguards shift, instinct tracking the movement. The conversation absorbed him so much he’d forgotten about them, no doubt by intent, as is the sudden reminder of their presence. “You don’t need that information.” 

Ah. What an efficient way to summarize what she thinks of his position. A useful enough weapon against her enemy, but carefully poised so that he doesn’t have a chance of cutting her. Well. Not that he had a chance of doing that regardless of precautions. But it’s a distinct mark against how much he is trusted, which is bad for survival. So Techno adopts a lopsided grin and a salute, assuring her that, “you can count on me to be a good pawn Mrs. The Wither.” 

“Oh you aren’t a pawn.”

“Can I be the knight? I love horses.” And they move in odd, irregular way that offers new types of strategies, which is seeming to be his allotted role at the moment. Though they literally take an L every time they move…

“No. I don’t perceive my men as pieces to move around. It’s such a reductionary practice, to not see them as multifaceted people. It only limits creativity in my opinion.” Techno hadn’t considered that the one thing worse than being seen as a puppet to manipulate is being seen as a person to manipulate. It would be far safer to be dismissed and underestimated. And the fact she considers him to be one of hers…mm. That’s not good. “I don’t intend to waste a single drop of your potential, particularly if Philza saw such worth in you.” 

“Um. I don’t think you’d find the same value he thinks is here.” Oh god he really, really hopes not. 

“Self-depreciation is a pointless deception, and I think you’ll find I have very little tolerance for lies. Now, I don’t believe both Philza and I would be so invested if you didn’t have worth.” It’s probably one of the weirder pep talks he’s ever gotten, especially with the covert threat threaded in. “I know what I see; what I want to know is what is Philza’s motivation for capturing you.”

Techno’s heart rate skyrockets. Her scrutiny is going to see right through him. “A tutor,” he spits out quickly. The Wither blinks at him. “I started helping Wil with his essays. And then they hired me to be a tutor. And unfortunately took a liking to me.” That should be the most blatant lie he’s ever said, especially given his clearly lacking charisma, but to Techno’s chagrin he apparently has an aura that psychos go literally crazy for, if his recent new acquaintances are any indication. “And. And it’s like I told Ghast and them, Phil’s delusional. Super possessive too, which is bad when you’re even slightly interesting or new. Doesn’t know how to take no for an answer since he’s been surrounded by yes-men his entire life. I was just a novelty he wanted. A gemstone for his collection.” 

The Wither’s look is, well, withering. Techno shivers in a way that can’t be blamed on the ice cold room. “It’s an awful amount of effort for ‘just a novelty.’ Especially the trick with the official documentation. He is not in the practice of claiming every prisoner he takes to be a Craft, and certainly he has many.” 

Ah, great, just what Techno needs: yet another stalker. “It’s so I’ll look insane if I try to get legal help. And it’s not like he has to do the work himself, just hire people.” Frankly, Techno would’ve preferred if Phil’s stalking had really been that hands off. He is far too enthusiastic about the whole thing. Techno is starting to feel like criminal catnip. “And I mean, it worked out pretty well for him. He wanted a body double, and you guys snatched the wrong guy. Seems to me Phil’s motivation got justified from his perspective.” 

“If he wanted you to be a replica of his son, wouldn’t he have fixed your hair?” Oh wow, would you look at that, a basic reasonable question the goons had overlooked. 

“He certainly wanted to. But…but I bite. Phil had to get a rabies shot because of me, actually.” The slightest snort he’s ever heard registers in his ears, and Techno grins broadly. 

“And why do you call him Phil? I know you’ve been close to him, I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have that dearth of experience.” 

Hell, just how close does he have to watch his tongue? “Uh. I’m not, like, a super formal person. Plus as much decorum as he puts up I figured I’d undermine him.” No doubt Phil interpreted it like affection just like the Wither had, unfortunately. But at least her scrutiny abates, seemingly satisfied by his cover story. Techno wants to melt into a relieved sigh of a puddle, but that would, he suspects, be considered sus. “Am I allowed to ask about our motivation?”

He gets an oddly approving look, which is weird because he’s really trying his luck here. “Two of our best agents were just hunted down and captured by him. We can’t let that slide. If we don’t look out for each other, who will? We protect those in the family, little Piglin.” His back prickles in cold tingles tracing down his spine. Given the name conversation, she has no illusions of believing he needs to know her true motivations. What’s worrying him is why she’d choose that justification out of no doubt many. “Now, what do you want from this alliance?”

“Uh. What I want…?”

“A deal goes both ways. Your education in the art of negotiation is severely lacking.”

“Sorry ma'am. I kinda thought helping the Crafts be ruined was what I was getting out of it. Uh. I want revenge on Phil, just like everyone else. Yep.”

“No, you don’t. I asked you blatantly your method of retribution against him, and you talked about money. If I had asked Ghast or Blaze, if for a second we imagine I value their input, their answer would be graphic. Drawn out, no doubt, in terms of torture, but not the years of the scheme you proposed. You gave an answer that distinctly prolonged your own longevity in our organization and would give you constant options to prove your value. Darling, you don’t want revenge, you want to survive.”

………well huh. He hadn’t thought she’d caught that. “That too, I guess. I, uh, don’t really want to be a violent person.” Maybe not the best confession to a kingpin, but it hopefully also assures the Wither he’s not going to stab the Nether in the back. 

“But you are.” His chest feels tight, remembering Tommy. “You bite, remember? Even then, I suspect you’ve never carried out a proper revenge even once in your life.” Techno hesitates, confused. He doesn’t know how to stop fighting, and isn’t retaliation the same thing as revenge? Though likely revenge to the Wither is the same disproportional wrath of Phil. While certainly not at a loss for horrible people ruining his life, frankly he’d just prefer to escape as fast as possible. All he can offer the Wither is a noncommittal shrug, and she accepts it with disappointment. “Again, this is a negotiation. Surely there’s some demand you have.” 

“Alright, then my caveat is I want out. Just to go back to my normal life after the Crafts are ruined.” 

“Not for any justice, just so that you have confirmation they will no longer be interfering with your life?”

“Got it in one. Secret crime organizations are cool and all, but I already have my career path picked out and all of these crazy revenge plots and abductions and evil millionaires aren’t going to stop me. I won’t mess with you, you don’t mess with me. Fair? You said I don’t know how to get revenge, so what problem would you have just because you kidnapped me?”

“Oh, you misunderstand. That’s what our alliance is for; I intend to teach you how to get revenge.” Not for the first time, Techno wonders why she’s putting so much power in his hands. They aren’t equals, clearly, but he’s certainly elevated above normal goons. It’s worrisome. 

“Then you need something to guarantee I won’t. Hm. You could blackmail me?”

The Wither, honest to god, pinches the bridge of her nose. “In what– in what world would you ever willingly give someone blackmail material?”

“You need some type of insurance.”

“I see my teaching work really is cut out for me.” 

Mmm. There it is again. That little voice wailing in the back of his head, begging to know what quality he could possibly possess that makes the villains go really wild for him. “I mean, I’m just goon number 1400, I can shadow someone else.” Hopefully the evil underworld has employee training videos. If only he’d taken a criminology class in college instead of a third writing course… “Basically, I figure if I give you power over me, if I rat you out I’ll be dragged down with you, meaning you have a guarantee I won’t do anything, so it’s okay for me to leave.” She waves a hand in a tired gesture to go on. “So, about that tutoring I mentioned doing earlier…” he outlines in broad strokes his plagiarism business. “Listen. I know it doesn’t seem like a lot, compared to the type of stuff you guys deal with. But I would get immediately kicked out and blacklisted from basically every quality college there is, still in massive debt without a way to earn my way out since I won’t have a degree. This is life ruining for me. And it’s like. Probably the only dirt there is on me. I don’t really have all that much worth blackmailing, if I’m honest, I’m a pretty normal guy. My only crime is having a doppelganger.” The problem, of course, with willingly giving leverage to criminals, is that they’re unlikely to just promise to only use it in retaliation. At the same time…he’s built his scam airtight. Any investigation would yield no paper tail, or digital footprint for that matter. If anyone tries to sell him out he’d drag a fourth of the school down with him, so no one would dare given the massive academic, financial, and social consequences. All he has to say is he was lying under duress from the hostage situation he got sucked into for months while he was under the school’s lackluster care. 

Oh crap. Ahhh. In a sudden, awful epiphany, Techno realizes he’s going to have no way of doing his school work. Oh god his GPA is never going to recover from getting double kidnapped. Maybe he can convince them to get him a laptop too..? 

“...truly, this is the greatest possible use of your talents.” She sounds genuinely disappointed. “What is your motivation? In the broader scope, not the immediate survival considerations.” 

Now, Techno could do the smart thing and stop to think about why a hyper-lethal villain could possibly want to know about his life goals. Or, he could excitedly outline his five year plan, which he’s worked very hard on, and is more likely to complete if he can win over the scourge of the underworld. “Well. Well, I plan to be the next great American author, of course.” With very, very little prompting, he launches into a spiel about inspiration and artistry and influence, all the little things adding up to drive his uncontrollable passion. 

His ramblings are cut short by pointed observation. “You want to survive and prove your use.” 

Techno shifts uncomfortably. “...I suppose this does that, too. Success certainly does that. But it’s more than that, I want to make people think, you know? To have conversations, and popularity certainly broadens the amount of people whose lives I–”

Unlike Wil, she isn’t distracted. “That’s motivations. I asked for one.” 

“I guess…I want to prove I can do it.” 

“To who?”

“...Everyone.” 

The Wither smiles. Technoblade has always been a bad liar. The only thing that saved him was his equal ineptitude at spotting them. Made self deception particularly easy. She leans in, fingers laced beneath her chin, kindness softening her features. “Whoever doubted you –made you question your immense value– was a fool. They lacked vision. I assure you, I do not fall to the same fallacy.” The silence lingers, Techno unsure what to do with such a proclamation. If it’s supposed to be comforting, all it succeeds in is making him uneasy. He can’t fathom the Wither’s intentions, though the conversation began with him being informed her motivations are far above him. “I think I’d like to watch what you make of yourself. You shall have your freedom once we are finished, should you truly think our continued alliance is of no further merit. I do hope your mind will have changed by then, however.”

“Uh. Cool.” Yeah right, like that’s going to happen. “Then, on the subject of our alliance and motivations, I’m assuming you know Phil’s motivation?”

“I’d like to hear your assessment.”

“Family. After a negligent upbringing and a series of earlier losses, he’s obsessively protective of them. Not necessarily in the sense of bloodline or legacy, especially as I don’t think he pressured Wil into following his footsteps at all. Trying to be a perfect family gives him a sense of purpose.” 

“Very good, darling.” Well, not that it’s hard to deduce, given Phil said it verbatim practically. Not that he’s going to stop someone from praising him. “You’ve spoken much about Philza and Wilbur, even suggested you were running out of information. While I doubt that’s true, there’s a certain blindspot I’ve noticed in Philza’s household. And what of his younger son?” 

No. Not Tommy. He can keep it all straight in his head up until the moment he comes into play. Keep these images of Phil and Wil that are uncomplicated, cardboard cutouts that he can throw darts at and not feel anything for. It’s Tommy who breaks the illusions. “...what do you mean, ‘no’?” There’s a dangerous note that hasn’t been in her voice for a while now. Techno hadn’t known he said anything at all.

“Nothing. There’s nothing about him. He’s not in any of this. He won’t be. That’s my second caveat, that Tommy is safe.” His voice is awfully harsh and demanding for a prisoner, but Techno can’t help how his hackles raise. Incomprehensible calculations filter through her piercing gaze. Stupid of him to so inelegantly expose his vulnerable heart like that. But the Wither waves a hand, inviting him to continue. “He’s…he’s eleven. Just a kid, he’s not involved. He’s not even a Craft, he’s kidnapped, just like I was. Only difference was he’s so young he got swept in by them. But he’s a good kid.”

“For now, perhaps. But we both have seen how Wilbur turned out. Like father, like son.”

“Respectfully, I disagree,” he manages through a clenched jaw, frost creeping into his tone. He isn’t entirely sure who he’s defending. “And I won’t help you if you hurt him.”

“You realize you’d have no use to us? And you’d accept that?”

Techno hesitates. This is, frankly, a terrible hill to die on. “...yes.”

The Wither sighs. “Incorrect. The proper response is no, followed by using what influence you have to guide the project in a direction that doesn’t hinder your goals. You cannot change minds once dead.”

“Uh. Then…no? I– what are you doing?”

“Your negotiation skills are abysmal.”

“Yeah, I know, so you’re supposed to take advantage of them, not– not whatever this is.” Wow, is he really going to argue that she should screw him over even more? Someone really woke up on the wrong side of the chair he was tied to.  

“I don’t keep untrained agents. I believe you have the potential to be a formidable weapon, and I intend to hone that.” 

Why? What can she possibly see in him? It’s a question growing more worrisome by the second, loud and distracting. Wait. Distracting. “Tommy. What about Tommy?”

“Excellent work on catching a diversion. Regardless, you need not worry about little Tommy. I don’t make a habit of unnecessarily harming children, yourself included.” Perhaps it’s supposed to make him feel gratitude, but the word he catches on is unnecessarily. The Wither had been perfectly happy to leave him to her agents to torture him. She didn’t promise Tommy would be safe, either, but Techno doesn’t think he’ll really get that. Even so, she could just lie and he’d probably just believe it. “Thank you.”

“What?”

“You’re supposed to thank me.” 

“Oh. Sorry. Thanks.” She smiles graciously, and Techno gives a nervous replica. 

“I’m beginning to believe we’re reaching the end of your focus. That will need to be rectified in the future, but for now it suffices. The lesson is nearly over, save for one final request. Tell me about Philza’s last child.” 

The budding relief dies brutally as Techno feels very, very cold. “That’s, uh, it. Just the three of them. And the dead wife.” Also it’s totally embarrassing but he actually can’t remember the wife’s name at the moment. Probably because his stomach is doing flips and the Wither has an intense gaze. “No more kids than two.” 

“You realize how nervous you sound every time you attempt to lie?” She knows. She’s known the whole time, let him think he got away with it just to catch him off guard later. 

“I am not that man’s son,” Techno snaps. “I don’t care what he says. I’ve said he’s delusional from the start, didn’t I? That’s not a lie.”

An echo of laughter passes over her face, utterly bemused. “Don’t tell me you don’t accept adoption?”

“I have parents, and he can’t replace either no matter how much he tries.” 

A blink of surprise that is gone as soon as he spots it. “But, for all intents and purposes, Philza claims you. And, crucially, you failed to reveal this to us.”

“Ghast would lynch me the moment he found out.”

“Not if I ordered him not to.”

“I think you overestimate his self control.” 

Her gaze becomes sharp. “I think you underestimate the weight of my commands.” No doubt he does, especially if he’s gotten comfortable enough to yell at the head of an entire underworld. He’s gotten rather comfortable after life with Phil, and presumed safety is a dangerous delusion. But she hasn’t killed him yet, and now at least he knows why. The Wither knows exactly the worth of the jewel she’s holding. Only question is what she plans to do with it. 

“I apologize for the deceit. But it’s Phil’s lie, not mine. He is not my father. And I don’t think I can be blamed for not mentioning it, especially as I didn’t feel like being a hostage.” 

“Oh, little Piglin, you have so much further use than a simple hostage. You’re one of us now.” 

He wants to scream as it finally makes sense. Of course he knows Phil’s motivation, of course he can destroy him. What could possibly harm him more than his family becoming his enemy? Techno has the perfect opportunity to strike where no other possibly could, that unconditional love Phil promised so many times strangling him. Techno goes still as he realizes how much power he really does have. Finally, the tables have turned. It’s him with the claws poised over another’s heart, love his to abuse. Techno really could destroy the Angel of Death in a way no other could possibly dream of. 

And Techno doesn’t want that power. 

He doesn’t care enough to hurt Phil. Or maybe he cares too much. He doesn’t know what he wants, or rather, what he really wants is so far away from it all it doesn’t matter. Techno just wants to get out. To never have to think about any of this ever again. The Wither was right, he has no use for revenge. 

But she does. She finds use in him, especially in him being effective. The cajoling, the advice, the kindness, it finally adds up as he figures out a fragment of motivation. She wants him beguiled in the spider’s web, to make the trap feel so much like home he forgets to escape. A bloodhound like her probably detected the family issues from miles away and pounced. 

The Wither has made a mistake, then. Just one, but it will have to be enough. Because Techno is never, ever going to willingly fall for that trap ever again. 

Certainly his spiraling has been telegraphed broadly on his features. He lets his doubt over the whole family situation trickle in, all the confusion and conflicting emotions until surely his expression is uninterpretable. The last thing he needs is for the Wither to know he knows what she knows. And like she said, if his tell is nervousness, what better to cover it up with? He has worry in spades. “I–I just– why would you even give me a chance, then? Given what I am.” 

“I thought that was obvious. I sense great potential in you, if given proper mentorship. I am almost certain Philza was completely wasting your talents.” 

“He didn’t ask anything of me. Kept most of this a secret as best he could.” 

“Sheltered much in the way a caged thing is. I rather imagine you felt like some displayed trophy.” Techno nods along gratefully, even if the comparison isn’t quite apt. “I trust you simply because I know you’re smart enough to recognize his threat to your goals. Meanwhile, I intend to give you the opportunity to truly prove yourself, little Piglin. This is still yet a negotiation; you do not have to agree to our alliance.” The Wither holds out a hand to him. “Come home to the Nether. You will become great, darling.”

Techno shoves down hesitancy, taking her offer without flinching. Her hand is cold and skeletal, impossibly firm as they shake on the Faustian deal. 

The fact she accompanies him to the cell is infinitely strange and concerning, which the goons seem to agree with. Blaze mouths a ‘you okay?’ to him which Techno has zero idea how to answer. Hiding behind Ender, Squidkid stares at the Wither the whole time with massive eyes. Given orders to hold up a camera, even Ghast shuts up and does as he’s told. 

“Oh we haven’t– haven’t really been doing the restraints for a while now,” Techno says as he is shoved into the chair. A single hand presses his chest back down, and something about the look in the Wither’s eye makes Techno certain he shouldn’t cause problems. At least his arms aren’t ziptied again, though he can’t budge as ropes strap around him. The Wither makes a gesture, but before he can ask his face explodes with pain, head snapping to the side with force. Blood gushes out from his nose and he rounds as best he can, lashing out wildly only for arms to be caught and pulled back painfully. So caught up with the boss, he’d forgotten the Wither was a trio. The bodyguard’s fist rears back for another punch, and Techno balks. 

A cold hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing tight. His shoulder begins to feel numb. “That’s enough fighting, now.” Finally released, Techno at once goes for his throbbing nose, trying to staunch the blood flow with his palms. Not broken, he can tell that much from experience, but it still hurts. Annoyingly, it forces him to tear up, eyes stinging. Techno splutters out blood.

“Wh—!?” fingers claw into his shoulder in warning. 

“I’ve had a lovely time getting to talk with your precious son, Angel.” Pay attention. He needs to note the responses of his goons, his cover story is crumbling to the ground. For the love of god at least analyze the faux name usage! But all Techno can do is clutch his nose and panic, questions flooding his mind. He’d just found a shred of safety he could exploit, and once again the rug is being pulled out from under his feet. Ghast watches eagerly, camera trained on his movement. 

“Such a shame those few weeks together are all you’re ever going to get. I’ll be blunt, we both know he’ll never be released. But if you’re good he won’t come to any more harm than necessary. If not, well…it’s hard to say how long he’ll last.” His wrist is seized, broken away from where he clutches his face. Blood smears down as it’s raised up in demonstration. “Take, for instance—” she flicks out a black knife and Techno jolts, wrenching away with all his strength. It isn’t much, a laughably pathetic struggle. Why can’t he fight? Fear seems to freeze the captured limb, petrified in a way he’s never known before.  

“Wait stop– please don’t I– STOP.” Wrong. He’d gotten it all wrong. Why had she lied to him? Why would she bother? Techno had thought he’d had some kind of power, but the illusion dispels now. 

The slice across his forearm is shallow, only a few beads of blood welling up and rolling down. And the crimson darkens, ebony consuming it. The limb drops limply into his bloody lap, toxin already taking hold. Awful cold spreads through his arm, black racing up his veins. Blood trickles down, stained with ink, but he can’t even move. Just barely can he twitch numb fingers, but any further is impossible. There’s a faint tingle of sensation, the nerves still work for now, but he’s rapidly becoming lightheaded.

“The timer starts now, Angel. The moment you submit he’ll get his cure. No doubt you’re confident you could find one, but as a warning this is a special little concoction I made myself, which reacts poorly to investigation. That said, I recommend you do exactly as you’re told if you want this boy to survive.” The suggestion no doubt applies to him equally. No, why would she believe he’d willingly help? What better way to ensure his compliance and retention? If he escapes he’ll be doomed. Any hint of rebellion and he will be left to an agonizing death. The perfect way to control both him and Phil. 

The poisoned blade traces the shape of his jaw. “Cute kid, really, I see ever so much of you in him.” The words sound like venom, spat out, caustic, barely recognizable as the kind voice from before. The cold steel presses against his throat and Techno stops breathing. Or, well, he tries to, but he’s hyperventilating far too much for that. “Any last words for your father? I know you miss him dearly.” Techno flails for any idea of what he is supposed to say, if he's supposed to beg, to scream, to scoff. Is this a loyalty test? To see how much he really meant their alliance? He thought he’d finally gotten his footing, figured out where he stood. And now he’s going to die. 

No. No, they won’t kill him, he’s too valuable for that. That might just be even worse. Black creeps in at the edges as his lungs fail him. At his silence the knife digs in till he can feel his own frantic pulse. 

“Help.” The plea is pure instinct, quiet and strangled and undirected. His gaze latches onto Blaze, begging for deliverance. Not one of the goons move to save him. But why would they? 

There’s a moment when eternity seems to pass, waiting for his throat to get slit open. Then, a motion in the corner of his eye, a gesture, and the pressure of the knife slips away. The Wither prowls over to stand in front of him, swooping down to his level. He looks up with wide eyes, and Wither smirks at him and wipes some of the blood off his face, claws as ice cold as ever. “And you said you couldn’t act,” she purrs. “Look at you, he’s going to be eating out of our palm. Wonderful job, little Piglin.” A pause, and she frowns. “You’re still shaking,” she notes. “Do you not trust me?” Techno vehemently shakes his head. “My apologies. You didn’t convince me you could lie. If we’d had a little more time together I could have fixed that, but I needed this now. I do hope this shall be unnecessary in the future.” Incentive. The terror in his chest right now is the incentive to learn, in her eyes. And as the poisoned dagger slices through the ropes binding him, he stays perfectly still. 

“Can. Can I have the antidote now?” 

Disappointment narrows her eyes. “Hm. I had hoped you’d be more astute than that. No, that was not real. I would never poison you, darling. Think of it as something like dye, nothing more.” A tap on his chest that he shudders away from. “Your heart will cycle it out easily in its normal filtration duties. Now, can you tell me how I made the symptoms?”

As his ragged panting begins to properly respire, the black in his vision and dizziness fades. No doubt that was all him. Techno stares at the withered cut, at the ink creeping through his veins. “...numbing agent? No,” he swiftly corrects himself. “It was numb before the cut.” Think, what else was there? Fast acting, so it couldn’t have been in an earlier meal. He’d only interacted with her briefly. Techno runs through the whole of his encounter with the Wither. Their only direct contact was the handshake, wasn’t it? No, during the hostage negotiation, else it would’ve been sooner. “Pressure point. When you squeezed my shoulder?” 

“Very good,” she says encouragingly. “Again, my condolences on the deception, though I do worry for how easily you were convinced. Though, considering what you’ve been through, I don’t imagine it’s easy to trust. But know this: you’re one of mine, now. I’d never really hurt you.” It’s the pure relief flooding through him that tips Techno off. Because he’s been here before. Lured back out of the corner Phil backed him into, lies soothing even as the man tightened the ropes. Everytime his parents went too far, crying and promising to do better, holding his hand and letting his nails dig in with each scream as hydrogen peroxide cleaned out the wounds. 

No, Techno has heard that promise his entire life, and never once has it saved him. The Wither wants to be perceived as a merciful rescuer. Just like all the rest, she gently patches him back up. Cleaning off the blood, wrapping bandages around the knife wound she left. An ice pack for his nose is fetched, but she’s still the one to give it to him, taking control of the entire process to further cement her as safety, protection, healing. Past that, even, to the old cigarette burn from Blaze, the bruises littering him from the kidnapping that were too unimportant for him to even notice the large mottled splotches. He measures the slight crease in her brow every time he shies from her touch, and learns to hold still, to ignore his prickling back and crawling skin, to shove down the trepidation on his features and even smile at her. The Wither promised to be a teacher, and certainly Techno learns a lesson that day that follows him for the rest of his life. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Techno stills as the Wither ruffles his hair. A calculated display of affection, no doubt, but she’s not the only one capable of it. He can’t stop the tension pouring through the whole of him, since that’s the only thing stopping him from recoiling, but as her fingers trail away he chases after the touch. Her reaction escapes him, eyes still closed to school his expression, but when they finally flutter open The Wither smiles fondly. “Thank you,” Techno sighs before she even has the chance to compel it from him. 

“Help,” his son whimpers. The plea rings in his ears for weeks. 

The video freezes in that last frame, catching the terrified visage of Technoblade. His hair is shoulder length now, uneven and blackened at the end, burn marks scorched into his shoulders, and all Philza can think about is how long hair made Technoblade feel like he was safe. Surely he can’t possibly be even further from safe now.

Philza replays the hostage video for what has to be the hundredth time. It begins with his son scared witless and thrashing and hurting, but that unquenchable fighting spirit Philza has so grown to love quiets the moment the captor’s fist draws back for another blow, the boy flinching. Tears threaten his beautiful dark eyes, barely held back. Upon release he curls into himself, shrinking as he attempts to hold back the blood pooling into his lap. 

Philza couldn’t even hear the villain the first time he watched, enraptured completely with his poor son. Every flinch, every hitch of shaking breath. The last eighteen years without his boy had been horrible; the last week without him agonizing. What few clues he has sends his imagination whirling, fresh scorch wounds and knife marks and branding all overlaying old scars. Pain poured into his long tormented child, and it feels like there’s nothing Philza can do to save him. 

He’s well aware of the ultimatum. Returned hostages, relented territory, munitions and millions and militias and power, power, power slipping through his fingers. And it’s only the initial demand, they’re going to inevitably leech him for everything he’s got. But what does it matter when his son is being hurt? 

He begins the video again.

The moment the Wither waltzes out, Ghast slams his hands on the table, causing Techno to jump. “You think you’re going to get away with lying to us, Wilbur?” he growls

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not Wil? I thought we were past this.” Bruh. His pulse had finally calmed down. His resting heart rate is probably going to be abnormally high after weeks of various kidnappings. Techno is lucky if he comes out of this without gray hairs. Or any hair at all, given the good foot he lost to fire. “I’m super not Wilbur. I’m theoretically a Craft, but not really at all, so you can’t charge me with that either. Innocent on both accounts.” 

Ghast pulls him up roughly by the collar. “Don’t get cocky with me, I could strangle you right here and now and daddy dearest won’t be able to stop me.” Funny thing is, Techno isn’t scared of him anymore. Maybe it’s the perspective of interacting with the real threats, or maybe it’s realizing how little power Ghast really has. There’s a reason he’s only managed to bully himself into the leader position of a handful of grunts. Maybe it’s just the fact Techno has a solid foot on him. Either way, he simply stares at the scarred man coolly. 

“The Wither knew. She knew the whole time, and didn’t tell you. Maybe she didn’t think you were important, or smart enough, to need to know. If you’d like to take that up with her, be my guest. And unless you’d like to explain my snapped neck to both the Wither and the Angel, I suggest you take your hands off of me.” He’s released rather sharply, and Techno readjusts his collar. But even with the physical threat abated, he still needs to navigate the goons’ perception to survive. Squidkid is equally as furious, though he senses fear mixed in. Blaze’s posture isn’t particularly hostile as he flicks his lighter, though as fast as he switches between chill and pyromania his previous fondness might not mean much. Techno puts very little stock in kindness these days. But at least Ender has picked up on the Wither’s latter treatment of him, and is holding Ghast back. 

Techno pinches the bridge of his nose, winces, and raises the ice pack gingerly. “Right. First off, I am NOT that man’s son, and if you imply that again…uh, insert creative threat here. But the important part, the part the Wither chose to exploit, is that he thinks I am.” 

“That’s utter bullsh-”

“Do you seriously not think we’re in absurd soap opera territory here? Seriously? You’re a henchman for a secret evil organization. Every single one of you has a ridiculously tragic backstory, so you don’t get to call mine absurd.”

“We do when it doesn’t make sense!” Squidkid protests. “The Wither wouldn’t say you’re a Craft unless you were!” 

“I mentioned the Angel’s completely delusional, right? Multiple times, even? Well, if you think my writing is…” he sniffs “...incoherent and breaking suspension of disbelief, you’re going to hate what the Angel is spinning. Basically, he had twins, right? And one of them got cribbed, because for some UNKNOWN reason someone wanted to get even with the Angel of Death. My personal bet is someone just stabbed the baby. It’s not, like, hard to just drop an infant.”

“Eh, I’d personally keep it,” the teen shrugs, as only a child with no concept of how difficult an endeavor infant rearing could be. 

“Ew, why? It’s a baby, they suck.”

“Well, hostage. Ransom. Once you don’t have it on you he could just nuke you from orbit without worry.” 

“Only if he knew you had it. And you better believe he’s doing everything in his power to get it back.” No doubt the Nether is dealing with that exact problem currently, though Phil’s forces are substantially far more formidable than they supposedly were eighteen years ago. Probably why they managed to yoink his kid back then. “Anyway, it’s my unfortunate luck (which I’m sure you’re aware of) that I look like Wilbur Craft. It’s basically exactly what I told you, just without the actual motive. I accidentally ran into Wil, they tried to play nice and lure me in until they got impatient and just kidnapped me.”

“And why didn’t you tell us?” Blaze demands. 

“Uh, I didn’t want to get tortured and used as a hostage? Duh??”

“What makes you think that’s not going to happen now?” Ghast asks darkly. 

“Because I’m part of the Nether.” Briefly, Techno outlines the simple, easy to understand bits, emphasizing the Wither’s interest in him. He’s not sure how explicitly to spell out I’m important so stop threatening me but he does his best! No accounting for what they absorb but he can certainly try. 

“I still don’t trust you,” Ghast growls. 

“Well. Luckily for me you aren’t the one I have to prove anything to.” 

“Get me another slice would you?” Techno asks. 

“Get it yourself.” He sighs dramatically, then walks over and grabs more pizza, using Squidkid as an armrest. The teen grumbles and ducks out from under, which is why Techno tends to target him for physical affection. It’s grating at the best of times, but the Wither isn’t the only one who can weaponize touch. High-fives, shoulder bumps, the like. Sure he hates it, but it’s seemed to work. While still regulated, he’s not confined to the room anymore. Though very limited roaming, he’s sorry to say even the few areas he can get to are crawling with criminals. Lively in the way that a stirred-up ant hill is, no doubt due to the head of the organization’s stint here. Techno’s covertly taken stock of what’s available to him. He’s still not entirely sure if his official exit strategy will really pan out, especially as he has no way of knowing how long it takes to ruin a criminal empire. It wasn’t exactly on his college curriculum. But whatever early escape he tried would have to be an airtight strategy, and Techno isn’t confident enough yet. Likely he’d have to destroy both the Syndicate and Nether to ever have some semblance of peace after, and fairly simultaneously at that. Not that Techno isn’t down for toppling empires, but it’s slightly out of his scope. 

Pizza slice acquired, Techno renews his position at the window. He prefers it to anywhere else in the compound. The view isn’t particularly great, leading to some patrolled alley. Heavily tinted, too, definitely bullet proof. There isn’t a hope of getting out that way, but the small glimpses of sunlight remind him of his goals. 

A sturdy hand lands on his shoulder, the warmth of it dulled by his too small hoodie. Well, it technically belongs to Squidkid, who is distinctly displeased about the whole matter, but Ender insisted in that blunt way of hers that the facility isn’t warm enough for him to not have one. 

Techno’s nose crinkles as Blaze lights yet another cigarette. “Can’t you open a window?” 

“Nah, else you might jump out it.” He should’ve never mentioned that escape attempt to them. “Why, don’t like the smell?”

“Um.” It’s not ever really been something he talked about, just dealt with. “There’s just…bad memories attached, sorta.” It’s not as bad as alcohol, but it puts him on alert. 

“Same.” Techno blinks, surprised. “I can’t get it out of my nose sometimes, the scent of that crater that used to be my life. I figured I’d replace it, you know? If the bad memories are always going to be there, I might as well try to forge new associations. Take it into my hands, make it something I control. The explosions aren’t scary when you’re the one creating them. If there’s going to be fire every time I close my eyes I want it to be mine. Make sense?”  

“You’re, uh, a bit enthusiastic about it for my liking.” 

“Well. Gotta convince myself too, don’t I? I’m going to show him one of these days. Make a better explosion than Wilbur ever could. My beautiful magnum opus. And you? What’s your revenge plan?”

“Oh on Phil? Er the Angel? Um going good I guess. Very. Very vengeance-y. Already dug two graves and everything.”

“Is one for Wilbur? Because heads up he’s going to be cremated.”

“Uhh it was more a reference to Confucius but– yeah you know what my arms are super tired from digging. I’ll just make a pot sized hole since it’s wayyy easier to shove more people in if they’re ashes first.”

“Very true! That’s why we keep you around, for that massive brain of yours. How are the convos with the Wither going?” 

“Uh. I think she likes me. Maybe. It’s hard to tell.” No doubt her surveillance will pick that up, but it’ll just mean she works a little harder to convince him. But if he held out against Philza Craft (no matter how narrowly) for a month, one week of only daily sessions with the Wither isn’t going to mean anything. Not that he isn’t going to let her think he’s swayed. Techno chews on his pizza contemplatively, staring outside. The dynamic is strange, but at least his captivity is more comfortable now. Not that it can begin to match the comfort of Phil’s cage. With practice, he shies away from the thought. He’s gotten better at avoiding thinking positively about the Crafts, but he slips up occasionally. 

“More interest than she’s shown the rest of us. What’s going on? Or is it too important for us grunts?” 

“Demands are getting met. Surpassed, even.” 

Blaze chuckles. “You say that like it’s a bad thing! Chin up, you’re performing miracles as far as I’m concerned.”

“It doesn’t sit right. The Angel of Death doesn’t do hostage situations. It’s the first thing I ever learned about him.” Techno shifts uncomfortably. Though as far as Phil knows Techno’s actively dying or whatever. 

His shoulder is squeezed. “Just means you’re convincing, is all. Hell kid you had me half ready to offer my meager life savings. You’re just as anxious as her.” He jabs a thumb at Ender, who’d apparently teleported behind them. 

“That’s a good thing,” Ender mutters. Techno doesn’t leap out of his skin everytime she speaks anymore, which is nice. It got a lot easier once he realized she’s simply shy and prefers to avoid everyone and hide behind her hair to avoid eye contact, which he totally gets. 

“Oh yeah? And what does all those negotiations score us? Or are we not going to get our portion? We’re the ones holding the key the entire operation hinges on, after all.” His inadvertent sycophantry is amusing. While an important bargaining chip, Techno is by no means the sole pivotal piece at play. The Syndicate isn’t the only power in consideration, of course. And while desperate, Phil can only be strong armed so much, still preoccupied with protecting his children. Which is good, considering Techno still fully intends to shelter Tommy. 

Techno contemplates it, trying to trickle down the plans far enough that it impacts the goons. After considering the logistics of entire countries' worth of turf, navigating the politics of both the over and under world, and developing intricate strategies of dismantling the Syndicate’s immense base of power, it’s a little hard to think on a small scale again. Not for a second does Techno forget his true goal, but he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t get swept up in the tactical puzzle. What can he say, he’s a guy that likes a challenge. 

“It’s not easy guarding you all day.” 

“Lay off, Ghast, looking after Techno’s gotta be the cushiest job in the Nether.” 

 “...considering what I know about positions that exist, that’s probably true. And you likely aren’t to go without visible benefits. Weapons upgrades at the very least, and the PR of taking down the Angel of Death will mean an influx of the Nether’s numbers.” Certainly there are many downsides to that, such as if those employees come from the Angel’s operation, other organizations nervous about similar treatment, and further on, but the goons don’t necessarily need to concern themselves with that. “Probably new bases will open in England, China, Paraguay, Denmark, and Antarctica at the very least. So if you like travel, that could affect you. Plus you guys handled a pretty big job, so that looks good for your upward mobility.”

Ghast goes to dismiss, then considers the lure. “...you know, not bad. Not bad at all.” 

“See? This one’s our ticket to bigger things.” 

“Yes, because you’re going to ride the coattails of the abductee?” Techno asks drily. “Maybe you’ll even be able to afford better pizza.” 

“Hey, it’s hard to get! We got to be careful with stuff like that, you know how many poor innocent criminals have been arrested for the simple sin of craving Dominos? More than one, kid, more than one.”

“Could you at least get one without olives next time?” Squidkid complains, picking them off his slice.

“Just because you’re a baby who refuses to eat vegetables doesn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer.” 

It happens like that, sometimes. Like a flip is switched. It wasn’t that the day was normal beforehand, Techno was acutely aware of his status as a hostage, slowly scheming a way out, building up rapport. But it was a normal day, for Techno at least. A familiar dance of smiling and playing along and waiting for the day he could escape. No more memorable than any other, even less so since his stress wasn’t particularly high. Relaxed, even, or as relaxed as a hostage can ever get. Techno can’t ever forget it now, burned into his brain for the rest of his life.

He’s standing there, laughing, bumping shoulders with Blaze a little too deliberately. Ghast’s mouth just begins to part to continue the conversation, perhaps a jab or a grump, the start of a word that never makes it past a hum in the throat. Because one moment he’s surrounded by the odd little group at the window, chatting as they share a meal. And then the next moment Ghast doesn’t have a head anymore. 

Techno just stares, not computing the image. The world becomes details all adding up to nothing. Shattered glass on the floor. Thunder screeching in his ear and then silence. Force ripping through all of him, though just barely does he maintain equilibrium. Hole. Face. Hole where face should be. Hole where Ghast should be, the man collapsing to the ground. Techno collapsing to the ground, he’s being crushed, shoved, he can’t move. 

“Stay down,” Ender hisses. Or maybe she’s screaming, the explosion took most of his hearing. Techno couldn’t disobey even if he wanted to. The world is incoherent, surreal. For a lifetime he is pinned beneath Ender, static in the edge of existence. He scarcely even notices when he’s finally let up, till Blaze shakes him. 

Ghast isn’t breathing. Through the shock, training breaks through. He crawls over, checking for a pulse. Absolutely nothing. Blood spills out, hot and sticky, a halo fanning out from Ghast. In stiff, clumsy motions, Techno begins doing CPR. There’s a song, right? Something for measuring the beat. He can’t remember it now. He’s slamming into Ghast’s chest, over and over, faster and faster, and it isn’t working, why isn’t it working? He’s dragged away still reaching for Ghast, Techno could save him, he can, he just– 

“KID!”

“He’s not breathing.”

“Hard to without a mouth. He’s dead, hear me? Dead. Nothing for it.” Techno stares at the blood on the knees of his pants. He doesn’t like the man, hated him even, but that doesn’t mean–he didn't want– “You gotta get your head out of it or you’ll end up that way. We’re being attacked, got it? Don’t know who, keep your head down, stay safe, don’t be stupid.” 

But Techno knows. Deep down he does, this awful certainty that makes him sicker the longer he stares at the splatter that used to be Ghast’s head, and the image refuses to leave even as Ender carefully turns his head away. He thought he knew why Phil is called the Angel of Death. But he was so, so terribly wrong. It is not when he learned of the children, lovers, family, friends taken by his hand that he learned. It is not when he saw the puckering scars from torture survivors that he learned, scars now rearranged on the wall. It is not when he’s soaked in blood, coming to terms with the reality that he’s just watched someone die. 

Truly, it’s not even then, staring at the decapitated Ghast, that Techno really understands. But he’s closer than he used to be. Of all the lessons taught to him during his stint with the Nether, it’s this one that makes him wake up screaming. 

In hasty words, Ender and Blaze hash out a plan and act as one. In a blitz Ender dashes for a cabinet, shoving it in place to block the outside angle to the door, catching further bullets. Blaze whips out metal batons, flying towards the exit. A quick check, a hand signal, and the pair pour out of the room to the flurry of a fight. Techno trails after, motioning Squidkid to follow. He avoids head height as he pokes out of the threshold. Even the cotton muffling his ears fails to dampen the gunshots echoing down the hall. Just barely can he see them holding off encroaching forces. Ender is lethally fast, seemingly in a different place every time he blinks, and near inhuman in strength. Between ammunition bursts she seems to fly, picking up enemies and chucking them with enough force to topple others. Though skilled with a firearm, there is zero hesitation in improvising, crushing skulls beneath chairs and crates. Blaze meanwhile is a flurry of movement, cracks ringing out as his metal rods snap bones. 

No thanks! Techno is good on the not dying today thing. Not for him. He’s good in here, actually. The Angel’s men no doubt have been given orders not to hurt him, even if he has no idea how controlled any of the combat out there is. But Squidkid…? A lot less protected. Techno jolts into action, dragging him into the little bathroom. Squidkid struggles, pushing for the exit. “I have to help, they need me–”

“They need you to not die. Listen to me. You’re fifteen. You do not die today. You hear me? You have an entire life after this.”

“Those are the people that killed my family! I can’t just–”

“They will slaughter you!” Techno snarls, shoving him into the little cabinet beneath the sink. For a moment all he can see is Tommy, tucked beneath from a game of hide and seek, and the incongruity with the moment is disorientating to rectify with the boy coated in blood. There’re strange chunks on his hoodie from standing too close to Ghast. “We both know that! Now for once in your life, shut up and stay quiet.” The room is silent when he slams the door close. Techno sits with his back to it, not really knowing what to do other than try not to cry. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispers, more for himself than anything. “We’re going to get out, the both of us. Away from him. We’ll be safe.” No, he knows for a fact Squidkid isn’t the boy he’s talking to. 

When the door is breached and heavy footsteps approach, realistically what can he do? Techno whispers at Squidkid to stay quiet and safe, and walks out with his arms raised. “Don’t shoot. It’s me.” Frankly he doesn’t know who the soldier he’s talking to belongs to. It doesn’t matter. He’s protected by both sides of the war, and he wants neither. 

“Follow, Piglin,” the heavily armored man commands. Ah. One of the Wither’s head guards, he recognizes now. Alright then. Honestly he doesn’t know which side he was hoping for. Techno obeys, ducking through the threshold after. 

Blaze covers the retreat, shooting him a thumbs up, a wild, enthusiastic look in his eyes. He pulls some pin on his baton and hurls it so hard it cracks a foe’s visor. Jets of fire shoot off both ends, swirling in dangerous ribbons of scarlet and gold, almost mesmerizing as they set the hall ablaze. Ender– he doesn’t see her. Maybe she’s gone. Maybe he’ll never know. He numbly races after the guard, burrowing into sections of the compound never before open to him. 

Or, he does, until something clicks in his survival instinct driven brain. He could escape. Right now, while the two empires are locked in frenzied combat. He could get out and never be found by either ever again. Techno wakes almost from a trance, sensing opportunity sharp as blood on his tongue. He waits till the guard sprinting before him rounds a corner, and then he simply flees. Tunneling blindly, what meager mental maps he’d constructed useless here. He has enough sense to know he needs to get down another floor or two, but beyond that? He’s just running. Soon enough pounding footsteps are after him. The sound of a fight getting louder and louder, and he’s going to have to choose between capture or risking the chaos of a battlefield, and Techno doesn’t know how to make that decision, only keep tearing through the halls. 

He rounds a corner. It’s just like any other corner, really. A right angle, made of concrete bricks that are a rather ugly color and texture. The latter fact is something Techno is highly aware of, given the hand he puts on the walls to help him turn faster, which is rapidly becoming raw with friction. The only difference between it and any other corner, of course, is the fact there’s a person behind it. They rise up from where once crouched down rigging something up, straightening a trench coat, then, much like him, become rooted to the spot.

“Tech?” 

Techno’s heart has little idea what to feel as he is suddenly face to face with Wilbur Craft. Is it solace? Horror? Or can he simply not tell anymore between the two? Techno is so, so tired after weeks of fighting, and seeing Wil his knees nearly buckle and give out. 

Actually, there’s no nearly about it. Techno collapses, and is luckily caught before his head can hit the concrete. Or, well, possibly not luckily if Techno could actually figure out which side (if any) his loyalties lay, since it’s the Wither’s soldier that catches him, slings him over a shoulder, and books it. 

“TECH!” Wil roars, racing after them. The guard slams a door shut between them, barricading it with his and Techno’s body weight. Pounding at the door, Wil screams for him, barely budging it at all. After a minute, he runs out of energy, growing quiet with periodic rustling. The sound of footsteps scrambling away from the door is all the warning he gets. Techno sprints away as fast as he can, sheet white. The Wither’s head realizes a second after and follows suit, almost catching up by the time the explosion hits. The shockwave smashes through, knocking Techno off his feet in a disorientated mess. The silhouette of his doppelganger filters in through the smoke, filling the crumbling threshold and picking up speed until Wil is tearing for them. Techno is snatched by the scruff of the neck like a kitten and hauled away. The door immediately in the next room is slammed shut in Wil’s face. “OH COME ON!” he howls. 

Not trusted to not bolt again, Techno isn’t put down until he’s dropped in front of the Wither. Considering the good ten minutes he’s carried, it’s a little ridiculous. Vault doors thunder close behind, entombing him in the heart of the Nether operations. …Okay that’s a bit overdramatic, by no means is this the largest facility. But the Wither is here, the star of the whole show, so it kinda counts. He’s in the den with the actual dragon in it, basically. Only problem is instead of hoards they got hordes, outside, drawing ever closer in their crusade. 

“Little Piglin, come here.” Techno obeys at once, leaning down as cold hands cup his face. “Are you alright?”

“Ghast is dead.” But she clearly doesn’t care. Does anyone? Blaze didn’t seem phased. Is it just him who feels like the world stopped? The Wither is acting like it’s any normal session, even when apocalypse seems to get closer by the second. 

“Pity. But worry not, I will keep you safe. The fortress door is impenetrable, even should security fall.” Surely there’s questions to ask, there, how long supplies would last, if there’s secret passages out, but Techno just…can’t. She seems disappointed in that. He sits down at the fine table across from her, staring at the hot tea sat out for him. 

“It’s the Angel. I saw Wil.” 

Some predatory light glints in her electric gaze. “Truly? Sloppy, to let him be exposed for this operation.” By the raw desperation in his voice, Wil would have had to be anesthetized and chained down to prevent him from coming. The Wither takes it only as an opportunity for another hostage. He wonders if he and Wil are interchangeable in her mind. No, likely not; she clearly thinks him far more malleable than Wil would ever be. “And how does that make you feel?”

Techno has no idea. All he feels is cold, everything too much to process, and even if it’s calm now it couldn’t be anything further from safe. Final screams ring in his ears. But she likely doesn’t care about that, or would think him weak. He is, of course, just a kid so far out of his depths that he hasn’t tasted air in months. But he has to maintain the story, even when everything feels numb and he can’t even figure out how to strategize for this development. The thrill of tactics is dull now, a frivolous distraction designed to keep him entertained. The promise of a cure if he plays the game. 

He can’t stop now. Prove your loyalty, boy, are you part of this family or not? The Crafts are his enemies, must be if he is to survive the Wither. She wants to know how he feels, and Techno can’t really answer that, but he can use what truth he has. He’s gotten good at that, now, telling pieces of truth to avoid lying. “Wil tried to blow me up.” 

“Fascinating. What does he think about you?” 

The fact she only asks about Wil’s motivations now speaks volumes. “He hated me.” It’s an important past tense that she doesn’t catch. “He wasn’t subtle with his jealousy. Bitter at the attention I got.” It’s a gross simplification of his particular concoction of mental state, but he suspects the Wither already vastly underestimates Wil. 

“Nothing to worry over darling, he’s not a particular threat. Philza merely offers him little missions to feel useful while still being safely underwing. He isn’t given any real power, not like you.” Suuure. But Techno lets the corner of his lips twitch in an echo of a smirk. 

The lights fail, plunging them into darkness. Glowing strips of lights ring the trimming of the room, powered by some backup generator. Ghastly shadows streak across the room, flickering movement in the corner of his eyes. But the horrors conjured in his imagination are nothing against the war of flesh and blood monsters that he’s caught between. Why him? Oh god why him? 

“Are you scared, little Piglin?” 

“I’ve been scared my whole life,” he responds honestly. The fighting almost seems quieter now, dim and distant. The blood covering him is almost dry. Perhaps it’s finally letting up, though Techno can scarcely care who the victor is. He’ll have no way of knowing the truth, the communications current cut, propaganda to be whispered in his ear. Either way, it’s still blood on his hands at the end of the day. All these lives laid out in his name. 

“Do you still wish to return to your father? Seeing what he is?” He’s too tired to correct the mistake.

“I never did. I just…I just want to go home.” 

And the world explodes. 

The fortress door, no doubt, was indestructible. The ceiling? Less so, especially when the underestimated Wil is given a say in its annihilation. Classic problem solving, really, Techno thinks numbly as the world comes crashing down around his head. Or…not around. Directly on, even, a massive chunk of concrete the size of an anvil plunging straight for him. Techno bolts into action, dodging the debris raining down as the building begins to crumble. Shrapnel cuts across in streaks of crimson, dust causing his eyes to water and throat to clog. Techno dives under a table for safety, curling up as tiny as possible, arms covering his head. Earth pours in, snapped pieces of rebar and foundations jagged in the maw of the crater. A moment of measured nothing, the building groaning but standing firm. 

The clouds of dust begin to slowly settle, the dark fortress pierced by rays of light from the broken open ceiling. And then the Angel of Death descends into the fortress. Techno just barely catches the man’s expression, through the swirling dust and debris and death. He’s apoplectic with rage, cold malic pouring through his crystal eyes. 

In a split second violence erupts once more, the head guards lunging for him. Movement blurs so fast he can’t keep up, whirling weapons and blows as the Angel contends with the duo. Being outnumbered does nothing to even hesitate his wrath, movements smooth and precise and composed as ever. If anything he only grows faster against the duel opponents, flying with ease over jagged terrain. The moment one of them stumbles it’s over, the Angel of Death reaping one of the head guards. Techno scurries on the periphery of the battle, hiding behind chunks of the fallen building, carefully out of range of stray shrapnel, shots, and savagery. Unnoticed, but it’s an ephemeral safety. 

The Wither lunges for him, knife drawn, and Techno glances behind him, expecting an ambush, only to find nothing. He whips around to find her already on him, knife caught in a deadly arc. Recoiling, its path is diverted to a shallow slash across his face. Techno slams a punch in retaliation, only for his momentum to be turned against him. Thrashing on the way down, he scores a kick that nearly frees him. Even as the knife presses to his throat Techno struggles, fighting her the whole way. “Easy, darling,” she murmurs, though is a little too breathless to maintain her façade of totalitarian control. “Just like last time, that’s it, he just needs a little incentive.” Oh. Right. He relaxes, and is guided into place, a perfect human shield. The only thing not covered is the sunken eyes peeking over his shoulder. “Call for your father, now, that’s a good boy. I’ll get us out of this. You’ll be safe, just as I promised.” 

“Angel?”

The Angel of Death’s head snaps up at once, deadlocked on him. It doesn’t stop him from slamming the last soldier’s head through a piece of rebar, leaving only the Wither in the sea of the Syndicate. And Techno, wherever he is in the equation, just trying to pick whatever option means he survives. The Angel of Death prowls forward, cold and quiet in his intensity, the dead he’s reaped left to rot. Discarded at once from mind, never truly important to begin with, focus wholly consumed with Techno. Pure instinct traps Techno in that gaze, capable solely of watching as death stalks closer. 

The dagger digs into his neck, tilting his chin till steel gleams from the light trickling through from above. Blood drips down his face from the stinging gash underscoring his eyes. “That’s far enough,” the Wither announces, her rasping voice carrying through the crater. “As is, the poison is already well in his system. But if that isn’t incentive enough, one false move and his lifespan shortens from days to minutes.”

And the Angel of Death stops. His eyes don’t even flicker away from Techno’s face. If he finds something in it, Techno surely doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to express, much less feel. It doesn’t matter, really. He’s simply a prize in the struggle, and one that’s already over, too. All three of them knew it the moment the Angel of Death stilled. Techno can feel the Wither’s vicious victorious smile even from behind him. The pair of them will walk away, every ounce of carnage for absolutely nothing at all. 

“I’ve had a lovely time with your son. He’s useful in ways you’ve clearly never imagined. I think I’ll keep him, if you don’t mind.” How long is this game going to continue? An unresolved stalemate between two titans. “I should have taken far more interest in him years ago than I did. A shame that both of us missed his childhood.” In a smooth motion, the Angel of Death raises his gun, a terrible light in his eyes. The tendon of his jaw tightens. “None of that, now, unless you’d like to watch him wither away, helpless to stop it.” 

It’s over, then, Techno thinks. Because what else could he do? 

But Philza has never taken hostage situations well. 

And her head explodes right next to his. 

And he can’t move. It’s like every single fiber of his being has locked up, painful in tension. Atavistic instincts are screaming in his ears, he needs to run, the bullet was inches away from rearranging his brains into tasteful wall decor, but he can’t. Techno is utterly paralyzed, the gunshot playing in his head over and over and over. Less than a degree’s difference of angle and he’d be dead. The corpse is still draped against him, a hand just as tight on his shoulder as it was in life. Hot viscera drenches the side of his face, shoulders, crawling down his back. 

The Angel of Death stalks over, going out of focus as Techno’s eyes fail to track the movement, still staring straight ahead. Fear coils in sweeping waves that crash over him, roaring louder and louder in tumultuous upheaval only intensifying as the Angel of Death saunters over. The hand on his shoulder is callously pried off, the Wither shoved unceremoniously to the floor. 

About all he can do is breathe and wait. The shadow of death casts over him. He feels cold, less a person and more a statue of ice, carved into shape by others. With only one audience member left, Techno knows exactly what type of performance the Angel of Death wants from him, but he just can’t deliver tearful gratitude and relief and adoration. 

Techno’s scared. Of course he is. Thing is, fear’s a funny thing. Not for a moment does he think he’s going to be hurt by the Angel of Death. Not physically at least. No, he knows for a fact that bullet never had a chance of hitting him. What’s scaring Techno is the confirmation that if anyone dares touch him, they will be slaughtered. He’s never felt more alone in his entire life than right there, in that room, only one criminal overlord standing beside him, the piles of dead beneath their feet. 

The Angel of Death can’t be called serene, there’s a bit too much mania in his eyes, but he sighs, relief soothing the edge of his wrath, or perhaps simply tucking it away for later. Purposefully, he smiles sweetly. “Come on, son. Let’s go home.” Techno is caught in strong arms the second he collapses, scooped up gingerly by the Angel of Death. It’s like he weighs nothing to the man. He is nothing, and yet is somehow everything to this monster. 

His son shakes like a baby bird, wide eyes caught on his savior. Poor thing, he must be terrified out of his wits. When he falls Philza catches him, just as he always will. He cradles his baby in his arms, murmuring, “did they hurt your legs, love?” 

Technoblade simply stares blankly. Wrath curls in Philza’s heart for what these creatines have done to traumatize his child. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now,” Philza promises. “Alright?”

Technoblade nods woodenly. He’s rigid with tension, not easing for a moment. A pounding heartbeat outstrips Philza’s own, not letting up for a second. But of course it wouldn’t, Technoblade has been trapped in constant danger for two weeks, the concept of safety foreign utterly by now. That is wholly Philza’s fault. As comforting to have the pulse fluttering against him, no doubt that roaring pace is only further spreading toxins through his body. Philza snaps an order to search the premise for a hint of antidote, rushing his son to safety. It’s a long journey, carrying his son out of the depths of hell, and though weary from the culmination of weeks worth of blood and tears, he’d do it all again for the guarantee of holding Technoblade in his arms like this. 

Never. Never again will he let his boy be torn away from him. 

Ender is dead. He’s pretty sure of it, though it’s hard to tell one twisting corpse from the next. Maybe he recognizes her long dark hair spilling from a pool of sanguine at the edge of a doorway. He isn't brave enough for a second glance. 

Blaze is not. There’s the faintest spark of a cigarette lighter in the dark of a room at the front of the hall, and there’s not a single doubt in Techno’s mind even if nobody else notices. He tenses, frantically shaking his head. No. No he can’t. He shouldn’t. He’ll die. 

“It’s alright,” the Angel of Death shushes. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.” His comforting words don’t even falter as halfway through the grenade Techno is bracing for sails into their midst. It is caught midair and chucked into the next room over, the hall shaking with the explosion. Blaze bursts into the hallway, slamming into the retinue of soldiers in a wild fury. Techno can only watch in horror. Blaze bats a metal rod into a soldier’s head with a sickening crack, ducking under the crackle of a taser, tearing towards him in a flurry of blows.

“Hold on kid–!”

The gunshot hits him square in the back, slamming him into a wall. Gasping, Blaze slides down a bit, clutching the body armor that saved his life. Techno’s eyes dart to find the still smoking barrel tossed aside. “Dibs!” Wil sings before body slamming Blaze to the ground, punching him full force once, twice. 

“Oh,” Blaze breathes as he stares up at the man who spent his life spiraling, culminating in their destined reunion. “It’s you.” Though his teeth are stained a crimson that smears into his beard, Blaze’s delight is genuine. “So we meet ag-” without decorum or reverence, Wil snaps his neck, peeling away from the dead man and dusting off his trenchcoat. 

Then he zeros in on Techno, lighting up in pure relief. “Tech! You’re okay!”

“No, he’s badly poisoned.”

Worried, Wil surveys him quickly. “Evidently.” 

“You’re not done.” He protests furiously, but is shut down. “We need to be sure the job is thorough, and I need to ensure he’s safe. I don’t want a single snake left in this viperden. We cannot let a repeat occur.” Wil snarls, but gives an irritated half salute and races off. 

No one else tries to save Techno. Why should they? It’s a death sentence to touch him. As they ascend to the ground floor, the halls are vacant save for the dead. Techno can’t really tell their sides apart, it’s all just incomprehensible carnage blurring together. He’s overwhelmed to the point of complete stillness. Input comes, no doubt as horrid as every other second of the last half hour, but it can’t be processed. It’s only the change of the sound of footprints as they transition from concrete to asphalt that he even realizes he’s free. Or, whatever version of it he can get. Outside, at least, and mere weeks ago he would’ve been ecstatic and now he just…can’t. Techno can’t anymore. All he wants is to not. Is that allowed? Can he just not? Base existence is about the best he can manage at the moment, since things like motivation and agency have been stretches of the imagination at most as of late. 

There’s at least one consolation. A lie, likely, but it’s useful for him to believe it at the moment. Squidkid got out. Maybe. If he was hidden, if he was quiet, if he was lucky. He’s a kid, surely– surely– 

And the building collapses. It’s almost surreal how fast it is, floors buckling in, one on top of the other, tilting in nonsensical directions and swallowed by billowing clouds of dust. And all Techno can do is cover his ears and curl up, the arms around him tightening. “Dammit Wilbur, Technoblade was supposed to be gone before that phase,” the Angel of Death snaps into an earpiece. His voice grows soft and kind in a way Techno is so, so sick of at this point. “You’re safe now, gemstone. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you ever again. Let’s get you home.”

Chapter Text

Infiltration attempt 1: “WHERE ARE THEY!?” he demands of Sam the second he sees him. He’s walking kind of funny, in a hurry, and Tommy has to chase after him. Sam has never left his side in the bunker, but he was gone all morning. Tommy knows for a fact Dad and Wilbur are back, given the actually insane surge in security. Tommy can’t even breathe without tripping over a guard. It’s legit the most he’s ever seen, it’s kinda crazy. Like the barracks of an action movie, which makes him basically Captain America, but better, since he’s British. Anyway, he still hasn’t even SEEN his family. And he’s starting to get freaked out, especially since they pretty much just told him Techno was kidnapped and promptly abandoned him for two weeks. Tommy…didn’t handle that particularly well, especially the overhanging doom whispering in his ear that he might not ever see any of them ever again. He knows Dad and Wilbur have to be alright, otherwise Sam would’ve said something. 

…but Sam also didn’t tell him Techno was taken. And he isn’t saying anything now, either, despite Tommy’s advanced interrogation techniques. “Tell me tell me tell me tellllll meeeeeee,” he whines. 

“Loose lips sink ships, Tommy,” Sam replies in that soft, firm tone of his, the one where Tommy’s keen little brother instincts can sense just the faintest trickle of annoyance bleeding in. Tommy pounces on the hint of weakness since he so rarely finds it. 

“I’m going to run away,” he announces. “I will join the circus and never look back. Abandoned and despised by my family. I will cry myself to sleep every night, all because you didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sure you will be supported in whatever career path you decide upon.” He’s scarcely paying attention in a way that’s infuriating. 

“Sam, I Request and Require you to inform my father of my plan. Tell him I’m going to sleep in a little cage with the monkeys and run around underfoot of the elephants and be trampled to death.”

“I can’t.” 

…can’t? As in Dad’s busy, or as in Dad’s dead? No. Shut up. He’s fine, Tommy tells himself for the millionth time, shoving it down. If no one takes Tommy seriously, why should he? It’s just a stupid thought. “You got to. If you won’t let me see them you have to tell them stuff for me, it’s important-” 

“No it isn’t. Patience is a virtue, Tommy. Learn it.” Sam has never been so short with him, and Tommy pauses, hurt. Usually he humors him to some degree, but there’s this awful aura peeling off of him that Tommy can’t place, making him uncomfortable. He’s struggling to keep up with Sam now, weaving between soldiers swarming the place. Sam is barking out orders, jumping through different conversations instead of talking to Tommy. 

Frustration bubbles up as Sam talks over him, meaningless ciphers jumbling jargon in his ears. Sam knows things, he could reassure Tommy in a single sentence, but he refuses and it’s making him anxious. And if there’s one thing living in the Craft household has taught Tommy, it’s how to force people to pay attention to him. He screeches at the top of his lungs and headbutts Sam in the stomach, and instead of dodging, or tanking, or swinging him up in the air and calling him an ankle biter, Sam gasps and clutches his side. Tommy didn’t know Sam could even FEEL pain. He was only worried before; now he’s scared. 

Technoblade was glassy eyed from the start, but he fades fast as Philza carries him out of the depths of hell. He stops shuddering, stops tracking movement, stops craning his head in a jerky, panicked attempt to know if further danger is coming, stops it all until about all he does is blink. Even that is lethargic. It’s not soothed fear as much as Philza would like it to be, he’s too horribly rigid for that. You could always read Technoblade’s expressions like a book if you wanted to, but now all there is on the boy’s face is a stiff blankness. He’s gone through so much the past two weeks, and now ink blots out everything.

So, understandably, Philza thought it to be terror, the kind so overwhelming one just shut down. What comforting murmurs he pours out must fall on deaf ears, the world shut out entirely. That doesn’t stop him though, in truth Philza needs the reassurances just as much. 

But it isn’t terror, or not solely. Philza realizes it when the body clutches in his arms begins to grow warmer by the second. Glancing down reveals some dark corruption seeping into Technoblade’s face from the gash across his perfect features. Philza’s blood runs cold. He thought it was just a shallow scratch, perhaps from shrapnel. But it looks worse the more time passes, and Technoblade’s grip on awareness is slipping away. A different poison from the last cruel demonstration, closer to the brain too. Philza doubles his speed, ducking into an armored vehicle. Technoblade is pried out of his grasp, and instinct and days of stress explode as his boy is taken once more. 

Philza sees red, lunging, only to be caught. He twists in expert maneuvering, falling into close combat. He’s tired in a way that makes him sloppy, tired and desperate yet deadly even then. Just barely does the man standing between him and the swarm descending on his son hold him off, and it’s rare he finds someone so skilled. He doesn’t have time to aim his gun before it’s twisted out of his hands. Philza bares his teeth as he’s expertly disarmed by the fighter, and responds by pulling out another. That’s confiscated too, and they somehow seem to know him perfectly, stealing what is supposed to be hidden weaponry. Still, Philza pushes past, racing forward for the van housing his child. He’s caught by the arms and dragged back. Philza shouts for his men. Shouldn’t they be here? The Nether’s fortress was utterly demolished, Wilbur made sure of it, and reinforcements weren’t calculated to arrive in time for the blitz speed raid. And yet Philza is given no aid. Was he betrayed? No matter. He’ll slaughter them all by himself if that’s what it takes. Philza snaps the wrist of one foe containing him, a roundhouse kick to the head felling the other. He surges forward, throwing off any who dare slow him down with maximal brutal efficiency, till the fighter that went toe to toe with him grabs him from behind, restraining his arms.

“Mr. Craft you need to—” Realizing they’re strong enough to hold on and clever enough to predict his every desperate violent struggle, Philza throws his body weight, chucking the person over his shoulder and whipping out another knife. First rule of dealing with the Angel of Death? There will ALWAYS be another weapon. But the opponent hooks around his ankle on the way down, and Philza might be more than a little exhausted and blinded with panic, so he goes down hard. As in, all of his body weight slamming into the knife he just plunged in the enemy’s stomach, hard. Despite it, Philza is flipped over, a knee digging into his underbelly and a dozen soldiers pinning him down. “Give him back,” Philza snarls. 

“Mr. Craft—!” The same enemy protests over his howls of threats and hatred. “Philza, you’re panicking—”

“I’LL SLAUGHTER ALL OF YOU! YOUR CHUNKS WILL BE SCATTERED OVER AN EARTH THAT DOESN’T REMEMBER YOUR WRETCHED NAME!”

He’s backhanded sharply. “Philza! Calm down! It’s me,” Sam barks. 

Philza glares daggers. And uses daggers, flicking one out and trying to drive it into his thigh before the weapon is smacked out of his hand. “You betray me now? After everything!?”

“Can’t have you attacking the medics, Mr. Craft. Your son is safe now, you rescued him. But unless you’re a world class doctor on top of everything else, you need to let someone else save him.”

Oh. Oops. Rubbing his stinging cheek, Philza’s eyes narrow on one of his most trusted allies. It’s not comparable to any of his other injuries, aside from the literal sting of betrayal. “You slapped me.”

“With all due respect, sir, you stabbed me. Can we let you up? Now we both need medical attention.” 

“Sorry mate.” Philza accepts the hand offered —not by Sam, of course, he’s busy applying pressure to the wound— and gets to his feet, a little sheepish. “I, uh, got a bit carried away.”

“You can probably see him now that you aren’t attacking anyone who touches him,” Sam replies drily. “But only after you get patched up.”

“No. I can’t let him out of my sight, not again.”

“Sir, you just took on an entire complex and you need—“

“And I’d do it again, this very second. I’m fine.” 

Sam gives him the flattest look imaginable. “You need more time to calm down, especially after a blind assault. I’m worried.”

“Lucky for me you have no authority over me. You know, your boss. Get your own help if you wish but I’m going after him.” Philza struts off, missing the flash of triumph in Sam’s eyes. 

“How?”

“What?”

“How are you going to catch his vehicle without slowing it down? That would delay your son’s treatment.”

Philza turns around slowly, his rigid smile dripping pure malice. “You foresaw this? You planned from the start to take him from me,” he hisses.

“I suspected you’d be in mama bear mode, yes. Unfortunately, you’ll have to follow in a different transportation, receiving medical care while not busy using your bare teeth to rip apart anyone who tries to touch him. Truly I apologize for taking care of your physical well being, which is my job as you so kindly pointed out.”

“I can’t protect him, separated like this.” Philza begins to pace frantically. “You planned for him to slip through my fingers again!”

Sam nods sharply, no doubt smirking beneath his heavy mask. “Of course, sir.”

Outrage boils up in him hot and fast as he’s escorted into a waiting vehicle filled with nervous medics and forced to get help. Philza’s head whips around to keep track of Sam, hoping to pour venom through his furious glare after this betrayal. “MATE WHAT THE ACTUAL FU-”

Infiltration attempt 8: Tommy is extremely clever, and after a few hours of sneaking around the bunker and watching the flow of people, he’s figured out a general hearth that everyone else seems to focus on. Ergo, that’s where his family must be. At the very least, something important. And Tommy is super important, so obviously he should be there. Since asking didn’t work, Tommy is forced to take drastic measures. 

Turns out, bullet proof vests are very tricky to put on. And not made for eleven-almost-twelve year olds. But he convinced (read: whined until they gave in) a guard that he’s a scared little baby (a genius ploy even if it’s obviously a lie) (Tommy is so very confident and not worried one bit) that wants armor so he feels safe. It’s like suuper heavy though, and Tommy feels like he’s going to collapse. But the importantness of his mission fills him with vigor. 

With great zeal, confidence, and pomp (as he does most things), Tommy marches up to the massive squad guarding the most important door, which Tommy cleverly deduces by the fact it has the most soldiers stationed there. He walks up stiff as a robot, then clicks his heels in abrupt stop. It’s not as crisp a sound in his trainers compared to their steel toed boots, but his salute is incredibly authentic so they won’t notice. The body guards behind him are a lot better than he is, but Tommy figures their presence will only boost his credibility. So he stands up as straight as he can and tries to speak loudly enough that he can be heard through Sam’s spare bulky mask. “You are relieved of duty for lunch!” he informs the guards. 

They are distinctly unconvinced, which is insane since Tommy’s disguise is flawless. A soldier stalks forward, face rigid and harsh. She bends down (which is totally unnecessary since he’s not short) and lifts the bottom of his mask up. It’s pretty loose since Sam has a much bigger head. “It’s master Thomas,” she calls to the other guards. They aren’t put at ease, but they’re distinctly less hostile. “This area is restricted. Please return to your quarters, it is rather dangerous at the moment.”

“Nope! I’m Sam,” Tommy insists confidently. “I’m supposed to be here. Danger is my middle name. I had it changed, legally.” He hands over a real security ID. Sure enough, the middle name actually is Danger. Sam has very interesting parents, and a long and fascinating backstory that will never be mentioned again. 

“Where did you get this?” she demands, a little harsher at the clear sign of flawed security. 

“I got it when I started working here ages and ages and ages ago!” He nicked it when hugging Sam. “Give that back I need it for stuff.” 

Unfortunately it passes into a senior officer’s pocket. “Funny. I thought you left for medical leave an hour ago, ‘‘‘Sam’’’. How are you doing?”

“I feel super better now.” He says it rather forcefully. Children, naturally, have a fine sense for when they’re being condescended to. Tommy supposes it’s better than getting in trouble, though he’s irked that they’re just humoring him. But he can’t give up, not if this is the only way in.

“What a relief you recovered from punctured organs so quickly. How’s the girlfriend?” Sam has one of those?? Tommy’s respect for the bodyguard shoots up by several levels. 

“She’s fine. And hot. Very hot.”

“The wife won’t be pleased about that.” It was a trick!! Backpedal. 

“No, they know about each other. It’s all very friendly. Especially ever since we got another girl.”

An eyebrow rises. A victory in its own right, since it’s the most amount of amusement Tommy ever tends to get out of their stone features. “Oh? Who’s the third girl, Sam?”

“Your mom.” Got ‘em. Now Tommy has the upper hand in the conversation, which Wilbur says is very important for manipulating people. “Now let me in, son.”

Somehow, the checkmate goes unnoticed. “Mr. Craft is attending to crucial operations at the moment. Our apologies, master Thomas, but we dare not interrupt with trivial matters.” And that can’t be true, Dad swears Tommy is the most important thing in the whole world, but he doesn’t manage to convince them of that. 

“It’s important. So I’ll guard too! I’ll guard better than you, and then I’ll get hired and replace you and then I can go in as many doors as I want!” 

A soldier breaks formation to pat him on the head. “Sure thing, kid.”

Philza cradles his son’s limp hand in his own. Medics swarm around, no doubt more than inconvenienced by his presence, but there’s nothing they can do to force him to leave Technoblade’s side. Well, not if they want to keep their lives that is, but even that would be a temporary distraction. 

He looks less pale once all the blood is washed off, but that might be just the comparison to the washed out hospital gown instead of some under sized hoodie Philza’s never seen before. Unfortunately, he’s suspecting it’s the flush of unnatural heat. It’s undeniably growing worse despite the flurry of medical attention spiraling out around them. The hand Philza clutches for dear life grows warmer, fever beginning to break out. 

Briefly their fingers untangle as a nurse bandages the rings of red around his wrists, inserting an IV. The chaffing is older, partially healed, like he’d learned early on not to struggle against the restraints. Technoblade is rolled on his side, the blistering burn marks checked over. Philza steals the jacket he’s quite literally peeled out of, dried blood crusting it on. It’s not his son’s, since Philza knows every article of clothing Technoblade possesses. A captor’s no doubt, though the catharsis of burning it won’t do anything to bring Technoblade back to consciousness. He’s limp as he’s attended to. The cut across his arm from the hostage video is scabbed over, the area dark like that of a contusion. It has faded from when he watched streaks polluting Technoblade’s bloodstream. Testing is still being done, but so far the theory is it was a bluff. 

But the cut across his face isn't. The constant treatment slows to a trickle, the immediate remedies complete, and yet Technoblade isn’t waking up. Numbly, Philza listens as a doctor outlines options. Poison experts begin to arrive, arguing about what the Wither’s special concoction is made of. It’s slow, cruel, designed to be awful to watch. 

Philza has long known that time is the most vital resource in the world, and now Technoblade is running out of it fast. It takes time to identify, to test, to manufacture an antidote. All he can do is wait, and hope, and trust, and sit by his dying child’s side and hold his too-hot hand. 

Technoblade’s fingers squeeze around his own. Philza’s head jerks up. It’s the first sign of consciousness. His gaze flies to the boy’s heavily bandaged face, finding just the barest crack to his eyelids. There’s only white beyond. Technoblade squeezes his hand again, and again, convulsing in his grasp, but Philza has never seen one of his nervous tics while asleep. But it’s not just where Philza holds, it’s his other hand and legs and shoulders and his child is spasming uncontrollably and something is wrong, so horribly wrong. He doesn’t even have the sense to call for help before doctors already descend on the scene, pulling him away. But they aren’t doing anything, just watching, that’s his son they should be saving him, not watching as he suffers—

“Help him!” he commands hopelessly, cursing his career path. Why did he have to go for criminal mastermind? What had he been thinking!? Philza should’ve been a doctor, then he wouldn’t be so utterly useless in protecting Technoblade. 

A medic pulls up their arms to shelter their face from his knife. “S-standard procedure for seizures, sir. Stay back or he could be hurt.”

“Is that a threat?” Philza hisses. Seizures. What do they mean seizures, he’s obviously writhing in pain. Philza can imagine twenty different methods right now that could have them also convulsing on the ground if they won’t help his son, and tells the nurse as much. 

“No!” they squeak. “Protocol is c-clear area, don’t detain, and time length. We’re doing every—everything medically advised. Please stop threatening to de-skin me, s-sir.”

Philza lowers the knife slowly, still glaring suspiciously at the whole procedure. He didn’t know fifteen seconds could last an eternity until he watched Technoblade’s convulsing body twitch and spasm. He freezes in strange contortion, then suddenly slumps, a puppet cut from the strings jerking it around. 

It’s not the last seizure. The next is almost an hour later, the one after that even sooner. They don’t get longer, a horror he hadn’t even considered until it was mentioned, but they do grow in frequency as poison seeps into Technoblade’s brain. The fever grows worse, darkness crawling across his face despite all efforts to slow the rate of infection. 

And all Philza can do is wait by his side and listen to the slow beeping of the heart monitor. 

Infiltration attempt 8: progress check: abysmal. Tommy is sitting cross legged outside the door, pouting. He stopped standing pretty quickly since bullet proof vests are super duper heavy. One of the body guards even helped him out of it, and now he’s just sitting cross legged in front of the door, bored out of his mind. He’s trying to scheme up better ways in, but about all he can come up with is darting in the moment someone tries to enter. There’s not really any other option, even though nobody seems to be going in or out. Tommy has no idea how much is behind the door, if there’s a better entrance everyone's using or something. But there’s really not another door with as many guards so it has to be this, right? 

When he finally begins to droop and doze off and he awakes to find himself being picked up and carried to his bed, Tommy fights for freedom, running back to the door and refusing to leave. And when he wakes in the morning he’s still there, a blanket draped over and a new rotation of faceless guards stationed around. Again, no other options, even when hours stretch to days. Tommy sets up camp right outside the door and refuses to be deterred. His hunch turns out to be right, since when someone does finally break the general rule of zero entrance it’s Wilbur. Tommy sprints up to him the moment he spots him, tackling him into a massive hug. Wilbur reeks of cigarette smoke, ash clinging to his fingertips. It’s an overpowering scent, but Tommy buries his face into his brother’s side all the deeper since that’s what home smells like. Wilbur is alive at least. Tommy doesn’t know anything else for certain in the world, but at least his brother is warm and real beneath his embrace. 

“Get off, I’m busy,” Wilbur says shortly, trying to pry him off and continue his fast pace. 

“I love you.”

“Love you too. Now let me go.” He struggles for freedom, wrenching Tommy off and power walking for the door. 

“I missed you! I haven’t seen you in weeks!”

“Then you can wait a few more hours. I have important things to do, not just clean up the mess while Dad reaps the rewards,” he spits. “I’m going to have words with that man.”

“Dad’s in there? Let me go with you! I need to see him—”

“Not now.” He’s let in rather easily, painlessly compared to the days Tommy’s been waiting. Tommy latches on with him, a little stowaway. The hall beyond is filled to the brim with soldiers, but not a hint of his dad. He didn’t know how much he’d been banking on this working until he realizes Dad isn’t directly on the other side. 

He needs Dad. He needs to know what’s happening, if his family is even safe. It’s been days of waiting and trying to ignore how helpless he is. Because what can Tommy even do? He’s being swallowed by events he doesn’t understand, because no one will tell him anything and it’s freaking him out. Tommy tears up. “I need to—”

“Stop with the onion tricks, Tommy, this is serious.” He’s finally pried off and shoved back out the door. 

But it’s not onions. “Wilbur, I’m scared.” And confused and lonely and frustrated and angry and sad. He’s been left alone for weeks with the fact he might never see Techno ever again, that his new brother might be hurt or dead, and that he or Wilbur or Dad might be next. 

Scowling, Wilbur glances back, then huffs his frustration. But he turns around, crouching before Tommy and taking his hands between his soot covered ones. “It’s okay, Toms. Trust me.” Wilbur squeezes. “I’m personally ensuring this won’t happen again. Don’t be scared. Everyone’s back home.”

“Everyone? Is— is Techno okay?” 

A dark look passes his features. “I don’t know, Tommy, someone’s been giving radio silence for the past few days. I’m going to find out. Stay here.” 

“No, don’t—! I need him, let me go with you!” But Tommy is dragged back out, thrashing the whole time. And when Wilbur comes rushing out fifteen minutes later Tommy is still there, asking every question under the sun. But he’s ignored utterly, Wilbur breaking into a determined sprint, his long legs flashing beneath him in a way Tommy can’t hope to match. 

So Tommy waits. What else can he do? He sits, and he waits, and he tries not to cry since he isn’t a baby. He’s not particularly good at it. 

The last time Wilbur heard anything about Tech was finding out he’d been poisoned, and that Wilbur detonated too soon. And then…nothing. Utter radio silence, not a single word from his father. It might’ve been some condolence that no one else gets anything either, save the fact it now falls to him to lead the extermination efforts. It's a sufficient distraction for a time, requiring his full attention to properly delegate the mission across the world, wrestling up every last drop of influence the Crafts possess to annihilate the Nether. Wilbur occupies himself carefully placing threats or cajoling into certain ears, promising or calling upon favors, his silver tongue sharp as it shapes his will into being. It's not as if there wasn't a plan in place ahead of time, but complex operations take extreme guidance, and Dad wasn't expected to drop off the face of the earth the second the initial strike began. 

Wilbur is left to carry out a war by himself. He can do it, of course, though he doesn’t have the depth of experience for it to be as smooth as possible. Tearing through battle and crashing the world down on his twin’s captors had been nowhere near as stressful. Relieving, actually, since it meant he finally got to do something to help. But though he’s far safer now, it’s far harder than the comforting familiarity of slaughter and destruction. The Syndicate has never pulled an operation this big before. Why would they? Destroying entire organizations makes others antsy. There’s going to be push back for this, but the Crafts need to send a painfully clear message: Technoblade is theirs.

Wilbur can handle making that sort of statement, obviously. He digs up decades old blackmail, places bounties too lucrative to ignore. It’ll spawn witch hunts, false accusations, not that the Syndicate cares. Wilbur carefully delegates quotas for captures to interrogate, rations out their immense stores of weaponry, sends informants scurrying to trace down every last mention of the Nether until it is scorched from the earth. But that’s all he has at the moment, a simple missive to destroy and then nothing. It covers his purpose, he supposes, but his only goal is Technoblade’s safety. Sure destroying every last part of the Nether involves that, but he needs to see that it worked. That his twin is safe and sound.

Wilbur shoves everyone out of the boardroom he’s been trapped in for the last few days, delegating and commanding and finally threatening until he’s alone. It’s late afternoon, or might be as he’s lost track of the time utterly through a combination of extreme preoccupation and sleep loss. He hasn’t had a moment to breathe in days. He sends for some type of food, absolutely ravenous, and checks his texts. Wall after wall of his frantic questions bombard Dad. Not one is answered. Desperate inquisitions about Tech, overwhelmed confusion on how to cover tasks he hadn’t prepared for, how to manage every little thing. He figured it out on his own, or found people who knew more than he did. Wilbur managed, but it could have been far smoother, and he could sense his men’s annoyance, resentment, derision at being directed by a guy not even out of college. It was a sentiment he cut out quickly, but still everyone knew the Angel of Death was meant to be where he is sitting, and Wilbur just doesn’t have the same weight of reputation to shape people into compliance. Wilbur is clever and good with people, but he senses in his gut the disastrous ripple effects of an imperfect leader spearheading the underworld war.

Frustration bubbles up. No. He can’t do this in silence. He needs to know what’s happening, if something is horribly, horribly wrong. Did Tech even make it out?

(Did Dad? Is that what explains this awful silence?)

Wilbur downs another cup of coffee the moment the poison tester clears it, designating to his secretary temporary authority split among a number of people, his bodyguards deflecting any solicitors as he rushes to his jet. Wilbur snaps his phone to his ear and it’s picked up the second ring. Infuriating. “Are they at the nesting ground, Sam?” he barks. Technically there’s three layers of code over the question, but that’s the gist. Sam gives a short affirmation. “Status?”

“Classified.”

“Classified?!” Wilbur splutters. “What do you MEAN classified?! I’m practically running the entire Syndicate at this point! If you don’t tell me I’m going to personally stab you.” A high honor, given how in demand Wilbur’s time and attention are at the moment. 

“Too late, your father already beat you to it. Classified, sir, means that the information you’re requesting is too delicate to be transferred over this unsecure channel.” 

Seriously?!?!? How could this channel possibly not be secure? If it isn’t, then none of the contacts Wilbur has made in the last few days can be considered secure either, and that would have massive ramifications. Then again, Sam is paid to be even more paranoid than Dad is, which likely puts him in several DSM-5 categories. At least Wilbur’s annoyance is now outweighing his fear. 

Though not done storing stuff up for his absence by the time the jet lands, it’ll have to be good enough for an hour or so. Wilbur tears towards the bunker, flying through security with snappish frustration. What, it’s not like there’s more than two Wilburs in the world. If they were triplets Dad would’ve said something years ago. 

There better be answers, and they better be good. The only thing that gets in his way is Tommy, and as harried as Wilbur is he manages to spare at least a few seconds for the little boy since he is practically in the same boat as him. Knows less, even. Medical ward. Why are they in the medical ward? Why couldn’t Dad tell him anything at all? 

He walks in ready for spitfire, venom sharp on his tongue. But it stills the moment he sees his father. He’s just…despondent, sitting at Tech’s bedside, watching. And Tech…oh god, Tech. It’s so incongruous with the last time he saw him. Scared incredibly so, and injured horribly, but he’d been fighting. It was the same Tech as ever, resentful and frantic for escape. He was fine. Sure, later Dad had been carrying him out at the end, petrified with fear. After then he must’ve been safe, so it was that brief period, after Wilbur failed to retrieve him and before Dad recovered him, that everything went wrong. Poison, Dad said, but he’d still been up and fighting a week after the hostage video. 

Now he’s catatonic, the murmur of his heart monitor the only symptom of his life. “What’s the prognosis?”

Dad looks up woefully. “Um. Right. It’s looking like a cure can be produced, it's just a matter of how soon and how much damage he sustains until then.” Wilbur gently pulls up a chair next to Dad, who pulls him into a tight, desperate embrace. 

Wilbur stares at the rot creeping across his own visage. It’s almost like a dream to watch himself dying. None of this should have ever happened. He understands exactly why Dad abandoned them, and it simply isn’t a good enough excuse. Wilbur’s still angry and frustrated. Dad should’ve given him something, anything, not just sink into grief and leave Wilbur to a mission Dad made. It’s starting to feel like a pattern. “I saw him,” Wilbur says quietly, “Before he got poisoned. I could’ve saved him.” 

Dad’s embrace tightens. “Don’t blame yourself for that, love.” 

“I don’t,” he says bluntly. “I blame us for him ever being in this situation in the first place. They wanted to hurt me, not him.” 

“I don’t think that’s true. The Wither distinctly knew exactly who she had, even if the henchmen didn’t.” Fine. Then Tech is dying because someone knew they cared about him. It’s the same result and their fault either way. “He’s been a hostage his whole life.”

“I know that, but it was only when we intervened that he nearly died. Tech was safe before he met us-” 

“He was not,” Dad shuts down sharply. “He was neglected and manipulated and abused. We put a stop to that, we saved him.” Yeah right, because the people Tech speaks so fondly of are monsters. He’s tired of Dad saying whatever he wants to justify himself.

“At least he wasn’t dying, Dad! He’s not safe with us. We ruined his life, maybe even ended it, the very moment we decided to kidnap Tech!”

Dad’s eyes flash. “We did not kidnap him,” he growls. 

“You can call it a rescue all you want, the law calls it kidnapping and so does Tech.”

“And since when did you care about the law?”

“I don’t, especially since I just spent the past few days running your Syndicate. You can’t just drop off the map like that Dad, not if you want to prove me wrong. You don’t keep him safe by wallowing. I’ve been doing both our jobs all day, barely keeping my head above water, and you can’t do this, you can’t just abandon us. I don’t think we’re safe for him, especially if you do nothing to protect him.”

“Right. Sorry. I– sorry, songbird. I’ll pull myself together. But you realize this just means we can never let him go? We’re the only ones who can keep him safe, our enemies won’t care that he’s separate, it’ll just mean he’s easier to target. We have to keep him safe and close. It’s the only way.” 

“Our protection did nothing when he was stolen out of his own bed.” 

“Imagine the vulnerability of a bed with zero of our measures. We’ll be more cautious. It only happened because we were away from home. We’re in the bunker, nothing will get us.”

“And we’re just supposed to stay down here the rest of our lives? That doesn’t solve the core problem. He’s still at risk because of us.” 

“And he always will be, regardless of what we do. He’s a Craft. They've already been using Technoblade for leverage his entire life. He will forever be in danger.”

“From the enemies we made trying to find him in the first place,” Wilbur shoots back. “We’re not safe for him, Dad. This isn’t working. I don’t know what will, but I can’t watch him go through this ever again.” 

“We’re sending a message. There won’t be another attempt like this, they’ll know the consequences.”

“And the enemies made in the extermination?”

“We’ll destroy them too,” he replies levelly.

“We’re going to fight the whole world?”

“Yes. If that’s what it takes. I swear he’s protected.” He hesitates, cautious in sudden worry and doubt. “Do you not feel safe Wilbur?” he asks quietly. 

“I can take care of myself. You raised me right.” 

“And Thomas?”

Wilbur doesn’t hesitate. He can’t. “He has more security than the two of us combined.” But that doesn’t stop the thought process from starting. Because maybe this isn’t a safe life for a kid at all. And, thinking back on his own childhood, about the things that maybe he shouldn’t have walked away from with only a few scrapes, maybe it wasn’t good for him either. All because he was a nosy brat who figured things out too fast and demanded to be let in, and Dad was all too delighted to let him do whatever he wanted. Wilbur got in over his head dangerously fast, even if he’s been too cocky and stubborn to admit it as a teen. He was on the warpath to find his missing half, and no one had ever stopped to tell him a battlefield was no place for a child. 

Tommy isn’t dangerously curious in the same way Wilbur was, fairly content with what he knows. But even he’s starting to ask a few questions, and suddenly Wilbur isn’t so sure he wants him to piece it all together. Sure Dad shut stuff down the last few times, but that was mostly to win Tech over. 

Maybe this isn’t right for Toms. It certainly isn’t for Tech. And Wilbur? …it doesn’t matter. He’s in too deep now. 

“We’re safe. I’m just not so sure about Tech. Prove me wrong. You have to, for his sake.”

After the conversation with Wilbur, Philza pulls up a nicer chair next to his son’s bedside and arms himself with a laptop and a mug of tea. Initially it’s difficult to tear his mental focus away from Technoblade, but Philza falls into scheming, pouring every ounce of his anxiety into cold, ruthless revenge. Wilbur certainly did a decent job, but he hasn’t exactly been trained to be a criminal mastermind’s apprentice since he prefers field work. There’s a few things to fix, some finer touches to add, and soon he settles into the soothing position of running a war. 

Given he’s perked up from his previous state, eventually Philza’s convinced to manage some of his own needs, possibly just to not have him underfoot constantly. Someone hit upon the realization that trying to point out his own health problems was a waste of time. What are massive contusions and a bullet wound compared to the state Technoblade is in? Besides, the bulletproof vest caught the gunshot, and he didn’t hear any ribs crack, so it’s fine. Especially since the head doctor sat down and outlined realistic possibilities for his son’s health. There was no sugar coating the fact there’s a chance Technoblade will die. Unlikely, true, but possible. He’s somewhat stable in his current coma, and though he is fading before Philza’s own eyes it’s sworn up and down he could theoretically make a nearly full recovery. 

Bottom line is, Technoblade is unlikely to wake up in a brief half hour window. And one bright nurse has the guts to point out being soaked in gore is not conducive to a safe, hygienic hospital. So Philza tears himself away from Technoblade’s bedside in order to take the quickest shower of his life. 

Theoretically. The second the door closes shut behind him, panic wells up so severely that Philza almost immediately returns to ensure Technoblade hasn’t been kidnapped in the two minutes he foolishly left. Shockingly, he’s in the exact same circumstances as before. Someone groans. 

Two days. It’s been two days when the door opens again after Wilbur refused to let Tommy in. It’s approaching three weeks since Techno was taken. So, a few days waiting isn’t really so different from what Tommy’s already been doing. It’s not an unbroken station, things like meals and the bathroom drawing him away periodically. He tries to distract himself, too, but it doesn’t catch his attention. Maybe it would help if he had somebody to play with, usually he can commandeer a guard or two into being his playmates. You’d think with so many he’d have a better chance of it, but they all seem to be in a contest to see who can be the most diligent and vigilant and stoic and boring. Sam hasn’t come back at all, and Wilbur is absent, and Tubbo can’t come to the bunker and he doesn’t know at all if Techno is free or dead, or kidnapped or home or anything. He thought maybe Wilbur implied he was back, but that might’ve been what Tommy wanted to hear. All that leaves is dad, who might be behind the door. Maybe. Hopefully. Tommy waits outside, nestled in the cocoon of blankets and pillows that have been procured, resting against the legs of a guard who’s pretending not to notice his lack of uniform. The plushy raccoon he’s squeezing isn’t exactly regulation either, nor is it his usual companion as an almost twelve year old, but there are special circumstances at the moment before his soul is weighed on the divine scale of cool or loser.

But then there’s a new sound that takes a second to register before his head jobs up. Footsteps. But more than that, they’re not the steel boots of the guards and are instead of a familiar gate. Tommy whips around, beaming. He wriggles out of his cocoon and races for the door, squirming in anticipation. There’s clunks and whirring sounds of complex mechanisms, and then the entrance opens before him. The first realization is euphoric, his lonesomeness relieved like cool balm on an open wound. But truly isolation was only a symptom of the real problem, exasperating the confusion and dread. It’s on the second realization that all the bad feelings balled up in Tommy’s chest explode. Because yes his father is here, but Dad is covered head to toe in blood.

Philza quickly closes the gap, kneeling down before him. Immediately, he is seized into a hug. Wrapping around Thomas, Philza carefully kisses his forehead, asking, “What’s wrong, sunshine?”

Thomas chokes on his tears, holding onto his father tightly. Philza rubs circles into his back, assuring him everything is alright and that he can take his time. Eventually Thomas mumbles something into his shoulder. “Can you repeat that, love?”

“You’re hurt.”

Philza blinks. “I’m hurt?” Thomas nods. 

“I haven’t seen anyone in weeks and you’re hurt and— and—”

“Why am I hurt?” Sure there’s some knicks and bruises, but he’s fine. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re covered in blood!” Thomas wails. 

Oh. OH. Philza pats his back. “Ah! No worries, that’s not my blood. Your dad is safe and sound, sunshine.”

“Really?” Nodding, Philza holds his son as he starts calming down. Thomas hiccups wetly, rubbing his eyes. “I just... I just haven’t seen you in so long,” he mumbles. “Thought you were hurt.”

“I can see why. Sorry. I was just about to take a shower.” 

He expects Thomas to ask about the origin of the viscera, but instead he inquires, “why were you gone?” 

“I had to rescue Technoblade.” 

Thomas stares at him with wide blue eyes, still puffy from crying. “Did you win?”

Philza can’t school his expression fast enough, and fear flashes through Thomas. “We got him back,” Philza assures belatedly. “He’s here again. But he’s badly hurt. He was treated very poorly by the bad guys.”

“I want to talk to him,” Thomas demands. 

“That’s not the best idea at the moment.”

“You guys get to. I want to talk to him now!” 

Philza couldn’t handle it at all, and he’s an actual adult. He’s trying to shelter Thomas. He needs to feel safe, not be exposed to something like that. “Thomas, trust me. He’s back but you can’t see him.” 

“Then you’re a liar. He’d be trying to get to me if he were here. He doesn’t abandon me like you and Wilbur.” 

Philza winces. “Thomas we didn’t abandon you-”

“Techno would be with me if he were here, so he’s not. He’s not safe, he’s with the baddies still.” 

“He’s not, he just can’t-”

“Then he’s dead. He’s dead and you won’t tell me, because you never tell me anything.”

“Thomas-” His voice breaks. “Thomas, no. No, love, he isn’t dead. I won’t ever let him die, you know that. I protect my boys.” But clearly not well enough given the circumstances. And Technoblade isn’t dead, but he’s dying, and that is certainly Philza’s fault any way you slice it according to Wilbur. Perhaps he’s right and he’s endangering his boys, but what can he do but tuck his chicks tighter beneath his wings? “What ever gave you that idea?”

“I haven’t seen anyone in weeks. No one told me anything at all! You’re scared to tell me the truth because you think I can’t handle it, but I can. I’m nearly a teen, I can too handle it.” But he’s clearly lying, because Thomas is visibly falling apart at the seams from the nightmares his brain has churned up. 

“We didn’t want you worrying.” Clearly, it hasn’t worked. “I’m sorry, we were busy trying to get him back. I didn’t realize how lonely you were, love.” Wiping away the tears, he scoops Thomas into his lap. Thomas latches on tightly. 

“Because you weren’t there to realize,” he mumbles. “This is child neglect.” 

“I’ll do better, alright? What do you need?”

“I just want my family.”

Philza smiles. “That should be easy moving forward. I’m all yours, alright? Forever and always.” Naturally there’s still demands on his attention and expertise to execute in both senses of the word, but he can spare some time. 

“I want everyone. Let me see Techno.” 

“I told you already, you really shouldn’t bother him currently.”

“I am NOT a bother! I’m a brother, and a good one! I’ve been waiting here for days to get in.” Thomas gestures to a nest of pillows poking between the legs of guards. Little raccoon ears poke out the top. Is that Mr. Bandit? Philza hasn’t seen him since Thomas was six. Thomas has the same dark circles under his eyes, clothing rumpled from sleeping in them, hair still loosely raveled in an old braid from before the world fell apart. It aches to see the work of Technoblade’s now limp hands. “Now let me talk to him!”

“Thomas, he can’t-”

“Why?? Why won't you let me? It’s not fair, you and Wilbur did. You two knew everything the whole time and wouldn’t let me see you! I’m a Craft too! Or have you all forgotten I even exist?!” It hurts that his child would ever think that. What’s worse is that it's almost true. He scarcely thought of Thomas for well over a half a month, and with good cause, but still. Philza feels like a lousy father and clearly keeping Thomas in the dark wasn’t good for him at all. Ignorance hadn’t been bliss but instead hell for his son. That needs to change now. 

“He’s not waking up, sunshine,” Philza explains softly. Thomas’ face freezes. “You can’t talk to him because he won’t be able to respond. It’s called a coma. His body is so injured and tired from fighting that it’s shut down to try to heal.”

“Did you try shouting really loudly?”

“Ah- no. No that wouldn’t work, I’m afraid."

“Splash him with water? Bounce on his bed? I’m really good at waking him up, Techno says I’m always interrupting his sleep. Let me see him, I can scream really loud and jump on him and he’ll wake up and- and stop being hurt and everyone will be okay.” 

“You shouldn’t do that, you could hurt him. But if you promise to be careful you may visit.” Thomas nods enthusiastically, and he wraps him into a hold and stands up. It’s a testament to his worry and loneliness that Thomas doesn’t complain about being a big boy who can walk on his own. Likely, Philza needs to hold his son just as much as Thomas needs to be pressed to his father’s chest. 

The doctor immediately groans when he reenters. “Sir, nothing’s changed in the 15 minutes since you left.” Philza ignores the comment, slowly approaching the bedside with Thomas hoisted on his hip. 

Techno is sallow, sunken into his scrawny frame. Burnt hair spills out in an uneven fan framing his bandaged head, streaks of pink battling between encroaching brown from the roots and ashy black from the bottom. Even then it’s washed out in harsh hospital lighting. The man is still and lifeless in a way that can’t be right. No, this can’t be Techno at all. He’s nothing at all like the friendly, energetic, driven guy Tommy knows. Frightened, Tommy clings onto Dad all the tighter. “And he really can’t wake up? No matter what?” 

“He will eventually.” 

“Promise?”

“Yes.” Thomas, naturally, buys the lie, trusting in his father. There is no guarantee, but the odds are slowly getting better. “I have the world's best doctors here for him. He will be fine.”

“What did the baddies do to him?”

“Technoblade is badly poisoned.” 

Thomas tenses. “Poison?? Can I throw them in jail? I’m going to- to—” there’s a pause while Thomas considers the worst threat he can think of. “I’ll spit on them.” There’s no need, of course, unless he intends to spit upon the still smoldering crater left behind. Philza would join him. 

“We managed to procure an antidote this morning. Now, we wait and monitor and hope.”

“That’s it? Nothing else will work?! What am I supposed to do?”

“Same thing you’ve been doing so far; trusting that I will make sure you are all safe. I know it does not might not feel like it, but he legitimately could be in far worse shape.” His nightmares have been filled with the possibilities for weeks. Philza is unfortunately both a creative and violent man. “As is, we think he’ll recover fairly well once he wakes up.” If.

“I just can’t sit here! I gotta help. Are you sure he won’t hear me? I can be very annoying.” 

Philza hesitates. “There are some stories of people in comas still having some ability to hear. He wouldn’t wake, but he could possibly feel better to hear you.” Thomas nods very seriously and begins to wiggle out of his hold. Once released, he rushes over to Technoblade’s side. 

“Wake up soon because I miss you very much. Ok? And if you don’t, I’m going to steal all of the shirts you told me not to. And- and break your Mario Kart record. And... Please don’t leave me.” He waits for a response, and naturally, there is none. Thomas deflates a bit. “Can I stay with him?”

“I’m sure he’d like that, to know you’re looking out for him.” He nods severely with all the gravitas a child can muster. “Would you like to talk to him about what you’ve been doing?” Thomas begins to chat with his brother, and Philza hears about how the three weeks without him went. It seems to make Thomas feel better to some extent, getting to ramble about his antics, but the loneliness bleeds through. Perhaps Philza should have assigned him some type of playmate, but even he knows for a fact he couldn’t have torn himself away from planning operations and still saved Technoblade as quickly as they did. It could’ve been worse. That’s a horrible thing, it could’ve been far, far worse, and Philza can’t ever let there be even a chance of repetition.

Thomas shakes him. “Dad! Dad, he’s waking up!” For a minute, wild, startled hope bursts in his chest before he realizes what Thomas is talking about. “No, no, he’s all right. See Dad?” Thomas says in the face of his crestfallen expression. “Wait, no I– stop, I want to be there when he – STOP!” Thomas protests as Philza picks him up and carries him away as Technoblade begins to thrash. “He’s scared let me— put me down Dad—” 

“He’s not waking, Thomas,” Philza explains quietly. “It’s another seizure.”

“Another?”

He nods and stations himself at the back, carefully pulling Thomas's face away from where he cranes to watch his brother. “You don’t want to see that, love. Let’s go, hmm? Have lunch together, just you and me, alright?” He feels better once allowed a few hours of respite, the worry not dissipating but loosening its grip on him. A little misdirection guides Thomas to happier subjects, even though it so clearly still weighs on both of their minds. The nagging responsibilities inevitably drag him back since Wilbur really is right. If he wants Technoblade to be safe he’ll have to ensure it. 

Thomas immediately rebels when Philza tries to leave him at the door. But he doesn’t think watching the medical procedures would be good for him, particularly having time to really examine exactly how much damage his brother took. Eventually resigned to the parental declaration, Thomas sits down at the door once more. “I’ll guard him,” the boy insists seriously. Philza manages a slight smile, the first he’s had in weeks. 

He knows it’s coming. Philza is warned well in advance of the medical signs and what they could mean. Still, Philza’s heart races and he beams wildly as the first signs of life finally appear. Technoblade groans softly, shifting. Philza kneels at his bedside, clasping his hand. He looks so fragile, pale and swallowed by blankets and tubing. Philza catches the moment his dark eyes flutter open, breath hitching. The hazy gaze flits around languidly, clearly confused, wary. Philza rubs a thumb against his knuckles, and at once Technoblade locks onto him. For the first time he doesn't squirm or recoil from his touch. Philza smiles warmly. “Hello, Technoblade. You’ve been rescued.” 

There’s no acknowledgment, his expression blank. But his heart rate picks up almost the second he becomes aware, scared and confused even if his features don’t show it. Technoblade surges upward and it’s almost immediately too much, falling back to a propped elbow. Darting eyes take stock of the surroundings, cautious, calculating, covertly noting movements and bodies and exits. Philza’s heart sinks. “You’re safe now. No one will ever hurt you again.” The hand beneath his trembles. 

“Heyy Tech,” Wilbur calls. “How’re you feeling?” His gaze darts to where his twin stands at the foot of the hospital bed, pupils dilating. His mouth remains firmly clenched. Where once he languished, Technoblade is now caught in the jaws of tension, coiled tight to the fear of snapping. 

A tap on Philza’s shoulder, a murmur asking permission to run through questions. Technoblade simply stares at the doctor, not responsive to inane questions about his name and the date and what happened. Philza himself is annoyed on his son’s behalf. It’s a woeful underestimation of his intelligence. The doctor calmly explains that temporary (he stresses that part) short term memory loss is normal for both comas and seizures. Philza relents, and Technoblade is coaxed into a few answers, mostly through thumbs up or down. For the most part he seems disinterested, refusing to lay back down. The most he really offers is a slight shrug when asked if he’s in pain. 

It’s worrisome. At the very worst Philza expected hysterics, but he’s still gripped by shock. “Do you know what happened?” Philza asks again. There’s a pause, a stiff furrow to his brow, and a thumbs up. “You’ve been poisoned, and burned, and cut, and beat, and—” he’s given a sort of rolling hand gesture to continue, almost exasperated, inviting him to get to the point “—and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. This never should’ve happened to you. It’s reprehensible what you were forced to endure. I’m sorry it took so long, though I assure you the Nether— ah, the organization that kidnapped you,” he explains, realizing Techoblade would have no idea about the greater picture. “Their power was extensive. Was. They are being hunted down as we speak. They will never hurt you ever again. Alright?” 

Technoblade is almost bored, disinterested in his words. Far more invested in tracking the momentum of a medic traveling past. Philza glowers, and they freeze, no longer offering a distraction. Another tremor and Philza pats his hand. “They’re not a threat,” he assures. “Do you have any questions? Any comments? …any plans?” Technoblade always has plans, perpetually thinking. But he is simply quiet. Beyond a shadow of a doubt something is wrong. Philza turns upon the closest doctor. “You didn’t mention vocal damage,” he says dangerously. 

“There isn’t any.”

Oh. “Technoblade? Can you say something for me, love?” He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t look away. Philza is starting to think he can’t, caught watching for threats. 

The Wither’s death was far too slow. No, every single villain in that complex went too quickly. Philza wants to snarl and have one on one time with every single culpable criminal that reduced his son to this watching, waiting terror. Not for a second has Technoblade’s heart rate slowed. Philza fumbles for anything that could possibly reach through the layer of fog between Technoblade and reality. “Do you want to see Thomas?” Though impossible for Technoblade to afford him any more attention, there’s a distinct posture shift forward. His intensity sharpens to hunger. Philza at once waves a hand, ordering the door to be opened to where Thomas waits beyond. 

A blink. That’s all it takes, and Technoblade rips out his IV and tangles of tubing, lunging out of bed and slipping from his fingers. “Careful, gemstone, you’re still recovering—” he doesn’t act like it though, tearing towards Thomas like a man possessed. The boy’s face explodes with euphoria at once, racing for his brother. 

It’s not that no one is going after him, not with the haphazard, scrambling run he has, straining with effort to meet even slower than average pace. Someone has to help, even if everyone’s cautious of managing to injure the fragile boy further. But it’s when Technoblade runs completely past Thomas and out the door that Philza figures ah, right, he’s bolting. It shouldn’t be a surprise as high strung as Technoblade has been from the very first second of recovered consciousness. 

Technoblade freezes in the threshold, staring down a battalion. True to Craft form, impossible odds are no deterrent. So he plunges into the fray perhaps not fearlessly but certainly recklessly. But Philza snaps and the guards block off the end of the hallway completely. 

“Don’t touch him,” Philza warns lightly, trailing after his spooked son. They jerk back as if shocked, Technoblade taking full advantage, charging head on, the crowd parting like water around a stone. Philza face palms. “Do stop him, just be extremely careful.” Ah, the pitfalls of literalist interpretation. 

Technoblade scowls at the wall of muscle and armor, and Philza doesn’t know if he notices how much he’s trembling. He’s worried the boy will fall, worried further of triggering the panic of replicating the way he was kidnapped. Technoblade pounds at the barrier to little effect. The first guard to carefully clasp his shoulder gets a scalpel driven through the hand. Or, so the intent certainly was, he doesn’t have the force for such violence. Philza catches the faint flicker of confusion and fear as Technoblade watches the pathetic attack bounce off. 

It’s expected, really. It’s as if their month of progress has been erased by the dangerous environment Technoblade was forced to survive in. It is natural to regress in such circumstances. Still…Philza would be lying if he said he isn’t tired of it, though half that exhaustion can be blamed on the tireless nights spent working towards this moment. It’s irksome, but none of that is Technoblade’s fault. The boy is just trying to survive. His only mistake is thinking he has to fight for it. “Love, please come back to the hospital room. I assure you any escape attempt on your part will be far more effective once you aren’t half dead.” He whips around, hackles bristling, sunken eyes feral. Philza holds out his palms in a pacifying manner. 

Gaze locked on a potential threat, Technoblade only notices Thomas approaching when he tentatively calls his brother’s name. The spell is broken at once, the child incongruous with danger. He startles, shying away. Clearly nervous, though less hostile, eyes dropping to his feet. Almost ashamed. Thomas races forward regardless, latching onto Technoblade’s hip. He glances to Philza for confirmation of some sort, and does nothing. 

“Are you okay? Did you beat the wronguns up? Why didn’t you scream stranger danger? I would’ve come and kicked them for you. Ok? So if they try anything again just yell for me and I’ll bite them. Promise you will?” Technoblade’s mouth opens shallowly, twitching in the clumsy outline of words, then closes just as silently as ever. And by the furrow of his brow, he doesn’t understand it either. 

He’s leaning on Thomas for more support than he likely intends, adrenaline dwindling. He seems lost as his little brother subtly pulls him back to the medical ward, slowing and hesitant and resistance waning until there’s nothing left to prop him up. Technoblade stumbles and is caught, tries to wave away help yet can’t manage on his own. Breathing labored, eventually he is carried back no matter how hard he tries to slowly stumble on his own. His shallow pants take awhile to slow, though he relaxes almost immediately from relief the moment he’s scooped off the ground. Philza catches the light of scared confusion in his gaze. “It’s expected,” he soothes. “You went through so much. You’ll need time to recover.”

Techno feels safe, and it makes him want to cry. 

Oh he’s terrified, make no mistake. Constantly on edge, waiting for this calm to break. It’s just when the Angel of Death finally snaps and lunges, it’s not his life he’s worried for. He’s caught watching the medics and guards and staff, waiting for the moment one makes one false move and is obliterated. He’s pretty sure it’s going to be a doctor to die first, since they keep pushing the Angel of Death out of the way to run diagnostics. Painful ones, too, everything is sore from stress and torture, but if he lets even a slip of indication through he’s sure the medic’s head would burst into a scarlet splatter. 

As appeasement, Techno quietly takes the Angel’s hand, praying the affection will bridle him. Measuring the effect, it seems to calm the criminal mastermind, and so Techno shoves down the bile on his tongue and the images of viscera coating the fingers he tangles his own with. If he just plays his part everyone will be safe. 

The feeling sat in his throat the moment he woke up, and it only grows worse when he looks at the Angel of Death. He doesn’t quite get it. It’s not that he’s scared of saying the wrong thing, not like he was with the Wither. Techno genuinely knows he will never hurt him as long as he wants Techno for his brood. Still, that doesn’t stop him from suffocating, even if it’s not the Angel’s hand on his throat. The weight of the aegis settles down and crushes his lungs. The Crafts claim it to be unconditional love, and Techno figures that has to be true. He could scream until his voice really did give out and it wouldn’t change anything. He won’t be hurt. Everyone in the room knows it too, the curse almost a tangible aura. Any interaction he gets is coupled with little glances to the Angel of Death, his presence inescapable. 

He just feels alone, utterly isolated from anyone but the Crafts. This one’s mine, the Angel had written in blood. 

And yet they lavish affection on him, fawning over their retrieved pet. Not a word for the violence and annihilation beyond gut wrenching assurances of its totality. The masks all firmly in place, but all Techno can see is the monsters they’ve always been when before all he ever caught was glimpses. 

So truly, what does it matter if he doesn’t speak? Never had he any say in it. Never had he mattered save for what he represented. For a single second someone actually saw Techno, and they were using him, sure, but it meant he was useful. And now she’s dead. Now they’re all dead. 

Perfectly safe, for the rest of his life. And he is loved, but Techno just can’t care. He doesn’t fight it, he makes sure of that. But it’s a farce he sees through all too clearly now. Techno is exhausted. 

After a day full of stupid medical jargon and tests that Tommy doesn’t get, Dad firmly insists that Techno is given the comfort of sleeping in his own bed for the first time in three weeks. At first Tommy thinks that means they’re leaving the bunker, but no. Of course not. Though after what’s happened to Techno, Tommy is suddenly super okay with staying in the bunker as long as they have to, even if it’s the most time he’s ever spent inside and he can’t see a hint of an end to the stint. 

Busy with his station at the hospital ward, Tommy somehow completely missed the remodeling of Alexander’s room. Okay, well, nobody’s ever actually said it’s Alexander’s room, but it’s in the wing with the family’s chambers, and it’s the mirror opposite of Wilbur’s and no one is allowed in, so Tommy cleverly deduced that’s what it was ages ago. Now, all of Techno’s stuff has been carefully arranged within, though he doesn’t really acknowledge the familiarity even though his scrutiny falls upon every part of it. About the only reaction Tommy’s seen in him was annoyance, as he began to lag behind even Tommy, who is (temporarily) slower than the rest of the family since he’s about to be a massive and impressive man but isn’t quite there yet. Wilbur gave him an elbow to hold onto, and it helps some, but he still slumps nearly immediately into his bed the moment it’s reached. It’s a strange juxtaposition between the bandaged up, worn out man and the cheerful, childish quilt he’s sprawled across. Dad explains stuff about ways to contact about emergencies, health or security or emotion wise. Maybe Techno hears it. It’s hard to tell. 

Tommy crawls onto the bed next to him, halfway sitting on Techno until Dad nudges him back. “Come on, we need to brush our teeth.” They’ll all crowd into the bathroom together, laughs echoing, and Techno will redo his braid and Wilbur will smile and it’ll all be okay. But Techno just lays there, breathing a little too harshly for what should’ve been an easy walk, and slowly shakes his head. Dad assures no one in particular that it’s normal to need rest. Reluctantly, everyone peels away from Techno to give him time to rest. Dad rests a hand on both their shoulders, squeezing, before the family retreats to their separate chambers. 

For all that his family is finally together again, the bunker somehow feels even more lifeless than before. And maybe it’s mean to think, but Tommy waited weeks for Techno to come back, and it still feels like he’s waiting. 

Techno wakes up screaming. It’s a hoarse thing, ripping out of his throat, echoing down the halls. He thrashes in his sheets, kicking them away until he’s free, and curls up into himself. Sucking down cold air, he tells himself it’s safe. The worst part is he believes it. 

He doesn’t hear anyone coming till the door bursts open. Techno shrinks as much as he can, but there’s nowhere to hide. Whoever it is shall be marked for culling the moment the Angel of Death finds out they touched him, and there’s nothing Techno can do to save them. He wants to cry. 

The bed bends beneath weight as they crawl over to him. “Shh, it’s alright. It’s just me, Tech,” Wil shushes. “You’re home.” He wants to be revolted. Something is terribly wrong with his brain if the murmurs of Wil’s voice are soothing. Every second he spent defusing the situation, Wil had been placing bombs, rigging the entire building to explode. 

But exhaustion cares little for morals. Wil draws him close, still murmuring assurances into his hair. For all that he hates it, Techno succumbs to slumber once again cradled in Wilbur Craft’s arms.

Heart pounding, Philza lays staring at the ceiling, collecting his breath and attempting to soothe his panic. It refuses to, insisting that despite it all a child has been stolen from his grasp again. But for the first time in years, Philza can assuage the nightmares plaguing him. The small digital light blares, blinding him, but he rubs the dregs of troubled torpor from his eyes and squints at the phone in his hands, opening the camera app reflexively. Millions of feeds flood in, all live from across every corner of the world. Philza narrows in upon the surveillance upon the bunker, to that of Technoblade’s room. The bed is occupied as it should be. It soothes his racing heart. 

The paranoia refuses its vice grip on his mind, insisting still upon an incomplete brood. To put both himself and the fears to rest, Philza swipes to his other sons’ rooms, only to find the suspicion correct. Wilbur is utterly absent from every crevice of his chamber, as are his guards. Heart spiking, already scrambling out of his covers, Philza tears toward the empty bed, barking out demands for every inch of the world to be searched. He crashes into Wilbur’s chambers, finding it exactly as barren as he feared. There should be guards. Where are they? He thought he patched the hole in his security but now everything is falling apart again. Horrible panic explodes in his chest, hurtling to check on Thomas past the calls of ‘sir-!’

Thomas is nestled safe in his bed, though Philza can’t believe it till the warmth of his small body fills his arms. Little sleepy noises burble up in the child, bleary eyes fluttering open. Philza buries his head against Thomas’ shoulder, cradling him desperately in pure relief. Little hands reach back for him, murmuring drowsy nonsense questions. His nest isn’t completely hollow for all that it has been raked. 

The boy latches onto his arm, Thomas sleepily leaning against him. He stumbles after Philza’s panicked flurry, practically dragged, really. Philza bursts into Technoblade’s room, scared to find he’s gone again. But there he is, resting peacefully in the heart of scores of his finest guards. Or, so he thinks, till he captures Technoblade’s hand and finds not a trace of the bandaging that should be crawling down his arms. In the light growing in the room at his order, his assumptions are checked when it’s not Technoblade at all, but his brother. If Wilbur is here, where the hell is his twin?

Snuggled to his chest, comes the answer. The two pressed together, perfect and safe. Wilbur’s arms wrap protectively around his brother. All his children accounted for, then. Thomas readily accepts the new deposit, crawling into Technoblade’s lap and wriggling into a comfortable slump. He’s already asleep by the time the last dregs of Philza’s terror fade and the search is called off. 

His boys are there. All is well. Presuming there to be no safer way to watch over all of them, Philza joins the pile of children, assured that his family is by his side. Sleep comes far easier after that, wrapped around his loves. 

Techno awakes to find himself buried alive. Trapped beneath heat and a tangle of limbs and panic swells up in his throat. Instinct demands a thrashing escape, but he knows that would only make things worse. He untangles as well as he can, painfully slow. Escape, he needs to escape before he gets anyone else hurt. The thought presses at him until his aching chest feels tight and each weary breath is further belabored as he pries off the hands clutching him. 

The Angel of Death mumbles and Techno freezes, caught in the act of removing the arms wrapped around him. Closing his eyes, Techno mimes the slow breathing of slumber. 

“Technoblade?” he whispers. Left to silence, his suspicion rests, though he shifts back, cupping Techno’s cheek to tilt him into position for a forehead kiss. Fortunately Techno has weeks of practice at not recoiling as the Angel of Death nuzzles in and fades into slumber. 

He only risks movement when purring snores begin to rumble in the Angel of Death’s chest. Cautiously, Techno rolls him away, and he fails to rouse again. Wil isn’t so much of a hassle, since Techno seems to be resting on top of his chest. The main problem is Tommy, who’s curled up in his lap. Perhaps he could transfer him to his brother to ensure neither notice the weight shift? It takes time, but eventually he’s free. Techno crawls to the end of the bed, calming down. The Crafts continue to snore peacefully in their pile as Techno slips away to where light seeps through beneath a door. 

As he’s fumbling around, it’s less that he sees and more so senses the presence. They haven’t made a movement yet, but still his panic spikes, memories echoing the last unknown intruder in his room. Techno stumbles back on shaking legs, biting down a scream. He can’t make a single noise if the intruder is to survive. Warning, he needs to warn them, but at most he can manage a shakey, hissing exhale. He frowns, needing to save them before the Angel of Death awakes, but still his throat is constricted like a knife is pressed against his jugular and one move will slit him open. 

Another solution, then. If speech is barred from him, then Techno will speak a more universal language. Blind grappling produces a long and heavy vase for a weapon. The stationary stranger waits as he prowls closer, utterly silent. Techno draws as close as he can manage, then lunges, crashing his improvised weapon into the silhouette with every ounce of his (admittedly meager) strength. 

The coat rack falls over. Techno blinks at it. …Oh. He, uh, might be paranoid. Who'da thunk? Scared, his attention jerks to the bed, but luckily the pile of Crafts does not stir. Techno sighs. Of course there wouldn’t be an intruder, not after last time. Security is no doubt impenetrable now. He’s safe, or at least to the standards of the Angel of Death. 

It takes too long to catch his breath. He’s so tired, everything wearing him down greatly. It feels like his limbs are lead after weeks of adrenaline and tension pouring through them. Still, it’s concerningly extreme. 

Techno picks up the coat rack. When he turns around there’s a shadow advancing on him. A dresser, perhaps, or a door.

“Is there—” the door begins to ask Techno, who jumps and swings the vase. It’s yoinked out of his hands, his wild blows easily side stepped. “Excu-” Techno slaps a hand over the man’s mouth, terrified of them being found, only for his palm to meet a bulky mask filter. “You’re not being attacked,” the intruder explains calmly. Uh, yeah, because he’s going to trust the man attacking him. Techno scrambles towards the sliver of light beneath the door, hoping to lure them safely away from the Angel of Death. Struggling with the apparently locked door, he rams his shoulder at it, glancing between it and the slowly approaching man. “You are requested to remain in your room for safety, sir,” he says.

Ah. A guard, his brain finally catches up. It doesn’t necessarily shift his non-existent feelings of safety, but he’s less scared the dude will die, unless he fails at his job. No doubt he’s highly aware of the consequences.

Techno’s trapped then, but that’s nothing new. He stumbles back to bed, tentatively sitting at the edge of it. It’s not necessarily a new dread, falling asleep in front of a captor and leaving himself vulnerable. He’s grown quite accustomed to constant invasive surveillance. The primary worry really is the moment he wakes up again in the arms of monsters. As strangely and horribly enervated as he is, Techno is not sure he can manage to sleep anywhere but his invaded bed.

Weight shifts the mattress and his head jerks up. Someone is untangling from the Crafts and crawling towards him. “Techno?” 

Not Technoblade. Not Tech. Techno. The mounting tension eases the moment he realizes it’s Tommy. Just Tommy. Not a threat. Or, so he erroneously assumes, until Tommy’s arms wrap around him. Techno goes still. Right. Of course. Tommy is a Craft, it was inevitable for him to manipulate Techno. But he can wait it out, safe in his knowledge. Affection is a trick he’ll never again fall for the rest of his life. After his weeks with the Nether he’s skilled at not flinching, of pretending to buy it. Techno isn’t so gullible as he used to be. 

But then he pauses. Tommy doesn’t have power over him. So why should Techno fear the consequences of not playing along? The Angel of Death and his son are asleep. Techno softly pushes Tommy away, shifting further from him. The kid reaches after him, but Techno draws his knees up to his chest, closing his posture off. The small silhouette is still, waiting, but says nothing, seeming to accept the distance. Good. So he knows not to try again. 

Tommy eventually droops, slumping into the Angel of Death’s side, still watching him. Techno is painfully aware of the eyes of Tommy, of the guards, of the cameras watching him. Though tired, he can't sleep. Anyway, it’s an exhaustion far deeper than his long used body. He’s worn from constant vigilance. 

Techno doesn’t want to live like this, actually, as the reality of what he just did actually sinks in, unexamined through the lens of paranoia. He doesn’t want to live his life thinking all affection is a trick. Tommy is a kid. He holds no power, no threat. And Techno has always had an easier time with his discomfort if it wasn’t a surprise, if it was his choice. So he reaches out, hesitates. Almost changes his mind. But Techno covers Tommy’s hand with his own. Quietly, little fingers wrap around his.

In the morning he’s surprisingly unbothered by the Crafts. The reason of course being it’s well past midday. Techno is unbelievably sore, though it isn’t as bad as yesterday. It’s like the aching residuals of adrenaline but a thousand times worse, which makes no sense given he did basically nothing the entire kidnapping. Fortunately the awful feeling in his face has lessened considerably. Techno is tired enough that he considers rolling over and pursuing the fattest nap of his life. Frankly he deserves it after weeks of mental gymnastics and terror tactics, and it’s not like he has to deal with the Angel of Death while unconscious. Might even find a position that won’t lead to back problems by the time he’s twenty. Or at the very least not exasperate it. Techno has known for years he’s going to need a good chiropractor once he can afford stuff like that. 

However when he stretches out he bumps into something. Techno jerks his head up to find Wil sprawled out next to him. If that isn’t enough of a nightmare, the Angel of Death is in a chair by the bed with Tommy in his lap. Alright, perhaps calling Tommy a nightmare is a bit extreme, even if he’s woken Techno up more than once at six am with a technique called ‘bouncing and screaming’. 

“How’re you, ah, doing?” Wil asks tentatively. Techno groans intelligently and buries his face in the mattress, feeling like utter crap. 

“Don’t fall asleep just yet, you’ll want to stretch first so it doesn’t get worse,” the Angel of Death warns. Techno gives the suggestion the due diligence it deserves, aka snuggling into the bed in a more comfortable position. The chair creaks, a complaint from Tommy as he’s ejected from his father’s lap, and Techno is cruelly stolen from the luxury of his admittedly already invaded bed. While gentle and tender in every sense of the word, it’s also immensely rude, and Techno finds when forced to stand he nearly falls with no adrenaline to strengthen his limbs. The entire family lunges to catch him, with the Angel of Death succeeding before the bed can. Techno is propped up and grouchily guided through a number of painful stretches. Thing is, they’re even more low key than yoga, and yet there’s this awful tingling like pins and needles in his joints and tips of his extremities. Not that he hasn’t had physical symptoms from extreme anxiety before, but this certainly takes the cake. Though, given what transpired, likely it should be expected. Eh, he’ll feel better once he’s more awake. Or less, but unfortunately it seems like nap round two is a no go, especially with the way the Angel of Death hovers over, nudging him through various poses. At least his touches are brief and light enough to be tolerable. 

“Sorry about last night,” the Angel of Death apologizes gently. “We shouldn’t have intruded so much. Did we hurt your injuries?” Oh. Oh god. The perfect excuse dropped in his lap. Yooo! Techno nods. “Apologies, then, that wasn’t our intention. We’ll be more careful.” Is that a choir of angels singing? A miracle? In one of the lessons the Wither had mentioned people were mostly likely to believe the justification they believe they’ve come up with on their own, but he sure didn’t think it'd be that easy and convenient. 

But at the reminder of the dead, his stomach flips. It’s a nausea that doesn’t pass by the time the Angel of Death starts trying to poke food into him. It’s the blandest meal Techno has ever laid eyes on in the Craft household (a fact profusely apologized for) but it’s still unpalatable when thinking about explosive decapitations. Techno gives the Angel of Death the flattest look when he attempts to resort to spoon feeding. Bruh? 

“You need to eat,” he justifies a little defensively. 

“Of course he doesn’t want to eat, that looks super boring! Here Techno, have some of my hot chips.” He sticks out his tongue at the kid, queasy. 

“You need to eat something.”

“You’re smothering him,” Wil comments. Techno might’ve been grateful if that was an emotion he could feel towards Wil anymore. 

Techno chokes down a morsel, though it doesn’t particularly appease the Angel of Death. It’s about all he can manage with his churning anxiety, even with the threat of hooking him up to weird medical devices again. It’s just that he feels so restricted, like the Wither’s blade is still pressed against his jugular. Waiting and helpless as actors so far beyond him enact their will upon the world with Techno caught in the middle, a prop in the machinations. To speak, to move, to act; they are privileges not reserved for people like Techno. It’s a truth that grinds him so far into the dirt that it stills his every twitch.

The Crafts aren’t particularly pleased by it, though try to cover it up. It’s not good for his odds, he needs to do something to appease them, but he’s just so, so tired. It’s a bone deep enervation, like his every single cell is just done with it all. 

Treatment is far from over. They seem obsessed with the slice across his face, though for the life of him Techno can’t figure out why, shallow as it was. But overreaction is clearly the Craft status quo, and no doubt due to its placement it’s not as ignorable. Vanity also could play a part.

As the bandaging is pried off his skin, Techno doesn’t wince. The wound stings as it’s exposed to the air. It hurts a lot more at the following prodding treatment, but he doesn’t let a hint of it past his bland features. The medicine goop smells awful, burning across his face. Not as bad as actually burning, however. The doctors’ contact is certainly not as bad as Wil’s or the Angel of Death’s, but he still hates it.

The Angel grimaces at the wound, like it’s the worst mistake of his life. Wil, too, is overly sober, regretful. Jesus Christ it’s literally just a scratch. Techno could’ve easily gotten it from hiking or something. They try to assure him it looks perfectly fine, like that’s his biggest problem in the whole world. Yeah, because his appearance matters soo much? What, like he’s going to have the opportunity to flirt while super duper kidnapped? Well, not that he had the opportunity before, since that would’ve involved talking to people. Flirting is literally the most vicariously embarrassing thing he’s ever witnessed, Techno has no idea why people do it. He was never much to obsess over appearance, it was the Crafts who did, insisting upon identicality. 

A moment of hesitation, off put by how much they encourage it, and he draws the mirror up. 

The gash arcs across the bridge of his nose, putting a sizable notch through. It skips in places, uneven. Blackened skin edges the wound, the area around discolored in mottled tones stretching across haggard features. Techno pulls back a few ragged strands of burnt hair away from where they get in the way. Hm. Bit more than the scratch he was expecting, definitely going to scar. 

It’s ugly. There’s not really any other way to say it. It’s unlike any other wound he’s ever seen, inflamed and horribly infected in a way his parents would’ve never let happen. It doesn’t make sense given the level of care he’s under. Given the position, it’ll be a lot harder to hide than his back. Impossible, even, although Techno isn’t half bad at concealer. The texture is too extreme for that to really work though. It’s ugly, and it hurts, and…and…

And now he looks nothing like Wilbur Craft. He’s unmistakably Technoblade in a way that’s irrevocable. Impossible to fix by any level of surgery, far too close to the eyes for that. Nearly so to the point he’s lucky an eye wasn’t gouged out, if he didn’t know the Wither would never do that to him. Distinguishable for the rest of his life. Techno couldn’t have asked for a better last gift from her. 

Tech has been blank ever since he woke. In slumber, a troubled expression graces him in a way that makes Wilbur’s heartache. Owlish eyes watching his every move, sunken in his hollowed out features. The only hint of change being a flicker in his gaze on sparse occasions, especially when he’s held. Tech is finally back, safe and sound, but really he’s absent, like his mind is still trapped with his captors. 

Given how explicit the doctors were, Wilbur knew it would be bad. But to finally see it, to see the injury that’s reduced Tech to this state, that nearly killed him, and to know that was meant to for Wilbur? It’s too much to bear. 

There’s not a hint of reaction to seeing the wound nearly so fatal to him. It’s their fault, but Tech doesn’t seem to care. There’re motions almost like preening, tilting the head from side to side, but it's so devoid of emotion that the verb doesn’t seem to fit. What Wilbur would give for a single word, an expression, anything to know his brother hasn’t been completely destroyed in his name.

And then Wilbur gets his wish, and it’s so abhorrent he regrets it. Still carefully considering the poisoned wound, the blankness consuming Tech recedes ever so slightly. A faint smile curls his lips in an expression Wilbur has never seen him wear before. It’s a cold, vicious sort of satisfaction, not uncommon on Wilbur’s visage but never on his. It doesn’t belong there, too cruel for someone like Tech. It’s unnerving. 

Philza knew there would be permanent damage, knew that the moment black venom seeped into his boy’s veins, blood splashing through the air in the hostage video. He hadn’t suspected it from the shallow scratch across his face when Philza found him. It was fresh, sure, but small in the grand scheme of things, and he was preoccupied with the rescue. The doctors were upfront with the types of scars to be expected from Philza’s failure to protect his child. 

What Philza isn’t prepared for is the damage deeper than the flesh, beyond the poison addled body to the soul it hosts. He knew it was going to be bad when he woke up to find his son gone once more, when he saw the hostage video, when he carried the infected boy out. But now Philza is realizing he didn’t save all of Technoblade. He has all the best doctors in the world to fix his body. 

What he doesn’t have is a way to fix his mind. 

Thomas reaches out, fingers ghosting over the injury silently. His face screws up as he looks at his ruined brother. For a moment there is nothing, the whole family simply staring, till Thomas breaks the breath everyone was holding. “No fair! I want a cool scar too!” The strange look passes from Technoblade’s face, and he gives a double thumbs up. Pausing, there’s a flash of an idea, and he looks around then makes a scribbling motion with his hand. Oh! Right. Excellent idea. A servant retrieves a pen and paper from a desk. But Technoblade is only interested in the writing utensil, not in finally communicating with them. He motions Thomas forward and marks his face in ink. Thomas brightens considerably, comparing the pair in the mirror. “Now we match!”

Wilbur perches on the bed next to his brothers. “Could I have one too?” he inquires hesitantly. The relative ease in Technoblade’s demeanor closes, though it was already so scarce it could just as well be mere interpretation. But right before Wilbur’s expression falls he leans forward, giving him a looping patch mark around an eye in Frankensteinian fashion extremely different from his own. Philza finds it ghastly, but if his boys are having a good time…

Or, he thinks they might be. Aside from the flicker of satisfaction from that disturbing smile, Technoblade's eyes remain vacant as ever. 

All Techno does anymore is curl up on the bean bag. Not sleeping, not really, just there, even when Tommy tries to convince him to play with him. Meals are brought in, the entire family basically cooped up in the one room. It’s a nice room, naturally, certainly a step up from that house they bought for living with Techno. Not anywhere as fantastic as the proper mansion, especially since Dad wisely asked him for advice on what Techno would like in there and Tommy jam-packed it with all the coolest stuff and snacks and toys. Still, there’s no other room in the world any of them would prefer to be in, since it’s the one Techno is in. 

Techno was supposed to make silly quips about rich people once they finally moved out of the little home. But he just sits there, exhausted and unresponsive. Dad and Wilbur hover nervously, protectively, trying to lure him out of his shell, but it frankly does nothing. 

So Tommy wiggles into Techno’s lap, scrunching up until he fits against the curve of his body. He can feel Techno’s heartbeat thumping against the back of his head, picking up in rhythm. Tommy starts up his Wii U, opening his Minecraft world. 

“Thomas…” Dad hesitates, cautious. “You shouldn’t bother your brother like that, he’s had a rough time.”

Arms tighten around him. “He wants me to stay.” Tommy tilts the screen up so Techno can see better. “I’m working on my bucket clutches,” he explains. “So I built this super tall cobblestone tower with a ladder. Cause I keep dying in ravines…” he narrates as he goes, explaining what he’s doing. Tommy doesn’t really know if he cares at all, but Tommy knows when he has a bad day that’s what he likes to do. 

Techno doesn’t say anything the whole time. For all Tommy knows, he isn’t paying a lick of attention. But that thumping heart rate slows even if his grip doesn’t relax. Maybe that’s something. 

Dad and Wilbur join occasionally, though they’re still plenty busy dealing with the baduns. They don’t really say what that entails, though. Tommy thinks it should be done by now, incapable of imagining anything standing up to Dad. Occasionally they do join his world, Wilbur exploring and dying a lot, Dad working on a pretty house. Techno simply watches, or sometimes dozes, still wrapped around Tommy in a way that’s comforting for the both of them. The family is quiet more often than not, taking refuge in each other’s presence. 

Tommy fools around in Creative mode for a while, then eventually decides to get in Survival even if he’s not the best in the whole world at it. He’s mining for diamonds when he gets jumped by zombies. He fights them off, barely, but he’s low on food and the rotten flesh doesn’t go far. And then he spots the creeper moments before it bursts. “God d- dangit,” he sighs remembering Dad is in the room. “There goes all my st-” and Techno seizes him as the creeper explodes. Tommy yelps as he’s crushed, a vice snapping closed around him. “Ay, easy there big T, I need to breathe!”

But he doesn’t let up, pulverizing Tommy, fingers digging in like claws. Tommy doesn’t have a chance of escape. Twisting his head around to look reveals a ghastly expression on Techno’s face. He manages to squeeze a hand out and wave it in front of his eyes. They track his movement like a hawk, and Tommy lowers his hand, Techno’s gaze along with it, to focus on him. “It’s alright. Just a game. You can stop squeezing now.” Eyes widening, Techno eases his vice grip. “We can play on Peaceful.” He makes no acknowledgement, but Tommy changes the game mode anyway.

“What’s wrong?” Dad worries. 

“Creeper startled him,” Tommy explains as he respawns. His sides ache awfully, but he still wants to be next to his brother. 

Wil hisses an invective and buries his head in his hands and for once Dad doesn’t get onto him. “Explosions.” 

“…oh. God.” Dad looks horrified. A meaningful glance, and the pair leave, already muttering to each other the moment they cross the threshold. Unease unspools in Tommy’s stomach. He doesn’t know what any of it means. 

What he does know is he wants to start playing with Keep Inventory on, as he barely gets to his stuff before it despawns. A soft get good, nerd is muttered into his hair, shaking and faint. Tommy cranes his neck up to look at Techno and sticks out his tongue. “I was on half a heart! Leave me alone. You wouldn’t have done any better.” Techno shakes his head in disagreement. He does actually talk, if you pay attention, if you give him space. Not, like, physical space, obviously, since Tommy is basically in a Techno cocoon. It usually only happens when it’s just him and Tommy, which makes him feel super special. He’s pretty sure Dad and Wilbur just think he’s lying about it, even if they humor him. They'd tried to nudge Techno into conversation, and failing that, to communicate through writing. Techno seems disinterested in everything they try, though. 

“Whatever. I’m not the one who got jumpscared by a creeper. Ouch, by the way, if I didn’t make that clear.”

“Sorry,” Techno breathes a while later when Tommy finally runs out of torches. He had halfway forgotten they were still having a conversation at all, but after his weeks without contact, Tommy is used to gaps like that. 

Tommy shrugs. “I used to get freaked by them when I was little. But you don’t have to be scared of them since I’m super powerful and good at Minecraft.” A no is shaken into his hair. “OI! WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!” He catches the huff of a grin that shifts his curls. The conversation continues like that, listing to the side, swaths of silence. Happy, or as close as they can manage to that anymore.  

Philza catches them when he comes back, the murmured responses of an actual conversation. Wilbur’s vitriolic words ring in his ears, but he soothes the worry. It must be alright if Technoblade is speaking again. 

But he goes silent, the budding softness in his features melting into a stony mask once more as he notices their entrance. 

“Um, Technoblade?” The Angel of Death begins tentatively. “Can you come here please?” Worry unspools in his gut. The last thing he wants is to be alone with them, but it’s safer to be compliant. Reluctantly he peels away from Tommy, joining them in another room. Still, there’s a suspicion in his gut that if he takes his eyes off Tommy he’ll disappear just like the last child Techno left to fend for himself.

As always, he checks the exits. There’s no guards. Good. They seem tense right now and Techno would hate for them to snap and hurt someone. Techno’s leg is moving as fast as a hare, thumping into plush carpeting. The tension is thick between the two, though he isn’t sure how to safely diffuse it. By the way they look at him, Techno seems to be the source of conflict. Bad. It’s easier to play for them when they’re the same audience. The vast distance between the Wither and the Angel’s expectations paralyzed him last time. Still, it’s clear who the person with more power is. Techno slips a hand over, a quiet invitation, and the Angel takes it at once, squeezing a little too hard. Techno measures the effect, finding an uncoiling to his knitted brow. Satisfactory, but he’d hoped for more. 

The pair are nervous, the Angel of Death some flavor of worry whereas Wil appears ashamed, molding something in his hands. Techno attempts to soothe himself because if the explosions are rolling in Wil’s palms it means it hasn’t killed anyone, but he distinctly can’t keep his eyes off. Thunder echoes, the feeling of the world falling down around his head lingering. 

The Angel of Death bursts into conversation so fast it gives him whiplash. “So Technoblade, about your rescue. I understand it didn’t go well –obviously given what happened to you– and I apologize it wasn’t smoother. But I’m realizing it might have been…”

“Completely terrifying,” Wil suggest helpfully.

“Ahm, yes. Since you don’t have experience with these types of situations.”

“Until you met us, of course.” An annoyed look flashes across the Angel of Death’s features. 

“It was necessary,” the Angel of Death argues. Techno sits quietly as they trade remarks, clearly continuing a previous argument like he isn’t even there. He watches, wary of dangerous escalation, but it seems a circular debate. A light squeeze to where his fingers lace with his captor’s, hoping to remind him of his presence. Crystal eyes lock onto him at once, filled with warmth and worry, almost unfathomable to the wrath they held when the Wither died. Yet Techno’s hands feel slick with blood, but they always do given the hundreds slaughtered for him. 

The cold hatred in his voice hides away for now, cautious and unconfident. Techno still hears it though, that echo beneath setting him perpetually on edge. “Gemstone, do you feel safe?” 

“Around us?” Will tags on pointedly. Techno hesitates and distress grows upon the pair, making it abundantly clear what the right answer is. He nods, and the Angel of Death is immediately relieved as he squeezes his hand in reassurance, but Wil’s eyes have always been a little too observant. “Are you sure?” Techno nods sharply. It had a measure of truth to it even, even if it’s a suffocating type of protection. “Because that sounds to me like the self-preservation answer. And for someone who goes silent every time we enter the room, someone who always looks first for an exit and tracks movements, I don’t find it convincing.”

“He went through a lot, it’s to be expected.”

“Yeah, and how much of that is the fact he still doesn’t feel safe and never will? I want him to prove it.” There’s something dangerous in Wil in a way that makes Techno on edge, testing, angry, fingers twisting claws in the explosive. And then he holds his hand out, offering him the C4, and the blood drains from Techno’s face. “Go on, you trust me enough to hold this, right? You know I won’t detonate it, don’t you?” His tone is caustic, a bitter challenge. Techno turns to the Angel of Death for deliverance. Wil shoves it close, and he shies away, fingers slipping away from the Angel. 

Is it a loyalty test? It has to be, right? Wil is an actor, a liar, a manipulator. The Crafts will want to know how bought in he is. It must be fake then, like the poison from the hostage video. Simple, all he has to do is accept it and pray he isn’t wrong.

But his hands won’t stop shaking. All he can hear is the cracking of foundations as the ceiling of the Wither’s fortress collapses down, incomprehensibly loud and consuming. All he can see is Squidkid’s tiny body pierced through with rebar, contorted in the heap of debris, just another body left in Wil’s wake. 

“See?” Wil spits. “Don’t like explosives do you?”

“Most reasonable people don’t prefer to hold weaponry like that on them,” the Angel of Death intervenes, stepping between the two. Horribly, Techno feels safer. Dangerous confusion clouds his mind, he thought the Crafts swore unconditional love…but no, that was only the Angel. Were it anyone but his son, the person threatening Techno would already be in chunks on the floor. 

But there’s still a barrier between the two. As what little thanks he has, Techno latches onto the Angel, pressing into his side. Techno hasn’t a chance compared to the son the Angel raised, so he needs to reinforce his viability as a loving child if Wil’s going to manufacture a choice between the two of them. 

It only causes Wil’s eyes to narrow as Techno desperately claws through the conversation, needing to discover his motivation if he’s to survive. “We are armed like that though,” Wil remarks pointedly. “That’s part of the problem. What do you have on you right now?”

“I mean…I am more armed than usual at the moment.”

“Most reasonable people don’t prefer to hold weaponry on them,” Wil mimics. The Angel of Death sighs and begins pulling out three guns, eight grenades, and 15 knives. No, wait. 16. Sorry, 17. Actually- actually he’s just pulling out knife after knife like an edgy magician. It’s to be expected, really, but the fact Techno had only clocked onto a couple of places isn’t assuring. “You seriously think this will make him feel safe? 

“Yes. That shows we have the means to protect.”

“Not if he’s scared he’s next. I mean, what’s to stop us? The moment he does something we don’t like, what’s protecting him then? We completely cut him off from his friends and family and shoved him 80 feet down in a prison chock-full of heavily armed guards, all after killing a bunch of people in front of him. For all he knows he could be next.” Something dangerous flashes on his features, an echo of that predatory satisfaction that he wore when snapping Blaze’s neck. Too late does he realize the Angel was cleverly diverted away from offering physical protection. Wil stalks forward, bleeding violent intent into the air in a way Techno is achingly attuned to. “I mean, no one can stop us. No one would even know. I reckon he’d fight back, but as weak as he is right now it wouldn’t save him from me.” The glances for help stop, eyes locked on approaching threat. Techno braces, subtly leaning back. 

The Angel of Death angrily sets a firm hand on Wil’s shoulder. “Enough of that. You’re scaring him.”

“That’s the point. Family shouldn’t scare y–” and he suddenly lunges and Techno is already scrambling out of the way. He’s dead. Just like the Wither, Techno underestimated Wilbur, presuming his goals to align with the Angel of Death’s. He has no grasp of his motivations, and for that mistake it’s over. The exit is too far, even if he knew where the guards would side. His eyes dart wildly to find salvation. 

But Wil made one error. Techno dashes for the table piled with the Angel’s weapons, snatching a gun and whipping around, raising it dead on at Wilbur Craft.

He’s stopped now, staring, features conflicted with a mess Techno fails to understand with his mind clouded with adrenaline. The anger-glee-bloodlust he expected is utterly absent. It's regret, or that’s a lot of it. Not the instantaneous kind, instead the worn, anticipated genre, grief filled. There’s a flurry of movement, though not from Wil. The Angel approaches, though Techno dismisses the threat. There was ample opportunity to attack when he lunged for the table. 

The miscalculation registers too late as he’s pounced upon. Techno tried to attack his child. If he expected clemency because of his status, he was severely mistaken. It’s all a blur as the Angel descends upon him, sudden bursts of force and pain. Something sharp pulverizes his wrist and the gun clatters to the ground. Techno tries to wrench away, but the vice is inescapable, tight to the point he can feel his own pulse convulsing beneath the Angel’s grip. 

I wasn’t going to shoot, he wants to howl. He’d only needed a threat, not thinking how that might be a death sentence. But no further repercussions fall, the Angel watching him with grief stricken eyes. 

The atavistic instinct fades, replaced by a colder, deeper horror. The illusion is shattered now. All the effort spent shoving down his automatic recoil, spent offering affection, was wasted. No. Wil had known he’d reach for the weapons. That, too, was calculated. And now he’s doomed himself. 

“What are you doing?” The Angel of Death’s hiss shudders down his back like a portent of doom. His countenance is not that of anger, or any of the sort. His gaze plumbs the depths of Techno’s soul. Dawning guilt breaks across him, harrowing in intensity.

“I’m proving my point, unless you’re still in denial,” Wil replies sharply, gesturing at the whole of him in apt illustration of his argument. There isn’t an ounce of his earlier lethal anger, not reserved for Techno at the least. The curtains finally close on the performance, revealing him to have been an actor all along. Spite bubbles up in Techno’s chest. He’s being used, but he doesn’t know what for, and Wil’s trick has unraveled his survival endeavors completely. How is Techno supposed to earn his safety if they won’t believe the love he strategically offers? “See? Do you think staying here will be good for his head?”

The grip around his wrists weakens, slips to his hands being held. The Angel of Death is shaken in a way Techno’s never seen before. The perpetual confident aura he exudes is gone. “He’s high strung at the moment, it’s reasonable. And… And if he’s a little spooked, it’ll ease with proximity, just like last time. The solution to everything is to keep him close.” The hands holding his tighten possessively. 

“Selfish. I actually want what’s best for him, because it clearly isn’t us.”

Freedom. He smells the tantalizing possibility like a bloodhound. But no, it has to be a trick. He doesn’t understand Wil’s goal enough. Why should he care? What does he gain if Techno is free? 

“Stop speaking for him,” the Angel of Death critiques. 

“Hard not to, Tech refuses to talk to us. Feel free to take a guess at why, Dad.”

“We did it to save him. You agreed it was the only way to keep him safe, he’s staying.” 

“Not if he feels unsafe with us. I don’t know all the consequences, but don’t you think living in anticipation of pain will mess a person up?” Why would it? Isn’t that the smart thing to do? A brief second of distraction that he pays for, and Wil is looming over once more, closer and closer in a way where he has to fight everything in him to not shrink back. That dangerous light is back in Wil’s eyes again, like one false move and Techno will be a stain of gore splattered on the wall. It makes his gut churn because he still doesn’t quite know what Wil wants from him. 

Wil leans in close till Techno can taste the ash on his breath. He smells like Blaze, desperate to cover up the scent of apocalypse. He smells like Techno’s parents, nights spent on the shabby backporch counting constellations. He smells like Wilbur Craft, coated in dust and gunpowder and death. Techno suffocates in the attention, the Angel’s hands trapping his own, Wil looming closer and closer. Perhaps it’s too late, they already know his true feelings, but still Techno wills himself to stay perfectly still even when every instinct he has demands he flee. 

“Admit it, Tech,” Wil coaxes lowly, an undercurrent of threat growling out. “We scare you.” His knee-jerk response would be no, because that’s what the Crafts want to hear. But Wil just bluffed to attack him, so is it safer to say yes? The Angel of Death’s possessive tendencies are blatantly on display. Should he say no, then, to appease him? Techno’s petrified with the possibility of choosing the wrong answer, glancing between the two, frantic to know which is the bigger threat.

Oh, actually, his calculating silence is probably saying his real answer. Never had Techno’s actual wants come into consideration, but they bled through while he wasn’t looking if the horrid expression on the Angel of Death’s face is anything to go by. Wil doesn’t look at him. “You can be honest, you know. Not like we don’t already know.” Techno hesitates. But they won’t hurt him. And it’s too late to pretend he’s overwhelmed with gratitude for being rescued. He wasn't a good enough liar despite his training, instincts betraying him. Softly, Techno nods. 

The Angel of Death buries his face in his hands. “Oh, God. I didn’t– we didn’t mean to scare you. That was never the intent. We just had to save you. I swear to you it’ll never happen again. You won’t ever have to be exposed to that.” What? Like that’s any better? That’s still people dead in his name, even if he isn’t aware of it. The Angel of Death only offers shelter from the truth, not reform. “You realize the only way to do that is if you’re with us, right love? You’re clever, of course you know that. You are safe with us, even if it doesn’t…even if you can’t recognize that. Without us our enemies would descend upon you.” Enemies he birthed in his monstrous wake, but no, no part of his history with the Crafts ever endangered him, hm? How many Blazes have they manufactured, vehement broken people swearing a vengeance they will never have the power to enforce? Lifes spent spiraling without the Syndicate even deigning to notice the effect. 

“I will never hurt you.” But he hurts so many and fails to ever notice. “I swear it to you. I only ever want you to be safe. You believe that at heart, right?” Techno nods, and is given a shaky smile. “See? You feel some type of safe with us. It’s a start. We’ll cure it.”

“What? No,” Wil rejects. “He’s saying that to appease you. You can’t feel scared and safe at the same time.” Techno shakes his head firmly, not sure how Wil can’t understand something so basic. 

There’s an epiphany across the Angel’s features, relief filtering in. “He wouldn’t have known what was happening. It was just an eruption of violence, of course it would be terrifying, until he realized it was us. Before then it was just another hopeless day of capture. It must’ve been frightening, having no way of knowing if you’d ever be saved.” He bristles because he would’ve been, all through his own endeavors. Not that Techno could ever share that with the Crafts. They think him exclusively to be some frightened creature, not a person planning the Syndicate’s demise. Of course he’s scared of them; they're his enemy even if they refuse to see it.

“He’s terrified of explosions,” Wil argues. “And you’ve seen the nightmares—”

“Nightmares from being tortured.”

“We massacred people in front of him Dad!”

“And? They were hurting him.” Harrowing revulsion rolls in his gut. How many people have died under that simple justification? “I have little sympathy for them, and I imagine he has even less given he was the one being abused.” He turns to Techno, wearing a warm, gentle mask. “What we did may have seemed to be overkill, but after you nearly died—” he didn’t, what is the Angel on about? Distorting reality until it justifies him, imagining horrors upon the thing he loves so that he might freely force all the cruel hatred he has upon others. “—you must understand how dangerous they are. Think about how many people were also saved. The other children beyond yourself who will never be harmed because those villains are no more.”

All he can see is Squidkid’s pale face splattered with blood, angry and scared and wanting so badly to fight for the only family he could get after the Syndicate slaughtered his. For once Techno doesn’t try to immediately suppress the memory, because for once he can taste how sweet revenge would be on his tongue. The Wither was right, in a way, the Nether did teach him how to want retribution. 

Because suddenly he wants the Crafts to hurt. To know that same helpless fear he does. Not for a second will they ever care about all those people they murdered, never recognize them as more than faceless villains to stop. They don’t understand it, they can’t, they think him some helpless caring thing that has been waiting his whole life to be rescued. Techno is sick of being justification for their sins and maybe he shouldn’t speak at all, to let his motives be obscured like the Wither taught him to. 

But the truth is, Techno loathes them, and he’s always been bad at lying. 

“Given how vile the Nether was, don’t you agree it was necessary to exterminate it?” the Angel of Death tries, presenting it like a gracious gift, desperate to earn his approval. 

“No,” Techno rasps out. It nearly catches in his throat as their undivided attention, deadly in intensity, falls upon him. He’ll regret it later, but in that moment there’s horror in the pairs’ eyes, and it feels so, so good to draw blood in the only way he can. “They were like a family to me.”

Chapter Text

Strands of pink hair curl on the floor. The ends are black and coarse, tangled in odd singed lumps. The Angel of Death apologizes for it profusely, as if the loss of hair is the worst thing to ever befall him. It’s absurd, truly. Techno doesn’t care either way, but he supposes the horrid hairdo serves as a reminder of his torture to the Crafts. “I know having long hair was important to you,” the Angel apologizes. “I’m so sorry they ruined that for you.” Haeh? What is he on about now? 

Then again, he’s been acting peculiar after Techno’s outburst. But there wasn’t any punishment for threatening Wil. In fact, the Angel of Death has been cautious. He’d been treating him like glass before; now Techno feels like a kicked puppy, the type they make commercials about so you give up your life savings. Like he’s some poor traumatized thing too abused to recognize safety. Oh poor Techno! He’s so stupid and manipulatable he fell for Stockholm Syndrome! Look how he flinches when he doesn’t remember to suppress the instinct! Isn’t he so sad? 

It’s annoying. Techno doesn’t need the Angel of Death to move slowly and announce when he’s about to enter the room and look at him with watery, pitying eyes; he needs the Angel to find a gutter to crawl back into and never return. 

Techno’s gaze darts between the crowd of attendants and where the Angel of Death has unfortunately taken to pacing. Feeling like he’s being circled by vultures, Techno warily waits as weird junk is sprayed on his hair, combs attempting to get to the frazzled massive singed locks. The head stylist begins cutting, and it’s easier to monitor every motion in the mirror once it’s just the one man hovering around. And then cold steel brushes against his neck, the knife pressing deeper and deeper against his jugular, pulse pounding through the artery. Techno jerks away, slamming her nose. A grimace as his hair is clawed against his scalp, but he worms free. The Head guards descend upon him– no, more than just the bodyguard duo, a dozen maybe, and Techno lurches through the oncoming soldiers, drawing his knife and slashing out to earn space, teeth caught in the rictus of a snarl. The realization comes swift and horrible as he sees what he’s just done, his stomach dropping. In one act of instinct, he’s doomed himself.

Techno wants to puke. He just attacked her. Now she’ll know she he doesn’t trust, know he’s faking it, know he isn’t loyal. The consequences of attacking the Wither make him go cold. The knife begins to shake his hand. He’s going to pay for this ever so dearly. Boy, you aren’t precious enough to get away with that. He could have played the good hostage and lived, but now it is too late.

It’s slower that the second realization comes, as he processes the fact the surrounding forces are backing away. The Nether wouldn’t retreat. In fact, only one dares approach, the Angel of Death cautious in his movement, although confident of his own odds. “Are you alright, gemstone? What’s wrong?” Techno slowly lowers the knife, knuckles still white on the grip. 

The stylist he punched appears greatly offended. “He just attacked me!” 

“Sorry,” Techno croaks. Shame crawls up his face.  

The Angel is elated that he spoke; the stylist decidedly less enthusiastic. “I’m not going to get close to a deranged maniac! He has a knife!” 

Fury flashes across the Angel’s features, and Techno shrinks. “I’d be less concerned with him, who is kind and in-experienced with a weapon, and more concerned with me, who is nothing of the sort,” the Angel of Death suggests through clenched teeth. Techno pales, realizing his freak-out might get someone hurt. The Angel catches his fear and smoothes his features with a smile, though it’s tinged with guilt. “Ah. Ahem. Metaphorically speaking, I’d have to slash my rates if you didn’t finish the job. Now, what was it that startled you?” Techno measures his response, trying to catch if he’s going to get someone killed. Then, he realizes he doesn’t quite know what happened, and has to piece it together, still disorientated. Scissors. It must’ve been the scissors brushing against his neck when the stylist was cutting his hair. Techno weighs the head stylist, eventually deciding he isn’t likely trying to secretly kill him. The Angel seems to have calmed down, so Techno carefully gestures with his knife across his throat. 

“As you wish,” the Angel says serenely, flicking a blade into his hand in a fluid motion, prepared to hurl it directly to an attendant’s head before Techno desperately catches the hand, dragging it away. Shaking his head, a terrified protest claws out of his throat incomprehensibly, sounding kinda like a dog eating plastic. “Oh, never mind! My apologies. A little misunderstanding haha. Can you try explaining again?” Techno points at the scissors, then to the knife, then to the stylist. “He tried to kill you!?” No, no, abort.

Still pointing at the scissors, Techno briefly taps the dull edge of the knife against his jugular. Almost immediately horrible anxiety rolls in his gut, a beast jolting into action, and just as quickly he yanks it away. Mmm. That’s not…good. It’s like that automatic recoil he used to have when people touched him but tenfold worse. Well, he’s managed to suppress that last revulsion if the way he’s still holding the Angel’s wrists to prevent him from murdering people is any indication. He’ll cope just fine with this new revulsion. 

Trigger, a part of his mind attempts to supply. But nah, it’s knives, not guns, that he’s worried about lmao. Haha. Yeah. Techno is perfectly fine. It’s normal to not be cool about weapons. Or. Now that he’s thinking about it, Techno does have his own knife that he was entirely fine with wielding, and suddenly he’s rather concerned with that. Sure he’d thought it a good idea at the time to nick one of the weapons the Angel pulled out during their Discussion, but then he’d used it while panicking, not even thinking what he was doing, because Techno simply doesn’t know how to stop fighting. Threatening innocent lives in the exact same manner as the Angel, he’s safe and yet he slipped so easily into violence–

Okay, so maybe it actually takes a third realization for it to really sink in the fact he just attacked innocent people for no reason. Techno feels like them. And which ‘them’ doesn’t really matter, they’re all the same, the Wither, the Angel of Death, the parents. Violent and lashing out. Bile creeps up his throat. 

When his attention draws back outwards, he finds everyone watching him. His skin prickles. “Did it perhaps remind you of something?” the Angel of Death asks carefully. Their fingers are intertwined. Good. That way neither of them can attack. 

Techno nods. “Wither.”

He blinks as if shocked he knows the name. But it’s quickly smoothed into pleasantry. “She’s dead, she can’t hurt you ever again.” A shiver runs down his back at the reminder. But he holds still; recoil too much and the bullet ripping scant inches past his brain and into the Wither’s will miss its intended target. “Here does—does this help?” Pointedly, the Angel of Death lets his weapon clatter to the floor and kicks it far away. By accident, it spins wildly and skids into the midst of where the trapped salonists huddle in the corner. They shriek and scatter. 

His hands reclasp around Techno’s, which are still trembling to a degree that’s annoying. He’s fine. He’s as safe as he’ll ever be, the irrational terror settling down. So why is he still trembling? It’s idiotic. “No more knife! All good.”

“There’s more,” Techno insists.

The Angel gives him a pitying look. “You know I can’t do that, right gemstone? I need to protect you after you nearly died.” But he didn’t! He didn’t, he got bruised and battered and he’s used to that! In what world is Techno worth murdering people for!? He’s frustrated but can’t manage to express any of it. Likely a good thing, when he can manage rational thought. “It may frighten you, but it’s for your safety. I’m not going to hurt you.” Techno gives an extremely flat look. The hairdressers are still huddled in the corner, some crying. “I’m not going to hurt…them? Haha, of course not mate, they didn’t harm you, it was just a misunderstanding. They wouldn’t deserve it.” His features harden a little at whatever emotions are bleeding through Techno’s expression. “I know it scared you, but the Nether had to pay for what they did to you. You do understand what Stockholm Syndrome is, yes? Whatever love they tricked you into feeling was a ploy to keep you subdued. They manipulated you.”

But he manipulated them right back. He’d carved out his seat at the family dining table with bloody fingernails. Entangled himself in their plans until he couldn’t be removed. He’d made himself useful, he’d earned that spot. The only way to survive was to become part of the Nether, and even if he’s the only one left at the table, Techno has inherited the mission. All their hate, their fear, their vengeance reserved for the Angel of Death. It bubbles beneath his chest no matter how hard he tries to shove it down. He’s just like them now, no matter which them it is. 

Techno misses the Nether, almost. Every glimpse of himself he let through was still measured, but all the fear and anger were allowed out. Encouraged, even. Here he has to lock it down tightly in the hopes he doesn’t accidentally cross some boundary he doesn’t know about and get people hurt. 

It’s a blessing to have been captured when he was, right when he was first teetering towards the edge. He wouldn’t have survived if he’d been sucked in, a fully indoctrinated Craft. It would’ve been so, so much easier if another had never captured him. He could’ve simply relaxed into the embrace of a lie, never to know beyond suspicion what type of monsters held him in their arms.

It must’ve been a good thing. Because now he can’t ever forget, not when violence lingers every time he closes his eyes. Fear will keep him safe, just as it always has. The Nether gave him a clearly defined way to earn his survival, demarcated objectives and boundaries. Not these obfuscated mind games where he has to second guess everything— nice, obvious mind games, where everyone at the table was honest about it. A well-structured environment that was extremely upfront about trying to kill him, so he could monitor his own behavior and adjust accordingly. Is that really too much to ask??

But noo Techno is stuck getting a stupid haircut while trying to navigate a mass murderer. The Angel’s condolences for threatened homicide are clearly second thought, more concerned with doting as the salonists are reluctantly corralled into timidly finishing the job. As a show of good faith, Techno attempts to visually get rid of his weapon, but the Angel insists he retain it for comfort. Worst part is it does make him feel more secure. 

Techno’s hair is shorter than he’s had it in years, starting to become wavy as it is freed from weight. It’s well styled to hide the clumps that were torn from his scalp from the initial kidnapping, too, which Techno didn’t think was possible and is kind of impressed about it if he’s honest. It’s of a somewhat similar style as the Angel’s, which might’ve distressed him if this was you know like months ago, but he’s kind of over it at this point. As a condolence for kidnapping, stalking, lifelong trauma, trust issues, and eighteen years’ worth of projecting Alexander onto him, the Angel offers to let him re-dye his hair given how much brown is starting to show. But the stylists would be scratching at the walls to get out if they could and Techno’s facial scar means there isn’t a chance of mistaking him for Wil, so he lets it go. 

As the traumatized stylists are finally given permission to run to safety, the Angel promises them a handsome reward, then chuckles to himself. Obviously, that goes over really poorly, one of the beautifiers beginning to wail about their early death.

Philza is confused by the response to a pun about their occupation, but accepts that not everyone likes dad jokes.

Techno still doesn’t really get why everything sucks if all he’s really doing is laying in a bean bag. Okay, he gets why things suck mentally, but it’s more the physical situation which is weird. He figures it’s all stress since constant adrenaline is super hard on the body. Anyway, the cure is movement. Apparently, he’s been pushing himself too hard by doing extra work, and so got told off in physical therapy last time. Which, uh, yeah duh? Why wouldn’t he? Techno is restless and wants his recovery to be over. He needs to build up strength as fast as possible if he doesn’t want to be caught in this weak state.

But nooo apparently running himself ragged is only going to slow recovery. Bruuuh. Like he’d actually believe that, they’re just trying to keep him docile. Techno’s half of the suspicion that him developing a case of munchausen by proxy would be really convenient for the Angel of Death to keep him under thumb. Wouldn’t be the first manufactured vulnerability either. He’s just as persistently doted on with tender parental shepherding as when Wil roofied him. Maybe that would explain all the medical crap they were pumping into him before he woke up or the stuff they’re still shoving down his throat. 

Unfortunately, he wasn’t allowed to continue his unauthorized exercise regime yesterday. Worse, the Crafts decided they needed to enforce his rest, and so he was shoved into bed and a game of Settlers of Catan. Obviously he knew his competitive nature was being exploited to compel compliance, but that didn’t stop Techno from building an empire of sheep. 

Technically, knowing they’re trying to sabotage his recovery, he shouldn’t have assumed he’d be walking into another round of physical therapy. He’d mistaken it as a reward for family bonding time but couldn’t have been further from the truth. Because this time when he limps in it’s a different face that greets him, gesturing him into a soft chair. Techno stares at them dead on, leg bouncing. The last specialist was doing fine, why would they get a new one? They’re less buff than the last. Actually, a LOT less buff. Their awkward lankiness and massive glasses kinda remind him of a stick bug. 

“Hello, Technoblade. I’ve heard you’ve been through a bit of an ordeal recently. I’m here to guide you through processing what happened.” They’re not a physical therapist. That much is abundantly clear. They’re a therapist, full stop. No. Absolutely not. Techno snaps to his feet, prowling towards the door and throwing it open. The exit is blocked by a number of guards who refuse to let him through. Techno definitely shouldn’t have messed up and attacked the stylists. Not a very normal, well-adjusted thing to do on his end, and now he’s reaping the consequences. Ugh. Scowling, he closes the door and turns back around. A polite, vaguely concerned smile greets him. “Is there something wrong?”

“He’s paying you.” 

“That is rather how therapy works. Money can be exchanged for goods and services, and all that. But you don’t have to worry about confidentiality with Mr. Craft unless you sign parental waivers. I’m not being bribed, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Six.”

“Sorry?”

He stares at Stickbug, waiting for them to figure it out. They don’t, a politely confused smile on their face. “Six cameras. In here.” 

A glance to check the veracity. “Ah. You’re very astute. I don’t think it should matter much, though, that’s mostly security. If you wish I could request it’s turned off.” For a second they have his full attention at the possibility. But no, the Angel would never agree, at most simply pretend to. “Is there a reason you don’t want there to be cameras?” 

Beyond the fact it’s illegal to record someone without consent and distinctly a HIPPA violation? Yeah. Techno didn’t start the session with any delusion the therapist was going to be on his side, but there’s no doubt now. “He’ll watch.” 

“Do you think that’s a reasonable concern?”

“Not paranoid. Right. He watches, makes offhand comments.”

“I can see how that might make you uncomfortable. When was the last time you felt you had privacy?” He’s about to ask how long he’s been captive, then pauses, both because he doesn’t want to drag this random person into the crossfire, and for the fact he was definitely being followed before he was kidnapped. Perhaps before he met Wil? Then again Skeppy is a bit of a nosy roommate. Before then…well, there was some sanctity to his room, but it was well understood that that could be broken whenever his parents felt like it. The sound of pen scritches brings him back, the therapist making a note. “Hm. That might be something for us to revisit. I can discuss this with him, if you’d like? Act as a mediator?”

“You shouldn’t.” 

“Would you like to share what makes you say that?” Because I have protection from him and you don’t. They’re in deep and have to know it already, given they’re no doubt not allowed out of the bunker. His bouncing leg gets faster, but he doesn’t say anything. “Are you worried about retaliation for things said here? I assure you I offer the strictest confidentiality.” 

He can’t let it out of his head though. Then the Angel will know his motivations. His sole advantage would be destroyed. So he spends the rest of the session curled up in a nice chair, hugging a cushion to his chest. They try to prod at his wall, asking leading questions about the Nether or his health. It’s the questions about the Angel that really make him uneasy, even if he doesn’t think he’ll kill them. Maybe if there isn’t progress? Techno could try to act out a recovery, it’s clearly what the Angel wants. If he could just hurry up and be identical to the Techno of a month ago, everything would be fine. Since that’s obviously not actually happening, Techno had hoped to fake it. But he thinks a psychologist would see through that easily, and he’s already stretched thin as is trying to come off as normal and compliant and grateful. Obviously he wasn’t convincing enough if the Angel trapped him with a psychologist to try and dissect him. The comment about the Nether being family probably contributed a lot to this, in retrospect, especially with the things Stickbug emphasizes. Yep. He knew that was a mistake, no matter how good it felt in the moment. 

It’s not so hard to retreat back into that blank, tired nothing he’s dipped in and out of ever since he woke. Not like he can ruin his prospects while untethered from the world. Honestly, if Techno were the therapist he wouldn’t mind. The Angel’s bound to be paying Stickbug an exorbitant fee just to sit there. Not a bad gig, all things considered. 

“What did my son say? Is he alright? What did they do to him? 

“That’s confidential, Mr. Craft,” the therapist replies levelly, carefully packing up. They’re not fully aware of everything going on, but considering the extremity of what was revealed they’re going to have to be cautious of all parties at play. At least they didn’t have to deal with a violent patient like they’d initially feared. 

“I don’t pay you to be confidential, I pay you to fix my son.” And to keep quiet. And to break several laws, but the therapist knew that going in. 

“Part of the problem, Mr. Craft, is that your son doesn’t think he has any privacy. He seems to be under the impression that you monitor his every twitch.”

“That would be correct. And? It’s to keep him safe.”

“Extreme invasions of privacy are damaging to a person's sense of safety. He can’t be vulnerable, which is necessary for therapy. It is extremely difficult to try to heal when still in a highly stressful environment.”

“You’re saying you can’t do it,” he decides dangerously. 

“No. I’m saying the current surveillance is damaging to Technoblade’s mental health.” Especially with how little he trusts his father. Frightened, even, by the glimpses of panic whenever they steered the conversation to him. But they’re long past the point of red flags, considering the bunker and authoritarian security and kidnapping. “If he trusts you, it still shows a clear lack of trust in him. Even if it’s only subconscious, it’s causing him to refuse to lower defenses. Being constantly vigilant is exhausting, keeps him trapped in survival mode, keeps him from being able to get help. Given how tied they are, it’ll have a detrimental impact on his physical recovery as well.” Perhaps they lay it on thick but whatever it takes…

Mr. Craft fumbles with the idea. “I suppose I can see how that might be difficult but- but I have to monitor to make sure he isn’t taken again. He was kidnapped multiple times. Abused and tortured and he nearly died and I’m not going to just let that happen again.”

“And we can’t work on that until he can lower his defenses,” they say pleasantly, swinging a satchel over a shoulder, prepared to return to their own heavily monitored and fortified cell. No wonder the kid is on edge. “It’s quite possible that you may have to start doing things you don’t like for the sake of your child’s well-being. Good day, Mr. Craft.” 

“Now, I want to be clear. I’m not mad, just disappointed. We’ve already had this conversation multiple times, Technoblade, and I know you’ve lied to me. The cameras caught everything. I don’t want to go over this one more time, do you understand? Especially when you dragged your brothers into it.” 

Wil rolls his eyes, but Tommy is sheet white at having been an accomplice. “I'm sorry Dad! I swear I’ll never do it again as long as I live!”

The Angel sighs. “I don’t want your apology, sunshine, I want his, especially after a betrayal like this. I trusted him, but it was clearly misplaced, and I just…I don’t know.” He turns upon Techno, pleading. “Please, just this once see reason. Promise me I’m never going to catch you exercising again.”

“It’s just a game,” Techno replies flatly, annoyed his scheme has been seen through. 

“You know Twister is considered strenuous activity!” the Angel insists. “It was listed under that contract I made you sign after I caught you doing jumping jacks, under subsection B of the 14th clause. It breaks my heart that you would break your word.” Very consciously, Techno’s eye doesn’t twitch. “You know that trying to push your physical limitations is going to only hinder your progress. I know you’re smart and determined but they’re still experts and know what’s best for your recovery, especially given the intensity of the poison you were exposed to. You have to know when to rest, gem-”

Techno snorts. “It wasn’t poison.” The room goes slackjaw, the Crafts all staring at him in utter bafflement. It was just a passing retort on the subject, but the previous conversation grinds to a halt. They stare like he has three heads. Techno blinks. They seriously believed that? 

“What–” Wil squints at him in disbelief. “Technoblade, you were poisoned. You nearly died. What do you MEAN it wasn’t poison? What do you think all of that was?!” 

“Dye and pressure points.” Surely they would’ve discovered that, right? Techno rubs the scab across his arm, tracing the veins. Though not really knowing where the point is, Techno squeezes his shoulder and pretends to make his arm go limp. He gives them an expectant see? look. 

From where he sits in Techno’s lap, Tommy looks very, very confused. “The baddies didn’t poison you? What happened then?”

“Misdirection. Like magic tricks.” 

“No, that’s what the arm was,” Wil discards. “What do you think the scar across your face is?” 

“Cool?” He’s fine. That’s what they want him to be, right? They were upset that he was scared, and now they’re upset he isn’t. Techno barely knows what they want from him, but the distressed glances the Angel and Wil share make his stomach tie in knots. 

“That was the wound that delivered the very nearly fatal poison,” the Angel of Death explains gently. 

No. That can’t be right. The Angel wants him to be fine, and furthermore Techno knows for a fact the Nether wouldn’t do something like that to him. Harsh, maybe, but always with purpose. It’s slander, and probably Techno should just pretend to go along with it. But he can’t. “It’s— it’s just stress.” Techno has just felt utterly wrung out ever since he was ‘rescued’ but come on, between the physical abuse, the intense traumatic experience, and the realization he has no agency in his life, it kinda makes sense he’d be this exhausted. All Techno wants to do most days is sleep. It’s just less effort to simply step away when he can’t maintain his façade. If he didn’t, he’d probably be screaming an awful lot, and he’s confident the Crafts wouldn’t like that. 

The Angel splutters. “Stress? You think str– I’m sorry, is this a joke? I know your humor tends to the deadpan but–” he stares in utter disbelief. “You’re…you’re being serious right now.” Wow, he really took the bluff seriously. You’d think with all the resources in the world he could figure it out. But that wouldn’t justify his murder spree now would it? “Surely you felt the poison. That’s what the physical therapy is for; it left you lethargic and enervated and pained. You couldn’t walk for more than a few minutes at a time!”

“It’s called jelly legs.” 

“JEL- sorry, no, you don’t chalk that up for stress, not when you’re sleeping well over 16 hours a day.”

“‘m tired. Didn’t rest well there.” Just this conversation is sapping his energy, but more so in the way it’s making him anxious and he wants to doze to avoid it. 

“You were in a coma.”

Techno scoffs. He’s pretty sure he’d know if he’d been in a coma. Techno likes his naps, but that’s extreme. Rude to people with actual medical issues too. “They wouldn’t do that.” 

“You were kidnapped.” Oh, like he’s any different. “There were burns across your back, and knife marks, and boots bruised into your ribs, and– and god knows what else because we have no way of knowing since you refuse to just talk to us and get help.” 

“Tech, I know you don’t like us-” Wil brushes past his father’s protest and Tommy’s confused noises “-but they literally physically abused you. Why the hell wouldn’t they try to kill you?”

“Defeats the point of a hostage.” Isn’t that obvious? Even if they can’t ever know how much the Nether liked him, that’s villainy 101. 

“Not when the Wither’s scheme was falling apart. She wanted revenge, and your slow and agonizing death would be the most damage she could do to me at that point. You were caught in the throes of a battle not about you. I am so, so sorry about that, that you were so horribly hurt because of me, just because she had no other use for you by then.”

“I have worth outside of you,” he says a little too coldly. He wasn’t a pawn, the Wither said so. Whatever he’d been was far worse, but by no means was he just an object. 

“No that wasn’t— I never said that, of course I know how wonderful you are, but you do understand they were using you, don’t you Technoblade?”

“Means I was useful. She wouldn’t poison me unless necessary.” Frankly he’s annoyed at the Crafts for not understanding. It’s simple strategy, shouldn’t they be good at this? One would think after running the Syndicate for so long it would be a second nature calculation. 

“Necessary!?” the Angel splutters an interjection.

“I was their protection.” The Wither wouldn’t have been there physically else wise. Nukes. The thought makes him shiver. “I was their insurance, their revenge, their—” little Piglin. He can’t. If they ever find out how thoroughly he betrayed them, that he’d become the Wither’s apprentice? Whatever favor he’s secured will be revoked. “I was…useful.” He doesn’t know how else to explain it. He’d earned if not their affection at least their respect. Not some prize freely given but something he’d forced them to contend with. 

“Listen. I’m sure that– that they found you useful. But that isn’t a good thing.” 

Of course it was, how else would he have survived? “They wouldn’t waste an asset.”

“There wasn’t any more leverage to find, and they knew they’d lost. It was either give you up freely or make sure neither of us got you, and-”

“They liked me!” He bites down on his tongue so hard he tastes copper. Bad move. Alarm bells start blaring, this isn’t safe territory. Why the hell is he arguing? Just agree with us, or do you need sense knocked into you? 

“You said they felt like…family,” the Angel of Death stumbles over saying. “And I believe you. I believe it felt that way, even though it wasn’t. That love they pretended to give you was extremely conditional, and that’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

Okay, sure, some -maybe even most!- of it was fake, but Techno made sure some of it was genuine. He’s irked to hear his manipulation skills dismissed. “They wouldn’t- wouldn’t-” But he can’t say anything because it feels like there's a knife pressed to his throat again.

“She poisoned you, Technoblade. Maybe that’s hard to hear, but we have proof. You were comatose for six days, there were fevers, muscle damage, seizures. None of that was ‘just stress’. I have no idea why you’d try to downplay your suffering, why you’d be so convinced the people who hurt you wouldn’t do so again in the future.” But it was a mistake, or had a reason he could understand. They said they wouldn’t again, it was just one time, a way to blow off steam. His p– the Nether had been through a lot, it made sense. “Under no circumstance is hurting you necessary. Your safety isn’t a reward to revoke as punishment.” The pressure on his throat only grows. He couldn’t snap at the Angel even if he wanted to. Probably for the best, really. “She tried to kill you. There was never anything you could’ve done to alter her perception of you as a revenge plot.” Stop, no stop– he can earn love. That’s not something that the Crafts can take away from him. Techno will survive no matter the cost, and it will be a victory that is his, bloody and clawed and tattered but his. 

But the knife digs deeper and deeper into his throat until he’s choking on his own blood. Why is he panicking if he knows she won’t actually hurt him? Yet he can’t breathe, struggling for even gasps. He’s ruining everything, should’ve just stayed mute. 

The moment he’s no longer hyperventilating he’s shoved into a therapy session so they can try to reshape his thoughts into proper, tidy fashion. The inside of his skull feels like a hurricane. All he can think is I need to get better. Not the kind the Crafts want, where he’s that guileless, easy-going guy he used to be. Oh, it is far too late for that. 

No, Techno needs to get better at lying, and fast. 

He wouldn’t talk to the therapist even if he could, even if it didn’t feel like his neck was about to be sliced open. That’s the quickest way to ruin everything he can think of. Techno slumps on the couch trying to pretend he can’t hear Stickbug. He’d put a back to them, really hammer home how much he doesn’t want to be here, but Techno isn’t going to make himself vulnerable like that. All he wants to do is go to bed. Techno doesn’t see the problem with sleeping for– what was it the Angel said? A six day coma? Sounds refreshing right about now. 

“I’m sure you know what denial is,” they say carefully. “It’s a coping mechanism, and can be useful short term, give you time to process something later in a safe environment. But you’re in deep right now. It’s vital to recognize when someone hurts you, even if it’s difficult. You can’t get out of a dangerous situation without first accepting it as unsafe.” Duh. He knew the Nether was dangerous, he had a plan to get out. Just, the Angel murdered everyone before then. “Being unwilling to acknowledge your medical trauma, particularly with how it relates to the people who caused the damage, is an indication we have a lot to unpack. I know that’s daunting, but we don’t have to do it all at once. I’d just like to start with not downplaying your recent near death experience, even if we disagree on the cause.” 

There's evidence. Lots of it, even. Brain scans and toxicity reports and piles of research on antidote construction. All easily scrounged up. What’s harder is the security camera footage. It’s incredibly sped up, doctors scurrying over a skeleton he supposes is meant to be him. The Angel of Death waits at his side for an indeterminate time, no passing of days evident beneath artificial lights. He can brush it off though. Could be actors sped up, or CGI or something. Anything to further misshapen Techno’s perception of the world. 

But then Tommy shows up. Sits by his side. Shows up infrequently, in short bursts, different clothing on. And just for a moment, Techno glimpses what it feels like if it’s true. 

It hurts. He doesn’t exactly know why. But he’d thought he’d earned safety. All his strategy and information and intelligence and creativity and it wasn’t enough. How did he fail to prove his merit? Techno was told from the start he wouldn’t know the Wither’s true motivations, but he’d thought he’d grasped them enough to figure out how to eke out his existence. Apparently not. He can’t assess intentions, can’t earn his keep no matter how hard he tries, can’t survive. Great. Just…great. He pushes it all away, not wanting to deal with the oncoming headache. He can think about it later. Or never. Never sounds good. It’s too much to deal with if the Wither really did poison him. 

“Technoblade, do you believe that you were in a coma now?” He nods, since he’s supposed to. “Care to share your thoughts on the matter?” He shrugs. The feeling on his throat hasn’t lessened. They offer him a pencil and paper, but Techno really doesn’t want to communicate. He needs time to sort it out in private where no one can try to dissect his every thought. But still Stickbug keeps prodding. 

“I was informed about some of the worrying things you’ve been saying recently. Why do you feel you have to justify your existence to others?” Because he does? “What did you think your use to the Nether was?” Hell if he knows anymore. He thought he did, but that purpose has to be locked up tight. He’s the only survivor who knows, and it’ll have to die with him else it gets him killed. 

“...and what do you think your use to Philza Craft is?” 

Techno goes cold. Why does the Angel want to know that? He can’t think of any other reason the therapist would ask other than espionage. The Angel suspects him, then, or at least wants to know what Techno thinks his motivations are. If he fathoms even a fragment of Techno’s strategy it’ll all fall apart. 

Carefully, Techno gives a noncommittal shrug. A mistake, Stickbug pouncing on the only response of the session. But it’s true, Techno really doesn’t understand his use to the Angel, especially not after he got so upset when he tried to insist he was fine. It’s some sort of clue as to what the Angel really wants out of him, something he desperately needs to find out if he’s going to play the part, but Techno can’t make heads or tails of it. Doesn’t he want a good little son? Then why would the Angel insist he nearly died, especially since he got so upset about it? Techno ignores Stickbug. They’re not particularly hard to tune out with their inane questions about his childhood and the many red flags he waves around like pinafore. Instead, Techno spends the rest of the therapy session trying to puzzle out motivations since obviously his previous theory is debunked.  

The Crafts are anxiously waiting outside the therapist’s office, pushing through hoards of guards. Not that there really would’ve been anything for them to eavesdrop on. Undoubtedly he looks like an emotional wreck, for the very good reason of it being what he is. He lets the tears he’s been forbidding for days well up the moment he sees them. Fun life advice with Techno: Turns out it’s not hard to fake cry when you’re constantly trying not to sob! Neat. Probably super applicable for normal people too. 

The moment the Angel holds out his arm Techno falls into the embrace. “It’s alright, love. You’ve been through so much. It takes time to process everything, especially when you were being manipulated. You have every right to be confused and scared and…” he gets drowned out by Techno’s sobs, since apparently it’s actually really hard to control crying once it starts. He’d planned more along the lines of a single tear artistically running down his cheeks like guys in movies, but now there’s like actually a lot of snot everywhere and whines are pitching out of his throat. “Shh, shh, it’s going to be okay. You’re safe now, we’ll make sure of it. You survived, and you’ll continue to do so. I know it’s hard now, with the memories fresh and the damage lingering. But I promise to you that you will recover.” 

Techno has the unfortunate realization that all his planned lines are impossible now that he’s blubbering. Hm. Perhaps he didn’t think that one through, since all the suppressed grief is refusing to clamp back down. It’s very annoying to the logical part of him, which is checking its watch and tapping its foot while the rest of his brain that didn’t get the memo is having a mental breakdown. 

He’s tired. Not so tired that his strength gives way and the Angel has to carry him to his room, but the Angel enjoys fussing over him the entire way back. At least any shudders are mistaken for the sobs wracking his body. He ends up crying in the man’s lap for far longer than he intended, clutching an ever-increasing quantity of stuffed animals since Tommy has no idea what to do and is panickedly bringing armloads of squishy cute things. 

Eventually he runs out of tears. As in, it’s twenty minutes later and he’s likely severely dehydrated. Techno’s really going through it right now, okay? The Angel attempts to tenderly wipe away his tears, and since he can’t see it coming -literally- Techno flinches. Luckily it’s taken as pain from his tragic scar, which is once again apologized profusely. Though, given the Angel takes it as a near fatal wound, the wallowing makes more sense. 

“You were right,” Techno mumbles into a soft cow stuffie. “About everything.” 

“Oh Technoblade,” the Angel sighs. “I’m so, so sorry. It was scary for us, too, to watch you nearly die. I can see why you’d try to deny something so utterly horrifying. How are…how are you handling it?”

He’s been crying longer than he thought possible, so. “I didn’t think she’d kill me,” he croaks. “She’s nice. I didn’t…didn’t…I’m so stupid.” 

“Kindness doesn’t prevent cruelty. Often it is only used to hide it.” 

“She gets in your head the longer you’re around,” Techno says a little too softly. “Twists your thoughts. But I don’t have to worry now. You’ve saved me.” 

Relief settles in the Angel’s eye. He tucks a curl of hair behind Techno’s ear. “You realize it was necessary then?”

His mouth tastes like bile. “...yeah. Thank you. But I don’t know what to do. I need…”

“Help?”

Techno sighs and snuggles closer. “Yes. Help would be nice.” At once the Angel pours out assurances of safety and love and recovery, cradling him tenderly. Gently trying to untangle Techno’s manipulated thoughts, to save him from his villains. 

It was a mistake, earlier, when he assumed they wanted him to be as he was before. Perhaps that’s what they claim to want even to themselves, but in truth they want him to be a broken mess so that they might be the ones to soothe his anguish. Be the ones who elevate him from the filth of poverty and abuse, who fix him with their love. That had been the point of Technoblade from the start, wasn’t it? The Crafts want to be saviors. 

And that? Techno can work with that. 

“...was I really in a coma?” The words are mumbled into where Techno’s face mushes into his shirt, so Tommy almost doesn’t catch them. Honestly he thought Techno was asleep a few hours ago. Usually it’s a pretty even 50/50 coin flip for if Techno is sleeping, but given it’s 2 am which is very past Tommy’s bedtime (please don’t tell anyone) he figured it was a safe bet. It’s not his fault, he found a very cool dungeon he wanted to explore! The only natural course of action was to hide the light of his Wii U under their blanket. Techno watched for a bit, head resting on Tommy’s shoulder since he’s kinda like a koala bear these days. Tommy likes it though, since it makes up for the weeks abandoned by his family. 

Tommy pauses, watching the way Techno’s blank face reflects off the screen. Given how he came back after his spontaneous mind doctor appointment, Tommy assumes his brain still isn’t fixed, especially since he’s been like a zombie for ages at this point. But… “I thought you told Dad he was right?” 

Techno shrugs, not willing to clarify the difference between strategic acquiescing and genuine acceptance. “But was he?”

Tommy wriggles uncomfortably. “I came to visit a few times. You wouldn’t wake up at all for days. I dunno, that’s what they said it was.” He doesn’t understand why Techno thought -thinks?- Dad and Wil would lie like that, but at the same time wouldn’t Techno know what’s going on? Tommy doesn’t get any of it, even if he can sense the current of festering feelings everyone seems to pretend isn’t there. 

“You know me. Sleepy boi.” 

Tommy snorts, hoping it’s supposed to be one of his deadpan jokes. “Like a big bear! Hibernating and sh- stuff.” Techno mumbles a very soft rawr that makes him snicker. “Shh! We’re supposed to be sleeping right now.”

“Don’t worry. Apparently I’m good at it.”

“I tried to wake you up,” Tommy swears, suddenly worried Techno will think he didn’t. “I yelled very loudly about missing breakfast. They wouldn’t let me jump on your bed because…you know. I still think that might’ve worked though! But they would’ve kicked me out.”

“Thanks for visiting.” He’s not sure he could believe it else wise. But he knows Tommy wouldn’t be able to lie to him. Not effectively, anyway. His motives are simple to grasp in a way that makes him easy to interact with. Maybe Techno has no idea what to do with the earth shattering realization, but he doesn’t have to, not yet, safe in the dark with Tommy, quiet enough no surveillance will catch them. 

Tommy brightens. “You heard me then?” Techno makes a questioning noise that rumbles where his throat rests against Tommy. “Dad said you might not be able to. I tried to say nice stuff. I figured you were scared and didn’t know what was happening and couldn’t see anyone and didn’t know if everyone was okay because the grown-ups wouldn’t tell you anything.” 

“Heard nothing. Sorry.” 

“Oh. That’s alright, I can say it again. I love hearing myself talk anyway, everyone says so. Um. Actually, do I have to repeat all of it? There were a lot of threats about nicking your stuff if you didn’t get up. But there was nice stuff too! I said I’d get you ice cream. We can still do that. Annd…I told you not to worry, since Dad said all the baddies were taken care of. I bet they’re all in Arkham Asylum and get nibbled by rats all the time! I’m so glad you got rescued, even if you’re very sleepy all the time. Not that I was worried! Technoblade never dies. Just…you know. Everyone said you got really close there.” A lot of Techno’s hugs are too tight these days, and the squeeze he gets now is no different. But Tommy doesn’t care. He’s just happy his brother is beginning to slowly come back. 

Schoolwork?

Oh. Right. Techno forgot about that entirely. His grades are probably super far behind from the weeks of absence. It will be a nightmare to catch up. At the same time…what does it matter? Compared to everything that’s happened, simple schoolwork is pointless when he’s trying to survive. And what good would it really do either? He’s going to spend the rest of his life as a trophy anyway. Everything handed on a silver platter and no one will ever care to think otherwise. 

No. Stop. He’d know. And people close to him would. He needs a goal right now, no matter how stupid his five year plan might seem after everything that’s happened. 

The bombardment of late assignments is an immediate headache when he opens up the laptop. He sorts things into little piles, drafting up a schedule to try to make it all up. Or, at least the important things. That would probably be more reasonable, but unfortunately Techno knows he’s the exact type of obsessive over achiever that will probably burn himself out trying to do everything while keeping up with new assignments. He almost wants to give up then and there, but mentally bullies himself into it. You want this. You’ll hate yourself in the future if you throw away all your dreams. No matter how dull and lifeless his ambitions seem now, once they filled him with fire and passion. If only he could chase after it and find that old drive, that would cure him of this listless, tired nothing. He desperately needs purpose to imbue him once again. 

Techno realizes quickly that he is incredibly lost, having missed weeks of lectures that can’t simply bluff his way through. He mentally braces himself for the horror of emailing profs when he notices all the messages waiting for him. They’re well into the thousands. He blinks as another three show up, all from Skeppy. It’s a one-sided barrage of random memes and comments about the day and inquiries about him that only grow more worried the longer the silence grows. The tension in his chest dissipates as he reads through all of his friends' messages. Pictures of Halo’s emotional support animal interspersed with silly arguments and jokes, and occasionally Skeppy’s groceries list. It takes almost an hour to get through all of them and then he’s left at a loss of what to say. This slice of normality is alien to him, nearly incomprehensible. He’d been fighting for his life while they complained about homework and hiding Floof from the RAs and scraping together money for more booze. How does he explain literally anything in the last few weeks? Especially something that would get past the censors? He could pour out every ounce of terror he’s felt and it wouldn’t mean anything, lost in transition.

Techno: My laptop broke. Almost just as quickly it’s deleted. He doesn’t want to lie to them. Simultaneously he surely can’t tell them the truth. Techno ends up writing different openers and then erasing them just as quickly, trapped in over-thinking everything, weighing motives and responses and precise wording. How many lol s can he add before it’s concerning? 

Techno: Sorry guys, had a rough month. I don’t want to talk about it

Brains look kinda like spaghetti when they exp

Haha schoolwork amiright

I missed you lol

I missed you

I

Techno stares at the mocking blinking cursor. The task feels insurmountable. 

(Un) fortunately, Skeppy beats him to the punch, a new message shooting out at lightning speed. Skepptical: asdfdajskll guys he’s TYPNING! Techno deletes what he’d been writing and shoves the laptop away from him, startling in a way he doesn’t fully understand. nOOOOO COME BAAAAACK pops up on the screen. 

Techni

Tencho 

Twchnooooi

Yechniblade you have so much to explain 

AAAAHHHHHH

Entire group chat explodes, people crawling out of the woodwork, even lurkers who never text anything at all. The poor little introvert is immediately overwhelmed by the exposure to rapt attention, especially as it’s people that care about him and are worried at a time when he’s never been less ok. He retreats at once, and it’s Halo that chides them. guys! you’re going to scare him off! Ó^Ò” apologize at once ù_ú

Skepptical: Sry 

Sonic Cosplayer #476: my bad bro??

Niki <3: Sorry

Double Dare Slime: Guys how do we know this isn’t an imposter

Skepptical: SOOOORRRRY COME BAAaAck

It’s sweet, and the closest he’s felt to normal in awhile. They don’t know anything at all, and it makes everything feel more distant, like a story or a nightmare. Hullo, Techno drops before the chat proceeds to go ballistic, demanding tea while Halo frantically tries to wrangle them. Skeppy spams what happened? thirty times in as many seconds. 

Half joking (there isn’t a chance it’ll go through) he responds, I almost died

“What’s making you smile, gemstone?” Techno’s head jerks up, and The Angel of Death winces at the way his expression drops. “Didn’t intend to startle you. Sorry.” Techno carefully watches, waiting to see if he’ll have to brace for contact. Fortunately, he doesn’t. When his gaze finally returns to the screen he blanches. To call the group chat chaos incarnate is an understatement; Techno has seen prettier active war zones. He frantically scrolls up to find out why everyone is screaming at him. To his horror, his earlier joke passed the sensors. 

Ohhh god. Maybe he can pass it off as a dark humor…? Probably not after a month of silence. He tilts the screen towards the Angel of Death and taps. “Isn’t it censored?” 

“It’s true, isn’t it?” And the frantic cries insisting he was kidnapped weren’t? Techno stares miserably at the people freaking out. Why him? What God has he slighted?

Skepptical: I thought u were grounded! Or hibernating!

I mean, hibernating is a funner way to say coma, Techno responds, since apparently he can’t ever learn a lesson. For some strange reason, no one takes it calmly. Bruh. Overreacting much? Does anyone have any notes I could borrow?

Skepptical: etchno what do you MEAn DIED!?

_Raisinbranboo_: guys I’m trying to take a test rn whats goin

_Raisinbranboo_: HE WHAT!??!??<>1

Niki <3: I don’t think now is the time to worry about the deans list techno…

Techno rolls his eyes. Wdym now is the perfect time

✨🧁muffinman🧁✨: After you tell us what happened you muffinhead!!!

But he doesn’t know what to say. It’s impossible to explain. He doesn’t want them to worry but they have every right to, and he’s only going to make it worse if he doesn’t give them some type of explanation. Problem is for all the stories he’s made up, he can’t find one for this. The perfect lie, so they’d never worry about him again and wouldn’t be mad at him for a month of silence. Whatever it is escapes him now. Techno just wants to close the laptop and go back to sleep even though he’s already been doing far too much of that of late. 

“You’ve been staring at the blinking cursor for a while now. Don’t know what to tell them?” Techno nods slightly. “Perhaps they would be overly worried if you mentioned what really happened,” The Angel of Death suggests lightly. Techno gives him a flat look, and he puts his palms up. “Which you’re already aware of. You don’t have to get very detailed. They already believe you’re on extended sick leave, remember? You can just say there were complications and leave it at that.”

Oh. That’s…convenient. But the thing is Techno doesn’t want to do that, either. Techno’s main tactic so far has been to pointedly fail to offer any cover story in hopes his friends would piece something together. Somehow they’ve failed to deduce the obvious choice of ‘kidnapped/semi-adopted by the leader of a crime organization’. Like, it’s happened twice at this point, and yet none of them have figured it out. Seems like ample opportunity to further his unsuccessful scheme by leaps and bounds. Techno snaps a photo of his messed up visage and deadpan peace sign and everyone starts screaming at him again. 

Techno: [image 882 attached] Last time I run with scissors. They don’t appreciate that one. Tough crowd. Still, even if he can’t or shouldn’t or won’t explain what’s happening, it feels nice to talk to his friends. Reminds him of what he’s fighting to get back to. Techno didn’t know how much he needed this. 

Technoblade hasn’t made a single escape attempt. Under any other circumstances Philza would be overjoyed, but it’s worrisome now, especially with a confirmation that he’s scared of them. That has never stopped him before, but now he’s completely listless, though that could be fully explained by recovering from the poison. He’s quiet and still and blank for the most part, caught in a shell more days than not. He hasn’t even explored or poked at security, something he’s never done when exposed to a new place. 

Though it makes Philza worried about the security risks, he knows Technoblade needs something familiar to feel secure. He doesn’t trust the home they bought for him, but Technoblade is more acquainted with the Winter manor. Philza doesn’t like it, but he’s trying. 

When they leave the bunker, Thomas is positively ecstatic, running around the manor. Wilbur is less convinced it’s safe enough, but approves of the home enough to agree the bunker is overkill. Technoblade simply appears uncomfortable, holing up in a corner of his luxurious room doing schoolwork, usually with Tommy curled up in his lap. It’s no different from the bunker. Philza isn’t sure what else he can do, since even this was a wild risk. 

All Philza can think about is the last night they had before the world fell apart, chandelier light glinting off Technoblade’s eyes as he asked to do things like this together as a family. That brief moment, when Philza glimpsed the family they would have become. It seems impossible to have now. He knows they will, eventually, perhaps years from now, but they will be a happy family. He knows Technoblade is scared and traumatized, but he’s been so from the start. Philza lowered that wall once. He’ll do it again.

Technoblade wanted excursions, had been almost enraptured with his glimpse of what their lives are like. It’s dangerous now, but Philza takes a week to set up security as tight yet unobtrusive as possible. His gut twists with all the ways this could go wrong, and the night before he hardly gets any sleep. But Technoblade’s therapist supports the idea, and he wants his son to feel at home again. 

Techno is wary of whatever this is. The Angel of Death is enthusiastic, prying him out of his little corner and shepherding the criminals and kidnapped kids through the mansion. His reluctant compliance is brushed aside by Tommy excitedly taking him by the hand. “Come on! Dad always has the best surprises!” Unfortunately, the last surprise Techno got was a surprise raid and its accompanying lifelong trauma, so for some reason he’s less hyped and more hypervigilant. Preferably he’d be in the safety of the pig bean bag chair, but the Angel of Death essentially threatened to carry him out, and the thought makes his skin crawl. Safe to say, Techno would ideally be in his room introverting. 

The Angel ushers him excitedly through a grand door and Techno blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the light. Wait, what? The literal shock of fresh air startles him. Techno rubs his eyes, unable to believe it. The world spreads out before him, vibrant and perfect. The wind is crisp as it ruffles past him, dancing in the spiraling pillars of hedges and flowering trees filled with bounties of complementary colors and artificially draped vines and fairy lights. It stretches as far as the eye can see, spilling away from the tall, imposing walls of the mansion. Surely the garden is just as overly designed, but it feels far more real. The nip of cold at his nose and fingertips keeps him in the present. It’s like waking sharply from a nightmare, the world suddenly concrete in a way it wasn’t before. 

Before he knows it, Techno is launching into a dead sprint. The paths twist through greenery, seemingly infinite. The cold air stings his lungs and far too soon he slows to a stop, still yearning for the ephemeral feeling of freedom even as his body aches. As much as he’s been overplaying symptoms to milk Craft sympathy, it’s still very much an arduous recovery. He stills at the crest of a bridge, watching the manufactured waterfall rush into a dark lake full of fish sluggish from the Winter. Each harsh pant shakes him, knees trembling with either excitement or exhaustion. 

“Stop! Your legs are too long!” Tommy whines, racing to keep up. He latches immediately onto Techno’s leg, making it impossible to move. For a moment panic spikes at being trapped, then soothes. 

Techno cracks a smile at the boy. “Not my fault you’re short.”

“Oi! I’m going to be taller than you and Wilbur, just you watch!” He pries Tommy off, or attempts to. He’s worse than a tick, giggling as he claws onto Techno’s leg. Eventually he manages to get one free and begins clumsily walking, dragging the entire kid with him a few feet before deciding it’s too much effort. The entrapment is uncomfortable, making him uneasy. 

“Off.” The kid scowls. “Please?” He accepts the lack of play in his voice and falls over, sprawling across the bridge, complaining about losing Techno’s body heat. For a time he simply wanders, drinking it all in as Tommy tails him like a duckling.

“Ah, there you boys are,” the Angel of Death calls, giving ample warning for his approach. “Looking for an exit are you?” Techno shakes his head no, confused at the near twinge of disappointment in the Angel. But it’s true. Or…or it was, when he said it. Suddenly, with this first taste of freedom, his hunger is kindled once more. It’s like his head finally bursts above water from his previous drowning thrash. What even was his plan before? To appease them? Till what? Till he could no longer convince them? Techno needs to be long gone before the delusion runs out. Not the same type of attempts as before, clumsy and desperate as they were. No, the Wither taught him well how to meticulously scheme. Techno’s next escape attempt must be unexpected, flawless, and above all, successful.  

Until then, he must play his part perfectly. Now. You have to reward positive behavior immediately if you wish to condition him. Techno drifts towards the Syndicate leader, drawing a slip of a smile out of his features. More, darling. You do want to be free, don’t you? Techno butts their shoulders affectionately, then presses into the Angel, leaning to his ear. “Thank you, Phil,” he whispers. 

A relieved smile greets him, an arm hooking around his. “Happy to help. Care for the tour…?” He supposes accompaniment is an obvious price and swallows it without complaint. The Angel guides him through the garden mindfully slowly with frequent enough breaks that Techno is annoyed at how weak he is perceived. Eventually he untangles from his captor at the first sign of an escape opportunity, feigning reluctance. 

The tree is perfect. Tall and strong, with a plethora of branches stretching up past the towering hedge wall that it is crucially located next to. He wagers a desperate bid could get him free, though certainly not now. A reconnaissance mission exclusively today.

He hoists Tommy and the boy scrambles up, hooting and hollering. “Race you!”

Techno catches his breath from the effort of getting off the ground. “Don’t. You’ll fall,” he warns before proceeding to fly upwards in a desperate attempt to beat the boy to the top. Tommy senses the intent immediately, leaping from branch to branch with the fearlessness of death only an eleven year old could grasp. 

Tommy jumps onto the branch Techno was about to reach for. It sways dangerously, showers of leaves raining down below as Tommy sticks out his tongue. His lead is destroyed when he reaches a section with the next limb out of reach. Tommy scowls as he’s forced to find another route cramped enough his short arms can reach. “Always plan ahead,” Techno pants. His stamina is depleting faster than he’d like. Yet another reason to hold the escape to another time. 

The options thin until there’s little that can support his weight. Tommy rightfully claims his victory, and Techno automatically undercuts it in a teasing fashion, as is only right. But in truth his affectionate ribbing is distracted. It takes careful maneuvering, but eventually he climbs just high enough to peak over the hedge walls to the world outside.

His caught, expectant breath sours for all the hope it had held. All that’s beyond the walls is merely more Craft manor, hidden beneath luscious vines and spilling deciduous greenery. He salvages his disappointment. There’s some type of platform well below the crest of the hedge and a fence that could possibly be scaled down, though there’d need to be even further planning to get to the actual ground given they’re a story or two up. Still the roof walkway is a godsend. It’s crawling with guards, though that could well be a symptom of a planned excursion and the lingering paranoia of his captors. 

It seems too far to safely get Tommy across. Perhaps if he’s carried? It’s a horrid fall from the top, likely to break every bone in their bodies. He’d hoped it would directly lead to the end of the Craft property. Even then, Techno is fully aware simply getting out of the mansion isn’t going to mean he’s free. If the full force of the Nether couldn’t do it, he’s not sure what could. Still he’d hoped to find at least one step to be some level of possible. He’ll figure it out. He’ll free the both of them.

“Techno! I beat you!” Tommy sways at the very top. Winter gusts shake him in a dangerous fashion. 

“I let you.” He pouts. The world stretches around, tantalizingly impossible to reach. But for the first time he sees the impossible and feels the rush of a challenge in a way he hasn’t in a while.

“I’ll beat you down, too,” Tommy declares, and Techno swings sharply down. Tired as he is, Techno has enough of a headstart that it’s nearly fair. A second wind and slightly too risky drop gets him in the lead. Everything fades to the exhilaration of a contest, of a soon to be victory, nearly to the ground.

And then Tommy screams.

Without thinking Techno throws himself towards the boy, desperately reaching for the flailing mass plummeting to the ground. He manages to catch an arm, his own nearly ripping out of his socket as he tries to prevent the fall. But Tommy’s going too fast, tearing out of his grasp and landing in a heap on the ground. Techno immediately drops to the ground after him, fire jolting up his ankle at the landing, but he can’t care, sprinting for the small lump. Techno rolls Tommy onto his back, lacing fingers together and slamming the butt of his palm into Tommy’s chest over and over, refusing to lose him too. 

“Ow!” Tommy protests, trying to squirm away. It takes a beat to realize that probably implies he’s alive. Soldiers melt out of nowhere, reaching for Tommy while he’s vulnerable. Hackles raised, Techno slashes at the closest one, crouching over to shield Tommy from attack. When they reach for his pressure points to disarm him, Techno is prepared this time. A deft evasion, scoring a line of blood across one’s arm. 

What he’s less expectant of is to simply be picked up, legs thrashing wildly. He manages a powerful kick to a head, though there’s enough that his resistance is completely overwhelmed. “TOMMY!” Techno desperately reaches for the boy, throwing his entire weight forward to little avail. Tommy sits in the dirt, tearing up from the dirt-smeared scrapes peppering his frame, too consumed to notice he’s surrounded by wolves.  

“You need to be more careful, sunshine.” Tommy reaches for him, demanding uppies, and is promptly scooped up and fussed over, the Angel coaxing out a summation of what was hurt from his fall. Mostly? His pride. 

“My chest aches,” Tommy complains. “Techno attacked me while I was down! That’s bullying!”

“No, he was trying to save you.” The Angel grins at him. “Fantastic response time but, ah, usually you check for a pulse first before you try CPR.”

“It didn’t work last time.” His voice is a little too hoarse. 

The Angel of Death cants his head curiously. “When would you have needed to resuscitate someone?” Techno isn't really able to respond anymore. Not like Ghast can, either. “I suppose we should also tend to the guard you maimed…” Hey! It’s a light scratch at most! “Johnson you’re relieved from duty today, with recompensation. Although if you do insist on using that knife, love, you might want to learn how to actually use it correctly. I could give you lessons if you’d like?”

The Wither tried, once. Sat him in front of a firing range and tried to gauge his lethality. It was abysmal, of course, even once he learned how to properly hold the weapon. She’d mistaken it for feigned incompetence initially, but no, Techno really is just bad at things like weapons and musical instruments. Ultimately it was decided he made a better apprentice if his fighting abilities were kept lackluster, at least until he’d gained more trust. 

What does that imply about the Angel then? People keep trying to mold him into violence. And surely it feeds into the narrative he suspects the Angel wants, of uplifting a weak, helpless thing and making it strong. But wouldn’t a defenseless damsel mean more chance of being kidnapped so he could be heroically rescued again? What is the final product supposed to look like? 

Is Techno supposed to be the disciple of the Syndicate? With deadly force and merciless schemes, vengeful and efficient as he retaliates for all dealt to him? That’s certainly how Wil turned out, brutal and lashing and indifferent to the horrors he causes. Or worse, delighting in them. Techno can see how easily he could slip into the Syndicate, just like he had with the Nether. He’d be useful in obvious fashion at the least. 

Or is Techno supposed to be the pitiful survivor? With thanks on his tongue and adoration in his heart, soft and compliant as he heals through the power of friendship? A vulnerable child to protect; that would certainly lend itself to justifying the Angel’s actions, appeal to his possessive side. Something salvageable for them to piece back together, leaving him forever in their debt. 

Or is Techno supposed to be the model son? With good grades and gracious manners, normal and happy as he walks away unscathed? No need for either to feel guilt if Techno is fine despite it all. He’s not entirely sure if that’s what the Crafts want of him, even if it’s what they feign to desire. Still, it’s the role he’s had the most experience in all the years he tried to manufacture it for his parents, even if it feels impossible now. Techno needs to find out what the Angel wants soon. 

“I know you kept trying to push your physical recovery. It could be a monitored, productive way to do that,” the Angel offers. 

He’s pushing it enough that Techno decides it’s in his best interest to play along. “It’d make me feel safer. Can we?”

The Angel of Death brightens. “Of course! I’ll teach you everything you need to know.” Then, his attention is drawn by the bruised boy in his arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up, hm? What a nasty fall…Technoblade, you’ll be alright on your own, yes? Sorry about this, but I do prefer to be there for injuries. I’m sure you understand. Feel free to remain and explore. Wilbur should be around here somewhere, even if he’s trying to shirk like always…” He ushers Tommy inside for medical attention. Some of the pressure releases as the Angel no longer looms over, even if his presence is still acutely felt. He misses Tommy though as he wanders through the sprawling illusion of freedom. 

Techno twirls a flower he picked between his fingers, watching petals flare out in dizzy ecstasy. He runs across a gazebo tucked between the towering hedges and trails a hand on the smooth mahogany railing, tracing intricate carvings. A motion catches in his periphery, and Techno leaps over the railing, swinging on a tree branch to break his fall. It cracks on the way down. He swings it up, ready to crash the improvised weapon into the person who snuck up behind.

Wil snickers, still sitting comfortably on the porch swing. “Jumpy, aren’t you? Sorry, I didn’t think you’d find this place. Dad said it was a mandatory family activity, but I didn’t want to bother you.” It’s the first time he’s really been with Wil in days beyond meals and glimpses and other required moments. The intentional space has helped. “I can leave if you want…?”

Techno shrugs and hops back over the railing, keeping the stick to occasionally slap against the wooden bars. Wil idly rocks the swing, watching him. “Sorry,” he begins. “That probably doesn’t mean much to you, but I am sorry. Sorry that you were captured, that you were rescued in that way. You never should’ve experienced any of it, shouldn’t be here with us. I don’t think that’s really anything I can do to help you though. Dad won’t see a reason.” Not that he ever has. 

“I don’t know if it helps, but I know what it’s like. The kidnapping, violence– all of it. That’s the problem, I think, it happens so much I am desensitized. That's all I’ve been thinking about the past few days, how we’re the same age and yet you were terrified and I felt normal. Never really thought about it before, but that’s a pretty bad sign, huh?” Techno hesitates, nods. It seems like Wil rehearsed this a thousand times. “That’s what I suspected. So, I know what it’s like, but I don’t understand it. And I don’t think I can.”

“His name was Blaze.”

Wil startles, as if not expecting anything. But of course he hadn’t. He doesn’t and will never know how much Blaze loathed him. All that pent up trauma and vengeance and idolatry contorting Blaze, an entire life cruelly shaped by Wil, and he killed him without a second thought. “Er– who?” 

“When I was carried out. Guy who charged, tried to rescue me. You snapped his neck.”

There’s this look of horror that flitters past Wil’s features. “Rescue?”

“From his perspective.” 

“And what about yours?” 

“Blaze burned me.”

“That didn’t answer the question.” 

“You released me.” 

“Again, that’s objective, not your point of view. You know how easy of a follow up that should’ve been, right? Is being harmed not a dealbreaker for you? And yet we aren’t good enough?” Techno shifts nervously. As always, he’s struggling to pin Wil down. Is he wallowing, trying to get Techno to confirm the guilt, or is he trying to trick Techno into revealing too much? No, for as smoothly as Wil lies, that grief at being proven right in the confrontation was poignant. It’s self-flagellation, then. He can use that, to an extent, though will have to be careful given the Angel’s overshadowing priority. 

“He thought I was you.” The attack causes Wil’s mouth to snap shut. “Everyone hated you.”

“Including you?” It’s a careful sort of question, bracing for the response. 

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Techno confirms. Not yet. Wil seems to hear the thought, and Techno doesn’t know how to dissuade him. You’re not convincing, darling, she whispers in his head. He knows that, but it’s the truth. Doesn’t matter if it’s a lie, only their perception of it. But he doesn’t know how to change Wil’s mind. It would be far easier if Wil was just as delusional as his father. It’s always harder to act for a critic. 

Wilbur doesn’t get it. He’d thought the moment Tech pointed a gun at him it was over, and yet somehow Dad remains in thick denial. They destroyed Tech, there’s no other way about it. Tech rightfully despises them, but he refuses to say it, hiding behind blank features and stretches of silence and small acts of affection. Wilbur’s flummoxed. They could be working together to force Dad to contend with his actions. Tech could go free. 

But still he pretends. “Come on, Tech. It’s obvious.”

He sighs. “Don’t know what you want from me.” It’s not fair, given Wilbur doesn’t really know either. But he knows what he wants for Techno, and it’s certainly not this feigned mockery of security and love and family. The Techno from before was so genuine, so Wilbur settles on claiming he wants the truth, although he really doesn’t. The Techno of now would never give it to him anyway. “It is truth. I don’t hate you. Frightened, but everything scared me at first–”

“Just admit you want to escape.” Isn’t that what he wants? Isn’t that what’s best for him? Why can’t Tech see that? Why does he have to fight him at every turn? 

“Look what happened last time I left,” he snaps. He’s evading. It’s obvious, but it wouldn’t be to Dad. Wil grits his teeth. He’s trying to help but Tech won’t let him. “I’m protected here by the Angel. Leaving’s a death sentence! Why would I?”

But Wilbur isn’t listening, caught on a detail. The Angel. Not Phil, or Philza. Not Dad, though Wilbur has long accepted that. There isn’t a reaction on his bland features if it was an intentional jab. “Why, ah. Why do you call him the Angel?” He catches it, then, a flash of fear quickly doused. A mistake, not an attack. It’s worse if it’s subconscious, the damage running deep.

“Huh? I call him Phil.” There’s a nervous, insistent edge to his voice.

“No, you didn’t, just now. You called him the Angel.” Wilbur allows his tone to raise, enunciating clearly for the recording devices. Tech goes still. And…silent, no matter how Wilbur prods. Clamped up utterly. Blast it, Tech was actually talking to him and he just had to ruin it. He approaches slowly, palms up, offering meager apologies. There’s little reaction, save the tightening of his grip around the branch in his hands. But after Wilbur rounded on him to prove a point to Dad, why shouldn’t he brace for attack? No, after Wilbur murdered some goon Tech latched onto. He has every right to be skittish. 

“Sorry,” he whispers as he hops on the railing next to Tech. As much as the proximity is no doubt unnerving, he leans into his twin’s ear as a show of good faith. If Tech is trying to be lowkey, Wilbur can do that. “I just…don’t understand your plan. Why not let him know? He’s well overdue for a wake up call.” There’s a certain reckless stupidity, Techno thinks, about a man who’s never tasted real consequences. Privileged Wil is still perfectly assured of his father’s support even when acting in total defiance. “I can help, I swear. I don’t think you should be exposed to our situation. You’re good, not monsters like us.” If the idolatry was irksome before, it’s deadly now. Techno saw how the last combination of Wilbur Craft and pedestals went. He shakes his head. “It’s true. Don’t defend us. Stop pretending, Tech, if you were honest with Dad, made him see the effect he has… We can break the delusion if we cooperate, then he’ll have to see sense and let you go.”

“It’s still safe here,” Techno mumbles. “I've got nowhere else. Nether’s gone.” Even if, in retrospect, he wasn’t good enough for them. If he’d just been a little more useful to the Wither…but it’s too late now. 

“Your parents?” 

“They couldn’t stop Phil.” He stumbles infinitesimally on the name, clearly codeswitching for Wilbur’s benefit. 

“You keep saying you’re happy here and feel safe, and yet you call him the Angel.” It’s not an aggressive accusation like last time. 

“That’s what he is.” It sounds tired, reluctant as Wilbur presses. “He wouldn’t argue.” 

Wilbur lets the issue drop for his sake. “What was the Nether like?” Tech mentioned it like an alternative, like someplace he would run back to. Obviously Tech doesn’t see it clearly, given the way he broke down over his own near assassination, but at the same time…he’s not dumb. Something gave him the impression otherwise, and it had to be concrete if Techno acts like they’re potentially some source of protection. “Like, I know about the injuries. How did they treat you?”

“...Fine.”

“Really? You were dying when we found you. Dad said you were in denial but…” 

“We were eating pizza before the raid.” His voice comes out soft, the memory slipping in unwarranted. Techno’s jaw clenches to the point of hurting. “Teasing Squidkid for being picky.” 

“What was he like?” Wil asks gently.

“Tommy,” he says before he can stop himself. It’s a gut punch to the both of them. “He was like Tommy. Small, feisty, cocky. He was fifteen.” Stop, he needs to stop, but the words just keep pouring out. “I hid him. When the raid started, I hid him. Thought you wouldn’t find him. Thought maybe– I didn’t see his body, thought maybe I saved him. But it all exploded.”

“It’s not uncommon for people to survive in the rubble,” Wilbur says uncomfortably, thinking about the clean up crews they send in to prevent just that. 

“Supplies would’ve spilled. Chlorine gas got him if you didn’t.” It’s been something he’s been thinking about at night, wondering if his repurposed escape plan doomed Squidkid. It would’ve been fine if it weren’t for the Syndicate. I didn’t need to be rescued, he thinks quietly, bitterly. Not once in his life. He had a plan out. Always would. It seems his entire life has been a series of escape attempts. They were going to let me go, Wil. It rattles in his head, over and over, failing to roll off his wooden tongue. I was going to make them. 

But the Crafts don’t want him truly capable. Beyond the betrayal of working for the Nether, that would imply he had agency. Wouldn’t the story be ruined if the damsel rescued themself? Techno can be clever but not cunning, determined but not successful, angry but only insofar that it condones the Syndicate’s massacre. They want a traumatized victim, but only in a romanticized, sympathetic way. Broken glass that’s pretty, not the kind that actually slices your palms. 

Wil is slightly more forgiving in that sense. He allows Techno to hate them, even if he wants it in a way that leaves room for inevitable forgiveness. He wants apologies and laments to redeem him. Oh noo he realized murder is bad and he’s spent his entire life chasing an illusion? Boo hoo, play him a sad song on the world’s smallest Alexa. Why couldn’t he have holed up in his room and written angsty poetry about being a monster instead of bothering Techno? …actually, come to think of it, Wil has been kindly avoiding him for the most part, so that’s probably exactly what he’s doing. If only he would continue the trend and stop trying to poke holes in Techno’s façade. It would be so, so much easier if Wil wasn’t still trying to save him. 

Technoblade remains shy throughout the weeks, though that wording softens the blow. He’d been shy before, but now he’s withdrawn. At least he picks up around Thomas, and no longer spends all day in his room. Typically he’s in the gardens more often than not, wrapped in the furred coat Philza obtained for him. It’s more of a security risk than he’d prefer, exposed to the outside like that, but it’s what his son wants so it’s what he shall have. Fortunately, he started roaming a little, finally able to explore the home that’s been waiting for him all of these years. Well, the Winter manor at least. It’s not the awkwardness of when they first invited him all those months ago, but it’s far more apprehensive. Not disinterested; it’s scrutinized thoroughly, if clinically. He doesn’t try to escape. He’s finally accepted the home, though it’s a far more depressing reality than Philza imagined. A little less tearful hug promising family at last and more a fall into despondency.

However, Philza has a genius plan to turn the depressive episode into a festive episode. “Technoblade, do you know the date today?” 

His son blinks up at him from where he’s buried in a textbook. “December 16?” 

“And what’s coming up?”

“Finals.”

At the reminder, Philza notices the dark rings under his eyes. Hm. Perhaps it would be good to enforce bedtime. Rigorously, even, externally shutting off his laptop wifi and power to the room. Considering his determination, an EMP to take out flashlights and even drugging dinners with melatonin if it comes to that. Perhaps he’ll have to rehearse a speech on the mental toll of sleep loss. Again. And to think of it, has Wilbur been studying? Thomas certainly hasn’t, especially with Technoblade being too busy to help tutor him. That’s certainly going to limit his income, as he is still insistent on funding himself completely which might make the upcoming— oh, excellent. His brain came back full circle to being on topic. Philza loves when that happens. “Anything else coming up? Something big?” Technoblade stares blankly. “Starts with a C…?”

“Crunch time?” 

“Ahh. No. You need to start worrying about things that start with a G?” 

“Grades??” Oh dear, his brain really is frazzled. 

“Important, but incorrect. Do you need more coffee?” 

“Always.” He’s increasingly annoyed at his studying being interrupted.

“Then I’ll get you some really nice blends. As a gift. For Christmas. Which is in nine days, in case you hadn’t been aware.” Unexpectedly, his son slumps his face into a pillow and screams. Loudly. “Dear, are you all—” his head whips up fast. Bad move, since Philza leaned in to check on him, and is subsequently bonked in the face. Philza clutches his nose, tearing up reflexively while Technoblade begins to pace frantically, muttering to himself. 

The brainstorming and movement suddenly halt, the boy frowning. “…None of it would be a surprise since you’d be checking my purchases,” he says carefully. 

“It will be scrutinized, but not by me.”

He nods, then continues pacing. “And what about others? Can I get gifts outside of…” he fumbles for the right word “…the household?”

“I expect your friends would love to be delivered presents, once vetted.”

“You should’ve given me more heads up, I don’t think you understand how much time I put into presents. Ack— and I still need to study— aah and mailing time—” 

“I can assure you delivery time will be less than four hours.”

The child balks. “Jesus Christ the shipping cost would be horrendous.” The what now??

“This would be a service provided by our own. We aren’t going to be putting your packages through public systems.”

Techno is hit by the sudden vision of a Syndicate raid style of delivery, SWAT geared soldiers bursting into his friend’s dorms and giving them lifelong trauma, bullet damages that’ll ruin their down payments, and festively wrapped gifts. No. That would be absurd, he tells himself. That’s just the trauma talking. Still, he’d like an assurance. “Erm. Quick question. How?”

“Very normal means..?” Philza’s going to tell a Syndicate member it’s a life threateningly vital mission to deliver coded messages and use a series of blackouts and a raid operation team to break into the college mail system and deliver the respective packages to their PO boxes. He’s pretty sure that’s nearly identical to how the public mail system works for the lower class. 

Techno splutters. “What do you MEAN it’s not time to open presents? It’s Christmas!” He’s been bracing himself for over a week now, rehearsing conversations and expressions, and now you tell him his plans are off by a day when he’s been psyching himself up all morning? He needs this day to go perfectly, and it’s already off to a bad start. 

“Exactly! What are you talking about??” The Crafts stare at him in utter disbelief, and Techno is baffled back. “You open them on Boxing Day.” 

“What?? Why would we wait till then? You open presents on Christmas, the holiday of GIFTS, not some weird fighting holiday.” Not that Techno isn’t suddenly psyched about the idea of a holiday where he’d get to deck a Craft free of consequences. He’s hoping to be gone before St. Patrick’s, but legally and culturally sanctioned violence could be some type of consolation prize.

“Boxing day is for unboxing. Why would you unbox something not on Boxing Day?!”

Techno groans. “First you tell me we're not doing presents today, and then you take away the tantalizing promise of a violence holiday? This is the worst Christmas ever.” Aside from the fact he can’t spend time with his friends and family. Techno shoves that thought away. He needs this to go magically. “Bruh I should’ve never come to this backwater country.” 

“Impatient American pig,” Wil critiques.

His eye twitches. “What did I say about jokes about my name?” 

“Oh no, that was a shot at your nationality I assure you.”

“That’s alright then. Oof. I wish I’d known. That’s embarrassing, I was giving away presents early.”

Tommy’s mouth goes slack jawed with envy. “WHO GOT EARLY GIFTS!?”

“Uh. Bodyguards, mostly. Cleaning staff when I catch them. I got cookies and coffee beans for them.” Plus handwritten apologies for the ones he’s attacked, which is a lot more than he’d prefer to admit. He thought it completely unfair they were working on a holiday, and he challenged the Angel of Death a few times on that, but mostly in a bid to drastically reduce security.

“Daaad I wanna do Christmas like Techno does it.”

The Angel of Death blinks. “Um. Right. Of course, sunshine.” In the distance, groans of dread and frustration of workers are heard as Philza Craft’s ornate festivities advance by an entire day.

“Techno! I want your present first!” Techno lights up and runs to his room carrying out gifts, waving off staff attempts to assist. He can’t see at all over the stack of boxes, one so large he almost can’t lift it at all. “Mine! That big one’s gotta be mine!” 

“Nope.” With decorum and gravitas, he places a long, thin package in Tommy's hands. The child rips into it, shredding the wrapping paper. He gasps as soon as he sees it, lifting it up in triumph. The sword is ornate with the finest five dollar fake jewels and marker sigils, shimmering with silver duct tape. Almost immediately it’s whacked into Wil.

“Oi! Stop doing that!” He throws up his arms to catch the flurry of 11 year old fury. “What’s that even made of?”

“Pool noodle,” Techno responds proudly. 

“Like hell that is, that packs a wallop.”

“That’s the PVC pipe. Wouldn’t be sturdy else wise. Dad taught me how to make them, but I didn’t have anyone to actually play with as a kid.” The story slips out before he can stop it, but thankfully no one bats an eye.

Tommy grins evilly. “None of you have swords. You are very vul-ner-able to me.”

“Sure about that?” Techno tosses a second, similar package, which seems to be a less decorated sword.

“Now I have two swords. You don’t stand a chance. Hey!” Techno yoinks it out of his hands and baps him on the head. 

“Where’s mine?” Wil asks. Techno gives him a sinister smile. 

“Why, Wil, isn’t the pen far mightier than the sword?”

“Like that’s going to save me – OW! MY GLASSES!” He squints, trying to find the spectacles hidden behind Tommy’s back. In fact, the expression is not totally dissimilar to Techno’s general one, but he’s been beating back the blind allegations for months and refuses for this to be the nail in the coffin.

Techno seizes the opportunity to throw Wil’s present at him, hitting him smack in the face. “Merry Christmas.” Wil scowls at him blindly, but the present wasn’t particularly painful in smackatude given the fact it is confined within a thick envelope. Holding the paper too close to his face, he begins to read. “And that just leaves you,” Techno says, turning to the Angel of Death. He puts the largest box in front of him. “Enjoy.” Ideally, he’d be cackling maniacally, but Tommy already has that covered, still smacking things with his sword just as Techno foresaw. He predicts three priceless decorations to be destroyed by supper. 

“Thank you so much Technoblade!”

“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t opened it.” 

“I’m sure I’ll love it.” He is predictable in that stance. But the Angel has never encountered one of Techno’s presents. They’re always perfectly chosen, often to the chagrin of the recipient. The Angel gets off the wrapping paper with some difficulty to find the box completely covered in multiple layers of duct tape, clearly woven together. The Angel looks up slowly.

“I wanted to be thorough?” Techno explains deadpan. An arched brow, but he smiles and pulls out a wicked looking knife. It’s all going according to plan, then. Excellent. After a few minutes of slicing through, the Angel of Death finally gets the box open, revealing millions of packing peanuts that explode the moment they’re free. He laughs in surprise and begins fishing around. The chuckling stops when the thing he pulls out of the massive box…is another box. Equally wrapped in layers of duct tape.

“…Technoblade. Is this, perhaps, a matryoshka doll situation?”

“It’s delicate.”

“Oh. Right…” He turns upon the gift and begins slowly and carefully slicing it open. 

At that time, Wil finally makes an exasperated noise, half disbelief, half awe. “You— you utter—” he’s flabbergasted, still pouring over the pages of writing given to him. His features can’t decide if it’s infuriating or funny. Tommy demands to know what it is while poking him with his sword. “...It’s a poem. Multiple I think.” His brow furrows, and he snatches his glasses back from Tommy. 

“Do you like it?” Techno asks obliviously.

“Haven’t finished yet. But it’s bloody brilliant.” The fact seems to spite him. 

Techno gives him a guileless smile. “Good to hear. I took a lot of inspiration from you.”

“If that’s what you call it…

“ANOT— Technoblade. Love of my life. Precious gemstone. Worth more than diamonds and emeralds.”

“Yeah?” 

“Is this another box?”

Technoblade glances over. Apparently he got past the spaghetti layer with little comment. Interesting; he was expecting more reaction there. “Oh. Yeah. Nope, don’t worry ha ha. That’s definitely the last one. So be super duper careful and slow, right?” The Angel stares at him dead on and plunges the knife straight into the box. There’s a popping sound, and everyone stares at it. “I warned you,” Techno reprimands drily.

“Ah. Sorry mate. I got…impatient.” It’s exactly as he predicted. The Angel goes to pull the knife out and it completely refuses to budge. He pulls on it with all his might and only succeeds in moving the entire present. The Angel frowns, pulling out a second knife, attempting to pry the first only for it to get equally stuck. “What on earth is this gift made out of?

“Quick dry cement. I told you to be careful…”

The Angel has lost another six knives by the time Wil finishes his stack of papers. He is decidedly laughing, accepting the jab, although ticked off. Perfect. “Thank you for the poems Tech. They’re very well written.”

Philza sighs as he gets to the glitter level, deciding to look away for a bit to restore his serenity and love for his children. “What are they about?”

“All kinds of things. Nice handwriting too. Never seen you write like this.” 

“I practiced the calligraphy for it.”

“You certainly put a lot of effort into your gifts,” the Angel tries, failing to be fully enthusiastic about the fact. 

Technoblade nods. “They’re always made with a specific person in mind. Which is why the cement was on that level and not sooner, since you tend to be patient.” 

“Oh. That’s really considerate, actually, shows how well you know me. That’s… Sweet.” Alternatively, vindictive. But the glimmer of satisfaction and crook of Technoblade’s smirk are gifts in their own right. “Feels a little targeted, though, if I’m honest, since the others have proper presents.” 

Wilbur lifts up his. “Oh no. This one’s a prank too.”

“But you said it’s nice poetry.”

“It is. It’s my poetry. He rewrote my old work and ‘improved’ it.” 

“Whaat, no, that can’t be right. Great minds think alike, that’s all, I would never read your poetry. I highly value privacy and would never invade someone’s personal information like that.” 

Philza snorts and tries to cover it up. “Now that’s– now that’s rather rude.” The twins have matching crooked smiles, though there’s a more sarcastic bite to Wilbur’s. “I can’t imagine your friends got the same treatment.”

Technoblade smirks. “Of course they did. I got a puzzle box for Skeppy. Except it’s actually for him and Halo, since Skeppy will get frustrated with the troll and Halo will get smug satisfaction from figuring it out. Skeppy’s real gift is inside, his favorite candy plus some treats for Floof and Rat. And I got Niki a lot of baking supplies, but I mixed up all the labels. Salt is sugar, cayenne pepper is cinnamon, and so on. Oh and Charlie might just try to murder me when he gets his…”

“So, really, all your presents are pranks?” That’s some relief, then, if this is just how Technoblade shows affection. Well, except for the comment about attempted homicide on his precious baby boy. If this ‘Charlie’ tries anything he’s in for a very terrible first encounter with Philza…

“Not mine!” Thomas chirps. 

“Well, you’re a baby, that’d just be mean.” Thomas is outraged at the provocation and starts trying to bap Technoblade with his crappy sword. Technoblade is impressively fast with his reaction time. Good. The fighting lessons seem to be paying off, besides the intended goal of bonding time. Plus his stamina has improved over the weeks, and the glow of achievement really does suit his features. 

And, finally, Philza gets through the last layer. Or, Technoblade says it is. Philza opens it as gingerly as humanly conceivable, expecting fireworks or ants or something. At first, he mistakes it for a feather duster, and a bedraggled one at that. Carefully he pulls out a ragged armful of black feathers, eventually holding the blob right side up to find the most bedraggled, just-lost-a-fight, barely able to fly crow he’s ever seen. Its glazed over eyes, no doubt marbles, look in two different directions. There’s patches where the feathers don’t cover where he can see wire scaffolding and newspaper. The price tag is still tied to one foot. It’s genuinely hideous. 

And Philza loves every ugly inch. “I’m going to name it Dave,” he declares, lifting it up in a facsimile of flight. It’s a gift in the sorriest, most passive-aggressive classification of the word, and Philza is going to cherish it for the rest of his life. No doubt there will be more to come, but this one might just be the most important since it’s the first Christmas with all of his children. “Any other gifts?”

The letter in Techno’s pocket feels like an anchor dragging him down. But he has to be buoyed and lighthearted if it’s to work. Techno grins. “Well, that’s it for me, though I don’t imagine it’s much compared to your plans.”

“Nonsense. Your first Christmas with us is the greatest gift of all. Now, get your coats, it’s time for mine…”

No. Oh GOD no. Techno buries his face and his hands. He can feel heat pouring into his face, warding off the cold winter chill. It’s not enough to combat the snow falling around his ears, but he still feels like he’s going to combust. “What’s wrong with you?” he whimpers. Like, the list is pretty long regarding the Angel of Death. This certainly doesn’t take the cake, but it does make him want to die, which is its own record.

The Angel beams, spreading out a sweeping gesture. “Isn’t the artistry stunning?”

Certainly, though that makes it worse. A quintet of life-sized statues now rest in the center of the garden, creating a picturesque representation of the Craft family as the Angel sees it. A stone Tommy perched on the hip of Techno’s golem, which grins at the arm the replica Wil drapes over his shoulder. A woman Techno’s only seen in photos leans into the Angel’s arms, features stunning. In fact they’re all made perfect in the statues, a loving family made of unchanging stone. Likely Techno should analyze the statue to further investigate what the ideal version of Technoblade is in his captor’s eyes. On the other hand, it’s mortifying. 

“Do you like it?”

“It’s great, Phil. I love it.” He’s been practicing it in the mirrors for days, but somehow he doubts it’s very convincing. He stares at his feet, ears red, unfortunately realizing it’s a lot harder to hide with less hair. He tries not to think about how the Angel got quality 3-D measurements for his facial features to the artist. Hopefully he just already had a face mold of Wil lying around somewhere and just adjusted it for Techno’s extremely dissimilar visage. Not like he can argue the nuance in their eye color when it’s all gray…

“I think I should’ve had abs,” Tommy critiques. 

There’s a weight resting in Techno’s pocket. He can taste the Angel’s disappointment. Carefully, Techno clasps his shoulder, squeezing. “It captures us all perfectly. It’s sweet.” Nauseatingly so, but sure. “I’m sure Kristin would’ve loved to see it.” 

It’s a risk, but the gambit pays off. The Angel gives him a warm, bittersweet smile. “She always enjoyed the gardens, just like you do now. She would’ve loved you, gemstone. All of you, you’ve grown into such fine boys.”

“No doubt thanks to you.” He catches the look Wil gives him, even if the Angel doesn’t. Awkwardly, his gaze adverts to the ground. Then, Techno frowns at where his boot scuffs the snow. He bends down, scooping up a handful of snow and crumbling it in his gloved fingers. “The texture’s weird.”

“Well obviously it’s fake,” Tommy explains. “Dad made it.”

Techno raises a brow at the Angel of Death, who shrugs. “It wouldn’t be right if it weren’t snowing. So I fixed that.”

The substance rolls well enough, even if it clumps in a little loosely. “Yeah. Of course you would. The wind and rain bow to Philza Craft.” 

“I wanted the holiday to be perfect.” Well, at least that lines up with Techno’s plans. It certainly looks nice, dusting over the gardens. He wondered if it melts, and how well you could track footprints across it. “Are you having fun so far?”

“It’s been amazing.” His captor’s wild, enthusiastic grin is almost immediately plastered with Techno’s snowball. Recovering fast, Techno scrambles for cover. His toe pokes out from behind his own statue just the slightest amount, but it gets nailed immediately. Fairly unsurprisingly, the Angel of Death is deadly accurate though clearly softening the intensity of his blow. Tommy isn’t particularly precise or good at range, but he’s almost impossible to hit and is ruthless with his new sword, much to Wil’s chagrin. Wil spends most of his effort trying to find people to hide behind, refusing to attack Techno but happy enough to dump tree branches of snow over his family.

Turns out, there’s far more than just the main family statue. Dozens of them are tucked in the gardens, warm and creepy. But at least they’re not half bad shelter to duck behind. Techno is undeterred from single-minded determination to utterly annihilate the Angel of Death. The goal is noticed quickly given he possesses no other targets aside from the general collateral of powdered shrapnel and that one time he picked up Tommy and chucked him at his own father. It feels very cathartic to deck the Angel in the face with snow. Like the sparring lessons but more…free. Feral. 

Techno tackles him full on, slamming the both of them to the ground in a flurry of white. The Angel’s completely soaked, a shocked expression frozen on his features. Techno pins him there in the snow, panting. A snowball lodged in Techno’s hair falls, smacking on his face. The wheezing gasps turned to laughter, still half sucking down crisp air. He almost can’t breathe, shaking with it. It’s a slow time till the ecstasy fades to warmth sitting in his chest. Suddenly he catches himself, as if the whole world finally filters in past the joy. He finds the Angel of Death staring up at him like he hung the moon. Sudden awareness crashes everything. He’s sitting on top of the mass murderer. This was a given victory, of course. A kingpin would never truly be so bested. It slams in fast, reality does, far colder than the Winter day could ever hope to match. 

The Angel of Death captures his hand. “Stay with me. Right here. In the present.”

There’s blood where their fingers interlace. Come on, he was doing so well ignoring everything a minute ago. Techno swallows roughly and gives the approximation of a bashful grin. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I didn’t know if you’d ever get here again. You know, laughing. I was worried.” Techno peels off of him, sitting up in a mound of false snow. Every moment of this is manufactured. He shouldn’t have believed it for a second. It’s all an act, remember? “It’s just… Good to see you healing. It’s the best present I could ask for.” He sits up, reaching, then pauses. “May I?” Techno nods, since it’s a normal thing to do. The Angel of Death wraps him in a careful hug as Techno does his best to breathe normally. “Are you still scared of us? 

“No,” he says, tucking his head in the crook of the Angel’s neck, idly wondering how long the embrace should last. The Angel is already pleased, but his thoughts turn to the letter sitting in his pocket like lead. It’s going to have to be perfect if he’s going to get what he wants. “It was more…startlement than anything. The Nether got in my head, that’s all, I realize that now. And there wasn’t any other way I would’ve escaped. Thank you for rescuing me.” 

The arms wrapped around him squeeze. “Glad to hear it, and I’m sorry there was ever a moment you felt unsafe. I just want you to be happy. If there’s anything you need, please tell me. I feel like I’ve just been trying to guess at accommodations.”

Techno untangles gently. It’s not so bad when he’s making a conscious decision to manipulate back, but the contact still reeks of control tactics. “Um. Being around you has helped a lot. I think just…talking, and contact, and people have been good for me. So I was wondering- or, hoping. Um. I miss my friends. Like, a lot. Could I see them?” The Angel of Death blinks as if it never occurred. Techno waits with bated breath, not sure if it’s asking too much. He wanted a question to test the waters, now, when his captor’s spirits are soaring. Even then, it’s a monumental ask. 

“Yes! Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t they be allowed?” At his silent stare, he’s reminded of the antagonistic role he’s in. “...ah. There will have to be some…precautions. But I’m confident earlier misunderstandings have been cleared, yes?” Nod. “I don’t intend to isolate you, though now I realize that’s what occurred. I don’t imagine that’s been good for you. Maybe we should’ve tried sooner…” 

The victory bolsters his resolve, and he doesn’t have to force the smile he gives to the Angel of Death. “Thanks, Phil.”

The boy’s smile leaves him almost breathless, though it hurts a little. He’s radiant and happy and relieved, and he shouldn’t be relieved. Shouldn’t he have known Philza would say yes? Then again maybe he had every right, as high security still is. And, a nastier thought, the uncontrolled aspect of it. Obviously, early on there might’ve been issues, though now he just doesn’t know what Technoblade thinks. But right now he’s smiling at Philza, and so he wants to believe it’ll be alright. The logistics will have to happen later, some type of talk Philza dreads. He doesn’t want to put up walls between Technoblade and his friends, so certainly particular pieces of their history likely shouldn’t be shared. Technoblade is so woeful at lying too…

Still, if his son wants it, then he’ll have it. He’d give Technoblade the world should he ask for it, never mind the fact Philza doesn’t own it yet. “Any other presents you long for?” Technoblade hesitates, an answer clearly on his tongue. “Come now, there’s really no limitations.” This Christmas has been so small in comparison to past ones, dampened by security protocol. Still, making wildest dreams come true really isn’t so hard for a Craft. Visiting friends is so small scope, Philza suspects he really doesn’t understand the world is his oyster, especially as Technoblade’s gifts tend to be hyper-specific, cheap, and with a huge personal touch. Philza finds it rather unfortunate that despite their months together there’s been very little chance to spoil Technoblade rotten, no matter how much he deserves it. 

“Um. I don’t know if you’d allow it,” his voice mumbles, the boy hiding behind his hair again. The uncertainty twisting his features tugs at his scar. His nervousness is adorable, if unnecessary. “It’s a gift. One of mine. Like, it’s for someone.” Dark eyes search him, waiting for a reaction. 

“It’s a bit late, but we could certainly do our best to deliver it today. Depends where. Is there a reason it wasn’t sent with the others…?” 

At once Technoblade digs a letter out of his pocket. He’d intended to ask, then, not more spur of the moment like the visitation request seemed to be. Even now he’s still deliberating, staring at the letter in his hands, before tentatively giving it to Philza, who offers a warm smile to soothe his nerves. It’s a careful sort of examination, scrutinizing every bit of him, worried and hesitant and hopeful all at once. 

And then, very cautiously, Technoblade stabs him in the heart. “It’s for my parents.”

Philza freezes. “Oh,” he says, in a very, very small voice. He can’t say anything else, failing to take a next breath, a next step, a next thought, because it just echoes in his head over and over. Was it not enough? Was everything he’d done the last eighteen years not enough? He knows he botched both rescues. He’s trying to make up for it every day. And yet, the people who poured scars into his child are parents, and he is just Phil. 

There’s a dreadful expression on Technoblade’s face, this instant regret and flash of fear. He wants this so badly in a way that is torturous to both of them. Technoblade snatches the gift away and takes his hands in his, pulling him out of shock. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. Sorry. It’s fine. I wasn’t—” and he clearly chokes on it “—I won’t ask again.”

“No,” Philza interrupts. “That— it's fine. It makes sense.” His son is still healing. He needs time. He only laughed for the first time today, it’ll be a while before he’s ready. But they were so close to being a family before Technoblade was kidnapped, even if Philza knows it’ll eventually happen again. He needs to heal from both his recent as well as his initial abduction. If kind, empathetic Technoblade got attached to the Nether after two weeks, the ingrained brainwashing from the goons who raised him must be deep. Warm safety and gentle love and above all time will cure him. One day, Technoblade will never think of those monsters again, the only father he claims being Philza. 

But if his son wants it, he’ll have it. Technoblade needs to learn that if he asks for help he’ll get it. Philza squeezes the hands clasped around his. “I’ll try to get it to them.”

The way he brightens like the sun, surprised but exhilarated, hurts. “Yooo, really?! Thanks, Phil! You don’t know how much this means to me.” Philza wishes that were even remotely true. 

It’s a joy that carries Technoblade through the rest of the day, no longer burdened by an anxious tension Philza hadn’t noticed till it was gone. He’s just so…vibrant. It’s wonderful and unbearable in equal measure, but he dismisses his insecurities, plastering on matching excitement. And it is a delightful holiday, his family finally reunited and basking in each other’s presence. Technoblade is nearly overwhelmed by lavish feasts and presents, and it’s such a delight how easy it is to impress him. The excitement of the holiday is almost as fresh and new as when Thomas was younger. It goes without a hitch. Perfect, really. Still. Philza can feel the overhanging storm brewing as evening comes, the letter a consistent thorn in his side. 

They’re dragged back outside once dark, trudging through the piles of fake snow to a spiraling tower. Tommy is halfway to falling off the balcony till Techno pulls him back, earning a bap with Tommy’s sword in the process. His head whips around at the whistle of the torpedoes, catching a colorful ascent. A moment of nothing before the sky explodes, Techno barely squeezing his hands over his ears and bracing before… Nothing. Slowly, he looks up to find fireworks dancing silently in the Winter sky, leaving stains of light across his vision. Thunder rings in his ears, but it’s all ghosts. Wil catches him only in the corner of his eyes, face carefully tilted as if enraptured by the stunning displays. Guilt bleeds into his tone. “We got the silent ones for you. Not a fun holiday if we trigger your PTSD, is it?” 

His…what? “Haeh?”

Wil looks incredulous. “You keep attacking random people.” Okay, like twice! And a few times while trying to escape ages ago, but those double don’t count. “Didn’t you talk about that in therapy?” Frankly, all Techno does in “therapy” is sit quietly and write. Stickbug is trying a technique called awkward silence to try and get him to talk, except Techno is a socially anxious introvert so that’s his status quo. All it does is waste the Angel of Death’s money. 

“Listen, I’ve been busy-”

“Too busy to notice the flashbacks?” Flashbacks? Seriously? It’s not like Techno hasn’t had anxiety spikes like that in the past. It’s just like how he doesn’t like being touched, if slightly more intense since it’s not just emotions but images and sounds. Calling it a flashback is extreme, and disrespectful to people who were actually abused or traumatized. The Nether was nice, if a little rough. 

Techno rolls his eyes. “Bro, lighten up it’s Christmas. We’re going to miss the fireworks.” He has to admit the show is stunning, blooming clouds of color in designs he’d never imagined, dozens going off every few seconds. It’s…nice. Just like Blaze recommended, recontextualizing the bad memories. Even if the thought of the man guts him, the least he can do is honor that advice. “It’s just the anxiety. I feel like I would’ve seen the achievement pop up if I got PTSD.” 

“And you don’t think that’s denial? Like with the coma?”

He’s annoyed, almost. He survived. Isn’t that enough? How was he supposed to have done any better? His current behavior is reasonable. Of course he is still in survival mode, he has to be. Besides, the Crafts want him to be fine. But not too fine, he’s still supposed to be mildly traumatized by the Nether, the type fixed by therapy and hugs and Christmas gifts. 

Or, the Angel seems to prefer that representation of Techno. Wil is a bit more tricky. Techno lets his features grow fragile as he watches the explosions. “...oh. I didn’t realize that’s what it…was.” 

“Sorry,” Wil says immediately. Sometimes it seems that’s all he says to Techno anymore. He’s never had much acquaintance with guilt till now. He prods at the open sore, developing a taste for the pain it brings. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that, if I hadn’t–”

“I’m…trying, Wil. I just want to move on.” 

“I can help you do that,” he whispers. “We can try to get you out.”

“Mm. I don’t want to get rescued a second time. Once was enough for me. And…you’re trying. Clearly. You’re changing. Don’t think I don’t see it.” 

He can practically hear the warring hope and guilt and relief in the man’s head as they watch the show together. “I want to be a better person,” Wil vows. “For you.” 

He rests a head against Wil’s shoulder, watching the fiery displays. Frankly he’s scarcely paying attention, more consumed with reviewing today for flaws. With Wil preoccupied with the enticing opportunity for redemption, Techno is left in peace to marvel, spirits growing. He’s done it. He’s successfully navigated the day to near perfection. He’s going to see his friends. And he’s got a letter to his parents! Techno really didn’t think he’d get that one, and he’s still coasting the success by supper time. He relaxes as much as he can, which means he only checks exits every half hour and is hyper aware of staff movement. He’s a little worried for them given how hard the Angel of Death has been pushing for perfection. 

Ever since the Angel agreed on the gift, he’s been… Odd. Cheerful, certainly, but in an almost forced way. Immensely amiable and generous, but in a fashion where it’s deliberate. Overly affectionate, even tenaciously so, but Techno tolerates it for the chance that the Angel could change his mind. A hand on his back or shoulder marks the rest of the day, possessive in a way that makes Techno uncomfortable. But it’s an understandable response, given how contrary the act is to his perceived goal. Good to know he’ll sacrifice for Techno’s happiness. That’s extremely useful to know. 

Then, again, it’s just as likely the Angel isn’t going to deliver it at all. Even if he gets a letter back, it could easily be forged. He’s trying to ignore that, since he’d really have no way of knowing either way. He’s hopeful by choice.

Dinner is boisterous and runs long, Techno finding the conversation easier than ever. They talk long into the night to the point that Tommy falls asleep at the dining table, slumped into the fine centerpiece of a one of a kind statue of onyx and gold, and an equally one of a kind art of Dave.

The Angel of Death smiles at the snoring kidnapping victim, who is mushed face first into the table, drooping. He scoops up Tommy and carries him to bed. Wil calls his servant for wine, talking about vintage or something while Techno desperately tries to hide his inadequacies as a sommelier. Pouring himself a deep glass, Wil offers him a cup of something worth more than a semester of overseas tuition. Techno declines. “Come on, I know you don’t drink, but it’s a special occasion.” 

“It’s just disgusting to me dude. I’ve never liked alcohol.” It’s an aversion he can’t push down even for the sake of winning over the Crafts. 

“It’s about the effect though. And you’ve never had good wine, I bet, this isn't fare from one of Skeppy’s parties.”

“I’m really fine.”

“…Is this because I roofied you?”

“Huh? Oh, no.” Strangely, he’s found it easier to eat around the Crafts after the Wither, even when it should’ve been the opposite. But it doesn’t match the motive. Strange that one of the Wither’s lessons might calm his anxieties. 

When the Angel returns, he grins at his son’s choice of alcohol and takes a deep draft, almost relieved. The smell makes Techno’s stomach flip, and he glances at the grand exit leading to his room wistfully. But he isn’t supposed to leave the family dinners, so he stays. Plus he needs to reward him for getting a letter to his parents. Techno’s happy. Stressed, maybe, but he’s used to that, and they want him to have a good time. They’re amiable enough, boisterous even, but Wil is a college student and the Angel seems dead set on matching him glass for glass. Techno is good at shoving down the discomfort even when despite his protest a glass is poured for him no matter that it makes the skin down his back crawl. At least they don’t try to tip it down his throat like a few rowdier guests from Skeppy’s ragers who weren’t allowed back– or that time in the Nether when they held him down underwater or force-fed him. As they grow more intoxicated, Techno withdraws from the conversation, though he knows he can’t leave.

Past Christmases are fondly reminisced upon, apparently tending to be far more extravagant in a way their current oppressive security couldn’t dare risk. But eventually he’s pulled back in from his retreat. “What were your holidays like growing up?” Regardless of the flush across his features, the Angel’s gaze is intent upon him. Wil is holding his wine a bit better because of his size, but the sheer quantity is enough to slur both’s speech. 

“Nice. I liked them a lot.” He feels scrutinized as the Angel prods him for details. Techno limits his praise, sensing it isn't pure curiosity driving interrogation. Holidays were typically warm and safe and good, the highlight of his childhood. But he doesn’t think the Angel wishes to hear that.

After cajoling out brief responses padded with platitudes a more sober captor would have found unsatisfactory, the Angel of Death pins him with an intense look. “And which families’ do you like more?”

“Yours,” he answers easily enough, as is expected of him. “Yours is more… More.” A shoddy explanation, but the Angel is far too gone to notice. He isn’t angry, not yet. Knowing how few morals the man possesses, Techno is getting worried. Would a guard step between…? Probably not. 

No. He shoves a thought away. The Crafts won’t hurt him. It’s not a promise that’s ever saved him before that, though. Techno pointedly ignores the unease. All he has to do is sit there and wait and try not to think about the fact he’s handed the Angel of Death an excuse to be mad at him on a silver platter with that letter. Honestly, rookie mistake. He’s asking for it at this point. Techno can’t stop twitching, praying he’ll be dismissed soon. As long as he’s good, he should be okay. He’s done this song and dance more times and he can count.

He’s alright. He’s perfectly fine counting the number of candles in the room. He’s gotten a pile of Cheez-Its to pick at while he tries to figure out if the plate he’s eating on is authentic gold. Totally fine and normal and not frequently checking the exits and bouncing his leg so fast he’s worried about leaving holes in the ground. Again. But it’s alright because he isn’t doing that because that would be weird. Nope. This is the actions of someone who is totally normal and chill and handling a common adult celebration ritual. Oh boy is he ignoring the fact his throat is closing up, his stomach twisting.

When he blinks and is startled to find it's the Crafts he's sitting with, Techno knows he needs to go. Panic is rising up fast, and though it frightens every instinct ingrained in him he has to leave. He can’t manage to ask, his words impossible to reach in a way that’s frustrating. Hopefully they’re too intoxicated to notice. Techno slips through the mansion halls, trying not to get lost. 

But soon he hears footsteps falling after. He’s being followed, guards flitting in the corner of his eyes and he shoves the spiking fear down, just shove it down, you’re alright Techno. “Technoblade~!” The Angel of Death calls. “Where are you gooing?'' You know you’re not allowed to leave. He should’ve stayed. He could’ve toughed it out a little bit longer, but he’s going to pay the price now. He can’t just leave like that. He can’t, but he did, and now he is after him, calling, expectant, threatening, run. Techno tears down the hall, everything blurring, and he doesn’t quite recognize where he is though his feet carry him in familiar flight. “Technoblade! Wait, stop running—” he can’t, and it’s only further disobedience, but he’s already screwed. He tears away. There’s people closing in, Dad’s getting closer, safe, he needs to get safe, he needs to go to his room if only he could find it—

There’s (a pair of) footsteps stomping towards him. He slams the bedroom door shut behind him, back pressed to it as he breathes heavily. It’s little respite, they know exactly where he is, he couldn’t lock the door even if he wanted to since they’d just break their way in and revoke his door privileges again. Hide, boy, it won’t save you. Still, he’s scrambling for shelter, something about his room is wrong, but there’s no time to realize what. Techno jolts away from the door, head whipping frantically for deliverance. Christmas is supposed to be safe but he supposes this year is finally the exception. 

There’s knocking, knocking, pounding at the door. He can smell the alcohol from here. “Teeechnoooo!” Boy! “Why’d you leave early? Do you not like us?” Do you think you’re too good for us!?

“I’m not feeling well,” he tries. It comes out strangled, panicked. There’s a response, probably, but he can’t process it. The door knob is turning and terror is spiking and before Techno registers what he’s doing he’s diving under the bed for safety. 

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t fit. It is too small for adults to wedge under. That had always been the entire point throughout his entire life. It’s stupid, and irrational, and now he’s trapped at his parents’ mercy. The door bursts open and Techno desperately tries to scramble beneath, shoving past the pain. Finally he wedges an arm under, scoring some wiggle room, but it’s far too late and he still can’t move. Techno slaps the hand over his mouth, clamping down on his heavy breathing and the pitiful noises worming out of his throat as they creep through the room, calling for him. 

Feet pad over as he’s found. A thump as knees drop, Techno scrambles to fit under, he’s exposed and caught in his own trap, he needs to escape before— 

Techno nearly screams as a face pops under next to him. But it’s only Phil. The tangle of fear unravels at the incongruity. Just Phil, with a dopey smile on his flushed features. For every ounce of fear the Angel has placed into his heart, Techno still believes he’ll never hurt him.

Techno takes a deep breath to calm himself. It’s never been that bad before. It’s still not great now, but he’s dealt with the recoiling dread and twinging scars for his whole life. Preferably he’d call it a panic attack, but he knows that isn’t true. It’s vivid, that’s the thing, he could so clearly hear them, just like he could the Wither’s advice. Another ghost to haunt his skull. He’s not sure he can deny it anymore. Wilbur was right, his head is even more screwy than he thought. Ugh. He does not need his own brain making all of this even harder at the moment. 

Phil beams at him. “Helllloo mate. Sorry for spooking you. Whatcha under there for?”

“Hullo. I’m. …stuck.”

“Bruh. That’s the thing you say, right? Bruh. Bruuuh.” He snickers as he tries to mimic Techno’s inflection. “Can you get out?”

“No. I’m stuck stuck. Ow.” 

“Why didja go under in the first place?”

“Well I was admiring the carpet and things got out of hand,” he sighs. It was so nearly a really nice day, too. Then his brain had to ruin it. He hopes this doesn’t sabotage his efforts. The Angel certainly doesn’t want a son who leaves dinner early, who hides under the bed to escape him. No one does.

Phil nods. “I understand. It’s a very cute rug.” He wiggles up next to Techno, sticking his head beneath the bed as well. “Aww. Are those crayon drawings?” Techno glances at the scribbly doodles, little dragons and swords and pigs and bunnies. There’s marked improvement in style through the various stages of his life he’s spent under here. The Angel hiccups. “You’re such a wonderfuul artist. We should hang this up in the Louvre.” 

“I was like, five, Phil.” And six, and seven, and so on. By sixteen he couldn’t fit anymore, but it got better by then. 

“A real prodigy! You’re so talented, gemstone. I’m the luckiest dad in the world.” 

He beams at Techno, who pushes his face away. Phil’s breath is rank with alcohol in a way that makes his chest feel tight even if he can feel the grin pressed into his palm. “You smell. Get out from under my bed.”

The Angel leans into the touch like a cat. “Don’t monsters belong under the bed? Rawr.” Something regretful and aching flickers in his gaze from where it peeks between Techno’s fingers. “Isn’t that what you think I am?”

“No. This is where I hide, too.” 

“What from?”

“Whoever’s it. I was never good at hide and seek.” They always knew exactly where he was, could wait him out if they really wanted to. The bed had never been true safety. Neither was the cabinet, since explosions found Squidkid even if the Syndicate did not. Even now he can’t think of a hiding place safe from the Angel of Death. 

Pil boops his nose, grinning warmly. “Found you! Took eighteen years but I have you now.” 

“Game over,” Techno sighs as hot exhales laden with liquor wash over him. “Can you help me out? I’m still stuck.” 

Phil wriggles out and attempts to pick up the bed frame. “Here let me— oh that’s very heavy. I don’t think I can lift that. I’ll fetch help.”

“It’ll take more than two people.” He’s beet red by the time enough staff are wrangled up to allow him to wiggle back out. Gratitudes are mumbled into his palms. 

Phil pats his shoulder. “Everyone has done stupid things. We’re only human.” Techno perches on the very corner of the bed. His leg won’t stop bouncing, his fingers fidgeting. Everything inside him is telling him to run. He doesn’t, though. He’s safe. Techno knows that. Still. Hard to argue with hard wired instinct. Phil flumphs into the mattress. “I think we need to test you for anxiety.”

“You gave me anxiety.” He thinks his brief semester in college might have been the one time in his entire life that he was relaxed and laid back. If only he could go back to the carefree days of taking twice as many classes as any sane human would, writing dozens of essays every week, and pushing out yet another novel. His life was so stress free. 

“That’s how inheritance works. I’m paranoid too, but I guess I can’t complain since it’s kept me alive. I imagine it might’ve helped you too, unfortunately…Does it make you more calm?”

“Huh?”

He waves his hands at the decorations. “The room. Having your stuff. I wanted it to be familiar, so you’d be comfortable.”

Oh. He supposes that would be the sort of logic Phil would act on. Techno had chalked it up to a power play and moved on. “I thought it was creepy.” A jolt of worry, but he thinks Phil is at the point where he won’t remember anything in the morning. Good, he doesn’t need to know how Techno ruined the perfect Christmas. If he’s lucky his parents will get their letter. If he’s not…

Phil groans. “Oh noo. Really? I’m sorry. I didn’t know yet it had bad memories for you when I did it. I should’ve thought about it afterward. I just wanted it to feel like home." That's…kinda sweet, actually. 

“Hm. No, I thought it was creepy because it meant you broke into my house.” For the first time, he wonders what his parents think about the fact Phil stole all his stuff. He hopes they were financially compensated. If they’re still out there. They have to be, right? Would the Angel have said something about murdering them? He would’ve definitely brought it up when Techno asked about the letter, right? 

“The door wasn’t locked,” Phil defends. “It’s not breakin and enterin then…I think. No one was there to stop us.” Techno thinks that’s the most amount of assurance he’s ever going to get about his parents. It’s…not nothing. “I’ll burn it all. Don’t worry luv, I’ll get rid of it.” 

“Please don’t.” He doesn’t think it helped with the…yah, that was probably a flashback. At the same time, it’s the one place that feels real. Everywhere else is too manufactured. Only here are there scratches on the furniture. Only here are there little fading stickers on the bed poles. Wonky posters on the walls from his Percy Jackson phase that had come with the books set Dad bought. Stupid worthless nicknacks from walks through their shabby neighborhood. Crayon drawings on the bottom of the bed from when he hid. The desk is a little too cramped for an adult and he likes it that way. It reminds him that he’s grown and changed. 

It’s grounding, almost. The one refuge that reminds him of the world before the Craft’s, both weal and woe. “Yeah. I think it is comforting. Thanks, Phil.” He just wants to get home. Home, to where he only has to worry about himself getting hurt and not anyone else. Sure maybe— alright he’ll admit it after that last episode. Maybe his home isn’t great? But it’s infinitely worse here, it has to be. He chose to stay home for years, and he’s here against his will. Techno refuses to be here, so he must want to be there. It’s not that complicated.

“Do you feel like you’re home yet?”

“Yes,” he sighs. It’s true, even, in all the worst ways. 

But the Angel beams lopsidedly and cups his face, dragging him close till their foreheads rest against one another. “Good,” he breathes, the scent of booze overpowering. Dread washes over him. “I know you aren’t happy.”

“I am,” he manages. Worry turns his stomach. He’s been doing his best to appear so. It’s harder in the aftershocks of a flashback, but that’s no excuse. He needs to convince the Angel if he is to survive.

“You aren’t. You try to be, but I see it. In the moments when you think noo one’s looking.”

Techno freezes. He forgot to act for the cameras. Oh God. “It’s better around people,” he tries. 

He pulls away, finally looking at him seriously. “Good. That’s good. Tell me that next time. You have to tell me, because I’m tryin to help you and all I can do is guess, and… and I know I’m not perfect, love, but I’m trying. What am I doing wrong, Technoblade?” It’s the most vulnerable he’s ever seen Phil.

“What do you mean?”

“You love them more than me.” Oh. Techno’s messed up. He thought the Angel was handling it decently, but apparently he’d taken a hit to his self-confidence and bottled it up. Well, it’s all uncorked now. Ugh. He doesn’t want to deal with his drunk captor’s insecurities, but he has to be careful here if the letter is to get delivered. No, more than that, if he makes Phil think it’s hopeless in the state he might not have the inhibitions or patience to keep Techno anymore. For all the woeful expression he wears, the Angel of Death is even more dangerous than ever in the state.

“What makes you that?” he inquires cautiously. 

“They are given an actual present,” he mutters jealousy.

“You read my letter?”

“No,” he insists, seemingly worried. “Not yet.” Well, great. But he knew it would be monitored, and got through the headache of writing for both his parents and Phil. Oh what he might’ve said had there been no surveillance, but Techno knows he’ll never have privacy again. Forever to watch his every word. It would be exhausting if he weren’t so used to it. “But it’s been months, and you still talk about them so fondly, even after they abused you so horr’bly. You’re so amazing. Don’ deserve that. I’d’ve given you the world and they wasted eighteen years hurting you. I don’t get it. How could anyone ever want to?” According to the Angel, everyone for the chance of revenge against the Syndicate. “And yet you love them. Why?”

“Why do you love me?” he shoots back. 

Philza gets the most goopy smile on his features. “You’re just so adorable and funny and determined and clever…”

“That’s just personality traits. What did I do to earn it?” He hopes the Angel isn’t cognitive enough to remember he grilled him for motivation in the morning, but sue Techno for wanting to know what’s really keeping him alive at the moment.

But Phil’s brows furrow. “Earn…? You’re my son. I love you! Undeterred by all. I love you I love you I love–”

“Yeah, I’m aware. Why?” 

The Angel is confused. “Because. I do?” His head drops to the side, examining him. “Do you think love is earned?” he almost accuses.

Techno frowns. “It is. Isn’t that what you’re trying to do right now?” All the extravagant gifts, and wonderful times together, and exclamations of affection, and warm touches. That’s what it all adds up to, isn’t it? Phil is trying to manipulate him into loving him after he destroyed their relationship. Classic apology cycle; it’s not that hard to figure out, really. And sure he understands the delusion he acts under, but Techno wants to know why. 

“I’m not tryin to earn your affection. I want you to be happy.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you?” 

“Yeah, but why?”

“You’re my son.” It’s starting to frustrate both of them. Techno can’t decide if even this wasted he’s managed to hide his true motives, or if they’re really so simple. But there has to be something more. This is the Angel of Death, ruler of the Syndicate, slayer of the Wither. He has to want something from Techno. A good boy, or a successor, or entertainment, or something to fawn over. Techno desperately needs to know if he’s going to exploit it. “Does that mean your parents have done somethin to earn your love? Despite everythin else they’ve done?” Techno shrugs, not knowing what the safe answer is. The Angel grows upset. “I should’ve never lost you. You shouldn’t’ve grown up fearing you had to work for affection. I’m sorry they convinced you of that, sorry you grew up chasin after the love of people who hated you.” Techno bristles. His parents loved him. He made sure of it. Phil doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “I jus want you to be happy, but I don’t knoow how to give that to you.”

“Some things you can’t give to someone. They have to find it for themselves.”

The Angel of Death cups his face, thumbs smearing an underscore beneath his scar. “I could’ve, though. I could give you everyythin but you won’ let me.”

Techno carefully pulls his hand away, hoping the memories will be too blurry to notice. He’s exhausted and just wants to go to bed and pretend no one is watching him sleep. Clearly he’s not getting answers tonight. “Phil, please go. I’m tired.” 

“Tired? Oh I can help.” Techno is suddenly jerked to the side, his head cradled in the Angel’s arms. He is rocked from side to side, a low lullaby rumbling in Phil’s chest. “There, there everything is safe love…”

Techno scowls. Fingers tangle in where they stroke his hair, pulling painfully when he tries to escape as they have so many times before. But he measures the mounting frustration and stress in his voice. “It’s 2 am, Phil. Get out of my room so I can sleep.” Warm circles rub across his back in faux soothing massages, but it only compounds his distress as his scars are inadvertently traced. It’s worse than usual, dread swirling up in his gut, already summoned from the earlier memories haunting him. 

“I won’t let you out of my sight. You’ll get kidnapped again. And scared an hurt an scared an— no. Nope! You stay right here.” Fingers dig into old wounds possessively, and the old panic makes a resurgence.

And then he realizes it’s no accident. How does he know? How the hell does he know where each scar is? Even wasted as he is, even through the scarce handful of times he’s seen them in person, Phil has memorized every single mark. He draws lines across the fabric of his shirt, precisely mimicking the crescents of pain, and the shudder Techno has been suppressing for weeks wracks him. 

His worry spikes immediately at the flaw in his act. But Phil already implied he sees through it, and he seems to know every inch of Techno anyway, even the parts he tries so hard to hide. He doesn’t know if Phil studied a photo from a camera Techno didn’t know to hide from, if he broke in while Techno was sleeping. Perhaps it was in that coma they won’t shut up about, pretending to care for the minor blisters Blaze left across his shoulders, that the Angel imprinted every detail when Techno hadn’t a chance of stopping him. He just feels so gross and violated.

“You’re never getting away from me again, Alexander,” he mutters roughly into the tangle of his hair. 

So that’s it, then. That’s what Techno is supposed to be. Everything. Every possible future Phil constructed, every expectation laid on his shoulders. All at the same time. Meek damsel and vengeful victim and perfect and broken and fixed and– and it’s impossible, and eventually the Angel will realize that. And then Techno will have no use. His survival depends solely on the continued delusion of a madman. 

Techno finally breaks out of the hold, standing up sharply, breathing a little too fast. The relief of it only being Phil is long spent. Techno wraps his arms around himself tight, fingers burying claws into his sides. At least it holds him together. “Leave,” he chokes, finding no possible way to blunt it. Isn’t it already too late? 

The Angel starts to tear up. “You hate me,” Phil mumbles. “I know you do.” 

“No,” he replies quickly, fearfully. “No, I don’t. I can’t hate you, you saved me.” Techno takes his hand, pulling Phil to his feet. The man sways and leans forward as if to fall into an embrace. A step back, and Techno is dragging Phil out, offering plenty of assurances that don’t seem to be effective. The grip on his hand is painful. It takes coaxing, but eventually Techno slams the door shut, safely isolated. 

Techno tries to sleep, bile creeping up his throat from memories and anxieties, back still crawling with the possessive fingers carving lines across old pain. He’s never seen Phil this low before. Techno might not survive the night, not if an inebriated Phil acts on his epiphany. He senses on some level Techno’s loathing, no matter how hard Techno tried to be perfect today. Only a bad son hates his parents, and Phil certainly isn’t going to keep one of those. What worth does Techno have at the moment? If the Angel was even a degree more coherent it might have been over. And what if he wakes in the morning and remembers the way Techno shuddered? Still believes Techno hates him? He’s going to need to be a perfect son if he’s to survive. His best wasn’t good enough. 

Philza clutches a bottle in hand, a crumpled letter in the other. He swaggers down the hall –okay, more like staggers. He feels like a wreck right now, mostly because he is. Philza tried so hard to be cheerful for dinner, which was difficult when it felt like everything he’s done in the last 18 years is pointless. How the hell are they better than him? How are these monsters loved and yet he isn’t? He’s memorized every single mark left in that boy’s skin, they should be loathed, but the brain washing runs deep and he doesn’t know how to fix it. 

All he wants in the world is for his family to be real, and for 18 years the Piglins ruined that. Even now their vile touch still burns his child’s flesh, throttles around his throat, around his precious mind. Philza shouldn’t have to earn his son's love. The thought is so wrong on so many levels, like a commodity, like it’s something to be taken or exploited.

He’ll do it though. Whatever it takes to get his family back, just like he swore years ago. But first, to deliver on his promise. Philza hasn’t visited in a while, preoccupied by the happiness of preparing for Christmas. Now that the Nether is defeated, why should he care? 

But after today, he needs to relieve stress. The long walk to the depths of the manor doesn’t help, giving time for his insecurities to grow. His thoughts are black by the time he reaches the dungeon. For courage, he takes a long swig of the bottle clutched in his hand, then slams open the door.

“Merry Christmas, pigs,” Philza snarls. The ugly lumps of mutilated creatures chained to the wall shrink back at his approaching footsteps, ringing sharply. One of Alexander’s kidnappers is crying, but frankly Philza can’t tell them apart anymore. Hatred curls in his heart at the sight of the monsters that destroyed his child. Philza lifts up the letter. “He got you guys a present. Isn’ that sweet? He’s so sweet. You didn’t deseerve him,” he sneers. The Piglins say nothing, which is likely good for their life expectancy. Not that he’d prefer to kill him, but mistakes happen. At least he’d have a spare just in case something went wrong. No doubt it’s illegal to torture while under the influence for a reason. Philza’s never done something like this in this state, but then again, finding out his son prefers his abusers to him was a devastating emotional blow. He promised, though. He promised. 

“Listen up.” He kicks one in the ribs to make them pay attention, and then the second time because it feels nice. Philza fumbles with the envelope, before pulling out the letter. He stumbles on the beginning. “Dear… Dear mom and dad…”

Hey. It’s been a bit ha ha. Man, I got busy. Published again too, it did really well! You can read it if you want. No pressure lol. He hates that underlying implication, that the Piglins wouldn’t even deign to notice the work of their supposed son. Technoblade forever caught, trying to appease the criminals ordered to raise him, trying to convince himself it is possible to earn the love of people who only ever would see him as a hostage. Trying to play off his crowning achievement as something for them to optionally notice. 

Technoblade apologizes for not visiting, hiding the truth with a crack about the price of airfare. Philza supposes it’s convincing given jet fuel prices might be outside the range of a typical college student. There’s not a single mention of finding his true family, instead chatting about making friends and aceing courses, painting a picture of a normal, successful semester that he clearly wanted and never got. Philza has no way of giving it to him, the risk is astronomical, but he refused private tutors. He rejects grandiosity, fighting for that plan he drafted in his head before he knew the truth. His scope is so limited, refusing ample opportunity out of stubbornness. Philza can’t understand why he’d hold on to poverty, to a broken home, to being a fraction of his potential. But he does. All Technoblade wants in the world is the monsters before him.

It’s alright, Philza understands what’s best for a son. Alexander just doesn’t know what’s good for him, but luckily his father will keep him away from danger. 

He has to stop several times while reading. It’s hard, seeing the light affection withheld from Philza given freely to the Piglins. It all feels useless, these past 18 years, building empires in the name of a boy that doesn’t even love him. That’s alright, really, he tries to assure himself. A parent’s love should be unending, not conditional as the Piglins have so clearly made it. It’s a love inherently sacrificial, impossible to ever repay. He isn’t doing this for the hopes that Technoblade will love him, no matter how hard that makes it. 

It wasn’t love when the Piglins beat Technoblade before he was even old enough to go to school. Philza’s nightmares are filled with images from when Wilbur was still so small, screaming as he is whipped by one of them. It wasn’t love when they taught his son he had to prove he wasn’t worthless every single day of his life, until it invaded his every thought and drove his every single action.

But Technoblade adores them. Not Philza, who has treated him only with kindness, gave him the world, protected him from villains. He is only tolerated at best. How is it that Technoblade is scared of the man who saved him and not the people who beat him half to death on multiple occasions? Vile parasites still twisting through the child’s thoughts, ruinous weeds he’ll have to tear out with his bare hands. One day Technoblade will be free of them, will thank Philza for everything he’s done.

His throat goes tight, choking as he gets through the last of it. Technoblade, apologizing for not returning over the summer for a job opportunity. Apologizing, why is he always apologizing to the vermin? But Philza works his way through, even as he stumbles and slurs the words, even as everything is blurry.

Miss you lots, though I might be too busy to write in the future. Just know I’ll manage just fine no matter what happens. Love, Techno

Love. What does Alexander even know about love? What he wouldn’t give to hear his son tell him that just once. It would make it all worth it. Philza glares at the Piglins that have so thoroughly poisoned every moment of both of their lives. For all his boiling, fiery hatred, he fails to pin them with his virulence. The fury spills over, burning his eyes as he begins to sob. It’s an ugly thing, harsh, keening notes ripping out of his throat. If it weren’t for them, his family would be whole and happy.

Eventually, the misery is overtaken by loathing. Philza crumples the letter in his hand and throws it at one. It’s theirs, anyway, not that it would serve them any good with their hands shackled to the walls. Philza roughly wipes his face of tears, irked that they’d see him like this. He tips the last of the wine down his throat, then smashes the bottle into the wall, pleased with the way the Piglins flinch. The glass scatters in satisfying ways, though by no means does it satiate his fury.

Philza stares at the jagged end of the bottle top still clutched in his fist. As good a weapon as any, though certainly more refined instruments line the walls for his personal use. Philza stalks to loom over to pair, swaying as he grips the neck of the wine bottle, disgust burning his eyes. The pigs shrink before the Angel of Death.

Well. Time to begin. 

Chapter Text

“Did I do something wrong?” Philza asks. 

Philza knew it was going to be a bad day when he woke up with the most awful hangover, memories a blur of tears and blood. And knowing his general emotional wreck status if not the contents of their conversation, Philza obviously tries to apologize about anything he said that made his son feel uncomfortable. Which obviously he had, given the way he sits rod straight at breakfast, trying way too hard to act like everything’s normal. Technoblade shifts uncomfortably. “Why are you asking?”

“Last night I was utterly plastered. Whatever it was that upset you, I apologize.” Philza massages his temples. “I don’t normally do this at holidays. Or…ever. I’ve actually never done something like this, so sorry, love.” 

Technoblade gives him a tight smile. “Last night? Oh. No, you mostly just cuddled. Said some sappy stuff, but that’s about it.” Relief filters into Philza. As reserved as Technoblade is, he supposes the unfiltered affection he holds for the boy might be too potent. And as breakfast continues he loosens, though it’s hard to gauge the ease of the conversation given half the family is suffering from hangovers that are not handling a sugar high post-Christmas Tommy. He supposes Technoblade’s answer makes enough sense. 

So why does he never lose that secret terror in his eyes?

As he punches in the wrong code, the blaring alarms feel like knives through his brain. He suddenly feels a little guilty for all those people he dispatched that way because wow is it awful! Philza wants to cry as he has to call up his security and insist that yes everything is fine, no I’m not a hostage being told to say that, etc etc. It takes five different ciphers before they accept that he actually just messed up. The thick reinforced plating that slammed over the doors and windows let up. The klaxons do not. 

Sam sprints into his room to find Philza’s head buried beneath a pillow, shouting profanities that don’t drown out the alarm. He grouchily runs through more questions until Sam accepts the only threat is a hangover. Blissful silence returns as the alarms shut off. “Why did we make the password 43 digits again?” Philza complains. 

“Security, sir. Would you prefer that I..?”

“You’re a godsend.” Sam punches the correct code and the secret passage behind the library slides open. Of course, that’s only a decoy that leads to a nice interrogation cell, and after activating a series of pressure plates in a specific order and ducking to avoid the swinging axe blade, Philza enters the security tape archives. Gotta protect that incriminating evidence, after all. But a quick check of his phone finds his son very displeased with him. 

Wilbur C: I’m goingto blow up your side of hte mansion

Oh dear, this definitely wasn’t kind on his hangover either. Philza winces and texts him back. Sorry about your head, songbird. Are you alright?

Wilbur C: Besides splitting pain? Fine but Tech and Tom are stuck in the chinmy now lmfao. Erm. Alright, then. He might have some apologizing to do later. No, strike that, he thinks as his heart sinks while watching the security footage. Philza is definitely going to need to apologize. He knows it’s going to be bad by the way Technoblade withdrew from dinner, uncomfortable and awkward and unnoticed. But it’s when Technoblade starts running that Philza suspects how much of a disaster the night was. And then of course the tipsy Philza trailing after the terrified child, not noticing anything off about him at all. But the Phil of now can, pausing and zooming in on the frantic features, carefully examining wide dilated eyes. Details burrow into him, digging beneath his skin and tunneling into where his stomach ties in knots.

The way he flinches with every knock at the door. 

The way he struggles to hide. 

The way he shudders in Philza’s arms. 

As the cherry on top, a train wreck of a conversation unfolds before him. It almost approaches bubbly periodically, save that pure tension hemorrhaging from Technoblade the entire time. What does he mean love is earned? What is wrong with him, and how can Philza ever hope to fix it? 

His words don’t line up with his actions though, no matter how he tries to assure the drunk Philza. It’s how the moment Philza is shoved out the door he slumps against it, trembling. It’s how bathed in the glow of infrared he curls into a tight ball in the center of his bed and doesn’t relax for the rest of the night. 

Awful, sickly heat curls in Philza’s stomach like embers. Only barely can he remember to breathe, as if scared of fanning the flames. Maybe Wilbur was right. Technoblade is terrified of him. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Techno asks. 

Pain sits in Techno’s chest, refusing to release for days. Barely contained panic keeps spiking, which is not helping with his brand new role of trying to be everything all at once. It grows worse at the moments when it falls apart, swallowing him when he needs to be calm and friendly and normal and deal with the problem. That awful pressure tightening like a vice until he can’t speak no matter how badly he needs to fix this. 

He’s holding Phil’s hand so he can’t slip away. He stares at it because he can’t look the man in the eyes right now and still stay on script. Hold on tight, let worry bleed through but not too much, sad but not scared. Hold on tighter, because Phil is trying to pull away, which terrifies Techno because if he does, if he stops loving Technoblade, he’s doomed. 

“Whatever it is, I can fix it. I’ll do better. Just tell me what it is.” It’s far quieter than he planned it to be, coming out mumbled and indistinct. 

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t touch me anymore.” He can deal with most of it, the brittle smiles and avoiding, but it’s that detail that’s the nail in the coffin. The proof he isn’t seen as worth manipulating anymore. He’s on borrowed time. 

“I’m trying to respect your boundaries. I saw how much you hated it at Christmas. I just…don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Techno blinks as the world crashes down around him. But he keeps carefully blank even as he knows he knows he knowsh eknowsheknows pounds in his ears. “You…remember?”

“Yes, Technoblade, I know how much you despise me.” 

“What?” It comes out so, so small. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’ve possibly done that is so abhorrent to you. But you were terrified that night and I don’t want to make you feel that way ever again.” 

“That wasn’t you.” His laugh is half air, but it’s some flavor of real as relief settles once he realizes the perfect cover-up. “No, Phil, you got it all wrong. It’s ‘cause I don’t like drunk people.” He runs a hair through his too-short, not-short-enough hair. He can’t tell if he’s screwed or saved. “You smelled awful that night, ha. Nothing against you at all.” 

The Angel gives him a look both pitying and dismissing. “You don’t have to lie to me, we both know you’re awful at it anyway. Flinching is not the proportionate reaction to not liking a smell. I know something bigger is wrong, you tried to hide from me.”

“Not from you.” He pauses, but needs to use every tool in his arsenal. Techno knows exactly what brought Phil to the edge like that and can’t risk it ever again. He buries both his guilt and his love before they can drag him down with them. He’s done it before, of course, to mentally divide everything till only the villainized version remains in his head. It worked on the Nether, why not this captor too? Mom and Dad will forgive him for this. Hopefully. “I didn’t– this’ll sound weird. But I didn’t quite know it was you? I just got…panicked.” His arms wrap around himself, bracing, conjuring up the image of the victim Phil’s instincts are so desperate to violently protect. He forces his eyes to drop to the ground no matter how badly he wants to check if it’s working. “I wasn’t thinking straight, thought it was— was my parents at the door. They’d always visit when they were drunk.” 

It takes a second to click, and then Phil makes a small horrified noise. “Oh god, Technoblade, I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know.” An embrace slips around him but almost as quickly jerks back, still consumed with that worrisome hesitance. Not enough to destroy it then, he’ll have to go further. Techno chases after the broken contact, pressing in till Phil takes him in his arms once more. Good, it’s working. “I would’ve stopped. I never would’ve had I known– Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

His hug tightens. “I’m supposed to. It’s my job to worry about you. I’m meant to protect you, not force you to relive the worst experiences of your life.” Like he doesn’t already do so every day. “You know I’d never hit you, right?” It comes out so desperate. 

“I know. I do, it’s just.” He taps his chest, frustrated. “Not everyone has the memo. If it helps, when I was, uh, hiding,” he goes pinkish, “the moment I realized I was you I relaxed.” Philza rechecks that moment later. Many times, even, confirming it for his anxieties. The facial features were obscured by the bed (he needs to bug the underside immediately) but the struggling slumped the moment Philza popped his head underneath. He felt safe in the moments of clarity, and it’s the one salvation Philza finds for the unintentional trauma he unearthed that night. 

“I swear you will always be safe here. I’m not like them, alright?” Technoblade nods. “I know the conversation was a mess and neither of us really had a grip on what was actually happening, but there was this one question you didn’t answer. Why do you love your parents?”

Techno draws away at once before he can stop himself. “I don’t want to have this conversation with sober you any more than I did drunk you.” He softens, remembering his goal. “It’s complicated, okay? I know it’s messed up, but I just…that letter was a mistake. I realized it that night, when I was hiding like I always do. I keep– this’ll sound stupid. I keep trying to fix things between us.”

“A relationship takes more than one person, Technoblade. No matter how hard you try, if they don’t also it can’t work.” What a hypocrite.  

“But they can change. That’s the thing, they did, over and over, they’d get better, and it would be so, so nice…for a while. I’d mess something up, or they’d come home, you know, drunk, and it would fall apart. But if I could just find a way to make it permanent…it’s stupid. I know it is, I should be smarter than this. If I was just a little more clever I’d know how to break the apology cycle at the good part.” He gives Philza the most helpless expression. “Is it really complicated? Or am I just forcing it to be?”

“Dealing with abuse is complicated.” Something dark and angry flickers across Technoblade’s expression, but just as quickly it’s gone, replaced with a weary sigh. 

“I just wanted us to be a family.” Philza’s attention perks at the past tense. 

“Sometimes a family just isn’t going to work. You have to make a new one.”

“Make a new one…” he echoes, something odd on his features. “But you’d never abandon your family.”

He says it with such conviction that Philza smiles. “I discarded my father. And you know what happened? I became a whole new person, undefined by him. I could never have dreamed of becoming a tenth of the man I am today if I was still shackled by him. They don’t support you Technoblade, only bog you down with trying to win over people who will never truly and fully love you. No one that could scar you so deeply, that could haunt your mind like this should be in your life. I know how hard it is, but trust me when I say the only way to heal is to be free.”

“You’re right. I know you are it’s just…hard. I don’t think I can do it.”

“Not by yourself, no. But you aren’t and will never again be alone. I swore it to you the moment you were stolen and I’ll swear it to you now: I will save you from them. It’ll be hard, and complicated, and I’m sure even admitting it has been painful. I am so, so proud of you for recognizing you need help.” Guilt stabs him for mistaking the signs and retreating from his son when he was hurting. But they’re on the same page now, and for once Technoblade is actually seeing the problem. Philza isn’t going to abandon him again.  

“I think…no, I know I wouldn’t have ever done this without you. Forcing me to see what a real family is like meant I couldn’t keep lying to myself.” Philza’s breath hitches, then all at once rushes out in a sunken into smile, melting into pure pitying relief. “I want to be good enough for this family, so…please. Just tell me, I need to know. What do you want from me?”

“Nothing. That’s not how this is supposed to work, Technoblade. I’m your father. I ask nothing at all from you.” But he only seems to grow more distressed. He’d been so desperate at Christmas to find some reason as to why he is loved, like he couldn't believe it. Philza doesn’t know how to fix that if apparently all his affection is regarded with suspicion, like Technoblade is permanently stuck waiting for the day he messes up and is punished, for the day Philza comes home drunk. “You deserve to feel safe and loved simply for existing. You don’t have to earn my love, you’ve had it from the very start. Is that really so hard to believe?”

“It feels like a dream, sometimes. Like it’s too easy and I’m going to wake up any moment now. I’d do anything to earn this.”

“What do you think you’d have to give to deserve us?”

“For you? The world, Phil,” Techno lies easily. 

“Behave,” Technoblade orders crossly for the millionth time, much to Philza’s amusement. Things have been so much easier the last two weeks, the hesitancy quickly forgotten. There’s hiccups, of course, recovery was never going to be smooth. But there’s a peace of mind knowing Technoblade wants this just as badly as he does. Now if only he could find a way to rebuild his shattered self worth. Maybe Technoblade never had any to begin with, always chasing the validation of his abusers for any semblance of value. Any attempts on Philza’s end to point out how wonderful and accomplished he is are met mostly in uncomfortable retreats. 

Hopefully having another independent source agree in his value will help. Perhaps that’s a lot of weight to put on this Skeppy kid’s shoulders, but Philza is just praying this visit goes well, despite Technoblade’s certainty of his sabotage. Just ignore the millions poured into security to guarentee no one dares interrupt the tranquility of the Technoblade apartment, hm? Philza is going to ensure this is perfect. “I’ll have you know I’m a gracious host. I imagine my manners are far greater than yours.” 

Technoblade shoves him away to get closer to the front door. His eagerness causes Philza to grin. “I’ve yet to see it. No threatening to kill him. This is my best friend, Phil.” 

“I’m sure I’ll love this Skeppy of yours.” 

Technoblade frowns suspiciously. “And don’t decide to keep him either. Skeppy is a free-range friend.” 

“Why would I?” A deadpan stare meets the innocent inquiry. “That’s different! You were already mine to begin with. And I can assure you your friend possesses infinitely less charm and wit than you.” 

“Hey! 1, don’t diss my pal. 2, you stalked my friends too?”

“He was thoroughly investigated for safety reasons to ensure this visitation is safe.” And before then as well, but his son doesn’t need to know based off his reaction. Extreme security was poured over every barest passing person in his social, professional, and academic life, though extracting attention was reserved for someone as close as the Skepppy boy. He was deemed to be mischievous but not malicious. Admittedly vulnerable to exploitation, but he had no obvious contacts or handlers and was dismissed as a simple civilian. Technoblade accepts the security examination, and then starts staring through the curtains. “You know he won’t be here for another hour?” Based on the profile, more like an hour and a half given his penchant for tardiness.

“Sue me for being excited?”

Philza hums a guilty note. “We’ve starved you for companionship haven’t we?”

“I mean, I had you.”

“Still, that’s not the same as friends. Apologies, I plan to have much more of these in the future.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll behave.” 

“It’s not contingent. I do want what’s best for you. I know I’m not always good at providing, but I do try.” 

His mouth snaps open in casual, silly retort, then pauses, softens to sincerity. “Thanks, Phil.”

He doesn’t know how to convince Technoblade his love is genuine. He worries he never will. How many times will he say ‘I love you’ before it’s believed? Or even more wild hope, that it’s returned?

Okay, the vibes are…kinda wack so far. Skeppy hadn’t really considered what Techno’s setup would be, but this definitely can’t be it. But Skeppy checked the address written on his hand like five times. GPS has to be broken, but he parks outside the gate and starts wandering around. Maybe Techno will stand outside and wave? Actually maybe not, he might be in a wheelchair or something. Skeppy has no idea since Techno isn’t really the type to talk about his medical problems. 

Seriously though, this can’t be right, can it? Really, Techno probably should’ve flown back to the US to be with his parents. Actually, it probably would’ve been really bad if he’d gone home. At most Skeppy imagined he’d rented some dingy flat, not the upper-class homes he sees peppered about. After a few minutes of trying to spot anything that looks even remotely normal, he snaps a pic of the outer gate of the address. Skepptical: Dude is this seriously ur rent house?? Plz I’m so lost

He jolts as a hand lands on his shoulder, and the nagging anxiety that he’s somehow doing something wrong only intensifies when he clocks the absolute unit of a guard behind him. The woman glowers suspiciously at him, particularly at the carrier he lugs. “What are you doing lurking on the Craft property?” Oh, nice! Finally, someone he can ask for directions. He glances at the smudged address written on his palm. Asking her about their location earns him a match and tightening of the grip on his shoulder. “Who sent you?”

“My friend, his name is Techno. Super cool dude, pretty recognizable. Tall, pink hair, wicked scar? Seen him around?” 

“What’s your name.” Is that a no…?

“Skeppy Ahmond!” 

“Full name.”

Uh. “Skeppy Di Ahmond?” When requested he forks over his ID, only for her to snarl and reach for a gun, barking some rather rude things at him. A blink, then Skeppy chuckles, realizing the problem at once. “Sorry! Sorry, that’s my fake, for bars. I have my real one here! Haha honest mistake, my b.” Skeppy’s never had someone actually realize it was fake since he used the big bucks to get one so authentic looking. He’s going to skin the guy who he got it from. Uh. If this guard doesn’t turn him into a little red splatter first. Man, some people take their jobs wayy too seriously! The real ID is thoroughly scrutinized, run through some type of bulky scanner, sniffed, and bitten before it’s accepted as genuine. She raises a walkie-talkie and barks a long string of code while Skeppy prays he isn’t about to become part of a crime scene. Hey, at least it would get out of the Chem test he has tomorrow. Who in their right mind puts a test on Monday? After a beckoning gesture, he follows through imposing gates, all his idle conversation starters greeted by silence. It’s completely unfair, he’s funny as hell! Shouldn’t he get at least a response? 

There’s another pair of guards at the entrance, and his periphery notes even more doting the property. Neat. At least they’re taking care of Techno after what happened with his parents. 

Technoblade shoves him back from the door, but it’s a playful gesture. Mostly. “You told me to be a good host-”

“I haven’t seen him in months!” He visibly brightens like the sun the moment he glimpses his friend being escorted to the door. Wilbur lingers in the vestibule, smirking at antics. Tommy comes running up, also jockeying for position. Technoblade wins through sheer force of will as the door is opened. Skeppy stares at him in disbelief, and honestly the expression is mirrored. “Hullo,” Techno grins. 

“Dude it’s been ages!” Floof goes wild, pressing at the bars and yapping excitedly. Bending down, Techno pokes his fingers through the carrier bars, getting licked in greeting. The moment the door is safely closed the beast is unleashed, Floof excitedly running around him so fast it easily breaks the sound barrier. Kneeling, Techno does his best to pet the enthusiastic mess of fur. “Man, so I know which one of us you were really excited for,” Skeppy teases. He offers a hand that Techno refuses, standing up with a bundle of dog in his arms. 

Phil leans in, allowing Floof to sniff his hand. “You could’ve mentioned, we would’ve arranged for him to stay with you.” 

“Skeppy’s too old for sleepovers I think,” Techno willfully misinterprets. “And he’s only half my dog anyways.” And he doesn’t need Skeppy to get his dorm raided like Techno’s home was. 

“Tell that to Floof, he’s been whining at your door for months.” 

Tommy elbows his way in between Skeppy and Technoblade. “Leave,” he demands with all the ferocity a child can muster. “I'm his bestest friend ever so you have to go.” 

Skeppy picks him up by the scruff of his neck. “Dude, is this yours? He’s super territorial.”

Tommy scrambles wildly, demanding to be put down. “Don’t worry, he has his shots,” Techno grins. Skeppy swings Tommy upside down by the ankles, swaying him, and Phil jolts into action. Techno deftly intercepts, and his hackles smooth as Tommy’s shrieks fill with giggles.

Skeppy swings the boy up on his shoulders. “There, our powers are combined into singular best friend. We’re now unstoppable.” Tommy is absolutely delighted, especially given he’s now the tallest in the family. “Who are you by the way?”

“I’m Tommy!” 

Philza pushes forward, a hand out to shake the boy’s hand, but Technoblade gets in the way forcefully. Philza slips under his arm, surging forward, only to be pulled back by the collar. “Sorry, he’s over-eager.”

“It’s cool. Is this the guy hosting you…?” There’s a twinge of disappointment that he doesn’t notice the resemblance. Philza supposes he’ll have to be that distant for however long the friend is to invade.

Technoblade squints at him. “Behave,” he orders for the millionth time. Philza nods and squirms forward enough to barely reach the Skeppy boy’s hand for a firm shake. Technoblade sighs in fond exasperation. “Skeppy, this is Phil. He’s my dad.” 

Philza goes breathless, overwhelmed by the unexpected sunburst of love in his chest. It’s everything he dreamed of and more, casual and unnoticed like he’s introduced Philza as his father a million times before. Natural, just like it should have always been. 

All his insecurities were baseless, then, Technoblade’s fears simply brief phobias finally put to rest. He feels safe, and loved, and like family at last. Philza wants to cry, either sobbing joy or euphoric shouts, he’s not picky. Dad. Him! Technoblade Dad! That’s his son! His, all his. No one else’s kid. His world is complete once more. 

Apparently, everyone else didn’t just get hit by his earth-shattering epiphany. Technoblade’s friend quirks a brow, using all three of his brain cells to be suspicious. Skeppy knew this was pretty sketch. One, Techno would’ve told him if his parents were back. Two, Skeppy doubts Techno’s real dad would look that happy about their relationship. “Dude? What are you talking about, that’s not your dad.” 

Insolence. Death. Murder rip tear death death DEATH. Philza surges forward till Technoblade’s hand clasps around him seconds before he can reach for his weapons. His ire melts in the bliss of their interlocked fingers. “My bio dad, Skeppy. I’m staying with him right now.” Rather intentionally, he offloads Floof into the Angel’s arm, praying that holding a squirming dog might make him slightly less lethal. Fortunately, Phil is enchanted with the adorableness of his pet, hackles lowering. Excellent work, he knew he could trust Floof in this vital mission. 

“Oh. That makes sense given…yeah. Everything. You never, uh, mentioned you’re…adopted? Or was it a divorce…?”

“Apparently adopted,” Technoblade says drily. That’s one way of saying it, but he supposes it’s the most he can ask of his son given how messy and conflicted it is from his (exclusive) perspective. “Trust me, it was news to me.”

“Well it wasn’t for me! You never said! I thought you were back home in America.” 

“Nah, it was easier for him to just stay here,” Wilbur explains. “Air travel would just complicate his health.” 

“Wilbur!” Technoblade’s friend lights up. “You didn’t mention you were visiting too!”

Amused, Wilbur invites everyone further into the comfort of the living room. “I live here, Skeppy. He’s my dad too.”

The boy groans immediately. “You’re brothers?! Ugh I just lost a 20 to Niki, I was betting on cousins…” his brow furrows at Technoblade. “...wait, you didn’t mention that at all.”

“I thought Wil told you since he actually gets to see you in person,” Technoblade says a tad pointedly.

He rounds upon Wilbur, who also tries to pull the same defense though Skeppy charges past it. “Why didn’t you say you were living together?? You get to see him constantly when I’ve barely gotten anything for months! I’m his best friend dude!”

“I think you imagine far more time spent on family reunions than medical procedures,” Wilbur retorts drily, the barb digging in deep as intended. Philza hadn’t imagined how useful of a weapon the excuse would be when he’d composed it all those months ago. 

The Skeppy boy demures. “Still, I just wish I could’ve visited…”

“Same,” Technoblade choruses. “But there should be plenty more in the future, right?” he glances hopefully, bumping Philza’s shoulder with his own.

“You’re an adult! It’s your choice bro.” Not that Philza really considers the friend’s rebellious streak a threat to his authority, but the undermining is not appreciated. 

“It’s his house,” he deflects carefully. 

“You can drive! Come on, we all miss you.” 

His son’s gaze fills with longing, but he shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“What? Why??” Technoblade offers no explanation, just shrugs. Of course, his friend doesn’t need to know how much danger Technoblade is in, or himself by proxy just for visiting. Not that Philza would ever let tragedy befall a person so important as, eh, Skeppy.

Since his son isn’t a particularly good liar Philza swoops in to save the cover story. “They don’t tend to let one operate heavy machinery when you have seizures.” 

The outrage returns fast. “DUDE! YOU DIDN’T MENTION THAT?! SEIZURES???”

Ah. Given the explosive worry, Philza can suddenly understand why his son might shy from the medical defense. Good to know his friends won’t let him get away with downplaying his health, either. Technoblade shrugs uncomfortably. “So I’m told. I wasn’t super conscious for that, obviously.”

“Argh! You never tell us anything!” 

“I didn’t want you to worry.” 

“And that makes us worry! But you can’t ignore my messages now. What’s wrong with you?”

“Uhhh, lot of things really; I have a bad attention span, uh, bad at conversations, don't really deal with social conversations well. Um, might have just committed tax fraud recently…oh and yeah, the murders.” Philza frowns as the list grows. Even if it’s a joke, it's a worrisomely quickly procured survey of self-depreciation. His friend is dogged though, insisting upon his health. Technoblade shrugs. “How would I know how long the coma was? I was asleep. Anyway, I’m still of the opinion it was just a really great nap. You would know how hard it is to get me up when I’m hibernating.” 

“It was six days, love.” He shares a look with Technoblade’s friend as his son immediately tries to laugh it off with a deflecting joke. How quickly comradery comes in the face of the impossible foe of Technoblade’s low self-esteem. 

“Man, I’m so lazy I nearly slept through my own death! But really Skeppy, it’s fine. From my POV I was getting honk shoo mi mi mis. I wasn’t aware of any of it.” 

“The rest of us were,” Philza replies unhappily. 

Technoblade observes him carefully. “Sorry for almost beefing it, Phil.” At his wince, he tries again. “My bad for almost kicking the bucket. Uh, no, that's worse. For shuffling off the mortal coil. Going six feet under? Belly up. Worm food. Nah, nah, I got it, crossed the river Styx.”

The Skeppy friend is green and laughing nervously. “Please stop.”  

Skeppy doesn’t stop asking questions. Good! That's what Techno was hoping for. Unfortunately, he’s asking all the wrong ones, interrogations about his faux failing health that are immediately texted to the group chat. Techno answers the queries only when he can get a joke out of it. Otherwise, he lets the uncomfortable silence stretch, forcing Wil or Phil to fill it. Skeppy is getting annoyed with him, but he expected it. He wants this visit to be off-putting and suspicious. So, he decides to tour Skeppy around the Red Flag factory. At first, he’s hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the heavily armed guards -and he does! Make no mistake- but he knows what to look for. Somehow, Skeppy is always looking in the opposite direction. To be fair, he’s busy gawking at how nice the house is. Techno kinda forgot after months of trying to resentfully escape and his exposure to the grandeur of the mansion. “Wow dude! Check out this statue!” For a moment he’s terrified it’s one of the awful family statues from Christmas, but luckily they're still at the estate. They’re only staying for the day for Skeppy’s sake, and fortunately Phil forgot to bring them. 

“Yeah. There’s a camera in the leftmost wolf.”

Skeppy laughs like it's a joke till Techno points out the lens, and then he blows a raspberry at the security. “That’s one way to prevent art theft.” Just about every strange security detail is met with similar dismissal. The military-grade reinforced doors are ‘funky looking.’ The hundreds of cameras receive countless silly faces. Techno even takes him to the board room with the whiteboard covered in tally marks literally labeled ‘Technoblade’s escape attempts’ with Tommy’s doodles depicting said jailbreaks. Skeppy apparently believes Techno is the sort to try and single-handedly break out of a hospital. Which– yeah fair, maybe he would so long as it wasn’t really bad. If it was just a broken leg or something he’d walk it off. “As nice as this place is I can’t imagine trying to leave.”

Techno grimaces. “I love it here, naturally, but you try being cooped up in an apartment for months.”

“An apartment?! It’s a three-story house Techno!” 

“That’s what they call it. It’s an in-joke.” No, it’s rich people who wouldn’t know reality if it bit them, but there’s a nonzero chance Skeppy is extremely bribable, and he doesn’t want to plant the seed of possibility in his ally. 

Skeppy squints at one of Tommy’s drawings, asking for clarification of the depiction. Excited, Tommy launches into an embellished retelling of the time Techno nearly made it out through the window. Skeppy laughs, clearly not believing it. “I bet you’d be crawling in the vents like a spy if you could.” 

“Movies aren’t realistic. Vents are far harder to navigate than you’d expect, especially for an adult.” 

“Oh really Mr. Bond?” 

“Hmm. Not nearly so successful. I couldn’t escape their care if I tried.” He’s failing particularly now. Wil leans across the doorway expectantly. Techno knows for a fact the Crafts are hovering around despite explicitly requesting alone time with Skeppy. Not that he won’t be monitored, but he wants at least an exclusive conversational claim over his friend. Well, Tommy is still being carried by Skeppy, but he’s just as kidnapped as Techno, so it doesn’t count. 

“Good! Someone needs to be looking after you. I bet they gotta tie you to a chair just to check your temperature.” The skin on Techno’s wrists itches. In his failure to continue the conversation, Wil takes the opportunity to cough pointedly. Techno ignores him, suppressing the glower he’d prefer to shoot since he needs to be rewarding the Crafts, no matter how nosy and intruding. 

“Can I talk to you?” Wil asks as his deliberate throat clearing netted nothing. 

“I’m not stopping you.” At Wil’s tilted head shake, Techno stresses. “Anything you want to talk about can be said in front of Skeppy.” It’s a blatant lie, but Techno has such limited time. 

“I don’t care about him, moreso him.” Even less does he want to test Phil’s suspicion right now. This needs to go as smoothly as possible. Techno reiterates his short visit with his friend who he hasn’t seen in months (thanks to a certain set of someones).

Skeppy notices the tension and tries to break it. “It’s all cool, I like hanging with Wilbur. How’d you figure out you were related?”

“Oh, I always suspected.” Skeppy protests not being told, and is, in turn, teased for not seeing the obvious. “Though at least you aren’t Tech, I still don’t think he's convinced.” 

Techno hums a note. “A bit hard to deny at this point that we’re twins.” But instead of being pleased, Wil gives a piercing look. Still, the Angel will be pleased by the footage. 

“Man, he seriously didn’t piece it together? Techno is so oblivious,” says the man mistaking red flags for neat interior design choices. “Or maybe he did and just never felt the need to mention it,” Skeppy says pointedly. 

“You can come with me or we can discuss the truth in front of an audience,” Wil murmurs in his ear. Techno isn’t really sure of Skeppy’s survival odds if he’s explicitly made aware of what’s really going on. Phil likes him, which helps, but Techno painfully remembers what happened to the last people who helped him escape. He wants Skeppy to suspect something’s up, but the first visit is too soon, especially with the still insane security after his double abduction. Later will be better, once Skeppy has bonded more with the Crafts. Safer if he’s loved.

“...know it’s probably a touchy subject, bet you never brought it up with anyone. But have you at least gotten more news about them?”

Huh? Technoblade blinks at Skeppy, just clocking in from spacing out, preoccupied with calculating. “Uh, I need to talk to Wil.” 

There’s a faint flash of jealousy, but it’s suppressed. Skeppy tries to look supportive. “Good! Good, doesn’t have to be me. Just glad you’re listening,” he tells the guy who’d literally just checked out for the last five minutes and is super confused.

“Yep. Going to go talk to Wil about. That.” Baffled by the clearly fake enthusiasm, Techno matches his double thumbs up and dips. Wil drags him to the bathroom, though Techno doesn’t trust their privacy here anymore. Frankly, he doesn’t trust Wil anymore, or ever again, not after watching him murder Blaze and Squidkid without a second thought. 

Wil stares at him for an uncomfortable amount of time. “What are you trying?” he demands. Techno blinks, genuinely confused. “I know you’re up to something, let me help.” At his inquisitive eyebrow lift, Wil narrows his eyes. “You called him Dad.”

“Oh. I didn’t notice.”

“Yes you did, it was an intentional ploy. Just tell me so I can assist. Why did you call him Dad?”

“That’s what he is. He wouldn’t argue.” For a moment, foolish hope lifts Wilbur. All he wants is Tech to feel safe, and if he’s gotten over it their family can be complete. But Wilbur catches his zealous thoughts. It’s the exact same response as when Wilbur confronted him about calling Dad the Angel of Death. And even if Tech overcame his trauma, the fact it had ever gotten to that point at all is proof Tech shouldn’t live with them. Wilbur misses the awkward, friendly guy Tech used to be, the one whose smiles were never strategized. What they’ve done to him is unforgivable. If Wilbur really loves his brother he’ll get him out of this family.

Tech sets a hand reassuringly on his shoulder, features painfully composed in polite manufacture. “It really isn’t a big deal.” His brother doesn’t trust him. It hurts, even more so for the fact he fully deserved it.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he tries desperately. 

His twin glances to the hand on his shoulder, and releases lightly. “I just want today to go well. That’s all. I’ve missed Skeppy.” It’s an answer and dismissal in one, and Techno slips out of his fingers. No, he realizes, he never held Techno at all, only dreams and façades designed to protect himself. It’s a family of liars, and finally, finally Tech is just like them, contorted and corrupted from the man he was only months ago. 

Tommy is bragging about the tank he got for Christmas, Skeppy clearly not believing. Which is fair, especially as the kid is cagey on concrete details given the security is still high enough he isn’t allowed to use it yet, a fact highly grating to the excitable almost-a-teen (which he won’t let anyone forget). The afternoon is the freest he’s felt in a long time, Skeppy’s easy presence driving off concern. Especially during Mario Kart when Phil leans over and says he can’t wait for Skeppy’s next visit. He coasts on that relief for hours. It’s the easiest it’s been to pretend in weeks. 

Tommy is roughhousing with Floof on the floor, the adults watching and conversing as they lounge. Mr. Phil’s arm snakes around the back of the couch to wrap around him, and Techno shifts to lean into him, looking comfortable. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you snuggle,” Skeppy snorts. 

“I’ve changed a lot if I’m honest.” There’s a strange note to it, almost bitter. Fair, given the crap he’s dealing with. 

“Yeah, I can tell. Anyway, do you know when you’ll be coming back? I swear half the school’s grades crashed and burned when you left. I know there was a pretty bad health plunge recently, but you seem fine.” Then again, Techno’s always been the type to push himself. 

Whatever calculations run in his mind Skeppy fails to parse. “Tech’s health oscillates wildly,” Wilbur offers. Thank god for him, since Skeppy’s been mostly relying on Techno’s family for details on his health. “You caught him on a good day. Still, he puts on a good brave mask, I’ll hand him that.”

If it’s supposed to be a dig, Techno doesn’t notice, a thoughtful, yearning expression on his scarred features. “...could I ever be released from bedrest?”

Mr. Phil hums uncertainly. A meaningful look passes between the two, the father’s tinged with hesitant worry, the son’s with painful hope. “Once it’s safe.” Techno beams. “Heavy measures of support in place, necessarily, an infallible safety net would have to be prepared. Not the setup before, Wilbur’s health has never gotten near as bad as yours.” 

“And how long do you wager before I can?” 

“A year at the very, very minimum.” It’s kinda freaky how excited Techno becomes at the prospect of so much quarantine. Then again, he’s an introvert. Even if it might destroy Skeppy, Techno would be content. Or…maybe. 

“How are you handling everything?” Skeppy can understand when it’s a sensitive subject, and since Techno never responded he clearly doesn’t doesn’t want to talk about it. Skeppy can get the memo. But he’s worried, okay? 

Techno snorts. “You’ve been trying to interrogate me all day. Did Niki put you up to it?”

“Yes.” He frowns at Techno’s laughter. “Hey! I would’ve done it on my own too! You realize how much money I would’ve made if I tried to sneak them all here on this visit? Because it’s not chump change, I assure you.” More like entire paychecks. Many people’s entire paychecks. 

His neck cranes back to look at his dad. “Anything pick up on the security cameras? Because I can assure you Skeppy would never turn down cash.” 

His father takes it rather oddly seriously, checking his phone. “No breeches or flags raised.” Uh. Okay, that’s a little weird. Unless- oh he probably does the same deadpan humor as Techno. 

Techno raises a brow at Skeppy. “I didn’t because you said not to. I’m trying to do things on your terms, you know, respect your boundaries or whatever.” 

“Did Niki-”

“No, Niki did not bribe me to be a good friend!” Okay, yes the entire friend group sat him down for an hour-long PowerPoint presentation, grilling him on tact and grace and yes, there’s a list hidden up his sleeve of questions he’s supposed to ask, but that’s not the same thing! Niki didn’t promise him money; she promised to set him on fire and coerce poor Ranboo to hide the body. It’s different. “Like. I can get it, it sucks, but you refuse to talk to us. That’s not good Techno.” Techno tries to hide the way his smile flickers but doesn’t manage it. “We know it’s bad. You don’t have to hide that. You’re going through so much all at once, and that’s what we’re here for. Friends? Do you know what those are? The people who like and support you? There’s a lot of people who care about you, in case you can’t seem to get that through your supposedly smart head.”

“...I just don’t think you can help.”

“You don’t know that. I could switch majors right now, go med track?” 

“Not with your grades.”

“Fine. Then how’s everything else going? Any news about the investigation?” Not that Skeppy thinks he’d be any better at Criminology. 

Techno grimaces. “I mean, we sorted out the coma stuff, that’s definitely not happening again.” The Angel of Death will guarantee that at the very least. “Other than that…I mean it’s medical stuff. You wouldn’t understand even if I could explain it.” 

“I’m not asking about lab work or whatever. There is an investigation, right? It’s been months but surely they haven’t given up.”

“Haeh?” He glances at Phil, wondering if there was some extra layer to the cover story he wasn’t aware of.

“Was there ever a rescue for the abductions?” Techno’s blood turns to pure ice. Beneath him, Phil tenses.

“Skeppy. I’m here willingly.” The voice comes out through rocks, but he needs Skeppy to believe this. The whole world seems to have stopped, silently watching as Skeppy boldly waltzes into a death trap. 

“I mean you don’t have much of a choice,” he dismisses. “I get it’s complicated and you already have enough on your plate, but please Techno, you’ve given us absolute radio silence on this and I gotta know. Did you at least ever get any news from the police?” The police wouldn’t know. In the eyes of the law, Techno is a Craft. They wouldn’t care anyway, they never have. And Phil would bribe or blackmail or butcher any investigation to submission. And surely if Skeppy knew he was kidnapped, he would’ve clocked that it’s the Craft’s fault, right? Right? 

The pure confusion on Techno’s face is going to haunt Skeppy for a long time. He slowly peels out of his bio dad’s arms, sitting to a tense attention. “Police? What are you talking about?” 

Skeppy feels sick, realizing something is deeply wrong. Techno hasn’t been ignoring him; Techno straight-up doesn’t know. And now he’s here watching the trickle of worry bleed into his best friend’s expression and it really hits Skeppy that he’s going to be the one to break the news. “Techno,” he says as gently as he can manage. “I’m talking about your parents.” 

“What– what about them?” He seems caught in awful hypnotization, his world zeroed in to only Skeppy. He doesn’t know. How the hell doesn’t he know? It keeps running in Skeppy’s mind over and over. It should be impossible, right? 

“Techno, they’ve been missing for months.” It hits like a gut punch, Techno crumpling before his very eyes. There’s been this distance in his eyes the whole time, an almost wariness. Skeppy knew he was putting on a normal front during the visit, he’d be an idiot to miss that since god forbid anyone worry about Techno. But now it fractures, leaving shell-shocked devastation. “I thought you knew, I told you immediately after I received the first phone call–I sent you so many emails and texts and everything about it!” He’d never received a single response, and eventually decided Techno just didn’t want to talk about it, just like he never talked about anything. 

“Memory loss isn’t an uncommon symptom. And he's always been prone to denial.” Mr. Phil says it firmly, and there’s something cold in the way he looks at Skeppy that makes him uncomfortable. He seems furious at him for upsetting Techno. Which, obviously given how Techno’s handling it, is fair. But Skeppy thought he knew. The hurt looks so raw. His mouth hangs half open, needing to say something, anything, but Techno is speechless. 

Isn’t it weird how quickly the world can collapse? One pillar taken away and it all comes crashing down. After the Syndicate raid, Techno has first-hand experience watching the way sturdy foundation buckles and it all plummets down. Everything is numb, save for the burn of his eyes and chest. 

Floof is suddenly dropped in his lap, Tommy crawling up next to him. “Dad will find them. I know he will! He brought you back, didn’t he? So you just got to wait. And you got us to wait with, so it’s easier! You won’t be alone like I was when you were gone.” 

Techno manages a nod. “Right. They’ll be rescued.” No wonder Phil was so concerned with security. “It’ll be okay.” He looks to Phil for assurance only to find pure vehemence. 

“They beat you,” Phil hisses and Techno freezes as he pieces it together. 

Philza Craft has killed his parents. 

The thought echoes over and over and over in his head, and Techno doesn’t know what the next thought is supposed to be. It’s hard to think like this, frozen in a horrifying epiphany. 

It’s Tommy who breaks the silence. “Beat him at what?” Wil covers his mouth, and Tommy just looks between the twins, confused. Wil is sheet white staring at him, and Techno isn’t sure how he feels, if he even has enough in him to care about his dirty laundry being aired out in the open. His parents are gone. The Angel of Death made sure of it. 

“Are you alright?” the murderer asks. 

“I’m. I’m.” He needs to handle this carefully but he can scarcely think at all. “I love them.”

Something dark flickers in Phil’s gaze. It is the wrong thing to say. “Oh, Technoblade,” he sighs, pulling him into a hug he’s too shocked to resist. Phil is careful not to touch his back. “They didn’t love you.”

The first tears came. He bites back his response. “You’re right.” The sobbing starts, and he buries his face in the crook of Phil’s neck. Perhaps his hands are like claws as he hugs back for the first time, but the killer doesn’t seem to care. 

Phil rubs comforting circles of pressure into his skin, never daring anywhere close to ghosting over his scars. “I’m afraid it’s like that, sometimes. Unequal love. It hurts, doesn’t it? And you were a child. You needed support, needed them to be your parents. You needed to love them, because it was your only chance of surviving.” 

“They raised me.” He stops there, but doesn’t know if that’s because he doesn’t know what else to say or because Philza Craft is pressing kisses into the side of his head. 

“They didn’t. You raised yourself. You are strong-“ a kiss “-and determined-“ another “and independent. And that is despite them.” But Phil is wrong. Because they did raise him. They taught him how to read, because he can remember sitting in Dad’s lap and staring at a picture book. He can see Mom smiling for once as he shows her a report card. He remembers the bad nights, too, when one of them came home scowling and reeking of alcohol. But they did support him, he would’ve never published without them. Would never have known how to ride a bike or dodge a blow or fix a tie for prom. 

“It was getting better,” he mumbles. “I was going to make it better. I’m going to be the next great American author.” It sounds stupid and disjointed now, a desperate plan that was never going to work. “I was going to force them to be proud of me.”

I was going to force them to love me.  

And now he never will.

“Oh sweetie,” The Angel sighs. “They don’t matter anymore. You’re going to be the best the world has ever seen, I promise you. I’m proud of you, no matter what.”

For a moment his rebellious heart yearns so badly it hurts, till he remembers whose arms he’s cradled in. He can’t do this. Not here, not now. His feelings are too complicated, and he needs to make sure they’re all his and not the things he’s being guided to think. Techno goes silent and still in the Angel’s arms, trying to shove everything down till he can process it in the safety of privacy. 

Skeppy is dragged out of the room sharply. He hadn’t realized how strong Wilbur is, and despite his desperation to stay with Techno he isn’t given much of a choice. Wilbur practically slams him into the wall, looming over. Cold ire washes over Skeppy and makes the hair on the back of his neck raise. Wilbur suddenly feels far closer to a horror villain than a guy Skeppy would crack open a cold one with. Skeppy winces as his collar is pulled up enough to edge on painful. “Hey, Wilbur, buddy–”

“Did you know?” he demands icily. It’s not that he wasn’t already an intimidating guy (his straight face being almost as legendary as Techno’s) but it’s always for a bit. Skeppy had thought it scary before, but now he gulps as pure intensity pins him to the spot. 

“Uh, yeah, Wil, I did, I’m the one who just broke the news, remember?” 

Anger flashes in his eyes, unsettling for how dangerous it feels. But Skeppy soothes his instincts since it’s not like Wilbur is a violent guy. Still, he’s starting to get a little strangled even if he knows it’s an accident. “Did you know his parents were abusive?”

“Yeah, can you stop choking me, dude?”

“He never said–”

“Yeah, Techno doesn’t ever say when anything’s wrong,” Skeppy snaps. “I think that’s pretty clear after today.” 

Finally, Wilbur pulls away, and Skeppy fixes his collar. “But he told you.”

“I’m his roommate. Hard not to, he had to explain the scars somehow.”

“Scars?” he asks in a strangled voice. 

“They were rotten people.” The subject has always been contentious between the two of them. At least Techno finally admitted they’re awful and has a better support network now. Still, the way he just resigned feels wrong, like he’s accepted there’s no hope. The Techno Skeppy knows would never give up, especially on the matter of his parents. Not that Skeppy thinks they should be in Techno’s life, but the fact they vanished without a trace is freaky. 

“He always talked about them so fondly.” Wilbur had thought Tech had somewhere else to go, somewhere he’d actually be safe. Now he has no idea what refuge he could even find for his brother. 

“Yeah,” Skeppy sighs. “Never heard a bad word out of him till today. Did you know they were missing?” Mr. Phil clearly did. The fact is bugging Skeppy. He implied Techno’s medical trauma suppressed it, but shouldn’t he have retold him? Or maybe he didn’t know about the amnesia, Techno never being one to talk. 

“No.” Wilbur grows agitated. “I should’ve known that, why didn’t he tell me?” He gets exactly why Dad would capture Tech’s parents. Hell, Wilbur would like to have a chat with them himself. But why didn’t Dad say anything? “...Tech asked, once, if I thought they were safe. I just assumed…I lied to him, said they were fine when all this time…” The first time Tech began to trust him, and it was built on an utter lie. He’d known it to be one, but never suspected how deep a betrayal it really was. Tech was smart for his paranoia about him earlier today. Never once has he ever done anything good for his brother. 

Skeppy winces in sympathy, especially if some corner of Techno had been trying to remember the truth. How awful, to accidentally gaslight a medical amnesiac. “I don’t think that’s your fault. Really, he’s lucky to have you guys now.” Wilbur grimaces. “I’m serious dude! I don’t think he could’ve dealt with all this if your family wasn’t taking care of him. It’s such an awful situation. On the one hand it’s scary, wondering what happened. On the other…good riddance if I’m honest. I know how much he loves them though. It’ll be hard, but at the same time he’s free now.”

Free. The word echoes loudly in Wilbur’s head. “...I’m worried he’s going to do something impulsive and stupid.”

“And? So what can we do about it?”

Wilbur stares at the door where the rest of his family lies beyond. “Help him do something impulsive and stupid.”

He’s going to get cornered by Phil the moment Skeppy is gone. Techno can sense it like crows circling overhead of dying prey. Phil’s going to reopen old wounds like he always does, digging in while demanding he heal. All he wants is to escape to his room, but he’s left vaguely carrying on, pretending he isn’t in a nightmare. 

“I’m going to walk Skeppy outside.” He announces it tentatively but is easily allowed. Tommy is refusing to let Floof go anyway, and so Techno trails after, clutching the kennel. They reach the gate, and naturally the Craft children aren’t let outside and obviously they wouldn’t have let Skeppy park within the walls, given what bombs or poisons he could hide in his car. Both Tommy and Skeppy find it outrageous. 

Tommy stands on tiptoe to properly see over the counter. “If you let us out I’ll let you pet Floof.” The bribe goes unaccepted to his dismay. “Inform Dad we really really need more time with Floof. It’s an emergency. Techno might start crying again!”

“Tommy I’m not going to–” he’s covertly passed an onion slice. Techno sighs and rubs his temple. Really bad move, given now he is tearing up sharply. “Tommy! My eyes!” To his chagrin, the guard calls up Phil and then tells them to wait a minute. He can practically hear the footsteps racing through the house. Skeppy mutters about how strict Phil is. “He can be a bit controlling, but he’s easing up a bit.”

“Controlling isn’t the worst thing a parent can be.”

“Skeppy.” This is the worst possible moment to have this old argument. Skeppy falls thankfully silent. 

Bursting from the house, the Angel lunges for him, cupping his face and worrying incessantly. Wil is almost just as fast, though adopts a more casual air the moment he recognizes Techno isn’t actually weeping like they were led to believe. Phil isn’t so quick on the uptake. “It’s alright love! I know you’re dealing with big news, but we’re here for you! Take as long to process as you need, we’ll get through this together as a family.” He gently brushes away the brimming crocodile tears as Techno quietly accepts his one moment of respite has been destroyed. 

Phil escorts them out to Skeppy’s car. Really, a vanguard does, but Techno is painfully aware of The Angel by his side. Habitually, Techno’s head swivels, locating security cameras, guard positions. His heart isn’t really in it though. Skeppy vaguely follows his gaze. “Pretty neighborhood.”

It really is, perfectly sculpted in rows of beautiful fences and flowering things. He drinks in every last image. “I don’t get out much. Ever, really.” 

“That sucks. Sorry to hear that.” He’d thought to say something, anything to Skeppy once they had a moment of privacy, but the Angel hung over the rest of the visit. Maybe that’s for the best. His judgement is clouded, he’s worried he’d let something slip that would ruin everything. Now he doesn’t have the chance at all, his best friend slipping away. The first person Techno has seen in months that isn’t under Craft influence, and he’s about to be gone.

“Tommy, say goodbye to Floof.”

“He doesn’t want to go in yet,” Tommy insists, twin pairs of puppy eyes peering up at him. To be fair, Techno doesn’t want to, either. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up. 

“You’ll see him soon, Thomas. Mate, what’s your schedule like? Do you think you could come again next week?” Skeppy gives him a glance, wondering why he isn’t participating in his own schedule, but Techno can barely plan ahead for the next minute. Even then, the moment Skeppy is gone the world goes blank. Just barely can he function with the beacon of familiarity and normalness present. Once the aegis of his presence vanishes, Techno is terrified of what the Angel is going to say without the ward of witness ears. Or what he won’t say. Techno thinks that would be worse, if he has to go on pretending he doesn’t know exactly what happened to his parents. Techno isn’t sure how long he can hide the truth rotting him from the inside out.

Skeppy and the Angel reach some type of agreement, shaking hands. Skeppy slips into the driver’s seat, pulling up his GPS. Phil crosses to where Techno is leaning on the passenger door, watching as Tommy gets in his last cuddles before saying a reluctant farewell to Floof. A supposedly comforting hand rests on his shoulder, and Techno turns to the Angel, pressing their foreheads together. “Thank you for everything, Dad.”

Wil catches his eye, holds it. Techno surely doesn’t know what he finds or thinks. “Hey Dad,” he begins carefully. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Can we step to the side? Somewhere Skeppy won’t hear, he’s nosy.” 

“Hey!” He grumbles as the pair stroll away. “Ugh. Anyway, now that he’s finally out of our hair, what does your bio dad do? Cause I thought you were poor as dirt, so this,” he gestures at the house, “is kinda wild.” 

“Oh, you know. Crime,” he says distractedly, worried about what Wil is planning. 

“Lmao. God I missed you dude. Can’t wait to see you Saturday. And feel totally free to contact me about anything and everything. Now that I know about the amnesia you better believe I’m going to be hounding you more than I usually do!” Techno hums a neutral acknowledgment. Is Wil telling Phil? He should’ve handled the conversation in the bathroom better. There isn’t enough data, he needs to know how the Angel is going to spin the murder, if he’d brag or deny. Wil knows it’s an act, and there’s never been a more precarious time to reveal that. 

But…it is space from the ever-present Phil. Not that there still aren’t guards hovering around, but the distance helps. Maybe Wil is trying to help, just like he claims to. Techno offers him a weak smile, praying he’s not about to be betrayed. 

And then Wilbur Craft nods at him. Go, he mouths. 

Escape number 3: It’s a signal Techno hadn’t even known he was waiting for. But he’s outside and has Tommy and a way out. Before he knows what he’s doing, Techno is swinging the dog kennel. It cracks nastily against the skull of the guard next to him, the soldier going down in a heap. A second guard lurches forward but is toppled as he hurles the cage at them. “Drive!” he snaps at Skeppy, shoving a startled Tommy into the front seat. 

Skeppy, nose buried in his phone, glances up, not noticing the sudden burst of violence. “What? Trying to get rid of me so soon?” The Angel certainly isn’t so oblivious to the scent of battle, his face the most perfect piece of shock and confusion he’s ever seen. He jolts into action, jerking forwards till Wil pulls him back, restraining him as Techno slams the car door shut, locking the doors as the guards pour towards them. 

“DRIVE AS FAST AS YOU CAN!”

Skeppy floors the gas pedal, causing everyone to nearly get concussions from the laws of physics, then glances at him reproachfully. “You said if I ever went full throttle you’d-”

“-make sure your body was found in at least four separate states, yeah, I know, but this is an emergency. Give me your phone.” 

“No, we’re listening to MY playlists, I don’t want to be blasting teen girl sleepover mus-

“SKEPPY I NEED TO CALL THE POLICE!”

“You’re the one who told me to speed dude!” But he passes over the phone. “Fine, play Taylor Swift, you deserve it after today.”

Just barely does Techno remember to dial 999 instead of 911, frantically glancing in the rearview. The Angel stands in the middle of the road, caught in pure disbelief as they rapidly flee. It’s far from over though. The dispatcher’s voice crackles on the receiver and Techno cuts them off. “My name is Technoblade Piglin, and I’m reporting a kidnapping.” 

Skeppy gives him a freaked-out look. “What are you doing?!” he harshly whispers. “This prank has gone too far–” Engines rev as Syndicate vehicles burst after, desperate to catch up. But Skeppy has a head start and a competitive streak, and accelerates to outstrip their pace. They seem to leave behind their pursuers for a few blocks, till ahead of them a station wagon crashes through an intersection, forming a blockade. Skeppy swears and swerves to avoid a collision, slamming the corner too fast, halfway hopping onto the curb and leaving skids. Definitely being followed, but then again the Angel’s men have never encountered a driver like Skeppy. Good luck; they’re going to need it. “Jeeze the drivers here are awful…Techno, who are you really calling? Is Charlie in on this? I just bet he is-”

“Kidnapping of who?” comes the dispatcher. 

“Of me. I’ve been imprisoned for-” he pauses to check the date. His stomach goes cold. “-four or five months at this point. And Tommy -Thomas- Craft, he’s been captured– Tommy, when were you ‘adopted’?” Tommy just stares up with wide horrified eyes, still clutching Floof. Techno pulls his legs up to give him a little more room from where he’s tucked beneath the glove compartment. “I think he’s too shocked to respond. We just got out.” As best he can, he gives their location and direction. If he thought Skeppy was driving fast before, now they’re approaching breakneck speed, tearing past the pleasant neighborhood as dark hunters struggle to keep up with his reckless weaving. “We’ll try to get to a station, but they’re definitely after us. At least six vehicles, probably more once they really figure out what’s happening.” If this doesn’t work…Techno’s gut rolls. 

Skeppy’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Techno, what’s going on?” He didn’t know Skeppy’s voice could get that soft. 

Techno gives him an extremely stressed rictus and orders him to keep driving. Skeppy’s at double the speed limit, and given that’s in mph and the signs are in kph the other cars are mere blurs. He can’t see the armored cars any more thanks to Skeppy’s sporadic driving, but there isn’t a chance they got off scot-free. The dispatcher hums a note. “I'm not seeing you in the database…?”

“Crap, he changed my name then.” Stupid, he shouldn’t have forgotten that detail. “Technoblade Craft. Unless it’s Alexander, he might’ve. He got me to replace Alexander Craft,” he explains, realizing how frantic and scattered he is. “He’s– he’s utterly insane, he’s convinced I’m his son. I just found out–” he nearly chokes on it “–I think he killed my parents. They went missing, too, probably a week after I got snatched.” He can still see that burning wrath in the Angel’s eyes as they traced the scars lain across Techno’s back. They’ve been dead for months, with Techno none the wiser, blissfully falling in love with the Crafts while his real family rotted in the ground. If it weren’t for Skeppy he’d likely never found out. And had the Nether not saved him in time, would he have even cared should he discover their deaths? “No, I know he did it. They were in his way, so he got rid of them.” 

“Oh god Techno,” Skeppy says, completely horrified. “You think so?”

“I’ve seen him,” Techno rasps. “I’ve seen him slaughter people, right in front of me. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t– descriptions. I can give you descriptions of victims.” It’ll feel like broken glass, but he’ll choke out what happened in the Nether if he has to. Maybe it’s the only way Blaze and Squidkid could ever get the revenge that drove them to their deaths. “I can testify. Whatever it takes to get him in jail.” It won’t work. Obviously it won’t work, with resources like Phil has? He can buy his way out, bribe or blackmail or just bomb the entire facility. But law enforcement is the only faction he can think of that might be able to rival the Syndicate, even if only temporarily. They’re probably all bought, but he has to try. “...I just want him to never touch me again,” he says quietly. Even now, he’s not convinced it will work. But it’s the closest he’s been to freedom in months, and he’ll fight for it with his last breath. 

Sympathy twists Skeppy’s features. It’s stupid given their speed but he needs to comfort his friend; he rests a hand on Techno’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, I had no ide-”

“Don’t touch me,” Techno snaps, flinching away. Worry flashes in Skeppy’s eyes. “Sorry just…just don’t, I can’t do it anymore.” 

“Sir, please stay with me on the phone. Help is on the way. The more information you give the better we can assist you. Do you know who it was that kidnapped you?”  

“The Angel of Death.” The dispatcher swears loudly. It’s relieving. “His name is Philza Craft. He’s heavily armed at all times, average height, blond hair– you know what, he has a wiki even if it’s all propaganda, you can find pictures…” he rambles on, giving every detail he has, addresses and security details and the extensive surveillance network. Techno doesn’t know if even an iota of it is useful, but it’s nice to have all the information he’s been locking away finally released, tumbling past his lips uncontrollably. He doesn’t hesitate even once, not like the Nether when he still had to protect the Tommy trapped in Craft territory. Let it all be razed. 

His words peter away as he catches the flash of red and blue lights in the rearview. The knot in his chest loosens just a little. They did it, the Syndicate couldn’t catch up to them. He’s…free. “Thank you,” he tells the dispatcher. “I didn’t think this would work.”

“Sir, wa-” the call cuts off as Skeppy begins to slow down and pull over. 

“Are we ever going to see Dad again?” Tommy asks very, very quietly.

“I don’t know. Trust me, alright? I’m going to get us free. I just want you to be safe. I love you, Tommy. Do you trust me?”

Slowly, Tommy nods. Techno reaches out a fist bump, and after a pause Tommy presses his knuckles against his. But when he pulls away Tommy seizes his hand, squeezing it. Techno holds the kid’s hand as he cries. “I’m scared, Techno.”

“I know. I know, Tommy.” 

“I love Dad, I don’t want to get in trouble. I’ve only ever messed around, never actually left.” 

Techno rubs a thumb across his knuckles. “You’re a good kid. But we’re going to get out now. We don’t have to be what he wants us to be anymore. We don’t have to be Alexander.” Floof curls in his lap, licking at the tears rolling down his cheek. “Tommy, when were you ‘adopted’?”

“When– when I was a toddler?”

Techno pauses. “Um. Are you sure? So you don’t remember the family you had before he took you?” He’d thought Tommy didn’t mention them from some combination of surveillance and Stockholm Syndrome. How awful, for his parents to be killed when he was too young to even remember them.

Tommy sniffs. “Didn’t have one. He got me from an orphanage.” 

Ooooooh crap. Oh god, how many orphan jokes has Techno made in his presence?! Skeppy stares at him in utter shock as he jams the car into park. “Did we just kidnap an eight-year-old?” 

“I’m eleven,” Tommy snaps, “so shut the flip up.”

“Phil’s not here anymore, and neither are his cameras. You don’t have to watch your language.”

Tommy pulls a complete 180 on mood, smiling brighter than the sun. “LET’S FUCKING GOOOOO!” No doubt it’s a temporary high since eventually it’s going to really hit what escaping means, but Techno will take it. He grins, offering Tommy the obvious benefits of no bedtime or getting stuffed in a stiff suit and any other scant reward he can think of to entice a child untill the police car comes to a stop next to them. Techno squeezes Tommy for his own nerves, then cautiously opens the passenger door. 

A panic-wracked young adult steps out of the vehicle, head nervously twisting like prey checking for threats. Fading pink hair, gashed visage, built approximately like a startled baby deer. The officer glances at a text message. Yep, he perfectly matches the description. Poor kid looks like he’s been through hell and back. What could the Angel of Death ever want with him?

“Badge,” he demands the moment she slips out of the cop car, whistling for her police dog to bound after. “Else I’ll think you’re a plant.” She holds it out at once and Technoblade clutches it. “Officer Jenny?” His shoulders visibly slump. 

“That’s me. Got a call you boys needed help?” 

“Yeah. You could definitely say that.” His voice cracks with relief. “Wait. Is that a body cam? Turn that off. Turn that off right now, he’ll find that feed.” 

“Sir, I’m not allowed to do that. And police surveillance footage is extremely secure.” 

“The Syndicate runs on informants!” A flash of fear across his features. “How do I know he hasn’t bought or blackmailed you?” The kid skitters away, hackles raising.

“You can’t get help if you assume the whole world is after you,” Officer Jenny says gently, backing off to give him space. With slow steady movements, she reaches up and pretends to turn off the body cam for his peace of mind. “From my understanding, you’ve been in a very dangerous environment. Perhaps paranoia served you there, but it’s going to hurt you out here. Do you think you’re going to outrun the Angel of Death on your own?”

He hesitates, then to her relief relents. “Sorry. You’re right. I– sorry. I must look crazy.” Her dog trots up to the skittish kid, sniffing. Lithe barks once, wagging his tail. No ammunition, then. 

In the passenger seat, a little dog begins to yap loudly in response, then scrambles out of the car, the tiny ball of fluff acting pure aggression that the massive German shepherd scarcely acknowledges. 

A child tumbles out after, scooping the lapdog up. He pets Lithe, giggling a bit as they sniff him and bark the response for an unarmed target. Something flickers in his eyes, like it’s dawning on him what this all means. The kid tucks into Technoblade. That has to be Thomas, then. “Is Dad going to jail?” Dad? 

“Hopefully,” Technoblade mutters. 

“Of course sweetie,” she soothes, though it only deepens his furrowed brow. Misjudged the situation, then. Not for her to understand, though, only to solve. “The criminal justice system will sort through everything and make sure the bad guys are in jail and you boys are safe. I know it’s scary, but take however much time you need to calm down. You don’t have to worry anymore, the day is saved now that the police are here.” She smiles warmly at the kid, but his return is nervous, still perturbed by his fracturing family. She digs in her vest and peels off a sticker of a cartoon police dog, plastering it onto his shirt and then ruffling his hair. “Aw, you remind me of my son.”

Thomas blinks at her. “You have a kid?”

“Nearly the same age as you, sweetie. I’d do anything to protect him. That’s why I became a cop, so I could save kids like you.” 

Some of the strain in Technoblade’s posture eases. “We should hurry, they’re bound to catch up soon.” 

Given the Angel of Death’s immense powers, definitely. But she got to them first, and that’s what matters. Officer Jenny opens the back of the cop car, ushering them in. Technoblade grabs Thomas’ hand, veering close as the driver gets out. “Once we’re at the station, your captor won’t be able to hurt you ever again.”

But then Technoblade freezes, looking stricken. At the very last moment he balks, backing away from the vehicle. “Yes he would. Of course he would, why didn’t I think–” overwhelming fear crashes into him. “He’d just raid the station and get us. We’d be captured again and nothing would change except for the people I got killed along the way.” 

“Techno, you understand that the thing you just said is paranoid? Like extremely so? We need help,” the getaway driver argues. 

“No, I can’t do that to them, not after what happened with the Nether.”

“What happened with the Nether?” Officer Jenny asks, eyeing the approaching backup. 

“Syndicate slaughtered them. Every last one, you wouldn’t have a chance.” She hums a note. That’s information a lot of people would pay dearly to have. “I’m– I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pulled any of you into this. You need to run before he knows you’re here.” 

“Mr. Technoblade, you’re panicking right now, if you could think about this objectively-” 

“He’ll kill you! Do you not hear what I’m saying?! I’ll get every one of you killed for helping me!” 

Officer Jenny places her hands out placatingly. “It’s our duty to protect. You won’t be safe unless you come with me.” 

His darting eyes catch the dark glint of Syndicate vehicles descending upon the scene. “Skeppy start the engine!” Technoblade shoves the kid towards the getaway car, but she catches him by the arm. He whips around, eyes wide with panic. “Let me go!”

“Sir, you need to come with me,” she orders, dragging him to the back. “Your paranoia is making you act irrationally. The police will protect you.” He catches himself on the doorframe before he can be detained, surging forward. Officer Jenny flips his momentum and he sprawls in the backseat. The moment he tries to charge out again, her taser crackles in warning. 

Pure horror scrawls across his face. “You’ve been bought,” he breathes. He shouldn’t have made sure the body cam was off. No, it was likely never on to begin with. 

“Don’t be absurd,” Officer Jenny retorts. “I was threatened.” Pictures of her son walking into his school and a command to retrieve Technoblade and Thomas or else. The implications were clear. Technoblade snarls at her, but he’s exactly where she wants him. 

She glances to the boy. “Sweetie, come here if you don’t want him to be tased.” He hesitates, wide-eyed and frightened, but that serves her too. Back up has nearly arrived and her job will be done. All she can do is pray the Angel of Death doesn’t follow through on his threat regardless. 

“Don’t listen to her! Run!” Technoblade yells, lunging forward. But of course he’d be desperate too, knowing full well what happens once the Syndicate leader has him in his clutches. Poor kid. She doesn’t imagine it’ll be a kind death. But Officer Jenny has to put her own first, and he’s clearly only going to cause trouble. The taser plunges mercilessly towards Technoblade. 

He seizes her wrist, quick to target pressure points that have the weapon dropping from her hand. A kick square to the chest and he dives out of the patrol car. Before Officer Jenny can react the taser needles jam into her arm and cruel voltage pours over. 

By the time she can think again Technoblade is halfway to the car, yelling at the kid to run. Officer Jenny groans from her puddle on the ground. “Lithe!” His ears snap up at her whistle, and then the hound is off like a shot, tearing towards the target. 

Teeth burrow into his leg, and Techno crashes to the asphalt hard. He rolls, both trying to weaken the impact and escape the dog attacking him. Kicking accomplishes absolutely nothing as he’s dragged roughly toward the corrupt cop. Techno snarls and rakes a knife across the dog’s muzzle, but fangs only dig deeper into his calf. 

Floof, with far more bravado than sense, bursts out of Tommy’s arms, snapping at the German shepherd’s throat. For some reason the lapdog isn’t particularly effective. But Skeppy swinging his backpack with all his might packs a wallop and Lithe skids away with a pained noise, snarling with anger. But it stays down. Or, well, it does after being tased. The agonized howling wrenches Techno’s gut, but he’s already running. The Syndicate vehicles are closing in, swerving to block off the exits of the parking lot they pulled into. 

“Floof!” Tommy shouts as Skeppy shoves him back into the car. “He’s not–”

“Got him!” Techno yells, skidding into a pivot immediately. “Skeppy-”

“On it!” he replies, diving into the driver’s seat. Floof is preoccupied snarling at the heap of police dog. But Techno only gets a few strides forward before Floof yelps as he’s snatched by the scruff of the neck. Techno is transfixed as he stares down Officer Jenny’s gun trained smoothly on his heart. 

He slams to a stop. “You pull that trigger and he’ll kill you,” Techno says, full intensity caught upon the officer. 

“If I don’t he’ll kill my son,” she spits. 

“You think he lets others play with his prey? He wants us alive. Trust me, the moment you pull that trigger it’s going to get so much worse for you.”

The barrel drifts to his legs. “I don’t think he’ll care the state as long as the target is delivered. Or you can come quietly. Your choice.” But she doesn’t shoot. She doesn’t know enough to make such a dangerous gamble. 

He backs away slowly, limping from the dog bite. She’s already doomed. There’s nothing he can do. But if he lets that on she’d have no incentive to let him live. Soldiers begin to flood out of the surrounding vehicles. Lithe picks itself up, bristling, a growl gurgling up as it prowls closer. He runs the calculations twice. Techno’s heart twists, but there’s nothing he can do. Floof whines. Techno gives him a silent farewell. 

Without a second glance he dives into the car. It’s already moving before he can close the door, throwing off the shot. Glass shatters as everyone in the car screams, ducking down. Wild barks burst out, Lithe streaking towards them and slamming at the broken window, teeth snapping wildly. Techno swipes wildly with his knife as Skeppy floors it, an arm thrown up to protect his face. The jaw snaps onto his forearm, but the acceleration is too much, ripping the canine away. Techno’s arm cracks against the window frame, shoulder nearly wrenching out of its socket and he pulls it in quickly, cradling it as best he can while ducking down to avoid the gunfire. Another that plants into the metal carapace, another that busts Skeppy’s taillight, another. Final. Thunder cracking out from somewhere else entirely. There isn’t any more gunfire. Without looking, he knows with certainty that Officer Jenny is dead. Lithe howls. 

Skeppy swerves as a Syndicate soldier throws himself at them. There’s no unblocked exit, no way to escape except on foot, and the parking lot swarms with enemies. Skeppy grits his teeth, then swings sharply, building up momentum. “Come on baby you got this,” he mutters to his beat-up second-hand car. He glances at Techno with a wild look in his eyes. “You know, I’ve kinda always wanted to do something like this.” The world slams fast as they jump the curb, Tommy yelping as he goes airborne. They crunch into the sidewalk, plunging into thick grass as shouts ring out. Engines straining and spluttering, the wheels turn uselessly a few times in the mud, then find some type of traction. They hurtle forward, bouncing and jolting until Skeppy clears to the other side, screeching onto a road and slamming the pedal to the metal. 

They realize rather quickly they’re on a one-way road, going in the wrong direction at breakneck speeds. Skeppy swerves and weaves and jerks into a turn so fast they nearly crash three different ways, then is speeding off, Phil’s men left in the dust. There’s a few minutes of pure silence spent processing, then Techno grins at Skeppy. “Didn’t know you could drive like that.” 

“Neither does my insurance agency!” He laughs shakily, heart still pounding. “Where’d you even learn to fight like that?! That was sick! Dude, you tased a cop!”

“That’s one for the anarchist bucket list. And, uh, Phil taught me. That one really bit him in the butt.” 

“Speaking of, how’re the bites?”

Techno winces. “Arm’s bad. It’s not broken, just hurts like hell,” he complains, clutching it. Definitely some torn muscles. He flashes a thumbs up. “But hey! It’s my left so it doesn’t matter too much.” He clumsily rolls up his pants to find a rather mangled calf. At least Phil made sure he was up to date on his shots. 

“What about Floof?” Tommy asks, tearing up his police dog sticker.

“...I don’t know.” The victory sours. “Phil has him now.” He doesn’t think the Angel will hurt his pet. “Nothing we can do besides accept the loss. We’re lucky we’ve gotten this far. I don’t even know where to go.” Especially if Phil has a surveillance empire and control over at least some portion of the local police force. Best they can do is get as far away as possible and then lay low. “But…this is the farthest I’ve ever gotten, and at least for now he has no idea where we are. I’ll take it.” 

They don’t stop. They don’t have any idea where they are, either, Techno not trusting GPS’s secrecy. Best idea any of them can cook up is to camp out a few days while they figure out the next steps. Techno figures anywhere densely populated would be combed through, particularly everyone he knows. After seeing the types of measures the Nether had to go through to even merely postpone the Angel’s wrath, and knowing he doesn’t have even a smidge of the influence and resources they do, Techno isn’t sure what hope there is. They’re isolated, and being hunted by a ruthless man. 

And yet the weight of constant scrutiny and expected performance lifting from his shoulders is the freest Techno has ever felt. He got him and Tommy out. It’s possible. The thought is exhilarating. 

He’s a little nervous as they stop for gas, Skeppy going in to scrounge what supplies he can for their camping trip, and hopefully some antibiotics at the very least. The leg not brutalized by the canine bounces a nervous tattoo into the car floor. Techno keeps a constant vigilance for approaching hunters. 

“…what did your parents beat you in?” His eyes flicker up to meet Tommy’s in the rearview mirror. He’s confused and anxious and has only pieces of their reactions to base his own on. But he’s eleven, shouldn’t he know what the real world is like by now? Techno knew full well what child abuse was at that age. But Tommy is a sheltered kid, and judging by the thread of fear in his voice he probably already knows. It’s too late for denial for both of them. 

“Real life.” 

“…what?” his voice is so, so small. 

“It means, Tommy, that they hit me.” He feels like should apologize for saying it. 

“If- if they hurt you, why did you cry? Shouldn’t you be happy when baddies are gone?” 

“I don’t…I don’t know, Tommy,” he whispers, gaze dropping. The thought keeps pounding over and over in his head. Dead, dead, dead. There’s no redemption in the grave. “I thought there was a chance I could fix our relationship. It gets rough sometimes, but we love each other. Loved.” The past tense feels like shards of glass. “And it hurts. They hurt. And maybe I should be glad that I’m free of them, that I’ve escaped, but I can’t be.”

“Like…like Phil?”

“Yeah. Exactly like him.”

“I don’t wanna lose Dad, Techno.” 

“I know.” How keenly does he know it, like a dagger lodged between his ribs. “But I think you know how scary he can be. Denial didn’t save me, Tommy. I’ve tried a long time to hold onto my parents no matter how much it screwed me over. I don’t want to watch you go through the same thing.” 

“But he loves us.”

“True. And look at what that love has done to me.” Tommy goes utterly silent. “I’m sorry, I kinda rushed all this since there wasn’t time or privacy to ask. But he’s done awful things in my name, and I can’t stand it. Your relationship is different though. If, uh, I’m honest I was acting on the assumption he kidnaped you, and now realize I’ve kinda made a lot of assumptions about where you’re at and what you want and. And I can’t promise it’ll be easy, or safe, because I don’t know what I’m doing. So– so, like, if you want to stay with your Dad I get it…”

Tommy unbuckles and crawls up to perch on the center console. He reaches for Techno, then hesitates, remembering the way he snapped at Skeppy earlier. “Can I–” Techno is already hugging him, dragging him close. “I want to be with you.” he says simply.

“I don’t have a job, Tommy. Or an actual house, and he’s going to be after us for the rest of our lives-”

“Well Dad’s a wrongun. So obviously I can’t be on his side, can I!” He doesn’t quite hide his upset, but that’s alright. Techno fully knows what it’s like. Escape is so, so hard. But they have each other, and for now that’s enough. They stay like that for a time, wrapped around one another, finding comfort. 

And then Techno realizes Skeppy has been gone for far too long. Perhaps it’s all paranoia, but he untangles from Tommy, weighing safety strategy. But he feels better with Tommy at his side. They go together, though Techno is definitely gripping his hand too tight. When approaching the convenience store, nothing is remiss from the outside. As he crosses the threshold it’s unnervingly normal, albeit quiet. The gas station is empty save a broad employee behind the register flipping through a magazine. He glances at them, Techno caught like a deer in the headlights, then returns his attention to his article. Tommy nudges him, and they continue, poking through a few aisles and finding nothing. Unease only grows, the pair creeping down a narrow hall leading to the bathroom. Techno knocks, calling his name, and gets nothing. They enter, poking open empty stalls. The last one is locked, but there’s no response. 

Tommy bends down, staring beneath the stalls. In the corner of the largest stall, someone sits on the floor. Based off the turquoise hoodie, it’s Skeppy. “Found him!” 

“Skeppy? What’s going on?” Techno pounds the stall door, but there’s silence. 

Tommy decides they’re under special circumstances, and crawls beneath the door. Skeppy slumps in the corner, head rolled forward and clearly unconscious. Tommy unlocks the stall and Techno spills in, worry spiking. He rushes forward, desperately checking for a pulse. Alive. No signs of injuries either. 

The lock on the door leading to the hallway clicks. Techno and Tommy stare at each other in a shared horrid realization. Techno raises a finger to shush, then creeps towards the door. He settles into proper stance, wincing as he realizes how much weight is going to be put on his hurt leg. Nothing for it. A moment of calculation, then he powerfully cracks a kick right below the door handle. The barrier crashes through cleanly, freeing them.

“That works? I thought you had to ram it with your shoulder!” Tommy shouts in disbelief. 

“That technique puts the force at the wrong part of the door,” Techno responds absentmindedly, limping out of the restroom. His head whips from side to side, trying to find the source of the scream. He finds a soldier who got body-slammed by the door. Techno scrambles away, shouting for Tommy to get behind him. Before the foe can recover, Techno mercilessly plunges the taser into them. The body jerks and spasms violently, leaving a slumped, panting enemy. 

A scream has him running before he even knows what’s happening, charging at that broad employee who’s suddenly descended upon Tommy. He cracks a haymaker into the back of their head, then slashes wildly with one of his knives in ribbons of crimson until Tommy is released, scrambling to the safety of the outside. The worker whirls upon him, a kick shoving him back into the waiting arms of the man he’d tasered. Techno lashes out, desperate for release as the employee bounds after Tommy. 

“Lock yourself in, Tommy!” he screams. Tommy bolts for the car, slamming the doors close in the nick of time. The fake employee pounds on the windows, the boy scrambling back in fear. 

A blade stabs deep into Techno’s gut and he gasps. His hands instinctively go to the weapon protruding from his side, instinctively yanking it out. In the midst of sharp panic, he belatedly recognizes it as a tranquilizer dart. He stumbles as he’s dragged back by his attacker. That must be what happened to Skeppy, then. He’s…failed. He waits for blackness to sweep in and take everything from him. 

Of course, it doesn’t, since movies aren’t particularly accurate, much like the earlier door-ramming technique. Still hurts like hell though. Techno jabs the taser into the soldier, only for it to fail to discharge, already out of electricity. The weapon is knocked from his hands, clattering on the floor. His wrist is captured and arm pinned painfully behind his back, the other already near useless after that blasted hound nearly ripped it off. Techno slumps forward, realizing he is nowhere near strong enough to break out. 

“That’s it, give in. Nice and easy. You must be important, the Angel’s paying big bucks for the two of you,” the mercenary mutters. 

“Just leave Tommy alone,” Techno pleads. “Please, he’s just a kid, he doesn’t des–” his head cracks back, crunching into their nose with a sickening crunch. Techno jams his elbow into the mercenary’s gut, wrestling out of the grapple. A shove to get them away, and then inspiration strikes him. With more strength than he knew he possessed, Techno pushes over a display wrack, pinning the soldier to the spot. He stands there panting a moment, then scrambles, prying away what weapons he can find after months of familiarity with the Angel’s stashes. “Stay there,” he demands, pointing the man’s own gun at him. Blood pools around from the broken nose. “I’ll shoot you! Okay! If you try anything!” A moment to see if they’d try anything, and then he tears through the store, finding some zip-ties to hopefully secure him more. 

But then he hears a crash, and the engine splutters to life. Techno bursts outside to find Skeppy’s vehicle accelerating. He desperately races after, leg screaming in protest, but he doesn’t stand a chance. 

“TECHNO!” Tommy shouts, halfway crawling out of the passenger window only to be dragged back in. A breath to try to calm the tangle of adrenaline and panic devouring him, and Techno raises the gun, firing off round after round and praying he doesn’t murder his little brother. He’s a dozen shots in when the back tire blows, the vehicle swerving wildly in a shower of sparks. It’s still going faster than he could ever hope to catch. Limping forward, Techno manages to shoot another wheel on the wounded target before it can accelerate again. Skeppy’s car screeches to a halt. Techno’s desperate sprint is a lopsided, painful affair, but he hobbles for the car, getting within a dozen yards before the goon can stumble out. 

“Hands up!” Techno barks. “Hands up right now before I kill you!” They drag Tommy in front, using him as some type of shield. The gun barrel tilts his chin upward, the sunlight catching the tears rolling down his face. 

“Techno?” he whimpers. “Techno I don’t-” The glock digs into his throat, and Tommy chokes down his sobs, trembling. 

“One more step and I’ll shoot,” the man spits out. Techno runs a few fast calculations. Civilian garb, but they’re no doubt a mercenary like the other. Using Phil’s alias and threatening Tommy Craft. He clearly knows absolutely nothing. No idea of the horrible mistake he’s making, no investment in the lives he’s ruining, risking it solely for cash. And a dead mercenary doesn’t get paid. Techno continues his staggered advance, gun trained right between the soldier’s eyes. “I’m warning you!” 

Techno laughs, and it sounds cold and awful even to his own ears. But he’s been pushed to the utter brink today, and he’s going to fight tooth and nail for his family. Not for a moment does he falter in his approach. “I was personally trained by the Angel of Death, and you don’t think I could blast your brains out before you even thought of hurting him?” He can’t shoot for crap, would never murder someone, and frankly both the Angel and Wither gave up teaching him how to shoot given how atrocious his aim was, but it’s a different kind of lesson he’s using now. Those moments when the mask slipped and pure bloodlust filled the room, danger bleeding into the air. He channels the Angel of Death, adopting his rabid, violent snarl of a smile, his eyes burning with obsession. 

The mercenary falters. “He– he wouldn’t have a bounty if you’d really worked for him.” 

“Makes you question what kinda man it takes to turn against him, doesn’t it? You think I didn’t know he’d move heaven and hell to get me back? Gotta say, I like my odds against him. And you? You’re scarcely a consideration trying to tamper with forces wildly beyond your level.” He can’t look at Tommy. To be grounded in reality would break the tenuous hold of the character he’s playing. It’s taking just about all Techno has to walk in a straight line and keep his gun steady, given how his vision is starting to swim at the edges. “You know, this reminds me of my last hostage situation,” he says conversationally, still steadily approaching with full bravado. He’s only a dozen feet away now. “And look how that turned out!”

“What? What are you talking about?” the goon snaps. 

“Don’t you know? I’m the reason the Wither died. She tried to use a hostage to save herself, and I think we both know what happened to the Nether. So unless you want to end up like her, I would suggest you stop touching what’s mine.” Pure, unadulterated fury bleeds from his words. 

And slowly, the man’s hands raise. Techno barks a command to toss the gun and is obeyed at once. He closes the last of the distance between them, ordering him off the road. The mercenary is zip-tied to a roadsign and stripped of weapons. 

Woozy, Techno leans against Skeppy’s wreck of a car, waiting for the world to stop spinning. It doesn’t. Skeppy’s down, and Techno doesn’t think he’s far from unconsciousness. “Hey Tommy,” he asks the tween faintly. “Want to learn to drive on two wheels without adult supervision while being hunted down?” His answer comes in the fact Tommy is preoccupied with hyperventilating. Knowing how he feels during panic attacks, Techno gives him plenty of space. “It’s alright Tommy. You’re safe now, I’ll protect you. Breathe with me, that’s it. We need to go get Skeppy.” There’s more coming, no doubt. Soon only Tommy will be awake, and Techno desperately needs to ensure he’ll be okay. “What’s wrong?” For some reason, he still feels like he’s channeling Phil, albeit a different aspect.

“He was gonna kill me! And then you were gonna kill him! We’re gonna end up like the Nether! I don’t even know what that is!” Tommy wails. 

“Oh I was bluffing through my teeth,” he explains immediately. The goon let’s lose an unarticulated cry of fury at being tricked. “I’m a HORRIBLE shot! The Angel gave up on training me! And I’m super duper tranq’d at the moment and am going to pass out soon. So uh, heads up on that.” 

“But you kept– you kept walking, and he was going to shoot me, and he told you to stop but-”

“It’s a hostage situation, Tommy. He couldn’t have actually hurt you if he wanted to live. It’s basic strategy.”

“You’d have killed him?” Tommy asks uncertainly. 

“No. Course not. Phil wouldn’t, either, but he’d sure make the man wish he had. Let’s go.” 

Tommy latches onto his side, which is pretty useful given how much Techno leans onto him while limping back to the gas station. The assurance of the act keeps him quiet for a while, at least till they get back to the convenience store and tie up the other mercenary. Questions bubble up then, about hostage situations and the Wither and Phil. Techno winces and gives concise responses. “It wasn’t quite a lie, more like. Saying true things in a way where he came to the wrong conclusions. Tends to make you a lot more convincing I’ve found.”

“You’re scary.”

“Had to be, if it was going to work. Mostly I just thought about how Phil would’ve reacted and copied him.”

“What? Dad is nowhere near that scary!”

“You’re right. He’s worse because he isn’t lying.” Techno hesitates, then slams the panic button by the register. It’s a toss-up if the police will help, but maybe if he makes this whole affair loud enough someone not under the Angel’s thumb will notice. Maybe not even act, but at least someone, anyone, would know. 

With Tommy’s help, he drags Skeppy to the backroom and begins to barricade them in. He piles crates and shelving in front of the doors until he can barely shift them anymore, his strength dwindling as the adrenaline runs out and the tranquilizers set in. He stumbles over to where Tommy sits tucked in a pile of products in a corner, making a fort to the best of his ability. Bringing Skeppy in, Techno then pulls a crate to block them all into the little alcove. It’s nearly completely dark, and he can only hope they’re not found. It’s cramped, barely enough room for them all. Tommy crawls into his lap, and Techno automatically wraps around, sheltering him. A small gap is the only glimpse out to the dim, disheveled room beyond, and Techno grips the gun in his hand tight. He remains vigilant as best he can, even as his limbs begin to droop and exhaustion sweeps in. But he fights to stay awake, needing to protect Tommy. 

Tommy’s pounding heartbeat slams against his chest, till their frantic pulses tangle together into one. “…if I’m not a Craft, what am I?” 

“Whatever you want to be, Tommy.” He doesn’t notice he’s beginning to nod off until his head jerks back up, startled. 

“Could. Could I be Tommy Piglin?”

His blood runs like ice. “No.”

“...oh.”

He immediately recognizes the mistake. “No. No, not like that, Tommy. I don’t want to be a Piglin, either.”

“Then what does that make us?”

Us. “I dunno, kid. But whatever we are, we’re together…alright? I promise you that much.” Darkness seeps in, Techno no longer able to keep his eyes open. He slumps over Tommy, only vaguely able to worry about crushing him. The rest of him is content to have the warmth of Tommy wrapped in his arms. 

“Where are we going to go?” Techno hasn't gotten that far. He doesn’t know, he just needed to get away from Phil. But he can’t go back to his family even if they were alive, he can’t put Tommy in that situation.

Barely can he fight past the tsunami of exhaustion crashing over him. “Home. Whatever that looks like. We’ll…make one…” His constant vigilance weakens as the drugs finally claim him. Either the police find them first or Philza Craft does. Maybe that’s just the same result either way. It is out of his hands now. 

He finds a room rearranged into a barricade with the meager protection of a dingy gas station backroom. It’s not bad craftsmanship, should the materials be taken into consideration, though of course it would be effective in its purpose given its constructor’s brilliance. Metal weaves together in an inseparable tangle, a fortress of crates of beer and various snack products buttress the door, blocking it utterly. A masterclass in ingenuity, save for one flaw that really can’t be held against Technoblade. Chiefly, the world’s best demolition expert wanted to get to his brothers, and so he would. 

“Your son is threatening to shoot anyone that comes in. It’s a tactical nightmare in there.”

Philza pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course Technoblade somehow got a gun. Why not? “I’ll handle him.”

“Are you sure? Untrained gunmen can be more volatile since they don’t know what they’re doing.”

“I’m highly aware. He’s not going to shoot me.”

“Considering the situation, sir, I don’t think-”

“Good. I don’t pay you to think. Now get out of my way. I’m going to talk to my son.” 

He’s not mad at Technoblade for running. No, that was expected, given the boy’s hard-wired instinct to bolt when panicked. Really it was Philza’s fault for offering him an escape on a platter instead of arranging a smaller, more controlled way for him to cope with the stress. And now according to reports he’s injured, and no doubt catastrophized himself into a mental spiral. They really need to sit down and work on healthier coping mechanisms one of these days. 

No, what Philza’s mad about is the fact he dragged Thomas into it. Technoblade’s outburst has doubtless freaked him out. They’ll definitely need to talk about that after all this has settled down. 

And if he’s really honest, he’s irked that Technoblade is so distressed over his captors. They were making so much progress! He nearly thought they’d manage to make it through this little snag, but then Technoblade had to go and pull this stunt. It stings to go from the rushing elation of finally being called Dad to the despair of having to hunt his own child down. 

Floof snarls at his approach, shrinking to the back of his kennel. His recapture hadn’t been particularly gentle, the poor thing in a frenzied state after whatever happened with their police agent. But a few soft words and a triple-checked non-poisoned piece of beef jerky and he’s calmed. If only Technoblade would be so easily soothed. Philza scoops Floof into his arms, ruffling his fuzzy ears. Then he raises the lapdog up till they’re face to face. There isn’t a single thought behind his black eyes. “You made him feel better this afternoon, and I need you to do that again. Understand your orders?” Floof sets a paw against his face. “Excellent. You’re the only soldier I trust to go in there with me.”

“Dad, I–”

“Not now, Wilbur.”

“But if I could just talk to h-”

“And you think I’d trust you to do that?” he says more than a little sharply. Wilbur winces. “Thank you for creating an entrance, but you clearly have ulterior motives.” 

“I didn’t know he’d take Tommy!” Wilbur insists. “I didn’t realize till they were gone, I’m sorry, I regretted it imme-”

“And that’s the only regret you have? The fact you still insist on enabling your brother’s mental crisis means I can’t let you in there. He needs help, not someone who will exacerbate his panic. We will discuss this later, Wilbur.” 

“But-”

“Later.” Wilbur’s mouth clicks shut. Frustration boils in his dark eyes. He shoulder-checks Philza as he storms past. But what did he expect after he intentionally sabotaged Philza and allowed Technoblade to escape and get hurt? Their family is fracturing at the moment, but Philza refuses to let it fall apart. He’ll sort out Wilbur later; first to deal with his errant Technoblade. 

Philza steps through the smoldering crater in the gas station wall. “Technoblade, please don’t be rash–” his spiel trails away as he surveys the room. It’s disgusting, frankly, though Philza has no frame of reference for the quality of gas stations. 

Smoke lingers in the room, hiding his children. Philza pads across the ground completely silently, picking his way carefully around the scattered merchandise. He doesn’t want to startle Technoblade, but neither does he want to give away his position. It’s nigh impossible to find him in the jungle of merchandise, all spilled out and forming innumerable nooks and crannies. 

As expected, Floof squirms in his grip, and once released is racing towards the scent of his owner. The blur of white is quickly lost in the upheaval, but Philza quietly tails the scrambling noises. “Floof!” comes a delighted, surprised voice. There’s a small crash, squirming, and sharp shushes panickedly trying to silence the happy yapping. 

If it weren’t for Floof he never would’ve found them so quickly and painlessly. Hopefully, the comfort of his dog will ebb some of Technoblade’s panic. Even with a direction and the muffled noises of excited dog movement, it’s still difficult to find his boys. They’re tucked in some back corner beneath a mountain of collapsed shelving and crates. No doubt they would have been completely hidden, but Floof unearthed them in his enthusiastic reunification. Philza gives decent distance, focus pouring into the snatch of the hiding place. Just a small glimpse, but he catches the way Technoblade curls around to physically shelter Tommy, who is preoccupied with the Floof squirming into his lap. Neither have noticed him yet. For a moment he simply drinks it in, finding some refuge in the love captured in the way they so perfectly nestle together. It’s hard to remember in these awful moments when Technoblade’s anxiety overwhelms him, but he really does adore his family even when at rock bottom. 

The assurance buttresses Philza’s resolve. “Please don’t shoot me, Technoblade. You’ve already done enough today. Just let it be over. Just come home.” 

“Leave us alone,” his son spits, head and gun jerking up the moment Philza speaks. He’s completely white, trembling, but his glare is acrid. 

Philza is thrown utterly, confusion and worry pouring into him. Placatingly, he holds out his palms, approaching slowly. The last thing Philza wants is to threaten him. 

“It’s me. It’s just your dad. Please calm down, it’s all right.”

But Thomas doesn’t lower the gun. “Don’t take another step.” 

He could’ve handled it, if it were Technoblade. It would’ve broken his heart, but Philza could have survived. But Technoblade is still slumped unconscious over his little brother, limply cocooning him. Something buries in his chest as if Thomas had already pulled the trigger. Philza has taken bullets before, but this thing ripping through his ribs and lodging in his heart is far worse. “...what are you doing, Tommy?”

“I’m…I’m…” The gun doesn’t fit in his hands, tiny fingers struggling to wrap around the handle. It’s too heavy for a child, but it doesn’t take any strength at all to pull a trigger. Perhaps he might have used two hands to hold it, but one is dug into Floof’s fur for comfort. He’s dwarfed utterly in Technoblade’s hold, peeking out from where strands of blush-dyed hair spill over him. But that burning Craft determination fills his eyes. “I’m protecting him. Get away.”

Philza slowly and steadily kneels down. “Or what?” he asks gently. 

“Or I’ll–I’ll…shoot you?”

“Why do you want to shoot me?” Calm patience fills his tone, radiating outward. The dog, at least, stops barking at him, but Thomas is still spooked. 

“...I don’t.”

“Can you lower the gun for me, sunshine?”

Thomas pauses, forming what war calculations a child can fathom. The firearm drifts down, but then he shakes his head, pointing the barrel at his father. “No. Cause else you’ll get closer, and take us back, and we don’t want that.” 

“And that's what you, Thomas, want? For this to be the last time you ever see me?” A pitiful noise is trapped in Thomas’ throat, almost a whine, but he nods. “That would be a shame. I’d miss my boys rather terribly. Me and Wilbur would be lonely without you. Dinner would be ever so quiet, and Christmas would be joyless. You hate our family that much?”

His features pinch together in pain, but he shakes his head like that would clear away his words. “Techno said you killed his parents.” 

Philza is silent for a moment. Is that what this is about? Awful fury fills his heart for a moment. Technoblade swore he was getting better, told Philza to his face that he knew they didn’t love him. Of course he suspected it was the catalyst, but to be told point blank that Technoblade is blaming this all on him hurts. “But that isn’t true. Technoblade is scared right now. The news made him panic, Thomas, he’s not thinking rationally. I don’t even know why he’d assume I’d murder his parents.”

“Techno said you killed the Wither.”

“Do you even know who that is?”

“Um. A dead guy?”

“She was the one who poisoned Technoblade. Remember how sick he got? And how he was never the same even after he woke from the coma? How he wouldn’t talk at all? How he was terrified of everything?” Thomas nods hesitantly. “That was the Wither. She used Technoblade, manipulated his insecurities and instincts, and then when she had what she wanted she discarded him. She scared him, and scarred him, and nearly killed him. And she’d do it again if she could, to you or Wilbur or me or anyone she could get her hands on. She was far too dangerous to allow to live.” Horribly, Thomas shrinks back instead of finding comfort, pressing against his unconscious brother for safety. “The Wither was a villain, so I defeated her. That’s a guardian angel’s job,” Philza insists. “I’m sorry that he’s scared you right now. I imagine your brother is very, very frightened at the moment. Has been ever since he was kidnapped. He experienced things in there that were very upsetting. His body was very hurt, but so was his mind. Technoblade tried very hard to make sure you didn’t see that. I think hearing his parents went missing reminded him of when he went missing, so he assumed what happened to him happened to them. Except, they wouldn’t have a me to save them. Perhaps that’s why he’s blaming me for the deaths he’s imagining.”

“No, that isn’t what he said at all. You killed his parents, he said you hated them.” 

“I do. They’re villains like the Wither was. But that does not mean I killed them. And if you two run away, he’ll never learn the truth.”

“But I can tell him. So you can go away now. Um. Please. Even though he said you aren’t gonna stop chasing us…”

“I’m hearing a lot about what Technoblade thinks. But what about you, Thomas?” 

“I don’t…I’m confused. And scared. And I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t think he does either. But I don’t think I’m supposed to trust you? Because you’re…a baddie?”

“And why’s that?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s something you do know? Because I can offer you the truth, which is that I love you boys so, so much.”

“Techno said that too, but-” 

“Did he?” That’s good to hear. Even through the panic some level of truth remained. “Unfortunately, I imagine that scares your brother very much. He’s spent his entire life being told he was loved by people who hurt him very badly, first his parents, then the Wither. So he assumes I’m the same. It’s a survival mechanism, that’s all. He’s never had someone to protect him before, so he thinks he has to do it all on his own when that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Thomas stares at the gun in his hands. “I’m protecting him.” 

“And so am I. So do you believe I’m a baddie, or do you believe I want to protect my family?”

Thomas hesitates, then looks very dismayed. “Am I gonna get in trouble for threatening to shoot you?”

“I could never be mad with you.”

His shoulders slump in relief as the gun is lowered. “Oh good, because my arm was getting tired.” Carefully, Philza shoves back crates until his family is unearthed. Thomas reaches for him, and Philza scoops both boys into his arms. “And. And Techno won’t get in trouble either, will he?”

“Oh make no mistake the both of you are incredibly grounded,” he assures the child he cradles. Thomas groans. “I can’t have this happening again, this was incredibly dangerous.” Almost predictably, Technoblade is a mess of injuries, and Philza winces at the torn-up flesh. It’s a ginger embrace, but no less loving. Still, all Philza can think of is the scant hours ago when Technoblade hugged him back for the very first time. How quickly everything fell apart. But he’s in Philza’s clutches once again, safe and alive. Thomas is frightened and confused, but he put down the gun in the end. One day all his children will truly be his. Not today, it seems, but eventually. 

When it returns, the world is blurred and errant. Techno moans queasily and burrows into his pillow, waiting for everything to stop swimming. It subsides a little, but all he wants is to curl up in a little ball and pass out. Something nudges him incessantly, and he flinches away till he blearily recognizes the cold press of Floof’s nose. He nuzzles in close, and Techno ruffles his ears. The world lurches of its own accord, the radiance blistering. A pair of clumsy claps and the lights plunge off, soothing darkness taking some of the edge off. 

Someone else claps and piercing floodlights stab into his skull. Techno jolts upright and almost immediately it’s far too much. He attempts to catch himself on an arm to prop up, but the vertigo is far greater and he flumps into the mattress, trying not to puke. “Liiights,” he whimpers. 

“Sorry about that.” Blissful dark snaps over, and just barely Techno cracks open his eyes. A swaying crowd gathers at the foot of his bed, shadows smearing into one another and vanishing whenever they feel like it. The posture is closed off, arms crossed, but he can place the voice and his worry eases. Easier to deal with one threat than the thousand of imagined ones his brain can churn up at a moment’s notice.  

“Uuuugh. I feeel awful, Phil,” he mumbles, sounding every inch as pathetic as he is. “Am I siick?” 

“It would be far simpler if you were,” he sighs. “But no.” 

“Ate somethin…?” He lies there for a few minutes, groggily trying to piece everything together as Floof snuggles in. “Haeh? Watre– what’re you doin here?” 

“Overseeing your recovery. We need to talk.” 

“Nah, I know that– when’d Floof…?” He thought he was never going to see Floof again. It’s the thread that allows him to unravel the blurry past. Dread settles thick, and Techno slowly and covertly reaches for the knife stashed in his sleeves. His fingers find nothing. Abandoning stealth he snatches for the one in his boot to find he’s been stripped to his socks. Techno scrambles beneath his pillow, blearily muttering frantic cries of where’d it go? 

“You’re not going to find anything. Your weapons were confiscated the first time you woke up.” 

“What’ve–? What’ve you doone to me?” He needs to be fighting for his life, but the best he can do is barely sit, needing both arms to hold himself up. He only has the one, though, his left trapped in a sling to further destroy his ability to defend himself. Scrambling back, he quickly hits the backboard. It offers enough support to stay upright, though. His bleary gaze searches for the hovering threat, but he can’t tell where Phil is in the smear of colors. 

“You wouldn’t stop fighting. You were going to get yourself hurt.” He’d gone feral, fighting tooth and nail the last time. Rather exhausted of all this, Philza decided it would just be easier to chemically pacify him. A patient man he may be, but even he can recognize when an alternative approach is necessary. 

“Wheere’s Skeppy,” he demands. His heart pounds a mile a minute. Did the Angel kill him too? Has Techno gotten his friend murdered?

“I don’t think you deserve to know that at the moment.”

“What have you done to him?!” Techno roars. No doubt his vehement glare would be far more effective if he could figure out which swimming Phil is real. 

“Now why would I have done anything?” Unexpectedly, it comes from directly to his side, leaning into his ear. Techno scrambles away. 

It’s not particularly surprising, but still Philza winces. What has he ever done to deserve this? All he wants is his family, and it had seemed so within reach mere hours ago. It’s felt like one step forward and eight steps back the entire time he’s known Technoblade. His dazed eyes track nonexistent movement, rolling in and out of focus and clearly fighting to even stay open at all. Despite his sluggish movement, each breath is fast and shallow. “Yoou- you killed-”

“The Skeppy boy is perfectly alive and well.” Instead of being soothed, his son only retreats further away. He’s incapable of fixing his eyes upon the man in front of him, but Philza doubts Technoblade has ever once really seen him this entire time, too busy conjuring demons in his mind. “Why are you so scared of me? When have I ever hurt you?” He’s not looming, or ominous, or even advancing, yet his son cowers back. Or, the boy who pretended to be his son. “You lied to me, Technoblade.” Raw disappointment bleeds into his words. 

“Whuht?” He’s verging on the edge of the bed now, though scarcely notices. 

“Why did you call me your father if you didn’t mean it?”

The moment before Technoblade falls Philza’s hand shoots out and grasps him by the collar. His reaction is painfully slow, jerking back belatedly. Philza only pulls him forward. “Let goo of me—“

“As you wish.” It’s a moment of vindictiveness he immediately regrets as Technoblade flails and then tumbles to the ground. A pained noise escapes the heap of limbs, his pet barking in worry. That wasn’t fair of him, his son is in a disorientated state. He’s not angry. He’s not. Right now his son is expecting wrath and seething punishment, and that can’t be him. He can’t prove Technoblade’s fears right, no matter how furious he’d like to be. Still, Technoblade got his hopes up only to cruelly dash them, turning Philza’s entire family against him. It’s not been a good day in the Craft household. 

Footsteps slowly cross around to his side of the bed, a dark shadow looming over him. Weak instinct has Techno trying to crawl beneath for refuge. “Please don’t. You had to be rescued last time, remember?” Phil just sounds so tired. “How many times are we going to do this? You always back yourself into a corner, terrified out of your wits over something you’re blowing out of proportion. I want to help you, I really do, but you need to stop doing this. Not as a threat,” he insists, spotting the way Techno constricts in terror. “I swear I love you right now, even if you’re being difficult about it. You were so adamant, too, on somehow earning the place in this family you’ve always had. I don’t agree with your mindset, but neither can I see how this serves it. You really think acting like this is going to accomplish your goals? But I suppose it’s no wonder you’re this scared if you think this’ll ruin our relationship. I don’t know how many times I need to clarify this, but I will never be capable of hating you, no matter what you do. I’m not going to punish you for this, I know you’re only acting on instinct.” 

Instinct. Instinct. Has the Angel ever once credited him with even a shred of agency? “Becaause drugging me to th’ gills isn’t punishment.” He’s been reduced to an overwhelmingly vulnerable state. Exposed and defenseless. It reminds him of those times he’d jolt awake to his parent’s fury, addled and clumsy as he desperately tried to run. 

“You did try to kill me last time you woke up,” Phil retorts wearily. “But given how thoroughly you worked yourself into a panic, I suppose that’s to be expected. I thought we were doing so much better, too. What happened?” 

There’s only two of Phil now, a vast improvement. Amidst the vertigo, Techno glares up at him. “You happened.” 

The glob of spit hurled at him doesn’t even come close to his shoe. Philza sighs. “And what have I supposedly done now?” 

“You know what you did,” Technoblade hisses vehemently. 

“Well see, I just do so many horrible evil atrocities while cackling maniacally that I can’t remember which it is. Was it the puppy kicking or stealing candy from babies?” But the joke only seems to make him furious. Philza realizes he’s never really seen Technoblade truly angry before. Mad, certainly, frequently enough especially at the beginning. But he’s seething now, hatred dripping from his snarl like venom. His fury shines so brightly no matter how chemically addled he is. “What made you so adamantly despise me?”

“You killed my parents.”  

Philza sours. So it really did come back solely to them. All it took to break their happy family was the Piglins. They ruined Philza’s life eighteen years ago, and somehow they’re still managing it no matter how utterly at his mercy they are. It’s so unfair that Philza almost wants to make Technoblade right. “Unfortunately for the world, I have not actually done that.” 

“Like I’d ever believe you! They’ve been dead for months and you just carried on, trying to replace them!” 

“Now what reason could I possibly have to kill them?” he sighs. “Certainly not the horrible abuses they’ve performed upon an innocent child.” He’s tired and irritated. All this over nothing. But for Technoblade this is horrifically real. Philza kicks himself into gear, crouching down to where the drugged boy struggles to remain even sitting. He gently lifts his son’s chin, knowing he won’t be able to focus otherwise. His mahogany eyes are wide and hazy, dilated from a mixture of darkness, chemicals, and fear. “Believe me, Technoblade. I swear to you I have not killed the people who raised you. That would be far too kind.” He jerks back, then succumbs to cruel vertigo, crumpling to the ground. Philza scoops him up and lays him back into his bed, Floof enthusiastically squirming up to the nauseous child. Judging by the queasy groan, the pet’s affection comes to Technoblade’s dismay. Mercifully, Philza perches on the bed and pulls the lapdog to him, preoccupying him with affection to save Technoblade from the writhing canine. Perhaps he should’ve gotten a kinder drug; he’d wanted more relaxed lethargy, not this ill mess. Possibly it’s poorly interacting with the tranquilizer or his meds or his extreme hormones. “Now for some reason you might not believe me when I tell you the truth. Would you be willing to accept proof? Or are you belligerently convinced of your wild accusation?” 

“Like you couldn’t just fake any evidence you wanted.” 

“It would be difficult in person. Say, in three days, to give time for all these extreme emotions to soothe over.” 

“So you do have them,” Technoblade breathes. He goes quiet for so long Philza isn’t sure what to expect of him. But one thing he does know is the expected slump of relief at realizing the truth never comes. Technoblade eventually speaks, hesitant and small. “Okay. Okay. So- Okay. I get it. I– I’ll be good, right, play the son, and you’ll– you'll let them go? If I stay?” He’s…if he’s honest he’s not sure he can trade his freedom for theirs. Frankly, they made his life a living hell some days. But if he’s looking at it objectively, his own prison is a lot kinder than theirs. 

“You’d…do that?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I’d try, at the very least. I don’t know how convincing I’d be, but I’d try.”

“I don’t want that. I don’t want you to pretend for me.” How abhorrent a thought. 

“Then there’s nothing. I can’t save them.” Despair pools in his eyes. 

Philza stares at him a long time. “I don’t understand you.”

“What’s so difficult about it? You won’t hurt me, not like them.” There’s a funny double way to read that last sentence. The whole crux of the issue so neatly justified from both perspectives. Yet he sounds unenthusiastic about his argument. Philza can’t tell if he wants his kidnappers to suffer, or finds remaining here to be so repulsive. “I’ll be good, not like today. Or- yes, like today, before Skeppy dropped the news and I ruined everything. Nice and compliant. If you let them go I won’t- I won’t fight you anymore, okay?” 

“You hesitate.”

“It’s complicated. I hate them, sure, but I love them. I don’t care if I never see them again, but I can’t just let them rot.”

“...You know what? I think today might actually be considered progress for you. I’m proud of you for realizing they shouldn’t be in your life anymore,” Philza tries, needing to salvage anything from this. Technoblade’s stony expression doesn’t change. “Ahem. I accept your terms. I’ll release your captors in exchange for you to willingly remain here.”

The faintest strain releases from his eyes. It’s replaced with a dull, listless resignation. “Okay.” 

“I don’t want you to pretend anything,” Philza rushes. “That would be horrible. And I need you to understand, I’m freeing them because that’s what you want of me. I’m only agreeing in these terms because going outside is clearly dangerous for you. Just look how you got hurt! And imagine if one of our enemies had found you in that time window. This is for your safety.”

“Okay.” His face turns into his pillow. 

“Are you going to say anything else…?” Philza asks. “Any thoughts? Feelings? You’ve had a rough day, you can talk about that if you need.”

Technoblade doesn’t respond.

He supposes Skeppy’s cell is nice enough. Generous even, though Techno doubts his parents have the same luxury. Well furnished and spacious even if rifled through by a newly caged Skeppy who has decided to release a war cry and attack the first person to come in the room. Which naturally is the eager Techno, who is extremely out of action hero juice at the moment and balks backward to be caught by the Angel. Phil shoots out an arm to block the lamp swinging for them, shoving back with enough force to cause Skeppy to stumble. Promptly, he picks Techno up and carries him away from danger as Skeppy charges out of the room, still yelling at the top of his lungs. A second to gather his bearings and he’s racing for Techno, declaring some type of rescue, just like Blaze had. Rather quickly he’s picked up by the scruff of the neck by a guard and carried back into his cell, kicking the whole time to little effect. “Really, Technoblade, the company you keep…” Phil disapproves. 

“Birds of a feather. Now put me down.” 

“It’d be faster to just let me carry-”

“Put me down.” 

“If you truly insist.” It’s a funny sort of belligerent independence he tries to claim while gripping onto Philza for support as he limps down the hall. They treated him for the injuries he sustained in that stupid rebellion, but the leg seems to be bothering him far more than expected. Philza of course would rather he rest a few days, but as always Technoblade is determined and anxiety-riddled, convinced the Skeppy boy is getting tortured no matter how Philza endeavors to dissuade him of the absurd notion. They return to the cell where Skeppy is still being dangled in the air and yelling particularly unconvincing threats. “Ah, please calm down; what you’ve witnessed has been greatly confusing. We’ll explain everything in a second.” 

“It’s really, really not what you think,” Techno manages, not meeting his eyes. His stomach knots, but this might be the only way to make sure Skeppy is free. He’ll do whatever it takes. Phil makes a show of helping him limp to a wing chair, Techno careful to lean into him. Skeppy isn’t the only one scrutinizing his act.

The Angel positions himself looming over the back of Techno’s chair, a hand placed upon his shoulder, although whether in soothing or warning matters little. A gesture and the guard holding Skeppy like a particularly rascally kitten drops him to the ground. A moment to ensure the reckless man isn’t going to try anything, and the soldier leaves. The Angel makes a pointed cough. “If we’re done with that…as you’re aware, Technoblade’s health has been disastrous of late. In the past, he’s requested privacy, but after today that’s not an option. Beyond nearly dying from physical complications, there’s been notable damage to his brain.” Techno flinches but comes to a tense stillness as the Angel squeezes his shoulder. “The memory loss, as previously mentioned, but that’s not the only symptom. One of the unfortunate and rather extreme side effects of Technoblade’s condition is bouts of intense paranoid psychosis. That’s what you witnessed this afternoon.” 

Skeppy looks outraged, but it snaps to pure shock when Techno confirms it. “I didn’t want you to know. Didn’t want you to think I was, you know, crazy.” At least his miserable tone works in his favor. But it’ll be worth it if it means Skeppy isn’t trapped here like he is. 

“Given his condition, we’ve been hesitant with how many people he’s exposed to, which is why we went so long before having the pleasure of your visit. While it was lovely to have you, I think it was a mistake, as it prompted a fairly bad episode and resulted in injuries. Unfortunately, you’ll not be coming back. We believe it might have something to do with stress, especially since the bad news about the people who raised him seemed to trigger it.” 

“Yeah, that was probably it,” Techno mumbles, sinking in his chair. 

“What do you– what about his missing parents then?! Explain that!” 

Distaste flickers across his smoothed expression. “Oh, they’ve been back for a while. I don’t know who told you they were missing-” oh but he is going to find them soon enough “-but they’re fine. We’re actually going to be having dinner with them in a few days since Technoblade insists on seeing them. But obviously, he can’t stay with them, especially since these types of mental illnesses are often caused by childhood trauma.” Techno winces. Doubtlessly Phil was just dying to use that little line. “I’m worried they’d take advantage of the state. I’m sure you’re well aware they were unsavory folks, they got mixed up with bad people and dropped off the map to avoid them for a bit. Loan sharks, the like.” There! A perfectly normal explanation for that little scruple. Skeppy’s likely had experience with people going off the grid countless times, so no wonder Technoblade’s captors would have no contact. “Technoblade was too addled to report that to you, unfortunately. He’s not particularly adept at sorting through reality and his imagination these days.”

Skeppy keeps trying to catch his eye, but Techno can’t bear to look at him, just nod and make little agreeing noises whenever the Angel takes a breath in his downpour of lies. They come out so smooth and reasonable, hitting all the right beats. The parental concern, the exhaustion of having dealt with psychosis for months, the explanations that come so logically and quickly. But it was never going to be so easy as to sit back and nod. The Angel gives him an expectant look. Time to perform. “I was. Hoping one wouldn’t happen today. They’ve never been that bad-”

“Please stop trying to deny it,” Phil interjects smoothly like they’ve had this argument a million times. His weary concern rings so palpably genuine even Techno’s ears are fooled. 

“Fine, I was pretending today was going to be perfect, happy?” he snaps. “I hadn’t seen anyone in ages and I just wanted to feel normal again.” Now he only feels nauseous. He feels like he’s losing Skeppy. It had already been bad enough, isolated from everyone with only a heavily monitored connection for his sole contact with the outside world. But now that he’s crazy he’ll forever be held at arms-length, perceived as different and difficult and possibly dangerous. And not just by Skeppy, because he’ll tell everyone the moment he’s released. Dread swirls in Techno’s guts. He’ll have to ignore everyone’s messages for a week. No, they’re all horribly persistent. A month, maybe. Forever. What’s the point? He’s never going to see any of them ever again. 

Techno takes a deep breath and lets go of their relationship. “Um. Remember right before I got…hospitalized? When I was convinced I was being followed?” Skeppy gives a wooden nod, still staring at him with pure disbelieving shock. “That was the first one. Or– well I guess I wouldn’t be able to tell when they started, since I’m. I’m delusional. But everyone else figured it out when I refused to eat around Wil since I was sure he’d drug me.”

“We were so worried about him losing so much weight without clear reason,” Phil elaborates. “The episodes cause him so much distress, and so often result in harm for him or others. Like that time he attacked the poor barber without warning.”

“That was an accident,” Techno defends miserably. 

“Honestly you’re lucky his hallucination didn’t label you as some type of threat. He can become so violent. I shudder to think what he might’ve done to you.”

"Phil-"

"I mean even Tommy hasn't been safe from him-" Techno can't help the wounded whine that pitches out of his throat. Because the Angel is right. Techno is a ticking time bomb waiting for the tiniest disturbance to detonate. Phil catches the panic in his eyes, and the manipulation peters out. “Ah. Sorry. No one was ever seriously hurt, at least, he has some level of awareness." A hidden note of disapproval infects his voice. "Technoblade doesn't really want to hurt anyone, of course." But he will. He's proven that over and over. Maybe it really is better for Skeppy to never see him again. "Unfortunately, I do tend to play an antagonist role in his hallucinations. I don’t know what his brain painted me as this time, but I assure you it isn’t true. I mean, we just spent a lovely afternoon together, do you really think I’d do something like murder his parents? That would be so cruel and prevent him from ever finding proper closure. Trust me, I only want what’s best for Technoblade.” 

Skeppy is utterly silent, and he can’t stand to look up. Techno really, really needs this to work. He rests his head against where Phil claims his shoulder. “Thanks for being here for me.”

His shoulder is squeezed. “Always and forever, gemstone.” 

“Skeppy, I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d see me differently.” But he’ll have saved Skeppy. It’s the fact he tells himself over and over as if it’ll stop the horrid pain in his chest or the way each word tastes like acid. “Truth is I’ve changed a lot and none of it’s pretty. The episodes are like my anxiety, but a thousand times worse. It latches onto something small and real and spins it into something dangerous. Like I’m here one moment and the next I can’t really tell. I’m confused, and scared, and don’t know what’s happening but think I do. A nightmare, that’s all it is. Dead convinced of some awful story, hearing it, seeing it, feeling the pain of it. Just trying to survive all over a-” he gags on the torrent of words, incapable of continuing as his gut violently wrenches. He wishes a single word of what he just said was a lie. “That’s all you saw, Skeppy. They’re convincing, I’ll give it that. You’d think I’d be smart enough to figure out when one’s happening, but no,” he sighs. “I mean, did you hear the kinda stuff I was spewing? Secret crime organization wars and vast abduction conspiracies all focused on me? I mean, how self-centered am I?” His voice cracks. He hates this so, so much. He’s going to lose his last ally and it’ll all be his own fault. But he was selfish to endanger Skeppy like this in the first place, it’s a proper punishment. “It’s all crazy paranoia. Isn’t that hilarious? Of course I’m a writer, look how fantastic the scenarios my own brain churns up are. Who’d bother stalking me? And why kidnap me and Tommy? Or the bit about refusing police help because I thought they’d get murdered, hysterical really. And it contradicts the corruption conspiracy I made up. How could I believe either, let alone both? Each one is absurd. Especially that last one, did I seriously think I’d ever esc-” -ape Phil and make my own family with Tommy? God, he really is delusional.  

“...what the hell,” Skeppy whispers. Shame swallows Techno whole, but he has to sell this awful not-quite-a-lie. “Techno? Is this true?” He sounds so dismayed. When Techno finally meets his eyes, they’re piercing in intensity, pinning him to the spot, searching. Confusion knots his features, a trace of betrayal making Techno’s chest hurt all the more. “NOW!” Skeppy shouts suddenly, charging at Phil. Techno watches as Skeppy’s legs are swept out from under him. His less-than-rousing warcry becomes a strangled yelp as Phil’s knee digs into his jugular. Techno can’t help the pure relief spilling over him, but neither can he ward off the wrenching guilt. Techno buries his face in his hands. His mouth tastes bitter from having to swallow the last dregs of his pride only for it to mean nothing. 

Phil raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “I’m sorry, did you just attack me?” Skeppy makes a choked noise in response, and Techno unceremoniously shoves Phil off him, helping Skeppy to his feet. Rubbing his throat, he squints at Phil, halfway leaning behind Techno for cover. Maybe that’s for the best, to make sure neither lunge for the other. But the Angel worries and insists weight can’t be good for his hurt leg, nudging him back into his chair. Then he unleashes a look of withering disappointment upon Skeppy. “Really, we just told you stress makes it worse for him.” 

“No, you told me some crock to hide the truth!”

“Now what makes you say that?”

“Tommy would’ve known it was a psychic break happening and said something!” 

“It would be irresponsible to expose him to his brother in such a state. It would only upset him.”

“I didn’t tell you, and you’d think I’d tell a kid?” Annoyance pierces his distress. It’s well within his character to try that. Of all the details to ruin everything, he never thought it would be Tommy. 

“We’ve kept the PTSD episodes hidden from him,” Phil adds. 

“That’s easy, they don’t happen around Tommy.” Well except for the false alarm with the security sirens, since Techno tried to hide Tommy from the incoming raid, but he thinks that was reasonable enough to get away with. “It’s like…weird if he’s there. Tommy grounds me. Like an incongruous detail that breaks my suspension of disbelief. Well, until today I guess…” he adds on belatedly. 

Skeppy’s giving him some horrendous expression Techno doesn’t have the energy to decipher. “Okay, so the armed forces following us?”

“I’m sorry, would you leave Technoblade alone in the middle of a psychic break? He needed help, so I sent staff to retrieve him.”

“They TRANQUILIZED us!” Techno winces. 

“You boys were so adamant on fighting, it was the best option to get you back safely.”

“A cop attacked us!”

“And I spun a random bout of police brutality into a vast conspiracy against me. I was acting sporadically and was clearly delusional. I needed to go to the psych ward and was refusing help, of course she’d try to detain me.” The words fall out numbly. It’s pointless, but he has to try, as if there’s even a chance anymore. Nausea overwhelms him. 

“Excuse me, what?” the Angel asks sharply, cold fury lacing it. Skeppy jolts from the pure tonal whiplash from parental concern to bloodthirst. “Was that the vermin that sicced a dog on Technoblade?” 

“Can’t kill her a second time,” Techno mumbles from where his head is buried in his hands. It’s the only consolation he has. “Give up, Phil, he isn’t going to be convinced. Oh, Skeppy,” he mourns. “If you were an ounce smarter…or stupider…” But no, Skeppy is perfectly Skeppy. 

Phil shrugs. “I thought we were convincing…you worryingly so. But if you’ve decided it’s pointless I acquiesce. I’m afraid your Skeppy will not be leaving. I need you to understand I’m not intending to punish you, but there are natural consequences that even I can’t shelter you from. You’re the one who needlessly dragged him into this.”

“You’re the one always telling me to ask for help.” 

Phil gives him an extremely flat look. “Yes, Technoblade, I’m so proud of the mess you’ve caused today. Excellent work! Instead of asking a single question that would have clarified the truth, you went into a panic spiral, terrified your little brother, and incriminated your friend.”

“Please don’t hurt Skeppy. He was just doing what I ordered him to, he’s not culpable.”

The Angel squeezes the bridge of his nose. “For the last time, I’m not going to hurt him! Really now, is it that difficult to believe?” The Angel is given a rather nasty look. 

Skeppy scowls. “I’m not dumb, you can’t gaslight me!” 

Techno rubs his temples. “Skeppy it’s not gaslighting if we try to convince you that I’m the crazy one. Couldn’t you have at least pretended to buy it?” he asks tersely as the reality crushes him. It didn’t work. Skeppy’s going to be trapped forever, just like he is. He’s ruined everything. The nausea rolls over him in tumultuous waves as everything falls apart. 

“I mean. For a second there…but I knew it couldn’t be true. My best friend isn’t crazy.” 

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t lying nearly to the extent we all wish I was, so maybe cool it with that line of reasoning,” Techno snarls. Almost immediately he clamps his hands over his mouth, not for any mortification or regret, though that’s certainly a lot of it. No, Techno is trying to make sure the bile crawling up his burning throat doesn’t escape. 

They both give him a rather horrified look. “Are you alright, love?”

Techno curls into a little ball and groans. “No. No, I’m not. Why would I be?”

“Do you need to talk-”

“Just. Just give it a minute. I think I’m going to puke.” He buries his head in his knees and tries to ride out the way his diaphragm heaves. 

“I, ah, didn’t realize how hard it would be on you emotionally. I wouldn’t have asked that of you had I known. That was purely my mistake, expecting you to deliver a Wilbur performance. Sorry, we should’ve tried something else.” 

“I thought it would work,” Techno moans. 

“Why are you helping him?!” Skeppy demands. “This guy’s evil!”

“I was trying to win your freedom,” Techno defends irritably. 

“I’d also have it if you helped me with the sneak attack. We can still take him-”

“Skeppy. Why did you think that would work? Put together literally everything you know about Phil. In what world would that have ever worked??? If escape was as easy as overpowering some old geezer don’t you think I’d have been out an hour in?” 

“You certainly don’t fare better against me in training,” Phil rebukes. 

“Give me a break! I’m recovering from nearly dying! And I last longer than Skeppy because I’m not a moron who shouts his attacks beforehand.” 

“That was so you’d know to ALSO attack. We were supposed to use teamwork.”

“I would’ve noticed when you started attacking. What would I have even done? I’m down an arm and a leg! And to what end? We’re in a locked room. Think, Skeppy, at best you earn nothing, at worst a bullet between the ears. You think he isn’t armed??” 

“I wouldn’t shoot your friend,” Phil dismisses, Skeppy backing away sharply at the confirmation of weaponry. “I’m very controlled in combat, I don’t make unfortunate accidents like that. I only put pressure on his jugular as a warning. Same when fighting you. You know I’m being gentle, don’t you?” 

“Yes, Phil,” he snarls. “I’m incredibly aware how deadly you are. Because my nightmares aren’t enough of a daily reminder.” 

Guilt flashes in his eyes. “I give you nightmares?” 

“For someone who’ll swear up and down he’ll never hurt me, you sure leave a lot of trauma.” 

“I tried to get a therapist for you to help smooth things out…” 

“After you traumatized me with your homicidal rampage! That was YOUR FAULT, Phil! So you hired Stickbug to try and convince me it’s normal and fine and were surprised when I didn’t fall for it?” Alarm bells ring desperately in the back of his head. What are you doing, boy? You’re going to get us killed. But he can’t let the Angel think this is anywhere near acceptable behavior. Reward and punishment, that’s all today has been. Or maybe he’s just claiming it’s a conditional manipulation strategy to pretend he has any control of anything, or the very least of himself. 

“They weren’t instructed to do anything of the sort. I genuinely wanted to help you recover and ulterior motives would have only harmed you further. You’re so paranoid you refuse actual help. It’s…really worrying. Nobody can do it all on their own, especially when it comes to mental health. The fact you won’t open up is a really bad sign.”

“Nah, Phil, it’s the millions of cameras and the way your surveillance has completely vivisectioned my entire life.”

“Weren’t you told they’d be turned off?”

“Like I’d believe that!”

“Are you sure that’s the real problem? Or is it an excuse so you don’t have to open up? I don’t think you ever learned to trust or feel like authority figures care about you. You’re lashing out and saying hurtful things right now.” 

“Yeah, I’m aware. Shut up and let me be mad at you.”

“I didn’t really kill your parents. If you’re angry your failed escape attempt netted natural consequences, I don’t think I can be blamed for that. There are healthier ways to deal with your frustration than shouting at me. Would you like to talk to your therapist? I can schedule an appointment. Or since you apparently don’t like them, we could try a different one?” 

“I don’t know if you notice, but that doesn’t solve the fact you’ve kidnapped my parents and friend, Phil!” 

“Uh. I dunno,” Skeppy posits tentatively. “He has a bit of a point, Techno. Before all, uh, this, you also didn’t go to therapy when I suggested it.” 

“I was busy!” 

“I just. Think maybe he has a point?” 

“Bruh.”

“You should listen to your friend, Technoblade. Even if you won’t obey me shouldn’t the fact he agrees mean something?” 

“...thanks? And you give, uh, really good advice, actually,” Skeppy grins.

Phil smiles warmly. “Aww. Your friend is cute, Technoblade. He thinks himself a sycophant.” 

“Clever of you to catch that,” Techno says as flatly as possible. Regardless, Phil beams at him, giddy with the compliment. Techno makes an exasperated expression, gesturing at him to Skeppy like can you believe this dude? Which, no, Skeppy can’t. What the hell is wrong with this Phil guy?! And Techno, too, he’s just snapping at his apparent kidnapper with full impunity, like he hadn’t been listing loads off major felonies earlier. Is Skeppy the only sane person in the room??? Because between the victim seemingly trying to rile up their captor and the full-on supervillain recommending mental health strategies, Skeppy is super confused trying to figure out the dynamic here. 

Phil turns to the newly acquired prisoner. “Alright. You didn’t believe that this was a product of psychosis. Very fortunate for your relationship with Technoblade, less so for your freedom. I hope you understand why I can’t just let you go now.”

“Uh, yeah, because you’re some kind of supervillain?”

“That’s rather extreme. I do hope you realize you’ve been under my protection for months given how close to Technoblade you got. There are far too many that would see you as a way to get to us. I could name seven major criminal organizations right now that would drool to have you.” 

“Six, you exterminated the Nether,” Techno corrects stubbornly.

“I wasn’t counting them.” They proceed to bicker about the politics of the criminal underworld for a few minutes. “I suppose you have a point, but I don’t think Hardcore counts as they haven’t been active in five years– wait how do you even know about them?” 

“Oh so you’ve been lying when you called me smart?”

“That’s a rude diversion and you know it. You’re rather nasty to be around at the moment I hope you know. I understand you’re under a lot of stress at the moment, but you’re taking it out on the people around you in a way that isn’t acceptable.”

“You already have everything, Phil,” he snaps. “My friends, my family, my future, my world. I’ve given you everything! How can you sit there and demand more of me? What is there even left? Aren’t you happy yet? I’ve given up. I’m not fighting you anymore.”

“It certainly doesn’t feel like it.”

“I agreed to stay, Phil,” he says lowly. “You’re the one who said nothing more was required of me. Unless that was a deception?” 

He balks at the challenge. “It wasn’t. Of course not. But am I really the end of the world to you?”

Technoblade just stares at him a long time. “You’re the one who calls himself a doomsday.” His gaze finally drops. “I’ll get used to it,” he promises quietly. “I will. Just…give me some time.” 

Dad isn’t paying attention. He refuses to leave Tech’s side as if it isn’t far too late to win him over. Things are unraveling, dangerous attention drawn, but Dad is oblivious to it all, caught in the gravity well of Tech. It’s like the two only think of the other, which is just as well. Wilbur scrolls through Sam’s report covered in red flags demanding action. Unlike Dad, Wilbur is highly aware of everything going wrong. 

And he doesn’t care. 

Sam is badgering him as the only throughline to even get to Philza anymore. Maybe it would’ve been more difficult if Dad hadn’t also fallen apart when Techno was rescued. As is, the chain of command is now more comfortable with obeying Wilbur, trusting him. He pulled it off last time, didn’t he? Wilbur is perfectly fine serving as mouthpiece for a figurehead. And though he’s putting words in his father’s mouth, he knows for a fact Dad won’t notice until it’s far too late. 

Sam is far less pleased with the arrangement, particularly with the concerns Wilbur is dismissing. “Are you sure? That’s bound to end in disaster. I’d want to check with Mr. Craft.” 

“I’m sorry, do you presume to know better than the Angel of Death? You think you’re privy to all the information? He’s busy attending to affairs far beyond your level.” 

“I’m his right hand man,” Sam nearly growls. “Sir.”

Wilbur hums a condescending note. “Maybe, but he’s not pleased after your security allowed this mess in the first place. Tech got pre-tty injured after you let him waltz out of our territory.”

“It’s not my fault that kid is recklessly determined to cause problems. And if we don’t do something the consequences are going to bury us alive.”

Let them. Certainly they’d deserve such a cruel sepulcher. The benign crumble all empires succumb to. But Wilbur smiles mysteriously. “Consider them handled. You certainly don’t need to concern yourself with the how.” 

“Yes I–”

“It’s time to brush our teeth,” Tommy demands. Somehow he snuck up without either noticing, tugging on Wilbur’s sleeve adamantly. 

Wilbur gives Sam an insincere smile. “It appears I have a more important meeting elsewhere. You are dismissed.” He saunters away, ignoring Sam’s protests about security, safety, and the fact it’s midday. Really he’s only using Tommy as an excuse even as he determinedly pulls at Wilbur’s wrist, doing his best to bring him to the bathroom. Wilbur frowns, given how many important problems he is busy ignoring. Now that he’s out from Sam’s scrutiny, Wilbur really does have vital preparations to make even if they aren’t the one the security head would prefer. But the detail that has him relenting is the way Tommy is dragging both him and Mr. Bandit. Little fingers curl into the fur of the plush raccoon, the stuffie squeezed tight to Tommy’s chest.

Silence fills the bathroom, pensivity twisting his little brother’s features. Wilbur is patient, given he’s never seen Tommy like this before, wrestling with thoughts. Unfortunate that the family problems should bleed over enough that even he should notice, but the escape was a very loud disaster. 

In a way, it’s a relief. Wilbur hadn’t realized that if Tech had his way, that would’ve been the last time he ever saw Tommy. That wasn’t part of the plan, not that Tech had ever deigned to let him in on it. Tech was supposed to escape, find his own peace away from them all, leaving the Crafts to each other. He wasn’t supposed to take Tommy. Wilbur can still feel that stabbing jolt of pure panic as he realized Tommy was gone. The consuming horror as he realized it would be the last time he ever saw his little brother. As distressed as Tommy clearly is, it’s still soothing to know Wilbur still has him. 

Worried blue eyes pin him to the spot, searching him for help. “Is…” Tommy hesitates, face buried in Mr. Bandit’s fur. “Is Dad a baddie?”

Wilbur chews on his answer, carefully considering the child before him. He can tell exactly how badly Tommy wants to be assured. But there are enough delusions in the household as is. “Yes.”

For some reason, a weird breed of relief filters into Tommy’s expression. “Okay, I feel a little better about trying to shoot him.” 

Wilbur’s phone clatters loudly on the bathroom tiles as it plummets from his hands. “I’m sorry– what? Run that by me again Toms?” 

“The wronguns made Techno and Skeppy sleep, so it was up to me and Floof. And then Dad exploded stuff–”

“That was actually– never mind, continue.” 

“-and I was freaked out and. Well I had a gun, so I waved that around a bit to protect everyone. And that meant saying I’d shoot Dad. But then he talked to me and left me very confused. But if he’s a liar I don’t have to worry about it.” 

“You do realize he would never in a million years hurt you, right Tommy?” 

Tommy… hesitates. Wilbur’s heart pulverizes. “I thought you said he was a baddie?”

“Listen, it’s complicated. He’s not a villain to us, but for us. He just wants to protect us. Or, he thinks that’s what he’s doing.”

The eleven-year-old struggles with his concept of black-and-white morality, little face screwing up as he tries to figure out the mess that is Philza Craft. “Wait, I’m confused. Did he kill Techno’s parents or not?” Wilbur goes rigid as it pieces together. He’d been pretty sure it was the bad news that made Tech bolt. Had to be, given the absolute horror of his countenance. Past Wilbur’s own gut-wrenching revelation about Tech’s childhood, if he’d been paying attention he’d have noticed the pure grim certainty. Tech acted like it was a death sentence. Maybe it really was. Given what they’d done to his brother, is it really so unlikely that Dad would punish them for it?

But that isn’t going to soothe Tommy, even if Wilbur thinks it probable. “I don’t actually know if he has, he never mentioned it to me.” None of it. Dad clearly knew things about Tech that he never deigned to share. Wilbur bristles. “They’d deserve it, though. Dad is a bad person; Tech’s parents are monsters.” 

“He said that, too. But also that he was sad. He said it’s hard to feel happy about escaping.”

“It’s complicated. You don’t really have to understand it, I don’t think Tech does either.” 

“But I do kinda get it. I don’t really wanna leave but…me and Techno were talking about…you know. Making our own family.” 

I was wrong, he realizes faintly. Technoblade didn’t take Tommy. 

He already had him from the start. 

It hurts. He should’ve expected it, really, but Wilbur’s been trying to ignore the way Tommy’s been drifting away for months. Another victim of Tech’s inescapable orbit. He’d known they weren’t good for Tommy, but it’s another thing entirely to have to recognize that it really is the end of their family. And yet Tommy holds out his hand in an invitation he could never accept. “I wanted to know if you’d join us.” 

Wilbur’s exhale is shaking, snagging on his constricting throat. But he’s going to shoulder this with grace. It’s what Tommy needs. “I don’t think I could, Toms,” he says carefully. It comes out light, uneven, but it doesn’t break. He refuses to let it no matter how much the words feel like they’re clawing through him. “Tech doesn’t like me.”

“Yes he does!”

“No,” he admits reluctantly. “He pretends to, because he thinks he has to. Unfortunately, Tommy, I am also…” he pauses dramatically, “...a baddie.” 

“What? No you aren’t.”

“Yep. The worst kind.” At his pure confusion, Wilbur suddenly lunges, teeth bared and hands twisted into claws. “Rawr!” Tommy screeches and bolts away, startled giggles ringing out as Wilbur chases him around the bathroom. “Come back! I’m only going to tickle you to death!” Tommy dives into the tub, and Wilbur stomps around a bit, feigning oblivious to the snickers echoing from his brother’s hiding spot. Then quietly he creeps up, popping over to Tommy’s delighted scream. “Ha! I’m the baddest villain there is! You think I’d ever show you mercy?”

He cowers behind his stuffed animal. “Ah! Don’t kill me! Take Mr. Bandit instead!” He seizes the raccoon, shaking it wildly while Tommy tries to sneak past. At the last second Wilbur scoops Tommy up, cackling maniacally as Tommy wriggles helplessly beneath his tickles. “Bleh!” Tommy sticks out his tongue and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m dead! Can’t be killed any deader!” 

“At long last I reign victorious.” He’s going to miss this. He ruffles his fingers through Tommy’s hair, snagging on the little braids Tech has woven in. For a moment pure jealousy seeps through his veins like venom. “You could stay, of course,” he murmurs enticingly. “Let’s be the bad guys, Tommy. Who cares as long as we have each other?” But he knows it like an anchor on his heart that he’s already lost Tommy, no matter how he pleads. Tommy squirms uncomfortably, and Wilbur sighs and sets him back down. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m not going to make the decision any harder than it already is.” Unlike Dad, he knows when to let go. He gets down on a knee, gripping Tommy’s shoulders a little too tight. “Just know I’ll always be your brother. I’m here for you no matter what.” He pulls Tommy in close, the kid squeezing into his sides just as fiercely. 

It’s time for family dinner. 

Techno stares down the crisp formal attire laid out on his bed. The Angel has stayed at his side for days, watching everything he does. Which is mostly staying in his bed, given he isn’t allowed to leave his room. Techno hasn’t ever been grounded before and isn’t sure if this is the norm. With little he can do besides talk to Phil, he mostly spends the hours playing with a rather confused Floof, or pretending to sleep. After his recovery from the Nether, Techno is particularly adept at staring at walls blankly and refusing to talk. Incredibly valuable life skill, actually. The Angel keeps trying to lure him into conversation, but after the visit to Skeppy’s cell, he’s worried about just how far Phil’s patience will stretch. He might not hurt Techno, but there’s no guarantee for his parents the last few days before they’re released. And now that Skeppy’s here for the foreseeable forever, he’s worried about him becoming a whipping boy. Techno’s survival instinct has never been as strong as his compulsion to protect. 

He struggles to change, particularly with getting the sling back on. His arm aches awfully, but it’s not like he needs to do anything more than sit through one horrendous dinner. It’s all he’s thought about for days. Just make it until the dinner, and then his family will be free. And then…nothing. A resigned eternity with the Angel. He lets go of the bubbling strategies and plans, because what use would he have for them? He doesn’t stand a chance on his own, and to ask for help is to doom an innocent life. 

Maybe he’ll get used to it, like he had before the Nether. Maybe one day this horror that’s crushing him will seem absurd, and Techno will adore being a Craft. He’s not sure if that path is hellish or heavenly, but it’s that or be trapped in this awful state for the rest of his life. 

But first he must relinquish his old life. Never to see his parents again, for weal or woe. Techno takes a deep breath and leaves the refuge of the bathroom. “Ah, your tie is crooked,” Philza points out. “Let’s get that fixed for you, mate.” It unravels smoothly in his hands, and he flashes a grin at Technoblade. He’s met with stony silence. There’s no adorable embarrassment like last time, Technoblade not deigning to react. “Right, before we see them. There’s something I need to know. When Skeppy was visiting, before…everything. When you called me Dad. Did you really mean it?”

The silence is agony. He can feel the gulp bob against his fingers. “...I meant it,” Technoblade admits lowly as relief soothes Philza’s worry. 

“Then I imagine this felt like some type of betrayal. I swear it wasn’t. I wanted to protect you from them by making sure they weren’t still out there. This all was done for you. I didn’t think it would distress you this much, as I hadn’t realized how deeply the conditioning ran. But, because you wish them to be free, they will be. Alright? All it takes is a little communication to solve problems. Next time, talk to me instead of running off and getting hurt.” A tug to ensure the tie is secure, and he steps back to admire his work. Technoblade is so bleak compared to the exhilarated anticipation of their last formal dinner. Then again, he doesn’t imagine he’d look forward to reuniting with his abusers. Still, his son gives an expectant look, though Philza isn’t ready. If he could he’d postpone forever. Perhaps he should’ve killed them, just so he wouldn’t have to see the awful way Technoblade reacts. What if he’s scared? Or worse, what if he’s overjoyed? He’d planned this meeting to be long after Technoblade recovered from his childhood. Never could he have imagined it would take so long. It’s far, far too soon for this reunion. 

“One last touch I think. Let’s do your hair.” Technoblade’s stare is cold and long, but then he shrugs and acquiesces. Quickly, he realizes his sling means he has nowhere near the dexterity for it. But he’s compliant enough when Philza positions him on the floor in front of a chair. Rose strands sweep back into his lap, and Philza gently begins working out the old, sloppy braids woven in by Thomas. Not that Philza has any experience, but he did look up a lot of tutorials when he’d first noticed the way his boys were bonding. Not that Philza has ever been invited to try till now. 

Techno no longer waits for the moment Phil’s fingers turn into claws. They twist through silkily, ever cautious and gentle. Doesn’t stop the way every instinct he has is telling him to run. His posture remains rigid no matter how he tells himself to ease. But he desperately needs to rebuild his shattered rapport at least to a degree where Phil really does release his parents. Techno is acutely aware he hasn’t been a very rewarding acquisition so far. Do you really think he’ll follow through if he doesn’t feel like he’s won the bargain? Don’t be stupid, darling.  

“I’m sorry,” Techno mutters. He almost hopes the Angel doesn’t catch it, but a questioning note is hummed. “I…over reacted yesterday. Said things I shouldn’t’ve.” Not if he wants the Angel to follow through on his word. “I just got so angry that I messed everything up. And then thinking I had a chance to save Skeppy only to botch it. And now he’s trapped here forever too.”

Strands of hair twist into place. “You’re the only one who thinks it’s a prison, Technoblade,” he sighs. “Wilbur and Thomas are certainly permitted to roam within reason, but you’ve yet to prove you can be on your own without getting hurt.” 

“I was fine for years–”

“I know you’re accustomed to being neglected, but I’m not going to just let you flounder in the outside world with no support, especially after that conversation with Skeppy. You’re severely mentally ill, and need time to properly recover.”

Techno lunges for the thread of salvation. It’s the first shred of hope he’s found since condemning himself to the Craft’s. “I was almost entirely lying,” he insists. “I just exaggerated because I was stressed. Overdramatic, like Wil. Really, I’m fine.” 

“You consider barely functioning to be satisfactory,” the Angel rebukes coldly. “I can’t say I share your definition. I want you to be actually sound, because I care about your mental health. Only once you’re truly fixed would I consider risking anything.”

“When will that be?” He tilts his head back so he can stare up at Phil, only to get nudged back into staring straight ahead. 

“That’s up to you. At this rate maybe it really will be that forever you’re dreading.” He catches a glimpse of despair. “Why do you depise it here?”

Techno goes silent, praying Phil will drop the subject. But he pauses in his braiding, patient for response. It could go on indefinitely, postponing the moment he can finally see his real parents after months. So he relents, scrambling for some type of answer Phil could swallow. “...It felt like giving up on everything else. Like I was just. Throwing away the future I worked so hard for.”

“The future you planned to win your abuser’s approval?”

“I didn’t realize that’s what it was,” he says in a small voice. “That…that epiphany was probably a lot of my reaction. It felt like everything was falling apart. I do– I love writing. But knowing that it was supposed to be some– some offering to lay at their feet…”

“That thought is belittling of yourself and you know it. Perhaps there was some goal attached you no longer seek, but you could’ve chosen any number of methods -many far easier- and yet this is the one that called you. Perhaps they were some reason, but they were never the totality of your ambitions. You are so much more beyond them. And if truly it isn’t what gives you purpose anymore, you’re fully welcome to explore alternatives, like Wilbur did recently.” Techno is going to stab something if his own speech to Wilbur all those months ago gets regurgitated at him. “Though, the nice thing about being a writer is you can do it all from one safe room,” Phil offers in consolation. 

“But inspiration is found in the world,” he argues.

“Which you’ll have access to once you’re ready. I swear to you I am not the death of your future. The opposite, even. Perhaps that’s difficult to visualize when you’re at rock bottom. How could it ever get better if it’s the end of the world? But it’s not, even if it feels like it. First you have to get out of that spiral. You can’t deny how bad your mental health is anymore, gemstone. Because this conversation right here? Where you feel hopeless and can’t imagine a future? That’s a major trauma symptom.”

“...oh.” It makes a lot more sense than he likes, even if being permanently trapped with the Angel certainly wouldn’t help. Techno isn’t sure how quickly he could fake curing whatever is wrong with his head, let alone how convincing it would be. Given how belligerently he’s spent the last few months trying to insist he’s fine…likely not convincing in the slightest. But it’s something to work for at least. Some larger goal than trying to pull himself together enough for one dinner and then falling into permanent listlessness everafter. 

Phil helps him up, admiring his work. The braid is short and simple, the Angel having clearly taken his time. He seems happier having delivered an inspirational monologue. Facilitating an opportunity for parental behavior worked wonderfully, just as he’d planned. The Angel gives him a reassuring smile. “I’m not destroying your future, I’m trying to ensure it happens by supporting you as you recover.”

“I…I can’t see it, yet. But I want to. I want a future with you, and Wilbur, and Thomas, it’s just…”

“You deserve one. And you’ll have it. One day you won’t have anymore nightmares, or flashbacks, or fear. I promise you it will get better.” Technoblade gives an uncertain, disbelieving smile. “This deal we’re about to make…” Philza hesitates. He hates that he’d have to structure it this way, like a bargain. He was fine with the earlier, lighter ones; trading hairties for photos, or a map of the facility for family movie nights. No one is happy with this one. But if this is what it takes to make sure Techno stops hurting himself, he’ll do it. “I’m not asking you to stop fighting. I’m really not. I’m asking you to fight for yourself. To slow down and actually contend with the darkness in your head. This isn’t to crush you, but to allow you to heal. And then when it’s safe, when you’re healthy, when I can trust you, I won’t be forced to be so authoritarian. Understood?” Technoblade nods. “Are you ready?” The perfect amount of hesitation, and then another nod. 

Philza offers out his arm, and he obediently accepts it. It’s a bit of a walk, since Philza wanted it to be held in the grandest dining hall within the Winter mansion. A mistake, by how much Technoblade ends up leaning on him. Perhaps a cane is in order till his limp heals, though Philza certainly doesn’t mind offering support. And really as confined as he’s been while grounded, he wouldn’t particularly use it much. And Philza is always by his side anyway, so what does it matter? Technoblade is so determined regardless, though Philza pays close attention and enforces breaks whenever he suspects they’re required. 

Techno is genuinely considering tasing that dog a second time. Which, he has to admit, isn’t a very charitable thought. Not super heroic of him tbh. He loves dogs! Really. But walking is painful and it worked for the cops! Or. Or it did, before officer Jenny was killed. And knowing the Angel, in all likelihood Lithe was put down after what it did to him. No wonder death was his first assumption in regards to his parents. Frankly it’s a miracle they’re alive. Mind your manners. “Um. About my— um.” He flounders for the correct descriptor as they reach the grandiose doors. Not that the descriptor couldn’t apply to every door in Phil’s home, but these ones are particularly decadent. 

“Kidnappers?”

“That would be the Nether though.”

“They’re not different.” 

Techno wrestles to find some terminology satisfactory to the Angel that doesn’t make him want to pull his hair out. “Right. Uh. Thank you for not killing Mr. and Mrs. Piglin.” 

It feels wrong on his tongue, but the Angel smiles warmly, reaching to reverently cup his face. “You're welcome. I would never take that honor from you.” It takes everything in him not to recoil. “And you still wish them to be free?”

“Yes.” There’s the faintest disappointment in his eyes in a way that stirs up dread. But it’s okay. They’ll be free now. That’s what matters. Techno turns to the door, and a pair of servants draw it open. It’s majestic, sweeping pillars leading to an impossibly high ceiling. It’s dripping with garlands of brillant flowers, no doubt some attempt to replicate the outside world he’s so desperate for. Glittering lights and emerald chandeliers, the whole thing draped in splendor, and yet his eyes are riveted upon the end of the absurdly long dining table stretching the length of the hall. Because there, seated at the very end, are his parents. 

He almost pukes. It’s a close thing, he can feel the bile rising up. When he backs away sharply he slams into the Angel. At once he’s captured in an embrace.  “It’s alright,” Phil murmurs as pure revulsion pulverizes him. “I won’t let them hurt you ever again.” Numbly he walks forward, Phil’s nudging towards his assigned seat falling on deaf ears. He’s given only the slightest glance, their sunken eyes trapped upon the Angel behind him. 

“M-” om? Dad? Luckily his throat closes on the sound. “What…happened to you?” He receives no response. In truth it’s a stupid question. It’s rather obvious what, or rather, who happened to them. 

“I don’t think they deserve sympathy, least of all yours,” the Angel murmurs in his ear, suddenly right behind him. Techno is dragged away to where his seat is prepared at the far end of the table, away from his parents. But he can’t take his eyes off them.  

Mom and Dad have been horrifically mutilated. Less people and more an assemblage of broken pieces, bodies carved into the shape of pain. Mishapen and grotesque, layers of infected lacerations and contorting bones that didn’t heal quite right. It’s a miracle they’re alive, he thinks again. Some awful curse at the whims of the vengeful Angel of Death who refuses to allow them so easy an escape. Their slaughter Techno’s honor, and wouldn’t it be a mercy? Tortured beyond comprehension, and now they sit before him, offerings on silver platters, stuffed into formal wear in parody of family dinner. Blood stains through Dad’s shirt, and he’s almost glad the chair hides the plunge back of Mom’s dress based off what he glimpses. Of course the Angel has his scars memorized. He’s duplicated them personally. 

Every instinct within him is recoiling. All he wants to do is escape. But it’s been hardwired into Techno that he doesn’t leave during meals. So he allows himself to be steered away to the far side of the dining table. He collapses into his assigned seat, still just staring. Food is served and he doesn’t touch it, stomach tied in knots. The Angel certainly has no reservations, carrying on as if this is all perfectly normal. His parents dig in ravenously with their bare hands, not having been given utensils as a safety precaution. They are desperate in their hunger as they feast. 

“Stop,” Phil says sharply. They both freeze in a way that makes Techno nauseous. “I would hate for you to eat too fast and get sick.” But of course the pigs would gorge, Philza thinks. 

“Has he been starving you?”

“No,” the Angel dismisses smoothly before his parents can respond. “It’s simply just not as rich as this meal is. You’ve hardly touched your plate. Aren’t you hungry?” Techno’s caught on the way they slowly, hesitantly eat, glancing nervously as if trying to weigh what won’t get them punished. It’s achingly familiar. Phil nudges him, and he shakes his head mutely. His worry grows. “Lack of appetite is another symptom, you know…”

Techno robotically sticks a forkful of something in his mouth. It tastes like ash. Delicious. He manages a few more bites, but for some reason is more than a little distracted. “…what happened to your hair?” Chunks are missing, leaving scragly strands on deformed scalps. Given no answer, he asks the question louder, not sure how well they can hear from the gulf between them.  Still, they don’t respond. Has the Angel done something to their ears? To their brains? 

“You mentioned liking long hair because it signifies you don’t have to worry about it being pulled by them." 

“...you pulled out their hair?”

He can imagine a number of responses to unfold. A don’t be ridiculous, love with a diversion tacked on, or a it was shaved, actually, or even a no, I wouldn’t touch those dirty swine myself so I ordered someone to do it. But Phil replies with a rather calm and disinterested, “Yes.” Hundreds of little comments flash through his head, offhand remarks and pointed jabs. He’d mentioned it as a dig at Phil, only for it to be weaponized against them. How many of his words were translated into their suffering? How many of his actions? Why shouldn’t the Angel appear to have infinite patience if he took out on someone else? 

He’d acted with impunity for months just because he couldn’t see the consequences. Techno feels sick, and the Angel seems to catch his abhorrence. “Your empathy is so admirable, gemstone, but it’s to your detriment. That empathy is what trapped you with them for so long.”

“You– you tortured them.” 

“And they tortured you. Why is it tragic when it happens to them, but not to you? You certainly found their actions forgivable. I merely dealt unto them what they dealt to you. Hopefully the reminder of the pain they’ve caused will make this final separation easier.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” He wants to scream at the Angel until his throat is raw, but– watch your tongue, boy. It takes him a second to realize that wasn’t just his thoughts, her voice ragged and broken and real. “Sorry, Mom,” he responds automatically, mouth clicking shut. 

“I'm sorry, what did I say about speaking to my son?” He catches it, then, a sharp movement from the balconies towering overhead. Amidst the floral extravagance the dark, steady line of the numerous snipers trained upon his parents. 

“I want to talk to them.” 

Phil pats his arm. “Of course you do. But it’s won’t be good for you. Considering how they poisoned your mind, I don’t want them influencing your thoughts any longer.” 

“I need to say goodbye. This is the last time I’m ever going to see them, I need this.” 

Phil relents. “I suppose. And now that you know the truth, you doubtlessly have questions for the Piglins.” 

Eh. Sure. Riiight. He tries to give his parents an assuring look so they don’t think he’s actually bought in, but isn’t sure they catch it. The last thing he wants is for them to spend the rest of their lives thinking he despises them, or agrees with Phil’s slander. “Did you get my letter?” The silence stretches, till Phil harshly reiterates his question. Mom and Dad shrink, then mumble affirmatives. “I was- I think it’s kinda obvious I was lying. A lot. Sorry. Look’s like I’m going to be living with Phil from now on. So this is goodbye. Um. You’re going to be released.”

Mom and Dad jolt, it clearly being news to them. Not for any jubilee, it’s pure panic. “What? What do you mean?” 

“Not in like a metaphor way. Where he murders you. Like. You’ll be let go, outside. Free. He won’t hurt you anymore. You’ll escape.” And I never will. “And he has to provide proof annually, so that I know you’re still free.” Alive, more accurately. 

The Angel hums disagreement. “Free is a stretch. They’re definitely going to jail for extreme child abuse. I hear people who hurt children don’t do very well in prison.” Techno winces, but even that has to be far safer than the Angel’s dungeon. “Technoblade is far more merciful than either of you deserve.”

“Nobody deserves to be treated like this.”

“I agree. Especially not a child, which you were when they beat you.”

“And you did far more than they ever did to me!”

“Technoblade, these people kidnapped you. They worked for the Nether.”

“What? No they didn’t, I would have known. They’re not– okay, they’re bad people, that doesn’t make them criminals.” 

“Piglin is literally a code name. Not that I don’t have their real identities by now, but they were raising you under a fabricated lie. You were project Piglin, an animal raised to be slaughtered in whatever way the Wither thought would hurt me the most.” 

“That sounds like a conspiracy theory. My entire life isn’t some elaborate scheme to hurt you.” Two of our best agents were just hunted down and captured by him, the Wither reminds him. Shut up, he thinks nastily. Just shut up. “The Wither would’ve said something.”

“You’ve been her pawn for eighteen years, do you genuinely believe she’d reveal that? Of course they’d manipulate you into thinking the Nether was your family, that’s what they’ve been doing your entire life. Don’t you want to know why they abused you all those years?” He turns upon the Piglins. “Go on. Tell him. Tell him why you’d beat a child.” 

“You looked so much like him it hurt,” Dad rasps.  

Techno shrinks back. “No— no no— stop, of course they’d agree with you, that’s how torture works, they’ll say whatever you want them to—”

“He ruined our lives, boy. Long before this, long before you. He killed our child; we killed his. You were our revenge.” 

Revenge. Is that all he’s ever been? No. This is insane, even for Phil. This can’t be real. The tears long threatening finally spill over. The Angel reaches out, gently brushing them away, and Techno recoils, standing sharply. “Don’t touch me ever again,” he snaps. His one free hand claws into dining tablecloth as it supports him. The world is spinning around him, the ground crumbling beneath his feet, and some quiet, whimpering part of him just wants Tommy. The Angel, the Wither, the Piglins– all these virulent claims upon him, corrupting every second of his entire life. All he wants is for these vile people pretending to be his family to all go away. 

“But isn’t it some relief? To know they aren’t really your parents? Isn’t that the dream of the abused, the villains revealed for what they are, the true, happy family returned-” It starts as some sort of persuasion, but his upset grows quickly. “You aren’t forced to be with them anymore, you have me now.” 

“No! Why would I ever want you!?” he screams. “You’re evil and manipulative and bloodthirsty! You’re a monster trying to use me to justify your every heinous action! If it’s your blood that flows through my veins then I’d claw it out.”

Philza takes the vehement rejection like a gut punch. It grips him in cruel jaws, paralyzing. A shaking breath, then Philza pushes back his chair and rises. “You called me Dad just the other day—” he reaches out desperately and Techno scrambles back.

“I was manipulating you! How is that so hard to understand!? It’s called a reward, I’ve been doing it for months. A smile or a touch or a platitude. I did it so you’d think there was even a chance. Because what would happen to me once you realize it’s hopeless? You’re the type to torture people to get what you want, and what does that mean for me? Do you punish me? Get the same revenge you got on them? Or do you just kill me? What does that mean for me when I don’t earn enough love to survive anymore?”

And his son drains of blood, hand slipping to cover his mouth. It’s shaking badly. “What does th-that— what’s that mean when— I tell you. When I tell you the truth and you know and you’ll never believe me a- aga—”

Philza’s step forward is met in retreat, Technoblade limping away. Pure terror regards him in a way nearly incomprehensible. No, it’s fully so; it was Philza who chose all these months to not comprehend it. To dismiss his fear as instincts or misunderstandings or trauma. Has he really been pretending all this time? Every ounce of affection mere survival tactic? 

As Technoblade backs away, his hands instinctively twitch in the motion of retrieving one of his confiscated knives. His distress spikes even further, trembling arms held out in meager defense. Frantic eyes dart, tallying up strategy, from his arm sling to his torn up leg to the rapidly closing distance between them. Despair smoothers his features. Hopeless. He thinks it’s hopeless. That scheming, passionate, driven boy is gone, and all Philza can think is that he wasn’t like this before he was rescued. 

Technoblade’s back hits a column, trembling hands his only resistance as Philza closes in on him. “I love you,” Technoblade whimpers. It’s thrown out before him like a shield, a last-ditch barrier to protect himself. And it’s all Philza has dreamed of hearing for years and now it feels like a mortal blow. A slit right through his jugular, and he’s choking on his own blood as he gets exactly what he wanted in the worst way possible. 

Because all I love you means to Technoblade is don’t hurt me. 

The world freezes in that second. The Piglins watching in horror as their one scrap of hope betrays them. Techno cowering, spiraling as he ruins the one thing protecting him. Philza pausing, distraught as he realizes everything he’s done the past eighteen years meant nothing. In that second, Philza’s delusion finally, finally shatters as he finally sees how much his child abhors him. 

And in the next, the raid siren begins. 

Chapter Text

“What are you even doing here?” Skeppy demands as his cell is invaded. He’s hostile, guarded, but doesn’t know enough to gauge what side he’s on. Good. Wilbur can use that. 

“Wanted to see you. Kill some time. I don’t know, I’m bored.” He waltzes in casually as Skeppy charges for the door and the first glimpse of freedom he’s had in days. 

Skeppy rattles the doorknob, but Wilbur ensured it was locked afterward. He needs this to go perfectly, and not have Skeppy ruin this just like he did countless other plans. Frustrated, Skeppy pounds his fist on the door, as if that’ll be the magic trick to open it. He doesn’t have a lot of processing power, does he? “I’m– what do you mean you’re bored?! I’m literally your family’s hostage!”

Wilbur shrugs. “Dad doesn’t pay much attention anymore. And I wanted to chat.”

“What is wrong with you??” 

“We certainly don’t have that much time, really Skeppy.” He flings himself onto a couch, making himself comfortable while Skeppy curls and uncurls his fists, clearly agitated. Wilbur sinks in, utterly exhausted from guiding everything into place. He checks the time. This respite will be brief before the real show begins. 

“Months, Wilbur. I saw you for months and not once did you tell me Techno was kidnapped.”

“Yes, because you’d have been able to help him soo much,” he sneers. “You’re helping him immensely right now, offering a nice easy target Dad can hurt if Tech doesn’t give into demands.” 

Skeppy’s fierce bravado flickers with fear. Good. Wilbur knew it would be an effective incentive. “Is. Is he going to torture me…?” 

“Tech certainly thinks so,” he evades. “And now we have to get three people out instead of just the two.” 

It’s almost dull how easy it is to read Skeppy’s expression, his vehemence snagging on the we. Confusion wars upon his features, frustrated as he can’t pin Wilbur down. “Well are you going to help me break out of here or not?!” he bursts out after a minute of trying to puzzle it out on his own. 

Wilbur flicks his lighter, sparking the end of his cigarette. “Sure.” 

Skeppy brightens. “Wait, you’re really on our side? Sweet! Okay, so far I’ve been using a file to work at the lock–”

“That’s not going to work. I swear to you every inch of this place has been Tech-proofed. It’s impossible.” 

“Is Techno alright?”

“Hasn’t been in a while. Currently? I’d wager he’s pretty bad off.” No, he wagered Tech was about one more thing away from self-destructing. Maybe not, though. He’d managed a loving façade up to the second before he bolted. Could be Tech had Dad eating out of his palm again. “But I haven’t seen him. He’s locked in his room.” 

“What about your Dad? Could you like. Talk some sense into this guy?”

Wilbur laughs. “Like I haven’t been trying for months? And regardless he’s also locked in Tech’s room. I don’t think he’s left Tech’s side since the moment he was recaptured.” 

Skeppy shudders in sympathy. “How awful to be trapped with that looney. Though, I guess it must’ve sucked for you, since you had to spend your entire life with that guy.” 

He hums his disagreement, but doesn’t vocalize it. “Alexander has been the priority my entire life. Dad was consumed with trying to get him back.” He sighs out smoke, then glances at his watch. “Before you dropped the news, I thought at least he had a better home to go to. That’s going to make this harder.”

“Make what harder?” 

“You’ll take care of him, right?”

His confusion doesn’t stop his immediate response of, “always.” Wilbur gives him a grateful smile. 

“Thank you. He’s going to need a lot of he-” the blare of the siren cuts him off sharply. “About time,” Wilbur mutters. He gets up, tosses away his cig, then holds out a hand to Skeppy. “Coming?”

Skeppy gives him a bewildered look, tense with trepidation. “What’s happening?”

“The police raid finally started. I told you Dad doesn’t pay much attention anymore.” He gives a smirk and throws the door open wide, freeing the both of them. The blaring lights of the raid are too inconsistent for a proper stage light, but it will suffice. All his schemes and preparations have come to fruition, and now is the time to act. 

His swan song will be one to remember. 

Technoblade freezes the moment the siren starts. Philza can nearly pinpoint the exact moment the flashback takes over, his son slipping away into pure nightmare. “Technoblade,” he pleads. “Look at me. It’s just a false alarm, no one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe, love.” The words fall on deaf ears. Or maybe they don’t, maybe Technoblade hears him perfectly and doesn’t believe him. By his own admission never once has Philza made him feel safe. There is no possible way for Philza to bring solace to his son. 

“Sir–”

“Not now,” he snaps. “Technoblade, I need you to breathe, can you do that? Can you breathe for me?” But Technoblade is rigid, coiling tighter and tighter until his breath is pulverized in his throat. 

“It’s the police.”

Philza jerks to stare at them. He and the police have an agreement. What happened to that asinine officer who attacked his baby isn’t his fault. “What? There wasn’t any warning– why didn’t I know?” 

“The reports show you were informed.” 

Traitor. There’s a traitor in his organization. Philza is going to skin them alive. Why now? What has he ever done to deserve this? “Use defense plan C, If you need further orders go to Sam, I’m preoccu-'' rather tersely, Philza is informed that Sam was dispatched to the Summer Mansion this morning to prepare security for transfer from the Craft Household. A transfer Philza had never authorized, mind. Blast. An effective traitor, too. And if his hold on the police has weakened this considerably, he can’t afford the cover story to be blown. But it’s not hard to play the victim. The Syndicate has done this song and dance before, but never at so inopportune a time. “Contact him. In the meantime, Wilbur. Delay everything. If you can’t manage the simple strategy of pretending to surrender as slowly as possible, get Wilbur. And turn off that alarm, it’s giving my son flashbacks. Go! I have more important matters at hand.” Philza whirls around to his cowering child, only to find him gone. He bites out some choice swears and sprints after.

Techno doesn’t know what’s happening, half convinced that some nightmare -dream?- is unfurling and the Nether is raiding the Craft mansion. It’s impossible, they were annihilated. But Techno can’t think of any other explanation. Perhaps there isn’t one. Maybe he really is that crazy. At the thought, the klaxons abruptly cease, as if they’d never been real to begin with. That doesn’t stop the surety in his gut, the expectation around every corner he turns that this will be the moment he runs into Blaze again. The walls of the bastion and mansion bleed together until Techno doesn’t know where he is anymore, only that he’s in danger. Just as he always was, just as he shall forever be. He runs as if he can escape, as if for a single moment of his life he’s ever been free. 

The voices swirl in his head, spurring his panic. Didn’t we teach you to bite your tongue better than that? You can run but you can’t hide, boy, the consequences will always catch up with you. 

Techno’s being hunted. It’s a fact pounding louder than his pulse. He’s being chased, and he’s going to be caught. It’s only a matter of time. Even adrenaline can’t erase the fact he makes for limping, easy prey. Pain jolts up his leg with each stride. He can’t hear footsteps following over the roar of his pulse, but he doesn’t need to, not after the mistake he just committed. Consequences are surely fast approaching.

You showed your hand, she rebukes. Nothing I can do for you, darling, you’ve ruined this all on your own. He’s doomed. Completely and utterly, and all his fault. He needs to scrape together some plan, needs to salvage anything in this wreckage, the Wither is howling at him to gather any type of strategy, but any future Techno can salvage together is obfuscated by choking terror. What is the Angel going to do to him? 

Anything I please, gemstone. 

He runs. There’s nothing else he can do. Truly, even this is futile. He knows it in the ache in his lungs, in the pang each breath sucks through his teeth, in the stab of every thundering step. He is running and it will mean nothing. But so will everything else he’s ever done. 

 Stop running, you were never really going to escape anyway. 

“Stop running, you’re only going to get yourself hurt.” 

 Stop running, you deserve what’s coming.

“Stop, gemstone–”

 Stop.

“Stop!” 

Philza’s pleas fall on deaf ears. But it’s not hard to fell his son. A sweep of the legs and Technoblade collapses in pain. Philza winces, but there simply isn’t time for gentleness. That can come later, once he’s safe. Yet Technoblade is still scrambling, desperate to escape. He pins Technoblade to the floor, catching the punch aimed at his head. The arm sling swings at him, but when Philza seizes it the boy’s hiss of pain eases the grip at once. A mistake, as Technoblade rips at the strap with his teeth, loosening until it’s deftly looped around Philza’s throat. Technoblade slams his injured arm on the ground, tightening the makeshift noose painfully fast. As Philza claws at the strap, gasping for air, his weight is thrown, and with a kick Technoblade bucks him off. 

Technoblade surges upward into a dead sprint, only to immediately crash into a wall of soldiers stationed to ensure the raid doesn’t interrupt. He scrambles back, head whipping wildly, delivering himself unknowingly into Philza’s waiting arms. The vice closes upon him at once, inescapable. Not once does he stop straining for freedom, writhing beneath Philza. He fights like he has nothing left to lose. “Technoblade you have to come to the bunker. You don’t want to be kidnapped again do you? I know you’re scared.” His voice cracks. “I know you’re scared of me. Okay? And that’s okay. I’m not mad. I could never be. We can talk this through later, once we’re safe. I’ll protect you, and maybe you can’t believe that but it’s true.” But Technoblade is convinced he’s fighting for his life. Why would his enemy be able to change his mind? 

He can feel the rough convulsion of his lungs, each gasping, frantic breath faster than the last. His son’s pulse spasms against him. As Technoblade is dragged to the bunker he never stops lurching for freedom. Philza murmurs assurances the whole way, stroking trembling fingers through his hair. But even Philza isn’t convinced. 

When he’s shoved into the elevator to the bunker, Technoblade immediately rushes for freedom. But Philza lunges towards him and at once he slams back, pinning himself to the back wall of the elevator. His disheveled son cowers before him, panic mounting as the doors begin to slide shut. A last glimpse of his wide, dark eyes, and then Philza is left staring at his own awful reflection. That distraught, grief-stricken father can’t be the same man Technoblade sees at all. Surely it must be a monster caught in his boy’s eyes to frighten him so. What could have possibly distorted Philza so completely? To twist a loving father into a source of pure terror? 

Philza buries his face in his hands, giving himself a few seconds. He blamed it on so many things before. Technoblade’s imagination, or childhood, or abduction, or torture, or flashbacks. Anything at all so it wasn’t Philza he was really scared of. His son is traumatized, but that’s why Philza rescued him and has to keep doing so. Philza is the solace to the wounds carved into his child. 

But months of intentional manipulation aren’t the product of blind panic. Manufactured affection. Was that all it ever was? Some desperate ploy to ingratiate himself so he wouldn’t be disposed of? Philza tears through his rosy memories, scouring for any hints of the deceit. Technoblade’s fingers seeking to tangle with his each time the boy needed comfort. The soft glow of his smile as he thanked Philza over and over for the salvation, affection, and lavishing he deserved. He knows Technoblade was frightened deeply after the Nether, but he’d assured Philza he felt safe now. Sure Technoblade is prone to panicking, but he’s been through so much, and when he calms he admits the absurdity of his anxieties. 

Alternatively, when he’s collected himself enough to firmly put the mask in place.

Maybe it never could have been genuine. That’s the part that horrifies Philza. If manufacturing family was how Technoblade survived the Piglins and the Wither, why the hell wouldn't he do the same with the Crafts? Technoblade simply doesn’t know how to stop fighting. Maybe he’ll never learn, forever doomed to claw his way through life convinced that if for a second he can’t prove his own value he’ll be destroyed. 

Philza doesn’t know how to save his son from this. But he will find a way. 

The few seconds of respite are over. His head jerks up, jaw set. Right. Before he can begin trying to untangle his son’s emotional trauma, first he has to keep him safe. Philza barks orders, falling smoothly into command as he steps into the role of the Angel of Death. Spine straight and eyes cold, each word he utters breathes destruction into the world. Doors snap shut behind him, the entrance to the bunker now impossible for anyone but a Craft to enter. God help the poor fool who even tries to find it. Only the Devil can have mercy on those who succeed, but Philza finds himself lacking it as of late. 

In the heart of the mansion’s operations, Philza bends over a control panel, personally destroying every single trace of Syndicate influence. This won’t be a setback without consequences, but nothing the Angel of Death hasn’t pulled off before. Usually there’s more warning, but he’s been doing this for too many decades for this to be much more than a mild crisis. If the traitor thought this would devastate operations, they will be painfully mistaken the moment Philza finds them. And he will, mark his words. Nobody crosses his family. Nobody. 

Without tearing his eyes off the screen, Philza raises his gun and plants a bullet in the head of the officer charging through the entrance. They collapse in a heap, joining the dead scattered across the threshold. It’s their fault for trying to interrupt, really. As much as Philza would prefer to get through this one without evidence, the officers saw too much. And furthermore, he can’t let the police think there won’t be a cost to attacking him. Though if they think the growing pile of bodies at his feet is the full consequences, they’ll be sorely mistaken. 

Perhaps it would be best to stash the heap of casualties, but that would delay his work. Each precious second is another wasted moment not spent calming his son down and figuring out what he can do to help. A bloodthirsty monster. Does Technoblade really believe that? 

Maybe letting him see his captors was a mistake. He’d thought Technoblade would feel as vindicated as he did, but the brainwashing ran deep. A short invective as he remembers he left them in the dining hall. Philza snaps off an order to get the trash out of sight before the guests arrive. Alive, he belatedly clarifies, unfortunately remembering his promise to Technoblade. Though after the lovely new facet of damage he’s just discovered on his gemstone, Philza is debating what definition of ‘freedom’ will still get him what he wants. 

He’s having a hard time concentrating as he purges evidence, distracted by the pounding realization his child is utterly terrified of him. Philza feels honestly sick. But he pushes past since his family needs him to act if they are to remain safe. So preoccupied in his work, he only belatedly recognizes the code the approaching footsteps knock against the wall. The aim is thrown off at the last second, the bullet cracking into the wall millimeters away from Sam’s head. The man is haggard and high-strung from making his way through the flanks of the raid. “About time you got here. Pull those bodies in.” 

“About ti– You were supposed to evacuate hours ago!” Sam spits vehemently. 

“We’ve a traitor. I learned about the raid the second it began.”

“I sent HUNDREDS of reports!” Sam says in a strangled voice. “All of which were marked urgent, in all caps, underlined three times! Wilbur said-”

“Is he in the bunker yet?” 

“No.” Philza swears. But he taught Wilbur well, he’ll take care of himself regardless of Philza’s howling parental instinct. Still, he shoots off a squad to bring him to safety. “Thomas is. But sir-”

“Good enough. I’m not sure we’re winning this one, mate. This site has been irredeemably compromised. Omega protocol. Don’t get caught in the legal or literal crosshairs, got it?” Philza slams a button on his way out, and the operations vanish at once into secret compartments. He grips the doorway to brace, and a second later the shockwave ripples past him, everything safely detonated into useless technological rubble. Good luck to whoever tries to get any data from that, if they can even find it to begin with. 

Philza hops over the pool of blood, checks the soles of his shoes to make sure they’re clean, and makes his way to the bunker. Sam’s hand catches roughly around his arm. “Sir, you can’t just disappear on us.”

“We’re the only ones who know the entrance. I’ll weather the storm, and fix all this afterward. But first I need to have a chat.”

It’s only a matter of time before Dad finds out Wilbur is behind this. He needs to act, and fast. Skeppy at least seems to understand it’s urgent, and they race through the house to the grand dinning hall. Wilbur pushes himself faster and faster, needing to reach them in time. It had been crucial to time the raid perfectly, in the narrow window when the Piglins would be easiest to break out. 

Wilbur slams the towering doors open, panting heavily as he scours the dinning hall. Not a hint of the pair. He’d curse but he doesn’t have the breath for it. A shot off question to a stationed sniper, and Wilbur goes tearing off once more, halfway slamming into an intricate pillar and scouring it before– there. Wilbur slams in a button disguised as a little singular bird hidden in a flock soaring up the base of the column. A panel slides open in it, and he shoves Skeppy in, scrambling down the ladder hidden inside. The pair race down and fall into a dead sprint, Wilbur desperately shouting off a code. Distant footsteps freeze, and Wilbur jogs after, rather winded. “New orders!” he wheezes. “Straight from the Angel! Epsilon-11 9-tail phi-omnicron-xi!” Wilbur slams written instructions into the palm of one of the guards escorting the Piglins. “Cut ties. Completely. That’s an order.” 

“What the hell,” Skeppy hisses under his breath, feeling nauseous as they catch sight of the Piglins. Wilbur himself has never seen anyone so bad off after suffering his father’s wrath. 

Good. They deserve it. He takes a short inhale. “This is for Tech. Run. You’re only going to have the one chance.”  

They stare at him in a way that’s indecipherable. Studying. Measuring Wilbur for what he’s worth, as if he is the one fit for the gutter. “You really do look like him,” one of them says hoarsely. 

Wilbur sets his jaw, lips curling in a sneer. “Get out of my sight before I kill the both of you.”

The elevator door snaps shut. Techno’s stomach sinks, as does the rest of him, plunging deeper and deeper to where there won’t be a chance of escape. Far, far away from the violence unfolding above. Panic spirals, dreading the moment the door opens and he’s delivered into the heart of the Craft fortress. But minutes drag on, still descending, and away from the alarms and Angel the hysteria ebbs. Not the fear, no, but with nowhere left to run the cornered Techno is left only with his racing thoughts. It’s all he’s ever had, really, desperately constructing strategies for his salvation. 

Dad always gets what he wants, Tommy told him once. Back in the beginning, before Techno knew how horrifically true that was. Techno knows he’ll do anything. But what can the Angel of Death possibly want? 

You, all say as one. 

No. Absolutely not. It can’t be that simple. Surely he wants something from Techno. My empire crumpled because of you. They had to scrub my blood out of your hair. The Angel couldn’t have just let what’s his be stolen. He was sending a message. Techno is a thing to be fought over, there isn’t any leverage to be found there. No, there has to be something he can give otherwise neither the Wither nor Angel would’ve cared. Satisfy some desire, anything so he can earn his existence. Surely the Angel had wanted some response from him after seeing what happened to his parents. Techno is at a loss for how he ever thought that was going to play out, but the presentation had to mean something. Think of the lies he planted in our mouths, boy. Aren’t you supposed to be smart? He wants to destroy our relationship. He wants you all to himself. Yes but why??? Why, why, why? Techno scours for anything he can use. Best as he can tell, his parent’s torture was supposed to be some gift on a silver platter to win his approval. But no, that was only a secondary motive. Revenge. There was so, so much hell reigned upon the world before he even met the Angel. The Nether was a testament to that, the corpses that used to be Squidkid’s family, the crater that used to be Blaze’s life. Destruction in his name long before the Angel even knew him. The obsession is impersonal. The Angel wants revenge for Techno in a way that is utterly useless to him.

Techno has only ever been an effigy to a child long dead. An altar to lay offerings at. A jewel to covet. There is nothing, nothing, nothing he can ever do because he’s only ever been a symbol and not a person. The Angel wants nothing from him and everything of him. 

Only problem is Techno isn’t sure how much of him there is left to take. 

He’s been stripped of himself completely in the past few months, reduced to having a mental breakdown in a tiny elevator with only the abusers trapped in his skull for company. His mind, the one part of him he could rely on, has betrayed him. Not that his schemes have been worth anything of late, scattered and shifting as they were. Hell, his sanity might be gone after this, or whatever dregs of it remain. Techno’s spitfire determination has been long since doused. No future to speak of beyond submission. So, just count the soul out, too. All it’s ever done was earn him more grief, anyway, refusing to stop burning long past the point he should’ve stayed quiet and obedient. If he’s taking full inventory he might as well throw in the constantly injured body that nearly got itself killed. For so long it's been his last salvation, hands with which to hold onto others despite his revulsion, a voice with which to murmur affections he didn’t believe. This aching, awful body was his last means of protecting himself, and now its deceits will go ignored. 

The only thing the Angel doesn’t have is his long besieged heart. So what happens when Techno can’t give enough love to survive?

The Angel of Death will wrench it out of him. 

He fully admitted to using fear to control people, and for all that terror has gripped Techno for months he knows it to be a mere byproduct. His gut churns imagining the possibilities. After the Nether, Techno is keenly aware the Angel rains apocalyptic force upon those who dare steal from him. He can’t kill Techno and still get what he wants, but after seeing what happened to his parents, Techno knows just how precise the Angel’s methods are. He can almost feel the way the Angel will carve open every last scar across his back. That’s what he’s been doing the whole time, really, why not make it literal? Tear open the past and infect what was long since healed. Violence runs in all their veins, the Angel, Wither, Piglins, Techno. Inherited through the wounds they tear into one another, tainted blood intertwining. Why shouldn’t the Angel use violence to persuade his affection? It’s worked before, hasn’t it? 

I’d never hurt you, the Angel of Death murmurs. You’re more precious to me than diamonds and emeralds. You’re family, Technoblade. You have no need to fear me

unless it’s necessary, darling

unless you deserve it, boy

Techno’s heard it so, so many times. Maybe he believes it, maybe he doesn’t. But for all that he doesn’t care about his own pain, the same can’t be said for others. The Angel clearly doesn’t have the same qualms with hurting Techno’s parents. He’d fall right into line then, should the Angel threaten them. Threaten Skeppy. Tommy. 

It won’t be an act. Techno’s already destroyed himself trying to pretend, and he knows scrutiny will only rip the performance to shreds. He’ll prize Techno apart until at last his heart is cradled in the Angel’s arms, until Techno is forced to bleed love. Coerced into the exact same noose Techno’s been ensnared in so many times before. 

The only question is how. 

“Master Wilbur you need to come with us-”

“Actually, I’m not going to, and if you attempt to make me I’ll blow up this entire building and kill us all,” he replies cheerfully, waltzing past frenzied security. Skeppy gives him a sharp look, and it widens to a comedic effect when the soldier actually blanches. 

Still, resistance stands firm. Wilbur groans, having banked on death threats working. But given their orders no doubt came from the Angel of Death, they know their fate to be far worse if they disobey. “I’m spearheading this operation,” he snaps, conveniently leaving out the detail that he’s doing so for the other side. “I’m not taking orders from a grunt. Now stop getting in my way if you wish this to succeed. Unless you want to explain your failure to my father?” 

“Who ordered us to-” thank god gunfire bursts out around them. Skeppy screeches and Wilbur rolls his eyes and drags him down the hall, weaving expertly through battle. Naturally, bodyguards flank them, though it is a scant few compared to the squad Dad sent. Overprotective much? Wilbur slams down an emergency door that cuts off nearly all the soldiers (and someone’s foot, but he jumps back in time). Capturing the last guard in a headlock, he grins at a terrified Skeppy. 

“So, come here often?”

“WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL DUDE???” Wilbur drops the body to the floor, motioning for Skeppy to follow. He doesn’t, giving him an awful look. “Did– did you just murder him?”

“Don’t be stupid, he just passed out. Now come on.” 

Skeppy nudges the lifeless corpse. “I don’t think he’s breathing-”

Wilbur grabs him by the ear and drags him through the mansion. “You don’t have time to check if you want to save Tech. This is only going to work once, got it? If you mess this up he might really be trapped here forever. Oh, uh, and so will you, I suppose,” Wilbur adds belatedly. He weaves through the halls, wracking his brain for the siege strategy that’s been drilled into him since he was a kid. They’ve never gone into Omega protocol before, but luckily Dad is the obsessively precautious type. It’s not exactly easy to doge formations of their own guards, but they aren’t exactly defending from the inside, so Wilbur manages. 

He finally finds a company of invaders not preoccupied with a messy entanglement. Excellent. Wilbur slings an arm around Skeppy’s shoulder, seizing an air of faux friendliness no matter how Skeppy tries to squirm out of his hold. “Alright, Skeppy, this is how this is going to go: I’m going to lie through my teeth and you’re going to smile and nod. If I pull this off Tech is a free man, got it?” The moment Skeppy agrees Wilbur bursts through the door to the police formation beyond, elated relief plastered on his face. “Oh thank god! The police are here!” 

“Hands up, Wilbur!”

Outrage scrawls across his features. “BRUH! I do NOT look like Wil! Our eyes are totally different colors! And I look less evil! Skeppy back me up, I don’t look anything like that dude, right?” 

“Your accent is awful,” Skeppy mutters. Elbowing him, Wilbur replies with something incredibly British and unprintable. “I can tell them apart easily,” Skeppy announces. “This is totally Techno.” 

“I’m Technoblade. Got it? Not Wil, that guy’s awful. Just the worst! Bro is just irredeemable in my opinion. I’m Techno, bruh, you know, the one who made the police call? You guys wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me. And this is Skeppy, my bestie and getaway driver.”

“He would not say bestie,” Skeppy hisses, then kicks into gear. “Help! Oh my god, these kidnappers are crazy, get us out of here!” 

“They’ve been trying to mold me into the family, did everything they could to make me look like Wilb-” Wilbur is seized and handcuffed roughly despite his protests. He’s told it’s all precautions, but doesn’t quite buy it. “Listen, believe me or don’t, what matters is Tommy. You’ve got to save him from this awful home.” And no doubt Tech is right by Tommy’s side, and will be for the rest of their lives if Wilbur pulls this off. 

“We’ll make sure the kid is alright. Take them to the holding station.” 

Wilbur is escorted away, and genuine panic stabs him. “No, you don’t understand, you won’t find him. Tommy will be in the bunker, you won’t find it– you can’t even get in it, not without me.” They don’t care. Why would they? “The Angel’s in the bunker,” he throws out desperately. “Listen, you’re not going to find the Angel, not without my help. I know exactly where he is. Please trust me. I just want to save my brother from that monster.” 

The moment the elevator doors open, Techno is hurtling through, tearing through the bunker for any type of safety. He curses the listless state he’d been in last time he’d been down here for wasting investigation that could’ve been used to save him now. The Angel will be down right after him, and he needs to be prepared. Respite, if it can even be called that, will be brief. 

He can’t stop running, though. To stop for even a second is to be caught even if he isn’t being chased, not yet, soon though, he’s coming need a plan think god why can’t you think aren’t you supposed to be good at this? Isn’t it the only use you’ve got? But every self-preservation instinct he has is screaming at him to run, dread overwhelming till he can’t think at all. Or rather, nothing of merit, all spiraling terror and catastrophizing. His imagination paints atrocities beyond his wildest nightmares, constructing impossible scenarios that gut him all the same. Panic spasms in his chest, bursting and uncontrollable. It overwhelms all save frantic, useless flight. 

And, in the midst of his lowest point, in the hurricane of terror swallowing him whole, he finds Tommy. Techno slams to a stop, the consuming panic driving him to blindly flee stuttering. 

Tommy races for him, latching onto his waist. Hands bury in the boy’s hair, shaking as they comb through golden curls for comfort. The dread locking Techno’s chest eases ever so slightly. The world stills, the floor no longer fracturing beneath his feet and causing him to plummet. He finally feels some semblance of grounded. 

He’s finally found his bedrock. 

“What’s happening? Where’s Sam? Who’s attacking? Why are we being raided?” 

“If. If I’m honest I forgot that was happening.” His panic would spike, but he is already running on maximum adrenaline. 

“It’s okay,” Tommy insists. “We’re safe in the bunker.” It feels backward that a kid is trying to soothe him. The hug grows a little tighter, hurting his bitten arm though he can’t care. “Are you okay? I haven’t seen you or– actually I haven’t really seen anyone since we got caught. What happened when you were grounded? Did–” he hesitates, worried and confused and trying to piece together what scraps of information he has. “Did Dad…hurt you?”

“Not yet. But my– my parents, he–”

“The ones that Dad killed?”

“No,” he says hoarsely. “No, that would’ve been kinder than what he did to them.” 

Tommy tenses in his arms, eyes widening on something over Techno’s shoulder. He pulls at Techno with all his strength till he stumbles to some semblance of flight. Techno bolts before he knows what’s even happening, pulling Tommy along, till his glance whips around to find their pursuer and falls upon the Angel. Panic erupts, consuming him once more. 

It’s pure instinct that has him bursting into his room. Techno slams the door shut, dragging Tommy toward the bed. He shoves the boy beneath in the safety of the dark. “Stay quiet. No matter what, got it? Curl up tight in the corner. Mum and Dad won’t be able to reach you. Just stay there until it’s safe. Don’t fight, you won’t stand a chance. Revenge isn’t worth it. You’re too young to die, Squ-” His tongue freezes. Warring confusion swirls across his agitated features. It’s Tommy’s scared noise that grounds him once more. Tommy’s eyes are wide, glistening despite the shadow wrapping around him. A small hand reaches for him, but Techno can’t take it. His inhale is shaky, but deep. “--disregard that last part. You’ll be fine, just stay quiet.”

“Don’t leave me–” 

But Techno draws back. “I can’t fit beneath anymore. I’ll find somewhere else.” The second he stands he can’t see Tommy anymore. Almost at once everything becomes far, far worse. But he has to go. Techno needs to buy time to figure something out, and maybe distance will dull the edges of Phil’s wrath. It’s a trade-off since hiding is a disobedience that will be punished. He’ll just have to weigh the risk and pray his calculations are right. 

Though it takes everything he’s got to tear himself away from Tommy, Techno limps for the door, knowing he’s running out of time fast. The door wrenches open, revealing The Angel mere inches from him, fist raised. 

Techno woodenly stumbles back. The Angel remains perfectly still, filling the exit. He swallows roughly, gaze ensnared in the raised hand, the prepared blow, the threat he can only wait to fall. Atavistic instinct screams to bolt, but he knows there’s nowhere to go within the bunker. Trapped with a predator prowling closer and closer.

The Angel is frozen, almost, caught in a gaze narrowed solely upon his raised fist. “I was just– knocking, that’s all I was doing. I wasn’t–” his voice is choked with worry. His knucks rap lightly upon the door frame. “Can I come in?” Not angry. Not angry yet. Techno pours over his expression. Composed, or trying to be, brows furrowed, jaw rigid. Disappointment radiates from him, shooting further alarm through Techno. Disappointment is a very dangerous emotion. Fix it. He can’t say no, that much is obvious. It’s a false formality at best, the Angel always gets what he wants. 

“Feel free, An-Ph– Dad,” Techno manages. He tries for an inviting smile. 

Something awful flickers in the Angel’s eyes. He takes a step forward and it takes everything in Techno not to retreat further. The tension of it is painful just to keep himself still, but he does, forming some semblance of a barrier to defend Tommy’s hiding spot. He can’t let the Angel anywhere near the one part of his heart that still beats. 

“How long were you lying to us?” he asks quietly as the door clicks shut behind him, trapping Techno in. Danger bleeds from every syllable. 

“I’m not. You know I’m a bad liar. I wasn’t- it was real. All of it was real, I swear.” Don’t ever, ever make them feel betrayed. That’s how you breed vengeance, darling, and you can’t afford that. Especially not with Tommy in the room. At the thought, his back straightens, resolved to protect him no matter the cost. He’ll say whatever he has to for Tommy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Flashback. Just a flashback, didn’t know it was you. I thought– Wither, I was speaking to her, not you. Never you. I’m so, so sorry Dad.” 

“So you think I’m as bad as the Wither.” His tone is the flattest Techno has ever heard.  

“No! No, of course not!” 

“At least you’re finally telling the truth. You don’t see me as the Wither, because at least then we’d be family.” His son visibly flinches for all that he tries to hide it. There’s this awful smile plastered across Techno’s scarred features regardless of how unconvincing it is. Maybe it never was, and Philza was just forcing himself to believe it. “You pretended to love us,” he accuses, cutting over Technoblade’s protests. “Calling me Dad, leaning on Wilbur, braiding Tommy’s hair— it was all just you trying to survive, wasn’t it? Never once did you care beyond what would save you. It wasn’t real.”

Technoblade’s rictus is painful. “Of course I love you. We're family aren’t we?” 

“Please stop saying that.” 

Technoblade spasms with panic. How desperately he struggles to reach for his façade only further cements how stupid Philza is for ever falling for it. Even now, it’s almost convincing. His smile is warm and adoring, firmer in conviction by the second. 

But he’s scared, so, so scared, and even Philza can’t deny that. It’s horrific to see him slip into that loving expression knowing there’s only fear beyond it. His grinning mouth parts, but his son can’t choke anything out. It’s awful to watch, struggling to claw any type of defense out of his throat only to get out painful noises. His chest seizing up, rigid and bracing. Brittle, like he’s seconds from breaking. 

He can almost sense the moment Technoblade flips tactics, capturing Philza’s hands in his own. Techno shoves him into place, forcing Philza to tenderly cup his cheek. His smile presses into Philza’s trapped palm -to hide his expression, he realizes- and relaxes into the gesture in a sigh. No, it’s only a feigned reaction, he’s just as tense as before. He’s– he’s trained himself to mimic affection. Philza’s chest aches. Even now he wants to believe this comforts his child. Perhaps it does, but only in the sense of control it brings. Technoblade is actively exploiting his parental instincts and has done so for months. 

His dark eyes are rapt upon Philza, scouring him for his reaction. Panic sparks in them as Philza’s features grow distraught. Automatically, Philza reaches to soothe him, rubbing a thumb gently across the arc of his scarred cheekbone. It calms the boy, if only because he thinks it’s working. Philza feels nauseous. “Something is deeply wrong with you,” he says softly. 

“Then help me,” Technoblade begs, but it can’t hide the terror in his eyes. Even now everything in him is pleading for him to believe his son. All he wants is to help, and Technoblade is using that against him. But Philza isn’t so easily lulled. 

“You don’t want help. You’ve been suffering for months and didn’t let anyone know how bad it was. Instead, you manipulated us in a way that is quite honestly horrific.” He wrenches his hand away, but Technoblade holds on tight, almost clawing as he tries to keep their hands ensnared with one another. There’s something wild and frantic in his eyes. 

“No, I love this family,” he insists desperately.

“I don’t think you even know what love is. Because lying to us every single day isn’t love, isn’t– healthy. Can’t you see that? I’m not angry with you, I’m terrified. You’ve been pretending to be healing and happy this whole time. You’re still lying to me even now. This isn’t good, gemstone, you need serious help. We could’ve been that support you so badly need, but you don’t know how to trust. I don’t even know when this began, if this is because of the Nether or if you’ve always been like this.” He didn’t think he could handle the truth, whatever it was. Whether it was the Wither or the Piglins, either way it was because Philza didn’t save him soon enough. 

“I’m—not, I’m not, that–” Technoblade can’t scrounge up a defense. He’s practically pulverizing Philza’s hand. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to lie anymore. There won’t be any punishment, you’ve already done that to yourself. You’ve hurt yourself so much by pretending. Just stop, Technoblade, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not. I don’t know how many times I have to say that. I’ll prove it to you. Every single day, over and over, until you feel safe. Please, just tell me how. I’ll do anything to make you stop thinking I’m a monster.”

Anything to change Techno’s perception, but not reality. Techno claws to keep a hold of his fear because it’s the only thing that will save him. Techno knows just what type of anything the Angel is capable of. Murmuring tender reassurances in one breath and orders to annihilate the Nether in the next. Gentle hands caressing him, only to turn around and beat his parents. Destroying Techno’s life while all the while swearing he’ll never hurt him. But sure, why the hell would Techno be scared? He’s just traumatized. Poor little abused Technoblade, so confused, so delusional. How awful that he manipulated his loving family for months! As if Techno doesn’t have to fight tooth and nail just to survive. His every fear is minimized and dismissed, because acknowledging them might force the Angel to see him as a fully-fledged person instead of a fantasy, might force the Angel to stop shifting the blame and realize how awful he is. 

He can’t stop the loathing scrawling into his seething countenance. “You already saved me, Dad,” Techno nearly snarls, clinging to his deception no matter how fully the mask has broken. 

Philza paralyzes beneath his son’s blistering hatred. “I– I love you.” It’s all he has. It’s all he’s ever had, the surety that no matter what was taken for him he’d never forget nor forgive. The one ever-constant beacon to keep him going after his family was broken in half. Philza swore he’d fix his family no matter what. 

But Technoblade’s vehemence doesn’t waver for a second. “You–you think love is earned. I can do that, whatever it takes. Just tell me what I have to do. Because I don’t know how to fix this, let alone fix you.” Philza can’t imagine the stress of having to appease a cruel captor just for the chance of surviving till the next day, but it was a threat Technoblade had lived under for years. The damage ran so, so deep, only now fully unearthed. “I know so much has happened, but I promise we’ll be a happy family one day.”

There isn’t any warning before the door is kicked down. Philza sighs, frustrated with the intrusion. “We were having a private conversation,” he rebukes as the room fills with special operations forces. He catches the pure panic unraveling in Technoblade’s features. “Sorry gemstone, I have to take care of this first,” he gently assures, ignoring the leader shouting about something something under arrest for his heinous crimes. “No need to be scared of them.” 

In an instant he’s armed, whirling upon the invaders. A force tackles him from behind, wrapping around and pinning his arms. Philza’s swift retaliation falters as he registers his son is holding him still. It isn’t an embrace at all. It is simply a cage designed to ensnare Philza. Maybe that’s the only way Technoblade can understand affection. 

Technoblade is telling him exactly what he wants in the only way he can. The message is loud and clear and gut-wrenching. Not once had he stopped fighting to get his son back, even now fighting to break past Technoblade’s walls to reach the lost child he knows is in there. For eighteen years he’s been on the warpath for his son, and now he’s asked to…stop. 

But surely Technoblade realizes what this will mean. Philza won’t be able to protect him at all, he’ll be utterly defenseless. Philza’s panic spikes as enemies pour around them, threatening his child, and he needs to act before his baby is stolen again–

It’s quite possible that you may have to start doing things you don’t like for the sake of your child’s well-being.

His child needs some space. He can– he can do that. Maybe. If this is what Technoblade thinks he needs, Philza will do his best. He relents as he’s torn out of his son’s arms to be manhandled by the invaders. He swallows the umbrage, head high and smile cordial, exactly as docile as his son wants to see him. He even refrains from rolling his eyes as his arms are twisted painfully behind his back, the handcuffs tightened till they cut off circulation. It scarcely factors into his calculations at all. 

First step: Philza needs to make sure Technoblade feels safe. And it’s destroying Philza to admit he can’t do that, his very presence invoking terror. But if his son wants it, then he’ll have it. 

“Techno? Techno, what’s happening?” The entire room stills, whipping around to catalog the new factor. Thomas’ head peeks out from under the bed, eyes wide as he sees the hoard of soldiers instinctively raising their weapons towards him. A terrified note tears from his throat and he jerks back beneath to the false sense of safety. 

“Don't you dare hurt him,” Philza snarls his fury. At once the weapons snap to him, right where they should be. His hackles lower as the threat abates. Technoblade drops down to his little brother, murmuring some type of assurance. A tiny hand reaches out and grasps Technoblade’s. Philza drinks in the scene, needing it. There’s hope. It will get better, they can be a family. 

Then the sour thought comes. Isn’t Technoblade still just pretending? He can’t tell. He wants to believe it, but that want has been so thoroughly exploited he’s not sure he can. 

Technoblade shoves Thomas’ hand beneath the bed once more, head whipping around to catch upon Philza. Alarm flares in his eyes, Technoblade jerking as if about to dive under himself. Suddenly, Philza realizes what’s happening. But of course Technoblade would hide Thomas beneath the bed. Wasn’t that where he always hid from his parents? 

It’s the fact that Thomas chose to remain hidden that steals the breath from his lungs. And all of a sudden Philza doesn’t feel like he could resist arrest even if he wanted to. He’s completely numb as he’s marched out of the room. The moment the door snaps close between him and his boys, Philza’s reassuring smile drops. There’s…a lot to reflect on, at the moment. He’s shoved into the elevator, completely crowded by a dozen eager soldiers all aiming their twitching trigger fingers at him. Each one a witness to the existence of the bunker that’s protected his family for years. 

Right. Second step: Philza needs to make sure his boys are actually safe. 

“Stay,” Techno whispers harshly to Tommy. He wants to be screaming at the boy for revealing his hiding spot but doesn’t. “They’ll have to gather enough people to move it, you have some time, just be quiet. Do what they say, tell them what they want, and don’t ever, ever give them an excuse to–” Techno is wrenched up by his mangled arm, slammed into the bed, and handcuffed. There’s not a bag shoved on his head, but he figures it’s only a matter of time. A mistake to save them. You’re too soft to live. “--hurt you,” he grunts. “If you’re wanting hostages, I’m warning you it’s only going to get worse if you use us as leverage.” Techno feels nauseous. He’s not sure he can survive another kidnapping, especially if he can’t rely on the ominous aegis of the Angel. There is to be no catharsis, simply exchanging which pair of hands pulverizes his throat. 

“Stop resisting, Wilbur.” Terror slams into him, the sharp burn of fire echoing across his shoulders. No. no, no, no, no no no non nono nononononono– 

“I’m not Wilbur! I’m not, I’m not, I’m n–” He shouts it over and over as if repeatedly insisting the fact will save him. Was the Wither’s final gift for nothing? 

A soldier crouches down to peer beneath the bed. Techno instinctively lurches toward them, desperate to protect Tommy, but is wrenched away from the bed. A bruising grip digs into the dog bite on his arm and Techno grits his teeth. “I’m guessing you’re the Tommy he talked about?” the soldier asks gently. “Don’t worry, Technoblade sent us to find you. You’re safe now.” 

“I’M NOT WILBUR!” It’s hoarse and desperate as he realizes it’s not a mistake; Wil set him up to take his torture. “PLEASE!” 

Tommy scrambles out from underneath, though his dash is blocked off by countless people. Just barely can Techno catch the blur of his hand reaching for him. “What are you doing to him?! That’s Techno!” Tommy argues with the room of soldiers, pulling himself up to his full height of ‘tiny gremlin’ and shouting at them. Techno can barely tell what’s happening. Tommy’s voice gets smaller and smaller, distant. The world slips through his grasp, rushing past in an overwhelming torrent as Tommy is taken away from him. Or, perhaps it’s the other way around, Techno shoved into a walk. He only knows it’s happening because of the dull pain of limping. Even that fades as he’s consumed by his fear. 

Something latches around his waist. Techno blinks, realizing he has no idea how he got to the bunker elevator, much less how long he’s been waiting there. Tommy hugs him a little tighter. There’s something desperate in his embrace, hungry like he knows Techno will slip away again the moment he lets go.

The elevator dings. The doors open smoothly to a completely red room, viscera spilling out. Philza glances at the hoard of waiting soldiers, knife hilt deep through one last witness’s jugular. Swiftly he yanks it out, dropping the body. It crumples to the ground in a pile of others, still gurgling on what’s surely its last breath. He steps out confidently, surveying the sea of assault rifles trained on him. “Quite the welcoming party I see,” he remarks casually.

“Come quietly, Craft. You don’t stand a chance.”

A pair of wicked knives spin in his hands. “I like my odds.” 

“Hi, Dad,” Wilbur smirks, stepping away from where the Skeppy boy is hunched over puking his guts out. He sweeps a bow as the performance comes to a close. 

Philza sighs. That would explain how the bunker was found, wouldn’t it? Fine, he can get rid of as many witnesses as it takes. He can’t afford anyone to know of the bunker, and regardless the police knew what they were getting into when they broke old treaties. “Songbird, I thought I raised you better than to give in to threats.”

Only for only a moment does Wilbur toy with the idea of letting Dad continue to believe that. Wilbur really could come out appearing to be on everyone’s side. “Oh no, I wanted them to find you. As busy as you were with him, it wasn’t hard to suppress any early alarms before it was too late.”

Dad goes very, very still. “Why are you doing this?” 

“I’m saving him.” Wilbur’s smile is all teeth. “Isn’t that what you raised me to do?” 

“So you hate me, too,” he says quietly. Anger boils in his eyes. “You could have talked to me at any point. Am I really so bloody unapproachable?” demands the man coated in viscera. “You all really despise me this much?” 

“I’m just trying to do what’s best for the family,” Wilbur shrugs. “And it’s clearly not you.” 

How do they become a happy family? It’s a question Philza has found himself asking frequently as of late, and each of his sons blatantly agrees: Philza isn’t wanted. He seethes, advancing so sharply that the crowd of soldiers shrinks back. An aura of pure malice chokes the room. And then the Angel of Death closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It’s not that his anger dissipates, simply simmers, controlled for the time being. “Fine,” he spits, raising his hands in the air in embittered true surrender. “As my children command me.” 

Techno’s fingers dig into Tommy’s scalp painfully. He refuses to let go, pressing Tommy’s head to his chest. The world is dark, swallowed by his dress shirt and arms wrapped too tight around him. Techno refuses to let him see anything in the elevator. He’s enveloped by the warm, familiar scent of Techno, but it can’t hide a sharp metallic tang and the noxious fumes of bleach. Tommy doesn’t recognize it, but it’s overpowering. His stomach churns in a way that can’t be entirely blamed on the rapid ascension. He clings tightly to his brother, knowing it’s only a matter of time before they’re separated. Tommy tries to pretend it’s a stupid fear, but it isn’t. The moment the elevator doors close behind them the police rip them apart. The police keep him carefully apart from his brothers for his safety as they try to sort out who is who. 

“I’m not getting tortured for you again,” Techno hisses the moment before Wil can doom him. 

Something flickers across Wil’s face. “Arrested,” he corrects. Yeah right, like that would ever happen. The police are bought to hell and back by the Crafts, officer Jenny proved that. “Couldn’t have done it without you. I mean, you’ve had his attention for your entire life, but he couldn’t look away these last three days.” Bitterness tinges the words, but Wil gives him a crooked grin when he sees the confusion in his conflicted features. Is this a trick? It has to be, he’s never understood Wil’s motivations. Wil catches the distrust in his eyes. He sighs. “Really, you’re free. I made sure of it.” 

“What? Why?”

“I had fun being your brother, but I think I’m done now.” His hands spread wide. It’s a mixed gesture, a tired sort of theatrics. It’s not a defense, in fact the opposite, as if challenging Techno to take a shot. Simultaneously, a shrugging resignation, make of me what you will. And then smoothly they rise into the air in pure surrender. 

Techno’s eyes widen as Wil announces his real identity and is descended upon. It’s real, then. Techno snaps out a hand and catches him by the shoulder. “Don’t. I need you.” They’re surrounded by ‘police’. He can’t say a word, how desperately he needs a connection to the Syndicate if he’s going to make this last. This is so far from over.

But Wil flinches. “No, you don’t. I don’t need you to pretend to care about me, thanks. I’ve done my part, your life is yours now. Make it a good one.” Panic wells in Techno’s throat as he finds and loses an ally in one second. 

Techno seems lost. Every other time Tommy’s seen him go outside he was overwhelmed with elation. Now he’s just…watching. Hackles raised, head jerking around to keep track of movement. There’s a lot of it, the mansion a flurry of activity as people are rounded up. Techno’s hand rests lightly on his head from where they sit together. Tommy wishes it would stay there forever, but he can recognize the impossible. Techno’s leg is bouncing the fastest Tommy has ever seen it until he suddenly freezes. The brothers’ attention is caught on their father as he’s brought to a containment vehicle. Techno goes rigid next to him as Dad’s sharp eyes catch on them. His tentative smile drops as Tommy tucks into Techno’s side for shelter. In the last glimpse Tommy gets of his Dad, the pure despair on his face shakes Tommy. 

Tommy’s not crying. He can’t, not if he keeps his eyes squeezed shut and buries his face in his knees. No one will ever know. No one would even check, anyway. They always forget about Tommy. Distracted by more important things, leaving him all alone. He’d thought getting rid of the bad guys would make everything feel better, but he just feels lost and so, so scared. Not that Tommy hadn’t known it was going to be hard, but at least he thought he wouldn’t be alone. 

Apparently not. “Um. I guess— I guess Dad and Wilbur are gone now.” He nearly chokes on it. “So. So you can stop pretending and leave me, too.” 

The hand resting on his head jerks away, and Tommy sobs harder. He’s finally been abandoned for good this time. “What?

“Dad said you hate us,” Tommy mumbles. All he can hear ringing in his head is Dad saying Techno doesn’t understand love, and the way Techno’s own voice echoes the same thing months earlier. And all he can see is the way Techno smiled and snuggled with Dad moments before running away. And if Dad and Wilbur are both so much older and know so much more than Tommy, and if even they were tricked, what chance does Tommy stand? 

Techno, who said his gratitude even as he snarled it. 

Techno, who swore to Dad they were a family even as he loathed them. 

Techno, who promised Tommy they would always be together even as he left. 

“I— I get lost, Tommy. Don’t know where I am sometimes, or what’s happening. I confuse the past with the present with the futures I dread. But I do know every time I’m around you it gets better. It’s real, with you.” He carefully wraps the boy in a hug, and at once Tommy claws into him desperately. Tommy sobs into his brother, shaking as his family falls apart despite the fact they were never truly whole to begin with. “You make me feel real, Tommy. I wasn’t lying to you, I lo-” He can’t choke it out. His instincts spasm, terrified of the trap. “I lo– I-I–” 

“You said it before, when we escaped. Was that a lie too?” 

He’d been desperate. So, so desperate, terrified of losing Tommy, of the pain that would bring. Techno said just about anything he could just to make Tommy stay. 

Techno feels nauseous for trying to manipulate Tommy like that. 

“...do you want me to leave?” Techno asks helplessly. 

“I don’t want to trap you like Dad did.”

But still they sit side by side in the debris of the illusion that ensnared the Crafts for months. Tommy and Techno are together, even if neither knows what that means anymore. 

A police officer kicks at the bars of Philza’s holding cell, jeering. Philza, for his part, continues puzzling over today’s crossword, pen idly tapping out a code. The paper is carefully angled to ensure the camera feed observing his every move can catch the encrypted messages he scratches into the newspaper. 

“Are you even listening?! You’re never seeing the light of day again! Sixteen officers missing cause of you!” The cop rants and seethes as Philza calmly ignores him, only glancing up once as another enters and hands him a steaming cup of coffee. A minute later, the officer berating him drops, a hand shooting out to snatch the coffee before it spills. 

Philza frowns. “Sam, he was in the middle of delivering his report to me.” 

Sam scoffs as he snatches the guard’s keys, opening Philza’s cell. The alarms fail to blare. “As if. Our foothold here is compromised-”

“No, only sabotaged from elsewhere. It’s not their fault.” 

“You found out who the traitor is?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” 

“How many pieces are they in?”

“Just the one, and you need not concern yourself with that. What are you doing here? Didn’t you see my message?” He’d circled it thrice on the crossword puzzle. “What’s in that coffee?” 

“Just some traces of Iocane powder.”

Philza seizes it, and downs the cup. Good, he needs caffeine. “Thank you for rescuing me, but I’m staying here, mate. I’m having, ah, a family vacation at the moment.” 

“In a jail cell.” 

Philza sighs. “Yes, my children picked the destination. They all hate me, apparently. Wilbur was the traitor.” 

“I’m going to-” Sam snarls.

“You’re going to watch your mouth before you threaten my child,” Philza interjects icily. “I told you the plan and you decided to reject orders to ‘rescue’ me.” 

“I thought you were under some type of duress!” 

“As if,” Philza scoffs. “No, we’re doing this all clean and proper. The police know the consequences if they don’t comply, and they can’t afford to lose any more people after their blunder. Now, go get Thomas. He’s in holding room 7, just down the hall. I want to talk to him.” Sam’s eyes twitch. He’s not particularly good at controlling his expressions, reliant upon the safety of his helmet. A huff into his medical mask, but he obeys. Philza sips his coffee and sets his folded paper down, then drags the downed officer out of the way. Philza has him slumped in a chair ‘dozing’ by the time Thomas is nudged into the room. 

“Wow, Sam, you never told me you were ugly!” the boy was chirping as he skipped alongside his unmasked bodyguard. But Thomas stops abruptly as he sees his father regardless of the warm smile on his face. Philza winces. But when he pats the spot next to him, Thomas obediently comes to sit at his side. He guides Thomas into a hug, the boy grasping on a little too tightly. “I thought I was never going to see you again,” Thomas mutters roughly. 

“And how does that make you feel?” Philza asks cautiously, because no matter how hard he tries he can’t get the image of Thomas hidding from him beneath the bed. It blurs so horrifically with how little Technoblade cowered from his abductor’s drunken wrath when he was growing up. Is that how Thomas sees him? 

Thomas buries his face in his father’s side. “...it’s really hard to tell. You're a baddie. Wilbur and Techno said so.”

“Sunshine, I will never hurt you.”

“This hurts right now.” His little arms squeeze tight around Philza’s sides, but his words are even tighter in their pulverization of his heart. “Techno was right, love only hurts.”

“Shh sunshine, don’t say that. What a horrible thing to even think. I know it’s hard right now, but it’ll all be worth it in the end, I’ll make sure of it. This isn’t the end of our family, far from it. I know things are scary and confusing right now, but you needn’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it, you just have to go home and–”

“No one is there. It’s just me. It’s always just me, abandoned.”

“I'm not really going to be gone. Tomorrow, Wilbur and I will be back home. We’ll be under house arrest during the trial. And afterward I won’t be a baddie because I’ll have been brought to justice, alright sunshine? Everything will be okay.” 

“But Techno won’t be there. I just wanna be with Techno.”

Philza hesitates. “You will be. Just…he’s taking a break right now. That’s all this is. He needs some space to sort everything out.”

“He hates us.” 

“Technoblade doesn’t hate you.” Philza swallows roughly. He…doesn’t think so anyways. Philza might be the last person who can tell at this point. 

“He was lying, Dad, you said so.” 

“Yes. He lied to everyone, including himself. I don’t– it wasn’t all fake. It can’t all be.” Ever since he was arrested, memories of happy moments with Technoblade have been plaguing him. Each one scoured through, trying to pinpoint exactly when it all went wrong. Some of it was real, but he can’t tell it apart. “I know he hates us, but he also loves us. By his own logic, he has to, given the harm he’s done. Now that I know how badly he’s hurting I can help him.” It’s the one good thing he can find in any of this. “It’s not going to be easy Thomas, I know that. It may be a very long time before we teach Technoblade how to feel safe and loved. Things are a little rocky in our family at the moment, but I promise I’m not going to abandon any of my sons.” 

Techno freezes at the entrance to his apartment. Just…staring at his old life. It doesn’t feel real. Probably because it isn’t. It’s only a matter of time before the Angel captures him again. This respite will be brief. 

The world blurs to abstract, to the nothing it was always going to be. If he’d expected to feel safe when he finally got home, Techno was only ever going to be betrayed. The fragile hope dissolves into smears of burning colors, clawing at his throat as Techno begins to sob. He knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s not safe to break yet, but still Techno falls apart. There is no relief in this freedom, only the dread of its eventual end. 

Techno comes back different. Ok so, obviously Skeppy knew that was going to happen; what kind of guy gets kidnapped for like almost half a year and isn’t a little weird after? Skeppy only had to deal with that lunatic for a few days and he feels twitchy, let alone even looking at an elevator makes him nauseous. God only knows how Techno doesn’t jump out of his skin at every shout. That’s what Skeppy keeps telling everyone anyway. The other students find it easier to talk to him instead, which makes sense. There’s this way Techno looks at everyone nowadays, this hollow wolf-stare clearly calculating exactly how he could take you. Never stops moving, and that was true before but it is an expectant type now, like he could lunge at any moment. Bolt, Skeppy tries to correct. He’s prepared to bolt at any moment. He’s the victim here. 

Absolutely nobody expected Techno to start up classes only a few days after escaping the madman who held him prisoner for months. Well, except for Techno apparently, with a bullheaded spite that refuses to take no for an answer. Which…yeah, Skeppy kinda gets it. Techno has been fighting for months to get his life back. Techno is determined to pretend everything is normal and fine.

What isn’t helping his case is what he did on his first day back. Skeppy wasn’t there to see it. He should’ve been, he should’ve skipped. It was more important to make sure his friend was ok. Regardless, he wasn’t there, but he’s heard stories. Oh god has he heard stories, and even Techno's version of it doesn’t put him in a reasonable light. But at least it makes sense. Honestly, Skeppy might also book it if he stepped into a classroom, exposed to a crowd for the first time after extreme isolation with a crazy captor, and had everyone staring at him. Skeppy understands the staring too. It’s hard not to, with his sling and persistent limp, his chopped-off hair, his hypervigilant gaze, his scar scar-stricken features. He’s not exactly hard to identify from the student population.

And when he’s panicking and sprinting down the halls, he’s not exactly hard to find, either. Or, one would assume. He’s insanely good at managing to slip away despite his limp, which probably helps with the hounds of students trying to pin him down and get the story about what happened to him. But eventually a concerned classmate found him having a panic attack in the bathroom. Understandable. That’s the part Skeppy stresses over and over again. He already had anxiety before this all happened, give him a break, geez.

What people are less forgiving of is that the student trying to help him got attacked with a stapler. Or a gun. Or bazooka, according to a very specific someone. Come on. You seriously believe that rumor? He would’ve been expelled.

He nearly was, Techno, explained later, curled up in a ball beneath his bed. He pulled a knife on a student after all. Didn’t attack, of course, he just wanted to make sure he was alone. He seemed relieved it would work, like he didn’t expect someone to back off an armed person having a mental breakdown. 

The school, obviously, isn’t pleased. Techno shrugs about that part, saying all he had to do was threaten mass PR backlash. Already their international programming is under insane scrutiny. Failing to support the mental health of the student traumatized under their care isn’t a good look. Skeppy supposes that’s true, but he’d never have the balls to threaten a centuries-old prestigious institution like Hypixel. Techno scarcely notices, calmly pointing out it's not hard to deduce their motivation and apply a little pressure. He talks a lot like that now. Motivations. It’s all he cares about, like it’s the only way he’ll survive. Not that he tends to be more accurate, reading into everything as if there are people out to get him. Hell. Maybe there are.

Not that Skeppy really thought a week or two would be enough to get over absolutely everything, especially given Techno’s track record for dealing with traumatizing stuff. But he thought the hypervigilient paranoia might die down even slightly. If anything, it’s gotten worse. Today, Techno gets back from his last class and locks every single lock he’s added to the suite. It takes about 10 minutes since he’s got a lot on there now. As a rule, they don’t let people in their dorm anymore, which unfortunately means no more ragers. Not that Skeppy feels safe with those anymore, not after he let Wilbur into his home, after he laughed and reminisced and drank with the man who kidnapped his best friend. Even when Skeppy knew the Crafts were insane he’d still been tricked into working with Wilbur. Hard to cut loose and party once he realized he had gotten black-out drunk with a cold-blooded murderer for months. Bit of a damper on the vibe. Unfortunately, it also improves Skeppy’s grades, which was an argument Techno insisted upon at the start of the school year.

Techno immediately crawls under his bed the moment he thinks the dorm is secure. “People are following me.”

“They’re curious students dude.”

“Unless that’s what they want me to think.” Floof perks up and dashes underneath to join him. “Skeppy, I think the dog has ulterior motives. He’s always licking at my face. Trying to butter me up.” 

Skeppy snorts, hoping the deadpan he’s catching is a joke. “He only does that when he senses stress.”

“He always licks me.”

“Yeah, no duh. Ever think about getting an emotional support animal? Could do wonders dude. That’s what ESAs are for. Officially. Have him in class. If someone attacks he’ll protect you.” 

Techno snorts. “Or cower behind me.” 

“Good, that’ll trigger your mama bear mode. It doesn’t have to be Floof either. I bet you could register that gremlin you saved. I think Tommy tried to bite me once. Still, it would waste the training I’ve been doing with Floof.”

Techno’s head pops out from under the bed, nestled in a burrito blanket. Fluffy is buried underneath his chin. “You’ve been training him to be an ESA?”

Well, actually, Skeppy’s been dropping Floof off at lessons, but it’s his money. And Techno has this most grateful look in his eyes. “Yep! It’ll take a few more weeks but should be all right. Plus the Dean said they wanted proof you’re taking steps for your mental health after the knife thingy.” 

The joy flickers, suspicion growing. “Motive?”

“I’m doing this because you’re stressed and paranoid and I don’t wanna get stabbed.” Techno nods, accepting it. That’s good, he used to require firmer assurances. Sometimes he thinks Techno trusts him only because he also got kidnapped. He’s worried about his friend. Some days he thinks he’ll never get better, permanently mentally trapped with the Crafts. But other days he smiles at his own paranoia and asks “hey, this training Floof is doing; is it espionage or assassination work? Should I be worried?”

“You know, he wasn’t particularly good at either, so it’s more of a ninja situation.” 

Techno buries his face in Floof’s curls and ruffles his ears. “Excellent. His white fur will make him fantastic at night stealth.”

“I’m going to be forthright with you. I’ve held this position since 2001. My record is nearly flawless. But against a millionaire’s legal defense, even I may not be able to triumph.” The man says it bitterly, like it’s some huuuge personal loss. Yeah right; this is Techno’s life. But he rolls the motivation around in his mind, catching the pride filling the prosecutor. He can work with that. 

“I know, but I need to make sure he needs to go down,” Techno snaps. “You’re the only one who can do that. He’s going to squirm out of everything at this point. I’ve seen firsthand how tight a criminal organization can be run. Let me guess, there isn’t a single scrap of evidence?” 

A grimace. “I’ve never seen such a clean wipe. It’s despairingly flawless.” 

“And no other witnesses have come up that will say anything against him.” 

“That would be correct.” 

“Bribed every one of them. The raid team definitely saw carnage. How could they possibly not know who’s to blame!? There was no one else in the elevator!” The prosecutor visibly flinches. “And his staff would never say anything against him without the risk of disappearing. And my parents seriously haven’t said anything?” There’s a politely blank expression. “They– the people tortured to the brink of death? They should’ve been recovered with the raid–” unless the Angel killed them too, to limit witnesses. Techno slams up fast, pacing, whipping out his new phone. He completely upchucked his entire digital identity, ripping out any connections to previous data he had and swearing any with his contact information to layers of security and deception. Techno digs in his backpack and pulls out a list of coded phone numbers, texting his parents quickly and then immediately erasing it from his device, as he does to all messages. “Threatened at the very least. They were awfully obedient to him, recoiled every time he moved too fast. One look at their injuries is all a jury needs to know what kind of man the Angel is.”

“That’s the problem, Mr. Piglin-” 

Techno flinches. “Techno. It’s Techno. Not– that.” 

“As is, you’re the sole witness against him, and nothing you claim aligns with other accounts or evidence. It appears impossible to conclude that Philza Craft is the villain known as the Angel of Death.” 

“There’re cameras in every inch of his house! There should’ve been evidence right? There was a raid, that has to have some type of justification–” 

“All indications point to police overreach and corruption. Philza Craft is currently counter-suing, and predicted to succeed.”

“I’m going to get him life behind bars if it’s the last thing I do.” Techno swings his satchel onto the table. Paper currency spills out as he lays his life savings out. “You’re the only lawyer I know. If you can’t do it then I need to hire someone who can.” 

The man scruffs a hand through his floppy gray hair. “This is a criminal case, you cannot simply– you’re a witness, not a plaintiff, Mr. Techno. The onus for prosecution falls on the state, not the victim.” Techno blinks at it. In retrospect, a good thing, given he can’t hope to match anywhere near Phil’s funds. The prosecutor helps him shove the money back in his bag. “And seriously, most business transactions are card or check.” 

“He tracks my accounts. I work in cash now.” 

“And what proof do you have of that?” 

“...um. Nothing. Sorry.”

“It’s perfectly understandable, according to your account you wouldn’t have much beyond testimony. Pity. He’s good at covering tracks. I’ve worked impossible odds before, though.” 

The insinuation that Techno thought him incapable seems to have lit a fire beneath him. Good. He knew that perfectionist pride could be twisted to his use. Techno gives the prosecutor a shaky smile, since he knows the man wants to feel like a cunning hero defying the odds. “You have no idea how much your help means to me, Mr. Edgeworth.” 

First day of court. He took off the day from school, though the uni is pretty lenient after their failure to realize their student was kidnapped. Given it’ll be the first time he’s seen the Angel since the raid, he’s pretty sure it’s going to be a wreck of a day. Techno’s already jumpier than normal, which is an impressive feat given how high strung he is. But he’s walking into a room with the Angel and isn’t allowed to have any knives on him, which is absurd. How else is he supposed to have even a shred of safety if he isn’t allowed to walk into a public courtroom while heavily armed? Certainly The Angel will be. Then again, he’s experienced and probably has ways to get around the metal detectors. 

Said metal detectors that immediately go off the moment he steps through, screeching and blaring red lights as another raid begins, and Techno bolts, hurtling down the steps of the courthouse in blind panic, caught in the throes of survival yet again. Footsteps pound after, and he knows with dead certainty if he’s caught he’ll get dragged back to the Angel just like he always will. Techno dives into the bushes, burrowing in and vanishing. His hunters rush past, and his hands clamp over his mouth so they can’t hear him hyperventilating. Techno rocks back and forth, waiting for it to be over. It was too good to be true, this freedom only a temporary respite. 

The Angel always finds him no matter what.

The panic is incredibly slow to fade, replaced by frustration. He’s hiding in a stupid rosebush. He’s survived so much and a stupid metal detector isn’t going to be the thing to kill him. He’s covered in tears, both in his clothes from thorns and down his face. He’s incredibly late, disheveled and dirty, and on the verge of another breakdown. Techno groans and buries his face in his knees. Then, belatedly, he digs in his pocket for his phone. 

Mr. E: Where are you? You are to testify today. Technically it’s a bland question, but Techno can sense the accusation. He’s already messed up, and it’s already a near impossible endeavor. Chewing on a response, he deletes the text just like he always does. If it’s something he needs to remember he can write it on the back of his hand. In code. 

Techno: metal detector went off idk why I didn’t even have any of my knives. Triggered flashback. Cried in a bush. 

Mr. E: I’d advise you not text me about any weapons you may or may not carry. Take a moment to collect yourself and find Miss Faraday. It certainly takes more than a moment, but eventually Techno crawls out of the thorns. Almost immediately upon entering the courthouse he’s apprehended by security. Techno is about three seconds from his second breakdown of the day when a short bubbly woman waves wildly at him, then bounds over, shoving through the security. 

“Hey boys! If you’d just excuse me I need to steal this guy real quick–”

“He set off the metal detector and fled the building! That’s security risk 101!”

“Mr. Edgeworth mentioned it! Said the alarm gave him a PTSD episode. Not a very accommodating system you got here! And in a public setting too,” Ms. Faraday tsks. “Loud noises, flashing lights– oh just imagine you gave some poor innocent a seizure!”

Techno catches on quickly. “I have had seizures in the past,” he mumbles. 

The woman gives him an approving flicker of her gaze, then throws her hands out in broad exasperation. “You’ve endangered our witness! Come on Mr. Techno, we have a crime lord to bust-” he dodges out of the arm she tries to loop around his own. “We’ll just be on our way, we’re late because of your terrible alarm. You know how uppity judges get about that.” 

“He’s carrying metal on him. That’s a possible threat,” one replies gruffly. 

“I’m not carrying any knives on me. Um. As a random example.” 

“See! No knives. Come on we’re tardy- if we just go around the sensor-” But her bubbly righteousness doesn’t get past security. He catches the faintest narrowing of her eyes as the ploy fails. But at least they don’t send him through again, instead waving a handheld device around. At least when it pings it merely beeps. Techno’s unease grows as they demand answers he doesn’t have. 

Security requests a pat down. Techno can’t handle being touched, particularly not right now. Only the grace of Miss Faraday saves him. Also possibly the half feral look in his eyes. They narrow the metal down to somewhere on his lower back and demand he take off his shirt. Techno verges on tears at the thought of revealing his scars in a public setting. He knew today was going to be an utter nightmare, but if he’s not even allowed in– he’s the only full witness that the Angel can’t bribe, blackmail, or bully. If he can’t get in, the Angel walks free. There isn’t a chance Techno will keep his freedom. Techno shakes his head and slowly backs away. “I can’t be a witness. I can’t do this.” 

Her persona softens to something kind and sincere. “He’s only going to be stopped if you step up.”

“No, I want to, but I can’t be let in the building, not with this thing in my back.” What is it? What could it possibly be? Did the Angel know and put something in so he wouldn’t be allowed in? No, that’s absurd, when would he’ve had the chance? Small, metallic, somewhere he can’t reach. 

And that earlier, panicked thought comes again. The Angel always finds him no matter what. 

He catches Miss Faraday with a wild look. “I’m sorry. I can’t. Not today, not till I get it out. Tell him– tell Mr. Edgeworth I think he put a tracker in me.” 

The trial is going off without a hitch so far. There isn’t a scrap of evidence to tie Philza to the Angel of Death. He’s been doing this a long time, and it certainly isn’t his first time through the farce that is the justice system. He knows how to play a jury, particularly with his public persona of the affable and affluent philanthropist. Philza is just an innocent man taken advantage of by a corrupt police force looking to raid his wealth. It’s a neat explanation for some of the missing finances from the Nether debacle at least. It wasn’t so hard to disappear every dissenting voice on the scene, buried under money, blackmail, or dirt. Naturally, Philza would have preferred far more advanced notice, but his team knows how to scramble. 

Given half this mess is his fault, at first Philza was worried about what Wilbur’s testimony would be. He needn’t have; Wilbur lies beautifully on stand, dismissing every accusation about the Syndicate with a hand wave, a smooth line, and a roguish grin. He bounces particularly well off their defense attorney, the pair having a natural banter. Then again, Mr. Nevadas is the best in the business. And given the lack of evidence and the fact he owns nearly every witness, there hasn’t been a single obstacle yet that wasn’t dispatched with ease. 

The main concern, beyond dismissing the connections to the Syndicate, is what to do about Technoblade. He’s certainly a wrinkle in the equation, given his particular beliefs. Unfortunately, he can’t exactly make the problem disappear alongside all the rest. 

Some small part of him hopes this might force Technoblade to realize how much he’s overreacting. Philza is still choking on the boy’s raw terror from when his manipulations were discovered. He prays that as time goes on and none of the nightmare scenarios built up in Technoblade’s come to pass that he’ll realize his fears are for naught. And as the panic fades, hopefully he’ll be able to accept objective evidence and finally see the reality of the situation. 

But failing that, it’s still an important lesson for the boy, because for some reason he can’t get it through his head that Philza will never lose his family ever again. 

And then Technoblade fails to show the first day in a worrisome fashion. His absence helps, Philza is honest. It gives them time to prime the jury. After all, the unjust police raid was a corrupt response to a panicked call during one of Technoblade’s episodes. His presence in the Craft household is easily explained away through a mixture of physical and mental illness. Intensive care is so readily accepted as necessary with a medical history like Technoblade’s. It isn’t so hard to set up the sole antagonistic witness as unreliable. If Technoblade comes in with his usual level of paranoia and catastrophizing, it will only play into their narrative. Frankly, discrediting his sanity is a defense Philza finds distasteful to turn to, but Nevadas assures him it will work. As much as he doesn’t wish to sabotage his son in the public eye, Philza can’t afford to lose this case. 

There isn’t a chance the jury will put any stock in a word Technoblade says, especially not after a few days of unexplained absence. Yet Philza’s worry grows. He’d wanted to give Technoblade some space, but the weeks spent without direct line of sight racks his nerves. Especially since Technoblade went to the hospital. A little bit of digging, and he’s startled to find that X-rays were taken. Is there some injury Philza’s doctors failed to catch? Is he okay? Is he dying???

But when Technoblade finally comes to trial days later he seems to be better than the last time Philza saw him. Not a particularly high bar, given he’d been at rock bottom, but he appears more stable at the very least. Good. For all that it pains Philza to be seperate, the fact he’s improving is worth it. Just seeing his child is soothing, even with the lingering bandaging and limp from that dog attack. 

Technoblade is certainly nervous, fumbling over words as he’s sworn in, that endearing pink dusting across his features. He swears to tell the truth, and Philza for one is intent upon finally discovering what Technoblade thinks that is. Though who’s to say he won’t just lie? Apparently, he’s been getting away with it for months. Still, this might be Philza’s only chance to finally learn what was going on in Technoblade’s head this entire time, so he has to take it, even if it would be far easier to sweep this whole thing under the rug. 

He expects Technoblade to deliver some contorted retelling of how he came to live with the Crafts, but when his testimony begins he scarcely discusses Philza at all. The prosecutor skims over his so-called kidnapping, honing in upon the Nether. Technoblade is uncomfortable throughout, mumbling about his role as a hostage. And, apparently, his close contact with the Wither. Seems they’d had far more interactions than even Philza had dreaded. Although…he supposes it would’ve had to have been more than just the two encounters he knew of if Technoblade developed Stockholm Syndrome. Technoblade fires off painfully accurate data, seemingly becoming more comfortable the longer he goes on, bouncing off Edgeworth and a few scraps of evidence they managed to pull. It’s…not the argument he expected, certainly, trying to establish Technoblade’s encounter with the Syndicate rather than attack his status as a Craft. Nevadas jots down notes, digging through papers and trying to formulate a response on the fly. There’s a dirty glare thrown in when he has the time for it, but Philza is equally blindsided by his child’s familiarity with the inner workings of the Nether. It’s…decidedly unsettling. 

Philza honestly isn’t sure he prefers this to the terrified testimony he expected. He is painfully well accustomed to Technoblade’s terror at this point, but this new facet is just so…cold. Not that Philza hasn’t been acutely aware of Technoblade’s cunning given the months spent sabotaging his escape strategies, only he thought he knew the extent of it. In desperation, the child’s strategies had only grown subtler, crueler. Philza hadn’t fathomed how kind, open Technoblade could have possibly been manipulating them for months. But suddenly seeing this new side to him, this cold, calculating intellect…it suddenly seems far more real. 

“...and Antarctica, though I’ve only narrowed down one non-UK base of operations. Offshore accounts were always discussed under acronyms but based off the layout, location, financing modules, and history of political disruptions and foreign investment, I’ve narrowed down at least three offshore accounts utilized by both Phil and the Syndicate. The shell companies connect to some degree if you check the shipping. We focused mostly on financial movement, and uh like a little bit of weaponry but not in depth. They weren’t super worried about large retaliation since they had me for a bomb ward against the Angel. Anyway, I’d wager IP has some interesting communication strings, though they’re probably heavily coded and secure. And with the recent frantic activity involved with both hostage negotiations and the effort to exterminate the Nether, it’s bound to be a sloppier cover-up job than normal given the incredibly short notice wherein the Angel had to move a lot of money, supplies, and soldiers…” 

There’s silence in the courtroom. Philza stares at his son in pure shock. Technoblade had been actively working against his own rescue. Effectively, too, the Syndicate was barely able to pull together that fast, their base of power chipped in load-bearing areas. Some unexpectedly precisely targeted attacks upon his various sectors are suddenly and disturbingly put into a brand new perspective. He’d pulled through on clout and force of will, determined to reach a child meticulously plotting his downfall.

Like the shiver of a ghost down his back, Philza is haunted by the echo of the Wither’s true plan. A child she’d covertly molded their entire life into becoming Philza’s personal nightmare. And even now, when she's long dead, Technoblade is still tearing at the foundation of his empire. Not that it will work, but the fact he’d try at all is horrific. He can hear the Wither laughing at him. She got what she wanted in the end, alright. 

And yet, despite it all, Philza can only embrace the dagger poised over his heart. 

Nevadas slides over a paper. I thought you said this kid is a walking disaster. 

Philza frowns at the note. That isn’t the wording Philza would use at all, but… He is. Then, a pause, and he shoots a withering look. He’s my kid. Did you think he was going to be stupid? >:(

The silence gets to Technoblade, that nervous boy returning, but Philza finds it impossible to forget that glimpse of pure analytical genius intent solely on his destruction even as the shy child fumbles his words in a failed attempt to be more coherent. “Uh. Just based off what I remember, it was a stressful week that happened months ago so I’m probably missing a lot. And I’m new to the whole criminal empire thing so I definitely got things wrong–”

“That’s what expert testimony and evidence are for.” 

Technoblade slumps in relief. “Oh thank god. Anyway, my point was, given the overlap with a number of accounts Philza Craft shares with puppet businesses, it’s a substantial connection between him and the Angel-”

“Mr. Technoblade, this part is my job.”

He goes pink. “Sorry Mr. Edgeworth!” He sits quietly, fidgeting as Edgeworth cements connections and evidence in a calm, logical fashion. Technoblade’s gaze is intentionally distant, and never once has he glanced toward Philza. It’s a rigid, enforced choice in a way that’s unsettling for all that Philza has been unable to look away. 

“And why were you given this information?”

“Strategist training, testing what schemes I could generate to limit Syndicate financial abilities to ultimately wound their operations and make counterattack viable. The Wither said she wanted to hone my analytical abilities.” Techno still remembers the little trickle of pride in her voice every time he figured out something new. Dangerous, that. He’s known it to be a trick, and blamed his eagerness to do well on his survivalistic terror. 

Perhaps Techno hadn’t been a good liar, at least in the beginning. But he has always been so good at pretending, especially to himself. Not every flash of triumphant grin he’d given her had been wholly manufactured. 

He shoves the emotions away, locking them back up tight. He knows the Angel wants him to be an emotional wreck on the stand, and he can’t afford to fall into those expectations. 

“In actuality, she wanted to train me to enact her revenge on the Angel. She realized early on that I had no future career as an assassin. I cannot shoot to save my life. And. Uh. Like I don’t want to hurt anybody! That would be BM and-”

“Was there any indication of why they specifically wanted a hostage against Philza Craft?”

Technoblade gives a grateful look that his fumbling was interrupted. “I mean, money kinda, but there’d’ve been far easier targets if that’s what they really wanted. Leverage, obviously, but mostly they wanted revenge against him for. Well, for a lot of awful things, I think…I got off pretty light compared to most, in our interactions.” Philza goes cold. What a horrible comparison to make. 

“Was your experience with Philza Craft why you worked with the Nether?’

“Probably the reason they didn’t immediately toss my body in a dumpster the moment they realized I wasn’t Wil. I gave them almost all the information I had. It was that or make more torture videos to send to the Angel. If I was likable and useful I wouldn’t be so easy to discard. When you’re a hostage you do what you have to.” 

“To clarify, was this from a motivation of negative emotions toward Mr. Craft?” 

“Oh. Uh, I didn’t really care about revenge, I just wanted a way out.” That’s…that’s a start, at least. It’s encouragement Philza didn’t expect, but latches onto desperately. “My long-term plan was to engineer a way for the Nether and Syndicate to undergo mutually assured destruction. Only way to make sure I fully escaped. I was too big a witness for the Wither, and as for the Angel…he isn’t ever going to give up unless I make him.”

As Technoblade is dismissed from the stand, the next witness is called up. Thomas bounds in, waving wildly. “Hi Techno!” he chirps. Technoblade lights up, offering a tiny wave as Thomas is admonished for interrupting the court. “Sorry! Where do I– Here? Okay.” He’s sworn in, but there’s this quirk to his features as he tries not to crack a joke about proceedings he clearly doesn’t understand the weight of. His oath isn’t quite standard as he tucks in the fact that of course he wouldn’t lie! He’s Trusty Tommy. Clearly he finds the fact they’re asking about his name and relations rather silly, bouncing in his chair as he struggles to avoid his natural chatter. The examination goes off without a hitch, Nevadas doing surprisingly well with a child, all easy smiles and friendly tone. Can’t quite scrub all of the grease out of his tone, but if you did that there might not be much lawyer left. That’s why Philza favors his services. Best way to polish his shoes in a way that his public persona needs if he’s going to be getting up to the, ahem, antics that Philza does. 

That energy enervates as the cross-examination begins, the boy intimidated by the cold and professional prosecutor. “Uh. That’s what Wilbur told me. And everyone says he was kidnapped as a baby, and I don’t think it was an escape that time-” He pauses belatedly while someone tries to explain hearsay, and then another backtrack to prod Thomas into explaining the comment about Technoblade’s history of escape attempts. It’s not dwelled on, the general issue of Technoblade being a different charge to be addressed later, but Philza jots down a note to spin that in a different light later. Something along the lines of him being unused to a stable home environment, he’ll work out the details later. 

They’re steered back to the question at hand, that being verifying Technoblade’s second kidnapping. “My whole family basically disappeared for like. Two weeks? I dunno. It was really scary. But then they got Techno back so it got better.” 

“What was the method used to retrieve him?” 

“No one ever mentioned. They don’t ever tell me what’s going on,” Thomas complaines. “I didn’t see Techno even when he got back, or anybody else for that matter. And I kinda freaked out when I finally saw Dad and he was covered in blood, but then I got to see Techno so it was alright.” 

Philza hadn’t considered how dangerous Thomas’ confession could be considering how little he’d been exposed to. Even if he stuck to just the questions asked it likely would’ve been alright, but no, his incessant need to ramble is going to cause problems if this Edgeworth doesn’t have the child wrangling skills to keep him on task. The man raises a brow, hiding the delight of a man who’s just struck gold. “And why was he covered in blood?”

Thomas shrugs. “Probably because someone was bleeding? But it was okay because he said it wasn’t his blood.” 

The triumph only grows. “Who did it belong to?”

“I didn’t ask. Why would I care? I thought my dad was hurt, but he wasn’t, so what’s the problem?”

Philza wonders what the prosecutor’s dentist thinks of his habit of grinding his jaw. Perhaps Nevadas could recommend a place to get replacement teeth, since Edgeworth is bound to crack one soon. “Your father is currently being tried for a lengthy list of criminal acts, many of which involve copious quantities of murder,” he says rather flatly. 

Thomas throws his arms open. “Well, I was covered in blood too after he hugged me! Are you mad with me now, too?” 

Prosecutor Edgeworth drags his hands across his face. “Yes, because the logical assumption is he also got blood on him from being embraced. If you just follow the long chain of hugs we’ll eventually find the killer…ahm. Digressions aside, have you ever seen your father covered in blood aside from the instance we’re discussing?” 

Thomas screws up his face, thinking. “...do paper cuts count?” 

“No.”

“What about in video games?” 

Miles Edgeworth spends a second debating how far the definition of contempt of court can stretch, and also how badly he needs this witness. “...no.” By his frustrated miscommunications, Philza would wager the prosecutor is not a family man. It doesn’t endear him to Thomas, who becomes annoyed with the frequent interruptions for specificity. Thomas is prodded in the direction of continuing his testimony as Nevadas leans over to Philza. He’s miffed that Philza didn’t mention such incriminating evidence, but frankly he forgot. There’d been a lot going on at the time. Ideally, he would dismiss the Nether incident entirely and chalk up the injuries and medical problems to Technoblade’s fake illness. But Thomas’ testimony throws a wrench in that. 

“...and this coma, to your understanding, was the result of the Nether poisoning him?” 

“Like Minecraft??” A clarification, as to what degree a lawyer can get what with their ‘allegedly’s and ‘evidence’s. “Oooh you mean the baddies. Dad said so. But Techno disagreed. And then he changed his mind because Dad got worried, but I think he was only pretending since he secretly asked me if he was even in a coma or not? So I dunno.”

“So from what you were told, it was not a result of Technoblade’s illness?” 

“Huh? He’s sick? Why’s he in here then? Shouldn’t he be at home?” The prosecutor smiles. Nothing much else is netted, and Thomas is released from the stand. He very politely thanks the jury for getting him a day off school, then searches through the seating area. Philza offers him a little wave, and after a hesitation, Thomas gives a tentative one back. Then his eye catches on what he was searching for, and he bounds through the public seating rows, wriggling past to where Technoblade waits in the corner and plopping right beside him. A bittersweet longing fills him to see their fondness so blatant. But is it even real? Or is it an act for the jury? 

Tommy snuggles in, and instinctively Techno’s arm wraps around. He hadn’t realized how hard it would be not seeing Tommy every day until he felt the pure relief of glimpsing him even from afar. A moment of refuge, and then reluctantly Techno peels back, attempting to explain what witness collusion is and how bad a mistrial would be. Tommy doesn’t get it, but seems to understand the concept of boredom, and so Techno eventually convinces him to leave the courtroom. 

The room is colder once he’s gone. 

“It was Technoblade’s blood,” Philza answers easily the moment he’s interrogated. “He was badly injured when we got him back.” When the prosecutor argues that he shouldn’t have been touching him in that injured state, Philza can’t help the fridged, piercing look he pins him with. “I thought I was watching my son die. I cradled him in my arms because I thought it would be the last time I’d ever get to. Each shuddering breath might have been his last, so am I to be punished for wanting to comfort him what little I could? I apologize for not acting rationally while grieving, Mr. Edgeworth.” In the corner of his eye, he catches the sympathetic expressions of a few jury members. 

A hesitation in the attorney, eyes narrowing upon him, scrutinizing for a hint of deceit and finding none. His lament is far too palpable. “...right. And in earlier testimony you claimed the coma to be from Technoblade’s illness, not as the result of a criminal attack.” 

“My doctors said it caused extreme complications with the poison, which was what led to his near death. I’m not a medical professional, however, so I might not understand it completely.” 

“Why didn’t you mention this poison to the court?” 

“I was scared of retaliation if I brought their actions to light. The Nether was the group that abducted Technoblade as an infant, and I couldn’t stand another twenty years without my child, or worse. The Nether threatened me if I brought light to their actions, and given what they did to my son I’ve no doubt they’ll follow through.” Frankly, he hadn’t expected Technoblade to have any possible way to prove the Nether existed at all, or the Syndicate for that matter, but his unexpected testimony will certainly change the trajectory of the trial. 

“You have lied under oath, Mr. Craft.”

“Only by omission, and that isn’t perjury.” His smile is as affable and calm as ever, but he can’t help the coldness in his gaze, still incensed by an earlier questioning in which Edgeworth had the gall to insinuate that Philza was the one who caused the coma. It was about then that Philza decided he was going to meet some very unfortunate consequences approximately three months after the trial concluded. 

Eventually, Edgeworth resigns himself to the fact that Philza won’t crack. “You allege that the poison was exacerbated by pre-existing health conditions. How did Thomas live with Technoblade for months and not know about it?”

“We kept a lot from him. He’s a child, it would be horrible to expose him to such things. We kept what medical problems we could away from him, at least till they got extreme after the stress and complications from the Nether’s kidnapping. We certainly kept the PTSD hidden. Technoblade is a private man, and has a nasty habit of refusing to discuss or even acknowledge problems in his life.” Thomas’ testimony agrees with that at least. “If Technoblade has a problem, believe me, his loved ones will be the last to know.” 

The story is prodded at, but Philza expertly sidesteps the inconsistencies, falling back on manufactured evidence and Technoblade’s history of denial that his therapist helpfully established. Mr. Edgeworth hides his frustration well, though Philza can sense it bubbling beneath the surface. 

“Did you know of Mr. Technoblade’s relationship with the Nether?” 

“This is the first that I’ve heard him speak of his time with them in any detail. Then again, he went mute directly after. My only knowledge of what happened came from a single torture video.” He dangles it enticingly, and naturally the lawyer pounces on it, demanding that evidence be subpoenaed. Philza draws up every ounce of righteousness he has. “Do you really think I’d keep a video of my son being horrifically abused? Barbaric. No, he didn’t talk about what happened, given how traumatizing it was. He never let much slip, aside from the fact he regarded the Nether in a…familial light.” Considering his parents, no wonder. “Noticing the Stockholm Syndrome was when we started getting him therapy, though I recently discovered he wasn’t actually participating. He’s stubbornly anti-recovery at times. It’s worrisome given what a traumatic life he’s had.”

“Why didn’t you alert any authorities about the kidnapping?”

“Mr. Edgeworth, I lost my son for eighteen years,” Philza defends quietly, intently. He allows the grief of those wretched years to trickle into his words. “It was pure chance that reunited us, and I couldn’t risk losing my boy again. I did whatever his captors asked of me because what else could I do? I clearly couldn’t protect my family, couldn’t stop them from taking my other children. If I tried to ask for help they would’ve killed Technoblade. They nearly did, regardless of me doing everything I could to appease them. What else could I do?” 

Flashes explode around him the moment Techno steps outside. He recoils sharply, blearily making out a hoard of journalists. Technically he’d gotten a little warning from Mr. Edgeworth about ‘the swarms’ but he’d mistaken it for a dry joke. He’d avoided a few easily this morning…but he also hadn’t yet gone on stand as a crucial witness in the trial of the year. Techno hides behind his hair and tries to leave, only to realize he’s not escaping without getting jostled by a mob. He can’t handle being touched by strangers, especially not after seeing the Angel today. Would they go away if he pretends to not understand English? No, probably not. Deaf. That could work. Though frankly Techno would prefer it to be true, since the noise is horrendous. Microphones are shoved at him, invasive questions barraging from every direction. 

Techno stumbles back, a tight stressed smile pinned to his face. Alright. Seems like he’ll just have to live in the court house from now on since he can’t escape. Maybe he can arrange the uncomfortable seats into a makeshift bed…? His retreat is interrupted by his back hitting something warm. An arm immediately wraps around his back and Techno goes instinctively rigid. 

Philza watches as his dark eyes widen with realization, slowly turning to him but jerking away right before their gazes meet. Philza suppresses his wince, an award-winning smile still firmly in place. Technoblade refused to look at him all court session, but he finds it easier to forgive with the boy tucked safely underwing. “Please don’t pester my son like this, he gets easily overwhelmed.” Philza gives the crowd an affable grin as his guards clear out an exit. “He’s not doing interviews, unless- are you?” The tiniest shake of his head. “Sorry folks, he’s rather shy. If you’re a little patient I’m more than willing, though! But first…” he tugs Technoblade closer, murmuring into his ear, “...let’s get you home, hm?” 

His son roots to the spot despite Philza’s gentle pressure forward. It’s a stubbornness born of fear. “No,” Technoblade barely chokes. “Please.”

Philza’s stomach plummets as tension seizes the boy. “Ah, your dorm,” he clarifies quietly. Technoblade’s face is the awful stone-cold nothing of the weeks after they rescued him from the Nether. “I’m just helping you escape the reporters, nothing more. They’re rather dangerous fiends after all.” He winks at the flashing cameras, then nudges Technoblade through the cleared-out path, sheltering him from the ravenous pack. “Don’t make eye contact, journalists are territorial. One glance and they’ll pounce,” Philza laughs as he escorts Technoblade to safety. Perhaps he’s imagining the way Technoblade leans into him, but perhaps he doesn’t. Not that Philza can think of a reason why Technoblade would try to manipulate him now, but neither can he fathom why he’d done so for months. As painful as it is, perhaps Philza needs the space too, so he can sort out his feelings. If he’s honest, he’s furious that he was tricked for so long. But truly it pales compared to the concern for his child. 

“Do you know the real identity of the Wither?” “Is it true you have schizophrenia?” “Do you hear voices?”

“Yes,” Technoblade mutters before Philza can deter them. “Right now they won’t stop asking stupid questions and shoving microphones at me.” 

Philza snorts, then remembers to coach him. “Try not to give them anything that can be taken out of context, love.” Technoblade’s mouth snaps shut, shoulders hunching upwards. He’s straining with enough tension that the slightest additional pressure might shatter him. 

A hand rests at the small of Techno’s back, gently guiding him through the parking lot. A quiet, unseen pressure that’s careful to avoid where he’s still healing from removing the tracker. He knows. At the shuddering realization, the Angel rubs comforting circles into his skin, avoiding ghosting over new and old wounds alike. 

He leads Techno to where his car is parked, despite the fact The Angel shouldn’t know where it is. Holding the door open for him, the Angel ushers Techno in, smiling for the cameras all the while. But then he leans in, blocking the door from closing. His smile becomes private, tender yet bitter as it’s caught in the corner of Techno’s eye. “It was wonderful to see you today. Try not to miss any more court sessions.” Techno goes cold at the threat, and the Angel sighs. “You’re the one who wanted this. I love you, drive safe.” 

The moment it’s possible, Techno slams his car door shut and takes off. He drives in a random direction, desperately trying to shake potential followers. He has no idea how to tell if it’s working. When he searches for the bug the Angel doubtlessly planted on him, he fails to find it. 

Philza watches longingly as his kid flees. This might take a lot of work. But if his years of running a criminal empire have taught him anything, all it takes is a can-do attitude and unfathomable wealth. 

He lets the yearning trickle into his features, then turns and subjects himself to the true demons of the world: reporters. Philza flashes them a winning smile and opens himself to questions. “Mr. Craft, is your son crazy?” 

Philza gracefully doesn’t rip their head off. “Mental health problems are so demonized, which only exacerbates the stress of the people already suffering. It’s tragic, truly.”

“You say like he isn’t ruining your life.” 

“My son is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, thank you very much. I would be a horrible father to not do everything I can to support him through his mental health crisis just because it’s causing him to try to push me away. I don’t care if he’s testifying against me, we’re still family. One disagreement isn’t enough to tear us apart.”

Chapter Text

Techno gets quieter and quieter the more he talks about the Nether massacre. He gets through describing the way Ghast’s brains splattered everywhere well enough, but the moment the Angel of Death appears in the recounting he can’t stop the tremor growing in his voice. You look weak, The Wither hisses in his ears as he stutters through her death. Techno freezes on the stand as he relives that lethal hostage situation, certain that if he so much as twitches the bullet will miss and bury itself in his head instead of hers. 

Mr. Edgeworth coaxes him through, words bland enough, but Techno can taste frustration like acid on his tongue. “And you’re certain the leader of the invasion operation, the Angel of Death, was indisputably Philza Craft?” Upon a shaky verification, Techno is asked to point to him. Carefully he catches the Angel in his periphery, or rather the green of his suit and a blur of blond hair. Techno refuses to look at him, terrified to see his expression. 

“Why were you used as a hostage against the Angel of Death?”

“He th. He th-thinks. I’m his s-son. He’s the delusional one. Not. Not m-me.” 

There’s a sharp inhale, and Techno knows the Angel’s reaction must be awful. Techno keeps his eyes carefully on where his hands clench the witness stand, knuckles taut as he’s reprimanded for the claim and digression. Funny how those rules only seem to apply to him. His instincts and voices howl that it’s going to get him killed if he takes his eyes off the threat, but Techno knows if he acknowledges how brazenly he’s attacking the man who controls his life his ingrained survival strategies will shut him down. 

As is, he’s barely managing anyway. 

“Blaze tried to– to– h-he– resc- …” he can’t choke it out. No matter how hard Techno tries, he can’t get the words out. His throat closes in a vice, the snap of Blaze’s neck echoing in his ears. From where his arms wrap around himself, Techno’s fingernails dig in to the point of sharp pain. He knows this is the exact display the Angel wants. The type that paints him as some horrifically traumatized thing that needs someone else to speak up for it. He’s dooming himself. No need to discredit his words and frame him as insane if he can’t even choke out the testimony! The Angel really did end up silencing every witness. 

If you really hated me you’d be fighting like it, the Angel muses. I think some part of you admits I’m right for you. Wouldn’t it be easier to just let go? Don’t you deserve peace? 

Techno knows if he’s caught in that embrace he’ll never be free again. This is his last chance for freedom, and he’s ruining it. He can feel everyone in the courtroom staring at him, the murmur of reporters, the weight of the Angel’s presence. Techno hates feeling displayed like some pathetic creature to gawk at. Always had, really. Never once did asking for help ever work. A few times as a kid he’d tried to talk about his parents to a friend or a teacher and all it did was make everything worse. They couldn’t do anything to help him, not really, and all it did was make Mom and Dad upset. Why did he think this would be any different? Panic wells up in Techno as he tries to mouth his defense and nothing comes out. Hopeless. This was always going to be hopeless. 

Mr. Edgeworth slides him a pencil and paper. Techno’s head jerks up sharply, indecipherable gratitude filling his eyes. He’s met with a nod and a softening to the prosecutor’s piercing gaze. It’s a little easier from there, scribbling down his responses. Mr. Edgeworth reads them out in a calm voice, narrating Blaze’s murder, the slaughter carved through to make a path for Techno’s escape, the collapse of the Nether’s fortress. He only stumbles once when describing Squidkid’s death, on the phrase he was just a kid. 

“What transpired next?” 

“I d-don’t know,” Techno croaks. There’s a slight murmur through the room as his voice comes back. But Mr. Edgeworth doesn’t miss a beat. “Got fuzzy. Poison kicked in, I-I guess. The Angel promised he ex–. exterminated the Nether.”

Philza hates the way he shudders on the delivery. Technoblade curls into himself, head ducked. It’s horrendous to watch his son’s mounting distress on behalf of the people who destroyed him. If only Philza had rescued Technoblade sooner before he’d had time to trauma-bond. 

All he wants to do is sweep Technoblade into a warm hug until all this horror melts away. He hadn’t realized how deeply Technoblade’s rescue had shaken him. Maybe…maybe Philza needs to find a way to properly apologize to him after all of this is over. In small flashes of anger, Technoblade had hurled his affection for his abusers in Philza’s face, but only now can he see the weight of his manipulated compassion. How thoroughly the Nether has poisoned his child. 

But he knows now. Now, he can finally address all the problems Technoblade has bottled up. Now, he can finally patch up the festering wounds hidden from him for so long. 

Philza wishes this was a quiet conversation between the two of them, not something so distant and public. But if this is the only way Technoblade will open up to him, in the cold vivisection of a courtroom, then Philza will have to seize it. 

Nevadas waltzes up, prepared to ask all the questions Philza never could. Technoblade will have to spill his guts if he wants to win. “You’re a writer, correct?” Technoblade blinks, taken off guard, but confirms. 

“Objection! Irrelevant,” Edgeworth interjects. 

The judge reprimands the non-sequitur, but Nevadas convinces him it’s relevant. The way his back is positioned, neither jury nor judge catch Nevadas sticking his tongue out at Edgeworth. His smirk turns to Technoblade. “Lovely bestsellers, I enjoyed them. Amazing attention to detail.”

Technoblade unconsciously uncoils a little. “Oh. Thanks.” 

“Point is, you’re good at crafting stories. And the one you’ve concocted for us today is interesting, I’ll give you that, but it’s a bit too fantastical. My client isn’t some sort of super villain, which he would have to be based off your account. At most, I’d give you that the Wither put you to work as some data cruncher, and released you upon whatever their biggest competitor was, but there simply isn’t proof of the massacre you describe.” Nevadas eviscerates his story, exploiting Technoblade’s uncertainty and grief. All the faces he can only vaguely describe after months, the fake names that mean there’s no possible way to trace the culprits, the evidence Technoblade could never provide. The Nether was an underground organization and Philza’s teams don’t leave remains. He might have a few scraps of financial information, but beyond that he can’t even begin to give a location of operations. 

It wouldn’t be possible for Technoblade to grow quieter given his previous bout of distraught muteness, but his voice grows dull, dejected, the more he’s forced to answer I don’t know to more and more important questions. Nevadas claws into the ending, where Technoblade became numb and the world too overwhelming to process. The uncertainty of events as he slipped into the beginning of his days-long coma. It’s not enough to truly convince a jury to dismiss such a harrowing account, but then Nevadas cracks his knuckles and finally cuts the preamble. He props an elbow on the witness stand, scar twisting in his broad smile even as Technoblade shies away from the proximity. “How do you feel about the Nether?”

“After reliving what happened to them, grief.”  

“I guess that makes sense, given you think of them like a family. Why is that, by the way?”

“Objection!” Edgeworth protests. “That is an immensely leading question.” 

“Objection overruled,” the judge responds blandly, following instructions well. Good. Philza is still slightly worried the judge will mistakenly believe his priority is to win, but that can be sorted out if a problem arises. Not that he doesn’t intend to, but it’s an effortless afterthought. “Answer the question.” 

“I don’t,” Technoblade asserts. But Philza can see the flash of panic in his eyes. 

“Mmmmmm no, you do actually,” Nevadas purrs condescendingly. “Can we try not lying this time? Why is the Nether a family to you?”

“OBJECTION!” 

“Overruled.”

Edgeworth grits his teeth. “Your honor, not only is it asked and answered, this is inarguably a leading question built upon an assumption about the witness.”

Nevadas’ gold-toothed grin is sharp. “Not with the evidence I have~” Something flashes in Edgeworth’s eyes, but the evidence is presented. The video flares to life, revealing Technoblade curled in his bean bag at the bunker, Thomas tucked into his side as always. Philza and Wilbur hover over, clearly distressed over an exhausted and wary Technoblade. 

“Means I was useful,” Technoblade’s digital voice rings out. “She wouldn’t poison me unless necessary.” The conversation plays out, Technoblade increasingly distressed as he defends the Nether’s affection for him, rationalizing his own manipulation and use as a tool, culminating in that desperate protest of, “They liked me!” The video fades to that vehement hiss of, “They were like a family to me,” that has haunted Philza ever since he heard it. Slightly edited, but he wanted a conveniently packaged tour of his son’s disastrous mental state. 

Techno knew he was going to regret telling the Angel that, he just hadn’t foreseen how delayed the consequences would be. The Angel seizes it now, dragging out the past like a wounded animal to be showcased. The jury stares at him. Sure, they’d been told he wasn’t mentally stable, but that’s different from hearing proof of it. Delusions run in the family, don’t they, gemstone?

Technoblade is cold and still after the end of the tape. Then he looks up sharply to Nevadas. “It was claimed that there was no possible way to retain footage within Craft property when looking for evidence of what happened during the raid. So where did you get this?” 

“Witnesses don’t ask questions, actually.” Nevadas turns to the jury. “The conversation you just heard was a recording saved specifically so it could be given to Technoblade’s therapist due to its disturbing contents. Which, clearly he needs, amiright? Though, notably, it was not taken from a session, so it’s fair game. Now look who just got caught lying to the jury! Tsk tsk tsk. Now why would you do something like that?”

“…that was a previous sentiment I no longer feel. The therapy worked.” Philza frowns, knowing well Technoblade did jack all in therapy. Nevadas points out as much, and a slight smirk graces Technoblade’s stony features. “That’s privileged information, Mr. Nevadas. I don’t have to talk about therapy sessions.” 

“I still find it fascinating you’d think that in the first place about people you tortured you.” The flash of his smile drops completely. “Take that Blaze you mentioned trying to ‘rescue’ you. How did he treat you?” 

“Blaze was nice. Made sure I got food and my meds.” 

“Right. And who was it that burned your hair off and left first-degree burns across your back?” 

“…Blaze.”

“Saying I slaughtered an entire criminal organization to get him back is ridiculous. I paid the ransom,” Philza asserts. “My accounts show that.” And the Syndicate’s, but they don’t need to know that. Given how specific Technoblade’s unexpected financial knowledge is they might manage to uncover one or two shell companies, but even that doesn’t necessarily tie him to the Angel of Death. There are only so many offshore account options for the purpose of evading taxes, after all, and a millionaire’s got to do his business somewhere. Is it his fault he only hires the best? 

“And how would you explain his testimony?”

“He was poisoned. He was feverish when they returned him, mumbling incoherently and flinching every five seconds. He seemed calmer when I cradled him, but…perhaps that was the coma setting in. Again, not a doctor, but…” 

Technoblade shrinks as he slips into the insanity defense again. But really now, if he had the mental wherewithal to manipulate Philza and his family for months, certainly he should have no qualms with Philza’s lies. It’s how the game is played, and Technoblade is the one who decided they were enemies. 

The nightmare of the Angel of Death’s culling was just that; a feverish nightmare stitched together from duress and tidbits of information gathered from his apparent sabotage work. But beyond that…really, Philza scarcely has to fabricate anything. From the beginning he was already prone to random stabs of overwhelming panic that were exacerbated tenfold by the trauma of the Nether. He focuses more on its intersection with trauma, only mildly exaggerating the disorientation and paranoia of flashbacks. Though, Philza leaves out even a breath of a word about Technoblade’s more violent tendencies, and made it abundantly clear to Nevadas to do the same. Even now he protects his son from the brunt of the consequences, despite his ingratitude. But he doesn’t do this for Technoblade’s thanks, rather, his well-being. Perhaps confronting his irrationality may aid his recovery. 

Techno’s gut churns as the violence stained permanently in his head are dismissed as feverish hallucinations. Why not? What evidence is there aside from Techno’s claim? Besides, who would trust the word of a delusional child who reserves his loyalty and love for the people torturing him? Paternal worry laces every word, that gentle love Techno nearly fell for choking every syllable. If Techno got tricked even knowing how much of a monster Philza Craft is, what jury stands a chance? He needs other witnesses if this is going to work. 

Skeppy is having a decidedly strange day. First, he finds out thirty minutes before he’s supposed to testify that he actually doesn’t have any formal wear. Apparently, he left his one good dress shirt at his parent’s house since he didn’t think he’d need it. Skeppy is still pretty sure it’s optional since it’s not like they’ll refuse to let him in just because he’s in his favorite hoodie, right? Besides, Techno said it got cold in there. So actually, it’s probably fine. 

What’s less fine is the fact his car sputters and dies the moment he tries the ignition. Skeppy groans. “Piece-a junk!” he shouts, kicking the vehicle. Then he feels bad and immediately apologizes to his car. “Not your fault you’re a classic,” he soothes the 4th-hand ride. Popping the hood, Skeppy tries to flag down someone. The court session has just officially started when someone finally pulls over to help jump-start it. But no matter what they try, it absolutely refuses to even spark. 

The helpful stranger stares at his car in silence, contemplating. “Are you sure this is even a car? I’m pretty sure even a junkyard wouldn’t want it for scrap metal.”

“The rust is part of her charm,” Skeppy glowers. As they give up and drive off, he pats the hood. “It’s just jealousy, they didn’t mean it.” He’ll have to spend some quality time with her later, right now he’s probably got Techno about ready to chew his head off. But surprisingly, there are no texts from unknown numbers threatening orphancy. Skeppy blinks in surprise, then opens Minecraft pocket edition to World 5 (for real thistime)(DONT DELETE), stares at the statue of Techno’s current phone number, copies it over to text him an apology, and then immediately erases all trace of ever having contacted Techno at all. Techno got really stressed when he realized Skeppy tried to write down his number on a piece of paper, and since Skeppy refuses to learn ciphers they settled on this compromise to ensure secrecy.

By the time he finishes that, his Uber still hasn’t arrived. Considering the app says the ride should’ve been here seven minutes ago…Skeppy’s getting a little annoyed. The guy is completely lost, and eventually cancels to get a different ride. Skeppy groans. After the fifth one fails to show up and none of his friends, passing acquaintances, random group project members, or even enemies respond to his frantic texts, Skeppy grits his teeth and looks up the address. An hour and a half walk? Fine. If that’s what it takes to help his friend– wait two hours. Two twenty-five?? Dude, there must be crazy traffic. Morning rush, he supposes. 

The universe definitely hates him today. He’s hopelessly lost in ways never before seen. The entire morning passes and he’s absolutely starving and exhausted and really, really sweaty and his GPS re-routes every ten minutes when it even bothers to work at all. When he finally gets to the courthouse…it's the wrong one. Skeppy screams rather loudly and gets a few odd looks. 

Skeppy drags himself into a random café and tries to get something before he tries wandering through a city again. Lunch rush comes and goes, and he watches at least five people who were behind him in line finish their meals and leave. The café basically clears out, and he has to remind the staff at the register about his food. After another 20 minutes he finally gets what should’ve been a very simple sandwich. Skeppy is shooting millions of apologies to Techno the whole time, but gets zilch in response. Must be a crazy day for testimonies. 

It’s as Skeppy is dragging himself out of the café, staring slack jaw as the GPS swears up and down he needs to go back 4 miles in the direction he came from that a figure in a dark alley beckons him. Naturally, he assumes the foreboding stranger is waving to someone else they recognize, and it would be suuuper awkward to respond, so Skeppy ignores them. He passes the next three sketchy alley guys because he’s busy cursing at his stupid phone. Sure he dropped it eight times last week, but what does that have to do with anything?? 

And then: “Heeeey Skeppy!” His head jerks up, spotting someone half draped in shadow, a trench coat concealing half their face.

Skeppy beams at them. “Sup dude! It’s been ages!” Actually, hella embarrassing on his end, but Skeppy can’t actually remember what this dude’s name is. I know, I know, that’s soo awkward, but Skeppy throws a TON of parties so it’s bound to happen. “Man, it’s been a minute! When did we last see each other…?”

“Irrelevant.” 

“Haha man you’re such a jokester. Anyway, how’s life? How’re classes? Did you ever tell me your major?” But he doesn’t respond to Skeppy’s frantic fishing for details to jog his memory. To be fair, Skeppy is exhausted and stressed, so his brain isn’t on its A-game at the moment. “Anyway, I’m super busy, you’ll have to catch me later! Probably not at a rager, tho, my roomie and me kinda fell out of the party scene LOL. But I can still totally hang!” 

He’s given an almost bewildered look. Oh god, did Skeppy totally misplace their vibe? Ah jeez, hopefully they aren’t a narc since technically Skeppy isn’t a legal drinker yet. “...I was hoping to make a business proposition.”

“Sorry dude, but I’m fresh broke. Just got my account drained by Uber, and I didn’t even get a ride! That should be illegal, right?”

“No, no. He’ll be paying you if you do this right.” 

“Uhhh is this a prank?” Or, more likely a scam. “Listen, I’m not falling for another MLM.”

The ominous man licks chapped lips, eyes darting furtively. “No. Easiest 150k of your life.” Skeppy’s eyeballs shoot out of his head just about. “All you’ve got to do is keep your mouth shut.” 

“Where were you?” Techno practically snarls the moment he finally gets back to the apartment. “I texted you all day!” 

Skeppy puts his hands up defensively, backing up. “Hey! I have a very good explanation!” 

“It better be! You can’t just skip trial, Skeppy! You’re the only other witness. They’ve already made me look crazy, and I don’t stand a chance. He’s going to kidnap me the moment he’s acquitted, and I’ll never get out again, and this time he’ll know I’m pretending. He’s probably furious I lied, I’m going to get murdered Skeppy, you can’t abandon me like th–” 

“Ah, but I’ve won the trial for you. So, can you chillax. Phil made a horrible mistake when he tried to bribe me.” 

Techno stares at him in utter disbelief. “......you took his bribe?”

“Of course not!” Skeppy takes umbrage with the mere insinuation, clutching his chest. “I would never betray you, dude! We’re best friends. I would never, not in a MILLION years (or bucks) stab you in the back like that! You mean everything in the world to me, and nothing will ever come between us bro.”

“Skeppy you IDIOT.” 

“WhAT?!” 

“IF YOU TOOK THE BRIBE YOU’D HAVE PROOF HE’S RIGGING THE TRIAL!” 

“.....you know, that’s a really great point, actually,” Skeppy says very slowly. 

“Br u u u h. Skeppy. Skeppy, why would you not come to the trial if you didn’t pretend to take the bribe?” 

“Oh, well I had a dead car battery. Really bad timing, huh?” Skeppy launches into an epic retelling of his awful day, and Techno’s expression just gets worse the longer he goes on. By the time Skeppy’s account finishes, Techno’s head is cradled in his hands, with Floof curled into his side. 

“Did it. I dunno. Just for the sake of my belief in the existence of sapience on planet Skeppy: Did it ever occur to you that the Angel was behind this?”

“Come on Techno, now that would just be absurd. Relax dude, I can talk about the dead bodies in the elevator tomorrow!” 

Techno stands at the vending machine, staring at his haggard reflection. He isn’t scheduled to be on stand today, and as such didn’t manage to get out of the Taylor Swift shirt he slept in. Honestly, Techno looks like a wreck. His stomach is churning. He feels dizzy, and knows for a certainty that he should be eating but it makes his diaphragm convulse every time he thinks about it. All he’s been consuming since he escaped comes from vending machines. The caf food would be so easy to tamper with, and going to a store offers so many opportunities for ambush. Even waiting outside for so long is making him antsy. But he needs to eat, or so he’s been told, even if he’s beginning to think those sources were lying to make him easier to abduct. With the amount of media control the Angel has, it wouldn’t surprise him. Already the press coverage of the trial isn’t favorable for him, but at least most of the coverage doesn’t call him a freak schizoid that’s a menace to society…or, if they do, they don’t last long, and Techno is haunted by the implication of what the Angel did to them…

Regardless he’s here at the vending machine, which besides the courthouse and classes is about the only place he goes. Or, well, places; frequenting the same vending machine over and over would be a death sentence. Techno can’t trust anything save for prepackaged goods, rejecting the sparse groceries Skeppy had. 

In retrospect, Techno refusing to eat anything only made it far easier for Skeppy to be poisoned. 

Techno made sure he wouldn’t be called as a witness today so he could be by Skeppy all day to guarantee the Angel couldn’t mess with him, only to wake and find Skeppy a feverish mess incapable of coherent sentences. The message is clear: Skeppy will not be testifying. 

He doesn’t think Skeppy will die. It’s about the only thing keeping him going at the moment. Then again, it’s the first direct confirmation that the Angel still has total access to his life and can control his entire existence on a whim. It’s terrifying to realize not one of his safety precautions will save him or his friends. So why are they even going through this farce of a trial? If Techno could be recaptured at any time, why bother? 

A short reflection joins him, her pink hair swishing. “Hi Techno!” Niki smiles. 

“Hullo,” he rasps. His voice is hoarse from screaming. Techno didn’t know if he’d expected a response when he ranted and raved at the bugs doubtlessly infesting his apartment. All he got was silence and a cold certainty that he looked crazy. Bit late for that, though. 

The world gets blurry again. It’s not so uncommon. He drifts, vaguely aware he’s walking somewhere with Niki. Techno is jarringly snapped to attention when something lunges for him, arms wrapping around his back. He scrambles away, wide-eyed and skittish as he realizes Niki just tried to attack him. “Don’t touch me!” 

Her palms shoot out in a pacifying manner as she backs away from his knife. “You looked like you were about to faint!”

Techno’s pounding heart eases, and he forces a lopsided grin onto his features. “As tiny as you are, if you tried to catch me you’d get crushed.” 

Niki put her hands on her hips, refusing to be distracted. “When did you last eat?” Techno raises his granola bar. It’s the same brand that Squidkid and Blaze fed him. “No, when you actually ate food. You’re actively swaying right now.” 

Techno hesitates. “...dinner with my parents.” He ate a little there to appease the Angel. But it’s been days since then. Weeks, maybe, everything is blurry right now. He spends every second running legal arguments in his head, over and over, trying to find one thing that will save him. 

Her head tilts. “Aren’t they in America? And awful? What do you mean?” Techno shakes his head vehemently, throat closing up. He’s shepherded to Niki’s apartment despite nonverbal protests, warm tea shoved into his hands. She grows increasingly insistent he drinks some despite staunch resistance. 

“I’m not kidding, Niki, I’ll pour it on your couch. Oh look at that, the cup is tipping the more you pester me…” 

“Techno, why aren’t you eating?” 

He says nothing. But neither does she, refusing to move on. They’re both painfully stubborn, waiting for the other to cave in first. But he can play this game after months of practice stalling his therapist, after the quiet following his recapture. Techno sinks into the couch the longer the pause continues. 

Except he doesn’t think Niki will use the information against him. He mulls it over, but can’t think of an angle. The tea cupped in his palms cools before he breaks the silence. “...I’m not hungry. Really,” he insists at her look. “I feel nauseous.” 

“Yes. But why?” 

Normally he would evade. But Techno just feels so, so awful today. “Wil drugged me,” he says quietly. “I didn’t watch my drink, and I lost months of my life. And now they’ve poisoned Skeppy, and I can’t– I can’t eat, Niki, I’ve been trying and I just gag and–” 

It takes some time to calm him down, in part because Niki herself is incredibly worried. But there’s little they can do to help Skeppy, there isn’t any actual proof, and for some reason, Niki still finds the not eating thing more pressing than brainstorming ways Phil can effortlessly destroy him from afar. She tries to tempt him with a plethora of pastries, and while normally he equates her baking to the food of the gods, Techno currently finds it as appealing as dirt. Very nice looking dirt! But dirt nonetheless. 

Eventually, she strikes upon the idea of letting him watch the entire process so he can ensure nothing is tampered with. Techno doesn’t think it's sufficient, since the ingredients could be tampered with prior to assembly, but he’s also feeling increasingly light-headed. So he’s willing to watch in rapt attention as she prepares a quick omelet, letting him inspect everything going in. He trusts Niki. Or, trusted her, at some point. He just doesn’t know if that’s something he’s capable of anymore. It’s odorless, flavorless, and colorless, rings Wil’s taunt in his ears. Had it been the same for Skeppy? Does his best friend even stand a chance if the Angel decides to murder him? Does anyone? Maybe the food of everyone he knows has been poisoned just to make a point. 

When she slides over a plate, Techno manages to get a bite in his mouth. Which is frankly an improvement over past attempts. There’s even some chewing! He can’t choke it down, but it’s progress? Okay?? Niki’s brow furrows at the blob spat on his plate, but she starts up chatting over meaningless things as he tries to pick at the meal in front of him. The vice twisting his guts eases, but not enough for him to be able to bear eating. Then, she takes a bite herself. Niki seems fine after a few minutes, so Techno tentatively gets a bite down. They take turns, chatting about safe things. Or, at least till Techno blocks her next scoop with his own fork. Determination sparks in Niki’s eyes, their eyes locked in a standoff. Techno stares at her in a composed deadpan as he gets a second and third bite in. 

The moment she lunges for the plate his chair is kicked back, Techno yanking his omelet out of the way. Niki chases after, trying to snipe forkfuls, only for him to lift it completely over her head as his competitive streak is sparked. With an easy foot over her, it’s easy to keep out of reach. What takes a bit more effort is finishing while Niki keeps jumping for it, but Techno dances out of the way, scarfing down his first real meal since his escape. Perhaps he’s standing on top of Niki’s couch and avoiding a pillow swiped in his direction, but self-care looks weird sometimes, alright? 

“There’s not a chance in hell either of you are getting pinned for the Syndicate, is there,” Techno asks quietly as Wil drops into the courtroom seat next to him. He wants to bolt, but where is there to run? 

Wil’s laugh is mirthless. “There never was. We have a way with evidence.” And really, what had Techno expected of his testimony? Of course Wil suavely avoided allegations of the Nether’s extermination despite the fact he practically ran the operation. At the very least he doesn’t claim Techno is insane, but that is an extremely low bar to clear. And if Wil refuses culpability, there isn’t a chance he’ll admit to the felony of abduction. So far Wil has claimed a lot of the credit for Techno’s escape only to immediately sabotage that. 

Maybe he’s finally caught consequences for the first time in his life and doesn’t fancy the taste of it. Techno doesn’t imagine the Angel handled his betrayal kindly. 

“A way of making evidence disappear, maybe. When are you going to make me vanish, too?”

Wil sighs. “Listen, we both know I’m not a saint, so don’t go expecting any miracles from me. I’m trying to get you out but I don’t have the power to make promises,” he says bitterly. 

“Then what’s the point of any of this?” Frustration bleeds into Techno’s tone. 

“Weren’t you the one who told me you’re the one who has to make a point to your life? How is yours going, by the way?”

“Absolutely fantastic. The entire world thinks I’m delusional and the only guy who would say otherwise got poisoned. So, you know, literally anyone I know and care about could drop dead at any time, and I just kinda have to live with that.” 

“Not during the trial, that would be suspicious.” 

For some reason, he isn’t soothed. Strange, he knows, man! Who knew the double kidnapping victim might be high-strung! Floof can not get out of ESA training soon enough. From the corner of his eye, Techno catches a movement as Wil digs something out of his pocket and begins to roll it in his hands. Bracing at the phantom echoes of explosions, Techno subtly shifts away from Wil. “How–” he buries the ill-disguised panic in his voice. “How did you get that in here?” 

“Play-Doh isn’t exactly illegal.” At his doubt, Wil details the differences in texture. “Come on, take some. It’s soothing, and you’ve got to be stressed out right now.” 

“Yeah, wonder whose fault that is.” But he takes it, hearing Blaze’s advice about redirecting triggers just as clearly as he can hear the way his neck snapped beneath Wil’s hands. He kneads the possibly-not-explosives, unfortunately finding the repetitive motion of it relaxing the longer the thing doesn’t detonate in his hands. He’s not comfortable, not next to Wil, by no means is it a companionable silence between them. Techno is sharply aware of the presence of the man who kidnapped him, who murdered so many people. At most, it is a silence that is not abrasive. For all that imminent danger looms, in the ephemeral now Techno is some pale echo of free, which is more than he’s been in a long, long time. And like it or not, Wil played a large role in that. And yet… “If you want my thanks you’re going to be waiting a long time.” 

“I don’t. The only thing I want for you is for you to be safe.”

“So does Phil.”

A grimace. “Mm. Dad isn’t entirely wrong. I think we both know the Crafts have far too many enemies for you to survive without our protection. I can’t promise that you’ll ever be fully free of us, but I am trying to get you out of the house.” He supposes that aligns with a Wil who goes through such lengths to facilitate the raid yet won’t testify against his family. Possibly. Wil is as elusive as ever. “As is, even in the best case scenario you’re being guarded 24/7. Discreetly, I’m sure, but-”

“So even if I escape I’m just going to be stalked the rest of my life, am I?” 

The vitriol in his voice doesn’t phase Wil. “I can’t let someone like the Piglins get to you ever again,” he says simply. 

“As if they could, given you doubtlessly murdered them. You Crafts have a ‘way with evidence’ remember?” 

“They’re alive. I got them out during the raid.” Techno remains quiet, pressing the Play-Doh into odd shapes. He doesn’t buy it, not for one second. As if Wil wouldn’t murder them the first chance he got. Or torture; Techno doesn’t really know how much he takes after his father. “Dad hasn’t noticed they’re gone yet. I don’t have his power, but in his distraction I can get away with a lot. I don’t know if I can get either of your freedoms to last, but I swear to you I’m trying.”  

But is he really? Or is he still pretending he’s rescuing Techno?

With the dismissal of the absurd notion that Philza is the Angel of Death, the litigation has turned to investigating the ‘‘‘‘‘‘kidnapping’’’’’’ of Technoblade. Really now, as if Philza isn’t the only option here. Where else would he go?

Philza draws himself up with righteous rage as the tracker that had been removed from Technoblade is displayed as evidence. “I did not have a tracker put in my child. That’s barbaric! And surely I would have gotten the police to raid the building where he was kidnapped had I known where he was. I suspect that’s been in him ever since he was kidnapped as a baby.” Actually, the tracker had belonged to the Nether. They’d discovered it in one of the many X-rays taken when Technoblade was dying. Possibly it was why there’d been no surveillance on the boy, and no doubt contributed to his second abduction. All Philza did was reverse engineer the device to discover where the signal was being picked up, annihilate anything in sight, and hijack the tracker for his own purposes to ensure Technoblade could never get lost again. He’s a little worried now that Technoblade has removed it, but the team following him will make sure his child is in good hands until this little debacle wraps up and Philza can be at his side once more. 

Now that it’s finally relevant, Philza is allowed to relay the harrowing abduction of his baby. The cold seeping across his chest as he found the blood leaking beneath the nursery door. The cries of Wilbur and Alexander intertwining for the last time. Cradling his one remaining son to him and realizing his arms would never again be filled. It is unbearable to feel that hole in his chest so sharply for eighteen years only for Technoblade to try to rip himself out of Philza’s life. 

Then the evidence, of course. As for the expenses poured into the Syndicate for his return, they are written off as hostage demands. Technoblade grimaces as they present the DNA testing, still refusing to look at him. Frankly they could have shown it to the jury far sooner, but it is more effective after days of Technoblade insisting they aren’t related. 

And who could deny his parentage when Philza blissfully describes the first time he laid eyes on Technoblade after all these years? The pure joy still fuels him even now. Philza knows he’s made mistakes. That’s…rather undeniable, after Technoblade’s last testimony. He pours sincerity into each word as if it will be the one to finally, finally force Technoblade to reckon with his endless love. But if anything, Technoblade only grows colder at the avowal, still refusing to look at him. It’s disheartening to realize Technoblade only ever pretended to be soothed by his affection. But Philza will insist upon it however many times it takes for Technoblade’s defense to lower and finally accept a love not tainted by manipulation and abuse. “...I don’t think that kind of relief is fathomable, without having felt it. To know that somehow my little boy found his way home all on his own. Fate drew him to where he’s always belonged.” 

And yet time after time, Technoblade refuses to admit it. No matter the proof that he belongs to Philza, he vehemently rejects it. Fine. Seems he needs a little further nudging to accept the truth. Philza didn’t want to resort to this, but apparently he needs to make it explicitly obvious that Technoblade always has been and always will be a Craft. It’s not his fault his son refuses to ever embrace the help he needs, the help only they can provide. 

He’ll convince Technoblade to come home, one way or another. 

Home has gotten very strange after the raid. Dad says they are under something called house arrest, but Tommy can’t understand how it is different from business as usual since they never left anyway. Everything is strange and awful, the veneer of warmth thin. A terse undercurrent runs beneath the surface, stuck in liminal expectation. Something has to change soon, and yet it doesn’t, weeks dragging on in the slow churning of the justice system’s cogs. They’re all stuck holding their breaths in anticipation that is never relieved. 

It feels like when Techno was kidnapped. At first, Dad assured him it’s just a break, that they need to give Techno some space to sort through everything and figure out what reality is, but Tommy isn’t so sure. His small window to see Techno is ruined by strangers asking him questions, and there was barely any time at all to cuddle before being pried off again. No, before Techno forced him to leave again. Techno is gone, after Tommy had clung to his sides for weeks, after promising whatever we are, we’re together.

As time goes on, Tommy realizes that isn’t the only tension in the house. There’s something going on between Wilbur and Dad, and Tommy can’t figure it out, only that Dad’s smile always falters when he looks at Wilbur. He doesn’t really expect much of a response when he asks Dad, since no one ever tells Tommy anything, but Dad sighs and explains that Wilbur was the one who invited the police raid.

Which– no. That can’t be true at all. That’s too horrible to be real. 

But Wilbur just gives him a sad smile when he asks if it is true. “Yes. I’m the reason Tech’s gone.” Tommy can’t help it then. He snaps, swinging a punch at Wilbur. He doesn’t react, so Tommy hits him again, and again, his grief and frustration boiling over in an ugly mess. Wilbur doesn’t even flinch, reaching for Tommy and snaring him in an embrace that traps his arms. He struggles, still trying to attack, but it is useless. “I know,” Wilbur soothes. “I’m sorry Toms, I really am. I’m so, so sorry for taking him from you.” 

He trembles in the hug, clawing into his brother. All the balled up emotions in Tommy burst out, and he sobs into Wilbur’s shirt. “How c-could you?” 

“We’re not healthy for him. I’m sorry, but it’s undeniable. He wouldn’t be like this if it weren’t for us. Remember how happy he used to be?”

“He was happy here!” Tommy wails.

“Tech was only pretending.” The fingers gently stroking Tommy’s hair pause. “With- with Dad and I. He loves you, I think.” No he doesn’t. Techno said so himself. Why hadn’t Tommy considered what that entailed? “But he couldn’t stay. It was destroying him, Toms. I know you want him back, but you’ll only be dooming him.” 

But it hurts. It hurts so much to be separated, this twisting pressure in his chest. It feels like the world is trying to take away his brother. Is this how Dad and Wilbur felt all those years? Why aren’t they doing anything to stop it? All he wants is Techno to stay with him. 

And maybe Tommy has the power to do that. To keep their family whole. At least, that’s what Dad said last night. At first Tommy’s heart soared when Dad came to his room, mistaking it for a bedtime story, for some small fragment of normal in all this. But the awful look on his face quickly disavowed him of that. Dad sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders slumped, verging on tears, as he explained that they’re losing Technoblade. That Dad is doing everything he can and he’s so, so sorry. That Technoblade doesn’t want to stay no matter what he tries. 

That maybe Tommy can change that. 

Tommy gulps beneath the piercing gaze of the prosecutor. He knows what Wilbur wants, and what Dad wants, and what Techno wants. They swirl in his head, fighting one another. It had all seemed so possible when him and Techno made it out, exhilarating and free. But now everything is murky. 

“Techno was kidnapped,” Tommy answers truthfully to the lawyer’s question. He can’t look at Dad, caught up in Techno, absorbing his image. It almost feels like he’s ravenous, no matter how much he ate before the trial. He feels really, really queasy. 

A moment. That’s all it takes, seeing the faint smile Techno gives him. He can’t lose that. 

“By who?”

“I dunno, I wasn’t born yet.” Techno’s smile freezes, a confused look flickering across his features. “Dad never said who got him as a baby.” Something in Techno’s face breaks as Tommy goes on to lie about how he willingly came to be with the Craft household. Apparently Tommy really messed up when he said Techno wasn’t sick, so he relies on the only other reason he can think of for Techno to have stayed. “I– I thought he wanted to be with us?” Tommy says in a small voice. “He said he loved us.” There are pained murmurs in the courtroom, but all he can focus on is Techno. Tommy rubs at his eyes, which begin to tear up immediately from the sliver of onion hidden in his sleeve. Worried guilt strikes through the last glimpse of Techno he gets before everything blurs. “Techno said no matter what we’d be together. He promised.”

Maybe it’ll work. It has to. He needs Techno back. Tommy will do anything to keep him. 

Mr. Edgeworth is utterly taken aback by a child crying, handing him a fancy handkerchief and robotically patting Tommy on the shoulder before trying to end the questioning as fast as legally possible. All Tommy can wish is that it was Techno trying to soothe his tears that are less fake by the second. 

Techno swore to him that it felt real sometimes, so it’s those shining moments of happiness Tommy draws upon now for his testimony, fervently praying it’ll remind Techno of the good parts. Maybe if he remembers laughing as the family threw eggs at each other, or playing in the snow at Christmas, or snuggling with Tommy in the bean bag, Techno will choose to stay. Every single second they felt like a real family pours out of Tommy in a desperate, covert plea.

But for some reason Techno just looks betrayed. 

“He told me people will hurt you because they love you,” Tommy says, the only type of apology he can find a way to say like this, separated. Tommy doesn’t know how to bridge that gap, how to get Techno to love him again. Because Tommy doesn’t care what he says, this has to hurt far, far worse than anything Techno’s love could condemn him to. “Maybe that’s why he tried to run away? He said he was scared he’d get trapped by being a family.”

Techno can feel love’s noose constrict in its vice around his throat as Tommy tries to drag him back into hell. Tommy is his one lifeline, and yet he finds himself throttled as he watches the crying child lie on stand. Something in him is ripping in half, the instinct to run anathema to the impulse to lunge forward and scoop Tommy into his arms, to wipe away his tears, to swear he’ll never leave. There’s a deep need in his soul to do anything to shelter Tommy from hurt. Every tear marring the boy’s face is his fault. 

Yet Tommy would ask that he doom himself. 

And Techno almost wants to. 

“What were the consequences when Technoblade tried to leave?” 

“Huh? Uhhh…nothing? Oh. Wait, I guess there was a joke tee shirt Dad made him wear? I dunno. He always got super scared of a punishment, always compared Dad to his…um…previous parents, the ones who kidnapped him.” It’s strange how both Dad and Techno flinch at the sentence. Panic stabs Tommy, not understanding how he’s losing both at once. “But I think Dad’s got to be better, since he doesn’t– doesn’t- um. He’s really understanding when you mess up.” 

“How did Technoblade describe his relationship with his parents?” Mr. Nevadas has something sharp burning in his eyes. Tommy can practically hear the words Mr. Nevadas wants out of him. It means, Tommy, that they hit me. 

“His mum and dad don’t matter anymore since Dad killed them.” Or worse, though Tommy doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean at all. But the deflection seems to work, which is good because if Techno didn’t tell Tommy he must not want anyone to know. 

There are murmurs in the court. Mr. Nevadas raises an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”

Uh. Oh. Tommy pales a little, not realizing saying that would be a problem. He glances to Dad briefly, who mouths it’s okay sunshine. At least he isn’t mad. Almost looks like he’s been given an unexpected gift. Tommy squirms a little. “Techno said so. I didn’t see the bodies or anything.” 

For some reason, Mr. Nevadas relaxes. “You didn’t actually answer the question. What was Techno’s relationship with his kidn— ah, parents like?”

“He said it was complicated, but they love each other.” By slight ease of tension in Techno’s shoulders, Tommy’s finally said at least one thing right.

It’s not enough. Tommy knows that much. In this small glimpse of his brother, he’s making Techno hate him. But Tommy doesn’t know what else to do. Everything is awful without Techno, Tommy trapped living with baddies and unable to understand how he feels about anything. Dad is so nice and tries to talk through the hard bits with him, but there’s this fragile look in his eyes, shaken in a way irrevocable with Tommy’s understanding of his father. But at least he isn’t abandoned. In fact, Dad nearly refuses to leave their sides, his sons tucked carefully underwing. 

It doesn’t stop the hesitance Tommy feels, no matter how hard Dad tries to smooth the whole thing over with considerate attention and bedtime stories and gifts. It doesn’t stop the little whisper in the back of Tommy’s head that Dad is a wrongun. 

And yet Tommy glances to Dad, and the warm expression he finds is soothing. 

Mr. Nevadas leans on the stand, his slick smile not easing the nausea in Tommy’s stomach. “Is your brother sick?”

“Objection! Asked and answered.”

“Overruled.” 

Tommy swallows. This was the part Dad told him to fix. “What do you mean by that?” He waits for Mr. Nevadas to outline the difference between your body and your head being sick, then nods. He talks about the way Techno was despondent. 

About how Techno panicked at loud noises. 

About how Techno thought Tommy was kidnapped. 

About how Techno threatened to blow up the whole family. 

About how Techno flinched away from touch at the beginning, and how that faded over time. 

About how Techno is crazy. 

About how his brother has to come home. 

The distress only grows on Techno’s features, almost pleading with him to stop, but Dad warned him that would happen. What is more important is that he convinces Techno to stay, because Tommy doesn’t know what he’s going to do if this is the last time he sees his brother. 

“Techno told me he can’t tell the difference between the stuff that happened and the stuff that is happening and the stuff he’s scared will happen. But. But he said being around me helps with that, so if I’m with him, it’ll all be okay.” That’s why he has to do this, no matter how poignant the betrayal in Techno’s eyes. “That’s why he has to stay with us.” 

Techno thought he hid it better from Tommy. Managed to keep himself together for his sake. But now Tommy disparages his sanity to the jury, all the private words meant just for Tommy poured out into the open and twisted against him. It makes Techno’s stomach churn. Does…does Tommy actually think that he’s crazy? Surely these are the lines Phil fed him to ensure the jury never trusts another word he says. Even then, it’s one thing to hear an accounting of his supposed paranoia and delusions from the smooth voice of the Angel, where every word and intonation is carefully manufactured to manipulate the courtroom. But hearing Tommy’s confusion and fear and worry…it all cuts a little deeper. 

As Tommy leaves, Techno keeps his gaze locked on where his hands rest in his lap, knuckles bone white. Tommy calls for him a few times, half way stepping into the row Techno sits in. But he’s shoo’d away by Ms. Faraday as she approaches. Techno doesn’t dare risk a glance at Tommy’s retreating back, sure the boy is still watching him. Ms. Faraday slides in next to Techno, bouncing a little and occasionally glancing at Mr. Edgeworth. “Hey, I was wondering if I could steal you for a little bit? Talk in the hall?” At Techno’s inquisitive note, she squirms slightly. “Very important lawyer talk I swear!”

“About..?”

“Ummmm. Distracting you? Alright, look, Mr. Edgeworth and I were talking and we found really big witnesses that could help crack this case wide open! Buuut…you might not like it.”

After the last testimony, Techno isn’t in the mood for evasion. Post Skeppy’s poisoning, he thought at least one witness would be safe from the Angel’s control. Though perhaps Tommy himself had taken in the situation himself, already scared of losing Techno after he realized how much was faked. Why wouldn’t Tommy lie, if it was the only way to keep Techno?

Should the roles be reversed, would Techno have done the same?

Except...was Tommy really lying? Because everything he said was technically accurate. Maybe that's how Tommy really sees him. And maybe it's because he's right.

Now there’s only Techno to testify against the Angel. If Ms. Faraday has another witness, he needs to know. He needs what hope he can get. “Who?” he presses. 

She makes a lip zipping gesture. “Can’t say! Secret important lawyer stuff. You know how it is.” 

“In a public trial where I can wait a few minutes and learn who it is anyway?” 

Kay Faraday squirms a little. Initially she’d planned to come over with surprise good news, but after Tommy’s testimony some ugly dots are starting to connect about their new witnesses. Especially if they’re supposedly dead. “I…don’t think that would be a good idea. Listen, a day ago an international subpoena went through.” Honestly, a miracle in its own right. Luck must be on their side. “So far it seems like a really good bolstering of your testimony, and no one else has been able to even try given the tampering. But…I think you’re on complicated terms with the pair.” 

It takes a beat for Techno to catch it. “WHAT?!” 

She winces as the courtroom turns to him. “...ohhh I said too much. Sorry Techno, but there’s not really much choice giv-”

“No, this is- this is fantastic. The courtroom will take one look at my parents and know how awful the Angel is!” But really, it couldn’t be anyone else. The Angel promised they’d be free, and apparently he kept that vow. Or, Wil kept it for him. Maybe he really is trying to help Techno. And now they’ve found the only other witnesses the Angel can no longer hurt, who are guaranteed to support him. Unlike Tommy, they would never doom him to live with the Angel, knowing his wrath first hand. Something explodes in his chest. It’s a confusing swirl of anticipation, dread, relief, fear. But finally there will be undeniable proof of the Angel’s sins.

He’s…not sure that he’s ready. Because without a doubt the Angel will exploit their complicated history. Techno tenses in an automatic brace, knowing it’s going to be a gut punch no matter how it happens. An entire life spent covering up the evidence, and it’ll all be destroyed just like everything else the Angel touches. But there will finally, finally be people who believe him, who know first hand how heinous the Angel is. Impossible to dismiss his testimony as the delusions of a frightened child when the proof is in their brutalized forms. The well of guilt knowing he caused this only deepens as he takes advantage of their suffering, but Techno is so, so desperate to be believed. If he’s going to make it, he needs someone to bolster support against succumbing to the Crafts. After Tommy’s testimony, his bastions are collapsing as their foundational bedrock vanishes. He’s not crazy, and finally the jury will have proof. 

It’s starting to get in his head, a little. With each bout at the witness stand, the Angel chips away at his confidence a little further, painting over his memories with rosy versions. But finally, finally there will be another voice reassuring him with the truth. Techno’s leg bounces uncontrollably, buzzing with energy as he pins his eyes to the door and waits for his parents to save him. They have to. Haven’t they always had his back? 

But there isn’t a single sign of the blatant evidence that should be carved into their skin.

Because the witnesses that walk into the courtroom aren’t his parents. 

Techno can’t help it. His head jerks to finally stare dead on at the Angel. He’s watching Techno’s blossoming panic calmly as the people pretending to be his parents are sworn in. The actors resemble the Piglins, certainly, the same dark hair, ages, heights, weights, and voices roughly correct. A stern looking pair, cold and sturdy. And unmistakably not who raised Techno. They’ve been replaced with fresh, unbroken people. 

Are they dead? Is the Angel sending a message? Techno scours his face for anything, a glimmer of malice or cruel satisfaction. Revolting pity fills the Angel’s features. Techno’s head ducks, whipping out his phone. There hasn’t been any response from the text he sent his parents over a week ago, before the trial had even started. He looks back up to the Angel slowly. Are his Mom and Dad even alive? And if so, isn’t that worse? 

The man pretending to be his father vows his veracity, the stranger’s cold gaze heavy upon Techno. Icy fear swallows him. Because he knows exactly how this is going to play out. The imposters will get on stand and spew whatever lies the Angel paid -threatened?- them to say. Every last shred of credibility Techno had will be eviscerated. Really, the moment the actors walked in was enough to do that, given Tommy mentioned when he briefly thought them dead. What does it matter that he’s now probably right? The false evidence is plain to see. 

Techno belatedly notices the way his lungs burn and sucks down a shaky breath. It hisses through his teeth, each gasp quicker than the last until he realizes he’s hyperventilating. He forces the next exhale to come out slowly, rationing each one. It never becomes natural, each one regimented else it will spiral out of control once more. 

Mr. Edgeworth begins battling the Angel’s claimed fatherhood. It isn’t any sort of relief that the actor insists Techno is their son. No, Techno waits for the moment it all crashes down. Mr. Edgeworth burrows into details that cement the actor’s legitimacy, normal things that paint a picture of a normal family. Techno’s stomach sinks. Mr. Edgeworth doesn’t know what his parents were like. Of course he doesn’t, why the hell would Techno tell anyone? It’s not anyone’s business but his own, and now Mr. Edgeworth is going to be blindsided. The entire thing has been rigged against him, and yet the prosecutor goes on, gaining momentum as he puts together a case from false witnesses. Triumph gleams in his eyes in a way that’s depressing to watch. 

There are things they miss, stuff Phil’s stalking never found, or the actors didn’t memorize. But so much is accurate down to little offhand details that it aches. It’s unsettling to hear a stranger inject themselves into his childhood memories, to learn how thoroughly the Angel examined every minute piece of his existence. Did the Angel replay every one of Techno’s memories and scratch out his parents so that he could fantasize he raised Techno? His queasiness only amplifies as the proceedings continue. 

Mr. Edgeworth picks his way through Techno’s history, pulling up public records all altered by Phil to reflect his obsession. Soon, he’s dismissed all manufactured evidence as the farce it is, concluded his parents had no contact with the Nether, and declared it impossible that the Piglins kidnapped Techno. “Kidnapped? Who’d want him?” the actor scoffs. I do, gemstone, Phil purrs in his ear. Really, where else do you have but my arms? Instinctively he glances to the Angel, only to find a sympathetic expression as if he wasn’t the scriptwriter. Techno glares at him, yet the disgusting pity only grows. 

Mr. Edgeworth pauses, taken aback by the derision. The testimony continues, little snide comments snuck in. With each one, Techno wilts a little more. As Mr. Edgeworth tries to probe for nonexistent indications of symptoms of Techno’s supposed insanity during his childhood, he’s treated to exactly what his parents think of him. Or rather, what the Angel thinks his parents think, but it isn’t long before the Piglins haunting his skull begin murmuring their agreement, the barbs digging in deeper than they should. Because as much as he can tell himself that’s an impersonator, he can hear his Mom and Dad echo every word as they explain how he’s always been delusional. Didn’t you think we loved you? 

“When was the last time you had contact with your son?” 

“We got a letter at Christmas. He said everything was fine. Not like he would otherwise, we didn’t raise a whiner. Talked about his classes and some novel he wrote.” Technoblade shrinks at the eye roll. He wrote it for them. All he’s even been was for them. It’s not true. None of it’s true, his parents didn’t have a choice, they’d been chained up in the Angel’s torture room almost immediately. But that doesn’t change the small voice inside that says they wouldn’t care even if they weren’t. Techno shoves it down, feeling ill. A selfish thought, after how much his parents suffered because of him. Really, why would they come save him now? What, and just risk the Angel knowing where they are? Does he? Has he found them already, or did he have them from the start? What happened to his mom and dad? 

Mr. Edgeworth hesitates, not expecting any correspondence. He revises the angle about mysterious lost contact, pouncing on the fact no medical issues or stay with the Crafts (voluntary or otherwise) were mentioned. The actor shrugs it off as Mr. Edgeworth tries to insinuate it was forged by Philza to ensure his kidnapping would not be discovered. He loops back around to ask into the dropped communication. “Oh, that boy never reaches out to anyone,” the false father deflects, echoing Phil’s complaints. “And anyway he’s an adult. Not our problem anymore.” Because that’s all you were to us.

Techno already feels nauseous by the time Mr. Edgeworth finishes his interrogation. Mr. Nevadas immediately badgers the imposter father about the legitimacy of his parentage, and is barely fended off. But the script was perfectly designed, it wouldn’t seem natural otherwise. 

His dread grows as the foundation of the coming exhibit is laid. Mr. Nevadas presents his first piece of evidence, a photo waved around energetically. It’s the way each juror’s head jerks toward him immediately after glimpsing it, the horror in their eyes, that tells him what the photo depicts long before Mr. Nevadas smirks and asks Techno’s false parent exactly what it took to make those scars. 

Techno drains of color. 

He knew it would happen at some point. Such a concise argument for the Angel’s guardianship could never have gone ignored. Techno thought he’d braced, but after Tommy’s betrayal and the stunt with the fake parents his defenses are shattered. 

He spent his entire life hiding his scars. Making little offhand excuses for bruises. Techno was fine, better than fine even, he was going to be the next great American author. He wanted to be admired, not pitied. He couldn’t stand it, all the pride and value he’d built for himself stripped away until all anyone ever saw was the scared worthless child he hasn’t been in years. 

Every eye in the courtroom is rapt upon him, watching, judging. Like bloodhounds, the heads of journalists swivel towards him. The cold apathy in the face of the strangers wearing the skin of his family. The wide gray eyes of Mr. Edgeworth as he pours over the new evidence, and how they flick to him and soften just the slightest degree. And the Angel. Always the Angel, orchestrating the entire disaster so that he can be positioned to save Techno from it. The pressure is unimaginable, crushing in its totality. He’s going to be sick. 

Mr. Nevadas grins, gold tooth flashing. Techno deeply wishes he could smash that smile into tiny scattered pieces. The actor resists at first, naturally, it wouldn’t be convincing otherwise. But he flounders at the evidence of child abuse, unable to come up with an explanation beyond the obvious. And then— “That boy got what he deserved,” Dad hisses. 

Not his dad. It isn’t him, he’d never say that. The Angel controls their tongues. That’s all it is. But it’s true, boy, and you know it.

Mr. Nevadas drags out the whole manufactured story. Every painful detail, no matter how Techno’s back hurts with the imagined events. Talking about the satisfaction of hurting him, even though he knows it was all accidents, that they couldn’t help it, that they were just defusing. But all he can see is their twisted sneers and the cloying cloud of cheap beer overwhelms his every panicked breath. And it’s not real, he knows that, he needs to know that, but it doesn’t feel like it. Not when he’s wincing with their rising tone. Not when his scars prickle. The Angel forces the words into their mouth, but it feels real when his dad describes how easy it was to manipulate him into adoring them at the behest of the Wither. It blurs with his memories of exploiting the Craft’s affection, that terrified rush of power he clung onto. Why shouldn't he have used the same weapon that controlled him? Isn’t he just like them? Wasn’t that all he was ever going to be?

Dad speaks of tossing scraps of affection like one would to a starving mutt. You’re lucky you got it as good as you did, boy. And he knows, he knows, he knows, but it doesn’t feel like it even if he knows the Angel is only manipulating him. 

They aren’t my parents, Techno assures himself. It’s a mantra tumbling through his head over and over, as if it’ll drown out the testimony crisp in the air, the voices in his head. It’s his only protection from the abusive words hurled at him from every direction. Because it feels real, when their voices overlap into the garbled chorus of loathing that he kept locked up in the back of his head. It feels real when he painfully flinches with the impact of the belt that always emphasized every barked word. It feels real. 

Kay Faraday watches as Techno curls into a tight ball and covers his ears. She catches a look of pure pity on Philza’s face, and it’s strange how their expressions mirror. Kay carefully joins Techno on the ground, watching silently as he rocks himself back and forth, face buried in his knees. From the stand the awful testimony continues, Mr. Nevadas pulling out evidence neither she nor Edgeworth ever caught wind of. Mr. Nevadas expertly weasels out a testimony using timelines and bank transfers. It’s not long before he steals the truth, forcing Mr. Piglin to admit they were being paid by the Nether to raise Techno. It comes out in a hiss, riled up by the lawyer into a vehement rant about how much they loathed the child they were bribed to raise. Or rather, to neglect, as more and more details come out. Their one chance of a witness crumbles before her eyes as the Piglins are cornered and agree to sell out the organization that controlled them for over two decades. 

It’s starting to feel like there isn’t a case here at all. 

“Those aren’t my parents,” Techno croaks. Kay’s heart breaks a little. What a horrible thing to have to come to terms with. His denial had been so strong, long past the DNA tests and birth certificate and Philza’s blatant adoration. Edgeworth had been caught up in the victory of finally discovering a hole in Philza’s façade since the Angel’s influence did not reach where the Piglins live in America. But Kay realized how hard it would be on Techno, even if she didn't suspect it would be this bad. None of them did. None of them could’ve, Techno refusing to tell them everything. But it’s hard to find any irritation when he’s realizing his entire life was a lie. 

The boy is trembling. “Those aren’t my parents, they’re not, it’s not real not my parents not-”

“I’m so, so sorry Techno. What a horrible way to find out the Nether controlled you the whole time.” 

His head jerks up sharply, eyes dilated in pure panic. “No,” he says hoarsely. “No, those aren’t them, Ms. Faraday, not my parents, not– The people on stand aren’t the real Piglins.” 

A jolt goes up Kay’s spine. She pulls out her phone, texting Edgeworth furiously. Drat, they'd already been dismissed, too late for more examinations today. She shoots a heads-up to Gumshoe to do more heavy investigation while they’re still tied up in the courtroom. Now this– this is a lead. 

If it’s real. It’s increasingly hard to tell what is with Techno. 

Techno can’t stop shaking. He knows that’s what the Angel wants, wants him to look scared and traumatized and unstable, but Techno can’t pretend to be fine after that. His eyes roll over the courtroom, over the scores of people about to watch him fall apart. He’s cornered by the Angel even as he calmly watches from his seat yards away. His features are the perfect blend of concern and love, like this isn’t his fault. Even now Techno can hear his kind words, feel phantom arms wrap around him. He hates himself so, so much for how badly he wants to be reassured right now. 

“That wasn’t– that wasn’t them,” Techno testifies shakily, every word tasting like bile. He’s less desperate to be believed and more desperate to believe. He shoves his writhing doubt and sticks to his rotting convictions because they’re all that hold him together. “That wasn’t my mom and dad, it wasn’t–”

“Earlier, you claimed they were dead. What le-”

“They weren’t. They weren’t, aren’t, dead, not yet. Not dead. Worse. So, so much worse. The Angel w-wouldn’t let them die. He’s not merciful enough to. I don’t know if Mom and Dad are dead now, those aren’t them,” he stresses. “Those people weren’t the Piglins. I’ve never seen them before. I don’t know who they are, I don’t know where my parents are, what he’s done with them-” Mr. Edgeworth tries to guide him through testimony, but if anything he only grows more upset, feeling like he’s being accused even as Mr. Edgeworth just tries to establish certainty. “I know what my Mom and Dad look like!” he insists desperately. He doesn’t cry. Barely. But it’s all he has. “It’s impossible to confuse them for anyone else after the Angel carved my scars into them.” 

Techno’s voice falters as he realizes the most insidious part. Because even if he’s right, what proof will he have? Yet here he is detailing the irrevocable torture of two people who now sit calmly in the public seating area. He’s a disheveled mess three seconds from a nervous breakdown raving about horrific imagery while the benign evidence is plain as day. The Angel couldn’t script his lines the way he could with the imposters, and yet Techno performs beautifully. He spent months trying to pretend to be what Phil wanted, yet only now does he play his part perfectly, a basket case of a kid too traumatized to discern reality from the violence that haunts him. The only proof he has is what he knows is real. 

But it felt real, too, when he fled from the hallucination of his parents at Christmas. He can hear them jeering in his ears now, so loud the world is drowned out. They’ve haunted his every choice his entire life, ghosts vanishing in the corner of his eyes. How long has he been fearing them in every adult he met? Been staring at their reflection in his mirror? 

And if he can feel the scars on his back splitting open now, did he also imagine them carved into others? 

Doesn’t matter if it’s a lie, only their perception of it, the Wither reminds him. If it comes down to it, he doesn’t need the truth. He needs to survive. For months now he’s lived through lies, and he can’t stop now. Techno has and will always say whatever he needs to survive. 

But there isn’t an ounce of proof beyond the words of a clearly mentally ill kid. He sinks in his chair. They all think he’s crazy, something deeply and irreparably wrong with his head. 

And they’re right, gemstone.  

“I’m not insane,” Techno says in a very, very small voice. But if even he can’t believe it anymore, why should the world? 

Finally, Technoblade can’t look away. He seems almost ensnared in his father’s gaze, worryingly pale. He’s trembling ever so slightly in a way that causes Philza to ache with the need to scoop him up into his arms. Philza wanted Technoblade’s undivided attention, wanted Technoblade to finally confront the truth. But not like this. It was too much, he fears. Philza was forced to break through his thick denial but is now worried he broke Technoblade in the process. Halfway through Quackity’s questioning he went mute again, decreasingly responsive. He’s holding himself together, but ever so barely, clearly trying to shut down to survive, just like he did after the Nether. Technoblade is released without penalty, and as if transfixed stumbles back to his seat. Philza doesn’t imagine resorting to writing will net anything, the boy needs time to think. Or rather, be guided through his tangled thoughts. He’s looking to Philza for help, eyes locked on his father as the world comes crashing down. 

Philza researched everything as much as he could in between his furiously busy schedule since rigging a court case is a real-time consumer. In extreme mental health cases, particularly the ones caught up in their own reality, it often takes hitting rock bottom before the suffering individual can accept that they need to reform. That doesn’t change how horrific it is to watch. Technoblade is slowly recognizing how incongruous his actions are in response to reality, and he’s so, so scared, Philza can feel it palpably in his chest like a dagger to the heart. His baby boy is trembling with terror and all he wants is to rescue him from this. 

And yet Technoblade still refuses the offered salvation. He clings to his denial like a lifeline, but he’s barely holding on. A little gentle pressure and it will shatter. So as kindly and lovingly as possible, Philza destroys his son. It’s the only way for him to finally accept the help and protection he so ardently needs. 

Between Tommy’s and Technoblade’s own testimony, it’s easy to establish that Technoblade is prone to graphic hallucinations, which really only further cements he isn’t the Angel of Death. But it’s just for the court, really, and he holds Technoblade’s gaze the moment he speaks the truth. 

“His paranoia drags him into distress utterly disproportionate with reality and his real feelings. My son said it himself, he was trying to find a way to escape the Nether even as he considered them a family. While he did attempt to run away from my household, that doesn’t necessarily change how he feels about us, particularly when his psychosis is considered. In his moments of lucidity, he is such a sweet, loving, amazing boy.” He pours all the love and sincerity he has into the words, needing Technoblade to see his own abundant worth. His dark eyes are round like a deer caught in the headlights, blinded by the radiance of his adoration. 

“But after life-long abuse, he can’t recognize what’s healthy for himself. Where else would he go? To the so-called parents that horrifically abused him? On his own, to let his mental health spiral even further? Or worse, be abducted again by the criminal organization that’s controlled his entire life? I didn’t kidnap him, I gave him the support he so desperately needed.” Despite the distance, he can see the way Technoblade’s chest roughly convulses with each short, shallow breath. Dark terror is naked in his vulnerable eyes, knowing he’ll never be safe without Philza’s aegis. 

Philza pours every ounce of welcoming warmth he has into their locked gaze as he pleads with his prodigal son. “Technoblade needs me if he’s going to safely recover from all he’s endured. After everything you’ve suffered you deserve to be taken care of. It’s time to come home, gemsto-” 

Technoblade jolts to his feet suddenly, swaying uncertainly. Drawn by the motion, heads begin to turn to him. He’s panic-stricken, stumbling away. He doesn’t run out the door, but only just barely. 

Philza buries his face in his hands. Of course he’d bolt. Doesn’t he always? Technoblade was pushed so far today, it was only natural he’d fall prey to his instincts once more. But for once Philza can’t soothe that panic, trapped on stand unlike the hungry pack of reporters following after him. 

“Techno?” The voice outside the courtroom is small, muffled, yet undeniably Thomas. He must’ve convinced Sam to let him wait for his brother. Good, at least someone will be there to comfort him. But the echoing footsteps abruptly burst into a run. “TECHNO!” The desperation in Thomas’ voice hurts. Exhausted, Philza covertly drums a coded tattoo upon the wood ledge of the stand, sending an order to follow from afar and make sure his son remains safe. 

He can only hope some of the truth finally sunk in. 

Techno can’t tell if the knocking on the bathroom door is real. Though infrequent, it’s persistent enough over the hours that it might be, especially as he’s pretty sure most court sessions have wrapped up by now. But it intermingles with the same shouts he heard from his mental break at Christmas. No matter how much time passes, his brain is still convinced it's his parents at the door, even if he’s not sure what that even means anymore. If that’s the people who raised him, or their tortured vestiges, or the strangers who testified, or the Angel. The lock holds. That’s all that matters.

Techno dry heaves into the toilet, but he’s scarcely eaten enough for anything but bile to come up, especially hours into a meltdown. Stress buries wicked claws in his guts, constricting knots of sickly warmth coiling in the pit of his stomach. 

He’s not going to win the case. There isn’t a chance in hell. He’s going right back into the Angel’s clutches, only now he’ll know everything. The moment it's over the punishment will be brutal. 

He dry heaves again, and again, convulsions slamming his diaphragm. It burns, the bile in his throat, the tears hanging in his eyes, the maelstrom of thoughts in his head. Techno is starting to realize the whole trial was just a way to pry him open, to force him to be vulnerable. The Wither hisses at him for handing over his motivations and feelings on a silver platter. But he’s gone too far, the only salvation to be found in an impossible victory. The toxic determination that nearly destroyed him so many times before courses its acidic adrenaline through his veins. It’s all he has left, this doom that grows with every desperate word torn from his mouth. 

How is Techno supposed to argue against people who confess to being criminal agents for 18 years? They aren’t my parents, Techno assures himself. They aren’t. But isn’t that what Phil has been saying this entire time?

The cross-examination started easily enough, Mr. Nevadas wanting to know exactly what his parents looked like. Before or after the Angel mutilated them? came Techno’s acerbic response. 

Before, thank you. He picked over details, drawing them out in agonizing fashion. For all that he braced, Mr. Nevadas did not pounce on his doubt, though Techno is sure he hadn’t hidden it well enough. Instead, the lawyer picked at the discrepancies, the way Techno couldn’t have gotten his height from either of them, the hair a few shades too light, the jaw shape that was all wrong. 

Techno should’ve realized far, far sooner what the true intent was all along. He wasn’t trying to convince the jury the Piglins kidnapped him; he’s trying to convince Techno. Mr. Nevadas tried to unearth every last ugly detail of his childhood, badgering him with the threat of being declared guilty of civic direct contempt of court. Mr. Edgeworth objected after almost every question and was overruled at every turn. The judge is undeniably bought. This is no trial, simply an interrogation as the Angel dissects his entire life. Each admission only vindicates his obsessive protectiveness. Because why should the Angel actually want to win the case? All he wants is to prove himself right once and for all. 

But he’s not. He can’t be. 

Techno’s parents are the one thing he has before the Angel manipulated his entire existence, a simple fact of the universe that should be so, so easy to know. But if Techno couldn’t discern reality even before the Wither and Angel slipped into his head, what proof does he have for any of it? Techno needs it to be true, because everything might unravel else wise. 

The Piglins are his parents. 

They are not testifying. 

They love him. 

Technically, the identity of the imposters wasn’t proven conclusively, but Techno knows in time the proper evidence will declare without a shadow of a doubt that they were the Piglins. Or maybe that isn’t their real names, even, just masks dawned in their dirty work for the Wither. Regardless, it will be undeniable that Techno is plagued by horrifically graphic hallucinations. With it, the collapse of all his testimony. There was no Nether massacre, any distress from his kidnapping merely symptoms of his psychosis. 

And Phil gets to sit there and pretend he isn’t just another abuser, pretend he’s the cure for the whirlwind he unleashed in Techno’s head. He’s going back to the Crafts, and there’s nothing that will save him. 

Is he really the only one who sees it for the death sentence it is? The jury is all convinced he’s a mental case. Phil has declared himself Techno’s only savior. Even Tommy thinks it will help. Some tired, hopeless part of him wants to just give up. Won’t it be safer if he doesn’t resist? Just sink into the snare, so soft and warm he’ll never notice that he can’t breathe. Whatever survives won’t be him anymore, but the thing pretending to be the heart he’d clawed out of his chest would beat still. 

The bleak future swallows him in horrid detail. He already can feel the Angel’s hands possessively tracing over scars that still smart from the recent beating, and he can’t distinguish the new wave of bile from the last. Phantom touches that caress him no matter how viscerally he recoils. Sweet crooning assurances ringing in his ears, inescapable because it’s all in his head and maybe it always was. 

But of course he’s being dragged back to the Craft household. What had he ever done to earn his freedom? He was never strong enough to take it or clever enough to steal it. Worthless, worthless, worthless. It’s going to get you killed one of these days, isn’t it boy? darling? gemstone? It swirls in his head, all these versions people see of him until Techno can’t find the truth of himself anymore.

And if it’s this bad with the Angel at arms length, Techno is terrified what will happen once he’s recaptured. He knows the longer he’s with the Angel the more he’ll get in his head, twisting his thoughts all up. It won’t exactly be hard to take advantage of his disastrous mental state. Techno can feel his grasp on reality slipping like sand through his fingers, soon to be replaced with the Angel’s version of it. 

He wants Tommy. Or Skeppy. Or anyone at all that can assure him everything he knows is real. But the Angel has ensured he’s utterly alone and no one will ever believe him. Or… no. Tommy thinks he’s crazy, doesn’t he? Skeppy would back him up though, right? Just, he couldn’t because the Angel threatened him. Unless…was he actually poisoned? Or is that just Techno’s paranoia talking? His gut plummets at the thought that he convinced the one witness that could save him not to testify. Or would Skeppy only confirm that he’s delusional? It wasn’t the Angel that convinced everyone he’s insane, no, that was all Techno’s doing. 

Techno locked himself in the bathroom thinking he could wait it out, thinking it would run out of momentum and he could begin to clean up the debris of himself. The tears have long since spent themselves, at least. And yet these awful sobs keen out of him, inhuman and distorted as they echo in the bathroom. Techno feels utterly disgusting, and exhausted, and scared, because he’s realizing this blurring confusion and fear aren’t ever going to end. 

Another knock. Another. The sobs do slow eventually, his body worn too ragged to continue performing the grief inside him. Knock. Spit out a last bout of bile. Knock. Rub his eyes. Knock. He can’t tell how long it's been, but hopefully the reporters have cleared away from the exit. Techno can’t afford to fall apart in front of a camera. He peels himself off the floor of the bathroom and rinses his mouth in the sink until he can barely taste any acid. The burning in his throat doesn’t leave. Knock. He avoids the reflection as he tries to clean up, knowing he’ll only find a disaster. Okay. Okay. He’s fine. Doomed, but fine. His freedom lasts as long as he can drag out this case. That’s– that’s not nothing. He can prepare, build up supplies and allies. After months having his every plan shattered, Techno doesn’t think there’s a chance he’ll escape. But his friends will know this time, if nothing else. Maybe he can’t be saved, but he can be remembered. 

Techno avoids looking at the person waiting outside, hoping they don’t catch how red his eyes are. It proves to be an unimaginable mistake. “Today’s testimonies were rough on you, weren’t they gemstone?” Warm arms settle around him, suffocating. Techno holds perfectly rigid as he’s ensnared. The tension of it aches. Techno coils tighter and tighter, shrinking into himself as if that will free him. He constricts to the point of pain, and it isn’t enough. 

“This will soon all be over,” the Angel soothes as Techno’s lungs burn. To inhale is to expand, and by his very presence the Angel crushes that. Techno feels so, so small around him, reduced to the frightened child Phil sees him as. A strange whine pitches from his throat, unbridled animalistic terror. At once the trap tightens, alleviating circles rubbed tenderly, revoltingly into his crawling back. “I know reliving that was so difficult for you. I wish it didn’t have to be like this. If only you’d told me what was wrong far sooner this all could have been avoided. I can’t believe they did all that to you…their punishment was far too lenient.” Dark blots bleed into the corner of his vision. Phil is fixated upon the childhood details Mr. Nevadas pulled out of him, distressed over wounds long since healed even as the tension forced into his body hurts and the burn in his chest agonizes. “-----breathe, gemstone. Can you do that for me? You’re alright now, you know I’ll always be here for you. I need you to breathe, love, please breathe–” But it only constricts him further, painful as he tries to shrink into the nothing he feels like. 

Regret trickles into the Angel’s expression. He steps away, and the rest of the word jolts sharply into existence, no longer crushed in the palm of his hand. Stumbling as he’s released, Techno sucks down air sharply through his teeth. “Sorry, son. I should have known the truth would be too much for you to handle.” 

“That wasn’t real. I’m n-not cr—crazy,” Technoblade insists, still gasping through his trembling mouth. “I’m not.” 

“I never said you were,” Philza assures him. “Merely traumatized. And you can’t heal until you confront the abuse you suffered.” 

“From the p-people pretending to be my parents?!” He sounds hysterical. 

“That’s all the Piglins ever were.” He reaches out to comfort his son, but Technoblade flinches back, motions sporadic, hands clawing through his dark hair. Philza had thought he would recover more. Philza has been waiting for hours, knowing Technoblade would come out when he was ready, and yet he forgot how vastly their definitions of functional differ. He’s starting to think that giving him time for introspection didn’t help in the slightest. Made it worse, if anything, allowed him time to catastrophize. 

But what else was Philza supposed to do? He doesn’t want to be overbearing. Prodding Technoblade only ever causes him to snap up his defenses. Philza is beginning to realize he has to come of his own volition or else he’ll never allow himself to be vulnerable enough to accept help. 

As of now, his son paces a short circuit like a frenzied dog on a short chain. As if his instincts drive him to flee, but he can’t bear to. On some innate level, Technoblade wants to stay. Perhaps he is asking for help in the only way Technoblade can manage. 

Or perhaps he only stays to ensnare Philza, based upon the covert signal a bodyguard delivers. Philza measures his words, given apparently his audience is far larger than just his son. 

“The Piglins told you so themselves,” he says gently, trying to guide his son through his latest breakdown. “Okay? You’ve known for weeks now, all I did was procure more evidence they hid from you. The bank transfers, the reports about your development, all of it was true.” 

“No it wasn’t! W-wasn’t real, was—not– no. No. Actors.” As if in spite of himself, Technoblade’s terror filled eyes lock upon him, seeking assurance. “They were imp- impersonating my mom a-and dad. Not real.” 

Philza frowns. Of course he’d get caught up on a detail like that, spinning it out to justify his denial. But then the frown deepens as he detects the thin thread of uncertainty wavering in his voice, because something about it rings unnerving in his well-trained ear. On first assumption, Philza would take it for deception given how much Technoblade has manipulated him. It’s too tantalizing, taunting him to pounce on the bait. But on closer examination, that can’t be right, because…because the uncertainty is misplaced. 

Philza plunges into harrowing worry as he realizes his son isn’t asking him if the Piglins are his parents, but rather if Philza’s agents are. The staunch denial has fractured as intended, but with it deep fissures of doubt have split open where they have no right to be. Suddenly, Philza is forced to contend with how reliant Technoblade was on his delusions to function. Perhaps this gambit went too far, if it destabilized him to the extent he’s questioning everything he knows. Concern fills Philza, but he can’t deny it presents an immaculate opportunity he can’t refuse. Change of plans. Technoblade needs far more guidance than predicted to recover and rebuild himself in a healthy manner. 

As Philza fails to refute the utilization of imposters, his son pales. A tricky line to walk, to rebuild his confidence without allowing him to return to the comfort of old lies. “I would like to reiterate that I don’t believe you are insane. Alright, love? You’ve had some big revelations today, and it’s frightening, but not everything has changed. I’m still here for you, and always will be. But as much as I want to assure you, I believe this is a conversation too sensitive to have in public, especially when your lawyer friends are listening in.”

Technoblade’s gaze snaps to him in pure bewilderment. It scans as genuine, but Philza can’t tell anymore. From experience, he knows his son will resort to nearly anything to get what he wants. Acting in cahoots with a pair of lawyers to trick him into admitting something incriminating are well within his realm of manipulation. Guilt trickles in for thinking so little of his child when he is in desperate need of help. But can he be blamed when Technoblade tricked him for months? 

Techno’s blood turns to ice as he realizes he’s inadvertently lured the lawyers into lethal territory. There’s a hissed invective behind the corner, and the Angel snaps a command. A bodyguard rounds a corner scruffing Mr. Edgeworth and Ms. Faraday like bothersome kittens. Mr. Edgeworth is greatly affronted, while Ms. Faraday squirms wildly, arms pinwheeling. “You know, eavesdropping is considered rude,” the Angel says in a clipped tone. Techno surges forward protectively, only to freeze as a hand lightly rests on his shoulder. 

Ms. Faraday points an accusing finger at the Angel as Mr. Edgeworth pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re NOT giving you a chance to steal him!” she declares loudly. Run, Techno tries to tell them through expression alone. It’s far, far too late for him, and they need to run before the Angel becomes territorial and obliterates them. To challenge him so brazenly— they’re dead. They’re already dead, and he’s the only one who knows it. 

But before the Angel can rip them to shreds, Mr. Nevadas waltzes up behind the pair, his hands clasped behind his back and his smile sly. “Bothering my client, are you? And what wild accusations you throw at an innocent man!”

Mr. Edgeworth brings himself up to as much professional gravitas he can muster while dangling above the ground. “The mere insinuation that man is guiltless is grounds for intellectual evaluation.” 

“I have evidence that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Mr. Craft is innocent,” Mr. Nevadas smirks. “He’ll be acquitted in seconds. I have it on me right now, ain’t that convenient?” Techno goes very, very cold. He thought he might spin the case out further, have at least a few more weeks before he never saw freedom for the rest of his life. 

Mr. Edgeworth goes still at the possibility, calculations flashing in his gray eyes. “...no, I scarcely imagine a simpleton such as yourself could put together a flawless case. I suppose I must see it to believe it.” 

Mr. Nevadas immediately responds to the goading. “Oh yeah? You’ll be crying home to your little boyfriend.”

“He is NOT- that- he— your distraction is futile! I see through your ploy, now show me the evidence lest I call your bluff.” Mr. Nevadas whips out his hands from behind his back, giving Mr. Edgeworth double middle fingers. “...ah. How sophisticated of you,” the prosecutor says extremely flatly. “I do not believe the jury shall find that compelling evidence.” Mr. Nevadas just smirks and brushes past the Angel, palm laid out, snatching the check given to him. The defense lawyer offers the prosecutor a sarcastic salute with a teasing wave of his payment, then saunters away. Frowning, Mr. Edgeworth turns his cold ire once more upon Phil. “...right. We still caught you harassing Technoblade. Makes one wonder what other witnesses you’ve tampered with, doesn’t it Mr. Craft?”

It’s a strange level of calm sternness to be found in a man dangling over the ground. It would be so, so easy for the both of their necks to be snapped right here and now. Such insolence is a deadly game to play with the Angel. But Mr. Edgeworth’s jaw only sets, Ms. Faraday burning with determination, insistent as they try to pry Techno from the Angel’s clutches. Don’t they know how many have died trying to do exactly that?

And yet a motion and the pair of lawyers drop to the ground, the Angel’s hand lightly releasing his shoulders. As if a chain broke, Techno immediately lurches forward. Worried, he glances between the opposition, dreading the consequences. 

Ms. Faraday steps between him and the Angel, hands on her hips. “Leave Techno alone!” she demands. Huh. So apparently she fully has a death wish. 

“We were just discussing the Piglins,” the Angel dismisses. “I was ever so hoping we might have an honest conversation in private. Though if you have no more questions about them, I suppose you can go. At this point I’m resigned to the fact I can’t force you to accept help.” But he dangles the truth enticingly, and helplessly Techno chases after, needing answers. The Angel smiles as he reluctantly peels away despite the lawyers’ protests. “Then let’s go somewhere private, hm? Don’t want further interruptions.” 

Techno shoves his hands in his pockets and follows, shying away from contact. It isn’t likely that the Angel will kidnap him here and now, not with the eye of the public on them. Then again, there’s not much anyone can do should Philza Craft decide he wants something. And as much as he dreads being cornered in a room alone with the Angel, he can’t pass up the chance for information. So covertly he starts a video recording on the phone in his jacket pocket, praying something incriminating is picked up. It might be the only way to salvage this trial. The thin flicker of hope is enough to limit how shaky he is. 

He’s shepherded to a private room, comfortable in its layout, although likely not to Phil’s millionaire standards. The books filling the shelves are decidedly thin and colorful, a handful of stuffed animals and soft knit blankets propped on the handful of plush couches. A room designed for comforting children during trials, made for messy divorces and the young victims of terrible crimes. No doubt Phil thought it fitting. Techno’s hope that the Angel would take the opposing couch is quickly shattered, but at least he doesn’t have to watch the man, carefully staring at the wall in front of him, expression hidden in the curtain of his mostly brown hair. There’s a respectful amount of distance between them, even. 

“First, I would like to apologize. I did not foresee how badly the testimony would impact you, especially after being forced to relive what those monsters did to you. I realize everything feels very uncertain for you right now. But the Piglins really did reveal their involvement with the Nether at our dinner together, remember? We were both there. Can’t you trust that at least?”

“They said– no. Be-be-because. No, you hurt th- the Piglins.” And it almost sounds like a question, wild hope tangled with harrowing fear. 

Only a moment does Philza toy with the decision of convincing Technoblade the torture of the Piglins wasn't real. Wouldn't it be kinder, if the thought distressed him so? But no. Philza is merely trying to help his son, and would never exploit his mental illness like that. Confronting the fact his life is built on a lie has shaken him deeply, and he needs to be braced. Covertly, his son is trusting him to confirm the veracity of his own experiences, and Philza can’t betray that. 

At the Angel’s confirming nod, some of the tension knotting his back eases. As much as Techno loathes the Angel, he’s unendingly grateful that he doesn’t continue to lie now they’re face to face. Techno takes a deep, soothing breath. It’s not paranoia. It’s real. His parents were tortured, so the people on stand can’t be them. It was all lies. He reiterates it like a mantra, each echo a little firmer in conviction. 

He appreciates the minutes he’s given to collect himself, now that he finally has some degree of footing. Pointedly, Techno refuses to acknowledge the source of his solace, focusing on steadying his long erratic breathing, trying to assure himself he can trust his own perception again. But the seed of doubt has been planted. Quietly, its roots will erode his foundation, forever to undermine his certainty. At least for now it quiets to a manageable, ignorable portion of its previous earth-shattering revelation. 

But the respite is ephemeral. And for all that the Phil’s intrusion is careful, it is no less trying to shape Techno’s turbulent thoughts in his favor. “For months you’ve been told the truth. But if you refuse to trust me, or the evidence, surely their own confession must suffice. I did not force the Piglins to lie to you. They simply realized they could no longer maintain the ruse any longer. I don’t know how else to help you see the truth. After being trapped in denial for so long, it must be painful to admit the truth; But can’t you see how much more clinging to the erroneous belief harms you?” 

“Where are my– my real parents?”

“I’m right here. I will always be here for you.” 

Techno closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He’s scared of the oncoming argument with the Angel, because he doesn’t think he can win, not with how fragile his mental state is. But if the Angel slips up even once on the recording, maybe he has a chance. He has to seize it. “You a-aren’t my f-f-father.” He wishes his voice sounded steady and confident, but not as badly as he wishes he felt certain. But certainty is something that’s been taken from him, and Techno doesn’t know if he’ll ever get it back. 

“I’m a fool for praying you’d see reason.” He expects an argument, but receives only a heart-breaking sigh. “You’ve avoided looking at me, save for today. I’ve grown weary of it.” Techno tenses, waiting for the firm touch that will force his chin to tilt towards the villain. But it never comes. Instead, a nudge upon his shoulders, tugging him close. As he realizes what’s happening he struggles, but as exhausted and underfed as he is the resistance is futile. Techno is shoved into place, his head forcefully cradled in Phil’s lap. The distance between them on the couch was calculated to perfection, the position comfortable were it not unbearable. A hand rests upon his shoulder, growing firm when he tries to surge upward. Pigeonholed once more into the role of a child, agonizingly aware how vulnerable he is as he’s laid prone, the Angel looming over. “I miss you so much, gemstone,” he murmurs, gently brushing away the hair blocking Techno’s visage, leaving him exposed. Techno swallows roughly as he stares up at the man who controls his entire life. He knows what he looks like, with his unwashed hair, with his red eyes, with his mouth that still burns from bile. “I’ve been trying to give you the space you need, but today was rough. Already you’re making so much progress just by accepting my help, and I’m so proud of you. I…know you don’t think of me in that way, but I am your father and nothing will ever change that. You need support right now, and no one else can offer it to you.”

“Skeppy c-could. If you hadn’t poisoned him.”

“Nothing with long-lasting effects, I assure you. He’s surely recovered by now.” It’s almost a relief to have his worst suspicions so easily confirmed. 

“Did you poison my mom and d-dad too?” he asks, pressing for more confession. 

“I can’t understand why you still call them that,” Philza sighs, tenderly stroking through his hair. “Even if they were your biological parents, surely child abuse should bar them from ever being considered in such a light. Is Thomas right? Has love only ever been a weapon to you? So indistinguishable from pain? No wonder you love them and not us,” he laments, carefully weaving tiny braids into his hair, dark brown interspersed with thin strands of pale pink that fade more with each passing day. “Or do you? Can you even tell what love is? Maybe your manipulation really was the only way you could show affection. Wouldn’t that be horrific?” 

“Tell me what you’ve done to them,” Techno says firmly, ignoring the musings. He’s already heard it a hundred times from the Angel in his head. What he needs is the undeniable proof, not evasive wording that can be waved away to the jury.

“Tell me why you care to know. Were you pretending with them, too? Did you pretend for so long you lost your grasp on the truth?”

“Tell. Me.” 

At last he relents. “I well and truly don’t know where the Piglins are. They are free. I promised you that, didn’t I? And if you need proof…I suppose you’d simply have to come home and check, wouldn’t you?” Techno’s features harden, and the Angel’s hopeful manipulation peters out. Techno scours him for the truth of it, but he just can’t tell. Can he really trust the Angel? Or what of Wil? Would they tell him the truth? And if he can’t rely on his own perception, does it matter? “Technoblade, please believe me. The moment you tell me what you need, I’ll move heaven and hell for you, but you have to communicate with me.”

“Leave me alone.”

He sighs. “Ah, but that’s what you want, not what you need. Pushing people away when you need help is worrisome. I thought giving you some space might help you realize that, might— I don’t know.” He looks so forlorn. “We don’t communicate well. I thought the trial would help, at the least give us time to sort everything out. I thought the truth would be easier if evidence was upfront and blatant, if it came from someone else’s mouth. You’re the only one in that room who isn’t convinced.”

“Because you replaced my parents with strangers!” He tries to shove himself up, only to be firmly pressed back into Phil’s lap. Techno’s lip curls in the beginning of a snarl, but he must endure this as the price of information. He needs this evidence far too dearly to leave, no matter how everything in him is screaming to run. 

“I don’t believe we’re strangers at this point, love. And I can’t say I apologize for being a better father than that vile scrum,” he says tenderly. 

“The actors. You put every single word in their mouth.”

“I’m so sorry love, but that’s what your parents think,” Phil replies simply. Does he know the Piglins in his skull agree? Is he purposefully spurring on the fresh wave of derision they unleash now? 

Techno can’t help the way he shrinks. “No, it isn’t true.” His voice trembles slightly. “You were the ones who told them to say I was worthless.” 

Phil smiles and cups his cheeks. “I’m so proud of you for not believing their words. Truly I worried you’d always think so little of yourself despite how wonderful you are. And obviously, I do not believe that either; The Piglins told me those lies themselves.” 

Techno falters. “W-what?”

“They said truly horrendous things about you when we spoke. At least early on, I fixed that quickly. I have recordings, though as fragile as your mental health is, I’d hate to put you through even more stress. My word and your own memories will have to suffice to the truth of it. But I think deep down even you know how much they despised you.” He shies around the torture, but it’s enough of a misstep to admit he has footage that failed to be turned over during the subpoena that Techno counts it a success. Another will be conducted, and should the court get its hands on anything from a torture session it’s game over. “It was only their knowledge of the Nether that allowed me to save you so soon, and they were so loath to part with a single scrap of information if it meant your torture was ended. I had to pry it out of them. Were it left to the Piglins, you would have rotted in the Nether for the rest of your life.” 

“They didn’t work for the Nether,” he insists desperately. Didn’t we, though? You think we’d take care of a worthless brat if we weren’t forced to?

“I’m sorry, but they did. They were in the mob long before you were even born, and didn’t like the natural consequences. They raised you on the Wither’s ord-” 

“They didn’t!” 

The Angel sighs. “Denial won’t change anything, and deep down you know that. But even if they didn’t, they hated you. They hated you so, so much, and if you refuse to acknowledge my evidence it’s obvious even then. Both your body and mind were broken in the shape of that hatred.” 

“I know they hate me!” Techno shouts, despising the tears welling in his eyes. “I’ve known that since before I could read, Angel, I didn’t need you to– I knew. I knew." He’d thought himself done crying, but apparently not. The Angel’s eyes widen, and Techno can’t stand it. But he is too shocked to resist as Techno turns, burying his face in the man’s shirt so he can’t see. He hates, too, that it looks like he’s seeking comfort. But what he hates most of all is how easily and kindly he’d given it by one he abhors. 

Phil pets his hair, murmuring soft soothing words. “I know it’s hard to confront. Dealing with abuse is so messy and horrible, but it’s the only way to heal. It’s going to seem impossible for it to get better, but I’ll support you every step of the way. You realize they were abusive, don’t you?” Painfully, Techno nods into his lap, even as his parent’s distraught responses roar in his ears. Relief fills the Angel’s voice. “You don’t know what a safe home looks like, but I promise that’s what I offer. Please let this be over, please just accept the help you need. Come home, gemstone, we’re the only family you need.” 

“Their hate hurt me far less than your love.”

So close, he can feel Phil’s flinch. He freezes, breath trapped in his chest. The silence is suffocating, and when Phil eventually resumes stroking his hair Techno can feel the tremble of his fingers. “I-I don’t know why you would say something like that.” A hand grips his shoulder, shoving him out of the shelter of burying his face in Phil’s shirt. He jerks Techno’s chin until their eyes are locked together. The fingers dig in the more he rebels. “No, I know why. You're scared and lashing out. Your lies are cruel, gemstone, and I thought you’d learned by now they hurt you far more than me. You don’t really mean that,” the Angel says a little too firmly. Techno glares at him, the hot trickle of tears yet undried. “You don’t.” There’s the faintest growl to it, and Techno shrinks. 

But it’s at that moment that Techno thinks fine. Why not drag out every disgusting detail? Let the Angel know what he really thinks. He’s already lost, but he can sure as hell ruin the prize the Angel thinks he’s getting. Not now, laid prone, his throat borne and so easily slit in private. He knows it’s worse than a death sentence should the Angel hate him as much as he hates the Angel. 

But maybe there isn’t enough salvageable left in Techno. Who would care, should he be destroyed? 

“You think me a monster, fine. Trust me, Technoblade, I know how badly I messed up your rescue. Your compassion for them leaves me breathless, but it is wholly undeserved. The Nether has been hurting you for so, so long. They raised you as livestock. And I know, I know you think it’s a good thing they were using you as a tool your whole life. But they raised you to think that too. The Nether molded you into the perfect weapon against me. They were despicable. 

“And yet…I’m sorry I killed them. Truly. I did not understand how deeply I scared you that day until your testimony, and for that I shall forever be regretful. I promise to do better in the future.” Techno stills. He confessed on the recording. Plainly, blatantly. There’s no way to weasel out of the Angel’s words. Even a rigged court can’t ignore that. Techno shuts down his features lest the raw relief bleed through, though the Angel seems to pick up on it regardless, relaxing as if Techno had accepted his ‘apology’. “See? This proves the trial is helping. Because now I know how you truly feel, I can help you through these difficult emotions.”

“You can’t.” 

“No. No, I can,” he assures the both of them. That doesn’t change the slight waver of his voice and confidence. “You will heal. I assure you it’s possible. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for scaring you. It was my own actions that brought our family to the fractured state it’s in now, but I vow to you: I will fix this.”

In a way, he already has, delivering salvation when he admitted his crimes. Hope bleeds into Techno’s countenance. The Angel drinks the expression in, and a shaky smile fills his visage. He cups Techno’s face ever so reverently, then guides him to sitting back up. His touch lingers, and then Techno is released, the conversation over. A moment to collect himself, and Techno stands, more than a little unsteady. In a dream, he makes his way to the door. He has proof. Undeniable, concrete. They’ll finally have to believe him. Proof it isn’t all just in his head. He’s not crazy. 

“I nearly forgot. Here’s your phone back,” the Angel says. Techno’s hand leaps to his pocket, finding it empty. He didn’t even notice the Angel stole it. Slowly he turns to find his phone being held out. Numbly, he takes the device, realizing the video was stopped long before anything incriminating was said. “For future reference, it’s illegal in the UK to record a conversation without the consent of all parties, and illegally obtained evidence is not admissible in court regardless of how damning it is. But I won’t level any criminal accusations against you. You should know that after I carefully hid how many people you attacked during your episodes.” 

Strange. He’d been at rock bottom before, but somehow it’s now so, so much worse after the brief glimpse of hope. Techno just feels…numb. His despair is too consistent a companion to register anymore. 

“Why do you only ever open up when you think it will hurt me?” the Angel asks quietly. Techno can’t meet his eyes. A disappointed sigh. “Right, why am I surprised you’d stop speaking to me the moment it didn’t benefit you? Just how long have you been manipulating me like this?” The silence is almost unbearable, but not for a second does Techno mistake that for a dismissal. He stares at the spot where his feet are rooted to the ground. “…I suppose the only way you’ll ever answer that is during a testimony. As much as I’m dying to know, I’d personally recommend you take a few days to recuperate after today, though recognize how little faith you put in my suggestions. Truly I swear I only do what’s best for you.” 

Surely not one person in the court believes what they carry out is anything but a sick parody of justice. No, this trial has only ever been a way to dissect Techno. Fine. If the Angel really wants him to open up, let carrion crows crack open his carcass to see the cankerous rot festering inside. 

He wants the Angel to hurt. It’s all he has left, to ruin the victory. Techno simply doesn’t know how to stop fighting, even to the ugly, bitter, hopeless end. But he’s learning to. He’s not going to win, was never going to, but that doesn’t mean the Angel has to. It’s not as if he could ever use the mask again; not even the Angel is delusional enough to accept his adoring artifice anymore. 

It all falls away now, the ruse of litigation discarded. There are no questions, no rules, nothing at all save for Techno and the man that ruined him. The Angel’s iron fist strangles the courtroom into expectant silence. There’s some vague prodding by Mr. Nevadas, one last attempt of upholding the illusion of a courtroom, because how could Techno possibly be kidnapped when by all accounts he adored his family? It’s a farce. That’s all it’s ever been, the Angel’s true question lurking beneath, that desperate why, why, why haunting his gaze ever since Techno’s manipulations were exposed. But with his reputation obliterated, with his sanity in shreds, with his Tommy against him, the last veneer of Techno’s threadbare façade shatters. He can’t conceal how blatantly he despises the Angel. Let him have his answer. Techno prays he chokes on it. 

“I learned quickly that Philza Craft gets what he wants and he’ll destroy everything to do so. I pretended to love the Craft family so they wouldn’t destroy me, too.” The words ring out coldly in the courtroom. They’re chilling after the wonderful domestic warmth both Phil and Tommy painted. 

He isn’t speaking for the jury. There isn’t a point. Even if he makes it explicit he was held against his will, for an abduction charge the perpetrator has to be aware that it’s coercion, and the Angel is unendingly delusional. Or, maybe he’s right. Maybe the jury really does think Phil is his best option. Because I am, gemstone. Techno knows the cold acid of his own voice, knows he sounds like a sociopath if one really believes in Phil’s warm love. He can’t drown out the murmur of the Angel in his ear pointing out exactly how deranged he sounds. The eager glee as the Angel relishes how the jury will dismiss his every word and Techno will be dragged back to captivity. The sickening purr of some part of you can’t wait to come home, can it? But Techno can’t care anymore. This isn’t for the jury. Maybe it never was. 

No, his words are for the Angel and the Angel alone, and he savors the way the man winces. 

“I wasn’t particularly good at it in the beginning. I was…reckless. I didn’t get punished, so I didn’t pretend as much as I should’ve, pushed boundaries I should’ve left alone.” He couldn’t have known what the Angel was doing to his parents. And yet surely he was to blame for every biting comment he snapped at the Angel. What could have saved them? Techno can only imagine that his love for his parents sparked the Angel’s fury just as surely as his fear did. And beyond them, to the Nether razed on his behalf, to the Angel’s own guards who only made the mistake of roughing him up during an escape attempt. “I never suffered the consequences of my actions, but others did. There are innumerable people slaughtered in my name, and the fact keeps me up most nights.” 

For all that it’s an accusation, pity wells in Phil’s eyes. Perhaps even guilt, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough, the Angel will never feel the pain he’s caused to so, so many. But it won’t stop Techno from trying. “The Wither was a really good teacher before the Angel murdered her. She was manipulating me the whole time, of course. But I’ve spent my entire life strangled by love, I know she was only trying to ensnare me. I played along, I manipulated her right back, I did the small touches and soft gratitude and sweet smiles and everything, anything, I did it all and I survived,” he spits like it’s foul on his tongue. “But I knew I couldn’t let it be real, not again. I knew better.

“But the Angel didn’t.” Where once he was leaning closer, closer, expression pained, unconsciously reaching to comfort Techno…at his quiet, cruel words, the Angel jerks back. “He hadn’t hardened his heart like me, so I exploited the weakness. It saved me once, didn’t it? So I manipulated him just like the Wither. And it worked. Wil– he knew something was up, but the Angel was just so desperate to have a complete family. He wanted it to be real so, so badly. It would’ve been the easiest lie of my life if I didn’t despise him so much.” Techno’s lip curls over his rictus in a barely contained snarl. Never once has the Angel seen him for what he really is, but this time Techno’s going to force him to contend with reality. 

As if you’d know what that is, gemstone. How is it that everyone but you knows you’re delusional? Only I can soothe the demons haunting you, only I can keep you safe. Deep down, you know it’s true. 

Techno can’t give the truth. He doesn’t know what that is anymore. But he can rip out every emotion in his chest and throw it at the Angel’s feet until he is at last hollowed out. If he wants Techno, then let him have every last revolting piece. “So I got good at manipulating them. I had to. That type of violence he’s inflicted doesn’t just go away. It stains everything. It’s all I could see every time I looked at the Angel. And I stared dead on at the blood caked in his fingernails and still forced myself into his arms because it meant someone else wasn’t being ripped apart.” Oh, they’ll never believe you now, the Angel croons. Listen to yourself, plagued with such awful hallucinations. All this fear has only ever been trapped inside your head. You, the poor child jumping at the phantoms in your head. You, the cruel villain manipulating an innocent family all this time. You, the witness answering solely to the voices in his head.

Techno spills it all out irrespective of veracity. He can’t care much for truth, these days. All he has is these caustic feelings bursting out of his chest, leaving behind only the internal scarring from having bottled up his venom for so long. How he weaponized physical affection, no matter how repulsive it was. Little brushes and touches and hugs, crying into the Angel’s arms as if it was Techno that was the one being soothed. How he manufactured opportunities for the Angel to feel like a good parent. Soliciting advice and passionate, loving declarations so that he could think he was fixing Techno. Leading Wil on with the lure of his own redemption and small glimpses of the broken, tragic figure that fit his dramatic narrative. Meticulously acting out a recovery for the both of them, pretending to yearn for a happy family as if the very thought wasn’t repulsive. 

Each word is caustic as he spits it out through bared teeth, his hatred carved into just as much of a weapon as his love had been. Tears well in the Angel’s eyes as Techno describes deliberately exploiting his euphoria at being called Dad for the first time in order to manufacture a positive association with allowing Techno to see other people. Techno lays out every last scheme, spitting them out until his anger is spent. If he really wants Techno, let him have it all. This loathing-terror-panic hidden in his chest was the only thing motivating him for months. One last futile fight before the dark, ravenous, inescapable future swallows him. But Techno has no need for that spitfire determination where he’s going. Where once his words poured out of him, acerbic and fierce, now they slow to a trickle as he releases the last of his futile resistance.

“When he wins this case…I'm going to be kidnapped again, because nothing will stop him.” Because he knows not even this will cause the Angel’s obsession to balk. “Maybe none of you can believe he’s a monster, don’t believe in the harm he’ll use me to justify. But you’ll have doomed me, at the very least.” Techno looks every single one of the jury in the eyes. He knows this censure will change nothing, be they bought, blackmailed, threatened, or even genuinely convinced Phil is innocent. Even should they think him crazy, could they really believe the Crafts are what’s best for him? Would it even matter? Did any of this ever? “I can’t blame you, though. I already gave up on freedom.” His voice cracks on it, every syllable aching. “I thought– maybe it would keep everyone else safe. But I’ve sacrificed everything there is of me, and it isn’t enough. I was never going to be. There’s a void in his heart in the shape of Alexander Craft, and it was only ever going to devour whoever was forced to fill it. 

“Perhaps he loves me, but neither of us knows what that really means. He called me his gemstone and tried to carve me into his long coveted prize. The reward to justify everything he’s done. And somehow he’s surprised I shattered when hands like his aren’t capable of anything else.”

Techno feels empty as he watches his abuser weep. “For once, you can’t get what you want,” he tells the Angel softly. “Because you already destroyed me.”

Philza feels wretched. He’d been so, so desperate for his son’s love that he’d swallowed every lie. It’s abhorrent. It’s vile, it’s–

It’s real. 

This, finally, is the real Technoblade. Wasn’t this what Philza wanted? But Technoblade opening up could only ever have hurt Philza; there’s only pain inside him. A broken child pantomiming the love he never understood. Trained to mold himself into a perfect son in the hopes of surviving the next beating. Love had only ever hurt him, so of course he would weaponize it. 

Philza is wracked with the desperate need to fix his son. He has to, but the depths of the fractures terrify him. All he wants is to save his child, and Philza doesn’t know how. 

Wilbur saunters up the aisle to the witness stand. The court has a strange energy to it, or rather a lack, as if the life has been sucked out of it. There’s something dull in Tech’s eyes as he slumps in the corner of the public seating. It’s not a good look to spit a venomous account of manipulating an adoring, innocent family for months. Certainly does nothing to fight the claims he’s delusional. 

Hearing his last testimony was…rough. And by Dad’s drained visage, he’s finally accepted what Wilbur was trying to tell him all this time. He’s even more shaken than the original arrest as his fantasies crash and burn. His hands clasp over his mouth to cover each shaking breath, eyes red from crying. It’s scary how fragile his Dad is right now, but for a while now Wilbur has been dealing with how fallible his once seemingly unshaken pillar is. A man held together only by the singular drive to save the baby he lost. Of course he had to hold onto the fantasy Technoblade could only be safe with them; it was the only thing Philza had. Or rather, the one thing he could see, all else falling to the wayside in his obsession, including the sons he already had. And as Dad finally sees the depths of Tech’s loathing, he’s forced to contend with the fact the purpose that drove him for eighteen years will never be fulfilled. 

But Wilbur already knew that. It’s the way Tech folds that gets to him, as if the idea of escaping is unthinkable. Where once it shaped his every thought, freedom means nothing to Tech now. Reduced once more into the despondent husk he was after the Nether. Perhaps he never left that state at all, only ever painting masks over himself to appease his captors. Tech looks so…resigned. Wilbur wants to return that endless determination back to him, but is painfully aware he can’t simply give another their sense of purpose. 

The viscerally bitter laments of a doomed man do not a conviction make. Everyone else has already given their testimony, and all that’s left is Wilbur. The final nail in the coffin. Quackity leans against the stand, though Wilbur can sense the fabricated nonchalant attitude. “In his testimony, Technoblade claimed you were aware he was manipulating the family. To your knowledge, how did he feel about the Crafts?” 

“Absolutely terrified of us.”

Quackity stumbles only slightly, expecting a denial to align with the blissful family Philza is trying to paint. But he adjusts fast on the fly. “Why?”

“He came back different after the Nether. But to be honest he was skittish before then, too. Might’ve been from his parents, but we also had a bit of a rocky start when he first rejoined the family.”

“How did Technoblade begin to live with the Crafts?” 

Wilbur’s eyes flick to his twin’s, catching on them. Wilbur leans back in his chair, a lopsided smile forced on his features. It’s mirrored only by a lifeless expression. “Well, we started slowly, worried his original captors were keeping tabs. He was awfully convinced someone was stalking him, but we couldn’t find any warning signs.” Quackity prods at the response, trying to lure out a response about his twin’s supposed psychosis. It makes Wilbur’s blood boil, but his relaxed mask is as thick as ever. “I mean, I think he has the right to be a little paranoid after everything,” he evades easily, till Quackity gives up and returns to the previous questions. “I started hanging with him at school, and then he began tutoring Tommy. We all just adored him, invited him over for family dinner and game nights, stuff like that.” How ardently does Wilbur want to go back to those days, when Tech was just a dorky, happy guy. When his nervousness was all social anxiety, his stress from exams and paper due dates. Maybe it's irrevocable, but Wilbur has to try. “He started living with us just after he published his third novel. Me and him went out to celebrate, got a little buzzed. Tech started getting real sick, so I brought him home. He stayed with us after that.” 

Quackity’s mouth twitches on a smirk. “Was that the first symptoms of his growing mental illness?”

“Nah, he was physically sick. Actually it was because of the roofies. Made it a cinch for us to kidnap Tech.” 

Wilbur adores the way the entire courtroom grinds to a halt, attention at once caught fully on him. Had he not been already devastated Philza likely would have handled the betrayal with grace; as is, naked panic strikes through his countenance. But what he savors most is the pure, vulnerable shock flickering in Tech’s dull eyes. 

“I spent months trying to get Tech out to safety.” Wilbur smirks, having finally succeeded. “He hates us, but Dad couldn’t ever really accept that, convinced all it took was more love to cure him of his trauma as if half of it wasn’t our fault. But when it comes to my twin, Dad has always been delusional.” 

Dawn is breaking and Techno pushes to keep himself awake, desperate for every last second with his friends. They slip through his fingers no matter how tightly he tries to hold on. The verdict falls tomorrow –or today, by now– and dread rushes for him. But for now he’s with his friends, pulling an all-nighter. He can almost imagine they’re working on a group project together, sharing sodas and snacks that he even debates partaking in. Talking about anything and everything, ignoring the noise complaints. Raucous laughter and board games and beaming smiles. Techno does his best to keep up. He wants to feel normal, wants this to be normal again. 

Techno wishes his exhaustion was solely the result of sleep loss, but the weeks of trial have wrung him out completely. Things have been really strange after Wil’s confession, the trail actually progressing in his favor. Mostly because the Angel isn’t even paying attention half the time, a pensive expression reluctant to break. Techno wishes he felt more satisfaction, but there’s little relief to be found in this. He just wants it to be over. 

Sprawling across the couch and determined to ignore the ache of his head, Techno refuses to sleep. From desperation, Techno has turned to trusting the coffee he brews. Others turned to retreat, wishing him luck before returning to their dorms. Although, Halo is fully passed out on the floor with an impressive number of sharpie doodles on his face, and every other remainder is well into their choice of poison. Niki, Ranboo, and Skeppy are in a vicious competition for who can down the most energy drinks, with Skeppy despairingly far behind the others. Meanwhile, Charlie slugs back energy shots like there’s no tomorrow, and honestly if he keeps drinking that many he might not have one. 

When Techno shakes himself awake, he finds the group surrounding him, some quicker to hide their markers than others. “Don’t worry,” Ranboo assures him. “It’s safe to go to sleep, I’ll make sure they do it everywhere but your face so the judge won’t see.”

“Yeah Techno, just go to sleep,” Charlie choruses. “You have my personal guarantee you’ll wake up with most of your usual organs!”

For some reason, it fails to put Techno at ease. He manages a grin, though they were far easier earlier in the evening. You can do better than that, darling. You used to be convincing. It feels like trying to stand in the place of a ghost, playing out the echoes of someone else. All he wants to do is sleep forever, yet he swats his friends away, insisting he’s awake and purposefully animating himself more. Besides, there’s barely half an hour before he’s supposed to be at the courthouse for the verdict. Not that it’ll change anything if he sleeps through it, but he needs to be there. 

“What are you planning to do to celebrate?” Skeppy asks.

“Can’t say I’ve thought about it,” Techno says truthfully. After everything, enthusiasm isn’t really in his capabilities. 

“C’mon I know you’re an introvert but this is big!” But Techno shrugs, relinquishing party planning to his friends. It spills out into jokes and jabs, happy conversation washing over him. They all buzz with excitement for the coming conviction. His chest aches with yearning, but he scolds himself. He’s with them now. Let it be enough. 

“You can take a long nap before we celebrate,” Niki suggests. “That’ll give us time to decorate, and I can bake something nice.”

“The cake will have a massive middle finger in icing for the Angel,” Charlie declares. “Or, that’s my vote; it’s your W, what do you want to do?” 

“Mmm,” Techno hums uncertainly, not wanting to let their enthusiasm get too wild since he’s not sure if he can handle it. “I don’t rea-” You think you can afford to be a burden? You better shut your mouth if you know what’s good for you. “I don’t care much. I just want to be with you guys.” How selfish. 

“Aww! That’s so sweet,” Niki beams so bright his own smile falters in comparison. “But none of us would miss this for the world, so that’s already guaranteed!” He tries to protest that they shouldn’t skip class for him, and is immediately shut down. “None of that now, this is really important for you and we want to be there for your victory.” She seems to snag something in his expression. “Listen Techno, we know you, which is why we’re pulling your leg. Extravagance isn’t really your thing. If you want low-key we can do low-key, but you gotta be explicit or else I can’t stop Charlie from ordering a bouncy castle. We can set it up while you’re busy with the legal stuff if you’re still adamant about us not being there. Just tell us what you want, there’s not much time before the courthouse opens.”

Techno huffs a laugh. “I don’t really want anything, seriously-”

“You got to have some ideas rattling around in that big brain of yours!”

“Sorry. I’m exhausted.” But he’s not, not really. He’s numb. “The trial has been a lot to deal with. But it’s over now. I’m just tired. Just…just…..”

It’s going to hurt them so much more, if he lets their hopes soar like this. He’s done everything he can to protect them, isn’t it cruel to not soften the blow? Why should you care? the Wither purrs in assurance. They’ll be no more use to you. Best to cut ties before it becomes a problem. They’ll only be hostages from now on. With a long sigh, he lets his grin drop. He tried to maintain it, for them, knowing it only had to last a few hours. It was bearable for them, but his enthusiasm for the act waned over the night. 

“He’s going to win,” Techno admits very, very quietly. 

For so long he struggled to keep the truth trapped inside him, and the devastation that sweeps through the room is exactly why. This is why he’s tired of hope. It only ever hurts more when it shatters. Stringing him along endlessly chasing his parent’s love. Driving him further and further in his desperation to escape the Crafts. His betrayed trust in Tommy, his foolish belief his parent’s testimony would help, his final failure to trick the Angel into admitting his crimes on recording. The trial has been one gut punch after another, and all Techno can do is brace for the next one. He’s spent his entire life waiting for the other shoe to drop. And perhaps he should feel his friend’s despair, their outrage, their terror, but he just can’t. Techno clawed out every last emotion in his chest just to hurl them spitefully at the Angel, and now he’s spent. 

“The trial was rigged from the start,” he explains levelly, gently. Faintly, he regrets telling them, admonishing himself for ruining the last moments he had with his friends. Truthfully, he doesn’t understand why they’re acting so shocked. “Nothing to be done for it. Okay? I’m lucky I got as much time as I did.” 

“But– but Wilbur confessed. It’s over, they’ve lost. Surely the entire thing unraveled.” 

“He’s been trying to be my hero his entire life. He’ll help me, but not in a way that actually jeopardizes their control.” Techno refuses to be tricked by Wil again. Not when every time he was ‘helped’ by Wil blew up in his face, either literally or metaphorically. Playing at being his friend just to drug and kidnap him. Pretending to assist his escapes in the early days while sabotaging him. Obliterating Blaze and Squidkid in his name. Prompting him to run with Tommy, only to detonate their hiding spot and get Skeppy captured. Techno can’t imagine why the pattern would change now. 

“Did the Angel manage to spin it somehow?” Techno hesitates. After his final testimony, he hasn’t been attending trial as much in the last few days, desperate to get as much time with his friends as possible before he loses them. Mr. Edgeworth and Miss Faraday act like they’ve won already, but Techno doesn’t imagine they’ll survive more than a few days after the verdict. It’s really hard to talk to people who are already dead, which was why he didn’t tell his friends. The way they look at him now is unbearable. 

“...he’s…been mostly quiet. But it doesn’t matter. He controls the court.” The Angel has been scarily withdrawn of late, as if disinterested in the trial. Though, it’s not as if he needs to pay attention to ruin Techno’s life. The courtroom feels almost lifeless after they poured so much into attacking each other. Sure the tide turned a little, Techno earning more sympathy, but that doesn’t translate into anything useful. The Angel has endless influence, and while as far as Techno can tell the brunt of the endeavor has been quashing evidence and controlling the rules of the court, there isn’t a chance the Angel lets him go. No matter what, this is the last time he’s going to see his friends. 

Skeppy begins to pace, hands tented like he’s a mastermind in a B-tier superhero flick. “Okay. We have like thirty…eh, call that forty minutes before you’re considered missing.” As if. Techno estimates 30 seconds at the most. “Short notice but we can work with it– maybe. Why didn’t you tell us sooner? We could be long gone by now.” 

“If I ran all it would’ve done was cut my freedom shorter. I should’ve recognized I wasn’t going to escape the first time. But you know me,” he intones bitterly. “Determined to the very end. But it’s been over for a long time now.” 

“Alternatively, what if the Angel doesn’t show up?” Charlie offers. “If your abuser doesn’t show up within 15 minutes of the trial you’re legally allowed to leave. Let’s just vanish your little crime boss problem. You don’t have to deal with that creep, the world is protected from evil, and I get new bones for my collection. What’s the downside?” 

“Me attending your funeral,” Techno replies flatly, then pauses, before offering a concession of, “if I’m allowed to attend. It’s unlikely I’ll ever go outside again. He might just pretend you’re still alive and occasionally send me fake texts to keep up the ruse, censoring any messages that contradict his narrative…” he trails off, realizing his friends are now scheming about using their limited ability to contact him to plan a prison break. As if everything won’t be censored and twisted to reinforce the Angel’s narrative. Techno sighs. “Listen, I’ve tried everything. Trust me. With his immense resources and nonexistent morals he can do anything to keep me. Besides, he’s probably listening to this conversation. There’s just…no point.”

“You– don’t want to escape?” 

No. He wants nothing. Nothing. Literally. Techno yearns for the bliss of restful nothing. Any desire will simply be extorted. Nothing is the only safe thing to want. Nothing is the only solace his future provides, if only he can slip into the embrace of the emptiness inside him. The world is foggy at the edges, writhing and threatening to swallow him whole the moment the glow of his friends vanishes. Better it gets him before anything else can. It’s safer than the alternatives. 

Why would he want his friends? What? And doom them too? 

“Oh! Ohhhhh I get it!” Ranboo declares, relief slumping their shoulders. “Okay. So, that’s what you’re saying for his cameras, right? Like. Like you said everything is bugged, but if you write down your real plan he won’t know, and then we can help you with it and everything will be fine and okay. I mean, surely you have a plan, you always do. Right…?” Their blatant hope hurts. 

“It doesn’t matter what he overhears anymore. I already told you my plan: I’m going to voluntarily go alone so no one else gets hurt.”

“And after that?” 

“...nothing. I guess…sleep in my bean bag and try to ignore him.” It’s almost comfortable at rock bottom, because he can’t imagine feeling any worse. Even the dread of knowing he’s about to be recaptured is so, so small compared to the vast sea of numbness he knows will swallow him the moment he’s a Craft again. 

“And after that?” Skeppy sounds so, so desperate, and it only grows worse as Techno shrugs. “So you’re just gonna to give up?” Guilt twists Skeppy’s features. “I could’ve stopped this. If I’d just testified-”

“He would’ve killed you, or worse. Trust me, this is better. Every time I try to escape, someone gets killed, or tortured, or kidnapped, and I can’t let any of you be hurt.”

“Just yourself? You really think you’re protecting us like that?” Techno hesitates, confused. He can’t understand what that rebuttal is supposed to mean. “God you’re just so- so selfish.” Instant regret flashes through his features, and he cards through his spiky hair roughly. “That’s not the right word. Just- If you don’t care about yourself, you must think we’re all stupid for doing so, huh. Don’t you understand how awful it is to watch you self-sacrifice? To shoulder everything until you’re completely crushed under it all? It hurts us when you hurt, and I hate to phrase it like that but I’m starting to think that’s the only way you’ll care enough to save yourself.” 

“I’m sorry. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine, really, he won’t hurt me,” he finds himself promising. This pain in his chest is his own doing. Just let go. Just let go of everything, you’re making this difficult. “...I don’t think he can, anymore. It’s just numb now.” Please let it be numb. He needs it to be, to survive. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Dude, your 5-year plan is a depressive episode! I don’t think you will be, Techno! And ngl, it’s frustrating you’d try to lie to me right now. You’re obviously not fine.”

Techno’s expression falls flat. “It worked for months. In fact, it worked until I said otherwise five minutes ago.” 

“Actually,” Niki dismisses, “you look bleak as hell when you think no one is looking. That’s why we were all trying to push for a celebration. Why are you trying to convince us to not be concerned about you?” 

“Love hurts. It’s only going to be worse if you keep caring about me.”

“Don’t give me that depressing bullshit Techno, this isn’t you,” Skeppy snaps. But Techno just helplessly spreads his arms palm up because at this point, it is. Skeppy struggles for anything that will get through to him. “What about Tommy? Is he just supposed to watch your husk for the rest of his life?”

Techno flinches. He’s been avoiding the thought for days, and the surging broil of emotions rushing up to overwhelm him now is exactly why. His nails dig into his palm so fiercely that blood wells up. A deep, shaky inhale, and with the exhalation he shoves down every last writhing feeling. Nothing. Techno feels absolutely nothing. Okay? 

“I think you do want to escape,” Niki posits softly, though it causes his stress to spike. “You’ve just convinced yourself it’s impossible, so the only way you can protect yourself is to escape mentally. Is that why you broke the news like this? Why you’re trying to drive us away? To make it easier to shut down?” 

Is that what he’s doing? The Wither assures him getting rid of the hostages is the only tactical option. The Piglins insist he never deserved them in the first place, but the Angel soothes that Techno doesn’t need anyone but him. And Techno doesn’t want to turn to them for advice, but he can’t see a better option. 

And Techno doesn’t want, period. He can’t afford to. And yet he does, so badly that it hurts, and he knows he has to get rid of that if he is to survive and yet he can’t. Everything inside him yearns to stay here in this moment, surrounded by his friends. 

But that’s impossible. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” 

“...I just wanted one last happy night with all of you.” And that was too much to ask for. His voice breaks a little with the confession. Strange. He feels empty, and yet his throat is closing up suddenly. But Techno has known it’s coming for a while now, has fully acquiesced. 

“We could’ve helped you!” Skeppy barely refrains from shouting. 

“No, you couldn’t’ve,” he retorts tiredly. “You of all people should know that, you who’s paid the most for knowing me. You saw the elevator after he was finished slaughtering the people who tried to stop him. He kidnapped you, Skeppy, poisoned you. I can’t let him hurt you anymore.”

Skeppy tries to argue that it would be worth it, and Charlie that they could’ve started planning his prison break, but Niki cuts over them. “But we could’ve helped you emotionally. That’s what we’re here for, and we can’t do that if you cut us out. Let me guess: you didn’t want to concern us. You didn’t want to be a burden. Well tough luck, Techno, because that’s kinda part of being human. Things suck, so we rely on others. We’re made to help each other. You don’t have to be perfect to deserve support. In fact, that would be a paradox. So yeah, we want to know when it’s going bad, because we want to help you, and we’ll do so no matter wh-” 

“It’s not unconditional,” Skeppy interjects, somehow sensing his automatic recoil. “This isn’t like the Angel, it goes both ways dude. Like, you’d do the same for us in a heartbeat if we needed it. You just got the short end of the stick at the moment, and that’s okay. Maybe it’s not even, but it’s fair. Just chalk it up to the twenty bucks I owe you and we’ll call it good, m’kay?”

Techno can’t even begin to fathom it. “Why do you care? What do you want from me?”

“To help you.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he has, this guilt for things he can’t control. “Really, it’s fi-” his mouth snaps shut as the entire room glares at him. He doesn’t know how to say the right thing.

“What would you do if I need help and rejected it? If Tommy did?” Skeppy challenges. 

“I’d- I’m not like the Angel. I’d respect that decision.”

“And when you saw us suffering? Wouldn’t it claw at you? To know you could’ve done something? To know we didn’t want you to even try? Didn’t think you could do it, or that you didn’t care enough to try?” Techno bites on his retort. “Who wins if you refuse help? Huh? Because it’s not you, not when you’re getting torn down by yourself. And it’s awful for us dude, to watch and know you don’t want our support. The only one it benefits is the Angel, or your parents, or whoever is hurting you. If you want to protect us so bad, then the only way is to protect yourself. Let us protect you Techno. Please.”

“You can’t save me.”

“But we can try. That has to be worth something. We can’t give you freedom, but maybe we can give you hope.”

Slowly, Techno shakes his head. Hope is far too painful to risk, and his friend’s crestfallen expressions only cement his surety. “I’m sorry. The best way you can help me is by staying safe. Can we just forget this? Pretend I didn’t say anything? I don’t have much longer and I need to spend it with everyone happy.” 

“It’s nearly eight, Techno.”

“Oh.” It comes out soft. But there is nothing else that can encapsulate it. His time has run out.

Before he walks out of the door and their lives, Niki presses a steaming cup of strong coffee into his hands, and Techno doesn’t even hesitate before sipping it. The brew is perfect. And yet he catches on the threshold, daunted by the thought of a next step. It seems impossible to square his shoulders and walk to the gallows, even if his death march has been steady for weeks. 

Techno glances back to the somber expression of his friends. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you all.” His throat hurts, wringing itself sharply. Techno doesn’t feel anything. He doesn’t. He’s just…tired. Yeah. That’s all. He’s so, so tired of the Angel always winning. It’s an exhaustion that’s sunk into his very soul. 

“Then don’t,” Niki says softly. “Don’t accept this as goodbye.” Techno’s bleak phantom of a smile is all the response he needs. Skeppy’s fingers twitch, as if he’d have a chance of holding onto Techno. His old life reaching out, desperate but hopelessly out of reach. 

A moment of hesitation, suppressing his inhibitions, and Techno places a hand on his shoulder. It’s hard to meet Skeppy’s eyes given the pooling tears in them. But Techno forces himself to, drinking in every last detail. The dark of his eyes, the shape of his trembling mouth. The taut white of his knuckles through his tan skin, trembling as Skeppy stops himself from asking for more than this. It hurts that even a parting embrace has been ruined for Techno. 

“Please. Let us help you,” Skeppy begs. 

“No.” But he knows his friends. Then force them, darling. “And if you don’t listen to me, try to anyway, then- then that just sounds like something the Angel would do.” 

Skeppy hisses a wince through his clenched teeth. “That’s a low blow, Techno.”

“I can’t let him hurt you. Please. It’s the only thing I have.”

“You have us-”

“Not anymore. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing he can think to say, no matter how useless it is. Techno squeezes Skeppy’s shoulder once, and slips away for good. He can’t look back. He can’t. Because then the writhing knot in his chest might explode. Without a glance back, he tiredly waves at his friends as he exits their lives. “So long, nerds.” 

Philza perches at the edge of Technoblade’s empty bed. Only one more night before it’s filled again. And yet Philza’s home has never felt emptier. It’s silent more often than not.  

Thomas always verges on tears when Philza promises Technoblade will return soon, wracked with guilt for testifying about his brother’s alleged insanity. Philza tries to assuage him that Technoblade won’t take it personally, that he’s smart and can differentiate between what’s meant for the jury and him. Technoblade is well versed in the art of ruthless manipulation at this juncture. He can read between the lies and realize Thomas is begging him to come home, that they all are. Or, so he thought. Disappointment swallows him every time he looks at Wilbur. It just doesn’t make sense. Why would he claim they kidnapped Technoblade? Does he despise his brother? Why is he so determined to break their family?

All he wants is the solace of his sons nestled in his arms once more, and yet he can’t bear to reach out, halting as he hears Technoblade’s acerbic words echoing in his ears. Though Philza knows it isn’t true, knows he doesn’t destroy everything he touches, it doesn’t feel like it right now. He doesn’t think of his son as an- as an object. He hadn’t forced Technoblade to be anything at all beyond a better, healthier version of himself. Or, so he tried. Is it his fault Technoblade refused help? Is it? Philza doesn’t know. He’s willing to do anything to help his son, but he’s at a loss as to what he needs. Technoblade refuses to tell him. But- but he has a better idea now, no matter how rotten it makes him feel to know how utterly his son loathes him. His son has finally opened up to him, which is the first step in recovery. This is progress, no matter how bad it seems. And after he’s acquitted they will have all the time in the world to slowly heal and learn how to love each other again. 

Wil appears genuinely blindsided to be informed he’s going to jail for second-degree kidnapping, as if it had never occurred to him that confessing in a courtroom would net legal consequences. In truth, Techno had thought the exact same thing. The court is rigged to hell and back, in what world was the Angel ever going to lose? Techno can’t make heads or tails of his machinations. Where once he slouched in the corner, now Techno is on the edge of his seat, leaning forward ever so slightly with the faintest crease to his brow. What message is the Angel trying to send, if he’s convicted for kidnapping and nothing else? Techno has won, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it. 

The Angel’s expression is impassible, not letting a hint of reaction bleed through as his sentence is read out. Then again, what defenses he mustered after were distracted at best, the Angel paying little attention to the case once finally forced to contend with Techno’s real feelings. His obsession draws him inward, contemplative, scarcely reacting as he’s sentenced to half a year of incarceration. 

Philza is very, very still. The world is muffled, dull. Not for the first time, he belatedly realizes he was so focused on Technoblade that he made a grave error. But it might just be the last time. So ensnared in horror he’d lost sight of the goal. In truth, he thought he’d already proved he was the best option for his son, the outcome already sealed. 

They’re trying to take his family from him. (His family that despises him.) He can’t– no. He can’t leave his children now, they need him more than ever. Philza has to stay and fix this, to soothe his children’s fears. (Fears he caused.) They need him for guidance. They need him for love, and support, and safety. That’s what a father is for. Without his aegis, nothing will stop the monsters of the world from harming them. He has to be a guardian angel for the sake of his children. (So why do they mistake salvation for damnation?)

There is no relief on Technoblade’s features. Good. Philza isn’t sure he could handle his child rejoicing this separation. Their eyes lock, his son perceiving the panic consuming him no matter how he tries to hide it. Technoblade seems to realize what’s about to happen before Philza even knows himself. On a long sigh, his gaze averts, the boy slumping into his chair. He’s been ominously quiet as of late, yet now it’s almost like he hears Technoblade’s thoughts instead of his own. 

Why should the Angel rig the trial if he was never going to abide by it? 

Suddenly everything sharpens into clairvoyance as the comforting epiphany settles upon him. This isn’t the end of the Craft family, of course not. No, Philza has gotten everything he wanted from the trial. He has the truth of Technoblade’s feelings, and now he has to fix them, and nothing is going to get in the way. There’s no need to play along anymore, really. Perhaps it’s time to discard his civilian identity. As if he’d ever comply when it means months away from his family, unable to cure this disaster. This sentencing will not be what broke his family. He refuses it to be.

Philza wants to rend every last vermin that thought they could take his children. Surely they deserve the reckoning they brought upon themselves. (All he can see is the way Technoblade shook on stand, pale white as he recounted his rescue from the Nether.) Fine. Later then. Philza has always been a patient man. 

And so he bides his time, face a careful cool mask as the counts are laid at his feet. Strange that they should charge him with kidnapping Technoblade when it’s the only crime he didn’t commit. Stranger still that Wilbur believes it. That Technoblade does. He’ll soothe their fears in time, suffocate them if that’s what it takes. 

This will never happen again. All his children will be far more protected after this, so determined are they to hurt themselves. Maybe they won’t feel safe, but they will be, and that’s all that matters. (How long can he keep telling himself that? What has he done to them?)

The moment the incessant yammering of the verdict silences, Philza releases a slow, controlled breath. And then calmly he turns and strolls toward Technoblade, unheeding the stiff orders that turn to shouting thrown at his back. The world narrows to only his son, all else unimportant distractions to the goal that’s driven him for eighteen years. 

Technoblade is his world. And Philza can’t bear to lose him again. 

Security is dispatched easily. Non-lethally, bloodlessly, he doesn’t wish to cause undue distress. A sweep of the legs, a jab of an elbow deep into a diaphragm, a head cracking against a pew. The courtroom falls into a discordant flurry, yet Philza is serene in his approach. Technoblade waits for him, perfectly still. He jolts only once as Philza deftly converts the momentum of the prosecutor charging him over a shoulder into a hard slam into the ground. He stomps down sharply on Edgeworth’s face and is rewarded with a pleasant crunch, grinding his heel into the broken bloodied mess of his nose before continuing on his way, calm as ever. A harsher punishment is due in time for the worm that thought to ruin his life. For every single disgusting future stain in this courtroom, really, but Edgeworth’s punishment will be something special. 

Closer, closer, and then he’s standing over Technoblade, never to be parted again from his baby. This poor, desperate child, with bruises underscoring his eyes, and hollowing cheeks, and coiled tight body, and scarred back, and Philza could fix it all. And his son, the light of his life, his son, his, is shrinking back, pressing into the corner once more, no, no, that won’t do at all. He’ll understand the good of it one day. He’s utterly petrified, transfixed by Philza’s approach. And yet not once does Technoblade look towards the exit. He does not think to escape. Of course not. Why would he ever want to? 

It’s the miniscule shudder trembling through Technoblade’s jaw as he gently lifts the boy’s chin that breaks Philza from his trance. The echoing words describing how deeply he detested every touch. He can’t tell what’s real with Technoblade anymore. The problem is Technoblade can’t tell what’s real either. The boy’s mouth parts, shaping words that never come. His voice fails, just as it did when reliving the horror of his rescue. How could Philza have known it was salvation that destroyed his child? 

Philza presses a tender, reassuring kiss to the warmth of Technoblade’s forehead. He flinches. And Philza just can’t keep pretending this is working anymore. He’d thought some time would soothe the festering feelings tangled in Technoblade’s heart, but if anything it’s gotten worse. He’s out of practice suppressing himself. How much of himself did he destroy just so Philza couldn’t have it? In a way, Technoblade answered his final parting question in their private meeting. Opening up could only ever have hurt Philza, given abhorrence is the only thing Technoblade holds for him. The dreams that fuelled Philza for decades wither beneath the child’s contempt. 

Philza tenderly cups his cheeks. Once, Technoblade would have bitten him. Caught in the throes of animalistic survival, thinking he had to fight for every next breath. Except…no. Philza spent so long only seeing Technoblade as his abused instincts, and the boy who meticulously manipulated him can not be reduced to that.

Once, Technoblade would have nuzzled in. Each loving word only translated to the language carved into his back, violence corrupting his entire existence. But the cold strategist is gone, too. Technoblade let go of that as well, laying out his whole hand no matter how tightly he once guarded it. He concedes his existence, as if it’s a lost cause. Technoblade simply doesn’t know how to stop fighting, and yet now he is still, subdued, resigned to the belief he’s not going to survive Philza’s love. 

His son’s eyes are lifeless. 

And it’s Philza’s fault. 

Letting the hand cupping Technoblade’s cheek fall, Philza murmurs, “See you in half a year, love.”

Technoblade doesn’t react, simply watching him. His dark eyes are empty of the despicable elation Philza braced for. “You’re free now. You’ve won. The monster is being thrown into the dungeon.” Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Technoblade doesn’t respond because he doesn’t believe him. “You can feel safe now. Please feel safe. You deserve to. I won’t hurt you ever again. I promise.”

And then, so soft he almost doesn’t hear it, Technoblade asks, “why?”

“I can’t save you, gemstone,” Philza finally admits. All Philza wants is to soothe this pain in his child, but he realizes he can’t, not when he caused so much of it. “I’m sorry it turned out this way. I’m sorry for everything. But I will never be sorry for loving you.” He painfully tears himself away from his son. But he waited eighteen years to see his boy again. If Technoblade needs time, Philza is well acquainted with the bitter taste of patience. The wounds they’ve inflicted upon one another need time to heal. 

Techno sits, silent and still, as his freedom is bestowed. It scarcely registers as the Angel reluctantly leaves. His echo howls in Techno’s ears, refusing to ever let him go. This is a trick somehow, he just hasn’t realized yet. Perhaps he could figure out how he’s being manipulated if the world felt real. He can barely hear at all over the voices roaring in his head. 

Techno sits, silent and still, as the court’s peacekeepers descend upon the Angel. The world is in a stir it seems, the ringing of public and jury alike in reaction to the burst of violence, the ruffled up reporters flocking as the session is officially over, the calls of the judge for some semblance of respectability, the satisfaction pouring from a bloodied Mr. Edgeworth at a case fiercely fought for, a shout from Ms. Faraday wanting to know what happened to Techno. Techno himself would like to know the answer to that, but it’s lost in the whirlwind. A storm unleashed within the room, perhaps, a torrent of questions and flashes and so, so much everything and nothing at all, meaningless gibberish. It’s not real. It can’t be. This doesn’t make sense, none of it makes sense. There’s a tightness in his chest that he used to know as fear and now only knows as existence. It’s the only thing he can feel, that pressure, everything else too hard to reach. 

Techno sits, silent and still, as Tommy pushes through the crowd, tiny and overwhelmed and scared, and it’s that detail that catches Techno, something to hold onto. Techno sits, silent and still, but vaguely his eyes catch on Tommy squirming between people up the aisle, small and unseen by the guards as he breaks past the bar and races for his father and brother. Tommy’s cries break over the haze, confused and terrified as his family is ripped apart. Wil reaches for him, pulling him in close, his desperate farewell lost in the roar of the crowd. 

And then a blink and he’s alone. Tommy cries. 

The child instinctively takes a step towards Techno, then falters. The sobs only grow worse as he realizes he has no one. But quietly Techno opens his arms, and immediately Tommy runs into them, clutching him so tightly it hurts. It starts to sink in. The Angel is going to jail. That means– something, it has to mean something, but Techno can’t seem to figure it out, the size of the idea too large to grapple with. Perhaps he can grasp fragments of it though. Because of it, Tommy is in his arms. And for now, that’s something that makes sense to Techno. Maybe something can be built on that foundation. 

It’s hard to pick out Tommy’s words, muffled by the anguish he chokes on and where he buries his face in Techno’s side. Eventually he registers it as an apology. “I’m sorry I’m s-so sorry I shouldn’t have said any of it but I didn’t want you to leave don’t go don’t ever leave me I’m sorry Techno I didn’t m-mean it I’m sorry don’t leave me-” 

Wrapping the shaking boy tightly in his arms, Techno doesn’t quite comprehend what’s happening. “What’re you apologizing for?” 

Tommy claws into him desperately. “Dad s– he said I had to pretend you wanted to be with us or we’d lose and you’d be gone and– and I know lying is bad but I thought I could make you want to stay but I couldn’t and- and Dad and Wilbur are gone and you’re leaving and-” 

“I’m not.”

Watery blue eyes look up at him. “But I betrayed you. I tried to trap you, just like– just like Dad and Wil, I’m just like them, a baddie, you’re going to leave me-”

Techno scoops him up into his lap, cradling Tommy to him. “I won’t leave unless that’s what you want.” 

“Never. Don’t ever go.” Their embrace is crushing. Tighter, tighter, as if the two could become truly inseparable. Neither can care if it hurts, the solace soothing all. Never again to ache for the other.

Techno hides his shaking breathing in Tommy’s curls, incapable of grasping the pure relief bubbling inside him, scared if he lets an ounce of it show someone will crush it. It’s…over. For a little while, at least, there’s time to plan, to prepare, to protect. He got out. He got Tommy out. They’re free. 

Techno doesn’t know what that means. Scarcely can he imagine it anymore, so resigned to eternal captivity. It’s almost terrifying for every ounce it’s exhilarating. Maybe he should laugh. Maybe he should weep. Techno doesn’t know what to do.

But he does know he will protect this, with everything left of him. Techno hugs Tommy a little tighter. 

Escape 4: He’s holding Tommy’s hand, swinging it a little as they walk out of the courtroom. Techno has to bend down to properly reach, but he doesn’t mind. Without the Angel’s guards there’s no protection from the vultures. Uh, reporters. They descend upon him ravenously, and Techno ends up carrying Tommy out and glaring at every one of them. He’s swarmed in an overwhelming tangle of people, but he finds it harder to care with the weight of Tommy’s head buried in his shoulder. Honestly, Techno wouldn’t want pictures of his crying face plastered on international television, either. 

Setting Tommy in shotgun and buckling him in, Techno’s skin crawls with the thought of touching anyone else right now. He braces to plunge once more into the fray of reporters. Only, a small hand latches onto his sleeve before he can. “Don’t go,” Tommy pleads, panic edging his words.

Techno squeezes his hand reassuringly. A muttered warning to Tommy to cover his ears, and then Techno slams his fist on the car horn. The reporters startle like cats, causing Tommy to chuckle wetly. In a burst of speed, Techno slides across the hood of the car and throws himself into the driver’s seat. At once Tommy reaches for him. Techno glances in the rearview mirror as he wraps an arm around Tommy’s shoulders, checking to make sure he doesn’t run over a reporter when he backs up, though admittedly it wouldn’t be much of a loss for humanity. And then they’re gone, the courthouse shrinking behind, the Angel further and further with each passing mile. 

It’s as he’s leaving the parking garage that Techno spots them. In the corner of his eye, walking towards him. Twin shadows follow, and his grip tightens on Tommy and his pace quickens and they’re only getting closer. Of course the Angel’s influence isn’t over, of course he doesn’t get this victory, why would a criminal listen to a ruling? The laws have never once really applied to the Angel. Is he really so cruel as to give him the illusion of freedom only to take it once more? Or— or is this interpreted as kidnapping Tommy? Techno’s stomach plummets as his mind pours through the torture reserved for those who take those the Angel claims. 

But the Angel can pry Tommy from his cold dead hands. 

Though his grip must be painful, Techno spurs Tommy faster and faster till he’s nearly dragging the boy to escape their pursuers. His weapons are at home, stripped away because of the court rules. Should’ve left them in the car. There’s not a chance he makes it home before they’re caught. He’s on the precipice of bolting when—

“Wait, boy,” one calls out. And he pauses as he recognizes the voice. Familiar. As he turns around his hackles lower. It’s just his parents.

It’s his parents.

He shoves Tommy behind him, determined to protect him. “Get away from him,” he growls, and their enthusiastic approach falters. 

“We just wanted to thank you,” Dad begins carefully. His real dad. His real parents. But are they though? How does he know? He scours them for every detail, his panic ebbing as he registers the scarring. Techno swallows roughly, not liking the uncertainty the Angel has injected into the parts of his life that should be familiar. Is he really going to be forced to question everything for the rest of his life?

“You saved us. We would be dead if it weren’t for you.” 

Shame bubbles up in Techno, and he slowly releases the tension pulling his muscles taut. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you.” Idiot brat, you’re going to pay for that tongue of yours. No. No, that was just rude of him. He can’t help it, everything is a jumbled mess inside him right now, his head all torn apart and rearranged by the Angel. His every thought so thoroughly poisoned as to be useless. But knowing that doesn’t change the chills tracing his old scars. “I– I missed you so, so much.” Yet somehow it feels like they were never gone, looking over his shoulder the whole time. 

“Techno, who are they?” Tommy whispers, pressing to his side. The boy is rigid, horrified as he peeks around Techno at their brutalized forms. Discrete they may be, in plain clothes and hooded jackets, but that can’t hide where deep wounds claw their way beneath heavy bandaging, nor the way each step is pained, nor the gaunt shadows of their starved forms. Something is wrong in their eyes. Techno can’t imagine what the Angel did to them, but his nightmares certainly try. 

“They’re…” he hesitates. He hates the pregnant pause, the fact the natural answer feels wrong. But Techno refuses to let the Angel win. “…they’re my parents.” Tommy’s eyes go wide as saucers, and he clings to Techno all the tighter. Wrapping an arm around him, Techno looked to his parents. “I didn’t know he had you. I really didn’t. If I’d known I would’ve tried to save you sooner.”

“We know. You’re a good kid.” Instead of the warmth of pride he expected, Techno just swallows roughly. He feels off kilter, something writhing in his gut despite how empty he feels. Nothing in his head makes sense these days. 

It’s a tentative type of approach they have, but Techno can’t tell if it’s more like skittish prey ready to bolt or ravenous predators circling a wounded creature. He can’t help being on edge, and pretends it’s all because of the Angel. Techno gives his parents a strained smile, and keeps a protective arm covertly blocking Tommy. “How did you escape?”

Mum’s brow furrows ever so slightly, but Techno has always been highly attuned to their every twitch. “Wilbur Craft made sure of it.” …huh. He was telling the truth then. Even locked up Wil is still shocking him. “I don’t know what to make of it. Mercy from a Craft feels like a trap. Maybe it was the entire time, and we walked right in thinking we were the one’s in control. We didn’t realize it would go this poorly when the Angel finally found you.” 

“…what?” he asks in a very, very small voice. It doesn’t make sense, or rather Techno doesn’t want it to. 

“It was impossible to keep up with Craft’s movements, but once Wilbur enrolled it wasn’t hard to get you in the same school.”

No. no, no, no. “What-? No, no you two hated me going to Hypixel–” But wouldn’t that just make him all the more determined? After saying to his face he wasn’t smart enough to get in? 

Dad draws near and Techno takes a step back. “It wasn’t just a job. Okay? It doesn’t really change anything, you’re still our boy. We made sure of it, did everything we could to get the Craft out of you. And look at you, kind and merciful like they could never be. You destroyed that monster just like we always knew you w-” 

“No. The Angel is crazy, there isn’t– oh.” His voice goes very, very quiet as the epiphany comes. “Oh, no wonder you were able to escape and find me. He sent you to say this, didn’t he? He’s still trying to get in my head.” Are they actors, too? Can he really not tell anymore? 

His parents stare at him. There’s an awful, awful moment of silence, and then– “Sure,” Dad says. “You figured it out, boy. Too clever for your own good.” The praise falls out strange, stilted, not how Techno imagined it in a million years. And in the back of his head, the quiet echos of lessons in manipulation the Wither gave him, the bubbling territorial snap of the Angel reminding him all the different ways the love could lace a voice. It can’t be real. It can’t. Techno isn’t delusional, or crazy, or any of the awful things the Angel tried to paint him as. He’s sane. He knows what’s real. The Piglins are normal, innocent people. Only in the Angel’s paranoia is there a vast conspiracy controlling Techno’s entire life. Those are his real parents. They have to be. 

(Because if the Angel is right about that, what else is he right about?) 

“Let’s leave this all behind us,” Mom says. “The Angel, the Wither, all of it. Just escape this mess, it isn’t about us. We can pretend none of it happened, if you want. It can go back to normal. Don’t you want that? Let’s just go home.” 

“I– I——” His head is swirling. Does he want that? Isn’t this what he fought so hard to get back? Doesn’t the Angel win if he refuses? 

Techno doesn’t know what he wants. It’s never really mattered, in a life spent carving himself into whatever shape most pleased his parents, the Wither, the Angel. What purpose does he have when not a tool for another to use? He’s adrift after the cold certainty that he was doomed fractured, still there, still swallowing him whole. 

Lost in a turbulent sea, his sole solid ground waits, a sturdy rock the waves cannot swallow no matter how fiercely they try. “I’m not leaving Tommy.” 

Dad glances at the boy, appraising him. Techno can’t help but bristle, particularly as Tommy shrinks into him. “...we can do that. Tommy is important, of course he’ll come with us. Safer that way.” 

“He’s a bit old.” Distasteful doubt creeps into his mother’s eyes. “The Angel probably corrupted him already.” Techno’s mouth tastes like bile. She catches herself, then. “We’ll fix that though, raise him the right way. We’ll give the both of you a safe home, away from the Angel. He’ll never hurt you again.”

“I don’t want you anywhere near Tommy,” Techno says slowly. He can’t handle it if his heart is hurt any further. They’d despise Tommy, he already knows it, sees the flicker of hate burning inside sunken eyes. They’ll want vengeance for what the Angel did to them, and Techno really, really doesn’t want to think about what that means for why they raised him. It’s not real. It’s not.

But the scars on his back are. 

Techno can feel that love like a noose around his throat. He wants to believe in the happy ending they paint, so badly does he. But he can’t. Techno spent months fighting tooth and claw for his survival, desperate to get back to the familiar comfort of a different cage. He learned too much from the Angel and the Wither. For the first time, he can hear the undercurrent of manipulation in their words, twisting sycophancy trying to lure him back with the praise and affection he’d wasted his entire life chasing. And they’d designed it that way, he realizes, starving him while giving him just enough scraps of affection that he was ravenous for more and willing to do anything for them. 

But he’s not going to finally escape the Angel only to run into the arms of his parents. Techno is done being chained to an abusive family. No matter how sweetly poisoned, Techno will never swallow the lies of toxic love ever again. 

“No,” he realizes, “I don’t want you anywhere near me.” 

“We love you,” Mom says softly, but there’s this awful panic in her eyes. “I know we weren’t the best, but we do love you.”

“I know. And I don’t care,” he tells the Piglins. “You had your chance, eighteen years of it, and I’m not ever giving you another one. This is it. You aren’t part of my life anymore.”

Chapter Text

Techno stares at the phone number inked into his skin, phantom fingers digging into his arm with bruising desperation. His last connection to his parents before they vanished. The terror in their eyes is burned into him, the panic growing as they realized he wasn’t going to come home. Because they love him? Because they fear the Angel? Does it even matter? 

“Are you going to call them?” Tommy asks hesitantly. Techno doesn’t answer. A tug on his sleeve. Numbly, Techno begins to walk, Tommy clinging onto his arm, and Techno wonders if the numbers carved into his skin will bleed acid into the child. But it tethers him to something outside his whirlpool thoughts. He’ll have to risk it. He needs to get Tommy safe, if safe is a concept available anymore. 

If he’s really honest…he’s waiting for the moment a bag is shoved over their heads. Techno doesn’t understand the Angel’s reaction to his sentencing at all, but there’s no way in hell he’s serving the full prison term regardless of how laughably disproportionate it is to his deeds. Although, the imprisonment might disrupt Syndicate operations. Evidently, if he could take Tommy, if the Piglins could get so close.

Unless, of course, they were sent by the Angel. If this is meant to lull his vigilance. He doesn’t know. The voices are a confused tangle, inconsistent in their stories. The Piglins are the worst by far, loving parents and Nether agents and flawed humans and horrific monsters. Techno keeps expecting to catch his parents in the corners of his eyes, and yet he doesn’t. Logically they should be running as far as they can before the hiccup in the Angel’s attention is smoothed out. A risky plan to contact Techno at all. And yet we did, because we love you. 

They did love him. Do. The truth aches in Techno’s chest. But it doesn’t change anything. It never did. Why should it save him now after so many years? 

Our hate hurt you far less than his love. You said that yourself. 

Techno is silent. In truth, he had been ever since he declared his emancipation, only reiterating it against their arguments. You aren’t part of my life anymore. You aren’t part of my life anymore. You aren’t. Waiting, always waiting, for a retaliation that never came. It doesn’t seem fair that Techno could break their family and walk out unscathed. 

“Our deaths will be on your hands, boy.”

The Piglin’s last words to him. They ring in his head, over and over. Worst part is they’re true. He’s the only one with a modicum of potential to protect them from the Angel’s wrath. Guilt swirls in his gut, and he knows that’s what they want, for it to scrap out the bastion of his resolve until the buttresses run thin and cave in completely. Isn’t he a rotten child for abandoning them? Shouldn’t he be ashamed? Punished? 

The ink runs beneath cold water, staining the bottom of the sink. He doesn’t remember getting home. He doesn’t know how long he’s stood here. The phone number smears illegibly. He watches it apathetically even as the Piglins screech at him. What an ungrateful child. What a ruthless, bloodthirsty wretch, how could he delight in their torment? He must’ve been secretly reveling in their torture. 

He comes to at the hiss of the bathroom sink being turned on by his own hands. Techno scrubs till his skin is raw, though he can’t register it. Long past when the string of numbers is gone, irrationally rubbing over and over as if he’ll never stop feeling the too tight grip that will be the last time he ever touched his parents. His scars itch. 

He finds the tracking bug tucked in the cuff of his dress shirt. Techno stares at it blankly. Sloppy work. The Angel always placed them more covertly. It’s the only thought he has on the matter, or rather the only one he allows himself to have. Quietly, he crushes it with his fingernails, and lets the pieces wash down the drain. 

Tommy passes Techno a towel. Techno scrubs. Tommy takes the towel when he scrubs too hard. “They were scary,” Tommy offers. Techno doesn’t respond. “I guess neither of us have parents now.” Techno doesn’t respond. “Wh- what are we gonna do? Techno? Big T?” Techno doesn’t respond. Tommy buries in his side for comfort. Techno doesn’t respond. Techno can’t.

Techno sinks into his couch, staring blankly at the wall. It just…doesn’t feel real. He keeps waiting for the door to burst open, or to find Wil drooling on his pillow like he did all those months ago, or to wake up. When will it feel real? Will it ever? Or is he supposed to spend the rest of his life questioning every experience he’s ever had, past and present? 

It’s worrying you think I’d ever give you up, gemstone. Do you really value yourself so little? 

It’s not going to last. It can’t. The moment Techno accepts he’s won it will be ripped out of his hands. The Angel is doing this to prove a point, because shouldn’t Techno have learned by now he always gets what he wants? He wants to scream that he knows, that he isn’t stupid, that he doesn’t need to learn this lesson again. Techno knows he’s lost. He knows. He knows. He kn–

Tommy crawls in his lap, nestling in perfectly. His respiration hitches, erratic and rapid. The warmth of him presses into Techno. Blinking, he finds himself in the present. He’s in his apartment, maybe. The Angel has been known to steal his furniture and forge simulacrums of his house. 

“I missed you.” 

Techno wraps his arms around Tommy. “Yeah,” he says a little too hoarsely. 

The Angel swears he would never separate them. So do the Piglins, in their virulent, sneering way, the implication being Tommy will leave him once he sees the real Techno. That was always how they’d been, the surface kind and the subtext scathing and entirely confined to his own active imagination. And trained by the Wither as he was to read into everything, Techno finds it grows exhausting. Used to be he didn’t have to play mind games with Tommy. He doesn’t want to start now, especially without the barrier of the court’s procedures between them. 

Not the Angel, though. The Angel will always be between them, the hand on their shoulders listening to every word. His hand pressed to Techno’s mouth for the rest of his life, measuring his words for the Angel’s audience. 

He needs to know, though. So Techno buries his head in the nook of Tommy’s shoulder. “Tommy, do you think I’m crazy?”

“Huh?” The boy immediately matches his susurrations, well familiar with the evasions of surveillance. Techno doesn’t know if it’ll be enough. Still. He is desperate for the answer. “No. No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” Tommy insists desperately. “I swear I didn’t. I just said that stuff in court because I didn’t want to lose you.”

“But a lot of it was true.”

“Um…I guess. But also I left out the context that made it make sense. I don’t think you’re crazy.” 

The assurance doesn’t soothe Techno’s anxieties, ringing hollow. Because it was only ever going to be a placation. Tommy doesn’t know the full truth, doesn’t know the fallibility of the person he’s relying on to be taken care of. 

When he whispers, the words are pressed to Tommy’s ear, fragile and half broken from where he’s too scared to speak the thought aloud lest the Angel hear it. “But I think I am.” 

Tommy squeezes him tighter in response. There are no questions, not that he’d answer them anyway. He can’t afford the Angel to get even more in his mind than he already is. 

The hold becomes mutually vice-like as a door slams from within the dorm, heavy foot falls thumping closer. He could run. But Techno knows better. He simply holds Tommy and waits as the shambling figure breeches the hall into the main room. His hackles lower slightly as he recognizes Skeppy. But only slightly. The Angel has a habit of replacing people in his life. Techno watches warily as the Skeppy stumbles past without noticing, halfway slamming into the fridge and yanking it open. A hiss of a can being popped, and Skeppy chugs half of it right there, at least till he catches a sight of the pair silently watching him. Skeppy’s head whips to look at them, not even noticing the fact he’s now pouring his drink all over himself. 

Skeppy begins sobbing immediately. Though, based on his disheveled state it’s likely a safe wager he’s been crying since the moment Techno left for trial. So…a decent chance that really is Skeppy. “DUDE YUOR ALIIIVE!” he wails. “I thoht you were gone,,, forever,.,,,,.,.” The smell of alcohol hits as Skeppy rushes forward for a hug, and Techno shifts back, tucking Tommy close to him. But Skeppy realizes belatedly and trips over himself to press himself against the opposite wall. He cups his hands around his mouth to project his slurred shouts. “‘M soorry dude, I thought I wuz never gonna see you again. So it wouldn’t matter. I jus’ couldn’t- couldn’ stand being aware anymor. Figured was better to blackout than try an rescue you an get myself killed.” Techno swallows uncomfortably as he’s forced to confront the ugly impact of his own nihilism. “Wahh I’m such an awful frend. I yelled at you when you were sad and mopey! An now I’m triggerin you, I feel like such a shi– poop head. Aw great, I’m gettin wasted and cussin in fron of the kid, too, god bro I’m soo sor’y–” 

“...you were kinda right, though. I’m…I’m doing really bad right now, couldn’t see straight. Still can’t, if I’m honest.” 

Tommy peers at the swaying Skeppy half standing in a puddle of cheep beer. “...wait so this was what Wilbur was doing at parties?” Tommy’s nose wrinkles. 

“Uh. Yeah. Drinking is for losers,” Techno says absently. “Listen, Skeppy. Um. It appears the Angel has elected to not abduct me immediately. And so Tommy’s staying with me. For now.” Forever, hopefully. If that’s what Tommy wants. “So…I get that’s…pretty big, to go from no roommate to two.”

Skeppy pumps his fists in the air, hollering wildly. “YOU DID IT! THAT MONSTER IS GONNA ROT FOR THE REST A HIS LIFE!” Immediately, Tommy begins to tear up. Techno shoots Skeppy a vile look, then presses Tommy to him. The boy buries his face in Techno’s chest and trembles. Skeppy’s features pinch. “Complicated? …like your parents are?”

“Um. No. Actually complicated, that was just…me making it harder than it was. We need to talk about– about a lot of things. Later.”

“Bu you will talk. Nah jus clamp down on everythin again? Let your friends help?” He sounds so hopeful it hurts. Techno nods. “Good. So, how’d the trial end?”

Techno still doesn’t understand what happened, but Skeppy is good at probing questions that force Techno to use logic, sequence cause and effect together instead of the pelting incomprehensibility previously swallowing him. Tommy helps too, adding in things he remembers about expressions and phrases muttered in the public seating area by journalists, though most of the legal procedure went over his head. But it’s that detail that reminds them that their swirl of confusing memories tangled with fear and anguish aren’t the only renditions of what transpired. Skeppy pulls out his phone and vets what the news is spewing for both of their sake. It’s not always delicate, given his inebriated state, but Skeppy tries to be neutral. The room sticks to facts. Sentencing, actions, outcomes. Everything is fragile, but slowly they piece together a better understanding. 

Philza and Wilbur Craft abducted and imprisoned a person. Techno was an adult, so familial relation was irrelevant. If Techno was physically or mentally incapacitated to the degree of requiring adult guardianship, a formal diagnosis was missing alongside the documentation confirming Philza Craft had been appointed for such a role. Lastly, Wilbur Craft confirmed they were fully aware that Techno was held against his will, proving the malicious intent necessary for a conviction. 

It begins to feel a little more solid. Maybe not real, or permanent, but tangible. He wants to claw through the motivations, what the Angel is thinking allowing it to get so far, why Wil would establish intent, how the jury could possibly risk their lives for him. But Skeppy says he’s going to break his phone if he scrolls past another article speculating on Techno’s mental health, and they elect to leave it. 

“Techno, I’m hungry.” 

“Don’t touch anything in the fridge, that’s how Skeppy got p.” Techno’s mouth snaps shut. “...puking, he got sick. No, no, poison, Skeppy got poisoned. By the Angel. Um.” Techno isn’t sure to what degree he should shelter Tommy. But he can’t afford Tommy getting hurt, and that likely means Tommy needs to be vigilant. Unfortunately, Tommy has needs that can’t be ignored unlike his own. He’s pretty sure making a kid eat exclusively from a vending machine is some type of neglect since they need vitamins and what not. 

“...um, I’ll text Niki, see if she’s making some food.” And…oh crap. Techno pales as he remembers the note he left on. He imagines all of his friends are probably dealing with it about as well as Skeppy is. Guilt slams into him, sharp and poignant. Why of all emotions must that one feel so substantial and crisp? It’s frankly unfair. 

“Is she your personal chef?” 

“...at the moment, it’s hard to say she isn’t. But nah, she’s a friend, like Skeppy. Not a threat.” As much as he doesn’t want to risk going outside, if he’s honest right after the imprisonment is probably the maximum amount of distraction he’ll ever get. And kids need to go on walks, he’s pretty sure. Or, perhaps he’s just thinking of Floof, who is thrilled to have a Tommy in the house. 

But also…he really likes having Tommy in his lap, safe and close. Techno is kinda done with today already, to be honest. 

Before he even hits send on his text, his typing status prompts an immediate phone call. “Hullo,” Techno barely manages before his phone explodes with noise. Almost immediately he’s getting spammed from all angles as word spreads. He can barely see anything but notifications on his phone. The world swims a little. 

“Techno what’s happening?” Niki demands. He can hear the pounding of her footsteps over the receiver. 

“I need…I need…” He spent so long preparing to shut down, he doesn’t know what to do. Cutting out his wants and needs to make himself palatable enough to survive. Techno thought it made him harder to manipulate, but it just made him easier to control. Would his sanity have been so effortlessly undermined if he hadn’t isolated himself? If he’d talked to his friends and let them bolster his certainty? Or would that have only allowed the Angel to learn of his insecurity and exploit it? 

Despondency was so hypnotizing for a soul worn from struggling to survive its whole life. But now he can’t shut down, not if he is to take care of Tommy. What kind of hell is this, to be commanded to live? To be forced to care after being so desperate to cut out his own heart? It’s going to hurt so, so much, he knows it will. 

But he isn’t alone, no matter how hard he tried. 

“Do you need help?”

“Yes. Lots of it,” he sighs, finally accepting support if only for Tommy’s sake. “What do kids eat?”

“I’M SORRY, WHAT?!??!?!”

Niki basically flies to his dorm, carrying a load of food and talking a mile a minute to the phone pressed between shoulder and cheek. Techno seems way too overwhelmed to handle everyone, and apparently hadn’t even thought to break the news that he wasn’t re-abducted. Okay, yeah, he’s possibly under a modicum of pressure, but also it’s a lot to get dumped with getting the word out only hours after she was regulated to carefully breaking the news to the circles of friends not there for Techno’s harrowing reveal that he was doomed. Niki is emotionally wrung out from seeing the moment the horror broke in the fragile eyes of everyone she knew, of having to be the one to crush their spitfire determination to save Techno. How is she supposed to convey the bone deep terror in the eyes of the bravest guys she knows? That fear so certain it has her glancing over her shoulders, too?

Actually, it fell almost entirely upon her to deliver the news Techno was going to lose the trial. Especially since Skeppy immediately decided to get blackout drunk about it. “Speak of the devil…” she mutters as he stumbles down the stairs to greet her. 

“Yooo! Okay heads up, we’re being soo chill about th trial. Lotsa mixed feelings about Phil anWil, tryin notto tread on anythin.” Philza and Wilbur deserve to be thrown in a mucky dungeon and eat nothing but moldy crackers the rest of their lives, but she concedes. After how deeply she trusted Wilbur, only to find out he was a kidnapper too, a stalker creep with a twin obsession and an incalculable kill count…yeah. She gets it. Everyone’s trust has been rattled after they realized how awful Wilbur was. It almost feels like it can’t be true, with how many times he made her smile on a bad day, or how his witty barbs always made her laugh, or how generous he was, or-

Niki’s foot misses a step, Skeppy bracing her. Doesn’t matter. He was a kidnapper. They can’t be to blame for trusting a traitor. 

She dumps an armload of food in Skeppy’s arms, promising to call Ranboo back. Furiously texting 3 different group chats, Niki barks off orders to Skeppy as she marches into the apartment, immediately muttering expletives as she realizes the dorm doesn’t have a stove. Of course it doesn’t! In what world did she think Skeppy and Techno of all people would go for a proper kitchen! They eat exclusively take out and vending machine snacks! AHHHHH! Niki immediately adjusts plans on the fly, shoving stuff around in the mini fridge to make way for proper food. 

Niki throws a list at Skeppy, who has been quarantined in the corner of the room for being a bad influence on children and smelling bad. He blinks at it very slowly. “That’s your script. First list is for people that need to be corrected on the status of Techno being kidnapped. The ones I’ve already gotten through are crossed out. With the second list, jot down what supplies they can round up on short versus long notice. If you can think of other things we’ll need, ask for it too, it’ll probably grow as time goes on. You also probably know more people than me, ask everyone you know, I don’t care if they’re from a group project three years ago or you bumped into them once at a party, talk to them, find out if they have younger siblings or extra money or time to babysit or whatever. We need all the help we can get.” Skeppy looks panicked, but Niki revels in the freedom of delegation. 

Techno’s eyes hide fear in them. He just looks so lost and uncertain, and her frustration immediately drains. Right. As much as Techno tries to shelter them, he is absolutely the last person who’d set them all up for heartbreak only to fake out at the last minute. No, Techno was 100% certain he was doomed. It’s utterly overwhelming to a man who threw out his future this morning, only for life to barge back through his door and rudely point out that that’s not how any of this works. He must be completely at a loss as to what to do.

Or, well, maybe not completely. He called for help, which is far more wherewithal than Niki expected. 

He’s staring at her, almost uncomprehending. “You’ve been crying?” 

Ah. Right. Her mascara. “Oh…yes. Um. I was the one who broke the news to everyone who wasn’t at the party…” Horror rests in his dark eyes. When he apologizes, it’s in a small, strained voice. “Thank you, thank you. But…but really, it can’t have been harder for me than it was for you.” Maybe if he’s reminded enough that his own pain is as important as everyone else’s, Techno will believe it.  “I will take over from here. You are going to take a nap now,” she orders, ignoring the fact she’s had just as little sleep as Techno. “You look dead on your feet, which is only going to make you sloppy, slow, and stupid. It’s a security risk, you’ll be far safer if you’re well rested.” 

That…might explain a lot about how Techno’s feeling right now. Niki and Skeppy swear they’ll watch over Tommy. The vow holds little merit, but they have a small window before the Angel recovers and retaliates. And the world feels like fog, only growing thicker in a pulsing headache. And Floof is curled on Techno’s pillow, tail wagging though he knows he isn’t supposed to get fur on the cushions, completely unaware that anything should be wrong. And Techno sinks away from it all, the soft, comforting rumbles of a buoyant conversation between Niki, Skeppy and Tommy assuring him they’re all still alive for now. And maybe it will all be gone when he wakes up, but Techno only has to pretend for a few minutes that Niki can keep him safe before the world fades into ink. Like his lifeline to his parents, that, too, is quickly washed away in the sink, spiraling, spiraling…

“So you’re Tommy! Nice to finally meet you.” She didn’t know what to expect, to be honest. Actually, Niki doesn’t even know what Philza looks like, and was just kinda imagining an even taller Wilbur, if that was even possible. She searches the kid’s features, his thick brows and unruly hair and blue eyes, as if she can find the man that hurt Techno in his boyish face. He’s utterly incongruous with the shabby suite, the stark crimson and ivory of his crisply tailored shirt and vest reeking of blood money. 

Techno had never talked about Tommy. Then again he doesn’t talk about anything, ever, and with his life being pawed over between intensive stalking and the media, Niki doesn’t blame him for wanting what shreds of privacy he can muster. Techno had practically begged all of them to ignore the news, and she gets that, not wanting an ugly event to color how they see him. She doesn’t share her past with everyone, either. Techno can tell them what happened when he’s ready. Or not, if he doesn’t need to. But the blindside of Techno revealing he was doomed was the sucker punch of a lifetime, and now there’s a kid she’s barely heard of apparently living with Techno. Niki didn’t imagine she had the full picture, but now she feels like she doesn’t even have a single puzzle piece. A Tommy shaped one, currently. 

Tommy shies beneath the examination, and Niki tucks the thoughts away. He’s a kid that needs help. Not much more to it than that. When she whips something up, he watches like he’s never seen the inside of a kitchen before. Or more aptly a kitchenette given Skeppy and Techno’s lackluster set up. Tommy mostly picks at the food Niki gives him, and at first she’s worried he has the same paranoia based eating disorder Techno does, but a few words about needing to grow up big and strong and he scarfs it down. The second his plate is cleared, he scampers to where Techno is curled on the couch. “Don’t,” Niki warns as Tommy reaches for Techno. “He doesn’t like being touched. And he only just fell asleep, jolting awake will just leave him scared and vigilante.”  

Tommy’s face twists, but he returns.  “Um…who are you?”

“Well, Techno and I met in a poetry class, became friends. Techno’s not the only one that’s going to take care of you, alright? Right now Skeppy is wrangling up help to form a proper social safety net. Techno has a lot of people to support him, which means now you do, too.”  

“But he never talked about any of you.” Could say the same for you, kid. 

“Probably strategic, didn’t want Phil to hurt any of us.” 

“Dad would never hurt you,” Tommy insists. “He’s nice, he wouldn’t do that.”

…what? Why is he defending Phil? Alarm bells start ringing. Niki doesn’t like feeling blindsided, and she’s been blindsided a lot today. “What? He’s the Angel of Death, of course he would.” 

“No! Sure the court said he- took Techno. But they disproved that other part, about the crime ring. Dad’s innocent, he wouldn’t hurt anyone.” 

They couldn’t prove…? Anger washes over her at the injustice, but it’s paltry compared to the problem before her. Did Techno seriously begin an ardent defender of his abusers into his house? Why?? There certainly isn’t really a lack of people willing to gaslight him if the major news networks are all taken into account. The last thing he needs is another voice downplaying his trauma. 

Or…did Tommy contribute to said trauma? Who is this Craft? What has he done? If Tommy was involved in Techno’s abduction and abuse, she wouldn’t know. Tommy keeps nervously glancing at Techno, as if he’ll vanish without constant surveillance. Maybe Philza taught Tommy to think like that, constantly monitoring and snitching. Maybe that’s the real reason he’s here at all.

But Skeppy is looking at her pointedly, and he of anyone should know how heinous Phil is, given he saw the corpses. “Mm’kay,” Niki acquiesces. But any covert ploys to draw reason or information from Skeppy is stymied by his inebriation. Once again, she’s left in the dark. Oh, screw him for being plastered while Niki was trying to handle a crisis. Then again, she usually self-destructed after everything was said and done. The crash from this one was going to be brutal. So she had to keep going, forward momentum the only thing stopping her from falling apart. 

If Techno could cope with the Crafts for months, she can grin and bear it until he wakes and gives a proper explanation. Niki pulls Tommy to Techno’s room, helping him find a shirt from Techno’s drawer as oversized as it will be. When Tommy’s in normal clothing it’s harder to remember he’s a crime lord’s son. Almost like a protective armor was removed, revealing vulnerable innards. Perhaps that’s worse, since she still doesn’t know what threat he presents. 

Niki tours him around the small suite, trying to make it welcoming. “...that’s it?” Tommy asks, blatantly thinking it absurd. “What about all the other rooms?” 

“There aren’t any?” 

“The ones connected by the balcony?”

“...do you mean the other apartments??”

“Wait. Techno doesn’t own this building????” The two stare at each other in class confusion for a minute. “This is nothing like the apartment we bought for Techno. Dad said we had to downsize to make him comfortable cause he’s poor, but I didn’t realize he was living in a cubby hole.”

Niki pinches the bridge of her nose. “The. The apartment. Are you perhaps referring to the three-story luxurious home that, and I’m quoting Skeppy here, has enough diamonds to feed an island nation?”

“Does not! Diamonds can’t feed people. It’s just a shiny rock, innit? You’d break your teeth!” Just a shiny rock. Sure. Like rhinestones, right? That’s all diamonds are to a rich kid. 

“Not everyone has the blood money to afford a mansion,” she retorts dryly. 

“Forget a mansion, this is a- is a hovel!” He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Prison’s got to be better than this.” He then pauses to truly contemplate it. “Actually- maybe, if Techno and me do enough crime, they’ll put us in cells next to Dad and Wil, and then we won’t have to be separate anymore!” Niki doesn’t know how to defuse that one, and elects to inform Tommy that as a minor he would not be in the same jail as his family. He is disheartened at being thwarted. 

Skeppy joins, apparently having delegated her delegating and forcing Halo to ring lead resource gathering. …in retrospect Niki didn’t think anyone would’ve believed an inebriated Skeppy, but it had felt cathartic at the moment. Plus Tommy is slightly more at ease with him. Which is good because she’s aware that any irritation she’s feeling isn’t entirely Tommy’s fault, probably, and having Skeppy as a target is preferable. It mostly comes out as teasing the hopeless drunk, which at least Tommy finds amusing. It’s a fragile good mood, but it’s enough. But she has to admit, hours on edge with a child she doesn’t trust don’t treat Niki well. She itches to just look up the trial, but refrains. Techno will explain once he’s ready. 

“..tommy.? Tommy?!” 

Hours after his fatigued crash, Techno stirs suddenly, panicked and blurry. The kid races to his side, Techno reaching out and wrapping him in his arms. The embrace soothes his sleepy fear, Techno relaxing immediately. Niki blinks. Pauses. Recalculates. Because while Techno will ignore all of his needs for the sake of another’s comfort, the way he instinctively reached for Tommy wasn’t that. She’s never seen him more than tolerate contact, and ever since his abduction he flinches away from even proximity. And they are pretty cute when snuggling. Aw. Techno sinks back into the couch, trapping Tommy as he begins to slip back into slumber, soothed by his presence. 

“Techno? I need you right now.” 

At once Techno props himself semi upright, prying his eyes open. “Mmm’okey. ‘m up,” he rumbles. A yawn, and he shakes himself into presence. A few minutes and a cup of coffee, and Techno looks…well, not fine. Not even functional. Kid must be pretty desperate if a severely sleep-deprived depressed wreck is his turn to. 

“We’re not really living here, are we? It smells weird.” Tommy makes a disgusted face as Skeppy shrugs about the mold, and it grows to despair when Techno confirms the living situation. “O- okay,” Tommy manages with difficulty. “What about my stuff?”

“The Craft manors are impenetrable. There isn’t a chance of getting any of it.”

Skeppy perks up. “S’watch you’re sayin is heist movie?” 

“Unless you have the budget and weaponry of the police raid, the canon fodder to back it up, and a disregard for human lives (both others and your own), no, that’s not what I’m saying. Besides, it’s probably all bugged to hell and back.”

“So. I don’t have my family. Or my house. Or anything but my phone and the stuff I’m wearing?” Tommy asks. His choking upset is ill concealed. 

“This isn’t permanent,” Techno posits tentatively. “They’re only serving max 6 months.” Niki fumes. That’s it? “He’ll try for a mistrial, and is pretty likely to obtain it, given what a sham the case was.” 

“Do you need to hide?” Niki asks. “You have a 6-month head start at most.” 

Techno is quiet for a long while. “...I have time,” he mutters. What does time mean, to a man who thinks there is no future? “.......no. No, there isn’t a chance. He’ll probably just break out and get me.” 

“You think he can escape?” Tommy asks hopefully. “When? Soon?” 

“But what if you could get away?” Niki interjects. “How would you do it? Just, hypothetically? You’re clever, surely you can think of something. What would it take for you to feel safe?”

“Anything I try he’d know from surveillance. I’d never get the chance to…actually. Actually, I think we might be in a security blind spot. Must be, if the Piglins are free. If they could escape…if I could escape them…maybe. Now might be the only time. If, hypothetically, I did evade security- no. Even if there is a blind spot now, it’s temporary. I’d just be found again.” 

“Do you know the extent of it?”

“Surveillance is everywhere.”

“Can’t be.”

“Close to everywhere, then. Anywhere with people can’t be trust. But,” he pauses, considers. “But maybe I can just avoid those areas. No people, no technology. If I can get off grid he can’t stalk me anymore. I’ll have privacy.” The marvel in his expression at so basic a right hurts. He lights to his feet, bouncing slightly. Techno begins to pace, muttering rapidly about cutting him and Tommy off from all society. “Self sufficiency. It’ll have to be. No food or water or energy or supplies in. We can’t leave, that’s a hazard. I’ll have to be able to repair anything, too, think about longevity. How many years does medication last…?” 

It’s like she’s watching a doomsday prepper ranting about the apocalypse at hand. Maybe that’s what Philza is, a doomsday. Niki frowns. It’s better than this morning, if only marginally. It’s the first hope she’s seen, Techno pacing fanatically, muttering plans when before he’d seen no solution. But at heart it’s the same, another way for Techno to cut himself off from others. Spiraling deeper and deeper into paranoia. “It sounds a little…extreme,” Niki hazards, trying to pull him back. 

“Has to be. Can’t plan most of it out loud, but once I get it implemented, we’ll be free. He’ll never find me again once I bunker down.” 

“I don’t want to live in a bunker,” Tommy wobbles very, very quietly. He’s shrunk into himself, eyes brimming with tears. 

Techno jolts, snagged in his plan. He rushes over to Tommy, kneeling at the couch and taking his hands. “I know. But if we don’t, the Angel will recapture us soon. It’s the only way to stay safe.” 

“That’s what- that’s what Dad always said. B-but he only ever made me stay a week or two, not- not forever.” Techno goes positively rigid as Tommy fully begins to sob. “I hate the bunker. I hate it so much, hate bein alone waitin- waitin for them to never come back. Only this time it’s true.” 

“Okay. Okay, no bunker,” Techno assures him hurriedly, much to Niki’s relief. “No bunker. Nope. And you won’t be alone, never, okay, I’m not leaving until you tell me to. Right here. I’m here Tommy.” Techno rambles panicked salves as Tommy seizes him, bawling inconsolably. The boy is incoherent with his grief and fear, still fervently protesting the bunker. It’s a long time to console his terror, but truly it’s just what broke the floodgates. 

“Here sweetie,” Niki says, carefully pressing a cup of water into his hands. Tommy hiccups wetly. “Gotta rehydrate after you cry.” More so she’s trying to switch his nervous system from fight or flight to rest and digest, but more water can’t hurt, either. She’s endlessly grateful he managed to pull Techno back from the precipice.

“No bunker. Got it? No bunker.” Tommy finally nods in confirmation to Techno’s repeated assurance. “Is a house okay? Lots of space, like you were wanting? That works? Okay, good. Good. I’ll be honest Tommy, I really don’t have the same money your Dad does. Might not have any at all if he’s seized my assets. But I’ll do my best. I just- I don’t know if moving will be enough.” 

Niki chews on her lip piercing. “Crossing borders can help a lot. Some countries would ban his entry on the basis of your trial.” 

Techno nods thoughtfully, then turns to Tommy. “Have you ever been to America?” Tommy nods hesitantly, clearly confused and overwhelmed. “Well, for one it’s where I actually live. My student visa will run out quick, so I won’t be able to stay in the UK.”

“Do we have to?” he asks plaintively. “I mean. I’m great at making new friends. Everyone loves me,” Tommy sniffs, rubbing at his eyes. “But they never mean it when they say they’ll keep texting you.” Niki swallows roughly. No. They never do. “Do we really have to move? I don’t want to lose Tubbo.” 

“I…know you don’t want to lose your friends.” Techno looks at her and Skeppy, apologetic. “It’s not that you don’t like, or trust, them. It’s not anyone’s fault. But it isn’t safe, for either of us. If we stay, the Angel and Wil know exactly where we are and will find us immediately. We have to run now, when they’re caught off guard. If we’re lucky we’ll avoid them for the rest of our lives.” 

“I’m…never going to see my family again? You lied. You said it wasn’t permanent, you said- never? That was it? Dad and Wilbur are gone? No, you can’t- I have to talk to them you- you can’t you-” He almost begins to cry again, but instead buries his face in Techno’s side. Tommy claws in tighter and tighter as if he can wring comfort out of him. But before Techno can begin to console him, Tommy mumbles, “I wish you just came home with us.”

The entire room goes painfully still. 

And nausea strangles Niki’s innards as she realizes the awful look on Techno’s face is regret. Like he almost does want to return to his kidnappers. 

Tommy might be the most insidious Craft yet, Niki realizes. Nonthreatening in a way that lowers their guards yet perfectly positioned to chain Techno so he can’t run too far. Kept in place and sight until the others return. And of course Techno wouldn’t dream of breaking the tether, scared of the pain he’d cause in saving himself. Self sacrificial to a fault. 

Belatedly, Techno remembers to breathe. “It…wouldn’t have turned out like you’re imagining,” he says weakly. “More like the last time the Angel recaptured me. After the Nether.” 

Tommy’s oh is very small, and he clings to Techno a little tighter. “But…but you got better eventually.” 

“No. No I didn’t, Tommy. Not really. I just pretended to.” 

“Is that when you became crazy?” 

“Techno is not crazy,” Niki snaps. No. Too far. She will not tolerate Techno suffering even further gaslighting. “That was a cruel lie by your father to ensure no one would believe Techno was kidnapped.” But Tommy’s brow furrows in argument, looking at Techno. 

“Yeah! He made Tehcno tell me he was halluinatin everythin, most fuuuuuuu-messed up thin I evern seen. Thought Techno was gonna puke from stress. Abososlutely vile thing for the Angel to do. He’s the crazy one, not Techno.” 

Techno hesitates, and leans in to whisper in Tommy’s ear. A hiss of two syllables she can’t catch, and Techno sits back. A double tap at his temple, another at his ear. Tommy’s eyes glance to the corner of the room, and he frowns. A tilt of his head, and Techno nods, though the frown only deepens. “Do you need to use the bathroom?” Tommy asks. A head shake. “Oh. That bad, huh.” He clears his throat, speaking up. “Um. Sorry. I shouldn’t have listened to Dad. I don’t think you’re crazy.” He’s not particularly convincing, but Techno seems cheered. Perhaps he’s so used to doubt eroding his experiences that it doesn’t even register. 

“Well, heh. Maybe a little crazy if I’m asking you to abandon all your friends and family. It would be pretty ironic if I kidnapped you.” It’s dry and humorless for all that Techno tries to pass it off as a joke, self disgust bleeding through. Tommy’s comment comparing him to the Angel rings in his ears, effortlessly manipulating his behavior. “No, you’re right, we can’t leave. I won’t do that to you.” The explosion of empowering, if manic, hope fizzles out of his eyes. Niki bites her tongue. Of course she’s happy Techno won’t try to isolate himself, but remaining in the heart of the Syndicate’s territory is exactly what the Crafts want. 

This kid is going to get her friend kidnapped again. 

How does Techno not see the anchor dragging him to his doom? Shouldn’t he of anyone? How poignantly does she know his overwhelming paranoia, his keen eyes skewering between her shoulder blades as she tried to prepare something he could choke down. Chasing down different recipes, paring down to minimal ingredients to limit suspicion, each plate her desperate attempt to say I care about you. And yet so often her friend had gagged on it anyway, unable to trust even the simplest attempts to help him. She’s long seen Techno doesn’t know what’s good for him, so it's up to her to make Techno see Tommy is endangering him. 

Love will not move Techno. But fear might just save him. 

“You’re in the exact position you were before. What’s to stop the Angel from kidnapping you?” Niki asks. 

“Nothing,” Techno replies automatically, then hesitates. “Something stopped him during the trial, though, enough he complied with the sentencing. Too many people watching, maybe.”

“Well, you’rer th talk of the school,” Skeppy offers. “Gotta lotta people that’ll notice you missin.” 

Techno winces. “Hmm. He doesn’t like witnesses. But- Hypixel is prestigious. All those dead nepo babies would get their parent’s fortunes and clouts tossed behind giving the Angel a headache,” Techno muses, cheered by the dark web of money, politics, corruption, and elitism that somehow implies a normal college massacre wouldn’t have said riots. 

“But you need to be safe, Techno. Do you really want to be so close to the Angel?” Techno shifts uncomfortably, but Niki presses on the fear, figuring she can walk some of it back later once Techno is fully free from all Craft influence. “But Tommy needs to be close to the Angel, and his friends, and home. What he needs will only hurt you, and vice versa. Staying together isn’t safe for either of you.”

“I can deal with the crummy house, I promise,” Tommy swears worriedly. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me, I don’t have anyone else.” His desperate fear is potent, even if it’s only deepening the claws of Craft influence into Techno. 

“Maybe you’re right, Niki. But we need each other, too. I won’t hurt Tommy.”

“Techno, you’re in danger if you don’t-”

“I won’t. hurt. Tommy.” 

She shouldn’t have framed it that way. Of course Techno would shoulder that risk for another’s peace. Fine. She’ll force him to see the jeopardy. “What about his school? A constant schedule with large crowds is perfect for a kidnapping, isn’t it?”

Techno hesitates, his paranoia scraping away at the thought. “Planned meals are a perfect way to drug someone. Any one of his classmates and peers could be an agent, the bugs would be endless. Hours with him far away, perfect to become a hostage…” His body instinctively tenses, bracing for danger as panic dances in his eyes. She hates to use it against him, but he has to see reason now, before Tommy sabotages Techno’s hard-earned freedom. “Okay. I see your point, it’s far too dangerous. Tommy won’t go to school.” 

…okay maybe she should’ve seen that solution coming. “By depriving him of an education, you’d sabotage his future. And independence. You can’t take him out of school.”

Tommy brightens. “Yes he can! In fact he should! I’m very small and scared and don’t ever need to go to school!”

Techno holds Tommy a little tighter, the pair giving her the saddest puppy eyes ever. “No,” she declares firmly. “Techno, you can’t just do whatever Tommy wants.” Like, say, getting Techno immediately re-kidnapped to reunite his ‘family’. “Some things have got to be done for his own good.” 

Except for some reason, Techno suddenly bristles in pure hostility. “I said it’s too risky,” he sharply retorts in a tone that brooks no argument. “Tommy doesn’t want to.”

“He’s a kid, Techno, they don’t always understand their long-term needs.” 

Something flashes in his eyes. But it isn’t terror. No, she knows the shape of them too well, the pinpricks of his pupils in the depths of panic, and his despair, too, the dark umber turbid. Niki is painfully familiar with her attempts at aid being met with weary fear, and this isn’t it. It’s not wrath, she doesn’t wager, it’s too cold for that. Calculated, for all that it is unbridled. 

She’s pinned with a silent, wolfish look, Techno coiling taut to a stillness primed to blur into violent motion. And she knows the thought is absurd, and yet Niki instinctively uncrosses her legs so that both feet are sturdy on the ground, weight shifting to bolt. Techno would do anything to protect her, even to the point of horrifically self-sacrificial, and yet something in her gut rolls at the blatant intimidation rolling off of him in waves. 

“Niki. Nikiiii. Come ‘ere,” Skeppy calls, waving her over. “Okay. soo I only saw the dynamic an itty bitty amount,” he whispers, “but Phil was a…um. How do I put this…Phil was very pro-mental health.” It’s enough to break the wary gaze locking her and Techno together, attention snapping to be utterly dumbfounded by whatever stupid thing Skeppy just spewed. “Like very…’I’m doing this becos I’m parent and know what’s best’ type. Which included things like murder and gaslighting, but still, that’s how he phrased stuff. So goin over what someone wants an sayin it's for their own good isn’ gonna fly with Techno.”

Niki chews on it. This…might be a trickier subject than she thought. Especially if Techno thought he had to suppress his wants if he was to survive returning to the Craft household. Another layer, then, to how aggressively adamant Techno is on the subject of what Tommy wants, even if what Tommy wants is his own destruction. 

When she glances back, her eyes catch on Tommy watching her. Niki turns back to hide her frown. Sure, she can get that Techno doesn’t want to become the Angel, but it isn’t his responsibility to be a guardian in the first place. “So like, why is Tommy here?” 

“Cause Techno saved him.”

“But he’s jeopardizing Techno by preventing him from running. And do you see the panic and pain flash in Techno’s eyes every time he talks about how great the Angel and Wil are? He’s literally on the side of the villains.”

But Skeppy leans in too close, Niki’s nose wrinkling with the smell of booze. His dark eyes glitter with intensity, old, old anger in them. “Listen Niki. Abused kids will defend their abusers with their dying breath. Even if that breath is being throttled outta him.” For a second she’s pinned there in his bitter loathing, an aftertaste of years of his built-up frustration. And then it fades to triumph with a lopsided grin. “But. Techno got outta that pit. Tommy’ll too. Jus give em time.” 

Tommy was also abused by the Angel. She feels stupid for how much sense the thought makes as her paradigm shifts. Not a manipulator, just manipulated. A confused child who still doesn’t understand what happened to him because it was normal to him. It’s painfully familiar. Niki rubs her temples as the anger drains. She’s left with a deep exhaustion that probably accounts for a lot of her misdirected venom. The needs incongruous to Techno’s- their safety will still need to be navigated, but with grace. Techno isn’t the only one who needs time to heal. 

When she returns, Techno is mulishly defensive. But after weeks of trying, she knows that just means she’ll have to try from a different angle. Niki picks over her words, trying to find the right logos to appeal to him. Not an argument designed to drive them apart, but truthfully for what Tommy needs as a confused and hurting kid. 

“What I was trying to do was point out that some adjustments will need to be made for it to work.” No, what she’d been trying to do was isolate Techno for his own good. Seems the Angel is haunting all of them. “I think Tommy will be safe, since prep schools tend to have high security. It was good enough that the Angel trusted it, even as paranoid as he is. And if he were going to retrieve Tommy, wouldn’t it have already happened by now?” 

“It won’t be enough. I have to keep him safe.” 

But that couldn’t be the real reason, because Techno also isn’t doing the bunker anymore, even if it would keep Tommy safe from the Angel just as much as it would Techno. He’s doing it because he thinks it's what Tommy wants. So her attention falls upon Tommy, even if it causes Techno’s eyes to narrow. “If you’re absent from school, won’t you miss your friends?” 

Tommy’s eyes widen comically. “I forgot to tell Tubbo I’m homeless now!” 

“Wh- no! No, I’m making sure you have somewhere to go, I’m not ever going to kick you out,” Techno worriedly assures. 

“But you’re homeless! You live in a CLOSET, Techno! Wait! If we can’t live in the summer home, what about the apartment? You can bring Skeppy and everything.” The visceral snarl on Techno’s face is barely reigned in for Tommy’s sake. Choked back, for all the instant loathing and terror the thought conjures. “Or- or not,” Tommy offers hurriedly. “You could get a different house.” 

“In this economy?” Skeppy asks in disbelief. “Ya want him to buy a house? Jus’ like that?” 

“Tommy,” Niki mollifies, “Your life might have to look a little different now. Most people aren’t criminal millionaires, and manage just fine. It’ll just be a little cramped, that’s all.”

“That isn’t enough for everyone to live here.”

“There are two bedrooms,” Techno manages. “I’ll sleep on the couch. We’ll make it work.” 

Tommy’s countenance twists, the boy clearly tangled in a problem that he doesn’t know how to broach. Niki frowns. “Who else would need to live here, Tommy?” 

Tommy obviously struggles not to say his family. “For….for my bodyguard? Um. Probably not Sam, a new one. But we need space for a bodyguard, or the Nether will get us!” 

“The Nether…?”

“The wrong uns who put him in a coma,” Tommy explains helpfully. 

“I thought tha’ wuz Phil…” Skeppy mumbles, only for Tommy to bristle. 

“Dad would never! He’s nice! He wouldn’t– he wouldn’t hurt us,” Tommy insists, but his voice wavers a little. Niki winces. How often was he hurt for the sake of his ‘safety’?

Techno strokes through Tommy’s hair, and the tension in him ebbs slightly. “Maybe not intentionally, and never physically. But there’s a lot of ways people can hurt you without ever meaning to, and that’s not okay either. You deserve to be safe. Really safe, not just his warped idea of it.” 

Niki’s eyebrows disappear into her pink hair. She’d gone into this knowing Techno couldn’t even take care of himself and didn’t have a chance of properly caring for a kid, but if he starts straightening himself out for Tommy’s sake…hmm. Maybe this will be a good thing. Uh, beyond the obvious ‘saving a kid from an abusive household’ angle. Just, a more encompassing panacea than previously thought.

“Can I have a bedtime story?” Techno catches Tommy’s outline in the hallway, and pauses from where he’s trying to shift the couch cushions enough that he can get a decent night’s rest. Tommy just looks so young, drowning in the shirt he borrowed from Techno until Niki can round up hand-me-downs. 

He doesn’t think about how many times the Angel heard that question. He doesn’t. 

After weighing how much he is stalked versus what information can be gained on him that the Angel doesn’t already know, Techno looks up a free kids book and starts narrating it. Though it seems intended for a much younger demographic, Tommy doesn’t comment on it. He’s rather subdued, tucked into Techno’s side. 

It’s kinda nice, the weight of Tommy against him, the rhythm of his breathing. Techno is exhausted after everything, too vigilant to calm enough to sleep more than brief respites. It’s been bad the last few days of the trial, unable to tell if he were awake or not when a nightmare greeted his every moment. But here with Tommy finally with him once more, it isn’t so hard. Techno begins nodding off while reading, prodded back to awareness until at last he finishes the story. For a moment he just wants to sink into the moment, but he really shouldn’t intrude on Tommy’s rest. His back twinges at the thought of sleeping on the uncomfortable couch. Even worse, his heart lurches as the thought of checking his room in the morning to find Tommy gone. But constant surveillance is something the Angel would do. Tommy needs privacy. 

When he tries to get up, Tommy’s fingers unexpectedly claw into him. “Um. Do you want me to stay a few more minutes?” From where he clings to Techno’s chest, Tommy nods. Techno sets his phone on the bedside table. The moment its light snaps off, Tommy begins to sob. None to witness, save Techno. He held out for so long, and Techno doesn’t have the heart to tell him it’s not safe to break here. Or anywhere. Never again. But it’s too much to expect a child to trap it all inside his head for the rest of his life. 

Techno holds on tight as Tommy collapses alongside his home, stability, family. It’s the unintelligible keen of a wounded animal, choking out something over and over until eventually Techno catches what’s gutting him. 

“Dad always gets what he wants.”

It’s a sentiment that haunts the both of them. They both hold Philza Craft on a strange sort of pedestal. It’s foundation is the same, the unwavering belief of a child that their parent is all powerful, for weal or woe. The crack in that pedestal, the epiphany that the Angel could bleed, was liberation for Techno but horror for Tommy. But why shouldn’t it when his all powerful father protected from everything before? The boy clings to the crumbling pillar upholding his understanding of the world, because should his ever-sheltering Atlas falter, he will be crushed. The Angel has to be all powerful. 

So if the Angel always gets what he wants, clearly he must not want Tommy. 

No I– no, I’d never abandon my sunshine, of course not. Tell him it isn’t true. You have to calm his baseless fears. Devoid of context, Techno knows how he’s supposed to comfort a child that feels unloved. He can feel the shape of the assurances on his tongue, no no no Atlas isn’t cruel, merely fallible. 

But Techno stops his words before their balm soothes Tommy’s wounds. He can’t tell Tommy the truth because Tommy is breaking under his abandonment and all he can think is good. The last tether is fraying, and once it snaps he’ll be free. 

What kind of cold-heart monster revels in the pain of a child? The Angel’s disgust feels strange, as if Techno is beneath even how low he’d stoop. We would. And look how that turned out for us, an ungrateful brat spitting in our faces despite all we did for you. He’ll hate you too, once he’s old enough to know better. 

And when that day comes, Techno will accept it. No numbers scrawled on arms or trackers under skin or bugs planted in sleeves or global surveillance network. One day, Tommy will want nothing to do with him, and Techno will let him go.  

The voices don’t know what to do with that acceptance, trying to rip into his self-worth. But of course he’s awful; they made him this way. 

All he does is quietly hold the boy as he falls apart, shaking and choking and scared. He will hold Tommy till he’s ready to move on. It’s the least Techno can do, since this suffering is his fault. 

The false peace of sleep eventually claims Tommy, completely worn out from everything. Techno doesn’t really want to wake Tommy by moving. And anyway the couch is going to be so uncomfortable. So Techno quietly tucks the blanket up around them. There isn’t really room for the two of them, not really, but it scarcely matters as tightly as the two clutch each other. Sleep evades him as it often does, but he finds it’s harder to mind while cuddling with Tommy. 

It’s about then that it really clicks for Techno that he’s raising a kid now. Tommy is completely dependent on a guy whose solution to dinner is debating which vending machine has the least surveillance. He doesn’t even have a job. Or a passing GPA after he skipped all his classes for the trial and stopped caring because his future was nonexistent. Let alone the actual voices in his head. Techno doesn’t even know how to take care of himself, whose bright idea was to let him take care of a kid? What is he even doing? What the hell is he going to do?

His best, he supposes. And he already knows it isn’t going to be enough. 

But then Tommy sleepily snuggles closer to him, and the terror is a little harder to grasp. 

Apparently his friends have the sense not to throw a surprise party. Which is good, because even without that simply unexpectedly entering a room of people almost has him bolting. Skeppy walks in waving at everyone, introducing Tommy as he pounces on a banner hosting some extremely choice words about Philza Craft and tears it down with a bright canned laugh. Tommy nearly immediately becomes the life of the party, surrounded by cooing college students. Techno is less fond given he’s standing with his hands protectively resting on Tommy’s shoulders and he never liked crowds even before everything. Niki calls him over to where she’s completely quarantined the kitchen off, though he’s loath to separate. But he catches Skeppy’s eye, who nods towards Tommy in a promise he’ll be watched. Techno slips away, though it ends up mattering little, Tommy trailing behind him like a baby duck. 

“Oooo it seems we have a sweet expert. Chocolate or raspberry?” Niki asks Tommy. His brow furrows with the impossible question. “Trick question! Both!” She hands him a pair of beautiful pastries. She’s been very generous, piling Tommy with sweets and toys and clothes and attention. It feels almost apologetic, painfully similar to the good part of the cycle after the parent went too far. But maybe this is just supposed to be how you treat children. 

Techno’s uneasy note is quickly soothed. “I’ve let absolutely no one else but me in here. Trust me. I set Charlie up as guard, and he’s extremely diligent.” Charlie waves, though it’s a clumsy affair, limited by the can of silly string clutched in his hand. By the handful of people webbed head to toe in neon colors and the trash can overflowing with empty cans, he’s certainly zealous at the very least. Techno hesitates, since while he’s been gradually okay with eating stuff Niki doesn’t make in front of him, that’s an entirely different level of concern when it’s Tommy. 

The debate is a moot point, as Tommy devours the treats, face a smear of whipped cream. Techno makes a vague effort to warn Tommy about taking food from strangers (and friends, and people who think they’re long-lost twins destined to reunite), but it appears Niki has already won Tommy’s undying loyalty. That was worryingly fast. 

Tommy has a much, much, much longer social battery than Techno does, animatedly chatting with Techno’s friends long past the point Techno retreats from the conversation. Still, it’s nice to just be with his friends, soaking up their happy presence. He snuggles with Tommy, idly tracking people’s movements around the room. It slows to a trickle as a board game is pulled out. Techno is content to sit out, though he whispers strategy into Tommy’s ears so the boy ends up dominating the game to the dismay of the room of adults. 

It doesn’t feel real. Like a dream come true, pure sugary wish fulfillment. And maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow, but for now he’s content to lean over Tommy’s shoulder and quietly teach him how to destroy his friends in Risk. The Wither has really good tips. 

Tommy isn’t exactly thrilled about the number of locks Techno has deemed necessary for the door. It takes foreeeeever to get into the house they now live in. Or, more like a closet if Tommy is honest. Tommy brilliantly suggested Techno text his guard in advance so they could unlock the door in time for them to get back, only to discover Techno doesn’t have those. Or maids. Or chefs. Or anything at all except Skeppy, who isn’t actually good for much of anything. Tommy isn’t sure how Techno survives, honestly. It’s basically like camping but worse, because at least then there’d still be a few servants. 

But Tommy is the adventurous sort, so he’s okay, even if apparently he has to clean up his own toys. Which isn’t too bad since Techno somehow doesn’t have a lot of them, but still. And at least they can talk while Techno gets through the million bajillion locks. Tommy shares all about how his school day went, since Tubbo apparently found the ‘Dad and brother’ in jail thing kinda cool since he’d recently watched a movie with an awesome prison break scene. The rest of the school on the other hand- no. Their opinions didn’t matter nearly as much as Tubbo’s did. And while discussing with Tubbo how his family could break out was fun and relieving, Tommy senses such ruminations would not be nice to Techno. 

Tommy rushes in the house the moment the door is shoved open, throwing his backpack on a table and chattering as Techno re-locks the door. Though, apparently he shouldn’t bother with it. Tommy blinks at the tall silhouette framed in the hallway, lying in wait for their return. “Oh hi Sam! When did you get here?” 

Unexpectedly, Tommy is yanked backwards and shoved behind Techno. Still as a statue, Sam seems unfazed by the thrown knife that buries itself in his arm. His voice is as level and bland as ever. “Few get the courtesy of a warning when they kidnap a Craft child. I suggest you don’t waste it, Technoblade.” 

The hand on Tommy’s shoulder tightens just a little more, Techno flicking out another knife and hurling it at him. It tinks off his armor. “Kill–? No, that’ll– stop, won’t work, not since-” Techno mutters to himself, not quite audibly. He’s tensed, calculating, defensive. But then his head jerks up defiantly. “I haven’t kidnapped him. I’m next of kin.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“The Angel does. And so does the government. Get off my property before I’m forced to commit self-defense. Very, very violently.” Sam leans slightly to avoid the arc of another blade. 

“I’m afraid I’ve been sent here to retrieve Tommy. I don’t want to do this the hard way. Come with me, Tommy. That’s an order from your dad.” 

Dad. Tommy peeks around Techno, staring at Sam hungrily. “He wants me to come home?” He wants me? 

“You’ll be alone,” Techno warns suddenly, a note of panic in his voice. “He won’t be there, remember? It’ll be like the bunker.” 

Oh. Dad doesn’t want Tommy; he doesn’t want Techno and Tommy together. “Sam, I want to be with Techno.” 

His sigh is long, a faint drone to it from the mechanics of his gas mask. “You don’t have to be separated. Tommy’s return is non-negotiable, but Craft arms will always be open to the prodigal Technoblade.” 

Pressed to Techno’s back, Tommy can feel the way he goes rigid at the thought. Tommy sticks his tongue out at Sam. “No! You’re mean! And ugly!” 

“You know what he looks like?” Techno asks quickly, something calculating in his eyes.

“He’s really ugly. Has like, wicked looking scars all over his face. Um. Not that that is what makes him ugly,” Tommy adds belatedly, remembering who he’s talking to. “But like the shape of his nose is weird and his beard looks atrocious and-”

“Heh. Sounds like Tommy here could pick you out of a lineup. Not so anonymous, are you?” Sam is utterly silent in a way that’s ominous. “You’ve spent a long time protecting your identity, do you really want to risk it?” A moment staring down his pitch black visor, and then without hesitation Sam stalks down the hall towards them, ignoring Techno’s blossoming panic. “You know as well as I what happens to those who hurt his children,” Techno warns, pushing Tommy back until he’s pressed into a corner with Techno firmly placed between. 

There isn’t even a hitch in Sam’s stride. “Then you know what happens if you lay a single hand on Tommy.” His voice comes out harsh, protective, every inch Tommy’s guard dog. 

But Techno’s next knife isn’t facing Sam anymore. “As vengeful as the Angel is, he’ll rip you apart before verifying my injuries came from you. You’ll face his wrath either way, but one is infinitely more survivable than the other.” Tommy goes rather cold, seeing just how far Techno would go to avoid Dad. He hadn’t realized it could be worse than after the Nether. 

Sam pauses, calculating. He isn’t close enough to stop Techno’s knife in time. Weighing who Craft trusts more, how far he’d get through his vengeance before rationality kicked in. Sam whistles. “You got guts, kid. But he isn’t going to be happy with the report. This will only make him more determined to protect his children from anything, including themselves.”

“Good. Then he should stay far away from us and there won’t be a problem.”

Samuel Danger Dude is mentally kicking himself and writing a report, because Craft is going to go into a tail spin over this. He’s failed a precious few missions in his long career as the head bodyguard to the Syndicate, but Techno’s well-being has the priority and as recklessly unstable as the kid is Sam couldn’t be sure the threat was a bluff. And while Craft will be anxious about the self harm threat, what about Tommy? Sam has protected that boy since day one, and his absence is sharp. He can think of a million reasons why Tommy should still be taken home even if they’re still on the stupid plan to allow Techno the illusion of independence, but he expects he’ll be talking to a wall. A wall that prioritizes a family being together above all else. He can already feel a migraine coming on. 

So absorbed in planning strategy arguments, Sam doesn’t immediately notice the security nightmare around him. I.e., the giant hoard of “““college students””” gathered around the dorm courtyard. Fantastic, absolutely fantastic, there might be a dozen suicide bombers in there! Even worse, they catch attention upon him. 

“Great cosplay bro! What’s it from?” 

“An underground anime, you totally wouldn’t get it. No photos I haven’t revealed it on Insta yet,” Sam immediately fires off. He scans the crowd. Suspicious, what are they all doing here? Could Technoblade have picked a less secure place? His security brain hisses as they gather around, ooo and aaa’ing over his memorable appearance. Sam carefully grits his teeth as the knife in his arm is suddenly ripped out. A brunette student is excitedly examining the bloodied blade, splashing sanguine across his scarlet sweater. 

Unfortunately, Craft will want that as a memento. Oh, yea, and incriminating evidence. Sam accepts compliments about his costume and practical effects, yes it does look like real blood thanks for noticing, then begins stalking off. 

“Oh! Hey! If you live in this complex, do you know which apartment number is Techno’s?” the previous “student” asks. With a subtle command, Sam’s visor snaps a picture of him, facial recognition software identifying him as an authentic attendee of Hypixel. Hmm. Even more suspicious if it’s a long term infiltration scheme. 

Sam shrugs. “I heard he moved off campus after everything.” The crowd groans and disperses, but not after Sam has identified every single person in it and their mother. Fantastic. So make that 3 problems he gets to bring to Craft’s attention, then. The bodyguard snarls under his breath. But he will keep Tommy safe, no matter what it takes. 

The next day, luggage full of Tommy’s items are inside their living room. There’s a note on the small mountain that Techno rips up and tosses in the trash. He’d prefer to do the same with the pile of stuff no doubt bugged to hell and back, but he can’t afford to replace the kid’s wardrobe. So he combs through it as best he can, and then the rest of the apartment. Probably no point, it’s compromised to hell and back. With a sigh, Techno makes a mental note to look for places to rent in newspapers, because his online presence is doubtlessly monitored. 

But he’s won this round at least, whatever that means. 

Or so he thought. 

The luggage was the perfect way to lower his guard, make him think he won. Allowing the relief of letting him keep Tommy to sharpen into acid as he is ripped away. Because he’s been waiting at the fountain just outside of Tommy’s school gates, and he hasn’t seen his little brother. He scans the students as they walk out, each blending into the crowd with their identical uniforms. Floof strains at his leash, excited by the crowds that only bring Techno anxiety. The stream dwindles to only stragglers. Tommy is not among them. He’s usually out within ten minutes, throwing himself into Techno’s arms and chatting about anything and everything. 

Thirty-five minutes since school let out. Thirty-five. It’s not enough to panic, Techno tries to tell himself. But it is enough to be long gone and impossible to track. You’ll never see him again. Unless, of course, you decide to come home. Maybe he’s distracted. Or got a ride home with a friend, and forgot to tell Techno. A tactical nightmare I’m afraid, darling. There are hundreds of cars, and little Tommy could be in any one of them. His head swivels, trying to parse through the stream of people, the children racing off to their parents, or worse, their bodyguards. So, so many guards, vigilant and waiting and faceless. Any one of them could be working for the Angel. Or maybe one of the parents. Or children. Anyone at all could be against him, just like the testifying Piglins, the police, the gas station employees. Actors every one. 

Doesn’t have to be the Angel, offers Mrs. Piglin. Lots of reasons for someone to take a child that isn’t theirs. He can’t tell if that’s an insinuation on her own motive. The Piglins tend to oscillate on whether they’re his biological parents or not. Either way- Lots of things happen to people who go missing. Do you remember the way my fingers were too broken to pick up food? Vividly, thanks. Now shut up. 

Ignoring the slight tremor in his hands, Techno calls Skeppy. It’s agony, listening to the buzzing ringtone as he waits for his friend to pick up. Time winds out. Has it been too long? Is Skeppy gone, too? 

Three calls, and he picks up. Immeasurable relief. “Well look who’s late!” Skeppy teases over the phone. “And after you got onto me about staying on schedule. Dude you’re such a hypocrite~” 

“Tommy hasn’t shown up.” Perhaps the words alone aren’t enough to dampen Skeppy’s jovial mood, but the worry in Techno’s voice is. He carefully listens as Techno rambles about unanswered texts and the way the parking lot is nearly empty. Laying out facts, but withholding his anxieties, hoping for a neutral judgement. 

“Maybe he’s messing around with some friends?” Skeppy offers. 

“But we agreed to meet at 4:05, he knows it’s dangerous to change plans unexpectedly, we can’t afford to slip up even once. It’s been forty minutes Skeppy he could be long gone.” 

A curse, and then the thump of shoes as Skeppy moves through the house. Not running, but urgent. Skeppy takes the stairs two as a time. “Didn’t see the time. Stay there. And stay on the phone, just talk to me bro we’ll find him.”

“What if he is listening?” 

“Then talk about nothing important. I just need to know you’re still there. You’re not disappearing on me again. ” Oh. Techno hadn’t even considered the possibility of his own danger. But it makes a sudden, awful sort of sense. Of course the Angel won’t stop with Tommy, that would leave his perfect family incomplete. Like prey Techno scans his surroundings, but no one is particularly close. For now. Waiting for him to stumble into the snare, but if instead he bolts the hounds will hunt him down anyways. 

You can feel safe now. Please feel safe. He never understood his freedom. But if the trial had been about breaking down his defenses, perhaps his freedom was a desperate ploy to take apart the last of his walls piece by piece. Well it hadn’t worked. This was expected, honestly. Not a surprise, but the only inevitable outcome. It shouldn’t surprise him. It shouldn’t hurt. 

But it did. 

The echo of his one glimpse of a safe and carefree future slip out of his fingers. Techno sighs. “I think this might be goodbye, Skeppy,” he says so softly his voice can’t crack on it. Perhaps if his words are gentle it won’t hurt his friend so much. 

“No. No, you aren’t doing this again. You’ll fight. Promise me you’ll fight, okay? You have to.” 

“He has Tommy.” There’s nothing more to it than that, really. Nothing else matters. 

“So that’s it? You’ll crumple immediately?” His silence is answer enough. “No. No, you have to keep going. We can work together to save Tommy, but you can’t give up. And if you do- I’ll keep fighting. We all will. We won’t stop until you’re back, so if you really want to —-tect us you —----- –p—--ect—--------self—--”

“Skeppy? Skeppy what’s going on? Are you in a tunnel?” A spasm of crackling white noise, ringing louder and louder. It garbles unintelligibly, but in the distortion the pattern is almost distinguishable as speech. Louder, harsher, till it breaks through. 

“Did you really think I’d give up so easily, gemstone?” Techno’s on his feet in an instant, though the plummet of his stomach causes steep vertigo. The Angel’s soft chuckle carries over the receiver, overlaying the crackling sound of Skeppy’s hijacked call. 

“Where’s Tommy?”

“He’s perfectly safe. And soon, you will be too.”

“We’ll find him, okay? I’ll be there in ten,” Skeppy assures him. It’s on Techno’s end of the call, then. No evidence. Why would there be? 

“Sit down. If you cause a scene by bolting…well, that would create an unfortunate amount of witnesses, wouldn’t it?” Techno spins, frantically scanning the area. Where is he being watched from? Are there soldiers? How does the Angel intend to hold good on his threat? His gaze pours over the handful of stragglers in the area. Which are undercover foes? And which are victims to be laid at his feet? Yet another corpse among the years of the Angel of Death’s vengeance, side by side with Squidkid and Blaze and Mr. Edgeworth and Jenny and the bodyguard who tased him and the detonated Nether and the countless faceless dead. 

“I told. you. to. sit.” There’s a harshness in his voice Techno has never heard directed at him before, sinking into the crevices of the scars in his back and burning acerbically. The precious family the Angel covets has an irreparable schism because of Techno, his unconditional love finally fractured alongside it. Techno swallows roughly as he realizes just how deeply he is in danger. His body doesn’t feel like his own as he numbly obeys, barely feeling the firm concrete as he collapses onto the brim of the fountain. 

Just as quickly, the Angel’s voice is soft and gentle once more, swallowing the harrowing acrimony beneath his tenderly, fatherly façade. “Good boy. That’s it, nice and calm. You always are so quick to panic, but I can assure you any struggle will just make this needlessly…messy.” 

“Where are you?” he chokes out. 

“I’m here for you. Aren’t I always?” 

“On my way, don’t worry,” Skeppy replies. 

“What you’re going to do is tell your little Skeppy that Tommy is approaching and it was just anxiety. M’kay, love? You shouldn’t stress your friend out over nothing.” 

“Ah. Actually Skeppy, I think I see Tommy. I must be crazy.” The words are rigid, airy with hyperventilation. 

His desperate hope is answered. But of course Skeppy would recognize the same lie the Angel used last time. “Is he threatening you?” Skeppy whispers. “Techno, what’s happening?” 

But at the Angel’s disappointed tsk, Techno realizes his error. “Shame. If only you’d been a convincing liar it wouldn’t have to end like this.” Witnesses. Techno drains of color. 

“No, it’s fine Skeppy. I just- just panicked, you know me. Nothing more than anxiety! You can head back now, probably hang up. Really shouldn’t be calling when driving bro.” And if his words were slow and measured perhaps he would even be convincing. Techno doesn’t think he can be the one to hang up, not without risking losing contact with the Angel. What will the consequences be, if Techno can’t manage damage control? Who will be hurt in his name?

The Angel’s voice at the receiver recedes, as if turning to the side. “Sam, fetch the Skeppy boy. If he causes trouble use tranquilizers.”

Pure panic shoots through him. Skeppy is dead. The moment he’s found- dead, just like Blaze. Killed for trying to save him. Will he hear the crack of his neck over the receiver? Or will he be left with an empty silen– A dead hostage is useless, the Wither interrupts. But a useless hostage is a dead one. Convince him of Skeppy’s value if you want him to survive. “You don’t have to do that. Please don’t. I’ll come willingly if you don’t hurt him.”

“Ah, but there’s no guarantee from the mouth of a liar. It breaks my heart to admit I can’t trust you anymore.” The Angel in Techno’s head murmurs assent, trying to suffocate resistance with the pain of betrayal. But of course the Angel can’t trust a rotten child, and the Piglins know exactly what to do with a bad son. The punishment he’s waited for with baited breath, at last to be delivered. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t think you’re capable of remorse. But maybe I shouldn’t be surprised when your entire life was precision crafted to make a weapon to pierce my heart. I was a fool thinking I could ever save you. No, you aren’t sorry. But Skeppy will be.” Between the Angel’s hissing threats, he can half way make out the shouts of Skeppy beneath the override. No, Skeppy’s screams. 

“Stop, you can’t- don’t hurt him. Don’t. I’ll do anything just don’t hurt Skeppy, you can’t– stop– sTOP STOP DON’T HURT– please– - -” He can’t stop seeing his parent’s scars blurred onto Skeppy’s body, so vibrantly tangible that it burns the back of his eyelids. His every mistake, beaten into another’s body. Did you learn nothing from what you did to us? Did you ever care about what we suffered, or was that an act, too? 

“I would never,” the Angel purrs. “Skeppy is a beloved guest. Calm down, gemstone. Everything will be as wonderful as it used to be if you just calm down and behave.”

“All I have to do is come- come home?” 

“It’s all I’ve asked. Are you finally ready?” 

“I- I missed you,” he forces out painfully. “I didn’t realize how bad it would get without you here to take care of me.” Bile burns his tongue. Techno shudders as he already feels the Angel’s hands slipping though his hair, looping a strand around his fingers possessively. “I’m overwhelmed, and I need help, and I thought I could do this on my own but I can’t. You were right, Dad. You’ve known what was right for me since the beginning, but I was too stubborn to listen.”

The Angel of Death laughs at him. It’s a long, drawn out thing, painful like sobs. “Oh no no no, you don’t get to manipulate me like that. You can’t hurt me.” But it sounds like he can. Maybe it’s worse if the Angel isn’t impervious. If he can bleed, then Techno can pay for it ten times over. “No. See, I’m not going to let you hurt my family ever again.” 

“Then what do you want from me?”

“I want it to be real. And it will be. I’ll make sure of it.” He’s finally going home. Completely cornered and alone for the first time since Techno got him thrown in jail and ruined his life. Since Techno tore out the shreds of his ugly, festering hatred and laid it bare alongside months of manipulation. Since Techno asked the Angel What does that mean for me when I don’t earn enough love to survive anymore?

He’s going to find out soon. 

It overwhelms him, dark blotting his vision from the hyperventilation. An incomprehensible blur, the Angel’s cruel words and the drone of the crowd and Skeppy’s torture and barking and-

Barking? No. Not barking, just the one bark, short and sharp, and the cold of Floof’s tongue on his dangling fingers. Somewhere in the back of his brain it clicks. Floof is trained to do that. He is having a panic attack. What? Of course he’s having a panic attack, having a panic attack is the most logical thing to do considering everything. 

He forces his eyes to focus on Floof. Another hostage to use against him. The leash has long since dropped from his empty hands, yet instead of bolting Floof stayed by Techno’s side, and for that he will suffer. The little dog runs in frantic circles by his feet, bounding over the uneven bricks and Techno’s dropped phone and loose pebbles, whining incessantly and staring with round puppy eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he croaks, not wanting Floof to worry. But of course the words don’t placate him. Neither can Floof understand the possessive murmurs of the Angel’s delusions about how great everything will be once Techno finally loves them. Floof can’t comprehend the grim reality of the situation closing in on them. 

“Of course you’re fine. You’re finally coming home.” 

Techno stares at his phone on the ground. The time on the call ticks on, counting away the last of his freedom. Is this really how he’ll spend the last of his time? Numbly watching it run out? 

“And it’s such an improvement; before the trial you would have simply bolted. Clearly we’re making progress with your mental health.” 

Techno stares at his phone on the ground. Skeppy’s panic on the other side of the receiver sounds smothered, too distant to have ever reached him. Perhaps Skeppy’s own phone has clattered to the car seat as he’s ripped out of his last chance of escape. He’d wasted it running head first into danger, as if he’d have ever reached Techno in time. Yet the Angel sounds so close, closer every second. Overwhelming Techno’s life until it’s just the two of them once more. He’s never felt more isolated in his life. 

“It’s proof you’re beginning to feel safe again. That’s all I ever wanted for you. And now that your freedom has done its job, it isn’t necessary anymore.” 

Techno stares at his phone on the ground. It’s not on speaker. He shouldn’t be able to hear the Angel at all from this distance. And suddenly, it’s a different type of fear that’s swallowing him. 

“Aren’t you grateful I gave you so long? Really, I was overly generous with your freedom. I can’t help it, I love you too much.” 

The hallucination doesn’t stop even if he stares at the detail that shatters its believability. It feels just as real as before, even if he thinks it might not be. Which is it? Is he hallucinating the voice, or the phone? Both? Everything? Can he even be sure the caller is Skeppy? If not a hallucination, couldn’t the Angel reconstruct his voice using hundreds of hours of recordings from stalking? Which is more crazy to believe?

Shakily, he picks up the phone, trying to pay attention to the texture of it beneath his hands. The screen is slightly cracked. Does that make it more believable? Less? On the other end of the line, Skeppy is panicked and unsure what is happening. And Techno is, too, but he tries to shove it down. Explain what’s happening. What is happening? He can’t tell. 

People are watching him. A stark, scattered few, most of the after school pick up dispersed. A couple teens kicking around after hours, a passing jogger, a teacher with an armful of papers that has stopped to stare. Are they real? Which of them are watching with the Angel’s eyes, waiting to report? A mother tucks her children behind her, shushing their questions and dragging them away from the man screaming over nothing. 

…but I knew it couldn’t be true. My best friend isn’t crazy.

Skeppy will give up on him if he knows. The Angel knew that, which is why he forced Techno to try to convince him it was all hallucinations. (Was it?) And- and if Skeppy knows, why should he believe Techno over the Angel? (Why should Techno?) 

“I can hear you breathing!” Skeppy shouts. “I know you’re there, what have you done to him?!” Techno isn’t sure anymore. There’s little proof, beyond his own dubious memories.  

“I’ve dealt with it,” he says. Yells? He can barely hear himself over the Angel’s onslaught of monologue. He won’t shut up. Maybe he never will. “You’re fine. Tommy’s fine.” It might even be the truth. “It’s not a problem anymore.” 

“What?! Are you okay? Where are you?? Did you just– what- Do you need help hiding the bodies???” 

His vision sways. No need, Skeppy. The dead are buried in my head, ruthless in their haunting. “I didn’t kill anyone. I’m fine. Hit my head. Fuzzy. But safe.” 

Skeppy swears breathlessly. “Okay. Okay, dude, that’s insane. What now?” That…is an excellent question. Damage control, darling.

“You should still hide.” He doesn’t think he can handle meeting Skeppy after this, but inevitably he must. “Don’t contact anyone else, he’ll trace you and know who to go after next. Just keep your head down, you’ll be safe. And- and don’t call the police.” But it might get Tommy killed. The first 48 hours are crucial. But he doesn’t know if Tommy is even actually missing. “They’re probably all bought, just like Officer Jen-” and he snaps off suddenly. Because that sounds paranoid. It does, right? Sounds like the type of people babbling on about world domination, or the CIA being after them. 

And I spun a random bout of police brutality into a vast conspiracy against me. I was acting sporadically and was clearly delusional. I needed to go to the psych ward and was refusing help, of course she’d try to detain me.

He’d said that once. He can feel the shape of the words on his tongue, fully falling off and dropping like a stone to the pit of his stomach. When? Why did he say that? Is it true? How can he prove it if so? He can remember Mr. Edgeworth saying the blue wall of silence would mean any real evidence from the encounter would get buried. But- would the police corruption have come up in the trial, or would the Angel have controlled the evidence too heavily for that? Surely he’d do anything to make sure his network of control wasn’t disrupted. 

“Of course, you can believe whatever you like if you can blame me for anything that doesn’t suit your delusions.” Techno jolts, head whipping around to where nobody was whispering in his ear. The world is spinning but if he sits down he won’t be ready to run. Wait. When did he stand up? “Oh my poor cracked gemstone, so scared over nothing. If you keep refusing help, maybe you want to be like this.

The phone shakes next to his ear. “Skeppy, what happened with Officer Jenny? She was corrupt, wasn’t she?” 

”Wh- dude?? She was working for the Angel!”

But Techno’s seen the statistics. Police don’t handle basket cases well. Honestly Techno’s lucky he made it out of that without getting shot. “How do you know that?” 

“She sicced her dog on you!” 

“But was that because of the Angel?”  

“Yes?? He was threatening her kid?”

“But how do you kn- no. No, I can’t–” Turns out, it still very much can be paranoia even if they are out to get you! Great! Fantastic! Techno doesn’t have any way to verify any of his own existence or experience! “I can’t do this. Go hide.” 

Despite Skeppy’s protest, he ends the call, then stares at the screen till it goes black and his own ghastly expression greets him. The crack in the glass persists. Maybe that part was real. Maybe not. How long do hallucinations last? Floof crawls into his lap, and the texture of his fur seems real. Maybe not. How long do hallucinations last? 

What are his options? Techno can’t tell Skeppy, he’ll leave. No, can’t tell anyone, the surveillance will catch it. If for a second he appears vulnerable the Angel will swoop on the weakness and exploit it. Research will surly be flagged, any internet activity monitored. If the recordings played in court from his last therapist meant anything, psychiatric help will be closely monitored and used against him. Hospitalization? No, the Angel had personal doctors that could easily infiltrate, or just threaten staff like officer Jenny. Turning to any sort of institution might be the fastest way to be recaptured. 

Your paranoia has darkened your thoughts against me. When have I ever treated you with anything other than adoration? When will you accept you sent an innocent man to jail? No matter how rigged the court was, it had been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt Techno was kidnapped. That was real, if nothing else. A delusion is defined by its conviction. Is the court to blame for believing your testimony? Sinking deeper into your own madness, isolating yourself. You pushed me away when I only wanted to help. Why do you reject your loving father? Do you think you don’t deserve me? 

No. Techno refuses to even entertain the possibility. The moment he sees Philza instead of the Angel is the moment he’s doomed. And if he’s wrong- if he’s wrong and Philza has only ever been a loving father- he looses nothing. A family is the last thing he needs. 

In his hazy periphery a blur of movement. Approaching. Threat. Hallucination. Civilian. Soldier. Nothing at all. If he’s attacked, would the pain feel real? All those times his back scars hurt when he was scared…he’s really been like this the whole time, hasn’t he? What happens when he attacks people who aren’t real? Or no, maybe they are real, but so distorted he can’t tell the truth. Techno’s attacked enough innocent people to be sure it’s a possibility.

The episodes cause him so much distress, and so often result in harm for him or others. Like that time he attacked the poor barber without warning. Honestly you’re lucky his hallucination didn’t label you as some type of threat, Skeppy. He can become so violent. I shudder to think what he might’ve done to you. I mean even Tommy hasn't been safe from him. Or classmates. Or Skeppy. Or Philza. Or guards. Techno has been attacking the echos of villains in others for a very, very long time.  

He glances at the approaching apparition. Tommy. Maybe. He’s mine, the Angel hisses. My son, mine. Why would I ever give him back? Tommy stops right in front of Techno, expression cloudy. “We goin or what?” Techno doesn’t react, trying to scrutinize the apparition. Tommy’s shadow seems about right for the time of day. Had he worn that outfit earlier? “‘Elloooo?” Tommy says, waving a hand in front of Techno’s eyes. Techno seizes it, lacing their fingers together. It feels tangible, but so did the Angel’s fingers carding through his hair. 

“Where were you?” he demands quietly, in case someone thinks he’s talking to thin air. 

As his tone, Tommy balks. “I needed to talk to Tubbo. He’s my best friend. And I can’t– I can’t talk very well about Dad with you.” 

“Don’t. You can’t do that. You were supposed to be here an hour ago.” You stick by my rules, boy, or you taste the consequences. 

“I just– I wanted to talk to my friend! That’s it! What’s the big deal?! I thought since Dad doesn’t schedule me down to the minute anymore I might get to but- I just thought you’d be different from him.” You understand me now, don’t you? How tightly a child has to be held to be safe? 

“You have to stick to the plan we agreed on, Tommy. It made me worried when you didn’t show up. No, terrified. I had-” a psychotic episode. Not a just flashback, not just a voice. It’s the first one he’s caught, and he doesn’t know how many he’s had, how long they last. If it’s still ongoing. Techno’s hands are shaking, and he just wants to take Tommy into his arms and know he’s real, but Tommy’s is looking at him weird, angry and defensive. How much worse would it be if Tommy knew what just happened? “-had a plan,” he finishes weekly. “Don’t do that again.”

“Whatever,” Tommy sulks, brushing past to the parking lot. Techno tentatively follows, unsure if, when the hallucinations cause him to crash the car, the paramedics will find two bodies or one. 

Tommy hadn’t been talking to Tubbo. Or, well he had, since Tubbo is the best friend that has ever existed ever and ever and immediately jumped into the fight the moment Tommy started it. Detention actually isn’t that bad when your best friend is sitting right next to you, whispering revenge plans so outlandish it had the teacher reprimanding Tommy for randomly snickering too loud. So, technically he did talk to Tubbo, or at least passed notes when the detention monitor wasn’t looking. It’s practically like he didn’t lie to Techno at all. 

Besides, Tommy doesn’t actually know what getting in trouble with Techno will actually look like. He’d already been cross just about being late, and Tommy is suddenly worried what tipping that too far could mean. Dad is endlessly patient and forgives him no matter what. He has to, cause he loves Tommy. Techno just…doesn’t. Tommy hadn’t known how desperately he needed that security until it was ripped away from him. Dad would’ve known about the detention. Dad would’ve noticed something was up, done whatever he could to make it better. Dad wouldn’t have gotten mad, but maybe disappointed he got caught. 

In retrospect, Tommy should’ve thought that was weird. Normal dads want you to be a good person. Normal dads don’t get accused of running secret villain leagues. Normal dads don’t make people look like the Piglins. Normal dads don’t-

He ignores it. Better to think about how he doesn’t have to deal with that, especially since the school hasn’t updated its system. Sure Techno is stressed about the miscommunication, but Tommy’s lucky that he didn’t get the call about the detention instead. Did Dad? Will he know? Will he finally worry about Tommy? Or no, jails limit calls. If Dad doesn’t get a call, and Techno doesn’t… will anyone notice? The thought is troublesome, when he should be relieved he won’t get admonished. 

Techno is distant, less concerned with Tommy and more with calling Skeppy. He sounds tired when he explains he has Tommy, like he regrets the fact. The small noisy reply of Skeppy is cut off mid-sentence. The drive home is quiet, Techno’s breathing weirdly regulated. Is he mad? Tommy had planned to mention his detention aggressively offhand, almost challenging. Now he isn’t so sure. Techno reacts to trouble all wrong, angry and twitchy instead of soothing and unendingly patient. The silence stretches on, and on, the tension broken off and buried instead of massaged. Tommy clutches his seatbelt, pulling it away from his chest to not feel so trapped. 

They park after a small eternity empty of its usual boisterous chatter. Techno scoops up his bag from the passenger seat. Tommy always forgets it, unused to the lack of servants. Anyway it’s heavy, and rubs against his ribs in a way that hurts. “How was, uh. School?”

“Fine.” Tommy says shortly. Techno bobs his head, still awkward. But he accepts the answer without question. Dad would’ve known to press, because Dad always knows when his day hasn’t gone fine. 

Once in the hovel, Tommy does a trick shot to dunk his detention reflection essay in the trash, but misses. Techno jolts a little at the sudden movement, then scoops the crumpled paper up with a half-hearted grumble about cleaning. Right. No maids. “What is it?” Techno asks, a slight nervous edge to his voice. 

It’s supposed to be a reflection on Tommy’s erroneous, deviant ways, to prove to his school, parents, and society that he is a changed man and will never partake of brutish violence. Or, he’s sure that self-improvement hogwash was the teacher’s plan. “It’s just garbage.” Techno accepts his answer and tosses it away.

…fine. Tommy doesn’t want him to read it. Techno seems even more jumpy than normal today, anyway. It would just stress him out. “Did talking to Tubbo help?”

“Huh?” Oh, right. “Yep! Tubbo’s fantastic. He suggested force-feeding bees today.” 

“Wh- you’re gonna eat bees??” He’s so taken aback Tommy snickers. 

“No! Our enemies!”

A couple of blinks. “…Is that real?” It’s genuine in a way that is scary. 

Tommy forces a laugh. He doesn’t need Techno thinking he’ll turn out like the other Crafts. “Nah, just joking! We’re all big talk, nothing to worry about. We wouldn’t actually hurt anyone.” Except they had. 

But it soothes the gut-wrenching scrutiny in Techno’s eyes and that’s all that matters. “Well, at least it’s helping. If you ever need to talk to Tubbo, we can do that, meet up or something, but I need to know beforehand if that’s your plan.”

“Wait. I can…do that? Like, see my friends outside of school? I can hang out with Tubbo whenever I want to?”

Techno is caught off guard, mind clearly off somewhere else and unprepared for the excitement his offhand words conjured. “Haeh? Why wouldn’t I Iet you visit a friend?” 

Tommy burns with excitement. “I can go to Tubbo’s house?!” 

“Hold on, did the Angel seriously- no, no, that tracks,” Techno mutters. “Who needs friends when you have family.” 

“Dad lets friends come over all the time,” Tommy defends hotly. Well, with two weeks advanced notice and increased guards. “Just, visiting others is different.” Secondary locations, or something like that. That took a lot more planning. 

Techno frowns. “...huh. My p- the Piglins never cared. I’d spend hours at my friends' houses. Days, sometimes. Skeppy’s guest room was practically mine.” The stab of jealousy Tommy feels scares him, because if the Piglins are terrible awful child abusers then what does that make Dad?

“Dad had to because of security,” Tommy insists. It’s too dangerous, sunshine. That sad grief in Dad’s eyes always stopped him from protesting too much. The empty space in their home meant for Alexander felt like a black hole, sometimes. 

“Oh right. Security.” Tommy’s heart lurches at the reservation filtering into his features. “I mean…I doubt Tubbo is an assassin, otherwise the Angel would’ve done something already, right? I’d want to supervise visits. But the main thing is I know in advance, it’s something we plan together.” Techno makes a soft oof sound as he’s tackled into a hug, lacking his usual vigilance. 

He hadn’t considered the possibility before. Techno is as jumpy as Dad without any of the security to back it up, so Tommy figured it would be worse. He’d just assumed they weren’t allowed to come over, but if Techno is letting Tommy go to others…

“Can I visit Dad and Wilbur, too?” 

Techno freezes. He’s utterly, scarily silent, and Tommy is too afraid to break it in case he says no. But eventually his held breath starts to ache, though his shaky exhale doesn’t break Techno’s absence. Unaware as Tommy slips out of his arms, staring vacantly at nothing at all. His face the awful blankness of when he woke up after the Nether. Tommy’s brother one second, and a husk the next. Like Techno can’t see him at all, memories weighing against one another to culminate in a calculation Tommy dreads. He didn’t say no right away, but maybe that gut punch would have been kinder than waiting for the axe to fall. 

But then: “Yeah. You can visit the dungeon, if you want.”

(The way he brightens like the sun, surprised but exhilarated, hurts. “Yooo, really?! Thanks, Phil! You don’t know how much this means to me.” Philza wishes that were even remotely true.)

Tommy squeezes his brother so hard it probably hurts. “Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you- I didn’t think I’d ever see them again.” 

“Heh. Merry Christmas.” The saturnine bite doesn’t matter, really. Tommy’s going to see his family. 

And when he does, he’ll finally get answers. 

Tommy doesn’t register the footsteps charging towards their door, but Techno does. A shove, a bark of code, and Techno rips away. He presses flush to the wall just by the threshold, blade in his hand, coiled to attack the second the door is breached. The rattling of the many locks can only stop them so long. His attention wavers only when he realizes Tommy is stood in place. Hide, he mouths harshly. Bolting into action, Tommy races to their room, climbing atop the dresser. In seconds the vent is swung open and he’s scrambled inside, kicking the makeshift mechanism that closes it behind. 

And then he’s alone. In the bunker, in the vent. Not knowing how long he’ll be trapped. If his family will come back this time. If he’ll be found. The bunker used to only irritate him, but after Techno came back in a coma he knows the stakes of just how bad it can get outside, waiting for someone to remember to even tell him what’s going on. And after the police raid ripped his family apart, he’s scared the vent won’t be safe if even Dad’s measures weren’t enough. Alone with his breathing echoing in the chute, the whir of fans that prevent any real escape, and the silence of the apartment collectively awaiting the catalyst of violence. 

The door bangs open. A cut-off shout, a slam of violence, a high-pitched scream. And then- 

“IT’S JUST SKEPPY!” Techno shouts. Tommy swallows roughly, then squirms out. His chest hurts from the climb, and when he rubs his ribs they throb. But that can wait until he’s given Skeppy a piece of his mind. Tommy storms out to where the adults mutter. 

Immediately Techno slams a hand-over Skeppy’s mouth. “Shh. surveillance.” But when his gaze darts around the room, it falls upon Tommy. For a second, Techno looks so fragile Tommy can’t stand it. Is that his fault? Did he ask too much by wanting his family? But the look on Techno’s face is buried in the crook of Skeppy’s shoulder, whose eyes widen as Techno hugs him for the first time. Tentatively, he reaches to pat Techno on the back, but freezes. Skeppy’s fingers curl, then slowly find their way to rest on his head, carefully stroking through dark hair. 

“Hey man. Today just meant you can fight them off, right? Your try-hard precautions work.”

“Mmm. If I can tell when there’s an actual threat,” he replies too bitterly for just a false alarm.

“I was slightly distracted but other things instead of remembering the complicated knock code,” Skeppy hmphs. 

“I had to climb into a vent cause of you!” Tommy scowls. Skeppy’s concern prioritizes Techno for some reason, but he does offer a mild apology that does little to mend the umbrage. In truth Tommy’s annoyance was doused by how worn Techno looks, although he’s seemed out of it most of the afternoon. 

There is no explanation. Once told there was a problem, Dad was so good about unraveling it. Techno brushes past as he leaves the room. And so the tension is left as well. Tommy sits with the emotions gnawing inside him. Bad. He feels bad. But beyond that he has no name for the conglomeration, other than bad, and heavy, and sour. 

Tommy goes to his room, but it isn’t really his, just where he’s imposed himself in a too cramped space. The gaping maw of the open vent waits to swallow him again. There’s another bunker. Trapped. He gets to see his friends more often. Free. The apartment is tiny. Trapped. He’ll see his family again. Free. He’ll see his family again. Trapped. Everything is different, and everything is the same, and everything is better, and everything is worse. 

When Tommy crashes into the mattress, his ribs scream. “FRICK.” Wait. He can cuss again. Tommy entertains the opportunity, listing off as many curse words as he can think of and a few made up ones for good measure. It’s not particularly proportional to jostling his bruises, but he might as well. 

But he does peel himself out of bed and leaves the room that isn’t really his, down the cramped halls that are unfamiliar. It isn’t the bathroom from the apartment, the one where he and his brothers would brush their teeth together and joke around every night, but it is comforting if not familiar. 

It’s a sullen boy confronting him from the mirror, and maybe he understands why he was in detention now. It used to really bother Tommy that his features didn’t match his adopted family. Suddenly it doesn’t. He scowls at his own reflection. If he looks nothing alike, then why do so many people see Dad and Wilbur in him? 

Whatever. They probably all need glasses or something. Tommy begins rifling through the drawers, trying to find the first aid kit. Not on the counter, not in the shelves, not in the cabinet that Techno is hiding in, not behind the mirror, not- Wait. Techno? Tommy reopens the cabinet to find Techno curled up in a ball amongst the cleaning supplies. “Whatchu under the sink for??” 

Techno stares at Tommy’s ankles. “Losing at hide and seek.” Tommy elects to accept his brother is a weirdo, and continues looking. But he doesn’t have much luck, and re-opens the cabinet Techno is hiding in. 

“Where are the band-aids?” Techno crawls out from beneath the sink, fetching the first aid kit from a too tall shelf that Tommy hadn’t a chance of finding. Stupid giant adults and their long arms. Well Tommy will be the one laughing once he’s taller than all of them. 

Techno unexpectedly scoops him up to be sat upon the counter, asking, “where does it hurt?”

Tommy gulps. If he sees, Techno might ask questions. “I got it.” Better that than getting in trouble. 

“Oh.” Techno drops eye contact, withdrawing. “Right, I shouldn’t pry.”  

Wait. Techno might ask questions! “Actually, could you help me get the shirt off? Hurts to raise my arms too much.” Gingerly, Techno helps him escape the snare of fabric. Tommy grits his teeth more than he thought he would, then twists in the mirror to check the blotches of bruises blossoming roses of scarlet and gold across his chest. 

“...it looks like you got kneed in the ribs.” 

Part of him shrinks, remembering how upset Techno was when he was late. “I tripped.” 

“I tripped a lot as a kid,” Techno says quietly in a sort of funny way. Tommy doesn’t know what to do with the silence. But Techno tends to the contusions with an expert familiarity. The heat of the warm compress has him sighing in relief. 

And then Techno is leaning on the wall across from him, and it feels like he’s really looking at Tommy for the first time today. Not distant, or haunted by recollections. Now that Tommy has his undivided attention, he doesn’t want it, shifting uncomfortably. “I found when I got bigger I was tripped less,” Techno says finally. Was tripped. Not tripped. Done by someone, but still in passive voice to avoid blame, which unfortunately implies that Tommy paid attention in writing class at some point. “I didn’t want help. You might not, either. But I do know I needed it.”

Bullies, Tommy thinks first, till he remembers it’s Techno. Abusers. Tommy’s gut tightens as he realizes Techno thinks he’s the victim. 

But why shouldn’t he? Techno thinks he’s a good kid. Tell. For now. Don’t tell. Tommy feels alone. Tell. Maybe he should be. Don’t tell. He might as well find out what it’ll take for Techno to leave, too. Tell. Dad and Wilbur don’t want him anymore, he needs Techno. Don’t tell. Techno can lie like no one he’s ever seen, of course he’ll eventually deduce the truth. Tell. He just wants someone to notice. Tell. It feels like everything in him is going to explode. Tell. Don’t. Tell. Tell. 

“I got in a fight at school.” 

“A fight,” Techno repeats neutrally. Did you win? was how Dad always replied with a lopsided smile as he tried to cheer Tommy up. But if the scaring on the Piglins is what Dad considered the loser of a ‘fight,' the remembered joke tastes sour. Holding his breath, Tommy waits for condemnation, or sympathy, or something. “Ok. Do you want to talk about it?” 

“NO.” No, he can’t. Not if Techno thinks he’s the victim. Not for the pain in his eyes when he sees the truth, sees Tommy just like Dad and Wilbur. 

“Is there a reason why you don’t want to?” 

“...I don’t want you to see me differently.” 

“Hmm. Well, I probably will. People look at you differently when they know what you’ve been through. Sympathy hurt my pride since I mistook it for pity. It wasn’t. People will help if you let them. Trust me Tommy, a bruised ego is better than a bruised body.” And he sounds so understanding, but he really isn’t. And more than anything, Tommy yearns for understanding, for someone to see how badly he’s struggling and figure out why his thoughts feel like spaghetti. 

“Wait- wait maybe I do wanna talk. I dunno. You have to swear you won’t get mad.” Techno agrees easily enough, but that just makes Tommy more worried. “You have to pinky promise. And don’t do it if you don’t mean it.” Wilbur would’ve laughed at him, but Techno just nods seriously. Okay, maybe there’s a twitch of a grin to the corner of his lips, but it’s so ephemeral maybe Tommy imagined it. “Okay. You can ask about it. But if I don’t want to answer, I won’t, and you just have to put up with it.” 

“Fair ‘nough. Does this happen often?” 

The teachers seem to think it will. “Not really.”

“Is it the same kid(s) every time?” 

“No.” It feels like everyone nowadays. But before the trial, it’s only ever been random incidents, and sometimes it really was their fault. In retrospect, a lot of his bullies ‘suddenly’ moved towns. The thought makes Tommy a little nauseous. 

And finally, the question Tommy dreads. “How did it start?” 

It’s always hard to pinpoint the start of a fight. 

1.For Jack Manifold, the fight starts like this: One second he is trying to make his friend cheer up, and the next Tommy’s fist is slamming into the side of his skull. 

2.For Tommy, the fight starts when he’s sitting at lunch with Tubbo and Jack, feet shifting to a sturdy stance beneath the table as a couple classmates approach him, bickering over something. He doesn’t know when he picked that up, being prepared to bolt if he needs to. But it doesn’t quite feel the same as when Techno tenses. Something about is wrong, and he doesn’t realize the difference until too late. 

3.Or maybe the fight starts when one opens their mouth, clawing through the months when Tommy happily blabbed about anyone and everyone about his cool new brother. Cheerfully covering up the horror of the abduction, playing his part in slowly breaking down an innocent stranger. The court of law might not deem him a baddie because he’s a kid, but the court of public opinion differs. 

And Tommy had played his part in trying to force Techno to stay. It just- hadn’t seemed like a bad thing? Sure Techno tried to escape constantly, but eventually he settled just like Dad said. It always felt like more like fun adventures, but that had always been what Tommy and Wilbur’s escape attempts were. And after the Nether, Techno did nothing. Tommy hadn’t even known he still wanted to leave until he was shoved into a car with Skeppy and being kinda kidnapped himself. It all seemed fine because Dad and Wilbur and even Techno seemed fine with it. And so Tommy trapped Techno, just like Dad did. Still is, even. Techno hasn’t escaped all the Crafts. Maybe Tommy’s just like Dad. His father, convinced Techno loves them and willing to do anything to reinforce the delusion. 

4.Or maybe the fight starts when another kid decides to argue. “You dolt. Of course Tommy didn’t say anything, the Angel would’ve killed him just like all the other witnesses.” It makes his blood boil every time someone accuses Dad of abuse, incongruous with the man that reads him bedtime stories and kisses his scraped knees. Assumptions, it always comes down to assumptions. They assume Dad is a monster, and so Tommy is one, too. 

“Dad wouldn’t hurt me,” Tommy snaps. But Dad does hurt him. It hurts so, so much that he’s gone, but it must mean Dad loves him, this pain has to be better, surely it’s better, because it’s unbearable if Dad doesn’t want him anymore. “The courts proved Dad didn’t hurt anyone at all.” But the Piglins prove otherwise, and Tommy is scared of how far it goes. 

“Exactly! Wilbur testified they’re evil, and he isn’t dead yet! Tommy has no excuse!”

What…?

What does that mean?

Wilbur did what? 

The building pressure in Tommy petrifies. It doesn’t dissolve, ever-increasing as a sickening thread of fear pours into the broiling tempest of anger. He’d been so mad with Dad for just accepting it, but- Wilbur? Wilbur did this? Wilbur was the one to destroy their family? 

The argument rages on as Tommy sits in silent devastation. Had everyone been pretending the whole time? Techno must’ve been, because Tommy hadn’t any warning before Techno suddenly dragged him into that last escape attempt. Dad must’ve been, because if he wanted the family together it would be. Wilbur must’ve been, because he betrayed them all. 

Or maybe he only betrayed Tommy, if the others despise their family, too. What felt real to him was just a game to everyone else. Where does that leave Tommy, now the rest decided they were done playing with him? He’d been trying to hold out the 6 months till Dad and Wil got out, till everything could be mended. But if none of them had ever meant it, maybe it was never meant to be. 

Techno lied. This is permanent. Tommy will be like this forever, angry and scared and confused and hurting and alone, so alone. 

“You’re stupid!” Jack shouts at the hecklers. “Do you seriously believe everything you see online?!” He and Tubbo stand up, blocking Tommy to protect him. Their playground insults ring out, drowning out invasive questions and barbed opinions. 

As Jack bluffs a fight he’ll definitely lose, Tubbo glances at Tommy’s tension. “You good, big T?” he asks quietly below Jack’s threats, so no one but Tommy can hear. Tommy nods stonily. Having defended their territory to some degree, Jack returns, though the harassers linger at a safe periphery. 

5.Or maybe the fight starts when Jack places a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “Don’t worry Tommy, I’ve met your dad. He’s really nice. That Techno guy is delulu.”

Maybe Tommy’s just like Techno. His brother, the one who says the past bleeds into every second. Because surely Tommy is bombarded with everything, head filling tight to burst, a hundred memories fighting for dominance over the scene before him. 

6.But it doesn’t quite feel the same as when Techno tenses, because Tommy lunges forward, not backward. Throwing himself at Jack in an ugly snarl as it all bursts out. His punch lands square on his friend’s jaw. Someone tries to pull him off, the classmate that insisted Dad abused him, and Tommy rounds on them, too, kicking and screaming. The ever loyal Tubbo is immediately swinging on his behalf. 

That’s where the teachers say it started, anyway. With a bad kid suddenly snapping on his peers. Maybe Tommy’s just like Wilbur. His brother, who embraces being the bad guy, invites Tommy to sink into that dark embrace. Two-faced, unable to pick a side and so he loses twice as much. 

7.Or maybe the fight starts with the gossip twisting in the halls, because those weren’t the first kids to harass him at all. All the sideways glances measuring his Craft-ness, total strangers dissecting his family with glee like the next new true-crime podcast. A flashy scandal that everyone just has to add their two cents, picking sides and pestering Tommy to confirm their theories on threats and abuse and insanity. They’d been doing so for the weeks of the trials, but it hadn’t bothered him so much, then. Obviously none of it was true, and the courts would prove his family innocent, just like Dad promised. 

Until suddenly it was real. His family ripped in half without warning. Or, no, there should’ve been a warning, in the news Tommy isn’t allowed to watch, or the reports from Dad and Wilbur on how it was going. Or just Wilbur, in the last few days, as Dad grew busy. No, as Dad retreated into listless depression, but no one told Tommy that’s what it was, and he still doesn’t know why. He might never. But Wilbur knew. Wilbur caused it. And he never said a word, leaving Tommy blissfully unaware of the lit fuse racing towards the detonation of his life. 

8.Or maybe the fight starts when he and Techno are standing in the parking lot, and the beaten and broken Piglins look down at Tommy with barely cloaked loathing. But worse was the fear in their eyes. The Angel probably corrupted him already. What does it mean when the people who hurt Techno so bad think he’s hopeless? Wouldn’t they know, of anyone? 

9.Or maybe the fight starts when Tommy is sitting at the trial and his family is being ripped away from him. It starts when Tommy realizes he’ll have to fight for himself now because no one else will. 

10.“I started it.” 

“You started it…?” It’s the confusion, worry, he doesn’t expect from Techno. Like he can’t fathom it. It’s not how Dad or Wilbur would’ve responded. They would have understood. They would have done worse. “Like, did they startle you or something? Did you know it was them you were attacking?” Techno unconsciously leans forward with intent, breath baited. There’s a lurking weight Tommy can’t understand, relief and agitation in equal measure. 

“...maybe? Like I knew it was them, but it was more than them.” 

“Who were you really seeing?” 

For a second, Tommy has no idea what he means. And then the floodgates open, and there’s so many answers Tommy is overwhelmed. “Everyone. I’m just- angry, with everything, and I was mad at them but it wasn’t just them. They just set me off.” 

Techno stills. “...so you took it out on someone else? Just because they were the closest target?” 

So braced for Techno to become angry with him, Tommy never considered the fact there could be a worse reaction. It’s only a flicker of a second, but Tommy catches the spark of fear in Techno’s eyes, and his heart plummets. If he’s looking at Tommy the same way as he does Dad, does that mean he sees the Angel in him too? Just like everyone else? And of anyone, wouldn’t Techno know? 

“They were mean!” he defends desperately. “Jack said you were off your rocker, I couldn’t let him trash talk my br-” but they aren’t. They aren’t brothers. “People just keep- talking about it. Everyone deciding who’s evil, who’s crazy. Acting like it’s their right to know my entire life and tell me what to do about it! Surely you know what that’s like?”

Techno shifts uncomfortably. “I, uh, haven’t been to class in a while. Or in public at all. But drawing attention to yourself with a fight will just make it worse.” 

“I just wanted to make everyone shut up. Or- or make only the right people talk. Because none of you told me anything. Wilbur exploded the family. Did you know that? ‘Cause I didn’t, Dad blocked all the news channels for our mental health, and both of them refused to talk about it.” Wilbur had acted completely normal at the end of the trail. Stressed, sure, tired, absolutely. But in the last few days he spent every second home with Tommy. He’d been there, even as Dad retreated into his room and isolation. But if Wilbur was happy, surely the trial was going well, right? Cheerful and loving even as the fuse he’d lit on Tommy’s life crept ever closer to the payload. “They didn’t tell me! They didn’t tell me it was coming, I had to find out my brother destroyed our family from bullies.”

Techno weighs something. “I…don’t think Wilbur exactly predicted he’d be collateral.” 

“Did you know they were going to jail?”

He can’t read Techno’s expression, but it’s been tricky ever since the trial. Or, no…no, Techno would’ve been acting before then, for months and months. Some at school say he’s a sociopath, or psychopath, Tommy can’t remember which. He wonders which one Techno thinks he is. Techno’s gaze drops away. Is he scared? Embarrassed? Guilty? Lying? “I, uh, didn’t think I’d win. Was sure the Angel would rig it.” 

“So why didn’t he? Dad always gets what he wants.”

“He said…” uncertainty trickles in. “I dunno if he was lying, why he said it. But the Angel apologized, at the end. Said he couldn’t save me.” 

“Bullshit!” Tommy snarls. Techno’s stint with the Crafts stood testament to that fact. And if Dad went through so much effort to keep Techno, why didn’t he for Tommy? Somehow, Tommy feels like he’s back when he first met Techno, sick with jealousy that he was getting all the attention. 

Techno shrugs helplessly, and it isn’t fair, Tommy knows it isn’t, but he’s the only one here to bear the brunt of wrath. “Said he wanted me to feel safe.”

“Do you?” Techno shakes his head mutely. “I sure as hell don’t. If he doesn’t want to save us how can we be? It’s like neither of them even care anymore. Do- do they even love me?” He wanted it to be an outraged accusation, but it cracks and comes out quiet and scared. 

“You can ask them once it's the weekend. They’ll tell you yes.” 

“I know that. But do they really love me?” 

Techno looks so tired. And he’s the worst possible person to ask, but Tommy doesn’t have anyone else. And Techno doesn’t love him, so he knows it won’t be sugarcoated. His brother sighs. “I can’t answer that. I don’t know. But if I’m honest, I don’t think it should matter much.”

“But if they loved me, they’d want me. They’d keep me.” 

“I spent my entire life doing anything I could to be wanted, Tommy,” Techno says wearily. “It kept me alive, but it destroyed me. I can’t picture anything more repulsive than to be coveted.” 

“Then what happens when you don’t want me anymore? Cause- I don’t have a house. Or anyone. The moment you get sick of me I have nothing.” 

“I won’t leave. Unless that’s what you want.” It's that ever present caveat that scares Tommy. But why shouldn’t the kidnapping victim always leave an escape route for himself? 

“Wilbur said he’d be here for me no matter what. And then he got the house raided and testified against himself. And Dad promised he wouldn’t abandon me again, and then just let it all happen. Nobody stays.”

“I won’t leave unless that’s what you want,” Techno reiterates. Is that what Techno wants him to want? Why else would he not just promise not to leave? “Why do you think I won’t want you?” Tommy doesn’t answer. “You’re a good kid, Tommy. That’s not something you have to prove to me. You just are.”

But Techno’s voice is drowned out by so, so many others. He can hear the teachers in charge of detention muttering to each other. What was Tommy made into, raised by a monster? Tommy pretends not to hear, preoccupied for elbowing Tubbo in the ribs for suggesting sneaking fireworks into the bully’s lunchboxes. Incarcerated. It’s a word Tommy’s been hearing in the mouths of adults a lot recently, under their breath and with a pitying twist of the mouth. But it’s a sympathy only skin deep, not reaching the eyes. Beneath the respectable surface is a wariness he can taste like acid, raising his hackles. 

Sometimes it’s like father, like son. Sometimes it’s crazy runs in the blood. No matter who they think the villain is, Tommy is irrevocably trapped in their shadow. Even Techno thinks it too, the inking of the suspicion in his eyes condemning. Wondering if Tommy is like his family.

(No matter which his that was.)

At this rate, maybe Tommy will prove them all right. 

Dad: I do love you. 

Dad: You are safe. You will ALWAYS be safe. 

Tommy stares at the notifications from where his phone was left sitting on the bed. He lunges for it, unlocking the phone and swiping to get to the messenger app. That’s the only messages Dad sent. The time stamps are old, probably sent the second Tommy said it in the bathroom. Has it been agonizing for Dad, waiting for him to check his phone? Well. Shouldn’t’ve left if he wanted to actually talk to Tommy. 

Tommy drops the phone, rolling onto his face so the cameras can’t capture his reaction, since he doesn’t know what it is. What is he supposed to think? The reassurance feels cold, with Dad’s actions starkly in contrast. Tommy didn’t want another useless platitude, he wanted proof. 

Unfortunately, he catches the screen light up with a new message, and Tommy’s hand snaps towards the phone, ravenous for Dad’s reaction. 

Dad: Do you need help with the bullies? 

Who? Everyone? How would he even- Techno’s comment about Dad murdering his entire college flits across his mind. Biggest Man: What would you do?

Dad: Parent Teacher Conference. Through zoom, haha. 

[Dad is typing]

[Dad is not typing]

[Dad is typing]

Dad: I’m not going to be completely gone from your life, of course not. I can still help with whatever you need. Both of you. 

Biggest Man: Then why aren’t you here? 

He stares at the blinking typing dots for a long time. They keep disappearing and reappearing, until at last there is no sign of activity for a long time. Tommy clenches his phone so fiercely it might crack. “No. You don’t get to leave me here, too,” he mutters angrily, choking on it. At once the typing bubble reappears. 

Dad: I’ll explain at our visit. I can’t wait to see you. Sorry, I know this is rough on you, and I should have contacted you sooner but have been struggling with…things. You can always reach out to me if you need to. Love you, sunshine. 

For a second he’s flooded with a million things to say, before firmly setting his phone down. Tommy doesn’t want to hear more empty promises. 

Techno’s week isn’t particularly restful. Obviously, he’s living in a home the Angel can break into on a whim. His head isn’t much safer on that front, either. All Techno wants in life is to get to the caf and down as much coffee as he can before someone stages an intervention. Turns out, kids need at least three whole meals a day. Unfortunately, Skeppy pointed out how Techno barely eats, and subsequently weaponized Tommy’s worry in the matter. Techno is still trying to pinpoint if that means Skeppy is smart enough to manipulate him or dumb enough to bring up something like that around a kid. So, Techno is now eating on a mostly regular basis now or whatever. Theoretically. And since he can’t be putting that much burden on Niki, Techno has begun begrudgingly trusting public food.

Though, if he’s honest, he’s just hoping to grab a caf coffee to wake up enough for classes. After his conversation with Tommy, he’s realized he probably should risk attending again. If Tommy hasn’t been kidnapped at school, he might survive too. Plus he desperately needs to recover his GPA since giving up on freedom, independence, and any and all life goals besides going catatonic in a bean bag somehow negatively impacted his grades. Suddenly, it kinda does matter if he can graduate and get a good enough job to support a highly paranoid lifestyle for both him and Tommy. Once again, coffee is pivotal for his freedom. Perhaps it always will be. 

But unfortunately there’s a rather large crowd blocking the caf, so he ditches the plan by pretending to look at his phone, hitting his head like he forgot something, and flipping direction to go to the on-campus coffee shop. He takes the corner without a window so he doesn’t end up with a bullet through his head like Ghast. 

“BLACK COFFEE FOR TECHNO!” The shop gets weirdly silent. Not all at once, just falling away in weird clumps. But Techno is more concerned with the fact he definitely gave a fake name to the barista. 

Turns out the person at the till is a student worker and recognized him, not that he can say the same. After everything he tries to memorize faces in case he needs to describe them for a police report, but he’s never had a knack for it. With a smile he accepts his order, but doesn’t drink from it. Tries, of course, but he can’t shake the suspicion it was a plant. That Wil is just waiting around the corner the moment the roofies kick in again. Or maybe tranquilizers, like the mercenaries who jumped him at the gas station. Or those nauseating drugs the Angel subdued him with after his last escape attempt. Anything that could make him more compliant and convenient to capture. The mercenaries and police and trial proved the Syndicate could replace anyone. At any given time everyone in the room could be out to get- 

Techno sighs, and tosses the coffee in the trash as he leaves. Some days he can manage public food, but other times his throat closes up and his paranoia spirals and he just gives up. Besides, he doesn’t want to linger in a room where his name was announced. 

Apparently the crowd from the caf is the roaming sort, and Techno picks a hallway based off what’ll avoid them, trying to figure out if he can yoink some of Niki’s baked goods for breakfast. Turns out? Yes. Techno brightens. Maybe today isn’t going to suck. 

The crowd is in the East dorm lobby when he walks back out, still halfway into a cream pastry and a replacement coffee. Okay, kinda rude if they’re not gonna gather in a public place. Maybe there’s a frat event going on, he wouldn’t know. He skirts around the mob, vaguely waving at a few ‘hey Techno!’s and ducking out from beneath some jerk who tries to sling a friendly arm around his shoulders. There are a number of snickers he doesn’t care to consider, as well as a substantial quantity of swerved high-fives, Techno mumbling some type of excuse through his pastry as he digs out his key card and gets halfway out before a quiet 3, 2, 1- “TECHNO!” the entire crowd shouts. Techno drops to the ground, hurling himself to the side to avoid whatever attack is incoming, flipping around with his knife swung out, trying to pinpoint a particular threat. 

The entire crowd is staring at him. “Uh, sorry,” he tries to apologize, then gets suffocated on his own breakfast and starts coughing to death. He slams a fist into his diaphragm to dislodge the tart, which falls on the ground. “My pastry!” he cries in outrage, kneeling down before the fallen dessert and debating saying a eulogy. Niki’s pastries are just that good. Trying to not openly cry, Techno looks up at the crowd surrounding him. “Bruh! I better get compensation for that!” They shuffle awkwardly, and to his surprise they start scrounging up some cash. Techno’s eyebrows crawl into his hair, but he’s not going to say no to free money. Yoink! He sorts through, not finding any bugs, nor his pocket black light catching any marks to track his expenditures. Nothing. As far as you know. They’ve bought at least twenty-three minutes of his attention. “Yoooo. Okay what did you guys need?”

Someone tries to clap his shoulder and he dodges deftly, back against the door and surrounded by the mob that is intent upon him. Someone beams at him. “So! Techno. About the Angel-”

He’s gone. Absolutely GONE. Techno dips immediately, absconds, vacates, skips town. The crowd follows, beginning to call out questions lost in the haze of other voices. “Bro I got class,” Techno tries. Doesn’t the Angel care about his education? Why is he being harassed now?? The trial is over! You wouldn’t be dealing with this if you just came home~

They’re persistent. Unfortunately, Techno is determined. He books it, sprinting across the campus screaming “WHY MEEEEEEE?!?!??!” while desperately trying not to spill his coffee. Just barely does he get ahead, tunneling into a hall of identical classrooms. The moment the door closes he’s tearing out of his jacket and flipping it to the inverse side of a completely different color. A quick hair tie and the hoodie pulled up, Techno swearing the whole time. But it works, the crowd not recognizing as he passes. Hah. Techno finds himself a little corner of the library to hide in and pray the caffeine kicks in before his first class. He’s jumpy, but not enough people have a memorized map of the campus’s sprawling, twisting tomes. Amateurs. The Angel needs to hire better harassment campaigns in the future. 

His moment of peace is eventually interrupted. A man in a red jumper hovers over him. “Hi, can I sit here?”

Techno snatches his stuff out of the way so he can’t get a bug planted on him. Again. “Sure thing Grain.” 

“It’s Grian.” Oh. Must’ve misheard in class. “Hello! I don’t think we ever really got to know each other.” 

“Uh. That’s correct.” Techno turns back to his phone, chugging Niki’s coffee like his life depends on it. If it’s poisoned, maybe it does. Grian stares intently at him, but if Techno kicks him out he’ll probably turn informant for the mob. Safest to not leave witnesses wandering around, so he’ll try to keep Grian happy enough. So when he’s asked for a pen he digs one out, holding it out as he downs more coffee in a desperate bid to avoid eye contact. 

Grian doesn’t take the pen. “I was just checking if you had one.” Uh. Okay…? Was this a secret espionage code he messed up? (Possibly, Techno forgot to take his meds today. It’s not his fault he needs pills to remember to take his pills!) Grian slides over a packet of papers, then taps it when Techno is busy ignoring him. God does he not have enough coffee in him for any of this. “I was just wondering if you can sign this.” Oh crap. OH CRAP. Techno is absolutely RUINING a fan interaction. Bruh he’s going to go down in those lists of authors that are secretly horrible in person! 

But it’s not one of his novels shoved in front of him. It’s a newspaper, specifically the front page, which features a rather large picture of himself and a headline reading ‘BEST-SELLING AUTHOR RUINS SECRET KINGPIN FATHER: MORE ON PAGE 5!’

Techno spews precious coffee everywhere. “WHAT?!” He tears the soggy paper open, hurridly tossing an apology for soiling Grian’s sweater. Dismayed, he skims through a dramatic retelling of the court case. The author is fully convinced the Angel’s minor jail time + fees constitute some type of epic devastation for the Angel of Death. Like. At least they aren’t calling him crazy, but why him???? “........so that’s why people were following me everywhere…”

“You didn’t know?”

“I thought the Angel had to decided to make his stalking way less covert. As like, a power play.” 

Grian lights up. “So it’s all true? Wait– give me my paper back! Where are you going?!” 

Techno storms off, squinting at the author of the sensationalist recap. “To strangle some journalist named Pixirifs, apparently.” For a second his thoughts are entertained by the voices’ various suggestions for torture. Then he checks his watch. “...actually to a Lit & Crit course, but after that-! BRUH?! I DID NOT DEFEAT THE ANGEL IN HAND-TO-HAND COMBAT?????? Just because I restrained him for the arrest…” 

“Wow really?” Grian trails after him. “That’s so cool tell me about that.”

“I have class.”

“Great! I don’t! Why don’t I join you?” 

“Bruuuh. Leave me alone.” Make him. Leg injuries are the most effective, and we can make it look like an accident. 

“Or I could go talk to those ‘people following you around everywhere’.” Grian’s grin grows at his reaction. Apparently he’s the persistent type, following him around chatting while Techno trudges for the English building. The professor raises a brow while Techno slumps into his seat and tries to pretend the five hours of sleep he got weren’t riddled with nightmares about what the Angel is going to do once he breaks out. Thanks to his distraction, Techno gets halfway through a quiz before he glances at where he scrawled his name at the top. 

Techno Craft

He stares at it for so long he runs out of time on the quiz. What’s the matter love? It’s correct. The Piglins said so themselves, you’re mi– He jolts when someone tries to pick it up, then mumbles something about time accommodations for his ADHD and hurriedly finishes it. Then Techno crosses the name out. Again. And again. Furiously scratching it out until the page rips, only stopping when it’s taken. But he doesn’t know what other last name he would use. Maybe it didn’t matter anyway, given he barely understood what the questions were asking after weeks of sporadic attendance. 

“Soooo…what was that about?” Grian asks, chin propped in his hands. 

“Just me being a heartless madman out to ruin his poor adoring father,” Techno mutters angrily. “Why? Isn’t that what you’re following me to see?” He’d thought having his dubious sanity displayed for all the world to see was bad enough, but of course it wouldn’t end with the trial. With a cursory google search, anyone at all can know the details of his personal hell. No longer private and quiet like the scars left by his parents, but carved across his face for all to see, inescapable the rest of his life. 

“Well…some people believed that. But during the trial Skeppy was telling everyone about when he got kidnapped, and how you nearly escaped in a car chase, and the elevator of dead people, and getting poisoned so he couldn’t testify. And he has the 999 call in his phone history to back it up, plus missing class. Of course the Angel would try to paint you as crazy, it’s the only way to cover up his crimes!” Huh. Word of mouth was a damage control that even the Angel couldn’t stop. Maybe the campus will be tolerable. “The Angel has been doing all sorts of interviews, but you haven’t, so everyone’s super curious about the guy who manipulated two criminal masterminds! You’re like, cool and mysterious and machiavellian and tragic!” 

Though suspecting it’s pure flattery to get him talking, Techno is somewhat mollified hearing the campus perception of the trial until the sharp reminder that the entire world has pictures of his back, now. They all know about the abuse, and torture, and trauma. When he’d spat his festering soul in the Angel’s face, he hadn’t expected it to matter that the public saw. Why should it, if he was going to never see the light of the sun again? Forget the Angel’s stalking; he doesn’t have a shred of privacy from the entire world. 

It scares me how badly you’re taking this. The fact you’re unwilling to open up is a major sign of trauma. You’ll never recover at this rate if you can’t learn to be emotionally available. Oh, his emotions are more than available to anyone who wanted them thanks to the trial dissecting him in the public eye. Thanks, Angel, but you’ve done enough here. 

Techno somehow manages to get through class with a short twerp covertly prodding him the whole time. Well, not literally after a few threats about stabbings, but Grian refuses to stop asking annoying questions. 

When he tries to leave, the crowd is waiting outside the classroom. Or, well, he has to covertly confirm with Grian that they’re really there first, but still. Seriously? Do NONE of them have a lecture to attend? It’s absurd. Techno realizes there isn’t a chance to escape through the mob and so does the only logical thing. He slowly gathers his things, catches the prof at the front like he has a question, occasionally glancing to the wolves waiting outside. A casual stroll looking out the window as he chats about post-post-modernist themes or something, a little bit of fiddling, his wary glares holding them at bay just long enough. Techno loudly thanks the prof, announcing his leave, then busts open the window. The peers only race halfway in, caught by the choke point of the door as he swings a leg over. One glance back, a deadpan salute, and Techno climbs down from the second story window. A sharp drop and he’s already running, laughing at their dumbfounded expressions. Grian leans out the window, slack jawed. “Not even close, losers!” 

Tommy at least finds it amusing, Techno regaling the various encounters that plagued him though out the day. Techno, personally, is less enthused about his sudden status as a minor campus celebrity, but it entertains Tommy on the ride home from school. He sounds almost jealous of the attention. Extroverts. Ugh. 

Their hands swing from where they lace together, Tommy skipping at times to keep up with his long legs. Both are carrying more groceries than by all means they should, halfway a competition and halfway the pair being too stubborn to take multiple trips. But for all the juggling act needed to accomplish the feat, still their fingers interlock, refusing to be separate. 

The brothers round the corner to find that stupid crowd outside their apartment, Skeppy just barely guarding the door and looking rather overwhelmed. Grian shoves ahead of the pack, waving wildly. “Hi Techno! We never finished our conversation since you fell out a window.” 

“That was a purposeful defenestration.” Techno pinches the bridge of his nose. A few familiar faces dot the crowd, with the awkwardly tall Ranboo standing out. He is timidly trying to corral the group to little effect. Niki appears to be alternating between bribing people with sweets so they’ll stop shouting questions and threatening arson. Some of the annoyance peters out, Techno’s mood boosted by how his friends are trying to help him out. 

Over the crowd, Skeppy’s eyes meet his. “I’ve been trying to get rid of everyone for an hour! Sorry dude, they’re persistent as he-” he spots Tommy. “...heck.” Halo smacks him for the incredibly mild swear. 

Tommy pokes him. “Does this count as a situation 27?” Sighing, and recognizing how eager Tommy is to practice his safety training, Techno offers him a beleaguered sure kid. Tommy strikes a dramatic pose, the back of his hand thrown over his forehead. “STRANGER DANGER!” he screeches at the top of his lungs. “HELP HELP! I’M A SMALL BOY (except not really) AND I AM BEING KIDNAPPED. SOMEONE CALL THE POLICE! BUT PREFERABLY NOT ONE OF THE CORRUPT ONES COZ AMAB!”

“Acab, Tommy. Acab. Amab is–never mind. Can I just get in my apartment guys? Is that too much to ask?” If even amateurs are able to track him down, he really needs to get a new apartment. 

“Wait, is that Thomas?” “That’s the kid!” “Wow did he reverse kidnap-” Tommy blinks at the overwhelming interest, a bunch of college kids cooing over him. Flourishing beneath the attention, Tommy beams, chatting excitedly. Or, he does until the questions get a little too sharp, digging into sensitive topics. “Is your brother really crazy?” “Did your dad ever murder someone in front of you?” “Did the Angel kill your real parents?” Tommy goes quiet, backing into Techno. 

Offloading groceries to Charlie, Techno scowls at everyone, scooping Tommy up. But still the way is blocked, and his skin prickles at the thought of having to fight his way in. “Really, you idiots believe everything in the paper? Also, how is it any of your business?” Ugh, he’s supposed to be helping Tommy with his homework right now. 

“You realize the more mysterious you act the more curious we get, right?” Grian asks. Luckily, he’s thrown over Charlie’s shoulder. Charlie grins and shoots him a thumbs up, then feigns attempting to chuck the man over the stair railing. Grian’s screams are rather satisfying. See? I did teach you how to yearn for revenge. 

Techno turns upon the crowd, frowning as the voices offered various solutions to his problem. “Alright, as for the rest of you. Anyone who isn’t gone in the next three seconds gets their essays at double price for the rest of eternity.” There’s almost a stampede to get out of the way, and what few stragglers remain are fended off by his friends. Huh. Who knew those would come in handy? 

He definitely needs to find housing outside of the school. The crowd of people constantly trying to get info out of him only expands to include reporters. And possibly assassins. Don’t forget my secret guards! the Angel adds helpfully, though it makes Techno even more paranoid. Frankly, he’s more scared of the reporters. 

However…Techno is starting to consider that it was the Angel who told him reporters are demons. And the fact all the propaganda is stacked against him. Official papers may be too bullied, blackmailed, and bribed to directly call him insane, but Twitter isn’t. If he’d ever like job prospects again, he might need to straighten that out. And fast, if he means to rent a new apartment. Besides, the Angel doesn’t seem as invincible as he used to, his reputation not squeaky clean anymore. If he went through the effort of maintaining it, there must be a reason, something he can lose if the public isn’t so favorable to him. Reputation, clout, access, political influence, Techno can think of a dozen reasons the Angel might not want public opposition, and everyone else who could speak up was silenced in deadly fashion, or will be. 

But more than that, he wants people to notice the next time he disappears. If for whatever reason the Angel relented to legal measures once, it might just happen again if someone knows to look for him. It might be the only accountability Techno can grasp. Cruel, to knowingly risk a reporter’s safety like that, but it’s for Tommy’s sake. He swallows the guilt, and schedules an interview. 

The Wither approves of the plan. It makes him feel worse, but he follows through. 

Blearily, Techno squints at his blinding phone screen. He’s going to murder whoever decided to not make a night mode for this banking app. He would be ranting about it, but it’s 1 am and Tommy is sleeping on his chest. Might be for the foreseeable future, too, Techno is certain the budget won’t stretch to rent a two-bedroom apartment, especially since he refuses to get an unknown roommate. Frankly he’s wondering if he can manage to sleep in a storage unit, since that’s about what he can afford. Hence, anxiously checking his balance at 1 am. After months with no source of income he expects it to be dire. Ideally he’d be gouging his plagiarism racket, but there’s slightly a teensy bit of overwhelming scrutiny on his entire life from who knows how many angles, so he’s utterly screwed there. Techno doesn’t know how to juggle a job while going to college and raising a kid, but he’ll have to find out soon. Might have to drop one of his majors at this rate. Or just redo the entire year after the months the Angel destroyed between the kidnapping and trial. Maybe the school will understand that, but he’s not sure he can afford to pay for another year, especially after completing cutting contact with his parents. He’s barely keeping up as is with so many absences, between the kidnapping, coma, depression…

His bank account balance loads. Techno bolts upright. “WHAT!?”

Tommy makes unhappy noises as he wakes up, but Techno is busy losing his mind. He rubs his exhausted eyes and forces them to focus on the little numbers. No, he read that right. Peeling out of bank, Techno begins pacing uncontrollably. This changes everything. “What’s skoin on?” Tommy whines. 

“I’m rich! I’m unbelievably wealthy! Ow!” Techno hops around, clutching a stubbed toe. 

Tommy yawns and squints at the screen shoved into his face. Then he snuggles back in Techno’s bed. “It’s only a couple million,” he mumbles. 

“ONLY- Tommy. Tommy this changes everyth-“

I didn’t think you’d take the bait this easy, darling. Techno freezes. Right. Financial control is an abuse tactic. If the Angel is tampering with his accounts, that means he needs to make new ones. If for a moment he relies on the man’s blood money it’ll only be used to control him. The moment he steps out of line he’ll be left destitute again. Techno scrutinizes the bank information. Where did all this money even come from officially?

Restitution. Most of it, at least. The last few days of trial are an utter blur given his disastrous mental state. But legally he is supposed to be compensated for being kidnapped. And…and if Techno spends this money, it can’t be used against him or anyone else. Crime takes money. 

The expected withdrawals from the school are missing. Mysteriously, every possible expense Techno could ever conceivably come across at Hypixel has been magically indefinitely paid for. Given he has no idea how to stop it, or could afford to do otherwise. Techno bitterly swallows the show of power. 

But combined, they don’t quite account for the incomprehensible surplus. Every month there’s a relatively smaller amount given to his account from his publisher. The word ‘relative’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting; it’s hundreds of thousands of dollars, and he gets whiplash from the fact that’s considered small in the grand scheme of his finances. 

But it makes him glow with pride, because that money is actually his. Not some consolation prize for surviving, but fully earned. It’s the wild success of his writing that he always dreamed of. And suddenly when he pictures the future it isn’t surviving one day at a time, but the five-year plan that he abandoned in the struggle to make it out. No, more than that, decades down the line. A life built on painting worlds in others’ minds. He can do it, he really can, it’s not impossible. Countless faceless people have read his book, have wept and laughed from his words. They scour the pages he poured himself into and love it. He made something worthwhile. He is something worthwhile. 

It hits like a truck when he remembers the Angel bought this victory when he artificially boosted his book’s popularity. That it all comes down to nepotism and blood money, even the success that was supposed to be his. Techno doesn’t know how to ever untangle himself from the man that ruined his life. 

But he saw it. Just for a moment he glimpsed a future all his own, a life where he didn’t remember the Angel at all. A Techno all his own, not melted into the shape others cast for him. Techno seizes the vision and refuses to ever let go. 

Techno stares down the paperwork he was about to sign. The pen begins to shake a little, and he sets it down sharply so it isn’t obvious. 

This deed is to certify that     Technoblade Craft                     is (are) now registered as the absolute proprietor(s) of the land comprised in the aforementioned title…

“That’s not my name.” What’s the harm in a single word? Are you seriously going to become hysterical over this? His fingers twitch, wanting to run through Floof’s fur like he does in class now, but he’s off scampering through their new house after Tommy. Almost their new house, if he can just sign the dotted line with a name that makes him want to run away screaming. If you’re this stressed over nothing, you obviously aren’t responsible enough to buy a house. Why do you even need to? Our home is patiently waiting for you to return. Techno can feel the Angel tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear, and he shivers. 

The real estate agent’s blinding plastic smile doesn’t falter. “Sorry? What a silly mistake, dear me. What is your legal name?” 

“It’s-” Techno pauses. The silence drags on suspiciously. The Wither facepalms. You’re lucky the Nether was slaughtered, honestly you would have never survived a double life. “I guess it is Technoblade Craft. But it won't be for long, I’m changing it. And then- if it’s the wrong name on the deed, do I even own it? Would I get evicted??” Techno buries his head in his hands. Anxiously, he cards through his dark hair, messing it up so he can’t feel the Angel. “Crap. I can’t buy this house. That’s– bro I’m so sorry for wasting everyone’s time-” 

“No worry sir! Name changes are fully expected! Takes a little paper work, but the house will still be yours.” She claps her hands, beaming brilliantly at his instant relief. “Congratulations by the way! Honestly it’s a relief, I was worried your little boy wouldn’t turn out right without a feminine influence. Ahm. A real one.” She glances at his hair for some reason. “It really does take two, you know. Better if it had been before - hmm, well, better late than never haha! Is the wedding soon?”

It takes Techno a minute to process the disturbing number of assumptions just made about his personal life. He elects to turn strawberry red about it. It only causes her to clasp her hands and sigh about young love (and how it should wait until marriage), as if he isn’t about to die of mortification. “If it’s soon I can hand wave it a little, file the paper work with the hyphenated last name instead. What will your full legal name be?” 

“I– I-” Obviously an assassination attempt. She’s distracting you! Not helping! “I’m not– my name-”

He can feel the Piglins like a pressure between his scarred shoulder blades. As if they’re glaring at him, and if he turns around he’ll see them. Techno is scared that they will be, if he looks. You can’t get rid of us that easily after everything we suffered for you. You belong to us. 

No, to me! Blood of my blood, you are mine in every drop I spilled in our name. 

Oh, as if Technoblade Piglin wasn’t the code name I invented. Your entire life, honed into my blade. 

“I don’t know yet?” he squeaks, then shrinks at her scandalized reaction. 

“You think it’s just a hand wave to get hitched?! It isn’t window shopping, it’s a lifelong commitment! Tommy needs a proper mother in his life, not a revolving door of women! Hmph. This generation is doomed.” 

Hell, what can he say that will possibly resolve this? Without giving away information that could get him or Tommy hurt. There’s so much he doesn’t know where to start. No that’s not my son I’ve just temporarily kidnapped him but don’t worry the other guy is worse! Like that wouldn’t get the cops called on him immediately. What about I’ve lost control of my identity and grip on reality and fear sharing a name with the voices in my head will give them too much influence over me? Or maybe a rather hysterical I’ve never even kissed a girl before so I can’t be a teen parent! Or- wait. Did she imply he was gay in the same breath of slandering him with an underage pregnancy, or is the assumption he's trans..? In which direction?? God, he wants to be out of this conversation immediately. Frankly even the voices are flummoxed.

“Me and my little brother are in witness protection,” he lands on. As if that would stop me, gemstone~ “I’m scared he’ll find us if I use my old name. And we’ll have to go back to living with him if I can’t buy this house.” 

The real estate agent looks positively shocked. “Oh!” She never quite manages anything past that, the pair fumbling messes that vaguely get a legal document sorted out without technically using a legal name under the promise he’ll get it sorted out later. The unknown phantom of a criminal that might murder him and Tommy if a paper trail shows up is a very useful fiction, though likely mostly works because Techno subtly presses her embarrassment over a social faux pa enough to get through. 

They shake hands, and Techno is suddenly a homeowner. As soon as the real estate agent sweeps through the door, he casually checks bugs in the rooms she passed, although admittedly is preoccupied imagining the security measures he can get away with now that he isn’t dealing with the constraints of a leased apartment. Top of the list is the locks and reinforcing the few windows. Curtains are a must, always drawn to stop prying eyes. But- oh that’s a good spot for bugs. Really anything will be, whether decoration or defense. He’ll leave a room or two completely barren for an easy bug sweep if he really needs privacy. His mind ticks away at the problem of creating escape routes and hiding spots that can’t be repurposed by an invader. Hidden weapons stashes are a risk, but it feels worse to imagine himself cornered and defenseless when a bo staff hiding as an inconspicuous lamp could buy him personal space. And the attic- oh the attic! With a little bit of engineering Techno can ensure the pull-down stairs are rendered inaccessible at the whims of whoever is already up. He’d like to see any kidnappers prepared enough to have brought a ladder with them! A proper not-bunker to keep them safe in the event of a raid. 

But as he wanders the halls, other scenes begin to play out. He finds the perfect nook to put pig bean bag II, mentally positioning a TV for gaming sessions with Skeppy. Techno can see the hair dye spilling in the sink as he and Niki touch up their roots. A bookcase right there to proudly display his novels, filling more and more as the years progress. Planning how many couches he’ll need to fit all his friends for study nights that inevitably unravel into goofing off. 

And then, Tommy’s room. Or, it could be. Techno made sure the bathroom connected to his room, so they can still brush their teeth together every night. A desk to work through Tommy’s homework together. A massive bed to fit all the stuffed animals his heart desires. Maybe a trundle, in case he wants a sleep-over with Tubbo. And though that would mean Tommy couldn’t hide under his bed, he’d also never need to. 

And suddenly, the future is real. Not a glimpse, but a vision unfurling. So tangible he can hear the murmur of his friend’s laughter in the other room, and he finds the hallucination doesn’t bother him so much. 

“TECHNO! WHERE’D YOU VANISH TO??” 

“I’M OVER HERE!” he calls happily. Techno scoops Tommy up as he runs past, whirling him through the air until the pair is dizzy. Floof races around his legs, barking excitedly. “The house is all ours, now,” Techno grins. 

“What took so long with the agent?” 

“Name problems. I have to change it after the Angel messed with all my documents, but I don’t want to go back to Piglin, either. But this means I can pick whatever name I want! Any suggestions?” 

“Tommy Jr!” 

He snorts. “Techno Tommy Jr? That’s really your best idea?” 

“Yes! Because you deserve the best new name, and I’m the best!” 

“Bruuuh.”

Tommy draws himself up in mock affront. “If you didn’t want the objectively correct answer you shouldn’t have asked me, then.” 

And maybe now is the time to ask. Now, when the world seems to glow. Now, when he’s finally remembered how to want a future. Because no matter what he pictures, Tommy is always there. “I need to make sure you like it. Since…if you want, it could be your last name, too.” 

No. No no no, you can’t do that, he’s my kid, MINE, YOU CAN’T HAVE HIM I’LL KILL YOU IF YOU DARE TAKE HIM FROM ME. 

As the Angel howls with fury, Techno holds his breath for a response. But Tommy just gives him a confused head tilt. “You know how I’m your legal guardian at the moment? I want to make that permanent.” That was my only mistake. I was too lenient, should have never let you even dream of escaping. “Um. But only you want it to be permanent. Because if not, I’ll drop it completely, okay? Just say the word.” 

“Like- you’ll stay forever!?” His immediate excitement overwhelms the walls Techno had buttressed to protect himself. Techno’s breath hitches, for the warm relief of Tommy’s unfettered eagerness, for the fear of being so trusted. Tommy lunges at him in a blur, holding tight like he’ll never let go. Techno doesn’t want him to. “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Techno chokes, hugging him tight to bury his panic. 

“So how’s it work? Do you just sign a thing and they say ‘okay now he’s your problem’ all legally?”

“Not that easy. I might not succeed, since the Angel will fight it.” 

And abruptly, Tommy’s enthusiasm falters. “Oh. So this is a- is an either or thing.” No. Somehow you forget that you two are mine. 

“I’m afraid so. At least, legally, medically, who you live with, stuff like that. I’m not cutting your Dad completely out of your life, okay? That’s not what this is. I wouldn’t take that choice from you.” He should know, after how hard he doubled down on the Piglins once the Angel tried to replace them. 

Tommy is palpably relieved. Techno doesn’t flinch. Barely. But he will do whatever it takes to ensure this is really Tommy’s choice and not the burden of what Techno wants. “What does that look like?” 

“A custody battle. More time in court, but in an office, private. More like an interview, the lawyers wouldn’t be nearly so involved.” Lucky, that. Mr. Edgeworth and Miss Faraday have gone mysteriously missing. “And then…I fight to keep you with everything I have.”

There’s a calculating look filtering into Tommy’s face. “Both of you will have to.” 

“It…might be a bit of a long shot, if I’m honest. The Angel is good at twisting evidence and institutions. But he did loose last time. It might not be fair, but I have a chance. But only if you ask me to. Do you want me to be your guardian?” 

Determination glitters in Tommy. “I need you to try.” 

Chapter Text

April Fools! Real chapter is either this or next weekend. Also I've fully given up on figuring out the chapter count and am trying to enforce a 30 page cap on myself.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Toms!” Tommy doesn’t match his broad grin. Only briefly does Wilbur’s smile falter, quickly smoothed to something lopsided and casual. How does he manage to stand there so confidently, as if an orange jumpsuit and armed guard are his typical attire? “How’s school going?” he asks conversationally, as if that’s the most pressing topic at hand. 

Eventually, the silence gets under Wilbur’s skin. “Are you having fun staying with Techno?” 

“I reckon you’re taller than the last time I saw you,” Wilbur tries, almost placating when normally he’d tear into Tommy’s height. But all it does is stab Tommy with the reminder that it’s been almost two weeks since they saw each other. Tommy’s expression slips into a scowl. 

“Anything I can do to help, Toms?” Wilbur asks cautiously. 

“I think you’ve done enough.” But at the barb, Wilbur relaxes. As if just by beginning to talk, he’s already won. It’s utterly infuriating. “You didn’t warn me you were going to prison,” Tommy accuses to get him on the back foot. 

“So sorry about that. It took me by surprise, but, well, that’s what the jury decided.”

“After you told them to.”

And finally, his claws hook under Wilbur’s worn face. He hitches, re-evaluating Tommy. “...ah. So Dad lifted the search restrictions after the trial, did he?”

“No. But it’s hard not to find out with my entire school talking about what you said.” 

Wilbur brightens. “Oh, rumors? I thought Dad taught you better about sources. You can’t believe gossip, Tommy.” 

For a second, relief floods through. But- no, Techno confirmed it. And really Wilbur did, too, by his initial reaction. Cross, Tommy snarls, “Liar! You can’t trick me that easily! I’m NOT stupid, despite everyone thinking it!’ 

“Eh? I don’t think you’re stupid. Who’s calling you stupid? Was it those gossipers? If you’re getting bullied I can take care of-” 

Tommy stamps his foot. “You are STILL trying to distract and trick me! You exploded our family, Wilbur, and you can’t pretend otherwise!” 

Wilbur sighs, spreading his hands like he’s been caught. It still reeks of performance. “Okay. I confessed to abducting Tech, because that’s what happened and lying in court is bad. But I didn’t explode our family, because that wasn’t one, just a kidnapping victim doing what it took to survive. Tech lied to all of us, and I honestly can’t blame him.”

“Don’t argue words with me-”

Wilbur grins. “Words are usually how arguments work, actually.” 

“STOP DOING THAT! CAN’T YOU TAKE ME SERIOUSLY FOR FIVE MINUTES?!” The anger leaves his throat raw. Wilbur’s face drops. “I don’t care about your stupid definitions! Family, not, I don’t care, you separated us. You can’t weasel your way out of that fact.” For a moment he’s as shaken as Tommy feels, exactly as confused and hurting and missing all the pieces. But then it’s gone again, Wilbur getting his footing, shifting tactics, this awful sympathetic, condescending look filling in his new mask. Why can’t he be honest? Why can’t ANYONE be honest with him!? 

“But we have to be separated. You’ve seen how awful those two are for each other. Like twin black holes orbiting one another. Caught in each other’s gravity, unable to escape. They don’t see anybody but each other, yet get too close and it feels like everything is sucked in and destroyed. We’re all collateral in their obsession with each other. 

“Dad’s beginning to pull away. Or, he’s trying to. But I reckon Techno is thinking about us in every single thing he does, isn’t he? He’s escaped physically, but not mentally.” Wilbur grimaces. Sighs. “But it’s not my job to save him anymore. I’ll help if I can, but it’s not my responsibility. Never should’ve been in the first place. It’s almost intoxicating, finally getting away from it. Remembering the world doesn’t revolve around them in an ever-quickening, destructive spiral.”

But Tommy doesn’t care about grand metaphors and lofty goals. “You can’t escape family, Wilbur.” 

“See the thing is, you have to, Toms. When they’re like this, sucking you in and closing your horizon into just their disaster, crushing you into something so much smaller than you could be…you have to. It’s not a family anymore, just an abusive environment.” 

“So we’re not brothers anymore?”

And Wilbur’s nonchalance shatters into unadulterated hurt. Interesting. He must still love Tommy, then. But Tommy doesn’t care so much if he’s loved, moreso if he’s wanted. All his life the two were synonyms, but of late they’ve been nearly anathema. Supposedly Dad and Wil love him, but want nothing to do with him. Techno is the polar opposite, and of the two it’s not hard to prefer Techno’s lack of love. It doesn’t leave a caustic residue on Tommy’s every breath, corroding through his heart. 

It takes a bit for Wilbur to be able to breathe again from the gut-punch. “No, I- No, that’s not true, you have to believe I wasn’t thinking of it like that.” And of course Tommy doesn’t really, because no one is ever thinking of him. And yet the scourge of their absence is unbearable all the same. “I know it’s hard on you. I know.” 

“No you don’t. You don’t even want to play at considering it might be, ‘cause then it might mean realizing you made the wrong choice.”

“Tommy, it’s not that simple, it’s so much bigger than just-” 

“You chose to leave me, Wilbur.”

Wilbur’s smile aches as he tries to be gentle. “I’m an adult now, Tommy. It was already time for me to launch into independence, but Dad was chaining me to the nest. Moving away, really starting my own life- it was going to happen naturally anyway. But that doesn’t mean I’m truly gone. It doesn’t mean I don’t care even if our lives don’t overlap as much as they used to.” He bites his lip. “Although you’ve got to believe me, I did not think I would be going to jail.” By the tinge of irritated embarrassment, it might even be true. 

Tommy softens. Just a little. “What was your plan?” 

“If I’m honest…I thought Tech would run the moment he was out, and intended to sabotage Dad’s every attempt to find him. I figured enough time and distance might break Dad’s obsession. Er, well, with a lot of work on my end given the last 18 years didn’t do much to dampen it. But then Tech just…didn’t. I tried to stall out the trial some, give him time to get what he needed to abscond. Like, he had a snowball’s chance in hell of winning, everyone knew it. I honestly thought it had been a pointless waste of time by the end since it’s not like Dad couldn’t just spin anything I tried to say. But then came Techno’s last testimony.” 

“Why? What happened?” And why doesn’t anyone want to let him know? 

“It was…really, really awful. I knew he loathed me and Dad, but- god Tommy, it was like he was a different person. The real Tech, maybe, or what’s left of him. It just broke something in Dad to hear how Tech really felt about us.”

Tommy gets it, a little. These past few days, dealing with what passes for truth with Techno. It’s almost impossible to reconcile how Techno acted before with how blatantly he lathes and fears Dad now. But Tommy already knows that. “What did he say about me?” 

It takes a few seconds for Wilbur to pull himself out of the memory. “Hmm? He didn’t. You weren’t mentioned at all.” Ah. Right. Of course he wouldn’t be significant enough to come up. 

“Was hearing that why you testified?” Is all this Techno’s fault, then? And is it easier if he is? It’s not like he loves Tommy, doesn’t it make more sense if he’s nothing more than a wrongun that decided to destroy their family? Yet try as he might there’s no heat in the conviction. 

Wilbur snorts. “Oh, I knew it already. Or parts of it. It’s more like…I spent my entire life as half a person dedicated to saving Tech. And now I have, and it didn’t complete me. But it feels better, now that it is completed. A gash finally scabbed over, given peace to fade into scarring as I move on with my life, no longer distracted by the pain of it. Now I’m free to finally find myself. Well, as much as one can in prison.”

“You’re speaking nonsense. This isn’t you just- finding a new hobby, or moving out of the house to be your own big man. It isn’t self-discovery: it’s you locking yourself up so you don’t have to deal with the mess you created!” 

But Wilbur just smiles at him sadly, like Tommy is the one who can’t see straight. “You’re still caught up in them. In the narrative they made. It was always a mess, but it’s easier to blame me for pointing it out than recognizing that.” Maybe. Maybe. Because hadn’t Tommy lied, too? Lied right to the court with crocodile tears streaming down his face, just so they could go back to the way it used to be. The way they used to pretend. And he hates Wilbur, too, for pointing this out as well. 

His brother sets a hand on his shoulder, still trying to help in the cruelest way possible. “Don’t go past the event horizon. The moment you’re overwhelmed, get pulled in too deep…just remember I’m always here, arm outstretched to pull you out. All you have to do is reach for me.” 

Dad beams the second the door opens, pure joy radiating his features. “Sunshine! Oh my sunshine-” Tommy is immediately scooped into the air and hugged so tightly. Dad rocks him in his arms, stroking through his hair in a way Tommy desperately missed. “I love you. I love you so much. I’m so, so sorry I ever gave you cause to doubt.” It’s the relief Tommy has been holding out for. No, Dad doesn’t hate him, that blatant adoration can’t be fake.

(Or could it? Wasn’t Techno’s?)

And he’s angry with Dad. He knows he is. But it seems to melt as they sink into a couch, Dad pulling him into his lap. Tommy doesn’t quite fit like he did when he was little. He squeezes as hard as he can, wanting it to hurt. “I can’t believe you’re here,” Dad mumbles, “I didn’t know if I’d see you again.” 

“Why not?” Couldn’t he, if he really wanted to? 

“I…didn’t know that Techno would allow it.” 

“Techno’s got nothing to do with it,” Tommy insists. “You can do whatever you want.” 

“And I don’t want to hurt him more than I have.” 

“What about hurting me, Dad?” He shouldn’t pick fights with Dad. Tommy can’t afford to, not right now. But he’s full of pent-up frustration from Wilbur being a condescending jerk. “You forgot me again! You said you wouldn’t, and you did! Shutting me out of everything like- like I’m not important enough to know.” 

“You’re a kid, sunshine. I was trying to shelter you from the uglin-”

“IT’S MY FAMILY TOO!” Dad stutters to a stop. “It’s my family too. And you all act like I don’t deserve to know what’s happening until the consequences of your- mind games or whatever are crashing down around my head. You’re not PROTECTING me, you’re just leaving me alone and scared as the bunker shrinks in and Techno comes back dead again!” As Tommy’s eyes brim with tears, a soft murmur of oh sunshine, a hand runs down his back- “Don’t TOUCH me!” Tommy screams. Dad utterly freezes as Tommy breaks down sobbing. He buries himself in Dad’s chest, thankful and resentful in equal measure when Dad respects the boundary and doesn’t embrace him. “Stop f-forgetting about me. I can’t bear it anymore.”

“I didn’t forget you for a single second. This was…a choice I made. A bad one, but I thought it would help you. No. No, I thought it would help me. My reason was twofold. First, I did some ugly things to keep Technoblade alive. But on stand I had to lie about it, which felt like lying to you were you to hear those testimonies. And as for Technoblade’s…I wanted to not hear it. But I thought I needed to. And I did, just not in a way I liked. I couldn’t really handle the truth of what your brother’s been through. What I put him through, at times. So I assumed you’d be the same. And if I’m honest, Thomas, I still believe that.”

“I was there, Dad!” Tommy explodes, slamming a fist into his chest. “Everyone thinks I’m stupid! I’m not! Hard to tell if you’ve even noticed, but I live with Techno now; it’s kinda not hard to see him flinch whenever I mention you! Just because you all were apparently lying the whole time, to me, to each other, to yourselves– it doesn’t stop me from seeing the facts. I saw the blood, I was there when Techno escaped. I knew Techno was scared of you, I knew you were evil, I knew and I lied on stand so I wouldn’t lose you. I KNEW all that, Dad! I KNEW! What I needed to know was that you decided to lose! Decided to leave me! Because maybe it’s all Wilbur’s fault, but you let it happen and I’ll never forgive you for that.”

“I’m not…” and Dad’s voice breaks. Why does he sound so fragile? (And why does it scare Tommy when his attack succeeds?) “I’m not all powerful, Thomas. I couldn’t stop this.”

“Shut up! Just shut up! Dad always gets what he wants!” 

“You think I want this?” It’s the grief that destroys Tommy. He wants his dad to hurt, but not like this. “You think I want to be separate from you? That each second without my sunshine isn’t agony?” 

Tommy covers his ears, insisting, “no no no no nO NO NO NO-”

Is it easier? If Dad hates him? If that’s why it hurts so much? Because then all he has to do is change. To do whatever it takes for the world to be right and safe and kind again. Because if it isn’t, then there’s nothing Tommy can do. Worse, there’s nothing his Dad can do. And the thought of that surety faltering is unbearable. 

But Techno has always, always been right. Love only hurts. 

And maybe Philza can’t carry the entire sky. 

“I couldn’t stop the verdict. Not after Technoblade’s last testimony. Not after I realized how badly I’ve hurt him.”

“So you just gave up on me?!”  

“I couldn’t move, Thomas.” Tommy’s arguing stops abruptly. Dad is quiet, rough. “The truth hurt so much I couldn’t move. Sam physically dragged me out of bed each morning. My every limb felt like lead. My head felt even worse. I could barely breathe. Something crushing me down with each exhale.” And Tommy knows that feeling, because it’s happening now, Dad’s embrace a vise. “And worse, I know it’s just a fraction of what I put him through. Because Techno was catatonic after the Nether, and that’s my fault. I failed him. And I’m failing you, too. I know I am, Thomas, don’t think I don’t. But I don’t know how to fix any of this.” 

Dad isn’t supposed to be as lost and scared and sad as Tommy is. But if he thought his father cruel for withholding the answers from him, it’s far, far worse to realize Dad doesn’t have them, either.

“Come home. Now. Or- once you can, once you’re not so sad you can’t do anything. Can’t you break out?” 

“I meant to. Have our family completely step out of his life, so that he could have peace.” Tommy chokes on the nightmare. 

“Then why didn’t you?” 

“I don’t think that would help, sunshine,” Dad says softly. “I think it might just kill Technoblade. He immediately threatened to stab himself when Sam tried to bring you home. I’m scared what he’ll do if jostled. You know how the smallest thing can spiral with him.” In the wake of the incident, Techno had spluttered as his suave negotiation mask dropped, laughing in disbelief. They’d- they’d joked together about Techno threatening self harm. The double vision makes him sick. In one eye the pure exuberant relief that Techno’s plan worked and Tommy got to keep his brother…and in the other, the growing horror it might not have been a bluff. Not a clever ploy to keep them together, but a sign of the deep fractures that threaten to shatter Techno. Is the biggest threat to Techno not a villain, not even Dad, but Techno himself? 

“And…and he’s finally beginning to recover. It’s probably only because he feels safe enough to, with me locked up. It’s not fair to you, I know it’s not. And I swear it isn’t because you’re any less of a priority to me. But I deeply fear the risks of pushing Technoblade even a little further. And so, having laid out all I know so you’re no longer left out…can you forgive me?” 

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what else to say. “I- it makes sense. I guess. But I’m still mad.” Fading, maybe. Tommy wishes it really were so simple, with a nice easy target for the fire inside him. There’s no one here to endure the brunt of his anger. Wilbur too high, pretending he’s above it all. Dad brought so low it feels wrong. No one in reach, and so Tommy’s hands curl in useless fists, nails carving crescents of pain into his own palms. 

“That’s fair,” Dad replies quietly. “That’s more than fair.” This, then, was the real sentencing. He takes the verdict harder than that of the jury’s decision.

“So this is it? For six months I just don’t have a dad?” 

“I reckon I’ll get off sooner for good behavior,” he tries. “But…thereabouts. I won’t be so distant anymore. I was…kind of a wreck, to be honest? But when I heard you, scared and hurting, it broke through everything. You gave me purpose again, sunshine. I’d like to promise it won’t happen again, but…” 

“But I’m not sure I’d believe it.” 

He flinches, but nods. “And you have every right not to. But I can promise I’ll try. Lots of visits, and calls. I’m still your ever watching guardian angel, just like before. But our family can’t look like it used to. Not how I tried to make it, picture-perfect. But…it is still a family. You’re still my son. He’s still your brother. It can’t be the same. But it can be healthier.”

“Techno, would you actually kill yourself?” 

There’s a deafening silence. 

But, in all fairness, Techno has one earbud in and is concentrating on the strawberry pancakes he’s making. His head bops along to whatever he’s listening to. He never sings, but sometimes half mumbles, though not to any songs Tommy recognizes. Then again, all of Techno’s playlists are utter garbage. Regardless, it seems to soothe him, even if it does mean he’s gotten bad at responding. Not that he ever wears both earbuds, though, not feeling safe enough to be fully unaware even in his own home. But Tommy never gets the drop on him. Techno turns at his footsteps, and removes the single earbud. “Hullo?” 

“Would you kill yourself?” Cause just about every other source of safety and surety Tommy has vanished, and Dad’s words echo, echo. The anticipated plummet of complete isolation haunts him. It’s not like Tommy wasn’t already expecting Techno to abandon him; escape has driven Techno’s every action in the half year they’ve known each other. Yet he didn’t have the assurance he could find Techno again if he’s dead. 

Techno blinks at him. Mostly just…confused. Like the thought had never occurred to him. “Haeh? No??” Techno doesn’t sound guilty. Tommy nods with the verdict, then turns on his heels. Belatedly, he feels a little sick of his self absorption, ashamedly escaping. Only, Techno catches him by the hoodie. “No, hold on- bro what?” Tommy tilts his head back, thumping on Techno’s stomach as his brother peers down at him. “No no no you gotta explain that one, Tommy.” 

“Just confirming.” 

“Have you been the one leaving ‘ask a question, save a life’ brochures on the living room table?”

“Nah. I think that’s Halo.” 

“Well good. Because the last thing I need is another therapist.” Techno’s eyes narrow. “Wait. Does your dad think I am?” Before he can answer, Techno’s expression drops to a dull, lifeless null. Oh no, he’s scheming again. 

“Are you seriously debating if you get a tactical advantage by letting the bugs hear you’re suicidal?” 

Techno laughs a little too forcefully. “Wh- what noo that would be crazy!” 

And Techno admitted he is, after months of manipulating the Crafts. “Are you lying because Dad’s listening?” 

“Yes, but in my defense it would be an unbeatable trump card. Oh- about the other thing. Um. I mean…” He bites his lip, then yanks his earbuds out of his phone port. Taylor Swift’s newest album blasts through the kitchen, and Techno leans in close to whisper, trusting the noise interference to allow them moderate privacy. Tommy’s blood pressure skyrockets. “So…I’ve spent basically my entire life fighting to survive, right? Like, sometimes it feels like everything I’ve ever done branches off from that purpose. Committing, uh, that would kinda go against my every instinct.”

Tommy hugs him tight in pure relief, properly burying his face from Dad’s cameras. He won’t override Techno’s prerogative to lie to Dad as long as he’s given the truth. Unless- but how would Tommy know if this isn’t a deception, too? He whispers, “promise?” 

Techno’s pinky hooks around his own, tight with sincerity. “Course. Dying would mess with my five year plan in a pretty major way, y’know?” But his joke hitches when he mentions a five year plan, brushing a memory. Techno awkwardly scrubs the back of his neck. “I…suppose I should tell you it got pretty bad for me at the trial. But honestly, it didn’t occur to me then, either. Maybe it couldn’t. I’m- I’m not entirely convinced I can die, Tommy. Or I’m not allowed to. Like- I’d just get up again, a ghost possessing myself. Maybe I already have.” He stops abruptly, spinning through his own words, then evidently deems them rational. “Technoblade never dies. So you don’t gotta worry about it, alright?”

Allowed. It rattles in Tommy’s head. Is that what death is, then? Escape? “So you do prefer dying to living with Dad?”

“Uh. I didn’t say that even slightly? Can’t I opt out of both?” Tommy hesitates, then nods. The relief in Techno’s eyes sits uneasy on Tommy’s shoulders, heavy. It’s only when they’re hugging that Tommy realizes he might’ve agreed to a lot more than he intended to. 

But before he can correct or confirm, Techno goes tense, shoving Tommy behind him protectively. And once Tommy catches the scent of burning, he shrinks behind his brother, frantically looking for where the danger is coming from. And then, their gazes cross, and lock in shared realization. In tandem the brothers scream, “THE PANCAKES!” 

“How are you doing?” Dad asks. He doesn’t ask about Techno, after Tommy told him off for it last visit. Philza and Tommy don’t talk about Techno. But everything else is fair game, and it all pours out in a rush as Tommy chatters about his week. An entire afternoon doesn’t feel like enough, Tommy tearing through the diary uh super manly journal (like slenderman has) to wring out every last detail. It helps that Dad adds details from his security reports. Makes Tommy feel like Dad is still with him. Plus, whenever he gets sad, he can pull faces at places where he suspects bugs.  

“And? What else?” Dad asks expectantly. Tommy strings him along of course, talking about a joke Jack made about his bruised nose. And then a hard video game level he beat, and then a vexing test. But they’ve done this song and dance a hundred times, and Tommy always, always gives in to Dad’s patient prodding. 

“Annnnd…I got in two more fights.” Techno doesn’t know. Unlike Dad, he doesn’t dig under the surface, instantly knowing whenever Tommy is upset. He simply believes when Tommy tells him he’s staying after school to hang with Tubbo, instead of detention. 

“Did you win?” Tommy grins, because it’s familiar. He proudly recounts the victory, and Dad is properly impressed that one of the kids he beat was in 8th grade. “Attaboy! Serves them right for picking on you.” Those two, maybe. Somehow it only makes everyone talk more. But of course Dad picks up on his creeping foul mood; he probably knows everything that’s being said behind Tommy’s back. Might even give Tommy the list, if he asks. “Although…it is starting to seem like a pattern.” Yeah? So what if it is? But Dad’s hands raised in pacification at his immediate bristle. “On your classmate’s end. It doesn’t seem like a healthy learning environment, is all. I was wondering if you wanted to pull out of school? We can switch to private tutors, maybe lighten your course load considering the rough circumstances. You’d get more time with- your brother.” The sales pitch stumbles, Dad uncertain he’s allowed to dangle that particular carrot. 

It sounds claustrophobic. “I want to be around people. I just, hate all of them.”

“You could transfer schools?” But everyone would just know him anyways, only this time exclusively from the news. “Oh! What about a secret identity! Like in a spy movie, infiltrating. Would that be fun? No one would be none the wiser, just dye your hair, change your name.” Techno wants Tommy to change his name, too. The thought of Techno’s plan makes his mouth feel like cotton. But only around Dad. With Techno, the thought feels like sunlight incarnate. It would be so much easier if Tommy could empty out all his murky thoughts until only one simple, easy emotion is left, that way he doesn’t have to get all confused switching between them. 

Problem is, he suspects that one emotion might just be fury. 

“Are you alright?” Techno asks when Tommy gets out. He asks it every time. Nothing more, nothing less. Not what Dad said, or what he’s doing. And Tommy doesn’t answer that, either. Techno and Tommy don’t talk about Philza. 

There’s an assembly on Monday to explain why bullying is bad. Doesn’t stop everyone from hating him. Doesn’t stop Tommy from ‘hanging with Tubbo’ three more times, either. 

Unease unspools in Techno’s gut. Every nerve in his body wants him to leave, but he’s doing this for Tommy. It’s only every Saturday, and he doesn’t even need to be in the same room. He doesn’t have to see the Angel at all. 

But Tommy does. No matter what, that's still his Dad, and Techno can’t take that from him. So he waits jittering in the prison visitation lobby, rehearsing in his head over and over. Charlie makes a few quips, and eventually he finds some degree of ease while waiting a couple hours. 

It’s not as bad as the first prison visit. Charlie had to help him through a panic attack, then, once the door clicked shut behind Tommy and he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Charlie is shockingly good at it, actually, able to spontaneously blurt something so off the cuff Techno is too confused to be scared. The second visit, Charlie even got Techno to laugh once. 

Charlie also came in handy, after the first visit, when Tommy came out with a tear streaked face. The voices had pounced on Techno, urging him to exploit the distress. And maybe some part of him regrets shutting up and letting Charlie handle it, once Tommy starts pestering him for when the next visit is. Because now, Tommy comes out of visits beaming. And it’s only when seeing the boy practically buoyant that Techno realizes how muted he’d been before. Realizes maybe Tommy needs Philza more than him.  

Maybe that’s why Techno finally has the courage to do it. The fear of being kidnapped again was outweighed by the thought of losing Tommy. 

Finally, Tommy bounces out, having found some end to the barrage of things he’d been waiting to talk to his Dad all week about. Clutched to his chest is a little journal Techno gave him to write down all the stories and jokes and thoughts he wants to share each visit, so he doesn’t forget them. Techno refuses to see the insides. He braces, then stands, wrangling Tommy into his seat and promising to be back soon. The predicted complaint at having to wait is deflected by the entertaining presence of Charlie, which is the second reason why Techno brought him. The first naturally being that Charlie is the strongest of their friend group, just in case something goes wrong. 

“Can I see Philza Craft?” Techno asks a guard. 

“No. You’re not on the roster.”

“What? Could’ve sworn I should be. The Angel is expecting me.” The slightest of eye-widenings, and the guard declares that they will check with their superiors. When the door swings close, he can swear he hears them break into a run. Uh huh. Magically the issue has been cleared up when they return. A squeeze of Tommy’s shoulder, a glare skewering Charlie to the wall if Tommy disappears by the time he’s done, and Techno marches after the guard. He has to fight himself for each step forward. “There’s a two weeks notice for visiting high level security, not two minutes,” Techno observes blandly. 

The guard glances at him suspiciously. “Eh? There was a mistake on the paperwork, I just didn’t see you the first time.”

“I never signed up.”

They don’t speak for the rest of the walk to the meeting room, each well aware the other knew. 

Techno thought there was going to be glass separating them. Like in the movies. He thought there’d be protection, at the very least some semblance of safety, but the Angel of Death is just standing there, nothing stopping him. Techno stumbles back, hitting the door roughly. Holding out his hands in pacification, the Angel retreats, sitting on a little couch. There are indents on the cushions from where he and Tommy cuddled. “I’ll stay over here, alright? Does that make you feel safer?” Just barely can Techno control his breathing. “I didn’t…didn’t think you’d ever visit me. Thank you for coming, I know it must be hard. I’ve been doing some reflecting on my past actions and I apol-” 

“I want custody of Tommy.” It’s abrupt, given he shoves it out of him the moment he can get his voice to work. 

“Ah,” the Angel responds delicately. “Ok. That…alright, that makes sense. I’m glad. I’ve been worrying about him, good. That’s good. He said you’re taking good care of him.” There’s an awkward tone, neither knowing how to speak to the other. “Thomas needs someone to help him through this. Thank you for being a good brother while Wilbur and I are gone.” 

“Not just while you’re in jail. I want him permanently.” 

He expects to be screamed at. The Angel in his head has been doing so for weeks, howling ever since first he had the thought. Ripping into Techno for every flaw he has and screeching about how he doesn’t even love Tommy, has never known what a good parent is like. That he’s ruining Tommy’s life just by being in it. Techno braces for the onslaught. 

The steadying breath the real Angel takes is shaky. “I’m…sorry. I’m not going to let you take my child.” 

“I know. That’s why I’m hiring an attorney. This is a meeting to inform you-”

“Technoblade please. Don’t do this.”

“-to inform you I intend to contest your guardianship,” he finishes. He’s been practicing in the mirror for days, over and over. “This is on the grounds of your incarceration and history of psychological abuse to family mem-”

“Is this revenge? Is that what this is?” 

“Members. You have the right-” 

“Technoblade.” At the raised tone, Techno’s jaw clicks shut. He hates that it does, but the survival instinct is ingrained. “You know what abuse is. I didn’t- I messed up, I know that, but I didn’t abuse you. You can’t seriously believe that.” 

There’s genuine panic in the Angel’s eyes. Techno closes his own. It’s not an act of trust, Techno is waiting for an attack, but he’s not brave enough to watch it coming. The silence stretches, Techno bracing for an attack, the Angel expectant for his answer. Techno pries his mouth open. “You have the right to contest this in court, but don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” 

“I have to. You know I have to, I can’t just– That is my son, I will never let you steal him from me.” That bright, deadly determination glints through now. He knew it would go poorly to attack the Angel’s familial obsession, but when he’d planned this he thought there'd be a glass to separate them. He can taste possessive wrath on his tongue like copper, but maybe that’s from biting his tongue too hard. “Tell me why you’re really doing this.”

“I am contesting your guardianship on the grounds of your incar-” A sharp breath hisses through clenched teeth, and Techno’s rehearsed reiteration cuts off. Every instinct he has demands he watch the looming threat, but if he glimpses that familiar anger too many memories will come back, and he needs to be unfaltering.

But what he hears is quiet and distraught. “...you really hate me this much?” 

“This isn’t about hate.” 

“The hell it isn’t!” And the Angel is almost right. Only it’s not about Techno’s hate, but his. Yet the Angel of Death only collects a breath, slipping into a calm, patient mask. Techno risks a peak, and finds the Angel still on the couch, hands clenched together. 

Techno had wanted the Angel to hit him, in an awful way. Sure for the perfect evidence to bolster the contested custody, but far more than that. After everything, shouldn’t the Angel’s unconditional love finally be broken? What will it take for Techno to finally be safe? 

The Angel begins again, gently. “I’m already doing my best for you. You and Wilbur wanted me in jail, so here I am. Isn’t that enough? I know you want some space right now, and I’m allowing that, aren’t I? I can admit I made some mistakes with you, but don’t you dare use that to hurt Thomas.” Because it’s only a matter of time before you do, gemstone. 

“T-this is on the grounds of your incarceration and history of psychological abuse to family members. You are not fit to be a parent. Anticipating your resistance, the meeting with the judge is scheduled two weeks from now. Have a good day, Mr. Craft.” 

With a flip, he marches for the door. There’s a flurry of movement behind him, and it takes everything not to bolt. Steady strides. Show no fear. “Technoblade- Techno! Wait!” But he’s already past the threshold, he should be free-

He isn’t. The Angel surges through the door, and not one prison guard deigns to acknowledge the breach. Techno’s stride hitches, quickens, but he’s overwhelmingly certain of the trap he willingly walked into. Predictably, the prison guards revoke his egress. 

Heart pounding, Techno halts. Doom prowls forward, each closer step flaring panic through Techno’s instincts. He holds perfectly still, back exposed, unable to see the approaching danger. Don’t run. Don’t run. He can’t even if he tries. A prison is no different from a bunker. From a mansion. From a home. 

Techno fixes his gaze permanently on the door even as the Angel pulls into his periphery. Never once does he look at the Angel, eyeline skimming past the top of his head unless he accepts the indignity of begging on tiptoe. The Angel’s pleading doesn’t fully register, struggling through the thick fog in Techno’s head. It’s not as real as the hand clasping his wrist, as if to stop a man who isn’t even running. It’s all he can think about. Pulse throbbing against warm fingers. Not painful. Not even forceful. Just a silent, gut-wrenching symbol he can’t escape.  

“Have a good day, Mr. Craft,” Techno dismisses weakly. More words, louder, yet indiscernible over the voices. Surely he needs to understand it, needs to assess the threat. But he already knows it’s too late, the precarious situation jostled in his greed. He waits it out, idly wondering when the pretense will drop. 

“I’m contesting your guardianship on the gr-” The vise on his wrist tightens in retaliation. 

But his fear is oddly muffled as a new wash of argument churns overhead, turbulent storm a thin disturbance to the depths below. 

Techno’s throat chokes awfully like he’s been crying, yet he doesn’t feel upset at all.

His words are dammed. 

Even the voices aren’t entirely comprehensible anymore. 

There’s expectant silence. Or might be. He can’t tell if it’s sudden, or if he only just now noticed. 

Through his garbled head he grasps at froths of words, one last protest. “Good day, Mr. Craft.” 

And the shackle-grip releases. Numbly Techno stumbles past the guards. He doesn’t look back at the Angel. He can’t look forward, either, nothing processing. All he has is a steady march that isn’t an escape. 

He doesn’t make it back to Tommy and Charlie before something in his brain simply shuts off. 

Techno breaks out of the depths into pure darkness. He doesn’t know how much time has passed drowning. Maybe it never has. He doesn’t remember how he got here. Or perhaps he remembers too much, a hundred buried memories vying for attention. But he does know where he is, because in truth Techno never left. By the familiar tight wedge aching his bruised shoulders, by the reek of pain and beer, by the instincts ingrained in his mosaic mind, Techno knows he’s hiding under his bed. Again. Again. Again. The place he’s run to his entire life, oh familiar, wretched, false escape. 

There’s a small child trapped inside him, cowering from the consequences of trying to survive. Maybe Techno will never stop being him. 

Chapter Text

Prison isn’t that far off from the bunker. 

Wilbur had been desperate to escape it as a kid, quick to deduce the existence of the Syndicate and the action transpiring outside the thick walls and mountain of concrete and soil. Realizing the truth of the danger only pushed him further, yearning to be in the thick of it. So desperate to grow up too fast, to prove to Dad he could rescue his other half. 

Funny. Wilbur doesn’t much mind this new bunker that he’s landed himself in, no matter how similar. Same escapable walls and innumerable guards and nothing to do except go to the inbuilt movie theater or gossip with the scarce handful of millionaire criminals or order another margarita from the bar. Sigh. Prison is dreadfully dull. Especially since he can’t do any Syndicate work anymore. Although, operations have maintained an average level, as a plummet post-arrest really might cement Craft ties. Albeit legally above board; anyone with half a brain and twice a grudge needs to be pacified. Still, with the level of publicity, the Syndicate is likely never to recover the impunity with which it once acted. Techno managed far more damage than he’ll ever know. And in truth, Wilbur won’t, either, given how much Dad has locked up intel. He’s burned Wilbur’s every last bridge with the Syndicate. Makes him itchy, knowing he has no power to protect his brothers with. For as much as Wilbur wants to shrug and abdicate any responsibility towards Techno, it’s easier said than done. Maybe the impulse will never vanish. 

In truth, Sam is running the Syndicate more than Dad is. At least he’s no longer near catatonic, or can’t afford to be with Tommy’s visits. You can track which day of the week it is, by the steady way his eyes drain of color the moment his sunshine is gone again. Devolving into a husk as the days progress, until suddenly it’s Saturday again and he’s clean-shaven and nearly skipping. Each time Wilbur stupidly begs it to last. It never does. 

Still, it’s better than the days of silence curled into his bed. The meals Wilbur setting at his side only attracting flies as time drags on. As motionless as the statues Dad got for Christmas depicting a family perfected. The depressive episode had already been bad near the end of the trial, but not to this extent. Or perhaps it had been, and Philza only managed to force himself to function for the sake of glimpsing Tech and Toms at the witness stand. With no more purpose, Philza simply froze.

Wilbur knows that rug pull well, after they finally found what wasn’t actually his other half. That endless despondency of losing the purpose you’d dedicated your life to. An ice bucket cascading over your head, so cold the body refuses to breathe. But Wilbur got that shock, and spent the months after re-evaluating and forging a new trajectory while Philza doubled down. Clinging onto his pedestal family tighter and tighter until his purpose shattered. Leaving Wilbur in the crater as he shuts down. Again. Again again again. And as much as Wilbur wants to be furious with Philza for crumpling again after he promised not to…this is exactly what they deserve. Justice pure and simple. 

It was a weird feeling, wandering the prison halls and waiting for someone to break the news of his father’s suicide. After the past few weeks of visits, Wilbur has cautiously buried that expectation. (Buried the quiet wonder if it really will improve the situation. If that is the only apology they can give.)

Tommy’s doing…pretty blatantly bad, but probably the best of anyone. Probably. There’s a blackhole where Techno is, and the information gap is starting to drive Wilbur crazy. Is this all really the best decision? Is Techno finally, finally free? In the filtered scraps of information Tommy unintentionally dropped in their recent conversation, it’s impossible to tell. Antsy with uncertainty, Wilbur decides covertly poking Dad for data can’t go too badly. And it’s now or never, since right after Tommy’s visits he’s still rather functional. 

Only, when Wilbur enters Dad’s cell, he doesn’t find him glowing with love. No, Philza paces furiously like a caged monster. Quackity of all people is perched in a corner using a clipboard as a shield against an acerbic tirade. His gold tooth flashes with each nervous attempt at a placating smile, and something in his eyes cries he’s only just now realized what having The Angel of Death as a client fully entails. And while it would be cathartic to watch the lawyer responsible for Wilbur losing his brothers get torn to shreds, at least on paper that’s what Wilbur wants. Sighing, he intervenes. 

“Discovered a new stage of grief, have you?” 

“He’s trying to take Tommy,” Philza snarls. 

Wilbur lurches, tensed for a fight with no target. “Who?” 

“Technoblade.” 

He sort of freezes, for a bit, too many emotions to be named crashing in at once. “G-good,” Wilbur manages. It feels like pulling teeth. “Tommy needs someone better than us.” 

Philza rounds on him. “We’re bad people. Bad for Technoblade, even. Fine! Yes! I let him go once I realized! But we were never a bad family. And even if your self-loathing corrupts that- in what world does Technoblade raise a kid better than I can? I know, I know my depression hurt Thomas, but I’m still not struggling nearly as much as Technoblade. Because it’s terrible for him too: I can’t imagine a faster way to wreck his mental health and future than becoming a single parent in the time I’m explicitly giving him to recover.”

“You’re letting him raise Tommy now,” Wilbur points out sharply. 

“Because he threatened to kill himself! Right in front of Thomas!” Wilbur sways with sudden vertigo. In retrospect, it explains much. And they did tha- “No. No, get that expression off your face; I have actual video proof of Technoblade saying it was only to manipulate me. And it worked. I was too panicked to see it, but he played me for a fool. Again. He knows exactly how to twist the blade in my love. And if I can’t tell what’s real with him- if he pretended to love us all for months- if he loathes us- what proof is there he isn’t just taking my son in vengeance? Isn’t that exactly what the Piglins did?” 

—--------

It’s a small office Techno walks into, two exits, five if you count the windows, 6 for the vent. Twelve prison guards, naturally, but they can’t be hard to buy. None of them can stomach a court room again, so an informal judgement it is. Three chairs arranged before the judge’s desk, and though another could undoubtedly be pulled in to comfortably seat them all, Wil contentedly leans against the chair back the Angel lounges in. Both their faces light up, and Tommy peels away from Techno’s side. Watching the reunion, he’s left lingering on the cusp of the threshold, wary. Three loving family. One cruel homewrecker. 

And one doomsday. 

“You know, I really thought you were clever,” the Angel muses. “You’d have to be, to deceive me for so long. Yet you hand me freedom and everything I want on a silver platter after being ever so cruel to me. Realized your mistake quickly, did you? Miss me already, gemstone?” No. Bile coats his tongue, cold tremors shooting through locked muscles. I can’t do this, he thinks. Not when his every instinct needs him to buckle, do anything and everything to appease his abuser. The Angel laughs airly. “Abuser? Your loving father? No, no I’m not mad with you. I forgive you for even this; it’s not like you can be expected to think rationally in your condition.” 

You know, the real Angel wouldn’t have heard my thoughts. Or cause no one else in the room to react to his words. Or kept his mouth completely still when speaking. 

The hallucination splutters, then darkens as it fails to trick him into replying. “It’s only a matter of time before you slip up, I was just trying to save time. You’re insane and everyone can tell. What kind of a dad would I be to leave my kid with a psycho? You can’t take care of yourself, let alone Tommy. Just admit it and relent to my love. As it hurls abuse at him, Techno grips his satchel, knuckles white, and forces himself to walk forward into the jaws of death. You know well what I do to those who hurt what’s mine. Fine. If you hate being my son so badly, I’ll just have to make you beg for that protection. 

A blank mask means little when the scent of his stress bleeds into the air, and Floof whines and bumps against his leg to draw him into the present. Logically, if the Angel wanted him dead or kidnapped, he already would be. But irrational overwhelming terror is irrational, for some reason. Brushing off the voices, Techno tries to reassess the situation. Tommy clinging to his father. Wil biting his lip yet trying to be friendly. The Angel glaring daggers at Techno. 

He knows it isn’t real, but it doesn’t matter much. Techno fights for each step forward, staggering from the arctic blizzard emanating from the Angel buffeting him back in fearfrost gales. The Angel’s cold and furious glare blisters even as he tenderly presses a possessive kiss to the top of Tommy’s curls. The territory is marked. Another step forward is a challenge, and Techno takes it, and the next, for Tommy’s sake. 

Techno’s stomach flips, but he’s spent his entire life painfully aware of what happens if he goes too far. He’s scarcely tasted the wrath of the Angel, but senses he’s not actually in the danger zone. Hackles only raised. Instincts spasm, panic, frantic, back down now. Technoblade simply doesn’t know how to stop fighting, but now he’s choosing to fight for more than just survival. Another step.  

The Angel’s fingers claw possessively into Tommy’s hair. Though the loathing marring his countenance isn’t real, Techno decides against an apathetic façade. He struggles to force fear to bleed through his expression, but the disconnect is too vast to overcome. Why can’t he control his face? Techno settles for making his hands shake. The Angel snarls about carving his back into bloody pieces. 

Shame judge Judy doesn’t notice the exchange. It would’ve been useful to establish the Angel as a perceived threat. The Wither sneers, not expecting someone to be so unobservant as to miss subtle cues. It might be difficult to manipulate a judge who appears quite sleep-deprived and completely uninterested in the proceedings. 

Techno slides into his seat, angling it so he can keep vigilant against the Angel. He scoops up Floof to rest in Tommy’s lap, offering, “If it gets stressful, just pet him, alright?” He can’t imagine who thought it would be a good idea to sit Tommy between them, given that’s where all the tension lies, but frankly Techno is glad to have someone blocking him from the Angel. At the behest of the Angel in his head, Techno slips Tommy’s tiny hand into his own, since displays of affection are indicators judge Judy will be looking for. He gently squeezes their intertwined fingers in reassurance, knowing this will be rough for him. But Techno can’t force a reassuring smile through the blank shell of his visage. He can’t seem to control his expression at all, like a wire snipped between his emotions and facial muscles. 

“He doesn’t even claim to be related to Thomas,” the Angel immediately insists to judge Judy. “Really there shouldn’t be a ground for custody at all.” 

By the way her attention draws to him, Techno figures it’s the real Angel speaking. But he crafts his answer in case it’s not. “Someone went and changed all my legal documents without my knowledge or consent. I’m a Craft legally, and thus have grounds to request custody. And a British citizen and everything, too, so I wouldn’t be uprooting Tommy from his friends once my student visa would’ve run out. Though, of course, I’ll have no reason to stay if I lose.” The Angel doesn’t have any tells, he’s too good for that, but Techno knows the ploy is good. A lost son either way will surely split his determination neatly. 

“And where would you go in America? Back to the Piglins?” Techno automatically bites his tongue so hard it bleeds. Naturally, the Angel pounces on the opportunity, parading his history of physical abuse once more. Unspoken, that awful condemnation that Techno will turn out just the same, boy. 

It’s not the first time the Angel has used his history against him, so it’s probably real. Seething with contempt, Techno shoots back, “If you want to play that game, your father neglected you and you’ve done a wonderful job turning out just like him.” Wilbur whistles as the Angel chokes on it. Excellent. If your foe is off balance, it’s easier to keep them defensive. Follow through. “You abandon Tommy at every opportu-”

There’s a loud slap on the table, and everyone startles. The Angel fully draws a gun in panicked instinct, and the judge just stares him down into sheepishly reholstering it. Nobody else is reacting. Not real. Or, Tommy and Wil are accustomed to it, judge Judy unphased because she is already in the Angel’s pocket. Real. Not real. Real. Not r-

“Are the nasty personal attacks necessary?” judge Judy asks flatly. Yes, actually. Techno pushes past flaring alarms, reveling in finally having the freedom to release months of pent-up anger. A lifetime of it, maybe. Catharsis is intoxicating. 

“If. If I’m honest,” the Angel barely manages, “I prefer this to Technoblade pretending to love his family in some sick manipulation of all our feelings. And even if it’s nice to see him, I have to say I don’t see why this is a legal issue at all. In what way could staying with his loving father be harmful?” 

“Uh huh. Now explain why Tommy has run away from you multiple times?” Techno grins as the Angel hitches, then grows outraged. 

Looking conflicted, Tommy tugs his hoodie sleeve. “Big man? I never did that.” 

“You– you literally gave me advice on avoiding surveillance and which windows to escape from.”

“Um. It was kinda like a game. You know hide and seek? I actually got really far a few times, made it to Tubbo’s house for a sleepover! It was really fun, I stayed up super late and we had ice cream. Dad says a little bit of rebellion builds independence, but wasn’t gonna let me actually get hurt.” No wonder all of Techno’s struggles to run had only ever been amusements. All his desperation, all his terror, simplified in the Angel’s framework into simplistic childish rebellion. And this is the second time that he’s assumed far worse of the relationship between Tommy and Philza, perception skewed by his own experiences. Does Tommy actually need to be rescued? Does he even want to be?  

In the anxiety of a misstep so soon in his custody argument, in the humiliation of all his efforts being ‘kinda like a game’, in the fear he’s jeopardizing his freedom for nothing, Techno genuinely begins to see red. It’s matched by the dark ire writhing in the Angel’s eyes. 

“Ohhh I just knew you would twist everything to your narrative, but to outright lie? I may have messed up with you, but you can’t for a moment authentically paint me as a monster to Thomas.” 

“Dad– Dad, he didn’t say that,” Tommy insists. Wait. Is…is he hearing the Angel actually speak with such venom? Is he genuinely glowering with hatred? Techno dismissed it, at first, as a hallucination. And why shouldn’t he? They run havoc when he’s stressed. But by the uncertain, crumpled confusion of Tommy’s face and Wil’s tightening grip on the Angel’s shoulder, it’s not only Techno seeing it. 

Hatred. 

For all the terror the Angel’s fury invokes, buried deep in that harrowing dread is a thrill of hope. So there is an end to the Angel’s long rope. A crack in that once impenetrable, unconditional love. At the first scent of blood, of agency, of escape, Techno straightens. He’s finally found something that tarnishes his pedestal, though it seems his protected status is preserved. For now. The Angel had never regarded kindly those who took his children. If Techno wins this, he might be dead if the Angel doesn’t stop long enough to think of the consequences for his relationship with Tommy. The Piglins certainly think so, and in their terror his back scars bleed. 

“Alright- alright, well, you can’t seriously insist there’s no evidence your guardianship is harmful. I’m not going to leave Tommy alone for weeks in a bunker, for one.”

“That was for his own good. I was keeping him safe. You can’t!” 

“I can protect him from you!”

“He doesn’t need protection from me. But I’m losing hope that I can say the same for you.” 

Techno hisses as the retort cuts deep. “So I’m the dangerous one, am I, Angel? Sure! I believe you! Not like you systematically ignore, downplay, and hand-wave everything you’ve ever done! You refuse to see the harm you cause.” 

“I’M in denial? Me?! YOU MANIPULATED US FOR MONTHS!” Framed in the crook of Techno’s arm, instinctively raised to block a hit, Philza’s eyes brim with tears. His anger flickers at the flinch. A palm shoots out, pacifying, once again acting like Techno is a feral shelter mutt. Soft words, warm food, and he’ll surely come to heel. Over the roar of the exploding voices, Techno can’t make out what he’s saying. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like they did. I know you were scared, know y….convinced yourse… ….. . .too monstrous to . .av.. …. . . .gle honest c .nv . .. …ion  . …b… …… ………………  ………

………………………………… ………………………………… ……….…… …………………………………………… …………

………….………………… ………………

……….…… … …

… .

.

Techno glances at the judge, and swallows roughly when he sees the way her skull is shattered from the gunshot. Ah. That explains the blood, then. The Angel must’ve used a silencer. So no one would come running to the office. When the Angel killed the one witness. After Techno stupidly gathered everything he wants in one room. About all he could’ve done more was tie a pretty bow on the most convenient kidnapping ever. 

“Oh it’s not a kidnapping, gemstone,” the Angel laughs a little hysterically. “Not after you stole my son. You took everything from me! My empire! My cover! My freedom! You destroyed my family. The Nether will look like mercy by the time I’m done with you, love.” 

He might’ve made a miscalculation, directly targeting the Angel’s prized child. It’s a numb sort of cold, realizing he won’t be afforded the luxury of dying. Should’ve known when to bite your tongue, boy. Speaking with impunity- just who do you think you are? Look what happened to us, and we didn’t even mouth off to him!

A hand touches his leg. Tommy. It’s easier to ignore the viscera soaking Techno’s face when looking at Tommy. The warm, viscous trickle down his scalp, the gut-wrenching stench, the desperate whine of Floof- it only reinforces the suspicion this might be a hallucination. Please let it be a hallucination. Shouldn’t it vanish when he realizes? 

Premise: Techno is crazy.

Premise: The situation is crazy.

Ergo: This isn’t happening. He can stop believing this is real, now. It’s not real. It’s not real. Stop staring at her corpse it’s not real.

It doesn’t work that way, somehow. He can hold both truths in his head and yet they don’t seem to contradict. Techno is hallucinating. He’s about to be kidnapped again. Judge Judy is dead. Dead. Dead dead dead. It still looks real, is the thing. Realistic, even. The blood splatters match the Wither’s perfectly. 

But he’s gotten good at going blank when scared, ever since the Nether. Better to under-react, so the Angel never realizes the flaw in his sanity so readily exploited. And if she is dead- well. What does it matter? Best Techno can do is ignore the fact he’s trying to persuade a corpse buzzing with flies. 

“--nly our hearts were just another escape plan to you. It’s all you know. You’re flagrantly self-destructive in pursuit of your goals, and I’m terrified how that extrapolates to your treatment of Thomas.”

He needs to do this for Tommy. To make sure they both get out. But he’s so, so scared. 

“Enough is enough. I’m not going to let my son be raised by someone who doesn’t love him! Not when I can so plainly see the consequences of that with you.” 

Everything in Techno screams for him to fawn. To smooth everything with honey words and tender embraces. His mouth tastes like bile.  

“The Piglins left their fingerprints in every piece of you. I don’t know why I’m surprised you’d steal my son, too.” 

Just apologize and back down. What does he think this will even do? Give him a chance to be just like his parents? 

The judge rubs her temples, narrowly missing the gaping bullet wound. “This is a court proceeding, please refrain from shouting during the custody dispute. Your bickering is harmful for Tommy’s mental state. Since you two seem incapable of not going for each other’s throats, I’ll have to ask him to leave the room unless you can have a civil conversation.” 

Tommy looks at his lap, intently petting Floof. “Nah. It’s fine,” he says dully. “I mean, I gotta make a choice, don’t I? I don’t want to be left out of the conversation anymore.” 

“The child’s preference is only taken into account until age 16. I am still the deciding factor here.” Everyone stares at her very, very quietly, making a lot of mental calculations. A heavy, heavy sigh, and she takes a swig of her coffee. Techno nearly screams at her to stop, certain it’s poisoned. But he doesn’t. What more can poison do to a dead woman? “Why am I always stuck with the messiest divorces?” the judge laments into her brew. 

Both of them go rigid with affront. “He is my SON,” the Angel splutters, shoulders squaring as if he can pull some sort of dignity out of this. 

“He is my kidnapper!” A sharp red hue builds in his face, and he really hopes it’s mistaken for fury. Part of it is, at least, anger, but also mortified embarrassment, and a queasy feeling in his chest. “Did you not read the case file?” 

The judge gives them a flat look. “Typically, I wait to let both parties make a good first impression. Which neither of you have managed.” He supposes not, if they immediately fell into quarrel. But it feels awful good to fire off at the Angel and finally draw out his ire. A dangerous feeling he shouldn’t chase, especially not when he needs to win this for Tommy, but that doesn’t stop the delighted purr of the Wither as Techno finally gets under his skin. Not so impervious, suddenly. “Really now. Kidnapping? That’s excessive. And saying Technoblade doesn’t love Tommy is just patently untrue if he’s trying to get custody.”

“Huh? No, those are both true,” Tommy pipes up. “That’s why Dad’s in jail. Um. But he wasn’t a mean kidnapper. And Techno- him not loving me is a good thing, innit? It means he won’t hurt me.” 

Judge Judy just stares at him for a very long time. The blood darkens with time. “First, Tommy WILL be leaving this toxic room, which is an order and not a suggestion.”

“I’m a neutral bystander, I can take him,” Wil offers quickly. Techno scowls, realizing he’s outmaneuvered by their tag-teaming. Chaos agent Wil may be, but there isn’t a chance in hell he’ll give up his baby brother. 

The judge raises a single eyebrow. “A neutral bystander who walked in with one party?” 

“Had to, I’m the one who put him in jail. And I’m not on Tech’s side either, since I’m one of his evil captors. There! Both sides hate me so it all works out.”

“Second, all of you blatantly need therapy. But sure.” Judge Judy waits until Tommy is out of the room, giving him a cute little wave as he glances back uncertainly before disappearing. Then, she takes a large swig straight from the flask, and pins Techno and the Angel with a Look. “Third, you two are five minutes away from also having to argue why he shouldn’t be put in the government’s custody.”

—---

Wilbur tousles Tommy’s hair the moment the door muffles the acerbic words between Dad and Techno, wafting over to the window. 

The hiss of a lighter, Wilbur cursing at its spluttering, before getting enough spark to light his cigarette. Tommy misses the scent of his hugs, but Techno got really weird when Tommy suggested he become a smoker, and apparently cigs taste absolutely disgusting so Tommy can’t even do it, either. The 8th grader had laughed when Tommy coughed it out, dousing in the ash and litter out behind the stadium. That had been his second fight of the week. Techno had believed the scratch on his face was from rough housing Tubbo, once Tommy explained that scrapping with your mates is normal and unindicitive of being wrong in the head. 

Wilbur hadn’t liked that story, when Tommy tried to excitedly re-enact it for a visit. Apparently him and Dad had a row about Tommy’s fighting. When did Wilbur become lame? 

“Sounds like you haven’t decided who you want to win custody.”

“Um. Well, Dad always gets what he wants,” Tommy offers uncertainly. Techno had made certain that Tommy actually wanted to be with him before stirring up a legal fuss, but Tommy hadn’t realized that meant saying he didn’t want to be with Dad. 

“So you started it to prove Dad wants you.” Tommy scowls, but has to nod. 

Wilbur sighs out pure smoke. “Oh Toms. I don’t think you realize the powder keg you’ve lit up.”

“I reckon I do, actually,” he snaps hotly. Else there’s not much reason for the sick oozing sensation in his stomach. “Just. I didn’t think it through long-term. All impulse-like, cause Techno wanted me to say yes. And that’s what I wanted. When around Techno. Like, I know what to say to Techno, and I know what to say to Dad, but when they’re in the room it gets all tangled.”

“Techno’s people pleasing is what made this whole mess– that’s not fair, still on us. But you saw how badly that went and got it in your head you could do it better? I mean, you could not pay me to be in a room with those two,” Wilbur announces after a drag. “Believe me Toms, you are not missing out on that conversation.”

“Yes I am. How else am I meant to know how they really think?” 

“Eh. I wouldn’t call that honesty.”

“Well. Then the emotions behind it are.” Tommy had never really understood how deeply they loathed each other. It is unnerving to see Techno, nervous awkward Techno, who apologizes until he’s sick whenever he steps on Floof’s paw, attempt to gouge out a heart with words alone. But what really makes Tommy go cold is the acid hatred dripping from Dad’s mouth. For all that Techno is terrified of unconditional love, as Tommy watches it invert his worst fears are confirmed. What happens if Dad suddenly decides to stop loving him? If Techno does? 

“No they aren’t honest emotions. Ah, I suppose I have no business speaking over Tech. Emotions wear masks too, sometimes thick enough they trick the people feeling them. Dad’s fear only pretends to be angry. He’s terrified this means he’s losing you. Which is stupid, because he already has. You aren’t ours anymore.” 

“...you don’t want me?” Tommy asks quietly. 

At once Wilbur kneels before him, taking his hands. “Of course I do. But I want what’s best for you more. And that isn’t turning out like me. I mean, I’m the one who kidnapped Tech, aren’t I? I’m the one who's been neck deep in a criminal empire since I was a kid.”

“At least you knew what was going on,” Tommy contests hotly. 

“I get you’re mad we kept secrets, but you should be more furious with the actions themselves. We love you, always. But we’re despicable people. You’re a good kid. You don’t need baddies like us in your life, Tommy. I can’t stand it if we made you despicable, too.” But Tommy doesn’t want to be a good kid. He wants to be loved. 

And Wilbur hesitates. A sad, lopsided grin graces his guilty features, already admonishing himself. “But also, give me the word and I’ll bust you out, alright? I can’t help it. I was raised to save my brothers.” 

—----

Government custody. 

It can always get worse, boy. Stop complaining. You don’t get how privileged you are. Techno has heard the horror stories. Oh how he’s heard them, off-handed comments from his parents, pointing out news articles and reddit anecdotes. He’s lucky to have them instead of being an orphan. 

The Wither blinks, and sits up straight. Oh. That’s an excellent threat to keep you two in line! Bravo, I thought this Mrs. Judy would be useless. Not helping! My murderers are squabbling like children; I’m entitled to complain. 

Both trip over themselves to apologize. Techno must’ve pulled it off better, or perhaps it was from not drawing a gun on her. Regardless, he’s allowed to present his case first. “I’m not psychologically abusive, for an excellent start.”

The Angel flinches, genuine hurt flickering in his eyes. “You really believe that, gemstone?” 

“Well it’s hard to believe anything given how much you gaslit me, but yeah. He’s obsessed with family to a degree that’s detrimental to his children’s mental health. Setting aside everything he did to me, Tommy shows classic signs of abandonment issues. He’s anxious when alone and seeks frequent reassurances that I’m not going to leave him. Tommy says he rarely got to see his friends, and completely lost contact in the bunker. The Angel’s authoritarian control and inconsistent presence due to his…“““business””” trips deeply harmed Tommy.” 

“Apologies for keeping him safe! And I had a perfectly healthy work-life balance, thank you. Besides, as gregarious as Tommy is, I find that hard to believe. Tommy has plenty of friends.” 

“Name three of them, then. Go on. First and last names. AND national insurance number, I’m not letting you off easy.”

The Angel scoffs. “Tubbo Underscore, AB 12 34–“ 

“Thanks for proving my point about the stalking-”

“Wait-”

Techno charges ahead. “The intense surveillance is detrimental to Tommy’s sense of privacy and independence. While I have a level of security given the Angel already tried to kidnap him once-”

“I’m SORRY, you walked off with my child!”

“-it’s nowhere near the Angel’s draconian control. Simply put, I’m not going to bug every square inch of Tommy’s entire life.”

“As if it isn’t necessary. I’ve thwarted four assassination attempts against you this week alone.” 

Judge Judy stares at the pair of them, finally losing some of the sleepy disinterest. She blinks at the Angel. “Assassination attempts?” The Angel plows into an evidently rehearsed opine about the danger his poor innocent family faces, with lots of jabs about how evidently hurt (and unfit for custody) Techno has subsequently become from said enemies. 

“His safety measures leave people in viscera piles,” Techno snaps. 

“Ah, but that claim hasn’t been substantiated in court~ I’ve been acquitted of your allegations all right and properly. Please stick to the facts, gemstone?”

“Has Philza ever physically hurt Tommy?” The question catches Techno off guard. It’s unthinkable. Judge Judy notes his immediate dismissal, turning to the Angel. “Has Technoblade ever hurt Tommy?” 

“N-” Only, they both hesitate. Watching one another. Not once in the court case had Philza painted him as dangerous. Took great pains to downplay everything, even. But suddenly, the Angel has everything to gain if Techno’s mental illness is not something to pity, but to fear. No longer to be infantalized, but villainized. “He…” the Angel begins hesitantly. “It was one time. Technoblade had a PTSD flashback and hit him.” But he doesn’t stop there, pulling out more and more examples. Giving Techno an almost apologetic expression, like he didn’t drive him to survival mode. 

Techno rolls his eyes. “Are you actually serious? Threatened to blow everyone up? That’s ridiculous. Where would I even get explosives?” And then he leans forward to the corpse of Judge Judy. “Listen. He’s convinced half the world I’m crazy. But he can’t have it both ways, can he? Either I’m a dangerous looney who’d blow us all up, using explosives from Wilbur, proving the Craft family is full of blood thirsty murderers who cannot have custody of a child- or I am too crazy to be harmful.” 

“Or you hallucinated the explosives,” Judge Judy reasons. Techno freezes. Because Wilbur would have to be insane to always have explosives on him, wouldn’t he? It makes no sense. He catches himself staring at the Angel’s jacket, searching for the outline of a gun. Was there one? In what world does a judge brush past a weapon being drawn on her? Unless- she’s already bought, working for the Angel, this is yet another ploy to get in his head–

“It was an accident,” the Angel interrupts. “Didn’t leave a bruise, and Tommy was quick to keep playing with him. Technoblade didn’t mean harm.” But then, a flash of doubt. “...or I don’t think he did. But his traumatic responses are sometimes incompatible with a child’s needs.” 

Only, for some reason, a perturbed expression crosses the Angel’s face. 

—-----

Techno feels almost hypnotized by Tommy’s black eye. He can feel it throbbing with each pound of his pulse, knew so intimately its pain. “I know ways to cover that up,” he hears himself saying, distant, as if in a nightmare. He digs in the bathroom cabinet, pulling out foundation. 

“Makeup?!” Tommy asks incredulously. 

“It. Works.” 

“When would you ever need to know that? Trying to look pretty, big…man…” Tommy falls silent as he pieces it together. 

Techno wonders if the Angel could’ve easily stopped this, found the perfect words to soothe whatever is hurting Tommy. Probably. He knows how to make people feel better somehow. Tricky lies, but certainly effective. Is the Angel laughing at him now? Does he refuse to intervene, knowing how it’ll reflect on Techno’s parenting capabilities? 

Techno pulls up an ice pack, gingerly pressing it to the worst of the damage. He coaxes Tommy into lying down, clicking on the TV to one of Tommy’s favorite shows. The volume creeps higher and higher, since the noise makes it harder to discern the voices. Absentmindedly Techno combs through the cushions for bugs. He doesn’t find any. They have to be there. Search deeper. “You do realize judge Judy is going to ask about this.” 

Tommy shrugs. “Don’t see why she would, it’s not your fault.” 

“Unless she thinks I hit you.” And you will. It’s only a matter of time. Doesn’t he look so much like his father? Oh shut up Mom, they aren’t even biologically related. Unlike y- shut. up. Run your mouth with me again boy and I’ll give you a bruise to rival that brat’s. Techno turns up the TV volume. 

“--dn’t. I’ll tell her that, I swear,” Tommy is saying. What was that first part? Does it matter? 

“Here. What about this: I’ll call you in as sick for a few days. And- my classes too.” Techno isn’t going to classes at all by this point. But he can’t stomach the thought of actually talking to his counselor about dropping the semester. It feels like letting the Angel take it from him. But simultaneously, he’s utterly screwed GPA wise and thinking about catching up makes him want to cry. “We can hang out together. Have- ice cream?” He isn’t sure if this is how these sorts of situations are meant to be handled by parents. “Play some video games. Let it heal, so you don’t have to go to school like that. And maybe we can try to talk about why this is happening?  

“I already told you me and Tubbo were trying parkour. I just messed up and got a knee to the face, no biggie.” 

“Except– except that’s not true,” Techno says, not quite keeping the upset out of his voice. “Because judge Judy brought up your detentions last session. Detentions that I didn’t know about. And a long list of fights you didn’t mention. And all the meetings with your teacher that I neglected. Meetings the Angel handled for me.” Techno had deflected about how of course he wouldn’t know, he wasn’t invasively bugging every square inch of Tommy’s life. It…hadn’t worked. “You told me you stopped fighting.”

“And you believed me,” Tommy huffs. “That’s not on me.”

“I need you to tell me the truth, Tommy. You’re the only one I trust, and if you aren’t being honest with me–” manipulative, much? But it’s true, Tommy is the constant he depends on. Are you seriously forcing a child to manage your mental health? No, that isn’t- is it?- wait– Why does it feel like he’s always in that custody room, arguing round and round in circles with the Angel? Is he ever going to escape? “Was this another one you started?” 

“Yes.” 

“What are you trying to get out of them?” 

“I dunno. Maybe if I lay into them enough, people will keep their mouths shut.” 

“I think…you’re probably just going to get even more people talking. Your dad has a giant spy network trying to carefully control the public information, and even he struggles to stamp out all the dissent. It’s not something you can really do by force. And as is, you’re feeding into it in a bad cycle.”

“Does this mean I’m not a good kid anymore?” 

Always, says the Angel, his love unconditional, unescapable. 

Depends, says the Wither, needing to manipulate the boy further. 

Never, say the Piglins, glaring at his tainted blood. 

Nothing says Techno, unable to tell what the right answer is. 

It’s the wrong answer, though Tommy doesn’t know what the right one is. Or maybe it’s the only answer Techno could’ve given. Of course he doesn’t want to believe Tommy is anything like the rest of his family. 

Will Techno leave him, if he realizes? Will Dad and Wilbur, if they don’t? Tommy is trapped in a double bind, never knowing the right answer. Multiple choice hell. 

—------

Judge Judy isn’t there yet. Maybe a good thing, Techno’s been nervous all day about sitting with a corpse again. But that means he’s all alone in a room with the Angel. Standing at the door shut too firmly behind him, waiting for a pounce. 

“It’s not like I bite.” No, but he talks. “You could pretend to love me for months, so you can’t be really freezing up or I would’ve noticed. So who is this acting for? We both know I won’t hurt you.” Techno remains utterly silent. He can’t tell if the Angel is actually speaking or not. He can’t afford to have conversations with thin air. For all the resentment in the Angel’s voice, his challenging gaze drops. “...never meant to hurt you.” He sighs, propping himself up on the table. Pointedly not looking at Techno. “I can’t tell what’s real with you anymore. But on the off chance you are scared…the only worst outcome, from your warped perspective, should be me winning this custody battle. Not murders, not kidnapping, not whatever ~monstrous act~ you’ve concocted to fear. . . . .huh, I expected a snarky comeback. Why aren’t you responding?” His eyes narrow, as if expecting some sort of strategy. Annoyed he can’t play with his food, perhaps. “Nevertheless, I’ll abide by the legal ruling. You saw that last time. I’m letting you live on your own. You’re an adult now, independence is part of that. And healing takes time and I know that when you’re ready you’ll come back to us. I’m just not going to let your rebellion hurt Thomas.”

It’s as if Techno blinks, and suddenly the Angel is right in front of him, a hand waving past the eyes. Techno scrambles back, bruising against the door, trapped, panicked, how did he get so close, what happened, is this happening, was the Angel ever here? “-noblade the silent treatment is getting old.” But there’s a worry in his eyes that his cold affect can’t erase. 

The clock hands have jumped positions. Or, is he remembering the positions right? It’s not uncommon for him to lose track of time cause of the ADHD, but this feels…different. Why does he keep doing this? Just shutting down around the Angel? How stupid can he get? 

“You looked like you did, right after the Nether. Glimpses of it flickering past your eyes.” The Angel is quiet, still looking at him conflictedly. “Unless you’re just this committed to ignoring me…consider therapy.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” judge Judy remarks as she walks in.

“But I am in therapy,” the Angel protests in confusion. “I’m well aware I have some, ah, nasty habits and am working on boundaries and everything. I’ve already made great progress about accepting accountability for my crimes!”

Judge Judy rolls her eyes. Real. “Doesn’t count if you lie to them constantly,” Techno mutters. 

“Right, right, how I missed the potshots…you two are so messy I’ve started taking notes. Where were we…ah. Lifestyles, that’s right. On one hand we have a prisoner millionaire, and on the other, a broke college student.” 

“Bro, I’m a successful author,” Techno argues. “And have a large settlement from Phil’s case. I have the means to support Tommy comfortably for a while. Loads of kids grow up just fine in middle-income households.” 

“But there are other, non-financial challenges to those differences,” the Angel counters. “Technoblade is still in college, figuring out his own life. Child-rearing is time-consuming in a way that would mean he’d have to sacrifice exploring his potential future in order to properly raise Thomas. That or end up neglecting him to keep up with classes. It’s not an ideal situation for either of them. I have no qualms with Technoblade caring for his brother while I am visiting Pandora’s Vault, but it’s not tenable long term. As both of their grades (and incident reports) can attest to.

“Besides an inability to raise Tommy, I don’t think he wants to, either. I cannot emphasize enough how much Technoblade feigned adoration of us for months, including Tommy. It’s in the court records that Technoblade manipulates familial affection to get what he wants. I don’t see why this would be any different.” 

“I never pretended to love Tommy. Why would I need to manipulate him? It’s not like he can kill me instantly. He doesn’t trap me, or control my entire life. I don’t gain power from him, and I don’t need him as a hostage. I know what you’d do to me if I tried.”

The Angel gives him a disgusted glance. “Technoblade is obviously using Thomas as a pawn in his revenge. It’s not the first time someone has taken and raised my child to hurt me.”

“Because everything I do always revolves around you,” Techno hisses. “You’re the one obsessed with me, not the other way around. I’m doing this because I want what’s best for Tommy. I know that isn’t me, but it sure as hell isn’t you. I want nothing to do with you! Why the hell would I be in a room with you if I wasn’t in it for him?!”

“You’d do anything for him.” The realization comes out softly, and Techno falls deathly silent. Because it’s a glaring weakness he simply can’t hide. So easily exploited, and yet he’s helpless against it. Something in the Angel’s demeanor shifts as his motive pivots from not losing one son to gaining another. The one way to seize everything he’s lost and never let go. The Angel buries his head in his palm. “I’m…sorry,” he mutters. “I’ve greatly misinterpreted what’s happening. How did I ever see my own son as an enemy..? What is wrong with me?” 

“Would you like an itemized list?” Techno jabs, desperate to coax more anger. “Cause I can go on and on!”

“Please do. Everything I’ve done since the trial was so I can know what you really think. I would love to have your honest assessment, face to face, in a real conversation, but for some reason the only way you know how to open up is in a battle, raw and bleeding.” 

“Oh come on! Why can’t you just hate me?!” 

“Is that the only way you’ll feel safe?” The Angel’s expression is awful. Techno goes cold as he can feel the crushing weight of being boxed into the Angel’s pathetic abused second-hand puppy. “When I shouted at you- was that the only time I’ve ever made you feel safe? Is that all a father is to you?” 

“How am I meant to know? I’ve never had one,” Techno spits. A poor detraction, the wild shot glancing off. In a single mistake, the gap in the Angel’s armor closed, Techno’s every attack dismissed as the thrashing of an injured, pathetic, pet. No no no- he needed to be treated as an enemy. 

“So you are doing this for your love of Thomas. But on some level, you did want to hurt me. Not for revenge, but to justify the fear you drown in every day. But unfortunately for the both of us, I still, and will always, care for you. So what really happens when I win?” he asks quietly. 

“….I don’t know.” He built himself back up because of Tommy. Made himself be functional, if only Tommy could be okay for it. Techno doesn’t know what will happen should the bedrock keeping his life stable vanish. 

“Would you come back? For him?”

Techno’s silence is damning. 

—-----------

How do I make Tommy stay? 

It’s a question that’s been rattling in his head for days now. Because what chance does he have against the man who raised him? Who can provide love and wealth and stability in a way Techno just can’t? He doesn’t want to trap Tommy, but he’s terrified of what happened to him cursing Tommy as well. How do I make Tommy stay? How? 

You can make sure no one else wants him, answers the Angel. 

Techno can’t imagine anyone not liking Tommy, but knows the isolation that ensnared Techno would destroy the gregarious Tommy. The last thing he wants is to separate Tommy from the world, to cut him down into something small and easy to clasp in his hands. After he was pulverized in the Angel’s iron grip, Techno dreads the thought of holding on too tight. 

So Techno lets go. He encourages Tommy to be with others, broadening his community beyond the strict isolation the Angel enforced. Tommy deserves the world, not in a way that’s given but explored. And if that doesn’t include Techno…that’s alright. That’ll be on Tommy’s terms. He ignores the way Tommy always looks back to him as he’s pushed towards others. 

You can manipulate him into loving you, answers the Wither. 

The Wither nudges him to reach for Tommy always, to ruffle his hair and trap him at his side. Anything to deceive the boy into thinking he is loved. Tangle him in emotions until it’s painful to imagine leaving. She senses the weakness inside him, the young boy scared and confused and wanting comfort, just like Techno had been. It would be so easy to twist, to promise Tommy he’s the only balm to his raw wounds. She murmurs words in his ear, I’m the only one who loves you and I will never abandon you like they did and what have you done to earn my guardianship? 

They echo in his head, trapped in there. Never to be released. He could never do that to Tommy. He spent so, so long pretending to love, and the last thing Techno wants is to accidentally control Tommy. Suppressing the desire reach for him, Techno refuses to ever risk tricking Tommy into choosing him. 

You can scare him into obedience, answers the Piglins. 

Whenever Tommy longs for his family, the Piglins remind him how easy it could be to pour the nightmares in his head into the boy’s own. Surely one glimpse of Techno’s fears and Tommy would never feel safe around the Crafts ever again. We didn’t shelter you, and look how independent you turned out. The boy is clingy, needy. You have to toughen him up if he’s to survive the Angel. 

He softens his words. And when he can’t, Techno is silent. Better that than to teach Tommy to live his childhood beneath the overhanging expectation of the next bout of violence, like Techno did. 

Techno doesn’t understand why it hurts. But he has a high pain tolerance. Tommy doesn’t. The right thing to do is obvious. 

—---

The good thing about Techno’s room is the number of locks. Tommy fumbles with them, the tremble of his hands making it hard. All his life Dad has always seemed to sense when he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to, and he imagines Techno is the same. Tommy curls up in a blanket in the corner of their bed. Really it’s just Techno’s, but Tommy sleeps in it most nights, too. Or used to. Techno has started sleeping on the cough. As Tommy pulls out his phone, makes sure the covers don’t let a drop of light bleed out. But he can’t wait until the next visitation, and he doesn’t know who else to turn to. 

Biggest man: i need help

.

.

.

There isn’t a response to his text. A strained noise escapes Tommy as his hope cracks, not knowing how badly he’d needed someone to talk to. His throat pulverizes sharply.

Biggest man: i need help

Biggest man: i need help

Biggest man: i neef help

The uglier twin: what’s up toms? 

The palpable relief in his chest is almost overwhelming. He shouldn’t have doubted Wilbur for a second. Of course he’d find a way to text in prison. Biggest man: Techno’s being weird and I don’t know what to do. He wont talk or play with me and he stopped giving hugs and he just tense and distant and weird and I dont knw what to do wilbur I miss you so much and dad also but it feels like I miss Techno too even thou hes right there and I dont know whats wrong how do I fix this?

It’s a few minutes before the typing symbol shows up, and then it vanishes again. It cycles between present and absent a few times. The uglier twin: Do you want out? 

Tommy stares at the message. It starts to swim in his vision. He doesn’t know how to answer. This isn’t what Tommy imagined it would be like at all, when Techno asked to be his guardian. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. 

At the first ring, he startles and nearly drops his phone. Then answers at once. “Are you okay?” Wilbur worries. 

“I don’t know,” Tommy warbles. 

“I’m going to call that a ‘no’ then.”

“He avoids high fives, Wil. High fives! I don’t know what I did wrong.” 

“I reckon nothing, Toms. It’s something wrong with him.” He can hear Wilbur’s frown through the receiver. “Maybe we messed him up too bad. I thought Techno would be better for you, but if that isn’t the case…no, actually, why should I be surprised? Look at the role models he has. At least Dad was amazing 95% of the time, but if Tech’s sampling from the Nether too-” And he begins to laugh, caustic. “What the hell, I might even be your best shot, and isn’t that depressing!” 

“You’re speaking nonsense,” Tommy reproaches. Although, he much prefers this confusion to the storm Techno generates. 

“What I mean is, at least I know what’s wrong with me. That’s the first step anyway, further than those two will ever get. What I mean is, aren’t you sick of it all? Oscillating between extremes, playing hot and cold. Neither intends to hurt you, but they do. That inculpability is going to hurt you over and over. But I already see the way my hands stain you, and will be guilty for all. What I mean is, you and me could run. Run and never look back. Go somewhere they’ll never find us, somewhere that’s nowhere, like Utah.” 

Tommy splutters. “UTAH?!” Wilbur laughs, like Tommy is laughing, like it’s all meant to be a joke to cheer him up, unless it isn’t, in which case it’s deathly sincere. “WIL- Wil how can you say that? Just up and vanish- it’d be a nightmare. All I want is everyone together again and you- you want to leave.” 

“Get it straight: I want you to be happy. I want you to not constantly worry about who to please, torn between sides that despise one another. I want you to have a safe, normal childhood, far away from gunshots and bunkers and manipulation. And the only way you’re getting that is far, far away from all our chaos. None of us can escape ourselves. But you aren’t the problem; you can escape where the rest of us can’t. Let me help you fly away from our rotten mess.”

Tommy is on the verge of tears when he asks: “Why are you talking like I hate you?” Is he trying to make it true? Is that why he says such awful things? 

“Because you should.” And then, moments later, he swears with passion. “-ck, sorry, sunshine- don’t cry. I didn’t mean to upset you-” and then lower, bitterly, “Oh, but I was only ever going to. I know it hurts to hear, but I’d rather that than us continue to hurt you.”

“You hurt me either way! Removing yourself only removes any way to make up for it. You’re still trying to break our family.” 

“I have to.” What a wretched impasse to come to. How is it that everyone’s goals misalign? “Which is why asking you to run with me was an error. I was selfish for asking. Too possessive, like Dad. Sorry for wanting to keep you.”

“How are you bad for loving me?!” 

“I’m not. Not for that, at least, not for an emotion. It’s how you show love, I think. Dad was doing it all wrong, and that’s the problem.” How?? For all Dad’s faults, Tommy flounders to understand how his love is to blame for any of it. It’s the over-abundant balm to his every fault, even. “That’s your problem right now. You need to tell Techno that how he’s loving you makes you feel bad. I won’t say ‘if he loves you, he’ll change’ cause Dad evidently does and hasn’t. But…if Tech’s going to love you in the right way, he’ll have to. Realizing how my love was hurting Tech was just about the worst day of my life. But that catalyst was the best thing that happened to me.” 

“You running away from- Techno isn’t love.” 

“It’s how he wants me to show love. Maybe Tech doesn’t understand how you want him to show love, and is being stupid and thinks this distance is what’s good for you.” 

“Then you’re being stupid, too.” 

“Maybe.” Tommy’s hopes rise at the concession. Is Wilbur finally listening to him? “It feels horrible, between you and me. But I know I deserve that feeling. And if it defies my every instinct and desire, the very ones that drove me to hurt countless people and my own family- then it must be the right thing to do. Perhaps Techno, too, is driven by such calculations. The only way to know is to ask. As much as we changed Tech, for your sake I hope he isn’t too deeply entrenched.” 

But Techno doesn’t love Tommy, so will never change for him. There will be no grand reeling, like Wilbur experienced, at the terror of harming his brother. But something must give in the dynamic, and Tommy is endlessly willing. He’ll change anything, now that he knows he must. Whatever it takes to get back what they had. 

“Y’know, when you stopped running from the problem, you actually did help,” Tommy sniffs. He just wishes Wilbur had just cut to the chase, instead of the heartbreaking detour. Older brothers can be so stupid. 

“I suppose some of Dad’s advice got through even my thick sk-”

Techno lightly raps on the door, inquiring what he wants for dinner. Tommy scrambles to end the call, guilt flooding his chest like he’s been caught doing something wrong. His eyes sear, a fresh wave summoned by Techno’s mere proximity. Another knock at his silence. “Can I come in?” Please. Please please please he needs a hug so badly. 

“No. Go away.” 

“Ah alright, must’ve hit up the vending machine again. Doya think you’ll be hungry in an hour? Niki’s trying to judge how long to keep it warm.” Tommy can’t cobble together a response that won’t immediately reveal he’s on the verge of tears. Because it’s suddenly just so blatantly obvious they’re still strangers in some ways. The months of calling Techno brother just can’t close the gap of an entire life spent with Dad and Wilbur. They would’ve immediately known he was crying. No, they wouldn’t have let it get to this point in the first place. And when they did start ignoring Tommy, it was only after Techno showed up. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Tommy asks, words thick in his mouth. “I know you don’t love me, but I at least thought you didn’t hate me.” If Wilbur was trying to convince Tommy to hate him, who’s to say Techno isn’t, too? 

“What?” And to his credit, he sounds perplexed. But he’s a perfect actor. The doorknob rattles, Techno urgently asking, “Can I come in?” The sound freezes at Tommy’s harsh rejection, then slowly rotates back to a rest. Across the threshold, Techno’s shadow slips back. For a moment Tommy is furious. Under the guise of privacy Techno distances himself, abdicating responsibility. He keeps stepping back from Tommy, never caring enough to pry, even as the sobs he’s been stifling are increasingly too loud to be unmistakable. 

But Tommy’s heart oscillates between Techno and Dad depending on who he’s in the room with, and he knows everything will just get fuzzy again. This door between them is a protection, then. 

“I don’t hate you at all,” Techno offers. 

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Just like Wilbur. 

Techno is silent long enough Tommy’s scared he’s left for good this time. “It’s not your fault at all. You’re a good kid, Tommy.” 

“But what if I’m not? 

“Then…then…I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I spent my entire life trying to be good enough for my parents, and I don’t want that for you. Shaping yourself into whatever makes me happy, just to be good enough to deserve…somethin. I’m trying not to be our parents. And I’m trying so hard not to be them, but I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like. I don’t want you to turn out anything like me.”

“So there’s just nothing I can do to earn your love?” 

“I can’t give you anything unconditionally.” And what he means is I can’t be like your Dad. And what Tommy hears is I will leave you the second you mess up. “But you’re right. I have been weird. It’s the custody case, I didn’t want to force you to choose me.” Because it’s increasingly obvious he’s not going to win custody, every day a culminating confrontation with all the ways he isn’t fit to be in Tommy’s life. 

“I wanted you to!” Tommy explodes. “I wanted you to prove you wanted me! Both of you! That’s all it ever was, and now it’s a mess and everyone just hates me! Hates themselves!” 

“I– I can drop the case, if you want-”

The door bangs open, Techno slamming back from the jarring noise ringing through their house. Tommy seethes through his tears. “You can’t keep leaving escape hatches on our relationship! Just say you want to abandon me already!” 

Techno freezes as Tommy’s arms pulverize him. His own pinwheel, spread out so there isn’t a chance of touching Tommy. Hug him back, gemstone, you need to comfort him. What is wrong with you? How could you make him cry? “The escape hatches are for you, Tommy. I don’t want to trap you. It’s in case I ever…am someone you need to escape. I didn’t want to manipulate you.” But that isn’t quite the word Techno means, yet it’s the only one he can use because the concepts are so irrevocably intertwined. 

Oh. Oh.

Love. He’d been trying to stop himself from loving Tommy. 

Because all I love you means to Technoblade is don’t hurt me. 

He can’t hurt Tommy like that. He just can’t. To tenderly place that noose around his throat, begging him to stay so that Techno doesn’t crumple without him. How selfish, to demand a child keep him sane. The salvation of a scapegoat, nukeward, gemstone, Tommy reduced to a revenge, a gambit, a excuse. 

“I think. I think I need therapy.”