Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They awoke in it like surfacing from cold water, only there was no sound, no chill on their skin, and no breath in their lungs. It was nothingness incarnate. No sky above, no earth below, just void. An endless expanse that pressed in from all directions, and yet stretched infinitely outward.

And yet, they weren’t falling.

They were resting.

Something warm cupped their back, fingers curled protectively around them, as though they were something fragile. Something to be kept safe. Their eyes (if they still had eyes) adjusted, and shapes began to define themselves in the un-space around them.

A man stood before them. A giant.

He was enormous, towering over them like a cathedral towered over a single lit candle at its altar. His skin was a shade deeper than moonlight, his expression unreadable but not unkind. From the brim of his wide, dark purple sombrero dripped the glow of candlelight, dozens of tiny flames flickering silently, one for each candle affixed to its rim.

They danced without heat, casting an ethereal golden sheen against the velvet folds of his dress. His gown pooled and twisted around him like mist; sable and violet, with chains of tiny skulls looping the hem and sleeves. His movements seemed to stir the nothingness around him like ripples on still water.

The black and bruised purple (wilting but beautiful) flowers at his breast shifted as he tilted his head. Something about him made their heart (wherever it now resided) clench with a grief too familiar.

They should’ve known him.

They did, once.

(Not anymore.)

“You look smaller every time,” he murmured, voice like the echo of forgotten stories.

The sound landed in the center of their consciousness with the finality of a closing book.

“I… I don’t remember,” they whispered, or thought, or maybe simply felt.

The giant man only nodded, unsurprised. “You never do. Not really.”

His palm beneath them was firm, but his thumb brushed their side with gentleness. A lull in the candles’ flickering stilled the void, holding a moment in quiet reverence.

“How many times have I met you?” they asked, unsure if they wanted the answer.

He met their gaze, his gray-blue eyes vast galaxies caught in still frames. “Thirty.”

A pause.

“Thirty-one, now.”

The words thudded through them, heavier than his hand could ever be. The number didn’t just represent past lives, it carried the weight of choices made and unmade, memories lost and pain relived, over and over, for reasons they could no longer recall.

"Why do I keep coming back?"

Another pause.

“You ask me that every time,” he said. “But the answer is not mine to give.”

The bitterness crept in too easily. “Then whose is it?”

He leaned closer, until they were surrounded by shadow and roses and ancient warmth. The skulls at the edges of his dress chattered lightly like wind chimes, the only sound in this voiceless realm.

"You'll remember when you're meant to," he said.

There was something deeper behind his eyes then… sorrow, or maybe hope.

(Or maybe the exhaustion of having this conversation more times than she cared to count.)

He offered no name. And when they tried to speak again, his hand was already rising, lifting them like a father lifting a child from his lap.

They didn’t want to leave.

A moment of softness: the bend of his neck,cool lips pressed to their forehead. The brush of incense and memory and the scent of night-blooming flowers. He wrapped his other arm around them and for a fraction of a heartbeat, they felt known. Entire.

“I hope I don't see you soon,” he mumbled.

Then he punted them.

Literally.

The sudden motion flung them through the void like a meteor shot from a sling. No ceremony, no explanation. Just an affectionate launch into limbo, as if he were sending them into the next realm with the same ease one might toss a stone across a river.

They spun as the nothingness peeled back like paper. Colors burst at the edges of vision, bending and blurring into tunnels of light and heat. There was no sound but the roar of being born again.

Then came the pressure.

Crushing. Drowning. Screaming without lungs. The sensation of being squeezed through something impossibly tight, something alive. Their now tiny body twisted and writhed through the channels of life’s gate.

They wanted to cry. To scream. To turn back.

But there was only forward.

The world greeted them with noise, heat, and blood. They were pushed into light with the first rasping wail of a newborn’s lungs, and the pain of beginning again.

Damn it.

Their first breath was jagged.

Light screamed through their eyelids. 

The cold air hit them like a slap in the ass.

“Grayson,” said a voice, soft and exhausted, but fiercely warm. “Grayson Trett.”

The name wrapped around them like a blanket. They didn’t know it, didn’t own it, but it clung to them anyway. Carved into the curve of a future they hadn’t yet lived.

(As days passed, the memory of the void, of him faded like a dream left too long in the morning sun. Only the sense of loss remained, a gap they couldn't name in a heart too small to hold it yet.)

The house was always full of movement.

Their parents were strange people. Strong people. Their mother, Kavira, wore her purple eyes and the ink-like marks beneath them with pride, and her presence lit up a room like wildfire. Her power manifested in currents of telekinetic pressure: light manipulation through motion, bending small gravitational fields to her will. By the time Purpled turned three, they’d seen her float three crates and a bounty target with a single flick of her wrist.

So cool.

Their father, Royce, had no powers at all. Just calloused hands, sharp instincts, and eyes that missed nothing. However, he was an avian hybrid, with broad wings like polished cedar and white feathers peppered through his golden hair. His skill with a blade and strategy had earned him fear and respect in the field.

They didn’t hide their profession from their kids, Purpled noticed.

Mercenary wasn't a dirty word in the Tretts household, it was legacy.

(Purpled ignored the bittersweet feeling that word produced in them.)

Purpled’s earliest memories were not lullabies and warm milk, but blades being cleaned at the kitchen table. Contracts tucked between stacks of baby books. Kevlar hung next to jackets. They grew up with the scent of metal oil and the soft sound of codewords spoken into earpieces during midnight calls.

“Never take work you can’t walk away from, kiddo” their father would mutter while strapping on gear.

“Always know your exits, honey” their mother would add, feeding a bottle to Purpled one-handed while reading a dossier.

(Even at two, Purpled listened. They remembered things.)

Luke, older than Purpled by seven years, was more shadow than sibling at first.

Quick. Quiet. Slipping from room to room in blurs of wind and light. His powers had awakened on his sixth birthday in a whirlwind of broken plates and laughter and falling vases. Super speed. The kind that blurred him out of photographs and made his voice crackle like a scratched disc when he spoke too fast.

He didn’t talk to Purpled much during their first year of life. He wasn’t cruel, just distracted, caught in the whirlwind of training and missions and building a reputation under the name “Punz”.

(He was only seven, what the hell-)

But sometimes, when their parents were out and the air in the house turned too still, he would sit beside the crib and tell them stories.

“You know, Grayson’s a dumb name,” he’d whisper, flicking their nose gently and touching their purple cheeks. “But it’s not your fault. You’re kinda purple all over anyway.”

He poked at the soft tufts of their golden hair, the same as his, lightly touching the purple antennae that emerged from their hair, at the lavender hoodie someone had tossed over them.

“I’m gonna start calling you ‘Purpled’.”

And just like that, the name stuck. 

At first it was a joke between them, but as Purpled grew, it became their signature. Their skin shimmered faintly in certain lights. Their eyes were violet bright, with their mother's alien markings glowing faintly in the dark. Even the soft fuzz on their cheeks tinted lavender in winter. When they could finally speak properly, they introduced themselves with it, not knowing why it felt more real than the name on their birth certificate.

("Purpled," they’d say. "That’s me.")

Their parents taught Purpled that after the hybrid genesis, humans as they were had long disappeared. People were combinations of otherworldly heritages, with traces of interstellar ancestry long buried in ancient migrations and forgotten tech. Some had gills and breathless lungs. Others wings, tails, stone-skin, light veins. It was a melting pot of evolution and chaos.

Other important things they learnt was that powers manifested at six.

Until then, kids were simply hybrid infants, born with marks and traits that hinted at their bloodline. Purpled’s purple streaks, the way their eyes caught light, the strange way static electricity lingered on their fingers.

Royce drilled into them that power didn’t make a warrior. That skills mattered more than strength. That outsmarting an enemy was always better than overpowering them. Kavira leaned the other way.

“Don’t hide your strength,” she would say, tossing them gently into the air with her powers and catching them with a laugh. “Refine it. We’re not here to be meek.”

They didn’t fight about it, but they didn’t agree, either.

Purpled absorbed it all. The tactical teachings from Royce. The power stances from Kavira. The blink-and-it’s-gone agility of Punz.

They began training with toy swords and finger painting at the same time. Dueling with Luke in the backyard, slow, clumsy movements on Purpled’s part, amused patience on his. They learned how to spot tells. How to mimic posture. How to throw a punch that wouldn’t hurt anyone but would look real enough to sell.

By four, they could reload a disassembled water gun in under ten seconds while reciting field call signs.

Not because anyone made them.

(Because it felt right.)

The night they turned four, there was a storm.

The wind howled through the high plains behind the house. Purpled sat curled on the front porch, blanket wrapped around their shoulders, watching the clouds flicker with heat lightning.

Kavira sat beside them, legs folded, a knife in her hand she wasn't really using, just spinning between her fingers absently.

"You always sit in silence like this," she mused. "Even as a baby. You came into the world like you were already listening for something."

Purpled blinked at her, a little smile tugging at their lips. "Maybe I was."

She didn’t ask what they meant. Instead, she reached out and tapped the edge of their cheek with her thumb, brushing the faint glow of the purple marks. “You’ll be powerful, one day.”

Purpled shrugged. “So are you.”

Their mother let out a full, unguarded laugh, not the sharp edge she usually kept in place.

“Fair enough.”

Somewhere behind them, an eleven-year-old Luke darted down the stairs, a blur of yellow socks and wind.

“Don’t tell Purps scary stories again!” he shouted toward their father in the kitchen. “They had nightmares last time!”

Purpled giggled.

“I liked the story,” they said.

Luke looked at them, mock betrayed. “You betrayed me.”

“Sorry, Punz.”

He froze, eyes wide. Then he grinned.

“That’s the first time you called me that.”

“Meh,” Purpled said simply.

He ruffled their hair too fast, like a sudden gust, and vanished again into the house.

Their mother looked at them long and thoughtful, and for just a second, her face softened in a way Purpled didn’t understand yet.

“So…” she said something under her breath, more to herself than anyone.

Purpled tilted their head. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling again. “Are you ready for tomorrow’s training?”

Every Sunday, they trained in the sandpit out back. Even at age three, Purpled was expected to carry their own weight, tiny fists wrapped in cloth, dodging foam weapons from their mother’s flickering figure.

“Keep your center low, honey” she instructed.

“But I’m smol, Mom.”

“Then be smol and terrifying.”

Their father ran tactics from the porch, barking calls while sipping bitter coffee. “Purpled, don’t follow their footwork. Anticipate. Think like a predator.”

Luke blazed in and out of the fights like a comet, grinning as he snatched Purpled’s wooden knife mid-swing.

“Too slow, Purps” he teased.

“I hate you.”

“Good. Hate builds momentum.”

Both siblings laughed.

The night after Purpled’s fifth birthday was thick with quiet.

Outside, the plains hummed with the low buzz of wind turbines and distant animal song, a lullaby of deep summer. Inside the house, all was still. Luke had passed out face-first in his bed after an hour-long sugar high. Kavira and Royce were asleep, their steady breathing and the subtle creaks of the house settling into the foundation forming a kind of soft rhythm Purpled had grown up hearing.

They were tucked into bed, feet still buzzing from the day’s chaos and excitement. A party. Cake with indigo frosting. A new training staff with custom grips. One of Luke’s old purple windbreakers, cropped and sized down to fit them, though it still hung off their shoulders.

They were just drifting into the strange, syrupy space between wakefulness and dream when it happened.

The noise hit like static in their skull.

Sharp. Sudden.

A burst of sound exploded in their ears, like someone had shoved orange slices deep into them and then yelled through a bullhorn made of jellyfish and tin foil.

Purpled jerked upright with a gasp, hand smacking their temple.

“Gh–what the–!”

The world around them was still silent.

But inside it was chaos.

WTFWTFWTFWTF

ayooo

we’re back baby!!!

Bloo-

[ caccia_user456 has been banned by a moderator ]

lmaoo

L

wrong chat lol

EEEEEEEEEEEE

don’t spam pls

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEE

yoo childhood arc when

EEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEE

PURPLED IS BABY

PURPBABY

BABYPURP

i’m a piss baby

^bruh what are you? a homeless teletubby??

DREAMISAPISSBABYHJAFEVHN

EEEE

make canon alien!purpled

LOOK AT THOSE ANTENNAE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEE

OMGOMGOMGSOMUFFINCUTEKADBCJHFVB

EE

Purpled froze.

Their heart was thudding hard enough to rattle their ribs. Not with fear, exactly, but disbelief.

They weren’t dreaming.

The Voices. 

(Their rhythm, their tone, their overlap, the way they pinged off each other like popcorn in a microwave)  

They knew them.

“Chat?” Purpled whispered aloud, and the moment the word left their lips, it was like a key turning in a lock.

YO THEY REMEMBERED US??

main character arc LET’S GOOOOO

^tbh they never left the mc arc

told y’all, only MCs transmigrate/reincarnate. basic NPCs stay dead.

except Carl ig but shh

PURPLED = CYBERKNIFE CONFIRMED

EEEEEEEE

QUEEN KNIFE IS BACK LET’S GOOO

wait so does that mean he is somewhere too??

AU when

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEE

mods pls explain the lore

i'm emotionally unwell this is too cute

look at their little purple pajamas bruh

Purpled blinked hard, chest tight, and let out a low breath that shook more than it should’ve.

This couldn’t be real. It shouldn’t have been.

But it was.

The Chat (their Chat) was back. The same chaotic, affectionate, bizarre stream of consciousness that had filled their mind since before they had language in that other life. 

The ones that had stood beside them as Cyberknife, twin sibling to–

(They didn’t let the thought finish.)

The first ones they had ever trusted.

The first ones that had made them feel less alone in the endless, gray-colored cells of the Pit.

And now, they were here.

Somehow, impossibly, the voices had followed.

Across timelines. Across bodies. Across universes.

“Chat, calm down,” Purpled muttered, pressing a pillow over their face, half-laughing and half-ready to cry. “I was sleeping.”

SORRY SORRY :face-holding-back-tears:

not sorry actually

NEVER SLEEP. LORE IS HAPPENING.

Gogy was sleeping and missed all the lore

don’t cry baby we love u

:loudly-crying-face: :loudly-crying-face: :loudly-crying-face:

Chat canon. You canon. Alien!Purpled canon.

also hey when are we getting back to blood and glory huh?

jk unless???

Purpled sat in the dark for a long moment, letting the feeling settle.

Maybe they didn’t have their power yet.

Maybe they didn’t even know what this world would become, or why they were here again, or who they were meant to be.

But they had this.

They had Chat.

And Chat never left.

They flopped back down into bed, pulling the blankets over their head, grin breaking across their face like dawn.

sleep well, baby purp

you got a long story ahead

bye?

noooOoOOoOo

bye chatt

c ya :waving-hand:

They whispered one last thing into the night before dreams claimed them again, “…Missed you too.”

Chapter Text

The morning their lives burned down (literally) began like any other.

Purpled was still five, but not for long, just a few weeks from the magic age of six. The age when powers bloomed, the age when futures were decided, the age when everything was supposed to come into focus.

They had made pancakes that morning. With Luke– Punz. He always corrected anyone who called him Luke now, he was building the name. Purpled didn’t mind. They understood the need for a mask.

Royce and Kavira had left early; gear on, comms chirping, half a croissant in Kavira’s mouth and a goodbye kiss ruffled into Purpled’s hair.

“Back by evening,” she had promised.

They weren’t.

It was hours past sunset when the knock came. Three short raps on the front door, sharp and clipped, the kind that carried bad news before a single word was spoken.

Purpled opened the door.

An older woman stood there in a long grey coat, her wings folded tight, face hidden in shadows. One of Royce’s friends, Brenna, an old handler from his early years in the field.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at them, then behind them.

Punz appeared at their side like a ghost, tall and gangly at thirteen, eyes narrowing.

Brenna sighed.

“They’re gone.”

The silence hit like a bomb.

“No,” Purpled said. Simple. Clear. Immediate. “They said they’d be back.”

Brenna’s lips tightened. “The target had backup. Too much. They took out the evac route and jammed comms. There was no way–”

“They’re not dead,” Purpled said louder, voice shaking. “You don’t know that. They’re not–”

“Grayson,” Punz said. One hand on their shoulder. Steady. Cold. “Stop.”

They stared up at him. He wasn’t crying. He looked… hollow. Like the words had carved something out of him that nothing would ever fill.

It was real.

It was true.

And in that moment, something inside Purpled cracked.

The hallway light flickered. Brenna flinched.

And then the air around them shimmered.

Purpled didn’t notice it at first. But Punz stepped back, eyes wide.

“Purpled– your hands.”

They looked down.

Flames. Purple. Deep violet edged in ultraviolet shimmer. Flickering across their palms, swirling up their wrists. Not warm, hot. Hotter than anything should be. They burned the air, warped it, ignited the shadows on the walls.

Chat erupted in their head like a thunderclap.

POWER UNLOCKED LET’S GOOOOO

purple fire??? that’s busted, OP alert

oh my god they’re glowing

this is their anime awakening scene bruh

protect the baby!!!

i told you they’d get fire, it was obvious, smh

technically plasma if we wanna get nerdy–

SILENCE. THE BABY BURNS.

Purpled gasped, trying to smother the flames. They flicked their fingers, clenched their fists, panicked, but the fire only followed their motion like a living thing, dancing and pulsing with their heartbeat.

“I– what is this– what do I–”

breathe.

your emotions lit it up, that’s normal

you’re not broken, just on fire

try focusing. Think about closing a door

one with a very dramatic hinge sound

Purpled squeezed their eyes shut, focused. Imagined the fire folding in on itself, like embers smothered by night.

Slowly (agonizingly) it faded.

Brenna hadn’t moved. Her eyes were wide behind her lenses.

“…You weren’t kidding,” she murmured. “You’ve got the Trett's blood all right.”

The funeral was private. No bodies. Just codenames on black stone.

Brenna offered to find them guardians. Sponsors. Safe homes.

Punz refused.

“We’re staying,” he said simply. “We’ll keep the house. Keep the job.”

Purpled didn’t argue.

The house became a different kind of battlefield. Rooms that once rang with laughter were filled with drills and silence. The living room became a strategy chamber. The basement became a gym. Purpled trained with their powers, learned how to stoke the flames, and how to contain them. Their purple fire wasn’t just heat, it could melt metal and sear through composites, but it could also curve, shape, shield. It responded to intent. It was alive.

Punz became sharper. Fewer words. More motion. He trained faster than anyone should. Speed let him be in three places at once: on the ground, in the air, behind you, all before you blinked. But it also meant he didn’t stop. He never let himself rest.

Purpled worried. Chat did too.

he’s coping by grinding, classic older brother move

someone force him to drink water

broke: grief. woke: making a death squad with your sibling

he needs therapy but instead he’s doing pushups

i mean, respect

grindset never dies

They called themselves “the Mercenary Duo” only once. As a joke.

And then the name stuck.

Reports started coming in. “Mercenary Duo completed the mission in half time.” “The youngest of the Mercenary Duo scorched a powered target into glass, you know, the purpled one.” “The white one of the Mercenary Duo cracked the vault open in five seconds.”

By age ten, Purpled could melt through titanium plating.

Punz, now seventeen, had a reputation that got him into rooms adults couldn’t.

They weren’t just children of legends anymore.

They were the legends.

But late at night, when the gear was hung, and the fire was gone, and the adrenaline wore off… Purpled would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. Listening to the house creak. Listening to the wind. And trying to feel better.

They were Grayson Trett, child of mercenaries.

They were also Purpled, hybrid flame-bearer, and listener of Voices.

They were many things.

But mostly, they were surviving.

And beside them, in the quiet corners of their mind, Chat whispered soft and low:

we’re still with you

we’ve always been

you’re not done yet, and you know it

Purpled believed them, and that feeling continued existing in their heart for years later.

The thing is that Purpled wasn’t ready for this change.

It happened in the lower district of Pogtopia, almost in Logstedshire, nestled between two burned-out apartment towers and a closed-down corner shop that still had “OPEN 24/7” scrawled across shattered glass.

Purpled had just wrapped a low-stakes recovery job. Nothing difficult: intercept, intimidate, extract. Routine.

They were on their way back to base when they heard it.

A noise. Wrong for the alley.

Not a scream, something muffled. A scuffle. A choked cry.

They slipped into the alley without a sound, boots soft on broken pavement.

And there he was.

A kid. Maybe four or five. Curled into the narrow gap between the dumpster and the wall, arms over his head. Small, shaking. Pink skin with a pale vitiligo streak almost completely covering the right side of his face. Rugged pink hair, badly cut. Tiny tusks protruded from between his trembling lips. A piglin hybrid. Clearly feral or displaced.

And, standing over him, some street thug with cracked armor, a nasty grin, and no clue who they were about to deal with.

Purpled moved before they thought.

One shot, clean. Their sidearm barked once, a whisper of smoke curling from the barrel.

The thug dropped with a howl, kneecap shredded.

Before he could scream again, Purpled was on him.

They made sure the kid didn’t see, though. He was still curled up, fists clenched in his hair, eyes squeezed shut.

The knife came out in one motion, single-edged, jagged. It plunged into the thug’s throat and ripped upwards in a spray of arterial red.

He gurgled once. Shuddered. Then went still.

Chat screamed like a blood-drunk choir.

YEAHHHHHH

rip bozo

LEAVE THE KID ALONE MF

EEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEE

knee shot to throat finisher? tactical art.

i was hungry anyway

EEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEE

EE

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

SAY IT GURL!!

nah bc this is peak main character move

make sure the kid’s okay tho

Purpled turned.

Their breath caught.

The kid hadn’t moved. Still small. Still trembling. But now making these sounds: low snorts, rhythmic wails, like someone trying to sing through panic.

Piglin language.

Purpled approached slowly, wiping blood off their fingers.

“Hey,” they said, voice quiet. “Hey, kid. You hurt?”

No answer.

They knelt beside him, and slowly extended a hand to light their surroundings. Fire bloomed in their palm, violet and warm, controlled like breath.

The piglin hybrid flinched. Then blinked. The wailing stopped for a second. His eyes, both big, the left reddish brown and the right white with a black sclera, flicked to the flame. Then to Purpled.

Purpled expected fear, what they got was silence.

Then the piglin hybrid leaned forward and pressed his tiny hands to the flame, and didn’t burn.

Instead, his cuts began to stitch together. Bruises faded. His breathing slowed. The flames curled into his skin and sank like warmth into cold metal.

Purpled gasped and Chat exploded.

healing fire???

what are you, a phoenix?

fire-type cleric. op combo.

guess we’re support class now bois

wait wait wait

look at him

…uh oh

Purpled blinked.

The kid hadn’t moved away. In fact… he’d scooted closer. Pressing his forehead into Purpled’s palm, nuzzling the source of the fire with soft snorts. Mewling, almost.

His breathing was shallow but steady now.

But his eyes weren’t focused.

They were glazed over with something weird.

he’s gone feral.

instinct-locked. seen it before in cross-breed hybrids, especially ones raised without structure.

you healed him, so now you’re part of the imprint.

he’s calling for a protector.

the protector of his sound.

but Purps–

Purpled didn’t need Chat to finish the sentence.

Because they were an alien hybrid. And alien hybrids didn’t have instinctual ‘sound signifiers’ like piglins did. They didn’t have a “root noise” or “den tone.” Nothing a piglin could identify as protector-born.

So the kid was… trapped.

Calling for a protector that didn’t exist.

And Purpled had just healed him with a weird purple flame, which might as well have been divine magic to a piglin hybrid. 

“Shit,” Purpled muttered, shifting to cradle the kid gently. “Just– fuck. Okay. Okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The boy clung tighter, gripping Purpled’s jacket in tiny fists. His little tusks pressed into their collarbone. He whimpered again, tail flicking with stress.

name’s Michael.

Chat did a sweep. No legal ID. No records. Not even a missed persons ping.

he’s feral-born. Probably lost his horde years ago.

you’re the first safe thing he’s seen in weeks, maybe months.

Purpled cursed again under their breath and rose to their feet, Michael clinging like a shadow. Blood still stained their gloves and boots. The scent would trigger instincts in anyone with a sensitive nose, and Michael had buried his face in it like it was home.

So now they were going home.

Covered in gore.

With a piglin hybrid child stuck in an instinct loop curled around their torso like a heat-seeking limpet.

And Chat was losing their mind.

PROTECT. THE. CHILD.

NEW MISSION UNLOCKED: MICHAEL’S ARC.

learning piglin dialects in 3… 2… 1… 

use your antennae hum, Purple, it's calming.

YOU’RE THE MOM NOW.

PURPMOMMA

play lullaby.exe

introduce him to soup. soup heals everything.

potato soup

EE

don’t forget the nose/snout pats.

piglins love snout pats

yeah, t–––no loves snout pats, he just doesn’t admit it

Purpled groaned.

They took the long way home, one hand cradling Michael’s head, the other subtly emitting low, steady pulses of harmonic vibration, part of their alien ancestry or something like that. Their kind didn't speak with sound alone, they sang in frequencies. And piglins, like a lot of hybrids, could pick up those wavelengths.

Michael responded almost instantly. He stopped trembling. The snorts turned quiet. His eyes fluttered half-closed.

He wasn’t out of the instincts yet, but he was safe.

Purpled stepped into the base, bloodied and exhausted, Michael held tight.

They were twelve, almost thirteen, scarred, feared across three sectors.

But as they kicked the door shut behind them, Chat whispered in awe:

you brought home your first hatchling

a runt

OMG T–C––O WILL BE SO JEALOUS

HELL YEAH

congrats, you’re officially feral family

now lets found shroud pls

shhh that’s for toms

The hallway was dark, bathed in soft amber light from a single low-power fixture above the entry console. Purpled shut the door behind them with the heel of their boot, keeping the squeak to a minimum. Michael shifted in their arms with a soft snort, tusks brushing their collarbone, but didn’t wake.

Home was cold. Not literally, Royce had installed passive thermal insulation that kept the temperature regulated no matter the weather outside, but cold in that sterile, echoing kind of way. The kind that crept in behind your eyes and lingered behind every silent moment.

Punz was home. Purpled could tell from the faint thrum of motion upstairs, the soft whisper of a conversation being held just a little too openly. At first, they thought nothing of it, but then they caught a name.

“…I don't know, Dream.”

Purpled froze on the bottom step. Their ears twitched. Their antennae curled ever-so-slightly forward, absorbing the sound waves and refracting them inward.

uh oh

drama inbound

turn those alien ears up to eleven, let’s get the tea

he’s talking to num. 2

don’t drop Michael, but also… eavesdrop harder

Their hearing sharpened like it always did in missions, softened ambient noise, enhanced signal prioritization. Punz’s voice came through, not loud, but clear.

“I’m just saying, this life has a shelf life. The mercenary grind? It doesn’t last forever. And I’ve already got the name, the speed, the score sheet…”

Dream’s voice cut in over the speaker, smooth, charismatic, barely human. Like he’d been trained to speak to cameras before he could walk.

“You’ve got talent. And the Hero System’s better funded. Legalized. Respected.”

“I know,” Punz muttered. “I’ve thought about it. I just…”

A pause.

“I don’t know what I’d do with Purpled.”

Purpled’s heart hit their ribs. Michael stirred. They didn’t move.

Dream chuckled, light and amused. “What, your sibling? How old are they now?”

“Thirteen, almost. Sharp as hell. Stronger than they should be. You know that mission on Sect Four with the tank squad? They were the one who melted the hull.”

Another pause. A sip of something. Maybe coffee. Maybe poison.

Dream spoke again, almost casually. “Look, I get it. You care. But you can’t let attachment drag you down. Plenty of heroes, hell, most of us, came from the system. Foster homes. Training blocks. Institutions. They’ll survive. They always do.”

Purpled’s grip on Michael tightened.

“I don’t want to dump them in the system.”

“Punz,” Dream said gently. “If they’re really strong, they’ll rise up anyway. Just like you. Just like me.”

The conversation kept going after that, fading behind walls and doors and stairs, but Purpled didn’t hear any more.

They climbed the rest of the way to their bedroom in silence.

Their room was dimly lit, washed in the soft purple glow of their powered panels. A few posters from old space operas still clung to the walls. The gear rack was pushed into the corner. Training dummies lined the far end. But the bed? The bed was the only warm thing in the entire house.

Purpled laid Michael down with care. The little piglin hybrid let out a drowsy huff, curling toward the pillow like it might bite him.

They sat beside him, silent.

Punz’s voice echoed in their head, distorted through memory.

I don’t know what I’d do with Purpled.

They weren’t sure what hit harder: what he’d said, or how unsurprising it felt.

They had always known, on some level. That Punz was too fast. Too goal-oriented. That he’d always had a foot outside the family door, even when their parents were still alive. That he didn’t see this (this bond, this family, this survival, this life with them) as permanent.

Michael shifted again in the covers and whimpered, tiny fists bunching the fabric.

Purpled slid into bed beside him, careful not to jostle. One arm folded gently around the kid’s shoulders, and the other rested over the edge of the blanket, palm up. Their antennae curled forward and began to vibrate at a low frequency again.

A lullaby in wavelengths no ordinary human could hear. A sound that wasn’t sound, but sensation.

Michael exhaled and melted into them, small chest rising and falling in a steady, soothed rhythm.

look at that, you’re a sound now

you’re doing what that piss baby won’t ever understand.

we all hate that homeless teletubby

yeah fuck dream honestly

c ya :waving-hand:

goodnight!!

:purple-heart: :waving-hand:

dream of knives and potato soup ;)

Purpled closed their eyes.

Chapter Text

Morning came slowly in the Trett's household.

Purpled stirred under the blanket, warm but uneasy, their antennae twitching as their senses gently pulled them from sleep. The first thing they registered was the stillness, an uncanny sort of hush that pressed in from every wall. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that prickled at the back of the neck.

They turned their head.

Michael hadn’t moved.

He was tucked against them, tiny tusks resting against their forearm, but his chest wasn’t rising with the same easy rhythm as last night. He wasn’t cold but his body felt denser somehow, thicker. Like something inside him had shifted or slowed.

Chat suddenly roared awake.

check him.

check him now

CHILL HE’S NOT DEAD

u sure??

EEEEEEEEEEE

EEEE

EEEEEEE

hibernation maybe?

instinct stasis??

EEE

piglins do this. piglins do this when the herd moves or dies

bundle him up

EEEEEE

clothes. scent. wrap. 

wrap. 

wrap.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Within moments, they were pulling their oversized hoodie off, then their spare jacket from the hook. Michael didn’t react as they swaddled him tight in the folds of fabric, only twitching once when the second sleeve was wrapped around his shoulder. When Purpled pulled the hood up over his ears, he finally let out a low, almost purring snort. A sound of relief.

They took a shaky breath.

EEEEEEEEEEEEE

hibernation triggered by stress or emotional collapse

it’s not uncommon for feral piglin hybrids to enter instinct sleep after bonding

yeah, especially runt-typed

EEEEEEEE

yall remember what happened with T–ch–o? Same

Lit

good old times lmao

EEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

he thinks you’re his horde now

you’re his safe place

he trusts you enough to drop every survival wall

damn… he’s brave

and cute

EEEE

E

EEEEEEEEE

yeah

Purpled stood, rubbing the salt-sleep from their eyes. They glanced once more at the bed. Michael was still motionless, face pressed into the soft curve of their bundled sweater.

"Stay here, runt,” they whispered. “I’ll be back soon.”

They made their way down the stairs like a ghost.

The smell of eggs hit first. Burnt, slightly rubbery, not inedible. The scent of food was always a sign something was wrong… Punz never cooked unless he was spiraling.

Purpled stepped onto the final stair and froze.

Punz sat at the kitchen table, hands covering his face, forearms braced against the edge like he’d been holding himself there for hours. Two plates sat in front of him. One at his seat. One opposite. Toast going cold. Eggs stiff. Two mugs of something barely steaming.

His feathered ear twitched.

“I can hear you, Purpled,” he said hoarsely. “You’re light-footed, but you’re not invisible.”

Purpled stepped into the kitchen, slowly.

Punz didn’t look up at first. When he finally did, Purpled caught the full effect: dark circles under his eyes, sallow skin, stubble grown too long on his jaw. His feathers were puffed weirdly, uneven and twitchy; nerves gone haywire.

“You look like shit,” Purpled said.

Punz snorted, but it was humorless. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You never sleep.”

“I mean I didn’t sleep at all.”

There was a moment of silence. The food sat between them like a failed peace offering.

“You okay?” Purpled asked, stepping closer.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“Purpled–”

“Punz, come on. You’re not fine.”

“I said I’m fine, Grayson!”

The words cracked through the room like a whip.

Purpled flinched, freezing in place. Their shoulders curled inward before they could stop themself. They felt very small, very young, very much like the last remnants of a child who had trusted something to stay permanent.

Punz exhaled hard and ran a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t mean to snap,” he said softly. “I’m just… tired. There’s a lot going on.”

Purpled nodded mutely.

He stared at them a moment longer, then pushed the plate toward them.

“I made breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“…Right.”

Another long pause. Punz sighed and rubbed at his eyes.

“So… I wanted to talk to you about– uh– something. I know it’s not ideal, but I’ve been offered a place with the Hero Program. Full induction. Sponsorship. Support team. All of it.”

Purpled didn’t speak.

“I know we said we’d stay mercenaries forever,” he continued, “but I just… I don’t want to do this job until I die, Purp. And with the way Dream framed it, I could have a future. A name. A uniform. Real respect.”

“You want to leave,” Purpled said quietly.

“It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I’d come back for you–”

Purpled shook their head. “It’s okay.”

Punz blinked. “What?”

“It’s okay,” they said again. “I heard your call with Dream.”

His face paled.

“I didn’t mean to overhear,” Purpled added. “But I did. The part where you said you didn’t know what to do with me. The part where Dream said to dump me in the system.”

“I didn’t agree with that–!”

“But you didn’t say no either.”

Punz opened his mouth and closed it multiple times.

Purpled walked to the table, picked up the mug on their side. Warm, still, but not hot.

“I don’t blame you, Punz,” they said after a moment. “You want more. You want to get out. You want to be seen. You always have. And you don’t need me weighing that down.”

“That’s not–”

“It’s okay,” they repeated, forcing the words through their throat. “You can go. You should go. I’ll pack my things and head to a foster home later today.”

Punz stared at them.

“Purpled…”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re not mad?”

They smiled at him, strained, too wide. “When do you want me to leave?”

He swallowed. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Then I’ll leave this afternoon.”

They turned and walked back up the stairs before he could answer. Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just steady, like someone already halfway packed.

In their room, the lights were dim again.

Michael hadn’t moved.

Purpled sat down beside him, pulled their legs up to their chest, and exhaled through their nose. Slowly, with precision, they reached under their bed for their bug out bag and began adding essentials: knives, two sets of clothes, a protein bar, emergency flares, a stitched scarf from their mother’s old uniform, a single vial of glowing purple fire in a containment capsule.

As they packed, tears started falling. Quietly. Softly.

They didn’t sob nor wail.

They just… hurt.

Silently.

Chat stirred like a blanket wrapped too tight.

Purpled?

Purps??

damn

EEEEEEEEEEEE

…it’s okay

we’re still here

EEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEE

EEEEE

EEEEEEEEE

we’re not going anywhere

don’t pack us. we ride or die, remember?

…i hate when you cry

want me to start insulting Dream again? or maybe I should recite soup recipes backwards?

E

Purpled didn’t answer. They just leaned back against the wall and closed their eyes, holding the bag to their chest.

And even as everything around them began to shift (family, safety, home) they kept humming, just faintly.

A few hours later, Purpled realized that the walk to the foster home/orphanage/wherever Punz was leading them was quiet in the wrong way.

Not tactical silence. Not field silence.

It was... loaded.

Every step they took echoed through the city’s alloyed sidewalks like a tick of a countdown, each one dragging Purpled closer to the looming shape of their new “home”. A place that didn’t smell like burnt eggs or rusted gear oil. A place that didn’t hum with alien tech or old mercenary tapes on loop. A place where they didn’t belong.

Not really.

And not anymore.

Michael, still deep in his hybrid-induced hibernation, was curled inside Purpled’s oversized field backpack. Head tucked between their spare jacket and a triple-sealed power core meant for emergency shock gauntlets. His breathing was faint but steady, and Purpled had stitched a breathing slit into the pack’s top flap the night before. It looked like an old combat duffel. No one questioned it.

this silence is too loud

can we play elevator music?

bruh

play mellohi

cat

EEEEEEEEE

no, better play funeral music but make it dubstep.

bro say something. roast his shoes. say “you too” when he says goodbye. break the tension.

SAY SOMETHING.

Purpled didn’t speak.

Neither did Punz.

He just walked beside them, hoodie pulled low over his hair, wingbones twitching under the reinforced leather of his jacket. They hadn’t flown together in over two years. Purpled hadn’t asked why.

The closer they got to Pogtopia, the tighter the city curled around them. Streets narrowed. Lights dimmed. The skyline here was darker, more vertical, stacked towers built for density, not wealth. Pogtopia was an old zone, once a mining colony or something like that, now the de facto social catch-all for the Hero System’s misfits and overflow.

It was also where the less “marketable” hybrid children ended up. The ones who hadn’t yet manifested flashy enough powers to be worth cultivating as heroes. The ones who still hissed or clawed or bleated when startled. The ones who didn’t fit the mold.

Purpled didn’t even ask why he’d chosen this facility.

They already knew.

Punz stopped at the gate.

“This is it.”

Purpled looked up at the entrance. It was big, institutional, and gray, with thick ferro-steel doors and windows covered in smartglass mesh. There was a fading mural on the right-hand wall; children painted with bright powers, all smiles and light. One had a glowing halo. Another had wings. None of them had scars.

Purpled’s were hidden, but they still ached sometimes.

Punz scratched the back of his neck. “I, uh… I know this isn’t perfect. But they’ll keep you fed. And safe. And, y’know… you might meet others like you. Might even find a new team.”

“I already have one,” Purpled said quietly, hand pressing against the hidden curve of their backpack where Michael slept.

Punz’s mouth opened. Then shut.

“You’ll be okay,” he finally said.

Purpled didn’t nod. Didn’t answer. Just stared at him for a long, long moment. And then, without another word, turned and walked toward the building.

damn.

so cold

tense

tragic

somewhere out there, a violin is playing itself in the rain

say it, gurl

They didn’t turn back.

And Punz didn’t call after them.

The intake worker was an overworked axolotl hybrid with smudged glasses and three unfinished energy drinks stacked on her desk. She didn’t ask too many questions, just gave Purpled a room number, a shared locker code, and a quick rundown of the rules: No violence indoors. No power testing without clearance. Lights out at 22:30. No smuggling “unauthorized biotech,” pets, or dangerous hybrids into the facility.

Purpled made a vague noise and nodded through it.

she totally knows lil' M is in the bag

but she doesn’t get paid enough to care

respect.

power.

banana.

EEEEEEEEEEEE

The dorm wing was up two flights of stairs, past a few scattered stares and a lot of suspicious quiet. Purpled walked the halls like a phantom, backpack secured like it held treasure…and it did.

Room 207.

They opened the door.

There were already four beds.

Purpled stood in the threshold for a second too long, looking at the three teens spreaded around the bedroom.

The first kid to look up was blond, avian if they looked at his feathered ears, probably younger than Purpled but not by much. Blue eyes. Red hoodie with scorch marks on the hem. His wingbones were visible under the shirt. He squinted at them.

“You the new one?” he asked.

Purpled just nodded.

“I’m Tommy, he/him” the boy said, standing up like he was announcing his rule over the room. “This is our room. But it’s fine. You can crash here, as long as you don’t touch my discs.”

“Your what?” 

‘Fuck, the discs are here too?’

“Don’t worry about it.”

The second teen was smaller, a brunette dark-eyed goat hybrid, curled near the window with mechanical parts spread out in front of him. He didn’t look up.

“Tubbo, he/him” he said, voice low and quick. “Don’t wake me before six unless it’s a bomb threat or breakfast. Preferably both.”

The third one was already standing almost in the shadows. Lanky and cloaked. With one green eye and the other red, their hair dark brown, almost black, and had vitiligo (was it black?) on half of their face. They tilted their head, unreadable.

“Ranboo, they/them,” they said simply.

Purpled blinked.

chat.exe has stopped working.

NO FUCKING WAY??? THE BENCH TRIO???

main character status CONFIRMED.

quick, say something cool. something edgy. or weird. or alien. or all three.

say “I see all timelines” or some shit.

or–wait, wait–

nonbinary queens let’s gooooooo

"Purpled, they/them" they said, cutting off Chat. "That’s me." 

There was a beat of silence.

Tommy grinned, “Like the color?”

Tubbo laughed once, under his breath, and glanced at their purple hoodie. “Fitting.”

Ranboo’s eyes shimmered. “You’re the one who melted a convoy ship from the inside.”

Purpled tensed. “How do you know that?”

“I hear things,” Ranboo said simply.

Tommy plopped back down. “Well, guess we’ve got our fourth. Cool.”

Just like that, they were accepted.

Purpled sat on the last bed, carefully lowering their backpack to the mattress like a sacred object. The others didn’t seem to notice. Or, more likely, they did, and chose not to ask.

they’re weird.

we like them.

EEEEEEEEEEE

found family speedrun: INITIATED.

look at them, three more for your sound

our*

say it gurl

EE

Purpled stared at the wall for a moment, exhaled softly, and reached down to rest a hand on the backpack.

Michael shifted slightly inside, still half-dreaming.

Time passed strangely in Pogtopia.

It was always a little too gray here. The sunlight filtered through smog-veiled skies, never quite reaching the buildings at the bottom of the city’s canyon-like streets. Purpled marked the days not by calendar, but by how many times Tubbo rewired the room’s flickering light panel, how often Tommy got into trouble with the cafeteria staff, or how often Ranboo went missing and returned with odd bruises and stranger stories.

Michael’s presence in the dorm was a quiet, secret rhythm at first. Half-hibernating piglins didn’t make much noise, but they emitted warmth like little space heaters and gave off a scent of copper, dust, and home.

Purpled kept him tucked under their bed during the day, between layers of heat-insulated blankets and old merc gear. At night, when the others were asleep, they pulled Michael out, checked his vitals, and sometimes hummed in their alien tongue, the kind that didn’t really use words, just frequency and tone, before tucking him with them.

you’re such a mom rn.

it’s cute.

maternal instincts go brrrrr

reminder: you stabbed a guy in the throat like a week ago

Lol

L for that prick

multitudes

facts.

One night, maybe a week after they arrived, Michael finally stirred.

Purpled was lying flat on their bunk, fiddling with a stolen holotablet while Tommy snored like a malfunctioning industrial fan and Tubbo curled around a disassembled drone arm. Ranboo stood by the window again, whispering to themself.

(Or maybe to something else.)

The movement under the bed was soft. A shuffle, followed by a quiet whine.

Purpled slid off their mattress and crouched low.

Michael was blinking up at them, heterochromatic eyes unfocused, ears twitching. He let out a startled snort when he saw them, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached out, fingers curling weakly into Purpled’s sleeve.

“You’re safe,” Purpled said quietly. “Promise.”

say the line, Purp.

say the line!!

“I’m your sound,” they whispered. “I gotcha, ‘kay?”

Michael blinked once. Twice.

Then burst into tears.

Three days later, Michael was stable enough to sit upright and eat soup.

(Chat asked if they could make potato soup, Techno loved potato soup.)

Ranboo brought him a pink hoodie with a crown in the middle two sizes too big. Tommy gave him a cracked music disc “for ambiance”. Tubbo presented him with a pair of goggles “in case he likes explosions”.

Michael accepted it all with big eyes and careful snorts.

“He’s a little young for a bomb, Tubs” Purpled said, resting a hand on the piglin’s back. “Maybe save the detonators for next week.”

“Purps, I was eight when I made my first napalm charge,” Tubbo replied flatly.

“Well, I was six when I electrocuted myself on purpose,” Tommy chimed in proudly.

“Hmm… I was nine when I stole my first wallet,” Ranboo added, not looking up from the journal they were scribbling in.

peer pressure but make it villain origin stories

not villain, vigilante*

my babies'll be vigilantes

I love vigilante!manipulated minors

and golden duo. bless golden duo beaches

lmaoo

y’all need therapy

too bad all therapists were banned in District 4 budget cuts lol

As the teens bonded over trauma and mildly alarming childhood events, Purpled made it their mission to teach Michael the basics. Especially about where they were. Curled on the floor of their shared room with a map of Essenpee projected against the far wall, Purpled walked Michael through it all.

“Okay, so,” they began, pointing at the topmost part of the country. “This is District 1. Richest part of Essenpee. People call it Manburg. It’s all gold towers, clean air, high-end tech. Government thinks they run the entire country from there.”

Michael’s ear flicked as he gnawed on a synthetic chew-stick. His snorts sounded unimpressed.

“Yeah, you’d hate it,” Purpled agreed. “Too many suits.”

They traced their fingers just below Manburg.

“Then there’s District 2. Everyone calls it L’Manburg. It’s like Manburg’s little sibling that tried to be independent once and then got absolutely obliterated for it. Still rich. Also... kinda British.”

Michael tilted his head.

“Exactly. No one knows what that means,” Purpled said solemnly.

Next, they swiped to the left side of the map, where huge round canopies dominated the view.

“District 3. Kinoko Kingdom. Mushroom forests, bio-domes, way too much vegetarian food. Pretty, though. Chill vibes. Their tech’s weird; organic-focused, biotech and spores and stuff. Tubbo says it’s where people go when they want to ‘find themselves’.” They shrugged.

Michael oinked, skeptical.

Purpled smirked. “Yeah. That was my reaction too.”

They shifted focus to the center of the map.

“District 4 is where we are. Pogtopia.”

Michael’s snort lowered.

Purpled’s voice did too.

“Pogtopia used to be a mining stronghold. Underground tunnels. Blackstone deposits. They stripped it clean and left the skeletons behind. Now it’s just… leftovers. The people here are tough, though. Real tough. Not much food. Not much trust. But we survive.”

Michael leaned against them.

Purpled let him.

“Then there’s District 5. Logstedshire, or just ‘the Shire’. That’s the worst one, little M. No infrastructure. No real protection. The Government mostly pretends it doesn’t exist unless they need bodies for something awful. Don’t ever go there alone.”

Michael made a low sound in his throat, confused. Purpled scratched between his ears.

“There’s also a place that seems like a district, between us and Kinoko. Not technically one of the five main zones. People call it Las Nevadas.”

Purpled’s voice dropped to something between irritation and admiration.

“It’s a casino. Whole district’s built around gambling, black market trades, and ego. Technically run by a villain, Jester. But I’ve worked with him and he owes me favors.”

BIG Q

QUACKITY

BIG Q!!!

yo call him up let’s rig some slots

PURPLED X QUACKITY BUDDY COP HEIST WHEN?

ASSASSIN DUO SUPREMACY

this is how crime families are made. i love it.

Michael wriggled closer into their side. Purpled pulled the blanket tighter around him and flicked their antennae just enough to emit a soft reassurance tone.

“Someday we’ll see it all,” they murmured.

Michael snorted, softly, almost content.

And just like that, Purpled let themselves lean back, letting the world fade behind the comfort of warmth. In a room of a bunch of misfits with no surnames, they’d found a rhythm.

Their past was burnt away, but their future was just beginning.

Chapter Text

The heater in the dormitory flickered again, letting out a loud hissing groan like an old beast taking its last breath. The walls, lined with soft graffiti, dull posters of long-gone heroes, and the odd rust stain, vibrated slightly from the winter wind that whipped through Pogtopia like a vulture.

The four teens huddled around a crate-turned-table, a single, battery-powered lantern in the middle casting flickering light across their faces. Michael sat on Purpled’s lap, snuffling softly into the collar of their oversized hoodie, his golden eyes half-lidded with contentment. His little tusks were growing in now. He’d learned the word “tooth” last week, said it with a lisp that made Tubbo giggle for a full minute.

They’d been sitting like this all evening, a silence unusually heavy for their group, after Tubbo brought back a blackened notebook from the cafeteria trash. Inside were names; lists of children, crossed out or circled. Ones who’d aged out. Ones who’d disappeared.

(Ones who’d died.)

Ranboo closed it slowly and set it down like it was a landmine.

(And it felt like that.)

No one said anything for a while. Until Tommy broke the quiet, “I never told y’all how I got here, right? My parents dumped me here when I was ten,” he said, staring into the flickering light. “Didn’t even pack me a bag. I had these feathers coming in… my second molting, I think… and I remember my mum going white like a ghost, heh. ‘What’s wrong with your skin?’ she said.” He let out a joyless laugh. “Skin. Like I had a rash.”

Tubbo placed a hand on his shoulder. Tommy’s wings twitched, flicking ash off the tip of one. “I didn’t even know we had hybrid genes in the bloodline. Guess they didn’t either, ‘cause the next day I was in the system with a number and a warning label.”

“Didn’t stop you from being loud,” Tubbo teased, nudging him. It worked, because Tommy smiled, if briefly.

Ranboo folded their legs beneath them. “My moms…” They hesitated, drawing little loops on the crate with a long finger. “They were… good people. They ran a bookshop in Kinoko. I used to help them sort the titles by genre, even though I couldn’t read half of them. Enderians are good at organization.”

Michael tilted his head at the word “En’erian.”

Ranboo smiled faintly. “Like me.”

lil guy’s learnin words like Pokémon learnin moves. Michael used [Question]!

It’s not very effective but IT’S CUTE AS HELL.

Ranboo’s about to drop lore, shush.

“One day there was a fight,” Ranboo continued. “A villain tried to steal some prototype AI tech from a passing convoy. A hero, and I still don’t remember who it was, intervened. The tech overloaded and exploded. It leveled half the street. My parents were standing right outside.” 

They didn’t cry, they just twisted their long fingers tighter around their sleeves.

“No extended family in Kinoko. The System didn’t know what to do with a half-half kid who could teleport accidentally and had a strange accent. So they dropped me in Pogtopia.”

Purpled didn’t speak for a moment.

They looked at their hands (scarred, calloused, dirt-smudged) and then glanced down at Michael, now fully asleep in their lap.

“My brother left me here,” they said softly.

Tommy looked up. “Huh?”

“He said it was for the best. Said I’d be better off,” Purpled said, voice even. “But the truth is he got a chance to leave. To become a hero. Dream offered him a place. And he took it.”

There was no bitterness in their voice, no accusation. Just quiet.

Ranboo furrowed their brow. “You still care about him?”

“I don’t know at all,” Purpled answered honestly. “Maybe. I think… I think he was always going to leave. He just didn’t know how to bring me with him. Or maybe he didn’t want to. Doesn’t matter. He’s out there now, saving people. And I’m here.”

Tubbo nodded. “Some people can’t handle staying.”

Purpled nodded back, then tilted their head toward Tubbo. “You haven’t told us how you got here… it’s not necessary if you don’t wanna do it, though.”

Tubbo shrugged, leaning back on his palms. “Not much to tell. My dad was… Schlatt.”

Everyone went still until Ranboo’s eyes widened. “Wait, like the President?”

Tommy let out a low whistle. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Tubbo said. “Didn’t want the name. Didn’t want the child. Didn’t want the booze-fueled rants or the way he’d throw things when he was ‘stressed’. I ran when I was eleven. The System found me in Kinoko. Tommy was the first person I met here. He threw a sock at my face.”

“I call it ‘character-building’,” Tommy said with mock-seriousness.

Purpled smiled faintly, stroking Michael’s hair.

“Hey, speaking of socks,” Tubbo piped up, “how’s Michael’s vocab going?”

“What does that even–”

“Pretty good,” Purpled said, cutting Tommy’s babble. “He’s starting to recognize names and colors. I think the alien tones help. Like a hybrid whale song, y’know? I hum and he associates the sound with meaning.”

Michael made a small piglin snort, even in sleep.

yo we’ve got a genius over here

Michael’s about to be the next Archmage I swear

call it now: tiny piglin, massive magic potential

he’s a main character too. Purp's collecting party members like Pokémon cards.

Tommy leaned over and gave Michael’s head a gentle ruffle. “Hey little guy. When you talk proper, you better learn the word ‘prank’ first.”

“He’ll learn ‘stab’ before that,” Purpled muttered.

he already knows “stab.” he watched you do it before breakfast once.

Michael’s vocabulary: 1) Tooth 2) Blood 3) Stab 4) Hug

Solid priorities, tbh.

EEEEEEEEE

EEEE

As the lantern flickered and the chill outside clawed at the windows, the four teens leaned into the warmth they created themselves.

The hallway of the Pogtopia Foster Shelter echoed strangely as the five of them walked through it, their mismatched duffel bags and patched backpacks slung over their shoulders. Each step toward the front door was heavy. Not with regret, but with the unmistakable weight of change.

The walls, once colored in chipped pastels, had been like a second skin to them for years. They remembered each corner: where Tommy once tried to parkour over the radiator and ended up stuck, where Tubbo had hidden snacks inside an old vent, where Ranboo used to sit and stare out the dust-streaked window when they needed to be alone.

Now it was all behind them. They were sixteen.

They were out.

And even though they knew it was coming (everyone did) it still stung like a blade in the ribs.

Michael clung to Purpled’s hip, his arms wrapped tight around their waist. He’d grown so much over the last few years. He still had a lisp and didn’t like loud noises, but he’d started speaking whole sentences now. Purpled, Ranboo and Tommy had taught him their hybrid languages and Michael had repaid them in snorts and chittery-sounding “I luh you”s every night before bed.

When they reached the front desk, Sara, the axolotl hybrid who was the intake worker, stood waiting for them.

She was leaning against the scuffed counter, her axolotl frills drooping, eyes shining with tears that she didn’t bother to wipe. Her once-vibrant blue skin had faded a little over time, but her smile was still soft, still kind.

“You’re really going, huh?” she said, her voice wavering.

Tommy dropped his bag with a dramatic thump. “Hell yeah, we’re going. Out into the world. No rules. No curfews. No cafeteria sludge. Freedom!”

Sara gave him a watery chuckle. “And what are you going to eat, Mr. Freedom?”

“Tubbo’s cooking,” Tommy answered instantly.

“I’m not cooking,” Tubbo said flatly, crossing his arms.

“Then Purpled’s cooking.”

“I'm the knife one, Tommy.”

“Ranboo’s cooking, then.”

“I burned soup once,” Ranboo said, deadpan.

Michael piped up from Purpled’s side: “Micah cook.”

Everyone looked at him, with blank looks.

“You can’t even reach the stove, mate,” Tommy muttered, though there was no bite in it.

Sara leaned down behind the desk and carefully lifted a manila folder. She walked around the counter and stopped in front of Purpled first, glancing at Michael tucked into their side. “I know you never liked your old ID,” she said quietly, eyes meeting theirs.

Purpled nodded slowly, hesitant. “We do.”

“Well,” she said, and handed them a thick envelope. “Now it does.”

Purpled opened the folder and blinked.

Inside was a fresh ID card. Purple background behind their profile photo, sleek holographic ink. The name: Purpled Bedwars. And tucked in the front pocket… a smaller ID. Michael’s. His ears perked up as they showed it to him.

“Michael Bedwars,” Purpled whispered.

yo she GAVE YOU A FAMILY NAME

SHE GAVE THE BABY A LAST NAME TOO

I’m crying. I’m actually crying. I can’t believe this bitch has FEELINGS.

Axolotl Sara best character frfr.

“I hope that’s okay,” Sara said softly, almost shy. “I figured... well, you two are inseparable. Seemed wrong not to give both the same surname.”

Purpled nodded, throat tight. “It’s perfect.”

She turned to the others and handed out more folders. ‘Tommy Innit’ was written in one of them.

Tommy frowned and looked at the slight smile teasing her lips.. “Innit? That’s the name?”

“You said that a lot, so everyone’s been calling you that for years,” Sara said with a wink.

“…Alright, fair enough.”

“This is for Tubbo Underscore,” she continued, handing the folder to the goat hybrid.

Tubbo raised a brow. “Is that even legal?”

“It is if you don’t tell the government.”

“Cool,” Tubbo grinned.

Ranboo stared down at the card, the name ‘Ranboo Beloved’ making their breath hitch. “Beloved?”

Sara’s smile grew gentler. “Because you are. Whether you believe it or not.”

Ranboo blinked rapidly, and Purpled reached out, brushing their knuckles gently. “You okay?”

“…Yeah,” they whispered. “It’s a good name.”

[Ngl, I cried after suggesting that ↑ -Bee]

“You’re not going to be alone out there,” Sara said, a little firmer now. “I made some calls. Pulled some strings.”

“What kind of strings?” Tubbo asked warily. Purpled smirked.

“The good kind,” Sara said. “You’ve got a place to stay. Four-bedroom apartment in Pogtopia, near the south end. Managed by a friend of mine. Real grumpy guy, but good-hearted. Name’s Ninja Blevins. Just call him Mr. Ninja. He doesn’t like ‘Mr. Blevins’. Says it makes him sound like a mailman.”

“Ninja?” Tommy said, grinning. “That’s sick.”

“And he’s letting us live there?” Ranboo asked.

“Rent-free until you can pay,” Sara confirmed. “He believes in second chances. You’ll like him.”

Purpled swallowed hard. “Why are you doing this for us?”

Sara’s frills fluttered faintly. “Because you matter. Because this place forgot that sometimes. And because I was in your shoes once. You don’t forget the people who give you your name.”

Michael tugged on her sleeve. “Thank you,” he said, very carefully.

Her eyes glistened. She crouched and hugged him, careful not to squeeze too tight.

“You’re going to do amazing things,” she whispered.

Purpled stepped forward and wrapped their arms around her too, gently. Ranboo joined, then Tubbo, then Tommy. It wasn’t dramatic, just warm.

A farewell that didn’t need words.

They left shortly after, stepping into the foggy streets of Pogtopia with their belongings, their new IDs, and a silence that hummed between them.

“So…” Tommy started. “Guess we’re adults now, huh?”

“Gods, don’t say that,” Tubbo muttered.

“Do we get to drink?”

“No.”

“Drive?”

“No.”

“Kill?”

“Tommy.”

ok but you CAN kill. 

you’re technically mercenary-trained

we should invest in a rice cooker

what

AND A KNIFE RACK

MICHAEL WANTS A ROCK COLLECTION.

Confirmed. Rock collection is top priority.

Purpled smiled listening to Chat as they adjusted their bag and squeezed Michael’s hand.

Chapter Text

It had been three months since they moved into Mr. Ninja Blevins’s building; an old, creaking structure that stood firm like a quiet sentinel in Pogtopia’s dense streets. The five of them had settled into a life of relative peace. Ninja, with his blue hair, sharp blue eyes, yellow rag tied across his forehead, and surgical mask, offered them shelter and unwritten kindness.

But shelter wasn’t freedom.

So, one crisp morning, Purpled stepped out onto the balcony of their new place, the Pogtopian skyline hanging low like stitched panels, and made a decision.

"I'm done relying on Mr. Ninja’s generosity," they declared, turning to the group. Tommy was perched on a crate with a gaming pad, Tubbo worked beside him on a drone, and Ranboo was writing in their newest journal. Michael toddled around, hugging a rock collection already three matters deep.

"What are you thinking?" Tommy asked without looking up.

"I'm thinking about working." Purpled clasped their hands behind their back. "We all need jobs. Because I can’t be the only one working around here."

The other blonde blinked. "Me? Working? I don’t even know how to work."

Tubbo lifted his face from the drone. "I could do mechanics. I like machines."

Ranboo stroked a page. "I think… I'd like working in a library. I’ve missed holding real words."

Tommy’s head spun. "A library? That sounds… chill."

"Yeah, but you're not going to work in a library, Toms." Tubbo glared at him, "You're too loud for that."

"Aww…"

Purpled chuckled and wiped their forehead. "Okay, so Tubbo, mechanics. Ranboo: library. Tommy… we’ll figure something out. And Michael, you’re not working. When you grow up."

Michael waved a tiny hand. “Up!”

Purpled ducked a smile. “Right. Up.”

joblessinnit

joblessinnit

EEEEEEE

joblessinnit

joblessinnit

we all know Tommy is going to work in a café, right?

istg if this is a cliché…

man, Tubbo’s already got the Wrench of Destiny™

Purps, make Tubbo meet Sam

EEEEEEEEEE

SAM DOESN'T EVEN KNOW US, DUMBASS

E

shut up

Ranboo’s heart eyes for books is my new aesthetic

techno works in a library

right

facts

is Michael going to a school??

schools are overrated

GIVE MICHAEL A ROCK

TEH ROCK

The Rock

Purpled grabbed their purple hoodie, tied a surgical mask the same way Ninja did, and dropped a hand on Michael’s head. “Stay out of trouble, y'all.”

They slipped away from the apartment and into the buzzing streets toward Las Nevadas, the floating casino district perched like a neon island between Pogtopia and Kinoko Kingdom.

At first, Las Nevadas dazzled Purpled, as it always did. Massive floating bulbs of light, floating walkways, neon-drenched walls. Security drones hummed in formation. People in extravagant hybrid costumes strolled by. 

(It felt like stepping into an anime sequence, and Purpled half expected baritone voiceovers about epic destinies.)

Navigating to the district's main entertainment was easy, just follow the gloaming buzz of private hovercars. By the time Purpled reached the entrance, they were sweating under their mask. Slime, the Joker’s right-hand man, was waiting, as if he knew Purpled was coming to see Joker.

Purpled swallowed.

Slime’s smile spread wide, almost unreal. "Purpled from Everywhere! Back for a visit?"

Purpled tilted their head slightly. “Hi, Slime. I, uh, need to speak to Joker.”

Slime grinned wider still, revealing gleaming white teeth. "Finally decided to earn glory again, huh?"

Purpled felt a chill. Slime’s voice could’ve narrated an entire villain origin montage.

“Something like that,” Purpled replied. “Need to ask a few favors. You’re, um, cool with that?”

“Only if you’re cool with me,” Slime said. “Come on, it’s been three years, Purpled from Everywhere! I don’t really see you that much. Dap me up!”

classic Slime energy

guy’s more sugary than a manga smile

did you know he has panteloniphobia??

Fear of pants? Wtf

WTH

WHAT

LOL

EEEEEEE

Slime does not have any hobbies

lies, he likes sitting in caves and watching events happen

but he doesn't like them because he considers them a waste of time

Purpled’s gotta be cautious. That grin kills

lmao

Purpled nodded stiffly and followed Slime through shimmering corridors lined with holographic vines, neon slashed across walls like brush strokes, until they arrived at a golden elevator with leopard print trim and invisible numbers flickering inside.

Slime stopped, stepped aside and opened his arms. "After you."

Purpled took a deep breath, eyes flicking to the panel. The doors whisked shut with a hiss.

elevator music suspicion: 99%

pov: on my way to meet my fav villain

popcorn.gif

The elevator purred to a stop on the top floor, the metal doors peeling open with a whisper like a held breath. Purpled stepped out first, the cold air of the high-rise office brushing their cheeks. Slime trailed behind, his ever-present grin just slightly more controlled now, reverent even.

Joker’s office was a sprawling cathedral of excess.

Panes of tinted glass let in the neon-glow of Las Nevadas, casting pale pinks and reds across the obsidian floor. A crescent-shaped desk carved from desert stone sat at the far end. Velvet curtains swayed like they had a heartbeat of their own. And standing at the massive window, hands behind his back, was him.

The Joker, but also Alex Quackity.

Even from behind, he was unmistakable: the silhouette of a man built like consequence, his dark bronze skin catching the light, the profile jagged from a scar that cut across his lip and up through his cheekbone, narrowly missing his cloudy left eye.

He turned at the sound of the doors. Both eyes, one pitch black and the other stormy gray, locked with Purpled’s.

Silence, thick as desert heat, stretched between them.

Then the villain’s mouth twisted into a smirk, pulling awkwardly against the scar, and Purpled saw a glint of a gold fang.

(Still there, still menacing, still comfortingly familiar.)

Purpled broke into a grin. 

The mask came off, the hood was tossed back, and the careful stillness shattered.

"Big Q!" they shouted, voice breaking halfway with glee.

Quackity let out a breathy, stunned laugh as Purpled sprinted across the obsidian floor and collided with him in a hug so tight it forced a grunt from his chest. "You're taller," he said into their hair, voice rough like sand under sunlight.

"So are you," Purpled mumbled, burying their face in his shoulder. "And older. Damn, how old are you now, forty?"

Quackity pulled back, pinching their arm. “Watch it, kiddo.”

Purpled laughed, purple eyes shimmering. "You’re still terrifying."

"And you’re still alive," Quackity replied, voice dipped in that same fond gruffness Purpled remembered. "Didn’t expect to see you walk in after three years of silence. You look like shit."

"Yeah, I missed you too."

BIG Q LET’S GOOOO

THE ASSASSIN DUO RETURNS

canon Quackity PTSD dad arc confirmed

ngl this hug got me sobbing bro

purpled is baby. but also knife baby.

Slime watched from the door, happy that they had finally reunited. “Do I need to play violin or something?” he asked, mostly to the air.

"Shut up, Slime," Purpled muttered, still clinging to Quackity.

Quackity chuckled. “Let them be dramatic.”

They eventually stepped apart. Purpled took a moment to really look at him. The jagged scar looked older, less angry than it once did. The cloudy eye didn’t dart like it used to. But the presence (that looming strength in every twitch of his gloved fingers) was still the same.

"You lost weight," Purpled commented.

"You gained height."

"You still chewing those shitty chili lime chips?"

Quackity scoffed. "Addiction’s addiction."

They both laughed again, and something in Purpled’s chest eased, like a knot untangling.

real ones know those chips were canon

omg omg is this where purpled finally gets family again?

quackity: villain. also quackity: father figure goals.

and punz said he was a bad influence smh

"So," Quackity said, settling back behind his desk. "What brings the infamous Purpled Trett, proud mercenary, tragic foster kid, and now, apparently, freelance adult, back to my doorstep?"

"Now I'm Purpled Bedwars," Purpled settled into the plush chair opposite him, pulling down their hood again. Their antennae twitched as they spoke. "I need a job," they said.

Quackity blinked. "A job?"

"Not a favor, not a handout. Work," they said. "I have people to support. I can’t let my siblings starve, and I sure as hell won’t let us go back to the System again."

A beat of silence.

Quackity’s gold fang flashed again. “Now that’s a line worthy of my Jack of Spades.”

Purpled's expression softened. “You remembered.”

"I never forget."

OH THE LORE

big q deadass said “this one’s mine” like a Disney villain dad

also this setup is giving ‘heist arc is loading’ vibes ngl

ASSASSIN DUO REUNITE WHEN???

“I thought you didn’t want to see me again,” Purpled said more quietly, their hand picking at the edge of the chair.

Quackity sighed, folding his hands. “I didn’t want to lose you, Purps. Punz made it clear. Said the work was dangerous. Said I was pulling you into something worse.”

"You weren’t."

"Still… he is– was your brother. I didn’t want to break you two apart."

Purpled stared at the floor. “Too late.”

The silence returned, but gentler now. Familiar.

“I missed you, Big Q.”

“I missed you more than you know, kiddo.”

fuck. now I’m crying.

quackity and purpled >>> most canon dynamics

chat goes soft mode every 5 minutes and then bloodthirsty again it’s wild

They sat in quiet for a few seconds more. Then Slime clapped his hands. "So? We giving them a gig or what, boss?"

Quackity stood, pulled a drawer open, and tossed a thick manila folder onto the desk. “I’ve got a few jobs that need a sharp blade and a sharper mind. Think you’re up for it?”

Purpled grinned, stretching. “I’ve been waiting three years to say this.”

They grabbed the folder, flipped it open. “Point me at the target.”

As Purpled walked back to the elevator with Slime, folder in hand and heart lighter than it had been in months, Chat screamed:

WE’RE BACK IN BUSINESS

MERCENARY ARC 2.0 BABYYYYY

JESTER’S DISTRICT? more like PURPLED’S PLAYGROUND

ASSASSIN DUO LIVE AGAIN AAAAAA

Ranboo waited until Purpled was out of sight before they quietly stood from the threadbare couch in the shared apartment, brushing nonexistent lint from the sleeves of their oversized hoodie. The walls were warm with morning sun, streaked with hand-painted murals Tubbo and Tommy had argued over for days. Michael was humming quietly under his breath, lying on the floor with a puzzle book, tongue sticking out between his tusks.

Ranboo’s eyes softened. They slipped on their shoes, pulled on the one blazer they owned, wrinkled and three years out of fashion, and slipped a note into the kitchen: 

Out to search for a job. Don’t burn the place down. –Boo

They took the long route out of Pogtopia.

Their fingers tightened around the strap of their bag as the landscape changed, worn concrete turned to soft moss, to stepping stones, to mushroom-lined paths that stretched through a forest of fungus. Kinoko Kingdom was different from the other districts. It smelled like petrichor and roasted coffee. It sounded like rain on wood and faint indie music from mushroom-cap cafés.

And statistically, Kinoko had the most libraries. That meant the highest chances of a job.

It took them only twenty minutes to find one.

It stood modestly tucked beneath a massive red-capped mushroom, a small wooden sign above its circular door painted in delicate gold:

CROW FATHER

“Bit weird,” Ranboo muttered.

But they pushed open the door anyway.

A soft bell chimed above their head. Warm light spilled from stained glass windows, casting pools of red and green across the wooden floor. Shelves upon shelves of books stretched up into the rounded ceiling. Some looked so ancient they probably predated the country of Essenpee itself. Others sparkled with tech-enhanced covers or pulsed gently with hybrid ink.

To the right, at a desk scattered with scrolls, sat a pink-haired man. He didn’t look up at first.

Ranboo cleared their throat awkwardly.

The man raised his eyes and Ranboo stilled.

The stranger was a piglin hybrid. Not diluted, not second-gen, maybe even from the Old Nether. His long pink hair was loosely braided, his tusks neatly polished and visible even with his neutral expression. Reddish-brown eyes, one redder than the other, flicked up to meet Ranboo’s face.

Ranboo blinked, because they swore he looked a little like Michael might, someday.

They took a step forward, remembering not to make sudden movements, hybrid etiquette.

"Can I help you?" the man asked, his voice even, deep and measured.

Ranboo smiled nervously. “Hi, uh, I was wondering if you were hiring. I’ve always wanted to work in a library, and I figured, well, now I can.”

The piglin hybrid blinked. "Resume?"

"Oh. Right." Ranboo dug quickly into their bag and pulled out the envelope Sara had given them. They carefully slid the paper across the counter.

The man took it and glanced over.

“Ranboo Beloved,” he read aloud, thoughtfully. “Huh. That’s a good surname.”

Ranboo smiled, cheeks heating. “Thanks. Sara, the receptionist at the system, gave it to me when I left. Said I needed a surname that matched my heart.”

The piglin hybrid looked up at that. A quiet huff of air left his nose. Something like… amusement?

“Techno Craft,” he said, extending a hand. “I co-own the place.”

Ranboo shook his hand. His grip was careful, not too tight, not too loose.

"What books do you like?" Techno asked.

Ranboo brightened. "Oh, anything. I mean, I like nonfiction sometimes, but my older sibling is obsessed with mythology. Tommy likes comics and fairy tales, even if he doesn’t admit it. Tubbo, my other brother, is more into like, action stuff. Explosions. And Michael, the youngest, he’s into mystery novels and logic games, a bit creepy if you ask me.”

The piglin hybrid’s ears twitched slightly. Still neutral, but Ranboo could feel the shift.

"...Michael?" Techno asked.

Ranboo nodded. “My youngest sibling, he’s eight. Also a piglin hybrid, still a runt.”

Techno's eyes narrowed slightly. He leaned forward, subtly, almost imperceptibly, just enough to sniff the air.

Ranboo caught it, so did their instincts: scent check.

Years in the system had taught Ranboo what those subtle cues meant. Piglin hybrids could pick up bloodlines, bond links, even trauma markers through scent if they were trained, or old-school enough. Techno was definitely the latter.

"I can still smell his scent on you," Techno murmured, intrigued.

Ranboo gave a small nod. “We’re bonded. Not like… formally, I guess, but he sees me as part of his sound.”

Techno blinked slowly. “Sound.”

Ranboo swallowed. “Yeah. His sound’s… us. Me, Purpled, Tubbo, Tommy. He’s never said it outright, but that’s what his body language tells us. Purpled told me that Michael and them were the only ones in their sound.”

Techno looked thoughtful.

“Tell me about them,” he said, gesturing toward the small chairs and tea table nestled between two shelves.

Ranboo hesitated, but followed. Sat carefully.

“Well, we all came from the system. We were stuck in it at different times. Tubbo and Tommy came first. I was put in a year later after my moms were killed during a fight between a hero and a villain. Purpled showed up with Michael after that.”

They didn’t mention who Tubbo really was. Or the scars under Tommy's hoodie. Or that Purpled was a mercenary. Or Michael's obsession with rocks.

“We left the moment we could,” Ranboo added. “We have an apartment now. It’s not big, but it’s ours. We make it work.”

"And you're all… not related by blood?"

Ranboo shook their head. “Blood’s not everything. Sometimes people love you even if you don’t match.”

There was a long pause.

Then, Techno grunted. “You’re hired.”

Ranboo blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Tuesday through Saturday. Nine a.m. to seven p.m. Bring lunch and don’t be late. I don’t like late.”

Ranboo’s jaw dropped slightly. “Oh my– I mean, thank you so much!”

Techno nodded, standing. “You start tomorrow.”

Ranboo stood too, beaming.

As they walked to the door, Techno added, voice lower now, “If your little brother ever wants to learn piglin dialect… bring him in. I’ll teach him.”

Ranboo’s throat tightened. “I– okay. I’ll tell him.”

“And Ranboo?”

They paused.

Techno met their eyes. “Beloved is a good surname. I believe you earned it.”

Ranboo stepped out into the Kinoko breeze. Their hands were trembling, but for once, not from fear.

The job was theirs, and Michael would have a teacher!

They couldn’t wait to tell their siblings.

Techno sat in the library’s back office, feet kicked up on the desk, thumb lazily flipping through Ranboo’s resume again. A single crow perched on the edge of the desk, head tilted sideways, beady eyes blinking slow and knowing.

“Not often we get enderians who speak that gently,” came a gravelly voice behind him.

Techno didn’t bother turning. He’d felt the shift in the air before Philza even entered, cooler, lighter, but with a sense of static like a storm waiting to break. The crow on the desk croaked once in greeting as Philza Craft stepped inside, his blonde hair tied back into a loose bun, eyes a bright and deceptively soft blue behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

"Afternoon, old man," Techno muttered.

Philza grunted. “Didn’t expect you to hire anyone this month. Especially not someone from Pogtopia.”

“They’re good,” Techno said simply.

Philza raised a brow and perched himself on the edge of the desk like one of his own crows. “You say that about every third person who walks in with a sad backstory and nice manners.”

“No, I don’t,” Techno replied. “Only the ones who don’t lie about their scars.”

Philza tilted his head.

“They’ve got a piglin hybrid for a brother. A runt. Scented with affection. Protective instincts out the wazoo. They didn’t flinch when I sniffed them. Hell, they even clocked it.” Techno tossed the resume on the desk. “And they weren’t trying to impress me. They were just being real.”

“Hmm.” Philza rubbed his stubble. “What’s the name?”

“Ranboo Beloved.”

Philza blinked. “Beloved?”

Techno nodded once.

“You know what that means, yeah?” the older man said, voice lower now.

“Means they don’t have any blood left, but still believe in family.”

Philza exhaled through his nose, quiet for a moment. “And the others?”

“Purpled Bedwars. Tubbo Underscore. Tommy Innit. The youngest one’s Michael Bedwars, the runt.”

Philza’s brows rose. “Bedwars? What kind of...” He chuckled.

Techno’s lips twitched. “Sara must’ve helped them with IDs. She’s a soft one.”

“I’ll say.” Philza tapped the desk once, calling his crow to his shoulder. “Still. A piglin runt under an enderian’s protection? That’s... rare. Culturally, that doesn’t happen unless they’re–”

“Sound-bonded,” Techno interrupted, voice low.

Philza blinked at that. “That deep?”

Techno nodded. “Ranboo didn’t say it, but the scent’s there, mixed subtly with a goat hybrid, an avian hybrid and something else I can't yet understand... but it's settled. The runt thinks they’re their sound now.”

Philza muttered something under his breath in something between Old Galactic and Glyphar Language.

The lights dimmed a little as the sun lowered across the Kinoko skyline. The wood creaked in the walls of the old mushroom-built library, echoing with years of knowledge, of memory, of old blood.

"You think they're gonna be trouble?" Philza asked.

Techno leaned forward, voice even. “They’re going to be important. Not trouble.”

The older man sighed, standing. “Then we keep watch. Quietly.”

Techno stood as well.

There was a pause between them. One of those long, waiting silences.

Then Techno asked, “Time?”

Philza cracked a grin. “Time.”

They moved in practiced synchrony.

Techno slid the office panel aside, revealing a hidden wardrobe behind a false bookshelf. A breath later, his casual sweater and jeans were discarded for silks and steel, The Blade, the second biggest villain in the Essenpee, stepped into the room like a revenant from myth.

He wore a loose ruffled white shirt tucked into black trousers tucked further into shining black boots, the kind worn by ghost-story generals. A red cloak lined with white fluff snapped as he tossed it over his shoulders. A brutal sword hung from his hip.

He reached up slowly and pulled down the pig skull mask from the shelf, fitting it over his face. Then the crown, heavy and old, gold dulled with age. His emerald earring swayed gently as he moved, catching the low light.

Blood

E

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

Blood

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

E

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

TECHNOBLADE NEVER DIES

E

He didn’t flinch when dozens of voices resonated in his mind, he was used to it.

On the other side of the room, Philza removed his collared cardigan and jeans, slipping on the sleek black suit stitched in the style of a funeral warden. His black tuxedo shimmered with golden embroidery over a crisp white shirt. A golden chain lay neatly against his chest, clipped into the lapel. As the final piece, he placed a black-and-white bucket hat on his head, feathers already growing from his temples and jaw. 

Then came the wings. Huge, glossy black, stretching out behind him like shadows given form. His eyes turned darker, cored in inky blue and silver. His power hummed through the air, a thousand crow calls echoing faintly from unseen rafters.

Angel of Death, the biggest villain of the Essenpee.

Philza tapped the emerald hanging from his hat and grinned at his son.

“Well, Blade. Shall we see what the night brings?”

Techno rolled his neck, mask shifting slightly. “Let’s go hunt, Angel.”

They stepped into the secret tunnel behind the wardrobe.

The library lights flickered, then went off.

And Crow Father remained closed until the next day.

Chapter Text

Purpled walked beneath the flickering neon signs of Las Nevadas with their hands tucked in the pockets of their purple tuxedo pants, their white mask safely stowed away in the messenger bag slung across their back. Charlie had said he'd get it cleaned, but Purpled didn't trust even Charlie's unnervingly wide smile with their gear. Too many sharp teeth.

Their reinforced shoes clicked softly against the polished stone street, this side of Las Nevadas always kept immaculate. Fake marble, Chat whispered, but Purpled didn't care. The illusion was what mattered.

Quackity knew that better than anyone.

Purpled sighed, feeling the familiar ache in their chest, not quite sadness, not quite longing. Just something sharp.

"Big Q…" they murmured.

BIG Q SUPREMACY

FATHER FIGURE UNLOCKED

ASSASSIN DUO LIVES ON

REMEMBER WHEN HE KIDNAPPED TECHNOBLADE? good times

yeah and when techno killed big q

not so good time tbh

wrong universe bro

RIGHT UNIVERSE RIGHT TRAUMA

Purpled smiled faintly, antennae twitching with amusement.

Quackity had always been… complicated.

They remembered the first time they'd met: Purpled was nine, their purple flames still small, flickering with untested violence. Punz had dragged them through the swinging doors of Las Nevadas, clutching a job slip and a scowl.

"I don't like him," Punz had muttered under his breath. "But the money's too good."

Purpled had wandered from the bar, staring at the gold-plated roulette wheels and the fox hybrid with orange fur that they were sure was their age: Fundy, not yet their friend.

Alex Quackity was only eighteen years old when Purpled saw him, two years older than Punz. Sharp eyes, sharper tongue. A scar that pulled his smile slightly sideways and a gold fang glinting in the bar light.

"You're the runt?" he'd asked.

Purpled had blinked. "Not a runt."

Quackity had knelt to their level. "Good. Runt's don't last long in this city."

From then on, Quackity called them "little killer," even when Purpled just did recon, or stood beside him with folded arms and a knife hidden in their sock.

Even when Punz stopped taking jobs from him, Purpled didn't. They came back, sneaking out, hiding behind rooftops and old abandoned clubs until Quackity caught them and just… laughed.

"You really don't listen to your brother, huh?" he'd said, arms crossed.

Purpled had grinned.

"Never have. Never will."

LIL PURP STRIKES AGAIN

remember that rooftop job where they threw a guy off and Charlie cheered??

iconic

WE DO NOT TALK ABOUT "THE KNIFE INCIDENT"

actually no we do pls tell it again

Back in the present, Purpled passed one of Las Nevadas' many info-kiosks, its screen flickering between a weather alert and the latest announcement from President Schlatt, the figurehead of District One. They rolled their eyes.

"I'm going home, Chat," they whispered aloud.

lame

take us to the office again

SLIME WAS FUNNY

FUNDY IS HOT

wait are we allowed to say that?

you are, you're just cringe

yeah well you're a third-person NPC with no lore

PISSBABY-69420 JOINED THE CHAT

RUN.

They tuned Chat out with practiced ease.

Purpled wasn't heading home yet, anyway. First, they needed to check the alley by the Dice Tower, a tall structure that pulsed with code-light and off-duty gamblers trying to pretend they hadn't lost their family's savings.

This was where Quackity's system came in.

First time offenders? Charlie handled them, joyful, booming, unnerving as all hell. His smile usually chased them off.

The second time, Fundy stopped selling. No drinks. No eye contact. That was the warning everyone feared most: if Fundy cut you off, you were done socially. Las Nevadas didn't forgive shame.

But at the third and last strike… That's where Purpled came in.

Under the mask, under the alias.

The Jack of Spades.

The name wasn't random. Every deck had a Joker: Quackity. Every game had stakes, but only one card could be hidden in a sleeve, trusted to turn a losing hand into blood. The Jack.

A little bit rogue, a little bit royal.

Their outfit reflected it: tailored vest, pressed shirt, purple tie. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle to be seen. The white mask they wore in the field had a black vertical spike through the middle. They always wield a pair of netherite katanas crossed in their back.

Some said it was because they left a calling card.

Some said it was because you only saw them if you'd lost the game.

bc they stab like 11 times, jack = 11

bro that's not- okay wait. that's kind of genius

jack of spades = bodyguard. they protect the king

QUACKITY IS THE KING???

well yeah, and we're the bloodstained sword he keeps under the throne

omg write that down write that down

THE ROLE OF THE KING IS A LONELY ONE TO PLAY

but cards in the ring have been dealt in the wrong way!!!

I love that song OMG

the role of the king is a lonely one to play~

no matter the lives of the people before me (u know where we goin now ppl)

ALL THAT I SEEK IS THE PATH TO GLORY

Glory

HMM GLORY

glory

amazing

After changing clothes, Purpled finally turned down their street, quiet. Their building came into view. Four windows lit. One cracked open. The smell of microwaved noodles drifting out.

Home.

They looked briefly into the bag, looking directly at their white mask, golden flocks of hair slipping loose from the hoodie. Their antennae twitched once, the faint sound of someone humming.

Michael. Safe.

They paused by the door, looking up.

Was this what it meant to belong?

Three years ago, they would've scoffed at the idea. Now, they had friends. A family that wasn't blood, but might as well be carved from their bones. They had a brother who chose (fame) someone else over them, and somehow that still hurt, even now. They had Chat, screaming in their skull, a part of them so old it might be from another life entirely.

And they had Quackity.

The door creaked open as Purpled stepped into the apartment, slipping off their reinforced shoes with the ease of ritual. The hallway smelled like microwaved noodles and goat-scented energy drinks, the kind Tubbo insisted gave him "coding inspiration". One of Michael's plushies lay haphazardly by the wall, its horn slightly chewed. Chat cooed softly in their ear.

home sweet hellhole

BLESS THIS CRIMINALLY CHAOTIC HOUSEHOLD

tommy still can't cook lol

purpled pls lie and say the noodles are good this time

also look out !!! MICHAEL HAS ROCKS

ROCKS>>>

They turned the corner into the living room and were met with the usual chaos. It was strangely comforting.

Ranboo sat on the far end of the sofa, talking animatedly. "–and the old library has been open since before Kinoko had mushroom postal codes. Isn't that crazy? And he said he's gonna help Michael learn Piglin dialect!"

Michael, curled up beside them with a blanket half-tucked under his arms and tusks barely peeking out from his scarf, blinked up at Purpled and gave a satisfied grunt. The coffee table was an absolute battlefield: dozens of rocks scattered across its surface, each labeled in Michael's scrawled handwriting on little sticky notes. "Shiny", "Glitter dirt", "Not edible, probably".

On the floor near the kitchen, Tubbo sat with his back against the island counter, typing furiously on his laptop, courtesy of Sara’s never-ending kindness. The screen reflected blue across his glassy eyes, and a pencil was stuck between his right ear and his horn. "If this API crashes one more time I'm going to find the devs and mail them goat hair," he muttered, not even looking up.

At the stove (aka: the microwave) Tommy bounced on his heels, waiting for the ding. He wore an apron that said "Kiss the Chef (He's Got a Knife)" and held a plastic spoon with the kind of confidence that only comes from blissful ignorance. "Dinner's nearly served, peasants!" he yelled, catching Purpled in his peripheral vision. "You're late, you purple goblin."

"I walked in, like, thirty seconds ago," Purpled said with a snort, letting their bag slide from their shoulder. "And it smells like you set water on fire again."

"Shut up," Tommy grinned. "The fire alarm only went off once this time."

Purpled stepped into the room, the warmth of it slowly pushing away the neon-soaked tension from Las Nevadas. For just a second, they allowed themselves to breathe. They smiled at Michael, ruffled his hair gently. He squealed and swatted at them, then grinned proudly and offered a purple rock.

"For you," he said.

"I shall treasure it forever," Purpled said solemnly, accepting it and tucking it into their pocket like a sacred treasure.

Ranboo's long limbs sprawled across the couch as they twisted around. "Where were you? Did you find something?"

Purpled nodded. "Yeah. Got a job. Old friend helped me out."

Tommy perked up. "Ohoho~! Are you gonna finally be the poster child of late-stage capitalism with the rest of us?"

Purpled rolled their eyes. "Not saying what it is."

"Secrets?" Tubbo teased from the floor. "That's suspicious."

"I'm allowed to have a little mystery," Purpled smirked. "Anyway. Ranboo. You were talking about your new job?"

"Oh, yeah!" Ranboo's eyes lit up again. "So, the library I went to? It's in Kinoko, on Rosecap and Fifth. Place is called Crow Father. Kind of weird name, but it's got a vibe, y'know? One of my bosses' names is Techno Craft."

The moment the name hit the air, Purpled froze, but Chat exploded.

TECHNOBLADE

EEEEEEEEEE

TECHNOO 

OHHHHHHHHH SHITTTTT

THE BLOOD GOD LIVES

TECHNOBLADE NEVER DIES

EEEE

no wait he's nice now. he owns a library.

WHAT

PHILZA TOO!!!

EEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

THE BLADE WORKS A 9 TO 5??

ranboo unknowingly befriended an s-tier war criminal

EEEEEEEEEEEE

classic boo

PHIL IS THERE

ayoooo the angel of death

facts

run

run

yeah ruuuuunnnnnnnnn

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

is anyone else dizzy? just me?

here too

me 2

techno is gonna love michael

HE'S A PIGLIN HYBRID, DUH

DADZA

EEEEEEEEEE

BRONOBLADE

ppl shut it

EEE

EEEEEE

ayo wtf

I think we're gonna faint

E

CONNECT THE DOTS AND SHUT IT

Purpled stumbled.

Their ears twitched, antennae buzzing in a purple light, sharp and stinging. For one awful second, the room tilted sideways.

(They caught a glimpse of tusks, pink braids, and a red cape smeared with someone else's blood.)

"Hey!" Tommy shouted, rushing forward as Purpled braced against the counter. "You okay?"

Ranboo stood too, Michael making an anxious whine and crawling toward them. Tubbo was already at their side, his laptop forgotten.

"Yeah," Purpled said too fast. "Yeah. Just… headache. I didn't eat yet. That's probably it."

"You want some of the noodles?" Tommy asked. "They're only half a war crime this time."

Purpled chuckled weakly, but shook their head. "No, I'm fine. Just tired. Lucky me, I don't work until noon."

"You work past noon?" Tubbo asked, surprised.

"Or when my boss calls me. Flexible schedule, I guess."

Michael nuzzled their side gently, humming low in his throat. Purpled reached down and patted his head.

Ranboo still looked concerned. "You sure?"

Purpled nodded, mustering a smile. "Positive. I just need to lie down."

They left the room with slow steps, each one weighed down by Chat still spinning in loops.

he's alive

you thought he died in the 🗌🗌🗌🗌 but noooope

we're not allowed to make spoiler dude

lame

more like lmao

dude is running a library now

ANGEL OF DEATH WORKS THE FRONT DESK??

oh my god techno knows michael's scent now

is that good? is that bad? idk but it's WILD

that rhymed so well wtf

DADZAA

In their room, Purpled shut the door gently, sliding down to the floor. They pressed their head into their knees and let their arms wrap around their shins.

Their brother. Their twin in another life.

Technoblade.

It felt like the floor was gone beneath them. Like gravity wasn't real anymore.

Their breathing shook.

They weren't sure if they were scared or hopeful.

(Maybe both.)

we're gonna see him again

you can't run from destiny, Purpbaby

he's gonna be so proud of you

also he might kill you depending on mood. fair warning.

but it'll be cute

Purpled let the tears come quietly, just for a few minutes, before they wiped their face on their sleeve and jumped into their bed.

(They weren't ready to deal with this, but they would be.)

Morning came slow and miserable.

Purpled sat hunched over the kitchen counter, head down against the cold surface like it owed them money. Their hair stuck up in several directions, tangled from sleep and the mild existential breakdown of last night. Their antennae drooped low, twitching occasionally like wet wires short-circuiting. The bags under their eyes had developed their own gravitational pull.

They groaned. Loudly. Chat was not helping.

emotional damage detected

we diagnose you with ✨sleep deprivation✨

try drinking water, touching grass, OR JUST BEING NORMAL FOR ONCE

me when the childhood trauma hits before caffeine

bring forth the bean juice

behold: THE ELIXIR OF LIFE

Purpled mumbled into the table, "Tommy."

From across the room, where he was sitting upside-down on the couch in the most inefficient position possible, Tommy blinked. "Yo?"

"You're free today, right?"

Tommy considered this. His brain clicked once, then fizzled like a broken vending machine. "Uh… Yeah."

"Get me coffee, bro."

The other blond teen gasped dramatically. "Is this the end of Tommy Careful Danger Kraken Innit's freedom?"

Purpled didn't move. "Not your name."

"You don't know that."

"I practically made your ID papers."

"And yet," Tommy said, flipping upright and standing, "you still force me to labor like a Victorian child in a soot factory."

"Shut up and take the order."

Purpled shoved a slightly crumpled paper across the counter.

Tommy squinted at it. "Is this the thing you drink? This should be illegal."

"It is," Purpled agreed with a monotone voice, "in three districts," they added, as if clarifying the issue.

"Do I need a permit?"

"Just sign the waiver when they give it to you."

Tommy rolled his eyes, grabbed the paper, and made his way out the door muttering something about coffee-induced death being a lame way to go.

The bell above the café door jingled softly as Tommy stepped into Bubble's Café, which was charming in a warm, butter-yellow way. Walls were lined with books and flower vines, tiny cloud lights glowing across the ceiling. The smell of roasted beans and honey lingered in the air.

"Hi! Welcome to Bubble's Café, what can I serve you today?" A cheerful voice greeted him.

Tommy looked up and saw a woman behind the counter with soft pink hair and warm hazel eyes. She wore a beige apron with embroidered daisies, and a little cat pin sat proudly on her chest.

Tommy blinked. "Uh… yeah. Gimme a sec."

He fished out the paper like it was radioactive.

"I'll order uh…" He cleared his throat, reading, "A very very very black coffee with ten shots of espresso, two big sugar spoons, two drops of milk, matcha tea… and ice."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Is that for you?"

Tommy looked offended. "Do I look like I wanna fight god and then myself at eight in the morning?"

She laughed. "Fair point."

"It's for my older sibling," he explained. "They've been making me run errands for them because I don't have a job."

"Oh?" she said with a tilt of her head. "Are you looking for one?"

Tommy blinked. "… You psychic?"

"Maybe," she said mysteriously. "Or maybe I just know an opportunity when I see it."

The blonde paused. "You're gonna hire someone who just walked in off the street?"

"You need a job. I need a worker. Simple math." She smiled. "My name's Niki, by the way. Niki Thorn."

"Tommy, Tommy Innit." Tommy frowned in a way that probably passed for thinking. "So when do I start?"

"Tomorrow. 7:30 a.m. Sounds good?"

"Do I get free coffee?"

"No."

"Deal."

Niki giggled and slid a waiver form toward him. "Oh, and here's the discharge. I need you to sign this before I make that order."

Tommy whistled. "Gonna love explaining this one to them!"

When he returned home, he kicked open the door dramatically, holding the drink like a holy artifact. "I got coffee for the alien dude! But you gotta sign this first."

Purpled didn't look up. "Another waiver?"

"Yup. You know the drill."

"Why do I always have to sign those?" Purpled asked, dragging themself over to the counter. "I'm fine."

"You say that, but this drink might commit war crimes."

Purpled scribbled their name on the discharge sheet, adding it to the growing pile of coffee waivers that lived on the fridge like ominous wallpaper.

Ranboo peeked from the kitchen, a wooden spoon in their hand. "Maybe stop drinking life-threatening coffee?"

Purpled took a long sip and said nothing, purple eyes hollow with caffeine dependency.

"And you literally mixed Monster with Red Bull and Gatorade yesterday," Ranboo added, looking at Tommy.

Tommy sniffed. "That was for my golden hair. You wouldn't understand."

Purpled's antennae twitched as they sank into the couch beside Michael, who was carefully reorganizing his rock collection by perceived "emotional vibe."

Tubbo glanced up from the other side of the table, where he had been debugging his latest code on his laptop. "You look like you crawled out of the grave. Lol."

"I feel like it too," Purpled muttered. "But it's fine. I've been worse."

"Did your boss call yet?" Ranboo asked.

"Not yet. I don't start 'til he needs me."

"That's suspiciously vague," Tubbo pointed out.

"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to."

"Valid."

Tommy flopped into his seat with pride. "By the way," he said, mouth half-full of instant noodles, "I got a job."

Everyone froze.

"What." Purpled blinked.

"Yup. The lady at the café offered me a position."

Ranboo looked genuinely shocked. "You actually accepted?"

"Hell yeah! I'm gonna make coffee and traumatize rich people with enthusiasm!"

"God help us," Tubbo whispered.

Purpled glanced at their now-empty mug and exhaled slowly.

Bubble's Café settled into a gentle rhythm after the excitable teenager had left, slamming the door behind him with enough force to jingle the mushroom chimes near the display shelf.

Niki chuckled to herself as she placed the "Discharge Form for Experimental Coffees" back into the folder under the register. She glanced toward the window, watching the blur of blond hair sprint across the Kinoko street.

"Tommy Innit…" she said aloud with a soft smile. "That boy is going to be a storm." 

The bell above Bubble's Café door gave a soft chime for the second time that morning.

Niki tilted her head from the espresso machine, where steam hissed gently into the room like a whispering dragon. Her hands moved on instinct; one twist of the valve, another for the milk frother.

"Hello Niki," said a familiar, dry voice.

Her face lit up instantly. "Phil! Techno!"

Philza Craft grinned from under the brim of his striped bucket hat. His blue eyes sparkled with mischief as he stepped inside behind his towering son. "Morning, mate. Hope we're not too early."

"You're never too early," Niki said, waving them inside with a warm gesture. "I just got rid of the loudest teenager in Pogtopia. You missed him by two minutes."

"Shame," Techno said without inflection, letting the café door swing shut behind him. "I like loud teenagers. They're easy to tune out."

He made his way to the table in the back, the one with the cracked tile floor and the good sunlight, and sat down. His long coat swished behind him, civilian attire hiding the terrifying power that lingered beneath. He wore a simple black shirt, burgundy overshirt, and dark slacks. His hair was braided back today, neatly tucked behind his ear. If you didn't know him, he looked like any tired, oversized library clerk with good posture.

But of course, anyone who really knew Techno Craft knew what was hidden in the back room of the Crow Father Library. Hanging from the secret steel-lined closet was a bloodred cape lined with white fur, a crown that shimmered faintly when touched by light, and a pig skull mask so old it carried whispers in the cracks.

She smiled faintly, her own pink braid bouncing behind her shoulders. Today, she wore a simple café uniform: beige apron, sleeves rolled up, a mushroom pin glinting beside her heart. She looked so gentle, so warm, that no one would ever guess she could bend water into knives or turn an entire street into an ice trap.

Niki Thorn, codename: Katara, Nemesis. The Syndicate's infiltration specialist.

Niki moved from around the espresso machine and hugged him quickly before turning to Techno, who nodded once before offering her a small box of dried herbs.

"You'll love this," he said in that slow, low drawl. "Grew them myself. From the Kinoko caves."

Niki's eyes lit up. "Perfect for the new chai recipe."

She laughed softly and passed him a cup, then glanced over her shoulder as she set the next batch of espresso to brew. 

"You'll never believe it," she said. "I might've accidentally hired a new barista."

Phil laughed. "What happened this time?"

"He walked in to buy a drink for his sibling, insulted the menu, insulted himself, insulted society, and said yes before I explained anything."

"Sounds like a keeper," said Techno, sipping his coffee like it wasn't boiling lava.

"I like him," Niki said with a fond smile. "He's young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, very tall. Talks like the world owes him something. Big mouth. Blond hair. I think he'll give the café a few laughs."

Techno raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Phil leaned forward, interested. "What's his name?"

Niki smiled. "Tommy. Tommy Innit."

Techno's coffee paused mid-sip.

Something in his mind clicked. He lowered the mug slightly, expression unreadable. 

"Tommy?" he repeated.

"Yup," Niki replied, unaware of the storm she'd stirred. "Said he needed a job, so I gave him one. I'm pretty sure he's an avian hybrid. His posture was weird and his eyes kept flitting toward the window. Real skittish."

Techno blinked once, slowly. "...Is he an avian hybrid?"

Phil, noticing the tension only a father could detect in his son, shot him a glance. "Why? You know him?"

Techno didn't answer immediately. He seemed to weigh the silence before replying. "I don't," Techno said carefully. "But I think our new employee might be his sibling."

Niki tilted her head, curious. "At the library?"

"Yeah. Quiet kid. An Enderian hybrid. Doesn't talk much but says things that matter. Told me about their family, one avian brother named Tommy. A goat hybrid. A piglin runt. And a human, I think."

Phil leaned forward slightly. "That's… quite the lineup."

"The kid I hired is Ranboo," Techno added. "Said they all came out of the System. All five of them got an apartment once they aged out."

"Well," said Niki, sitting back with a stunned expression, "that's weirdly convenient."

"I don't believe in coincidence," Techno murmured. "But I do believe in patterns."

On the TV mounted above the coffee machine, the volume was low, but the headline scrolled in bold red letters:

⮞ SYNDICATE STRIKES AGAIN: THE EMERALD DUO LEAVES NO CLUES AFTER POGTOPIA RAID

The reporter's voice prattled on about evidence, disruption, and suspicious disappearances, while stock footage of blurred figures (wings outstretched in the night sky, red cape slicing across rooftops) played quietly.

None of them looked up.

Phil stirred his coffee thoughtfully. "If they're all working now… should we be worried?"

"Worried?" Niki raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Phil tilted his head slightly. "It's not every day five children of the system all happen to be talented, active, and now suddenly working for people like us."

"They're not working for the Syndicate," Niki pointed out.

"Maybe not knowingly," Techno muttered, setting his cup down. "But the threads are tightening."

Niki hummed and leaned on one elbow. "You think the world's pulling them toward something?"

"I think the world is catching fire again," Techno said, "and they're going to be standing in the middle of it."

Phil chuckled. "Just like the old days, huh?"

Niki grinned. "Let's just hope they don't burn too bright too fast." She then furrowed her brow. "Have you heard the news about Joker? I couldn't hear too much about it at all."

"Yeah," Techno hummed. "They say Jack of Spades has appeared again, yesterday someone saw them coming out of Joker's office with a uniform. People say that they're the newest employee, a bodyguard."

Niki's eyes widened. "They're back? The one with the full-face card mask?"

"The very same," he nodded, then he blinked and murmured, "Now, why is everyone getting an employee? What's next, a new apprentice in the Hero HQ?"

Phil raised an eyebrow but ignored his son's mumbles. "And has he hired them previously?"

Niki nodded. "Yeah. I heard he did, off and on. They say he thinks of them like a kid he never got to keep."

"Well, that explains a lot." Phil looked toward Techno. "We're building a web we didn't even mean to."

Techno sighed and clinked his coffee cup gently against Niki's. "To fate."

"And the Syndicate," Niki added.

They drank.

Above them, the television quietly cycled through breaking news, authorities baffled, crime scenes dissected. 

(None of them cared, not here.)

In this café, built like a sanctuary with flowers and honey-brewed memories, they were simply three friends.

(Killers. Protectors. Revolutionaries. The Syndicate.)

And it seemed their world was getting a little smaller… and a lot more interesting.

('Chat has been awfully quiet lately.')