Chapter Text
The half life of a radioisotope is the time required for one half of the amount of the unstable material to degrade into a more stable material.
A source will have an intensity of 100% when new. At one half-life, its intensity will be cut to 50% of the original intensity. At two half-lives, it will have an intensity of 25%. After ten half-lives, less than one-thousandth of the original activity will remain. Although the half-life pattern is the same for every radioisotope, the length of a half-life is different. Cobalt-60 has a half-life of about 5 years while Iridium-192 has a half life of about 74 days.
However, no matter how many times the intensity of the radioisotope is halved, no matter how small of a fraction it presents, no matter the fact that one day its effect will grow virtually invisible, it will never truly disappear.
.
“You must be Technoblade,” Pyrocynical’s voice greets the moment the elevator doors open. Techno looks up…up…up, and he has to crane his neck to take in everything.
Here he is, the great Pyrocynical, the famed fox, the Prince of Floor Five, and Techno did not expect him to be so tall. So big, so tall, so…off…in the way he looks down with a carefully neutral expression. He’s never met the man in person, only seen his perfect smiles from a distance. Pyrocynical didn’t seem real back then, when he laughed, talked or moved with all the glitter on his neon figure, and he doesn’t seem real now, as he eyes Techno like a predator.
His reserved posture, straight legs, straight back and straight face. The lies brewing beneath the surface, silver hair, silver eyes and silver tongue. His hollow words, ingenuine in its crafted authenticity and proud in its defensiveness.
“I am,” Techno says, nodding slowly, unsure of how to navigate around this new adversary.
After a beat, Pyro jerks a hand out for him to shake, and Techno takes it just as stiffly. His hand is warm, maybe a little too warm, but it makes sense given Pyrocynical’s legacy. He grips a little too tightly and shakes a little too long, just enough to make Techno wary.
“I’m Niall Comas, but everyone calls me Pyro,” he says. More a warning than an introduction. Everyone calls him Pyro, everyone addresses him by his proper title, don’t you dare step out of line.
Don’t step out of line. Don’t challenge them. Don’t even look at them the wrong way. Pyro is eleven years his senior; he’s tall too tall, too menacing, why is he looming over me, how do I take him down; he’s bigger and stronger and he knows his way around the floor. Get on his good side, get on their good sides, at least until you know how to survive-
Pyro lets go of his hand. Still no emotion in his face. “What District are you from?”
“I just won the most successful Hunger Games,” Techno says, furrowing his eyebrows. “They were broadcasted everywhere.” He’s still standing inside the elevator and still has no idea how to hold himself. He moves out of the elevator and clasps his hands behind his back.
’At ease’, but that’s a fucking lie. Pyro eyes his every movement.
Eyes his hands. Eyes his stance. Eyes every twitch of his face. Eyes his feet and every little tremble of his legs. Eyes his face, get your eyes off mine-
Pyro nods. “Welcome to your home away from home.”
In one quick motion, he crumples the golden cue card he’s been holding and shoves it deeply into his pocket. Pyro crosses his arms and squares his shoulders, cocking his head to better squint at Techno.
“Alright, hotshot, I remember you and your…Game score.” A muscle on his cheek twitches. “I just gotta read what they gave me, mate. Now, you got a name?”
“…It’s Technoblade.”
“No, yeah, we know your arena name, it’s fuckin’ everywhere. I meant your…” Pyro trails off. Looks him up and down again sizing him up to see how many bites it takes to incapacitate the pig. “Okay. Techno. I can call you Techno right? Alright- c’mon, let’s get you to your room.”
In a way, he understands why the Capitol loves their fox so much. He talks a lot, maybe too much, but he knows how to command an audience’s attention. When he speaks, they listen. When he claps, they cheer. When he beckons, they follow.
And when he starts walking down the hallway, Techno jogs to keep up.
.
(Maybe maybe maybe maybe, he’s not the predator, he’s not the threat, he’s not the dangerous one, maybe maybe maybe maybe, he’s the prey, he’s the victim, he’s the one in danger.)
(Who is ‘he’ supposed to be again?)
.
Morning comes and the sun doesn’t cheer him up one bit, as there are no windows in his room and there is no sun to look at. Techno wakes from an uneasy slumber to the sound of muffled voices outside his door and claustrophobia creeping down his walls.
He’s on his feet when the door creaks open, arms held in front of him to deflect any attacks. There are no weapons here, there are no weapons anywhere, but he has his fists and his wits and there are knives in the kitchen he could use-
“Whoa, hey. Kid.”
The door swings open fully to reveal his stylist, who has his hands out in a placating gesture. Still no smile on his worn face, still no light in his grey eyes. Baggy clothes, ruffled hair, eyes fixed on the floor and hands curled by his sides. It’s sad, almost, to read his stylist for the umpteenth time and still come up blank.
(It’s terrifying, almost, to know that he can’t read everyone.)
“You alright?” his stylist asks, eyeing Techno, who has his back touching the wall and adrenaline coursing through his veins. The first sign of emotion flickers past the stony wall is a twitch of his eyebrow that disappears as soon as it reared itself.
Three Peacekeepers march into his room, carrying bags and boxes, and flicking the lights on as they walk past. Techno winces at the harsh glare, half annoyed, half angered.
“What time is it?” he asks, eyeing their holstered weapons. Batons. Stun-guns. He can work with those if needed.
His stylist shrugs up a sleeve and glances at a wristwatch. “It’s like…four AM. Sorry. Usually we wake people up by six, but they…uh, they wanted more time and more work for you. Alright?”
Techno doesn’t answer, and instead forces himself to relax, tamp down the furious thumping of his heart against his ribcage. He’s out of the Game, there’s no need to be so cautious, he doesn’t have to worry, they won’t hurt him, so why doesn’t it go away? They’re all on edge. Him, for being woken up so rudely. His stylist, from the army of Peacekeepers by the door. The Peacekeepers, from almost being strangled by an unhinged maniac.
Him. It’s him, he’s the unhinged maniac, he almost strangled them, and one day he won’t calm down in time and he’ll do something stupid and he’ll get himself in real trouble. One day he’ll act out with all the best intentions, say something or do something he won’t mean, and one day he won’t be able to take it back, and one day, one day, one day-
“Go freshen up. Calm down a little maybe?” His stylist is looking at him weirdly. “I’ll be in the dressing room.” He jerks his head toward the dressing room and leads the Peacekeepers in.
Techno watches them and collapses onto his bed, eyes fixed onto his ceiling. His repulsive, perfect, white ceiling. His jarring lights. His bland walls. A blank expanse beside his bed blatantly mocking the lack of windows and natural light in his room. The life of a Victor.
.
It's a whirlwind, almost. The moment he steps out of the bathroom he's seated in the middle of his dressing room, no Peacekeeper in sight, the empty room now full of clothes and colour and makeup and scents and a spry stylist rummaging through clothes and sorting through makeup and circling through the room and stopping in front of Techno to crouch down and say:
"My name's Phil.”
And his grey eyes are burning, storm clouds and glinting blades and shrapnel, the resonant clang of a hammer hitting red steel. The moment of urgent decision, maybe, the spin of a coin against a silver table, a hand slamming down on it in heated anticipation, demanding a question of what next?
This, he can know.
For one teetering moment, he holds his breath, he asks the question, he stands at a crossroads, four prongs and four possibilities. The one promise nobody can keep, the one prayer nobody can answer, the call everyone wishes they can have: Tell me where to go and I'll follow. There is no one to guide him, there is no one to hold his hand, there is no one to point to the raw spot bare on the floor, and yet he sees.
This, he can respect.
And yet he realises. If District One has taught him anything, if there's anything he knows in this new, uncertain world, it's that there is value in words. There are layers behind voices, and pockets beneath those layers, and secrets concealed even then. There is meaning, and it’s the one thing he can't scrape off himself.
This, he can understand.
Techno bows his head.
(Please, one day he'll scream. This above all.)
"Thank you," he says, and he's back, he's crouching, pressing three fingers to his lips, holding it out to the trembling fingers as they tap against his temple. Thank you, thank you, goodbye, and now he's holding it out to his stylist, respect, thank you, thank you.
(To Phil, no goodbyes; they've only just begun.)
Phil looks at his outstretched hand, his three fingers a quiet offer. He studies Techno's expression, drills into his eyes, searches all the hard lines on his face. Slowly, he takes hold of Techno's hand and lowers it. "I'm sorry," he mutters. “I am so sorry. I...I know how you must feel.”
Techno shakes his head. He's back, and he's looking up at a pedestal and he's so, so young. "Does it- will it ever go away?”
Phil lets go of his hand and stands up, turning to his makeup station. "No, it... it won't. No, you- you're not going to forget, not really.”
"...Does it get easier?”
The answer is immediate, ”No." Then, a beat where he freezes and sighs. "Yes. It gets easier.”
Phil turns his head, and the stone wall is gone. All that's left is an indisputably pained grimace and a clawed hand over his heart, bunching up his shirt in a fist.
"It...it won't go away, but you're either going to live with it forever, or you're going to- you're going to fight it. It's going to be ugly but... one day, you'll be in a better place. You're going to look back at where you once were, and you're going to realise: it doesn't define you, you are above it, and you're- and you are better off anyways.”
"And are you?" Techno asks, clenching his fists to keep them from shaking. He's shaking, he's always shaking these days, he can't stop trembling from all the buzzing beneath his skin. "In that better place?”
"No, but I will be." And it sounds like a promise, like a declaration, like an oath he can't afford to break. "And you'll find yours too one day, I hope. You just, you gotta realise and you gotta change, and- and then, then you'll get it.”
"I...don't want to.”
The sun is rising, but there are no windows in his room. There are windows out there, and yet he's confining himself to this box. He's going to shrivel up in here, he's going to be on edge forever, he's going to be haunted by the ghost of nimble fingers, he's going to stay and he's going to crack under the weight of his own misled path.
"It's your choice." Phil shrugs. "It's your call. No one can make that decision but you. Turn around.”
“What?"
"Turn around." He points at Techno and draws a quick circle in the air, and Techno obeys his orders. "It's bad luck for Victors to steal glances into the mirror before their stylist is done. Are you ready?”
"No," Techno mutters. "But I have to, whether I like it or not?”
"Yeah, I…yeah. None of us will ever be ready, but we have to. It doesn't matter if we- whether we like it or not," Phil affirms, and he's not talking about the Gala, is he? No. He never speaks in gilded silver, but all the words he says have meaning behind them, some that even Techno can't decipher right now.
(Maybe one day he'll look back from that better place and he'll understand.)
(One day he'll be at the end of his own winded path and he'll agree.)
"That's the reality we have to face; that's the reality we have to live with now."
.
(”What lasts? What lasts? People die, memories fade, mountains turn to dust. Time keeps moving, the world keeps turning, and even then, it’ll stop someday. There’s nothing we can do, so I ask you, now: what lasts?”)