Chapter Text
Techno has heard voices for as long as he remembers. He knows that it isn't normal.
He knows that he isn't the only one. Far too often he has heard Wilbur laugh in silence, saw Tommy so proud even when he had people discouraging him, listened to Phil as he talked to himself about his builds, and Tubbo who asked the air for advice.
He didn't say anything, didn't ask about it. If they didn't bring it up, it wasn't his concern.
They seemed to be benefiting his family, somehow improving their lives. He ignored the jealousy, ignored the raged screams that shouted for blood.
He gave them blood, countless matches in a place where death somehow wasn't permanent. That seemed to calm them, thier shouts of 'Technoblade never does!' egging him on.
'Blood for the blood god!' One had screamed, the rest copying after a brief moment of thought.
He was fine with it. It was much better than when they demanded that he strike down his family, demanded that he attack the people who kept interrupting his potato farming in the backyard.
Soon three of his brothers left, leaving him practically alone with his thoughts.
Techno wasn't proud that he hurried overwhen his brothers called, or that he instantly knew what the voices were doing to them.
He could see the doubt in Tommy's eyes, the hint of fear in Wilbur's posture. The fact that they were living in a fucking ravine, of all places.
And when Wilbur told him his ideas he realized that wasn't being controlled by his voices. His corruption was lead by an outside force.
So he helped. Which had led him to being backed up in a corner.
The voices were asking for blood, Wilbur egging them on as he built a small arena for him and Tommy to duke it out. Tommy's voices were clearly encouraging him, made obvious by the way he his confidence surged like waves.
Techno had the choice to go through with Wilbur's idea, beat the fuck out of his little brother, or he could back down, losing Wilbur's trust.
The voices cheered as he stepped into the pit.
Techno knew he let things go too far when Phil had begged him to stop, blood dripping from the sword in his hand. Wilbur was absent from the crowd of people that begged for mercy, and he hoped that it was because he had run.
The possibility that Phil had killed his brother hurt, he realized, as he summoned withers and started slashing at those who tried to take them down. He avoided hitting Phil, hoping thier relationship was salvageable.
There was at least ten people fighting the withers, killing them despite his efforts. He had fled with a chuckle, the damage he had caused appeasing the voices.
They were quite until one asked about Phil. He didn't have an awnser.