Chapter Text
It all starts where the sun beats down on the splintered, unforgiving desert, glaring harsher than the mother’s word on her only daughter’s hands.
The blistering, stifling sand means home to the world’s most merciless, stone-cold cowboys, feared across the endless expanse of blinding white grit and mud.
One such: Technoblade, named for the likeness of the man’s agility and accuracy to the technological tick of smooth clockwork and gears, and the calloused hands that move even faster to the polished hilt of a blade sharper than a snake’s forked tongue.
Whose spurs click and strike terror into the hearts of those unlucky enough to hear their clink. Whose rose-colored hair is said to be pigmented so because of the water it is washed in- water tinted with the blood of the ruthless criminal’s many, many enemies.
Yet our story focuses not on the adventures of a pink-haired outlaw (though that is certainly a story that must be told), but rather, his awkward, lanky-limbed assistant, a teenage boy forever hovering in the shadow of the feared Technoblade.
His mismatched eyes, colored the scarlet of the poppy flower and emerald of the greenest grass (both rarities in such a dry desert), contrast more than the twelve o’clock noon sun would against the inky blackness of the night. His hands and skin, far too delicate for the rough desert life he is used to, take on both the dark of obsidian, and the chalky paleness of the moon and sand itself.
Far into the desert, in one of the few towns where tattered posters with Technoblade’s grinning face and the ugly word “WANTED” smeared across them aren’t plastered to every standing wall, the Blade himself kicks up his dusty boots on a desk cluttered with papers and unpaid bills. A single strand of dry grass sits between his tusk-like teeth, and a well-worn stetson hat sits on the upper half of his dosing face.
With a soft grunt, he stirs, and lifts the hat from his face. He blinks into the golden rays of the evening sun streaming on through the smudged window, and stands, alone, in his office. He sets the hat on his head and flicks the blade of grass out from between his teeth.
He takes a deep breath of the musty, hot air, taking a moment to drink in his less than organized space. The stacks of old, torn photos resting on his coffee table, his torn green armchair sat collecting dust by his similarly gritty bookshelf. This place is old and tired, and he knows it.
Technoblade rests a scarred, toughened hand on the wooden wall of the old room, his eyes clouded over with nostalgia. Like him, the sturdy rafters have collected a variety of scars and stories to be told. Looking at the familiar cedar beneath his hand, Techno feels the soft urge to say something to this old friend. He opens his mouth hesitantly, unsaid words sitting patiently at the back of his heart, and-
“Ranboo!” he barks out instead, his gruff voice breaking through what was once a comfortable silence. After a muffled thump from the other room and the following crash and clatter of pots and pans, as well as muttered, panicked apologies to an empty room, the teenage boy slowly opens the door to Technoblade’s office and pokes his head in, smiling uncomfortably.
“Yes, Techno?”
“That better not’ve been my good china.”
“It, uh-“ Ranboo glances back over his shoulder, double-checking. “It wasn’t.”
“Right. Anyways, Ranboo,” Techno steps around his desk, his boots clacking against the hardwood floors. “I have somewhere to be, Ranboo, and I-“
“Right, wonderful!” chirps Ranboo, neglecting to wait for Techno to finish his sentence, already pulling the door closed. “I’ll go and pack your bags, and-“
“Hold on right there,” Techno says, stepping forward and stopping the door with his foot. Ranboo’s words die on his tongue. “I didn’t finish speaking,” Techno says calmly.
He removes his foot from the door, and Ranboo lets go of the brass knob, bringing his hands together to fidget there.
After a moment of silence, Techno speaks up. “I have many things I’d still like to do in my life,” Techno begins, his eyes drifting back out the window to the cooling sky beyond it. “But these bones are tired of running.”
Ranboo looks at him with worry, his brow still creased in concern. “I’m sorry?”
Technoblade turns his gaze to Ranboo, a rare type of kindness gracing his features- an expression that Ranboo only sees the man wear every so often. “I’m retirin’, Ranboo. Gonna head out North, stay with an old friend for a while. And I want you to carry on my legacy. Technoblade is an old name, a name they’ve always feared. Don’t you think it’s time for a new generation?”
Ranboo opens his mouth to protest, but Techno carries on before the younger boy can interrupt him. “I want you to take over, Ranboo. You’ve been nothin’ if not helpful, and I really couldn’t have asked for a better assistant and friend.”
Ranboo stutters with disbelief, half sure his ears are decieving him. “Well- Technoblade, with all due respect- well, I’ve never even held a gun before- how’m I meant to be as good an outlaw as you, evenif I was cut out for it in the first place?” he asks, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.
Techno only shrugs. “Boy, that’s for you to decide. Be the cowboy you wanna be n’ all, I dunno,” he says, poking a finger into Ranboo’s chest. “But it’s time I move on. And you’ve got the spirit of the west in you, I know it. I can see it in ya.”
“But, Techno.”
Technoblade only brushes past him, unbothered. “My bags are already packed. I suggest you get started packing for your own journey, kid.” Without even a glance back, Techno strolls down the hall into his bedroom, leaving Ranboo on his lonesome to ponder over the now ex-cowboy’s words.
Ranboo looks at the sky outside, cacti and dry brambles silhouetted against the fading evening light. Himself. An adventure… by himself. Was he even ready for that kind of thing? Definitely not. But it didn’t really matter, he supposed. With a final look out the window, Ranboo retires to his own room, and pulls a satchel from his closet. Time to start packing.
His journey begins.