Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    Technoblade sat cross legged in a patch of gravely dirt; the cold, stale air of the ravine flooding into his lungs and out again as he picked up a potato and dusted it off, setting it aside with the others piled beside him in a disordered, yet contained pile within arms reach. He didn’t particularly look at his hands, letting the undistinguished blurs fill his peripheral vision; allowing purely the oddly muted sensation of touch to guide his actions. 

    The ravine was quiet, and calm, and cool. 

    He felt someone beside him, and though there hadn’t been anyone but himself a moment ago, the figure still somehow knelt at his side, their splotchy silhouette of brown shades shifting into Techno’s view. 

    Wilbur’s eyes were fixated on the ground; his own hands reaching out to dig into the dirt, to pry a plant free. The man's lips settled into a small smile, something soft. Techno didn’t remember seeing an expression like that on Wilbur’s face, not back in Pogtopia. 

    “Hello,” Wilbur greeted, like they met everyday in this situation. Like it was normal to kneel in the cold underground, in the dirt, in the garden. 

    “Hullo,” Techno grunted back, turning his own newly freed tuber over and over in his palm. Not looking down, but feeling the sensation of the starchy skin against his calloused fingers. It still felt odd, like a fluffy blanket separated the potato and his hand. The air was too quiet, too...floaty. “Where’s Tommy?”

    Tommy and Pogtopia were synonymous, Techno knew that much. As were Tommy and Wilbur, even when they fought. Yet Wilbur shrugged. Unconcerned, digging his ungloved, unfocused hands further into the dry, rocky ground. 

    “Dunno,” The revolutionary replied. “Not here.” 

    “...not here,” Techno agreed, turning his head to look out the entrance to the little dugout room containing the automatic potato farm. Tubbo had built the mechanisms, he remembered. He should’ve been able to see a sliver of the ravine through the craggy opening in the rocks. Maybe as it was in his memories; lit with lanterns, all pale stone and warm furnaces. Maybe as it was when he had briefly returned after the revolution. Shadowed, wooden buttons so deeply entrenched into the rock that deep cracks ran jacked and veiny throughout the hall. 

    Yet through the doorway that should have led to the rest of Pogtopia was...nothing. Blackness. Emptiness, a void. 

    Techno felt the coolness, heard the odd stillness hanging petulant and impossible in the air and it occurred to him that he didn’t think he needed to breathe, even though the air tasted like coal dust and salt on his tongue.

    He turned his head back to Wilbur, fixing his eyes on the man, taking in all the little details that permeated the spots in his memory. Curly, greasy hair, grown just a little too long, a little too wild. Falling into his face. A trench coat, stolen and borrowed and used; brown and patched and worn. An easy smile, and a soft humming that Techno hadn’t heard until now but suddenly realized had filled the entire room; a low, rolling, soft sound, emanating from somewhere deep within the ex-president’s chest. 

    “You’re actin’ weird,” Techno murmured, and for the first time Wilbur glanced up. He raised a blurry hand- perfectly clean despite his rooting in the dirt, and pale fingers swiped away the dark curls. Wilbur’s dark eyes almost sparkled in the lantern light; so different from Phil’s ocean blue, yet gleaming with identical, perfectly twin amusement. Mischief. 

    “Am I?” Wilbur asked, and he laughed. A chuckle, low and rolling like the very gentle aftershocks of thunder. Nothing like the high hysteria Techno remembered. “I would argue I’m acting perfectly normal.” 

    “That’s the weird part,” Techno pointed out, and it felt odd, to be bickering with Wilbur. In a way that was almost...playful. This was Tommy’s role. Tommy and Wilbur would bicker. Techno had watched it happen again and again. And so many times, he’d stood to the side of the ravine, immersed in the furnace or the garden or repairs or training and had simply listened to Wilbur and Tommy go back and forth, back and forth. “Shouldn’t you be...unstable?” 

    Wilbur fell silent, something contemplative settling over his expression as his hands fell into his lap, his blurry, indistinguishable fingers clasped in a patch of paleness against dark pants and brown fabric. 

    “Hmm,” hummed the revolutionary, tilting his head away from Techno to look back down at the dirt. The piglin followed his gaze, and Techno watched with mild interest as Wilbur reached out and plucked a small flower from the ground. Techno wondered how it got there, underground, with no sunlight. Where nothing was planted but his own potato plot, cultivated by his own hands and watchful eyes. He would have noticed a weed. 

    The humming, the soft sound, the gentle singing noise- it was starting again, drifting off of Wilbur in smooth, steady waves as he lifted the flower, raising his other hand to smooth down the crimson petals, straightening out each one into perfect alignment, revealing the orange, softly glowing center of the flower. It was unfamiliar, yet recognizable all at once, as Techno gazed at the blossom. 

    Wilbur smiled at the flower; its stem held so delicately, like the finest of chinaware- and finally, finally his expression, his smile, was familiar. This was his smile of longing, of dizzying desire, of desperation and despair. 

    He smiled at the beautiful little crimson flower like it was a stick of dynamite, and when Wilbur raised his eyes, they were blue, not brown. Ocean blue, so oddly like Phil’s. 

    “I hope you had a pleasant dream, Techno,” Wilbur hummed, and suddenly the poet looked tired. Happy, but tired, as though his entire body was sagging beneath the weight of something insurmountable. “I did.” 

    Technoblade awoke to sunlight, and warm blankets pressing down hotly against his torso, and the wet nose of a dog pressing directly against his cheek. 

    “Ger’off,” he grumbled, pushing his hand out and batting panting, warm fur away; listening as the dog took off with a clicking of paws and the jangle of a collar. 

    Techno blinked slowly, and for the first time in his life, it felt odd to wake up quickly. To- in about thirty seconds- go from sleepy to alert, despite the warm rays of golden sun streaming through the glass of the window, shining down on his sheets as though trying to coax him back like a cat to a sunbeam. He sat up cautiously, blinking the crustiness of sleep from his eyes and the memories of dreaming from his thoughts- and something odd and uncomfortable settled deep in Techno’s chest at the knowledge that he had just woken up perfectly normally. In his own bed. 

    He’d been doing it for months, in this exact same cabin- yet this time it felt alien to rise to his feet; tossing the covers haphazardly back over the mattress. It felt bizarre to look around and see the slopped, angular ceiling of the roof- the dark browns of the wooden cross beams and the white of the quartz walls. It felt strange, the heat radiating off of the chimney going through the corner of his room, and it felt especially wrong- 

    The voices. The voices in his head, certainly- the smatterings of late and morning and wake! But mainly- 

    The sounds from downstairs, below him. Phil and Ranboo’s low tones, conversing quietly. Phil’s chuckle, rumbling through the walls. The scrape of a chair on the floor, the crackle of logs in the fireplace, the bang of the front door opening and shutting.

    For a second it was all too overwhelming, and Techno turned back to the bed for a moment, kneeling in order to press his face into the mattress, hiding his eyes in the sheets. Blocking out the lights and the images. He should’ve taken the time to comprehend this all when he’d arrived the night before, but he’d been half asleep on Philza’s shoulder already. 

    It was all so jarringly different than Pandora’s Vault, and he hated that for however temporary it had been- in just that brief grasp of time, Pandora’s Vault had become his new sense of normality. 

    He took a deep breath, and began to compartmentalize. Technoblade did not get overwhelmed, and this was not going to start being a thing.  

    The warrior sat up once more, darting his eyes across the room- retaking in the differences, letting the voices in his mind (don’t focus on how alarming that statement was just yet-) point out observations as well, until he had a steady list of exactly how different his home was from the cell. He’d always liked lists. 

    After that, it was a little easier to think- the voices were a little quieter and the world didn’t feel quite so alien; more familiar, more safe.  

    He stretched- wincing at the soreness of his limbs and the speckles of pain in his chest and wrists- and glanced around the room. His sword was resting beside the bed, and Techno took it up quickly, easily slipping the sheath into place on his belt. His hand settled into its default place on the hilt of his sword, and a steady, relaxing warmth flooded his body. 

    Weapon pog. Armed. Yeeeeeeeeeah!!

    “Bruh, you’re all so easily amused,” He murmured, restraining a chuckle as he shifted over to his dresser, fumbling to get out of his old, grimy, bloody and slashed shirt, replacing it with a clean and decidedly not as brutalized one. After that however, there...wasn’t much more to do, up in his bedroom. His eyes skidded up to his barrel of valuables, tucked away and neatly hidden behind one of his many compact bookshelves. He needed new armour, unfortunately. 

    Delay. Stalling! Stallnoblade.  

    “I’m not stalling,” Techno grumbled, huffing out a breath and turning around, shuffling over towards the bed and kneeling to tug out a pair of spare boots, going through the arduous process of slipping them on and lacing them up. “Why would I be stalling? It’s my house.” 

    Scared. Stupid? KILL!! Friends, go see friends

    ‘Menaces, all of you,’ Techno aggressively thought, rising to his feet and stomping over to the ladder. 

    Evidently all his walking around hadn’t gone unnoticed, because when his feet hit the ground and he turned around, dismounting the ladder, it had gone quiet. 

    “Goodmorning,” Phil greeted, and though his voice was cheerful, Techno knew the man well enough to hear the concern in his voice. Ranboo was far less subtle about displaying his emotions. The kid was seated at the table, nervously wringing his hands and giving Techno a half hopeful, half worried look. 

    “Can confirm that I’m not dying,” Techno mumbled, slightly embarrassed with the attention as he shuffled away from the ladder and closer to the furnaces, realizing abruptly that he really craved something to eat- and that his voices in the back of his mind were all but screaming for him to ingest some food. “How long was I asleep?” 

    “Eighteen hours,” Phil immediately replied, anticipating the question, reaching out to hand him a spare golden carrot that Techno accepted eagerly, biting about half of the vegetable off in a single ravenous bite. “Not the longest you’ve conked out.” 

    “That’s goo-f.” Techno mumbled around his mouthful, almost snorting at the way Ranboo instinctively cringed before carefully schooling his features. There was something oddly amusing about the ender-hybrid's weird politeness, especially when the rest of this world cared so little for common decency. “Where’d Nihach- um...Niki go?”

    “She’s at my house,” Ranboo filled in, clearing his throat a little bit. He had a mug, Techno noticed for the first time, steam rising up from in in a twin fashion to the one sitting in Phil’s abandoned seat. “Figured it was kind of...crowded, here. Phil gave her another healing potion last night though, so she’s still asleep.” 

    Techno nodded faintly, glancing down and making a note that if Niki was here to stay, as a part of the Syndicate- they needed to get her a place of her own. Or at least a barracks of some kind, though Techno knew Phil, and he suspected the elder man would jump to help the woman make herself a house within their borders. 

    Now with a clearer mind then the night before...he suddenly wasn’t sure what he thought about that. He trusted Phil’s judgment, and it was clear Phil liked Ranboo and Niki. And Techno... liked Ranboo, to an extent, even if he didn’t trust the kid. And he admired Niki, even if he wouldn’t go so far as to say he liked or trusted her. 

    This world made friendship a sour word on the tip of his tongue. 

    First Tommy, and then Dream, were beginning to- in simple statistics, and Techno was a very logical man, because that was 2 to 1- make Phil look like the exception, not the rule. And while Techno could maybe give Tommy a tiny bit of leeway for being young and stupid- Dream knew what he was doing. He knew what friendship meant to Techno and had chosen his words so perfectly, so carefully. He’d played him like a fiddle, when Techno had been sure his walls were too strong to be climbed. And he’d been right, because he’d never expected the enemy to dig underneath and tunnel up from below. 

    And suddenly the appeal of new people- of Niki, and to an extent, Ranboo- was dampened. Severely. 

    “I hope we can be friends,” Niki had said, and the worst part was, Techno was almost sure she was genuine. He wanted to believe her. And he wanted to believe Ranboo’s anxious attempts at returning kindness and fumbled politeness. He wanted to believe it wasn't all another elaborate trick.

    He tuned back to reality and realized the silence had stretched for too long. 

    “Um...good. That’s...good,” he fumbled, awkwardly stuffing the rest of his carrot into his mouth and turning away to get himself some water. This was too much thinking, way too early in the morning. He still felt too tired to even begin to broach the subject of emotions- and heck, he struggled with those on a good day. 

    His nose itched, and Techno’s gaze automatically flickered to the brewing stands in the corner of the room. The faint ambient spicy scent of blaze powder hung gentle, yet cloying in the air, clinging to the cabin frame like a vice; ever present and likely permanent, a side effect of many nights spent sleeplessly brewing. 

    The smell didn’t combine too pleasantly with the golden carrot now settling heavy in Techno’s stomach, the warrior realized with something almost edging towards dread.

    “Don’t choke, mate,” Phil urged, and there was something gentle enough about his tone that a tiny bit of the tension eased out of Techno’s shoulders. Phil was familiar. Phil was good.

    Phil had come for him.  

    “Who do you take me for?” Techno mumbled around his mug, because really he had a reputation to uphold. Phil rolled his eyes and Ranboo smiled tentatively and finally the air seemed to fully melt, settling back into something almost resembling normalcy. Something that felt like before. 

    “Sit down, let me fix your hair, old friend. It’s in a state,” Phil urged. Disgruntled, Techno raised a hand to reach back and pat his head- finding to his dismay that not only was the band that normally held his braid long gone, but it felt completely disheveled; greasy and knotted and tangled against his fingers. He wrinkled his nose. Sighing, he complied, sinking down into Phil’s still-abandoned chair; noting how Ranboo darted an expression that almost could be amused at his rat’s nest of a head as the voices crooned. 

    Braid pog. BRAID POG!

    The sensation of Phil’s fingers in his hair was familiar, despite the situation itself being rather rare; Techno tended to braid his own hair, usually right after waking up, and Phil rose with the sun while Techno’s sleep was as erratic as the tundra blizzards. But on lazy, quiet mornings when the air smelled like tea, or in the stiff hours before a battle when the scent of blaze power stung their noses and anxiety pumped their blood; or in the aftermath of a fight when their bones were lead tired and Techno could taste iron on his tongue- this was how they sat. Exactly like this; Phil’s long, clever fingers, skilled at crafting, carefully weaving a braid and Techno allowing the warm, cautious touch that on rough days even with Phil he might otherwise shy away from. 

    Now, he found his eyes briefly fluttering shut, a sensation of calm settling gently on his shoulders as a gentle heat swirled soothing and slow in his chest, like languid, boiling molasses. The chattering voices rumbled, a low background sound of content noise and gentle teasing and surprisingly fond amusement. It seemed even they were placated as well. 

    Even so often, Phil’s fingers and the wooden comb he’d summoned from within one of his many hidden pockets would catch a snarl of hair and Techno would wince; but it was a domestic hurt, familiar and trivial and it was almost comforting in how simple it was. Hair being tugged by a comb. Such a small thing, that it was almost a relief. And after a time, both Phil’s fingers and the comb ran smooth, and his hair fell across his shoulders in a slim wave; all evidence of his stay in Pandora wiped clean away. No longer did his ruffled hair show any sign of having slept on the floor or having lacked any care. 

    Something unwound a little bit in Techno’s chest. Like a single tumbler deep within a padlock had been jimmied just enough to click into place. He’d always preferred silence to conversation, and the quiet around the table was a relief. Ranboo sat engrossed in his journal; a quill pulled from the pages now held lightly between coal fingers, twirled idly between digits that were just a hair too long, yet seemed so natural alongside the rest of his slender form. Techno wasn’t quite sure if he was simply rereading past entries or staring blankly at the pages, lost in thought- but he was fairly certain that the teen hadn’t actually written a word. 

    Regardless, Ranboo’s expression was serene, if rather blank. His lips were thin and flat, edging into the tips of a frown; but his eyes were gentle and distant, cat-like pupils softened to a more rounded, almost human shape that betrayed a distracted calmness. 

    A part of Techno found it abruptly odd that such an anxious individual found himself safe enough to let his mind go completely adrift in the presence of killers. 

    “There you go mate.” Phil’s voice broke the spell that had settled over them for twenty minutes as his hand came down on Techno’s shoulder; just brief enough to clasp it gently before he was moving away. Techno felt the weight of his new braid settle against his back, familiar coolness brushing his exposed neck. 

    “Thanks,” Techno murmured, listening to the hum of voices as he rose to his feet, awkwardly shifting away from Phil’s smile and Ranboo’s gaze- suddenly attentive once more, startled from his reverie. It occurred to him once more that he’d probably expressed more verbal gratitude in the last day than he had in months, maybe even years. “I realized actually, I need...I need armour. Either to make new stuff or get my old things back.” 

    “Oh!” Ranboo’s enthusiastic, if soft gasp resonated from the table, and Techno turned back to raise an eyebrow, watching the teen shrink for a split second before sitting up straight once more, a bit more confidence bleeding back into his voice. He tapped the tip of his quill against his page in an idle gesture, a little smile on his face. “I have an extra set of netherite. Fully enchanted. If you need something to use until you can make a set for yourself, I’m sure you could modify it to fit.” 

    “Oh that’s a good idea!” Phil agreed, saving Techno from a second of wordless comprehending that probably would have come across as socially awkward. Ranboo had an entire spare suit of battle armour? That was...interesting. Slightly alarming. Techno was tempted to say surprising, but then again he wasn’t sure the teen really did anything but wander aimlessly and mine. 

    “Aren’t you a pacifist?” Techno blurted out instead. He turned his head, only to realize Phil was giving him the ‘look’. The ‘Techno, I love you and you are my friend but you just said something that may have been quite rude’ look.

    Techno shrugged his shoulder back just a tad sheepishly, and turned his eyes back to Ranboo, who’s eyes were fixated down on his diary. 

    “Well- well yes, kind of,” The ender hybrid agreed, something stiff in his voice. His grip on the quill had tightened. “But it never hurts to be...prepared?” 

    His jeweled eyes rose up to meet Techno’s own and the answer was more of a question than a statement, but the piglin nodded in agreement anyways. It wasn’t really his place to question over paranoia of war, and the voices in his head were crooning Ranboo and rich and touchy subject?? So he sidestepped the topic with all the grace of a runaway sled, mumbled “I’m going to go feed the dogs,” and hurried towards the door. 

    He wasn’t fleeing his own house. He wasn’t fleeing his own house, and Phil’s sympathetic eyes, and Ranboo’s too tightly held quill, and air that was permanently scented with the faintest hint of blaze powder. 

    It was his house, of course he wouldn’t do that. 

    He fumbled with the strings of the grey-green spare cloak Phil had given him, knotting it near his throat as he opened the door and stepped out- the freezing air of the tundra slamming him like a wall as the bright sunlight of the pale blue sky caught the ground’s sugar-white coating and painted the world in a blinding glow. 

    Techno pulled the door behind him closed and groaned, momentarily sagging back against the thick spruce boards and closing his eyes against the glare, letting the fresh mountain air fill his lungs as the cold sharply nipped against his nose. 

    It was normal. Familiar. 

    Normality. 

    He could do this. 

    Technoblade reopened his eyes and took the stairs down off the porch two at a time, his boots sinking a solid four inches into the snow, cloak snapping in the strong tundra breeze as he strode off towards the half-completed house neighboring his own and the nearby kennel that contained his dogs. 

    Normality. Routine. 

    Miles away, across an ocean, a new strand of vine stubbornly pushed its way between the cracks of rotting oak boards on a long loved and often overlooked path to join its brothers. It twisted, slow and steady as plants do- curling crimson and cruel, reaching its bud out towards the sun hanging high in the sky above. 

    Scarlet petals slowly unfolded, gently framing the small, golden, glowing interior of the crimson blossom. 

    To the world, it was simply a flower in bloom- enticing, sweet, wafting scent drifting away from its velvety fronds. Proud, accomplished, it sat; an offspring of a more larger than life pioneer. A mere ruby seedling, having done the solidarity’s bidding. 

    The emerald grass shied away, and the once rambunctious and abundant native wildflowers did not grow near; for this vine, this blossom, was not normal, not familiar.

    But to life, change never is. 

Chapter Text

    Air escaped Phil’s lungs in a slow, sad sigh as his eyes borrowed into the sturdy spruce planks that made up the front door of their arctic cabin. His gaze trailed almost nostalgically over the iron hinges securing the structure to the solid door frame around it. 

    Phil remembered the first walk out into the once untouched and unexplored crystalline fields of the tundra like it had been only a few weeks back- not bordering on months instead, as time stretched further and further on, slipping away from them at a shocking pace. 

He remembered the chilly, torch-lit night of building that had led to the founding and formation of their little commune- back when it was simply ‘Techno’s next base’, a single solitary house. Back when soft, hopeful, unobtainable words like retirement and peace fell from Techno’s lips with such care, such monotonic, yet grim determination (Words that were said like a wistful dream, and yet never truly believed. Neither by the tongue that formed them nor the ears that received them).

Back before New L’manberg had fully risen high on its new log-hewn stilts, and back when Phil’s chest and throat had felt so continuously, achingly hollow. There had been a pressure in his heart that wouldn’t fade; one that choked air from his lungs by day and rocked his nights, cold and sleepless. That cloying weight, like a sword driven straight through his sternum. 

Frigid iron, razor sharp crystal, a buzz of enchantment- directly into the core of his being. 

Phil remembered distinctly, during that walk out into the arctic, that it had been a particularly bad evening. The image of New L’manberg, half rebuilt and backlit by the splash of sunset paint across the quickly darkening canvas of the clouds- and then the cold spray of water below them as he and Techno maneuvered a rowboat through the outskirts of the Greater SMP territory, toting the remains scavenged from the wrecked revolution bunker out towards wherever their destination in the arctic- unknown at the time- might be. 

It had been too similar, the whole situation. Not his actions, no- but the atmosphere of the night. The air had a certain quality to it, a stillness; memory drenched with bittersweet nostalgia that dripped down his throat like honey-coated poison. 

His mood had been all false cheer and avoidance and denial- Phil was a smart enough man to recognize that, even if he hadn’t done much to correct any of his abysmal coping mechanisms. And yet Techno had let him pretend, the entire move to the arctic. Had been a solid, quiet, calm presence at his side. Never prying, never calling him out. Just walking at his side, talking about his cow or carrying a box or cracking a small, snarky, dry joke. 

Techno never stopped Phil from pretending to be okay, and the survivor appreciated that. He was fairly certain he’d have lost his mind by now- snapped like a thin, frail twig and gone off the deep end like Wilbur if not for Techno’s grounding and nonjudgmental presence. 

Even in the midst of Doomsday, Techno had still found his way to his side in the middle of it all; through the smoke and the explosions and the screams. His hand had still found Phil’s sleeve, watchful crimson eyes making sure his gifted totem remained held within reach; the gold idol warm and malleable and buzzing with magic in Phil’s palm. And even though Phil had been choking on vengeance and grief at the time just as much as he was smoke, Techno had just been there.

They didn’t talk about it. Phil didn’t mention Wilbur from the start, and Techno didn’t mention Tommy, once that had eventually become a sore topic. They existed in a practiced, comfortable dance around one another and didn’t talk about what pained them.

Phil gazed at the spruce door Techno had just so uncharacteristically fled through- because he had fled, pace too quick, eyes darting too fast- and breathed deep. Sad and nostalgic. He thought of the move to the arctic, when the house was new and wasn’t home and when the grief that tainted the day of his arrival was just as raw, and yet regardless, even fresher. 

The sun was setting, casting long, delicate streaks of orange and gold crisscrossing the horizon like interlaced fingers ringed in jewels. The rough texture of tree bark scraped against Phil’s palm as he surged upwards- boots sliding against the tangle of grass and dry, dusty dirt beneath his feet that coated the forested hill. 

His breath came in sharp, heaving pants, driven from his lungs by exhaustion and fatigue, legs aching. He’d spent too long of recent years building and not exploring- his feet protested the sprint from the server’s tangled worldspawn. 

Mist hung low in the air, settling in as night crept closer and as the temperature began to drop. Moisture clung to his fingers and cloak- cool, wispy as he ran through patches of ghostly smoke. 

He crested the hill, and for the first time words read only on smudged ink letters became a reality. A skyline was laid out before him; a silhouette, backlit by the blazing phoenix of edging dusk, punctuated by dark spires of buildings and man made creations reaching up towards the heavens. 

Phil blinked down at a miniature city- buildings spread out, the remnants and distant evidence of once standing walls and battlements littering a clear perimeter; a tattered, half-burned and hastily raised flag dancing in the sharp breeze atop a distant flag pole. 

He gazed at a tiny country, something formed completely from within a storybook. A story of success against the odds, a story of the oppressed lifting voices up loud and unsilenced, a story of a tyrant overthrown. Stories told by a bedside to young and tired ears, stories told huddled by a fire by a boy with smoke warmed cheeks.

“Will, you did it,” Phil breathed- the air momentarily stolen from his lungs by the sight of L’manberg, by the creation that stood before him. Echoes of tales and excited chatter; the rambles of a young boy drowning in a too large mop of unruly curls and cracked glasses, brought to life. 

For a moment, all he could do was stare in shock at what his son had spoken of over paper- now real and as solid as the wind chilling his hands. 

Distantly, from within the city, came voices. Far off shouts. 

Phil ran. 

Techno was clearly not alright. Phil could see that much clear as day. And maybe it was an unspoken rule that they didn’t discuss things, but the survivor could still worry. And he was worried. A kind of uncomfortable, anxious, low simmering concern that twisted in his chest and made his hands ache to sit down at a workbench and create something to fix the situation, only he wasn’t sure that was particularly applicable in this situation. 

It was the kind of worry that made him twitch for action- but Techno was his best friend, and Phil knew what he was like. Techno did not appreciate interventions or heart to hearts or lovey dovey expressions of concern for one’s welfare. And Phil didn’t have much beside a single morning’s worth of overly twitchy behavior and visual signs of raised anxiety to go off of to actually distinguish that something was well and truly bad.  

He knew, deep down, that Techno was going to be shaken by the events at Pandora’s Vault. That was clear the moment he’d seen Techno’s ragged, unarmed appearance. Even clearer still when Techno’s first greeting had been to ask for a hug. 

Of course Phil didn’t expect Techno to admit he was shaken at all. That just wasn’t what the piglin was like. Stubborn to the grave he was- detested admitting weakness, occasionally as much to friends as to enemies. 

Small scale gestures it was then, Phil decided. Keep the place calm and quiet. Make sure there was always some part of the cabin always open so Techno could go be alone when he needed it. Perhaps a gift- something useful, something that would make the warrior feel safe- subtle enough that Phil could present it like it was nothing, but meaningful enough for the gesture to bring comfort. 

Phil knew his friend, and he knew that if his actions were small enough that Techno didn’t realize they were an intentional act to try and be empathetic, then they’d probably be all the more effective. The piglin wouldn’t have the chance to work himself up into overthinking or dismissing it all. 

The survivor’s entire body seemed to sag a little bit, as if the very act of all of that consideration had left him tired. Techno was clearly shaken, yes; and that left a sad, angry, bitter taste on the back of Phil’s tongue. But Techno had been unfailingly by his side, and it was time for Phil to return the favor to his age old partner. 

“Is he, um...alright?” 

Ranboo’s voice startled Phil from his reverie, and the survivor glanced to the side, finally tearing his gaze away from its previous fixation on the front door. “That was a very swift escape. Even- even for Techno. I think.” The hybrid’s halting voice continued.

Phil swept the teen, taking in Ranboo’s nervously laced fingers resting atop the table and the inquiring, yet nervous expression glinting in his jeweled-eyes. He debated his answer for a moment, turning towards the table to collect the discarded mugs; the ceramic cool against his fingers, clinking pleasantly as he shifted the dishes towards the sink, letting the silence stretch. 

Ranboo was too clever, he decided, settling the mugs down into the still-filled basin of lukewarm water and suds, watching as the tips of his sleeves turned from pale moss to dark emerald as the liquid seeped into the cloth. Forgetful and rather oblivious at times, but clever and keen eyed. He would notice on his own regardless of if Phil encouraged his thinking or not. 

“I don’t think he is,” Phil admitted carefully, keeping his voice calm and casual- like they weren’t discussing the infallible Blade and how he was currently outside in the cold and the snow right then, clearly avoiding them in favor of animals which did not socialize. “I think he’s pretty...shaken.” 

“...yeah,” Came Ranboo’s agreeing tone; slight apprehension and slight relief bleeding side by side into that single syllable. Phil focused on washing any remnants of tea from the mug in his hands, ears catching the soft tap of the quill tip against the paper- Ranboo was fidgeting once more. “I would be. If um, I had that all happen to me. That is.” 

“Me too,” Phil sighed softly, heart clenching painfully as he tipped the mugs out and set them aside on a splayed towel to dry. “Things’ll be alright, mate. We’ll figure it out. Techno’s here now, with us. At home.” 

“Home,” Ranboo repeated, and though his voice was mostly blank, Phil swore he could hear the faintest threads of wonder hidden behind the supposed monotone. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll tell Niki when she wakes up that we gotta give him some space?”

“Sounds good,” Phil made an effort to soften his voice, turning to give the teen a small smile; surprised with the genuineness of his own gratitude. Ranboo tentatively smiled back, the feather in his palm gently brushing against the woody grain of the tabletop. “I never got to say it in the chaos of last night, but- thank you, for coming with me on that trip Ranboo. All the way to that mountain, and the fight with Dream. You did great.” 

It felt familiar and comforting, to offer praise and simple pleasantries, and Ranboo brightened a little bit, some of the seemingly ever-present tension draining out of his body; making his rail thin form seem just a little more relaxed, a little more like a simple teenager. 

“Of course,” Ranboo replied, his tentative grin showing a flash of too-sharp teeth and soft eyes. And he spoke so plainly, as though fighting server admins and rescuing hostages were normal activities he ought to spend his weekend doing. “You and Techno are friends.” 

“And you’re one of ours, mate.” Phil replied, touched. He swept past Ranboo, pausing just long enough to settle his hand on the teenagers shoulder warmly, gently squeezing. “You’re always welcome here, not just in that shack of yours. I owe you one.”

“Oh no, no,” Ranboo insisted, his snow white hand rising up to clasp Phil’s palm, sandwiching it between his fingers and the soft, silky fabric of Ranboo’s suit jacket-shoulder. “You guys gave me a place to stay- we’re even, really. I owed you.”

“Nonsense,” Phil snorted, giving Ranboo’s shoulder one last squeeze before distangling his trapped hand, watching as Ranboo quickly snatched his own fingers away the second he realized the survivor was distancing himself. “Kid, you were impressive as hell. Don’t undersell yourself. That teleporting thing?”

“I didn’t know I could do that,” Ranboo protested, but something like a laugh bubbled up from his throat; low and slightly choked, but a warm sound nonetheless, something that soothed Phil’s nerves just a little bit. 

A soft chuckle- Techno’s voice from across the room, tired and quiet in volume and yet the gentle grumble filled the fireplace-crackle stillness of the nighttime soaked living room.

Phil giggled as well, pausing just long enough to idly pat down an unruly, wild, rogue strand of black hair stick up from beneath Ranboo’s crown before he stepped away, casting his eyes out towards the white world of snow outside, hidden behind frosted, foggy glass.  

A light laugh; breathy and gasping for air and yet subdued, trying not to wake sleeping occupants nearby. Bright, dancing brown eyes and a pale hand swiping curly locks out of a face as Wilbur bit his lip, attempting to quiet the sounds that escaped in little amused hiccups. 

“Fucking hell,” Wilbur bent over at the waist, face flushed pink and red with humor, shoulders shaking with the force of his suppressed hysterics, face cracking into a wide, unstoppable grin. “You’re- oh my god you’re terrible.”

“I try,” Phil snorted, leaning forward to swoop a rather breakable cup off of the table and deposit it safely out of reach of his teenager’s laughing form. 

The glass fogged further as he approached, leaving Ranboo to return to his writing- or perhaps simple daydreaming. Phil’s breath left streaks of translucent moisture against the frigid window frame, and he reached out a hand to clear a viewable spot- fingers coming away damp and cold as ice as he peered out into the yard. 

Distantly, across the commune, Techno stood by the treeline. His dark cloak stood out harshly against the pale snow, his braid falling down the back in a splash of pastel color against the dark fabric. The wind had picked up- just enough to make little puffs of snow dance like fallen leaves, creating a dusting shimmer across the entire world. Just enough to make Techno’s cloak snap around his ankles and to force him to have one hand up, preventing loose strands of hair from flying into his face. 

Techno stood alone, but as Phil gazed momentarily at his old friend, he got the sense that Techno was having a conversation. His weight shifted, his free hand moving with defined gestures; body postulating a talkative air to nothing but the snow banks around him and the pine trees stretched out beyond Techno’s slightly silhouetted-form. 

Phil blinked, and in the moment it took to refocus, to process on how odd of a conclusion he’d come to, Techno had turned and was striding off in another direction, grey cloak streaming out behind him like some sort of feathery trail. 

Cautiously, the survivor stepped back from the window and let frost cloud his view of the world once more. He caught himself gazing wistfully at the door once more, hands clasping anxiously in front of him, thumbs lightly rubbing together as he pondered the situation. 

He would wait, he decided. And he would just be there for whenever his friend came calling. Because that’s what he and Techno did.

Chapter Text

    Techno had left a ring of footprints around the dog kennel, Ranboo noted idly. 

It probably wasn't a detail he would ordinarily take in, but the cold was nipping uncomfortably at his nose as he languidly made the quick walk back to his own small dwelling; a squarish structure tucked back against the cliffside of the small mountain-hill that made up their compound’s northwestern border. Despite the wind stirring up little puffs of snowy mist, the tracks had yet to be obscured- deep, shadowed impressions, left as a marker as to where the blood god had paused to tend to his pets. 

    Ranboo glanced around, chilled hands shoved deep into the thin pockets of his pants- but Technoblade wasn’t anywhere in sight. There were only a set of slowly fading prints leading away into the pine-laden tree line to betray where the piglin had gone, and not a single humanoid soul in sight. 

    Surprisingly, it made something unpleasantly similar to unease prick at the edges of Ranboo’s chest; light, and sharp. Like the finest points of a needle brushing the pad of a thumb, deep within his heart. 

    Perhaps it was simply that the last time Techno had left to go someplace on his own, the warrior hadn’t returned. 

    Ranboo exhaled slowly; a soft, soundless sigh, and it fogged the air in front of him, creating a small cloud of mist that was carried away with the next gust of breeze just as fast as he could draw a frigid breath back into his lungs to replace it. 

    He was both regretful and relieved to leave the cabin and Phil behind, he decided. Relieved, because talking was never exactly pleasant. Because he was never quite sure how to navigate conversations that others seemed to have mastered the art of long ago. Because Techno had so clearly been uncomfortable, more so than even Ranboo himself. And because Phil obviously had a lot on his own mind, even without Ranboo sitting there in his space- another item to occupy his thoughts. 

    Yet he felt regretful, because Technoblade’s dwelling had been warm. Because Phil was a reassuring presence, the company comforting. Because for some odd reason, it was always easier to remember and write near the cabin’s fire, more so than anywhere else on the entire server.

    His hand slipped out of his pocket to rub across the lapel area of his suit jacket, fingering the cold, silky fabric; feeling the hard outline of his journal hidden underneath, tucked into a secretive pocket sewn into the interior. 

    The whole weekend had been so very odd. 

    Snow-covered dirt transitioned to frost-dusted stone brick beneath Ranboo’s feet as he stepped up to the front of his shack, fumbling with the latch of the wooden gate with arctic-numbed fingers. The transition from the cold arctic air to stepping within the breeze-blocked and furnace-warmed interior of his porch-like home drew out a small sigh of relief from deep within Ranboo’s chest, and he pulled the door shut behind him. He paused to tilt his head as a faint, odd, unfamiliar scent tickled his nose- one he was sure wasn’t normal for his abode, even with his poor memory.

   
    “...Niki?” He asked curiously- even a tad cautiously, fumbling to pull off his snow-caked outer layer and draping it over the rough oak of a nearby chest, transferring his journal safely into his pants pocket. He fiddled with the buttons on the cuffs of his sleeves as he wandered over to the ladder leading to the underground section of his dwelling, peeking downwards.

    “Hi Ranboo,” Came the soft reply, drifting up from the floor below. The feminine voice sounded a bit tired, but was evidently trying for some friendly enthusiasm. “Sorry, I uh- hijacked your stuff to make food. I hope you don’t mind?” 

    A tiny smile managed to slip onto the ender hybrid’s lips as he twisted to descend the wooden slats, boots thudding lightly onto the stone floor. 

“No, that’s- that’s alright. I’m pretty hopeless with cooking.” Ranboo lifted his chin as he replied to scan the area, eyes settling on the crouched woman across the space; illuminated by the yellow-orange light of the fiery furnaces. His brow furrowed slightly in concern. “How’s your side?” 

“I’m alright, Ranboo,” Nihachu huffed quietly as she carefully rose to her feet, palms pressed against the heavy grey fabric covering her knees. Her black trench coat was discarded whilst in the house- abandoned upstairs near the door. But her clothes still resembled a general pallet of dark, smooth greyscale that made the brilliant magenta of her shoulder length hair seem impossibly vibrant. 

Ranboo’s gaze flicked down towards the bandages wrapped around Niki’s middle; mostly covered by her shirt, but visible where the edges bunched up, revealing the jarringly white fabric. 

He was startled from his reverie by fingers lightly brushing his shoulder. 

“Hey,” Came Niki’s voice; firm, waiting for him to glance up. He complied, lifting his head to fix his gaze at a point on the shorter woman’s forehead, just centimeters above her dark eyes. “It really isn’t bad.” 

“I know,” Ranboo murmured, raising his hand to gently cup Niki’s elbow in a brief reassuring squeeze before he stepped back, letting air stretch between them. “You’re strong. Still you- it could’ve been me, you know. Or Tubbo. Dream was coming for us.” 

They hadn’t talked about it. No one had talked about the events on the mountain or at the prison, not really. Their entire group- he, Niki, Techno and Phil- had all come back home and simply collapsed, exhausted. Barely stayed awake long enough to divvy up sleeping arrangements and tend injuries.

Nihachu paused a moment, glancing downward; a lock of hair slipping across her cheek, a splash of color against a soot-hued palette as she reached a hand down, gingerly laying it across the span of her waist where Dream’s knife had left its mark. Something considering- slightly sad- spread across her face. 

“Yes,” She finally conceded, tone unusually mournful as her gaze tipped up once more- their eyes locking before Ranboo could glance away, and a breath caught in the back of the ender hybrid’s throat. “It could’ve been someone else. But what happened...it happened. Don’t feel guilt, Ranboo. I made my own choices.” 

For an endless second, it was simply them standing there; Niki’s unwavering gaze, the soft, simmering certainty of her voice, and Ranboo marveled at her strength- drowned in that piercing expression. 

He twisted his head to the side and air rushed to fill his lungs once more. He held it for a heart beat- feeling his pulse race, rapid and shallow in his throat- and slowly let the breath filter out once more, a soft sigh. 

“Thank you,” He managed through parched lips, because it was all that would come out. “You’re...welcome to stay as long as you need. Or want. Really.” 

“...thank you,” She sounded unusually touched, and when Ranboo glanced back over Niki’s lips were tilted in a hesitant smile. “I um...would you like some food? Cooking is really all I can offer in payment, right now.” She huffed lightly, gesturing with a half-gloved hand towards the furnaces. Ranboo suddenly became re-aware of the scent of a meal that hung heavy in the air. 

His stomach growled and his face grew hot as Niki began to laugh- the sound obviously audible in the stilted silence of the mostly empty house. Ranboo felt a sudden rush of nostalgia, for a time when tensions weren’t quite so high, and ideologies weren't quite so divided, and when friends didn’t abruptly go missing. 

“That sounds nice,” He murmured, and if his voice came out choked and strained, Niki was a kind enough soldier not to mention it. 

Ranboo let her guide him over to the furnace with the lure of promised food, soft murmuring of plans to build a place of her own, and the sensation of honey sweet sentimentality that filled the air like arctic molasses. 

Ranboo felt warm and bittersweet, and for once his house wasn’t quiet. 

---

Tommyinnit had been following Technoblade for roughly two minutes now, and had yet to be caught.

Before this, he’d been walking home from Snowchester- had just barely managed to convince Tubbo he was alright to go home on his own, really he was, and he needed to rebuild- when he had spotted a flash of grey and pink leaving the community nether portal in a flash of magic and light. 

It had only taken a second’s deliberation to jump behind a tree, back pressed against the rough bark, peeking around the side as Technoblade paused as though to catch his bearings; braid falling down his back, unusual grey-green cloak flapping slightly around his legs from the artificial breeze of the nether portal.

Tommy was suspicious. 

They’d had some sort of artificial truce yesterday, in that damn prison. And Techno had- well frankly, he’d looked like shit at the time, if Tommy’s opinion was supreme. Shoeless, hair askew- eyes dark with a sleepless, bloodshot look and skin pale with a sickly pallor. It had perhaps been the most ‘un-Techno’ that Tommy had ever seen The Blade appear. 

And he’d still tried to fight Dream. Armourless, with a weapon that definitely wasn’t his- and he’d needed help in the end, but Techno had still held his own. Tommy remembered it like it was yesterday. It was yesterday.

A part of him was gleeful of the furious, fiery glare Techno had sent the admin's way in the midst of the scuffle. He was glad Techno hated Dream.

The tree stung through the thin fabric of his t-shirt as he squinted in Technoblade’s direction, watching as the man glanced around before striding off down the blackstone stairs in the direction of the destroyed community center. Already Techno looked back to his normal, collected self- posture and gait emulating that of the Kings the anarchist despised so greatly, and Tommy scoffed lightly under his breath. 

'Hypocrite.'

He waited until Techno disappeared over the crest of the hill before he ducked out from behind the tree, racing towards the portal area with silent, practiced steps. Tommy paused at the top of the stairs, squinting down- catching a flash of grey fabric in the distance, heading down his oaken boardwalk, in the direction of his house. 

“Oooo, bastard- you better not be trying shit,” The teen growled, stealth abandoned momentarily as he raced sideways down the stairs, legs crossing over one another as his sneakers pounded against the blackstone. 

The community center took a bit of navigating- he had to hop a bunch to avoid shattered glass and collapsed bricks, and had to squeeze between two toppled support beams to escape- so by the time Tommy was safely on the other side of the dilapidated building, Technoblade was far down the path; figure blurry with distance, surrounded on either side by a multitude of buildings in various states of disrepair and abandonment, outlined by the occasional crimson curl of those wild red plants.

Tommy followed from a distance. Perhaps had it been another day- had the previous one not been so long , and had last night’s sleep actually been enough to make up for what was lacking- he might’ve taken off running. Might’ve yelled at Techno until the man turned around, then have marched right up to him and started talking his ear off. 

But his throat and his arms and his side ached with bruises. He was tired. Yelling sounded like work.

Instead, it was shockingly easy to slip back into the light footsteps that had been second nature in the early days of Pogtopia, and then again post-exile when sneaking into the SMP had been commonplace alongside the scheming anarchist. 

The irony wasn’t lost on Tommy that he was utilizing skills perfected by Technoblade himself to now follow the man down the long prime path without notice. As he watched Techno mount the hill-imbedded stairs that led up towards his ruined dugout house, Tommy paused behind the cover of a particularly thick vine, peering around the crimson stem with narrowed eyes. 

The teen could’ve sworn Techno was more aware of his surroundings than this. He hadn’t actually expected the ‘stealth’ approach to be working- yet Technoblade continued to walk, without even a glance over his shoulder, seemingly oblivious to his tail. 

Tommy squinted, glaring a little fiercer, suspicion mounting. Maybe he happened to be more skilled than he had thought. 

And maybe all those months ago Wilbur had had a point, about infiltration. 

Tommy watched just over the lip of the prime path stairs as Techno paused for a brief second to gape at the ruins of what had once been Tommy’s house- justified, because really the destruction was quite startling. 

After a moment’s pause to take in the blackened sod and remnants of charred wood, Technoblade turned; edges of his cloak carefully lifted above the soot-blackened ground as he sidestepped the destroyed edges of the path and continued on towards the direction of L’manberg- passing right by Tommy’s dugout. 

Tommy felt equal parts relief and disdain as he crept closer to his destroyed house, watching Techno’s form easily duck under the haphazard bar blocking the tunnel to L’manberg, his pink hair vanishing down the path. 

If Technoblade wasn’t here for him or his house, then what the hell was he doing? Why was he going to the crater?  

Tommy hopped fully to his feet and raced towards his house, reaching down to shuffle boards and sod out of the way and wincing as the action smeared black charcoal streaks across his hands. 

Maybe Techno had felt so weakened or something by whatever had happened with Dream that he needed to go see the ruins of L’manberg and gloat over his prior victory. Or maybe he was up to something else, something nefarious, something Tommy hadn’t even considered- after all, this was the man who had hidden an army of dogs in the city’s sewers for what at the time had seemed like no reason. 

Tommy shifted a chunk of stone to the side, exhaling a breath of relief and a bright smile at the sight of a dusty, yet intact enderchest, faintly humming beneath the thin layer of rubble coating its obsidian casing.

Well, he didn’t have anything better to do- unless he wanted to return to Tubbo, which meant uncomfortably prickling emotions, or unless he wanted to start rebuilding his house, which meant felling trees and clearing out stone- so he supposed 'following Technoblade' it was. 

He reached into the cool, void-like interior of the enderchest and drew out his last remaining invisibility potion; the glass cold to the touch, almost frosty against his palm as he rose to his feet and kicked the lid closed once more, the lock sealing with a soft hissing sound.  

Potion in hand and a mission on the mind, Tommy took a deep breath- 

“Wilbur, Wilbur- if you can drop off a potion we can get out, there’s a hole in the back, an escape. Sapnap left and Ponk is on our side, Eret too-”

“Okay Tommy, okay, alright, I’m making them-”

“Where are you Wilbur, where are you? We can get out, okay?”

“I hear you Tommy, alright? I’m in the forest behind the Camaravan, I’m on my way.” 

“Okay, well I can get out the back, yeah? Remember that, okay- remember that, Will.  Leave the potion there, leave the invis behind the wall, by the back, and I can get out.”

“Okay Tommy-”

-and advanced towards the direction of L’manberg.

As Techno had suspected; the blossom from his dream was the red weed that had permeated the entire area of the Greater Dream SMP. 

He supposed that made sense. Dreams were meant to emulate reality after all, and it wasn't at all strange for elements of realism that he’d picked up on to come into fruition in his dreamscape. 

That thought, though rational, didn’t exactly soothe either the prickling in the back of his mind or the doubt of the antsy voices, however.

Because, he noted as he carefully maneuvered his way deeper into the vine-ladden crater that had once been a city- his mind had somehow gotten the blossoms of the plant perfectly accurate. Even as he picked his way down the boulder choked landscape, his eyes skidded across the twists and turns of nearby crimson vegetation; landing on the little clusters of vibrant scarlet petals, with their little glowing, golden interiors. 

A perfect mimicry of the flower cradled in dream-Wilbur’s hand, something that his mind had apparently recreated in perfect, accurate detail. 

But Techno had never stopped to examine the plants before, nor even paid them any mind, not more than a passing glance. In fact he hadn’t even noticed the vines had shroomlight-similar interiors until now, and unless he had somehow subconsciously picked up on the detail, it seemed unnervingly unrealistic for his sleeping mind to so perfectly know the anatomy of previously unexamined flora. 

Prophetic dreams? Knowledge pog. Bad plant

“The last thing I need after you all is prophetic dreams,” Techno grumbled; leaning down and letting himself slip off the edge of a rock face, landing with a slight grunt on the bedrock floor of the crater. “I’m still half sure I’m mad.”

Mad. Insanenoblade? Pogtopia! Crazy. Tommy!

“Yes- we’re going to Pogtopia. Slow your roll.” Techno sidestepped a particularly large vine that snaked across the ground- glancing around wearily as he slowly picked his way across the expansive space. His hand found its place on the hilt of his sword, eyes trailing across the rotting, burn-scarred remains of the L’manberg flag- almost completely overgrown by red weeds gone wild. 

The ruin was almost beautiful, in an organic, terra incognita, apocalyptic sort of way. The ruins of a cataclysmic event, that nature was reclaiming. 

Techno was sure he could make it poetic if he tried. 

He drew his blade, both for reassurance and for protection from any wayward mobs as he approached the tunnel to Pogtopia. The front entrance was still oddly decorative; dust and ash scarred, stained grey- but through the debris Techno could still see where the purple-red planks of netherwood still shone through. 

The air grew both quieter and cooler as he descended into the underground, stone and earth swallowing the world around him as he stepped into the dark, extensive passageway. Once upon a time it had been lit by torches- though now in the dim light he could see that the cloth-wrapped sticks were long since extinguished, damp and dark in their holsters on the wall. 

His bootfalls echoed loudly up and down the tunnel as he walked quickly down the long, straight path- finally rounding the few corners it took to reach the end. 

Where once there had been a hidden door; false stone, disguising the entrance to the ravine- now there was simply a gaping hole that led to ‘Pogtopia’- cracked, crumbled rock betraying a forceful entrance or exit, when hiding had no longer become a necessity for their little rebellion. 

Through the hole, Techno could see a vision that fit with his latest memories of the place; darkness, shadows- buttons forcefully thrust into the walls, chests open and in disarray, items scattered across the ashen floor.

Lit lanterns, storage tucked into little nooks, a whirring violet portal at the end of the long, golden-tinged ravine, and a campfire crackling in a ring of nearly perfectly round stepping stones.

He stepped through cautiously, sword arm slightly raised. Pogtopia had always been a quiet place, and he remembered it being even more so when he went back for supplies after the revolution. But now it seemed that the very earth itself sucked all white noise from the air, leaving his own inhales and footsteps the only sound in all of existence. 

It was surreal; everything was so real and tangible and Technoblade knew for a fact he’d spent months here, with other people. This place was a footprint in history, now abandoned and forgotten. 

It was silent, and yet it almost felt as though if he closed his eyes, he’d hear the crackling fire, the sound of footsteps on the scaffolding above, the echo of hushed voices from the other side of the stone walls. 

He was alone, and yet it felt as though somehow, impossibly, Wilbur might step around a corner and greet him. 

Techno’s hand tightened further on his sword. His skin crawled. 

He felt like he was being watched. 

Potatoes. Good memories. Bad memories? Tommy. Wilbur flower!

The walk from the entrance of the tunnel to the small hole in the wall leading to the potato farm was a familiar one. He kept expecting a mob to lunge out of the shadows- leeching off of the darkness that had settled into the deepest recesses of the ravine, now that the lanterns and torches were long extinguished. 

Yet his path remained clear and unhindered, leading him across the smooth stone, and he walked right up until the tips of his boots brushed soil. 

His potato farm- built originally by his hands when he exasperatedly learned that the ex-politicians of L’manberg had no steady food source, and automated by Tubbo several weeks later- was laid out before him in all of its forsaken glory. Dead, brown, crumbling plants poked up half heartedly through cracked, dry dirt. 

If Techno tilted his head and squinted, he could almost imagine when the soil mounds once held soft, fragile green sprouts- now reduced to lifeless sticks; neglected and cold. 

Red. Vine! Flower! Tommmmmy. 

Frowning, Techno glanced over the plot of land once more, and his eyes caught on a flash of scarlet, hidden against the sea of brown and dull yellow. 

He advanced slowly, sword held aloft- the plants crunching like autumn leaves under his boots. A quick, sharp flick of his wrist, and the blade slashed through the stem of a gnarled potato plant; revealing a small, thin, delicate crimson blossom beneath. 

Techno inhaled sharply, and his head exploded with agitation. 

PROPHETIC DREAMS!! Wilbur?!

It was almost shameful, the minute tremble in his hand as he kneeled; knees sinking into the rock-hard earth of the garden. Slowly, cautiously- perhaps in a slight state of disbelief- Techno reached out, gently laying a finger on the closed bud of the small, impossibly alive flower. 

The petal was soft, velvety- almost warm against his skin, and he drew back with a flinch, as though he’d touched an animal and not a plant. 

Crimson. Egg! Vine

Before his eyes, Techno watched as the plant shuddered slightly- then unfurled like a sunflower in the day, crimson petals slowly uncurling, extending out to reveal the soft, golden interior of the blossom; a perfect, symmetrical little ruby flower. 

An identical, exact copy of the flower that had sat, plucked, in a dead man’s hand- in this exact same location, in a dream.  

Techno reached out without thinking, fingers closing around the stem of the vine, and he twisted. With a soft ‘pop’, the blossom was pulled from the stem; vibrant, saturated, like blood against his pale hand as he drew his arm back and closer to his chest, staring downward. 

His mouth felt a bit like cotton, and Technoblade wasn’t quite sure what to think. 

The vines from the L’manberg crater did not reach this far. Should not reach this far. They’d only stretched maybe a foot deep into the tunnel to Pogtopia before they’d faded out. 

Yet here was a lone, thriving sprout. A delicate thing, fragile and ornate and elegant. 

He lightly ran the pad of his thumb over the soft edge of the crimson petal, and the texture was soothing. His skin crawled. 

“...Wilbur,” He murmured. Choked, soft- tongue darting out to wet abruptly dry lips. Techno wasn’t one for conversing with the dead, and yet the name slipped out anyways. This whole situation was far too surreal. Perhaps he was still dreaming. Perhaps he had never woken up at all. 

He suddenly felt a little sick. 

There was a soft, distant inhale of breath that wasn’t his own. Just barely audible, and yet it felt like ice through his entire body; chilling his veins, freezing him in place. 

    Behind you.

    Technoblade was up and spinning, sword slashing before the voices even finished their warning. A guttural, furious, slightly panicked roar slipped from his lips- angry and threatening, and a shriek that definitely didn’t come from him shattered the air of Pogtopia; high pitched, the startled, frightened, instinctive cry of someone caught off guard, in alarmed danger.  

    “Stop! Stop!” Came a frantic, disembodied, familiar voice, dancing in and out as it changed movement, as Techno struggled to track what he could not see.  

He was suddenly horribly aware of a scent hanging in the air; the faintest traces of blaze powder, the slight, almost imperceptible sweetness of golden carrots and the subtle rotten stench of the fermentation process that had tainted the delicacy into properties capable of invisibility. Had they not been inside an enclosed location with stale, stagnant air he might not have noticed, but as it was, the smell of potion hit Technoblade like a minecart. 

“What are you doing?” Techno snapped, stepping sideways; sword sharply raised in front of him, point leveled. The crimson flower was still clutched in his freehand, almost crushed by the frantic tightness of his grip. “Show yourself.” 

“Can’t do that big man,” Came Tommy’s nervous, blustering voice; high with false bravado that sounded especially strained and fake without his facial expressions to back up the effect. “Won’t wear off for probably a few more minutes, don’t have milk.” Suddenly, the boy’s tone seemed to harden with a sort of confidence that Techno did not have the patience to deal with- suspicion filling his voice.

“Tell me Techno- what are you doing here? Fuck do you have to do with Pogtopia anymore? And why were you talking about Wilbur.” The teen sounded almost defensive, and maybe Techno would’ve explained, or teased him, or mocked him, or something, if he could’ve gotten the damn scent of invis potion out of his nose. 

Instead he turned away, resisting the urge to gag, surging towards the exit back into the tunnel- back towards the L’manberg crater. 

“Don’t follow me, Tommy,” He managed to growl out, nearly stumbling over rocky rubble in his haste, squinting in the low light. There were faint traces of fresh air wafting down the tunnel as soon as he stepped out of the oppressive air of the ravine and Techno gasped at them like a man drowning. “My business- is my own.” 

“Not if it fucking involves Wilbur,” Came the sharp, angry reply- and to Techno’s frustration it sounded like the kid was trailing after him, even as he quickly retreated down the tunnel, back towards the safety of the crater and open air. “Why do you have one of those vine flowers?”

“Did you ever think ‘Hm, maybe I shouldn’t ask questions’?” Techno snapped right back, numbly unclenching his frozen fingers as he walked and glancing down at the now ruined, half pulpy flower; a smear of crushed red petals and pollen in his palm. 

His chest ached, and for some reason he felt like he’d done something wrong. Like he’d lost something important, something he’d been supposed to keep. 

Ruined something he was supposed to have.

Lost a chance he’d been given. 

Sighing softly, almost sadly, Techno tilted his hand and let the ruined blossom fall to the floor. 

When he glanced up, Tommy was fading back into view; mostly translucent, the edges of his form flickering in and out of vision, giving the teen an oddly ghostly appearance. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his awful ripped-up beige trousers, and his eyes were furrowed, considering; suspicious. 

“You’re acting bloody odd,” Tommy accused, and Techno closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose, and counted backwards from three. 

“I’m going home,” Techno murmured, and it was supposed to come out cold and mildly threatening. Instead, it sounded tired and grumpy, even to his own ears- and Techno saw Tommy’s blue eyes narrow in visible confusion. 

With a swish of his grey cape, the Blade left the tunnel, Pogtopia, Theseus, and the crater behind; sucking in slow breaths of fresh air and fighting off a headache, with frustratingly more questions than answers.

Chapter Text

    Tubbo Underscore knew how to keep busy. 

    In fact, it was quite an easy policy for him to remember and enact. Mind was thinking too much? Put it to good use thinking about something else and go do something. 

    That was how Snowchester had started in the first place. New L’manberg had just been...too much. And yet at the same time, not enough. 

    It had been too much, too many thoughts; yet not enough work. Not enough to do, not enough to be distracting. So he’d gone and started a cabin and a potato farm on the other side of the ocean’s inlet; reaching into the southern tip of the Greater SMP. 

    Snowchester had helped, truly. The spruce, the cold, the frozen over rivers and knee-deep snow banks; it had all just been so different and that was perfect. 

    A distraction. An escape. 

    The oddest double life. By day he ran a country- by day the country ran him- and by night he retreated to his own personal icy forest and he built. 

    Tubbo didn’t sleep much during that time, but that was okay. None of them did, really. 

    He told himself that his retreat, his hideaway, wasn’t based in the slightest on Techno’s cabin in the tundra. And if it was, it wasn’t intentional. 

    But Tubbo wasn’t blind. He could see the resemblances. A cabin. A snow biome. Lonesomeness, an escape from a government (even if it was very different circumstances). 

    New L’manberg fell. Snowchester grew. 

    Tubbo hated Technoblade, almost as much as Quackity did. 

    Yet as he watched The Blade vanish over a ridge of rubble and smoke, as he stared around at the destruction- Tubbo almost felt relief. 

    ‘It’s gone,’ a part of him whispered. ‘Thank god.’

    Tubbo followed Tommy faithfully into the wilderness of the continent; netherite armour and weapons their protection, a compass from their enemy their only guide. 

    He walked silently and smiled when it was clear Tommy couldn’t, held Tommy’s hand when the blonde reached out between them. 

    They made a boat, and he paddled as Tommy navigated. And when they reached the mountain and Tommy said they needed to go up, Tubbo nodded and they climbed. 

    It wasn’t blind trust that had him following Tommy’s every suggestion. Rather a sensation of finality, a true belief and understanding when Tommy said in his grim, too-soft voice, “Tubbo this is it.”  

    Tubbo gripped his axe and let a potion bottle slip from his palm and when Tommy said to strike, Tubbo raced forward and attacked Dream with everything he had. 

    He fought until he had nothing left- fought until a sword plunged into his sternum and blood gurgled up his throat. 

    Only then did Tubbo for the first time feel afraid, and the pleading fell from his lips just as quickly as the stream of red rolled over his cheeks, down his neck; staining his collar. 

    Tommy pressed a golden apple into his hand, and like a fool, bargained for his life. 

    Tubbo smiled and felt numb. 

    He had accepted death long before Dream beckoned him near; deep within his underground cavern of blackstone and redstone lamps- of stolen items and soft, whirring portal light. 

    Any fear Tubbo had felt had been washed away, swallowed up by that numb, blank, all encompassing weightlessness that left him feeling dizzy, not quite present. Like he was watching from the back of his head. 

    He spoke to Tommy, and his own words felt like they echoed back to him down a long subterranean tunnel. 

    He let Dream draw him near. 

    And then Tommy- his Tommy, his idiot and how did Tubbo ever let him go, ever send him away- was shoving them apart, screaming, fighting.  

    Then Tommy was gone, the portal swallowing him like the void. 

    Silence, only him and Dream both panting for breath, both equally as shellshocked. The blackstone was cold beneath his palms, his legs. 

    The elevator groaned. 

    Tubbo remembered Philza and Ranboo and Niki. Remembered distinctly that Ranboo saved his life, that Philza and Niki fought. 

    He remembered watching Niki bleed from the cocoon of Ranboo’s long arms as Dream fled- Philza cradling the protesting young woman, fumbling for potions from his enderchest. 

    He remembered running through the portal, seeing Technoblade in a state and seeing Sam and Punz and the others and seeing Tommy and running and Tommy’s arms around him and they were okay, they were okay. 

    And his mind came back online. 

    Tubbo hummed faintly to himself; the cold wind swirling around the brown material of his pants, lightly chilling him through the fur-lined leather. He’d been thinking back on the past a lot, since he’d woken up. Especially about yesterday. 

    Behind him he could hear the sound of Jack moving around the colony, calling his name- but Tubbo ignored him for the time being, instead reaching his leg out to idly tap the tip of his steel toed boot against the thickly frozen surface of Snowchester’s river. The ice didn’t so much as budge, unphased. 

    The weight of his axe felt heavy, reassuring on his back. He wondered, not for the first time, if he ought to have protested Tommy leaving that morning more. 

    Tubbo turned his head to stare off into the wilderness at the edge of Snowchester; an expanse of untouched snow, pine trees and low grown berry bushes. He’d almost died yesterday. For good. Forever. And yet the world felt so completely normal, unaffected, untouched. And perhaps it was selfish to think it would be changed, just for him. 

    “Tubbo! Where the fuck are you?” He heard Manifold shout. The man was starting to sound genuinely baffled, and more than a little annoyed; noticeable even with how quiet his voice was with distance. Tubbo let his eyes fall shut for a moment, exhaling through his nose slowly, savoring the burn of the icy air. How alive it made him feel. 

    Tubbo knew how to keep busy, and knew when his mind was working too much. Right now it most certainly was. So with a deep sigh, the young, human ex-president turned around and left the frozen river bank behind, casting his worries along with it; doomed to rest far beneath the solid, arctic surface. Forgotten, ignored. 

    He had work to do. 

---

    The sweet, untainted air of the arctic felt like sweet ambrosia entering Techno’s lungs. 

He walked along quickly; bootfalls stirring up large puffs of snow that swirled in sparkling clouds around the emerald-green hem of his cloak as he moved, the heavy material swishing softly behind him. 

As always, the sharp fridgedness of the tundra felt odd after traversing the nether-highway between his home and the rest of the Greater SMP. But over the years Techno had developed a rather strong dislike- almost a hatred- for the realm of heat and fire and brimstone. So he would take a chilled nose and a scratchy throat over sweltering heat and the cloying stench of sulfur and soul sand anyday.

A tension that he’d been well aware he’d been carrying, and yet had been actively ignoring, slipped from his shoulders as the arctic compound came into view. It wasn’t until Techno was clambering over the spruce fence into their mob-free, carefully created safe haven amidst the icy fields of wasteland that he allowed himself to sheath his sword; the weapon having been firmly in his hand since the moment he’d left Pogtopia and Tommy behind. 

Which was another problem of its own, unfortunately. Two problems, in fact. 

One, whatever disturbing connection was going on between his dreams, those plants...and Wilbur. 

And two, the more annoying and yet somehow more favorable of the two to think about- Tommy. Namely, Tommy sneaking up on him. Because just saying that made all sorts of sensations of unease and wrongness creep up Techno’s spine with a shiver that coursed through his veins and left his fingers tingling faintly. 

Stealthy boy. Tommystealth? Obliviousblade. Technoblind!

Unfortunately, Techno was more inclined to believe the latter two chorused words. And as alarming as it would’ve been to learn that Tommy had indeed somehow mastered the ability to actually be skillful at espionage- it was more worrying that he was so- so…’out of it’ that a child could trail behind him without his knowledge. 

And to give a tiny bit of credit where credit was due- a tiny bit- Tommy was a soldier. He’d been in wars, he’d done stealth missions before. Some at Technoblade’s own side. He wasn’t... incapable.  

But still. This was bad. Bad in that Techno’s stomach rolled, bad in that his skin prickled with goosebumps, bad in that his hand clenched anxiously on the pommel of his sword. 

He’d only been in Pandora’s Vault for a few days (right?), and yet somehow he was out of practice, off his game, knocked off kilter. 

It wouldn’t do. 

He swept up the steps of his porch with loud, angry, stomping footfalls; though frankly they were born more of confusion and frustration than true fury. Still, Techno wasn’t exactly surprised that when he opened the door, Philza was already on his feet in the main room- eyebrow raised expectantly, a small smile on his lips to greet him. 

“Heya mate,” said Phil, and though there was a tiny bit of hesitance in his voice, he managed to pass off their normal, pre-kidnapping casualness impressively well. Techno appreciated it. 

“Hullo,” He grunted back as he stomped off his boots, sending tiny sprays of white flying every which way across the floorboards. Techno fumbled with the clasp of his cloak, hanging the grey-green mantle over the nearest wall peg unfortunate enough to be within arms reach. 

Outerwear shed, Techno turned his attention to his friend; realizing that Phil- upon not getting anymore than a ‘hello’ and having assumed that was the end of the conversation- had returned to whatever he’d previously been doing, which was something with his hands. Techno squinted. Sewing, maybe. Oddly domestic for the blonde builder-gatherer. 

He opened his mouth to explain where he’d been, but the air didn’t even escape his lungs before the words died right there on his lips, unspoken and reeled back in. 

Techno realized, very suddenly, that there was no way to say ‘so I took a walk to Pogtopia’ without a) bringing up very unwelcome memories for one or both of them that neither wanted to address or b) having to explain everything that led to him going there, because one did not just decide to ‘walk to Pogtopia’ for fun. 

He didn’t want to look like a lunatic, talking about too-real dreams and strangely pretty red flowers and voices in his head and how potion smells made him sick. 

He didn’t want to see Phil’s expression, as soon as the name ‘Wilbur’ left his lips.

Techno shuffled towards the ladder silently, climbing up to his loft-like room on the second floor and leaving Phil to his needle project down below, resolving to have the conversation another time. Probably never, because that sounded a whole lot more appealing. 

Coward. Technoavoid. 

He faintly withheld a wince as his mind unfortunately trailed back to Wilbur Soot once more. He settled down at his desk; clearing away a mess of unused parchment and old, inkstained quills. 

Of course Techno had always known Wilbur was Phil’s son. He’d been around when the boy was...a boy after all. Brief visits, usually months or years in between, but- he’d watched a short, bossy child become a tall, curious teen become a competent, elegant man. 

Techno realized, as he sorted idly through a stack of books, that he still didn’t have any idea if Wilbur was truly Philza’s child by blood, or if the man had simply found the infant and never looked back. 

He supposed he wouldn’t find out now. 

Brother? Technosoft!

“No,” Techno scolded softly, shifting the books into a drawer. His chest felt oddly tight, in an uncomfortable, pressing sort of way. “Not...not brother.”

His thumb skidded along the spine of a thin volume; soft, thread encrusted leather gently pressing against the pad of his finger. It reminded him of the few books and journals in Pogtopia that Wilbur kept, that occasionally he was handed to hold or safekeep or use. 

What was Wilbur to him? 

Techno wasn’t sure. 

When they were younger, he would’ve called Wilbur a rather annoying charge. The son of his best friend- one he kept an eye on when he was visiting purely because he knew Phil would be distressed should something happen to the child. 

As a teenager, Wilbur was less a charge, and more just ‘annoying’. Annoying in a friendly sort of way, annoying in that he was coming into himself, growing into the world. Annoying in that he loved to pick fights and arguments about everything- politics, philosophy, history, warfare, poetry, mythology. A peer, perhaps he had been. 

As an adult, Techno tentatively supposed, Wilbur was a friend. 

A friend, enough that Techno would laugh at the things he said. A friend enough that he would roll his eyes and huff at Wilbur’s purposeful jabs, rather than getting truly angered. A friend in that he went out of his way to try and keep the far inferior fighter safe, even if it made his own personal job harder. 

A friend in that they fought in a tournament together, and lost, and Techno still had fun. 

A friend in that when Tommy called and said it was for him and Wilbur- Techno came to a new server to aid them. 

A friend enough that it hurt, to see the dark, soulless bags under Wilbur’s eyes. It hurt, to see a gentle, warm laugh replaced with a cold, dry, humorless one. It hurt, to see once playful arguments over politics and philosophy transformed into opinions worth dying for. 

It hurt, to watch half of L’manberg explode with the force of eleven stacks of dynamite and it hurt to watch Philza fall to his knees. 

Techno recalled dimly that the aftermath of that had been the first time he’d felt genuinely conflicted between two friends. When for a hair’s breadth of a second he’d gazed at Phil and Wilbur; at one bloodied and motionless, the other singed and struggling for air, for shocked, horrified breaths. 

He’d completely tunnel visioned that conflict on the withers, on L’manberg, on Tommy, until he couldn’t feel it anymore, until the ground was shuddering beneath his feet with the force of wither-fueled explosions. 

Techno’s desk was scuffed. His chest still ached, he dimly realized as his eyes trailed slowly, numbly across the scratch marks crisscrossing the oaken surface. 

What was Wilbur to him? Truly? 

Philza was his best friend. His everything. Techno’s world, his motivation at its core, revolved around him. He wasn’t fool enough to pretend it wasn’t so. 

But what did that make Wilbur? 

Techno supposed maybe, in a different world- a happier world, a more peaceful world- Wilbur could have been his nephew. 

His idiotic, creative, poetic, cock-sure, genius nephew. 

In another world, maybe he would’ve gotten the chance to actually call the younger man that. And Wilbur would’ve laughed, and cracked a grin to hide any true emotion he was feeling, and would’ve teased back something stupid and humiliating and crooning about ‘Uncle Technoblade’ and Techno would’ve felt embaressed for ever saying it at all. 

But somehow, it would’ve been a good embarrassed. 

Technoblade didn’t realize a single tear had slipped out until it landed with a dull, toneless ‘thunk’ on the wood of the desk. 

The voices in his head were disturbingly silent as he raised his shaking hands, pressing the heels of his palms against his wet, smarting eyes. 

His chest ached. 

“Will you fool,” Techno whispered- gruff, weak, angry, soft, because god Phil was right downstairs. “You bloody fool. Icarus. Icarus, you flew too close to the sun. You burnt your wings. You fell.”  

He loved that myth once. He admired Icarus once.

Techno’s forehead fell forward against the table and his shoulders shook and he was so tired. Tired of potions, tired of Tommy, tired of Wilbur and his stupid red flowers. 

The tears rolled, slow and silent, down his cheeks. 

Technoblade stayed at his desk alone, the noiseless grief pouring off of him in waves, and for the first time since he’d awoken in Pandora’s Vault, the chorus of companions in his mind seemed to have been struck speechless.

Chapter Text

    For the first time since Doomsday, Ranboo was fairly certain that he’d just been... ignored, by Technoblade. 

    It was still at the forefront of his mind, even though he was long out of the nether by now. The situation had just been so bizarre. 

    Of course Technoblade had never even glanced in Ranboo’s direction prior to Doomsday and only really paid him any attention after Philza (near forcibly) encouraged him to come to the tundra compound—but still, Techno always noticed him now. 

    Always watched him with some mix of interest or blankness or wariness or amusement or something.  

    Never had Techno simply walked by Ranboo as though the ender hybrid wasn’t even standing there.

    Nervously, Ranboo glanced over his shoulder. The community nether portal was long hidden from view now, blocked by the hills and buildings and trees that coated the Greater SMP land. Yet he could still almost feel the phantom sensation of standing on the obsidian bridge that spanned the nether’s immense lava lake; hot air currents rising up from below, sweltering and disorienting—and then the more abrupt rush of breeze as Techno had blown past him in a flurry of quick steps, tunnel visioned and blind to Ranboo’s presence. 

    Ranboo swallowed down a nervous edge of unease, resuming his walk down the gently sloping hill he’d previously been traversing. Technoblade had seemed...off. Since they’d met up with him in the prison. Had seemed antsy in the cabin and now seemed distracted in the nether of all places and that—that probably wasn’t—safe? Yeah, not safe. There could’ve been a ghast or something. 

    Ranboo paused again, the grass brushing against the fabric of his pants as he uncertainly wondered if he ought to turn around and go back to the portal, seek Technoblade out. 

    No, he would be alright, surely. Techno was capable, right? Yeah, Techno could walk through the nether fine. He was probably back in the tundra already, and that would make a return trip a waste of time. 

    Ranboo sighed softly and fingered the pickaxe at his hip and wondered when he had started to worry about Techno.  

    Probably when Phil had come home, pale as a ghost and with the rage of the devil himself burning in his gaze and proclaimed with an ice cold voice that the warrior was gone. 

    Well it wasn’t a situation Ranboo could help right now. 

    He’d do something nice later. A gift or something. Something kind. 

    For now though, he was already running later than he meant. 

    The sun was at midday levels in the sky when Ranboo reached the bottom of the hill he’d been standing on, lost in thought. He steadfastly ignored the gargantuan, prism-shaped building of blackstone and steel to his left as his boots sunk into sand, the smell of salt stinging his nose. 

    Across the small, narrow stretch of ocean in front of him, spanning the gap between the Greater SMP landmass and a smaller patch of evergreen-dotted land visible across the waves, was a very narrow, long bridge of stone brick and glass. 

    It was more like a tunnel than a bridge, in fact; hollowed out in the middle in a circular fashion, the bottom interior lined with soul sand as one might cover the bottom of an aquarium; filling the tube with bubbles and a strong, racing current. 

    Ranboo ignored the potentially more efficient, but quite aqueous method of travel, and instead climbed the three stairs that led to the flat, stone top of the tube. 

    The walk across the bridge-tunnel was long and uninteresting; though Ranboo couldn’t deny that it was serene. The ocean had a strong wind, and his clothes and hair swirled soothingly as he moved—the landscape on the opposite side of the waterway slowly becoming clearer and clearer with each step, revealing more deep green trees and the pale traces of snow. 

    Tubbo had said he was welcome in Snowchester whenever he needed, but Ranboo hoped he was welcome even if it wasn’t a necessity, even if there was no threat or danger. He hoped that— friendly visits were on the table. Yes, that was probably the right way to describe what he was attempting. 

    He hoped Tubbo wouldn’t rescind what he’d said in the prison. That Tommy’s words weren’t now suddenly truer then Tubbo’s had been. 

    Ranboo didn’t want his proximity with … his friendship with? Technoblade and Philza to be a breaking point with Tubbo and Tommy. 

    He didn’t want his contact with Tommy and Tubbo to cause tension with Techno and Phil, either.  

    Ranboo nervously fiddled with the handle of his pickaxe as he reached the end of the tunnel and stepped down onto the snowy banks of the Snowchester continent—gazing around in apprehensive curiosity at the tall, dark spruces and the thick clusters of bushes, hanging thick with ripe red berries. 

    Distantly, through the foliage, he thought he could make out flashes of stone. He walked towards that, his only hint of man-made life. 

    Each step closer felt all the more imposing. All the more drastic. Like he was doing something big. Something impactful. Something potentially catastrophic. Ranboo swallowed nervously, canines skimming his lip, and the final pace out of the trees and into full view of the bricked walls of Snowchester felt like crossing a line. 

    It felt like he was standing in the destruction of Doomsday, with Technoblade pressing his memory book into his hands and telling him to run—except the other way around. As if Tubbo were handing him his book instead. As if Technoblade was there somewhere, expecting Ranboo’s aid and not receiving it because Ranboo was standing with the enemy. 

    Except no one was enemies. Not to Ranboo at least. Tubbo wasn’t. Technoblade certainly wasn’t. 

    None of these people were his enemies, and yet he stood in a lion’s den of trust and betrayal and history. 

    It was snowing, and Ranboo was cold. But he’d gotten used to the chill of snow a long, long time ago. 

    “Ranboo!” 

    An excited voice broke the ender hybrid from his spiraling hesitance, and he glanced up—gaze falling on a figure perched atop Snowchester’s stone walls, gazing down at him and waving a gloved hand. Even with the slight distance, Tubbo was easily recognizable; fur and leather weather-appropriate attire, dark hair curled around his ears and falling over his eyes, skin a half and half between pale peach and a deeper flushed, scarred pink. 

    Tentatively, Ranboo smiled and waved back, and Tubbo grinned; teeth flashing in the sunlight. He turned, pointing a gloved hand towards the compound’s...country’s? gate. 

    “Go wait, I’ll open it!”

    Obediently, Ranboo made his way over to the gap in the walls; closed off by thick spruce fencing and illuminated with sturdy lanterns. The berry patches here were all the more prominent—pressed all the way up against the walls in places, the bushes near the edges stripped clean where arctic foxes and other critters had eaten their fill. 

    The gate rose with the shifting of pistons and the creaking of gears, and Tubbo greeted him with a smile. 

    “Hey big man. Didn’t expect you so soon.” 

    “Thought I’d come by,” Ranboo admitted, shifting on his feet a little, suddenly feeling nervous about the fact that he’d arrived unannounced, and with no prior warning. “I’ve never been, you know.” 

    “That just means I get to give you the tour,” Tubbo smiled. He stepped aside, gesturing for Ranboo to step in, and the hybrid obliged; waiting as Tubbo closed the gate behind them. “To prevent creepers,” The teen explained, nodding solemnly and pasting on the grim expression of someone on the receiving end of a damaged project one too many times. 

    Ranboo hid a smile and widened his eyes a little in exaggerated understanding. 

    Abandoning the gate controls, Tubbo quirked a gloved hand, motioning to follow. The teen led them around the edge of a building—a cabin more like, sturdy and made of dark spruce—bringing them out from under the shadows of buildings and into the sunlight, offering an unblocked view of everything within the walls that hid the area from outside eyes. 

    The place was small, but beautiful. Idyllic, like a tiny, portioned off section of fishing-town paradise. The city—country—Ranboo still didn’t know—backed right up against the ocean on the opposite side of the land which he’d arrived from the bridge; edges of the water frozen solid with ice, snow coating the grass and sand. 

    Miniature fields of potatoes flourished, stubbornly tilled in the frozen ground, and the landscape was dotted with builds of stone and spruce; large warehouse or factory looking structures alongside houses and cabins, all tied together around long piers and docks that stretched out into the water.

    Tubbo swept out an arm, proud and for a split second, almost regal—and for an instant Ranboo was impossibly standing next to the President of L’manberg once more. His fingers itched for his journal, to take notes, to mark the minutes as they came, just like he used to.

    “Welcome to Snowchester, Ranboo.” 

    Tubbo grinned.

    Tommy kicked the rubble under his feet with halfhearted frustration. 

    Had he been more present, more focused, he would’ve kicked it with far more gusto—would’ve given the chunk of stone a serious clobbering. But his agitation was dampened by thought, his movements muted with distraction. 

    Tommy thought that was rather justified, actually. He had a lot of things that felt quite reasonable to be on his mind. 

    His ruined house for one, but for the moment that was surprisingly enough on the back burner, even as he sat in the debris of his dugout. 

    No, for the first time in a long while—a it had been a long while, geez—Tommy was consciously and, gag, willingly thinking about Technoblade in a way that wasn’t purely anger. 

    Wilbur would’ve called him ‘shockingly mature’ for it. Perhaps even ‘responsible’. But then again, Tommy didn’t care what Wilbur thought anymore. 

    That whole situation in Pogtopia had been weird. 

    Even Tommy would admit he hadn’t expected the invisibility potion plan to work. And while he was brilliant for thinking it up, and it had gone exactly as planned except for that tiny screw up at the end—it...maybe shouldn't have worked that well. 

    Maybe. 

    Not that Tommy wasn’t glad that plans he thought up were actually going right, it just made him uneasy. That Technoblade—who arguably used more invisibility potions than Wilbur—had just... failed to see him.  

    Well of course that was the purpose of invisibility. But Techno had failed to see the telltale signs of magic that he had taught Tommy about during his brief stay with the piglin in the tundra. The ones he’d drilled into Tommy’s head when they were figuring out out to hide him from Dream— 

    ”You have to get in the crate Tommy— yes you do, people can still see the shimmer of magic even when you’re invisible. Dream will notice. Get in.”

    And when they’d snuck into New L’manberg, united under the mutual banner of being banned from stepping foot on the country’s land.

    “We’re both wanted, Tommy. We’re not supposed to be here. But even with invis, if we go traipsing around above ground, somebody is gonna notice. So here, show me your sewers. Yes, I'm serious. No this isn’t a joke. No, it’s not a compliment to your plannin’—you’re really makin’ me regret this, Tommy.” 

    The plan wasn’t supposed to actually work, but it did, and now Tommy was wondering about what he had witnessed in the ravine. 

    Technoblade walking there for seemingly no reason. Kneeling in the completely dead potato bed, looking at one of the flowers of those weird red vines that were everywhere. Saying Wilbur’s name. Leaving the second he realized Tommy was there.  

    It was weird, and Tommy didn’t fucking like it. It felt like plotting, like secrets, and that kind of shit always led to something going wrong. 

    And it didn’t help that Techno had—for the briefest of moments—talked to himself?

    “Yes- we’re going to Pogtopia. Slow your roll.” 

    Spoken as though in response to someone else’s words; yet Tommy had been there, and there had been no one around. Just empty air and silence. 

    Tommy looked down at the floor and grimaced. 

    Surely Technoblade couldn’t have been speaking to—Wilbur? Somehow? 

    No. That was too absurd. Impossible even. To talk to the real Wilbur.

    Tommy jerked his head to the side, shoving the piglin traitor firmly from his mind and glaring furiously around at his destroyed house as if it were at fault for Techno’s weirdness. For the disaster of the previous day, the entire situation with the prison. 

    “Fuck you Dream,” Tommy spit, beause he realized suddenly, that probably that was the cuprit—for all those named things and for his ruined house. “Stupid green bastard.” 

    It came out weaker, more tired then he meant. More resigned then ferocious. 

    For all his brave words to Techno about how it was his business if Wilbur was involved —and it was, he stood by that— Tommy wasn’t sure he really wanted to do much more fighting in the near future. Especially after yesterday. Especially against someone like Techno. 

    A part of him longed for the old days. Building and roaming around. Rollercoasters and drug vans.  

    At least in Logstedshire, there hadn’t been armed combat. He’d just built things. 

    Tommy paused, then slowly lifted his head, glancing around the relatively open, unused area around his house. Not many people had settled in close to him. His closest neighbours were down the hill, or were now a part of the L’manberg crater—or beyond the distant edge of the Badlands. 

    His eyes fixated on a patch of different rubble; older rubble. Fallen wooden pillars, the remains of a long ago destroyed house. 

    He’d always forgotten that Dream had once lived so close to him. So long ago. 

    The property was long abandoned, and certainly unowned. 

    Tommy grinned a little, something petty and vicious and childishly excited bubbling up in his chest. 

    “You know what I think this area needs?” He enthused aloud, hopping out of the crater of his house and onto the boardwalk of his path, gazing down at the land that had once been the server admin’s and now most certainly belonged to Tommyinnit. 

“A hotel.”

Chapter Text

    Tubbo, for the first time in a while, was feeling genuine enthusiasm to show his country off. 

    Ranboo was the perfect tourist. Of course, Tubbo knew naturally to expect that; even back in L’manberg, Ranboo was always a model citizen. Polite, cordial, oddly approachable—even surrounded by the strange distantness that made up his behavior, Ranboo’s peculiarity was far surpassed by the genuine kindness in his actions. 

    Still, it managed to catch Tubbo by surprise, the open ear and curious gaze Ranboo graced him with as Tubbo introduced the taller boy to Snowchester. 

    Tubbo spoke and Ranboo listened. 

    It was nice.

    Of course, Tubbo only showed Ranboo a surface level glimpse of the compound—he didn’t take the pacifistic hybrid into the nuclear factory that was the true reason behind Snowchester’s founding. But still, it was nice to flaunt his cabin. His docks. His little idyllic village in the snow. 

    “I can make you tea if you want?” Tubbo offered as he held the door open for Ranboo to step within the threshold of his home. He was falling back on old hospitality habits from New L’manberg; when political schmoozing had become a requirement rather than simply a hobby. 

But unlike Quackity’s dismissive snort, or Fundy’s timid refusal, or Dream’s small, knowing smile—Ranboo brightened, and offered a hopeful, teeth chattering, “T-that would be nice.” 

They settled down at the rough-hewn wooden table that served as Tubbo’s ‘kitchen’, backs warmed by the newly lit fireplace. Tubbo hummed idly as he placed ceramic mugs in front of them both; a habit picked up while building alone in the silent wilderness that had never quite faded. They rested in a comfortable silence; warm dishes cupped in their palms, a peaceful air hanging between the two teens. 

Tubbo was the first to break the spell with a question that had been burning since the confrontation with Dream. 

“...did you really break into Pandora’s Vault for Technoblade?” 

Ranboo glanced upwards, jolting as though startled—emerald-ruby eyes widening in innocent confusion. “...Pandora’s Vault?” he inquired, curiosity coloring his low tone. 

“That’s what Dream named the prison,” Tubbo chuckled lightly, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice despite his attempts to reign in the more negative emotions that poisoned his thoughts. “Didn’t you know? Or maybe you didn’t—I asked Sam about it. Dream commissioned the place. But...I’ve got to say Ranboo, I didn’t expect to see you there, of all people. Certainly not with Niki and Phil.” 

“I didn’t expect to see you there either.” Ranboo spoke slowly, as though he were thinking each word out carefully before letting it escape his lips. Tubbo watched contemplatively across the table as the ender-hybrid gazed down at his mug, avoiding eye contact. “Yes, I...I was there for Techno. And there to support Phil. Me and Niki had our differences over—well, in the past—but we’ve made up.” 

“I see,” Tubbo murmured pleasantly, and it was almost amusing, how deeply uncomfortable Ranboo looked. Tubbo wondered if the other teen thought that the mere mention of Technoblade and Phil might turn the mood sour. “Techno looked shaken.” 

“He was shaken,” Ranboo replied, before he tensed—like he’d let loose a freudian slip and regretted saying that information aloud. Despite his odd multi-toned skin hue, his knuckles still managed to look pale against the mug. “Well...Dream kept him prisoner there. It’s to be expected.” 

“Yeah.” Tubbo nodded faintly, deciding for both of their sakes to let the topic go. 

Tubbo’s feelings towards Technoblade were complicated; as were his feelings towards nearly every individual he’d ever met. His opinion of the anarchist tended to rise and fall like the waves of the ocean—crests of burning betrayal and furious hatred that sunk deep down into smooth trenches of respect and begrudging understanding and occasionally, a tad bit of sympathy. 

He certainly wasn’t fool enough to say he’d ever agree with Technoblade. Nor would Tubbo say that he’d ever forgive Technoblade either. 

But one could have differences with another, and still be cordial. 

One could withhold forgiveness, but still move forward. 

Tubbo would never forgive Technoblade for Doomsday—nor would he ever forgive Philza or Dream for it, either. But he didn’t really think Technoblade would ever forgive him for dropping an anvil on the anarchist’s head either. 

Tubbo was avoidant, he knew that much about himself, but he wasn’t blind, and he could tell Ranboo was walking on eggshells. 

He wondered how the hell to put into words that even if he wasn’t fond of The Blade, he wasn’t gonna bash Ranboo for being so. He’d learned firsthand in Pogtopia that Technoblade was an impressive ally.

Maybe it would come with time. 

“Jack lives here as well,” Tubbo said aloud instead, moving the conversation on to less dangerous territory. “I guess he’s kind of my partner around here, we do a lot of our um...work, together.”

“Oh?” Ranboo’s eyes widened again, betraying his surprise. “I thought he still lived in Manifold Land…?”

“Split citizenship technically, I think.” Tubbo waved his hand, laughing, before quickly returning it to his warm mug. “But really he lives here. He visits that place less and less every day. Everything around it is kind of rubble, you know?” 

Ranboo nodded his understanding, and glanced around the cabin, eyes lingering on the view outside the half-shuttered windows. “Tubbo...is this a...country?”

Tubbo sunk back in his chair, withholding a sigh. Then he smiled, a bit sadly. 

“Yeah Boo, this is a country. That stays between you and me, but—yeah. I say ‘commune’ to…”

“Avoid the fate of L’manberg?” Ranboo murmured gravely, a wince twisting his features. 

“It’s alright,” Tubbo laughed, leaning forward to pat Ranboo’s hand reassuringly. “We can hold our own, don’t you worry about that.” A bit more viciousness then he meant to show must’ve slipped into his voice, because Ranboo raised an eyebrow suspiciously before shaking his head, a fond smile twisting his lips. 

“...I always thought you were a good president, Tubbo. Are, I guess.” 

“Oh,” Tubbo paused for a moment, genuinely startled. Embarrassed, he huffed a laugh. “Well thank you, big man. I made some mistakes, but...well, Dream’s locked up now.” 

“Yeah,” Ranboo exhaled, sinking back in his chair, tall form sagging with relief. “Yeah, he is. Does uh—does Tommy live here?” 

“Nah,” Tubbo shrugged, taking a swig of his quickly cooling drink. “He lives in his house back in the Greater SMP territory. He stays the night sometimes, though. I’d give him citizenship if he asked, but er, I don’t think he really wants to join another country right now.” 

“Oh. Hm,” Ranboo hummed, eyes returning to the table. His finger scratched along the wood grain in an idle motion, catching the partially-sanded lip of spruce. “I don’t think he likes me very much.” 

“He likes you more than he lets on,” Tubbo scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Tommy just gives the impression he doesn’t like people. He isn’t actually as angry at anyone as he lets on, except Dream.”

“Oh well that’s good,” Ranboo smiled tentatively as he looked up, appearing surprisingly relieved. “Is he doing alright? Are...you doing alright?” 

The more serious shift in tone of the ender-hybrid’s voice caught Tubbo off guard for a moment, and he took another sip of his drink as he recollected himself. 

“I think Tommy...suddenly has a lot of freedom,” Tubbo spoke carefully after a moment of consideration. “He was very fixated on this Dream situation, but now it’s solved. That was kind of his only purpose for a little bit. Now he has free time again.

“Me, I’m...I’m doing fine, Ranboo.” Tubbo smiled faintly, letting any false cheer slip out of his voice—allowing it to fall to its natural, tired, yet relaxed neutrality. “I appreciate the concern, but I have things to occupy me and people to talk to. A country that I’m happy to run. I’m good.” 

“Great, great,” Ranboo murmured, lacing his fingers together on the table in front of him. “Sorry, I just...well I don’t know, really.”

“I appreciate you coming by,” Tubbo said, and he found that he genuinely, truly meant it. “You should come by again. And you’re welcome to stay as long as you want.” 

For the first time when Ranboo glanced upwards, their eyes properly met; Tubbo’s gaze swallowed up by otherworldly green and red, and a soft, hopeful expression. 

“I’d like that,” Ranboo admitted, painfully honest, and Tubbo smiled at him sympathetically. 

“You’re always welcome here, Boo.” 

Techno awoke with a jolt; pain coursing through the back of his neck and twisting stiff, jagged tendrils down the muscles of his upper back. 

He realized within a few seconds—to his utter dismay—that he’d fallen asleep at his desk in an agonizingly hunched position, and his body was furiously shrieking at him for the poor decisions of his prior self.

Letting out a groan of annoyance, Techno lifted his head; grimacing at the immediate twinges all down his spine that flared up in reaction. He quickly forgot the uncomfortableness of his sleeping position in favor of the fog of dizziness that swirled up in front of his eyes, however—a wave of vertigo that nearly had him tipping over in his chair as his vision blurred, head spinning.

His hands slammed against the desk as he gripped the edge of the table to steady himself; wincing as the dizziness subdued, but didn’t completely pass—sitting in the back of his mind as though he were standing on a boat rather than sitting on solid ground. 

Uh oh. Technosick? Oh god please don’t vomit we don’t wanna see that

“M’ fine chat,” Techno murmured hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut and attempting to will away the sensation through sheer force of will. It worked partially; when he refocused on his surroundings, he felt well enough to stand up, and the vertigo stayed a low simmering background sensation that was mostly ignorable. 

His hands were shaking slightly as he made his way towards the ladder, but Techno chalked that up to leftover emotions from his disastrous breakdown earlier over Wilbur. 

In fact, actually, maybe he could entirely blame how he was feeling on that, now that he thought about it. 

    He must’ve looked worse than he thought— LMAO, Technodisaster, showertime— because Philza did a visible double take when Techno turned around, feet carefully planted on the first floor. 

    They blinked at one another for a moment; Phil had clearly been in the process of finishing up some sort of meal, a freshly rinsed dish still held in one hand, a slightly damp towel in the other. 

    Then Phil quickly set the dish down and raised a hand to stifle a snort, and Techno rolled his eyes. 

    “Oh can it,” Techno grumbled as he made his way over, grumpiness only growing as Phil dissolved into genuine, full blown laugher. 

    “I’ve never seen you look so displeased!” Phil cackled, and Techno glowered at him, snatching the dish towel from his lax hand and moving to run it under the tap. 

    “Well that makes exactly one of us who finds this amusing,” The piglin hybrid huffed, sticking the corner of the towel under the cool water for a few seconds before using it to dab at his tired eyes and salt-covered cheeks. 

    “I’m sorry mate,” Phil laughed, still hiccuping around giggles. To his credit, he did sound genuinely apologetic as his hand settled on Techno’s elbow; a warm smile brightening his face. “You looked like a sullen toddler, it—” Clearly the mental image set him off again, and Techno stared in distaste at his partner as Philza began to laugh again, so hard that tears were gathering in the corners of his eyes. 

    Begrudgingly, the beginnings of a tiny smile tugged at the corners of Technoblade’s lips. 

    “Oh, ‘the Angel of Death’!” Techno began to mock as he turned back to the sink, wringing out the towel. “‘Demises’ Favored One’! Oh woe is us, mortals who tremble before the might of the ‘Unkillable Dragonslayer’. Look at you Phil, for shame. What would any of the authors of your legends say?” 

    “Mate you’re gonna kill me,” Phil gasped between heaved inhales of air and choked hysterics, and Techno finally gave into the urge to huff a small snort of his own. 

    “Yeah yeah, laugh it up,” Techno sighed, a warm fondness having settled deep into his bones. He sobered slightly, an idle hand raising to press against his stomach; the loose fabric of his shirt smooth against his calloused palm. “I’m not...uh, feeling great. Fell asleep at my desk.” 

    Phil swallowed his next laugh, face softening into sympathy and concern as his gaze swept over Techno like a wave; scrutinizing.

    “Yeah, you don’t look like you slept well,” Phil conceded, a gentler quality to his voice. “Want me to make tea? You could lay on the couch.” 

    Techno hesitated for a moment, disliking the idea of lounging about now that he was awake and had the opportunity to be productive. But a single glance at the couch changed his mind—cushions that usually appeared rather distasteful now called out to him like a siren’s lullaby. 

    “Sure,” he conceded, perhaps a bit too easily if the surprise in Phil’s eyes was anything to go by. Techno shuffled over to the couch, plopping his heavy weight down on top of it. It was long enough that he could spread out comfortably—it had been built to be usable by Ranboo, after all—and Techno found himself watching Phil move around the cabin with distracted, half-focused eyes; already halfway to a doze.

    Right around the moment when the cabin began to smell sweetly of peppermint, the silence was broken by quiet, rhythmic knocking at the door. Phil and Techno exchanged momentary glances, before Phil set the kettle aside and moved to answer. Reflexively, Techno shook himself further awake and tensed—preparing himself to jump up should something happen. 

    “Oh, hello Niki,” Phil greeted as he peeked around the door, swinging it open wider and putting on a kinder smile as Techno’s body relaxed back into the couch cushions. “Come in, it’s cold.” 

    “Thank you,” The woman smiled shakily around chattering teeth, her trench coat pulled tight around her small frame. She needed heavier winter-wear if she was staying in the tundra, Techno observed absently. 

    Nihachu! pog. Cloak time?

    As Phil ushered Niki inside, nudging the door shut, Techno didn’t miss the questioning gaze the elder man shot his way; cautious, waiting. It took a few seconds for Techno to realize Phil was silently asking his opinion on Niki’s presence. When the woman was looking away, Techno shrugged and nodded his assent, getting a small smile and a nod in return. 

    “Hello Technoblade,” Niki greeted politely as Phil guided her towards the back of the room; motioning her towards a chair at the table before moving back towards the abandoned tea. “Are you alright?” 

    “M’ good,” Techno murmured, nodding his head back against the couch pillows. Admitting he felt bad to Phil was one thing; broadcasting it to the world was another. “Just tired, you know how it is.” 

    Niki nodded sympathetically, and if she doubted his short explanation then she was kind enough not to say. 

    Phil brought three mugs of tea over to the table; an extra clearly added in haste, and after setting two down, he brought the third over carefully. Techno reluctantly sat up to take it, relishing in the burning warmth against his hands as he crossed his legs beneath him. 

    “Sorry for just dropping by,” Niki spoke apologetically, wrapping her cold-reddened fingers around the handle of her own mug. “It’s—well Ranboo’s out, and I felt a bit like I was intruding, loitering around in his house as I was.” 

    Techno’s mind drifted as Phil immediately replied with amused reassurance, striking up a conversation with the girl. He couldn’t really find it in himself to listen; more preoccupied with watching the intricate patterns of steam wafting off of his tea, twisting and curling like fragile vegetation. He lifted a finger to idly circle the rim of his mug, and his thoughts meandered back to the red flower of his dreams and of Pogtopia; and subsequently the vines of the SMP. 

    “Phil,” he said abruptly, obviously interrupting his two companions in the middle of some sort of small talk he’d been oblivious to. They both turned to stare at him, Phil with a raised eyebrow. “Have you seen those vines around the server?” 

    “...vines?” Phil asked, and the clear bafflement in his voice was an indicator that this had not been anything he’d anticipated Techno asking. “What do you mean ‘vines’, mate?” 

    Techno hesitated, wondering for a moment if he was just going crazy. Surely Phil couldn’t be serious. The vines were everywhere; bright, eye catching, alluring. How could someone not notice them? 

    “The red vines?” Niki piped up, a wary quality slipping into her voice, “The ones all over the server—do you mean those vines, Technoblade?”

    “Yeah,” Techno nodded, turning his attention towards the magenta haired woman. “What do you know about them?” 

    “Er…” Niki shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with all eyes suddenly on her. “Not much, to be completely honest. I didn’t live in the Greater SMP land. But I saw the vines every time I traveled, as of recent times. They’re everywhere, coating buildings, overtaking paths—like an invasive species.” 

    “Oh. Oh, those,” Phil hummed to himself, glancing down at his tea. “Yeah I remember seeing those. And a bunch of posters too? It was kind of weird, I remember Ranboo didn’t like them.” He laughed. 

    “They’ve completely overtaken the crater of L’manberg,” Techno remarked, half to himself. He took a sip of tea, the warmth traveling oddly down his throat and settling in his stomach. “...the flowers are everywhere.” 

    “I find it all unsettling, to be completely honest.” Niki shrugged her shoulders, frowning. “Isn’t there a group that cares strongly about the vines? Bad and Ant, right? That’s why we went to Sapnap instead, Phil.” 

    “Yeah, the posters mentioned an ‘Eggpire’, whatever the hell that is.” Phil nodded his agreement. 

    Eggpire.  

    Now something about that sounded oddly fitting. Like the variable for an equation that Techno had, up until this point, been lacking. 

    “Maybe these vines...this... Eggpire, is worth investigating,” Techno slowly proposed, glancing between the two. That itch, that nagging was back—the same curiosity that had driven him to Pogtopia, the same strange sensation that had hung over him ever since that dream returning in full. 

    “Sure,” Phil took a swig of his tea. “I don’t know what we’ll find—it’s a plant, Techno. But I don’t have a problem with it.” 

    “I don’t know,” Niki murmured, and her voice had fallen soft and apprehensive. “Something seems...off about them. Strange. They don’t behave like normal plants.” 

    Phil cocked a curious eyebrow, chuckling. “Really? I kinda like them, actually. They’re pretty. They give a nice vibe. Warm, kind of. Cozy-like.” 

    “Well I don’t know about that,” Techno snorted, “But they don’t seem especially dangerous to me. I’m more concerned about this ‘Eggpire’ part then the vine part to be completely honest.”

    That was a lie. Techno was dying to figure out the mystery behind that flower. Wilbur’s flower. The vines that seemed to be everywhere but, ironically, his own home. 

    “It’s worth looking into,” Niki finally agreed, firmly. “But with caution.” Her eyes were bright and determined when Techno glanced up at her, and begrudgingly, he nodded his agreement. 

    “Well if that’s settled,” Phil declared, standing up and moving to take the still mostly full, but now luke-warm mug from Techno’s hands, “Techno needs to take an actual nap.” 

    “Heh?” Techno sputtered, staring at Phil’s retreating back as Niki stifled a giggle behind her hand. “What, Phil— I’m not a baby—”

    His protests fell on deaf ears, and even Techno had to admit that the couch beneath him felt like heaven incarnate. 

    Maybe a short nap, before they went and figured out this vine thing. 

    But the eggpire? Naptime! zzzzz, SLEEPPOG Technosleep, Zzzz

    Fine.