Chapter Text
Boots click against a perforated metal deck, the thump of military-esque heels attached to a long pair of legs, clad in black. Red leather jacket, black fingerless gloves– Technoblade has a style, and he’s determined to stick to it as he re-enters the place he swore he’d never return to.
Around him, people bustle. A forklift cruises by, piloted by a woman whose hair is up in a rigid bun. Cadets march across the floor, people shift and move, another truck trundles by. Technoblade marches through them all, eyes up and ahead, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea. A warped Moses-type strides across the seafloor.
“Techno!” A voice rings out, and he whips his head around to find it’s source. Across the way stands a man with blond hair tied back, bangs framing his forehead, and a wide smile with teeth just ever so imperfect enough to remind you of his humanity. “Over here, old friend.”
He turns, and finds his way up to the spot where Phil is beckoning him. Arms meet arms, hands grip fingers, and then they’re standing there a foot apart and Phil is beaming.
“I didn’t think you’d respond to me,” he offers, and Techno scoffs. “What, like it’s surprising? I couldn’t imagine you’d want to come back.”
“Consider yourself the persuasive type, then,” Techno says, and there’s a warmth in his heart as Phil claps him on the shoulder, fingers flexing on the leather there and he laughs, wide and happy. It’s genuine– Techno hasn’t seen Phil in a few years, but he can remember the sound of his laugh like he’d last seen him yesterday. That hasn’t changed. His face, however, seems to have wrinkled a bit, and there’s a crease on his brow that Techno can’t drag his eyes away from for a second. Stress. The letter had sounded just as harried and worried, the emails and correspondence afterwards just as panicky and frantic.
It’s the apocalypse, Tech, Phil had told him in one of the letters. Plain and simple. We’re all going to die. So either get murked piloting a Jaeger, or don’t. Your choice.
Technoblade had made his choice.
He’s here now, anyways, staring up at a colossal piece of sheet metal as it’s transported across the main floor of the Shatterdome.
“So,” Phil is saying, turning him away from the hustle-and-bustle of the main area, down a smaller hallway of the compound. This Shatterdome is a place Techno knows intrinsically– he can feel the very soul of the building against his boots as they walk, and unbidden memories float back to him as they go. Conversations held in this very hallway, nighttime escapades to the kitchen for ice cream, days spent lounging or training or studying. He can practically smell it in the air, the scent of memory one tinged with metallics and ink. He jolts himself out of it after a second; he can’t afford getting lost in memory now, especially not after what he’s agreed to do. Phil is still talking and it’s easy to tune back in. “–kept working on the project, even after you left. It’s kind of in remnants now, since no one wants to keep funding us. They keep trying to build that stupid wall. I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news, but the thing just busted right through in Australia. It’s an issue they don’t want to admit– nothing is going to be solved.”
“Mhm,” Techno breathes, keeping up to Phil with ease. He had, in fact, seen the news. He’d watched the footage of the Kaiju blasting through the thick cement walls with ease, seen the twisted shards of metal beams lying in the wreckage, the death tolls mounting with every second that the news crew was reporting. He’d seen the Kaiju take down the helicopter from Channel 8 of Sydney, Australia. Eyes on the screen, unable to look away.
There’s a morbid curiosity in everyone, he thinks. It’s like watching a train wreck, or finding roadkill on the side of the highway. You’re frozen in place, a pit growing in your stomach, staring at the horror of it all.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” Phil says quietly, when they’ve stepped off the beaten path of the Shatterdome and have now found themselves in the private quarters of the Jaeger pilots, the places where only the elite of the elite find themselves. Techno knows them like the back of his palm. “Really. I am.” Phil’s hand is warm on his shoulder once more, and Techno finds himself leaning into it.
“It’s a lot,” he admits. “But you were right. I’d rather die trying to do something than just take it like a sitting duck.”
“I know you would,” Phil says with a smile, eyes blue as the waters of the Caribbean. Warm, comforting, homely. “That’s why I asked you to come back.”
“Dragged me outta retirement,” Techno gripes, mouth upticking slightly in the corner as Phil laughs from his belly out. “I was enjoying the sandy beaches of Florida, you know.”
“Any sane person keeps away from the coasts, you dunderfuck,” Phil wheezes. “Florida? Of all places, Florida?”
“Didn’t have to worry about paying for my drinks. Open bars down there this time of year.”
“You don't even drink! I hate you.”
“Hardly you do. Where’s my room, old man?”
Phil inhales, and then they’re walking again, continuing down the path of metal and grey-brown walls. Occasionally, the insignia of the P.P.D.C. stares at him, bright and unassuming and so very accusing. “Actually, first I want to get you up to speed on what Jaegers we have on call. We've got barely any time before the next possible attack. You're going to have to get used to running on very little sleep.” Techno nods– makes sense. He knew of a few, but hardly kept up on who was who and what was happening in the world of Jaegers anymore. He watched the news. That was about it.
Everything else just hurts too much.
Phil continues. “So we’ve got five up-and-running at the moment, and one benched. Me and Kris are backed up with the Angel of Death –”
“Of course,” Techno juts in. “How’s the wife?”
“Beautiful as ever.”
“Euuuugh.” Techno mimes gagging. Phil laughs, slamming a hand down onto his back and sending them both stumbling forward with a cackle.
“Oh, quit it. She’s fine, excited to see you again. Anyways. Five Jaegers.”
Techno inhales, and exhales. Calms himself down. Time to take things seriously.
“Five?” He asks. “Only five?”
Phil pauses– stops entirely. The hallway pauses around them, a few people coming and going.
“This isn’t the army anymore,” he says faintly, turning to face Techno. His face has gone from jovial to grim, mouth set in a determined line. He’s surprised at how quickly the older man’s eyes have gone from warm to frozen in an instant. “You’ve been gone a while, Techno. These are the leftovers. This– this is the resistance.”
Then he turns and swipes his clearance card, and the doors to the Jaeger bays slide open with a hiss.
The floor spread out before them like the ocean, wide, beaming beautiful. Technoblade steps forward, following Phil through the doors. He’s hot on the other man’s heels as they enter the room, the immediate bustle of noise-sound-light wreaking havoc on Techno’s senses, but it’s alright. This is something he recognizes, at least partially. He knows these floors, the painted tapes. He avoids carts and people with ease, each of them set on doing their jobs and keeping this well-oiled machine exactly that: well-oiled.
And in front of him is the man running such a tight ship. Phil glances back over his shoulder, and Techno spins slightly, trying to take it all in.
“What’s that?” He asks, pointing upwards. Above the door they’d just come in through is a clock– or perhaps a timer, the seconds ticking down as they pass. He’d wondered what had been clicking in the background of all the hubbub.
“That’s the Wall Clock,” Phil explains at his query, keeping them moving. Techno nearly runs into a woman– ducking to the side at the last moment, whispering an apology. “We reset it after Kaiju attacks. Keeps people on their toes, vigilant. Also allows us to keep track of attacks. They’ve been coming more and more frequently now.”
“How long until the next attack?” Techno asks, bumping shoulders. Phil grimaces, and waves a hand out between them.
“A week,” he says. “Estimated. If we’re unlucky, then sooner.”
“Not good,” Techno mutters, and Phil shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “It’s not. But we’ve got our arsenal.”
He points up, up, up, and Techno realizes just what he’d been glossing over for the past few seconds. He realizes just what he’s been missing for the past six years.
“That’s Dreamland, ” Phil says, turning on his heel and continuing the walk backwards. Above them rises a Jaeger– blue and green speckle across her skin, more than 200 feet tall by the looks of it. It’s enormous. Around it, scaffolding sits, lights and knocking tell-tale of the upkeep it takes to maintain the machine. “Titanium plating all around. Lightweight, fast on its feet, and powered by forty to fifty motors per muscle engine. Piloted by those two.” He gestures, and Techno follows his fingers to a pair of men seated on one of the benches by the Jaeger. One’s tall, blond, freckles dotting his face. He looks uncharacteristically happy as he pesters the man next to him– shorter, a younger look to him, eyes dark and piercing as they flick up and scowl aimlessly at his companion. “Dream and George. American and British.”
“We make the best pairs,” Techno says, jogging to catch up with Phil’s quick pace. The quip earns him a laugh, but not a break from the tour. Phil points next to a hunk of metal that’s by far the largest damn Jaeger Techno’s ever seen– it’s decorated ridiculously, mismatched splotches of paint covering it in three separate, distinct corners. Purple, red, and blue.
“This is Rapid Gamble, ” Phil continues. “One of the oldest Jaegers still in service. Large, heavy, but don’t let the weight fool you. It’s piloted by three of the best and stupidest people I know– Alex Quackity, Karl Jacobs, and Nick Halo.”
“I’ve told you Phil,” someone shouts, and Techno turns his head to see the three pilots waving. “It’s Sapnap!”
“Sapnap, then,” Phil corrects with a grin, still walking backwards. The three pilots wave in sync– it’s creepy, just a bit, but Techno knows years of piloting will do that to you. “They’ve defended the American west coast for five years now. Nothing’s ever gotten through.”
“Holy shit,” Techno says, impressed. “By themselves?”
“It’s all them,” Phil confirms, waving a hand aimlessly. “To your left is Rosehip. ”
Techno turns, catching glimpse of the smallest of the Jaegers in the room by far. Red metal plating shines bright, a flower symbol embossed into some of the armbands of the machine. “Niki Nihachu and Jack Manifold. Those two are on some Team Rocket type shit. Pink and blue personified.”
Literally, Techno notes, watching as a bowed pair of heads raise up for a moment, then bend back down. Hair dyed pink, pressed against the forehead of a man with a buzzcut and blue cargo pants. They seem content in their own little world. He doesn’t intend to intrude.
“They’re on a mission to take down as many Kaiju as possible in one go-round the world,” Phil says lightly. “Dumb as shit, but I let them have fun. Rosehip’s a good piece of work. Light, carbon fiber mainframes. Nuclear engine. Same type of model as Bumblebee , which is up here to your right.”
Techno turns the corner, and yep. Another Jaeger stares at him, and Phil whistles fondly as two heads peer up at them. Brown hair, brown eyes, one of the boys is stupidly tall and the other is covered in simply ridiculous amounts of grease.
“Hey Phil!” One calls out, waving a wrench covered in what Techno is hoping is motor oil.
“Hey Tubbo!” Phil calls back, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout over the din of the room. “Toby and Ranboo. Two of the youngest Jaeger pilots we have on duty. A necessary evil at the moment, as much as I hate it. Bumblebee's the newest Jaeger here, only six months out on rotation, but they haven’t lost a fight yet. Tubbo’s their primary mechanic, too– he started out as a schematics kid, not a Jaeger cadet. But he was just too good. Ranboo’s insanely talented as well. You’d like him, I think.” Phil smiles, turning around finally and walking head-on. Techno takes the brief moment of quiet to collect himself– that’s a lot of information to take in so quickly, after all. Jaegers, their pilots, these people who have been putting their lives on the line to save the world. Yet again, his eyes are drawn to the clock above the door they’d come in through, counting down. Hours until a perceived attack. He finds that instead of keeping him vigilant, the numbers only give the rising anxiety in his gut another foothold.
“And this,” Phil says, pausing in front of a door. He gives Techno a moment to stop and collect himself– a moment for dramatic effect. Then he swings open the entrance to another Jaeger bay. “Is the Argo. ”
Techno wants to throw up.
It’s everything and nothing like he thought it would be. It’s his fucking Jaeger, six years later, sitting in a bay and staring at him like nothing has changed. The last time he’d seen her– well. Things hadn’t been… great. She’d nearly been decommissioned entirely, and yet here they are, staring at each other once again.
There’s a hole in Techno’s heart when he stares at the beast. It’s shaped like a brother– warm, soft, loving.
“You fixed it up,” he manages to say, mouth dry. His tongue feels like cotton in his mouth, papery and hot. Phil moves ahead of him, stepping out onto the balcony where they can see the entire expanse of the Jaeger from just one spot. It’s fucking huge. Techno had forgotten how big these things were.
“We did,” Phil says, nodding slightly. “Or. Well. There’s someone else you have to thank for that, actually.” He stops and tugs a radio up from his belt, where it had been sitting innocently on his hip for the entirety of their tour. Techno waits, raising a brow as the thing crackles and spits. “Tommy,” Phil says into the microphone. “Come up to the viewing balcony, please.”
Silence, the sound of background static. Then the radio is bursting to life.
“Sure thing big man!” Someone shouts from the other end of the line. It’s a voice bustling with life. Young, high, definitely belonging to someone Techno doesn’t think he wants to interact with right now. Not when he’s so keyed up– memories, feelings, everything is getting to be a little bit too much.
“Give him a second,” Phil says, not unkindly. He hangs back. Gives Techno his space. Techno nods, and then leans forward onto the bars of the railing and breathes.
Across from them both, Argo stares.
Eventually (and really it was only a few minutes, two at most) the elevator doors to their left open with a whoosh. Technoblade whips his head around, and finds standing in front of him what he can only describe as a teenager.
Dressed in a tacky red-and-white t-shirt, stained with various fluids, a bandana looped around his head. He’s mildly out of breath– blond, blue-eyed, equally as tall as Techno and bold when he looks him head-on instead of first addressing Phil.
And then the kid opens his mouth.
“Who’s this fuckhead?” He asks, and Techno sputters. Phil, the bastard, only laughs. A chuckle, tired but fond.
“Tommy,” he says, ignoring Techno’s indignant protest. “Be polite. For all you know, this could be the guy funding your projects.”
Tommy scans Techno up and down.
“He looks like a soldier, not a businessman,” the kid– Tommy, presumably– says. “A proper businessman has a suit and tie. This guy’s in leather. Bold choice, honestly. I’d get out of the way if you don’t want that jacket dirty. I’ve been told I have grimy hands.” With that statement out of the way, the kid reaches out, fingers outstretched for a handshake. “Thomas Watson, everyone calls me Tommy. Nice to meet you.”
Technoblade reluctantly reaches out and shakes his hand. True to word, Tommy’s hands are grimy as hell. “And you.”
“He sounds so delighted,” Tommy says with a grin, glancing back over to Phil and wiping his hand casually on his jeans.
“Tommy,” Phil says, again looking vaguely amused. “This is Technoblade. The Jaeger pilot I told you about.”
Techno watches a few emotions pass over the kid’s face in the span of the next five seconds. First off is confusion, then recognition. Then embarrassment, red traveling up neck to cheeks to ears. Finally, he settles on a thin veil of bravado, reaching his hand out once more.
“Well then I gotta shake your hand again,” Tommy says, grinning wide. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Techno. Can I call you Techno? I’m callin’ you Techno.”
“Generally, only my worst enemies and closest comrades are allowed to call me that,” Techno says, watching as Tommy’s grin widens when he takes the kid’s hand for a second time. It’s weird– clearly Tommy is loud and obnoxious, and yet here he is, bending to a very silly and impulsive will.
“Glad to know I’ve made it onto both lists!” Tommy crows. Beside them, Phil is snickering to himself. He only laughs harder when Tommy lets go of Techno’s hand and he grimaces, wiping it on his own pants with a resigned sigh.
“Tommy is responsible for a lot of work around here,” Phil starts to explain. “Mainly working on repairing and fixing what we can of the Argo. I know it’s been a while, but we were hoping a familiar piece of technology might help you acclimate better after–” He cuts himself off, but it’s enough. Whatever warmth Techno had just been feeling ices over once again as he glances out across the Jaeger bay, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. It’s been six years; he shouldn’t feel so out-of-place right now, and yet here he is. Tommy shifts in his peripheral but he doesn’t look at the kid– instead, focusing his eyes on the mass of metal in front of them all.
“I understand your reasoning,” he says after a second, unwilling to let the silence stretch out any further. “Makes sense. Logical.”
“Of course,” Phil breathes. “I mean, in the end, it’s just a machine.”
“Right,” Techno says. “A machine.”
Blessedly or unblessedly, something beeps. Phil’s attention is stolen away, and he stares down at his phone with an annoyed look before glancing back up at Techno. He hates the pity he sees in the other man’s eyes– knows why it’s there, hates that it’s directed at him.
“I’m sorry,” Phil says. “A meeting.”
“Do what you need to,” Techno reassures him. “Thanks for the tour.”
“We’ll catch up more later,” Phil promises him, reaching out and slamming a hand down on Techno’s shoulder. And then he’s turning away, looking at Tommy. “Give him the rundown and show him to his quarters. And don’t–” Phil rests a hand on Tommy’s head, despite the teenager being a good few inches taller, “--get into any trouble.”
“Sir yes sir,” Tommy agrees, ducking his head and falling into a familiar salute. Techno remains still, and then the elevator door is dinging shut and they’re alone.
Techno breathes. In, and out. He turns and stares up at the impressive mechanical genius of this Jaeger, and loses his breath for the thousandth time.
“So,” Tommy says, rocking back and forth on his heels. His voice breaks the silence abruptly. It takes everything in Techno not to startle at the sound. “This is the Argo. I’ve been working on it–”
“This isn’t the Argo. ”
“What?” Tommy turns, eyeing Techno clearly from the side. Techno doesn’t look back at him. He stares instead at the hulking mass of technology in front of them, the sparks flying from various spots as technicians work on it. The whole room is lit up and balconies spin with holographic blue and white, maps of the creature’s insides decorating the room. “No, this is the Argo. I’ve been heading the repairs– kind of. Managing, adding different improvements when I could. A kind of passion project, if you will. In accordance with the Mark III Restoration Project, we pulled her out of decommission last year and–”
“No,” Techno says again, quietly. It looks like the Argo. The paneling, the color, the shape of her– it looks like his Jaeger. But it’s not. Fundamental differences lie inside her, brought upon by the boy directly to his left. “It’s not. I appreciate the work you’ve done, but. It’s not.”
“I don’t think I understand,” Tommy says. “It’s literally her.”
Technoblade turns, and finally catches Tommy’s bright blue eyes. They match the holographics in color– sharp, intriguing, clever under all the pomp and circumstance.
“Have you ever heard of the philosophical thought experiment the ship of Theseus?”
Tommy’s voice is careful when he replies: “I don’t think so.”
Technoblade sighs.
“The basis of the experiment,” he explains, “is that people tried to preserve the ship that the Greek hero Theseus sailed home on. While trying to preserve the ship, they replaced each rotting plank as it came. By the time a hundred years had gone by, nearly all the planks had been replaced. So the question is: is that ship still Theseus’ ship? Is it still the ship that carried the hero home?” Techno turns back to the balcony, bracing a hand on the cold metal bars and staring at the carcass of the Argo ahead of them. “So, answer me this. Is this still the Argo, after all your hard work?”
Tommy is quiet, and Technoblade stares out at the jaeger in front of them and tries his best to breathe. It’s been a while since he’s been in a place like this; the soaring, high ceilings, windows so tall and a room so large it’s damn near impossible to conceptualize. The smell of gasoline and oil, the grip of metal around your fist so tight it aches.
“I don’t know,” Tommy says eventually. “I– don’t know.”
“Then there you have it,” Techno says quietly. Argo’s remnant stares at him, two accusing eyes. After a second too long, he turns and moves to flee. Find his room on his own, cuss Phil out in his head, and get some goddamn rest. Tommy looks like he’s been caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic– staring at Technoblade with wide eyes, face open. He looks contemplative, underneath the surprise. Like he’s actually considered the thought experiment presented to him. It’s not Tommy’s fault that Techno is overwhelmed right now, not Tommy’s fault that his passion project haunts Techno’s nightmares. So he at least tries to extend some form of gratitude, or apology. “Thank you,” he says to Tommy, pausing for a moment. And then, “Good luck on this.”
He flees.