Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Oh, monsters are scared," said Lettie. "That's why they're monsters.”
― Neil Gaiman

Ranboo has been a slave for as long as he has had a bad memory.

Which, honestly, doesn’t say much. He has had a cheese grater brain for as long as he could remember—or, well, doesn't remember. The small book he keeps hidden in the one slot of inventory he’s allowed to keep free can’t offer much help on much besides who is kind or not, things he doesn’t want to imagine nor remember, and how old he is. He does not know names or places or who is safe or not, just safer.

He knows, however, that his Masters are cruel and an unforgiving type of people. This his body remembers even when his mind does not.

Ranboo does his best to quiet all the Bad Noises from escaping his mouth, desperately swallowing down all the scared vroomps and pained warbles as he’s dragged by one of his horns and his upper arm to the Hurting room.

They escape him, anyways, between all the pleas and the “I’m sorry”s. Each Bad Noise makes the grip pinning him right behind the mean man just a little tighter.

His Master calls the Hurting room… he calls it—it’s called a Dungeon, but that’s a hard word to remember. All he knows is that it’s dark and wet and cold and that he always leaves with more burns and bruises than when he goes into it.

His Master wastes no time in throwing him in once they get there, the iron door opening with a clang—the second of light is enough for him to see a large figure with pink skin, a skull mask over their face, and chains keeping them against a wall— before he’s roughly thrown to the dirty, wet floor.

Ranboo yelps, arms immediately going around his head and throat as his Master grunts, leg reeling back before slamming into his side with a snarled out, “Worthless slave. Can’t keep your damn mouth shut.” The pain burned through his ribs, making his breath stall in his chest with a wheeze.

Worthless slave, his mind repeated . Can’t do anything right. Can’t stay quiet. Can’t, can’t, can’t. Can’t do anything worth more than dirt —

The door closes and he flinches. The mud underneath him makes his exposed skin sizzle and burn but he can’t find the strength to move. His stomach feels hollow, achy right down to his center. His vision keeps twisting and making up shapes, the dark playing with his mind, every limb and finger twitch and shake, his tail puffing up at the end and curling around an ankle.

And, and— he knows why he’s in here.

Wait, no. No. He can’t remember. He can’t remember. There’s a brief flash of pain on the side of his face, and an ache leftover in its place but rough hands still vivid in his mind as they shove him away from a broken plate.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Oh. Oh. Oh. It’s his fault. Oh. He didn’t mean to break the plate. 

He deserves this he deserves the pain and the insults and everything. He deserves it he deserves it it’s his fault and he shouldn’t have broken the plate. He shouldn’t have been bad—that was being bad  he knows that he’s a screw up and dirty he knows he’s just a worthless slave. A slave. A slave who should know how to hold a plate without dropping it.. He shouldn’t have been so mindless. Oh. Oh. This is bad.

Now he’ll be in here for hours. He should’ve been more careful.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I-Im sorry.” Hiccuping, he curls tighter, breath coming in rapidly as his body seems paralyzed by the terror running through it. It’s painful. He knows that this is not bad. Water burns aren’t bad. His Master’s punishments were always worse. Always. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” He sobs. “I-I’m sorry.”

And he was going to get punished! He was in the Hurting room because he wasn’t careful and he should’ve been careful but he wasn’t because he’s stupid and worthless and can’t do anything right and why can’t he do anything right—

Why wasn’t he more careful?

He can’t remember.

He can’t remember! He should be able to remember, he gets hurt when he can’t, when he can’t learn from all the mistakes his stupid little self makes, his Masters don’t like useless slaves like him, they get—they get killed or beaten.

He doesn’t want to die.

He’s going to die he’s going to die because he can’t remember because he keeps just being a small and stupid and worthless little boy.

No, no, his brain instantly scolded. Not boy . You are not a person, you are an object. You are to be used and treated however they want you to be. You aren’t even a pet. Pets can run. Pets are fed and loved and have freedom.

You don’t have any of that.

You cannot run. You cannot be loved.

Creatures like you aren't capable of that.

Creatures like you are not capable of kindness, they aren’t capable of anything. You should know how to do things you shouldn’t be so useless all you are is just a little worthless slave you have no purpose—

No purpose means all you do is wasting time and space and air that’s all you do—

You should just die, you’re already hurt it would be so easy to just go over to the deeper water in the corner and “fall” into it you don’t know how to swim or and it would be so easy to just go over their and die—

Worthless creatures like you don’t deserve to live if you can’t even—

“—id, kid, calm down.” A deep, monotone voice makes him release one of the Bad Noises, flinches back so heavy at the sound that he rolls onto his back in the mud, warbles of panic escaping him because he already made a Bad Noise he’s going to be punished he’s going to be punished he made a Bad Noise and he’s still making them why is he making them why —

“Sh, sh, sh, I’m not gonna hurt ya’. Couldn’t even if I wanna.” The voice made him focus on something other than his panic, other than the ache running through his body, other than the memories that he couldn’t fully remember and his ears swivelling forward to hear it better. “Just breathe, alright? In and out. In and out. See? Ya’ got this. Just gotta take deep breaths.”

The man was a lot closer than Ranboo originally thought he was, probably because the sound was muffled by the adrenaline running through his body. He could even feel the man’s tremendous body heat rolling off of him—which seemed like a miracle because the Hurting room was so cold and so wet. There were no windows and only one door meaning no sunlight to help dry everything and no insulation to help keep it warm.

The Masters made sure it would always be like that, this was the only way they could teach him to stop making the Bad Noises, to stop being so useless, to try and fix his memory. It’s almost ironic that the only thing Ranboo can really remember is that it doesn’t help to fix him.

He shivered, inching closer as the other kept talking in a shallow, almost kind (?) tone to keep him from hyperventilating more.

Which was. Strange.

He’s never been talked to like that before. He didn’t know what to expect, let alone from the stranger. Is it one of the people who don't caring People? The people, not the halves and misformed ones like him, but the Real ones who just brushed off his existence? Mean ones who the Masters let hurt him, or even kill him for the... round things?

(The masters made him hold something small and golden and ancient as they put a sword through his chest. His neck. His stomach. It burned and he sobbed and then it was gone. Somehow, the feeling of nothingness was much, much worse.

Each time, he woke up in a cold sweat and a throb that went through his whole body. The golden object would be gone, but in its place would be smooth green orbs of. Something.

He doesn’t know why Death doesn’t take him. He’s seen many Real People and halves die from the same. He doesn’t think it’s fair.)

He hopes it’s the first, the uncaring one. The type of Real Person— is the man a Real one? Did some Real ones have pink skin?—who just wanted him to stop making the Bad Noises even if it meant momentary help?

It would be much better than the latter.

Even though, technically, the man couldn’t hurt him? He was locked in here, in the Hurting room too.

Briefly, Ranboo wondered if he was one of the slaves too. He had a poor memory, they could’ve met before and the stupid thing just wouldn’t have remembered.

Oh. The man was talking again.

“Kid?” He deadpanned. “Did you pass out?”

“I’m so-s-sorry,” He flinched back, head hitting the wall and. Well. When did he get closer? When did he move to be next to—meaning a couple feet away, meaning he could easily run if the man suddenly lunged, meaning he wasn’t as cold as before with heat radiating from the maybe Real Person. “I—I didn’t, I’m so sorry Sir. What… what did, did y-you ask?”

“Nah, kid, don’t worry,” The man sighed. And how could he not worry? He annoyed the man!  Sighs meant annoyance, annoyance meant someone was almost angry with him! He couldn’t remember, not for sure, but he thought that anger just led to pain. He was too much and too annoying and too stupid to know how to do things and people tried to help by “correcting” his behavior. “You breathing okay now?”

That was a question.

Questions were just formal orders. He had to answer, he had to! He couldn’t be bad so many times in one day or he’ll go to the Worse place. He doesn’t think he could handle the Worse place right now.

“Yes, sir. I… I’m sorry.”

What he wanted to say was Please don’t hurt me for making the Bad Noise I promise I’m trying not to make them I promise I’m trying to do better please don’t hurt me — but, of course, he didn’t. Begging in a situation like this would probably just make it worse.

The man snorts, and it somehow reminds him of one of the big hogs they keep out in the barn but that thought is quickly lost as he asks, “You don’t gotta apologize y’know.”

“...” Ranboo pauses, curling his arms tighter around his knees, tail flicking behind him with anxiety. “S-sir?”

Why shouldn’t he apologize for being bad? Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do? Oh god he can’t remember he’s supposed to remember why can’t he apologize he needs to apologize that’s one of the only things he gets right but now it’s not right and he doesn’t know what to do because this is a stranger but he’s a Real Person and that means he’s above Ranboo and anyone above Ranboo is allowed to hurt him and give him orders even if they’re stuck in the Hurting room too and, and—

Oh wow, oh okay, what did he do to get stuck in the Hurting room? Was he being bad too? Was he going to be hurt by the Masters?

“I… I—I don’t understand, sir.” Ranboo’s whole body shook when he spoke, the coldness of the room seeping down to his bones and his injuries finally catching up to him as all the adrenaline seems to be replaced with anxiety.

“Are you cold?” The man asks, monotone as ever, instead of correcting his confusion. Which, like. Really did not help.

Ranboo wasn’t built for this. He can’t figure out what this Real Person wants or why they didn’t yell at him for the Bad Noises. He’s too stupid to understamd clues or, or try and read between someone’s words he can’t—he can’t do this!

But… it’s just a question.

Questions are orders. He knows how to follow them most of the time.

“Y-yessir.” Ranboo rubs his hands— paws, his mind sneers , they’re paws, you’re not human —up and down his arms, ignoring the little warbles and whines that want to come up from his throat at how chilled his skin was, how to stung and ached with the cold and bruises. How it didn’t help to swallow them down. “Masters a-always keep—always keep the, the t-the Hurting room c-cold.”

He feels the air around the man tense, sees the way that his shoulders tighten even further somehow despite so many chains pinning his torso to the wall. His eyes are finally adjusted enough that he could just make out the outline of the man, how muscular and downright large he was.

Large enough to kill him if he were beat by this Real Person, that’s for sure.

Large enough and angry enough and oh, god, is he angry, why did he make him angry, of course he made him angry he’s stupid and annoying and—

“Hurting room.” Mr. Pink (Ranboo is going to call him this, not out of disrespect but because it definitely helps the anxiety compared to just Real Person) repeats, voice devoid of emotion but somehow stiff, like it was out of practice.

Maybe it was, he had no clue how long he has been down here for or how long the man has been either, it couldn’t have been too long, could it?

“Y… yes?” Hesitating, he can’t help but to grip his tail out in front of him, skin prickling when he feels Mr. Pink’s eyes on him, even through that slightly creepy, slightly cool skull mask. “It’s… this?” Patting the ground makes the already cut open skin of his hand fizzle and steam with pain, the mud digging into each injury and making him release a Bad Noise.

He forgot the ground was wet, he’s just a stupid forgetful thing.

Not worth anything.

“C’mere,” The man gruffed out, voice taunt.

And—and oh. This was it, this is when he gets punished.

Ranboo’s breath stalled in his chest, lungs seizing in panic and a pained vroom left his lips. He didn’t want to he didn’t want to he didn't want to—

Touch was pain it was all pain there was nothing good about getting close but, but—

It was an order.

Not following those wasn’t an option.

Slaves who didn’t follow orders were dead slaves.

Inching closer, Ranboo allowed himself small shuffles and Mr. Pink allowed it to. He didn’t yell or rush for the thing to come closer, he just watched. And he knows the man watched, could feel his eyes on him, making his chest feel too tight.

Why was the man watching him, even? How could he even see? Were Real People’s visions better in the dark? Ranboo couldn’t remember. And wow, there he goes down a panic spiel again.

If only he could just stop—

Something warm touches his hand—

Oh. Oh God. It was the man’s thigh, he touched him he’s going to be killed he’s going to be killed he’s going to die—

He’s not supposed to touch the Real People with his Half hands—

He’s disgusting he’s going to make them disgusting too , how dare he —

“I-I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry!” Ranboo babbled, over and over again, body darting away to the driest corner as he pressed himself against it, cowering. “I didn’t, I-I, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to!”

“Hey, hey, kid, woah, calm down,” Mr. Pink ordered but he couldn’t listen because he can’t breathe why can’t he breathe he should be able to breathe, he should be able to — “-ck, that’s it. Come back, kid. Just in and out, remember?”

No, no! He doesn’t remember! He can never remember!

In and out? In and out? Oh, oh! His breathing!

Forcing an inhale, Ranboo splutters, chest heaving as his hands clench around his tail, vision blurry and mind a mess. But he’s breathing. At least he’s breathing. Out, right. Pushing the hair out of his lungs makes him sob, but he keeps the warbles down.

“In and out, you’re getting it. Just like that.”

He will not make the Bad Noises and make the nice man mad at him when he’s being so just… so kind to try and help him.

No one tried to help him.

This man was, though. And it made Ranboo so very just thrilled at having someone who doesn’t hate him but feels terrified that he will eventually do something to make Mr. Pink angry and have that small kindness taken away.

He doesn’t want the kindness to be taken away.

He doesn’t want to not hear that tone again.

He doesn’t want it to disappear, even if it makes anxiety sink its claws into his chest, even if he knows it’s selfish and he’s just being a stupid youngling. Stupid youngling who no one wants.

Worthless slave.

“Hey, hey, deep breaths, okay? Just keep tryin’.”

“I-I, I am, sir,” Ranboo stutters out, forcing air into his lungs (if it gets forced out by the panic too soon, the man didn’t notice or didn’t comment and still hasn’t yelled at him for not doing good).

“That’s good.” Mr. Pink reaffirmed. Huh. “The ground hurts ya?”

“Ye-yessir.” He whimpered out. Is the man going to kick mud at him? Is he going to order him to lay down on it? Is he going to—

“Well, I’m cold and yer freezing ‘n hurt,” The nice man started, sounding vaguely awkward and just. Not really wanting to do this. But Ranboo’s mind was sluggish and he was just exhausted by the day’s events that he didn’t pick up on it past the brief anxiety over the perceived annoyance. “So ah, come ‘ere? Sharing body heat helps, or whatever.”

And oh, Ranboo thought, this man might be just as awkward as me — then what he said registered and he let out a confused noise which no, no, it was not a Bad Noise, Real People make confused noises all the time and it wasn’t wrong and Mr. Pink probably didn’t notice that it was a little staticy like all his Bad Noises and, and—

He wants Ranboo to get close to him? He’s okay with a Half touching him?

This nice man was very, very strange… and he couldn’t hurt him and his Masters would never know, there’s no way for them to know unless the man told them which he doesn’t think he will and—

And he’s also locked up in the Hurting room and he probably doesn’t like the Masters because the Hurting room is bad and no one likes being locked up and—

There’s something warm under his palms and he makes a startled warble, the Bad Noise escaping before he can stop it but, but Mr. Pink’s leg is so warm and (it feels like there’s fur under his hands and he didn’t realize Real People could have fur) his brain is moving so slow.

So he just. He just climbs right into the nice man’s lap, curing up in it as the warmth invades his senses, smoothing over the bitter injuries sting and the constant ache of where his feet were pressed into the ground.

His legs draped over one of the other’s, the man’s legs were so large (his whole body was large, Ranboo isn’t sure he’s ever seen a Real one this big before) and warm and his tail curled around one of the man’s ankle’s and—

Mr. Pink was tense, so tense and too stupid to notice until the nice man relaxed.

Oh. Oh. They were touching and he wasn’t getting yelled at and the heat prickled against his skin and burned through his soul and gauged open a wound of wanting—wanting to get closer, wanting to be held, wanting this nice contact, wanting any contact that didn’t hurt, wanting to stay pressed against someone real and nice, wanting, wanting, wanting.

Selfish , his mind sneered.

Necessary , a part of him grumbled back, angry and sharp and oh-so sick of only feeling pain from other people’s hands.

If he was feeling any safer, if maybe he wasn’t so tired and wary, if he let himself, he’d be letting out some trills and purrs and content warbles but those were Bad Noises and he didn’t want to give the nice man a reason to take away the nice touches yet (even though Ranboo was touching him, not the other way around since Mr. Pink was kinda chained to a wall).

His tail twitched and flicked every so often, before swishing slowly in the air, the movement lulling him into sleep’s grip and his hands clutched at the nice man’s shirt, he pressed into his hip and body draped over his legs.

He wants to remember this.

He wants to remember when someone was kind to him.

But he’s too tired, too anxious to pull out his book, to risk it being taken. He’s too tired, too hurt to move.

He wants to remember, and he tries to fight the sleep but he feels so nice, so warm, and can’t stop himself from getting lost in the darkness.

Technoblade has been in this dark, wet and cold room—it was nasty and smelly and he was lucky enough to be able to see in the dark otherwise he’d probably go mad even if Chat didn’t complain about every other minute about being Bored and Technostupid for still being in here— for about three full days by himself.

It wasn’t too bad, if he were honest with himself.

He’s definitely been somewhere worse, under worse circumstances. The only thing that bothered him was the smug Lord who preceded over this place. He was an arrogant dictator, had slaves, hated Hybrids and very openly hated Technoblade and Philza for being wealthy and well-respected and the former rulers of the Antarctic Empire.

The two ex-Kings (ex of their own volition, they let go of that Empire, they let it fall into kinder hands then their own to retire) had been planning to take him down for a while, the only problem being how well fortified his home was, how some form of strong magic kept people out. How he had wealth and connections and guards and people that both men didn't want to die in the cross fire.

So Technoblade let himself get captured, simple as that.

He just had to wait for this bloody door to open, just had to wait for one of Phil’s crows to signal that he was ready to breach so he could break these measly chains and go take out another government.

And well.

The door did open, yeah.

But then, well, a child— a child —got thrown in here with him and that was, yeah. That was kinda unfortunate for the lad, kinda unfortunate for Technoblade himself too because as soon as he looked at the strange child, Chat turned into a down-right riot .

Ender boy!!

Look it’s the baby

kill him

Baby’s hurt :((

Oh nooooooooo don’t kill our child

Ender pog

Eeeeeeeee

And here comes the headache.

Techno spends a good chunk of time comforting the Enderian, into convincing him it was safe to come closer, watching him and just trying to figure out what he really was?

Hybrid, definitely, but of what? He was obviously half-Enderman, but what was the other half? He seemed to be full of scars, but otherwise his skin was black with a purple hue on one side, and white with tints of pink and blue and almost look opalescent in some spots, like he was glowing are the colors on his skin itself was moving. He has two horns that sprouted amiss a canopy of black and white hair, parting gray in the middle (Chat jokes he was an Old Baby for five minutes after he noticed that, which would’ve given him a headache if he already didn’t have one), and he had long, pointed ears that swiveled like a cats to follow anything it could hear.

The child, strangely, didn’t appear to have a nose, just slightly discolored and bumpy skin where it should’ve been and sharp fangs poking out of a wide mouth.

Techno had a sneaking suspicion that this kid could unhinge his jaw like an Enderman could, too. He made the same noises that an Enderian would, despite them being quieter and more scared than he could ever remember an Enderman being—and he never trilled. Just pained or scared noises.

It didn’t make his heart hurt, didn’t make him want to help. Nope, not at all.

It did.

He isn’t sure why he helped this child, why he let him climb onto his lap and curl up when it wasn’t his job to help. He’s supposed to be killing people, for Prime’s sake! Not comforting a scared kid!

(He is sure, he knows why.

He remembers Phil protecting him from a hoard of Brutes, their gold swords trying to slash at his half-human skin. There are no Hybrids allowed in a Sonder, they could not have soiled blood. He remembers trying to bite the new man with strange winds, remembered being so scared and angry and— and he remembers finally curling up against his side, the first kind touch in a while making him cry the same way this child in his own lap is crying.

He remembers Wilbur crawling into his father’s arms, shaking and distressed from a nightmare. He remembers why Phantom hybrid’s learn they are Phantoms and how no seven-year old should’ve been privy to that knowledge. He knows why Wilbur was found with blue blood soaking his birth parent’s clothes and trying to hold a boy smaller than himself in fading arms. He remembers how to wound still bleeds blue sometimes, on bad days,

He remembers Tommy falling into hysterics as he grips his cloak, pleading not to go back there— please, don’t take him back—and only calming when his family is pressed around him, where he knows they won’t leave, won’t make him leave, never, not even if he made them. He remembers him being smaller, a small-raccoon hybrid with a puffed tail terrified as they protected him from a village full of closed-minded humans with little else to do than hunt a child.

He remembers Tubbo’s scarred hands, the scar over Niki’s throat, the burn marks over fundy’s hands, he remembers nations and people and he even remembers himself—all falling and breaking and shattering at the hands of those cruller than them.

He remembers all of them being called monsters.

He knows that monsters are made.)

Techno wants to save this child before it’s too late.

Chapter Text

“But perhaps the monsters needed to look out for each other every now and then.”
― Sarah J. Maas

The sound of a bird cawing and the feeling of hands gripping his shoulders are enough to startle Ranboo awake—his voice shaking and staticky with a Bad Noise as he rips away from the heavy, gentle hands (gentle? when is anyone ever gentle with him? when does anyone care enough to be gentle?).

The hands, they wouldn’t have hurt if he wasn’t so badly beaten beforehand, it wouldn’t have hurt if the skin on his own made his whole body blaze up like it was about to undergo abuse, it wouldn’t have hurt…

It wouldn’t have hurt if he wasn’t so broken.

If he could do better.

If he was treated better.

When his ears stopped ringing, when the panic of being woken with hands on his skin settled down, he recognized the corner that his body had forced itself into, he knew the walls digging into his knees and back, knew the familiar feeling of his trembling form quietly bumping into the cold and damp concrete over and over.

He was in the Hurting room.

Why was he in the hurting room—

What happened—

What did he do oh god he must’ve done something really bad or didn’t hear an order or break something and oh oh this was not good how long has he been here—

“Kid?”

Oh, that’s right! There was a Real Person in here with him who was nice and let Ranboo perch on his lap to avoid the wet ground, a Real Person who was nice and spoke to him softly and a Real Person who had pink skin, a skull mask covering their face but showed enough of their red eyes for him to flinch away as they made contact with his own.

He still doesn't know what kind of Real People have pink skin and red eyes and fur.

He’s curious to find out but knows that it won’t matter if he does, he’ll never remember it. Or… or would he? He wanted to remember the kindness of the night before and he fell asleep on the man, oh no, that’s so bad, that’s really bad, it’s already been a day and Mr. Pink was still awake and unchained—

Unchained?

His head, previously bent in between his legs as he tried his best to hide in the corner, popped up and stared right at the kind man, eyes darting between his large figure (Real People could get that big? That’s… terrifying) and the broken chains from where he had previously been attached to the wall.

The post that also used to be attached to the wall was on the ground—

A wooden pillar gripped between his scarred hands, whimpers and warbles doing their best to stay muffled but his mouth has never been large enough to swallow down all of his pain, all of his sorrow, and they escape regardless of his pleas for them not to.

Each Bad Noise adds another whipping onto his already large sentence of merely existing.

He doesn’t think it’s fair, it’s not fair, it’s not his fault he’s not a Real Person it’s not his fault he was brought into this world ugly and broken and half-correct, it’s not his fault he can’t remember things —

It’s not his fault, it’s not his fault, it’s not his fault it’s not his fault it’s not his fault oh Prime why can’t they just Stop Hurting Him, why can’t they just leave him alone —

A scream leaves his mouth and the whip comes down onto his back hard enough he swears it reaches bone —

“Sh, sh, you’re alright, kid.” There’s a warm hand brushing through his hair, another one wiping the tears away from his cheeks before they could burn, a sturdy chest that he was leaning against and when exactly did his arms get around the kind man’s neck?

His Masters would never dare to let him get this close, let a wild creature like him even think about getting near their necks, ever see them vulnerable!

Ever see them during acts of benevolence.

But, for once, Ranboo doesn’t care that this is something his Masters would beat him for (he figures that the pain would be worth the warmth, he just doesn’t want to be cold anymore, if only for a single moment) and moves forward to bury his face into Mr. Pink’s chest, hand circling tighter around his broad shoulders. The man’s hands moved to both rest on his head and he’s offering quiet shushing noises and gentle words, calloused fingers untangling the mess that’s his hair as he speaks.

Honestly, Ranboo doesn’t know how to feel about being treated gently .

It’s so… unfamiliar, foreign. It feels like he’s taking a test on a topic he’s never even heard of before and will fail if he doesn’t answer everything correctly.

Only after his heart relaxes from it’s previously spastic rhythm does the Enderian feel the deep rumble that is coming from somewhere within his chest, feels the oddness crawling up his throat and shake his torso just the slightest bit—somehow, it reminds him of one of his Masters pets, what are they called? Oh, a cat! That’s what the noise reminds him of.

And… and he’s making it.

Real People don’t make that sound.

That means it’s a Bad Noise, that means he’s going to get punished for it, that means Mr. Pink is probably disgusted with him and regretting ever letting Ranboo get this close or sit on his lap or, or—

He quickly pushes away from the kind man, shrinking down as he clamps both hands over his mouth, shoulders raising and tail flicking defensively as his brows pull down in confusion.

Why is he making the Bad Noise? Nothing was hurting him!

Eyes flicking up to Mr. Pink, who had taken a step back and was silently looking at Ranboo as the Ender child tried to figure out just what was wrong with himself, briefly wondering why the man hadn’t punished him yet.

Did he not have the right tool?

Did he… did he not want to?

No, no. Everyone wants to hurt you. Ignoring this just makes it worse.

Don’t you remember?

The noise, for some reason, only grew louder as he realized that… that maybe this man doesn’t want to hurt him and he flinches—reeling back as he opened his mouth, pushed his arm up, and clamped down on wrist with a hard click of his jaw sliding open.

The pain from the harsh bite made the Bad Noise stop and his ears twitched at the split second of silence before the kind man was kneeling in front of him, swearing.

Ranboo’s wrist dropped from his mouth as he quickly shrunk backwards and stammered out apologies—started to panic.

(He was tall for a child as young as he was, he doesn’t know why but it freaks the Real ones out, it makes them want to hurt him more, so to survive he does what he has to do and changes.)

“Jeez, kid,” Mr. Pink deadpanned,  reaching out and grabbed his arm—Ranboo squeezed his eyes shut, turning the rest of his body away as he trembled, he knew from past experience that pulling away from one’s better only resulted in more pain—completely expecting a thumb to dig into the wound, for the man to make it worse.

But he doesn’t.

“Why’d ya do that for?” The man sounded so done with the situation. He doesn’t blame him, he’s always been too much for people. “What were you thinkin’?”

“I… I,” Ranboo’s breath was coming in stalling pants, mind screaming to keep his face forward, to speak clearly and in short sentences. No one likes reminders that filthy creatures like him are sentient enough to talk. “I’m—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t think blood would, w-would get any, would get anywhere.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

That his blood was dripping onto the floor and staining it purple.

(He ignored how the concrete was already covered in it, how the few drops wouldn’t make a difference.)

“No, no, hey,” The man leaned forward slightly, cautious hands ripping a piece of his shirt off like it was no big deal as he did so (Real People had more than one shirt, though)—Ranboo is reminded of the post torn off the wall, of broken chains, of how he should be very very scared of how strong this man is, and tenses. “I don’t care about the blood, you hurt yourself. You shouldn’t be doing that kid, it’s uh, not good for you.”

This was said awkwardly, slowly, as if the Enderian was missing something (maybe he was, it’s totally possible with a memory like the one he has) and Mr. Pink starts to wrap the cloth around the wound, tying it tight to stop the bleeding.

Ranboo couldn’t stop staring down at his arm.

It’s… not good for him to stop the Bad Noises?

But—but that’s how he’s stopped himself all the time before unless his arms were bound and his Masters never had a problem with it? They never cared if he bled unless he bled on something that would stain, unless he bled onto something that was anything but dirt.

“Sir, s-sir?” His voice quivered, overwhelmed and afraid. “I don’t, I-I don’t under—I don’t understand what you m-mean?”

The man stares at him, seeming to struggle to know what to say before settling on, “Blood’s supposed to stay in your body.”

Ranboo just blinks at him because just.

Wow. That was so not helpful.

Blood only mattered when it was coming out of a Real Person, and he wasn’t real. He wasn’t human. He was nothing. And he was treated like nothing, treated accordingly.

The little Ender child has believed this his whole life.

And for this kind man—this kind, confusing, maybe-real man—to tell him otherwise, to tell him that it matters if he was hurt just… it doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t make any sense.

He was a slave.

He was born to be worthless, born to be used and bled and worked to death.

(Slaves never lived long enough to be considered Old. Never really lived.)

He bites down the warble that wanted to get him into trouble, still tasting the acidic blood on his tongue and feels the achy pulse on his arm, despite what the man did to help it still hurts.

But he expected it to hurt, that’s why he did it.

“Sir?” Ranboo had a thought, and prepared himself for the worst—for the screams, the beating. “I… I, um. Hurting room.”

“That’s the room we’re in?”

“Yessir,” He nodded, hands clenching around the end of his black, twitching tail without thinking, trained to keep it still in order for the Masters not to threaten to cut it off like they did with his other one. “I d-don’t know why you’re in here but I… I was b-bad and um,” Sniffling, he runs a hand over his eyes and pressing into the cold wall, ignoring the sting on his palm. “I’m not a Real Person, you don’t have to be kind to me, sir. I’m, I’m so—I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, sir, I’m really sorry, I thought you knew I was just a, just a Half a-and…”

Hiccuping, he cups his mouth and turns his body to keep his back against the wall, tail whipping back and forth behind him.

“Real Person, Half?” The man echoed, monotone voice slightly edged with confusion (anger? He wasn’t sure). “What are you talkin’ about?”

When Ranboo stays silent, chest heaving, he takes a step further away and raises his arms, body relaxed. It helps, seeing that he wasn’t about to get hurt, and Mr. Pink must know that because he slowly lifts and lowers both hands with the rise and fall of his chest. “Breathe, in and out? Follow along, okay?”

“O-okay,” Gasping, he desperately tried to keep up.

He’s been so nice to the Enderian, he was kind and gentle and it made Ranboo want to be good and listen to what he said so, so bad.

Once he was calm, and his panic-response “sorry”s had quieted to a murmur, the man slowly sat down in front of him (how they were now the same height after him doing that, Ranboo had no idea besides that Mr. Pink was freaking ginormous).

“Kid, I need you to listen to me, okay?”

Ranboo nodded because he couldn’t do a lot of things but he could listen.

He hoped.

Unless he wasn’t remembering that correctly.

The man paused, heaved a sigh when a bird’s resounding caw seemed to come from right outside the Hurting Room. Ranboo thought he heard him mutter “impatient old man” but he couldn’t have been sure and decided to ignore it in fear of what would happen if he didn’t. Besides, it’s just a bird.

“I have a friend outside who’s going to help me.... take down?” He sighed again, hand going under his mask to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, take down this place. It’s not a good place to be livin’. You got anywhere to go, kid?”

He tensed at that because no, no he did not and not only was Mr. Pink planning to breath the rules and leave the Hurting Room before the Masters came and got them but he was also planning to hurt the Masters, and maybe other people because there was no way of getting off the property without them letting you or them being forced and, and—

And that never went well because the Masters were strong and had guards and the punishments for hurting the Masters were never punishments it was just Death and Death didn’t want him and if he was going to die because he would die if the Masters found out he knew about this because the man told him then what would happen? Would he just disappear—

He couldn’t just disappear, people had to go somewhere right? But then again Death didn’t want him and he didn’t have one of the the golden objects that made the wounds heal so would he just get stuck or would he actually die and he doesn’t know what would happen if he actually died because he’s not human and only humans have Three Lives but some Halfs do and some Halfs have more but also some Halfs only have one and he doesn’t want to be a Half who only has one—

 The next thing he knew he was crying out, clutching onto the man’s arm, pulling it towards himself. “Please don’t, p-please don’t, please, the Masters aren’t n-nice, they’re going to kill you, they’re going to—”

“Kid,” Somehow, even with the mask on, the man gave him a deadpan look that cut off his ramblings. “For one, I’m not gonna die. I never die, it would be ridiculous if I did. Two, my friend is going to have to do most of the fighting—Prime knows that old man isn’t going to let me live this down—because I’m going to be taking you to one of my… bases? Homes.”

“You’re…”

“Kidnapping you, yeah.”

The two of them just. kinda. stared at each other after that, at some sort of a stare-off.

Ranboo was simply confused and honestly just  looking at the man to see if he needed some kind of help? Maybe he hit his head or was blind and just pretended that he could see very, very well?

Kidnapping is for children. He is not a child, he is not a boy, he is not human.

He is a creature. He’s wild and disgusting and not Real.

He’s merely a Half.

A slave.

He already told Mr. Pink that he wasn’t real, though.

“Stealing me,” Correcting him got him a nod, so maybe the man was finally understanding! But oh. He was being stolen by this man and his friend, the bird, and that would mean that now this man was his new Master.

Fitting he didn’t know his name yet, he rarely learned his new Masters names.

This man is going to “take down” his Masters but he’s also taking Ranboo with him. So maybe even if he was breaking the rules, he wasn’t bad? Maybe? He hadn’t hurt him yet, hadn’t even yelled.

Which was strange. In a… good? Yeah, in a good way.

Good because he hasn’t been hurt. Bad because this man’s expectations were clearly very different from the expectations of his current (former?) Masters and Ranboo had no idea what would be considered Bad or deserving of a punishment.

Maybe he can ask?

But wait. No, no. He can’t ask.

Mr. Pink needs to take down this place—whatever that means—and doesn’t have time to answer stupid creatures with stupid questions and he especially doesn’t have to give someone so below himself an answer.

With wide eyes, he breaks the staring contest (even though he was just looking at the man’s chin, it counts) and twists his fingers around the matted fur on the bottom of his tail.

The man sighs again, this time with his whole chest as he stands and moves towards the door where he weirdly starts to feel around the frame. Maybe he was looking for a key, which Ranboo knows he won’t find, he’s clawed for a way out around that door for hours before to no avail.

It just doesn’t open from this side.

“Do you know how to fight at all, kid?”

Mr. Pink’s sudden voice makes him flinch and he shakes his head to himself for a moment to clear his head before mumbling out, “No, sir.”

His answer, apparently, was not what the man wanted to hear because he started to grumble to himself, something about a Chat? And continued to prod at the door for a couple moments before shrugging to himself and taking a step away.

“Kid,” Red eyes turned to him, analytical and seeming like he’s trying to figure out how to do something. “You ever bust out of here before?”

Ranboo tenses, hands moving to hug himself as terror shoots through him at the mere thought of breaking a rule that big on purpose .  “Ah, n-no, I haven’t. Sorry.”

“Know a way out?”

Yes. But is the consequences worth it?

What if the man can’t actually take down his old Masters, what if he gets hurt and dies or Ranboo gets blamed for them getting out and he gets punished again—

His back hasn’t even healed from the last time—

“You need an anxiety blanket vest or somethin’,” the man grumbles, slowly crouching in front of him, instantly stealing his attention. He does not know what anxiety is, nor what a vest made out of anxiety would feel like, but he hopes it's not bad. “You’re not going to get into trouble or hurt, alright? I just need to get out of here without it making too much noise.”

That sounded way too nice of a thing from someone to do for him—not hurt him when he broke a rule, and it made him feel itchy all over, like this whole situation was bad

He blinks.

Mr. Pink blinks back.

Thinking for a second, he hesitatingly nods. He’s been whipped for worse reasons than helping someone who’s been infinitely more kind to him than anyone else has been in a very, very long time.

Fear stole his voice so he slowly raised his hand towards the man, who extended it in a ‘go ahead’ gesture and Ranboo took that as an I won’t beat you senseless for touching me and wrapped his hand around one of his fingers, tugging him forward.

He knows that he wouldn’t have moved if the man didn’t want to move, he was just that large, so he appreciated not having to use too much energy to show him.

Walking to the furthest edge of the Hurting Room, or well, the furthest edge he could go without tumbling himself into water—he points to the base of the wall in the corner, a small hatch that was half-way hidden under the water sticks out. It’s not a very good exit, it leads to the slaves quarters and where the cooks go to throw away any rotten or unwanted food and they’ll easily be caught.

But it’s quiet, and that’s all the requirements that there were.

Mr. Pink dunks down slightly, leaning closer to see it better and grunts his approval when he spots the hatch door, asking, “Where’s that lead?”

“Sleeping quarters, sir.”

“Can you get outside from there?”

“Yessir.”

“Alright,” The man turns to him, lips pulled down in a grimace as he stares down at the Enderian child. “I gotta help Phil to somethin’ but I’ll be back, alright?”

Panic pressed against his lungs and forced a whimper out of his chest.

Ranboo didn’t want him to leave. Whenever people left—people who were kind, or even people who were a little less cruel than the rest—they didn’t return. They never returned, they didn’t want the repercussions of being seen communicating with a Half, didn’t want the punishments of making friends out of slaves, didn’t want to be contaminated by his filth.

And Mr. Pink was the kindest of them all.

He was patient and—and he didn’t yell or hurt him.

Ranboo didn’t want to be alone again, to be so cold.

He just didn’t, he knows that it’s stupid to get so attached to one’s Master so quickly, to want to even be around Masters, but he did and he felt immature and clingy.

Didn’t mean he wanted him to leave, though.

“I know, I know,” He crouched down in front of the Ender Child, gentle hands brushing the hair out of his face before resting against the sides of his neck and emotionless voice sounding softened, somehow. “But I will be back. I pinky promise.”

Ranboo tilted his head, staring down at the hand that was suddenly in his face, every finger formed into a fist but the smallest.

Does… he want him to shake it, or something?

“What is a Proms?” He asks, small hand raises to Mr. Pinks as he wraps his fist around the finger and shakes it as one would for a handshake. That’s the polite thing to do right, when someone offers their hand?

“Promise, not proms.” The man corrected, slowly moving his hand until their smallest fingers were interlocked and then shaking it. Oh. Was this a handshake? Had all of his previous Masters been doing it wrong? “And it’s… it's a verbal contract dictating that whatever the person says they’ll do, it’ll get done no matter what.”

“Like an order,” Ranboo questions.

“Kinda,” He shrugs. “More important, especially pinky promises.”

“Oh,” He tightens his pinky around the other’s, staring down at the hands even when he can feel Mr. Pinks eyes on him, making his skin crawl.

“And I promise I’ll come back for you, kid.” When Ranboo does look up, he sees the sincerity in the split second of eye contact that he can handle, and swallows heavily, heart beginning to pick up at the mere idea of someone caring enough to let him out of the Hurting Room earlier than he was supposed to be. “I just gotta do this, alright? Phil’s waiting for me.”

“Oh, um, okay.” He shook their pinkies. That was a deal then, yes? ‘Cause it’s more important than an Order and almost nothing is more important than an Order. Briefly, he wondered why the pinkies were powerful enough to be classified as more important, but didn’t question it further than that.

With one last rushed “I promise” and a quick grunt, Mr. Pink had moved into the water and pulled the hatch open, slipping inside with only his head turning back to the Enderian for a split second before rushing off to do the taking down.

Ranboo watched him go, shaking from the nerves and the cold.

His body had almost forgotten the chill of the Hurting Room while pressed against the heated side of the man, but he quickly remembered and pressed himself back into the corner, sitting on his hunches, waiting.

Waiting for him to return.

Because he will return.

...right?

Chapter Text

“Monsters exist, but they are too few in number to be truly dangerous. More dangerous are the common men, the functionaries ready to believe and to act without asking questions.”
― Primo Levi

It's not that Techno wanted to leave the little Enderian in that horrid room, it’s that he has no other choice than to leave his the kid there. It’s not exactly like he could do what he was currently doing while carrying or trying to calm down a youngling having a panic attack. Battle is hard enough without that extra worry weighing on his shoulders.

And it wasn’t a good room to be in by far, but it was safe and far away from these stupid humans who have stupid swords that they have the audacity to try and stab him with.

But eh.

Technoblade never dies, and he never gets tired of the adrenaline that courses through his brain as he and Phil are back to back on a battlefield and take down enemy after enemy and oh-so-rarely leave with anything other than a few scratches and a sore body.

Usually, Chat is content with that too, Blood for the Blood God and all that.

But no, of course they change that just because of one lanky, bruised child.

A child with a soft voice and a constantly guilty or scared face. A child who trembled and had a rattling breath and who seemed so starved of any basic kindness that he clung to Technoblade like a vine. A child who sobbed in his sleep, overwhelmed with warmth and the pain from what could only have been fractured ribs.

A child who they kept screaming about, who they wouldn’t let go of.

(Who his instincts weren’t going to let go of either.

This is his Youngling the same way that Philza is part of his Sonder, the bond solidified in his mind the second the child climbed into his lap, the second he reminded the brute of himself.)

Even though none of the poorly trained guards or even a strange cook with a really bad temperament got anywhere near being capable of hurting him, Techno knew that Phil, perceptive as always, noticed something was wrong with him even if it wasn’t an injury.

But the ‘wrong’ thing—it wasn’t his fault!

It’s not like he can control what Chat does!

And Chat right now, well, desperately wanted him to leave the blood bath to ‘dadza’ and go back to the ‘little ender boy’. Of course, there was always going to be a few that demanded blood, who demanded violence and sacrifice and who thrive off chaos.

Which was meh, he knew how to deal with that by now.

Techno did not, however, know how to deal with these stupid voices getting all upset and attachted to just some kid they met little under a day ago, didn’t know how to deal with them caring about a child that wasn’t even his .

(If anyone said that to him, a blade would’ve gone through their neck.)

He wasn’t good with touchy-feely stuff, didn’t know how to express it. He was awkward and because of his voice, people often thought he was cold and had no emotions.

Which wasn’t true but up until this moment he didn’t necessarily mind, it made people more scared of him, embellished his reputation as the merciless killer, as someone who took down person and country with all the same amount of care: none.

But now? Now there was a child, a hurt child, who Techno had no idea how to comfort or help and was obviously traumatized.

He didn’t know how to deal with traumatized children, or any children at all really, that’s Philza’s forte. Tommy was bad enough when they were younger, and even if he's still a couple years from being a teenager, he acts more mature than his age (besides when he was purposefully being annoying) and Wilbur is just as old as Techno and never acts like a child, just acts like he's on something. It was Phil who took him in, who helped him get over his anger and taught him about books and magic and weaponry, it was Phil who saved Wilbur from sunlight and blue-stained clothes and helped him learn the meaning of second-chances and life and the wonders of music, it was Phil who calmed loud Tommy and showed him comfort and safety and to how to give equally what he takes.

Techno doesn’t want to mess this kid up more than he already obviously is, he doesn’t know how to help hurt children when his emotions still feel like they’re stuck being a hurt child sometimes.

He knows how to deal with panic attacks and nightmares and wounds, but that’s it. He’s not for—for fatherhood , despite what his instincts and Chat insist.

Fatherhood was for someone who was better with emotions, like Phil.

Or even Wilbur, he guessed, since his self-dubbed brother had claimed little Fundy as his own. He was scared of Tommy getting older and having children, because although the raccoon-hybrid was brilliant, he was also chaotic and loud and still just a child himself no matter how grown-up he claimed to be.

Simply: Technoblade was not father material.

(The way the child clung to him and he innately knew what to do said otherwise.)

So really, once the battle was over and he was left standing awkwardly in front of Phil, the head of the Lord at his feet, blood seeping into the ground and making the place look a little more sinister with all the dead people and what not, he had no good idea about how he was meant to tell his best friend about the child in the ‘hurting room’ and how he wanted to keep— not keep, he quickly corrected himself , just rescue —said child.

“You alright, mate?” Phil asked, nudging Techno’s crown with the top of his wing as he tended to a swallow cut on his arm. The commotion around them had all but died at this point, the only sounds were that of the warriors they brought with them and Phil’s crows chatting and rounding up all the servants and slaves to return them to their home or help them find a shelter.

The battle got over mere minutes ago, and he was antsy to get back to the small Enderian child who he was sure was more than panicked at the sounds he surely heard coming from the fighting and the dying right outside his make-shift cell.

“Heh?” Technoblade blinks at his best friend, one blonde eyebrow raising at his response but by that time he’s already nodding, calling out, “Gimme a minute.” before turning around and pacing to the other side of the land.

Phil’s laughter followed after him, all airy and bright like the day hadn’t taken a toll on him at all and honestly, knowing the immortal the way he did, that wasn’t the truth. He hates seeing people be treated as less-than, as slaves. He hated the way other hybrids were treated like rabid dogs or like emotionless machines.

The avian was the Angel of Death, so he knew of pain and he knew when someone didn’t deserve it, he knew to strike where it would hurt the most and he used that knowledge without needing and without hesitation.

And Technoblade was the blood god.

He always has and forever will back up Phil in whatever the immortal does, and is capable of such. That’s his father, his best friend, his Sonder. He’d do anything for someone in his Sonder, has done anything for someone in it.

But for now, Phil and the rest of his Sonder don’t need him.

Right now, a scared Enderian child needs him—and he won’t disappoint.

The door to the hurting room is a rusted iron but screwed tight on either side, showcasing the same claw marks that Techno knew were on the other side too, like a scared animal went mad trying to get out of somewhere cold and dark.

Or a scared child, one with sharp claws and lethal teeth and a lashing tail curled around his ankle in fear, one will to make himself feel pain to avoid triggers or further abuse, one curled into the corner of a wet, disgusting room as he whimpers because he takes one look at the Piglin-hybrid’s sword and goes dazed and trembling as he makes those heart-wrenches annoying little “I’m sorry”s.

“Sh, sh, hey,” Technoblade knelt onto the mud a foot or two away, enough blood and dirt over his clothes and skin that it didn’t matter what else got on it at this point. He slowly put his sword back into its sheath, keeping his posture relaxed but open, arms to the side. He was once a child like this, scared and abused, and he knows that any show of aggression is well— not a good idea. “Hey, it’s alright, kid. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m here to help.”

The child sniffled, risking a glance at him behind purple-stained fingers, “H-help?”

“Mhm,” He hummed low in his throat, sitting back on his hunches, the familiar weight of his crown kept the anxiety from boiling over. “I’m going to bring you somewhere safe, okay? And if you’ll let me, I want to look at those injuries of yours.”

A low rumble started in the Enderian’s throat and the memory of the kid unhinging his jaw before sinking those razor-sharp canines into them sent a shot of panic down his spine and he quickly continued, not wanting the child to notice themself—purring?

“I have a friend who is helping the others,” Technoblade continued softly, trying to put some emotion into his voice. “But I want—need—to help you. Is that okay?”

The kid was glancing at him more frequently and their body had relaxed slightly and he knew this was as relaxed as they would get, with how injured and anxious they appeared to be. He hoped that they will let him look over and clean his wounds, if not he knows the voices will complain about it until he has a headache.

Figured his instincts Chat would pick out a kid that had as much, if not more, anxiety than himself.

The little Enderian didn’t say anything, just stared at him as if waiting for the answer.

“Kid,” Techno sighed. “I was asking you, is it alright if I bring you somewhere safe?”

“With…” They paused, anxiously glances up before squeezing his little arms tighter around themselves. “With you, sir?”

Inwardly cringing at the sir, he nods, “Yea, with me.”

“I’d… yes. I would—Safe. With, with you. Y-yeah.”

“Alright,” He nodded. Progress! His Chat cheered, cooing at ‘their’ child in his head. “Can you walk?”

Please be able to, Techno pleaded (the Voices agreed, spitting out threats if they’re not to faceless enemies), not wanting the kid to be hurt that much—even if he would like to carry the Enderian. They weren't wearing shoes, seemed exhausted, and looked beyond cold in this filthy room. Clearly, not in a walking state.

“Y-yes, sir.” The kid, whose name he now realized he did not know, stuttered out. They trembled in every limb as they tried to claw at the wall for purchase, struggling to pull themselves up.

Technoblade watched with a grimace as they shook, knees almost giving out under their weight as they leaned into the wall, catching their breath.

Yeah, no. This child would not be walking on his own, nope.

Technosoft!

E

Eeee

Lol, he’s kidnapping a child

Orphan alert

Blood for the blood god

E

KILL HIM

No!!! Don’t kill the baby!

Our lil’ Enderian boi

Awwww he’s so smol

E

E

Chat started to spam something about a rainbow chat, but being used to it and having long since learned not to question it, Technoblade ignored them in favor of the child, slowly offering his hand to them—multicolored eyes watched the whole time, seemed to not know what to do with the outstretched limb but not as frightened as he once was.

“What’s your name?” He asked, his softened voice sending the voices into a spiel of ‘Technosoft’ again.

“It’s um… it’s Ranboo, sir.”

Welp, not anymore strange than his own name.

“Technoblade,” He touched his other hand to his own chest, resting it on his knee afterwards. “You can call me Techno if you want.”

The kid—Ranboo—just stared at them, as if waiting for something.

“I know you’re hurt right now and probably are very tired,” Techno kept his voice and posture calm, speaking slower when they flinched back at his comment. “I know it’s not pleasant and that you’re scared, but I was wonderin' if it’s alright if I carry you? I don’t want you to make your injuries worse.”

This kid deserved rest, he deserved to be held and treated like a child even if, previously, he had bore witness to the cruelty of grown men.

Traumatized children are still children, even if they don’t always act like a child.

Ranboo sniffled, eyes seeming to water up as a low whine came from his chest and Technoblade panicked, trying to figure out what he said that was the wrong thing to say—then hesitant hands gripped his own, small fingers shaking as they pressed into his skin. Oh. He probably wasn't used to be given a choice. Techno remembers that being overwhelming for himself, too.

Letting his little Enderian come closer on his own, not wanting to overwhelm them even more, the piglin-hybrid waited until he was simply a step away before moving to pull the child into his arms.

He remembers to broadcast all his movements, not wanting to scare Ranboo, and felt his heart pinch at every flinch even though the child said it was okay.

Once the kid was gathered into his arms, held gently but firmly against his chest, Techno gathered part of his cloak and wrapped it around them, a grumble coming from his chest to help calm the brief panic that tenses their limbs. They relax at the sound, pressing their tiny face into his neck as they slowly stop shivering.

Leaving the filthy room, he makes a mental note to remember to ask Phil to burn the wretched place. He wants Ranboo to be assured that he will never have to come back to this place.

However much he didn't like being inside the room, outside wasn't much better and the red-soaked grass made him pause.

Because, well. There were a bunch of corpses around the place, bones and carnage and blood spread out in a gore-ish fashion; the battle had been less of a battle and felt more like a slaughter.

And Techno’s pretty sure that children are not supposed to see things like that?

“Hey, Ranboo?” He glanced down at the Enderian, half his face blocked by how far he had squished against his shoulder but his eyes looked half-lidded and like they hadn’t spotted the destruction yet. Which was a good thing, because they really didn’t need to see that and also looked like they desperately needed sleep. “I’m going to pull my cloak up further, okay? It’s a bit chilly out there.” He does not feel bad about the lie.

“Mmm,” Ranboo hummed absently, an adorable weird purr starting in the back of his throat again as he closed his eyes.

Taking that as it’s alright, Technoblade shuffled him gently in his hold, hiding their view of everything but his shoulder but made sure they could, of course, still breathe—the purr growing in sound as his panicked breathing evened out.

His child has fallen asleep.

Probably due to the absolute exhaustive feeling of anxiety, panic attacks, and their body was probably trying to do it’s best to heal itself through all of it.

He stays silent, besides his own grumble or two escaping his chest when he felt Ranboo stir. A distant part of himself knew that the noise was one he made when pressed into Phil’s side, content but tired after a long fight. He made it to comfort Wilbur and Tommy after every nightmare or bad day, a big brother soothing the cries coming from those of his Sonder, and now he was using it to calm the child—he didn’t know whether to be grateful that this seemed to be something innate within himself.

(So many people think that he is an innately angry person, that he is filled with violence and nonchalance about everything and everyone. This is not true, never has been.

Technoblade is innately soft, he is innately protective and caring and terrified. He protects himself and wraps everything into a steel barrier.

He has long since learned that one of the only ways to protect himself from other's cruelty is to be scarier and bigger and meaner than their urge for destruction. He has long since learned that to avoid pain sometimes, he has to make it.)

And that’s how he walked right up to Phil, ignoring the stares of others not used to seeing the Blood God cradling something so gently—a child in his arms and a grumble in his chest, the immortal smiling at him as he picked soot out of his wings before the smile turned into curiosity and confusion at the vibrating bundle in his arms.

“Techno.”

“Phil.”

Two ethereal blue eyes stared at him before the avian sighed, eyes widening as Ranboo moved in his arms, tail slipping out from the cloak to wrap around the arm supporting his lower half.

Cute!

EEE

Aw adora-Boo

Ender baby pog

E

“Mate,” Phil’s laugh was on the side of concern. “What do you have there?”

Apparently, even though Phil seemed to not see a problem with him collecting traumatized children, he was all too aware of Techno’s habit of keeping creatures that probably others wouldn’t consider pets.

Such as polar bears, a really stubborn horse, an Endermen (he considered Edward a friend, not a pet, even though communication between the two were scarce) and other various animals over the years. Which Techno personally thought was better than just snatching some broken kid and expecting things to turn out well.

To his friend’s credit, though, things did work out well and he was now doing exactly what he always teases the avian about doing.

“A child.” Technoblade deadpanned. “I’m keeping him.”

And okay, guess that's happening.

“Techno,” Phil became serious, eyes shifting between Ranboo’s cloak-covered form and his son's red eyes. “All the kids here were taken from their parents, the rest of them just asked to go home. What if he has a family?”

“Phil,” He said, looking down at Ranboo, voice going quieter when he shifts, tiny hands grasping his tunic in a way that absolutely does not make his heart melt. “They’re different. I think… I think they’ve been here for so long that it’s all they know, or they've just lived as a slave their whole life. C’mon, Phil. They’re… they’re hurt and act like they’ll be beat for every noise they make. It’s a miracle that they let me hold them, the kid was practically tremblin’ just at me trying to not let them fall.”

Phil’s face contorted to sadness, a weight shifting behind his eyes and Techno recognizes it—it’s the look of a father, the look his father has while he holds a distraught child. A look full of memories.

“Where did you find the little one?”

And just like that, Technoblade knew that Ranboo was considered their own.

"They had 'em locked up like some animal. Ranboo called it the Hurting Room." He grumbled, face passive and voice monotone but Phil knew better. He could see the anger lining his face. "He's hurt, nothing too bad I don't think but we'll still need to check the injuries out when we get home."

"Fuck, mate," Phil frowned, edging just a bit closer as his wings shuffled against his back, dark feathers showing his agitation. "No kid should be treated like that."

"I know," Techno replied solemnly. "They didn't treat him like a kid, they made him believed he wasn't even a real person."

Phil sighed, eyes looking at Ranboo as if he could see through the fabric surrounding him before sighing again, "I hate assholes like these," he glared at the decapitated head laying not too far away form them. "What kind of hybrid is—Ranboo, was it?"

"Yeah," He grunted as the tail tightened around his arm, before it relaxed before repeating the motion. Strange. "I think he's half Endermen, the mud was burnin' him 'cause it was more water than dirt and he made a couple sounds similar to them. Voice echoes, too."

"Half?" This caught Phil's attention. "Not hybrid?"

"Dunno." Techno shrugged. He's never been too good about guessing the more difficult hybrid types. "He looks like he's split half n' half. Could be a hybrid, but a double hybrid at the very least. Purrs. Claws, blunter teeth than full Endermen's but sharper than any other mob. Tall, too. Could be ghast, maybe, but I've never heard about a ghast-hybrid before."

"Alright," Phil shakes his wings, eyes still on the kid before meeting Techno's. "We'll figure it out and see what he needs." The immortal paused, eyes sad and expression heavy. "How old do you think he is."

Technoblade grimaced, half of him not even wanting to know but the other half having a good guess. "Young. Maybe a little older than Tommy but if he is, not by much."

Both of them stood in silence, the only sounds the little purrs coming from the sleeping Enderian and the soft murmur of the other warriors leading the innocent to the front of the manor or collecting their injured and lost weapons. The thoughts in Techno's head were loud, far too loud but not because of Chat. He was sure Phil was the same way.

Comparing Tommy—loud, bold, charmingly stupid and all too loveably annoying nine-year-old Tommy— to Ranboo was... was something. Ranboo was still trembling ever so slightly, they smelled of blood and dirt and of the room they had been locked in. They were in tattered clothes and no shoes, their skin broken and beaten and bruised. They had scares (all four of them in the Minecraft family had scars, but not like this.) and they did not seem to have any obvious education, no teachers or someone to care about them.

It broke the heart people claimed Techno didn't have, it bled sorrow from Philza's eyes.

It made both promise silently, an open agreement between them with just one look, that they would make this child's life better.

Chapter Text

“One believes things because one has been conditioned to believe them.”
― Aldous Huxley

The first thing Ranboo registered was a consistent rocking motion, like he was swaying from side to side without actually moving, which was strange but not alarming enough for him to bother waking up fully.

Then he felt something soft but heavy wrapped around him, a sweltering heat pressing in from all sides but something even warmer against his body. Something that his hands were clenched onto almost painfully with his head being cradled by a—by a hand? And oh. Okay. This is fine, someone is just holding him.

And they’re not hurting him?

Sure, his body ached and stung but those were all from the usual beating, all familiar but nothing actively painful enough to be fresh. This person was holding him and wasn’t disgusted or hurting him or pulling away.

Which—okay. This is fine.

They're not hurting him.

If anything, they held him closer when he started to tense. His eyes refused to open despite how he wanted them to, he wanted to see who was granting him with such a kindness, but the motion was too calming and his confusion could wait and there was this nice sound coming from the warmth.

It told him that he was safe.

He was being held by someone and he was safe. They weren’t hurting him.

So he didn’t fight it when sleep dipped its fog into his consciousness and dragged him down again, body shuffling until his arms could wrap around the warmth, tail wagging slowly but happily.

“You’re okay, kid,” a soft voice rumbled, “I won’t let anything happen to you, just go back to sleep.”

He believed them, so he slept.

The next time Ranboo woke up, it was because he felt like the world was shifting around him—felt like his connection to the ground, to each rock and wall and even the sweltering heat pop and shift into something calmer, familiar.

He let out a soft warble, shuffling slightly from where he was leaning against something sturdy and warm to slowly blink his daze away.

Surrounding him were oddly tall and thick trees and beyond that was an open nothingness. There was this strange, cold powder falling from the Blue (the blue wasn’t blue, though, just bubbly with white and gray?) and getting stuck onto the sticks and leaves. In the nothingness, the powder clung together and looked soft, but it was also hard to look at. Too bright—glowing in a way that reminded him of the lamp in his Master’s old study.

He wondered how the powder was glowing, it didn’t seem to be on fire.

Closer to him though, and what was making him sway back and forth, was a horse. Huh, he was riding a horse. Kinda.

Kinda only because a man, Mr. Pink—or, er, Mr. Technoblade (he’s hoping he remembers that right)—was the one riding it, one hand to steer the creature and the other wrapped around him while he was wrapped into a deep red cloak.

Oh. Oh. This is—this is fine.

This is okay, how close they were.

This is fine and it’s okay and he’s not getting hurt.

And being as close as they were, he could tell that Mr. Techno had an odd smell to him, kind of like the trees they were passing but earthier, like if outside became inside, that’s how he smelled. Ranboo liked it. His old Masters always smelled of something sour and old, smelled like the drinks he was forced to pour for them and always, always , a little bit like blood.

This man smelled like blood too, both of them did.

He wasn’t sure why, but he knew it wasn’t his own—his left an acidic sting in the air—or Mr. Techno’s, the scents were different, so he didn’t mind.

If someone else got punished, it hadn’t been his fault. He hopes, anyway.

Whatever the punishment was, it must’ve been bad for his new master to have spilled so much blood.

Usually, it was less messy.

Something that hurt a lot but easily cleaned. The Masters don’t like a messy study.

The horse they were on trotted at a steady speed and the man grumbled every now and then, speaking to someone he couldn’t see or hear, so he stayed silent. It was not his place to ask or make sound unless he was directed to or expected to answer, but even if it were, he would probably be quiet then too.

He rather liked being held, figuring out that he didn’t mind touch as long as he was 1) expecting it and 2) wasn’t hurt by it, which had been a bit odd.

Since when did touch not hurt?

He wondered if that was why some Real People, or even Halves like him, were so touchy with each other. Beforehand, he had just assumed that all touch bruises, even the ones that looked like they didn’t.

But touch was actually nice—nice and warm, even if the space around him was cold, cold like someone blocked out the sun even though he could see it in the Not Blue.

Mind adrift, Ranboo didn’t notice that Technoblade had stopped talking to the invisible person and started to talk to him, until he heard a soft, “Kid, are you actually awake or am I talkin’ to myself like a nerd?”

Curious, and having been asked a question which meant he could speak, he asked, “What’s a nerd?”

He froze for a second, flinching to press further into the man as he realized he hadn’t answered the question—relaxing when, strangely, he didn't seem to mind Ranboo’s inadequacy.

The old Master hated his mistakes.

“Someone who knows a lot about a lot ‘n is borin’.” He’s informed.

Mr. Techno seemed to be a nerd, then, he appeared to know quite a lot and said words sometimes that Ranboo didn’t know. He didn’t know what “borin” was but he figured maybe that was the bad part, the man said it like it was a bad thing, which he didn’t fully understand.

Learning and knowing things is a privilege, especially to someone with a memory like his own. But perhaps others don’t like knowing a lot of things about a lot of stuff.

Strange.

“Oh,” He slowly peaked at the man, seeing a blank expression (one can’t really be too expressive with the mask he was wearing, though) but kind eyes politely faced forward. He didn’t move, tried not to even breathe too deeply in fear of the good touch being taken away. “I don’t think you’re a nerd, Mr. Techno.”

Hopefully, that was the right thing to say.

However, that hope went down the drain as Technoblade snorted and shook his head, “just Techno, kid. You don’t have to call me Mr or Sir, you don’t have to call anyone that if you don’t want to.”

If? If he doesn’t want to?

But that’s a rule—he’d be breaking the rule and then the kindness will be taken away and he’ll be hurt and he doesn’t want to be hurt, he just wants the nice touches and to be warm and so many other things but not to be bad.

Causing trouble is to become trouble and he has to be useful if he wants to survive.

“I… no thank you, sir.” Ranboo replied as politely as he could, stress making his throat tighten and his pearl quiver with nerves in his chest.

That was the right response, right? He didn’t just do something bad?

Because… because the ‘call me whatever’ thing had to be a trick? Would Mr. Techno be mad he figured it out? Was he supposed to pretend he wasn’t below the man and get beaten, was that the type of game his new master liked to play?

His previous master liked to ‘give’ him things and hurt him when he’d take it back.

And when Ranboo learned how to tell the difference, learned not to grab the food or the books when it smelled too fresh or Master had that smile on his face, the beating was always worse.

A bird sharply cawed right above them—Ranboo’s ears pressing flat against his head as he lunged to hide himself underneath one of his Master’s arms, the horse seeming to be as annoyed and familiar with what was happening as he was spooked and made it’s own huff and blew out some air towards the other animal.

Mr. Technoblade slowly moved his hand away from the little Enderian’s head and he swallowed down the pitiful whimper trying to push itself from his chest, a cry of please, please, I’ll be good, please, don’t let me go that he refused to release.

Ranboo stilled in his spot (after years of it being conditioned into him, he knows how to not move a single muscle, knows how to be quiet and good), not knowing what made the man move, but knowing that the next time hands are put onto him they might hurt.

He knew he wanted to remember what kindness felt like, so he had to be good.

He had to be good enough to be allowed to be alone for just a minute, then he’d be able to write it down in his book.

There’s a softer caw that makes his tail twitch and the fluttering of wings that makes his ears swivel back up to try and pinpoint—then a small rush of air, shuffling of a cloth, talons clicking as they latch onto something.

Ah.

Maybe it’s Mr. Techno’s friend, the bird.

Ranboo didn’t really have any friends, so he can’t really judge his Master for who the man decided to befriend. Even if he’s never seen or met a Real person who willingly tried to communicate with an animal if it wasn’t inherently useful or they could profit from it.

“Hey, Twitch,” Mr. Techno greeted his friend, getting a startlingly clear ‘Blade! Softnoblade!’ in reply—a reply he sighed heavily at. “I’m not soft, chat, shut utp. Is Phil home already?”

“Dadza,” Twitch cawed out a weird bird-laugh, “greedy, greedy Phil. Home. Home pog!” Flapping of wings followed that rather, uh, odd conversation and his Master sighed in exasperation.

“Well, guess the old man beat us.” Techno’s hand returned, warm and gentle and not hurting—and Ranboo melted with a soft, thankful noise, not fully realizing how his tail started to wag behind him.

His Master! His master was rewarding him with another kindness touch!

And he didn’t even do anything. Which was. Confusing.

But that’s okay! He’ll figure it out, mhm mhm, he will, because Ranboo likes not getting hurt when he’s touched and, and he likes when his Master rewards him with it and he’ll figure out how he’s being good and will be better at being good!

That way, that way he might remember the good too!

Oh, this is—mhm, this is a great plan. He’s gonna behave and listen and obey! He’s gonna be good!

He just… needs to figure out how he’s being good and how to deserve more Head Pats and then he’ll be all set, he’ll be able to serve his Master properly and he’s gonna figure out the expectations and what the weird words mean and why the man looks so different than other Real People without asking.

Mhm, he’s got this.

“Kid,” Mr. Techno says, making Ranboo tense and blink up at him slowly—that was definitely a tone that told him he had to listen, even though he wasn't a ‘kid’. “We’re here. I’m gonna get you inside first and you’re going to wait with Phil while I put Carl in his stall, okay? I have to take care of ‘im but it’ll be quick.”

“Oh—okay, s-sir.” Ranboo nodded, surprised that he’s not going to be helping puting Carl in the stall. Rarely do the Masters like to do things for themselves.

Carl, the horse, he assumes, shakes his head with a huff as if he knows he’s being talked about. Mr. Techno huffs back and pats the side of his neck, slowing them down to a trot once they reach what looks to be a small wooden home.

It was shorter than his old Master’s house but was still big, much bigger than the Hurting room and seemed much warmer too.

There was a weird part on top of the house, it looked like a funky hat. It had this… puffy thing coming out of it and oh! Oh, he knows what that is! It’s the—from the fire, there's a fire inside the house?—smoke, it’s called—it’s from fire, but why would there be fire inside of the house?—smoke, or something really close, he’s sure of it.

He’s trying to figure it all out, so very concentrated, that he barely notices when Mr. Techno leads Carl up to the house’s front steps. And then his Master is pulling away from him slightly and Ranboo freezes, recoiling as his arm raises towards his head.

His eyes squeeze shut, jaw clicking as he jerks, readying himself for the blow.

Only, he’s not hit, and the thing that comes next is only a small almost wounded noise from his Master as he stills too—both of them now just kind of… sitting there.

The Enderian dares not to move past the slight trembling in his shoulders, clinging to the cloak half wrapped around him. It’s confusing, he’s confused. Why is his Master waiting so long to strike?

Is it some kind of game?

Does he like messing with his head, his hope, the same way the ones from before did?

Is this when he turns cold, did Ranboo already be so bad that he lost the Head Pat privileges? He didn’t mean to be bad, but of course he still managed to be.

Of course a dirty slave like him can’t be good.

Can’t listen, can’t remember , can’t figure it out. Can’t, can’t, can’t.

Stupid little monster, stupid —

“Ranboo,” Mr. Techno began, voice strained, “I’m going to explain something to you, alright?”

And, well, the little ender child only nodded because, surely, refusal would result in punishment.

“I’m not good with this feelin’ stuff.” A slow but steady pink-tinted hand climbed into his view and Ranboo watched it warily until it, very hesitantly, patted his shoulder. Somehow, despite it truly being a comforting albeit confusing action, it felt incredibly awkward. “But I am good at sticking to my words, to my promises. And I promise I will not hurt you, alright? Philza, my friend, won’t either. I know yer scared ‘n that this is new to you, but you’re safe here. This is not a place that you will have to heal from. I pinky promise.”

The hand shifts, and he’s left with the man’s smallest finger in front of his face, and he doesn’t know how to handle that.

He doesn’t know how to trust this.

But he has to. He has to. So Ranboo, too scared to speak, only nodded, turning to press further against Mr. Techno as he raises his own shaking finger and wraps it around his Master’s. Their hands shake, and then are dropped, and then that gentle hand is in his hair. Still not disgusted, still not pulling away with a sneer or a shout.

Still not hurting, not painful. Just gentle.

Because his Master has promised, pinky promised, and those are more important than orders, something so very rare. Breaking orders has consequences, breaking a pinky-deal has to have even worse ones.

Breaks instead of bruises, weeks missing instead of days or hours.

Nightmares, water, worse than the Hurting Room.

But… those are punishments for him, those are ways that his old Masters tried to fix him, to make him listen better, to be good. Not for Real People like Mr. Techno.

Terrifying, warm Mr. Techno who promises—as if something as important as a promise should be wasted on the likes of him again —that he won’t be hurt. And it’s—he knows it’s stupid to belief him. Stupid, because he deserves to be hurt. If he cannot learn, he has to be motivated . He has to be shown, has to try to be put back together correctly because he’s so broken and wrong .

But Ranboo is very tired, and the nice touches are, well, nice.

And he likes it, even if he knows it won’t last.

It’s like when the Masters had people over they couldn’t teach him in front of, the ones that they’d never stain their hands with something as filthy as his blood around.

This kindness has an expiration date.

But he’s going to enjoy it, because he wants to remember the good things if he remembers nothing else. He’s going to try to write it all down, everything.

He’s going to be good because…

Because Mr. Techno promised he’d be good back to Ranboo in return.

And he believes him. Foolishly, simply, he believes Mr. Techno.