Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world ends as it began, screaming and covered in it's mother's blood. All a pain in a womb, once a birth and now a dagger slid into her side.

Humanity has waged its inner wars until the story has become too repetitive, too stale. The gods seek to draw the story of this world to a close. A satisfying ending to a sometimes unsatisfactory tale. The gods of this world are friendly, yet fickle things. Raised on milk, laughter, and rich honey. Even the gods of war, the gods of blood, the gods of death. Yes, even the gods of the end of the world.
The universe snaps shut the story of one of it's worlds. The hands that do the deed are young, soft, and horrifically unclean. The hands that do the deed belong to a boy named Technoblade.

Instead of a womb the prophesized Technoblade steps from the ashes of a bomb. Fawn new legs quivering as he immerges from the gore it left behind. A being made from dust and mass death, tiny and full of righteous rage.
Humans have been cruel for a very long time. He is a punishment they should've seen coming. He is a curse that has been coiling itself to massive size between the dark of centuries.

Technoblade will do nothing humans have not already done to themselves.

So he does what all humans do as they are born, cry. He may not be one of them but he is the amalgamation of humanity's whole. He is their cruelty combined, so he cries.
He leans on the last wall left standing, sobbing, draped in ash and blood stains. Weeping hard and weeping long.

His pink hair scrapes against the ground. His arms dripping red, his mind a chorus of voices all chanting one thing. Blood for the blood god. For god, for glory, to chain the sun to the ground. His small frame seeks to massacre them all.

Humans find him as they walk over exposed reinforcement bars and shattered concrete. The rescue teams extend gloved hands to his dyed completely through with gore. They grab on to him tightly, firmly. They grab so tight as to not let him land any hits. Hits he swings blindly, carelessly, with a child’s rage.

“What’s your name, kid?” a man asks through a medical mask.

“Technoblade,” he answers honestly.

The man raises a brow, but otherwise agrees.

“Nice name. How old are you, Technoblade?”

“I am brand new,”

The man just nods.

Words are slapped onto his chest. Words like refugee, delusions, trauma, shock, survivor. Technoblade does not know if he is any of these things. He only knows he is cruel, he only knows the people that scrub soot of his nose have to be too.
A certain amount of time passes. He isn’t used to the units of measurement that bind such things. However, he meets another man.

The blonde man enters the blue tarp tent Techno’s been sitting in for a while.

“Hello Techno! How are you feeling, mate?”

Techno blinks at him. Teeth itching to rip out his throat.

“Hungry,” he says, bored.

“Sure thing. I’ll grab you a protein bar,” the man exits the tarp and returns with said protein bar.

Techno bites through it, plastic wrapping and all. The man laughs at him and he cannot help but marvel at the sound.
Turns out, the man’s name is Phil.

Techno learns this information because Phil waits a full week trying to turn up Techno’s parents, who don’t exist. Digging through the rubble left from the bomb to find the phantoms. When the phantoms don’t show, or are attributed to skeletons, Phil drops a question into Techno’s lap.

“Do you want to come live with me?” Phil asks, kneeling down on his knees to be on eye level with the tiny harbinger of the end of time.

Techno doesn’t understand what that means. He nods.

His nodding makes Phil smile. Techno marvels at the sight.
Phil teaches him how to use a hair band to keep from tripping on his massive train of pink. Phil teaches him how to eat a protein bar correctly, and how to open a water bottle. Phil holds his hand during a ride on something called a plane. Phil places a larger version of those mittens babies wear to keep from hitting themselves over his hands.
The blonde man with the kind eyes does not turn him away as Techno claws into his own skin or anyone else’s. His heart does not turn sour when he places dental guards in Techno’s mouth so he stops biting until something bleeds. Techno, so new to everything, labels this cruelty.

All Techno can understand is the choir in his head that sings of swallowing the sun.

It is a sight like a wolf in chains, Technoblade is. Humans think he is 7, whatever that means. Humans, mainly Phil, have placed a muzzle over his mouth and mittens on his hands. They sit him in hotel rooms and give him coloring books, frowning when he only uses the red crayon. They feed him soft foods and make phone calls.

“Kristen, I promised that I’m not giving up on this kid. The foster system is just going to crush him. I don’t know what else I can do,” Phil says on one of these phone calls.

Techno watches him shut his eyes, listening to Kristen on the other end.

“In a week. I’ll have him ready to come home in a week. Yeah. Love you too,” the phone falls from his face.

Phil cries, and Techno’s stomach sinks. Childishly he wraps his arms around Phil’s legs. Immediately trying to wiggle away when this only makes Phil cry harder.
But Phil had wrapped him up into his arms. Muttering all sorts of things about family and brothers and learning how to move on from bomb shells.

For all Phil knows, Techno is a child that survived a bomb. Traumatized to the point he doesn’t know his name, or his age, or anything beyond his own delusions.

Technoblade is the one to fill the rivers with blood and his teeth are designed to chew on the sun. He is vicious, he is cruel. Everyone thinks he’s 7 years old.
Everyone can think what they want to think, the ending remains the same. The voices in his head will make sure of that. Right now his tiny hands may be wrapped around a man named Phil, but one day they’re going to snap this book close.

Chapter Text

Technoblade has now been separated into two words. First name Techno, last name Blade. Able to fit on a legal document so he can be a person.
Techno seriously doubts that he’s a person.

He remembers being born from the ashes of the bomb. He’s heard the voices all his life. Still, it’s harder to believe he’s a psychopomp rather than psychotic. Childhood trauma a likelier story than heaven sent killer. However, one story has holes, and the other doesn’t.

Him and his therapist disagree on which story that is.

Speaking of therapy, Wilbur is driving him home from his bi-weekly session. It was a harder one this time. Seeing that he’s popped his dental guard in and has been chewing furiously on his stim necklace.
Tommy kicks the back of his seat. Techno quickly whips around.

“Do it again and I’ll kill Henry,” Techno snaps.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Tommy contorts his face.

“I would. Stop kicking my seat,”

Techno smiles wickedly as Tommy curls back into his car seat in defeat. Valuing his Minecraft cow over annoying his older brother.

“Tommy, stop kicking his seat. Techno, stop threatening to kill Henry. What do you fuckers want to eat?” Wilbur taps his hands on the steering wheel.

Wilbur is 18, Tommy is 14. Techno’s probably 16. His exact birthday has been lost to time, so he just stole Wilbur’s. Who now insists that they’re twins and would do so down to his grave.

“Burger King,” Tommy replies immediately.

“Sure,” Techno says.

Wilbur nods. Turning in to the Burger King drive through. That was his first mistake, listening to Tommy.

“I swear if you get ice cream on my seats-“

Perfectly timed with Wilbur’s warning, a thick glob of ice cream plops onto the leather seats of his brand-new car. Techno and Tommy cannot help but laugh as their brother moans in agony.

“I told you not to get it!” he snorts.

“Literally no one cares, Techno Blade,” Will says.

Techno mockingly sniffles, “I did it all for you Wilbur,”

“Yeah, and I fucking hate you for it,” Will gives the lie away by smiling.

They turn into their driveway. Alive and well and still hung up about staining the seats.
Techno rushes to his room, bag of Burger King in hand, before the voices can chime in. They always get bad at the dinner table. Something about putting his whole family in one place really ticks them off.

E?
Not e. Pog
Pog?
Techno-late. Techno-late to dinner.
E!
Pog pog pog pog
Blood for the blood god

Techno frowns sharply at the last comment. Digging into a chicken nugget.
Techno has tried very hard to ignore them. He has a great therapist, an understanding family, amazing friends. The whole support group and everything! He’s had nothing but amazing people in his life ever since the bomb dropped. So, forgive him if he isn’t able to understand why he’s still caught up on the whole apocalypse thing.

Puffy says he probably developed the delusion as a safeguard during what, as a small child, would have felt like the end of the world. Which makes sense.
It makes sense until he’s never dyed his hair pink. It’s his natural color. He buys boxes of hair dye roughly his shade routinely to keep up the act but has never used them. He’s never admitted it to anyone, not even Puffy.

The auditory hallucinations are, fine. He guesses they’re fine. Sometimes they’re funny.

Question mark? Exclamation point!
Techno-late to dinner
E
Snap their spines close
E?
Exclamation point!

Point in case. They’re only funny sometimes. Most of the time they’re mocking him or telling him to do violent things.
The doubt in Techno’s chest boils as he knows hallucinations don’t predict the future.

Once they told him that if he didn’t move Tommy out of the way, he’s going to get hurt. He had ignored them. Only to regret it when Tommy’s nose got broken from a stray baseball smacking into his face.
Techno tried to listen to their warnings after that. Puffy said that it’s probably his intuition getting a physical voice, and that would make sense. It makes sense until he can predict storms the weather channel didn't, or major world events no one saw coming.

Techno angrily eats another piece of chicken. Bitter at his predicament.

Pick it up. Pick it up
Blood for the blood god
Pick it up!
E
Blood for the blood god!

He shuts his eyes. Attempting to squeeze them out of his head. Trying very hard not to hit himself, as Phil doesn’t like it when he smacks his head trying to get them to shut up.
When he opens his eyes there is a sword floating in the air in front of him. He frowns.

He’s had visual hallucinations once or twice. Puffy’s taught him how to cope with them in case they ever develop. Techno gets up, shoves a fry into his mouth, and pokes his head into Wilbur’s room.

“Uh. Can you come confirm that there’s not a floating sword in my room?” he asks with his mouth full.

Will looks up from his computer screen, “Sure,”

The two look directly at the sword. Floating midair. A black long sword with a jagged hilt and emerald green pommel. Glowing purple. Puffy can help him unpack this later. All he has to wait for is Wilbur to confirm this is just a figment of his imagination, and nothing more.

Wilbur just keeps staring at the sword.

“Heh?”

Techno’s heart stops dead in its tracks as Wilbur reaches out and touches the sword. Clattering uselessly to the floor.

“What the fuck,” they say in unison.

Wilbur meets Techno’s eyes, equally as spooked.

Techno hurriedly grabs the blade, wincing at how loud the voices get at its touch, and shoves it beneath his bed.

“What are you doing?” Wilbur stage whispers.

“Look. Dad’s gonna think I bought it, or stole it, or whatever. He’s never going to believe it just appeared. Especially not when that story is coming from me,” he gestures to himself for emphasis.

“But I saw it too! He’ll believe me,” he tries to argue.

“He didn’t believe you needed glasses for like, 3 years,” Techno retorts.

He feels like he just got caught red handed. Like the drugs dogs have finally sniffed him out and revealed him as a fraud.
It’s probably the worlds strangest case of imposter syndrome ever, but that’s beside the point.

The point is it’s not a hallucination. Wilbur touched it. Now the voices are insisting it be called the orphan obliterator, which is the dumbest name he’s ever heard. Worst of all he can’t even be disappointed in the naming skills of the voices in his head because he’s realizing his inherent villainy is going to be made apparent to the rest of the world.
Apparent to Wilbur. Who’s finally going to realize how awful a person, if a person at all, Techno really is. Because good people do not herald doom in their wake.

Chapter Text

Wilbur is sort of a genius, Techno thinks. Because instead of coming to the conclusion that Techno is evil and awful and needs to be put down for his crimes, he presents the most brilliant idea ever heard. Like handing him a gift on their birthday.

“This is your superhero origin story, man!”

Now that’s something that can make sense. Of all things, it makes more sense that Techno Blade is a superhero than anything else. He clearly isn’t just some rescued refugee, that’s his tragic background. He clearly isn’t a harbinger of the apocalypse, that’s his superhero gimmick. It clicks in his head like a cog sliding into place. Everything makes sense now. Everything makes sense because he's been a superhero all along.

“Really?” Techno asks hopefully.

“Well. Um. I don’t want to say anything that would do harm to you in the long run if I’m wrong, but mysterious swords only mean one the one singular thing,” Wilbur sits on the floor next to him.

“Well two. But I’m not King Arthur,” Techno pauses, “Wait am I King Arthur?”

“You aren’t British,” he says.

Technically he isn’t anything. He’s being raised in England, but he definitely doesn’t have an accent. Phil rescued him from California like he came home with a blood thirsty puppy. Luckily everyone thought he was cute enough to keep.

“Right,” Techno confirms.

“I don’t know, that could be your superhero gimmick,” Wilbur suggests, “King Blade or some shit. The sword can be Excalibur,”

He shakes his head, pink strands flying, “No. It’s the orphan obliterator,”

“That’s stupid,”

“Hey, I didn’t pick it out,”

Wilbur gets a look.

“Are the voices saying anything?” he asks carefully.

“They’re the ones that told me to pick it up,” Techno’s anxiety curls in his throat watching the expression on Will’s face deepen.

“It’s fine-“

“No, Techno. If I’m wrong then it isn’t fine. I’m feeding into your delusions or some shit, it’d be an asshole move,” Wilbur rubs his own shoulder.

“If you’re right I’m a superhero. And this does look like superhero bullshit,” he points out.

Wilbur grins, “I’ve never met a pink haired person that isn’t a superhero,”

Maybe later on his superhero journey he’ll admit to Wilbur why that statement is incredibly ironic, but for now he’s going to smile and nod. Techno has spent his whole life devastating paranoid that his destiny is to destroy the planet and murder everyone on it. Except now he’s a superhero. Which means he’s a beacon of light and hope and will always win the day. He'll beat up bad guys or something.

Techno ignores how the voices swim beneath his skin, excited by the idea of beating things up.

E!

Technoblade never dies

Techno-soft

Kill Wilbur

Pointedly ignoring most of the voices, he picks out the one that actually said something cool. Technoblade never dies? That’d be a cool catch phrase if it didn’t have his name in it.

“How am I going to pick out a superhero name when my actual name is Techno Blade,”

Wilbur chokes on his laughter.

“That isn’t funny, Wilbur. My superhero career is going to dox me!” he starts laughing too as Wilbur slaps his knee.

Yeah. He can make this work. He can be the hero. He can fix everything! He can fix himself! He can save the world rather than destroy it. Instead of being the murderous, vile monster his mind suggests he is Techno could prevent himself from ever becoming that. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll never die and that can be a good thing.

"Wilbur, seriously though. I need a power point on how to become a superhero,"

Techno watches his brother think for a second.

"First off you need to learn how to use the sword. And then you, hm," Wilbur gets stumped.

"We can ask dad for sword fighting lessons, I guess. Cover it up with therapy shit. And I guess watch a superhero movie?" Techno suggests.

Easy. Dad is always so ready to help his sons with anything. Even if he caves less than mom does. So, the two make sure the orphan obliterator is hidden completely before rushing downstairs to bother their dad.

Dad and mom sit on the couch laughing at something Tommy said.

"Mom! Dad! Can me and Techno learn how to sword fight?" Wilbur interrupts, leaning on the back of the couch.

All three of them give him weird looks.

"That's suspicious," Tommy quips.

"Yeah, why this all of a sudden?" mom asks.

"Puffy said I should find a fun exercise to do with someone close to me. Wilbur suggested we do sword fighting," Techno shoves the metaphorical leaves over their metaphorical tracks.

"Sure. I'll start looking for classes," Dad says carefully, raising his brow.

"Thanks dad!" the twins say at the same time, rushing back upstairs to Techno's room.

Wilbur is probably the person Techno is closest too, and it shows. Since he has no obligation to take care of him, he's found it easier to tell Wilbur things that are noticeably weird. Easier to be open to him. It's why he went to Will about the sword instead of dad or mom. Which, thank fuck. Imagine their reactions to the damn thing. He knows it has to be hard raising a kid like him, he gets it. That's going to be changing very soon. Very, very soon. Because Techno is going to become the hero and put the word on his shoulders like Atlas instead of devouring it like Fenrir. His parents will be proud of him, Puffy will be proud of him, Wilbur and Tommy are going to be so damn proud of him.

This is coping. Right? Who doesn't become a superhero to cope? Batman's a superhero instead of doing therapy and Techno is doing both, so he's one-upping Batman. Like who one up's Batman? Techno does, apparently. Now to find a name for his new sword that doesn't suck.

Coochie slayer!

E. e. e.

Question mark?

Techno is absolutely not going to be naming his sword coochie slayer. He's pretty sure the voices are acephobes for that.

Chapter Text

Techno looks down to the bottom left of his computer at his in-game chat.

Tommyinnit: fukc you
Tommyinnit: die
Tommyinnit: due

Techno smirks at his screen, face squished as he rests his head in his hand.
It’s his and Tommy’s thing, you know? Their skyblock island is how they bond. Even if that bonding includes sabotage and backstabbing it’s all in a video game. On top of showing affection to his little brother it allows him to blow off steam. The voices are too dumb to tell the difference between minecraft pvp and actual murder.

He really doesn’t want to think about the mental logistics of satisfying his auditory hallucinations by being good at minecraft. He much rather laugh at his little brothers' misfortunes, as he sucks at minecraft.
Tommy’s also 14 and a lanky sack of Aries horoscope traits so Techno will let it slide.

Suddenly there’s a furious knock on his door.

“Come in,” he says, still smiling.

Tommy peaks his head in, clearly distraught.

“How dare you,” Tommy’s jaw drops as Techno laughs at him, “You’re a massive dickhead. I hate you. You’ve threatened Henry and that’s just too far. I’m hanging your head on my mantle,”

“My minecraft head?” Techno taunts.

Tommy just looks at him like he’s stupid. “Duh,”

“I seriously doubt that you have a mantle. You look homeless,” he jokes.

“Real big talk coming from a fucking pig in a crown,”
“Hey, at least I have a crown. All you have is two shirts,”

Tommy shakes his head like he’s refusing to doubt the inherent superiority of his minecraft skin. Too stubborn to even come up with a comeback.

He then shuts the door and runs off back to his room. Not even a minute later Techno gets a notification, “Tommyinnit challenges you to a duel!”. He clicks accept.

Now that the instant high of Wilbur not suddenly hating him has faded, Techno feels super self-conscious about falling for the superhero thing.
It was just really satisfying to hear after spending a lifetime convinced he’s evil, that’s all. Just a satisfying story to hear from his brother’s mouth. Just a fun thought, a pretty idea. He knows he’s not actually going to put on a stupid costume and fight crime.

Fight?
Poggers. Pog
Fight!
E
Exclamation point!

Not actually fighting. No fighting.
Techno feels dumb for falling for it, and even dumber for letting Wilbur convince dad actually schedule them sword fighting lessons. He can’t even think the word fight-

Fight!

-without immediately obsessing over the idea. The last thing he needs is a sword, even less to know how to use it.
The voices shift in their seats as Tommy’s minecraft character disappears. Hearts reduced to zero.

The silence of the room is broken by his own deep sigh. Techno’s never even read comics or anything. He’s watched some movies but who hasn’t? They’re mainstream nerd shit. He does not have the hours in the day to only focus on all of his more niche nerd shit.

He can physically feel his skin crawl thinking about the orphan obliterator. Sitting obediently beneath his bed, stupid name and all.

He shivers, queueing up for a bedwars game.
Techno knows that swords are obviously made of metal. That’s like, the whole point of a sword. The orphan obliterator clearly isn’t made of metal, but this twisted black substance Techno can’t quite but his finger on. Intertwined delicately with purples and greens. It looks sick, looks sickening. Like a scar from the earth pulled into a weaponized form, fitted to his grip.

After pulling off an impressive pearl clutch, he moves on to the next topic of his internal debate.

If the sword isn’t made of metal, then it’s a prop. Then it’s likely a prank. Wilbur probably is just playing a sick joke. Except Wilbur would never pull a joke designed to fuck with his psychosis. He’s always been supportive and considerate. Always.
Techno feels guilty for doubting Wilbur.

But beyond guilt, beyond doubt, beyond his internal struggle of what is reality and what is not, there are two options.

Option one is the sword ties into his cursed duty as doomsday’s herald. Clearly that fucking sucks.

Option two is the sword ties into his superhero origin story. Significantly better, albeit cringe worthy.

Now to his knowledge there’s never been a real life superhero before. There has, however, been a million prophecies from a million religions about how the world will end.
Temporarily the bedwars victory screen eases his woes before his woes start back up again like the little bitches they are.

There is always a rhyme to a superhero story.
It’s an inherit aspect of the medium. It needs the ability to continue forever, without interference. The genre relies on repetition to survive.
Someone special has something awful happen to them, then they go off to save the day. Saving the day again, and again, until the end of days.

The superhero needs to be marketable. They are a brand as much as they are the gallant hero. Their stories pair nicely with coming of age stories.
Techno is a weird kid with a weird name, weird hair color, and a tragic past. All he would need to do is start a brand and a win streak.

It makes sense. Too much sense. It makes so much sense but there is a pervasive layer of shame laced throughout the logic. A twinge of embarrassment the whole way through. Who is he, really, to believe himself some chosen hero? Just so he can stop being some chosen villain? Just so his family cannot hate him as much as he hates himself?

He can be their pride, their joy, their savior, but there is this deep fear. This deep fear that he was born to devour them. Techno Blade briefly considers the irony of his mysterious blessing or bane being a sword. Then he doubts if it’s ironic at all.
Then he queues up for another bedwars game

Chapter Text

Now Techno may be an introvert but he’s pretty proud to say he has an amazing group of friends.
Calvin, his sensei. Dream, the kid Techno famously won 100$ for beating his ass in the school gym. Sophie, the mandatory queer 'girl' among the nerdy gamer boys. Last and also least, Skeppy. The kid who coughed up 50$ of Techno’s 100$.
They’ve all been friends since middle school. Always been incredibly supportive of Techno, probably because kids like them always travel in packs.

Now they’re all coming over, at Wilbur’s request, to be recruited into Wilbur’s new superhero team. Yeah, Techno’s wincing at the mere thought.
The last thing he wants is to ruin all his relationships all at once over this dumb sword.
Speaking of the orphan obliterator, he picked the worst possible place to hide it. Not that there’s many other hiding locations for something of that length.

It’s near impossible to sleep when Techno has a chorus of voices demanding he, what, make out with it? He doesn’t even know what they’re demanding of him. He doesn’t even know if that ignorance is willful or not. What he does know is his skin aches whenever he gets too close. That his sheets are soaked in sweat.
That he really wants to touch the fucking sword, but not more than he currently wants to go to sleep.

Techno fades in and out of sleep on the couch, listening to his bedding get tossed around in the washer. His phone buzzes in the front pocket of his hoodie. It rings, and rings, then it stops.
This tantalizing version of rest gets rudely interrupted when Skeppy busts in through the front door.

Shit. He should’ve never told him the passcode to the damn lock.

“Wake up sleepy head, we’re gonna go see a movie!” Skeppy makes him bounce as he throws himself onto the couch.

Techno groans. Making sure to kick his friend while he turns from laying on his side to his back.
Mom says something to them as she passes through the living room, Skeppy cheerfully replies.

Wilbur comes down the stairs, jangling his keys.

"Everyone outside?" he asks.

"Yeah, we came in Dream's car," Skeppy answers.

Wilbur throws his keys into a a bucket by the door and walks outside. Techno begrudgingly slides off the couch to follow him and Skeppy out the door.

The movie they’re seeing is Origins: Rise of the Crowfather. First in its trilogy. Everything about it screams marketable plushies and not much more.
The anarchist inside him shakes in its boots at the idea of being turned into a marketable plushie for the sake of the greater good. Do all superheroes have to do that, or can he round off a couple corners? What would a Technoplushie even look like?

They sit in the middle of the theater, Wilbur on his left and Dream on his right. They both eat all of his popcorn before the damn thing even starts. There’s an annoying smudge on his glasses he’s too stubborn to wipe away.

This should be silly. It's such a stupid premise and concept and it’s barely even art. He should be making fun of this. This should be snapping him out of his grand idea of heroism.
It's ripping his heart in half instead. This stupid cash grab of a movie is so profound that he's tensing up, trying everything to not cry because he'll never live it down if he does. Glued to his seat, eyes wide open.

Techno Blade’s jaw drops as he watches the hero save the world.

Heroes do that all the time! That’s their bread and butter! It’s the most beautiful concept Techno has ever seen. Techno flashes back to a time when he was 14. Tommy’s age.
A time when the voices got too loud, the pressure too excruciating, the weight of fate pressing its thumb into his back hard enough to bend his spine. He was going to jump out the window of his second story bedroom. He really, really was going to.
But then mom knocked on the door. Techno could bare the idea of destroying the world easier than the idea of hurting his mom. So, he didn’t jump out the window that night.

She was a saving angel, even if the fall was short enough that he’d probably had been able to escape with a broken bone.
What if, Techno realizes in the dark movie theater, he could pay that forward? If he could save someone else like his mother saved him?
Like how the Crowfather saved the world?
—
When they pile back into Techno’s room, Wilbur sits everyone but Techno and him into a semi-circle facing the side of the bed.

“Now you wonder why I called you here to this meeting,” Will announces.

A couple of Yeah’s and some nods.
Techno knows they’re always going to see Wilbur as his weird older brother that used to drive them around before Dream got a car. They’re mentally prepared for some funny antic or practical joke.

“Bring ‘er out, Techno!” he signals for Techno to pull the orphan obliterator out from under the bed.

Reluctantly, he does. All that reluctance falls away like smoke once he wraps his hand around the hilt. All of his self esteem issues melt at the touch. Evaporating with the heat of the blade’s purpose.
He drapes it across his lap, mindlessly dragging a finger down the coiled, black length of the broad end of the blade.

“Oh, that’s sick!” Calvin gets an expression of childlike glee.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Dream asks, equally in awe.

“Yeah,” is all Sophie can say. Eyes wide.

“Well, uh. It sort of just appeared,” Techno admits.

“Appeared?” Dream cocks a brow.

“I can vouch! He came into my room to ask me to clarify that it was a hallucination, and clearly we’re all looking at it right now,” Wilbur defends their case.

The door opens and honestly? It’d be better if they were in the middle of hiding a body. Much easier to explain murder than mysterious swords his auditory hallucinations have a fascination with.
Luckily, it’s just Tommy. Wait fuck, it’s Tommy!

“Knock next time you piece of shit!” Wilbur rushes over to drag him in, pointedly shutting the door behind him.

Wilbur, much to Techno’s surprise, quickly explains the orphan obliterator’s story to Tommy. Who, even more to Techno’s surprise, gets just as wide eyed an expression as everyone else.

“So what does that mean?” their little brother asks.

Techno shrinks, knowing what comes next. Wilbur gets a grin.

“Well obviously it means he’s a superhero. Like, who else finds floating swords in their bedroom?”

Dream throws in his two cents, “King Arthur?”

“Already checked off. Superhero is the only logical explanation,” Wilbur slides the two pennies back to him.

Techno closes his eyes awaiting his fate. To get mocked, to get ridiculed. It’s a silly idea anyways. He knows this.

“That makes,” Calvin stutters, “That makes too much sense,”

Oh. Oh really? They think it makes sense too?
Techno listens to his best friends and two brothers list of all the reasons it makes sense that he’d be a superhero. Odd occurrences, quirky traits, telltale signs. There’s a level of validation and security sown into the words that Techno has never felt before.
He’s holding a sword but in actuality it feels like holding the entire world. Finally, at long last, he’s been granted the option of holding the globe gently.

He’s not going to squeeze too hard. He’s not going to fuck this up. He can do this, he can save everyone. He doesn’t have to crush the universe in his fist when instead he can start fighting crime.
Techno doesn’t have to be the bringer of death anymore. There is a second option now.

Chapter Text

Techno sits on the same spot on the same comfortable couch, grabs the same pillow and pulls it into his lap, and prepares to dump his heart out. Like every therapy appointment beforehand. Hell, Puffy even sits in the same exact spot she always does.

It’s just now that he’s here he realizes how little he can talk about. So much has happened but, how much can he tell her?

“So, what’s something good that happened to start us off?” Puffy asks, with a polite smile.

“My friends and I saw a movie,” Techno clings a bit tighter to his pillow.

“Oh, which one?”
“Uh. The new Crowfather movie,”
“Is it good?”

Techno answers with complete honestly, “It’s the best,”

“Are you a big superhero fan? Didn’t make you for the type,” Puffy fiddles with the holes in her jeans.

“Because I’m not,”

Puffy raises a brow. His throat tightens.

He never was a superhero fan before, not until it served him to be one. But that’s what superheroes do, right? Serve the people? Is Techno a person, does he count under that duty? There’s an awkward pause.

“Sorry, my RSD is flaring up,” Techno admits.

“Why?” she asks calmly and carefully.

Techno can’t tell her. Techno can’t tell her fully why he’s feeling so shitty right now because of floating swords and this horrific guilt.
He feels so sick for wanting this semblance of comfort. So sick for wanting to be something he fears he is not.

How does one admit to their therapist that they’re trying to become a superhero so they don’t become the herald of doomsday? That Techno is trying to swap out his divine destiny Indiana Jones style?

It’s the choice between good and evil laid before him. Techno wants more than anything to be able to choose good when some intrinsic part of him knows it isn’t even on the table. How it isn’t an option in the first place and this whole escapade is a fool’s errand. How he isn’t going to be saving anybody.
Instead of saying, well, all of that, Techno just answers with the same plain deadpan tone he always does.

“I want to be a superhero,”

Puffy’s tried to help him work through the whole delusion about having a destiny to destroy the world. She’s explained how that probably started as a defense mechanism cooked up by a little child watching the bomb drop.
How’s she going to help him logic this one through?

“That makes sense,” she says.

There it is. The shred of logic interwoven in animalistic shame, the fact that it all makes sense.

“Saving the world is better than destroying it, right?” Puffy prompts him to answer.

“Yeah,” Techno confesses, a weight lifting off of his shoulders.

“Then I say go for it. Go find out how to be a superhero. Your dad an emergency response doctor, why don’t you join a crisis team like him?” she tucks her fluffy white hair back into place where it had fallen.

“And go save another kid from the ruins of California?” Techno tries to joke.

“And go save another kid from the ruins of California,” Puffy says, in all seriousness.

The sour feeling building in his throat starts to dissipate. Dad would be so excited if he came home asking to start volunteering for the crisis center, but sadly Techno is trying to save the world in the very literal sense. The fighting crime in a costume type of sense.

When the session is over, he shoots Wilbur a text.

You- Get in looser we’re going to build-a-bear workshop

Wilbur :) : only if you pay 4 it

You- Wil you can’t say that I’m younger than you

Wilbur :) : I’m not paying for a 30$ bear Tech

Wilbur is certainly going to be paying for the 30$ bear. He pulls up to the office a bit pissed off at that fact, but he brought Tommy and his wallet anyways.
Once Techno is let loose to fulfill out his own devious machinations in the Build-a-Bear, he has one goal and only goal only.

He takes the adorable pink pig and starts to scour the store for the best, and only the best, accessories for his very own Technoplushie.
All superheroes have to be able to be turned into plushies and Techno does not plan on being the exception.

Question mark? Exclamation point!
Technoplushie pog? Poggers?
E
Give them a little crown
Kill the kid that keeps screaming

Well, if that kid does keep screaming Techno might give in to his violent illusions. Instead of murdering small children, Techno obediently looks over to the tiny golden crown and puts it on the little pig’s head. It’s adorable.
Sometimes these bitches do have good taste.
Techno also snatches up the exceedingly royal red cape and the package of earrings made for his new stuffed animal, and just like that his mission is done.

Wilbur gets a fish, of all things. It’s named New Milo because the first Milo got ripped in two at the stuffing machine.
Tommy gets a spider named Shroud. The devil child took money out from his own allowance to add a voice box, which he made a clip of the streamer Shroud shouting, something? It’s too distorted to make out.

Techno makes a mental note to destroy Shroud the spider before sundown.

“You got a pig in a crown,” Tommy says fondly.

Techno glares at him like the affection is the most disgusting thing he’s ever heard. Tommy understands exactly what he means.

“All superheroes need marketable plushies,” he states.

“Techno I just realized that if you name your car something stupid like the Techno-mobile I’ll run it into a tree,” Wilbur suddenly says.

“Well obviously it’s going to be named Shroud,” he jokes. Rewarded instantly as Tommy gets a big, stupid, toothy grin.

When Techno gets home, he gently places the Technoplushie on his pillow. It’s dull little eyes forcing him to smile at least a little bit.
No smiling. He’s a man on a mission.

Mission being to talk some sense into the orphan obliterator. Show it who’s boss, make it get with the program.
Techno double checks that his door is locked and drags the blade out from under the bed. The voices squirm in excitement.

“Listen here you little shit,” he points his finger judgmentally at the twisted black shard, “We’re going to do some good together, you hear me? We’re going to save the world and sell plushies, and I don’t want to hear a word from you,”

The sword remains silent.

“That’s what I thought,”

Chapter Text

“Tommy give it back!” Dream grabs his little brother by his armpits, hoisting him up in the air kicking and screaming.

“Bitch!” Tommy yelps, trying to kick Dream in the balls.

Techno tosses a small pebble at the two. Him, Sophie, and Calvin sit on top of a park table laughing at them.

“He really did just drop kick a child,” Calvin shakes his head.

“In self defense!” Techno defends Dream.

Techno has certainly had to toss Tommy across rooms. Scrawny bastard can surprisingly put up one hell of a fight. Raccoon instincts, Wilbur claims.
The neighborhood park is the go-to hang out spot when they can’t get Wilbur to drive them anywhere. None of them can be trusted to drive.
Damn, how’s he supposed to save the world if he has to have Wilbur drive him to the world in the first place?

E. PogChamp
Technoblade never dies
E!
Blood for the blood god

Techno frowns. He hates when they say that. Who the hell is the blood god and why are they a nosy, demanding bitch?
He could go on about it. About how there is this endless, suffocating guilt. Throughout his entire body and squeezing possessively at his soul. But he isn’t going to be an angsty teenager today, he reminds himself.
Today he’s hanging at the park with his friends. Today Techno is going to watch Dream and Tommy bicker. Today he is going to go home and listen to Wilbur infodump and today he is going to-

“What’s your superhero name?” Sophie asks.

-oh. Today he is picking out his superhero name.

“Uh, I’m already named Techno Blade. I don’t know how much more superhero-y I can get,” he pops his knuckles.

When you’re some random kid no country has any documentation of, wandering around a detonation site, with bright pink hair, they’ll let you name yourself anything you fucking want. Now he’s got to pick a name even stranger than that? What can one up literally being named Techno Blade?

“Simple,” Sophie beams, proud of herself, “You’re the Blade!”

She adds jazz hands for emphasis. Techno cracks a smile.

“That’s literally just my last name,”
“I think it’s cool,”

All three teenagers jump at the sound of Tommy’s voice, who snuck up on them.

“The Blade works, it’s a bit simple though,” Calvin says.

“And I sort of have to have some sort of pig motif. It’s in the plushies and everything,” he points out.

“You’re a fucking nerd,” Sophie teases.

The irony of her saying that makes Calvin snort at her.

“Ok. Sure. The Farmer’s Blade. Ei, Ei, O!” he teases harder.

“Calvin!” Sophie hits his shoulder.

“Old McTechno had a farm!” Calvin starts.

“Ei, Ei, O!” Tommy finishes.

Techno rolls his eyes.
He’s never going to get a superhero name. He’s just going to have to dox himself, like how his real name is also just his minecraft username.
It’s like if Peter Parker just said he who he was whenever prompted. Like if everyone knew Bruce Wayne was Batman. He doesn’t even have to worry about the Clark Kent affect, he’s pulling up to the supervillain’s lair with a name tag with his pronouns on it. “Techno Blade, he/him,” it’ll read. The dot of the ‘i’ will be a tiny heart.

“Ok. Pig skull mask. The Blade. Big red cape,” Sophie says quickly.

Techno blinks. She really did just solve the puzzle in like, three seconds.
Tommy gets a big smile.

“Definitely! And I’ll be Theseus!” he points a confident thumb to his chest.

“Who said you’re getting to be a superhero too?” Techno says.

Theseus?
Welcome home, Theseus!
E

Oh, now Tommy’s certainly not going to be doing jack fucking shit near any heroism. Absolutely not. Not when the voices are reacting to that name.
But it’s been Tommy’s nickname forever, he reasons. Techno isn’t going to be a guilty lil nothing today, right? Tommy can be Theseus. He can be Theseus.

“They‘ll never suspect me. I’ll crawl through the vents all stealth like,” Tommy boasts.

“Like hell you are!” Dream lifts him off the ground again, Tommy yells in protest.

Sophie rolls her eyes, “Is that cool?”

“Hm?”
“The costume design I just came up with?”
“Oh. Absolutely,”

Calvin also agrees.
“I was going to say neon pink spandex,”

“Of course,” Techno huffs.

Eventually they each leave the park one by one. Sophie agreeing to force Skeppy into helping her make the cape, whenever she can tear him away from Bad. Techno is in charge of the mask. Wilbur is in charge of getting Tommy a costume.

When they get upstairs the two stand outside of Wilbur’s room. The little sign hanging from the door flipped to red, which means do not come in.
Wilbur only does that on bad days. Everyone uses that system and only uses it on bad days. Techno’s breath catches in his throat.

Right. Wilbur had therapy today. Probably just had an intense session, no big deal.
Techno has ADHD and, apparently, psychosis from his PTSD. Wilbur has autism and anxiety. Tommy has access to therapy if he wants it, but he does not go on a schedule like his big brothers. They’re all a happy, neurodivergent family. It’s great, it’s this wonderful support system full of the people Techno knows he could trust with his life.

Such, Wilbur’s sign is red. Will’s having a bad day.

Tommy runs off to his room, and Techno to his. Techno refuses to feel guilty today. He’s promised himself that much. That’s why he left his card on green when he shut his door, it’s a good day. Wilbur isn’t having a bad day because of him, they haven’t even spoken today.
Holy shit they haven’t even spoken today.

He’s fine. Techno boots up a game of bedwars, shutting everything else down. It’s block game time! No worries when there’s block game. No worries when he has a superhero name now. Vetted by the great Theseus himself.
Techno is the Blade. His weapon is the orphan obliterator. He’ll have a pig skull mask and a giant red cape and he’s going to save the fucking world! With a bit of training, Techno will be able to save anyone from bad days. Including Wilbur, including himself.

Chapter Text

After having ankle length hair your whole life like Techno had, you get very good at slinging it all up into a braided ponytail. Two braids on the side, pull them back, and suddenly Techno’s hair looks about waist length. As out of the way it’s ever going to get.

He has a busy day ahead. No time to think about the weird dream he had, or if it was a dream at all. It’s more like the voices woke him up, raved about something or another related to the orphan obliterator so close by, and sent him right back to sleep.
Techno bops the Technoplushie’s little snout and flips off the sword before bounding out the door and down the stairs.

Today him and Wilbur are going to their first sword fighting lesson.

Wilbur is practically bouncing off the walls. Dad is decidedly anxious. Techno is admittedly somewhere in between. Who knows if he’s just going to slice someone’s arm off!

Dad probably has already given their instructor the whole spiel on how to make their class accessible to them, a couple threats laced in the genuine advice. Which makes sense, because while Techno has no proof that Phil killed the teacher that made an ableist comment towards him, he never did see that teacher again.

Techno enters the kitchen to be greeted by a very mopey Tommy, pestering mom with his grumpiness.

“Moooom. Why can’t I go?” he whines.

“Because,” she slathers some butter on toast, “It’s their thing. You three can come up with something everyone can do, but sword fighting is for Will and Tech,”

Tommy seems very upset to have been backed into a corner by good parenting.

“Besides. I’m only using this as a ruse to murder Wilbur anyway,” Techno tries to scare Tommy.

“Techno!” Mom scolds, waving the butter knife in opposition of his bullshit.

Tommy, frowning, kicks Techno’s ankle and ducks out the room before he can retaliate.

In the car, Wilbur excitedly rants to dad about his new ecosystem jar. Dad listening carefully, nodding his head. Techno’s phone jolts in his pocket.
It’s a text from Sophie. He swipes to open it. Eye twitching as the voices grow excited from the image she sent.
A blood red cape, with half the white fur sowed on.

Blood for the blood god

He bites his lip. It’s an amazing cape, it looks stunning, and he’s proud of his friend’s craftsmanship. He’s going to focus on that instead.
She sends another photo of a very pissed Skeppy flipping the camera off, needle and thread in his off hand. Techno does the thing where you exhale quickly instead of laughing.

They pull up to the gym. Techno almost hits Wilbur with his door on accident getting out of the car. Damn. They haven’t even walked into the building and there’s already been an accidental assassination attempt.
Dad walks them to one of the back rooms where the lessons are being held, waving back when the instructor waves to him.

She’s blonde, friendly, friendlier than dad even. She smiles as she introduces herself.

“Hello! I’m instructor False, that’s instructor Fit,” she shakes Wilbur’s hand, then Techno’s.

The bearded bald man, Fit, waves curtly before turning back to some of the less new students.

Techno likes it here. His feet bounce slightly on the foam mats spread over half the floor. The big mirror on one of the walls makes him feel like he can see everything. His instructors seem cool, so do the other kids of various ages. Little do they know they have a superhero training in their midst.
The voices rise in volume as he catches a glimpse of the weapons rack. He tries to make out what they’re saying.

The realization strikes him like a particularly brutal wave. They’re singing.

They’re singing and he feels like the sound needs to be paired with war drums. His heart already beating in time with the phantom sound. Waiting for the horn to blow.
Techno feels like something inside of him is waiting to pounce. To leap. There’s an ache in his hands and an energy pooling in his chest. Under normal conditions, he’d turn tail and run.

But he can’t defend the world if he doesn’t know how to fight.

Fight!
E
Blood for the blood god
All hail the Blade!

His resolve does not quiver.
Instead, he does as he is told. Sitting obediently on the mat beside all the other kids. Listening to the instructors begin the first lesson.

“First off, welcome to our class! I’m so excited to teach you lot, new students and old ones,” False claps her hands.

“Secondly, no. We’re not going to teach you to kill people,” Fit adds on.

“That too,” False agrees.

The voices seem to quiet hearing that confirmation. More so like less of them are singing than before.
They tell everyone to then get into pairs of two, Wilbur swinging his arm around Techno’s shoulders to claim him first. False hands out foam swords to every student.
Techno tries not to grip the hilt too hard, too eagerly.

“Alright. This is so we can separate everyone based on intensity, or how hard you naturally try to hit. So go nuts,” Fit signals for them to attempt to stab their partners with the foam sticks.

Techno swiftly makes contact with Wilbur’s jaw with a mighty, gallant swing.

Wilbur laughs. This is just like they’re normal play fighting. They’ve done this since they were little kids. Or, ever since Techno learned not to strike with intent to kill. It doesn’t matter how loud the voices sing, rejoicing in the physical excursion. It doesn’t matter how hard he jabs the sword into Wilbur’s chest.
It’s foam. That’s his brother. This is a public class in a local gym. Here he is safe to learn how to actually make a stand, to defend the world.

So, what if it feels amazing to parry Wilbur’s attempts to strike. So, what if little things like his footing or his keen eye are not normal for absolute beginners. So, what if, when the exercise is over, they pair him with another kid named Fruit. Matched for skill and intensity.
In another life this blade is steel, not foam. In another life this isn’t a back room in a gym, it’s a battlefield. In another life there are war drums.

Techno gets swept up in it. The expectancy. The waiting for the horn to sound. He gets so absorbed in his newfound love for this activity he forgets to feel guilty for it. Forgets to feel any fear at all. 

Chapter Text

They did it.
Sophie and Skeppy finally finished the costume. Now it’s here, with him, in all its glory. Along with the groundbreaking news, the mask he commissioned off of Etsy had finally arrived.

Techno’s RSD may have almost made him puke when he realized his superhero costume is basically a cosplay of his minecraft skin, but that’s beside the point.

The point is Sophie and Skeppy are at the door right now. The holy grail wrapped in a thin layer of brown paper.
Skeppy practically breaks in using the code on the lock. Mom smiles seeing them.

“If you want snacks, you can help yourself!” she says before retreating back to her room.

“Thanks!” Sophie calls to her back.

Sophie plops the package into Techno’s greedy arms.

“Here you go, nerd,” she teases.

The three of them storm up the stairs, the commotion summoning Wilbur and Tommy to their sides. This is it. This is where the origin story fades into chapter one. A certain kind of coronation, or a mutated form of growing up.
Techno feels like he just got handed his cap and gown for graduation. Eager if not still unready to go out into the world.

Wilbur shuts the door behind them. An electric energy seeping into the room.
They each separate to different sitting spots. Tommy plops down on the floor, Skeppy steals his gaming chair, Techno and Sophie sit on the side of the bed, with Wilbur hovering over them.

“Go ahead then, open it!” Wilbur practically vibrates with excitement.

With a deep breath, Techno gingerly rips off the brown paper. Uncovering the red fabric beneath it too slowly for all the impatient teenagers surrounding him.
Eventually it unfurls with scarlet grace. The voices Oo and Aw, almost like they’re proud of him.

“I know, I’m amazing and incredible and Gucci should hire me. Save your praises,” Skeppy proudly dusts off his shoulder.

“Oh, what could we possibly do without you?” Wilbur asks sarcastically.

Techno ignores their squabbling to jump up, swinging the cape over his shoulders with a dramatic twirl that threatened to knock over his lamp. He slinks the gold chain hanging between the two sides into place. The white fur framing his shoulders.

Techno fills a little silly underneath the shear amount of style being displayed in this outfit currently. He goes to check everyone else’s faces, focusing in on the most important expression first.

Tommy looks up at him with a wide smile worth more to Techno than anything in the entire world.

“That’s so cool!” Tommy exclaims, shaking his fists in excitement.

The praise almost sends tears to his eyes, so he retreats back to his reflection in the mirror.
The sight of the pink haired warrior in a blood red cape feels like the sound one hoof beat in a line of calvary men. One drumbeat among the others. An echo resounding down centuries.

He pauses on that echo for a moment too long.

“Tech?”
“Oh, yeah?”

He turns to Wilbur.

“Didn’t you get the mask today as well?”

Techno jolts back into action, “Yes!”

He throws open the box, noting to find the candy the seller included from his rabid candy stealing family and friends. Pulling the dangerous looking pig skull mask out from its cardboard prison.

“That looks sick!” Skeppy comments.

Wilbur helps clasp it on, throwing Techno’s hair over his shoulders in the process.
The drum beats again when he meets his eyes, shadowed by the mask, in his reflection. Techno’s fist naturally curls as if tightening his grip on a hilt. Waiting for the horn to blow.

Between one heartbeat and the resulting, audio hallucinatory drumbeat, the Blade is born. Stepping out of wrapping paper and into the world. Desperate to get his hands on a sword.
The desperation evaporates when he catches another glimpse of Tommy’s near explosive joy.

“Me next!” he cries.

Techno finds it within him to chuckle. Nodding to get Theseus a costume next.
--
The overwhelming feeling of self-disgust finds him. After days of avoiding it’s curse, it’s tracked Techno to his bedroom.
So, it’s 11:30, and he’s doing everything he can to avoid his bedroom.

Dad enters the living room, visible only by the light of a TV which Techno is also ignoring. He couldn’t hear it over the voices anyways.

"Techno?"
"Hm?"

He looks up from shuffling his pokemon cards. The busywork he brought for his hands.

"I love you,"

His stomach drops.
Because dad shouldn’t love him. Techno isn’t even sure of where that thought comes from anymore. He thought he fixed it. With the cape, and the mask, and the hoof beats. Techno shouldn’t still have this deep seeded urge to trample the world beneath his feet.
But he does. That means dad shouldn’t love him. He realized he didn’t say it back long enough for dad to get concerned, sitting next to him on the couch.

Anxiety stiffens his hands. Some water pokemon falling to its death between the couch cushions.

“You want to talk?” Dad asks.

The deck of cards lowers to his lap, “I can’t,”

Techno thinks of the years dad spent slowly cracking through the violent, traumatized preteen to get to the boy beneath. Remembers a time where he wasn’t allowed to be in the same room as Tommy or Wilbur by themselves. How did dad love him through what? How did dad actively choose, day after day, to love a boy named Techno Blade?
Why can’t Techno make the same choice? Why is this so god damn hard all the god damn time?

“Whatever’s bothering you, have you talked to Puffy about it?” Dad bounces his leg.

“Yeah,” Techno lies.

It wasn’t convincing, apparently.

“Can I touch you?”
“Yeah,”

His voice cracks with tears. Dad wraps Techno in a side hug. Making the same, conscious choice once more. To love him.
Maybe somewhere beneath all the grime there is a boy worthy of that decision, of that love. Techno has at least agreed at the bare minimum to stay alive for that boy. Because if there is something inside of him worthy of being Phil’s son it has to make it out alive.
So, Techno is going to stay alive. Another night, another week. However long it takes to become a superhero. Since the mere chance of becoming a person worthy of being somebody’s son is enough to stick around for. Even if that agreement does not, and may never, seem final.

Chapter Text

It’s 3am.
Techno is curled onto the couch, where he snuck back to after he knew dad would be asleep. He couldn’t bare to be in his room, he can’t bare to just jump off the roof, so the living room it is. Lit only by the streetlights outside.

Techno holds his head in his hands, gripping his hair, trying to make them shut up. They won’t shut up. The voices sing when they aren’t chanting. The same damn phrase.

Blood for the blood god.

His head hurts. His chest is sore. Techno wishes people would stop loving him long enough for him to snuff himself out. So he can just make it all stop. Why won't they let him stop this?

“Tech?”

Goddamn it. How repetitive, right? Another person trying to comfort him. Some new realization or bonding moment. Techno doesn’t want to be fucking comforted! He just wants it all to stop!

“Techno your lip is bleeding,” Wilbur croaks out. Sounds like he was crying too.

Oh. Techno reaches a finger to his bottom lip, flinching when he feels that it’s wet. He must’ve been chewing on it too hard. He flinches again when the voices rejoice in the substance, finally getting the blood they crave.
When Techno looks up at Wilbur he wonders where it all went wrong.

Because yeah, Wilbur’s certainly been crying. His hair is pinned under a beanie, hoodie and sweats on. He looks about as worse for the wear as Techno is right now, minus the apparent lip injury.
But that doesn’t make sense. It makes zero sense. They’ve been through the whole recovery thing. Therapy, support groups, accommodations at school and such, they have two great parents and everything. What happened?

If Techno is so awful then why is Wilbur, who is the best, like him?
Wilbur makes his way to the front door.

“Where you going?” Techno mutters underneath his hand.

“To jump off a bridge. Wanna come?” Will deadpans. He cracks open the door.

There’s another paradox. How could Wilbur feel self-destructive too? When he’s so much better than Techno? Only one of them is supposedly the ender of the entire world, and it certainly isn’t the brunet. And Wilbur certainly isn’t jumping off a fucking bridge.
Techno doesn’t bother to fix his lip, put on shoes, grab his glasses or his phone, instead he just follows Wilbur out the door. They don’t even lock it behind them.

The two step barefoot onto the misty streets. Dressed in pajamas and practically naked in all other aspects. Perfect for jumping off a bridge. Which, a couple blocks down, there actually is an overpass. Techno scouted it out on one of his harder days.
He talked himself out of that method by being unable to justify his suicide as a morally correct action if he traumatized the poor people in the cars. The possible bystanders scooped out all the courage he had built up.

He wonders what courage Wilbur has brought to the overpass tonight.

A couple cars pass them by. What a sight to see, huh? Two teenagers freshly rolled out of bed, walking in the dark. Up to no good.
Or, in Techno’s case, being made up of nothing that is good.

When the street lamps finally lead them to the moderately busy overpass, the two brothers encounter the fence put up to prevent these sorts of situations. Too small to fit through but wide enough to see the headlights of the cars below.

“I wrote a song like this,” Wilbur admits.

Techno’s loved Will’s music since forever. He’s been waiting endlessly for that dream of an album to become a reality.

“Never showed it to me,” Techno sniffles. The blood all over his mouth irritating his nose.

“I didn’t want to give you any ideas,” he lays those words down like putting a knife into the plastic box you’re handed before you go through a metal detector.

“I knew I couldn’t use the overpass,” Techno confesses.

Wilbur snorts, like it's funny, “We’re too much alike,”

“Don’t say that,”

Techno realizes he must’ve snapped a bit too hard. Will turns to him with a raised brow. As if the “don’t” was a challenge.
Something building in Techno’s chest strikes through him. Like a drumstick piercing the drum.

“You’re so good, and I want to kill you,” Techno grits his teeth from the force behind those words. Taking all his breath away, letting the blood drip into his mouth.

“I want to kill you. I want to kill Tommy. I want to kill Mom and Dad. And Skeppy, Dream, Sophie, and all my friends. I’m a bad person, Wilbur! I’m an awful horrible person and I want everyone dead! Don’t you get it? Don’t you get how you can’t be anything like me because you’re, you’re-. You’re actually good?” he screams.

He screams it because if he didn’t the words would have broken his teeth kicking their way out from his tongue. He screams so the message comes across in full, terrifying and awful. Just as Techno, the personification of cruelty, should come off as too.
Wilbur should fear him. Wilbur shouldn’t want to be dead, because only Techno deserves that.

Wilbur cups Techno’s face, smearing both surfaces in red.

“Then kill me. I know you won’t,”

Techno scrunches his face. Trying to shut off the sob building in his chest. Shakily his hands reach up to rest on Wilbur’s, their foreheads pressed together as Techno does everything to not sob. Sniffling.

There’s an angry part of him saying he could throw his brother through a gap he noticed in the fence. Then Wilbur would fall onto the cars, and then god damn it. He wouldn’t do that no matter what.
That’s his brother. There’re innocent people in those cars.

Suicide doesn’t even make sense. Not anymore. Not in front of Wilbur. Not in front of the passing cars and their drivers.
They stand like that for a long time. Forehead to forehead. Close to crying but not. Eventually they sit on the sidewalk, as close to the fence as possible without shoving their heads through the bars.

“You’re not a bad person, Techno,” Will says, restarting the conversation out of silence, “I think I’m terrible too. My therapist keeps trying to tell me that bad people never think they’re bad, so thinking you’re a shit stain means you probably aren’t,”

Techno scowls, “My case is different,”

“Every person who made them put this fence up thought that too. So how are we different?” he retorts.

“I’m different-“
“Techno is this just as much for me as it is for you, how are we different?”

Right. Techno isn’t the only one who wants to die currently. He’s bartering for Wilbur’s life as much as he’s bartering for his own, trying to pawn it off.
Wilbur has to live, even if Techno has to live by proxy.

“Because,” Techno starts, unsure of where he’ll finish, “I’m the Blade and you’re my mentor. Without us the city will be overrun with crime, I think?”

Wilbur freezes.

“I’m going to save the world then. I’ll do it just because you told me to,” Techno glares at the cars below.

“Because I said so?” Wilbur gets a smirk, “You want to impress your big bro?”

Techno elbows him but also cracks a watery smile.

“Something like that,” he says honestly.

After a bit they walk home. Taking all their courage with them instead of leaving it at the overpass. Maybe Wilbur’s therapist is telling the truth. Neither of them are inherently evil.
Wilbur loves Techno and Techno loves Wilbur. That’s just one of a lengthy list of reasons they won’t scale that fence. There’re people waiting for them at home, there’s people in those cars, there’s a city to save, there’s an album waiting to be written. They’re staying alive for it. To save it, to save themselves. No matter how much they don't want to.

Chapter Text

“Has anyone seen Shroud?”

Techno groans, turning over where he fell asleep on Wilbur’s floor. The floor Will so graciously gifted, and Will so graciously answers the knock on the door.

Dad is on the other side, sighing heavily.

“Tommy lost Shroud and now he’s turning the whole house over looking for it-“ a loud banging from the kitchen interrupts him.

Then another bang. Then another, louder bang. It seems Tommy is opening and slamming shut every cabinet. The frequency of the noises suggesting he’s doing it twice.

Techno’s eye twitches. Still laying in a fetal position on the floor. He probably looks about as much like a corpse as he feels. Dried blood and snot all over the lower half of his face.
Dad tries to open his mouth, reach over. Do something, anything, to address the sight that is his son.

Techno pulls himself off of the floor, wipes his lip, and nods.

“Well, we gotta go find him,” he says, voice deeper than normal with sleep.

So, after Techno bandages the wound, cleans his face, brushes his teeth, removes a twig from his hair, and just generally makes himself look less like a zombie, he joins Tommy’s raid of the house.

It is a brutal and restless conquest.
Their warforged path takes them throughout all the bedrooms, scouring each one. Taking no prisoners and giving no quarter. Techno puts Tommy on his shoulders to check over shelves and even the fridge when they get to it. They open closets Techno didn’t even know they had. Tommy even makes Techno check the trash cans. Nothing.

It’s a sight like Menelaus and Helen. Tommy would burn the neighborhood down if it meant Shroud the Spider’s safe return.
Techno thinks he’d do something but a bit short of that, if he’s going to be honest.

But Shroud is important to Tommy, which means it’s important to him. So if Tommy asks to scan the perimeter one more time by the gods Techno is going to do it.

Tommy’s room dumbass
Techno-lost
E
Human gps

Now, the voices and Techno have never been friends. Especially not of late. However, he’ll take both the compliment of being called a human and the hint of Tommy’s room.
The room they searched first, and turned bookshelves over for. Techno nearly broke his toe moving that sucker. There’s nowhere left to look.

Yet, obediently, he looks one more time. Shoving his hand in the crack between the bed and the wall.

An eight-legged friend greets his hand. Tommy nearly cries on the spot, overwhelmed with joy like a parent finding their lost child in a Walmart.

“Shroud!” in Tommy’s rush to hug Shroud he accidentally wraps himself around Techno’s entire arm.

Techno’s heart fucking melts. That’s like, almost artificial levels of adorable. That shit hits different.
He drags his arm to pull Tommy to his chest, hugging both him and the spider.

“You’re my hero, Techno! Consider this a lesson on saving civilians,” Tommy announces proudly.

“You staged this, didn’t you?” Techno asks, dumb smile on his face.

He feels Tommy nod into his chest, “Oh you little shit-“.

Techno squeezes Tommy to stop his attempts of squirming away, both of them laughing.

Later, after a brother who shall not be named got bruises from a nerf dart in a terrible nerf war for Shroud, Techno goes to change out of his depression wear.
It’s the first time he’s been in his room since he put on the cape.

Which, to be fair, it wasn’t like he could avoid his room forever. It’s just hard to exist in the same space as that damn sword sometimes. It’ll be alright, though. The Technoplushie’s beady eyes stare right through his soul, and they find no fault in him.

That’s like, a really heavy thing to attribute to a far too expensive stuffed pig but whatever.

As Techno reaches over to grab it, he kicks the space beneath his bed. Just to bully the orphan obliterator into submission a little bit. Instead of the definitely not metal sword, his foot makes contact with something soft.
As he bends over to grab it, the memories start flooding back.

That’s where Steve’s been all this time!

Steve’s the polar bear Phil got him as soon as they landed in England after their flight. It was the first gift he was ever given in his new, and really only ever, home. At the time he really didn’t understand the point of a tiny, soft version of a giant predator. Yet when he lost Steve Techno was fucking devastated.
Techno’s on a roll finding emotionally relevant plushies today.

So, yeah. He changes out of his depression uniform. Techno does things like taking a mental note to shower today, goes and grabs a bottle of water, reapplies a new band aid to the bite under his lip.
It’s not like he magically doesn’t still hold a grudge against himself all of a sudden. He still feels like shit. But now the shit is all mental and not physical.

And maybe the combination of the voices calling him a human, Tommy calling him a hero, and him finding Steve do a bit of magic anyways. Since he does feel less like shit than he did a couple hours ago.

Chapter Text

Techno pulls the pillow into his lap, chewing violently on his stim necklace, and sits onto the couch. Puffy crosses her legs in the same seat. An easy, comfortable repetition.

“How’s your week been, Techno?” she opens the session with a supposedly easy question.

But a lot happened this week. This isn’t easy at all.

“Weird,” he finally answers. That seems right.

“How so?” Puffy prods further.

“I started taking sword fighting lessons with Wilbur,”

The classes are great. Exercise does its part in helping him feel better, even if temporarily. He’s made friends with Fruit and likes his instructors. It brings him closer to Wilbur. It’s training for being a superhero.
Techno regurgitates all of that information except the last bit.

“That sounds good,” she says, “What about that is weird?”

Techno pauses. Taking in a deep breath in preparation for the weight he is going to let go of.

“Me and Wilbur tried to jump from the overpass,” Techno waits for Puffy to react.

She nods curtly, “What stopped you?”

The question settles over him like snow in a snow globe.

“Dad. Mom. Tommy. The people in the cars below-“ he tries to say, but is cut off.

“I didn’t ask who. What stopped you,”

The snow shuffles off his shoulders. Brow furrowing in thought.

“The fence. They put a fence up and, and. The, uh, the thought that we weren’t any different from the people that made them put up the fence?” he shrugs his shoulders.

“How are you not any different?” she questions.

“Me and Will aren’t inherently awful people no matter how much we hate ourselves?” Techno tries to phrase that in the best way he can. Trying to make it not sound like a lie.

But there’s more reasons. Maybe he is a shit awful person, so what! He still couldn’t die. Wilbur can’t die. There’re a million reasons why they couldn’t have jumped off that overpass no matter how badly they wanted to!

Wilbur’s future album, Tommy calling him a hero, the stupid stuffed animals they all got from Build-a-Bear. Finding Steve the polar bear. Sophie has wanted to sneak firecrackers into their high school graduation since forever and Techno has to be in on the plan. Techno has to learn to drive so he can drive Tommy to Tubbo’s house. Fruit needs a partner to spar with. Mom and Dad need their son.
He wants to see if he likes his hair short if he can ever work up the courage to chop it all off. He wants to get on the leaderboards, and to get YouTube rank. He wants to buy an ugly rug to put in his future apartment. He wants to be dragged along when Wilbur’s band goes on tour and bring Tommy lunch when he becomes a famous actor or director. He wants to save the world.

He realizes he said that all aloud.

Puffy smiles at him. Like she successfully gave him the hint that helped him solve the escape room. Shit! Mental health shit can be like an escape room sometimes. A bunch of puzzles and shit, unable to be done alone.

“Techno remember how we considered getting you a service dog?” she asks.

“How is that relevant?” Techno cocks a brow. Nearly snapping his stim toy in half.

“Perhaps having to take care of a pet will tack another reason to stay alive on that list,” Puffy blows a strand of hair out of her face.
“Since you don’t have any physical disabilities, the dog will require less training. And it can help you cope with derealization and panic attacks. If it’s something you think will help, I know of a nearby trainer,”

Techno pauses to consider it.
He certainly qualifies for one, so no imposter syndrome there. He’s wanted a pet anyways. He knows that it’s important to make that “list of reasons to stay alive” as long as possible as to tick your own suicidal tendencies off.
It’s also a lot of work! Lots of training and bonding. Buying everything necessary for the animal. Dealing with ableism in public spaces. Hell, dragging a dog around in public can be challenging no matter how well trained the dog is.

“Uh. I’ll get back to you next session, I think?” he says.

“Sure. In the meantime, I’ll keep my eye out for what’s available,” Puffy looks at the clock.
“We have ten extra minutes, anything else to talk about?”

“Can I talk more about the overpass thing?”
“Sure,”

Techno makes sure to breathe in deeply before finishing this all off.

“I don’t know if I believe that I’m a good person. I don’t know if I’m really just like everyone else that’s jumped or if I’m truly worse,” Techno hears the silicone necklace squeak against his molars.

“And we agree that the reasons you think you’re a horrible person are delusions, right? So, they can be disproven?” Puffy points out.

“I’m worried it isn’t that easy,” he confesses, “I’m worried it’s actually true. I’m-, I’m trying to disprove it! I swear, but. Shit it isn’t that easy at all,”

“It’s a bit like a court case, right? You know you’re right, but you still need all this proof and are fighting an uphill battle?” she asks.

“I was a bit hung up on an escape room metaphor but that works too, I guess,”

As the session eventually winds down, Techno’s pocket hums. He checks his phone. It’s a text from Wilbur.

Wilbur :) : bro I think I got you a superhero gig

Techno pointedly does not react. Instead, he smiles. Saying goodbye to Puffy and jumping into the passenger's seat of his mother’s car.

“How’d it go, Tech?” she gestures to a drink she bought him sitting in a cup holder.

“Gimme a second, texting Will,” Techno excuses himself hurriedly.

You: rlly?

Wilbur :) : hell yeha

You: you got a supervillain or something???

Wilbur :) : no a bit smaller

Ok. Alright. Something a bit smaller than a supervillain. Which can be anything to a kid with a scraped knee to a murder.
Techno’s already gotten the saving a kid down, as Shroud can attest to. Now it’s time to solve a murder. Or whatever Wilbur’s got planned. Hopefully it’s a bit more suited for superhero mission number one.

“Great,” he answers his mom.

Chapter Text

As soon as mom pulls into the driveway Techno darts out the car. He carts his giant ass soda up the stairs and into Wilbur’s room. The voices murmur excitedly, like a group of moms who just got some particularly juicy gossip.

Techno knocks. Tommy says come in.
His brother’s room has always screamed “indie artist who wears doc martins” from the fairy lights all the way down to the literal pair of docs on the floor. It’s very Wilbur, so it’s probably the best room in the house. Everything that is Wilbur’s is probably the best. It’s like how the sun always sets in the west.
Wilbur turns in his chair just as Techno enters.

“We’ve been expecting you,” he pushes his glasses further up his nose.

Techno snorts. Tommy mimics the noise from his position on the beanbag.

“My two lovely heroes, I have finally gotten you a villain,” Wilbur announces.

“I thought it wasn’t supposed to be a supervillain?” Techno makes that loud noise with his straw.

“I said villain. Admittedly this job isn’t every glamorous, but we all have to start somewhere,” he gestures.

“Go on!” Tommy says patiently.

“So,” Wilbur drags, “I was at Sally’s house-“

Oh, here he goes. Not this again.
Sally is this ginger girl Wilbur’s fallen head over heels for. Cheerleader, works at a local coffee shop, has aspirations to become a marine biologist. None of that information Techno learned willingly.
Don’t get him wrong, Techno doesn’t just not like Sally and Wilbur’s weird thing because he’s aro. It’s not even like he’s romance repulsed! He’s just repulsed by the amount of simpage Wilbur’s got going on. Ok, maybe he’s a little romance repulsed. Just a little bit.

“-and I overheard her brother getting mad on the phone,”

“Surprised you could over the bed creaking,” Tommy blurts out, registers what he just said, and immediately starts stammering apologies.

Wilbur’s jaw drops into this look of unimaginable horror.

Techno can’t help but laugh. It was just so out of pocket! It‘s just such a Tommy thing to say! It also certainly doesn’t help that Wilbur is slinking out of his chair in embarrassment as Tommy starts laughing too. Face completely red.

“This is serious!” Wilbur snaps, “Lives are on the line here, dickwads!”

Techno’s mind can think of a billion different horrendous, downright evil jokes he could make using the word dickwad. Tommy apparently can too, as he’s now biting his hand to keep from either laughing, making a bad joke, or even both.

Eventually Wilbur gets pissed enough to just continue talking over his shitty little brother’s laughing fits.

“Anyways, her brother was super upset at this guy for trying to rope him into a robbery. All I was able to get is sometime this Saturday, someone’s going to rob the gas station down the street. And we’ll be there to stop them, if you’d stop being assholes for five fucking seconds-!” Wilbur glares.

Techno raises a brow, “How are we going to do that, Will?”

“I dunno! You got a sword and shit! If I saw a man with a pig mask and a big sword, I’d start running,”

The idea of getting into a costume to go kick someone’s ass is equally as embarrassing as it is riveting.

Fight?

And, just maybe, chasing off a robber would soothe the little assholes that live in his head.

Wilbur climbs back into his chair, cheeks still red.

“We get in there, scare the shit out of them, get you two started as household names, and start the whole superhero thing from the ground up. I’ll be the getaway driver, you two just go in there and save the day,”

Tommy’s signature sunshine grin grows wide at the proposal. The Blade and Theseus would be quite the duo, if he says so himself.

“Wait, Techno, you haven’t seen my costume!” Tommy jolts up and out of the room at the realization.

Oh. Techno hasn’t seen his costume?
A couple minutes later Tommy returns as Theseus in the flesh. White hood pulled over his head, red mask that looks like Robin’s, red accents and a short cape. Red and white to match Techno. He looks every bit a teenage superhero.

Tommy parades around the room proudly, like a peacock. Preening at his brother’s praise.

So, Saturday, huh? That’s when it’s all going down. That’s where the Blade is going to be born, in some gas station down the street.
That’s where he’s going to destroy all his self-hatred, and prove the voices wrong, and kick ass and take names and prove once and for all that no! No he isn’t an awful evil person! He’s not inherently fucked up! He’s a superhero. Once and for all he’s going to become a superhero and wipe this gross part of himself away like a smudge.

“I want a gun,” Tommy proclaims.

“We’re not getting up a gun-“ Techno refutes.

“Wilbur, I want a gun,” he continues.

Wilbur frowns. “When you’re old enough,”

The littlest one squawks in protest.

“I’m such a big man, I’m absolutely old enough for a gun! Techno gets a sword! It’s simply not fair,” Tommy rattles off all the dumb makeshift reasons he deserves a gun.

“I’m so strong-“
“No,”

“I’m the size of ten planes!”
“Nope,”

“I’ll perish without one,”
“Nah, I don’t think so,”

“This is child abuse,”

Wilbur laughs at him, “Is it now?”

“I’m afraid so,” Tommy nods his head solemnly.

“Tommy, you can have a gun if you win one from the arcade,” Techno slides the deal across the metaphorical table.

Tommy weighs the pros and cons. Considering deeply if an arcade prize is suits his deep, profound desire.

“Will you buy the tickets?” he asks.

“Of course. I won’t cheat any of the games though,” Techno’s offer continues to be inspected.

Eventually Tommy extends his hand, red fingerless gloves and all, to Techno.

“Deal!”

So sometime between now and Saturday Techno has to drag his brother to the arcade. To win a gun. To stop a robbery. To become superheroes.
Yeah, that checks out.

Chapter Text

Techno does three things in between the debriefing and the mission.

One, he attends another sword fighting lesson.
He watches how his wrists move. How his feet fall against the padded floor. Techno notes that he could still do a 1v1 in the event he somehow loses his glasses. All valuable information to a swashbuckling superhero such as himself.

The classes can be a bit weird at times. Over Fit’s barking orders the voices can be heard singing, or chanting. Nothing unifies them like a good spar. He cannot pick out a single noise, it's just all of them merging into one. It’s riveting when it is not suffocating in its implications. Techno’s shameful reveling in the camaraderie shared by his auditory hallucinations is shattered when his sparring partner gets a smirk.

Fruit sends him barreling onto the mat below. The voices swear at him as his sword slips from his hand.

“You forgot that I could do that, didn’t you?” Fruit smirks.

Techno gives him a curt laugh, “Teach me,”

Fruit grips his arm and pulls him up. Agreeing to show Techno the trick. Certainly, this’ll be useful for stopping that robbery.
It takes a hot minute, almost the rest of the class, but Techno finally manages it. Fruit fumbles to the floor with a loud plastic smack. Fit yells something.
The voices cheer with a thunderous applause.

Secondly, Techno sneaks out of the house. Orphan obliterator in tow.

He needs to know how this particular sword swings. It’s his signature weapon! His bread and butter! The discovery that it quite literally forms to his fingers carries little weight in the moment.

There’s a fairly sized wooded area behind his house. Divides the neighborhood from a nearby highway. To the left down the trail is the closest park. The three brothers used to hang out in a small clearing all the time, but then minecraft swept through their house like a plague and the clearing lost its use.
It’s always irked Techno a bit how his dad is the most cracked at the craft. Just a little bit.

Techno does his own kind of dress rehearsal. Under the cover of a dim summer’s night. Mask, cape, orphan obliterator. The whole gang is here. Techno pointedly ignores sour memories of the last time he snuck out. Whatever.
He runs through the placements of his blade, doing a little trick to celebrate how good this weapon feels in his hand. How nice the texture is against his skin. Since the orphan obliterator technically spawned from nowhere, it’s not a dumb assumption to believe it was made for him. The voices gleeful squirming near confirms it.
Techno swings at a tree to test how deep this thing can cleave.

A crack reverberates throughout the wooded area. The tall skinny tree comes crashing down, wood chips flying, taking another tree out with it. Slamming onto the forest floor with a bang Techno can barely hear over his now rapid heartbeat.

When a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around, does it make a sound?
Techno doesn’t care about the answer because he is around and, holy fuck he just sliced a tree in half.

Shit. Shit!

Techno turns tail and sprints back home. Tucking his costume and his sword beneath his bed hastily.
Between the voice’s commotion, his newfound terror of being somehow being caught, and the adrenaline rush yet to fade, Techno doesn’t sleep that night.

Third, he goes with the whole family to the arcade.

The Brighton palace pier arcade, to be exact. A beloved haunt of the Watson family. The mission is clear, they have to win at least 2500 tickets to get Tommy his gun.

When they passed the prizes on the way in, Tommy’s signature smile slipped into place.

“The vlog gun!” Tommy says with reverence.

Now, the object of that reverence is a hunk of plastic, but the holiness of the vlog gun is not to be questioned. This is Techno’s little brother, for heaven's sake. This is Theseus’ sacred weapon! Techno’s going to show some respect.
The family splits off into the game floor. Tommy steals mom to go play deal or no deal, Wilbur drags dad over to a claw machine.

“Dad I want a duck,” Wilbur cracks his knuckles.

Techno and Dad share a laugh.
Techno stops laughing when Wilbur mentions winning the duck for Sally. Because, ew.

He eventually makes his way over to the wall of shooting games. He’s always been good at these.
The voices do not rejoice in a trigger pull as much as they do a stab or slice. A gun isn’t as dreadfully rewarding. They still like it though. The number of tickets he can win is the real draw to these games, anyways.

Three shooters down and Techno already has half the necessary tickets for the vlog gun.

He cuts through zombies, robots, ghost pirates, enemy soldiers in an unnamed generic war game.  The dullest one is the deer hunting game. That one isn’t as flashy as the others, but there are ducks!
The irony of him shooting ducks during Wilbur’s 15th attempt at winning that damn claw machine.

At the end of their trip, Techno hands Tommy a thick fistful of tickets. Over a quarter of the required amount. With the other tickets, they have enough left over for Techno to get something as well.
Wilbur cradles his duck. Tommy struggles with freeing the holy vlog gun from its cardboard prison.

Techno turns to the prizes lined up on the wall, spots a bucket of gum, and gets an idea. A true stroke of genius.

“Uh, how much gum can I get for 1849 tickets?” he asks the lady behind the counter.

“Oh my god,” Dad exhales.

“I’m not counting. Take half the bucket,” she gestures her hand in defeat.

Mom laughs the whole car ride home as they all chew on his massive bag of gum. Technically, these are stim toys. No it’s not an impulsive decision at all! Really, it’s not!

Chapter Text

Let’s get this thing straight.
Techno is currently sitting in the passenger's seat of his brother’s car, dressed in a full superhero costume. Tommy’s in the back, full costume as well. Instead of going to some convention or whatever nerds like them do on Saturdays they’re driving to the local gas station with full intent to stop a robbery. None of that even compares to the strangest thing.

The voices are so quiet he can hear his ears ring. It’s not like they’re gone, more so as if they’re waiting. Looking up at him expectedly.
Pft. Of course they’re waiting, Techno reasons. He’s becoming a superhero today.

They park in the back. Awaiting any sort of cue.

“If anything starts going south, I need you two to immediately get back into the car,” Wilbur says, his anxiety revealed by his tight tone.

Will scrunches up his face repeatedly. His telltale bad stim.

“We got this. I know it,” Techno soothes.

That seems to calm him down a bit before another vehicle pulls up. The classic white murder van. Parking in the front of the gas station.
Four men get out. One clearly has a gun.

Wilbur’s hand shifts the gear into drive.

“We’re leaving. We’re calling the police. God, what was a I thinking?” he tries to floor the gas and get the fuck out of there. Tommy panicking in the back seat.

Techno normally would be anxious, afraid, something. Under normal conditions he wouldn’t be jumping out of that car. Stalking over to the glass door despite his brother’s screaming at him in the car.
But they’re humming. The voices are humming a low tune. Almost hypnotizing. Almost like belonging. It's a drunken sort of sound.

Technoblade grips the hilt of his blade firmly.

Blood for the Blood God!

A hiss. A noise so loud his ears ring. Techno does not know if he just said that aloud, or if Wilbur and Tommy heard him.
Distantly he hopes that they pedaled away. Hit the gas and ran far from here. Something in Techno knows the ground’s about to shake and something within him is ready for it. Something has been blown away like a door off its hinges or smoke in a sharp wind. He’s gone, Techno’s gone. Or rather that isn’t the correct metaphor to use. More so he feels he has become alive in a language he doesn’t know.

Technoblade realizes he’s alive when he barrels through the glass doors of the gas station and a gunshot rings out. It’s only when the lone cashier screams in horror rather than pain, he realizes the bullet hit him. There’s no pain.

Techno laughs awkwardly.

This is weird. The robbers are looking at him weird. Quick, what would a superhero do? What would a superhero do? What would a superhero do.

Such thoughts catch the wind as he swings. On autopilot, on instinct, on muscle memory. Like chopping a tree in the clearing behind his house.
The orphan obliterator cuts clean through the closest criminal’s spine. Sliced into two like a fine fish, not a person.

A person. Techno just killed a person. Superheroes don’t do that. He isn’t thinking straight. He isn’t thinking at all. The voices riot with praise, screaming in his skull, and Techno has never felt such validation before.

Heroism is the next thing to fly off like a lost kite in a gale. The next thing he is happens to be a teenager, and teenagers just want to feel praise. Just want one damn reason to feel good, even for a moment.
Another shot rings out and it sounds like a panic attack. The cashier crumbles onto the ground. The blood looks like belonging.

The gunman grabs a single, desperate, pathetic last attempt wad of cash and leads the other two in running away. Into the back room where the liquors kept. Techno’s never drank before.

His boot splashes into the pool of blood and the splat sounds like acceptance. His thoughts dust on the breeze. Could anyone think over the voices? Could anyone have resisted them forever?
That back room has no back door. Techno laughs again, but he barely registers the action.

One. Two. Another bullet hits his skin and it bounces off harmlessly. Three.

The cashier, the gunman, and the other two robbers are dead. Dead and gone and gross looking piles of meat on the ground. Then it hits.
Hits like the bullets that bounced off. Hits like the impact that awaits whoever climbs the fence. Hits like a truth bubbling up into the light after it had been pushed into the dark for so long, so long. Decades long.

Superheroes don’t do this. Harbingers do.

No. No, no, no! Techno’s tried so hard for so many years to prevent this exact scenario. He’s hid so many things for so many years. Now, his gig is up. The horrid, plain, and revolting truth is laid flat out before him.
Techno’s just as evil as he’s always known himself to be. Fat tears swell in his eyes, a sob from his chest. He knew. He knew it all along, but he was supposed to be better. Techno knows better, but he isn’t better. He'll never be better. He'll never be fixed.

This is what he was born to do. Born from a bomb to do this exact thing on a much larger scale. Is the whole world really meant to be this way? Gory red all the way down?

There’s blood on the walls. Blood on the ceiling. How the fuck did it get up there? How is there blood everywhere, and why does it smell so good?

Technoblade never dies!
Blood for the blood god!
Violence!
E!

It’s so loud. It’s so loud and these aren’t hallucinations, are they? Techno really was never cut out for meds or therapy, was he? That imposter syndrome was never a syndrome, was it?
He really has been mascaraing as a person with an illness instead of what he really is. Not a refugee, not a patient, not a teenager. A sense of doom settles over him with an unsettling finality.

“Techno?”

Tommy’s voice sounds through the door, small and trembling.
The orphan obliterator fumbles from his hand onto the floor with a tiny splash.

“Don’t open the door!”

His voice floods with panic. Lip trembling.
Techno wishes he was dreaming. Wishes he’d wake up just about now and go cry into dad’s arms. He wishes his parents would buy him pity ice cream and move his therapy appointment up. He wishes this was over. It's only begun.

Techno can picture the Tommy that had looked up at him, eyes wide, like his big brother really was the superhero he was claiming to be. Not like this. Not sitting in a pool of blood coming unraveled at every stitch and seam.
He’d do anything to preserve that image. Of Tommy’s eyes filled with genuine, innocent wonder. To preserve that image of himself that wasn’t drenched in gore.

Tommy can’t see him like this. None of this. Techno’s heart sinks even further when he realizes there’s a body on the other side of the door. Two of them.
He knew he wasn’t good but, not like this. Never like this.

A crack shatters all around him and Techno almost assumes it’s a hallucination before he physically feels the ground slant. Pulling him downwards. Sucking him and all his villainy away.

Chapter Text

There’s a crack that runs a straight line through Techno’s misery. The sound thunderous, like metal rebar snapping. The blood pooling on the tile floor flows to the wound.
His eyes sting as Techno stares off into the red, glowing rift that just formed in the earth. That he formed in the earth.

Techno is overwhelmed by the thought that he is unforgivable. For what he’s done, for who he is, no part of him can be spared.
He just wants his mom to tell him this isn’t real.

Quickly, before the entire building falls into the scarlet abyss, Techno grabs the stupid, villainous sword and pulls himself up and out. Running through the bloody gas station and out into the parking lot.

It’s raining. It wasn’t like that when he got here. Wilbur’s car is gone, and Tommy is nowhere to be seen. Maybe this is a dream after all.

Harbinger! Harbinger!

The voices curl like smoke.

He used to have at least some ability to block them out. Breathing exercises, stim toys, video games. There used to be coping mechanisms, but those are made for mentally ill people. Techno’s just an actual monster.
Maybe the only reason stupid Minecraft pvp ever worked is because the voices never got to taste the real thing. Never got to experience how easy it is to sever through someone’s chest. Now that they have, are they ever going to shut up again? Is there even another ‘again’?

They chant in one, powerful, unified scream. So loud Techno is sure someone else could be able to hear it. They also chant one, powerful, unified phrase.

Blood for the blood god.

It’s a celebration. There’s nothing here to celebrate.

Techno raises his face to the rainy sky. A sob escaping his lips. As they part, he gets a taste of the rain. Thicker, more metallic, and far stickier than water.
Everything inside of Technoblade riots all at once the minute he realizes what it is. What has happened, who he has become.

It’s blood rain, a sign of the apocalypse, and it’s dripping down his face like macabre tears.
It’s real. It’s real and Techno knew that. He feels so dumb for knowing that. That doesn’t make it sting less. Doesn’t soften the blow he dealt, the scar he carved into the earth. He feels hungry all of a sudden and he knows that can’t be good.

Your teeth were made to chew the sun

The sound of the voices swells within him like a toothache. His mouth feels raw.

Home. Techno just has to get home. If he’s home, his parents will fix it. He can just take these clothes off and an adult is going to fix this.

So he runs. Sprinting full force like a mad man down the street. Three blocks. Four. He feels faster. Techno feels his heart race, but it doesn’t pain him. There is no physical pain at all. Just this brutal emotional agony too great to even linger a metaphor on.
Someone is going to see him and know what he’s done. Faster.

When he turns on his heels, near toppling over, toward his house his spine turns to jelly.
Fuck, that’s right. It’s not like Techno can just walk through the front door covered in blood and wielding a murder weapon. Through the window it is.

He finds it far too easy to scale the side of the building. Slipping into the unlocked window with ease.
Briefly he thinks that if he really had just hung himself out that window, which he always left it unlocked to do, none of this would’ve happened. The world wouldn’t be ending.

“And you left him?” Dad’s frantic voice comes from Wilbur’s room.

No. Those motherfuckers didn’t snitch. There’s no way.

“I didn’t know what to do-“ Will sobs.

Techno has no time to deflate knowing he’s the reason Wilbur’s crying. He rips off this damn superhero bullshit. Wincing at the bloodstains. Quickly grabbing whatever dirty laundry is on the floor to replace it.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry-“
“Wilbur, it’ll be ok,”

“It won’t!” Tommy cries out.

Techno throws on a hoodie that used to be Will’s and some basketball shorts. Bundling the costume into a messy red ball and dropping it in horror when it rubs off on his hands. It's all over his hands, his arms, his chest. Dripping down his chin.

“Where is he now?” he can imagine dad putting his hand on Tommy’s shoulder comfortingly.

Then Techno realizes he doesn’t deserve that comforting touch ever again and his throat fills with bile. The voices are just so loud.

The window slams shut. The crash reverberates through his room. Why did he leave it open? He’s fucked. Techno’s so, so fucked.

“Tech?” Tommy shouts.

Panic. He grabs the orphan obliterator and the dripping costume and tries to shove it beneath his bed.

“I’m going to open the door,” dad announces.

Shit. Fuck. Techno shoves the box under his bed as the door opens, revealing all of his sins.

Dad pauses, trying to balance wanting his son to be ok and wanting the truth, “What are you hiding?”

"It's porn," he rushes to his own defense, not pausing to think about how sturdy his shield is.

“Techno you're asexual,"

Shit. Forgot about that.
Or is he? Sexuality applies to humans, and Techno can’t be human. Humans don’t emerge from bombs and have naturally pink hair. Humans don’t mark the beginning of the end times.

“Go,” Techno croaks out, “Please go,”

He hides his hands so his father doesn’t see the blood. As if he isn't drenched head to toe in the stuff.

“Tech, I know something bad happened. I need you to tell me how I can help” he says, so honest to god genuinely. Like such a good parent.

Techno’s jaw threatens to snap as he grits his teeth. Of course, dad would play the good parent. Disregarding the obvious fact that Techno is not his son, that he should despise him.
Everyone should despise him. He’s living doomsday. They are living through doomsday because of him!

“You can’t!” Techno yells. Fists slamming against his knees.

“Tech-“
“No! You can’t!”

With the absolute aching power behind his voice, something shatters. Something held together for so long comes loose with a brilliant flash of red flood light, and an alarmingly loud crack.
And, of course, dad rushes to clutch Techno to his chest when the ceiling caves in and the whole room comes crumbling to ash.

Chapter Text

There was once a time, a couple hours ago, that Techno could think of no safer location than his father’s arms.
He’s too revolted by his entire being to think that now. Too preoccupied by his disgust for himself to think he deserves things like safety or comfort.
Now, with his father’s arms wrapped around him like wings, Techno tries to think back to burgers and brothers and growing up. Techno should never have been allowed to grow up.

That childhood bedroom which the growing up took place in lies in ruins. Having slipped from its foundations and taking the living room with it. Blood patters down the exposed plywood and mismatched belongings. Funny how the end of the world looks like a bomb went off.
A bomb did go off. Techno’s a bomb. He’s been a bomb this whole time.

His thoughts return to tangibility. To the man who used himself as a shield for his evil, evil son. Wait, why isn’t he moving? Dad sees this shit all the time, why would be pause now?

“Dad?” Techno tries, “Dad?”

Silence.
Techno shrugs him off. Crawling out from underneath Phil to look upon him with horror.
There’s a trickle of blood running down dad’s temple.

Something sick within him reaches acceptance before any other stage of grief. Adults aren’t going to fix this. No adult is going to patch the growing red chasm swallowing their flower bed.

Techno turns his head to see the orphan obliterator upright in the rubble. Like Excalibur in its stone.
But Arthur was the good guy, he reminds himself. Good guys don’t look over the body of their unconscious, or worse, father to look at the sword that damned them all.

“Techno!” Wilbur screams. Running up to them.

Techno jumps up, gently removing dads head from his lap, and takes a step back.

Wilbur’s white button down is soaked red. Sticking to him, translucent from being wet. If this was anything else, he’d be making fun of Wilbur for it but currently the sight is just horror.

“I’m so sorry. Wilbur I-, I didn’t want any of this! I swear I don’t want this,” his voice shatters under the apology.

“What’s going on? I can’t even compute what’s happening right now. I can’t,” Will crinkles his face rapidly.

Techno shrinks.

“It’s real. All of it. No hallucinations, no psychosis. Nothing. It’s all real and I’m just as evil as always knew I was,” Techno pulls the orphan obliterator from its stone, “This is your reward for loving me,”

The voices rejoice by the touch of the hilt. They behave like children, singing in the rain. Techno’s mouth feels like he’s going to grow a million teeth all at once.

“I don’t need a reward for loving you. I-, I was never rewarded for loving you. I guess I was, actually,”

Wilbur’s eyes swell with tears.

“I get you. You’re my reward,”

Fuck. He’s not. He knows he’s not. Nothing about this is a reward. Nothing about him is good.
Techno runs to throw his arms across Wilbur’s shoulders, sobbing into his sleeves despite that. Despite everything. There, in the pouring blood rain, the world is ending.
The world is ending but there’s someone crazy enough to love him. Crazy enough to view the apocalypse as a brother, as a reward.

Techno will never understand how people love him. He doesn’t want them to anymore. If he could’ve just been left to starve in California, the world would be safe. Wilbur would not be holding living death so tightly right now. Phil would be conscious. Tommy would’ve never seen a dead body before. Their mother wouldn’t be picking Tommy out of the rubble.
If people would just stop loving him, he could have gotten this over with. He wants this over with.

“I don’t want to do this. Tell me how to not do this. Wilbur, tell me I don’t have to do this,” he chokes into his brother’s collarbone.

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this.

A mantra. One he repeats and repeats until it sounds like the truth. Until it drowns out the singing and the chanting. Until the rain goes away. Until Wilbur isn’t there anymore.

I don’t want to do this.

“Really?” a familiar voice replies.

Techno looks up. There’s no blood rain anymore. It’s an entire black sky, illuminated by a single star.
And it’s a formless, shapeless, grotesque mass of sound of desire. One he’s bore the weight of his whole life.

“Really?” It asks again, not convinced, “You don’t want to?”

“Heh?” Techno grips tighter on his blade, the only physical object in his place.

“Does the wolf not want to eat the world? Could Fenrir reject the chain? Could the sun spare the earth? Why would a weapon wield itself with mercy, and the spear subject itself to be a cane?” It speaks through him, not to him.
“Many gods have come before you, Technoblade. Your hesitation is concerning. Entertaining. Tell us more,”

It speaks in the tongues of millions, then thousands, then some words are spoken by maybe a total of five. The voices. This is the voices.
A vicious anger cuts through him like a scalpel. Like gasoline hitting a house fire.

“You did this to me! You tormented me my whole life for, what? What was it even worth?” he bares his teeth.

“You were to close the book,” they reply in the hundreds.

Techno seethes with fury. With defiance.
His whole life. His entire life he spent in endless self-hatred, and he tried so hard to destroy himself so he wouldn’t destroy anything else.
Children shouldn’t be driven to self-harm no matter what they were born to do. Children shouldn’t have to sob silently as to not wake their brothers. Children should not have body counts. Children shouldn’t hate themselves. Techno wants nothing more to take out all his hated on the thing that made him hate himself.

After a lifetime of wanting nothing more than to die, of confusion, of wandering aimlessly with lead in his belly, what else could he do? How could an entire lifetime drenched in shame lead to anything else but this? But a furious, just, and clean swipe of his sword.

He cuts through the voices like he’s snapped spines before. Efficiently, cleanly, with a fire that burns the blade.

They retaliate in horror, in shock. How could their war dog snap at their hands? Was the training not enough? The torment not so thorough? The screaming of millions, tens of millions, echo in a volume that causes Techno’s eardrums to bleed.
But he does not stop. He does not buckle or bend. This is what he was built to do. Born to do. Why he emerged from the detonation site all those years ago. At once he realizes his destiny, and for once he is not ashamed. There is a blissful moment where all the shame was whisked away. Gone in the blink of an eye. There he stands in the center of that moment, resplendent.

Technoblade does not stop until every last voice is dead. A crumbled, almost glitchy pile of just grey mass lost to abyss. Orphan obliterator in his hands. Murder of millions. At last, he hears silence.
Whatever world these voices inhabited has come to an end.

It leaves him just sort of floating. Raging mad. Looking for something else to take it out on. Something significant to do, an important hatchet to bury. His teeth hurt.
Techno drips the orphan obliterator and watches it sink down, down, down. Gone in the swirling back. A piece of rage blinking away with it.

The rest of the rage goes into wading through the sky toward the only other thing left standing. A single star. Winking at him as it flickers and kicks. Like a baby. Like a toothache.
He cups it, like picking a single piece of cereal out of milk with a spoon, into his hands. Searing hot and torturously beautiful. Playing rainbows with his vision. This should be impossible. It’s not.

A sweaty, bloody, trembling teenager lifts the star to his lips. Ankle length pick hair swirling around him, hoodie ballooning in the weightlessness.
The taste of it, by god the taste of it. Starlight pours down his throat like a shot and swirls into his brain. Blooming pain and flowers there.

Techno never realized how hungry he felt until that hunger was satisfied. Never realized how good something could taste. Never realized how at once his chest could be hollow and not full of misplaced hatred.

Something bares witness to the boy who swallowed a star. Something smiles. A kind, fickle thing.

Chapter Text

It’s Techno and Wilbur’s birthday.

17 and 19. Big flashy numbers signaling the end of an era. After a long day of hanging with friends, they sit in the living room of their new house. Eating pizza and laughing long and hard over something stupid.
September’s rolling in. School’s starting. Floof, Techno’s new service dog, lays his head on Techno’s feet.

Life has certainly changed. Very few of it is certainly for the better.

If he didn’t have PTSD before he certainly does now. Through many confusing confessionals, him and Puffy are working out how to exactly work through something paranormal. The whole world is, really. It had rained for 2 entire days before the sky opened back up. The earthquakes destroyed cities. The rivers flooded and the winds blew forests down. People died. That’s something he’s going to be forced to live with. 
No one ever traced the gas station incident to Techno though. That’s a plus.

Techno’s growing up. If the apocalypse can grow, what else is able to change? That change, oh that grand and complex capacity for change. It’s at his fingertips. It’s in his skin. He’s blooming. He’s awakening. Growing and growing and growing. In the wake of the destruction both caused and held back by his hand, yet to grow to full size. 

He sleeps without waking up to rowdy voices in the middle of the night, without a sword under his bed. He still plays minecraft with his family. Wilbur’s made progress on the album, a dream growing ever closer. Tommy keeps looking up at Techno like he really is the superhero he didn’t turn out to be. 
Things are a bit better, a bit wilder. There’s a certain confusion on how to move forward as Techno finally has his mind all to himself. He doesn’t know what to do with the empty space yet. Maybe slap down an ugly carpet.

The fact of the matter is the world is meant to end simply because it began.
Whether that be capitalism chopping down the last tree, or global warning raising the oceans and sinking the cities. Be it the exploding sun. Be it a cold snap, or a heat death. The world is always going to end. With or without a pink haired warrior emerging from its sins. It’ll end whether he went loved or unloved.

Things end when there’s no room to grow, when there’s no longer a capacity for change. This time the ending changed. He changed.
Technoblade is growing up and that’s why there’s a man who calls Techno his son.

Phil Watson, a name Techno learned through numerous, patient phone calls, is a crisis responder. A doctor. He goes into the most horrific, dangerous, and heartbreaking disasters to make sure at least one more person can make it out alive.
He is Technoblade’s antithesis, to put it bluntly.

When Techno was first adopted the law had no idea how to deal with him. He wasn’t on the books anywhere. Some unnamed, unclaimed, unrecognizable refugee from the war brewing in America. He was a special case.

Phil’s words, “special case”. A case so special that Phil begged Kristen to let him stay. Claiming that no one else would understand Techno, that this world would eat Techno alive. He was too little to understand why that phrase used to give him tooth aches.
So, they adopted a kid who at first had to live in a hotel because he was so violent. Techno couldn’t be trusted to be near the other two boys. Wilbur was 9, Tommy was 5. They guessed Techno was 7.

In reality Techno had not been alive for a full year.

Techno has been alive for 12 years, now. They call that being 17. He’s a teenager, he’s a child. He’s a special case. What other devourer of civilization has two brothers?
Tommy is the sun and Techno did not eat him. Wilbur is good and Techno did not destroy him. Techno will continue to listen to his father when he’s told to do the dishes, and he’ll keep from tracking mud into his mother’s car. There’s a family here that isn’t supposed to exist. There’s so many “supposed to”’s that have been remade or flat out broken.
Broken by the boy born to break.

So, forgive him if he’s tired, or scared. Forgive him when he longs to taste the stars again. 17 year olds aren’t exactly trained to stop themselves from ending the world. His name is now and forever Techno Blade, as he has broken it two. He snapped the whole world on his knee. 

There’s a breaking here. Something lies broken but feels like the opening of something new. To let the light set in, some things need to be destroyed first. Techno wishes there wasn’t as much collateral damage. Millions of lives of collateral damage 

It’s a hefty toll, he knows that. Yet through the lingering guilt, the lingering high, and the scars destiny left, Techno is going to learn to live in a house without Wilbur in it. Will’s going off to college soon. Techno’s going to learn how to live in a house with a Tommy that regularly goes to therapy, with his newfound PTSD. How to live with a dad that gets migraines and a mom that gets flashbacks.

Every fear he had about himself came true, but after that the sky opened up. The voices went away. Techno survived it. He can live with that. For once in his life, he actually wants to live and he isn’t just saying that so Puffy didn’t get worried, it’s the truth. The god honest truth. 

The pizza might suck because nothing will ever compare to the inner core of a supermassive star but it’s not like he can just snack on them. His ears might ring but that’s because silence wasn’t something he was ever allowed before. Techno gets silence now.

There’re so many things that are new in the world that survived its ending. They all, the entirety of humanity, survived Techno Blade. Techno will too.

Across the table, Tommy makes an out of pocket joke. Mom laughs so loudly she shoots soda through her nose. Techno wipes tears from his eyes because good god, her face!

There, in the birthday hat, is a boy named Techno Blade. Raised on milk, laughter, and rich honey. A friendly, fickle thing.
And he has snapped this story closed.