Chapter Text
Phil feels like he might scream.
“Listen, I understand it’s hard for you, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Would you like the number for the crisis counseling line?” The police officer has kind eyes, but her voice is hard. She’s clearly as tired of Phil as he is of her.
“I’m not in crisis,” he snaps. “My wife was murdered.”
“Sir, it seems like you’re in crisis.” The officer gestures to the shadow of her desk, which is rippling like the surface of boiling water. Phil didn’t need that pointed out, he can feel the shadows of the room straining towards the tension in his voice.
He takes a deep breath, and sounds much calmer when he says, “All I’m asking is that you open an investigation into the death of Kristin Craft. You’re the police, right? You can do that?” The shadow smooths out.
“We can’t. I’ve explained this to you.”
“Explain it again,” Phil says, enunciating carefully as if he’s talking to a small child. “I just don’t understand why the police are refusing to investigate a murder.”
“Well, we can’t be sure it was a murder—”
“She was shot. The coroner ruled it a homicide. I saw the goddamn report.”
“Not all homicides are murders, sir.”
“This one was.” Phil can tell that the anger in his voice is close to actually pulling the room’s shadows toward him, but he doesn’t really care.
“Even if your wife’s death was a murder, I told you, because of the circumstances it goes through a separate review committee before any police action can be considered.”
“Because heroes were involved, and they can’t get in trouble.”
“Any action by a government-sanctioned hero is considered necessary and justified unless the review committee rules it otherwise. If your wife’s death was truly a murder, the committee should send us that ruling within four to six weeks, and we’ll get back to you about investigating.”
“What question is the committee reviewing? My Kristin was shot by that man for Universe only knows what reason. What’s the question there?”
“Sir, your wife may have been shot by the assailants, not the hero dispatched. The security footage has been unfortunately lost.”
“The news described the robbers as armed with knives.”
“There’s really no way to know—”
“Are you going to open the investigation or not?”
“At this time, no.”
“Then stop wasting my time making excuses for a murderer.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like the crisis counseling number? It’s anonymous and open twenty-four—”
“I’m not having a fucking crisis.” Phil storms out before the officer can answer.
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Outside the station, Phil sets off down the streets. He’s not sure where he’s going, but if he stays still he might cry, so he walks. Under his breath, he makes a quiet clicking sound to keep the shadows around him at bay. There aren’t that many natural ones, given the angle of the midday sun, so he doesn’t have much room for error.
He’s so focused on the shadows and his own anger that he walks directly into someone.
“Ah! What the hell, mate, watch where you’re going,” he snaps, then actually looks at the person he’s collided with. They’re… tall, is his first thought. Easily six feet, and built strong and broad. Deep pink hair brushes their shoulders, and if Phil squints just right there’s a red undertone to their brown eyes.
“You’re dangerous,” the person says matter-of-factly.
“Sorry, what?”
“You’re dangerous. Do you wanna get coffee?”
“What the hell do you mean I’m dangerous?” Phil’s been called dangerous before, usually by people who understand that his power is more than just the cute shadow-birds and decide to be assholes about it. He has the shadows under control right now, though, and usually strangers aren’t that blunt unless they’re genuine bigots.
The stranger sighs. “I’ve got a… thing.” They tap the side of their head. “It’s tellin’ me you’re dangerous. Do you wanna get coffee?”
Okay, so they either have a power or they’re some kind of nonhuman with an ESP. Phil’s curious, but he doesn’t ask. He knows it’s rude to speculate, especially to a stranger (knows how he would feel if someone speculated about him).
“Yeah, fine. Let’s get coffee,” Phil says. Why not? He’d just pace the city otherwise. He’s an adult. He makes good choices.
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A few minutes later, Phil is sitting with the stranger at an outdoor table in front of a small coffee shop.
“So… I’m Phil,” he begins, just to break the silence. “He/him.”
“I’m Techno. He/him,” the stranger answers.
“Techno. Is that a nickname?”
“It’s short for Technoblade.”
That actually leaves Phil with more questions than he had before, but he doesn’t think he’ll get a better answer if he asks them. “Oh.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Why did you say I’m dangerous?”
Techno shrugs. “You are, apparently. I’ve got a sense for things like that, and it’s tellin’ me you’re a threat, but not to me. That’s confusin’. I don’t like mysteries.”
“If you don’t like mysteries, why did you get me coffee?”
“You’re only a mystery until I figure you out.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Usually, Phil’s more polite, but since Kristin’s been… gone, he’s felt fractured, and he can’t bring himself to care as much as he did.
Techno laughs. “Depends who you ask.” He takes a drink of his own coffee, which is straight black except for whipped cream. Who orders black coffee with whipped cream? “Okay, my turn to ask questions. What were you doin’ walkin’ at top speed but apparently not goin’ anywhere important?”
“Just walking. Blowing off steam.”
“Why?”
“My wife is dead,” Phil spits.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Techno’s tone stays as flat as it’s been the whole conversation. Phil doesn’t feel particularly comforted. There’s a beat of silence. “What happened to her?”
“She was killed by a hero in the crossfire of a robbery and because a hero was involved no one will look into it so her murderer is free. Happy? Fucking hell, mate.” A shadow-crow chatters at them from under the table until Phil whistles at it and it melts away.
Techno lowers his voice. “I can help you with that.”
“...What?”
Techno sighs, looking down into his drink. “Look, it’s not something I can really discuss in public, but I can help you with the whole wife’s murderer going free thing. Can we go back to my place? We can speak more freely there.”
For a moment, an alarm rings in Phil’s head. Isn’t there some rule about never going to a secondary location with a stranger, especially one as unsettling as Techno? Wait. Technically, they first met on the street. The cafe is a secondary location, and Techno’s place would be a tertiary location. As far as Phil knows, tertiary locations are fine.
“Sure. Whatever.”
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Techno’s apartment is surprisingly homey. Books crowd most of the surfaces, and as soon as they get in Techno pulls a pair of thin-framed glasses from a case on the table and puts them on.
“Do you need those to see?” Phil asks after a moment of confusion.
“Technically, they’re readin’ glasses, so no, but people take me more seriously when I wear them.”
“That might be the dumbest reason I’ve ever heard for anyone to wear glasses.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
“Mate, I don’t even know what help you’re offering.”
“Oh. Right.” Techno pulls a low-backed wooden chair out from the table and sits in it backward, so his arms are resting on the back. He fixes Phil with a serious look, and Phil only barely doesn’t laugh. “I do some work sometimes, strictly off the books, and let’s call it pickin’ up the slack when the big dogs won’t do justice. Now, I usually just go with whoever needs me in the moment, but it looks like you could use my help.”
“Are you saying you’re a vigilante?”
“I am. And it seems to me that the usual justice system has failed you, and—”
“Are you saying you’re willing to kill the people who killed Kristin?”
“Phil, you’re ruinin’ my business proposal.”
“I think you already ruined it when you put on the glasses.” Phil crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow at Techno.
“Bruh,” Techno says under his breath. “Listen, you can have justice or you can not have justice, and it’s lookin’ like you’re gonna not have justice if you keep mockin’ me.”
Phil tilts his head to one side, thinking for a moment. He’s never had anyone basically offer him a murder before, so he feels a little out of his depth. On the other hand, though… isn’t this everything he and Kristin believed in? The Universe has seen fit to drop justice in his lap. He remembers how Kristin, more than once, had told him the difference between justice and vengeance is which side of the knife you’re on with a gentle tap on the tip of his nose, and the sharp edges of anger-sadness-fear in the pit of his stomach feel overwhelming for a moment.
“One condition: let me help.” Phil and Kristin also believed in personal responsibility. Phil can’t in good conscience let a near-stranger face danger for him.
“I can’t do that.”
Phil matches Techno’s serious-business-deal expression. “That’s my condition. Take it or leave it.”
“You are not in the position to tell me to take it or leave it right now,” Techno points out indignantly. “You’re a civilian. I can’t let you do that.”
“I have a power,” Phil retorts.
“I’ve watched you summon one singular bird. That’s not enough to let you help me kill people.”
Phil gives a low whistle, calling the darkness. As the two of them watch, the shadows in the room extend, creeping along corners and edges until the room is noticeably dimmer. Red and blue eyes peer out, the forms of the crows that Phil’s been trying to hold back all day. They make staticky caws and croaks, like hearing birds on an old radio. Techno’s eyebrows raise as he glances around. With a small smile, Phil murmurs, “This is my favorite part,” and whistles a short series of notes. His wings settle smoothly into place, made of pure shadow but connected to him like his own flesh. They really are his favorite part of his power, something that, he imagines, connects him to something primordial, something close to the Universe itself.
Techno looks from Phil to his wings to the shadows, and something like resignation sets on his face. “Fine. Have it your way.”