Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was almost ironic- in a bitter, sickening way- how the city’s glow broke the night sky.

The brighter the city burned, the blacker the night sky glittered- maybe a dozen stars shown, and that was if Techno cared enough to look for them (he did care enough). 

He knew it was irrational (and he wasn’t an irrational person; he wasn’t), but sometimes he wished he could see the sky. Not this black, all-encompassing shadow that fell over the hemisphere, but he wanted to see the stars. Thousands upon thousands of glittering gems dancing over each other, fixed beneath a silvery moon (he’d seen pictures of it, always infatuated with the sky, but never actually seen it). 

Which was an awfully strange thing to think about at the moment, considering a building had fallen on top of him.

He couldn’t move- could barely breathe. The sky was barely in his sight (he could see a glimpse of it through a break in the rubble, where dust floated over him and distant sounds of sirens fell over the rest of the din). Large blocks of rubble pressed over his limbs, pinning him down, making it hard to think- that’s how he managed it, he thought, without screaming. If he didn’t think, he wasn’t there.

As it was, he wasn’t really awake. He vaguely saw different forms and shadows and silhouettes above him (either survivors or heroes, he didn’t know nor did he care; none of them caught notice of him, and he didn’t catch real notice of them). And maybe he smelled smoke through the heavy scent of dust and rust and the overlaying iron scent of his own blood, but he couldn’t move, so he couldn’t make himself care.

He was going to die.

He knew it- or, he thought he knew it.

All this time, all this fighting, all his efforts… gone.

He would be forgotten, completely. Except for a plot of dirt in a graveyard, empty of a gravestone (because who had the kind of money for a gravestone?), there would be nothing left of him. No friends, no family- not even a name (not really. He never used the name given to him by his parents, the parents who had forgotten and abandoned him. His real name- the name given to him by a cruel man, by his captor, by his mentor- would die with him). 

They might not even find his remains- not for a long while, at least. Not until his corpse rotted beyond recognition, and then it might take a few times to identify his remains, and-

-why was he thinking about this, again?

Oh, right. Trapped under a building, barely able to see the sky, on the second floor of a (burning) three-story factory. Not in sight of anyone, and no one would be looking for him. 

People might remember his other name; “Wolf,” his vigilante name. They might remember a leather suit, all black except for the gold hem of his collar and belt. They might remember his pink hair, his (fake) gold circlet pinning most of his hair in place. They might remember a gas mask covering the bottom half of his face- honestly, the mask was the hardest part of his vigilante suit (and he was right glad for it right now, as breathing would have been impossible without it). The leather jacket and pants were expensive but worthwhile -the leather definitely provided extra padding on harder falls (and extra padding from the rubble pressing down on his legs)- but the mask was important. It hid his identity, as well as gave him a new one- he put a lot of effort into making sure it was secure on his face, as well as comfortable and breathable. And, admittedly, really cool (and recognizable. He needed to be recognized, needed them to know that he was alive and still kicking- if they were still keeping tabs on him).

Maybe the people from his apartment would remember him- the teenager who lived on his own; with dark eyes and scarred skin; with bright pink hair and a distinct lack of acquaintances. The landlord might be relieved he was finally gone, at least. The person who next occupied Techno’s crappy apartment room would probably pay the bills on time, which was something Techno always struggled to do.

Nightmare would remember him, probably. Or, he’d be annoyed that ‘Wolf’ was gone, at the very least. Nightmare was- his friend?- not his friend, his brother-in-arms. Another vigilante, taking care of the civilians where the heroes failed to or (more likely than not) didn’t care to. Nightmare was (admittedly) the only person Techno would talk to for more than a few minutes at a time, and he was enjoyable company during stake-outs. So Nightmare would miss him, Nightmare would notice he was gone.

Or, he would notice after the first week had passed. And could he blame him? Techno had never been the most reliably consistent vigilante- he would like to patrol every night, but his full-time job demanded he sleeps sometimes (and sometimes he wouldn’t be able to stand due to a bad injury, and sometimes he wouldn’t be able to stand because his own power drained him, and sometimes he wouldn’t be able to stand because he didn’t have anything substantial to eat).  Nightmare was used to Techno’s seemingly random hiatuses and- well, Techno wouldn’t be able to blame him for lack of worrying. Not that he’d be able to blame him in the first place, since Techno would be dead. 

He wished it would hit him harder, wish he could summon enough adrenaline to scream, or gain superhuman strength to lift this rubble, or anything- 

But no. Stuck drifting in some warped sense of awareness, his own power fluctuating and waxing with the beat of his own heart, searching for someone, for anyone, to latch onto.

“ Hone it, Technoblade-” hard, braided leather lashing against his back. Sweat on his brow, blood in his mouth. Fire in every nerve, lightning running up and down his back with every flashing beat of the whip, “ You control it, you don’t have to be in this much pain. Stop holding out on me,” his mentor (his captor? His caretaker?) believed in pressured learning. Which meant whips, which meant pain, which meant near death and- sometimes (often? Usually? Rarely? He couldn’t really remember)- kill-or-be-killed. 

“He’s right, though,” a softer voice. Cool water against his back, a hand running gently through his hair, “You have something the rest of us can’t have. You get to decide whether you live or die,” 

Say that to me now, Techno wanted to reach out to her, tell me I can’t die. 

She had always told him that, always pushed him, always declared it to him as law, “You can’t die,” she would whisper in his ear, she would scream to his face, she would stare him cold in the eye, she would hiss hotly in his almost-deathbed, “Technoblade never dies.”

But she was gone. Just like everyone else.

And nothing but dust replaced her. Dust floating in the air, wafting against the waning light of the moon, of the city. Distant sirens, vague voices, moving shadows. There were people above him, he knew. His power reached toward them, tendrils like poison begging him to let them free. She begged him to let them free, she begged him to stay alive. Don’t leave me alone in this world- she would say if nothing else had persuaded him- take everything else, but don’t leave me alone. 

He had left her alone, in the end.

He had escaped their prison, he had left her to rot in the dust.

“You know I can’t leave you,” he had told her once, after she returned from a particularly horrible mission. There was blood everywhere- in her hair, splattered on her face, on her hands- “I will never leave you. Neither of us can ever be alone.” 

He was alone. Sitting beneath a building, shadows creeping toward his mind, the heart-wrenching sound of shifting debris thunderous and yet nearly silent in his ears.

And her gaze, a whisper in his ear and yet roaring and guttural and desperate. Her eyes pleaded for him to fight, to take her with him, to stay with her- but when she spoke- “Run.” 

Hands dragging her away, holding her by the throat, “ Come on, Technoblade- Come here, dog,” his captor (his mentor? His boss?) had spit, “ Don’t let me break your sister’s pretty little face.”

He should have stayed with her. Should have, would have, wished he could have- 

“I’m coming back for you,” and hands were dragging him back, dragging them away from each other, even as they screamed and fought and kicked. And yes, Techno fought. He fought for her, he fought to be with her, even if it was in a cage. She was his little sister. She was his and he was (supposed to be) hers. 

He had failed her. He knew that. She was stuck, imprisoned, in pain. And he was wallowing in his own self-pity, stuck under a collapsed building, breath straining and raspy through his gas mask. 

Another person passed nearby. A hero, a survivor, a fireman, maybe. His power lashed out again, desperate, a painful pull against his body- strangling him, almost. Certainly hurting him. “Drain them,” his master’s (his mentor’s?) voice, insistent, angry, “Devour them.” 

And her voice. Softer, kinder. More insistent than even their captor’s, but gentle. From her mind, into his mind, “ You can’t die,” she told him- back in the training grounds, back in the mission room, back in the facility, back in the assassin’s war. “You can’t.” 

And whatever she told him, whatever she asked of him (and it was always to stay alive, to stay with her, to keep breathing, to keep her breathing)- whatever she needed, she was his sister-  he listened. 

His power lashed out again, angrier. He followed it, this time, letting the power stretch, letting it wrap around another person. And he tried not to imagine their body falling as he did it, their face twisting into pain, their limbs going prostate and writhing on the floor- he tried, but he couldn’t help but listen to their screaming (he could hear it, barely). 

The rubble stayed in place, the dust and smoke stayed heavy in the air, but suddenly he could breathe easier.

His own pulse ran steadier in his own ear, the pain in his limbs dulling. He stole the health from another person and he gave it to himself, and he wished he weren’t so selfish but-

-he didn’t want to die.

And he couldn’t leave her alone.

Not for real.

And then over the sound of screaming- “Who is that?!” A voice; high-pitched, angry, “Stop it! Stop it! Whoever’s doing this, stop it!” It surprised him, enough that he couldn’t help but obey (maybe just on accident, because he lost his grip, or maybe because the voice was desperate enough but) Techno stopped.

“The heck--?” and then silence.

The pain came crashing back all at once, and he couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. Or maybe it was more of a scream. He couldn’t tell, because suddenly he found it hard to stay conscious. His wounds opened again, blood pouring out anew. Pain fell over him unbridled, and his scream trailed away into a moan (or a sob, but he loathed to think it was a sob). 

“Who is that?! Who is it-- oh, prime, where are you?” the voice, panicked again, cutting through the new agony Techno found himself in. He hated it- he hated how selfish he was, he hated how he couldn’t stop himself.  But he latched onto it.

And then they were screaming instead of him, and at least (at least) he wasn’t dead. At least (at least) the pain vanished just as quickly as it came.

He couldn’t hear much, couldn’t see much, but he glimpsed a shadow moving, and he thought he heard a frantic voice, “-Tommy!” and then something soothing- oh, like honey, like the ocean, like a blanket over his mind- it was almost as relieving as his own power, except softer, less painful, “Release my brother,” and of course Techno obeyed. The words echoed in Techno’s mind lik an all-encompassing fog, and-

-it left to soon.

The pain. Again. 

“Again, again, again- come on, dog, show me what you can do-” even through his gas mask, his scream sounded too human. Too pained. Too loud. He needed that relief, he needed to heal, he needed-

“Be quiet,” the voice again, and Techno forced his throat to constrict and die into shallow, rattled breaths-

“No, no, Wil, who’s screaming? We need to find them-”

“They just hurt you!”.

“I really think they’re just trying to survive,”

“By hurting another person?” 

“I wouldn’t have died.”

“You don’t know that!” He wouldn’t have died, Techno wanted to assure, but he couldn’t. And for a second, he couldn’t remember why he was being silent- oh, right. The voice. The soft, soothing voice.

It wasn’t really soothing anymore. He felt like his body was on fire, he felt like he was dying-

He was dying. For real this time. 

“You can’t die-” she was right, he couldn’t- not because of some innate ability, but because he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t allow it. He wanted life.

Whoever was above him- no, he knew who was above him. Because their power was terrifyingly recognizable. Siren, a powerful hero, a bloody menace to both criminals and vigilantes.

But he’s pushed through their power before. That was part of his family’s heritage, part of their blood; they held a certain advantage over other powers. It’s why his sister could never truly read his mind, and it’s why his captor could never have complete control over him. And it’s why the Siren has never caught him before.

They were heroes, right? They would save him- probably. At least get him out of the building, then he could escape.

“I’m over here!” he forced out, and it was harder than he liked to admit. Harder to speak because he couldn’t breathe around the building, because there was grit in his lungs, because there was rubble on top of him- and harder to talk because the Siren’s spell was strong. Really strong.

“Wilbur- shut up, I heard something-”

“-Hey, hey, sit back down!”

And then a face was leaning over the crevice, staring right back down at Technoblade.

“Oh, by Prime- Wilbur, get Phil-”

“-what do you mean?” And another face joined the first, staring at Techno, and, “Oh.”

“How is he not dead?” 

“How are you not dead?” the cruel voice, “ Dog, just lay down and die already-”

Someone landed next to him- or, just above him. He couldn’t tell. The terrain was lopsided, and he was nearly dead, and his blood was draining on the floor, and everything hurt so much- too much.

It was Siren.

The hero bent down to reach toward Techno- no, not toward Techno, toward the gas mask. No- he couldn’t do much. He flinched away, the concrete hard against his cheek- his breaths were audible, and he couldn’t really talk very much, but he begged. He knew he begged. But they ignored him. Always ignore me, Techno wanted to scream, he wanted to cry.

The gas mask ripped away, cold air suddenly stinging his lungs, and his face was bared for the world to see.

Not that it would mean anything to anyone. Unless they were from before, no one should recognize him. Because no one knew him.

“Holy crap you're young,” Siren breathed, shoving his face closer. And maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing, but, well, he didn’t want to die.

He lashed out toward the hero, gripping Siren’s ankle like a life source- because it was. And his own power, no longer limited by distance, was eager to steal Siren’s energy, Siren’s health, and- 

-Siren was powerful. His energy fell rapidly into Techno’s body, and his blood stopped pouring onto the ground, and he could actually think again. And something like strength flowed into Techno’s limbs- too much strength. He was taking too much from Siren, too much. He’ll survive. Maybe he wouldn’t. But Techno would- he couldn’t die.

Siren was screaming (most people scream when Techno drained them), but Techno couldn’t find it in himself to care. He pressed his legs onto the ground, pushing himself away from the rubble, from that trap, from the puddle of blood seeping into debris. Dark liquid followed the ground where he lay, and he turned, and he looked down, and saw-

The hero was nearly unconscious. Clearly in pain. Clearly drained; his skin grey, his eyes barely open. Something lurched in Techno’s heart, and once again he was reminded how much he hated himself. Hated his own power. Hated what he was made into.

He made sure to reattach the gas mask before releasing the Siren, and then he ran.

The returning pain made him stumble, but not as bad as before. Maybe some blood dribbled down his skin, and maybe he choked on a breath before relearning how to breathe, but no one needed to know.

Now one could know. He was already gone.

Chapter Text

The bathroom tiles he sat on were dirty and rotten and vile to the point where he was worried about infection, but at the very least, they were cold on his wounds. And maybe he liked to pretend that his hands were trembling because of the cold tiles rather than the phantom screaming in his ears- the heroes from the rubble, the one he almost killed-

-to save himself, right? Was that a justifiable argument? 

He couldn’t think of anything else.

The gauze he had wrapped around the worst cuts was already damp. From sweat, from blood- he wasn’t really thinking about it. He tried not to. He tried to keep his eyes closed, his knees pulled up to his chest, his head cradled into his arms. Because it hurt.

And he was so, so guilty. The heroes had been trying to save him, and he had paid them back by draining their life force from their bodies. And- and then Siren had seemed so, so deathly pale, and the other hero had sounded so, so young- and, and, well- he had just… left. 

And Siren had seen his face.

That was the part he wanted to be worried about- but really, truthfully, it wouldn’t matter. Techno was a ghost; a dead man to the government, and he has been ever since the Assassins found him, since they took him in, since they-

-they kept him alive, didn’t they? He and his sister would’ve died, alone, on the streets.

But they took so much. They took an entire childhood away from him- more than that, an entire life. And they stole his identity; burned the paperwork to the ground.

He didn’t exist.

And no one would care if he died, and no one would even mention it.

Self-pity never got anyone anywhere, he scolded himself, lifting his head to the ceiling and staring at the flickering lights. There were dead bugs trapped in the dying light bulb. Seemed poetic, almost (poetic for what, Techno didn’t know). 

And then there was hard, hard knocking on his door.

His power lashed out almost immediately- tendrils of energy reaching and pulling and grabbing towards the person behind the door, towards a source of energy to drain- and for a terrifying moment, Techno didn’t fight it, and he let his power fall away from his grasp, and he let his power reach-

-pulling it back was almost as painful as his broken ribs, fighting with a power that should (that would, if only he let it) keep him alive. A groan rumbled deep in his chest, his teeth red with blood as he bit down hard on his tongue, but he managed. He managed. He always did, he knew how to control it, he knew how to keep it locked away. Deep in the cavity of his ribs.

Standing up was almost as hard as keeping his power in check, and then throwing on a robe to cover his bloody clothes. And when he opened the door-

“-Technoblade,” a scolding voice, albeit soft and concerned. His landlord, Sam, had an intimidating figure by himself, but his gentle nature kind of softened his whole appearance. He tended to give cookies when he asked for overdue apartment rent, and he tended to care more about Techno’s eating habits than his financial ones.

“Hey, Sam- I’ll get the rent, uh, my paycheck’s today. I was just about to head to the cafe, sorry.” A lie- he had completely forgotten about his shift at the cafe. And the rent bill. Be he’d manage, he would.

Same lifted an eyebrow, his eyes soft with worry, “You’re wearing a robe-”

“-um, my clothes just came out of the drier?”

“You smell like death and- is that fire?- oh, prime, Techno-” the tall man took a longer glance at Techno, taking in the grime on his face and the way he leaned over himself, “Were you in the factory when it collapsed?”

“You know me,” Techno chuckled, albeit nervously, “Always stuck in the middle of trouble.”

“I’m beginning to think it’s more than just bad luck,” and Techno froze at Sam’s words.

Could he know?

How would he?

All his documents were forged, all his contacts were fake. His past was of a ghost, untraceable, and his vigilante identity was so unknown that-

-no, Sam didn’t know. He couldn’t. He really, truly couldn’t.

His power lashed out again, trying to reach toward Sam’s innocent figure, and it was all Techno could do to yank it back, pain erupted as a pounding headache as he did so.

And his throat still felt like a desert it was so dry and he had to swallow a couple times before answering, “Yeah, uh, I didn’t really get hurt though,” his voice was noticeably strained, “I’ll get that rent bill in tomorrow morning-”

“-you should really go to the doctor, instead,”

Techno pursed his lips, gritting his teeth to keep his power under control, “I’ll get it in tomorrow morning,” he muttered, and then tried to smile (it looked more like a grimace), and then slowly closed the door on his landlord’s face.

In fairness, it was either leave Sam’s presence or risk draining the life out of him. Maybe it was a bit rude, but Techno would much rather be awkward than accidentally injure his landlord.

He stood silently until he heard Sam’s footsteps retreating, and then he forced himself to stare at his apartment. The mattress on the floor took up most of the space, his cafe uniform thrown on top of the blankets and his vigilante outfit stuffed haphazardly under the mattress, one of the sleeves still sticking out. 

Right. Time to go to work.

-----

The cafe was soft and small and comfortable, existing perfectly in the middle of a city, like a refuge in the middle of a thousand closely-packed lives. Just stepping into the building, with its warm lights and ivy hanging from the ceiling, with the smell of pastries and coffee in the air-

It calmed him down, just for a second. Helped him to keep his power locked away in his chest.

At the counter, one of his coworkers greeted him with a small wave, “Techno, hey, we were getting worried about you,” and there was a smile on his face, but Techno noticed the way Purpled scanned him for injuries.

It was strange, how often the people he worked with worried about him. They knew he was injury prone (he had often come into work with grotesquely noticeable wounds), but he never understood why they cared.

“Well, I’m here now,” he drawled, throwing on an apron. He caught his manager’s eye as he checked into the machine, giving her a soft smile. Puffy was his boss, but she was kinder than most of anyone he’d ever known. In a way that Techno didn’t understand, but he was so, so thankful for.

Puffy made her way over to him just as he finished checking in, “Where were you?” voice concerned, not scolding. Techno pursed his lips, hesitating.

“You know the factory that collapsed?” he said, refusing to meet her gaze. Puffy frowned.

“And you’re not at the hospital?”

“I can still walk,”

“And what about your lungs?”

“Not bothering me.”

“Technoblade-”

“-c’mon, Puffy,” he looked at the ground before turning his gaze back to her, “You know I need the money. I can’t take off,”

And she really, really thought about it. 

And he knew what her response would be, but when she sighed and drawled out a small, “Alright, but take it easy,” he still smiled and thanked her.

He did take it easy- not by choice, more because it was hard to bend over. And also because his coworkers (namely Puffy and Purpled and a new girl called Olivia) made sure he didn’t do much more than brew coffee. 

He was still tired and in pain when his shift reached its final hours, though. And weary from holding his power back. 

He barely looked at his next customer’s face when he came over, taking more effort to press down his power before looking up, “Can I take your order?” in a tired voice.

The man glanced at him, blue eyes flickering lightly of Techno before meeting his gaze. His hair was blond and hung to his shoulders, his face gentle; kind, almost. Techno glanced at the counter, swallowing tightly.

“Technoblade, right?” the man said, and Techno looked up sharply before- oh, right, idiot- and quickly touching the nametag attached to his apron. He nodded, forcing a small smile.

“That’d be me,”

“I’m Phil,” the man- Phil- said, and Techno forced himself not to roll his eyes. He needed to take this man’s order, not become friends. Small talk would not be necessary, nor would it be ideal. 

“Hold your tongue, dog,” his master’s voice, always his master’s voice, “ manners’ll suit you better than a slap, don’t you think?”

And yeah, Techno would agree with that. Manners were one of the stranger things his master ingrained into his head, but it made sense during more prestigious missions. When he had to attend galas to assassin a powerful politician; when he had to fake being a butler; when he had to become a billionaire to get close to a president- that’s when manners would come in handy.

And also when taking orders from random citizens in a cafe. 

He shook himself lightly, forcing his eyes to refocus on his customer- on Phil. Luckily, the man didn’t seem to notice Techno’s brief loss of thought. 

“A blueberry muffin, please?” Phil said, “And some green tea.”

“You’ve got it,”

And then he turned his back, which was harder than it should’ve been. Phil felt different- years of the Assasin’s War had taught Techno to read people. To know when someone had experience fighting; to know when they were a risk; when they were an idiot; when they were clever. And to know where the whip was, where the knives were, where the escape was. And to know (always) where his master was. And to know ( always ) where his sister was. 

“I know how to defend myself,” she’d say, shaking him off, “ you need to pay attention to your own position.” But of all the things she asked of him, that one was the hardest. To pay attention to the knife being thrown at his own back was a hundred times harder when there was one aimed at Niki.

Idiot- pay attention, he snapped at himself, the voice sounding suspiciously like his master’s. He felt Phil’s gaze on his back, even as he went to collect the muffin and the tea, and when he returned to give them to him, his stomach twisted when he saw the concern on the stranger’s face.

And just as Techno was about to leave- “Did you hear about the factory that fell?” And, wow, if Techno hadn’t already been staring at the man, he would’ve done a double-take. As it was, it felt like whiplash.

Whiplash. Ha, that’s ironic. The scars on his back almost burned.

“The factory,” Techno said, stupidly, because everyone knows about the factory. It had been on the news for hours, now.

“Yeah, the one that fell,” Phil tried to smile, but from Techno’s blurred eyes, it looked more like concern.

“Um, yeah, it was a big explosion, right?” his throat felt tight. His lungs felt tight. The only thing that didn’t feel tight was his grip on his power, which felt too loose, and he struggled to hold it back.

“Mhm,” Phil tilted his head, “Were you there?”

Techno didn’t meet his gaze- which was against assassin’s training 101. When you lie, meet their eyes. It even rhymed. It was stupid that he didn’t do it, but with the lack of control he had over his powers, it was hard to drag his gaze back up when he said, “No.” 

And Phil knew it, too, “There weren’t very many deaths,” he said softly, “Thanks to a vigilante.”

And wow, if Techno been drinking water at the time, he would’ve spit it out. Panic clawed desperately at his throat, making it hard to talk, making it hard to breathe- but he managed. He could always manage. If nothing else, he would manage.

“Grit your teeth and fight, Techno. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.” And grit his teeth he did, fighting a grimace behind the counter of a small cafe.

“A vigilante?” he asked, grabbing a cloth and wiping the counters to hide his shaking hands. Phil didn’t look fooled, instead watching Techno’s face carefully.

“It was all over the news, didn’t you see it?” And when Techno didn’t answer, he continued, “A new villain fought against two of our best heroes. The destruction was not mild by any means, but there were few casualties.” 

Oh, Techno knew that. He’d arrived at the scene to find an unknown villain- a villain with a terrible power to blow things up- already fighting with Siren and Theseus. It was all Techno could do to keep people away from the explosions, to get them out of the buliding- what with the explosions, the concrete falling, the fire making his eyes burn, the dust making his lungs burn- and then the building collapsing, and it was all Techno could do to push a citizen away from the ceiling, and taking his place, and leaving Techno under a building- darkness closing in, closing in, leaving it hard to breathe-

“Of course,” Phil’s voice seemed quiet, “There would’ve been so many more casualties without that vigilante helping out. I think… Wolf was the vigilante’s name? Wolf saved more lives than anyone knows.”

Oh, Techno knew. 

He couldn’t really say it, though.

He couldn’t help the bitterness, though, and he couldn’t help but blurt out, “It’s a shame vigilantes are illegal.”

“Ey, mate, we can agree on that.”

And Techno felt himself almost (almost) smile.

And the almost seemed like enough to meet Phil’s gaze again, and he saw concern, and kindness, and something else that he couldn’t discern- and, and then-

Techno almost choked as his power lunged forward, tendrils desperately reaching, grabbing, pulling- Phil didn’t move, didn’t seem to realize- but then he paled when a tendril of Techno’s power glimpsed over his skin, and Techno pulled it back, and with it he stumbled backwards into the kitchen, hand braced against a brick wall- and Phil stood up, staring at Techno, and his mouth was moving, and-

“-are you okay?”

Techno paled, and all pretense of normalcy flew out the window. “Are you okay?” why would he ask that? Why would he care? Wasn’t Phil the one who almost got strangled? 

It didn’t make sense. It didn’t.

Techno turned away, “I’m on dishes duty, next,” he mumbled before running into the kitchen. He’d trade out with Purpled. Anything to stay away from this anomaly. Anomalies were dangerous- always had been. Always would be. 

Even running into the kitchen, he felt Phil’s gaze on his back. It made him want to scream. It made his power want to implode. 

But he managed. He always would.