Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Technoblade.

A name that struck terror into the hearts of many. A name that none dared utter for fear of the man it belonged to striking them down. A God among men. Someone no mere mortal could best. In fact, no one at all could best.

The greatest known fighters for miles around came to challenged the Blood God. None were successful. Not one left the ring with all their bones, or their pride, in tact. And Technoblade watched them leave. A stone cold expression on his face. Nothing in his eyes, red as the blood he spilled. No feeling. No fear. No remorse. Empty.

Many say the eyes are the window to the soul. If that were the case, then clearly, Technoblade simply had no soul. His eyes, red as blood. Eyes that, in the right light, would shine like gemstones, were empty. There was no emotion behind them. No feelings for anyone or anything. No pride in his victories. No gratitude for his prize. No remorse for his opponents. He felt nothing. And that, perhaps, was what frightened people so.

Technoblade, at a mere fifteen years of age, had amassed a total of fourteen-hundred victories in the Pit. He remained and undefeated champion. A legend, whispered about among crowds. Easily recognised for those empty gemstone eyes and long, matted pink hair. Pointed ears, and small ivory tusks attached to his lower jaw.

For the crowds that would gather after his fights. For the blood that stained the ring and his skin after each battle. For the violence, the merciless attacks. The endless onslaught of abuse he would throw at his opponents. More often than not, he would be restrained and forced to stop after claiming victory by the ref.

Technoblade was a merciless and violent monster. Everyone from the Antarctic Empire, to The Essempi Kingdom knew that.

And yet, when Technoblade left the ring. When Technoblade claimed his prize in gold, and was finally free of the crowds praising him for his victory, for his violence, he changed.

Donning a deep burgundy cloak, hiding his recognisable features that would no doubt strike fear into the hearts of all that saw him coming, Technoblade wandered the streets of the Commune, the city in the heart of the Antarctic empire, and he would share his prize. Handing out small stacks of coins to folk starving in the streets. To mothers shivering with their children held close. To young men fresh back from the battlefield begging for food. To the temple hands asking for donations, and to the charity bellringers collecting for the orphanages.

Technoblade had no soul as far as his 'fans' said, and yet he was one of the kindest souls in the city. He would spend little on himself, purchasing only a small meal from a local bakery at the end of the night, and returning alone to a cold, lonely basement, hidden beneath an abandoned storefront no one dared tear down for fear of the rumours surrounding it.

At night, as the sun set, it would start again.

Dropping the red cloak, Technoblade returned to the ring. He would face his opponent, someone much older, more experience than he. Cold and empty eyes simply watching. And, he would attack.

Violent, sporadic, uncontrolled. Blood coating his hands, face, body. The voices would scream. Cheer, celebrate the victory. Blood for the Blood God! All would cheer out. Technoblade wanted to turn that violence on himself more often than not. Claw at his eyes. Tear his ears off. Let the blood and tears run down his own face. Pour from his own chest, spilling down his own arms and hands.

He was dragged away again. A mutilated body lay at his feet. Blood pooled on the ground. A blurry red mess. A heartbeat pulsed in his ears. Thumping hard and heavy against restricting ribs he longed to shatter. Maybe then he could breath. Maybe then he could force more air into his lungs. Voices screamed and cheered and jeered, crying out for more. Some were afraid. More were amazed. Too many were gleeful.

Echoing around his skull. Bouncing through his mind. Pounding through his ears. It hurt. The thump-thump-thump of his heart was lost to the screaming crowd of faceless words. echoing around the confined space. Bouncing off of blank concrete walls. Bouncing back at him. Hitting his ears like a barrage of arrows. Stabbing into his ears, into his head, into his heart.

Breathing was a chore. Standing was a chore. His limbs ached. One arm was dragged upwards above his head. The voices grew louder still. His head thrummed. His heart pounded. He was handed something else heavy. He was outside.

A light drizzle pattered down around him, landing in little splashes in the grass that ticked his bare feet. In bloodied hands he held a sack heavy with coins. His prize for another empty victory. A prize he refused to keep much of.

His ear twitched. He twitched. A shudder ran through his every inch. The coins clattered in the bag as it hit the ground. Technoblade- Techno- fell to his knees and wretched. Vomiting up the miniscule amount of food he had eaten that day, then more.

His body trembled with the tremendous effort it took to stand up again. His body ached as he trudged from the grassy outskirts of the Commune, heading now for the centre. Donning his red cloak. Hiding his shame beneath the heavy folds of fabric, carrying his coin to the known spots he found his friends. Friendly voices. Ones that praised him not for violence, but for compassion.

For a soul he did not have- for kindness that had died many years ago.

Handing out handfuls of coin. Not much. Never much. But enough for a meal and a bath at an inn. Friendly voices asked about his well-being. If he was eating enough. He lied and swore he was. He lied and swore he would sleep well that night. He lied and swore he had a home to return to. Not with words. Never with words.

He gave donations to the Gods' temples, he purchased coats for the more needing, he offered food to anyone who looked like they needed it. They praised him. Thanked him, blessed him- lied and told him the Gods blessed him.

No God would bless one bearing their title. Blood God. He was no God. It was a mere title, given to a mortal child by unknowing and unknown voices. Voices that praised the blood spilt, and worshipped the violence caused. Techno would never be blessed. He would never be found. Never saved, no matter how many temple hands told him otherwise.

The night was the same as ever. A roaring crowd of faceless voices, cheering, praising the violence of their false God. A false God that felled yet another mortal man with empty eyes and a dead expression. He was tired. So, very tired.

Blood covered his hands. Blood covered his face. It wasn't enough. The voices chorused ever-louder. Blood for the Blood God-

Blood for the Blood God-

Blood for the Blood God-Blood for the Blood God-Blood for the Blood God-Blood for the Blood God-Blood for the Blood God-Blood for the Blood God-Blood for the Blood God-Blood for the Blood God-

And blood there was.

Blood on the seats. Blood on the walls. Blood on the floor- on his knees- in his hair- staining his skin. And still the voices chorused ever-louder.

Technoblade felt sick.

His head pounded. His heart thumped against his ribs. Restrained- trapped where it should not have been. He shouldn't feel it. He had no heart. No soul, no feelings. He was a monster- a killer- the Blood God.

He shouldn't resist it. The call for death. Bodies had piled up. Dragged away by the ref, by the guards. Techno refused his prize. The voices demanded more. The voices cheered and praised him. Praised him for violence- for his mercilessness- for his empty victories.

And still his heart raced. His head throbbed. Blood pooled at his feet, blood caked his hand, his face, his skin. Stained it red- reflected in his eyes the same empty colour.

And he was outside again.

A puddle of blood, vomit, and stomach acid beneath him. One his hands and knees, wordlessly pleading for the end. Blood stained the grass. Blood stained his clothes. Blood covered every inch of his soul.

His own blood ran in thick stream from his nose, dripped from the corners of his mouth. One of his tusks had been broken. Laying like a white teardrop on the grass beneath him. Rain was once again pattering down around him. Shivers ran through him. Blood dripped form his tainted skin. Blood stained the grass. Blood ran like rivers down his arms. Slashes on his forearm spilled deep red onto the grass around his bloodied hands. Filthy hands.

Filthy hands took the filthy coin. Filthy hands gave away that filthy coins. Lied about where he would be sleeping, what he would be eating. Without words. Never with words. Voices did not deserver to hear his. Not even the friendly ones.

Friendly voices mumbled fearfully, worriedly as Technoblade's bloodied hands gave them their coins. Friendly voices pointlessly fretted for the monster's safety. Technoblade was Technoblade. The Blood God. No one had defeated him yet. No one would.

Techno lived in a small, derelict basement, beneath an abandoned shopfront everyone claimed was haunted. Water leaked into a pool in one corner, where Technoblade would wash the blood from his skin, leaving only red stains behind. A heap of ruined, scrappy blankets sat in one corner. A small hoard of a few gold coins and shiny trinkets he had been given sat messily organised beside it. And nothing else filled the dark space.

Techno curled up on that heap of blankets, wrapping himself in one, having washed what he could from his skin and clothes. A single stuffed toy, a pig in a crown, was uncovered, and he was quick to snatch it up. No one could know the Blood God slept with a stuffed toy. He needed his reputation.

Only his reputation kept him fed. His reputation kept the friendly voices happy- friendly. The voices chorused still, as he curled into a ball around his toy pig. The voices roared in his ears. He wanted to claw them off. He wanted to slam his head against the wall until everything went quiet. He needed to break something. He needed to hurt someone. He needed to spill blood, and only his own was readily available.

Blood for the Blood God, he heard the voices begin to chant. Slowly, gradually getting louder. rising in volume, in enthusiasm. Rising to a deafening chorus as he drew his claws across his arm. Watching blood well up in the deep lines left behind. Ripping into his skin again, watching the blood pour across his skin through blurred vision.

Tears clouded the blood in his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks, just as blood rolled down his arm. The voices quieted, satisfied, and the Blood God curled into a ball, clutching the last piece of comfort it had, and cried.

Technoblade.

A name that struck terror into the hearts of many. A name that he recognised from nights in the pit. Watching the so-called 'Blood God', a mere fifteen-year-old- a child- best man after man with violent, frenzied attacks. Unable to control his own lust for blood.

Schlatt had spent many a night bearing witness to the violence the boy was capable of. Watching through narrowed eyes, fingers tapping at his curved ram's horns, watching the boy as he fought.

It was animalistic. That was how he would describe the child's fighting style. Unhinged, uncontrolled, unthinking. Mindlessly violent, and clearly unwilling. And yet, each night, as Schlatt took his seat, he watched the boy again and again and again. He had become curious to what it was actually like to fight the child. He wondered how he was fair in a battle.

Long ago, when he was younger, Schlatt had fought in this very ring. An undefeated champion for years, until one unlucky fight. He had let his guard down just once, and he had been bested. He still bore the scar across his side from that night, and he had been forbidden from returning. That was one of the rules in the Pit. Lose one battle and it was all over. You were never allowed to fight there again.

It had been long enough. Schlatt had been offered a place back in the ring a few times before, but he had declined. He was one for rule, Schlatt. He refused to break the old tradition, even if the referees and guards said it was alright. But now.

Now, there was an opponent he was interested in defeating. He wondered how the Blood God would react to losing. If he would simply refuse to lose until he died. Schlatt would never willingly, knowingly, or purposefully kill a child, but he was curious.

He had signed up that very night. Signed up to face the Blood God in a one-on-one match. The child's first match that evening.

He had prepared himself mentally throughout the day, retraining his old techniques, resting up for the night's duel. No weapons, as the Blood God simply refused to use them. Loser was the first to go down for three seconds, as counted by the ref.

And there was the Blood God. Right in front of him. Dead, soulless eyes, the very same colour as the blood he spilled so unwillingly.

"I must say, you're a lot shorted in person." Schlatt commented, tilting himself forwards, trying to get a better look at the child in front of him. He was so young. So broken. "I'm looking forwards to this."

The bell tolled. The fight began. The Blood God lunged first. Schlatt sidestepped and narrowly missed hitting the back of the boy's head. The child turned again, barely having put his second foot on the floor before lunging at Schlatt again.

"I've seen each and every one of your fights these past few months." Schlatt told him, avoiding each wild attack. He wasn't sure the child could hear him over the roar of the crowd. An old returning favourite, and the reigning champion. What a thrilling match it must be for them. "Your tactics are sloppy. Untrained. It's clear you have no idea what you're doing."

He flipped, backwards, kicking the Blood God's jaw, knocking him back. His hooves had barely landed when he attacked again. A series of kicks and jabs. each one aimed towards the child's middle and arms. He assaulted the boys' pressure points, watching his arms fall limp at his sides. The child's eyes flashed with some form of recognition. seconds before Schlatt landed a hard kick to the side of his head.

Technoblade fell.

The Blood God fell.

The voices quieted at last. Techno was able to comprehend what was happening. His opponent, an older fighter who had apparently reigned as the Pit's champion for seven years straight before one unlucky fight. The man stood over him, golden eyes gleaming, golden chains and rings glinting on his curved horns. Blood ran from a dent in the side of Techno's head.

The pins and needles feeling in his arms faded. He could have gotten up. The voices screamed for him to get up. To fight. To paint the ring red with this man's blood.

He didn't.

The crowd erupted into cheers and praise, but not for him. For the horned man who had defeated him. All at once, Techno's body relaxed. Exhaustion overtook him, his legs and arms going numb. Throbbing pain pulsed through his head. HIs ears rang with the furious cries of disgruntled voices.

And his opponent offered him a hand. Techno took it, almost crying at the stiff pain shooting through his arm.

The horned stranger accepted his prize, and Techno was outside again. He was swaying on his feet. Blood was running down the side of his face. His opponent was beside him, counting the coins in his prize.

"You were too uncontrolled." the horned stranger said simply, closing the bag again.

No shit. Techno couldn't remember the fight at all. His mind felt fuzzy. He felt as though he were about to collapse at any second. He had an odd feeling the horned stranger would've caught him if he did. This man seemed so friendly. A friendly voice, one that didn't ask for money or food. One that neither praised nor belittled him. Simply spoke.

"Here, you can have this." the horned stranger said. When Techno looked, he was being given the prize money. "You obviously need it more if you're so desperate to be fightin' down there."

Techno took the bag in shaking hands. It was heavier than usual. The strange had added coins to it.

"Oh, and don't show up next week. You lost a match, so you won't be allowed back in the ring."

What? Techno's heart stopped at the realisation. His reputation. His money. He needed his coin. He needed his reputation. It was the only stable thing in his life. But the stranger was already gone. Vanished into the night. And Techno was left with the prize he had lost. The coins he didn't nearly deserve.

He returned to his pathetic basement early in the morning with a nearly empty bag. Curling up in his heap of blankets, squeezing his toy pig between himself and his knees, tears burning his eyes, and voices howling in his ears. He had failed. He had lost. He had nothing anymore. What was he supposed to do know?

What would he spend his time doing? How would he survive?

He needed his fights. He needed to quiet the voices, and he needed the coins form his winnings. He needed that tiny piece of stability in his life and now it was gone- crumbled to dust because of one man.

One man who thought he was helping. Who thought he was being good. He ruined Techno's life. What little semblance of a life he had, anyway.

The Pit was in livelihood. His income, his outlet. And now he could never go back.

He had lost everything that made his life even remotely worth living.

The next several days were spent hiding away. Sleeping, crying, and trying desperately to quiet the voices still ringing in his ears. The walls received far more abuse than they deserved as Technoblade relentlessly pounded his head against them. Punched the concrete surfaces until his knuckles bled. Until blood was pouring down his forehead and staining his skin.

One day five, he reluctantly took a handful of coins from the precious hoard and left. Hiding beneath his cloak, searching for somewhere to quiet his rumbling stomach. He found his way to a small bakery he visited frequently before, struggling to navigate the now bustling streets in the day. He could only purchase a pastry and a drink, but he couldn't complain. Beggars can't be choosers, and all that.

The woman who owned the bakery questioned where he had been, and he could only shrug, Not speaking. He would never speak. He didn't know these people as well as they thought they knew him, and he didn't plan on ever getting to. The pastry did little to satiate his hunger, but the small carton of apple juice was some welcomed sweetness after only drinking dirty rain water for days

There were people outside his home.

Two people, one he knew was the realtor of the building. The other was making an exchange with them. Techno knew what was happened. He rushed for his basement. The voices pounding in his head, panic for his pig toy, for his hoard.

He found everything untouched, unseen. He could only carry so much. A few of his coins, a watch and a necklace he'd been given in exchanged for his charity, and his pig. And he left, seconds away from being caught. Being found. Being recognised.

He escaped and he ran. Through crowded streets that made him feel sick to his stomach. Through near silent alleyways that allowed the voices to scream and echo above all else within his mind, feeding his panic. Fuelling his mad dash across the Commune.

He stopped as the buildings petered out behind him. As he stepped out onto a grassy area, streaked with half-melting snow. Ahead of him, the derelict remains of a God's temple sat. Overgrown with ivy and moss. Lichen lung to what was one clean white stone bricks. Moss grew between each crack. Ivy climbed the steeply slanted walls. Glass windows were cracked and broken, one on the side of the hexagonal building was completely shattered, leaving only tiny jagged scraps clinging to the frame.

Techno threw his pig over and into the building. He followed shortly after, hauling himself up and through the window frame with great effort. Collapsing, panting hard on the floor against the wall. His pig was still there, just between his legs, slightly squashed under his thigh.

Sunlight filled the empty, silent room, illuminating newly disturbed dust spiralling through the air.

"Hello?" came a quiet, frightened voice. From around the side of an unrecognisable statue, a little boy appeared. He was maybe seven, with shining blue eyes, as bright as the sky itself. His hair caught Techno's instinct immediately. Glimmering golden blond, though matted and dirty. Everything in his mind told him to clean it. A round, striped tail flicked nervously behind his legs, and round little ears were flattened against the top of his head.

"Who are you?" another boy asked, appearing above the first. This one was as old as Techno, maybe a little older, with messy, matted brown curly, flattened beneath a beanie that also pressed down a pair of pointy fox ears on his head. A matching blackish-brown tail twitching behind his legs, and round yellow eyes stared at Techno accusingly form behind thick, round glasses.

Techno stared back at these two filthy, starving, frightened boys. They were almost like him. They were just as frightened, just as alone. He opened his mouth, then closed it again with a snap. He wasn't sure if he knew how to speak anymore. It had been so long since his first and last few words.

He opened his mouth again, forcing out an answer, wincing at the way his voice sounded hoarse and his throat burned. "I'm Techno."

Chapter Text

Wilbur Soot.

A well-known name, recognised by many across the Antarctic Empire as the greatest pickpocket in the land. He went by many names. The Silver-tongued Fox, Trap-hands, Tricky Fingers- and, most of all, The Golden Thief.

He took pride in this. It showed in the way he acted. The way his eyes glittered, as yellow and bright as gold. Yet only a fool would believe the lies in those depths. The way he spoke, moved, carried himself. So calm and collected whenever caught. No one ever truly caught the Golden Thief. He always found some way of escaping. That was part of what made him so famous. There was a joke among guards and police that whoever could finally put the snarky fox behind bars should be hailed as the greatest cop of all time.

Wilbur heard this, and he laughed. No one would ever catch him. It was simply impossible. If he couldn't walk out of situations, he could talk his way out. Time and time again, his charisma and charm had not only gotten him out of sticky situations that would have undoubtedly ended badly, but also allowed him to rob those aggressors blind without any of them noticing before he was long gone back to his den atop the clock tower.

Hidden away in a corner, where he hoarded his stolen goods, protected by a maze of bells, cogs, walkways, and rafter beams. It was here he lived. Here he stored his prized. Here he worked his magic. Altering everything just enough to not lower its value too much, but enough that it couldn't possibly be an authentic version, it had to be something he made by hand, so he was able to resell everything. It was how he lived, and he was fine with that.

Alone, hidden away from the world unless he were causing trouble. He was fine being alone. He didn't need anyone else. Others only disappointed him. Ratting out previous hiding places, trying to turn him in to the guards that roamed the Commune, constantly on the look out for the bushy-tailed bastard. He didn't need anyone else. He could take care of himself just fine. He had done for his entire teenage life so far.

A day like any other. Wilbur, simply wandering along the busy streets, slipping in between the crowds. Slipping coin satchels off of belts. Watches off of wrists, rings off of fingers. It was pitifully easy. Hiding all his winnings in the pockets of his heavy trench coat. Slipping a few little rings into the folded up part of his beanie. Hiding bracelets one his own wrists, tucked beneath the sleeves of his sweater.

He 'bumped into' a particularly wealthy-looking man, knocking them both down. "Oh- shit, no, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, are you okay? That's my fault, sir, I'm so very sorry. " he bullshitted, helping the man up.

"It's quite alright, young man, no harm done." the man said gruffly, offering a handshake.

Wilbur had already taken the man's coin purse, but he spied a rather fancy watch on the man's wrist and accepted the handshake, unbuckling and taking the watch as he did. The man carried on. Wilbur carried on the opposite direction, slipping the watch up his sleeve.

Behind him, he heard a furious shout, knowing then to start running, slipping the watch into his pocket as he did.

"Thief! Guards!" the man was screaming. Meanwhile, Wilbur was already off up another street and gone.

Disappearing into an alleyway, then another, then out onto a completely different street, his tail wagging behind him.

The watch was already an off-brand item, Wilbur realised. He admired the way the fake silver shone, the way the pyrite- fool's gold, hands glittered regardless of authenticity in the light of the sunset, shining in through the huge windows that surrounded the bell tower. His tail wagged slowly, thumping lightly on the blanket-covered floorboards he sat on, admiring the various items he had stolen that day.

Heaps of gold coins surrounded his little pillow fort, catching the golden light beautifully, much like his eyes. Eyes like gold, his mother used to whisper. Eyes like pyrite, Wilbur would tell her back. Fool's gold. False gold. Full of lies and mischief. That was Wilbur. HIs whole life revolved around tricking people. Around fooling people into trusting him, believing his golden lies, only to betray them and rob them of anything they valued. Even their morals.

He hadn't intended this to be the way his life went. Sometimes he wondered when he had become this way. Perhaps when his father got so drunk he shot himself. Or perhaps it was the first time his father had it him. Or before that, when his mother died. His life had been a downwards spiral since one of those points, or perhaps he had been born to fail.

He hadn't failed. He was the most infamous pickpocket and thief in the empire. He was famous, basically, and he was still sixteen! But.. it didn't feel good. He couldn't shake the feeling of disappointment that followed him like a cloud. Disappointment in himself, and disappointment from his parents. He was sure they were upset with him.

His thoughts were chased away by the rumbling of his stomach. He was still alive, and while that was the case, he needed to eat. So, he gathered up a small purse of coins, and he headed out, leaving his hideout and running across rooftops towards a bakery he knew the owner of.

"Oh, Niki!" he sang out, step in through the glass entrance. The woman behind the counter lifted her head, surprised, only for her expression to immediately fall into one of irritation. "Your favourite customer's back." he grinned, sauntering over and leaning down onto the counter.

"Good grief, Wil." Niki sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "What do you want?" he spat, crossing her arms as Wilbur stood up straight.

"What, not happy to see me?" Wilbur teased, but Niki was having none of it.

"You're lucky I didn't alert a guard the second you announced your presence, now what do you want?" she scowled, glancing around him to a passing city guard.

"Fine, fine, I'll just have what I usually have." he shrugged, waving a hand dismissively.

Niki paused then, watching him find his coins for a few seconds. "Again? Wilbur, you know that's not healthy. Please tell me you're at least eating better at breakfast and lunch."

Then it was Wilbur's turn to pause. Only for a split second before correcting himself. "Of course I am, what do you take me for? Some grubby street rat? I am far more distinguished." he lied. He just hoped the banter hid his worry. In truth, he very rarely ate more than once in a day. And on the days he did, he came right back to Niki's bakery for the same small pastry and coffee.

Lying to her shouldn't hurt as much as it did. They weren't friends. She was just someone he knew he could rely on for tasty food and a hot drink every now and then.

Niki just sighed and went off to get his food and drink. Maybe it wasn't healthy to have a coffee so late in the evening, but he had a heist he needed to pull off that night, so the caffeine was really a good thing. Right? That's what he told himself.

He got his order, paid, and was out the door in less that ten minutes, finding his way up onto the bakery roof to eat. It was hard to force down the pastry. Fighting back the urge to vomit upon even seeing it. He had to eat. He had to live. For his parents' sakes. Even of they were disappointed in his life choices, he had promised he wouldn't die before he turned twenty. After that it was fair game. After that he could starve all he wanted, but now he needed to survive at least.

So, he choked down the pastry and finished about half his coffee before he had enough. He felt as though he would simply die right then if he tried to stomach anything else, and left the half-finished drink with the rest of his cups from that week, hopping along the rooftops until he found a suitable place to climb back down.

Wilbur had a very specific checklist he had to complete for a heist to be successful. First, he must steal as many shiny things as possible, as least six total. Second, he must not be caught. Third, he must be chased by the guards for at least a block before losing them. The third one was optional, but preferred.

He pulled a mask up over his nose and mouth, adjusting his glasses carefully to not hinder his movements. The house he had selected was seven blocks from the belltower he lived in. It was a large, three bedroom that was shared between two separate families. One was fabulously wealthy, with far more rings, bangles, necklaces, and earrings that two people could ever need, and the other, well...

The other one was about as well-off as Wilbur was.

He'd been checking the place out each night for weeks. He knew exactly where to go, what to look for. All the hiding spots, all the secret compartments. He knew which rooms belonged to which family. He knew what he was taking and what he wasn't. The whole thing would be a piece of piss.

Or, well, it was supposed to be. It started out fine. He snuck in through the second storey window, heading up the hallway, finding the master bedroom without any issue. He set about emptying jewellery boxes, necklace hangers, looting whatever sparkly object caught his eye. It was fine until he went to leave. Only to find the kid of the poor family right fucking there.

Stood in the doorway, just watching Wilbur rob her parents' landlords blind. Wilbur had pockets full of various shiny trinkets and jewellery, and the kid just fucking stood there. Staring at him like she had never seen another human before.

"Uh- hi?" he whispered

And the kid fucking screamed. Because of course. Nothing goes right for him.

Of course both families woke up. And Wilbur was forced to break a fucking window to escape. He fell onto a heap of empty cardboard boxes outside, and the guards were there at once. So, he turned tail and fled.

He could hear the guards heavy footsteps clunking on the stone behind him, getting closer and closer the longer he had to run. His lungs were aching for air.  His legs burned, achy from the, and sore from his earlier run through the city after taking that one guy's phony watch. His pockets full of riches only served to slow him down, the heavy coat proving more of a hinderance the longer he had to wear it.

He was overheating fast despite the frigid night air. And now he was beginning to regret eating anything at all as his stomach churned with nerves. He was panicking. he rounded another corner, skidding slightly on a puddle he hadn't seen. He almost toppled over, correcting himself and darting off the same second he saw the guards catching up again.

He burst out onto a main street, barren with the late hour, and clearly lit by the lamps that lined the side of the road. Bad decision. His heart leapt into his throat when he heard the guards calling after him. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding hard in his ears. Almost feel it thumping fast and hard against his ribs. So, he did the only thing he could think of. He ditched his coat.

Simply let it fall off and drop to the ground.

The icy air hit him like a punch through the much thinner fabric of his sweater, quickly cooling him down, then freezing him over. He was moving quicker though. Without the heavy fabric and abundance of stolen items to weigh him down. He rounded into another alleyway and hauled himself up onto a low rooftop. One of the guards' hands brushed his ankle when he did, sending shivers up his spine.

The adrenaline was dying down by the time he was finally away from the guards. Sat shivering and panting against a dumpster behind some grocery store. His heart was still pounding out of his chest, his hands shaking, his ears quivering, listening for even the slightest of movements around him, ready to jumpstart him into flight mode at any point. He still had a few rings in his trouser pockets, fiddling with them out of sight, but overall the night was a bust. He would probably go hungry for most of tomorrow.

He groaned, his stomach growling at the thought of eating. Even still, he felt bile rising up his throat and had to swallow it down. He wasn't sure he could eat, even if he had the coins for it. He had to live on a tight budget, just in case something like this happened.

He woke up sore, tired, cold, and starving. Curled up under a thin blanket, lying on an equally thin blanket, laid over hard wooden floorboards. He was surrounded by his few possessions, most of them stolen, only really his red beanie, and a small pendant with a pyrite fox on the end truly belonged to him. He groaned, trying to find warmth in the thin fabrics he wore. It was hard with the icy wind blowing through the bell tower. It was harder to sleep with the pigeons pecking about, and the sounds of crowds outside drifting up to where he slept.

He needed to eat, but the idea was enough to make him want to vomit. He needed to get warm, but he'd lost his coat the night before, and that was the warmest thing he had owned. He supposed he could buy another if he really needed to, but again, his budget. He needed to save up for an actual house. Somewhere he could sleep without fear of any random tourist finding him and turning him in. Somewhere he didn't have to worry about freezing to death if he ever needed to drop the only thing keeping him warm.

He kind of hated himself for that. He had to, in order to get away from the guards, but still. He felt like a complete moron now that he was wrapped up in one of his two blankets, curled in a shivering ball, freezing his ass off.

Niki's bakery was warm. And that's where Wilbur found himself less than a half hour later, slowly sipping on a cup of coffee, nibbling through a pastry even slower. He couldn't miss the concerned glances Niki kept shooting over at him. Every time she did, he would tear another small piece from his food and eat it, really only for her sake.

He wasn't sure why. They weren't friends. Wilbur didn't have friends. He didn't want them, didn't need them. He did. He so desperately did. But he'd never admit it. Not out loud. In reality, he craved the attention and care that came with having a friend. He only needed one. Just one person he could actually trust. One person he could rely on to be there when he needed them to be.

He was being selfish. He was a thief, a pathological liar, and a known conman. He didn't deserve anyone like that.

He didn't deserve Niki. Or anyone else.

He didn't hang around the bakery for long. He got about halfway through his pastry and coffee before he couldn't stomach it anymore, taking it with him when he left, then running around the side of the building and vomiting it all up again. From there, he left the pastry out for whatever stray animal or hobo wanted it, and took his coffee with him, simply for the sake of trying to keep warm.

He eventually managed to actually finish the coffee, and by then he had wandered his way to an old antique store several blocks away from Niki's place. He wandered in, curious to see what was there, more curious to see if he could steal anything.

The shelves were mostly stocked with taxidermy creatures doing human things. Mice having tea parties, or dancing, or having a wedding. There was a fox, made to stand on its hind legs as though it were tap dancing, complete with a tailored suit, top hat, and cane. A crow that looked to be doing some kind of mating dance, a raccoon having tea with a rabbit. Even a pig in a cape and crown similar to the emperor's.

As disturbing as it was, there was something amusing about the little displays. All these animals wearing hand-sewn costumes, all in very specific poses, very clearly doing very specific things. It was almost cute. Wilbur found himself wandering about in the shop for longer than he had intended, looking around at the various displays. It was warm in there, and the displays served as a good distraction from his sore stomach and growing headache.

His idle browsing was interrupted by a much smaller teen bumping into him. Clearly doing it on purpose, attempting to pickpocket him.

"Bad target, kid." he said. His hands were in his pockets, and he very clearly didn't have anything of value on him, aside his necklace, and that was hidden beneath his sweater.

"What- what are you- Oh." the kid stepped back. He was dressed somewhat similarly to Wilbur. A dark blue beanie and coat, a black sweater, and matching black trousers. He was even wearing similar boots. He had shoulder-length black hair that almost covered one of his eyes, and a pair of golden duck wings on his back that were now fluffed up in embarrassment.

"Yeah, hi, Golden Thief hear." Wilbur grinned, bending down to the kid's eye-level. He pulled one of his hands from his pockets, producing a coin pouch that he hadn't had before. "Lose something?" he grinned as the kid's eyes widened in shock.

"Holy shit." he breathed, catching the pouch as Wilbur tossed it back to him. "Can you help me with something?"

Wilbur straightened up, leaning back, feeling his spine pop slightly. "Nah, too busy, sorry." he said, turning and beginning to walk away.

"I wanna rob the Lord of the Commune." that.

That stopped Wilbur dead in his tracks. He paused, turning slowly around to face the kid again. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then spoke. "What's your name?" he asked, cautious, but now curious.

"Quackity." the kid answered. "I'm thirteen, and I've been looking for you to ask for your help with my first big heist." he added, stepping closer to Wilbur.

"Oh, yeah?" Wilbur raised an eyebrow. Quackity nodded enthusiastically, bouncing slightly on his heels. "You're out' ta your mind tryin' ta rob Lord Schlatt for your first ever heist." he kept his tone low and serious. He was only speaking the absolute truth. Lord Schlatt had been appointed the Lord in charge of the Commune, in charge of the whole central region of the Antarctic Empire, specifically for his prowess in the ring of the Pit.

He was a formidable fighter, even now in his old age. Trying to rob him was like trying to rob the royal family themselves.

"It's not my first ever heist, just my first really big one." Quackity tried to clarify. When he saw Wilbur wasn't budging, he tried to change tactics. "You can't say you've never wanted to try it."

"I can, because I'm not mad." Wilbur huffed, he was getting bored now. "You're enthusiastic, but that's the downfall of many new thieves and pickpockets. Going too big too quickly. Try a few more smaller heists. Get your tactics down, you need to know exactly what to look for in a target's home. Learn the best ways to enter and exit undetected, plan for literally everything, including your target unexpectantly having a child that could fuck up your whole operation."

"That's specific."

"Shut up."

Quackity pouted, balling up his hands at his sides, puffing up his feathers behind his back. It was quite amusing. "I have. I've planned everything from start to finish, and I've accounted for seventeen different scenarios, just in case." he snapped, his wings flapping slightly. "I'm your biggest fan, Wilbur. I've followed everything you've ever done from the very beginning. I know what I'm doing, I just need help pulling it off!"

Wilbur just scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Like I said, I'm not mad. It's a no." he spun around, walking away again, only to stop, hearing the kid's voice again.

Wilbur turned back around again, clicking his tongue as he did. "Buy me a pack of cigarettes and a new coat, and it's a deal."

…

…

He should have known.

He should have known it was too good to be true.

The heist had nearly perfectly. Quackity really had planned for everything. Seventeen different scenarios, including exactly what had happened to Wilbur just that previous night. Wilbur had managed to actually eat something relatively healthy before heading out with the younger thief, and the two of them had gotten almost everything. They had filled up the duffle bag Quackity had brought almost to the point it wouldn't close, and both of them had stuffed their pockets full of whatever they could get their greedy little hands on.

It went so well. Wilbur was so thrilled. He didn't stop to think about why.

Why had it been so easy? Why hadn't anyone caught them? Several times, one of Lord Schlatt's guards had come within grabbing distance of them, and yet not once had they been caught.

It was too good. Too perfect. And Wilbur found that out the hard way upon arriving to the bell tower.

Quackity had gone off elsewhere with his share of the prize a long time ago. Wilbur had taken the bag, heading home and taking a less-practised route to minimize risk of getting found. Only, Quackity hadn't.

Quackity had gone to the bell tower. Quackity had gotten caught on purpose, because that lying, backstabbing little shitfaced motherfucker was leading the guards to Wilbur's hideout. The little fuck-face was the head guard's son. He had led Lord Schlatt and the guard captain directly to Wilbur's hideout, and they were all waiting when he arrived home.

"I kinda thought you'd catch on before now, to be honest." Quackity had said, a shit-eating grin on his face.

Wilbur was barely through the damn door, but already he was nearly surrounded. He dropped the bag, dropped his new coat, and the look of shock on Quackity's face was priceless.

"Seen this one, have you?" Wilbur taunted. He took off at a full sprint towards one of the gaping windows.

"No- No, stop him!" the guard captain ordered, but whatever was said next was lost to a rush of wind streaming past Wilbur's ears.

He fell. Down, down, down, hurtling faster and faster towards the ground. And, for a moment, his mind simply accepted it. Accepted that this was it for him. This was his death. His end.

Until he landed in the hay. A resounding thud sounded through his ears. Pain stabbed through his ever fibre, but he was alive. Blood was dripping from his nose. His legs and arms ached. He was sure one of his arms was broken, but he was alive. He was alive, and he wasn't sure if he was happy about that.

He stumbled out of the hay cart and started to run. Away from his home. Away from the only place he'd ever really been able to call a home, anyway. And he ran. As quickly as he battered, aching body could take him.

He ran and ran and ran, slowly running out of breath, out of steam- out of will. He couldn't run any longer. He couldn't keep living his life the way he was. He was miserable, starving, freezing, and..

And he was lonely. He wanted someone to be there for him. He wanted someone to hold him and tell him he'd be alright, even if it was a lie. And it was a lie. He could still hear the guards coming after him. He was sure he'd be killed for treason against Lord Schlatt. He'd either die or be locked in a cell to rot for the rest of his life. He had promised he'd live at least till twenty, but now he wasn't sure he wanted to. Dying would be so much easier than trying so hard to just barely survive.

Until something caught his eye. Sparkly ivory stone, buried beneath layers of ivy and moss. Hidden beneath reflective lichen that clung to a six-sided building, stood alone and abandoned on the grassy field. A temple. A forgotten one.

Wilbur found himself on auto-pilot. His legs moving on their own, carrying him unevenly towards the temple. All other sounds around him disappeared, muffled by the haze of his own exhaustion. He circled to the back of the temple, finding a decent sized in the wall. One that gave him direct access to the space. He squeezed himself through and disappeared from the Commune.

Inside the temple wasn't particularly warm, but it was warmer. It was hidden. It was safe. He sat back against the wall, struggling  to force air into his lungs. His eyes fell closed, his head leaning back against the wall, all his energy draining out, replaced by trembling exhaustion.

Something soft was laid over him. He managed to crack open one of his eyes, rolling his head sideways to find another little boy curled up beside him, sharing a small blanket clearly made for much smaller children. Matted, dirty golden curls were all Wilbur saw before he finally passed out, letting his exhaustion and stress take him into the darkness.

Chapter Text

Tommy.

It wasn't a name that rang a bell for many. A name that sparked no interest, no recognition. It was a name lost to the old files in the office of an orphanage, somewhere in the Commune, near enough the bell tower that each broken, silenced bell could be seen, near enough the outskirts that one could often find the kids from the house playing in the snow that streaked in patches across the grass.

Amongst these kids, not one stood out. All messy, dirty faces, matted hair, and bright eyes, all uselessly hopeful to one day find someone to love them. Amongst those bright, cheerful eyes, one set stood out. As blue as the winter sky itself, full of anger and hatred. A burning resentment for the adults around him. Eyes that often were focussed on something menial, something silly. A moth fluttering about a lamp, beetles clinging to grass stems, bees humming about flowers. Eyes that would flash with fury the moment his name was called. Eyes that filled with tears when he was told to pack his things. Eyes that would be empty and dark by the time another family came.

Tommy had all but given up on the adults around him. He was angry, he was afraid, he was desperate. He was loud, he was obsessive, he wasn't normal. And that had led to more trouble than he deserved. Led to getting yelled at, getting hit or locked in a room. Having his precious trinkets taken from him and hidden away, only to be lost forever when he was given back.

Back to the house. Back to hopelessly naïve children. Back to hatred, fear, and desperation.

And nothing changed when Tommy was taken in by another family. One with too many kids, all of them human. All of them with grabbing hands and loud voices. Tommy's ears were tugged on, his tail was pulled. His hair was messed with. He wanted to scream before he was even over the threshold of their house. Another week of misery, if he could even last that long.

He refused a bath. Refused to eat with the rest of them. refused to sleep in the same room. And the very next day, the family was done. He was back at the house, and all the caretakers could do was apologise for his behaviour as he watched the family leave.

Good riddance, he thought. No one knew what they were doing when it came to him. He wasn't like every other kid in the place. His mind would wander. His eyes and attention drifted. It was way easier to upset him, to make him lash out. He would break down into tears at the most insignificant things. He was obsessive over silly things, and needlessly possessive over random pieces of garbage purely because it sparkled a certain way.

He had a hefty collection of bottle caps and foil scraps hidden beneath his bed. His bed, in a storage closet, since he couldn't bare the sounds of other people breathing around him. It wasn't so bad when there were other sounds to distract him, but his sensitive ears would hone in on everyone's breaths in the near silence of night. It kept him awake, and the caretakers had moved him to a room by himself, which was formerly a storage closet.

He liked having the dark space to himself. There were shelves to put his collections of pretty rocks and odd-shaped leaves, and hangars already built onto the walls where he could hang a blanket like a proper den to hide under. There was a spider that lived behind on particular stack of bottle caps under his bed. He named her Shroud, and she was the closest thing to a friend he had. None of the other kids liked him much. They picked on him, called him weird.

They would grab at his ears and pull his tail just to make him cry, or they would throw pebbles at his back, or try to steal his collections. They would step on and crush the bugs he was watching, or they'd chase off the birds he fed.

He hated them all so much.

And again, another family came to the house. They were brought to the field where all the kids played. They watched kids running after each, laughing, grinning. Pretending they were pirates with sticks for swords, acting out battle scenes form their favourite story books. And there was Tommy, watching a fat little bumblebee buzz clumsily about on a patch of flowers.

The family didn't think he was rowdy. They saw him, crouched all alone in eth middle of the field and thought he'd be the easiest kid. He was being quiet because he focussed on his bee. His tail flicked about behind him, his ears pricked, honing in on the sound of the bee's little wings, humming furiously to keep it suspended in the air.

The family decided he was lonely. Decided he'd be perfect. They told him he'd love it there. They lied and said he'd be happy with them. The caretakers lied and said he'd be loved. He just flattened his ears and bristled his tail, tears pricking his eyes. He hated when they lied. He hated being lied to, especially when he knew he was being lied to. He'd be back before the week was over. He knew that, and it just hurt that they were lying.

He was loaded up into the back of a cart, the parents on either side of him, a bag between his legs, and his stomach twisting uncomfortably as he watched the house roll slowly away. Trouble started the moment the house was out of sight. Ans Shroud crawled out of his bag and up onto his hands. The woman screamed, and Tommy's ears flattened to his head immediately, trying to muffle the high-pitch sound just a few inches away.

Tommy decided right then and there that it wouldn't work. He helped Shroud onto his shoulder and hopped off the cart, stumbling over onto his knees when he did, flicking his tail as he watched the cart continue to roll away. Neither of the passengers tried to shout him back. It seemed they didn't even notice he was gone.

Shroud crawled down his arm again, perching on his hand, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight. She was so very pretty. Her knees and feet were such a lovely orange in the light, and she had a pretty little pattern on her back that Tommy thought looked like a happy face. He smiled, placing the spide back onto his shoulder, picking up his bag, and started back towards the house.

One of the caretakers saw him coming and her face fell.

"Didn't even make it to their house." Tommy told her, walking right past and back into the house, heading up the stairs to return his things to his room. Next time, he thought, he just won't bring anything with him.

And he didn't. And it didn't matter, because a very similar thing happened. He thought, maybe, he could at least last a day. The newest people were actually talking to him, asking him questions, and letting him ramble. He though they were, anyway. He was shoved off the cart halfway through a sentence and landed hard on his face.

So, he was annoying them. Great. He should have known better. No one liked kids who talked as much as he did. No one liked kids who talked at all. They wanted someone quiet, someone obedient. There was blood dripping from his chin onto his shirt when he sat up, on his knees in the middle of the street. He should probably move. A cart could come along and hit him. The driver wouldn't notice, and the horses wouldn't care, they'd just trample right over him.

He should move. No one wanted to see a kid get run over. No one wanted to watch that. he should move. He should really move.

And yet, he didn't. He sat there in the middle of the cobblestone road, blood running from his probably broken nose, dripping onto and staining his shirt. And he stayed there. He wasn't sure why. If he stayed there, and let a cart hit him, someone would have to worry about him, right? Someone would be upset. Maybe not about him in particular, but someone would be upset about it.

"Little one?" a gentle voice reached his ears from somewhere above him. A lady. A very pretty lady, with long black hair and bright blue eyes that almost mirrored Tommy's own. "Oh dear, did you fall?" she asked, crouching down beside him, cupping his cheek, worry dancing in her sky-filled eyes.

"Yeah.." Tommy mumbled, his voice cracking slightly. "Off a cart."

"Oh, goodness, are you alright?" she fretted, pulling a handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt, pressing it to his face, wiping away the blood slowly running from his nose.

"'M okay." Tommy answered, his voice muffled. The lady didn't look convinced, frowning, her brown creasing slightly.

"Let's get you off the road." she decided, hefting him up to his feet. He stumbled blindly for a moment, guided by her gentle hands off of the road, onto the footpath that lined the side of it. Then, she crouched in front of him and returned to cleaning up his face. "Are your parents near here? Or any siblings?"

"Don't have a family." Tommy shrugged, not really looking at her. he knew if he did he'd probably cry, and he was not about to let a stranger see him cry. He needed to stop talking. Every time he did, it became increasingly difficult to fight back the tears.

"Oh, sweetie.." the lady hummed, cupping his face in her hands. Tommy felt tears sting his eyes. He didn't want to cry. He didn't want to. "Are you from the orphanage nearby?" she asked instead. Tommy nodded, struggling to keep his composure. Not that it mattered, he was already shaking, and his throat was beginning to burn from the effort of keeping it in. "Come on, I'll walk you back there, I'm sure your caretakers can help." she smiled softly, standing and offering a hand to him.

Tommy took it, letting the tears fall freely as he followed after the lady. Why couldn't she come and adopt him? She seemed nice. Though he was sure she would get sick of him if she had to put up with him for more than a day. Still, he had a feeling that would be the best day of his life.

She left Tommy with his caretakers, waving over her shoulder as she left, and Tommy was alone again. He was walked through the entrance of the orphanage, taken to the nurse's office to check for any other cuts or grazes. He could hear the other kids laughing as he passed them. Mocking his tears and his hurt. He wanted to claw them for a moment, then his anger simply melted away. Replaced by the simple need to hide away and cry some more.

He found a pair huge stag beetles the following day, taking one over to the other, wondering which would win in a fight. He was far away, separate from all the other kids as usual, occupied solely by his beetles. The two bugs were going at each other furiously, butting heads, clashing their mighty horns together in a mad display of power. He didn't notice the other kid that had come over to watch, lingering just behind Tommy, watching the beetles over his shoulder.

Not until his happily wagging tail hit something, and a hand was buried in the fur. The fur bristled and he shot up, whipping around ready to claw the eyes of whoever had decided to fuck with him this time. Instead, he was met with a kid he had never seen before. With tan skin, black hair held from mismatched grey and red eyes by a black headband. There was dirt on their face, and strange, pulsating red vines of some kind twining up their right arm, half-buried in his skin.

"The fuck is that shit?" Tommy asked at once, pointing at the weird red shit covering the new kid's arm.

"No idea, just woke up with it one day." the kid shrugged. The right sleeve of his hoodie had been ripped off to show it off, so clearly it wasn't something he was insecure about. There were even leaves clinging to the vines, and flowers sprouting at his shoulder, where the vines seemingly stopped. "I'm Eryn, what's your name?"

"Tommy." Tommy told him, turning back to look for his beetles. One was flailing about on its back, and the other had disappeared off somewhere. "Huh. Wonder where he went?" he mumbled, crouching down and flipping the losing beetle the right way up.

He turned back around to see Eryn had wandered off. Not far, but he was clearly occupied by something else. Tommy decided to join him, finding the other boy so occupied by a ladybird clinging to a particularly tall stem of grass. Tommy found the sight quite enamouring as well, crouching to beside the other to watch the tiny bug slowly make its way up the stem.

It was so determined, so fixated on getting up the stem. Tommy couldn't stop his tail was wagging as the ladybird got closer to its goal.

Only for an old football to knock the beetle from its stem and snap both boys out of their trance. They whipped their heads around it unison, fury blazing in their eyes. A pair of older boys were laughing hysterically, only laughing harder when the two seven-year-olds unleashed a tirade of insults.

"Look at that, goldilocks has got himself a freaky little friend!" one of them jeered, and Tommy felt his blood boil.

"What's wrong with 'is eyes?"

"And that crap on his arm, what is that?"

Tommy growled, flattening his ears, lashing his tail. Eryn shoulders were shaking now, the boy hunching down one himself. Tommy was very ready to kill somebody. Only for Eryn to burst out laughing.

"Yeah, I am pretty weird-looking, aren't I?" he grinned, taking everyone by surprise.

"Freak!" one of the boys yelled, hurling a stone towards Tommy's new friend. To his surprise, Eryn caught it. Inches from his face, the rad vines coiling up his arm as grown, catching the stone in a tiny fist of plant fibres.

"Yep!" and Eryn hurled the stone back.

"Hey! You'll pay for that!" the older boy shouted, narrowly dodging the attack.

Eryn turned around, grabbing Tommy's wrist. "Run!"

And the two of them did.

Eryn was a lot of fun. He was just as loud and energetic as Tommy. He fixated on the same things, he collected shiny objects for seemingly no reason, he had a pet spider that he hid under his bed. Tommy had a friend, a real friend, for the first time ever. Someone just as weird as he was. Someone who wouldn't get sick of him. Days went by. Then weeks, then a month- and still, Eryn was there. It seemed he was in a similar situation. He would be taken by a family who thought he was perfect for them, only to come back a few days later.

It was the same routine each week, but now, Tommy had someone else he could talk to about it. Someone who understood, someone who cared. A friend.

Until he didn't.

Until one day, when they were on the run from the older kids once again, skidding into the house, almost crashing headlong into a visitor. A tall, young man, with short brown hair, and mismatched eyes like Eryn's- one a hazelly green, the other completely chalk white. He had a tail as well, lined with small black spikes, ending in a point, and a pair of horns on his forehead. A demon hybrid.

"Oh, gosh, are you two okay?" he asked quickly, offering a hand to Eryn, who had fallen upon trying to stop.

"Yep! I'm Eryn, this is Tom, what's your name?" Eryn bounced up enthusiastically, grinning up at the stranger. Tommy was less optimistic. he knew what would happen if either of them were chosen.

"My name's Bad. And this is my husband, Skeppy." he gestured to a much smaller man, a diamond golem stood beside him that Tommy hadn't seen before, with short black hair, coal black eyes, and small diamond shards stuck into his skin like freckles on his cheeks.

"'Sup."

"Are you here to adopt?" Eryn asked, bouncing up on his heels. Tommy just rolled his eyes. Why did it matter? Even if one of them were chosen, it would never last. No one cared for loud-mouthed brats.

"We are, yes, we were just going outside to meet a few of you." Bad confirmed, and Eryn's face lit up.

"Can you adopt me and Tom? We've been for forever and no one else likes us!"

Bad's tail flicked at the question. "Well, we would be happy to adopt one of you, but we don't have the tome for two kids right now."

"Take Eryn." Tommy said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He wasn't really in the mood to be abandoned again, and he knew Eryn would be back in a few days anyway, so it didn't matter.

"Really, Tom? You'd be okay with that?" worry dripped from Eryn's voice, but Tommy knew he was in the right.

"Yeah, it's fine. You deserve to be happy." he tried to smile, but it was hard through the sudden sadness that overtook him. Eryn lit up, tears glistened in his eyes, and he flung himself at Tommy, hanging off of his neck, forcing him into a tight hug.

"Tommy! Tommy, thank you! You're the best friend I could ask for!" he praised, and Tommy caught bad smiling at them. "I've gotta go pack up!" Eryn realised, jumping away, breaking the hug. He turned away and charged up the stairs, and Tommy had to swallow back his tears again.

Bad and Skeppy helped Eryn up into the cart, sitting among the hay cushioning with him, unbothered by his incessant rambling and chattering. Tommy watched his only friend disappear around the corner, tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat. Behind him, he could hear the older kids whispering. Muttering and mocking him. Snickering and making jokes about his sadness.

He turned and disappeared inside, returning to his bedroom. It was there he found a single red flower laid across his bed. It looked almost like a lily, but Tommy knew it was one of Eryn's flowers. One of the ones that grew from his strange vines. There was a note attached, written in his friend's messy handwriting. Tommy climbed up onto his bed, moving the flower up onto one of the shelves, then turning on his lamp to read.

'Tom!
I know you think Im crazy for saying this but I think Bad and Geppy are my new family! Foreve!
Theres just something diferent about them an I think this is it
im gonna miss you Tom but promise you wont forget me okay?
ill see you again eventuly
Eryn'

A tear dripped down onto the scrappy paper. Eryn was right, Tommy did think he was crazy for saying that. His brow furrowed down, he growled, and crumpled the paper into a ball. Eryn was mad, no one could just know who the right family was. It was ridiculous. To even write the note was dumb. There was no point in it. Eryn would be back sooner or later, and Tommy would still be there waiting for him.

But the days turned to weeks. And the weeks to nearly two months. Eryn was gone. Tommy was getting bullied more than ever, and Eryn was nowhere in sight. Every time Tommy found a cool bug or shiny object he'd rush to find his friend, only for the memory to come back and crush him. He kept Eryn's flower in an empty vase, remembering how Eryn had told him that the red plants didn't like water when Tommy asked why he didn't know how to swim.

He uncrumpled the letter and kept it taped to his wall above his bed, and he lay beneath it, wondering what it was he was missing. What it was that kept getting him kicked out. Because it had to be something with him. He was problem. He was too loud, too talkative. Too aggressive, too flighty. Too obsessive, too possessive. Something was wrong with him. No one ever wanted him around for long.

He was sure even the caretakers were sick of him. He stopped talking entirely, but then he was 'too quiet'. He tried to stop with the bugs, but he was so bored, and the little creatures seemed to be actively attracted to him. He'd feed the crows and pigeons that hovered about the place. He tried to resist the urge to collect every shiny thing he found, but it was took much for him.

Everything was too much for him. He was just wrong. In every way, he was wrong. He was broken. And no one wanted broken things unless they were broken as well.

He hadn't realised until that night how heavy his whole collection actually was. He had borrowed a bunch of Ziplock bags from the kitchen staff, packing up his bottlecaps into them, then putting it all into a separate carrier bag, then into the bottom of his backpack. Shroud sat on his shoulder as he packed up his pyjamas, then put on his coat and grabbed the blanket off of his bed. He took Eryn's flower, determined to keep it safe, and the letter that had been left for him, and he left.

He left the house. He left into the cold, nearly empty city streets, picking up shiny bottle caps that gleamed in the lamplight as he walked. He collected up scraps of sparkly foil, and blunt shards of glass, and he had to take a paper bag from a grocery store to carry it all. Shroud sat sleeping on his shoulder, and his backpack weighed heavily down on him.

It was strange to see the streets so deserted at night. It felt wrong to be the only one walked through them. Something shifted in an alleyway nearby. Tommy jumped and stopped walked, his tail bristling, his ears pinning back. Only for a cat to come padding out of the shadowy space.

"Oh." he sighed, relaxing, dropping his guard. "Hello, kitty." he smiled, waving at the animal, then he turned and kept walking.

There were crows hopping about the street corners. Stray animals padding about, more than he ever imagined lived in the city, all gathering as though they were attracting them. Like a beacon that only the animals could see. It was weird.

The crows were the most common, but Tommy knew that was because he fed them sometimes. Crows were clever enough that even feeding one could lead to all the crows in the Commune knowing about it. News spread quickly between the birds, and they weren't afraid to make it known.

At some point, Tommy found himself heading towards the birds whenever he saw one, following a trail of them through the darkened streets until his legs ached and his shoulders were begging him to drop his bag.

Until the crows seemed to stop leading him. Until he found a temple. With ivy-coated white walls. Thick moss grew between cracks on the bricks, and lichen glowed softly in the moonlight on the six slanted walls. A temple that had been neglected and forgotten by the people of the Commune.

He circled the lonely building, finding a sizeable crack in the walls at the very back. He let Shroud go first, holding the spide down the crack and quietly encouraging her to crawl through. He followed her shortly after, finding himself in a wide, roundish room. A few benches lined the far walls. An alter sat at the foot of a large, wrecked statue that once depicted the God this temple belonged to, now crumbling and broken, great chunks of it lying on the ground behind and around it.

The inside was as overgrown as the outside, and it wasn't much warmer than outside either, but it was sheltered. It was hidden. It was safe. Away from anyone who wanted to hurt him, and away from useless adults who couldn't and wouldn't do shit for him. He wandered over to the foot of the statue, looking up at the ancient deity. One of their arms was raised, a crow seemingly just coming to land on it. There were lumps on its back, and broken down structures behind that Tommy thought must've been wings.

He tried to find the plaque that told visitors who this God was, but he found nothing. He felt sympathy for the forgotten deity. He knew what that was like. To be abandoned.

"Hello." he said to the empty room, his voice  so small and meek in the echoing silence. "M-my name's Tommy. I can't find your name, but I hope it's okay. I- um- I was wondering if it's okay for me to stay here for a bit. I just need somewhere to sleep, and I promise I won't break anything."

He fell silent, his ears quivering, listening to the silence for a response. He got none, and he gave up. He was sure the deity wouldn't mind if he made a small camp in one corner of the temple. He promised he wouldn't damage the already ruined temple any further, and he meant it. He brought his backpack to one corner, puling his blanket out, and then his collection of bottle caps.

It wasn't particularly comfortable, but he managed it anyway. Climbing up onto one of the benches, using his bag as a pillow, and nestling down under his blanket. He whispered a quiet 'thank you' to the deity, and closed his eyes, falling asleep shortly after.

Chapter Text

Philza.

A name that, two hundred or so years ago, if you had asked anyone who he was, you would have gotten an in-depth explanation. An ancient deity, said to be as old as the sun and moon themselves, with eyes as bright and beautiful as emeralds. The God of Guardianship- a loyal servant to justice, and sworn enemy of corruption. You would have been told about his help in the eastern lands of Kinoko Kingdom, how he had killed off the deadly disease sweeping the kingdom. Of his assistance in the Great Essempi war that nearly divided the kingdom in two. Of his victory over the tyrant king of Snowchester, far in the north.

Now, if you asked, you'd get the confused response of 'who?'.

Philza, or Philip, or just Phil, was a forgotten God. Falling into obscurity despite everything he did for ungrateful mortals. He had disappeared, and now his legends were seen as myths. Stories told by the elderly only for the sake of entertaining children. The Great Guardian was gone. He had disappeared not long after the Antarctic Empire's civil war over ninety years ago. When the two twin princes fought for the throne, siding with the younger of the two, knowing his heart to be more pure.

After that, nothing. The war had ended. The younger twin had been crowned. And the deity had vanished. Ever since then, the four kingdoms had been at peace, both within themselves, and with each other. There was no need for the ancient Guardian to show himself again. And slowly, he had faded away. Fallen into a deep slumber, undisturbed, unknown, and forgotten about.

Until one day. Someone disturbed his sleep. Woke him with a little voice, and frightened, uncertain words. A little boy, with eyes as bright as the sky, and hair like gold, matted and filthy as he was. A little boy who had found his way into the abandoned temple. Now asking a forgotten God for refuge- for sanctuary. Making a promise not to damage the already ruined temple any further, and setting up a small place to sleep, tucked away in a corner.

Phil had watched the little boy, Tommy, and felt only sympathy for the child. He was so young, and yet it was clear he was hurting. He was afraid, hungry, cold and lost. Abandoned and forgotten about. It showed in his heart. A little golden soldier, so damaged, so alone, and yet still marching onwards. With love and longing for it in his heart. Phil had sat beside the golden soldier that night, doing the one thing he did best- guarding.

He was awakened again a few nights after. Another boy had found his way into the temple. One with a heart full of fear, panic, and betrayal. A heart full of prayers unanswered, and a longing for someone to trust. Someone to care for. He was just as messy, with a mop of brown curls, and eyes that shone like gold, yet harboured many little lies. Little tricks and foolish words. Mistakes and hatred, regret and fear.

Tommy had gone to comfort the older child. Sharing his only source of warmth, curling up beside the stranger, trying to warm them both. Phil had gone and sat beside them again that night, spreading his wings and sheltering the boys from the cold as best he could. They could not see him, but they would feel his warmth.

A third child joined them another week later. Far more broken that they, far more afraid. Lost, confused, and fearful of these strangers he had not expected to see. With long, tangled pink hair, and eyes red as the blood that spilled from cuts on his hands. Phil wished only to help these children. But he could not. He could provide warmth, and allow them shelter in his temple, unseen and unheard.

Tommy and the other boy, Wil, helped this new child. Washed the blood from his hands and hair, wrapping band-aids around his fingers, and Wil took the time to brush through and braid the boy's hair, while Tommy reluctantly allowed the strange child, Techno, Phil had heard him say, to play with the golden fur on his tail.

The three boys had fallen asleep together beneath Tommy's blanket, warmed By Phil's unseen presence, and protected by the ancient guardian God. Tommy's heart was full of distrust. Hatred and fear of the older boys he now shared a blanket with. Wil's was much the same, distrustful, full of betrayal and anger, though not directly aimed at the other two. Techno was fearful, confused, lost, and hurt. He was breaking inside, distrustful as the others, and seemingly locked in fight or flight mode.

Wil would leave throughout the day. Out to pickpocket and steal whatever he could from whoever he could. He was constantly on edge, jumpy and unsure. His skills were instinctual. Phil knew he hated it. The thief despised what he was. He was afraid of being caught- paranoid of being seen. His bushy tail would bristle any time a guard got even remotely close. His ears were constantly on high alert.

Tommy would stay in the temple. He would watch his spider clamber about the walls, exploring all the little cracks. He would find various new places to hide his collection of sparkly items, stacking as many bottle caps as he could on each ledge like shelves. He used one of the empty vases on Phil's old alter to hold an odd red flower that seemed to pulse with an unnatural light from its amber centre, and would hide a folded up letter inside with it.

Techno would simply sleep. Or try to. Phil found himself standing by the boy more often than the others. Standing over, him, watching dark shadows swirl around him like a storm cloud. Darkness and fear hung around him like a cloud, and Phil simply couldn't let that stand. He did what little he could to stave away the shadows, but they would still persist, driving the boy mad. Tommy had to stop him from bashing his head on the walls far more often than any of them would have liked.

When Wil returned, he brought with him a pastry and drink for each of them, the only thing any of them would eat in a day. Phil noticed that Wil very rarely actually did eat, only nibbling on the pastry, seemingly forcing himself to choke down his drink, only eating for the sakes of the other two children in the room. Techno would only eat when Tommy sat near him, when he was able to distract himself with the shiny golden fur on Tommy's tail. Tommy would eat anything at all. Phil had once found the boy attempting to eat a millipede, but the bug had escaped when a moth fluttered past, distracting the boy again.

And still, not one of the boys truly trusted each other. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and Phil could see no change. The boys were mistrustful, hateful, afraid, lost and confused. They stayed together purely for the sake of surviving, and something about that broke Phil's heart. He wished there was something he could do, but no one knew of his existence. A God without believers is nothing. A mere presence, a thought.

Phil could do nothing but shelter his boys with his wings and warm them on the cold nights. He could allow then sanctuary in his temple, but they had no way of knowing he allowed this. He longed to hold the trio properly. To comfort them. To properly chase away the shadows dancing around Techno's mind. To prove to Wil that he could trust, that he was cared for. To shower Tommy with all the love and affection he longed so hopelessly for.

But he couldn't. A forgotten deity was nothing more than a phantom. A figment of the imagination. Lost to the fading memories of the very few who could recall his feats.

He could leave temple when he pleased, and he decided he should. He flew above the streets of the Commune, following Wil between the crowds with his eyes. When he landed, his body phased through all those around him. A patch of warmth on the icy autumn's day. Wil had ducked into a strange little antique store. Phil followed him, finding the boy to only be warming himself out of the cold. He stood in the corner, rubbing his hands together and breathing into them, trying desperately to warm himself.

Phil only needed to step closer, and at once the boy stopped shivering, a look of surprise on his face. He left the shop shortly after, and Phil followed, determined to keep pace and keep his boy warm. Wil was fast, moving swiftly and sneakily through the crowds of people on the streets, sneaking his hands into people's pockets to take their coins, slipping them into the pockets of his trousers.

He stopped eventually in a bakery. Phil followed him in, lingering over the boy's shoulder, his wing spread slightly, sheltering the boy from prying eyes that seemed to follow him everywhere. He could sense the child's discomfort at the stares, and stood closer, a protective instinct reviving in his chest. Wil bought the usual pastries and drinks for himself and the other two boys, and he was out of the shop and heading back towards the temple.

Only, he didn't make it that far. Someone shouted out from across the street. Phil sense Wilbur's anxiety spike as the boy began to walk quicker. Quicker still when a guard appeared around the corner. And even quicker when those guards began to chase him down. Wil took off at a full sprint, dodging and darting through the crowds, making a lot of people very upset with him. The guards brute forced their way through after him, chasing him down, shouting obscenities, demanding he stop and turn himself in.

Phil took off into the air instead, flying above the disgruntled crowds, following Wil down alleyways, along nearly deserted side streets. The guards were still in pursuit, determination, hatred, unwarranted anger burning in their hearts. Fury ebbed from them in waves. Wil left a trail of frantic fear and anxiety behind him as he ran. Desperation and terror spilled like tears from the child as he fled from the three guards chasing him down.

The guards seemed to split apart, each heading a different way, planning to cut Wil off ahead of time. Trap him between them and arrest him for daring to try and survive. Anger burned in Phil's heart, anger towards the guards, sympathy and worry for his boy. He had spent months doing what little he could to protect this boy, he was not about to let three needlessly violent men harm him.

He stopped in mid-air, hovering like a hawk, calling upon the very limited magic he had available to him. Crows began to gather. Flocking like wasps towards where Phil was. Amassing into a great black cloud, following the three guards, obedient to their master even after two centuries of his absence.

The guards managed their foolish plot, cornering Wil between the three of them. Only for the crows to gather around. They stopped dead in their tracks as the crows circled overhead like vultures. A swirling, writhing mass of inky black feathers and talons, forming a loose ring above the three guards.

Phil guided the birds down. Ordered them to dive. To barrage the three guards with an onslaught of deafening squawks and cries, to slash them with their talons, and attack their eyes with razor sharp beaks. Wil saw the chance and took it, fleeing through the alleyway, escaping the guards, tailed by a few extra crows and Phil, just in case.

Wil made it safely to the temple. Techno was sleeping. Tommy was playing with his spider. And Phil took a seat at the foot of his statue where he could see all three of his boys at once.

"Yay! Thanks you, Wil!" Tommy cheered, taking his food and drink back to his little collection.

"Yep." Wil mumbled, walking away, heading to where Techno was still passed out on a bench. "Oi, food." he said simply, leaving the paper bag beside the boy's head. Techno snorted when he woke up and picked up the bag immediately, spotting the drink Wil had left on the floor.

Wil then returned to sit against the wall just beside the entrance the trio used. Phil sighed, sensing the mistrust from Techno as he inspected the bag, and the disappointment from Tommy upon seeing the frankly pitiful meal he was given. Phil felt only pity for the boys. They were suffering, and he knew they were. And there was nothing he could do aside from call his crows to defend them.

Life continued as it had. Another week passed by. Another week of these boys slowly starving. Phil was sure they had all developed some kind of eating disorder by now. And all he could do was watch. He had waited at the temple with Tommy and Techno that day. Stayed to defend Techno from the incessant shadows that attacked him without end. The day just before had been especially bad. The boy had lashed out at the others in a fit of unbridled blinding panic and fury.

The violence had been misplaced, and Techno had tried to show his regret, but the boy could hardly speak, and the message was lost. Hatred and fear had bubbled up to the surface once again that night. Mistrust, anger, longing- all lost behind the confusing fear that the boys experienced.

Pulsing panic and terror reached Phil before Wilbur did. The boy scrambled in through the crack, panting hard, out of breath, and trembling badly. Tommy had asked first what had happened, asking where their food was. But Wilbur couldn't speak. Couldn't get enough air into his lungs to get the words out. He didn't particularly need to, he didn't have time to before the doors to the temple were broken in.

Three crashes. Each one splintered the wood further. Breaking through before the lock snapped and the rotten doors fell inwards. The sanctuary had been breached. All three boys' hearts leapt into panic. Racing hard as a group of guards entered the room, headed by their very captain.

Phil's wings flared. His anger roared into life. How dare these men deface his sanctuary? How dare these men invade his home and terrorise his boys this way.

They'd found him. They'd finally fucking found him. The infamous Golden Thief. Wilbur Soot. Right there, right in front of him. Alongside a boy that had been missing for two months, and the famous Blood God. Quackity had just about hit the jackpot here. He hovered towards the back of the guards, watching his father break through into the forgotten temple he'd found Wilbur hiding in a few days before.

He knew his father would be proud of him, and he knew he'd be praised for years for this. He could imagine the bragging rights he'd get. A mere thirteen-year-old, the one to bring down the golden thief. He sauntered through the crowd, relishing in the look of frantic, panicked disbelief on Wilbur's face upon seeing him again.

"You've really lost your touch." he taunted, fluffing his wings proudly.

Wilbur said nothing, still struggling for air. The two other boys were slowly backing away from the guards. The little one would have to be brought back to his orphanage, and the Blood God... Maybe the Blood God could do a few private fights for him and his family. Perhaps Lord Schlatt would like to see the boy battle once again.

"You dare.." a voice echoed around the room. An unfamiliar voice, echoing around the near silent chamber, stopping everyone in their tracks. "You put one finger on my boys.." the voice warned again.

A green light shone off of the lichen that clung to the walls. Growing, moving inwards, collecting around the feet of the wrecked statue. Quackity watched as the light grew. Brilliant emerald green, surrounded every inch of the old God's depiction. Lifting the broken chunks of stone from the ground. Seeming to sew them back into place.

A set of four giant, feathered wings were re-attached to the statue. Broken chunks fixing themselves into place. Cracks were sealed along the statue's skin. Lichen and moss fell away, leaving clean, nearly white marble in its place.

The emerald light centralised to the statue's eyes. Gleaming green gemstones were embedded in its eyes, reflecting the magic that swirled around the building.

The guards stepped away. Quackity's own father was in shock, taking a step back form the reformed statue. The stone crow perched on the statue's hand twitched. Dust crumbled form it, falling to the ground as its wings fluttered and twitched, spreading out, flapping. Inky black feather grew up and out over the stone. A throaty caw rang out, and the bird detached u=itself from the statue.

It circled the room, cawing and squawking, spiralling down, down, down, to land seemingly in the air. Its talons pressed down on an invisible hand that slowly shimmered into view.

A man stood at the foot of the statue. Four inky black feathered wings shifted on his back. Long blond hair fell loose around his shoulders. Furious emerald green eyes gleamed, flashed in the shadow cast by a brimmed green and white hat.

A God.

The God.

The God who's temple the guards had just defaced.

Magic thrummed beneath Phil's skin. Pulsed through his feathers. Glowed in his eyes. Echoed in his voice.

It hummed through the air. Spiralling around him, an invisible barrier around his boys. Protecting them from those who wished to harm them.

"You terrorise my boys. You deface my sacred ground. You violate my sanctuary!" he roared, his wings flaring, raising to their full size. A great black shadow looming over the guards who dared to mess with his boys.

"I- You- Philza." One of the guards whispered. He was stunned into fearful silence. Terror rolling off of him in waves before he turned and fled.

"Coward!" another guard shouted after him. He whirled around and rushed at Phil. Only to stop dead in his tracks. Frozen in place. His limbs held down by emerald tendrils that formed into thorn-covered vines.

Digging into his skin. Crushing his armour as though it were paper. Driving down until blood pooled beneath the vines. Hugging tighter, tight, until the man was screaming in agony.

"Your hearts are corrupt. Your anger misplace. You have no place here." Phil told them simply, lowering his wings partially. "You are not welcome!" his voice raised. His wings flared outwards. His magic burst outwards.

The four remaining guards, and the young boy who was with them were launched backwards. Flung out the door and onto the grass. Phil threw the guard still entangled in vines out afterwards, launching him further than the rest, watching with sick glee as he scampered away in fear.

Another two of the guards scrabbled to their feet and fled. That left two. One guard, and the guards' captain. And the boy. The boy, who's heart was full of so much hatred, so much anger and resentment, it was almost too much. Almost evil.

"Leave now, and I may consider sparing you." Phil told the three of them. The guards didn't have to be told twice, but the captain and the boy remained. Neither daring to move.

Fearful amazement danced through the captain's heart. He was in awe. Shocked to see a God in person, and petrified of what that God may do. Phil heard his boys move to the door to watch behind him and raised his wings to further shield them from the captain and his wretched son. He assumed the boy was his son. They both bore the same black hair and dark blue eyes. Pointed ears, and wings at their backs.

"Leave. Now." Phil growled, taking a step towards them.

The guard captain finally snapped out of his stupor, scrambling to move away, then turning over and hurrying to get his son up.

"Dad! Dad, no! No, Wilbur's right fucking there!" the child screamed out.

"No, Quackity, it's not worth angering the Gods." the captain reasoned, at least he was reasonable. He scooped his son up over his shoulder and took off back towards the city. The kid kicked and flailed and screamed obscenities. Phil only hoped the boy would grow to be better.

The green light spilling out of the temple and into the grass faded. Phil lowered his wings, tucking them neatly down against his back. He stepped back, breathing a sigh of relief. He did not want to actually kill anybody. Something thumped hard against his back, almost knocking him over.

He turned, finding Tommy clinging to his legs. Wilbur seemed about to do the same thing, having stopped halfway between Phil and the broken temple doors. Techno was lingering in the doorway, the shadows around his head shifted about uncertainly.

Phil smiled, opening his arms, inviting his boys closer. Wilbur stumbled forwards, falling into him, and Phil wrapped one arm over his shoulders, extending the offer more clearly to Techno as well. The boy took a few hesitative steps closer, then ran the last few, slamming hard into Phil.

"My boys." Phil whispered softly, pressing his hands into Techno and Wilbur's hair.

"We are?" Wilbur asked, equally as quiet. "Why? Why did you save us?"

"Because, that's my job." Phil told him, stepping back slightly, looking at the three of them carefully. "I am Philza. The God of Guardianship. I am a protector. A guardian. I've protected these four nations for centuries before I was forgotten, now I'd like to protect you."

Tommy teared up immediately, trying to hide it in his sleeve. It took Wilbur a few seconds to understand the offer. An offer of food, warmth, and safety. Of love and trust and care.

It took a little longer, but Wilbur nodded. A few more moments, and Techno agreed as well. Phil smiled, pulling his boys close again. All three fell into him, into his arms, and he couldn't resist wrapping his wings up and around the three of them as well.

Chapter Text

Technoblade.

The name belonged to a young boy with long, neat pink hair, often tied back in a braid. A boy with one tusk, and one broken nub where it had broken away. With pointed ears, a golden chains and studs hanging in a loop from one, a single emerald stone hanging from the other. Who wore fancy cotton poet's shirts and neat brown trousers. A deep burgundy cloak, lined with thick fur, hung around hid shoulders, the hood hiding his features from those who met him. With bright red eyes, the colour of fresh blood, that seemed to shine like gemstones in the right lights.

Wilbur Soot.

A name that belonged to a golden-hearted teen. With short, messy brown curls, and matching brown fox's ears, pinned down by a soft red beanie. With a matching brown bushy tail, and a smile as bright as sunshine. With a heavy brown trench coat, a pale yellow sweater, and reddish-brown trousers. Black riding boots. Who's eyes shone as bright as gold, glinting with mischief behind thick glasses. A single emerald stone hung at his chest.

Tommy Innit.

A name owned by a golden-haired child. With eyes bright blue as a clear winter sky, that gleamed with wonder and love. Who wore white shirts and red sweaters, and blue jeans, and red sneakers, and an emerald on a chain around his wrist. With round little ears always on the listen-out for a game to join in. And a ringed golden tail, always swishing about with his joy and excitement. 

And Philza.

An ancient deity, with four huge black wings. Sharpened claws on his fingertips, and ivory fangs in his smile. With eyes as bright and beautiful as the emeralds his children wore, and long blond hair tied loosely at the nape f his neck. With an easily recognised green coat, black sweater and trousers. A sword that hung at his hip, and that iconic green and white bucket hat, and the three little stones- red, yellow, blue, that hung from its brim.

The four of them were well-known across the Antarctic Empire's main tourist destination, the Commune. A former fighter, thief, and orphan, under the protection and guidance of a God.

But they were more than that. It had taken time. Over a year, but the boys got to know each other. Techno was given the help he needed, controlling the sea of voices that plagued his already damaged mind. Wilbur was reminded daily how much his brothers cared for him, he had a family he could trust, and he still struggled to believe it. Tommy was the loved youngest sibling, protected from all those who hurt him before, never left behind or forgotten again.

And Phil had the one thing he never thought he could have.

He had a family.

It was hard to think about it sometimes. Only a year ago, Techno would've been dragging himself from his cosy little den to go fight some rando twice his height and triple his age, only praying he'd make it out alive. It hurt to think about it. Trying to made the voices upset, so he often opted to act as though it had never happened.

A year ago, he was starving and freezing on the streets. No one cared, no one helped, no one even looked at him.

Now, he couldn't escape the care and help his family had given him. He was reluctant to leave the mound of blankets he called a den, but his stomach was rumbling, and the one rule Phil was strict about was eating when you were hungry. So, he dragged himself up out of the warmth, taking one blanket with him, wearing it like a cape, and grabbed his pig- a toy Tommy had gleefully named 'Techno Jr'. It was a dumb name, yes, but Techno had never named the toy before, so he agreed.

It made sense anyway, at least to Tommy. 'It's a pig toy, Techno's a pig-lin hybrid, it just makes sense', Tommy had said. And yeah, it did. The voices liked it too, affectionately referring to the plush as Techno's 'son'. That, he did not agree on.

Phil had brought the three of them to a cabin out in the forest near to the Commune, but far enough that people wouldn't come disturbing them again. Phil's powers kept the forest protected from outsiders, keeping the four of them safe form anyone who might try to hurt them, only allowing those one of them willingly brought to enter safely. Just beyond the treeline, someone had set up a sort of offering alter, where people could leave gifts for the recently returned God of Guardianship, which Phil was happy share with his kids.

The cabin itself was relatively big. Two storeys, and a basement, with a separate bedroom for all four of them on the second floor, which Techno appreciated, it meant he could have a whole spot on the floor dedicated to his hoard without risking somebody stepping on it and ruining it. There were two bathrooms, a kitchen that double as a dining room, though there was another room downstairs that could have easily been a dining space, and a living room. The basement was also split apart to have two separate potential bedrooms in it as well.

Techno's room was the furthest one from the stairs, purely to avoid people walking past in the middle of the night and waking him up. It was also the biggest, providing plenty of space for him to hoard his gold, and to practise more dignified fight techniques. Most often, these techniques involved swords or daggers. He (and the voices) much preferred hand-to-hand combat, as opposed to hanging back and using bows or otherwise. As much as he hated to admit it, Techno still had an inclination towards getting bloody in fights. He liked it when his opponent bled. When he could taste the iron in his mouth- when he could see the life drain from their eyes.

The fact that he did made him feel sick, but he knew it wasn't his fault. And whenever he was telling himself that, Phil was there with hugs, a warm blanket and hot chocolate, ready to sit and read to him for as long as it took.

Being read to was something Techno never really thought would help him, but it did. Listening to epic tales of conquest calmed him, especially the more violent scenes. His favourites were ones about the Gods Phil knew. He liked hearing Phil criticise the inaccuracies, hearing his father tell the stories he lived the way he remembered- usually a much more dramatized version than the ones in books, but he didn't mind that. He did prefer when it was read directly from the page, though.

Wilbur was in the living room when Techno got there. The older teen was lounging across the whole sofa, reading a book about great musicians in the Antarctic Empire's history. Tommy was in kitchen, attempting to reach the cookie jar from on top of the cabinets, all while Phil watched the from the entryway into the unused room, leaning on the doorframe, watching with a calm smile.

"Heh?" Techno hummed, stepping into the room. He was still half asleep, not full grasping what was happening. Apparently, his arrival was enough to startle Tommy. The boy fell backwards off of the counter bringing the cookie jar down with him.

In the same instant, a soft emerald light surrounded the boy and cookies, stopping him just inches from hitting the floor. Techno glanced at Phil. The old God looked shocked and relieved at the same time. The pale blue gem on his hat was glowing softly, and when Techno looked back, he saw the emerald attached to Tommy's wrist was as well.

"Glad to see your magic still works." he commented, looking back over at Phil. Phil just sighed, falling into breathy laughter. Techno could just faintly hear the God's two hearts racing in his chest.

"So am I, Tech." Phil agreed as his passive magic finally released Tommy, setting the boy down on the floor gently. Phil had to actively use his magic to replace the cookie jar where Tommy had knocked it down from. He decided Tommy could have a cookie anyway, also giving one to Techno without even thinking.

Techno didn't say a word, eating the cookie, then setting about getting himself some actual breakfast.

He joined Wilbur in the living room a couple minutes later with a bowl of oatmeal and blueberries. Wilbur saw that he had food and sat up, looking confused, then upset, then slightly concerned.

"You good?" Techno mumbled through a mouthful, leaning back and reclining the chair.

"Yeah, I just- I just realised I am fucking starving." Wilbur answered, still looking mildly concerned. "I had an apple when I woke up and I haven't eaten anything since. I've been up for six hours."

"Better go get somethin' then, Phil's mixin' together a salad for Tommy, go ask for some." Techno  suggested. 

"Yeah, I'mma go do that." Wilbur hummed, finally actually standing up and walked off to the kitchen. Techno took the opportunity to have a look at the book his brother had been reading.

Wilbur liked the forest. It was quiet, empty, and provided a good space to just sit around and relax. He didn't have to worry about where to get coins for his next meal. He wasn't constantly freezing, he wasn't constantly starving, and, most importantly, he wasn't always looking over his shoulder and panicking about someone realising he'd stolen their watch or coins.

It was a place he could just stop everything and relax. Lie down in the moss and leaves and stare up through the branches at the sky above him. Watch the clouds and just breath. He wasn't stressed about anything anymore. He didn't have to be, anyway.

He was, in truth, worrying slightly. It wasn't anything bad, not at all. He was just..

He wanted a guitar. He wanted to ask Phil for a guitar, or at least, for the coins to buy one. A nice one. Like the one Love Joy used. A famous musician from decades ago who came from a small town near the Commune. Wilbur had read all about them, he'd learned the lyrics to all the songs, he could sing them perfectly, he just- he didn't have a guitar. And he needed one to properly emulate the musician. He wanted to ask Phil, but he wasn't sure how.

He had grown up dirt poor. He had to turn to a life of crime to just barely get by. Now, he was the son of an actual God. People gave them countless amounts of coins and gold and gifts simply for existing. It was awesome, but some part of him still felt it was wrong. It felt wrong to want anything he didn't need. Some part of the brain was still fucked up by his childhood, and it told him that asking would get him into trouble.

He didn't technically need a guitar, he just wanted one. But he really, really wanted it. He wanted more than anything to learn the songs, to sing and play music, and make people smile and dance along. But it felt wrong to want. Thus, he was worrying.

It was dumb to do so. Phil had told them all time and time again, if any of them ever wanted anything, they could just ask. But he couldn't help it. He was a worrier.

So, he went out into the forest. he went down to a nearby creek and laid down in the moss. Laid on his back, spread out his arms, and he sang. He sang a Love Joy song. Belted out the lyrics for the whole forest to hear. He didn't care for missing lyrics, or off notes. He just sang. He sang another song after that, then again after that.

he stopped when he heard clapping and excited giggling. He sat up, twisting around to see Tommy half-hidden behind a tree, clapping and grinning.

"Wilby! That was awesome! You're so good at singing!" the child cheered, shouting louder than Wilbur had been singing. "Also, you have moss on your back now. It's in your hair."

"I- yeah, I was lying in moss so-" he stopped himself, looked confused at Tommy. "You really think I'm good?"

"Fuck yeah! You're amazing!" Tommy grinned, running over and picking the moss off of his back. "You should sing for Dadza."

Something about that suggestion made his stomach twist. "No- no, I don't want to. Not in front of Phil." he stammered, turning away from his little brother.

"Why not?" Tommy whined, leaning forwards over his shoulder. When he got no answer, his expression turned sour. "Answer me, you dickhead!" he screamed, lifting up Wilbur's beanie so the fox could really hear him.

Wilbur fell way, swatting Tommy's hands off and pulling his beanie down over his ear again. "Because I don't want to. It's that simple, Toms."

"It's not though, is it?" Techno chimed in, wandering over from the behind a few trees.

"Jeez-" Wilbur jumped. "How long have you been there?"

"A while." Techno shrugged, wandering closer. "Long enough that I now know you can sing. any other hidden talents you'd like to share?" he asked, his voice entirely deadpan as he crouched down, crossing his arms over on his knees.

Wilbur went to snap at him, but stopped himself. "I can play guitar. I learned when I was nine from a street musician."

"You can what?" Tommy squealed. "I'm telling Dadza! We're gonna get you a guitar!" he cheered, running off with his hands in the air before Wilbur could stop him.

Techno watched Tommy run off, then turned back to Wilbur. "You comin'?"

Wilbur nodded, and the older brothers followed their younger one back towards the cabin.

Tommy couldn't stop giggling as he ran ahead of his brothers and Dadza. He would hear them call him to slow down, stop for a few seconds until he saw them through the crowd, then he would run off again, pushing ahead towards the music shop Wilbur had talked about. He wasn't sure why Wilbur was upset with him for telling Phil about his singing and guitar, but it seemed fine now, so he figured he must've just been nervous.

Tommy came up to the shop at the side of the street, and ran to wait by the door, spotting Phil with his wings spread so people would let them through.

"Stop runnin' off." Techno huffed, stepping past Tommy and opening the door for them all. He was knocked back by a lady leaving the store in a rush. A very pretty lady, with long black hair and blue eyes just like Tommy's.

"Hey! I know you!" he yelled at her. She glanced back over her shoulder, smiled, waved, then kept hurrying off down the street, disappearing into the crowd. Tommy looked up at his family and grinned. "That lady helped when I got pushed out of a cart and bust up my nose." he told them happily.

Wilbur and Techno shared a look, while Phil didn't seemed to be listening. He was still staring off into the crowd where the lady had disappeared.

"Phil?" Wilbur's voice broke their Dadza from whatever trance he was in, and the four of them entered the shop. "Now, Tommy, try not to break anything. This stuff is expensive." he warned, glancing sideways at Phil as he mentioned the pricing. Phil just smiled and shrank his wings down to fit neatly behind his back.

Tommy followed Techno to a display of violins and violas. That's what it said on sign beside them, anyways. They all just looked like mini guitars, with weird bows next to each one. He couldn't tell the difference between the violins and violas, but Techno seemed to know, so Tommy decided he could pretend.

Wilbur found what he wanted relatively quickly, and the little family was heading home before long, stopping at Wilbur's friend's bakery on the way. Phil sent his kids ahead, heading to check on his shrine for anymore gifts people may have left. Tommy trailed along behind his brothers as they walked through the forest. He could hear the magic humming around them, very faintly, and only if he strained. It wasn't loud by any means, but it was there, and he could hear it. Which was still weird, because no one else could. Not even Wilbur when he took his hat off, and his ears were bigger than Tommy's.

Dadza had said that Tommy's brain worked differently to his brothers', and that he was hy-per-sen-si-tive, or something. He was more likely to notice things no one else did, and he would notice textures and touches easier as well, that's all it meant. He thought that was pretty neat. There was a whole side of the world that only he got to notice and see.

Wilbur disappeared into the forest for a while when they arrive home. Tommy ran up to his room to talk to Shroud. He was a little confused by the spider. She was still very alive and very okay, despite being so old. He was sure she should have been dead by now, but maybe he was wrong. Or maybe she was just special, he would never know.

A couple hours later and everyone was hungry. Phil had made dinner- burgers, flame grilled over their back garden firepit- and Wilbur finally seemed ready to sing for Dadza. The family gathered around the firepit, having finished their meal and re-lit the fire. A golden glow shone on their faces. Gentle music drifted up through the air. The fire crackled and sparked. And Wilbur sang.

Soft and careful, each note thought out and practised. It was nothing like how he had been singing in the forest. That was to vent his stress. This was for his family. For the people he knew he could trust, and people he knew would care for him even on his worst days.

Tommy listened with perked ears and a giddy grin on his face. He never imagine he'd be here. Surrounded by his family, with a full belly and a stupid grin. He was happy, he was safe and loved, and nothing could change that.

His Dad- Dadza- was a God. His big brothers were a skilled thief and known charmer, and an experienced fighter with more wins under his belt than Tommy could count. He was safe.

He was loved.

They all were.

Chapter Text

Hi, I will be orphaning this and all of my works tomorrow.

After learning of what Wilbur has done, I no longer feel comfortable writing him in any way, especially not the positive light in which I tend toward.

This and all my other fic will be orphaned March 1st, and I will no longer be associating with any of them.

I will, however, be re-writing this and my other works excluding Wilbur from the stories. I can't make promises for the dates that I will be posting re-writes, but they will, eventually, be available.

Thank you for understanding, and stand in support with Shubble and all victims of abuse.

<3 take care of yourselves