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Chapter Text

He pressed himself closer to Wilbur, his heart hammering against his ribs as they squished into the tiny space between the dumpster and the brick wall. The smell was awful, like old garbage and sour milk, but he tried not to gag. Wilbur's quick, panicky breaths filled the narrow space, louder in Techno's ears than even his own thudding heartbeat.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the alley, making the scattered cans and paper on the ground crunch loudly. He held his breath so hard it felt like his chest might pop. Wilbur squeezed his arm tightly, his fingers digging into Technos's sleeve.

The man chasing them was close. Techno had seen him for only a second, but it was enough to know who he was.

Mercenary.

The pristine white uniform with gold embroidery along the hems, the sleek black leather trousers tucked into white combat boots, the glittering pendant, suspended on a heavy gold chain, gleamed against his chest and that black mask - he looked like something out of the comic books kids at school used to trade. Only, this wasn't cool or fun. This was terrifying. Mercenary wasn't here to save them. He was here to arrest them.

The gusts of wind that had nearly knocked them off their feet during the chase had already confirmed it. He was one of the top the heroes of the city. His control over the air was legendary and they could be lucky he hadn't used the winds to throw his infamous knives at them.

The man's boots scraped over something metallic as he passed. He stopped for a long moment, and Techno felt Wilbur's fingernails dig in even harder. Then, slowly, the footsteps moved away.

When they finally faded, Techno let out a breath so shaky it sounded more like a gasp.

"Is he gone?" Wilbur asked, his voice tiny. His brown curls were stuck to his sweaty forehead, and he looked at Techno with wide, scared eyes.

"I think so," Techno whispered back, even though he wasn't sure.

For a moment, they didn't move. Techno stared at the mouth of the alley, half-expecting the hero to come back. When nothing happened, he started breathing a little easier, until Wilbur hissed angrily, "The food. I dropped it."

"We'll find more," Techno reassured, though his hands wouldn't stop shaking. His eyes darted toward the alley's entrance as he added, "I thought he had you when he reached for us…." He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

Wilbur's lip quivered as he muttered, "I tripped. His stupid wind powers knocked me over." He kicked a crushed soda can near his foot. "Heroes suck."

                                                                                                                    _____________________________

Techno always wanted to be a hero.

One of his earliest memories was of a villain attack on a nearby bank. He and Wilbur had been in kindergarten, playing in the sandbox, when the wailing sirens began. Acrid smoke filled the air, and terrified children screamed as adults rushed them inside.

He remembered a kind woman, one of the teachers, kneeling down to comfort a sobbing child. She'd held him close, her voice steady as she promised, "Don't worry. The heroes will stop the bad guys."

In that moment, Techno had decided he wanted to be a hero. He imagined himself in a cool costume, fighting villains and keeping everyone safe. If he became a hero, his family would always be protected.

But as they left the narrow alleyway, trying to stay in the shadows and glancing around nervously to see if anyone was following them, his chest burned with bitter resentment. The heroes weren't here to protect anyone. They were chasing two hungry, scared kids who hadn't done anything except look for scraps in a dumpster. Heroes weren't supposed to act like this. They weren't supposed to be the bad guys.

But who was he kidding? There was no way that was the actual reason for the attempt to arrest them. Glancing briefly at his brother, who trudged silently beside him, Techno felt a surge of hot, protective anger. No, there were different motives at play, and he had a nagging feeling that the heroes weren't interested in him. Mercenary wasn't hunting him. No, it was his brother they wanted.

His brother's power had gotten them in trouble before, and now the heroes were looking for him.

Too bad for them. No matter what, Techno wouldn't let them take his twin. Never.

In all of Techno's twelve years, no one had ever sat him down to actually explain how powers worked. Oh, there was plenty of chatter at school and in the orphanage about what to do if someone "developed abilities." Teachers were quick to remind everyone to report new powers immediately. What happened next, though, was always brushed off. "Don't worry about it," they'd say. "The grown-ups will take care of everything."

But Techno wasn't dumb. Not even close. He saw way more than adults thought he did.

He'd noticed how kids who went to the registration office didn't come back to the group home. He'd overheard whispered stories about foster kids with powers disappearing forever after someone found out.

So when Wilbur started showing signs of having a power, Techno didn't even have to think about it. He knew they couldn't stay. Running was their only choice.

                                                                                                                  ________________________

The path back to their hideout was long and every little sound made Techno flinch. Every corner felt like a trap, every shadow could be Mercenary or some other hero in disguise. It was after midnight when they finally reached their destination.

The house that once stood here had long since been demolished, leaving only a pile of stones and rubbish, and they had no idea why nothing new had been built. But if you managed to carefully navigate through the debris, you would reach the back of the property. And there, hidden under overgrown ivy, an old garden shed was still standing. The roof had a hole in it and the door no longer closed properly, but it was far better than their previous camp of cardboard boxes and plastic sheeting.

The pile of their possessions, protected from the wet under a torn garbage bag in one corner, was shamefully small. A blanket, frayed with several scantily patched tears, a few spare clothes - none much cleaner than the ones they had on - and a dented tin they used to keep food safe from rats.

The lid was so bent that Techno had difficulty opening it, and a look inside revealed only a single stale slice of bread. Sighing, he broke it in half, giving the bigger piece to Wilbur.

His twin took it silently, leaning against him as they huddled under the blanket. It wasn't exactly big, just enough to cover the two boys.

Techno chewed his bread slowly, pretending it was enough to silence the gnawing hunger in his stomach. It was only when he reached the last bite that he realized how quiet it was.

He was used to Wilbur talking. No matter where they were or what was happening, his brother's chatter was a constant background noise. Whether he was drawing his attention to a cool rock on the ground, pointing out clouds shaped like animals, making up stories about the people they watched on the street, or just quietly singing some song to himself. Wilbur was never still or silent.

But now, his brother sat motionless, holding his piece of the bread and staring at nothing.

"Hey," he pulled him closer so that Wilbur was leaning almost completely against his side.

His brother blinked and looked up, tears threatening to spill over. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Wil, it's not your fault. It's that stupid hero's fault." Awkwardly Techno squeezed his hand.

"But …but, I fucked up! If I hadn't used my power a few days ago when they caught us stealing ..." Wilbur's voice cracked, and tears spilled over as he choked out, "It's always my damn power. It ruins everything."

"No, it doesn't." Techno's voice softened. "Without your power, we'd be so much worse off. You've saved us so many times." He didn't know what else to say. Wilbur's power was the coolest thing he had ever seen. Who else could get people to do whatever he wanted just with his voice?

He couldn't put into words what he really wanted to say: That his brother was the only good thing in the world that Techno had left, and no matter what happened, he could never hold Wilbur responsible for anything bad.

So he said nothing and just put his arm around his twin to keep him warm. When he felt the shoulder next to him slowly stop shaking and the crying subside, he asked hesitantly, "do you want to hear a story?"

Wilbur sniffled but nodded. "But only if there is a happy ending."

Techno smiled faintly. "Alright. I'll tell you about Perseus."

And as he began the story, he tried to ignore the cold, the hunger, and the nagging fear that none of their own stories would have happy endings.

A chill lingered in the air the next morning as they left the shed, a sharp reminder that summer was fading. The cold seemed to sink straight into Techno's bones. He tugged his threadbare jacket tighter, already trying to figure out how to get warmer clothes. Winter wasn't far, and the thought of freezing nights made his stomach churn.

As they passed a small playground, Wilbur stopped, his eyes lighting up. The swings squeaked under the weight of children, parents called out warnings, and the smell of coffee drifted through the crisp air. A mischievous grin spread across his face.

"Weekend," he said, jerking his head toward the crowd. "Perfect time for breakfast."

Techno raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. The playground was busy, parents chatting and watching their kids or, more often, distracted by their phones. Perfect. Their eyes quickly scanned the area, practiced and precise. Unattended bags rested on benches, while picnic baskets lay forgotten on blankets scattered across the grass.

Before long, they were perched under a tree just far enough from the playground equipment to avoid notice. Techno pulled an apple from his jacket pocket and tossed it to Wilbur, who caught it with a grin. In return, his brother handed him half a sandwich he'd snagged earlier.

"Pickles and egg again," Techno muttered, but he bit into it anyway, savoring the tangy flavor. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. He couldn't help but wonder when the last time was that someone had made a sandwich just for him. Not stolen. Not scavenged. A meal put together and wrapped in foil by someone who cared. Not even in one of the foster homes could he remember something like that. Most of the time, meals were microwave dinners or things the kids had to do for themselves.

It must be a long time ago. Techno pushed the thought away, shoving the last bite into his mouth.

Even if he didn't want to think about it, he couldn't prevent it. The last time someone had made them a meal, really cared for them.

The memory came with the smell of burnt toast and the hum of a cartoon playing in the background. He'd been six. Wilbur too, of course.

The police had come that afternoon. The neighbor watching them had gone pale when she answered the door, but Techno hadn't understood why. "Shot in a supermarket robbery," the officer had said, but the words meant nothing to him. He'd just wanted his mum and dad to come home.

It wasn't until the days stretched into weeks without their parents coming back that the reality settled in. No hero had swooped in to help, no miraculous rescue to bring their family back together.

A nudge to his ribs jolted him back to the present. "What are we gonna do today?" Wilbur asked, already finishing his meal.

Techno thought about it for a moment while he continue eating the stolen apple and answered only after he threw away the core. "We can't risk going to the fancy neighborhoods anymore. The heroes are looking for us and we'll have to avoid the cameras."

Wilbur's face scrunched in frustration. "But that's where all the good stuff is! How are we supposed to find food and clothes in the cheap parts of town?"

"Maybe the mall," Techno suggested reluctantly. "We need winter jackets." The words felt heavy, the idea even more so. Security cameras, mall guards, the risk of being spotted, it all made his anxiety spike.

His brother's face brightened at the prospect of a mall visit, apparently oblivious to the conflict Techno was fighting inside. "The mall! We can watch the musician at the fountain!" He leaped to his feet, grabbing Techno's hand. "Let's go!"

Techno let himself be pulled up, but his unease lingered.

They had only taken a few steps when a sharp shout from the climbing frame cut through the warm afternoon air. Techno barely noticed Wilbur's excited ramble about all the things he wanted to do at the mall, something about food and music, before his eyes were drawn to the commotion.

His searching eyes found a boy lying next to the slide, a man, probably the kid's father, knelt beside him, shouting for help. Blood trickled from a cut on the boy's forehead, apparently he had hit his head in a fall.

A sudden, stabbing pain exploded behind Techno's eyes. The world around him tilted. The noise of the playground around him grew deafening, colors blurring and brightening all at once. He clutched his head with a groan, sinking to his knees. Why was everyone around him shouting?

"Techno?" Wilbur's voice cut through the chaos, high-pitched and scared, though Techno couldn't make out the words. A hand landed on his shoulder, shaking him gently but urgently. "Tech? What's wrong? What's happening?"

Techno couldn't answer. The noise, why was everyone shouting? Why wouldn't they stop?

He felt himself being eased to the ground, something soft and warm cradling his head. Fingers ran through his hair, steady and soothing and after some time the people around him seemed to calm down. Only a low murmur could be heard from them, almost drowned out by the humming of a song.

When he finally opened his eyes, the blinding light had softened. Green leaves swayed gently above him, the clouds drifting lazily through gaps in the branches. He blinked, turning his head to see Wilbur's worried face hovering over him.

"You okay now?" His twin's voice was quiet, trembling around the edges.

The hand disappeared from his hair, and for a moment, Techno wanted to hold it, but then he pulled himself together and cautiously looked around.

They were back under the tree where they had eaten, and apart from Wilbur, whose lap his head was nestled in, there was no one around them.

Techno sat up slowly, wincing as the echo of the headache pulsed faintly in his skull. "Yeah… I think. Where is everyone?"

Wilbur frowned, puzzled. "What do you mean? There wasn't anyone there. It's just us."

Techno opened his mouth to argue, he'd heard them, hadn't he? All the shouting, all the noise, but he stopped himself. Wilbur was already scared, and pushing it felt wrong. "Never mind," Techno muttered. He stood shakily, brushing the dirt off his knees. "Let's just go."

The walk to the mall stretched on longer than it should have, mostly because Wilbur never stopped talking. He bounced at Techno's side, dragging their joined hands along as he kicked stones in their path.

"There's this one guy who plays guitar at the central fountain," Wilbur said, his voice bright with excitement. "He plays real songs, not just random strumming, you know? I'm gonna learn that someday. When we get a guitar, I'll make loads of money, you'll see. And then we'll buy stuff—real stuff, like burgers and fries and ..."

Techno cut him off with a tired sigh. "You're staring again."

Wilbur's chatter slowed, his voice softening. "You scared me back there, Tech."

Techno avoided his gaze. "It's nothing. Just… a headache."

Wilbur wasn't convinced. His hand tightened around Techno's, the pressure small but fierce. "You said you heard people shouting," he mumbled.

Techno hesitated. "Yeah. Like… a crowd, yelling all at once."

Wilbur stopped walking, his grip holding Techno back. "It's just 'cause you're hungry." He said it quickly, too quickly, like he was trying to convince himself more than Techno. "James at the orphanage said hunger can mess with your head."

Techno snorted. "James was trying to convince you that you didn't see him when he tried to sneak out at night."

"Doesn't mean he was wrong," Wilbur huffed. Then, brightening again, he tugged Techno forward. First thing we do at the mall is check the food court for leftovers."

Techno nodded, but unease curled in his gut. He was certain that hunger wasn't the cause of these increasingly frequent episodes. It might explain the weakness, but the noise? The shouting voices? That felt like something else entirely.

Luck, for once, seemed to be on their side. Ten minutes into wandering the food court, Wilbur spotted an abandoned tray. His eyes lit up like Christmas as he darted toward it, clutching the almost-full bag of fries like a trophy.

"Here," Wilbur said, shoving the fries into Techno's hands. "Eat. All of it."

Techno hesitated. "What about you?"

Wilbur shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. "I'm not hungry."

"You're lying."

"Eat, Tech," Wilbur insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Techno had been looking out for Wilbur for as long as he could remember. Whether it was shoving bullies off his brother at the orphanage or dragging Wilbur out of trouble when foster parents turned mean, he had learned early on that no one would come to their aid.

There were no heroes swooping in to save the day. No adults to look after them. No one who cared. If they wanted safety, they would have to create it themselves.

The idea of being a hero had long since soured for Techno. Why should he risk himself for people who had never cared about him or his brother? He had only one person worth protecting, only one who had never abandoned him: Wilbur. For him, Techno would face anything, for him he would be a hero.

But Wilbur wasn't helpless. Techno was stronger, sure, but Wilbur could talk his way out of anything. He had this way of smiling, of saying just the right thing to get a stranger to share their lunch or to make an angry adult let them go. When things got bad, Techno swung his fists and Wilbur used his words, and somehow, together, they made it through. Techno's strength and Wilbur's quick tongue fit like two puzzle pieces, making them the perfect team. Just them against the world.

With the remnants of the meal in hand, they strolled toward the fountain in the mall's entrance hall. Techno suppressed a small smile as he caught the delight on Wilbur's face when the soft strumming of a guitar rose above the weekend chatter of the crowd.

"Look, Tech! It's the guitar guy! He's here!" He tugged Techno's sleeve, clearly excited.

Wilbur pointed, and sure enough, a street musician sat near the fountain, strumming a soft tune. Before Techno could say anything, Wilbur dragged him closer, practically bouncing.

For nearly an hour, they stayed there. Wilbur sat cross-legged on the ground, his gaze glued to the musician's hands, his own fingers wiggling through the air like he was playing along. "See that? That's a G chord," Wilbur whispered, his voice breathless with awe. Techno just grunted in reply, his eyes flickering through the crowd.

Unlike Wilbur, Techno couldn't relax. He watched the people, scanning for anyone paying too much attention to them. Winter was coming, and they needed jackets, but buying was out of the question. What little they earned from begging and odd jobs was barely enough for food. Stealing could work, but it was risky, adults always noticed kids like them.

The trick was looking like they belonged. If they could walk close enough to a family or trail behind an adult, maybe they could swipe something without drawing attention. Techno's eyes roamed the crowd, searching for someone to shadow, but his stomach dropped when he spotted something else.

A security guard. He was on the phone, his eyes flicking between the crowd and, Techno's breath caught, Wilbur.

His heart sank. His brother, completely oblivious, was still absorbed in his imaginary guitar, unaware of the potential danger.

"Wil," Techno said in a low, urgent voice, "we have to go."

Wilbur blinked up at him, startled. ""What? But..."

Techno grabbed his hand. "When I say 'now,' run."

The guard must have noticed their exchange because he began moving toward them.

"Now!" Techno hissed, and the two boys bolted.

They ran. Techno gripped Wilbur's hand tight, weaving through the crowd as fast as their legs could carry them. Behind them, he could hear the guard shouting, people yelping as they were shoved aside. Techno kept his head down, dodging around shopping bags and ducking under strollers.

"Faster, Wil!" he urged.

"I'm going!" Wilbur puffed, his voice panicked.

They slipped into a clothing store, Techno yanking Wilbur behind a rack of coats. "This way," he whispered, pulling him toward the fitting rooms. There was a staff door he remembered from before. He yanked it open, his heart hammering.

Wilbur pointed at the stairs leading down. "Basement! Basement!"

"No good," Techno panted. "Back door's locked. We go up."

Taking the stairs two at a time, they reached the next floor just as the sound of a door slamming open below echoed up the stairwell. Footsteps followed, moving down and getting quieter.

As quietly as possible, Techno eased the door open a crack, checking the corridor. They slipped through into the upper level, blending into the slow-moving shoppers. With practiced ease, they fell into step with the crowd. No one gave the two boys in worn, dirty clothes a second glance. No shouts could be heard behind them and even the brief glances over their shoulders revealed no pursuers.

The central escalators were within sight, but Wilbur's hand suddenly clenched around Techno's with painful force.

"Techno…" he whispered, his voice small.

"What?"

Following his brother's wide-eyed gaze, Techno spotted the cause: a poster pinned to a signboard. Their faces stared back at them, unmistakable despite the grainy print.

For a moment, they froze. A shopper bumped into them and snapped impatiently, "Don't just stand there!" Wilbur stammered an apology, but Techno was already tugging him toward the escalator.

They had barely reached the base when a voice bellowed behind them. "Stop! Stop them!"

Without looking back, they ran, darting through the entrance and dodging hands grabbing for them.

Techno felt as if they had been running for miles through the chaotic sprawl of alleys and backyards surrounding the mall. They didn't stop until Wilbur's ragged breaths faltered, and his hand slipped from Techno's grip.

"Wil!" Techno spun around, panic rising. His brother had slumped against a wall, bent over, gasping for air.

"I can't," Wilbur wheezed, his words barely audible. "Let them catch me. I can't run anymore."

"No way." Techno darted back to him, scanning the alley for any sign of pursuit. "We're okay. I think we lost them. Come on, let's go home." He held out a hand, helping his twin to his feet.

Wilbur's hand felt small in his as Techno pulled him up. "It's not home," Wilbur muttered, but he didn't fight him.

The walk back to their shelter was mostly silent, and when Wilbur spoke, it was so quiet that Techno almost missed it. "What do we do now?"

Techno clenched his fists at the defeated tone. Wilbur sounded so small, so unlike his usual self, that a surge of anger flared in Techno. He wanted to lash out, to destroy whatever—or whoever—had made his brother feel this way.

He took a deep breath. It had lately been happening more and more often that he felt this sudden rage, as if voices were screaming in his head, urging him to destroy something, to hit someone.

He shoved the feeling down, forcing himself to focus. "Tomorrow, we'll get food. Warmer clothes too."

Wilbur snorted and his voice sounded a little louder now. "You know that's not what I mean, silly. We can't stay here. They've got wanted posters, Tech. We need to leave."

It was a thought that had crossed his mind, but he had been afraid to say it. He hesitated a moment before answering. "Dockside," Techno said finally. "We'll go to Dockside. Fewer patrols, fewer cameras."

Wilbur pulled a face. "Dockside? That's where all the bad guys are."

"Better than getting caught."

"But ..." Wilbur hesitated, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The Crowfather's there."

"Prime, you're not seriously scared of that bird guy, are you? He's just a vigilante."

Wilbur bristled at the teasing tone. "The matron said he takes naughty kids to his nest and pecks their eyes out. I had nightmares about him."

Techno snorted, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. The Crowfather was the least of their worries.

Chapter Text

The coastal updraft, a remnant of the last warm summer days, offered the perfect conditions for a flight, the freedom to stretch his wings and glide effortlessly through the skies.

Phil hadn't flown purely for the joy of it in a long time, his movements dictated more by caution than desire. Too many prying eyes. But tonight, the new moon hung in a shroud of light clouds, dimming the stars and granting him a rare, liberating anonymity.

The altitude brought a coolness that bit at his skin, but the view made it worth it.

L'Manburg lay beneath him, sprawling like a jeweled quilt. The city's grime, its poverty, its burdens, were all veiled in shadow, leaving only the glow of streetlights and windows to shine.

From Northbay's grand gardens and broad avenues, still visible even at this height, to the imposing Hero Tower in the government district, the city told its story in its lights. The winding alleys of poorer neighborhoods threaded their way to Dockside, which stretched toward the sea, while the ominous black void of Ponora's Vault marred the otherwise sparkling view. No light escaped that place, an eerie reminder of the city's darker realities.

Hovering high above, it wasn't hard to imagine the L'Manburg of a century ago: smaller, dimmer, unburdened by prisons and towers of power.

Phil remembered that time. He remembered when L'Manburg and its heroes had stood as symbols of hope, their promises of protection meant for all. But the city had changed. Somewhere along the way, the promises eroded, leaving the vulnerable to fend for themselves while the so-called heroes enforced government interests. He couldn't pinpoint the moment the city he loved had vanished, all he knew was that it was gone now.

With a heavy heart, Phil cast one last glance toward the Town Hall and Hero Tower before folding his wings and plummeting downward. Only as he neared the city's rooftops did he spread them again, swooping low over the sea of houses.

He wasn't far from the old cloth factory in Dockside when he felt it.

A gust of icy wind, utterly incongruous with the warm night, brushed against him. The earthy tang of fresh graves filled his nose, and the faint, mournful toll of funeral bells whispered at the edge of hearing. Something from Kristin's realm was nearby.

Following the trail led him to an abandoned workshop. The lock on the front door was no match for a little force. Fortunately, in this part of town, everyone minded their own business and it was unlikely that the police, or the heroes, would be called if a break-in was observed.

The workshop was empty, filled with the stale scent of neglect. Rotting wooden steps groaned under his weight as he climbed to the apartment above. Before he could touch the door, it swung open with a resonant creak, as though beckoning him in.

No matter how many times Phil encountered the dead, the moment a ghost appeared was always unsettling. One instant, the small room was empty, bathed in the pale light falling through the broken window. The next, the spectral form of a man in tattered work clothes materialized, his wounds gruesome and fresh. The most horrifying was the gaping slash across his throat.

The apparition wailed, a haunting, dissonant sound that made Phil instinctively cover his ears. The spirit's voice fluctuated wildly, one moment booming as if standing inches away and fading into an eerie whisper the next.

"Get out of my house!" the ghost bellowed. "I'll kill you!"

Phil stood his ground, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "I'm not here to hurt you. I want to help."

"How can you see me?" the ghost demanded, its image flickering like a poorly transmitted television image. "What do you want from me?"

"I am here on behalf of the Lady Death," Phil said, voice calm but firm. "I can help you find your way to the afterlife."

"No! Leave me alone! I'm not leaving. Not until I know..." The ghost's voice broke as its form dissolved briefly, only to reappear, more defined. Blood now dripped from its wounds in a grotesque illusion, pooling on the floor before vanishing. The bearded face was easier to see now, framed by short, black hair and dominated by deep-set eyes that shimmered in a bluish white.

Phil spoke softly. "Talk to me. Tell me what's keeping you here. I can help."

It took hours to earn the ghost's trust. At first, the man demanded a way back to life, clinging to the hope of reuniting with his family. When Phil explained to him as gently as possible that this was impossible, the dead man first turned angry and then, as he slowly began to accept the fact, desperate.

"How can I leave if I don't know what happened to her?" the ghost pleaded. "I'll never rest at peace without knowing if my daughter is alive. If she found a new family."

As he had often done before, Phil regretted that there was no way to touch a ghost, to give it physical comfort. He would have loved to hug him or at least hold his hand. But all he could do was give him a sympathetic smile.

"Tell me your story," he urged. "Let me help."

There was silence for a moment, but then the man began to speak with a soft sigh. "I am a carpenter. No...I was a carpenter and my workshop was on the ground floor. I lived up here with my little daughter, Amelia."

Piece by piece, he told what had happened to him. He kept getting lost in the horrors of his memory, remaining silent for long periods and once even disappearing completely for almost an hour.

But at last Phil had a recount of a harrowing tale: a robbery gone wrong. A criminal frustrated at not finding enough valuables and a man desperate to protect his daughter, hiding her in a kitchen cupboard while confronting the intruder. The memory consumed the ghost, its voice breaking as he described the violent end.

To this day, more than fifteen years later, he did not know if his little girl had survived, what had happened to her. This lack of knowledge had chained the ghost to the place of his death, determined to stay here until he was finally certain of her fate.

When Phil left the house, it was with a promise to do everything in his power to find out what had happened. Where the child from back then was. He was tired after the long night, both physically and emotionally, and without giving it much thought, he spread his wings in the backyard of the workshop to go home.

The streets were empty, shadows stretching long under the dim glow of streetlights. The wind carried him above the city's maze of lights and shadows, and soon he landed on the edge of a rooftop. Dangling his legs over the chasm, he took a deep breath, letting the cool night air cleanse the lingering scent of mold and despair from his senses.

His thoughts were still with the spirit. The man's emotions still clung to him: Anger at an unjust end, the pain of violent death, love that did not end with the last breath, and an aching, impossible longing for a world where everything had turned out differently. These feelings were always raw, overwhelming. They seeped into Phil's own mind, leaving him exhausted each time he encountered a lost soul.

Yet, he never regretted his role as the Angel of Death. His goddess had entrusted him with this duty, and it gave him purpose. Helping restless spirits find peace was as much for the living as it was for the dead, preventing echoes of pain and death from festering in the mortal world.

Even so, tonight he needed some rest and time to himself and as he looked at the lights of the city spread out below him, his mind wandered to the twists and turns that had brought him here. Slowly and imperceptibly at first, his life had changed over the last few years without him consciously planning it.

As if the world could read his mind a siren was heard from far away and Phil considered whether he should go home or on patrol tonight. Exhaustion weighed on him, but if he didn't look out for the neglected neighborhoods, no one would.

Becoming a vigilante had never been his plan. It had all started one night with a chance encounter: a robbery in progress, a young man pleading for help, and Phil intervening. He hadn't expected the victim's bitter words to stick with him. "Nobody cares about this part of the city," the young man had said.

Phil had started paying attention after that, and what he saw disgusted him. Heroes patrolled the wealthier districts, turning away at Dockside's borders. The police, understaffed and underfunded, barely made an effort. It wasn't a decision, not really. He'd simply started helping where he could, and soon, rumors of a winged vigilante spread. The Crowfather was born.

Admittedly, there was a certain satisfaction in causing trouble for the heroes. Their attempts to recruit him had escalated recently, shifting from polite invitations to aggressive confrontation. It pissed him of that they didn't understand that his answer would always be the same: no.

It was after midnight when Phil finally took to the skies again. Flying low, he scanned the streets for trouble. It didn't take long to find some.

A sharp scream echoed from a narrow alley, abruptly cut off. Phil descended silently, his sharp eyes catching the glint of a knife in the sparse light of the flickering street lamps. A man had pinned a woman against a wall, his grip tight on her arm.

Phil folded his wings and swooped down on the attacker like a bird of prey. The would-be-mugger didn't even see him coming. With swift precision, Phil wrestled the knife away and turned his arms behind his back. He fished zip ties out of his pocket and tied the man to the nearest lamppost.

Turning to the woman, Phil softened his tone. "Are you hurt?"

Her hand trembled as she briefly ran it over her cheek, which was slightly bruised, but her voice was surprisingly steady. "Just a few bruises and scratches." Her gaze slid briefly over his face, covered by a simple cloth mask, and then to the unmistakable dark wings.

"Thank you Crowfather." She glanced at the subdued mugger before offering a shaky smile. "I'd better get home. I'll notify the police from there."

With a final nod, she disappeared into the night. Phil stayed in the alley a moment longer, his wings folding tightly around him. Another civilian saved. Another reminder of why he did this.

Back home and too exhilarated to sleep, Phil brewed himself a cup of tea and settled into the living room with a book. Yet, the words on the page blurred as his thoughts drifted to the name he'd been given as a vigilante: Crowfather.

He had no idea who had coined it. The "crow" part made sense, given his wings, but "father"? That part felt misplaced. He had never been a father.

Sure, he once wanted to have a family, planning to have children, to love them, nurture them, see them grow up and give the world to them.

But then he met Kristin. Those dreams, once vivid, faded into distant, unreachable fantasies. You did not start a family with the Goddess of Death, nor raise children in the shadow of her eternal duties. Yet if giving up that dream was the price of being with her, he had paid it willingly.

Still, some nights, the house felt too big. Too empty. Those were the nights when the weight of time bore down on him, the nights when he realized just how long it would be before he could see Kristin again. The crushing loneliness of those moments was something he could never fully escape.

With a sigh, Phil closed the book he hadn't read a word of. The clock had long slipped past his usual bedtime. Tomorrow held practical concerns, groceries, overdue repairs to the house, and he would need his rest.

His search through newspaper archives over the next week was time-consuming, boring and ultimately fruitless. There were too many robberies and burglaries in Dockside to report on each one.

He returned to the workshop several times to ask for details to help with his search and had the unpleasant feeling that he was being watched. But although he took the trouble to search the roofs of the surrounding houses and all the side streets, he found nothing.

The next thing he tried, was to get access to the government's databases. He had a few contacts, but in the end he had to pay some money for bribes to be able to view some official files in order to finally find out that the girl had survived and entered foster care.

One break-in into the house of her social worker later and he finally had an address.

Turns out she attended a nearby college and Phil's heart lifted when he saw her, laughing with some friends outside the campus. With the help of a friendly smile and a made-up story (he seemed to play the role of a dad really convincingly) he soon had a yearbook in his hands. Her cheerful face was all the proof he needed.

Now he just had to wait for the right time for the ritual to sent the ghost on his journey on.

Morning arrived with gusting winds rattling the windows and thick clouds promising rain. Phil normally preferred the local shops for his errands, but today he made his way to the mall. Over the last few years, he had let his house fall into disrepair. It was difficult to find the motivation to keep it in good condition when he was living alone, and maintenance was no cheap endeavor.

He'd already loaded his larger purchases into the car and was browsing for groceries when a wanted poster near the main entrance caught his attention. Positioned for maximum visibility, it displayed the faces of two boys who couldn't have been older than twelve.

Dave and William. Considered dangerous. Approach with caution. Contact the Hero Association Hotline with any information.

Phil frowned, unease prickling at him. How dangerous could two children possibly be? And why was the Hero Association, not the police, handling this?

The answer was obvious: the boys had powers.

The memory of the Superpower Registration Law resurfaced in Phil's mind. Passed years ago, it required anyone with abilities to register with the government and undergo mandatory training. From there, the system decided their fate, some were recruited for their usefulness, while others were monitored for being deemed dangerous.

Phil had ignored it, unwilling to trade his freedom for bureaucracy. Over time, his fears about the law had been confirmed. The increasingly oppressive measures that followed transformed his cautious disapproval into outright disdain.

He'd encountered a few heroes he respected, ones he had even worked with when the need arose, but they were exceptions. The rest? Tools of the state, more concerned with control than justice or empathy for the weak.

By the time Phil returned home, the image of the boys on the poster still lingered in his thoughts. Should he try to find them? Help them? But he had no clue where to start searching and even if he could find them, why should they trust him?

He set those worries aside as best he could, channeling his energy into fixing up the house. Over the next few days, he replaced the steps to the front door, repaired the gutters, and sanded down the banister. Next, he wanted to work on the veranda leading to the garden and replace the rotten wood. It was satisfying work, even if it only distracted him temporarily.

Most nights he patrolled Dockside and did everything one man alone could do to reduce crime. To his relief, he didn't see a hero for the next days. As usual, they stayed in the richer neighborhoods, and the sighting of a vigilante like Crowfather wasn't enough to lure them to Dockside.

His next encounter with them, however, didn't come during a patrol. It came in broad daylight, in the middle of the city.

Phil had been running errands and was on his way to grab coffee when a cheerful sight caught his eye. A boy twirling around his mother as they walked a few paces ahead. Each step she took was matched by a playful spin from the child. She smiled indulgently, steadying him when he grew dizzy. A comment from the boy made them both burst into laughter, their joy infectious.

Phil's smile lingered as they disappeared into the National Bank. Children had a way of brightening even the grayest days, he thought.

Then the sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the moment.

Phil froze. The sound had clearly come from the bank building and everyone on the street was doing the only sensible thing in this situation. Get away from here as quickly as possible. Within a few moments, the sidewalk had emptied, the doors of the surrounding stores were closed and silence spread.

He cursed under his breath. He hadn't brought a weapon, but at least he had his simple cloth mask in the pocket of his jacket. If this was a bank robbery, it was too dangerous, both for him and for any hostages, to rush in through the main entrance and with that in mind he turned to the back of the building. A quick glance assured him that he was unobserved and as soon as he had the mask on, he let his wings unfurl. Taking to the air, he aimed for the roof.

The rooftop was a quiet space, seemingly used by employees for breaks. A small table and various mismatched chairs stood in one corner. Phil grabbed the leg of a rickety wooden chair, breaking it off to fashion a makeshift weapon. For a brief moment, he considered leaving. He had no idea how many robbers were inside or what they were armed with.

But then he thought of the little boy and his mother. He couldn't rely on heroes who might - or might not - show up in time.

Descending the stairs with the splintered chair leg as his only weapon in one hand, he tried to be as silent as possible to avoid attracting anyone's attention. As soon as he could see through the glass door leading into the main banking hall, he paused to assess the situation.

Only a small part of the room was visible from his vantage point. Apparently, there was something like a waiting area with some chairs and a small table in front of the door to the stairwell. It was separated from the rest of the hall by shoulder-high partitions, behind which you could fill in bank transfers and use the account statement printers.

Several hostages were kneeling on the floor, their hands clasped behind their heads. Two of them could be recognized by their clothes as bank employees, the others appeared to be customers. Among them was the young mother Phil had seen outside the bank, bent over her son, apparently trying to protect him as best she could with her own body.

What could not be seen through the glass door were the bank robbers. Phil hesitantly crept closer and carefully began to push the door open. Loud voices could be heard from deeper in the counter room. Here in the corner, only bits and pieces were understandable. "Hurry up.... put it in..."

Expecting an attack at any moment, he stuck his head through the door and looked around.

A man with a black ski mask over the head and a pistol in his hand stood not far from the hostages, but his attention was focused on the main entrance. On the other side of the room, three more masked men stood in front of one of the counters while a frightened clerk handed them wads of banknotes.

With a quick glance to make sure that the man guarding the hostages was still looking the other way, Phil squeezed through the gap in the door. He made every effort to close it as quietly as possible behind him.

The only place that offered him at least a little cover was a water dispenser attached to the wall. But before he could take a step in that direction, one of the hostages seemed to have noticed him. It was an older gentleman with gray hair and a tweed jacket who turned his head towards him, froze in terror, and then anxiously glanced towards the gunman at the entrance.

The robber still didn't look at the hostages, but barked in the direction of his accomplices. "What's taking so long? We should get out of here soon."

The older man glanced at Phil again and the vigilante pointed to the door, the stairwell and then upwards. Next, he pointed to the hostage kneeling on the ground near the man and moved his mouth in silent words. A brief nod as a sign that he had been understood was his response.

The man crept as unobtrusively as possible to the young woman closest to him. She had lowered her head and flinched when a finger touched her gently. Phil saw the lip movements, but the whisper was too quiet for him to hear.

The woman hesitated for a few long minutes, but then crawled to the next person. Bit by bit, the hostages prepared to move, their movements slow and deliberate. All the while, Phil kept his eyes on the robbers, waiting for his moment to strike.

The dangerous game of Chinese Whispers went well until it reached one of the bank employees. Maybe the man shifted too hastily when he heard the message, or perhaps his reply was louder than it should have been. Whatever the reason, the gunman spun toward the hostages, pointing his weapon directly at the trembling clerk.

"Didn't I make it clear what happens if you move or talk?"

There was no time to make any plan, Phil needed a distraction, and fast. The chair leg in his hand was useless at that range, so he resorted to the only object he could use as a projectile. A handful of candy that were in a small bowl on the table.

It was a desperate gamble, but to his surprise, one of the projectiles struck the gunman squarely in the head. The man froze, stunned, just long enough for Phil to make his move. Wings flaring wide to create an intimidating silhouette, he lunged forward, forcing the criminal to recoil in shock. A swift strike knocked the pistol out of the man's hand.

As he dodged the flurry of blows aimed at him, using the chair leg as a makeshift baton, he was relieved to see the hostages seizing the opportunity, fleeing through the stairwell door.

A sudden shout was the only warning Phil got that the other criminals had become aware of the commotion. He barely had time to register the incoming danger before a potted plant, propelled by an unseen force, smashed into his shoulder. Pain lanced through him as he staggered.

Damn, at least one of the robbers had powers.

Phil weaved through a hail of objects—chairs, staplers, even a desk organizer—all hurled with uncanny precision by a telekinetic ability. Desperately, he pressed the attack, trying to neutralize his immediate opponent before the rest of the gang could join in.

But a bullet whizzing past his face close enough for him to feel the breeze, made one thing abundantly clear: he was in over his head. No chance of winning a fight against four armed and partially powered men.

He needed to retreat if he didn't want to end up dead on the ground.

Blocking a strike to his ribs, Phil whipped a wing out, throwing his attacker off balance. One quick strike sent the man sprawling. But even as he hit the ground, the vigilante realized he wouldn't make it to the stairwell before the remaining three robbers intercepted him. One raised his gun, while another began prying the water cooler from its mount with telekinetic force, preparing to hurl it at Phil.

Before disaster could strike, the bank's glass entrance door and one of the large windows shattered simultaneously. Two masked figures entered the room with a rather dramatic flair. The man coming through the front door was almost invisible, his figure surrounded by a howling whirlwind. The other, a woman in a sleek black combat suit and helmet, drifted weightlessly through the window like a shadow.

For once, Phil was relieved to see heroes, despite their reckless disregard for the hostages' safety.

The arrival of the heroes divided the robbers' attention. While two engaged the newcomers, Phil took the opportunity to restrain the man he had knocked down, intending to leave as unnoticed as possible afterward.

This plan was thwarted the moment the last of the robbers, pistol in hand, ran past him towards the stairwell. A glance back showed him that the heroes were fighting the other two villains near the front door, blocking the exit.

Realizing that the roof was his only viable escape route, and not wanting to take the risk of the gunman bumping into the fleeing civilians, Phil cursed under his breath and chased after him, regardless how bruised and sore his whole body felt.

They reached the stairwell in tandem, the robber just a few steps ahead. With a sharp yank on the man's backpack, Phil managed to throw him off balance, sending him stumbling down a step.

With a growled curse, the masked man held onto the banister with one hand to steady himself. He turned around to face Phil, slipping out of the straps of the pack to escape the winged man's grip and pointing the pistol at him.

Phil didn't give him the chance. He punched the robber square in the face, and heard the sickening crunch of bones breaking under his fist. The pistol clattered to the floor, and a second strike sent the man collapsing in a heap.

As Phil caught his breath, the door to the roof creaked open. A figure stepped through, silhouetted against the sunlight. For a moment, he saw only the outline of a broad captain's hat and a long coat. Then she moved closer, revealing white, frizzy hair under the brim, dark sunglasses, and a mask he know well.

The relief Phil felt was evident in the broad smile that spread beneath his mask and his voice didn't sound as frosty as it usually did toward heroes.

"Captain. Good timing."

The hero's smile was thin-lipped and nervous. "Any more hostiles?" She restrained the man on the ground with a cool efficiency Phil could only admire.

"Just the ones downstairs," Phil replied. "I'm sure Mercenary and Gravity have it handled."

Her nod was curt, her manner uncharacteristically tense. "You need to leave. Now."

Phil blinked, confused. They had worked together a few times, usually when one was in trouble and the other noticed. The Captain was one of the few heroes who visited Dockside from time to time. At first, she had just watched him, but later they had talked more often.

A bit of information about villains and crime, jokes about the government, celebrities, or whatever else was current and often just a quick greeting. It was unusual for her to be so curt.

"What's going on?" he asked.

She glanced around nervously before leaning closer, her voice low. "We've been given new orders. Vigilantes who refuse to work with the Hero Association are to be taken to Pandora's Vault immediately. If capture isn't possible…" Her voice faltered. "...elimination is authorized."

Phil stared at her, stunned. "Elimination? For helping people without jumping through government hoops? That's insane. Why are you still working for them?"

The Captain averted her eyes. "Because heroes still do good. I'm trying to change the system from the inside."

"There comes a time," Phil said, his voice sharp, "when you can't fix a system anymore, you can only tear it down."

She gave no answer and he couldn't suppress the bitterness that welled up inside him as he turned and hurried up the stairs without wasting any more time. The rooftop was empty, suggesting the hostages had made it to safety. Spreading his wings, Phil leaped into the air and disappeared into the skyline.

Back home, after taking a circuitous route to ensure he wasn't followed, Phil let the adrenaline bleed out of him. Exhaustion hit him in waves, but a lingering unease gnawed at the edges of his mind.

It wasn't until he set down the bag he had yanked from the robber that he realized its weight. Opening it, he found stack upon stack of bundled banknotes staring back at him.

Phil sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Great. Just what I needed."

Chapter Text

They'd been in Dockside for two weeks, and Wilbur hated every single second of it. Each day was worse than the last. All that was missing to make things officially unbearable was for it to rain, and knowing their luck, that was probably coming next.

Their "camp" was a little nook at the end of a dead-end alley, squeezed between stinky garbage bins and a pile of busted crates. It wasn't comfortable or safe, but at least the police and heroes avoided the area. Unfortunately, so did everyone else who might've offered small jobs or scraps of food.

Begging was hard. The good spots were guarded by kids older than them, and stealing wasn't much better. People in Dockside knew how to hold onto their things, and the one time Wilbur tried to pick a pocket, he'd been caught. He still had the bruises to prove it.

He shivered at the memory of the man's vice-like grip and how his first panicked attempt at using his power had failed. Only on the second try, when he was so desperate his whole body shook, had his voice broken through, making the man let him go.

He felt terrible about using it. He'd sworn he wouldn't, not after what happened the last time, but here they were.

"This is my fault," Wilbur muttered, poking a stick into the dirt. "All of it." He glanced at Techno, who sat with his back against the wall, staring at nothing in particular. "It's my fault we're here. My fault you're…" He trailed off, not sure how to say it.

Techno had been weird lately. Sometimes he'd go all quiet, his eyes glazing over, and then come back complaining of headaches. Once or twice, he said he heard things, people talking when no one was there. Wilbur tried to tell himself it was just because they were tired and hungry all the time, but deep down, he was scared.

They couldn't keep going like this. Wilbur clenched his fists. As much as he hated his power and blamed it for all the misfortune that had befallen them, there was one thing that became clearer to him the longer they were in Dockside. Even if he was reluctant to admit it: he had to figure out how to use his power properly. If he didn't, they wouldn't last here.

Wilbur cast a quick glance around, ensuring they weren't being watched, before turning back to Techno.

"C'mon, Techno, get up!"

Techno sat cross-legged on the ground, smirking. "Make me."

Wilbur groaned. Why did his brother have to be so stubborn?

"Get. Up." Wilbur stomped his foot, frustration bubbling up.

Techno just tilted his head, his smirk widening. "Still not feelin' it."

"Fuck you Techno, get up!" Wilbur's voice rose, but it still lacked the conviction to move his brother.

"You'll have to do better than that," Techno drawled, his smug expression unbearable.

Frustration bubbled over. "I said: Get up!" The words burst out with all the bottled up anger and exhaustion of the last few weeks. To Wilbur's surprise, Techno was suddenly standing. He blinked in confusion, as if unsure why he was no longer on the ground.

Surprise turned to pride as he looked at Wilbur, who had started coughing, overcome by a sudden tickle in his throat. "Huh. Guess you're getting better at this," Techno said, his voice almost teasing but tinged with approval. "You're improving."

Wilbur perked up instantly, his face brightening. "Really?" But the glow of the compliment faded almost immediately, replaced by a scrunched-up frown. "It took me four tries, Tech. If we're ever in trouble - like, real trouble - I can't mess up like that."

Techno just shrugged, as if Wilbur was making a fuss over nothing. "Then we just won't get into trouble until you're good enough to get it right on the first try," he said matter-of-factly, like the solution was obvious. He tossed a small stick up and caught it lazily, and Wilbur shot him a glare, half-annoyed, half-impressed by his brother's confidence.

"That's not how it works," Wilbur muttered, crossing his arms. Still, as much as Techno got on his nerves, he couldn't deny the thrill - the power - that had surged through him when the words worked.

It reminded him of the first time. Wilbur clenched his hands on his knees as the memory flickered through his mind: a foster sister yanking his toy plushie away, her hands rough and uncaring. The torn seams, the look on her face as she refused to give it back. The frustration. The fear. The pent-up rage.

And then the words had come out. "Give it back!" He'd said it with every ounce of feeling in his little body, and somehow… she had obeyed. It hadn't made sense. It still didn't. But now he understood a little more.

"It's not about the pitch," Wilbur said aloud, his voice quivering slightly with excitement as he turned toward Techno. "It's not like... like singing a song or hitting the right note - it's the emotion. If I don't mean it - like, really mean it - it won't work."

Techno raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical but curious. "Huh. Like when you throw a tantrum and it works better on adults?"

"It's not a tantrum," Wilbur snapped, cheeks turning pink. "It's—it's focus!" He stood up quickly, grabbing Techno's sleeve to drag him back to where they'd been sitting. "Here. Try not to get up. No matter what I say."

Techno groaned dramatically. "You're such a nerd." But he plopped himself back down anyway, slumping like a ragdoll to play along.

-----------------------------------------

By midday, the brothers found themselves standing in front of a community house, stomachs growling loud enough to rival stray dogs. Wilbur tugged at the frayed sleeve of his sweater, shifting uncomfortably as they joined the line outside.

"Why are they all staring at us?" he whispered to Techno, who stood next to him with his hands shoved in his pockets.

"They're not staring," Techno muttered back, rolling his eyes. "You're just paranoid."

"I'm not paranoid." Wilbur glanced behind them for what felt like the fiftieth time. What if someone recognizes us? What if someone calls the cops, or the heroes?

The building in front of them didn't look especially welcoming, a dirty brick warehouse with chipped paint, but someone had planted a bed of flowers near the door. Lilies and carnations. They seemed weirdly out of place here, like a small patch of kindness in a world that had too little of it.

When they got inside, Wilbur's worries faded a bit. The room smelled good, like stew, and that alone was enough to keep him quiet. He spotted a radio on a small side table near the doorway, catching faint snippets of a news report as they shuffled forward.

"...Mayor Schlatt… warned of the danger… vigilantes… Crowfather is dangerous… nothing but a criminal..."

Wilbur tensed. His heart thumped hard, and for a moment, he tried to focus on the words, straining to hear.

"Hey, kiddo. You're next."

Wilbur startled, looking up. An older woman with a kind smile was handing him a steaming bowl. "You look hungry," she said gently. "New to the neighborhood?"

Beside him, Techno froze, his hand halfway to the bowl. Wilbur didn't blame him, adults were tricky. They always seemed nice, but you could never trust them.

Wilbur did what he always did: he smiled. It was small and shy, but believable. "I'm Wilbur, and this is my brother, Technoblade." The names felt unfamiliar on his tongue, strange and glittering like a new toy. He had to stop himself from letting the pride show on his face. They might not own anything else. But these names were theirs, chosen by themselves, and he loved the sound of them.

"We live a couple streets away. Dad lost his job at the docks, so, um… Mom sent us here. Just for today."

The woman's smile softened, and Wilbur watched as she added a slice of bread to each of their bowls. "Take care of each other, alright?"

Wilbur's chest puffed up. That's how you do it, he thought, glancing at Techno, who gave him a look. It wasn't mean, but it definitely said, Show-off.

Wilbur ignored him, mostly because his stomach was growling too much to care. The stew was mostly potatoes and watery vegetables, but Wilbur ate it like it was the best thing in the world. Techno did too, chewing each bite as if he could make it last longer.

"Bet you ten dollars I'll finish mine first," Wilbur whispered through a mouthful.

Techno narrowed his eyes. "You don't have ten dollars."

Wilbur grinned. "Exactly."

"Where are we going?" Wilbur had followed his brother without asking any questions, but slowly he began to wonder what their destination was. It seemed to him that they had walked all the way across Dockside before his brother finally answered him.

Techno didn't stop, but glanced over his shoulder. "We need a better place to sleep. It's gonna get cold."

"And where do you suggest we find one? It's not exactly as if we have a wide choice of places." Frustrated, Wilbur kicked a pebble away with his foot and heard it bounce against the wall of the house next to him. "There's no such thing as an empty hide-out in Dockside. People live in all the empty places."

"Not this one." Techno's voice dropped, and there was that smug look on his face again, the one that said he knew something Wilbur didn't. "The boys near the square told me about it."

"Oh, them?" Wilbur groaned. "They're jerks. What did they say, huh? I wouldn't believe a word those pricks say."

"They told me of a house we could stay at." Techno said, his grin somewhat hesitant.

Wilbur stared at him, incredulous. "You're kidding. They probably just wanted to send us to a place full of crackheads."

"Quite possibly." Techno shrugged his shoulders. "They mentioned an old carpentry shop near the cloth factory. Supposedly no one goes near it."

"Yeah, as if. You certainly won't find a house here just waiting for us."

"Unless no one dares to go in," his twin's smile now was decidedly too pleased with himself. "They say it's haunted."

Wilbur stopped in his tracks. "Haunted? Tech, are you serious?" He jogged to catch up, eyes wide. "You think a ghost house is a good place to sleep?"

Techno didn't answer—he just smiled that annoying, too-confident smile. Wilbur groaned, but his curiosity gnawed at him. Ghosts weren't real… right?

"Fine," Wilbur muttered. "But if we get eaten by ghosts, I'm blaming you."

If someone were to ask Wilbur what he wanted most, his answer would be simple: enough to eat and a warm bed. That was the kind of answer you gave when you were a homeless kid, practical, easy, and safe. But if you dug deeper, if you asked him what he really wanted, the answer got messier.

He wanted a home.

Not just four walls and a roof, but somewhere he could stop looking over his shoulder, where he didn't have to hold his breath every time footsteps got too close. A place where his brother Techno could stop acting like he had to be the brave one all the time.

It was supposed to be Wilbur's job to protect them. He was the older twin—even if it was only by two minutes—and sometimes it bugged him how Techno always had to act like the hero.

Wilbur's idea of safety definitely didn't include "haunted house," but Techno was right. Their makeshift camp wasn't a long-term option. They needed something better.

"It's this way," Techno said confidently, turning down another narrow street.

Wilbur dragged his feet, clutching the straps of his worn-out backpack. "Are you sure it's this way? I think we passed that weird trash pile already. Twice."

Techno didn't answer. He just kept walking like he knew exactly where he was going.

By the time they finally found the building, a sad, crumbling brick thing squished between a rundown store and a shabby apartment block, the sun was sinking low. Long shadows stretched across the street, making everything look a little sharper and meaner.

"You sure this place isn't haunted?" Wilbur mumbled as Techno ducked into a deserted alley.

Techno snorted. "Ghosts aren't real."

"Famous last words."

Techno ignored him. He climbed the low stone wall at the back of the property with the ease of someone who'd climbed lots of walls before. Wilbur hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. A couple of noisy birds flapped away, startling him.

Sure, ghosts weren't real - at least, that's what he told himself - but there was always a sliver of doubt. Abandoned buildings were abandoned for a reason, and it rarely had anything to do with specters.

"Come on, chicken," Techno called from the other side.

Wilbur scowled. "I'm not a chicken!" He scrambled over the wall, landing on the other side with a thud.

Beyond the wall was a cobbled courtyard strewn with debris, rotting wood, and wild weeds twisting through cracks in the stones. A large double-winged wooden gate loomed ahead, its hinges and lock covered in rust. It seemed like the yard had once been used for deliveries and than the wall had been built later on to block off access.

Techno had only glanced back quickly to make sure his brother had also crossed the wall before heading to the door. Wilbur had no choice but to follow if he didn't want to call out loud. Fortunately, the surrounding buildings had no windows in their direction, but he had no desire to attract anyone's attention from the street by making too much noise.

He hissed a warning as he saw his twin pull on one of the gate wings, testing the lock. This place was creepy. "Tech? Maybe we..."

A certain relief flooded through him when the door wouldn't budge.

"Oh well!" Wilbur said brightly, a little too fast. "Looks like it's locked. Guess we should go!"

Techno gave him a deadpan look before shoving his full weight against the door. With a screech that sounded way too much like nails on a chalkboard, the wood shifted and creaked open.

Wilbur winced. "You're gonna wake the ghosts."

"Good." Techno grinned. "I'll punch ‘em."

"You can't punch ghosts, Tech!"

"Bet I could."

Wilbur didn't know how his brother could joke at a time like this, but he followed him anyway into the empty building.

The air inside was heavy and dusty, like a big, musty blanket. It was hard to see anything at first. Then Wilbur's eyes adjusted to the dim light that fell into the space through the open door and the dirty windows. Not that there was much to see. The space was empty, save for piles of junk shoved against the walls. A wooden staircase rose on the left, warped with age and spotted with rot, leading to a second floor. Opposite them, a sturdy front door blocked the way to the street. Dust motes hung in the air like tiny ghosts of their own, swirling in the faint beams of light.

Wilbur stepped aside, letting Techno move on. He wasn't about to be the first to venture deeper into the shadows. His twin smirked in triumph, though for the briefest moment, Wilbur thought he saw a flicker of hesitation in Techno's eyes.

It didn't take long to explore the room in more detail. It was clear that this was a former workshop and everything valuable had been removed since its abandonment. The floor still bore the marks of workbenches that had once stood here and in one corner the walls were blackened with soot and the remains of a fire could be seen on the floor. Mold crept along one wall, while water stains marred the ceiling.

All in all, the room looked better than they had expected and apart from the fire, there was no sign of anyone staying in here regularly. Nevertheless, Wilbur became nervous when Techno made preparations to go upstairs.

"Let's just stay down here," Wilbur said quickly. "This room's fine. It's... cozy."

Techno turned and flashed him that annoying smirk. "Deep knowledge," he intoned, "is to be aware of disturbance before disturbance, to be aware of danger before danger, to be aware of..."
"Oh, for the love of ….One trip to the library, and you won't shut up about that stupid book!" Wilbur crossed his arms, though the theatrics did little to mask the tension in his shoulders as Techno began to ascend the creaking stairs, carefully stepping over the rotten boards.

Wilbur groaned and followed because, well... what kind of brother would let his twin go fight a ghost by himself?

The stairs grated and creaked with every step. Wilbur's heartbeat sped up. He tried not to look down through the gaps between the rotting planks. "Don't step too hard, Tech. You'll break it."

Techno kept going, testing the door at the top. Wilbur, distracted by watching him, didn't see where he was stepping.

Crack!

The wood splintered beneath his foot, and before he knew what was happening, Wilbur yelped and tumbled backward, bumping and rolling down the stairs.

"Ow, ow, OW!"

"Wil!" Techno bolted down after him, skidding to his knees. "You okay?!"

Wilbur groaned, wincing as he sat up. "I'm fine." There was a bloody scrape on his leg where a sharp splinter had caught it, and his arms felt like they'd been whacked with sticks.

Techno didn't look convinced. His hands were shaking as he checked Wilbur over.

"Dude, I said I'm fine!" Wilbur insisted. "It's just a scratch."

But Techno wasn't listening. His face had gone all weird, blank and pale, and his hand shot up to clutch at his temple.

"Tech? What's wrong?" Wilbur's voice wavered. "You're freaking me out."

Wilbur's voice rose in pitch as Techno didn't respond. His brother swayed slightly, murmuring something too faint to make out.

Panic shot through Wilbur like ice water. "Techno? Techno!" He grabbed his brother's shoulders and shook him. "Hey, snap out of it!"

Still nothing. Desperate, Wilbur did the only thing he could think of: he wrapped his arms around Techno and hummed the lullaby they used to hear when they were little. He didn't remember the words, just the tune, soft and simple, the kind of thing that made him think of warm blankets and the smell of soup.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity but couldn't have been more than five minutes, his brother gasped sharply and blinked like he was waking up from a nightmare.

"Wil?" His voice was hoarse, his grip on Wilbur's arm desperate.

"I'm here!" Wilbur said quickly, relief flooding his chest. But Techno's face didn't relax. He looked around the room, his eyes darting nervously.

"Was someone here?" Techno whispered.

"What? No!" Wilbur snapped. "And if this is your idea of a prank, it's NOT funny!"

Techno shook his head. "This isn't a joke. I heard... I heard someone."

Wilbur tried to laugh, but it came out weak. "Oh, great. Now the ghosts are talking. What'd it say?"

Techno hesitated. For a second, he looked scared.

"It said," he murmured, voice barely a breath, "Blood for the Blood God."

Chapter Text

The walk back to their camp was quiet. Uncomfortably quiet. Wilbur had definitely not run out of that creepy old building as fast as his legs could carry him, leaving the doors swinging wide open like he'd seen a real ghost. No, sir.

Techno caught up easily - Wilbur wasn't fast - and fell in step beside him. But Techno didn't say anything. He wanted to tell his brother it was fine and definitely not a ghost calling for blood. It was just a voice in his head, but "it's fine" sounded like something a liar would say. So he just kept his mouth shut and focused on the dirt under his shoes, his thoughts swirling like soup.

The headaches had been happening for weeks now. Little ones at first, like when you stay up too late and your head feels heavy. But lately, they were stronger, pounding behind his eyes, and sometimes...sometimes he heard whispers. Like someone speaking when no one else was there.

And today?

Today, for the first time, he had been able to understand something the voices were saying.

All together, this led to a single conclusion: He was losing his mind.

Techno felt sick to his stomach just thinking about it. He wasn't dumb. He knew hearing voices wasn't normal. People who heard voices in their heads ended up in scary places, places you never got to leave. And the voices hadn't just been talking. They'd wanted, blood. He didn't know why, but the word sent a shiver crawling up his spine.

For a fleeting moment, he found this prospect almost reassuring, as it meant that he was just like Wilbur. Like his twin, he would be considered a threat to the general public, someone society deemed too great a risk to roam free. But that excitement soured quickly when he remembered that he had no idea why the voices were speaking to him or what they truly wanted.

He let out a quiet sigh.

"Do you have to walk so fast?" Wilbur whined, puffing like he'd just run a mile.

Techno blinked, startled. He hadn't realized he was practically jogging. Yet strangely, his pulse was steady, and he wasn't the least bit tired. "Oh. Uh, sorry." He slowed down so they were side-by-side again.

Contrary to his expectations, Wilbur didn't press for an explanation about what had happened. Instead, he just talked about boring stuff, like where they'd find their next meal or how he hated the alley they'd been sleeping in.

Usually Wilbur couldn't stop talking, complaining loudly about life's injustices - "Why do sandwiches cost so much? Why doesn't anyone appreciate free music when I hum my greatest hits?" - but tonight, he was quieter than usual.

Techno couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. On one hand, it was nice not to explain why he was acting weird. On the other hand, Wilbur kept sneaking glances at him, like he knew something was wrong. Still, for the next few days, Techno mostly felt relief at not having to explain that he was probably going mad.

The voices came and went like whispers from another room, overlapping and too faint to understand. Each time they surfaced, Techno instinctively looked around, expecting to find someone else nearby, only to be met with the sight of Wilbur and no one else.

A certain routine developed. The weather was still summery and they stayed in their dirty, deserted alley, going out during the day to beg, steal or ask for work at the docks. On good days they earned a few coins or found something edible in a dumpster.

Wilbur kept his powers in check. Techno didn't talk about the voices in his head.

Their fragile peace ended with a change in the weather. The pounding of rain on their cartoon shelter woke Techno early in the morning and Wilbur stirred awake moments later when a few errant droplets soaked through their makeshift cardboard shelter and landed on his face.

"Ugh," Wilbur groaned dramatically, swiping at his face. "This sucks. Everything sucks."

Techno sat up and shivered, rubbing his arms. "We should move."

Shivering and miserable, they gathered their meager belongings and huddled in a nearby doorway, barely shielded from the downpour.

Wilbur's teeth chattered. "We could go back to the garden shed."

Techno shook his head immediately. "Nope. Too risky. The heroes patrol there. And some streets have cameras."

Wilbur shot the clouds a look of pure betrayal. "I hate it here. It's wet, and it's cold, and there's not even a mall in Dockside to sneak into. This place is the worst."

Techno frowned. Wilbur didn't usually whine. He usually yelled or ranted like he was about to lead a rebellion. This must mean he was really miserable.

"Well…" Techno hesitated, picking his words carefully. "We could always go back to the totally-not-haunted house."

Wilbur shot him a glare so fierce it could have set him on fire. "We are not going back there."

"It's just rumors! It's dry, Wil. And no one else goes near it. So it's, like, free real estate."

Wilbur's scowl didn't budge, but he chewed on his lower lip, thinking. "I've got a bad feeling about that place. It's...wrong. Something bad is gonna happen if we go back."

Techno grinned, nudging him. "What's the worst that could happen? The Crowfather shows up and carries us off to his creepy bird nest?"

Wilbur's indignant yell, "Not funny, you jerk!" was exactly what Techno wanted. He laughed but quickly sobered. "C'mon, Wil. We need a roof. You're not gonna let some old ghost story scare you, are you?"

Wilbur crossed his arms, stubborn as ever, but Techno could see him caving. "Fine," he muttered, shooting Techno a glare. "Fine. But if ghosts, birds, or anything else kills us, I've warned you."

It didn't take long to pack up their few belongings and as soon as the rain let up, they set off. After they had climbed over the wall - the back alley was just as deserted as last time - they slowly made their way through the debris and undergrowth in the yard.

In the wet earth that had accumulated over the cobblestones, Techno thought he could make out footprints in a few places, but as they were already soaked enough, he didn't take the time to examine them more closely.

They came to the door, both wings closed, and like last time, Techno hauled open the gates. Wilbur stood back, arms crossed, nervously scanning their surroundings. Anxious to get out of the rain as quickly as possible, Techno took a quick glance into the room and when he could see no immediate threat, he beckoned Wilbur to enter.

While his twin began to spread out their wet clothes to dry, albeit in unusual silence and turning around suspiciously again and again, Techno went up the small staircase to the second floor.

Arriving at the door, he took out his pocket knife in the hope that it would help him pick the lock. When he pressed the handle, the door gave way to his surprise. "Huh...I thought it was locked last time."

"It was probably just stuck," Wilbur said, his voice close enough to make Techno flinch. He turned to find his brother right behind him, a smirk plastered across his face.

Sneaky bastard.

It turned out that the upper floor had probably originally consisted of a small apartment above the workshop. Now, the rooms were completely stripped bare, except for the kitchen and bathroom, where grimy sinks sat rotting and rusted pipes jutted out of the walls like broken bones.

The roof tiles must have been broken in several places, because water stains were spreading across the ceiling and most of the walls were covered in mold. Techno noticed more stains on the floor and when he knelt down to examine them, he realized that it was wax that had dripped onto the floor. It looked as if someone had set up a circle of candles, the congealed wax the only remnant of it.

He didn't mention any of this to his brother as Wilbur was jumpy enough as it was, glancing anxiously at the darkening windows. Techno wouldn't admit it to anyone, but even though he had made fun of his brother, he couldn't help feeling a little uneasy himself. There was surely a reason why this house was not used by other homeless people as shelter and just because he was convinced that there were no ghosts, he was not stupid enough to think it was safe.

He suspected a history of drugs, weapons, or other illegal dealings had taken place here. But there were no signs that the building was still in regular use and he just hoped they wouldn't be woken up by a knife to their throat in the middle of the night.

He pushed the thought aside and spread their thin blanket on the floor. "C'mon, Wil."

Wilbur sat at the edge, arms crossed. "I'm not sleeping. Not here."

Techno rolled his eyes. "Suit yourself."

In the end, they both tried to stay awake. But the longer the night went on without anything happening, just the occasional drip of rain or murmur of voices from the street outside, the more difficult it became to fight off exhaustion.

When Techno opened his eyes, he had to blink several times to adjust to the dim light filtering in. For a moment, confusion clouded his gaze, until the events of the past days clicked into place. His eyes landed on Wilbur, who had slumped awkwardly against the wall in his sleep, his thin form half-slid onto the cold, hard floor.

A dripping sound echoed faintly through the room, evidence of the persistent rain outside. The clothes they had spread out to dry were still a little damp, so Techno left them lying around and checked their food supplies. The meager pile didn't look promising.

The sharp scrape of a pocket knife cutting into a tin can broke the silence, startling Wilbur awake.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He had only half opened his eyes and his disgruntled voice clearly showed that he found it decidedly too early to wake up.

"Breakfast," Techno replied simply, his tone deadpan as he produced two plastic spoons. He placed the open can on the floor between them. "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty."

Wilbur groaned as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He sat up, sluggishly dragging himself over to Techno. "If you tell me that's potatoes again, I swear…"

"Cold canned potatoes." Techno smiled like he was proud of it. "Never a bad time for potatoes."

Wilbur gagged dramatically when he peeked into the can. "Tech, I'd rather let a ghost eat me alive than eat this. At least ghosts are quick about it."

"Just eat," Techno said, his voice quieting as he scooped a bite into his mouth. The grin faded, replaced with the faint worry in his gaze. "It's the last one."

That got Wilbur to stop complaining. Begrudgingly, he took a few bites, grimacing the entire time. "You're lucky I love you more than I hate this."

A few hours later, they slipped out of the abandoned workshop, the meager remains of their supplies tucked away under the blanket in a corner. As they crossed the backyard and climbed over the wall, Techno kept looking around. It was like eyes were pressing into his back, watching him even when he spun around. But nothing was there. He shoved the thought down - paranoia wouldn't get them anywhere.

They spent most of the day working odd jobs at the docks, unloading crates for a handful of coins and Techno convinced himself that his uneasy feeling, something bad was happening today, was only imaginary. He was more tired than he'd ever admit, but at least they could buy food, real food this time - sandwiches wrapped in paper.

They hadn't quite finished eating when they heard the loud voices of a couple of workers chatting nearby.

"It's true, my friend's cousin told him. A hero was in Dockside."

"Unless I see it with my own eyes, I don't believe it."

"Maybe they're looking for Crowfather. Supposedly he's been seen around the old cloth factory quite a few times lately."

Wilbur froze, sandwich halfway to his mouth. His wide eyes met Techno's, alarm etched into every line of his face.

"I told you that workshop was cursed," Wilbur hissed under his breath. "We are not staying there tonight."

Techno sighed, raising his hands in surrender. "Just one more night, okay? Tomorrow we'll find somewhere else. I promise."

Wilbur scowled, but grumbled, "Fine. One night."

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows as they pulled the double doors open again and looked into the workshop. The room was just as deserted as they'd left it, their few belongings untouched and exactly where they had left them.

They'd scavenged a large black plastic sheet from a dumpster earlier in the day, and now they used it to cover the windows. It was crude but effective, shielding their flashlight's glow from prying eyes outside.

"We can't leave the light on too long," Wilbur muttered as he worked to secure the sheet. "The batteries will run out." He cast nervous glances at every creak or groan of the old building, but with the room dimly lit, he seemed slightly less tense than the night before.

Settling down against the wall, they spread their blanket over both of them. The flashlight, propped on the floor a little ways off, cast faint halos of light that barely reached the edges of the room.

Techno smirked faintly. "You made stealing them sound so easy last time. Didn't you brag about how you could pocket batteries ‘like a ghost in the night'?"

Wilbur's indignant snort was all the reply he needed. Techno chuckled, triumphant, but his amusement was short-lived. Shouting voices could be heard from outside. Then there was silence while both boys held their breath.

A deafening crash shattered the moment. The front door exploded inward, wood splintering and flying across the room.

Two figures stormed in. One wore a striking white top with a gold-trimmed hood, wind whipped around him like a personal storm. The others outfit was simpler, a black suit and a dark helmet crowned with horns.

"Crowfather!" the first one bellowed, his voice mocking. "We know you're here!"

Wilbur stiffened, sucking in a breath, and Techno instinctively clutched his brother's hand, dragging him closer.

"Mercenary," the second hero grumbled, voice sharp with irritation. "Do you always have to set off a whirlwind? I could've just broken the lock."

Mercenary's laugh was cruel and grating, cutting off abruptly as a half-suppressed whimper escaped Wilbur. He wheeled around and Techno froze as he noticed the flashy gold chain hanging around the hero's neck, a detail etched into his memory from their last desperate chase through the city.

"Well, what do we have here?" he sneered. "Little birds instead of a big crow? How much easier can this get?"

Suppressing the panic that was trying to prevent his every move, Techno shook off the blanket and slowly stood up. His hand clutched his brother's in a vice-like grip and pulled him with him. The destroyed front door was still blocked by the second man and so he took a cautious step towards the door to the backyard.

"Don't even think about it, kid." Mercenary stepped forward, his hulking form blocking the exit. "You've run far enough. Just come quietly and nobody needs to get hurt." Perhaps this was the hero's way of talking reassuringly to civilians, but to Techno it just sounded like a threat.

He glanced toward the second man, who had taken several steps closer. A sword hung at his hip, but he hadn't reached for it. Instead, his hands were raised in a placating gesture.

"Stay back!" Techno's voice trembled despite his best effort. The hand that wasn't tensely holding his brother's was nervously fidgeting in his pocket, his clammy fingers curling around his small pocket knife. He flicked it open, the tiny blade pitiful against the looming threats before him.

It all happened too fast. The hero lunged. Techno's arm moved on instinct, the knife sinking into flesh.

The man reeled back with a cry of pain, blood pouring from the wound, dark as oil in the dim light.

For a second, the prevailing feeling in Techno was fear. Sheer terror at what he had done and what the heroes would do in retaliation. But then the voices erupted in his mind, drowning out everything else.

First Blood

Finally

Blood for the Blood God

The boy is growing up

Blood for the Blood God

Kill the heroes

What happened?

Blood for the Blood God

Kill

He heard Wilbur's sharp and commanding voice, "Don't come any closer!" and the hero in front of him stopped moving, but the screaming in his head paralyzed him too much to register what was going on around him.

The cacophony roared, insistent and maddening. Techno clutched his head, the knife clattering to the floor as he released Wilbur's hand. His temples throbbed, his vision swimming with violent, frenzied images.

A muffled call was heard through the voices surrounding him, scratching at his consciousness without managing to bring him back completely. "Get yourself together! He's just a little boy, no way he can control you. I'll take care of the other one, he's useless anyway."

He barely registered the chaos around him, the shouts, the scraping of boots on the ground, until a scream finally pierced through the haze.

Wilbur's scream.

Techno's head snapped up, his vision clearing just in time to see the flash of a golden knife, propelled by a violent gust of wind. It streaked through the air, aimed straight for his chest.

Wilbur stepped in front of him.

The blade struck.

His brother crumpled against Techno, a choked cry spilling from his lips. Blood blossomed across his chest, staining his shirt and Techno's hands as he caught his twin. Wilbur's breaths came shallow and ragged, his fingers weakly grasping at Techno's arm before falling limp.

"Wilbur," Techno whispered, his voice breaking. But there was no response, only the faint exhale of a life slipping away.

The voices fell silent for a moment.

----------------------------------------------------

Look up

Blood for the Blood God

Take the sword

There were no longer a cacophony, a jumble with no rhyme or reason. They were speaking clear instructions in one voice and Techno didn't know what to do. His brother had sunk motionless to the ground, Mercenary was approaching and the other one looked as if he would break whatever order Wilbur had given him at any moment.

Techno was desperate and the voices offered guidance.

Unsheathe the sword

It was so simple. The hero stood next to him, only just regaining consciousness. One fluid movement and Techno had the blade in his hand.

Mercenary is coming

Aim for the left leg

The blade arced through the air. Blood sprayed. A scream tore from Mercenary's throat as he crumpled to the ground, clutching his leg.

The fight was a blur. Techno struck and moved without thought, his actions driven by the relentless orders in his head. He didn't have to think, didn't have to decide, didn't have to look at the motionless figure on the ground. Just follow the voices. Brief pain when he himself was hit that disappeared almost immediately. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, mingling with cries and the hollow sound of his own breathing.

And then - silence.

Techno blinked, his vision clearing. The room was still illuminated by the solitary beam of their flashlight and the pale light filtering through the shattered doorway.

At his feet lay the bloodied body of the man in black, motionless and silent.

Blood was everywhere, but there was no sign of Mercenary. Techno turned around slowly, praying that the room was otherwise empty, that it had all been just a nightmare, an imagination like the voices in his head.

His hopes were dashed when he saw another small figure lying motionless against the wall.

"No," Techno whispered, his voice raw. His fingers had no strength left and the sword fell to the floor as he collapsed to his knees. Gently, he lifted Wilbur's head into his lap, his hands trembling as he brushed blood-matted hair from his twin's face.

The honey-brown eyes were sightless, covered by a dusty film, the sparkle that had been Wilbur's ever since he had first consciously looked into his brother's eyes was gone.

Techno stared down at the still form, tears blurring his vision.

Wilbur was gone and Techno only wished the knife had reached its intended target.

Chapter Text

Being labeled a villain was irking, but it didn't really change anything. Phil continued his vigilante work, splitting his remaining time between searching for lost souls and preparing the ritual. He just avoided the government district and stayed far from the Hero Tower. Encounters with heroes were inevitable, though he tried his best to dodge them, using his wings to escape before conflicts escalated.

But with time, his patience had begun to fray. The heroes no longer tried to recruit him. Their new goal was to arrest or eliminate him. When they struck without restraint, Phil sometimes let his frustration bleed through, though he stopped himself before crossing a line.

What truly stung was the increasing distrust of civilians, the very people he protected. Their glances of fear, their hurried steps to distance themselves, left a bitter ache. He wasn't their enemy, yet they recoiled as if he might turn on them.

The media did not allow the bank incident to be forgotten. Much to his chagrin, the news was full of reports about the recent robbery, framing Crowfather as the villain he'd supposedly revealed himself to be. A hostage even recounted on TV how "terrifying" the winged vigilante had been.

When the broadcast cut to Mayor Schlatt declaring that all vigilantes were a step away from villainy, Phil switched the TV off. The betrayal stung. The Captain had remained silent on the matter, doing nothing to dispel the narrative. Phil had briefly considered returning the stolen money anonymously, but after the media's scathing accusations, he'd kept it out of sheer spite.

Although he patrolled less the last week, he saw more heroes than before in Dockside. He tried to avoid fights, but it looked like that effort was one-sided. More than once he was attacked before a word was even spoken and without his ability of flight he would have been caught long ago.

The next time Phil entered the abandoned workshop, something felt wrong. One wing of the large backdoor stood ajar. His hand instinctively went to his weapon as he approached. A quick sweep of the backyard and ground floor revealed nothing but shadows and silence.

With a wary glance at the gray walls surrounding the yard, he closed the doors behind him and climbed the steps to the old apartment. He was halfway up the stairs when he realized that one of the steps had collapsed. With a frown, he wondered if the wood had been undamaged the last time he saw it, but couldn't remember.

Upstairs, the candles flickered as an unexpected gust of wind rustled through the lone open window, disturbing the still air. In the dim light, the ghost's form wavered, even less substantial than before. Phil knelt to complete the last rune, stepping carefully out of the chalk circle. He looked up at the spirit and managed a small, reassuring smile.

"It's time," he said softly. "You've seen the photos. Amelia's safe. She's happy. You can let go now."

For the first time since their meeting, the ghost smiled, a fragile, bittersweet expression that made his translucent face seem momentarily human. "I feel it," he murmured, his voice carrying an ethereal weight. "It's like I can finally breathe ... even though I'll never be able to draw in air again." With the last sentence the smile faded, bitterness mingling with his voice.

Phil knew better than to offer hollow reassurances. He'd learned long ago that touch couldn't comfort the dead, and words couldn't rewrite the past. Instead, he focused on the facts, grounding the spirit with his steady voice.

"She will always remember you. Her father, who loved her more than anything. You gave your life for her. That's not something she will forget."

The ghost nodded slowly, his form flickering so that Phil could see the concrete wall behind him shimmering through. "Good. Then I'm ready." His voice turned softer, more hesitant. "Will it hurt? Like my death?"

Phil met the spirit's gaze and offered a gentle smile. "No. It's like falling asleep. On the other side, you'll find peace."

The ghost released a breathless sigh, as if relinquishing the last of his burdens. "Start the ritual," he whispered.

_____________________________________

The days following the ritual were quiet. Phil allowed himself a few days of rest, trading patrols for repairs on his house. For once, he felt at peace with himself and the world. Even the constant stream of news reports warning about the dangers of vigilantes and the city's debt to the heroes' willingness to make sacrifices couldn't ruffle his feathers.

The first night he ventured out again was uneventful, an assortment of minor disturbances. A few muggings, a drunken brawl, a group of teenagers setting trash cans on fire - all easily handled.

The following evening, however, was different. Phil had just taken to the skies when he felt it: the same pull as before. A cold gust brushed against him, yet mingled in it the warmth of a summer breeze. The scents of pine needles and wildflowers mixed with the sharp tang of cemetery earth. The juxtaposition left him uneasy.

Flying low in the shadows of the houses, he followed the pull. To his discomfort, it led him back to the streets he had walked so often lately. Doubts crowded his mind. Had something gone wrong with the ritual? Did he made a mistake?

The sight of the door of the old workshop, torn off its hinges, the wood splintered, halted his thoughts. Phil's stomach turned. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped inside.

Standing in the doorway, Phil peered into the room, his eyes adjusting to the faint light spilling from the streetlamp. The beam of a flashlight, toppled on its side near the far wall, cast a small corner of the room in stark relief. Something glistened on the floor, a wet, viscous puddle.

Phil stepped forward. His shoe landed with a sticky squelch, and the metallic tang in the air confirmed his suspicion: blood.

In the center of the room lay a motionless figure, face-down in a growing pool of blood. Phil approached, kneeling to check for a pulse. The icy chill of the skin told him everything he needed to know.

Dead. Long past saving.

Taking a deep breath, he withdrew his hand and stood up again. The mask with its distinctive horns struck him as familiar, but he couldn't place the hero's name.

Only when he turned to look towards the stairs did he realize that there was someone else in the room.

A boy sat slumped against the opposite wall. Phil's heart skipped a beat as he took in the child's appearance. Blood stained his clothes, and he was hunched over something cradled in his lap. The boy seemed oblivious to Phil's presence, staring blankly ahead.

Phil stepped closer, the soft clang of his foot striking something metal breaking the silence. He glanced down - a bloodied sword lay at his feet, its blade dull with dried gore.

As he approached, a sinking feeling settled in his chest. The boy wasn't holding just something. The small, motionless figure in his arms was unmistakably another child, limp and lifeless. The body lay half on the floor, half in his lap and the dim light glittered in curly brown hair and then refracted in eyes that stared sightless into the void.

Phil forced himself to breathe deeply, fighting the nausea threatening to overwhelm him. He spoke as calmly as he could manage, though his voice betrayed a slight tremor.

"Hey, mate, are you hurt?"

No response. For a harrowing moment, Phil feared the boy might be dead as well. Then he saw it, a faint movement. The boy adjusted the body in his arms, as though trying to make it more comfortable.

Phil hesitated. Instinct screamed at him to leave, heroes would arrive soon, people better equipped for this. But the part of him that couldn't abandon a child in pain refused to yield. He couldn't ignore the scene, no matter how unprepared he felt.

Carefully, he unfastened the straps holding his mask. Yes, it was extremely risky, but he didn't want to add to the child's trauma with the imposing sight of a masked figure. Stepping closer, he knelt slowly to meet the boy's eye level.

"Hey mate, can you hear me?"

Still nothing. Up close, Phil could see more details, the gaunt features of the boy's face, his brown curls a match for those of the body he clung to. He couldn't be older than eleven or twelve. Despite the low light, the dark red of his eyes was striking, glowing faintly as they stared blankly into the distance.

Tentatively, Phil reached out and touched the boy's shoulder. The reaction was slight, a slow raising of his head. But the boy's gaze passed through Phil as though he weren't there. The sight unsettled him.

His features looked eerily familiar, though Phil couldn't immediately place them. Then, like a puzzle piece snapping into place, he remembered the wanted poster. The names eluded him - David? Willmer? - but he was certain now: this was one of the boys wanted by police and heroes.

Phil's mind raced, his sense of urgency sharpening. "Mate, we need to go. The heroes are coming, and you don't want to be here when they arrive."

Still no response. The boy seemed trapped in shock, utterly unresponsive to his surroundings.

Phil sighed, rising to his feet. He reached down to lift the boy, expecting resistance. Instead, the child made no effort to struggle, his only concern ensuring the body in his arms remained undisturbed.

Carefully, Phil hefted both children. To his surprise, they were lighter than he'd expected. With great effort, he navigated out of the house, leaving the gruesome scene behind.

When he finally arrived home, Phil felt deadly exhausted. As much as he was reluctant to do so, he laid the living boy on the bed in his guest room together with the dead one. The child's grip was unyielding, and Phil had no idea how to loosen it without causing more harm.

Under the harsh electric light, he saw the boys clearly for the first time, and the sight chilled him to his core. Both were caked in dried blood, their clothes torn and tattered. Whatever had happened had been a massacre, and he wasn't surprised the kid was still in shock.

Without a thought to the ruined bedding, Phil draped a blanket over them both and stepped out to change his own bloodstained clothes.

Later, when he cautiously opened the guest room door, his heart skipped a beat. For a brief, dreadful moment, the two motionless forms beneath the blanket made him fear the worst. He rushed closer, relief flooding him when he saw the faint rise and fall of one chest. At some point, exhaustion had finally claimed the boy, and he'd fallen asleep.

Phil spent the rest of the night in his armchair, a cooling cup of tea in front of him and deep in thought.

He had to find out if the boys had anyone looking for them other than the government. From the look of them, he was pretty sure they were brothers. Were there parents? A guardian or at least friends?

He rubbed his temples, thinking of how he might have to tell someone their child was dead. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Until now, he had never questioned who Kristin brought into her realm. He knew it wasn't her decision and for him the afterlife held no terror. But now he couldn't help but quarrel with her.

"Was there no way to spare him? He was so young… Couldn't you have done something?"

There was no answer, only the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old house.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Just tired, he told himself. If not for the dampness on his skin, he might have believed it.

It was no use, he couldn't change the past.

The boy was dead, and someone had to bury him.

In the pale morning light, a creak from the upstairs floorboards startled him. Phil almost sprang from the armchair and hurried to the guest room. The door was still closed, and when he knocked, there was no answer.

"Morning, mate. Just checking - can I come in?"

It felt like an eternity before a faint "yes" came from inside. Taking a steadying breath, Phil opened the door.

The boy stood beside the bed, the golden light of dawn highlighting the blood caked on his skin and the cuts and tears in his clothes. He looked like a ghost himself. Phil's eyes darted over him, searching for fresh wounds, but somehow, despite the carnage on his clothes, the boy didn't seem injured.

Phil forced a small smile. "Hi, I'm Phil. You're safe here."

The boy's wary brown eyes met his. There was no trace of the red Phil thought he'd seen the night before, but the fear and mistrust in his gaze were unmistakable.

"Can you tell me your name?" Phil's tone was gentle. Seeing hesitation, he raised his hands in a placating gesture. "It doesn't have to be your real name, just something I can call you."

"Technoblade." The name came out steady, but the boy's eyes kept darting to the still form on the bed. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The name didn't match the wanted poster, but Phil understood. Trust wouldn't come easily.

"Okay, Techno," Phil said softly, "is there anyone I can contact? Parents, a guardian?"

A small shake of the head.

Phil sighed. He'd expected as much, but it didn't make it any easier. Deciding there was no kind way to approach the topic, he chose blunt honesty.

"I assume the heroes are looking for you,right?"

Techno flinched, his eyes wide with panic. Then, just as quickly, his shoulders sagged in resignation, his head bowing.

"Hey," Phil said quickly, "I'm not going to turn you in. I promised you were safe here." He hesitated before continuing, his voice soft. "We need to talk about your… brother?"

At that, the boy's face crumpled, despair etched into every feature. Phil's heart ached, but he forced himself to go on. "He needs to be buried."

Technoblade didn't speak much after that and Phil thought it best not to ask him about last night's events. He hoped that he would have the opportunity to ask the boy later how he had come up with that name, but for now there were more important things to do.

He had agreed to bury his brother, "Wilbur", he had murmured quietly, in the garden.

Phil was determined to hold a proper service for the dead. If he couldn't protect Wilbur in life, he was hell bent to give him the best transition to the afterlife possible.

"The bathroom's just next door," Phil said, his eyes flicking over the dried blood. "You can shower. I'll put out fresh clothes and head to the store while you clean up."

Techno hesitated, then nodded, glancing down at himself with a wince.

"Are there any objects that were important to Wilbur? Something he was attached to?" As he spoke, Phil realized how strange that sounded. Fuck, he didn't really want to give a lecture on sacrifices and death rituals to a grieving child.

"Why?" Yes, that was exactly the suspicious and accusatory tone he had expected.

"I want to give him something to ease his way into Lady Death's realm." Phil tried to explain. "Something that he loves and gives him a sense of comfort." His voice broke as his eyes were unconsciously drawn back to the motionless figure on the bed. It looked as if he was just asleep and would wake up at any moment.

Techno's voice cracked. "We didn't have anything. Just a blanket and some food, and that's gone now." The hopelessness in his tone was shattering.

Phil couldn't help himself. He crossed the room and wrapped the boy in his arms. At first, Techno stiffened, but then he melted into the embrace, sobs racking his small frame.

It took a long time for the desperate crying to subside.

"I always wanted to buy him a guitar," the voice was hoarse from crying for so long and muffled because Techno had buried his face in Phil's shirt. "A guitar was on his wish list for a long time, but we never had enough money, most of the time it wasn't even enough for food." He paused for a moment, "and he liked maps."

"I'll see what I can do." It took effort to let go of the boy, as if he belonged in Phil's arms, and when he took a step back, he immediately felt the coldness that the loss of contact had caused.

"Go take a shower and when I get back, I'll make something to eat."

Later in the music store, Phil asked for a guitar. He ignored the odd looks when he refused to try it out. At the bookshop, he picked a school atlas filled with vibrant maps and facts.

Passing the toy aisle, a small blue sheep with button eyes caught his attention. He imagined Wilbur stroking its soft wool, and his chest tightened. Without a second thought, he added it to his basket.

Then Phil thought of Techno's ruined clothes and the oversize outfit he'd left outside the bathroom and he headed toward the next shop.

When Phil opened the front door, he half expected to find an empty house. Instead, the boy sat in his living room, the legs of his too-long sweatpants rolled up, his knees pulled to his chest and his eyes closed as he rocked slightly back and forth.

"Techno?" Quietly and gently so as not to frighten him. "Are you all right?" He would have liked to force the words back into his mouth immediately. Of course Techno wasn't okay. His brother lay dead one floor above them.

The boy looked up but didn't answer. Like Phil, he seemed to realize that this question didn't deserve an answer.

"I've brought you something to wear."

Without a word Techno took the new clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. Phil watched him go before heading into the kitchen to make sandwiches.

He wasn't surprised that the boy only ate a few bites and then pushed the plate away, but he was glad that he'd sat down with him at all and tried to eat.

Phil turned on the TV for Techno to create a distracting background noise, even though he didn't think the boy would pick up anything from the show that was on. Then he went into the garden and started to make a coffin out of the boards he had planned to use to rebuild the veranda.

He dug the grave next to the shrine for Lady Death in the unconscious hope that she would extend her protection to the dead boy.

When he returned to retrieve Wilbur's body, he noticed a bloodied knife on the nightstand. Although it was crusted with blood, he immediately recognized the white handle with the gold ornaments. Mercenary posed with his beloved weapons at every interview.

It took him a while to summon up the strength to pull back the blanket and look at the dead boy. The wound in his chest was not to be missed and it matched the knife perfectly.

Phil couldn't remember ever feeling such anger and he was sure that if there had been a hero around, he would have killed him in cold blood without remorse.

"He'll get cold, he's always cold at night."

Techno had insisted on saying goodbye to Wilbur before Phil closed the coffin, and as much as he was reluctant to let him see his brother like this, he couldn't refuse. Seeing the boy now, trying to keep his composure as he placed the blue sheep in Wilbur's arms, broke his heart.

"I'll be right back." It only took him a few minutes to pull the warmest blanket he could find out of the closet and return to the grave. He carefully tucked Wilbur in, put the guitar on one side, the atlas on the other and gently stroked his curls out of his face.

Then they closed the coffin.

Chapter Text

"Aren't you missing your train?"

The voice startled him. After what felt like hours (days?) of watching people rush past, boarding their trains without a second glance at the boy sitting on the ground, Wilbur jumped so hard he nearly tumbled off the edge of the platform, where he'd been sitting with his legs dangling and swinging listlessly. He glanced up, eyes wide, his heart pounding like it always did when someone spoke to him unexpectedly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," the voice continued, soft and warm.

Wilbur blinked, taking in the woman in front of him. She was strange-looking, like something out of one of those black-and-white movies Techno always made fun of. Her dress was black and long, and her matching hat had a veil that spilled over her face like a semi-transparent curtain. Her smile, though, it wasn't like the fake ones adults usually gave him. It was warm, kind, almost... real. But Wilbur had learned not to trust smiles too quickly.

On the other hand, he hadn't had a longer conversation (or any conversation at all) with anyone since his arrival so he decided to take that risk.

"No problem." He mumbled, a bit more shaky then intended. "I just...I guess I didn't expect anyone to talk to me...ever again." His throat tightened. "No one has, not since… since…" He hesitated, looking down at his shoes. "Not since it happened."

The woman sat down beside him, her movements quiet and careful, like she didn't want to startle him again. "I know," she said gently. Her smile softened, and for the briefest moment, Wilbur thought he saw sadness flicker in her violet eyes. "Not a soul seems to have time these days. They're all in such a rush, trying to catch their trains, each hoping to find paradise or reunite with lost loved ones."

Wilbur sniffled, staring hard at the empty tracks. "So it's true, then," he whispered. "I'm... I'm really dead."

"Yes, I'm afraid so," there it was again, that tiny glint of sadness in her eyes, "but you already knew that, didn't you?"

Wilbur nodded, his lips quivering. "I did… I just didn't want it to be."

The woman didn't say anything. Instead, she did something Wilbur didn't expect, she wrapped an arm around him. It wasn't tight like a hug, more like... like she was letting him know she was there. He froze at first, because it had been so long since anyone touched him like that. Gently. Like he mattered.

"I just want to get back to Techno." His voice broke on the last word. Tears welled up in his eyes.

Her arm was still around him, even with the touch being so soft it could have been a gust of wind. She was treating him as if he was made out of glass and how his chest felt, he might've just been.

"Who is Techno?" She asked, keeping her voice low so she wouldn't scare the boy again.

"He's my twin." Wilbur sniffled and wiped at his face with his sleeve. "We're not supposed to be apart - ever. Not since... since we lost our parents."

Her smile vanished completely. "Your parents are gone?"

"Yeah," Wilbur said, his voice hollow. "It's been a while now."

"And still, you haven't boarded a train to see them again?" She tilted her head, her expression thoughtful.

"I can't," Wilbur said, resolute. "I can't risk missing a chance to go back to Techno. The trains come and go, but they're never heading where I need them to. Until they are, I'll wait, no matter how long it takes."

The woman looked at him for a long moment, a strange mix of admiration and sorrow in her eyes. "I'm sorry for having to tell you but you might be waiting in vain. It's been centuries since a train left heading the other direction."

"Then centuries it will be, I can do that … for Techno." He wasn't sure who he wanted to convince of this. Himself or the person he was talking to.

"I understand," she said at last. "There's someone I care about too, someone I'd give anything to be with again."

"Are you also...?" Wilbur looked at her with uncertainty.

"Am I what?" Since the boy still seemed nervous about asking his question she added, "it's okay, you can ask me anything you want to know." Her smile had reappeared now and looked reassuring.

"Are you... are you like me? Are you dead, too?"

Wilbur was surprised to see her chuckling at that question. "You children...always asking the most complicated questions." Her smile was brighter then ever now. "But I'll try answering it as best as I can."

"How do I explain it..." She thought, then chuckled softly. "I'm not like you. Imagine the sky."

"The sky?"

"Yes. If there are birds soaring in the sky, they had to fly there first, right?"

"Right…"

"So they had to leave the ground."

"Yeah, but what has that to do with..." Wilbur was more confused then ever.

"I'll get to it. Now imagine a cloud. Did it have to leave the ground?"

"No..."

"But is it still up in the sky like the birds."

"Yes."

"It's the same with me. I never lived, like the cloud was never on the ground and I didn't have to leave said ground to get up into the sky or..."

"Die to get to the afterlife." Wilbur blinked, his confusion giving way to reluctant understanding. "You're not human."

"Yes, exactly. You're a clever kid aren't you, Wilbur?"

"Well, people used to tell me, that I'm too... wait, how did you know my name?"

"Let's just say a little birdie told me." Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she said it, but she didn't explain. Wilbur squinted at her, trying to figure out if she was joking. Before he could decide, he blurted, "Well... if you know my name, it's only fair I know yours."

She seemed to think about it for a moment before replying, "I've been called many names, but you can call me Mumza."

"Mumza?" Wilbur repeated, testing the word. "Sounds like a mum name."

She chuckled, like he'd told a really good joke. "It does, doesn't it?"

Before he could say anything else, a crow fluttered down from the rafters and landed on her shoulder. Wilbur's jaw dropped. "Woah! That's so cool! Can it do tricks?"

The crow fluffed its feathers and whispered something into Mumza's ear. She listened, then sighed. "It seems I have to go for now."

Wilbur's face fell, the excitement fading as quickly as it had come. "Oh."

Her gaze softened. "Is that all right for you?"

Wilbur was dumbstruck by her words. No one ever asks him if he was okay with something, let alone if he was okay with someone leaving. The foster homes he was in never care about what he was doing as long as it didn't mean more work for them. He almost had no memories of his actual parents anymore. The only one who would ever care about him was Techno and Techno was still on the other side. And...

"Is everything alright?" Her voice pulled him back out of his spiral.

"I… I guess so. Will you come back?"

She knelt slightly, so she was closer to his eye level. "I promise I'll come back. You can hold me to it."

"Promise?" he asked quietly, searching her face.

"Promise," she said, her smile warm and sure.

The shadows around her began to swirl, wrapping her in a cocoon of darkness. When they dissipated, she was gone.

Wilbur was back in the abandoned workshop. His brother was standing next to him, his bloody hands covering his ears and shouting something about the voices not shutting up.

„Don't come any closer!" Wilbur's voice echoed from the walls around them like roaring thunder. That's how he had been able to protect them for so long and that's how he would protect them now, by using his power. It seemed to work and he immediately turned to his twin. To help him, to calm him, to get him out of here, whatever it took to let them survive.

"Techno! Do you hear me? Please, we have to get out of here!"

But then a voice cut through the chaos, sharp and cruel. "Useless" Wilbur's head snapped up, his eyes locking on the white figure with a knife. Without thinking, he stepped in front of his brother. Pain exploded through him.

Wilbur woke with a gasp, bolting upright as if the nightmare might reach through the fog of his dreams to drag him back. His heart hammered in his chest, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.

He took a deep breath, then another, rubbing his face with trembling hands. "It's not real," he whispered to himself. "It's just a dream. Just a ..."

But it wasn't.

His fingers curled against the cold metal bench he'd been sleeping on. Around him stretched the eerie emptiness of the train station, dim and endless, swallowed in perpetual twilight. A place with no time and no sound, just the hum of trains that never seemed to stop.

Wilbur sighed, slumping back against the bench. His chest still hurt, not from the wound, but from missing. Missing Techno. Missing the world. Missing everything he knew.

Where was Techno now? Was he okay? Was he still fighting? Wilbur hugged his knees to his chest, staring at the tracks. He wanted to believe his brother was fine, that he was surviving - but what if he wasn't?

"Useless," the voice echoed in his head, sharp as broken glass.

Wilbur shook his head, squishing his eyes shut like he could chase the voice away. It didn't work.

He got up from the bench, on which he had been sleeping, and returned to his spot by the tracks. He didn't even really know what he was waiting for exactly. A train to take him back to life? Mumza had already told him that wasn't possible. Still for the time being, he knew that he simply could not get further away from Techno then he already was. So he just sat there, waiting.

It was nearly impossible to gauge the passage of time at the train station. Without the sun's guidance, Wilbur couldn't tell if it had been minutes or hours since the last train passed. Oddly, he didn't feel hungry or thirsty—just stuck in an endless, timeless limbo.

It felt like an eternity before Mumza visited him again. This time Wilbur didn't flinch when she stepped out of the shadows. He was getting used to her strange entrances.

"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting," she said, her voice gentle and apologetic. "I brought you some presents."

"Presents? For me?" Wilbur blinked in surprise, then let out a small, incredulous laugh. His eyes widened as he watched Mumza reach into the shadows around her, pulling a bundle out of the darkness. Smiling at his eager face, she set it before him.

The bundle consisted of the fluffiest blanket Wilbur had ever seen. Tentatively, he touched it, marveling at how soft it felt. Slowly unfolding it, the first thing he saw was a varnished piece of wood. It was only when he carefully pulled the blanket further to the side that he recognized the curved body of a guitar.

His fingers traced the polished wood reverently, before hesitantly plucking a string. A sharp, off-key note rang out, and he pulled his hand back as if burned. "Sorry," he muttered quickly, glancing up at Mumza.

Instead, she laughed, a soft, bell-like sound. "It takes practice to play the guitar. Don't worry, you'll learn with time."

Wilbur blinked at her, confused. That was new. Usually, adults expected him to figure things out instantly. Whether it was cooking, working a washing machine, or keeping up with lessons in school, any failure was always his fault - proof he was too dumb, too clumsy, or unwilling to try hard enough. Mumza's gentle patience felt... foreign.

To distract himself from the discomfort of unfamiliar kindness, Wilbur knelt and began exploring the rest of the bundle.

His fingers brushed against a book, larger than the ones he had sometimes read at the library with Techno (before someone approached them and asked where their parents were and they bolted).

"Woah…" he whispered.

A quick flick through the pages showed him a variety of maps. They were intricate and fascinating, the kind of thing he'd love to study in peace, but he felt something else in the bundle, so he put the atlas aside.

Wilbur's hands finally closed around something small and soft. A sheep plushie, its fur dyed a silly shade of blue, looked at him from black beady eyes. His face broke into a wide, toothy grin as he slowly stroked the soft wool. "A friend! You brought me a friend!"

Mumza looked at him with a fond smile. "I'm happy you like the gifts."

"I love it!" Wilbur clutched the sheep to his chest, hugging it close. Then, suddenly, he froze. "Wait… why? Is it my birthday? Did I miss my birthday? Has that much time passed?"

The corners of Mumza's smile dimmed. "No, little one. These are burial gifts, meant to bring you comfort after death."

Wilbur blinked. Burial gifts. Oh.

He stared at the plushie in his lap, absently stroking its wool. "That's… nice of them," he said softly. He didn't want to think about what that meant, about who had left the gifts, or why.

Instead, he tilted his head up at Mumza, curiosity flaring to life again. "Hey, you said you're not human, right? So, are you… like, an angel? Or a goddess or something?"

Mumza chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You're quite perceptive, songbird. To most I am known as the Goddess of Death."

Wilbur's eyes grew wide with awe.

"I've been called many names," she continued, "Lady Death, She Who Helps Them Pass, Kristin, or simply Her. Over time, I've gathered quite the collection." She smiled, her tone lightening. "But Mumza is, by far, my favorite name."

Wilbur nodded thoughtfully, clutching his sheep close. "It suits you."

"Thank you," she said with a chuckle. "Now… would you like to see what else I can do?"

Wilbur's eyes lit up. "What do you mean?"

"Watch," she said with a grin. Raising her hands, she summoned the shadows around them. They twisted and danced like a cyclone, weaving intricate shapes that encircled them. Wilbur stared, mesmerized. He thought he glimpsed amethyst orbs flickering within the swirling mass.

When the shadows faded, Wilbur's grin stretched ear to ear. "Again! Do it again!"

Mumza laughed. "I've been holding them up for ten minutes already, and you still want more?"

"Please! They're amazing!" He gave her the most pleading puppy-dog eyes he could muster.

"All right," she relented, conjuring the shadows again. She wove new shapes and patterns, even crafting a tiny storm that crackled like distant thunder. Wilbur watched in pure awe. After a while, he stopped asking for more displays and instead bombarded her with questions.

"Can you make them flow in any direction? Do they always have to move? How detailed can you make them?"

Mumza chuckled. "Yes, no, and very detailed—but the more intricate the design, the harder it is to control."

"That's so cool." Wilbur beamed. "Can you make an animal?"

"Well...I've never tried that before but I suppose I can try. What animal is your favorite?"

"An orca! I love orcas."

Mumza set to work, pulling shadows into the shape of a killer whale. Its sleek form took shape before Wilbur's eyes, complete with fins, flippers, and a fluke. When she finished, the orca began "swimming" through the air, its movements fluid and lifelike.

Wilbur looked amazed as the creature floated beside him. He had never seen a real orca but he read a few books about them and had always wanted to see one. As it turned around it moved its head as if to look at him. And it just...it just looked so real, so peaceful, so...alive. He couldn't help himself he just had to try to pat its head.

His hand went straight through, dispersing the shadow. Realizing what he had done, Wilbur stopped in his tracks.

His shoulders sagged. "Oh… I thought…"

"It's just an illusion," Mumza said gently. "Shadows can't take a real form."

Wilbur frowned, then perked up again. "But it's still cool! Can you teach me?"

Mumza looked at him for a long moment, her eyes soft. "It would take time, and a lot of effort."

Wilbur's honeybrown eyes sparkled with determination. "I'll do whatever it takes!"

Her laughter rang out like a bell. "Very well, songbird. Next time, I'll teach you. For now, though, my crows call me elsewhere."

"Oh..." Wilbur tried to hide his disappointment as Mumza merged with the shadows, vanishing from sight.

Wilbur watched her go, still hugging his blue sheep to his chest. The train station felt quiet again, but this time, it wasn't as lonely.

He could wait. He would be fine.

Chapter Text

The first week with Phil passed in a haze, the days blending together in a surreal fog. The memories of that night - the blood, the voices, Wilbur's lifeless eyes staring into nothing - they were ever present, yet distant, like fragments of a dream. Sometimes he couldn't tell if they were real or just something his brain made up, like a hallucination, or rather a nightmare.

Phil was kind, though. He didn't yell or ask too many questions, and when he did ask for something, Techno didn't push back. He just let things happen. Phil made food, Techno ate when he remembered to. Phil told him to sleep, Techno lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

Sometimes he thought about running, but where would he go? Wilbur was here, would be here for all eternity, buried in the dark earth near the flower beds with the red poppies.

Without Wilbur, nothing felt right. It was like someone had broken a compass inside him, and now he couldn't tell which way was home.

What was left to fight for? What was the point of running away if he was already separated from his twin?

And who was to blame for his brother's death?

He couldn't get Wilbur's sentence out of his head, "Something bad is gonna happen if we go back."

If he had listened to him, if he hadn't insisted that they spend the night in that cursed place, Wilbur would still be alive.

At night, he dreamed about the knife—sometimes it pierced his own chest instead of Wilbur's. That was the only time he felt anything close to okay. During the day, he moved mechanically, following Phil's suggestions, not out of trust, but because it was easier than thinking. He lacked the strength to make his own decisions.

That was, until the voices got loud again.

When Techno first woke up in Phil's house, they were quiet. Just faint whispers, like someone mumbling from another room. He could almost pretend they weren't there.

But when they buried Wilbur, the voices rose. They were subdued, solemn, but louder. A haunting refrain played on repeat:

o7

o7

o7

Techno didn't know what it meant, but it kept repeating. It made his chest ache, so he tried to ignore it.

Over the days, the murmurs ebbed and flowed. Most of it was incomprehensible, fragmented words like gibberish. Occasionally, certain phrases rang out clearer:

Dadza

It was weird. Every time Phil walked into the room, they said that word. Over and over.

Emduo

It came up frequently, whether they were at the dinner table or when Phil took him out into the garden, insisting that a boy needed fresh air.

Sometimes the whispers got weirder.

Bird adoption arc

When will we get SBI 4/4?

Techno wrinkled his nose. What did that even mean?

It was annoying, but not scary. Not yet.

The voices didn't scare him until the kitchen incident.

never imagined the Blades life would be so boring

the boy is grieving

the solution is violence

blood for the Blood God

just joined, where is Wilbur?

revenge

blood for the Blood God

"Hey mate, can you hear me?"

Phil's voice snapped him out of the fog, and Techno blinked, confused. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of food untouched in front of him. His hand ached. When he looked down, he realized he was gripping a butter knife so tight his fingers had turned white.

"What happened?" Techno croaked, his voice scratchy and small.

"You zoned out for a bit," Phil said softly, his hands raised like he was calming down a startled animal. "Are you okay?"

Techno loosened his grip and dropped the knife. He felt shaky, like he'd just woken up from falling in a dream. "I'm fine. I just… I'm tired. Can I go to my room?"

"Of course, mate. Get some rest."

Phil's concerned gaze followed him as he left the kitchen and it was only with great difficulty that he managed not to run up the stairs as quickly as possible and slam his bedroom door behind him.

The bed in the guest room, as soft and comfortable as it was, offered no protection against the voices. Techno sat with his back pressed against the headboard and his knees drawn to his chest, trying to ignore the whispering in his head.

Need to run

Get a weapon

Not safe

Why? It's Philza

Revenge

Be nice, he is just a baby

Blood for the Blood God

His fingers dug so hard into his scalp that he was sure they would leave bleeding wounds. He would have liked to scratch even deeper until he could pull the voices out of his head with bloody hands, but the pain made him pause. He had to do something to distract himself before the murmuring in his head finally drove him mad.

He wanted to scream. The idea that he had lost his sanity seemed less like a fear and more like a certainty.

With a small sigh, he got up and went to the door to listen. There was no sign of Phil. He needed air. He needed to escape the suffocating whispers.

The dark earth over Wilbur's grave looked unnatural in the otherwise overgrown garden. A patch of darkness that refused to blend in with the harmony of green grass and blooming wildflowers.

Techno stared at it, his chest tight with grief. What was he supposed to say? "I miss you" ?

That sounded so wrong. Like a rehearsed speech or a role in a play.

He wanted to scream instead, to shout, "Where are you? Why have you left me? I need you! I'm sorry."

"I don't know what to do," he muttered instead, his voice cracking.

The voices didn't know what to do either. They just got louder.

Looking around for some distraction from the chaos in his head, his eyes fell on the small stone building just a few feet from Wilbur's grave.

He would like to forget as much as possible about the day they buried his twin. The memory of the open coffin was enough to make his breath quicken unconsciously. Back than he had noticed the shrine, but he had assumed that it was something like a family burial place. Don't rich people have something like that?

He hesitated, then stepped closer. A narrow, open archway led into a darkness that seemed to be illuminated by colored lights. It wasn't until he stepped inside that he realized the strange lighting came from stained glass windows, where the rays of the evening sun streamed through in vibrant colors.

There was neither a slab with a name inscription nor a pompous stone coffin as he had expected. No, the small room was empty, except for the stone statue of a woman and a cushioned bench.

The voices quieted.

For the first time in days, the whispers in his mind were soft, almost silent, like rowdy children who only whispered quietly as soon as an adult was present.

Techno sat on the small bench near the statue, his back pressed against the wall. His eyes fluttered closed.

A hand on his shoulder startled him awake.

Techno flinched and scrambled back, his fists clenched, ready to swing.

"Hey, hey! Easy, mate!" Phil took a step back, hands raised. "Didn't mean to scare you. There was no answer when I called, and I got worried."

Techno froze, his breathing heavy. Phil didn't sound mad, just concerned. His eyes were kind as he held out a soft looking sweater. "It's getting cold. Thought you might need this."

Techno stared at it for a second before grabbing it. "Sorry," he muttered. His voice sounded tiny.

"Mate, no need to apologize. You haven't done anything." Strangely, Phil still didn't look angry, he even smiled reassuring and his voice sounded like he was talking to a frightened animal that could bolt at any moment.

As he clumsily put the piece of clothing on, Phil sat down next to him on the narrow bench. While the man seemed content to simply sit there, his eyes fixed on the statue, Techno shifted restlessly back and forth. The silence between them was heavy but not unkind. As much as he wanted to speak, he didn't know what to say.

So he remained silent, his body tense despite the calm of the shrine. The voices were quiet now, almost eerily so, as if watching, waiting. He closed his eyes again, trying to soak in the serenity, but the reprieve felt fragile, like a thin sheet of ice over turbulent waters.

Phil didn't push for conversation, and Techno appreciated it. The man's calm presence was a stark contrast to the storm that was still raging in Techno's head, even though the voices were silent.

For a moment, Techno thought he could stay like this forever, letting the peace of the shrine shield him from the world.

But to his regret, it wasn't long before the last rays of the sun had disappeared and darkness seeped into the room. Phil stood, his movement breaking the stillness. He stepped toward the doorway and turned back to Techno.

"Come on," he said, his tone warm but insistent. "Let's head inside. I'll heat up some leftovers from lunch for you."

The boy stifled a sigh and followed him.

It didn't take long for the voices to return.

Two days later, the stillness of the shrine felt like a distant memory. Techno sat slumped on the living room floor, his knees pulled to his chest, unable to summon the strength to move. His room felt a mile away, the idea of climbing the stairs insurmountable.

Technolame

fight

do something

E

E

revenge

Blood for the Blood God

The words overlapped, chaotic and oppressive. He winced, pressing his hands to his temples.

"Techno? You alright, mate?"

It was the concern in Phil's voice that unraveled him. Techno couldn't remember the last time an adult had genuinely cared.

His chest tightened as his breathing quickened. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.

Maybe he could allow himself to trust someone for once.

"No," he choked out, his voice frayed and trembling. "I... I need to talk to you."

Phil lowered himself to meet Techno's gaze, his blue eyes steady, warm, and patient.

"Alright," he said softly. "I'm listening."

The words didn't come easily. Techno sat in silence, the voices clamored in his head, urging him to stay quiet.

trust nobody

kill

Dazda

kill bird

No, we like him

keep the secret

"They… they won't stop," he finally muttered. His voice cracked under the strain, and his hands trembled as he gripped his knees. "The voices. They're always there, and they keep getting louder. They're screaming at me to…" He swallowed hard, unable to finish.

Phil's face remained calm, but his eyes softened with compassion. "What are they telling you?"

Techno's laugh was bitter. "To fight, to take revenge, to hurt people. I think… I think I already have."

Phil's brow furrowed, but he didn't interrupt.

"I don't remember much about the fight with the heroes," Techno admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It's just a blur. But when Wil died…" His breath hitched, and his voice wavered. "It was like the knife was in my own chest. All I wanted was to do the same to them. And the voices… they told me how. They helped me." He clenched his fists. "I think… I think I killed someone, Phil."

His words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Phil's expression didn't shift, but he leaned forward slightly, his tone gentle. "Mate, you're not alone in this. I won't judge you for defending yourself, or for avenging your brother. But I have to ask... have you always heard these voices?"

Techno shook his head. "It started a few weeks ago. But I couldn't understand them. Not until… not until Wil." His breath hitched. "After he…"

Phil gave him a moment to compose himself, then asked carefully, "And during the fight? Did the voices....do anything?"

Techno frowned, trying to recall through the haze of his memories. "It was like…They knew how I had to move. They guided me to fight, to kill. My body was stronger, more enduring and I'm sure I was hurt, but that didn't stop me."

Phil nodded thoughtfully. "It sounds like you might have a gift, a superpower of some kind. But the voices…" He hesitated. "They could be a drawback. A side effect of whatever ability you have."

Techno's stomach churned. "A gift? It feels more like a curse."

Phil placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. "We'll figure it out, mate. First, let's see if we can quiet the voices."

They started with meditation.

Techno sat cross-legged on the living room floor, his eyes closed as Phil guided him through slow, deliberate breaths.

The silence was unbearable.

The quieter the room became, the louder the voices screamed in his head.

weak

pathetic

where is Wilbur?

o7

o7

do something. Fight. FIGHT!

Techno's hands curled into fists, his breathing shallow and uneven. "I can't," he snapped, his voice breaking. "I can't do this. The silence… it's making it worse."

Phil nodded quickly, switching tactics. "Alright. Let's try something else."

Next, they tried drowning out the voices with noise.

Phil handed Techno a pair of noise-canceling headphones, and the pulsing beat of loud music filled his ears. For a moment, the rhythm helped, distracting him from the chaos in his mind. But the voices adapted, rising above the music until they were a relentless roar again.

Techno tore the headphones off, frustration etched across his face. "Not working," he muttered. "Nothing's working."

Phil tilted his head, thoughtful. "There's one thing we haven't tried."

Techno glanced up, his expression wary. "What's that?"

"Letting them have what they want. Controlled violence."

Techno's eyes widened. "What?"

Phil raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Not hurting anyone. Just… letting you fight. A sparring match, maybe. If the voices are part of your powers, they might settle down once you use them."

Techno hesitated, but the voices screamed their agreement.

Phil led him to a cleared space in the garden, where he handed Techno a training staff. "No blades, no real danger. Just enough to get the energy out."

Techno's grip on the staff was hesitant at first, but as Phil moved into a defensive stance, something shifted.

The voices surged, not in anger, but in satisfaction.

Yes

Finally

Fight

Techno swung the staff, his movements guided by the shouts in his head. Phil parried with ease, his calm demeanor steadying Techno as they sparred. Blow after blow, Techno felt the tension in his chest ease. The voices quieted, their demands dulled to a low murmur.

When they finally stopped, Techno was breathless but calmer than he'd been in days.

Phil grinned. "See? Controlled violence. Works every time."

Techno chuckled weakly, wiping sweat from his brow. "Guess it beats losing my mind."

The next morning, Phil offered a trip to the local shops. He insisted they pick out decorations for Techno's room, giving him a space to truly call his own.

Techno shook his head vehemently the moment he heard the suggestion. "Someone might recognize me!" The panic in his eyes was unmistakable.

"I could buy hair dye," offered Phil after a moment's consideration. "I guess that would change your appearance enough. What color do you want?"

Later, Techno couldn't say what had come over him, but his answer came without hesitation and it just felt right. "Pink."

With his freshly dyed hair, Techno hardly recognized the face staring back at him in the mirror. The stark change struck him, a bittersweet mix of pain and relief washing over him. For the first time, he no longer saw Wilbur in his reflection.

When Techno walked through the aisles later that day, choosing small things, a lamp, some books, a few posters, he felt the weight on his chest begin to lift a bit.

The voices were still there, a faint echo in the back of his mind, but for the first time in weeks, they didn't feel overwhelming.

Chapter Text

Phil crouched on the edge of the rooftop, the city sprawled below him in a grid of flickering streetlights and muffled noise. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the familiar weight a quiet reassurance. Tonight, the city felt heavier, darker, as if the lingering tension of the past week had seeped into its very foundations.

With Techno at home, still mourning and struggling to control his newfound power, and the media's relentless portrayal of Phil as a fallen vigilante, a villain, he had wrestled with whether he should even patrol the streets again. The rage simmering inside him over Wilbur's death hadn't made the decision any easier. Every reminder of his failure was another cut that never seemed to heal.

In the end, it was his sense of duty to Kristin that prompted him to sneak out of the house at night. It was a vow he couldn't break. And if he came across any crimes, while at his search for lost souls, he would not turn a blind eye.

As he had expected, it didn't take long for crime to find him in Dockside.

The sound of shattering glass drew his attention to a small corner shop with a smashed front window. Two men, clad in dark clothes, one still holding a stone, were just about to climb inside.

Phil descended from the rooftop like a shadow, his boots crunching on the pavement. The first man spun around, his face pale under the flickering streetlight.

"It's the Crowfather! Run!" he shouted, shoving his partner before bolting into the nearest alley. His accomplice dropped the stone with a muttered curse and followed without a second glance.

Phil didn't pursue them. He stood in the stillness that followed, the adrenaline ebbing as he surveyed the broken window. They'd be back, or someone else would try. L'Manburg's rot was tireless. He was just one man. What could he really change?

He launched himself back into the night, weaving through the city's darkened streets and soaring across rooftops with his wings outstretched. The cold air biting his face was a poor distraction from his thoughts.

He was recognized as the Crowfather.

In the past, the name had made him proud, but now it made him feel a bit sick.

The name was supposed to mean something. Protector. Guardian. Especially of those who couldn't protect themselves, children, the vulnerable, the lost. But he hadn't protected anyone, had he?

He couldn't keep Dockside safe from crime. He'd been too restrained, too hesitant to act. Too naive. And when the so-called "heroes" had betrayed everything they claimed to stand for, he wasn't there to stop them. He wasn't there to save Wilbur, help Techno to defend himself.

Phil's grip on the sword tightened, his knuckles white.

He no longer deserved the name Crowfather. It wasn't a title of honor, it was a tombstone marking his failures. Dockside didn't need a father. It needed someone who could put fear into the hearts of those who preyed on the weak.

When he landed in a narrow alley, a shout pierced the silence. A mugger, halfway through rifling through a woman's purse, froze at the sight of Phil's shadowed figure. Before the man could bolt, Phil was on him, his sword's blade pressed against the criminal's neck.

"You don't have to do this, man - just call the police!" the mugger stammered, his voice shaking.

Phil's voice was cold, emotionless. "The police will send you back onto the streets tomorrow. That's how this city works. But from now on, the rules change."

The man's eyes darted toward the exit, his body trembling under the sword's edge. "What are you talking about?"

"If I catch you committing another crime, I'll kill you. Do you understand?"

The words hung in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. The mugger stared at him in disbelief. "You … you can't do that. You're the Crowfather. You don't kill."

Phil's jaw clenched. His voice, when he spoke, carried the weight of his choice. "I no longer answer to Crowfather." He leaned closer, his eyes cold as steel. "From tonight on, I am the Angel of Death."

The man's terrified gaze reflected Phil's resolve. He didn't wait for a second warning - he fled into the shadows, his footsteps echoing in the empty alley. Phil watched him go, the fire of righteous fury burning in his chest.

Dockside had failed to listen to kindness. Now, it would answer to something darker.

--------------------------------------------

The daily sparring sessions in the garden seemed to help Techno, as did Phil's repeated reassurances that the voices in his head were linked to his power, not to madness. Yet, as his distrust of Phil diminished, the boy's grief seemed to grow. Now that he no longer lived in constant fear, the weight of Wilbur's absence settled more heavily on him.

Phil often caught moments that betrayed this lingering sorrow. When he spoke to Techno, the boy would sometimes glance to the side, as though expecting someone to be standing there, ready to answer for him.

It was natural for him to cut his food in half, whether it was a piece of bread or an apple, only to hold the two pieces awkwardly in his hands before eventually placing both on his plate.

Although he had started to speak more, he would often trail off mid-conversation, his gaze distant, before mumbling, "Wil always said...."

Even now, Phil found him in the garden, stretched out in the grass next to Wilbur's grave. Techno lay so still that, for a moment, Phil thought he might have fallen asleep, until he noticed his open eyes staring blankly at the sky. Bruises from their last training session mottled the boy's arms, and Phil made a mental note to look for better protective gear.

"Techno," Phil called softly, not wanting to startle him as he approached. "I was wondering if you'd like to help me cook lunch."

The teenager sat up slowly, brushing stray blades of grass from his shirt. "What are we cooking?"

Phil managed a small smile. "Whatever you want."

"Potatoes," Techno said immediately, his tone decisive as though he'd been waiting all day for someone to ask.

Phil blinked before chuckling. "Potatoes it is."

The two worked side by side at the counter, peeling potatoes. Phil kept sneaking glances at Techno, more out of habit than anything. His focus drifted, just enough for the knife to nick his finger.

"Ah, fuck," he hissed, dropping the bloodied potato and rushing to the sink. He held his hand under the cold water, inspecting the cut. Thankfully, it was minor, easily fixed with a band aid.

"Blood for the Blood God." The low murmur from beside him froze Phil in place. He turned his head sharply to find Techno standing stiffly, hands pressing against his temples as though to stop his skull from splitting apart. The boy's glazed eyes stared into nothingness, and he was muttering under his breath.

"Techno," Phil said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. There was no response. "Can you hear me?"

"They're loud." Techno's voice was strained, his grip suddenly latching onto Phil's hand as if it were a lifeline.

Phil acted slowly, carefully, pulling the boy into a hug. At first, Techno resisted, his body rigid and unyielding, but then he collapsed against Phil's chest, his fingers twisting into Phil's shirt as he began to sob.

After a few minutes, the crying subsided and Techno took a step back while he embarrassingly wiped the tears from his face.

Minutes passed before the tears subsided. Techno stepped back, face red and scowling in frustration. "Sorry. They were just so loud… and they kept saying the same stupid thing. ‘Blood for the Blood God'."

"Blood God?" Phil echoed thoughtfully. The phrase stirred something faint and familiar in his mind. "I'll look into it. I have some old books..."

Techno gave a wobbly shrug before picking up the potato Phil had dropped earlier. "It's clean," he pointed out, squinting at it.

Phil blinked. Sure enough, no blood. No smudge. Nothing. His gaze fell on Techno's arms and he froze. The bruises were gone.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Before his next patrol, Phil retreated to the workroom in the basement. He needed a new mask, something to distance himself from the vigilante he used to be. It took several attempts, the clatter of failed designs echoing in the dimly lit room, before he was finally satisfied.

The mask was forged from dark metal, its angular contours sharp and unyielding. The elongated beak gave him the appearance of a plague doctor from a forgotten age. A fitting visage, he thought bitterly, a symbol of danger and death.

The ambush came without warning.

Phil had just finished intercepting a drug shipment at the docks, slipping through the shadows with practiced ease. His sharp instincts caught the faint sound of footsteps on wet pavement. Too many to be coincidence. He straightened, his sword glinting faintly in the dim light of a streetlamp.

"Crowfather!"

The voice rang out, cutting through the quiet night. A group of costumed figures emerged from the shadows, their bright colors garish against the muted grays of the dockyard. Heroes. Or at least, that's what they called themselves.

Phil didn't flinch, his voice calm. "I don't go by that name anymore."

The leader, a broad-shouldered man clad in silver and blue, stepped forward. His voice was heavy with authority. "We've been looking for you. The city has no place for vigilantes who cross the line to villainy. Surrender now, or we'll make this difficult."

A smirk ghosted beneath Phil's mask . "Funny coming from you lot. The heroes who let this city rot from the inside out. Who stood by while a child was killed." His voice sharpened, cutting through the night like a blade. "He deserved better than to die at your hands."

A murmur ran through the group, their leader's jaw tightening. "You've lost it. We don't kill..."

"Don't lie to me!" Phil's voice thundered, his fury palpable. "Ask Mercenary. Ask your so-called comrades. A boy died because of you. A kid! And you dare to call yourselves heroes? No. You're cowards. Villains masquerading in capes."

The accusation landed like a blow. The men stirred uneasily, but their leader steadied himself, raising a hand. "Enough. Take him."

The heroes lunged.

Phil fought with precision honed by years of experience, his movements fluid and efficient. The cold power of Lady Death coursed through him, guiding his blade. He parried a blow, his sword striking sparks against metal, then swept low, knocking one hero off their feet.

They fought like soldiers, coordinated but predictable. Phil was faster. Deadlier. He disarmed one, struck another with the flat of his blade, and dodged a projectile aimed for his head. The fight was brutal, chaotic, and it didn't take long for blood to spill.

A sharp cry cut through the air as his sword slashed across the leg of the leader, dropping him to his knees. Phil loomed over him, the eerie beak of his mask casting a shadow over the hero's terrified face.

"Call me the Angel of Death," Phil growled, his voice low and menacing. "Crowfather is dead. And you…" His gaze swept over the trembling heroes. "You're no saviors. You're the villains of this story."

The remaining heroes hesitated, their confidence shattered. Before they could regroup, Phil melted into the shadows, disappearing into the labyrinth of the city.

By morning, the city was abuzz. News of the Angel of Death spread like wildfire, the media replaying shaky footage of the battle alongside the ominous name he had claimed. Proof, they said, that he had fully embraced villainy.

Phil watched the coverage from the kitchen, his coffee cooling untouched in his hands. In the living room, Techno sat silently, his eyes glued to the screen.

The boy finally looked up as Phil stepped in and switched off the TV. The silence that followed was suffocating.

"They were looking for him," Techno murmured, his voice so quiet Phil almost didn't catch it.

"What?" Phil frowned, leaning closer. "What do you mean?"

"The night the heroes came," Techno said, his voice strained and fragile. "They were looking for Crowfather. I don't know why they thought he'd be in the abandoned workshop."

The words hit like a hammer. Phil's chest tightened, guilt swelling until it felt unbearable.

Because he had been there. He had ignored the feeling of being watched, had thought himself untouchable. Without realizing that others could be caught in the crossfire.

Phil turned away, his cup forgotten on the coffee table, as the weight of his choices settled heavily on his shoulders.

He lingered in the quiet kitchen, his thoughts a whirlwind of regret and determination. Then his gaze drifted toward Techno, who had pulled one of the few books from the living room shelf and was thumbing through its pages with surprising care. A faint smile tugged at Phil's lips. Of course.

Techno's sharp mind, his curiosity, it was no surprise he was drawn to the written word like a moth to flame. An idea took root, and before he could second-guess himself, Phil made his way to the attic.

The old boxes were dusty, shoved into corners and stacked haphazardly, remnants of long years past. He pried one open and was greeted by the familiar, comforting scent of old paper. Dozens of books, classics, histories, mythologies, had lain forgotten here. With renewed purpose, he lugged several boxes down the creaking ladder and into the living room.

Techno looked up, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity as Phil opened the first box. "Thought you might like these," Phil said casually, as if he hadn't just carried the weight of an entire library downstairs.

The boy's eyes lit up as he dug in. Titles passed through his hands in rapid succession, but it was the worn spine of a book on Greek mythology that made him pause. "Theseus, Achilles, Odysseus…" he murmured, his voice reverent as he traced the embossed title with a finger.

Phil chuckled softly. "Greek mythology, huh? Good choice. Lots of heroes and battles in there."

Techno's fingers lingered on the pages before he glanced up shyly. "Thanks, Phil."

Then he found another treasure. He held up a battered, leather-bound copy of The Art of War by Sun Tzu, his grin uncharacteristically wide. "You had this?"

Phil raised an eyebrow. "You know it?"

"I read it in the library once," Techno admitted, already flipping through the aged pages. "This is awesome. It's like... it's like cheat codes for war!"

Phil chuckled. "Just don't try taking over the world with it, yeah?"

Techno grinned, his expression surprisingly mischievous. "No promises."

________________________________

He didn't know how she had found him, but one moment Phil was standing alone on a rooftop looking out over Dockside and the next he heard a throat clearing behind him.

The figure that met his gaze wasn't what he anticipated. A woman stood there, calm and unarmed, her demeanor more civilian than threat. She wasn't tall or imposing, and unlike most of his recent adversaries, she wore no mask. Her eyes, sharp beneath pushed-up sunglasses, seemed to weigh him carefully.

"Crowfather?" she asked, her voice steady.

Phil hesitated, his grip on the hilt tightening. "You won't find Crowfather here anymore." He turned slightly, dismissive, but curiosity rooted him in place. "What do you want with him?"

She didn't answer immediately, her pause speaking volumes. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter. "He was… something of a friend."

Phil stopped mid-turn, his eyes narrowing. "Friend?" He scrutinized her closely now, taking in her height, the white, frizzy hair, the faint lines of weariness around her eyes. Recognition flickered. "Captain?"

She nodded once, confirming his guess. "I was there," she said, her tone heavier now. "When the others came back to the Tower. I spoke to Mercenary before the order came down not to speak of it again."

Phil's expression darkened. His grip on the sword relaxed, but his shoulders remained tense. "And?"

The Captain's fists clenched at her sides. "He didn't even deny it," she said, bitterness bleeding into her words. "Proud of it, actually. Said killing one boy was necessary. And that the other probably didn't survive the night." Her voice broke slightly, but her fury burned brighter than her grief.

Phil's jaw tightened, his steely gaze boring into her. "You knew the laws. You knew what happened to people who were considered too dangerous. And now you come to me with regrets?"

Her shoulders sagged, her anger giving way to something more vulnerable. "I didn't know," she said, the words trembling as if they might break her. "Not about the boys. Not about the full extent of it. But I do now." She took a breath, steadying herself. "I'm done. I can't do this anymore—not like this. I'm retiring."

For a long moment, Phil said nothing, his eyes studying her with a mix of suspicion and reluctant acceptance. Finally, he gave a short nod. "Good. This city doesn't need more blind heroes."

Her face softened, but she didn't thank him. There was no gratitude to be found here, only a mutual understanding of loss, failure, and the fractured ideal of heroism. She turned to leave, her silhouette soon swallowed by the night.

--------------------------------------------------

Techno still spent much of his time by Wilbur's grave. Even as winter settled over the garden, cloaking the dark earth in a thick blanket of snow, he came every day without fail. For at least an hour, he would sit beside the gravestone they had painstakingly erected, a quiet vigil that had become part of his routine.

From the kitchen window, Phil watched him. The boy sat hunched against the cold, his gloved fingers brushing over the inscription on the stone with a delicate, almost reverent care:

Wilbur - Beloved Brother - Rest in Peace

Phil's gaze shifted to Techno's light jacket, clearly inadequate for the biting chill. With a soft sigh, he grabbed a blanket from the living room sofa and stepped outside. The snow crunched under his boots as he approached, and Techno turned at the sound, his expression briefly startled. But this time, he didn't flinch when Phil draped the blanket around his shoulders. Instead, his lips curved into a faint but genuine smile.

"It won't be long before the snow melts," Phil said, his voice gentle as he crouched beside him. "Then we can plant the grave properly." His smile was tinged with sadness, but it carried a quiet encouragement.

Techno's gaze lingered on the gravestone, his fingers absently tracing the curve of the "W" in Wilbur's name. "I haven't thought much about flowers," he admitted softly. "I don't know which ones are right." He hesitated, then added, "Blue and yellow, if that's possible."

Phil's arm came around his shoulders, a steadying presence against the chill. "Of course," he said, his voice warm with reassurance. "Whatever feels right to you, we'll make it happen."

---------------------------------------------

One of the floorboards creaked under Phil's weight as he crept toward the front door shortly after midnight. He'd waited for hours, long enough to be certain that Techno was asleep, but as his hand reached for the doorknob, the soft click of a light switch froze him in place.

The warm glow of the kitchen light spilled into the corridor, and a tousled head of pink hair peeked out. Techno stood there, eyes wide, face pale as he took in the sight before him: Phil in full armor, mask obscuring his face, sword at his hip.

"You're him," Techno whispered, his voice trembling. "You're the Angel of Death."

Phil turned slowly, his expression unreadable behind the sharp contours of the mask. "I can explain," he said, his voice calm but heavy with regret.

Techno stepped closer, his bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor. "You were a vigilante," he said, his tone accusatory but tinged with confusion. "Are you still?"

Phil nodded and gestured toward the table. "Sit," he said quietly. Removing the mask, he placed it on the table with a metallic thud, its shadow stretching long in the dim light. "I'm still protecting the city," he admitted, meeting Techno's gaze. "But my methods… they've changed."

Techno's brow furrowed. He crossed his arms, but instead of the question Phil had braced for, Techno surprised him. "Why did the heroes come looking for Crowfather at the workshop? Why did they expect him there?"

Phil exhaled, his shoulders sagging under the weight of memory. "I'm sorry, Techno. Truly. I was there the weeks before they came. They were watching me. They thought I'd return."

"But why?" Techno demanded, his frustration breaking through. "There was nothing there. Why would they think...?"

Phil leaned forward, his voice quiet but firm. "This is going to sound strange, maybe unbelievable. But I promise you, it's the truth." He hesitated, then pressed on. "I made a deal. With Lady Death herself. I'm her Angel. I guide the lost souls. I help restless ghosts find peace in the afterlife."

Techno froze, his breath catching audibly. "Souls? Ghosts?" His voice was barely above a whisper, his disbelief and something else, curiosity, maybe awe, mixing together.

Phil's gaze was steady. "Yes," he said simply. "Souls, ghosts, the ones who can't move on. I see them, and I help them find their way. It's my duty. My purpose."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and electric, as Techno processed the words. His hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. "Is Wilbur…?" he started, his voice cracking before he could finish the question.

Phil's heart ached, but he didn't look away. "There is no spirit left in that place."

And while that was true, he chose not to mention the strange pull that had led him to Techno and Wilbur, something he still couldn't fully understand. He didn't want to sparks hopes that were destined to be shattered.

It seemed easier for Techno to come to terms with Phil being a vigilante (or a villain, depending on who you asked) than to accept the harder truth: there was no ghost of his brother to speak to. Yet, Techno couldn't let go of that thought, the hope. He kept circling back to it, a quiet, insistent refrain: he wanted to talk to Wilbur. Just once.

The garden was a burst of color now, the grave planted with delicate forget-me-nots and cheerful daffodils that swayed gently in the spring breeze. For days, Techno had been unusually quiet, retreating into himself, but now he seemed to have mustered the courage to speak.

His voice trembled as he finally asked, "Can you… can you summon a ghost?"

Phil felt his heart sink. The temptation to deflect, to brush off the question, was strong. But he had promised himself, and Techno, that there would be no more lies. No more secrets.

So he answered honestly. "I can."

Techno's eyes widened with hope, and it hurt to see it. Before the boy could say anything else, Phil added gently but firmly, "But I don't think it's a good idea. Summoning Wilbur would mean pulling him from the afterlife. It would be cruel to bring him back, even for a moment."

What he didn't say (what he couldn't bear to say) was that the ritual required a physical anchor, and in Wilbur's case, that meant the remains buried beneath the flowers. Phil wouldn't let Techno see that. The image of an open grave, of what time had done to his twin, was something no one should have to endure.

But Techno didn't back down. His eyes shone with desperation, his voice breaking as he pleaded, "Please… I need to speak to him. I'll do anything. Just… let me see him. Just once."

Phil's chest tightened at the raw emotion in Techno's words. He could hear the ache, the grief, the hope that clung to the edges of his plea. And who was he to deny this heartfelt wish to the boy he was beginning to see as his son?

Chapter Text

If you'd asked Wilbur a few weeks ago what he thought the afterlife would be like, he'd have probably said something dramatic. Floating through clouds with harps and halos. Maybe fire and brimstone, pitchforks and demons with big horns. Or something in between, judgment day, a booming voice calling him out for all his misdeeds. Which, admittedly, weren't that many, he was only twelve and stealing food to survive wasn't a sin, or so he hoped. But boredom? That wouldn't have even made the list.

Now he knew better.

Here in limbo, the monotony was unbearable.

At first, Wilbur had tried to fight it. He had to, or he'd lose his mind. He waved frantically at the travelers who passed through the station, jumping up and down, hollering at the top of his lungs like he was at a football match. When that didn't work, he tried more drastic measures, standing on his hands right in the middle of their paths, pulling faces so outrageous that his cheeks hurt.

But it didn't matter. None of it mattered. The people ignored him completely, their eyes blank and faraway. Like they weren't really there.

They usually didn't stick around for long anyway. Eventually, they'd board a train, faces vacant as they disappeared into the void. And then it would just be Wilbur again. Alone. Well, almost alone.

He glanced down at Friend now snuggled securely in his lap. Friend was soft and squishy, and Wilbur hugged him, sometimes so hard he worried he might pop. Friend didn't mind, though. Friend never complained.

When he wasn't watching the trains come and go, Wilbur buried himself in the atlas he was gifted. At first, he read it to stave off the mind-numbing boredom. He traced the outlines of countries with his finger, saying their names out loud, tasting the strange syllables. Essempie, Kinoko, Las Nevadas.

Then he started memorizing.

It became a game, a challenge against himself. He learned the capitals first, then the flags. He memorized borders like they were secret codes and recited them back to Friend in hushed, reverent tones, as if they were spells.

"Did you know Uruguay's flag has nine stripes?" he asked Friend one day, holding the book close to his face. "It's for the nine original departments of the country. That's a lot of stripes."

Friend, as usual, had no response.

Still, even the atlas couldn't hold his attention forever. After hours of studying, his brain felt twisted like a pretzel. Restless, he would pick up the guitar leaning against the bench nearby.

Teaching himself to play was hard. His fingers were too small, and the strings dug in so deep that they left little red indents. Sometimes they even bled. Wilbur didn't care. He kept at it, plucking stubbornly until he could make the strings hum.

At first, he played snatches of songs he vaguely remembered from life, though their melodies slipped further from his grasp each day. So, he started composing his own music, weaving together fragments of memory with new, haunting chords. It gave him something resembling purpose, however fleeting.

Yet no map or melody could chase away the ache that settled in his chest whenever he stared at the trains. He longed for one to take him in the right direction, back to Techno, to his other half. But the trains always departed the wrong way, vanishing into the void.

The sharp caw of a crow broke through his thoughts. Wilbur's head snapped up, his heart leaping. "Mumza!"

As always, she appeared from the shadows, her presence both startling and soothing. Her long dress rippled as if alive, the fabric as dark as the void itself.

Her visits sometimes seemed to be the only brightness in his bleak existence. She visited as often as she could, materializing with her signature smile, gentle, but tinged with sadness. Her crows usually accompanied her, though their impatient cawing often pulled her away before long.

He grinned and bolted toward her. "You're back!"

"Hello, little Songbird." Her voice was gentle, carrying a warmth he clung to in this cold, lifeless place. "How's your guitar playing coming along?"

Wilbur flushed and ducked his head, fiddling with a loose thread on Friend. "I've composed a new song. Do you… want to hear it?"

Her face lit up with delight. "Of course I do."

Nervous at first, but then becoming more and more confident, he played for her, the melody raw and unpolished but rich with emotion. When he finished, her applause was so enthusiastic that the crows fluttered into the air, startled.

"You've improved so much," she said, her voice brimming with pride.

Wilbur's face broke into a grin so wide it almost hurt. "Really?"

"Really. I'm proud of you, little one."

Wilbur blushed and hid his face behind his bangs for a moment.

His smile wavered, "It's not like there's much else to do here," he muttered, bitterness creeping into his tone. "This place is boring. Why does the afterlife have to be so boring?"

Mumza sighed, her expression growing somber. "This isn't the afterlife, " she explained gently. "This is Limbo, a way station, an in-between. My powers here are limited. I can't create anything for you, not even a proper notebook for your songs. It's against the rules."

Wilbur's frustration softened when she smiled again, her warmth like a beacon. "But I can keep teaching you shadow manipulation."

They spent what felt like hours together. Mumza showed him how to summon the shadows, shaping them into forms and fleeting images. Wilbur took to the lessons eagerly, weaving shapes with his hands like a magician conjuring illusions.

When they weren't playing with shadows, Mumza told him stories. Tales of heroes and monsters, kings and queens. She brought the stories to life with shadow puppets that danced across the station walls, making him laugh until his sides hurt.

Despite her limitations, she became a source of comfort. Over the months, (or was it years?), Wilbur came to see her as more than a goddess or guide. She became a mother to him in this strange in-between world, though it felt odd to call her that at first. Gradually, it felt less strange and more true.

But even Mumza couldn't always keep the loneliness away.

One day, after another unsuccessful attempt to shape a perfect bird out of shadows, Wilbur's frustration boiled over. He sat down hard on the cold ground, pulling his knees to his chest. His vision blurred, and before he knew it, he was crying, big, ugly sobs that shook his whole body.

Mumza was there in an instant, pulling him into her arms. Her shadows enveloped him, forming a cocoon of darkness that shielded him from the emptiness of limbo. To anyone else, being held in the arms of Death might have been terrifying, but for Wilbur, it was home. Safe.

"I miss him," he whispered into her shoulder, his voice thick with tears. "I miss Techno."

"I know, my star." Mumza's voice was soft, full of something he didn't quite understand. "I know."

The world around them faded into nothingness as he let himself melt into the darkness, his sobs quieting. So lost was he in her comforting embrace that he didn't notice a train arriving at the station.

"Aren't you missing your train?" Mumza's voice broke through the haze. She smiled at him, though her eyes glimmered with sadness, the kind that comes with saying goodbye.

"What?" Wilbur blinked, confused. He turned and froze.

This train was different. Its carriages gleamed faintly, and black feathers were scattered across its empty seats. A murder of crows perched atop it, their cries sharp and insistent. The doors were open, beckoning, and, most importantly, it was headed in the right direction. Away from the lands of death.

"What…? How…?" His words stumbled over themselves, but before he could finish, a voice boomed over the station speakers.

"Last call to board."

Panic swelled in his chest, but he didn't have time for questions. All he could do was throw his arms around Mumza, holding her tightly one last time. "Thank you for everything," he whispered fiercely. "I'll never forget you. And I'll… I'll see you again someday, Mum."

The word slipped out naturally now, no hesitation.

Mumza hugged him back, her shadows lingering as the train doors began to close. "Someday," she said softly, her voice trembling just slightly. "Hopefully in the far, far future."

As the train pulled away, one of her crows fluttered down, dropping a delicate necklace into her hand, the ancient fee for bending the rules. She watched the train vanish into the distance, her smile steady, though a single tear traced its way down her cheek.

--------------------------------------------------

After what felt like forever in the dim, gray gloom of limbo, Wilbur's eyes stung as he stepped off the train. Light, real light, burst over him like a tidal wave, so golden and warm it made him flinch. He squeezed his eyes shut and lifted a hand to shield his face, squinting between his fingers.

The ground under his feet wasn't hard and cold like the train station floor. It was… soft. And squishy. Wilbur wiggled his toes in surprise, feeling the dewy grass tickling at his feet. The green was too green, like someone had spilled paint everywhere, and nearby trees swayed gently in a breeze that carried the scent of ...

What was that smell? It was fresh and sweet, like cookies just out of the oven, or maybe flowers. Or life. Wilbur couldn't quite place it, but something deep inside him warmed at the feeling.

"Wil."

The sound of the voice froze him.

It was a voice Wilbur knew, knew so well it hurt. The voice he'd been searching for. Hoping for.

"Techno?" he whispered, his heart hammering as he spun around.

And there he was. Standing just a little ways off, in the middle of all that glowing grass, was his brother. Techno.

For half a second, Wilbur stared, his mouth hanging open like a fish. Techno was taller than he remembered, which wasn't fair at all, because Wilbur was supposed to be the taller one. And his hair - pink? Wilbur blinked hard. Why was his hair pink? It was fluffy too, like cotton candy at the fair, and Wilbur didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry or both.

But everything else was so Techno. The steady way he stood, his serious face that never quite hid the tiniest curve of a smile, and those eyes. Techno's eyes were the same as ever, sharp and soft at the same time.

Wilbur didn't think. He bolted across the grass, tripping over his own feet once or twice because the ground was bouncy, and barreled straight into Techno like a cannonball. Techno oofed, staggering a bit under Wilbur's momentum, but he caught him, arms wrapping tightly around him, holding him steady.

"Techno," Wilbur choked out again, his voice wobbly as he buried his face against his brother's shoulder. "You're real. You're real."

Techno didn't say anything at first, just hugged him back, squeezing him so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of him. Wilbur didn't care. He clung tighter, as if letting go would make Techno disappear.

"'Course I'm real, Wil," Techno finally muttered, his voice a bit rough, like he'd been crying too. "You're a bit dramatic, you know that?"

Wilbur let out something between a laugh and a sob. "I am not!"

"You are," Techno shot back, though his voice was teasing, the same way it always used to be.

Wilbur finally pulled back, swiping at his face with his sleeve. His eyes were all blurry and stung from crying, but he couldn't stop smiling. "Your hair looks stupid," he said, sniffling.

Techno rolled his eyes, but his cheeks turned a little pink - not as pink as his hair, though. "It's cool, actually," he muttered defensively, smoothing a hand through the pastel fluff.

"It's cotton candy," Wilbur shot back, grinning. "Did you eat too much of it and your hair turned that color?"

"Shut up," Techno grumbled, though he couldn't hide the tiny smile tugging at his mouth.

Wilbur felt like he might float away. He was here. Techno was here. He couldn't stop staring, half-convinced it was all a dream. But then something moved behind Techno, and Wilbur froze again.

There was someone else.

Standing a few paces behind his brother was a figure Wilbur didn't recognize. A man in a dark green jacket, his blond hair partly obscured by a green-and-white striped bucket hat. But the strangest thing, the scariest thing, was his wings. Huge black wings were folded behind him, like the crows Mumza used to send.

Wilbur's breath caught, and an instinctive wave of panic surged through him. He jerked away from Techno, his eyes wide.

"Who's that?" he demanded, his voice sharp. "What's he doing here?"

The man raised his hands like he was surrendering, but Wilbur didn't trust him. His whole body buzzed like a coiled spring. "Leave us alone!"

The man stopped in his tracks, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "I'm not here to harm you..."

"Stop right there!" Wilbur's voice thundered this time, the air around them trembling with sudden power.

The man froze mid-step, his expression shifting to one of mild surprise. Only then did Wilbur register the tugging at his sleeve. He glanced down to see Techno's hand gripping his arm.

"Wil," Techno said softly, his tone soothing but firm. "Let him go. He's no danger."

Wilbur hesitated, his body still rigid with mistrust. His eyes darted between Techno and the stranger, searching for an explanation. "How do you know that? Who is he?" His words dripped with suspicion.

Techno met his gaze evenly, his voice steady. "He's my dad," he said simply. Then he hesitated, like he was testing the words, and added, "Our dad. If you want."

Wilbur's brain short-circuited. He stared at Techno, then at the man with the dark wings, his mind struggling to process what he'd just heard.

"Our dad?" he echoed, his voice small and shaky.

The man gave him a small, tentative smile, his hands still raised in that gesture of nonthreatening calm.

"If you want...," he said gently. "I'm Phil. And you're welcome here. You're welcome home."

Wilbur stared at him, his mind spinning. A home? Could that even be real? For a second, it felt like the ground wasn't so steady anymore.

Then he looked back at Techno. Techno, who was standing right beside him, solid and sure. Techno, who was his brother, his anchor, his constant.

Wilbur swallowed hard and wiped his face again with his sleeve. "A home?" he whispered. He looked back at Philza, his voice a little stronger. "Yeah. I'd like that."

Years later, Philza would still wonder why the ritual hadn't gone the way he intended. He'd only meant to summon a shadow of a boy, a memory. Instead, Wilbur had come back alive, warm, breathing, real. A miracle he would never understand.

Mumza knew. She knew she'd broken the rules of the universe to bring him back. She knew she'd given him a second chance no one was supposed to have.

But when she thought of her son - alive, laughing, happy - none of that mattered.

Chapter Text

4 years later

The Dockside district had changed in the last four years. By day, the government clung desperately to the illusion of control, police patrols marched through the streets, curfews loomed over the neighborhoods, and officers harassed the homeless out of parks. But by night, it belonged to the shadows. Phil, or better the Angel of Death, had made sure of that.

The Syndicate's name whispered through alleys and corridors like a prayer, or a warning. Businesses paid for their protection, not in fear but in gratitude. Where once the heroes had neglected Dockside, allowed its people to go to ruin, the villains stepped in. Many of Phil's recruits were former criminals or rejects of the Hero Association, but they worked under strict rules. No hurting civilians. No unnecessary bloodshed.

But their operations ran deeper than protection. Beneath the surface was a growing web of strategies and secrets, plans and alliances, each thread tightening with the singular goal of dismantling the Hero Association and its oppressive grip.

For years Phil refused to let Wilbur and Techno work for the Syndicate in the open, but they still took part in the background. Now, that they turned sixteen they were ready to claim their places.

Wilbur was fire itself, wild, fierce, and all-consuming. He had a tongue sharper than any blade and a voice that could coax wolves into sheep's clothing, or set those wolves loose on command. His charisma was a weapon, one Phil had taught him to wield with precision. And beneath it burned an untamed need for vengeance, raw and heavy. The heroes had hunted him and Techno like animals, stripped them of safety, and in the end, killed him.

Techno was the opposite, a calm, calculating mind that wove strategies with surgical precision. His hands orchestrated operations too complex for most adults: laundering money, establishing safe houses, and fortifying supply lines. He had mastered his control over the voices in his head and honed his body into a weapon, though Phil still denied him the fight, much to the boy's frustration.

"Your time will come," Phil would say, his tone leaving no room for argument. "For now, let me handle the dirty work."

But tonight wasn't just another night. Tonight would be a turning point.

The city's media had been buzzing for weeks about the grand opening of the Heroes' Dockside Base. The newly elected President Schlatt was the driving force behind this. A gleaming building of white marble, its construction had been funded by wealthy benefactors eager to restore "law and order" to the district. To the Syndicate, it was a declaration of war.

"We can't let them plant roots here," Wilbur argued, pacing their headquarters, a repurposed warehouse deep in Dockside. "This base is a symbol. Burn it down, and we send a message."

Techno, hunched over blueprints and maps sprawled across a metal desk, nodded. "It's more than a symbol. If they're here, they'll choke us out. We need to hit them fast and we need precision. Timing. We can't just blow it up and hope for the best."

Phil stood nearby, arms crossed. His expression was grim. He hated the idea of dragging his boys into this, but he couldn't deny their points. The heroes had left them to suffer once. He wouldn't let them do it again.

The night of the event arrived, and the city's elite flocked to Dockside for the ribbon-cutting ceremony. The base shimmered under floodlights, its opulence a glaring insult to the gritty warehouses surrounding it. Limousines rolled in from wealthier parts of the city, spilling out politicians and socialites eager to sip champagne and congratulate themselves.

Inside, speeches boomed from a makeshift stage in the grand foyer, while journalists scribbled notes and cameras flashed. Schlatt's smug laughter carried through the halls. The man loved an audience.

Unseen, Phil, Techno, and Wilbur slipped into the crowd. Their disguises, dark suits, stolen credentials, and practiced indifference, let them blend seamlessly. Techno carried a backpack filled with equipment and their costumes. Wilbur had a lighter tucked into his pocket. Phil's concealed knife rested within easy reach. Their plan was meticulous, their determination unwavering.

Puffy, once known as the Captain, had never joined the Syndicate, but she had provided them with invaluable information. Thanks to her intel, they had successfully decoded many of the Heroes' communication devices. With this knowledge, they were fully aware of the strengths and weaknesses of every Hero present, ready to exploit it to their advantage.

Most of the top names were there, although the newer heroes like the Dream Team were absent. As the keynote speaker, Mercenary, took the stage, Wilbur's eyes darkened. His grip tightened on the lighter. The man who had killed him, had taken everything from him and Techno, was standing there, smug and unrepentant.

Phil's voice cut through Wilbur's thoughts. "Focus. Stick to the plan."

Wilbur nodded, though his jaw clenched. He'd waited years for this moment. A few more minutes wouldn't kill him.

When the fire alarm screamed, chaos erupted. Guests gasped and staggered toward exits, their glittering shoes and silk gowns suddenly comical inappropriate as smoke poured through the vents. Phil's men, planted in the crowd as caterers and security, ensured the civilians evacuated quickly.

"Clear," Techno murmured into the earpiece.

Phil nodded once. "Move."

Disguises discarded, they donned their masks and infiltrated deeper into the building. Shadows enveloped Wilbur, hiding his face. The first flames leaped from his lighter, consuming the polished walls.

The heroes were already mobilizing. While most of the lesser ones were preoccupied with the Syndicate's men, the others descended from the stage and backrooms in a blur of bright costumes and confident grins, their ranks brimming with arrogance. But they weren't prepared for what awaited them.

Phil was a storm in motion. His wings spread wide, casting shadows that seemed to swallow the light. With a single powerful beat, he sent two heroes crashing into opposite walls. His knife flashed, deflecting a barrage of energy blasts.

Wilbur, meanwhile, was chaos incarnate. He wove through the fray with unsettling ease, his voice carrying over the din like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of destruction.

"You should have stayed out of Dockside!" he taunted, flames reflecting in his eyes as he dodged a hero's blade and countered with a sing-song command. "Drop your weapons."

There was a brief pause in the fighting as several opponents, unable to resist, lowered their weapons to the ground.

Techno seized the moment, grabbing a fallen sword. With the blade in hand, he became an unstoppable force.

Every blow from him opened a bloody wound, every stab hit its mark. He didn't seem to care if he was hurt. A shot that grazed his left side, a hero's burst of flame, a knife hurled with kinetic force, every wound closed after a few moments, his relentless advance leaving heroes in disarray.

Phil looked up once, saw his boys moving like they'd been born for this, and felt a dark pang of pride.

The battle raged back and forth, but the combined fighting prowess of Phil and Techno, along with Wilbur's commanding orders, increasingly pressured the heroes.

It came as it had to come. On one side of the room, the Angel of Death and the Blood God fought with the last remaining heroes, while on the opposite side, Mercenary and Wilbur found themselves facing each other.

The air was thick with smoke and tension. Both were exhausted. The hero's once fierce whirlwind was now a mere breeze, his last knife gripped tightly in his hand, while Wilbur's voice was hoarse from overusing his power.

Wilbur allowed the shadows around him to recede so that his face was visible to his opponent.

"You," the hero snarled, recognition dawning. "I thought I sent you to death years ago."

Wilbur's laugh was mocking. "You did." He draw his pistol. "But she decided to raise me instead."

"You're no better than me," Mercenary spat. "Killing won't make you a hero."

His knife flew through the air much like it had four years earlier. But this time Wilbur was prepared and dodged without much effort.

His gaze was cold, unyielding. "I don't want to be a hero." He pulled the trigger, the gunshot ringing out like thunder.

Silence fell over the room. The remaining heroes hesitated, their confidence shaken. Phil stepped forward, his voice low and commanding. "Leave Dockside. Don't come back."

One by one, the heroes retreated, dragging their injured comrades with them. The base was in ruins, its shining facade reduced to ash and rubble.

Phil turned to his sons, his expression unreadable. Techno looked grim but composed. Wilbur stood over Mercenary's lifeless body, his face a mask of exhaustion and anger.

Phil approached him slowly. "It's done," he said quietly. "Let's go home."

Wilbur nodded, his voice hoarse. "Yeah. Home."

Back at the base, the air was heavy with unspoken words. Phil finally broke the silence. "That was a line, Wilbur. Now you crossed it, there's no going back."

Wilbur met his father's gaze, unflinching. "He deserved it. And I'd do it again."

Techno placed a hand on Wilbur's shoulder. "We all made choices tonight. What matters is that we stand together as family."

Phil sighed, his wings drooping slightly. He looked at his sons, his boys who had lost so much but refused to be broken. He couldn't shield them forever, no matter how much he wished he could.

"All right," he said at last. "We keep moving forward. But remember, this isn't just about revenge. It's about building something better."

Wilbur and Techno nodded, their expressions resolute.

The Syndicate had made its first major move. Now, all that remained was to see where it would lead them.