Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Techno knows what the screams mean.

When the Antarctic Empire’s army arrives, it is always met with screaming. The sorts of noises that just have to be paired with death and suffering. Techno knows it well. It tightens his hand around his sword and sends him running right towards it.

A couple of people already stream past him, heading in the opposite direction of the sure to be violence and bloodshed. Techno doesn’t bereft them for it, doesn’t even give them second glances, just pushing his body to move faster. It fuels him. He needs to get to the fight now, to give anyone a chance of escaping. As many people as possible.

That’s what will allow their cause to continue. What will eventually bring this suffering to an end.

Techno bursts into the front room of their base, finding the place ablaze of chaos. People are running, fighting, screaming. Though he can tell that the blue clad soldiers have mostly been stymied at the door.

For now.

“Get to the escape route!” Techno yells, as loud as his voice can manage.

Then, he jumps forward and shoves his sword through the back of a soldier, right under their ribs where their armor bends. His comrade who was fighting them off looks up at him, before shoving the choking soldier away. Techno jerks his head backwards, towards the escape.

Immediately, his comrade takes the chance and runs. Techno does not begrudge them, and is in fact relieved. They have a child, some family, he knows. Techno doesn’t.

He’ll do whatever he can to ensure those people stay alive another day. That more families don’t get destroyed. That’s what their cause stands for.

The empire’s soldiers don’t seem to care as they try to march in, swiping at anything that moves. They never do. They don’t care if the men they mow down on the battlefield have children at home. Don’t care if the people they starve out in their annexed nations are mothers. Children orphaned…

Techno grits his teeth and jumps back into battle. 

It’s tricky and sloppy and an uphill battle. Obviously, the army was tipped off that this base holds the heart of the rebellion. There’s a hundred soldiers, maybe close to two, or more. It’s hard to tell, especially when he knows that they must be trying to flank and breech and burn them out too. How many are behind them?

The rebellion won’t win this fight. Not caught off guard like this. Preserve life, preserve the cause. Live to fight another day.

Metaphorically, for Techno. He faces this battle fighting smart, but recklessly. As long as everyone else slips out, that’s his only goal. And as the screams get quieter and quieter, he knows that he’s succeeding, at least. He'll hold them off as long as he can.

Cornered in the pinch point where the hallways of their base spreads out behind Techno, it’s not long before the hand holding his sword is nicked. It’s specifically the forearm, something in it cut and making it impossible to close his fingers tightly. His sword hits the ground and he raises his chin. Perhaps he could turn and flee a few steps, but he doesn’t. No need to lead the soldiers closer to the escaping others. Already, there’s nearly two dozen of his comrades dead on the ground before him—or getting there.

That means at least a hundred escaped. And more who never come to this base, who were out. He lets himself be tackled, feeling steady, if not firm.

He is afraid, Techno admits to himself. Afraid to die, of the pain to come, of whatever is next. But his parents will meet him there, right? That doesn’t help his fear, but he pretends that it does. His eyes remain dry, even if his lips quiver.

That’s enough. This has been enough. His life has been more worthwhile than the empire ever wanted. The spite is good, at least.

A bit of confusion ebbs to life as he’s rolled over onto his stomach, but his throat remains unsliced. His head had banged against the ground when he was tackled, leaving him reeling, so it’s hard to follow what the soldiers are barking at each other. Nothing about meeting their swords to his heart.

Instead, his arms are pulled behind him. Then bound in tight rope.

Of course. He’s being taken prisoner.

Some of the fear pulls up higher at it, and he desperately wishes that he died in the battle. They’ll try to get some information out of him, won’t they? Torture? Then execution, public.

Techno won’t crack, he decides right now. No matter what they do, it won’t be as painful as watching his mother die a horrid death, right in his arms. Starved while their once full fields were blazed to nothing. Won’t be as painful as the hunger Techno felt, even fed every scrap his mother could find in the deadened lands. Boiled leather from shoes, cotton cloth, grass and tree bark. Hurting until he vomited blood and his mother cried and cried as he ate mud.

The starvation has left his frame deceptively pitiful. Even now, stronger than many soldiers, and with far more drive and dedication. It will look good, his execution, Techno decides. The rebellion will spread word about how he was one of them. They’ll talk up how he was a child, captured while fleeing, after the soldiers killed everyone stronger around him. And then killed him mercilessly for everyone to see. They'll do it to your kids too...

A slightly less heroic fate, but it will do good for the cause. Persuade mothers who would starve themselves to feed their children. And then some.

Techno’s ankles are bound together too, the rope thick and tight. They obviously have a lot of experience with this.

He sets his jaw and tries not to waver.

There are a few of his comrades still alive enough to be tied up too. Though he’s not confident that all of them will survive traveling to wherever they will be held. Likely, most of them won’t. How does Techno always end up as the least injured? The last one standing?

Well, that at least will be done soon. All things must come to a close eventually.

The group of them are dragged out to a cart, through the wave of soldiers fanning out. Looking for anyone fleeing away. But Techno is sure there was enough time for everyone else to escape. He wants to spit at the soldiers for their failure, laugh and taunt them. But he doesn’t have the energy for it, nor the stomach. Not the type of person he is, or he’s simply just too worn down from life at this point. Maybe the ebbing in pain. He tries to hold the impulse inside himself, at least.

The injuries on his body jostle as his wrists are restrained above his head in the cart, right to the wall of it. Tied up around him, the others drape against the ground, collapsed and bleeding out. Their limbs are longer, so their butts can reach the floor of the cart even with their arms up against the horizontal plank. Techno is forced into an odd kneel, legs burning already.

Only one other of their group doesn’t crumple to the ground. Instead he kneels, the closest he can get to standing in here, like this. And he turns to meet Techno’s eyes, offering him a down turning of his lips.

“You alright, kid?” Blitz asks.

“All of you quiet!” One of the soldiers yells, banging their sword against the side of the cart.

Not worth any more blows to pass meaningless words back and forth. But Techno appreciates the look the man gives him. And the fact that he’s not the only one going into this conscious.

Blitz is high up in the rebellion. Been working at it for over a decade now, since he was about Techno’s age. And he doesn’t let that make him harsh. Not to the new recruits or people who make mistakes. As long as the mistakes don’t get people killed, anyway. Which unfortunately most of the mistakes in their line of life do. 

But he has been a guiding hand to Techno, ever since he wound up at the new rebellion hideout. Their prized jewel, what they’ve supposedly been working on for years. Since it is in the capital city. So close to the rot they're trying to cut out.

Likely their downfall. Too easy for word to get out, it always is. There are smaller places dotted about the city, only a few people know about, but they can’t collect bodies there for any plans. Can’t recruit there; offer refuge and shelter and food.

The rebellion doesn’t force anyone to fight, even if they helped them out. Hell, a few of the members urged Techno to try to find somewhere else to live after he got back on his feet. A family, or a good orphanage. Blitz didn’t bother pushing him either which way, but he made sure no one was using Techno like too much of a mule. Told him he’s a member like anyone else there. All of them, equal.

These soldiers obviously hold none of the same ideas. They’d knock his teeth out for talking, stab him in the gut if he shifts wrong. All because he’s scum and lowly. Did worse to him when he was just a citizen too. At least rebels get executions. It’s a better death than starvation, disease, murder.

It takes hours before they even start moving. Techno suspects that one of his comrades has died, strapped to the wall and limp. Blitz starts trying to rouse the man, but is quieted when both he and Techno are swatted through the gaps in the cart’s walls for the ruckus. The heat of the day makes the smell of blood, sweat, and death begin to stew. Those gaps in the walls of the cart are good for nothing but allowing pain in from the pommels of blades. The stench and agony all stagnates inside of it.

Familiar. The smell is familiar. Techno shifts out of pain and growing discomfort, still unable to even sit down from the angle of his arms. But he makes his breaths stay even.

Don’t let them see. Not ever. Any time that his eyes grow wet, from the heat or the smell, nothing more, he blinks it gone before it ever was. No one sees.

The march to wherever they’re going is just as long and drawn out once the cart clunks into motion. Techno would think that it’s because of the amount of people moving, which always takes longer. But only a dozen or so soldiers are accompanying them. Maybe the slowness is purposeful. One of his comrades stops twitching as much halfway through.

Just once, Techno glances at Blitz to see if he’s hatching a plan of some sort. But he’s obviously not, face smooth and empty, so Techno closes his eyes after. Just the gallows or a sword.

It’s odd, when the overwhelming heat almost suddenly turns his slick skin dry and cold. It’s a snap change over him. Objectively it must be a slow thing, his sweat cooling to a sticky burn on his skin. And then blood shrinking away from the surface, like a dog recoiling from a slap. The shaking on his body might just be from exertion, but it might be shivers too. He can’t tell.

Some part of him probably knows what this is. Heat stroke, or maybe a sign of internal bleeding somehow. But all he knows is that the air around him is boiling, but his skin has never been colder. His shaking makes the restraints around him cut in and tug.

The cart is still again. It has been for a little while, parked in a small brick building. Too dim to really see at all. An oven. The smell grows worse.

There’s a loud groan from the man across from him. Techno jolts slightly, not realizing that he was nodding off. But now he watches, breath stalling in his dry mouth, as the body pulls up against the restraints, and then falls back down. Before shrieking.

“You can’t—! Why—Let them go, let them go!”

Techno’s ears hurt against the volume. His stiff crouch breaks with the startling, forcing his body to fall. He gasps at the force of his weight yanking on his strung up wrists. The joints gets pulled to their limits, until a shoot of sharp pain travels down his elbows and shoulders too.

Clumsily, he gets his feet below himself again. But it’s much harder now, and too much of his weight is still hanging limply. It stings, and his lips crack as he flattens them out.

The screaming has continued, mostly inscrutable to the audience. Blitz has also been fully awakened by the noises, frowning severely at the man. Especially when it’s obvious that it is drawing the soldiers’ attention.

“Shut up, man,” Blitz hisses. “You’ll make it worse for yourself.”

“Let me go—Ma! Ma!”

Techno’s breath hitches at the screams. It’s awful to see a fighter who had stood up to the very end to defend their group reduced to this. Does it mean that death is near for him? The man’s mom was likely killed by these soldiers, or the war, ages ago. Like everyone else. And now, they’ll all be going to join them. This man in madness, maybe.

His comrade desperately tries to get his legs below himself, but he can’t. The cart sways with the man’s panic.

“Quiet!” The soldiers yell and slam their swords against the sides of the cart.

The screaming man loses his words, but keeps going. Completely incomprehensible and wordless.

When their commands are not heeded, the cart is pulled open and the soldiers pour in. Again, Techno tries to get up. His legs refuse. And soon, hands are wrapping around his forearms as the rope is sliced through with the large blades. There’s no care given to sparing the nearby skin.

Nor towards the fact that he is having obvious trouble walking. His legs drag against the ground as he’s pulled out alongside the others. The drop down from the edge of the cart might as well be a plummet off of a cliff. The wind is knocked out of him when his lower body hits the ground. Still reeling, his slowness is taken for defiance. He earns the pommel of a sword to the side of his face.

Almost immediately, they’re dragged downstairs. The steps are stone and spiraling. Eventually, the soldiers pull him more off of the ground than not, only his feet scraping. But every step jolts pain up his legs. Thud, thud, thud.

This is a pitiful way to go. He should have died on the battlefield. It would have been better. 

But maybe that would have left some of his comrades to die. More of them. This has to have been the right thing to do. It is.

When he’s shoved into a stone cell, he’s near grateful. Once more, all the air in his lungs is shoved out with the harsh slap of the ground. A whisper of a groan leaves him, but it’s overshadowed grandly. That man is still screaming.

“See them! Don’t—don’t see them! Don’t—!”

“Shut up!”

There’s flesh on flesh when the other man is shoved into his cell. It ceases the screaming. Techno is equal parts relieved and horrified by the sudden silence. Though the slamming of metal doors shutting overshadows that too.

Guards are milling behind the doors still, talking and muttering orders to each other. It will be impossible to try to even speak to him comrades, let alone try to do anything. No, now is time for acceptance. That way, when the end comes, Techno can face it head on and with strength.

But damn isn’t that easier with a sword in his hand.

Techno rolls himself over onto his side, wheezing slightly. All of him hurts, and although the stone is making him even colder, his head is hot now. Swimming like boiling water. Shakily, he tries to sit up.

His muscles absolutely scream.

He barely chokes back a groan at that. The tearing, stabbing pain all throughout his body. Obviously, the quick and wreckless fight, followed by being restrained into a stiff pose has all but killed him. Those hack soldiers might have failed to get their swords into him properly during their fight, but the blades appear to be inside him now. Lacing every muscle, joint, and bone of his.

Could be the fading adrenaline too. Fading energy. Fading everything.

Techno collects his will and starts inching over the wall, still splayed on his side.

It’s not even the shame, nor the stone scraping his face raw. Techno can swallow those things down if he has to. The feeling in his chest is the worst part. Terrible nostalgia. Crawling blindly in pain and weakness, bones pushing against the joints at even that much movement. Feels like home, or at least the last little while there.

With his back to the wall, Techno starts to leverage himself somewhat upright. Every inhale chokes in his throat, loud and dry. It hurts down his esophagus, sending out spasms. They spread throughout the rest of his body too, which just makes moving more difficult and painful.

“Just the way I like it,” Techno mutters to himself.

A humorless smile shaking across his lips, he gets himself nearly sat up. His spine is still curved almost in half, and he’s more of a crumpled pile than a proper sit. But it counts.

From this position, Techno takes in the room—after the darkness leaves his eyes. Mostly.

The cell is tiny, a couple paces in all directions. Stone, pitch black, aside from a small slate in the bottom of the door, and a window on the top half. Though of course it’s covered in thick bars. From his angle, he can only see occasional shadows jitter past. But there’s nothing to see out there except for a hallway full of guards and cells.

There really isn’t anything more to be seen or done with it. Damp, dark, and cold. His dry skin is covered in moisture again already, but that just adds to his freezing.

Now, himself.

Techno glances down at his body, before slowly working upwards. He wiggles his feet, his legs, trying to find where the worst of the pain is. If there’s any injuries that will become detrimental in the immediate future. Not that he can do anything about it, but it would likely be nice to know.

And—right, the execution. Dying publicly, on the block, will do far more for their cause than bleeding out in this cell. He should try and stay alive for that. That’s his goal.

It’s easier, with a goal. Keep moving forwards.

Unfortunately, Techno is not unscathed from the fight. His legs are free of any serious cuts, but he is near certain that at least one of his ankles is sprained, if not both. Maybe even a knee, too. Further up, there’s a bit too much blood collected on his front, soaking into his shirt. Did the stab wound penetrate his organs? Or is it just flesh? Techno fears it’s the former. Infection will be a real worry, even if he probably won’t bleed out from it if he hasn't by now. His head is absolutely pounding. His nose, rebroken for a third time, and maybe a concussion. Or it could be heat, cold, dehydration, whatever. And his arms—

Techno shifts his limbs, bound behind his back still. The ropes are burning up his wrists, and he doesn’t doubt that there might be something worse with his aching arms. They took harsh blows when he fell on them in the cart.

Only way to see is if he breaks out of the ropes. Sighing, Techno starts in.

Moving his arms against the ropes moves his entire body. Every little movement brings a burst of pain. Like being kicked all over. Absolutely pummeled by the feet of the soldiers. He can hear them marching, pounding closer—

With a rupture, his arms fly forwards. Techno cries out, collapsing back down again. His arms hurt far, far worse now that they’re free, back where they’re supposed to be on his body. Gods, the joints… They’re filled with fire.

Techno’s eyes are hazy as he roves them over his half visible limbs. There’s thick blood congealed up one wrist, nearly to his elbow. The blow that made him drop his sword. The fingers on that hand don’t really respond when he tries to wiggle them. That’s… bad.

Other than that, the joints are visibly swollen already. Sprained? Or dislocated? Techno can’t even dream of popping them back into place himself—

The screaming is back.

“ —they all—! Let her out! Let her—her out!”

The man must be going mad. Maybe his head was hit during the fight, severed something important. Or blood is pooling in his skull and squeezing his being to nonsense. Like drowning from the inside out.

Techno’s face scrunches up at the imagery, at the horrid noises. His own heavy, hot brain. If only it was quiet. Then he could handle this, his state and his fate. But this all is too much.

Even though it makes him look weak, Techno shoves his face into his knees.

He’s curled up in a near ball, a sloppy crescent. He should sit back up again. Face the door, back to the wall. Look like a man facing his death.

Techno looks like a boy curling around his mother’s corpse.

“If you don’t—They’re coming! It’s out! Don’t do it—Don’t—!”

Right as Techno starts forcing his shaking hands towards his ears, set on covering them, the yelling cuts off. There’s absolutely nothing after. Not a gasp or a choke or a cry. Just words and then no words.

The man is silent. The silence is even louder and heavier.

Eyes wide and staring between his knees at nothing, Techno can scarcely breathe. Every little one comes in sharp and short. But it feels too wrong now to manage them. When surely that man, his comrade, isn’t breathing now at all—

Techno’s ears twitch as finally a noise cracks the silence. Clicks. 

Footsteps.

The noise is too clean and prim for this place. It stands out. Everyone who is still around is certainly listening to it as well. It would be impossible not to, the sound alone draws attention.

Especially when it is growing louder. Closer.

Until it stops. Right before Techno.

Through the window, he can see a shadow spilling in, cutting off the snippets of light that managed to penetrate this far down. It leaves nothing to see, even less visible than just the footsteps in the air. Won’t they come back now? He thinks he’d prefer it. Something to grab at.

But, of course, the door opens after a lapse of silence. And then the shadow takes up the entire doorway.

“What has happened here?”

The voice is much like the footsteps. Crisp and clear. And Techno gets his confirmation, since the soldiers edging into the scene like flies to a corpse are zeroed in on nothing but the man. The shadow of a man.

“You said to bring all captured insurgents in, your majesty,” A soldier says.

Majesty… It can’t be.

“For questioning,” The shadow says. Then, it takes a step into the room. “And I did not think I had to exclude children from the command.”

When the man crosses an imaginary line, Techno shoves his legs into the ground to start squirming backwards. His abused joints protest, but not too loudly to stop him. Even they know that he needs to get far, far away.

His back hits the wall roughly, hardly a second past.

“Sir, he was fighting the royal guard—”

“Can hardly expect something different from a child.” The man’s voice twists, crisp and sour as a green apple. Everyone falls silence once more, a heavy noise. “See to it that this is corrected.”

“Yes, your majesty,” The soldier responds.

Techno doesn’t know what that means. That he will be killed or let go or sent somewhere else—

None of it makes sense, but even less so when the man starts reaching towards him.  

Anything that he was ordering, whatever it was, it certainly was something that the soldiers would do to him. Not him, not the, the—

The king.

Techno’s head knocks into the wall roughly with a flinch. A small, weak whine falls from his lips, and he can only shut his eyes against it all.

The hands still find him. The king grabs his face. His fingers slide forwards, and then cup his cheeks. And they stay there.

“Are you alright, mate?” The king asks.

Who is he asking? Not Techno. A guard. Surely, a guard has somehow slipped through and is the one touching Techno’s face and the king is making sure that they are okay touching Techno’s wretched form. That makes far, far more sense.

Yet when his shaking eyelids part, it is still the shadow before him. Still his arms trailing down, connected to the hands, holding his face—

From this close, Techno can see the man's face. He is frowning, a line between his brow, over his nose. Dark eyes wrinkled where they’re focusing on him, and features nearly soft, despite the razor edge to it all. Scissors cutting cotton cloth. And above all else, he looks supremely normal.

Techno blinks, neck loosening the smallest amount.

“I’m sorry about all this. My men misunderstood some parts of this assignment, I fear. Believe me, it will all be sorted out promptly,” The king says.

Okay, so he is just repeating this stuff to Techno. More plain and simply, like perhaps he didn’t understand. He is likely concussed, and is a peasant. Now the death, or transfer, or whatever will happen. Hopefully an execution, or, or. That is what he wanted, right?

“Can you move? Or do you need a doctor brought down here?” The king asks, tilting his head slightly.

It allows the jewelry on his body to shine brighter, even in the dim light. Giant jewels inlaid in gold. Techno’s eyes close in on it all, the crown on his head, tail curling closer to his body. But he sets his lips.

There’s something going on here. He doesn’t know what, exactly. But there must be something at play. Maybe just death or moving or something. Something simply. Techno tries to close his fingers around the fact, and half manages despite his broken hand.

The king turns his face away, over his shoulder.

“Fetch the doctor. And hurry.”

What did the man say? Can he stand and move, or bring a doctor here. The two ideas jitter in Techno’s hand, before he remembers that moving will at least bring him more information, if not anything of leverage.

He sets his hand on the wall. Leverage. He pushes up until he stands.

“Oh, my— Don’t hurt yourself,” The king says.

And then he grabs Techno’s elbows, helping him up and taking on some of his weight. Techno makes an attempt to pull himself free of the hold, but he starts to fall before he’s even taken his own weight. The king grabs it back quickly.

“Here, be careful. You’re quite hurt,” The king says. “Let’s get you to a healer.”

And, at the very least, the king keeps his hold on him as he starts to pull him from the cell. Techno stumbles more than walks, and within a couple steps, his body sinks to the side. Right against the king.

The man does not react to it, at least not in the way that Techno’s twitching form expects. Instead of shoving or dropping or cringing away, the man just takes on more of his weight. Quickly, Techno's spinning head swings around as something tickles behind him. Feathers, a limb, wrapping around him—

It’s a wing. A wing. The king’s wing, because it is the king and he’s an avian and a king of the wretched nation that destroyed everything dear to Techno.

“Careful now,” The king repeats, gently. “Careful.”

The man stays steady, pulling him forwards at an even pace. Far, far too fast for Techno to be able to manage. It’s still slower than the dragging that the soldiers were doing, but Techno would half prefer it now. He’s just tripping, and leaning against the king further and further. If Techno fully fell, he thinks he would likely just be carried. The thought makes his throat feel crushed, barely able to breathe.

Two soldiers open a metal door at the end of the hall, revealing the beginning of the spiral stairs. Techno desperately glances behind himself, finally remembering that his comrades are in the cells back there. 

But he catches sight of nothing, before the king is pulling him forwards.

“A few steps here. Can you do it?” The king asks.

“I—” Techno cuts himself off, gritting his teeth.

He plants his weak, screaming foot upon the step, as the king sweeps him up. Two, three, four—

Techno gasps as he starts to fall. His legs have gone out completely, leaving him to fall straight down. And his head tips down with it, eyes on a flutter and half blind.

But he has enough time to take in the king’s concerned, frowning face. Right as he’s scooped up into those arms and wings.

—

“Stubborn thing, isn’t he?” Phil asks.

The question could feasibly be directed at the soldiers below them, following closely. But none of them answer, knowing that they shouldn’t. It isn’t really for them, after all. Just something to say, worthwhile because Phil’s the one saying it.

“Might take a little elbow grease, but we’ll get it,” Phil says, chuckling at the near joke.

Then, he shifts the boy in his arms and starts climbing up the stairs again, a tad slower.

“Shall we bring him to the room, sir?” One of the soldiers asks.

“And ruin it from the start?” Phil asks, raising an eyebrow. “Go tend to the others.”

“Yes, sir,” The soldiers say.

They don’t totally agree with the role that Phil is taking in this. They won’t say anything, of course. And they see the logic in it, agree that it is likely to work. They simply just think it odd that Phil is dirtying his own hands to get it done.

But if one wants something done right…

These damned agitators have been clawing at him for years now, growing in numbers and power. It is expected, as most are people from nations he has taken in. Not everyone there will see the light right away, Phil knows that. But their violence and plans towards him and his armies can not be allowed to persist.

And when his men rode ahead with news that most of the little insurgents escaped the raid—expected—but that they captured a few, Phil was pleased. Not at his men or the insurgents or of how any of it went, it was truly a disappointment of display. No.

The fact that one of the captured ones was a child.

Torture is an ineffective method of questioning. Either the prisoner will put up with anything done to them, silent to their grave, or they will blabber any nonsense that they think will get the pain to stop. Sure, a true piece of information might slip through, but it’s useless between all the nonsense. Or practically so. Phil doesn’t care for such odds of success, not at all. Torture has little use, aside from very deliberate warnings, punishments, or dissuasions.

When Phil needs information, he needs to think smarter.

He’s reached the top of the stairs now, the door opened for him. He does not say a word to the guards standing outside it, instead glancing down at the boy’s face. It is filthy, mostly with blood. Unconscious beneath it. Hopefully, for a little while longer. Long enough to get him in place. Tucked away, with no risk of seeing the routes of the palace too much. Convenient. And hopefully he’ll dodge any further pain that way. That part seems to have sunk in enough already.

Children, even hardened ones old enough to hold a sword, are far easier to sway than adults. Far easier to make loose lipped, as Phil’s own son shows with his penchant for prattling. Phil smiles at the thought. 

A kind touch will do wonders to soften.

Oh, Phil knows that it will take time. A stubborn, rough child like this. But a few weeks of working on him will produce more than they could hope from even the past few years. Phil simply knows it.

End this little insurgency with a single move. Perhaps Phil will reward the boy with a cell at a prison in the countryside, instead of death. Maybe even a place in an orphanage, depending how he turns out. Something a bit kinder in reward.

Yes, Phil is certain that he will have to foresee this one directly. Can’t have all that work scaring him the past day go to waste. Or such a brilliant chance at all.

As he sets the boy to rest in a bed, doctor at his elbow pulling her supplies out already, he pushes a lock of pink hair behind the child’s pointed, bloody ear.

Yes, it’s truly perfect.

Chapter Text

The dream that he’s been tucked into is kind.

Pain is digging into his stomach, aching through every muscle. Those pains are all normal, familiar. But around it, he is blessedly comfortable. There’s warmth and comfort tucked all around him, like he’s been bound in cotton bandages. For once, his wounds are covered thickly enough to keep them from the harsh world while they weep.

And, even better, there’s a hand on his forehead. It’s mostly just resting there. But there’s faint movement. The twitch of a thumb swiping tension from his brow, fingers through his bangs, a light brush against his temples.

It feels safe. Like his mother just showing that she is there, no matter what has happened to him. And that’s really all that Techno needs…

He doesn’t want to leave this moment. Part of him, even now, knows that it is just a dream that will wick away the second he opens his eyes. But the draw of consciousness tries to drag at him stubbornly, no matter how much Techno wishes to sink back down.

It’s a murmur that manages to drag him all the way out of sleep. The voice against his ears isn’t the high and flat tone of his mother. Too deep, too full of inflection.

Techno’s eyes struggle open as he flinches backwards.

“Ah. Are you waking up now?”

The voice directs Techno’s fist.

It should be a well worn move from him. Punching forwards with all of his weight behind it, and then using the momentum to shove off of the surface he’s lying on. Get distance in the seconds of momentum and space that follows. Instead, his limb jerks uselessly in the socket, stiff and screaming out in pain. As he twitches forwards with a gasp, something easily grabs his balled up hand, restraining it.

Crap, crap, crap. Techno throws all of his weight backwards as the figure comes into focus before him. A man, holding onto his wrist and standing over him. Still held tight, Techno’s arm stretches out before him, before he wrenches backwards harder. It sets the whole limb alight.

A shout escapes Techno as he struggles not to crumple, eyes squinting. Slowly, his arm is placed on the bed and released, before the man before him raises his hands.

“Woah, mate. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Eyes on a swivel, Techno tries to take in the space around the threat before him. He’s laying on a bed, which is extraordinarily odd. A proper one, too. Pillows and blankets and sheets. The rest of the room is airy and open. There’s windows on the sides and a wooden door pressed into the far wall. Past the man, but if Techno can dodge around him, maybe he can get out that way—

“Take a breath there, I can see that you’re panicking,” The man says, moving so that his face is in Techno’s line of sight. “You’re alright. No one is going to hurt you here.”

As if.

But Techno does raise his eyes to scan the man’s features more closely. And as he does, he stutters. Because this is no random man or enemy. No. No random man at all.

It is the king.

Techno is near certain. From the crown on his head, the finery covering him, and the big black wings behind him, it all matches his description. And who else would have Techno like this? A cell that resembles a room nicer than anyone he knows could ever dream of having? 

Obviously, the ruler of the dictatorship haunting half of the globe. The person responsible for it all.

There’s no one else in the room. Techno lunges for him.

“Ah! Motherfucker—”

The king is cut off as Techno tries to close his fingers around the man’s throat. A weapon would be better, easier to cut arteries than to strangle. But it will be too obvious and easy to stop if he goes for the sword hanging from the monarch’s hip.

He has to kill the man. It does not matter what happens during or after. He has to end up dead, and then, and then—

Techno sinks his fingers in and starts squeezing.

But even with all his might and force and will behind it, there’s barely a moment where the skin of the throat buckles before he is roughly shoved to the side. His hands are torn away, clasped together, and then shoved down onto his own chest. That’s the point of contact that the king uses all his strength and weight to tackle him on.

The air shoves out of Techno’s lungs as his back and head hit the ground. He wheezes, as he’s pressed into the ground roughly. The dark wings on the man’s back are hackled, spread wide and shining under the daylight from the windows. A rainbow of sparkling stars in the pitch night sky. And his face, though blank, is more violent than a meteor coming to shatter them to pieces without a thought.

Right as those lips begin to peel back to show off sharpened teeth, Techno watches as the expression shutters. Then, it closes away. Left in its place is a blankness, aside from a tiny line between the man’s eyebrows.

Slowly, the man shifts his weight off of Techno, keeping a hold of him, but without the crushing force. After taking a second to scan Techno, he shifts his grip from his screaming wrists down to his forearms.

“I would not recommend doing that. You’re hurt quite badly, and might be injured worse if you try something like that again,” The king says.

Finally, Techno is able to cough, before wheezing air into his half paralyzed lungs. He struggles, trying to flip onto his side so that his soft underbelly isn’t so on display for those sharpened talons. But any oxygen that he managed to pull in goes right back out at the horrible pain in his arms when he tugs on them, trying to break the restraint. And with it comes an embarrassing, strangled whimper.

“Careful,” The king says, scolding.

Very slowly, the man releases his hold on him scooting back a few inches. His palms are on display again, but his eyes are sharp and watching.

Techno tries to push his palms into the ground, before choking at the way it seems to destroy his arm joints. He’s forced to be splayed on the ground, curling around himself slightly.

As though satisfied, the king nods at him,

“There’s no need to fight, it’s over now. I’ll call the doctor back in to make sure you haven’t hurt yourself, and give you some medicine for the pain and infection. Then we can just talk, okay?” The king says.

The man stands, eyes unwavering. He offers his hand to Techno. When he obviously does not take it, the king gently, but firmly, grabs his arm above his elbow instead, hooking his other hand around his ribs. Techno thinks about jerking away, kicking the man and trying to run. But it would certainly fail and put him in a worse position.

Instead, Techno begrudges the help and tries to get himself upright as fast as he can with the hold on him. When his knees wobble at the fast pace, and his ankles cry out, the king keeps him steady.

“There you go. Just sit down,” The king says, lowering him back towards the bed.

Techno sits down, before drawing his feet onto the bed. He brings his legs to his chest, setting his expression as he looks over his knees at the king. But the man just smiles at him.

“I’m going to fetch the doctor now,” He says. Then, after taking a step back, he asks: “What’s your name?”

Instead of answering, Techno glares. Is he trying to get something out of him to use? To warp in order to hurt him? To hunt down loved ones to hurt too? Jokes on him, he’s killed them all already.

Maybe just the name they’ll put above his grave, but Techno knows these people don’t give out that honor.

“I guess ‘mate’ will just have to do,” The king says, shrugging.

Techno’s face scrunches in distaste. It’s so familiar, as though they’re friends.

“Techno,” He says, voice scratchy and painful.

“Techno,” The king says, tilting his head to the side. 

Does he recognize the name as one more common among piglin hybrids? Or does he not even know that much about the place he stole.

“What’s yours’?” Techno shoots back, glaring.

Don’t give something for nothing. And seemingly, the king seems to understand that that’s Techno’s purpose. Those eyes are too sharp and intelligent, calculating. But, very quickly, he folds and smiles.

“King Philza Craft,” The man says. “But you can call me Phil.”

Like the nickname he tried to saddle Techno with. There’s no time to protest, because the man is through the door once more, closing it behind him. Techno nearly collapses down onto the top of the bed, exhausted and heart racing and aching all over.

The king. King Philza Craft. The fact that Techno has never even known the name of the man responsible for so much pain and suffering—for all the destruction within his life—it’s not lost on him. It reviles something in his chest as he crosses his arms. Even doing so makes his shoulders, elbows, and wrists scream out. He sets his fingers into the crooks of his arms and presses in, despite the pain.

Philza is just a man. A man not worthy of titles. Would the nickname be even less respectful, or not? His head hurts.

Maybe, somehow, Techno can use this situation to his advantage? Kill the man, do everyone a favor in the time he has before his execution. The cell might have changed, but he’s sure that it will come in some other form. Maybe the king’s hand itself.

Techno shivers slightly, the memory of those chilling eyes, razor claws, and suffocating wings. Surely, the man has killed some of his due with his own hands. It would be of no surprise.

But… Techno will fail.

Techno is strong, is a good fighter. But he’s thin with starvation, under grown with malnutrition. Even with how much he trains and works, his muscles have a strained weakness to them that is out of any of his control. There’s just not enough within him to turn it to brute strength. The cold of winters in the Antarctic Empire only eats away at him more. He misses Hypixel, his true home…

If he can’t kill Phil, then, then— He needs to. But if he can’t, then he shouldn’t try and fail. He’ll just be another failed assassin. Not even a martyr killed before the people, for the rebellion to use his image for sympathy. Instead, he’ll be an example of terrible piglin mutts that the Empire had to save from themselves. He’s heard the whispers already.

Then, the only thing of use to Techno is surviving. Somehow. Survive and get information out, to the rebellion. Something about the king or the palace or the troops. Anything at all, anything useful. Then maybe this will have worth.

Techno doesn’t try getting up, but he glances at the light coming in through the windows. They’re not underground anymore. The cells he and his comrades were held in were. But other than that, Techno has no clue where they are. Maybe he can free them too. Blitz can still do so much for their cause. He’d probably know what to do here.

As the door opens again, Techno forces his legs to the floor and keeps his arms tight around himself. Sitting, but with the illusion of being able to jump up.

It does seem to be a doctor that the man is bringing in. An older woman, dressed in dark blue with an apron pinned to her front and carting a bag of medical supplies. Or presumably. Techno eyes it, before shooting his eyes back up. Better to keep them on the people and their hands. Those talons…

“Let me examine you,” The doctor says, walking over and kneeling before him.

Probably, the woman would be easier to fight. But it would be to no end, and attacking a medic is the sort of thing that Phil and his army do. It crosses too many lines, no matter who the doctor treats.

Her hands are firm but gentle as she takes his limbs to look them over. It’s obvious that under the clean change of clothes—which leaves him disconcerted and feeling vulnerable to have been done to him unconscious—any open wounds have been dressed. The internal injuries have been left until he was conscious, though. And apparently until they have swelled and started bruising enough for her to ascertain the severity of.

With a harsh frown, the doctor hums.

“Anything serious?” The king asks, standing and monitoring far too closely.

“His arms are a mess and his legs are barely better,” The doctor says, sighing when Techno can’t make a tight fist with either hand. “It’s worse than I expected.”

The sight of his twitching, weak fingers is what brings Techno violent panic in his stomach. Pain is nothing new, no matter how bad and inconvenient it is. He can get through it. But if he loses use of his body like this, then that’s as good as dead. And a slow, struggling way to get there.

He’ll be useless.

“Can it be fixed?” Phil asks, leaning closer.

“Some of it will have to be seen later. The subluxed joints have slid back into place on their own, but I need to set the dislocated ones,” The doctor says.

Just dislocated? It hardly sounds bad enough for all this. But maybe if the joints are pushed too far out of place, it becomes dangerous. Techno doesn’t know.

“Wrists first,” The doctor says.

His tingly wrist, which was sliced deeply by a blade, is pronounced as only sprained. It is simply bound with a splint over the bandages, tightened with stiff wood. It hurts worse, for a moment, and then just a dull pounding.

His other wrist is not so lucky. It nearly visibly hangs limp. Though the real pain comes when she moves his hand against the joint. Apparently trying to figure out what exactly is dislocated. It feels like all of it is, considering the pain is all over. He sucks in air and keeps it there, refusing to let any out past his vocal cords.

“I need to push it back into place. It will hurt quite badly, but you need to try not to move so it can get back into the joint,” The doctor says to him, a finger raised to show the seriousness of it.

Shakily, Techno blows his held breath out, before pulling it back in. Then he presents his wrist towards the woman.

Techno is set on not reacting, no matter what is happening to him. No matter how painful it is.

The second that the doctor begins pushing on his wrist bones, he has to bite down on his cheek. The taste of heady iron adds to the burning, stabbing pain. Unlike a bone popping back into the joint where it's supposed to be, his entire wrist is rejecting it. Rows and rows of razors shoving against each other. The soft connective tissue cut to strips and ribbons.

With a hard push, his wrist slowly shifts back into place. Techno's head tips backwards, face scrunched and teeth gritted hard. He waits for the relief to seep in. Or at the very least, he waits for pain to seep out.

Instead, the doctor starts shoving the tips of her fingers into the crooks of his wrist, searching the structures. Stabs, smashes, digs in like claws.

He hisses, as his tusks split his upper lip.

Phil coos at him where he’s perched nearby, making a move as though to set his hand on his arm. Techno quickly shrugs away, even if it leaves him scolded by the doctor and wrist smarting worse.

“Careful. You can’t move this wrist, not for at least six weeks. Maybe even more, if the tendons are torn badly,” The doctor says.

She winds bandages around the newly set wrist, thick and nearly restrained just from the cloth alone. Techno can only watch her do it with half his attention, since he keeps flicking her eyes over to the king, off put. It only earns him a sympathetic smile.

Another splint is layered on top.

“Nursemaid elbows,” The doctor notes after examining the higher joints. “Partial dislocations. Easier fixes.”

All the better for it. Techno needs some time to recover after the near shame from his wrist injuries being corrected. And the elbow dislocations appear far more in line with what he is used to with dislocated joints. Carefully, the nurse bows and turns his arm, until finally the joint pops fully back into place. A slightly wet popping noise is paired with it, proving that it is successful. And, even more so, after a burst of tingling and pain, the discomfort in that joint starts to fade near immediately.

The process is repeated with his other elbow, and aside from a wrinkled nose, he takes it well. Moving his arms hurt his shoulders worse than the elbows now. Hopefully they are just as easily fixed.

“Don’t put any weight on them, but they’ll be healed before your wrists,” The doctor notes.

She takes a moment to write in a notebook. The short scribbling of a graphite stick, something that nearly draws Techno’s attention to it. On a surface level, the tool is less suave than a quill and ink, but deceptively so. The graphite stick is cleaner for work in the field, no need to haul around ink that might spill. Though most people can only afford the most base of ink substitutes, alongside an old goose feather. If they know how to write at all, of course. Not specialized graphite, just for writing.

Which reminds Techno to keep his eyes to the side. Phil perched on the chair beside the bed, still watching. Still catching Techno’s eyes right away at the smallest sign of attention. Smiling again.

The man dips his hand into his pocket, making Techno flinch backwards shortly. But he only pulls out a small cloth. A handkerchief.

“Here, mate. There’s blood on your face,” Phil says.

With all of the force that he can muster, Techno glares at the man. If he was offering the cloth to stuff into a gushing gut wound, Techno wouldn’t take it even then. In fact, he considers spitting the bloody saliva from his lips at the man, but decides to hold back until his joints are reset.

“It’s just going to dry. Are you going to try and out stubborn blood? I would suggest you rethink that,” Phil says, smiling humorously.

While he's glaring all the harder, the doctor sets her notebook to the side. She glances between the two of them, before gesturing at him.

“Take it. You need to hold onto something for this next part.”

Half considering ignoring her too, a drop of blood dripping down his chin forces his hand. He takes the handkerchief, dark blue and finer in quality than any cloth he’s touched before. Quickly, he wipes away the blood, arm shaking to manage it. Then, he crumples it into his fist tightly.

“Good. Hold on tight and stay still,” The doctor tells him.

His elbow and ribs are grabbed, held firmly by the woman for leverage. Then, slowly, she begins to lift his arm and push it backwards.

This is, by far, the worst of the pain. Maybe his wrist was worse intensity wise, but the pain seems to grab his entire upper body here. And perhaps the rope wrapped around his wrists offered some sort of support to the joints, because it’s obvious that his shoulders are destroyed. The tissue around them is swollen to tightness, and the bone is pulled far from where it’s supposed to sit in the socket. All of his body weight hanging off of them in the cart, for hours and hours.

His throat chokes as he tries to swallow down a cry.

Part of it might be that his muscles around his shoulder, up and down his neck, spasm violently. It’s a tearing sort of jerking motion, like the muscles are stuffed full of shattered glass and blades. Sawing back and forth over the pain, pain, pain.

As a jolting electricity shoots all the way down his arm and spine, a muffled shout bursts out of him. Finally, there's a cracking noise and a fireburst of pain. It engulfs his whole body, to the center of his brain. Burning alive, smoldering to darkness and charcoal.

Wheezing, Techno comes back to himself shaking and coated with a thin layer of sweat. His body has gone limp and he thinks that he’s collapsed all the way down.

Except he’s propped against something, kept upright.

Techno struggles to breath, to move his head and look around. What—? It hurts and there’s arms shifting around him, warm and brushing against the pain.

“ —like this?”

He tries to shove back from the voice right by his ear, the rumbling of a chest pressed to his body. But an arm hooks around his back, keeping him pressed tight. And there’s something holding onto his wrists, tucking them into his chest. Keeping him trapped against the person, barely able to even squirm.

“You’re going to dislocate your shoulder again, Techno. Relax, relax,” The voice says.

As Techno starts to reel back to sink his teeth into the person, his quickly beating heart stills long enough for him to think. Or maybe it squeezes hard enough to get the blood up to his brain. The oxygen.

His shoulder. The pain around it and down his arm, all across his upper body, it forces a broken and breathy groan out of his chest. The nerves are all alight. Sparking, spasming, aflame.

A soft shushing noise fills the air, drowning out his pathetic noises. Techno is glad for it. Though he chokes when a palm presses against the back of his neck, it’s far easier to relax when it starts rubbing circles against him. The pain is hardly touched by it, but his muscles are quelled slightly. At least he’s not twitching and jerking as much, making it worse.

“There you go. Let’s get that arm in a sling, it will stop hurting soon. Just keep relaxing,” Phil says.

Turning his head slightly, Techno frowns as he really realizes what’s happening. He’s not just being restrained. He’s nearly being hugged. By the king.

Lightly, Techno tries to pull away. The man lets him, though keeping his hands on his arms, held upright.

Instead of looking at Phil, Techno turns his attention to the doctor. She is standing with her hands clasped together. Watching and waiting.

“One more shoulder left,” She says.

Her lack of emotion throughout this situation is off putting. Maybe it’s good, professional. But it just reminds him of dull eyed soldiers or medics, trekking through fields of death until it can’t touch them anymore. He shivers, moving to grab his arms on impulse.

“Careful there. Let’s get through it,” Phil says, squeezing his elbow.

Techno can only flatten his lips out.

As the woman grabs his injured arm and ribs, beginning to maneuver it, Techno realizes that he’s lost the handkerchief. Did he drop it onto the bed or floor? As he turns his head slightly to look, Phil slides his hand into Techno’s free one.

Before Techno can move or open his mouth, the doctor begins to twist his arm. He sucks in a breath, eyes slammed shut and fingers closing tight around the man’s.

The last shoulder must have gone smoothly. Compared to this side it did, anyway. Instead of sliding back into the joint, the bone seems to slide right over it, slicing more damage in its path. Techno cries out and tries to jerk away. A hand presses gently to his back alongside a soothing hum. Though it keeps him stuck in place shockingly well.

It takes a few more tries to get the bone into the joint. Every movement is enough to bring him to the brink of fainting. Eventually, he can’t keep choking back. Cries and sobs leave him openly, and a couple shameful tears join the sweat on his face.

With a hitch of his shoulders, and a shove on the doctor’s part, the joint pops back into place.

Phil pulls his half-limp body into a side hug, not letting him fall even when the doctor lets go. He’s shivering harshly against him, teeth audibly chattering. Makes it even harder to swallow back his cries now. Techno turns his face a little more into the man’s shoulder beside him, so at least it can not be seen until he gets it back under control.

Within a couple minutes, the worst of the pain begins to ebb away. Any movement brings it back, but at least he can breathe. Still breathing. Still going. Keep the plan in mind.

Techno has a hard time remembering what exactly he was planning to do, but it probably has to do with staying upright and alive. He makes his head lift and sucks in desperate breaths.

“You hold up to that stubbornness better than most men that I’ve seen,” Phil says, squeezing his hand.

He goes to tug his hand free, but the doctor begins maneuvering his arm back up again. With a gasp, he watches as she binds his arm to his chest with a cloth sling. Then, she repeats it with his other arm.

Both of his arms, completely immobilized to his chest with slings.

“We’ll check your shoulders in two weeks, but until then, keep the slings on at all times. You can take them off to bathe, but that’s it,” The doctor says. “A little bit of movement won’t hurt them too badly, but it might risk them dislocating again.”

Two weeks. His entire arms, useless.

“Let’s finish your legs,” The doctor says.

Techno closes his eyes as he lays down on the bed. Simply put, he is exhausted. There’s little fight within him to hide his shameful reactions, to fight against the king who is still perched right beside him. And when the man fishes Techno’s tail free from under him so that it’s not being crushed, and then moves to set a hand on his forehead, he can hardly spit at him like he should.

He needs the metaphorical handholds for this.

His ankles are blessedly only sprained, though the right one seems like it was subluxed and slid back into place on its own. Bed rest for them, but what else is he going to be doing in his state? Rotting in a cell or being killed, maybe. That’s about all he’s capable of.

They’re bound thick and tight in bandages. Partial splints are put on them too, but he’s warned to simply not put weight on them.

“This knee is dislocated,” The doctor says. “Try to stay still.”

Techno pulls in a shaky breath and pinches his eyes shut. The hand on his forehead applies a light pressure, fingers moving at his hairline. Nearly distracting. Nearly something.

With a shove and a twist, the swollen joint begins to give. It seems to struggle, down to his toes and up to his hip. It burns in the wound on his side, his stabbed into guts. Whatever has been done there feels like it’s tearing open.

He cries out. The kneecap pops back into place.

There’s a gray cast over his vision as he peeks out through his eyelashes. Watches as that joint is wrapped too tightly to use. Just like all of his others. A few weeks, a short eternity, a death sentence.

The doctor pokes and prods over the rest of his joints. Some of them might have mild sprains from the abuse they went through—his other knee, his hips, his ribs and spine. But it’s nothing to do anything to, all should heal with bed rest well before the rest of him anyway. After checking that the deep and long stitches on his stomach haven’t started bleeding, the doctor finally steps away from him.

Techno sighs, relaxing the smallest amount that he can. Though it just leaves room for more exhaustion. And the steady, agitating pain. Just a step down from agony.

“The doctor can get you something for infection and pain now,” Phil says, smiling at him. “You did quite well. I’m surprised that you’re as cognizant as you are right now.”

“He does have a concussion,” The doctor says, holding out a small glass full of medicinal liquid.

“All the more,” Phil says.

The man takes the glass from the doctor, holding it out towards Techno’s face. Like he has to drink from Phil’s hands.

But a glance down shows that he does. He can’t move his own arms or hands, can barely even sit up. Shame tries to force his lips together, but the pain keeps his eyes wet. The pain medication will help with that…

Techno drinks the medicine. Phil does not drown him in the liquid, nor take it away. Just helps him drink it.

“Keep him drinking water, he’s still very dehydrated. And eating whenever he tolerates it,” The doctor says, writing in her notebook while Phil helps him drink. “The bandages need changed daily, more if there’s a sign of infection. Any intense pain or bleeding needs a doctor immediately. Activities should be increased slowly over these coming months.”

“Understood. Thank you,” Phil says, tilting his head at the woman.

She bows shortly, before turning to leave the room. Not even a second glance in Techno’s direction. He pinches his eyes shut for a couple seconds, before tentatively facing the king once more.

It earns him another smile.

“Feeling better?” Phil asks.

Techno tries to glare, though it comes out more like a squint. Now, his headache is beginning to beat out the rest of his pains. It makes thinking difficult.

“The best feeling prisoner in your custody, I’m sure,” Techno says.

His heart flips over at the words, expecting something harsh in response. But the man simply hums a little.

Slowly, the king folds himself into the chair at his bedside. He clasps his hands together, one leg over the other.

“You’re that insurgent’s child?” The king asks, almost conversationally.

Techno doesn’t answer. Doesn’t let himself twitch. Though he is confused by the idea. Where did that come from? What is he talking about?

“You’re not,” Phil says, smiling again. “Obviously. That’s what he tried to lie about you. To get you worse charges, I presume. Or lighten his own.”

Phil shrugs. But the tiniest of lines appears between Techno’s brows. He must be talking about Blitz. The man wouldn’t sell him out like that though. And anyway, that line of argument makes no sense. A child of a rebel is less of a crime than being a full fledged member.

Some sort of game is at play within the king. But what?

It’s too confusing to parse through. Especially when Phil sighs and turns his face away for a moment. It makes him appear near vulnerable. Affected, almost.

“Why are you doing all this?” Techno asks.

“Because you’re a child. My kingdom doesn’t treat children so poorly,” Phil says.

Techno scoffs. “There’s more children suffering under your hand than not.”

“I know for a fact that that isn’t true. But even so, it is a work in progress. In the far regions of my kingdom, abuses fly under the radar. But I’m trying to fix it,” Phil says.

Techno bares his teeth, flinching at the pain it brings to his head. “That’s a lie! 

“How old were you when we annexed Hypixel? Five?” Phil asks.

“Older than that,” Techno growls, nonplussed at how he has that knowledge about him. It’s obvious where Techno's from, considering that he’s a piglin hybrid. “I remember all the people you killed.”

It’s all he remembers.

“Your parents,” Phil says plainly. “Senseless deaths. All of them.”

The man sighs, genuinely sounding burdened by it. That makes the fury within Techno roil even higher. Though it comes out by tears pricking his eyes and a hitch in his chest.

“I am not blind to the types of pain that come with war, Techno,” Phil says, setting a hand on his upper arm. Techno tries to squirm away, but his body doesn’t respond right. “Violence, sickness, famine. Death. One day, you’ll understand why it’s all necessary to get to the end, even if it’s deplorable in some ways.”

Techno is physically shaking with the intensity of the emotions coursing through him. Crazy. The man is crazy. As if Techno can ever forgive or forget about how his family was killed. How people are still being killed.

For a single man’s benefit? Techno despises how useless he is, how he’s stuck here instead of doing what he should be to stop this all. Whatever that is…

“Still, the violence of the men you were with, I can not say the same things about them. They kill my soldiers and guards, people with families waiting for them too. Kill my citizens. Try to kill my family,” Phil says. “Just to bring chaos and anarchy.”

“...That’s not true,” Techno murmurs, forced out of his silence again.

“I can’t blame you for your beliefs or actions with how young you are. You’ve suffered more than you should have already,” Phil says.

As if. No part of Techno believes that.

“What are you going to do to them?” Techno asks.

Phil frowns and squeezes his upper arm where his hand is still laying. It doesn’t hurt through the growing fuzz. “They passed away from their injuries before the doctor could check on them. I’m sorry.”

A strange blankness seeps into Techno’s head at the words. Quickly, he blinks, mouth slightly agape. He’s belated in shoving his mouth closed, lips smoothed out. But it does little for the swill of water sweeping him away.

They couldn’t have all just died, right? Blitz, at least, seemed in a similar state to Techno. He wouldn’t have just dropped dead down in those cells from nothing. The king must have killed him, or had him killed. Alongside the others. It has to be that.

“She went down to see them right after dressing your wounds last night. But it was too late after those couple of hours working on you,” Phil further explains.

That— Techno doesn’t know. Could Blitz have been stabbed like Techno was? Those sorts of wounds can turn fast. He can’t remember if the man showed signs of blood loss or not. Was that why he was being quiet or, or?

His eyelids flutter as a wave of emotion and dizzy exhaustion runs through him. He can’t quite think about it, or at least pick it apart in the way that he needs to. 

“Don’t worry about that right now, though. Just get some rest,” Phil says.

As though draping a curtain over his eyes, they slide closed. Or like the man's power has a physical effect. But again, Techno can’t deal with that. The pain is losing to the tiredness. He gives in to it. Just for a little while…

Chapter Text

"Shall I do 'here comes the horse and cart,' like my young son likes?"

Techno glares blisteringly at the man before him. Phil sits on the edge of the bed beside him, a couple feet in front. There's a bowl in one of his hands, and a spoon in the other. Full of porridge. And hovering near Techno's face.

As though playing on the idea, Phil gestures with the spoon a couple times. Like he's either going to jam it into Techno's mouth, or really start making clip-clopping horse noises.

The shame in Techno at just the prospect of being hand-fed doubles over at the direct prod at it being babying. Like Techno's not just invalid, but also a useless infant. It reminds Techno of being a toddler, four maybe, and being too proud to let his own mother feed him anymore. Pronouncing himself all grown up and having conquered cutlery.

Despite the fact that his mother must have needed to do double the laundry with all his spills and mess, she still let him.

The bitterness of sorrow makes his expression soften. He turns his head to the side. Unable to look at Phil. The man who is the reason that his parents are dead. The reason that he and his mother starved to nothing, in the end. She had pushed scraps of forage into his mouth when he was too weak to do it himself. Killing herself to keep him alive a few days longer.

And now, Techno is in the king's castle. Now he's being fed by him.

It's too much to hold within him. His head aches horrifically around it. Concussion, surely. But it feels an edge too close to the head pain that comes before tears.

"Your stubbornness isn't going to be larger than your stomach, mate. You need to eat," Phil says.

"I can feed myself," Techno spits out.

"No, you can't. You can't move your arms, let alone use your hands. If you want to ever be able to do things for yourself again, then you'll have to eat this way for now," Phil says, ever slow and patient.

"…Why?" Techno asks, chin dipping down.

"Because you'll strain your injuries—"

"No. Why does it matter to you whether I eat?" Techno says, turning and glaring at the man once more

For a second, Phil is quiet. But then he smiles.

"Because you're a child. I'd hardly see to have a child starving on my watch."

Techno laughs bitterly at that. His stomach hurts. It hurts. Leaning forwards into his slinged arms, Techno feels crushed below it all.

"You've faced food insecurity before," Phil guesses.

"Oh, whatever could make you think of that? How your soldiers burned farms and salted the land of the countries you invaded?" Techno asks sarcastically.

Phil frowns. "That is not a protocol of my men. It's a war crime."

"My mistake, I must be misremembering," Techno spits out, throat wet.

"I'm not saying that it didn't happen. But I am saying that it wasn't my men. Or if it was, that they were brought to justice," Phil says.

"Sure," Techno says, disbelieving.

"There's nothing I can say to make you believe me, but it is true," Phil says, frowning.

Techno just shakes his head. He knows. He knows the truth…

Phil sighs softly, as though resigned or upset. It just makes Techno's own anger brighter. Though he does glance at the king, taking in his lined brow and tilted eyes. His expression looks genuinely upset, though Phil pushes it away for a sympathetic smile and a lift of the bowl.

"Even so, you do need to eat. To recover," Phil says. "And it's not good to let food go to waste, either."

It's all logical, but Techno hates the person it comes from. His brain tries to poke holes in it, but he can't. And, he reminds himself, he does need to stay alive and hopefully get himself back into a working order soon. That's the only way that he can possible gather intel while in the castle and escape back to the rebellion.

After much time to think while trapped in the bed, Techno has come to terms with it being the best plan that he can come up with and possibly execute. Even if it seems a bit impossible… there's a chance.

When Techno turns towards Phil, the man raises the spoon towards his mouth once more. After swallowing roughly and averting his eyes, Techno opens his mouth.

Slow and gentle, Phil feeds him the now lukewarm porridge. It is surprisingly savory and rich, far more than any porridge Techno has eaten before. Butter? Spices? Techno doesn't know, but it makes the process of being fed by hand slightly more tolerable.

His cheeks still burn under the treatment. Especially considering how Phil hums softly, not even jamming the spoon down his throat like might be tolerable. His face injuries hurt worse under the flush of blood. He's left dizzy, and a little winded.

Soon, the bowl is empty. Techno can only look down at his lap. Where his arms are bound to his chest in slings, his bandaged and splinted legs under the blanket.

Phil sets the bowl on the table beside the bed, brushing his hands off. When Techno quickly wipes his lips on his shoulder, Phil tsks at him. Then he holds up a handkerchief, near threatening. Techno turns his head away once more, face even more warm. He doesn't care if he's seen as a slobbish brute, he's not going to be lauded over. Even if it's embarrassing, and somehow makes him feel even smaller.

Luckily, Phil just stands and steps back from the bed, finally. Techno lets out a small breath. His heart is quick in his throat.

"How do you feel?" Phil asks, shifting through some of the things on the tray he brought in.

"Fine," Techno says gruffly.

"That's good," Phil says, smiling. "You don't need an increase in your pain medications?"

He shakes his head.

His body, it hurts horridly in between the doses of the medication. In the middle of the night or the mid afternoon. It's too much for him to even think, let alone move an inch. But Techno's not going to admit to that. It's too weak. And anyway, the medicine makes him head horribly foggy and tired.

He needs to get his wits about him more. To be sharp enough to collect information and be prepared for anything.

"Alright, mate," Phil says.

The familiarity makes Techno's stomach sick, porridge heavy in it. If he imagines anyone hearing it, thinking that he is friendly with the king. It's a sickening thought through and through.

Humming uncaring, Phil pours sharp liquids out of glass bottles into little cups. Speaking of medicine.

"Here you are," Phil says.

He holds the first to Techno's lips, waiting until he opens his mouth again to begin tipping it back. Then, he follows it up with another. The flavors clash horribly, to the point that his nose wrinkles up despite how it pulls on his injured cheek.

"Ah, yucky, isn't it?" Phil sympathizes.

Quickly, Phil brings water to Techno's mouth. He drinks it, but only to clear the bitter medication from his throat and tongue. It's too strong not to be distracting otherwise.

When he's done being prodded into by the man, Techno feels quite winded and exhausted. Very subtly, he leans back against the pillows propped up behind him. Desperate for it to take the edge of his pain off.

Somehow, Phil's quick scan of his body seems to pick up on every guarded vulnerability and weakness. He shares a sympathetic look with the boy.

"Why don't you rest for a while? I need to run out and check on things, but I'll be back soon," Phil says.

Without answering, Techno turns his face forwards. The set to his brow shakes a little, hurting his head worse. But he doesn't care or let it slip.

As though it is a reply anyway, Phil sets a light hand on his shoulder. Squeezing his fingers. All the affection of the common shoulder claps that Techno would see between his comrades, sometimes done to him by the more brotherly fellows. But, none of the roughness to jar him. Likely for the best, considering that his shoulder still twinges under it.

Then, Phil takes his tray and leaves.

Techno releases a breath audibly as the door shuts. And almost certainly locks, but Techno can't hear it. It doesn't matter, because he knows that guards are out there. A couple days back, Techno had tried to take his medicine himself. The glass fell from his weak fingers and shattered on the floor. Two guards had run in instantly, hands on their swords.

The scathing look that Phil leveled them with as they apologized and backed out swiftly only made Techno feel more cornered in this little room.

Now he's alone, on the inside of it at least. Which is saying quite a lot, since the king is in here far more often than Techno could ever want. Watching a doctor clean and bandage his wounds, giving him his medicine himself, sitting with him, feeding him… It's enough to make Techno feel half mad with it. All of a feral cat not knowing how to respond beyond biting and scratching.

Except his claws are all clipped down. Bound to his body, literally.

So despite the fact that Techno has been kept in the new and strange cell-bedroom for closer to a week than not, he has hardly looked around it. And gained no notable or useful information about anything in that time either.

Some sort of failure, to be sure. Every time that he is cared for or fed, a few floors above where his comrades bled out, it stabs into him harder. Right over his literal stab wound.

That injury feels a little justified.

Glancing around the bedroom, Techno takes in the sight that he has many times before. The window in the wall opposite his bed, the door to the washroom, the various pieces of furniture that litter the space with way too much normal life—though that of a much high caliber than most people could afford.

No matter how much Techno shifts around the bed, he can't make out what is outside the window.

With the tip of his tusk, Techno worries his lip. The sore, abused skin splits instantly, filling his mouth with the taste of iron. A common taste for him. Now and forever.

Can he somehow get himself over to the window and look out?

Techno desperately wants to at least get that small amount of information. To not be sitting here completely useless. At the very least, if Techno knows where he is, maybe he can think of more ways to go about his plan. Think of an escape route while useless in the bed, or something. Anything.

That's settled then. Now, the easy part: somehow getting over there.

Slowly, Techno pushes his legs over the edge of the bed. The small swing down makes him hiss, sore joints bereft to have weight hanging down on them. When he lightly touches his toes to the floor, hot, searing pain attacks his ankles. That forces his eyes to jam shut hard, something closer to a growl coming out.

Walking isn't going to happen. He's tried a couple times to get to the bathroom on his own, but it's impossible. And when he's resorted to walking on his knees, that's been excruciating too. The doctor scolded him that he will permanently damage his legs if he doesn't stop immediately. The pain is bad enough that Techno believes her.

Techno examines the space between the bed and the window. Ten feet across, maybe.

He breathes out smoothly, before tilting forwards. A pound of pain goes through his right leg as he lands on his "good" knee. But then he falls down so that his butt is on the ground and his feet are splayed beside him, without putting any weight on his worst joints.

Okay, he's down here. Now what?

The only part of his lower body that isn't badly hurt is his forelegs. They're bruised up, but not torn to shreds from sprains and dislocations, mostly because there's no joints in the middle of his bones, so they're the best of him. With effort, he jams the side of his shin into the ground, pushing on it lightly so that he'll scoot. Too much pressure and it tugs on his leg joints, so he has to stop completely. But the slow pace is probably good, considering his bound arms. He can't catch himself if he loses balance or tips over.

So, bit by little bit, he scooches forwards on the ground. It's humiliating, arguably more so than even crawling would be.

But he does make it over to the window. Panting, shaking, in a bit of elevated pain. But there.

Techno feels inordinately proud of himself for that.

Slowly, Techno tries to stretch his chin up enough to set it on the window sill. Enough to look out the window while still half sitting-half splayed on the ground. But, he's not quite tall enough to manage it.

Scowling roughly, he looks around for something that he can use to boost him up a little. A box to sit on or something. But there's nothing but the big, fancy furniture, made up prim enough for a princess. Impossible for him to move or climb on.

There's nothing to be done about it, then. Techno has come too far to not get anything out of this. His body is already hurting with exertion, and the medicine is making his head weirdly hazy.

Techno takes a deep breath in and pushes his legs into the ground enough to come close to kneeling, trying to put as much of his weight on his shins as possible.

His knees scream at him. They feel like they're breaking, tearing apart.

Just gritting his teeth through it, Techno squints out the bright window. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the light, head stabbing angrily. Even though it's the only place where he's not literally stabbed or torn up broken. He guesses his skull being slammed into hard surfaces didn't do him good.

A short look around is all that it takes him to see, though.

The room he's in, it's far, far up off the ground.

The comparison to a princess' room apparently wasn't very far off, considering that he's literally in a tower of the castle. It's ridiculous, but unfortunately serves its purpose well. Even if Techno ignores the risk of injuring himself further, he cannot climb out of this tower with his body the way that it is. He'd fall the second that he tries to hold any of his weight up on the sheer wall. And splat right on the ground.

Weakened by the sight, he falls back down onto his butt. A pang of pain goes through his body, but he's too busy blinking. Head reeling.

Okay, that's not an option. Not like Techno really thought that it would be that easy, right? This isn't… It isn't that big of a deal.

Trying to rally himself with that, Techno digs his tusks into the meat of his mouth. He needs to get a bit more information about his surroundings, at least. Something that he can use if he does manage to get outside in some other way.

Just as Techno levers himself up onto his shins and knees once more, there's a clicking at the door. Techno swings around, back pressing to the window sill as he stares with wide eyes. He would raises his arms defensively, but they stay stuck to his chest where they're bound.

As the door swings open, none other than Phil walks in. Of course.

The king scans the bed, before his eyes move very quickly over the entire room, one of his feet balanced behind him. Seeing Techno as enough of a threat for that, at least.

Then his eyes land on Techno and his frame visibly relaxes. Though he makes a clicky noise within his throat and sets a hand on his hip.

"Didn't you hear what the doctor said about resting and not using your injured limbs?" Phil asks.

Rhetorically. Or it might as well be rhetorical, because Techno doesn't answer.

Phil clicks again and walks over.

When he reaches his hands out for Techno, clawed fingers pointed right at him, Techno flinches violently. He bares his tusks and growls roughly, tail thrashing behind him. But when he tries to puff his chest up for some more height, it unbalances him on his painful, wobbly joints.

Techno tips back onto his backside, shoulders and head knocking into the wall and window sill. He hisses through squinted eyes.

Phil tsks right back at him, sweeping over even faster.

And pulling Techno into a hug.

He's struck by the gesture. Dumb, still, and silent. Enough time for Phil to pull Techno completely into his arms and off of the floor. Held near effortlessly in his arms, tucked to his chest.

"You're going to permanently hurt yourself," Phil scolds softly.

Carefully, he sets Techno on the bed. When Phil leans back, he sweeps his hands over Techno's arms, scanning his body. Like blood or broken bones might have popped up. But there's apparently nothing but mused up hair, because the man strokes his long pink locks.

Techno glares and growls, yanking his head away so fast that it hurts terribly. Well worth it.

With a strange click-trill, Phil smiles and ruffles his weird feathers behind him.

"If you're so stir crazy, I can bring you out for a short little while," Phil says.

Techno squints suspiciously at once. "Out?"

"Yes. There's some people that I want you to meet," Phil says.

The obvious assumption is that he means executioners. Techno's stomach goes a little topsy turvy at that, even if it is what he wanted not so long ago. It may be better for the cause than whatever he can offering languishing in here. But that sort of thing is easier to accept during a life or death fight. Now, having had time to really stew on it and just having it thrown back up in his face…

His breath skips a little. Phil tilts his head

"Just some friends of mine. They're nice people, don't worry. But you don't have to go if you don't want."

No, Techno does not want.

But the alternative is just staying in this room sleeping the day away. Getting none of the intel that he very much needs to be collecting about the castle and Phil himself. And now, obviously an escape route too. Anything useful at all.

It comes out a little jerky, but Techno nods.

"Lovely," Phil says, clapping a little. "We just have to get you cleaned up. Wash your hair and such."

"What?" Techno asks, nose wrinkled.

"It's a bit of a proper meeting. You look half a mess, mitling," Phil says, face turning sympathetic.

Techno feels his face glow. The same sort of shame that has constantly plagued him since he was another street child. In old clothes, no shoes, dirty hair. It's not like there's washrooms to be had for homeless orphans. Nor free clothes. It doesn't say anything about him as a person that he is disheveled after losing his parents or almost dying in a battle.

Yet it feels distinctly like it does. And only bad things.

"Worry not, I can help you. I used to have very long hair myself, maybe even longer than yours'," Phil says, fluttering up.

Techno recoils further, shaking his head. He'll take the cold, blank doctor helping him over the king. The women already helped wipe him down with a rag, half pained under her clinical quickness. At least there was no time for embarrassment.

But it's worse than just normal embarrassment for Phil to be the one to help him with this. To help Techno be spoon fed, and be carried around, and treated like a useless baby. By the king of the Antarctic Empire.

The thought makes him want to puke. He'd probably say so, if his head wasn't sluggish and murky.

Seemingly taking his silence as agreement, despite the shaking of his head, Phil leans forwards once more. Techno tries to shove the arms away from him where Phil is wrapping him up in an embrace, but his arms just hurt without moving more than an inch. Once more, Techno is hoisted in his arms and being swept over to the little washroom, hiked up wings and all.

Techno is leaning so far away from the man's body that he almost topples out of his arms. When Techno begins to be lowered into the wooden chair before the wash pail, his feet kick to catch his balance on instinct. With a click, Phil rights him properly.

"Don't you have servants for this?" Techno asks lowly.

Phil laughs. "Yes. But it is hard to trust them at the moment considering the little ordeal that got us here."

"Your orders to murder me?" Techno asks.

"My order to take the insurgents prisoner. 'Adult' in the insurgents unspoken a bit too much, apparently," Phil says, shaking his head. "I admit, it's my fault you were hurt so much. My workers need some reorienting, while I see to you sorted out myself."

The king concludes the words with a pat to Techno's upper arm. Techno tries to lean away, but he would tip out of the chair if he did. Half tempting, but his body aches.

Phil leaves for a moment, and then returns with a dish of steaming water. Techno eyes it suspiciously, half expecting it to be scalding. But when Phil dips a cloth in and carefully wipes Techno's face clean, it's pleasantly warm. Then, the water gets added to the pail.

Carefully, Phil tips the wooden chair backwards. The motion makes Techno writhe a little, unnerved at being suspended by only the man's hold on the chair.

But it seems of no concern to Phil. The king sits on a stool before him, legs propping below Techno's chair to keep it suspended at the angle. Then, he leans physically over Techno's body, so that his hand can sink into his hair from over his face. Techno is forced to either stare into Phil's face awkwardly, or close his eyes.

Reluctantly, he does the latter. It leaves him feeling utterly exposed as his hair is tugged and messed with, but it's really all that he can manage.

His hair gets soaked in the pail of water. The tangles are slowly teased apart by Phil's claws and fingers. It takes a while, as he stops pulling every time that the tangles so much as snag. A strongly smelling soap is poured into his hair, floral scent filling the room palpably. Briskly, the fingers scrub at his scalp and loosening locks. It almost feels nice, the claws scratching his itchy head.

When the soap is washed out, Phil adds some sort of silkier substance to his hair, massaging it. The smell is somehow even more floral and sweet, and it seems to kill any snarls left in his hair.

The warmth and the rubbing at his ears and head and the quiet, Techno's mushy brain nearly begins to nod off in the chair.

Only when Phil wrings his hair out audibly, water splattering down, does Techno jolt back to himself. With a smile, Phil slowly sits his chair back upright, snagging a towel for him. Somehow, he gets it wrapped around Techno's hair so that it stays up there, not dripping on him.

"Much nicer, isn't it?" Phil says.

Wordlessly, Techno looks down into his lap. His head and chest feel strange.

"Let's get you into some day clothes and I'll see what I can do with your hair. A braid might be nice, if you'll be laying down a lot," Phil says, musing as he stands.

With swift motions, Phil pulls his sleeves back down. It's odd, the idea of a king rolling up his sleeves for anything. It really does feel like servant's work. Techno doesn't know what the game is, with Phil doing these sorts of things.

After a seeming deliberation, Phil clips a cape over Techno's shoulders. It's the sort that is more popular with children in the kingdom, ending around his elbows. Pale blue, with fur on the end and neck. At least it's warm. But it covers his slinged arms up even further. Not that he could break them out if he needed to, but he liked the illusion that he could. Furred slipper-like shoes go on his feet, and luckily that's all Phil goes for clothes-wise. Not set on messing with anything closer to his injuries and bandages. Fine by Techno.

Phil rubs his thumb across Techno's cheekbone, tsking at the bruising. If it's like the rest of his body, then it's probably a range of every single ugly color. Dark purple and sickly greens. The grooves of his fingers bump against the small scabs covering the rubbed raw cuts. Techno cringes away, though Phil hardly lets him go.

Instead, he moves on to Techno's hair. Like he's dissecting something fiddly, his pointed fingers slip between the strands. Tugging on them until a plait lays down his back.

The feeling is familiar. Somehow wrong, though.

"More in one piece now, aren't you?" Phil asks, stepping back and examining him.

"Yeah, I'm real together right now," Techno says, a flat look on his face.

Phil laughs like it's a joke. Techno glowers.

Once more, Phil picks him up in his arms. Back in one arm, legs spilling over the other. It's somehow worse, when he faces the prospect of it happening outside this room.

"Do we have to do all this?" Techno asks, grumbling.

"You can't exactly walk," Phil says. "But I won't carry you all the way, don't worry."

Whatever that means. Probably something even more awful. Likely someone else carrying him. Which should be good, but he can imagine that it will be someone like a pissed off guard, ready to drop him. Or maybe Phil will be the one to drop him. Make him crawl the rest of the way to wherever it is they're going.

A frown pulls on his lips, but he quickly turns it into a scowl.

Just as Techno expected, there is a guard out in the hall who opens the door at Phil's knock. The man is stiff backed and silent, a proper sentry. Though Techno still gets the impression that he is being watched closely. Or maybe Phil is. It's hard to tell exactly, but Techno would make more sense, considering.

Slowly, Phil descends the spiraling staircase. The stairs are thin and there must be hundreds of them. Enough to tumble down and break his neck for certain.

It doesn't seem much an issue for Phil.

At the bottom of the stairs, Techno half dizzy from the round and round decline, there is a short wooden chair. He's slightly confused by it, out in the middle of everything and not looking particularly comfortable. Though as Phil pushes it back to lower Techno into, he notices that it has wicker and wood wheels on the side.

Techno's first impulse when set in the chair is to scuff his feet on the ground. To try to move the wheels himself. But the handles on the back are quickly snapped up. He's forced still as he's pushed swiftly down the hall in it.

All the while, Phil whistles.

Techno tries to keep track of the passing halls and doors and windows, but his fuzzy head seems to blur everything. Just barely, he can blink hard enough to count the turns. But that's hardly useful, since they don't end up outside.

Instead, a couple of guards pull open a set of double doors. Inside is a dining room. One long table, sandwiched with plush chairs.

A person is sitting inside already.

As they draw closer, Techno's eyebrows furrow. The woman has pink hair, pulled back into a braided bun. Her ears are pointed, full of golden jewelry, and tusks poke out of her lips.

She's a piglin hybrid. She's—she's—

Techno topples forwards in the wheeled chair in his haste to bend at the middle. With a noise of surprise, Phil grabs his shoulder and tries to pry him back up. But Techno fights it.

"Princess Niki!" Techno says, voice a bit too squeaky.

"Oh," A light woman's voice comes across. "Sit on up, Techno. You'll hit your head."

Scantily, he raises his face a bit. Looking at the princess' face. Techno's princess, not the awful royals of the Antarctic Empire. The princess of Hypixel.

"And it's not princess anymore. It's Advisor Niki," The woman says, smiling awkwardly around her tusks.

Techno straightens his spine slowly, Phil wrenching him back in help. He quickly scans the woman from top to bottom. It would be rude, if he wasn't horrifically worried that he'd find her covered in injuries and chains.

But, Niki looks about how he would expect a princess—minus the crown and maybe a few layers to her skirts. There's no sign of any injuries, past or present. That doesn't mean that there aren't any, but he can't see them. There's makeup dusting her plump features, jewelry on her body, a proper posture to her shoulders.

A frown pulls on Techno's lips. He doesn't understand.

"You kidnapped her too," Techno accuses Phil.

Phil's eyebrows raise a little bit at that. Though Niki raises a hand and shakes it.

"I'm not kidnapped. I work here by choice."

"Uh-huh. After Phil killed your parents and family?" Techno says, disbelieving.

Niki does seem to flinch a little at that, but she simply sighs and turns her head. Fiddling with one of her earrings.

"There are many casualties during war. That's why I'm working to end it," Niki says.

"But he's the cause!" Techno says, seething.

"It's not as simple as that," Niki says, frowning at him sympathetically.

Techno can only scoff and shake his head hard. Now he's certain that the woman must be littered in scars. Bruises under her clothes. It's the only thing that explains her words, explains why she would ever drop her title and work for Philza.

It only seems to increase the sympathy on Niki's face, as she stares at him straight on. Slowly, Phil sits in the chair beside him. Instantly, Techno glares at him. But it doesn't seem to phase Phil at all.

"You brought me here to try and convince me of your lies through her?" Techno accuses.

"No. I just thought you'd like to talk to someone from where you are," Phil says simply.

"The country you invaded and stole," Techno says.

"I don't think that you will appreciate being corrected on the political terms, so I won't bother. You don't have to speak with Niki, but she's a nice lady," Phil says.

Glancing at the captured princess, Techno's muscles tighten up enough that his shoulders shoot pain all the way down his arms. He cringes.

It was a point of triumph for them all that Princess Niki escaped the slaughter of her family. Into the wind, their rightful heir. More than a few rebels fought purely for that cause. To restore Hypixel to independence so that Niki could return and rule. Techno liked that idea too, even if he personally had bigger plans of revolt.

And now here's Niki. Sitting across from Phil. Seemingly at ease and parroting his words.

Techno's eyes fall heavily into his lap. It's too much to contend with. Like the last piece of his country has been torn away and broken right before his eyes.

"Snow is strange, isn't it?" Niki asks.

"What?" Techno asks, eyes darting up for a second.

Niki smiles. "The snow. It's strange, isn't it? Like, it's dry, but also somehow soaking and cold."

"…I guess," Techno mutters.

"I'm not sure if I'll miss it when I return to the Hypixel region. The warmth is far nicer. I'll be happy for that," Niki continues.

"Return?" Techno asks.

Niki hums and nods. "Sure, one day. Once the tensions have been eased and conflicts decrease."

"As the princess—I mean, queen?" Techno asks, looking up at her properly.

"No, I am just a Lady now," Niki says. "But I can still help out with the ruling."

"Of course, you would know much of the region better than anyone else who could take up that mantle," Phil says, chin on his hand. "You, Techno, I think you'd make a grand soldier there. If you heal up well enough, that is. And grow a few years, of course. Child soldiers are not legal here."

Techno is too confused to glower. He hardly knows what the differences between a lady and a princess is to begin with. And the idea that Niki will be allowed back to her kingdom as some sort of ruler, under the orders of Phil.

It's all sorts of wrong. All of it is. And Techno is still certain, it must be being said out of duress.

And now Phil is trying to weave some sort of web like that into Techno's head too.

"That will be a good facet to bring to Hypixel, I agree," Niki says.

"There's no child soldiers in Hypixel," Techno mutters.

"The enlistment age was 16, though it sometimes strayed lower during drafts. It's been unpopular for ages, but impossible to kick considering the population and climate and borders," Niki muses.

"It's not so different from how the Antarctic Empire used to be. With the severe cold, isolated populations, and everyone trying to kill us. You'd be too young to have seen it, how our capital used to look, back in the day. It's night and day," Phil says, tapping his claws on his cheek. 

"I do not doubt that," Techno says.

"You should see the capital of Hypixel again too, sometime soon. It's already expanding ten-fold, with actual infrastructure to boot. And the surrounding cities are beginning to see headway too," Phil says.

As if.

As if Techno will be alive for that. Or ever take up whatever deal goes into him doing that. Being a soldier for the Antarctic Empire? He'd sooner turn his sword on himself.

And also… Techno has never seen the capital of Hypixel. He and his parents lived in a farming town, closer to the border. It's probably why they were hit so hard, and—

Niki smiles, nodding. "My family had been trying to get orphanages to be set up for ages, but it was a losing battle. Now, there's already close to a dozen run by the crown. It's a good first step, to start repairing. I'm—I'm working on a lot of that, myself."

A losing battle…

Techno looks down into his lap once more. He just. He doesn't.

"We're all stronger together," Phil says.

His head and stomach hurt terribly, even if the rest of his injuries are stuffed through with cotton. He needs a clearer brain to be able to think this through.

When Techno did get to a city in Hypixel, the closest to his little destroyed home town, he collapsed on the pavement. Nothing left in him. And… No one did anything.

Everyone was suffering from the war, and the city was small, poor too. It's understandable. Though undoubtedly bad. That doesn't mean that the Antarctic Empire trying to suture closed some of the wounds they caused makes it right though. Maybe the Hypixel royal family would have had a better time working on those sorts of things if all their resources weren't being spent on defending from invaders and being assassinated by the soldiers who killed their whole country. And even if not, even if Hypixel was corrupt and bad in a lot of ways too. That doesn't make up for what Phil did to them, to steal them.

A rumbling out in the hall makes Techno jolt back to himself. When he turns his head, he makes out the door being opened by servants again. Behind it, a small group of well dressed people. Similar looking to Niki.

But none of them are piglin hybrids. And all of them are…

Techno's ears droop towards his shoulders since his shoulders can't rise up towards them.

"Ah, the meeting now," Phil murmurs, standing. He leans closer to Techno. "Do you want to stay or go back to your room? It'll be boring politics."

There's almost enough hate and indignation in Techno's throat to not answer. But in the end, the overwhelm wins.

Intel, a small part of Techno's head whispers. It's overshadowed too.

"Go…"

"Alright, mate."

Phil takes him back to his room, just as light and fluttering and gentle as ever.