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In the darkness, something howls.
The sound pierces the night, eerie and chilling, despite the warm summer breeze.
Tech huddles further into the corner he’s hiding in, pulling the single sheet of cardboard over himself, trying to make his already scrawny child body even smaller than it is.
Something’s been following him. He’s sure of it. Even though he hasn’t seen it, he knows it’s there, hiding in the shadows, hunting him down.
It’s been following him for a while, he’s pretty sure. Not like this, not like it is now, but he’s felt like there’s been someone watching him ever since he got caught pick-pocketing, ever since he bit the guy’s hand and ran. He’s pretty sure it’s not the guy who’s following him, though, which makes it even more confusing.
Something else howls. It sounds closer.
Tech whimpers, backed into a corner by nothing at all, too scared to leave the alleyway and try to find somewhere better to hide. He hasn’t been able to shake his pursuer over a matter of days, he’s certain he won’t be able to tonight, either. He may still be a kid, but he’s smart. You don’t draw unnecessary attention to yourself when you’re trying to remain unseen, especially if the full moon is casting enough light it feels like there’s a spotlight on him at all times.
Plus, he’s in an area of town he generally tries to avoid. There are gangs here that the other bigger kids have warned him about, that he’s seen in action, tucked away behind bins or up high on fire escapes. He knows what the people on these streets do to people they don’t like, and he doesn’t want to find out what they’ll do to a kid like him if they managed to find and catch him.
Ordinarily, Tech would be trying to get some sleep at this time of night. Tonight, however, is not an ordinary night. He is being hunted, and he doesn’t know why or by what, and he especially doesn’t know what to do.
He’s so far from anything familiar, so far from anyone he kind of knows, with nothing but the clothes on his back and the grease stained side of some box that looks like it used to hold drinks. What few possessions he has are tucked away in his secret spot, a loose brick in the wall behind the shoe store with all the colourful boots. There’s not much there, but he’d give anything for a bit of comfort now. His best rock (it’s green), his horsie (he’s pretty sure it used to be a horse, but it’s not much of anything anymore, just a wad of old stuffing and some very worn felt, which is probably why the library was getting rid of it), his carefully folded page from a book with a picture of an ancient soldier on it. His things, his found things, and he wishes he had even one of them right now, because he’s trying very hard not to cry, and he’s not sure it’s working.
He hasn’t cried in a while. He doesn’t quite know why he’s crying now, except that he’s very, very scared.
Something howls. It’s incredibly close.
Too close.
Tech can- he can hear it. Something padding across the asphalt, quiet, but you don’t grow up on the streets without being able to recognise sounds of danger.
It’s not human footsteps though. It’s scratchy and soft at the same time, almost like a dog. But dogs don’t walk that slow, dogs don’t walk with that much control.
Slowly, Tech presses his back to the cold concrete behind him. He’s trying not to make any noise, even holding his breath. He picked a spot with lots and lots of shadows, which are good for hiding in.
But that also means that whatever’s after him is also able to hide.
He can’t see anything.
He can’t see anything until he can, and three shapes appear in the mouth of the alleyway. They’re not dogs.
Their fur sticks up in bristles, their snouts are long, their legs longer, and one of them is making a rumbling noise in the back of its throat. It’s growling.
They don’t leave.
Whatever they are, they don’t leave. They stay standing at the mouth of the alleyway, until one turns its nose upwards, sniffing. And then it turns its face to the moon and howls, and Tech can’t stop the sound that comes out of his mouth, something tiny and terrified.
Immediately, all three… things look directly towards him. Immediately, all three things move.
They make the same scratching sound along the concrete. Claws, Tech realises. Very, very large claws.
In the light of the moon he gets to see what they are. Dogs but bigger, dogs but not. Pale yellow eyes, thick grey fur, rippling muscle, and lips pulled back to reveal three sets of wicked fangs.
He’s being hunted by wolves.
And they’ve found him.
It’s a stupid decision, Tech will realise. It’s a stupid decision, but he physically couldn't do anything else, his body wouldn’t let him. He’s always been a fighter, always been the kid who doesn’t know when to calm down. It’s why he’s out here in the first place.
He runs.
He drops the cardboard and he runs, making a break for the end of the alleyway, past the wolves. He’s small, maybe he can slip past, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought that far ahead. All he knows is that there are three wolves and they have found him and they are going to kill him.
He runs, and so do the wolves. Snarling, growling, they hone in on him, flanking him, surrounding him and blocking every exit. The one in the middle, the biggest one, bounds forwards, and two giant paws hit Tech’s chest.
His head hits the concrete wall behind him with a crack, and while it makes him incredibly dizzy, it doesn’t quite knock him out.
He screams. He screams and he kicks and he thrashes and those paws press hard into his chest and he can feel his shirt ripping, he can feel his skin ripping, claws too sharp and too close and he’s crying, he can barely see, he’s powerless, and the wolf that’s pinning him to the floor opens its mouth and leans forwards.
Pain explodes in his shoulder. His vision goes grey and then white, stars dancing in the impossible brightness. It hurts. It hurts so much that ‘it hurts’ feels so wrong, like there should be some other word for this. It hurts and it doesn’t stop hurting, and it’s spreading, acid in his veins and his flesh and his bones, digging too deep into the marrow and twisting his body and making him twitch. Something’s growing, he’s growing, everything inside of him is breaking again and again and again, it feels so wrong, he can’t do anything to stop it, what is it, what is it making him? What is it turning him into? What is he?
It hurts.
It really, really hurts.
Tech doesn’t really remember what happens after that.
– – –
“Again!”
The order is barked with little care, and mostly disdain. Technoblade doesn’t follow it, breathing heavily and shaking his fists out instead.
“I said again!” The pack’s second in command sounds angry—he always sounds angry—arms behind his back as he watches from the side. He’s half the size of Techno, but it’s not his strength that gained him his position. It’s his mind, his way of talking, the fact he can control a room of half-rabid werewolves with barely more than a single look.
But there’s only one wolf in this room with him, and Techno has never particularly liked being told what to do.
“Blade,” the second-in-command hisses through his fangs, striding forwards and fisting his hand in Techno’s shirt, letting his sharpened nails gouge his skin as he does. “Do you want the muzzle again, or are you going to listen?” he spits.
“‘M just catchin’ my breath,” Techno retorts, staring him down. They’ve never liked each other, ever since Techno was dragged in as a kid, half dead, but still fighting. He’s never stopped fighting, it’s just the direction that’s changed.
“Well catch it faster next time,” the second-in-command says. He drops Techno’s shirt, and returns to his post at the edge of the room. “Again. Better this time.” It’s cold. Calculating.
Techno hauls himself back to his feet, wipes the sweat from his face. There’s a punching bag strung up across from him, and the remains of several more on the floor, their guts spilling out.
With a breath, Techno lets the adrenaline take over, his legs moving and his knuckles connecting.
He’s good at this. Techno’s not stupid, he knows he’s good at this, and he knows that’s why he’s here. The others his age, the others with his experience, they don’t have to do this. Sure, they get some training, the basics, but that’s it, before they’re sent out to do whatever. Not Techno. Not the Blade. He’s kept separate from them, seeing them only really in passing. They’re the same pack, but they might as well be strangers, not family. Not that the rest of Techno’s ‘family’ is really all that great, but it’s the best he’s got. It’s the only thing he’s got, and he doesn’t have much of a choice. They want him here, so he stays.
Give Techno a weapon, and he’s practically mastered it. Knives, guns, his fists, his teeth, his claws. He knows how to use them all. The best way to gut a man, the best way to make someone hurt without killing them. The best way to turn them.
That’s what this is, practice. Honing his skill. Honing him. He doesn’t get a choice. The second-in-command’s threat wasn’t empty. Techno knows the muzzle is somewhere on the table over next to him, as are several things he wishes he wasn’t so familiar with. It’s the one part of his training they haven’t quite seemed to master yet. They haven’t been able to beat the fight out of him.
They’ve sure as hell tried, though.
He was raised like this, raised here, raised to fight. Raised to obey.
Something rips, and it takes a moment for Techno to register the sand spilling over his bare feet. The punching bag practically deflates, and he gives it a few more hits just for good measure.
“I didn’t tell you to stop, Blade,” comes that cold voice from the corner of the room.
He doesn’t reply.
“Take it down.” It’s sharp. It’s an order.
Techno does. He tosses the broken bag into the pile with all the others, and refuses to look to the other side of the room. He knows he hasn’t done anything wrong, but he’s pretty sure he hasn’t exactly done anything right, either.
He never seems to be able to.
Techno walks to the back of the room where the spare bags are stored as slowly as he can without getting reprimanded or giving away that he’s completely dead on his feet. It’s early evening already, he’s been at this since dawn. His bones are creaking in his body, magic threaded through them that’s just begging to transform,to twist into something new, the wolf is pawing at the back of his mind, and he knows he won’t get any rest tonight either. That’s just not how this works.
“No, Blade,” that cold voice says. “I have something better.”
Techno stills, controls his breathing, and turns around.
The second-in-command has his phone in his hand, and pointedly looks towards the door. Two more of the higher-ups push through it, dragging something with them.
Dragging someone with them
He’s not anyone Techno recognises. Older than he is, dull brown hair, a torn windbreaker. Beaten and bruised and bleeding, and the wolf in the back of Techno’s mind salivates at that scent, all too powerful this close to moonrise. He quashes it. Or, he tries to. Something clearly shows on his face as the man is thrown to the ground, hands bound and tape over his mouth.
“You like it?” the second in command asks, crooning. “I had him brought in just for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, Blade.” He’s next to Techno now, a hand on his shoulder that squeezes just enough for his preliminary claws to prick into bare skin. “You want your freedom, no?”
Techno just looks at him. Yes, more than anything, yes. But nothing is ever that simple. Nothing ever happens without consequences.
“Well. Prove you’ve earnt it, and you can have it.” The second-in-command lets go of his arm, and stalks away just as silently as he came.
“What-”
“You know what.” The answer is quick. Straight to the point. “I know you have your claws. Or we could give him a head start if you really want to show off, it’s only what, fifteen minutes? Twenty?”
Techno feels sick to his stomach. He knows what he’s being asked to do. He looks at the man and he can smell his fear, metallic and potent in the air. He clenches a fist and his own claws dig into his palm, a distraction from the ache in his limbs. He knows that ache well, rarely notices it most days, but today is not most days. It won’t go away until the night is over.
“No,” Techno says.
“I’m sorry?” the second-in-command laughs.
“I said no.” Techno turns to face him. He almost regrets it. Almost.
“No…” the second-in-command repeats, meeting his eyes. There is a fury there unlike anything Techno’s ever seen before. “Technoblade. You do not get to tell me ‘no’.”
“Too bad,” Techno says. “I just did.”
He’s fast. Fast in a way that the moon is facilitating, fast in a way Techno should be able to match, if he weren’t tired, aching, and decades less experienced than this man. To move such a way with the pain Techno knows he’s feeling is impressive, and terrifying.
All of a sudden, there are scratches across Techno’s nose, deep ones that stink up the entire room with his own blood, and a hand gripping his jaw.
“I will repeat this for you one more time, Technoblade. You do not get to tell me no.” He squeezes, pulls Techno down until his knees hit the cold concrete floor. “You will kill this man. And then you will return to me, and then you will be ready to accept your place in the pack. Do you understand?”
Techno simply glares at him. The wolf in his mind is whimpering, and he’s having to fight it very hard so as not to physically cower. He’s better than that.
“I said,” the second-in-command spits, nose to nose with Techno. “Do you understand? You are the Blade, I did not spend the last twelve years of my life training you to kill for nothing. This is your duty, and you will obey. Otherwise it will be you at the end of the room, and I will make sure you feel every moment of it. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Techno mumbles.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You have ten minutes.”
– – –
God, this part is always the worst.
Well, Techno says that about every part of being a werewolf, but right now, this is the worst part.
He’s in the middle of the woods, soaking wet, barely anything on his person except a small bag of emergency clothes, and in pain.
Having your entire body rearrange itself once a month is never fun. Having it then revert back to how it usually is is also not fun.
Spending the entire night running as fast as you can through dense undergrowth and frigid rivers and wild brambles is very not fun, but he thinks he’d take the blackberry bush again over this.
If Techno had his way, he’d stay here. The moss is nice, squishy, and he’s huddled in a thicket of overgrown bushes, which do a pretty good job at blocking out the rising sun. Of all the places he’s laid down to rest over the years, it’s certainly up there.
Unfortunately, Techno’s never really had a good run at ‘getting his way’. He’s trying to change that, but it hasn’t quite happened yet. Just a little further though, and he should be free.
Just a little further.
Digging through his bag—it’s honestly a wonder it’s still intact, he thought he’d’ve torn it to shreds over the course of the night, but maybe his desperation kept him from doing so—he pulls out the clothing he stashed. A tshirt, pants, sneakers, a beanie. That’s all. He could really do with a sweater, he realises, the autumn wind just that little bit too biting to be comfortable. Unfortunately, he really did not have the room. There’s rather a lot of other things in this bag that are more essential, if he’s going to cut ties with the pack entirely.
He slings the bag over his shoulder, and picks himself up. There are leaves in his hair, and he pulls them out, letting them flutter to the ground.
The sunrise is painting the sky with the same colours as the leaves around him, a myriad of reds and oranges and it’s beautiful, but man it’s bright. It’s giving him a headache, although that’s probably fairly exacerbated by the whole ‘transforming into a wolf’ thing that happened last night.
Trying to squint since light is currently painful, Techno picks his way through the woods. It’s about as safe as he can get here, he’s figured. The city isn’t a great idea, too many territories overlapping. If he’s not with his pack, the chances of another getting pissed at him are high, and he doesn’t want to do what he’s about to do in any of the magic users’ neighbourhoods. He’s pretty sure he’d get the wrong type of attention.
He wanders for a while, wades through another stream for half an hour for good measure, until he finds a small clearing that looks decent enough for his purposes.
Thankfully, the only really damp thing here is him, and the autumn leaves are crisp and dry. He clears them from a sizable patch of dirt, saving some in a small pile, and pulls out the rest of the things in his bag. They were difficult to come across to say the least, but he’s counting on them.
He’s counting on things he doesn’t even know if they’re real, or just a myth.
Using his still-to-recede claws, Techno slits the skin on his forearm, just enough for blood to start beading. It won’t scar, and even if it did, it would be far from the first one there. He’s covered in the things, which is exactly why he’s here.
The blood he collects in a bottle, a bit more of it than he was expecting to need, but it’s fine. It’s a small sacrifice to make, and he brought exactly one roll of bandages with him just for this. It only takes… a few tries to wrap them around his arm. Maybe that was a little too much blood. Oops.
Into the blood goes what he can only describe as powdered flame. It burns bright, almost like glitter, if glitter were made from the embers of a smouldering fire. It mixes with the blood, making the little bottle shine with magic.
Techno’s never done magic before.
Well, there’s a first time for everything.
He memorised the symbols he needs. There’s quite a few of them, and it did take a while, but the book he found was one that would definitely be noticed if it went missing, so he couldn’t bring it with him.
He uses his own finger to paint the blood onto his skin, runes up and down his arms, on his forehead, his chest. They shimmer in the early morning light, like they’re calling to the sun. He thinks they might just be doing exactly that.
Next is the fire. There’s a red rock in the bottom of his bag, a soft, brittle thing. It’s actually two rocks now, and a sizable amount of dust. The instructions said to crush it to a fine powder with a mortar and pestle—which he also doesn’t have—and mix it with more of the blood mixture. In lieu of literally any tools to help, Techno crushes the rock in his hand, and pours the rest of the blood over the mixture to make a sort of paste thing.
This goes on the dirt in front of him, a circle full of symbols, and things he thinks might be words in a language he doesn’t understand. He only just has enough of the paste, and it’s a little thin in places. He supplements it with candles, also from his bag, short stubby things that are technically tea-lights. They have wax and a wick, so hopefully they work. He saves one for himself to hold.
And then for the slightly scary part. Techno needs to sit in the middle of this ring—or stand, he’s not sure it matters—and light it on fire. And whatever this rock is, it’s supposed to be very flammable.
Using the dried leaves he set aside earlier and a lighter, Techno manages to coax a small fire into existence. He lights the candles first, placing them carefully back in their spots. Then he grabs a stick, letting the end alight, so he can move to sit in the ring, and ignites the sigil.
Whoever wrote that book was right. This stuff catches instantly, a wall of fire springing to life around him. He can feel the heat pressing at him from all sides, reaching for him. He can feel those runes on his skin warm as well.
The words he speaks are not words he knows. He’s only about fifty percent sure they’re real words, and even less sure that he’s pronouncing them right. Allegedly, they call upon the Blaze Empress, one of the four Fundamental Beings of the world. An entity with great power, an entity who is said to be willing to listen more than her siblings. An entity Techno is asking for help.
Who are you?
The voice is in his mind. Her voice is in his mind. Like the crackling of a hearthfire, the sweet scent of candle smoke, she speaks.
‘I am Technoblade, and I come asking for your help,’ Techno thinks back, following the script from those well-worn pages.
Technoblade, what is it you desire my help with?
‘Free me,’ he asks.
I cannot make you something you are not, the Blaze Empress says. But I can tame what you wish you weren’t.
‘Please,’ Techno thinks back, clutching the candle so hard his knuckles go white. ‘I’ll do whatever I must. I pledge myself to you, your servant, your disciple. I will serve you.’
She laughs. I do not need a servant, Technoblade. Merely an ally. Do you understand what you are asking of me, what it will mean for you?
‘Yes.’ Anything. He means it. Anything is better than the life he has lived so far. Anything is better than the teeth at his throat, the teeth in his jaws. ‘I devote myself to you, in exchange for your help to free me.’
Very well. I hope this is everything you have wished for.
And then he burns.
The runes on his arm glow, a fire under his skin, a burning in his blood. They sear into his skin, tattooing themselves in an ink Techno does not want to think about the origins of. The ache in his bones is soothed, the way they never quite felt the right size for his body, and the instincts in the back of his mind pushed deeper. There is a wound being cauterised inside of him, except he is the wound, and she is the fire. That searing pain reaches his forehead, pierces through there, and the heat and the pain and tension are a bad combination, different from what he is so much more than used to, from what he is able to bear, and the last thing Techno sees before he lists sideways is a kind, ethereal face of flame, hands reaching to cup his face.
– – –
So in Techno’s defence, they did really need to get a proper catalogue entry for this item. You can’t just have a thing in a museum collection with no record of what it is, or, even worse, a descriptor such as ‘ancient ornamental vase’. Do people have any idea how little that narrows things down? They have a whole wing full of ancient ornamental vases and pots and jars! That’s multiple people’s entire jobs! Like Techno’s!
So he might have taken it home because he might have recognised the script, and he might have maybe asked his patron if she knew what it is, and he also might have maybe not stopped poking when she told him to. Oops?
It is a very pretty vase. Painted in shades of purple and black, and some sort of metallic silver inlay that Techno rarely sees. Magic, definitely, no question about it. The thing radiates power, it’s giving him a migraine just being in the same room as it.
It’s just not a power Techno’s familiar with.
He gets a lot of magical artefacts passing over his desk, charmed objects, blessed weapons, you name it. This feels different though. He knows his history, Techno knows his antiquities. He knows that Sparta one day decided to stop making cool pots and that it’s a greater loss than the Library of Alexandria. He knows his clays, his slips, his languages. He doesn’t know nearly as well what this is.
It’s covered in Galactic text, the ancient language of the Fundamental. Blaze didn’t tell him what it says, so that just means he has to decrypt it all himself.
And he did. And maybe he should have listened to his patron, because maybe it was possibly slightly kind of a mistake.
His name is Ender, and he is pissed, to put it shortly.
In reading out the inscription as he decoded it, Techno might have accidentally invoked and then immediately insulted the Fundamental being, and also made it very obvious that he was currently holding one of his belongings with no intention to return it.
Apparently, his connection to Blaze was enough to stop him from getting turned into some warped voidling as punishment, but he’s been promised something more creative to make up for it.
And apparently, that ‘more creative’ punishment is a migraine, and something in his chest that feels simultaneously like lead, and a void. And, also, a guy called ‘Phil’ who was a nightmare to track down, but seems about as happy about this as Techno is, if their multiple brief phone calls were any indication. Techno almost asked in the last one what he did to piss Ender off and end up in the same situation, but the guy sounded like he wanted to kill about five people if Techno kept talking, so he refrained. He’s still curious though.
He’s supposed to get here later today, after work. Techno’s taken the day off to deal with this all now that the pot’s out of his house and back in the museum, and, frankly, he feels awful.
Awful in some terrifying way.
Sure, yes, everything hurts, he has an extended subscription to Ender’s Magical Migraine+ service, that’s fine. That’s barely more than normal. He knows supernatural pain like it’s the back of his hand, because it is. Blaze’s tattoos are there, and so are many, many scars from his youth, however faded.
It’s the rest of it that’s terrifying. It’s the thoughts that he knows aren’t his own.
Ender called it ‘soulmates’. Techno doesn’t believe in that. Or, well, he didn’t. He still doesn’t. He does. He doesn’t know.
He does know he has never had any sorts of feelings for anyone. He does know he has never cared about that fact. He does know that he is perfectly content and happy, that love just isn’t something he’s interested in.
And yet here it is. Coiled in his heart, yearning for something he doesn’t want. Making him long for a man he’s never met, a man he doesn’t know anything about, besides his name.
It terrifies him. His heart is no longer his own, and his mind is trying to go the same way. It hurts to be apart—physically, it really hurts—but it shouldn’t. Techno knows it shouldn’t. He can’t make it stop.
He asked Blaze if she could do anything about it when it first appeared. But it seems just as Ender couldn’t shake Blaze’s hold on him, she can’t shake his, not in any way that would stop it.
Techno takes a shaking breath, and goes to pour himself another mug of tea. It’s keeping his hands busy, and it’s an attempt to distract his mind. It’s not working very well for that, but he’s trying anyway.
He’s already cleared out his office and set up the spare bed. He’s very glad Phil agreed to move out here, there are… pack related logistics that make Techno staying in certain parts of the city fairly dangerous. Techno doesn’t want to endanger a random guy who just happened to get caught up in this, and that’s not just the soulbond talking.
It doesn’t help that the full moon is just a couple days away, either. His mind is already much fuller with the wolf than it usually is, and now he has all this to deal with too, feelings that aren’t his own.
Feelings that have him checking the door every minute, just in case.
He doesn’t care. He shouldn’t care. Not like this. Why does he care like this?
The pain is lessening, he can feel it. Acutely. Phil must be getting closer, then, and his heart—no, it’s not his anymore—does a horrific lurching thing.
The knock comes almost immediately.
Techno tries to open the door with a normal amount of speed, but there’s something piloting his body for him, excited about who’s on the other side, desperate to be close to him.
And there he is. Leaning heavily on a cane and looking just as mad at this situation as Techno feels, Phil introduces himself, and it feels like something should have happened, something grand, something tangible. As it is, the pain fades, Phil lets himself in, still leaning heavily on his cane, which, yeah, Techno gets that. If he’s the type of guy to already own a cane, he must be in hell if he’s been feeling even half of what Techno’s been feeling.
And then that’s it. His soulmate. A guy who’s insulting his apartment and asking where he can put his plants, but looking at him with something in his eyes that Techno thinks might be understanding.
Neither of them want to be here, but they are. And they’re going to make the best of it, and hopefully, find a way to break this damn soulbond.