Archive of Our Own

When his eyes drift open, rain is falling from above, thunder booms, and he doesn’t remember where he is. Nor how he has ended up here. Nor who he is. 

All he can gather, as he wakes, is that his body feels sluggish, akin to an aged man deep into retirement, and he cannot speak. The best he can manage are mangled groans and gurgles that echo slightly in this narrow alleyway. 

No talking? How can I cope with the horrors with my dry wit now? Keeping everything in here is not the same, he thinks on instinct. Wait, horrors? Hold up. 

Once his blurry vision finally clears, he takes a moment to glance down at himself. Ruined, thick clothing that exposes little skin, caked in dirt and blood and tears in some spots. There’s a particularly nasty tear at the cuffs of his flannel shirt, and underneath… 

A bite mark digs into his pale skin, right above his wrist. Not the sharp pricks of an animal, but thicker, fuller indents. Human teeth. 

Oh. 

His stomach falls to the center of the earth. He scrambles around until he spots a puddle in front of the dumpster he awoke next to, droplets of rainfall creating small ripples over the water. His palms press into stone, and he pushes his body forward. When he looks down, his worst fears are realized. 

Not just human teeth, he corrects himself. The memories come flooding back, a merciless tsunami that threatens to drown him. Zombie teeth… Right. Yeah. 

The details are murky at best, many memories encompassed in fog and too far out of his reach. But he remembers humble beginnings; an accident that devastated the world, with the dead rising to their feet and craving the flesh of what was once their own people. A single bite is a death sentence, except even in death, your body wanders the world, merely a tangible ghost that feasts on flesh and blood. 

Well, I fit the criteria, alright. Skin gaunt and a ghastly pale. Though his eyes are focused, his irises are cloudy and bloodshot. Most of his hair is concealed in a baseball cap, but when he takes it off, thin, dulled hair falls past his shoulders. 

Even though he has no recollection of who he once was, it’s safe to assume he looked better than he does now. Far better. 

How long was he unconscious while he decayed and turned? How did he end up next to a dumpster? Was he alone?

No, that’s not right. Doesn’t feel like it, at least, he muses, squinting at his reflection before sitting up straight. Though he can’t pinpoint why; it’s simply a gut feeling. Perhaps everything within him didn’t die. 

But that’s not how it goes… right? 

Something feels off. Zombies don’t have a conscience, the brain rotted beyond comprehension. He shouldn’t be able to feel alive or think coherent thoughts; scientific studies compared it to losing your will and mind to a parasite. 

Granted, those studies were shared over a year ago, but surely, zombification can’t have changed that much in that time. 

Right? he asks again to no one. Again, he tries to say something, but his vocal cords seem to no longer function beyond a pathetic groan. Too bad I don’t know a guy… wait, do I know a guy? 

Trying to remember a familiar face is almost as difficult as speaking. Thoughts do come to mind, but ones that feel ancient. A house with a family, a campus with people he might’ve called friends, and even groups he had huddled with after the collapse of society. But names and faces themselves remain trapped in a thick fog, just beyond his fingertips. Maybe someone he knows—or knew, perhaps—can give him guidance. Wherever they are… or if they even exist. 

Yeah, not looking good for me, he thinks dismally, but he rises to his feet despite the barren outlook. After a slow walk down the alleyway, he ends up on an empty street. The scent of petrichor mingles with the ugly stench of rotted flesh and death. He surveys the street, up and down. 

East. A thunderous thought booms like the weather. A town that he swears exists down a long road through farmland. That gut feeling, it resonates within him again. Welp, better than nothing, I guess. 

It gives him direction, gives him purpose. And maybe he’ll find answers along the way.

❁❁❁ 

This town he awoke in is relatively large. He passes a local park, and he passes a grocery store with shattered windows and empty shelves. He walks over a fallen zombie, a small frame in a baseball cap. He forces himself to continue onward, lest morbid thoughts fester. 

On one street, home to a huge town mall, a horde of zombies gather, lingering with aimless direction. He stiffens, then stops and thinks. Surely, this won’t have any consequences, he jokes before he makes his way into the crowd of the dead. 

Nothing happens. No chasing, no wretched screams. It’s like I don’t exist. Did something good actually come out of this? I refuse to believe it. Curiosity gnaws at him, and he stops walking and turns to face a zombie that has lost her right arm. 

The zombie, her body looking more rotted than his, lets out a gurgling noise, and for a millisecond, their eyes meet. 

Meeting the gaze of a zombie is another nightmare in its own category. He sees no thoughts or feelings behind her eyes. There isn’t even some psychic zombie link that conspiracists have claimed. No, all he sees is an empty soul, a void in the shape of a withered human body, a husk of someone who laughed and cried and dreamed in a past life. And she is just one of millions. 

Except me, he adds, then again, mom always told me I was special.  

Gunfire rings out in the distance. Ever the hivemind, the zombies gravitate toward the deafening sound. Meanwhile, he diverges onto the opposite path. 

More clicks of bullets firing crack like lightning. Some shots sound too close for comfort. I look more zombie than human. I can’t exactly risk anyone seeing me.

His only hope, a weak and desperate one, is for him to not lose what he has left, to not walk the earth as anyone other than himself. And so, he pushes on. 

❁❁❁ 

The dead of the night welcomes him with open arms. He stumbles out of the town on slow and dragging feet, surrounded by gatherings of trees on either side of a road that leads him east. East, he thinks, and this will remain his mantra until he knows exactly what he is looking for. If it’s even out there… 

While the rest of the world sleeps, he does not. Exhaustion doesn’t sink into his bones, and hunger doesn’t sink its fangs into his stomach. Better hope it stays that way; I’m not in the mood for human flesh right now. Maybe I can try and go for the vegetarian route? Maybe tofu will finally not taste like cardboard.  

It’s wishful thinking, he knows, but he stores the thought away for future him. 

Such an environment, as claustrophobic and near pitch black as it is, does not bode well for the regular human traveler. Too many ways for someone to sneak on you from behind, too little space to walk in groups without separating and potentially getting lost. I doubt anyone would bother coming out here so late. 

“Wh-who the fuck’s there?!” 

… I gotta shut up… in my brain? 

A bright light illuminates his surroundings, accompanied by a young voice. A shadow peeks through a tree. Please have bad aim, please be bad at shooting, he pleads while struggling to figure out his escape plan. Desperate, he waves his arms high in the air. “Hrrrrng,” he grumbles. Oh, yes, very helpful and not suspicious at all. Maybe this is how I’ll learn if bullets still hurt me. 

The light reflects slightly off the passerby. A young man looks his way and flails his arms before flashing the light in the zombie’s eyes. At first, he just squints at the zombie, but then, his face grows white. His hand clamors for a baseball bat slung over his shoulder. “Zomb—mfff!” 

In a panic, the zombie clasps a hand over the boy’s mouth. I don’t think this counts as infecting someone, but I doubt scientists expected this kind of scenario. 

The blond haired boy shoves him away with a disgusted expression, surprisingly not calming down. He backs away into a tree, and his jaw falls open. 

“Mhh ehhh,” the zombie groans before the kid lets out another scream. He puts a finger over his lips. 

The boy’s mouth clamps shut, brows furrowed. “Uhh…” He scans the zombie over. “Hold on, wh-what? You’re a zombie, right? That’s what you are, yeah?” 

Asking me this question is like asking a sleeping person if they’re awake. But he nods anyway. 

Blondie’s eyes practically bulge out of his head. He forces out a scratchy guffaw. “Nah, nah, you’re a lying shit, man.” He shoves the zombie in the shoulder, which How is this kid still alive?! “You’re not exactly acting all zombie right now. Aside from the, uh, the look and the-the groaning, and…” 

“Yo, Toms!” 

Another source bathes them in bright light, and a new figure shrouded in the dark appears from between a thicket of trees. “What the fuck are you even doing out here, man?” the new kid glares at the first. He lifts his head, and as if only now realizes their company, asks “And who the fuck is t—ah, fuck!” 

The new boy jolts back, out of the glare of the flashlights. Even in this state of only ever so slowly regaining his memories, the cock of a pistol is indistinguishable. 

“No, wait wait wait, Tubbo! Don’t shoot!” the blond kid whispers harshly, a hand held out for his friend. 

Yet despite the mouth of a gun facing him, merely several feet away, does not stir an ounce of fear. He barely blinks. If anything, all that is on his mind is, I pray someone taught you not to shoot at night to avoid attracting attention, and this is the first time that he truly loathed the lack of working vocal chords. 

“Tubman! Listen! C’mon, man,” the blond boy begs. He points at the zombie. “Look at him! I mean, really look. He’s not even doing anything. And he was reacting to things I was saying earlier!” 

“Uhh, what the fuck are you talking about, Tommy?” asks the new kid, now more exasperated than anything else. But his aim does not waver, which leaves the zombie no room to slip away. “Can-can I just shoot this thing already?”

The blond boy leans in and attempts to whisper to his friend. However, said gossip is loud enough for the zombie to hear from where he stands. “I think this one’s broken.” 

Tubbo doesn’t lower his guard. Even when the zombie tosses him a quick wave, as if greeting a friend, his focus remains stern and sharp. “Why’s that matter?” 

“Work with me here, Tubbo.”

“Oh, god—”

“I think we should bring him along.”

“What!?” 

Huhhn?! 

Tom looks proud, wearing a confident smile. “I think it’s a great idea, really.” 

“Why?!” Tubbo asks; his voice cracks. 

After a long pause, Tom shrugs. “I dunno, he’s cool. Why not?”

Tubbo rolls his eyes. “We didn’t come out here looking for a zombie to drag around on a leash like a dog, dude. Do you really think the old man will be happy seeing us drag a damn zombie through the gates?” 

“Ahh, once we find the blade, he’ll soften up,” Tom waves him off casually. He jerks a thumb in the zombie’s direction. “Who will even care about a chill ass zombie by then?” 

“Dude…” 

So when do I get a say in this? … Well, not say, technically, but…

While Tom continues his miserable attempts at persuasion, the zombie leans in and waves to get Tom’s attention. Once he does, the zombie points east several times. Then, at himself, then east again, with heavy, emphasized pointed gestures. 

“Oh, no, not charades. I’m really bad at it,” Tubbo groans, but he mimics the zombie’s pointing and asks, “Fine, tell us what’s over there? Secret zombie cave?”

The zombie snorts a dismissive no. 

“You telling us to fuck off?” 

No, but I’m getting there. 

Tom tilts his head and looks down the road with a scrutinizing gaze, then turns back to the zombie. “Are you, uh, heading that way?” 

Finally. He gives the kid a firm nod. 

“Fantastic!” he exclaims, hands clasped together, like he is ready to strike a deal. Which, the zombie realizes too late, is actually a fitting metaphor, because Tom continues, “Mister zombie man—can I call you zombie man? Great,” and he doesn’t bother to wait for a response. Rude. “Zombieman. We’re looking for a friend of ours over there.” He gestures to the road that leads into the town the zombie had just departed from. “And we actually just came from that way. If you come with us, we can take you back with us until you gotta go a different way.” 

Hmm… wait, that’s not a terrible idea. Hold on, he might be cooking. 

But Tubbo’s jaw drops, and it keeps opening and shutting as he sputters uselessly. “Bruh!” he scoffs with frustration. His fingers dig into his brunette hair. “We’re not showing some zombie bastard our base! What if he snitches to his friends?” 

The zombie answers with another shake of his head. It’s a good thing for you, kid, that I’m friendless. 

“See?” Tom says with a beaming smile. “This one’s no narc, man.” 

Tubbo’s shoulders drop, and his eyes fall shut. “It is exhausting being your friend sometimes, dude,” he mumbles into his hands, but Tommy shakes him by the shoulder with a delighted look on his face. Tubbo doesn’t share any of his excitement, countenance still one of displeasure and irritation. “If this motherfucker even looks at us like we’re a tasty meal or whatever, he’s tasting bullets. He will go down, and I am not showing mercy. You’re cool with that, right?” he asks the zombie in an almost mockingly kind voice.  

I can’t even be mad about that. If I end up trying that, I’m better off dead, thinks the zombie miserably, and he shrugs. 

That seems to be enough, because Tom takes the zombie by the hand and begins pulling him back toward the town. “First, we got someone to find.”

Tubbo follows them, mortified. “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH THE ZOMBIE BASTARD OH MY GOD!”

❁❁❁

The boys don’t spare the zombie many details. None regarding who they are looking for nor what he even looks like. “It’s not like you’ll be able to help us find him,” they say, dismissively but not unkindly. Though Tubbo, more than anything, seems too guarded to share too much information, anyway. 

But he knows, deep down, that they’re right. He only manages to keep up with the boys because they keep at a slow pace to check every nook and cranny in the town. Every corner, every alleyway, every house and building that isn’t boarded down; no inch of this town is left unchecked.  

The three of them come across a gruesome scene of the dead piling a street next to a small children’s library. The blood is fresh. Maybe these are from yesterday, he observes. But aside from two fresh corpses laying still among a sea of fallen zombies, there are no signs of humans nearby. 

Only a single zombie remains intact in this mess, crawling toward them and gasping heavily. Tubbo steps forward, kneels, and drives a knife into the zombie’s skull, digging in until the zombie goes limp. Another zombie approaches from someone’s backyard, but Tommy is quick to slam his bat into their temple. They crumple instantly. 

The zombie watches in the background, torn between Well, at least they’re not totally doomed to the fates of Darwinism, and … This is fine and isn’t foreshadowing my fate whatsoever. Totally fine.  

When Tubbo glances over his shoulder, Tubbo gives him a cold look. 

The latter feeling might win out there.  

They search and scour without pause. When the sun rises, they pay the brightened sky no mind. The determination in Tommy’s eyes tells him everything he needs to know; they are not leaving until the entire town is turned upside down then rightside up.

The only thing that puts a halt to their search is Tubbo’s growling stomach, and with that, they finally give in to survival and find safety inside of an abandoned building to eat. 

The zombie’s heart would break if it were still beating. The longer the search stretches on, the more this sinking feeling clenches his stomach that their friend probably has the same fate as everyone else. As me. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the ability to break the news to them. Though he doubts they’d believe him, a total stranger, in the first place. 

❁❁❁

“Tommy,” Tubbo begins, voice low and sad, “it’s been almost a whole day. We’ve looked everywhere.”

Tommy rubs his eyelids. “Well, then where the fuck would he be?!” He throws his arms out and leans back until he is laying on the wooden floor of the warehouse they’ve secluded themselves in.  The zombie tries to shush him, but Tommy brushes him off with an annoyed “ugh!” 

 “Dude, it’s been weeks. He could be anywhere by now. How much longer are we gonna keep looking before you realize he’s not fucking here?” he asks. His tone has changed into something more sympathetic and gentle, someone guiding another through rough waters. He shakes his shoulder lightly. “Come on, you know he would not want us wandering around for fuck all.”

“Okay, then what do we do now?” Tommy asks. He sounds as miserable as he looks, dark shadows hanging prominently under his eyes. The zombie wonders if the kid has slept a wink since their journey. 

Tubbo shrugs. “Go back to the base with our heads held low and shit? Hell, for all we know, he could’ve gotten back sometime after we left. I personally really like that option.”

“God.” Tommy drags his hands down his face. “We will never hear the end of it. And if he’s still not there, it… man…” 

Everything goes quiet for a minute. Tension rests thick in the air. Tubbo uses the pause to grab a lighter from his bag. Finally, Tommy huffs and sits up. He searches through his bag before he lets out a resigned sigh. “We don’t have lots of food left. How long will it take to get back, you think? Three, four days?”

“Around that, I think, as long as we’re not fucking around. As in, if we leave, like, right now.” 

Tommy eyes the zombie. “You still want to come along?” 

For a second, it seems like Tommy almost looks desperate for a good answer. But he must be seeing things. Regardless, he answers with a quick nod. I got something waiting for me the way you’re going, even if you don’t know it. And I hope we all find whatever we’re searching for. 

❁❁❁

“Oh, shit, you guys don’t sleep, do you?”

The zombie sits up, ears perked. Tommy is laid back in his sleeping bag, his baseball bat is a barrier between them, a quiet warning. Otherwise, however, the boy seems far too relaxed conversing with a zombie while his friend sleep soundly beside him. 

When he answers with a lazy shrug, Tom asks, a brow raised, “So, then, when was the last time you slept? 

Since he severely doubts that Tommy wants to play a game of charades this late, he just gives him another vague shrug. That, and for all I know, I had insomnia when I was human, he adds to himself. Could be a few days, could be weeks, who knows? Not me. 

Tommy flares his nostrils and searches for his bag. He takes out a journal and a pencil riddled with bite marks and plants them in the grass. “How ‘bout writing things down? Can you do that?” 

Welp. Not like I got anything better to do than stargaze. And so he tries. Emphasis on tries. But given the lack of dexterity in his zombified hands, grabbing the pencil and not losing his hold seems as preposterous as sprouting wings and flying. When he does find a good grip, writing letters is still somehow just as, if not more, difficult. He feels like a child learning how to write the alphabet for the first time, even though he knows what he wants to write. It’s his hands that struggle to cooperate with his brain. 

Somehow, I can sense my old self spinning in his metaphorical grave… 

Tommy takes the journal after the zombie manages a few strokes on the paper to write HI. He grimaces. “Looks like a two year old learning what a pencil is for the first time… but ahhh, it’s fiiine!” he declares as he shoves his items back into his bag. “Writing’s a bitch, I get it. But rest assured, zombie man, we’ll get you writing every swear in the book before you know it.”

Yup, definitely my top priority right now. Soon, I’ll be able to summarize the situation we’re all in:  HELL. 

❁❁❁

Another town separates them from either of their destinations. A quaint area that probably once looked so comfy and pleasant to live in. But they’ll never get to see it in its prime. Zombies overwhelm the roads and streets, too many of them for the zombies to take out without endangering themselves. 

They find an empty alleyway behind a block of apartment buildings, but the other side reveals a grassy field and a basketball court littered with the dead. And then, Tommy speaks for the first time since they arrived. 

“Quick, zombieman! Be our shield!” 

I’m sorry, what?

Without another word, Tommy huddles behind the zombie’s tall, muscular build. “You, too!” He yanks Tubbo to his side, leaving the boys pressed together between a brick wall and their zombie friend as they all attempt to walk in sync slowly. Painfully slowly. 

“I can’t tell if this is dumb or genius,” mutters Tubbo. 

Well, we’re about to find out, the zombie thinks, and he stops before he collides with a zombie who stares blankly at a basketball that drifted outside of the basketball court. 

The other zombie turns, and so does he, keeping the boys at his back; the one thing stopping them from becoming prey. No pressure. Tommy begins to pull out his gun from his waist, but Tubbo puts a hand on his weapon before he can raise it any further. Patience, kid. It’s a thing. Please, he adds, and wishes that he could say this, above all else. 

For a moment, the two zombies, one more sentient than the other, come face to face. Another pair of empty eyes that he wants to believe are staring into his. If that were even the case, the other zombie acknowledges nothing, makes no visceral reaction. All that it does is flare his nostril for the tiniest sniff, but somehow, he feels as if his body grows even stiffer. 

Before anyone makes a hasty decision, however, the other zombie limps away, one bent foot scraping against the asphalt. Silence lingers on; he can hear the boys’ controlled, shuddered breaths. 

“Holy shit,” Tubbo breathes out, breaking the silence once the coast is clear. He smiles at him through heavy breaths. “I did not think that shit would work.” 

Neither did I. Was kind of a coin toss, if a coin toss made a difference between life or death. 

Tommy slaps the zombie on the back. “Told you he’d help us out. This is why you should always listen to me. Seriously, stop doubting me,” he adds with a feigned glare at his friend.

“Seriously, I had no idea another zombie could block out the scent of people like that. I mean, it makes sense, but that’s crazy!” Tubbo continues to ramble. He hasn’t stopped smiling; he looks positively amazed. He throws a playful punch against the zombie’s shoulder. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, zombie guy, but glad to have you on the team!”

As the boys discuss their next steps in traversing through the town safely, the zombie fails to properly listen in. But he smiles as they figure out their plans. 

Glad to help. 

❁❁❁

Tommy tells him that they have a friend who might still be hanging around in the area, someone he lost contact with a few months ago. While paranoia over trusting some stranger takes over, Tommy and Tubbo’s reassurances quell his concerns. If he can trust these kids, surely he can trust a friend of theirs. 

“What the FUCK!?”

“Quackity, don’t shoot!” 

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I shoot a zombie!?” 

Okay, I take everything back. 

The zombie stares at the bullet hole in the mailbox. A gaping hole that could have landed squarely in his chest if he didn’t have the wherewithal to move to the side the moment he spotted a gun aimed directly at him. A surefire kill. 

At least, I think it would be, he realizes, drowning out the argument the boys are having with their friend. Would a chest wound kill me? It definitely doesn’t kill zombies. Wow, I totally love sitting in the middle of this whole thing, not knowing anything. My favorite hobby. A very fun time. 

Someone grabs his arm and tugs. “See, Quackity, we’re chill!” Tommy says, and he brings the zombie onto the porch and through the open door. Before they can walk inside, however, the gun pointed at the zombie forces them again to skid to a stop in front of the doorway. 

“He-he came all the way here with you guys?” says the new, unfamiliar face, his eyes flickering between Tubbo and the zombie. 

According to Tommy, the man named Quackity, with dark messy hair hidden in a worn out beanie, hides in a single story house with thick wired gates protecting him from zombies or other dangerous passerbys. He aims his rifle with a cold stare, despite the boys’ warnings blasting in their eardrums. All the zombie could do is stare and pray the trigger isn’t pulled. 

“Yessir!” Tubbo answers with a salute. “He saved our asses earlier, actually. It was pretty wild.” 

A moment of terse silence hangs between the four men. Eventually, Quackity lowers his weapon, but not his guard. “Got my eye on you, ya freak,” he spits, and he slams the door shut. When he addresses the boys, his demeanor softens, just a little. “You can stay the night, if ya want. But this fucker is staying outside.” 

“What?! You want to leave him outside like some pathetic dog!?” Tubbo protests. 

Tommy nudges his shoulder with a cheeky grin. “Thought you wanted him gone.”

“Shaddup.” 

“No shit! How do you know he’ll stay docile forever? For all we know, we could wake up to him biting into our guts. Do you really want to risk that?” Quackity asks them, and they fall silent the longer they ponder on the scenario. “Do you?” 

The zombie, too, lets this thought sink in, and a pit makes a home in his stomach. Huh, never crossed my mind somehow. And why would he? Since he awoke, he hasn’t noticed any changes to his body or mind. No deterioration or worsening of his condition. No desire to taste human flesh. No instance of losing his mind to zombified instincts. And shouldn’t no news mean good news in this scenario? 

But it means nothing, he thinks bitterly. He’s still right. Things could change at any minute. Could happen in a millisecond. Could he wake up one day and… well, not wake up? Or rather, would his body wake up and join the horde, another statistic in the world’s most catastrophic disaster known to man?

Sometime during the zombie’s mental spiral, Tommy and Tubbo had agreed to Quackity’s demands, though reluctantly. Tommy is the one to lead the zombie outside onto the porch. The gunshot must’ve garnered some attention, if the crowd of zombies mingling on the road in front of the house is anything to go by. So for a while, they sit in silence and survey the zombies in case any come too close. 

“Ah, don’t listen to Quackity,” Tommy whispers with a wave of his hand. “He’s just cranky. Lost some people close to him recently. Sooo, yeah, probably not the biggest fan of having a zombie-sort of guy in his house.”

Gee, wonder why. 

“But you’re not gonna turn.”

The zombie shoots Tommy a look, but Tommy doesn’t look at him as he speaks.

“Nah, you probably would’ve already. Or you woulda showed signs or something. Ah, I don’t know.” He shrugs. “That’s what my guts’ telling me, anyway. I think you’re alright. I mean, I sure hope I’m right. I very much prefer being right.”

… I hope so, too, kid, he prays, and they continue watching over the zombies in silence, until night falls.  

❁❁❁

Quackity throws the door open and sneers at the zombie. “Why do you have that?” he demands in a hushed tone and aims his pistol. 

The zombie doesn’t acknowledge Quackity’s presence at first, too engrossed in the task at hand. Keeping his hands steady for long periods of time is a strenuous task. Then, he turns to the right, away from the threatening man at the door,  and aims at a tree in the yard. The longer he stands straight and focused, the more his head spins, but he pushes through it and continues aiming the pistol he borrowed from Tommy. Not shooting, just… aiming.  

“The fuck are you doi—” Quackity begins to ask, but when he gets closer, something jingles at his feet. Bullets litter the porch. His lips curl into a snarl. “No, seriously, the fuck are you doing with that? You think I can trust you with a fucking gun, even if its empty?”

Are you expecting an actual response from me oooor? With a roll of his eyes, the zombie lowers the gun and sits on the wooden porch. 

“Man, you’re fucking weird,” Quackity murmurs, focused on the discarded gun. “Didn’t think I’d live through this long enough to see a zombie try to fire a gun. Bro, we’re fucked.” In his other hand is a beer bottle. He leans against the wall, snaps the lid off, and takes a swig. He glares down at the zombie and shakes the beer close to his face. “Hey. Do zombies drink?” 

As a hobby? I bet some wished they could… Ah, why not? Without a care in the world, he accepts the offer and takes a sip. Droplets spill from his mouth, which causes Quackity to swear under his breath with indignation. However, even the smallest intake feels like acid traveling down his throat. He shoves the drink back into Quackity’s hand and heaves over the porch’s wooden panels. 

“Yeah, no, you’re really fucking weird,” says Quackity with a shake of his head. He puts the bottle down and sits down cross legged, still keeping distance between them. “I don’t think I’ve heard of anyone like you before. I wonder if that’s a good or a bad thing.” 

Not to toot my own horn, but I’d like to consider my presence a good thing.

“No, seriously. Some sort of zombie who can, like, fuckin’ think and shit. How’d you even get like that? Did you, what… only get half bitten or something?” 

After a brief pause, he can only shrug in response. Whatever happened that caused him to turn is yet another memory that he must unearth. Though truthfully, his desire to chase after something as awful as that has only shrunken over time. With flare nostrils, he looks away to watch a zombie across the street trip on nothing but air and collapse into a pathetic heap. 

“I’m just asking,” Quackity mumbles. He picks up the bottle again, but doesn’t take a drink right away. He stares at its contents like he is memorizing its appearance. “Cause, hey, for all we know, there could be more people like you out there. We just haven’t heard about them yet. It’s not like we have news that could really update us on that shit.” He taps fingernails against the glass bottle in a lazy rhythm of clinks. Then, he stops. “And if it can happen to just about anyone…” He trails off with a faraway look in his eyes. Like he is searching for someone lightyears away.

If it can happen to anyone, he echoes, and now he understands Quackity’s earlier sentiment. Would that be a good thing, or a terrible thing. I don’t think this is a fate I would exactly wish upon most people. Maybe my greatest enemies, but… this isn’t exactly a 5/5 experience. 

“Alright, anyway, you with that gun’s freaking me out, so—” Quackity reaches for the gun the zombie placed beside his hip. 

But the zombie clamps onto his wrist, and though the zombie lacks much strength, Quackity freezes. He glowers at the zombie, whose dulled focus lies at his lower arm. Someone starts hissing under their breath, and maybe it’s Quackity, but he can’t tell, because some quiet voice from the depths of the void crawls inside of him, and its silver tongue whispers, 

It… th… the… fl… flesh… 

Quackity yanks his arm back and pulls his gun to aim at the zombie’s forehead. “What’re you staring at, bro?” It’s not a question born out of curiosity. It’s a challenge. A warning. 

The zombie blinks, then recoils. He glances at his trembling hands. The voice left as soon as Quackity pulled away, so all he can hear inside of his own head is himself, thinking, What was that? No, what. Was. That? 

He holds his hands up in a typical gesture of surrender and looks Quackity in the eye. For a moment, Quackity’s gaze, and the lineup of his gun, remain intact. Though in the briefest of moments, he swears that something flashes in the man’s gaze, that his lip twitches. 

He swears that Quackity, for just a moment, stares at him with what looks like pity. 

Rain starts to fall. The raindrops pitter-patter against the roof. The zombie spends the rest of the night curled up in the corner of the porch. Somewhere in that time, the door is thrown open, slammed shut, and then locked tight. Quackity left, but he did not take the gun. 

❁❁❁

Come morning, the zombie and the boys are led to the edge of the little town by Quackity, who refuses to lower his shotgun. 

He is kind enough to offer them extra ammo, food, and even some spare clothing left behind by the original family of his house. However, kindness has its limits, as he forgoes traveling to the city with them; something about their current destination puts a bitter look on his face, and he mutters something about the ghosts that still haunt him.

Quackity bids the boys goodbye with extra bullets for their guns. While he hands them the small containers, he gives them a single piece of advice:  “If you’re afraid of him for even a second, if you find any reason to shoot him, do it. Do not hesitate.”

And thus, they diverge on separate paths. And not once, that whole morning, did Quackity so much as spare the zombie a single glance. 

❁❁❁

Bang!

The brains of a zombie splatter and stain the grass as it collapses at Tommy’s feet. But he doesn’t have a second to breathe and collect himself, because a grotesque hand grabs him from behind. 

Another gunshot splices the air. Tubbo watches the body he shot slump into a pathetic pile of limbs. Tommy, freed from the zombie’s grasp, awkwardly stumbles backward and smiles at Tubbo in silent thanks. But Tubbo doesn’t notice, as he shoots an oncoming zombie to his right. Though it falls, its friend lunges toward Tubbo and sends them both tumbling into the dirt. Tubbo’s gun slips out of his grasp with a clank. 

“Tubbo!” Tommy tries to intervene, but three zombies surround him. 

The zombie, the one with a mind of his own, looks up after snapping a zombie’s neck with the pressure of his foot. He watches Tubbo fall, and he watches the gun slide out of the kid’s reach. Several feet away, Tommy swings at a zombie before ducking from the clutches of another. So Tubbo pushes against the zombie hovering over him, shoving its jaw away with all of his might. 

Something fierce clutches at the zombie’s chest. A fire he didn’t realize he had, burning so suddenly he nearly trips on his own two feet. The gun shines in the sunlight, not too far to his left. 

He doesn’t have time to think, so he limps toward the gun, picks it up, and aims. 

Two people are in his line of fire:  Tubbo, with his widened, terrified eyes, and the decayed face of the zombie looming over him. His hands are shaking. He can’t make a mistake here. 

But he cannot hesitate, either. He fires. 

He drops the gun at the sound of the bullet piercing the air, his head spinning. After another resounding crack of Tommy’s bat, everything, for a moment, falls silent. 

“Holy fuck,” Tommy breathes out. 

“Ah, jesus christ!” 

He looks up. With heavy gasps, Tubbo pushes the immobile zombie off of him with a heavy grimace. The guts and blood of the zombie are splattered across his face and all over his clothes, intermingling with old zombie stains. But none of that matters, because Tubbo raises his arms and says, “No bites. All good!” 

The zombie could collapse from relief. Tommy rushes over to help Tubbo to his feet, exclaiming, “Dude, did you see that?! Did you see what he did!? I didn’t hallucinate that, right?”

“I know! That zombie just shot another zombie,” Tubbo points toward him, jaw dropped. He faces him and repeats, “Dude, you just shot another zombie. What the fuck?” 

“Since when could you do that?” asks Tommy. He wears an exaggerated frown. “Have you been holding out on us?” 

He shakes his head. 

“Well, as long as other zombies don’t start picking up on that,” Tubbo says, eyes widening at the thought. He extends his hand out to take his gun back. “Still don’t want you lugging that around, though. No offense, but fuck that.” 

You know, if I wasn’t a zombie, the roles would be reversed here. Oh, how the turn tables… 

“I think we’ve seen everything now, Tubbo,” Tommy continues to praise him, eyes practically bursting with fireworks. In the background, Tubbo kicks the head of the zombie that almost got him. “Bro, you can barely even hold a pencil, what the fuck?”

I don’t know how. I just did it. Man, I wish I could explain this. 

But when the night blankets the sky, before they stomp out the campfire, he finds the words, and he finds the strength to write them down. Well, write it down, as he only manages to write a single word:

You. 

He hopes they understand.  

❁❁❁

After pushing themselves to get to the top of a steep hill, a city comes into sight, the outstretched buildings shrouded in shadows. Finally! the boys had cheered, and that’s when the zombie knew that their destination was upon them. All the while, the zombie’s gut still calls east. He wonders if this is the end, if his destination goes beyond this city.

But with the sun setting, they all agree to camp out for the rest of the night before finishing their journey come early morning. Their surroundings also feel safe, shrouding them in thickets of trees; a better landscape than the flat and open farmland they had just come out of not even an hour earlier. 

An almost week-long journey is coming to a close, and Tommy and Tubbo’s relief is apparent in their lax muscles and tired eyes that still manage to carry this excited spark to them. Tommy is even explaining to the zombie where their gated community is within the city, a safe haven for a group of people that he and Tubbo crossed paths with a year ago, and when he invites the zombie to visit before going their separate ways, “Oh, yeah, bet you’re gonna love it!” he leaves no room for denial. 

The zombie cannot tell whether he pities his naivete, or envies him. 

Not that it even matters. Regardless of his feelings, Tommy’s vibrant optimism makes everything all the more painful when, after the boys finish the last of their canned dinners… he hungers. 

A quiet yet tense feeling claws at his insides, seemingly out of nowhere. Then, in a blink, it’s as though something has carved a crater directly where his stomach is. A rumbling echoes, war drums in his ears, and a shiver vibrates up his spine and sends electricity through all four limbs. 

Something’s not right. 

Everything happens in mere seconds. The boys don’t even notice how still he becomes, too busy setting up their sleeping bags. He looks at them, and alarms blare out. Hu-hu…man, a voice—but not his voice, it’s not—rattles in his mind, slow and dragging and trembling. Me-me-meat… need… whispers that animalistic voice, a silver tongue slithering through his ear and itching his brain. Voices that he has tried so hard to smother, something he has tried so hard to ignore. If only I had been a bit stronger.

But with hunger comes instincts from deep within, a beast with more power than he ever will, especially in a body that does not feel like his own. The voices, the voices, they’re getting louder and louder, and he thinks, is this what all zombies hear? No wonder they just give in. 

Or maybe he is just resigned to a rare and cursed fate. 

Body… need… food… need need blood—

No. 

He stands abruptly. Tommy notices first, and he stares with a raised brow.

Everything falls still. The voices are stamped out, for now, and the zombie recalls Quackity’s warning.

“If you find any reason to shoot him, if you find any reason to be afraid of him, do it.” 

Tubbo’s gun rests beside his sleepingbag. If he found a way to ask, perhaps he would oblige. He doubts Tommy would take up the task; hell, perhaps he would try to stop Tubbo from taking the shot. Or maybe Tubbo would surprise him and be the one to refuse. 

“Wassup, zombie man?” Tubbo asks. They have both been watching his downward spiral, unaware of the war rampaging inside of him. 

Of course they don’t know…  they’re so young. How could he force a decision as grim as that onto them? 

The reminder is the final hole in this sinking ship. This decision is no longer a difficult one. 

He sits down again, together with the two boys for what he is sure will be his final night with them, and he waits. 

❁❁❁

Only two hours pass before Tommy and Tubbo drift off to sleep. With the campfire stamped out, the illumination shining from the moon is his only source of light as he tiptoes around the boys in their sleeping bags, walks away from their campsite, and finds a path leading into the city. 

He marches onward for only a few minutes before the tight feeling in his empty stomach intensifies. It’s practically dizzying, and he clutches onto a tree to avoid tripping on his own two feet. Ah, yes, hello, consequences of my actions, very nice to meet you. 

As the edge of the city comes into view, abandoned houses and gas stations coming into view, he slows down. His gaze lingers on the towering structures in the short distance. The sight is not familiar. He doesn’t even know the name of the city. Yet all he can think is:  This is it. 

But the realization doesn’t stir anything joyous inside of him, no bursts of light or a quickened heartbeat. He simply stares, and a sinking feeling grows. 

Something tells me that, wherever I end up, whoever’s there ain’t gonna roll out a red carpet for me. Not like this anyway. 

Without someone there to stand beside him and confirm his pacifism to a frazzled crowd, his presence will surely be followed by the sound of gunfire and the scent of charred flesh. And even if he were so lucky, this hunger, this craving, it will never go away. How could people possibly live with the knowledge that someone within close proximity of you could turn and take a bite out of your neck in a moment’s notice, with no warning?  

His fate is sealed, is his second realization; there is no path in this life that does not end with the muzzle of a gun pointed at his skull. 

Maybe this was all a mistake… 

At least those kids got here safely… not that I really helped that much. Or at all. 

Snap!

He goes still. Footsteps approach him. He hides behind a tree, dirty fingernails clawing at the bark. But his hiding spot proves less than successful, as someone points a gun toward him and says in a commanding voice, “Hands up!” 

With gritted teeth, he abides. He tries to take a step back, but before he can make his getaway, a light shines in his face. 

A sharp gasp fills the air. The woman’s long black hair takes over his vision before the light dips to the ground; the flashlight drops into the grass at the woman’s feet. She kneels several feet away and aims a handgun. 

He throws himself to the side as a shot is fired, but he falls before he can catch himself. The dew dotted over the grass coats his dirty, bloodied hands. Part of him wants to lay in the wet grassy field and shut his eyes as he accepts whatever comes in mere seconds. 

Another part of him thinks, Boy, wish I could tell her about the boys. The woman seems competent and focused. Those two guys need someone with a good head on their shoulders to take them someplace safe. Why they ended up with him is anyone’s guess… 

“Kristin, stop!” 

“Don’t shoot!”

The familiar voices cause him to lift his head. Before another bullet can be fired, Tommy and Tubbo race through the bushery and stand in the way of the woman. Oh my god, stooooop, he wants to say, because those two are going to be the second death of him. 

“What!? You two—” the woman sounds surprised, rather than annoyed. Tubbo shines his flashlight, and the zombie gets a better look at her. Her hardened features give off a commanding presence, but her eyes shine with bright, warm kindness, edged with crow’s feet from lighthearted laughter over the years. He is not sure how he knows; he simply… does. 

As the boys ease her down and explain their new friend to the woman, Kristin, the zombie stands back up and watches them explain how they stumbled upon each other. The joy in her eyes fades when the boys mention their attempts to search for their friend. Someone named the Blade. Tears well up, but she keeps her composure for the two young men, hands tightened into unsteady fists.

“We promise he’s cool,” Tommy swears, hands pressed together. “Like, the coolest zombieman ever. He doesn’t bite.” 

“Is he a zombie or a dog?” she asks, the edge of her lips upturned. She moves past the boys, stands face to face with the zombie and meets his gaze. “Alright, if the boys, insist, I guess introductions are in or—”

She stops. Her face falls. In the moonlight, she looks as pale as a ghost. 

It’s quiet. A tense sort of quiet that not even the boys have the courage to interrupt. A bird caws, and—

“Wait… n-no,” she mutters and walks back. Her shoulders heave. She looks between the boys, then at the zombie, and shakes her head. “There’s no way… Am I—

Technoblade?”

The name is like a dagger to the heart. He recoils. The name, it’s so familiar, and yet… 

“Wh-what?” is all he hears from Tommy before the boys step back and stare with intense, wide eyed expressions. 

Another long pause drags out once more, thick enough to slice with a dagger, but Kristin steps up to the plate and breaks the silence again. Her jaw quivers, as if she struggles to find the right words. “Uhh, it’s me. It’s Kristin. Part of the council of our little community, I don’t know…” She trails off, words still failing her. She looks painstricken. But a spark flashes in her eyes, and she digs into her pocket. She pulls something out and hands it to him. “I-I’m also Phil’s wife? Philza? Anything there?”

The thing in question is a photo. Inside of an abandoned building, four people sit and pose for the shot. A woman with short blond hair with wisps of pink at the edge, eyes cold but her smile warm. Kristin, with her dark hair pulled in a braid. A blond man holds her hand and waves at the camera. And a man with pink hair, his brunette roots beginning to come out. 

Niki. 

Kristin. 

Philza. 

He flinches. The names, they come to him like a whip to the face. The recollection almost hurt. He knows these people. The group that leads their community in the next town. Friends, he realizes numbly. And the other guy… he… 

“What the fuck’s happening?!” Tubbo asks. 

Kristin bites her lip. “God, I don’t even know how to say this, I… guys, this—”

In a chillingly dull voice, Tommy interrupts her:  “He’s Technoblade.”

Technoblade. 

The man with pink-dyed hair and brown eyes hiding behind a pair of glasses with a crack in the left lens. He’s punching the blond man—Philza, this is Philza—in the shoulder with a sharp smile. He stares into the Technoblade of the past’s eyes, and they’re so plain, so clear, so alive, this is me, this is me, but not anymore.  

This can’t be. 

But… it is. 

His mind is a whirlwhirl, a hectic hurricane that can find no bunker or shelter. Close by, Tommy is pointing at him and saying something to Tubbo, but the ringing in his ears drowns out their voices. Tears stream down Tommy’s face, while Tubbo looks like he has seen a ghost. I guess he has, in a way. 

❁❁❁

“You’re not supposed to die.” 

The zombie—or rather, Technoblade—looks at his side. By the time Technoblade’s head had cleared, Tubbo had stormed off, with Kristin chasing after him. But Tommy stays, pouting with his arms crossed. He blinks fresh tears from his eyes. 

I mean, I would’ve liked for that to not have happened, but eh, what can you do?

Technoblade wonders if his humor would’ve lighten the mood, would’ve made the kid laugh. He hopes that would be the case.

“That’s why me and Tubbo wanted to find you.” Tommy kicks a pebble. It disappears into some shrubbery. “When Philza told us, we were like ‘there’s no fuckin’ way!’ Philza must’ve been mistaken. Old man at his age, you’re gonna make mistakes. It’s okay, nobody’s perfect,” he says with a light sneer, but after a long pause, his expression crumbles. “But really, I just proved him right. Oh, this sucks, man.” 

Technoblade’s shoulders shake with a quick laugh. The noise coming out of his mouth sounds odd, almost like the honk of a goose. 

Tommy snorts. “Fucking weirdo,” he teases. Then, he narrows his eyebrows and unfolds his arms. “How did you die, anyway?” 

Hopefully like a badass, he answers internally, because memories of his last moments before turning remain hazy, surrounded by a fog too thick to disperse. And still, it remains a memory he has no desire to dig up. He offers a casual shrug.

“Yeah, figures,” Tommy groans with a roll of his eyes. “Nah, I bet you went out like a total badass.”

Yeah, he gets it.

The sound of footsteps echoes through the area, and Kristin and Tubbo appear through the trees. Tubbo averts his gaze from everyone while Kristin announces, “Alright so! It seems we’re all a bit more clearheaded, so, uh, we should probably get back to the gates.” She shoots him a look, smiling. “All of us.”

Heh?

“So, wait, he’s coming with?” Tommy asks, hope brimming the edge of his words. 

Kristin chuckles. “Are you kidding? I’d be an idiot not to bring him back. Besides,” she says as she walks toward Technoblade, “I have a new mission that involves you.”

Techno blinks, and while he waits, he watches her smile vanish, the glint in her eyes dim. She looks into his gaze with a deep, aching sadness. 

“I think there’s someone who needs to see him. Badly.” 

❁❁❁

When the gates to the community are in sight, the sun has begun to rise, and Techno realizes that his hands are shaking. Hands can shake when nervous, even for half-zombie-whatever I am. Noted. 

“You okay, mate?” Tubbo asks. It’s the first time he has spoken since they discovered their zombie friend’s identity. His voice is low and distant. He also avoids Techno’s gaze, keeping his attention forward. 

Even if he were blessed with the ability to answer, Technoblade isn’t sure if he could form one. Truthfully, multiple come to mind. Is all of this even real? How did I get so lucky to come across just the right people? 

I shouldn’t be alive. 

The final thought comes and stays, a bitter black parasite that eats away at him. In any other universe, his fate surely would have been sealed with the firing of a bullet. Whether a stray one, an intended one, or anything else in between. 

It feels too good to be true. 

A hand rests on his shoulder. He turns, and Kristin is smiling at him. “You ready?” 

He hesitates. She seems to notice this, but when he nods, she lets it go and knocks at the front gates. When she presses a button on her walkie-talkie, static blurts from its speakers. “I found someone. Or, two someones,” she says to whoever is on the other side. “And… another someone. Hard to explain, honestly. Just know that he’s harmless. Please don’t panic, and make sure everyone knows this.”

The person on the other end responds, their words smothered by static. Then, with a loud creak, the gates open wide. When the gates fully part, they reveal a small village and people casually walking about. A sight so normal that it’s almost painful. 

“Stay with him,” Kristin advises the boys. She waves to a pink-haired woman who is leaning against the wall close to the gate and eyeing their group closely. Her interest sharpens on Technoblade, of course. “Even though I let them know he’s harmless, we don’t want any misunderstandings.”

“Ready for a good ol’ sorta-but-not-really-family reunion?” Tommy asks with far too bright a smile this early in the morning. 

A few people are already approaching. Techno’s face falls. Absolutely not. 

❁❁❁

“I can’t believe it.” Niki, the other leader of their group, keeps her distance, but stares at him with awe and tears in her eyes. Someone he has been training in close combat, though her gunslinging is sleek enough to make even him jealous. Something tells me I won’t be any help to her anymore, he mourns. 

But this thought must not be on her mind. She smiles through tearfilled cheeks and brushes the top of his hand. “Happy to have you back in one piece. Sort of,” she adds with a lighthearted chuckle. 

❁❁❁

“You… what!?” Ranboo, a kid they found left alone in a storage facility months back, shrinks back and stares at Technoblade like he is staring at any anomaly… which is not necessarily wrong. The boy has looked up to Technoblade for a while, yearning to be as strong and tough as him in order to protect his loved ones. “You’re here? What? Oh my god… dude!” 

I bet he could surpass me someday. He probably already can. 

❁❁❁

So many people. All with familiar faces now that he has managed to push through that fog in his head. Memories are flooding in, and they hurt as much as they make him smile. Many of the people stare at him as if they are mourning the very person they’re staring at. 

Can’t blame ‘em. I’m not exactly alive. Not like that, at least. 

But that doesn’t make it hurt less. 

Kristin guides them away from the crowded street and into the housing area, until they’re standing at a pair of huts with a connected porchway. The few people who greet and sob at the sight of Technoblade disperse, and just like that, the air around them intensifies. The sun has risen, the sky mockingly bright. 

“Technoblade.” 

It’s still weird hearing his name out loud. It’s weird hearing someone address him directly with his actual name. He’s not sure why. 

“Do you…” Kristin gnaws at her lower lip. “Do you remember what happened? You know, when you…” 

She struggles to get the words out, but Techno is no fool. He shakes his head, and her lips curl into a deeper frown. 

“It’s just…” Another long pause. “Phil hasn’t told me. I think he’s afraid to. Really, I…” After more hesitance, she breathes out a tired sigh. “I think he blames himself.”

Of course he would, is his first immediate thought, which surprises him, given how his memories with Philza are still lacking, at best. However, memories or no memories, the thought of Phil blaming himself, regardless of what really happened, sits like rotten food in his stomach. 

“An-and I don’t know if this’ll even make things better, or-or if… I don’t know,” Kristin stammers, her palm pressed against her forehead. She wipes leftover tears off of her face. “But of course we want you to stay here, no matter what’s going on with you. So if you… if you’re gonna be okay, we’d like you to stay. And I know Phil would.” 

Can he even stay? Should he stay? 

But maybe he should wait before thinking about what may become of him. He has a friend to reunite with. 

❁❁❁

Two knocks. Kristin leans against the door. “Phil. Can I come in?” She glances over her shoulder. “Wait here, I’ll ease him in… somehow,” she finishes with less certainty, but she braves the odds and enters the room, leaving the door open ajar. 

Technoblade, Tommy, and Tubbo all listen in from the hallway. Hushed whispers, a conversation that none of them can decipher. Techno takes a step closer. 

Then he hears it. His voice. Philza’s voice. It’s low and hollow, but it’s still his. It’s still him. 

Something about his voice triggers memories that lay in hidden corners in his brain. A laugh that is as common as breathing to this man. Enough unabashed swearing to make a sailor blush. Technoblade tilts his head to get a better look. With his back to the door, all that he can see of Phil’s head is a bed of unkempt, greasy blond hair. He takes another cautious step forward. 

Creaaaak. 

Bruhhhh. 

“Who’s there? Tom? Toby?” asks Philza, less paranoid and more annoyed. He turns around, and the sunlight reflects off whatever dangles around his neck. A pair of thin necklaces, with a green gem resting at the center of each. 

With a deep inhale, Technoblade braces himself and walks into the room. 

“What the fuck!?” Phil exclaims. He reaches for the gun resting atop the bed, while his other hand hovers in front of Kristin, who keeps insisting that their guest means no harm. He looks positively miserable, skin pale, heavy shadows under his eyes, and a skinnier frame than he remembers. The world has not treated him kindly, and it seems like the same goes for himself. But that doesn’t make his voice any less threatening or commanding. “Everyone, Kristin, get down!” 

“Oh my god, this is so annoying!” Tommy shouts. At the same time, he grabs Technoblade by the shoulders and shoves him down toward the ground. 

Bang! A single bullet whizzes through the air, but Tommy forces Technoblade to duck. The bullet disappears into the hallway. Tubbo swears, hidden away in a corner to avoid the stray bullet. 

“Tommy, what the fuck—!?”

“It’s Technoblade, you dumbass! It’s him!”

Phil goes still. Something dark shifts in his gaze. “Are you fucking high, man?” he asks through his teeth. He walks past Techno, and the glare he sends him could bury an empire, and stands in the doorway, standing between Tommy and Technoblade. “I fuckin’ told you what happened. He can’t have survived that—”

“But you didn’t see him turn!” Tubbo points out from behind Tommy. “You said that, right?” 

Phil looks pained, his eyes cast downward. “Why… I couldn’t… I saw enough, alright? I saw all the zombies closing in on him, but then I fucking tripped before I could shoot ‘em.” He grinds his teeth together. He looks ready to burst into tears. “I saw the bite mark, mate. There’s no going back from that. Now get him out of here! I don’t care if he’s harmless, he’s gotta go.” 

Even now, he can’t accept that I’m built different. This guy, I swear. 

“Phil, please.” Kristin walks across the room and holds up the photo she showed Technoblade earlier. “They’re not lying. This is really happening, Phil. Tubbo and Tommy found him when they ran away—”

“We’re talking about that later, by the way.” Phil points at the boys with a stern air, but they disappear into the hallway the moment eye contact is made.  

“Just look,” Kristin continues. She hands him the photo. “Look.”

Phil’s gaze fixates on the photo, and his face falls. Then his gaze lands on Technoblade. His brows furrow, but they’re not as cold as previously. “There’s no way… he was bit. He… I didn’t see him die, but he told me to go before he turned. He wouldn’t…” He scrutinizes Technoblade and his new, odd appearance. “He would’ve turned fully. Whatever’s going on with this guy, it’s…” Words fail him, and he trails off.  

Technoblade exhales. Bro’s in hard denial. Alright, you stubborn bird, what’ll take to convince you? Do I have anything on me? He thinks, and instinctively, he reaches under his jacket and into the front pockets of his jeans. Then, he pauses. Wait, have I ever checked these out before?

No, he realizes, cause why would I? I haven’t exactly been good at holding things. 

“What’s he doing?” Phil asks, guarded again. 

But Techno pays him no mind. When he doesn’t find anything in his front pockets, he searches his back pockets. And there, in his right back pocket, he feels something. He pulls it out, and… 

“Oh, your wallet,” says Kristin. She holds Phil’s hand as he watches Techno scan his wallet with heavy breaths. “You liked carrying it, even though, you know, we don’t really need those anymore.”

Technoblade opens his wallet. Kristin is right; given the circumstances, there is no currency or cards to concern themselves with. Which is probably why he finds so little inside. Except for his ID—

I COULD’VE FIGURED OUT SO MANY THINGS IF I JUST CHECKED—anyway. 

And… something folded in one of the wallet pockets. Kristin helps him unfold it, and her smile grows into something fond. “Maybe check this one out.” She hands Philza the new photo. 

Technoblade recalls that he doesn’t keep that many things out of sentimentality; he knows one day those things will get lost or stolen or left behind if they require extra storage space for necessities. However, he always had one exception. 

Phil stares, jaw fallen slack, at a photo of himself, Kristin, and Technoblade, with the latter clothed in a long graduation gown and cap. Phil has his arm slung around Technoblade and is giving him a knuckle sandwich with the other. Kristin is laughing, not a care in the world. Her ring looks elegant as her hand rests on Technoblade’s shoulder. 

Five years. It’s been five years since this photo was taken. A little under three years since the world fell apart. The people in the picture look so carefree and happy, not broken down by the reality of their new, fucked up world, not hanging somewhere between life and death. A reminder of simpler times. 

“Holy shit,” Philza breathes, and their gazes meet. Tears cascade down his friend’s face, and Technoblade realizes Oh, right, I don’t think I can cry anymore. I guess he can cry for the both of us. Phil coughs and clears his throat. “Tech-Technoblade?” he asks, his voice rising with hope. “This is really happening?” 

Technoblade nods his head. Then, with a smile, he spreads his arms out and steps forward. 

Phil laughs, and it’s a loud laugh, far louder than is warranted, but Technoblade knows uses laughter for just about any response, including times when he is seconds from crumbling. He curls away and slaps the air between them. “Nah, fuck no, man. You… you fucking stink. Worse than everyone else, I mean.” 

Technoblade drops his arms back to his sides with a profound slap. Rude. 

“... Ahh, fuck it.” Phil gives up the facade instantly and gives Technoblade a tight hug, with Kristin joining in seconds later. 

There, was that so hard, Philza?

Another quiet, calmer laugh escapes Phil’s throat. He wipes the tears from his face. Kristin rests a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Bro, how is this even possible? Seriously, like, what the fuck, dude?” 

“Like, you’re okay, right? You’re not in any pain or anything?” asks Kristin. When Techno answers with a shake of his head, she lets out a breath of relief. “Oh, that’s good. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of something like this happening, so…” she doesn’t finish her sentence. She exchanges looks with the two men. 

“I haven’t either,” says Phil, though he doesn’t look happy about that at all, “so who knows what could happen.” After a moment, he lifts his head to tell Technoblade, “We should probably talk about that. As a group. You alright with that?”

Technoblade approves without a second thought, but he then notices movement from out the window. Tommy and Tubbo hover outside, and they both give him a thumbs up. As Phil and Kristin leave the room, he gives them one in exchange. 

❁❁❁

Once the air has settled, everyone makes quick work of gathering and theorizing. The leaders, along with Tommy and Tubbo, surround the long kitchen table, and Technoblade stands at one of the far ends, and he listens. 

None of them are scientists deep in the know of zombie biology. So their guesses are merely them treading through unfamiliar waters, and nothing more. But Technoblade knows that isn’t going to stop any of them from trying to figure out something. 

“Here’s the thing, though,” Niki says at one point. “We don’t know if this means something for zombies or people.” 

“He doesn’t look any different from when we first met him,” says Tubbo in another point in their conversation. “And it’s been, what, a week?”

“Can you imagine if zombies are evolving?” Tommy asks later on, and he sounds almost curious and interested at the thought. 

You sound way too excited about that, kid. Also, this is not helping my case whatsoever, and the stare down Technoblade gives Tommy is enough to silence him. 

But that is all that comes out of the meeting:  sharing theories and ideas that lead to nowhere. Even if they want to study Technoblade’s predicament, it’d come with a dangerous caveat:  anomalies such as this would surely pique the interest of doctors worldwide, doctors who would experiment on their friend on the off chance his condition can lead to salvation. A theory that only feels real in movies. I don’t see miracles coming by any time soon. 

They only come to one conclusion at the end of it all:  Regardless of what happens, until the worst of the worst happens, the community remains a home for Technoblade. 

“If you want,” Phil adds, though he sounds like he is dragging those three words from within his ribcage. 

Technoblade takes the moment to draw out his answer. Literally, as proved when he lifts up the notebook Tommy gave him and reveals a thumbs up. 

“You asshole, you could’ve just giving us a thumbs up yourself—” Tubbo scoffs. “This guy.”

“You missed the prick, don’t lie,” Tommy points out with a cheeky grin, and all Tubbo replies with is a playful shove. 

So he stays. 

When the moon soars into the sky, perched at its highest peak, Technoblade finds himself left alone to his own devices, everyone else occupied with work or people elsewhere. He stands in front of his house that connects to Phil and Kristin’s. The world has gone quiet. He looks skyward. 

No matter what fate approaches him, at least the stars are as beautiful as they always have been. 

❁❁❁

Everyone stares on in disgust, but he perseveres. 

Once he’s finished, they sit there, waiting, staring. It’s starting to feel pervasive. 

He gestures at them to say what?

“How was it?” Tommy asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Technoblade stares at his hands, drenched in blood and scraps of leftover flesh caught under his fingernails. He soothes his dirty hands over the fabric of his jeans. The blood doesn’t go away. It stays. 

But if it means living in peace among the people he cares about, he’s willing to do this. For them. 

“Is this cannibalism for them?” asks Tubbo, leaning in toward Tommy, who just shrugs. Then, back to Technoblade, “Well? How’s it? From zero to ten?”

Technoblade, after a moment of thought, very slightly moves his hand from side-to-side in a so-so gesture. If anything, it tasted so… painfully bland and dry. I get the feeling this guy did not take care of his body before the zombies came around. Are people really that scared of vegetables? 

“Ain’t no way you’re being picky, even now,” Philza pipes up from across the room. He and Kristin are laughing at his lackluster reaction.  “Just add some spices or something.” 

“Man, this was a human,” Tubbo muses quietly. He gestures to the table where the person’s flesh was before being consumed. He raises his brows at his friends. “And bro just ate him. This shit’s crazy.” 

Phil shrugs. “Everything’s fucked, mate.” 

“Sometimes, ya gotta do what’chu gotta do,” says Kristin. She throws a hand up. “Don’t tell me you’re complaining that he found a way to not want to eat us. Listen, he gets a pass with this.”

“So doesn’t that mean I can’t try it out—”

“No, Tommy!” everyone shouts in near unison. Except for Technoblade of course, who thumps him on the back of the head. 

❁❁❁

“So! How you feeling, mate?”

“Fine.” 

“Hmm, I see your writing has improved.”

“English degree would weep if it didn’t.”

“Hahah. Fair enough. But seriously… can I sit?”

Technoblade waves toward the other chair in his room in approval, and Philza accepts the invite without hesitation. He sits down and sighs. “I mean, it’s been a week, Techno. ‘Course I’m gonna check on you. You know, make sure nothing’s, like… worse,” he cringes at the end.

“No lost limbs or anything, so I say good.”

(Even if longer sentences take longer to write, Philza seems to have all the patience in the world for him.)

Philza lets out another laugh. “Nah, yeah, that’s good. We’re happy to have you in one piece. Hell, we’re happy you’re here at all.” A thought crosses his mind, and he rolls his eyes. “Though I’m still peeved at those two for running off like that.”

“They’re not learning any good lessons from this.”

“So fucking true, god,” Phil groans into his hand. He brushes his fingers through his hair. It’s gotten a bit longer in the month or so since Technoblade last saw him. “I mean, I guess they found you and brought you to us, so I gueeeess they can just get a warning this time.” 

“They DID save my butt a lot. Especially from any bullets to the face.”

“Ugh! It’s not my fault! You just barged in, looking all zombie-like!” 

“There you go again, judging books by their covers. Honestly, Phil.”

Phil tries to scoff in an offended tone, but the smile on his lips gives him away. Before he can respond, Techno slaps him on the shoulder and holds the notebook close to his face. 

“But it did happen a lot. So I’m okay with cutting them some slack.”

“Once.”

Phil smiles. “Alright, fine. Just this once. Though,” he continues, and his smile vanishes. “That’ll definitely happen again. You know that, right? Even if you’re staying inside the gate for the rest of your life, which…” He shrugs as he trails off. 

“I know,” Technoblade writes, but he struggles to find the next words. There’s a tight knot in his stomach. “I’m in a weird state, right? I miss people food, I miss making my jokes funnier with my incredible voice, and my ass kicking abilities have been severely nerfed.” 

Another long pause. And again, Philza simply waits with a quiet smile. “It’ll be okay, mate. We deal with this shit one day at a time. It’s all we can do. And whatever happens, happens. That’s all there is to it.”  

Finally, Technoblade lowers his notebook. “I know,” he repeats. “Heck, I’m just lucky the right people found me. It could mean something, if you believe in signs or whatever. Really, anything could’ve happened to me out there. But I’m here.” 

“Yeah, you are.” Philza’s smile is so tight, the crow’s feet beside his eyes are prominent. 

I’m here, the words echo through his mind, repeated like a sacred mantra. The thought makes him feel… lighter somehow. 

“So why waste that? Anyway, before we get too mushy, you promised to help me practice shooting.”

“I did! You wanna start now?”

“The sooner the better. Can you imagine strangers seeing someone like me shooting a guy? NO ONE will see that coming!” 

Philza bursts out laughing. It’s only when he calms down does he stand up. “Exactly! You’ll be our secret weapon. Now I don’t think you’ve seen the firing range yet. C’mon.”

When Technoblade stands up, Phil is waiting for him right outside. The morning light bleeds onto the floor. He walks across the room, then steps through the door. The weather today is bright and warm. Beautiful, almost, despite the tragic world they live in. 

I’m here.