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There’s not a lot that’s in Techno’s way of becoming a hermit in the woods (again), but the modern era has many delightful inventions, like cheap books and fast food and paper towels.
And potatoes.
Okay, obviously potatoes aren’t a new invention. They reached Europe hundreds of years ago, and they were around for exponentially longer in America. Techno only really took notice of them a few years ago, when he had a baked potato and became a changed man.
One day, Phil gets a call from his Lady about a group of young upstarts that think the balance of life and death is something that they can dance around, and he leaves to wipe them neatly off the face of the earth, promising to write Techno if he takes longer than he expects. Techno is left with a quiet house and a list of tasks he finishes much too quickly.
At some point it occurs to him that, hey, he’s a man with free time and cash, what’s stopping him from maintaining a potato garden until Phil comes back?
A lot, apparently. He has no idea what he’s doing. You can grow a yam in a bottle of tap water but you stick one potato in the ground and it rots. Technoblade has no idea what he’s messing with, and there’s a house of learning nearby that he can consult.
So it was an unseasonably warm day in April that Technoblade, warrior of legend, strode woodenly into the little library in town and asked for books about potatoes.
"Potatoes?" the person at the desk asks.
"Yes," Techno says, vibrating in place with nervous energy. "... I think they're... uh. Interestin'."
"Okay," they say, their voice cut with the faintest hint of uncertainty. "Follow me."
The library is not that large, and potatoes are not the most riveting vegetable. They muster a handful of books strictly about potatoes, only one of which goes into the kind of detail Techno is keen on. Another is more of a farmer's guide to crops as a whole. For some reason, there is a somber book of black-and-white photographs of potatoes on pedestals. Techno takes that one, too, in case it would hurt the librarian's feelings to do otherwise. Maybe it will be useful.
"Sorry, sir," the librarian says. "Again, if you want a cookbook for potatoes, we have plenty of those."
"No, thanks," Techno says, doing his best to emanate the aura of a helpful and responsible citizen. "I just want to learn about them."
"Well, um," they say, eyes half-focusing on his mask, "we can always request some books from sister libraries. I think the one from Whiterocke County will have more, er, intellectual material, since that seems to be what you're looking for--"
"Yeah, that sounds great," Techno says.
"Oh!" They say. "Um. Okay."
They trail off. People often do this when their realistic brains are trying to process the sheer supernatural weight of a deathless six-foot-tall titan wearing a hog's head melded seamlessly to their face. It does not make for the most flowing of conversations.
Techno smacks his lips in a desperate attempt to fill the dusty silence.
"So, uh," the librarian says, startled out of their reverie, "You want to check these out and leave a card so we can contact you when your order comes in?"
Techno nods.
He survives the process of filling out a slip of paper and leaves with an armful of books, blinking in the sunlight.
Four days pass.
At four minutes until closing time on a Saturday afternoon, Techno walks up to the library desk and slams his books down.
The lady at the desk jumps, spilling her coffee, and follows his hands, dark soil worked into the creases of his palms, up to his arms, gritty and half-heartedly washed, up to his face, burning with an intensity more commonly associated with a canid bent on the hunt.
"Where's the other person," Technoblade says.
"Um!" she says. She is trying to scramble to her feet and grab a towel while simultaneously being as far out of Technoblade's reach as realistically possible.
"With the short hair and the eyebrow piercing," he says.
"They're out sick," she squeaks, leaning back from Techno's hulking figure, but not too much, in case he catches on. She takes a few gulps of air before asking, "Why?"
"I want more books," he says. Technoblade has to lean almost double to lean on the desk. His mask's nose is little more than a foot from the librarian's face.
"Good!" she squeaks, and clears her throat. "Good."
"I've already read these," Techno says, patting the stack with a gentle, level emphasis, the last solid tap of a shovel on a freshly buried grave. "I ordered some more. Are they here yet?"
The lady leaps to her feet and is halfway to the "Employees Only" door before she's done speaking: "I can check! What's your name?"
"T--uh," Techno says, for the first time caught off guard. "Technoblade."
The door falls shut behind her. Techno spends a few self-conscious minutes contemplating the thick, dark soil he's left in the carpet and brushing dust off the desk before the librarian returns. Only her pink hair, fingers, and legs are visible behind a stack of books that she sets down on the desk with a grunt.
"Sorry that I took so long," she pants, "but I couldn't find your name card. I think someone threw it out."
"Oh," Techno mutters. "... Why?"
"Er," She says, taking care not to look anywhere near his face, "I... I guess they thought that... your address was a joke."
Techno blinks. "Oh."
"Do you really live in Spider Wood?"
"Yeah," Techno says, warily.
She bites her lip as she scans the books, some of which require two hands to lift. "There are ghosts in Spider Wood, right?"
"Nah," Techno says, deadpan. "Just Clark. We're friends."
"...Oh," the lady says, taken aback. "Oh. Is he doing alright, then?"
"That was a joke," Techno blurts. He thinks, with great clarity, Fuck.
"Ah," she says, and smiles. It has a strained line to it. "Here you go."
"Thanks bye," Techno says, and half-runs out of the library, leaving behind him the smell of wet dirt.
Three days pass.
Techno pushes the library door open with his back, muttering to himself, and spills the mountain of books in his arms onto the front desk in a haphazard pile.
Someone yelps at his elbow, a quiet sound magnified by the natural peace of the library: "Hgkh!"
The librarian stumbles over an apology as Techno pushes aside his competitor through the sheer strength of his 'I Do Not Notice Or Care About You' vibe. He barely notices them shrink behind a bookcase and watch, half-horrified, half-intrigued, as Techno picks some fallen books out of the floor. He is so covered in dirt that there are bits falling off of him when he bends over.
"Oof," Techno intones. He is probably talking about the books.
The librarian leans back, not unkindly. "Why do you look so tired, sir?"
Techno squints. "Tired?"
"Yes?"
This stops him in his tracks. A handful of seconds pass as Techno stares into the distance. There is a deadness to his eye, not of a thing in glassy-eyed necrosis but of a marble statue. After a miniature eternity, he moves--a concept as alien as a mountain rising to forgotten feet--shifting forward to start stacking the texts. "Farmin'."
There is an undeniable weight to the word. The librarian keeps her mouth shut and starts to pick up some books.
"I can't believe I thought that potatoes were a straightforward tuber," he says, apropos of nothing. "I've only got one variety but I should branch out because apparently if I start an empire on one type I'm going to speedrun the Potato Famine at my house. The problem with this is that I've already found out the optimal growing conditions for THESE taters, so when I get more I'll have to waste a few more hours trying to figure out the--"
His voice cuts off. The librarian looks up. Techno is staring at her--no, into her, at a point six inches behind her eyes. She tries to shrink.
"Wait," he says. "Shit. What--What's your name?"
She blinks. "I'm Niki," she says.
"Okay," he says. "I'm Technoblade."
Techno infodumps. He dispenses the verbal equivalent of a two-page block of text about potatoes, but not, and this was very important, only about potatoes. Potatoes are a nuanced root vegetable with a long history of domestication. The Columbian Exchange was far from the beginning of their usefulness, diversity, and deliciousness; for millennia farmers had nurtured the roots of a plant that had fuelled millions of people in the South Americas--especially those in the Inca Empire and those that went before them. The Spanish, after grinding as much of the new world to a pulp as they could without sailing halfway across the world to refuel, decided to send some potatoes home with their many other treasures. Europe was not the quickest to cotton on to new vegetables, especially ones that may as well have been from an alien planet--and anyway, if you left them in the sun for too long they turned green AND poisonous, a sure sign of evil. Slowly but surely, however, the Old World learned to like the tubers, all the while oblivious to the flaw in their master plan. By propagating only one variety of American Potato, particularly potato-reliant areas of Europe had doomed themselves to vulnerability to disease, especially Potato Blight. This was a mistake that cost millions of lives. In a brilliant display of conscientiousness that nobody saw coming, the English as a whole were perfectly keen on Nature clearing out the weak, or something. Yikes TM. Anyway, with the vast immigration of many different nationalities to the Americas, the Industrial Revolution, and a growing understanding of How Plants Worked, the world remembered how delicious, cheap, versatile, and comparatively nutritious potatoes were. As it turns out, if you treat them right, potatoes go good with pretty much anything, at virtually any hour of the day. Hash browns and sausage for breakfast, mashed potatoes on the side for dinner, baked potatoes served any way you like for supper, and (in more recent years) french fries as a midnight snack: potatoes became a staple of diets around the world, favored for their hardiness, flexibility, and general affability.
They are even edible raw, as long as they aren't sunburned, and while raw potatoes aren't as tasty or nutritious as baked potatoes, Techno's been eating them for a few days now and it hasn't done him any short-term harm--
"You have been eating potatoes raw?" Niki asks.
"Yeah, they're not that bad if I don't forget salt," Techno says. "I should probably eat something else, though. Steak. I've got steak somewhere..."
"How have you not fallen over??" Niki says, really hung up on that "raw potatoes" thing.
"Well, you see, I like to stand," Techno says, "and Technoblade never dies."
"Please," Niki says, "eat something--here, have my scone!"
"I--no thanks?"
"Please," Niki says, voice thick with horror, breaking the pastry in half, "just a piece."
Techno looks down at her hands and squints. "Okay. Uh. I'll eat the whole thing if you eat, uh--" he points to a piece roughly in the center of the scone-- "this piece first."
Niki pops it into her mouth in a heartbeat.
Techno eats the scone. It's not bad. There are almonds in it, and cranberries, and... hey, is that brandy extract? It's good. He finishes the scone in less than six seconds.
"Thanks," he remembers to say.
Niki says, "You're welcome."
"... That was really good."
"Thanks!" She says, brightening. "I make them myself, actually!"
"Oh," Techno says, "cool. You should open a bakery."
"I've been thinking about it," she says, beaming now with the full effort of the mid-afternoon sun.
"Cool," Techno says again.
And just like that, he's out of words.
Techno leaves the library with another armful of books--history of the Columbian Exchange, an encyclopedia of pests and vermin, a look into life during the Potato Famine, classic Russian literature, and, at Niki's insistence, a book about potato recipes. The building feels quieter than normal once the door thuds shut after him.
The previous client steps out from behind their bookshelf as he leaves, and waits a while before turning to Niki and asking: "Who...?"
Niki recognizes the glamour-fog in their eyes and shakes her head. "Don't worry about it," she says. "He's fine."
Six days pass.
Technoblade walks into the library, this time at a reasonable hour, although just as caked in half-dried mud. There is a lightness to his step and a dark feather tucked behind his mask's ear.
"Hallo," he says to Niki.
"Hallo," she echoes.
"I'm here for more books!" Techno says. "I've got a list of requests, too." He sets everything down.
Niki glances over the list. "Oh, are you done with potatoes now?"
He laughs. It is a wry sound. "No, I'm not even close to done with the potatoes," he says. "I think I've learned everything I can about them from books, though."
They talk about classic Russian literature for a bit--or rather, Technoblade talks about classic Russian literature for a little while as Niki listens, interjecting occasionally.
As Techno is bundling a stack of books into his arms--a smaller collection this time--Niki says, “I like your hair, by the way.”
Techno’s movements stutter. He can't pretend he didn't hear her, it's too close to be anything but rude. "Thanks?" He says.
"It's a good shade of pink," she says.
"... Yes," Techno says. Mm. Yes. Technoblade the paragon of intelligence strikes again. He runs before the awkwardness becomes choking.
Several days go by.
Technoblade pushes the door open, leaden on his feet. "Hello," he announces to the world at large.
"Hi," Niki says. There are a few people parsing the shelves. They try to pretend like they are not staring.
"'M here for more books," he says.
Niki says, "Okay."
There is no other addition to his previous statement. Technoblade stays stock still. The stack of books in his arms look tidy, except for the way that a potato leaf bookmarks one of their pages.
"Do you want to go find some?" Niki prompts gently.
"... No," Technoblade says, and absentmindedly sets down his books. "Maybe. Do you have any more of Dos--dostoe--" His mask splits open, wider and wider, until every one of his teeth is visible in a gaping yawn, before he pulls it back together-- "Dostoevsky?"
They do have some Dostoevsky, as a matter of fact. Niki scans the novels and pushes them towards Techno, whose hands visibly shake as he reaches for the books.
"Are you going to be all right, sir?"
He looks confused. "What? What do you mean?"
"You're very tired," Niki informs him. "I don't think you should drive until you take a nap."
"Nah, I'm good," he says. "I don't drive. Might pass out in a ditch though. I dunno."
"You don't... You don't have a ride?" Niki asks, again afflicted by the special kind of horror that only a hypercompetent train wreck of a person can inspire. "You just walk here? All the way from Spider Wood?"
"Yeah, it's not that bad," Techno says. "If I nap now I'll wake up before it dews and the books won't be damaged."
This scares a laugh out of Niki. "Oh, my God, you--rest! Please for the love of all that is holy and good would you take better care of your body!!! Here--"
Niki ducks under the desk as Technoblade squints blearily at the world, waiting for it to start making sense again.
She emerges from the desk brandishing a loaf.
"Uh--"
"Here! Take this! Please!" Niki accosts him with it.
Techno takes the loaf of bread, if only to not hurt her feelings. "Okay?"
Running on autopilot and a secret level of exhaustion that only Phil and a handful of very powerful wizards--capable of gazing upon the most dreaded eldritch horrors of the abyss and standing firm--have witnessed, Techno starts to eat the bread.
Mmmm. Not that bad. He gets about halfway through the loaf before he remembers he's in a public area with Other People.
"Uh," Technoblade says. Niki's expression is unreadable.
"Bye," he says. He pushes on the door for a few seconds before he remembers to pull it open instead.
Techno follows literary rabbit trails further and further away from potato nonfiction like a slow game of Wikipedia race. Books have taught him all they can; Techno spends his waking hours fine-tuning farm setups, water systems, and fertilization routines. He does eventually remember to start baking potatoes before eating them, which is a good thing, because he's starting to run out of room for them. Bone-mealing his potato plants is a habit he is loath to stop, even as his basement grows knee-deep in tubers.
The library visits become more or less regular. Techno started taking bread from the librarian in case it was rude to refuse it, but it's. It's really good bread. He takes some scones sometimes, and pumpernickel, and lots of sourdough rounds, and braids, and rolls, and at one point Niki's ciabatta failures--not bad, just a bit chewy--for which she was eternally grateful for.
And then he starts getting really, really into potatoes.
Phil's been sending letters every six weeks or so detailing his exploration of the Temple of the Shielding Hand. It looked like a standard evil temple, plenty of slime and torches and skeletons chained in the corners, but the further Phil went in the deeper he realized it went. To cut a long story short, he's busy.
Phil was sending letters.
They've stopped coming.
Sometimes a crow or so visits, but it's hard to tell if it's Hers, and Techno isn't worried. Why would he be? Phil's not going to die. He's been gone for much longer than two weeks--than six weeks--than eight weeks without saying a word to Techno. He's an unstoppable nightmare to all that oppose him. Phil's not going to die. More importantly, Techno's never going to leave Phil to fight something he can't fight alone, and that's a promise.
(But a small voice in Techno's heart, audible even when Phil is around, when he's holding Techno's hand or fighting back-to-back with him, whispers, maybe he's finally left you behind, and for the life of him he can't kill it.)
Sometimes Techno remembers to visit the baker librarian lady. She's told him before that she doesn't work at the library officially, just as an... intern, it wasn't "intern" that she told him but that's the word he remembers it as--but she is the one that gives him books now so she's the baker librarian lady. She still gives him bread for some reason. It's really good. It's gone in less than a day.
Sometimes he remembers to sleep. He wakes himself up before he can dream.
Sometimes he remembers to hunt something, just for the blood and the meat of it, but at any given hour of the day his mind is consumed with these goddamn root vegetables and their stinking behaviors and soil requirements and does he need to water them yet should he put more sand in the new batch of soil so he can keep a better moisture level and where does he put the potatoes when he runs out of room downstairs--
Phil comes home to a warrior caked in mud and a basement literally full of potatoes. There are even some in the cabinets.
“Mate,” Phil says, with all the kindness inside him, “what the hell and fuck?”
“Uh.” Technoblade takes a potato out of the cabinet slowly, like they’ll attack him if he isn’t gentle enough. “I hope you like hash browns.”