Chapter Text
The crowd roars.
A thunderous, constant roar, rising from the stands, untamable in their excitement.
Blood soaked the ground around him, dripping from his sword, his fingers, his teeth, painting messy lines down his chin and staining his armor. Flecks and drops splattered onto the dirt as he raised his arm in victory, face grim and dull under his bleached boar skull mask.
The people clawed over themselves to get a glimpse of him, shrieking and crying and hollering out their praise, their blood lust, their cries narrowing down into one, terrifying chant.
"Blood for the Blood God! Blood for the Blood God! Blood for the Blood God!"
He spits red, splattering on the ground at his feet, gaze washing over the faceless crowd and catching on the small, displeased frown painted on his owner's face in the handler's box. A flash of gold exchanged hands. A swift departure.
Unease swirled in his stomach, hardening into a fearful pit.
Blood indeed.
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The crowds murmured in the streets. The Blood God had been stolen, vanished in the night like a wisp of smoke.
Empty arenas roared, fighters new and old scrambling to prove their worth, their skill, clawing, spitting, screeching to take his place, to claim the glory left in his wake.
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500 gold.
The little sack clattered in his hand, coins glittering in the sun. It sat much heavier than it had any right to.
Philza squinted, tucking the pouch away into his back pocket. His heart strained in his chest, aching like a wounded bird. Around him, the crowd swirled on, blissfully unaware of the turmoil plaguing him. Noonday heat bore down on the city, sweat trickling down his neck and soaking into his shirt collar.
"Dad!"
Philza turned, shading his eyes from the sun, lips pulling into a smile. Wilbur pushed his way through the crowd, grinning brightly, Tommy following close behind.
"Hey, boys," he called, stepping out of the flow of people to meet them.
"Wilbur was a Bitch all morning, dad, not letting me do anything. He didn't let me take anything, or go exploring, or--" Tommy pushed forward with dramatic movements and exaggerated facial expressions. Phil chuckled, his fond exasperation only growing deeper when Wilbur sighed and tugged Tommy back.
"Shut it, child."
"Oi! I'm not a fuckin' child, Bitch!" Tommy squawked, shoving Wilbur. He laughed when Wilbur scowled.
"Boys," Phil intervened with a laugh and pulled them closer into a hug. Tommy squirmed, ears pressing back in annoyance and ducking out from under his arm. Wilbur lingered a little longer before pulling away.
"You ready to go home yet, Dadza?" Wilbur asked, placing his bag on the smooth cobblestone between his feet. Good thinking, harder to steal. Didn't stop Tommy from trying through.
Phil shook his head, both fondly and as an answer to Wil's question. Tommy’s hand snaked around for the bag handle only to be smacked away.
"No, not yet. I've got…" he paused, the words heavy in his mouth. Wilbur's face fell, pressing into a serious line. "I've got one last errand to run."
Wilbur looked at him for one tense moment, pursing his lips just enough to show his displeasure. Then he fished out a gold coin and flicked it over to Tommy who caught it.
"Toms, go get something from one of the vendors."
"What?"
"Go grab something, like a sweet roll or fruit or something before we head back." Wilbur's tone was clipped, cold. Tommy's brow furrowed in confusion, glancing between the two
"But Dad said--"
"Go on, mate. Who knows the next time we'll be out in the city. In fact, get something for Ranboo and Tubbs too." he sounded clipped too. Tommy, not to lose an opportunity, shrugged and darted off into the crowd, brow still furrowed in confusion. He'd have questions later. Phil snorted. He'd have a lot of questions later.
"Phil, what the hell are you thinking?" Wilbur snapped, stepping right into Phil's space. Phil startled back only to hit a wall.
"Wilbur, calm down--"
"Calm down?" he hissed quietly, "What are you going to tell Tommy? What are you going to tell Tubbo?"
Philza paused, leaning back against the brick wall, dragging a hand down his face. He knew this was an awful decision. He knew he was screwing himself over. He knew. But he also knew this was the only way.
He looked over to where Tommy was bartering with a vendor, throwing his head back and arguing loudly enough people were giving him disgruntled looks.
"I know, Will," exhaustion and desperation bled into his voice. Wilbur softened just a little, shoulders dropping, arms crossing. "But this is the only way to get the money in time. We both know how much money fights can make." Phantom bruises ached over his knuckles, memories long since buried.
Wilbur sighed, arms dropping. He groaned and frowned.
"I don't like it," he said finally, fixing Phil with a complex stare.
"Neither do I, but it's the only way, " he glanced back over to Tommy where he was gathering his little mound of sweetbreads into his arms, grinning brightly. "I can't lose them." he turned back to Wil who's face crumpled ever so slightly.
Phil reached out and pulled him into another hug, guiding Wilbur's head down to rest on his sternum. He carded his fingers through his curls, gently pulling apart all the little tangles. "I can't lose you either. I can't lose any of you."
Wilbur sighed, pulling away. His eyes were just the tiniest bit wet, clouded over with hard decisions and even worse solutions.
"Alright, where we going next?" Tommy said, bursting into the conversation like the rabid raccoon he was, balancing his pile of bread.
Wilbur sniffed but put on a big, lopsided smile, tugging Tommy closer carefully, and hoisted his own bag onto his shoulder.
"We—," Wilbur said, ruffling Tommy's hair with one hand, "—are headed home. I’ll be back to pick Dad up later."
Tommy squawked, slack-jawed.
"What? No! Come on," he whined, earning a disapproving frown from Wilbur who pulled him closer under his shoulder.
"Nah, mate, you head home, check on the animals. I bet henry’s missed you this morning."
Tommy wilted, lips twisting into a half-hearted scowl.
"Fine."
Phil grinned and ruffled his hair too, laughing when Tommy glared at him and smoothed it down.
“I’ll be home before dinner, I promise.”
“Im’a hold you to that, old man,” Tommy replied, shifting his little pile enough to threateningly point at Philza without dropping any, tilting his whole body back to manage it. Phil laughed, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Fair enough.”
Wilbur fixed him with a serious look, sucking in a deep breath.
“I’ll…make sure everything’s ready. Just…text when you’re…done.” Phil nodded, flashing a quick, small smile. Prime, he was so glad for Wilbur. Without him…well, he’d have fallen off the deep end a long time ago.
The pair of them slipped back into the crowd, Tommy already talking about everything he had planned for the rest of the day, voice carrying over the din.
Phil sighed heavily and turned to head deeper into the city. More people swarmed around him, bustling about their own business without another thought. A gaggle of teens burst by him, laughing loudly at some joke he didn’t understand. A woman brushed past him holding enough bags and baskets he was pretty sure she couldn’t see anything past the next couple steps.
The closer to the heart of the city he got, the darker and more compact the buildings around him became. Built with dark stone and stained with time the apartment complexes pressed against each other, clawing their way into each other's lap. Buildings towered up, leaning against each other for support, meager architectural decorations slapped over windows and above doors in an attempt to imitate the rich trends pouring out of Essempee city. Stores flaunted their wares and begged for customers with bright likes and loud advertisements, each one spilling out into the street. Cooked meat hung heavily in the air, mixing with spices and body odor rolling off the crowd. Snatches of perfume, cigar smoke, and something sickly sweet lingered as well, between shops and restaurants in back alleyways.
Phil slipped past, head down. There, In the city’s center, casting its shadow over the lower districts, was the Arena. Flags fluttered out each window, tattered and worn just like the stone blocks they were perched in. Today it was quiet, an almost empty husk, a resting giant waiting to be woken. On fight days, the building roared, shaking with anticipation of blood and death and carnage. His knuckles ached again, remembering their time in the dirt, remembering wads of cash passed between bloody knuckles and the stinging taste of copper between his teeth.
A fighter is always a fighter, no matter how long it's been since they last wore the mantle.
Behind the arena, pressed up against its rear flank, was the slave market. It only opened 4 times a year at the change of season and stayed active for 2 weeks. The rest of its time was spent as a storage place for horses, cows, drunkards, and other beasts. Phil hated it there. The whole place just felt…slimy. Corroded. An infection slowly choking the life out of their city. His city.
Slavery itself was just horrible, permeated by some strange ideation of power and punishment, claiming the slave deserved what they got, either because they were weak or they were criminals that earned their punishment. They were wrong. All slavery was, was an easy way for lesser people to make themselves feel better.
The 500 gold in his pocket burned.
It held easy solutions to problems too.
For the first time in his life, Philza Craft stepped into the market with an intent to buy. Nausea and shame swirled in his belly inside the market, purposefully keeping his eyes down. While the temperature didn't change, a shiver ran down his spine as he weaved between the thinned crowds. People slinked around in the deepest shadows, avoiding eye contact just like him, licking greedy lips and sticky fingers.
This whole business was only a handsbreadth above legal, and the markets knew it. Most…'by-the-books' sales--just wording it like that made Phil scowl--happened between private dealers in the foyers of large mansions. Sales like this…he scanned the market, drinking in cruel hands, dirt-stained faces, and slimy, back-alley-esk deals.
Phil dodged someone with slicked-back hair and dilated pupils, cheeks gaunt and grinning. His wings flexed, tucking further against his back.
People here were crooks and their--prime--their products were battered and broken. Ready to be discarded by the world and forgotten.
Phil was essentially looking for a Diamond in the rough. He was looking for salvation.
He was screwed.
He wove through the isles, scowling at vendors and inspecting slaves, all the while trying to convince himself that this was necessary. That there was no other way. He'd almost walked out and left after spending more than an hour with no luck. Most of the slaves here had one foot in the grave, barely lucid enough to register another person poking and prodding them like livestock. His heart clenched with each new broken and blank face but he shoved it to the side. He could do nothing for them, and he had enough of his own problems to deal with. They'd probably all end up in the fields doing manual labor or something only to die alone in a ditch where they’d be buried.
If he couldn't get his own problems together, he might join them.
Despite all this, Phil caught sight of someone promising in the furthest corner, right when the last dredges of his hope withered away. He looked to be a piglin, or at least part piglin, trussed up way past the norm in a place like this. Unlike everyone else so far, the slave glared at the floor, nostrils flaring around a nasty-looking gag.
He didn't look broken.
Teetering between curiosity, desperation, and regret, Philza made his way over.
The slave knelt on the floor, hands bound behind him and fastened to his bare feet, pulling his shoulders back in a way that gave the illusion of breadth. Of strength. His head bent forward, pink, knotted hair spilling over his shoulders and falling in front of his face, almost blocking it from view. Twin, scratched tusks poked from his lips. An iron collar fastened itself around his neck, tearing into the skin just above his collarbone, leaving it raw. Prime, that had to hurt like a bitch.
His seller lounged against a pole, casually inspecting his nails. He wore a decent suit and tie, not overly fancy but enough it looked out of place in this grungy, sun-forgotten market.
Phil cleared his throat, shifting his stance. The man glanced up at him, a snakish smile curling on his lips.
"hello there," he said, tongue flicking behind his teeth, eyes wandering over his clothes and lingering on his wings. Sizing him up.
The slave turned ever so slightly to eye him, red eyes catching the fluorescent white lights above.
Phil frowned, giving the vendor a quick nod towards the slave. The man shrugged. An ‘ok’ to inspect him then. Pushing down the revolted feeling churning in his chest once again, Phil squatted in front of the slave, reaching out slowly. He didn’t flinch away, but his eyes never left his hand. His whole body trembled, but whether it was from the cold, strain, or fear Phil couldn’t be sure. Probably some mix of the 3
He brushed his hair away, gently tilting the slave's head back to get a better look at him. Prime he looked young, probably not even a full adult yet. His tusks looked too small to be an adult's. His skin was cool to the touch, too, which wasn't good. Nether creatures, even hybrids, tended to run hot. Fine, crisscrossed scars stretched around his arms and down his chest, telling the story of sword slashes, arrow wounds, and whippings. Phil frowned and pressed his hand against his shoulders, gently prodding and squeezing down his arms to check both muscle mass and for any hidden injuries. The slave didn't flinch, just kept watching him with intense eyes and a clenched jaw. When his prodded shifted to his back, the slave's breath hitched and his eyes squeezed shut.
Huh.
Phil gingerly pulled up his shirt. The slave's back was covered in red lash marks, dozens of them crisscrossing over his shoulders in a painful weave. He sucked in a breath. Fuck this child had been whipped. Whipped.
The seller laughed above him, slicking back his greasy hair with one boney hand.
"A going-away present," he said, like that explained everything. Maybe it did in high-end society. Maybe it didn't make everyone else's blood boil.
Beyond the lashes, the slave looked good. Too good really. He pushed himself up, swallowing a mouthful of bile. No thinking about things that wouldn't help him now. No use in tearing his heart to shreds over the unchangeable.
"what are you asking for him?" he didn't mean to sound so cold and gruff, but he wanted to go home. He wanted to get all this done and over with. A smaller part of him wanted to take this child home and take care of him, but he shoved that aside. No feeling just yet.
The man shrugged.
"450 flat," he said and Phil blinked. No fucking way. That was…that was way too cheap. He eyed the slave again, looking for some sort of real defect or problem. The slave could go for 1200+ no problem, even with the lashes. They hadn't looked too bad, able to heal in a week or two tops. There had to be a catch.
"bullshit. What's the catch?"
The guy laughed. A hoarse, heartless sound.
"his owner wants him gone and money isn't an object. More interested in punishing him, I think." the man's eyes glittered, leaning closer. "Rumors are he attacked him, broke his jaw or something. Bad enough his owner's real paranoid about keeping it hush-hush."
That…wasn't good. The price made sense now at least. Rich folk were known to throw out violent slaves in hopes they'll be worked to death. He'd probably make a good fighter then, and with his physique, he'd have a chance at lasting for longer than 5 minutes. Still, bringing home a violent slave would endanger his kids.
"So he's violent?"
"Not what his paperwork says, but you know the rich." he reached into his satchel and pulled out a painfully thin manila folder and shook it. "not documenting anything that could make them look bad."
Phil snorted despite himself. Ain’t that the truth. He eyed the slave again. He caught Phil's eye, mouth pressed into a firm line, and ever so slightly shook his head before glancing away and letting out a shuddering breath. A plea? A refusal? A warning? Yet…there was something in his eyes, the slightest crinkle, a minuscule upturn of the inner brow, that balked at the idea of being violent. Like it was a blatant lie, a stain on his honor.
Fuck. He trusted it. He trusted the allegedly violent, young, scared slave.
This was his only chance. There were no other slaves, and he didn't have another 500 gold laying around somewhere.
Fuck it.
"Make it 400 and we've got a deal."
The snakish smile split into a grin.
"Done." their hands clasped together. His other hand flipped over, fingers hungrily wiggling for his gold. Phil pulled out his pouch and carefully counted it out, each coin clinking against the others as they slipped into the man's palm. When finished, the man snatched his hand away, disappearing into his satchel with a flourish. He pulled out a pen, tossing it and the folder over to Phil. "sign on the dotted line, if you will."
Phil did.
The man nodded and tipped an imaginary hat.
"pleasure doing business with you!" he said with a smile, snatching up one of the papers and waltzing away, leaving Phil alone with the--his new slave.
He blew out heavily, suddenly at a loss of what to do. He just--
He just bought a slave. A fucking slave. What the fuck?
Another heavy breath. No sense freaking out about it now.
First things first, find out the slave's name.
"Alright, mate, what's your name?" he asked, crouching down and discarding the gag between his lips, cringing slightly. The slave shot him a funny look, flicking his hair to the side. He licked his lips.
"Last I checked," he started, voice hoarse and cracked from disuse. Phil winced internally. "you have the paperwork, meanin' you can call me whatever you want." a pause. "sir."
Phil nodded, tucking away any concerns and heartache that flared up with that statement.
"Humor me."
The slave eyed him again before letting his shoulders drop.
"…Technoblade."
Interesting name. Phil hummed, slapping his knees.
"Alright then, Techno, you gonna run on me if I let you out of those bonds?" he hated asking it, but he had to.
Techno shook his head, lowering his eyes to the floor.
"No, sir," he practically whispered. Phil's heart clenched again. Instead of pulling him into a tight hug and wrapping his wings around him like everything in him wanted to do, Phil moved to crouch behind him, quickly undoing the knots and ropes holding his arms back. Techno bent forward with a low groan, leaning heavily on his knuckles, ropes trailing behind on the floor. His arms shook from strain. The back of his threadbare shirt rode up, revealing even more white scar lines of all sorts, some faded and old, some barely healed. The red, raw, agitated lashes vividly stood out against his ashen skin.
Prime, those probably hurt.
Anger boiled in Phil's stomach. His fingers brushed against them, swallowing down a protective growl. His wings flapped, agitated. He needed to get out of here. He went to stand, glancing back at Techno only to find red eyes carefully watching him, neck strained around his shoulder to see. He looked so afraid from one, haunting moment. Then well-built walls crashed down, leaving only wary intensity.
Phil stood slowly. Techno watched him the whole time, tipping his head and body back to look at him better when Phil stepped back around to the front.
A thought occurred to him and Phil's brow furrowed in concern
"You ok to stand, Mate?"
With barely a sound, Techno nodded and hoisted himself to his feet, staggering only slightly. Immediately Phil went to steady him, heart break again when Techno flinched away from him only to stop short, holding extremely still.
Phil crooned in the back of his throat, wings flaring.
"It's alright Mate, take your time. Bet your muscles are a bit sore from kneeling all day, right?" He said with a smile, trying to be comforting. Or at least not terrifying. From the way Techno flinched back, wary and cautious, he failed.
Techno looked at him, slowly nodding his head like he expected to be reprimanded. Or hit, the little voice in his head whispered.
Techno towered over him, not taller than Wilbur, but taller than Tommy. He was gonna hate that. He was gonna hate him. For a long time. Once he got over it, though, Tommy would love Techno simply because he looked fucking awesome. Or 'poggers' as he'd say.
First, they'd have to meet. Which brought up the next problem. Getting Techno home. As of the last 15 years, all slaves had to be officially registered at the ‘Asset Documentation Department’—ADD for short—under each new owner before they were allowed to be out and about without bindings. Phil had a personal grudge against ADD. They were in charge of many things regarding slaves, from initial documentation to tracking, all the way to the release process. They were the ones that made freeing someone so Prime-damn hard, a fact Phil knew all too well.
Techno seemed to be thinking along the same lines as him ‘cause a moment later he put his wrists out, pressed together expectantly.
Phil really wanted to punch something.
Instead, Phil secured them together, reluctantly taking the other end of the rope. It gave him a chance to inspect his manacles if anything else, taking note of the harsh metal and raw skin. He’d get something better later. It would be fucking fantastic if he didn’t have to get anything at all, but ADD made it illegal for Slaves to go without some sort of marker, either a tattoo or a collar, and some way to quickly detain them. AKA, the cuffs.
Prime he hated ADD.
He stayed pretty quiet while guiding Techno out of the market, gaze set dead ahead. There wasn’t much to say, and anything he might have said fell flat in his mouth, collapsing like sand and dust behind his teeth.
Instead, Phil pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Wilbur. He read it a moment later. No response. Phil didn't expect one. He tucked the phone back in his pocket.
“I’m Philza, by the way, Phil for short,” He said finally, once they were out onto the outer city. The crowds had thinned now, shadows drowning the streets as the day came to an end. The sky blazed reds and golds, set alight by the setting sun. Behind him, Techno squinted at it, a sort of guarded wonder in his gaze. When had he last seen the sunset? Phil knew many slaves that never made it outside at all, wasting away in large ornate manors. Was Techno one of those? Then he carefully tucked the wonder away, leaving behind startling blankness. He nodded once, showing he'd heard, gaze flicking back to the cobbled stone.
“So no more of that ‘sir’ crap. Call me Phil,” he continued, glancing over his shoulder as they walked. The slightest hint of confusion washed over Techno’s face, followed closely by apprehension. His ears flicked back. Another small nod. Phil fell silent, nearly wilting under the weight of his silence.
Or maybe it was guilt over what he’d done.
His wings flared again, feathers rustling together with each step.
Phil glanced behind him periodically as they walked. Techno followed 3 steps behind Phil, head down, weaving masterfully between people without so much as brushing them. He was light on his feet, which was good. He’d be able to dodge well then.
Phil didn’t look back again, face set in a self-focused scowl. He was no better than everyone he’d ever condemned for participating in the wretched practice.
A little ways ahead near the end of the Main Street sat a rusty hardware shop, the unofficial meeting place of their family. Phil's beat-up blue truck rolled onto the curb, Wilbur leaning against the driver's side door sipping a steaming cup of what was probably heavy coffee. He'd bet money Wil added some whiskey to it. In fact, the little shit probably took the whisky squirreled away under Phil's desk, the good stuff he broke out on special occasions and really bad days.
So later this evening then, if there was anything left.
He'd let it pass this time.
Wilbur didn't wave, but his mouth hardened into a tight line when he saw them. His displeasure rolled off him, thick and permeating even from across the road. This would be a long car ride home.
"Well you certainly got a big one," Wilbur said, pushing off the car door and taking one step closer. He eyes Techno impassively, like a customer in a Butcher's shop sizing up the different cuts of meat.
Phil's grip tightened on the rope, his frown deepening.
"Wil-"
"Smart. Gonna be a bitch to feed though."
Both he and Techno flinched at that. Techno tucked his head lower, shoulders hitching up slightly, eyes trained on the floor.
Phil’s whole face hardened and Wilbur’s eyes widened, stepping back. He’d crossed a line. Phil knew Wil didn’t like this. Hell, Phil didn’t even like it, but it was done and he needed to suck it up. He needed to do better. Years of being a dad let Phil convey it all on one scathing look.
He pursed his lips and crossed his arms, eyes flicking over to Techno briefly before tossing Phil the keys. He caught them with one hand, still frowning.
“You start the car, I’ll get him in the back,” Wil said, reaching out for the rope. A meager peace offering and silent apology, but Phil accepted anyway.
“Right.”
He passed the rope off to Wilbur and climbed into the truck. It purred to life easier than it had in the last 10 years, rumbling like a healthy, well-fed kitten instead of the bucket of scraps it was. Huh, a good omen maybe.
In the rearview mirror, Techno climbed into the truck bed without much hindrance, settling against one of the sides. Wilbur reached in and fiddled with the little loops they had installed a few years prior to help fasten logs while they fixed up their barn, threading the rope through and tying it with a decent hitch knot. He tugged on it once and nodded, satisfied it would hold. The tailgate slammed shut. The crunch of boots on broken asphalt. Wilbur swung into the passenger seat, not sparing Phil a glance.
Well alright then, silence it was.
-------
They made good time back home, pulling into the driveway just as the sun touched the horizon and set the surrounding clouds aflame. He did love sunsets. Not a word passed between them as they drove, Wilbur sitting tight-lipped. Wilbur didn’t even hum anything, a real testament to the tension in his son's heart.
Wilbur was always making music, ever since he was little. Hell, It was Wilbur who filled the house when everything was altogether too silent. Wilbur who lifted spirits. Wilbur who dealt with everything.
It was Wilbur who said goodbye to Kristen in the end, not Phil.
Their boots hit the dirt at the same time. Wilbur immediately head over to their little, weather-worn house, propping the door open and slipping inside. Phil sighed, stepping around back to grab Techno.
Their farm wasn’t large, by any means, but it was his. He’d settled here in his youth, building the main house up from the ground with his bare hands, using the fights to bring in his income while he waited for his first harvest.
It’s where he’d met Kristen, the love of his life. It’s where they got married, around back where the fields gave way to trees and wildflowers. It’s where Wilbur was born and Tommy was adopted. It was even where he’d found Tubbo and Ranboo not two years ago, the newest addition to their family. It was home, pure and simple.
Techno landed on the dirt next to him, waiting, hands still bound in front of him. Phil made quick work of his knots, pulling the rope away for later use. What could he say, it was good rope.
Techno seemed surprised at first, eyes narrowing as the rope slipped between the little hoops on his cuffs. Phil ignored it as best he could. His wings flared.
“Give me a sec and I’ll see to those cuffs, alright mate?” Prime did they look raw. Skin broke over and over again, clearly indented after years of use. He could trace Techno’s wrist bones clearly with his eyes, barely hidden under thin layers of red skin being slowly torn away.
Techno’s eyes narrowed even further, filling with confusion and hesitance. Or was that suspicion.
Tommy shouted from the fields, whooping loudly as he barreled into Phil’s side, Tubbo not far behind him.
"Aye, Big Man! Back already?" Tommy pushed himself off him, grinning from ear to ear. A bit of dirt smudged up the side of his cheek, coupling nicely with the leaves and bramble picking out of his golden curls. His ears flicked devilishly and his tail swished contentedly behind him, pleasantly floofed up.
Philza smiled, mustering up as much energy as he could.
“Promised I’d be back by dinner, didn’t I?”
“Well, yeah, but you usually don’t keep those promises,” Tommy said simply like he hadn’t just gutted Philza right on the spot. Before he could respond though, Tommy was already moving on. He stepped back, turning to look over at Techno.
“And who's thi—“ his eyes landed on the collar, flicking down to his two iron cuffs, then over to Phil again, catching on the Manila folder tucked in his pocket. The bright smile flickered away, leaving behind something cold and hard and betrayed. His gaze flicked up to meet Phil's, brows shoving together.
“Mate—“
“You bought a slave?” Philza’s jaw clicked shut. Tommy took one more step back, shoulders curling away in confused horror. Phil waited. Waited for the yelling, the accusations, the fiery anger he’d come to know and love. But Tommy only set his jaw, clenching it shut with white knuckles pressed to his side. Tears welled up in his eyes, scowl quivering, and he drew himself up to his full height. “Fuck you Philza Craft,” he spat, then turned on his heel and left.
Phil's chest positively shattered, shards of it yanked further and further away with each retreating step. He knew—he knew Tommy would hate this. He knew Tommy would hate him for a very long time. He knew Tommy quietly seethed when he really cared about something. He knew.
He just didn’t expect it to hurt so Prime-damn much.
His wings beat the air once, twice.
The front door clicked.
“Go, I’ll get the slave settled and talk to Tommy,” Wilbur called harshly, peering down at Phil with a complicated intensity. His wings beat the air again, agitated and itching. He deserved this, he did.
"His name's Technoblade," Phil muttered quietly, still staring at where Tommy disappeared, eyes burning. Tubbo stood there and in the harsh, golden light his scars looked just as vivid and angry as the night he first came here. Tubbo had every right to hate him. They all did. Nether, he hated himself.
Tubbo looked between them, settling on Phil once again, and nodded. No anger, no betrayal, just cold understanding. Then he slipped away into the fields after Tommy.
"I'll get Technoblade settled, then," Wilbur said, quieter this time. Softer. Phil nodded, Pulling out the manila folder and tossing it to him.
"I'll be--"
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Phil."
Right. He apparently couldn't keep promises anyway. His heart ached, straining against his sternum.
Without another word, his wings flared and leaped into the air, soaring into the sky.