Chapter Text
Technoblade couldn’t remember if he’d taken out this many people before.
At first glance, with the blood running down his face and staining his hands, and with this many limp bodies in the room, someone would think he’d killed them all.
He didn’t kill any of them. He came close, many times, but he always just arrested people, and knocked them unconscious if need be.
If he did kill them, the agency would just cover it up.
Because they could do that. They could cover up one or two deaths, they could cover up as many as it took… if it wasn’t anyone with a big name.
Blade was trained to save lives, not take them. He hadn’t killed anyone quite yet.
404 had, apparently.
There was a massacre when Techno had first started out, but he forgot the number of people there were. He forgot the second, and the third, and the seventh time. (He definitely wasn’t planning on counting the bodies this time around.)
The human body is fragile, a teacher told him when he was nine. It was his eleventh combat trainer in his life. Or maybe his thirteenth. Skin is soft, bones are flimsy. Blood runs. There are many ways to end a life.
The teacher would demonstrate by poking the soft spots on his neck, pressing on his temples. She was probably trying to show him the places to avoid stabbing, but he could only think about how exposed he was, how easy it would be for someone he let close to kill him.
If my skin’s so soft, why don’t I have a single scratch on me?
Thankfully, after teaching him how to kill, that teacher had moved on to the best ways to knock someone unconscious. How strong you had to be, how fast you had to hit, and sometimes, how far they had to fall.
Those were the skills Techno used most. He should probably be thankful for her.
(Sometimes, he still felt cold hands on his throat.)
He stepped over some tied up people to get to the door. (He thought he may have accidentally stepped on someone’s hand, but he didn’t see anything under his boots. After that, he was careful not to step on anyone.)
Outside the warehouse were some reporters and cameramen.
He should have gone talk to the reporters, he knew he should have, but they hadn’t seen him yet and the place was in the middle of nowhere anyway. Nobody would care if he slipped into the dark- besides, it would be extra ominous for the reporters to walk into the place and find only comatose criminals.
Last night, Tommy was the first to come back from wherever the hell it was he’d gone. It made sense seeing as he was the first to leave. He seemed happy, even offering Techno a “croissant.”
It wasn’t a croissant; it was a goddamn sorry excuse for a bun. Wherever he got it, the bakers let the dough sit for way too fucking long, and the two ends of the crescent had melded together to create a thick, donut-like abomination. Tommy seemed completely unaware that he was holding a crime against God.
Techno gracefully refused the offer.
Wilbur had come back that morning.
This, on its own, wasn’t extremely suspicious, seeing as he often came back in the early morning after leaving late at night- but this time, he’d left at noon and come back the next morning. Immediately after beating a villain.
Techno was not going to worry for him, whether he came back in the morning or in a week. He was not. Even when Wilbur acted strange (like with the out-of-pocket apology that felt a little like putting a band aid on a bullet hole) he was sure to snap if Techno tried to intervene.
When he found his way back to the tower, Tina stopped him before he could get on the elevator.
“Your assistant left early today,” she explained. “He asked me to give you these files when you got in. I trust you’ve seen the news today?”
“The news today?” Techno took the beige folder. The blood on his hands had dried, leaving no marks on the cover. “What happened?”
Tina looked up at him and narrowed her eyes. Techno found it strange how she was always completely unbothered by blood. “…You haven’t seen it yet?”
Techno’s brow furrowed. “Seen what?”
She pursed her lips and went back to work. “Well, to start, some vigilantes were arrested. I’m sure your brothers can tell you all about it.”
Techno relaxed, saying a quick thank you to Tina and a small prayer to whoever was listening that his rank hadn’t been stolen. He flipped open the file and glanced over the paperwork he had to do, something about an interview and a new kind of weapon. He skipped the last few pages, deciding he’d read everything later, and stepped on the elevator.
The lift started with a gentle thrumming sound, and thankfully no cheesy speakeasy music played while he waited.
It occurred to him that he was quite a strange sight, being a 6’7 celebrity with bloodstained skin and long pink hair, waiting in the elevator with an uninteresting file in one hand and a sword in a scabbard.
He would have laughed at himself if there were anyone near to hear it.
The elevator door opened.
“Techno!”
Suddenly, a gremlin child completely blocked Techno’s line of vision. Tommy was using his ‘I made a mistake and I’m willing to resort to flattery’ voice.
“Techno, Techno, my main man! My brother! How are you?”
Techno instinctively crossed his arms to communicate that he wasn’t taking shit. “Fine.”
“Great, that’s wonderful, that’s-” Techno leaned to the side to see what was happening behind Tommy, but the teen blocked his vision again. He was literally standing on his toes to get the right amount of height. “Hey, hey, listen, I was thinking we should get a dog. Or a cat. Or maybe a moth, a pet moth named Clementine, wouldn’t that be nice??”
Techno sniffed the air.
Food.
Food being cooked by someone who isn’t me or Phil.
“Tommy, what’s going on?”
“What are you on about? Listen, I also- hey, I also am in need of money. For drugs. I am going to buy many drugs and I am going to have a serious problem and you need to stop me.”
Garlic, Techno realized suddenly, taking a deep breath through his nose. Potatoes, rice- nobody in this house is allowed to cook rice. And-
“Is that paprika??”
Tommy went completely pale. “I was abducted by aliens,” he blurted.
“ You are not allowed to handle paprika,” Techno growled, pushing Tommy aside. “ And neither is Wilbur, after you two tried to ‘prank’ me by throwing it in my eyes.”
Ahead of them in the kitchen was Wilbur, standing next to a pot of rice that had absolutely exploded. There was rice on the stove, on the floor, and in the sink. Wilbur froze in place, the paprika shaker in hand. A cutting board was on the other counter, full of half-chopped potatoes that already had garlic on them, despite being uncooked.
“One day you’re going to cook something on your own, and then you’ll eat it and drop dead,” Techno insisted, snatching the paprika from his brother and shoving him out of the kitchen, “And then I’ll stand over your corpse and laugh.”
“Very mature,” Wilbur grumbled, crossing his arms and standing next to Tommy, who glared at the floor with the expression of a scolded child.
Techno put the paprika back in the drawer, making a mental note to get padlocks for the seasoning cabinet, and surveyed the half-chopped potatoes.
“You didn’t even bother to skin them.”
“Did I need to?”
“It’s expected,” Techno replied, instead of an agreement. Plenty of things are expected that most people could do without.
Rice and water had genuinely spilled all over the stovetop and onto the floor. It looked as if Wilbur had tried to carry the pot to the sink and dropped it several times. Techno wrinkled his nose and stepped over the mess, like stepping over a corpse.
“You can clean this up yourselves,” he muttered as he passed them and walked out of the kitchen.
His brothers exploded with petulant protest. He sighed and waved them off with a bloodied hand.
“You’re not even going to help us clean up?? It’s not our fault,” Tommy insisted.
“As far as I know, the two of you made this crime against nature on your own, so you can clean it up on your own. I have shit to do.”
Wilbur narrowed his eyes. “What shit to do?”
“Paperwork.”
In contrast, Tommy widened his eyes. “Have you looked through all of it yet?”
Techno tilted his head. “No? Why?”
The younger brothers looked at each other for a moment.
“Nothing, I was wondering if there was anything in there about the vigilantes that got arrested,” Tommy said quickly with a short smile. “Just curious, you know.”
Techno sighed. “No, I wasn’t the one who got them. Who was it?”
“It was the anonymous little bird again,” Wilbur mumbled. “The same one that got Hydrogen. They got Razor and Magma, and apparently almost Glacier, but he got away at the last second. No clue who has access to everyone’s addresses.”
“Anyone could have access to their addresses with a good enough hacker,” Techno reasoned, shrugging. “It’s just that most hackers that good are working for the bad guys.”
Again, Tommy and Wilbur exchanged a worried glance.
Techno shoved the paperwork under his arm again. “I’m going to train.”
Wilbur raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were going to do paperwork?”
“Since when do I do that shit?”
He stepped back through the silver doors of the elevator, his family looking in on him with dazed expressions. Tommy waved goodbye. Wilbur kept his arms crossed.
Techno left them with their mess.
He could have talked to them longer. He could have tried to talk about his day (Wilbur would find something to scrutinize, Tommy would listen to be polite,) or help them clean. Help them make some real fucking food; that he could have done.
But hiding away was easy.
(He was reminded of Phil.)
Techno tossed his paperwork on a bench and took his sword out of his scabbard, inspecting it carefully.
He still remembered the first time he saw it. It was Netherite, the strongest metal in the world, if not a little heavy. He had worked hard to lift it, to handle it, to make it balance in his hands. (To make himself balance it with ease, to not let them see his hands shaking.) It was beautiful. It was a part of him.
It was his mother’s.
Kristen had handled it so gracefully, lethally, and he knew he mimicked her. He saw the way Phil teared up when Techno tried fencing. She loved the sword. Techno could tell, because he remembered the way her eyes shone when he held it for the first time.
Techno traced the edge of the blade gently, as to not hurt himself, and rolled the hilt in his hands a few times. Not a single scratch, not a single mark. Blood slid off Netherite easily. He let the air escape his lungs, happy that the blade hadn’t been tarnished at all yet, and hung it back on the wall.
He took a wooden brand to train with instead.
Like many times before, he started the simulator, readied his excuse for a sword, and started to practice.
Most of the holograms also had brands, as Techno was most skilled with fencing. Most of the people he fought on missions used guns and knives to settle disputes, so often so that Techno almost laughed at the expressions on their faces when they brandished a switchblade, and he responded by unsheathing a giant purple sword.
He finished off the wave of opponents within two minutes and walked back to the control panel.
Wilbur had once suggested, when they were first introduced to the training room, that they could play music while they practiced. He’d always been a fan of making something theatrical out of fighting, something like what they saw in the movies, which is perhaps why he fell so low in skill when the time came.
Techno let Wilbur play something on his phone once. Their teacher broke its screen when he found them.
“Hey-”
Techno saw a flash of blue in the corner of his eye and his sword was moving before he registered it. The flat edge of the wood blade thwacked Wilbur in the face.
The poor man shrieked and pressed a hand to his eye. “ What the fuck!”
“Where did you come from??” Techno threw his arms up. “What is it with people and not saying something when they come in?”
It was only then he heard his brother’s heartbeat in the room, a little fast from shock. Wilbur scoffed. “Who did you think I was??”
“A hologram,” Techno deadpanned.
The brunet rubbed his eye. There wasn’t a bruise, but it did look a little red. “My shirt’s not even the right shade of blue.”
Techno turned off the simulator without looking at the control panel (having made the same motion almost every day since he was seven,) and glared as his brother. “What is it?”
“I was here with some news for you, but it looks as though you’re busy.”
“I’m training.”
“I’m not blind.”
The comeback came easy to Techno, “If you were, you might be a better fighter.”
Wilbur bristled. “Have you ever beaten Rosethorn?”
Techno’s brow furrowed with the offhand question, but nonetheless, he replied, “No I haven’t, but I haven’t beaten Badboyhalo either. Want to go out and see if he’s available for a spar?”
“You know I’ve gotten better since then.” You have to know I’ve gotten better, Wilbur didn’t say.
At that, something twisted in Techno’s stomach. Wilbur was a hostile dog, baring his teeth and spitting curses.
But Techno wasn’t a goddamn rabbit.
“Prove it.”
Wilbur startled. “What?”
“I said prove it,” Techno repeated. He turned the wood sword in his hands, letting Wilbur’s eyes trail down to it with confusion in his gaze.
“Prove that you deserve to be #1,” a teacher told Techno more than a decade ago, placing a sword into his hands before a spar. It was so terribly heavy, but he didn’t dare let his wrists shake. (God forbid anyone see his wrists shake.)
“You want me to fight you,” Wilbur clarified with a dangerous glint in his eye.
“I want you to win against me,” Techno corrected easily. “Will that be a problem?”
Wilbur did not speak in return, only turned up his chin and walked past Techno to take a sword from the wall.
It hadn’t been a part of Techno’s plans to spar with his brother, not when they’d barely touched in years, but he’d challenged Wilbur anyway. Something about the feel of a blade in his hands, making him want to fight something. To win something. To prove something.
Wilbur chose a wood sword slightly shorter than Techno’s, but not by much. He tossed it in his hands a little to get a feel for it.
“When I win, you’ll cook lunch for us.”
Techno smirked. “When I win, I’ll poison yours.”
Wilbur shrugged. “Deal.”
Techno turned to the control panel and scrolled through the menu until he saw the “PVP” tab.
“ How many fighters?” a low voice spoke, making Wilbur jump. Techno snorted at him.
“Two,” he told the machine.
“Player one, name and status?”
“Blade, Hero.”
“Welcome, Blade. Player two, name and status?”
“Blue… Hero,” Wilbur replied slowly, as though he were getting used to the voice again.
“Welcome, Blue. What type of spar?”
“Uh. Practice?” Techno shrugged at the control panel, like it could see him.
“PVP on?”
They always used off. Techno glanced at Wilbur to see if he’d say anything. Wilbur stared back.
“Off.”
“How many rounds?”
“One.”
“Very well. The rules are as follows;”
A red circle appeared, completely centered on the middle of the room, in stark contrast to the cyan lights from below and above the floor and ceiling. Techno walked to one end. Wilbur walked to the other.
It felt just like it had a million times before; but when was the last time they’d done this? It couldn’t have been in class, could it? Or the final test?
Of course, they hadn’t ever done it just for fun, or because they wanted to. There was a teacher that demanded it, demanded that they both prove their place again and again and again.
He remembered cold fingers pressing on his throat. He raised his weapon.
(Wood swords are soft, but they can do damage if you sharpen them well.)
“No physical pain will be administered. The first person to lose their weapon or step out of the circle is the loser. After twenty minutes of sparring, the result will be a tie. The winner will be logged for an administrator to see.”
Techno watched carefully as Wilbur’s grip tightened around the hilt. They were kids again.
“Begin.”
Wilbur flew forward first, blade outstretched. Techno stepped forward and to the side, genuinely wondering if his brother would hurl himself out of the circle and lose ten seconds after starting- but Wilbur turned swiftly, and their oak swords clashed with a dead thwack.
Wilbur seethed. He pushed Techno’s blade to the side, advanced a bit closer to him and the center of the circle, and swung the brand at his head. Techno blocked it and swept a hand to hit Wilbur’s wrist and knock the weapon from his grip, but Wilbur moved out of the way just in time, jumping around him and to the other side of the ring like a scared feline.
Techno spun his sword in a circle and whispered “Coward,” under his breath. Wilbur probably didn’t hear what he said, but he saw Techno’s lips move, and that was apparently enough to go in for another attack.
The low hum of the holographic room had become mostly silenced from the adrenaline pushing Technoblade forward, and he let that be his drive. Not to get caught up on the anger, on the frustration that he was fighting his brother again and he didn’t want to be here, but to back out now would make him a fool.
The session had started, and all he had to do was pretend he was fighting a hologram.
It was kind of hard, because usually holograms don’t have a heartbeat.
The brothers parried weapons for a bit, Techno having an upper hand so far ahead that Wilbur was stumbling for a grasp on their movements. He stopped swinging his sword altogether, focusing on desperately dodging Techno’s slashes.
Wilbur was cornered against the red line, chest heaving with exertion. Techno narrowed his eyes, his own blade almost pressing Wilbur’s into his throat (But it didn’t, because this spar was supposed to be just practice, and they weren’t meant to genuinely hurt each other.)
“Now would be a good time to give in,” He huffed.
Wilbur’s eyes, hazel with a sharp ring of gold determination around the pupil, widened. A small breath escaped him.
“I’m not done yet.”
The brunet ducked beneath their clashing swords and darted out past Techno, rolling on the goddamn ground, which was a cheeky fucking move that Techno was sure none of their teachers could have taught him. Just as Techno turned to face him, Wilbur’s sword came to meet his face.
And then there was blood.
Not much, really only a drop on Techno’s cheek, but it was unusual for a fight where no harm was allowed.
He tentatively brought a hand up to trace a cut, from just under his left eye to right over the bridge of his nose.
It hurt.
Without missing a beat, Techno pushed Wilbur to the ground, snarling like a pack animal. “You aren’t supposed to hurt anyone in a spar.”
“You hit me earlier,” Wilbur grunted, moving to stand again.
Techno lifted his sword and swung at Wilbur’s head, letting him block the attack. “That was an accident.”
Wilbur’s eyes flared, pushing Techno back. Instead of using his sword, he shot out a leg and suddenly Techno’s knees gave out under him. “An accident my ass. You’ve always just wanted to hurt me. You like hurting me.”
Techno tried to get up, and then there was a weight on him. Wilbur kneeled over him precariously with a foot on his chest.
“You’re sick,” Wilbur hissed.
Techno grabbed hold of his opponent’s ankle and hit his jaw, flipping him over and pinning him down. Wilbur’s sword flew from his hand and spun a few feet away.
“You make me sick,” He replied easily.
It took a few seconds for Wilbur to give up, letting his head drop on the glowing floor with a glare. “Fuck you.”
“ Match ended. Blade is the winner. Spar again?”
Techno stood straight and lowered his sword with a sigh, his adrenaline already draining. “No.”
“Session ended.”
Techno switched his brand to the other arm, offering a hand to help Wilbur up. Wilbur glowered at him and stood on his own, brushing off his clothes with a huff.
“You won because you’re wearing your costume and I’m just wearing jeans.”
Techno surveyed his clothing with an eyebrow raised. “Mhm.”
“And because you were already training before I got in here.”
“Really, that’s great. How many more excuses do you have stored in that giant head of yours? Next, you’re going to tell me my sword is better, or my ugly face distracted you-”
“I let you win,” Wilbur bit.
“Didn’t think you’d use that one.” Techno crossed his arms. “Very mature.”
“I’m just lazy today,” Wilbur insisted with a shake of his head, going to pick up his own sword and tossing it on the benches.
Techno winced as the soft wood blade hit the metal furniture. “Your words, not mine.”
“I’m not usually lazy.”
“You are a bit.”
“No, I’m not!”
“I mean, not when you’re powered by spite, you aren’t,” Techno conceded with a small smile, pointing to the slowly healing scar on his cheek. “But most of the time, you’re the lazy one.”
“Why don’t you tell that to all the extra paperwork Ranboo does for you?”
Techno stared at his brother for a long, long moment.
“Picture something for me, Wilbur,” He sighed finally, laying his sword on the bench and sitting next to it.
Wilbur stayed standing in front of him, as though being higher gave him more power in the argument. He waited for Techno to say something.
“There are two children,” Techno began. “Brothers, probably.”
Wilbur scoffed, like he knew where the story was going. He didn’t.
“When they are very young, they are each given a sword. The swords are the same; iron blades and wood handles. Leather hilts. They are told to practice with the swords.” Technoblade didn’t look at Wilbur, but at the ground, with clouds in his gaze.
“One of them puts the sword down on the table and goes to play with the other kids in the village. He doesn’t practice, and the sword collects dust.” He glanced over at his own weapon, as though it would suddenly disappear.
“The other takes a rock, sits by the fireplace, and sharpens his sword. He sharpens it every day for years, until it can cut through trees like butter.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Shut up. The point is that when trouble comes to the village, the brother who sharpened his sword… he wins. He wins the fight. He wins the war. He wins a moment of glory, and respect from the people who gave him his sword. And the lazy one dies quickly.”
“Why don’t you picture this instead, Techno?” Wilbur grinned satirically and cleared his throat.
Techno gestured for him to continue.
“The swords are not the same. One of the boys has a sword made of pure silver, with a handle of ivory. The other’s is made of rotten fucking wood.”
Techno deadpanned at him. “I think I get what you’re saying…?”
“But,” Wilbur continued quickly, “There’s more.” He moved to sit next to Techno on the bench with the same fake smile on his face. Techno wondered how he got so confident. “War never comes to the village. The one with the rotten blade goes to play with his friends, and along the way, he grows up. He realizes that he doesn’t want to live in a kingdom where he has to fight, where he’s forced to be perfect with almost no resources to do so. He fixes his world. He does something that means something. And he’s happy.” Wilbur glanced at Techno. “Meanwhile, the one with the silver sword grows as well. He grows old and lonely. He wastes his whole life sharpening that damn thing, and he never gets a moment of glory, and he never gets an inch of respect. He’s just the crazy old man who won’t let go of a tarnishing blade.”
“He’s the first most feared warrior in the kingdom,” Techno reasoned.
“He’s the second most feared warrior in the kingdom.”
Techno’s brow furrowed. “…What?”
Wilbur startled, looking over at his brother with a shocked expression.
Techno did not change the subject, as Wilbur probably hoped he would. “What do you mean second?”
In the moment, Wilbur could have said anything. He could have said that they were just characters, or that the lazy brother became a great warrior as well. It didn’t have to mean anything. It didn’t have to mean anything.
“…I did say I had some news for you,” Wilbur reminded him awkwardly. “Real life news.”
His heart plummeted, and for the first time in a long time, he was afraid.
“Ram took your place today.”
Techno couldn’t see.
“I mean, there was some other stuff, some more vigilantes got arrested, but I thought someone ought to tell you… he’s the number one hero now.”
He genuinely couldn’t see. The world was there, but he wasn’t looking at it, not really. It was blurry. Everything was very blurry.
“…Techno?”
“You’re joking,” Technoblade decided more than stated, shaking his head. “That’s- that not funny. You think it’s funny, it’s- don’t joke about that.”
“I’m not joking,” Wilbur breathed, seeming irritated. (Irritated, of all goddamn things.) “I thought it would be better if someone told you, so you didn’t have to find out on the television.”
The television would have more sympathy.
Techno could only really stare at him. (Not really. Was Wilbur even still there?)
I should say something, shouldn’t I? That’s what people do when they’re talking to each other.
He tried to open his mouth, and all that came out was air.
“You can speak when I think you deserve to,” someone’s voice echoed in his head. The teacher, the agent. The person who gave him the sword.
“Are you going to be alright? You feel really… bad, right now.” Only Techno could catch how Wilbur shrunk into himself the slightest bit, the same way he did when anyone was about to break down.
He nodded anyway.
“…Okay. Let me know if you… I don’t know. Just, don’t beat yourself up. At least one of us has to be stable.”
Blade barely heard his brother anymore.
They’re all going to be so disappointed in me.
Something dark clouded his mind and swirled in his stomach. It pulled at him from the inside and forced his hands to shake. I’m going to throw up.
He was probably overreacting. He wished he could be like Wilbur, so fucking chill about it. It’s just points. Like a video game. It doesn’t mean anything, the brunet had said.
But it did mean something. Being number one was all Blade had- it was what he was. He wasn’t anything if he wasn’t first.
(Blade lifted a hand and traced the cut on his cheek, right next to his eye. A long scar. Almost healing. He pressed on it.)
Ram wasn’t first. He couldn’t be first. He wasn’t practically raised and forged and created by the agency- he wasn’t the one with the family name. He wasn’t Blade.
Wilbur had to be joking. But he wasn’t. And Blade already knew it.
(It hurt.)
“I’ll go now,” Wilbur whispered, standing up. The small, almost incomprehensible shift in weight on the iron bench felt like the whole world tipping to the left slightly. Blade gripped the edge of the seat with white knuckles.
His brother’s jackrabbit heartbeat faded in the distance, leaving the hero alone with his mind.
Blade might as well not be a hero in the first place.
What am I going to do?