Chapter Text
“Really Wilbur? Skipping family night? Again? You know it’s mandatory.” He has finally picked up after the dozenth call, but Philza has been trying to reach his son for an hour and is more than a little exasperated. For a man like Philza, time isn’t money. Of course not, he has all the money in the world and exactly as much time as everyone else. As infinitely valuable as his hours are, when he schedules family movie night he’s deathly serious about it. “Your little brother is going to start crying, Wilbur. Oh no he’s tearing up, ahh the floodgates are open. I’m going to drown, Wilbur, you’ve killed your own father.” Actually, Thomas is cuddled up into his side contentedly, digging into a massive bowl of popcorn a servant brought.
He blinks as he’s referenced, and leans in even closer to the receiver. “I’m gonna talk about tonight in therapy twenty years from now,” Thomas threatens. Yelping as Philza scruffs up his hair, he eases up a little. “You said you’d watch Moana.” Not that Thomas wants to watch that movie for the umpteenth time either, but Wilbur hates it even more than he does.
“Please?” Philza asks gently. “I know you’re an adult now-” no, he’s barely eighteen and thinks that makes him independent, “-but family is still family-”
“I’m not—” Wilbur interjects.
“And you promised to be here! You don’t spend enough time with Thomas as it is-”
“That’s not what’s happening, alright, he’s-”
“Missing his brother is what he is!”
“I'M NOT WILBUR. I’m just the guy who has him.”
Thomas asks what’s going on as Philza tenses beneath him, but Philza shushes him harshly as his worst nightmare unfolds and his world teeters on the verge of collapse. “Where is Wilbur?” His voice comes out dangerously low.
“He’s with me.” At once he begins cataloging the voice. Deep, masculine, and American. Verging on hesitant; good. So he knows exactly who he’s dealing with.
Furthermore, he’s telling the truth, as far as Philza can tell. Wilbur’s phone can only be unlocked with a thumb print, and not even the finest hackers in the world can change that. Wilbur is close to his kidnappers for the time being at least, though all that means is he’s in the heart of danger. “What have you done to him?”
“Nothing.” Yet.
Wide blue eyes stare up at him, scared. “…Wilbur’s been taken too?”
Philza kisses his forehead. “No, sweety. I won’t let anything happen to our family.” He can’t afford to lose another son. He can’t. Fear penetrates to his very core. It’s been eighteen years since he discovered the empty cradle, but still it haunts his every waking breath. He can feel the ghost of Alexander watching, waiting for Philza to fail his twin the same way. But like so many times before, the grief in his chest trickles out in icy ire. “Let me talk to my son this. very. instant.”
“He’s knocked out.” A tremor of unease wavers the man’s voice, but Philza senses it like a bloodhound. The crack in the façade is what jumps him into motion. There’s a chance. Slim, maybe astronomical odds, but Philza has done the impossible before.
Untangling from Thomas, a quick snap has guards coming, shepherding the boy to safety. “I hate the bunker,” Thomas mumbles, but he’s sheet white. Philza pulls up a contact, texting an order to track the origin of the phone call.
“Uhhh, are you still th-”
“Listen closely,” Philza hisses like a viper, hearing a click on the other end that can either be a jaw snapping close or the safety of a gun being turned off. “You’ve made a grave mistake kidnapping my son. This isn’t a hostage negotiation; I don’t play like that. The moment you hurt him it’s a hunt. I will personally chase you to the ends of the earth, do you understand?”
“Wait-”
“Oh it’s too late for that. Nothing will save you. Do you hear me? Nothing.” The mansion becomes a flurry of activity, impermeable barriers dropping over the windows. “I’ll bring you back from the dead since Hell won’t torture you to the degree I will.”
“Stop, I only want you to-”
“If you think demands are going to work you don’t know me enough. The only ransom reward you’ll be paid is agony.”
“Hey! Can we just take a second to chill out-“
Checking the magazine of his M16, Philza ducks into his armored limo, rolling out in a fleet packed with the world’s finest soldiers. “Don’t expect mercy now, not after you’ve kidnapped my son.”
“I HAVEN'T! He’s DRUNK, okay!? OKAY!?!???”
Philza doesn’t buy it for a second. “It’s too late for a cover up-”
“Dude I don’t know what to tell you! He’s drooling in my bed at a party!” The voice gets dampened, like the caller is turning away from the receiver. Just faintly can Philza make out the words: “Bruuuh. What is wrong with your dad!?”
Philza immediately erases all vitriol from his voice. “Oh! I'm so sorry, haha, my bad.” He proceeds to hire extra snipers. “I’m such an overprotective Dad, you know how it is.”
The person on the other end calms down. Good. If they’re put at ease they’ll be easier to catch off guard. “Uh. Right. Sorry about the…misunderstanding. Can you come pick him up? He keeps hitting me in his sleep.”
“Where are you, by the way?”
“Uhhh. At his college? The dorms, on the east side.”
“Which room?”
“I’ll. I’ll walk him out to the parking lot.” Suspicious. His source finally gets back —it took 9 whole minutes! He’s going to skin someone— confirming the location is on campus. Still he comes prepared for an ambush. Philza Craft isn’t taking risks. Not after last time.
The entire college is surrounded. There isn’t a chance of getting in or out without Philza knowing. It could’ve been rigged to explode in a moment's notice, but unfortunately Wilbur is kidnapped currently. And very unconscious, though if that’s the effect of alcohol or something far more sinister he doesn’t know yet. He holds back for now, anticipating the moment his opponent reveals himself. Snipers line the buildings, waiting for his signal. Waiting for—
There. A pair of shadows hobbling out to the curb. One is clearly being dragged by the struggling other. Philza raises his binoculars as they step into a flickering street light. His son is recognizable in a heartbeat, but it’s the other he narrows in upon, searching for any way to identify the threat. The angle has their features shielded by a curtain of pink hair. They must know his vantage point, but that won’t save him for long. He scours the distant figure for details. Same height as Wilbur, skinnier. Philza’s eyes narrow on their garb. It’s not a bulletproof vest, or a suit, or anything else he expects a kidnapper to wear.
The man is in pink pajama pants and a Taylor Swift t-shirt.
Uh. Huh. Okay, maybe this isn’t a hostage situation. Oops! Happens to the best of us lol.
Techno is having a great time in college. His parent’s can’t bother him, even if they aren’t happy he went overseas. But with grades like his, scholarships come with lots of zeros, and he wants something prestigious. How else is he going to be the next great American author? Sure he’s having to work his butt off, but his plagiarism gig is really picking up, especially with all the legacies following their rich parents footsteps but unwilling to put the elbow grease in, so Techno’s raking it in hand over fist. Basically, his five year plan is going perfectly so far. Or, would be if his roommate Skeppy would stop throwing insane parties, the type where drunk strangers fall asleep in his bed. Especially when that drunk stranger looks nearly identical to him.
…..wait what? Haeh?
And like, technically they aren’t identical, but the guy’s a dead ringer for the Techno of a few years ago. Of course Techno’s hair straightened when he grew it out, and also the drunk guy hasn’t dyed it, but it’s kinda freaking him out, man. It has to be a prank right? He keeps glancing around expecting someone to jump out and scream ‘GET PUNKED LOSER!’ But time keeps going on and nothing happens except for more drool getting on his pillow. Ew.
When yelled at, the dude proceeds to snore louder. When shaken, he swings sloppy punches. Uuuuuuugh. Techno was hoping to get at least six and a half hours of sleep tonight but noooo. The world is out to get him apparently!
Okay, okay, maybe he screams like a little girl when the phone starts ringing. Sue him, his body double from age 16 is sleeping in his bed, it’s basically the start of a horror movie. Or a time travel movie! Ooo there’s a thought. Techno gets out his phone to jot it into his notes app before the drunk guy’s ringtone blares again, reminding him to stay on task. Digging through pockets nets him…an interesting array of items, from string cheese to weirdly textured white putty to just a lot like an insane number of 20 notes (one of which maybe slips into his pockets but hey! The dude’s sleeping in his bed! It’s called rent!). Eventually the phone is recovered, the screen displaying a caller ID belonging to a ‘Dad’. At first he figures there’s nothing he can do to answer, but the phone unlocks after just a press of the home button. Man, does this guy not have any security? Even having 1111 for a password would be better than nothing.
But then…Jesus Christ what’s wrong with this guy’s dad?? Bro went from 0 to 100 in a second. ??? Chalk up another point for this being a horror movie.
Anyway, Techno somehow gets even more freaked out, like the stunt double wasn’t bad enough already. Thankfully he manages to diffuse the situation but both his social and normal anxiety are pretty unhappy with the state of things. Is it really too much to ask for a normal night where he can just go to bed at a reasonable hour? It doesn’t have to be a reasonable hour, Techno really isn’t picky, but now he has to lug this Wil guy out to the curb since he’s a little paranoid about their father knowing where he lives. For some reason, getting death threats is a bit off putting for a first encounter.
Techno braces himself for the unpleasant ordeal of touching a wasted stranger. God he hopes this guy hasn’t puked on himself. Ugh. Nothing for it. Attempting to touch the guy gets him slapped in the face. Ahhh. And Wil’s breath is positively rank. He hates his life. But eventually he manages to drag the guy out to the parking lot to wait. Is Wilbur getting heavier the longer Techno props him up? Maybe the laws of physics change exclusively to inconvenience him specifically. Really that’s just the type of luck Techno has. Techno swears every car rolling past slows down around him, and the hairs on the back of his neck raise like he’s being watched. Sue him for being antsy after some rando swore to track him to the ends of the earth and torture him. Sure it got cleared up eventually but– wait. Waiiiit hold on a second.
…
……..is that a limo..?
………………….ohh god it’s stopping right in front of him.
The man that steps out is immaculate, crisp to a point that is frankly absurd at this time of night. Not a strand of his shoulder-length golden hair out of place from where it’s pulled back, not a crease in his suit. Techno assumes it’s the latest fashion but frankly has no idea what that means. Something about the man just oozes, although Techno doesn’t know what word is supposed to follow the verb. Confidence? Power? Capitalism? Danger? Anyway the man oozes whatever it is like a palpable aura that makes Techno’s hair stand on end. Maybe rich people got built in static electricity generators. Or maybe it’s just late and his meds have worn off.
A smooth duck through the door, a smooth extension to shake hands, a smooth smile, and then the man just stutters to a halt. Wil’s father simply stares. Fascination bordering on reverence fills his gaze. It’s almost naked and vulnerable in a way utterly foreign to everything he understands about the man. Oh…kay…sure. Why not? He might as well get even more whiplash from this guy. If Techno gets trapped another half hour from his bed while some father profusely thanks him for getting his son home, he’s gonna cry. Techno’s heel bounces against the pavement, and he lets his rose strands fall in front of his vision to avoid uncomfortable direct eye contact. Still, he can’t look away from the man, an atavistic instinct marking the danger too important to ignore. Because even though Wil’s dad stares like he’s personally hung every star in the sky, Techno only feels more uneasy.
It’s him. It’s Alexander. He can’t help it. Philza steps forward in a trance, and at once the boy leans back, his dark eyes -Kristin’s eyes- wary. He’s imagined this moment for so, so many years. Piles of villains beneath his feet, sweeping his rescued prince up into the air and a tight embrace, finally, finally going home. Their family finally complete.
Now, as to the reality of the moment…Philza could never have imagined in a million years the figure before him. Probably because his son isn’t actually a baby anymore, despite all expectations, though it’s far more than that. For some reason, he’s never pictured one twin would be wasted and draped over the other. Never imagined little moth holes in the collar of Alexander’s Taylor Swift t-shirt, or the ratty red and white jacket for a middle school he’s never heard of. Close up, he can see the little pigs and splashes of ‘oink!’ across the pink pajama trousers that end too far up the calf from an obvious growth spurt. Least of all could he have predicted physical differences. Long hair dyed bright pink, though there’s the reassurance of brown poking at the roots, and the natural part in the same place. The collar bone and cheeks sharper than Wilbur’s, chronic eye bags. Worst of all is the dark eyes that don’t look at him with instant adoration like Wilbur’s do.
No. Never had he considered for a second that Alexander wouldn’t immediately recognize him. So no, actually, this isn’t what he wanted at all. It’s better in every way possible because the Alexander before him is real and therefore perfect.
And then he hears his precious son speak for the first time in eighteen years: “Dude, your son drools. I’m talking buckets. My pillow would be cleaner if I threw it in the river. I don’t think bleach is enough to salvage it.”
Wil’s dad blinks at him. What? It is getting awkward out here. Not like Techno has anything else to talk about. “Where are my manners? I’m profusely sorry for my earlier comments. I don’t ever want you to feel unsafe.”
He looks at Techno intensely, but he’s starting to think that literally everything this guy does is intense. “Uh huh. It’s fine dude. Maybe wait till I start making demands before you jump to the hostage situation conclusion.” Honestly it sounds like the sort of logical leap his own head often makes, but Techno takes great pains not to actually say stuff like that out loud because it’s mortifying.
“It's been said I can be a tad…over reactive. I am a wealthy man; kidnapping has happened in the past. My family is the most important thing to me in the whole world.”
Techno’s eyebrows crawl into his hair. Oh. So that probably was a reasonable response. “Jeez dude that’s freaky. Man, I can't even imagine something like that really happening.”
Philza waves a hand to dismiss Alexander’s worries (alongside the snipers he forgot to call off). “Still I jumped the gun on that one, I'm so very sorry for frightening you. Can I make it up to you?” Can he ever? How does Philza fix eighteen missing years?
“Can you take your kid? He’s kinda heavy.” Though he had to struggle to carry Wil out, his dad scoops him up with ridiculous ease and gently delivers him to the limo. Unfortunately he turns back around and keeps talking.
“You know, I almost couldn’t tell which of you was which when I pulled up.”
Oh thank god it’s not just him that sees it. “Weird right? Kinda cool I guess, could use it for pranks.”
“What are the odds of finding your identical twin?” he asks curiously.
“I wouldn’t go that far. Plus, I mean, there’s like seven billion people. It’s bound to happen.”
He laughs a bit too much, like there’s a joke Techno isn’t catching. “Could say it’s fate.”
Alexander shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Could also say it’s 2 am. Right. Uh. I’m gonna go now, it’s late.” Panic spikes in Philza’s chest. The conversation hasn’t been long enough! It hasn’t been eternity yet!
“Wait, I really should thank you for making sure my son finally came home safe. What did you say your name was again?”
“I, uh, didn’t. And really you’re doing me a bigger favor by making sure he isn’t drooling on my pillow.”
“Here, have my business card.” It’s taken and shoved unceremoniously into a jacket pocket. “I do insist on some token of my gratitude.”
The boy jitters, glancing back to the dorms. “I think my best reward would be sleeping.”
He doesn’t know anything about his son, but Philza is plenty familiar with human nature. He reaches for the inside of his jacket in a way that causes the kid to tense up. Really now, it’s just a checkbook. The gun is on the other side. Philza leans the paper just enough that his son can see. “Who do I make it out to?”
“Really it wasn’t a big deal…” his posture belies wariness. Not bad instincts, especially around a man like Philza. Of course, his child has nothing to worry about from him, but it’s not like he’d have any way of knowing that. Stolen too young to have any impression of his own father. Philza’s heart aches. The boy's eyes go incredibly wide the more zeros he adds to the sum. “Technoblade,” he blurts. Philza hides the smirk in his smile. “Technoblade Piglin.”
“Pleased to meet you, Technoblade. I’m Philza Craft.” He savors the name on his tongue. Not one he’d have chosen himself. It has lots of…spunk. He holds out to shake hands, and after a hesitation Ale— Technoblade takes it. The contact is too brief, Technoblade untangling just about as fast as humanly conceivable.
Bro if Techno’s going to make 2k every time a drunk idiot drools in his bed, maybe he can learn to tolerate Skeppy’s parties. Holy hell. He does not need to remember the conversion rate to see dollar signs. This guy is kinda like actually insane, but you know what? He can cope for that sweet sweet bank. “Yoooooo. Thanks dude. Uh, good night. Hope your kid doesn’t get kidnapped again.”
“It was an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, Technoblade.” Still creepy, but can he really complain with extra thousands in his account? Oh my god he’s going to buy so much coffee…
His son waves as he leaves into the dimly lit night, padding over to a dorm and disappearing inside. Impossible to tell where he precisely lived, but Philza carefully counts to the fifth floor where the lights blare with the suggestion of the party his boy mentioned. He wants to sweep Technoblade back home right now, but this has to be a planned endeavor. Surely whoever has stolen his boy still has strings attached. Philza quickly ducks back into the car, calling a contact and demanding they find every scrap of information ever produced about Technoblade Piglin within the hour. A few threats go a long way, and soon he’ll know everything about the last eighteen years from his child’s perspective. Family movie night just got a whole lot more interesting.
“Your genius has reunited our family,” Philza whispers in a kiss pressed to Wilbur’s forehead, before catching the sleepy punch aimed for him.
Now, all that’s left is to convince Technoblade.
Plan 1: Get Wilbur to befriend Technoblade. It goes poorly, because Techno can be a bit shy and Wil a bit intense, so it’s viewed as kinda creepy how much Wil wants to know. But it’s tolerable since he can absolutely BLEED Wil for sweet, sweet cash. Unfortunately Wil likes to hang over his shoulder while forging his essays. Mostly it’s benign questions, almost like the guy doesn’t care as long as he learns something about his life. It’s…off putting, but Techno gets a little bored writing A+ essays (premium! And at ten times the normal rate since he’s price gouging the rich jerk who drooled in his bed, even if Wil never seems to care how much he’s forking over). What can a few trivia pieces about himself hurt? Wil is weirdly persistent, but hey it pays the bills. Since he doesn’t want to lose his best customer, he answers about as few questions as he thinks he can get away with.
Wil has his feet propped on the library table like the entitled jerk he is, spinning a pen between his fingers while Techno works on a 575£ essay. Not bad, and it’s only two pages. Of course, it would be easier if his customer would stop pestering him with inane questions. “Can you sing?”
“No. Too much smoke as a kid.”
“Oh, you smoke too? We’re so alike.”
“No.” Techno distinctly does not want to be like Wil at all. Extroverts. Eww. But at least he brings coffee, which Techno is sipping when yet another question comes. “Heyyy Tech. What were your parents like?”
He very carefully doesn’t spit out the coffee everywhere, his back prickling. God, can’t this guy stop being invasive for two seconds? He’s trying to outline 18th century war strategies and it’s not helping him concentrate. “Suck,” he replies shortly. “But everyone’s do.”
“No, my dad is fantastic.” A strange note of persuasion carries in his voice, but drama majors are just like that sometimes. “I’m sure you’d love him.”
Techno makes a face, remembering their thankfully singular encounter. Wil’s moods can be flighty, but that Phil guy is capricious in ominous fashion, flipping from graphic threat to kindness in a heartbeat. “Your dad is literally terrifying.” Won’t stop him from draining his coffers, though.
Philza stares intently at the weekly powerpoint presentation he’d required from Wilbur. Pictures of his new son flitter past, most consisting of strange angles from passing security cameras and blurs in the edge of other’s photos that were posted online. But the last one is crisp, Wilbur having wrangled Technoblade into a selfie. Their smiles crook in the exact same way, though Technoblade is decidedly the less comfortable of the two, a brow raised as he stares at Wil instead of the camera as he removes the arm slung around his shoulder. Oh to have those dark eyes trained upon him once more like they had been weeks ago. It is a gaze that's haunted him for 18 years, and it's all Philza can do to stop himself from gathering his lost son to his chest and never letting go again. But he needs to handle this delicately. Technoblade didn’t go missing, he was stolen, and whoever had the resources to defy him certainly must be contended with first.
He sighs in longing, then looks at the notes he’s compiled from this week’s meeting. He reads through every single earthly file ever generated about Technoblade Piglin at night before going to bed, but it’s the personal details he wants. Wilbur’s vicarious accounts aren’t filling; he wants his son.
But he looks up and thanks Wilbur for his time, asking if there’s any other details that weren’t included in the report. He can’t help it, he’s voracious. Wilbur…squirms. Philza frowns and prods the conversation. “Uhh. I’m just warning you, you won’t like it.”
“I love everything about him.”
“Tech finds you, erm. Off-putting.”
Philza is inconsolable for the rest of the evening. This clearly isn’t working.
Plan 2: Hire Technoblade to tutor Thomas. One afternoon with some toddler? And he makes HOW MUCH? Yah he’s sold. Visibly uncomfortable in the manor he may be, but does it really matter if this family is basically paying for his college at this point? Tommy is annoyed and doesn’t really know what the plan is, but at least the weird guy is funny and explains things in an interesting manner.
Philza tries to be as ‘un-off-putting’ as possible and fails miserably. The friendlier he is the more Technoblade seems to balk, and the kid is distressingly good at seamlessly dodging out of physical affection. Then, a few weeks in (Philza can’t stand to wait any longer) and they simply lock the mansion doors so Technoblade can’t leave that night.
It’s, like, midnight, and Techno’s tired from trying to convince an eleven year old that Shakespeare isn’t boring. Unfortunately it ran long enough that he is roped into staying for dinner. Sue him, it’s better than anything he’d get from the campus caf. And all reservations are dropped completely when he sees the feast. Why eat the rich when you can eat like the rich?
That, uh, mumbled comment goes down like a lead balloon. Techno really sticks out like a sore thumb in his ratty red and white jacket amidst the hand tailored suits and designer clothes. Wil snorts and the conversation keeps going but maaan is his anxiety not built for this. Especially when Phil asks about his politics and he has to sit there in front of gold statues and indoor waterfalls and god knows what else and say, “if I reveal I’m an anarchist, do I at least get to finish the meal before I’m kicked out?”
“Of course not,” he soothes his son. “I love a boisterous dining room table. It’s dull without filled chairs. Tell me, did you have siblings?” Philza reminds himself to pause like he doesn’t know the answer.
“Uh, nah,” he says through a bite of food. His table manners are atrocious, hunched over almost possessive of his plate.
“Did you ever want any?”
“Probably— probably not. I don’t think my parents were planning any more.”
“I’m not asking about them. I want to know about your thoughts on the matter.” The words are a little sharp, but Philza doesn’t like reminders of the people who ruined his life.
Technoblade hesitates at his tone, then shrugs. “I dunno. Little kids are kinda sticky.”
“Oh, what about your age? Or maybe a younger one, say, around Thomas’s size?”
“Wouldn’t, uh, affect me much. I’m an adult now.”
“Family is forever.”
“True,” he nods easily enough. “Family: no matter what they do, you still gotta love them.” All these years Philza’s loved a million different imaginations of the same boy, only to find him wonderfully amazing in ways he’d never even dreamed of. “Uh then I guess…” Technoblade watches, weighing his reaction. “…sure?” When Philza beams at him, he’s rewarded by an awkward baffled grin.
Just about every time he tries to talk to his son, Technoblade looks like he’s being held at gunpoint. It’s adorable, albeit frustrating, especially since they’ve met a number of times now. He gets along fine with Wilbur, and tolerates Thomas, but he’s just so…awkward. Like he has no idea what to do with his paternal attention. But hopefully tonight’s enforced sleepover will get him a bit more comfortable with living here. Given how he loosened up a bit when the banquet for his prodigal son was all laid out, Philza reckons the enforced bonding time will do just the trick. Plan 2 is going swimmingly.
Techno feels like he might explode, either from everything he’s eaten or from the stress of Phil asking how school is going. His social battery is running low, but then he’s all but begged to stay for family game night and he does have a competitive streak and needs to covertly get back at that middle schooler for being a brat and well…he lost track of time, and is just trying to get back to his crummy dorm but for some reason the front door won’t open. Bruh, all this money and they can’t get doors that don’t jam? Whatever. The windows open just fine. The guards at the entrance seem weirdly surprised when he waves a goodbye, but he chalks it up to rich people not giving their own employees the time of day and goes to collapse into his own bed.
Philza is fond and annoyed in equal measure. Obviously he knows Technoblade is resourceful and determined, but when it’s used against him it’s slightly less adorable. Cue another two weeks of Wily Coyote and Roadrunner antics, with Technoblade perpetually oblivious to the fact they’re trying to kidnap him.
What his twin DOES notice, however, is the increasing number of people following him. Skeppy just says he’s paranoid, but it’s clearly making him antsy. Whatever, who would need to tail him? Definitely no long lost fathers desperately trying to figure out what surveillance is active on his son, no, that would be crazy. Haha anyway Wilbur tells Tech it might just be the extra expensive coffee he splurges on now.
There haven’t been any countermeasures by the people who kidnapped his brother, but it’s bound to happen eventually. Now is the moment when they have the upper hand. Sure, Tech might still be a little uncomfortable right now, but that’s bound to drop once he learns the truth. As closed off and awkward as his brother is, it might be months before he’s ready, and frankly Wilbur can’t stand to wait that long.
At the same time, Tech just got a publishing deal on his latest book and it is super quickly accepted unlike the headache of his last two novels. Of course strings are being pulled behind the scene, but Tech doesn’t know that and he’s riding the high of success. He manages to fit an evening to celebrate into his busy schedule, and actually invites Wilbur to something for once. He supposes it qualifies as a fancy dinner by Tech’s standards. Still he can’t complain watching his twin’s broad smile all night. This is what life should have been, celebrating birthdays and accomplishments and holidays side by side.
And, well, opportunities multiply as they’re seized, and Dad is getting antsy, and he’s tired of pretending to be a stranger around his own twin, so Wilbur takes the initiative on a plan Father has been debating for a bit. Drastic, perhaps, but after tonight Tech will be safe at last.
Perhaps it’s a bit of a personal fantasy. That he’d be the one to save his twin. That he’d be the one to fill the missing seat at the dinner table, the room always kept clean, the empty holes in family portraits. All his life he’s been incomplete, but no longer, with his twin finally back. Finally rescued by Wilbur.
It’s not like he isn’t given the go ahead, Wilbur doesn’t exactly have his own contacts for these types of drugs. Phil raised him better than that, of course. But past that it’s all up to him. Wilbur is going to be a hero.
Plan 3. The world is spinning. Techno feels nauseous and clouded and ohhhhhh god. Relaxed. He is NEVER relaxed. Something is seriously wrong. Techno can’t find Skeppy, he must’ve slipped into a party nearby. This was supposed to be HIS celebration. Lousy roommate. Driving has to be highly illegal in whatever state he’s in, so Techno blearily orders an Uber.
An arm rests on his shoulder, someone leaning on him, and that isn’t right, Techno hates being touched, but he can’t react at all for some reason. “Hey, Tech? You don’t look so good. Too much to drink?”
“I don’t. I dooon’t drink, Wil.”
Wilbur stiffens against him. “You…don’t?” It’s almost worry, but Techno can’t process what that means. “Maybe you should? It could make you feel better. Here, you can have mine–”
He pulls a face. “I hate the smell.” He rises. “I’m going home. I’mm sick..” Wilbur simply sighs and texts his bodyguards as his brother leaves the restaurant.
“Here, sir, allow me-” someone’s touching him. He doesn’t know who, but something in his gut clocks a masculine adult voice and a hand pushing on his back and all he knows is jolting panic. His right hook catches them square on the jaw, but retaliation is swift and brutal, his head exploding in stars. Techno stumbles back, clutching his left eye. He surprisingly doesn’t hit the floor, mostly since a second person catches him. Someone is dragging him and he can win this fight, he knows he can, but only if his arms would move like they are supposed to.
Something clicks in his mind. Phil mentioned people tried to kidnap Wil before. Techno looks like a dead ringer for him. “‘Mm not Wilbuuur,” he slurs. It doesn’t help much, especially since he’s immediately punched so hard in the stomach he pukes. Not that he was far from that, in his nauseous state, but it still hurt. This sucks. He tries to have a nice day off for once in his life, and suddenly he’s getting beaten up by people who target drunks stumbling from restaurants. He can try to inform them he is sober, but they might hit him again.
The last thing he sees is himself. It has to be. From a few years ago, before he grew out his hair. Young Techno is framed in light and he can’t help it, he bucks off the hands grabbing him and is running for his younger self. “Dooon worry. It geeets beetterrr,” he promises teenage Techno, before proceeding to trip over nothing and face plant into the ground.
“Sir?” says the man scooping him up.
The hallucination simply pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s going to have the head of whoever hurt Tech. At what point did I say this was a business rival?”
Oh, Techno suddenly realizes as he’s shoved into a limo and kidnapped. I have been drugged. Likely there would have been a thought after that epiphany, except the world stopped existing.
His head is in someone’s lap as they tie back his hair. He tries to swat them away and is snickered at.
Ok maybe the hair tie wasn’t a bad idea if he is going to be puking up his guts this often.
Something is wrong with the car seats but he can’t figure it out. They’re made of leather and taste really bad. Is the car really this long or is he hallucinating again? Why would someone need a car this long? The mileage must be atrocious.
“You gave him HOW much!?”
“Sorry, for some reason I’ve never roofied someone before, Dad!”
“We only needed a few hours-” Techno groans. The conversation stops, a face swimming into view. A man he doesn’t recognize waves warmly at him. “Hello, Technoblade. Are you up for good this time?”
Does he look like he is? His focus catches on the pretty way the man’s fingers move. Techno waves back. What is his name? The other guy had said it, right? “Hullo, Dad,” Techno replies dreamily.
The man melts.
Hellooo. Starting the streaaam of consciousness. The light hurts his eyes. Or, just the one, he can’t open the other. His head pounds and the chair he’s in is horribly stiff, a blur of silhouette suggesting a man looming over him. Armed guards dot the periphery. It’s an interrogation scene, his mind happily supplies. Oh. Huh. That’s no bueno. Someone gently cups his chin and lifts his head upward, causing the world to do cartwheels.
The moment is utterly ruined. The one dark eye Philza can see is dazed beyond recognition, destroying the bright spark that’s supposed to be there. The other is swelled shut under what’s swiftly becoming a black eye. Whoever did this to his child is going to be fired. Literally.
But that can be personally attended to later. For all that’s wrong he’s holding his baby boy for the first time in eighteen years and the moment has to be savored. If only Kristin could see this. I’ve done it, he found himself praying. I’ve brought our boy back. For eighteen years there had been the waning, desperate hope that Alexander had survived. But there hadn’t been for Kristin. Philza still curses himself that his grief over his wife’s death allowed his own son to be stolen beneath his nose. He’d been a cutthroat before, but it was after his son was stolen that Philza became ruthless. He tried to move Heaven and Hell to get back his kid, but it hadn’t been enough.
But here he is. Alive and beautiful and finally in his clutches once again. The prodigal has wandered back all on his own, almost like fate drawing them together. A moth wandering to the safe beacon of home, like on some deep level Technoblade sensed his family and came running. Philza will never let him go ever again.
His son is crying, he realizes. Philza gently brushes the fallen strands of pink hair out of his eyes -something can be done about the color later. “Shh, it’s okay, mate,” he soothes, wiping the tears away. “No need to worry ever again. Why are you crying?”
“Hoow am I going to main- maintain a 4.0 if I’ve been kidnapped!?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t been kidnapped. You’re finally home.”
His cloudy gaze wanders over the room. With a hiccup, the sobs stop. “Oooh. Sorry. I didn’t recognize it…” he frowns. “No. No, this isn’t right at all. This isn’t home.” Not yet. “I need to get hoome. I think I’m sick. No, drugged. Someone. Someone put something. Something, somethin’…am I being hazed? You got the wrong guy. I’m not in any frats. You’re looking for Wil. We look the same. Like clones. It’s weeeird. He’s the party guy, not me.”
“You’re not being hazed.”
“Or. His dad said...doesn’t he get in hostage sitsuwations? I’m Not Wilbur,” he enunciates clearly, or tries to, still slurring a lot. “Sorry! I have no money, and my parents won't pay up. Better luck next time!”
“You aren’t kidnapped,” he reminds his dazed son, a little annoyed at this talk of ‘parents’. He fervently hopes they won't matter to his Technoblade soon, not now that he has his real father.
“I’m not? Oh. Why am I in trouble…? I’m a good boy. Alright? I didn’t— there’s noo proof on the essays. Nope! I’m on the Dean list, I wouldn’t pla–plag— uh.” His gaze suddenly sharpens upon Wilbur, glowering. “You dirty rat! I knew the money was too good! May your stocks plummet, your assets liquid-quate, and your land be salted!”
He pulls Technoblade’s face back to focus on him until he’s the only thing in the boy’s world. “You’re not in trouble, mate.”
“Then why are there cops?” Cops? Crap, where? His head jerks to the vague direction Technoblade waves in, but there’s only his guards there. Ah. Perhaps they weren’t the best set dressing for a family reunion. “I’m innocent, I swear.” There’s an intense look in his eye, desperately latching onto Philza and trying to ascertain if he is believed. “I’m a writer, man, my search history means nooothing.”
Very familiar with Technoblade’s search history, Philza supposes it is a valid concern. “I know,” he assuages, signaling for the guards to leave. “I’ve read all your books. I love them.” Technoblade lights up like the sun, happily rambling about his novels. If only this can be the rest of his life, basking in his son’s mind. This must be what Heaven feels like, and it was the only way Philza was ever going to experience it.
Unfortunately the bubbling chatter faded away, Technoblade losing focus. “Sorry. I talk too much. I just like stories…” he mumbles.
“Would you like to hear one?” His son smiles languidly up at him. “Once upon a time-“
“Cliché,” Technoblade critiques at once.
“It’s thematically appropriate, and tropes are tools like any other. Once upon a time, there was a loving royal family. They were perfect and happy as can be, especially since the queen was about to have a baby. Or, two babies, as they found out. Identical twins.” He boops Technoblade on the nose, who scrunches it at once like a confused rabbit. “They were the most beautiful princes the work had ever seen, with dark eyes like midnight-” he rubs a thumb along the high ridge of his cheekbone to underscore the eye, then traces down to arc along his jaw. “-a face like a heart. With sharp ears and an even sharper smile. The twins are as perfect as can be. They are so, so loved.” Even through the haze, Technoblade squirms under the touch. Philza supposed he’s a stranger still, but not for long. In his heart he’d been practicing this story for years for a little boy with dark hair. “But the king in his dealings had wronged a wicked pair. They were filled with jealousy and loathing. And so they stole one of his precious babies, never to be seen again. Until now.”
Despite the drugs poisoning his mind, Technoblade’s brow furrows. There’s something calculating in his brilliant mind that can’t be destroyed, unfooled by it being dressed up as a fairy tale. His midnight eye widens, darting at once to his long lost twin.
“Wow Wilbur, you’re adopted? You never mentioned.”
Er. Maybe this would be better conveyed in the morning.
Philza stays with him through a blur of a night. Technoblade dips in and out of lucidity, and he gently explains every time that, no, you haven’t been kidnapped, you’re finally home. If he had wished for this reunion a thousand times over, each one must be cashing in now. Philza gets to explain it differently every time, gauging Technoblade’s reaction and adjusting for the next time. I love yous, while true, tend to be balked at. Starting with the fact he’s Wilbur’s father makes Technoblade as skittish as he can be under severe relaxants. Really it’s a testament to his determined anxiety that he manages to be this high strung even while drugged. A paranoia inherited from Philza, alas.
He groans and begins to wake again. “Oh. Oooh no,” Technoblade says, looking up at him utterly horrified. Philza pauses in stroking the hair spilled over his lap, fingers caught in the dark brown roots just barely growing out.
“Oh no?” he asks, curious about what Technoblade thinks is happening this time. Usually he freaks out about being kidnapped, but this isn’t fear, but severe distress. Though, in all fairness, half his visage is hidden by a warm compress to help his blossoming black eye. Still, he is clearly distraught.
“I’m in bed with Wil’s dad. This is soo far outside the bro code.” Philza begins to wheeze. “He’s going to kill me,” Technoblade whispers. “Or a hitman will. He can afford them.”
“No,” he choked around his laughter. “No, mate, you’re sick. You’re just a child delirious with illness.” That’s the lie that tends to work on him, at least. It’s not really so far from the truth, even. “You don’t need to worry about anything at all. I’m taking care of you.”
“Oh. Why?” Philza takes too long to try and parse if Technoblade is asking about the origin of his ‘illness’ or if Technoblade can’t imagine someone taking care of him. Both are worrisome, but Technoblade wanders back out of lucidity before Philza can ask what he means.
Philza greets him everytime he resurfaces, and it’s a little exhausting to sit by his side all night, holding his hand and soothing his confusion, but Philza would rather be nowhere else. There are plenty of staff, but Philza has always made a point to be the one at his children’s bedside when suffering from illness or nightmares, and this is no different.
Despite Philza’s best efforts, he does nod off eventually, waking when the door creeeaks open. He quickly shepherds Technoblade back in, the boy leaning on him heavily. He practically dwarfs Philza, since he’d gotten Kristin’s height. “Run,” he mumbles. “Run run. This lil piggy went wee wee wee all the way home. Let me hooome. ‘ve been kidnapped.”
“No, you haven’t,” he sighs, tired of repeating himself. “You're home, Technoblade.”
“This isn’t my house.” He insists on it over and over again, no matter what Philza tells him. He doesn’t say it everytime, but it’s a near enough thing that Philza suspects something will have to be done about that little scruple.
Techno wakes up in his childhood bed. Dang. He’d hoped the hallucinations would have stopped by now. Guess it was never meant to be. He scowls at the room. It isn’t even correct. Sure the stuff is all there, but it is too organized. Or, improperly organized, neat but definitely rearranged to fit different room dimensions. The world is still spinning though, so who is he to judge his delusions? The smell of fresh paint isn’t helping, either. He groans as he rolls up, clutching his head. Owww. Ow, Ow, Ow! What happened last night? It feels like he’s been kicked in the head. Maybe that explains his swollen eye.
“Good morning, Technoblade,” a kind voice says. He immediately regrets whipping around to face the man. “Careful there, you’re not doing too well, are you?” Huh. So that guy is real, or at least a very convincing illusion. Good to know. He hadn’t been very sure. Techno replies with a very intelligent zombie noise, swaying out of the way of the hand reaching to pat his shoulder, squinting at the man. It takes a second to place him, since Techno has never seen the great Philza Craft in a plain t-shirt and anything short of perfect complexion, and those dark rings under his eyes certainly aren’t typical.
“Uuuh. Phil???”
There’s a beat of…disappointment? before Phil smiles and nods. “You’ve had a rather rough night of it, haven’t you, mate?”
He tries to nod and discovers it to be a rather horrendous idea. Staring down at familiar sheets, with a start he realizes he doesn’t recognize the yellow sweater he’s wearing. “Uh. Where’s my clothing?”
Phil points to where they’re folded neatly on his childhood desk. “Freshly washed, since you were spewing last night. That’s one of Wilbur’s shirts, and honestly you’re adorable in it.”
But Techno petrifies on spot. “You changed me..?” he asks weakly. Oh no. He needs some type of explanation, but he can’t get past that, more colorful swears and cries escaping him at the moment.
A blink, and the concern registers. Phil smiles reassuringly. “Ah, don’t worry, mate. It was completely dark. And you were hungover and needed help, and I wasn’t going to leave you wearing your own vomit.”
Techno buries his aching head in his hands. “Oh god. I’m so sorry you had to take care of me last night. I don’t know what happened.” He’d never done something like this before, but trying to scour through his memories nets a colorful blur of delusions that clearly aren't out of his system yet. He’s almost afraid to ask Phil about some of the stuff he did, even if apparently he knows all of it. Nice of him to watch over Techno. Weird though. Right? He isn’t crazy for thinking that is a little weird, is he?
“Don’t be sorry at all. You aren’t a burden of any type to me.” Aching sincerity is poured into his crystal gaze, honest and wholesome in a way that catches Techno off guard. “I just want to support you in any way I can. Whatever you need, I’m here for you, alright Technoblade? No matter what. I’m always here to help.”
Huh. Maybe he’s misjudged Phil. Extreme in everything he does, perhaps, but clearly a man with so much compassion inside him, even for near strangers. Maybe the world is still spinning and unreal, but there’s at least some comfort to know Phil was watching over him last night. Overbearing and unnecessary, but appreciated to some degree. “Uh. Thanks dude. That’s, uh, really nice of you.” Techno fumbles to replicate the sincerity. He’s not really a heart to heart type guy if he’s honest.
“Anything for you, Technoblade. Would you like breakfast?” He chuckles at the awful face Techno makes. “Coffee?”
“God yes.” Techno grabs his clothes as he stumbles his way to the kitchen, waving off any attempt to help him Phil makes. The house is weirdly not mansion shaped, but frankly he does not have enough brain cells to do anything but slide into a seat next to Wil and down an entire mug of heavenly coffee. Feeling slightly more human, he turns to his friend and thanks him profusely for making sure he was safe last night. “I’m honestly still freaked about what might’ve happened if you weren’t there for me.”
Wil gives him a lopsided grin. “Anytime. Seriously, I got your best interests in mind.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Tommy chirps.
“He’s hungover, sweetie,” Phil explains.
But that doesn’t make sense. Why doesn’t it make sense? There is something important in the carnival house of memories he has, if only he can find it. He’s not hungover, and he’s definitely not sick even if the smell of chocolate chip pancakes makes him want to barf. A thread of panic links all his fragments of recollections. “‘m not hungover,” he realizes. “I was drugged.”
“You do drugs?” Tommy appears deeply impressed. “Oh I guess that makes sense if you're Wilbur’s mate.”
“Don’t say that! I’ll lose my scholarships with accusations like that.”
“What’s a scholarship?”
“The only way I’m able to keep my student visa.” He blinks, realizing he’s lost focus. “Unimportant. I should go.” He pats down his pockets to find his phone missing. Probably stolen. Ugh. At least Wil’s plagiarism racket can probably be stretched to cover that. Hopefully. “Does anyone know where the nearest police station is?”
Phil laughs. “That’s a bit dramatic, it’s just a hangover.”
“No. I don’t drink. I was drugged.”
“You must’ve had some if you’re like this.”
“I. Don’t. Drink.”
“Alright, then you’re sick. Might be a fever, you were saying some silly things last night. Thomas, get going before you’re late. Have a good day at school, love. Really now, Technoblade, sit down and have more coffee. You’ll feel better soon. If you want we can call in a doctor to confirm what I’m saying. They’ll get you some medicine for that stomach bug.”
He sways a bit as he stands. “I’m. I’m going now.”
“No you aren’t.” It’s edged and abrupt, the exact same cold tone from when Phil had treated him like Wil’s kidnapper. The thought pings something in his head, but before he can chase it Phil is speaking again, voice as warm and kind as usual. “You must be contagious. You could get half the school sick.”
He stares uneasily. Phil has always been a tad unnerving, but there’s a special type of disturbing reserved for a man who insists a victim experienced nothing. “I should be alone, then. I don’t want you to catch it.” The words feel clunky on his tongue.
“Oh, we’ve all been exposed at this point. Really, you have no reason to leave. Rest a few days, if you need. We’d love to have you.”
Have. A possession, something stolen, something kidnapped. And it finally clicks in place, little clues swirling in his head. Nausea overcomes him, and this time it isn’t the drugs. He stares at Wilbur Craft, really looks at the guy. A stranger shows up, looking exactly like him, wanting to know everything about him? Persistently invasively familiar? He’s seen Wil lie when claiming credit for the essays Techno wrote. He is unbelievably convincing; only difference is the words came out a little too smooth. Something sinks to the very bottom of his gut, and it’s so, so familiar, this feeling of being utterly trapped. But he has to try.
“You alright, mate? Are you going to puke again?”
He feels like a child asking permission, testing the waters. “I want- need. I need to get back to my dorm. Can I go now?”
Wil cocks his head. “You really think you’re in any state to drive after last night?”
No. He knows he’s right. A normal person would offer a ride, would have believed him. He catches Wil in a scarily level gaze, speaking low and slowly. “You tell me, Wilbur. Only you’d know how long it’ll take to get out of my system, since you’re the one who spiked my drink.”
Wil snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I drug you?”
Techno sighs in relief. “Oh thank god. Sorry man, my anxiety is SCREAMING like you wouldn’t believe right now.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” Phil soothes. “We’ll take excellent care of you.”
“That’s not the problem here. But, really, I should be going, my roommate will be worried.” Skeppy won't be up till noon. “And I don’t want to mess up my perfect attendance.”
“Your dedication is admirable, but you’re going to run yourself ragged if you push yourself like that. It’s really not healthy. Besides, you work so hard, don’t you? And you’re so clever, surely one sick day wouldn’t even affect your grades. Self-care is important.”
“I kinda just want to be alone. I’ve had enough people for today.”
“There’s plenty of free rooms in the house.”
“Look, dude, I’m going to be honest. You’re getting weirdly insistent at this point. It’s kinda cringe.”
“I just want what’s best for my son.”
The world just sorta. Freezes. “...haeh??”
Phil smiles warmly. “You’re my son. Isn’t that wonderful? Technoblade Craft. Stolen from your twin’s side all those years ago, only to wander back on your own. It feels almost too good to be true, like a fairy tale, or a dream.”
Or a nightmare. "Ah," Techno says weakly. "I thought the hallucinations were over. Apparently not, haha. Um. I should go see a doctor now." He wants to close his eyes and wait till this all goes away, but instinct tells him that will be a mistake immediately punished. No, some sickly warm stress in his guts knows this is real, but he's trying to give Phil an out here.
The blatantly crestfallen look on Phil's features kindles panic in Techno. "I realize your captors likely hid everything from you. You're probably confused, have questions. But I can give you the answers you sought all these years."
Techno braces, muscle memory creeping into place for the moment he has to shove the chair back and bolt. He glances between the pair, then looks to Wil, desperate for some sort of salvation. His smile is nervous and pleading. "Hey, um. Is your dad okay? ...mentally?"
"He got hit pretty hard by your kidnapping." Techno's stomach plummets.
Phil begins launching into some fairytale, and Techno cuts him off. "No, I remember that-" kinda, the memories swirl unpleasantly "-but I mean-- I mean, come on, it's obviously not real. Listen, sorry about your baby or whatever, but know what my family’s like. Believe me, I’ve checked the birth certificate. I’m a Piglin through and through. Be reasonable, the odds have to be astronomical, and I don’t need a stats degree to tell you that one. Sorry, I’m not gonna play along with your pipe dream, alright? Alright?”
Philza knew Technoblade had rejected the truth earlier, but had hoped being sober would cure that resistance. Distress rises in his chest. He's practiced the story so many times, over and over with the drugged Technoblade until he found the version the boy responded best to. Philza was so certain he'd share their joy to finally reunite.
But now his son is on guard, shoulders elevated around his ears and gesticulating defensively. The dark eye that’s not swallowed by bruising darts between him and Wilbur and, only once, the exit. Only once. But he can see the calculating look in his boy, sharp and strategic just like Wilbur can get. Oh, how precious that they have the exact same expression when scheming.
“Come on, Tech,” Wilbur smoothes him with a honey voice, crossing over to Technoblade and throwing an arm around his shoulder, who goes rigid beneath his twin’s touch. “I mean, just look at us! We’re identical. Aren’t you curious? I’ve wanted to know everything about you the moment I found out. And now I don’t have to lie to you anymore about who I am.”
Technoblade runs a hand through his cerise hair, feeling like he really is losing it. “Oh my god. Oh my god! You really did drug and kidnap me. This is really happening.”
“It’s not kidnapping if you’re finally home,” Philza reminds him.
“This isn’t my house. This isn’t even your house, either, it’s literally a place I’ve never seen.”
“I thought it would be more comfortable for you to be in familiar lodgings.” He’d always been so awkward in the manor. Something closer to an average-sized abode was bound to be more agreeable to him.
“You’ll like this one more,” Wilbur asserts. “It’s cozier. Less a house home and more a home home.”
“Stop touching me,” Techno snaps at the guy who drugged him. “That doesn’t make it any better, it’s still a prison.” 1. Ugh rich people logic 2. He lives in a dorm so hell no is this familiar, this place has to cost eighteen times his tuition, and 3. He would be far less uncomfortable if he HADN'T BEEN KIDNAPPED.
“Come on, Tech, you’re over reacting-” Techno shoves his arm off. Like, really shoves, pushing Wil backwards while kicking his legs out from under him. He goes down in a tangle of thrashing limbs and a hard thunk, but Techno is already sprinting away full throttle.
Escape attempt 1: Feet are pounding after him. Techno has half a minute head start, since Phil checked on Wil first. He’s confused and scared and doesn’t understand the layout of the house, but he can feel people chasing him like a sixth sense. He jumps off the stair railing, kicking off the walls and landing in a deep crouch that only has him launching forwards. His hunters lag behind, and Techno grins a wild feral rictus as he spots what has to be the entrance. “Not even close! Later, losers!” he shouts over his shoulder, throwing open the door leading to freedom.
Techno immediately slams into a bodyguard. Oww. He is dangled by the scruff of his white hood like a kitten and deposited in front of Phil.
Escape attempt 2: “Let me go.”
“Sorry. But I can't lose you a second time.”
Escape attempt 3: He lunges for the front door again. It is locked.
Escape attempt 4: So are the grand sweeping windows. The view is lovely, of course, but not when behind (metaphorical) bars. They are also not very breakable, even when he swings a chair into one of them.
Really now, doesn’t Technoblade know the windows are bulletproof? A basic assumption, really, for any house Philza is going to occupy. This isn’t going how Philza wanted at all. Not that any of his brood have ever been anything but willful, but this is just absurd. He feels shorted of his long-imagined tearful family hug. A rocky start, but Technoblade will come around eventually. Philza is a patient man. He’s waited eighteen years for his son to come home, he can wait the few days it takes for him to settle down. Love and patience will win him over eventually.
Techno is thoroughly convinced the Craft family are completely insane. Obviously he can’t be related, these are grade A nut jobs he is dealing with, and Techno is super mentally normal. Better than normal, even, he is brilliant, and confident he’ll find a way out soon.
Escape attempt 20: Techno pulls a knife on Phil. Phil pulls a bigger knife on Techno. …okay maybe this is getting a little inelegant for his preference.
After that, Tommy comes home from school. Phil joyfully introduces his long lost brother. Techno swiftly corrects to say that the kid’s father is a wacko and that Tommy should call the police. Tommy is unsure of what to do, but is gently lured into siding with his father. He kind of just shrugs and tells Techno, “sorry, but Dad always gets what he wants.”
Still, Tommy has been the only hint of sympathy out of everyone. Phil is crazy, Wil has literally not changed at all, being just as intensely curious about him as ever, and the few staff he manages to catch slipping around are deathly loyal. Techno is out of luck. He just has to manage by himself, but that isn’t anything new.
Escape attempt 21: Tommy groans. “Why do I still have to get tutored! Dad isn’t paying you anymore! This fu-”
“Language,” Phil interjects.
“What!? You never get on to me about that??”
“You should follow your brother Technoblade’s example.” His red pen scratches clean through the page as he flinches.
“Uuuuuugh. Fine. Why don’t you swear, Techno?”
“Tastes like soap.” Techno drifts his eyes over the social studies short answers, knee bouncing rapidly. He’s trying to buy time to think in a way where Phil won’t butt his head in. He figures Tommy’s grades must be important to his father, or at the very least his education has to be pretty expensive, if what he got paid for tutoring was any indication. Techno pauses. Ah. They had been bribing him through the cover of paying for Wil and Tommy’s grade improvements. He’d just assumed they had no idea what a normal amount of money was. Wil tipped with twenties for crying out loud! For Starbucks!
“I don’t think I should have to do lessons anymore,” Tommy grumbles as Phil tousles his hair and leaves. “Especially if I can’t swear about it.”
“You’re literally the only tolerable person in this entire house.” It’s more a barb for the other two but Tommy brightens.
“Really? Thanks! Everyone says I’m irritating, but I’m really not once you get to know me!” His legs swing happily as they chat, Tommy flourishing under attention. Techno waits about half an hour, once he’s sure Phil isn’t lurking anymore. Time to try a little subterfuge. A quick glance confirms no one is listening, and Tommy immediately picks up on the focus drawing away from education like a fighter noticing an opening and lunging for it. “What’s up?”
“You’re a good kid.” Tommy practically glows. “Your answers are great, you just need to work on getting them out of your head and onto the paper. You’re pretty smart, and nice, and by your mouth you’ve got an independent streak.” More like a rebellion desperate to get notice, but it qualifies. “So, I’ve been thinking of a question I want to ask you. What do you think about the fact I’ve been imprisoned by your brother and father?”
Tommy’s face twists, and he taps his mouth like he’s thinking. “Sorry, but Dad always gets what he wants.” It’s even creepier to hear the second time. “I mean, if he says you’re a Craft you probably are. Dad doesn’t make mistakes like that. He definitely investigated.”
“Sure, he’s convinced himself. He’s surrounded by yes-men, of course his delusion was supported, but now it’s full on obsession and it’s ruining my li-”
And he taps his mouth harder, pointedly staring right at Techno. Not a thinking gesture; a shushing one. Techno nods very, very slightly, and Tommy’s gaze darts to the corner of the room. Cameras. He hadn’t even thought of cameras. Well. Perhaps the only person he can get on his side hasn’t even hit puberty, but Tommy certainly notices more than he let on. “I guess it’s weird. But…I dunno. Dad’s really nice. And he got so happy every time you came over to teach me. And Wilbur has been ecstatic to find his other half. I love it here, they’re the best. I think you could like it too, once you’re used to it. Plus you’re super nice to me! And helpful, Wilbur is pants at explaining stuff. I want you to stay.” And then Tommy’s voice goes soft, and a little…jealous. Oh no. He’d picked up on the attention hunger, but hadn’t stopped to consider what conditions generate a kid like that. “Dad talked about you a lot, before we even found you.”
…huh. Well, if Tommy wants him gone because he sees Techno as some type of competition for his father’s affection, at least he knows their goals align.
“I don’t. I don’t think that’s going to happen, kid. I just want to carry on with my life. This is really putting a wrench in my five year plan.”
“A what?”
Right. This is still an eleven year old. Welp. He just has to accept what help he can get. “It’s not important.” Like hell it isn’t, that plan is his entire purpose for existing. He's going to be the next great American author and some deranged family isn't getting in the way of that. “Right. Guess I know where you stand now.” Tommy shrugs, and all Techno can wonder is, in a family of liars, how much of Tommy is a performance?
Escape attempt 22: A coded message worked into Tommy’s history essay. Phil points it out and congratulates him on such a complex cipher, though critiques the fact it was only ever going to be delivered to people already eating from his palm. Honestly? Techno forgot he put one in. Tommy is miffed that he has to rewrite the essay.
Escape attempt 23: He’s finally gotten through Tommy’s mound of homework. Uuugh. It’s easy, of course, but getting Tommy to see that is much more difficult. It doesn’t help that his attention is flighty today. Not that it takes much focus to get through the papers, it sorta runs on autopilot once he gets into it, but he has a killer headache. There’s a nasty feeling in his gut that refuses to go away, some danger lurking that he can’t shake. He can’t stop nervously fidgeting, something important prodding the back of his head. And where is his bag? Maybe it got left in the car??
He waves at Phil on his way out. “Hey, he did pretty well today. Send the check to my account by Friday.”
A completely bewildered expression greets him. “What?”
“Huh?” Techno stops completely in his tracks. Something about Philza Craft makes his head go haywire. Then Techno’s eyes go comically wide, or would if not for the black eye. “Oh. Oh my god.”
“Are you alright??”
“No! You’ve kidnapped me!”
His captor glances at his watch. “Ohh that’s not good, mate. The Rohypnol should have worn off hours ago, we should get that checked. Did that fool give you a concussion? Being fired was too good for him, he should have been quartered,” Phil hisses.
Techno blanches. “You’re going to draw and quarter someone?”
“What? Of course not, dear, I meant confined to quarters. Is your black eye hurting? Where’s your warm compress?” That is a very good question. Techno pats his jeans, then begins to look around for it. Has it disappeared somehow? Phil is staring at him in amazement. “That distraction worked?”
“Huh? Do you know where it is? Also my keys, and phone, I’m not sure where they went.”
But Phil simply frowns. “This…isn’t a scheme, is it? That’s a bad sign. I’m going to call my personal doctor, okay son?”
“I’m not your kid.”
“Mhm, whatever you say, Technoblade. Don’t worry, we’ll get this sorted out. Have you had lunch?”
“...maybe?”
Escape attempt 24: The doctor is shining a bright light directly into his eyes in a way that is very unappreciated, but that doesn’t stop Techno from attempting to persuade her to try to bust him out. She snorts and says her loyalty is well bought, only laughing more when he retorts about the Hippocratic oath. “Funny. That old promise means nothing when it’s my head on the chopping block.”
Techno squints at Phil. “Just how ruthless are your lawyers?” His captor laughs like he made a joke.
It’s not a concussion, whatever it is. He takes the pills given to him, panics when he remembers he shouldn’t consume anything these people want him to, but is distracted again by wondering how much a personal doctor gets paid.
He spends the whole day trying to escape. Fondly, Phil mentions determination runs in their blood. Techno ignores him. He can’t focus, practically scratching at the walls. He keeps kinda forgetting he’s been kidnapped, asking if Tommy’s lesson is done and then scowling at them when he remembers.
Restlessness doesn’t cease by the time he's shuffled into a bedroom. His bedroom, Techno figures, mostly because it’s the exact same shade from his house. It still reeks of fresh paint, which implies this is a recent job to completely replicate his childhood. The furniture, unfortunately, is not a hallucination, and looks exactly like the kind back home. He isn’t sure how many more heebie-jeebies can be wrung out of him today, and Techno only gets more and more wound up as the night wears on.
No. It’s not a simple replica. Honestly, of course it isn’t, knowing these loonies. This is the bed from his childhood bedroom. He recognizes it from the crayon drawings on the underside. Don’t ask why he’s under there as a full grown man who can’t really fit (a fact he’s highly aware of). Techno is entitled to a little insanity, considering the circumstances. And yes, he’s absolutely losing his mind over the implications that someone broke into his childhood home and stole all of his furniture, but really that’s like the dozenth major felony committed against him in the last thirty odd hours, and the surprise has worn thin. It might be 2 AM and perhaps he’s been pacing like a caged tiger for hours, but it’s right there, looking at the little crayon drawings he made as a kid, that he has an epiphany. Alright, he should have thought about it ages ago, but he is very stressed and can’t sleep, okay? Anyway, Techno is an adult. And a prisoner. And a well documented bad prisoner. Really, there shouldn’t be consequences if he leaves his room at night. So far his captors have actually been surprisingly chill about his restlessness. Then again he hasn’t been very successful. Yet.
He throws the door open and stalks through the halls. A blur in the corner of his eye has Techno screaming the most shrill shriek of his life and decking the dude in the face. He sprints around the corner, and after a few seconds footsteps pound after, only to run directly into Techno’s ambush. The floor lamp shatters against their skull and they go down fast once he kicks out their knees. Scrambling in the dark for tools, he ends up pinning the man beneath a couch.
“Who are you!?” Techno screeches, wielding the broken floor lamp like a sword. People come running and the light blares on painfully.
Wilbur wakes up when the shouting starts. Unfortunately, he thinks it’s something he should deal with. He rolls out of bed, stretches like a cat, then saunters down the hallway, guards shadowing him.
Flicking on the lights reveals his bedraggled brother jabbing a broken lamp at a pinned guard, interrogating him. Wilbur snickers, and then ducks as a lamp head is hurled across the room directly at him. Tech is disheveled and panting, pulling the pole back for a spear throw before recognizing him. Really, it’s so out of character for the chill guy that Wilbur can’t help but laugh. Man, he’s really gotten riled up hasn't he? It’s entertaining enough that Wilbur hopes it lasts a bit before Tech settles back down.
His brother blinks owlishly as his howling twin, slowly lowering the improvised weapon. Tech points at the man trapped under the sofa. “Someone broke into your house Wil. Crap! There’s one behind you!”
“Tech. Oh my god. That’s your bodyguard.”
His own dark eyes stare at him with utter bewilderment. Clearly Tech hasn’t slept a wink. “…haeh? My what now? Why would I need a bodyguard??” It’s probably the most naive thing to ever come out of his mouth. And Dad said he was the brightest kid in the world. Tch. “The worst thing I do is bully nerds online, no one is going to come after me for that.”
“You’re one of us now. People like us have enemies, naturally.”
“You, maybe,” he scoffs. “I’m a normal guy. And I can take care of myself. Wouldn’t you agree?” He prods the bodyguard with his foot. A moment of realization, and he lifts the couch enough to be escaped. “Oh geez, my bad, bro. Uh, sorry for decking you I guess. Really Wil, I’m fine. Plus I handled him didn’t I?”
Wilbur rolls his eyes. “He’s not allowed to hit you, is he? What are you even doing outside your room?”
An awfully confused look crosses his twin's features as he looks at the broken lamp in his hands. “I don’t, uh, remember. Aw crap, sorry about your lamp, Wil. I can pay for it. Er, maybe. I can try at least.”
Wilbur assures his sleep deprived brother that it’s fine, taking his hand and leading him back to bed. It feels perfect, identical fingers interlocking. A cracked mirror finally put back together. He’s found his other half after missing half his soul his whole life. Their family is complete again. It will be perfect, he tries to tell himself, just like Dad always said it would be.
By morning Techno’s a jittering wreck incapable of staying in one room for more than fifteen minutes. He checks all the exits for the millionth time, halfway starting escapes before remembering exactly how they failed the last time. But eventually his stomach rumbles consistently enough that even he can’t forget it, and so Techno blearily stumbles towards the dining room.
Unfortunately, it’s rather occupied. At once Techno flips about face and tries to march out. “Stay.” He can feel Phil’s stare digging between his shoulder blades. Deep survival instinct tells him to measure his recalcitrance. His temper has gotten too loose as of late. There haven’t been consequences yet, but you have to measure what’s worth it. He can spare his dignity and play the family game if that’s what it takes. Maybe. He doesn’t particularly like the Crafts, for obvious reasons. Perhaps hanging around them will go the other way, if his loathing is too blatant. So he plops down next to Wil and tries not to grimace when an arm is slung over his shoulders. He hates being touched. Especially by people who drug him. It’s not a large pool of people, exclusive to Wilbur and dentists, but the point still stands.
Techno stares at his morning coffee. On the one hand, he needs it if he’s going to keep up the escape attempts. On the other, the last time he drank something the Craft family gave him, it went, you know, pretty badly. He’s been squinting at the cup in his hands for about five minutes before Phil asks what’s wrong with it, given it’s his preferred blend. But can he really be blamed for trying to see if it looks or smells weird?
“Don’t be daft,” Wil snorts. “You wouldn’t be able to detect it, since it’s odorless, flavorless, and colorless.”
“You’re going to upset him,” Phil chides. “Why would we have any reason to drug you?”
“Funny you should say that, because that thought didn’t cross my mind the last time I accepted a beverage from Wil. Why? BECAUSE I DIDN'T THINK MY FRIEND WOULD SPIKE MY DRINK.”
“Aw, glad to hear we’re friends.”
“We’re not,” Techno replies irritably as Wil steals his cup and sips it.
“We can be both friends and brothers, they’re not exclusionary. There you go. Not drugged or poisoned or anything.”
Techno snatches his mug back. Coffee is vital to his escape plans. “We’re neither. You’re my kidnapper.” He chugs down the sweet, heavenly caffeine, trying not to think about the fact it’s made exactly how he likes it.
“Rude. And for the future, just because I take one sip of a drink doesn’t mean it’s fine. I could have built up tolerances, or taken the antidote beforehand. Maybe it only works at a large dose.”
Techno spews coffee everywhere, scraping at his tongue with a napkin. “Wilbur,” Phil reprimands. “Don’t tease your brother like that.”
“If he put spikes in your drink, wouldn’t your tongue get sliced up?” Tommy asks.
As he begins to carefully drink his coffee, Techno scowls. “The drink was spiked, not ‘has spikes’. Roofies. The kind of stuff bad guys put in girls’ drinks on dates in order to-”
“Technoblade,” Phil says sharply. “He is a child.”
“You were the ones who-” the glare he gets makes his stomach tie in knots. Yes, remember who you’re talking to, boy. Best not to make assumptions about what moral boundaries are at play. There haven’t been consequences yet, and that is a very important yet. But words seem to get under Phil’s skin more than acts of rebellions, and Techno has always, always been bad at controlling his tongue, but it’s especially bad today with his nerves going haywire. His back prickles.
He’s pacing again. Techno doesn’t know when he started. But he’s not supposed to leave till breakfast is over, family rule. His parents don’t like pacing, always teasing he’ll leave furrows on the floor. Do I have to tie you up to make sure you stay put, boy? Maybe the Crafts will try that, actually. Put him on a leash. Wait, who’s going to walk Floof now?? Crap he’s getting side tracked. He’s always getting side tracked, forgetting about the dishes or projects or birthdays. Mom and Dad had always gotten frustrated about that, honestly their relationship had gotten so much better ever since he was diagnosed.
Wait.
“MEDS! I HAVEN'T TAKEN MY MEDS FOR-“
“Your ADHD! Sorry I forgot about that, mate. That explains so much about yesterday. Don’t worry, we’ll fetch your Adderall.”
And Techno pauses and squints at Phil. “How’d you know that?”
“I know everything about you.”
Well that’s tooootally not creepy. “Then you know I have a 10 AM class I need to get to.”
“Not on Thursdays.” What- how long has he been out? He hasn’t missed a single class all semester! No, no, no!
“My schoolwork! Crap I had assignments due! And seven essays to deliver—!” his 100% refund policy for delays or misjudged letter grades is an act of hubris that is going to annihilate him. “Bruuuh. I’m going to fail,” he moans. “I’m going to fail and get kicked out and have to go back home.”
“Of course you aren’t. For one thing, you’re brilliant, two missed days won’t change that. For another, you’re already home, love.” Techno recoils, tasting copper.
Technoblade Piglin is officially violently ill and will be for months. Philza writes the sick note himself, signing off as Technoblade’s guardian in a way that is immensely satisfying. Of course he isn’t yet, not legally, but the paperwork should be filed by the end of the week. Soon the documents will all reflect the fact Technoblade is a Craft. Really, it shouldn’t be such an endorphin boost, but every time he refers to himself as Technoblade’s father his brain goes hehe. I have a son. A baby. And he’s mine! Precious baby boy. It’s not particularly conducive to work, but he deserves a vacation. He built his empire so that no cruel hand could ever destroy his family again, stretching his influence globally all for the hope he might find his long lost son. It would be foolish not to maintain, not when it is so profitable, but the driving desperate determination is unnecessary now. He deserves a break. After all, he has eighteen years to catch up on. From now on, his attention is reserved exclusively for his sons.
His work is done by no means. There are still plenty of loose ends to tie up, such as ensuring this little transition period isn’t even a blip on Technoblade’s academic career, as the boy cares so deeply about it. What furious passion. Naturally Philza will do everything in his power to further that interest. It’s not hard to sign off on doctor’s notes and explain why Technoblade can’t continue in-person studies.
He doesn’t appreciate the fact he’s forging another man’s signature. It should be his name on the dotted line claiming Technoblade, not the moniker of the villain who’d taken his precious son. While Philza had lovingly studied everything about Technoblade, it was with ire he researched those who had stolen his rightful parental position. But the Piglins disappeared the moment his sights had set upon them. They escaped him, for now, but that will change soon enough. No one hurts his family and gets away with it.
No one.
Of course there is the benefit of having free reign of Technoblade’s childhood home, drab and cramped as it is, and he hopes the familiar decorations put him at ease. Though likely not being off his meds will be greatly beneficial. Such a crucial detail shouldn’t have slipped his mind, but, well, he’s a little distracted. Technoblade obviously got it from somewhere, after all.
Oh. My. God. He can decorate the fridge with Technoblade’s scribbly crayon artwork and report cards! How adorable.
Wil fetches his meds, favorite clothing, backpack, and a few personal items important to him, demonstrating attentiveness to what Techno values. Basically, it’s salt in a wound, but he has to grin and thank Wil since he still isn’t quite sure at what point the Craft’s might give up and kill him.
What hurts most is the response from Skeppy. It’s short, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever hear anything from the outside world until he escapes. It’s a nice enough message, Skeppy wishing him the best and hoping the doctors figure out what’s wrong with his sudden failing health. But couldn’t he have seen through the obvious lie? When has Techno ever let something like that stop him? Why can’t anyone notice everything is wrong? He consoles himself with the fact Skeppy wouldn’t be able to do anything anyway.
Techno’s laptop is delivered after some delay, and when it’s finally booted up it’s been utterly gutted. Any ability to contact help has been basically destroyed, with a cheery note informing him all messages will be monitored and filtered before reaching anybody else.
Escape attempt 27: A coded message sent to Skeppy. It is never delivered.
Escape attempt 28: A half finished email for his parents. He erases the entire thing four times. There’s not a chance in hell Phil will let him talk to his actual family, even if he figures out what to say. He doesn’t buy the outrageous accusations, of course, but the topic of family is, for obvious reasons, really freaky at the moment. Techno gives up before he can work himself into a mental crisis. There’s an awful weight in his stomach that their last phone call might be all he gets for a long time.
‘Family’ meals are now mandatory if he wants to make sure he gets his meds. Lunch is worse without Tommy, because at least there was one person in the room he didn’t loathe. He doesn’t want to talk about himself to his stalkers for some reason. But maybe it can be a chance to gather information. After all: you can't plan a war if you don’t know the enemy. “So. Uh. What do you even do for a living?”
Phil looks delighted at the question. “You’d like to join the family business?”
“I already have my future planned.” Nobody, not even some rich monster, is going to mess with that. Getting kidnapped better not interfere with his five year plan or he’s gonna be furious.
“I understand perfectly. Also congrats on your third novel, by the way. It’s doing so well, too, very impressive. I’m proud of you.”
It smells like a diversion. He pushes his food around his plate since it’s really hard to force himself to eat around Wil. “Thanks.” It isn't Phil he wants to hear it from, though. “Now, what do you do?”
“What do you think?”
“Kick puppies and burn orphanages?” Ah, those are the type of comments you filter, Techno, get with the program, hm?
Phil snorts. “Really now. As crass as that? Do you really think that pays this well?”
“Human trafficking?” Why did he ever think he was going to control a single word he ever said? Really. Pure hubris.
“That’s morbid.”
“I mean, you say to your captive.”
He waves vaguely. “Nothing so exciting and villainous as that.” Techno doesn’t buy it, for whatever reason. “It’s more so managing finances, smart investing, networking, and so on. I’m afraid it’s more dull than you’ve been imagining.”
“And what does your wife do?” The room falls completely silent, the pair of villains staring at each other. “Uh. Husband? Spouse…s?”
“I’m sorry, Technoblade,” Phil says softly, pinning him with a somber expression. “Your mother is dead.”
He bites down on his automatic vitriolic barb for once, since it would make his life a whole lot easier if both of them were dead. Civility. The key word is civility. He desperately needs to endear them to him when he can manage, since it’s a lot harder to hurt someone you like. Techno would rather die and his pride is screaming, but this is survival. A good son survives the bad days. The hesitation before a blow makes all the difference. He needs every iota of grace and approval he can earn if he’s going to wrack up over 30 escape attempts in just the first day and a half.
So he swallows his dignity and the acid on his tongue. “I’m…sorry to hear that. Sorry for your loss.”
Phil gives him the most bittersweet smile. “She would have loved you so dearly. One of the last memories I have of Kristin is her holding you and your brother after your birth. You remind me so much of her. You have the exact same eyes.”
Techno uncomfortably looks down at his plate as Phil stares at him, hiding behind the pink strands of hair that fall in front of his face. But he isn’t supposed to leave during meals. So he sits rooted in his chair, and meets all further conversation with stony silence, since it’s that or say something that will only sabotage himself.
Escapism attempt 1: Techno tries rather hard to write. It’s difficult with the way Phil leans on the back of his chair, watching with deep fascination. The shadow falls over his laptop. Heat prickles uncomfortably on his back from the proximity. For some reason it’s hard to brainstorm a fourth novel with everything going on in his life. He pokes through old projects and writing prompts, and types a few words every fifteen minutes, but for the most part the cursor is blinking at him tauntingly. It’s not really making him any less stressed, more so angry that the overhanging shadow of Phil is ruining an activity he normally loves. He’s made the font small to hopefully avoid the old man being able to read over his shoulder, but all it’s really doing is forcing him to squint at the screen. It’s starting to give him a headache, so he sighs and zooms in.
“Can you not read it?”
He cants his head back to look at his captor and accidentally bumps into his chest. Quickly, Techno flinches away. “Can you?” he asks grumpily.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe you need glasses like Wilbur? There’s probably an old pair around here somewhere that you can use,” he suggests a little too eagerly.
“Pretty sure it's because your goons gave me a black eye,” he curtly responds. No thanks. Techno wants to look nothing like Wil, basically changing out of the guy’s clothes the moment he could. Given the type of surveillance he now knows is implemented, it seems Techno is getting dressed in the dark for the time being. “And I don’t need glasses,” he tacks on.
“I’m pretty sure you do. You squint at everything, dear.”
“I’m glowering.”
“Aren’t you a bit old for being a moody teen? I think the glasses would help you. I reckon your vision is exactly as bad as your twin’s is.”
“He’s not my brother.” A hand lands upon the top of his scalp. Ah. So that was too far then. Techno freezes, and he wishes he wouldn’t, but he can’t help it. He’s lost the knack for silencing his turbulent stubborn streak and now he will reap the results.
“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” Phil says lightly, carding his fingers through Techno’s hair. He hates this, hates this power play, but all he can do is wait for the moment the fingers turn into claws, for the moment roots rip against his scalp and he’s dragged up by the hair to face his captor. Philza takes his time, parting long strands, sweeping it back behind his hurting back. Waiting is pure, unadulterated agony. Techno stares straight ahead at nothing, failing to breathe.
Phil sighs, tucking a rose strand behind his pointed ears. “Really now, no need to be so tense. I’m not mad, simply disappointed.” Aren’t those the same things? But Phil stops holding him, and Techno sucks down air fast. He really, really hates being touched. He’s seething. At himself, for overreacting over nothing. At Phil, for making him feel so scared. And, finally, the words seem to come easily, spilling across the page. Not a plot, or a summary, no. Just a simple dedication. He shouldn’t, not immediately after the last exchange, but he wants to make Phil hurt in the only way he can.
To my parents, he writes, who support me in everything I do.
“...That’s the wrong plurality,” Phil says at last, stumbling a little bit.
“Naaah,” he drawls.
“Ah.” Techno is thankful he doesn’t have to spell out the two fold affront. Phil is smart, if nothing else, though Techno prefers to interpret it as being conniving. Well. Eventually he’ll out scheme the old man. “It’s rather different to your last two dedications. The cockiness of ‘not even close’ was rather fun, don’t you think?”
His discomfort only cements Techno’s belief it’s a well chosen dedication. “I like it.”
“Hm. I hope that changes by the time you revise it.”
“I don’t really edit. I don’t have the patience for it.”
“I’m aware. But you make up for it with intricate plots and fantastic, fully realized characterization.”
Something familiar pings at the phrase and on a hunch he pulls up his recent emails with his publisher. Techno highlights the quote when he finds it, and it’s word for word what just came out of Phil’s mouth. “You’ve been reading my emails,” he accuses.
Phil skims over it. “Ooh, it’s selling rather well! That’s marvelous. But no, I don’t think I’ve seen that one.” That one? That one?! How many of his private conversations does Phil know about?!
He is distracted from the privacy invasion, unauthorized access, stalking accusations -felonies! Honest to god felonies- by the next thing Phil says. “He just used the same phrase when we last spoke.”
“Why have you spoken with my publisher?” he demands.
“I had to grease the wheels somehow, didn’t I?”
Red fills his vision. “You–you bribed them to sell my book.”
“Not really. I just pointed in the right direction. It takes so long, doesn’t it? I just expedited the process.”
“You took my legitimacy!”
“No one will know,” Phil soothes dismissively.
“I will! It’s a hollow victory if you just give it to me!”
He crosses over to sit on the coffee table in front of Techno, clasping his hands together. “Please do not get upset over this. It’s really not so malicious as you paint it to be. I loved your work. Genuinely. I’ve read everything.” Yeah, but just how much everything did that entail? How much of his life has been seen by this man? His skin crawls. “The brilliance of the mind games the protagonist plays is the best political drama I’ve seen in years, let alone the intricacies of how agriculture affects and even drives warfare. Honestly I don’t think I can ever eat a potato again without tasting its bloody history in your series. I just wanted to make sure other people get to appreciate your genius. What I did was recommend your work to a few contacts of mine in the industry. They liked it, put in some good words. I did a little bit of advertising to boost sales since the first week is very important, as you’re no doubt aware. It’s all business, alright? Nothing to do with stifling your creativity or heavens forbid trying to control your work. I’m not some corporate entity interfering with your vision as a ploy to tick off demographic boxes and appease stockholders. All that happened was I wanted to make it easier for you. I love everything you do. Am I wrong to support your talent?”
“Of course you like everything I do, you’re trying to project your dead kid onto me!”
There’s a hardness in his tone. “You’re making this rather difficult.”
Escape (?) attempt 35: playing video games with Tommy. Okay, look, it counts, alright? He has to build up rapport with the kid if he’s going to convince him to switch sides. And he has a lot more free time now that he has been…relieved of his side gig. Bluntly pointing out that financial control is an abuse tactic only causes Phil to laugh and ask what he’d need to buy.
“A plane ticket to the Arctic,” he retorts, because he can be classy when telling someone he’d rather be literally freezing to death than in the same room as them.
But Phil simply looks thoughtful. “I haven’t been in awhile. Maybe a family vacation can be arranged.” Techno grimaces. He should keep his mouth shut. Escaping a house is already a struggle. Having to survive the Arctic wilderness on top of that might be a little more than he can handle. But he will if that’s what it takes. Techno will escape, it’s only a matter of time.
Even half paying attention, he’s still wiping the floor with Tommy. What, like it’s hard? He gives tips about proper shielding and how to time combos, but he’s not giving the brat a win. Tommy is getting better, but also getting frustrated, and begins to complain.
“Let your little brother win,” Phil chides. Techno abruptly pauses the game and begins to stalk out of the room. As it’s crucial he doesn’t scare Tommy, he’s not shouting like he wants to, but his temper still boils up. “Where are you going?”
“I need to work on my essays. I’ve been procrastinating. Don’t you care about my grades?”
“Don’t you care about your family?”
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. “He’s not my brother,” Tommy grumbles, echoing his own thoughts.
“Don’t say that,” Phil responds sharply.
“I think he should get to leave, if he wants.”
“Thomas.”
The boy goes quiet.
Escape attempt 36: Another day, another round of homework with Tommy. The kid glances at where Wil lounges across the couch, texting. Phil has been gone for hours, too, though may appear at any time. There’s a shifty look in Tommy. Perfect. “Can you check this sentence? I think I spelled a word wrong.”
Tommy slides him a piece of paper that reads as follows: the smaller windows aren’t usually locked.
Escape attempt 37: Unfortunately, just a shower. He HAD intended to bust open the tiny window once he didn’t look disheveled. It will take some serious parkour and the window is barely wide enough to fit his shoulders, but the bathroom is just about the only place he has privacy. It’ll take some climbing, since it’s on the second floor, but at least Tommy’s tip is good.
But when Techno gets out, his clothes are gone. While getting arrested for indecent exposure certainly will mean talking to the police faster, it won’t make for a very covert escape.
He storms out in a bath towel, forming a sizable puddle on the carpet that costs more than his dorm as he towers over Phil and demands to know where his clothes are. The abductor lowers his book, slightly apologetic but wholly unfazed. “Sorry, you take faster baths than I expected.” Yeah? Did how long he takes showers not make it in the report when he was learning literally everything else there is to know about Techno?
“It’s called a utility bill.” He wrings out his long hair, splashing the novel’s pages on purpose. “Where are my clothes?” Phil waves a hand in some direction, and Techno flips around smartly, furious that his escape attempt is thwarted.
But the horror in Phil’s voice roots him to the spot as he realizes the mistake. Because there is one thing about Techno no amount of stalking and privacy invasions will ever dig up, because none of them wanted even a breath of a paper trail about this. There’s almost a vicious satisfaction that he managed to keep this secret from the all seeing eye of Phil, but it’s overshadowed by the awful feeling of waiting with baited breath for the reaction. He’s so, so glad he can’t see Phil’s response to realizing the perfect little son he’s concocted in his head well and truly never existed.
“What happened to your back, Technoblade?”
Techno stands rigid even as needles trail down his spine. He doesn’t care, normally. It simply doesn’t define him. He doesn’t want sympathy, least of all from Philza Craft. But what he wants has never mattered, not now in this golden birdcage, and certainly not in his childhood home. And so he holds himself proud, since pride is the only thing that’s ever saved him. Even then, he can still feel his captor’s eyes raking over every single scar where the belt cut too deep.
“That’s not your business,” he snaps at once, glaring over a shoulder.
“Everything about you is my business,” Phil responds quietly. He hates that welling pity in the man’s eyes.
And Techno turns away, movement stiff but precise. He’s not running but only by a technicality. He doesn’t want to see his captor cry. “Your fault for buying used goods.”
Three hours later, Mr. and Mrs. Piglin are found. They are given very, very little mercy.