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“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Kristin offered again. She and her husband, Phil, had been urging Technoblade to stay the night in the castle nearly every day for the past two weeks. He didn’t know how to tell them he didn’t belong there. He barely fit in with the livestock he worked with.
“I can’t,” he excused. “I have to take care of the chickens.” The chickens that a bitter neighbor disfigured yesterday.
“We can send someone to take care of them,” Phil supplied. His regal garb stood out like a sore thumb in the stables. He’d probably just come from a super important save-the-island meeting. Even Kristin’s loose, purple daygown for assisting in the gardens was a stark upgrade from Technoblade’s soiled working clothes.
“No, it’s okay. They don’t like strangers. They’re flighty,” Technoblade lied. His chickens, when they were alive, couldn’t have cared less about who fed them as long as it happened. That wasn’t a problem anymore, though.
There was no good way to say Technoblade wanted to, but it would ruin his life to stay, even one single night. The moment his neighbors in the Lower District found the King and Queen personally invited him to stay, his house would be ransacked, and if he ever returned there, being stoned to death wasn’t off the table.
In the castle and the Upper District it wasn’t known Technoblade hadn’t found and declared his purpose, or calling, or whatever you wanted to name it. He rubbed his shoulder with the meat of his palm absently, feeling the empty skin there. He was probably the only person in the entire castle grounds that didn’t have a mark there. Phil and Kristin each had personalized crowns showing their status, and all the guards and knights had markings that dictated their ranks and purposes.
The whole system was generally looked down upon by the common man, but it was something that had been in place longer than anyone could remember, and it made more sense to follow the arbitrary rules dictating their socioeconomic statuses than to try creating something new. That being said— people still cared about having blank skin, especially when someone was Technoblade’s age. Without a mark, someone could still get a job and live a fulfilling life, but it would never quite be the same as someone who had found what they were good at and declared it successfully.
Technoblade had tried— he had. Before his parents had passed, it was nearly all he did. While they were at work, he would go around and try different things. If he had any luck with it, he’d declare it. Squeeze his eyes tight as they could go and cross all his fingers and toes and when he opened them, his skin would still be blank. Eventually word got around that he didn’t have anything, and gossip in the Lower District flourished having a kid to mock.
Most purposes were benign, a simple mark of a career that someone was supposed to blindly follow until they retired or died. They showed up when someone found what they were good at and declared it outloud. Typically, the entire ordeal was embarrassing if you were wrong, and only mildly awkward if you were right until everyone realized you were right, and then it was a celebration. But it never really had any negative repercussions beyond perhaps an uncomfortable encounter.
Royal purposes, however, were of high consequence. Laborers had it easier, of course. Anyone wanting to try declaring a royal purpose had rules and regulations they had to follow before they could even begin the process speaking with the King and Queen. Royal declarations came with an inherent danger. Royalty had to be willing to lay down their lives, even before they were official. Anyone looking to declare royalty had to make a very serious gamble. Incorrectly assuming one was royalty made that willingness to lay down their life a lot more real.
In the beginning it was a lot more popular to try declaring it. Now, after years of failed attempts and broken families, there was an unspoken acceptance the last two towers would stay empty. The island would stay separate. It wasn’t worth the potential sacrifice to reach unknown places. Not when people could live happy, fulfilling lives without the last two rulers. No one wanted to die to find a stupid purpose. Technoblade didn’t blame them. It was easier to live without a talent than risk lives. Techno supposed he was one of those individuals.
Kristin didn’t pout, but her lower lip did jut out the way it did when she was trying not to pity him. “If you say so,” she acquiesced. She pulled Techno into an awkward but comforting hug, and Phil clapped him on the shoulder.
“If you ever change your mind,” The King offered. “You know where we are.”
Technoblade nodded politely. “Thank you.”
A guard scurried forward and whispered into their ears, whisking them away before they got to say goodbye.
The effects of night were just beginning to appear when Technoblade started on his way home. He’d spent most of the day working with the palace horses and keeping the general peace between animals with egos. He wouldn’t rather be anywhere else, though. Technoblade loved the opportunity he had. He was grateful for it, because he knew that of all the other people in the Lower District, Technoblade shouldn’t have been the one to get the job. He’d known next to nothing about equines or other farm animals when the royal palace hired him in. Sometimes he still felt that way- freshly fifteen and completely alone for the first time. The royals had no reason to choose him.
And yet, they did. Despite everything, they did.
So yes, Technoblade is grateful to even have the walk back to his home, even if it’s after a long day of arduous labor with few breaks. Being able to make the journey from the palace and through the Upper District to the Lower District at all is a gift few people from his area will ever have.
That being said, scarcity breeds jealousy.
Through the Upper District, Technoblade knows he is looked down upon, but he is safe. No one in their fancy clothes is brainless enough to physically assault him when there are turrets nearby. They’ll jeer and mock, but he isn’t unsafe. The same safety of the Upper District isn’t extended to the Lower District past its main roads.
By the time Techno is at the border of the two districts, his route is dictated by what streets have the most lamps lit. It means his already long return home is most of the way to double his usual length. Eventually though, there comes a point where the lamp lighters haven’t reached yet. He’s at the last lit street corner, with probably the only turret anywhere this far out from the Upper District. Techno found the splatter of yellow paint on the side of its head odd, since they typically had no reason to be anywhere near anywhere that could even potentially drip paint onto them.
The hulking, metal creature was supposed to be a silent guardian for the citizens it protects. Technoblade never enjoyed being around them. They all have the same big, boxy body. Their large torsos are held up by wide feet and stiff legs. The whole thing is made of a durable, white-gray metal. They have no real faces, just a pair of sensors for eyes on both sides of its head. This one had a sleek gun mounted on its shoulder. Its arms are hung at its side. Its boxy head swivels near-silently, observing its surroundings until its blank calculated sensors land on Technoblade’s wiry body on the edge of the flickering lamp light.
They look at each other, because Technoblade always has to look at the turrets when he sees them. But it’s hard to win a staring contest against a robot that neither needs to blink, nor is capable of blinking.
Even though the last stretch of his journey is in the unprotected dark, Technoblade at least has the uneasy security that comes with knowing there is a turret nearby. Their purpose is to protect the general public, but Techno doesn’t ever remember feeling safe because of them. Scrutinized at best, maybe. It was stupid to say they acted too smart, because in the end they were just metal and wires and redstone programming.
The turret doesn’t move from its position, but Technoblade knows he was being watched when he finally musters the courage to step out of the halo of light and into the darkness and doesn’t look back. He stumbles, briefly, on the uneven cobbles before he remembers how to walk again.
Technoblade was anxious for no reason, he found. Nothing happened. He made it back to his less-than-humble abode with no fanfare, though he couldn’t shake the lingering ghost that seemed to haunt him with poorly premonitions.
He stumbled through his evening routine while constantly checking over his shoulder and out of windows. No one, and no thing ever made an appearance. Everything was exactly how it was supposed to be, but that didn’t dispel the anxiety hovering over him. Noise would have been a relief. At least then, Techno would know something was out there, and he didn’t have to fool himself to sleep.
His rest was fitful. Night stretched hours longer than he felt it was supposed to. Yet, though it gave him no release from the stress, Techno stayed prostrate in his bed until the nail in his candle fell out of the melting wax and onto the metal beneath it. While he’d stayed in bed pretending to sleep to give his body, at least, a break, every inch of himself ached. He wanted to stay beneath his blanket, curled where he could childishly believe no harm would come to him.
Though he knew he’d likely be excused by the king’s gracious hand, Technoblade pulled himself out of bed and began his day. The window shutters were turned open, washing his small space in the waxing morning sunlight. Breakfast was bread and butter, and afterwards Techno used a damp cloth to wipe his face and skin of sleep. He tugged an old brush through his brown, choppy, chin-length hair and pulled as much of it as he could into a low ponytail, much like how the King did with his blond hair.
Fatigue blanketed all his actions, and even without the luxury of a mirror, Technoblade was more than aware of his haggard appearance. Hopefully today would be one of the days where the royals would be too busy to pay any attention to Technoblade or how he looked.
Eventually, of course, he could put it off no longer, and Techno stepped out of his home and started his journey up to the castle. Per usual, there was no one outside, and certainly no turrets patrolling in the area. Everything continued to be the exact brand of silent it always was. Technoblade usually found these quiet mornings to be the perfect relaxing start to the long day of manual labor ahead of him. So why didn’t it feel right?
He stepped out of his property line and the “nothing was happening” trend continued. Techno checked the sky and grimaced. He needed to go before he was noticeably late.
He’d made it to the place the turret had been stationed the previous night before anything went awry. Even still, the scraggly woman who’d plastered herself against the exposed stone wall stepped out and inserted herself into Technoblade’s path wasn’t all that unusual. He rarely went two days without someone trying to mug him on his way to or from work, because they always assumed he had something worth taking. Thieves were commonly upset. Technoblade took care of the palace horses— what could he possibly have that was worth stealing?
Technoblade hadn’t seen this particular woman before, which probably meant she didn’t know Techno could barely afford to stay alive some weeks. Which meant they were both about to have a lot worse of a morning.
“You’re that guy,” she announced.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Techno disregarded. He slid past without touching her gaunt frame or the wall of uncertain cleanliness.
The lady was having none of it. “You’re that guy,” she said again. Her breath was sour. “That works at the palace.” She followed him, not even a pace away. She carried the same rotting smell that the worst part of the Lower District had, where hygiene was rare, and amenities were rarer. Technoblade had been there before, and he hoped he never had to go back.
“The stables. Not the palace,” Techno corrected, and then he wanted to kick himself.
“So it is you,” she marveled. They were nearly in the public eye. “My sister— she’s ill.”
“I hope she gets better,” Techno dismissed curtly.
“No, you don’t— you don’t understand.” She tripped over her feet, and though he wanted to leave her there, against his better judgment he helped stabilize her. “We can’t afford treatment.”
Technoblade sighed. He stopped and looked at her, frustrated he was going to be this much later. “Ma’am, I am sorry your sister is sick,” he withdrew from her wrinkled, dirtied hands. She’d clearly had a rough life, and if he had the resources to fix it, he would have. But he didn’t, and he was selfish with what he had, and he was tired of people thinking he could do anything about any of their problems, much less his own. “But I cannot help you.”
“Yes you can,” she insisted. Her brown eyes were watery. “You work at the palace— they must pay you well, or you have connections.” The woman grabbed at Technoblade, like she thought it would help. It just irritated the already miffed attitude he had, and then he felt guilt for that anger. He would be desperate in her situation too.
“I work with animals. No one listens to me,” Technoblade explained far more patiently than he felt. Except Phil, he didn’t say. But there was no way he could reasonably bring this up to the actual King . He redirected her hands back to her sides. The woman lost the hint in her desperation, or maybe in the mats that made up her hair.
“You have to!” She demanded. Her voice had taken up a shrill quality. Technobalde seized her wrists and interrupted her encroaching claws. “ Unhand me! ”
“ Quiet down, ” Technoblade hissed. The woman struggled in his grip, and though he wasn’t all that strong himself, next to her, he was a draft horse compared to a foal. “Listen to me— I’d love to help. Really, I would. But I physically cannot, because no one listens to me, and everyone keeps stealing my goddamn money.”
“Liar,” she accused. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”
Techno sighed and released her wrists. She clutched them to her chest. “Go home, ma’am. Your sister needs you.”
She huffed at him, chest deflating sharply, before she sniffed far more hastily that her station rightfully allowed, and slapped him across the cheekbone, the stone of her chipped wedding band slicing the skin. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” She drew back again, but Technoblade had the foresight to stop it this time and caught her palm. He pushed her away and she gasped.
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then a cruel grin snaked across her lips. Technoblade had a single second where he registered what was about to happen. Just as the plead no started leaving his lips she’d been halfway through the word, “ Assault!”
The next few seconds moved in slow-motion. Outside the alley, a turret rumbled to life, and the woman gave Technobalde a smug, snaggle-tooth grin. She pressed against the opposite wall. Technoblade couldn’t figure out how to move his feet. The turret careened around the corner, but Techno’s eyes were fixated on the woman’s face as it morphed into the perfect display of terror and tears, though Technoblade was the only one who had been injured. Was he going to lose his job because of this?
“Help me,” she begged the hunk of metal. Was this actually happening? Was he going to be arrested? The turret’s sensors slid over Technoblade’s form. He’d never been on this side of a turret encounter. What happened next?
Its joints whirred noiseley, and then it took a lumbering step towards Techno, sending shockwaves radiating out like a ripple in water. Turrets nearly never walked around civilians, and Technoblade couldn’t help but feel like he was witnessing something secret.
The woman smiled at Technoblade past the turret’s arm. It wasn’t hard to hear the gun mounted on its shoulder calibrating to aim directly for Technoblade’s forehead in case of an emergency. She pointed an accusing finger in Technoblade’s direction. “He attacked me!”
“I— I didn’t,” Technoblade stammered dumbly. He didn’t even know if it could hear him, but he had the urge to save face and defend his pride. “I barely pushed her.”
“He admits it!” She shrieked. Surely there should have been a crowd by now to witness his humiliation, and yet somehow there was not a single soul beyond them.
“That’s not attacking — a goose could have done worse,” Techno insisted. The turret turned one hundred-eighty degrees at the hip joint to scrutinize the woman. Her face slid into shock, like she hadn’t expected it to turn on her so literally. The machine, though, barely cataloged her before it whipped back around, and the gun blazed to life.
Technoblade had less than a second to jump out of the line of fire. He landed half on his back, the sack that had his lunch rolled to a stop a few feet out of reach. He wanted it, but he didn’t have the time to process what was happening to him. Especially not since the turret was aimed at him again, and he really didn’t want to see if its aim would get any better the second time. Was he being publicly executed right now? Weren’t turrets only supposed to restrain? When did they start shooting for petty squabbles? Did Phil know? Did Phil allow it?
Techno rolled out of the way in the nick of time. The fast diminishing heat of the shot as it grazed by the hairs on his arm lingered past the bullet’s near hit. He groped behind himself, partially to scramble away and partially to find some piece of gutter trash to defend himself with, but wholly aware of how dirty the ground was. He mostly found useless things— soggy papers and something that smelled rancid— but by stroke of luck his fingers closed around a chunk of wood.
There was no opportunity to inspect the quality of his chosen weapon before Technoblade put all his momentum into swinging the wood. Prime be, it hit true, and there was an awful screech of metal on metal where sparks literally flew. There was a loud pop! Like a bottle depressurizing, and the firework show fizzled out, until it was just Techno sitting on a disgusting road with the prone body of a turret laying on the ground with him.
He was going to be so late.
Upon further investigation, Technoblade noticed the conveniently placed nail sticking out of the now-splintered wood that saved his life. When he caught his breath, Techno stalked closer to the turret. Its body, now crudely sliced open from its side to across its chest, had a rotting smell emanating from it, and Technoblade gagged. There was a trickle of dark, muddy, red-brown oil seeping from the gash.
Somewhere in the scuffle, the woman had snatched Technoblade’s sack lunch and made her retreat. He found himself momentarily more upset about that fact than the attempt on his life.
Wallowing in his terrible morning did nothing to get rid of the fact there was still the turret shell Technoblade had to take care of. Was it something he could dismantle? Should he alert castle guards? If Techno did tell someone, though, he’d have to explain how he knew and incriminate himself in the destruction of royal property. Could he logically take the risk someone would trust the story? Turrets had never before attacked without reasonable cause- who would believe one of them did?
No matter what he did, there was no way he could realistically dispose of the turret himself in one day, and especially not without drawing excess attention to himself.
Technoblade stalked closer to the stupid heap of scrap. He kicked its broad chest and something heavy inside moved. A thick clod of oil dribbled from the ugly gash, and the small that came with it had Technoblade bent at the waist coughing. Had a colony of rats set up shop and died inside it?
Covering his nose and mouth with his shirt, Technoblade used his free hand to pry the husk open farther with the same tool he bested it with. The smell worsened and Techno’s eyes watered. A hundred rats, then, he decided, staring at the withered, gooey shape inside the hull.
“That’s disgusting,” Technoblade said aloud when the emotion was too overwhelming. He stared at the corpse —corpses?— unable to look away. A shape started forming through the remains the longer Technoblade looked. Legs, bent at the knees and turned away. Arms curled tight over the protruding rib cage, and a skull with pale skin stretched taut over the features with dark, patchy hair, bent down like in prayer, or the fetal position.
That’s a human, Technoblade realized. He repeated it. Over and over. That’s a human. That was a human. And Technoblade killed it. Them. Found them. Not killed. They were clearly dead for a long time before this. But Techno did hurt them. A short but deep slash across the stomach- where all the… the oil. The blood was coming from.
“I’m sorry.”
I forgive you.
That’s new. He doesn’t have the time to process that. He has to tell Phil. There are bodies in the turrets.
Not all of them.
That’s so fucking weird. He has to focus. The voice can come later. How is he going to show Phil without causing mass panic?
Today sucked. He was late, freshly post-mugging, and completely out of his depth. One step at a time. Being late and not having a lunch can be problems for later. Start with the body. What does he have?
There’s a tarp at home to cover it. Them. And his pillow case is big enough for… something. The turret head? It was the best idea he had.
He was worried someone would notice the giant decommissioned robot, or at least smell it, while he was gone, but when he got back with a large burlap cover and his only pillowcase, everything was exactly how he left it. Techno wasn’t sure the emotion he felt could be classified as relief. He’d almost hoped someone else would have, so he didn’t have to be the one to share the news.
Too important to risk that.
Nothing was going to be the same after this.
Technoblade held his breath and wrenched the head off with surprising ease. He felt the ache in his arms and along his back from the action —and yet he’d managed to do it.
I’m here to help.
The head was lighter than he would have expected it to be. A rich oil coated the inner mechanisms. It fell into the pillowcase quietly. Technoblade set the head down and shook the burlap open, and let it gently fall onto the body. There was a foreign onslaught of…. Grief, that wasn’t his own.
That was my home, once.
Technoblade struggled to breath. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. To no one. Everyone. Himself and the new himself.
There’s a job to do.
He cast a final glance at the lumpy burlap, and hoisted the pillowcase over his shoulder the way he did with horse feed. Technoblade passed a scorch mark on the brick. The heat was gone, but the scar lingered. Technoblde knew a thing or two about that.
Now he just had to make it to the palace, and tell Phil and Kristen.
They’re going to be upset.
No shit, Techno thought. Who wouldn’t be upset if they found out the things protecting them were filled with dead bodies?
Conserve your energy here.
Technoblade slowed his pace to a reasonable gait, against his instinct to sprint and not stop until he found the King and Queen. He already drew attention to himself with his job, and now the pillow-sack caught even more. Technoblade needed to slow down. Calm down. Avoid any more scandals today.
The entire Lower District must have known he was late —-and how unusual that is—- and were staring at him. Or— his stomach twisted. What if they know? His new monologue stowaway had nothing to tell Technoblade, and if that wasn’t a comforting thought.
There was only one other turret in the Lower District— all the others were sent back to the Upper District for their safety. That meant in the busiest sector, where Technoblade had to cross to the Upper, there was one looming turret in the center of it all. Dozens and dozens of people in their plain clothes milled around, barely any glanced its way, and yet it saw and watched every single one of them. Or it was doing that until it noticed Technobale skulking along the outer rim.
Technoblade froze, and they stared at each other. Or, Techno stared and the turret… sensed. The pillow-sack gained seventy pounds. They didn’t move. The rest of the world on their little island separated from every other kept moving, and here Technoblade was, stuck in one spot.
Someone bumped Technoblade’s shoulder, jostling him enough the turret head fell from his grasp and tumbled to the ground. The turret —the alive one— jolted and stepped forward. Everyone’s heads swiveled to gawk at it.
Not again.
Keep walking. Act normal.
How was he supposed to act normal?
His legs moved on their own accord. Technoblade scooped up the sack and moved toward the gate. The ground shook, rumbling all the way through Techno’s legs and to his hips. It was hard to tell how far behind Technoblade the turret was. The poor man fought every self preservation instinct to turn around or run for his life.
Instead, by no means of his own control, Technoblade walked leisurely, as though he was enjoying an afternoon stroll, and he wasn’t actively committing treason. He crossed into the Upper District smoothly for all of three seconds before the turrets guarding the gates began following him, too.
People were beginning to catch on. One turret was out of the ordinary, but three? Unheard of. Leave it to Technoblade to be the first in history to cause a multi-turret chase and bring it into both districts. The crowd started noticing the sack on his shoulder, and his refusal to turn around.
When was he going to start running?
Not yet. Too obvious.
And the three turrets weren’t?
Left into the alley.
Technoblade moved before he processed the command. The path was smaller than where the woman mugged him, meaning the turrets trailing him had to walk single file, slowing them down but only barely. Simple blessings.
Right.
Technoblade tripped over his feet and caught himself at the last moment. The corridor opened, and Techno saw pedestrians milling about. In the Upper District, pedestrians meant turrets. That now meant Technoblade’s entourage was about to get significantly larger. He caught sight of the three turrets behind him fanning out to fill the new alley space and box an exit.
Framed by the buildings on either side, Technoblade looked up and saw the castle standing tall about the sprawling city around it. The sight usually brought Technoblade a sense of wonder— he worked there . In the stables, sure, but he worked in the castle, and talked with the King and Queen— right now, though, his whole body was heavy. He wanted to turn around and return home. Try again another day. Phil would believe him if Techno said he felt ill.
You can’t give up. They’ll kill you.
Ice prickled along Technoblade’s spine until he realized the voice didn’t mean Phil and Kristin.
At the edge of the plaza, steps away from reaching it, the hulking figure of another turret stepped in front of Technoblade.
Roll!
The world came hurtling towards Technoblade’s face, and then he was on his feet again on the other side of the turret. His spine ached. There was a loud whine behind him, and the sole of Technoblade’s foot burned. Holy shit. His knee buckled, but by pure adrenaline and luck he stayed up.
You have to run now.
How? HOW? And still, Technoblade ran. Tears blurred his vision and made his nose sting. More whines pierced his ears and he jumped to the side on instinct. Heat whizzed past his head, probably singeing off his hair in the process.
Commotion rattled all around him. What should have been a normal day, warm and sunny, with youth finding and declaring their purposes, had been mutilated by Technoblade’s selfish actions.
Or maybe, based on some individuals' reactions, this was the entertainment they’d been waiting for. It wasn’t a secret Technoblade wasn’t well liked. Watching him be attacked by turrets must have been the best goddamn gift ever.
He skirted around the edge of a group of oblivious pedestrians. A whine penetrated the air again and the meat of Techno’s arm burned. He gritted his teeth and wiped away salty tears. Another turret, new to the chase, began powering up.
Duck!
Technoblade nearly fell flat on his face from the momentum. The blast went over his head and into the wall of an innocent business. Someone screamed. Techno wasn’t sure he wanted to look. If someone got hurt because of him…
He didn’t get the opportunity to, anyway, because a new fleet of turrets marched into Technoblade’s path, effectively cutting him off and trapping him.
Throw the bag .
What?
Throw it.
He can’t–- it’s his only evidence for his argument, he can’t just throw it . He’s stuck unless he does something, sure, but—
So throw the bag.
He can’t— his evidence—
You will die if you don’t.
Technoblade threw the bag over the heads of the turrets. To his surprise, the hulking monsters turned and followed it. Okay. Fine. He just has to get it back.
Despite no longer being the target, Technoblade did fuck all to take advantage of the fact. Like an idiot, he chose to focus on getting his pillowcase back instead of running away to guarantee living to tell Phil.
The turrets turned back to him.
Move, you buffoon!
Rude.
He ran. Turrets followed. Pedestrians split for them, captivated by what they thought was a performance. Technoblade did not share that same enthusiasm. He’s exhausted. Terrified. Hurt. He just… has to get to the castle. Techno doesn’t want to. He wants to go home. He really, really wants to go home. Pretend none of this ever happened.
He’s shot at again. Again and again. Some of them hit. Most do not. Technoblade was limping fiercely and fully sobbing when he made it to the castle gates.
The guards on duty know him, though, and he’s let in. He slides under the heavy bars before they’re up all the way. Unfortunately, it does not close fast enough to stop all the turrets from entering. Those that are interrupted stop abruptly, once again still as statues.
There’s a swamp of courtiers shoving each other to see Technoblade’s spectacle. They’re riotous and drunk on verve and quick to contagious, ill-favored glee. A turret shoots at him and the crowd howls with delight when it skims the side of Technoblade’s face.
For once, he is grateful to be a weird hybrid of a friend with the King and Queen as Technoblade skirts around the undulating mob of drama hungry animals and into a lesser known passage to take him deeper into the castle grounds faster. Hopefully Phil will forgive him for inadvertently showing it to the masses.
Moreso than anywhere else, inside the castle gates are an abundance of turrets. They’re stationed around nearly every corner, ready to step out and join the congregation attacking Technoblade.
He slid around a curve, his old shoes with worn out soles struggling to keep him upright. Deep, now, in the network of the castle and its inhabitants, Technoblade cleared the way to the roof, where he desperately hoped Phil and Kristin would be.
Technoblade cursed the architect who designed the castle’s curving staircase, and the asshole who allowed the turrets to navigate them better than him. His whole body was screaming at him, inside and out. It was a miracle Technoblade could move, much less breathe at this rate. He needed to stop, or, or, or something. Anything.
A courtier in a stupidly fancy doublet appeared from nowhere and caused Technoblade’s momentum to sputter. Techno recognized the man’s slicked back hair and haughty attitude from the few unfortunate times they’d met during his time working in the stables. He had a horse with an equally displeasurable temperament, of whom Technoblade had the misfortune of working with, and had the scar along his shoulder to prove it. The thunder of footfall coming up the steps reminded him to move.
“I don’t have time for this,” Technoblade growled and pushed past the man. On the way up, his shin caught on the outstretched foot of the courtier. Technoblade’s knees hit the rough stone stairs. “ Shit!”
“If the turrets don’t kill you,” he hissed. “The King should. Clearly you’re guilty.”
Guilty? They think he committed a crime? Sure, he technically did —dismembering royal property and all, but he didn’t do it for fun.The asshole courtier pressed against the wall to give space for the turrets. Technoblade’s knees buckled and he caught himself with the wall.
“Fuck off,” he snarled and took the final stairs two by two.
In the stairwell it was difficult to tell if the whines and creaks and squeals were new or echoes, and Technoblade was caught off guard when his left shoulder exploded with pain. The wooden door separating him from the rooftop shattered into a shower of splinters. Technoblade fell into a heap at the top. He grabbed one of the larger chunks of door for a weapon, though he wasn’t sure how he’d use it in his state. At least if he was going to die in front of Phil and Kristin he’d go down fighting. Crying pathetically, but fighting.
Phil stood up from his seat. “Techno, what’s going on?”
Technoblade pulled himself backwards across the floor. His leg smeared a dark red trail of blood. Was this going to kill him?
Turrets broke through the remaining remnants of the broken door and began circling around him. They shifted, constantly calibrating and recalibrating to make sure this time they wouldn’t miss the killing blow.
“Kristin, stay back,” Phil instructed his wife. His shoes slapped loudly against the stones as he rushed forward in hope he could help his friend. As King the turrets should have respected him and his every command, but when he stepped into their proximity, the closest to Phil whirled around and blasted a warning shot next to his feet. “Techno? What happened?” Phil stumbled away.
Technoblade couldn’t compel himself to look towards his friend. “Phil,” he sobbed. “ Phil.” How could he even begin to say what happened? How long did he have until —until… His vision was blurry. He crawled to the wall achingly slowly and pulled himself up. If — if — he managed to survive this, his body would certainly be permanently damaged. Techno didn’t have high expectations for his survival, though. His heart sat heavy in his chest, fighting to keep him alive even yet.
“Surrender, Techno. We can talk about this,” Kristin petitioned him. “You don’t have to do this.”
Yes you do.
“I don’t want to,” Technoblade finally admitted aloud. “I don’t want to do this.”
You are going to fight.
“I can’t,” Tecno bawled. He raised the makeshift wooden baton, but when his shoulder shot lightning down his arm, it was only because of the voice it didn’t clatter to the ground.
Then I will.
He could make everything stop. He wanted to- but he was so tired. His body was moving, but he wasn’t doing. His eyes were looking but he wasn’t seeing . If he survived he would never be the same again. Never.
The wood in his hand shattered over the head of a turret, denting its hull right on a splatter of yellow paint.
Technoblade wasn’t where he was a moment ago. The turrets, a few less now, miraculously, had cornered the voice onto a tower —one of the empty ones, matching Phil and Kristins’— meant for the undeclared royals.
He had a stupid idea. A really, really stupid idea that would, without a doubt, resolve the situation. He wasn’t going to win this fight. There were still five turrets and he had no weapon anymore. He could solve his problems and avoid looking Phil in the eye after this in one go. Kristin must have realized what he was thinking the moment he thought it,because as he opened his mouth, she opened hers.
“ Don’t do it-”
“I declare royalty!” His voice echoed in the resulting silence. The entire world stopped on a dime.
Technoblade sagged before dropping onto the ground unceremoniously. He hit scorching stone that left him seeing red. No, it actually was red. The tower was lit like a bright red beacon with Technoblade burning in the center.
His breathing came faster. He’d made it this far, only to die by magic tower. He’d known what would happen when he said it, but he hadn’t really taken into account how much it would hurt, and how scared he would be. Techno squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t bear to look at Phil and Kristin while they watched their friend die from the inside out.
“I take it back,” he cried, over and over. “I didn’t mean it. I take it back. I’m sorry. Please. Please . I surrender, please.”
He’d heard, once, that when you died of hypothermia, there was a point you got so cold you began to feel warm. Techno hoped the same thing was happening to him now in reverse. With the heat subsiding, it left space for ice to course through his bloodstream. Neither sensation felt good, and Technoblade was terrified the last thing he would feel was pain.
The softest touch Technoblade had ever felt cupped his cheek. He sobbed, loudly, and leaned into it, greedily drinking it up. “I don’t want to die,” he confessed. “Mom, I don’t want to die.”
“Oh, baby,” a woman’s voice said. Warm arms enveloped Technoblade and cradled him close to their chest. He clung to them, trying to disappear. “You’re not dead. It’s okay. You’re not dead.” Technoblade shook his head. He’d burned to death, felt every excruciating moment of it. He had to be dead.
The woman pried him off herself. He desperately tried to bury himself in her hold again, before his body only had unforgiving ground for company. She held his face between her hands, rubbing his cheekbones with her thumbs.
“Look at me,” she asked him. “Look at me, Technoblade.”
Reluctantly, he peeled open his eyes. He had to squint while they adjusted to the brightness. There, the woman holding him, was Kristin. Round face and soft features framed by her long, dark brown hair. “You’re not dead.” Technoblade threw himself onto her for another hug.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“Everything. I’m sorry.”
“Breathe, Techno. Everything is fine.”
When Technoblade finally convinced himself to pull away, he was greeted with the sight of stone cold turrets. Phil was ordering castle attendants and courtiers through clean up and lock down procedures, but when he saw Technoblade looking at him, he immediately forgot about them and rushed over. The King pulled Technoblade into his own bone-crushing hug.
“What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t,” Techno croaked.
“ You could have died!”
“I thought I did.”
“If you hadn’t surrendered at the last minute…”
“It’s a miracle you haven’t bled out.” Phil caught an attendant by the sleeve. “Where’s the healer?”
“Coming, Your Majesty.”
Phil pressed Techno into a decline. “Lift your legs. Kris, the healer will need his shirt off.” Technoblade wasn’t sure he could have stopped anything even if he’d tried to.
Kristin gasped. She’d sliced through Techno’s shirt with one of the knives she usually kept concealed on her person. “Phil,” she whispered. She grabbed his hands where they were dangerously close to cutting up Technoblade’s leg.
“What?” Phil asked. “What’s—”
Terrified of what he might see, Technoblade glanced at his torso and found his wounds stitching themselves back together. His shoulder, blasted open by a turret, had their attention though, as it joined two halves of a dark image. They watched in awed silence as it finished, not leaving even a faint seam through the sword with a crown hanging off its hilt.
“Techno,” Phil whispered.
“That’s not— I don’t understand,” Technoblade stammered. “There’s no way.” He looked between husband and wife, waiting for one of them to explain.
One of Phil’s advisors, a short, gangly man with mousy brown hair, who’d probably arrived after the chaos started, rushed over and pulled Technoblade to his feet by the bicep. He tugged Techno to the wall and announced, “Your prince!”
The crowd below began murmuring, rapaciously dissecting the news. A few uncertain claps evolved into a wave of applause that left Technoblade gobsmacked. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He was just supposed to—
“The turrets,” he exclaimed. Technoblade wrenched his arm free and stumbled back, turning messily over his shoulder. “I have to check the turrets.”
“Techno, what?” Phil asked. Techno shrugged off his reaching hands, too.
Technoblade slid to a stop in front of the turret whose head he bashed in. Hopefully, any remains were only kept in the chest cavities. He wrapped his hands around the turret’s head and twisted it off. The King and Queen scrambled forwards, demanding to know what he was doing. Technoblade didn’t know how to even begin explaining, so he ignored them. He utilized a scrapped chunk of wood to leverage the upper chest cover. Without a blade or preexisting fracture in the hull, Techno wasn’t sure it would break as easily as the first.
Acting braver than he felt, Technoblade reached into the turret and felt around. Blindly groping an area that had exposed electrical wires probably wasn’t his smartest move, but Techno could hardly care when he felt something organic inside.
“Get out of there—” Kristin told him.
“I need a knife,” Technoblade said. Phil’s advisor guffawed, but Techno knew the King always kept a dagger on his hip. “Please.”
Phil caved when he met Technoblade’s eyes. With a nervous sigh, he untucked the edge of his shirt to reveal the hilt of a blade. Phil handed it to Technoblade handle first. “Don’t be stupid.”
“I would never.”
Then, Technoblade plunged the blade into the partially dismantled turret, which was a stupid decision, because he could have stabbed whatever poor kid was in there. Pulling the blade out some, Techno sliced open the torso. He gave Phil back his knife and used his hands to pry the hull open. The metal resisted, cutting Technoblade’s fingers in the process. He beckoned Phil and Kristin closer and they peered over his shoulders. They gasped. Covering their mouths or holding their stomachs.
Like Technoblade had felt, inside was a boy with what should have been golden blond hair. Instead, motor oil and other mechanical residues had dirtied his hair and skin. He was significantly less decayed this time. Almost alive looking. Suspiciously alive looking.
Get him out.
Techno echoed the thought and reached under the boy to pull him from the case. Kristin and Phil jumped in to help, and then Technoblade had the boy cradled in his lap. Without prompting, he bent himself over and put his ear to the boy’s chest. Even with the clamoring crowd beneath them, the faint sound of a heart beating slowly roared in Techno’s ear.
“He’s alive,” he said. “He needs a doctor.” Technoblade looked to Phil, the King, and one of the only adults he could trust.
“Can you carry him?” Phil asked. And Technoblade, who’d sometimes struggled with feedbags, had to say no. Phil nodded curtly and took the boy from him, leaving Technoblade empty handed and ashamed.
“It’s okay,” Kristin promised. “Phil will take care of him.” But that wasn’t the problem. Technoblade wasn’t strong enough to do more. He wasn’t able to carry the boy to safety himself. What would he do the next time someone needed saving?
Technoblade shrugged off Kristin’s worrying hands and pushed himself to his feet, determined to follow after Phil, but his knees failed him, and he crumpled back down.
“You’re in shock,” she told Technoblade. “You need to rest.”
“No,” he croaked.
Then be stronger.
“I will,” he said. “I will.”
Technoblade forced himself onto his feet, stumbling precariously to the doorway and then leaning heavily on the wall for support all the way down. Kristin ghosted behind him, knowing enough that encouraging elsewise was pointless. He did his best to remember and follow the path to the infirmary, pointedly ignoring everyone on the way who bowed to them. He asked Kristin for guidance only once.
In the infirmary, they found Phil and a healer standing around an occupied bed that had empty potion bottles littered nearby. On the bed, the boy’s shirt had been cut open, much like Technoblade’s. He had the same scrawny demeanor as the kid, but less of an excuse as for why. He reached the bedside, ready to ask the reason they were standing around, and faltered.
The boy, who seemed to be resting peacefully at first glance, had no injuries to be healed. But most importantly, he had an image on his shoulder. Flowers growing from a crown.
Technoblade had found the fourth.
They dismantled all the remaining turrets —those Technoblade hadn’t taken out. The fact had left him infamous, but largely unpopular for his past and stunt through the Districts. The general consensus was to keep the findings a secret from the public the best they could. Questions inevitably arose when Phil recalled all the turrets still outside to the castle. That night, Phil, Kristin, and their closest advisors began the exhausting task of officially dismantling the entire turret population. Though he’d been the first to have the grim discovery, Phil delegated Technoblade to sit at the blond boy’s bedside.
“What? Why not?” Technoblade challenged. “I found the first—”
“That’s not the point, Techno, and you know it.”
“Do you think I can’t handle it or something?”
“It’s not about you not being able to handle it,” Phil said. “It’s that you shouldn’t have to. I saw them when the turret was collected. That’s not —you shouldn’t have to see it.”
“But I did. It already happened, why does it matter if I see more?”
“Techno,” Phil sighed. He slid a hand down his face.
“What?”
“Sit by his side.”
“No.”
“Why are you against it?” Phil asked. Technoblade shrunk under his considering gaze.
“I’m not —I’m not against it,” Techno griped.
“Sit with him, then!”
“It’s not —nothing’s going to happen. There’s nothing going to happen! I won’t be useful.”
“What if something does happen?” Phil contested.
“It won’t,” Technoblade insisted.
“You don’t know that.” Phil used his hands to talk when he got heated, Techno realized. The man had never raised a palm against Technoblade, but adults hadn’t been historically reliable once they got upset.
“Neither do you!”
“Technoblade.” Phil’s exasperated tone became something significantly more serious. Phil had never used his full name, especially not to Techno’s face. In fact, Techno wasn’t sure he’d ever introduced himself with his full name to Phil. “You will sit at his side and you will stay there.”
“Get someone else to do it, then!” Technoblade yelled. “You have a castle full of assholes with nothing better to do! I can be more useful helping you.”
“Technoblade,” Phil said again. Techno clenched his jaw to hide the way his lip quivered. “I’m not letting a kid look at that.”
Techno balked, face paling before he recovered poorly, “I’m not a kid.”
Phil sighed. Techno found he did that a lot. “We had someone review your hiring paperwork. It wasn’t even a good forgery.”
Technoblade hated the disappointment in his voice. He refused to back down. “That says more about you than me.”
“Why did you lie?”
Techno shrugged, feeling prickly all over. “Don’t you have files about all your citizens? Could have read those, since you prefer that instead of talking to me.”
“I’m talking to you right now, Techno,” Phil said. He paced half the room and returned to Technoblade. “Would you have been honest any other time? Just… Why did you lie?”
“I don’t know. I needed the money, I guess,” he said. Then evaded, “Why is this even relevant?”
“You’re a kid! You should have been in school, not cleaning up horse shit,” Phil exclaimed.
“Why do you even care? You didn’t before!”
Phil tried to grab Techno’s shoulders, but he stepped out of reach. The King almost looked ashamed. “I didn’t know. You acted so mature, and—”
“I was afraid!” Techno shouted, interrupting Phil.
“What?”
“Everyone hated me.” He corrected himself, “Hates. Everyone hates me. They wanted me gone. I was running for my life, and —and people were laughing about it. Someone tripped me.”
“Techno,” Phil whispered.
But the boy barreled on. “Someone killed my chickens. You know, the only reason I even had to fight the stupid fucking turret was because some lady robbed me because I couldn’t afford to help her sister and she thought I was lying. No one likes me, so yeah, I was afraid and I lied.” Technoblade wrapped his arms around himself in a faux hug.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Phil asked gently. All it did was make Technoblade more upset. “We could have helped you.”
“And made it worse? If I took too long getting home, people would be in my house. The only reason no one’s killed me is because of those goddamn turrets, and now those are about to be gone. When I have to leave, I’m probably not coming back.”
“Technoblade,” Phil tried to say.
“Stop calling me that!”
“That’s not what I meant—”
Techno didn’t care. “I’ll sit at the stupid bed and be useless like always. Just like you want.” The boy stormed out, not really knowing how to get back to the infirmary.
Technoblade paced the curtained off room. The blond boy with a crown on his shoulder made no progress, exactly what Technoblade had expected to happen. Nothing. While Phil and Kristin actually did something useful, Technoblade only had the company of a sleeping body and absolutely nothing to do.
On the three millionth lap, Technoblade groaned and collapsed into the stupid chair next to the bed. Outside in the hall, one of the impromptu guards Phil commandeered shifted on their feet. Techno couldn’t imagine they were any happier about the situation they were in that Technoblade was about his. At least Techno was allowed to walk around.
Technoblade leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The floo, he realized, wasn’t fully level and some of the wood could easily become a tripping hazard. Now that all the royals —Technoblade somehow included in that statement— were found, maybe they’d get to trade with their neighboring islands and upgrade their resources. Clearly their floors needed it. Techno’s whole house needed it. And his neighbors’. And the roads. Just about everything on the island could benefit from expanding trade.
Techno glared at the resting boy. He wasn’t really upset with the kid and much as he was with Phil for relegating him to bed watching duty. The boy’s blond hair had been washed and brushed away from his face. The grease and other mechanical residue had also been sponge-bathed away. The lack of grime had him looking infinitely younger. If Techno had to estimate, he couldn’t realistically guess his age as older than thirteen. How long had he spent trapped inside that robot? How long had he been declared?
The antsy feeling creeped up on Technoblade. It was the same feeling he’d had the night before and that morning. He pushed himself up from his seat and resumed his pacing. The pale plaster wall and plain cream-colored curtains were mind-numbingly horrific to look at, so Techno spent most of his time looking at his feet and matching his steps up with the wooden planks.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, scrutinizing the boy. Apart from himself, he was the only colorful thing in the room. Staring at him didn’t make the boy wake up, though; only made Technoblade more frustrated as every moment he sat there was another moment Technoblade was useless. He should be with the others, working to dismantle turrets. Prime forbird that, however, because Techno was younger than Phil’s gray hairs.
I’d sit if I was you.
Technoblade startled. He’d forgotten there was still a voice in his head.
They’re opening the turrets .
No shit. That was why Technoblade was upset in the first place— he should have been with them, helping, actually being useful. All he did here was wear a pattern into the floor.
You really should sit.
Techno didn’t need to sit, he needed to be useful. Sitting down wasn’t fucking useful.
HELLO?
The new voice had far less respect for Technoblade’s brain. It sounded exactly like the first but louder, which wasn’t what he would have expected another voice to sound like.
WHERE AM I?
WHO ARE YOU?
The voice pierced Techno’s skull. He brought a hand up to massage his temple. Maybe sitting down did make sense.
HELLO?
Prime, did they ever quiet down?
IT’S NOT DARK ANYMORE.
Maybe Techno had been a little harsh.
WHERE AM I?
Or maybe not enough.
It will only get worse
Technoblade was beginning to understand what that could mean for him. The implication that meant more of them…
WHAT HAPPENED?
The original voice slipped into a basic explanation of the day that sounded even more insane than how Technoblade had perceived it while living it himself. Then the voice, appeased by the summary, began chatting, casually talking like their existence didn’t defy the laws governing life.
Technoblade steepled his hands against the mattress, caging the boy’s feet. With the addition of a new voice, he had the realization the boy’s hadn’t invaded his head like the others. His best hypothesis was that only the dead were in his head, and since the boy was still breathing he didn’t yet constitute as such.
Hello?
HELLO
What’s going on?
WE DIED
What?
YOU’RE DEAD
Techno’s knees shook. For voices in his head, they had an insane effect on the rest of his body. Maybe he really should have listened the first time and sat down.
What happened to me?
What happened to Techno?
The second voice gave its own rendition of events, only minorly dramatized from the original retelling. Technoblade wasn’t sure how long he listened to the voices. He kept blinking out of focus and the incessant chattering didn’t help him stay alert at all.
Another voice filtered in, and all the prior ones perked up to welcome them into Techno’s psyche. Their words overlapped, creating a mostly unintelligible mass of noise with no volume control.
Hello?
HI
Hi
Hello
Before the newcomer got another word in elsewise, the voices all began trying to explain what they knew to varying degrees of success. Technoblade’s brain ached, a sensation he didn’t know could be so frustrating. Somehow, the voices had no trouble distinguishing all the different conversations going on, when Technoblade could barely decipher singular words or phrases.
Are you going to sit down now?
Sit?
SIT
Sit
You should sit
Look kinda weak in the knees
Technoblade hobbled to his chair and sunk into the wood.
ARE YOU GOOD
You ok????
Is he good
What’s wrong with him
WHATS WRONG
Everything. Everything was wrong. There are voices —that aren’t his own— in his head. Nothing about any of this was remotely okay. Technoblade’s entire life turned upside down in a single day. Why would anything be okay? How could anything possibly be okay?
Do you need Phil?
IS THAT HIS DAD?????
HIS DAD
Dad!
Dadza
DAD!
Phil!
Where’s Phil?
WHERES DAD
Technoblade’s head throbbed. The torrential onslaught of the questions, never ceasing their jabbering, loud and screeching in his head had him fishting his hair and rocking himself. He had the cruel self awareness to think about how stupid and insane he must have looked. Then, he imagined the scenario where the blond boy woke up with Technoblade unable to control his thoughts.
Can we get dad
How do we get dad
do you need phil
Phil????????
“Stop,” Techno moaned. “Please, just stop. You’re too loud.” Could the guards hear him, Techno wondered. That didn’t really matter though. The voices heard him.
sorry
Sorry sorry sorry
SORRY
Poor volume control
can you go to phil
Sorry sorry
Technoblade did want to see Phil. Even if they were on prickly terms currently, Techno really wanted the guidance of the older man. He needed someone else to know what was happening to him. He needed someone else to know how to fix what was happening to him. Staying like this, like a psychopath, was not an option for the rest of his life.
whats phil like
whos phil again????
Dude
we JUST went over this
Basically his dad
Technoblade, hoping it wasn’t just a fluke, said aloud, “He’s not my dad.” If the voices had faces they’d be giving him massive stink eye.
He definitely acts like it
Have you seen the way he looks at you
get with the program
Maybe they’re just friends
and maybe we’re still alive
DAMN
Can we just go find him
whos driving this thing
Technoblade laughed at the joke, and it quickly turned hysterical. How had things come to this in such a short time? He was… talking with them. Laughing at their jokes. This time yesterday he was noticing suspicious turrets on his walk home. This time yesterday, his head was his own and he wasn’t whatever he was now. He wasn’t whomever he was now. Things weren’t like this, certainly. He went back to pulling his hair and rocking.
He was going fucking crazy.
The voices kept chattering, kept talking at him and each other, and Technoblade hated it. One voice, though, stood out for its questioning.
Are you going to stay like this for the rest of your life?
Technoblade hissed at the notion. He’d had less than twenty four hours to process his whole life changing, and this voice had the audacity to judge him for being upset? Techno had never wanted this to happen to him. He didn't choose this. All Technoblade had done was defend himself, and his payment was… was this . Never, ever being alone. Disembodied eyes constantly watching and judging him. Techno wasn’t a good person, but even he didn’t deserve this.
With renewed vigor, he thrust himself from the chair and brought himself to the door. Technoblade’s hand trembled and he struggled to twist the knob. In the hall, the guards clanked to attention. Technoblade would laugh about it later, and the voices laughed about it now.The cacophony in his head clamored, excited to finally be moving. They shouted and jabbed, making sly remarks about their host to make each other laugh. They howled about his feeble attempts to open the door especially.
Technoblade growled and finally got his hands to cooperate. The door flung open awkwardly and the two posted guards flinched.
“Where are they?” Techno asked them. He braced himself with his hands on either side of the doorframe. Strands of hair fell over his eyes. Hopefully it looked cool and not stupid. Technoblade only felt like one of those things. “Where are they?” he demanded again when the guards didn’t answer. “I’m asking you a question. Answer me.”
The guards trembled and the voices drank their fear up like goblets of wine. Their riotous energy was infectious and Technoblade grinned, bordering on bearing his teeth. “In —in the grand hall, Your Majesty,” the braver of the two reluctantly told him.
“What a stupid place,” Technoblade muttered to himself. He pushed off and out the door, stalking down the hall. “Send word if the boy wakes. Otherwise, don’t move.” fifty paces away he turned over his shoulder to add, “it’s Your Highness, by the way. Don’t make the mistake again.”
Technoblade passed around the corner out of sight and sagged against the wall as the bravado left him.
HE HAS POTENTIAL
That’s prince shit
get this man a crown
No that was literally iconic
Grand hall! Grand hall! Go to the grand hall!!!!
“Yeah,” Techno agreed. “Grand hall. Wherever that is.” He mustered himself to get off the wall and began walking, feeling insanely scrutinized. Suddenly, he was supposed to carry himself like a prince. Or was he not really a prince until after the coronation? Was he going to even have a coronation? Or did the moment on the roof count as one? Would the boy get one, or just an announcement?
Focus. You’ll get lost.
Prime, Technoblade missed the only voice of reason in his head. He heeded their advice, trying his best to scrounge up the mental paths he’d taken in the few times he actually got to be inside the castle. He was a prince now. At least sort of. People would expect him to know where he was going. Technoblade did not know where he was going.
He came to a crossroads. Two paths, three including his own, intersecting with no discernable evidence leading him where he wants to go. The castle could benefit from signposts with arrows announcing the direction of landmark rooms or features.
I think we go left
right for sure
Left
left left left
right PLEASE
Right right right right right
Left is obviously the only correct choice
We need a fuckin’ show of hands
The voices, by their own power, conducted a poll. Majority voted left. Technoblade went right. The voices erupted, cheering or complaining respective to their vote.
He did not know it for sure, but Technoblade suspected left had been the correct choice after all when the paths he’d taken to be petty resulted in winding, monotonous corridors that led him seemingly nowhere. The voices, rightfully, found this fact hilarious and mocked him relentlessly for it. Technoblade momentarily paused when he realized the voices weren’t upsetting him like they’d been. His mood immediately dampened. He wanted them gone.
Technoblade’s wandering had him arriving at the grand hall significantly later than he’d have preferred. Though he probably looked poorly, and smelled it, too, no one he passed tried to stop him. In fact, they bowed to him. A shiver skittered down Techno’s spine. He wasn’t… the gesture felt servile. He’d never felt that way bowing down to Phil and Kristin, but being bowed to… Technoblade didn’t deserve that.
Somewhere along the way in all the twisting halls, another voice joined the mix. The collective responded much in tune with the previous integrations, causing a brief period of emotional whiplash. Technoblade’s only reprieve was that no one showed up to view his messy vulnerability. Coping in embarrassing fashion in a secluded room was one thing. Publicly curling into a ball and rocking right after being announced as a prince was a completely different thing. His image could still so far be saved.
Regardless of the setbacks, Technoblade found the grand hall. The large, ornate wooden doors were shut tight and guarded. The men stationed there briefly traded glances while Techno approached.
“Let me in,” Technoblade ordered. He slid into the braggadocio persona the best he could.
“His Majesty the King has barred any person from entering the hall,” the one on the right said. He had large eyes and spotty stubble around his twitchy mouth. Technoblade’s age, then.
“Yes, well, I believe His Majesty would allow a prince entrance considering the circumstances regarding the information one prince may have,” Technoblade said. They caromed another suspicious look at each other before the one who spoke opened a smaller portion of the great doors meant for more casual entrance and exit.
Inside, Technoblade found Phil knelt in an organized chaos of prone turrets. He sports the same puffy red eyes Technoblade had. One of the king’s advisors was with him, as well as a stocky man Techno didn’t recognize. At the edges of the room, individuals otherwise shrouded in shadows crossed the walls, looking like dark ripples in the flickering candlelight. One trade opened, perhaps they’d find a better light source. For now, they had the fire of torches.
At the sound of the door, Phil glanced up. He looked surprised to see Techno, and maybe momentarily relieved, thought it didn’t last long.
“Technobl— Techno,” Phil greeted. He pushed himself to his feet. The others continued to work on turrets at Phil’s orders. “Why are you here? Did something happen?”
Suddenly, Technoblade didn’t know what to say. “I —um. Nothing happened. The —the boy is fine.” Techno diverted his eyes to their feet. What was he thinking why did he listen to the —
Help me
Hello?
HELLO!!!!
hi
Hi
Hellooooo
Are you okay
What’s wrong with me? What did they do to my body? I miss my mom
The voices, reinvigorated by the newcomer, had a lot to say. Each individual had their own rendition of the story so far.
Technoblade clutched his forehead. “You found another one,” he croaked. Phil took the prince’s face in his hands. Techno greedily leaned in the warm touch. The voices quieted. Maybe they understood.
“Are you unwell?” The King asked quietly.
Technoblade could tell him. “I’m not… I don’t know.” Would Phil understand? Believe him at all?
“Sir,” Phil’s advisor got their attention. “We found one alive.”
Phil withdrew from Techno, briskly walking back to the others. “Has my wife returned?”
“Not yet, Sir.”
Phil nodded gravely. “I’ll take them this time. Techno, come with me?” Unsure what other option there was, the boy prince scurried to catch up with the King.
In the end, Technoblade never mustered the courage to admit to Phil what was wrong with him. Instead, he created a story about a headache only partially a lie. When night fell too deep, the King and his team elected to continue their search in the morning. Technobalde was shown to a castle. Come morning, food was brought to him and Techno ate alone. No one collected him to watch the boy either. Technoblade spent the day alone, failing to cope with the new additions.
The next week, Phil and Kristin announced the permanent disbanding of the turret forces. Public outcry forced them to share the information regarding why, including Technoblade’s testimony pertaining to the chase leading up to his declaration. In a single day, his name became something hallowed. Courtiers flocked for his attention in the halls and on the palace grounds. Technoblade wanted none of it.
In their public proclamation revealing the truth, the King and queen extended to the public an invitation for the mass funeral of those who had not survived their time trapped inside the turrets. Though some of them were Techno’s age or older, those lost were collectively named The Antarctic Empire’s Children. For the youth who were on the road to full recovery, the King and Queen graciously asked for eligible individuals interested in fostering or adopting. Some, those of legal age, instead opted to stay and continue their work for the castle and Royal Family in exchange for room and board. Technoblade had seen them following behind more experienced workers as they learned. They bowed the deepest when he passed.
While the public digested the new information, the Royal Family —Technoblade somehow included in that— caravanned to the center of the castle and faced the portal meant to take them to the Common Lands. Once they confirmed the portal was safe, the plan was to eventually allow the general public free access to and from. Until then, however, admission was limited to the Royal Family and select castle attendants.
Kristin, Phil, and Technoblade, as well as two newly appointed knights per each of them, stood at the doors to the portal hall. The ornamental doors had carvings older than Phil’s reign depicting faceless citizens and denizens intermingling against a city background. Tehcnoblade had imagined standing in front of these doors, but never like this. More knights were stationed either side of the doors, hand picked by the King for this specific task. Now that the portal was lit —as it has been since Techno and the still sleeping boy— keeping unauthorized people away was more important than ever. There were no windows this far in the castle, which meant their torches were all they had. That, and the deep purple light ominously sliding through the cracks in the door.
Phil checked everyone’s faces. He nodded to the guards. “Open them, please.” The men moved silently, though the doors groaned loudly. There would be no sneaking through them. “Suppose they should get oiled.” No one laughed, and the group strode in.
WOAH
HOLY SHIT
NO WAY
THATS INSANE
IS THAT REALLY IT
NO WAY WOAH
NO WAY NO WAY NO WAY
The voices, usually just chatting amongst themselves, burst into disbelieving screaming. Techno echoed one of their more choice expletives. Kristin elbows him in the side. He muttered an apology, but continued to gawk. The room was sparsely decorated, focusing primarily on welcoming them to The Antarctic Empire. There was a thick layer of dust from a lack of upkeep, and their feet left print on the ground. With the shortage of furniture, decorations, and people the space echoed greatly. None of that mattered, however, compared to the magnificence of the room’s namesake.
Freestanding towards the back of the room was a portal of awesome size. It was made of a stone so dark it seemed to swallow the little light there was. In stark contrast was ornamental golden garlanding that decorated the stone to accentuate its beauty. Inset to the soft metal were precious jewels, shimmering in the portal’s light. At the top, the golden wreaths dipped low and melted into each other to form the design of a crown —the same one that Technoblade had on his skin.
“It’s beautiful,” Kristin murmured. She placed one hand on his chest and held Phil’s with the other. Techno was not included in their family moment. He hung back to allow the King and Queen their time to admire the portal personally. And it was beautiful; the portal was certainly the most beautiful thing Technoblade had ever seen. It’s core, now lit up for the first time in perhaps forever, was a gorgeous, vivid purple that swirled and rippled like moving water. And it glowed —it bathed the whole place in the same purple color. Technoblade figured he would be able to stare at it for eternity and never get bored. Most peculiarly, though, was the way the portal made noise and pieces of the billowing core would flake off and slowly float down, like stray embers of a fire, or ash.
Phil realized Techno wasn’t with him and his wife, and gestured over his shoulder for the new prince to join them. He kicked cement from his feet and joined the King and Queen.
“Half the guards will go first,” Phil began to explain. “We wait for their go ahead and the rest of us will follow.” His wife nodded, but all Techno could do was keep staring at the portal. It wasn’t… right. He had the same anxious gut instinct as before the turrets. The voices were anxious, too, filled with untapped energy. Something wasn’t as it seemed.
You don’t need the guards
Kristin caught Techno’s eye. “Are you alright?” she asked. “It’s okay to be nervous.”
Technoblade brushed her off. “I’m fine. It’s just a headache.” Or about fifty of them. He still hadn’t told them about the voices inhabiting his head.
You'll have other problems soon enough
The first three guards entered the portal. One of them was shaking. Technobldae wondered how young they were. Everyone else waited impatiently for their return, though no one would admit it.
Finally, one emerged. Techno could not see their face through their helmet. “It’s safe,” they said. “It’s… not what we expected.”
Phil led everyone to the swelling core. Technoblade experienced something like what he expected being pulled through a taut string would be like before he stumbled out of the other end and froze.
It wasn’t what they expected. They figured by now the Empire would be the last to make it to the Common Lands. Instead… maybe they were the first. Or too late. What clearly was the bones for a bustling city center was completely deserted —devoid of anything even remotely alive. The voice was right. They hadn’t needed guards. There was nothing there.
“What happened?” Phil asked. No one could answer him.
After watching the new knights training in the courtyard, Technoblade couldn’t say he felt especially safe under their watch. As creepy as the turrets were, they could do their job. Humans just weren’t equal replacements. Bringing it up to Phil didn't seem fruitful when Techno tried, since neither of them knew much about military, or really fighting at all.
To combat that fact, Technoblade began using his freetime to scour the royal library for any texts on fighting. He moved most of the books to his room, though he’d started a healthy stock in the infirmary. Instead of feeling extra sorry for himself, Technoblade buried his nose in the literature and learned about classic warface maneuvers like penetrating the center, feigned retreat, and indirect approaches. He was currently reading about small unit tactics, though the next on his reading list looked especially intriguing. An old scholar, Sun Tzu, had write it, titled The Art of War . The voices were particularly excited to begin it as well; they’d been voraciously devouring the information, giving their own thoughts and interpretations based on their time in the turrets.
It was day twelve of Techno’s Watch the Boy marathon when the kid began to stir. Technoblade could have sworn he was hallucinating when his leg twitched. Techno knew it was real after he smacked his lips. Then he got very still again. Technoblade elected not to get anyone else’s hopes up in case it didn’t mean anything after all.
Three more days passed, feeding the kid meager portions of broth. Techno overhead Phil speaking with Kristin about the boy’s chances. How long could they afford to keep this up? They needed him to wake up. Then, finally, something actually happened.
Technoblade was finishing the last few pages of The Art of War and his eyelids were growing heavy. He’d been sitting and reading most of the day. What did Phil say —use energy to make energy? Either way, Techno was slouched in the cozy reading chair he’d petitioned to be brought in with his legs hanging off one side for maximum lounging comfort.
Beside him, the boy groaned. Techno shot to attention, fixated on the kid. His face was scrunched, like he was having a bad dream —the first time he’d shown any emotion at all. Scrambling to stand up, Technoblade tossed his book to the ground. He ran to the door and threw it open. The guards flinched.
“Get the Queen. The King. Whomever. Both of them,” Techno stammered. He took a breath. “Go! Now!” He didn’t stay to watch them scamper off.
The boy moaned. His eyelids were fluttering rapidly, his eyes moving beneath the layer of skin. In his head, the voices were screaming at Technoblade. The prince knelt at the bedside, ghosting his hands over the boy’s as though he could do something. For a while, nothing changed. Phil and Kristin barging in must have startled the blond boy, though, because he gasped and sat up. Technoblade was mesmerized by his chilly blue eyes. They all stared at each other until he caught his breath.
Then, he said to Technoblade in a voice raspy from disuse, “I knew you would save us.”
