Archive of Our Own

Phil’s eyes were closed, surrounding him in total darkness. The entire evidence of his existence came strictly through his other senses, and if he could have ‘closed’ those too, he might have. He smelled a slight metallic tang to the air, heard two other voices whispering- or maybe they were just talking, Phil wasn’t paying attention- and felt his own hand pulled tightly toward his heart, the smooth silk fabric of his shirt rubbing harshly against his chest. 

He took a long, ragged breath. 

It hurt a little as he pressed his bloody hand further into his ribcage, the bones within protesting against it. A little pain meant nothing though, not if it also meant he could feel the heartbeat thrumming through the very tips of his fingers. It was his own heartbeat, of course, but with closed eyes, he could pretend it was anything he wanted. 

Beat after beat, his own traitorous heart continued to pump blood through his body. He knew the blood covering his hands and pooling at his knees had once moved the same way, but now it simply flowed to the whims of gravity. 

There was something to be said about the person who always made you feel at home, who never abandoned you… who never left you…

At least, not until they died. 

But no, Phil spoke into his disobedient mind, hold on just a little while longer. 

He could imagine that he was clutching someone else to his chest, someone warm, not his hand. He could imagine that the humming he felt wasn’t actually coming from his own beating heart but from someone else’s.

His heartbeat and the purr of the blood in the veins in his hand droned on in perfect, rhythmic harmony. 

It should have reminded him that they came from the same place, but instead, it only added to the fantasy that the other heartbeat belonged to Technoblade. As such close friends in a way even the most proficient poet could never hope to express, it wouldn’t have surprised Phil if their hearts beat in synchrony. 

His hand was hugged even closer as a tear leaked from his eye. 

Their hearts would never beat in synchrony because Technoblade’s heart would never beat again. 

The more rational part of his brain demanded action, but he was totally numb to it. It was as if he was falling… falling… deeply into the darkest depths of an endless ocean, never to surface again. 

Even if he had wanted to come up for air, what could he do?

There just was no point in anything anymore. 

Ever since he had come here, it had been one domino after the next. First, Wilbur’s death, then, the Execution, to the second Festival, to Doomsday, to… here. And now he was stuck, stubbornly holding up that last domino like Atlas held up the sky. 

He refused to accept that last causal fact. That last domino did not fall.

Not. Yet. 

But the static in his mind was building, and the dam straining to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to drown him was breaking, shattering into little pieces as the waters began to rush through the cracks. 

If he opened his eyes, it would mean that he would have to face what had happened, but he had kept his eyes open and forced himself to watch Techno drown, Ranboo fall, Techno be burned alive, and to watch Niki suffer as her body was slowly overrun by poison. 

And then he had watched while his closest friend was crushed in front of him for the second, and final, time. He had watched the blood snake its way toward him, and reached out…  

He was tired of watching.

He was tired of accepting.

So, he didn’t. He had touched the dark, red liquid and then screwed his eyes shut, focusing on the soft, oily warmth of the blood coating his fingers that he wished belonged to an alive Techno. 

Some part of Phil knew that he wouldn’t be able to live in denial forever, but he cared little for practical reasoning, especially when he knew it would force him back into that dark place he had been after Wilbur’s death. 

Yes, Phil had wielded the sword that killed Wilbur, knowing that placed the blame on him and on him alone, but it had taken months for him to crawl back into some sort of stability from the consuming guilt, and it would take years to fully accept what he had done. However, throughout it all, Technoblade had helped him. Techno had made sure that Phil thought of other things. Techno had made sure that Phil was alright, often putting the avian man’s safety before his own, especially when Phil couldn’t even manage to take care of himself properly. Techno had been his anchor, his lifesaver, the only thing keeping him from losing himself in the sea of his emotions, and Phil didn’t know what would have happened to him had Technoblade not been there. 

Phil wasn’t ready to do that again. 

He wasn’t ready to grieve again without Techno. 

He wasn’t ready to grieve for Techno. 

Because despite the fact that Techno had clearly been the one deciding his own fate, Phil couldn’t help feeling like it was his fault. 

The wheel had landed on him. Not Technoblade. 

Could he have done something? Could he have prevented this?

He should have done something. He should have prevented this. 

What if he had begged more, what if he had pleaded with Technoblade more, what if he had bargained something more than a life away?

What if-

What if-

What if-

“Phil.” 

The voice brought him back to the present. The cold, dark present. 

The present: where he was kneeling on hard concrete and clutching blood to his chest like it could replace the person it once came from.

He shook his head in silent refusal. 

“Phil… I know- I…” it sounded like Ranboo, but he couldn’t be sure. “Phil, we need to go.” The voice was soft, pleading, like one you would use to coax a beloved, terrified cat from a burning building. 

Phil just clung tighter to his slick, bloody hand. Everything was dark. He still would not open his eyes.

He did not want to open them ever again. 

“Phil, we have to go now.”

He shook his head again. This time, a strange dizziness threatened to overtake him, but he somehow managed to hold onto consciousness despite his lack of desire to be conscious.

The other voices faded in and out as Phil felt like he was being buffeted around by strong waves, swaying slightly. 

“Niki, he’s-”

“Phil, can you open your-”

“-it’s not going to-”

“-he’s hurting himself-”

“-listen-”

“-shoulder-”

“-together, grab the-”

“-found this-”

“Phil, can you hear me?”

He pressed his hand further and further into his chest as if it could replace his heart. 

Deeper and deeper and-

He felt himself being raised, dizziness-

He lost his balance.

And then something snapped. 

And everything went dark. 

Philza was dreaming. 

It was a soft, warm dream. One that exuded comfort above all else. 

Comforting. 

But not real. 

This was obvious to Phil by the flickering six fingers on the hands of his friend as Technoblade fiddled with small shards of dark glass, inspecting each piece for some unknown criteria. 

It was obvious by the small differences caused by lapses in focus. The doorway was dark until he looked past it and saw a hallway full of paintings. Techno’s hair changed between braided and unbraided when he looked away. The first time he glanced at the workbench Technoblade was sitting at, he saw a lantern, the next, he saw a collection of four or five candles illuminating the space. 

But of course, like any dream, it was built on reality. Phil remembered this night with clarity: it had been the night before Doomsday, both of the Arctic residents high-strung on the worries of the next day. 

Philza asked the same question as he had that fateful night, “what are you working on there, mate? You should be in bed.”

Techno had jumped slightly at the question, having been so engrossed in his work that he hadn’t heard Phil’s approach. He jumps again in the dream version, turning to Phil with a warm smile filled with much more emotion than the ‘real’ Techno had. “Oh,” he had begun, pausing and seeming to think over what he was doing, “I’m- I’m makin’ a ward- a- a chime.” 

Phil simply walked over and took a seat next to Techno on his workbench, yawning and nodding at him to continue. 

“Well...” each word had been hesitant, filled with a rare sort of weight that Phil had learned only came into Techno’s voice for the things really important to him, “when I... lived in the Nether. There was this myth in my village- my home- about the nature of soul sand.” 

Phil looked over the contents of Techno’s workspace. Spread across the table were chunks of deep blue and purple glass, so dark that they were almost black, but still somehow putting out a quiet light of their own. His focus hadn’t been specific enough to capture their exact positions on the table, so whenever he stared at Techno, who still had six fingers that disappeared and reappeared with each blink, the pieces of glass would move and adjust as well. It was just a dream, and he knew it, but Phil did not care. 

Anything to hear Techno’s voice. 

“The elders said that soul sand contained the souls of great fallen warriors- hence the name ‘soul’ sand. And I remember you Overworlders comin’ down and gettin’ all put off by it.” Techno chuckled, picking up a piece of the glass and looking at Phil through it with a soft smile, his red eye glowing on the other side of the shard. “Thinkin’ it was all cursed and stuff.” 

“I’m guessing it’s not cursed?” Phil had asked, appraising the dark, ominous glass.

Technoblade shook his head. “The opposite actually. They’re supposed to ward off bad spirits and protect one from bad luck.” 

Phil suddenly connected the story and the glass. “Wait, this is made out of soul sand? I didn’t think it was possible to make soul sand glass.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Techno had said. “But when you live in a dimension without proper sand, you learn to make due with what you do have.” He stood up and brought a small bucket of the ethereal sand over to Phil, pulling out a small handful and just letting it run through his fingers like an hourglass, a terrible metaphor in retrospect. Techno continued, “it has a much higher meltin’ point and is much more fragile than normal glass once formed, so it’s usually not used when normal glass is an option. Plus,” he grinned at the dark, opaque glass, “it doesn’t really work well as a window.” Techno picked up two shards and knocked them together, letting out a long tone similar to that two low tuning forks might emit, not the high-pitched clinking usually associated with glass. “But each piece of glass is said to contain one guardian spirit, one that has dedicated their life to the service of others. One, who gets to protect their people even after death.” His thoughtful gaze turned to a single shard as he placed the second back on the table. “I always wondered if it was true. I always hoped it was, to be honest.” The glass flickered slightly in the light of a few candles lanterns strewn about the room. “And I always wondered: what spirits would watch over me? Would they be people I knew in life? But... I think in the end, the most important question I ever asked was whether they were happy with their job.” A slight smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “An eternity of protecting others who could never-ever thank you.” 

A very long silence passed.

“Phil-“ Techno’s voice was so quiet, so vulnerable. “When I- when I die...” Phil remembered that he had blinked at Techno in shock at that easy confession, that pure acknowledgement of mortality. “I want... you to add this to the wind-chime,” he said, wrapping his finger gently around his ‘friendship emerald’ earring. “I want... to protect you. Even after death. For eternity.”

Phil cupped Techno’s face kindly, brushing a strand of hair from his friend’s face to behind his ear, and just looked at him. The dream produced feelings that weren’t quite right- Techno’s skin was too firm- but could still pass as real even if only for a moment. “Eternity,” he had said the word like it meant so much less than it did, raising his eyebrows. “Techno, your soul? Imprisoned for eternity in a gemstone?” 

And that dumb pig had grinned, laughing like it was some sort of joke, “we don’t even know if the legend is real, but I like the sentiment.” He held Phil’s hand against his cheek, rubbing his thumb over Phil’s worn knuckles. “It would be an honor to spend eternity protectin’ the one I love.” 

Phil smiled and the dream faded into warm fuzz. 

Phil rejoined reality slowly, not pushing for the change, but not resisting it either. 

With balance shakily returning, Phil realized that he was laying down on his side, his wings splayed haphazardly over the edges of what felt like a couch, its rough, canvas-like fabric pressed against his skin and feathers- though not uncomfortably. The wings weren’t in pain currently, but he knew that if they remained in the strange position for long they would be, but even this couldn’t incentivize Phil to actually move. His eyes were closed, and for a moment he could actually believe that he had just woken up from one of those long nights spent with Techno where he would end up falling asleep on his friend's couch. 

Waves of heat washed over him periodically from crown to toes, originating from a crackling fire coming from what he assumed was Technoblade’s fireplace. Along with the noises of the fire, Phil could also hear and feel a cold Arctic breeze whistling through an open window. The next sound he latched onto, being that of deep, ringing bells, only confirmed where he was, but it was still not enough to make him get up. Finally, however, Phil did open his eyes. 

He blinked at the cold, gray world around him, remaining as still as a statue- and as dead as one too. Phil was indeed on Technoblade’s couch, but the usually warm and cozy atmosphere of the home was severely lacking. Without its owner, the little cabin seemed forlorn and lonely, the art on the walls falling short of supplying any meaningful color and decoration since they only served to remind Phil of who had been lost. 

He remained unmoving as his eyes floated aimlessly around the room, eventually landing on the object making the sound that had encouraged him to open his eyes. 

It was true that the window was letting in some cold air, Techno’s custom shutters propped open with gentle care that Phil knew hadn’t come from the pig. Outside, he could see light snow falling on the distant forest on the edge of their property. The sharp smell of pine and evergreen also wafted in from the outside. Far more important, to Phil at least, was what was hung immediately on the other side of the window.

It was some sort of wind-chime. Dark, almost black glass shards hung from thin, invisible strings that blew in the wind, bumping into each other and emitting deep, hollow tones. Phil remembers Techno spending days on it, Phil only working up the courage to ask about it near the project's end when his fear of regretting not asking overcame everything else. 

(He had many regrets now.)

Phil was sure that the sound of the chime had infected his unconscious and spurred on the dream, but he couldn’t decide whether to feel grateful for getting to see Techno again or feel some sort of anger at the same prospect. 

To be completely honest, Phil wasn’t feeling much of anything. Internally, he was barely even thinking, each thought was Sisyphus pushing a boulder up the hill of his mind, but some part of him believed that he should be feeling something, yet the apathy surrounding him refused to be pushed off that easily. 

Distantly, there came the sound of boiling water and metal against metal like someone was stirring something in a pot. 

Phil processed this but still didn't move. 

His legs were considerably colder than his upper body, being closer to the open window than the fire, and Phil’s eyes wandered to a wool blanket that was hanging over the edge of the sofa. 

He just blinked at it. 

And so he laid there, refusing so much as to call for the person he knew was in the other room. Ranboo, Niki, hell, even if it was Quackity, he didn’t care. 

He knew it was selfish. 

Part of him, the more paternal part, was screaming at him to get up, offer help, and be helped. But he didn’t want help. 

He wanted Technoblade. 

Phil expected to feel guilty about failing Niki and Ranboo. 

He didn’t. 

He didn’t feel anything. 

And that too; Phil expected that he might feel that something was wrong with him, but even that thought dissipated into the oppressive cloud of apathy. 

Phil felt like he was sinking down into the couch, every limb weighing more than a pound of netherite as they practically chained him to the ground. He was rested, there was no need to sleep more, but his eyelids were still heavy, and a new weariness gnawed at his bones. Despite his ancient age, right then was the first time he really felt old.

He was tired. 

He was so tired. 

There was the sound of bare feet brushing over carpet as a shadow appeared at the edge of Phil’s vision. He didn’t even turn his head to look. 

“Good morning, Phil.” Niki’s voice was quiet, her words lacking all energy. Footsteps shuffled closer and he heard a bowl be set down on the table near the end of the couch. She fell heavily into the armchair that Techno used to sit in, a spoon clinking against ceramic as he heard her stir whatever she was eating. Phil could deduce that the other bowl was for him. 

Slowly, ever so slowly and painfully, Phil raised himself. Pulling his wings into a more manageable position at his back, he sat forward, his eyes latching onto the snow falling outside the open window and staying there. 

“How long was I out?” He asked, voice hoarse. 

Niki lowered the spoon full of broth from her lips. “Two days.”

Phil nodded slightly, his gaze turning toward the bowl of what he saw was ramen sitting on the wooden table. Steam rose from the broth, weaving through the air in elegant patterns. Sitting next to the bowl was a dish of Togarashi spice, just like Techno used to like with his ramen, Niki must have found it in the cabinet and recognized it. He could decide whether to feel sad or grateful. The pasta was very plain currently, only the barest of noodles without so much as a mushroom or piece of chicken. 

Niki ate in silence, ignoring or unaware of Phil’s disinterest in his food, simply going through the motions herself was taking her full attention. Spoon for the broth and chopsticks for the ramen, eating for the sake of eating, not for enjoyment. There was a soft glaze over her eyes throughout, her thoughts elsewhere. It felt like no time and yet also an eternity had passed before Niki was setting down her bowl and turning to Phil. 

“Phil,” she began gently, almost pityingly, “you really should eat something.”

He did not speak, but obediently took a hold of a pair of chopsticks sitting at the side of his bowl, wrapped a few of the noodles around them, and chewed slowly. 

It didn’t taste like anything at all. 

Phil reached for the ladle sitting in the Togarashi spice and started putting spoonfuls into the ramen. Niki watched him, and suddenly, after a fourth scoop that stained the broth a deep red, grabbed his wrist. 

“That’s enough.”

Phil met her eyes and looked away, gently lowering the next spoonful back into the spice dish. He turned back to the bowl of ramen, smiling slightly at the blood-red color of the broth, and unconsciously looking next at his fingers. 

They were still stained crimson, though they appeared to have been cleaned of any actual blood. And, for the first time, Philza considered what he was wearing. All of the fabric was a light blue or purple, probably since the wrap seemed to have been part of Techno’s mock Antarctic Empire uniform. Phil picked at the edge of the fabric, focusing completely on its texture. Techno always liked the feel of silk. 

Niki just sat there as Phil managed to slowly finish his bowl of ramen, his mouth totally numb from the hot spice. If this had been any other day, Phil would’ve hated the pain from the spice, but today it was the closest he had been to feeling anything, so he let it burn him. He let it consume him and wished it hurt more. 

In total, their lunch lasted two hours. 

Phil tended to his bowl with an almost frail hand, and Niki noticed violent tremors that shot through his fingers as he wrapped noodles around the chopsticks. 

She also knew that Phil was not the one who liked spice in the household, he usually would’ve gotten milk by now. 

No, the person who loved spice was Technoblade. 

By the time either of them spoke again, it was late afternoon, and the wind had picked up outside. Niki stood and moved to close the shutter.

“What happened?” Phil finally whispered, dropping his metal spoon back into the ceramic bowl with a harsh clattering. 

Niki flinched, slamming the windows shut, and turned back around to him with a pained expression stretched across her face. She opened her mouth, closed it, and sat back down in Techno’s armchair. 

“What happened to me… after?”

Niki hesitated, and then spoke, “you fainted, I think. We managed to wake you up after a few nerve-wracking minutes. Ranboo thought you were having a heart attack or something.”

Phil just nodded. 

“From then on, even though you were conscious,” she said faintly, “you were in some sort of catatonic state. Your eyes were all unfocused and…” she stopped as if it was too terrifying to say. Then, “you wouldn’t answer either of us, and we had to practically carry you back here. We carried you, Phil.” She emphasized it and looked at him, he did not look back. “We were scared, Phil. We were so scared.” Her voice shook, her mind somewhere else, “and then when we finally got back here, exhausted, you hit the couch and were out like a light.” A shadow passed over her face. “I’ve been here since. Taking care of the place- and you- and making sure that someone else is here when you wake up.”

“...And Ranboo?”

Her brows creased with kind concern. “He went back to Snowchester,” Niki said quietly. “Wanted to make sure that Tubbo and Michael were alright.” After a worried (but muted) glance from Phil, Niki explained, “Ranboo and I spoke for a bit after. He told me everything.” Her eyes fell to the floor as she smiled. “It’s sweet, actually, but I think he was worried what Tubbo would think if he saw the messages.”

Oh. 

The death messages.

Phil looked at Niki questioningly. She shook her head. 

“No one’s said anything.” Niki’s gaze moved to the door. “We haven’t had any visitors.”

“Is Ranboo alright?”

Niki shrugged. “Alright as he can be. You really gave him a scare.”

A beat. 

“And you?” Phil asked softly, “are you alright?”

She shrugged again, avoiding his eyes, yet Phil could see the mist form at the edges of her eyelashes. “Foolish, you know him? He-” her voice broke, “he helped us out of there. Quackity was true to his word, he let us go. And we… we weren’t able to bring Techno’s body but…” she trailed off, removing something from her pocket. 

Techno’s emerald earring was set on the table in front of him. 

“Quackity took his crown and cloak.” Niki sounded like she was crying as she continued, “there wouldn’t have been anything to bury, but… Phil, I’m... I’m so sorry.”

His eyes remained fixed to the green gemstone. 

“Phil, I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t know when he stood, or how the earring got to his hand, its pointed edge digging into his palm, or when Niki’s arms wrapped around him in a visceral hug. He did not know when she started crying, sobbing and repeating over and over again- 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m so-”

And it echoed. 

sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry I’m sorry, Phil sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry...

He didn’t know how long it took for Niki to stop crying and for them to finally separate. He did not know how he managed to make his way back to his own twin home, only a few feet from Techno’s, even though the journey of five steps felt like miles and miles. 

All Phil knew was that not a single tear fell down his own face that night. 

Niki and Phil rarely spoke to each other, instead going about their own businesses in the commune. Phil gathered materials for no real reason other than to give him something to do, which he only did because it seemed to calm Niki down. She was desperately trying to help him, watching him and trying to offer comfort, but nothing ever changed. 

Niki tended to Technoblade’s pets and Hound Army because Phil was too cowardly to face anything of Techno’s. Neither of them spoke of this arrangement; it was unspeakable, unholy, but remained in place nonetheless. 

Perhaps it was a small mercy. 

Perhaps it was the only mercy granted to the grieving survivors. 

Part of Phil wanted to die. 

Part of Phil wanted to live. 

Most of him didn’t care. 

He lived.  

He did not know why. 

Phil went outside. 

(Rarely.) 

He breathed. 

(Meaninglessly.)

He ate. 

(Probably not enough.)

True to Techno’s wish, Phil hung the emerald earring from its own invisible string from the top of the windchime. It sat in the very center of the soul-sand glass shards, and when they collided, the sound the emerald made was slightly higher than the rest. 

It sounded like Techno’s breathless laughter.

Phil slowly began to avoid the windchime. 

At night, Phil prayed. 

He prayed to every god there was, and no matter the cost, he begged. 

None answered. 

None… but one. 

“There is no place for him here, my love, and even if there was, you know I could not give him back.”

“I just want him safe, but what do you mean- no place for him?”

“No place. No peace.”

“So he could come back! He could-”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, my dear. Not in the way you want.”

“Not in the… no. No, no, no. Please, please! You need to- I can’t face him like that- I cannot-”

The sound of crying. 

“I am sorry. I am truly sorry, my love.”

It had been a week since… everything- even if Phil wasn’t particularly aware of the passage of time. 

Phil had expected the world to come crumbling down after Technoblade died, but their little commune remained as peaceful as ever. No one came to gloat, no one came to apologize, honestly, Phil would’ve preferred an earful from Tommy over the silence that had settled on them. 

Technoblade hadn’t been an extrovert, he wasn’t very loud unless he was in some sort of battle fury. 

But there had still been noise.

Phil missed Techno’s breathing, even his snores. The soft comments he would mutter to Chat under his breath. His laugh. The sound of his hooves echoing against the wood floors. 

They were all gone. 

Niki walked softly, and while there was still noise as she made her way, day after day, across the commune, she was not Technoblade. Phil learned what Niki sounded like, he learned how the snow crunched under her soft feet. The two survivors became more and more familiar with each other in that single week than they had the entire time they had known each other previously. 

It just so happened that Ranboo finally built up the courage to visit near the end of that first week. Although he had pointedly avoided Techno’s cabin, he had come to have dinner with Niki and Phil, apologizing so much that he was tripping over his own words. Niki hugged him immediately, but Ranboo ended up being the one to initiate a hug with Phil, who hugged him back limply. He explained that had been spending most of his time with Tubbo, who had not come along with him and instead asked to send his condolences by way of Ranboo, subtly also promising aid if the group should be intending to pursue revenge against Quackity. Phil just hummed and turned away when Ranboo finished. 

As the day wore on, Phil learned in the silence of the commune that Ranboo had his own noise too, a unique beat to his steps due to the kid’s height. It still wasn’t Technoblade. 

The enderman-hybrid had managed to pull Phil outside to sit with him on the porch between Techno’s cabin and his own. They sat together, a foot or so of space between them as Phil crossed his legs and lost himself in staring at the tundra while Ranboo, meanwhile, dangled his legs from the bridge down toward the small, heated fish pond below. 

All in all, none of the remaining members of the Syndicate spoke much about what had happened. Ranboo and Niki might have been aware that they were avoiding the inevitable, but Phil was definitely aware; he just didn’t care. 

Denial. 

Anger. 

Bargaining. 

Depression. 

Phil knew grief. He had experienced much of it during his life. He had been repressive, he had been angry, and he had bargained with every god there was. 

He had once told Sam that the pain he felt at losing his friends was nothing in comparison to the pain that their enemies felt. 

He wanted to hurt Quackity. 

He wanted Techno back. 

Phil felt like he was stuck between all the stages of grief except the one he really wanted. 

Acceptance. 

But even then, Phil didn’t want to accept Techno’s death. 

Maybe he was still in denial. 

The sun moved in the sky, further toward the horizon. At some point, Ranboo had gotten up and handed Phil his bucket hat to shield his eyes, a small gesture of comfort in an incomprehensible darkness. Phil would have said that it meant a lot to him that Ranboo was willing to just sit with him silently if anything were to hold meaning with him anymore. 

Philza didn’t feel anything with Ranboo next to him. 

He didn’t feel anything when Niki took care of him. 

No gratitude. 

No love. 

No positive feelings. 

No negative either. 

Nothing. 

Nothing. 

nothing nothing ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ nothing nothing nothing n̸̢̢̧̢̨̛̹͚̫͚͕̼̮̩̥̫̪̥̤̮͖̩̺̘̹̲̗̩͉̜̮̱̣̥̍̄̑̿͑̍̿̂͆̇̀͋̔̿͊͛̓̓͗̚̕͜͝͝͠ͅơ̴̡̨̝̰̹͕̤̋̍͐̊͠t̶̡̧̨̹͎̻̘͖̜̜͓͉̜͈̟̫̠̙͈͇̺̱͉̻̤̲͖͕͚̺͍̣̙̭͍͈̮̩̮̫̉̃̽͜͜ͅḩ̶̨̡͕̺̰͔͚͔͔̳̱͇̭̺̬͕̮̘̞͖̙͙̫͖̘̙̘͕̗̩̂̒̽̈́̓͐̑͒̎̄̈̈́̂͋̃̒͒͊͛͂̾̎̉͂̎̽͌̄͆̀̆͛͘͝ị̵̧̛̣̺̪̟͈̬͔̫̇̿̓̑͛̈̓͐̇͒̆͑̓̓̍̈́̍̑͛͋͒͒͐͐̚̚̚͘͝͠n̶̡̧̨̛̫̲̮̟̣̼̜̗̘͖̯͙͈̖͈̞͗̿͑̌̄͐̊̅̏͑̈́̓̑̍̾̃̈́̀̉̾́͋̇̽̊̀̀̉̓̆̅̓͗͊̇͐̐̾̓͐͆̇͘̚͜͠͠ͅͅg̵̢̢͓͈̜͎͈̗̥͉̬̰̤̼̝͍̼̤̼͇̦͇̥̦͈̰̺͎̤͈̥̳͍̻͙̣̘̮̘͚̘̤͋̎̿̀͗͋̿͐̄̓͗̓͊͒̊̽͝ nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing  ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ nothing nothing ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ nothing n̸̢̢̧̢̨̛̹͚̫͚͕̼̮̩̥̫̪̥̤̮͖̩̺̘̹̲̗̩͉̜̮̱̣̥̍̄̑̿͑̍̿̂͆̇̀͋̔̿͊͛̓̓͗̚̕͜͝͝͠ͅơ̴̡̨̝̰̹͕̤̋̍͐̊͠t̶̡̧̨̹͎̻̘͖̜̜͓͉̜͈̟̫̠̙͈͇̺̱͉̻̤̲͖͕͚̺͍̣̙̭͍͈̮̩̮̫̉̃̽͜͜ͅḩ̶̨̡͕̺̰͔͚͔͔̳̱͇̭̺̬͕̮̘̞͖̙͙̫͖̘̙̘͕̗̩̂̒̽̈́̓͐̑͒̎̄̈̈́̂͋̃̒͒͊͛͂̾̎̉͂̎̽͌̄͆̀̆͛͘͝ị̵̧̛̣̺̪̟͈̬͔̫̇̿̓̑͛̈̓͐̇͒̆͑̓̓̍̈́̍̑͛͋͒͒͐͐̚̚̚͘͝͠n̶̡̧̨̛̫̲̮̟̣̼̜̗̘͖̯͙͈̖͈̞͗̿͑̌̄͐̊̅̏͑̈́̓̑̍̾̃̈́̀̉̾́͋̇̽̊̀̀̉̓̆̅̓͗͊̇͐̐̾̓͐͆̇͘̚͜͠͠ͅͅg̵̢̢͓͈̜͎͈̗̥͉̬̰̤̼̝͍̼̤̼͇̦͇̥̦͈̰̺͎̤͈̥̳͍̻͙̣̘̮̘͚̘̤͋̎̿̀͗͋̿͐̄̓͗̓͊͒̊̽͝ nothing ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ nothing ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing  nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ nothingn̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ nothing n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ nothing n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒ nothing nothing nothing n̸͉̟͇͖̦̽̐͋̎̒͐̂̃̚͘͝ͅo̷̢̮̞̞̘̝̞̞̝͎̗̅t̵̳̟̠̿͑͂h̶̨͖͕͓̦̮̃̎͆̒̃̌̋̑̎͘̕̚i̸̬͋̈͌͌̐͋ǹ̸̹͂̈́͗̈̅̈́̚g̸̝̝̬̥̼̝̝͆̍͂̒  ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ nothing nothing ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ nothing nothing nothing ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ ǹ̶̢̧̛̛̺̠̖̘̙̥̣̭̯̜͈̈͑͊́̊͐̈̕͝ọ̵̢̨̡̰̥̫̩̰̩̱͚̺̙͓͎̩͖̤͉͈̤̗̿̋͛̔̇̚͜t̸̹̮͌̉̀͐̃́̄͐̃̓̅͒̌̍͐͊̆̓͐͋͘͝͝͝ȟ̸̡̡̜̞͕̗̝̘̹̱̣̻̳͜͜i̶̧̡͚͕͎̳͇͇͕̥̹̗̠͙̫̮̻͖̊̿̊̎̓̃́̓̾̆̆͌̍̒͛͗̆̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͠n̴̨̜̯̳̖͙̯̘̟̘̹̳̲̹̟͕̱͔̘͉̑̔̌̿͂̌̈́͛͐̈́̾̓̀̉͊͋͝ͅg̶̨̪̭̲̪͎̲̩̃̓̕ n̸̢̢̧̢̨̛̹͚̫͚͕̼̮̩̥̫̪̥̤̮͖̩̺̘̹̲̗̩͉̜̮̱̣̥̍̄̑̿͑̍̿̂͆̇̀͋̔̿͊͛̓̓͗̚̕͜͝͝͠ͅơ̴̡̨̝̰̹͕̤̋̍͐̊͠t̶̡̧̨̹͎̻̘͖̜̜͓͉̜͈̟̫̠̙͈͇̺̱͉̻̤̲͖͕͚̺͍̣̙̭͍͈̮̩̮̫̉̃̽͜͜ͅḩ̶̨̡͕̺̰͔͚͔͔̳̱͇̭̺̬͕̮̘̞͖̙͙̫͖̘̙̘͕̗̩̂̒̽̈́̓͐̑͒̎̄̈̈́̂͋̃̒͒͊͛͂̾̎̉͂̎̽͌̄͆̀̆͛͘͝ị̵̧̛̣̺̪̟͈̬͔̫̇̿̓̑͛̈̓͐̇͒̆͑̓̓̍̈́̍̑͛͋͒͒͐͐̚̚̚͘͝͠n̶̡̧̨̛̫̲̮̟̣̼̜̗̘͖̯͙͈̖͈̞͗̿͑̌̄͐̊̅̏͑̈́̓̑̍̾̃̈́̀̉̾́͋̇̽̊̀̀̉̓̆̅̓͗͊̇͐̐̾̓͐͆̇͘̚͜͠͠ͅͅg̵̢̢͓͈̜͎͈̗̥͉̬̰̤̼̝͍̼̤̼͇̦͇̥̦͈̰̺͎̤͈̥̳͍̻͙̣̘̮̘͚̘̤͋̎̿̀͗͋̿͐̄̓͗̓͊͒̊̽͝ n̸̢̢̧̢̨̛̹͚̫͚͕̼̮̩̥̫̪̥̤̮͖̩̺̘̹̲̗̩͉̜̮̱̣̥̍̄̑̿͑̍̿̂͆̇̀͋̔̿͊͛̓̓͗̚̕͜͝͝͠ͅơ̴̡̨̝̰̹͕̤̋̍͐̊͠t̶̡̧̨̹͎̻̘͖̜̜͓͉̜͈̟̫̠̙͈͇̺̱͉̻̤̲͖͕͚̺͍̣̙̭͍͈̮̩̮̫̉̃̽͜͜ͅḩ̶̨̡͕̺̰͔͚͔͔̳̱͇̭̺̬͕̮̘̞͖̙͙̫͖̘̙̘͕̗̩̂̒̽̈́̓͐̑͒̎̄̈̈́̂͋̃̒͒͊͛͂̾̎̉͂̎̽͌̄͆̀̆͛͘͝ị̵̧̛̣̺̪̟͈̬͔̫̇̿̓̑͛̈̓͐̇͒̆͑̓̓̍̈́̍̑͛͋͒͒͐͐̚̚̚͘͝͠n̶̡̧̨̛̫̲̮̟̣̼̜̗̘͖̯͙͈̖͈̞͗̿͑̌̄͐̊̅̏͑̈́̓̑̍̾̃̈́̀̉̾́͋̇̽̊̀̀̉̓̆̅̓͗͊̇͐̐̾̓͐͆̇͘̚͜͠͠ͅͅg̵̢̢͓͈̜͎͈̗̥͉̬̰̤̼̝͍̼̤̼͇̦͇̥̦͈̰̺͎̤͈̥̳͍̻͙̣̘̮̘͚̘̤͋̎̿̀͗͋̿͐̄̓͗̓͊͒̊̽͝ nothing n̸̢̢̧̢̨̛̹͚̫͚͕̼̮̩̥̫̪̥̤̮͖̩̺̘̹̲̗̩͉̜̮̱̣̥̍̄̑̿͑̍̿̂͆̇̀͋̔̿͊͛̓̓͗̚̕͜͝͝͠ͅơ̴̡̨̝̰̹͕̤̋̍͐̊͠t̶̡̧̨̹͎̻̘͖̜̜͓͉̜͈̟̫̠̙͈͇̺̱͉̻̤̲͖͕͚̺͍̣̙̭͍͈̮̩̮̫̉̃̽͜͜ͅḩ̶̨̡͕̺̰͔͚͔͔̳̱͇̭̺̬͕̮̘̞͖̙͙̫͖̘̙̘͕̗̩̂̒̽̈́̓͐̑͒̎̄̈̈́̂͋̃̒͒͊͛͂̾̎̉͂̎̽͌̄͆̀̆͛͘͝ị̵̧̛̣̺̪̟͈̬͔̫̇̿̓̑͛̈̓͐̇͒̆͑̓̓̍̈́̍̑͛͋͒͒͐͐̚̚̚͘͝͠n̶̡̧̨̛̫̲̮̟̣̼̜̗̘͖̯͙͈̖͈̞͗̿͑̌̄͐̊̅̏͑̈́̓̑̍̾̃̈́̀̉̾́͋̇̽̊̀̀̉̓̆̅̓͗͊̇͐̐̾̓͐͆̇͘̚͜͠͠ͅͅg̵̢̢͓͈̜͎͈̗̥͉̬̰̤̼̝͍̼̤̼͇̦͇̥̦͈̰̺͎̤͈̥̳͍̻͙̣̘̮̘͚̘̤͋̎̿̀͗͋̿͐̄̓͗̓͊͒̊̽͝ n̸̢̢̧̢̨̛̹͚̫͚͕̼̮̩̥̫̪̥̤̮͖̩̺̘̹̲̗̩͉̜̮̱̣̥̍̄̑̿͑̍̿̂͆̇̀͋̔̿͊͛̓̓͗̚̕͜͝͝͠ͅơ̴̡̨̝̰̹͕̤̋̍͐̊͠t̶̡̧̨̹͎̻̘͖̜̜͓͉̜͈̟̫̠̙͈͇̺̱͉̻̤̲͖͕͚̺͍̣̙̭͍͈̮̩̮̫̉̃̽͜͜ͅḩ̶̨̡͕̺̰͔͚͔͔̳̱͇̭̺̬͕̮̘̞͖̙͙̫͖̘̙̘͕̗̩̂̒̽̈́̓͐̑͒̎̄̈̈́̂͋̃̒͒͊͛͂̾̎̉͂̎̽͌̄͆̀̆͛͘͝ị̵̧̛̣̺̪̟͈̬͔̫̇̿̓̑͛̈̓͐̇͒̆͑̓̓̍̈́̍̑͛͋͒͒͐͐̚̚̚͘͝͠n̶̡̧̨̛̫̲̮̟̣̼̜̗̘͖̯͙͈̖͈̞͗̿͑̌̄͐̊̅̏͑̈́̓̑̍̾̃̈́̀̉̾́͋̇̽̊̀̀̉̓̆̅̓͗͊̇͐̐̾̓͐͆̇͘̚͜͠͠ͅͅg̵̢̢͓͈̜͎͈̗̥͉̬̰̤̼̝͍̼̤̼͇̦͇̥̦͈̰̺͎̤͈̥̳͍̻͙̣̘̮̘͚̘̤͋̎̿̀͗͋̿͐̄̓͗̓͊͒̊̽͝ nothing n̸̢̢̧̢̨̛̹͚̫͚͕̼̮̩̥̫̪̥̤̮͖̩̺̘̹̲̗̩͉̜̮̱̣̥̍̄̑̿͑̍̿̂͆̇̀͋̔̿͊͛̓̓͗̚̕͜͝͝͠ͅơ̴̡̨̝̰̹͕̤̋̍͐̊͠t̶̡̧̨̹͎̻̘͖̜̜͓͉̜͈̟̫̠̙͈͇̺̱͉̻̤̲͖͕͚̺͍̣̙̭͍͈̮̩̮̫̉̃̽͜͜ͅḩ̶̨̡͕̺̰͔͚͔͔̳̱͇̭̺̬͕̮̘̞͖̙͙̫͖̘̙̘͕̗̩̂̒̽̈́̓͐̑͒̎̄̈̈́̂͋̃̒͒͊͛͂̾̎̉͂̎̽͌̄͆̀̆͛͘͝ị̵̧̛̣̺̪̟͈̬͔̫̇̿̓̑͛̈̓͐̇͒̆͑̓̓̍̈́̍̑͛͋͒͒͐͐̚̚̚͘͝͠n̶̡̧̨̛̫̲̮̟̣̼̜̗̘͖̯͙͈̖͈̞͗̿͑̌̄͐̊̅̏͑̈́̓̑̍̾̃̈́̀̉̾́͋̇̽̊̀̀̉̓̆̅̓͗͊̇͐̐̾̓͐͆̇͘̚͜͠͠ͅͅg̵̢̢͓͈̜͎͈̗̥͉̬̰̤̼̝͍̼̤̼͇̦͇̥̦͈̰̺͎̤͈̥̳͍̻͙̣̘̮̘͚̘̤͋̎̿̀͗͋̿͐̄̓͗̓͊͒̊̽͝ n̸̢̢̧̢̨̛̹͚̫͚͕̼̮̩̥̫̪̥̤̮͖̩̺̘̹̲̗̩͉̜̮̱̣̥̍̄̑̿͑̍̿̂͆̇̀͋̔̿͊͛̓̓͗̚̕͜͝͝͠ͅơ̴̡̨̝̰̹͕̤̋̍͐̊͠t̶̡̧̨̹͎̻̘͖̜̜͓͉̜͈̟̫̠̙͈͇̺̱͉̻̤̲͖͕͚̺͍̣̙̭͍͈̮̩̮̫̉̃̽͜͜ͅḩ̶̨̡͕̺̰͔͚͔͔̳̱͇̭̺̬͕̮̘̞͖̙͙̫͖̘̙̘͕̗̩̂̒̽̈́̓͐̑͒̎̄̈̈́̂͋̃̒͒͊͛͂̾̎̉͂̎̽͌̄͆̀̆͛͘͝ị̵̧̛̣̺̪̟͈̬͔̫̇̿̓̑͛̈̓͐̇͒̆͑̓̓̍̈́̍̑͛͋͒͒͐͐̚̚̚͘͝͠n̶̡̧̨̛̫̲̮̟̣̼̜̗̘͖̯͙͈̖͈̞͗̿͑̌̄͐̊̅̏͑̈́̓̑̍̾̃̈́̀̉̾́͋̇̽̊̀̀̉̓̆̅̓͗͊̇͐̐̾̓͐͆̇͘̚͜͠͠ͅͅg̵̢̢͓͈̜͎͈̗̥͉̬̰̤̼̝͍̼̤̼͇̦͇̥̦͈̰̺͎̤͈̥̳͍̻͙̣̘̮̘͚̘̤͋̎̿̀͗͋̿͐̄̓͗̓͊͒̊̽͝ nothing n̸̢̢̧̢̨̛̹͚̫͚͕̼̮̩̥̫̪̥̤̮͖̩̺̘̹̲̗̩͉̜̮̱̣̥̍̄̑̿͑̍̿̂͆̇̀͋̔̿͊͛̓̓͗̚̕͜͝͝͠ͅơ̴̡̨̝̰̹͕̤̋̍͐̊͠t̶̡̧̨̹͎̻̘͖̜̜͓͉̜͈̟̫̠̙͈͇̺̱͉̻̤̲͖͕͚̺͍̣̙̭͍͈̮̩̮̫̉̃̽͜͜ͅḩ̶̨̡͕̺̰͔͚͔͔̳̱͇̭̺̬͕̮̘̞͖̙͙̫͖̘̙̘͕̗̩̂̒̽̈́̓͐̑͒̎̄̈̈́̂͋̃̒͒͊͛͂̾̎̉͂̎̽͌̄͆̀̆͛͘͝ị̵̧̛̣̺̪̟͈̬͔̫̇̿̓̑͛̈̓͐̇͒̆͑̓̓̍̈́̍̑͛͋͒͒͐͐̚̚̚͘͝͠n̶̡̧̨̛̫̲̮̟̣̼̜̗̘͖̯͙͈̖͈̞͗̿͑̌̄͐̊̅̏͑̈́̓̑̍̾̃̈́̀̉̾́͋̇̽̊̀̀̉̓̆̅̓͗͊̇͐̐̾̓͐͆̇͘̚͜͠͠ͅͅg̵̢̢͓͈̜͎͈̗̥͉̬̰̤̼̝͍̼̤̼͇̦͇̥̦͈̰̺͎̤͈̥̳͍̻͙̣̘̮̘͚̘̤͋̎̿̀͗͋̿͐̄̓͗̓͊͒̊̽͝ 

Niki’s steps were urgent, falling over each other in a rush as she breathlessly ran up the stairs behind them. Ranboo turned around to face her, but Phil remained immobile, lost in thoughts while staring at the frost that had settled over their crops. 

There was no lead-in, no overture to Niki’s next statement. 

“He’s back.”

Ranboo whipped around, a fearful question in his eyes to which Niki just nodded. 

Phil knew what she meant, maybe he had known the entire time.

If Wilbur… then why not Technoblade too?

Niki and Ranboo argued for a moment, their words coming through Phil’s ears as loud, incoherent mush until Niki forcefully pulled Ranboo up and dragged him down the steps. Then, realizing their third companion hadn’t moved, both paused and looked back at Phil who was still sitting, his eyes glazed over as he swayed slightly with the falling snow, however, they saw that his hands were shaking slightly now. 

The pair exchanged a look, and Niki made her way back up to Phil, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. His breathing hitched and he tensed. 

Phil looked at her hand slowly and then up to her face. 

A deep sigh was exhaled into a cloud of mist in the freezing air, his lungs quaking with the effort. 

But Phil, weak at the knees, stood anyway, and followed Niki and Ranboo up the nearby mountain, step after step after painful step. Snow crunched under their boots, and they saw that small stalks of grass made their way up through the thin layer of snow, ice, and frost. A few flowers even peeked through the sea of white, which at one point would’ve marked the end of Techno’s seasonal depression. For a pig who hated long, dark days of winter weather, he sure chose to settle in snowy biomes a lot. 

Darker clouds were coming in from the east, whipping up the beginnings of a storm that would likely bury the earth and plants once more beneath that cold blanket of snow. 

Phil couldn’t help but wonder about Technoblade as snowflakes fell past his face and settled onto his eyelashes. Ghostbur had avoided water, and consequently also snow, in fear of the little droplets disintegrating him, but if Phil was right in his assumption about who Niki was leading them to, surely they wouldn’t find him disappearing before their eyes, right?

Maybe it would have been easier that way. 

Near the sheer cliff, resting on his knees and gazing wistfully over the edge as if he was some praying monk in an idyllic painting was a figure that looked very much like Technoblade had when he died- if one were to ignore the golden cracks weaving over his skin and the monotone color palette that he had fallen into. 

The three living members of the Syndicate stopped simultaneously, their feet sinking into the layer of snow as they all stared at their now-dead companion’s ghost. Phil let his eyes follow a golden crack all the way from Techno’s hairline down his neck and through his arm to the tip of his left hand’s ring finger. There were a sizable amount of these cracks covering his body, all filled in with liquid gold like Kintsugi pottery, the majority being near his head but some reaching as low as his shins. As soon as Phil saw Techno’s bright green eyes, he knew where the cracks had come from. 

It had always been a mystery how totems truly affected the user. 

But the law of equivalent exchange existed. 

There was always balance in the universe. 

Even if totems left no visible scarring to the naked eye, they obviously needed to leave some impact on the user, and Phil was seeing what that truly meant now. 

The spectre of Technoblade watched them approach with a blank, empty expression, the arctic winds caressing his face as they blew through his faded hair. For a moment, Phil felt something well up in him, the first emotion in a long time, but it was quickly beaten back down by the realization and remembrance that whoever he was seeing in front of him was not Techno. 

Just like Ghostbur hadn’t been Wilbur. 

This Technoghost wasn’t his friend. 

Technoghost was missing Techno blade’s signature golden crown (not that he needed it with the cracks laced through his entire body) and blood-red cloak. Instead, what he seemed to have carried over was a loose, simple white shirt and black harem pants that reached just below his knees. His hair, his skin, anything that had once been organic was white or gray… except for the very tips of his fingers that were stained black with what seemed to be charcoal. His entire body was some sick piece of art put together by years of ornamental scarring, filled with tattoos of death and destruction, and now all of him was plain to see. 

Niki and Ranboo felt like they were staring at something wrong, something not meant for mortal eyes, but they did not look away. 

In typical Technoblade fashion, the spirit simply intoned, “hullo,” with a small wave. 

The greeting hung in the air for a second before Phil collapsed toward his friend, desperately reaching out for Technoghost’s hand, intent on lacing his fingers with those of the ghost even if those fingers would be ice cold. 

Phil was not ready for his hand to go right through the ghost’s as if he wasn’t even there. Techno’s hand dissipated just like wisps of steam as a sad smile appeared on his face and he raised his eyes to Phil’s. 

They were both there, kneeling in the snow, completely uncaring of everything else. 

It was a strange image to see. 

“I can’t touch you.” Phil breathed, his eyes blown wide, and retracted his hand tentatively, “but I could touch Ghostbur. I know you’re not real, I know you’re a gho... but why, why can’t I touch you?”

The small smile fell from Techno’s face and he paused, taking a long breath. Then, he reached slowly for the dagger at Philza’s waist. 

(After that day, Phil had refused to wear armor and had turned down any weapon from Niki or Ranboo, opting to only carry a small survival knife at his hip. Phil was sure that his insistence to be armorless and weaponless could be psychoanalysed, read up and down to say some worrying truth about his frail mental state, but he didn’t care. Niki and Ranboo had both gone the opposite direction, you would rarely see either without a weapon nearby and never without their armor.)

Techno’s fingers, finding purchase on the object, gripped the handle of the knife and lightly slid it from its sheath. Phil might have seen this as a threat from anyone else, but even if Techno had taken that moment to plunge the knife into Phil’s chest, Phil knew he would have thanked the ghost. Instead, the iron blade shone in the sunlight as Techno raised it, fixing his eyes on its very tip, and tapped his finger to the edge of the blade. A small dot of golden blood appeared on his finger and Technoblade hummed, watching the blood drip down and smiling at it mirthlessly. He lowered the dagger to his lap. 

“Weapons,” the ghost said softly. “I can touch weapons. Or tools. Anythin’ you can use. Nothin’ else.” A small, ghostly tear appeared to slide down his face… but it could’ve just been a trick of the light. “Nothin’ else.” He handed the knife back to Phil who gingerly placed it back into its sheath. “I can’t interact with anythin’ else, not water, not lava, not animals, not- not…” he looked into Phil’s eyes, “not people. Not you.”  

Techno’s call from Doomsday echoed in his mind: “I’m a person!”

Phil just stared at him, heartbroken in a soul-wrenching way he could never describe with words. The betrayal- not at Technoblade, no, at the world that had forced him into this position- in his eyes spoke more than he could say. 

That statement seemed to send each member of the Syndicate into their own spirals of thoughts until Niki spoke up, breaking the emotional moment only to begin another. 

“Do you…” she asked hesitantly, “do you remember everything?”

Technoblade took a moment to think, and then just nodded, standing. The snow beneath him showed no signs that he had ever been sitting there. 

“Techno, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” Ranboo moved forward almost instinctively, trying to give the pig-man a hug, or at least some action of comfort, only to feel his hand go right through the pig-man’s shoulder. His eyes widened. “Sorry. I- I forgot.”

The ghost shrugged. “It’s alright.” He looked down at Phil who was still kneeling in the snow, letting it pile up around him. “Phil,” Techno said quietly, “don’t blame yourself for what happened.” He looked back up at the other two. “None of you. None of you should feel bad about what happened.”

“You died, mate,” Phil said, his voice brokenly soft as he looked up at the image of someone who had once been his closest friend. His other half. 

“It was my choice.”

At that, Niki exploded in anger, all of the emotions she had been bottling up during the week finally surfacing. “No!” She yelled, clenching her fists and suddenly breathing heavily. “No, it was not your choice.”

“Niki…”

“No, no!” Tears lined her eyes. “Quackity! It was Quackity’s choice.”

“There’s nothin’ we can do about that now.”

Something dangerous flashed through Niki’s eyes before she abruptly whipped around and stalked away down the hill back toward the cabins. 

Techno looked worriedly after her, turning to Ranboo and Phil. “Did I say somethin’ wrong?”

“No, mate,” Phil said, unbridled exhaustion in his voice, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

His words fell flat, and Ranboo was only reminded of how Phil would speak to Ghostbur. That same tiredness laced his voice like poison. 

After a moment, Techno appraised Ranboo, saying, “you look cold. Should we head inside?”

The enderman-hybrid nodded quickly and offered a hand which Phil took to stand from the ground.  

The trio made their way down the frozen path, Ranboo questioning Techno on the way: “what should we call you now?”

“Technoblade is still fine.”

Phil’s brows furrowed, and there was a nervous anger shining in his eyes. “No, it’s not, because you’re not Technoblade.”

The ghost froze. 

“What?”

He remained firm, “you’re not Technoblade.”

“Phil,” the ghost blinked. “It’s me. Nothin’s changed.”

“You’re dead.” Phil’s breaths quickened as he yelled back, “You’re dead!”

Techno flinched, hunching over, and looked away with pain written across his face. 

Ranboo reached out for a second- in hope, fear, love, no one knew- but pulled back when the ghost began walking again. “It doesn’t matter then,” he said coldly over his shoulder, “call me whatever you want to.”

Phil found his place at the back of the group as Techno and Ranboo walked side by side, somehow allowing for the greatest space in between himself and the ghost. It made him sick to be near this false Technoblade. He couldn’t hear him, he couldn’t look at him. 

The ghost walked silently. There was no noise.

But his face- that dull, gray skin- that smile-

They were so Techno it hurt. 

But this was a ghost. 

A puppet. 

A shadow. 

Nothing more. 

His presence just reminded Phil that this, just like Ghostbur, was his fault-

They walked in silence for a few minutes. 

Finally, Ranboo commented, “if we’re going by Ghostbur standards, you’d be Ghostnoblade.”

An involuntary snort escaped Techno, one that had Phil’s heart reeling with nostalgia, and he said with just the smallest hint of humor, “now, that wouldn’t make much sense, would it? Seein’ as the only thing I am now is a ghost with a blade.”

It seemed to be a joke at the time, but Phil saw the way Techno’s grin was forced; he saw the truth behind his no-longer-living friend’s eyes. Techno had really been reduced to nothing other than a blade, and for a moment, Phil pitied the ghost. Phil pitied the friend that the world had convinced was nothing but a weapon, so much so that his ghost had formed around that same idea. 

“Well,” Ranboo began again, “there’s always Technoghost, maybe Technoboo? Or,” his eyes lit up, “if you’d like something more unique, we can go with Phantechno? Like phantom, plus Techno?”

“I…” the trio reached the cabins and Phil split off from them without another word, not so much as looking at Techno as he entered his own home and slammed the door behind himself. “Phantechno is alright, kid. Technoghost too.” Techno’s gaze left Phil’s door for Ranboo. “You can still call me Techno. I… I know I’m dead but… I don’t know. I’m still me, aren’t I?”

Ranboo looked like he was going to reassure the ghost, but paused, and something darker twisted his expression. “I don’t know...

“I really don’t know.”

Meanwhile, Phil had leaned up against his shut door to try and steady himself as he began to hyperventilate. His legs were shaking too much, so he just let himself slump to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest. 

Phil sobbed into his hands, though no tears ever came. 

“Why?” He cried to his ceiling. “Why?” His voice splintered with the words. “What is enough? When will it be enough? Why can’t I- I can’t- I can’t…”

The cruel, merciless world offered no answer. Phil rocked softly back and forth. 

“I can’t keep doing this.”

“What do I do? What do I do?”

“What can I do?”

The dog army barked angrily at Technoghost when they saw him for the first time. To watch his face shift from a bright hope into shock and then sadness was too much for Phil. 

He let Niki deal with their new neighbor. 

Niki passed the job to Ranboo. 

Phil delegated himself to all of the worldly tasks that would allow him to stay as far away as possible from the thing that had taken residence in his friend’s house. 

He would mine. 

He would gather materials. 

(He would stay locked in his own cabin.)

Techno tried to speak to him more than once. The best conversations were kept short and sweet, filled only with pleasantries, the worst ended in Phil slamming the door in Phantechno’s shocked face. 

They both knew that Techno could’ve just walked through the solid wall if he wanted to. 

He never did. 

One day, Phil was alone, sitting in a rocking chair at one of the many windows in his cabin and watching birds soar through the air while wishing that he himself could just fly away from all his problems like that. 

At least, he had thought he was alone until he saw Technoghost walking around outside, speaking to his the polar bears. 

Phil watched as Baba turned its head away from Techno; he watched Techno step after the bear anyway and try to pet it. 

His hand went right through its white, furry head, and Baba abruptly turned around to growl at Techno. 

He took a few steps back, raising his hands placatingly. The bear huffed out a breath of cold air and lumbered away. 

Phil saw Techno fall to the ground and wrap his arms around himself.

The ghost wept. 

“For you, Phil? The world.”

“The world? Ha, you are my world.”

“You were always too sentimental, Phil.”

“I love you, Techno.”

“I… love you too.”

Phil wanted to hug Technoblade. 

That damned, bloody emerald still hung from the windchime.

Phil caught Phantechno staring at it one day with a smile upon his face. After realizing Phil was watching, Techno turned his head ever so slightly to the side and met Phil’s eyes-

And suddenly Phil was staring at Techno in that cage. 

He was watching the blood drip to the floor. 

Drip.

Drip. 

Drip. 

“Phil?”

His hands were so red.

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. D̴̨̟̜͓̜͖̭͎̠̝̰̩̰͔̥͈͔͕̱̟̗̦̫͍̯̋̊̽̽̽̃̋͛̇̇̎̆̃͑̍̾̕͜ͅͅR̵̡̢̡̰̣͔̦͚̟̞̥̱͎͓̬͙͔̬̣̮̣̹̖̲̮͗̊͋͋̄̃̈͛͘ͅȈ̷͚̲̤̘͖̞͖̉́̄̅̎͌̔̍̋̾͂̈́P̵̨̢͚̜̰̪̙̼͍̟̬͕͉͓̑̇̈́͌̇͗̈́̃̇̓̈̇̍̀̚͜ͅ.̷̨͖͕̖̳̻̖̤̞͕͙̣̲͚̮͈̤͍̮̿̈́͒͐̓̆̑̆͗͊̀̄̔̇́͗͊̌̑̓̐̈́̋͑̃͘̚͘̕͜͝͝͝ DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. D̵̨̢͖̫̗̱̯̮̲̰̱̩͖̯̔̽ͅR̶̛͕̗̰̿͆͆̑́͊̽̆͠͝͠͝Ỉ̶̡̳̺̟͕̳̬̤̰̌͋͌͐̐̔̅̍́͒̾͜͝P̵͚̺͚͈̞̼͇͕̩̙̲̪̽͂̋̓̌̊̊̃̄̈́͜ͅ..̷̨̧͖͎͈̹̺̞̭̻͓̈́̈́̈́̀̈͜D̵̨̢͖̫̗̱̯̮̲̰̱̩͖̯̔̽ͅR̶̛͕̗̰̿͆͆̑́͊̽̆͠͝͠͝Ỉ̶̡̳̺̟͕̳̬̤̰̌͋͌͐̐̔̅̍́͒̾͜͝P̵͚̺͚͈̞̼͇͕̩̙̲̪̽͂̋̓̌̊̊̃̄̈́͜ͅ. D̴̨̟̜͓̜͖̭͎̠̝̰̩̰͔̥͈͔͕̱̟̗̦̫͍̯̋̊̽̽̽̃̋͛̇̇̎̆̃͑̍̾̕͜ͅͅR̵̡̢̡̰̣͔̦͚̟̞̥̱͎͓̬͙͔̬̣̮̣̹̖̲̮͗̊͋͋̄̃̈͛͘ͅȈ̷͚̲̤̘͖̞͖̉́̄̅̎͌̔̍̋̾͂̈́P̵̨̢͚̜̰̪̙̼͍̟̬͕͉͓̑̇̈́͌̇͗̈́̃̇̓̈̇̍̀̚͜ͅ.̷̨͖͕̖̳̻̖̤̞͕͙̣̲͚̮͈̤͍̮̿̈́͒͐̓̆̑̆͗͊̀̄̔̇́͗͊̌̑̓̐̈́̋͑̃͘̚͘̕͜͝͝͝.̷̨̧͖͎͈̹̺̞̭̻͓̈́̈́̈́̀̈͜D̵̨̢͖̫̗̱̯̮̲̰̱̩͖̯̔̽ͅR̶̛͕̗̰̿͆͆̑́͊̽̆͠͝͠͝Ỉ̶̡̳̺̟͕̳̬̤̰̌͋͌͐̐̔̅̍́͒̾͜͝P̵͚̺͚͈̞̼͇͕̩̙̲̪̽͂̋̓̌̊̊̃̄̈́͜ͅ. .̷̨̧͖͎͈̹̺̞̭̻͓̈́̈́̈́̀̈͜D̵̨̢͖̫̗̱̯̮̲̰̱̩͖̯̔̽ͅR̶̛͕̗̰̿͆͆̑́͊̽̆͠͝͠͝Ỉ̶̡̳̺̟͕̳̬̤̰̌͋͌͐̐̔̅̍́͒̾͜͝P̵͚̺͚͈̞̼͇͕̩̙̲̪̽͂̋̓̌̊̊̃̄̈́͜ͅ..̷̨̧͖͎͈̹̺̞̭̻͓̈́̈́̈́̀̈͜D̵̨̢͖̫̗̱̯̮̲̰̱̩͖̯̔̽ͅR̶̛͕̗̰̿͆͆̑́͊̽̆͠͝͠͝Ỉ̶̡̳̺̟͕̳̬̤̰̌͋͌͐̐̔̅̍́͒̾͜͝P̵͚̺͚͈̞̼͇͕̩̙̲̪̽͂̋̓̌̊̊̃̄̈́͜ͅ. D̴̨̟̜͓̜͖̭͎̠̝̰̩̰͔̥͈͔͕̱̟̗̦̫͍̯̋̊̽̽̽̃̋͛̇̇̎̆̃͑̍̾̕͜ͅͅR̵̡̢̡̰̣͔̦͚̟̞̥̱͎͓̬͙͔̬̣̮̣̹̖̲̮͗̊͋͋̄̃̈͛͘ͅȈ̷͚̲̤̘͖̞͖̉́̄̅̎͌̔̍̋̾͂̈́P̵̨̢͚̜̰̪̙̼͍̟̬͕͉͓̑̇̈́͌̇͗̈́̃̇̓̈̇̍̀̚͜ͅ.̷̨͖͕̖̳̻̖̤̞͕͙̣̲͚̮͈̤͍̮̿̈́͒͐̓̆̑̆͗͊̀̄̔̇́͗͊̌̑̓̐̈́̋͑̃͘̚͘̕͜͝͝͝.̷̨̧͖͎͈̹̺̞̭̻͓̈́̈́̈́̀̈͜D̵̨̢͖̫̗̱̯̮̲̰̱̩͖̯̔̽ͅR̶̛͕̗̰̿͆͆̑́͊̽̆͠͝͠͝Ỉ̶̡̳̺̟͕̳̬̤̰̌͋͌͐̐̔̅̍́͒̾͜͝P̵͚̺͚͈̞̼͇͕̩̙̲̪̽͂̋̓̌̊̊̃̄̈́͜ͅ..̷̨̧͖͎͈̹̺̞̭̻͓̈́̈́̈́̀̈͜D̵̨̢͖̫̗̱̯̮̲̰̱̩͖̯̔̽ͅR̶̛͕̗̰̿͆͆̑́͊̽̆͠͝͠͝Ỉ̶̡̳̺̟͕̳̬̤̰̌͋͌͐̐̔̅̍́͒̾͜͝P̵͚̺͚͈̞̼͇͕̩̙̲̪̽͂̋̓̌̊̊̃̄̈́͜ͅ..̷̨̧͖͎͈̹̺̞̭̻͓̈́̈́̈́̀̈͜D̵̨̢͖̫̗̱̯̮̲̰̱̩͖̯̔̽ͅR̶̛͕̗̰̿͆͆̑́͊̽̆͠͝͠͝Ỉ̶̡̳̺̟͕̳̬̤̰̌͋͌͐̐̔̅̍́͒̾͜͝P̵͚̺͚͈̞̼͇͕̩̙̲̪̽͂̋̓̌̊̊̃̄̈́͜ͅ. D̴̨̟̜͓̜͖̭͎̠̝̰̩̰͔̥͈͔͕̱̟̗̦̫͍̯̋̊̽̽̽̃̋͛̇̇̎̆̃͑̍̾̕͜ͅͅR̵̡̢̡̰̣͔̦͚̟̞̥̱͎͓̬͙͔̬̣̮̣̹̖̲̮͗̊͋͋̄̃̈͛͘ͅȈ̷͚̲̤̘͖̞͖̉́̄̅̎͌̔̍̋̾͂̈́P̵̨̢͚̜̰̪̙̼͍̟̬͕͉͓̑̇̈́͌̇͗̈́̃̇̓̈̇̍̀̚͜ͅ.̷̨͖͕̖̳̻̖̤̞͕͙̣̲͚̮͈̤͍̮̿̈́͒͐̓̆̑̆͗͊̀̄̔̇́͗͊̌̑̓̐̈́̋͑̃͘̚͘̕͜͝͝͝.̷̨̧͖͎͈̹̺̞̭̻͓̈́̈́̈́̀̈͜D̵̨̢͖̫̗̱̯̮̲̰̱̩͖̯̔̽ͅR̶̛͕̗̰̿͆͆̑́͊̽̆͠͝͠͝Ỉ̶̡̳̺̟͕̳̬̤̰̌͋͌͐̐̔̅̍́͒̾͜͝P̵͚̺͚͈̞̼͇͕̩̙̲̪̽͂̋̓̌̊̊̃̄̈́͜ͅ..̷̨̧͖͎͈̹̺̞̭̻͓̈́̈́̈́̀̈͜D̵̨̢͖̫̗̱̯̮̲̰̱̩͖̯̔̽ͅR̶̛͕̗̰̿͆͆̑́͊̽̆͠͝͠͝Ỉ̶̡̳̺̟͕̳̬̤̰̌͋͌͐̐̔̅̍́͒̾͜͝P̵͚̺͚͈̞̼͇͕̩̙̲̪̽͂̋̓̌̊̊̃̄̈́͜ͅ..̷̨̧͖͎͈̹̺̞̭̻͓̈́̈́̈́̀̈͜D̵̨̢͖̫̗̱̯̮̲̰̱̩͖̯̔̽ͅR̶̛͕̗̰̿͆͆̑́͊̽̆͠͝͠͝Ỉ̶̡̳̺̟͕̳̬̤̰̌͋͌͐̐̔̅̍́͒̾͜͝P̵͚̺͚͈̞̼͇͕̩̙̲̪̽͂̋̓̌̊̊̃̄̈́͜ͅ..̷̨̧͖͎͈̹̺̞̭̻͓̈́̈́̈́̀̈͜

Phil stopped himself, returning to reality to feel something cold touching him. “YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME!”

The ghost blinked at him in terror. 

This was only when Phil saw that at some point he had unsheathed his dagger and was currently leveling it at Techno’s throat. 

His eyes widened. 

The knife dropped from his hand that was beginning to shake, sinking into the snow. 

Phil turned and ran. 

The ornate dagger was sitting at his door when he woke up the next morning. It had been cleaned. 

Technoghost did not sleep. 

One night, when Phil also couldn’t sleep, he sat by an open window and watched the ghost farm. 

He watched the hoe rise and fall as Techno tilled the ground. 

A few potatoes were ready for harvest. 

Techno was unable to pick them up. 

Techno was unable to scare the rabbits away from the crops. (Even though Phil saw a knife in his belt. The Techno of before wouldn’t have hesitated.)

Phil watched Techno take out the hunting knife. 

Phil watched as the rabbits left unharmed and the knife was returned to its sheath. 

The knife was never bloodied. 

Ranboo visited often, almost daily, to spend time with Phantechno. 

The ghost clung to the enderman-hybrid. 

(Or maybe it only seemed that way because Ranboo was the only one who would talk to him.)

Phil did not know where he found the courage to approach Technoghost and ask him the question that had been wearing on his soul since Techno had died. 

“Do you regret it?”

Techno had been cutting up a carrot when he froze and stared at Phil who had just burst through the door to his cabin. 

“Do I… regret what?”

They hadn’t spoken to each other before like this, never about something serious, but the ghost could hear the waver in his friend’s voice. What was worse was that Phil had never been the one to initiate conversation. 

“Do you regret it? Dying? Coming back?” Phil choked on what might have been tears. Softer, “do you regret coming back for me?”

The ghost’s expression softened, but he was silent. 

The hesitance was enough. 

Phil turned away, his eyes filling with tears for the first time since the night Techno died. “Don’t answer that.”

“Phil-”

“Don’t.” Phil warned, “I can’t hear you say it.”

A pause. Techno reached out...

Whispered, “I love you.”

Phil slammed the door on his way out. 

The dark bags under Niki’s lower lashes were so much worse. The edges of her eyes were red as if she had been crying for days, but there was a firm resolve in her expression. 

Phil knew that look. He had seen it on Techno often. 

Reckless abandon.

“Phil, I’m going to kill Quackity.” 

It wasn’t a question. There were no doubts in her mind. This had been brewing in her heart all this time, and this was her answer. 

She smashed her fist into the Syndicate table, wincing as it hit the unbreakable blocks.“I’m going to kill him, or I’m going to die.” Her eyes burned with fire, with hatred. 

Niki was not weak. 

Quackity hadn’t destroyed her. 

(The only one that was broken was Phil.)

Phil picked his broken pieces off of the floor, feeling the first real emotion in a long time. 

Anger. 

“I’ll help you.”

They took two days to get ready. 

Two days. Weapons, armor, potions, TNT, and Withers.

They even took the three heads of decoration down from the Syndicate room’s wall. 

L’Manberg was going to look like a pothole in comparison to the Grand Canyon Las Nevadas soon would be. 

Ranboo had refused to help. 

They hadn’t told Phantechno. Not until night two when Phil realized that the Techno still had some of the Wither skulls in his house. 

The ghost caught him rooting through chests in the middle of the night and rubbed his eyes, asking hesitantly, “what’re you doin’?”

Phil had been about to offer some lame excuse, but then something else occurred to him. 

Technoghost could hold weapons. 

Technoblade could hold weapons.

Philza turned around and faced Techno with the most joy that he had ever had on his face since the real Techno’s death. 

(It wasn’t joy. It was anger, malice. Phil was going to kill Quackity and he was going to enjoy it.)

“Techno,” he said. (It was the first time he had addressed the ghost as such.) His eyes lit up with a destructive light, “Techno,” his voice was smooth, like oil, “do you remember how you died?”

“Uh,” the ghost looked nervous, “I… I guess? An anvil-”

“No, no, no.” Phil’s wings fluffed up and then settled again. “Do you remember who killed you?”

“Quackity, but-”

“Yes, exactly. Quackity. Quackity did this, and he needs to be brought to justice.”

Phantechno’s eyes creased with concern, forming a gentle expression that was alien on his face. Phil had to look away. (Only Techno was allowed to look at him like that. Not some possessed image of his friend.)

“Justice? Phil, you can’t mean-”

And Phil actually laughed at him. “What do you think I mean?”

The ghost fiddled with his loose shirt nervously. “You keep interruptin’ me,” his voice was light and confused, “Phil, you didn’t used’ta do this before-”

“Mate? You said that you’re really Techno, but the Techno I knew would have been up in arms ready to kill the second he-”

Techno’s fingers clenched the soft cloth of his shirt. “No, I wouldn’t ha-”

“You once said that to those who treat you with kindness, you would repay that kindness tenfold. And those that treated you with injustice, you would repay that injustice a thousand times over. Where’s that righteous anger now?” Phil blinked at him. “What happened to you? At least Wilbur was happy as a ghost, you’re just a coward.”

Techno stilled. Ever so softly, “I also said that people using me was an injustice.”

“I’m not using you-”

This time the ghost was the one to interrupt. “Using me, Phil?” His face shone with betrayal. “Phil, you have barely spoken a word to me these past few days, and now? Suddenly, now when you need my help you’re here to preach to me about justice?”

“It is something Techno would want.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“And you would know how, Techno ghost?”

“I am Techno blade-”

“You’ve got one part of that right, mate.” Phil said angrily, “you’re The Blade! And that’s all you’ll ever be good for!”

Silence. 

Shocked and broken silence. 

“Techno,” Phil said sternly, “is dead.” He felt no guilt at the ghost’s harsh flinch. 

“Phil-”

“If you won’t help us, then don’t.”

Phil, grabbing the last of the Wither skulls, went to leave but heard Techno step after him, feeling the ghostly touch of a hand trying to grab his wrist. He stopped and turned around. 

“I won’t be your weapon. I won’t, Phil. Not now. Not ever.”

Techno was there, reaching for him. Never to touch. Only to reach. 

“But please, please. I can’t lose you.” His eyes were pleading. “When will it end? When will it end, Phil? This won’t make you happy. I promise, I would know. So please, I just want you to…” he trailed off. 

A second passed. 

“You know, I don’t think Protesilaus fits you anymore,” Phil said with a cruel smile. 

“What?” The quiet word escaped Techno’s mouth.

Phil just smiled. “Tantalus.”

The ghost’s eyes narrowed uncertainly. 

“You know your myths, you’ll figure it out.”

“What’s that one about, Techno?”

Techno read the title of the myth Tommy was referring to and slammed the book shut, only narrowly missing the kid’s fingers. 

“I don’t think you’re ready for that one just yet.”

“I’m a big man!” Tommy protested, “I can handle it!”

A sly smile grew across the pig-man’s lips. “Are you suuuure?”

“Yes! Yes!” Tommy cried. “Tell me the story!”

He reopened the book. “Alright… if you’re sure…

Tantalus was a mortal man who followed in the footsteps of Prometheus. Like the titan, Tantalus stole somethin’ from the gods: ambrosia, believin’ he could bring it back to his people. But his goals were selfish, and the gods were not as ignorant as he had thought. See, Tantalus escaped with his life and found no earthly punishment from the gods even though he had broken their sacred guest-friendship by stealin’ from them. Tantalus was prideful, he was clever and a trickster. He convinced himself that he had fooled the gods. 

But that wasn’t enough to satiate him. 

And so, Tantalus devised a plan to prove once and for all that the gods were not as omniscient as everyone thought. He invited them to his home under the guise of a nice dinner, plannin’ to reveal the meal's true origin after they had finished eatin’, for.. you see… Tantalus had killed his son and served him as food!”

“Ew!”

Techno laughed as Tommy giggled and leaned against him, looking over his shoulder at the stylistic illustrations decorating the pages of the book. 

He continued, “but the gods didn’t fall for Tantalus’ trick, and they cast him down into Tartarus instead, givin’ him a punishment that lives on even today in our language. He’s where we get the word ‘tantalizing’ from, but back to his punishment...

Tantalus was cursed to stand in a pool of water beneath a fruit-bearin’ tree, but every time he would reach up to grab a fruit, the branches would pull away. And if he leaned down to take a drink from the pool, the waters would recede. 

And so he was cursed, for all eternity, to never be satisfied. 

To have his greatest desires and his greatest needs right in front of him, yet perpetually unable to reach them. 

Reaching...

And reaching...

And reaching…

Ranboo and Niki were arguing as Phil exited Technoblade’s cabin, the ghost following at his heels. 

“-it’s useless! We’re just stuck in this endless cycle of violence and-”

“It’s not endless! We’re going to stop Quackity and then he won’t be able to hurt anyone ever again!”

“By killing him?”

“He killed you, he killed me, and he killed Techno.” She was glaring at the enderman-hybrid. “He would have killed Phil.”

“I don’t disagree that Quackity needs to be brought to justice, but this isn’t justice, Niki. This is revenge. You’re stooping down to his level-”

“No, I’m not! Quackity deserves to feel what he dished out-”

“An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind,” Ranboo cautioned. 

A stone-cold mask suddenly fell over Niki’s face as she paused, then said simply, “then, I’m going to make sure that I have the last eye.”

Ranboo seemed to pale at that statement.

“‘Karma’s a bitch’,” Phil quoted, striding up behind them, carrying the rucksack of Wither skulls on his back. “I only wish Quackity had five lives, then we could really show him karma.”

Ranboo chirped nervously. “I don’t think that you should-”

Phantechno had been idling at the back of the group but pushed himself forward then, interjecting, “this isn’t the right thing to do.”

The bold claim hung between them for a moment. 

“You’re not Techno,” Niki said sadly, almost as if she was just realizing it. “He would have-”

Techno burst out, shouting, “everyone keeps tryin’ to tell me how I should feel! You don’t know!”

“You’re dead, mate,” Phil retorted, “you’re a ghost-”

“You think I don’t know that?” Techno said in disbelief. “You all think that I just brushed off my death like it was nothing?”

“You’re acting like it didn’t matter that Quackity killed you, that he destroyed us.”

“Of course it matters!” He cried. “I care about you! And I don’t want you to get hurt!”

And there it was. 

The truth. 

Techno let out a few shaking breaths, and forged ahead, “I am dead, but it allows me to look back on my life and see what is and isn’t meanin’ful. And the fightin’? The killin’? The revenge?” He looked pleadingly at Niki and Phil. “It’s not worth it.”

Phil just scoffed at him. “You are nothing like Technoblade.”

After a moment, Niki nodded in agreement. 

The ghost’s face fell as Ranboo took a place behind Techno’s see-through shoulder. 

Phil unsheathed the survival dagger at his hip and threw it to the ground in front of Techno. 

“Pick up a weapon and come help us, or get out of our way.”

Phantechno shook his head and kicked the knife away, taking a step back and shielding Ranboo from them. 

Phil frowned. “Fine, then.” He turned to leave but was stopped by Niki who grabbed his sleeve gently. 

“We’ve got one more weapon,” she said softly, raising two fingers to her lips and blowing out a long whistle. 

It started with a few barks, but soon a whole sea of the Hound Army’s flanks were racing toward them. To Niki’s side. 

Phil smiled.

He watched as the ghost tried to win any attention from the dogs, but most ignored him and a few even went so far as to growl. Techno gaped at the scene before him. 

The Army had a new master. 

As Niki and Phil set off toward Las Nevadas, Phil couldn’t shake the look of utter betrayal that had been on the ghost’s face as they left. 

But it wasn’t real. 

That thing was just wearing Techno’s face. 

Technoblade wouldn’t be disappointed in him. 

Phil would make Techno proud. 

(He would kill Quackity in the hope of filling that void in his chest.)

(It wouldn’t.)

Fire and brimstone rained down from the heavens as Niki danced her way through the concrete streets of Las Nevadas, the peppy neon lights of the city giving the brutal massacre strange lighting. 

It was raining, the droplets pooling into small puddles that soon ran red, their mirror-like surfaces painting anyone who walked past in a warped red tone. Niki’s hair was soon slicked against her head by both the rain and the blood, both of which she did not care about. Her steps echoed through the streets along with the screaming. Hollow clicks came from her shoes against the concrete, and sickly wet sounds came as she stepped through the puddles of blood and water. 

Phil was behind her, wearing total black, his wings spread out behind him like twin capes.  

It was a funeral for Technoblade. 

And a warning for Quackity. 

The Hound Army did most of the work and the pair simply followed in their wake. 

Fundy saw them coming and ran. 

Foolish put up a fight but fled at the insistent urging of Niki. 

Purpled fought. And Purpled died.  

Chunks of flesh from both mobs and humans littered the streets by the time the Hound Army finished, and the gutters ran red with a sea of blood. Withers and TNT did the rest, destroying the buildings and any people left within. 

Niki and Phil’s faces were impassive. 

It was hardly a battle. 

It was a bloodbath. 

At one point, Niki stopped to show Phil the casino that they had escaped from, directing him to the basement that was still specially outfitted with their cells. Niki refused to face any reminder of what had happened, so Phil went in alone as Niki continued on. 

Phil found that the raised dais had been transformed into something of a museum, and sitting in the places of honor were Techno’s cloak and crown. He angrily snatched them from the pedestal without a second thought. 

Meanwhile, Quackity was frantically gearing up in the lobby of the hotel in which he had made his home in the penthouse suite. 

Where were the rest of his companions?

He slammed the chest shut and unsheathed his sword. 

“Oh, Quackity!” Niki’s lilting voice called to him playfully, echoing against the quartz tiles down the hallway. 

It made Quackity’s blood run cold. He suddenly, for the first time in a long time, felt like prey.

He felt like he could hear Techno’s calm, quiet words from long ago in his ear: “are you feeling tired, Quackity?”

He wasn’t prey. 

He wasn’t.

Quackity grit his teeth. 

Technoblade was dead.

And the rest of his posse were weak without him. 

But these were not broken people he was about to confront. These were angry people, people driven into a corner with nothing to lose. 

Even prey will fight back with no other choice. 

And they were at their most dangerous. 

“Who do you think is most likely to stop you, Ranboo? Niki? Phil? Or me?”

Both Quackity and Technoblade had made a grave mistake underestimating the rest of the Syndicate. 

Quackity heard a long whistle and then had no time to react. 

Niki was going to kill him, she was going to-

The dogs got to him before Niki ever could.  

Ripping and tearing- Quackity screamed, dropping his sword after the first hound sunk its teeth deep into his arm. 

There was blood everywhere. 

And he screamed and screamed and screamed-

It was not a slow death. 

Niki looked away for most of it, convincing herself it was because she did not take the same sick joy in witnessing pain as Quackity did. Truly, it was because she just didn’t have the stomach for it. 

Quackity screamed, feeling every bite, every rip into his skin. Once, he even called for help. He was aware for most of it, but near the end, his cries became whimpers as all sensation faded. 

He slowly blinked at the ceiling lights with lidded eyes, not really seeing anything, and finally was unable to draw in another breath. 

Everything was red. 

Then… nothing. 

But when Quackity finally stopped screaming, Niki found herself laughing maniacally; she led the Hound Army back outside and urged them to find Quackity again. 

The man had two lives after all. 

Phil had been searching on his own and had come across Quackity’s homeroom, so he was waiting for him when he respawned, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse with crossed arms.

Quackity bolted up from the cozy, king-size bed only to be shoved to the floor in a daze. 

He looked up into the cold gaze of the Angel of Death in all his glory, damaged wings spread out behind him in an expression of dominance and warning.

A sword was at his throat in an instant, and he could read its inscription easily. 

Orphan Obliterator. 

Quackity was scared. He was scared of dying. Despite everything he did, he was scared of pain. 

He was terrified of it. 

But when he looked at Phil’s expression, twisted with unspeakable rage, he could only laugh. 

Phil’s grip tightened on the hilt of the sword. (It was shaking.) 

“What?” He hissed. 

“You enjoy this, Phil, don’t lie to yourself. You’re just like me, only you do it under the mantle of justice.” He laughed like he had just told the funniest joke in the history of mankind. “I’m just honest about it. That is the only difference between us.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is it?” Quackity grinned madly back at him. “Do it then, Phil. Kill me. Kill me. Satisfy that desire for justice.” His eyes glinted with victory even though he was helpless on the floor in a position of complete weakness. “Kill me, and tell yourself that this was justice, tell yourself that you won.”

Phil skewered him through the heart. 

Blood bubbled past Quackity’s lips and dripped down his chest as he coughed once and slumped backwards against the wall, turning a demented smile to Phil. 

Pain, but it was quick. 

Then… nothing. 

Life faded from Quackity’s eyes, but they remained open, staring into Phil’s soul with the silent weight of his judgement. 

Phil removed Techno’s sword and just let the blood drip down its blade. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Flickering lightning lit up Phil’s silhouette over the dead body, then thunder boomed, shaking the very foundations of the hotel. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Quackity’s words clung to his mind like the blood spatters from the very same man clung to his skin. 

“Kill me, and tell yourself that this was justice, tell yourself that you won.”

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Quackity had smiled. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Quackity had smiled.

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Quackity had smiled, and Quackity had died. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Phil heard the door creak open behind him, and then heard Niki’s relieved laughter as she collapsed to the carpet, finally free. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Phil looked down at the blood-covered blade. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

He raised the edge of his black haori to clean the red off of it. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

It didn’t work. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

It didn’t work because his outfit was already so bloody that it only made everything worse. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Blood dripped from the sword.

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Blood dripped from Phil’s hands. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Blood dripped from Phil’s soul. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Later, he would attempt to clean it off. 

Later, he would discover that his hands remained blood-red no matter how much he scrubbed. 

Later, he would remember that his hands had been colored since that fateful night Technoblade had died. 

And even later, Phil would realize his hands had been red for a long time. 

Blood from Wilbur, Techno, Quackity, and so many others littered his skin. 

Nothing had changed. 

His hands would always be red.