Chapter Text
After a million fucking years, Technoblade finally lets him off by himself.
Who knew a fucking week of a babysitter would be so hard? He thought Technoblade was cool.
“Do you understand the boundaries you gotta follow, Tommy?”
“Yeah, because you’ve only said it a thousand fucking times, Technoblade,” He retorts, rolling his eyes.
“So don’t make me repeat it. Just listen.”
Tommy lowers his head. “I already said I would listen.”
“And I somehow don't believe you.”
“That's not my problem.”
Technoblade sighs. “Promise me you'll listen.”
“What’re we? Five?” He sneers, “i’m not promising you shit.”
“Do you wanna go, or are you gonna get bratty with me?”
“Bratty? I am not—” Technoblade sharp looks made him pause, scowl, and close his mouth. “Fine—Jesus. I promise I will listen to you.”
“Then go ahead,” he finally says, gesturing towards the door.
“Finally,” Tommy groans out, running past him and out the door. He hears a faint ‘goodbye to you too,’ as he steps out, but he doesn't really give a fuck.
He’s more focused on seeing Ranboo and Tubbo.
It doesn’t take that long to get to his room—mostly because he's speeding down the hallway, but he eventually makes it.
He doesn't bother knocking, just barges right the fuck in. Which, in hindsight—was probably a bad idea, because Ranboo could’ve been sleeping, or changing, or—
“Tommy!” A voice yells, giving him only a second before he’s jumped on.
He yelps, going crashing into the wall behind him. “Dude, what the fuck! Tubbo, man.”
“What? I thought you were excited to see me?”
“Wha—I am! That doesn’t mean I want you to break my goddamn back.”
“Please. Your back ain’t broken.”
Honestly, it sort of feels like it is. It still aches, and has been getting worse over the past week. He can barely walk right, and him running did not help that.
“No, but yours is about to be.”
Tubbo grins, throwing an arm around him and pulling him towards the bed, where Ranboo lies.
“Hi, Tommy,” he greets, smiling tightly.
“Hey, boob boy. How’re you feeling, boss man?”
“Oh, you know—” he coughs. “Just great. How are you?”
“Uhm… i’m good.”
He nods, and Tommy feels a breeze of awkwardness flow into the room. Sure, both of them were totally lying, and both of them totally knew it.
It's silent for a few minutes—which really isn’t Tommy’s style, so he clears his throat. “So, can we like, go outside this room?”
“Oh, yeah, we just gotta wait for Ran’s doctor to get here first.”
“Who’s his doctor?”
“It’s—”
The door opening interrupts them—and fucking Ponk steps through.
“Ponk?” He questions, fully turning his body around. “Why’re you here?”
“He’s boo’s doctor.”
“Wha—” he blinks. “You’re his doctor? You didn’t tell me that!”
Ponk shrugs. “You never asked.”
“Dude, you said you were a medic!”
“Yeah. Who became a doctor.”
Tubbo raises a brow. “Wait, I’m confused, how do you know him?”
“He runs the stables now that Er—he is gone. He also played poker with me.”
“What?” Tubbo says, “he played poker with you?”
“Uh… yeah? Why’re you saying it like that, bossman?”
“Dude, he’s like—he hates that stuff.”
“I have never said that,” Ponk replies, looking equally confused as he sets his stuff down.
“Yeah, but you’re so professional!”
“Because I have a job to do. Can’t be fooling around.”
“I thought you were a nice guy.”
“Wha—I am a nice guy.”
“But you played poker.” Tubbo turns to Tommy. “With him.”
“What the hell is wrong with me?”
“No offense, man, but, you’re like—naive.”
“Excuse me? No, I’m not.”
The doctor shrugs. “He’s sort of right. You were really bad at poker.”
“Hey! You’re supposed to be fucking professional right now, so shut the hell up.”
“Can all of you shut up? My head is starting to hurt.”
Ponk clears his throat. “Of course, Ranboo.”
Tommy sighs, turning back to the bed that Ranboo is laying on. He looks sort of his uncomfortable—his face scrunched up slightly.
“Boo?” Tubbo says, “do you wanna go now?”
He shakes his head, then reels back like the action hurt him. “Uhm—no, I’m good—I’m okay. You guys go without me.”
“No, we don’t wanna go without you.”
“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, “we can just stay here and hang out with you.”
“No, it’s okay—really. I don't want you guys to be bored.”
“Bored? With Tommy being a dumbass? That could never happen.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “He’s kinda right. Except for the dumbass part—but we won’t be bored. We can play like… cards or some shit.”
“No,” he says sternly. “Just go.”
“But—”
“I said I’m fine!” Ranboo snaps, making both boys blink and give each other weird looks.
“… Okay,” Tubbo says quietly. “Only if you're sure.”
“I’m sure,” Ranboo replies with gritted teeth—body language seeming strangely angry. “Just get out, please.”
Tommy nods, lacing his fingers with Tubbo’s and pulling them both out of there. He gives Ponk one last look before stepping out of the room and shutting the door.
A beat of silence before he speaks. “That was weird, right?”
Tubbo nods, starting to walk. “Yeah. That’s not the first time he’s acted weird, either.”
Tommy follows, his back aching as he raising a brow. “Wait—he’s been acting weird for you, too?”
“Yeah—no one else sees it.”
“Seriously—fucking Technoblade thinks I’m crazy.”
“But you are.”
He shoots him a look. “You know what I mean,” he says, scratching his arm. “The other night, I was wandering the halls—”
“—Aren’t you technically not supposed to be doing that—”
“Shh,” he growls, “I was wandering the halls—which is on the fourth floor, and I saw Ranboo talking to himself.”
“Wait—fourth? Isn’t his room on the second?”
“It is.”
“Then how’d he get up there?”
“I don’t fucking know, man. But he was being creepy as shit—and then we both heard fucking violin playing.”
“Was it Technoblade?”
He cocks his head as they turn a corner. “See, I thought that too—but that motherfucker insisted it wasn’t him—and then Ranboo acted like it never happened.”
“That’s weird. Ranboo’s been doing something similar lately. Maybe it’s his memory?”
“I don’t know—maybe. It just didn’t seem like it. What’d he do for you?”
“Uhm—well, not much besides acting strange—but this dropped out of his pocket,” he answers, pulling something from his own pocket.
It looks like a piece of paper of sorts. At least one side does. The other looked like fucking satan got onto it.
“The fuck is that?”
“I dunno. Has ‘Void’ written all over it, but Ranboo can’t write—”
Tommy freezes in place, oxygen seemingly leaving his body. Void. Void. That invisible fucking guy was named Void, too.
Or at least he left something that said Void on it.
But that’s not a good sign. No, that’s fucking terrible. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is this Void dude fucking doing this to Ranboo?
“—Tommy?”
“What?” He snaps, rubbing his head.
Tubbo blinks. “Were you listening to me?”
“Listen—Tubbo, I can’t—” he lets out an exasperated sigh, lowering his voice into a hush and glancing around. “I’m going to tell you something. But you can’t tell fucking anyone.”
“Okay…?”
“I’m serious, Tubbo. No one can know shit about what i’m about to say.”
“I get it, boss man.”
Tommy pulls him into an empty corner, looking around and making sure there is no one around before exhaling.
“Okay, so—like, a week ago, I was attacked by this random dude—”
“—You were what—”
“Shhh!” He orders, clamping a hand over his mouth. “Be fucking quiet. Someone’s gonna hear you.”
He removes his hand, and Tubbo gestures for him to continue.
“As I was saying, he attacked me, and left a creepy fucking note that said Void on it.”
“Like the one in Ranboo’s pocket?” He questions, and Tommy nods.
“Yeah. Exactly like that. But—not written a thousand fucking times. Just once.”
He pauses, then sighs. “We gotta tell someone, Tommy. Maybe Techno—”
“No,” he interrupts, jaw twitching. “Technoblade didn’t believe me before—you think he’s gonna fucking change his mind?”
“If he sees these notes, maybe—”
“No, Tubbo. We don’t even know if these two are connected.”
“Wha—they both say the same fucking thing!”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“How?”
He scowls. “Just—” Tommy turns around, rubbing his head, that has started to pound. His back just aches harder. “Just please. If he doesn’t believe us, he’s gonna think i’m crazy and start fucking watch me every damn where I go.”
When he turns back to Tubbo, he looks extremely hesitant for a while, but eventually nods.
Tommy relaxes in relief. He didn’t know it would feel amazing to tell someone who’d fucking believe him about this.
“You hungry?”
He scowls. “You’re starting to sound like Techno, man.”
Tubbo grins. “Would Technoblade ask you to race?”
“Wha—” before Tommy can finish the sentence, Tubbo’s fucking gone. He's halfway down the goddamn hallway. “You fucking asshole!”
His back will be no better after this.
…
Pull an arrow, raise your bow, and release.
And release.
Technoblade has done that practice over a hundred times since he’s gotten to the shooting range after leaving Tommy.
It’s one way of releasing his anger without hurting anything.
He’s not quite sure where this anger is coming from—but he has to get rid of it.
Another arrow comes rushing past his head, barely missing his cheek. It slides smoothly onto the bottom of the target, missing entirely.
It’s clear who shot that arrow.
“Wilbur,” he huffs out in almost an annoyed tone, not bothering to turn around. He knows he’s right.
“How’d you know?” He asks, approaching Technoblade’s side with a grin.
“Nobody else misses the target that bad.”
He scoffs. “Rude. I’m an excellent shot.”
“If by excellent, you mean almost killed me, then sure.”
“Please. You’re fine,” he teases. Wilbur looks at him for a few seconds, then frowns. “Tech? What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’.”
“You don’t usually come here.”
“I’m fine.”
He gestures towards the targets. “They say something different.”
Technoblade sighs, dropping the bow to the ground. It falls with a clatter. “I should’ve known.”
“Known what?”
“That Eret wasn’t who he said he was.”
Wilbur tilts his head. “Tech—”
“No,” he interrupts, letting his head fall. “He kept askin’ about Tommy, and I never noticed. I’m supposed—I’m supposed to be better than that.”
“Technoblade,” he starts in a disappointing tone as if he were a child. “For one of the smartest people you know—”
“—I’m the only smart person you know—”
He clears his throat. “—You’re really fucking dumb sometimes.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just stiffly hums. Wilbur looks even more dissatisfied with that, letting out an frustrated huff.
“Look—”
“Don’t tell me that I couldn’t have known.”
“I wasn’t going to, but you couldn’t have.”
He twists his body around, looking straight at the targets. “It doesn’t matter, Wilbur. Care to leave me alone now?”
“I don’t think so. We’re not just gonna stop this conversation because—”
“I said it doesn’t matter.”
“Tech—”
“Just stop,” he says in a raised tone, turning around to face his brother. “That’s the problem with you. You always think you can just fix people.”
Wilbur says nothing, so he continues.
“You can’t, Wilbur. Not until you fix yourself.”
“Wha—what’s wrong with me?”
He Huffs, brushing past his brother. “That’s not for me to decide.”
“Tech—Technoblade get the fuck back here! Don't just walk away from the fucking conversation.”
“I will do what I please, thank you.”
“No—” he grabs Technoblade’s arm and pulls him forward to face each other. “No. You don’t get to do that. Start a fucking argument and walk away like it was my fault.”
“Don’t touch me,” he spits back, yanking his arm aggressively out of Wilbur’s grasp.
He falters. “What is your problem?”
A whisper courses through his ear. He shudders, ignoring it. “Nothin’. Just leave me alone.”
“Fine,” Wilbur replies, voice fragile but stern as he pushes past Technoblade. “Have it your way, Technoblade.”
Technoblade watches him go. He watches him until Wilbur dips over the hill, until he becomes nothing more than a speck in the prince’s vision.
He doesn’t stop watching there. He watches the sun set, the birds settling down, the guards swapping shifts.
The only thing he doesn’t watch, is the distant laughter in his head.
…
Quackity is marching.
To where, he has no idea.
But he knows he’s marching.
He knows from the booming boots that clash on the ground.
Dozens to hundreds of other people are marching next to him—but unlike them, he is staring dead straight with an unfazed look.
It’s not like he’d be able to change his facial expression even if he wanted to. There’s nothing he can do but sit here and watch his body be thrown around like a helpless puppet.
There’s laughter all around him. Voices that are unfamilar and screaming that sounds all the more terrifying.
He doesn’t know why, but he’s scared. He doesn’t feel scared, as every emotion in his body feels numb as he marches mindlessly, but he knows he is.
He can feel the magic coursing through his body, telling him to march, or look straight like a fucking weirdo. The magic is weird, and he hates the feeling.
Quackity suddenly stops marching. He’s still staring straight ahead, wishing that he coud move his head and see what the fuck is going on.
But he can’t.
Apparently, whatever sick-fuck is controlling him heard him, because his head snaps up. Two people stand on a podium—one of them he recognizes.
The one he recognizes is the weird-ass void guy whom he saw in his mind before, and the other is completely unrecognizable.
He doesn’t look too important, standing to the side as if he’s guarding something. If Quackity had to guess, he’d say he was guarding this Void guy.
“My people,” Fucker, as Quackity had decided to name him, starts, “Welcome.”
Yeah, Quackity feels real fucking welcomed trapped in his own goddamn body.
Cheers are heard from around him, which is strange, because he said three fucking words—but Quackity ignores it.
The beating of his heart is too loud, anyways.
Fucker puts a hand up, silencing the people in an instant. Wow, they must really be scared of this guy.
If Quackity could move, he’d guess he’d be shrivelling into himself by now from Fucker’s intense stare.
And, no, he’d never admit that.
“I know you are impatient, that you want blood,” he says, and the crowd once again mumurs noises of agreement.
Jesus, how crazy are these people?
“But do not fret. The time is upon us, and soon, very soon, we will take the Antarctic Empire.”
Quackity stills. Not anymore then he was before, but, somewhere, in a small part of his body that isn’t controlled, he fucking stills.
The Antarctic Empire. They’re going to fucking attack the empire.
More cheering. More celebration. More fucking happiness that they get to slaughter people.
Quackity has always hated throwing up.
But, right now, he has never wanted to throw up more.
…
The walk down to the dungeons is quiet.
Of course, except for Technoblade’s hard boots against the rusty metal floor.
There’s not too many guards around, but even if there were—it wouldn’t be a problem.
Technoblade’s presecence is enough to warn them not to ask questions.
He walks, and he walks, and he walks till his feet start to ache.
And, damn it, why are these stairs so goddamn long? He’s sure that any prisioner that tried to escape wouldn’t even make it up, especially since most of them can’t even outrun the guards.
Technoblade reaches the bottom. Down here, it is not so quiet. There is talking. Occasional laughter.
But, as he walks into view, it all halts to a stop. Even the oxygen hesitates to keep flowing along.
He doesn’t blame them for stopping. Doesn’t blame some of them for curling up into the corner of their cell and pretending they are one with the darkness shrivelled around them.
If he wasn’t here to see someone, he would’ve already killed one of them.
He knows this. They know this.
The only one who doesn’t seem to know this is a particular prision—a quiet hum coming from one of the cells. He walks over without a word, silently standing near the bars.
The man looks up, and suddenly Technoblade wishes he hadn’t walked around.
“Technoblade,” Dream says with a sort of twisted grin on his face. “Long time no see.”
His jaw twitches. “Wish it was longer.”
Dream draws closer, tilting his head. “That’s not very nice, y’know.”
Technoblade doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the creature crouching in front of him, the only thing saving him from being ripped apart being the metal bars.
“You enjoyin’ your stay?”
“Oh, so much.”
“Yeah, well, I’d savor it. You won’t be alive much longer.”
“Are you sure, Technoblade?”
He narrows his eyes and inches closer. “Whatever you think you’ve got planned here, I assure you, It ain’t gonna work.”
“I don’t have anything planned.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way.”
He smiles. “How’s Wilbur doing? He recovered from that stab wound alright?”
“He’s none of your concern.”
“I’d check up on him. A fight with a sibling is always hard.”
Technoblade freezes. Just slightly. Dream just had to notice—and the smug smile grew even larger. Especially since he thought Technoblade wasn’t noticing his creeping hand in the dark.
“Keep reachin’ for my key and I’ll take your other arm.”
The man blinked, than retracted it back to his side. “No need to get crazy, Technoblade.”
“Amusin’ coming from the pyschopath.”
“Psychopath?” he mimicks with a sharp laugh. “No. You’ve got me all wrong.”
“Sure.”
Just then, footsteps echoed through the hallway. They were distant, but not that far off.
Technoblade reached for his sword, making Dream chuckle and rest his arms on the bars, his fingers barely outside of his cell.
Two figures appeared from the darkness, one of them being a guard, and one of them being—
Wonderful.
“Techno—”
“Don’t talk.”
A sad smile appeared on Eret’s face. “Why—”
“The prince said don’t talk,” the guard sneered, shaking his roughly.
“I’ve got him from here,” Technoblade replied, gesturing both of them forward.
He nodded, handing off Eret carefully to the prince. “Have a goodnight, your highness.”
And with that, the guard was off. Very quickly, actually. Either he was scared of Technoblade, Eret, or Dream—or all three.
“Awh, Techno. So kind of you to personally escort me to my cell.”
“I’m pretty sure I told you not to talk.”
“Well, you know me. Just a chatterbox.”
He laughs dryly, spinning him around so he can tighten the handcuffs around his wrists.
“Eret.”
“Dream. How’s prison?”
“Pretty great. That avian over there is really damn scared of me. Really funny.”
Eret looks over, and Technoblade spares a quick glance as well. He sees a avian cowering in the corner of his cell, rainbow feathers lined up on his wings.
He doesn’t really look scared, though. Looks more angry.
“That’s funny. Don’t have any good cellmates since I’m all the way back there,” he replies, pointing with his head.
“That’s unfortunate. Maybe our good friend Technoblade could move you somewhere more intresting.”
Technoblade tightens the handcuffs fully, making Eret wince. “Ow. That’s pretty harsh, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t.”
Dream pipes in, “Well, I do—”
“Playdates over,” he interrupts, shoving Eret forward. He hesitates, looking back. “Keep movin’.”
“I can’t say bye to Dream?”
Technoblade pushes him slightly. “I said keep movin’.”
He blinks, smiling as he turns around and keeps moving. Technoblade watches the cells around him, watching as the prisoners shake as they see him.
He watches himself drag Eret to his cell, throw him in like the animal he is. He watches as Eret wittly talks to him.
What he doesn’t watch, is the missing key from his belt.
…
Tommy awakes with pain.
He awakes with pain flushing through him, the migraine he had before falling asleep ten times more intensified.
His back feels like it’s being fucking stabbed with a million knives. Tommy groans, sitting up immediatetly.
That doesn’t help, as a wave of nausea overcomes him and he lurches over the bed and throws up the remenants of his dinner.
His breathing is so damn heavy he feels like he’s going to have a heart attack. Tommy, with all his might, slides off the bed and slams into the wall.
He can barely keep himself afloat, holding onto the door handle with every single muscle in his body.
His eye buldges, so exhausted it can barely blink without taking up half his energy. So he resorts to shutting his eyes, and fucking pulling till he manages to open the door.
It catapults him back, but he stays steady for a second before slumping back against the door handle.
His eyes open, burning with some kind of warmth. At least the door is open. Well, sort of. His vision is blurry, and he can’t tell where he is anymore.
Tommy thinks he’s moving, but he can’t fucking tell. All he can feel is the pain in his back, the burning of tears down his face.
Why do his tears burn? And why is he crying?
“—Tommy!”
A voice. Whose is it?
“Hey. Tommy. It’s me.”
Not very helpful. He doesn’t know anyone named me.
A laugh. Maybe? “It’s Technoblade.”
Technoblade. Why is Technoblade here? Where is he?
“Tommy, how about you breathe for me, yeah?”
He is breathing, dickhead. Or else he wouldn’t be alive. Wait, is he dead? Is this heaven?
“You’re not dead, Tommy. Just breathe.”
Why can Technoblade hear him?
“I’m going to turn you over, is that okay.”
He doesn’t know. Doesn’t his back hurt?
Silence. For a second.
“Holy shit.”
Did Technoblade just curse? He’s never heard Technoblade curse before. Is that even Technoblade?
“Prince Technoblade? Is everything okay?!”
“Go get my father and Wilbur. Tell him to get potions. And grab Ponk too.”
“Right now?”
“Now!”
Why? What’s going on? What’s happening to him?
“Tommy, hey. You’re gonna be alright.”
He’s gonna be alright. Technoblade doesn’t lie.
“Techno? What’s—oh my god, Tommy—”
“Wilbur, do you have the potions?”
“Yeah, uhm, yeah—what’s happening?”
Wilbur? Is that him?
“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Wilbur.”
Something touches his back. It’s warm.
“Boys? What’s—”
“Dad, no time. Come here.”
Dad?
“He’s growing wings?”
Wings?
“Seems so.”
“How?”
“Does it matter?”
“Guess not. Hand me the potions.”
Clink.
“Tommy, hey. This is going to hurt, but you’re okay.”
He doesn’t really enjoy pain.
Alas, the last thing he feels is pain, before blackness overcomes him.