Chapter Text
Nope , Technoblade thought to himself as he shut the door in yet another person’s face. Why couldn’t people just leave him alone? He was retired, for god's sake. But still they came, each one with some money and the same request: kill someone for me. My father, my enemy, my lover— who exactly they wanted dead varied. He supposed he shouldn’t blame them; he had been a mercenary once, a sword-for-hire. The Blade , they had called him. He had measured time with his scars and killed without mercy. For a while, that was fine. And yet.
The voices in his head demanded blood, and he obliged. But the voices were never satiated. With every drop of blood he spilled, they demanded more. Every time his blade pierced through someone's heart they would cheer. Mor̶̗̲͇̒̌e̷̲͂̐̈́, they would say, G̷̞̪̏̍i̶̩͚̐v̵̛̙̻̕ë̷͓̲̈́ us m̷̯̱̂ǒ̴͕̈re . So he did. It wasn’t enough.
(It was never enough.)
They were loud, so very loud. They didn’t let him think. They wanted blood — there was no room for thoughts. He kept going, one person after another falling victim to his blade. Somewhere along the road he lost himself, drowned in a sea of voices screaming at him to kill, kiLL KILL, GIVE US B̴͉̀̚L̸̺̙̣̉̎O̴͍͈̚O̵͔̪̮͋̿D̷̺͙̯͐ .
It had taken years for him to want to stop, and years for them to let him. They were quieter now. Softer, easier to ignore. But every time there was a knock on his door, they would get louder, asking for blood as the person on the other side would open their mouth to make a request. He always shut the door before they could finish their sentence.
(The voices screamed in protest.)
Sometimes Techno wondered where all these people came from. He had made it a point to build his cottage somewhere far away, deep in a forest that no one traveled. And yet. If these people want someone dead so badly that they come all the way out here , part of him said, perhaps you should grant their request . He pushed that part down. He was retired, for god’s sake.
There was a village nearby that he visited every so often, wares in his hands and a hood pulled over his face. He had liked being recognized, once. He had reveled in the fear that flashed across people's faces when they saw who he was. Not anymore.
He just wanted to be left alone.
(He wished he could be forgotten.)
The people of the village never asked for a name— they simply nodded at him as they bought the little trinkets he crafted. They never pried, and he was never recognized. It was nice. There was a kid that visited him often, always looking at the intricate metal of his wares carefully, but never buying anything. He can’t have been more than 10. Sometimes he would reach a gloved hand out hesitantly before pulling it away all too quickly. He never said anything.
He was an odd kid— one eye red and the other green, his skin evenly split between black and white. Techno figured he must be a hybrid of some sort. The townsfolk pointedly ignored him, never making eye contact or doing anything to suggest they knew he was there. Techno could tell that he tried very hard to look unfazed. Every time Techno was in town, the kid would be there. He kept his face blank, but Techno could see he was lonely. He could see it in the way his ears perked up when Techno would grunt a greeting to him, in the way his shoulders would drop at every person who skirted around him, avoiding his touch.
(Techno told himself he didn’t care.)
The first time the kid showed up with blood on his face, Techno brushed it off. He told himself he didn’t care. He had never even spoken to the kid, so why should he care about that? The next time he showed up with blood on his face, he was also sporting a black eye. Techno’s eyebrows tugged down in a slight frown. It was bright outside, that’s why. He didn’t care. By the third time, the voices demanded blood, but not the kid’s. There was something at the pit of his stomach, fiery and sharp. It took him a moment to recognize it as anger, not at the kid but at whoever was responsible for his injuries. It was irrational. He didn’t know why he felt that way— he didn’t know the kid.
(Techno told himself he didn’t care.)
And if he “accidentally” left behind some bandages and a small, handcrafted ring that day, that was no one’s business but his own.
Then one day, the kid didn’t show up at all.
Techno told himself that he was probably fine— that he probably had better things to do than hang out with some strange man and just stare at pieces of metal all day.
(Techno told himself he didn’t care.)
But as the sun crept its way across the sky and there was still no sign of the kid, Techno began to worry.
Techno never worried.
He didn’t have time for it; it muddled his thoughts, it made the voices louder. But the sun continued its slow descent and he hadn’t even seen a strand of the kid’s hair and he had been hurt before and for once the voices screamed at him to pr otect, protECT, PROTECT . So Techno put his things away earlier than usual, a hand gripping the dagger tucked into his belt and a frown settling on his face as he stood up. And he searched. For the rest of the day, he scoured the village, ears twitching at every sound. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, he began to give up.
Then he heard whispers of an underground fighting ring. He paid them no mind at first— why would someone so young have anything to do with that? But then he heard talk of a newer fighter: someone with strange eyes and stranger skin, black and white and red and green and not human, not normal .
And Techno saw red.
He didn’t really remember what happened next. He knew he had approached those people, demanded to know the location of this ring because that was a child . He remembered going to that place, putting on a calm exterior while his rage simmered just beneath the surface like a volcano threatening to erupt. He remembered seeing the kid being dragged out in a cage, like some sort of spectacle, like some sort of monster . He remembered leaping into the ring. He remembered the voices screaming for blood, begging him to kill. He remembered something red on his hands, hot and sticky.
He remembered the terrified look on the kid’s face as he slammed one of the people who pulled his cage into the ground. He remembered picking the kid up, his hood falling to his shoulders as he attempted to soothe the kid’s trembling. He remembered the recognition that lit in the kid’s eyes. He remembered running back out the way he came, the kid in his arms and the crowd parting in front of him, half in fear and half in shock. He remembered whispering soft reassurances to the kid as they made their way through the forest, making sure he knew that he was safe now, he didn’t have to fight anymore . He remembered the kid gripping onto him like he thought that if he let go, he would die.
(And maybe he did think that.)
The kid buried his face into Techno’s neck, his soft whimpers snapping the man out of whatever trance he had been in.
It was the first time Techno ever heard him make a sound.
When they reached Techno’s cottage he tried to set the kid down. The kid only whined, curling further into Techno’s side, his grip becoming impossibly tighter. Techno sighed, though he found that there was no real annoyance behind it. He made his way upstairs, turning into his room, the kid still in his arms. Ever so gently, he sat down on the bed and let go of the kid. The kid did not do the same, opting to stay where he was, firmly glued to Techno’s side.
They sat there for a few minutes, Techno simply waiting as the kid’s breathing slowed to a gentle rhythm and his grip finally loosened. He looked almost peaceful like that, curled into the blankets resting on Techno’s bed. Techno let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Slowly, he made his way over to the desk nestled in the corner of the room, pulling the chair so he could sit next to the bed. The kid curled in on himself. Techno draped a blanket over him, careful not to wake him. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair, allowing his eyes to drift shut.
~~~
(TW// Violence!)
The mid-afternoon sun beats down relentlessly on the open field, stands raised out of the ground on every side of him. Techno grips his axe tighter, trying to ignore the din of the crowd. Dust rises from the dry, cracked earth as he shifts his stance. He grits his teeth, preparing for the fight. His opponent comes into view and he pounces, the voices in his head screaming for blood. The man raises his shield just as Techno swings his axe down, the blade embedding into it. The wood splinters and cracks, buckling under the force of his attack.
He basks in the look of fear in his opponent’s face as the shield is cleaved in two.
The man swings his own axe at Techno, movements erratic and panicked. Techno easily dodges every strike, slowly drawing closer. He swings his own axe, grinning as he feels the blade meet flesh, the prisoner screaming out in pain. He smells blood, metallic and sweet. The crowd cheers and the voices beg for more. The man stumbles back, clutching his arm in a futile attempt to stop the blood. The only thing it does is make his hands slippery and his grip on his axe weaker. Techno grins, tusks glinting in the sunlight, and swings again. Another scream pierces the air, followed by warm blood splattering up onto his face.
Another swing. A scream, cut short by a wet gurgle and the sound of something hitting the ground. Techno looks down on his opponent. The man has a gash in his neck— almost deep enough to sever it completely. Blood pools around his body and his lifeless eyes stare up at the sky. Techno kneels beside him, murmuring a quiet apology before sliding the man’s eyes shut and standing up again. Blood stains his hands and clothes, the sticky substance searing into his skin.
(The voices are happy for now.)
The prisoner looks peaceful in death, no longer held down by the weight he carried with him in life. Techno wonders who this is more of a punishment for. He isn’t allowed that kind of peace; he has prisoners to execute, people to entertain, voices to appease.
He remains quiet as the guards walk into the arena and take the body away. He continues to stare straight ahead as the axe is pried from his hands, as his handlers guide him away, back into the cage he calls home. Silently, he wishes for peace.
(He knows it will never come.)
Techno reaches under his pallet, pulling an old sword out and running his tired fingers over the blade. He has always preferred swords to axes; he likes the way a swordfight feels more like a dance, elegant and powerful. Where an axe depends on how hard you swing, a sword depends on how well you know your blade, how precise each movement is. He was rarely allowed to use a sword in his executions— they told him an axe was more efficient.
But they allowed him to keep a sword in his cage— perhaps to appease him, as insurance so he wouldn’t lash out. He doesn’t really care about the reason why— he just allows himself to enjoy it, practicing as often as he can. His sword is an extension of himself. He feels so in tune with it, as though he was meant to hold it.
(He thinks this is the closest thing to freedom he will ever have.)
He doesn’t remember much of his life before the Arena. He remembers the feeling of grass beneath his feet, the scent of the flowers his mother tucked into his hair, the warmth of having a home. He doesn’t remember how he arrived at the Arena. He remembers the first time he was shoved out in front of the crowd, told to kill a man whose crimes he didn’t know. He doesn’t remember the first time he heard the voices, but he remembers their pleasure the first time he spilled someone else’s blood. He remembers how they congratulated him, told him he did well. He remembers breaking down that night, the voices whispering soft reassurances to him.
(They’re the only ones that ever comfort him.)
~~~
(TW over)
A scream jolted Techno out of his sleep. He reached for his sword, ready to ward off any intruders, but his eyes landed on the kid. He was shaking in his sleep, mumbling in a language Techno couldn’t understand, and Techno was struck by just how small the kid looked. He was dwarfed by the bed, curled into a ball at its center. He seemed to be having a nightmare, if his soft pleading was anything to go by. Techno knew better than to approach him.
(He remembered blood spilling from his protector's face, a gash from Techno’s own dagger.)
So he simply watched over the kid, waiting for him to wake on his own accord. After a few minutes the kid shot up, eyes wide as he gasped for breath. He frantically searched the room, and he scrambled back when they landed on Techno.
“Where am I? What happened?” And Techno could hear the distress in his voice, so thick it was almost tangible.
“You’re at my house. I… found you in that fighting ring. Got you out of there,”
“Oh,” The kid pulled his knees to his chest, fidgeting with his hands. “Who are you?”
“My name is Technoblade. Feel free to call me Techno, though. I sell little trinkets in town,”
“I’ve never seen you without your hood…” The kid trailed off, his eyes flicking from Techno’s ears to his tusks. “…You’re like me,” He murmured, almost too quiet for Techno to hear.
“How do you mean?” Techno asked, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible. Trying to make the kid feel safe.
“You’re not human. You’re a h-” the kid made a face, as if it hurt him to say it.
(It probably did.)
“A hybrid. Like me,”
“I am,”
“Is that why you hide your face?” The kid looked up at him, eyes full of silent resignation. Like he already knew what Techno was going to say.
“No,” Techno replied, and the kid’s eyes widened.
“But isn’t being a hybrid a bad thing? Won’t you get punished for it?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Won’t they hurt you?” The kid asked, his voice trembling ever so slightly.
Oh .
Techno’s heart clenched painfully and maybe, just maybe, he found that he cared.
(And maybe he had for longer than he’d like to admit.)
“No, they won’t. And they won’t hurt you anymore either,”
“Really?” The kid sounded so broken and so disbelieving, and yet so hopeful at the same time. Techno nodded, firm and reassuring.
“What’s your name, kid?” The kid hesitated a moment, seeming to weigh his options.
“Ranboo,” He murmured.
~~~
“Do you need a place to stay?” A man asks, holding a hand out towards Techno. Techno glances down at his hands. They’re covered in blood and scars and calluses, rough and violent. He looks back up at the man. His golden hair frames his face and he grins at Techno as though it’s the easiest thing in the world. His wings shift ever so slightly from behind him, shiny and clean and so, so beautiful. The sun surrounds him in a soft halo of light.
(Techno thinks he looks like an angel.)
Techno hesitates for a moment, staring at the open hand in front of him. He blinks once, twice, three times, waiting for it to disappear, waiting to open his eyes and be back inside that small cage underneath the Arena. It doesn’t disappear. So he takes it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.
(He wonders how anyone can feel this warm.)
“I’m Phil,” The man says as he guides Techno through the streets. Techno simply nods— he can’t bring himself to speak. Phil’s home is different from the Arena in every way. It’s warm and welcoming and for once in his life Techno feels like he can relax, like he’s safe . Phil smiles at him and it feels so genuine and comforting. Techno feels tears prick at his eyes and he fights to hold them back. Techno doesn’t want to cry— crying is dangerous. Crying is a form of weakness, and he isn’t allowed to be weak.
(Crying gets him cuts and bruises and sharp, searing pain.)
But Phil pats him on the shoulder and leads him to a room with a bed and books and no chains or bars, and Techno feels himself crumble. A sob tears its way out of his throat and Phil is there, whispering reassurances but not touching him. There’s no pain, no punishment, just warmth and safety.
He settles in after a while, falling into a routine with Phil. It’s peaceful, so unlike what he had known before, and Techno finds that he likes it. He reads through every book in his room and Phil grins at him when he asks for more. He learns how to cook, how to braid his hair, how to garden.
(He wonders if this is what happiness is.)
~~~
Techno took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure if he could take care of someone else, but Ranboo looked frightened and lonely and something inside of him screamed at him to help, to protect, to care . So he set his shoulders and put on a small smile, extending a hand towards the kid.
“Do you need a place to stay?”