Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“The government is merely conducting community renewal and beautification, while dispersing irrelevant social idlers, Mr. Blade. Refrain from reckless speculation. ”

His superior cast him a stern, detached glance, laced with disapproval, making his already pinched features seem all the more austere.

He averted his gaze and nodded slightly.

“Yes, boss,” he replied briskly, “the facts speak for themselves.”

Then, fingers flying across the keyboard, he typed:

"Local residents were forcibly removed by unidentified personnel after opposing demolition. This action raises pressing questions: Is San Francisco’s democratic government truly upholding the 'American spirit'? Does it genuinely care about the core issues of class division and economic inequality—or is it simply bulldozing the slums with brutal efficiency?"

Finished, he glanced up and offered an obliging smile.

The man stared at him, as though searching for something—but behind the lenses of his black-rimmed glasses, his blue eyes betrayed nothing. After a grunt and a brief nod, the superior’s gaze drifted toward a female colleague’s posterior at the other end of the office.

He sat silently in front of his screen for a moment, then hit Ctrl+S to save the document and stood up to head to the break room.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. “Fucking hell.”

He cupped the mug in his hands, watching the coffee grounds dissolve into the boiling water. Steam rose to shroud his sharp face in a soft fog; his lenses clouded over.

Returning to his desk, he set the mug down with a sharp clatter. A swirl of steam rose again before him.

[Day 1: Monday]

Half-asleep, the first thing Techno registered was a biting chill. The cold pierced through the air, seeped into his skin, and soaked inch by inch into the bone. Had he forgotten to turn on the heater last night?

He shivered, curling deeper into the blankets in a futile attempt to hold on to some scrap of warmth. Must’ve forgotten. Now his whole body was stiff. Suppressing a low groan, he finally decided the cold was too much—he had to get up. Maybe this time he’d actually turn on the heat.

Damn it, it hadn’t been this cold when he went to bed…

Eyes still shut, he reached across the bed in search of soft cotton, trying to wrap himself back into some cozy corner. His fingers brushed against the comforter, and in that half-conscious moment, he drifted back to sleep.

In his dream, he stood at San Francisco’s harbor. He gazed as the cargo ship slowly pulled away from the docks, dragging its lumbering bulk across the water, leaving behind a white wake that faded into the horizon.

Far off, a white bird cut across the blue expanse, skimming over the hazy sea toward him, until its sharp eyes locked with his, watching him.

The bird opened its beak and said: “BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!”

He jolted awake. The shrill radar alarm blared through the room.

Techno groped under his pillow and jabbed at the volume keys until the sound finally cut out. The world was still a blur. Bringing the phone closer, he squinted at the screen, barely making out the time: 7:00 AM.

“So early?” he thought groggily.

Why had he set such an early alarm?

His head was still floating somewhere in last night’s dream, his thoughts dragging like sludge. He rolled over, trying to sink back into sleep—then promptly lost his balance and slammed onto the floor.

A sharp pain shot up his spine to his brain, fully waking him. Rubbing his right arm, he scrambled to gather his still-drowsy limbs and staggered back onto the bed.

He reached for the nightstand, found his glasses by muscle memory, and slid the cold frames behind his ears. The hazy world snapped into focus.

That’s when he noticed it.

The calendar on the wall—he had never seen that picture before. It was a page he had no memory of, printed with a scenic view of San Francisco’s harbor.

He stared at the calendar, a chill crawling up his spine. The water in the image looked gloomy and still, its gray-blue surface occasionally flecked with light. The faint outlines of cargo ships in the distance appeared both unfamiliar and eerily familiar, as though he had seen this scene in a past life.

“What the hell...” he muttered, rubbing his forehead, trying to dispel the haze. He was sure that image didn’t belong here. He didn’t even remember owning a calendar like that, let alone one showing a bleak, coastal San Francisco.

He reached out and touched the edge of the calendar. The texture was rough against his fingertips, cold and real.

It had been a long time since he last visited the San Francisco harbor, probably not since the pandemic. Images of the place floated vaguely in his mind, stirring a faint, unplaceable sense of disconnection. Suddenly, he couldn’t shake the memory of sharp, birdlike eyes surrounded by white feathers.

Techno blinked and rubbed his arms against the chill. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtains.

Outside, the sky was still dim, bathed in the muted tones of dawn. Shadows draped over the streets, where only a few figures wandered. The cold wind swirled dried leaves across the empty sidewalks, carrying that unique winter morning dampness.

Where the hell am I? Is this still California?

Techno let out a long sigh, gripping the window frame. The cold metal bit into his palm.

Returning to his bedside, he spotted a small slip of paper on the desk.

On the paper, in messy handwriting, was a single sentence:

“Wake up. You’re already on your way home.”

His heart lurched.

He snapped awake in a warm bed.

Birdsong, city noise, sunlight filtering through the curtains, the world bathed in dapple shade and gold.

Techno blinked, grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, and sprang to his feet.

Something was off.

He staggered toward the unfamiliar calendar on the wall.

July 1st, 2021. A red circle around the date, labeled: “First day of internship!”

It felt like waking up from a long dream. H e turned and looked around.

This wasn’t his room. Suddenly, he realized.

His dark wooden desk had been replaced by a cheap plastic folding table. His gaming chair was gone, swapped out for a light-colored wooden chair. His PC, monitor, and keyboard—gone without a trace.

His heart raced, fingers trembling slightly as he flipped through the calendar. The June page came into view, with a photo stuck on it—his graduation photo.

No. Impossible.

In the photo, he stood in a graduation gown against the red brick walls of a university, gaze clear and confident, a faint smile on his lips. Sunlight filtered through tall oak trees, casting mottled shadows behind him.

This photo doesn’t exist.

He never graduated from college.

He had gone to bed worrying about the next day’s DSMP storyline. Stayed up until two, finally closing his notes and dropping off a Discord call with Wilbur whilst complaining about a dull ache in his shoulder. His shoulder had still been aching faintly as he lay down, exhausted, and fell asleep against the wall.

He raced to the desk and spotted a familiar Lenovo laptop. Beneath it, a diploma with ornate cursive lettering peeked out. There was no time to examine it closely. The sluggish startup of the computer gnawed at his nerves. He couldn’t wait. Time was slipping away —

He clenched his fists and, still unsteady, pulled open the door.

Beyond lay a dimly lit apartment hallway.

This wasn’t his home.

This wasn’t his life.

This was not him...

Techno stood at the threshold, palms sweating. His mind scrambled for logic, for clarity, but thoughts blurred like TV static. Even focusing was painful.

His room. The calendar. The graduation photo—everything was misaligned, distorted, as if time and space had been twisted into some grotesque parody of reality.

He stared down at his hands, his pulse thundering to the point of suffocation.

The chill on his fingertips and the faint mildew in the air were too real, stabbing into his senses.

Techno inhaled deeply and finally forced himself to step forward, moving slowly down the hallway. The walls were peeling; flakes of old paint clung to the corners.

From the end of the corridor came a low murmur.

He approached a slightly ajar door, the source of the whispers. Hesitating for a moment, he reached out and pushed the door open.

The murmurs stopped.

The room beyond was dark, save for a single amber desk lamp casting its dim circle of light. On the desk, a scattered stack of letters.

Techno hesitated, then stepped forward and picked up the top envelope.

His name was written on it: Alex.

(The wild thought of being doxxed and kidnapped by some crazy stan flashed through his mind. He clenched his teeth and shook the paranoia away.)

“Wake up, you are already on your way home.”

The letter repeated the same phrase, the handwriting as sloppy and blurred as the previous note, echoing an inescapable fate.

He gripped the page. His throat tightened.

Home?

Home to where?

Forcing back the rising unease, he set the letter down and rummaged through the rest of the stack. As he moved one aside, a small photograph slipped out from the stack.

It was a blurry image of a figure standing at the edge of a blue, endless sea, gazing out toward the horizon.

He stared at the image, overcome with a strange sense of recognition he couldn’t explain.

Who was he?

Where was he?

Where was he supposed to be going?

Techno closed his eyes and took a long breath. He clutched the photo like a compass, hoping it might somehow point him home.

When he opened his eyes again, he woke on a cold bed.

The radar alarm tore through his ears.

He reached for his phone, nearly poking himself in the eye with his glasses as he hurried to sit up.

July 1st, 2021. 7:00 AM.

First day of his internship.

He could not be late.

“If I’m late, I’ll just quit,” he thought dryly.

Dragging himself out of bed, he slipped on his slippers and stumbled into the bathroom. Cold water splashed onto his face, jolting him awake. When he looked up, water dripping from his chin, he caught his reflection in the mirror.

Short, slightly curled brown hair fell across his forehead. His blue eyes, partially obscured by thick glasses, stared back at him. His clean-shaven face looked younger than he felt.

“Yup, same face, same BS,” he muttered to himself.

Indifferently, he turned away.

Breakfast had no appeal. His stomach wasn’t interested, and his habits from college had long since dulled his morning appetite. He threw on a shirt, adjusted his tie in front of the mirror, and gave himself a quick once-over.

The tie was straight. The shirt wasn’t wrinkled. At the very least, he looked like someone who would show up to work on time.

“Well, today’s the day I officially become a corporate drone,” he mumbled, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

he grabbed the ever-disappointing cup of instant coffee and knocked it back in one go. The bitter heat hit his stomach like a punch. In the kitchen, he idly scrolled through the spam in his inbox: banks, gyms, and online retailers that still couldn’t spell his name right.

The clock ticked closer to his deadline. He shoved his phone into his pocket, grabbed his bag, checked his keys, and bolted out the door.

The air outside hit him like a wet slap. Skin crawling as he made his way to the subway station. The bustle of commuters, the metallic screech of trains, and the distant honking of horns all blended into a familiar cacophony.

Techno’s feet carried him through the throng of people, his face expressionless.

“You can be an uncompromising idealist, or you can be a groveling corporate sellout,” he thought bitterly. “ But hey, what’s an idealist without a paycheck? A joke. ”

His pace quickened. He scanned the faces of passersby without truly seeing them. On this street, he was just another person late to work, caught in the same endless routine.

The subway doors slid shut behind him with a hiss. He leaned against the handrail, scanning the crowded car. Most passengers were glued to their phones. Occasionally, someone would glance up, their eyes briefly meeting his before darting away.

“If I were an automatic coffee machine,” he mused, “no one would notice the difference.”

His stop came. Like a sardine spat out of a can, he was shoved out with the others, blank-faced professionals and bleary-eyed workers, all marching in unison with eyes to the ground.

He didn’t try to resist the current. The faintest smile had already slipped from his face. Hands in his pockets, gaze on the floor, he walked quickly.

Through the lobby. Up to the elevator. He waited.

The elevator dinged. Doors opened. He stepped into the corner and watched the floor numbers climb, catching a glimpse of his tired reflection in the mirrored panel.

The elevator stopped. He stepped out.

The moment he walked into the office, someone shouted:

“Hey, new guy!” someone called out almost immediately. “Intern, right? Could you grab me a coffee?”

He pretended not to hear, eyes fixed on the ground, and made a beeline for a desk in the corner. He draped his lanyard around his neck, the bright green tag that read “Intern” glaring back at him.

Ten minutes of pretending to be deaf later, a stack of heavy folders landed on his desk with a thud.

“Hey, you’re the new grad, right?” a voice said beside him.

He looked up in quiet despair, praying the person wasn’t talking to him.

“Alexander Blade?” The man squinted at his name tag. “Mind if I call you Alexander? I’m from editorial. These are today’s drafts and reference sheets—just gonna leave these here for now.”

“Actually, I go by Alex—”

“Perfect, I’ll take that as a yes. Have a nice day! Oh, and grab me a coffee too, would ya?”

The man was gone before Alex could even open his mouth.

He watched him go, speechless.

“...I’m a reporting intern, not editorial,” he muttered.

The day passed in a blur.

Meaningless work. A constant churn of tasks. By the time it hit six, he realized he hadn’t retained a single thing. Faces, files, voices—they all bled into one.

The office clock pointed to six sharp. A few coworkers rushed to pack up and leave. He stood, gathered his things, and pulled on his coat.

As he stepped out of the building, a crushing weight settled on his shoulders—as if a giant hand had closed around his chest, squeezing.

Outside, the city was still in motion. Neon lights flickered. People bustled down the streets. He made his way toward the subway, muscles sore like he’d aged ten years in one shift. There was a faint, gnawing emptiness under his ribs.

He looked down at his phone. One unread message.

Mom:

Remember to take care of yourself. Don’t work too hard. You can always talk to me.

He stared at the screen. Some feeling, sharp and unfamiliar, crawled up his throat.

After a pause, he replied: I know.

Then he pocketed the phone and walked on, letting the flow of strangers push him toward another grey, exhausted evening.

He lay on the bed, staring at the calendar on the wall. The photo on the cover—San Francisco’s harbor—looked especially dim in the lamplight.

He turned over, and just before switching off the light, his eyes flicked to the photo on his nightstand: a blurry silhouette standing alone at the edge of a blue sea.

Who was that?

That question lingered, heavy and shapeless, as he sank into sleep.

Chapter Text

[Day 2: Tuesday]

Half-asleep, the first thing Techno registered was a biting chill. The cold pierced through the air, seeped into his skin, and soaked inch by inch into the bone. Had he forgotten to turn on the heater last night?

He shivered, curling deeper into the blankets in a futile attempt to hold on to some scrap of warmth. Must’ve forgotten. Now his whole body was stiff. Suppressing a low groan, he finally decided the cold was too much—he had to get up. Maybe this time he’d actually turn on the heat.

Damn it, it hadn’t been this cold when he went to bed…

Eyes still shut, he reached across the bed in search of soft cotton, trying to wrap himself back into some cozy corner. His fingers brushed against the comforter, and in that half-conscious moment, he drifted back to sleep.

In his dream, he stood at San Francisco’s harbor. He gazed as the cargo ship slowly pulled away from the docks, dragging its lumbering bulk across the water, leaving behind a white wake that faded into the horizon.

Far off, a white bird cut across the blue expanse, skimming over the hazy sea toward him, until its sharp eyes locked with his, watching him.

“Why does a bird have blue eyes?” Techno asked aloud.

The bird gave no answer.

Instead, it held a slip of paper in its beak and lifted it for him to see.

“Wake up. You are already on your way home,” he read.

Techno frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Even a bird’s bullying my ugly handwriting now?”

The bird shook its head solemnly.

The familiar radar alarm screeched into his ears. He woke with a start on a cold bed.

“Shit, it’s only Tuesday,” he groaned, rolling over and fumbling for his phone.

Then, he suddenly noticed something.

His right hand hurt.

More precisely—his right shoulder.

He didn’t remember exactly how he managed to stumble into the bathroom, try to wash his face, brush his teeth, change clothes one-handed, skip breakfast, nearly pass out by the door, or shakily type out a sick-day request to his supervisor.

The good news: He didn’t have to go to work today.

The bad news: He probably wouldn’t have a job much longer.

At 9 a.m., he found himself in line at the hospital, using the last few hundred dollars in his account to pay for the visit, all while thinking — somewhat bitterly —well, at least it’s not cancer .

“The results are in,” the nurse said flatly after the tests dragged on for hours. “Other than mild malnutrition, sleep deprivation, and a calcium deficiency, you’re fine. I’ll prescribe you some Vitamin C.”

He hesitated, then stopped the nurse just as she was about to leave. “But what about the pain in my arm?” he asked. “Did the doctor say anything about that?”

The nurse looked at him, face unreadable. “Doctor says it’s likely phantom pain. Psychological. He recommends you visit neurology next door.”

And just like that, he walked out of the hospital, clutching his right arm—still aching—and a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers.

Back home, he collapsed into bed, swallowed a few pills, and shut his eyes, praying the pain would go away.

He fell into a heavy sleep.

“Why does a bird have blue eyes?” he asked again.

The white bird tilted its head.

He stared hard at it.

“Those are my eyes!” he cried. “Give me back my eyes!”

The bird flapped its wings and flew away.

When he woke, dusk had already settled outside the window. The sky was cloaked in a muted gray, the day quietly slipping away.

He checked his phone. There was a message from his boss, expressing "understanding" and gently implying that he'd still be expected at work tomorrow.

Tuesdays always felt like this—slippery, unreal, like trying to walk on water in a dream.

That night, he ate whatever he could scrounge together, climbed back into bed, and, thinking of tomorrow’s workload, drifted into sleep with a quiet, sinking sense of dread.

Chapter Text

[Day 3: Wednesday]

He was jolted awake by the shrieking radar alarm.

Fumbling for his phone, the screen lit up: 7:40 AM.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, dragging himself out of bed. A frantic blur of washing up, finger-combing his hair, grabbing a slice of bread—and then sprinting straight to the subway.

At exactly eight o’clock, he stumbled into the office, breathless. He hadn’t even sat down before his supervisor’s voice rang out:

“You—intern, Blade, right? There’s a report today, and you’re on it. Write exactly what I tell you.”

He nodded, sliding into his chair. His computer was still booting up, fingers trembling slightly, brain already racing ahead to consider content and deadline.

His supervisor paced across from him, a sharp voice clashing with the glare of his polished bald head. The stern look on his face was so exaggerated it was almost comical. Techno couldn’t help picturing a compilation of shrieking monkey memes in his mind. He pinched himself hard to chase away the image and forced his attention back to the files in front of him.

“You listening?” the man snapped, eyebrows raised.

Techno kept his head down, pretending to study the documents intently, his eyes drifting between the lines.

So-called “community renewal” meant nothing more than slapping a coat of paint on a crumbling wall, and shoving the “undesirable” residents out of sight. A beautification project in name, an erasure in practice. He kept reading—page after page of florid rhetoric, all about “improving public safety” and “enhancing quality of life,” as if the government were bestowing divine blessings from on high.

He rolled his eyes, hiding a bitter smirk. Every so often, he nodded along, feigning interest.

“What’s so funny, Mr. Blade?” his boss asked.

Shit. Had he smiled?

He quickly wiped the expression off his face, returning to blank professionalism.

“Just remembered something funny, sir,” he said pleasantly.

“Then I trust you can complete the article on your own?”

“Of course, sir. The facts speak for themselves .”

His supervisor cast him a cold, cutting glance. “The government is merely conducting community renewal and beautification, while dispersing irrelevant social idlers, Mr. Blade. Refrain from reckless speculation, ” he said with the same disapproval, his pinched features all the more severe.

He averted his gaze and nodded slightly.

“Yes, boss,” he replied briskly, “the facts speak for themselves.”

Then, fingers flying across the keyboard, he typed:

"Local residents were forcibly removed by unidentified personnel after opposing demolition. This action raises pressing questions: Is San Francisco’s democratic government truly upholding the 'American spirit'? Does it genuinely care about the core issues of class division and economic inequality—or is it simply bulldozing the slums with brutal efficiency?"

Finished, he glanced up and offered an obliging smile.

The man stared at him, as though searching for something—but behind the lenses of his black-rimmed glasses, his blue eyes betrayed nothing. After a grunt and a brief nod, the superior’s gaze drifted toward a female colleague’s posterior at the other end of the office.

Techno kept smiling politely, but something in his eyes flickered out of focus.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that everything happening today had happened before. As if he’d already lived this exact sequence. In another world.

It was like a weight had dropped from above, slicing him cleanly from reality. The keyboard clacking, the printer’s hum—familiar sounds all dulled, like muffled echoes through layers of water. In their place, a louder rhythm began rising in his mind:

His heartbeat.

Thump.

Thump.

His fingers froze. A chill crept slowly up his spine, wrapping around him like a cold, invisible tether. The sensation was suffocating, like his consciousness had been separated from his body.

He felt his limbs go numb, hands damp with sweat. The world around him distorted, collapsing in on itself. Somewhere deep in his mind, a thought emerged, vague and wordless.

I’ve lived this before.

Déjà vu passed like a wave. He blinked, drew a breath, and brought his eyes back to the screen.

“Hey, new guy. You’re off the local news beat,” a voice called.

He looked up slowly, face blank.

“You’re on Internet and entertainment now,” the voice continued.

It was Coffee Guy, cup in one hand, a pile of files in the other.

“Oh,” Techno said.

Coffee Guy raised an eyebrow and pulled a face. “Sure, take it however you want. But FYI? Your report this morning? The boss hated it.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Alexanderrr, journalism’s a deep ocean, my friend. You green little interns? Seen a hundred of you come and go. Don’t give me that look—we’re defending our own version of freedom of speech too, aren’t we?”

He grinned, a twitchy, borderline manic grin.

Techno blinked and said nothing, his face unreadable. Coffee Guy lost interest, shrugged, and walked away without another word.

Before leaving, he dumped a thick stack of files onto Techno’s desk—sheets of Twitter metrics and YouTube analytic charts. Techno could practically smell the spreadsheets through the paper.

With a sigh, he began sorting through the mess, converting it piece by piece into digital summaries. That guy definitely did it on purpose.

He opened the new assignment brief: Online Content Creation.

Simple enough. He’d been reassigned to the Internet & Entertainment section. At this rate, he'd have to wait for another ten thousand years and a car accident before he can write anything serious again.

The first page featured a ranking of top trending creators. He skimmed it, fingers tapping the table, but his gaze had begun to drift.

By force of habit, he typed in a few keywords: #Minecraft, #SMP.

A flood of thumbnails filled the screen. Neon titles, saturated blocks of color—like banners of chaos and celebration. His eyes paused on a few familiar names. Words stitched together into usernames triggered a subtle pull in his chest.

This wasn't the first time he had seen topics like these, and he knew the immense clout behind them.

After high school, he’d mostly stopped playing Minecraft. Though he’d once been decent at Bed Wars, school had gradually taken over, and by college, he only logged on now and then to mess around, maybe revisit an old build. That Skyblock island he made sophomore year? Probably wiped by now.

Still, something about the bright images on screen stirred something deeper. He glanced around — no one was watching. (Even if they saw, he’d say it was for research.)

He clicked a video.

The noise in his headphones hit instantly—a raucous, chaotic clamor. A voice shouting something, followed by laughter. On-screen, a group of blocky characters leapt from a high platform. Behind them: pixelated forests, grassy fields, and bounding avatars—all reduced to shapes and symbols, yet each detail struck a painful chord of familiarity.

Fingers drumming, he heard someone shout “Philza!” in his ear.

His hand froze. Without thinking, he hit pause.

The screen froze on a character—Philza—standing beside a tree, facing off into the distance.

For a moment, it felt like something was missing from the image.

A color, maybe. Or a presence.

The voice, the rhythm, the cadence of the laughter, each line catching him off guard, stirring something just beyond reach.

The names—Philza, Wilbur, Tommy—flashed over and over in the interface.

And without thinking, he picked up his pen.

He wrote a single word:

Techno

He stopped. Stared at it.

His fingers hovered. The ink slowly spread across the paper, quiet and permanent.

("I saw this name when I was eight. Thought it sounded cool. So I stole it.")

The noise in his headphones cut off. The video ended. He stared at the notebook.

“Techno,” he said aloud, voice low and flat.

And then something gripped him.

A flash of recognition—not of sight, but of sound.

A thousand voices in a thousand tones, all calling the same name—shouting it, laughing it, screaming it: "Techno!"

And then the sensation vanished, leaving only silence.

His heartbeat rang in his ears.

He typed: Techno.

Search.

The results rolled in.

"......Techno is a genre of electronic dance music typically characterized by a repetitive four-on-the-floor beat... 120–150 BPM... pioneered in Detroit..."

Useless. Irrelevant. Empty.

Frustrated, he closed the tab.

Instead, he searched:

Philza Minecraft,

Wilbur Soot,

TommyInnit,

TimeDeo,

xNestorio,

Squidkid…

Pages of content loaded, results pouring in.

He clicked.

The first was a wiki page for "Sleepy Bois Inc.", an unofficial group including PhilzaMinecraft, Wilbur Soot, and TommyInnit.

“Forever 3/3,” the page began.

He kept scrolling. Blurry group photos. Bright, unguarded smiles, frozen in moments he had never known.

Eventually, he found it.

A sparse entry: Squidkid .

A small-time streamer. “The man with the most potatoes on Hypixel Skyblock.”

Only a few thousand followers. Just out of college.

He read the descriptions, all dry and distant, a sterile list of facts. But something in them felt like memory, like pressing your hand to a glass wall and swearing something warm is on the other side.

6:00 PM.

He added a few half-hearted figures to the report, polished the keywords, and submitted it.

He shut down his computer. The blue glow faded from the screen. Around him, laughter and hushed office gossip began to rise—someone telling a joke about their supervisor, scattered snorts of laughter, sharp-edged banter just barely concealed.

He walked through the rows of desks, nodding back at a few coworkers.

“Jealous of you,” Coffee Guy muttered as he passed. “Interns have it easy.”

Techno tugged his lips dryly.

He stepped outside. The night air clung to the streets. He pulled his coat tighter, walking home without thinking.

People passed in twos and threes. Neon ads blinked with color. Cars hissed by, their music and chatter drifting in and out.

On the subway, he leaned against the doorframe and watched his reflection flicker in the glass—always moving, always out of reach.

He unlocked his apartment, stepped into the silence. Faint light touched everything: the table piled with newspapers, the half-read books, the long-forgotten game controller in the corner.

He dropped his bag. The contents spilled out. He picked up his notebook.

Techno.

He traced the word. Something stirred—fleeting, shifting, then gone.

He collapsed onto the sofa, eyes closed. The echo of that video played in his mind—the voices, the laughter, the warmth.

Techno.

The word didn’t feel finished. Like a phrase cut short. A prayer half-spoken.

He repeated it, slowly, reverently.

And then tried to write again—but no words came.

“Techno,” he said again. The syllables vanished into the silence.

He understood now: it was a name.

Excitement rose in his chest—unreasonable, sudden, absurd.

He opened his laptop.

Typed in Techno.

Pressed Enter.

The screen loaded.

The bar flashed.

No results found.

He stared.

Nothing.

Only DJ channels and unrelated clips.

The spark died.

He leaned back. A weak, bitter smile spread across his lips.

What had I expected? That I’d find the answer? That it would all make sense?

He closed the notebook. Leaned back. Stared at the ceiling.

The word stayed there, printed forever in ink.

Techno.

He whispered it again.

The syllables floated upward.

He set the notebook aside. Returned to his bedroom.

Kneeling by the nightstand, he looked at the photograph again: a blurred silhouette, standing alone at the edge of a vast sea.

As if looking beyond the photo itself.

“Techno,” he said.

And then, quietly—he smiled.

Chapter Text

[Day 4: Thursday]

In the dream, Techno stood again at the harbor in San Francisco.

He gazed as the cargo ship slowly pulled away from the docks, dragging its lumbering bulk across the water, leaving behind a white wake that faded into the horizon.

Far off, a white bird cut across the blue expanse, skimming over the hazy sea toward him, until its sharp eyes locked with his, watching him.

They wandered the coast together, Techno walking slowly, the bird flying low beside him.

“Only three more days until the seventh,” he said. “What do you think will happen then?”

The bird gave no reply.

“I feel like I’ve forgotten something,” he said quietly. “I think I forgot I don’t belong here. I forgot where I came from. I forgot who I am.”

The bird said nothing.

“I’m Techno,” he stated. Then hesitated. “But… what is Techno?”

The bird turned its head and looked at him. The same blue eyes stared back—his own.

“Oh,” he murmured. “I see.”

The bird nodded and flew away.

He watched it soar back into the blue, vanishing beneath the horizon. He smiled.

The familiar radar alarm dragged him from sleep.

Techno reached out, slapped his phone, and silenced the alarm. Almost instantly, another ring blared—it was a call from his mother.

He stared at the screen, watching her name flash, until the call timed out and vanished.

A moment later, the phone buzzed. A message appeared.

“Alex, call me back when you get the chance, okay? Also, don’t forget to pay last month’s bill. I’ve arranged for the plumber to check your pipes—confirm the time with them.”

Techno’s eyes lingered on the screen for a few seconds. Absentmindedly, he typed:

“ok.”

He tossed the phone back onto the nightstand and walked to the bathroom. In front of the mirror, he studied himself.

He tried smiling at his reflection.

That dream was strange. He could no longer remember what it was about, like a memory brought back from somewhere else, already fading.

He rubbed his temples, forcing the thoughts out of his mind. In truth, he didn’t want to think about it anymore.

At work, Techno stepped into the newsroom.

“Yo, Alexanderrr!” called Coffee Guy the moment he saw him. “This is the head of the video department—you’re cutting entertainment videos today.”

The supervisor nodded, flipping through a packet of files. “Blade, right? You’ll be editing interviews and lifestyle segments. We want clean transitions and quick turnaround.”

Techno nodded. “Got it.”

The supervisor barely looked up. “If you have any questions, just ask.”

“Will do,” Techno replied.

Unenthusiastically, he took his place at a computer, the clacking of nearby keyboards already grating on his ears. He logged into the company’s editing software.

A list of filenames blinked on screen:

“Video A – How to Break the Glass Ceiling”

“Video B – 3 Mistakes You’re Probably Making”

Each title reeked of clickbait.

Marketing fluff, he thought, and snorted.

He opened the files. Hours of flat, forgettable footage. Boring interviews. Stale product plugs.

His fingers moved mechanically across the keyboard. Cut, delete, tighten. Keep only the moments that might grab someone’s attention in the first fifteen seconds. He’d done this a dozen times. He didn’t even need to think.

The pace quickened. The cuts came faster. A raised hand, a voice-over, a jolt of music. The image trembled, jumped again, then cut to another meaningless close-up. Another fast cut.

He barely blinked.

“Add a little chaos,” he muttered. “Let’s see if anyone notices.”

He slapped on a title:

“Tips That Seem Smart But Are Actually Pointless!”

Followed by:

“Can you survive this nonsense? No? Then hit like!”

He cranked up the background track. Sped up transitions. Zoomed in on an eye-roll. Threw in a sound effect. Then a cheap jump scare.

He cut out the middle entirely. Spliced an ad read into the intro. Added emojis to the lower third.

Final title:

“The Most Successful 5 Minutes of Your Life: How to Spend Money on Something You Don’t Need.”

By noon, Techno slumped in his chair. The screen was filled with polished cuts.

The image on the screen seemed to return to a path he had long since mastered.

He glanced at the clock. Lunch had passed. His stomach growled.

He picked up the pace, finishing the last few clips with practiced ease.

“You won’t be this dumb again after this video,” he muttered.

A voice behind him: “Yo, Alex! Done yet?”

Techno snapped to attention. “Almost.”

“Cool, send it to the boss.”

He zipped the files, sent them off. It wasn’t what he studied in college—unless The Great Gatsby’s color symbolism now included RGB overlays—but at least he had some control over it.

With a cup of tea in hand, Techno moved through the office, constantly interrupted:

“Hey intern, deliver this report.”

“I want a coffee. 30% sugar. Go.”

“Blade, printer’s out of paper. Fix it.”

Voices from every direction. He could only nod and obey.

The cup steamed in his hand, heat sinking into his arm. He ran errands, dropped off files, fetched coffee, paper, passwords.

No one really looked at him. A passing glance. A distracted “thanks.” The office hummed with typing and phone calls, ,a monotone, unrelenting rhythm.

Just before the end of the day, the supervisor returned.

“Blade, the video you edited was fine,” she said flatly. No praise. Just fact. “But-”

She paused.

“You’re being transferred back to the social news desk tomorrow. This stuff doesn’t suit you.”

His heart dipped slightly. Still, he kept a neutral face. This should feel like a relief—he was meant to be a reporter, wasn’t he?

But somehow, he’d grown fond of this mindless editing, in a strange and quiet way.

The supervisor seemed to catch his hesitation. Her tone softened just a bit.

“You’re a UChicago English grad. Top 0.1% Merit distinction,” she said. “You’re overqualified for influencer highlight reels. Tomorrow, you’re back where you belong, Alex.”

“…Thank you,” Techno said, nodding. He forced a smile and began tidying up his desk.

She walked away. Techno paused.

His mind was buzzing with noise. None of it clear.

He glanced at his notebook—“Techno” still sat there from yesterday. Today’s pages were filled with editing notes and timecodes.

The world felt oddly arbitrary.

Just as he stepped out of the building, Coffee Guy caught up again.

“Alexanderrrr, heard you're being transferred back? No worries. Video editing’s boring anyway. News is more your speed, right?”

Techno listened but didn’t respond. Coffee Guy soon gave up and wandered off.

He walked home beneath the streetlights, his shadow stretching out ahead of him, then fading into the night.

Techno collapsed onto the couch, hollowed out.

He stared at the ceiling. His boss’s words still echoed in his head—“Merit grad from UChicago”—like an expensive label on a generic bottle.

He yawned. Should he load the dishwasher? Sort the mail? Finish those pending forms?

His body didn’t move. His brain had already surrendered.

Instead, he opened YouTube. A new clip sat at the top of his feed.

The thumbnail—Philza laughing, with two familiar avatars beside him.

Title: SleepyBoisInc.be_like

The uploader: PhilzaCLIPS.

Posted four months ago.

Almost without thinking, he clicked.

Philza was building a palace of prismarine and coral. He had carved out an open space, surrounded by cascading waterfalls. At the center, a stepped pyramid rose, green-blue blocks glowing under the water. Bright red, purple, and pink coral dotted its corners like scattered blossoms.

Philza, in a simple black t-shirt, smiled into the camera, placing block after block.

“But if you use coral, doesn’t it kind of ruin the intent of the build?” he said.

A tired voice grumbled back: “Yeah but I don’t like coral…”

It was Wilbur. Techno recognized him instantly.

He glanced at the live chat replay: WILBUR WILBUR WILBUR

“I know,” Phil said. “But I kind of like it.”

Then another voice cut in—shrill and unfiltered:

“Honestly Phil I actually think coral’s pretty nice—it’s got that—”

Wilbur interrupted. “You suck-up. You're just trying to please Dad—”

A deafening screech exploded through Techno’s headphones.

“I AM NOT SUCKING UP, MATE, I JUST LIKE CORAL!!!” Tommy shrieked. Wilbur cackled in the background, babbling nonsense.

“It’s a beautiful block but no one ever uses it—”

“Oh—my—God—” Tommy was practically gagging. “Wilbur’s an idiot—he doesn’t like coral but he likes dirt.”

The word “dirt” was hurled with visceral disdain.

The clip ended.

Silence pressed down like a vacuum.

Techno stared at the video’s suggested queue, and suddenly all that remained in his head was the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding—thump, thump—rising up his throat until it made him nauseous, like a thousand words were clawing their way from his vocal cords, crawling inch by inch toward his throat, desperate to pour out of his mouth.

He sat there, stunned for a moment, then realized—so this is what it feels like to want to cry.

He didn’t know what to do with it. He wasn’t the emotional type.

Frantic, he exited the video and instinctively checked his notifications.

A pop-up appeared:

"twitch.tv: Philza is LIVE!"

It was from 48 minutes ago.

He remembered: he’d followed Ph1lza the night before while writing a report.

He had nothing else to do. So he tapped in.

Phil was building a bridge over a lake of lava.

The hellscape glowed beneath him. Red. Menacing. Alive. He worked carefully, brow furrowed, placing each block like it mattered.

The chat exploded:

“Boomer reflexes!”

“Phil you scared???”

“Bet $10 he falls in!”

“Fuck chat, calm down alright?” Phil muttered, obviously high-strung by chat. “This is called being cautious, okay?”

Then, suddenly, as if indignantly, Phil fired off fireworks, soared into the air with his elytra, and swooped through the cavern like a bird in flight. Graceful. Effortless.

The chat went wild spamming "POG!!!"

And then a voice pierced through his headphones. A voice soaked in lazy sarcasm:

“Philza Minecraft! I cannot believe you're flying over lava—what is this, a death wish? Gonna build yourself a tombstone while you're at it?”

The chat blew up.

WILBUR

WIIIIILLLLLLL

Crime boy returns!

Techno couldn’t help smiling.

Before Phil could answer, another voice screamed at full volume:

“Philza↘Minecraft↗IS→SO↘BRAVE↗!!”

The stream chat erupted into uproar:

SBI 3/3

SBI

WE'VE GOT 3/3

The whole PACKAGE is HERE

Wilbur kept roasting Phil’s “sacrificial altar” build, joking it looked like a shrine for his own impending doom. Phil groaned. The laughter came like a tide.

Techno let out a chuckle. Couldn’t stop it.

He even chimed in, murmuring:

“Philza Minecraft’s tombstone is already written: ‘Lava was his plus one.’”

Seconds later, the chat began spamming:

“Someone write Phil’s epitaph!”

“He DIED like he LIVED… lagging!”

As if his own comment tailor-made for the flow of the stream.

Techno laughed again, not even realizing how unexpected that sound was.

The three voices still played on in his headphones, chatting and joking as if this were a reunion they’d never needed to plan. And he, though separated by a screen, felt something in him stir.

Something old. Something familiar.

The longer he listened, the heavier his eyelids became. Sleep crept in, slow and certain. And just before it claimed him, he could still hear Philza and Wilbur’s voices, carried in the rhythm of laughter—the visuals blurring, but the echoes growing ever clearer.

In his dream, the white bird returned. It perched beside him, atop the prismarine palace.

He turned and saw Philza sitting across from him at the palace's edge, his gaze soft, a faint smile on his lips. It was the Philza he remembered.

Like a morning drenched in sun after a long, stormy night. Like stumbling through snowdrifts and finally catching sight of a campfire, a wisp of smoke curling into the sky.

“Hey, mate. Finally awake?” Philza’s voice was so familiar it made him want to cry. “You see this place? Pretty sick, huh?”

Techno looked at him for a few seconds. In that silence, it felt like something intangible struck him, pierced through his body, coiled around his heart. A warmth that belonged to another lifetime, brushing against his eyes, leaving him blind, but happy.

“Yeah. It’s nice,” Techno said. “But… I don’t know if we’ll get to stay like this.”

Philza shrugged lightly, his smile calm and kind. “Does it matter, Techno?”

Inside, his heart felt like it was being stabbed over and over again—not dying, but bleeding and rebuilding itself at once. As though all his organs were being torn apart and rearranged, birthing something new before they gave out. A surge of old, aching homesickness bloomed deep in his chest.

“Yeah… maybe,” Techno murmured, weary, pulling his gaze away from Phil’s face. “But that’s not what I’m thinking about right now.”

“What are you thinking about?” Philza asked.

Techno smiled faintly, eyelids heavy, voice fading low-

“I think… maybe it’s time to let it all go.”

Then a burst of familiar laughter echoed through his headset. It was Wilbur.

“Techno, what are you doing over there? Spacing out?”

His voice felt like it came from right beside him.

Techno chuckled softly. His awareness began to dissolve. He knew the worries of the waking world would return.

But just for now, he wanted to stay. To feel his remaining days—until he woke, until he vanished, until he…...

In his dream, the white bird took flight once more, rising above the prismarine dome and vanishing into the distance.

Techno closed his eyes.

And in that dream, he felt a long-forgotten peace. Even knowing it wasn’t real.

But maybe—sometimes—a little friendship and joy was all a person needed.

He opened his eyes.

The world outside was silent. The moon had long been drowned by the city’s polluted light. San Francisco’s late-night traffic hummed faintly through the streets.

He reached instinctively for his phone—it was dead.

He rolled over and looked to the photo on his nightstand: a shadowed figure, blurred and distant, standing at the edge of a sea the color of prismarine.

Techno , he whispered.

He knew who that figure was.

I’m going to find you.

Chapter Text

[Day 5: Friday]

The familiar radar alarm blared in his ears. He slammed a fist down, and the world fell quiet.

Techno’s eyelids twitched as consciousness slowly rose to the surface.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and warm, like the world’s faint attempt to comfort him. The air was fresh. A breeze drifted through the window, tinged with the scent of damp earth—must’ve rained last night. Everything outside was starting to green again.

His bedroom was quiet as ever. Only the wind rustled the curtains. The world outside was beginning to stir, but right now, none of its noise had anything to do with him.

Last night, he’d had a strange dream—he couldn’t remember it. Only that every second of it was saturated with a beauty beyond words: a palace the color of prismarine, the sound of flowing water, coral swaying in iridescent light. There were no clear paths. The details were slipping from memory, like a film missing frames. And yet, somehow, he’d felt a long-lost peace inside it.

He sat up, still groggy, light blurring his vision. For a moment, he felt dizzy, like something had lifted. Some invisible burden had disappeared. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed the weight before. But now… now it felt like his soul had been unshackled, rising and then gently lowered back to the earth. His chest felt clean, pure. Each breath was sharp and crystalline.

For once, he felt completely aligned with his own body, as if he and his shell had finally become one.

From today forward, he thought, I’ll be a happy Alex.

Maybe… maybe things could be different.

He stretched and stood up.

At some point, his shoulder had begun to tighten.

He blinked, reached up to rub it absently. A small ache seemed to freeze the air around him. He didn’t think much of it. After all, this wasn’t the first time. Just this Tuesday, the pain had almost killed him -

Spoke too soon.

His shoulder began to hurt .

And this time, it began to seep into every nerve.

As if, in some strange moment, the pain had formed a connection with his soul.

A pain that reached the marrow.

It escalated suddenly, like a blade stabbing into his muscle, scraping along bone. Every nerve caught fire. It felt like a thousand flames were dancing beneath his skin, violent and unchecked. His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling from the sheer intensity. The burning surged in waves. He could hear his own heartbeat, like the rhythm of the world was being governed by pain.

Techno bent over, clenching his fist until his knuckles went white. Every muscle in his shoulder was pulled taut, like the pain itself had been granted boundless power, wrenching every part of him tight. It didn’t stop. It grew fiercer, like a giant invisible hand clamping down on his arm, crushing it, threatening to tear it from him. The pain radiated outward, searing along every nerve, each breath sliced by the fire.

His vision blurred. The air felt thick, suffocating.

Red—pure, visceral red—swelled around him. The very air seemed to squirm, as if some living thing were breathing through it. Twisted textures rippled through space, like living tissue. The stench of rot thickened the atmosphere. The world was burning. Pain flooded in like a tide.

Suddenly, his shoulder split open—ripped from flesh to marrow, everything torn apart by sheer force.

A massive face surged from the wound, bursting through the fissure like a grotesque bloom. Its expression was steeped in disdain and mockery, rows of sharp teeth bared in a snarl. It roared at him—vicious, ceaseless.

The face grew, expanding until it nearly consumed the entire crimson space. Every twitch of its muscles sent fresh jolts of agony through him, as though this face itself was the very source of pain—raw, unrelenting, inescapable.

Techno’s consciousness blurred.

The world collapsed inward like a sinking pit. The face became his only opponent, looming and absolute. He tried to flinch, to run, to retreat—but his body wouldn’t move.

The pain grew worse—overwhelming.

It was as if the face had fused into his being, ripping his soul apart from the inside.

The distortion deepened.

Everything around him dimmed, twisted, dissolved. His body thrashed in waves of unstoppable pain, submerged in a nightmare from which there would be no awakening.

And then—

Just when he could no longer bear it—

The face recoiled.

It curled back into the meat of his shoulder, twitching faintly for a moment, then vanished, as if it had never existed.

He stumbled upright, hands grabbing blindly for the nightstand. Trembling, he fumbled for his phone. Almost on instinct, he fired off a message to his boss:

"I can’t come in today. Just blacked out. Fucking terrifying—hurt so bad I almost saw God. lol. Can’t believe I’m still alive."

He paused for a few seconds. His body, fragile but stabilizing, began to reorient itself. The pain started to ebb. The blur faded from his vision.

Sunlight streamed through the slit in the curtains, laying soft golden blotches on the floor.

A breeze filtered in through the window, carrying with it the scent of the outside world—fresh earth, stirred by last night’s rain.

His eyes remained unfocused, but the warmth in the air brought a flicker of comfort, as though reminding him the world was still out there. That it was morning. That it was still real.

The view beyond the glass was unchanged: sun falling over every patch of land, rooftops, branches, the faraway street. Every golden thread of light looked so gentle.

He almost laughed.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice dry. “Friday really is Passion Day. Holy shit—what a show.”

Then, another jolt of pain ripped through his right arm.

It felt like an enormous iron clamp had locked down on the bone, twisting and crushing it with supernatural force.

Every breath seared like a blade.

He staggered to the desk, fingers digging into the edge.

The floor beneath him warped like a trapdoor—every slight tilt threatened to unbalance him.

From the corner of his vision, he could see his notebooks scattered like fallen leaves.

And then—

The moment his hand hit the desk -

His vision began to blacken.

He could no longer endure the light.

The world began to melt.

The blank walls, the objects on the table, the spines of books on the shelf—each transformed, thickened, swelled into something grotesque. Everything turned the color of blood. Still. Pulsing. Crawling.

From his shoulder, the monstrous face surged out again.

Grotesque. Twisted. Its black eye sockets gaped like voids, leaking unspeakable malice. Veins and cracks writhed across its purpled skin like serpents, oozing decay. Its mouth split open—a cavern of hunger—oozing black sludge that stank of rot. The contours of its face were formless, mountainous, bearing down on his very being.

Its wails were low and guttural, loud enough to tear through his ears.

He swayed, surrounded by pain like knives pressed to bone. He wanted to run—needed to escape . Escape the agony, the cold dark, the way red had invaded his sight. His soul felt pulled into a meat grinder, chewed and spit out in agony. He tilted his head back, eyes shut, wishing only to run. If surrender meant release, then he’d surrender. If giving up could end this -

Then something cold pierced through his mind.

A chill rose up his spine like steel, shocking him.

A heavy fabric dropped softly over his shoulders.

With it came a force beyond words. A surging will from somewhere deep inside, flooding into every muscle, every nerve. He opened his eyes, barely, and the twisted world began to clear.

A crimson cloak fell into view—deep, dark, like fire burning on a distant horizon. At that moment, the crown descended to his head, golden light gleaming heavy and bright.

Will wrapped him like armor. And in the river of pain, he found a new awareness.

The monstrous face twisted, those pitch-black eyes shifting. But now, in them, he saw the crimson of the cloak, the glint of the crown. That light pierced its sockets like blades. It trembled.

Its screams still echoed, ripping through the air. Pain washed over him again, choking—but in the deluge, he began to hear something else.

The voice behind the screams. Twisted. Desperate.

And beneath the roar of agony, a question rose from the shadows, echoing over and over:

Who are you?

Who are you?

He gasped, vision flickering, trying to find clarity amid the pain.

He had to answer.

He had to.

Or the pain would never end.

He needed an answer—an answer that could face himself, that could save him. He had to find it. He had to speak it. Who am I. Who am I. Who am I. Who am I. Who am I.

Fear clawed through his chest. Sharp and many-fingered. Like needles running through his veins. His world fractured. Mind unraveling. No thoughts—only panic, emptiness, fear—and that face, warping, coming for him again and again.

He panted, scattered, disintegrating. His soul a mosaic of broken pieces. He needed to protect. He needed to destroy. His every cell screamed.

Before the face destroyed him, he had to gather what was left.

Before the red swallowed everything, he had to feel it again—life, in his limbs.

He was desperate.

Desperate.

He couldn’t wait.

He couldn’t fear.

He had to go home.

He had to find that name.

And in the thick of it all, a blade of light cut through his mind, cold and sharp, like a sword unsheathing. The world burst open. For a split second, everything made sense.

His mind snapped awake.

That flash of steel burned through his soul like lightning.

He saw it now. A blade. Cold. Clear.

And then he shouted.

From deep in his chest, tearing through his throat:

“ Blade ! I need Blade !”

The name burst from him like fire.

The face stopped.

The wail was silenced.

The image of the sword sharpened—brilliant steel slicing through darkness, through pain, through all illusion.

The pressure vanished.

He gasped for breath. Sweat dripping down his forehead. His body still shook, but the storm had passed.

He knelt.

Looked around.

The room was a mess—papers everywhere, notebooks overturned, like a storm had torn through.

His gaze landed on one page.

A single blurred word:

“Techno.”

He remembered.

Wednesday.

He’d written that name on Wednesday.

His heart quickened. His hand moved without thinking.

He touched the page. His fingertip trembled.

He hadn’t noticed he’d bitten his own skin—blood now smeared along his knuckle.

It fell.

A single drop of red.

He wrote.

“blade.”

The two words met on the page.

And became one.

And for a moment, they glowed.

He stared at that name. His lips moved.

Soft. Barely a whisper.

“Technoblade.”

The world hushed.

All questions. All pain.

Gone.

He collapsed into darkness.

Morning sunlight slipped through the gap in the curtains, like a gentle touch, brushing softly over the creases in the bedsheets.

Techno opened his eyes slightly. His mind was mostly blank—no cluttered thoughts, just that familiar weariness. He turned over slowly, his body still half caught in sleep, as if savoring the aftertaste of a dream that had no ending.

But as he shifted, a wave of soreness spread through his limbs. He blinked and looked around. The ceiling above him didn’t have the beam he expected. Nor the light fixture he thought should be hanging there. No familiar sheets or pillows surrounded him—only the cold floor, and whitewashed walls.

He frowned—how the hell was he on the floor? He’d definitely been in bed last night. He even remembered turning over, just about to shut his eyes and drift off. How had he ended up here in the blink of an eye?

He touched his cold arm, trying to piece together what had happened. But his mind was a fog. He only remembered that the dream had felt easy, like some gentle force had wrapped around him and let him relax—but the details were already gone. He couldn’t recall falling out of bed. Couldn’t even be sure he hadn’t gotten up while asleep.

He stared at the floor beneath him for a long moment. Maybe he’d just rolled off and been too out of it to notice. Nothing to overthink. And yet—even his clothes were still neatly in place. How could he have moved without knowing?

“Heh?”

Slowly, he started to sit up, palms pressing into the floor. His elbows stung. And then a deeper confusion set in—the bed was a few steps away. No way he could’ve just rolled there in his sleep.

He struggled to stand, blinking at the ceiling. Still the same plain white. That dim corner lamp still on, just as he’d left it all night. He stretched his stiff limbs, glanced toward the nightstand. A photo sat there—blurry, indistinct. A silhouette. Just a faint outline of someone standing at the sea’s edge, gazing out over the endless water.

Techno stared at it for several seconds. A strange familiarity drifted over him, something long-forgotten. He shook his head. Probably just tired. Expression flat, he picked up his clothes and headed for the bathroom.

Techno shut his eyes, feeling the water slide down his cheeks. His breathing grew steadier in the haze. The confusion in his mind began to lift.

He opened his eyes again. The face in the mirror was still his—sharp blue eyes, skin a little pale, but unmistakably his.

“Today… should be nothing special,” he muttered to himself.

After brushing his teeth, he opened the window in the living room. Fresh air swept in, carrying with it an unfamiliar sense of calm. He walked into the kitchen, grabbed an apple, and bit down. The crisp tang and warmth of sunlight suddenly made everything feel a little less heavy. He paused, glanced at the coffee cup on the table—steam still curling up from the freshly brewed liquid.

After breakfast, he slipped on his coat, opened the door, and stepped out into the familiar hallway. The sunlight was warm. Everything seemed as ordinary as ever. Traffic moved down the roads. People bustled past. The occasional bike bell. Footsteps quick and steady. Nothing had changed.

The morning rush was as noisy as always. Familiar faces all around. In the train car, the air was stale. Techno kept his mouth shut, not trying to speak to anyone.

Some passengers stared at their phones. Some watched the scenery pass outside. He looked at his own reflection in the window. The face staring back seemed unfamiliar. A strange feeling rose in his chest—hard to name, but not strong enough to hold him. He stayed quiet.

After getting off, he moved through the crowd like usual. The shops and cafés along the streets looked exactly the same. No changes.

He entered the company building. Walked into the newsroom. His desk was neatly arranged. Dozens of email alerts popped up on his screen. Techno didn’t rush to read them. He straightened the papers and prepared to start the day.

Whether editing copy, chatting with colleagues, or dealing with his boss, he kept the same blank expression everyone called his “corpse face.” He skimmed through the editor’s materials, wearing that usual look—“which news site did they rip this from?” The information flowed into his brain like water, not a second of it lingering. Every time, he had to write from these “prepared materials,” fingers tapping out a steady rhythm on the keyboard.

By 6 PM, the sky had begun to darken. The streetlights flickered on. Techno clocked out on time, hurrying out of the office building.

Just thinking that tomorrow was Saturday made him want to sprint home and collapse.

“What are you getting excited for,” he muttered in his head, giving himself a mental smack. “It’s just more work after the weekend.” He calmed himself, kept walking. Let the crowd and traffic surge around him.

Then something caught his eye. A figure at the edge of his vision.

A young man. Face unclear. Dyed pink hair. Wearing a black hoodie. On the chest—a bright red letter T. It glowed faintly under the streetlight.

In that instant, something invisible tugged at his thoughts, dragging him back to a corner of his mind he couldn’t reach. A flicker of memory he couldn’t grasp. That T. He’d seen it before. Somewhere. But he couldn’t remember where. Didn’t even know why he felt this way.

He turned instinctively, scanning the street. A few pedestrians who had just passed him suddenly turned back. Their eyes met his briefly, and a chill ran down his spine. Their expressions didn’t shift—blank, neutral—and then they looked away, continuing on. But for that one moment, something primal stirred. The feeling of being watched made his skin crawl.

His pulse quickened. He picked up speed, feet moving on their own. He passed one familiar corner after another, yet it felt like something unseen was hiding behind each one—eyes that followed him, lingered behind his back. Every time he looked over his shoulder, those once-ordinary strangers now seemed ghostly, unnatural. Like they knew something. Like they were waiting.

He broke into a run. Every glance back revealed more of those turning heads.

By the time he made it to his apartment building, he was breathless, heart thundering. At the door, he inhaled sharply, fished out his key, unlocked it. It felt like San Francisco was going to swallow him whole.

The apartment was still. He dropped his bag, walked to the bathroom. Cold water splashed his face. The shock grounded him—but that suffocating unease still clung to his skin.

He closed his eyes. Breathed deep. Like trying to wash away all the tension.

Then, as he lifted his head and stared into the mirror—into that pale face, those sharp blue eyes—he said, without thinking:

“ Technoblade .”

Silence.

He stood there, still, as if searching for clarity in the mirror.

Staring, he inhaled again. Decided: Friday’s always a little unhinged. Whatever.

Before bed, his eyes found their way back to the photo on the nightstand—blurred silhouette, standing against the sea wind. Facing the waves. That back was both familiar and faraway, almost indistinct.

Techno’s heart skipped. He squinted, trying to make out the shape. Slowly, the blur sharpened. Like something pulling it closer, clearer.

Then it hit him—that back looked a little like his own.

A hint of weariness. A flicker of awakening. Like something suddenly made sense.

He closed his eyes.

And sleep came, heavy and deep.

Chapter Text

[Day 6: Saturday]

In the dream, Techno stood again at the harbor in San Francisco.

He gazed as the cargo ship slowly pulled away from the docks, dragging its lumbering bulk across the water, leaving behind a white wake that faded into the horizon.

Far off, a white bird cut across the blue expanse, skimming over the hazy sea toward him, until its sharp eyes locked with his, watching him.

“I think I’ve remembered what I forgot,” he said eagerly, meeting those blue eyes that mirrored his own.

The white bird tilted its head, as if saying, “Bro, could you be more specific?”

Techno paused. “I think I remembered who I am…?” he said, a little uncertain, speaking slowly. “But then again, I still don’t remember where I came from. Still don’t remember that I don’t belong in this world.”

The bird turned sideways, staring at him with one eye, silent.

“Bruhh, don’t look at me like that,” Techno raised both hands. “I’m not even a user of this feature. I don’t control any of this.”

The bird opened its black beak, seemed like it wanted to say something, but in the end stayed faithfully silent.

So Techno stood there, beside the white bird, facing the sea, gazing into the boundless distance and the line of the horizon.

A long silence. Finally, the stillness was broken by the faint sound of bells drifting over the water.

“That’s the evil iPhone alarm clock,” Techno declared flatly. “See you next time.”

He waited for the bird to fly off, but it didn’t move. It just kept staring at him.

“What?” Techno raised an eyebrow.

The bird’s eyes said, “You know what.”

Techno rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to say a line that cringey, okay? What is this, Iron Man? DSMP gets Marvel-fied? Careful or Disney’s gonna sue me. This DMCA-haunted life of mine…”

Still, the bird stared. Techno stared back—until the uncanny symmetry of those identical blue eyes finally triggered his uncanny valley reflex.

“Bruh, fine.” He closed his eyes. Opened them again. A wave of blue surged into view. He spoke:

“I am Technoblade.”

The familiar radar alarm woke him.

I don’t want to get up.

It’s the weekend.

Why did I even set an alarm?

Techno grumbled a few times, slammed the alarm off, and drifted straight back to sleep.

In the dream, Techno stood again at the harbor in San Francisco.

He gazed as the cargo ship slowly pulled away from the docks, dragging its lumbering bulk across the water, leaving behind a white wake that faded into the horizon.

Far off, a white bird cut across the blue expanse, skimming over the hazy sea toward him, until its sharp eyes locked with his, watching him.

“Yo. I’m fuckin’ back,” Techno said to the bird.

The bird turned midair and prepared to leave.

“Hey hey, wait up—don’t go yet!” he reached out, trying to hold it back.

But the bird merely rolled its eyes dramatically and turned into a rapidly disappearing blur of white.

He shrugged. “Whatever. Solo mode it is.”

He wandered the coastline, hugging the edge of the endless sky. His shoes tapped against the dockside pavement. The sea breeze, sharp with salt and gasoline, brushed past his hair. The tide on the beach rose and fell, pulled by the moon.

He looked up—just in time to catch the faint silhouette of the moon on the horizon.

He kept walking, down a path with no end, until he decided it was time to speak.

“Welcome back, guys—to another episode of Seaside Soliloquy, this time featuring special guests: Existential Crisis and the Sea Salt Breeze. Hardcore content, right? Look at that tide, look at that emotional depth. And over there—sun and moon in the same frame! Two celestial bodies coexisting in harmony, nothing weird about that at all. What, you thought they took turns rising? Scandalous. Unheard of. Utterly absurd. Yeah, this is the premium content you subscribed for. I know.”

Techno came to a slow stop, gazing at the glinting light on the waves, lips curving upward. He raised a hand and pointed toward the distant sea.

“Seamless transition to a new topic: This so-called ‘parallel universe experience’ is just a capitalist trap wrapped in ribbon. They dangle your regrets and resentment in front of you like bait. The weird part? This time, capitalism only scammed me out of $6.10. But I bet the second this seven-day trial ends, my bank password and social security number’ll be leaked, I’ll find myself in debt to a Vegas casino, missing a kidney in Myanmar, and my account’s been used for laundering money, tax evasion, and immigration fraud. The full bundle.”

He stood at the edge of the pier.

“Now this might sound unbelievable, but I gotta be honest: I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. I didn’t volunteer for any of this. I’m not a user. I’m more confused than you are.

All I know is, I woke up one morning with a random English degree, a press badge from some newspaper office, a rent overdue notice, and a scrap of paper. The note, typed in Times New Roman 12pt with double line spacing, read: Dear user, we’ve received your feedback: ‘Fuck don’t wanna stream,’ and are now offering you the exclusive new ‘Wow! A Parallel Universe?’ program. Annual price originally $199.9 billion, now yours for the screaming new-user deal of $6.10. Trial lasts seven days. No refunds, no cancellations. All rights reserved. Final interpretation belongs to the T.N.D Foundation."

Techno looked down at the water slapping against the rocks.

“T.N.D. Foundation? Sounds like a shady villain org. Why do all evil corporate hands have to use mysterious acronyms? Picture the scene: thunder rolls, lightning flashes, the villain swivels dramatically in his chair and goes, ‘You’ve finally arrived. I, the great YOLO… am the CEO of LMAO Corp.’—you feel me?”

Suddenly, as if struck by a thought, he sped up, panic creeping into his voice.

“Wait—wait, don’t get me wrong, I swear I didn’t mean it, it wasn’t me, I love streaming, I’m a streamer at heart, a good one, right? Please subscribe. Thanks.”

He coughed a few times, kept walking along the path.

“But seriously, don’t y’all think this plot is kinda clunky and vague? The writer must’ve fried their brain. I’m done being poetic. I bet the final scene will be the main character realizing that ordinary life is the true beauty, achieving enlightenment, reconciling with their identity, and everyone holding hands singing Christmas carols.”

He casually kicked a stone. It rolled across the sand.

“It’s already the second-to-last day. The seven-day trial’s almost up, and here I am, still breaking the fourth wall inside a metaphor-for-the-sake-of-metaphor dream world. I bet even the author doesn’t know what this part is for.”

“—but whatever. They said I only stay in character when doing stand-up comedy. So here I am, standing before this endless blue sea, monologuing, waiting for that final catharsis and the traumatizing iPhone radar ringtone to hit.”

Techno shrugged, kept walking, one side of his face bathed in dusk’s golden haze.

“Alright, that’s about it for today’s special—thanks for watching this absurd mess of existential dread. Remember: next time—if there is a next time—we meet again. Seamless segue to outro!”

In the golden light of the rising sun, his figure slowly melted into the seaside mist.

The familiar radar ringtone blared.

Techno grumbled, reached out to silence it, and rolled back over, sinking again into the warmth of his bed.

Outside the window, the dim night flowed on. Deep blue streaked with scattered orange lights, flickering across the city's silhouette.

In the distance, the skyscrapers blurred into a halo of haze. A few passing headlights flitted across the wall, flaring and fading.

The city’s noise was wrapped in a thick velvet night, its sound drifting in like a whisper through gauze—A couple talking quietly beneath a streetlamp. A distant foghorn in an alley. Fragments of noise, dissolving into stillness.

In the bedroom, the soft glow of a lamp pooled at the head of the bed, gently casting light across the sleeping face.

The air still held traces of the day’s warmth. They clung to his body, wrapping him in a quiet, lingering heat.

Every now and then, the wind tapped softly at the glass.

The distant world flowed on, slow and silent.

Chapter Text

[Day 7: Sunday]

Half-asleep, the first thing Techno registered was an enveloping warmth. The heat clung to his skin and seeped deep into his body, making him feel like his heart was wrapped in something soft and comforting. Had he forgotten to turn off the heater last night?

He shivered, curling deeper into the blankets in a futile attempt to hold on to some scrap of warmth. Must’ve forgotten. Now his whole body was stiff. Suppressing a low groan, he finally decided the cold was too much—he had to get up. Maybe this time he’d actually turn on the heat.

He sighed softly, curling deeper into his blanket. It was probably the heater still running. Now, he was completely soaked in warmth, so much so that he couldn’t bear the thought of getting up—let the electricity bill keep running.

It’s strange, though. He wasn’t this warm when he went to bed last night...

With his eyes closed, his hand lazily searched the bed, his fingertips brushing against the softness of the blankets, feeling a strange, blissful haze. He wrapped himself tighter into this warm corner and let his mind drift once again.

In his dream, he stood at San Francisco’s harbor. He gazed as the cargo ship slowly pulled away from the docks, dragging its lumbering bulk across the water, leaving behind a white wake that faded into the horizon.

Far off, a white bird cut across the blue expanse, skimming over the hazy sea toward him, until its sharp eyes locked with his, watching him.

 “You're going home today. What’s your perspective?” The white bird asked.

“From about 5'9”. Unless I slouch.” Techno replied.

Silence.

"You know, we’re really grateful you came here," the bird spoke after a long pause. Techno glanced at it, a faint warmth creeping into his expression.

"Really? Then why didn’t you speak for the past six days? A riddle bird?" he quipped.

The bird slowly turned towards him. "What? Did you ever hear a bird speak before?"

Techno chuckled softly but didn’t reply.

They both stood there, facing the calm sea.

"So?" Finally, Techno broke the silence. "Have you made up your mind?"

The bird’s gentle blue gaze settled on him. "The choice has always been yours, Techno. It’s up to you."

"Me? I don’t know."

"These last six days, we’ve been quite lost."

"To be more precise, I’ve been lost. I don’t know where I come from, who I am, or what I’m supposed to do. I’ve just... probably gone with the flow of this world."

"Do you know the answer now?"

"I’ve always known."

"I mean, after you wake up. Subconscious and conscious awareness are different. You can use logical rules to guide your rationality, but you can’t fool the subconscious."

"Wow, scientist much."

"Shut up. So, do you know the answer now?"

Techno turned his gaze towards the infinite horizon, but he didn’t answer.

The bird followed his silence.

"You’re afraid," it said.

"I’m not."

"You’re afraid of what you’ll face when you go back."

"Maybe."

"But you’ll have to face it eventually."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you will choose to go home."

Techno froze, no longer responding.

"We’ll talk about it then."

The bird shook its head.

"Take a photo, as a memento," it said.

Techno didn’t refuse, as if he had agreed.

Under the bird’s eternal gaze, Techno’s silhouette seemed to blur in the sunlight, then darken as the evening mist settled. He stood at the shore, gazing out at the endless, blue sea.

Everything felt frozen in that moment, yet like something slipping away unnoticed in a small, imperceptible shift.

Techno woke up to sunlight.

The room was silent, with the curtains slightly parted, allowing the morning light to filter through, casting a soft glow over the room. He kept his eyes closed, shifting his shoulders slightly to let the other side of his face bask in the warmth.

Slowly, his mind began to clear, and he lay there lazily, feeling warmth seep into his skin, as though even his bones were being gently warmed. Finally, he cracked his eyes open a slit. The light pierced through, so he quickly shut them again. After waiting a few seconds, he cautiously opened them again.

This time, the world in front of him came into focus—the tiny crack in the ceiling, the dust gathering in the corner on the bookshelf, the calendar on the wall—everything about this familiar, tranquil morning.

He slowly shifted his gaze to the wall, where the calendar still hung in place, the page flipped to an old month. Beneath it was a picture of the San Francisco harbor, with fog and calm waters, as though frozen in time from some past moment.

He stared at it, unblinking, until his eyes began to well up. He blinked rapidly and shifted his gaze to the nightstand. He reached for his glasses and put them on, glancing at the photo next to him, still the same simple rectangular Polaroid: a blurry silhouette against a golden-hued sky, perhaps the sunset or a sunrise, with a nearly blue sea.

For a fleeting moment, the blurry figure suddenly became sharply clear in his mind. The image rushed into his brain, and for a moment, he almost felt like he could understand it—until the phone’s ringtone suddenly pierced the silence.

He fumbled for the phone and grumbled sleepily, "Calling so early, what the hell..."

He answered, and his boss’s familiar, emotionless voice came through.

"Blade, there's a report to do on Monday. We originally assigned a newcomer, but she can’t make it."

Techno didn’t immediately respond, dryly mumbling, "Oh?"

"Just a temporary fill-in. I see you’ve got a steady voice, smooth speech, no issues with your accent, and you look proper enough..." His boss continued, his voice slick with subtle cunning.

Techno’s brain stalled.

"Oh, right, it’s a live stream. Don’t worry," his boss said, and before Techno could respond, he heard the familiar beep of the call ending, followed by the digital voice, "Call ended."

Techno stared at the phone, stunned, almost predicting the scene in his head: himself standing in front of the camera, the bright lights glaring, the countdown ticking down from three to one, and then, his voice awkwardly squeezed out for the opening greeting.

The thought of it made his stomach churn with discomfort, even though it hadn't happened yet.

He sat up, rubbed his forehead in the haze of just waking up, tossed the phone back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. His voice low and resigned, he muttered, "A live broadcast? What a joke."

He forced a half-smile, but it was full of irony. "Steady voice? Proper look? Do they even believe this themselves?" He shook his head self-mockingly.

He climbed out of bed, wrapped himself in a hoodie, and stood by the window, watching the distant street view. The air had a faint dampness, as if it had rained the night before.

His mind swirled with endless scenarios of what the live broadcast might be like. In his head, he replayed the awkward scenes over and over until he finally sighed, unable to suppress the frustration. "Fuck, I don't wanna stream."

Techno paced back and forth in his room, his anxiety growing until his ADHD kicked in. After a while, he stopped, tired of the restless movement, and flopped back onto the bed, lying on his back. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on the pillow, the tremor of his restless energy creeping through his fingertips.

Fuck, he really didn't wanna stream.

He grabbed his phone, planning to watch some videos all day—until his gaze inevitably fell upon the photo on the nightstand. His eyes were locked on it.

Suddenly, the image became painfully clear, as if someone had taken it out from behind a dusty glass and placed it right in front of him.

The colors and details rushed forward, the deep blue ocean seemed to rise from the photo, the waves crashing into his face, carrying a nearly tangible chill. The sea breeze seemed to whisper through his ears, mixed with the salty, damp scent of the air, like the stillness after light rain.

The breeze swept past the figure in the photo, lifting the edges of their clothes. They stood at the shore, their side profile barely visible against the waves. Techno’s eyes widened as he blindly leaned in closer to the image, until his eyes stung from the strain.

In that moment, he seemed to know something, but wasn’t quite able to grasp it.

The blurry silhouette, the hesitant familiarity, seemed to hold some answer, gradually emerging from the waves. And then, suddenly, all the images, sensations, and subtle clues converged, bringing a sharp clarity in his mind, like the fog dissipating in the sunlight.

He saw it, but at the same time, he didn’t.

He didn’t need to wait for the figure to turn around, or even to see their face. He saw it every day when he looked in the mirror.

That figure was him.

Absurd, unbelievable, and yet, laughable.

He gripped the photo tightly, staring at the blurry reflection of himself.

(Maybe it was the tears that blurred his vision, or maybe the photo hadn’t changed at all. He had just suddenly realized something—a certain important truth.)

The rest of Techno’s day passed in Minecraft.

It felt like he had returned to a place that was both familiar and somewhat unfamiliar. He controlled his blocky character, navigating through layers of pixels, mechanically repeating his actions.

Then, he discovered:

Without him realizing it, the game had been updated countless times: monsters were more densely packed, the terrain was more complex, new, bizarre creatures had appeared, the Nether looked like a dimension from some other world, and the crafting menu was filled with items he couldn’t even begin to understand.

He had thought that after all this time, he could just breeze through, but instead, he found himself hastily digging and filling, hiding off to the side to open his inventory and trying to figure out what these new items were for. He silently vowed: I will not Google it.

Spoiler: He still Googled it.

After stumbling through countless entries, he finally started to figure things out. The Ender Dragon (after he had died a dozen times) finally fell amidst a roar of purple. He stared at the end screen, watching the interface scroll the "End Poem," his mind blank.

A strange emotion rose in his chest, like a homesickness tugging at him from old times, hollow and unresolved.

At 7 p.m., the room gradually grew darker, and the light from outside faded bit by bit. He yawned, got up from his desk, stretched his sore neck, and squatted in the living room to make himself a cup of instant coffee.

He had a short phone call with his father. As always, his dad asked about his recent life, then started talking about little things in California. The weather was nice there, with the sun shining on the coastline. His father occasionally hummed some old songs Techno didn’t understand, lightly teasing him about trivial matters.

Techno wasn’t in any rush to hang up. He listened to his father talk about these little things, but there was no real shift in his mood, as if life was just going on like this—peacefully, steadily.

After hanging up, he opened his messages and saw the dozens of unread texts. Most of them were from his college friends, asking how he was doing, whether he had found a partner, how his internship was going.

“Well,” Techno thought, “since it’s been so long, there’s no rush to reply right away.”

He slowly replied to a few, keeping the messages short and direct, in the same tone as most of his friends—neither too personal nor too distant. Nothing special to share, after all, most people were doing the same.

Then, he opened his social media for the first time in a while, just to see what his (pitifully small) circle of friends was up to. Most of them were still in internships, a few friends had taken over their family businesses, living a comfortable life. Some were already planning to start their own ventures, looking quite active and optimistic.

“Why are some people still on graduation trips?!”

He put the phone down, forcing himself to look away from such heartbreaking things.

After a while, he put the phone aside and turned off the living room light.

Enveloped in dimness, he returned to his bedroom, lying sideways, entering the warm light of his room.

“Tommy, be patient, give the stuff back to Tubbo.”

“ph1lza joined the server.”

“Wilbur, how many times do I have to tell you, don’t eat sand!”

“I don’t have The Blade, but I have—The Disc!”

“I’m ordering takeout for Ranboo, I really need to talk to his parents.”

“It was never meant to be.”

“Why did you shoot Tubbo at the celebration, Dream!”

“Philza seems to have moved to the Snowy Plains and is living in seclusion.”

“Everyone is tracking down Dream, no one knows where he is.”

“Tommy, trust me, Pogtopia will rise again.”

“Wil—are you insane? You’ve finally lost it!”

“Tommy is definitely doing it on purpose! Phil—quick, teach that kid a lesson!”

“I met Wilbur Soot in real life!”

“Guys, watch out, Endlantis is coming!”

“Why is it so hard to get SBI 3/3 together?”

He sat on his bed, staring at the computer screen.

The vibrant blocks of color filled his vision, familiar voices echoed.

He didn’t feel excitement, nor any fear, just quietly watching, letting himself laugh or cry with the friends in the video.

There was no sense of loss, not even melancholy. He simply gazed, watching as those moments that belonged to him slipped through his fingers, like an observer, as if about to say goodbye to the self he had never met. His hand rested on the mouse, and with a gentle click, the screen froze.

In the reflection of the black screen was his own face. Short hair slightly curled, deep brown strands casually falling over his forehead. The thick lenses hid his blue eyes, making them appear somewhat blurry, his clean-shaven chin smooth without a trace of stubble.

He slowly played the video again, watching intently, until the Endlantis under the night sky flashed by, and the final frame froze on a photo of the three of them. They looked at the camera, smiling brightly, as if life was bursting through the screen, warm enough to fill his palms.

Techno slowly exhaled, his clenched hand slowly relaxing.

In that moment, it seemed like either an ending, or another beginning.

He closed his computer and sat by the window, gazing into the deep, silent blackness of the night. The night was still and silent.

END.

and the universe said I love you

and the universe said you have played the game well

and the universe said everything you need is within you

and the universe said you are stronger than you know

and the universe said you are the daylight

and the universe said you are the night

and the universe said the darkness you fight is within you

and the universe said the light you seek is within you

and the universe said you are not alone

and the universe said you are not separate from every other thing

and the universe said you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code

and the universe said I love you because you are love.

And the game was over and the player woke up from the dream. And the player began a new dream. And the player dreamed again, dreamed better. And the player was the universe. And the player was love.

You are the player.

Wake up.

Chapter Text

Alex stared at the deep night on the screen, lost in thought.

“Dear user,

Thank you for participating in the ‘Whoa! Parallel Universe?’ experience. Your limited-time free trial has ended, and you have been automatically logged out. Don’t forget to leave a five-star review.

Thank you for supporting our mission.

— Sincerely,

The T.N.D Foundation.”

He let out a long sigh, as if releasing a breath he’d been holding for far too long. A moment later, he clicked the “Exit” button and switched to the customer service interface.

“Hello, may I require some assistance?”

The customer service avatar turned into three bouncing dots, then replied:

“Happy to assist you. What can I help you with today?”

Alex pressed his lips together, frowning slightly. “Can I… talk to Techno?”

A long silence. Finally, a new message popped up:

“Your request is being processed. Please wait.”

Alex leaned against the window, sighed again.

He put his phone down, stuffing both hands into the pockets of his hoodie. His gaze went distant, eyes drifting upward to the ceiling. Thoughts began to wander: Tomorrow’s the final day to submit the report. If I don’t, I’m screwed. I have a livestream the day after. The boss’s dead-fish face is unavoidable. What was the point of this event anyway? Why do I feel so empty? What’s the meaning of life? Why am I thinking about this? I should just pay the damn electric bill first…

Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He quickly pulled it out and unlocked the screen. A new message flashed:

“Ding~ You have been connected with your designated subject. Please maintain a friendly conversation and help keep the network safe.”

His heart began pounding, loud as thunder in his ears. He tried to steady his breathing, waiting for a new message to appear. Seconds ticked by like centuries, time suspended in anticipation.

Just as he was about to cave and send the first message himself, he finally received one.

Hallo

Alex replied: "Sup"

Another pause. The screen showed: “typing..."

After a long while, Alex gave up waiting and typed: “Uh, what should I call you? Techno?”

Sure, whatever, doesn’t really matter lol.

“Okok, just call me Alex then.”

Yeah, I know. It just feels a little weird.

Another stretch of silence. Alex’s message box flickered—typing, deleting, rephrasing—until he finally hit send:

“Listen, I actually owe you an apology. I didn’t really understand how this event worked. I thought I’d be the one going to the parallel world—not that they’d swap you into mine, and I’d just sit in my room watching you live for seven days. I know this must’ve been jarring for you, and I’m sorry. But, um, I guess I got to see another version of myself. Maybe that’s a kind of growth, haha.”

A moment later, the reply came:

No worries, it’s fine.

You probably saw me stumbling around in a daze all week. Not the greatest time of my life. The whole thing was full of memories and weird clues and these long, rambling dreams. But I don’t blame you, Alex.

You’re still me, just from another world.

And I totally get not wanting to stream. Dude, I’m the same.

“Everyone hates their job.”

True.

“But being a gaming streamer has to be better than being a journalist, right?”

Socially speaking, not really.

But you’re just an intern.

“This changes everything.”

Yep—you’re less than a worm.

“Ouch.”

Lmao.

The silence returned. Alex’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, typing, deleting.

“Techno, just out of curiosity, and I mean this respectfully… I heard in your world, your right shoulder hurts?”

A long pause. The chat box showed those familiar bouncing dots again: “The other party is typing…”

“Sorry—if that was out of line.” he quickly added.

No no, it’s fine. Really.

I was just… thinking.

A moment later, a message arrived:

Fighting fate? Honestly, it’s not easy, man. I gotta tell you.

Truth is, I don’t even know what I’m walking into next—but this week, I got a taste of it, and I’m not afraid of the end.

I know it sounds idealistic, and maybe it is, but this is the path I chose. I’m sticking to it.

This is my life, my rules.

Alex stared at that message for a long time before Techno added, perhaps nervously:

You still there?

Hope I didn’t get too… weird, haha…

“No, not at all. I’m here. Just… thinking, you know?”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, suddenly realizing—there’s no need to hold back when you’re talking to yourself.

“You’re brave, Techno. You’re really brave.”

Not many people say that about me. But okay?

Thanks?

“I mean… you made a decision you can’t take back. You chose to go home, even knowing what’s waiting for you.”

Life goes on, right?

“But your life…”

Alex left the sentence unfinished, a surge of unnameable emotion rising in his chest. After a moment, he asked the question that had been echoing in his heart all along:

“Why? Even when you knew.”

Maybe he didn’t need to ask. Maybe he already knew the answer.

Maybe he just needed to hear it said—to know that in another world, he lived a bright and brilliant life; to know that here, in his own world, life could be just as beautiful.

(So precious, so fleeting.)

(Like a flower blooming in the blink of an eye, fading just as quickly.)

(It was as if the sun had finally broken the horizon—warm light pouring over him. The lingering heat of another self slowly seeped into his chest until his whole body felt warm and weightless.)

He looked at Techno’s response on the screen, vision blurring.

Maybe it was tears.

Because even if I had a hundred lives, I’d choose to be Technoblade in every single one.

“The life you once chose… will always be here, waiting for your return.”