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Chapter Text

Above all else, piglins are created to survive. They're built to withstand the harsh treatment of the Nether and its inhabitants. They grow up quick because they have to. Their instincts guarantee their protection.

Technoblade was built the same way.

Technoblade was an odd child. He didn't have the nose of other squeakers, and his skin was a little lighter than everyone else's -even his tail, which was longer and less curly. But he had the same strength, had the same voice, had the same instincts. His nails were slightly shorter but still sharpened to a fine point, perfect for slicing and scratching. His ears were more pointy, but that just meant more room for decoration. He was taken into his hoard without much problem, even if he was a little odd.

Piglins had no concept of "family." They lived in groups and protected each other with their numbers. It would've been cruel, unheard of even, to leave the odd squeaker out by himself. He might need help. Everyone brought up the squeakers; there were no set parents. No siblings. The older piglins dedicated their time to raising the squeakers and give them the best chance at life in the Nether. There was just the hoard, and the ones that were truly special, marked by gifts. They took care of each other, the need to protect so deeply rooted in them it could be found even in zombified piglins. It was crucial for survival.

Even from a young age, Technoblade had begun to show the characteristics of a brute. His tusks started to grow in before the other squeakers, and older piglins had to show him the proper way to take care of them. Otherwise, they would curl into his cheeks and break the sensitive skin. He had begun to outgrow his littermates as well. He wasn't quite as big as the other brute squeakers, and that was okay; he was always a little odd. He still put the other, younger members of his hoard to shame.

Techno grew out long, wavy hair, unlike the other piglins. At first, he and his hoard considered slicing it off to keep it out of the way, but a young group of squeakers had grown quite attached to it. Soon, one of the hoard's healers discovered ways to style Techno's hair to keep it out of the way while still allowing it to grow long and keeping the young piglins happy. It became a common pass time for the hoard to decorate Techno's hair with golden chains and find new ways to pin it up. It made for breathtaking displays during ceremonies and celebrations and easy ways to calm fussy squeakers. Techno wanted to protect his hoard, like any other piglin, and keep them safe. He was getting restless, and with the added bruteness, everyone could see it.

So, he was given an axe, and he was taught to fight.

Technoblade showed promise, demonstrated the potential to be a valuable protector to the bastion. He was capable, and he learned quickly. He devoted himself to understanding what he was taught, being better, becoming the best. The older piglins began to teach Techno other things, too. How to work leather, grow netherwart, brew potions, and most importantly, work with gold. Every squeaker learned it at some point in their life, but it was always seen as a right of passage. The first ring, the first jewel, the first cast, it all had to be earned. And earn it he did.

It wasn't long before Technobalde rose in his ranks.

He and his hoard were in charge of a bastion with several large treasure rooms. Explorers were always after the gold, but it wasn't hard to keep them away. The Nether was a much crueler thing than any adventurer (Techno thought that for a while, at least). Wayward souls were dealt with, and the bastion was safe.

Technoblade did well to protect his hoard, protect their bastion, to honor the memory of his fallen piglin. His ears became decorated with gold, rings on his fingers, marking his first hoglin kill, the first battle won, first funeral. They told the story of his life, everything that made Techno himself. He had one ring that he wore on his tusk proudly. While it was technically given to him by one of his many mentors, it was from the whole hoard.

It marks the time that Techno had single-handedly found a group of squeakers that had gotten lost. They had accidentally angered several hoglins and were cowering in the netherrack. He fought the hoglins off by himself and returned every squeaker home, safe and sound.

Tusk rings were given for many reasons. To mark a significant feat in one's life or to show a much deeper connection outside of just a part of the hoard. What mattered was that they were not a light massage. It carried the weight of one's actions, of the good change they have brought to the lives around them. They were an honor, given only as gifts.

Techno had become the commander of his bastion not long after. He was skillful, calculating. He was one of the few commanders that regularly led battalions outside of the bastion, deep into the Nether. They never ran out of supplies. Despite being so abnormally young, Technobale dedicated so much of himself to everything he did. Barely fourteen years had passed in the overworld from Techno's time as a squeaker to where he was now. He hoard couldn't be prouder of the strange child they had raised.

Unfortunately, because of Techno's skill, his bastion became well known throughout the Nether realm and those who frequented it. More people knew of the treatures it was meant to protect, and more people became aware of who and what, Technobalde was. A hybrid. Rare. Powerful. Perfect to complete a sick collection.

A group of well-armed bounty hunters attacked the bastion one day. Techno was shaken by the small explosion they had detonated at the base of the bastion, causing the structure to sway uncomfortably. He called for a small group to follow him, rushing down towards the group of attackers.

Techno sliced through them with his axe, ripping their skin to shreds with his claws. He bared his tusks in a cruel snarl, throwing himself into battle with the rest of his hoard. The most important thing they needed to do was protect the gold. Protect the shrines and the statues, offers to the dead, and a sign of home.

Techno loaded his crossbow, shooting across the bridge he was stationed on at another man setting down TNT. Techno had seen explorers use it before to gather materials in the walls of Nether Wastes; he knows what it does. The man falls to the ground before he can light it, and Techno quickly orders other piglins to destroy it. They did what they could, but more often than not, the TNT would detonate before it could be destroyed.

The situation was quickly getting out of control. Explosions rang out, shaking the ground with their force. A man landed in front of Techno, a cruel smile spreading across his face. He said something that Techno couldn't understand, looking over him in a way that made him deeply uncomfortable. Although hardened by responsibility and battle, Technobalde was still a child. And suddenly, he was afraid.

The man pulled out a crossbow before Techno could react, landing a clean shot on him. As he stumbled back, Techno felt a strong sense of weakness was over him. The arrow smelled bitter, and his mind melted into foggy white noise. Before Techno could process anything, he felt something heavy collide with his face, sending him to the floor of the bridge. The man grabbed Techno's hair, ripping out the braid and jerking Techno's head around. Technoblade yelped in pain, hands clawing at the hand gripping his hair, but he couldn't get any reaction. The man yelled something out into the battlefield, and then darkness consumed Techno's mind.

The first thing Technoblade noticed when he woke up was that he was freezing. He shot up from the floor, hissing in pain as a migraine set in, making his head pulse. His tail wrapped tightly around his thigh, trying to ground himself. Squinting, Techno looked up and noticed a large set of bars in front of him. Bright, blinding light spilled in from behind them, lighting up the small room Techno was in. The floors and walls were made out of a material similar to blackstone, colored a light grey, growing an unfamiliar moss in the cracks.

Techno jerked up. He was in the overworld. His hoard had told him stories of what happens to piglings if they ever entered the overworld. Their skin, and their mind, would rot away and leave an empty husk behind. It's why they avoid the zombified piglings roaming the Nether. They're believed to be touched by the overworld. Techno quickly checked over his hands, seeing no rotting, or even feeling any pain that would be associated with it. He stared at his skin for a while. Had his hoard been wrong? If he was fine, surely the rest of his hoard should be too.

Techno reached up to touch his sore scalp, abruptly realizing his hair had been sliced off in jagged lines. He felt around desperately, hoping that it wasn't true, that his hair was still there and felt--his earing had been removed. All of his jewelry had been removed, actually. All of the memories, all the gifts, and reminders Techno had of his hoard. They were all stolen away. It had been replaced with a singular tag, dangling from his ear in a newly punched hole. His ear hurt when Techno touched it, and he could feel crusting blood. Had they stolen away his bastion, too? Destroyed the walls and watched them crumble, stealing the gold from his home. The gold that meant safety, that told his ever aching heart that  this person, this place, they are safe .

A figure suddenly blocked out the sun. Techno looked up, immediately recognizing it as the man who had shot him. Techno growled deep in his throat, shifting to lunge at the man when he quickly held up something. It was a tusk ring from one of his hoard members. Techno froze.

He couldn't understand what the man was saying, but he got the message.  We have your hoard. Do what we want, and they'll stay safe . Technoblade could only assume the bounty hunters had taken control of his bastion; why wouldn't they? They weren't above kidnapping a child, using his hoard as leverage. It seems fitting that they would have destroyed what was left after the battle with the rest of their TNT. The only thing he had left to protect was his hoard. The one thing Techno's instincts still screamed at him to do.

Techno complied. It was hard, watching all of these people around him without any gold on. Wearing gold had always meant a sign of peace. That the wearer meant no harm to Techno or his hoard. No one wore gold around here. They carted it around and sold it off, giving Techno a cruel sneer what they caught him starting. Every instinct he had screamed at him to fight,  fight, get away, find the hoard, find the gold means home and safety. You're in danger; find them. Destroy the threat . But he couldn't. He couldn't lash out, not when they cuffed his wrists to the wall, metal rubbing the skin raw until it bled. He had to comply. He had to behave, do what the people want. For his hoard.

He complied with the man when they didn't feed him, when he froze in a corner when it got dark (the people called it  night).  He behaved; he didn't protest when they shipped him off to a strange place, walls built up in a circle, walls filled with loud, loud things, and people who yelled and cheered and  watched  him.

Techno fought for his life when he was pitted against a strange creature. His hands shook as the people yelled excitedly every time he'd jab with his knife, and how they cheered when he killed his opponent. The man who took him was there when Techno was carted back to a small room, wrists bound and knife taken, and the man looked satisfied. Techno understood. He was expected to fight. He was expected to  win . The man was handed a bag of  gold  (home, safety), and Technobale had never felt so much loss in his life. Not when they stole away his hair or his memories, not when they destroyed his bastion in front of his eyes, but when the one thing that made him feel safe became the fuel for his suffering.

Technoblade decided, that night, in his cell, looking up at the strange white circle in the sky (the moon,  moon, moon, it was called the moon ), that he would use this.

The biggest mistake the bounty hunters ever made was teaching Techno how to fight in the overworld. When they forced him to learn to take down enemies three times his size. How to fight off more things he could count more often than he slept. In the Nether, fights were brutal. A show of strength. Dirty. Out here, it was much different. He learned how to use a sword with finesse. Use his power, his strength, and save his claws and tusks for a show. Techno was sickened by that word.  Show .

Every time they barked an order at Techno, commanded him to do something, he was listening. Putting the pieces together in his mind. When he was free of this place, when he was done with these people, he wanted to tell them in their language. He wanted them to understand his message, loud and clear. He wanted them to feel terror when he told them he was stronger than they ever hoped he'd get.

When Techno fought, when he won, the crowd cheered something. For him.  Blood for the blood god . They didn't cheer it for anyone else. It was Techno's, and his alone. It sickened him how much comfort he took in it. When his body ached and cried for food, for rest, for warmth, for safety and comfort, he supplied it with the chant instead. What sickened him, even more was when he began to chant himself. When he took pleasure in the carnage.

Techno grew. He doesn't know how much, but he knows that the world looked different when he first arrived at this place. In the overworld. The bars used to look bigger, and he used to be able to tuck himself into the corner, looking for warmth in the world he was dragged into. His tusks dug into his cheeks, and Techno's jaw ached in a way it hadn't ever before.

He doesn't know how long it's been. How much time had passed. He doesn't know how to keep track. Time passes so differently than in the Nether. The people outside, the people in the village, talked about something. About a  year, year, year . But what was that? An event? A ceremony? Time? How long was a year? The world transformed around him. Once, it was warm during the day. The temperature was bearable until it turned night. Then it wasn't. Once, the trees' colors reminded him more of home for a little, then the leaves fell. Then a freezing that seeped into the day set in. Techno shivered and distantly wondered if this was how striders felt when taken from the lava.

Every day Techno felt weaker. But he felt a little stronger too. With every battle won, he honed his skills. He put his mind to use, learning the languages of the people who stole him. Every meal denied served to stoke the inferno in Techno's chest, building up the rage he would use to free himself when the time came.

One day, after something they called a week ( week, week, week, seven days, seven long days ) filled with close battles, something (they called it a bird) fluttered into Techno's cell. Something shiny was clutched in its beak, quickly dropping it out of fear when Techno reached out. There, an earring from one of his hoard mates laid on the ground. He knew it well; he helped make it. He grabbed it with trembling hands, pulling it close when everything stopped. A putrid smell wafted off of it in waves. The distinct, unmistakable scent of rotting flesh. Of zombie piglin.

His hoard... had they...?

All Technoblade saw was red. The thing he was doing this for, the people he swore to protect, the sacrifices he made. It was all gone, rotted away in the place with him. Rage bubbles up in Techno's throat, and he can't tell if he's crying or screaming. Maybe both. His mind turned foggy, but he knew that somehow, he managed to tear the bars to his cell apart and scramble out. He rushes to where he had been suspecting his hoard was kept, praying that it wasn't true.

There, in a pile, bodies stacked on top of each other with no respect, no care, laid his hoard, rotting away. They had died. Probably long ago, when these people first took Techno. He never got to say goodbye. He never got to lay them to rest.

Techno grabbed a torch in frustration, throwing it onto the pile. It burst aflame, just like in funerals. This world was far too cold. Technoblade was going to make some warmth.

Yelling filled Techno's ears as the world around him began to burn down. If his hoard didn't deserve a proper burial in the eyes of these people, the people didn't deserve even a decent death in Techno's eyes. Techno dodged the sword swung at him, turning around the jabbing his attacker in the throat. He stole the sword, slicing his enemies down as they gathered around him. There was no mercy in his heart for these people—these  things . Instincts took over, rage taking over his mind compelling him to lay carnage to those who hurt him. WHo watched him suffer and did  nothing .

He stole an axe from a dead man. Lit houses on fire. Spilled the blood of anyone in his path. Anyone who dared live in this wretched village and profit off of his suffering. When he was stabbed, when his skin was slashes open and spilled blood, Techno couldn't feel it. He slaughtered everyone. Anyone. He looked into the eyes of a child before bringing his axe down on them.

A small group managed to steal his axe and his sword, but Techno was still armed. He always was. He clawed at their faces, slicing their flesh with sickening ease, digging his thumbs into their eyes, and snarling. He yelled something at the people. The fear in their eyes was the fruit all of Technoblade's labor had been for.

When Techno's rampage was done, when he couldn't tell if the blood covering his body is his own or others, Techno walked out to the edge of the village and just... sat down. He crossed over one leg over the other and watched the village burn. He didn't know how long he sat there; he'd become numb to time and the cold and the hurt. He distantly wondered if maybe his jewelry, his rings, and his memories of a better time were somewhere in the burning village, melting down and becoming a new part of the earth. Eventually, he feels something wrap around his body, and he's hoisted up. Quite murmuring fills his ears. He doesn't look to see who it is. He can't bring himself to care. He hopes, perhaps, the universe will be kind and let him join his hoard again.

Chapter Text

Phil adjusted his grip on Wilbur's hand. Traveling with his son was always equal amounts of fun and stress. Wilbur, wonderful, sweet Wilbur, always had something interesting to say about the scenery but got hopelessly distracted and would wander away. And, when you're nearly a day's trip from any sort of civilization, and your fourteen-year-old child has disappeared into the woods, it can be quite terrifying. So Phil keeps a firm grip on Wilbur's hand.

Slowly, rising smoke comes into view over the trees, making Phil squink his eyes. Smoke means fire. There weren't any lava pools in their area as far as he knew, and no thunderstorms had happened recently. That meant that whatever sent this smoke into the sky wasn't natural. As the smoke grew and became more and more condensed, far more than any regulated bonfire, a strong sense of panic make its home in Phil's heart. He picked up the pace, Wilbur matching his stride, likely feeling the same concern Phil was. When they broke through the trees, they were greeted with a burning village. Phil slapped his hand over Wilbur's eyes. There were bodies.  Everywhere .

The stongs scent of blood hit Phil, mixing with the smoke and making Phil nauseous. Wilbur smells it too, pulling his sweater over this nose and gaging lightly. Phil's wings shuddered nervously, becoming tense and ready to fly off at any sign of danger. He quickly scanned the area, ears straining for any sign of life. All he sees are burnt bodies strewn about, some looking like they were crawling away from the carnage before meeting their demise.

Something small caught his eyes. Oh god, it was a  child . Sitting at the entrance to the village, watching the buildings burn.

"Wilbur," Phil says cautiously. "This doesn't look good, mate. There's a lot of dead people, but I see a kid, and we need to help. Will you be okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine." Wilbur clenches his hands and nods stiffly. Phil puts all of his heart into trusting his son's words.

Slowly, Phil removes his hand from Wilbur's eyes and begins to shuffle over towards the child. More and more dread fills his chest wither every cautious step. As they get closer, Phil can see more and more of the child's features: a tail, tusks that poke into his cheek, long point ears.  A piglin hybrid ? They're usually found in the Nether, but one being in the Overword wasn't  necessarily  unheard of. But nobody knows anything about them, was this his village? Had it been burnt down trying to get to him? What happened? God, the boy couldn't be much older than Wilbur.

Wilbur hangs back as Phil approaches the kid. He speaks softly to not startle him, but the kid continues to stare blankly into the carnage.  He must be in shock . He's bleeding, too, covered in blood. Phil prays that it isn't all his.

Slowly, he reaches out and touches the boy's shoulder. When he doesn't react, Phil pulls him close and cradles his body gently. He turns to Wilbur, who looks like he has just about as many questions as Phil. Phil's eyes drag over the expanse of the burning village one last time, ears straining for any sort of cry for help, and he doesn't know how to feel when he finds nothing. Relief that none would have to like with that kind of suffering? Remorse for the lone survivor of the tragedy?

"We should go," Phil ushers, hoisting the boy up and shifting him so that Phil could reach out a hand to Wilbur. Wilbur quickly takes the extended hand, and they leave.

Being cradled felt so alien after the time Techno had spent in that village. When the numbness finally seeped away, and his brain caught up with the fact that he was moving, Techno blinked. He made a soft, distressed snort and began to shift. He was quickly soothed by something, something that made his eyes droop as a comforting rumble filled his chest. At that moment, droopy-eyed and exhausted, Techno realized he was being carried. He was being carried by someone who housed a deep voice and low rumbles.  A man , Techno's brain screams.  Another man has taken you.

He pulls back, trying to center himself, scanning with wider, terrified eyes. In his frantic looking, something caught his eyes. The man's hair, and the boy walking beside him, his sweater, they were  gold . They had gold.  They were safe , his instincts soothed, overriding the cold panic that had just been taking over his mind.  It's okay; these people mean home .

Techno's eyes pricked with tears as he clung to the man. A soft hand rubbed his back, and Techno didn't resist the way his tail wrapped around the man's waist.

Later, when he was thinking reasonably, he'd had time to feel scared and be wary of these people. But for now, for the part of him that was still a small, terrified squeaker, begging for a home he can never return to, this was enough.

Phil had a hard time unlatching the piglin hybrid from him, despite the fact he had passed out on the walk back. Wilbur hovered anxiously in the doorway, and Phil set the still unknown child on a bed to rest. The spare room they had had now become wholly dedicated to their new guest, for everyone's safety. He promptly turned his attention to began brewing potions. Phil thought of the hybrid, and his stomach churned in a discomfort he hasn't felt in years. He looked so... broken. What happened? Who did this to anyone, but especially a child?

The small bubbling of a potion's completion alerted Phil back to his tasks at hand. Several health potions, regeneration, anything he would think of that would help. He hesitated on brewing weakness potions, but years of instincts to be wary of the Nether's hostility brought his hands to brewing anyway.

With a small armful of potions, Phil moved back into the spare room. He set and sorted all of them by use and duration, carefully picking up a few sleeping potions and adding a few drops of weakness to them. He didn't want the poor thing waking up and panicking, primarily if Phil wasn't in the position to handle that situation. WHich he wasn't. Gently, he coaxed a sleeping potion down the hybrid's throat.

"Wilbur, could you get the first aid kit?" Phil asked, and Wilbur nodded quickly and ran off to retrieve the supplies.

Slowly, Phil began addressing the wounds. The blood that had soaked into his clothes began to dry and crack as Phil worked, making him cringe and shed most of his outer layers. Most of the wounds would need to be monitored for a long time, but some things concerned Phil more than all the blood. The boy's tusks had begun to grow into his cheeks, he was far too light for his size, and his ear was bleeding heavily from a large gap.  Had an earring ripped the skin?  Quickly, his mind began to spiral on piglin's metabolism. How much food would he need? Phil knew how to fix the tusk situation, his own canines needed similar care, but Phil was quickly realizing he had no clue how to take care of a piglin. Let alone the extra challenges of whatever sides being a hybrid would bring out.

Phil sighs, leaning back and rubbing at his face. This was exhausting. Tomorrow, he would probably venture back out, without Wilbur, and look for any other survivors in the village. He had already looked and hoped, but he would never forgive himself if there was someone to help that he didn't. Possibly people who had gotten away and were coming back to look for things. Tiredly, he began to brew extra sleeping potions that would allow the hybrid to heal and keep Wilbur safe while in the house alone.

When Phil was finished, and more stitches than Phil could count were sown into the boy's body, he grabbed his clothes and retreated from the guest room. Wilbur surprised him with some food, which he took gratefully and began to clean up for the night.

He put Wilbur to sleep, then collapsed on his bed, exhausted.

The next morning, Phil explains the situation to Wilbur, who nods along and easily takes on the responsibility of giving their guest any and all necessary potions. Phil would always be thankful for Wilbur, for his ability to step up when needed, but it stood out now more than ever.

With a sigh, Phil heads out. He spreads his wings, taking off with a bit of a wobbly start. Under any other circumstances, this would've been a lovely day for a fly. The wind feels good against his face, chilling his hearted skin. But he couldn't stop thinking about the village, where he found a boy he doesn't even know the name of. Much sooner than Phil would like, the town comes into view, still smoking despite the fires getting choked out by night. Slowly, he circles the area, looking for any obvious signs of life. Phil doesn't see any, so cautiously, he lands and begins to sweep the streets.

There were bodies piled up everywhere. The longer Phil looked, the more he began to suspect more than a fire had happened to these people. Some were missing limbs, others with their necks slashed open and chests crushed. The smell of blood is putrid, even worse than yesterday, and Phil has to occasionally gag and any particular sight. Scorched flesh mingles with blood and smoke. It was the smell of death, Phil assumed. A death that the boy he saved had escaped.

A particularly large pile of bodies caught Phil's attention, all of them burnt beyond recognition. He tried not to linger on this. He had bigger things to deal with, like a boy who no longer had a family whose home was destroyed. Who was at his home, with his son, and this village is beyond salvation.

After making sure there was no life here that he was abandoning, even daring to glance into a house only to find the body of a child who couldn't have been older than seven, Phil leaves. He feels sick. What kind of monster would do that to a village? To all those people? Who would do that to the boy he saved, steal everything from him? Phil could barely fathom something so cruel.

When he gets back home, Wilbur is waiting for him. Phil shakes his head solemnly. Wilbur doesn't need words to understand, and he deflates a little. They've lived in the woods for a long time, neither are strangers to death, but human lives will  always  be different. Phil rubs at his face and moves towards Wilbur, pulling him into a loose hug.

"I'll watch our friend for a little; why don't you go rest?" Phil says gently, swaying with the wind that sweeps against the sides of the house. In the brief moment of calm, Phil's heart relaxes.

Wilbur nods and scampers off, quickly telling Phil that the leftover potions were left untouched in the guest room. Phil watches him go before breathing quietly to himself, for just a moment, before moving to the guest room. There, he finds the boy still sleeping, looking only slightly better than he did yesterday. Phil hadn't managed to get much blood off of the boy or out of his clothes, and he's pretty sure the bed sheets are beyond saving as well. But it can't be helped. He has spare shawls and spare bedsheets, but a child had no spare life. Phil wants nothing more than to cup the dying flames in his hands and nurse them back to life until, hopefully, he can see the true fire of a survivor.

Phil was reorganizing the medical supplies when he hears shifting behind him. He turns around to see the piglin hybrid, wide awake, staring at him with all the terror in the world.

"Oh, no, no," Phil says, crouching down. "It's okay. You're okay."

The boy shuffles back. He tried even harder to sink into the wall when Phil slowly extends a hand.

"N-no, stop-" The boy's voice is rough and has a heavy accent Phil can't place, but he stops, pulling his hand away.

The boy looks around the room quickly, clawed hands digging into the sheets and ripping them, breath fast and erratic. Finally, his eyes land on Phil's head, his hair maybe, and fixates on it. After a few seconds that feel all too close to a standoff, the kid relaxes lightly. Enough for Phil to move forward and give him a health potion, which he doesn't drink, but holds gently.

Eventually, Phil has to leave and make food for him and Wilbur, but the kid seems... alright. Not in the grand scheme of things. When Phil checks in next, the hybrid has passed out again. There's a lot of information Phil will have to unpack about this kid, but for now... For now, he won't disappear in the middle of the night, and Phil can help him fix his tusks. For now, Phil can worry and plan and research. He can tell Wilbur stories and cautiously lock the guest room door.

For now, he can protect one more kid. He hopes.

Chapter Text

Technoblade woke with his mind racing. What had happened hadn't sunk in yet, not until he could still smell the smoke and blood and ash on his skin. It makes him want to burn everything off, rid himself of the feelings that traveled down his arms and into his fingertips, just under the scarred flesh. How he could still feel it all beneath his claws and between his teeth. Techno feels sick.

His hoard was dead, and he had killed everyone else in retaliation. He was supposed to be free now, but Techno has never felt more trapped.

Techno's chest heaves with labored breaths that bring back a sickeningly familiar ache deep within him. Flashes of fights and getting tossed around without a moment to breathe flood his mind. Techno lies on something he's seen before but never really touched. The material around him reminds him of his nests back home, and something chokes and stifles within him. Bed . Clawed fingers grasp at the fabric, tearing holes, pulling and pushing at the material. He can't decide if he wants to wrap himself up in the warmth or push away anything that makes him think of the past. Of home . Techno's breathing gets worse, and he feels like he's choking on nothing. His tail wraps around his thigh.

Suddenly, a man pushes the door open. Techno snaps his attention over, stilling everything in his body. The hunters didn't like when he made noise, didn't like when he moved around them. His wrist burns. The man stops as well.

Phil wasn't expecting the piglin hybrid to be awake. Now that he has a better look at the kid, alive and functioning and moving (well, sort of), his heart absolutely breaks . The poor thing looks terrified, gripping the blankets under him like a lifeline. Phil crouches down, tucking his wings tightly to his back. The kid had just been through something traumatic, far beyond what Phil can imagine. It could take a while for him to come around. That's alright; Phil could be patient. He has all the time in the world to ease the kid into comfort.

He would like to bring up some things, like the state of the kid's village and what happened , but Phil wouldn't dare push a child who was suffering. The child was a survivor, and something terrible happened to his town, and he was hurt. That was all Phil needed to know; that one day, some monster had decided to slaughter every innocent person who lived there and burn the place to the ground, but they were long gone by now. Phil had other priorities.

"Hello," he says softly. Calmly.

Techno chokes on a breath and starts heaving out air again. He was trapped here, wasn't he? Techno couldn't understand why he knows, he just does, and everything in him is screaming for an escape. His fingers twist into the material around him.

"Oh, no," the man across from him says. "It's alright; you don't have to panic."

He speaks softly, and he certainly looks... different from the bounty hunters. Sharp teeth and talons remind Techno of his own, but with two large appendages that sprouted from his spine. They look just like what birds have, what allows them freedom and flight. Techno had always been jealous of birds. The differences are enough to soothe his screaming instincts, though, if only a little. Techno shifts uncomfortably under the man's gaze.

The man smiles. His fangs remind Techno of his hoard. He blinks. Hard.

"It's alright," the man soothes, releasing a soft, trilling sound into the air. "Calm your breathing."

Piglins are built to survive, so that's what Techno does. He steels himself, and for the time being, prepares himself to comply.

Techno takes a deep breath, like the man wants, never letting his gaze wander. The man seems pleased and shifts to sit comfortably on the floor. Techno feels odd, being above the man even though he was still sitting. Techno is looking down on him. That should have made him feel something. Instead, he just wants to run away and hide.

"I'm Phil," the man says. Techno keeps silent. People don't deserve to know his name. Not after they've taken his identity and twisted it into something weak and fragile, smothered in blood, making him want to choke. Techno will keep this one thing to himself like he always has.

Phil doesn't let the silence affect him much, though. He takes in stride, filling the air with a soft, breathy voice and light trills. "My son and I found you a few days ago. We've been trying to heal you. It's good to know that you're awake, finally."

Techno risks a glance down to the loose hanging shirt clutching to his shoulders, and sure enough, bandages wrap around where he knows he got stabbed. That doesn't mean people haven't used healing Techno to try and win his favor in the past, though. Healing can be done by people who want things.

"How are you feeling?" Phil asks. "Does anything hurt?"

Phil feels like he's in a standoff. The kid's eyes barely leave him, and when they do, it's quick, split-second motions that Phil barely catches. It makes him tense, even if it was just Phil picking up on the kid's demeanor and letting it bleed into the way he holds himself. He's terrified, and Phil just tries to not make it overly obvious that he knows.

"...hungry," the kid eventually says, voice gravelly with unuse.

"We can solve that," Phil smiled politely. He seems to be doing that a lot today. Phil has found it's more calling to plaster on a new smile occasionally instead of keeping one up all the time, though, so he lets the smile drop once the moment is over. "Is there anything you want?"

Techno thinks, but he doesn't remember what kind of food he was given before, so few and far between. He hasn't seen any ingredients, no warts or fungi, or anything he used to eat up in the overworld, either. He stays silent, pressing back towards the wall a little more.

"I'll make something light, then," Phil says, "Potatoes? How do you feel about those?"

Unsure of what else to do, Techno nods quickly. Phil smiles, standing slowly and readjusting his wings to keep his silhouette small. "I'll be back, don't move too much, alright? Your wounds are probably still tender, and we don't want anything getting irritated."

Techno nods again, waiting stiffly until Phil closes the door behind him. It was left open just a crack, but not enough for anyone to see inside, so he gets to work. Techno throws the blanket off, quickly assessing himself. His mind is a little less foggy now, clear of his initial panic, so he's able to process every ache and pain. The adrenaline, shot through him at the sight of a person, does little to hide how everything hurts . Technoblade wracks his memory for everywhere he got hurt in his rage; finding a bandage in every place he knows would have been a problem. That's one problem out of the way. At least he wouldn't have to do it himself.

Techno eases himself to the ground, hissing in pain. Everything aches, burns, and pulses, and Techno knows he shouldn't be moving right now, but he has to. Phil is not afraid of him, and the last time someone had taken him, and they weren't scared, he became a slave. He lost himself to the suffering. Techno can't let that happen again. These people are not afraid, so Technoblade must be.

He hobbles over to the long cabinet, carefully inspecting the bottles left on it. He knows what a healing potion looks like. He had practically memorized the appearance after far too many of them were poured just out of his reach or hastily applied before the next fight. His hands shake. There's a potion Techno doesn't recognize, a light greyish blue, almost too cloudy to see through. He picks up the bottle, carefully uncorking it and sniffing. It doesn't smell like anything Techno knows, bitter and almost dry smelling, and he's reluctant to taste it. He doesn't know how big the dosage size is. Instead, he reserves himself to be wary of the potion and moves on. Techno will have time to try and figure out the ingredients later.

Next, he needs to find… something . Something to keep on him. Techno can't damage the room in any way. Phil will surely notice if Techno breaks the reflective glass in the corner or breaks off a chunk of wood from the bed. A smaller object, then. Something laying around the room that he can use. Technoblade pulls open drawers, shuffling through clothes. Some of them are bloodstained, making Techno's tail flick uncomfortably. His ears strain for any sign of movement towards the door while he works. The cabinet proves useless, full of only clothes and soft fabrics. Techno suppresses a sharp cry when he turns and trips over his own tail, taking a harsh step forward. Something in his thigh feels like it rips , and he presses a shaky hand to his mouth to keep from making any noise.

Techno gathers his tail, moving forward, promptly ignoring the liquid he feels traveling down his thigh.

He finds another cabinet, less wide but slightly taller than the one before. Techno has seen men working behind cabinets like these, counting gold and handing out payments, but he never figured out what they were called. Techno repeats the same process, ripping open drawers and pushing the contents aside, scanning for anything useful to him. His ears stayed pointed at the door, and his tail pressed under his armpit.

Techno's hands hover over… something. Something is what he needs, however, so he grabs it. It's a little big for Techno's hands, but he can still conceal it easily. The hilt is long, with simple designs carved into the golden material. A quick lick tells Techno that the material isn't real gold, and his face scrunches up in disgust. The top of the item has a little curved handle, almost like some of the swords Techno has seen used. The handle comes down to press to the hilt, probably so it can hook onto something. The hold, the fake gold, continues until it stops at a sharp edge that looks somewhat removable. A quick wiggle to the split metal tells Techno that yes, it can be screwed in and out. The point would be more useful with a proper grip, however, so Techno keeps it.

He moves back to the bed, shakily hoisting himself back up. Once he's sitting, he finally allows himself a glance down. Techno's stomach lurches at the sight of a blood-soaked bandage around his thigh. The blood pools under him slowly, but it's still a cause for concern. Techno can see a trail left behind from his steps. Panicking slightly, Phil told him not to move, and he disobeyed . Techno throws one of the extra blankets onto the ground, covering the blood trail.

Technoblade's attention snaps up at the sound of the door creaking open. There stands Phil, with what Techno guesses are potatoes in his hand, resting on some sort of flat object. It looks fragile. The potatoes are steaming, so they've probably been cooked in some way.

Phil shuffles inside, eyeing the tossed-off blanket. Instead of mentioning it, he just smiles at Techno, handing off the delicate tray.

"Careful, the plate is still a little hot."

Plate . It's called a plate.

Techno nods, taking the plate in his hands. The heat barely affects him, despite being away from the Nether for so long. He moves to put the plate down, accidentally resting it on his thighs and letting out a sudden, pained hiss. Phil freezes immediately.

"What's causing you pain?" He immediately asks, dropping down to get a better look. Phil's hands go to the edges of the sheets wrapped around Techno's hips, but Techno grabs his hands in almost an iron grip.

They meet eyes. One terrified, the other concerned. Phil doesn't try to move, or raise his voice, or even speak. They just look . Techno is the first to break eye contact. He lets go, and Phil quickly pulls back the sheet. He swears at the sight of the blood soaking into Techno's skin and the surrounding bed.

"It looks like something opened up. I'm going to have to deal with this, alright?" Phil pulls away, reaching for one of the healing potions on the long cabinet. Techno's hand tightens around the object he found. Healing potions always made him feel fuzzy and out of himself, and the hunters would always use his healing haze to transport him or lock him up again.

Phil passes the bottle over, dropping it into Techno's hands. Techno stills. Was he supposed to drink it himself ? Techno cast another glance up, almost like he was asking for permission, but Phil wasn't looking. Technoblade had gotten used to potions being shoved down his throat. He'd gotten pretty good at not coughing them back up, knowing realistically, he needed every potion he could get his hands on. He takes a quick gulp of the healing potion, setting the rest to the side. He makes sure to hide it, though. Phil had undoubtedly expected him to drink all of it.

The tingling in his fingertips started almost immediately, but Techno could still form proper thoughts, so that was good enough.

Phil had moved to snip away the soiled bandages, but Techno wasn't paying attention, only catching the quick sight of shiny metal against already vulnerable, tender skin. He jumps back, his other hand snapping forward under his thigh. The sharp metal scratches at his skin with the hastiness of his action. Phil stops immediately, putting his hands up.

"I'm just getting rid of the bandages, mate. They're clearly not doing anything right now."

Techno swallows. He nods. Right. Right . Stitches probably popped or something. Techno had heard the term thrown around him plenty of times after a fight. He would probably need to get new ones placed in. A painfully vulnerable breath rips itself from Techno's mouth.

Phil inspects Techno's injury quickly, muttering to himself. He presses a few extra gauzes he had stored away to the wound, sopping up the blood. True to his original thought, some of the stitches had been ripped out, and the wound had reopened. Phil sits back on his haunches.

"You drank the potion?"

The hybrid nods, his only visible hand trembling.

"Shit. You're still bleeding quite a bit, and your wound reopened. I'm going to have to stitch closed again, alright?"

The kid swallows and nods.

Phil sends a quick nod back. "I have something that'll help it hurt less-" he stands and grabs one of the unknown potions. The kid starts shaking his head incessantly.

"No? It'll hurt, mate, are you sure?"

The kid nods. His tail comes to wrap around his uninjured thigh.

"Alright. I'll leave it here for you." Phil rests the potion bottle next to Techno's pillow. "Drink it if you have trouble sleeping, alright?"

The next few minutes are long and grueling. Phil's fingers quickly become bloodstained, carefully guiding the needle through irritated flesh and pulling tight. He tries to work as fast as possible, a small pang of hurt forming in his chest at very flinch and whimper from the kid. Phil couldn't imagine Wilbur in a situation like this. What kind of person would hurt him like this? A child ? Phil doesn't have the time to reflect, though. He needed to finish these off so he could get everything bandaged and cleaned again.

Phil wraps up Techno's thigh with care, making sure nothing was too tight or causing him any extra discomfort. He passes Technoblade another health potion, telling him to drink this one in small intervals. The kid's ears flick as Phil gives instructions, and his eyes start to look a little glazed over. A towel is placed over the bloodstains on the bed. It isn't anything new, it's happened more times than Phil can count at this point, but he doesn't have the heart to kick the kid to the floor so he can clean the sheets. That can wait, and they can be changed in the morning. The towel should work for now.

“You… that must’ve hurt,” Phil starts. “How long were you bleeding for? How did your stitches split?”

The kid pauses for a second, sniffing as he recovers from his new set of stitches. He shrugs.

“Things like that don’t just happen, kiddo,” Phil continues. “Were you too restless in your sleep? Did you move too much on accident? Why did you try to hide it?”

The kid shrugs again, not meeting Phil’s gaze. “Moving…” He says. It’s always better to tell a half truth than a lie. People tend to believe you more.

“You moved too much on accident?” Phil echos. “That’s okay, but you can’t do that again, alright? You need to let things heal before you start moving around, okay?”

The kid nods again. Phil sighs, deflating a little. The hybrid clearly felt bad, or at least was in pain, so he wasn’t going to push it. He’d clearly learned some sort of message.

The plate, which had sat forgotten until now, is passed to Techno again. The wrapping had kept the potatoes warm, something Phil happily demonstrates by removing the layers of wrapping and presenting a plain, baked potato. The kid looked borderline reverent, taking the potato in his bare hands and taking a large bite out of it. He glances at Phil occasionally, and Phil flashes a warm smile every time.

Phil, satisfied once he saw the kid take a small sip of the healing potion, gets up to take his leave. "Leave all of your empty things on the floor; I'll collect them in the morning. Remember, small sips of that, alright? Get some rest. You must be exhausted."

Techno watches with rapt attention until the door is closed, fully this time, and he is alone again. Quickly, he chugs down the two health potions, scarfing down the second piece of food he was given.

Techno sets down the plate and the two bottles on the floor, like Phil expected, laying his head down once the world started to feel a little hazy. His eye caught on the mystery potion, face scrunching up as he pushes it away to the corner.

He lets the haziness guide him to sleep, above anything else. Above the pain and the absolute exhaustion that clung to him like a curse. It would only serve for a little bit, but he would sleep deeply. Techno would rather have a short but good sleep instead of a long, restless night that left him feeling more exhausted by morning.

With his weapon gripped in his hand, hidden beneath the pillow, Techno lets himself drift off. He will survive this, Technoblade tells himself, and if he doesn't, he won't have to suffer anymore.

Chapter Text

Technoblade woke in the dead of night. The world around him is pitch black, but he can see just fine. His scalp stings with the weight of his greasy hair, and the skin all around his face feels more irritated than he remembers. Maybe the adrenaline was suppressing some things, just not the things Techno wanted. Techno opens his mouth wide as a test, wincing when his teeth and skin erupt with a sharp sting.

The plate and the empty potion bottles are gone from the floor, despite what Phil said about collecting them in the morning. Techno doesn’t… feel like himself. Maybe it’s the haze leftover from the potions or the exhaustion from his body going into overdrive to heal. Maybe it was something else. His body was usually good at shrugging off the after-effects of too many potions. Perhaps he’d gotten hasty with his decision-making and didn’t process how truly damaged he was. Whatever was clinging to his mind and his chest, though, made him feel… muffled.

Regardless, Techno lets the pull in his chest guide him. It was something deep and familiar, plucking at tucked-away thoughts and memories. It begins to hurt the longer he resists, so he gives in without much fight. Techno shuffles out of bed, taking his tail in hand and tucking it under his armpit. A few places on him are stiff and sore, and the skin stretches a little as he walks, but it doesn’t feel like anything will split. It’s probably just the fresh scar tissue getting used to Techno’s movements. Not an entirely foreign feeling, but a lot cleaner than before. His hand grips around the item he’d picked up earlier, just in case.

He moves towards the door, resting a hesitant hand on the knob. He’s not even sure if he wants to check if he’s locked in here. If he’s trapped again. He doesn’t know what kind of state it would put him in, knowing that people could once again control where he goes and what he does. He holds his breath, testing the doorknob.

Much to his surprise, it turns, and the door swings open with a quiet whine.

Techno stands there for a second. The door wasn’t… locked? How? Why? Why wasn’t it--this is a good thing. It’s good, right? It means that he isn’t confined to this room, right? Maybe Phil had forgotten to lock it? Was this his one chance to escape? Techno glances to the hinges, sturdy as ever, and the lock, which didn’t seem broken either. The door was really just… unlocked?

Techno snorts and his legs finally catch up to him.

He skitters through the house, flinching at the slightest of sounds. His ears swivel around endlessly, trying to pick up on anything that could resemble footsteps. If he caught them in time, he’d at least get a moment to hide in the darkest corner Techno could find. Or, if he was lucky enough, a warning to run back to the room he’d been in and act like he’d been sleeping this whole time, avoiding any sort of trouble he’d be in. For all of the time he listens, though, footsteps never come. Every pause and every moment where Techno held his breath never produced any sound outside of his own.

As Techno wanders, he catches onto the faint but consistent sound of people breathing. He cautiously follows it, unsure of what kinds of sounds people typically make when they’re asleep. Techno has never really been... allowed near sleeping humans.

He just wants to know where everything is and the places to look out for and avoid, Techno reasons. Personal sleeping quarters are certainly one of those places. After a bit of searching, Techno comes upon two doors, both shut, and dark. Yet they’re unlocked, Techno discovers after testing the knob. He was just going to let it be, shuffle away to the opposite side of the house, but something compels him to look inside.

The door creaks open. Techno peaks his head inside, spotting a bed similar to the one in the room Phil had put him in. It’s messy, blankets strewn across the mattress and floor, and there’s a small, sleeping figure lying under the blankets. Despite his good vision in the dark, something Techno had drilled into himself more than anything else, it’s hard to make out what the figure looked like. He catches a flash of yellow before the figure rolls to the side, scarring Techno off. He closes the door as quickly and quietly as he can, keeping a shaky breath trapped in his chest.

Then, his eyes are drawn to the next door. Techno’s tail falls from his armpit as he approaches, which he quickly scoops up in his hands. Techno peaks in, spotting the figure of Phil. The other sleeping person must have been his son, then. Phil’s breathing is a little more audible than his son’s, and Techno is able to focus on the slow steadiness of it. Phil’s appendages, the ones Techno doesn’t have, are big and feathered and spill over the edge of the bed. They look almost like a splotch of void in the darkness. Techno closes the door and leaves.

He sniffs the air, playing with the small tuft of hair at the end of his tail. The thing in his chest is back, guiding him through the dark house. He passes through several rooms, casting glances at the odd shapes strewn around. Soon enough, Techno comes upon a staircase. He lingers at the top, wary of descending deeper into the darkness, but the urge to go down quickly becomes too much. Carefully, Techno steps down each step, keeping one hand on the wall. He doesn’t want to accidentally slip like he did before. That would surely wake someone up or at least cause an injury that would catch Phil’s attention in the morning.

He would be exposed for being where he wasn’t supposed to be. The hunters didn’t like it when he wandered. When he got the chance to, anyway.

The bottom of the stairs opens up into a large room lined with wood and chests. It looks almost entirely dedicated to storage, but Techno spots a few places that weren’t. Something that looks like a brewing stand perched on a small table and a small section of the far wall is dedicated to various tools, too, which Techno eyes. It doesn’t look like there is anything that would be better than what Techno already had that he could reach easily, and Techno doesn’t want to test his luck. He sniffs again, catching wind of what had brought him down here in the first place.

Dropping all previous thoughts, Techno makes his way over to the wall of chests. He carefully inspects the front of each and every one of them. Thankfully, they were marked with small symbols of the items stored inside instead of written indicators. Techno hadn’t figured out what the language looked like yet. He doesn’t recognize most things, and the dark obscures most of the colors, but he could make out the general shapes. That, at least, saves him the trouble of opening up every chest.

Techno continues to sniff, and he inspects each chest, opening the ones he thinks might have what he needs. He reaches up and peers inside, giving a disgruntled snort with every useless chest. He shuts each compartment quietly, hooves shuffling against the stone floor. Techno’s hooves weren’t used to smooth floors. He always fought on some kind of dirt, and the stone he’s been imprisoned on was damaged and bumpy.

Finally, he finds what he has been looking for. It’s in a large chest, marked off with an ingot of a material Techno doesn’t quite recognize. He smells gold, though, and that’s what took precedence in his mind. Overworld gold has always smelled different than Nether gold, Techno noticed. Maybe it has something to do with the surroundings? Techno could always smell a bit of netherrack on Nether gold, but there’s no netherrack in the Overworld.

Techno hasn’t ever worked with Overworld gold, but it’s good enough for what he needs. Nearly on autopilot, Technoblade reaches in and pulls out a few ingots, practically purring at the weight of them in his hands. A quick lick confirms that, yes , it was real gold, too. He scampers over to the brewing stand, stealing it from the table and huddling into a corner of the room. Carefully, he fusses over the small pile of things he had gathered, making sure it has everything he needs. His fingers feel warm and fuzzy as he steals a few tools from the wall, finally sitting down and getting to work.

The brewing stand was already packed with powder, so all Techno had to do was break down some parts and manipulate the tubes and capsules until they resemble what Techno wants. Now the heat from the powder was more concentrated, going upwards instead of down to melt potion ingredients. Techno begins melting the ingots of gold, holding them over the heat with the tools he found. His wrists start to ache as he works, flaring up every time he adjusts his grip or moves things around. The remnants of skin rubbed raw over and over again stung with every movement. It constantly reminds Techno of restraints he had long grown out of but was still forced into every day. Technoblade snorts, pressing his tongue to the base of one of his tusks, ignoring the slight sting. The cogs slowly start to turn in his head as he gets an idea.

Gold was familiar and forgiving and soft. Overworld gold was a little denser, but it was nothing extra heat couldn’t fix. Techno hadn’t touched any for so long, for over a year, he had heard. Technoblade has no clue how long a year was, but it has felt like a small eternity. He had missed the familiar way gold would bend and thin beneath his hands, working quietly with practiced efficiency. Behind him, his tail flops back and forth, and he snorts quietly to himself whenever he’s particularly pleased with how the shape was coming along.

It’s there, sitting in the dark, illuminated by the warm glow of the blaze powder, where he smiles. Soft and kind in a way he isn’t anymore, in a way he couldn’t be to survive. A smile that wasn’t soaked in blood as crowds of endless and unknown faces cheer and scream and chant. A smile for himself, for the warmth, and for his gold.

Technoblade tests how the gold sits against his aching and scarred wrist, thoroughly pleased to find a near-perfect fit. He begins smoothing out the shape, trying to fix some of the dents that just wouldn’t seem to go away. Techno is tired, and this is the first time he’s even held gold in a long time, let alone sculpt it. He was bound to be a little out of practice. Techno’s cloudy mind is still high on the euphoria of finding gold and allowing himself to touch it, too happy to care about the imperfections.

With care, he bends and shapes the material into something familiar. He carves some messy designs into it, lacking any of the proper tools he once had in his bastion. He used the thing he had found in the room, which got a little frustrating when the metal bit kept splitting at the tip. It looks more like the tiny reservoir was meant to hold some sort of liquid, but it’s all Techno has. Despite the messiness, it’s enough to make Techno smile and a low rumble spill from his throat. His hair falls forward occasionally, but it does little to bother Techno while he works.

His tusks hurt his cheeks, and he’s sure the skin there is bruised, but he’s too pleased with his work to focus on anything else. He ignores the ache in his jaw and his thigh, and under his ribs. He takes a deep breath despite the pain, reveling in the smells of the blaze powder, and carefully works the gold into messy cuffs that he would never be trapped in. The golden cuffs fit over him comfortably, covering the painful scars and soothing them with something familiar. Something so comforting to every inch of him that he could never push it away.

After his small tests, Techno gets up, snorting and squeaking happily as he runs back to the wall of chests, looking through them to find some leather. It smells different, like the gold, but it is still smooth and would serve as a good cushion regardless. Overworld leather was much thinner than the kind that came from hoglins, so Techno rips it a few times accidentally before getting the hang of shaping it. He cuts out the general shape, not caring if it was a little messy. His plans on whittling the leather down and folding the material over itself in a few places would cover any rough edges. He was about to attach the first corner of the leather when the lights in the room switched on.

Techno freezes. His noises stop, and his tail stops flopping about. He doesn’t dare look back or move, even as the modified brewing stand continues to spill out heat. Oh god . Oh god. How could he have been so negligent? He let himself get caught breaking rules. He was wandering at night, he was--he was stealing . Oh god, why did he do that? Why didn’t he keep quiet? How had--did he wake someone up? This was his fault. He was--

Techno is angry. Angry at himself, his negligence, angry at the dead for stealing him away and ruining his life. He couldn’t let that anger cloud his thoughts like it has before. He needed to be careful now. Techno wants to reach for his little thing, the weapon he found, but it was too far away. He’d tossed it to the side while working--why did he do that? It’d be too obvious if he reached for it now.

“What are you doing down here, kiddo?” Phil asks. Sleep still clings to his being, but he can clearly register the small mess surrounding the piglin hybrid in the corner.

Techno’s hands began to tremble, thoroughly snapped out of the little cloud of bliss and ignorance he had surrounded himself in. He hears footsteps come up behind him, tail coming to wrap around his thigh and ears pointing back. A hand is placed on his shoulder, making him jump slightly.

“It’s pretty late, kiddo. Why don’t we get you back to bed?” Phil asks, trying to keep his voice as soft and calm as possible. His eyes drag over the small form of the hybrid. Phil’s eyes catch on the tiny golden glint from the hybrid’s hands. “Oh? What do you have there? Were you making something?”

Phil couches down, keeping his distance but still leaning over to get a closer look at the golden cuffs the kid was clutching.

“Oh! Those are very nice,” Phil smiles. “Why don’t we go to sleep now, alright? I’ll clean up this mess.”

The kid suddenly snaps his head towards Phil, eyes wide. His body trembles a little more. “I… can keep?” He asks. His voice is still scratchy, and Phil cringes at how dehydrated the kid must be.

“‘Course.” Phil tilts his head. “You made it, right? It’s just a little gold, mate, I don’t mind. Those were probably two ingots max, right? That’s just a little bit.”

The kid nods stiffly, looking down at the cuffs. “Not… done.”

“They aren’t done?” Phil repeats. “That’s alright, you can finish in the morning, okay? Let’s get you back to bed; you must be tired from all the potions. You need to rest to heal, mate.”

Phil stands, catching sight of a fountain pen next to the kid. He hums, pushing the pen away with his foot, holding out his hand for the kid to take. The hybrid looks hesitant, glancing between Phil’s hand and his little mess, but ultimately takes Phil’s hand after a kind smile and a little insistence are thrown his way.

Techno holds onto Phil as they travel back up the stairs, using him as support to make sure he doesn’t slip. He looks back over his shoulder at his little corner, comfortable and, for a moment, familiar, then down to the unfinished cuffs in his free hand. Phil squeezes Techno’s hand, probably in an attempt of comfort, but it doesn’t really help. Techno vaguely registers the appendages connected to Phil’s spine spreading out behind him, blocking out the light of the storage room.

It’s then that Phil notices how long and sharp the kid’s nails are and how Phil really needs to catch both of them up on trimming their talons.

Phil guides the kid back to the guest room. He helps the hybrid back up on the bed, doing their collective best to not irritate any of the freshly healed wounds. The kid looks uncomfortable under Phil’s touch, so he tries to make it as scarce as possible. He hums softly, fluffing up the blankets around the kid, hoping to get him comfortable enough to calm down and, hopefully, go to sleep.

At one point, Phil tries to take the kid’s golden cuffs. It clearly doesn’t sit well with him, so he makes it known by growling and clutching them close to his chest. Phil gives up almost immediately, holding his hands up in defeat.

In the morning, Techno’s mind will have caught up to him and realized how much trouble that could have put him in, but for now, he was happy to stay with his little golden pieces.

“Alright, go to sleep, kiddo,” Phil says. “You need to rest to heal, alright?”

The kid nods, shuffling around every so slightly. Phil smiles, and he leaves. He lets out a sigh when he closes the door, giving himself a small moment. The kid is a piglin hybrid; it makes sense that he’d be fond of gold. His mind was so caught up and foggy that all he could think about was when Wilbur would find a cool stick and try to go to bed with it. Why did he try to take something that is obviously a comfort object? Stupid .

Phil drags a hand through his hair, wings puffing out. This was a rough night on his barely awake brain. He had woken up quite suddenly to the sounds of the kid in the basement, and he’s still trying to shake off the initial shock of thinking someone was in his house and going through his belongings. Which reminds him: he has to deal with the basement now.

Phil moves the sword he had left at the front of the stairs, which he had thankfully kept out of the kid’s view, back to his room. Then, he comes back to the basement, eyes squinting against the light. It was such a stark difference between the darkness blanketing the rest of the house.

He moved to the corner when the kid had been, looking over all the small bits and pieces laid out. Phil recognizes some things: his tools, probably taken from the far wall, and small scraps of leather and gold. Other things look a little more foreign, like whatever the kid had turned his brewing stand into, which Phil turns off once he realizes it was still going. It… definitely doesn’t look like something Phil could reverse. He’d have to make a new brewing stand, but he couldn’t bring himself to be too angry.

Phil hoists up all of the tools, returning them to their proper places hung above his workbench, and places the broken brewing stand back on the table. He’ll keep it for now, if only to study what it did. Plus, the kid had mentioned that he wasn’t done yet, so maybe he still needed the heat the stand gave off. Phil has never really seen a design like it before, even in the few blacksmith shops he’s been through in his life. Perhaps once the kid was feeling better, Phil could ask him about it.

Phil gathers the leftover scraps of gold and leather, throwing out the bits too small to use for anything while salvaging the rest. Two carefully cut-out pieces get a special spot on Phil’s worktable. That just leaves the pen on the floor, innocently glinting in the light. Phil bends over to pick it up, turning the pen over in his hands. He knows this pen. It’s the one he keeps tucked away in the guest room. Phil hums, dragging his finger over the sharp tip. He casts his head over his shoulder, looking up the stairs.

Phil doesn’t know what happened, and he isn’t sure if it would impact his thoughts if he did. The kid is clearly in survival mode, Phil understands. It’s borderline natural that the piglin part of him would seek a way to defend himself, but Phil isn’t sure he likes the way it manifested. Lashing out is something Phil expects to happen, but it’s easier to deal with without a weapon involved. He puts the pen in his pocket.

Once the corner was all clean, Phil sighs in self-satisfaction. He dusts off his hands on his pants, finally able to relax for the night. The pressing matters have been taken care of, so now it’s time to turn his eyes to the future. Phil leaves, turning the light off on his way out. He takes a moment for himself at the top of the stairs, letting his eyes adjust to the dark.

He stops by the kitchen, filling a glass of water and returning to the guest room. He enters quietly, setting the glass down on the desk near the bed. Phil glanced toward the little hybrid, who was facing away from him and still. Phil sighs, knowing he’s got a lot of work ahead of him. The kid needs a lot of maintenance, both with his physical and mental state. Phil needs to ease him out of survival and more into… healthy caution.

The kid’s tusks and nails and hair all need to be trimmed and corrected in one way or another, which Phil suspects will be a long, painful process for the both of them. He still can’t bring himself to be upset or tired of it, though. Outside of the physical exhaustion that pulls him back to bed, Phil would be willing to help in any way he can.

For now, Phil is tired and is going to go to bed. Without much debate, he takes the pen with him.