Author Doesn't Know How Diplomatic Conventions Work And At This Point Is Afraid To Ask
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Summary
His skull was absolutely pounding. His head—he hurt all over, and he wasn’t sure exactly where he was or what he was doing. Technoblade put his hand against the stone wall for balance, trying to take stock of the situation. His head spun in that kind of liquid way that promised pain if he moved too fast. His heart was racing in his chest. His hands ached like he’d been punching something, and his jaw hurt like he’d been punched. Had he—? Techno glanced around himself, wincing as the promised pain materialised.
He was in a hallway in the Fairbanks Citadel, site of the extravagant three-day diplomatic conference they’d been working towards for months. A gently-curving stone corridor lined with sea-view windows on one side, tapestries and paintings on the other. He’d—been in a fight? He glanced further up and stiffened. Maybe fifty feet away, there was a body, and figures crouched over it. Everything felt unreal and sharp. He hurried down the corridor. The body on the floor was wearing Antarctic Empire Blue, and there was a pool of blood spreading out from it.
“Are they okay?” He asked.
Or: Antarctic Empire tries diplomacy. It's a mixed result.
Series
- Part 1 of Challenge Works