Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was easy, at first.

Quiet, now, careful, don’t be seen. Quick and quiet, that was the way to do it. They barely even struggled this time.

But he had messed up. Made a mistake, gotten too greedy. Hubris had taken its toll.

It was a girl. A teen, driving alone. It was too soon, but he couldn’t resist. It was too perfect; set up just for him. But it turns out the girl was the daughter or niece or something to one of the local police officers. Wastaken, he remembers distantly. It was in the papers for weeks. He wasn’t afraid of the law- nothing scared him, really. What had he to fear? He was always the most dangerous thing in the room.

But police suspicion could be… inconvenient. It wasn’t the time yet. He wasn’t ready. It wasn’t ready. He had laid low for a few weeks. Slowly, things started to calm down. No one came to question him. For that he was thankful; his house was isolated and he was careful to do his work far from home.

He had waited for as long as he could. The hunger was ever-present, beating in the back of his mind with devastating regularity. It came in waves, strong and then weak and then strong again. He closed his eyes as he felt it in his head again, forcing the blood to pound through his skull so loudly he couldn’t even form proper thoughts.

Sooo hungry, it crooned to him. So, so hungry.

“I know,” he whispered to himself, trying to quiet the tremors that always racked his body at the sound of the voice. He had slumped against the wall, unable to keep himself upright as he shook uncontrollably, violently. “Soon, don’t worry. Soon,” he murmured soothingly, arms shaking with the aftershocks of the encounter.

It seemed to work. The ache in his head receded, and he was able to stand without swaying. He grit his teeth and stared at the calendar on his wall. 10 days since the last. It had to be enough. Abruptly, he turned, searching for the thing that his hands suddenly itched to hold. It had to be around here somewhere, he was sure. He had just finished cleaning it yesterday.

Ah, there it was. He rounded the table and reached for the object laying on the wooden buffet. It was so beautiful, handle polished until it shone, the bare metal gleaming dully in the yellow lights of his dining room. He lifted it tenderly from its resting place, something like reverence crossing his face as he examined it delicately.

Techno let out a deep sigh of contentment, lowering the axe and giving it a few experimental swings to get used to the weight of it. It felt right, as if a missing limb of his had been reattached. A smile sprung onto his face, paired with a rising sense of excitement. Finally.

You know what they say. Blood for the Blood God.

Chapter Text

“Will you please stop that? For the love of Prime,” an exasperated voice called out from the front seat. Tommy stuck out his tongue at the unseen figure and returned to rhythmically kicking the back of his brother’s seat. He heard another sigh of disgust rise from the driver, and he couldn’t stop the smile that rose to his face.

Annoying Wilbur was the only thing that made car rides like this bearable. Tommy hated being stuck in one spot by his seatbelt; it made him feel confined and all wriggly inside. But Wil insisted, and had threatened to take away his Game Boy if he didn’t stay buckled up the entire drive.

Now that was a serious threat, and Tommy knew his prissy jerk of a brother would do it, too.

So he had no choice but to slouch, dejected and bored out of his mind, in the backseat of Wilbur’s ratty old car. His life was miserable, truly.

“If you don’t stop that this instant,” Wilbur hissed from the front seat, his voice taking on that threatening “older-sibling” tone, “I will drop you on the side of the road and leave you there.”

Tommy stopped kicking, but only to smush his face against the back of the headrest in front of him. “Dad will kill you if you show up without me,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Then I will die a happy man,” Wilbur retorted dramatically, though a touch of softness had crept back into his words.

Tommy huffed indignantly and deflated like a sad balloon, staring listlessly down at the various crumbs and debris that littered the car’s carpet.

“Why do we even have to go to Dad’s anyway?” Tommy whined, ignoring the way the seatbelt was cutting into his chest in this position. “I was perfectly happy staying in London with Mum.”

Wilbur’s hands tightened around the wheel, the way they always do when their mother is mentioned. Tommy isn’t stupid; he knows Wilbur wishes he was able to grow up under the care of their mother, the same way Tommy had. But when the divorce happened, Phil had left for America with Wilbur in tow, leaving Kristin and Tommy behind. The courts said it was all fair and square, each parent getting custody of one child, but to Tommy, it felt cruel. Practical. Uncaring.

It had taken some serious wheedling to convince his mum to let him visit his father and brother for a month or two. Sure, they saw each other for holidays and the occasional birthday visit, but Tommy wanted more. He wanted to actually get to know his dad, to laugh and play ball and do all the things that a dad and son are supposed to do.

All this, Tommy decided, was completely irrelevant to the fact that this ride was taking way too long. And that he was starting to get hungry.

At least he didn’t have to sit in the front seat with Wilbur. They had mutually agreed that the best way to prevent a murder from being committed was to each have their own area, Wil in the front and Tommy in the back. Tommy took advantage of the extra space now, stretching out his aching legs across the empty seats next to him.

“I’m hungry,” he complained, throwing a glance at Wil, who was determinedly frowning at the road. Most likely watching for deer. The sun was just below the horizon, painting the sky with vibrant streaks of color that reminded Tommy of those famous nature paintings by that one dude with the hair. The woods on either side of the road seemed much more threatening than they had in daylight, and Tommy was glad to be in the warm safety of Wilbur’s car.

Tommy tried again. “Do you think we could stop and get some food?”

Wilbur sighed. “What happened to the snacks I brought?”

Tommy looked guiltily over at the sweet wrappers littering the seat next to him. “I, uh, ate them all already.”

“You little gremlin!” Wilbur cried, reaching one arm back to swat at the offending teen. “Those were for both of us!”

Tommy screeched, equal parts yelling and laughing as he threw up his arms in a futile attempt to defend himself. Wilbur was laughing too, waving his non-driving arm wildly and trying unsuccessfully to tickle the younger.

Even though he was screaming for Wil to stop, Tommy was glad to have lightened his brother’s mood. They had spent time together before-- several months in the past year-- and had fallen into brotherly camaraderie quite easily. Tommy had been secretly worried that his older brother wouldn’t like him, because for some reason, most people found him annoying.

Instead, Wilbur was gentle and supportive, even if sometimes he was an irritable little--

Wilbur slammed on the brakes.

Tommy was thrown violently against his seatbelt. There was an overwhelming feeling of momentum, a thrill of fear, and then everything came thudding back down into place, the tires squealing on the pavement as the car came to a complete stop.

Tommy lifted his head, an urgent question on his lips, shock and adrenaline pumping through his veins. “Wilbur--”

“What,” Wilbur said slowly, his breath coming in shallow pants, “the hell is that?”

Chapter Text

Police Chief Watson was having a bad day.

That wasn’t all that surprising, really. The past month had been nothing but one headache after another. First the random disappearances in the surrounding area. Then a strange plant blight that left many local crops speckled with red mold and rotting in the fields.

Then, the girl. Drista Wastaken. A missing 13-year-old who just happened to be the little sister of one of his junior officers. The poor boy had been distraught for weeks.

No one had gone missing, actually missing, in years. Sunrise, Mt. Prime was a tiny city in the middle of nowhere in the forests of the Midwest. It had once been two different towns, but after an outbreak had wiped out most of the population in the early 1900s, the survivors rebuilt together. Thus Sunrise, Mt. Prime was considered a single district, one that Phil Watson was primarily responsible for.

And on some days, he hated it. But what could you do? He had been doing this for ten years already. Quitting now wasn’t really an option.

At least his boys would be getting home tonight. He checked his watch again. Only a few more hours before he was off the clock.

His patience paid off almost two hours after setting the trap.

The road was sparsely traveled, even during the day, but something told him he had a pretty good chance to stop a traveler dead in their tracks.

Prime. That was a terrible pun. Techno felt bad for even making it inside of his head.

The sun was just over the horizon when the tan car sped up to the downed tree trunk lying across the road. The driver was forced to slam on the brakes hard, stopping just feet from the obstacle.

The person in the driver’s seat seemed to take a few moments to recover, and Techno saw movement in the backseat. A kid? Not older than 13, judging from the little he could see through the car window. All the better. Near double the amount, and they probably wouldn’t even put up much of a fight.

The car door opened and a young man with curly brown hair stepped out, clearly frustrated. He regarded the tree as if asking, How did you manage to get here? Techno crept closer to the treeline with the utmost stealth, counting on the shadows and the man’s obvious distraction to hide him.

His heart clenched when he accidentally snapped a twig and the man whirled around, eyes scanning the surrounding forest.

Techno froze immediately, knowing that his form would be near-impossible to spot in the growing dark amidst the indistinct outlines of the trees. He held the pose, muscles burning, as the man continued to stare vaguely in his direction for another minute. He tried to breathe as quietly as possible, which was difficult with adrenaline thrumming through his veins like it was now.

After what seemed like an eternity, the man turned back to the log and muttered a faint curse. He got closer to the tree, as if to try and push it, and that’s when Techno decided to make his move.

He charged the man, footsteps crunching leaves and then gravel, body humming with the excitement of the hunt. The voices, which had been silent up until now, started muttering to him again, their words sharing in his reckless thrill.

Blood, blood, blood, they chanted in his ears as he reached his victim.

Wilbur’s heart stopped at the sound of footsteps pounding the ground behind him. He turned, and the panic and confusion in his chest doubled. His surely-soon-to-be attacker was wearing some type of crazy mask, a cartoon pig from a kids’ show, features startling in the dark.

The bizarreness of such a mask, especially when worn by such a burly figure, was lost on Wilbur, who had gone directly into fight or flight mode. His fear-crazed mind chose for him.

He let out a shout and threw a wild right hook at the man. The pig-man dodged deftly and brought his other arm up, swinging a weapon that Wilbur didn’t see until it was too late.

The broad side of the axe collided with his skull with devastating force, and he knew no more.

Wilbur woke slowly, becoming aware of aches and pain flaring in different parts of his body.

He tried to move but found he couldn’t, and that alarm forced him into full awareness.

Wilbur opened his eyes, and realized just how terrible of a situation he was in. His arms were zip-tied together around a wooden pole, and duct tape was wrapped tightly around his ankles. More was taped directly over his mouth.

There were many choice words he wanted to say right now, most of them involving four letters.

Tommy. The thought had him turning desperately, fearful that Tommy would be here but more scared that he wouldn’t. Thankfully, he spotted the teen almost immediately, wrapped around another pole across the room in a manner much similar to his own. Other than a few odd bruises, he looked unharmed. There was no blood.

The blonde raised his head to glance at Wilbur, his eyes full of unshed tears. He seemed both relieved and frightened, and Wilbur tried his best to reassure him with nods and steady glances.

They were in what looked to be an unfinished basement, sparse of furniture but filled with shelves and boxes of storage. It wasn’t tidy or even very clean, but the most uncomfortable feature was a pervasive, rotting sort of smell that hung heavy in the air, cloying and sickly sweet.

Light- sunlight shone through the opaque glass windows set high on the wall, nearly in line with the ceiling.

So. It must be morning, then. Wilbur stretched his legs, trying to get some of the blood flow back into the limbs. He had to think of a way out of this, fast. Whatever their kidnapper’s intentions were-- and it wasn’t all that hard to guess-- it wouldn’t be good.

He tried to stay calm. For Tommy.

Techno paused at the top of the stairs. It had taken longer than he had anticipated to lug the two unconscious bodies back home, even with the help of their stolen car.

Enough waiting. Time to feed, A familiar voice whispered in his ear. Techno froze.

Darryl. The voice taunted him regularly, joining the chorus of others he had only heard through screams when their owners had been alive. They were ghosts, or echoes, or something. The voices of his past victims, the cries of the slain residing in his head, calling not for mercy but bloodshed.

Darryl had been the first. The one who discovered it, brought Techno to it and changed his life forever.

He had been a necessary sacrifice. Techno had felt bad at the time, but since then the Egg had shown him the truth. Everything else was temporary, would rot and die on its own, given enough time. The Egg, though, was eternal. It only required sustenance.

Techno had been a good servant.

A second voice spoke up, this one younger and female. Kill them quickly. It’s better when they’re fresh.

Techno leaned against the door frame and sighed, rubbing away the beginnings of a headache. The voices had been more active lately, likely picking up on the Egg’s hunger. The best thing to do would be to give in to their demands. He stood, and firmly grasped the door handle to the basement stairs.

Time to feed, indeed.

Chapter Text

The door banged open at the top of the stairs, and Wilbur jumped, anxiety mounting. No, no he was here, he didn’t figure out an escape plan yet--

Their kidnapper descended, each step creaking loudly on the wooden stairs. Wilbur could only stare in silence, silently praying to any deities above that he and Tommy would make it out of here unscathed. He knew it was a futile prayer.

The man had shed his pig mask from before, revealing close-cut brown hair and an average, unremarkable face. If Wilbur saw him on the street, he wouldn’t have stood out at all. He wore a ratty flannel over stained jeans and thick work boots that had seen better days. He held an axe that Wilbur recognized as the same one that had knocked his lights out the night before.

He didn’t seem to notice that his captives had woken up, so Wilbur kept silent and still, biding his time to escape. The man crossed the room without looking down, something clearly having captured his entire attention. 

Wilbur heard the creak of a door that he hadn’t seen earlier, and for a moment, the awful, repulsive smell in the air became heavier. The door shut and he breathed a sigh of relief as the stench receded. He looked over at Tommy and… oh. The pre-teen was frozen in terror, tears running down his face. He looked absolutely miserable as he locked eyes with his older brother, and yet he hadn’t made a sound in order to not draw attention to himself. Wilbur felt his heart twist.

Anger welled up inside him, at their kidnapper, at their situation, everything. He would make the person who caused Tommy’s tears pay. But first, escape.

Wilbur surveyed his surroundings again, looking for anything that might be helpful. Tommy was closer to the stairs than he was; as far as Wilbur could tell, that was the only way out. He gave the zip tie on his wrists a few experimental tugs. It seemed pretty secure. But he had seen something a long time ago about how you could break zip ties with the right application of force…

He checked the door that the man had gone into. It was still shut, but faint sounds of shuffling, someone moving around inside could be heard. He had to be fast. Wilbur tensed his arms, and then yanked them apart as hard as he could, putting the strain on the zip tie itself. The plastic cut into his skin and he clenched his jaw as his wrists erupted with pain. But the give was promising. He took a breath, and did it again. Again. White strain was showing as the thick plastic slowly gave out. Again. His wrists were on fire. He pushed through it. Again. Again…

Finally, the zip tie gave out with a satisfying snap! Wilbur didn’t waste a second, fingers scrabbling at the duct tape wrapped around his jeans. It took longer than it should have, probably because of his panicked rush, but after another heart-pounding minute he was free. He pulled the duct tape off of his mouth as well, wincing at the sting. 

He was on his feet in a second, eyes locking onto a shelf laden with tools. He hadn’t been able to see its contents from his place on the floor, but now he exulted in the wide assortment of random tools, thrown haphazardly across the cheap metal rack.

He grabbed what looked like a wire cutter from the top of the pile and turned to his brother, who was watching him with wide eyes, tears drying on his face. Wilbur rushed to his side, examining his restraints. They were the same as his, a zip tie and some duct tape. Their kidnapper really wasn’t creative, was he?

The clippers were covered in dry red flakes-- rust, he assumed-- but they worked fine, snapping through the zip ties with ease. He was working at the duct tape on Tommy’s legs when the door creaked open behind him. Wilbur froze. 

“What are you doing?” The voice was flat, monotone. Average, even. Wilbur grabbed blindly for the wire cutters and held them out before him, glaring ferociously at the man who had caused Tommy to suffer.

He was bigger than Wilbur had expected, solid build with sun-weathered skin and not a few muscles. He looked like someone accustomed to hard labor. If Wilbur had to guess, a farmer or some other outdoor worker. 

Wilbur sneered at him. “What do you think? You kidnap me and my brother, and then have the audacity to ask me what I am doing,” he spat. He felt exceedingly angry, his fury at the man standing in front of them swelling to barely containable levels.

The man barely reacted to his words, face impassive as he took in the sight of Wilbur brandishing the cutters in his direction. His heart leapt when he realized the man’s hands were empty. He had left the axe in the other room, and was now weaponless.

Wilbur hefted the cutters, dark excitement stirring inside him. Time for payback.

Chapter Text

Something was wrong.

Phil felt it in his gut, an uneasy trepidation filling him the moment he pulled out his phone and saw that he had no new messages. Wilbur had promised to text updates on their progress and then call when they reached Phil’s house. 

The airport was a good five hour drive from Sunrise, Mt. Prime, remote as the town was, but Wilbur and Tommy should have arrived almost an hour ago. Phil glanced at the clock. There were only 20 minutes left to go on his shift.

Screw it. He tapped Wilbur’s contact and called him. He bit his lip nervously as the dial tone rang out for longer than it should have-- a habit that Kristen had tried to break him of, back when they were still together-- and deepened his frown when it finally sent him to voicemail. You’ve reached Wilbur Minecraft, the recording of his son mocked him. Sorry I missed your call. Leave your name and reason for calling and I’ll get back to you soon. Phil forcefully hit the ‘End Call’ button and sat staring at his phone for a few seconds.

They were probably okay. Right? Common sense dictated that they were probably fine, just had forgotten to call or were delayed. Not that much traffic came through his district.

Better safe than sorry. At the next light, he turned his patrol car towards home.

--x--

Something was off in Wilbur’s eyes when he knelt down to cut Tommy’s bindings.

They were concerned, yes, but also full of… anger. A blinding sort of fury that left Tommy unsettled, even as his brother turned to protect him from the man with the pig mask.

He wasn’t wearing it now, but Tommy would never forget the moment when he saw a dark figure knock his brother to the ground. Last night, when Wilbur hadn’t gotten back up, and then the man with that awful, awful mask had come for Tommy, leering through the car window before going for the door handle. Tommy had screamed, scrabbling frantically at his seatbelt and the door, but the man was silent, deadly silent, as he pulled the boy from the car and bludgeoned him into unconsciousness. And then, presumably many hours later, Tommy had woken up in a dark, cold room, tied to a metal pole, all of him aching uncomfortably. It smelled weird in here, too.

It was safe to say that Tommy was not having a pog moment.

Things got worse when footsteps finally creaked down the stairs, and Tommy’s body locked up in fear. He made eye contact with his brother, Wilbur’s eyes shimmering with the same panic, and somehow Tommy instinctively knew he was supposed to stay quiet. Make himself as unnoticeable as possible. He had screwed his eyes shut as the man passed, close enough for Tommy to feel the displaced air as he moved. The man left the room without pausing, and Tommy’s heart had thudded with relief.

He let himself relax, a little, when Wilbur broke free from his pole with ease, and came quickly to do the same for Tommy. He thought, he hoped, that everything would be okay.

Until the door opened again and Tommy’s mind was flooded with whispers.

He almost didn’t notice them at first, too busy cowering at the large frame of the person who was no doubt their kidnapper, but they steadily increased in volume the longer the standoff between his brother and the pig-man went on.

Soft laughter mocked him, a dozen unfamiliar voices, and Tommy was frozen frozen frozen --

--x--

Techno stared at his latest capture, all skinny limbs and rumpled clothing, hair tousled and matted with blood, bruises blooming on the side of his face, defiantly holding a tiny pair of wire cutters out, as if they could protect him.

He couldn’t help it. Techno burst out laughing.

The voices in his head joined in. Look at it , Darryl whispered, voice harsh and mocking. It thinks it can protect the little one!  

--x--

Wilbur watched in bemusement as their kidnapper finally broke his emotionless mask, unhinged chuckles dripping from his lips, mouth twisting into an unsettling smile. 

“Oh, this will be fun!” the man rumbled, raising his fists and tilting his head at Wil. “Do your worst, kid.”

Fury screamed inside Wil’s chest, and he bared his teeth, practically snarling at the larger man. “You won’t touch him,” he vowed.

Wilbur had been in his fair share of fights.

He was a sullen, irritable kid in middle and high school, angry at the world for his problems and situation. The other students didn’t really like him. The feeling was mutual. He was an outcast, with his accent and tendency to lash out if annoyed.

It didn’t help that he was easily provoked, if someone knew which buttons to push. He once broke another boy’s nose for insulting his absent mother. He’d been suspended no less than two dozen times throughout middle and high school for getting into physical altercations with other students. So yeah, Wilbur knew a thing or two about fighting.

But those had all been meaningless scraps, a tumble of limbs and fists between kids with too much testosterone. This was the difference between life and death, for both him and Tommy. He couldn’t afford to lose. The stakes were way too high.

So he steadied his grip on the weapon in his hands (really, he was going to die holding a pair of overgrown scissors, how undignified) and did the only thing he was good at: ran his mouth.