Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ranboo is awoken by an insistent buzzing sound. He blinks around blearily, twisting in his sheets until he can grab his phone off his bedside table. The brightness of the screen stabs his eyes and he winces before adjusting to the light.

Incoming call from Tall Child.

Jesus Christ, Tommy, Ranboo thinks, reading the time at the top of the screen, it is one am.

Still, he answers it, because he knows Tommy will just keep calling if he doesn’t.

But, the person that answers him isn’t loud, and brash, and already starting off with a joke that probably shouldn’t even be conceived.

Instead, Tommy’s voice is quiet, scared, shaking.

“Ranboo,” he whispers, voice tinny through the connection. “Ranboo, listen to me. I don’t have a lot of time.”

Ranboo sits up, suddenly more awake. “Tommy? Are you alright?”

A shaky breath. “Yeah, I’m fine,” his friend says, entirely unconvincingly. “Listen, I need you to do something for me.”

Ranboo swallows. “Okay. What do you need?”

“I need you to send a text to Tubbo. Now.”

Ranboo frowns. “What?”

“Now, Ranboo!” Tommy sounds rushed, frantic, desperate. Ranboo hates it, especially because he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know how to fix it. “Please.”

“I—okay,” Ranboo relents. He puts the call on speaker and moves to his texts with Tubbo. “What do you want it to say?”

“Write this down, word for word. Don’t question it. Okay?” Tommy asks. At Ranboo’s yes, he continues, sounding a little relieved. “Okay. Write this down: The crows are coming. The robin has taken flight. The parakeet must fly.”

Ranboo types it out, and presses send, but he frowns. “Okay, Tommy, what’s going on? Are you okay? Are you safe?”

Tommy’s voice is forcefully casual, like he’s making it even. “I’m fine, big man. Don’t worry about me. Listen, be careful, okay?”

“Tommy,” Ranboo murmurs warily, “why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye?”

A soft chuckle, barely heard through the line. “I’ll talk to you soon, Ranboo.”

“Wait, Tommy—” A buzz as the call is ended. Ranboo stares at it for a moment, wide-eyed, before shaking his head and pressing Tommy’s contact, calling him again.

Tommy doesn’t answer.

Ranboo buries his face in his hands.

What the hell just happened?

As soon as Tommy hangs up, his door bursts open. He shoves his phone as far away from himself as possible, but the man who enters definitely saw him holding it, judging by the cruel grin on his face.

“Hey, birdie,” he says, stalking closer, laughing as Tommy scrambles to the back of his bed, wide-eyed and scared. “Long time no see.”

Shit. He was supposed to have time. They weren’t supposed to find him until the morning. He was supposed to be long gone by the time they found his house.

What had gone wrong?

A hand on his chin, tilting his face up. Dark eyes bore into his, deepening his panic. “Boss has missed you, birdie. Who were you calling?”

Tommy swallows against the hand holding his head up. “No one important.”

The man laughs. “No use lying, birdie. It’s super easy to trace a call these days, what with contacts and all that bullshit you teenagers use.”

His head feels fuzzy, light. All he can see is that grin, all he can see is guns and clubs and needles, all he can see is Ranboo—his smile, his laugh, his body, torn apart, on the floor, bleeding everywhere—

No.

Not. Ranboo.

He twists, rising up on his elbows, but before he can even attempt a swing, the man is pinning him down, and there’s a gun in his hand and it’s pointing at Tommy’s head.

“Stay still, birdie,” he says. Then he reaches for Tommy’s phone, at the other end of the bed. No, no, no—

“Boob boy,” the man says. He snorts. “Interesting. Wonder who that is. Let’s guess, shall we?”

Tommy growls, trying to get up again, but then the gun is touching his skin, and he freezes.  

“Maybe,” the man says casually, as if he’s not pointing a gun at a child right now, “this ‘boob boy’ is tall? Taller than you. With light brown hair and gray eyes? Name is Ranboo Love?”

Tommy’s heart stops.

“Leave him out of this,” he chokes. “He’s got nothing to do with anything.”

The man grins, and looks at the screen, where Ranboo’s contact is displayed—his address, his phone number, his face— fuck. “He does now.”

And it’s screaming, and blood, and dead eyes and black jumpsuits and guns and Robin and Parakeet new special soldiers do as your told or face the consequences and Tommy almost screams, but then his mouth and nose are covered by a cloth, and he chokes on the sweet scent, his struggles getting weaker and weaker, and the last thing he hears is a whisper.

“We’re taking you back home, birdie.”

When Ranboo gets to school the next morning, neither Tubbo nor Tommy are there. This isn’t exactly surprising, because they tend to ditch school a lot, but Ranboo’s still worried. Usually, if they were ditching, they’d send him a text to let him know or put in the futile effort to get him to join them.

Also, Tommy’s one-am call is still in the back of Ranboo’s mind, like an incessant, anxiety-inducing bug.

Because Tommy might have insisted that he was fine, but Ranboo knows he wasn’t. He’s only known Tommy for a few months, but he knows what Tommy sounds like when he’s scared, or desperate, or angry. And he knows that when Tommy is any of those things, it usually isn’t anything small.

Like that time the two of them had been walking to the ice cream shop, and Tommy had nearly jumped out of his skin when a man in a black leather jacket had brushed past them. He was shaking for the rest of the trip, and they ended up going home a lot earlier than planned.

Or the time some idiot had decided to pick on Tubbo at school, and Tommy was nearly reduced to begging them to stop before Tubbo went ham and broke the guy’s arm(he was suspended for a week afterward).

Needless to say, Ranboo can tell Tommy’s seen some shit, or at least something left him scarred. So if he’s scared, as scared as he’d sounded on call last night, then something’s up.

Ranboo gets more worried when neither of the boys show up, and not so much as a text is sent. He almost goes to the principal’s office to ask if they’d called in sick, before remembering that they definitely would have told him that.

He’s sitting in English class, chewing on the end of his pencil, too busy worrying about his friends to pay attention, when the intercom buzzes.

“Ranboo Love, please come to the principal’s office immediately.”

He frowns. Had he done something wrong? Usually he’s a pretty good kid. Yeah, he gets roped into a lot of Tommy and Tubbo’s shenanigans, but he always gets out of it at the end of the day. His grades are fine, he’s quiet, he doesn’t talk back…

What’s going on?

He grabs his backpack off the back of his chair, a cold feeling in his gut, and makes the walk to the main office.

What he sees there almost makes him turn tail and run.

A group of at least fifteen people stand there, all dressed in black, all looking like they’re the type of people to have several concealed weapons. It’s like something out of Men in Black. Or an ‘80s thriller.

“Um…” he says articulately. “Hi?”

“Ranboo Love?” One of the people asks. At his slow nod, they step forward. “You’ll need to come with us.”

Ranboo glances over at the secretary, who looks pale. He hopes she has a trash can nearby.

He swallows. “Um… who are you? Are you the government? Don’t you, like, legally have to tell me what my rights are, or why you’re taking me, or something?” He’s pretty sure he remembers that from his history class last semester.

The person grins. “Or something.” They step forward again and grab his arm, tight enough to bruise. He hisses quietly, but they don’t let up. “Come on, kid. We don’t have all day.”

And with that, he’s led out of the building. He hears the steady marching of the other people behind him, creepily in sync with each other.

The cold feeling inside him grows.

There’s a line of sleek black cars waiting out front. He’s led to the one at the front of the line.

Yeah, this is definitely not good. He’s about to be kidnapped by the FBI or something.

In a sudden burst of nerves, he digs his feet into the sidewalk. “Um, I don’t know if—”

He shuts his mouth with a click as he feels something cold and round press into the small of his back, and a breath at his ear. “Get in the car, kid,” the person leading him whispers.

Electing not to speak, he nods, opening the door and climbing inside. When he’s situated, the person climbs in after him. “Seatbelts,” they drawl.

Oh, big patrons of safety, are they? Ranboo almost scoffs, before remembering the very real gun, which is—oh, fun, it’s now resting right next to his temple, how great!

When Ranboo puts on his seatbelt, the person puts the gun down, resting on the seat between them. But before Ranboo can untense a little bit, they’re pulling out a long piece of black cloth.

“What’s that for?” Ranboo asks, quietly, his voice shaking.

“Can’t have you seeing where you’re going,” the person says, and before Ranboo can react, they’re reaching over, pulling his head to them.

And then he’s plunged into darkness.

Chapter Text

When Tommy wakes up, he’s in a cell. It’s small, barely twenty feet wide. The walls are whitewashed and bare, the floor hard and cold against his bare feet. He’s still in his pajamas.

“Tommy?”

Tommy blinks over to where he thinks the voice came from. The front wall of his cell is just a giant window, revealing a white hallway outside, lined with other, identical cells. And in one of them, sitting crosslegged…

“Tubbo,” Tommy sighs, shoulders drooping. He’d thought—he’d hoped that Tubbo could get away in time, that the text Tommy had asked Ranboo to send would’ve helped, but…

Project Shadows always wins. Tommy should know that by now.

“I got your message,” Tubbo says quietly, staring down at his hands. “But they were already at my house.”

Tommy swallows. “I’m sorry, I… I thought we had more time.”

Tubbo shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “It’s alright. They were gonna catch up to us eventually, right?”

Tommy tucks his knees close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “This sucks,” he mutters.

Tubbo snorts. “You’re telling me. Fuck, I really liked that life. I—” he sighs. Then he frowns, as if something has just occurred to him. “Ranboo—he’s okay, right? He’s gonna be okay without us? He’s—you know, he’s safe and everything?”

Tommy opens his mouth to assure Tubbo that their friend is fine—but then he pauses.

Leave him out of this. He’s got nothing to do with anything.

A sick smile flashes in his mind.

He does now.

“...I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I think—I think I really fucked up, Tubs. They know who he is, and I don’t think—I don’t think that text I had him send helped.”

A moment of silence. Then, “Don’t go thinking it’s your fault, Toms,” Tubbo says firmly. “You did what you could. Besides, we don’t know if they even care about Ranboo. We don’t really know what this is about, remember?”

Tommy nods, but guilt is still curdling his stomach. He tries to justify his decision last night as a panicked response, a way to get Tubbo a warning while keeping himself safe.

But he didn’t have to involve Ranboo. He and Tubbo had already been found out, he could’ve just texted his friend himself and then thrown the phone in a lake—if they’d gotten that far. It didn’t matter where the message came from, because a few days later, Tommy Innit and Tubbo Underscore wouldn’t have existed.

And now, by doing what he did, Tommy may have damned not just himself and Tubbo, but Ranboo too. Ranboo, who doesn’t deserve this. Ranboo, who has no idea about any of this. He has a normal life, a family. Friends, school. He shouldn’t need to deal with this bullshit.

He just hopes the boss doesn’t care enough to take another kid.

It’s probably likely, he thinks, trying to convince himself. After all, he and Tubbo have been in this mess since they were seven years old, and not once has another recruit—he hates that word, hates it for the lie that it is— been brought in. Surely they wouldn’t care now. Surely Ranboo’s not that important. Surely—

A bang at the end of the hall cuts off his thoughts. The door slamming open.

He and Tubbo press themselves against their respective glass to see what’s going on, their cheeks smooshing against the wall in a way that will definitely leave a red mark later. Tommy sees two soldiers, clad in black with holsters and bulletproof vests and chains of bullets hung all over their bodies. They’re holding rifles and marching with purpose. 

Behind them are two more soldiers, their weapons less noticeably everywhere, but what’s between them makes Tommy choke.

Each of them holds the arm of a tall, gangly boy. He’s blindfolded and stumbling, but Tommy can still tell that his expression is very distressed.

Ranboo.

He can hear Tubbo suck in a sharp breath, but he doesn’t pay attention, a sudden wave of guilt and anger rushing through him. How dare they touch him, how could Tommy have let them touch him, he has to fix this, has to get Ranboo out because Ranboo isn’t a part of this, he isn’t related, and he looks so fucking afraid—

He slams a fist against the glass. “Let him go!” He shouts. “Let him go, you dickheads, you fucking assholes, he’s not a part of this, he’s not—”

He can hear Tubbo shouting with him. He can’t make out the words, and when the soldiers don’t even look his way, that anger turns his vision red.

But Ranboo hears him, and his head snaps over in the direction of his voice. “Tommy?” He calls. “Tommy?”

He sounds so scared, so shocked, and he stumbles as the soldiers drag him along. He tries to slow, tries to get to Tommy, but he can’t, and Tommy wants to cry. He wants to cry even though he hasn’t in years, even though he’s been trained out of the habit. Soldiers don’t cry.

Birds don’t cry.

But Ranboo does. Ranboo cries, he’s not—he’s not like them, he’s not broken, he’s not a caged bird, and he can’t become like them, he can’t, Tommy can’t let them—

The soldiers take Ranboo through the door at the other end of the hall, and Tommy slumps against the glass. Tentatively, he meets Tubbo’s eyes. His friend’s face is shattered, horrified.

They both know what this means.

Project Shadows has gained a new bird. A new soldier, a new toy to break. Tommy wonders distantly how long it will take Ranboo to shatter the way they did—if it’ll be when he shoots his first bullseye, if it’ll be when they give him a new name, if it’ll be when he kills his first innocent.

Whatever it is, Tommy knows that when it happens, when the Ranboo they met truly dies, it’ll have been Tommy’s fault.

He wishes he hadn’t called his friend.

He wishes they’d never met.

He leans against the glass and pretends he can sob.

Chapter Text

Ranboo’s hands are shaking.

They started shaking around when the car stopped, and he was pulled out of it, marched into… wherever this is. They haven’t stopped.

He can’t get Tommy’s voice out of his head—the fear, the desperate anger in his friend’s voice makes Ranboo want to break down and cry.

He thinks Tubbo was there too, shouting right along with Tommy, and that makes the bad feeling in his gut worsen.

He doesn’t know what this is. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t know what Tommy and Tubbo have to do with it.

Ranboo’s jerked to a stop, pulling him out of his thoughts. There’s a rough voice in his ear, hissing, “Stay put. Behave.” And then fingers behind his head, tugging at the blindfold, pulling slightly on his hair, and he hisses when they pull especially hard, and then the blindfold is falling off his face, and he almost shrieks because—

Right in front of him, grinning in a way that immediately unsettles him, is a man. He’s young, less than ten years older than Ranboo probably, but he stands in a way that suggests experience—with what, Ranboo doesn’t know. He’s dressed in a crisp suit, pressed cleanly along the lines of his shoulders and torso, with a green tie and a little tie pin that looks like a black smiley face against a white backdrop.

His grin widens when he sees Ranboo’s eyes. “Hello.”

Ranboo shifts back a little, wary. “Hi…what’s going on?”

The man steps closer. “You have the honor of being selected to take part in a highly confidential government security branch, called Project Shadows. I am Dream, the operator of this branch, and your new… employer.”

Ranboo is silent for a few seconds. Then, slowly, carefully, “I’m gonna be totally honest…I only understood like, half of those words. Also, I’m pretty sure I was just kidnapped, so—”

Dream frowns. Then, he bursts out laughing, like Ranboo just said the funniest thing on the planet. “Kidnapped? No, my friend. No one was kidnapped. You were recruited! You are very lucky to have been selected for this program. You should be grateful, many would kill for your position.”

Ranboo huffs. “Okay, well, if I wasn’t kidnapped, can I go home? Please? And also will you let my friends go? Because they seemed—uh, they seemed pretty distraught.”

Dream’s smile disappears again. It’s really unnerving how fast he can switch between expressions. “Your friends lied to you. They used you. But don’t worry, we’ll make sure they know not to do that again. Missions without authorization are not allowed, of course.”

“Missions without…” Ranboo’s eyes widen. “Hold on, have they been here before? Did you—what did you do?”

Dream sighs, stepping closer, and Ranboo steps back. Dream waves a hand, and suddenly Ranboo’s arms are clutched in iron grips. He gasps and struggles, but he’s much too weak to fight against the soldiers holding him. 

“I really don’t have time for this,” Dream says, in the tone of someone much older and much more tired than he is. “Answer this for me: what is your name?”

Ranboo swallows. “Uh, I don’t know if—”

There’s a hand resting on his throat—not squeezing, but tight enough that Ranboo knows it could hurt. He stops, gulping. “Name. Now.”

“R-Ranboo,” he whispers.

The hand falls away, and Dream stares stonily up at him. “Wrong. Your name is now Blackbird. You are Special Operative Number Three for Project Shadows. You answer to me, and to me only, unless I state otherwise. I ask you again: what is your name?”

Ranboo stares at him for a few seconds, eyes wide and incredulous. When he finds his voice, he whispers, “What—what? You think you can just—just do that? No, I’m not—I’m not changing my name because some weirdo in a suit told me to, I’m not—my name is Ranboo.”

Suddenly, there’s a stinging pain in his cheek, and he cries out. Did this fucker just slap him? Who is he? 

“Tell me your name, Blackbird,” Dream hisses.

And—well, Ranboo’s not going to back down from this one. He knows now—he was kidnapped, this is some weird corrupt government shit, and Tommy and Tubbo are tangled up in it somehow, but he’s not going to let it break him. He’s not going to let himself slip away. He steels himself, meets Dream’s gaze, and says, firmly, “Ranboo.”

This time, a punch to his gut, and he bends forward. The soldiers let him fall. He ends up on his knees, bent over his stomach. Black shoes fill his vision, and then there’s a hand on his chin, tilting his head up to meet acid-green eyes, burning with fury.

“Listen to me,” Dream says softly. “You belong to me now. Everything you are—your life, your body, your future and your present, all of it is mine. I can do whatever the hell I want to you, so it would be in your best interest to follow my instructions. Tell me your fucking name.”

“Ranboo.” He says it with no hesitation this time.

The first kick doesn’t really hurt. Neither does the second—he’s broken his arm before, and that hurt a lot more. But the third one hits his rib, and he feels something crack.

After that, it’s agony. He’s pretty sure some of the hits land on his head—he wonders dimly if he’ll have brain damage. 

At the end of it, he’s got a bloody nose, and cuts and bruises all over his body. He’s breathing heavily, trying to see through the red haze of pain. Above him, dimly, he can hear talking. He strains to make out the words.

“...get Robin and Parakeet,” Dream is saying. “They can clean up the mess. Maybe knock some sense into the fledgeling while they’re at it.”

Robin and Parakeet….Ranboo feels like that should be familiar. He thinks he might have heard that somewhere… where? Does he know them? Maybe he has a bird fascination he forgot about, that would be interesting.

His vision is getting dimmer. Should it be doing that? It’s kind of weird, he feels all fuzzy. Like a teddy bear. Is this what teddy bears feel like? Must be fun, being a teddy bear. They probably have an easy life. Just sitting around, doing nothing, waiting for people to hang out with them… heh. Kinda like him. That’s funny.

Wait, no. He has friends… yeah, yeah, he has friends. Yeah, and there they are, right there! They’re talking, they look… worried. Why do they look worried? Is something wrong?

The last thing he sees before he blacks out is Tubbo’s terrified face hovering in his vision, hands on Ranboo’s chest.

Chapter Text

When Ranboo wakes up, it’s to a tightness around his abdomen and plasters on his face. He blinks, taking in the whitewashed room around him, the too-bright lights and the uncomfortable bed beneath him. Where is he? What happened? He strains, trying to remember what had happened before he blacked out, but there’s nothing.

Then, in a moment, it all comes back. He remembers going to school, how his friends were missing, how he was called to the office and subsequently kidnapped by people with a lot of weapons, how he met Dream and then—

And then Dream—

Oh, God. Ranboo’s in so much shit.

There’s a shuffling beside him, and he turns his head, eyes widening when he sees Tubbo sitting there, face screwed up in worry.

“Hey, bossman,” Tubbo whispers, voice almost hoarse. “How’re you feeling?”

Ranboo pulls his attention towards his body. He feels… oddly dull, like he knows there should be immense pain in all corners of his body, or at least his head, but instead there’s only a dull ache in his chest. “Weird,” he settles on, instead of trying to explain that.

Tubbo nods. “That’s the painkillers.” His voice has turned robotic, clinical. “Nothing’s broken, but you might have at least a mild concussion, and your ribs are definitely bruised. Tom— Robin is getting more supplies from medical, but we’ve done everything we can.”

Ranboo frowns at the use of a bird as Tommy’s name. “Tubbo,” he says slowly, “what’s…what’s going on?”

He can tell Tubbo is trying to keep a calm facade up, but his face is crumpling, his gaze fracturing. “It’s…” he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m sorry, Ranboo. I’m so sorry. We—it wasn’t supposed to go like this, we were supposed to be long gone before they caught up with us, we didn’t think they’d go after you, I—”

Ranboo reaches out and rests his hand gently over Tubbo’s, which is gripping the thin bedspread like a vice. “It’s okay,” he says. “It wasn’t your fault. That Dream guy is the worst, don’t blame yourself for anything he does.”

Tubbo’s lip starts to tremble, but he grits his teeth and it stops. Which is terrifying, if Ranboo’s totally honest—he didn’t know someone could be that good at schooling their expressions. “What happened in that room? What did he do?”

Ranboo shrugs. “He tried to get me to change my name, I said no.”

Some part of him thinks Tubbo will be proud of him, proud of his bravery, but instead Tubbo just closes his eyes and drops his head. “Ranboo…”

He sounds so… disappointed, and it makes Ranboo bristle. “What? I’m not going to let him control me like that, he doesn’t get to decide that stuff for me.”

“And that’s really brave of you,” Tubbo says softly, trying and failing for a smile, “but this is a place where… it’s better to just obey. Just listen. Keep quiet, keep hidden. Keep safe.”

Ranboo swallows. “Tubbo, I don’t know what he did to you—”

Tubbo flinches. “That’s not even my name. I’m—Tubbo doesn’t exist. I’m Parakeet. I’ve always been Parakeet, and that’s something I can’t escape. Maybe I could’ve, once, but it’s all I have now, it’s all I am, because that’s how it works here. You just—they just break you down until you can be molded, and then they make you into whatever they want you to be. And, honestly, it’s—it’s easier to just let it happen. It’s less painful that way.”

It’s awful. The defeat in Tubbo’s voice, the dejection, the way he is so sure of his fate, it makes Ranboo want to scream. To shake him and say, you’re still Tubbo you’re still my best friend you’re not a fucking bird. But he can’t. So instead, he just says, “I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to let them do what they did to you. I—I like being Ranboo, I don’t want to be Blackbird, and I think Dream should realize that.”

Tubbo sniffs, and Ranboo realizes he’s holding back tears. “But you’ll get hurt,” he whispers.

Ranboo shrugs. “I mean, you and Tommy will patch me up, right? Just put a bandaid on my boo-boos, like when Tommy fell off his bike that one time and wouldn’t stop screaming for hours.”

That gets a wet chuckle out of Tubbo, and Ranboo grins in triumph. “Yes, me and… Robin will help you. But I don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t— you’re not supposed to be here, I can’t—Ranboo,” he whispers, like he’s telling a secret, “I don’t think I could take that.”

Ranboo smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “Tubbo, I’ll be okay. I’ve played Portal, I know how this goes.”

Tubbo laughs, but shakes his head. “This isn’t like Portal, Ranboo. You will actually be hurt here. They don’t care how much they need to break you, they’ll find your limit and they’ll surpass it. They—they’ll destroy everything.”

“No they won’t,” Ranboo says, with a confidence he doesn’t feel. “Everything will be fine, Tubbo. I won’t break. They can do anything they want to me, I won’t break.”

Tubbo squeezes his hand and says, “Okay.”

Ranboo’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to hear the “but you will” that follows.

Chapter Text

The next day, all three of the boys are herded into the same room Ranboo met Dream in. Said asshole is already in the middle of the room, waiting. He’s holding two long, wooden staffs.

Once the door is locked and the boys are standing next to each other before Dream, he speaks. “Robin. Parakeet.”

Ranboo frowns, unsure what this means, but Tommy and Tubbo seem to know, because they step forward—creepily synced—and take the staffs from Dream’s hands. Dream steps back, and Tommy and Tubbo face each other, about five feet apart. It is then that Ranboo notices their feet are bare. Tommy’s toes are curling and stretching rapidly against the wooden floor. Tubbo is perfectly still.

“Robin, offense. Parakeet, defense,” Dream barks. Immediately, Tommy and Tubbo fall into position. “You may begin.”

It’s fascinating, how robotic they’ve been up to this point, and how fluid they are now. It’s like watching a dance—their staffs smacking against each other, their feet stepping light across the floor. Tommy pushes against Tubbo, Tubbo pushes back. Two steps to the left, two to the right. They’re perfectly matched, their skills mirrored. 

Their faces are blank, their eyes focused. Ranboo’s never seen them so fixated as they are now. They have no eyes for anything but each other, for the movements they’re making and the direction they’re going.

The smile on Dream’s face is unsettling. Ranboo realizes he likes it—likes their focus, the reminder that they do not do anything but what he tells them to.

Ranboo hates it. He wants to take one of the staffs, smack it across Dream’s face, hear the sound of wood hitting flesh instead of more wood. And perhaps that’s a dark thought, a mean thought, but he figures that this is a dark and mean place, and he’s probably got to become a little like it if he’s going to get out of here.

“Switch,” Dream calls after a moment, and it’s honestly a little terrifying, the smooth way Tommy and Tubbo switch positions. Tommy is now on defense, Tubbo is offense. Their dance changes ever so slightly, but still, they are evenly matched, and their eyes are still blank.

When Dream tells them to stop, they do. There is not a bead of sweat on them. Their breath is even, and the only sign they ever moved from their positions, five feet apart and facing each other, is the way Tubbo’s hair is tousled. The way Tommy’s eyes are discreetly checking his friend for injuries.

Ranboo feels sick.

He feels a presence beside him, and almost jumps out of his skin when he realizes it’s Dream, standing there, smiling slightly. “Do you see?” He whispers, excited. “Do you understand now, Blackbird?”

Ranboo flinches. “That’s not my name.”

As quickly as it appeared, Dream’s smile is gone. “Please tell me we don’t have to do this every time we meet, Blackbird. It’s going to get boring. And I hate boring things.”

Part of Ranboo—the instinctual, afraid part—screams at him to submit, to listen. To keep himself out of trouble, away from pain. He ignores it. “My name is Ranboo,” he insists. “You can’t change it.”

He’s half expecting it, but somehow he’s still surprised when the first blow comes. It’s in his side, right at the fleshy part below his ribs. Like when middle schoolers “tase” each other with two fingers jabbing at their stomachs.

He doesn’t know when Dream got the staff. He supposes, with Tommy and Tubbo bowing to his every command, it wasn’t too hard to acquire.

It doesn’t matter, though, because the wood is smacking against every part of his body that Dream can reach. He’s aching already from the beating yesterday, and this only makes it worse. The staff jabs against fresh bruises, barely-sealed cuts, and it hits clear skin too, creating more. Ranboo suspects his head hasn’t been hit yet only because Dream wants to avoid permanent damage.

Dream is silent as he hits Ranboo, and it’s terrible. It’s terrible because the only sound in the room is the sound of the staff hitting skin, because Ranboo hasn’t screamed, is forcing himself not to, because he suspects that the silence means Dream is doing this for his own enjoyment, and not really for any “lesson.”

The awful silence is broken when Tubbo screams. “Stop!”

And Dream does. The staff stops coming down, stops being the only sound. Ranboo blinks his eyes open, the pain flooding in from every receptor in his body. He’s on the ground—when had that happened?—curled halfway into a fetal position, and Dream is turning to face Tubbo.

“What was that?” He asks, voice low and dangerous.

And Ranboo watches, horrified, as Tubbo’s eyes widen and he drops to his knees, head bowed, neck bared. Submission. He’s surrendering.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice steeped in fear. “I’m sorry, sir—“

“Sorry?” Dream repeats. “You’re sorry. And I suppose you mean to tell me that you didn’t mean to. That it was an accident.”

Tubbo swallows, but he doesn’t answer. Ranboo wants him to answer, to rebel, but at the same time he doesn’t.

Because rebellion here means getting hurt, and Ranboo can do that, can protect his own dignity, but he can’t watch Tubbo be hurt.

Dream nudges the end of the staff under Tubbo’s chin, tilting his head up. Wide, fearful blue eyes meet angry green.

Ranboo wants so badly to punch Dream for putting the fear there.

“Tell me, Parakeet,” Dream says, almost casually, as if they’re having a nice conversation about the weather. “Do birds make mistakes?”

“No sir,” Tubbo whispers.

“Do birds have accidents?”

“No sir.”

“What happens to birds that slip up?”

“They die, sir.”

Dream smiles. “Then did you make a mistake, Parakeet?”

Tubbo’s hands twitch on his thighs. “No, sir.”

“Did you mean to speak? To call out? Against my orders?”

An audible swallow. “Yes, sir.”

The staff moves away, and Ranboo feels like he can breathe. Tubbo visibly relaxes—until Dream crouches in front of him, hand resting on his collarbone. “Thank you for telling me the truth. But do not act on that intention again, Parakeet. Or I may have you teach the lesson to our new bird yourself.”

A brief look of horror passes over Tubbo’s face before he quickly schools it. Above him, Tommy’s eyes widen.

Dream turns to face Ranboo. “Get up,” he scoffs, tone derisive. “Don’t lie on the floor like a worm.”

Ranboo stands, slowly, trying not to aggravate any of his numerous wounds. He glances at his friends, who are both staring at the ground. Tubbo is still on his knees.

And Ranboo realizes he hates Dream. He’s never hated anyone before, not like this. But feeling the wounds on his body, watching how easily Tommy and Tubbo follow his orders, like he owns them—

He hates Dream with every bone in his body.

Chapter Text

They are in Tommy’s cell/room. Tommy and Tubbo sit on the cot, Ranboo is on the floor with a medkit open next to him. He’s wrapping Tommy’s arm, which has been sprained. The blood has been cleaned off his face, but his eye is still swollen, and Ranboo knows it’s going to turn black and blue tomorrow. He’s not gravely injured, Dream had made sure he wasn’t, but he can’t be comfortable.

Tubbo’s knuckles are bloody. His eyes are dead.

Ranboo remembers the way his fist had cracked into Tommy’s face, his nose, careful not to damage anything important, the way his expressive blue eyes dimmed into nothing when Dream gave the order, teach Robin a lesson, and he’d only hesitated for a moment, flinching when Dream’s hand curled into a fist and his green eyes hardened, and then Tubbo had struck.

And Tommy—Tommy hadn’t fought, hadn’t resisted, had just stood and taken it, taken all of it, and his eyes were dead too but Ranboo could see a glimmer of understanding in them, it’s okay it’s not you I don’t blame you, and Ranboo hates it.

“How do you do it?” He asks. “How do you just take it?”

It’s silent for a moment. Tubbo lets out a breath. But it’s Tommy who answers, quietly. “‘S just easier, innit? If we fight, we get hurt. There’s a lot less hurting when we don’t rebel.”

He sounds so tired, and Ranboo wants to fix it. “But they’re killing you,” he says softly. “Every day.”

Tubbo lets out a soft, sad laugh. “Bossman, I told you. We’re nothing, no one. We’re fucking killer birds, there is nothing left in us to kill.”

“That’s what they teach you here,” Tommy murmurs. “We don’t have names except the ones they give us, we don’t own our bodies, we aren’t people unless they tell us to be. It’s easier to just go with that—it’s easier to believe them. Fighting hurts, and nothing good ever comes from it.”

“But if you hadn’t fought, I wouldn’t have met you,” Ranboo says, that kernel of defiance in his gut rearing up once more. “If you hadn’t fought, I wouldn’t have my best friends. I don’t care what they say, you’re always going to be Tommy and Tubbo to me.”

Tubbo sniffs, and when Ranboo looks over, his eyes are wet. “I liked being Tubbo,” he whispers. “I really liked being Tubbo.” His voice breaks in the middle of his sentence.

“You’re still Tubbo,” Ranboo says firmly.

But Tubbo shakes his head. “No. Tubbo’s dead—killed in his room in the middle of the night. So’s Tommy. Ranboo got in a fatal car accident on the way home from school. They’re all dead, and we are what’s left.”

“You have to understand,” Tommy says, reaching over and taking Tubbo’s hand. “We’ve been a lot of people. None of them lasted very long, and none of them exist anymore. At the end of the day, it’s just Robin and Parakeet, and that’s all we’ll ever be.”

“But surely you were someone before that,” Ranboo argues. “What did your parents name you?”

Tommy smiles softly. “Tom and Toby. He was adopted—or, well, I found him in a box one day when I was like, three. We had two older brothers and a mum and dad, and a big house in the middle of nowhere.”

Ranboo smiles. “That sounds nice.” Then he pauses, and snorts. “Wait—hold on, you said you changed your names from Tom and Toby to Tommy and Tubbo? Great planning, guys.”

Tubbo lets out a giggle. “Okay—listen, there was a lot before that, we just lost all creativity this time around. I was Ash once.”

“Oh yeah, that one was fun,” Tommy says, smiling. “Did a lot of crimes, that time.”

“Pretty sure we are currently in a crime,” Ranboo mutters, but something in him feels lighter—he can still make them laugh. He can still give them some joy.

Tommy snorts. “Nah, man, this shit is government approved. Can’t be illegal if the FBI is involved.”

That’s probably a commentary on society as a whole, but Ranboo decides to ignore that.

Tubbo breaks the slightly-uncomfortable silence. “I’m… really proud of you. For fighting, I mean. Even if—even if you’re getting hurt. I just…” he sighs. “I don’t want you to become like us.”

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Tommy murmurs. “It was only supposed to be us. I-I’m glad you’re not giving up.”

Ranboo smiles softly. “I’m not giving up on you, either. You’re still my friends, no matter what that green bastard says. I want to help you.”

Tubbo smiles, but it’s sad, strained. “Focus on yourself first, bossman. Dream doesn’t like it when people don’t listen to him.”

Tommy is silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is low, and there’s a hint of something in it that reminds Ranboo of the boy he knows from school, the boy who showed up randomly in the middle of the school year and rocked Ranboo’s world. “You’ve been here a few weeks. He’ll probably start teaching you how to use weapons soon.”

“Oh.” Ranboo swallows. “That’s good.”

He’s not sure he’ll be able to master any weapons well enough to actually do anything. Then again, this place is ruthless.

Maybe he’ll be able to do some damage to it.

Maybe he’ll be able to get his friends out.

Chapter Text

A few days later, just as Tommy had predicted, Ranboo is taken to a long room with red and white targets lining one wall. Dream is waiting there, next to a table full of guns.

It’s daunting, realizing how many types of deadly weapons are in the world—and how many types sit in front of him right now, full of fatal injuries.

The door behind him is locked, and Dream beckons him over. Ranboo goes, still staring at that table.

Dream passes a hand over the guns, green eyes searching them, before apparently settling on one. He picks up a small pistol, black metal gleaming in the fluorescent light. He holds it out to Ranboo.

“Attempt to shoot anything but the targets,” he says, “and you will be dead before you can pull the trigger. Understand?”

Ranboo nods quickly. Dream’s gaze hardens. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” Ranboo says.

“Yes what?”

Ranboo rolls his eyes, debating not answering. But—no, this has to go well. He has to learn how to defend himself, at least partially. “Yes, sir,” he says after a moment.

Dream grins. “Good.”

It turns out Ranboo is really bad at guns, and Dream does not like it. He has Ranboo shoot, aiming for the bullseyes at the center of each target, and when Ranboo misses all seven of them (most of them hit the wall), Dream sighs, as if this is the most tedious thing in the world.

Well, maybe you shouldn’t be forcing kids to fight, Ranboo thinks snappishly.

“Seriously,” Dream grouses, “have you never shot a gun before?”

“No…?” Ranboo says, brows furrowing. “Why would I—”

He hisses as Dream slaps his cheek, the force pushing his head to the side. “Don’t speak unless I tell you to,” the man snaps. Ranboo swallows and looks down.

Dream grabs the gun from his hand and holds it as if he’s about to shoot. “If you’re going to be a good bird, you have to know how to aim. And you want to be a good bird, don’t you?”

Ranboo only looks at him. Dream sighs again. “Do you know what happens to birds who fuck up, Blackbird?”

Ranboo shakes his head. “No. I’m not a bird.”

Another slap. Ranboo’s used to it by now. “Birds who fuck up,” Dream repeats, “die. They get put down. They are of no use to me, and they don’t deserve to live if they have no use. So don’t fuck up, Blackbird. If you want to live, you learn how to shoot. You learn how to aim. And you never disobey me. You find my targets and you kill them, you protect me and mine, and you are a good bird. You are on a thin line right now, and you’d best be careful. Do you understand me?”

Ranboo nods, feeling a shiver travel down his spine. For the first time in this place, he’s truly afraid. He understands how much Dream owns his friends, he’s understood that for weeks, but he hadn’t realized until now how much Dream controlled his wellbeing. 

It’s terrifying, but he knows he can survive it. If he keeps his head down, which really grates at his pride. But he can survive this. And maybe come out of it with a few new skills.

It seems that Dream’s forgotten, amidst his assurance in his own power and control, that his birds still know how to cause real damage.

How convenient.

The next few weeks are grueling. Dream brings Ranboo into the practice room every day, teaching him how to use every kind of gun they have—which is a lot, apparently. Sometimes, Tubbo or Tommy comes with him and demonstrates. Once, Tommy stands in front of one of the targets, and Dream points a rifle at him. Ranboo goes to scream, but before he can even get a sound out, Dream is shooting. Then, barely ten seconds later, he stops, stepping back. Ranboo stares at his friend, expecting Tommy to be full of bullet holes, but—

He’s perfectly fine. The bullets hit all around him, perfectly framing his body in the target. Tommy hadn’t even flinched.

It makes Ranboo feel sick.

“You should be able to do that,” Dream says, putting the rifle back on the table. “You should be able to look where you’re aiming and hit it, without even trying. If you can’t, you are defunct.”

Tommy stares at Ranboo with a dim, apologetic look. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed. He looks submissive, and Ranboo hates it. Tommy is not a submissive person. He is loud, and unapologetic, and sometimes an idiot, and Ranboo hates that he has to hide.

So he tries. He tries to aim, to hit the target he wants to hit, and he starts getting better. But he’s still a slow learner.

He can tell that Dream is getting tired of it. Tubbo and Tommy didn’t take this long to learn, Ranboo knows. Dream’s said it multiple times. Ranboo starts to feel afraid—if he’s not good enough, soon enough, what will happen? Will Dream kill him? Or something worse?

The answer comes about a month after that first lesson. Ranboo is better at aiming, but not nearly good enough to be confident in his abilities as a marksman. After another day of missing the bullseye—he’s actually on the targets now, but nowhere near the middle—Dream groans.

“Fine,” he says, “we’ll try something new. Tomorrow, Parakeet will be on the target. If you don’t want him to die, you will aim.”

Ranboo’s heart freezes in his chest.

He doesn’t remember going back to his cell. He doesn’t remember the glass wall sliding shut behind him.

“Ranboo?”

He blinks. He turns towards the voice, focusing on Tubbo, sitting on his cot across the hall. Tubbo’s brows are furrowed, and he’s looking concernedly at Ranboo. “You alright?”

Slowly, Ranboo shakes his head, sitting on his own cot, burying his face in his hands. “I’m screwed,” he whispers.

“What happened?”

Ranboo looks up at his friend, his vision blurring with tears. “You’re going to die.”

Tubbo frowns. “What? I don’t—did Dream say that? Did I do something?”

Ranboo shakes his head. “No, I just—I can’t aim,” he says, voice hoarse.

Tubbo’s breath hitches—he understands. “It’s going to be fine, Boo. Promise. I trust you.” He fights to hide a barely-there tremor in his voice, but Ranboo can still hear it.

“But I don’t trust me,” Ranboo says, and tears begin to roll down his cheeks. “Tubbo, I can’t—I have to shoot at you, what am I—”

“We’ll figure it out,” Tubbo interrupts gently. “I know you don’t want to hurt me. I’ll be fine, okay?”

Ranboo sniffs. “But—”

“Ranboo,” Tubbo says, his voice firm, but still so gentle. “It’s going to be okay.”

Ranboo hates how sure he sounds.

The next day, Ranboo stands in front of the first target, rifle in his hands. Tubbo stands with his back to the target, blue eyes gleaming with fluorescent light. He doesn’t look afraid, but Ranboo can see his hands shaking.

“Blackbird,” Dream says, the only command he needs. He gestures to the target—to Tubbo— and stands back.

Ranboo hesitates. Tubbo offers him a small smile. It’s okay, he mouths.

Ranboo raises the gun.

“Left shoulder,” Dream says, and Ranboo aims just to the left of Tubbo’s shoulder. He hesitates again, feeling that sharp sting in his nose that comes just before tears.

Then he pulls the trigger.

Bang!

Ranboo doesn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he’s opening them again, brow furrowed at the lack of screaming or pained noises. His eyes widen as he sees Tubbo still standing, still unharmed. There’s a black hole in the target, inches from his skin.

Dream doesn’t waste any time. “Right thigh.”

Ranboo repositions, swallowing thickly. Tubbo’s still smiling.

Bang!

Another hole in the target. Tubbo hasn’t flinched, but Ranboo is enough for the both of them.

This time, he can hear the smile in Dream’s voice. “Head.”

Ranboo sucks in a breath through his nose. “I—”

“Blackbird,” Dream says sternly. “Don’t disobey. Be a good bird and you live, remember?”

“But—” Ranboo turns to face him, eyes wide and pleading. “I can’t—I’ll kill him.”

Dream shrugs. “That’s what happens when birds can’t aim. That’s what happens when birds try to escape the nest. Not everyone can fly, Blackbird. Don’t you want to? Don’t you want to survive?”

Ranboo looks back at Tubbo, who’s no longer smiling. His eyes are pleading—for Ranboo to resist, or to comply? He can’t tell which, and he’s starting to panic.

“Shoot, Blackbird,” Dream growls. “Or I’ll shoot both of you.” His hand rests on the pistol on his hip.

Slowly, Ranboo raises the gun. He meets Tubbo’s eyes, and tries to transmit his guilt, his apology, his panic, through their gazes. He doesn’t know if it works, but Tubbo’s eyes soften and he relaxes—preparing.

Ranboo wants to cry. To scream. To rage at the unfairness of the universe. He doesn’t want to kill his friend. He doesn’t want to hurt his friend.

But Dream is behind him, and he gasps as he feels the cold press of metal at the back of his neck. “You have five seconds,” Dream says, voice low. “Then I shoot.”

Tubbo’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t move. He meets Ranboo’s gaze again. Do it, he mouths. It’s okay.

Ranboo swallows.

“Five.”

He aims the gun just above the crown of Tubbo’s head.

“Four.”

He blinks back tears. His arms waver.

“Three.”

He plants his feet, steadies his arms, tries not to scream.

“Two.”

His finger tightens on the trigger.

“One.”

BOOM.

Ranboo stumbles as a blast shakes the building.

Chapter Text

There’s a fuzz in Ranboo’s head— panic, his mind supplies dimly, somewhere in the recesses, where it’s still clear. Through it, he can hear more loud blasts, although they’re fainter, and the muffled sound of Dream shouting, and a hand on his arm, pulling him close.

His shoulder bumps with another, and he looks down to see Tubbo there. They’re both huddled close to Dream, who has forced them to himself. They’re facing the door, in front of Dream. Coward, that clear part of Ranboo thinks.

Slowly, the ringing in his ears, the haze, fades, and he can hear what Dream is saying— get Robin in here, see what the fucking problem is, this place should be unbreachable, what are you all doing wrong?

He blinks, and a soldier is leaving. He blinks, and they’re coming back, this time with Tommy in tow. The boy is stumbling, his eyes wild, his face confused. He looks around, and his eyes land on Tubbo and Ranboo and widen.

“Robin,” Dream barks, and Tommy snaps to attention. “Come here.”

Tommy obeys immediately, walking over with his back straight and his eyes cast downwards. Ranboo startles as Dream yanks the rifle out of his hand and presses it into Tommy’s. Then he snaps at Tubbo and points to the table of guns in the corner. Tubbo doesn’t hesitate either, and soon the two of them are standing in front of Dream, guns pointed at the door. Ranboo stays perfectly still and quiet, standing to the side, hoping Dream won’t notice him.

Unfortunately, Dream does, almost immediately. His eyes narrow. “Blackbird—“

There’s a bang on the door. Tommy and Tubbo raise their guns higher, shifting their feet into a defensive position. Other than the guns, they’re completely unprotected, but thankfully—or horribly?—Ranboo isn’t worried for them. 

There’s another bang, this time louder and more forceful. Ranboo flinches.

Dream growls, stalking over and grabbing his arm. “Blackbird—“

The door bursts open, and they all take a step back in surprise. And then Ranboo freezes in fear because—

Well, that guy is huge.

There’s a man standing in the doorway, panting with exertion. He stalks into the room, and Ranboo sees that he’s built like a boulder—tall, big, muscular. He’s dressed in black, with a belt of knives and a few pistols slung around his hips. His maroon eyes gleam with anger, and he has a long-ass braid of pink hair hanging down his back—which somehow only serves to add to the terrifying factor. He glares at them all, and when his eyes land on Dream, they narrow.

“Where are they?” he demands, and his voice is deep, gravelly, sending a chill down Ranboo’s spine. “Where are my brothers?”

Ranboo spares a glance at Dream—does he have more kidnapped kids hiding somewhere? But Dream is staring right back at the stranger, his hand still wrapped around Ranboo’s wrist. “Who the hell are you?” He asks.

The man snarls and steps forward, pulling a gun out of what appears to be fucking nowhere. “Someone you shouldn’t have pissed off.” He raises his hands, pointing the barrel of the gun right at Dream’s chest.

Quick as anything, Dream pulls Ranboo in front of him. “Do your duty, Blackbird,” he hisses. Louder, he says to the man, “stand down before my birds shoot you full of holes.”

Ranboo struggles against the grip on his arm, but Dream is stronger than him, and holds tight. In front of him, there’s faint clicks as Tommy and Tubbo release the safety on their firearms.

The guy only smiles. “What, you think I’m scared of a couple of kids? Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?” His gaze meets Ranboo, and he scoffs. “Come on, stop using that kid as a meat shield. Unless you’re really a coward, which would frankly be hilarious.”

Dream growls to himself and pushes Ranboo out of the way. He stalks forward. The stranger has about two inches on him, and it serves for a picture that in other circumstances would be funny—Dream tilting his head back so he can look the guy in the eyes and try to intimidate him. “What do you want?”

“I told you.” The man’s eyes narrow. “I want my brothers. I know you took them. I know they’re here. Give them back, and maybe I’ll let you live.”

Dream laughs. “I don’t even know your name! How do I know who your brothers are if I don’t know you?”

Before Ranboo can react, the man’s hand shoots out and wraps around Dream’s throat. Immediately, Tubbo and Tommy are aiming their guns at his chest, but the man is speaking before anyone can stop him. “My name is Technoblade,” he says, voice low and angry. “Eight years ago, you kidnapped my little brothers. For that, I will kill you.”

Tommy’s breath stutters.

The guns lower, and Ranboo sees his friends’ eyes widen.

Technoblade, without hesitation, spins, still with Dream in hand, and cracks Dream’s head against the wall. Dream slumps to the floor, blood pooring from his temple.

Ranboo blinks. He feels dazed, confused. He’s not entirely sure what happened.

Tommy doesn’t seem to care, though, because he’s stepping forward—slowly, hesitantly, almost afraid. “Tech?” he whispers.

Technoblade’s head snaps over to face him. His eyes narrow. “Don’t suppose you know where they are.”

Tubbo’s stepping forward now. “T-Techno—”

Technoblade’s eyes search his face. Then they widen. “Oh—”

As soon as the realization crosses his face, Tommy is surging forward, wrapping his arms around Techno, trying to get as close as he can. And Ranboo watches as Techno’s arms come up around Tommy, pressing him impossibly. One hand detangles from the hug to reach for Tubbo, who goes willingly, curling into Techno’s hand. Someone is whispering thank yous , someone else is saying you’re real you’re actually real you’re here , someone is sobbing.

Ranboo watches, something painfully fond in his chest.

Techno pulls back, cupping their cheeks in his hands. “Look at you,” he says softly. “You’re all grown up.”

Tommy sniffles. “You look really different,” he says. Techno laughs.

“Yeah, well… had to find you, right?”

Tubbo sniffs. “W-Wilbur and Phil, are they—”

“Not here. But they’re waiting at home for you. Been waiting for a while, little bee.”

Something in Tubbo’s face shatters at the nickname. “I want to see them,” he whispers, almost nervously. “Please, can we—”

“Yeah.” Techno rubs his cheek with his thumb, then turns and looks at Tommy. “You’re both coming home with me, okay? Whatever this fuckery is, you don’t have to do it anymore.”

Tommy lets out a small sob, taking a small step closer to his brother. “Really?” He sounds so trusting, like what comes out of Techno’s mouth is gospel.

Ranboo supposes, for a nine-year-old Tommy, it would’ve been.

Techno nods. “Yeah, Theseus. Really.” He glances up, and his gaze meets Ranboo’s. Ranboo flinches back, curling his arms around himself—though he’s not sure if he’s shy or scared.

“Who’re you?” Techno asks.

Ranboo opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Thankfully, Tubbo notices and jumps in for him. “That’s Ranboo, he’s our friend. He’s here like us—he hasn’t done anything, he’s not bad or dangerous.”

Techno rubs Tubbo’s head reassuringly. “Relax kid, I wasn’t worried.” He’s still looking at Ranboo. “Wanna come with us, kid? Phil—my dad—will welcome you. You’re safe with us.”

Ranboo swallows. “Um—is that—am I allowed?”

“Fuck kind of question is that?” Tommy demands. “You’ve been fighting so fucking hard this whole time, fuckin’—rest for a second, mate.”

Tubbo smiles at him. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes convey everything.

Ranboo lets out a breath. “Okay.”

Techno smiles. “Awesome.”

Chapter Text

Robin can’t stop staring.

He’s in the passenger seat of an inconspicuous silver car he doesn’t know the brand name of, he can hear Parakeet and Ranboo shuffling around in the backseat, and he can’t stop staring at the driver.

Techno looks so different since the last time Robin saw him. Last time he saw his brothers, they were identical—messy brown curls in mops on their heads, glasses of slightly different shapes perched on their noses, fourteen and already gangly and stick-thin. Wilbur had his guitar and Techno had his journals and old, yellowing books.

Now, Techno is tall and broad, with long pink hair and no glasses. Now, he looks like he could fight a mountain and win.

Robin wonders how much Wilbur changed, too.

Techno glances over and offers him a small smile. Robin just stares.

“You alright?” Techno asks softly.

Robin swallows. “I-I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Techno looks back at the road, but one of his hands comes off the wheel and brushes through Robin’s hair. “You should sleep. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

Robin doesn’t want to sleep. Even though he is very tired—the kind of tired that weighs on his bones, presses his eyelids down. The kind that only comes from an adrenaline rush.

He wonders when the adrenaline came around.

But even if he’s tired, even if he can barely feel his body, he doesn’t want to go to sleep. Because what if he wakes up and Techno’s not there? What if he wakes up and he’s still in his cell, still in the facility, and Ranboo’s bleeding across the hall, and Parakeet’s eyes are dead?

The hand in his hair slips down to rest against his cheek for a moment before returning to the wheel. “Sleep, kid,” Techno says, still soft, still quiet. “None of us are going anywhere.”

Robin wants to—to say something. To protest, to offer a small quip about how they are actually going somewhere right now, but… he can’t. His exhaustion takes over, and he curls up in his seat, and he’s not sure why, but when Techno says “sleep tight” he thinks maybe some part of him remembers falling asleep to that voice, more pitchy than it is now and cracking a lot, telling stories of heroes long dead.

Some part of him feels safe enough to slip into quiet darkness.

When he wakes up again, it’s to someone shaking his shoulder gently. He blinks, bleary eyes focusing on a mop of brown hair over a round face, familiar blue eyes staring into his own.

“Wake up,” Parakeet says softly. “We’re here.”

Robin blinks again, sitting up slowly. He sees that he’s alone in the car—everyone else is standing outside. Ranboo is hovering over Parakeet’s shoulder, hands twisting together in that way they do when he’s anxious. Techno is a few feet away, standing with his arms crossed. Waiting. Behind him, Robin can see a house, alone in a vast field. It’s tall, made of wood and stone. There’s a wrap-around porch and he can see stables and a chicken coop beyond the house.

He feels like crying.

There’s a hand around his, and Parakeet smiles at him. “It’s real,” he says.

Scrambling up, Robin borderline shoves Parakeet aside to get out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him, unable to stop looking.

There’s a small bike leaning against the side of the house, and he recognizes it as his own. There’s the tree he fell out of when he was seven, and the lip of the roof he and Toby used to get up onto the shingles. He can see a familiar brown and white horse in the stables, and he’s surprised that Carl’s still alive, but not disappointed. There’s the flower patch in the distance he found when he was six and had wandered away from Phil’s gaze, and there’s the familiar white door with the window cut like a diamond and it’s opening and—

Robin sobs.

He can’t keep it in anymore, and he knows Dream would punish him, and he’s not supposed to cry, but he does anyway because there, coming out of the house, walking down the steps, and one of them starts sprinting and it’s—

He looks so familiar. Wilbur looks so familiar.

He hasn’t changed much in the last eight years, just gotten taller and his hair curlier. He still has the yellow sweater, the brown beanie, the jeans and the beanstalk figure. His fingers are still long and thin and Robin imagines the guitar calluses he would feel if he held them.

Wilbur comes to a stop next to Techno, and behind him is—

Behind him—

Phil is walking, but his eyes are shining and his mouth is smiling and he hasn’t grown at all, and Robin can see new wrinkles on his forehead, and he’d probably make fun of that if this was anywhere else, any when else, but it’s not and instead he just sobs again.

“Tom,” Wilbur whispers. His eyes drift to Parakeet, and he goes, “Toby?”

Parakeet’s crying too, although his are quieter, just tears slipping down his cheeks and plopping off his chin, and Robin tries to speak but every time he opens his mouth he just cries again.

Phil rushes forward, and Robin feels his father’s arms around him for the first time in years. It’s different than it used to be, he’s taller and he has to bend down a little, but Phil still manages to envelop him, hide him.

He feels another body press against his side, and then Phil’s hugging Parakeet too, clutching onto them like they’ll disappear if he doesn’t, and Robin feels the same thing in his gut.

Phil pulls back and looks at them, hands coming up to cup their cheeks. “Hi,” he whispers, almost in awe, almost reverent. “Hello, my babies.”

He glances behind them, and Robin turns to see Ranboo standing there, shoulders hunched. Nervous. Shy?

Phil doesn’t seem to care. “Hello,” he says. “Who are you?”

Ranboo blinks and looks up. Cautiously, he steps forward until he’s at Robin’s side. “U-um—hi. I’m—I’m Ranboo. I’m…” he pauses. Looks at Robin and Parakeet, eyes burning with that determination he’d had all throughout his time in the facility. “I’m their friend. Whoever they are.”

Phil frowns, but Parakeet and Robin wince, turning to look at their… family. Robin opens his mouth, but the words get caught in his throat and he stops, swallowing.

“What do you mean?” Phil asks. “Do you not know them?”

“No, it’s not that,” Parakeet says quietly. “It’s just…” he sighs. “We’re not… Tom and Toby anymore. We’re not really anyone anymore. We’ve been a lot of people and… Tom and Toby are kind of… I don’t know, I think of them as sort of dead? I-I don’t think I can go back to being that kid. Not after everything.”

There’s a kind of sad horror in Phil’s eyes, a grief Robin can’t explain, can’t understand. He supposes it only comes with having a child. Loving a child and losing them.

Phil lost two, all in the same night. Robin is struck with the realization that although his and Parakeet’s eight years with Dream were horrible, but maybe their family’s experience was awful too. This is something none of them will ever come back from the same.

Ranboo’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “Who do you want to be?” He asks, no judgment in his words. Just curiosity. “Because I don’t think anyone here is going to call you what he called you.”

There’s a pause, and Robin thinks. Tries to imagine being anything but the helpless, emotionless bird he had to be with Dream. All of his other identities were temporary, meant to end.

This feels more permanent. This feels like Robin, but different. Robin, but better.

Parakeet swallows. When he speaks, it’s hesitant. “I’d… I’d like to try being Tubbo again. I liked being Tubbo. I don’t like the way he ended.”

Robin smiles. “I liked Tommy, too.”

Next to them, Ranboo looks relieved. He looks proud. “Alright.” He turns back to Phil, who watches with wide eyes. “I’m Tommy and Tubbo’s friend.”

Phil blinks. He looks over at his sons. “Okay.” He sounds a little lost, like he doesn’t know what to do.

Tommy looks at Tubbo and grins. Tubbo grins back.

Everything feels lighter.

Chapter Text

Settling back into Tommy and Tubbo’s family is surprisingly difficult. Well, not surprising for Ranboo, because he’s a brand new addition—he doesn’t know how the family works, how they navigate their lives, who they are and what they do. But for Tommy and Tubbo, who should know this family, should know how it operates, even if it has been a while…

It’s like they’ve forgotten how to really be human.

Ranboo watches as they wander around the property, lost looks in their eyes. The others try to fold them seamlessly into their little system, but it’s clunky, awkward—like the boys are simultaneously to stay separate and join in. It’s sad, but in a soft way. Regretful.

Ranboo doesn’t really understand it—at least, not until about a week after Techno brought them home, when said man leaves the house at around ten in the morning, saying, as he does every morning, that he’s going to work on his potato farm. He leaves, as he always does, but this time Ranboo notices the important part—Tommy’s longing look. Tubbo’s awkward shuffle.

Oh, he realizes. They don’t have that.

They don’t have anything to distract them. They don’t have anything mundane, normal, fun to do. 

Ranboo decides he doesn’t like that. So one night, he sits them down in Tommy’s room—largely untouched in the last eight years, and it feels weird to be sitting with his seventeen-year-old friends in a child’s bedroom—and asks, “do you guys have hobbies?”

Just as he expected, they both frown. “Um…” Tommy says, voice wary, “defensive fighting is interesting? I actually had fun when Dream taught us that.”

Ranboo sighs. “No, like—not anything that has to do with—with Dream. Things you like doing. Stuff that gives you pleasure without any significant costs or anything. Like—Techno’s potato farm, or Wilbur’s music.”

Tubbo shrugs. “We didn’t really have time for that, bossman. Everything we did was for survival.”

“Didn’t you have stuff you liked doing as kids?” Ranboo asks, feeling a bit desperate. He has his friends back, but now that he knows everything, they feel more like shells than before. Half-humans he thought were whole.

“Yeah, but we were nine,” Tommy says. “I’m pretty sure I’m not going to have a fascination with fire trucks and shit anymore.”

Ranboo frowns. He… doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like seeing his friends so lost. They’re free, they shouldn’t be feeling like this. They shouldn’t be struggling to just live. 

“What did you do last time you were Tommy and Tubbo?” He asks. “When you weren’t in school.”

“Just went home,” Tubbo says. His voice is so flat, and Ranboo hates it. “Did homework. Covered our tracks. We couldn’t do a lot, or we would’ve gotten caught sooner.”

Ranboo bites his lip. Then, decisively, “No. We’re finding you guys some hobbies.”

Tommy sighs. “There’s nothing to find, mate.”

“No, there is,” Ranboo says, crossing his arms. His brow furrows as he stares up at the ceiling. “I know there is. You’ve had weird lives, but you’re still human, you’ve still got… interests…”

A memory comes to mind. It’s faint, he probably wasn’t paying much attention, but he can remember one day at lunch, Tubbo’s excited voice, rambling on and on about lines and numbers and…

“Code,” he says. He looks at Tubbo. “You like code.”

Tubbo blinks. “Well—yeah, but it’s not like I can learn it. And besides, is that really useful—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ranboo interrupts. Tubbo flinches. “Sorry. But it really doesn’t. If it’s something you like, then you can do it. Also, there’s a lot of ways to learn to code. You can probably google it, but I bet there’s some online classes you could take.” He pauses. Takes a breath. “You’re both—you’re okay now. You know that, right? You can do stuff that you want to do, and no one’s gonna get mad at you for it.”

Tommy folds his arms over his chest, fingers clutching at his biceps. “How do you know?” He asks, and his voice is uncharacteristically quiet.

Ranboo gives him a soft smile. “Because that’s how the world works, Toms. Not Dream’s world. The real world. And—and I know you’re both scared, and it’s weird and different, but I promise it’s going to be okay.”

They both look apprehensive, but Tubbo nods slowly. “Okay,” he breathes. And then again, “Okay.” 

The next morning, Tubbo goes to Phil, and as soon as the question is out of his mouth, Phil is opening his laptop and pulling up the website to some tech college that offers online coding courses. That same day, Tommy goes to Wilbur. His hands twist together and his head ducks, and his voice shakes when he asks if he can learn to play guitar. But Ranboo thinks, as he sees Wilbur beam bright as the sun, that it’s worth it.

Tubbo and Tommy are free now. Ranboo has a new job—make sure they’re happy.

He’ll gladly take that on.

Chapter Text

Weeks pass, and Tubbo and Tommy seem to loosen up a little—Tommy learns his music, and Tubbo learns his coding. They’re still tense, still on edge, waiting for the jump they’ve had to expect for eight years, but it’s becoming easier for them to fold into the rest of the family.

Ranboo, on the other hand…

There’s something wrong. He doesn’t know what it is, or why it’s happening. All he knows is there’s something in his gut, coiled around his heart, pressing on his mind. Weighing him down.

He feels tired, even when he gets a full night’s sleep. He’s listless, even though Phil’s property is a wide open space with plenty of things to do. He barely smiles anymore, even though he should be happy. Should be relieved. There shouldn’t be anything wrong. But there is, and Ranboo doesn’t know what.

He tells himself he’s fine—it’s just a little funk, a brief mood, he’ll be out of it eventually. That doesn’t work, and a few weeks after Tommy and Tubbo start learning how to be people again, Techno finds Ranboo slouching on the living room couch, staring into nothing.

“What’s with you?” He asks, and Ranboo startles—he’s been living with the family for a while now, but he still doesn’t really know them. He doesn’t know how to maneuver around them, and he definitely doesn’t know how to talk to them. Or why they would want to talk to him.

He forces a smile to his face. It’s clearly fake. “I’m alright.”

Techno arches an eyebrow—unamused. “Yeah, I’m not buying that, kid. What’s up?”

Ranboo sighs, shifting so he’s sitting up straight. “I… don’t know. I just feel off.”

Techno doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. Just waits. He’s a very patient man, Ranboo realizes. For some reason, it makes it easier for Ranboo to talk to him.

“I can’t… I can’t find it in me to do anything,” he whispers. “I-I mean, I got Tubbo and Tommy to like, be human again, but I can’t do that for myself. It feels like I’m missing something, but I don’t know what.”

Techno’s eyes search his face for a moment. Then he shifts, holding out a hand towards Ranboo. “Come on.”

Ranboo frowns, but doesn’t protest. He takes Techno’s hand and lets himself be pulled out of the house and towards… Techno’s potato garden?

“What are we doing here?” He asks warily.

Techno only picks up a pair of gloves from where they were tossed into a corner, holding them towards Ranboo. “Ever gardened before?”

“Um.” He’s planted a basil plant before, but he’s not sure if that counts. “A little? I think?”

Techno nods. “It’s pretty easy to get the hang of, c’mere.” He waves Ranboo over to the massive planter, and proceeds to give him a demonstration on how to plant the spuds that are piled into wheelbarrow nearby.

They plant for a while, and Ranboo has to admit—it’s nice to do something with his hands. It’s repetitive, monotonous, but it forces him to focus, to pay attention. His mind can’t wander into memories, and it can’t fall back into that listless, tired state it’s been in for the past few weeks.

“What did you like to do?” Techno asks at some point. Ranboo blinks out of his spud-filled stupor. 

“Hm?”

“Before you were taken. What did you do outside of school?”

“Oh!” Um…” Ranboo thinks. “Well, I played a lot of video games. I did stuff with my parents a lot, too. I remember we went to go see some movie one time, but it was so bad that we left halfway through and snuck into a different theater to see A Quiet Place. That was fun.” He smiles at the memory, and he hears Techno’s quiet chuckle.

His smile fades, though, when he remembers… “We were supposed to take a trip this summer. To Florida. We were gonna do Disney World and everything—the whole package. I-I was supposed to go to college next fall, so it was our last hurrah before I left.” He swallows and glances up to see Techno looking at him with a great sadness.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he says. 

“Not your fault,” Ranboo says, putting down his shovel. He sits on the edge of the planter, elbows on his knees and chin tucked in his hands. “Just bad luck, I guess.”

“Dream’s a bastard,” Techno agrees.

It’s silent for a moment. That thing in Ranboo’s gut has grown in the past few minutes, and he blinks as he realizes—

“I think I miss them,” he says. “My parents. I think that’s what’s wrong. I want to go home, I—they probably think I’m dead. But—But I don’t want to be dead. I want to go home,” he says again, pleading.

Techno lets out a breath. “We can try. I don’t know if we can get you back, but we can try. Once this whole thing with Dream blows over.”

Ranboo looks at him. “He’s not dead?” He’d thought, when Techno cracked Dream’s head against the wall—

Techno shakes his head. “Nah, a head blow wouldn’t kill him. Especially not one as weak as that.” Ranboo frowns at the use of weak, because Techno’s grip on Dream’s head had seemed pretty firm. “But don’t worry. He won’t get to you, or my brothers, ever again. Phil and I won’t let him.”

“Really?” Ranboo asks, hands slipping down to hug his knees. “I—we’re really safe now, even with him alive?”

Techno snorts. “Kid, I spent eight years hunting that guy down. If you think I’m going to stop now, you’re crazy.” His face softens. “I promise, you’ll see your parents again. I swear it.”

Ranboo feels his lips stretch into a weak, but real, smile. That curling thing in his gut loosens, and his shoulders relax. “Okay.”

Techno nods, once, decisively. “Alright, enough emotional talk. These potatoes won’t plant themselves.”

Ranboo laughs and picks up his shovel.

Chapter Text

“Come on, Techno, hit me,” Tommy demands, dancing on the balls of his feet, his fists raised in front of his face. Him, Tubbo, Ranboo, and Techno are all outside in the field, shepherded there by Tommy, who desperately wants to spar.

Techno stands with his arms crossed in front of Tommy. He scoffs. “Absolutely not.”

Tommy groans, stopping his movements to throw his head back. “Why not?”

“I’m not going to hit my little brother,” Techno says, and something dark crosses his face.

Tommy doesn’t notice, and keeps whining. “But I can take it!”

There’s a quiet “can you?” but Ranboo’s pretty sure he’s the only one who noticed it.

“He won’t get hurt,” Tubbo says from where he stands with Ranboo, watching. “If that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“Come on, Tech, just a little spar,” Tommy pleads. There’s a pause as Techno stares at him, then at Tubbo.

Then he sighs. “Fine.”

Watching Tommy fight is like watching a dance. He’s graceful, silent, light on his feet. He loops around and ducks under swings and lands hits of his own. Ranboo knows he’s holding back, making sure he doesn’t hurt Techno, but it’s clear to see how strong he is.

But what’s astonishing is how Techno is matching him. Tommy has the training of a madman to back him, but Techno must be self-taught, or close to it. And yet, he’s almost as, if not more, powerful than Tommy. He matches each swing, each block, with an intensity that’s only found when someone is doing something they really care about.

It’s almost beautiful to watch.

At some point, Tubbo laughs. “You’re holding back, Techno!” Ranboo wonders if he can see the power in Techno, too.

Tommy grins, panting slightly through his teeth. “Come on, Tech! Is that all you’ve got?”

Techno growls and swings harder. They start moving faster, dancing across the grass, trading blows and blocks and always careful, so, so careful. 

They stop when they’re both panting, out of breath, and have their arms locked around each other’s necks—how they got into that position, Ranboo has no idea.

They let each other go, and Techno shakes out his arms. “Goddamn,” he says breathlessly. “You’re good.”

“Told you,” Tommy says, bending at the waist to put his hands on his knees.

Techno looks at Tubbo. “You like that too?”

Tubbo shrugs, but his ears are turning red—a sure sign of embarrassment. “I-I guess.”

Techno then turns to Ranboo. “You?”

Ranboo shakes his head. “I was taught how to shoot before you came, that’s all.”

Techno looks at him for a moment, gaze flat. Then he says, “Come here.”

Ranboo shuffles over, a little hesitantly. “I-I won’t be able to fight you.”

“No,” Techno agrees. “But it’s good to at least have some self defense stuff under your belt. Hold out your hand like this.” He makes a fist with his own.

Ranboo copies, frowning. What is this for?

“This is how you throw a punch. Keep your thumb outside your hand so you don’t break it,” Techno says, putting his fist down. Then he holds up his other hand, palm flat and vertical in front of Ranboo’s face. “Hit me.”

Ranboo swallows, raises his fist, and throws it forward.

The impact hurts, but he thinks it’s less than if he was throwing a real punch. It also has zero impact, as evidenced by Techno’s laugh. It’s an amused chuckle and a small grin, and it’s honestly kind of nice. Makes Ranboo feel a little less self-conscious about the whole thing.

“That was barely anything!” Techno says, grinning. “Come on, hit me. For real this time.”

It’s shocking how similar he sounds to Tommy. Although he’d probably hate it if Ranboo pointed it out. Ranboo brings his fist back again, and again throws it forward, trying to go harder this time.

He actually pushes Techno back, but the man’s feet stay planted. He sighs, still smiling. “Okay, we’ll need to work on that. For now, let me show you how to kick…”

He teaches Ranboo a lot of basic self defense that day—how to get someone into a chokehold, how to get out of a chokehold, how to kick and how to notice an opponent’s weaknesses and use them. Techno shows him his own weaknesses too, pointing out how Ranboo favors his left side, how he prepares to throw himself into something and then backs out at the last moment, leaving him weak and vulnerable. By the end of it, Ranboo feels a little more confident in his ability to fight someone—or at least get out of a conflict. He doubts he’ll ever be as good as Tommy or Tubbo, but he finds he doesn’t really want to be. They can be fighters if they want, Ranboo is all good being a pacifist.

But Techno seems proud of him, and a large part of Ranboo preens at the praise he receives.

Techno claps a hand on his shoulder, thoroughly winded now. “Good job, kid. Tomorrow we can start on—”

He stops, eyes going wide. Ranboo frowns, wanting to ask what Techno meant by “tomorrow”, and also wanting to ask what’s wrong.

He hears a sharp intake of breath from Tommy, and turns around to see a figure walking across the field towards the house. They’re walking leisurely, as if they have all the time in the world.

They’re wearing a black suit with a green tie.

Dread spreads into his gut as he realizes who it is.

Dream has come for them.

Chapter Text

“Get inside,” Techno growls. The boys comply immediately, scrambling up the steps of the porch and through the screen door. Techno follows, locking the front door behind them. “Dad!” He barks, his voice echoing throughout the house.

Phil comes rushing in, a stain spreading on the top of his shirt—had he spilled something? “What’s wrong?”

“Dream,” Techno says shortly. Phil sucks in a breath, then turns to the boys. 

“Okay, come here,” he says, ushering them towards the stairs up to the bedrooms. “Come on, we’ll hide you in my room, it’ll be alright, Techno and I will handle it…”

He takes them to his room and guides them inside. There’s a thumping on the stairs, and then Techno and Wilbur are running up. Wilbur joins them in the room, and Tommy immediately grabs his hand, squeezing tightly. Ranboo’s having trouble breathing, but as he looks, he sees that Tommy and Tubbo aren’t faring much better. He takes their hands and squeezes, exaggerating his breathing and forcing air through his lungs. It doesn’t help as much as he’d like.

Phil and Techno file out of the room, and Phil looks back at them with a forced smile on his face. “Everything’s gonna be fine, boys. We won’t let him get you.”

Wilbur guides them to the bed as the door shuts, tucking Tommy close to his chest. “It’s gonna be fine,” he whispers, reaching out and tucking a strand of brown hair behind Tubbo’s ear. His eyes meet Ranboo’s. “Promise.”

Ranboo swallows. His throat feels tight, his eyes are burning, fear is churning in his gut. He thinks it’s nothing compared to what Tommy and Tubbo must be feeling.

They sit in the silent room for what feels like hours, just waiting. For what, Ranboo doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he’s waiting for Phil and Techno to come back and say that Dream is gone, or if he’s waiting for Dream to come and take them back.

Maybe he’ll just kill them. After all, birds who fuck up, die. And Ranboo fucked up a lot.

No. He shakes his head. He can’t think like that, not after weeks of living here, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by love. Not after refusing to bend to Dream’s will in the facility. He’s not going to give up now.

There’s thumping on the stairs. Tubbo gasps, Tommy tucks closer to Wilbur. Wilbur holds him tighter. “Shh,” he says. “Shh, it’s probably just Dad, just Dad, okay? It’s okay, they can hold him off, they can stop him, they—”

A bang on the door. They all flinch, Ranboo tightens his hold on his friends’ hands.

Another bang, a rattle, and then the door is swinging open.

And Dream is there, pistol in hand, smile on his face. “Oh, look,” he says casually, “the three little piggies. And big brother, too. How cute.”

The boys scramble back, and Ranboo vaguely notices a glass door out onto a small balcony behind them. 

Meanwhile, Wilbur has stood, crossing the distance between the bed and Dream in less than a second. His shoulders are set, his fists clenched, like he thinks he could take on Dream and win. “Leave them alone.”

Dream laughs. “Ah, so you’re the sacrificial one. Got it.”

Quick as a snake, his hand shoots out and grabs Wilbur’s wrist. Wilbur cries out as he’s turned, his arm shoved up against his back. And then the barrel of the pistol is at his temple.

Tommy shrieks. “Will!” He tries to run forward, but Tubbo grabs his arm.

Dream laughs again. “Careful, Robin. Wouldn’t want any innocents getting hurt, would you?”

Ranboo grits his teeth. “Bastard,” he snarls. “Leave us alone!”

Dream’s smile drops. “No. Here’s what’s going to happen.” The gun presses tighter against Wilbur’s head. Ranboo can feel Tommy shake next to him. “You are all going to come with me. If you come willingly, with no struggle, I will consider not killing you. If you do resist, I will kill this one, and then I will kill you. And it won’t be pretty. Understand?”

Ranboo swallows, that fear in his gut churning, churning until he could throw up. But what’s worse is the defeat he sees in Tommy’s face when the other boy’s shoulders slump. He goes to take a step forward—

“Don’t,” Wilbur growls, sucking in a breath when Dream’s grip on his arm tightens. “Don’t you dare.”

“Will—” Tommy whispers. “Will, I can’t—”

“Five seconds,” Dream says. “Four. Three. Two. O—”

Wilbur stomps on his foot. And again. And when Dream gasps in pain, his control slipping, Wilbur shoves out of his grasp and pushes Dream against the wall. “Go!” He shouts. “Go, now!”

Ranboo wastes no time. He grabs Tommy and Tubbo and pulls them towards that balcony door. He tests the handle—it’s unlocked. Thank God. He pushes them through and follows, closing the door behind them. Tubbo’s already on the roof, whose lip hangs over the balcony, and is pulling Tommy up. They scramble up onto the tiles and reach down for Ranboo. He reaches up—

The door slams open, Ranboo stumbles backwards into the railing. Dream is there, blood pouring from his lip. Wilbur lies motionless behind him.

“Blackbird,” Dream snarls. His hand reaches out, and Ranboo tries to go further back, but he’s forgotten the railing’s there, and as Dream’s hand brushes his collar, and Tommy cries out, he turns and lets his mind go, vaulting over the bars and plummeting toward the ground below.

Chapter Text

Ranboo’s feet hit the ground, and he hisses at the pain that shoots through his legs. If the balcony had been any higher, he thinks, he would’ve broken something.

He hears a shout from above, and looks up to see Dream climbing over the railing. Shit.  

Ranboo turns and begins to run, but pain flares in his right ankle every time he puts weight on it—probably just a sprain, but it’s definitely hindering him. He won’t be able to get far. Hopefully he can draw Dream away from Tommy and Tubbo, at least.

Sure enough, he hasn’t taken more than twenty steps across the field before there’s a hand on his shoulder and a hissed, “Blackbird—”

He spins around to face Dream’s furious expression and swallows. “Um—I—” 

Dream makes a sound that’s almost a snarl, and jerks him closer. “You’re going to pay for that little stunt, bird.” His other hand, the one not holding Ranboo, reaches down towards the gun on his belt—

Cock your arm like this.

A memory, barely an hour old, flashes in Ranboo’s mind. Techno, standing in front of him, showing him how to punch.

Keep your thumb inside your fist, kid. Don’t want to break that.

Almost in a daze, Ranboo’s arm comes up. His eyes are still on Dream’s hand, lowering to his belt.

Eyes on the target, come on.

He snaps his attention upward.

Stop thinking about it. Just go.

Dream’s eyes are burning with hatred, his fingers tighten on Ranboo’s shoulder, panic fills Ranboo as he realizes he might not get out of this—

Stop thinking, Ranboo.

He stops thinking and just throws his arm forward.

Dream shouts in pain as Ranboo’s fist connects with his nose. His head snaps back, and Ranboo scrambles away as his shoulder is released. He’s confused, at first, and then excited, and then elated as he realizes—he did it! He actually managed to wound Dream, to take Techno’s advice and use it. He punched Dream! He—

An ankle hooks around his wounded one as he’s stepping back, and Dream throws him to the ground, still holding his nose. There’s blood pooring between his fingers.

“You little shit,” he hisses. “You’re going to pay for that.”

Ranboo tries to scoot away on his elbows, but he’s stopped as Dream’s foot lands on his stomach. He gasps and coughs, fighting for air, but then a hand is grabbing his arm and twisting and pulling at his elbow and—

With a sickening crack, Ranboo is suddenly staring at his arm—his arm that’s bent the wrong way oh God and it hurts, it hurts so much—

And as if that’s not enough, there’s a slight rustle.

And then he’s staring down the barrel of a gun.

No. He—he was supposed to be able to get away, to keep Tubbo and Tommy safe, to havea normal life again. He was not supposed to be lying in a grassy field, injured, with a gun pointed at his head.

His arm hurts. He can barely think through it.

Dream grins above him, leaning down and bringing the gun closer to Ranboo’s face. “What? Scared of this little thing? Come on, Blackbird. Just be good and I won’t have to use it.”

He’s lying. Ranboo knows it. He’s messed up too many times, he’s a liability. Dream doesn’t want to deal with him anymore. Oh, God, he’s going to die, isn’t he? He’s going to die, and he’s never going to see his family again, and Tommy and Tubbo will be taken back to the facility, and no one will ever know what happened.

“Dream!”

Ranboo’s gaze snaps past Dream as Tommy and Tubbo come running up, twin looks of panic on their faces. They stop a few feet away, and Dream stands back up as they come close.

“Let him go,” Tubbo says, voice stony. “He’s done nothing to deserve this.”

Dream laughs, and it’s a dark thing. “Nothing? Really? Parakeet, you know what happens to birds who can’t learn.”

Tubbo flinches. “My name’s not Parakeet. And we’re not birds.”

Dream sighs and pinches his nose with his free hand. “And here I thought your rebellious phase was over. Do I need to have you relearn your lessons?”

Ranboo can see his friends’ flinches, but they’re careful to suppress their fear. Tubbo’s eyes go hard. “Let us go. We won’t listen to you anymore.”

Dream laughs. Laughs. Like they’re amusing. “No, no. Here’s what’s going to happen, Parakeet: You two are going to go into that house and kill the annoying pests inside of it. And then, all three of you are going to come home with me.”

“Or what?” Tommy demands, speaking for the first time. His eyes are blue chips of ice, shining with rage in the sunlight.

Dream doesn’t say anything, but Ranboo flinches as he hears a small click— the safety on the gun being turned off.

“You wouldn’t,” Tommy says, but his voice is much quieter than just a moment before. “You—you need him.”

“I don’t,” Dream says with a chuckle, “I really, really don’t. Sure, it’d be disappointing to lose a bird, but… well, there’s three of you. He’s expendable.”

“No—” Tommy takes an aborted step toward him, and Tubbo grabs his arm when Dream’s finger moves to the gun’s trigger. “No, you took him for a reason, you—you took us for a reason, there has to be a—there has to be a reason—”

“Oh, Robin…” Dream shakes his head, and his voice goes soft and slow, like he’s talking to a child. “Of course there’s a reason. But him… I don’t need a third one, even if it is nice to have that. Now, enough of all this blubbering. Are you going to do as you’re told, or do I have to kill your friend?”

“Please,” Tubbo whispers. “Don’t make us choose.”

“Life comes with difficult decisions, Parakeet. Now figure out if you’re going to be good and loyal or if I have to put all of you down and find new birds.”

Tubbo clenches his fists. “You can’t—”

“I can, actually,” Dream says casually. “I can do whatever I want. To you, to anyone. Does that make sense in your tiny little brains? You are nothing without me. I made you! I’m the reason you’re alive, that you can do the things you do! Without me, you’d be just like everyone else—little worms, all grubbing around in the dirt trying to survive. You don’t just survive, you flourish, with me. If I wanted, I could kill all of you. I could shoot all of you right now. But I don’t, because I want to see what you can be. You are nothing now, but you could be more. You could be—”

BANG.

Ranboo screams, throwing his hand up, expecting pain to shoot through his skull just like it did in his arm and leg, but… there’s nothing.

And then Techno’s deadpan voice: “God, he just doesn’t shut up, does he?”

And as Ranboo blinks past the pain and fear, he sees Dream’s body slumped over next to him, a hole—a steaming, bloody hole in the back of his head, matting the hair around it.

He’s…

He’s—

Dead.

Dream’s dead.

Just like that.

Distantly, Ranboo hears a sob. He doesn’t know if it’s him or Tommy or Tubbo or all of them.

His arm hurts so much. He can’t move it. He can’t move at all.

There’s hands on his shoulders, his back, and Phil is there, pulling him up. “There we go,” he’s murmuring. “There you are. He really did a number on you, huh, mate?”

“He’s…” Ranboo starts. He can’t seem to finish the sentence. He feels a little foggy, like he’s inside a cloud and doesn’t know which way is out.

Phil’s hand brushes his cheek. “I know. But you’re safe now, promise.”

Ranboo looks at him, blinking some of the fog away. “Promise?”

Phil smiles at him. “Yeah. Promise.”

Chapter Text

It’s a little after 10 pm when Ranboo steps out of Phil’s car onto the sidewalk. The sun has long since crossed the horizon, and a slight breeze chills his face. In front of him, a regular, nondescript house stands black against the night sky.

The living room light is still on.

Ranboo wonders how much sleep they’ve gotten.

He makes his way up the walkway to the porch and to the door. He stands there for a moment, letting out a quiet breath. He’s not sure why he’s so nervous. Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe he can never approach a new situation normally ever again.

Maybe Dream ruined that part of him, too.

He looks back at the car, sees Techno’s stoic form in the driver’s seat, Tommy and Tubbo roughhousing in the back with Wilbur sitting between them. Phil’s in the passenger’s seat, and when he sees Ranboo looking, he offers a wave and a small smile.

That nervous thing in him settles for a moment, and Ranboo turns and rings the doorbell.

It’s barely a moment before he hears footsteps, and then the door is opening and his mother is standing there. She looks tired, thin. Almost a shell of herself.

But when she sees him, her eyes go wide and a hand comes up to cover her mouth. Ranboo can see the tears forming.

He knows he looks different. His hair is longer, his eyes duller. He has a black leather jacket he borrowed from Wilbur over his shoulders, draping over his broken arm, which hangs in a cast. He’s still limping from the sprain, and his stance is more defensive than it’s ever been.

He also knows none of that matters.

“Hey, Mom,” he says quietly.

She sobs, stumbling forward, her arms coming out, and then she’s hugging him tightly, a hand coming up to stroke at his hair, the other clutching the back of his jacket as if she’ll die if she lets go.

He wraps his arms around her, feeling her chest hitch with her cries.

At some point, she composes herself enough to pull back and call into the house, “Richard!”

There’s a shuffle, a few footsteps, and then Ranboo’s father is rounding the corner, and he stops next to his wife, eyes wide, and in a blink, there’s another pair of arms around Ranboo, and both of his parents are crying into his chest, and he sighs quietly, feeling that missing piece of himself slot back into place.

But it’s temporary. He pulls back, reaching up to wipe tears from his own eyes, and whispers, “I—I can’t stay, I really shouldn’t be here.”

We don’t know if you’re safe yet, Technoblade had told them after he shot Dream in the field outside the house. We don’t know how deep this goes. Dream might not have been the top of the food chain.

We’ll have to move, Phil had said. At least to another city. Until we know for sure that this is over.

“But I had to see you,” Ranboo says. “I needed you to—to know that I’m okay. I-I’m alive.”

His mother stares at him, eyes still glistening. “Wh—Ran, what’s going on? Where have you been?”

“We buried you,” his father says quietly. “We—we buried your body, we had a funeral, Ranboo. What happened?”

Sometimes, Ranboo thinks, technology should not be invented, just for the sake of humanity. “I…can’t tell you,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I just—I want you to know I’m okay. I’ve got people taking care of me—” he looks back to the car, to his friends sitting, waiting for him, “and you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll—I don’t know what’s going to happen now, but I’ll visit when I can, I promise I will, and—and I need you to know that it wasn’t your fault, what happened—I didn’t want to leave or disappear or anything, and I love you guys, you’re the best parents and I wish it was different and—”

His mother stops him by pulling him in again. “We love you too, Ranboo.” She pulls back, holding his head in her hands. She’s shorter than him, but he’s always felt he can hide behind her. “We love you so much. Please don’t forget that.”

“Hold on—” his father says, his face filling with worry. “Why can’t you come back? Where are you going?”

Ranboo swallows, forcing himself to hold his father’s gaze. “I can’t tell you, Dad. It’ll put you in danger. And I know that sounds stupid and dramatic, but it’s true. I’m not putting you guys at risk. Just—just live your lives, alright? You don’t have to worry about anything.”

His father opens his mouth again, but his mother puts a hand on her husband’s arm. “Alright, Ran. We believe you. Just—don’t do anything stupid, alright? Be good, eat your vegetables, all that mother stuff I’m supposed to say when my kid leaves.”

Ranboo chuckles. It’s weak. He’s suddenly very sad. He sniffs. He feels tears dripping down again. “I’m gonna miss you,” he whispers.

His mother smiles. “We’ll miss you too. But hey, it’s just like college, right? You’ll come back eventually.”

Not exactly, Ranboo thinks, but he doesn’t say it. “Yeah.”

A honk from behind him—he’s running out of time. “I have to go,” he says. He reaches out, and his parents grasp his hands. “I-I love you guys.”

“We love you,” his father says. He looks broken.

His mother squeezes his hand, then lets go. “Tell your friends that they better not get you into any trouble.”

Ranboo laughs wetly. “I will. Um… goodbye?”

His parents wrap their arms around each other’s waists and wave as he turns to go. “Goodbye, Ran.”

And when he clambers back into the car and looks back, he sees them still standing there, framed by the light behind them. Happy, relieved, worried.

At least they’re not mourning anymore.

“We good?” Techno asks.

Ranboo takes another moment to look at his parents. Then he nods.

“To L’Manburg!” Tommy crows, jumping in his seat. Tubbo whoops beside him.

“To L’Manburg,” Phil says, smiling. And Techno pulls out onto the street and into the night.