Chapter Text
The world ends as it began, screaming and covered in it's mother's blood. All a pain in a womb, once a birth and now a dagger slid into her side.
Humanity has waged its inner wars until the story has become too repetitive, too stale. The gods seek to draw the story of this world to a close. A satisfying ending to a sometimes unsatisfactory tale. The gods of this world are friendly, yet fickle things. Raised on milk, laughter, and rich honey. Even the gods of war, the gods of blood, the gods of death. Yes, even the gods of the end of the world.
The universe snaps shut the story of one of it's worlds. The hands that do the deed are young, soft, and horrifically unclean. The hands that do the deed belong to a boy named Technoblade.
Instead of a womb the prophesized Technoblade steps from the ashes of a bomb. Fawn new legs quivering as he immerges from the gore it left behind. A being made from dust and mass death, tiny and full of righteous rage.
Humans have been cruel for a very long time. He is a punishment they should've seen coming. He is a curse that has been coiling itself to massive size between the dark of centuries.
Technoblade will do nothing humans have not already done to themselves.
So he does what all humans do as they are born, cry. He may not be one of them but he is the amalgamation of humanity's whole. He is their cruelty combined, so he cries.
He leans on the last wall left standing, sobbing, draped in ash and blood stains. Weeping hard and weeping long.
His pink hair scrapes against the ground. His arms dripping red, his mind a chorus of voices all chanting one thing. Blood for the blood god. For god, for glory, to chain the sun to the ground. His small frame seeks to massacre them all.
Humans find him as they walk over exposed reinforcement bars and shattered concrete. The rescue teams extend gloved hands to his dyed completely through with gore. They grab on to him tightly, firmly. They grab so tight as to not let him land any hits. Hits he swings blindly, carelessly, with a child’s rage.
“What’s your name, kid?” a man asks through a medical mask.
“Technoblade,” he answers honestly.
The man raises a brow, but otherwise agrees.
“Nice name. How old are you, Technoblade?”
“I am brand new,”
The man just nods.
Words are slapped onto his chest. Words like refugee, delusions, trauma, shock, survivor. Technoblade does not know if he is any of these things. He only knows he is cruel, he only knows the people that scrub soot of his nose have to be too.
A certain amount of time passes. He isn’t used to the units of measurement that bind such things. However, he meets another man.
The blonde man enters the blue tarp tent Techno’s been sitting in for a while.
“Hello Techno! How are you feeling, mate?”
Techno blinks at him. Teeth itching to rip out his throat.
“Hungry,” he says, bored.
“Sure thing. I’ll grab you a protein bar,” the man exits the tarp and returns with said protein bar.
Techno bites through it, plastic wrapping and all. The man laughs at him and he cannot help but marvel at the sound.
Turns out, the man’s name is Phil.
Techno learns this information because Phil waits a full week trying to turn up Techno’s parents, who don’t exist. Digging through the rubble left from the bomb to find the phantoms. When the phantoms don’t show, or are attributed to skeletons, Phil drops a question into Techno’s lap.
“Do you want to come live with me?” Phil asks, kneeling down on his knees to be on eye level with the tiny harbinger of the end of time.
Techno doesn’t understand what that means. He nods.
His nodding makes Phil smile. Techno marvels at the sight.
Phil teaches him how to use a hair band to keep from tripping on his massive train of pink. Phil teaches him how to eat a protein bar correctly, and how to open a water bottle. Phil holds his hand during a ride on something called a plane. Phil places a larger version of those mittens babies wear to keep from hitting themselves over his hands.
The blonde man with the kind eyes does not turn him away as Techno claws into his own skin or anyone else’s. His heart does not turn sour when he places dental guards in Techno’s mouth so he stops biting until something bleeds. Techno, so new to everything, labels this cruelty.
All Techno can understand is the choir in his head that sings of swallowing the sun.
It is a sight like a wolf in chains, Technoblade is. Humans think he is 7, whatever that means. Humans, mainly Phil, have placed a muzzle over his mouth and mittens on his hands. They sit him in hotel rooms and give him coloring books, frowning when he only uses the red crayon. They feed him soft foods and make phone calls.
“Kristen, I promised that I’m not giving up on this kid. The foster system is just going to crush him. I don’t know what else I can do,” Phil says on one of these phone calls.
Techno watches him shut his eyes, listening to Kristen on the other end.
“In a week. I’ll have him ready to come home in a week. Yeah. Love you too,” the phone falls from his face.
Phil cries, and Techno’s stomach sinks. Childishly he wraps his arms around Phil’s legs. Immediately trying to wiggle away when this only makes Phil cry harder.
But Phil had wrapped him up into his arms. Muttering all sorts of things about family and brothers and learning how to move on from bomb shells.
For all Phil knows, Techno is a child that survived a bomb. Traumatized to the point he doesn’t know his name, or his age, or anything beyond his own delusions.
Technoblade is the one to fill the rivers with blood and his teeth are designed to chew on the sun. He is vicious, he is cruel. Everyone thinks he’s 7 years old.
Everyone can think what they want to think, the ending remains the same. The voices in his head will make sure of that. Right now his tiny hands may be wrapped around a man named Phil, but one day they’re going to snap this book close.