Chapter Text
He gets three weeks of silence.
The.. incident, as Technoblade is calling it, seems to quell the voices. They sit in a sated silence, one that leaves Technoblade vaguely unnerved. He’s lived in constant noise since his attack, suddenly being left alone leaves him feeling cold. It makes him sick to think about, but he would prefer the drone of the voices in his ears as opposed to this overwhelming silence.
His mood had also apparently shown a little more than he thought, because his dad openly questioned if Technoblade was doing alright, offering familiar comforts that would properly help, but he denied them all the same.
His dad stopped, eventually, sparing pitiful glances to his middle child. Technoblade felt bad, for a little bit. But, even without the voices speaking, he still felt their horrible rage towards his father, and his sadness dissipated after a day.
Still, the end to the silence brings him an odd sort of relief.
He’s gazing lazily over a book in the library, the information not really settling in his mind. He’s too tired to comprehend it, simply wanting to occupy his time with something useful as he waits for his next class to start.
The library is silent, which makes the steadily rising chorus of whispers in his ears sound comparable to gunshots. It makes him flinch, and he sucks in a shuddering breath.
It’s time.
His eyes burn, and he raises his hands to cover them. He sucks a pained breath through his teeth. He thanks whoever is listening that he chose to wear a hoodie today, because he forces it down over his eyes.
He slams the book he was reading shut, ignoring the mutters of annoyance around him as he shoves it into his bag and throws said bag over his shoulder. He throws his chair back with a little too much force, turning on his heel and jogging out of the library as fast as humanly possible.
He forces the door to the bathroom open, picking the farthest stall from the exit and pulling the door shut behind him. He feels panicky breaths drawing their way up in his chest, creating a horrible ache that seems just too overwhelming when paired with the steadily rising chorus of voices inside his head.
“Please.” He pleads, drawing his hands to his scalp and pressing his nails into the skin there. It causes pinpricks of pain to light up over his head, and he sucks in a shuddering breath.
It’s time.
We need to accomplish our mission.
We must take him out.
“Take who out?” He sinks to the bathroom floor, and distantly finds himself grossed out at the thought of that. It’s too far away for him to really process the complaint, not with the horrible gnawing feeling of invasion inside his brain and deep into his bones.
Him.
The right hand.
He blinks, hands falling to his lap as the words roll around in his skull., causing no recognition “What.. who..?” He whispers, voice breaking as a sob wells up in his chest.
He has to pay.
We have to remain free.
He cannot be allowed to remain alive.
“I.. I don’t know who you’re talking about, please..”
The right hand of God.
The right hand of the director.
His name is Quackity.
Technoblade wracks his brain for any comprehension or knowledge of the name, falling short for a brief moment before a sort of light bulb activates in his mind. They mean one of the literal directors of the Association.
Quackity, Technoblade didn’t know his non-hero name nor did he care to learn it, had risen the ranks on the business and PR side of the hero world. Numerous times did he hear his father talking about the man, sometimes with disdain. Technoblade had beef with him solely through the stuff his dad had said, but he wouldn’t say it was serious.
“There’s.. there’s no way we can do that, Chat.” He mumbles, pressing his hands to his eyes to try and quell the rising headache overcoming his senses. He felt the horribly familiar fog eating away, though it was like he had grown used to it.
Inside.
Inside.
They can help us.
Technoblade actually makes a noise of confusion now, his hands lowering from his eyes as he stared a hole into the bathroom tile beneath him. “You are being so vague right now, not even helpful.” He growls, aggravated.
Slime.
Slime.
Slime can help us.
“Who.. who the heck is Slime?” He’s long used to the cryptic nature of the voices inside his head, but this has got to be a new low for them. Usually, he’s at least given a little more guidance than a mysterious goopy named person.
Let us help you.
Let us guide you.
We can find them.
He blinks owlishly, the static becoming all-consuming for a moment. It tears away at any thoughts and consciousness he has formed, feels as though the metaphorical reigns of his own mind and body have been handed off to somebody else, unwillingly.
“S-Stop- “He grits out, hands moving to grasp harshly at his strands of hair. Pain lights up across his skull, a desperate attempt to ground himself, though he fails. “P-Please- “He groans.
The feeling recedes almost immediately, leaving Technoblade scraped open and empty for just a moment.
Sorry.
Sorry.
We need to leave. Get up or we will.
The final voice is harsh, demanding. It makes Technoblade shudder and want to hit his head against the bathroom stall wall a few times to never hear it again. Anger gnaws at his thoughts, threatening to swallow them whole and leave him as a shell only driven by senseless anger.
“W-where… Where do I need to go?” He groans, sluggishly pushing himself up from the floor and grasping his previously fallen backpack from the grimy tiled floor of the bathroom. The world spins for a moment, and Technoblade almost makes use of the toilet to throw his guts up into.
It stops, and he thanks the gods for that, and he’s able to push the stall open. He quickly washes his hands, desperate to get off the invisible germs and disgust that sitting on the bathroom floor definitely gave him.
Hero Tower.
We can go to the Hero Tower.
The last voice is notably silent, which unnerves Technoblade. He tries not to ponder on it too long, drying his hands and flinging the bathroom door as open as quickly as he can.
A distant part of him complains about missing his class.
The greater part doesn’t care.
-
The city is just as busy as usual.
It makes Technoblade feel claustrophobic, people pressing too closely to him and making him want to scream and cry and maybe hit some of them. He luckily restrains these urges, making it to the Hero Association tower without decking any civilians.
The same receptionist from a few weeks ago is sitting at the desk, her face seemingly set into a permanent scowl as she types away at the desktop sitting on her desk. He sulks up, entirely unhappy to be speaking to this woman again.
“I’m here to see my dad. Corvid.” He says, quickly, and then he tacks on a “My name is Technoblade Craft.”
The lady looks him up and down, and seems as though she’s about to deny him, before she waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. She goes back to the desktop, and Technoblade wonders how this lady even got a job here.
He jogs to the elevator, sliding and cutting through two people trying to Jenga their way into the crowded space. He hears them shout in anger, but the door is already closing by the time they recover enough to try to get in.
“What floor…” He mutters, posing it in a way to seem like he simply forgot his floor number, though he awaits the response of Chat.
69.
68.
It’s floor 69.
He hums, rolling his eyes at the antics. He gazes over to the floor buttons, and quietly mutters out a “Floor 69,” To the person closest to them, and nods in thanks as he watches the person press the button.
People filter out slowly, though this time Technoblade is not the only one left in the elevator by the time it reaches his desired floor. He steps out hurriedly, just barely clipping his shoulder on the door in his rush.
He narrowly misses slamming into a person, though they don’t even bother to acknowledge him and just continue on their journey. He huffs, fumbling with the strap of his backpack. Now that he’s where he needs to be, he’s even more confused.
Half of the doors have no numbers or names, and the ones that do simply go to storage rooms and other places Technoblade is fairly sure he doesn’t need to go into.
Didn’t think this far ahead.
Bad planning.
He feels frustration bubble up in his chest, moving to rub his hands into his eyes once more. He only has himself to blame, because why would he listen to the disembodied voices inside of his head for anything?
“I can’t just.. wander around here until I somehow find this guy- “He’s about to continue complaining, before somebody slams into him. He hits the floor with a grunt, followed by a hiss.
He whips his head to glare at the person who knocked him over, mouth open to complain before the symphony of voices in his head deafen him.
SLIME
SLIME
SLIME
SLIME
“Gh- Slime?” He says, the word rolling out of his mouth before he can stop it, and the person in front of him turns their head in exaggerated confusion.
And now that he really is looking at the person, he can kinda tell why their name is Slime. The substance drips off his face and coagulates on the ground in a gross little pile, which definitely does not make Technoblade feel ill, nope.
The man blinks owlishly, “That’s me! But nobody really calls me that here, so you must be new?” They phrase the last part as a question, tilting their head. Slime drips off their face and joins its fallen friends on the ground, the pile growing significantly.
He blinks, stunned for a second before he continues, “Y-Yeah. My name is Technoblade. I- I was told you could help me-“He fumbles before he can stop it, and he watches as Slime narrows their eyes.
He feels his eyes burn and pain lights up in them like a button was pressed. He can only guess what his eyes look like, though Slime seems to regard them with a smile. Like there’s some sort of recognition there.
“Oh hello! I thought you’d left!” They stand, terrifyingly quickly, and extend a hand to Technoblade with a large smile.
He stares at the hand for an embarrassingly long second, before cautiously taking it. He’s hoisted up to his feet with a startling speed, and he lets out a little surprised yelp with it. Slime pays it no mind, grinning widely.
“I- What? Technoblade gapes, retracting his hand as though he had been burned.
Helped us.
Helped us escape.
They freed us.
He furrows his eyebrows, and Slime speaks “Them! You know, the little guys.” He waves his finger in a mimicry of a… spider? Which doesn’t entirely make sense to Technoblade, but he supposes it’s as good of a comparison as anything.
“Oh.. you.. You f-freed them?” He fumbles over the words.
“Yep!” Is all Slime says, leaving Technoblade at a loss for a sort of response.
Ask them.
Ask them.
They can help us.
“Um. T-They said, you could help us.” He starts, and then he quickly adds on the next part as clarification, “W-We need to see Quackity. Alone.”
Slime seems to roll the idea around in their head, quite literally as they begin to rotate their head a little bit. “I can do that! He’s not here right now, won’t be all day!” He says, then pauses and tilts his head. “Why do you need to see him?”
Tell him
Don’t tell him
Don’t tell him.
Do not tell him.
“I just… need to talk to him, we need to talk to him.” His voice borders on an embarrassing level of urgency. He’d normally feel embarrassed but couldn’t bring himself to be. He was still reeling a little from.. the interesting person that Slime was.
“Well, I can put you down for a meeting or something!” Slime pulls a tablet from… somewhere, and taps their fingers along it, “He’s available for a meeting in…. three years.”
Technoblade gawks, because why is there such a long wait time just to see one guy? He thinks it’s frankly absurd. “Uh, no.. No. Uhm, I mean if you can just show me to his office? I uh- I can just, grab the thing I needed to talk to him about, it’s for my dad… Corvid?” The lie rolls off his tongue easily, and the voices purr in appraisem*nt.
Slime’s face scrunches up, before unscrunching and they smile. “Oh! Okay, I guess it’s fine. He’s pretty important, I’m sure Quackity wouldn’t mind.” They pad off the same way Technoblade assumes they came from earlier, and Technoblade spurs into action to lightly jog after them.
They don’t walk very far, reaching a door that looks slightly out of place among the others. It’s a darker wood than the rest, adorned with golden cards and feathers that look beautifully handcrafted. Slime fumbles with a set of keys they pulled from somewhere, unlocking the door and flinging it open.
They remain outside the door, grinning widely at Technoblade as he steps inside with a sort of hesitance. After a moment, they seem to pad off to do… whatever else they had intended to do before, which leaves Technoblade in silence in the office.
It’s a very expensive looking office, and different from his dad’s one. This one is personalized, smiling faces and golden feathers engraved in the woodwork. The desk is old, thick, and made of a darker more sturdy wood.
The chair is larger, more expensive. Clearly, Quackity was specific.
Technoblade takes a spot in the chair, only momentarily sighing in comfort as the soft back and seat soothe his aching bones, before he’s searching through every cabinet and drawer within reach.
He’s not sure exactly what he’s looking for, shuffling through papers and different letters, addresses to different places.
In the bottom of the very last drawer he searches, he finds what seems most likely to be a home address, considering the city is Manburg. Based on Quackity’s office alone, he seems like the type to live in Manburg.
He paws around the desk, grabbing the first pen he sees and a post-it note to jot the address down on, before slipping it into his back pocket.
He puts everything back where he found it, and the office almost looks like it’s untouched aside from the human shaped imprint on the office chair, though that would go away within the hour. Technoblade steps out of the office, turning the keys still in the door to lock it back.
He’s not sure if Slime comes back, but he doesn’t stick around to see.
-
Technoblade waits until night has fallen over the city before he moves.
He tugs on a worn, dark red hoodie and pulls the hood to cover his face. His mask would do the rest of the work when he left the house, he doesn’t want to chance one of his brothers seeing him in it. His saving grace is that his father is working late tonight, though that means he will have to be far more careful when he actually gets to the city.
He slides his axe out from beneath his bed silently, grasping the worn leather and drawing it to his side.
Since the night he eliminated Dream, he’d kept his axe placed safely beneath his bed. He’d received comments from his father and Wilbur about its disappearance from their weapon rack but brushed their concerns off easily with a few charming words.
He pushes open his door with practiced silence, closing it with the same amount. The house is dead quiet aside from the sounds of television in Tommy’s room, a little too loud to be healthy though it’s a good cover for the wood creaking beneath his feet.
He moves down the stairs silently, the wood momentarily creaking at the weight though not loud enough to be of concern.
He’s out the door within seconds of hitting the ground floor, though he misses the sound of another person descending the steps.
-
The city is quiet.
Well, this part of the city is. Manburg reins supreme as the home of every wealthy and influential individual, far removed from the vibrant nightlife of L’manburg just a few streets away.
Technoblade knows he looks out of place, though he can’t bring himself to care. His mask hides away any identifying qualities that risk giving him away, and his axe prevents those who dare to approach him from doing so. Because nobody wants to talk to a masked man with an axe, nobody who values their life anyway.
The address remains scribbled on a piece of paper in his pocket, kept close in case his memory fails. Although he doesn’t know how, because as he approaches a home, he can tell who it belongs to.
Similar adornments of golden feathers and what seem to be playing cards line the sleek white fences that guard the home. A gate sits, with an interlocked S and Q set dead in the center, also shimmering gold in the soft moonlight.
Honestly, he’s not sure what it is with this guy and feathers or playing cards. But Technoblade is not about to dissect the mans architecture preferences.
It’s time.
Time for retribution.
Technoblade feels static and fog gnawing away at his brain, comforting as he reels from what he’s about to do. Some distant part of him finds itself struggling with the concept of ending another’s life, though it continuously feels shoved deep down. Like he’s losing it and losing that part of himself.
The greater part of him revels in the blood, the blood of those who have wronged them and must face retribution for what they have done. It feels like that part of him is so consuming, like a void that is never sated.
He can’t dwell too long, noting that he has a limited window. He analyzes the wall in front of him, before his eyes drift to the gate, and he realizes it’s probably his best bet on getting inside.
After an embarrassing few moments of fumbling and falling, he hoists himself up and over the gate, catching his arm against a piece of the metal and hissing as it snags into his skin.
He drops down, huffing as droplets of blood hit the ground from his wound. He’s annoyed, and the pain is nothing more than a burn, but he’s still frustrated. He wads up the untorn fabric around the hole to press into it to quell the bleeding for a few moments.
The house looms above him, lights cascading down from the few rooms where they had not yet been turned off. Technoblade hopes that they were early sleepers.
He crouches a little lowly to the ground, moving swiftly along the lawn to one of the windows on the side with the lights on. He hauls himself up, silently, and peers through the window.
He’s gazing into the kitchen, long deserted at this hour. The windows lock is not turned somehow, and Technoblade finds himself a little baffled. One of the leaders of the hero association, and he doesn’t even lock his windows. Weird.
He hooks his fingers beneath the window, hauling it upwards and sliding beneath it. He quietly draws his axe in with him, the metal just barely scraping against the windowsill. He closes it underneath, though leaves it slightly ajar as a quick exit.
He crouches lowly, pinning his axe to his side and drawing himself inward to remain more unseeable.
He makes a trek towards the stairs, a grand staircase with more feathers lining the banisters. He rolls his eyes, though still climbs the stairs in silence.
He has no definitive answer on the layout of the rooms and guesses by quietly peeking through any of the doors that are already slightly opened, and listening closely to the ones that remain closed.
He’s at the last door, one that’s left slightly ajar with the light still on, when he spots his target.
Quackity is sitting at a desk pinned against the far wall, his back turned to the door. He’s shuffling through various amounts of paperwork with a glass of some brown liquid sitting next to him.
He’s muttering to himself, and then does Technoblade notice the set of golden wings pinned to his back. They twitch with aggravation and look in need of a good preening.
Well, at least he knows where the feather motif obsession comes from.
They aren’t as grand as Phil’s, and Technoblade doubts the man could even fly with them.
He pushes the door open a little more, and thanks the heavens when it does not creak. He has the mind to applaud them for keeping their door hinges well oiled, which almost causes him to laugh.
Blood.
Blood for the Blood God.
Blood for the Blood God.
His vision becomes hazy at the edges, and he feels the ocean of static finally swallow him whole as he moves to stand pointedly behind Quackity. The man is none the wiser, still cussing a storm up at the papers beneath him.
He takes his axe, and in one motion, brings the handle and pins it against Quackity’s neck with ease. He hears a choking noise, and Quackity’s hands rapidly beat against his own as he struggles against Technoblade’s strength.
He uses the axe to pull the man out of his chair, slamming him to the floor and pressing a booted foot against his sternum with a wicked grin beneath his mask.
“What-“Quackity wheezes, “What the f*ck man!” He punches and hits and claws against the boot on his chest, and Technoblade only presses further against it.
“Aw, little birdie is caged.” Technoblade snort, tilting his head. His voice is horrible and mocking, thousands of whispers underlining his own. “It’s funny, isn’t it? You trapped us, and now look at you.”
Memories, ones not his own, flood his brain in seconds, fueling his rotting anger more. He wants to snap Quackity’s ribs now, make him suffer for what he did to them. But the voices wanted blood, and broken ribs would not sate their rage.
“What the f*ck? A-Are you talking about?” He gasps, mouth pulled into a scowl.
“You don’t remember us? I’m hurt… Fortunately, we remember you just fine.” He growls, lowering his face to be closer to Quackity’s. He can see the glow of his own eyes off of Quackity’s horrified face as a sort of realization dawns on him.
“You- You f*cking- How did you even get out!?” He gapes, and his squirming becomes more frantic.
“Now that’s none of your concern, is it Quackity?” He purrs, and he removes his boot from Quackity’s chest with one more harsh kick into it, which sends the winged man curling up into a ball and wheezing.
BLOOD
BLOOD
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
He grins wickedly beneath his mask, hauling his axe above his head and basking in the pure fear on Quackity’s face. This is it, retribution.
It’s cascading downwards when a weight slams into his side and knocks him off balance. His head slams into the hardwood floor and he grunts in response. He hears his axe land and skin a few feet away.
“What the f*ck.” Somebody growls from above him, “Are you doing in my house.”
He peers upwards into the eyes of Schlatt and finds himself vaguely horrified. He’s pinned down by the literal director of the hero association, and an ex top ten hero. He’s pinned down, and he can’t move, and while Technoblade is only partly sure he can’t unmask him, it does nothing to quell the panic in his chest.
Shut up
Shut up
Roll.
He blinks, then rolls his legs up beneath Schlatt and kicks him from under, hearing the man hit the ground a few feet away, if the thump and loud groan is anything to go by.
Technoblade scrambles for his axe, only just barely securing it before Schlatt is clawing at his legs, a dagger sheathed from somewhere Technoblade couldn’t place. It gleams in the warm light of the light overhead.
The dagger imbeds itself in his leg, and Technoblade let’s out a hoarse shout, the metal burning him as well piercing his skin. It’s a horrible feeling, like something is gnawing away at the edges of his wound and well into his nerves.
Technoblade growls, kicking again at Schlatt with a little more desperation. He nails the horned man a few times, watching as he falls backwards, stunned but only momentarily. Technoblade wretches the dagger out of his leg, throwing it and watching it embed itself in the wall a few feet away.
Quackity has made his way for the hallway, and Technoblade can see him where he has just barely gotten out the door. He rises as quickly as possible, heaving his axe forward and giving chase.
“Quackity!” He shouts, voice bordering hysterics, “You can’t run from me,” He punctuates his words with a grab at Quackity’s feathers, securing a handful of the golden feathers and Quackity responds with a loud screech.
He snorts, and Quackity makes it for the stairs. It’s a clumsy descent and gives Technoblade the perfect time to capture him again.
He hops over the banister, just in front of where the winged man was running, taking the man by surprise. He grins wildly beneath the skull mask and kicks the man square in the knee.
“No more running.” He snarls, raising his axe, a shot intended for the head. One to finish him off, sate the voices and guarantee them freedom. At least for now, until they call upon him again. He’s ready.
The axe falls, and once more does the weight collide with his body. Although it’s a second too late, because Technoblade watches in glee as a thick line of blood from his hairline down to his chin.
Quackity’s mouth falls open in a silent scream, before an actual one comes out. It’s horrifying, screeching and violent. His hands rise to claw desperately at the wound, body curling up and legs kicking as he writhed.
Schlatt shoves Technoblade roughly against the floor, a kick delivered to keep him down as he falls to his knees besides Quackity. His hand is fumbling for a cell phone in his pocket, but Technoblade doesn’t stay to watch anymore.
He’s out the door before the call is even made.
