Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

With the amount of threats and warning shots, it was only a matter of time before something went awry.

Tubbo and his cabinet were clear on their threats. Do not leave. Rebellion of any sort was not tolerated. The consequences of which were self evident with every missed shot and act of intimidation.

Had they been older and more experienced in these matters, Phil might have been more cautious with his actions. He might have stayed quiet and mild, out of sight of his imprisoners. But they were not. With his own experience out-weighing theirs, he toed lines that he wouldn’t ordinarily approach. Yes, he was aware they did not like him cheekily leaning out his front door, or walking out onto his balcony (even though it was clear he couldn’t fly), or offering up biting criticisms, but he could deal with their paltry methods of intimidation.

They antagonized each other.

He knew that they wouldn’t kill him. Not as long as he didn’t fight. Not while there remained a hope for some use out of him. Carcasses were only good as fertilizer, after all.

And he, admittedly, was getting a little used to it.

The constant threats lost their edge over time, and his ire and restlessness grew with each passing day. Even as he noticed the yelling growing louder and the threats more substantial, a part of him took satisfaction from it.

It had turned into a reassurance that Philza wasn’t one to be locked away, out-of-sight, and forgotten, and as the days passed, that became more important. He may be ground-bound and under watch, but he had some control of his life.

So when a moment of heated yelling occurred on his balcony for the fifth time, and a glass bottle was thrown his way, he dodged easily and was unimpressed to find the shattered remains of glass quite a ways off the mark.

Phil laughed.

“Shit throw mate,” he had said and turned away.

He would have been fine if he had continued on and went back inside, heedless of the yells that followed him, but upon hearing a challenge, Philza decided that the thing he wanted to do most was to address it.

Because he was foolish. And bored. And these were barely more than children. And it felt good to have an antagonizer that wasn’t just some nameless thing in his head telling him of all the mistakes he had made.

So when Tubbo called out, “Oh YEAH? How’s this?!”, the very next thing he did was look back.

If he had a moment to spare a thought, he might have expected to see Tubbo wielding a crossbow or even a rock in the last moments of launch.

As it stood, he didn't see Tubbo at all, and merely registered a slab of shimmering amber, expanding into the farthest corners of his vision, until-

There was a hard surface touching his back and his side. His hat barely brushing against his head. Shouting. Something crawling across his nose and settling at his cheek. Shifting grit on his face. A drive telling him that he should move and in the same breath, he had to stay put.

Pain- sharp, gasping, escalating pain in his head.

He was going to burst- explode-

A guttural noise close by, and a patter of vibrations fast approaching-

Hands appeared on his arms, in his hair. Yelling.

He was turned onto his back. He couldn’t do anything more than gasp as the pain shifted and moved, feeling even more wrong than before. Feet stomped around him.

"-it's alright it's alright, we just need-"

"-more about your shit decisions, but-"

"-have a potion of-"

"-like you've never done anything!"

Some part of him gathered enough of his wits to form a thought between the pain on his face, and it was that he didn’t like the raucousness, or the vice on his chin, or that when he tried to raise an arm it was soundly pushed down.

He didn’t want anything to do with these people.

Phil shot out a kick and hit something.

“-Ugh!”

“..fuck off,” he said, in what was intended as a yell, but what only came out as a mumble.

He needed a moment. Just a moment. Just some time and air until he could sort out the mess in his head.

Tubbo’s voice found its way to his ear. “Nonono! It’s alright, it’s alright! We’re trying to help, stay still.” A slew of similar assurances fell on him, outpaced and dim compared to the short, snapping words that came from his left.

“Get me a goddamn towel!”

“-n’t try to open your eyes.”

“Why don’t you keep anything in your-“

Perhaps it was that the alarm in their voices began to register through the syrup of his awareness, but he began to listen more intently and tried to still himself.

They didn’t want him dead, he reminded himself. Something had happened, and he might be injured. His use was more limited that way, and there was no telling of Techno’s wrath should he find out about it. It was natural that they would want to do something to help.

Philza told himself that, again and again, and had almost come to accept it, until a set of knees caged his head, and then he was all but crawled on top of and pinned firmly to the floor. Hands moved to his shoulders to brace them. He cried out as his wings tried to spasm under him as the pressure and the wood of his balcony dug into burned flesh.

A flash of desperate fear surged. It was the alarm of being caught. Trapped.

He pressed against the restraints but with each measure of movement he gained, their grip became more anchored.

Phil had experienced this sort of grasping, impromptu care before, and didn’t think of it fondly. And that had come from Techno. It hadn’t been easy, but he was the only person Philza could trust to have his wellbeing at heart, and to have the know-how, and the delicacy, to only do as much as much as necessary and nothing more.

Well-meaning or not, this was not the kind of help, and these were not the kind of people, he wanted. Not from a bunch of kids that probably couldn't work out how to unclog a toilet.

“We have to remove some glass first,” the shaking voice of Quackity said from above. A palm leaned onto Phil’s forehead, increasing the pain ten-fold. He choked on his breath. “Don’t move.”

Glass? That sounded more severe than what he might otherwise have expected, but it explained the pain. 

“No-“ His head barely shifted as he tried to shake it. “No- I- doctor. Want a doctor.” 

There was a pause.

“We don’t have one,” Then, almost consolingly- “It’ll be fast.”

He cussed and thrashed, sending his living manacles into a frenzy of mounting pressure and sharp commands. They yelled at him and at each other and then abruptly, they started screaming themselves. His bonds loosened. He struck someone’s jaw.

“The fuck?!”

“Go away!”

“Don’t let go stupid!”

“Dammit!”

Their shouts grew louder and louder, further heightening his alarm.

“I- I got it? I got it!”

“Good! Fucking shit calm down Philza!”

Someone dug their heel onto his wing. A knee found its way onto his shin. Another fucking sat on his torso.

He couldn’t breathe and it had nothing to do with the compress of his lungs.

An odd tug came from his cheek. 

He stilled.

Something moved by a degree and fresh pain lanced through his face. He felt a hard pull-

“Ah!”

Something moved beneath the skin, but it didn’t leave. It was merely repositioned.

“Damn, it’s slippery. Hold on.”

Philza's voice became muffled as a rag swept across his face. It grew wet with each passing second. “Stop stop, you fucks, don’t-"

Armed with the single instance of experience and a better work station, the next attempt went better. The tug was straighter and more drawn out, until the pain there suddenly halted and Phil heard a tinkle of noise beside his head.

He breathed out. A brush of air across his face suggested that Quackity had done the same.

It was by the adjustment of hands at his limbs that he knew a second before they were starting on the next one.

There was a similar, very gentle movement near his eye socket. The sensation lent clarity to his situation.

God, why hadn’t he opened his eyes? For some reason it hadn't even occurred to him to try. Maybe it was because he was subconsciously trying to avert debris from entering his eyes, or that the general pain on his face was causing him to instinctively shut everything out, but if something were that close to a socket, maybe the problem was significant enough that he couldn't move anything in the first place.

"Knock me out," he said. "Knock me out! Hit me! I don't care. I don't want to be awake for this."

He couldn’t explain it, there was just something more alarming about eye damage than any other injury he’d faced. Phil had been beaten and stabbed. He’d been tortured and seen countless men’s hot guts spilled onto dry grass and still yet, he’d rather take a blade to the stomach. He thought it might have to do with the personal, vulnerable nature of the injury. Or perhaps it was only to do with the fact that Quackity was all too likely to have something slip again. He didn’t want to be awake for that.

He had an inkling that he had been knocked out once already, and knew that if he were the one doling out treatment he wouldn't dare entertain such a request. A force strong enough to knock someone out was likely enough to kill them instead, and the chances only grew with each subsequent injury.

But he didn't give a damn.

“I’m sorry,” was the answer.

Before he could voice another protest, something soft was shoved in his mouth by talon sharp hands and a rallying noise came from above.

The bruising force of his helpers resurfaced and was quickly swept away by the utter, all-consuming wrongness of something long and foreign being wrested from flesh, hooking on string and sinew as it went along. It wasn’t fast. It was slow and cautious, and instead of being lifted in a straight manner, the material was minutely, and very purposely, tilted. Presumably to better facilitate a better grip and removal.

Despite the material clenched between his teeth, he wasn’t silent. He couldn’t possibly be. Phil wanted nothing more than to spit it out and convey his displeasure in the language known by all animals, but everything everything from his toes to his head had locked itself up and wouldn’t allow his teeth to unclench.

A high, uncomfortable noise filled the area, quietly interspersed with odd shushing.

He distantly raged at the noise. How dare they suggest his silence. This was wrong. They should have waited. They should have left him alone. This shouldn’t be happening. He wanted to shout at everyone that would listen that you couldn’t just do this to people. You couldn’t gang up on them and do whatever you wanted in the middle of a goddamn street.

Techno!

Quackity shifted above him and next to Phil’s head, there was a sharp clink of something being laid down.

“Alright. That’s the worst of it.”

His muscles immediately went supple and lax, settling into the hot sweat that pooled under his clothes. He still hurt, but it wasn’t the same grating, dogged pain.

“That’s a lot of blood.” Fundy said to his left.

Dread settled in his stomach. 

A rag patted over his face again. He took the opportunity to spit out the material in his mouth and sucked in lungfuls of air.

"Just little stuff now. Hold still."

He coughed. "...why... in the fuck... didn't you do that first?"

As it stood, he would be bleeding out while they fussed over little things and covered in more damnably obscuring blood. Hadn't anyone taught them not to pull out objects until they were immediately ready to deal with the fallout?

He was met with a guilty silence. It hung over them as the rest of his head was worked on. Quackity's hand on his forehead moved and he began using a cloth to stem blood near his eye. He thought that perhaps it was his right eye and the bridge of his nose that had taken the brunt of the damage. Further movement led him to think his cheek had encountered a great deal of shrapnel too.

It took several attempts at prying loose a bit of glass before Phil sensed someone lifting away from his face.

There was a sigh. "We'll have to wrap it up. We can get the grit out later. Fundy, potion."

At last.

A bottle met his lips. He drank eagerly. The taste was revolting, but less than what he had been expecting. Before reaching the bottom, the bottle was pulled away and a rag returned to his face, this time already wet and cool.

He rolled his tongue in his mouth, considering, as he patiently waited for his flesh to mend together. Once it did, he was going to teach them a thing or four.

He turned his head to Fundy's direction, and blinked heavily in an unreasonable attempt to expedite the healing. With each blink, the shrouding darkness grew brighter until he was firmly into a light palette.  "Fundy..." he started, "...when did you make the potion?"

"Uh-"

"Oh shit. " Tubbo whispered.

His insides froze. "What?"

Hands returned to his face, but since they had left his limbs, Phil batted them away easily. He tentatively traced along his nose and around his brow.

"It just needs more time." Quackity said.

"I still shouldn’t look like that."

What was once smooth skin, was now spotted with the tell-tale raised marks of scar tissue. It sprawled over the bridge of his nose and criss-crossed his forehead and cheeks. Moreover, his eyes seemed to have reached a threshold. His vision, if you could call it that, hadn't made any more progress.

Phil took in a single deep breath.

"The fuck did you do?!"

Chapter Text

Ranboo nervously adjusted his tie as he stood outside the door to Phil’s lake house.

Being here, he didn’t expect any sort of welcome, but he couldn’t not visit. Not after what happened yesterday. Someone had to check-in, and since the others had been quick to stress how booked their schedules were, he supposed it fell to him.

That was alright, he thought to himself. Had it been anyone else, they might not have overheard the idle chatter of two women in the market, who had a lot to say about the deplorable state of the neighborhood and the unspeakable language coming from the lake house.

He turned his ear toward the house and listened with a smile. It was quiet now, but he imagined that Phil would need a lot of volume to carry all the way out here.

He must be feeling better.

Phil had been very spirited and hostile while they were trying to help yesterday, but after they had brought him back into his home, he had lapsed into a strange quiet. It had worried Ranboo.

Well- rather- Ranboo was still concerned, but if he didn’t ever receive cold whispers and fists twisted in his sleeves again, then it would be all too soon.

Ranboo rapped a fist against the door.

Silence.

He knocked again. “Hello, it’s Ranboo. Uh, can I come in?”

Moments later and still yet Ranboo was the very contradiction to the welcome mat that he currently stood on.

His hand moved to the door handle.

He wondered if Phil might not be able to answer the door. According to the avian’s explanation, the potion that they had given him had pieced him together poorly, and he was likely going to be permanently sightless. Taking that into account, an accident could have happened inside. Perhaps that was the reason for all the yelling the neighborhood had picked up on.

Ranboo called out, this time louder, “I’m sorry, but I just wanted to check in, so if you don’t answer, I guess- I guess I’ll have to come in!”

At that, words came from inside, but they were indistinct.

He listened intently. "Phil?"

Nothing further reached him.

"I'm coming in!" He squeezed the handle and ducked inside to a dark, empty room.

Steps creaked from above. Ranboo's eyes looked to the ceiling as he tracked movement traveling back and forth upstairs.

So Phil could get about well enough. That was good. Very good.

"Phil?"

A loud bang sounded. Ranboo jumped.

The trapdoor leading upstairs had slammed shut.

He walked over to it and set a hand on the ladder. "Hey. Uh, how're you doing?”

Phil's voice, tired and measured, answered, "…Go. Away."

He hummed. He hadn't expected this to be easy. Phil had been nothing but hostile toward them since his arrest and honestly, Ranboo couldn't fault him for it. 

It usually wasn't an attitude that was pointed at him however.

"I’ll do that," he said with a nod. “But can I check on you first?"

"Piss off."

"...Please?"

A bitter laugh fell upon his ears. "Why ask?"

Ranboo blinked. Why? What kind of question was that? Why wouldn't he?

"It's only polite."

"Oh...” Phil’s voice lilted. He sounded almost amused. “...Are you suggesting that you have manners?”

He stood straighter. Ranboo's head brushed against the ceiling. "Yes. I’d like to think so."

"So if I say for you to leave, one last time, will you go?"

"...I-" Ranboo thought fast. He was being tested, and while he would very much like to pass, there was also the matter that he thought some things were above simple manners. Things like health. And endangerment.

There was also the simple fact that he didn’t want to return to the others without news. No one had volunteered to do this, nor even specifically asked him, but he had said that he would and they were still expecting something. Anything.

He only needed to clear up one or two things. That was all. Then he could go and give Phil all the space he wanted. Ranboo would be more than happy to. Expected or not, the poor direction this was taking was making him feel quite antsy and ready to leave. "I'm sorry. I just- Could I come up for a moment? Or ask a few things?”

A cold silence stretched.

“Phil?”

He waited. There was nothing but a small scrape of movement directly above the trapdoor. 

Ranboo exhaled and placed a foot on the ladder. His hand pressed on the wood above. It lifted very slowly. There was some kind of heavy, yet springy, resistance weighing down the board. “Um, I know I’m not-”

A blade slipped through the opening and stabbed at him. 

He leapt back.

A snarl came from beyond. “Get the fuck out of my house!”

Ranboo clutched at his arm and stared as a sword shimmied its way back inside, allowing the door to snap back in place.

Uh.

Well. He really should have taken backup for this one.

He looked to the door leading out. Ranboo shifted from foot to foot. His head turned back to the trapdoor above. “I was… I was kind of worried last night, after you told us about… potions. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how we didn’t know how unstable that one was, and that it might decide to… unravel in the middle of the night or something. And how you could be bleeding out in your sleep... But-” He breathed in. “I think you’re good. Yeah. You’re fine. I think. I…” Hope?

He wanted to go. He could take the attack as definitive proof, and didn't think anyone would blame him, but as Phil had proved before, a little injury didn't keep him down.

He walked backwards to the door and hovered his hand in front of it indecisively. He ventured. "Are you good?"

There was a clicking noise. "…I'm fine. Can't see fuck all, but… I'm fine."

"Oh. Oh, good." He cringed. Stupid. There was nothing good going on here. Ranboo wished he knew how to talk better about such things. "Someone said there was shouting here earlier. Do you know anything about it?"

Phil made a noise of interest. "Wow, these walls do piss all, huh? Yeah. I tripped earlier."

Oh. That made sense. "Are you okay?"

"Do you have mush for brains? I'm fine."

Ranboo nodded. Short of breaking down the door, Ranboo supposed that was as good as he was going to get today. "Okay. I just wanted to be sure. I guess I'll just go then. Good day, Phil." He opened the door.

It was as he crossed the threshold that there came an extra note from above. 

"Get that checked out. This might be a poison blade."

He grimaced, but thanked Phil for the information.

Ranboo walked out and was momentarily blinded by the bright sunshine. He sheltered his eyes with his good hand and watched as buildings and people took shape.

Right away, he spotted a familiar mop of blonde hair across the boardwalk. They faced him, hunched over the counter of an empty market stall. Ranboo picked his way through passerby to meet them.

"Hey. I thought you had an appointment?"

Tubbo looked down and tapped a beat against the counter with his finger. It paired with the steady lap of water around them fairly well. "Yeah. It ended early."

"Oh, that's good."

The gold epaulettes on his shoulders raised and dropped in a shrug. "So how did it go?"

"With Phil? Uh…" Ranboo thought of how to best put it. "He's not happy."

Tubbo made a noise of mild interest.

“Still having… that problem. He doesn’t really want to talk about it. He’s shut up in his room and doesn’t want anyone in…” Ranboo trailed off. Tubbo didn’t seem that engaged, and Ranboo didn’t feel like getting long-winded without a certain degree of mindfulness to receive it. He was actually feeling a bit winded as it was. “…You okay?” Ranboo asked.

Tubbo looked up with surprise across his face. “Huh? Yeah, I'm fine. I’m- I’m…” His eyes drifted down. “…What happened there?”

Ranboo followed Tubbo's gaze. Bits of blood dripped off his arm and onto the half-dried mud that caked the planks. He should probably do something about that. Ranboo tried to lift his head, but suddenly felt as though it had an anchor tied to it. “Uh. Yeah. Got a little cut or somethin’. Poison blade, he said. …I think?”

One blink later and Ranboo was sitting on the ground with Tubbo by his side as he violently pushed up Ranboo’s sleeve. “Fucking- shoulda confiscated his- Did he say what it was?”

“Who?”

“Philza!”

“Oh." He nodded. Right. He knew Philza. "What about him?”

“What poison is- oh nevermind- it’s probably- yeah hang on, I think I got it.” Tubbo searched through his own pockets with frenzied movements.

Ranboo hummed idly as he watched the floor swim bizarrely. “Tubbo, do I have manners?”

“What?”

“Manners. Do I have them?”

“Uh. Yeah? I guess.”

Good. That was good.

“How many?” he asked.

Phil grabbed the first piece of fabric he could find from the floor and settled back down on top of the trapdoor. He swiped the shirt across the blade very, very carefully and brought it close to his face to smell. It had an odd, almost chemical smell.

So it had been poison.

Not what he had intended to grab, but at least it was just diluted spider venom. And old, at that. At worst, Ranboo should sleep through the night without a hitch.

That would show them not to mess with him.

Philza leaned back and slumped low. His hair, wet from that morning’s attempt at a bath, bunched up and settled uncomfortably around his neck. Phil had wanted to lay back down, but the presence of dry, crusting blood and sore muscles had kept him on the edge of sleep until he hadn’t been able to take it any longer. He had forced himself to get up and do something about it.

It had taken him a while to work it all out. Getting his towel and finding the knobs had been simple enough, but filling the bath had required him to plunge his hand in to gauge the water's depth and it had still overflowed when he climbed in. But despite the mess, it had done him a world of good, and the bath had even uncoiled some headache that had been building since he had awakened.

Phil was feeling wide awake now. Awake and wary.

And hungry.

He ought to go downstairs and get something to remedy that, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Phil didn't want to leave his modest sanctuary. With the locks of his doors removed—courtesy of his "guests”—his privacy was limited and all he really wanted to do was hoard what little he did have. (Some small part of him also thought that if he just stayed out of the way and quiet enough, he might have a chance of recovery.)

Phil pulled up his knees to his chest and blinked rapidly in yet another vain attempt at clearing his sight. If he closed only his left eye, there was a complete lack of function in his right, as though he didn't possess an eye at all. While doing the opposite produced a brighter, blurry horizon with vague, nonsensical shapes.

It was a very odd sensation, to feel himself blink and for it to do absolutely nothing for his clarity. And trying to focus his vision on any one thing just made him feel vaguely nauseous and intensified his headache.

He shut his eyes and swallowed something hard in his throat.

Fucking kids.

Phil was going to kick their asses. One by one. He’d line them up, get a set of steel-toes, and pioneer a new era of flight.

Now that he was more cognizant, he could see the necessity in what they did. He wouldn't stand idle when someone was injured either, but he didn't like their methods and the source of it all. They didn’t have to hold him down and play the part of surgeon. They could have run to any other, preferably older, person on the realm to at least ask for a second opinion. That's what most people would have done. It wasn’t hard. They were a bunch of dumb kids that felt like they were big and knew better because of all the stupid shit they had went through, and all of them had got caught up in the moment.

But he was still angry.

It wasn't as if the time he'd spent here wasn't bad enough. He'd lost his wings, his freedom, his s-

His sight.

When would it be enough? It was as though the universe had tangled its thorns into his flesh and was determined to hold on until the rot set in.

He exhaled slowly and willed his blood pressure to lower. It wasn’t doing his headache any favors to think like this.

Phil resolved to think about nothing and sat there with only the steady beat between his ears to fill the space in his head.

It was later on, when the din of the outside subsided, that he finally meandered downstairs with careful caution, trailing his hands along walls and furniture to better navigate. He didn't want a repeat of earlier. Thankfully, there wasn't a laundry basket downstairs with which to trip over.

Once he reached a countertop, a wing brushed against the kitchen table. He pulled it back with a twitch, expecting pain. When nothing more than an aching pulse met him, he thoughtfully spread it out further, until it touched the wall. He supposed the limbs could work to orient himself as well.

Well, he thought humorlessly, at least I can get some use out of them...

Phil puttered around and gently patted the surfaces and cabinetry for something to sustain him. Something simple that didn’t require a stove. He didn’t keep a lot of food in the house. It was hard to when he had to rely on others for his shopping or to escort him to the markets, but he had a serviceable loaf of bread and some peanut butter somewhere.

He searched, and searched, and had odd moments of startlement when he ran across things he had forgotten, like a knife or a glass he had left out, but he still didn’t find it. In the end, with his patience worn thin, he settled for plain butter.

That was alright. Butter on bread always had appeal. Nevermind that he would be starving again in an hour, at least it was something.

Phil sat at his table. He didn’t intend to stay for long. The draw of his room was too strong and the living area too exposed, but it was good to be out and in his kitchen. If he thought about it hard enough, he could even pretend that it was his own space.

He scooped on way more butter on his next piece as he thought of Techno. Phil wanted, more than anything, to tell him of all that had happened last night and the previous weeks. The details of how it had developed, and how severe it had become, and how Phil marveled at how quickly things had gotten out of hand. He thought it would be nice to ask Techno what he thought about it all, and whether he thought there was a bat’s chance in hell that he could recover.

His wings lowered until they nearly draped across the dirty ground.

Phil had very good ideas on how that conversation would go, and didn’t doubt that it would only be a sorry affair. His case wasn't something he'd ever heard of people coming back from, and Techno would only be able to offer a sympathetic ear and promises of evisceration.

But that would be fine. It would be wonderful to have only that.

Phil hadn’t been around Techno for weeks, and had been distant in ways he regretted before that, his grief making it hard to interact in ways that were once common and easy. Ever since this had begun, he had missed the piglin terribly and it had taken unbelievable willpower not to douse Techno with message after message.

He had refrained. At the time, Phil had feared that too much information could spur Techno into danger and he couldn't have that. Phil, instead, had kept his correspondence brief and vague, only going over the bare necessities while keeping conversation unserious, but that had been something.

Now he wondered if he could even use a communicator effectively.

Most likely not. How would he even read it?

Phil thought of the very last message he had received from Techno. What had it been about? Had they said farewell to each other? He couldn't quite remember.

His bread fell from his hand. Phil pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as a burning sensation filled his nose. An unbearable itch prickled to life over his face, irritated by the contact and the wetness under his palms.

Techno...

Phil dug his nails into the flesh of his forehead. He fought the urge the scratch and claw. Sharp pinpricks of pain sprung up beneath his fingers. He inhaled sharply and focused in on that. Then he thought of his anger. Of Tubbo and Fundy and Quackity and Ranboo and their utter incompetence. He cussed them, one by one, loud and low.

It helped. Somewhat.

An object rapped noisily on glass, startling him out of his thoughts. It was a familiar sound.

Phil took in a deep breath and held it. He then let out a single exasperated burst and muttered under his breath.

"Go 'way..." he called out slightly louder to the crow that was doubtlessly perched outside his window.

He had forgotten that he might get a different sort of visitor. The crows didn't like seeing him when he was like this, so of course one would bug him. Normally he found it an endearing quality, but he was too mired in emotion to want the attention.

Phil got up to leave. It was then, when the bird started making a racket of caws that he was struck by inspiration. Phil whirled around. His good wing knocked against something on the countertop- it fell to the floor noisily.

Of course. The crows.

Phil was stupid. He was so fucking dumb.

He stumbled his way to the window, nearly toppling over his chair over in the process, and opened it. The crow climbed up his forearm, its talons piercing through the fabric of his sleeve. It fluttered excitedly.

Phil couldn't use a communicator, but he could still write. He could send something! He had a line of communication! Nevermind that he didn’t know what to say or how he could read Techno's messages. It was a start. It was something.

"You think you'd be up for a little job for me sometime?" he said to the bird. The weight on his arm rocked back and forth as the crow agreed with enthusiasm.

Phil would have to think about how to receive messages, preferably without cluing Techno into everything that was going on.

He wasn't very familiar with this particular crow, but judging by the name, ViscousVictus, Phil seemed to recall it stealing berries off his plate once.

A troublemaker then. And a very tenacious one if what it said was true. According to the crow, he and another had come to Phil's rescue, pecking and clawing at the four, but Phil had been too distracted to notice.

Well, to be fair, Phil had noticed a lot of yelling and sloppy restraints toward the end, but Phil thought that was just him putting up a hell of a fight.

"Oh, you're such a good helper," he cooed. It was sweet to know that someone had tried to fight on his behalf. He imagined a proper flock would have made a right mess of things if it weren’t just the season for offspring. Shame that. "Did you go for their eyes? They're basically great, juicy berries, you know. You should try them some time..."

Victus leaned on Phil's scratching hand and cawed softly.