Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Before the war, before blood fell upon the prophecy of anarchy, there was only the Nether – a red, endless world alive only due to the heartbeat of magma and mobs. 

Amongst the piglins existed several sounders who lived in blackstone palaces, bastions. Within one sounder, a child was born – one who was not fully piglin, somehow part human. His skin was pink, his ears short and stubby, his eyes bright and full of light. When he cried, the sound was not a screech or even a snort – it was something else, something wrong, something different. 

They named him Technoblade, he who would never die. While he was proud of his name, he never heard it. After all, to the sounder, he would always be other. 

The piglins were bound to each other in a way more intimate than many expected. They had received a gift at the dawn of time, a link of mind and spirit that let them feel the emotions of others. Rage, hunger, fear. They could feel it all. But when they reached out towards Techno, they found nothing. Silence.

The piglins tried, desperate to make him part of their bond, knowing that if they could not forage a bond, he would be orphanized – alone. Piglins could not survive without a bond, that was why they turned on each other at times. Brutes who did not have a bond were known to go crazy and Techno, it seemed, was bound for madness. 

By the time he was five, the elder brutes knew that they could not keep him – that he endangered their sounder. And so, they sent him away. 

He wandered throughout the Nether, exploring crimson red forests, his reflection flickering in pools of lava, new scars erupting on his skin as the days passed. For a long time, he was along, hunting down ghasts and striders to satisfy the madness that was threatening him, scavenging gold from ruins. In the quiet, the echo of his sounder’s rejection, voices began to appear - in his head. 

At first they were quiet, soft, a mere hum. Then later, they got louder, more demanding. 

Blood for the Blood God. 

Anarchy. Chaos. Freedom. 

Techno spoke to the voices in return, half in fear, half in curiosity – desperately hoping his sounder had changed their mind, figured something out, that they were the ones trying to reach him. But that wasn’t true, these voices only laughed at him, referring to themselves as chat – an endless crowd of minds that watched and demanded things of him. 

The voices brought a new order to Techno’s life. They rewarded him when he fought, cheered when he killed. Each time he struck down a hoglin or slaughtered a blaze, the voices would harmonize in his head, roaring like thunder in the sky. 

Techno grew strong with the voices, too strong, too mad. 

The piglins who had once cast him out, now feared him, whispering of the blood god’s butcher who roamed the land, a vicious brute driven mad by foreign gods and voices. 

Over time, the voices got stronger, more unified until they had one clear demand – Go to the overworld. Claim it. Bleed it dry. 

Techno knew that he had to obey the voices, even if deep down he knew they were wrong. 

The first time he entered the overworld was terrifying. The voices yelled in his hand, a combination of Bright, Blade, EEEE. The sun was bright, the voices too loud, the grass too soft, and the land – the land smelled of life, a sickening scent that caused his lips to curl up, his tusks blocking their movement. 

Before long, a winded shadow fell over Techno, a winged guardian clocked in black feathers. Philza, angel of death. His wings were alit in the sunlight, marked with a blessing from the Goddess of Death, Kristen, who watched over the fallen souls – many of which had fallen by Techno’s hand. 

Phil seemed interested with Techno, as if he wasn’t expecting to find him. 

“You’re not from here,” Philza finally said, a green striped hat resting on his head. 

Techno shook his head in agreement, nodding along, “The nether.” 

Phil hummed, “You’ve crossed more than worlds, mate. You crossed fate.” 

Techno blinked and for the first time in his twenty years of existence, someone did not recoil from him. In fact, Phil brought him to his house – a cottage on the edge of a frozen plain. He showed Techno the lay of the land, how to farm potatoes, how to breath in silence instead of bloodlust. 

And yet, the voices never stopped. They murmured through the night, whispering demands of power, destiny, and war. 

Phil seemed to notice Techno’s struggle, as if he too could resonate with the struggle, “You hear them, don’t you? The voices.” 

“Always,” Techno replied watching a cow walk past their house as the chat yelled for him to kill it, to take aim. 

Phil placed a hand onto Techno’s shoulder, “You gotta make peace with them, mate. You can’t outfight the gods, trust me I know. But you can learn which of their wars are worth your participation.” 

Techno nodded and for a while, peace was possible. 

Until Phil had to ask Techno to do the impossible – to answer the call of the voices for the first time in a long time, in years, heading north to find the one who calls himself a leader, to help him in his war. Phil knew it was selfish, that if this very leader was anyone but his own son, Wilbur, he would not have asked this of Techno. 

And Techno knew this too, he knew he had to answer the call this time, to make sure the world would remember his name.

Chapter Text

The world beyond the tundra was chaos enraptured in its own ruin. 

After crossing into the green field of the SMP, Techno found smoke on the horizon – a war that had already started. The voices hummed at this, restless, sure. 

Go. Follow. This is where the blood flows. 

Techno tried to ignore the voices, to block out their demand, following the pathway that led him through village upon village, some whole, some empty – a cemetery of bodies left in their ruin. All around him banners flew, claiming to bring freedom to the land. 

At the heart of it all stood L’Manburg – Manburg as it was now called according to Phil – a country of alcoholics and diplomats. 

Below it, in the country, rested two brothers, who founded a country of dreamers only to be annexed from their own land. Already, it seemed as if the two forgot they were meant to be on the same side. 

When Technoblade first met the two brothers, it was in a series of tunnels, covered in buttons, thick with smoke and smelling sweat, iron, and blood. 

Wilbur Soot, Phil’s oldest, stood tall and pale, the glint of a genius. He spoke like a man who had read too much poetry and not enough mercy. 

Beside him was Tommyinnit who burned like a fire, noisy and loyal, his tiny frame and hands wielding a sword that was too big for his body but too small for the courage that swam through his soul. 

When the two first saw Technoblade, a hybrid covered in scars, pink skin, and red eyes – they reached for their weapons, just like everyone did – everyone but Phil.  

Wilbur’s hand hovered over his bow as he took in Techno’s appearance, “Who sent you? Who are you?”

Techno grinned, his tusks as white as his teeth, “Consider my appearance a favor, a soldier for your cause.” 

Tommy frowned as he stood behind Wilbur who had thrown an arm across his brother’s chest, holding him back, “A soldier? So like the government sent you?” 

Techno shrugged as the voices laughed in his head, “Something like that.” 

Wilbur exchanged a look with his little brother, letting a faint but cunning smile cut through the darkness of the cave, “Well then, welcome to the cause…”

“Technoblade.”

“Technobalde. You’ve chosen your timing well. You’ve arrived on the eve of war.” 

Techno’s red eyes glistened at the promise of blood spilling as soon as Wilbur began leading him through their cave system, full of tunnels and half-torn banners. 

“This is Pogtopia. The last refuge of those who defied tyranny.” 

Tommy added onto his brother's statement, “We’re taking our country back.”

Techno’s face shifts as he tries to identify what exactly he has gotten himself into, “From who?” 

Wilbur’s voice drops, “From Jschlatt. A man who calls himself president. He hasn’t built a nation, he’s made a prison.”

The voices stir at the mention of the word president, echoes whispering through his head.

Government. Control. Corruption. Blood.

Techno tilts his head, “And what happens after you win?”

Wilbur hesitates, “Then we rebuild.” 

Tommy grins, missing any tension that lingers in the air, “We’ll be legends!” 

The voices in Techno’s head laugh at the naivety of the younger boy. 

Legends are built on corpses. 

As the war begins, Techno takes up residency with the two brothers. He fortified their tunnels, crafted weapon after weapon, trained soldiers. The people there began to respect him – the brute from a foreign land that could cut through an army without getting a single scratch on himself. 

Techno wanted to believe that this was a good thing, that he could work with these people. 

But the voices came back, more powerful than before. It seemed the longer he stayed in Pogtopia, the more insistent they became, whispering to him as the others slept. 

Blood for the Blood God. Blood for the Blood God. 

Techno would press his hands against his pointed ears, rubbing the earrings that rested there to try and calm himself down but the voices were not silenced. 

Techno did a lot of observing while he was in Pogtopia. He saw how Tommy idolized Wilbur, following him everywhere, even as the older boy began to grow more and more anxious. Techno noticed the way Wilbur acted, how he trusted no one, how each plan of his was built on a new wound. 

He wanted to believe in their cause, to support them. He really did. But the voices were insistent. 

They will betray you. They are using you. Kill them. Kill them before you are turned on again. 

At night, lying awake in the deep caverns, Techno whispered back, “They’re not enemies.” 

But the voices just laughed, Everyone is, eventually. 

After that, when the next battle came, Techno felt the voices take him, losing control of his own body. 

He sank through entire groups of soldiers like a storm, cutting down soldiers and leaving a river of crimson blood in his wake. Each strike filled his mind with electric pleasure, the voices approving his actions. 

MORE. KILL. DEATH. 

When it ended, Wilbur and Tommy cheered, “The blade!! Did you see how many of them he took down?” 

Techno wanted to vomit, wandering off, sneaking away to meet with Phil who had been avoiding his sons, letting them finish their war alongside Techno. 

“You did what you had to do,” Phil whispered, his hands working through Techno’s hair as he rebraided it, removing the sticks and dirt that had accumulated during his stay in Pogtopia. 

“I did what they told me to do,” Techno muttered back, his eyes shut. 

Phil’s hands slid through Techno’s hair, finishing his braid, “And you think they’ll ever stop telling you what to do?” 

Techno didn’t answer, merely leaning further back into Phil, seeking comfort. He knew the truth – the voices would never be quiet and they would never let him be. They would not stop as long as there was power to take or blood to spill. 

As the rebellion developed, Wilbur began to spiral. His downfall reminded Techno of his own struggles when the voices first came. Wilbur had stopped sleeping. He no longer ate. He merely stood in the tunnels, curled over top of a stone table as he rushed to write down attack plans in redstone dust. 

“Techno,” Wilbur whispered one night after Tommy had gone to bed, “I think we have to destroy it all. Burn it down, start over. Governments…they always rot. Maybe it’s better if none of them survive.” 

Techno felt his heart thumping against his chest, arguing no, no, no as the voices disagreed, perking up like predators who had just found a trace of blood. 

Yes. Yes. No government. No presidents. Down with the revolution. 

For once, Techno tried to fight the voices, resisting their call, “You can’t kill your own people.” 

Wilbur’s eyes shifted to Techno from where he was laying on the cold floor, his eyes reflecting the madness within, “You think I haven’t already? You think I don’t already have a plan for this?” 

Techno went to reply, but was interrupted by Tommy who had woken up to their talking, hearing their discussion of betrayal, “You can’t let him do this, Techno. You’re supposed to be my friend.” 

Techno closed his eyes, fury rushing into his chests as the voices grow angry as Tommy pushes at his chest, “I am your friend. But I can’t and don’t control him.” 

Tommy grew angrier, pushing harder at Techno’s chest, “You’re just like the rest of them.” 

The voices hiss at this action. 

End him. Resolve this in blood. Kill the child. 

Techno eyes closed, in resolve of what was about to happen as Wilbur intervened, demanding the two had to solve it like men, in the pit. 

Wilbur stood outside of the area, watching Techno face Tommy, his little brother. Techno’s heart was in his throat, each part of him screaming – the voices for blood, his heart to run. 

“Last chance,” Techno muttered to Tommy, “Walk away.” 

Tommy glared, raising his fist, “No.” 

Techno sighed. The first blow was his. The next the voices. They screamed in unison, driven by rage and when it was done, Tommy’s body lay beneath him, blood running from his nose. 

Techno’s hands shook as he felt himself come back to his body, “It’s done.” It’s done, Tommy. We solved our issues in the pit.” 

The words felt like ash, like fire seeping through his lungs. 

Above them, Wilbur laughed – a sound that was reflective of a man who had lost his mind, “You see? Violence is the only language this world understands.” 

Techno turned away, unable to watch what had become of Phil’s sons, “You’ve lost your mind. That’s your brother. That I just beat to death.” 

Wilbur grinned, watching as Tommy was brought back to life before his very eyes, tears seeping down his face, “No, Techno. I haven’t lost my mind. I’ve just found it.” 

The war against Manburg ended in fire. Schlatt died of his own weakness, Wilbur of his own madness. Phil had appeared, sailing into battle only to kill his oldest son, sword resting at his side slick with blood. 

The blast of withers echoes through the valley as Techno unleashed his fury, his final gift to the voices who had demanded more, more, more after discovering that Tommy was just going to reestablish a government in their nation, the government he had just destroyed. 

Dream had joined in, an unfamiliar green masked man who thrived off of chaos. 

Tommy had screamed when the first wither spawned in, “You betrayed us, Techno.” 

Techno wanted to say ‘I didn’t mean to.’ He wanted to admit that he couldn’t stop it but the words were stuck in his throat, drowned out by the voices occupying his head, humming at their victory. Maybe he had betrayed them. Maybe he was always destined to. 

When it was all over, Techno had found Phil standing on a burning hillside, watching the spot where his son had taken his last breath. 

Techno had sighed, suppressing his instincts and the voices in favor for helping to preen Phil’s wings that had been hit during the explosion of Manburg, an explosion Wilbur had caused, after all. 

“Wilbur asked me to kill him,” Phil admitted, now sitting down as Techno leaned over to pluck a burnt feather off his wings, “He begged me to do it, Techno.”

Techno nodded before realizing Phil could not see him, “Maybe death is just another kind of mercy.” 

The two left together, soon after, Techno dragging Phil to his feet as they stumbled through the forest, back into the tundra. 

They settled back into their home, a blank and empty place that Techno swore he would bring life back to. In the snow, the two worked side by side – trying to recall what peace felt like. 

Sometimes, Techno believed it was possible to live a quiet life after what he had just done. But the voices disagreed, their impatient whispers echoing through his head, mockingly, lovingly. 

This is only the interlude, champion. Blood always returns. 

And somewhere, deep down, Techno knew this was the truth. 

Peace was not known to last, not for the damned.