𝕳𝖎𝖘 𝕾𝖓𝖔𝖜𝖉𝖗𝖔𝖕 ; 𝖙𝖊𝖈𝖍𝖓𝖔𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖉𝖊

1. It is time for you to go

    Before his mind could regain consciousness, he could feel it all. He could feel ash and gunpowder caked on his skin, sweat forging a stream through the dirt and down his temples, blood dripping down his forearm to the tip of his ax and finally falling onto the newly exposed stone. Similar to the end of most wars, cleaning the battle off of his skin would be painful, both physically and mentally. Not only would he have to scrape harshly at the grime all over him in an attempt to rid himself of it, but he would also have to contemplate his actions as he saw water contaminated with the blood of a thousand men swirl at his feet.

    That's when Technoblade awoke.

    He squinted his eyes at the first glance of the sun's rays and the fire's glow. The weight of his actions didn't sink in until his eyes adjusted to the wreckage in front of him. After being included in Wilbur's plans to decimate L'manburg, he was thrilled to finally have his thirst for blood satiated. It was a highly optimistic thought in hindsight. His craving not only did not subside, but it grew with every drop that would run off his opponent's weakened body to the point that he was no longer in control of himself.

    The voices had taken over.

    But now was not the time to reflect, it was time to run. He had just turned his back on the people he stood by just this morning, spawning withers when there was not enough chaos to silence the voices. He was a fugitive now, whether they realized it at that moment or not. While Pogtopia regrouped, counting their wounded and their dead, Techno regressed into the shadows. He ran back to his base under the river, though he knew he couldn't stay there for long. Once inside, he grabbed everything he could put in his satchel, which wasn't much since the group had greatly dwindled his supplies. Those selfish bastards took everything, and they won't stop until they have your head on a spike too. The voices. Even after everything, they still haven't left. He knew when he awoke that they weren't gone, but hearing them whisper mockingly in his ear was enough to make his hands tremble as he hurriedly packed.

    Once his satchel was full, Techno left his base and ran in the opposite direction of L'manburg, or at least what was left of it. He didn't know where he was going, or how far he would run, but his legs scrambled to leave this place far behind him. He ended up running for days on end, never stopping for rest or food. The voices' murmuring was enough to keep him awake, afraid of falling prey to them again: however, fatigue eventually caught up with him as he entered a snowy tundra. The cold wind felt like daggers hitting his exhausted body, slowing him down more and more. It wasn't until he entered a plain of snow and ice that his legs gave out from under him. His eyes threatened to close but he used up his remaining strength to force them open. Even he was no match against fatigue, for his body could no longer muster the energy to stay awake. That's when Techno allowed himself to sleep. He couldn't feel the cold anymore, he could just feel the exhaustion of his body and the weight of his actions anchoring him down into the softness of the snow.

    He could die here.

    It wasn't a concern as much as it was a statement. In the end, it's what he deserved, in a poetic way. The anarchist, the terrorist, the destroyer of L'manburg, the Blood God, would die cold and alone, buried under the vengeful snow. As he closed his eyes, he heard a voice. It wasn't like the voices he was used to. Instead, it was delicate, echoing in his mind until he fell under the spell of sleep.

『🞄🞄🞄』

    Did it work?

    When Techno opened his eyes, he expected to be back in the unrelenting tundra but was surprised to find himself somewhere completely different. He was at a train station, covered by the veil of night, void of stars. The only source of light was the lanterns on posts supporting the roof of the station. He expected to hear the rustling of leaves or the blaring of a train horn a distance away. Yet, the only thing he could hear was the ticking of a clock. His eyes scurried around for the source but evidently failed to find the sound's origin. This invisible clock had taken his mind off of the all too familiar voice he had heard until it spoke up again.

    Did it work? He repeated. Hearing him speak up again made him dart his eyes to him. Wilbur. The last time he had seen Wilbur, he had a sword through his stomach, killed by his own father. Now, a clean, chestnut trench coat replaced the bloodied one he had died with. He was dead. And perhaps so was he. The idea comforted him. After everything he had gone through, Techno welcomed the idea of death. He had lived a life full of blood and war and violence, and standing on that train station platform was an undeserved blessing. He nodded his head in response to Wilbur's question.

    Did it help you? Did it make you happy?

    Techno was taken aback by this question. He had fulfilled his mission in decimating L'manburg and yet the hole inside of him was not sealed. After it all, there was still something missing. If anything, the destruction only made it worse. He had proved to himself again that he has no control over himself and was only a puppet to the voices. A mere vessel for chaos. Without a word slipping from Techno's lips, Wilbur could hear the answer emanating from Techno's broken and beaten soul. Wilbur nodded to himself and drifted his gaze only for it to land on the starless sky above.

    Perhaps it is not war that you seek, but peace.

    Techno was once again left speechless by his former brother-in-arms. Peace. Since he had come into this world, he had only known of war. The brutality, the violence, the destruction, it was what came naturally to him. The thought of living a peaceful life always itched the back of his mind, but it was never something he saw as attainable. War was a lethal force, pulling him in no matter how much he opposed it. He had found it best to just let himself be taken by it long ago. Perhaps he could have stopped his ways when the only blood on his hands was that of his enemies. Now, he was drenched in the blood of his friends as well. How could someone like him be deserving of peace?

    I'll leave you with that for now, but it is time for you to go.