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FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
A log by T. Blade.
11/22/19
Technoblade stumbles into the Antarctic Empire with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a sack of potatoes.
He, honestly, had expected to leave a little bit more victorious, but it’s not like he could fit all his Hypixel trophies in the sack he needed for food. He’d given them to Achilles, who swore to him with one last pinkie promise that he wouldn’t secretly claim they were his, newspapers pending or otherwise.
Still, being chased out of town was hardly the way to go. You get a little too big for your britches, Technoblade muses, and they simply don’t want you anymore. Certainly, that’s why it was, and the withers had absolutely nothing to do with it. Certainly.
At least the clothes on his back include a cape. Techno pulls it a little tighter, adjusts the sword across his back. Technoblade quickly dismisses the idea that he’s doing it for any sort of extra security. It’s a lot colder here than it is in the sprawling city of Hypixel, that’s all.
Techno doesn’t have long to walk past the rows and rows of neat pathways, small cottages, and bright blue flags before he stumbles across a castle. A real, actual, castle. This is a sight that makes him stop dead in his tracks. When Technoblade had set off for a place called the Arctic Empire, security and stability were what he had craved. Perhaps it was the only thing this region would have in common with the sweltering heat of Hypixel.
But an actual castle? That makes him nervous. It reminds him of people holding hammers and gavels, of judges and juries and executioners at the top who looked down on their people like flies. Technoblade tries to turn around, find a different destination this path leads to, but it sure looks like all roads lead to here. The castle. If Technoblade is going to find some help for his…ah, situation …he’s going to have to look here.
And so, with as little fear as he can muster, Technoblade stomps through the snow that reaches his ankles and knocks three times on the wooden door that’s as tall as he is times three. Maybe this isn’t the right procedure, but Technoblade hadn’t spotted a guard outside, or anything similar. Knocking would have to do. Let’s hope they were friendly.
Now friendly, Technoblade realizes, is subjective, but it probably doesn't include the person greeting him showing up with a weapon.
Technoblade takes a step back; it’s not like he’s unused to having a sword leveled at his chest, especially not lately, but he wasn’t expecting it in this situation, or at least, not so soon in this situation.
“Woah, hey there.” Techno says, making sure to keep his voice level and even. “Let me steal a few things and incite a few entire-government-upheavals before you start pointin’ weapons in my direction.”
Probably not the best opener, but hey. He’s under pressure.
Unfortunately, it only gets him a squint down the blade of the sword, the stranger’s hand tightening on the hilt even more. With his blonde hair braided to frame his face perfectly and his black wings spread out behind him, he looks like an omen--one of nothing good, at that. Technoblade swallows heavily.
“I mean, uh. Who said I was gonna do any of those things right away? Kinda the point of that whole speech. C’mon, we can be friends. For a while.”
“I don’t appreciate intruders on my castle--”
“Woah, hey, intruders? Man, I knocked and everything.”
“Especially not when they say they’re going to steal things. Especially when they say they’re going to start upheavals.”
“Aw, man. You’re one of those government kiss-up types, huh? Well, okay, I’m sure you can report me to--”
Only then does something the stranger said dawn on Technoblade, and he takes another very unsure step back.
“Hold on.” He says, holding both hands in the air. “ Your castle?”
“That’s right.” The stranger says, not lowering the sword even an inch. “My castle.”
“So…you’re not a government kiss-up type.” Technoblade says slowly, processing as he talks. “You are the government. You’re a king.”
“Woah, mate, I wouldn’t go that far, do you see a crown?” The stranger laughs then, and it’s an interesting sound. Bright and airy, it contradicts the demeanor he appears to have, the demeanor he’s carried himself with thus far. It seems…hopeful, almost. “Nah. We don’t really do ‘kings’ around here. This is my castle, though. Built it from the ground up.”
“It’s impressive.” Technoblade says; not a series of words he says very frequently, but he finds he means it honestly. Maybe he could stay here for a while. Get his feet back underneath him. Do some of that socializing that Achilles was always on about. Maybe he could--
Maybe he’s getting too far ahead of himself. Did he really think this was a place for people like him?
The winged man seems to have other ideas. “I’m Philza. You can call me Phil.” He says, finally lowering the sword and sheathing it back at his side. He’s decided Technoblade isn’t an enemy, apparently. Techno will judge how wise a decision that is later.
“You’re netherborn, aren’t you?” Philza asks, eyeing Technoblade up and down curiously. “What are you doing dressed like that? That’s barely a coat, mate.” Philza gestures to his cape, and Technoblade’s eyebrows wrinkle.
“I won this.” He responds, somewhat more defensively than he would have liked. “And I am new here.”
“Well, allow me to take you under my wing.” Philza says, spreading one large black wing and fluffing it out with the sort of smile that accompanies only a bad joke.
“How do you feel about anarchy?”
Philza is surprising. I certainly wasn’t expecting to be taken in by someone, and not so soon, for the record. He seems kind. Wise.
Let’s hope this doesn’t go too sour too soon.
--
“ So what’re you in for?”
The kid--he cannot be any older than 18 or 19--is expertly sharpening a sword nonetheless, hunched over the grindstone in the corner like a lesson in proper back posture would kill him.
“Heh?”
The Kid--and Technoblade’s right ear twitches a bit at that thought, for he does not very much like not knowing the names of the people he talks to--just throws an exasperated hand into the air. He gestures around him to the waiting room--Technoblade could hesitantly call it a waiting room, though it doesn’t look much like the waiting rooms he has seen in his past. The walls are draped in some sort of brown cloth, the floor covered in hay and--here’s another ear-twitcher--blood. And the walls are hung with weapons. They’re not very good weapons , Technoblade has at the very least the expertise to know that, but he doesn’t have much of a choice right now. The weapons he was used to wouldn’t function right here, in the overworld.
“Same thing everyone else is, I guess.” Technoblade hums nonchalantly, examining an iron sword on the wall. He runs one hoof over it, careful not to nick himself on the misshapen, jagged edge of the sword. It would probably be hard to cut someone with this. It would probably hurt a lot to be standing on the other end of it. Technoblade’s ear twitches.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re in it for the money.” The kid leans forward, over his knees, letting one strand of blonde hair fall into his face. “That’s what everyone says. That’s the boring answer.”
“And the reasonable one.” Technoblade pulls the sword off the wall, intending to do it in one clean motion, but it gets stuck in its sheath. He has to yank it for a moment, and it ends up tearing through the fabric. He stumbles, just a single step. The kid looks up, the diamond-glisten of his sword catching in the light as he tilts it side to side. “It’s not very easy to get very far here.” Techno continues. “Is that not what you're ‘in it’ for?”
“No.” The kid says, stretching his arms high above his head, seemingly satisfied with the progress on his sword. “I have enough money. What you said is true. I’m not going anywhere until my name is in the papers. You see that?” He continues, gesturing to a board on the wall. “That’s the leaderboard. There’s me. Third on the list.”
Technoblade squints at the board on the wall. Achilles, reads the name in the third spot, followed by a black scribble where the list of last names usually run. "No last name?” Technoblade asks quizzically.
Achilles returns adamantly to his sword.
“Okay. Where do I write my name?”
“You don’t write your name.” Achilles huffs. “ They write your name once you win enough games. But they don’t really report about you until you’re in the number one spot. What is your name, anyway?”
“It’s Technoblade.”
Achilles huffs. “Well, that’s pretentious.”
“Your name is Achilles.”
“Yeah.” The kid shrugs one shoulder into the air. “I kinda want a new one soon. Or like, a stage name, at the very least. I think it’d be cool.”
“And yet Technoblade--”
“Is pretentious.” Achilles repeats himself, leaning over his knees. “I’m thinking something simpler. Like--” He starts, holding his hands out like he’s about to say some grand epiphany. “You know the feeling you get after waking up from a really bad dream?”
“I--I guess?” Technoblade says, folding his hands over his knees. “That sorta--gut churnin’, twisty type thing?”
“That’s the feeling I want people to have when they see me in the ring.” Achilles says. “You should start thinking on the same. I suggest--”
Achilles never gets as far as what he wants to suggest, though, before the chiming noise of a bell rings out through the small room. He stands, stretching, picking his sword up and giving it a precursory twirl.
“That’s my cue.” He says, reaching down off the floor and picking something up. Technoblade isn’t sure what it’s supposed to be until Achilles snaps it around his head. It’s some sort of mask, Techno concludes.
“We’ll catch up after.”
Achilles is someone to watch. Regretfully, I don’t see myself getting too far without him.
Not for starters, at least.
--
Eye on the target, Technoblade eyes up the Manberg festival’s stage.
He’s gotten a clear description of what Tubbo looks like from Wilbur; tousled brown hair, short pair of horns, wearing a suit too big for his body and a smile too big for his face. It’s not hard to spot the kid, as he’s way shorter than the others on the stage, Manberg’s even-more-easily-identifiable President and his VP, who looks familiar in a way that Technoblade can’t entirely place. He’s bustling around, pointing places and fidgeting with the microphone clipped to the side of his face, and Technoblade is almost too distracted looking at him to beat Wilbur’s fox-kid in this fight, but like, not really.
Let the festival begin, Tubbo is supposed to say, and then, they can really begin. Not the festival, of course. Technoblade would rather go back to Hypixel and never come out again than sit through something called the Manberg Festival (or…the festival of any government, for that matter, but he's done enough ring fighting today anyway). No, this fun involves fireworks, ruination, and withers. Lots and lots of withers.
This anticipation is however squashed, because Tubbo does lots, and lots, of stalling.
Free to elect who we want, free to live how we want, and, most importantly, free to go wherever we want without the confine of those huge, black walls, Technoblade can hear Tubbo saying, slightly like an annoying mosquito buzzing in the back of his head. In fact, Tubbo’s words have receded so far into the back of his brain that he doesn’t even hear the cue for the withers until he looks down at his comm, alarmed, to a slew of urgent messages from Wilbur. He looks back up, blinking into focus, and--
Wait--is that Quackity?
Technoblade watches in something that’s somewhat horror-adjacent as Quackity removes a couple of blocks from his inventory; concrete powder, by the looks of it, in a garish yellow shade. He’s pouring it all around the stage, around Tubbo, like he’s about to crown him king of the world’s ugliest sandcastle. For a while, Technoblade isn’t sure what’s going on. Admittedly, he’d tuned the kid out for a while.
And by the time he’s figured it out, he’s being called onstage.
“Come up here, Technoblade.” Quackity beams, “Come up here.”
His name sounds like a challenge. Techno’s eyes narrow. He takes the stage.
“Hey, Mr. President.” He says with a dull, dry laugh. The presence of Schlatt up here makes him--not nervous, not anymore. Not angry, not yet. Some secret third thing, and Quackity’s presence isn’t helping one bit.
“You can stand right here.” Quackity says, motioning to a small platform. He’s calling the shots with a careful, cold precision. Look him right in the eyes. Give him a reward.
Tubbo, for his credit, is nervous. Technoblade can tell. It’s never a good idea to let your enemy know you’re nervous. To be fair, it’s never a good idea to let yourself get encased in a cage of solid yellow concrete, either. Your technique is sloppy, Tubbo, Technoblade thinks. There isn’t much Techno likes about him. His too-big suit.The microphone clipped to the side of his face. The nails, bitten down to their beds, he keeps scrambling the concrete with. Signs of a politician, and a nervous one at that. Inexperienced.
Does that make the kid deserve to die?
Probably not.
(Schlatt takes over the instructing. ‘I need you to take him out, ’ he says. Quackity looks horrified. He struggles, reaching for Techno’s arm, like he’s trying to reverse what he’s done).
(There is a vision clear as day. Quackity is in a fighting ring, up against a wall, scrabbling. Technoblade stands above him, diamond sword in hand. Quackity honest to god tries to climb the thing, and ends up slipping, wings sprawled out under him. Technoblade raises a hoof.
Now, here’s the thing; Technoblade is not a cruel man. Techno can win this fight without crushing this guy’s wings on his first day here. Because that would, realistically, be a cruel thing to do. Techno pauses with his hoof in the air.)
Technoblade pauses with the rocket launcher in the air. Tubbo is still scrabbling at yellow concrete walls. Technoblade is not a cruel man. Techno can win this revolution without shooting fireworks into this kid’s face.
(“Do it.” Quackity sneers, laughing towards the sky. There’s a crowd of onlookers leaning over their seats eagerly. They want a good show. They chat amongst themselves. They’d clearly be invested--eager, even--if Techno did it. He does, though, wonder what Quackity’s investment in the whole thing is. The duck probably has no idea how severely messed up he’ll be if Techno breaks every bone in even one of his wings. “Do it, asshole! You won’t!”)
“You won’t.” Schlatt is laughing. It’s a taunt, a cruel show of power. Despite his words, he’s eagerly gesturing towards Tubbo. You will.
“You won’t.” Quackity reaches for Techno’s arm again, as if he hadn’t orchestrated this entire thing.
“I’m being subjected to- to mild amounts of peer pressure, (Quackity.” When Technoblade swallows, he can feel it in his throat. He can feel his heartbeat in his chest, the rush of blood in his ears.
“I wouldn’t expect anything more from you!” Quackity trembles. There’s nothing more he can do, his iron sword no match for Techno’s diamond, the wall boxing him in. “Do it. You won’t! You’re a crowd-pleaser, a blood-hungry netherborn, an--an animal!”)
[WilburSoot whispers to You: you wont]
(“And you’ll never be more than that.”)
Technoblade fires.
Quackity retreats off the stage, looking back at Techno with two wide, terrified eyes. He looks more betrayed than Tubbo had.
Techno should’ve taken him out too.
Results Inconclusive.
--
“You new here?” Technoblade asks, peering down. From this guy’s zipped-up windbreaker to his entirely exposed, highlighter-yellow wings, Technoblade guesses he is new not entirely because he’s never seen him, but rather because this is about the worst excuse for a fighting getup he’s ever seen in his life.
“How’d you guess?” The stranger asks, awkwardly rubbing at the back of his neck and averting his gaze.
“You don’t wanna fight with your wings out, champ.” Technoblade states simply. “They’ll get bent. Or…misshapen. Or, frankly, crushed, if you fight anyone with common sense.”
“H--how do you know?” The other guy stammers. “I don’t see you with a pair of wings.”
Technoblade points one hoof up towards the leaderboard. “See that name up there?”
“Achilles Dreamwastaken.”
“Nope. Above that. Number one spot.”
The stranger takes a couple of steps forward, stands on his tiptoes, squints at the board. “Technoblade.”
“That’s me.”
The stranger whips his head back around, staring at Technoblade in wide-eyed incredulation, the kind of look you would give someone if you just then realized they were a celebrity. Technoblade wouldn’t call himself a celebrity, though the trophies on his wall may disagree. He simply yawns and stretches, taking a seat at the grindstone in the corner.
“You gotta tell me how to get up there like you, man.” The guy says, crouching down next to Techno. His wings flutter, a bit irritably.
“Have you tried getting good?” Techno responds.
“H--hey!” The winged guy stammers, scooching the box he’s sitting on a little closer. Technoblade wonders if he’s ever heard of personal space. “I’m plenty good. ” He accentuates with air quotes. “Just never done this fighting thing before. But you can help me out, can’t you?” He says with a politician’s winning smile and handshake. “I’m Quackity.”
Technoblade never liked politicians much.
Quackity wants for whatever the opposite of naught is. Quackity wants . Wants everything in the world except the drive to go for it.
It’s a little scary, honestly.
--
There is a letter hanging heavy in Technoblade’s pocket, penned by a man he has never met, but one he knew he would recognize upon one glance. A man who no doubt has worn blue eyes with prominent laugh lines, glistening black feathers, and a warm smile.
“You must be Technoblade.”
Technoblade was right about one thing and one thing only, and that would be the feathers. Unlike his father’s, though, Wilbur Soot’s wings are far from cared for, feathers misshapen and muscles bent out of place (Technoblade’s back itches in a phantom pain). Unlike his father’s, Wilbur’s eyes are a startling deep brown, and unlike his father’s, his smile is far from worn. In fact, his expression is far from a smile. A military-straight mouthed line is etched across his mouth, arms folded tight across his chest, wings flicking irritably. He looks pressed, though what for, Techno isn’t sure entirely.
“That would be me.” Techno says, holding up one hoof in a very stale imitation of a wave. “Phil’s told me a lot about you.”
“He was probably wrong.” Wilbur says, his arms folding even tighter across his chest.
Techno isn’t fazed by the comment. “All good things, I hope.” He deadpans, taking a seat on a pile of crates in the corner. “This yours?” He pulls out the letter, which despite the strange array of things in his pocket he has managed to keep in pretty pristine conditions, save for a few small wrinkles. For one small moment, Wilbur’s eyes widen in surprise, but then he dials it back into his rock-hard, steady persona.
“Yes.” He responds, holding out one hand for the letter and moving his fingers in little grabby motions. Technoblade hands it over. Once it’s in Wilbur’s hand, his eyes quickly flick down to it, as if he wants to get a good luck at what’s written, but Technoblade doesn't think he had much time to read anything at all with how fast his gaze goes back to meeting Techno’s own. The letter goes into Wilbur’s back pocket. “It’s, uh, actually--”
--
As if on cue, Wilbur is interrupted by a series of loud banging, crashing noises. Down here at the bottom of the ravine, it’s easy for everything to echo, and echo it does, at a volume large enough for Wilbur to put his hands over his ears and Techno to suspect everyone’s heard them all the way to Manberg.
The crashing is accompanied by an unidentifiable shouting, only becoming clearer as it becomes louder.
“THE BLADE? THE BLADE IS HERE?”
Techno’s hand goes to his forehead and runs down his face slowly (and maybe a bit dramatically) as the owner of the voice comes into view, a gangly, short teenager with blonde hair and blue eyes. Curiously, Technoblade looks between the newcomer and Wilbur. They could be brothers--the kid looks closer to Phil than even Wilbur does--but Techno knows that Philza has no other children. Still, Wilbur ruffles the guy’s hair with a fond sort of affection anyway, gesturing in Technoblade’s direction.
“That he is. Technoblade, this is Tommy. Tommy--Technoblade.”
Tommy sticks out a hand towards Techno, his hand almost as sweaty as it is shaky. Techno takes it in one of his hooves, and if Tommy was any stronger, he probably would've yanked his arm out of the socket with how vigorously he shook his hoof. “Technoblade, we are--we are very happy to have you here, we are very very happy indeed.” He speaks, still shaking Technoblade’s hoof furiously. Eventually, Techno pulls it away, worried that if he doesn’t, Tommy will literally shake it until their muscles atrophy.
‘Tommy’s right.” Wilbur admits; he still looks hesitant, but a little less so around Tommy than he was when the two of them were alone. “We could, ah…really use your help. We’re up against quite a lot here.”
“Letter said as much.” Techno responds, adjusting his sword around his shoulders.
“Letter--he read my LETTER?”
“My letter.” Wilbur corrects. “I, ah, made some alterations.”
“You wound me.” Tommy says dramatically, placing one hand over his chest. “My writing is perfect and needs no changes whatsoever.”
“Pogtopia is fucking ugly and Wilbur will not let me throw parties. Win us the war so we can have big Manberg parties and throw eggs at the Whitehouse.” Wilbur deadpans.
“It’s perfect!” Tommy shouts victoriously, throwing both hands into the air.
Wilbur and Tommy are…unexpected. They’re younger than I thought they’d be. They’re older than I thought they’d be.
We have a lot of work to do.
--
There’s a new kid moving in next door.
Ok--to say the kid is new would be a lie. Technoblade knows this kid very well, for he had met this kid--Ranboo--this past December, when Ranboo had shown up on his doorstep with the intention to put his head under an anvil.
Ranboo and Tubbo were married, Technoblade was pretty sure, something he would happily call very un-pog. Technoblade wasn’t a huge fan of Tubbo. His first impressions about him had proven true--young and spineless--just as they’d proven true about Quackity, who was cowardly, and Tommy, who was immature, and Wilbur, who was going nowhere good, and Dream, who thought himself above the rest, and Philza, who as far as he was concerned was really the only friend he had on this server, and Technoblade was intent to keep it that way.
Because here’s the thing; Technoblade’s first impressions weren’t wrong. He’s hardly the type of guy to consider himself perfect at things (with navigation, potato farming, and making literary references to the fruits of anarchy being notable exceptions). But sniffing people out was something he considered himself able to do very, very well. Techno’s instincts didn’t steer him wrong, especially not where other people were concerned. Those he didn’t like--he didn’t like them for a reason.
Technoblade had a--he wouldn’t call it a second impression, though it was different from his first one (maybe he’d call it an impression-and-a-half)--of Ranboo since then. A few mining trips, a few robberies, a couple of explosions and late-night discussions about Peer Pressure later, Techno wasn’t entirely swayed, but apparently, Ranboo had won Phil’s bleeding heart over, and so, there’s a new kid moving in next door.
And Technoblade feels the weight of a mental victory on his head stronger than any crown when the kid shows up with a weapon.
It’s a glistening, netherite axe held tightly in his hands, like they’re scared they’re going to drop it if they hold it any less tightly.
“Um.” He stammers. Technoblade is amazed at how much stammering one can do around a one-syllable word. “I heard from the grapevine,” He starts, turning his head towards Phil’s house (Technoblade isn’t sure if he’s aware he’s doing this), “That you lost your axe. And I, uh, well, you’re letting me stay here and stuff, so--thanks a lot, man.” Ranboo finishes, thrusting the axe out at arm’s length.
Technoblade takes it, slowly letting out a low whistle. The quality of the thing is alright, that’s for sure, polished deep stone and a hilt properly wrapped in nice fabric and bandages. A little crown charm dangles from the end, which Technoblade definitely considers overkill, but he…
Well, he appreciates the gesture, especially given the bridges he’d apparently unsuccessfully burned with the kid. Had it been just a few months ago, Ranboo would probably be swinging the same axe with the intent to take his head off. Techno shudders at the thought.
“Is--is it alright?”
Right. Right. First (first and a half?) impressions.
“Yeah, it’s--” Techno clears his throat and averts his eyes. It’s silent for the next few moments. Technoblade has a strong impression Ranboo, staring at their feet like a statue, isn’t going to break it any time soon.
“You should come inside.” Techno says instead, stepping to the side. Ranboo looks visibly surprised by this gesture, but he doesn’t argue, just hastens inside and sits on the shoe rack curiously.
“Take your shoes off.” Techno huffs. He doesn’t entirely appreciate it when people (other than Steve) trek snow through his house. Ranboo does as asked, neatly setting them near Techno’s small collection of shoes on the shoe rack and folding his hands on his knees. It’s Ranboo’s turn to clear their throat next, and only then does Technoblade realize that he doesn’t know what the plan is, now that they’re in the house. “Do you want some tea?” He attempts, figuring that’s as good as any.
--
Ranboo drinks his tea slowly. He won’t stop casting nervous glances around the room, repeatedly looking towards the axe that Techno has hung on the kitchen wall. Later, it’ll go upstairs, but he wants to have all his bases covered, in case Ranboo is particularly upset about L’manberg.
About five minutes into the tea-drinking, Ranboo breaks the silence at the same time Techno does.
“This is pretty good tea.”
“This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
“I never--yeah, I get that.” Ranboo admits, hands folding over his knees again.
“But.” he punctuates. “You seem a little, um…” Hopeless. “In need of resources. How long did it take you to get the stuff for this axe?”
“ Hey.” Ranboo huffs. “Not too long! I’m fine in the nether, you know. Good place for endermen. Phil helped a bit…”
There it is.
“But I think I’m pretty okay on my own!”
“What do you know about totems?”
“Of undying?” Ranboo’s eyebrows furrow a bit. “Um…not too much. I mean, what they do, obviously. They can be useful in a…” Ranboo scratches the back of his neck, eyeing Techno with what he would label extreme caution. “Sticky situation.”
“Do you want a few?”
Ranboo’s eyes widen. “You’d give me some of your totems?”
“No.” Techno barks back a laugh, surprising even himself. “But I’d help you get some. Raid a few mansions. Just in case someone tries to execute you or somethin’.”
“Ha…ha.” Ranboo cracks a very shaky smile.
“Meet me here at 8 on…” Techno casts a glance at his calendar. “Saturday.”
“You got it, boss!” Ranboo says, jumping up fast enough to make the teacup on the table clatter a bit. Techno reaches out a hoof to avoid dirtying the floor more than Steve already has. “See you then.”
SECOND IMPRESSIONS.
A log by T. Blade.
This kid’s alright.