how about some techno and dream allyship
((ah yes... the server’s god and the blood god walk into a bar...))
((this wound up being a Whole Fic, christ, am i sorry JLKDSHLKJH))
trap
don’t trust him
where’s tommy? trap trap don’t trust him where’s dream what’s he doing-
“chat, shut up,” techno hisses softly. hefts the pickaxe over his shoulder, sharpened edges glittering in the dying sunlight.
all the while, his eyes never leave the bustling boardwalk. ranboo down below look he has a trident? when did he get the trident there’s tubbo besides him-
chat continues to swirl about him, sticking to the shadows; neither they nor techno quite subside, though. staring down at the banners proclaiming today’s festivities, techno thinks that the muted dread congealing in chat’s voices, and the deja vu rearing its head is well deserved.
l’manburg has never been terribly original about its bloodshed.
techno chugs another invisibility potion in a well-practiced motion, and feels the silvery weightlessness settle into his bones. checks for his armor in his inventory, checks his pickaxe and crossbow, and settles back to watch from the roof.
he doesn’t wait for long, as it turns out.
dream dream dream rip his mask off see if it’ll choke him on his blood blood for the blood god he’ll try to use you you should leave you should fight-
the edge of his pickaxe digs into his back. techno takes in a measured breath. watches as punz flickers in the shadows at a distance, watches as dream settles to a stop in front of tubbo, a friendly hand resting on the young president’s shoulder.
it’s too far to hear the fine details of their conversation, and dream’s mask doesn’t lend itself to interpretation. techno watches the way tubbo holds himself, too loose, too friendly- and the way that behind him, fundy and quackity watch dream with something just short of naked anticipation.
dream sees it too, if the way his gestures land too close to the axe strapped across his back are anything to go by.
trap this is a trap nothing good at a festival
tubbo turns, gesturing to the podium. ribbons and banners flutter about; techno sweeps his eye across the open platform. there will be no trapping another president on that ledge.
dream turns with him, but the arc is too wide, and for a moment, techno feels the full weight of dream’s eyes on him, even as the voices explode into a flurry of whispering.
he saw us he knows not safe get out of there
“be quiet, chat. of course he knows we’re here,” techno mutters under his breath. “he sent for us as his glorified security detail.”
with the way that the cabinet watches him like strays circling a villager, there’s reason to it.
techno watches, hawkeyed, as dream follows the trio up to the podium. there’s ranboo, hovering around the edges, gripping onto the notebook like a lifeline. wilbur- ghostbur- isn’t far off, one hand fisted into friend’s blue wool, an unusually somber expression on his face. chat murmurs uneasily, and techno does not look forward to discovering if similar situations will draw out similar poisons within the dead- or if certain things stay dead.
he sweeps his gaze elsewhere, noting the distinct lack of armor yet the uneasy atmosphere. there’s a poster that niki and puffy are hovered in front of, whispering
to his credit, tubbo is good at the facade. years of necessity have worn the mask of pleasantry and politics into him like a second face; he treats dream like an old friend, the faintest hint of tightness around his eyes the only indication of displeasure.
or pain, perhaps.
the first festival was hard to forget, after all, especially for someone who was but a child.
tubbo is turning now, sweeping his arms out wide before snapping them back to his side; too many familiar mannerisms, too many old scars.
techno follows his movements, and pauses.
enchantments have a tell, he’s learned. some stronger than others; a faint heat shimmer, a lingering smell of ozone, a muffled hissing.
there’s a haze lingering above the wooden planks that fundy and quackity are shifting in front of.
what are they planning they going to blow this up are they trying to die they will spill blood we will spill it first
a gentle ping cuts through the rising swell of chittering.
<dream> not yet.
let them make the first move, techno reads between the lines, and he grits his teeth. there’s nothing else to do except to shift to keep them in his direct line of sight, and sweep for any other giveaways. exposed trails of torches, oddly shaped rocks beneath the waves that now fill in the crater-
the soft hiss of redstone fills the air, and techno whips to face tubbo, who has stepped up to the podium.
then he speaks, and techno realizes, oh, sam or fundy definitely had some hand in this as tubbo’s voice echoes above the waves. techno, admittedly, does not hear a good portion of the speech as the voics hiss and swell with indignation.
a celebration of l’manburg’s independence, of l’manburg’s freedom, of shaking off so many chains of blood and tyranny, tubbo calls it. hypocrisy, techno thinks, as his eyes trace the pillar where the anvil used to stand. a shinier, sweeter form of the iron fist hovering above them in threat. softer, perhaps, gilded with noble intentions, but nevertheless a threat.
but first, tubbo says to the audience. but first, before we can truly celebrate our freedom, there is one more chain to be cut.
techno draws in a breath. carefully, carefully eases his hand to his crossbow. dream is stock still; a deer in headlights, chat whispers. a hunter waiting to strike, techno sees.
trap trap they never wanted peace where’s phil where’s tommy trap RUN FIGHT FIGHT-
the planks have been cut away. there is a chest, there are axes glittering in the cabinet’s hands. we’re sorry, dream, fundy says. i’m not, tubbo amends. quackity is no longer blustering. a potion bottle breaks at dream’s feet, and although he does not flinch, draws his axe, techno can smell the sickly sweet rot of poison from here. punz looses a trio of arrows before he leaps forward, gunpowder filling the air as he throws down stack upon stack of dynamite around them, while netherite cracks out a discordant tune against steel, dream meeting fundy, axe for axe.
blood for the blood god, the tides roar around him. his armor glitters as he draws his crossbow. quackity is the first to see him. they savor the fear, the indignancy in his expression.
blood for the blood god, he roars, as he rains fire down.
two in one for the hitlist, he hears quackity shout above the explosions. he thinks he hears dream laugh as the next axe blow shatters wood and steel. who would let you, alex? fundy is nowhere in sight, and there is blood dripping into the waves, blooming above the coral, an axe lying abandoned.
is this the hill you want to die upon, icarus? flying up to meet the sun, only to burn? he slings the crossbow over his back, hoists up his pickaxe to block quackity’s axe. twists, locking one side of the pickaxe’s tips around the axe, and sends it flying into the water, uses the momentum to complete the arc and sink the other tip deep, deep into flesh.
there is fear again, deep, deep in quackity’s eyes. they’ve laughed about his hunts before. quackity isn’t laughing now as he wrenches his shoulder free of sizzling metal.
blood for the bl-
-blade, hold your fire. hold your fire, dream orders, and for a moment, they all balk at the icy tone cutting through the battle’s haze. techno slams a hoof into quackity’s leg, sends him to the ground with the distraction, and hefts the pickaxe as he watches dream.
“i came to act as a security guard, not a negotiator,” he informs the masked god, and dream laughs from where he has an axe levelled to tubbo. chat swells, unsure of who to direct their ire to as the shock subsides. techno ignores them.
“lucky for you, the job description won’t involve too much negotiation. you see- they’re both about to die, aren’t they? they’ve burned up all but one of their lives. if they die, they die here, with nothing to their name but failure. if they accept it, they can hold on to that last life.”
quackity opens his mouth, and techno wiggles the pickaxe on his shoulder ever so slightly.
quackity is quiet. tubbo is shaking, and techno swallows down the bitter feeling that roils on the back of his tongue. he remembers his battles that young, when the bloodlust wasn’t tainting the fear and fury.
“surrender,” dream says. “surrender, or he will put that pick through quackity for a final time, and i will burn this city to the ground and bury you in its ashes.”
silence.
silence, and then tubbo’s axe clatters to the ground. quackity surges up, and techno raises his pickaxe, and dream calls “hold your fire, blade-”
-and techno slams the pickaxe’s hilt into his head. quackity goes down, and stays down, but he stays there at their feet.
dream shakes his head.
“look, it was either that, or stab him. you don’t want that second option, apparently.”
“because they have surrendered,” dream points out. “they’re not a threat.”
“did he look like he was surrendered? dream, did going for my throat look like he had surrendered?”
“please, he could barely get to his feet. no way he’d be able to reach your throat on a normal day, anyways.”
techno snorts. “i think whatever they tossed at you messed with your perspective.”
why is he laughing danger danger kill them all all of them are d a n g e r-
dream is laughing, and it dawns on techno as he watches tubbo’s pale expression that they didn’t understand just how far out of their depth they were, going after a god with a potion and three axes.
then again, he reasons, they stopped seeing how out of their depth they were the first time they raised their axes against him.
“felt a bit like being splashed with expired milk, honestly.”
techno hums, noncommittal. he hoists quackity up onto his shoulder. “you said you had a place for them?”
dream holsters his axe at his side, and draws an arm around tubbo. the posturing leaves the chat hissing, but techno watches, impassive, as dream hums “a very special place, indeed, where they can’t be a danger any longer.”
