a series of sbi oneshots

forfeit

techno catches piglin tommy and now is his brother

or

wilbur and techno get a new baby brother

The Runt squeals as he’s flung through the air. He sees the red netherrack rushing up to meet him and he squeezes his eyes shut. Ready for the impact.

He’s caught, instead. Giant hands curl around him tucking him into a massive chest. Its an awkward hold, the Runt is mostly caught by his leg and one shoulder, saved from tumbling down to the ground anyway by the way he is pressed to the Brute’s chest.

“Enjoy your Forfeit,” the Runt’s Protector sneers. The Runt turns and he can see her standing there, her tail lashing, her tusks bared. “Our business is concluded.”

She turns and she--she walks away. 

The Runt cries out, twisting in the strange Brute’s grip and trying to reach out for her. The Brute’s grip slips and the Runt nearly falls again. The Brute desperately juggles him between his hands, ending up holding him around the middle with one arm, the Runt pressed tightly to the Brute’s stomach.

“Wha--heh?!” the Brute says. Then he speaks in a strange language, spoken rapidly in a high pitch. He stops and switches back to High Piglin. “Wait---your bab--?”

The Runt’s Protector doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t come back for him. She disappears into the gathered crowd. The Brute hastily shifts his grip, finally holding the Runt upright, still tucked close to his chest. The Brute looks down at him with wide eyes, his mouth opening and closing without making a sound.

His tusks are really big. Abruptly, the Runt realizes that he is looking the Brute right in the face. He squeaks apology and ducks his head down submissively, tilted slightly to the side to bare his throat.

“Uhhh,” the Brute says. “Uhhhh. She isn’t--why isn’t she coming back?”

The crowd that had gathered to see two Brutes fight is already dissipating, going back to trading now that their entertainment is gone. One of them snorts, “you accepted the Forfeit. That Runt is yours now.”

“What?!” the Brute demands.

The Runt squeaks, curling into a tight ball, his hands over his head, but he knows it won’t help. The Brute is massive. A Brute of Brutes, definitely the Protector of his own sounder. The Brute is displeased with him, and he isn’t related to the Runt by blood, there is nothing to stop him from killing the Runt. The gods will not disfavor him for it.

“You should not have caught it if you did not want it,” another piglin says, a grizzled Elder, one ear torn in half, leaving a twisted, scarred stump. There is still an earring pierced through what remains of it shining with gold and gems. 

The Runt only had a gold nugget. Unpurified and not even on a string, he held in his hand, showing just how worthless he was to his sounder, how tenuous his connection was to them.

“She threw a baby,” the Brute holding the Runt says. “I was just supposed to what--let it hit the ground?”

The one-eared Elder shrugs, “if you did not want it. But you accepted the Forfeit, the Runt is yours now. If you still do not want it, you can leave it in the soul sand valley, it is not your blood.”

The Brute growls, tucking the Runt close to his chest.

The Elder bows and whuffs apology. “I only offer my advice.”

“Your advice is terrible,” the Brute snarls. He takes a deep breath. “There must be someone who can take the baby, I can’t raise some--some random kid.”