Sleepy Bois Turnabout?

Still Here

[Wednesday, 4 Days Before The Trial]

_ _ _ _ _ _

[Philza]

Philza: Call me

_ _ _ _ _ _

Techno fully stared at his screen. He let his mind edge around the possibility of a conversation, of the case, of working. Then, he did the unthinkable. He turned his phone off. He felt like a stranger, ignoring Phil like this. Ignoring work. Ignoring the chance to help. He felt possessed... but he didn't really care.

Sleep had not helped. It made things worse, depending on how you look at it. He'd woken up around noon and had laid in bed, just staring at the ceiling, for hours. He didn't know where all his energy had gone. He didn't care. He didn't know where all his care had gone, either. He had so much of it yesterday but it was foreign now, out of reach, like looking at something in a museum with his name on it but he had no recollection of sculpting.

He snorted, a dark feel of comedy overtaking him from the shadows of his room. Nothing was funny about this. He didn't know why he had the audacity to be humored.

Beside him, on his nightstand, his clock seemed to share his audacity. Its numbers glowed on the screen like they were laughing at him as time had the gall to march on without him. It was about four in the afternoon.

He inhaled deeply and pulled himself up. The shock of cool air on the back of his neck shook him. He tentatively raised a hand but only grasped at his skin. The memory of what he'd done whipped through his mind; flashes of seething white burning cuts they left. Despite his inertia, he managed to stumble out of his tangled sheets and upstairs to the bathroom. Several strands of long hair still littered the tile floor like warning bells he'd laid out for himself, clues to whisper that it wasn't some dream. None of it was a dream. He hadn't exactly bothered to sweep. Without looking in the mirror, Techno fled to grab a broom and properly finish cleaning his mess. Then, he went downstairs to fix his bed. Then, he checked his phone.

His fingers hovered over the letters as he stared at Phil's message. They danced up to the call button, then back down to the keyboard, then back again, like a paranoid waltz. He typed out an 'I' but quickly erased it as panic shot through him. Preying Phil hadn't seen it, he threw his phone back on his bed and surrendered to his bathroom mirror.

When finally he peered into his reflection, a stranger sullenly gaped back. His hair was short. He knew that. It didn't stop him from having to run his hands through it to believe it. It wasn't just his hair that made his reflection foreign (although that certainly stood out). The man looking back at him was lethargic and worn. He had hair cut l very messily; it looked scruff uneven, on one side falling below his ear and on the other to the middle.

Technoblade numbly fumbled around for scissors before he could understand what he was doing. He knew he wouldn't be able to fix his reflection that easy, but he had to try something. When he finished snipping away he still couldn't see himself but at least the guy staring back was even and presentable. He might not look or feel like himself but at least he didn't look like someone who crawled out of a pile of hot garbage.

Somehow, after that, he managed to find himself on his couch. He sat with his hands crossed, elbows on his knees. He stared at his floor for who knows how long before the faint ringing of his phone finally reached his ears. He wandered down to his bed and picked it up, answering it out of pure automation.

"Hello? Technoblade?"

Techno blinked in surprise at the sound of his boss's voice. In the incertitude, he'd managed to forget he had a job—a stressful, busy, laboriously, job. It was all he could do not to audibly hiss into the speaker.