a series of sbi oneshots

a voice in my head

Technoblade knew his voices as one knew their own sibling. They had moods, and faults, and strange little quirks that stuck out in his mind.

He knew their voices, recognized the ones that called for blood without reason. He could tell them apart from the kind that whispered soft words, encouraged mercy and kindness.

In a way, they were the embodiment of himself.

To his friends, he was kind, as best he could be. It didn't come easily, conveying how much he cared for others. He wasn't Phil, who laughed, and smiled and clapped a hand onto your shoulder. He showed fondness in actions, in joining rebellions, in protecting those close to him with blood and netherite. His voices seemingly had all the soft words that escaped his own ability

But to his enemies he was a harbinger. He was the embodiment of the cries for gore that took his mind in a haze.

Sometimes the lines blurred. Sometimes Techno's words and actions failed him, and he found himself frozen stiff as he was left behind, or betrayed.

Occasionally new voices joined the ranks, adding to the clamor with their own dissent. It wasn't uncommon, and yet–

This one was particularly loud.

Technoblade wasn't sure when it first appeared, as it was probably lost amongst the usual day-to-day noise, but it must've been recently because it didn't seem to be content with anything less than his full attention.

Technoblade.

The piglin sits back on his heels with a sigh. He's about thirty seconds away from fetching a meat cleaver, he's so fed up with the constant yammer of this newcomer.

"...What?" He asks flatly, speaking aloud without concern. Here in the commonwealth he doesn't worry about concealing his affliction. Phil knows— he's always known— and Ranboo has the gist of Techno's predicament.

I have some advice.

"Prime." Techno mutters, wiping away the sweat from his brow and leaning forward again to attend to his apiary.

For the low, low cost—

"I'm not building whatever stupid thing you've thought up today."

No, no— listen to me. This is brilliant.

"I'm sure." Techno drawls, finally getting the hive patched up and standing up again, brushing snow from his trousers.

I'm going to tell you this, and the only thing I'll charge for my inspiring advice is a golden apple.

Techno pauses, squinting into the sky, confusion furrowing his brow. "Heh? What the heck are you gonna do with a golden apple? Eat it?"

Alright, fuck you— I just want one. Just set aside with a little name plate so everyone knows it's mine.

Technoblade huffs, more annoyed than amused, and begins to stomp back through the snow towards his cabin. "How 'bout this—? You keep your advice, and I'll keep my apple."

Well that's just no fun. Asshole.

"What would I put on the nameplate anyway?" Techno mutters, lowering his voice as he comes around to the front of the cabins. Phil may know full well why Techno is speaking to himself, but it's generally a conversation Techno prefers to avoid. "Dipshit?"

You fucking– PHIL!

Techno stops short at the top of the stairs. "...Stop that. He can't hear you."

PHIIIIIIIIL! The voice cries anyway. He's bullying me–!

"Stop it." Techno grumbles, scowling as other voices appear to join the clamor.