The Childrens Rebellion

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Technoblade Never Dies, Except When He Is Technically Pronounced Dead. But He Comes Back. For Now. Maybe.

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Technoblade lived.

And Tommy breathed out heavily and leaned back, nearly blacking out as one of his fingers absently tried to curl inwards and failed, a trail of stinging pain running up his arm until it cut into his brain.

The doctor and guards left, and Techno breathed once more, though Tommy did not see him do more than stare into space and blink a few times, shaking his head and muttering words that Tommy couldn't quite hear.

Blood pooled under his hand. Tommy stared at the golden apple in his good hand—his right hand, fortunately—he'd managed to grab it because it had been in reach now. He swore loudly, rubbing a bit of dirt from the shine off onto his equally dirty uniform.

He knew that it was bad for him. That Niki would kill him. That he would probably have to get a billion hyposprays and have to go through therapy again.

He also knew that he would die without it. Chroma probably hadn't intended for this to happen—Tommy had, for the first time, brought this upon himself—and he knew that golden apples increased the number of red blood cells in his body along with giving him an addiction that rivaled that of the drug made from Erythroxylum coca and Erythroxylum novogranatense.

He would die of blood loss; he knew that. It was no small wound—he had torn through two layers of skin—dermis, not-Ranboo whispered in his ear—and it took up half of the back of his left hand, stopping at his wrist and stretching from the lower phalange of the thumb across the skin and up the to the first knuckle of his center finger. His pointer finger was mangled and at its deepest point—the cuff had torn into that the most, and Tommy liked to pretend he couldn't see the white glint of bone that made him nauseous.

Eat it and probably die.

Not eat it, and definitely die.

Tommy drew in a long breath, glancing up through tear-filled lashes through the mirrored window. Technoblade still sat, not having moved a muscle save for his jaw as he twitched his head and his ears and muttered things under his breath.

Once or twice, Tommy had seen him clench his fists. Nothing more than that. It worried him—but everything worried him. Everything scared him.

Ranboo was dead, Tommy was dying, and Technoblade was acting nothing more than like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He wanted nothing more than to reach out to Rae—but their bond was muted, and he was scrambling for purchase at the end of a line above an endless cliff.

He wanted to hug Wilbur again and listen to his music and soft-spoken voice with so much emotion. He wanted to gaslight Kristin into letting him into their shared quarters to play with Phil's feathers absently once they'd shed and then pretend that he didn't have them. He wanted to run around the ship with Mellohi and Purpled at his heels and cause mass chaos. He wanted to get into play-fights with Drista, the child assassin—no matter how much she hated that title—it made sense why she won all the time. He wanted to squint and call Ranboo and Lani nerds when they were quizzing each other on the newest vaccine or cold outbreak. He wanted to fall asleep listening to Tubbo rant excitedly about the newest episode in the Office's season seven-hundred-something and wake up with drool on his shoulder because the smaller boy had fallen asleep as well.

He wouldn't get any of those things. Life had changed the moment that Ranboo had made his decision. Things would always be different, now—even more subdued if Technoblade died.