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Techno was taken when he was nine years old.
The burning village behind him, the screams of people he could no longer remember, people he’d once loved. He was riding on the back of a horse, a huge, muscular man behind him. His hands were bound behind his back. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what they expected him to do.
That was the first time he learned people would never trust him, no matter what he did.
They put him in the fighting rings as a target. A bit of practice for the fighters, their huge hands and malicious smiles and shining weapons crowding around him, tearing at him, breaking him.
They kept him in a cell, barely larger than a cage, only a small cot and a collection of rusty chains hanging from the walls. He could hear screams, constantly, permeating his mind.
He didn’t know how long it took him to break. But he knew he must have, because something was put back together eventually.
He didn’t remember the fighters who hurt him. They all blended together, except for one. That one he remembered.
He remembered standing in the pit, the dirt beneath his bare feet, dust clogging his lungs. He remembered the screams of the people watching, placing bets, calling for blood. He didn’t feel disgust anymore. He wasn’t a child anymore.
He remembered the fighter entering the ring, and he shrank back. He remembered shoulder-length blond hair, black armor, wings like the night sky.
He remembered the man looking at him, and his eyes widening. Horror passing through his face.
Oh. He’d never had a target before.
The man backed away, but the gate behind him was closed. He sheathed his sword, the guards yelled at him. The gamemaster yelled at him. The bell signalling the start of the match rang, and Techno tensed.
The man didn’t move.
He didn’t move amongst the roars of the crowd. He didn’t move when the gamemaster entered the ring, shoving his shoulders, whispering threats in his ear. He didn’t move, he didn’t move, and finally he said, “I will not fight.”
Techno hadn’t known that was a choice.
Later, he was sitting in his cell, knees tucked to his chest, watching through the bars as the fighter stood alone against the gamemaster and their friends, his voice low and angry.
“He is a fucking child,” the fighter snarled. “How can you send him into those pits?”
The gamemaster shrugged. “He had nowhere else to go.”
The fighter laughed, and it was sharp and bitter. “Bullshit,” he said. “You probably took him from a family he loved, a family who loved him. Just like you do for all of us. He is a child. I will not allow you to do this.”
“Lots of kids come through here,” the gamemaster said, their voice noncommittal. “What are you going to do about it, Crowfather?”
The fighter flinched at the name, but plowed onward anyway, fury sparking in his bright blue eyes. Techno would have been afraid, but that anger was at his expense, and for some reason it made him feel… safe. Like he was being wrapped in warm arms, told that it would be alright.
“Let him go,” the fighter said. “He’s a kid, he shouldn’t grow up here. Let him go.”
Freedom was so close, Techno could almost taste it. For the first time in he didn’t know how long, he felt hope growing in his chest.
“And what do we get in return?” The gamemaster asked.
The fighter sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Take what you want from me, I don’t care. Just let him go.”
There was a pause. Then, the gamemaster shook their head. “No.”
And just like that, Techno was locked in darkness again.
But he never forgot that fighter. He never forgot the man who tried to barter for his freedom. He never forgot that day in the ring, watching someone sheath their sword instead of take it out. And, even as all the other details of that memory faded, only coming up occasionally, he never, ever forgot black wings, glittering like a starry night sky.
Techno grew up, grew stronger. If he couldn’t have his freedom, he’d make the most of what he could have. He fought and trained as hard as he could. When he was thirteen, he could hold his own against the best, most hardened fighters of the ring. When he was fifteen he could best all of them. When he was sixteen he got the name “the Blade” and when he was seventeen he earned the title “Blood God”. His name was revered by the audience, and feared by the rest of the fighters. If you heard you would be fighting the Blood God today, you’d best say your prayers and your thank yous, because if you managed to escape with your life, a few of your bones would be shattered.
They gave him a crown, probably meant to mock him and his lack of freedom, but he wore it with pride. And then he asked for clothing to go with it, and they gave it to him. White ruffled shirt, black pants, black boots, red cape. He wove his pink hair into intricate braids, cascading down his shoulders, embedded with small pieces of gold, shining metal he’d found lying around, the remnants of swords or jewels from dagger handles. Someday, he promised himself, he was going to get actual beads and clasps to weave through his hair. Someday soon.
But despite all of this, Techno was not obedient. He was sarcastic, rebellious, destructive for the fun of it. Sometimes he made the gamemaster so angry they would lock him in his cell for days, pointedly not listening to his laughter and snide remarks through the bars. Bit rude, honestly.
More than that, more than anything, Techno followed that fighter, the one with the wings. He refused to fight if there was anyone younger than fifteen in the ring. He would not go after targets. Eventually, they stopped sending him after them. Officially it was because he didn’t need it, and it was much more fun to watch him fight the adults, but he knew it was because of his stubbornness--they couldn’t win over it if they tried.
And when he refused, when he wouldn’t fight against children, he realized something he hadn’t known when he was protected the same way-- this was a fight in its own way. A small rebellion, a knowledge that they couldn’t break him, and if they did, he was strong enough to pull through. Rebellion. He liked that word.
One day, he messed up. He was twenty-four, and confident. Cocky, perhaps. Probably, actually. He thought he could do anything, as long as he wasn’t trying to gain his freedom. So, when he saw the gamemaster beating a young girl bloody, he stepped between them, his sword out.
Well, that was rule number one: never, ever, under any circumstances, raise a weapon against the gamemaster.
The gamemaster told him to put his sword down, to step aside. He did not.
There goes rule number two: always listen to a command from your superiors(which, in his case, happened to start at the lowliest guard in this godforsaken place).
“Hey, that’s no fun,” he said, grinning. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size? Like a rat or something.”
Rule number three: do not smart-talk the gamemaster.
Techno was starting to realize he liked breaking rules.
The guards grabbed him then, pinning his arms behind his back, confiscating his sword. He glanced around, noticing the girl had scrambled away. Good.
The gamemaster came closer, gripping his chin in their hand. He grinned down at them, and it was more a showing of teeth than anything. His pointed canines did wonders for that sort of thing. Most people ran screaming.
The gamemaster didn’t, but Techno wasn’t entirely sure if they were a person. “You messed up, Blade,” they hissed. “I’ve got something special for you.”
“Oh, fun, I like prizes,” Techno said.
The gamemaster let go of him and turned to the guards. “Take him down to the forges. Make sure he can’t get away. I’ll be down in an hour.”
The forges. They were what they sounded like, but they were also the place where fighters went for special kinds of punishments. Brandings, amputations, anything that would steal their pride, their confidence, and crush it underfoot. Making sure they remained obedient forever.
This should be fun.
Philza awoke with a groan. His head was pounding, they must have knocked him out. He sat up, and felt the slight pull of manacles on his wrists and ankles. There was heat on the left side of his face, and he turned his head to see a glowing forge sitting there.
Oh, fun.
He was in the forges.
He knew what they were going to take. It really wasn’t that hard to figure it out, honestly. There was only one thing he prized above all else, and this place was made to break that kind of thing.
“Hey, man,” a voice said nearby. Phil jerked around and saw a tall, young man sitting behind him, manacles on his wrists, attached to long chains in the wall.
“Hey,” Phil said, casually, as if they were having tea. He took in the man’s appearance--tall, lean, but with obvious muscles. He wore a golden crown on his head, a waterfall of pink braids cascading down around his shoulders. He had a red cape around his shoulders, like the kind a king would wear, and he sat tall and confident, red eyes full of amusement.
The man cocked his head. “So why’re you here? I’m here because pissing on the rules is fun.” His voice was low and gravelly, and endlessly sarcastic. Without even knowing the situation, Phil could see that this man ending up here had always been a certainty.
“I’m here because I tried to fly without authorization,” Phil said, much too casual to be real.
The man’s eyes flicked to his wings and something passed through his expression, something Phil couldn’t name. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Phil looked at his chains, the light from the forge gleaming on them. “They’re gonna take them now. Honestly, they’ve been wanting to for years, so it’s about time.”
The man stared at him. “Your wings?”
Phil nodded, not looking at him. He didn’t trust himself to remain detached if he looked at the man.
“I’m sorry,” the man said softly, hesitantly sympathetic.
“‘S alright, mate,” Phil said, trying for a cheerful smile. “Never really hoped for much, anyway.” He glanced at the other man, and felt a surge of… something run through him. “Do I know you?”
The man blinked. “M-maybe? I don’t know. Maybe we fought once.”
“Yeah…” Phil chewed his lip, frowning. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”
“Anyways, what’s your name?” the man said, pointedly changing the subject. Phil ignored it. “Mine’s Techno.”
Phil smiled. “Depends, what sort of relationship is this?”
“Maybe friendship?” Techno suggested. “Haven’t had one of those in a while. Actually, ever, I think.”
“I’d be alright with a new friend,” Phil said.
“Alright, new friend, what’s your name?”
“To most of the world I’m the Angel of Death, but you can just call me Phil,” Phil said. “Pleasure to meet you, Techno.”
Techno grinned at him, his canines gleaming. “Pleasure’s all mine.”
Just then, the door opened and the gamemaster came in, holding a tray. On the tray was a huge pair of tongs, and a huge pair of scissors. Oh, fun. Giant metal appliances for both of them.
The gamemaster looked between them, their eyes landing on Phil and staying there. “You first.” They walked over and produced a key from their pocket, undoing his chains and wrapping a hand around his bicep. They tugged him up and towards the forge, where a chair sat next to the glowing metal. Phil swallowed, dread pooling in his gut.
He was pushed to sit in the chair, wings slightly spread behind him. He almost screamed. He loved those wings. He loved them more than anything. He didn’t want them gone. He didn’t want them--he didn’t--he wanted someone--someone please--he didn’t want, he didn’t want--
The gamemaster went over to their tray, picking up the scissors. Phil was half-sure he was hyperventilating.
“Hey,” Techno said, his voice piercing the deadly silence. “You’re not even gonna numb him or anything?”
The gamemaster turned to him, a sentence already halfway out of their mouth, but then--
Techno was pushing himself up, the chains rattling, and then he was swinging his leg up, roundhouse kick, the chains twisting around him and he looked like a dancer, a whirl of wind and fire, as his foot smacked into the gamemaster’s face. They crumpled like a paper doll, and Techno didn’t hesitate before reaching down and plucking the key to the chains out of their pocket, inserting it into his manacles. He stood, rubbing his wrists, and grinned at Phil. “Well? Come on.”
Phil found himself running through the complex that had been his home for years, decades, beside this man who was too cocky for his own good, who had somehow, somehow freed him, and Phil didn’t understand how one man could reawaken the dormant hope in Phil, the desire to fly, to not listen to anyone, to take matters into his own hands.
They reached the gates of the complex, the sound of guards shouting and running behind him. Techno looked at him. “Go.”
Phil stared at him. “What--”
Techno was pushing his chest. “Go.”
“I-- what about you?” Phil asked, darkness filling him once more. He couldn’t leave this man, not when he’d done so much in the span of a few minutes, not when Phil felt a connection, a deep friendship that transcended everything.
“Two people are easier to catch than one, and you can fly,” Techno said, voice monotone and firm. His eyes softened. “You’re a bird, Phil. You’re not meant to stay in a cage.”
Phil looked up to the night sky, the stars twinkling, the moon smiling at him. He felt a pull, a need to be up there, soaring through the air, nothing holding him back but his own fear. But…
He looked back at Techno. “And you? Will you be okay?”
Techno grinned at him. “Of course. They can’t do anything to me, I’m getting them the big bucks.”
Phil laughed, and then stopped, his smile fading as he tilted his head. Matted pink hair, a frightened child, stick-thin limbs and ragged clothes, flashed in his memory. “I do know you, don’t I?”
There was something warm in Techno’s eyes, something secret and soft. “I’m only repaying a debt, Angel.”
Defiance was one of the few seeds Phil knew how to plant. He smiled. “When you get out of here, come find me.”
Techno nodded. “I will.”
The shouts were getting louder. Techno pushed against him again. “Go, Phil. And don’t forget about me.”
“Never,” Phil whispered. He beat his wings, once, twice, and felt his feet leave the ground, the air whipping around him in a way he’d missed. He went higher and higher, and Techno didn’t take his eyes off him, even when he was surrounded, pushed back, the guards shouting at him, tearing at his hair, his clothes, and even when Phil was so far up that he could barely hear anything but the wind, he thought he heard a loud, defiant laugh.
They’d meet again, Phil knew. There was too much for them to do for it to not be possible.
Techno was shoved into his cell, the door locked behind him. He was still laughing, the memory of Phil rising into the air still at the forefront of his mind, his blond shoulder-length hair whipping around his face, his green robe reaching down his legs, the picture of freedom.
When you get out of here, come find me.
Techno had every intention to follow that command.
He reached under his cot, grasping a small, old, leatherbound journal and pen he’d hidden there. His precious book. He opened it, skimming past pages and pages of notes, written over months, years of waiting, of planning.
It took a special kind of patience, he thought, to get as good as he was at fighting. It took the same kind of patience to plan the perfect rebellion--no, revolution.
Well, Techno had an infinite amount of that patience, and he would not squander it.
He opened the book to a blank page and began to write.