I'm gonna be updating some special chapters in the next few days because I'm compiling the many drabbles I wrote on tumblr here for future reference. A lot of them are AUs, so AU information will be at the start of each chapter so you'll have the needed context to enjoy them! If these collection chapters are not your cup of tea, don't worry: there's only a handful and then I'll go back to regular posting. Feel free to skip them!
Shaped Soldiers AU: When a devastating war breaks out between the Overworld and the End, hybrid children start going missing and being repurposed as expendable child soldiers. They are trained in the barracks, a fighting arena that also doubles as a betting pool/entertainment for humans. Dream and Techno are two of these children, being made into weapons long ago and experimented on to become the perfect tools. Fundy is a new addition to the barracks and finds himself being taken into their protection.
Other characters include:
- Sam, a previous soldier at the barracks now become warden/caretaker. He has a soft spot for Dream and Techno.
- Phil, a previous soldier at the barracks now become a rebel. Is working on a plot to expose the government and shut down the whole operation.
- Wilbur, a man looking for his kidnapped son with Phil's help.
- Tommy and Tubbo, two hybrid kids on the run from the government who end up on Phil's doorstep
- Quackity, another child soldier and Techno's biggest hater
- Schlatt, a hybrid who works as a double spy by 'selling his kind out' to the barracks
- Niki, Phil's protege and right-hand
- Ranboo, who finds himself on the wrong side of the war.
1. Techno and Dream spar
"You'll do my counts for me, right?"
Technoblade rolled his eyes, hoping to convey just how annoying this disturbance was to him. "You can't do it yourself?"
Dream frowned. "It's distracting," he whined. "Besides, it's not like you're doing anything important." He tried reaching for the book in Techno's hands, but he held it out of reach easily. He couldn't risk Dream messing up his pages again.
"Fine." He sighed but closed the book anyway. When Dream wanted something, getting him to relent was akin to fighting a starved dog over its meal – near impossible. Technoblade was too tired to deal with a petulant Dream tonight. "Just admit you can't count past five," he added.
Without comment, Dream took his place in the middle of the room. The training blade he was using was iron, sharp enough to catch the glint of the light. Shuffling his feet wide apart, he nodded at Technoblade to begin.
"One, two, three..." It was a familiar rhythm to fall into, watching Dream swing the sword and switch stances. His blows didn't carry through but he was light on his feet, twirling the hilt into his other hand every time Technoblade reached a new ten count. He kept going until they were almost at fifty. Then he brought his body low, swiping upward and letting go of the sword at the last second, only to catch it in his other hand on the way down.
"Neat, right?" Dream asked, grin wide and effortless. "Sam taught me."
Technoblade shifted and opened his book again. "Eh, it was okay."
Predictably enough Dream bristled, though it was more playfulness than heat. "Like you could do any better."
"I could," Technoblade responded. "Any day."
He caught the sword that was thrown at him in mid-air. "And right now?" Dream asked.
Resigning to the fact that he'd never get to finish his chapter at this rate, Techno put the book down on his bunk, shrugging off his cape while he was at it. It would only get in the way. Dream had already taken up position on the opposite side of the room, near the door to their cell.
"Best two out of three?" Technoblade just wanted to get this over with.
Dream smirked. "How about first one to make the other bleed?"
He grunted his agreement, twisting the handle in his grip.
As always, Dream was the first to move, too impatient to wait for his opponents to strike first. He had pushed off on his heels, using force right from the start, aiming for the midriff. Technoblade countered him with the edge of the blade, but he knew Dream hadn't expected that attack to follow through. He was just testing the waters.
And two could play that game.
Using the flat end of the sword he thrust forward, knowing the unusual method of wielding would throw Dream off. The other boy jumped backward, bracing his knees to keep from sliding and Techno used that to his advantage to lash upward. The tip of his sword just barely graced Dream's chin.
"Are you counting?" he asked jokingly. Dream laughed.
They sparred for a few minutes longer, slowly slipping from regular training moves into more genuine attacks. Technoblade could feel the shift in the dynamic almost like a physical thing, the rebalancing of weight on his shoulders and the next time Dream moved forward he could tell it was aiming for flesh. Using his free hand to knock the blade up, Techno barely managed to avoid being cut.
Dream carried through with the motion, leg lashing out and Technoblade found himself forced to jump up to avoid it, making him unable to block the punch Dream threw at his face. It connected near the temple, almost enough force to throw him off-kilter. But he rolled away just in time to keep Dream from burying the sword in his shoulder.
Using the split second it would take for Dream to reposition his grip, Techno shoved forward. Steel sunk in along the upper side of Dream's arm, cutting into the loose shirt he was wearing. The pale fabric was coated in red immediately. Pulling back, Technoblade wiped off the remaining blood on his sleeve, already stained from their lessons today.
"Like I said, any day."
Dream laughed again, hollow and real. The kind of laugh that wouldn't reach any of the others, wouldn't escape him in the arena or during training. Reserved just for the two of them. "Good," he said. "Don't want you dying on me when they send you out there."
There was almost affection there, almost empathy. Technoblade shrugged it off. "Patch yourself up, we don't want the commands to get angry."
"Yeah…" Dream winced, trying to move his arm.
"And get less sloppy," Techno added after a moment. "I Can't have you dying on me either."
Dream smiled genuinely, the traces of scars along his freckled cheek, the memory of war in his eyes, as Technoblade went back to reading.
2. Fundy's first fight
"I'm scared," Fundy says, two minutes before they'll be forced to enter the ring.
His body is shaking, breath drawn in small, nervous gasps and he can't see clearly, vision blurred by either fear or panic.
"Don't worry," Dream answers, with a casual undertone that betrays the gravity of the situation. He has an ax flung over his shoulder. "They'll go easy on you since you're the new kid."
Techno makes a noise half disdain and half amusement. "Don't listen to him. He's an asshole."
"Oh, come on!" Dream drops his hands, the weapon lax in his grasp. "It'd be so funny to see him get his ass kicked because he's trying to make friends out there."
"You're terrible."
Fundy doesn't react, can't when the first horn blares and the gate opens and suddenly there's noise and dust and sand that gets in his eyes. He flicks his ears but it doesn't help.
"Just stay behind us," Techno says as if it could be that simple. As if they're not about to be thrown to the wolves and Fundy wishes he was back on the streets, back in the orphanage. Back with the people that would hit him just for being a hybrid.
Anything better than this.
In the corner of his eye he spots another kid, maybe nine years old, who bolted onto the field early, hoping to get a head start for the stack, and then there's an arrow stuck in their throat, blood pouring out onto the arena. The audience roars.
"I don't want to die," Fundy chokes, quiet and fragile.
Techno looks over his shoulder, expression pinched as if he's facing something he can't quite understand. With a sigh, he retrieves the crown from his head and pushes it into Fundy's hands. "Hold on to this for me, give it back after we're done."
Fundy nods numbly, no clue what's going on when he curls his hands around the cold metal. A second horn echoes across the pit and then Techno is gone, out onto the slaughter. Fundy is frozen, hopeless. If he doesn't move the handlers will kill him, but his muscles seize and refuse to budge.
Dream puts his hand on his shoulder and grins.
"Oh, he likes you." He gestures at the crown. "A favor from the blood god, as it were. He did the same for me, way back." Fundy wants to ask what that means, what anything means, but his mind has stopped functioning.
Somebody in the arena screams in pain, cut off by the slash of a sword.
"Stick close to me," Dream says, pulling at his arm.
Fundy can't do anything but whine lowly as he's forced into the mayhem.
3. They patch Fundy up
"How many times have you done this before?"
Without answering Technoblade wrapped his hand around Fundy's wrist. He tried not to flinch despite the pain shooting up his arm from the slight movement.
"Too many times to count probably," Dream chimed in. "I kinda think we lost track."
Fundy swallowed, nervously. "How do you lose track of how often you've had to reset a dislocated shoulder?"
Technoblade threw him an upward glance. "By having to do it a lot."
Not the most comforting thought.
Techno wrenched on his arm lightly, ignoring the way it made Fundy hiss in pain. He knew the other was just searching for the best way to pop it back in - leave him without a permanent injury that would get him killed in the arena - but that didn't make it hurt any less. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood.
Dream pat his other shoulder to distract him.
"If you've done it a lot, does that at least mean you're good at it?" he managed.
"Oh, real good," Dream assured him. "You'll hardly even notice-"
A sharp tug and Fundy swore as the joint was forced back into its socket.
"-because Tech doesn't warn you when he's about to do it."
He dropped his head, feeling like he was going to puke. There only was a minute of rest before the whistle resounded again, alerting them to get in positions for the next round.
"Back into the fray!" Dream said airily.
And he didn't sound at all upset.
4. Wilbur finds Fundy
The crowd roars, cries for bloodshed blending together like thunder. Wilbur holds his breath as he passes two men smoking cigars, exchanging money between them. Placing bets on which kids will die today.
His stomach knots together as he pushes his way through the throng of people until his hands close around the metal bar at the edge of the arena.
The sand is covered in red.
The gates haven't opened for this round yet, the dusty ground empty and so unbelievably big. Slight wavers of hot air shift above the surface, giving the scene a sense of unreality.
When a horn sounds, the gates pull open.
Wilbur's eyes track a child who runs out ahead of the others, their small frame spurred by agility into moving quicker than their peers. Their dark brown hair is cropped short beneath a beanie, sleeves rolled up to their elbows and with a horrible scar over one eye socket. They make it to the center of the arena first, shifting through the pile of weapons. Pulling out a crossbow, they turn around just in time as others start pouring from the alcoves.
Chaos descends. Metal clashes against metal. Wilbur watches as one kid dodges an axe seconds too late and gets it stuck in their chest instead. As they fall to the ground gasping horrifically, the audience rampages. The two men in his peripheral vision laugh, passing on some coins.
It's too hard to see through the mayhem and really tell what is happening down below. But when a blur of orange catches Wilbur's eye his heart stops in his chest.
The world becomes dizzyingly small.
Wilbur watches petrified, nauseous to his very core, as his son slices through another child. Muscles tensed and canines snapping, a disaster upon itself. Coated in blood and viscera.
Fundy moves with an air of confidence, the blows low and anticipated. Practiced. His shield grasped in one hand, sword in the other. He has changed. He has changed so much it makes Wilbur want to cry.
Makes him want to jump the barricade and get to him, cradle Fundy in his arms and apologize for ever losing him in the first place. Not to this horrible place.
"We'll get him out," Phil had said. His voice on the edge of desperation. "We'll get them all out, just… be patient."
And as much as Wilbur wanted to believe him, as he watches Fundy fight for survival in that way only a terrified caged animal will, a bigger part of him wonders if it is already too late.
5. Fundy's first kill
"The first time is always the worst," is what Dream tells him afterward - as if that would in any way, shape, or form be considered a comfort. "After a bit, you get used to it."
Fundy's body is shaking, claws tapping against the bed. "I don't want to."
Dream raises a brow. He wipes at the blood on his face, but it is a half-hearted gesture. It has already dried and stained his skin "What?"
"I don't want to get used to it," Fundy says. "I don't want to get used to killing people."
And if his voice gets slightly more pitched at the end of that sentence than he likes, he might just have to ignore that. Because Fundy's mind is scrambling and falling and tearing at the seams and all he can see are those eyes. Wide and dark and filled with hate.
The boy had jumped him, arm pressing down on Fundy's windpipe in a desperate attempt to choke the air out of him. The crowd has been jeering and his vision might have been seconds away from going dark around the edges when Fundy had managed to lash out, hooking his elbow around their body and digging it into their ribs. The boy had yelped and rolled over and then Fundy had been on top of them, pressing down.
He had pulled out the knife, a small rusty dagger that he had gotten during their first round two weeks ago but had been lucky enough never to use.
Because Dream and Techno kept him safe. Dream and Techno were looking out for him.
Except now they weren't and Fundy had blood dripping from his nose and survival burning through his veins. Now Fundy had taken the knife and buried it into the boy's throat.
Fundy had killed them, the same way they had wanted to kill him.
"I don't want to-" he repeats, lungs straining and it's with an odd detachment that he realizes he's not getting any air. He gasps and struggles and his lungs still refuse to expand to get the needed oxygen.
He hears Dream curse as if through an echo, a distant reverberation lost and Fundy wants to scream with it. He doesn't want the only thing he has left to slip from his grasp too.
Instead, cold fingers curl around his own, leading his hand to lay against somebody's chest. He can feel it rising and falling beneath his touch as the person breathes slowly and deliberately, prompting him to fall into the same rhythm.
Fundy shakes his head, tears in his eyes which he blinks away stubbornly. They taught him not to cry in the orphanage. And in the arena, crying would get you killed. Fundy couldn't allow himself to cry.
"Do it like this," the person holding his hand says, inhales slowing down even more. Several seconds in, holding for a few and then out. Fundy squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on breathing.
His mind is still screaming at him, but he can think again by the time he blinks them open.
Technoblade doesn't let go of his hand immediately. His hair is struck with gore and he looks tired but satisfied - the way he always looks when they've been to the arena. But he's staring at Fundy's palm pressed against his chest while breathing in a steady flow, something almost like despondency on his features.
"Better?" Dream asks, perching on the bunk and throwing an arm around Fundy's shoulder. Technoblade pulls away from him as if the continued touch would scald him, turning around. Fundy can't see his face.
"Better," he confirms.
"You'll get used to it," Dream repeats after a count. But it's not as casual as before, not the dismissive remark of support meant to make Fundy feel better. It's a confession and a promise all rolled up into one, a harsh reality he'd better accept as soon as possible lest it breaks him.
Fundy knows then he will get used to it, even if he doesn't want to.
6. Ranboo and the End
Ranboo couldn't understand why they kept sending kids.
Which, well, might make him a hypocrite since by Overworld logic he would not be considered an adult himself. But he was old enough that he would have left the colony on his own by now even if he hadn't been abandoned many years before, and that must be different from this. It had to be different.
He observed the battles sometimes when he could find a hiding spot where he felt secure enough to risk poking his head out. Thrilling and whirring in nervous energy as he watched the portal spew out strange-looking things not quite human, small and scared and weak-limbed. Ranboo watched as they were easily torn apart by his elders, black claws digging into their flesh and tearing out their lives. Not leaving any behind.
Once, he witnessed The Scaled One herself descend in flame and fury, eyes blazing an unnatural red. It sent unpleasant shivers down his spine, knowing that the entire balance of the universe had been laid askew.
Then there came a time when he hadn't been able to resist the temptation of curiosity. Ranboo had waited until the fighting had roared down. Until all the other endermen were either led away by that horrific crimson pull or broken into particles of End and he had climbed down the rocky surface to get a closer look.
It was… bad. His tail wouldn't stop twitching, agitation in every bone as he walked the battlefield. The children that lay dead, with armor falling apart and weapons that hadn't even been sharpened. Brought forward to fight with not enough preparation to stand a shade of a chance.
Ranboo couldn't bring himself to understand.
Then again, ever since the vines started growing there wasn't a lot he understood anymore.
"Shit!" somebody hissed out and he swiveled quickly, long gangly limbs drawn in. Trying to appear smaller, appear as less of a threat. Two pairs of eyes settled on him and it made Ranboo bristle, the eye contact feeling like an electric current coming alive beneath his skin. He chirped loudly.
The first person he noticed looking at him was one of theirs. A child also, but older. His own age, probably. They looked human but weren't. Ranboo didn't know how he knew this, he just knew. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
The other was more easily identifiable as a hybrid by appearance alone. They bared sharp tusks at him, hooved feet digging into the purple-ish sand to shift their body into a fighting stance and in front of the other. Preparing to end him should he make a single move.
Ranboo didn't know how long they remained like that, him standing frozen and awkwardly waiting to be killed. Them, exchanging looks that spelled an invisible conversation in that way only two people who had known each other forever could. Then the human-looking one opened their mouth.
"You're a hybrid, right?"
Every inch of Ranboo was crying out for him to bolt. Instead, he managed a terse nod.
A sincere grin met him. "Cool! You're not from our side though, how did you get here?"
Ranboo opened his mouth, closed it again. Then tried to smile but felt more like he was trying to make every muscle in his face contract. "I uh… I was born here? I guess? I think, I'm not sure…"
Stupid broken memory, stupid forgetting everything. Ranboo wanted to smack himself in the face but didn't dare to make any sudden moves or tear his eyes away even if it still made him feel sick and wired. He wanted to hide again so badly.
Thankfully he was interrupted by the other one drawing back a bit, pressing their body against their friend. "Dream," they said lowly, eyes shifting to the side. "The timer?"
"Yeah. We have to go," the kid - Dream - shrugged apologetically. As if they genuinely regretted having to cut this strange meeting short. "Maybe we'll see you again sometime?" They didn't wait for an answer and seconds later they were both gone.
Ranboo unwinded, slow measured moves until he could feel himself again. He pulled out his book before the memory slipped away from him.
Met two teenagers from their side. Older than all the others. Unlike them, they didn't die. Unlike them, they weren't scared.
He didn't know why it felt important, why he was writing it down. But as he did, Ranboo thought it must be. He felt himself smiling slightly at the pages.
And they weren't scared of me.
Closing the book, he hurried back to his hiding spot.
7. Sam and attachments
Sam has set one rule for himself: to never get attached.
And that's easy because it's hard to affix any deeper meaning to faces that blur together in his memories. Each child that passes is the same, even if they differ in age, in height, in appearance, in voice.
They arrive and they train and then they leave to die. While they're under Sam's care he provides for them and makes good on the promise he made to a part of himself much smaller and more fragile. The kid that Sam used to be, huddled in the corner with needle scars in the crook of his elbow and the human's cold assessing eyes burning into his skull. They offered him either death or to become yet another cog in their cruel machine.
Sam was cowardly enough to pick the latter.
That's why he made the promise. So that he could delude himself into thinking that in staying alive he had served a purpose, by giving these children who are what he once was a fragment of comfort, of love.
But he could not allow himself to get attached.
Often, Sam didn't even bother to learn their names. It is too painful to be able to carve words into the graveyard of his failures. They are just more children - faceless and nameless and dead - and they would remain as thus forever.
"Sam," Dream whines, dragging the one syllable out to last for multiple seconds. "You were gonna read it to us. You promised."
Sam stares down at the mess of blonde hair, then the wide, pleading eyes of the boy clutching his sleeve. He has to finish his rounds, he tells himself. He needs to check on the units, the supplies. He has a job to do.
"You can read," he says instead. "You don't need me to read it to you."
"It's not the same," Dream protests.
And Sam sighs. Sam walks into the room and sits down on the bunk and tells himself not to get attached. Not to allow the feeling of warmth to even register as an eight-year-old crawls against his side and nudges him into a more comfortable position.
Across the room, Techno is staring at him, curled up on his own bed with the blanket drawn up to his chin. His hair is a disaster after today's training, long and all curled up in tangles.
"Come here then," Sam says softly and it's all the permission needed for Techno to scramble out and onto the floor in front of him, sitting on his knees with his back towards them. Sam begins reading as he sorts out the pink mess and braids it, stopping from time to time to turn the book's pages.
By the time he's past the first chapter, Dream has moved from the bed to his lap, the top of his head tucked into Sam's elbow and idle fingers playing with the straps on Sam's armor. Techno is leaning against his leg and halfway into dozing off.
Sam has set one rule for himself, and despite his best efforts it's already been broken.