Chapter Text
“Goodbye.”
A heavy thunk, sounding so far away as it collides with his head. A flash of white light. Sparks dancing along his vision. His fingers spasm on the journal he’s clutching to his chest.
“No! Wait!”
The voice tsks. “It was too good to be true anyways,” Feral eyes. A searing streak of pain along his neck. His head was spinning. Nothing had gone to plan.
“Wait…” He’s choking, something like liquid fire sliding on his neck and down his throat. His hand comes away crimson and tacky. What’s going on? It had all happened so fast. The blood streams past his fingertips as he pressed both hands on the wound for pressure. The line of pain travels from his neck to his stomach as the kitchen knife digs in.
“Please…the hospital…” He gasps, but his wide eyes
meet a cruel smirk. “This is all just a dream, child”
That smile flashes in and out of his vision, dancing with pure white—
The smile is the last thing he sees, and it horrifies him.
He takes his last, stuttering wheeze, and then—
Maniacal laughter.
Absolute darkness.
Confusion.
The smile scorched his brain.
But. What? The world faded and became enveloped by velvet darkness, warm and beckoning. His eyes felt heavy. He could see the bright gold of his soul shattering, memories and emotions and thoughts and what made him Ranboo dissipating into the great unknown. The crumbling ember of his soul was the only light in resounding darkness.
It felt distinctly like loss. And yet. What had happened? His brain was scattering, but with desperate hands he shoved the flowing memories, as many as he could grab.
A kitchen—
Green eyes—
That smile—
A steak knife—
A slash to his throat—
…Panic and desperate consoling and chattering teeth and a newspaper and a broken table and laughter and a friend and an urgent message and a click in his brain as he looked at the person in the kitchen and connected the pieces for once in his life—
Ranboo’s hands could only hold onto so much; the memories were slipping and his heart was breaking. It was too much.
He floated in oblivion for a small eternity. Listless. Dreaming. Struggling against the fog that had overtaken the last embers of himself.
But. That couldn’t be the end. He couldn’t just…it couldn’t be the end.
He couldn’t just…
The darkness froze. More memories shattered into golden spectrals as he screamed “no!” into the void, as he held onto a few containing some importance and also that damned smile that wouldn’t shatter even as he pounded the glowing ember of a memory against the dark.
The darkness refused to relent, but Ranboo could be damn stubborn when he wanted to. And this was a case he couldn’t let go, a news story he had to report. It was his job, but also his passion. He had to solve the case. Even if he was already dea—
“NO!”
He screamed it with his entire being, as cracked as it had become. Ranboo had a purpose, a reason to be alive. He couldn’t just be done.
Ranboo was the main character, god damn it, let him go.
And with the force of his scream, the darkness started lightening into a light haze. Ranboo almost wept.
From absolute darkness covering his soul, suddenly, he could see vague shapes. From the world. From being alive. Specks of lightness pierced through the darkness, victorious and golden. A vicious tug—
Feeling electrified his entire body, and Ranboo snapped his eyes open to the cruel, cruel world for round two.
His mouth tasted like sand as he smacked his lips together. His unfocused eyes landed on the bookshelf in front of him.
A bookshelf.
Oh. Well that was…interesting. He found that simple fact difficult to process. In fact, everything was difficult to process.
He was lying on the floor. A bookshelf in front of him. The searing pain reduced to a dull throb.
His hands were full of blood. And when he blinked—
The smile flashed.
Right, well, ignoring that. The deafening silence compelled him to speak.
“My name is Ranboo, I am 17, I live in, uh,”
Um.
“My name is Ranboo, I am 17, I live in somewhere, we’ll figure it out, and my job is, um…uh, heck,”
He took a deep breath and tried again. Deflection, deflection, deflection.
“Right, third time’s a charm! Ha. My name is Ranboo, I am 17, I live in to be determined, my job is also to be determined, and my family is…um, heck, no no no no please,”
The world spun again, even though he was lying down, and that was just unfair. The hardwood floors mocked him as he struggled to stand, leaning on his arms and resembling a gangly bambi.
Who was he? Why was he here? He felt sick.
Ranboo moved his right hand to lean his weight on the mysterious bookshelf. Except.
A slight misty shimmer enveloped his hand as it went straight through the bookcase. And Ranboo, unbalanced, stumbled and crashed straight down, through the dark hardwood floor, through the first floor ceiling (oh, he was on the second floor, interesting), through the kitchen cabinet, and finally landed on a tile floor.
He curled up on reflex, but quickly realized that nothing hurt. Because, upon closer inspection, he was transparent. He could see through his body. To the floor.
Oh. Oh.
Lying on the tile floor, in an unknown building, alone, Ranboo finally admitted it to himself.
“I’m a ghost. With…unfinished business. And that means…it means…I’m—“ he swallowed and lifted up his right hand to examine the bright red blood all over his palm.
“I’m dead.”
(Yeah, his brain jumped right over that last one.)
In fact, upon standing, he found that his black high-top converse weren’t touching the ground. He could float? Or, rather, he couldn’t touch the ground.
Did he have organs? Did he need to eat? Could he even eat?
Oh Lady Death, he was actually dead. Ish. Alive-ish?
Alive-ish, he liked that. Sounded more like glass half full. Which was…better.
He closed his eyes and the ghastly lopsided smile smirked at his terror.
“Ok, that’s enough reality for the day,”
There were black gloves on the counter.
Could he…
Ranboo poked them. His finger went straight through.
Well that was mildly terrifying.
He couldn’t walk around with blood-soaked hands though. While ghosts were mostly mysteries, everyone agreed that they were visible when they wanted to be.
Ranboo used to be fascinated by ghosts.
“How the tables have turned,” he said bitterly.
Maybe…he concentrated on his hand. It existed. (Sorta)
His eyes strained from the effort of staring his hand down like it had murdered him, but he didn’t stop until his fingertips started tingling, until the misty wisps seemed a little corporeal.
Did he have any clue how he did it? Not a chance. (Ignore and deflect reality, yes perfectly healthy reactions to being alive-ish.)
The glove squished when he poked it this time. Ranboo grinned and made quick work of slipping them on.
“Things are looking up! Still dead, but hey, my body can sorta exist? Net positive, people.” He spread his hands and bowed.
Silence from the nonexistent peanut gallery.
“Who am I even talking to? Am I insane? Next up on the Ranboo show, tune in tomorrow at 8/7 central.”
He floated around in a half-assed attempt at a circle. It was more ovular, but Ranboo wasn’t about to be picky.
A throat cleared across the room. “…Is Ranboo your name?”
Ranboo screamed.
The small town of Manberg was really quite quaint, if you ignored its bloody history. Located in a lush forest and featuring picturesque views of the sunrise overlooking the sea in the East and sunsets framed by the mountains in the West, it was a perfect destination. The cobblestone paved roads led to a cute central village square, and paths diverged from there to the more residential roads. While there weren’t too many residents, central Manberg was a bustling hub of activity.
Directly across the street from the bakery was the library, a building of great stature framed with dark planks and rounded glass windows. Ivy curled along the edges, and a flower garden adorned the front porch. It was four stories high, hosted three chimneys, and almost every book known to this part of the empire. Besides necessary structural construction and the addition of giant whiteboards in every room, the ancient structure remained true to its original beauty. All thanks to the two most eccentric people in Manberg.
There was much chatter when Phil, a retired pilot and general for the empire’s military, decided to settle down and take over the crumbling library. There was even greater chatter when Technoblade, a mysterious man who had survived the hell of the Nether, decided to join him.
The library was gorgeous. Peaceful and serene, and meticulously organized by both men.
It was also a place of much chaos, especially in the apartment connected to the back of the library.
And especially the day before Tommy had found Ranboo.
“Phil! I am not gonna go to the End City just to get you a new elytra, can you please stop fidgeting while I adjust this?” Techno was exhausted. He had just wanted to kick back and read his book, but no. Always movement with Phil around.
“But mate, I need to go now!” Phil said impatiently, shuffling slightly and only grimacing a little when Techno slapped him on the arm.
“The sky patrol can wait until I make sure you won’t actually die on me, please calm down.”
God, Techno needed a better partner in crime.
Phil threw his head back and sighed.
“I swear, you are literally addicted to the sky,” Techno huffed, finishing adjusting the left wing and moving to the right.
“Yes! I’m going through withdrawal after they took away my pilot license, please help me get through this extremely difficult time!”
“…they took it away because you crash landed into a mountain because, and I quote, ‘it would be fun’.”
“So? It was!”
“You almost died!”
“But I didn’t! Besides, it was a calculated risk.”
“Mmhm, keep telling yourself that.”
“Asshole.”
“Maniac.”
By the end of their extremely serious argument, Techno had finished adjusting the other wing, so he lightly slapped the back of Phil’s head. Phil cackled and Techno just sighed. He bent down again to triple check the safety harnesses and examine the enchantment runes running along the edge.
Satisfied with the safety mechanisms, Techno nodded and dusted off his hands as Phil stood and stretched. Carefully, Phil held out the mechanical wings of the elytra and activated the enchantments.
The metal pieces clicked together and glowed a soft purple as they molded into soft, glittering black feathers. With a pop and a series of sparks, the fully formed onyx wings folded against Phil’s back.
Techno admitted it was kind of cool. Even though he was born in a land full of twisted witchcraft, nothing beat the pure majesty of the End City. He turned to drag a cart of books out of the way as Phil gasped and spread out the wings fully.
“Alright Phil, go have fun and please don’t die,” Techno said.
Phil grinned a little crazily and practically dashed out the front door.
The door banged against the side of the building and Techno buried his face in his hands.
“Tommy, how long should we give him?” He asked, voice muffled and tired.
The marker hanging on the whiteboard uncapped, hovered uncertainly in the air, and wrote twenty bucks he dies in ten minutes.
Techno snorted. “You’re on. I bet thirty though, ye of little faith.”
The board was quickly erased and the writing was replaced with bitch.
And then the marker dropped, and the subtle chill on Techno’s skin warmed. Techno was alone.
He walked over to the cart, wheeled it to the first stack, and started shelving some books.
“…hello? Ranboo?”
Ranboo flinched. There was someone there. In this house. Where he was a ghost.
(He was a ghost, oh Lady Death)
At some unknown point he had covered his eyes with hands.
“Bitch, answer me, hello?” They sounded annoyed.
Ranboo removed his hands from his eyes. In front of him was a gangly boy with unruly blond hair. He wore black jeans, a black shirt, and a thick cloak with the hood down.
And he was—
“You’re transparent,” Ranboo said, shocked.
Except for a patch of red and white fabric pinned to his cloak, which was solid in the same way as Ranboo’s gloves.
The boy frowned. “Yeah no shit, that comes with the whole ghost territory, you know?”
“You’re a ghost?” Ranboo asked. Sue him, but his head was spinning again.
The boy rolled his eyes and floated over to the marble kitchen counter. He hopped up and kicked his legs against the wooden cabinet, even though his black combat boots went straight through as they swung.
“Ranboo, what part of being transparent and dead do you not understand?”
“I don’t understand much of anything, actually,” Ranboo muttered.
He was queasy, but couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. Something about the whole kitchen thing made him uneasy.
But it was probably because he was talking to an actual ghost. As a ghost himself. Hm. Fascinating.
There was an awkward few seconds as Ranboo adjusted his gloves.
The boy cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I’ll go first! My name is Tommy, I’ve been a ghost for, hmm, thirty-six years? I died on a job for the government at seventeen.”
Ranboo gaped. Tommy remembered all that? Not that he knew what “job for the government” meant, but frankly he didn’t really care. Tommy had remembered.
“Come on man, give me something here! I’ve always been shit at small talk.”
Ranboo scratched his arm.
“I—“ he started, “My name is, uh, Ranboo. As you already knew. I’m seventeen…and that’s kind of all I know…” he trailed off meekly and looked at the floor.
There was another awkward pause. Ranboo looked up at Tommy and found him staring with wide eyes.
“Nothing? You’ve got nothing?” Tommy hopped down gracefully from the counter and started pacing.
“That’s impossible,” he muttered, “everyone remembers at least something to help them, and even then…maybe Wilbur can do something?” He said a couple other choice words under his breath, but Ranboo had already zoned out.
He did remember something. But it’s not like that smile was going to do anything for him now, other than terrorize his waking dreams.
He was really dead, wasn’t he? Something about talking to an actual, self-assured ghost made it way too real.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Ranboo said lowly, “please just let me stop this.”
Tommy whipped around. “Big man, you don’t get a fucking choice.”
You don’t get a choice, Ranboo. You want a job? Just take this story and I’ll give you a bigger one another day, when you’re…better.
Ranboo shuddered. Suddenly, Tommy represented something terrifying and huge and way too much for Ranboo to handle. He wanted to go back. He needed to go back. (Where was “back”?)
The room tilted again, and Ranboo gripped the counter with his gloved hands. He looked down at his transparent jeans and shoes and socks and oh my god he was dead why couldn’t he catch a break—
“…Ranboo? Please, man, calm down!”
His vision was blurring, the lines of marble in the counter becoming squiggles that formed into murderous smiles, the white flashing behind his eyes. It was too much.
He was dead. Deceased. Gone. A memory.
Oh god, did he even get a gravestone? Where was his body? Did he ascend like fucking Jesus? Was he stuck in these clothes forever?
Forever. As a ghost.
A faraway voice said “Holy shit, your eyes—“ and Ranboo’s vision went purple. He folded into sparks of violet and his brain went quiet.
Technooooooooooo the marker scribbled out on the whiteboard in the stack room. It paused, waited, then drew huge O’s all over the rest of the wall when Techno didn’t immediately come over.
The marker took a quick second to draw a grotesque stick figure and an arrow that said Techno the bitch who never listens then capped itself. Hovered for another quick second. Then flung itself across the room and directly into the window, which shattered on impact.
The marker lay peacefully in the grass outside. There was a dramatic pause.
The unlit candle on the nearby counter floated abruptly, bounced in the air a couple times as if testing its own weight, then launched itself into the second window with another shattering burst.
Two windows down, three to go. The knife from the kitchen floated over into the stack room, spun a couple times in the air, then hurled itself into the third window, which didn’t shatter so much as pierce in the middle and hairline crack across the rest of the glass.
(From another dimension, there was a quiet “dammit” from the knife-wielder.)
The knife still made a satisfyingly loud thunk as it hit the tree outside and quivered slightly in fear.
Another pause, then an explosion of movement.
Techno, who had been in the garden, came running inside, brandishing the marker. His pink braid went staticy as soon as he entered the library.
“Tommy? Goddamnit Tommy, can you not cause chaos for two seconds?”
The whiteboard quickly erased itself. Techno held up the marker, which was quickly snatched into the air and uncapped itself to write no in the most atrocious handwriting possible.
The marker moved to the middle of the whiteboard and quickly scribbled. Techno frowned as he read.
there’s another ghost here, his name is Ranboo, he doesn’t know anything and he’s so confused. He won’t really talk but he took your black gloves for some reason, idk I’m not a psychologist or whatever also like two seconds ago he went a little crazy and his eyes went really really purple so anyway I’m not scared because I’m a big man but a little…concerned
“His eyes went what? You left him alone?”
The marker dipped and the whiteboard wiped itself off again. (Techno had stopped wondering if Tommy got marker residue on his ghostly self ages ago, he never got a straight answer.)
I didn’t leave him alone, idiot, he disappeared in some bigass fucking flash or something idk I was trying to get to know him alright?????
Techno considered.
“Huh. Well, then he’s not really our problem Tommy,” Techno said, mulling over the situation, “maybe he was stopping by and he left to haunt another building?”
The marker bounced up and down in the air in a way that vaguely resembled a shrug. They really needed to get Tommy a better way to express himself.
he seemed scared the marker wrote in the corner of the board.
Techno sighed what felt like the fifty millionth time today. His hair fluttered gently in the breeze.
“Do you know where he went?”
The marker swished back and forth through the air.
Gently, Techno said, “Then I can’t really do anything but wait for when or if he comes back, Tommy. I’m sorry.”
fine.
The breeze in the room calmed as Tommy left, and Techno bent down to unlace his boots, then place them by the door. He removed his cape, hung it on the rack, then walked from the book room to the back part of the building where his and Phil’s apartment was.
What a strange situation. Techno wanted to help, really, but there wasn’t anything he could do. But Tommy hadn’t felt the need to alert him with destruction since…
The front door creaked quietly. “Techno? Tommy? Why are the windows smashed?” Phil called. His hair was matted, his boots were muddy, and his elytra was retracted into its mechanical state. In short, today’s patrol had ended, but Phil’s sparkling blue eyes suggested that he still held onto the wild joy of flying.
Techno shuffled out from the kitchen to explain. The marker remained settled on the whiteboard shelf, because of course Tommy would be a coward and leave everything to Techno.
“So…Tommy smashed the windows again…but this time there’s a reason!” Techno said defensively, and this time it was Phil’s turn to sigh.
The marker shook a little, as if to indicate silent laughter from one certain ghost.