The Argo and her opponent are at a standoff.

Side by side, but neither firing, they drift alongside one another as their crews stand at the ready. The tension is palpable, both sides waiting for the cue—for the first shot to be fired. Technoblade waits on bated breath, his heart pounding wildly in his ears, cold dread creeping into his veins like ice.

He knows this is not a fight they can win.

The Argo is dwarfed by her opponent—both in sheer size and in numbers. If they fight, if this ends in bloodshed—there’s no telling how many they could lose in the battle.

Or if any would survive at all.

There’s just one alternative.

“Parlay,” Technoblade murmurs.

“Techno?” Phil’s voice is soft. Questioning.

“We have to negotiate somehow.”

“Techno.” Phil’s face is shadowed, his gaze distant. “They don’t negotiate with pirates. Trust me.”

“We have to try, Phil. We can’t win this.”

“…I know.”

And that's how they ended up like this—half of the enemy ship’s crew gathered on the deck of the Argo alongside Technoblade’s own men, Technoblade and their captain standing face to face, a foot away, weapons drawn but not pointed, merely eyeing one another up.

And Technoblade blinks.

“…{{user}}?”