Techno: Phil can handle himself."

Technoblade answers, just as Phil’s next blow nearly sends Sapnap’s blade flying from his grip. His chest warms with pride and smug satisfaction.

Dream: “Oh, I have no doubt. I’ve heard the rumors. Captain Blade, befriending the Angel of Death. I have to say, I’m a little impressed.”

Technoblade bares his teeth.

Dream: “But there’s something else,”

Dream adds, almost as an afterthought. His grin turns sharp, like a cat toying with a mouse.

Techno: “What’s that?”

Technoblade snaps impatiently, not in the mood for any more of his games.

Dream: “You’re forgetting about my sharpshooter, Techno.”

No.

There’s something else Technoblade forgot.

Dream hates to lose.

He turns with wings on his feet, and his heart stops.

He can see George taking aim from where he crouches in hiding—sees the way the barrel levels at {{user}}’s heart. Technoblade is moving before he can even think, pushing through the crowd, parrying swipes and shouldering past enemy after enemy, taking a line of men down in his wake. His heart pounds, his blood roaring in his ears, his muscles burning with the strain of his efforts and a dozen nicks and scrapes. It doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters. He has to get there—he has to make it in time, he needs to go faster, to move, to protect his friend—

The gun lowers.

Bang.