Mirai SMP (SMP Live AU x Future Diary)

➸ prologue: from me

prologue ; from me

✧༝┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉༝✧

TECHNOBLADE

"I called you a few times but you're not picking up. . . So, um. I just wanted to let you know that you did good at work today. Make sure you come early again tomorrow and finish off your task with the surveillance."

A small beep pends at the end of the voice message as it finishes. A low groan slips out from between his lips; his eyes flutter shut momentarily, as his hand shoves his phone back into his pocket. He always forgets to turn off do-not-disturb when he's at work. What can he say, old habits die hard.

A refreshing wave of cool air blasting from the AC hits the surface of Technoblade's skin, pricking up the hairs on his arms with a gauze of goosebumps. Exhaustion and relief are the only two emotions he feels right now.

Being a hitman is hard.

Or at least, a hitman's assistant. He never liked to label himself as the "hitman's assistant" though, because it didn't really sound as cool. Despite him being good at his job — in fact, probably the best at his job — tracking down targets wasn't something that had made him feel proud, nor was it enjoyable.

It was all mostly sitting behind desks, filing out questionably legal paperwork, and occasionally sitting behind the security cameras guiding the missions. But never any assassinating, or cool car chases for that matter.

It all started when he was finishing a tennis match 2 years ago. After being followed home by two people dressed in black, who later on revealed themselves as special guards who work under a secret assassination organisation, he had managed to get a free position in the workforce. But everything that happened before those 2 years were extremely hazy in his memory; almost as if his new memories kicked out the old, replacing them.

Somehow, these agents had looked into his background prior, so it had been clear that he was being watched for some time. They asked him if he was up to joining them.

Of course, Techno was startled at first. And definitely had a lot of questions.

Alright, let me get this straight, he had thought, you've tracked me down for God knows how long, and now you want me to suddenly work as a hitman's assistant in your probably very illegal organisation? Are we just going to gloss over the fact that you've broken several laws here?

But nonetheless, he accepted the offer anyway, because anything was better than working at McDonalds.

He had good pay, and he was able to make a living from working behind a desk. Every day, he would open his phone and type out what had happened in the business, making sure to log everything that went on throughout the day — specifically, information regarding their targets.

He's never seen the boss, ironic enough. In fact, nobody knows who the boss really is. For all he knows, the boss could be anybody. Or maybe they don't even have a boss.

He sighs, again.

Walking over to the couch, he sits down and opens his phone, reading the log he had taken today.

. . . . . . 

【 14/6/2000 TARGET #195 】

Location: Unknown

History: Appeared to be known to own a large sum of money. Unknown whether cash has been robbed or not. Last seen to be driving a custom silver Hennessey Venom GT, presumably escaping a car chase. Wanted dead or alive - reward will be 10K.

Daily log: Not much progress has been made today. Whereabouts on target continues to remain unknown, however we have concluded that 195 has ties to some of the previous victims, Target #120 and an unnamed specialist.

. . . . . . 

He sits there for a few minutes, observing the document. The gnawing growling of his stomach disrupts his concentration, as his body starts to crave for it's meal of the day — lunch. Usually his work would finish much later in the day, but today he finished a lot earlier.

Just as he is about to get up from his seat on the sofa, a small ping vibrates his phone. It's a new email.

"Surely not another scam," he mumbles, frowning. "I thought I blocked them from my inbox."

But to his luck, the email wasn't a scam. Nor was it from his boss, which takes away a chunk of anxiety already.

Curiosity beginning to suck him in like an addicting video game, he opens the email, and with each passing second his eyes grow wider:

. . . . . . 

Hello Technoblade,

Congratulations, you've been chosen to participate in the game we call Mirai SMP!

No, this isn't a scam mail! Yes, this is real! Woo hoo, something exciting to add to your boring life!

You, along with 14 other contestants, will be brought to a special arena right after you finish reading this email! More will be explained when you enter the stadium.

I ̗̜̈́͑wi͙̓̕͢sh ̦͑y̨̯͗́oṵ͈̃̕ ̟̂t̹͇͋̇ḩ͈́̂é͉̝̑ bę̣͗͛s̗̏t̺̬̑̾ ̘̆̊͢o͈͓̔̊f ̱̟͛̎l̝̘͒͝u͖͞c͉̄k̖͒.

From, me.

. . . . . .

 

Before he can even take a second to comprehend what he had just read, something inside of him snaps; and before he knows it, he falls to the ground, engulfed gradually into the depths of unconsciousness.