It should have been a normal day.

Phil wasn't even going anywhere, simply outside to tend to his crops. As he pulled his boots on after a refreshing morning cup of tea, he was unaware that he wouldn't see his tiny, comfortable cottage for several weeks.

Phil yawned and headed outside, calling cheerfully to his murder of crows as he went. They'd slowly assembled throughout his travels, growing in size over the centuries. Now, it numbered several hundred of the little devils. But they were adorable little devils (and they knew it) and so Phil let them stay.

Continuing to talk to the murder, Phil began his daily chores of tending to the crops he kept outside and gathering wood from the forest surrounding his cottage. It was winter, after all; he needed firewood to stay warm. Techno would have teased his "old man bones" for not being able to handle the cold. Phil always brightened at the thought of Techno.

His work was interrupted by the thud of an axe that was not his own.

Phil's head jerked up at the sound and instantly he was on his guard. Despite his current residence, he was no simple farmer and was fully prepared for attack.

Turning to face the source of the noise, he saw a tall, sneering figure looking down at him. The man was nearly a full foot taller than his own 5'7'' height (170 cm), towering above him menacingly. There was no mistaking his intention here.

"Hello, little bird," the man crooned. Phil stiffened at the nickname. Those words from someone like this meant nothing but trouble.

"Hello there," Phil began tensely. "What brings you here?"

The man's only answer was to grab at Phil's wing. With lightning-fast reflexes Phil leaped backwards, wings spreading and flapping once to lift him safely into the low branch of a sturdy tree behind him.

"Well, thanks for the answer, mate," Phil muttered to himself. Louder, he called, "Don't try that- what!?"

The tree began to shake repeatedly, knocking fluffy flurries of snow loose, and Phil looked down to see the man chopping at the trunk with the axe he carried.

"Do you really think that will work?" Phil asked incredulously, nearly laughing.

"Nah, but it'll distract ya," the man replied smugly.

Phil froze just in time for the arrow to hit him straight in the side. It wasn't a deadly wound, but he knew the man knew that. His companion, who Phil now saw standing in the trees a short distance away, bow in hand (a hunting bow, like he was some sort of prey, Phil realized disgustedly. Then he stopped that thought when it led to the next, inevitable one- he was prey to them). Phil mentally kicked himself for forgetting to check for another man. Droplets of blood scattered across the snow as he hit the ground with a grunt. Immediately, he turned to scramble away, but was stopped by a foot planted on his back, in between his wings.

"None of that now, birdie," the man snarled. Phil paused in his attempts to escape and the man relaxed, failing to notice Phil's tensed posture. "Good."

The man leaned down and took his foot off of Phil's back, giving him the perfect opportunity to roll away to the side, which he took. The shaft of the arrow stopped him. It stayed still against the snow as he moved, the tip tearing into his flesh and burning with white hot agony. Involuntarily, Phil let out a whimper of pain and felt tears come to his eyes.

The man grabbed Phil's wing and roughly yanked him up, ignoring Phil's yell of protest. He yanked the arrow out carelessly, earning a scream from Phil, for which Phil received a slap to the face. He snapped his mouth shut and let tears find their way down his face.

"Lemme go-" Phil pleaded. It only got him a new injury as the man yanked out one of his prized feathers. Holding it in front of Phil's face, the man growled.

"Quiet."

Phil obeyed, but flapped his free wing desperately in an attempt to escape. It was unsuccessful. The man simply slapped him again, and Phil went still.

It was hopeless, Phil realized. His murder could do nothing to help him (would do nothing even if they could). They were loyal, but crows weren't fighting animals and they would be scared away by even the sight of the axe. He was alone, outnumbered, injured.

So he simply let himself be dragged along, yelping occasionally in pain as he went. Each sound earned a slap or a feather pull, and so he eventually stayed silent, soundlessly shaking in fear and pain and frustration. The only hint of their passing was a trail of footprints, an unsteady line faltering between a second line of footsteps (notably shallower than the other) and a dent as he was dragged carelessly along, and a steady trail of crimson stark against the pale white snow.

By the time the man finally tossed him into a cart waiting at the end of a disturbingly well-tread path, Phil could barely stand upright, swaying uneasily on his feet, lightheaded from the blood loss.

----------------------------------------

Phil awoke tied to a pole. Looking down, he saw that the arrow wound in his midsection had been bandaged, but he doubted it was out of kindness. It was probably just so that he didn't die before they had the chance to do... whatever it is they had captured him to do. Not that he'd fully mind dying after so long alive. At the very least, it would be wonderful to see Kristin again.

But she would want him to survive, and so he put at least a little effort into assessing his restraints. His wrists were bound around the pole behind him and his ankles were held by similar ropes. But his wings were left free. One less experienced with being a captive than Phil would be grateful for it, but Phil simply sighed and tried to numb himself to the inevitable pain that was sure to come soon. Unbound wings meant his captor wanted access to them... which meant they either wanted to show them off like he was a prize, hurt them as a method to get him to comply, or just damage them so he couldn't fly away.

Before very long, the man who had first attacked Phil came back, brandishing his axe with a taunting smile on his face. "Good morning, little birdie."

It wouldn't do Phil any good to argue. He was currently trapped and completely at the mercy of this man. And yet Phil's pride wouldn't let him simply take the man's cruelty without trying to fight back. "I'm not your or anyone's little birdie."

A burst of pain exploded like a firework in Phil's wing as the man grabbed a fistful of Phil's delicate, precious feathers and yanked.

Phil refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing his victim scream. Gritting his teeth, he pushed aside the pain. "Is that all you're gonna do?" he taunted.

No, it wasn't a good idea to antagonize the dull, simple-minded, aggressive axe-wielding gutter rat who towered over Phil normally, especially not when said gutter rat was holding him captive with no one to rescue him.

Yes, Phil was going to do it anyway. Why? Because he was Philza Minecraft, and he answered to no one.

Unfortunately for him, this man didn't need him unharmed. Just alive. But that didn't mean that he couldn't be tortured.

That was fine. Phil had been tortured before. It had been a mistake on his part that had led to his capture, but he would escape soon enough.

The man snarled at him, not unlike a feral animal- the very thing he clearly thought Phil to be. Ironic how humans themselves were usually more like the wild beasts they claimed hybrids were.

Phil's wings suddenly burned with pain. Warm, damp blood seeped downwards through each layer of feathers, soaking them thoroughly. As an experienced survivalist, Phil was instinctively anxious. It was winter, and that meant cold. Blood meant moisture... and moisture in the cold meant ice.

As it turned out, his instincts were correct.

After his wings were cut, the man seemingly decided Phil was sufficiently punished... for now. He left Phil behind until later that day, when he dragged Phil up and told him to walk.

"Mate, come on. I'll only slow you down," Phil pointed out logically. The man wasn't hearing it.

"Walk," he snarled. "Or I'll do worse than damage those wings."

Still not giving in, Phil kept on. "Do what? Kill me?" He scoffed. "Don't think you're gonna do-"

The man cut him off with a slap across the face. Phil paused in surprise, then kept on. "You know, you're not very creative when it comes to punishments."

He whirled on Phil. "You want creative?" he growled. "I'll show you creative!"

Phil gave a small, interested nod, as if assessing the weather. So this was what it took to push the man to his limits.

And then pain.

Clearly the man wanted him alive, because he dropped his axe in favor of his most reliable weapon; his fists. Tackling the smaller man to the snow, Phil's captor went for a low-handed but sure blow; hitting Phil straight in the stomach and knocking all the air out of him. Before Phil could regain his breath, he pummeled the hybrid with strong, harsh hits all over his chest, some of them hitting the arrow wound and sending fire shooting through him, until Phil couldn't breathe, couldn't BREATHE-

And then it stopped. The man grabbed Phil by his collar and yanked him upwards. "Don't talk back to me or else the next punishment is with blades."

And that was when Phil's instinctual fear kicked in and overtook his pride.

He nodded timidly, then stood still in shock as the man snapped a collar around his neck. He realized a second too late, jerking backwards violently in an attempt to get away. The man put one giant hand around Phil's neck and lifted him off the ground, then fastened the collar securely and let Phil drop to the ground. Phil automatically reached up to feel the device... oh, shit.

Electricity buzzed through Phil's body and he quivered from the literal shock. Tears came to his eyes as he realized there was nothing he could do to escape.

"That's right, little birdie," the man crooned, a smug smirk on his lips.

Phil didn't reply, didn't fight, simply let himself be tossed onto the man's cart and dragged along. He curled into a small ball in some weak effort to protect himself as the cart rolled on.

----------------------------------------

The next time Phil was dragged out of the cart, there were more people around. His legs trembled as he stood and he couldn't stop the shivering. The man instantly saw this.

"Stand still."

And Phil tried, he really did. He didn't want to, but there really wasn't any point in arguing. So he tried to stop his shivering, tried to stay still... but he was so shaky and so, so cold.

"I said, stand still," the man repeated, growing irritated now. He was clearly quick to anger and that meant that he would take that anger out on Phil.

But Phil couldn't stand still. And so the man tapped a button in his hand and sent a shock through Phil. Phil shook and froze, trying to be still, but he couldn't stop shivering-

"Nice new catch you've got there, Hafir," came a new voice.

"Rather disobedient one," Phil's captor, evidently called Hafir, replied.

"Ah, no matter. It's shaking at the sight of you now, see?" the new man pointed out. Actually, the shaking was more shivering, because gods he was so cold, but they didn't know that.

"I suppose," Hafir grumbled. Maybe that meant he'd let Phil keep shaking. Hopefully that would happen, because he couldn't exactly stop.

"You care what happens to it?" the new man asked. Probably a routine question, if Phil had to guess. He'd been in places like this before.

"Nah, not really, so long as I get my money," Hafir told him.

The second man nodded. "Avian, male, 'bout forty or so... fifty thousand sound good to you?"

"Gave me quite a bit o' trouble, but not too much," Hafir replied. Not too much? He could do better then. "Fifty sounds good."

The second man nodded. Phil had to admit, he had no idea what kind of currency was being exchanged, so he had no way of gauging how much value they were placing on him. It could be he was simply another avian, or it could be he was a rare treasure to them. They wouldn't treat him any differently either way, he supposed.

Hafir was handed a bag of money by the second man, and in return gave him the button to Phil's collar. Phil studied this new man, trying to decide how easy it would be to escape.

Hafir headed off, leaving Phil alone with the new man, and he spoke. "First things first. I'm not as nice as Hafir. I won't let you get off so easily as damaged wings and a beating." Phil tensed. This guy wasn't going to be fun.

"Second," the man continued, unclipping the collar from Phil's throat. "I won't need this. But you'll wish my punishments were as nice as the collar soon."

"Now, follow," the man told him, turning and heading off. Phil didn't follow. The man turned to catch Phil shuffling backwards towards the trees. And he smiled.

"I was hoping you'd disobey," he told Phil. He leaped at the smaller man, who dodged out of the way. But the other had guessed what Phil was going to do, and so managed to catch Phil's wing as he fell. He yanked and Phil tumbled into the snow with him.

The man pulled a small dagger from a sheath on his vest and set it against Phil's wing. Phil went still for the first time that day.

The man smiled and sliced downwards. Feathers, skin, and blood were cruelly yanked away and tossed aside, left carelessly in the snow. The wound from before was reopened and soaked Phil's right wing with a new layer of wet blood.

This time, Phil felt nothing but cold as it seeped through his shredded limb. He cried aloud wordlessly, then began to scream. The man sliced a thin cut on his cheek and he was silent.

When the man finally, mercifully stopped, Phil followed him without question, didn't argue as he was led to another camp and tied with a rough rope to a nearby tree.

He knew he was giving in, but who was going to save him if he couldn't save himself? He made a name for himself as a lone wolf, not needing anyone to help him. And now he was alone, as he had been before, but in a different way. Now he was alone, helpless, and hurt.

And so, so cold.

----------------------------------------

This captor didn't last long either. The next time he came back, he threw Phil carelessly into yet another cart before Phil had time to argue (not that he was going to anyway) and headed off.

Ropes were tied cruelly tight around his wings and he heard a loud voice call out.

"And here we have a rare black-winged avian!"

At the announcer's call, Phil felt the ropes around his wings begin to tighten as the men pulled on them. Instinctively, he braced his feet and fought their strength, but then a hand found his back and shoved. Phil gave a small, hoarse cry of surprise as he once again fell to the ground- a worryingly familiar feeling lately.

The men holding the ropes showed him no mercy, roughly dragging him onto the stage. As he shakily got to his feet (still shivering. Always shivering), the auctionmaster stepped up and paced around him.

"Not in the best condition, looks to be a fighter... tough one, folks. Any buyers?"

Phil hated this. He hated auctions, hated being displayed like some animal- but as the auctionmaster kicked him over with a sneer, Phil couldn't help but feel like one.

Maybe it would be easier just to stay on the ground.

But no, he told himself. That was what they wanted. Giving up would be giving in, showing them that he was nothing more than their pet, their toy.

So he got up. Unsteadily, he staggered to his feet, his vision blurring white at the edges. Blood loss, he noted rather casually.

"What did I say?" the auctionmaster laughed. "Feisty!"

"Fifty!" a rough voice called eagerly from the crowd.

"I hear a fifty!" the auctionmaster repeated energetically. "Do I hear a sixty? Sixty?"

"Sixty!" another man called. Phil debated trying to escape somehow, but it was useless at this point. Not with everyone here watching him. It wouldn't work, it would simply be a joke to them.

"Sixty, sixty, do I hear sixty-five, sixty-five-" the auctionmaster rapidly called.

"Eighty," Phil's mind was a haze, but he could never forget that voice. But he wasn't new to auctions- he couldn't show recognition. If they saw that he recognized the speaker, they'd ask questions. He couldn't help but brighten a little with hope and pray the auctionmaster didn't notice.

"I hear an eighty, eighty, whoo!" The auctionmaster was clearly excited at this prospect, eager to make more money.

"Ninety," Phil's heart sank as the sixty bidder called a new number. He could only hope Techno could somehow outbid this man. It never crossed his mind that Techno might not do it. Techno could do anything... it was the mantra his fever-addled brain clung to now.

"Ninety, ninety, any bids, any bids?" The auctionmaster was obviously elated with greed now. He couldn't hide it in his voice.

Silence.

"Going once, going twice..." The man lifted his hammer preparing to bang it on the bar hanging over his head for this very purpose.

Please, Techno... Techno will speak up, Techno will save me.

"Sold!"

Phil didn't pay any attention to the world around him, numb and hopeless as he was recollared, dragged out and loaded into a cart by a group of five men. All the time, he desperately hoped for Techno to come and save him... Techno could, couldn't he?

No. Phil could save himself and Techno knew it. That was why Techno had left him to the mercy of these men. Maybe he was disgusted by the way Phil had gotten captured so easily. It was pathetic, a famed survivor like him getting caught off guard like that. Perhaps Techno thought Phil deserved to suffer for his own mistake.

----------------------------------------

Later that night, Phil was dragged out of the cart by cruel, groping hands and tossed out onto the cold, snow-covered ground.. He landed gasping on until one of the men grabbed his wrist and yanked him upward. He scrambled to his feet only to be met with a fist straight to his face. The man released Phil to let him stagger backwards, tripping over the snow at his feet.

In pain and disoriented, Phil was too disjointed to struggle as he was shoved against a thick oak and held in place by a hand gripping his throat, his feet not even touching the ground.

Heartless laughter echoed through the clearing. Phil would have snarled in defiance had he not been sick and hurting and cold. But the laugher cut off midway and a silence filled the clearing.

There were thuds and shouted words that Phil couldn't make out. Then the hand on his throat vanished and he slumped to the ground, another wave of pain washing over him as his wing awkwardly caught against the snow. He let out a small whimper, the only thing he could manage.

Then the pressure on his wing eased and he was lifted carefully into someone's arms. A calm, caring voice was telling him something... he couldn't make out what it was. Blurs of pink... red... Techno. Techno was here. Techno...

Phil let himself slip away, safe now that Techno was here.

maybe if you ask nicely i'll write a techno POV with some fluff included