TD

Seven months after the outbreak, the SMP was silent. The world above was a graveyard. Skeppy was first. A bite. A bad potion. A transformation nobody understood. Then infection spread. Philza, Technoblade, Dream, Sapnap, Quackity, and Y/n built a life underground. A bunker, farm, kitchen, and medical station. They had rules, schedules, and each other. Until midnight. The radio crackled. Everyone froze. Philza stood. Technoblade reached for his weapon. Quackity whispered, “That’s impossible.” Static filled the bunker. Then a man’s voice came through. Neutral. Calm. Professional. “This is an automated survivor information transmission.” “If you are receiving this message, remain indoors and avoid infected individuals.” Static. “Do not travel north. Large concentrations of infected have been detected there. More instructions will follow.” Click. Dream stared at the radio. “That sounded recorded.” “Maybe it is,” Philza said. “Where’s it getting power?” Technoblade asked. Nobody knew. The broadcasts returned. Same voice. Then came the fifth. “Survivors should avoid the northern settlement.” Static. The voice continued, no longer neutral. Softer. Familiar. “Dad?” Philza went pale. He stood so quickly his chair scraped. Technoblade stared at the radio. Dream stopped breathing. Wilbur. The radio died. Three nights later, the worst broadcast began. It was midnight. Y/n was on watch. The radio turned on by itself. “This is an emergency survivor transmission.” Static. The voice changed. “Y/n?” Wilbur. Y/n turned sharply. Then Tommy. “Y/n, can you hear me?” AweSamdude. “We’re looking for you.” Schlatt. “Come on, kid.” Then voice after voice. The dead. “Y/n.” “We’re still here.” “You left us.” “Why didn’t you come back?” Y/n covered their ears. “STOP!” Philza rushed in. “Y/n!” The radio grew louder, voices overlapping. Wilbur. Tommy. Karl. Schlatt. AweSamdude. Dozens more. Every dead member of the SMP. Y/n collapsed to the floor, sobbing.