Regarding Tech and one reason I think we’re all reeling:
So, we’re all pretty hurt right now. Even if you’re firmly in the “Tech lived” camp, which I am, it still hurts—it still feels like a death, and something that needs to be mourned, even if or when he makes it back. I’ve seen a lot of people say it feels like they’re grieving a friend, not a fictional character. And one reason for that, beyond Tech being a well-developed, beloved character, beyond him being a fantastic piece of representation, even beyond the way that our brains can react to fictional characters the same way they do to real people, is that Tech’s story is so unfinished.
He’s developing this amazing relationship with Omega. He has the chance of staying on Pabu in peace and being something other than a soldier. He maybe discovered a passion for racing. He’s branching out and appreciating the galaxy beyond the war, the republic, the separatists, the Jedi, and being allowed to appreciate how broad it is in ways he hadn’t before. He’s falling in love with someone who’s falling for him. He’s pushing to get his brother back and reunite his family. And then—
His story gets derailed. The batch’s story gets derailed—by something none of them could have accounted for. No one expected there to be someone else infiltrating Eriadu. But there was, and it sends the whole trajectory of his life, all of their lives, figuratively and literally—they’re on a train when this happens, guys—off the tracks. Suddenly Tech has to let himself fall to give his family a chance. It’s fast, it’s brutal, and it’s almost nonsensical. It shouldn’t need to happen—but it does. And that’s how loss happens in real life, a lot of the time.
Sometimes there’s closure, and sometimes the people we lose get to live out their whole full lives, but not always. A lot of the time, they had plans. They were just going about and being themselves. The walk out the door and you think nothing of it and then—they’re gone. And now there’s so much left to do, so much unsaid, so many things that will never happen because they’re gone. You come home after hearing the news and their room is empty. There’s a half eaten bowl of cereal they left on the table. Their favorite chair is empty. There’s no satisfying conclusion or narrative closure—it’s just life, interrupted, suddenly and brutally, in a way that’s impossible to understand. That’s often how it is. And right now, for the batch characters, and for us, that’s Tech. He has everything to live for—and then he’s ripped away.
Now, this is something that rarely happens in fiction, because it’s incredibly unsatisfying. Maybe because loss is so sudden and cruel in the real world, we want our fictional deaths to come with purpose and feel like a natural conclusion. And while the unsatisfactory nature of Tech’s “death” is one of the many (many) (seriously there are so many) reasons why I don’t think this is permanent, it does (for now) put us on the same emotional footing as the characters in a way it wouldn’t if it had happened in a narratively satisfying way. We’re not just sad, we’re grieving him right alongside them. It feels unfair and wrong because it is. It wasn’t supposed to be like this! This wasn’t supposed to happen! And no, it wasn’t. But things got derailed on Eriadu.
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Teeth are overrated anyway
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"Congrats." Mal says quietly. She does, in fact, know how to have some tact, sometimes. "Heard you made the team."
Carlos rolls his head to the side so he can talk to something that's not the tightly curled space between his own knees. "I punched a kid so hard he threw up." he says softly. Like it's a confession.
"And? I bet that fucker deserved it."
"Not really."
In Mal’s expert opinion, they all deserve it. Every kid who shoulder checks them in the hall just because they're there, every girl who won't look at Evie while she crushes their test scores, everyone who comes to Mal when they want something and ices her out when they don't, they all deserve it. Every kid who's ever taken a sharpie to their doors to tell them how worthless they are, they deserve it tenfold, and if one of them took a punch to the gut while wearing practice armor, it's nothing compared to what Mal would do to them given half the chance.
"I promise you, they really did," Mal says. "You punched one kid. I've punched how many now?"
Carlos laughs. It's not funny. "Fourteen."
Right. Out of all the ways their families fucked them up, he got the obsessive kind of guilt tracking. Preventative evidence, because the adults who want them gone will totally listen to a timestamped, cross-referenced spreadsheet of all the times they've actually fucked up, instead of whatever imagined crimes they're actually going to get sent back over. The spreadsheet's very existence is incriminating, and it could be bad if it gets into the wrong hands, but anybody who's able to get into three layers of password-protected sub-folders deserves the hex they'll get for snooping, and will probably feel too guilty (hopefully) to use it properly against them anyway. It won’t matter. The adults who care about them won't be able to override the ones who fabricate crimes they didn't even do, and one spreadsheet, even with locked timestamps for every edit, won't do much against a royal word.
Whatever. Everyone has their own coping mechanisms.
"Fourteen," Mal echoes back. "That's a lot fucking more than one, and I'm still here."
His head makes a solid noise against the wood. "You're different. People like you."
Mal can't stop the scornful noise she makes at that one, but she can pick her next words wisely.
Tread carefully, fearless leader. There's no coming back from this one.
"I think," she says slowly, inching her way closer. "That you are severely overestimating how much people like me, fleabrain."
Carlos makes a soft noise. He's listening, which is score one for Mal.
"I'm not some perfect princess who never does anything wrong. Obviously." Fourteen classmates with black eyes and bloody noses. Fourteen people who won't speak ill of her crew again. "I just keep trying, and I guess the Auradonians here are too stupid to realize that we're a bunch of lost causes. Their mistake, right?"
"Right," Carlos whispers. "They're the ones who keep making mistakes."
Hm. It's the right energy, but maybe not quite the right words.
"We deserve better than their scraps," Mal says, low and serious and warming to her cause now. "We deserve at least as much as they give their own stupid children, and if their noble-born brats can keep fucking up over and over, then we deserve at least as many chances as they get. We deserve our place here, and if they haven't kicked me out after punching fourteen people. they're sure as shit not going to kick you out over punching one."
"Right."
Mal can feel the heat of Carlos's body next to hers now, so close they could be touching. "Of course I'm right. And besides, why would they let you on the team if they're going to kick you off right after? It'd be a drain on their time and resources, and they're not gonna waste energy on us if they don't need to. You're stuck on that team whether you like it or not, dumbass."
Carlos laughs. It's not exactly a happy sound, but it's closer than before. "I didn't want to join. I fuckin' hate organized sports."
"Ah, like how I didn't want to join the equestrian club, and Evie dragged me to the meeting under false premises and wouldn't let me leave without petting a horse?"
"Like that," he agrees, and finally tips his head onto Mal's shoulder. "I didn't want to do the second round of tryouts, but they're down a man since Aza broke his ankle, so Coach called everyone on the backup rotation in for a test scrimmage."
"Let me guess, some shithead tried to pull shit because you're tiny, and you rage slammed him into the fuckin' dust?"
Mal can feel the warm gust of his sigh on her neck this time, and it feels like what home must be for other people. "Yup. Pretty much."
Weird.
“I thought coach was all about controlling your power," Mal says, thinking out loud from a half-remembered conversation she’d had with Jay a few nights ago. “Guess he's some sort of filthy hypocrite who only means that for the big guys, huh."
Carlos shakes his head. His hair is a soft, static-y mess that sticks to her cheek from the friction. She's going to be pulling handfuls out of her mouth later, but it's fine for now. "Nah. He wants people who aren't afraid of full contact. Apparently he's playing some sort of psych-out game with one of the other teams, and he's pretty sure I'm unassuming enough that they'll never see it coming."
"So he wants you to punch more people?" Mal asks incredulously. She may be bad at teams, and organized sports, and anything that involves running for more than a few minutes at a time, but a school-sanctioned chance to punch people might be worth making a stink about starting a girl's team over. "Sounds like a fuckin' sweet deal to me."
“I—“ Carlos starts.
Somebody pounds on the closet door, and his mouth snaps shut so fast Mal can hear the click.
"Hey, if you two are done having a heart-to-heart in there, some of us wanna get to dinner on time!" Jay calls through the door. "Toss me out some shoes if you're skipping and I'll tell Verne you're both sick."
Mal shoves open the door without waiting, and is rewarded with a satisfying 'oof' as the handle hits Jay in the stomach. "We were almost done, dumbass. You can't wait five minutes for us to strategize the best way for me to get in on this school-sanctioned hitting people shit?"
Jay grins down at her, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Nope." he says brightly, popping the 'p'. "Dinner waits for no man, and I'm not missing out on bread just cause you two decided it was the right time to have a gossip sesh in my closet."
"Ow," Mal grumbles, unfolding herself from the floor. "Fuck you, who told you that gossip sesh was a word people actually use?"
Jay steps back to let her out, still grinning infuriatingly. "Lonnie."
Mal's going to sneak into that girl's room and dye all her clothes pink.
No, she'd probably like that. Purple, then. An unflattering purple. One of those periwinkles that's so blue it doesn't deserve to share a name with the perfect purples that Mal herself wears. Perfect.
"I'm going to make you both suffer," Mal informs him. "I'll dye all your clothes black."
"Ooh, you think I'd look hot goth?" Jay shoots back, reaching past Mal to give Carlos a hand up. "Do your worst, killer. I already bribed your girlfriend. She said I'm her favorite model now."
"You did not."
"Did so."
"Nobody bribed me with anything!" Evie calls from the boy's bathroom. "Jay's a better model than you because he knows how to hold still, M."
"Nobody ever asks me to model," Carlos grumbles. Unlike Mal, he looks like he's comfortable standing upright, which is deeply unfair. "I'd be great at it."
Evie sticks her head out of the bathroom. She's holding a hot curling wand to her hair, but her makeup is already on and impeccable for their teacher-student dinner tonight. "That's because you're already my favorite, baby. No matter how many people you've punched."
Carlos flashes her a tiny, blink-and-you've-missed-it smile. It’s worth it. All the time in the world would be worth it to see that smile again. “Thanks, E."
"Yeah, for nothing," Mal grumbles, twisting back and forth until her back pops. "What am I, moldy fish heads? I just spent half an hour twisted up in a closet, I want good girlfriend credit too."
Evie laughs. "The fact that you call it girlfriend credit means you could never really stay in that closet, babe. You get all the girlfriend points."
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