Chapter Text
All Technblade wants is to go home. This is not home. This is a random house that Techno knows nothing about. They're parked in front of the house now and Technoblade firmly pushes his hands down in a sharp motion, doing his best to stim away everything wrong with this entire situation.
His social worker looks over at him, and grabs his hands, bringing them to his lap firmly.
"Quiet hands," she reminds.
Technoblade screeches and looks out the window, turning as far away from her as he can.
She huffs.
"Technoblade," she reprimands. And God does his name sound so foreign coming out of her mouth. So wrong. She says it odd, like it's a mouthful she can't quite swallow.
He gets it okay, his name is weird. But his parents gave it to him and they loved it and they loved him and he loves it and them as well.
Is it weird that he never wants to hear his name again?
"Look, I know you get bad with change and misbehave. But this is only going to be for a few days so please just work with me here and be good, okay?"
Technoblade huffs at her ignorance. She acts like he misbehaves on purpose, refusing to recognize that his deemed ‘misbehavior’ are his neurodivergent traits appearing in full force as a result of overstimulation or his own way of adjusting and processing what's going on around him.
It's incredibly wrong, and stupid.
The foster system is incredibly ableist. Technoblade hates it.
He tries to drag his fingers through his hair, feeling the thickness of it and how silky smooth it is.
But he can’t, because it’s not there.
At the realization he almost starts crying.
His first foster placement were the ones to get him the haircut. He didn’t want it. They had done it anyway. Now, the longest it was was a few inches at the top, the sides had been buzzed. He hates it.
“Technoblade,” his social worker calls.
He follows her to the door of the house anyway, because he doesn't have a choice. And he really doesn't want this but she’s already grabbing hold of him and dragging him to the door.
So he grabs his bag- thankfully a duffel. He's already noticed most kids have trash bags, but he's been able to hang onto his duffle so far. He's been told the older kids will probably take it from him. Being eleven kind of sucks. He’s too old to get away with the things the little kids can, but not old enough that he doesn’t get picked on.
The lady knocks on the door and it opens to a man, smiling. His teeth glint in the sunlight, and all Technoblade can be reminded of is a predator ready for their next meal. He already doesn't like it here.
He wants to go home. He wants his mom and dad. But instead he's stuck here.
He zones out for most of whatever his social worker and the man talks about. He doesn’t listen, not because he doesn’t want to, it can just be really hard for him to pay attention sometimes. His parents got that. They understood his ADHD. They’d help him focus when he wanted, and understood when he just wasn’t able.
Instead of listening, he studies the rooms, noting where everything is.
He's particularly interested in the wall in the living room with a large bookcase, scattered with books. A lot of people don't actually have books on their bookcases. Technoblade’s parents did. This man has books too. A lot of them.
At least he has some redeeming qualities.
One redeeming quality.
He turns in his chair to peer at some of the spines. Trying to catch their names from a distance. He can't quite make any of them out.
"Technoblade, Technoblade," his social worker insists.
Technoblade scowls, but gives her his attention. He listens as he continues to look around.
She huffs.
"Technoblade doesn't have very good attention," she explains, "he has ADHD and autism-"
"I am autistic," Technoblade buts in, "I don't-"
"Technoblade, don't interrupt," she says.
"Now, wait, what were you saying?" Phil asks, peering at him. Technoblade does his best to avoid his gaze.
"I am autistic. I have ADHD. I don't have autism."
"What do you mean?" Phil asks. Technoblade like how he asks. Lots of people ask questions with weird tones and faces and Technoblade is pretty sure they're being mean but he can't usually tell. But Phil says this sentence the same way as anything else he's said so far and Technoblade is pretty sure it's a good thing.
"It's uh," Technoblade says, and tries to recall what he was told by his parents. "It's person first language versus identity first," he says.
"Autistic people- we like identity first because uhm- well because autism plays a big role in my identity! I'm not myself without it. Autism is part of who I am. You can't separate me from my autism.
"People with ADHD more commonly used people first, but honestly I don't mind either. But autistic is definitely identify first,” he explains.
Phil nods along, and Technoblade thinks he might actually get it. Technoblade perks up and does little wiggles in his seat. Since he was taken from his parents, no other adults have been understanding like them. Could Phil be the first?
"Technoblade," the lady scolds, "we talked about this. You are stronger than your autism. And please at least try to sit still."
Technoblade instantly bristles. God does she even speak before she speaks? What is this ableist bullshit?
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Phil says, "but it seems like- it seems like autism isn't something to overcome, more than it is a fact of life, a part of it."
Technoblade meets Phil's eyes just for a millisecond. He has to judge if they're genuine.
He's surprised by the sincerity he finds buried there, and gives a short nod. Maybe this really can be different then the other two group homes he’s been in.
It probably won’t though.
He rubs a hand against his hair, pushing against the odd sharpness of the buzzed sides. He hates that it's short, but at least the fresh buzz is a good stim.
He sits like that, rubbing his shirt hair back and forth and humming as he zones out on whatever subject Phil and his social worker are on.
It's a good stim, but he still really wishes he had his old hair back.
Phil really comments on his hair after about a month of living together. It was only supposed to be a few days, but Technoblade and Phil just… sort of clicked and his social worker didn’t see a reason to separate them right now. Eventually they would find a better, more permanent placement for Technoblade, but it was tough going.
Turns out not a lot of people wanted an autistic son of terrorists.
“Your hair grows fast,” he mentions, “the sides were shaved when you got here.”
Technoblade nods. This is an accurate observation of the occurrences.
“Let me know if you want it cut again,” Phil says, before turning back to his book.
Technoblade freezes, worst fears being materialized right in front of him. He’s going to get his hair cut again. It’s never going to be long again. He’ll never pull it up, never braid. He… He doesn’t want to cut it.
Ever.
Never again.
“No,” Technoblade says abruptly. Phil looks back up from his book.
“No?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. If Technoblade wasn’t so panicked, he wonders if he would have noticed Phil’s genuine confusion. Probably not, Technoblade’s always been bad at reading people, and confusion his the emotion he understands the least when presented with it’s physical signs.
“No,” Technoblade says, “No. No no no no. You can’t make me!” He’s shouting by the end of his words.
“Woah, Technoblade,” Phil says, “Hey let’s talk-”
“No!” Technoblade screams and races away to his room. He slams the door shut behind him, leaning his back against it and sliding down to the floor.
He heaves numerous breaths, pulling his knees up and shoving his head in them as he covers his head with his arms.
He sobs more, screaming.
He knows what this is, a meltdown. That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. Especially not alone.
With his parents, they’d always help him. Space, holding him, a weight blanket, stim toys, whatever he needed.
He doesn’t have any of that here.
He doesn’t have his hair, and he doesn’t have his parents.
He screams and slams his back against the door.
“Mom!” he calls out, desperate, “Dad!”
Of course, neither of them appear.
“Mom!” he screams again, voice breaking at the volume, “Dad! Mom! Dad! Please, please, please. I need you,” he whines, curling in on himself as he continues sobbing so hard he can’t even breathe.
He gasps for breath around sharp tears.
He doesn’t have the air to scream anymore so he settles for whimpers and whines.
“Mommy,” he cries, “Daddy, I miss you.”
He feels a pressure on his back.
He keeps heaving, unable to get air.
Then suddenly, everything changes. His sobs cut off abruptly. He grabs his arms, pulling them tight and gripping his nails into his arms. That isn’t enough so he pulls his head up slightly, biting his wrist instead.
He grips down hard, firm, and pain explodes in his wrist. It’s much better than the pain inside of him, so he keeps biting.
The pressure continues to build within him, and it takes him much too long to realize that there is an actual physical pressure, and not just the one on his chest.
The door continues to push on his back, and a few moments later, it starts to move, slowly moving Technoblade across the room with it.
He lets out a small squeak of surprise, and scrambles away, hand still in mouth.
Phil stands in the doorway, own tear tracks down his face and he immediately drops to his knees in front of Technoblade.
“Technoblade,” he says, voice breaking over the single word.
They stare at each other for a brief moment.
Phil’s not his dad, not even close. But he’s all Technoblade has right now. He scrambles over, bowling into Phil, and Phil instantly wraps him up in his arms.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers.
Technoblade believes him.
Phil wants to talk to him about what happened later. Technoblade anxiously combs his hand through his still much to short hair.
"I- that didn't seem fun," Phil starts off.
Technoblade nods.
"Does that happen to you often?" He then broaches. Technoblade appreciates the bluntness, even if Phil is obviously uncomfortable with the conversation.
At least he's trying. Techin couldn't say the same about the group home.
"Sometimes," Technoblade mumbles, drawing circles on his knee, "depends. They're called meltdowns. They're an autism thing. Though my ADHD plays into it too."
His ADHD and autism are so intertwined he often doesn't know where one ends and the other begins. Sure meltdowns are an autistic experience but they can be triggered by ADHD responses to stimuli. It's all connected.
"Can you- if you- Techno would you be willing to explain that more for me? So I can understand better and help in the ways you need?"
Technoblade jerks his head up. There's a lot of interesting things Phil said there. Most importantly…
"What did you call me? Technoblade asks.
Phil instantly responds.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes immediately, "it just slipped out. I won't call you that if you don't want me to."
"Techno," Technoblade repeats. It has a nice ring to it, shorter than his full name, but longer than any of the nicknames his parents used to call him.
"Techno," he repeats again, "Techno, Techno, Techno."
He stops with the word, testing it out by rolling it around in his tongue to figure out if it's right. Phil just observes.
Eventually, Technoblade- Techno nods
"I like that. Call me that please. Not Technoblade."
"No Technoblade at all?" Phil asks.
Techno considers, and then gives a firm nod.
That's his parents name for him. If he can't hold onto them, he at least wants to hold onto that.
Techno’s parents go on trial when he's twelve two months apart. He’s still living with Phil, the intended few days extending into a few weeks and continuing through the months as they slip together.
He gets court summons in the mail, and from there on it's a shit show.
He knows how court is supposed to work. He's supposed to go to the court, tell the truth, and then let them decide. And if he tells the truth the jury will rule with justice and… and things will work out for good.
Techno knows how court is supposed to work. He also knows that court doesn't work the way it's supposed to. It’s one of the things his parents had talked about lot, one of he reasons they took justice into their own hands.
Both sides want him to testify in their favor. How can he testify in favor? Isn't he supposed to tell facts, not opinions? It's the jury's job to decide who he favors.
It's a lot to think about.
Either way, he's testifying.
It'll be Phil who takes him to court, joined by his social worker.
Techno had been looking forward to it, in all honesty. He wanted to see his parents. He hasn't seen them in over a year. But his social worker had said that Techno wasn't allowed to be alone with them and wouldn't be talking to them outside of anything the court needed.
Techno thought that was stupid.
He just wanted his parents back.
But at least he got to see them. And he wanted to look good. So he put on his nice suit with a new bowtie that Phil had gotten him. It was a clip one, which was nice. Techno liked tie bow ties but sometimes they got restrictive and tight and it wasn't a good sensory experience. But this one had a collar that wrapped around his neck and could be adjusted, but was able to clip at both ends.
Much easier to take off if Techno needed to.
It was also a bright red, his dad's favorite color
He did his bowtie for his dad and he was trying to do his hair tie for his mom.
They both had long hair, and his mom had always done his. Long fingers- piano fingers- stroking through his hair and dividing it into pieces, twisting, weaving, forming a masterpiece. Techno’s hair became art in her hands.
It was finally long enough to braid again, and so Techno attempted to do it himself.
He found himself quickly failing, fingers tangled in knot ridden hair and tears in his eyes.
Which was how Phil found him.
"Hey Techno, ‘bout ready to- oh.”
Techno sobs louder.
“Okay, okay kiddo,” Phil soothes, stepping onto the room.
Techno pulls his hands out of his hair, holding them in tight fists at his sides.
He heaves out a frustrated breath. It's loud, filling the room. He wens to tell Phil, explain his anger, but he quickly realizes all of his words are gone, leaving him.
Realizing he’s nonverbal only adds to his frustration.
At least Techno knows Phil won’t get mad at him for being nonverbal. It’s happened more then a few times in the almost year that Techno has been here.
“Were you trying to braid your hair?” Phil asks, looking at the disarray that is the bathroom.
Techno nods miserably.
Phil hesitates, checks his watch on his wrist.
“Want me to help?” he offers.
Techno’s instant response is to tell him no.
The only people who have touched his hair in good ways were his parents. Kids at school used to pull at it until his parents pulled him out of the setting all together.
And in the foster system, he lost the length all together.
Over a foot of hair… gone.
Techno didn’t want Phil to touch his hair, didn’t want him to ruin it.
But he also wants a braid. It's the first time he’s seeing his parents in months.
He nods, because he doesn’t think he can talk right now. He accepts Phil’s offer, and holds out the brush.
Phil takes it, and then sets it on the counter to pull out his phone.
Techno watches him type in the word ‘braid.’
It’s the techno realizes Phil has no idea how to braid. At all.
Techno makes grabby hands for Phil’s phone, still unable to talk. He quickly opens the notes app.
‘You don’t know how to braid hair, do you?’ Techno types out.
Phil looks to the side.
“Are you nonverbal?”
Techno nods, and points back at his question.
“Uh, no,” he admits.
Techno sighs and types some more
‘I'll tell you how,’ Techno writes, ‘I can teach you. I just need some help with the execution.’
Phil nods. Good.
Techno begins. He scraps the braid he had been going for, knowing that Phil can’t learn to french braid in 10 minutes, rather hoping he can pick up a twist braid. It’s a struggle at the beginning with Phil trying to learn while Techno is non verbal and typing through a phone, but they get a rhythm going eventually.
Somewhat.
Maybe?
“I thought braids had three strands?” Phil asks, confused as he holds clumps of Techno's hair. He holds the strands limply, , a blank expression on his face, and Techno can’t help but snort at how lost he looks.
‘This braid doesn’t,’ is all Techno elaborates, and then continues with his explanation.
The braid is messy when it’s finished, numerous strands out of place. It’s too loose in areas, and a bit tight in others and it’s starting to unravel a bit.
Techno is about to face his parents with short hair and a sloppy twist braid.
But Phil looks so proud, Techno can’t even hate him for it.
Techno looks at himself in the mirror, tries to harden his face.
‘Okay,’ he says, ‘Let’s go.’
“Yeah?” Phil offers.
Techno nods, his hair moving with him. A loose strand falls into his hair, and he can’t help but grin at how awful it is.
Turns out, he's going to be staying with Phil for a while. His parents' trials are long, and tedious, and they aren't going away anytime soon.
Techno doesn't know how a lot of the logistics work, just that he's not allowed to be with them. They're not in prison, not yet- because his father will almost certainly go- but he still isn’t allowed to live with them.
Which makes sense, Techno guesses, but he doesn't like it.
His parents, his parents are good parents. But everyone around him is telling him they're bad people.
But Techno’s parents read to him, and when Techno started to read himself they gave him an entire library. When they fought, they talked it out, sat down and had discussions.
His dad and him baked together, his mom taught him to cook. They taught him about his autism, his ADHD, and how they were essential parts of who he was, but also parts he'd be persecuted for.
They pulled him out of public school when he was bullied and mistreated and took an entire semester's worth of classes to teach him themselves.
They always offered to get him into social events so he could make friends, but respected his boundaries when he didn't stray past the book club he had fallen in love with.
They were good parents.
And all Techno hears is the adults talking about how bad they were.
He's gotten quite sick of it.
Is after another day of court that it comes to head.
It's not even court that was frustrating, Techno wasn't even allowed to be around for a lot of it.
It had been after, when his social worker had made a comment to Phil.
"It's better he's with you now, instead of them. Let's just hope it's not too late for him," she had said. Techno remembers it word for word. It makes something furious burn inside him.
He's never felt so angry.
Techno’s never really been an angry child if anything, he's too soft.
Back in elementary school when he got bullied he got shoved around and never hit back. His parents commended him for his nonviolent approach, of using his words instead, but they had also worried that he hadn't defeneded himself.
Techno had never been an angry child, or a violent one.
That was about to change.
He stormed right over to his social worker, who probably thought he hadn't been able to hear her from a distance, and kicked her in the shin.
"Ow! Technoblade!" she immediately reprimands, loud and shrill. Techno winces at the noise. He goes to retreat but before he can, she reaches out, grabbing a hold of him.
She grabs him by his hair.
Techno sees red.
He screeches, twisting and turning until he sees her hand attached to his hair. The closest thing to it is his mouth.
Without a second though, he leans forward, sinks his teeth into her flesh and bites.
She yelps, letting go of his hair in her shock and Techno takes the moment to dart away a good thirty feet.
She grips her wrist, and she isn't bleeding- Techno doesn't even think he broke the skin. It's still going to hurt.
Phil stands between the two of them, caught in a battle he has no idea what to do with.
"What the fuck!" his social worker swears, and takes a few steps toward him.
His social workers have never been great, never been nice. But she's mostly been ignorant and ableist, disrespectful and the like.
But right now, she's scary. Techno is genuinely scared of her. He flinches back.
Phil blocks her path.
"I'll talk to him," he promises, "he'll know that isn't okay. It's been a long day, for us all, yeah?"
She still glares, and looks down at her arm.
Techno’s even more thankful he avoided breaking her skin.
She glares at him, then looks back at Phil.
"I'll be giving you a call later to discuss this," she announces, and then storms off.
Techno breathes a sigh of relief.
Phil turns to him and he almost flinches again. There’s fire like Techno’s never seen in his eyes.
"Let's go home," Phil suggests.
Techno nods, and tries not to wince at the fact that Phil's house probably won’t be his home for that much longer.
"Techno," Phil says when they get home, "you can’t bite people."
Techno hangs his head.
"But I know you know that," Phil says, "so why did you?"
"She touched my hair," Techno says.
"Okay, that still doesn't-"
"She grabbed my hair," Techno repeats, "and she thinks my parents were bad people. And she doesn't want me to go back to them. She thinks my dad deserves the death penalty, I heard her talking about it once. And she thinks I'm a bad kid. The only reason she's giving me a chance is because she thinks me being autistic makes me too dumb to be evil like my parents. So I kicked her. And then she grabbed my hair, and so I bit her."
Phil blinks.
Techno grips his hands. He's not backing down from this. Maybe he shouldn't have bit her, but she shouldn't have done anything she did.
But maybe, maybe Phil gets that. Maybe he really is different. Maybe he'll hear Techno’s side.
"That's not okay," Phil says.
Techno wilts. All the hope he had in Phil disappears.
"That's absolutely not okay. I'll be calling her right away."
"I'm not apologizing!" Techno protests immediately.
"What?" Phil asks.
Techno refuses to repeat himself.
"Techno," Phil says slowly, "I'm not asking you to apologize. We will have to talk about the kicking and biting again, but I'm calling your social worker to get this figured out. How she treated you is unacceptable, and I'll be making sure this is resolved. If needed, I'll also push to see if you can get a new social worker. This is unacceptable."
Techno blinks. Phil's mad at his social worker, not him?
Techno voices his thoughts.
"Yes," Phil agrees, "yes I am. I am a bit disappointed you acted violently, because this is an issue that could have been resolved with words and with speaking to me, but I understand you felt like you couldn't come to me. We can talk about that as well. I want you to know and feel comfortable telling me anything. Always."
Techno nods.
It’ll be hard. But Phil defended him, so Techno can at least throw him a bone, right?
He starts opening up a bit more, letting Phil in. He shares about school mostly.
School is hard. Techno never really has fit in.
He was homeschooled with his parents. But Phil’s job doesn’t let him do that. Even if it did, Phil would have to take classes to get certified. By the time he does that, Techno should be back with his parents.
Should be. Hopefully.
The trials really aren’t looking great.
His dad- well it's not a question of if anymore, just if he’ll be facing 20, 40, life or whatever. Techno, well Techno’s still trying to come to terms with the fact that he might not ever see him again.
It’s not something he’s particularly okay with.
But even if Phil was certified and had the time, the stupid foster system says it’s important for Techno to be in a ‘normal environment’ to support all the ‘uncertainty in his life during these hard times.’
It’s fucking bullshit in his mindset.
Public school has never really worked for Techno.
First off, the actual building, Most of them were built horribly with mold and rat piss that gave Techno headaches. They all had the bright floresencants that made him blink and look away. But all he could look at were the linoleum floors that reflected the light right back at him, blinding him once more. And the walls- well the walls were the worst. Noise echoed and vibrated everything off of them, keeping a steady ringing that drove into Techno’s skull, making it impossible to think. And the walls all had different colors and murals and posters. Some of the murals were cool, but most were just a mess of distracting color that built an built and become overwhelming.
Techno had never been they hyper ADHD stereotype. He was inattentive type all the way, and he always felt like stupid school walls brought out that side of him the most.
But the building wasn’t where the hate ended, just where it started.
Next were the people, and there were four different tiers. Staff, teachers, students, and parents. Parents, whenever they got involved, were always the worst. Techno had sat in offices too many times while parents defended their child’s ableism and stared at Techno like he was some type of zoo exhibit.
The next worse were the staff. The ones that didn’t know him, but knew of him, cooed at him. They coddled him, treated him like he was a toddler because they knew his diagnosis and situation, but not him.
Then were the staff that didn’t know him at all. They were unsympathetic, unmoving, and didn't care for his situation. At least Techno could usually avoid those ones. But the staff that knew him personally were almost always the worst. They were the ones who got mad at him for things he couldn’t control. The true ableism came out when they spoke to him, complaining of inconveniences when Techno demanded accommodation.
God neurotypucal people were so stupid.
Then were the students. A lot of the okay adults in Techno’s life had always been worried about school bullies. And sure, Techno had faced many, but most were decades older than him. The bullying that came from his peers was much more subtle. Not wanting to sit next to him, groaning when they were placed in a group with him. Girls who spoke to him in a high pitched voice, deskmates who complained or laughed at him when he stimmed by humming or repeating words of lectures softly beneath his breath. Much like the staff he didn’t know, Techno’s saving grace was that he could usually ignore his fellow students.
When you get the reputation as the loner, disabled kid with a fucked up family and life to boot, people tend to leave you alone. Techno prefered it that way.
The last category was of course the teachers.
They were the best, even though Techno had still yet to meet one that really got him.
Some were awful, just as bad as staff, or worse, but others, others cared for Techno, wanted to do well. They may not have understood him, but they had done their best to be kind. Techno recognizes that, acknowledges that,.
It’s not enough, it will never be enough. Techno deserves better than people trying. He deserves people succeeding.
But it was something. Is something.
But whatever, the current problem category with school was the students, and their current science class lesson.
A classmate raises her hand.
“Yes Monica,” the teacher calls.
“So basically doing these tests can tell parents if their child has any deficiencies so they can abort the pregnancy?”
The teacher hesitates. At least there's that, at least she hesitates.
“Yes and no, it’s not necessarily about whether to abort or not, but providing information and knowledge. It gives all sorts of information about a variety of disorders.”
As if on cue, the entire class turns to look at Techno.
Monica speaks up again.
“Okay but, shouldn’t those pregnancies be aborted? Y’know, if there’s something wrong with the kid.”
Techno leans into his seat. He really doesn’t want to be discussing eugenics at 9am on a Monday. Especially when he knows he’s going to be the only one who really understands what’s happening.
And because he’s the only one who knows what's going on, he gets ready to speak up.
“It’s, I mean wouldn’t it be best for the fetus?” she asks, “It’s about the best for everyone.”
Techno freezes, and his words die in his mouth.
Because fuck, if that doesn’t ring a bell.
His mom, his mom and dad.
Techno had asked them once… had asked.
Techno didn’t know exactly what they did. But he did know some people got hurt. And he had asked why, why some people had to be hurt, had to die.
“It’s what’s best for everyone, son,” his dad had said.
“You’ll understand when you're older,” his mom promised.
And now. Well now…
Techno got it.
Techno understood.
His parents were wrong.
He gets up packing his bag, ignoring as the entire class looks at him, many whispering, and as his teacher calls his name.
He walks right out, goes to the nearest bathroom, and pukes in the toilet. When he's done and cleaned himself up, he goes to the nurses office, and refuses to leave until they call Phil to pick him up.
He tells the nurse hius stomach hurts. She shoots him a look, both knowing he’s lying. But Techno knows just what to say, what buttons to press and soon enough Phil is on the line.
Techno waits in the front office, and he only has to wait thirteen minutes. Phil must have left work quickly. He appreciates the efficiency.
Techno shuffles into the car, Phil going back around to the driver’s seat as they make their way home.
“Heard you weren’t feeling well,” Phil says.
That's true. Phil did hear that. Techno had been there when the nurse had told Phil. Techno knows that, Phil knows that, so why did Phil say that? It’s not new information.
“Techno?”
“Hmm, what?”
“Sorry,” Phil says, “I phrased that poorly. You’re not feeling well. Can you tell me what's wrong? Is there anything i can do to help?”
“Phil,” Techno says.
“Yeah mate?”
“I don’t think my parents were good people.”
Part of him wants Phil to tell him that's not true, that they are good people, there’s just been a mix up. Techno wants to hear that all of this is wrong and that tomorrow his parents will be there and Techno will go home with them.
The other half of Techno wants Phil to tell the truth.
“Yeah,” Phil says, “Yeah. Techno I’m sorry. They um- I don’t know if ‘bad people’ is the right term, but they did some pretty bad things.”
Techno nods. He stares at the houses on the side of the road, watching each of the cookie cutter designs pass him by. A piece of hair falls in his face, falling loose from the braid he had poorly done himself earlier. He’s still nowhere near as good as his mom, and his hair is still fairly short, even if he can finally do a proper braid.
Half of him gets what he wants.
He other half… well…
He didn’t really expect anything better.