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Crosshair was the first one to ask to borrow Lula.
“Ask,” was perhaps a generous term; but Tech liked to be generous on subjects like this one. The way it happened was that Crosshair got into a fight at school, a tussle in the front yard just after the bell had released them all to go about their own business. In Tech’s opinion, it made no sense for school policy to be responsible for their actions after the bell, but no one asked his opinion.
Crosshair came home locked up in a knot of silence. Even Ninety-nine couldn’t coax an explanation out of him. The rest of them were equally at a loss, too far distant to hear the insult or joke that threw him into the rage in the first place. The school issued him detention, though, not a suspension, so there was a slight victory to be had.
When Tech tried to point that out, Crosshair had glared at him with such unguarded hatred that Tech had felt something deep inside him whither. He was quiet the rest of dinner, even when Echo asked if he wanted to play battleship afterwards. It was a clear fish, but while a small portion of Tech appreciated the gesture, he didn’t want to do anything but sit and read alone in the corner.
That night, he was the first to get ready and up in his bunk. From that elevated position, he watched as Crosshair came in, almost hesitated, then went over to Wrecker’s bunk and cleared his throat.
Wrecker, because he wasn’t Tech, knew just what not to say, and handed over his stuffed toy without a single comment or a bit of teasing. Tech felt his shoulders stiffen up. Although it made no sense—no scientific sense at least—Wrecker hadn’t had a bad nightmare since he was gifted the toy by Ninety-nine.
With the stuffed animal in his arms, Crosshair hesitated again, then walked over to the other bunkbed and stood there, not by the ladder. Hunter wordlessly scooted back against the wall, leaving enough room for Crosshair to lay down next to him.
Just another kind of comfort that Tech was unsuited to give.
Tech chose not to examine his feelings in any real detail. They were his feelings. While Crosshair was his brother, what good could Tech’s feelings do for the situation? He bit his tongue and focused on falling asleep, bracing for the way the bunk bed would rattle when Wrecker had another nightmare.
Wrecker didn’t have a nightmare. Crosshair was a little better the next day, but Tech only felt more foolish.
Then it was Hunter.
In all likelihood he was bolstered by Crosshair’s example.
A few weeks later—Tech had reached a better equilibrium, and while Crosshair and he hadn’t apologized or talked about it, Crosshair had gone back to sitting next to Tech at meals, sitting with him and silently holding his tool kit so he could fiddle with the broken television remote. The healed bridge was implicit, or at least Tech believed it was, and it comforted.
Hunter, unfortunately, had gone the other direction; Crosshair got better, and Hunter got worse, getting low and dreary, easily agitated. Some kid in his math class had taken a shining to throwing things into his growing-out hair from behind him in class. The crinkled-up edges of torn-out notebook paper. Torn-off little chunks of pink eraser.
Tech got in line behind Hunter at lunch. Technically, he was supposed to get his tray and go through with the other eight-graders, but besides Echo and Fives, Tech didn’t know anyone. He was the only kid in the school who had skipped a grade, so they knew of him, but no one wanted to talk to him when they didn’t have to. Even if he couldn’t sit with Hunter at the seventh-grade tables, he could chat with him a little in the line.
Walking away from the food line, Hunter had his head half-turned to say something to Tech, a grin tugging on the corner of his mouth.
Then, a wet, stained napkin, half disintegrated with how soaked it was with juice, slapped into the side of Hunter’s head, staggering him.
A bubble of shocked silence surrounded them, the tables around them packed with students. All rapt on Hunter. A line of dirty-looking water trickled down the line of his neck.
“Sorry, charity case!” a voice called out. Grinning savagely, the student was surrounded by his friends, all trying to hold back on laughter. “Thought you were the garbage can!”
Tech watched Hunter drag fingers through his hair, dislodging the worst of the mess. Face screwed up in a scowl. Hand white-knuckled on the tray of food. And Tech knew where this was going. He opened his mouth to say Hunter’s name—
And Hunter turned and upended his tray of food right into the student’s face.
It all went to pieces after that.
In the end, the student got detention, and Hunter went home early. Tech spent the rest of the day being watched keenly by the other students, whispers behind hands pointing out that, yeah, he was the new kid’s brother, no, not older, just his brother. The day dragged on so, so slowly.
They got home right after school. Ninety-nine was gone, working a long shift. Tech dumped his backpack in the parlor with everyone else, and they all separated to find Hunter—Crosshair went for the living room, Wrecker the backyard, and Tech went upstairs.
Hunter was in their shared bedroom, sitting up on his bunk, reading. His hair was still kind of damp from getting washed, held back from his face with a headband. Wrecker and Crosshair and Tech had already had to have their first haircuts since leaving Mother’s house, their strict buzz-cuts allowed to grow out enough to need trimming. Who knew that their hair could get so curly, when it was long? Hunter’s covered his ears, now, dark and curly and a little unruly. He looked so different from the Hunter Tech had known for all of his life—different, but so much more like himself.
Lula was on Hunter’s lap, the book on his knees, as if he was teaching the stuffie how to read. He blushed darkly when he noticed Tech noting that, shifting the stuffed animal off of his lap and tucking it against his hip instead.
Because he didn’t want to make things worse, Tech didn’t say anything. He just booted up onto the bunk beside Hunter and looked over his shoulder, reading silently. Slowly, Hunter relaxed, pulling Lula back onto his lap and squeezing. What good that did him, Tech didn’t know, but he was gladdened by it all the same.
A few weeks later, Tech was invited to join the honors science lab. It met for an extra hour after school on Fridays, so he was there past the time when the rest of the school body had left. At least Echo was in the lab as well—Fives hung around the library until it was time for them to go home. Lab broke, Echo went to the library to fetch Fives, and Tech went up to his locker on the upper story. Hallways empty and echoing his footsteps.
He knelt down on linoleum to access his locker, the one at the bottom of the stack. One-two-three spins of the dial to prime the lock, then the first number, one rotation, second number and three—the lock popped, and Tech swung open the locker, feeling a weird little thrill of pleasure like he always did when opening up the combination lock.
“W-ell,” a voice drawled down the hallway. Tech’s head snapped up. Some of the bigger boys from the eighth grade were strolling towards him. He forced his head forward. They weren’t part of the science lab; if they were still on campus, they were just getting out of detention. “Look who it is—the shrimpy new kid.”
“What’s his name?”
Tech focused on his locker. What did he need? He suddenly couldn’t remember. He swung his backpack off and settled it between him and the locker. It was stuffed full of books, textbooks and guides, and notebooks and papers. The faster he got his things the faster he could leave.
“I dunno,” the first voice replied. They stopped, three of them, right next to Tech as he crouched down. “Hey.” A shoe tip tapped, hard, against his thigh, jolting him. “What’s your name?”
He ignored them, tugging his backpack zipper open. Or, at least, trying to. His fingers were suddenly blunt and awkward. If he ignored them they would leave him alone; that’s what the student handbook said, anyway.
“Aw, I think he’s scared of us.”
He was not scared. They were so close he could smell them, and feel their eyes on him, and—and he didn’t know what to do. Ignoring them wasn’t working, but he knew that if he engaged, it would only get worse—
“His name’s Tick or something. Is that your name?” a voice crooned, “Tick?”
They all laughed.
“It’s Tech,” he muttered.
“What’s that? Tick? Speak up!”
“My name is Tech,” he spoke up. “Now leave me alone.”
“Come on,” the leader asked, nudging him, again, hard in the side with his shoe; Tech had to drop one hand to the floor to steady himself as he almost tipped over. “What’s the matter? We’re trying to get to know you.”
More laughter. Like they’d already talked about him before. Tech didn’t know where to look. Every inch of him was electric, in a bad way, he’d never felt like this before, too focused on, too exposed, too trapped, all at once.
“I heard that freaky hunchback janitor found him in a trash can,” one voice jeered.
Hearing them call Ninety-nine that made Tech’s blood boil. He turned his head, red-faced, to retort, but his breath left him in a surprised whoosh as the leader jabbed him, hard , right below the ribcage. Unbalanced, Tech fell over onto his side, scrabbling to get his feet under him.
“Is that why you’re so fucked up?” one asked. The third suddenly reached forward to try and grab his glasses. Heart pounding, Tech barely managed to dodge, then had to lunge forward as one of them tried to grab his backpack. “Mommy threw you out with the garbage?”
Images of Mother flashed behind Tech’s eyes. Her disdainful glare. He felt like he was going to be sick. He clung to his backpack, staring somewhere around his aggressors' knees, trying not to start shaking. “Please—”
“ Hey !” a voice barked.
Like ripping a bandaid off, suddenly the leaning, intimidating presence was gone, leaving Tech light-headed and staring at nothing, at his locker, hands locked into fists on his backpack. Heart pounding. Detached from his body, yet still too much in it.
“ Look at my brother again and I’ll kick your asses!” Fives shouted after their retreating backs, running a little on their heels before coming to a stop.
“Hey,” Echo said, voice closer, crouched down at Tech’s level, “are you okay?”
Tech, throat tight, managed a nod. He kept nodding, pulling himself up short as he threatened to fall into the comfort of the repetitive motion. His hands fumbled at his backpack.
In his blurry periphery, Echo moved closer, settling into a crouch.
“Sons of bitches,” Fives muttered, pacing down the hallway.
“What do you need?” Echo asked quietly. When Tech couldn’t answer, he shifted. “Do you need to put something away?”
Tech shook his head, more a jolting sideways jerk, really, but Echo understood.
“Do you need to get something out?” he asked then, and Tech nodded. Why couldn’t he talk? He unknotted his hands in the top handle of his backpack, unable to grasp the zipper to yank it open.
If Echo noticed his embarrassing lack of fine motor control, he didn’t say anything. Fives definitely didn’t notice; he walked to the end of the hallway and peeked around the corner. Scoping out their position. Vulnerable. If the boys came back—
“Tech,” Echo said in an insistent voice. He must have been trying to get his attention. “Tech, do you need your science textbook, or history?”
“I, um. I need, um. Um, I need.” Tech felt like he was going to be sick. He didn’t understand why this was happening; he was still there, in his brain, still able to look and see how ridiculous he was being, but the ability to connect that high cognizance to his body was severed. Panic, shame, embarrassment, confusion, all took its place, and Tech wished that Hunter was there.
Hunter was not there; but Echo was.
“Do you need your science book?” Echo repeated.
Tech shook his head.
“History?”
Tech shook his head.
“English?”
Tech managed a tight little nod, and Echo plucked that book from the pile in his locker. “The notebook, too?” Tech nodded again. Echo took the matching notebook, and gently knocked Tech’s hands aside to unzip his backpack and put them inside.
“I’m, um,” Tech tried again, “Um—um.”
He bit his tongue. Like nodding, part of his body kept threatening to fall over into just repeating that word, over and over and over again, but he knew that that wouldn’t help, why couldn’t he just stop , Echo and Fives must think he was some kind of freak—
“Okay?” Fives asked, having rejoined them.
“Is that all you need, Tech?”
He nodded. Echo shut his locker and spun the lock.
For a second, it felt like Fives was leaning down to take his arm and help him stand; that was enough to make Tech burst into agitated motion, shakily adjusting his glasses, clutching his backpack and standing, fumbling to line the zipper heads up right because Echo had done them up kind of crooked.
The twins stood there and waited for him to get his backpack on.
Part of Tech knew that Fives had done something nice for him, in scaring the boys off. And Echo, too, for helping, though it felt like Tech’s skin was getting sandpapered off under his kind gaze. Nice stuff was supposed to get acknowledged.
“Thanks,” he managed to mumble to his locker.
A contemplative moment of silence.
“Don’t mention it,” Fives said, and Tech squeezed his eyes shut, nodding.
They walked together in silence, down the stairs and out a side-door. Tech followed the twins, but stopped when they didn’t go towards the bus stop, instead starting to go towards the back parking lot. They had to catch the late bus. If they missed the late bus, then they had to walk, because Ninety-nine didn’t have a car.
It took them a few paces to realize that Tech had stopped.
“Come on,” Fives said, “it’s okay.” He pointed. “We can use the payphone and call for a ride.”
Tech didn’t want to use the payphone. It was dirty and there were nasty jokes and pictures drawn on the inside, and he didn’t have any money and Ninety-nine didn’t have a car—and he knew, he knew that Fives and Echo weren’t going to do anything to him like the other boys, but this felt like the start of a cruel trick, anyway.
He was breathing heavily, making little noises. He forced himself to swallow.
Echo’s face softened and he took half a step closer. “It’s okay,” he soothed, “if you’re okay with waiting a little bit, Wolffe will probably give us a ride,” Echo explained.
Wolffe, Cody’s older brother—Tech’s cousin, technically, though any familial connection beyond Ninety-nine and Echo and Fives felt strange and raw, too-much but not-enough. Tech had never spent much time with Wolffe, who was preparing to graduate high school and go into the air force, big and serious and withdrawn—the thought of being trapped in a strange car with him, when they were supposed to take the late bus, which would leave without them if they stalled—
“Tech?” Echo’s voice sounded muffled.
“We’re supposed to take the late bus,” Tech choked out, voice climbing in pitch as the words poured out too fast to control, “that’s—that’s what we’re supposed to do, we said we were going to take the late bus home and we’re not supposed to go with Wolffe and I don’t want to go with Wolffe and I just want to take the late bus like we said we would and you never said anything about Wolffe and I just wanna go home.”
Flushed, blind with embarrassment and unshed tears, Tech managed to close his jaw and clench down, hard, teeth sliding over each other, grinding and clicking. The silence after his outburst was deafening.
The twins were quiet. Tech had lived with them long enough at this point to know without looking up that they were doing that thing they did where all they had to do was share a look and come to an agreement. On a good day, it was almost kind of fun to watch the micro-expressions, trying to figure out what conclusion the twins were coming to before they announced their consensus. On a bad day, it felt like being stuck behind glass, again, being left out of the joke, again, watching and waiting for Nala Se to stop writing on the clipboard and announce what was going to be done to him next.
This was, unsurprisingly, not a good day.
“Okay,” Echo said, tone gentle. “We’ll take the bus. Come on.”
Together in silence they trudged towards the bus stop. Tech stared at his toes and clutched hard at his backpack straps. The twins didn’t say anything, the crowd of waiting students steadily growing around them.
Typically, Tech tried to sit at the back, so no one would have to walk by him, but there were already people on the bus by the time they mounted the tall steps, and a flash of pale face told Tech that the boys from the hallway were there in the middle rows.
Before he knew what he was doing, Tech was sitting in the first row, head down, backpack on his lap. Why did he do that? Now everyone climbing onto the bus would stare at him, and he could feel the eyes on the back of his neck, and—and—and—
“Hey,” Echo murmured, sitting next to him on the bench seat, “you’re uh, you’re grinding your teeth.” Echo was holding his own backpack in his lap, too, imitating Tech’s childish death-grip, which didn’t make Tech feel any less pathetic, but the gesture was kind of nice. He focused on unclenching his jaw.
Everyone loaded onto the bus and they started moving. Tech thought at one point that he heard someone snickering behind them, but then Fives’s voice cut through it, low and rough and terrible, sitting in the row behind him and Echo: “Shut the fuck up before I knock your teeth out.”
There was no more snickering after that.
Eventually, they got to their stop, and Tech got off the bus so quickly he forgot to thank the bus driver—he felt bad about it, cringing inwardly, as he lost his chance, the door closing, the bus trundling off down the road with a hiss of pneumatics.
Then it was just Tech, Echo, and Fives.
They walked in single-file, Echo ahead of Tech and Fives in the rear, picking their way across the rocky roadside—Ninety-nine’s neighborhood had a lot of dirt cross-roads, still, houses far away and set apart between big open banks of land with oak trees, dry creek-beds, granite boulders. Step by step, Tech started to feel the peace and quiet of the landscape invade his system; he loosened his hold on his backpack straps.
Ninety-nine’s house came into view. Tech felt himself relax another few degrees.
They trooped up the porch. Echo paused for a second with his hand on the doorknob. Distantly, Tech could hear Wrecker and Hunter laughing, coming through the air from the backyard. They’d already been home for an hour, had probably finished their homework.
Fives headed off around the house. To do what, Tech didn’t have the bandwidth to speculate. Echo held the door open for Tech, helped him tug his backpack off, then was gone. For a second, Tech stood there in the parlor, unmoored and listless.
“Tech!” Ninety-nine called out cheerfully from the kitchen. “Are you there?”
Tech’s feet carried him through the living room and into the kitchen. Ninety-nine, smiling, turned from the sink, then froze, face collapsing into concern. What he must see on Tech’s face, he had no idea, no hypothesis.
“Son, what’s—?”
Tech closed the space between them and leaned into Ninety-nine’s warmth. His arms were stiff at his sides, back hunched almost painfully forward, but Ninety-nine was warm and he always smelled nice, like the handsoap in the bathrooms, and he seemed to like hugging Wrecker, and Crosshair liked him even if he wouldn’t admit it, and he there was no doubt in Tech’s mind that Ninety-nine wouldn’t shoulder him aside like Mother might—
Ninety-nine, moving cautiously, brought his arms up to loop around Tech’s back. Not pulling him closer, just resting, the heat of it a brand that made Tech’s skin crawl, despite it all. What was wrong with him, that this kind old man that had given them all so much could make him feel this way? He remembered the bully calling Ninety-nine that freaky hunchback and his own body’s tension felt like being an accomplice.
Feeling Tech’s muscles bunch up, Ninety-nine dropped his arms and shifted one hand, laying his dry palm on the back of Tech’s neck, where the hairs were buzzed short, and—and that wasn’t so bad. Ninety-nine’s hand covered his nape entirely in warmth, kind of heavy, that was nice, actually, felt really nice, like it was melting down Tech’s spine, like he was blanketed and being held down in his body instead of floating away into nothingness. He relaxed against Ninety-nine’s chest.
Some kind of awful whimpering sound came out of Tech’s throat.
“Shh,” Ninety-nine shushed, chest rumbling, “shh, there, you’re okay.”
Tech stood there, mute and dumb and choked up.
After a few minutes, Ninety-nine shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Here,” he murmured, “my leg… come here…” He pulled back from Tech, dropping his hand, but only so he could limp over to the kitchen table and a chair, easing his weight down and gesturing Tech back against him. Tech went easily, stepping up close and ducking down.
Reaching up a little, Ninety-nine gently wrapped one arm around Tech’s shoulders, and that wasn’t the same and it—
Tech didn’t think before grabbing Ninety-nine’s wrist and dragging his arm back, forcibly and fumblingly putting the old man’s hand back on the nape of his neck, warm and protective and good.
Feeling foolish, Tech released his grip, face burning, but Ninety-nine kept his hand there, resettled it at a more comfortable angle, squeezing a little. A tiny nudge had Tech stepping even closer, face tucked against Ninety-nine’s shoulder. His heartbeat in his ears. Steady. Warm. Tech exhaled.
“Bad day at school?” Ninety-nine questioned quietly.
Tech nodded against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” the old man said then, and even though it wasn’t his fault and he had nothing to do with it, it sounded like he meant it, which made Tech’s head spin. “The bad day’s over, now,” Ninety-nine continued, all warm reassurance, and Tech relaxed further, recognizing the truth of his words. “You’re home.” He was home. “You’re safe.” He was safe.
Tech started to tremble. Adrenaline drop, part of his rational brain supplied, adrenaline and cortisol levels returning to baseline. He exhaled a long, shaky breath, and if he wasn’t imagining it, Ninety-nine’s hand pulled, just a little bit, pressing heavily down on the nape of his neck, holding him close.
He stood there with Ninety-nine in silence for what felt like a very long time.
Eventually, he pulled back, and Ninety-nine let him go, readily dropping his hand—but not meanly, not like he had been waiting for Tech to get it together. The old man’s eyes were gentle, tracing his face as Tech sniffed and rubbed at his nose with one hand.
“I wanna go to bed,” Tech muttered, and the fact that he could get the whole sentence out in one go was a relief. He felt exhausted, like he’d just run the four-mile final in phys-ed.
Ninety-nine’s face creased in sympathy. “Okay,” he said, “that’s okay. Here, you should eat something first. I’ll make you something…”
He sat there at the kitchen table while Ninety-nine made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then ate it quietly before going up and changing into his pajamas and getting up into his top bunk. He liked the top bunk; nice and separate from the rest of the room, it elevated him above the mess and the noise and the worst of the smells…
For a long time, he laid there, staring at the opposite wall, feeling drained and tired, but unwilling to go to sleep. He listened to the distant noises of dinner getting made and eaten, and eventually Crosshair, Hunter, and Wrecker all crept into the room to go to bed themselves.
It was clear that Tech wasn’t asleep, but they gave him space and moved quietly. Even Wrecker. Though that didn’t last for long; once in his pajamas, Wrecker half-climbed the ladder to the top bunk so his head popped up into view.
“Hey,” Wrecker said.
“Hi,” Tech replied listlessly.
“You okay?” Wrecker asked.
No. But he would be. Tech shrugged a little.
Wrecker nodded. He understood when Tech got like this. While it was embarrassing for Echo and Fives and Ninety-nine to experience it for the first time, a shutdown like this was nothing new for Wrecker, Hunter, and Crosshair. At least this time they were all in the same room, not locked and kept apart. The very presence of them, close, the sound of Crosshair settling onto his bunk, was a comfort.
“Do you… wanna talk about it?” Wrecker questioned then.
Tech only shook his head. What was there to say? He was messed up in the head, and if it could be cured, it would’ve been cured while in their mother’s house. By her pills or her diets or her sleeping regimens. No, all signs pointed to this being a normal occurrence for the rest of Tech’s life. The thought made him curl up a little tighter.
Wrecker nodded, mumbled an affirmative, then lowered down out of view. Tech went back to staring listlessly at the opposite wall.
With a soft fwump , Wrecker’s stuffed animal popped up and landed on the edge of Tech’s bunk. For a moment he blinked at it, confused. “What are you doing?” he asked. There was some shifting on the lower bunk, but no response. “Wrecker.”
“Hm?” Wrecker’s head popped back into view, looking every inch like he was trying to hold back a grin.
“What are you doing?” Tech repeated. He propped himself up on one elbow and gestured towards the plush animal.
“Wha—I didn’t do anything,” Wrecker declared. He nodded. “Lula came up here all on her own, since you needed her.”
Tech rolled his eyes, but his hands moved of their own accord and pulled the toy closer. It really was soft, knappy and almost velvet-like.
“I do not need a stuffed animal,” he said to the thing’s face. It stared back, unaffected. He cleared his throat. “And it is an inanimate object. It has no agency.”
“Well, she in-ani-mately wanted to keep ya company.”
It was difficult to swallow. Tech hugged the plush animal to his chest, and the resistant spring of the stuffing against his arms—that was very nice. Comforting, somehow, like it felt to stand close to Ninety-nine. He loosened his arms and squeezed Lula again, testing, and yes, somehow, a bit of tension left his system as the stuffie squished against his chest.
Wrecker, watching, said nothing. Tech ducked his head a little and rubbed his cheek against the material of Lula’s ears. It felt nice, fuzzy and soft but not too sleek and synthetic. Having seen Wrecker do it before, Tech tried rubbing his nose against the top of Lula’s little head, right between the ears, and that felt really nice, too.
The creaking of bedsprings told Tech that Wrecker was back down on the bottom bunk. The lights were all out; everyone was going to sleep. Tech took his glasses off, folding them up and tucking them into the little pocket that Ninety-nine had pinned to the side of the bunk. Eyes closed, he burrowed his face into Lula’s felty, padded softness, and felt comforted in a way he couldn’t explain.
After a little bit, cuddling with the stuffie, Tech felt so much better that he found himself softly padding down the ladder and landing on the floor. Wrecker was still awake; he rolled over in bed. Tech stood there, hesitant in a way he usually wasn’t.
Wrecker understood, though. He scooted over towards the wall, holding up the blanket, and Tech wriggled into place. Wrecker was getting bigger and bigger, eating a lot and growing a lot so it was a tight fit. But it was okay. Tech wasn’t bothered by the closeness, not when he still had Lula in his arms, squeezing her tight.
“Here,” Wrecker muttered, and Tech lifted his head so Wrecker could unbunch his pillow and share. The corner of the pillowcase was cool under Tech’s cheek. “Okay?” Wrecker checked in a whisper, their knees knocking under the blanket.
“I’m okay,” Tech whispered back.
Wrecker grinned, his relief evident, all honesty.
With Lula in his arms, Tech found the strength to smile back.