Chapter Text
"Tech," Hunter complains as Tech swipes another thin line of makeup onto Hunter's exposed left forearm. "Do we have to do this right now?" He's twisted halfway around backward on the bench the three of them are sat on, back thoroughly to Phee, watching the beach below. She, Tech, and Hunter are nearly a half a klick away from it, but the cliff they're sitting atop carries the sound of Omega, Wrecker, and Lyana's laughter up to them as they play. Hunter's out of his armor and even through the half-dozen layers he wears as a substitute, she can see the way he tenses every time one of them cries out.
"Well, since someone decided not to mention this until the night before the job, yes, we do," she says.
"Are you Tech?" he grumbles under his breath. Then, louder, "You're the one who didn't say anything about makeup until two hours ago."
"What, did you think you were going undercover with your magnificent ink on display? That'd be real subtle."
"It's worked out fine for us so far."
"Really? Remind me again: how many times have you boys been made in the last year?"
"Ahem," Tech interrupts as Hunter finally disengages from the scene on the beach and turns around. "This one is also not viable."
She and Hunter follow his gaze down to Hunter's arm and the newest line of makeup. An angry red rash surrounds it already, threatening to break out in hives like the half-dozen lines that came before. They're halfway through their collection of concealers (every brand they could find at the last minute and in Hunter's shade) and have yet to find anything he doesn't react to. As Tech had said the moment the words Hunter and makeup left Phee's mouth in close proximity, this may be a problem.
Hunter growls in frustration. The moment Tech finishes wiping the makeup away with a sterilizing pad, Hunter storms off, heading for the path to the beach. They watch him go in silence. When she sees him approaching the kids and Wrecker, she turns to face Tech.
He's beautiful. She's noticed before, of course. Noticed the second she saw him. But right now, lit up in the orange and pink of the sunset, he's treasure. He's frowning, though, and she knows he's thinking about the same thing she is. "He can't hear us from down there, can he?"
Tech's frown deepens. His focus stays on his siblings as he says, "Not at this volume and distance, no. Why?"
Phee braces herself. "He's getting worse."
"It's normal for allergic reactions to compound upon each other. I will give him another few minutes to recover from our last round of testing before—"
"Tech. You know that's not what I mean."
This gets his full attention. It's intense, and not just because the sunset reflects so vividly across the lenses of his goggles. "Then what, exactly, do you mean?"
"Come on, Brown Eyes, he's wound tighter than a rabid womp rat and you know it! Has been since I've known him, sure, but he's been getting worse since Echo left. Does he still have you sleeping in shifts?"
Tech adjusts his goggles. "As Pabu is not an active military zone and does not qualify as a hostile environment, it would be unnecessary—"
"Exactly my point."
The little plastoid makeup cases click sharply against each other as Tech stacks them and places them in his pack. "You are suggesting that Hunter is mentally unstable."
"I'm saying he's got PTSD. This is a refugee island, Tech. I've seen it before. The hypervigilance, the overprotectiveness, the paranoia? It's classic." Classic but extreme. Potentially dangerous, seeing as the only two people on the island capable of bringing Hunter back under control should he lose it are bent on ignoring the problem entirely.
"Behavior can only be deemed dysfunctional with reference to the context in which it occurs. As you do not fully understand our context, I do not believe you are in a position to pass judgment upon Hunter's behavior. Even aside from this, your point is moot as clone troopers are bred and conditioned to prevent the development of post-traumatic stress disorder."
"Have any of you actually lived long enough to test that theory?"
Tech’s expression darkens. “You are correct,” he says, shouldering the pack and getting to his feet. “Clone troopers are not long-lived. In fact, the average life expectancy of experimental clones such as ourselves is 1 year, 4 months, and fifteen days. This is a reality you do not and cannot understand, nor can you understand the roles Hunter's hypervigilance and overprotectiveness played and continue to play in our survival. I would appreciate it if you ceased acting as though you do."
"The war is over, Tech, and—"
"It is not!" Tech's shout, something she's never heard on Pabu, never heard outside the heat of action, echoes off the wall behind him and crashes over Phee with all the sudden ferocity of the sea surge. He stills, mouth open and hands clenched at his sides, staring at her. Then he turns and disappears down the same path Hunter had taken minutes before.
She wants to follow him. Almost does, but can't think of what she'd say were she to catch up. Instead, she sits and lets his shout ring in her ears and thinks about treasure hunting.
Shortly after his arrival on Pabu, Phee had taken Tech to see the Archium. She gave him an insider's tour, not just the parts open to the public as a museum and cultural center but also the workshops where restoration and repair take place. And the storerooms. It had been inside one of those storerooms, a dim, climate-controlled hall of shelves, that he'd interrupted one of her grand tales of acquisition to ask, "Why do you do this?"
"What do you mean?" she'd asked in return.
He'd gestured at the rows of crates, drumming his fingers against his armored thigh. "Some of the missions you partake in contribute either directly or indirectly to the material benefit of Pabu. However, many of them do not, and serve no purpose other than the removal of artifacts from various parties such that they might be kept here."
"I told you, a lot of this stuff has cultural significance to the people who live here. Bringing it here means it's safe, out of the hands of the Empire and with people who appreciate it and understand its value." He'd pulled that adorable frown and opened his mouth again, but she'd beaten him to it. "Not monetary value, and not strategic value, either."
"I understand the concept of cultural value," he'd said with a wave of his hand. "It accrues around objects and practices according to their enmeshment in the lives of the peoples to which they belong and has little relevance outside of that context."
"Yeah, exactly. Here, these artifacts are in that context."
"Sitting unused in a basement inaccessible to the public."
He'd changed the topic quickly after that and hadn't returned to it. She hadn't, either, because she'd thought she understood. He was intellectualizing because he didn't really get it, because he'd yet to experience anything beyond the life of a soldier. His naivety excited her: she had so much to show him.
Tech's only been gone a minute or two when Omega, Wrecker, and Lyana come running up the hill and burst onto the level ground of the alcove laughing and yelling about ice cream. When they catch their breath, Omega insists Phee join their ice cream brigade, and Phee decides to do a little strategizing. "Sure," she says, "but Lyana, your dad messaged me a few minutes ago and told me to send you home to get ready for bed." It's a lie and Wrecker knows it's a lie and Phee thinks Omega might, too, but it's one Lyana goes along with willingly enough, so they drop her at the Hazard residence on the way to the best surviving dessert parlor on Pabu. Then, it's just the three of them. Omega and Wrecker regale her with the details of their evening's adventures, Phee tells them about how she convinced Tech to give her a fashion show while they chose his suit, and the only argument is over whether jogan fruit or chocolate is the superior ice cream flavor. When that's sorted and their ice cream is ordered, she and Omega stay at the counter to wait for it. Wrecker, spurred by her pointed look and comment about the difficulty of getting a good table, finds someplace for them to sit.
Omega watches him go. She's twisting her hands together and now that she's not busy laughing, Phee can see the anxiety plain on her face.
"How much of that conversation did you hear?" Phee asks as casually as she can manage.
Omega shrugs. "Enough." She wrings her hands some more and looks away from Wrecker, fixing Phee with that wide-eyed earnest look Hunter always folds to. "Enough that I think maybe Tech's not mad at you. Not really, anyway. He's just… scared."
Phee huffs a laugh. "You know, Cid may not be the sharpest knife in the sheath, but she was right about one thing. You really are the brains of the operation." Omega smiles and leans into the hand Phee places on her shoulder. At the counter, a window slides open and a teenager Phee knows hails from a planet the war rendered incompatible with humanoid life hands them their ice creams with a smile. Phee gives Omega hers and takes the other two, then herds Omega toward the napkin dispenser. "No, grab some more," she says after Omega's taken a handful. "For Wrecker."
Omega giggles. "That's probably a good idea." She shoves more napkins in her pockets and they weave their way through the modest crowd towards the small table Wrecker's chosen near the edge of the property. "Phee?" she asks. Phee glances down. Omega's frowning, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth. Then, Wrecker waves and booms out a greeting as though they might have somehow missed him and she says, "Um, never mind," before running off to convince Wrecker to taste her ice cream. He feigns horror and death by fruit flavoring; she shrieks with laughter. Phee sends a message to Tech asking if he's had any luck with Hunter's makeup. The last of the sunset fades to stars.
She never gets an answer.