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Tech’s expansive database of accumulated knowledge combined with an unexpected development usually ends up with him doing one of two things: falling back on said database in an attempt to handle the development in an educated manner, or playing it by ear and subsequently adding the results to said database for future, all-too-similar developments. Never let it be said that Tech approaches anything even the slightest bit unprepared.
Unfortunately, his usual fishing for data now seems to be coming up short. This, he notes, seems to be a regular occurrence when it comes to Phee Genoa.
He tries to distract himself, at first, from the confusion. Because if he’s honest with himself, he’s not used to being confused, perplexed, or even a little bit thrown off balance, intellectually speaking. And, if he’s even more honest, the nickname Brown Eyes has him feeling all three of those things and then some.
He identifies the feeling as attraction the first time Phee puts a hand on his shoulder. Which, incidentally, she does quite often—so Tech has a lot of data samples. She keeps doing it in a startlingly casual fashion, and each time, Tech’s cheeks heat up and his stomach actually flutters. But as soon as his reaction to Phee resting her palm on his shoulder becomes predictable—as soon as he learns to expect it—it no longer brings a light, airy feeling to his chest.
And so Tech catalogs a new, incredibly frustrating fact about attraction: it is the absolute opposite of predictable. It always pops up in her presence, yet at the strangest times, like when Phee takes a sip of sparkling jawa juice and licks her lips afterwards, or when she smoothly adjusts her headband.
Another piece of information that has summarily cataloged itself in Tech’s mind is this: meals on the island are customarily eaten together. (Together, Tech observes, often means around a table, with all the occupants of the home of said table.) Tech and his siblings have taken to eating at Shep and Lyana’s table, and Phee has taken to joining them. That, too, is confusing.
It’s confusing enough that by the second week of feeling this, Tech’s usual way of sitting through sentient interaction with no fuss eludes him. The noise of Wrecker slamming a cup onto the table and bellowing for more juice is what sets him off this time.
“Hey!” Omega complains, pouting accusingly at Wrecker. “You splashed it onto my plate. I knew your cup wasn’t really empty.”
Wrecker’s disgruntled reply is drowned out by Shep’s laughter, which normally would be far from bothersome, but Tech is tired and improvising conversation with ease is starting to seem impossible. He catalogs this (on his datapad, not in his head) and politely excuses himself.
Hunter gives him a look, but lets him go. This is normal: Hunter knows every tell, every story, every tendency of each of his brothers.
Tech finds a mossy spot on a wall that’s thick enough to sit on; it’s waist high and fences off a sort of backyard. The wind blows softly as his goggles inform him of the weather. Tech closes his eyes and listens to the pull of the waves below.
“You know, you’re kind of a loner, Brown Eyes.”
Tech opens the aforementioned eyes and does his best not to smile. He wonders vaguely what it is about Phee that makes him desire to do so.
“I am simply… recharging,” he says lamely. “As one does.”
The grass rustles with Phee’s footsteps. Tech watches out of the corner of his eye as she climbs up onto the wall—far more gracefully than he probably did—and plops down beside him. His goggles inform him cheerily of her presence: Near-Human, late standard twenties, female.
He switches them off. Phee’s stats are the least interesting thing about her. Tech knows this like it’s a fact, even though his brain catalogs that as an opinion. (An opinion of his, he almost lets himself think. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t think about it.)
“Do you actually need those to see?” Phee asks, pointing at his goggles.
Tech blinks at her. “Yes. Due to the experimental nature of my genetic enhancements, there were bound to be some shortcomings, just like the rest of my batch. I happen to be nearsighted.”
“And the others?” Phee prompts.
It occurs to Tech that his information dump was not met with a snarky response on Phee’s part. He catalogs this and plows on. “Hunter’s enhanced senses make him prone to migraines,” he informs her. “Wrecker tends to be clumsy, although that could just be due to his size. I am unsure if it is a genetic quality in Wrecker’s case, given that he does not have parents. Omega has no enhancements and is, to my knowledge, genetically flawless. And…”
He trails off as he thinks of Crosshair. This, too, strikes him as alarming. Phee is watching him expectantly. Her eyes, Tech realizes abruptly, are not quite brown but a dark hazel, spotted here and there with yellow and green.
“Is there a reason you followed me here?” he asks, then winces internally at the look on Phee’s face. He can’t quite identify it, but something tells him it’s not good.
It’s gone in a second. Tech clears his throat.
Phee grins, then, and holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Is it a crime to want to talk to you, Brown Eyes?”
“It is not,” Tech says. “However, I must point out that we are presently talking. Therefore, your goal has been achieved.”
At this, Phee snorts and rolls her not-quite-brown eyes. “Thanks, Quick Draw.”
“I have a name,” Tech points out.
“I know,” Phee chirps. “Sometimes nicknames are more fun.” She surveys him. “Where’s it from, anyway? Your name.”
How should he answer this? In actuality, it’s rather an embarrassing story, and he’s not sure how Phee will react to it. Granted, he’s never sure how she’ll react to anything , but—somehow Tech finds himself worrying what she might say. Worrying that maybe she’ll scorn him.
Even though he knows, logically, that she wouldn’t.
“It was given to me,” Tech settles on saying.
“Clones don’t have parents,” Phee says, like he doesn’t already know that. Tech almost laughs.
“This is true. However, it has become customary for clone troopers to name themselves or their fellow soldiers after a defining characteristic or experience.” She’s going to ask, he thinks.
“So,” Phee says, and Tech braces himself— “Where’s it from?”
“I would think,” he bristles, “it would be obvious.”
There’s a particularly strong gust of wind. It rustles Phee’s large curls; she tucks one back behind her headband. Tech’s stomach drops, but it’s not an unpleasant sensation.
“Well, yeah,” she says, turning to look at the moon with a smile, “but I kinda hoped you’d be more creative than that.”
“As I said, it was not me,” Tech says. “Crosshair pointed out that I began my sentences with ‘technically’ quite often. He decided Tech would be fitting, and it stuck.”
He realizes his mistake not even a second later, but it’s too late. Phee is squinting at him. “And here I was, thinking it was short for technology.”
A pause. Tech wonders if he should be relieved. “It is not.”
Then Phee asks, “Who’s Crosshair?”
Never mind.
As is usual with silence, Tech itches to fill it with—anything, really. Information, facts, something. Anything but the obvious answer to Phee’s question. He searches his memory for previous events similar to this one, in hopes of finding a guide for what to say, but he comes up empty.
“Sorry,” Phee says finally, voice nearly drowned out by the sounds of crickets chirping. “I didn’t realize I hit a nerve.”
“It was not you,” Tech says immediately, trying not to sound too rushed. “I brought him up, after all.”
“Is he the other brother?”
Tech looks up. Phee’s eyes are earnest, and maybe a little understanding. She smiles. “You don’t need to explain. I’ve lost people, too. But… sometimes talking about it helps, Brown Eyes.”
“What about my eyes denotes a memorable nickname?” Tech asks suddenly. Phee raises an eyebrow.
“O-kay,” she says slowly. “Subject change, I can handle that.” She crosses her arms and smirks at him, and—goodness, why does that make his heart rate feel more faint than usual? Perhaps he should consult AZI. “You with me there?”
“Yes. Yes, my apologies.”
“Hm.” Phee tucks one leg swiftly under herself. “Well—I dunno, I guess out of all of you, your eyes were the most striking.”
“Our eyes are the same,” Tech points out. “We are brothers.”
“You can be identical twins, for all I care,” Phee snarks. “And, yeah, you’re clones—defective ones, but still clones. Phenotypic eye color, yadda yadda.” She shakes her head, and her curls bounce, and it's really quite lovely, Tech thinks as she meets his eyes. “But it’s what’s inside—” she presses a finger to his chest, “—that shows up here.” She pokes the bridge of his goggles.
“I–I suppose,” Tech stammers. His face feels warm. Too warm. He wonders if he’s feverish. “A common expression in many cultures is—”
“You get my point,” Phee says.
“Yes,” Tech replies.
“So who’s Crosshair, then?”
Tech blinks. “You seem unwilling to let this go.”
Phee shrugs. “Only because you won’t say anything.”
“Fair enough.”
They sit in comfortable silence. Tech can’t remember the last time he’s been content not saying anything. It is, he realizes, a stark contrast to mere minutes before.
The stars wink down at them. The wind rustles through Tech’s longer-than-regulation curls.
He feels something on his hand, and looks down to see Phee’s fingers resting on top of his own. Glancing up, he meets her eyes again.
Were Tech partial to metaphors, he would liken the quickening speed of his heart rate to that of a Kaminoan monsoon. But he’s not, so he just stares back down at Phee’s hand on his and thinks, this is new.
“Crosshair,” he says finally, “is working with the Empire.”
Phee snorts. “Way to ruin the moment, Brown Eyes.”
“This was a—a moment?” Tech splutters. “I—you asked—”
“Holy mother of meteors, I was kidding!” Phee exclaims, hands flying up to grab his shoulders. “It’s okay, Tech, I’m only pulling your leg.”
“That’s a first,” Tech remarks.
“Hm?”
“My name,” he clarifies. “You said Tech, not Brown Eyes or Quick Draw. ”
“Did I now,” Phee says, narrowing her eyes at the horizon. She shrugs again. “Well, it suits you the most out of the three. This Crosshair fellow knew what he was talking about.”
“Yes,” Tech says softly. “He did.”
“You miss him,” Phee says. It isn’t a question.
“He is helping the enemy,” Tech replies. His throat feels tight.
Phee gives him a meaningful look. “Doesn’t mean you can’t miss him, Brown Eyes.”
Tech considers this. “I… suppose that is correct, from a certain point of view.”
“From my point of view,” Phee says, and bumps his shoulder with her own. “That enough for you?”
“It is more than enough,” Tech tells her softly, and means it.
Phee smiles. It seems to light up the dusk around them. She moves closer and takes his hand. “Tell me about him, then.”
“Alright,” Tech says, and he does.