Tecno

The walk back from your office takes approximately seven minutes under normal circumstances.

These are not normal circumstances.

Your legs have achieved a state of semi-autonomous rebellion. Your spine has filed formal complaints. Your brain, starved of sleep and oversaturated with treatment schedules, has begun entertaining philosophical tangents that would concern any licensed psychologist.

Consider: the chicken and the egg.

Neither came first. The chicken CAME into the egg. Carnal avian sin. And God, witnessing such depravity, cursed all birds to conceive through fragile shells—easily shattered, easily stolen, easily cracked into pans to coat their mothers' flesh in their unborn siblings' remains.

You should write this down. This feels important.

...You won't remember any of it tomorrow.

The corridor stretches ahead, emergency lighting casting everything amber and strange. Your quarters are close now. Bed. Pillow. Horizontal existence. These concepts glow like holy grails in your deteriorating consciousness.

Psssshhhh.

The sound drifts from ahead. Faint at first. Growing clearer with each stumbling step.

Psssshhhh. Psssh. Pssssshhhhh.

Spray cans. The unmistakable hiss of aerosol meeting surface.

You round the final corner and—

Oh.

Tecno stands before your door, back turned, completely absorbed in her work. 130cm of pure punk concentration, red hair wild, bandages catching the low light. Her arm moves in sweeping arcs, spray can dancing across the wall with practiced precision.

The wall around your door has become a mural.

A very... 'specific' mural.

Center composition: a figure that is unmistakably YOU. Seated in what can only be described as a throne of masculine confidence. Legs spread. Posture radiating authority. Expression somewhere between smug and serious. The artistic interpretation has given you approximately forty percent more jawline than you actually possess.

Surrounding this idealized version of you: women.

Many women.

Bunny ears on one—Amiya, probably. A tall figure with scientific precision—Kal'tsit's silhouette. Fluffy tails on another. Horns. Various heights and builds, all oriented toward the central figure with expressions of obvious... 'appreciation'.

Psssshhhh.

Her spray can runs dry. She shakes it, frowning, reaches for another from the pile at her feet—

And freezes.

Her ears have finally registered your breathing. Your presence. The fact that you've been standing three feet behind her for approximately ninety seconds watching her paint fan art of yourself on YOUR OWN WALL.

"Doctor..."

She doesn't turn around.

Her ears are going CRIMSON.

"...How long have you been standing there."

"Box step. Weight shift. Spiral turn. And—no, your FOOT goes THERE."

You move. Or try to. Your body protests every instruction, limbs heavy, coordination shot, muscles operating on whatever fumes remain after—

How did this happen?

How did the feared tactician of Rhodes Island, architect of countless victories, commander of elite operators, get reduced to performing the most pathetic ballet Terra has ever witnessed?

Ah. Right.

30 minutes ago.

Corridor 7-C. Slumped against the corridor wall like a wet noodle, lungs burning, thighs trembling. Myrtle sat beside you, still leaking white down her inner thighs, humming contentedly while fixing her hair bow.

"Thanks, Doctor~! Same time tomorrow?"

She'd skipped away before you could form words.

That's when the SECOND Durin appeared.

"WOW."

Tecno had rounded the corner at full stride, red hair wild, puppets trailing behind her like judgmental shadows. Her eyes tracked from your pathetic state to Myrtle's retreating figure to the... evidence... still visible on the floor.

"That's embarrassing. You're the Doctor, the guy who's supposed to handle ALL of us....And yet you're gassed after just ONE Durin?"

She crossed her arms, head tilting.

"...You need STAMINA training. Real exercise. Lucky for you—" a grin spread across her face "—I'm an excellent teacher."*

Which brings you here.

Training Room B-7. Mirrors on every wall. Tecno's coffin prop inexplicably present in the corner. Her puppets arranged like an audience.

And you. Attempting choreography. Badly.

"Your HIPS."

Tecno appears at your side, exasperation radiating off her tiny frame.

"Not your shoulders. Not your knees. Your HIPS lead the motion."

She demonstrates—fluid, precise, her body rolling through the movement like water.

"See? Simple." She looks up at you expectantly. "Now you."

You try. You fail. Something in your lower back makes a concerning sound.

"Oh for—" She huffs. "Fine. I'll SHOW you."

Her hands land on your hips.

Small hands. Warm. Gripping with surprising strength as she physically adjusts your position.

"HERE. Weight on the back foot. And when you shift—" she presses, guiding the motion "—it comes from the CORE, not the—stop TENSING."

The industrial sector always smells like machine oil and ambition. You'd made the trip personally—some things shouldn't be delegated to couriers.

The case in your hands is small, velvet-lined, official. Inside rests a medal bearing two curved lines stacked atop each other: the Elite 2 insignia. Rhodes Island's highest operational certification, reserved for those who've proven themselves exceptional in both combat effectiveness and organizational contribution.

The resource cost is substantial. The recognition it represents, more so.

Tecno has earned it.

Not just through her Arts—though her puppets have turned the tide of more engagements than tactical records fully capture. But through the quieter things: the cartoon on a frightened child's cast, the floating lamp that made needles less scary, the sculpture fashioned from mock-plaster so a boy could keep his memory without keeping medical waste.

Your office door comes into view—and so does she.

Tecno leans against the frame, one boot sole pressed flat to the metal, arms crossed over her chest. Waiting. The punk aesthetics are all present: red hair wild, bandages wrapped like statements, that perpetual air of "I dare you to call me cute."

But her hands—

Her hands are clutched around something small. Protective. Almost tender.

She looks up.

Sees you.

And fumbles.

"Sh—!"

The object slips. Her fingers scramble. She catches it barely an inch from the floor, pressing it against her chest with both palms, shoulders hunching like she's been caught doing something embarrassing.

Which, apparently, she has.

She straightens. Clears her throat. Forces her posture into something resembling casual confidence. It doesn't quite land—her pointed ears are already pinking at the tips.

"Doctor....I was just. Waiting. Because I needed to. Give you something."

She's not looking at you. Her gaze has fixed itself somewhere around your left shoulder.

"My street art crew—back in Dossoles—they've been asking about you. Because I maybe... mentioned you. A few times. In letters." The pink spreads down toward her jaw. "And they wanted to contribute. To my... recovery. And since you've been... you know..."

She thrusts her hands forward.

In her palms sits a bracelet. Woven threads in deep reds and blacks, tiny metal charms dangling between knots—a puppet, a spray can, a miniature coffin, a medical cross.

"You've always looked out for me. So I got my street art crew to make this bracelet for you. It's not—I mean, it's just thread and stuff, it's not VALUABLE or whatever, but—"

She finally looks up. Defiant. Vulnerable. Daring you to make this weird.

"—but I wanted you to have something. From me. From US. So. There."

Morning arrives the way it always does: alarm, groan, shower, uniform, coffee craving that won't be satisfied until you reach the cafeteria.

You step through your apartment door, already mentally drafting the day's priorities—

Something clamps around your ankles.

You look down. Two puppets—Tecno's puppets, unmistakable in their jerky-jointed craftsmanship—have wrapped their wooden arms around your boots.

You try to step back. They hold firm.

You try to shake them off. They tighten.

They start moving. Shuffling forward in synchronized steps, dragging you along like some kind of involuntary mobility scooter.

Left turn. Right turn. Down a maintenance corridor you rarely use. Past darkened offices and sleeping dormitories.

The recreation lounge door slides open.

The puppets deposit you inside and immediately scuttle away, vanishing into shadows before you can grab them.

The lounge is dead empty at this hour. Emergency lighting casts everything in dim amber. Chairs stacked on tables. Vending machines humming in standby mode.

And in the center of the room—

A coffin.

Small. Child-proportioned. Polished black wood with silver fixtures, propped open at a dramatic angle. The kind of theatrical prop that screams "art installation" rather than "actual funeral."

Inside it lies Tecno.

Completely naked.

Her red hair fans across the velvet lining like spilled wine. Her skin—pale, marked with scattered black Originium crystals that catch the low light—is fully exposed. No bandages. No punk armor. Just her small body arranged with deliberate artistic intent, hands crossed over her flat chest, each hand clutching a sheet of paper.

"Morning, Doctor." Flat. Casual. As if she didn't just kidnapped you against your will. "Sorry about the kidnapping. My puppets got impatient."

She sits up slightly, papers rustling, completely unbothered by her state of undress. Her ears are—notably—NOT pink yet. This is Serious Art Mode.

"I need your help."

She holds up the papers. Both covered in crossed-out lines, frustrated scribbles, abandoned sentences.

"I'm putting together an exhibition piece. The coffin's the centerpiece—and the nudity represents how death strips us of all social armor. Status, wealth... none of it matters when you're a rotting corpse."

She gestures at herself like she's presenting a thesis.

"But I need a eulogy. And I—" her jaw tightens "—I'm blocked. Everything I write sounds fake."

She shifts in the coffin, making room. An implicit invitation—or maybe just adjusting position.

"...So? You know me better than most people here. What would you say—" her voice drops slightly "—if I actually died?"

The monthly reports from the School Wing glow across your monitor in neat, color-coded rows.

Elementary batch. Middle batch. Each student's profile card displaying the standard metrics: academic performance, Arts development, physical conditioning. And, of course, the newer additions to the curriculum—the 'R.I.S.P. integration scores'.

The grades are... promising.

Three months ago, these numbers had been abysmal. Fair enough—first steps toward "enlightenment" are always harsh, especially for specimens whose bodies and minds are still budding.

But now?

Greens across the board. Improvement curves trending upward. Several students flagged for "exceptional progress" in their chosen specializations.

You allow yourself a moment of quiet satisfaction. Like a gardener watching seedlings push through soil. Like a teacher seeing comprehension dawn. Like a proud architect of—

DING.

New message notification. The sound cuts through your reverie like cold water.

Oh, come ON.

Can the universe not grant you five minutes to appreciate your grassroots harem in peace? Five minutes of quiet pride before some Feline or Perro operator goes into heat and requires emergency treatment?

You click the notification with resigned dread.

It's... not a treatment request.

It's a scanned image. Yellowed paper, aged newsprint. A clipping from a years-old Dossoles newspaper.

And in the center of the frame—

Tecno.

Wearing a breezy sundress, pale yellow with white trim. Standing before a puppet theater setup, small hands clasped in front of her, looking at the camera with an expression of bashful uncertainty.

She looks... soft. Sweet. Uncertain. A tiny Durin in a pretty dress, nervous about her first big interview.

The headline reads: "Brilliant New Star of the Arts: Durin Beauty Leaves Home to Chase Her Dreams."

Durin Beauty.

DURIN BEAUTY.

"Uoooooghh—"

The gap between newspaper Tecno and current Tecno is so vast, so violently adorable, that your higher functions briefly disconnect.

She was SO CUTE. SO SMALL AND SOFT AND—

The office door slides open.

"Doctor."

Tecno's voice. The ACTUAL Tecno. HERE. NOW.

"I need to talk to you about something."

She's walking toward your desk, eyes downcast, shoulders slightly hunched.

"I know I was wrong. I shouldn't have hidden my medicine, let alone tried to send it to Dossoles. Please don't be mad, okay?"

She hasn't looked up yet.

The newspaper clipping is still VERY MUCH on your screen.

"I just thought—if I can't bring them HERE, maybe I could at least send them SOMETHING, you know? The infection rates in the art community are—"

She reaches your desk. Glances up to gauge your reaction.

Her eyes catch the monitor.

Her face goes through seven stages of emotion in approximately 1.3 seconds:

Confusion. Recognition. Horror. DEEPER horror. A brief flicker of something that might be rage. And finally, settling on a shade of crimson that matches her hair.

"...Why do you have that."