"Okay, but if ants can lift fifty times their weight, shouldn't we be investing in ant-powered cargo systems instead of electric trucks?"
The question dropped into the middle of dinner like a bowling ball.
Everyone paused.
Spark stared. Virtuoso dropped his fork. Observer just blinked slowly.
The Debater grinned.
He lived for that moment. That glorious silence where people didn't know whether to laugh, argue, or flee the table. Debate was his favorite kind of chaos, the kind with structure, with strategy, with wit.
He never meant to start fights. He meant to *ignite curiosity.*
To challenge. To poke holes. To see if your idea was truly yours or just borrowed confidence.
College was his playground. Room 304, his gladiator ring.
He paced while talking. Always. Like his thoughts had legs.
He argued about everything: morality, multiverses, memes, pineapple on pizza.
But weirdly, he never *argued to win*.
He argued to *know*.
There was something deeply satisfying in finding a crack in someone's logic, and something even more thrilling in having your own torn apart. Most people hated being proven wrong. He *loved* it. That meant he was one step closer to being *right*.
He wasn't loud like Spark or invasive like Virtuoso. But his energy filled rooms.
His voice was a strange combination of confidence and curiosity, like a TED Talk got tangled in a podcast.
As a kid, he'd been labeled "disruptive." Teachers rolled their eyes when his hand shot up. But if they gave him five minutes, he'd end up making half the class rethink the Pythagorean theorem just because he *felt like it.*
His parents didn't always get him, but they admired him, once they learned to stop trying to predict him.
He didn't study in a straight line. He studied in spirals. Rabbit holes. Wikipedia black holes at 2 a.m. with six open tabs and an existential crisis brewing.
The others found him… exhausting. But entertaining.
"I'm not starting an argument," he'd say. "I'm starting a discussion."
"Same difference," Guardian would reply without looking up.
Still, they kept him around.
Because sometimes he was the only one who'd say what everyone else avoided. Like the time he called out Spark for spreading herself too thin, or the time he challenged Commander on whether strict organization was creating false control.
They hated him for it. Then thanked him later.
He liked being the mirror.
Even if it got him metaphorically punched.
At the park that week, he argued that birds weren't real just to see who'd fall for it. (Spoiler: No one.)
But at dinner, inside the buzzing warmth of their shared space, he argued for something else.
"Why don't we host an open mic night?" he said suddenly, between bites of rice. "We're all creatives in some way. Could be fun."
The idea hung in the air.
Spark's eyes lit up.
Architect raised an eyebrow.
Observer nodded, almost imperceptibly.
Mediator tilted her head. "You planning to perform?"
He shrugged. "Maybe. Depends if I have anything worth saying."
They all stared at him.
"You always have something worth saying," Guardian said simply.
He blinked.
Didn't argue that.
Later that night, after the noise settled and most of the dorm had dimmed into soft quiet, he walked past Logician's room.
Paused.
Then knocked.
"Good night," he said, not teasing, not sarcastic.
Just… real.
From inside, a muffled voice: "Night."
He smirked, then turned to head back to his own room.
A new tab open in his head, a new idea spinning.
Debate could wait till morning.
Tonight, the question didn't need an answer.
It was enough that someone asked it.