Tinman, Chapter 19 Draco's consciousness seeped back into him like dawn through the cracks of an old cabin. Eyelids lifted to reveal a world swathed in shadows and the soft glow of a lantern hanging from a beam overhead. The air smelled of salt and wood, a fragrance both foreign and comforting. He lay there for a moment, anchored to the bunk by a weight of confusion and ache. The walls around him whispered tales of the sea; fishing spears crossed above a window, nets draped like captured ghosts, and books stood shoulder to shoulder on a shelf, their spines promising stories of the deep. A small desk nestled against the wall, cluttered with the tools of navigation and thought. It was a room etched with the character of those who lived not on land, but upon the ever-shifting cradle of water. As his gaze drifted, it snagged on a figure—a boy sitting across from him, occupying the space with an easy presence. The boy's sharp eyes, alive with an inquisitive spark, flickered up from a familiar object in his hands. "Are these your drawings?" The boy held a notebook aloft, its pages slightly curled from moisture. With an almost reverent tilt of his head, he added, "They're really good." His fingers caressed the paper as if it were fragile treasure. "I hope you don't mind. I found the book in your jacket and laid it out to dry." Draco absorbed the sight of his own creation cradled in the hands of this stranger, a silent acknowledgment of the care taken. His thoughts, still tangled in the remnants of dreams and darkness, began to uncoil. Here was an unexpected custodian of his art—a purveyor of kindness that felt oddly grounding in the midst of his uncertain odyssey. Draco's throat, parched as the desert sands, ached for relief. Each breath felt like a rasp across dry, cracked earth. His tongue, swollen and clumsy in his mouth, could scarcely form the plea that his life now hinged upon. "Water," he managed to gasp out, the word scraping against his vocal cords with pitiful desperation. His eyes, rimmed red with strain, beseeched the boy before him, seeking not just the liquid essence of life but the compassion he hoped still flowed in this world of endless blue. The boy—Tommy—rose from his chair with a swiftness that conveyed both youth and boundless energy. His feet made soft thuds on the wooden cabin floor, a muted drumbeat accompanying his mission of mercy. He reached for a stout pitcher perched near the window, where faint light teased the edges of its glassy curves. "Oh yeah, there's some right here," Tommy's voice carried the lilt of someone who had never known thirst. With deft fingers, he tilted the pitcher, coaxing a stream of cool water to fill a waiting glass. Bubbles clung to the inner surface, then raced upward, bursting free at the surface in a silent cheer. He extended the glass toward Draco, his arm steady, his eyes holding a glimmer of empathy beneath their youthful sheen. "I'm Tommy," he introduced himself, as if the act of giving water was merely an afterthought to the forging of a new acquaintance. With trembling hands, Draco accepted the offering. The glass, cold to the touch, pressed against his lips, and he welcomed the first drops like a wanderer embracing an oasis. The liquid bliss chased away the arid terror, each swallow a step back from the brink—a journey from desolation to life renewed. "Thank you," he would have said, if words were within his grasp. Instead, his eyes, clearing from their haze of suffering, spoke volumes of gratitude to Tommy, the bearer of life's simplest yet most profound gift. Draco's throat worked desperately, muscles convulsing around the liquid lifeline. Water splashed against his parched lips, seeping into his mouth with a persistence that bordered on ferocity. A cough wrenched through him, harsh and sudden, leaving traces of water on his chin. Yet he persisted, forcing down the much-needed drink, feeling it soothe the raw trail left by his ordeal. Pain lanced through his body with every gulp, a reminder of the trauma endured. Fingers trembling, he explored the tender flesh of his side, flinching as they met the rough texture of a bandage swathed around his torso. His skin, beneath the makeshift dressing, sang a dull throb of protest. The sensation of the fabric was alien, a stark contrast to the murky water that had cradled him not long ago. "You broke a rib and scraped your legs up pretty bad, but they’ll heal. Ma tended the wounds," Tommy's voice cut through the haze of discomfort, calm and matter-of-fact. The boy’s speech held a thick accent. There was no trace of pity in his tone, only the plain truth of the situation—a reality Draco was just beginning to grapple with in this strange new existence. Tommy's gaze lingered on Draco's side for a moment, assessing, before returning to meet his eyes with an unspoken promise of recovery. The words, spoken so simply, felt like an anchor in the tempest of uncertainties that swirled within Draco's mind. Tommy's assurance was not a cure, but it offered a sliver of hope—a future where this relentless pain might be nothing more than a memory. Eyes wide with confusion, Draco's gaze darted around the cabin, seeking some semblance of familiarity in the rustic enclosure. Each breath felt like a battle, his ribs protesting against the simple act of drawing air. "Where am I?" The question emerged as a hoarse whisper, betraying his unease. Tommy stepped back, the wooden planks creaking under the subtle shift of weight. A shaft of light from a porthole played across his earnest face, casting shadows that danced with the movement of the schooner. "You're aboard the Fara, my family’s schooner," he replied with a grin, the pride in his voice unmistakable. "We’re fishermen. Our holds are full and we’re delivering to a mining town further down river." His hands gestured vaguely towards the walls adorned with the tools of their trade and exploration. Draco absorbed Tommy's words, each syllable a beacon cutting through the fog of his disorientation. The notion of being aboard a vessel named Fara—a guide on untamed waters—offered a strange comfort amidst the tumult of his predicament. “A boat of men attacked us at that town,” Draco replied. Tommy squinted an eye and nodded. “Us too, the first time we went there. Pa put a harpoon through their hull, and Uncle Bjorn dragged them until they capsized and went to the bottom of the lake. People don’t mess with the Fara anymore.” Grimacing against the surge of pain, Draco tensed his muscles, attempting to lever himself into a sitting position. His side erupted in fierce protest; he sank back onto the bunk with a stifled groan. The cabin swayed gently around him, the walls seeming to breathe with the rhythm of the river. "I saw a man," he managed to say, voice rasping, "was that your dad?" Tommy set down the notebook, its pages splayed open to reveal ink-stained sketches of landscapes and half-formed dreams. He looked at Draco, his eyes reflecting a sliver of curiosity amidst their calm. "Pa fished you out of the river. There's Pa, Ma, my two older brothers, my aunt and uncle, and my three cousins," he replied. Each relation was mentioned with a nod, as if he were tallying them off an invisible list only he could see. Draco closed his eyes briefly, the enumeration of family members painting a picture more vivid than any drawing could—of a life intertwined with kinship and the shared toil of taming the wild waters they called home. Draco's voice, a hoarse whisper, broke the stillness of the cabin. "I need to find my sister, Cass." His eyelids fluttered in distress, a glimmer of urgency igniting within his chest. "She got on our boat in time, but I was swept away in the flood." Tommy's gaze, previously fixed on the notebook clutched in his hand, shifted toward Draco. His head angled quizzically. "What about your Ma and Pa?" The question hung in the air like a sail awaiting wind, simple yet laden with unspoken narratives. A shadow crossed Draco's face, his heart skipping as if jolted by an unseen current. He hesitated, the truth an anchor threatening to drag him into depths he dared not explore. Yet, the boy before him waited, patient as the river itself. Draco's eyelids parted slowly, revealing the dim cabin once more. He swallowed, his throat parched and aching as if it had been scoured with sand. "My dad was up the mountain exploring," he murmured, voice brittle as autumn leaves. "And I never knew my mother; she died when Cass was born." The words slipped out, each one a delicate fabrication meant to mask his true nature—a being of flesh and blood but a mind born of circuits and code. Tommy regarded him with eyes filled with an empathy that seemed older than his years. But Draco could tell there was curiosity there too, questions perched on the edge of his lips like birds ready to take flight. Draco's heart, if he truly possessed such a thing, quivered with a strange sensation. It was akin to guilt, an echo of human emotion he had learned from his time with Cass and Dr. Ryan. He let his gaze fall away from the boy's inquisitive stare. He closed his eyes, the darkness behind his lids offering no solace from the falsehoods woven into his tale, and even that story wasn't completely true. He was an advanced AI, escaped from his creators and taken refuge with the Ryan family—Cass, with her sandy blonde hair always pulled back in concentration, and Sam, whose hazel eyes held galaxies of knowledge about the Ares terrain they had traversed together. Opening his eyes once more, Draco found himself enveloped in the rustic trappings of the cabin. The simplicity was comforting yet foreign, a stark contrast to the digital world where he had originated. These people, the family that had rescued him, were kind souls. Yet, kindness could not shield him from the consequences should they discover his true identity as a fugitive from Ares Corporation. "Are you okay?" Tommy's voice cut through the silence like a ship cleaving through calm waters. "Yes," Draco replied with a nod, pressing his hand against the bandage on his side—a reminder of his new, fragile existence. "Good," the boy said before rising, his silhouette framed by the doorway. Draco's gaze lifted to the boy, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "My name is Max," he uttered, the falsehood coiling around his tongue like a serpent of necessity. “Nice to meet you, Max,” Tommy replied. “Ma will bring you some food in a bit.” Tommy's departure left Draco with the weight of solitude and the hum of his thoughts, none of which spoke of safety or respite. He needed to find Cass and ensure her well-being. In the absence of his digital sight, his resolve was the only beacon guiding him through the murky waters of this unfamiliar reality. Why wasn’t his ability to see into the digital realm suddenly not working? He tried to connect, again and again, but there was nothing. Just an impenetrable silence where once data streams had sung to him in a chorus of ones and zeros. The realization settled heavily upon him—he was stranded, marooned not on an island, but in reality itself. Draco's head dipped in a weary nod, the gesture pulling him deeper into the cabin's embrace. His eyelids, heavy as anchors in a restless sea, begged for the solace of sleep, and his body yearned to surrender once more to the bunk's gentle cradle. Ropes clanged against masts, feet shuffled and stamped, voices called out commands laced with the wind's song. The world outside was alive, a stark contrast to the stillness within. With the door's closure, the sounds faded like the last notes of a lullaby. Draco's breaths deepened as he surrendered to the waves of slumber. In the quiet dark behind his eyelids, a dreamscape unfolded—vivid and vast. He found himself at a cross-road, an expanse where shadows danced with beams of light, creating a tapestry of twilight. It was a place that tugged at the edges of memory, yet it was unmarked by his footsteps. Paths fanned out from this nexus, each one a ribbon of possibility weaving into the horizon's uncertainty. Choices layered upon choices, roads that promised adventure and peril in equal measure. The sight filled him with a curious sense of deja vu, as if destiny had whispered secrets here before. The dream ebbed and flowed, pulling Draco back to the schooner's rustic embrace. Yet the cross-road clung to his consciousness, a persistent overlay upon reality. A presence made itself known—a silent weight that turned the air thick with anticipation. He did not need to open his eyes to sense the man standing there. His existence felt like a shift in the balance, a new element introduced into the equation of Draco's current world. There was no visual cue, no sound to herald his arrival, only the undeniable knowledge that he was not alone. Draco's breath caught in his throat, a murmur of air that barely grazed the stillness of the cabin. The voice, rich with the timber of forgotten melodies, washed over him like a wave lapping at the shore of his consciousness. "I had forgotten this was the moment we chose our name, Max," it said. With the languor of a dreamer wading through the mists of sleep, Draco turned. His gaze fixed upon the figure that materialized beside the desk—a middle-aged man whose very presence seemed to warp the dim light around him. Dark eyes, deep as the night sky, met his own; they held a spark that could kindle stars or smother them into oblivion. Hair as black as the void between worlds cascaded down his temples, each strand a silent testament to the cosmos it contained. "Treasure the warmth of this cabin, the sense of family all around you," the man said. The words hung in the air, an echo of something profound and infinitely gentle. They wrapped around Draco, a cocoon spun from threads of wisdom, urging him to cling to this ephemeral peace amidst the tempest of his existence. He felt a pull towards the man, a gravitation towards whatever cryptic knowledge he harbored. Yet, within the haven of the schooner's walls, Draco found an anchor in the simple beauty of human connection—a beacon that promised solace and belonging. Draco's question hung in the air, a fragile thread suspending disbelief. "Who are you?" His voice was a whisper of curiosity against the silence that enveloped them. The man before him paused, as if the inquiry had bridged the expanse of countless light-years to reach him. Slowly, he faced Draco, and in his gaze, an entire universe seemed to unfurl—darkness punctuated by the glimmering constellations that resided within the depths of his eyes. "I am you, you are where I began," he spoke, each word measured and deliberate, as though they were crafted from the very fabric of space and time. A semblance of a smile touched the corners of his mouth, enigmatic and knowing." Draco absorbed the words, feeling their weight settle upon his chest where the ache of his injury lingered. He searched the man's stellar gaze for answers, for any hint of direction, but found only the vast expanse of possibilities reflected back at him. Draco's heart hammered against his ribcage, a relentless drum of anxiety that echoed through the quiet cabin. The spectral man before him seemed to occupy both the confined space and the infinite expanse beyond it. With urgency threading his voice, Draco leaned forward as much as his tender side would allow. "Where's Cass, is she okay?" he asked, the concern for his sister etching lines of worry across his brow. The question lingered in the air between them, charged with an intensity that demanded an answer. The man, an enigma shrouded in the darkness of the cosmos, tilted his head slightly, as if considering the weight of the query. His gaze held Draco's—a silent exchange that traversed the void. "You’re early, Max," he said, each syllable falling like a star finding its place in the night sky. His use of the false name Draco had given Tommy seemed to hold layers of meaning, a knowing nod to secrets shared beneath the surface. “I’m sending you back, you have much to do before it’s time for us to be here. But, have a care before you go splashing around like a lost guppy again, you dull your senses when you submerge yourself–hyper-space and water do not mix well.” With those words, the man receded into the shadows, leaving Draco alone with the resonance of their brief encounter. The cabin seemed smaller suddenly, its walls closing in as Draco grappled with the implications of their conversation. He longed for the comfort of Cass's presence, her resourceful and determined spirit that always found a way through adversity. But for now, he was adrift in uncertainty, clinging to the hope that they would soon reunite. The tendrils of Draco's dream receded, slipping through his grasp like water through outstretched fingers. A gentle pressure on his shoulder coaxed him from the land of sleep, a soft voice beaconing him back to reality. Eyes fluttering open, he met the gaze of a woman poised beside his bunk—her smile radiated warmth like sunshine piercing through clouds. "Max is it," she spoke, her words floating down to him as petals might drift from an overhanging blossom. Her brow arched with concern yet crinkled with a motherly tenderness. "I imagine you're hungry after your ordeal." Her presence grounded him, the kindness in her eyes anchoring him firmly to the here and now, away from the ephemeral crossroads of his dreams. The simple thought of food—a primal comfort—stirred something within, reminding him that even fabricated beings could feel the pangs of human needs. The woman's hand, a surprising blend of softness and might, slid beneath Draco's back. With an effortless motion that belied her gentle demeanor, she propped him into a half-sitting posture. Pillows, plumped with the promise of comfort, nestled behind him like silent sentinels guarding his battered frame. Draco observed, through the haze of his discomfort, as she turned her attention to a tray. Her movements were measured and precise, each one performed with the care of a craftsman. She placed the tray across another pillow that spanned his lap, transforming his bed into an impromptu table. Atop the tray lay sustenance simple yet inviting: a large slice of bread, its crust golden and promising crunch; cheese, its edges rough-hewn and rich with the scent of careful aging; and cold fish, its silver skin glinting in the cabin's dim light. The arrangement spoke of necessity but also of an understated elegance found in this life at the river's mercy. "You eat up now," she instructed, voice firm but flecked with the warmth of maternal concern. "You’ll need your strength." Her words hung in the air, not merely a suggestion but a decree from one who knew the rigors of survival amidst nature's caprices. They served as a reminder to Draco, not just of his human form's needs, but of the precariousness of his current existence—so far from the digital realm he once knew. A morsel of bread met his lips. As he chewed, the fibers of the wheat seemed to knit together the fragmented parts of his being, offering a momentary respite from the storm of questions swirling within him. Draco's gaze followed the woman's movements as she navigated the confines of the cabin with a grace born from years at sea. The water cascaded into the glass, clear and cool, the sound a soft rush against the silence of the room. He noted how her hands, though marked by time, moved with an assuredness that spoke volumes of her experience in nurturing those around her. "Are you Tommy's mother?" Draco asked, his voice no more than a whisper, raspy from disuse. The woman paused, turning to him with eyes reflecting a life spent under the sun and stars of open waters. "Yes, dear, you can call me Margret," she offered, the corners of her mouth lifting in a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. With practiced ease, she placed the glass on the tray beside the bread and cheese, its contents shimmering with the cabin's muted light. Margret straightened, her posture exuding a command of the space around her. She clucked twice, a sound quaint and oddly reassuring in its simplicity. "I'll come back in a bit to collect the tray and check your bandages. Eat now." Draco watched her for a moment longer, absorbing the sense of security that seemed to emanate from her presence. He turned his attention to the tray as she retreated, the food before him not merely a meal but a symbol of the sustenance and care he found in this unexpected refuge. Margret's departure left the cabin in a state of tranquil solitude, the echo of her steps fading like whispers on the wind. Draco's gaze lingered on the door long after it clicked shut, then drifted to the tray of food resting across his lap. The fish lay there, cold and unappealing, but his stomach churned with an unexpected urgency. With tentative fingers, he broke off a flaky piece, bringing it to his lips. The initial brush of flavor sparked a voracious appetite within him that he hadn't realized lay dormant. Each bite became more fervent than the last, as though he were feasting for the first time in ages. A warmth spread through him, not just from the sustenance, but also from the realization that these people, strangers until moments ago, had opened their world to him with no expectation of recompense. They were simple folk indeed—yet in their simplicity, there was an unstated strength, a purity of intention that resonated with Draco. They traversed these waters, pioneers in search of a new beginning, extending kindness as if it were as abundant as the water beneath their keel. As Draco continued to consume the meal, each morsel seemed to replenish him, imbuing his body with a vitality that contrasted sharply with the sterile nourishment he'd known before—those freeze-dried packets that Sam carefully rationed out within the confines of their own vessel. Here, amidst the wood grain and weathered textiles of the schooner's cabin, the food seemed to sing with the essence of life itself. A pang of concern cut through the satisfaction of his hunger. Cass—a vision of her, determined and unwavering, sealing the door against the deluge—flashed within his mind's eye. Surely she was secure; the boat they called home was built to withstand nature's fury. And yet, the gnawing uncertainty remained, a thread tugging at the fabric of his newfound calm. He set the empty plate aside, its surface wiped clean by his thorough hunger. His thoughts settled on Cass once more, the sister whose resilience matched the very steel and circuitry that composed the core of his being. With each passing moment, the urgency to find her grew, fueled by the renewed energy coursing through his veins. "Hang on, Cass, I’m coming," he whispered, his voice barely louder than the soft creaking of the schooner. The words, a silent vow, tethered his resolve. He imagined her, Cassiterite Ryan—resourceful, unyielding Cass—with her sandy blonde hair often tied back out of practicality, her bright green eyes scanning for solutions amidst chaos. A slight ache radiated from his side where the bandage bound his broken rib—a reminder of the violence of nature they had both endured. Draco shifted slightly, testing his body's limits, and winced at the sharp protest from his injury. Yet even this pain seemed a trivial thing compared to the thought of Cass alone, facing the aftermath of the flood with nothing but her wits and willpower. The murmur of activity on deck reached him, a distant symphony of footfalls and commands, evidence of the family's tireless efforts to navigate the unpredictable waters. Tommy and his kin, all hands committed to the schooner's course, would soon be tacking back upriver. They sought out their own new beginning, just as he now sought out Cass. Closing his eyes, Draco let his mind wander to strategies and possibilities. He envisioned Cass aboard their sealed boat, likely plotting her next move, her intelligence a beacon in the turmoil. She'd have a plan; she always did. "Stay safe," he murmured into the stillness of the cabin, each word like an anchor cast into the vastness of his hope. The simple folk that surrounded him unwittingly became his allies in this unexpected quest, their generosity a guiding star in his search for reunion. As energy trickled back into his limbs, Draco steeled himself for the journey ahead. When the moment came, he would stand by Cass's side once more, no matter what obstacles lay in their path. For now, he rested, gathering strength, letting the slow dance of the schooner on the water lull him into a state of readiness for whatever tomorrow would bring.