Tinman, Chapter 21 Tommy's fingers danced with practiced ease over the sleek surface of the virtual headset, adjusting it until it sat snug against his temples. A flicker of anticipation sparked within him as he activated the connection. The world around him dissolved into a void, the inky darkness soon giving way to the radiant splendor of the Ares Gaming Dome. The transition was seamless—a silent explosion of color and light that bathed his senses. The real sun blazed overhead, its rays casting long shadows on the metallic causeway beneath Tommy's feet–reality and fantasy merged with the Dome’s external holo-emitters. He stood at the edge of this digital realm, his gateway to adventure and escape from the rigors of a predestined life on the family schooner. His brothers, now on the cusp of manhood, had shed their childhood pastimes like old skins. They jostled for control at the helm, absorbing lessons from Pa, whose weathered hands steered both ship and sons with equal precision. But Tommy, with his tousled brown hair and eyes alight with youthful zeal, still clung to the fragments of whimsy afforded by his age. Thanks to Pa's understanding, the weight of expectation had not yet fully claimed him. Positioned on the causeway, Tommy gazed toward the arched doors that loomed ahead, their grandeur beckoning to those within. Here, where the free colonists' avatars emerged, the divide between citizen and non-citizen was palpable. Despite his birthright as an Ares native, Tommy's presence among the privileged was betrayed by his outdated membership—secondhand pixels in a world that favored the shiny and new. A sigh escaped him, though no one would hear it in this place of ones and zeroes. To upgrade would mean to belong, truly and completely, yet the cost prickled at his conscience. Coins were better spent on necessities, not on fleeting dreams of status within this alluring digital cosmos. So, on the outskirts he remained, feet planted firmly on the road of the virtual colonist, ready to carve out his own legend—one game at a time. Tommy's gaze swept the causeway, noting the rigid alignment of Game Pods on either side. These pods bore the stigma of exile, reserved for those cast out from the embrace of the Dome's inner sanctum. Often, tempers flared over a misjudged bet or an ill-placed punch, and the consequence was banishment to these lonely sentinels of solitude. Inside, a different hierarchy reigned. Tommy knew well the hierarchy of play within the Dome's heart: casual gamers like him claimed any vacant pod they could find amidst the labyrinthine sprawl; Pro-gamers, with their quick reflexes and quicker wits, held dominion over the coveted arena pods. Above them all loomed the Champions, enshrined in private chambers where Game-Pods awaited their touch like loyal steeds ready for battle. A burst of sound tore through his musings. Eyes instinctively shooting skyward, Tommy witnessed the spectacle of virtual Starfighters slicing through the real world sky, engines ablaze with virtual fire. Their roar was a siren call to adrenaline seekers, enticing those who dared chase glory around the harbor's circuit—eighteen laps of breathless pursuit. Yet not all Starfighters were helmed by eager contestants. Tommy's eyes followed the contrails etched across the sky, tracing the paths until they converged at one—a singular streak that veered towards the shoreline, its crimson hue unmistakable even from this distance. The red Starfighter was the game's wildcard, an uncontrolled variable in the controlled chaos. Its AI-driven maneuvers were both spectacle and warning, a fiery dance above the water-bound patios on shore where spectators gathered. Patrons of the shore-side restaurants rented out the crimson rogue, watching with bated breath as it prepared for its catastrophic descent. For a moment, Tommy imagined the exhilaration of those diners—virtual danger experienced from the safety of their seats, the thrill of orchestrated disaster just an arm's length away. His fingers twitched at the thought of guiding one of those agile vessels himself, but such daydreams were luxury items tagged with a price he couldn't pay. "Maybe someday," he whispered to no one, pulling his attention back to the task at hand. With a determined stride, he pushed forward, threading his way through the throng of avatars and toward the promise of adventure within the Ares Gaming Dome. Tommy's gaze remained locked onto the spectacle above as the red Starfighter. The craft, a maverick amongst the flock of virtual manned vessels, circled with mechanical precision. It completed lap after incendiary lap, each turn tightening the watchers' anticipation like a coiled spring. On its fifth orbit, calamity struck as if on cue—the engine erupted in a fiery bloom, smoke billowing from its chassis in a dramatic display of defiance painted by holo-emitters atop the dome against the sky. It spiraled wildly, a rogue comet on a collision course with destiny. Patrons perched upon the waterfront patios leaned forward, their faces illuminated by the artificial inferno that streaked towards them. With practiced grace, the Starfighter delivered its climactic coup de grâce to the restaurant, blossoming into a riotous explosion of light and color upon impact. Cheers erupted from the onlookers, their hefty payments for this moment of engineered theatrics justified in one heart-stopping instant. Amidst the chaos, Tommy navigated through the crowd, his young heart beating with the thrill of the game yet untouched by the yearning to participate. His path found him before the statue of Engineer Marcus, sentinel of stone and metal whose legacy loomed over the dome-dwellers. As though drawn by an unseen magnetism, Tommy sidled up to the figure, eyes tracing the engineer's stoic visage before descending to the bronzed boots. With an almost reverent touch, he extended his fingers, brushing them against the cool surface of Marcus's boot. The ritual was a silent plea for fortune, a hope that the same luck which had once guided the engineer's hands might now favor a boy seeking escape within the gaming world's embrace. Tommy's whisper was lost in the din of the crowd, his words a private entreaty to the guardian of this virtual cosmos. "Guide me true," he murmured, the weight of the engineer's daring feat from a century past bolstering his own resolve. With the gesture complete, Tommy squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and ventured forth into the digital realm that beckoned, ready to carve out his place among the stars of Ares Gaming Dome. Tommy stepped beneath the colossal archway, his senses instantly flooded by the vibrant cacophony of the Ares Gaming Dome. Like the heart of a sprawling metropolis, the dome pulsed with energy. Its vastness spread out before him, an urban landscape repurposed for digital conquests. Here, the founder's vision had been realized with every circuit and pixel—the grand transformation from a colony shelter into a playground that eclipsed all others in scope and splendor. Zachariah Hunter's legacy was etched into the very architecture, where steel met software in a seamless blend. Tommy could scarcely imagine the original purpose of this behemoth structure now filled with the echoes of virtual battles and the laughter of gamers. Around him, the pathways bustled. Verdant ferns and flowering shrubs lined the paths, their leaves whispering secrets as if they too were participants in this grand game. Game Pods, like metallic fruits ripe for the picking, dotted the sides of these roads. They promised entry to worlds untold, each one awaiting the press of eager hands upon its controls. No sign hung declaring "Wait Your Turn" or "Reserve Ahead" — in the Dome, it was understood: first come, first served. The crowd, a mix of flesh and fantasy, seemed to dance around each other. Some strode forward in their corporeal forms while others flickered with the tell-tale glow of avatars connected from distant locations. "Come on," someone said, a voice light with laughter, "let's grab that pod by the cherry blossoms before someone else does!" Competition was friendly yet fierce, as each gamer navigated toward their preferred station. Tommy watched as a group dashed towards a pod boasting an advantageous view of the central plaza. Another cluster gravitated towards a secluded nook under a canopy of bioluminescent vines, its pods less frequented but just as coveted. Tommy wove through the throng with determined steps, keen on his own destination. Each pod he passed whispered the possibility of adventure, but he held steadfast, ignoring the siren call of vacant seats and waiting consoles. In the Dome, everyone had their favored spot—a particular pod where victories tasted sweetest, where defeat stung with the promise of redemption. Heads turned, some with eyes of curious light, others shaded beneath brows knit in concentration. Avatars shimmered beside their human counterparts, brilliant in their variety, united in their purpose. The air was alive, not with the hum of machinery—no, that word would not suffice—but with the pulse of collective anticipation, a symphony of silent excitement that resonated through the very fabric of the place. In the Ares Gaming Dome, everyone sought their slice of glory, and today, Tommy was no different. With Engineer Marcus's luck fresh upon his fingertips, he marched onward, intent on carving his name into the annals of this digital coliseum. Tommy's senses were saturated with the electric essence of Ares Dome as he lay still upon his bunk, the virtual headset clasping his temples like a second skin. The digital world unfolded before him, blending the fantastical and the mundane into an intricate tapestry that veiled the stark reality of the schooner's cabin around his physical form. In this realm where the impossible cavorted with the commonplace, the Dome unfurled its grandeur in subtle ways to those who visited from afar. To Tommy's remote gaze, the colors shone with a vibrancy unseen by those wandering its roads in flesh. Holographic banners streamed above walkways, their messages dancing just for him, while distant chatter echoed like whispers from another dimension. He navigated past the main concourse, an area bustling with avatars and humans alike. Each pod stood like a silent sentinel along the pathways, promising a sanctuary of solitude amid the cacophony. Yet, Tommy harbored no illusions about finding refuge there. Experience had taught him the futility of such a pursuit; every vacant pod was a mirage, often cloaked by the presence of a hopeful player, steadfastly claiming the spot with an invisible flag of friendship. "Reserved for my buddy," they'd say, their words a thin veil for the territorial claim laid bare. Tommy could not help but notice the irony—the gaming dome's code of conduct forbade such practices, yet here they were, as common as dust in the far deserts of Ares. Disputes would erupt like geysers, quick and fierce, over these unspoken dibs. It was a dance he had no desire to join. With a mental shrug, Tommy veered away from potential conflict. His path now clear, he pressed on in search of quieter ground. The game awaited, and he was ready to plunge into its depths, far from the madding crowd that sought to turn play into battlegrounds over pods. Today, like any other day, Tommy would find his place in the Dome, a place where he could soar unfettered by the squabbles of territory and the gravity of expectation. Tommy navigated the stairwell with purpose, each step taking him further from the upper echelon's chaos to the Dome's lower level. The air was cooler here, tinged with a scent of brine that complemented the aquatic theme seamlessly woven into the surroundings. Domes of blue and green light cast an underwater illusion, where digital sea creatures darted between columns of kelp swaying in a nonexistent current. Around him, holographic fish glided past, their silvery forms shimmering as if sunbeams pierced the ocean's surface above. But Tommy paid them little heed—his gaze fixed on the service tunnels ahead, the unsung arteries of the Ares Gaming Dome. He stepped off the last riser, his presence swallowed by the bustling energy of vendors re-stocking their carts and kitchen runners balancing towers of colorful dishes. Their movements were precise, an intricate dance choreographed to the rhythm of demand and supply. Despite the flurry of activity, Tommy weaved through the crowd with practiced ease, a ghost among them, unnoticed and undisturbed. The Game Pods in this subterranean haven lined the walls like aging sentinels, their chipped paint and scuffed surfaces speaking of countless battles fought within. These machines lacked the sleek allure of their upstairs counterparts, yet to Tommy, they held a charm all their own. Here, in this forgotten corner of the Dome, was where true gamers came—not those drawn by flashy extras or superficial status, but players seeking raw, unadulterated challenge. With deft steps, he sidestepped a server whose tray teetered perilously, her eyes set on the path ahead, not on the boy slipping by. Tommy smiled faintly; this was his world, where necessity dictated sharp reflexes both in-game and out. He halted before a row of pods, an eclectic mix of individuals already ensconced within. They were kindred spirits, these gamers, bound not by wealth but by a shared passion for the play. Each pod bore the marks of time, yet the flickering screens inside promised adventures as vivid and thrilling as any found in the more opulent levels. Tommy felt a camaraderie with these strangers, a silent acknowledgment of their common ground. No one here hoarded spots under the pretense of friendship. In this place, it was every player for themselves, and that suited Tommy just fine. He was no stranger to the ways of the world above, but down here, in the pulse of the game's purest form, he found his true reprieve. Tommy's gaze swept across the line of aged pods, their exteriors scarred from countless entries and exits. He paused at one that stood vacant, its door ajar like an unspoken invitation. Inside, the dim glow from the screen failed to hide the disarray left by the previous occupant. Discarded wrappers and half-empty drink containers littered the floor. With a small sigh, Tommy stooped to gather the refuse, his fingers pinching each piece with care to avoid touching the sticky residue. Once cleared, he stashed the trash in a nearby receptacle, a minimal effort to restore order in the neglected space. Free of debris, he turned back to the pod, stripping off his boots and jacket with swift movements. The gear found its home in the narrow locker at the side, the door clicking shut with a snug fit. He then crouched and maneuvered into the pod's embrace, where the scent of worn plastic mingled with a hint of artificial ocean breeze. The hatch descended with a whisper, sealing him inside. Instantly, the clamor of the Dome receded, replaced by a serene hush that cradled his senses. Settling into the seat, its cushions molded by the imprint of countless gamers before him, Tommy felt the familiarity of the controls beneath his fingertips. His heart quickened in anticipation as he powered up the console, the screen flickering to life with a burst of color. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth while his hands danced across the keypad, composing a message meant for Tinman's eyes alone. "Tinman, my name is Tommy," he typed, his words concise. "Need to talk. You there?" He tapped the send button, the command executed with a definitive press. Then he leaned back, allowing himself a moment of stillness as he awaited a response that would draw Tinman into this shared realm of pixels and play. Tommy's eyes fixed on the screen, its blue glow casting an otherworldly light across his determined face. Seconds crawled by, each one a lifetime of anticipation, until the console spat out a stark message in bold red letters: ‘undeliverable’. "Figures," Tommy muttered under his breath, a frown creasing his brow. The bitter taste of disappointment settled on his tongue as he leaned back against the seat, its worn fabric whispering tales of countless others who had sat there before him. The realization hit him with the weight of a falling star. Of course, reaching a Champion Gamer like Tinman was a feat akin to scaling Olympus Mons barehanded. These elite players roamed the higher echelons of Ares Dome, shrouded in their privilege, untouched by the likes of a free colonist member. Tommy let out a sigh, fingers dancing over the smooth surface of the control panel absentmindedly. He was just a kid with his brothers' old gear and a heart full of dreams. His older siblings, once avid gamers themselves, now chased different horizons; one at the schooner's helm, carving a path through the stars, the other delving into the mysteries of navigation alongside Pa. In this galaxy of games and grandeur, Tommy knew his place. No magical workaround or secret passage would grant him access to the revered circle of Champions—not without the currency of status or wealth. A spark of rebellion flickered within him, a stubborn refusal to accept the barriers set before him. "Access denied," Tommy whispered to himself, echoing the unsympathetic voice of the gaming universe. But in his mind, a plan began to form, nebulous and daring—an idea that just might bridge the gap between him and the untouchable realm of Champion Gamers. Tommy's gaze flickered to the corner of the control panel, where a small, unassuming button lay in wait. It was labeled 'non-emergency medical hold,' a lifeline for those in need of a momentary reprieve from the fervor of gaming. With a furtive glance around the cramped interior of the pod, ensuring his solitude remained unbreached, he extended a finger and pressed it down with hesitant force. The screen before him stirred to life, its pixels coalescing into words that demanded an explanation for the sudden halt in play. Tommy's heart raced as he considered his options. He could fabricate a tale of dire physical ailment, but honesty, he believed, would serve him best in this moment of trickery. His fingers, cold and trembling, danced across the virtual keyboard. "I have to go to the bathroom," he typed, the simplicity of the statement standing in stark contrast to the complexity of his actual predicament. Seconds stretched into an eternity as he awaited the system's judgment. Then, like a benevolent overseer bestowing mercy upon its subject, the computer acquiesced with clinical indifference. "Medical hold approved, two minutes authorized." Tommy exhaled, relief washing over him in waves. Within the confines of his temporary sanctuary, time was now both ally and adversary—a precious resource afforded to him, yet one that ticked away with unrelenting swiftness. Tommy severed the connection with a jab of his finger, the vibrant world of the Dome dissolving into the stark reality of his bunk. He lay there for just a heartbeat, the urgency of the situation gripping him like a vice. His avatar, now frozen in time within the virtual space, would linger only briefly before the pod deemed it absent and surrendered its shelter to another eager gamer. With no time to waste, Tommy flung himself off the bunk. His bare feet slapped against the cold metal floor, each step echoing down the corridor like the staccato rhythm of a clock counting down the seconds he had left. He skidded around corners with practiced ease, his heart pounding a fierce drumbeat in his chest. The sounds of the schooner's creaking embrace were muffled by the determination that filled his mind, propelling him forward with single-minded focus. At last, he reached the cabin harboring Draco, its door ajar as if in silent invitation. The dim glow from the latern hanging from an over-head beam cast long shadows across the small space, where Draco lay still upon the bunk. His eyes, closed and unseeing, feigned sleep. "Draco," Tommy whispered, pausing at the threshold. The urgency of their plight hung between them, an invisible thread taut with the gravity of their next actions. Tommy's shadow fell across the bunk, his breaths quick and shallow from the sprint. The room was quiet, save for the faint murmur of the schooner's workings—a symphony of creaks and groans that spoke of life amidst the vastness of the waters beyond. "Hey, you awake?" Tommy's voice cut through the silence, tentative yet laden with an urgency that could not afford to be ignored. On the bunk, Draco lay motionless, a figure carved from stillness itself. "Yes," Draco replied. His voice was a soft exhalation, a mere ripple in the air that did little to disturb the quietude of the room. With eyes remaining sealed tight, as if unwilling to break their communion with whatever visions held them captive, he offered no further explanation nor inquiry. Tommy's fingers danced across the virtual interface, a staccato rhythm of urgency and hope. The Dome’s rules were clear as crystal: two minutes was all he had before his avatar would vanish into the ether, relinquishing the pod to another eager gamer. “I’m on a two-minute medical hold to use the bathroom,” Tommy murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as if afraid to shatter the precarious bubble of time encasing him. “I’m trying to contact Tinman to let her know you’re safe, but she has a ‘friends only’ block on her instant messenger.” Draco's eyes flickered open, dilating slightly as they adjusted to the dim light of the cabin. "There's an AI code to bypass the block," he said, his voice rasping like dry leaves in the wind. In the confining space of the bunk, his words carried a weight that belied their simple form. "In the subject line, type AI3497834. It will over-ride the block." With a nod that set his own nerves on edge, Tommy pivoted back towards the door, his feet now guided by the beacon of Draco's knowledge. "Got it," Tommy whispered, breathless with purpose. He charged back to his bunk, the cramped quarters of the schooner closing in around him like the innards of some great beast. With deft fingers, he reattached the headset, the world dissolving into the pixelated brilliance of the Ares Gaming Dome. Inside the virtuality, the silence of the pod a symphony of synthesized sounds that both excited and overwhelmed the senses. Yet Tommy's focus remained laser-sharp on the task before him. He summoned a private screen, its surface aglow with promise, and began to type. Each letter was an incantation, each number a step closer to Cass. The AI code was his key to a forbidden door, AI3497834 a sequence of salvation. With the final digit entered, he hammered the send button as if striking the anvil of fate. The wait was a mere heartbeat, a singular moment suspended between hope and despair. Before him materialized the image of a girl, her sandy hair restrained in a practical ponytail, her green eyes wide pools of anticipation. She was not just any girl; she was Tinman, her presence in the virtual sphere as commanding as it was unexpected. Her likeness held the room, her gaze piercing through the digital ether, reaching out to touch the core of Tommy's intent. Tommy's heart raced as the screen flickered, bringing Cass into sharp focus within the confines of his pod. Her image, a digital emissary from afar, held a demanding poise; her voice, though composed of binary echoes, pierced the virtual silence with an authority that belied her youth. "Who are you, and how do you have Draco’s over-ride code?" Cass demanded, her green eyes narrowing with suspicion, reflecting a mind seasoned by games of strategy and deception. "Hi, my name is Tommy, my username is Mackerel," he replied, his words measured, trying to bridge the gulf of cyberspace with earnest sincerity. "We pulled Draco out of the river; he's safe, but we had to confirm his crazy story is true, and that you’re his sister." The pixels that made up Cass's face shifted subtly, as if mimicking the nuances of a real-life expression. Her eyes were red with days of grief. In those simulated features, Tommy could see the gears of her mind working, piecing together the puzzle of his unexpected intrusion into her fortified digital realm. Cass's face, illuminated by the glow of the screen, paled. Her lips parted in shock, a hand rising unconsciously to touch her throat. "Oh my God! We thought Draco was dead!" she blurted out. The words came in a rush, each syllable laced with a cocktail of relief and disbelief. Tommy adjusted his position within the confines of the pod, feeling the worn cushion mold around him. He watched her reaction closely, wishing he could reach through the screen and offer some semblance of comfort. "He's here with us on our fishing schooner," he said, his voice steady despite the churn of emotions inside him. "But we can't turn around; the river is too swollen and the current too strong." The artificial light flickered across Cass's features as if reflecting the tumultuous waters Tommy had described. For a moment, there was silence, save for the distant clamor of the Dome's lower levels that scarcely penetrated the pod's enclosure. Cass's eyes locked onto Tommy's through the digital interface, conveying a surge of gratitude and concern. There, in the virtual space between them, floated a bridge of understanding - a connection wrought from urgency and a shared desire to protect what was precious. Cass's question came through the interface, her voice threaded with urgency. "When can you bring him back?" "We're delivering a load of fish to a mining town south of here," he replied, his tone even, betraying none of the helplessness that clawed at his insides. Outside the pod, the Dome buzzed with life, a cacophony unheard within the sealed cocoon. "Then we have to wait for the river to go back to normal." A flicker of frustration crossed Cass's face, an ephemeral cloud against a determined countenance. The simplicity of the plan belied the complexity of their predicament, and they both knew it. Cass's eyes, usually as steady as a geologist's compass, now reflected a storm of alarm. "I know that town," she said, the words tumbling out like boulders in a landslide. "You can't take Draco there. The Ares Corporation is looking for him." The weight of her revelation hung in the virtual air, an unseen asteroid field between their avatars. Tommy's heart skipped a beat, but he maintained his composure, aware that every second counted. "And why doesn't he connect with me directly?" Cass pressed, her eyebrows knitting together in a tapestry of concern and confusion. Tommy offered a helpless shrug, the movement causing his avatar to mimic a marionette lacking grace. "He said when he got dunked in the river it... I don't know..." He searched for the right words as though they were rare minerals hidden beneath Ares soil. "Shorted him out or something. He can't connect." A mixture of understanding and frustration played across Cass's features. Her resolve did not waver, though; it was the bedrock upon which her determination stood firm. Silence fell for a moment, stretching through the digital realm. Cass's gaze shifted abruptly, her attention momentarily stolen by a silent interlocutor. She returned her focus to Tommy, urgency etching her words with sharp edges. "Can you at least slow down? The flood beached our boat up on the bank, but Dad is working on getting it back in the water. Our boat is fast; we can catch up with you and get Draco." Tommy hesitated, the gravity of the situation anchoring him in place. He nodded slowly, determination glinting in his virtual eyes. "I'll talk to my Pa," he promised. The exchange, though brief, was charged with the electricity of hope against the dark canvas of their dilemma. "Okay, I've put you on my friends list, call me back as soon as you can," Cass said, her voice a beacon of resolve in the digital void. Her image flickered with the precision of code and light, a testament to the advanced technology that connected them across vast distances. Tommy gave a quick nod, his fingers poised above the controls, ready to sever the connection. "Will do, Tinman. And thanks." The sentiment was brief but heartfelt, an acknowledgment of the bridge they had just built between their two separate worlds. With a decisive press of a button, Tommy severed the link, the screen before him going dark as if a star had blinked out of existence. He opened his eyes to the dim confines of his bunk, the tangible world rushing back to greet him. Reality's grip was cold compared to the warm glow of the Ares Gaming Dome. Draco was standing over him, a silent sentinel in the cramped space. His expression held a question that lingered in the air like mist over the Ares plains they both knew well. Tommy could see the anticipation in Draco's stance, the way his body seemed to lean into an invisible current, eager for news from home. Draco's gaze bore into Tommy, his voice no more than a whisper carved out of the silence. "Cass?" Tommy met Draco's questioning eyes with a steady look, warmth spreading through him as he delivered the reassuring news. "She's safe," he began, the weight of relief evident in his tone. " Your catamaran beached up on the bank of the creek, and your Pa is working on getting it back in the water." His hand sliced through the space between them, mimicking the motion of setting a vessel aright. "They’re going to try to catch up with us and get you." In that moment, the cramped bunk became a sanctum of possibilities, the future unfurling like a chart of unexplored waters. Draco's expression, once marooned in uncertainty, found anchor in the prospect of reunion. Tommy rose, his movements deliberate and gentle, as he slid an arm beneath Draco's shoulders. The boy's frame was fragile within the circle of Tommy's steadying grasp, a stark contrast to the sturdy wooden beams that cradled the vessel they inhabited. "Come on," Tommy urged in a whisper, his voice a low murmur meant only for Draco's ears, "let’s get you back to bed." Draco swayed slightly, leaning into the warmth of Tommy's side, the motion reminiscent of reeds bending to the mercy of a soft breeze. His pallid face had taken on a ghostly hue under the swinging lantern light, yet there was something akin to solace that flickered across his features—a silent acknowledgement of the security offered in Tommy's command. "Ma will have a fit if she sees you up and walking around," Tommy added with the hint of a chuckle catching in his throat. The cabin around them, brimming with the subtle creaks of wood and whispers of water lapping against the hull, held its breath as the two boys navigated their way through the narrow space. Each footstep was measured, the careful dance of one who knows well the rocking disposition of a schooner at sea. Draco, trusting and acquiescent, allowed himself to be guided by the surety of Tommy's presence. As they reached the berth, the soft mattress beckoned, promising rest and respite from the tumultuous events that had churned like a maelstrom just beyond the porthole's view. With reverence, Tommy eased Draco down onto the bed, tucking the coarse blanket around him as if to ward off more than the chill of the night air. In this small act lay a brotherhood that needed no blood oath, born instead from shared trials and the unspoken promise to stand fast against the tide. "Rest now," Tommy murmured, his voice carrying the weight of a vigil kept, the sacred duty to watch over one who has weathered storms both real and metaphorical. Draco's eyelids fluttered in response, a wordless agreement sealed as sleep beckoned with open arms. Tommy stood by, sentinel and savior in equal measure, until the rhythm of Draco's breathing matched the sway of the schooner—steady, certain, carrying them both towards the dawn of new possibilities.