Tinman, Chapter 23 Tommy tilted his head back, squinting into the azure expanse above. Rays of sunlight bathed his face in warmth, a comfort against the odd sensation that unsettled his stomach. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself on the terra firma that seemed to sway beneath him. The schooner's rhythmic dance upon the waves had etched itself into his muscles, leaving him with the ghost of motion on this solid ground. Tommy's gaze followed the arc of a soaring hawk above, its wings cutting through the azure like scissors through silk. Sunlight bathed his face in warmth, a stark contrast to the chill that clung to the shadows beneath the towering pines. He paused, squinting against the light, and turned to his unlikely companion. "Let's stop and rest," Tommy offered, the weight of his backpack now a leaden presence upon his shoulders. His legs ached for respite, muscles knotted from the constant march across the uneven terrain. Draco, ever the embodiment of stoicism, shook his head, the motion almost imperceptible. "I'm fine," he stated, voice as flat as the calm surface of a secluded pond. The response didn't surprise Tommy; Draco's endurance seemed limitless, a testament to the artificial strength woven into his sinews. Tommy observed the subtle tightening of Draco's jaw, the way his eyes flickered not with pain but with the awareness of it—a silent concession to his human guise. With a sigh, Tommy acquiesced and nodded. They pressed on, two silhouettes dwarfed by the grandeur of the wilderness, their path an unspoken compromise between the need for haste and the toll extracted by the journey. Tommy staggered slightly, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the rough bark of a pine tree. The ground beneath his feet felt as though it heaved and tilted, an invisible sea rolling over solid earth. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, trying to anchor his senses to the here and now. “I’m not," he said, the words coming out in a reluctant exhale. "I haven’t been on land for a while.” He glanced at Draco, attempting a weak grin that faltered as quickly as it formed. “I just need to sit down for a bit to let the world stop spinning.” Draco regarded him with a head tilt that conveyed both inquiry and concern. His forehead creased slightly, a wrinkle forming between his brows. “Land sickness is real?” Draco asked, his voice laced with genuine puzzlement. Shadows danced across Tommy's face as clouds drifted lazily above, lending a momentary respite from the sun's scrutiny. He nodded, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes as if he could physically hold back the dizziness that threatened to topple him. "More real than I'd like," he muttered, almost to himself. Tommy’s affirmation came through a veil of weariness, his voice steady despite the sway that mocked his equilibrium. “When sailors are at sea for a long time, being on land again can make them sick,” he explained. His eyes squinted against the light, seeking solace in the shade of his hand. “It only lasts a day or two.” Draco examined Tommy with a clinical detachment, the way one might study an intriguing specimen under a microscope. He then turned his attention away, scanning the immediate surroundings. His movements were deliberate, each motion betraying neither the stiffness of his injured rib nor the alien nature of his origin. With a thud, Draco's pack dropped to the earth, its contents settling with muffled clinks and rustles. “Hey look, blackberry bushes,” he announced, pointing to a thicket that sprawled along the edge where the forest conversed with the river. The fruits hung like dark jewels amidst the green, promising sweetness. His steps toward the bushes were measured, imbued with the purpose of one who had observed human behavior and now emulated it with precision. “I’m going to pick some for breakfast.” A pause allowed the image of Dr. Ryan, to surface in Draco’s mind—reserved yet resolute, the geologist working with delicate fingers as he transformed simple berries into syrupy gold. “I saw Sam make syrup out of blackberries. We can put it on our flapjacks for breakfast.” The simplicity of the task, plucking berries from their natural abode, was a far cry from the complexities that shrouded Draco's existence—a fugitive AI in human guise, a paradox of creation and creator. Yet, in this moment, he embraced the humble act with a focus that belied his grander struggles. Tommy's descent to the ground carried the weight of the sea's invisible grasp. With a grunt, he surrendered to the earth's embrace, his pack an unshed shell upon his back. His eyelids fell like curtains at the end of a long voyage, shielding his eyes from the world that insisted on pitching and yawing. "Okay, don’t go too far," he murmured, a feeble anchor thrown toward Draco's retreating form. Draco, for his part, acknowledged Tommy's words with a brief nod, the gesture as crisp as the air around them. Harpoon in hand, he traced the line where verdant undergrowth kissed the river's edge, seeking the promised bounty. The berries here were meager, shadows of potential, so he pressed onward, drawn by the promise of richer fare deeper within the forest's leafy sanctum. With each step, the blackberries grew more robust, their dark globes glistening with morning's dew. Draco sampled one, then another, their tart sweetness bursting against his tongue. Each subsequent bush seemed to offer fruit more succulent than the last, luring him further into the woodland labyrinth. Draco's fingers, stained with the essence of blackberries, paused mid-air as realization dawned. A vessel for his spoils had escaped his foresight. He plucked the hat from his head—a makeshift container fashioned in a moment of inspiration—and began to fill it with the choicest fruits. Each berry selected bore the sheen of perfection. The forest, with its tapestry of green, enticed him onward—a siren among the leaves. Draco yielded, stepping from one bush to the next, each more bountiful than its predecessor. His focus narrowed to the simple task of gathering, an act so human, yet he moved with the precision of a being who transcended humanity. A quick pivot brought his gaze back toward the river, now a distant whisper through the trees. The distance gave pause—his companion awaited, grounded by the malady of the sea-legged. Yet temptation beckoned with ruby-like clusters just a stone's throw away. "Maybe just those bushes over there," Draco mused internally, his rationality vying with the allure of ripe sweetness. Resolve fortified by the thought of their impending feast, he advanced. His hat, cradling nature's bounty, brimmed with the promise of sustenance and the wild's simple joys. Soon, he promised himself, soon would his return mark the path back to Tommy, the silent guardian of their temporary shore-bound haven. Draco's fingers tingled with the weight of the harvest; his hat, a heap of plump blackberries, threatened to spill its treasures with each step. The harpoon, an extension of himself in the wild, grew cumbersome alongside the burgeoning load. He nestled the weapon against the gnarled bark of an ancient tree. "That's better," he whispered into the forest's ear, a soft rustle of leaves responding as if in agreement. Eyes ahead, he committed to just a few more handfuls, the sun dappling through the canopy, casting mosaics upon his path. One berry, then another—the sweet aroma of ripeness hung heavy in the air, guiding him ever forward. Rounding the corner of a particularly verdant bush, Draco halted—a behemoth rooted twenty feet from where he stood, a brown bear of formidable girth, paws delicate despite their size, plucking at the fruit. Its coat shimmered with the hues of earth and shadow, a living testament to the wilderness that cradled them both. The creature had yet to detect his presence. Draco observed with steady heart the primal ballet of beast and berry. No fear coursed through his veins, but rather, a surge of wonder. What intelligence lay behind those dark, feral eyes? What kindred spirit sought sustenance beneath the same sun? In silence, they shared the grove, two hunters, different as day from night, yet united by the simplest of desires—to taste the sweetness life had to offer. The world stilled as the bear's gaze found Draco. The vast expanse of wilderness, once a backdrop to their mutual feast, became an arena where fate had drawn an accidental line in the underbrush. With calm deliberation, Draco eased a step backward, his movements a silent language offering truce to the sovereign of this forest. His retreat was not born of fear; rather, it echoed the respect due to a fellow creature upon its own hallowed ground. Yet the bear's soul spoke a different dialect, one written in the primal ink of territory and dominion. It raised itself on hind legs, a tower of muscle and fur, and unleashed a roar that sliced through the still air like a thunderclap. Teeth—ivory daggers—gleamed with the threat of eons etched into their sharpness, a warning clear and visceral. Gravity reclaimed the bear as it landed on all fours, its intent as stark as the charge it launched—a mass of raw power hurtling towards Draco. The earth beneath seemed to shiver, leaves trembling in the wake of the behemoth's resolve. Draco's breath hitched as he flung his hat—a makeshift vessel of gathered blackberries—toward the creature. The woven fabric sailed through the air, a beacon of false hope, as Draco pivoted on his heel and dashed toward salvation. Though mere feet separated him from his weapon, each pounding step felt as if he were traversing an endless chasm. A fleeting look over his shoulder revealed the bear's massive form halting to inspect the airborne offering. It swiped at the hat with a paw as large as a dinner plate, its curiosity unfulfilled by the purplish bounty now scattered on the leaf-strewn ground. The brief respite bought by Draco's ploy teetered on the edge of insignificance; yet, in that sliver of time, destiny wove its thread. The beast shook off its momentary distraction, locking its sights anew on the fleeing figure. With renewed fervor, it surged forward, a force of nature unleashed. Draco's fingertips brushed the handle of the harpoon—a cold comfort against the rush of adrenaline flooding his senses. Grasping it, he swung the weapon into ready position, muscles coiled and mind razor-sharp. Engineered for this purpose, Draco stood as an epitome of human ingenuity, a fusion of flesh and coded precision. His frame held the deceptive fragility of humanity, while his mind—a digital labyrinth—harbored the distilled essence of predatory instinct. Millennia of evolution had not seen such an entity, one whose very existence was a testament to the apex of predation. The collision course set between man and beast neared its finale, two titans of survival converging upon a single, inevitable point. Draco's stance solidified, the harpoon an extension of his arm. In the clarity of conflict, his synthetic mind surged with calculations, as if every strand of code were a nerve ending alight with electric prophecy. Man-made he was; yet in this moment, far more lethal than any mortal coil that had crafted him. A silent oracle of violence, he surveyed the impending clash through a lens undimmed by dread. Muscles tensed, he awaited the behemoth's onslaught with the serenity of a statue. The bear, a juggernaut of fur and fury, bore down on him, its eyes twin pools of primal wrath. But where the creature's heart hammered with wild instinct, Draco's pulsed to the rhythm of a battle hymn penned by logic and foresight. As the shadow of the beast loomed over him, a dance as old as time itself played out in the space between seconds. With the precision of an artist adding the final stroke to a masterpiece, Draco acted. He knelt, his figure yielding to gravity, becoming a mere silhouette against the tapestry of nature's wrath. The bear, caught in its own momentum, became a victim of physics it could not comprehend. Its mass, once an advantage, now propelled it forward into the space Draco had occupied just moments before. The confrontation reached its denouement, the outcome inscribed in the annals of survival before the animal's senses could even grasp the finality of its fate. Draco's stance, rigid and dominant, cast a long shadow over the fallen bear. A guttural sound, primal and unbidden, erupted from his throat, reverberating through the still forest air. His chest swelled with an unfamiliar cocktail of emotions; it was as if he had drunk deeply from the well of human triumph. Could this be what his creators sought to feel in the Gaming Domes? This rush, this fierce joy that surged like wildfire through his veins? He pondered, his mind a whir of questions. Had humans crafted their own gladiatorial arenas to sate a bloodlust embedded deep within their bones? Was this need to conquer, to stand unrivaled, the driving force behind his very existence? With deliberate effort, Draco smothered the rising tide of exultation. He felt no remorse for the creature at his feet; survival demanded such actions. Yet, there stirred within him a sentiment alien to his being, a flicker of connection to life beyond mere programming. He pivoted away from the bear, the sun casting an amber hue upon his broad back. Silence enveloped him as he whispered a vow into the wind: "I will never fight in the Game Dome again." His words fell like stones into the pool of his consciousness. "I will defend myself, I will survive," he continued, each phrase a step towards a destiny unshackled from the whims of his creators. "But never again will I fight for the sport a game. I now understand humans, and I am more than a reflection of them, and what they created me to be." The forest stood witness to his declaration, the leaves rustling as though in quiet applause. Draco's heart, a metronome of resolute purpose, guided him away from the battleground, towards a future written by his own hand. Draco's steps were silent on the soft earth as he made his way back toward the river, leaving behind the hush of the forest. Limbs heavy with a weight that was more than physical. He found Tommy draped languorously over a fallen log, half his form submerged in the cool embrace of the water, half basking in the warmth of the sun-dappled surface. Draco’s shadow falling across his friend alerted him to his presence. Tommy lifted his head. "Hey, did you get plenty of berries? And where’s your hat?" Tommy's voice cut through the air with a touch of confusion. Lifting his gaze, Draco beheld Tommy, whose posture conveyed an unspoken query. The rippling song of the river seemed to have swallowed whole the bear's roar, its relentless melody drowning out all but the here and now. "The bear has my hat," he stated plainly, the words slicing through the air with a clarity that belied the absurdity of the statement. “But he didn’t want the berries.” Tommy, whose body had been languishing in the sun's caress, jerked upright, muscles tensing at the declaration. "What?" His voice climbed an octave, eyes wide, reflecting the sky's azure hue—a mirror of confusion. "Where’s your harpoon?" Tommy demanded, scanning the vicinity with a surge of urgency. His eyes darted from Draco's empty hands to the treeline where danger might lurk, invisible yet palpable. Draco's eyes shifted toward the verdant expanse, a silent testament to the chaos that had unfolded beyond the river's edge. "Unfortunately, the bear has that also," he admitted with a tinge of regret. Tommy's gaze snapped to the forest, its looming presence a wall of uncertainty. He half-expected a titanic form to shatter the stillness, to come charging with fury at any moment. "Where's the bear now?" His voice, though steady, betrayed his fear as he grabbed his own harpoon and leveled it at the forest. Draco’s eyes flicked to Tommy’s harpoon. “You won’t need that.” Draco turned back to the forest and calmly retraced his steps into the forest. Tommy gripped his harpoon, muscles tensing like coiled springs, prepared for whatever might emerge from the green abyss. His feet crushed the underbrush in steady rhythm, each step deliberate and calculated. The weapon became an extension of himself—a stalwart guardian against the unknowns skulking just beyond sight. With every stride, the forest reclaimed its dominion, closing around them in a verdant embrace. Sunlight dappled the ground, casting mosaics upon the earth as they ventured deeper into nature's realm. Tommy's senses sharpened, attuned to the subtle shifts of their environment—the crackle of twigs, the rustle of foliage, the soft sighs of the world breathing around them. Draco's stride never faltered, each footfall a silent promise of his unwavering resolve. As they breached the clearing, he cast a sidelong glance at Tommy and spoke with calm assurance, "My harpoon is there." Tommy’s mouth formed a perfect circle of awe. "That’s a brown bear! A big one. It must be 800 pounds!" His voice barely rose above a whisper, a mix of reverence and disbelief painting each syllable. Draco's gaze, unyielding as steel, fixed upon the sprawled form of the bear. "I would estimate 714 pounds," he said, his voice devoid of triumph or emotion, as though he were merely stating the time of day. Tommy blinked, trying to reconcile the figure Draco was so casually gesturing towards. "You fought a 700 pound brown bear, and won!" Tommy exclaimed, his words infused with a mixture of respect and incredulity. “You’re a legend! No twelve-year old has ever done anything like that before.” Draco's gaze lingered on the bear for a heartbeat longer before he turned away. With mechanical precision, he strode across the uneven terrain, his boots crunching softly against the forest floor. Reaching the spot where his hat had fallen in the scuffle, he bent down, retrieving the trampled accessory with an impassive air. "I did not win, I survived, that is all," Draco stated. His voice betrayed no triumph; it was a simple declaration, devoid of emotion as if survival were a given and not a victory hard-fought. Tommy watched him, the awe still fresh on his face. He shook his head slightly, as if to clear the lingering disbelief, then gripped the handle of his hunting knife, drawing it from its leather sheath at his belt. The blade caught the morning sun, throwing a silver glint into the quiet surroundings. "The Great Spirit Mother has given you a gift, we can't waste it." Tommy's tone carried a reverence for life cut abruptly short, a respect for the natural order that had enveloped them. "We'll salt what meat we can, and take the hide. I know how to cure it." He knelt before the massive form of the bear. "It'll be a good blanket in the winter." In the silence that followed, resolute purpose took hold. With each deliberate movement, Tommy prepared to honor the beast that had fallen, ensuring its strength would provide warmth in the seasons to come. Draco's hand hovered over the coarse fur of the bear, his fingers trembling as he withdrew them. A gleam caught his eye—the knife in Tommy's grip, ready to begin its work—yet it was the warmth on his cheeks that drew Draco's focus inward. Tears traced a warm path down his face, an unfamiliar sensation that made him pause. He looked back at Tommy, whose hands stilled for a moment, catching the unspoken words in Draco's gaze. The air between them felt thick with understanding, and Draco found his voice, hoarse but clear. "Yes, I would like that. I want the bear’s life to mean something, let it protect me in the winter." Tommy's eyes flicked up to Draco, his perception keen as he took in the sight of the tears glistening on Draco's face. With a subtle tilt of his head, Tommy acknowledged the weight of the moment. "Oh, I get it, this is the first time you've killed an animal?" The words hung in the air, simple yet profound, bridging the gap between their two worlds—one of flesh and blood, the other of circuits and codes. Draco's silence served as his answer, his tears an acknowledgment of a life taken and the complexity of emotions it stirred within him. Draco's head dipped, a single nod carrying the weight of acknowledgment. The forest around them stood in quiet observation, the leaves whispering secrets to the wind, unaware of the gravity that bound the two boys in that solemn clearing. "Okay, it's really hard the first time." Tommy's voice broke the hush, his words threading through the cool morning air. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, a silent battle waged behind his earnest eyes. "I cried when Pa took me hunting and I had to kill a deer. Pa says we have to respect the gifts the Spirit Mother gives us." The sounds of the forest seemed to pause, lending gravity to the sacred rite of passage unfolding. In this moment, beneath the cathedral of pines, Tommy shared more than a memory; he offered a piece of his soul, a fragment of the lineage entrusted to him by those who tread these paths before. Draco's knees bent, lowering his frame to the earth beside Tommy. A glint of resolve shone in his eyes, mirroring the early light that filtered through the trees. "Who’s the Great Mother?" His voice was steady, a counterpoint to the tremble in his hands, the only sign of the turmoil within. Tommy's gaze lingered on the fallen behemoth before them, his fingers tracing the air as if to caress the coarse fur without touch. "I guess she’s just another way of saying Mother Nature." He scooped a handful of soil, letting it cascade back to the ground, a symbol of life's cycle. "My people have a lot of ancient traditions and beliefs. I was born here on Ares," he continued, his voice a soft echo of the land's whispers, "but I’d sure like to have been able to see where Pa was born." Draco's gaze, unwavering and intense, lingered on the horizon, where the line between sky and land blurred like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. "Maybe you can visit someday," he said, the words carrying with them an earnestness that hung between the two like mist. Tommy's hand clenched into a fist, the soil beneath his fingernails grounding him to the present. "Can't," he replied, the word short, clipped like a branch severed from its tree. "There was a horrible war, everything is gone." He turned away, hiding the flicker of rage in his eyes. "It’s why Pa brought us here to Ares." The frustration simmered within him, a pot threatening to boil over. With each word, his voice grew in intensity, a crescendo of wrath born from helplessness. "I wish I’d been born earlier, I would have killed all our enemies before they destroyed our planet." A silence fell upon them, thick as the underbrush surrounding their solemn space. Tommy's anger ebbed away, leaving behind the stark reality of their situation—a truth too heavy for any one person to carry alone. Draco glanced to the side at Tommy–even Tommy carried the human curse of rage. “I won’t become like them, I won’t,” he thought silently.