#raftbur

General was assassinated by Punz during his election day. The shot hit him straight in the head, and there was a panic. There was never a chance for Quackity & Schlatt to combine parties as the assassination attempt happened before the readings. Due to the events, the parties of Pog and Swag came together and ran into hiding just outside of L'manburg, worried others may become targets. General doesn't know what happened after his death.

Milo slipped and fell off of his sky ship while saving one of his pet hens. Falling off is a common occurrence and usually he is caught by one of the Skygods, who place him back on the ship. He fell too low, deep into the void, and when the hands tried to scoop him up, they hit a wall. He'd fallen too deep. It is questionable on whether he actually died or not, but he woke up on the couch in the apartment all the same.

Ishmael was booted off the edge of a cliff by a goat named aptly named Schlatt while scouting for his bird wife. He hit the rocks in the water below and by the time she'd scooped him out, he was already gone. She carried his body to a long off boat so Gunk would know what had happened to his dear older brother. He got a proper sailor's funeral, not that he'd know.

Bec was caught in a raid at the dome. He'd gone during a risky time because members of his group had been running low on supplies and he didn't want them to make a supply run. He was caught. He was outnumbered and he was looted for all he had at gunpoint, including his rad gear. The air itself burned yet he didn't beg. He was shot point blank because he refused to give away the members of his group's location. He feared they'd be raided of all they had too. He doesn't know if they're safe.

The air hung heavy and quiet as a small group looked amongst one another, struggling for what to say, to do.

The air was sour on Wilbur’s tongue.

“That was… it could’ve gone better.”

It could’ve gone better was an understatement.

It was hard to be gentle about such an awkward question. Are you as old as you say you are? It was even harder when those in that room were awkward in social situations to begin with. How old are you really?

Ishmael tapped his fingers gently against his arm, this didn’t pool right for him. Like brine in the ocean it churned in his gut and something made him feel sick.

This was in part his own fault. There was an unspoken sort of understanding between the two- himself and Becquerel. They connected in ways others didn’t.

Even so, he couldn’t let suspicions lie dormant. He knew that among the others, he was one of the oldest. They were all the same, deep down and somewhere. Many shared similar names, backgrounds and beginnings, friends and foes. Others were wildly different but it was the looks in their eyes, their voice, their passions that were their tells.

They were all very similar, and yet, different enough that they were practically their own people. From different places, times...most of them had arrived at around the same time, same era. Blue had said he was 24 when he’d first died, meaning those from his world were about the same.

Ishmael had been older, he knew that. He’d practically raised a kid on his own, from when he was a young teen to being able to be on his own. His dear friend- brother, Gunk.

Becquerel had been assumed to be like the others, he’d had the story to tell and scars like all the rest.

But something was different… off, and Ishmael had been worried he was far younger than the front he put on, which, at least in his mind, was an important detail the others should know of, or be on the lookout for.

He hadn’t expected Becquerel to practically be cornered.

It was his fault, the songbird had been cornered and it flew off, what else would’ve happened?

“I’ll check on him, alright? Try to- try to talk to him. Let’s not do this again, like this, aye?”

Ishmael shuffled from his spot, glancing back to meet the other eyes on him, before twisting the knob of the door and quietly following after where Becquerel had gone.

The air of the cool night washed over him, sending Ishmael back to his days where he’d follow the ocean’s current under the moonlight. The only thing missing was the salty sea breeze.

The back deck was small- he’d come to learn you couldn’t expect much from an apartment of this size, at least that’s what he’d seen, but the night was all but silent.

Crickets chirped quietly, and the soft sounds of metal rattling against metal drew Ishmael’s gaze to the edge of the wooden deck.

Becquerel sat quietly, a ring of fine stretched leather and metal rings tapped quietly against the palm of his hand. The jingles followed the thud of his tambourine, joining the songs of the crickets. Ishmael found that the songs of land were something he’d never grow tired of.

No words were spoken as Ishmael found a seat just beside Becquerel, leaving a space between the two- the gentle thuds of the instrument hadn’t faltered, nor had the other looked up.

Silence was allowed to breathe and steep for a few moments as Ishmael looked to the sky. The stars twinkled between clouds and the ocean sailor noted they weren’t quite the same to what he was used to seeing.

Far more dim, some followed different patterns, but stars were stars and everyone was connected beneath them.

“You...you have a brother right, you’ve mentioned him, with the dome. Tommy right?”

Gentle thuds paused for a moment, and picked up again, and the sailor had taken that as confirmation.

“I have a brother too. Gunk. Silly name- but we all had silly names, really. Named ourselves. We... I was much younger… he was hardly older than a tot, but he had already had the drive and love for the sea flowing through him, and it was when he was no more than a baker’s dozen worth of moons that we decided to set sail on our own.”

Ishmael glanced over at Becquerel for only a moment. It was hard not to see his brother then.

“I taught him everything, though I learned plenty from him. It was...not long ago, that we’d finally parted ways. We’d sailed together for years. He’d never gotten to be a boy, I hadn’t really either. It’s how things were. You learned to sail the endless oceans, learned to live either at sea or in the crowded towns, what was left of land. I tried though, tried to let him have what moments he could to fool about, be a kid. I had to protect him. As strong as he was, as independent as he was...he couldn’t always be that way. Sometimes...he just needed someone to be there.”

A new sound joined the gentle thud and the metal chimes, the soft tapping of fingers against wood as Ishmael joined in the music of the night, the calming sounds, continuing after another moment.

“Me...you, Gunk, Tommy... children didn’t get to exist, for any of us, aye? No time to fool about, to be boys, kids... it’s not the case that you’re not one though, are you? It’s the case of not being able to be one. Never having the chance.”

Becquerel looked up at the sky, letting the leather tap the palm of his hand, letting a tear trail down his cheek, not daring to disturb the time he kept with the tambourine. Tommy… he’d tried so hard to let him…

“He’s 14. Tommy is 14.”

“That’s….Gunk was 13. He’s well older now...and you?”

The soft drums of the tambourine slowed and trickled to a gentle stop, Becquerel bringing a shaking hand to his face, gently wiping the tears from his cheeks.

“I’m 17, I’m no kid, Ishmael.”

“Gunk was hardly older than you really, when we parted. You...remind me of him. Never really got to be a boy, independent, strong willed.”

Ishmael turned to face Becquerel, holding his hand out to the other as he crossed a leg over the other.

“You’re right, you’re not a kid, never got to be one. You shouldn’t be treated as one, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need another person around, and I’ll be here, aye? Like you are for Tommy, like I was for my Gunk.”

Tears fell freely down Becquerel’s face, and in one gentle swoop the gap was closed as Ishmael pulled Becquerel to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around the other, his chin resting atop a mop of ashy brown hair.

Soft hiccups were muffled by Ishmael’s shirt as Becquerel softly cried into him.

“My song bird, little finch, you’re not alone and you’re strong, but I’ll be right here, right here for you.”

“P… promise?”

“I swear, a sailors swear, can’t break it, little finch.”

Becquerel was no kid, no child. He never could’ve been, never had the chance to, he was practically grown.

But he could be, in some sense, if only it was to only open up for a moment. If only for a moment, he could be scared and sad and cry and break. He’d let himself be a kid, if only for a moment.

Ishmael held him tight, he swore he would as he did Gunk. He swore Becquerel wouldn’t be alone, his finch.

Gunk had been right once, he hadn’t the heart to retire, to give up.

Becquerel wasn’t just a kid. He had the scars and stories to tell otherwise.