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Prologue
Franky and Iceburg were finally on fairly good terms with each other, after years of silent hatred and bitter memories.
Wen hings had calmed down after the whole CP9 farce, they had talked for hours, just relishing in the feeling of being brothers again. Having no bad blood hanging between them felt freeing for both.
Franky had cried, much like Iceburg in the past, as he declared how glad he was that Iceburg was alive. This time they had hugged instead of walking away from each other.
Now they both sat in Iceburg's office as Franky unveiled the plans for his ship and how he planned on using the Adam wood he had bought.
Iceburg’s breath caught in his throat as he looked over the plans of a masterpiece on his worktable. "This is beautiful Franky," he said breathlessly, after examining the plans further.
Franky blushed at the sudden compliment. He had expected something akin to, "it's a new battleship," or "still building weapons, eh?" but not a genuine approval.
Franky scratched the back of his neck, bashfully. "You really think so?"
"Yes, it's a brilliant ship," Iceburg praised, oblivious to Franky's face getting hotter by the minute.
"I want you to help me build it..." Franky mumbled so quietly that Iceburg almost missed it, had the room not been completely silent.
Iceburg froze. His jaw dropped a bit and the blueprints he'd been holding slipped from his fingers, landing with a heavy thump and scattering. Franky flinched. He looked away, dejected and ashamed, his face crumbling at the reaction. He thought Iceburg would be happy.
"I'm sorry, you can forget this ever happ—" he began, but Iceburg had other ideas. He slammed his hands onto the table and stood up. "Of course I'll help you build your dream ship!" he almost yelled, exited.
Franky, who had been even more startled by the sudden table slam, looked up with tears pricking the corners of his eyes. "What?" he asked. "I thought you were mad?" he continued in a small voice.
Iceburg, finally taking note of how the other looked, was baffled. He straightened up completely, walked around the table and crouched down to look up at Franky. "Why would I be mad? And at what? The blueprints? Or you asking me to help you?" Iceburg asked, looking at Franky softly.
"I mean... you didn't exactly like me making ships when we were younger..." Franky answered defensively, but still far too quietly for Iceburg's liking.
Iceburg sighed and placed his hand on Franky's cheek, forcing the younger man to look at him. Franky still avoided his eyes. "Look at me Franky," Iceburg commanded, kindly.
When Franky finally locked eyes with him, Iceburg continued. "That was when we were young and you didn't have a care in the world. You are a grown man now who knows his actions have consequences,"—Franky winced—"so, now I trust that you wouldn't build anything pointlessly dangerous, let alone show me such plans. So of course I would love to help you," Iceburg finished, soothing the frown lines around Franky’s eyes with his thumb.
Franky studied the older man, looking for any hint of deception or mockery in his face or words, but found none. He closed his eyes and nuzzled into Iceburg's palm, which was still cupping his cheek.
"Thank you," he whispered, smiling shyly as tears finally fell free from his lashes.
"Shh.. it's okay.." Iceburg shushed comfortingly, thumbing the tears away before they could even streak his cheeks.
Suddenly, embarrassed by the display, Franky shook of the other's hand and looked away coughing. "We should talk about the blueprints."
Iceburg, allowing the other to have his escape, smiled brightly and agreed. He got up slowly and walked back to his seat.
They looked over the blueprints together for hours, discussing what could be improved and what could be added. Finally in the early hours of the morning they both deemed that work could begin as soon as tomorrow--well, today, since they hadn't slept yet.
-=o0o=-
The jagged shores of the scrap heap island were alive with the rhythmic sounds of construction. For three days and nights, the air was thick with the scent of fresh sawdust, the sharp tang of welding sparks, and the earthy fragrance of wood.
Franky and Iceburg moved around the skeleton of the ship like parts of a single, well-oiled machine. Years of estrangement and bitter silence seemed to melt away with every timber they secured, and bring back the good old days of them working on the Puffing Tom together.
They barely needed words. A sharp whistle from Franky meant he needed a hoist; a simple nod from Iceburg signaled that a beam was perfectly level. They were running on pure adrenaline and less than twelve hours of sleep across 3 days, but neither cared. They were brothers again, building a dream amidst the towering mountains of discarded iron and wood.
By the fourth afternoon, the massive keel was laid, and they had begun installing the heavy structural supports for the lower decks. They had called Paulie, Lulu and Tilestone from dock 1 to help with the arduous task, and the men would be here soon.
"Hey, Bakaburg! Catch!" Franky yelled, tossing a heavy wrench across the deck.
Iceburg caught it cleanly with one hand, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. "Focus, Franky. If we misalign these support braces by even an inch, the hull won't hold the weight of the main mast."
"Please! Who do you think you’re talking to?" Franky laughed, wiping a streak of grease across his forehead. He patted the keel with one hand. "This beauty is going to be flawless. With your math and my style, nothing in this world could sink her."
Iceburg looked at his brother, his chest tightening with a profound sense of happiness. The heavy, suffocating anger he had carried for years felt lighter than it ever had. They were together again.
Then, something in the air shifted.
The scrap heap was completely exposed to Water 7's volatile weather, but the shift came without warning. The sky hadn't darkened, and the tide hadn't turned, but a freak, monstrous wave—a rogue surge from deep in the ocean—slammed violently into the rocky foundations of the island.
The impact was a deafening, booming roar that shook the very ground. The makeshift platforms and towers of rusted scrap metal shuddered violently under their feet.
At the exact same fraction of a second, a fierce, howling gust of wind ripped across the open scrapyard, shrieking like a dying animal.
"ICEBURG, LOOK OUT!!" Franky roared, his instincts kicking in instantly as the unstable scaffolding they had built around the hull groaned and swayed under the dual assault of the earth-shaking wave and the blinding gust of wind.
Above them, on a high ledge of the scrap heap, a heavy storage rack containing industrial supplies groaned. The fierce gust of wind caught the tarp covering it, like a sail. Ripping the rack from its makeshift foundations.
Time slowed down to a sickening crawl.
Iceburg stumbled backward, losing his footing on the trembling deck.
He looked up just in time to see a long and thin structural hollow steel pipe—scavenged for the ship's internal framework—slide free from the collapsing rack. It plummeted straight toward him, heavy, sharp, and lethal.
Franky didn’t hesitate. He didn't think about the consequences. He saw his brother was in danger, and his body moved on its own.
With a roaring cry, Franky lunged across the tilting deck, his boots skidding over the loose wood. He slammed his large hands into Iceburg’s torso, pushing the older man entirely out of the shadow of the falling metal pole.
Iceburg crashed hard against the timber hull, the breath driven violently from his lungs.
Iceburg scrambled to his hands and knees, gasping for air, his eyes frantically searching the chaos. "Franky—!"
THWOP! SHLORP!
The sound wasn't a metallic clang of the pipe hitting the deck. It was the sound of metal and flesh being pierced, one after the other. It was a wet, heavy and horrifying impact that vibrated through the very wood beneath them.
The howling wind suddenly felt miles away. The roaring water faded into an eerie, suffocating silence.
Franky stood perfectly still in the center of the deck. His arms were slightly raised, his fingers twitching helplessly. He wasn't crying out. He wasn't moving.
Iceburg’s gaze traveled down.
The long, hollow steel pipe had come down at a brutal, piercing angle. The jagged metal cylinder had driven straight through Franky’s torso, impaling him cleanly through the left side of his chest, just next to his sternum, and anchored itself deep into the Adam wood deck beneath him.
"Fra...nky...?" Iceburg’s voice was barely a whisper, a pathetic, broken sound.
Franky’s eyes were wide, staring blankly ahead. The color was draining from his face at a terrifying speed, leaving him a sickly, ghostly white. He tried to draw a breath, but all that came out was a wet, rattling gasp.
A thin, dark line of crimson began to spill from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto the pristine metal of the pipe and on the deck.
He looked down at his own chest, his jaw trembling in utter shock. He didn't seem to understand what had happened. Reaching out a shaky, uncoordinated hand, his fingers faintly brushed the cold steel protruding out of his chest, before his arm lost all strength and dropped heavily to his side, his vision swimming.
"No, no, no..." Iceburg scrambled forward on his knees, entirely oblivious to the sharp metal scraps tearing into his skin.
Franky’s knees buckled. He sagged forward, his body weight and gravity pulling him down. His body slithered down a good ten centimeters of the length of the hollow steel pipe until the crumpled armor plating of his chest caught against the metal, halting his descent and pinning him to the deck of their dream ship.
Iceburg reached Franky, his hands hovering over his brother's trembling shoulders, utterly paralyzed by the horrific scene. He didn't dare touch him, for fear of making it worse.
A sickening smell of burning wires and spilled cola immediately mingled with the heavy, coppery tang of blood. He wasn't just bleeding; the machinery keeping his broken body together was tearing itself apart.
"Franky! Stay with me! Don't you dare close your eyes!" Iceburg screamed. The professional, composed mayor of Water 7 was completely gone. He lunged forward, his hands reaching over Franky’s shoulders, feeling the wound on his back. He wanted to pull him free, but he knew moving the pipe could kill him instantly.
Franky let out a sound that made Iceburg’s blood run cold—a raw, wet, rattling cough. A heavy mixture of dark blood and cola trickled from his lips.
"Ice...burg..." Franky choked out. His voice lacked its usual booming resonance. It was weak, breathless, and trembling with agony, but it was entirely his own. "Are... you okay? You didn’t... get hurt.. right?"
"What are you saying? You're the one who's hurt! Just save your strength!" Iceburg yelled, tears finally spilling over his eyelids. He pressed his palms around the pipe going through his chest, in a pointless effort to apply pressure, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold himself up.
"HELP! ANYONE! WE NEED A MEDIC NOW!" he roared toward the empty scrab yard, his voice cracking with sheer terror.
Franky gripped Iceburg’s forearm. His large hand, usually capable of crushing steel, felt heavy and uncoordinated. His fingers left smears of warm blood on Iceburg’s skin, which washed away slowly as it started raining.
"Listen to me... Iceburg.." Franky whispered, his eyelashes fluttering heavily as he fought against the creeping darkness. "If... I don’t.. make it ...there's.. something I... always wanted.. to say.."
"Don't say that Franky! Look at me!" Iceburg begged, grabbing Franky's face with both hands, forcing him to lock eyes. Franky’s eyes were unfocused, his pupils dilated with shock. "You're going to tell me on your own terms when the doctors patch you up. We're going to finish this ship together, right? Tell me after."
A small, heartbreaking smile touched Franky's lips. He gasped, a painful, shuddering wheeze catching in his throat as his breathing grew shallower.
"The ship... is already perfect.. like this." Franky breathed, his grip on Iceburg's arm loosening, his fingers slipping away. "Take care of... the Franky house brats for me... will ya? Tell them... their boss was... super... until the end..."
"No! No final words! You aren't dying on me, Franky!" Iceburg sobbed, pressing his forehead against Franky’s right shoulder, his body wracked with desperate, helpless cries. "We just became brothers again! You can't leave me alone! Please, Franky, stay awake!"
"Hey... Iceburg...I'll miss.. you." Franky’s voice was barely a faint, breathless sigh now. His eyes slowly fluttered shut, his consciousness finally giving out under the immense trauma and blood loss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wind was still howling across Scrapheap island when the sound of approaching footsteps shattered the quiet, soothing, white noice of rain.
Paulie, Lulu, and Tilestone had just stepped off the transport boat, carrying heavy-duty chains and rigging gear. They had expected to be greeted by Franky’s loud, obnoxious laughter or Iceburg’s calm, authoritative directions.
Instead, they walked into a nightmare.
"HELP! ANYONE! WE NEED A MEDIC NOW!"
The voice that echoed through the rusted labyrinth of the scrapyard didn't sound like Iceburg in the slightest. It was raw, cracked, and completely unraveled by sheer terror.
Paulie froze, his eyes widening as the cigar slipped from his lips and dropped into the mud. "What the hell was that...?"
"That was the boss!" Tilestone bellowed, his usual booming voice suddenly tight with anxiety.
Without another word, all three foremen dropped their gear and bolted toward the skeleton of the new ship. They scrambled up the makeshift wooden gangplank, their heavy boots slamming against the deck, bracing themselves for an enemy attack or a collapsing hull.
But when they rounded the corner, the sight before them brought them to a dead halt.
Iceburg was on his knees. His pristine suit jacket was ruined, soaked through with rain, grease, dark sickly sweet cola, and a terrifying amount of bright, fresh blood. He was completely bent over, his forehead pressed against Franky’s right shoulder, his entire body wracking with desperate, uncontrollable sobs.
And Franky—the loud, larger-than-life cyborg who usually filled the entire shipyard with his presence—was completely limp, nailed ruthlessly to the wooden deck by a massive, hollow steel pipe driven straight through the left side of his chest.
Franky was suspended upright, his buckled knees just touching the floor, his entire body weight hanging heavily on the metal pipe. Half a meter of blood-slick steel protruded from his sternum, and his head was lolled forward onto his chest, completely unresponsive.
"What in the world...?" Lulu gasped, his hands flying to his mouth, his tools clattering to the floor. For once, the quiet shipwright was completely pale with shock.
Paulie took a trembling step forward, his jaw dropping as his eyes locked onto the jagged metal protruding from Franky's chest. The smell of burning wires and spilled cola was overwhelming. "Franky!? Iceburg...? What happened?!"
Hearing their voices, Iceburg snapped his head up. His face was a mask of pure agony, smeared with dirt and his brother’s blood, his eyes bloodshot and wide with panic.
"Paulie! Tilestone!" Iceburg screamed, his voice cracking desperately as he grabbed at Paulie’s coat. "He took the hit for me! The rack collapsed—he pushed me out of the way! He’s not breathing right, he’s losing too much blood! We need a doctor! Get a doctor now!"
Tilestone, usually the most boisterous of the group, stood completely paralyzed. His giant fists trembling at his sides as he looked at the blood pooling around the golden wood. "Fr... Fran... ky.. he's..."
"Don't just stand there!" Iceburg roared, completely losing his composure, his hands yet again hovering frantically over Franky's pale, cold face. "Help me! We have to get him off this island! Tilestone, send a message to the medical bay to get ready at Dock 1! Lulu, call Dr. Bushiba!"
Paulie was the first to snap back into reality, his brain overcoming the initial horror. He rushed to the other side of the pipe, kneeling down across from Iceburg. He reached out, carefully placing two fingers against Franky's neck, searching for a pulse.
It was there, but it was dangerously weak, thready, and fading fast.
"Iceburg, listen to me." Paulie said, his voice shaking but forced into a tone of grim authority. "We can't just pull this pipe out of his chest, and we can't pull it out of the deck. If we try to slide him up and off the top of this half-meter spike, gravity will pull his heavy upper half back down, and the jagged steel will tear his chest completely open. It'll kill him instantly.
Iceburg looked at Paulie, his chest heaving as tears continued to stream down his face. "Then what do we do, Paulie? He's dying right in front of me!"
"We have to cut the pipe at the base." Paulie said firmly, the impending doom of his 'friend' making him panic, but he hid his feelings to ensure Franky’s survival. "If we slice the steel flush against the wood deck, the pipe won't be anchored anymore. Then, we can lift Franky and the pipe out together as one piece, without shifting the metal inside his wound. We transport him with the pipe still inside him so it keeps blocking the bleeding." he continued, though his eyes betrayed his absolute terror.
He turned and yelled at the top of his lungs. "Lulu! Run back to where we dropped our gear and grab the heavy-duty metal saws and the plasma torch! We need to cut the steel as close to the deck as possible without vibrating his body!"
"Right!" Lulu shouted, already turning on his heel and sprinting back down the gangplank at a breakneck speed.
Tilestone finally snapped out of his trance, his expression hardening into grim determination. He stepped forward, his massive frame towering over the two men.
"I'll keep the scaffolding stable, boss. Another gust of wind comes through here, and the rest of that rack is coming down on top of you three."
Iceburg didn't look up at them. He couldn't. He gently cupped Franky's face again, nuzzling his forehead against his brother's cold cheek, whispering desperate, broken prayers into the quiet chaos of the scrap heap. "Hang on, Franky... please just hang on. Help is here. Don't leave me again."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lulu sprinted back onto the deck, panting heavily as he lugged the heavy plasma torch and a specialized low-vibration diamond-edge saw. The rain began to mix with the sea spray, slicking the pristine wood around them.
"Tilestone, brace his lower half! Don't let his legs shift an inch!" Paulie ordered, his voice tight as he ignited the plasma torch.
A sharp, brilliant blue flame hissed into life. "Iceburg, you have to hold his shoulders. Keep his upper body completely locked in place. If he slips even a fraction of a millimeter while we cut, the metal will shift right into his heart."
Iceburg didn't hesitate. He kneeled onto the blood-stained deck, wrapping his arms firmly around Franky’s heavy cybernetic shoulders. He pulled his brother's limp weight securely against his own chest, burying his face into Franky’s wild blue hair. "I've got him." Iceburg choked out, his muscles straining against the sheer weight of Franky's armor plating. "I've got you, Franky. Don't move. Please don't move."
Paulie knelt flush against the deck. He brought the low-vibration saw to the very base of the hollow steel pipe, right where it bit into the deck.
"Cutting now." Paulie whispered.
The high-pitched, muted whine of the diamond blade cutting through industrial steel filled the tense air. Wisps of white smoke rose as the blade sliced cleanly through the metal, accompanied by a shower of blinding sparks.
Iceburg squeezed his eyes shut, holding Franky with a desperate, crushing grip. Franky remained terrifyingly still, his head lolled back against Iceburg's shoulder, completely oblivious to the heat and the noise, his eyes staying shut.
For a few agonizing minutes, the only sounds were the howling wind, the hissing of a plasma torch and the steady grind of the saw. Paulie moved with flawless, surgical precision, keeping the blade perfectly level with the floor.
Clack.
The final sliver of connected steel parted. The pipe was completely severed from the deck.
But the relief was instantly shattered. The moment the pipe was broken, the blood that had been trapped inside the hollow core of the steel pipe—vacuum-sealed into the cylinder when it violently pierced through Franky's chest—came gushing out of the freshly cut open end.
A dark, heavy torrent of crimson blood and leaked cola spilled out onto the golden wood of the keel, pooling rapidly around Paulie’s knees and Iceburg’s boots. It was a horrifying volume of fluid, proof of just how severe the internal hemorrhaging really was.
"Damn it, the pipe was holding it back!" Paulie yelled, his face turning pale as he threw the saw aside and scrambled to tilt it and slow the flow. "He’s draining out from the bottom! Lift him! Lift him now before he bleeds out completely!"
Iceburg didn’t care about the blood soaking through his clothes. Coming around to the other side he jammed his hand right over the freshly cut, jagged opening of the hollow pipe, using his palm and a piece of his torn shirt to create a makeshift seal against the rushing liquid.
"We can't use the boat." Iceburg gasped, his eyes wide with a frantic, wild energy. "The waves from the rogue surge are too violent near the rocky shores of the scrap heap. We'll capsize. We have to travel by land."
Paulie’s heart dropped. "The land? Iceburg, that means carrying him up the cliffside stairs! He weighs a ton with all that iron!"
"Then we carry a ton!" Tilestone bellowed. He didn't waste another second. The massive shipwright stepped forward, hooking his giant, muscular arms under Franky’s heavy thighs, lifting the lower half of the cyborg with a grunt that shook his entire frame.
Paulie and Lulu took the upper half, carefully supporting Franky's shoulders and the half-meter of steel pipe protruding from his chest, making sure it didn't shift a single millimeter. Iceburg walked alongside them in a half-crouch, his hand still clamped tightly over the bleeding bottom of the pipe, his boots skidding on the wet deck.
They stumbled off the ship's skeleton and out into the howling storm. Ahead of them lay the true gauntlet: the long, uneven stretch of scrapyard, followed by the grueling, tall, stone staircase carved into the cliff face leading up to the main city.
The wind tore at them as they walked carefully. Rain lashed their faces, making the broken planks and jagged metal beneath their feet slick and treacherous. Every step was an agony of physics.
Franky’s body was incredibly front-heavy due to his modifications, and the dead weight pulled ruthlessly against Paulie and Lulu’s straining muscles.
"Don't slip! If anyone falls, the pipe shifts!" Paulie roared over the wind, his forearms burning, veins bulging along his neck.
They reached the base of the stairs. Hundreds of steep, uneven stone steps loomed above them, slick with rain and sea spray.
"Tilestone, lead the way! Take it one step at a time!" Iceburg ordered, his voice cracked and breathless. His arm was entirely numb from the pressure he was applying to the pipe, his own fingers slick with his brother's blood.
The ascent was a slow-motion nightmare. With every step Tilestone climbed, Franky’s heavy metal legs shifted, threatening to throw off the balance of the upper body.
"Agh! He's slipping!" Lulu gasped, his boot losing traction on a patch of wet moss. He went down to one knee, the sudden jerk causing Franky’s torso to dip. "Hold him!" Iceburg screamed, throwing his own body weight against Franky’s side to brace him.
A sharp, muffled groan finally escaped Franky’s pale lips—not a conscious sound, but a raw, instinctual reaction to the agony of his internal organs shifting around the metal.
"I've got him! I'm not letting go!" Tilestone roared, his teeth grinding together as he used pure, brute strength to stabilize the lower half, his massive legs shaking under the immense weight.
They climbed. Ten steps. Twenty steps. The storm seemed to mock them, the wind pushing against their backs as if trying to hurl them all into the sea below. Iceburg kept his eyes locked on Franky’s face.
Franky's skin was growing colder by the minute, his breaths coming in agonizingly rare, shallow puffs. "Just a little further, Franky." Iceburg whispered, a desperate, broken mantra as they finally neared the top of the stairs, where the bright lights of the main city blurred through the blinding rain. "We're almost there. Don't you dare die on these stairs."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They finally reached the top of the cliffside stairs and burst into the paved streets of the main city. The heavy stone steps had completely drained their strength, but there was no time to rest. "Careful! Keep him on his left side!" Paulie barked, his voice raw.
There was a yagara bull and a hastily put together stretcher waiting for them, prepared by someone from dock 1.
They managed to lay Franky on his side across the makeshift stretcher—a thick, reinforced wooden plank wrapped in heavy canvas. It was the only way to transport him without the protruding ends of the pipe pressing into a flat surface.
Watching them at the nearest canal was their large, sturdy transport Yagara bull, its harness jingling in the rain. Together, the four men carefully slid the stretcher onto the flat deck of the Yagara's boat, ensuring Franky’s heavy frame remained perfectly balanced on his side.
Iceburg immediately climbed in beside him. He knelt in the pooling rain, his hands still clamped ruthlessly over the bottom end of the pipe, replacing his sopping wet piece of shirt with a thick wad of sailcloth and pressing it against the jagged edge to stem the rhythmic, terrifying ooze of blood and cola. "Go! To the headquarters! Fast!" Iceburg ordered the Yagara rider, his voice carrying an edge of absolute desperation that the beast seemed to understand.
With a powerful surge, the Yagara launched forward, slicing through the churning waters of the city canals. The bright, colorful lights of Water 7 blurred past them in a chaotic streak of rain and wind. Citizens along the walkways stopped and stared in absolute shock, whispering in horror as they caught sight of their usually immaculate mayor covered in blood, desperately holding a dying cyborg on the deck of a speeding boat.
The moment the Yagara slammed against the private dock of the Galley-La Headquarters, the foremen leaped into action. They hoisted the heavy stretcher back onto their straining shoulders and carried Franky through the grand doors, bypassing the stunned reception hall and rushing straight up the wide, carpeted stairs toward the residential wing.
They brought him into Iceburg’s personal bedroom—a large, usually quiet space that was instantly transformed into a chaotic trauma ward.
"On the bed, gently!" Paulie steered, his muscles trembling from hours of exertion. They laid the canvas stretcher directly onto Iceburg's pristine mattress, keeping Franky propped up on his side with heavy pillows jammed against his back and legs.
Iceburg never let go of the pipe. He leaned over the bed, his knees sinking into the soft mattress, his knuckles white from the pressure he was applying. "Lulu! Where is Dr. Bushiba?!" he screamed, not looking away from Franky’s ghost-white face.
Right on cue, the heavy oak doors burst open. Dr. Bushiba, Iceburg's personal physician, rushed into the room, gasping for breath with his medical bag tightly clutched in his hand. He had been dragged here through the city by a Galley-La messenger.
The elderly doctor took one look at the scene—the blood-soaked sheets, the smell of burning wires, and the massive hollow steel pipe impaling the city's infamous demolition leader—and froze in absolute bewilderment.
"Good heavens... Iceburg, what is this?!" Bushiba gasped, rushing to the bedside and pulling out his stethoscope. "He’s a cyborg! His internal anatomy is a labyrinth of iron and flesh! I am a physician, not a mechanic!"
"You are the best doctor in this city!" Iceburg roared, his voice cracking with a lifetime of suppressed tears. He locked eyes with the old man, his gaze fierce and begging all at once. "The pipe barely missed his heart, but his internal organs are bleeding out and his machinery is failing. Figure it out, Bushiba! Please... you have to save my brother!"
Dr. Bushiba threw his medical coat onto a chair and ripped open his bag, his hands flying as he assessed the horrific trauma. He pressed two fingers against Franky’s neck, then gingerly touched the edges of the mangled steel plating on his chest.
"His pulse is practically nonexistent." Bushiba muttered, his face pale as he looked up at Iceburg and Paulie. "I can't even begin to cut him open or stabilize his internal organs. He’s lost too much blood and other fluids. Operating right now would be completely pointless. He'd die whether I succeeded or not.
"Then give him fluids!" Iceburg yelled, his hands still holding the makeshift seal on the back end of the pipe.
"It's not that simple!" Bushiba snapped, setting up a portable IV stand. "He is an anomaly. His human half is in severe hemorrhagic shock, meaning he needs a massive blood transfusion immediately. But his mechanical half—his life support, his artificial heart, everything keeping that human half viable—runs entirely on his internal combustion engine. Without cola, his machinery will completely lock up, and his organic heart will stop right along with it. We need both. Now."
Iceburg didn’t hesitate for a single second. He aggressively yanked up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing his forearm to the doctor. "Take mine. We have the same blood type. Take as much as you need."
"Iceburg, you're exhausted, you haven't slept in—" Paulie started, reaching out a hand.
"I said take it!" Iceburg roared, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate authority that silenced the room. He glared at the doctor. "Hook me up to him. I don't care if you drain me dry, just give him the blood."
Dr. Bushiba nodded grimly, recognizing there was no arguing with the mayor. He quickly prepped an emergency direct-transfusion line, inserting the thick needle into Iceburg’s vein and connecting the tube to an intact, organic vein in Franky’s arm. Almost immediately, the dark crimson lifeline began to flow from brother to brother.
"Paulie, I need you and the others." Bushiba ordered, his fingers working frantically to prep surgical tools. "You know engineering. When I start extracting the tissue around this pipe, I am going to need you to hold the entry points perfectly steady with clamps. If the metal shifts even a millimeter, it will tear the main artery."
"I'm on it," Paulie said, his jaw tightening as he stepped up to the opposite side of the bed, wiping the sweat and rain from his forehead.
Iceburg, already beginning to feel the slight, dizzying pull of the rapid blood loss, looked toward the door where Lulu and Tilestone were waiting, looking completely helpless.
"Lulu! Tilestone!" Iceburg called out, his voice weaker now but entirely focused.
The two massive foremen immediately leaned into the bedroom, their faces tight with anxiety.
"Go to Franky's workshop on scrap heap island." Iceburg ordered, his eyes locked onto his brother’s pale, unmoving face. "Break down the door if you have to. Find his private storage. He keeps boxes of a specific, highly concentrated custom cola formula for his emergency reserves. Bring every single bottle back here at a breakneck speed. We can't start the surgery until his engine has fuel."
"We'll be back before you can even blink, boss!" Tilestone bellowed, a fierce, protective fire lighting up in his eyes.
"Lulu, grab the heavy-duty workshop tools from Dock 1 on your way back—surgical saws won't cut through Franky's reinforced chestplates if Bushiba needs to get deeper." Paulie added sharply.
Lulu gave a single, tight nod, and within a heartbeat, the heavy footsteps of the two foremen thundered down the grand hallway, racing against the literal dying seconds of Franky's life.
Inside the room, the quiet hum of the blood transfusion was the only sound heard. Iceburg sat on the edge of the mattress, his face growing paler by the minute as his own blood pumped into his brother, his eyes never leaving Franky's face, silently begging him to hold on just a little longer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As time passed, Iceburg began to sway. "Stop it. That’s enough, Iceburg." Dr. Bushiba muttered sharply, stepping forward and clamping the line. He pulled the needle from Iceburg’s arm and quickly bandaged the puncture wound. "Your brother's system is saturated with your blood for now. If I take any more, you will pass out right next to him, and I cannot operate with you unconscious on the floor."
Iceburg swayed slightly, a wave of cold dizziness washing over him from the rapid blood loss. He gripped the edge of the mattress to steady himself, his knuckles white. "Is it enough?" he breathed, his voice hollow. "Is he stabilizing?"
Bushiba checked Franky's thready pulse, his expression grim. "It's a temporary patch on a sinking ship. His organic heart is pumping your blood, but his body temperature is dropping. His cybernetic life-support core is frozen. Without fuel, his internal engine is going to stall, and when that happens, your blood won't matter. He will slip away."
The room plunged into an agonizing, breathless vigil. Iceburg and Paulie stood on absolute needles, watching the agonizingly slow rise and fall of Franky's chest. Every second felt like an hour. The only sound was the rain lashing against the bedroom windows and the faint, sickening trickle of fluid dripping from the mattress onto the hardwood floor.
"Come on, Franky," Paulie whispered under his breath, his hands trembling as he gripped the surgical clamps. "Don't do this to us. Don't do this to the boss."
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors burst open with a deafening crash. Tilestone and Lulu sprinted into the room, their chests heaving, drenched in sweat and rain.
Tilestone carried a heavy crate filled with glass bottles of Franky’s highly concentrated custom cola, while Lulu bore a metallic case containing the low-vibration shipyard saws.
"We got it!" Tilestone panted, slamming the crate onto a nearby table. "Every last bottle he had!"
"Thank God!" Paulie breathed, already moving. "Lulu, crack those bottles open! Iceburg, help me find the intake valve on his stomach!"
With frantic but precise movements, they located the armored hatch on Franky's abdomen. Iceburg’s hands shook as he unlatched the heavy plate, revealing the empty bottles inside the chambers of Franky's internal engine. Paulie yanked the empty bottles out and threw them somewhere in the room, the bottles thumping onto the carpet.
Lulu handed a bottle to Paulie, who poured the dark, carbonated fluid directly into the mechanical reserve, followed immediately by another, and another, until the core was completely primed.
For three terrifying seconds, nothing happened.
Then, a sudden, violent spasm wracked Franky’s entire frame. Iceburg's hands slipped away from the end of the pipe and the blood and cola came rushing out again.
Franky’s cybernetic systems violently kicked back into life as the sugar and carbonation hit his core. His muscles seized, his chest heaving upward in a sharp, involuntary flinch. He didn’t awaken—his eyes remained closed and his mind dark—but the sheer, violent force of the spasm caused his entire body to shudder.
"Hold him! Hold him still!" Bushiba roared. But it was too late. The sudden movement rattled the massive steel pipe protruding from his chest. The jagged metal ground brutally against his sternum and torn lung with a sickening, metallic screech. Fresh, bright red arterial blood instantly erupted from the entry wound, spraying across Paulie’s apron and Iceburg's hands."The pipe is shifting! It’s tearing the pulmonary artery!" Bushiba screamed over the chaos. "We can't wait for a slow extraction anymore! It’s doing more damage than good—not that it was doing any damn good to begin with! Paulie, Tilestone, we have to pull it out now or he bleeds out in seconds!"
"Iceburg, clamp his shoulders down! Don't let his upper body move!" Paulie shouted, his shipwright instincts locking into high gear. Paulie gripped the front half of the blood-slick pipe with both hands, bracing his boots against the side of the bed frame. Tilestone lunged over the mattress, grabbing the back end of the pipe to ensure it exited at a perfectly straight angle.
"On my count!" Bushiba yelled, positioning heavy surgical packs and clamps right at the entry wound, ready to plug the massive hole the moment the steel left the flesh. "One... two... PULL!" With a synchronized, brute-force heave, Paulie and Tilestone pulled.
There was a horrific, wet, scraping sound as the jagged, hollow cylinder was dragged backward out of Franky’s torso. The moment the metal cleared his chest, a terrifying geyser of blood and foam threatened to overwhelm them.
"Pressure! Apply pressure now!" Bushiba commanded. Iceburg didn't wait for a cloth. He threw his entire body weight forward, pressing his bare hands and a thick bundle of gauze directly over the gaping wound in his brother's chest, feeling the frantic, but disappearing thumping of Franky's heart beneath his palms.
"I've got it! I'm holding it!" Iceburg cried out, his voice a raw, unraveled sob as he looked down at his brother. "Paulie, get the saw ready! Bushiba, seal the artery! Don't let him die!"
"Keep the pressure steady, Iceburg! Don't let your hands slip for a single second!" Dr. Bushiba barked, his fingers already moving with frantic, practiced speed.
The room was a battlefield of medicine and machinery. Because the pipe had pierced completely through Franky’s body, the exit wound on his back was a jagged mess of torn human flesh and bent, sharp metal plating.
"Paulie, Tilestone, tilt the stretcher just enough so I can reach his back, but keep his chest perfectly level!" Bushiba ordered.
As the shipwrights carefully braced Franky's heavy, modified frame on his side, Bushiba dove into the gruesome task. Working from the back, he used heavy-duty surgical needles to stitch the deeply torn muscles and ruptured blood vessels.
Every time the needle pierced the skin, Iceburg felt the shuddering vibrations through Franky’s chest.
Iceburg was running on pure, toxic adrenaline. His head was spinning from the blood he had given, his vision occasionally blurring at the edges, but he refused to yield to the dizziness. He leaned his entire body weight over the bed, his palms buried in blood-soaked gauze, pressing down ruthlessly on Franky’s sternum. He could feel Franky’s heart starting to give out under his hands. 'Stay alive, stay alive, stay alive' he chanted in his mind like a desperate mantra.
"Back is stitched and packed!" Bushiba announced, wiping sweat from his brow as he moved back around to the front of the bed. "Lower him down gently. Iceburg, on my signal, lift your hands so I can seal the internal thoracic wall."
"Ready." Iceburg whispered, his voice dangerously hollow. "Three, two, one—lift!" Iceburg pulled his hands away, and Bushiba immediately descended on the gaping chest wound. This was where human medicine met shipwright engineering.
While Bushiba worked on tying off the heavily bleeding internal arteries and suturing the damaged lung tissue, Paulie used fine, sterile pliers from the dock kit to carefully bend the ruptured cybernetic armor plates outward, giving the doctor room to work without slicing his hands on sharp metal. Together, the doctor and the shipwright bridged the gap between flesh and steel, patching the internal damage before Bushiba tightly stitched the outer chest wall shut.
After what felt like an eternity, the room fell into a sudden, tense quiet. The heavy bleeding had stopped. The wounds were closed.
"Is... is it over?" Tilestone asked quietly, his large hands trembling.
Bushiba looked at the monitors and checked Franky's wrist. "The hemorrhage is contained. His engine is humming. Now, we pray his body accepts the—"Suddenly, the low, mechanical hum of Franky's internal life-support core sputtered.
The rhythm of his shallow breathing caught, freezing entirely. On the bedside monitor, the erratic, thready pulse line suddenly went completely flat. A long, agonizing, unbroken tone pierced the silence of the room.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
"No!" Iceburg breathed, the world crashing down around him. "No, no, no! Franky!"
"His heart stopped! The shock is overriding the core!" Bushiba shouted, grabbing a syringe of adrenaline and pushing it in the IV drip. "Paulie, start chest compressions! Carefully!"
Paulie slammed his hands onto Franky's chest, but the reinforced metal plating made it nearly impossible to compress the organic heart underneath. "It's too rigid! I can't get deep enough!" Paulie panicked, his teeth grinding as he threw his weight onto it. "Come on, you stubborn bastard! Breathe!"
Iceburg lunged forward, completely unraveled. He grabbed Franky by his pale, cold face, his tears raining down onto his brother's cheeks. "Franky! Don't you dare do this to me! We just got back together! You promised we'd build the ship! Breathe!"
For five horrific, soul-crushing seconds, there was nothing but the flatline tone and the sound of Paulie desperately pumping against cold steel.
Then, Franky's chest violently convulsed. A sharp, loud, gasping breath tore from his throat—a raw, desperate sound of a man clawing his way back from the grave. The flatline broke, replaced by a weak, slow, but beautifully steady rhythm.
Beep... Beep... Beep...
Paulie fell back, wiping his face with a trembling hand, letting out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for hours. Tilestone sank against the wall, and Lulu let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Dr. Bushiba quickly checked the vitals, his shoulders dropping significantly. "He's back. His pulse is stabilizing, and his breathing is rhythmic." But the doctor's face remained deadly serious as he looked at Iceburg. "But make no mistake. He is nowhere near out of danger. The trauma to his real organs is severe, and the next twelve hours will decide if his body fights off the shock or gives up. He cannot be left alone tonight."
"I'm not leaving." Iceburg said instantly. There was no room for argument in his voice.
While Bushiba bandaged the wounds, the foremen quietly cleaned up the room, removing the bloody tools and the severed steel pipe, leaving the brothers in peace. Paulie placed a supportive hand on Iceburg's shoulder before exiting, whispering, "Call us if anything shifts, boss."
As the heavy oak doors clicked shut, the large bedroom fell into absolute silence, save for the steady ticking of the clock and Franky's shallow breathing.
Iceburg dragged a heavy wooden chair right to the edge of the mattress. He sat down, his body completely spent, the adrenaline finally fading to leave a crushing, bone-deep exhaustion. He didn't care about his ruined clothes or the dried blood on his skin. He reached out and gently took Franky’s heavy hand in both of his own.
The rain continued to lash against the windows of the Galley-La Headquarters, but Iceburg kept his eyes locked firmly on his brother's face, refusing to blink, fiercely keeping watch through the darkest night of their lives.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The deep darkness of the night had slowly transformed into the quiet, muted shadows of the wee hours of the morning. Outside Iceburg’s bedroom, the furious storm had finally passed, leaving only a soft, rhythmic patter of rain against the glass.
Iceburg had eventually lost his battle with exhaustion. His head rested heavily against the edge of the mattress, his cheek pressing into the soft sheets, his hands still loosely cupped around Franky’s large, unmoving fingers.
The first sign of life was microscopic. Beneath Iceburg’s palms, a faint warmth began to return to the cold metal. Then, slowly, Franky’s large, mechanical fingers twitched, flexing slightly before weakly curling into Iceburg’s grasp, squeezing his hand.
The sudden pressure startled Iceburg awake. He snapped his head up, his heart instantly hammering against his ribs, his bloodshot eyes frantically searching his brother’s face.
Franky’s eyelashes fluttered. His eyes opened slowly, blinking away the heavy fog of trauma. They were unfocused and glazed with pain, but the glassy, dead look from before was gone. He looked down at Iceburg, his jaw trembling slightly before a tiny, barely visible smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
"Hey... Bakaburg." Franky whispered. His voice was a raw, dry scrape, completely stripped of its usual booming power, but it was entirely him. "You... look like... hell."
A choked, breathless sound escaped Iceburg’s throat. The relief was so sudden, so violent, that it completely tore through his remaining composure. He buried his face in Franky’s uninjured shoulder, his hands gripping Franky’s arm as a fresh wave of heavy, uncontrollable sobs wracked his entire body.
Franky winced slightly, the small vibration sending a dull throb through his newly stitched chest. He looked around the unfamiliar, pristine room, completely disoriented. "Hey... what’s with the waterworks? What happened...?" He paused, trying to piece together his fractured memories. "The... the scrap heap... the falling rack... did you get hit?"
"No." Iceburg sobbed, lifting his tear-stained face to look at his brother. "No, you idiot. You pushed me out of the way. The steel pipe... it went straight through you. It pinned you to the deck."
Franky’s eyes widened slightly in realization. He tried to look down at his own torso, but the moment he shifted his weight, a sharp, white-hot flash of agony tore through his internal organs. He let out a sudden, ragged gasp, his chest locking up as his breathing instantly turned shallow and breathless.
"Don't move! Franky, don't move!" Iceburg panicked instantly, his hands flying to Franky's face as his heart leaped into his throat. "Dr. Bushiba stitched your lungs and your back! You're going to tear the internal stitches! Breathe slowly. Look at me, just breathe slowly."
Franky clutched Iceburg’s forearm, his chest heaving as he forced his shallow breaths into a steady, agonizing rhythm. The sheer effort of speaking and the brief surge of pain completely drained what little energy his restarted core had managed to pool together. His eyelids grew incredibly heavy again, sliding halfway shut.
"How... did I... survive that...?" Franky wheezed out, his voice fading back into a whisper. "Your engine stalled, but we got your custom cola formula from the workshop." Iceburg explained softly, his voice trembling as he brushed a stray strand of blue hair from Franky’s damp forehead. "And... I gave you some of my blood. We patched you up, Franky. You’re safe. But you need to rest. Please, don't speak anymore. Just sleep."
Franky let out a faint, exhausted huff that was supposed to be a laugh. "Your blood... is my blood now, huh...? Gross..." His fingers gave one last, weak squeeze to Iceburg’s hand before his eyes drifted fully shut, his breathing finally leveling out into a deep, safe, and restorative sleep.
Iceburg let out a long, shaky breath, leaning his head back down onto the mattress right beside his brother’s arm. Watching the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Franky's chest acted like a soothing lullaby to his frayed nerves. Within minutes, Iceburg fell back into a deep, dreamless slumber.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bright, golden light of the morning sun was streaming through the large windows when the heavy oak doors click-clacked open. Dr. Bushiba stepped quietly into the room, followed closely by Paulie, who was carrying a tray with hot tea and fresh bandages. Both men stopped in the doorway, a mutual sense of relief washing over them as they took in the peaceful sight.
Iceburg was still fast asleep, his head resting against the bed, his hand securely holding Franky's. And Franky was sleeping soundly, the color finally returning to his pale cheeks, his breathing perfectly steady. The worst night had passed.
The morning light felt like a physical weight on Franky’s eyelids. As his consciousness slowly drifted back to the surface, the peaceful numbness of the night vanished, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated agony.
The adrenaline was entirely gone. Every nerve ending in his human torso felt like it was on fire, and the heavy metal plates of his cybernetic chest felt like they were crushing his newly stitched lungs. He couldn't even draw a full breath without a sharp, white-hot blade of pain slicing through his left side.
A choked, miserable groan tore from his throat. His entire body stiffened, his fingers violently clenching in Iceburg's grasp.
"Franky?!"
Iceburg snapped awake instantly. The pressure on his hand startling him awake. He shot up from where his upper body was laying on the bed the moment he heard his brother gasp, his brotherly instincts and panic kicking right back in. He leaned over the mattress, his hands hovering over Franky’s trembling shoulders. "Don't move! What's wrong? Is it your chest?"
"Everything... hurts, Bakaburg." Franky wheezed out, his teeth grinding together as sweat immediately broke out across his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw shaking. "Give me... some of the good stuff. The heavy painkillers. I feel like a train ran me over."
Iceburg flinched.
Dr. Bushiba, who had been preparing a fresh IV line near the window, stepped forward with a solemn shake of his head. "I can't do that yet, Franky. You aren't getting any narcotics this morning."
Franky forced his eyes open, glaring weakly at the old physician. "Are you insane, old man? I'm missing a chunk of my chest!"
"Your heart stopped last night, almost twice." Bushiba explained calmly, checking the monitors. "Your cybernetic core and your organic nervous system were completely overwhelmed by the shock. If I had pumped you full of heavy painkillers while you were unconscious or still destabilizing, it would have suppressed your respiratory system entirely. Your heart would have simply given up. You had to fight through the worst of it on pure grit."
Franky let out a weak, irritated huff, though the slight movement made him wince again. He looked sideways at Iceburg, who was watching him with a mixture of intense worry and exhausted relief. "Hear that, Iceburg? Your doctor is a sadist."
"He saved your life, you ungrateful bastard." Iceburg shot back, though his voice lacked any real bite. He reached over and carefully adjusted the pillows behind Franky’s head, helping him shift into a slightly more upright position without pulling the stitches on his back. "If you had died because of that, I would have dragged you back from the grave just to punch you."
"Please, you couldn't punch your way out of a paper bag." Franky grumbled, his voice still low and raspy, but the familiar bravado was slowly creeping back.
He looked down at the thick, heavy layers of white bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. The scent of coppery blood, clean linen, and spilled cola was still heavy in the air.
He quieted down for a moment, the memory of the heavy steel pipe falling from the scrap heap flashing through his mind. He looked up at Iceburg, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious.
"Hey... I remember pushing you. And I remember the pipe going in. But after that... it's a blur. I remember some weird hallucination about you crying like a baby and something about your blood being in me."
Iceburg stiffened, a faint blush of embarrassment creeping up his neck as he looked away, coughing slightly into his hand. "That wasn't a hallucination."
Franky’s eyes widened. He turned his head toward Dr. Bushiba, ignoring the sharp twinge in his neck. "Alright, doc. Stop holding out on me. Give me the details. What exactly happened to my super body last night?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dr. Bushiba picked up his clipboard, but before he could speak, Iceburg cut in, his voice quiet. "You completely blacked out, Franky. The second that pipe hit you, the world just... went dead silent."
Paulie rubbed the back of his neck as a visible shudder ran through his shoulders. "You weren't laying down. You were pinned upright, suspended in mid-air with a half-meter of jagged steel sticking out of your chest, hanging on the pipe like a broken toy. It was the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen." he added.
"I thought you were dead right there." Iceburg murmured, his voice thick with remembered terror. "I was completely paralyzed. If Paulie hadn't snapped me out of it, I wouldn't have even known how to help you."
"Yeah, and we didn't have time to freeze." Paulie spoke over him, shaking his head. "I had to take a low-vibration shipyard saw and slice the steel flush against the Adam Wood deck just so we could move you without pulling the metal out of the wound."
"And then came the nightmare of getting you off the scrap heap." Tilestone boomed from the doorway, his usual loud voice cracking slightly. "The rogue surge made the waters too dangerous for a transport boat. We had to carry your heavy ass across the bridge and up the rain-slicked cliffside steps by hand. Once we finally sprinted into the headquarters and got you onto Iceburg's bed, that's when dr. Bushiba took over." he finished.
"But the situation was catastrophic. Your human half was in profound hemorrhagic shock from the severe internal bleeding, and your mechanical life-support core had completely frozen over because your engine stalled. Operating right then would have been entirely pointless. You would have died no matter what, with not enough blood or fuel keeping you tethered." Dr. Bushiba began.
"So we had to stop everything until we could fuel your body." Iceburg explained, his eyes locking onto Franky's. "I sent Tilestone and Lulu to raid your workshop for your emergency custom cola reserves. While they were gone, your pulse was fading to nothing. I couldn't just watch you slip away. I made Bushiba hook a direct transfusion line from my vein into your arm. Thankfully we have the same blood type." he continued, looking sad, yet relieved.
"And the second the guys slammed back into the room with the cola, we poured it straight into your intake valve." Paulie added, leaning forward. "But the moment the fuel hit your system, your engine violently sparked back to life. Your whole body spasmed so hard that it rattled the pipe inside your chest, ripping your pulmonary artery wide open. Blood just started geystering everywhere."
Bushiba nodded grimly. "The pipe was doing more damage than good at that point." he recounted. "I had to slam my bare hands over the wound to keep you from draining out while the doc frantically stitched the exit wound on your back." Iceburg whispered, interrupting the doctor again. His knuckles whitening as he stared at his hands.
"And right as we finally got you all stitched up... the monitor flatlined. Your heart completely stopped." For five whole seconds, the room was just one long, horrible beep." Paulie whispered, the memory hanging heavy in the air. "I was slamming my hands against your rigid chest plates trying to do compressions, and Iceburg was gripping your face, screaming at you like a madman. Then, by some miracle, you came back to us."
Franky sat perfectly still, listening to the chaotic, overlapping recount. His organic eye blinked slowly as the timeline finally clicked into place. He looked at the dried blood still staining Iceburg’s cuffs, then at Paulie's exhausted face, and finally down at his own heavily bandaged chest.
A slow, wry smile spread across his face, though he carefully masked the deep emotion with his usual bravado. "Well... damn. Sounds like you guys had a super dramatic night while I was out. And bakaburg giving me his blood, huh. I guess that officially makes us blood brothers twice over."
Iceburg let out a hesitant laugh at Franky’s words.
He paused, gingerly touching the edge of the thick bandages over his sternum. Beneath the fabric, he could feel the jagged, warped edges of his outer armor plating. It was completely ruined.
"The internal tissue will heal, but my internal cooling frame and front chassis are totally wrecked." Franky muttered, his mind already shifting into mechanic mode. "As soon as the swelling goes down, I'm going to need to get to my workshop, melt down some scrap steel, re-wire the primary fuel line, and weld a new—"
"Absolutely not!" Dr. Bushiba barked, slamming his clipboard onto the bedside table with a loud clack that made Franky wince. Franky frowned. "Hey, old man, you don't understand how my body works. If I don't reinforce the structural plating—"
"I understand that you are a patient who legally died twelve hours ago!" Bushiba shouted over him, pointing an authoritative finger directly at Franky's nose. "You are under strict medical orders. You are not to touch a hammer, a blowtorch, or a single piece of scrap metal for at least two weeks. Your organic lungs and blood vessels are held together by threads, Franky. Any heavy lifting or physical strain will rupture them instantly."
"And you are absolutely not doing any repairs alone or unsupervised." Iceburg added, his voice dropping into the firm, unyielding tone he used when dealing with troublesome contractors. He crossed his arms, staring down his younger brother. "When the two weeks are up, Paulie and I will be in the workshop with you. You will sit in a chair, and you will direct us on how to fix your machinery. If I catch you lifting a welding mask by yourself before then, I will personally lock you in this room."
Franky looked from Iceburg’s dead-serious glare to Paulie, who just smirked and gave a mocking, two-finger salute. "Two weeks?" Franky groaned, leaning his head back against the pillows with a theatrical sigh that turned into a painful wince. "You guys are killing me. Literally. This is the least super morning of my life."
Iceburg sighed deeply at the younger man's theatrics.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first forty-eight hours of recovery inside Iceburg’s bedroom were a quiet, exhausting battle against pain and lingering fear.
The night of the second day had settled into a heavy, quiet stillness. The storm had fully passed, leaving only the soft, salty evening breeze drifting through the cracked balcony doors of the Galley-La Headquarters.
For Franky, the recovery was entirely physical. Without the safety of heavy narcotics, every breath was an active choice against agony. He spent the first day trapped in a state of restless exhaustion, his large frame anchored to the mattress by thick layers of bandages, his internal engine humming at a low, energy-saving murmur. Every involuntary cough or shift of his weight brought a sharp wince, a reminder of the threads holding his human organs together.
For Iceburg, the recovery was completely mental. The intense adrenaline that had kept him upright through the midnight horror had vanished, leaving behind a bone-deep, suffocating fatigue. Yet, he refused to leave the room. He dragged his heavy paperwork desk to the corner of the bed chamber, pretending to manage the city’s finances, but his eyes constantly drifted back to the monitors tracking Franky’s pulse.
Every sudden beep, every rattle in Franky’s chest made Iceburg stiffen, his heart leaping into his throat.
Franky turned his head slowly against the pillows, his organic eye tracking Iceburg, who was staring blankly at a blueprint, his fingers trembling slightly as he held a pen.
"Hey.." Franky’s raspy voice broke the silence. It lacked its usual booming power, carrying a rare, gentle gravity instead. "You’re going to burn a hole through that paper if you keep staring at it like that, Bakaburg."
Iceburg blinked, snapping out of his trance. He set the pen down with a shaky hand and sighed, rubbing his face. "I'm just reviewing the dock schedules."
"Bull." Franky grunted, wincing slightly as he adjusted his arm. "You've been looking at the same page for three hours. Come over here."
Iceburg hesitated, then stood up, his posture stiff and weary. He walked over and sat in the heavy wooden chair beside the mattress, looking down at his younger brother. The dark circles under Iceburg's eyes were stark against his pale skin.
Franky studied him for a long moment before speaking quietly. "You look like you're still waiting for that damn pipe to fall."
Iceburg’s jaw tightened. He looked away, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the armrests of the chair. "You have no idea what it was like, Franky. You got to pass out. You got to escape into the dark." He swallowed hard, his voice cracking with a sudden rush of raw emotion. "I had to watch it happen. I had to look at you pinned to that deck, with blood and cola pouring out of your chest and mouth. When you closed your eyes... I genuinely thought I had lost you right as we became brothers again."
Iceburg took a sharp, shuddering breath, his chest heaving as he recalled the words that had haunted him for the last forty-eight hours. "Before the darkness took you, you told me that if you didn't make it, there was something you had always wanted to say. And then you told me the ship was already perfect... and that you'd miss me." Iceburg’s voice broke completely, a tear spilling down his cheek.
"You were giving me your final words, Franky. You were saying goodbye."
Franky looked up at the ceiling, a heavy, bittersweet emotion tightening in his chest. He reached his right hand out, leaving his palm open on the sheets. Iceburg looked at it, then slowly reached over, locking his fingers into Franky’s strong grip.
"I wasn't giving up." Franky said firmly, squeezing Iceburg’s hand back with what little physical strength he had. "I was just being a realist, bakaburg. I felt my core freeze. I knew how bad it was. But..." A small, genuine smile touched Franky's lips, his eyes softening. "I'm glad I didn't make it to the other side. Living out the rest of my days knowing you were safe is way more super than dying a tragic hero."
"And you didn't understand what I meant, did you?" Franky continued. Iceburg looked at him, his brow furrowing through his tears. "What do you mean?"
Franky turned his head to look Iceburg dead in the eye. "When I said the ship was already perfect.. ..It was because you helped me with it. After all these years of silent hatred, we were finally building something together again. Just having your math mixed with my style, working side by side like the old days... that made the ship perfect to me, even if it was just a bare skeleton on the scrap heap."
Iceburg froze. His breath hitched in his throat, and he stared at Franky in absolute, stunned silence. For years, Iceburg had believed Franky only cared about weapons, power, and building dangerous things. He had never realized—never even dared to hope—that Franky cared this much about him.
The weight of it hit Iceburg all at once. The ship wasn't perfect because of the legendary Adam wood, or because of Franky's brilliant blueprints. It was perfect simply because they were brothers again.
A fresh wave of tears blurred Iceburg’s vision. He let out a ragged, breathless laugh that was half a sob, his chest aching with a profound mix of humility and overwhelming love. He gripped Franky's hand tighter, as if anchoring himself to the reality that his brother was truly here, alive, and whole.
"And I meant it." Franky added softly, his fingers squeezing back with what little physical strength he had left. "I really would have missed you, Bakaburg."
Unable to find words that could possibly match the weight of what Franky had just confessed, Iceburg simply leaned forward and buried his face against Franky’s uninjured shoulder. The suffocating terror that had held his mind hostage for two days finally shattered, completely washed away by the deep, unyielding warmth of their restored bond.
"You're an absolute idiot." Iceburg choked out into the fabric of Franky’s shirt, his voice trembling but lighter than it had been in years. "Yeah, yeah. But I'm your idiot, brother." Franky grumbled affectionately, closing his eyes as a comfortable, peaceful wave of exhaustion finally washed over him. "Now go get some actual sleep on the couch." he mumbled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the morning of the third day, Dr. Bushiba conducted a thorough examination and officially declared Franky out of the immediate danger zone. His internal stitches were holding, his human lung was healing beautifully, and his cybernetic core had fully stabilized.
With the terrifying crisis firmly behind them, the remaining two weeks passed in a blur of forced bedrest, fierce arguments over healthy food, and the Galley-La foremen constantly dropping by to tease Franky about his overly dramatic deathbed speech.
Fourteen days later, the bandages were finally thin enough for Franky to stand completely upright on his own two feet. The two weeks were officially up, and it was time to go to the workshop and fix himself up.
The transition from bedrest back to the gritty reality of engineering was bound to be tense, but Iceburg took that tension to an entirely new level.
When it was finally time for the repairs on his cybernetic chest, Franky didn't head to the Franky house. Instead, they used a private, high-security workshop hidden in the lower levels of the Galley-La Headquarters.
The room was clean, well-lit, and filled with industrial tools, but the atmosphere was thick with anxiety, mostly from Iceburg’s part.
Franky sat centrally in a heavy, reinforced steel chair, his bare chest still wrapped in light bandages. He was smirking, completely in his element, while Iceburg paced back and forth across the concrete floor, his hands tightly clenched behind his back.
"I still think this is a terrible idea." Iceburg said for the twentieth time, his voice sharp with a panic he couldn't entirely hide. "You were legally dead two weeks ago, Franky. Your internal organs are held together by surgical thread, and now you want to take a wrench and a blowtorch to your own chest?!"
"Relax, Bakaburg!" Franky laughed, though he quickly cut it short with a small wince as his left lung reminded him of its limits. "I'm not touching my organic parts. I just need to unbolt the outer armor chassis, pull out the crumpled cooling pipes, and weld the new front plating. It’s basic maintenance!"
"It is not basic maintenance when your chassis is literally bolted into your sternum!" Iceburg countered, stopping in his tracks. He turned toward the door and barked. "Doctor! Please tell him he's being a lunatic!"
Dr. Bushiba stepped out from the shadows of the workshop, carrying his medical bag, looking thoroughly annoyed but entirely resigned to his fate. "He is a lunatic, Iceburg. But since I know he will try to do this the moment our backs are turned, it is safer to do it here."
Iceburg had flat-out refused to let Franky touch a single tool unless Bushiba was present. He was absolutely terrified that the pressure of opening the wound up again, would rip Franky's internal stitches, causing him to hemorrhage all over again.
Paulie stood by a table of tools, prepping a heavy-duty mechanical socket wrench and a small plasma cutter. He looked between the two brothers, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Hey, Boss, if you keep pacing like that, you're going to wear a hole in the floor. The cyborg says he's fine."
"He always says he's fine right before he gets impaled by a steel pipe!" Iceburg shot back, his voice cracking slightly. The ghost of that midnight horror still haunted him, and seeing Franky preparing to open up the exact area where the pipe had skewered him was triggering a wave of pure dread.
Franky’s smirk softened. He looked at Iceburg, seeing the genuine, raw fear in his older brother's eyes. The bravado dropped away, replaced by the gentle sincerity they had found in the quiet hours of recovery.
"Hey. Iceburg. Look at me." Franky said softly. Iceburg stopped pacing and looked at him, his shoulders tense. "I'm not going anywhere." Franky promised, holding Iceburg's gaze with absolute certainty. "You gave me your blood, remember? Your math is mixed with my style now. That means this body is super durable. We're just fixing the armor so we can go back and finish our ship. I'm not going to rip a single stitch, I swear. Trust your own math."
Iceburg stared at him for a long moment, the tight knot of panic in his chest loosening just a fraction. He let out a long, shuddering breath and walked over to the side of the chair, his hand resting firmly on Franky's right shoulder. "If a single drop of blood spills, we are locking you back in my room for a month."
"Deal." Franky grinned, his booming confidence returning. He looked over at Paulie. "Alright, wild man! Snip the bandages off the front. Let's get this chassis open!"
Paulie stepped forward, carefully slicing away the clean white linen covering Franky's torso. Beneath the cloth, the brutal reality of the accident was visible—thick, dark surgical tracks crisscrossed Franky's skin, right alongside the warped, jagged, and blackened edges of his steel chest plates. The metal was caved inward, dangerously close to his vital core.
"Bushiba, get the clamps ready just in case." Iceburg ordered, his voice dropping into a tight, focused command as he stepped closer to brace Franky's shoulder.
Paulie ignited the small plasma cutter. A sharp, high-pitched hiss filled the quiet workshop, casting a brilliant, dancing blue light across the concrete walls. He brought the glowing tip of the blade down to the first weld line on Franky's ruined chest armor. "Holding steady." Paulie muttered, his hands perfectly locked. "Cutting in three... two... one..."
As the first bright spark erupted from the metal, the true work of putting Franky back together finally began.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The blue glare of the plasma cutter flickered across the concrete walls of the workshop, casting long, dancing shadows.
Despite Iceburg's intense anxiety, the first hour of the procedure went surprisingly smoothly. Franky had completely toned down his usual loud, boisterous bravado.
There were no dramatic poses, no shouting, and no sarcastic remarks. He knew exactly how much trauma Iceburg had endured over the last two weeks, and for his older brother's sake, he was taking every single step with absolute, quiet seriousness. He sat perfectly still in the reinforced chair, his voice calm and measured as he guided Paulie and Iceburg through the intricate mechanics of his chassis.
"Careful with that upper bracket, Paulie." Franky instructed softly, his organic eye tracking the foreman's movements. "Unbolt the secondary pressure valve first, otherwise the tension will warp the internal cooling line." "Got it." Paulie muttered, sweat beading on his forehead as he carefully turned the socket wrench. With a clean click, the warped, caved-in armor plate finally loosened.
Iceburg stood right at Franky’s side, his hands braced on his brother's shoulder, his eyes darting between Franky’s face and the exposed machinery. Dr. Bushiba stood just a step behind them, his medical kit open on the table, watching the organic margins of the wound like a hawk.
For a while, the rhythm was peaceful. They successfully removed the crushed steel plating and pulled out the crumpled copper cooling lines, setting the ruined metal pieces onto the tray with a heavy clatter.
But then, Paulie stopped. His hand froze on the pliers, his brow furrowing as he leaned closer into Franky's chest cavity. "Wait a minute... Doc, look at this."
Dr. Bushiba stepped forward, adjusting his glasses. Iceburg’s posture instantly went rigid, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"The internal thoracic stitches." Bushiba murmured, his voice tightening. "When I was frantically closing up his torn chest wall in the dark two weeks ago to keep him from bleeding out... one of the heavy surgical threads caught the primary ignition wire to his cybernetic core. It’s pinned flat against the muscle tissue."
Franky looked down at his own chest, his expression turning serious. "Damn. That wire regulates the electrical flow from my engine to my organic heart. If we leave it pinned like that, the insulation will wear out from the friction of my breathing. The core will short-circuit."
"Then we just move the wire." Paulie said, reaching in. "No!" Bushiba snapped, cutting him off. "We can't just pull it. The thread is knotted tightly around it. To free that wire, I have to completely undo the deep structural stitches holding his inner chest wall together... and re-do them before the wound opens again."
The words hit Iceburg like a physical blow. The color drained from his face at a terrifying speed, leaving him dizzy and breathless. His grip on Franky’s shoulder turned white-hot.
'Undo the stitches?'
The image of the midnight horror—the blood geystering across the sheets, the flatline monitor, the suffocating scent of coppery fluid—flooded his mind in a violent, unstoppable wave.
Iceburg stumbled backward a step, his hands trembling violently as he clutched his own chest. His breathing turned into shallow, frantic gasps. "No... no, no, no. We can't cut them. If you cut them, he'll bleed out again. The artery... the pipe... it’s going to happen again..."
"Iceburg!" Paulie grabbed his arm, trying to steady him, but Iceburg was completely slipping into a severe mental breakdown, his eyes wide and vacant, trapped entirely in the trauma of that night.
"Iceburg. Look at me." Franky’s voice wasn't loud, but it carried an unyielding, grounded weight that sliced right through the panic.
Iceburg’s head snapped toward him, his chest heaving, his vision swimming with unshed tears.
"Look at me, Bakaburg." Franky repeated, his eyes locking onto Iceburg's with fierce, absolute certainty. "Look at my face. Am I bleeding? Am I dying?"
"You're going to..." Iceburg choked out, his voice a pathetic, broken whisper. "I'm not." Franky said softly, his fingers reaching out and firmly clamping around Iceburg’s wrist, pulling his older brother back to the side of the chair.
"Listen to me. The pipe is gone. The hemorrhage is healed. My engine is humming perfectly right now. The doctor just needs to replace a few threads so my wire doesn't get frayed. It's just maintenance. I need you right here with me, bakaburg. I need your steady hands. Can you do that for me?"
Iceburg stared at Franky, his brother's warm, solid grip grounding him to the present reality. He took a long, trembling, shuddering breath, slowly forcing the terrifying memories back into the dark corners of his mind. He wiped a stray tear from his face with his sleeve, his jaw tightening as he found his composure.
"If you die this time... I'm burying you in the scrap heap." Iceburg whispered, his voice shaking but filled with a sudden, fierce determination. Franky let out a soft, genuine smile. "Deal. Now brace my shoulder."
With Iceburg holding Franky perfectly steady, Dr. Bushiba went to work with surgical precision. The workshop fell into an intense, breathless silence. Bushiba carefully snipped the problematic thread, freed the cybernetic wire, and immediately replaced the structural stitches, tying them off with flawless accuracy.
Paulie kept the metal clamps perfectly still, ensuring no tension pulled on the organic tissue. Not a single drop of excess blood was spilled.
Once the wire was safely isolated, Paulie and Iceburg followed Franky's calm directions to bolt the new, reinforced front chassis onto his sternum. They connected the freshly bent cooling pipes, sealed the fuel valves, and polished the gleaming new armor plate until it clicked into place with a heavy, satisfying thud.
Franky breathed in a deep, full breath—the first completely painless breath he had taken in two weeks. He flexed his large shoulders, the internal engine whirring into a smooth, healthy, and powerful rhythm.
"Everything seems to be in order." Dr. Bushiba declared, letting out a massive breath as he packed away his needles. "You are officially a fully functional lunatic again, Franky."
Franky grinned, his booming confidence finally returning in full force as he patted his gleaming new chest plate. "Super! The armor is stronger than ever."
He looked at Iceburg, whose shoulders had finally dropped, a look of profound, quiet relief washing over his face.
Franky slung a heavy arm around Iceburg’s neck, pulling him into a rough, affectionate side-hug. "Thanks, brother. Your math is perfect as always."
Iceburg smiled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It took one more week of relentless hovering, checking, and agonizing for Iceburg to finally accept that Franky was completely healed. Even though Dr. Bushiba had officially cleared him, the trauma had left a deep, psychological mark on the Mayor.
Iceburg still flinched every single time Franky moved too fast, or whenever the morning light caught the thick, jagged surgical scars winding across Franky's skin and cybernetic plates.
Worse than the hovering, though, was the suffocating silence. Iceburg had been actively avoiding any mention of the ship.
Every time Franky brought up the blueprints, the engine layouts, or the Adam wood, Iceburg would suddenly look away. He would find an urgent pile of mayoral paperwork to tend to, or manufacture a dock crisis that required his immediate, personal attention.
He was running from the memory, terrified to face the place where the nightmare had occurred.
Finally, Franky had enough.
Seven days after the workshop repair, Franky marched right into Iceburg’s office, bypassed the mountain of paperwork, and literally grabbed Iceburg by the starched collar of his suit.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?! Let go of me, Franky!" Iceburg protested, his voice cracking with sudden indignation as he was yanked right out of his leather chair.
"We're going to the yard, Bakaburg." Franky grunted, completely ignoring the Mayor's struggles as he hauled him toward the door. "No, we are not! I have a meeting with the high-tide council in twenty minutes!" Iceburg yelled, digging his heels into the carpet.
He clawed at Franky’s massive, unyielding cybernetic forearm, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. "Franky, stop this! Your internal organs are still recovering! You shouldn't be exerting yourself like this!"
"My internal organs are super, and your excuses are boring!" Franky shouted back, dragging his older brother down the grand hallway of the Galley-La Headquarters.
"I am the Mayor of this city, you brute! Put me down!" Iceburg barked as they hit the bustling streets. Citizens and shipwrights alike stopped and stared in absolute bewilderment, watching their usually immaculate, dignified leader being practically towed down the pavement by a towering cyborg in a Hawaiian shirt.
"Franky, I'm serious! We can go tomorrow! Just... not today!" Iceburg’s protests grew increasingly frantic, his voice tinged with a raw, underlying panic as the familiar path loomed ahead. He didn't want to go back. But Franky remained entirely deaf to his pleas, dragging him ruthlessly across the stone bridge, down the long cliffside stairs, and right onto the jagged, rusted shores of the scrap heap island.
The moment Iceburg’s boots stepped onto the skeleton of the new ship's lower deck, the air was instantly stolen from his lungs. His protests died in his throat.
A heavy, violent wave of nausea hit him so suddenly that his knees buckled. He had to reach out and grab the raw timber hull just to keep himself from collapsing. There, in the center of the pristine, golden deck, was a massive, dark, and deep crimson stain.
The wood was deeply discolored where Franky had been pinned—where his blood and leaked cola had pooled and soaked into the grain. To Iceburg, the layout didn't look like a dream ship anymore. The smell of the sea spray vanished, replaced by the haunting memory of coppery fluid and burning wires. It looked like an altar where his brother had almost died. His stomach churned violently, and he forced his eyes shut, his breathing turning shallow.
Franky, on the other hand, let go of Iceburg's collar and walked right up to the stain. He crouched down with a heavy thud, running a massive finger over the dark wood, looking entirely fascinated.
"Whoa... look at this, Bakaburg." Franky muttered fascinated, tracing the edges of the pool. "The Adam wood didn't even warp or rot from the acid in the cola. It just drank the blood-cola mixture right up. This timber really is super."
Iceburg swallowed down the bile rising in his throat, keeping his eyes firmly averted from the floorboards. "It's horrific, Franky." he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of residual fear and disgust. "We need to scrub it. We need to get industrial bleach, wire brushes, and lye from Dock 1. We have to clean it until there's not a single trace left. I won't have it here."
Franky snapped his head up, frowning deeply, his eyes narrowing. "Scrub it? Are you insane? This is historical, man! This is the literal blood, sweat, and cola of the shipwrights! It gives the hull character!"
"It's a biohazard, and it makes me sick to look at!" Iceburg shot back, his voice rising as the adrenaline of their familiar bickering finally began to push the suffocating nausea away. He stepped closer, pointing an angry finger at the deck. "I am not sailing on a ship that looks like a bloody crime scene, Franky!"
"It’s not a crime scene, it’s a miracle scene!" Franky argued, standing up to his full height and crossing his massive arms, puffing out his newly reinforced chest chassis. "Besides, It’s a symbol of our brotherly bond!"
"I don't want our brotherly bond stained into the keel for the rest of eternity!" Iceburg yelled, his chest heaving.
The sheer absurdity of the argument hung in the salty air. Iceburg looked at the dark stain, then up at Franky's stubborn, grinning face. He realized what Franky was doing. Franky wasn't being insensitive; he was forcing Iceburg to look at the shadow of the accident until it wasn't terrifying anymore. He was turning the horror into something mundane, something they could argue about.
Iceburg let out a long, slow, defeated sigh. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, the tight knot in his chest finally loosening. "Fine. We won't scrub it. But I am absolutely not leaving it out in the open where I have to step on it every day."
'Deal!" Franky chuckled, his booming voice finally returning to its full, obnoxious glory. "We'll leave the stain, but we'll build the galley's central floorboards right over it. It'll be covered up completely, hidden under the kitchen. A secret foundation."
Iceburg looked down at the dark crimson mark one last time. Knowing it would be preserved but hidden—buried safely beneath the heart of the ship where they would eventually share meals, drinks, and laughter—felt right. It was a scar, just like the ones hiding beneath Franky's shirt, but it was a scar they had survived together.
"Alright..." Iceburg whispered, a genuine, peaceful smile finally breaking through his weary face. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a heavy metal measuring tape, looking up at the towering main mast supports. "Let's get to work, Franky. Your math is probably a week behind." "Hey! My math is always perfect!" Franky roared happily, throwing his arms into the air and striking his signature 'SUPER' pose.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Epilogue
The final nail had been driven, the last coat of varnish had dried, and the grand, majestic hull of the ship sat proudly in the cradled waters of the scrap heap.
The weeks of back-breaking labor, intense bickering over blueprints, and frantic medical checkups had finally culminated into this single, breathless moment. The ship was finished.
The fierce, unpredictable winds of Water 7 had calmed into a gentle, warm evening breeze as the sun began its slow descent.
The sky was a breathtaking canvas of deep ambers, soft pinks, and brilliant gold, reflecting perfectly off the sea and the pristine, unyielding flank of the Adam wood hull.
Franky and Iceburg sat side-by-side on the edge of the newly completed deck, their legs dangling over the water. They were covered in sawdust, grease, and sweat, but neither cared.
Franky held two chunky glass bottles. He leaned over, handing one to Iceburg with a soft clink. It wasn't the custom, highly concentrated formula Franky usually drank, but a classic, sweet, and crisp Water 7 cola—the kind they used to share on the docks when they were nothing but reckless kids fighting over Tom’s attention.
"To the greatest ship in the world." Franky muttered, his voice lacking its usual boisterous theatricality, replaced instead by a deep, resonant warmth.
Iceburg smiled, wrapping his fingers around the cold glass. He looked out at the horizon, then back at the beautiful vessel they had brought to life. "To the greatest ship." he agreed softly.
They clinked their bottles together and took a long, deep drink, the sweet carbonation stinging their throats in the most satisfying way.
"You know..." Iceburg began, setting his bottle down on the timber beside him. He ran his palm flat against the deck, feeling the smooth, polished wood beneath his fingers. Right beneath where they were sitting, hidden safely under the newly built galley floorboards, was the dark crimson stain they had chosen to leave behind. "For a long time, I didn't think I'd ever see this day. I didn't think I'd ever sit on a deck with you again, let alone build something this beautiful."
Franky looked sideways at his older brother. The golden light of the setting sun caught the edges of the thick, pale scars peeking out from the collar of his hawaiian shirt—scars that matched the hidden foundation beneath them.
Franky slung his massive, heavy arm over Iceburg’s shoulders, pulling him in close. This time, he didn't give him a rough, bruising side-hug. He just held him firmly, anchoring him.
"I told you, didn't I, bakaburg?" Franky murmured gently, nuzzling his chin slightly against Iceburg’s dark blue hair. "Your math, my style. We were always meant to build a masterpiece. The world just took a little detour to remind us how much we needed each other to do it."
Iceburg let out a soft, watery laugh, but he didn't pull away from the embrace. Instead, he leaned into Franky's bulky shoulder, completely relaxing his posture for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.
The lingering shadows of the midnight horror, the panic of the surgery, and the years of silent hatred were officially gone, washed away by the tide.
"Thank you for pushing me out of the way, Franky." Iceburg whispered into the quiet twilight, his voice thick with emotion. "But mostly... thank you for coming back to me."
Franky tightened his grip, his own eyes pricking with warm tears that he didn't bother to wipe away. "Always, Bakaburg. There's no way in hell I'd leave you so soon. I'll bother you till we're ninty." Iceburg chuckled. "You better."
They sat together in a comfortable, sacred silence as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting the shipyard into a peaceful, starry twilight. They were shipwrights, they were creators, but above all else, they were finally, truly, brothers again.
The end.