Chapter Text
Before Commodore Technoblade Craft was the widely revered commander of a fleet that had been directly responsible for the apprehension and hanging of more than three hundred pirates over the course of the last six years, he was simply Wilbur’s older brother.
But by the age of twenty, after singlehandedly bringing to justice one of the most fearsome and long hunted pirates that had ever plagued the high seas, it was clear he had grown into his impressive height and even more impressive character. He stood as the prime example to any young man that being an officer in His Majesty’s Navy was as high an honour as to directly serve the King himself. Even Wilbur, who had been born with far too much intellect and not enough sense for following orders – and known from day one that he would never be so much as half the officer his father or brother were – still saw the commodore as a role model. He was a man Wilbur would be lucky to resemble, if never in swordsmanship or sailing prowess, then at least in morals and dignity.
George had looked up to him just the same, and envied them both. Techno for his dedication, terrifyingly fixated on his life’s mission, no matter if the end goal looked no nearer today than it had six years ago. Just the fact that he knew his own mind well enough to find a “life’s mission” unsettled feelings of inferiority within George. As for Wilbur, his envy started and ended with family. It had been a bad habit of childhood, coveting the lives of Governor Philip Craft’s sons although he knew their household was far from perfect.
To live up to his brother and father’s reputations as high ranking naval officers was never a goal of Wilbur’s. The simple fact – unfortunately not grasped by Governor Craft – was that he not only longed for a career in politics but was also far more suited to such a post. The governor, who himself had only abandoned a life on the sea for a cold office in London involuntarily after a severe spinal injury, was determined to see his sons follow in his footsteps. He would help them at whatever cost on their paths to greatness, so long as he could pick the direction in which they walked.
When Techno had taken to his father’s wishes with far more ease than his little brother, this had caused the initial rift in their once unbreakable bond. George had borne witness to the deterioration of their relationship, which showed itself no more plainly than in the way Techno had gone from addressing his brother as “Wilbur” to “William” to “Lieutenant Craft”.
Only two nights prior Wilbur had come tapping at George’s bedroom window, something he had done so often in their adolescence George suspected his best friend had become so used to having him just on the next hammock over for months at a time that he could no longer sleep without his presence. Over time George learned to leave the window unlocked, so it had been many years since he had heard the distinctive tap, tap, tap against the dirty glass. George didn’t have to question the visit; they both knew neither of them would be sleeping the night before Wilbur’s promotion ceremony. Their separation in rank from that day forward would mark the first time one had held superiority over the other since they had joined the Royal Navy as boys of only fourteen. Once the window was opened Wilbur chose to sit on the sill, one leg swinging lazily in the breeze. George had settled back into bed, sitting straight-backed against the wall that pressed coldly into his shoulder blades. Neither of them tried to lessen the distance between them during the night, they hardly even looked at one another, which was unusual for the friends, though they still spoke until well past dawn without so much as a pause from the moment the window unlatched until Wilbur shimmied himself back to the ground hours later and ran off in the direction of Techno’s house. And yet, of all that chatter only one moment had remained in George’s overtired mind.
He had asked Wilbur a daring question, one he had been meaning to find the answer to for several years but never found the courage to broach: did Wilbur think his family’s love was conditional?
No, Wilbur had replied, only their support.
George wasn’t sure when he outgrew his idolisation of Technoblade, but he was quite certain Wilbur never would. Still, even George could admit that “conditional” was preferable to “non-existent”, a phrase he thought represented his own familial support far more accurately.
“What are you thinking about?”
George startled, the only indication of which being a small, abrupt shift of his shoulders he hoped Wilbur had not seen. The chuckle from behind him unfortunately indicated otherwise.
“Nothing much,” George sighed, glancing back at Wilbur for a brief moment where he sat far too comfortably in the chair behind the colossal desk that overflowed with all manner of papers, “Reminiscing, I suppose.”
Standing in Techno’s office often filled him with nostalgia. At times it was hard to believe that the keen eyes of a lieutenant in the King’s Navy – who had admittedly not seen much of the world and yet was already weary of it – were the same eyes that had once belonged to a young boy who stared longingly at the map covered walls day after day, fascinated by every fading illustration or new addition. Over time the old maps were replaced with larger, more detailed renditions, and George’s fondness for running his fingers across the lines of latitude and longitude, plotting courses he might sail one day in his head, only increased. No matter how many years George had spent in menial servitude, slowly rising in the ranks in preparation for the day he would no longer have to listen to orders barked from some mouldering old man, his love of the sea had not waned for even a moment in more than a decade of service.
Behind him he heard Wilbur rapidly opening and closing the drawers of the latest in a long line of rough wooden desks that seemed to grow in size every few months. George didn’t bother to see what Wilbur was up to, his attention having shifted once more.
The one thing that had never changed in all this time was the wanted poster Techno had pinned to the far wall so that he would always look up from his desk and have it be the first thing he saw. He never wanted to forget, though George suspected even if the specifics of Dream’s face – the quirked up mouth beneath a crooked nose and sharply narrowed eyes – faded from memory, it would be hard for the object of the commodore’s pursuit to hide in any crowd with the scar that permanently marked his face like a target. Though George had never – God forbid – come face to face with Dream himself, he didn’t need the artist’s imitation that stared back at him to imagine the kind of damage a close-ranged, backhanded slash across the face by a swordsman as skilled as Techno would do. In the poster, the scar ran diagonally from his right cheekbone, across the bridge of his nose, above his left eye and straight through his eyebrow. George supposed some artistic liberty must have been taken by whoever was commissioned to create the fearsome face all His Majesty’s citizens now recognised as the image of Captain Dream, regardless of whether it was even an accurate depiction, considering that there was no way Dream would have retained vision in his left eye had the cut really been that close, and in no stories that George had heard since that infamous duel could he recall anyone ever describing Dream to wear an eyepatch or be otherwise visually impaired.
Is that really what he looks like? George had once been brave enough to ask, standing in Techno’s office much as he was now, though he and Wilbur had been very young then and about to set sail on a real ship for the first time as lowly cabin boys.
Techno had spared little more than a glance at George, then lingered his stare on the poster before replying, I suspect he’s changed some now.
George didn’t turn around again until he heard the distinctive sounds, first of the door to the office swinging open with an aged creak and then a chair scraping against the wooden floor as Wilbur scrambled to stand by George’s side, as though he’d been patiently waiting in the centre of the room all along. Luckily for him, Techno’s attention was primarily on the short stack of documents wrapped in a brown paper folder and tied closed with a string. George could not get a close enough look at what the folder entailed, but he was careful to raise his eyes before Techno turned to face them.
George felt his spine pulled taut by an invisible string, his right hand raised to his temple in a rigid parallel to his shoulder and though his eyes stayed fixed on the commodore he knew Wilbur stood similarly at attention to his left. It was a synchronised movement, thoughtless and perfect. Technoblade mirrored it back to them before putting the men at ease and allowing them to drop their hands once more.
“Captain Craft,” Techno nodded to his younger brother, who smiled at the moniker. It was the first time his superior sibling had addressed him by his new title. The commadore then turned to George and greeted him as he had many times before, “Lieutenant Davidson.”
Techno walked steadily towards his desk, and once his back was turned George chanced a look at Wilbur, who also stood with his hands behind his back, although his posture remained slouched and George realised he had missed doing up one of the middle buttons on his jacket.
“I trust you’ve had ample time to recover from your…” Techno started, snapping George’s attention back to him, “…celebrations.” He was no doubt referring to the long night Wilbur had spent in Pandora’s Pub buying drinks for the crew after his promotion ceremony. Truth be told, George still felt the ghost of a headache at the mere mention of that night. Beside him, Wilbur tried to hold back a grin. Techno placed a hand on the backrest of his chair, which had visibly moved from the centre of his desk and George instinctively stiffened, suspecting if the commodore only looked down he would likely see a large scratch in the floorboards to accompany the out of place furniture.
Luckily, he made no mention of the clear evidence that someone had violated the space. Instead he dropped the neatly tied folder on the desk and settled comfortably behind it.
“So the day has come, a little sooner than we all might have expected…” the commodore’s words trailed off and George noticed Wilbur’s hands tightening behind his back, “But even so.”
Techno rested his hand on the folder he had dropped only a moment ago and slid it to the opposite edge of the desk. Wilbur made to move forward but stopped himself short when he realised that Techno’s hand still laid protectively on the papers.
“It’s a simple patrol, you’ll leave by morning, sooner if possible, and return before nightfall.”
“Understood,” Wilbur responded, and George noticed that he had forgotten to address Techno as “Commodore” when he did so. Of course, Techno had noticed himself, and when Wilbur reached for the folder there was a short moment where they both clung to it and George wondered if Techno would ever let go, but it passed in seconds and the commodore somewhat reluctantly allowed his brother to untie the string around the folder.
Wilbur raked his eyes from the top of the first document to the bottom, far too quickly to have taken in any information, then handed it off to his first mate. “Any progress on the hunt?” he asked with a smirk. “Has your prey shown that hideous face of his recently?”
The question came as a surprise. George was old enough to know better than to question Techno about Dream. Wilbur, despite being three months George’s senior, was not.
Techno’s movements froze, his hands stilled and although his eyes were still fixed on the desk in front of him it was clear they no longer saw it. Only his voice remained steady, “That’s none of your concern, Captain.”
Wilbur either didn’t hear the edge to the commodore’s voice or, more likely, did not care, “Oh come now, what’s a little intel between brothers? I might actually be of some use to you now that I—"
“This isn’t a game, William. Do your duty, don’t interfere where you won’t be of help.”
George was in no place to speak up; he could only stand by and silently pray that Wilbur would hold his tongue for once in his life.
“How silly of me; I had assumed being made a captain in your fleet might mean you actually possessed a sliver of trust in my abilities.”
“You have done little to earn my trust,” Techno stood from his desk, an unmasked fury beginning to seep through the cracks in his poise, “Much less my pride.”
Wilbur knew he had already gone too far but even if the smile had fallen from his face, the corner of his mouth twitched as though it might return. This time the playfulness that Wilbur had started with had been bitterly twisted into something spiteful by Techno’s words.
“Don’t pretend you worry for my safety,” a humourless laugh shot out of Wilbur, “Your only fear is that I might succeed where you have repeatedly failed."
“You are the Captain of a naval vessel; your reckless disobedience affects far more than just yourself now. You are solely responsible for the lives of each and every man under your command,” Techno spat, punctuating himself with a slap to the table. “Do not make me regret trusting you with this honour.” George didn’t miss the equally threatening look Techno sent his way once Wilbur’s gaze had dropped to the floor, and though George had never associated the word “cruel” with him, he had no doubt that Techno relished watching their spirits sink. He wanted their enthusiasm replaced with quiet dignity, their laughter with a salute and a yes, Commodore.
As usual, Technoblade had no trouble getting what he wanted.