CW: Graphic violence

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I have heard tales of verious various marines’ first encounters with combat. Some dealt with lesser things from beyond, others fought fellow humans or Oceankin. Quelling riots, dealing with the occasional pirate, or recounting old tales of when the Anarchist Movement was at its peak.

Today, I finally have a tale of my first combat.

I never want to experience another.

Some context, seeing as I haven’t updated this stupid book in ages: two days ago, I got assigned to oversee a transport of weapons. Why me? I have no clue. We were under-manned as always, so they may not have had many other choices for officers. I, along with maybe a dozen other marines were sent down to the docks on the southern side of Brimsey’s Capital District. By the time we arrived, it was late in the day, and we had maybe a hundredth-day before sunset. Wanting to secure the equipment as soon as possible, we elected to take the weapons, powder, and other junk to the Headquarters immediately.

We loaded much of the equipment onto a cart and rented two horses to pull it. Unfortunately, there were too many items to load onto the cart alone, and the horses were aged and too weak to consistently pull the supplies uphill, so we marines had to carry several items ourselves. I recall strapping about four sabers, nine pistols, and three muskets to my person. I think I’ve established at this point that I was not made for manual labor—so I was only barely able to keep up with the group. All that stuff was heavy.

Woe was us, though, as we were ambushed only minutes after departing. My eyes down at the road, I heard the breaking of glass, then the roaring of fire. I looked up just in time to see a blaze before us. Then I heard musketshot. Then several more. Even now I do not know if any were aimed at me, but one came so close I felt the air around the shot rustle. I paniced panicked, falling down onto the cobbles. As I did, several figures—exactly how many I do not know—strode towards us at the road’s sides. All wielding blades, polearms, and other weapons. I unslung a musket from my shoulder—actually, it was a Sharphe Shapshi Shapshi Mei, but that’s still a kind of musket—and managed to fire it. I missed completely.

One of them, a man in a white blouse and crimson Farath overcoat, sprinted straight at me. I scrambled back, flailing for another gun, and pulled a pistol. I shot the thing, missing again, then another right as he closed in on me, and fired again. At first, I though I had missed yet again, but later inspection would reveal I had finally hit—in his right breast.

He swung his blade, and I raised my right arm on instinct. That was a mistake; I wouldn’t have been hit if I hadn’t done that. The blade left a shallow gash. I drew my own shalve and swung, connecting with the man’s leg, right at the knee. I tore the blade through his leg and—gods, that was a gristly sight—he fell, coughing a wheezing as I swung again. And again. The blade got stuck in his skull, and even as fragments of bone and splatters of-

The blade got stuck—enough said.

But there were more. I dropped my blade and crawled away, trying to sling the final musket from my back forwards. I shot into the crowd, not noticing that my fellow marines were engaged in the melee. I heard a scream, but saw not who I hit. Somehow, I was ignored as the brawl raged on. I made no more attempts to fire or fight, I just backed away and hid.

After what felt like a fifth-day, it was all over. The pirate gang disbursed. We didn’t win—we just lived. When I crawled back onto the road to see who survived, I made the mistake of gazing over to who didn’t.

That was over a day ago. My eyes have not rested on that horrible sight for a fullday and a half-day, mayhap more. Yet I still see it. I still see everything clear as glass. The moment I think not of anything else, it is there before me.