Wolf in Sheep's Clothing [Vio]

[Die]

Winchester Island, a place constantly at war with itself. Two sides perpetually engaged in conflict. The East side of the island had order under the protection of the Marines while the West had chaos. It was a lawless place rife with fighting in the streets while those with money set up high risk, yet very lucrative businesses in the area. Criminals and pirates fought other criminals and pirates. Violence was so commonplace, that it was actually considered an unusually quiet day when there was no one to bury.

Though conflict was typically localized to the West, every now and then an especially strong pirate crew came through the area. Though their methods differed from crew to crew, the end results were similar. They united the local pirates and criminals, and led them to battle against the Marine-dominated East side. The current crew holding power has been seen as potentially worrisome by some Marines, as the few recent skirmish had been particularly deadly ones.

---

The nightlife on the East side of Winchester island was in many respects a contrast with the daytime of this lawless zones. Pirates, criminals, and other outlaws flooded the numerous bars and taverns that decorated this area. Many enjoyed a peaceful drink with their compatriots, getting drunk, and having bar fights with one another. For some, this strengthened their sense of brotherhood. For others, they turned deadly.

In one such tavern sat a lone pirate with a mug full of beer. Dirt and grime decorated his skin, as it did with pretty much everyone around here. His blonde hair, held back by a bandanna, was similarly dirtied as well. Most of his clothing was standard pirate fare. In his case, he wore a simple red shirt and black pants. A pair of cutlasses over his back, the hilts extending up above his shoulders while a pair of flintlock pistols were holstered at his waist.

It was rare seeing a pirate alone in a place like this. In the sort of environment that was typical of the West, being alone was something best avoided. Outlaws here often banded together, mostly for survival. Those who found themselves alone typically did not last long.

The pirate took another swig from his mug as a larger pirate approached and took a seat beside him. He appeared to be roughly twice the size of the blonde and considerably more bulky in both muscular and blubbery terms. For a few seconds the blonde pretended to ignore his presence before putting down his mug and eyeing him. "Hey. Haven't seen you 'round these parts. What's yer name?"

Giving a nervous smile, the smaller pirate answered, "Name's Kurt. I just landed here this morning." It was clear the larger pirate had malicious intent behind his words and actions. He was looking to assert his power over the smaller pirate.

"Heh. Looks like more crews are stopping by this little rock. It sounds like you don't belong with them. Why's that?

"Well, I became a pirate not too long ago. Wanted a life beyond the boring island I come from. A life of adventure, y'know?"

The larger pirate eyed him suspiciously. It wasn't difficult to procure such commonplace items, but for a supposed greenhorn without any crew, he seemed pretty well-equipped. "Peh. Naive little rookies like you make me sick. You're no pirate." he spat as he lunged in and grabbed Kurt by the collar, lifting him clean off the floor. Kurt's eyes widened in shock at the sudden turn of events, gasping in surprise at being pulled and yanked off of the floor.

To escalate things further, the large pirate drew back his right arm, winding up for a punch straight to Kurt's face. As the fist came at him, he winced and moved his head to the left. The pirate's fist barely grazed the side of his cheek. Kurt's eyes quickly fixed themselves on the glass mug half-full of beer that he had been drinking out of. Stretching his arm out behind him, he grabbed the mug and swung it at the pirate's head, shattering it against his thick skull and dousing it in glass shards and spilled beer.

In surprise and pain, the large pirate released his grip on Kurt as his free arm flailed to the side, swatting another mug off of the counter and into the crowd of other bar patrons. It struck the back of the head of another pirate, who swung around wildly in his seat to see where the mug came from. Upon being unable to locate the source quickly enough, he threw a blind punch, striking another pirate.

It was with that the bar devolved into a massive fight. Chairs and mugs were thrown as often as punches and kicks. The barkeep seemed unfazed as he simply stood where he was, cleaning a mug with a rag while ducking the occasional flying object that inadvertently came his way.

Kurt's attacker wasn't done yet. Shaking off the impact, he leaped forward, attempting to tackle the blonde pirate. Kurt grabbed the pirate by the collar with one hand, and his belt with the other. Using the momentum from the tackle, he sidestepped and threw the large pirate onto the floor behind him. In the corner of the bar, a small group of pirates who stayed out of the fight observed him.

Observing a bruised ego in the larger pirate, Kurt readied himself as he got back up to his feet. "You! No one makes a fool out of me and gets away with it!" he shouted as he stepped in and unleashed a flurry of punches. Kurt ducked under the first punch and then sidestepped another. Given the larger pirate's height, it was easy for the blonde pirate to throw a punch straight into his gut. It might have been coincidence that he struck the solar plexus or it might have not, but it was enough to knock the wind out of the larger pirate and stun him. Using this to his advantage, Kurt planted his hands on his shoulders and leaped up, throwing a knee straight up into the lower jaw of the larger pirate and causing him to lose at least two teeth. He then finished off with a few punches to the head, causing him to collapse onto the ground in a broken heat.

By now the bar fight had largely stopped, with most of the outlaws either unconscious from the violence or the booze, or simply gone back to drinking and merrymaking with their compatriots. Kurt gingerly prodded the large pirate with a foot, making sure he was down for the count. A loud snoring told him that it was over. Kurt breathed a sigh of relief as he sat back down,apologized for the broken mug, and ordered another beer.

The group of pirates who had been observing from afar made their way over to Kurt, standing behind and surrounding him. The apparent leader of this group placed a hand on his shoulder, firmly yet strangely inviting. "That was pretty impressive fighting there. Hard to believe it didn't take much for you to knock out Sam there," he said.

A thin member of the ground with a trench coat and knuckle dusters hanging slightly out of his pockets walked over the crumpled body of Sam, kicking him while he was down, "Nice job, dumbass, losing to this guy. Y'sure got yer ass handed to ya, by a loner rookie too!"

"Heh, leave 'im alone, Garan," said the leader. "He can't hear ya." He chuckled as he pulled a cigar from his jacket and lit it, taking a puff and blowing a ring into Kurt's face. The blonde pirate resisted coughing from the smoke. He squinted at him, with one eye to a greater degree than the other. A few seconds seemed to turn into a few hours as the gruff, bearded man scrutinized every detail of the greenhorn pirate he saw in front of him. "Hmmmm..." he murmured as he was lost in thought. Taking another puff of his cigar, he drew a dagger, bringing it close to Kurt's face. At this point it looked like the blonde was sweating bullets. Then again, most people would display some kind of discomfort if there was a dangerous weapon right up in their face. He brushed aside some loose strands of hair that had not been held back by the bandana. "That's quite the scar y'got on yer fore'ead," he said. "Howd'ya get that?"

"My momma told me not to play with knives when I was little. Guess I shoulda listened to her better, huh?" he said nervously.

With that the man drew back and sheathed his dagger and let out a hearty laugh, patting Kurt hard on the shoulder, "I don't know who this guy is, but I really like him!" Kurt breathed another sigh of relief when the dagger was put away. "Y'might be a newbie, but I never seen one drop Sam like you did. Y'got potential. Come! Come sit with us! The name's Haase!" he said as he extended an open hand towards Kurt.

"I'm Kurt," he grinned, gaining new confidence by his apparent acceptance into this group of pirates as he shook Haase's hand firmly. Not really being one to disagree with the deck of cards he was dealt with, Kurt nodded in agreement. The rest of the night was spent with more drinks and sharing stories. And by the end, most of the patrons were either passed out, thrown out, or simply left on their volition.

Haase's group were among the few that made it out on their own. There were roughly five of them, with one of them lugging Sam over his shoulder. Haase looked down at Kurt, "I wanna introduce you to our cap'n. He's a pretty powerful pirate in these parts and is lookin' fer promising recruits like you. He's got plans fer this island, big ones."

Big plans? This piqued Kurt's interest. He knew of previous crews attempting to wrest control of the Eastern part of the island from Marine hands before. Perhaps this one was going to do the same. "Sounds good, he said as he nodded in agreement.

[Vio]

Marines. Anywhere else, these brave men and women were beacons of hope and justice, constantly battling the forces of evil to enforce the law and keep the peace. However, this was perhaps not the case on Winchester Island. An island caught in constant turmoil, the naval forces spent an unprecedented amount of their time and resources attempting to wrest control of the West. Sometimes, however, it took all they had just to keep control of the East.


"Hm. The calm before the storm." Standing on the outskirts of East Winchester, Oswald Drescher withdrew a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, eyes aimed towards the west. Skirmishes had been few and far between during the last week, suspicion now ripe in the minds of all the marines stationed on the island as to when the next would occur. That said, many of the higher ups worried about the scale of the next potential attack, especially with resources stretched so thinly. The supplies they received were depleted quickly, what with the constant warfare, not to mention the lack of reinforcements they were receiving.
"Numbers are low, supplies are short, and the commanders don't want to risk taking the initiative." Igniting the cigarette with the small flame of his own silver lighter, the warrant officer took a deep breath of herbal smoke. Removing the cigarette from between his lips, he then exhaled, a stream of wispy white disappearing into the cool air. Quitting his original bad habit had not been an easy task, and he still was not that close to achieving said goal. Somewhat gaunt faced, but by no means unfit, the current stress of the situation had hindered his progress. Though, at least he had persevered, unlike some of his comrades who, until recent weeks, had been non-smokers.

"Drescher, Sir!" Approaching from the left, a recruit in standard seaman garb spoke out, saluting as he closed in. The grey-haired warrant officer stood an entire foot taller than his subordinate, but regardless he saluted respectfully to his comrade before speaking.
"Any word from the commanding officers, Recruit?" Dull blue eyes focused on the male of smaller stature, Seaman Recruit Stevens, a patient and well mannered young man who had served in the same unit as Oswald. That was, until the former infantryman had been promoted to Warrant Officer and became effective head of Winchester's sniper division. Not that this branch really had its own sniper division; it was more a collection of the best gunmen, which were few and far between considering that most skirmishes revolved around close quarters combat.

"Command wants all available hands to reinforce the defensive line to the south side. They're predicting another attack soon!" Looking to the side again, taking the opportunity to take another dose of his herbal cigarette, the warrant officer considered his options for a moment. He knew the drill all too well and was pretty confident that those were the only actions that command would take. Formerly taking drastic action when necessary, the increasing strength and organisation of pirate crews had unsettled the superiors, forcing them into reducing the offensive attempts. Sure, it was better than risking unnecessary casualties every day, but it had reached the point where any engagements were being made almost solely by pirate forces.

"South side? Makes sense. The last few assaults hit the north side, and we had to reposition the forces because of that. Heh. At least we have good strategists up in command." Nodding to Stevens, Oswald turned his whole body towards the border wall. Above it, the trees of the forest could be seen. The fighting often took place in the lands beyond, but with every new incursion, the marines were pushed back. Eventually, perseverance won out and the pirate forces were driven back, a constant ebb and flow. Like a tide coming in, the pirates would recede, then come back with more power than before. Maintaining Fort Stanley was hard enough, but it was all beginning to take its toll on the civilian population, more than ever before.

[Die]

"Heh. Look at 'em. Those Marines are on the ropes," Haase sneered from under the brush near a Marine outpost on what was the northern defensive line. He was lying prone along with Kurt and the rest of his gang.

"Feh. Looks like the info was right. This side's easy pickin' fer us," whispered the man with the bladed knuckle dusters from last night.

"Info?" asked Kurt, curious as to what he meant by that. There was at least two things that this could have meant: they had really good scouts, or they were getting this information from somewhere else.

"Don't worry yer pretty blonde head, Kurt," said Haase. "Alls ya gotta know is that this 'ere outpost is ripe for the picking. Jan, how's yer snipin' eye?"

The sole woman in the group gave a thumbs up and a wink, "Ready when you are, Haase."

"Good. Take out the guards at the watchtowers. The rest of us will storm the outpost all easy peasy. Let's go get 'em."

With that, the five of them began to crawl forward, leaving Jan behind as the sole sniper. A few meters ahead, they slowly slid down a leaf litter-covered hill. At the same time, Jan began her ascent up a tree for a much better vantage point. It didn't take her long to reach her point, after which she monitored the rest of her gang's progress. Pulling a single goggle over her left eye, she turned the dial on it and zoomed in on them, and then the two watchtowers of the outpost. Looking back down, she saw Haase give the signal.

The sniper brought her rifle up, resting her cheek gently on it as she took aim at the guard in the farthest watchtower. Adjusting her aim in consideration of the wind and gravity, she fired the first shot. The ball round cracked through the air, finding its mark in the head of the Marine. The other guard in the closer watchtower spun around to see what had happened, only to have a second bullet silence him as well.

As soon as the shots rang out, Marines began to pour out. As Haase's gang and Kurt grew closer, they began to run faster. Haase had his pistols drawn, shooting down several approaching Marines. Kurt immediately broke from the pack and ran off on his own. Haase's head turned in the direction the blonde rookie left. "Kurt? Kurt! Dammit what're ya doin?"

Sam, easily the largest of the group, charged straight into the door, knocking it off of its hinges. Haase squeezed in after that, opening fire on the Marines inside with several more shots.

Meanwhile, Kurt came upon a window, through which he spotted what looked like a communications room and a frantic officer sloppily dialing out a number. Not wanting to give him that chance, Kurt took a few steps back. Getting a running start, he leaped up and put his arms out in front of his face and bent his knees. The rookie pirate crashed through the glass and rolled across the floor for a bit before coming back onto his feet. This startled the communications officer even more. Before he could finish dialing, Kurt placed a well-aimed strike to the back of Marine's head, knocking him out. The blonde pirate quickly hung up the receiver on the Den Den Mushi. Hopefully no one got that call, or things would become unnecessarily troublesome.

With that out of the way, Kurt exited the communications room, taking down any Marines that got in his way. The fighting was over as soon as it began, though. As soon as he turned the corner, he found himself face-to-face with Haase's pistol. Instinctively, Kurt quickly placed a hand on his pistol and moved it out of the way, only to find more pistols pointed at him. "What were you doin' runnin' off like that? That was NOT part of the plan."

Sweating bullets, Kurt took a deep gulp and put his hands up, "I figured they'd try ta call for reinforcements or summint. I mean. if the info was right and they left this place unguarded, they'd know that we knew something they didn't. So I took out the guys workin' the Den Den Mushi."

Seconds felt like hours. Haase nodded after taking all of that in and lowered his weapon. The others silently followed suit. "That's some awful crafty thinkin' there," Haase chuckled as he gave a strong, assuring pat on Kurt's shoulder. "Takin' tha initiative. I like that, rookie."

Kurt breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed the part of his shoulder Haase had patted. "Well now. This place is ours. Gotta send word back to Big Red that we've captured another point."

The blonde pondered as to who Big Red was. It was now clear that Haase wasn't leading this latest blight against the Marines. Maybe he was the leader of the crew his new compatriots were a part of. It had only been two days since the incident in the bar. He surmised that he would meet him soon, whoever he was. 

This victorious calm wasn't to last however, as a Marine, in his dying breath, aimed a pistol at Haase. Kurt noticed the slight movements. "Haase!" he shouted as he put himself between him and the Marine, cutlass held in front in a reverse grip. The final gunshot rang out. The ball round bounced off of blade, grazing Kurt's cheek, and burying itself in the wall. With that, the Marine's death rattles ceased as he passed away.

The leader of the gang turned around to see the source of the gunshot, and then looked at Kurt. A bleeding, shallow cut had formed on his cheek where the bullet grazed him. Wide-eyed from the sudden surprise attempt on his life, Haase made sure there were no wounds on him before calming down. "Y-you saved me!" he said. "That's twice you've proven yerself today. Play yer cards right, and you might become one of us sooner than I thought! Come on! Once more of us arrive, let's head back and get a few drinks!"

Kurt's sudden actions prompted a suspicious look from the man with the bladed knuckle dusters, Garan, who found it odd that a rookie pirate displayed such knowledge and skill. He shrugged it off for now, however. 

Meanwhile, behind the walls of Fort Stanley, a Marine exited the communications room for a private smoke. Lighting his cigarette, he tossed a tiny, crumpled piece of paper on the ground, along with the lit match. It was quickly reduced to ash, after which he stepped on it and the match to put it out. 

[Vio]

With the majority of the defensive stations now having been repositioned towards the southern borders between East and West Winchester, Warrant Officer Oswald Drescher found himself in charge of a small outpost with what was only a small number of men. Still, the outposts had enough personnel to resist lesser pirate assaults, and command had agreed that the bulk of the pirate forces were more likely to strike at the south, the forces there being considered weaker. Certainly, skirmishes in the south had already begun to break out, and so far the reinforcements from the north had helped to keep the pirate forces back.

I guess there's nothing to do but wait until we get word back from base. Taking a quick drink of water from his canteen, the ashen-haired officer continued his enthralling duties of keeping watch. It was only fair, in his honest opinion, that he should share the general duties that his fellows did. He was, after all, not yet within a true role of leadership, though he was not too far from becoming an Ensign. His track record was spotless, and few if any of the recruits that had served in his unit had anything bad to say about him. Those that did were usually the ones at fault.
Could be worse, I suppose. Wiping off the barrel of his rifle with a cloth as he stood in the watchtower, Oswald looked out into the woodland, the very same one in which he and his twin brother once played. More so than ever before, the sparse forest was a no man's land, desolate despite all its greenery. Unfortunately, it still provided an unsettling degree of cover, and even trained snipers such as himself had difficulty making clear shots through all the wildly growing weeds.

"Well. What's this...?" The rustle of leaves caught on the gentle winds, the keen-eyed gunman quickly raised his rifle and peered through the scope. Lining up the cross-hairs, he slowly swept the the immediate area in an attempt to pinpoint his potential prey. Nothing. He waited, patiently watching and scanning for any signs of movement.
"Blasted rats!" His eyes finally settling upon the apparent threat, the warrant officer sighed as he watched a rather plump rat scurry out of the twisted undergrowth. Withdrawing his rifle, allowing the vermin to go free, Oswald rested his firearm against the wall of the watchtower. While he had the shot lined up, and as much as he wanted to terminate such an obvious pest, he did not want to cause a false alarm; or worse, waste a bullet. He hated wasting his shots, especially with the current munitions difficulties.

Survival of the fittest? I guess that's why pirates keep crawling out of the woodwork. We take them down, then the next lot feed on the scraps they left behind. When will this plague end? Reaching into the pocket of his trench coat, the greyed gunner withdrew a packet of herbal cigarettes, slipping one out before returning the rest. From his other pocket, he withdrew a cheap lighter with a silver case, making sure to squat down before lighting up, lest he give away his position. The pirate forces also had snipers, though perhaps not as good as the ones he worked with? That said, there were a selection of fellow gunmen who could probably miss a stationary target.
I swear something isn't right here. There's been no more calls for backup since the forces were repositioned, and I really don't see the pirates getting weaker any time soon. Taking a deep breath of cigarette, exhaling a soft stream of faint white smoke into the air, Mister Drescher mulled over his opinions. It may have just been his way of thinking, but he felt as if something was off. Alas, he dismissed it as troubled notions of conspiracies.

[Die]

((So sorry this took so long |||OTL ))

That night, the beach was bathed in a strong orange glow. The taverns and bars that decorated the city on the west side of the island, while normally full and bustling with life, were now empty. All the pirates, bandits, and criminals filled the beach with their very presence. At the center of it all was massive bonfire that lit up the night sky. Circling around it was a ring of dancing people. The crackling of the burning wood was intertwined with the music and laughs and cheers of the people. Lying in the waters behind the bonfire was a large ship, especially so by Blue pirate standards. It was built with lavish ebony wood and had its railings and masts painted a striking crimson color. There were all sorts of contests these groups took part in as well, many of which involved alcohol.

Kurt followed behind Haase, Jan, Sam, and Garan as they made their way through crowd. The rookie pirate watched as Haase mingled with several pirates as they continued on. He cheered, bumped fists, high fived, and smacked beer mugs with them. Kurt gathered that he was a pretty big name in the area given all the positive interactions he had with others thus far, though alcohol could have had a role in that. Eventually, Haase stopped at a particular bar with a familiar face, the bartender from the other night.

”It’s about time,” Haase said as he looked towards the large ship that was beached. Patting Garan on the shoulder and looking at the others, he grinned, ”Y’all stay here and enjoy the show. Things are gonna get good.” The man disappeared into the crowd, heading towards the ship. Garan and the others distanced themselves from Kurt, slipping away without him noticing. They didn’t go very far, just to the other side of the bar, hidden behind other pirates. Meanwhile Kurt gulped down some of his beer and kept his eyes trained on the ship.

”Alright I’m sure you guys are with me on this,” Garan said in a soft voice, but still just audible so that Jan and Sam, even with his weaker hearing, could hear. ”That new guy rubs me the wrong way.”

”Dunno wutcher on about, mate,” said Sam as he downed a small bowl full of peanuts. ”He seems alright t’me.”

”Teehee, I think that beer mug he smashed into your head musta had something to do with that,” Jan giggled and taunted. ”I kinda get what you’re feeling though, Garan. The boss seems to have taken a real liking to him...a bit too quickly.”

”Exactly,” Garan said. ”And another thing I noticed. During the last raid, the boss was about to get shot real bad. But he stepped in an’ bounced the bullet off his blade. I dunno ‘bout you two, but that ain’t rookie skills there. No way that was just a fluke.

Well, I’ll keep my crosshairs on him. Just for you,” Jan said as she smiled and winked at Garan. He nodded back at Jan.

”Well...I can’t argue with that,” Sam said as he started picking his nose. ”I guess I’m with ya on this.”

With that, all three grabbed mugs full of beer and made their way back to Kurt, who was beginning to get nervous from being left alone for a few minutes. Being ditched like that in a sense meant that they were beginning to get suspicious of him. He had to keep his wits about him even more now. He jumped a bit when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. ”Sorry’ bout that! Sam had a...little problem. Garan said with a grin.

”Yeah… We think it’s from when you smacked him real good,” Jan giggled.

Kurt only chuckled sheepishly. ”Well...I did what I had to. I wasn't exactly a fan of getting punched in the face.”

”Nah, we understand. Besides, you got the boss to like you pretty quickly, that’s an accomplishment,” Garan said. ”Now c’mon! We’d like to officially welcome ya into the fold.” Garan, Jan, and Sam all held their mugs up. Kurt grinned and raised his as well. All four of them shouted cheers and smacked their mugs together, chugging beers down.

It was then that a voice rang out across the beach. On the deck of the large, beached ship, a man with a red naval coat stepped forwards Spotlights focused on him as he stopped near the edge. He was an older man, with black stubble specced with gray. His long, unkempt black hair draped itself around his shoulders. In a grandiose manner, he spread his arms wide, a very welcoming gesture to the massive crowd below on the beach, ”Ladies! And gentlemen!” His greeting was met with raucous cheers from the beach. He stood there, arms still spread, nodding and grinning at the reception.

After waiting a bit for the commotion to die down, he continued, "Tonight, we are on the cusp of victory! Soon, the East will belong to us! This whole island, will belong to us!" This declaration was met with more cheer and applause. "The Marines here have never dealt with a force as strong as ours! They won't know what hit them!"

Behind Big Red stood four other people, one of them was Haase. Kurts eyes were fixated upon Big Red. For a split second, they widened and then narrowed, as though some sudden realization hit him. It didn't seem like Garan or the other noticed. But whatever that was, would stay locked within him. As soon as his eyes narrowed, they relaxed. The rookie pirate joined those around him in cheer. Big Red really seemed to be reveling in the spectacle.

"In the next few days, we will be preparing to take them by storm! But for now, drink! Drink and be merry to your heart's content, my brothers and sisters in arms! The fun's just begun!" and with that, Big Red bowed and stepped back just out of the spotlight. His speech, though short, seemed to boost morale even more. Kurt spent the rest of the night drinking with his compatriots.

[Vio]

Examining the packet of herbal cigarettes in his hands, Oswald Drescher was certainly not in the mood to find that he only had one left. Cigarettes were, in a sense, like bullets. You never realised how valuable they were to those that require them until your were short. While his addiction had lessened over time, the thought that his own back-up was now short was enough to put the usually calm Warrant Officer in something of a foul mood. Not that he would show that to his superiors, of course, and definitely not his subordinates, but he knew he needed to hold onto that last cigarette for as long as was feasibly possible. Supplies were stretched thin, even more so now that the front line forces had been repositioned, and you could hardly classify herbal cigarettes as urgent supplies.

"It's been too quiet. Kowalski! Any news at all?" Turning to one of his fellow men, Oswald's grey eyes set upon a man of average height and clean appearance, a Chief Petty Officer currently assigned to his unit. Peter Kowalski was certainly one of the top dogs when it came to tactical thinking, his marksmanship was also something that the ashen-haired officer had praised on numerous occasions. Currently, in the earlier hours of the morning, Kowalski was in charge of communications for their division, Den Den Mushi beside him under the shelter of a medium-sized open tent.
"Nothing yet, sir. All's been quiet since the call for reinforcements came in. It's kinda worrying, though." Nodding in agreement, Mister Drescher felt the difficulty of the situation steadily climbing. If the southern forces had lost the fight, then it was highly likely that they had been pushed right back to the safety of the border wall. Advanced guard divisions were more prevalent in the south, the associated area being somewhat more hotly contested between pirate and Marine forces. In the north, however, the secluded quiet of the forest made it difficult for either side to overextend themselves without risk of ambush. From their current position, Oswald's unit had a decent view of the forest while also being quite secluded which, in his mind, was both a blessing and a curse.

"Yeah. I can't help but feel like something's wrong. I know it's unlikely we'd hear anything from the south this early, but it just doesn't feel right." Standing up straight, the morning sun shone gently from behind him, emphasising the many tones of grey that decorated his head as he swept the scene with his watchful eyes. All his team were hard at work, counting munitions and checking equipment, men positioned on the perimeter as normal were keeping there eye out in case of pirate activity. Certainly, a pirate attack was the last thing the northern side of the island needed. It would only take a small amount of pressure to break through and lay siege to one of the Marine encampments. If the pirates managed to take just one of them while the forces were concentrated in the south, the others would be easy pickings.
"Shall I call in at the other stations? It would be good to know how they're holding out, no?" Kowalski asked, gesturing towards the transponder snail that sat idly beside him, its white shell emblazoned with the seagull insignia of the Marines. Oswald turned back and eyed it for a moment, weighing up their options in his mind. Causing a false alarm could spell disaster, but his curiosity was beginning to get the better of him. If there was one thing he liked to do, it was question orders given to him, but right now he was questioning the lack of orders. Information exchange happened regularly between the many stations that protected the borders of East and West Winchester, but right now it was the lack on information that was most disturbing.

"Hmm. Do it. The last thing I want is to be blind-sided when a pirate force is on its way to our doorstep. I'd like to know how the others are holding up, too." Giving Kowalski the go ahead, the towering Warrant Officer turned back towards the forest and stepped forwards, the sound of a Den Den Mushi ringing quietly behind him as his communications officer started the round of calls. Reaching towards his pocket, Oswald stopped himself half way. His control over his addiction was slowly but surely getting better.
Hm. If I ever have to leave Winchester, for whatever reason that may be, Kowalski may just be the perfect guy to take my place. I've worked with him for two years straight now, and not once have I seen him falter. He's got balls of steel... Smiling to himself, the greying Marine could not help but consider Winchester Island's future without him. There would come a time where his years of service would end, but he at least hoped that when that day came his home would see peace once more. Still, he wished to leave his home behind at some point and lend a hand elsewhere. After all, Winchester was not the only place in the world plagued by the scourge of pirates.

[Die]

Kurt stepped over the unconscious forms of Marines at an outpost beside a checkpoint farther out from the base. The rookie pirate quickly stripped most of them of their clothes before binding and gagging them. He was physically stronger than he appeared, being able to lug their bodies into hiding places within the structure. At this point, nothing could be done with the few drops of blood that seeped into the wooden floor. Hopefully no one would notice them. After he finished clearing up the building, he extended an arm out a window within Garan’s line of sight and gave a thumbs up.

Garan’s lips upturned and scrunched in as his brows furrowed and his eyes narrowed. ”I was sure he’d fail. Rookie pirate my ass, he just took down a whole outpost by himself.,” he grumbled. His mood worsened as he stepped into the outpost with the rest of the little pirate contingent expecting to see a lot of blood. ”Hey rookie. What’d y’do with all the bodies?” he asked.

”I figured anyone who comes through’d notice something off. Less blood, uh, less suspicion right? I stuffed some of ‘em in closets. The rest of ‘em...in the cellar away from anything they could use to cut themselves free.”

”Good point...good point,” he said under his breath, out of earshot. He walked up behind Kurt who had a pistol pressed against the head of one remaining Marine. He was the communications officer.

”So who’s this guy?” Garan said to him, his voice lightly seasoned with sarcasm. Kurt smiled and nodded, seemingly ignoring his question and directing his attention to the pile of Marine uniforms he stripped off of the personnel in the outpost. Garan handed it off to Jan and she passed it down to Haase, who was now clean-shaven and sported a military-style haircut.

”Buru buru...buru buru…”

The drone of a ringing Den Den Mushi made just about everyone jump before realizing what it was.

“Buru buru...buru buru…”

”Well? Answer it.”

Gulping, the officer picked up the receiver.

”Gatcha.”

”Petty Officer Garrett speaking, over ...yes...yes...all is quiet on the northern front, over. No sign of pirate activity yet, over,” there was a tinge of nervousness in his voice. To the perceptive ear, it was an obvious sign that something was wrong.

”Gatcha.”

As soon as he hung up, Kurt tossed his pistol gently, flipping it and grabbing the barrel. The blonde pirate struck the officer in the back of the head and knocked him out. He too was bound, gagged, and stuffed in the cellar with the rest. With that done, the pirates who were to stay behind in the outpost donned the uniforms. It was fortunate that the Marines didn’t care much to fit their soldiers properly, as the pirates were able to fit in them relatively well.

”So what now?” Kurt asked Garan.

”We wait…” he replied.

The situation was similar in other outposts with the pirates lead by Big Red taking them over as well. For the next hour or so Kurt stood and sat around, waiting for orders from above. During this time, Garan eyed the blonde pirate suspiciously before walking outside with Jan.

”More problems with the kid?” Jan winked at him.

”You saw what he did. No one died and no more than a drops of blood were spilled. He’s too clean for a newbie. And he thought to hide everyone? None of this adds up,” he said.

Jan giggled and swung her hips to the side, bumping him playfully, ”Psh. Maybe he’s just educated. Not everyone’s the same y’know? But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll keep an eye on him alright?”

”Thanks…” he said to her.

The Den Den Mushi rang again, this time with Kurt picking up. Imitating Garrett’s voice as best as he could he answered, ”This is Outpost 5, over.”

Immediately he could tell it was Haase who spoke, ”Outpost 7 here. All outposts clear.”

”Roger that, Haase. Any orders?”

From Outpost 7, Haase stood over a bloodier floor. However, he was now clean-shaven and sported a military-style haircut in addition to wearing a Marine uniform. ”You, Garan, Sam, and Jan are to join the vanguard forces up ahead. Everyone else is to stay behind as part of the rear guard...don’t want anyone sneakin’ up on us. Anyway! Once you reach the vanguard position, all you have to do is keep quiet and wait for the cannons to fire. After that, just charge on in and take out as many Marines as you can. And try not to die! I don’t want my favorite rookie meeting his end here alright? Right well, over and out!”

Kurt put down the receiver as he received his orders and relayed them to Garan. The four left the Outpost behind and made their way towards the vanguard. Long range artillery began to roll in, being set in positions far behind in order to prevent Marine forces from taking them out.

It didn’t take long for Kurt and the others to reach the vanguard position at the pace they traveled at. He was greeted with a large mass gathering of pirates. It was unusually quiet for such a large number of people, as though they were disciplined and commanded by capable leaders.

But that tense silence was broken shortly after he arrived by the rapid bravado of cannonade, followed by the whistling of cannon balls as they came down onto Marine territory. The pitter-patter of dirt and debris mingled with the shouts of Marines and orders barked at them. During that time, the vanguard of the pirate forces rushed in, taking advantage of the chaos of the sudden attack. A myriad of battlecries were shouted as pirate forces rushed into Marine positions and clashed.

The attack on the base was underway.

[Vio]

The day was dragging on longer than any day before it. That was the way of Winchester, an island that was stuck in a constant stalemate between marine and pirate forces. However, things had just taken a turn for the worse for the marine side, unbeknownst to them. Adjusting some of the pieces that formed his sniper rifle, Oswald Drescher's grey eyes stared at the steely weapon, aware that it was tools of war such as these that made an army all that more effective. That said, as one of the best snipers in Winchester's force, the Warrant Officer knew just as well as the next man that a tool was only as good as the man who wielded it. There was no point in a workman blaming his tools, for that was a sign that he was not up to the task. Sealing the final lock with a distinct click, the long-barreled rifle had gone through the rigours of being taken apart, cleaned, and put back together again. Looking after their equipment was essential, given the difficulties they had in maintaining supplies.

"Hey, Officer Drescher! I've just called a couple of the outposts north of us, but the last one seemed a little off to me..." Kowalski said as he returned from his round of calls. Oswald looked up at him, halfway through reloading his rifle, and raised an eyebrow. The Chief Petty Officer had an eye for detail and, apparently, also an ear for it. That was good, but it was also bad. Uncertain of whether or not such suspicions were accurate, the sniper took no chances, aware that this was not the kind of thing to be dismissed lightly.

"Why? What's the issue?" He asked, getting to his feet and now towering nearly a whole twelve inches over his more average-sized comrade. Kowalski signaled for him to follow, returning back to the still active Den Den Mushi within the small tent that made up part of the outpost. Following him with due haste, the gaunt marine leaned himself over the table and opened his ears as his subordinate requested for a little known function of the transponder snail. Some were blessed with the ability to repeat whatever words had recently emerged from their mouths and, sure enough, the strange little mollusc recited the other end of the conversation it had been involved in.

"Petty Officer Garrett speaking, over... Yes... Yes, all is quiet on the northern front, over. No sign of pirate activity yet, over... Gatcha!" Falling into a state of slumber, the snail deactivated itself, having done its duty. Looking at Kowalski, the smoking sniper nodded subtly after hearing those words. He could tell by the subtle quivering of the other man's voice that something was amiss. His words seemed to fluctuate ever so slightly between a little loud and somewhat withdrawn, almost as if he were under pressure to respond. Alarm bells immediate rang in the Warrant Officer's mind, but uncertainty plagued him. Maybe he was just a little paranoid? Maybe the fact that his cravings for a cigarette were growing progressively more intense was affecting his judgment? No. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts before turning and leaving the shelter of the tent.

Strange... Could Outpost Five have been under attack? No, I didn't hear anything other than Garrett's voice... Pondering the possibilities, the greying marine quietly paced back and forth a few times. Before his mind could settle, however, a cry rang out from above. An alarm call from one of the seamen on watch was quickly followed by the sounds of countless footsteps thundering towards the station. Gunshots filled the air as the watchmen fired at what could only have been pirate forces, but it was no use. With so much drilled into their minds, all of the dozen or so men at Outpost Four scrambled for their weapons in the most organised fashion possible. Oswald himself had already taken up his rifle and had it trained on the gate that formed the path between East and West, the wooden structure trembling as a tide of bodies battered against it.

"Open fire as soon as they breach the gate, then fall back!" Ordered the head sniper, eye focused down the back of his rifle, the scope of which he had yet to replace, which actually helped in this scenario. However, that did not tilt the odds in their favour at all as the final push saw the gate give way, a large battering ram hitting a floor as around two dozen pirates began to lay siege to one of the last remaining outposts. "FIRE!"

A cacophony of sharp explosions filled the air as bullets left barrels, flying towards their foes in a single and well coordinated wave of lead. Oswald's own missile essentially leading the pack, his round was the first to land, knocking a pirate to the ground as the pellet struck him right between the eyes. There was no surviving that. The rest of the firing squad's shots landed in various places, striking at the shoulders and chests of the charging horde, while also killing a few outright. Not ideal, but they had not exactly been provided much time to aim. That would have to do.

"Fall back! Fall back!" While the unit's counterattack had been at least partly successful, one thing was painfully obvious to the Warrant Officer as he shouted out his orders. They were outnumbered by more than two to one, and that was a losing battle. Not worth fighting. If a siege like this had happened here, then it was likely that similar assaults had taken out neighbouring outposts. Four had been a smaller outpost, hidden from prying eyes by the forest that surrounded the dividing wall, but even the pirates knew of its existence. Retreating and signalling wildly for his comrades to follow, the marksman heard the sounds of returning fire from the enemy as pistols were fired blindly into the mass of uniforms. At least three men fell, much to the smoker's dismay, but others still lived.

"Damn pirates! I knew something wasn't right!" He hissed, casting a glance over at Kowalski as the man made a wild shot back at the pirates, very nearly tripping in the process. Going down in battle was one thing, but Oswald was not about to see one of his finest compatriots lose his life, reaching out an arm and stopping the man's fall. The look that the grey eyes gave the CPO practically screamed the words "don't be a hero", which was enough to get him to abandon his weapon and follow...

SPOILER: Click to show

Didn't feel all that right, but I guess that's because this thread's been so slow? Haven't used Oswald much (if at all) outside of it.

[Die]

The alarms from the fort that served as the Marine's stronghold in the East side became a persistent fixture among the sounds of battle. In a few seconds they had spread to nearby city under Marine protection. The entire East now knew of the attack. The vanguard forces only represented a portion of the rest of the pirate forces. To most of the Marines stationed here, they appeared like the usual large groups that tried attacking the base every now and then, maybe slightly more organized, but nothing they hadn't encountered in the past. Once the surviving Marines retreated behind the fort's gates, they would have gone into lockdown and worn out the waves of pirates.

Kurt was at the forefront of the charge on the west side of the fort. Every now and then he ducked behind some of his larger compatriots, avoiding the covering fire that occasionally came from the retreating Marines. By now the Marines up on the ramparts had gotten into position to cover for the remaining retreating forces on the ground below. The closer sounds of cannons going off meant that they were now attacking the pirate forces on the ground as well as their artillery positions further off in the distance.

The retreating Marines finally reached the gates of the fort, scrambling to pass underneath as the gates slammed down on the ground, crushing a few unfortunate pirates. With no way in now, Kurt looked up at the ramparts and then swiped a grenade belt off of fellow pirate. Pulling the grappling hook from his belt, he tossed the hook as far as he could. Once it wrapped itself around a piece of the architecture, he began scaling the wall as fast as he could. Two Marines spotted him and a few others trying to scale the wall, and made a mad dash to try and sever the rope and send him falling to his death. Kurt quickly let go of the rope with one hand, grabbing a pistol and letting off a few poorly-aimed shots. The ball rounds whizzed over their heads and ricocheted off of the bricks, sending them into cover and buying Kurt enough time to pull himself up onto the rampart.

Stowing the pistol and drawing his blades, the rookie pirate reached over his back with his left sword and raised his right arm with the blade pointing down towards his left, parrying both strikes from the two Marines. He immediately pivoted to the left, pushing the right blade out and away and driving the left Marine’s blade in towards the ground. With a quick lunge, he slashed the left Marine across the forearm and grabbed his collar, yanking him off to the side and behind him and striking the back of his head with the bottom of his sword’s hilt.

Kurt then knocked the remaining Marine’s sword off to the side again as he tried a second strike on him. Following through, Kurt spun over his right foot and lifted his left leg, throwing his foot out and kicking the Marine across the jaw. He spun in mid-air as he flew back, unconscious from the blow.

Kurt quickly looked over the wall. The Marines’ artillery was doing a number of the pirate forces. Those beyond the minimum range of the cannons had begun to fall back, leaving the pirates up front behind. It was like watching a school of fish trying to part as seals swam into feast, only the seals in question were much rounder and more explosive. Closer to the walls, he saw bodies strewn about as pirates fought Marines who had rushed onto the battlefield to mount a counteroffensive now that they had fewer numbers to deal with. And then he saw Garan, who looked up at him and waved his arm in a hook-like manner, as though he was telling him to get down from the other side and open up the gate with the other pirates who had scaled the wall. The rookie pirate nodded in understanding and looked down the rampart. Before he did so, he pulled two grenades from the swiped belt and rolled each one at a cannon after pulling the pins.

”You lot! Come with me and take out this gate!” he barked at them.

Kurt grinned as his command was met with a resounding ”AYE!” Retrieving the grappling hook, he secured it to the inner edge of the wall and descended just as the cannons on his part of the battlement exploded. His hair billowed madly as the air rushed past his body. Extending his legs out in front of him, he struck a Marine in the gut, knocking the wind of him. Kurt struck him again on the back of the head to subdue him as the other pirates descended all around the gate, engaging the Marines within the walls. Kurt found himself looking down at a tall Marine with gray-blue eyes and similarly gray hair. Drawing his blades again, he rushed towards him, weaving around other Marines tangled with pirates as he quickly closed the distance between them.

[Vio]

What seemed like ages passed by in the blink of an eye as Oswald Drescher and the men of his outpost retreated to the walls of Winchester Island's Marine fortress, having been driven from their stations by an unexpectedly large pirate force. Still, the Warrant Officer knew he had made the better decision. Even with the skill of his unit, there was no way that they would have been able to stand up against such a charge, and so the next best course of action was to return to base and prepare for an oncoming storm. It was not the numbers that had worried him, but the fact that they had shown an unusual degree of strategic thinking. Why attack such a far flung outpost when the majority of their forces had been in the south? It had dawned on him that, perhaps, there had been some misinformation.

At least we can win if we regroup at the base... No use crying over spilled milk... Now approaching the main gates, it was obvious to the grey-haired man that the enemy had prepared well in advance for this attack. A large wave of men and women were charging in with a rather messy rank and file, but a rank and file nonetheless. Stopping for a moment and allowing his men, likely exhausted from the rapid relocation, to filter in through the main gates, Oswald took up his rifle and aimed into the horde. A sniper's greatest tool was precision, but that was not available to him as of now. That did not stop him from pulling the trigger and sending a single round sailing into the front line of the approaching masses, his bullet striking a criminal in the chest. With no delays to see how effective his shot had been, the sniper instead sprinting across the final stretch; the last of his group to enter the relative safety of the fortress. Already alerted to the pirate attacks, the base was on high alert. Men and women darted back and forth, forming units ready for a counter offensive as marksman and gunners unleashed volleys of cover fire and attempted to take out the enemy artillery. Such chaos as this had become natural to them, and Mister Drescher was no exception. It was like a drill more than a real battle. A worrisome thought, but he shrugged it off as he regained his breath and composure, his men having already done him the favour of reporting what little information they had to superior officers...

"They're scaling the walls!" Shouted one of the men stationed on the ramparts, his voice loud enough to be heard down in the courtyard. Grey-blue eyes looked up to the tops of the walls, giving a quick scan of the area in an attempt to pinpoint a pirate or two. It was too soon, surely?

"Dammit! My rifle's useless from down here." Placing his rifle upon his back once more, well aware that its range and power would do little without a clear shot, the Warrant Officer instead focused on organising the ground troops. Men and women of variable rank - from freshly recruited Seamen to more experienced Ensigns - were in the process of getting into position, swords at the ready for when the now closed gates opened once more. If pirates breached the gate, they would be ready. Of course, the hasty actions of the enemy forces had done a number on the morale of some troops, many Seamen and even some CPOs seeming a little lost in the confusion of battle. Before he could approach and reassure them, the sound of an explosion filled the air, pieces of one of the cannons falling from the rampart while another was toppled by a similar blast. Pivoting about on the spot, the Marine martial artist found himself on the front line as the enemy descended from above, numerous pirates of differing shapes and statures now charging into the fray after bypassing the gates.

"Come on, men! Hold your ground! We can take them!" He yelled, attempting to inspire confidence in his not-so-courageous comrades, and succeeding at that. He was no leader. Heck, Oswald actually disliked the prospect of being anything more than an Ensign. But, he still had some of those leadership qualities, more out of a sense of duty than being a natural born commander. Still, his ability to spur a few younger men into action was not the problem. What threatened him now was an opponent armed with a pair of cutlasses, the silvery steel blades whizzing through the air at him while others clashed against the enemy all around him.

"Heh. Two swords doesn't make you any more skilled." Murmured the tall man, his stance changing to something akin to a martial artist's as his foe rushed in, fists at the ready and eyes focused. His adversary seemed young, or at least blessed with looks handsome enough to betray his age (Oswald himself looked a few years older than he was at this moment in time), but had a dirty look to him all the same. Shorter than the Warrant Officer, as most men were, he was also quick on his feet, covering the distance between them in a matter of a few lengthy strides. The edge of a sword came towards him, but the Marine made sure to dodge it, sliding to the side of his foe before launching a single straight punch with a gloved hand. His fist was blocked, deflected by the opponent's other arm and then followed by the second blade. A swift upward sweep cut at the officer's chest, slicing the deep blue shirt he wore but otherwise doing little more than nipping at his flesh.

...Why did he cut my right instead of left? Heavily focused on his foe's actions, as was expected of a man whose skills involved accuracy and precision, Drescher immediately found himself criticising his opponent's attack choice. It was almost as if the cut had been intended to be shallow, though that didn't stop it from stinging like hell for a few seconds. At that proximity, surely he could have aimed a deeper cut to the heart side? Or even aim at his gut or neck? Why, when given the opportunity, would a pirate not take the chance to kill a marine? It made no sense. What made even less sense was the way in which his opponent moved.

His movements are so fast and fluid... It's almost like... Rokushiki? As a swift series of punches were dodged and parried, Oswald couldn't help but compare the pirate's motions of body and leg to those of a martial art known as Rokushiki. But, that was a World Government style that could only be learned through extensive training, pushing the body to its limits in an attempt to break them. That took discipline, natural talent and years of work. It was not unusual to encounter a talented pirate, but the other things were not so... pirate-like. Another siwng of the sword, this time easily evaded with a simple roll. It really seemed as if he was holding back, and that was raising numerous queries within his mind.

"Guess I was wrong," he huffed, returning to his feet...

SPOILER: Click to show

Grading Note: Permission was granted by Die for this last bit!

[Die]

The gray Marine Kurt faced posed a bit of trouble. Though he was considered wet behind the ears, the pirate held his own rather well against a seemingly more experienced Marine. They traded blows; swords against fists. Kurt felt there was something odd about him despite his best efforts to strike him down. It was as though he was on the defensive more often, like he was gauging his abilities.

The most obvious indicator was that while they traded blows, the Marine was often on the defensive, evading, blocking, and deflecting strikes while taking very few opportunities to strike back. Kurt had been on the offensive for much longer. It felt like the gray Marine was trying to wear him out.

The two exchanged blows yet again. Kurt dashed in low towards Oswald, both blades in a neutral position, delicately balanced between offense and defense. At any given moment he could flick either one to defend and strike with the other. The pirate aimed a jab with his right blade at the left side of Oswald's abdomen, only for it to be smacked off to the side. Kurt flicked the remaining blade to deflect a palm strike meant for his temple. Oswald was deceptively strong, as Kurt found out when he lost that blade. With one weapon gone he swung the remaining blade back across from its path. Oswald pushed back to avoid the strike and rolled off to the side to gain a better angle of attack. Kurt pushed back as well, but only to put some distance to avoid a retaliatory strike.

No sooner had his opponent evaded his last strike with a roll had Kurt stowed one blade and drawn a pistol in one swift motion. He fired a shot, just barely grazing the side of Oswald's thigh. The ball buried itself in the ground behind him. The pirate quickly altered his aim and fired a second shot. This time the ball round buried itself into the Ensign's thigh, a debilitating wound as far as the present situation was, but not life-threatening. He would be fine in a few days.

The pirate, having just dispatched his opponent, felt something heavy strike him from behind, planting him into the ground. Kurt spat out some dirt as he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed up against the side of his head and a knee digging into his upper back. Several more footsteps drew closer, stopping around him. Kurt was completely surrounded. Knowing that this was a hopeless situation, he released his grip on his weapons. The man at his back cuffed his wrists together.

The attempted raid against the Marine stronghold ended in failure. With the bulk of their forces already retreated, those pirates left behind had either been killed or captured. Medics scrambled onto the field to take care of the wounded and others were left to cart away the dead. "Warrant Officer Drescher!" one of them shouted. Oswald was helped onto a stretcher by his peers. The medics did a quick field evaluation to determine the extent of his injuries so they could relay it back to the infirmary in preparation for his arrival. "Gunshot wound, right thigh. It doesn't look serious but it needs to be removed in case it nicked an artery or nerve," said one of the medics into his Den Den Mushi. The gray Marine was then carried off to the infirmary, while Kurt was forcibly dragged to his feet.

He jerked around to face his captor, only to feel the wind knocked out of him as a fist buried itself in his stomach. It was a split second glance, but it was all he needed to tell that it was Haase in Marine clothing. Without any of the others within earshot, Haase whispered to him, "Sorry for the rough treatment, kid. Gotta make things convincin' y'know?" Kurt was helped back up to his feet as Haase faced some superior officers. "I took this pirate down as he was fighting against Warrant Officer Drescher, sir! What do you want to do with this scum?"

"Excellent work uh..." started one of them, not knowing his name.

"Rook. Petty Officer Rook, sir."

"Right. Rook, put him in a cell. We'll interrogate him," he continued.

"Yessir!" Haase affirmed before taking Kurt away.

SPOILER: Click to show

Permission was granted by Vio for control of her character in this post!

[Vio]

This guy's no pushover... Offence apparently bested by the surprisingly swift motions of his opponent, Oswald Drescher quickly found himself forced onto the defensive, deflecting strikes meant for him with motions of the palms. Every now and then, an evasive roll was required, but distance was not something he was willing to give to the upstart pirate. The reason? He had already spied the holstered pistols, sidearms which only served to be more efficient in close quarters that at range if their wielder was able to reach them. Though he himself disliked the use of such weapons in fights like these, the Warrant Officer was still aware of the danger they posed. A decent shot could be lined up in just a matter of seconds, and even the low power of a handgun was more than enough to bury a lead pellet deep within the flesh of the intended target. One false move could be disastrous, and so he did his utmost to maintain that proximity. If the pirate went for his gun, he would be ready to knock it from his grasp.

Dammit...! A solid strike sent a sabre sailing from the assailant's grasp. But despite the partial victory, the ashen-haired marine had unwittingly placed himself into a bad position, forced to throw himself backwards to avoid a slicing strike and take up one more roll to position himself to compensate for his mistake. But it was already too late. Taking total advantage of the brief respite in their melee, Kurt pushed himself back far enough to place himself out of reach of any of Oswald's attacks, thus providing plenty of time to do what the marine had been trying to stop him from doing. Swiftly and skilfully the pistol was drawn, sending a slug forth in a spray of sparse smoke and grazing the taller one's thigh. Though it had not struck flesh, the burning bullet had made sure to make its presence felt, fraying the fabric of his trousers as it whizzed past. But alas, before he could leap forward in an attempt to knock the pistol away, another shot was discharged. This one did not miss.

"Argh! F-" Pain wracking his entire body, spreading out from the fresh wound like water from a burst dam, Mister Drescher was forced to the ground by the searing surge. A pellet having embedded itself within his thigh, the shock of taking such a wound was enough to leave him unable to retaliate any further, priority placed upon putting pressure on the wound to try and stem whatever bleeding was happening. He was no doctor, for sure, but it was always a good idea to follow the basics of first aid whenever and wherever possible. Luck would have it that, despite the clear level of planning the pirate forces had taken, they alone were not enough to best an entire base. As undermanned and stretched for munitions as it was, Winchester's fortress was not going to fall today...

-~-~-~-

"W-Warrant Officer Drescher? What are you doing?" asked a medic as he entered the infirmary, spying the familiar form of the sniper strolling from his bed towards the door. At least thirty-six hours had already passed since the pirate hordes had invaded the island's more peaceful half. It was hard to believe that their siege had lasted less than two hours, especially given the numbers involved, but skirmishes between law enforcers and law breakers were often bloody at best in these trying times. More than two dozen casualties had befallen the base, and more than twice that number had sustained serious injuries. Indeed, the medical bay was close overflowing with men and women alike recovering from the day's short-lived battle. And, of all those who had suffered injuries, Oswald was the least willing to sit around and do nothing.

"Walking. Why?" he responded, taking tender steps with his bandaged leg. "It's not a serious injury."

"That doesn't mean you should be careless! Now come on." Pointing to the man's leg, the medic tried to take action, placing a palm firmly upon Drescher's back and trying to guide him back to his bed. But he was having none of it, shrugging the doctor off quite suddenly and returning a cold, uncharacteristic glare. There was no denying his irritability. Being cooped up for what was supposedly a minor wound was one thing, but the doctors had also enforced a no smoking policy in the infirmary for the sake of good health. For a smoker such as he, this place was becoming near unbearable, thus driving the man to seek solitude and cigarettes.

"Hm... Sorry, Doc. I just-"

"Tch. Don't worry about it," the medic said, waving off the WO's apology. Not particularly old, but hardly in the prime of his life, this particular practitioner of medicine shared the same military rank - albeit with a great deal more experience under his belt. Standing no taller than five and six, Doctor Grahams was in his mid forties and carried a lot of respect well-deserved upon his shoulders. By no means a combatant, his role was very much about saving the lives of soldiers who fought for the sake of Winchester and its surrounding seas, Oswald included. Though the two typically met rather infrequently, neither knowing all too much about the personal lives of one another (for anything other than medical purposes), they at least shared a few common traits that they were aware of. Smoking being one of them. "Ahh. Come with me. I suppose I can let you off, with supervision..."

-~-~-~-

"Here. I think you can cheat a bit, under the circumstances." The two gentleman standing outside the walls of the white fortress that supposedly represented hope and justice, Doctor Grahams pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to the fellow Warrant Officer. Though hesitant to accept at first, cravings were above and beyond the disciplined self-control that he had strove for over the past months, and thus he took what was on offer. But what graced his fingertips was no ordinary specimen; a cigarette of high quality about a quarter longer than was normal, the unusual object was wrapped in a light blue paper quite unlike the normal white wrappings of cheaper brands. Indeed, the stick provoked a look of disbelief from the grey eyes of the gunman. A look which was met with a light smile as the medic lit up his own choice and took it in. Oswald did the same, striking up his silver lighter. This was a proper piece, rolled of the finest tobacco leaves. Not some standard brand or herbal replica. Rich, proper, tobacco.

"So. What's the news?" Blowing a slow ring of ghostly smoke into the moist air, Mister Drescher looked to the muddy earth that stretched out around them. The sun had been consumed by an endless blanket of thick grey from whence the downpour came, a saddening torrent of heaven's tears to wash away the blood of those who had fought valiantly. But those same tears did not discriminate, splashes of crimson-stained dirt cleansed no matter the sins of the bodies that once lay there in their final moments.

"The bad news, Mister Drescher, is that these cost me a pretty penny. The good news," Grahams continued, "is that this incident has finally given the top dogs a wake-up call. Reinforcements are on their way as we speak - should be here in a few days, actually - and from what I've heard they're not skimping on the munitions, either! Old Stanley will be back to his former glory, soon enough, and that should make life a little easier for the good folk...

"But will you be around to see it, Oswald?" The doctor's tones quietening, the two smokers shared an unnervingly long and silent pause, the sound of the now lessened deluge drumming the overhanging ledge underneath which they sheltered. A pattering puddle as wide as a Giant's backside was just one of many watery pools that had formed in the scarred region that often witnessed the shedding of blood and the thunderous rumble of cannon. A good quarter of the island was nothing more than a battleground in present times, though the people of the east were lucky to say that most of the fighting they heard of was infighting between pirate crews of the west. "There's been a few rumours passed around about you, you know?"

"Mm. I guess," the grey one said, pausing for a moment to take another breath of the flavoursome fumes. "I love this place. It's my home. But now? I've endured so much just to stay here and protect it. But I know it will take a lot of time and effort - more than I can give - to turn it into that perfect island we're all so hopeful for. And, to be honest? Winchester's already taken more from me than I think is fair. My father. My mother. I suppose, even my brother. That's why I want to get out of here. The rumours are true, Doc. I filed a transfer request. Just waiting to hear back from HQ."

"You do know they'll likely deny it, right?" Grahams questioned, raising a rather bushy eyebrow. "And if they do accept, you haven't exactly built up the perfect rank or reputation to decide where you're going. They might just stick you on some far out base in the middle of nowhere."

"Yeah, that's true." A smile crawled its way onto his face. "Not much of a change, though, eh? Anyway, you seem to be in the loop. Any big names coming in with these reinforcements of ours...?"

SPOILER: Click to show

Alright! I'm not sure how consistent this is with what was written many moons ago, but I thought it was about to time to clean up Oswald a little bit and give him some much needed character development. This might snowball into a rework of his character, but I was pretty happy with where he stood before, anyway. Also, lighter text colour, because his old one was illegible on most of the skins I tested.

Oswald Drescher (999999)
Dr. Grahams (009999)

[Mr. Moshypocrite McSlowbro]

The Aldebaran Red wasn’t the largest of vessels. A frigate-class gunship, it was designed more for mobility than anything else. It still needed to keep enough cannons on board to say competitive though, so what you ended up with were a lot cramped quarters and tight hallways. And given that her previous station had been a full sized battleship with all the bells-and-whistles, weeell. Let’s just say Lucy was still adjusting.

Now, which socket was it again? The ratchet was simple enough to use, but it had come with an unreasonable amount of little attachments that fit on the wrench’s head. They were arranged by size, but that really didn’t help her given that she had no idea which one to use. Trial and error it is, then. Dammit. Why the hell do they even MAKE this many? Why not just make every bolt the same size?

No, she had to stay positive here. Count her blessings. After all, anything was better than being cooped up back on base at Illusia. There was only so much time one person could tolerate doing nothing, while everyone else you knew was off doing… marine stuff. It sucked that she hadn’t been in good enough condition to leave when her crewmates did, but her Captain had been putting off deployment for as long as she could. Lucy couldn’t blame Célestine for it. But at the same time, she wasn’t just going to sit on her hands and wait for that lot to get back! Which is how she ended up receiving temporary assignment to the Red, under the command of a man named Raolo Ronso. Officially, she was there to assist with the escort of a supply ship bound for Winchester Island. Apparently the base there had been hit pretty hard, and was in dire need of provisions and reinforcement. Unofficially, Raolo had remembered her from an operation a couple of years back, and had been kind enough to offer her a ride-along. Not that it was a vacation or anything. From what she’d heard in the reports, this place was pretty hairy, and the Lieutenant would be expected to pull her weight. Hell, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

That was why Lucy was sitting on the floor of her cabin, with an assortment of tools and parts spread out around her. Her quarters for the trip weren’t much: just a bed, porthole, and a small writing desk. But given how pressed everything else was onboard, she was surprised to even get this much. Everything reeked of salt and tar, and despite being a fairly warm day outside the planks underneath her still managed to be freezing cold. Though, that could just be because she was in her skivvies. The soldierly woman had her bright blue hair tied up in a ponytail, mostly to get it out of the way. Its vibrant coloring contrasted sharply with her pale skin, which no amount of sun seemed to be able to darken no matter how much she tried. Her back was smooth, but marred by the presence of long discolored streaks, which carved parallel paths down her spine and across her shoulders. They were thin scars, long healed but not quite erased. Though they were difficult to spot when not in just the right light, it was safe to say that these were product of careful incisions that could not have happened on any battlefield. If one was paying close enough attention, they might notice that something seemed a bit odd about her right arm too. It seemed a bit larger than the left, with angles that looked just a bit too sharp to be completely normal. Though, none of those subtle details were likely to be noticed by any outside observer, not when a much more obvious abnormality was glaring them in the face.

Her legs were made of metal.

They were big bulky things, which seemed to have been built by a person who had never actually seen legs, just had them described to him. All the basic parts were there, a thigh, a knee, a shin, and a foot. However, this is where the similarities end. The limbs had been constructed entirely out of what looked like industrial-grade machinery, with bone and muscle replaced by steel and hydraulics. Both seemed woefully out of place attached to Lucy’s hips, and none were more aware of that than Lucy herself. But dammit, if these were going to be her legs now, then they were going to be in tip top shape for her first assignment back on the job.

A small part of her realized it would have been much easier to ask someone for help, but that thought had been smothered in its stupid crib. This was her problem. It had taken her half a year to get to this point. Half a year of painful, painstakingly slow progress. Of opiates, and exercises designed for the elderly. Of wheelchairs, walkers, and white rooms that reeked of chemical cleaners. Of wrinkly doctors, and doors being held open for her. Of being treated like a God-damned invalid! She was adult, self-sufficient. She would do it on her own. She did not need anyone else.

With a mechanical whir, a slot on her left leg popped open, pushing out a long grey cylinder. Lucy yanked it out of its place and examined it for a moment or two. It was about as long as her forearm, and strangely heavy for its size. There was one per leg, filled with a non-compressible fluid that was used by the hydraulic motor that powered her motion. They degraded over time and through heavy use, and even though it wasn’t quite time to change them out, she still wanted to. Just to be sure. This was too important for her to mess it up because of some dumbass maintenance issue. Setting the canister down at her side, she reached over for the spare on her opposite side, grumbling under her breath about having to become a mechanic just so she could get ready for work. Her complaint was cut short by a horrible metallic groan, followed by a splatter of wetness across the right side of her face. The blue-haired marine jerked back in surprise, only to find her right hand wrapped around one of the spare canisters and squeezing. Hard. So hard that it had dented the casing and sent out a spray of muddy yellow liquid in all directions.

“Ffffuuck!” Lucy spat bitterly, doing her best to wipe the crap off her face. She wasn’t really sure what would happen if she got hydraulic fluid in her eye, but she was pretty sure it wouldn’t be pleasant. After that was no longer an immediate issue, she tried to let go of the twisted container, but found her hand to be unresponsive.

Spitting another obscenity or two, as they were the closest thing to coherent speech she could manage at the moment, she had to reach over and pry the fingers of her right hand off one by one. This was no easy task, given that the rebellious fist seemed to be doing everything in its power to oppose her. After several minutes of fighting with it, she finally managed to forcibly unclench the hand and drop the newly-made scrap. But of course, not before the twisted metal had a chance to cut a deep gash into her thumb, which immediately began to bleed profusely. The wound elicited an anguished howl from ‘Lucky’ Lucy, though more one of frustration than pain. Snatching an oil-stained rag off the bed next to her, she buried her red thumb in it, glaring hatefully at her other hand for its transgressions. Which is when she made yet another discovery: the canister’s sharp edges had taken their toll on her right hand as well. Except rather than blood, what showed beneath the torn flesh was something dark. The same dark-colored metal that her legs were composed of, just hidden beneath a thin layer of a rubbery faux skin. The long tears crossed her palm and travelled a ways down her wrist before stopping, plainly revealing the complicated mechanism underneath.

If her first outburst was a howl, her second came out as a roar, punctuated by the slamming of her fists down on the floorboard. Anger coursed through her veins with every beat of her heart, but not at anything specific. Just. The world. Everything. Herself. Her circumstances. These stupid prosthetics. Especially those.

From behind the door, a rather meek sounding male voice cleared its throat, followed by a quiet knock. “Uh. Lieutenant?”

“WHAT?!” The shout came out as a question, accusation, and reprimand all wrapped into one.

The sailor shied away as if stuck, but managed to recompose himself after a handful of seconds, and reassuring himself that he was operating with his superior’s authority. And that these doors were made out of thick, solid wood that probably wouldn’t break when struck. “Ummm. We’ll be docking in twenty minutes. The Captain wants all the officers to go ashore with him.”

Lucy blinked several times, as the words slowly settled on her brain. Anchoring her back to the moment. “Oh, right.” The servicewoman replied, in a much quieter, almost apologetic tone. “I’ll be there. Thanks.”

He saluted, or at least she assumed he did, and walked away. Lucy listened to hasty scuffling of boots until she could no longer hear them echoing down the hallway. Then it was just silence. She was in deep. Her hand was shredded. Three-fourths of her limbs seemed to do whatever the hell they wanted sometimes. Her friends and crewmates were two seas away. Oh. And apparently when she slammed her hands down she cracked a floorboard. Great. Just great.


She hung her head down over her chest and groaned. 'What the hell am I gonna do.'

[Die]

Despite having shaken the sole Marine establishment with nearly overrunning the base with their superior numbers, the protectors of justice bounced back in almost record time. Within a day the administration took records of how many personnel they lost and who, surveyed the damage done to the base, issued orders, and made emergency requests to those higher in the chain of command. Given the Fort Stanley's importance to the people of the island and its strategic location in the West Blue, the division of Marine Command that oversaw activities in the West Blue had no choice but to send supplies and much needed reinforcements in an expedited manner. It would be a few days before they would receive them.

________________________________________


The incessant pitter-patter of rainfall meant there was no quiet to be had today. Water ran down the mortar, dripping into the cell where Kurt lay. It had been several days since he was captured by a disguised Haase. The mini-droplets caused by the water dripping onto the floor woke him up. Rolling onto his back and sitting up, he pivoted over and placed his feet on the cold, dirty stone floor. The rookie pirate looked rather disheveled. His clothes had rips and tears from the battle a few days ago. His hair was messy and unkempt with some dirt still in them, and what was a clean-shaven face had started to grow a beard. Kurt did not want to know what he smelled like to others. The cell block was designated a temporary holding facility. Kurt's neighbors in other cells were comprised solely of pirates from the raid who had also been captured. Ignoring the rats that mobbed the leftovers on the food tray he placed in the corner of the cell, he attempted to look at his only view of the outside world, the barred window.

Shouts of orders were almost drowned out by the torrential downpour. Even in these conditions, work was still being done on the base. The rookie pirate overheard word that their supplies had nearly been exhausted in reconstructing the damage and building additional reinforcements to the walls. Pulling himself away from the tiny hole in the wall that barely qualified as a window to the outside world, Kurt stepped towards the bars that separated his cell from the rest of the block. That was when the door opened on the far side. Three Marines strolled in, one of two patrols that kept watch on this area of the prison section. As soon as they stepped past the door, one Marine switched out with the guard on duty at this particular end of the block. They then moved forward towards the other end. Kurt stepped back from the bars. One of the Marines noticed an injured pirate holding onto the bars and sneered at him as he kicked at his fingers, causing him to recoil back further into his cell. Kurt watched with disgust as they continued on towards the end, mistreating several other pirates. Upon reaching the end, another Marine switched out with the one on guard at that end, and then continued out of the block.

The rookie pirate noticed that they always rotated their guards every hour, most likely due to the heightened security of the base following the pirate raid. ”I gotta get outta here,” Kurt thought to himself. ”Gotta figure out what the hell Haase is up to!” Searching all over his body, Kurt felt something in one of his pockets, hidden below a false bottom. Some more commotion could be heard outside as the rain stopped, interrupting his thoughts. He went back to the window of his cell and looked outside. Multiple Marines were running towards the docks. In the distance, well, as much as he could from the tiny corner, he made out two masts. He could not see more than that. It seemed like reinforcements and supplies had finally arrived. The loud creaking of one of the cell block doors opening drew his attention again. Not bothering to stand in front of his bars, the rookie pirate heard multiple footsteps, along with what sounded like boots being dragged across the floor. Metallic clanking and rolling told him that a cell door was being opened, and the dull thud meant that someone had been tossed onto the floor. The door slammed shut again, allowing the pirate to see what had happened.

---

In the war room stood several high-ranking personnel, along with the base commander at the head of the table. A scale model of Fort Stanley sat at the center, along with little models of what looked like artillery and other defenses. ”So we’ll place artillery here and here,” he said as he placed models in two more locations. ”That should give us better coverage in event of another attack. We will also place Gatling guns near each artillery cluster. That should slow down their advance if they slip below artillery range. In addition, we will dig trenches out in front of the walls and build cover. More men in those trenches means more guns pointed at the pirates. No way that pirate Blight will survive this much concentrated firepower. Inform the men that these modifications are to be made as soon as those supply ships are offloaded!” he commanded. Two Marines saluted and exited the room, with the ntelligence officer assigned to the base remaining. ”Well? Anything from your interrogations?” he asked.

”Nothing yet. None of these pirates seem to know what’s going on,” replied the intelligence officer. ”Seems like these pirates were just attracted to the promise of loot and fame for taking this place down. No one seems to know what’s going on exactly.”

”There has to be something…they could’ve overrun us. Hell, a bunch of them actually made it over the walls. Why did they retreat when they did? Hm… the commander mused to himself.

”Sir? asked the intelligence officer.

”That pirate Warrant Officer Drescher fought…has he been interrogated yet?”

”Not yet, sir. We’ve been interrogating every pirate in his cell block all day. He’s currently…” the intelligence officer trailed off as he brought up his clipboard to survey the schedule. ”Sixth in line for questioning.”

Expedite his interrogation. Drescher is a capable fighter on his own. Some no-name pirate being able to injure him like that? I want to know everything he knows…” he said.

”Understood, sir,” saluted the intelligence officer, bowing out of the war room.

---

Kurt surveyed the pirate who was just dumped back into his cell. He almost winced at what he saw. Several fingers were broken, bent in ways they ought not to be. He also noticed a lot of blood, bruising, and rope marks. It was difficult to make out any other details in the dim lighting, but it also looked like he might have been missing a fingernail or two. What were they doing to them?

It didn’t take long for the doors to open again. Kurt once again stepped back from the bars, wondering who was going to get dragged off next. His pulse sped up as the Marines stopped in front of his cell, unlocking his door. The third Marine in the patrol produced a set of handcuffs, placing them around his wrists. The pirate dared not to resist, not wanting to tempt fate and end up like the man he was just looking at. Instead, he simply looked down and allowed them to escort him away.

In one of the cells stirred Sam. The rotund pirate sat upright, emitting a loud gurgling noise as he put a hand over his stomach. ”Urgh…Something don’t feel right,” he complained as he lied back down.

[Vio]

The rain was ceaseless. For days now, it had been nothing but water and mud, acting as both a blessing and a curse to the people of Winchester. However, the ones who found it most irritating were the troops in charge of reinstating the defensive line, recent plans by the chain of command including the use of trenches to further fortify the boundaries between east and west. It was hard to dig a trench when most of the dirt - usually quite sturdy and tough - had transformed into thick mud that threatened to pull your boots straight off your feet. Regardless, the Marines had to make do with what they had now, lest the risk a more devastating surge of piratical forces. Former outposts were being manned once more, this time by one or two scouts rather than small units, but it was unlikely that the big dogs were going to risk maintaining such things for much longer. It was far too dangerous, given the breaches to the walls. At any time, a new wave of pirates could come in and attempt to lay siege to Fort Stanley once again, and so it had been ordered that all capable combatants were to remain on site. The advanced warning from trained scouts would allow them to mobilise immediately.

Tch! I wish this rain would hurry up and ease off... Dark ashen hair sodden to black by the torrents, Oswald Drescher entered the base with due haste in order to escape being drowned in rain. His gait still a little uneven, but only noticeable to those who really paid attention to it, the bullet wound in his thigh was healing quickly. Already the muscle was weaving itself back together, as were the skin and blood vessels that had been torn by the flintlock pellet, but he was not one to sit around and take it easy. Indeed, this was by no means the worst injury he had sustained during his time in service, but it was surprisingly different to the fractures and gashes he had received in the past. A bullet wound was an entirely different experience, adding to his simultaneous distaste and appreciation for firearms. It was an odd outlook, many would say, but the tall man's personal philosophies on weapons and combat were what had made him into such a capable fighter.

At least the scarring won't be bad, the Warrant Officer silently told himself as he followed the halls of the fortress, turning to the right as he reached the intersection. Injured he may have been, but he was willing to do whatever he could while he was able. Keeping mobile and fit was an important part of recovery, the motions of his leg helping to keep the tissue elastic. The last thing a man of the military like himself wanted was to be restricted by his own body, hence his insistence on maintaining regular training. But today was different. Today he had been called in for another aspect of his training, one more mental than physical, but still strenuous. Interrogation. Numerous pirates who had survived the bloody skirmish had been captured, the higher-ups making sure that each was interrogated. So far they had had no luck in learning the truth, though whether that was because the pirates just refused to say, or whether they simply weren't aware of the whole ploy was yet to be determined.

"Hrm?" Entering the wing of Stanley in which prisoners were confined and interrogated, grey-blue eyes akin to the hues of the cloudy skies above soon spied two seamen on the move. A third, armed with a carbine, walked about ten feet behind them. However, between the two leading troops was another figure. A once surprisingly formidable foe that had even been able to put Mister Drescher through his paces now looked anything but, worn and disheveled in appearance and stripped of any substantial gear. Tattered clothes, maybe the fading remnants of a few bruises from where he had managed to actually land blows, and an otherwise dirty look to him. It was amazing how much of an impact a few days in a cell could have upon a man, but that was all par the course. Pirates lost their privileges the moment they sailed under a black flag, perhaps even before that.

"Officer Drescher, sir!" A familiar voice sounding to his flank, the sniper paused in his advance and turned, offering a salute to his subordinate, Peter Kowalski. Having also received some injuries during the conflict, the Chief Petty Officer currently had most of his left arm wrapped in bandages and held in a sling. Nothing more than a series of cuts and a broken wrist, enough to warrant sufficient medical attentions, but it hardly seemed to faze the man. Hardly cut out for close-quarters combat, the brown-haired Marine was practically useless until his injuries healed, a sniper rifle requiring two hands to wield efficiently. Regardless, he could still help with administration roles, putting his sharp mind to good use. Diligence was well rewarded in the World Navy, after all. Returning an awkward salute with his right hand, Kowalski continued to speak, casting dark blue eyes towards the escorted pirate as they vanished around the corner towards the interrogation room. "Apparently they call him 'Kurt,' but otherwise nobody's willing to spill the beans. Command thinks he might be one of the leaders in the pirate operations, but I'm just not getting that vibe. You fought him, so what do you think?"

"Hard to say. He's hiding something, I'll bet. Either that or he's just a really skilled pirate. Apparently they want me to 'observe' his interrogation. Wish I goddamn knew why, though," Oswald answered, grimacing at the fact that he always seemed to be kept in the dark about things like these. It was hardly a coincidence that he'd been asked to sit on the interview of the man who had managed to injure him during the initial siege of the bastion, but once more he found himself asking why. Now, however, was not the time to be picky about orders and their intentions. The base was in a bad state, due haste and unfaltering obedience being a necessity of all the men and women who served there, and it was unlikely that the CO's were going to appreciate his unusual manner of questioning the exact reason for orders. Not that they even did, but he wouldn't get away with it, nor get any answers. Instead, he opted to keep quiet in that regard and do as he was told.

"Here's hoping that his interrogation gives you the answer to that question, ay? Now, I need to get to the docks and help logistics and admin. Never seen a munitions shipment this big!" Giving him the dismissal he required, whether such formality was required of him or not, Drescher watched the hardworking soldier march off before he continued on his own path. The interrogation rooms were quite large, but they felt anything but comfortable, regardless of whether you were the one being asked questions, or the one asking them...