He knelt among the scattered pistols, fingers moving automatically. Powder burns and blood smeared his knuckles, but his grip stayed steady.
One by one, he reloaded the hybrid pistols, sliding fresh grapeshot rounds into each chamber until they clicked home.
Last, he checked the Repeater Musket. Empty. The barrel still smoked faintly, seams warm under his touch.
He tilted it, frowning.
Not enough.
His gaze slid to the pirate ship, listing beyond the rail — sails torn, deck cracked, masts leaning like snapped branches.
I should have made more. Not just enough to survive… enough to drown them.
He rose, moving with quick, deliberate steps.
---
He ducked below deck, boots thudding against the wooden stairs. The air inside still smelled of smoke and brine.
He passed through the wrecked cannon hold, pausing to grab a few intact cannonballs. Beyond that, he rummaged through crates for spare musket rounds.
His hands worked automatically, gathering powder, shot, and spare metal scraps.
Next time… excess.
He crouched, bracing a cannonball and musket round together, picturing the shape clearly: a single heavy shot, exploding on impact, tearing ships and men alike.
Metal shrieked under his fingers. The shapes twisted and sealed with a final, solid snap.
He repeated it again and again, each new hybrid cartridge heavy and cold in his hand.
When he stood, he held a small stack of new explosive rounds, sweat streaking his face.
---
He returned to the deck, boots dragging slightly on the steps.
The pirate ship drifted beyond the rail, its deck a splintered ruin.
He slotted one new hybrid round into the Repeater Musket. The click echoed sharp and final.
Braced. Exhaled. Pulled the trigger.
The shot punched through the starboard side, erupting in a thunderous bloom of splinters and black smoke.
He chambered another. Fired.
The second blast tore through the mid-deck, sending the main mast lurching sideways.
He chambered a third, swung lower, and fired.
The final shot shattered below the waterline. The ship's bow dipped instantly, sea pouring across the deck like a hungry mouth.
Pirates scattered, some diving into the sea, others clawing at falling rigging.
He watched them for a long moment, breath even, shoulders loose.
Then he pulled a hybrid pistol from his bandolier.
One by one, he picked off the survivors struggling in the waves. Each shot cracked sharply across the water. Each splash ended in silence.
When the last body slipped beneath the foam, he lowered the weapon.
---
He turned back to the deck.
It looked like a butcher's floor: ropes tangled with limbs, splinters painted in blood. Bodies slumped over barrels and hung limp in torn netting.
He moved slowly, eyes tracing the broken mast, the torn sails, the scorched rails.
I can fix this.
The thought settled in his chest — solid, steady.
Then another flicker.
The boy.
He turned sharply, striding toward the hatch. Descended into the dim, salt-heavy dark below.
He found the boy pressed against a crate, eyes wide, arms wrapped around his knees.
They locked eyes in the shadows.
The man tilted his head slightly.
"You're still alive."
The boy didn't answer, only stared up at him.
"Come up to the deck," the man said. His voice was flat, but not unkind. "Help me throw the bodies overboard."
The boy hesitated — then, trembling, pushed himself up and followed.
---
Once on deck, they began. The man worked with brutal efficiency, dragging corpses to the rail and tossing them without pause. The boy followed shakily, moving more slowly, his hands clumsy on the slick, blood-smeared clothing.
Partway through, the boy finally broke. "Don't you… feel anything? When you look at them?"
The man paused mid-motion, fingers curled around a tattered jacket.
"For them? No."
He turned, grabbed another body by the collar, and dragged it to the railing.
"They forced me aboard to hunt pirates. I owe them nothing."
He heaved the corpse overboard. The splash was small beneath the ship's groans.
He moved to another, voice flat but calm.
"The pirates? Low men. They'll sell anything — anyone — for a coin. I feel nothing but disdain."
The boy's gaze shifted between the bodies and the sea, his mouth trembling.
Then, softer: "Then… what about me?"
The man stopped, turning to face him fully.
"Well… what about you? What are you doing aboard this ship?"
The boy's shoulders curled inward, fingers bunching at his sleeves.
"I was… drafted too. Forced. I don't know how to fight… I didn't want this."
The man tilted his head slightly, studying him.
"Would you like to take a rowboat… and go home?"
The boy flinched, eyes falling to the blood-slick planks.
"There's… nothing to go back to. A week after I left… pirates came. Burned it all. There's no one left."
A hush settled. Only the waves slapping against the hull, the whisper of torn sails above.
Finally, the man nodded once.
"Then we're both here. For now."
---
They worked together in stiff, halting rhythm.
The man dragged bodies to the rail, shoving them overboard without hesitation. The boy hesitated at every touch, but his hands kept moving, each effort a shaky echo of the man's calm efficiency.
When the last corpse slipped beneath the waves, the deck felt emptier but no less scarred — blood streaks marked every step, broken planks gaped at the sky.
The man began patching the worst hull tears, fusing broken planks and dented armor plates into rough, functional shields.
He knotted split rigging, twisted torn sailcloth into patchwork replacements. Each movement carried a hard focus, crude but precise — but not because he didn't know better.
He was tired. The kind of bone-deep fatigue that numbed his fingers and turned clear ideas into blunt shapes. Every seam he joined, every knot he tied, he felt the drain coiling deeper into his arms and chest.
Still, he kept moving, kept working. Crude or not, it held.
The boy hovered close, fetching ropes or bracing beams when gestured to. Sometimes he paused to watch, wide-eyed, as the man's hands reshaped wood and metal.
---
They stood together at the rail, the last hints of sunset bleeding into the sea. The deck creaked softly under them, sails fluttering like tired breaths.
The boy shifted beside him, thin arms wrapped tight around his ribs.
After a long silence, the man finally spoke.
"What will you do now?"
The boy stared down at the dark waves below, his face pinched and pale. Then he glanced up, eyes searching.
"What about you? Where are you going?"
The man looked out over the horizon, salt wind tugging at his hair.
"I don't really know yet," he said, voice low. "But this ability… it gave me something. A new purpose."
He flexed his fingers once, slowly, as if feeling out each knuckle and tendon.
"I want to build all the things I used to dream about. To do that… I'll need materials. Many things I don't even know about yet."
The boy was quiet, eyes locked on him. Then, after a moment, he nodded — small, hesitant, but real.
The man turned his gaze back to the sea, shoulders settling as if for the first time they truly belonged to him.
Above them, the wounded sails shivered, ready to catch any wind that might come.