His breath rattled in his chest.
The small hold felt even smaller now. Broken crates and scattered scraps pressed around him like a rising tide.
He looked at the hybrid sidearm in his hand, still heavy, still awkward.
If only I could do it over… make it right this time.
His fingers curled tighter. A new feeling sparked up his arms — sharp, electric, almost hungry.
Undo it.
The sidearm shivered. Metal creaked and split. Slowly, painfully, the weapon pulled itself apart, pieces sliding free as if exhaling a long-held breath.
He dropped to one knee, darkness edging into his vision. His lungs strained, each gulp of air harsh and jagged.
When he looked again, the musket and flintlock lay whole and separate.
His arms trembled. Sweat dripped down his chin.
Defusing… it costs so much more. Fusion had felt like a leisurely walk — so effortless he hadn't even noticed the drain at first, not until he'd already fused multiple times in quick succession. Defusion, though? On its own, it might not have dragged him down this far. But combined with all the earlier fusions, it pulled at him deeply, leaving his arms heavy and his breath ragged.
He slumped against a crate, head low. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves as he forced slow, steady breaths back into his lungs.
When he finally stood again, each movement felt deliberate, heavier — but more certain.
---
He closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw it clearly now: a compact, balanced firearm — steady, solid, something he could trust.
Metal and wood shifted under his fingers. No shrieking. No warping.
When he opened his eyes, a new hybrid pistol rested in his hands. Not elegant. Not clever. Just correct.
He tested the weight. Heavy, but steady.
His heart knocked once against his ribs — an echo of something new.
---
He knew he couldn't stay.
If the marines won, they would come for the fruit. If the pirates won, they would tear the ship apart. Either way, he'd be trapped.
He slipped out, moving deeper into the lower decks. Each step felt like moving through thick water.
The corridor twisted, dark and narrow, until he reached a heavy iron door.
The storeroom.
---
He pushed it open.
Inside, crates piled to the ceiling. Spare muskets and flintlocks in heaps, bundles of cutlasses bound by frayed rope, dented armor plates strewn everywhere. Cannonballs stacked in wooden boxes. But no cannons.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
No cannons meant no tempting distractions — not yet.
He moved quickly. Grabbed spare pistols and checked each for cracks. His fingers twitched with the same electric itch.
More pistols. Drop and draw. Stay moving.
He closed his eyes, focused. The shape of the hybrid pistol burned behind his eyelids — the image clear, unwavering.
One by one, he pressed pistols and musket parts together. Each fusion slid into place smoothly, each weapon identical in shape and weight.
When he opened his eyes, four new hybrid pistols sat in front of him.
He found a crate filled with spare belts, some snapped, some intact.
He grabbed a handful, laying them across the floor. In his mind, he saw them coming together into a strong, cross-body bandolier — something to hold his new pistols at the ready.
When he pressed them together, the belts fused smoothly, seams vanishing into a single, sturdy strap.
He slung the finished bandolier across his chest, testing the weight and fit.
Then, he slid the hybrid pistols into place, adjusting until each draw felt smooth, natural.
He checked each pistol again. Heavy, balanced, no surprises.
He looked down at the dagger on his boot — the same one he had shaped below deck. He bent to touch it, fingers awkward on the hilt. His grip was unsteady, his stance uneven.
I'm not a blade fighter.
He left it there anyway. A last resort.
---
A faint sound broke the silence.
He turned sharply, eyes scanning the crates.
In the shadows, a pair of wide eyes watched him.
A boy. Thin, dirty, pressed back as far as he could go.
They stared at each other, the room holding its breath.
Then he turned away.
No words. No threat.
He checked his bandolier once more, adjusted a strap, and stepped toward the next door.
---
The corridor beyond led to the mid-ship battery deck — the main cannon line.
Smoke drifted down the hall, mixed with shouted orders and frantic clatter.
"Reload! Faster!"
"Port side — we're taking water!"
"Keep them off us!"
He crept to the edge of the doorway.
A dozen marines scrambled around heavy cannons. Cannonballs rolled underfoot, powder barrels stacked high. Officers barked orders, men sweated over ramrods and fuses.
He looked down at the pistols slung across his chest.
He drew two.
His breath came in slow, deliberate pulls.
Then he stepped forward.
---
The first marine turned, eyes flaring wide.
The hybrid pistol roared.
The shot slammed into his chest, sending him tumbling backward.
Others spun in panic.
They weren't holding guns — most clutched ramrods, powder charges, or cannonballs, all scrambling to keep the battery firing.
He fired again — and again. Each shot echoed like thunder, each recoil hammering up his arms.
One marine lunged for a sidearm at his hip. He aimed and shot first — the man dropped, fingers still inches from the grip.
Another reached for a musket leaning against a barrel. He fired again, stopping him mid-motion.
When one pistol emptied, he dropped it without a thought and drew another from the fused bandolier.
A blade flashed at his side — a cutlass, swinging wild. He pivoted, fired point-blank. The marine dropped, blood splashing across the deck.
They charged him with blades and bare hands, panic turning them into a mob.
He moved side to side, firing in rapid succession. Each shot was deliberate, aimed to stop anyone reaching for a gun.
A cutlass scraped his vambrace — he shoved the marine back and fired into his stomach.
The last pistol emptied in a sharp crack. He dropped it, breathing hard, the sudden silence roaring in his ears.
Bodies lay sprawled across the deck. Smoke curled from the barrels of spent cannons.
---
He looked down at his empty hands, then at the discarded pistols scattered around him.
He turned his head slowly, taking in the heavy cannons lining the port side.
Then, his gaze fell to the pistols and muskets lying next to fallen marines, their fingers still twitching or frozen mid-reach.
A shape flickered in his mind — a new possibility forming in the dim haze of blood and smoke.
These… together…
His fingers twitched, almost reaching for one of the fallen weapons.
His breath steadied, slow and measured.
That could work.