A few months have passed now, during this time I'd managed to convince some of the marines stationed on Goat Island to let me join them on their trip back to base on Shellstown.
I joined them as a chore boy, and it became a weekly occurrence, and by the time I started spending more days in Shellstown than back on Goat Island.
At first, when people expected nothing from you, life was easy. You could mess up and move on, but I've been here long enough; they started calling you promising and talented and all that rubbish.
I stood out even when I was doing nothing.
At fourteen, I was already taller than a lot of the grown men stationed at the 153rd Branch. Soon enough, I'd managed to join them as a recruit. I'd gotten used to the rhythm of the base.
Wake up early. Run drills. Clean weapons. Take orders. Train. Eat. Train again. Listen to grown men complain about rations, blisters, paperwork, or each other. Then repeat until you either improve or collapse.
I actually didn't mind it.
There was a structure here that was sorta nice, and with a constant stream of problems to throw myself against, it was basically paradise.
And obviously, I could adapt to it. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
I was a rising star amongst them, and a lot of the senior Marines had started doing that squinty older-person thing when they looked at me, where you could practically hear the words that boy's got potential forming in their skulls.
Gross.
Still, I couldn't complain. The whole point of coming here was access to some actual training and stronger opponents. A base full of people stronger than the average farmers and fishermen back home.
And today, apparently, it was giving me a rifle.
I held the thing in my hands and immediately disliked it. I'd surprisingly never held a gun before, in this or my previous life.
"Grip tighter," Sergeant Mallor said.
He was built like a cannon barrel. Thick beard, arms and skull, probably, but he was a good instructor, though.
"I am gripping it," I said.
"You look like you're gonna make love to it"
A few recruits nearby laughed. Mallor did not.
"Shoot, Voss."
I did, and the shot cracked out across the yard and hit the target somewhere in the general area of embarrassing.
I clicked my tongue and reset my stance.
Again.
Another shot.
Still bad.
Again.
It was worse somehow, and the recruit two lanes over snorted.
I ignored him and stared at the rifle.
This was annoying in a very specific way. With the candle, it had been simple. Fire hurts. I kept trying until it worked. Same with cuts. Same with basic impacts. A rifle was more irritating because it wasn't just one phenomenon. It was a pile of little mechanics all stacked together.
"Again," Mallor said.
I fired.
Still not good.
Now, to be clear, I wasn't planning on becoming a gunman. I must honour Daddy Raga with my fists, and only my fists and whether my adaptation could lock onto a weapon skill, repeated exposure, all that nonsense, would eventually trigger the same inner shift as everything else.
It was at the end of the day, a phenomena.
The fact that I looked like a fraud during the test was, sadly, just part of the scientific process. I raised the rifle again. The stock sat wrong, so I adjusted. Then my shoulder began to grow sore. I adjusted again, then fired.
And again.
And then, right in the middle of my thinking, this whole process was deeply cringe and probably designed by a sadist; I felt it.
There it was—the glorious clinking. God, I loved that sound.
Like my body had finally gone, ah… Right.
I fired again, and this time the bullet came much closer, and soon enough, one punched right through the inner ring.
The recruit beside me made an offended noise. "Oh, piss off."
I didn't look at him. "No."
Mallor stared at the target, then at me. "Convenient."
"I adapt quickly, sir." ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
He narrowed his eyes a little. "You say that like you've thought about it."
I smiled, but he did not look convinced.
I kept firing for a bit longer, partly because stopping immediately after suddenly improving would look suspicious, and partly because, alright, it did feel nice once the rifle and I had grown accustomed to one another.
I got the handling down, developed a better feel for the reload, and got used to the recoil. This was a very useful insight!
I then had enough and placed the rifle back.
Because even with the clink, I knew pretty much instantly that rifles were not going to be my thing. Useful tool, yes, but I wasn't about to pour my soul into firearm training when my entire existence was already shaping up to be a fistfighter.
Hand-to-hand came after that; this was way more fun.
And by fun, I mean deeply unfortunate for everyone not named Kai.
The sparring yard was just packed dirt. Recruits gathered in a ring, some pretending they weren't watching too closely, some watching with their whole chest. A few senior Marines hung nearby as well, arms crossed, like they had no interest in the recruits, while very clearly having interest in the recruits.
Standard army behaviour, you know.
"Voss," Mallor called. "You're up."
I stepped into the ring and rolled my shoulders loose.
The guy opposite me was called…Henric, I think?
He squared up. "Try not to cry."
"After I lose to your advanced combat philosophy? Never."
He frowned. We circled once. He came in fast with a straight right.
I slipped it mostly, let it brush the side of my face a bit, and noted the impact.
He followed with another, then a hook to the body.
Not bad, I took the body shot half on purpose and let the force travel through me.
Henric gave me a body shot, a shoulder bump, and another straight.
Then again, I felt that little shift inside me.
The next body shot landed worse for him: same force, yet a lesser result. My stance changed on instinct.
Henric saw me smile and immediately took offence at it.
"What?" he snapped.
"Nothing," I said. "Keep going!"
He did not appreciate that, which I found mean-spirited.
He swung harder after that, and his swing came fast, but I slipped outside it, checked him with my forearm, and met him with a knee to the stomach, turned him, and dumped him into the dirt.
Mallor called it.
Henric stayed down for a second, glaring up at me.
"You get worse," he muttered.
"Thank you."
"That wasn't praise."
The next few spars went about the same. One lad liked looping hooks too much. One tried low kicks and shoves. One truly gifted individual attempted to tackle me, all 6"5' of me.
In all honesty, I won most of them because I was bigger, but as you know, that wasn't the whole story.
The more interesting part was this. I kept feeling those little shifts when people repeated basic, common attacks. Blunt-force stuff especially. Straight punches. Hooks. Shoulder checks.
It was like the adaptation was more categorical than anything.
By my fourth spar, I was pretty sure one of the stages had clicked into place for broad, repetitive blunt-force patterns. Not full adaptation yet, but enough that the difference was there.
It was deeply, deeply unfair.
I fucking loved it.
I'd just dropped another recruit with a short body-hook-counter when a different voice cut across the yard.
"Is he always smiling after getting punched?"
Oh no.
I turned toward the voice and, for one very brief, catastrophic moment, my brain blue-screened.
Captain Vale.
Right.
So.
Here's the thing.
I'd heard about Captain Vale plenty when growing up on the island. Her name had come up before I joined. Dad had heard about her. The town had heard about her. Even a couple of the Marines talked about her.
And in my head, because my imagination was lazy, "Captain Vale" had become some severe square-jawed uncle with a moustache.
That was not what I got.
What I got was a woman.
A very tall woman.
A very tall, very thick, deeply sexy-looking woman with dark hair tied back, a scar crossing one eyebrow and the edge of her eye, and the kind of face that somehow became more dangerous-looking because of it instead of less.
My fourteen-year-old caveman brain took one look and immediately fell down a flight of stairs…and not died.
What!
I snapped back to attention so hard it nearly gave me whiplash.
"Ahem," I said, which, for the record, has never once been a cool thing to say.
Captain Vale was already looking at me.
Incredible composure from me here.
She stepped a little closer, arms folded as her cloak rustled, gaze moving from the recruit I'd just folded into the dirt to me. "I asked if he always smiles after getting punched."
Sergeant Mallor grunted. "Mostly, Captain."
"I don't like that," she said.
I, unfortunately, liked the sound of her voice far more than was convenient.
Get up, brother. There was no time for mental weakness.
The recruit in the dirt sat up with a groan. I straightened a little more and tried very hard to look like a serious martial talent and not a teenage idiot whose neurons had just been activated.
Vale's eyes settled fully on me.
"So," she said, "you're Voss."
There were, technically, many possible answers to that question.
The best one was probably yes, Captain.
What I almost said was something unbelievably stupid, but thankfully, my survival instincts, which had finally started putting up real numbers lately, kicked in.
"Yes, Captain."
Her eyes narrowed a little, studying me. "Fourteen."
"Yes, Captain."
"You are much too large for your age."
"I've heard that, Captain."
Mallor made a noise that was suspiciously close to a laugh.
Captain Vale's mouth twitched; she turned her attention toward the ring.
"Again," she said.
To me.
The next recruit stepped in, seemingly older than me. Fantastic.
Actually, no. This was good. This was fine. I was Kai Voss. I had adapted to fire, cuts, blunt force, and the crushing humiliation of having once died to a grape. Actually, scratch the last one, I'll never live that down.
We began trading. I took a couple on purpose. Checked one. Slipped another. One body shot dug in enough to sting properly, and I felt that familiar inner progression.
Captain Vale watched the whole thing without saying a word.
The recruit tried the same inside entry again. I read it sooner this time, pivoted and smacked him with a short hook as he came in. He stumbled, and I followed with a shove and a knee that folded him just enough to finish the exchange.
Mallor called it.
The guy stepped back, breathing hard, and shook his head. "You're weird."
"I hear that a lot today."
Captain Vale finally spoke again. "You improve during exchanges."
I looked at her. "I learn fast, Ma'am"
"Mm."
She stepped into the edge of the ring then, close enough now that my brain tried once more to betray me. That scar really had no business doing that much for her.
Focus.
Her gaze flicked over my stance, my shoulders, my wrapped hand, then back to my face.
"You rely on your body too much," she said.
I blinked.
"I know," I admitted.
"Do you?"
"Yes, Captain." I paused. "The size carries me through mistakes."
That got the smallest nod from her.
"Good. Then fix the mistakes before your size stops being enough."
In the East Blue, I could bully people with stats for a while. Later? Later, the world would start introducing me to some real monsters, but I was yet to reach that point, so I wasn't entirely stressed right now.
I needed more than just being big, though.
Captain Vale looked at Mallor. "Keep him in rifle drills."
I almost objected, then stopped myself.
She noticed anyway. Of course she did.
"You dislike them," she said.
"A bit…Captain"
"A bit?"
"I'd rather stay away from the rifles, Captain."
Mallor actually laughed at that one.
Captain Vale looked at me for a second too long, then exhaled softly through her nose. Again, not quite a laugh, but dangerously close.
"You're not permitted to choose training based on what flatters you, recruit."
Fah!!
"Yes, Captain."
"You'll continue with firearms. You'll continue with hand-to-hand. And tomorrow, you'll spar older recruits."
Now that sounded good.
A few men nearby visibly disliked that on instinct.
"Yes, Captain."
She turned to leave, then paused. Her eyes flicked back to me one last time.
"And Voss."
"Yes, Captain?"
"If you keep grinning like that every time someone hits you, the others are going to start thinking there's something wrong with you."
She smiled at her joke; some of the other marines chuckled, then she turned and walked off, coat shifting behind her. Mallor slapped the back of my shoulder hard enough to jolt me back into my body.
"You're staring," he said.
"I was not."
"You absolutely were. Keep your head on straight, young man"
"Mmh, whatever", I mumbled
He grinned. "Get out of the ring, giant"
I left immediately and tossed a towel over my shoulder, and headed off before Mallor could decide I looked too happy and assign me extra work. Around me, the 153rd Branch kept moving.
Shellstown had proven to me very useful, and by extension, the Marines. Captain Vale was, unfortunately, extremely useful. And me? I was getting stronger. Bit by bit. Clink by clink. Exactly like I wanted.
One of the older recruits muttered as I passed, "I hate fighting that freak."
Rude.
But also?
Massive for the agenda.
...
End of Chapter!
Word Count - 2314