This is it. The best of my life is now ahead of me. Fresh off that horrible Naval Academy, I now have the tools to attain my goals, however great they are, and believe me, they are great.
My musings ended when a tall, muscular, olive-skinned man, ghostly white hair combed back, wearing a crisp, probably freshly laundered, naval-blue officer's uniform, walked in. His steps were tight and rigid like a walking stick confidently swaggering in a bar. Although hidden by the bushy moustache and short beard, he evoked an unmistakable glint of immaturity. That might sound weird, but it's the gut feeling of it all. The shiny medals and gilded pins on the top right pocket of his uniform gleamed under the shining sun, reminding us ever again that we have been standing under that sun for hours now.
Of course, a cadet such as I could endure much more, however, one would expect punctuality from one of the most powerful military organizations in the continent.
"Ten-tion." His deep stern voice reverberated across the docks as we snapped in attention, mimicking the stance of his body. His gaze travelled to and fro around us, scrutinizing every piece of our officer's uniform with so much effort that I would wager it would not take too hard of an effort to pop out his eyes. Not that I would.
"I am Lieutenant Corporal Adross Whitehall. Chief Quartermaster to the whole of the Cerulean Dragoons. My every word is a noose to the Cerulean Fleet, tightening your very cargo and your necks... at my command." He introduced himself with an undisguised threat to boot. The veins on his thick neck bulged and pulsated as he walked forward, now scouring our faces as he passed us by. "You are nothing to me. Ants, yes, merely ants. To be killed with the soles of my boots."
His steps echoed around the docks as he traversed the walkway, his chest puffed as if so we could see his glorious medals and buff torso. "The Cerulean Dragoons currently have eighteen ships, galleon and above, under the command of Fleet Admiral Anne Marie Blackhart, nine of which will be fielding a recruit from you miserable lots."
His footsteps halted as his gaze trained on me, which, to be honest, is quite horrible. It's as if a boulder chained itself on my neck, restraining my breath and forcing me to crumple like a paper, but I barely forced myself to look him square in his inky black eyes and smile a radiant smile.
He sniffs at me and winced as if I emitted a horrendous stench. "A fucking colonial on my fleet." He muttered, not caring if I nor any of the cadets could hear him.
I try not to wince, placing a more brilliant smile as I held up my index and middle finger together and lined it up to my eyebrow in a salute. "Sir, yes, Sir. Naval Academy Special Cadet Roman Salazar reporting for duty."
I could, through my peripheral vision, see William slightly grimace at my unwarranted introduction. If anything, that's a win in my book.
Lieutenant Corporal Whitehall snorted at my words, his chest heaving oscillating in suppressed laughter. As I was about to add another win in my book, he spoke. "Fatherless, if I'm guessing correctly? Of course, you would be. You're a colonial. They probably passed your mother around like a cigar during the last war."
My smile faltered, unconsciously bringing my saluting hand down. I sighed, my gaze not leaving his. "You know what? I'll give you that. Most colonials like I suffered through your ego-testicle wars, your unwarranted skirmish to see who has the smallest dick in the continent. And, hey, I'm sorry you won." My smile widened as I delivered an insult with as much pity as I could muster, the other cadet growing rambunctious with some, mostly the aristocrats, murmuring for my execution and with William clenching his fist.
Whitehall glowered at me, hunching forward with our faces within an inch of each other as metaphorical smoke came out of his ears. He's angry and I know it. "What did you say to me, Cadet!?" He bellowed, pulling rank like a pathetic coward.
"I said..." I started before suddenly grabbing his large ears and bringing my head to assault his forehead. A loud clang echoed around me as my forehead smashed into his nose, breaking both organs. Blood spluttered through the wet docks, quickly washed away by the tumultuous waves of the seas beyond.
I staggered backwards, holding my forehead in utter pain as blood continuously poured out of it. How hard is that guy's nose for a part of my skin to break and for my skull to slightly fracture? I swivelled back to Whitehall and saw him holding his bloody nose, anger seeping through his murderous eyes. I am in for a world of pain.
"You are dead meat, Casimir pig." He said through gritted teeth and a broken nose, using an insult for Casimirian royalty, which, if one is to be honest regarding my looks, I ought to be.
His demeanour seemed to have changed, wincing from the pain of my head bash as his whole body seemed to be enraged by my actions. An interesting fact for a few of the medals affixed to his chest remind me of the Field Marshall at the Academy. a soldier who fought rather bravely on the eve of the Continental Conquest, not but a few decades ago and, yet, Whitehall seemed to be of marrying age. How peculiar, that is, unless...
"You are not the Chief Quartermaster, are you?" William spoke with an amused smile, beating me to the punch.
"Section Three, paragraph five of the Naval Code of Conduct states that impersonation of a high-ranking officer without probable reason constitutes court-martial, and, if proven to have caused damage during the act, will lead to execution via hanging." Stated Wagner, our ever-astute Puritan noble whose high-pitched voice used to annoy me, but now sounds like an angel.
Whitehall merely sneered in response, taking his hands off his broken nose and revealing the metallic chrome on the inside.
He's Augmented, I thought, nobody told me that.
He roared, clenching his fist and rushing towards me. His muscles compacted at every step, the shiny chrome of his nose revealing the fact that I would not last a minute in a straight fight against him. But... fuck that.
I, too, rushed forward, meeting him head-on as I evaded his right hook with a simple sidestep to the right. My fist, taut and ready, strike his kidney, eliciting a groan from him and me. Looks like his skull isn't the only thing that's Augmented.
I step backwards to dodge his backwards elbow strike, exposing his left torso and face, so followed it with a left-hand job, hitting him in the area between the ear and his left cheek.
A grunt and moan escaped out of him, staggering backwards as he recovered from the two rounds of combat.
"Parley?" I ask, knowing of its futility and the arrogance of the Colored Nobles.
He proved me right by roaring with all his might, startling the other workers and nearby guards in the area. "Dead. All of you, dead." He threatened, the murderous gleam in his eyes now swallowing his entire face.
"Uh, Ryker. Care to partake in some boredom reliever?" I ask of our meathead.
"No. He's all yours." He replied, amusement dancing in his tone.
What a dick, I thought as we rushed against each other.
It seemed he had learned from our previous match, for he toned down his wild haymakers in favour of quick yet firm jabs.
His new fighting style went as well as expected from a muscular man as my lithe body flitted from box to box, using my surrounding to evade or dodge his every strike. My hands worked full time to redirect those who slipped in, using a backhand to slap it away and then following with a front-hand slap from the other arm.
His reddened face, both in anger and from the slaps, did not steer him much from the fight, forcing me to a corner between the port and the steps to the warehouse.
At last, much as I enjoyed bitch slapping his beard from afar, my defences gave in, allowing him to hit me square in the chest with a forceful hook. I stumbled back as the hit winded the air out of my lungs, my hands desperately reaching for anything to hold.
Nothing much came after that as fist after fist slammed into my body and arm as I desperately guarded my face against his blows. Fortunately for me, his blows subsided after a few seconds. Most probably a problem with his stamina as his panting becomes heavier.
A grin graced my lips as I winked at him. "My turn." My clenched fist blurred, snaking past his torso and smashing against the edge of his jaw.
'I hope those so-called friends of mine heard that loud crack because when I'm finished with him, I'll move on to them.'
He staggered back, wincing from the pain, but before he could recover, I sent a hit to his right kidney. He hunched forward as my hands grabbed his, surprisingly thick, black hair and forced his face to meet my knees.
Another loud crack reverberated across the port as my knees landed, its hit and knocked out Whitehall.
"I do believe I am in need of a pint of mead?" I quipped to my people, savouring their astonished looks and, in Sebastian, Ryker, and William's case, respectful eyes. Even from here, I could feel the jealousy of victory over the naval imposter.
"Quite a feat, Cadet." A voice surprised me from behind, for it was deep and rich yet had a gravelly, scarred tone to it.
Turning around to meet the man, I now realized that the other cadet's respect was not mine to begin with for the crew of the Cerulean Dragoons had appeared.
My eyes trained on a fair-skinned man in a navy-blue uniform. Not him per se, more his arm, which had a long slender metal barrel connected to his elbow as I mutter with a whispered intensity. "Hand cannons."