there are no second chances

by mephenee

Summary:

It's as they say, there are rarely second chances in our world—even less in theirs... but shouldn't you at least try to give them one?

Or,

You go to bed after a long day, then proceed to have the worst dream of your life.

Notes:

Before you continue, please read the tags.

Reader has no set gender. I lean towards sternly gender-neutral.

I hope you enjoy :)

You feel… different. 

The last thing you had done was collapse in your bed after slogging through a day that hadn’t been all that bad—it was just long. Given the circumstance of you falling asleep in your room in your bed, you did not expect your soft mattress to suddenly become as hard as wall.

Nor a hand to rustle you back and forth like a rag doll.

“We’re here, get up!”

Well that’s weird. You don’t recognise that voice at all. 

The hand was not gentle at all, but now it was akin to a piñata on some brat's sixth birthday. Your eyes fly open when your head is harshly hit with something firm, immediately shocking you awake.

Did you just get smacked?

Your eyelids peel apart, sufficiently surprised and a dash pissed off—why the hell are you looking at someone dressed like… a really pissed-off historical actor? Why does he look like he's going to hit you again?

The man before you is garbed in a thick black coat, though it’s hard to see in the dingy-basement you’re slumped inside of. You furrow your brow at the brown-haired man looming over you, unaware of why his eyes are so hollow and skin pale.

He's holding a wooden stick that he more likely than not just clobbered you with.

“We’re in Roscoff. Take any longer and you’ll have a meeting with the cat 'o nine tails.” Is all he spits out in a worn voice, and you mutely watch as he leaves into the dark, wood creaking underfoot.

Roscoff? Is he pulling your leg? You weren't in Roscoff, you were at home! And certainly not playing that stupid game—

Two hands hook under your arms and lift you to your feet, appearing from nowhere. You stumble, the world spinning around you as another man laughs. This one sounds younger, but people taking delight in your nausea aren’t the kind you’ll compliment, even internally.

“He wouldn't risk it, not now.” he chuckles from somewhere behind you, not quite letting go but allowing you to carry more of your own weight. What did he mean by that? Why were you so heavy? Who the hell is this guy?

Wiping away the crust at your eyes, you look down at—what the hell?!

“Where are my pajamas?” You utter, horrified at the sight of a slightly rumpled uniform. You... you know this uniform. It feels like those old wool blankets in antique stores. A tightly-buttoned dark navy coat covers your entire upper body, the cuffs folded back at your wrist and pinned with bronze buttons.

Your legs are cloaked in white breeches, and at your feet are black leather boots, scuffed and worn. What the hell are you wearing?!

Looking over your shoulder, you spy a man you've never seen before. It would have been even more alarming if he was in your bedroom, but judging from the wooden walls and cluttered tools objects, you aren't even in your home. 

He is fair-toned with freckles, short auburn hair, and brown eyes put together on a round, boyish face. There's a tall cap on his head, with a brass cap plate and a red plume. 

You can see the indents of the design in the metal, but its too dark in the room even with the small lantern hanging from the ceiling. A black band is tucked underneath the high-collared coat, secured tightly around his neck. He's got a bit of height on you, even more so with how straight he stands.

His entire expression reads befuddlement at your words, as if you're talking gibberish. To him, you probably are.

You pinch your leg, and the twist of pain helps draw you back into your body.

He’s dressed in a dark wool coat collared and cuffed with scarlet, white and yellow stripes. Yellow lines cut across the front of the coat, and two white sashes cross over his chest with a large brass button right where the two sashes pass over each other. It's unfortunate that you recognise where this is from right away.

He looks way too much like those historical actors. Almost more than them. He looks like he tripped and fell into a museum, then walked right out! 

This must be a dream, and yet you can hear music coming from somewhere else in the moving room, drifting through the dim halls. It doesn’t smell particularly nice, but wood is a prominent scent, mixed with the mingling smell of bodies.

The floor is unsteady under your feet—are you on a ship?

You clear your throat when it's been awkwardly silent for too long, cheeks burning.

“Sorry. Just seasick…” Not knowing this man's name, you trail off, hoping he won't smack anything over your head for being so stupid like the other man had. He doesn't seem like the type, but you've dreamt about some pretty weird things.

Besides, how the hell were you supposed to know?! This is your dream! 

“It’s Theodore. Mr. Trenk didn't tell you about—oh, never-mind. We're already late as is.” he admonishes, and you somehow flush even more. Seemingly done with your aloofness, the man looks to where the other had stormed off.

The movement seems stiff, until you notice he can't really turn his neck. Was it that thing around his neck? Instead of ruminating on it, you follow his gaze.

There's an open doorway with a figure flying past every few seconds as a blur of dull colours and voices. Laughter and heated discussions you can hear, but don't understand. Music fills your ears, and the melody shocks you.

The sound of a fife trills as another person goes, the lovely music fading away. You recognise the song… The Girl I Left Behind. This is starting to get freaky—and not the fun, cursive freaky. More like existential crisis freaky.

“Come on.” He shakes his head, his hand drawing from your shoulder. When did he put that there? The man acts as if he knows you, or perhaps you look like enough of a mess he’s pitying you.

A moment ago he was going to say something about a Mr. Trenk, but you don't know anyone with that surname.

Whatever it was about, Theodore has given up on the topic and urges you to follow with an exasperated smile.

“We’ve no time to dawdle. The Captain wants us both moving, as does our officer.”

“W…what for?” You ask, throat scratchy. You clear it again, this time into the cuff of your jacket. There are buttons on the folded edges, and a white undershirt peeking through.

You have a heavy bag slung around your body, just another reason you’d been weighed to the side besides the stones in your head.

His thick brows furrow at you. You suddenly have the urge to leap through the nearest porthole.

“Docking. We’re here for the ambassador. How hard did the midshipman hit your head?” Concern flashes in his dark eyes, and you very swiftly divert his attention. 

Play along.

“I think I'll be fine. Lead the way…” For a moment, Theodore eyes you, and then he holds something out. A black, triangular-shaped object.

A… hat? You take it, the action probably the most normal thing you've experienced so far.

It’s not the same as his—this one is horizontal, and has two tapered edges and a humped back. This is the fore-and-aft bicorne that some classes and regiments wore…

When you look back at Theodore, he patiently waits for you to put the bicorne.

You grimace internally, then place the bicorne on your head, ensuring that it won’t fly off. You hope it does. It looks cool on other people... but yourself? You aren't used to wearing things like this!

You must look like an idiot when compared to the clothes you were wearing not too long ago. The coat is stiff, and you were still bleary-eyed, so you walk after Theodore like a sleep deprived teenager. The entire time, his posture stays straight as a beam.

The way up is stifling; you avoid walking too close to anyone, absorbing very little information besides loud singing and men chattering around you. You shoulder past a few men who don’t seem all that bothered by it, each one moving about the ship's cramped insides.

Closeness was expected in this sort of place, but that didn't mean you wanted to participate in it. You're practically plastered to Theodore's back, hoping that when you climb out, it won't be the ship you're dreading.

Eventually, Theodore leads you to a shaky-looking ladder climbing up to an open hatch, cold daylight pouring through the square-shaped hole. It's not the sunny, blue-skies light, but grey.

You sigh with relief—the scent of sweat was thick and rancid. You'll take a breeze of salty ocean air and rain over that smell any day.

Theodore goes up first, and you follow his example, only stumbling once on the way out through the hatch.

A thick mist cloaks the space around you as you rise to your feet, the layer of moisture on the deck cold to the touch. The boards underfoot are slippery from a light rain, forcing you to be careful as to not make a fool of yourself amongst seasoned sailors. Shivering at a cold breeze cutting through your opened collar, you fiddle with numb fingers to button it up.

You stick close to the soldier you’re somewhat familiar with as he crosses the deck swiftly and over a gangplank onto a rickety dockside. It's so misty you can barely see the small, capsized ship off to your right. The tide is high, concealing the little beach off to the side. If you looked hard enough, you might be able to see the dead bodies dangling from the edge of the pier.

Cautiously, you follow, still in disbelief at the vivid dream. It really is Roscoff, and distressingly realistic. You could feel the wisps of mist on your face and the wetness of your eyelashes.

Your overcoat feels heavier as you join a group of men on the docks, most dressed similarly enough to Theodore, but with clear differences. Some with one white sash, or different models of guns. Most have swords, though you see the biting edge of an axe slung on a man's hip.

They… they're the American's that were sent to retrieve the ambassador.

This was not what you planned on dreaming about.

None spend much time looking at your horrified expression, busy preparing their muskets and pistols. A few converse quietly, but none draw the attention of the man looming over the group. He watches them like a gargoyle on the side of a church, a grimace on his lips. You avert your gaze when it sweeps your way, standing in the rain, shivering

Theodore leaves you to speak with the shadowed man at the front who you assume is the officer from the red plume poking out of his black bicorne, and the single golden epaulet on his right shoulder. No-one else wears anything as distinctive.

Is this some sort of high-definition dream your mind cooked up from playing so much? You may actually take a hiatus if your ‘hobby’ causes more of these dreams. A shiver crawls up your spine at the thought of what rests ahead in the French coastal town.

Death.

They don’t even consider it a disease, do they? They call them vampires. Sure, they feed on the living, but they’ll eat every part, then turn you!

...which happens to be a fairly accurate description, actually...

Your hands wind around the leather strap of your bag nervously—and then your eyes fly down to it.

A surgeon?!

Your jaw fixes in place, tightening by worry. You’ll have to stitch these people and wrap their wounds! Did you even know how to do that?! You squeeze your eyes shut, body tense.

The world around you only seems to get louder, the singing men in the ship behind you, the rustle of clothes, rainfall on the sea, and the thump of someone's boots on the creaking dock... 

A man approaches, and you only know this as the very sound you were listening to happens to be his boots, drowning out the other noises. Men fall silent, and you feel ominously singled-out.

Swiftly, you shoot up to stand straight and meet the eyes of whoever was now in front of you. Peering down at you is the officer, a scarred man with a cleft lip caused by a ragged slash on his chin. You nearly stare at it for too long, snapping to attention under his pale blue eyes. He has neatly tied back straw-coloured hair, and permanent wrinkles from frowning. 

Something in his expression is distasteful; does he not like you?

The officer's decorated uniform sticks out even more from here, and from this distance you can see every individual detail. He’s nearly a head taller than you and half the men here.

Theodore lingers behind him, brown eyes flicking to you, then to the officer, clearly warning you to stand straight. You correct your posture, arms glued to your sides.

“You’re with us for the ambassador. Marine, stay near our surgeon. Obey all orders.” His rough voice echoes over the decaying docks and stormy waters, sealing your fate for good.

There would be no turning back.

Theodore salutes, and you mimic him with stiff, clammy hands.

You hope that when you die, you wake up from this lucid dream; there’s no way you’d actually survive this! People could barely pass the church section in a game! Despairing at your situation, you clench your shaking hands tightly.

“Advance!" The officer orders, turning from you and returning to the front. His voice grows more distant the further he moves, commanding the men who follow to close ranks.

"We’re here for one man. Anyone else is a liability to our cause.” The officer calls with his pistol in a gloved hand. The men, most of which who’ve finished preparing their weapons, begin to walk forwards in their small column.

You follow purely on instinct, uncertainty in each step. You glance back once more, staring at the large ship's rigging and drawn sheets, the ropes dripping with rainwater.

The men on the ship will be dead when you come back, hordes writhing in the USS Constitution’s halls like a virus in a body.

The joyful music muffled by her thick and reinforced sides still manages to penetrate through, and you sadly turn ahead to walk with Theodore.

These men are woefully under-prepared for fighting the shamblers. Would there actually be shamblers carrying gunpowder barrels? Would they know to shoot them?

Theodore hasn't left your side since the officer pinned him there, his earlier concern returning. Was he supposed to be your friend? Or a glorified bodyguard? Your head pounds from the onslaught of new information. 

You shiver violently, able to see past a few of the men to where the first shamblers would appear. The raised ledge to the side of the town’s entrance to the docks… you can't see the dead that would spawn from there, but something else catches your eye; a shadow moving in the mist.

Narrowing your eyes, you can just barely discern it, lingering around the edges of the sloping pathway where wood becomes stone.

“There’s someone here.” You mutter, eyes locked on the shadow. It hasn't moved, not even at the approach of twenty-something men. You walk at their pace without thinking.

Anxiety vibrates like electricity in your veins as the mist dissipates while the company marches forward, the person’s features becoming clearer and clearer: hunched back, pallid skin closer to grey than normal…

"What?" Theodore questions, squinting at you. His sight follows yours, finding the very same shadow you haven't looked away from.

There’s others in front of you, so shouldering through the men would be nigh impossible when they stubbornly continue on. It won't be long until someone notices it, right? And then what?

Quick to rejoin them, your hand shakily rushes to the sword on your hip. It’s heavier than you expect, but you aren’t planning to draw it. Yet.

"What are you doing?" Theodore hisses, hand catching your wrist, locking your fingers around the grip of your sword. Your head snaps to face him, eyelids stuck wide open.

Have you blinked since seeing the shadow? Since the officer has gotten closer and closer?

"It's... it's going to attack him." You stutter, pulling at your hand, though Theodore remains obstinately holding your arm. Theodore's anger warps into confusion, and he hastily looks to the officer ahead.

At the stifled exchange of sharp words, a man in front of you looks over his shoulder. Theodore releases your wrist, but the stare he shoots you says all you need to know: be quiet.

You seal your lips shut, angling your head at the ground. Wood creaks as you reach the town's stone walkways, muffling them. It would make the dead quieter.

Inside of the town, the houses are empty; windows boarded shut, torches and lamps snuffed out by the rain, and small rivers of water needling through the cracks between the bricks. 

You can see hints of the carnage that happened here, splatters of days-old blood melting from the walls, the uncomfortable stillness of what should be a lively port.

And the smell… other’s have picked up on it, too. A man mutters under his breath, and another grimaces.

Theodore is seemingly more and more put-off by what you said, constantly meeting the gaze of the other soldier in front of you.

This one is wearing the same black coat as everyone, and like Theodore, he has a shako on—the tall, cylinder-shaped black felt hat—with a red pom atop it. He also has the same white breeches as you, stained by mud near his calves. A heavy axe is at his side, meant for both splitting wood and more.

From the looks him and Theodore share, they know each other well, and you're stuck between their silent conversation.

You avert your gaze from them, stuck absorbing every detail of death splayed out before you.

One of the houses is being devoured by a roaring fire, and your eyes are locked to the bright flames licking hungrily at the leftovers of a lovely home.

Abruptly, the men stop. You bump into the man in front of you, quickly correcting yourself and muttering an apology, eyes everywhere but the man in front of you when he looks back again.

The officer had stopped, capturing everyone's attention. He's...staring ahead, shoulders stiff. You look ahead at what the officer had halted for, breath caught in your throat. 

...it's the wooden palisade that the French soldiers must’ve put up to keep the dead out. Their work did very little for the effort they put into it; thick tree trunks carved to a point, lined up, with ladders leaning against them. There’s almost no space between the sharpened logs.

Even more worrying, the figure has a bit more detail; it looks like a woman, the silhouette of an ankle-length dress. You falter—is she hurt? She hasn't moved an inch.

More houses have burnt down further into the town, their frames reaching to the grey skies like charred fingers, and the blood...

Even with the rain, puddles stain spots where people had been caught by the shamblers. You stare at it all, the horrific detail nauseating.

Orange light from dying lamp-lights cast a haunting glow on it all, gleaming against either liquid. You cannot distinguish between them, there's just too much everywhere.

...and as you all wait for his command, the figure ahead groans—a low, gurgling noise bubbles up a wet, bloodied throat.

You know what is about to happen and, with the thought of the officer being mauled before your very eyes, break out from the formation. Someone shouts after you, the brush of a hand on the back of your coat as you rush by the officer, your sword glowing in the flickering flames. 

It happens so fast the other men don't even react until you're in front of them. 

“Get back here!” Theodore orders, his voice high-pitched at the unanticipated action. 

It wouldn't have stopped you. Your mind screams at you to run faster, the thundering footsteps from both you and the shambler the loudest thing this town has heard since being overrun.

Something is wrong, you think in the few seconds before you reach it. The creature isn't walking... It's running.

Tearing towards you with crimson eyes and rotted black teeth, the Runner comes upon you with unmatched swiftness. Its limbs bend and move without regard for pain, tearing muscles to move faster.

Of course the first shambler you see doesn't fit the traditional look—and no wonder they gave you such odd stares! They thought it was a lady! Her eyes are sunken and almost gone, yet you feel them on you.

Your sword shrieks out from your belt, lifted over your head. As the Runner hurls itself at you, you bring the sharp edge of the blade down. It almost moves in slow-motion, and yet you can't even count the seconds it takes for your blade to meet flesh.

The Runner gets close enough for its hands to brush your coat, but your sword is faster.

Rotted meat floods your senses; a crude and moulded smell that you gag at as your sabre lodges itself in the side of the Runner's throat to force it to the ground. Unplanned, it crashes into your legs from how fast it'd run at you. 

Thrown off-balance, your knees buckle and the Runner drags you down with it. Fear rushes you to your senses—what the hell were you thinking?!

Fighting with your blade, you yank it out from the Runner's neck, the soft matter cut from its body splattering in an arc as the steel is freed.

You scramble away, surgeon's bag jostling against your side as the Runner hisses, reaching a hand at you, scrambling for purchase on your legs. You didn't hit hard enough to kill it!

Your saviour comes swiftly after the Runner flails to grab your calves, and the officer thrusts a smooth blade straight through the temple of the Runner's head, through her matted brown hair.

It falls limp, jaw hanging open loosely and upper body propped up over you by his blade. The image is burned into your mind, the now long-dead woman completely warped into a terrible creature. 

With one, smooth pull of his embedded sabre, the officer drags the Runner's body and casts it to to the side. You pull your legs away before it collapses, splattering thick, black blood everywhere.

Still on the ground, shakily breathing, you worriedly look at the officer.

He's staring at the Runner with a revolted grimace, the blood on his blade dark, oxidized and clotted from exposure. You carefully climb to your feet, heart leaping to your throat when a hand abruptly grabs your elbow and yanks you up from behind. Stumbling, you're tugged back and away from the corpse, right into someone's chest.

You wince at the pull of your arm, an objection on your tongue at the rough grip. Suddenly yanked to face the other way, you come nose-to-nose with a very upset Theodore. There's a deep wrinkle between his brows, creating a scowl that you wince at. He seems a little more frazzled than before.

"What the hell were you thinking?! You're not supposed to be at the front!" Theodore hisses, and you instinctively lean away. He's very close to you right now, and the fact you were just almost tackled by a Runner has you iffy at the idea of another in your space.

His hand releases your arm when you stay silent, knowing that if you defend your actions you may dig yourself into a deeper hole, especially with the officer staring at you so irately.

Even if it wasn't your job to defend him, you didn't want to see him die! You don't even know his name, but that didn't mean you were going to just stand there.

Besides, if he got hurt, it would be your responsibility in fixing him up! Can't he see you were just skipping that step and preventing the injury before it happened?

…even if it nearly got you attacked. But if he was bit or scratched, he was done for. You didn't see a chaplain or priest among the Americans. 

Theodore seems as if he has more to say, but the other man he had been sharing looks with cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder. And as he sees the corpse strewn about on the street, the unnamed blonde falters. 

The look on his sun-tanned face spells it all; he’s never seen anything as horrific as this. You can only pity him. 

"What... what is that?"

“Our enemy.” The officer states dryly. You slowly turn to him, almost aghast he would chalk it up to an enemy. A corpse rises from the dead!

That’s evil incarnate! However, you’re nowhere near in rank to this guy to be able to object, so you shut your mouth tightly. It sours your expression from nervous to fearful, the leftover adrenaline extrapolating your thoughts.

Someone from the squad offers his opinion. 

“It’s a vampire, sir!”

Still feeling the effects of nearly being mauled by a vicious Runner, you wring your hands together, nervously eyeing the skeletal houses.

There's space for them to hide everywhere. You can’t hold it back anymore; these people have to hear someone literally spell it out for them.

“Whatever they are, there must be more of them. Look around us,” you gesture to the destroyed town, the fear in your veins only heightening your worry. Throwing a hand towards the out-of-place wall of spiked tree-trunks, you make a face.

“Why the hell else would they have that there? A palisade inside of a town?” 

As expected, your insistence is met with uncertainty; whatever he knows may have been wrong, or he’s unsure of how to move on. You can’t order him around, but you can nudge them in the right direction.

“The town is lost, and I’m sure all we’re going to find are these… things, infesting the streets.” You pause mid-sentence, a grimace directed at the Runner.

Rain has begun to wash the black blood down the street, between the stone bricks and to the sea.

“Are you suggesting we leave?” The officer’s eyes narrow with a step towards you, crows feet wrinkling the edges of his eyes into a tight glare. He clearly doesn’t like your tone.

With a defiant scowl, you shake your head.

If you're stuck here, then getting the ambassador back to the ship must be the only way you can get out.

That's how it goes in the game, you hypothesize.

“No. There are soldiers among the dead—the ambassador must have been here with them. We’ll find him.” You’re joined by a man who takes the bayonet-end of his rifle and jabs it into the Runner’s skull. It sloughs off skin, the empty eye sockets slouching. Even though it had tried to kill you, a part of you mourns her death, as odd as it sounds. She was just like anyone else.

You don't say anything, and try to avert your eyes from the dead.

"We can do this, sir. I've dealt with vampires before." The unnamed man huffs in a heavy accent, his face warped by a scowl. He looks older than most of you here, age weighing his face with deep wrinkles, but the experience he has outweighs any concern about his age.

You can’t look at the grotesque face any more and turn from it, lips twisting into a frown. Besides, what did that mean? He’s dealt with them before? Just what kind of men are here with you all?

“Vampires are weak in the head. Kill any we come across by use of sabre, bayonet, or on my command, gunfire.” The officer instructs, surveying the group behind. 

Whoever the soldier was that further destroyed the Runner’s skull spits at the corpse, and a murmur of agreement goes through the group of twenty. Half of them look disturbed, while the rest are trying to hide it. 

Relief floods your chest; at least they took it well enough. You swallow, the twist in your dry throat wringing from the uncomfortable action.

A sigh shudders through you: it will only get harder now.

The ladders leaned against the makeshift palisade wall are slippery as some climb up, one man nearly losing his grip had the other behind him not planted a hand on his back. The officer is next, and you wait for him to see what is on the other side. Maybe he’ll worry about that.

You grimace at the officer who looms above, framed by the dark light of the stormy skies, and the terrible look in his eyes is reflected by the horde of shamblers silently standing vigil on the other side who wait for their next victim.

Above, you hear him silently ordering two men armed with heavier guns—you assume it’s a blunderbuss from its funnel-like edge—to fire with a silent command.

You stand mutely beside Theodore and his friend, who takes the silence to introduce himself. Still embarrassed from walking into him, you can't hold his gaze for long, but you gather some information the brief moment you do.

This one is stockier than Theodore, most likely from his gear, he’s an American sapper, someone who specializes in throwing up barricades. It seems odd to see one here, though. You're not paid to ask questions, so you let the curiosity fade away in exchange for being constantly looking around for shamblers.

You can't avoid his greeting, not when he purposefully steps in your line of sight.

He has lighter hair, closer to sandy-blonde. It’s tucked neatly under his shako, though it’s slightly longer in the back, an a few stubborn strands frame the sides of his face. He’s clean-shaven, with a scar from his cupid’s bow down to his chin. It cuts a discoloured line over sun tanned skin, and his grey eyes slope downwards at a gentle, kind angle.

At first glance, he seems like any image of a 'farmer's boy' that somehow manages to catch the eye of a beautiful noble lady, throwing her betrothal into disarray.

...A strange comparison, but it's the vibe he gives off. 

Theodore may have height on this guy but the sapper makes up for it with how easily he moves that axe around. He could probably take out a shambler with a punch! A pleasant smile rests on his face, an antithesis for how threatening he seems on the surface.

“I’m surprised we never chatted. Usually Mr. Trenk is the main surgeon. I didn’t know he had an assistant surgeon.” Still unnamed, the man points out your absence in the month spent sailing. Not quite in an accusatory way, but an honest realisation that this person simply never noticed you.

You blink, swiping some rain from your forehead before it drips into your eyes, pretending to stay calm so as to not alert how freaked out you are.

“The ship has hundreds of men. I would get in the way, so I kept to the surgeon’s quarters.” You deflect his curious prodding, and he nods understandingly.

Theodore proceeds to elbow him in the chest thanks to a few inches of height, shooting rather harsh glare at him.

“Oh,” the sapper flushes, the scar across his lip and lower face remaining its discoloured tone, and he looks directly at you with a sheepish smile.

“I’m Fitch.” Fitch holds out a hand, and you politely shake his. Your fingers are freezing from the cold rain, and you hurt to part from the warmth his hand gives off, but you tug away and give him your name.

“Nice to meet you. I hope we get along.”

“You don’t have a choice now,” Theodore mutters, and the pleasant smile on Fitch’s face melts away into an annoyed scowl. It looks more intimidating with his scar, but you have a feeling they're simply acting how friends do and poking fun at each other. 

You chuckle, and as you open your mouth to reply, a man falls over the edge of the wall.

He might’ve leaned too far over—you don’t know. But you can hear the scream, and the ensuing slaughter of tens of rotted hands tearing at a helpless man. Horrifically, he bangs on the wood for help as the officer and two other men desperately try to lash at clawing hands.

You stare, unable to look away.

There are some gaps in the wood where the trunks are pressed together, and red blood trickles through. Flashes of colour meld into one as the shamblers tear him apart.

Your hands shake, his screams ringing in your ears until someone tugs you aside, away and blocking your view of the massacre—where you’re horrified to realise that the other shamblers have heard, and they march from the dockside homes to come upon your group. In the horde you see regular townsfolk, and a shako-wearing soldier.

Far behind them, your eyes hone in on a larger shadow.

Quickly, the men organise in front of you and Fitch, aiming a row of rifles down at the oncoming horde. What comes next is a desperate blast of gunfire, smoke, shouting, and swords being drawn. The first few fall, but there’s far more than you expected! Some are crawling from the burning homes, tumbling out at the noises.

You can see a shambler dragging something large with heavy arms at the back of the horde in the mist, and using the point of your sabre, you direct someone to fire at it. 

“Hit the gunpowder barrel!” You cry, and a dozen men look over at the barrel-carrying shambler down the street. That thing could kill all of you if it got close enough!

It moves far more slowly than what you imagined. Most had fired already in the initial volley, but one had jammed. 

It’s getting too close for comfort!

Bringing your sword close, you curl your lip at the oncoming horde and spot your first target. What was once a man in a loose top and cotton pants, stained with splatters of old blood.

Like before, you rush to the front, wholeheartedly ignoring Theodore’s cry for you to stop. Your sword's weight is a comfort before you attack, the heaviness reassuring you that it will kill so long as you use it properly.

You take down the first that gets close, cutting your sword into the soft meat of its throat, then yanking your blade out and hacking it back in from the same direction. The resistance of it's flesh is uncomfortably familiar, though not in this kind of context.

It crumbles with a groan, but it’s replaced by another with ease; arms reaching out to grab and jaw wide open, caverns for eyes and grey-tinted skin.

You still hear the marine still screaming in your ears, and a flood of anger rushes through you—they killed him, just like all of these innocent people. 

One more charges you, swinging its arms to hug you close, but you step back, drawing your sword away to swing it back with as much force as possible. Black blood sprays as you slash the second down, your mind a haze of adrenaline and hate.

The third wears a Frenchman's uniform, his shako off-centre from his head, sunken-in eyes and bloodied, blue top. He must've been with the men in the church!

You stumble back from the dead soldier's grab, the bricks below slippery from blood, and the soldier lunges for you again with a growl.

You don't have enough time to slash your sword before the shambler snags the sash of your bag and drags you towards it. Someone shouts behind you.

You slam your hands on its shoulders, shoving your own weight against its heavy body. Teeth rush for your neck as you struggle against the shambler, straining your muscles to push as another shuffles towards you—if it gets to you, you'll be torn apart just like that poor man.

Blackened teeth snap brutally at you, a vicious noise coming from its throat at every evaded bite. The second is almost here, quickening its pace as you heave the last bit of your strength to shoving the dead man off of you.

Something slams into your side, throwing the determined shambler to the floor like nothing. An axe is swung into its head, shattering what was left of its skull and sending the shako skittering across the ground.

Fitch plants his boot on the shambler's corpse, tearing the bloodied axe out and readying it for the next. 

You shake your head, clearing the clouds in your mind before you help him drive off the last of the horde.

"Move!" The officer's rough voice orders, and Fitch is quick to pivot and herd you away, panic overtaking his face as the men ready a second volley.

Within seconds of the order, you're dragged from the main pathway. Fitch shoves you behind him against the crumbling wall of a house, pressing you against the brick with his body seconds before their muskets and blunderbuss fire.

You throw your hands over your ears, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation for the noise, praying that with you and Fitch so far to the side, neither of you are hit by a stray bullet.

The boom would have blown your eardrums if you hadn't covered them, the air practically vibrating from the sound. For a moment, Fitch is the only thing between you and the explosive fire, and his entire body jolts.

Worry flits through you, and you crane your head up to check on the sapper. 

He had his eyes shut, too, one arm bracing above you, the other covering the side of his head facing the volley to cover his ears. You're basically completely covered by the sapper—as embarrassing as the proximity is, a part of you is relieved that he was smart enough to do it.

You aren't as... well, built for Napoleonic warfare. Or any warfare. A single bullet could absolutely kill you. One smack to the head and you’d be out of commission.

"Were you hit?" You ask Fitch, and his face twitches.

Fitch peeks down at you through a single grey eye, grimacing, but it morphs to a shaky smile that crinkles his cheeks. You don't understand how he's positive right now. He opens his mouth to say something, but he suddenly hunches to the side with a pained grunt. 

"N-no," the sapper replies, voice wavering. His breathing has increased in pace—you don't believe him at all.

You scour his face, then push him to the side as a final shambler from the horde comes upon you with a howl. Lashing your blade across its arm, the steel lodges into bone, resisting your first attempt at tugging it out. It snarls, and uses its weight against you to go for a bite.

You hold it in place, but don't have to for very long.

Fitch's axe smashes into its skull, and you wriggle the blade from the shambler once it drops dead for good.

Heaving out a sigh, you shakily sheathe your sword so it doesn't get in the way. The quiet after all the fighting is too uncomfortable.

You note a charred, blackened smear of ash that has stained the ground, and the… pieces of other shamblers covering almost every surface. You shiver, the scene far too gruesome to stare at. But the ash explains what the noise was.

The Bomber was hit. That was a lot louder than you expected...

Fitch is visibly disturbed by the awful sight. You aren't too phased (even though you could just as easily die), but that's only because you know what's going on. It was still unsettling to see pieces of gore like that. 

Telling yourself they were the corpses of the voracious dead wasn’t doing too much. Before this, they were alive.

To Fitch, he was fighting vampires, not blighted people. That doesn't mean they don't look human. Thanks to the Americans being isolated from the Blight, they were all completely blindsided.

Sleepy Hollow was considered a non-canon map. They might have been told nothing about it before being shipped off to rescue Crawford. 

Quickly, you turn to your saviour, brows furrowed. He's leaning on one side, lips twisted into a deeper grimace than before.

"Are you alright, Fitch?" 

"Keep moving!" The officer bellows, specifically to you two—the last left on the other side. You urge Fitch over first, refusing when the man shakes his head, and opting to slip behind him and nudge him onward.

"I'm not a sheep," Fitch grumbles, unhappily climbing up one of the two ladders. The third that was here before had been lifted over, allowing you both to quickly catch up. When you crest over the palisade, you pause at the carnage below. 

Piles and piles of bodies await you on the other side, some long dead, some fresh.

Fitch is waiting for you, opting to stare at you instead of the violence at his boots, and he offers a hand as you come down. It's steady, but you try not to depend on the marine too much.

You can tell he's deeply disturbed, and don't mind the fact he hasn't let go of your hand, nor that you take the lead. Reassuringly, you squeeze his hand, and the sapper lets go with an apology.

"It's alright," brushing it off, you step over the first corpse of an innocent while ignoring the gore.

Your boots wetly slosh in a mix of liquids, and you hold your breath the entire way, gagging into your sleeve. Fitch mutters something, sticking close.

...there are so many that you have to step on some. You apologise to them, then follow the officer up the blood-slick stairs to the doorway of the forge. You glance back to the sapper, who was taking his time coming up the steps.

His head is down, but he looks up when your boots come into view.

"How... how awful," Fitch shivers, revulsion pulling his lips to a frown. Agreeing, you nod, the brightness of the blood behind you soaking into the corpses. You wince away from it, turning around. 

"I've never seen anything like this before." 

Inside, the forge is cleared of the dead. You enter, checking every corner. The upstairs is thundering with dead tripping over each other to find the source of all the noise, and you hurry after the officer's coattails.

When you round the corner, Theodore charges up to you both, just as upset as a mother towards their unruly children. He may as well explode if you touch him, the furious blaze in his dark eyes sharpened by the dimly-lit interior of the home.

Before he can chide you both, you step forwards, brows pinched.

"Fitch is hurt," you cut, then twist yourself to face a surprised Fitch, who awkwardly angles his body away. It's common for people to be averse to treatment.

However, just how avoidant they become warns you of the severity, so it's alarming that Fitch looks like he'd rather eat the moulded bread sitting on a stone countertop to your left.

Exasperated, you ask the sapper.

"Is it manageable?"

Fitch nods.

"Can I see it?"

He hesitates, reaching for his shoulder, then a heavenly crash booms from the next room over. Theodore is almost thrown off his feet, and you instinctively duck down, clutching the countertop. Another bomber?!

Wait... the door to the side!

You rush past Theodore from the hallway, running almost straight into the swinging anchor.

Two men barricade the wall where it's clear a bomber had just been ignited, throwing boxes and empty barrels in front of the once-doorway through the shattered wood.

One man had been corralled to the side, holding a hand gleaming with blood. He wears the same uniform as Fitch, with an axe attached to his side. You didn't know there were two sappers.

They all looked pretty similar when you're going through a bout of dream-induced delirium. This one has darker brown hair pulled from his face, brown eyes, and the same tone of sun-tanned skin Fitch has.

There's a dark-grey knit scarf tucked into the collar of his jacket, flecked with the blood dripping from his hand.

You practically pounce on him, your surgeon's bag clipped open in record time. He simply holds his hand out to you, and you cover the shallow, jagged cut from his knuckles to his wrist with dressing, holding it firmly for a few seconds.

With a few loops you wrap it again, making sure the circulation is not cut, then pat his hand. 

The action confuses the sapper, but you reassure him it's just to make sure the bandage won't come off.

"When we stop, I'll see if you need stitches. It'll hold." 

"Thank you, surgeon." The man slouches against the wall, a deep sigh rattling his lungs. You leave him to help others, but mostly everyone is alright.

You only counted fifteen including yourself... had you already lost five men? How in the world?!

Four barricade the door beside the forge, six push the anchor, and the other four fend off shamblers that tumble over the upper level of this home, impaling themselves on makeshift spikes laid below.

Yourself, Fitch, and Theodore were leftover from being so late, but the two split off to assist where they could.

The officer orders the men to heave, and with a mighty crash, the barred door finally breaks apart, swinging from the force of the thousand-pound anchor.

"Move!" The officer cries, and you slip out the door immediately—there's someone on the other side you need to see. 

Nearly slipping on the slick mud below, you rush to the iron gate, turning the corner without hesitation.

There—a shambler, dressed in a decorated french uniform, just as how you'd imagine him. You don't have much time, but it's hard to not stare at what's left of Jean. 

You knew he would’ve looked differently because of the Blight… but you can’t stare at the shambler’s face for long.

A knife is stabbed into his lower ribs, holding a stained note that shifts with every reach through the bar.

You stare at him for a moment, knowing the Americans would be here soon. An apology is said under your breath as you draw your sabre, bringing it to eye-level with Jean, then as someone rounds the corner, you grant Jean's final request.

"Hey, get away from that!" Fitch calls as you break the gate’s lock off with the hand-guard of your sword, kneeling by the dead Frenchman and taking his note, along with the small dagger.

Your head hurts, eyes burning from the wave of emotions washing over you. Fitch tries to pull you away with a hand on your shoulder, but you shrug it off, hoping the water in the puddle is enough to get the infected blood off the blade.

"He's dead.” You utter lowly, trying to read the note in the rain.

Blood stains every part of it, but Jean's writing is legible, elegant cursive. It tells you exactly where to go to find Crawford, though it begins rather heartbreakingly: To anyone who has stumbled across my deplorable condition, I thank you for your mercy.

"This man was stationed here for Crawford. They were waiting for us." You begin, turning to Fitch and a group of other men, some having stuck close when you were busy reading the bloodied note.

Overhead, the torn edges of a tri-coloured flag sway in the wind.

"We need to get to the church where his men are stationed." 

"How d'you know? Isn't it written in french?" You shake your head at the question shot at you by a red-haired seaman, who tilts his head, scowling. You were able to read it, the contents are all that matter to the officer, anyways.

You don't like his tone, and come to Jean's defence.

"He was a captain. I recognize the uniform." With a huff, you direct your attention ahead to where the bell-tower of the church looms over the town, cloaked in the low mist like a cape of grey.

The alleyway is narrow, blocked by a cart that men split off to move, leaving you in a group of five that fend off the shamblers with their bayonets and blades. 

You hang further back, tucking the note into your coat for safety, though your smear blood on your white undershirt.

The wagon's wheels squeal as it's towed out of the way, but you're preoccupied by the growing number of shamblers that threaten to separate the groups. They crawl from the roof of the church, some falling with awful, wet splats.

Some don’t get back up, but enough do to justify you moving to the front. Too many begin to crawl over a fence to the side, and a shout gathers everyone's attention.

"Fix bayonets!" Theodore shouts, and in no-time flat, the group who have them all brace their muskets forwards. You feel out of place with your sabre, instead letting the men with muskets take the front.

The group of shamblers slog forwards, and Theodore’s eyes scrawl over each. You don’t see any bombers hidden in the eyeless faces, only soldiers and townspeople. When the first crosses through the entrance to the alley, he swings his sword down.

"Charge!" He cries, and the shamblers are completely punched through, lanced by the bayonets and forced to the ground. Their soft bodies are no match for the bayonets, and you watch the display as the wagon is pulled out of the way.

Multiple shamblers are overwhelmed by the rush of steel, cut down with ease and left where they fall. It's much easier with so many others hacking and slashing, and the push to rejoin is thankfully successful. 

You're more concerned by the slow drag of the cart, and as the church's courtyard comes into view, you can see the next shamblers beginning to crawl towards the noise.

With the cart hauled out of the way, the separate group rush around the corner of the building, and the officer is the last one. He slouches ever-so-slightly, a hand pressing against a bleeding wound on his shoulder, the other holding a brass pistol.

When you step towards him, mouth open to offer to help, the officer shakes his head, a tight frown on his lips. He's clearly distracted from the pain.

"The church," he directs, and you warily step back. The church could go badly... especially if the scared French soldier rings that bell! You turn on your heel at the thought, and the spire of it's roof is a haunting imagine in the clouded sky.

Perhaps you could try to speak with him in french? Anyone else would receive a cold reply, and then you’d be doomed. You aren't confident in your abilities, but you're not going to give up. It would be better to at least try.

Besides, he had the British tied up in there, and didn’t waste a moment rushing to ring the church’s bell when the Americans went banging on his door. If you could get him to hold off, maybe explain something in choppy French... Your worries were outweighed by the benefit having all of them with you.

More men meant a better chance of escaping, especially when those British offered themselves as a trade for the American's to have a (somewhat) safe departure from Roscoff. 

The narrow alleyway opens up to the church’s courtyard, and the sight is disheartening; soldiers are laid to rest under blankets shoulder to shoulder, adjacent to another defensive palisade, packed together tightly with every item imaginable. 

The siege must’ve been intense for such drastic measures, and yet they failed. You see men from other regiments besides the standards, but all are dead. You and the men are silent, as the dead are too busy to notice you all.

Some bodies still being feasted upon… had you just missed their last stand? It looked like it had only happened within the last few hours. 

The thought only worsens your mood. If you had even the smallest chance to have saved Jean, you'd fight like hell to do it.

The sound of rain drowns out all else, but you can hear distant, human-like groans. Every house, every little alleyway... you're sure it's an infestation-level amount. It makes sense that this section was the first test to any team. 

“What happened here?” A man mutters, but you pay no mind in answering. That door is your salvation, and the only thing between you and moving into a safe zone is a single, wary Frenchman.

You rush for the church, the soft grass underfoot packed down into mud and stone. There are weapons scattered about, ammunition, pistols... The dead have no need for them. 

Tents line the stone walls encircling the church’s entrance, slumped by rain. That must be where the soldiers camped outside, determined to defend the church.

It’s all so much to see with your own eyes, and you shy away from the poor Frenchman with a bayonet rammed into his chest, his body slumped against the stone walls of the church.

His shako had slid down to cover his face, but you still cannot bear to look at him. Was he one of the ‘marauders’ that Jean explained? Or was he killed by one? The dead that are being devoured did not turn.

You force yourself to move onward, and the great, thick oak door gleams in the torchlight. It’s presence is stifling, a wall in the way of progress that you fully intend to pass through.

Theodore joins you, the splatter of mud from footsteps ending when he reaches your side. He opens his mouth, but you shush him immediately.

Wood raps thickly under your knuckles, the spraying rain soaking it and making it slick. Holding a finger to your lips to shush him, you turn to the door. Anticipating a response, you aren’t as surprised as Theodore when a Frenchman yells from the inside. 

“Qui est la?”

Even though you signalled for him to be quiet, Theodore tries again.

You shoot a nasty glare at the soldier, encouraging him to shut the hell up, then pull out your best French. 

“Monsieur?"  Beginning, you try to stay quiet; the hordes were nearby in the Hotel D’Angleterre. The leftovers of the company were moving around, trying to find another way in. 

Some are preparing for a fight already, heaving wooden planks and leftovers of the siege to chokepoints.

“Laissez-nous entrer, s’il vous-plaît?” Theodore mutters a prayer under his breath, uniform stained with black blood, turning away from the door to watch for any of the dead. His panic now contrasted with the show of bravery earlier when charging against the undead. No-one is infallible.

You frown when the Frenchman remains silent.

“Non!” He refuses, like the crack of lighting in a silent night. You flinch, appalled.

“Saves porcs anglaïs, dégager!” He spits, muffled, and your lip curls, provoked by his words.

You’re not pigs and you’re absolutely not British! They’d just fought a war about it! And that bastard, you were clearly speaking French! Maybe it's not the best according to his standards, but come on!

“Je suis américain!” Somewhere in the courtyard, the officer is issuing orders to barricade all entrances. You can’t lose any more men, or you’ll be overwhelmed right away—especially if he rings the bells!

“Il y a d’autres Français ici!” You pull out a trump card. The French soldiers you know are holed away at the docks after rescuing Crawford. If they don't exist, you'll eat your damned boot.

“Menteur.” From inside, hate hisses through the door. Liar. 

Theodore doesn’t look convinced at all in your ability, but you fumble with the buttons of your coat to get the note out from Captain Jean.

If he won’t believe you, then perhaps his old captain’s last note will help. You keep his dagger, though.

“Votre capitaine avait une note!” Pleading, you knock once more, then brace your back against the door, squeezing your eyes shut that he’d just listen! You’ll die out here!

Theodore rushes to the officer’s call, leaving you alone. You bang your head against the door, shakily reaching for your sword, the echoing sound of bells ringing in your ears like the gunfire from earlier.

The screaming man as he was torn apart, the groans of the dead… further away, the men seem to have caught the shambler's attention. Stragglers peak through, empty eyes locked onto whatever they can kill.

“...quoi?”

Like the sound of wind chimes on a hot summer day, the man’s voice whispers through the door. 

“Oui!” You cry.

“Capitaine Jean-Louie!” Ahead, you hear the groans and squelch of rotted feet against wet bricks and soaked turf.

The other sapper joins you, hauling wood over his shoulder that drops with a thunk onto the ground, quickly piled with others. His hammering is white noise to you.

“Monsieur,” you plead with him once more, hope welling in your chest.

"Les yeux-rouges approche!” The shamblers would be here soon, and then the Bombers, the Runners, Igniters...

Again, the man falls quiet. You don't know what else to do. You knock again, weakly.

The door shudders, and you gasp, stumbling away from it and right into the sapper shoving rotted wood and barrels up to barricade the entryway.

He braces you against him with a free arm over your shoulders, dark brown eyes flicking to the great wooden doors as they open with a firm shove.

The second sapper doesn’t look like he believes it, until the shadow of a man creeps into sight. A fearful man peers through the crack in the doorway, and you’re the first thing he sees that isn’t trying to devour him. Relief spreads across your face.

The sapper’s brows shoot to his hairline, and he turns to shout over his shabby barricade.

“Retreat! Save yourselves!” He calls out to the others as you slip from his arm, tears springing to your eyes as you carefully work the note from your coat.

“...merci! Merci beaucoup!” Approaching the doorway, you hold out the note.

Instead of grabbing it, he keeps his distance, but the single moment of hesitation is enough time for an American to come barrelling towards the door, the sounds of the dead hot on their heels.

And the Frenchman’s eyes go wild, twisting into a hateful glare at you.

However, he cannot stop the first soldier that rushes past you to throw the door open.

Abruptly, you're shoved away, the black felt of a coat blocking you from the thrown-open door. The red-haired seaman charges in, boarding axe reeled back to cut the fleeing Frenchman down. Without thought, you chase him inside. 

"Don't kill him!" Strangled by the terror of seeing a living man be killed, you charge at the seaman, hooking a hand through the sashes around his body and yanking him back. The Frenchman crawls away, begging for the man to stop and wait.

He grunts at the sudden pull, and lowers his one-handed axe, befuddled at your sudden attack.

However, you can't stop the next, or the several others that pour inside.

The Frenchman is quickly subdued to the corner and a lantern shatters after it’s kicked over, spraying glass everywhere. You release the seaman's sash, desperate to see if the Frenchman was okay. The seaman doesn’t allow you to squeak past him, firmly resisting your attempts to push him aside.

“Move,” You hiss, but the man refuses. Your complaints are drowned out by the shouting and shuffling of tens of boots in a room not meant for this kind of foot traffic.

"Bar that door!" The officer shouts, and men scramble to find the board, the rest heaving against the reaching fingers of shamblers. Voices mix, screams of the dead and the combined effort to block the door from the horde outside.

You’re shoved and jostled, the smell of flesh and blood clogging your airway as you push towards the Frenchman before the Americans decide he’s better off dead; it’s impossible to even move shoulder-to-shoulder with so many people!

Squeezed between the sapper who caught you and the seaman you grabbed, you grimace at the reminder of how the ship smelled.

“Where is our surgeon?!” A voice demands, and the seaman beside you jostles an arm over the sardine-packed marines, quick to throw you under the bus.

The officer’s orders are to never be ignored, so you heave yourself up onto your toes and shout, despite the seaman doing it for you.

“Here, sir!” You reply, and the men around you practically shove you through and to the officer's side. He’s at the Frenchman cowering in the corner, the garbled French he spits out near impossible to hear.

You pick up on a specific word, though: farme. He was actually telling them where Crawford was, but not one of these men spoke french? What are the odds of that?

As you kneel to speak, painfully aware of the sabre aimed right at the Frenchman's throat, you repeat yourself from earlier. That you found Jean's note, and you're the ones his captain was waiting for. That you’re American, and not British.

Still obviously distrustful of you—he has no other option to accept.

You sag with relief; no bells, no overwhelming horde, and the man had not been stabbed immediately. So far this has gone okay, though you mourn the dead men that may have lived if you were fast enough.

The man drops his head, a physical white flag waving for the agitated Americans. 

“He’ll help us, sir.”

A hand thumps your shoulder once, helping you get back to your feet on shaking legs. 

“Good thing Ol’ Hickory sent us with someone that understands French.” A man pats your back, and you recognise him right away on account of his unique hair colour; the seaman who was all-too-eager to kill someone.

You thought he'd be upset that you stopped him from attacking, but the seaman seems to have calmed down. Regardless, you nod. 

Good thing indeed, you agree internally, re-shuffled back into the men crammed in the entryway.

One last swing of a hefty axe, and the doorway to the church is blasted open. You see Fitch heave his axe back, then shuffle inside, leaning to one side with a grimace.

Men slip inside, following the officer, but you stay back. Theodore does as well, a worried purse on his lips. A part of you wants to check on the cannoneer in case he’s hurt, but you’re probably the last person he wants to be around right now.

You ignore both for now, trying to drown out the British and Americans arguing on the other side of the wall. It hasn’t even been a full minute! 

Looking down at the brown-haired man, you capture his attention with a gesture of your hand. There is no one else here, no tens of eyes waiting for the command to execute him. He looks at you with a judging pinch between his brows.

“Óu se trouve Crawford?”

"Il est dans une ferme. Traversez les catacombes et vous y arriveres facilement.” He utters, a scarred hand palming at his forehead, sweeping some of his brown hair into its combed-back style. 

He looks back to the walls, where the dead persistently bang on the door to the church. You don't know how he can stand the noise. Maybe he can't. But it's better than subjecting himself to the ire of the British and Americans, you're sure.

Sweat adorns his skin, still haunted by the ease at which the Americans were prepared to kill. Keeping Jean's note would've been cruel, so you hold it out. He takes it without looking at either of you.

You only offer a sympathetic look, then rise to join Theodore, leaving the soldier to stare at the note in a sombre silence.

He looks terribly sad, but you have a job to do elsewhere; you can't spare time comforting him when the wounded call out.

“Are you sure we should leave him alone?”

You nod your head. Theodore almost looks offended, but you explain it simply.

“He opened the door when it would’ve been easier to ring that bell and kill all of us. There are others who can help, but they may not trust us without him.”

“...was that on the note?” He questions you. You eye him. Smart ass.

Ending the conversation with a nod, you urge the marine to join the officer before you enter the church. He does so with a final glance back at you, lips parted to speak, but he closes them and leaves you. He clearly has something on his mind, and you don't know if you want him to get any more curious. At this point, you're just as lost as some of these men.

You pause for a moment to collect your bearings, squeezing your hands into fists.

The rain had washed away most of the blood on them, but you can feel the dryness only blood leaves behind, a rough and uncomfortable texture.

When you've had enough, you look for the now arguing voices. 

A single man with dark hair and tousled uniform stands up to the officer and Theodore, thick brows knit together from his effortless frown. He’s shorter than the Americans, but he tries to stand just as tall. You note his chest is puffed out, and paired with his arms being tied, you would've laughed if you weren't being watched.

Amazingly, the bindings don’t curb his attitude. If anything, they seem to upset him even more. 

“—your luck will run out. They’ll sack your ship, impress you, and you’ll be thrown on a quarantine ship.” The redcoat argues, his fore-and-aft bicorne hat topped with a red and white pom making him seem like a rooster.

He’s being stared down by a rather unfazed Theodore, who now sports an unpleasant scowl. The officer has one on too, but there's a bit more animosity in Theodore's.

“Listen,” the man emphasizes, nodding towards the two other living men in the corner. They look... defeated, slouched beside their dead comrades.

“With us, you have a bargain. Us, for your safe passage!"

“What’s stopping you from giving us up?” Theodore jabs, a hand resting on the hilt of his sabre. You swallow, eyes flicking to search the room in case he does something you don’t want to see.

“We’re both bloody doomed if we don’t work together!” You stare at the living British soldiers, and it takes a moment to find the living ones. The rest have died, and judging from their wounds, they were killed by the living. The two living soldiers are silently waiting with downcast eyes, sporting small wounds on their faces and necks. 

There's so much that you can tell happened here just from the church being in total disarray.

The descent to chaos happened quickly, and whatever the breaking point was, it resulted in the garrison here wiping itself out.

Your face falls at the sight, but you know the officer will rip you out if you treat other countries men without explicit permission.

“Just give us a chance, and we’ll give you one.” The redcoat offers, leaving the choice to the Americans. 

Judging from the time period, the American officer must’ve experienced the leftovers of Britain’s tyranny through family and veterans, or even fought in the War of 1812, so his choice may not be in their favour. It probably doesn't help their case that the British officer is so demanding.

Theodore shakes his head, clearly against the idea of helping.

You can’t blame him for feeling this way—despite this still feeling very unbelievable, you won’t push them to decide like some loud-mouth idiot. 

But it’s wrong to not help them when they have extra supplies you could really use. And they provide a solution to escaping Roscoff without getting in a fight with the British Navy. They’ll bring it up on their own, you hope.

You think that's a fair trade, but then again, you haven't experienced what these soldiers did to each other before the Blight. Innumerable, awful things. That was war. It didn't justify it.

One of the bodies outside had been a Polish soldier from the French cavalry, and who knows why the British were tied up here. Leipzig had a sort-of ceasefire agreed upon by the men battling, but...

Didn't the British quarantine Copenhagen? Resulting in the naval battle in the game that they somehow lost?

Well.

Most countries came together. It wholly depended on the situation. You would've blown the British ship to smithereens with the Danes, too. If you could barely survive Roscoff, then Copenhagen would truly be hell. Maybe it could be worse.

“He’s right.” The officer admits, eyeing the sorry state of his own men, most of which have been busy preparing themselves for the next excursion out into the shambler infested streets. They’re peppered about the windswept church, all resting where they could.

Theodore's jaw drops, stunned at his superior's decision.

“We barely made it through the town. With more of us, we stand a chance in rescuing the ambassador.” He approaches the tied-up officer with a knife in hand. The officer's wariness of the weapon is baseless when the American uses it to slice through the rope securing his wrists, eventually freeing the others silently. Theodore watches on, face aghast at his superior, but he covers it up quickly.

With that, you quickly kneel by the two men against the wall, drawing your surgeon’s kit from your bag.

They seem hesitant to be treated by you, but you offer no sort of negativity towards them. You need more hands to get through the next hordes.

“Let me patch you up.”

One of the men stares at you with hazel eyes, wordlessly. He kind of reminds you of another character—though he was long dead by now. Some of his ginger hair peeks out from under his shako, and he seems a bit out of it. 

Concerned, you repeat yourself at their silence, showing your bandages and needle, and the younger of the two eagerly offers his slashed arm.

“Y-yes, please,” he accepts, and you’re quick to cut the bloodied fabric off with the knife from Jean, sloughing off the soaked wool and cotton to have full access to his gnarly wound.

There are no immediate signs of any bites or scratches passing on the blight, but the tear where pale skin peels back into rouge flesh and dried blood makes you squirm.

You stitch it with little effort exerted, glad that the reason you’re here at least had the decency to make you seem less incompetent; you aren’t sure how, but none of your other questions have been answered, so asking more was fruitless.

“...there.” Finishing it with a knot, you wrap it up with cloth bandages over the stitch, then set your gaze onto the second man. He does not have a traditional shako, but a black one with a thin plume. 

He looks a little unsettled...

“No, thank you.” Not at all eager to be stitched up, the other politely refuses. His coat isn’t done up, instead thrown over a black top and pants. You furrow your brow at him, but don’t test the waters. What was he supposed to be wearing? 

“Alright.” 

You leave them be and turn around, wondering why Theodore is lingering around you. He doesn't seem to agree with you helping them from his disgusted frown, but you don’t agree with being overwhelmed by shamblers. Sparing him a look, you think about earlier.

I had said I would treat Fitch when we stopped... where did he go? A cursory sweep of the church shows most men are waiting around talking, but on the opposite aisle where the benches are thrown askew, you spy the blonde.

The two sappers are splayed out on pews that are not overturned, appraising their own wounds.

Fitch had shrugged his coat off, revealing a patch of dark red on his white, ruffle-collared undershirt, and your heart stops at the sight of all the blood. How could he have gone so long without allowing you to treat him?

Even if it was in an awkward spot, at the very least you could've dressed it!

You hurriedly make your way over to assist them, silently setting your bag on the bench and kneeling beside his legs. Fitch was still talking to the other sapper, so when he turns forwards and you’re trying to see why there’s so much blood, he jolts.

Scooting away, Fitch stutters, unable to say any actual words. The other sapper guffaws, then laughs into his knit scarf, held by a bandaged hand.

"What are you doing?!" Fitch's voice cracks like a whip, and you draw away, but remain stubbornly gesturing towards the blood soaked shirt.

“Let me see,” you demand, and the sapper shifts away, face twisted into a mix of uncomfortableness and embarrassment.

The other sapper elbows Fitch, smugly gesturing towards you.

“Go on, let 'm see!” he eggs, a twisted grin as Fitch’s nose scrunches up even more, wrinkling his skin. You don’t care for the game they play and reach forwards. It almost looks like a gash... 

"Be quiet, Leon." Fitch hisses to the side. Gashes made getting infected dangerously easy. If it was one, it needed to be dealt with now.

When the edges of your fingers brush the end of his shirt, a high-pitched yelp flies from Fitch’s mouth, effectively silencing the church.

You stiffen, hand hovering in place, staring at Fitch as his face swiftly flushes red. People must be looking, as Fitch's eyes can't seem to pick a place to stop, mortified at the noise he had just made.

Leon is shaking with silent laughter, pressing his scrunched face further into his scarf.

You feel bad for forcing Fitch into an uncomfortable position and rush to take the blame—if it means you can treat the profuse bleeding.

…wasn’t he leaning when you were all in the church’s entrance? It had to have happened from arriving in the courtyard to running to the door. He was hurt before that, too.

“I’ll be more careful,” you say a little louder than needed, and the sound of chattering resumes shortly after. Fitch’s eyes flick to your own, scanning your face, and he subtly relaxes against the wooden bench, his arms limp at his sides.

When he gives you a little nod, you peel the shirt up, revealing what you had assumed; his wound is a gash, cutting deep into his flesh, yet no jagged edges or torn skin—this clearly wasn’t done by a shambler’s teeth or nails…You don't think he's been infected.

Fitch had definitely been hit by a Zapper, but when? You were around him the entire time—nothing as dangerous as a Zapper would go unnoticed.

The skin of his lower stomach is paler than his face, flicked with freckles and scars from old wounds, but nothing as worrying as what this one will be once it heals. 

It stretches from his waist to just above his belt line. You’re nervous to even start stitching it, but something whispers in your head that you don’t have a choice.

If the axe had dug deep, he would've been dead. How is he even standing?

Quickly, you pad the wound from the excess blood with dressing, crusted to his skin around the gash. You use one hand to dig out your needle, then after warning him, begin the first stitch.

Every poke of the needle has Fitch flinching, and you hold out some extra dressing to bite on if he needs to. Instead of doing that, he simply bites his lip, determined to stay dead silent.

It takes longer than expected, but you wanted it to be as secure as possible before the fighting reignites—he could’ve bled out if his coat hadn’t been so tight. Your fingers feel cold from fright that Fitch's insistence to wait for treatment might've killed him in another world.

He’s sweating when you finish, and you ask if he’s alright.

“N-not really,” Fitch replies honestly, using the dressing you had left aside to swipe off the sweat beading on his forehead.

“I can wrap it for you, if you'd like.” 

Fitch had been red in the face since you began so you expected him to decline. To your surprise, he nods with his scarred lips sealed, and you dig for your bandaging.

He sits upright so you can loop the first roll of bandages around his lower back, and you work as quickly as possible.

Leon looks like there's a jab on his tongue, but at a scathing glare from his fellow sapper, his lips remain sealed.

It takes two rolls, but they keep the wound away from his clothes, so you’re happy to do it at the expense of more supplies.

Maybe it's partly because you feel genuinely terrible to not have pressed treatment earlier. That was a mistake you would not make again.

Giving Fitch a break, you turn to Leon, whose hand had been slashed back in the forge. He’s particularly cheerful about being stitched on his hand, asking you to keep it neat whilst you undo the old bandages. 

“We’d have been in a sorry state if Theo hadn’t thrown a fit.”

You stop to look at him, the pleasant look on his face completely out of place. Fitch scoffs when you chuckle quietly, fiddling with the ruffled collar of his bloodied shirt.

“A fit? What do you mean?” Leon is happy to explain, barely so much as wincing when you poke the needle through his skin.

“Well, he said something or other about being unprepared. Wouldn’t say how, so nobody believed ‘im.” A contemplative look crosses Leon’s face, but it doesn’t linger. 

"It was supposed t' be quick. Maybe a scuffle with the French." Leon shrugs.

You narrow your eyes at his hand, wondering if Theodore had been clued into the Blight when no-one else was. Leon is unbothered by your expression, leaning back into the wooden pew with a sigh.

Wrapping his hand goes by faster without having to lean over your patient, and with the two most important people treated and resting until the next incursion, you leave to seek others in need of help.

Finding the officer hashing out the details with the talkative British soldier, you approach them quietly, drowning out their voices with little effort.

The officer had refused your treatment earlier, so hopefully now you can help him. A name slips through your unfocused state—Cosgrove. Was that the Sergeant's surname?

When the stone faced officer notices you, you explain what the Frenchman spoke of. The British officer pays attention, too, his rumpled uniform now a little more put together. Even the Blight wouldn't stop officers from trying to look their best.

“We’ll be able to travel through the catacombs.” You finish, and the British man reels back with a scoff.

“You’d trust that man? Those soldiers killed each other, you know.” Immediately distrustful, you tilt your head towards your officer, who nods for you to continue. After all, you were the only one to understand the cannoneer. 

You don't want to assume his name, especially when that might get you punished for saying something incorrect like a title. Damn, it was so much easier in the game. 

But you take a risk.

"We know. But Sergeant Cosgrove has kept us safe so far. He'll get us to the ambassador, with or without the Frenchman's help." Shaking your head at the other officer, you seem to have been correct in your guess that it was his name. Phew.

“...the blight has done awful things to these men. If there are others, I can only hope they are the ones Captain Jean trusted the most.” You haven't even figured out the next step, so coming to the defence of people you don't know was a huge risk.

You can only hope that they're still alive.

Sergeant Cosgrove seems to be on your side, and you internally sigh with relief. Through the catacombs you’ll be able to get straight to the ambassador’s safe house, though the hordes below will be difficult to fend off.

That reminds you of the conclusion; the underground catacombs led to the farmhouse, which brought you right back to the piers. A slightly lopsided circle.

"It will bring us right back to the docks, too.”

The redcoat doesn’t have much room to argue once the officer makes his decision. Thank goodness he’s a listener and not some bullheaded officer sending his men to die. Though, he didn’t seem too open to your words earlier…

"Fine.” Without much resistance, the redcoat tosses in the towel, and you smile, covering it up with a cough when the Englishman's eyes flick to you. He doesn't stick around for much longer, and retreats to his own men.

With the British man gone, you turn to Cosgrove, taking out another roll of bandaging. He eyes you curiously, and instead of allowing you to help, he takes the bandages you have in your hands before you can even ask to help him.

Surprised, you stutter, trying to figure out why half of these men won't let you do your damn job!

“I can do it—” When he shakes his head, you seal your lips. This guy was a complete wall; he had done nothing but issue orders and protect his men, so if he wanted to wrap his own bandages, you aren’t allowed to argue.

Dropping your hands, you step away.

You instead find Theodore hovering over Fitch, who’d shut his eyes and leaned into the wooden pew, now in a somewhat cleaned undershirt. The blonde has a concerned frown on his face, but it brightens a bit when you call his name.

“Are you hurt at all?” Earlier, you had been too busy to ask the soldier. He doesn't seem all that rumpled from fighting.

“Not a scratch,” he shakes his head, and Fitch mutters something that has Theodore crossing his arms.

You don’t want to participate in another back-and-forth between them, so you break off to examine everyone else. Some men had begun to push the slate leading to the catacombs, and others were readying their pistols, blunderbuss, and rifles.

The stone slate takes a little while to be removed and slid aside, allowing you to continue patching others up. One of which happens to be a man with a runner's claws scratched over his eye. You're going to need a Chaplain, but none of the British happened to be one.

There's a strange, grey tint to the edge of the wound, but it's only noticeable when you lean in to examine the depth of the cuts. From far away, there was no visible difference. Was that the first stages of infection?

The odds of having a chaplain be with the French were slowly dwindling. You’d need one to get the blight purged from anyone infected, if it builds up past a certain point, the most dangerous shambler would be born.

As you prepare a patch of dressing for an eye-cover, the redcoat you had stitched comes up to you.

He offers a meek smile as you tie a bandage around a man’s eye, and when you finish it, you turn to see what he needs. Instead of a request, he thanks you with bright hazel eyes.

“Thank you. For stitching me.” He pauses between, a blush splotching his pale face, reddish curls peeking out from his shako. You shake your head. He really does look like that guy… Why can’t you remember his name?

“I’m sorry we can’t help you more.”

“We’re lucky to get what we can now. You’re the best thing we’ve seen so far.” Remaining grateful, you chuckle, a splash of humour at his gratefulness. Someone slips to stand behind you, and immediately, the redcoat’s lips purse shut.

Curious, you peer over your shoulder to see Theodore watching the men slowly clamber inside the catacombs, no longer around Fitch. He must’ve come over after nagging the sapper to death.

“Come along.” Theodore nudges your shoulder, urging you to hurry. You give in easily, not wanting to leave them underprepared for the masses in the dark. Offering one more grateful glance to the polite British soldier, you turn to join Theodore at the front. 

Letting your feet dangle over the edge, you slip down and onto a stack of crates set up by the first to climb down. Water splashes as you jump in, droplets sinking into your breeches.

The rest follow, though it seems some are taking longer. The main officer has yet to show his face.

You spy the single Frenchman being watched by wary British and American soldiers—they probably overheard their officer accuse the man of killing his comrades. Jean’s note confirmed it, so you turn away to focus forwards. If they attack him, you'll have a harder time coming to his defence. 

“Are we sure the catacombs are safe?” Theodore asks as you wade towards him. The light is cold, cast from small grated windows. Rain drips in, most likely the reason for the flooded rooms.

“It’s the fastest way to the docks with the ambassador. We’ll hopefully find more men, too.” Theodore’s eyes dim at that, a reminder of the men they’d already lost, and you nudge your shoulder with his in a sympathetic gesture.

“We had more men. It didn’t matter.” He shakes his head. Theodore had known those men for presumably longer than you. It did matter if they died or not, yes, but you didn’t have a connection. 

You didn’t sail for months with them, someone else did.

Falling quiet, you instead begin to wade in the ankle-deep water, the smell of mold and rot festering further inside. People must’ve hidden down here, too, unknowingly trapping themselves in the tunnels with the infected. Was it a person who didn't say they were bit? Or did the shamblers force their way inside?

It looked like an underground mausoleum, with old stone coffins resting on raised platforms, safe from sitting in the water.

“I hear more,” a man calls, and the group falls dead silent. Water drips from cracks in the ceiling, stifled breaths and the sloshing of water echoing out.

There would be one underneath the water in the connecting hall—you needed to kill it now. Quietly, you begin to move, slipping past the warning looks others shoot you.

Dying lanterns cast enough light to see a slumped figure in the water, bloated skin floating, blending in with the darkness.

You raise your sabre, the shambler’s head lolled to the side, and jab your blade through its skull at the base of its neck. 

The steel slides in with a little resistance, creating a small splash as the shambler jolts, then falls slack below the darkness.

When you look back, the men understand the firmness in your expression wordlessly; there are more in the water.

The rest of the journey is silent.

You say nothing to each other, pointing out the next hidden shambler with the tip of your sabre. Theodore uses his bayonet, jabbing the blade with next to no effort into the shambler’s brain.

It gurgles, and the marine uses the gun to shove it further underwater to silence it, panic flashing across his face.

A few bubbles swim to the surface, the shambler now dead. You all continue through the near pitch-black halls, the cold light from a barred window reflecting on the murky water. Dying embers from lanterns light the way, but you know where to go.

On the wall to your left painted in conspicuously bright-red, is a heart with a cross on top of it. Your eyes soften at the sight; they really tried to survive down here.

Somehow you’ve become the de facto leader, guiding them to the boarded-up and barred tunnel way. You hear the shamblers before seeing any. A few of the men comment on it, but when they step in front of it, their horror is palpable. The gate trembles under the weight of the shamblers, every inch between the iron filled with grey skin and blackened teeth.

Arms reach through the wood and iron bars, shamblers snarling and scratching at empty air, only merely illuminated by the nearly burnt-out torches. It feels like something out of a gruesome novel, but there are very real teeth gnashing to tear into any of you.

You ready your sabre and, when a shambler shows its face through the throng of others, you thrust the blade forwards, then yank it out. Blood coats the steel of your blade. 

It slouches against the bars, sliding down to be crushed by others who eagerly replace it.

Others join you, bayonets jabbing through and coming back bloodied, until there are no more trying to reach through the bars. It takes some time to work through them all.

You wrap your cold fingers around the wheel and twist it, recruiting the help of another to speed up the process. Groans begin to echo from your left, and the dead who had hidden at this underground mausoleum slog their way towards your group.

Soldiers stand shoulder-to-shoulder, dispatching the dead with bayonet thrusts, then sabres cutting and hacking through rotted, soft bodies. Their coats are easy to pick apart; it might get confusing depending on the French, but if they join up, you’re free to treat everyone. 

You finally heave it open, turning to assist the most injured through. A lanky man is shoved at you, his coat soaked and his hands clutching at an oozing cut on his collarbone. You sling the exhausted man’s arm over your shoulders. 

Theodore holds his other side, but the dead that creep from the darkness are getting closer.

Quickly, you try to take his weight so Theodore can arm himself. He shoves a shambler away with the flat of his blade, then turns to you.

“It’s open, move!” Theodore snaps, dragging both you and the injured down the dark, humid tunnel by your elbow. Old fortifications litter the tunnel, its width the size of four men standing beside each other.

You pass by old beds of straw, a cast iron pot hung over a smothered campfire, the smell of smoke and old food underneath the rot.

It had just been a decoration in the game, meant to tell you that there had been people here at one point, but they were dead now. More corpses of dead men, dressed in their navy-blue uniforms. Some wear red. 

You can’t look at the ones who never turned, the terror frozen on their faces—if they still have them.

Your officer remains behind, a pistol firing and the rattling of the gate slamming shut after everyone who had not been killed slipped through.

When you reach the broken-through wall to the ambassador’s safe house, the officer's head count is two less. Seven so far have been killed. You don’t see the older man who claimed to have dealt with them before.

The three British soldiers survived, eyes wide at what had just happened, while the Americans have yet to stop making snide remarks to the redcoats. Their brothers had just died for them, even though months prior, they were killing each other.

The Frenchman was quietly off to the side, his own blade covered in blood. You linger on him for a moment longer, and when his green eyes snap to yours, you look away.

The British remain silent despite the poking and prodding, having just killed some soldiers they knew who turned long ago. You're sure if the Americans keep it up, there will be another fight against the living in Roscoff.

“Enough,” is all officer Cosgrove says, nose wrinkled at both the Americans and British. You turn to the person on yours and Theodore’s shoulders, asking the conscious marine to bare the other's whole weight as you wrap up his injury.

You unbutton his coat’s high collar with a little difficulty from your cold fingers. At least the upper-half of his coat was drier than the rest.

“When we’re in, I’ll fix you up,” you promise the man, a throb between your eyes from a growing headache. 

“Just hold on until then, Edmund.” Theodore encourages, and the brown-haired man silently nods, gnawing at his dry lips to muffle any pained noises.

Your brows knit together; his skin was hot when you press a hand against his neck, pulling away when the man's head lulls to the side. Edmund should've been freezing when he was pulled from the water. At least, you think he was. How else could he be soaked to the bone?

"Did he fall?" Asking Theodore, the soldier nods.

"One of those running lads caught him. Peter killed it." Who's Peter?  

Gently, you tilt your head and spy at the man’s collarbone. His skin is pale, but that could easily be attributed to blood loss. it was also dark in the underground, so you couldn't tell his actual skin tone.

All of this is disregarded when you find his wound; deep and crescent-shaped, carved into his skin—a gift from a swift runner that almost certainly pulled him down into the water and bit him.

You silently hope that the French have a chaplain.

As you tend to his wound, the Frenchman approaches. Mid wrap, you spy the out-of-place green uniform and quickly meet the man’s green eyes, where he gestures ahead with a cut hand and unsettled expression focused completely on the bite victim. In the moment, you understand exactly why he's looking at you that way. He obviously knows Edmund is infected.

You nod to him, and turn to the officer, who had been watching you do your best to dress the awkwardly-placed bite.

“We just need to go inside. There will be vampires, I’m sure.”

Thuds come from above. Heavy, dragged footsteps. It's harder to listen to while inside of the catacomb, but it's only a wall away.

You have the urge to squeeze your eyes shut and will yourself to wake up, but the longer you’re here, the less this feels like a dream.

The officer nods stiffly, his scar twisting the frown he sets into a grimace.

“Prepare.”

No other shamblers appear from the musty darkness thanks to the gate being slammed shut. You can hear them groaning through torn throats, whispery sounds of their original voices—those just as corrupted as their bodies.

The blight left nothing of those it infected. Satisfied by stealing a person’s humanity, punishing the innocent with a ghoulish fate. Even the long dead were not spared. You comfortingly pat Edmund's shoulder, then pass your duties on to another man.

You can't treat him any further.

“Sir, let me go with you at the front.”

He shoots you a questioning glare, and you explain. You can tell he doesn’t like the idea; you’re their only surgeon—apparently, you weren’t even supposed to be with the squad until Theodore argued for it. According to Leon, at least, who you’re starting to think isn't the best source of information.

“What if the ambassador is hurt? I’ll be able to tend to him right away.”  

“And if there are vampires?”

“It’s a good thing I have this, then,” you gesture to the sabre at your hip, and his eyes follow the movement, before returning to your own, completely unimpressed. You wither under his eyes. Yeah, he should just shoot you for that one. Maybe he will.

Scrutinizing didn’t seem like a strong enough word for how his stare cut through you, prying apart every good intention you had and examining every detail about you with ridiculous intensity.

…maybe scrutiny was a perfect word. He didn't seem to like you very much. Officer Cosgrove's opinion of you has been back and forth so far.

Regardless, he orders you to stay behind him and the others, but doesn't send you away. You could beam with joy, but you don’t in fear of being thrown straight to the back of the squad.

The wall you hop through is crumbling, smashed by someone desperate enough. Bricks that look far too loose are avoided as you step over and onto a few toppled ammunition cases before reaching the floor of the house.

Quickly, you gesture to the lumbering footsteps with a point of your finger to the ceiling. Leon rushes to make a barricade of boxes and chairs, and you help him lift them, along with the marine delegated to watch you both. When you both finish, the tall marine summons another, and they fix their bayonets.

The two men nod, readying their bayonets, and you quietly unsheathe your sword. Leon slips behind your group, shooting you a confident look.

One of the shamblers has taken notice, empty eyes and rotted face turning to your group of four. Its throat is noticeably absent, a gaping, empty spot where it’s head just barely stays upright, old bloodstains pouring down the man’s old, cotton shirt. A terrible injury for anyone to experience. 

It steps for the stairs, missing the first, and crashes down, each step splattering with blackened blood, further destroying the corpse.

When it finally hits the last, it falls still, jaw hanging open limply. Blood drips down the stairs, the wet noise uncomfortably loud.

One of the men mutters a prayer.

The noise draws the rest, grumbling, guttural groans echoing from above. When they stumble down like the first, the men lunge whilst they’re on the ground, then retreat behind the barricade.

Less damaged shamblers begin to appear, and the two marines shuffle closer, behind the barricade you had hastily put together with the help of the scarf-wearing Leon. These are dressed as soldiers, with visible signs of being mauled. They hurl their bodies at the wood, reaching over and snarling.

At your officer's command, the two men use their bayonet blades first, jabbing and stabbing over the makeshift barricade of crates, chairs, and a table. You hang behind, still clutching your blade.

After a while of luring them down, the shamblers cease. Still unsure, you peek over the edge, nearly coming face-to-face with an already dead shambler.

Your mouth opens in a wordless yelp, but you immediately close it at the revolting taste of death that wafts from the pile of corpses.

You gag into your elbow, squeezing through the barricade. Before you can fully make it through, an arm grabs your bicep, and you turn with a jolt, the arm attached to Officer Cosgrove's epaulette-sided arm. He speaks slowly.

“Dead or alive.”

Unable to argue against it, you manage a nod. One of the marines—the one named Peter, you think he says—joins you, moving up the slippery stairs first, sword drawn. He surveys the upstairs, then beckons you up with a curled hand.

You’re relieved to see that all the shamblers had come after you, leaving the upstairs completely empty. Peter scans the room again, tufts of dark hair peeking from underneath his shako, and you lead the way to the attic when all of the dead are confirmed to be gone. You turn to the side-room, and pause.

Glancing around, you’re confused. Where the hell is he? The bed is covered in old wooden planks and fragments of the walls, the window boarded up with blades of light peeking through.

Peter is just as stumped as you are, kneeling to look beneath the bed as you look up.

The teapot comes flying at your face so quickly it almost doesn't make sense to your brain, smashing against your forehead and shattering into a million fake pieces.

You stumble, tripping over Peter’s bent leg as you fall to your own knees, clutching the profusely bleeding cut on your forehead. Warm blood slips through your fingers, dripping into your eyes.

“Are you okay?!” The marine rushes to your aid, coming into view of the attic’s smashed-open entrance. You can’t see, though, you’re just assuming he does considering Mr. Crawford thought his fake china was a fantastic weapon for his own stupid marines.

Blood trails down your forehead to your nose, leaving a hot path over your lips. Head injuries always bleed more, and it was obviously true. It burns somewhere by your eyebrows, and you press the cuff of your jacket to the wound.

Peter flicks glass from your face, moves your hand with a firm push, then presses what feels like bandaging against the cut. Stifling your curses and complaints, you can hear the other men below storming their way up at the shouting and noise.

You feel around the ground for your hat, but give up and instead swab at the sticky blood on your lips and face. It's still over your eyes, dripping from your brow. You wipe away the blood from your eyelids and face, most likely smudging it everywhere.

“A marine? What are you doing here?” The ambassador questions, not at all sounding regretful. Peter’s persistent pressure on your wound alleviates for a moment as he answers.

“Marines of the USS Constitution. Sir, we have explicit orders to extract you from France.” Peter explains.

You pry your eyes open, the sting of blood in your vision forcefully blinked away. The others have joined you, including your officer, who's blurry silhouette cuts in front of you like a wall of darkness. He looks seriously pissed off, and you avert your eyes to the bloodied floor. So much for him trusting you now!

Peter grimaces when you raise your head fully, the smeared blood and wadded-up bandages not the best sight for anyone to see. You sway to your feet and step back so the ambassador can have space to get down, blinking away the stinging in your eyes furiously.

“Oh, I see they got my letter.” Mr. Crawford sounds surprised when even more marines appear, but nonetheless, he finds his own way down. You see him kneel momentarily, the fragments of a white vase—that's not a teapot—littered by his boots. 

“Such a sad sight… shattered authentic china.”

Theodore nearly blows a gasket when you appear stumbling out of the group talking to Crawford, muttering about carelessness as you let him force you to sit down on an old wooden chair and wrap a thick dressing around your head. His hands peel off an extremely bloodied bandage to replace it with more. 

His hands pass over your vision, and the force he uses to wrap the bandaging around your head has you swaying like the Constitution on a stormy day. Oddly enough, you don’t focus on Theodore; you instead look at a hunched-over Edmund, who doesn’t look any better than before. He's been leaned against the wall, and his arms are wound tightly around his body.

He's breathing heavily, eyes squeezed shut. The collar of his jacket has been loosened even more than before, revealing the bandaging over his neck. 

The Frenchman is watching him, too. You squint at the cannoneer, then back to the fussing marine.

As Crawford ruminates over the fake china, Theodore arches a thick brow at you. You return it blandly.

“Yes, he hit me.” Dryly, you gesture to the cut on your forehead, and the marine huffs at your tone. Your face feels scratchy from the drying blood caked to your skin—but when Peter passes you a soaked cloth with an apologetic frown, you nearly cry.

“I shouldn’t have let you go first.” Peter apologises, and you shrug it off with a smile, face as clean as one can get after wiping the sticky blood from your skin. It’s probably smeared all over, now. Ugh. At least he was kind enough to get something for you.

“It’s fine. It’ll be a good story to tell when someone asks about the scar.” You jest, and the edges of Peter's lips quirk up. Behind him, a man in a top hat lingers by the marine, and your eyes pass to him.

Crawford shoulder through and holds out your bicorn hat, his stony expression betraying no emotion to you. 

“Sorry about your head, I thought you were one of them!” He offers the hat, and you take it.

Opting to silently agree, you let the others have the conversation, nursing the soon-to-be throbbing headache by closing your eyes after setting the bicorne on your head.

“Now stop being a baby, and get me out of here!” Your opinion of him was bad when he threw the vase at you, but now you may just outright hate the guy. It was already terrible beforehand.

Biting at your lip, you quiet your snide remarks. At least you’re not wearing a stupid top hat.

“Can you tell us what happened here?” Peter asks, and the look the ambassador gives him is nothing short of… well, short. 

“I think you can see with your two eyes: They got ‘em.”

The officer is the one to end the poking and jabbing. He steps forwards, voice louder than all others.

“We’ve got a frigate awaiting your arrival, now move!” The entire squad practically goes rigid, some soldiers’ backs straightening and others going wide-eyed.

You wince. Theodore helps you up, then you both move to assist Edmund, who has been lethargically leaning into the lounge chair absolutely drenched in water and blood.

Someone had attempted a stitch with your things while you were treated, slightly crooked, but it was better than leaving the bite wound open any longer.

You take your bag that was left beside him. Edmund doesn’t say anything as he’s lifted to his feet, but he’s not completely dead weight anymore.

Fitch hesitatingly pats your shoulder when you step away from Edmund, and you offer a weak smile. He breaks away to join Leon closer to the front.

“Stay with us, sir.” A man at the front advises, and Crawford takes his place at the centre of the group with you, Theodore, and Edmund.

The door to the next room is busted open, and the first to smash through the glass swats his blade at a shambler eager to get first-dibs. When the small group of dead are dispatched, the journey continues.

You make it out easily, glass hidden in the grass crunching under your feet. Theodore has yet to come through, guiding Edmund as you hold your hand out for the injured man to grab.

His hand is hot as you grip it, bracing for his weight as he’s shimmied through the window.

Theodore hops out, and as he goes to help Edmund once more, the man waves both of your efforts away.

“...m’fine.” 

Theodore shoots you a confused look, but you’ve already backed off, so the brunette steps away. The marine looks ready to pounce if Edmund stumbles, eyeing him like a mother does to their newly-walking toddler. 

“Alright.” Theodore purses his lips, but says nothing more. Edmund keeps up, his uniform askew, but he persistently denies any help.

The outdoors are surrounded by tall grasses and trees, a stone pathway just beginning to be overgrown leads to the farms. Stone fencing separates the plots of land, but it's hard to see ahead with the mist so thick.

However, you know a bridge will be ahead and remain closer in case you need to treat Edmund immediately. You scan the landscape through the grasses, still alert for any signs of stragglers. 

The rain has weighed down the crops, their broad leaves leaning against the wooden fences. 

They rustle with the wind, concealing anything dangerous in their thick foliage. As you survey the area around you, the men abruptly halt.

The officer stops everyone with a single gunshot from his pistol, the crack of the bullet smashing into something explosive. 

Your body freezes, sword shrieking from its sheath in tandem with the others as fragments of wood and blood splatter the rain-soaked earth.

You breathe a sigh of relief when you realise what he's done; there was a bomber hidden in the grasses. With that noise, though... it will be a hot spot here soon.

The officer quickly urges you all to speed up.

"Quickly, now!" The British officer agrees, his brass pistol at eye-level as he scans the group.

Through the fog, you pace yourself with the others, crossing under the big stone gate as Crawford speaks once more. You eek away from him, still upset he called you a baby after throwing a vase at your head.

“Now, this frigate, where is it positioned?”

“It’s at the docks.” Peter replies, and Crawford’s face falls into an upset frown, where Peter’s falters, as if he was expecting a different response. He seemed to be a people-pleaser type. That was terrible when mixed with a man like Crawford.

“Tell me you didn’t dock it. Please, you didn’t...” At the silence of the entire company, Crawford couldn’t look any more disappointed. 

“You did! Didn’t you?” He bemoans. It’s actually a bit funnier seeing him react; he looks like a daughter just told her mother she eloped with the one person she was told not to. Despair in its purest form.

Even if you know hell is about to break loose on the ship, you bite your lip to muffle your laughter. Might as well have a bit of fun. 

“That ship would be better off floating in Trafalgar!” Crawford spits, and the British soldiers share a nasty look between each other—that comment must’ve kicked them off, as their straight-laced officer scowls with a fiery glare.

He did have the gall to argue with the Americans whilst tied, so you wonder if he’ll say anything.

“Well how on earth was it supposed to occur to us that man-eating vampires were strolling the streets!”

Was that... Fitch? Your jaw drops, turning to look at the disgruntled sapper that had just fired back at the ambassador.

He looks peeved that Crawford has been so snappy with how many men you’ve lost. Someone else jumps in, too!

“Would you take it easy!” Exasperated, another soldier complains, and you quickly begin to feel an even stronger camaraderie with these men. Maybe they dislike him just as much as you do!

Your elbow nudges against Fitch’s, and when he glances to the side, you happily show your support with a sly smile. His lips split into a suppressed smirk, but he looks away just as quickly. You see the hint of colour on his sun tanned face, but he worms away from your eyes.

And then Crawford speaks, and both of your pleased expressions sour like the first sip of curdled milk.

"By the time the dead slugged their way here the Grand Army fortified the city walls. I suppose part of it had to do with me and part of it being their only escape route."

"Is it this terrible further inland?" A voice asks, somewhere ahead of you, and Crawford answers with surprising ease. You want to drown him out, but he's the loudest thing here.

"Most of Europe by this point, it's been kicking around for three or four years now. Ever since those lads crawled out of Russia." Crawford elaborates, then when a few men mutter confusing things, he turns around with a rather disappointed frown.

He must be wondering what sort of motley crowd was sent to rescue him.

"You do know where you're heading, right?"

"Yes, sir. The docks are through these houses." You say, taking the hit for the team so Crawford won't write a strongly-worded letter about everyone's performance.

His eyes flick to you, then the bandage on your brow, and he turns forwards without another word. You opt to not glare a hole into the back of his stupid head, instead focusing on the next objective: blowing up the palisade.

Ahead will be a difficult fight, but the French soldiers aren’t far. If they're even there. Hope had been dwindling with the many bodies of soldiers strewn about.

The mist glows a foreboding orange, flames burning despite the rain. You shuffle across the bridge with Fitch, thankful that he’s around in case you need to salvage some supplies.

Are you supposed to just take clean-looking cloth from the dead’s clothes? With Jean’s dagger, you may be able to cut it. But it's an unsettling thought. Instead of lingering on it, you look around the area.

The houses that have not burned are made of stone, stained with soot from their neighbours.

Cold dread pools in your stomach at the sight of a wooden cart stacked with bodies of unturned people, and that smell… You wince at the pile of ash and charred flesh.

At the end of the walled-in pathway is the other palisade, the points of each log sharpened like teeth, the dark bark aglow from the fires, entrenched deeply into the ground.

Just on the other side of that are the French, but dealing with the dug-in palisade would be difficult to surpass. The charges were littered everywhere, some in houses and others tucked away.

“That will need to come down,” a voice remarks about the palisade as they pass the cart, others muttering revolted by the pile of embers that is most certainly where they burned bodies.

You appraise the part of town grimly, then turn to Fitch.

“We’re near the docks—maybe they have explosives here? A seaside town surely has cannons.” You propose, and Fitch’s brows wrinkle in thought. A few others overhear you, and some of them pause as well.

“...maybe?” The red-haired seaman doesn't sound confident, but its better than no response.

“The houses are a good start.” You figure they won’t look until someone finds something, so you step away from the others and walk through the stone gate off to your right. Glancing over your shoulder to see who follows, you're glad that Fitch and the seaman ended up coming along.

Both have their weapons ready, but you keep yours on your hip. You'll need both hands free for your plan.

The door to the longer house squeaks as you pull it open, and you cringe at the noise. Fitch looks around the small fenced-in area, his grey eyes lingering on something you can’t see from inside.

The seaman prepares his blunderbuss, jamming the ramrod inside with the scratch of metal on metal.

At the furthest part of the home, a box full of canister shots: cylindrical ammunition that rattle when you lift the entire thing. Screw bringing one at a time!

It’s heavy enough to slow you down to a shuffle, even with the effort you exert.

Fitch’s axe bears down on a shambler as you peek out from the doorway, quickly slipping behind him and out the gateway. Peter, his gun trained on the gateway, shoots an incredulous look at you and your discovery.

“Canisters,” you explain in one word while hefting the incredibly heavy box higher, and he slings his rifle across his back to help lift the small crate over.

Ha! You nearly laugh with joy when another man drags out a crate similar to yours, and with both emptied out into the hole at the base of the wooden palisade, you obey the orders of the officer to get out of sight. Happily! You hated this section!

Instead of just sitting around in the open, you enter the house Crawford is holed away in, helping the other sapper throw the broken-down shelves at the other door, reinforced by crates. You dispatch an eager shambler with a thrust of your sabre through it's eye, and it crumples to the ground.

A terrible silence rings out, the distant moans of the dead feeling as if they’re only feet from you. More are trying to get through the barricaded door, and you dutifully attack the ones that poke their head out too high. It slows, and the rush of footsteps entering the supply house has you turning to see.

You check over anyone else sent to cover, but only have to tend one man’s cut along his cheek, and another for a small lash—at least it wasn’t another gash, you frown, but you’re running low.

…the few boxes in here have nothing but empty space for more explosives, you huff, digging through the empty straw bedding for round shots and canisters. 

When you think you find something in a white cloth poking from the edge of an opened crate, the earth around you quakes—a burst of light from the outside and the force sending you careening into the leftover boxes.

You accidentally drag one to the ground and the wood shatters all over the floor, revealing a… boarding axe?

You actually laugh. There’s no way!

Snatching the axe from the floor, you’re impressed by its lightness and deadly edges; both axe and the hooked pic, then set your gaze on a perplexed Crawford.

At some point, the French cannoneer had slipped inside, his auburn hair neat besides a few strands that flip the opposing direction by his brow. 

Briefly, he meets your gaze, and you wonder what he’s thinking right now. 

The man hasn’t said a word since the church, which in part is caused by the Americans not understanding French. It could also be that he just didn’t want to. No-one knew what happened at that church to leave him as the last one alive. You try not to judge him harshly based off of everything you've learned.

Above, the ambassador thumps against something, and the man curses. Both you and the Frenchman glance up at the same time.

He looks at Crawford the way a person looks at dropped ice cream; you don’t delve further than that. 

The ladder Crawford had crawled up was strewn on the ground, and knowing that you need to start moving again, you kneel to lift it. Surprisingly, the Frenchman helps you, with a distasteful frown stuck to his face.

You and him haul the ladder up, the wood slamming onto the raised platform Crawford cowers atop. Quietly, you thank the Frenchman, then shout at the dawdling American.

“Get down, it’s time to move!” The ambassador does not wait for you to urge him again, clambering down and hastily chasing the others out the door.

You shoot the Frenchman another thankful look before following Crawford, your new boarding axe comfortable in your grip. The rain lashes at your skin as you slip outside, and the roaring mass of undead are all you can see ahead.

The others are engaged in a terrible fight, with a mass of shamblers you couldn’t even imagine counting. They push and shove against each other, snapping with rotted teeth and gore-covered clothes.

It sounds like a crowd of people rushing towards you, held back by the combined efforts of both American and British.

Blood splatters from their rotted bodies, and you can’t even dream of getting through the wall of them to help the French—and then the nearest shambler practically explodes in front of you and the desperately-fighting marines, torn apart by the point-blank fire of a bloodied seaman’s blunderbuss.

Others behind it collapse, the pellets piercing through them. They fall like dominoes, the force from the pellets ripping through them with ease.

You jump at the opportunity to cut through the crowd, hacking at hands that claw at you and running past the weaker ones with your new boarding axe.

At the door, two men dressed in navy beat on the wood with gloved hands. They’re wearing French uniforms, so you hesitate—but they swivel to face you with their rotted faces

You stumble back when one turns to you with a groan, but before it can jump onto you, the cannoneer's heavy sabre cracks into its skull, knocking it aside.

You lunge for the other, flipping your axe, the pic swung into its softened temple and hooking into the only one-hit kill. It crumples limply, falling over the other dead soldier.

Hauling them from the door, you ram your shoulder into the dented wood and it gives way with a shriek of iron and crunch of wood. The shamblers had almost beaten straight through it; who knows how much longer it would’ve held.

Inside, there’s a fight—as you expected, the French fend off a handful of the undead, and one cries for help as hands drag him to the ground. Your eyes widen at the sight, how quickly the shamblers rush to pile atop him.

“Enlevez-les! Enlevez-les!” He howls, and you dash forwards, axe reeled back. The room blurs in the corner of your vision as you come upon the struggling man.

You practically throw yourself at the shamblers, cutting into one of their skulls with the boarding axe’s pic end and dragging it away from the man on the ground. 

It struggles against your axe lodged in its head, turning on you when the Frenchman scrambles away. Teeth are bared through half-rotted lips, but you merely push harder against it, toppling it over with a kick to its weak knees.

Four other Frenchmen—all yelling various things too quickly for you to register—watch as you force the main shambler down to the ground, and smash your heel into its head. They fight just as hard against the last few as you catch your breath.

You mourn the stains on your boots and breeches, but instead of lingering on it, you turn to the French, chest heaving from the speed you had run to rescue the man from being mauled.

“Allo,” you greet, free hand waving as you sling the axe onto your sash.

The one you helped is a man dressed fully in black with a sharp-looking hat, and he gratefully thanks you with clasped hands.

Around his neck dangles a silver necklace bearing a cross. He has dark hair, and signs of stubble over his face. There is a scratch across his cheek by what you assume to have been a past shambler. You quickly realise what this man is, and hope rises in your chest.

A chaplain?! Edmund can be blessed! If he hasn’t crossed the point of no return—and this chaplain has to have treated other men by now if they’re a part of Jean’s company. 

“Aidez-moi, mon Père!” You gesture to the doorway pleadingly, and his dark eyes flick to where you point, just as the others round the corner and enter the room.

Crawford isn’t far behind, and upon recognising the French, he greets them in their mother language. Drably.

“Je suis Monsieur Crawford,” he begins, a hand politely on his chest, and you grit your teeth—seriously, does he need to talk so much?! 

You aren’t alone, as a gentle prod to your shoulder has you turning to face a laughably unimpressed person gesturing for you to come away. 

He’s blonde, wavy-haired and fair toned with a thin pencil mustache. Definitely looks like a person who would fit a military portrait painting, you think. 

Completely dressed in navy with silver buttons and yellow epaulettes, white breeches and, instead of red or white, there is a small yellow pom atop his shako.

You know what that means—he’s a voltigeur. The pistol on his hip is silver, and a regal-looking heavy sabre trails after his steps. 

Moving aside, you follow the blonde-haired man, who only speaks when he’s sure no-one can hear. His eyes are a unique shade of green, and they tell you that he’s not impressed by Crawford’s display.

“I speak english.” 

You sag, then a weak chuckle slips out. He too shares an amused expression, maybe at your expense, but you don’t really mind. 

“Is there anyone hurt? I have supplies with me, and a kit.” Patting the big leather bag on your hip, the man’s face brightens—it’s obvious he’s relieved when you tell him, as he points to a man leaning against the wall, where the third and fourth Frenchmen reside.

One is clearly hurt, and the other is sloppily holding down a great wad of bandages on his back. They seem standoffish towards the sudden party-crashers, watching each one with hard eyes. A nervous pit burrows in your chest. They look angry.

“I’ll take care of this. We’re here to help.” You tell him your name, and the blonde nods, telling you his own: Lauren. When he offers a hand to shake, you return it.

“We weren't sure if the British would let you dock. They've held us here for weeks under their self-imposed and regulated quarantine.” Lauren huffs the last word, and you immediately know that they won’t be pleased to see the British you have in your party. 

Naturally, you assumed this even before coming here. They fought a few wars over how much they hated each other, after all.

“We snuck in.” Shrugging, you nod towards the main officer, who drearily eyes Crawford. Funnily enough, the blonde chuckles.

Lauren examines him for a few seconds, and then you realise the British officer is standing right next to the Sergeant. You kiss your teeth, then jump the gun before Lauren shoots the redcoat dead.

“...there are some of them with us.” You say quickly, then before you can be cut off by the way he looks ready to spit fire, continue. 

“—but we also rescued a Frenchman from the church. He’s in there somewhere,” you throw a hand to the group behind you, then instead of suffering the ire of the blonde angled towards the British he zeroes-in on, you slip by to help the injured man.

“Monsieur, laissez-moi vous soigner!” You say while approaching, and the wounded man glances up through unkempt dark-brown hair. He doesn’t say anything, but the young man pressing the cloth to his back certainly does.

A set of blue eyes stab you with visible hatred. This one is younger, and pity wells in your chest that he’s had to grow up during the Blight.

“Êtez-vous Anglais?” He hisses, and you pause, then nod, but gesture to the colour of your coat, and your bag. 

Nothing like the British’s own uniforms, yet you clearly weren’t French but new territory for him: an American.

The ones they were waiting for. Just their luck that everyone was already dead, save for the ambassador. As expected, the soldier doesn't trust you at all.

He doesn’t have much of a choice when Lauren yaps something at him—something that forces him to move and let you take the reins, though he does so very snidely, watching you like a hawk as you take his place behind the man leaning against the wall. 

He looks pretty out of it, and only glances at you once to acknowledge you’re even there. 

His uniform is laid to the side, and the colour is one you haven’t seen yet. A teal-ish green, with gold and red details along the opened coat. Wait… Is he a marine? These guys were the cream of the crop!

The shako set beside the uniform black, but the gold cords and red plume are strikingly noticeable, but you focus on the the brass eagle on the shako. 

“An imperial marine?” You question, and the man perks up. He squints at you, your good-natured excitement clearly suspicious.

“Désolé,” You shake your head, and the older man brushes it off with a shrug. He immediately winces, the wad of bandages laid over top of his injury jostled by the movement.

You wince upon peeling the gauze away; another bleeding gash, most likely inflicted by a Zapper. It’s far too deep for simple stitches; you’ll have to use more supplies to fix this one.

Like before with Fitch, you waste little time in drawing your surgeon’s kit out and finding your thread. Quietly working away at the gash carved into his mid-back, you listen in to what the others are yammering about. 

The parties in the house are discussing what you hope is the plan to escape, and seeing the fact no-one has been killed, you think it's going well. The American officer heads most of the discussion, while Lauren pipes in occasionally.

You don’t hear the British say a peep. Which is unconventional, considering they liked to impose their will on every living thing. Maybe they realised it’s not a good idea when they’re so outnumbered by the people who (arguably) hate them the most.

It was in a less-awkward position than Fitch’s thankfully, and with quick efficiency, you cut the thread with Jean’s blade, then tie it.

After asking him to move his shoulder gently to ensure it’s not too tight, you observe closely. You don't see any major issues and layer overtop fresh bandaging from the boxes of supplies they had.

He mutters a thanks to you so quietly you can barely hear it. You look down at him, then opt to collect the supplies they had gathered in this room.

Watching him put his shirt and coat back on would be invasive, so you make quick work of cleaning your hands off with some collected rainwater. 

The Americans remain at eleven, with a few faces you hadn't spoken to. Three British, and you just now recognise the Brunswick uniform. How in the world did he get here?!

Shaking your head, you turn to the new additions. An Imperial Marine, who has a fife in his white-gloved hands, is checking his instrument carefully.

The boy who had been behind him seems to have on a standard infantry uniform from the 3éme's, and the Chaplain who hovers around the sickly Edmund. That just leaves Lauren, and the cannoneer. Your eyes are drawn to them from how expressively they speak.

The two have a heated discussion with each other, gesturing with sharp movements and fast words.

They aren’t angry—no, they seem glad to see each other, just very aggressive about it. You observe as the cannoneer in green reveals Jean’s note, and the two stew over it. There’s nothing else you can do for them.

Amidst the chaos of the packed room, the cannoneer's narrowed eyes catch yours. 

Lauren continues to talk, but the other man isn’t paying full attention to him anymore. You watch on, and even though you’re really feeling the burnout of all this, you smile.

At least he’s back with men he can speak with.

You remain in your spot, hoping that he finally understands that you aren't his enemy. Halfway through your staring match, Lauren joins, and he waves you over.

Cautiously, you approach the duo. When you’re close enough, Lauren plants a heavy hand on your shoulder, a grateful smile on his kind face. 

He seems almost younger after the fast-paced discussion he held with the cannoneer, as if it had re-lit the light behind his green eyes. 

The cannoneer had lost that hunched-back posture, defensively wound in on himself from the ire of everyone. Now he seemed a little more soldier-like.

“Thank you.” Lauren squeezes your shoulder, and you aren’t really sure of what to say in response to the gesture. It’s just a hand on your shoulder, but you’ve noticed people here tend to do it a lot.

You didn’t mind all that much. It was a way to confirm that the person in front of you was really there, right?

The scared soldier had a grim ending in most rounds you played, but you couldn’t let it happen when it was obvious he was just scared. 

Sure, it really ground your gears when everyone died, but that wasn't real.

If someone you couldn't understand beat down your door while you were alone in the apocalypse, you wouldn't open it, either. 

Especially when there are zombie-like creatures everywhere.

“We’re fighting the same enemy. If we’re at each other’s throats, the dead win.” Lauren chuckles at that, then releases your shoulder, nodding with his head to the side at the cannoneer, who’s expression narrows sharply. 

He has so much emotion in him, of which very little has been positive. Oh well.

If the horde had been lured in you may have a different opinion, but he took a huge risk in opening the door. You were grateful for that.

“I am sorry about Arnaud's bite. He, like most of us, has lost many people. We are soldiers, yes, but still human.” Lauren explains, and you find it easy to shrug off the man’s apprehension towards you. To blame him for feeling a powerful human emotion was a bit backwards, wasn't it? All's well that ends well. Instead of ruminating on that, you perk up.

Is Arnaud his name? You weren’t sure of it yourself, so to have it said aloud is a welcomed surprise.

“It’s okay. We didn’t know much of Europe’s suffering until Mr. Crawford’s letter.” Lauren hums, thinking on the information you’ve given him. 

A perplexed look dawns over him, and he abruptly speaks. You expect him to ask a platitude of questions, but the one he throws you is a curve-ball.

“Do… you have any family?” Lauren's tone is so quiet you barely catch the entire sentence in the rabble of Americans and British. Any family? Obviously. You had to come from somewhere. It… it looks like he means something else, though. You tilt your head.

Confused, you ask him to repeat himself. Lauren does so, his low voice a bit more steady this time.

“Do you have family in France?”

When your face warps into even greater confusion, Lauren shakes his head, disappointment hanging from his next words.

“Ah. I shouldn’t have asked.” The interaction had a sort-of odd feel to it, but you sensed sympathy from Lauren, as talking about family from France is a difficult discussion knowing they were more than certainly dead by now. The Defense of Paris was months ago.

You instead smile weakly, aware someone is summoning you with a shout of surgeon!

“It's okay." You reassure him, even though it should probably be the other way around. Lauren's eyes scan you closely, clearly trying to figure out something. 

You try to ignore how he does it so unabashedly, like when he grabbed your shoulder—as if he knew it wouldn't bother you all that much.

"If they're anything like me, they’ll be alright.”

You sound utterly dubious saying that. France had been more or less devastated by the dead, losing Paris and the Grand Armée being dispersed far and wide, not to mention Napoleon's vanishing act.

Lauren's eyes dim, but he doesn't make his thoughts known.

Finally, you turn to whoever had been persistently calling your name. Theodore stands there, arms crossed as you conversed with the Frenchman.

“Finally. I never know what you and those frogs are talking about.” He mutters under his breath, his distaste for both French and British painfully obvious.

You scowl. What gives? You were speaking English!

He should have been able to understand you.

Man, what is it with Americans and talking about how much they hate other people to other people?

The aforementioned groups are already leaving, taking whatever they can with them on the way out. Some clearly heard his pointed comments as Arnaud's fiery temper is raging at Lauren, who laughs goodheartedly like any friend would.

You roll your eyes at his kind comment, opting to stay silent. Theodore’s displeasure sours to an uncomfortable look, and he quickly jumps to the point.

“We’re moving on.” 

Fitch joins Theodore at the side, looking far more relieved than the others to get back in the shambler infested streets, curiously eyeing Theodore’s upset expression. 

You don't explain, instead using the small silence to calm down your nerves.

You should've expected to be tired, but it was draining to be surrounded by so many terrible things. Acknowledging that these people had lost nearly everything but each other was difficult; this still does not feel real. 

But you carried Edmund, stitched up almost half the men here, actually stabbed shamblers, and felt Lauren’s hand on your shoulder. It was genuinely confusing! This was supposed to be fake, so why in the world was every emotion so genuine, and every action so… real?!

This dream was really influencing you to stop playing that game and go walk in a park for a few hours. Maybe you’ll go on a hike somewhere for a bit.

Find peace in the phrase touch grass, or take it a step further and go get a matcha flavoured drink.

When the men file out, the sapper leans close to whisper something in your ear. It snaps you from the whirlwind that is your mind.

“Only ‘cause Crawford finally put a cork in it.” Fitch chuckles, and you close your eyes, fighting the urge to laugh as your small group leaves through the side door to the streets and eventually, the graveyard.

Taking a break from the rain has been so nice that you dread its return. You grumble and absentmindedly walk towards the stone staircase, the water soaking into your already dripping coat.

Your first step is into a puddle of blood pouring from a shambler’s slashed neck, the slippery substance nearly sending you careening down the stone staircase with a shriek. Someone snags you by your surgeon’s bag before you fall, and your bag's sash nearly strangles you.

Fitch hauls you back, and after a brief (and much-needed) breather. It’s your turn to be stared at, and you can’t stand it, refusing to look anywhere but your boots until the sound of someone's quiet laughter draws your attention.

Theodore has his lower lip between his teeth, gnawed on to stay quiet. His face is red, snickering away like a schoolboy. Your scowl from before reappears, and significantly more annoyed.

“Watch your step.” Fitch advises, pulling his axe out just in case for any stragglers from the already-killed shamblers littering the walled off street. Annoyed, you huff and redouble your efforts in staring ahead.

There are overturned wooden carts, bags laid atop each other for barricades, and dead littering every surface.

You step over a few, their skulls smashed as they are killed, apparently a habit some of the French had picked up in case the dead rise again (they had a successful track record so far) to truly end it. 

You overhear that neat fact from the men standing around, salvaging things from the overturned carts and barricades. Most of them are ones you have not officially met, their names completely unknown. 

Leon seems to have a penchant for taking things, as you observe him take as many wooden stakes he can shove into his bag. They were just going to rot into the rain

“They’re efficient.” Fitch notes with a grunt, dragging a few wooden logs used to make more stakes to the entrance of the graveyard. He must mean how the French have handled the dead, leaving not one a chance to attack. You agree. They've dealt with this since the Berezina.

The huge wooden doors have been open for you, but your eyes catch a pop of colour, drawing them to something so insignificant that you'd forgotten about it.

Purple flowers lean onto the street from the greenery growing along the base of the great stone fence, weighed down by the rain nestled in their thick petals. They haven't been groomed for some time, on account of the overgrown leaves.

You can smell a hint of their scent in the air, mixing with the saltiness of the nearby sea. When you think no-one is looking at you, you take one of the wet blooms and slip it into your pocket. 

Marines are waiting by the doors for the rest to rejoin the group, anxiously looking down the street ahead blocked by a palisade. You’re a part of the last few, and once the stragglers pass through the gates, the men stationed there heave them shut. There’s no plan on going back now. 

“Get him away from the door, it’s barred for a reason!” You hear Cosgrove order, and Crawford is herded away from the barred shed, stumbling past large stone graves.

You can see a faint orange light glowing from the small window at the apex of the shed’s wall, where the packed-in dead wait to burst out. The doors quake with each body tossed into it on the other side. How had they heard you all through the rain? Or have they just been beating on the doors since being turned?

Men take cover behind some gravestones as they reload, one lining up to remove the wooden plant keeping the dead inside. You step forwards—and the red-coated officer’s hand blocks you.

“That includes you.” He commands soundly, and for a moment, you’re at a loss; do you listen to the other countries officer?

When you look for Cosgrove's notable hair colour and bicorne, he’s busy readying the men at the shed, each of them holding their bayonet’s fixed on the door. 

Without a guide, you quietly move to join Crawford. He’s wringing his hands from rainwater, wiping them onto his black coat. Right now, he doesn't look like a diplomat, but a nervous man who does not know if he'll get out of this place. Dead or alive, you recall Cosgrove stating. 

For once, he remains silent, shirking away from the rainfall. Not wanting to stare at the talkative ambassador in case he takes that as an invitation to talk, you look at the shed.

One man stands at the door, while six others aim their guns at it. You can still hear the banging on the wood from here… Is that Peter? His face is set in stone, but you can see some hesitance in the way his eyes flick to the quaking door behind him.

The moment the American marine reaches to lift the wooden plank, an axe smashes through the door, cutting into his mid-arm. You almost don't believe the sight, but the very real Zapper's axe is yanked out from the wood and his flesh with the snap of wood, and you jolt back to the present.

He howls, drawing his arm back as the door’s fly open to a flood of Runners and Zappers. 

“Fire!”

You don’t see where Peter went in the rush of the herd, and the subsequent explosion of gunpowder as the line of men pull their triggers only makes it more difficult to search the graveyard.

Runners leap out, each one a blur of muted colours, tumbling out from the shed, and you flinch away from the noise, shutting your eyes instinctively.

Reopening them quickly, you see the result of the gunfire.

Smoke drifts in the wet air, the volley proving successful. Bodies litter the shed, spilling out.  Softer-skinned Runners were torn apart at point-blank range, and to your worry, two Zapper's survived—though one is now missing an arm. 

You nearly move in right after, but the British officer stops you again, his earlier sour expression now perturbed. Under the corpse pile at the doors, there are arms that reach out, but a pike-wielding Frenchman safely needles through the many to put the leftovers down. 

Instead of standing around any longer, you push past the redcoat to find Peter. When you weave through the tombstones, someone calls for you.

“I need help!” Your head snaps in the direction of a tall stone grave, and there sits Peter, hunched against the tombstone. A roll of bandages is hastily covering the injury, but you know it's going to need stitches even before you get to him. 

He must’ve grabbed them in the previous room; it's a terrible waste of sorely-needed supplies.

Red blood seeps from the white cloth, dripping onto the wet grass and stone below.

You curse—you’ll run out of thread if they keep getting gashed!

Peter looks a bit taken out of reality; he doesn’t answer your request to help, staring off to the side for a moment too long with wide eyes. 

You swallow. Is he going into shock? Forced to take drastic measures, you press your hand to his cheek and guide it to face yours, staring into his distant, dark-blue eyes. He turns slowly, putting up no resistance.

“Peter, you’re still with us.” You tell him, using your other hand to help press down on the bandages he’d weakly looped over his gash. His arm is as solid as a rock, muscles tense.

He blinks owlishly, and you grit your teeth. What can you ask him to shake off the suffocating feeling of nothing? If someone was trying to help you, what would they ask? Something that would force you to think…

“Tell me about your favourite book,” you blurt out, and Peter’s lips twitch, a quiet noise slipping out. Does he even read? Can he? What kind of idiot are you?! 

Keeping pressure on the wound across his wrist and forearm, you lean a bit closer, taking your hand from the side of his face to fiddle with your bag—you need that needle and thread now.

“R…Roderick.” He sputters, and your face brightens at an understandable response.

“Roderick…?”

“Roderick Random.” Peter forces out with a bite, and you quickly nod, finally peeling the bandages back to work the last of your thread through his skin, apologising when he flinches at the first prick of the needle. It was an awkward wound—shallow by his wrist, then deeper along his forearm.

At least it didn't hit bone, you think.

You’re sure he could’ve lost his hand if the angle was different. Nonetheless, you work steadily at the deeper section of the gash.

“Sounds like a good read. Who’s Roderick?” 

“...he’s a s-silver-tongued surgeon in training. My sister likes him, too.” A stutter is heavy in his words, and you hum, then perk up. Wait. He has a sister?

“Really? She has good taste.” You joke, pulling the string through another shaky suture. Mid stitch, the edges of a red coat slip into the corner of your eye. You continue working, refusing to stop until it’s done.

That redcoat might've had the gall to keep you from treating someone, but you'll make his life hell if he tries to stop you halfway through.

Peter heaves a sigh, and you can feel the puff of air on your face. At least he’s not stiff as a board anymore, the tense muscles you had been holding finally relaxing as you finish the last stitch and tie it off.

You rush to loop bandages over his arm, securely tightening them, then roll his sleeve back down all in a few swift movements. It's clearly not fast enough for the officer, who quickly makes this known.

“Off we go,” the British officer prods, lip curled at the two of you. The silver body of a double-barrel pistol is his gloved hand, held up to his eye level as he watches the graveyard. More specifically, the graves around you.

At any moment the dead here could rise, couldn't they? Hurried by the shock of realisation, you help Peter up with a hand on his elbow.

“You’ll be right as rain in no time.” With a good-natured nod to the drizzle surrounding the town, Peter agrees with a quiet huff. As you take the front towards the ladder leaned against the graveyard’s encircling walls, he chuckles behind you.

“Keep moving!” The British officer practically snaps at your heels as you clamber up one ladder, then pivoting to go down the next. It wobbles precariously for you, so you hold it as Peter comes down.

The officer is the last to go, urging you both once more with a pointed glare. Geez, so much for helping him. You waste no time looking at the edge of the pier. All there is to see is destruction and death, even more soldiers laid about.

You can see one man dressed in red and black, the silvery embroidery of his jacket catching your eye. Is that a—

You don't get to look any more than that; the officer shoves you forward. You bite back a remark and continue on.

The USS Constitution is a beacon of hope in the distance, her rigging barely visible and sails tucked away. 

Old Ironsides has already become a legend in your time, but being able to see her only a few years after being commissioned and built is a wonder. 

It’s disturbingly quiet as you trail after the main group, the sound of swords hacking and cutting enhanced by the water lapping on the sandy shore.

Bodies are left laying on the pier, the black blood seeping into the brick and trailing out to the edge over the water. The group ahead has fanned out, with the French staying behind to watch the others ascend the ladder.

You see Lauren brandishing a heavy sabre, one of his gloved hands tucked behind his back. Arnaud is a bit more aggressive with his posture. Knowing they're here to protect you all, you feel safe going down the stone steps.

Sand sinks under your boots unsteadily as you hop down, disgusted by all of the dead ahead. Lauren seems to have cheered up, and he pleasantly smiles as your group passes by. Maybe he's just a friendly guy. You sure know Arnaud isn't.

He makes this known with a scoff, and Peter's face wrinkles—probably wondering what he did wrong.

You shake your head at him, and his confusion grows tenfold.

There's no saving yourself from the ire of the French. Hasn't the marine seen how Arnaud looks at the back of the British officers head?

The fires of Hell have nothing on that guy. He's a true, unequivocal hater. 

Judging from Peter's expressiveness, he seems to have recovered from his bout of shock, and you urge him forwards first. Ahead, the sight of others climbing the ladder to the docks means there may be some already shoving Crawford up to the ropes and preparing topsail.

You step over bodies as you make your way to the much sturdier ladder, the slippery, black rocks it stands on forcing you to trod as careful as a lamb.

Each step on the ladder is wet, and you grip it doubly tighter to not slip. When you reach the top, you pass by the men preparing barricades to fend off the dead. Leon is here, and the spikes he requisitioned are put to good use.

It looks like they went back into Roscoff to recover supplies, as there are men rolling barrels down the street and onto the dock. Leon seems to have already prepared a barricade, but there is enough space for the barrels to get through, so you're not worried about yourself or Peter.

You aren't worried at all about the officer—he can take a long walk off a short dock. Matter of fact... you eye the destroyed end of the once far-extending dock, and the look to the officer. His nose scrunches at your odd expression.

You shrug it off. If you don't have a little fun, you'll go insane. Peter pushes you ahead, gently prodding your shoulder.

"Don't tally," he urges, and you quickly move down the dock to get onto the Constitution. 

The gangplank is terrifying to cross, just like the first time. it's slippery and quakes underfoot, so you practically fly across it. The Constitution's deck is firm, her gentle swaying comforting. But something nags at you.

How are you meant to sail a ship of her size with only twenty-something men? 

It’s not your business—you’re stuck as the surgeon, so you won’t be expected to do any of that. Hopefully. You have a bad track-record of doing things you aren’t supposed to, but there are men still alive because of those interventions. 

They wouldn’t be able to force you to do that nonsense after this is all done.

You weave through barricades of boxes, slipping past a nearly-overworked Fitch.

You stop, turning to him as he pauses his work, setting the hammer on a painstakingly nailed-together wall of... well, it looks like debris. Or a preschool classroom during arts and crafts time, just without the sparkles, glue, stickers—everything fun, basically.

He sighs raggedly, wiping sweat from his forehead. 

"How are your wounds?" At the question, the man shrugs noncommittally. You wish he'd commit to giving you an answer that you didn't have to drag out of him kicking and screaming.

Your eyes glower at him, the end of your rope rapidly approaching.

"...it hurts, but I don't think they've popped—" You reach for his middle, and the man swats at your hand with another yelp. Pointedly, you gesture for him to go on. Fitch swallows, guilty looking away.

It really was like a preschool class. Does that make you the teacher? Or the overworked teachers assistant? Whatever it is, you want out.

"They popped. I'm sorry."

A curse wells up your throat. There's no time to stitch him now! Instead of saying the curse that (helpfully) rhymes with his name, you instead say his name.

"Fitch, we don't have time to hide these things." As much as you understand he may be uncomfortable about being treated, he could die. Avoiding treatment could lead to infection from actual infection, to the blight!

You didn't want to nag them, but it could be disastrous if you don't!

"...I," he swallows, and you try to be as sympathetic as possible.

"I understand Fitch, I really do. But this could kill you." 

Fitch looks around. Most men are busy with preparing the ship for departure. You've gotten pretty good with a needle so far, putting people under stress really does help!

Even though you somehow knew how to do it, you've gotten better in a short amount of time. A-plus for adaptability!

He nods. You wait for him to reveal the wound, his jacket unbuttoned with stiff fingers. With the needle prepared, and kneeling so you're just about eye level with the gash, you wait for him to give you the okay. His face is strawberry red when he nods, and he pins his eyes to the sails above. Peeling the bloodied bandages off, you see the old string holding the angry red flesh together, but not all of them have popped.

Better than nothing, you think, and poke the needle through once more.

Fitch hisses into his fist, and you try to work quickly. The process feels like ages, stringing the thread through and ensuring it'll hold so long as he doesn't do any strenuous work.

Which, now that you think about it, is exactly what he's about to do. You huff through your nose, tying the string. Without asking, you wrap the bandages quickly, passing it around his back—

"What in God's name are you doing?!" Someone cries, and your back straightens with a snap, turning to look over your shoulder. Theodore is watching you both, utterly mortified by... what the hell is he talking about?

"Stitches! Just stitches!" Fitch croaks, slipping away from you, snatching the tail-end of the bandage to tuck it into the wrappings.

You're stuck kneeling, string to figure out why Theodore looks as if he walked in on—oh my God.

You laugh. Hard. It bursts out of you like a gunshot, making it almost impossible to put your cleaned needle away.

The marine's aggression evaporates into embarrassment, and some others have figured his mistake, too. You aren't laughing alone for long.

Theodore's nose turns up at you, either offended or embarrassed about his accusation ringing out loudly enough for officer Cosgrove to turn and see why no-one is working. You bite your lip, swallowing your laughs as you get back to your feet.

Ahead, the unfurling of sails ripples loudly like the crack of lightning, and the officer is clear in his orders to reel the capstan. 

"Haul up the halyard!" He snaps, and the men scramble to take a spot at the capstan, a mix of red and black jackets meaning you get to hear—

“Have you ever pushed a capstan before? Move!” An American seaman jeers at the red-haired British soldier you stitched in the church, heaving against the circular capstan with a grimace.

He doesn't push with his injured hand, instead heaving his weight against it. The Brunswick man shakes his head, trying to stop the other man from falling for the American's egging. It doesn't work.

“Your bloody capstans are stolen from our ships!” He quips back with a glower, heaving as hard as he can against the wooden handles. You huff at their exchange, and the prideful look the American’s share at having done just that.

Their patriotism is legendary, especially when it comes to one-upping the British. If only it didn't come at the cost it did.

You hover around them, the silence below deck alarming when compared to the atmosphere when the group left. 

No-one is visibly hurt besides Fitch, who stubbornly avoids your eyes. However, you do see a few men eyeing the hatches, if they aren’t busy shoving eager shamblers back overboard. Wait... when did they begin to climb up the ship? 

At least they've done well in preparing. Reminded of Cosgrove's headcount in the catacombs, you decide to do the same.

One, two, three... seven. There's seven on the dock. Five on the capstan. One preparing the barricades. Four shoving off shamblers, and me. Eighteen. 

Ten Americans including me, five Frenchmen, three British. 

Getting sick of numbers, you make your way to one man doing nothing at all, staring at a hatch. Oh, you think, he's not staring at the hatch. 

Laying overtop the hatch is the bloodied and clawed body of... Wait, that’s the midshipman that had cracked you over the head! Theodore has an odd look in his face as he stares down at the mangled corpse, and you avert your eyes from the sight to check on the soldier. He looks torn.

“I didn’t like him,” Theodore begins wearily, his voice weak, then rubs a hand over his tired eyes. 

“But he did not deserve to die like this.” You’re sure this man left a golf ball-sized bump on the back of your head, but he looked as if he died after shutting a hatch, terror frozen on his face, his body holding the doors down.

He managed to lock it before succumbing to his wounds. You don't know what happened for him to be the only corpse on the deck. Did he lock the others down there with the infected?

“...no one does.” You murmur, resting your hand on Theodore’s shoulder for a moment. This means the men below deck are already dead, and once the USS Constitution begins to leave the harbour, they’ll fight their way out.

“I don’t think we should open the hatch.”

Silently, Theodore agrees, the gruesome sight of the midshipman’s body more than enough proof. You help him move the body, then drag a crate overtop of the hatch. When Fitch takes a breather from ensuring the capstan remains shielded from shamblers, you wave him over.

“Hm? Is that—” Fitch’s face crumples as his grey eyes spot the dead midshipman moved aside, resting against the bannister's of the ship. Theodore nods, skin slightly paler than before.

You wait before asking, figuring Fitch knew the midshipman better than you did.

“Can you nail them shut?” You hate to ask so much from Fitch, but it will help slow down the hordes below. Being overwhelmed would be the end of your efforts.

“What? Why?” His brows pinch together, the cut across his lip twisting alongside his frown. Theodore doesn’t explain, still visibly upset, so you do, gesturing to the corpse.

“Do you hear any music, Fitch?” You ask, and the question only confuses him more.

You don’t know what he hears, but you can hear three things: the rain beating on the quarterdeck, the squeak of wood of the capstan, and the sound of shamblers being thrown overboard.

No music. My Love is but a Lassie Yet did not beat through the halls of the ship, her crew long turned. The creaking of the ship below is eerie.

“There might be other men down there.” Fitch disagrees, and Theodore looks away to the sea, the end of the docks destroyed by whatever happened in your group's absence.

“There’s nothing,” firmly, you shake your head, stressing the point.

“—nothing, these vampires wouldn’t do to infect every last one of us. We didn’t even know they were here until we entered the town!” Throwing a hand to the distant, emptied town, you bring it back to point at the hatch.

“Why didn’t anyone come to check on us? Why haven’t they come out now? I could hear that forsaken capstan from a mile away!” Maybe you’re being too harsh, but you’ve only seen the hordes from the game before.

You were not keen on seeing them with their very real teeth, claws, axes, and gunpowder barrels!

You didn't want these people who you've been treating to throw their lives away so rashly! They've been hell-bent on doing it so far, so it was pissing you off that he couldn't understand that you were just trying to help!

“We watched men be eaten alive.” Biting your lip, you shake your head. That poor man who’d fallen over the wall—a shiver crawls up your spine.

Fitch’s eyes flick down for a moment, recalling the man’s violent death, then he simply shuts them.

Your anger recedes when the two stay silent, and you forcefully swallow down the rest. How the dead down there would overwhelm everyone here with ease, and there would be nowhere safe to retreat to.

It sits in your chest like a pit, and you wish you could just dig it out and throw it away; keep yelling at two men that were just hoping that their comrades were not gone. That they wouldn't be bursting through the hatches to kill you all. The officer didn't take all of the marines to rescue Crawford.

They're just men, overwhelmed by the greed of this plague that has now taken their brothers, too. You swallow, and the tang of regret fills your mouth. Hadn't you defended Arnaud for being scared of something he didn't know?

They still had hope there were some alive down there. You wish you could.

“I can't let it happen again.” Finishing, you turn to find more things to keep those hatches down. 

Trudging away, you step over loose ropes and other leftover things, coming across a box of heavy-looking round shots meant for cannons. They looked like simple cannon balls of rough cast iron, resting in a wooden crate.

Pushing the issue would only make it worse. 

You might not have a hammer or nails, but you were not going to sit around and twiddle your thumbs. The capstan was nearly hauled up now, and the departure was set in stone. Why couldn't they just listen? 

You understood that there would always be hope, but this plague's origin is the most hopeless sort. It could be fought off and expelled, but eventually, it would kill. Kill, and absorb the dead.

Your head drops; soon the final horde would be upon you all, and you can't do anything to stop it besides prepare. So you do. The box of round shots is the heaviest thing by you that isn't already a part of the barricade. 

You frown at the sight of it, then kneel to test its weight.

When you reach to drag the box, someone’s shadow appears in the corner of your vision—you nearly swing your boarding axe into Peter’s knee before you realise it’s the marine, and he eyes you warily.

Your head drops, as does your hand with the axe.

“Sorry. You startled me.”

Peter doesn’t seem to mind your skittish reaction much, directing his and your attention back to the box of roundshots.

"It's alright. Today has been nothing but terror to all of us." He reassures, and you smile, but paranoia remains wound around you like ivy.

It only tightens when the American officer’s voice booms from the stern of the ship.

“Move, move! Don't give up the ship!”

You hear a resounding cry, and the men freed from hauling the strenuous work now fend off the undead from crawling up the ship’s sides.

Peter's eyes widen, and he steps in front of you, blocking the sudden shadow of a Runner tearing towards you.

Peter’s heavy sabre pierces its skull down to the hilt, and using the blade lodged in its body, throws it against the bannister and rams his shoulder into it, sending the shambler careening into the sea.

It happens so fast that you're still kneeling, halfway reaching for the box.

All this noise… they’ll be coming from below deck soon! You heave the heavy box of round shots up and haul it over the hatch’s opening, dropping it with a resounding bang.

You’re forced to pull your axe out from your sash, swinging at a greyed arm wearing a bloodstained, striped shirt, deflecting its attack and preparing a second.

Bodies litter the deck now, more and more wearing that striped shirt. Peter looks at them uncomfortably, eyes sweeping the deck.

“These are our men…” He breathes, and you go cold. They were already out, but how?! Your question is answered by a snarling Runner that hurls itself over the bannister and onto the deck. In a blur, Peter lurches forward with his blade, cutting it down before it could attack.

...And the horde begins to thump against the hatches, beating on the wood with fists and axes. You stumble away from the one closest to you, Peter hacking at the hands that burst out from the thrown-open doors. The first is cut to a bloody stump, but the shambler persists, uncaring to its missing forearm.

"Go, go!" Peter cries, taking the single-armed shambler down before leaping onto the next. You step back, then ready your axe’s blade for the next, refusing to leave him alone. This was always the most difficult part, especially to anyone on their own.

“They’re coming!” You shout, alerting the others as the USS Constitution’s topsails pull her out from Roscoff’s cursed docks. She sways underfoot, destabilising some of the weaker shamblers from crawling over the edges. 

You jump onto the offensive. Peter can hit them from further away, but with your axe, you have to get within arms reach. It’s not that hard aiming for the head, but the issue of getting up in their very deadly face and nails.

So you follow in Peter’s example and hack at their arms, nervously stepping away when the amount of them begins to grow larger and larger, forcing you and the marine back towards the capstan.

With each corpse you two leave, another makes it over the edge to join the slaughter. Ahead, by the stern, the seven men from the dock struggle against the onslaught. One after the other they rush across the quaking wooden plank, but the dead are hot on their heels.

One of the men shoves the gangplank off with shamblers on it, and five collapse into the churning seawater below.

Some others aren’t as lucky as you, and a desperate cry for help from somewhere draws yours and Peter’s attention—but he’s too far, even when others fire into the growing crowd of undead swarming the deck.

The group has been split into two, you realise, as you only have several men here, including yourself and Peter.

In the midst of slashing down a Runner before it could throw itself over the bannister, someone shouts. It sounds like the British man you had stitched, and his voice rings out over the carnage.

“The officers are both at the front!” 

You cringe. That leaves you without orders…

Most men are using their bayonets over swords, jabbing through the holes of the barricades that Fitch and the other sapper threw together on either side of the main mast’s thick oak pole.

But it's disorganised, and fear will take hold of them. It's already influencing you. Swallowing thickly, you sweep your head around, landing on the hatches behind the barricades.

“Watch the hatches behind us!” You shout, turning on your heel to sever the hand off a shambler dangling from the bannister, the distant splash of it hitting the water overwhelmed by more hatches being forced open.

Wood shatters under the force of the dead, too many attempting to crawl out that they jam themselves stuck. Leon brings down his axe with a grunt, and the first three shamblers are killed with the powerful blow, cutting through them like butter.

Shoving your boarding axe into your bag’s sash, you draw your sabre and thrust your blade into the next shambler's head.

You needed the extra space between you and your targets, lest a Bomber poke its head out and it sporadically explodes.

Even within the little time between leaving the ship and returning, the turned men look almost indistinguishable from the dead found in Roscoff.

Grey skin, rotted flesh, signs of where the infection began, and their eyes almost completely gone; a gruesome sight, especially knowing you were amongst them only a handful of moments ago. 

Others around you are far more unsettled. Some call out the dead’s names as they appear, and the Americans seem to recognise what has happened to the sailors.

You wish you could’ve changed it, but what could you do? There was no guarantee anyone would listen to you, especially at the beginning of this nightmare. 

“How did it even get to them?” Someone questions, heaving for air after battling off more of the dead. You, like most others, assumed the dead snuck in thanks to all the noise the sailors were making. They infested the docks here, resting in nearby half-sunken boats.

Considering how adept they are at climbing the sides of the USS Constitution, you can put two and two together. No one willingly answers, far more disturbed by the fact that there were shamblers now dragging gunpowder barrels from the brig.

“Mark him!” Someone cries, and four sets of muskets are trained on the same Bomber heaving the barrel out. It uses burly arms to hoist the barrel up, and then—

The air ripples from the ignition of the gunpowder, wood splinters the size of your fingers darting like arrows in every direction, splattering the limbs and dismembered shamblers like some sort of disgusting confetti; revulsion nearly draws you to hurl, but you twist your head away and instead refocus on the climbing zombies. They're easier for you to deal with on your own.

“Behind!” Someone cries and a hand hooks under your arm and yanks you back to the group.

You stumble into whoever pulled you to safety from a Runner’s blunted claws cutting through the air where you had once been standing. It rebounds, using both arms and legs to propel itself towards you.

Something hangs from its belt… a black pole, the length of your arm.

Why are you focusing so hard on it?!

You can only see the red eyes burning through your own, frozen in place—you had seen this man in the brig, hadn’t you? He had walked past the door playing an instrument. It hadn't even been a clear picture, but now when you think of him, the grotesque Runner is all you'll know. Not the human he once was.

You don’t have enough time to dodge it by now, and instead brace yourself for the inevitable weight of a Runner tackling you to the ground.

Fitch crashes into it, using the pole of his axe to shove it down.

It flies almost weightlessly into the bannister, where another man’s pike lances through its head—you were so, so thankful the French were more eager to join you than the British.

Shooting a grateful look to the French marine, he pulls the pike from the shambler in a practised move, then nods in acknowledgement. He must've forgone the sabre for the longer reach. He hasn't played his fife, which would be nice, but there's a bigger problem.

Too many shamblers snap and slash at the barricades that the wood begins to groan, and though a redcoat and an American hold it in place by shoving their backs against it, you come to a horrifying realisation that they will overwhelm you soon.

Men around you fight tooth and nail, but you have fewer now than before, and the dead absorb them eagerly.

You have no solution, no idea of what to do besides keep killing as many shamblers as possible, acutely aware of the hatches being taken over by the glow of a torch. Another Bomber?!

Over the cries and snarls of men and dead alike, a single voice rings out clear as a bell: The dead won't tread on me!

And the Bomber that drags itself to your barricade is practically vaporized in the hail of bullets. You’re dragged down behind the boxes and crates just in the nick of time by the red-haired seaman, the air above you pierced by bullets that shriek overhead.

Thunderous footsteps crash against the wooden deck, and the other half of the group come charging in, slamming the dead into their bayonets and heavy sabres, lancing at them until they’re nothing but silent heaps of dead.

You hear men cheer, huzzah's and victory, or death!

A laugh slips out from your lips. A well-timed charge was a gift in itself.

Now that the others have rejoined and the battlefield was more controlled, you feel more comfortable treating the injured.

One of which is someone you didn’t think would allow themselves to be treated—Arnaud, the cannoneer in green. He limps up to you, clutching a slowly growing stain of blood on the cuff of his coat.

It’s become second nature to open your surgeon’s box, seeking out the bandages placed neatly in a row where you can pull one of the few left.

He doesn’t move as you wrap the surface-level cut, but you’re glad he wasn’t like the others who shrugged off the minor ones. It only took a little bit of the Blight to infect a person.

“Merci.” Arnaud says gruffly, tucking his hand to his side with a light grimace. You linger for a moment, then a smile breaks out. Not wanting to push your luck, you force it away and nod.

After him, it's the red-haired seaman that dragged you down from the gunfire. He’s a lot more chatty about the process, and as you make another eye-covering and wrap it around his well-kept hair, he asks how much you have left.

By now, you know you have one last roll of bandaging, and that means you’ll have to take the supplies from the shamblers.

“Not much. I’ll get by.”

There are more than enough corpses to take from, and Jean’s dagger is sharp enough to cut through coats… you should be fine.

You tell him to be careful about his shako getting in the way of the bandaging, and the man shrugs, then eagerly returns to the fray with his boarding axe. Seeing them be so nonchalant about battle was startling, but you’re cut from different cloth. Turning from the fighting, you look around at your options.

Some shamblers offer a better choice of supplies than others. You don’t touch the soldiers, but men who had on cloth tops that weren’t stained with their infected blood.

Taking the dagger out from your surgeon’s bag, you kneel beside a face-down shambler, and after a prod to its head, you wrangle the blade in a firm hand to shred through the top he wore.

Shears would’ve been preferred, but the scissors you have in your bag are not meant for cutting thicker clothes.

You didn’t want to risk the valuable surgeon’s kit on anything but the most dire injuries.

Another shambler’s clothes are repurposed, and you now have three new rolls of bandaging to use. A bit… sketchy, but you were very thorough in inspecting them for any blood. 

Satisfied with your work, you turn whilst kneeling to look for more. It won’t be long before someone screeches for aid, but now you’ll be prepared!

A heavy thud rattles the deck by your boots, and you confusedly look to your left; the hatch, no sign of any shamblers poking their head out.

A torch rolls beside you, the flames licking at your bent leg.

Confused, you flinch away from the flames that singe your breeches and then—a hiss.

You can hear the others shout and scream for you to move, but they saw the Bomber before you, and in their eagerness to take down each one, a red-haired man raises his blunderbuss to fire.

You try to throw yourself over the shambler you’d harvested, using its body as leverage for the handful of seconds you’re granted before the Bomber explodes.

It’s not enough, and as you cover your head with your arms, you hope that it won't hurt.

Smoke leaps from muskets, and the Bomber’s empty eyes turn to the noise.

The force of the explosion throws you to the ground painfully, and your head cracks, white light bursting behind your shut eyes.

The whine of your burst eardrums muffles all noise. You don’t know how long it takes for you to recover, but you can feel everything happening, all the while unresponsive.

Someone nearly throws themselves on top of you, though in the state of the ship it could’ve been a shambler taking a golden opportunity. Fear bursts behind your eyes, ice cold.

You don’t think it was, though, as you’re abruptly lifted up and carried elsewhere, your arms and legs limp from the crash of your head against the wooden deck.

They jostle you around in haste to get you wherever, further worsening your headache. You’ll kill the man that shot the Bomber, you think, then laugh internally at how similar it was to the game. Will this end if you die?

Cold, freezing water is thrown on you, and your body seizes painfully, a strangled noise fighting out from your throat as you wake up against the bannister. A man curses, the blur of his arm smacking the person who’d thrown water on you, then they quickly turn to fend off another shadow. 

When your ears cease ringing, unbridled French is the first thing you hear. It's not the best wake up call.

It arguably feels worse than the ringing—who the hell is shouting so loudly? You crack an eye open, and... that green, that's Arnaud! He's tearing into the seaman while gesturing to you lying prone on the ground, then at the smoking blunderbuss in his hand. 

The seaman’s horrified expression says it all; it was his shot that nearly killed you.

You groan.

"Just... just stop, for God's sake! I'm alive!" You cry, pressing your hands into your forehead. Oh, the migraine will kill you if these people don't!

Cursing, you struggle to your feet, water dripping from your soaked coat, hat, and pants.

The men have stopped arguing, but the fight around you continues. You lean heavily against the railing, the sea in the corner of your vision.

Shamblers hang on for purchase on anything, but they're jabbed with by bayonets and fall like leaves, splashing into the water.

"We'll kill each other after!" The seaman snarls, then shrugs Arnaud's hand from his coat to hack away at the bravest shambler of the bunch struggling against the barricades.

Arnaud pulls his hand back dramatically, lip curled, and he completely ignores your attempt to thank him, instead focusing on the shamblers.

He has a weird way of expressing himself... Oh well, you lament, with the little strength you still have.

Nothing to do now but pray that this will be over soon, and you'll wake up. Unfortunately, it seems that the dead corpses sprawled across the Constitution's deck are plentiful.

There's no time to hurl them overboard, and they provide as pseudo-caltrops to slow others down.

Lost in your thoughts, you're jostled by a man on your shoulder. You turn, wondering who's reaching out to you.

Hot, disgusting breath fans over your neck, and then a horrible sensation of pins and needles flares across your skin. You can't even scream before the shambler crawling from the side of the ship sinks it's teeth into your throat, it's weight hauling you back against the bannister.

Blunt teeth latch on, and you can feel the thing trying to pull away with your flesh in its mouth!

Finally, through the fear seizing your throat at the sudden attack, your scream for help rips out. You're still suffering from that awful headache.

The blackened blood splatters as you hit the shambler with your fists, holding its body against you, keeping it from tearing off whatever it can.

Again and again you slam your hands into its head, digging your nails into the flesh of its face and anything soft you can tear out. Your hands come back stained red and black, clotted blood heavy and wet. It snarls defiantly, and digs deeper.

You can see the rigging of the Constitution overhead, and the shadow you think is Crawford waving towards you. Furiously, you clench your fingers and crack them against the shamblers head—something rips, and the weight is gone, throwing you down to your buckled knees. Your knees and wrists jitter from the hit, nearly slipping from the puddle you didn't see a moment ago.

Fresh, red blood. Everywhere. You thought the black blood was bad, but this... the colour is so intense. You can almost see your own face staring back at you, the bandage over your forehead, the askew surgeon's bicorne, your dimming eyes...

You sway, and clutch a hand to your throat, weakly fighting against the weight of your own arm to use the coat to staunch the blood flow.

Finally, someone notices your state. The deck under your bloodied hands vibrates from the force of them crashing to their knees beside you, and your eyes flick to a man in dark blue and green.

A panicked Arnaud cuts in front of your blurring vision as he fumbles through your bag like a crazed man for the newly-collected supplies. You watch every step, the newfound carefulness he handles the needle and thread, keeping your focus off how much you really want to just lay down and sleep.

Arnaud pauses, eyes flicking to your arm. You're glad someone had come to help you, but does it really matter? A bite was infectious, and you haven't seen the French chaplain in some time. Who knows if he's even alive?

Regardless of being exposed to the blight, Arnaud nudges your arm from your neck, and it drops to your side weightlessly. Something pricks into your skin, but it feels almost like a gentle press instead of an invasive needle. He's risking a lot touching your blood. It feels like there's cotton wadded in your mouth, your tongue as thick as lead.

You lean back onto your legs, watching the brown-haired Frenchman talk as if you can understand him while suffering from blood loss. Whatever he's saying is the only thing you hear, and though you're a bit too out of it to figure out the words, you can hear the worry dripping from each word.

Arnaud doesn't waste time when wrapping your neck, looping it around tightly to staunch the blood flow. He moved fast at stitching you up! 

"Thank you..." Your voice is raspy, lips dry. The tang of iron is faint when you lick your lips, cringing at the taste. Arnaud looks up, surprise painted on his face. His reaction alarms you; how much blood had you really lost? What did the wound look like? He says something but you're a million kilometres away, closer to death than life.

You'd kill for another bucket of water by now. Just to wash off the blood coating your clothes and to cool off your feverish skin.

Again, you smile, then slowly turn your attention ahead. There are fewer men here, but no dead soldiers have been laid out. You hear swords cutting through flesh, the creak of the Constitution, cutting in and out like static. It's hard to focus on anything specific when the noises seem to evade you. It's like there's wool covering your ears, or a heavy blanket laid over your head. 

Arnaud calls for Lauren, the name altered by French phonetics. When Lauren appears from behind the barricade, his eyes widen to the size of saucers, running through the parted boxes and barrels with haste to join Arnaud on the deck beside you. He kneels, anxiously staring at the bandaging around your throat.

"What—what happened?!" Lauren stutters, hands hovering around, unsure of where to start. Arnaud explains, but you can only hear the whispers of his words. You swallow, squinting at him. The blood flecking his face was a fresh crimson, too bright to have been a shamblers. His brows furrow at your incessant staring. 

Is... is this weird heat that's beginning to itch your skin the Blight? You reach up slowly under the two Frenchman's worried expressions, and when you press your fingers into your cheek, the heat is borderline feverish.

Your face falls.

"I need the chaplain," you utter, squeezing your eyes shut and digging your nails into the wood planks. Whatever the Frenchman says, you cannot translate while the strange paranoia infests your senses. That whispering wasn't Arnaud, you realise, it was the blight. 

Panic washes over Lauren, and he turns without question, shouting for the black-robed man—pére, he calls. 

Your hands tingle, the headache you had been fending off steadily grows stronger, and something odd tingles in your thoughts.

Blood.

You can't stop thinking about it.

Fending off these thoughts is like wading through mud. It sucks you in deeper and deeper with every push against it, and slogs your senses until even your hands are burning underneath your skin. You flinch away from the sudden sensation of a person invading your space. 

Before you can, they lean away, and calmly talk to you through the haze clouding your thoughts. You hope its their chaplain with every fibre of your being; whether he cures or must mercy-kill you, it does not matter. At this point, you'd rather be dead that feeling this hot nausea.

"Laisse-moi vous faire une bénédiction."  Your neck snaps up, meeting the judgement-free expression the chaplain holds. 

The chaplain offers his hand to you, the silver chain that had been around his neck dangling from his fingers. Eyes wide, you grimace at his clothes soaking up the blood you'd spilled and mutter out some sort of response, acknowledging his presence. He reaches out, and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will away the hisses to swat his hand away.

You swallow as his hand firmly sets down on your shoulder, and only a moment after he does so, your thoughts cease. Like the eye of a hurricane, the pelting rain and lashing winds are calmed, dissipated.

Now you'd kill to lay down, but any sane person would recognise that if you did, you would die. 

Nausea wells in your chest from the blessing, as if the blight was trying to get away from the priest's blessing. It builds and builds; you know exactly why the flood of acid suddenly burns the inside of your mouth, and you push the priest's arm from you, stumbling to get your head over the bannister and vomit.

For a moment, you glimpsed the men's horrified expressions when you leapt to your feet, some swords drawn in haste, but the comforting pat on your shoulder that comes after you begin to hurl your brains out away from the living means they know you aren't turned.

As horrible as it is, you can feel the blight's effect slowly leave as it's physically purged, though you hang over the edge like a wet shirt on a clothesline for a bit longer. Thee water is calming to watch, but the bodies floating away in the deep as the Constitution flees Roscoff remind you of how close you were to being one of them.

The hand on your back pulls away, followed by the concerned voice of the French chaplain.

"Allez-vous bien?"  Tentatively, the chaplain steps away, and you grossly wipe the remains of... that from the corner of your lips. Lauren looks a shade paler than before, his lips pursed, and Arnaud's unsettled stare from over the chaplain's shoulder may be the most genuine emotion you've seen from the cannoneer. 

Obviously concerned for your health, the chaplain eyes scrawl your sickly deposition. Shivers wrack your body, the cold rain and being soaked for so long has chilled you to the bone. You shrug. What else is there to do for you? 

"...yes," You grimace, the disgusting aftertaste of acid and iron thick in your mouth.

After the blessing, you know the chaplain is helpless to your suffering. But he does offer a sympathetic look. He must've seen the worst of it, and all he can do is continue remaining faithful that there will be a day where he won't have to see this ever again.

And as nice as that sounds...

...you've been scratched by Runners, swarmed by shamblers, nearly blown to pieces by trigger-happy soldiers, and almost turned into a Viral.

You're starting to hate the idea of continuing through this personal hell. If one of them had actually killed you, at least you'd see the end of this. Whether that resulted being safe in your bed or a grisly end, you didn't know. You were inching towards not caring as much as a person should.

Lauren, who'd been hovering around you while you hurled your brains out, pats your back. The wavy-haired Frenchman looks positively thrilled you didn't turn, and his green eyes crinkle at the edges with his grin. At least he seems glad you aren't dead. Arnaud just looks shell-shocked.

"You are tough as nails." Lauren jokes, shooting an agreeable look at the distant, brown-haired soldier. 

Arnaud deflates with a heavy sigh, then mutters to himself. Lauren's brows shoot to his hairline, and he replies in too-fast french. You're getting nauseous again, and sway under the Constitution's rocking. There is still a fight happening, you shouldn't be so ignorant to the injured.

He seems very hopeful for someone who's seen the horrors of the blight so intensely.

"What are you plotting over here," someone mutters, and the group turn to the rather annoyed voice. The British officer steps past the barricade, his brows twisted together in a suspicious scowl.

You, covered in blood, vomit, and ash, quickly become the centre of attention when his eyes fall on you.

"What the hell happened?!" Lauren's hand grows a little more heavy on your shoulder, keeping you in place. You hope he knows that he's the only thing keeping you standing right now. It seems he does, as his grip tightens thanks to your unsteady, swaying feet. It doesn't help being stuck on a ship, but it's better than being condemned to Roscoff anymore.

"Our surgeon was attacked. They are fine. Just a bout of mal de mer."

For now. I feel like I'm gonna fall over. Your legs sway a little too much, but you correct yourself with a quick pinch to your side. The officer looks a tad bit disturbed, keeping his distance from you. You didn't want to be near him, anyways. Squeezing your fists, you speak.

"Am I needed?"

"Not in that state," he replies dryly, then eyes the French once more. You're a little offended at his rude refusal and frown, but it's a blessing in disguise.

"We have a use for your chaplain..." Instead, the officer turns to the holy man, silently requesting his name. Huh. He suddenly turns polite when its a chaplain. You hope he knows that favouritism only makes others hate him more.

"Charlebois." The chaplain supplies, arching bushy brow, and the officer's lips purse. He doesn't like being outnumbered in conversations. You're on the French's side, and silently watch him. If you speak, it would probably be a jumbled-up remark, or just more vomit.

"Father Charlebois," now aware of his name, the officer repeats himself, asking for aid. You watch the two leave quietly, and Arnaud mutters something to Lauren with an eye-roll.

"You do everything for them, and they demand more." Lauren complains, and that gets a laugh out of you. Stereotypes of the British were so easy to poke fun about. They did it to themselves, really.

Pleased by your reaction, Lauren pats your back once more.

"I should go see if anyone is hurt..." You trail off, absorbing the amount of people around. They let you go without a fight, and you can hear them jump into a conversation as you walk off.

Besides Lauren and Arnaud, the red-haired seaman lingers by the capstan, holding the blunderbuss that nearly blew you sky-high. His one visible eye meets yours, and you wonder what's so interesting about the body of the dead shamblers all over the ship's deck.

Exerting every effort to avoid your gaze, he struggles even more when you limp up to him. Instead, like a guilty dog, the man simply looks down, blunderbuss held informally across his chest.

"Are you injured?"

"Aye," he agrees, then continues, "—my pride. I shouldn't have fired. I’m sorry."

As much as you'd love to ream him out for it, the seaman was clearly apologetic. How do you even have the strength to look the person you nearly killed in the eyes and say you were sorry? Some people did that on purpose!

“I understand why you did. If it got any closer to the barricade, we might not be here.” You get a kick out of how quickly his face goes from utter disappointment to befuddlement. His nose wrinkles at you, and he arches the hidden brow; you can tell from his general expression, and the fact you've seen people do the over-exaggerated expression a thousand times.

Besides, if the Bomber had blown up the painstakingly-made barricades, there would be nothing else to repair them with. 

“You… how’re you not upset?” He narrows his blue eyes at you. You laugh.

“Oh, I am.” You had almost had your throat torn out because of being so disoriented from the explosion; not to mention your splitting headache getting even worse. Your inability to react resulted in a vicious attack.

But you didn’t want to get aggressive with the living when there was a greater foe. Plus, he looks like he could lay you flat with one smack.

Despite your earlier cravings to die, you didn't want to get flatlined by his right hook.

A bullet to the head would be so much easier…

…You keep that thought to yourself.

“Given our circumstances, I don’t think it's a good idea to argue.” 

Visibly relieved, the man’s sigh cuts through the rain and mist, and you two agree that it was not his intention to hurt you. Grateful for your understanding, the man offers to help find more supplies with you.

“No better chance before we condemn ‘em to the deep, eh?” He gestures to the many, many unmoving shamblers on the deck. You hum, still a little wobbly from the tumultuous last few attacks, but end up going along. Before he does anything, he offers a strong hand to you. You're a bit bloodied, but you shake his hand after a once-over.

“James Ansell.” He introduces himself, kneeling by a most agreeable shambler (a dead one), and you do the same, internally writing it down to not forget it.

You take Jean’s dagger out once more, cutting into the seams and allowing James to strip the fabric in somewhat neat lengths. James regales you with how he was a hunter back in the Hudson and was pretty educated on skinning animals. The comparison is… odd. But he's surprisingly good at it, so you let him use the dagger. When he hands you a few long strips, he directs his attention to a struggling shambler, reaching towards you both on broken legs.

He takes his axe and approaches, reeling his arm back and swinging it down with very little hesitation. Moments later, he brings you torn-off clothes by the armful, proclaiming their cleanliness and staking it on his honour. A part of his efforts is probably because the man feel's bad for his attempt on your life, so you entertain him with a smile.

With him doing most of the heavy-lifting, you manage to completely restore your bag with fresh bandages. Most of your things are jostled around from Arnaud going through it, so you fix that, too, all under the protection of the irregular soldier. 

“Thank you, Mr. Ansell.” You nod at him, a little more relaxed with a full pack. James returns it with a chuff, then busies himself lifting the dead and tossing the corpses overboard. The fighting has all but ceased, with the men across the ship's deck taking care of the leftovers of the turned crew.

That kind of work would be far too much for you in this state; you were surprised you could even stand. 

You look around again. There are some faces you haven’t seen in a little while, their absence explained by the absolute carnage on deck. Some soldiers have died as well.

The dead are slumped over each other, the turned American crew piled around the hatches. Mr. Crawford has yet to descend from the ropes, his hands white-knuckled from holding them. 

Crawford meets your gaze briefly, and you chuckle to yourself when the gruesome sight of your neck and clothes startles him. There was no time to rest, not with the leftovers of the search party limping about.

“It’s over. Get these vampires off our ship!” The men still alive—a mix of French, British and American—all agree, not quite with enthusiasm. And you can only hear so many, too. Nothing like the amount from before.

You’re feeling the bitterness of victory. The price everyone but you paid.

They were just being… human. Is that enough of a reason to be turned into something inhumane? 

Men haul bodies over the side, lifting the dead from the below-deck hatches. There’s chatter between the groups. The three British practically huddled together, the four French men silently watching as Roscoff’s skeletal docks faded into the fog and rain. The younger soldier is nowhere to be seen. Leaving them to their mourning, you rove over the dark-black coats of the Americans.

You see Theodore by the captain and Sergeant Cosgrove, heatedly conversing between each other.

Fitch is sluggishly walking back to the capstan, elbows down coated in dark blood, his axe dragged behind him. Leon looks no better, the smirk he usually sported long gone.

Peter has taken the reins of ordering the last of the marines about, then jumps into the work as well, hauling a body up and tossing it over.

There was little time for last rites, but the French chaplain does hover around the British, his weathered face showing clear signs of regret. There was only so much any of you could do.

You figure that the captain and Sergeant do not want to be bothered, and Peter is clearly busy. Arnaud and Lauren have moved, lifting a corpse over the edge, and the British taking a second of the prow to themselves. They seem eager to depart.

Fitch and Leon are quietly conversing at the barricade, and you pause… there’s someone missing.

Where did Edmund go?

The dead are numerous on deck as you search, unsure of where you may find him. There are some black coats among the dead, but you don't see the wrappings that you did around his neck.

He’d suffered the infection for so long that you were sure Edmund would turn, but the chaplain was clearly experienced in expelling the Blight. Edmund must have been cured back on land.

Picking through the corpses, you stop at the furthest-back section of the ship. Someone hunched against the back of the railing, too high for any of the dead to climb. You quietly walk over, reaching for your side.

"Edmund? Is that you?"

A quiet groan is the shadow's reply. You halt. The noise sounds far too familiar, and you've had enough close calls to know where this is going. Stepping back, your hand winds around the handle of your sabre. It might not even be Edmund.

Something brushes against your shoulder, and a black uniform sweeps past you.

You just about have a heart attack from the sudden reappearance of Theodore, no longer stuck to the officer's side. Hopeful, the man goes closer than you dared to, and you fight the urge to call him back.

"What's wrong, Edmund?"

Your heart leaps to your throat when Edmund responds.

"It was too loud over there," he explains in a tempered voice. Theodore's head tilts, his brown eyes finding yours worriedly. You shake your head, hand tightly holding your sabre's grip. Theodore's lips press together, looking back to Edmund's silhouette in the thickening mist.

Edmund has risen to his feet, but one of his arms braces against the ship's bannister. You look down at the planks underfoot, the shiny blood splattered everywhere, but no corpses. Theodore's concern for his friend overtakes any sort of survival instinct, and he moves to help. 

"The fighting is done. We're going straight home." Theodore insists, edging the line you refuse to cross. He moves closer, a hand held out. Your eyes flick from his bloodied skin to Edmund, who steps forwards.

Could the disease, if you could call the Blight a disease, resurge from a cured person? Did it make them more susceptible to a second contraction? Your thoughts run wild with ideas and theories, so you have a delayed reaction to the blur that darts out at Theodore.

The vicious attack is headed by screaming. Edmund wails with each lash of his hands, as if he's fighting against himself while trying to gouge his friends eyes out. You leap onto his back, wrangling your arms around his jerking torso and attempting to shove the semi-turned man off.

His elbow reels back, stained with blood, and it overtakes your entire vision before it smashes into your head. It cracks painfully against your temple, and you nearly collapse from the shock to your nerves, but you refuse to let go. 

"Edmund! Stop, stop!" Theodore howls, his hands latched to Edmund's bloodied wrists. Edmund's head shakes violently with a scream, and he redoubles his efforts to maul Theodore. You don't know if Edmund is there anymore, but you can't take any chances. You force yourself to pull despite the lethargy that clouds your eyes as Edmund struggles against you both. 

Drowning out the noises he makes is impossible. He flails, hitting your head once more, and another painful shriek echoes in your ears. Your arms loosen, stumbling back and clutching your throbbing head. You heave, and something falls from your bag: Jean's knife.

"Get him off!" Theodore screams, and you drag yourself back into the fight with the dagger in hand, ramming yourself into Edmund's hunched-over body and tumbling away from Theodore.

Edmund wrangles against you, nails dragging across your coat in the fall. They bore deep into your coat, tearing off brass buttons with vicious strength. You manage to overpower him, fighting against a demon in a dead man's body.

He hits the ground on his back, and you land atop the turned soldier.

With Jean's dagger held overhead, you bring the dagger down again and again through his reaching hands, until they fall limply on the planks, when his body doesn't writhe under yours. 

You stop, the dagger hovering over the terrible, bloody mess of Edmund's chest.

It clatters to the ground from your limp, shaking hands, shakily getting off and away from the infectuous corpse. Your hands are coated in its—his blood.

Edmund's face is left in a painful reminder of how fast the infection can take over a person. Tears still streak from his distant eyes.

A gag strangles you—your head sways towards Theodore, who's neck has hundreds of lines dragged painfully over his pale skin. Pained gasps echo over the ship's deck as you scramble to his side, meeting his terrified eyes.

He can't even speak from shock, and you know you only have a few precious moments to save him.

You cup your hands to your mouth and scream for Father Charlebois, begging for help.

It's nearly impossible to find your bandaging, and even harder to draw the courage to wrap it around the many, many incisions littering his chest, neck, and face.

There's so many you don't even know if you can stitch them.

Theodore chokes a gasp when your hand slides behind his neck to lift his head, and you hastily loop the bandaging around, gentle in every movement. 

"I'm sorry, I have to." You whisper, fighting through the pain in your head to cover his injuries. Theodore's eyes flick to your own wordlessly, and you can see the visible development of the Blight; his eyes are reddened from tears, yes, but the colour is wrong. Brighter.

Again, you call out, just as a person thunders through the mist. Officer Cosgrove bursts onto the scene, his gun trained on Edmund before he even recognises him.

After him, it's Fitch, and the sapper's exhaustion evaporates when Theodore's painful groans slip past you.

"What... Edmund?" Fitch's voice wavers as you turn back to Theodore. Your head swivels around to screech out for the chaplain again, but he's right there, just as disturbed as every other man.

Turning back down to Theodore, you wipe your shaky hands on your coat.

You reach out, sweeping a hand over Theodore's forehead, and the heat practically burns your freezing hand. He groans, eyes squeezing shut. 

The chaplain's hands hover by Theodore's head, flecked with dried blood. Nervously, you watch the chaplain do his best at expelling the blight.

Behind you, someone hangs over your shoulder, though you check to soothe the sudden thought of it being another shambler trying to rip your throat out.

Fitch looks on, paralyzed in place as Theodore's suffering is silently worked over by the chaplain's sorrowful expression, and the dull, silver necklace he clutches tightly.

The cuts you saw weren't deep enough to stitch, but the pain... it must be excruciating. 

"...will he survive?" Overhead, the officer's stern face stares on at the scene. Fitch hasn't looked away, either, looking near to tears.

You're still covered in the Viral's blood from elbow to hand, but minutes ago, that had been Edmund. When does it become virulent? Are you passing it on to anyone through their wounds, just from the blood?

You tell him the scratches weren't deep enough to kill him, but the blight might have passed the point of cleansing. His cold eyes flick to you, and he nods.

"We're clearing the ship out. Take him to the surgeon's office once it's deemed safe."

With some orders the marines who had been watching spur into action. You hear something loud from above in the Constitution's rigging, and... is that other men?

You squint, the shadows clinging to whatever they can waving jubilantly.

They're men who survived the infection by hiding up in her sails and ropes! You swallow; the idea of climbing up there unsettling your stomach.

Theodore has gone silent, but when you look at him laying on the deck, he seems to have beat out the infection. He pries his eyes open, wincing at every move to get to his feet.

Fitch helps him up, hauling the marine to his feet and squeezing his arm reassuringly.

"You... you look terrible," Fitch says, and you know he doesn't actually mean terrible, but Theodore's lip curls at the sapper. You intervene.

"We're glad you're okay, is what he meant to say." Theodore sends you an appreciative glance, and Fitch nods along.

It's been a while since you've gone anywhere below deck; you aren't eager to see the slaughter down there.

It was impossible to expect all of the shamblers were dead. Some might have been men who hid while infected, and then turned later on. 

Theodore casts a long look at Edmund, who had been covered by the thick cotton of a hammock.

Regret wells in your chest at his death, having known he was infected for so long and split off from the group during the final attack.

You linger on his cloaked figure for a bit longer, then look at the clawed marine... Maybe Fitch was onto something.

It seems the inside hasn't been cleared out yet, so you decide to start some small talk to keep their minds off of Edmund's death.

"Some of the sailors survived," you point upward, to the men clambering down the ropes expertly.

Crawford's face holds a shred of jealously as they land on the deck, congratulating the marines for a job well done.

At least it will be easier sailing now, though you aren't sure of the real number of lost men. Fitch's eyebrows knit together.

"They sure were quiet when we got here." He mutters. You hum in agreement, looking to Theodore.

He seems uninterested in talking, his hand patting the dressing you wrapped over his throat. You'll fix them later, and the bandages might have to be burned thanks to the blood.

Or would it be cleansed by default? It was pretty vague how the disease passes beyond biting and scratching.

…And throwing up. You shiver, thankful that had not happened to anyone.

"I would be, too. Who knows what they saw happening down there." Quietly, you lean back on your heels. The mist had returned in full-force, and through the officer calling orders, you hope they can evade the British and let the three here be transferred to their own ships. You liked the one guy. He seemed nice.

A head pops out from the nearest hatch—you react first, jumping away from the one-eyed seaman. 

"Christ," the seaman complains, and after you catch your breath, you glare at him.

"Don't forget what just came from those hatches." You snap as James craws out from the hatch, his axe dripping with black blood.

He must've gone down there to clear the rest out, and from the disgusted curl to his lip, it must be bad.

"Surgeon's quarters are a mess... and Mr. Trenk's gone. Found 'm." James recounts, and you purse your lips.

That Mr. Trenk must've been the actual surgeon, and you were apparently his protégé, so that meant you were the last surgeon on the USS Constitution.

Yikes.

"...let's just get you in." Deflecting the three men's stares, you gesture to the open hatch.

One by one they file in, with James creeping down first and you second, cutting in front of the other two before they could volunteer.

The inside is a tragedy. There is blood everywhere. Slick and wet, the walls are coated in a sickening fresh paint, mottled with pieces of flesh and hastily-fired shots scarring her wooden walls forever.

Bodies have been slumped to the side of the ship's narrow central hallway, having fallen from the hatch after being killed.

There were more here, but they were dragged to the side judging from the lines of blood that lead away from the ladder.

The trend continues further inside.

Laid across the floor to be thrown into the sea is almost every man who had been on the ship.

Most wear the same variations of clothes; breeches, loose tops, some striped... despite the monotony of their dress and the fact you knew nothing about them, you feel awful.

They were people, working for their families, or forced into labour here. 

You trudge behind James, hoping that they're at peace. 

The surgeon's quarters are small, barely taking up the size of a bedroom. There's the main table for operating, shelves cluttered with tools and bandages, jars full of... stuff, and a few small cots shoved to the side.

James gestures to a splatter of blood along the door, and you eye it suspiciously.

"Good thing I was here first. He was nothin' like before, all teeth and nails." James utters, and you nod. Theodore and Fitch come in not long after you two, walking in just as tiredly as you did. 

James has no injuries, nor does he seem eager to be checked out. He flees at the first chance he gets, and you simply don't have enough energy to chase.

Not when you have a mauled marine and sapper who thinks sitting still is a death sentence.

You sigh, and instead of keeping your extremely bloodied coat on, you work at the buttons to remove it.

Your white undershirt's condition is arguably the same, but you just wanted the water-soaked coat off. Fitch had already shrugged his own off, leaving it on the wide table in the centre of the room.

Theodore's lethargic movements have you moving to help him get the coat off his shoulders without agitating the scratches. Wordlessly, Theodore lets you, head slumped a bit forwards.

"No-one got out unscathed," you remark to fill the silence. Fitch agrees with a huff, appraising the many nicks and cuts along his arms.

Laying Theodore's coat out on the table, you return to the marine with your kit.

He manages to get his undershirt off himself, the collar of the white cloth stained red as well.

Careful to not touch the bloodied bandages, you re-appraise the scratches in the calmer environment. He's leaner than Fitch, with significantly less scars.

When you deem them safe to wash, you drag over a small bucket with water in it.

As if planned for this, there's a washcloth as well. You wring out most of the water, then pass it to Theodore.

He tentatively washes off the blood from his skin, finally allowing you the best view of his injuries as the blood is wiped away.

Layers of red indents cut into Theodore's skin from his collarbone up to his jawline. Each twist of his neck must be painful, but you conclude nothing important was cut.

It seriously looked like it would be worse, but you're grateful nonetheless.

Edmund had been wearing gloves, which had slowed down his efforts as a Viral. There was also the black strip of leather around most of the marine's necks that acted like a barrier, too.

Said article is torn to pieces, obviously, but you're grateful it was there. It's somewhere by his coat, stuck to the bloodied wool.

You lean in to get a closer look at one deeper gouge, but it's nothing you're too concerned about. It's shallow enough to not need stitches, but it'll certainly scar. 

"No stitches needed." You conclude, and Theodore lets out a heavy breath. Turning around, you pluck the destroyed neck-stock from his coat, and hold it at Theodore's eye level.

Theodore's brown eyes scrawl the leather sadly. The name of this object finally comes to you.

"Your neck-stock saved your life," holding the ripped-apart leather accessory, you grimace at the nail indents from Edmund's viral.

Theodore slouches, no longer constrained by the thing. Wearing it had to be uncomfortable. You set it aside on the operating table.

Fitch mutters something, which draws his friend's attention almost immediately. They dive headfirst into bickering as you search the upper cupboards for bandages.

There's a lot of clutter, but a spot has been cleared for two books.

One is open, and you see a list of names and injuries. Curious, you look a little closer at the sparkle of metal on the yellow pages.

In between the book's crease is a necklace, with a small, circular pendant attached to the chain. You note to investigate it later, and return to searching for bandages.

Kneeling, you dig through a lower cupboard.

"Not a scratch, eh? Must be nice." Fitch complains, citing his double-dipping of stitching. Theodore's deep offense to this has him reply with an audible scoff.

"Many scratches." Emphasising, you hear the two descend into bickering. How they can do this after such horrible things have happened—you don't know.

You let them go on for a bit longer, their arguing nothing but white noise as you give yourself a moment to mentally rest.

Standing upright too quickly might send you to the ground.

You eventually find them, and drowning out the men's playful argument, you offer the roll to Theodore. 

"Oh. Thank you." He takes it, and you set your eyes on Fitch. Like any other time you've treated him, he's hesitant.

You'll give him a little leeway as there aren't any shamblers around ready to jump on you, but you still want to make sure the stitches are okay.

"Did they pop again, Fitch?" 

"Not one," well, at least this time he sounds truthful. You give him the benefit of the doubt and believe him.

"Good." You point to Theodore, who was slowly looping the bandages around his lower neck and chest. He stops, confused at your sudden gesture.

"You're staying here overnight." Sweeping to Fitch, you can see his entire upper body tense.

"It's up to you. I'm too tired to argue, and I have to fill out that stupid ledger." You grumble, the open book on the counter where jars of medicine are lined up.

Some have been smashed, much to your chagrin.

Leaving them to their own devices, you return to the book.

Now at the side-counter, you can look at the necklace. A piece of paper is laid under the pendant, and you carefully unfold it to read the writing. It's... your name, with a citation for wearing something not a part of your uniform.

Signed by the same signature beside each injury treated.

As the two use their bandages up, you take the necklace in your hand. It's cold to the touch, and your warmth eventually thaws the metal's frigid temperature.

If it was yours, you aren't letting it out of your sight; who knows how expensive this was! Stubbornly, the latch keeping it closed won't open.

You return to reading the books information, and you quickly gather what you'll need to do. Name, injury, cause, time, and signature.

It won't take long to write it all out, but whether or not they believe your words is up in the air.

Especially with the main surgeon now dead. At least the entire group experienced the event, so you wouldn't be alone, but still...

Your shoulders droop. It would've been nice to have someone help you with all this, but c'est la vie.

"...sorry about Mr. Trenk. He never said anything bad about you." Theodore consoles, and Fitch curiously looks up from the teeny cuts along his arms.

You look back at them, sympathy clear on either of their faces. They still had their officer, but you were more or less fending for yourself now.

You aren't sure what to say beyond a little nod acknowledging their words, and you return to the book. What did he even look like? Thanks to James, his body was already gone.

You don't respond, still discerning the scrawl of the surgeon's writing.

The room grows quiet, and you carefully read the last few things he put in the book. Fitch stands up, testing whether or not he can twist his body.

He cannot, judging from the hiss of pain you catch, but before you can nag him, a word you know well pops up onto the page.

Right at the bottom of the ledger, Mr. Trenk signed off on treating a leg injury. However, there's a note to the side.

—bite.

"Bite?" You read aloud, and Fitch leans over your shoulder, his arm bandaged around his bicep. The sapper mirrors your surprise, and frowns at the book, trying to force out an answer from the yellowed pages.

He's standing a bit too close for your comfort, especially for someone who was uncomfortable about that kind of thing. But the two of you are pretty much stuck looking at the last report from Mr. Trenk. 

"...never-mind. It's over now." Tiredly, you leave the book alone and look at the small cots longingly. They look awfully uncomfortable, but you don't care anymore. Your head is killing you, your entire body hurts, your neck is absolutely going to need more stitches... Fitch's concerned expression certainly has ground when you realise you're leaning onto the table to stay upright.

Pinching your brow, you rub your eyes from the fatigue and look at your clothes. They'll need to be burned for a handful of reasons.

You can't sleep in a bloodied shirt, but those two haven't looked away since you gave up on writing in the book. Pursing your lips, you can see an extra shirt inside of an open wooden chest by the other cot—you assume its yours. With Mr. Trenk dead, it might as well be.

"Do you two mind?" As politely as you can, you snare them both with a pointed stare. Fitch pivots on his heel, but Theodore shoots you a scoff, opening his mouth to say something stupid, you're sure.

"What? You've seen half the men here without—" 

"That does not mean I want to be observed in such a way." You huff and turn around, snagging the clean shirt and trying to wriggle out of the bloodied one. You keep your back stoutly facing the stupid-mouthed marine who was lucky you weren't a vindictive person right now. 

You grit your teeth to silence a painful grunt when you try to shrug your bitten-shoulders side, and slouch the entire side of your body to wrangle the shirt off.

"I can help—"

"You will not." Clutching the bloodied shirt close, you finally get the damned thing off. Without wasting a breath, you take the fresh one and slip it over your head, pulling it down and dropping onto your cot. Theodore has his hand held out—clearly frozen after your very firm no. 

Fitch looks disapprovingly at Theodore, who has a mix between confusion and offence. He shakes his head for good measure, and the marine nearly jumps onto the sapper to strangle him.

"Alright, alright!" Fitch waves him off, rolling his grey eyes at Theodore. They seem very comfortable threatening physical harm at each other. It's kind of nice to see that people still acted this childish behind closed doors. It helps ease that irritation from your chest, though your shoulder still throbs painfully.

You can't even think with this headache. The necklace was still in your tight grip—hopefully it doesn't get stolen while you sleep, but you doubt either of these two would do something like that.

"The other cot is yours." You manage a few seconds of eye-contact with Theodore before you let go, collapsing onto the bed. You see a hint of concern flash in his brown eyes, but you don't pay it any mind. You're more interested in going to sleep.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Theodore asks, and when you blink at the ceiling, he's looming over the bed, a wrinkle between his brows. You squint. You might have a concussion, or maybe its just the fact you lost a lot of blood from the bite on your throat. Do they plan on just lingering around without a shirt on, or...?

"If you're worried... wake me up every so often." You yawn, and Fitch offers to stay and watch the both of you. It's obvious you two have the worst injuries of the entire group, and not one of the sailors had come to find your office.

It was safe to assume you could finally take a rest, however long it would be until someone needs your help.

Theodore doesn't seem convinced, but it's the best deal he'll get out of either of you.

"Go on, Theo. I'll wake you both up." Fitch reassures, and you hear the confidence in his voice. Even though the sapper had done the work of three men today, he remained far more alert than either of you.

Theodore grumbles something you don't catch.

With that finalized, you shut your eyes. You never want to have this dream again.

Winding your fingers around the silver chain, you let the incessant creaking off the Constitution lull you to sleep, content that you had at least done a good job.

Arnaud was alive, the British were about to get kicked off, and the Americans rescued that bumpkin of a diplomat. You regret the ones who died the most.

The young French soldier. He was aggressive with you, but that didn't mean he deserved to die.

As you drift off to sleep, someone jostles your shoulder. It's exactly like before, but you know what'll happen when you open your eyes, so you refuse.

As if you'll risk another hit on the head again.

Sinking into the comfortable bed, you drag the blanket thrown over you closer, and drift off. 

Your eyes fly open. Blanket? There wasn't a blanket on the cot—just the lumpy mattress. Opening your eyes, your heart almost leaps out of your chest.

The familiar colours and design of your room hits you like a truck. The feeling of being back in your own skin, in your wonderful bed that draws you back in like a moth to a flame.

Your neck still hurts, but you figure it's just the phantom-pain from the bite.

It's late into the night, and you know tomorrow will be even worse if you stay up longer trying to understand what you had just dreamed about.

I'll deal with it after, you conclude while burying your face in the still warm pillow and blankets.

Hopefully that was just a weird lucid-dream induced by a slight game addiction. And hopefully, it never happens again.

Notes:

Last edit - 17/03/2026

Basic grammar, spacing, re-wording.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of (my) guts and blackpowder