7 Watching and Learning #7

Roused from the grip of a haunting nightmare, I found myself drenched in cold sweat, my heart pounding against the walls of my chest. "Not again..." I muttered the images of the recent massacre still looming large in my mind.

It was a scene I couldn't shake—the clash between Marines and pirates, the chaos and carnage seared into my memory like a brand.

As I sat up, my thoughts weighed heavy with the burden of that fateful day. The sight of lives cut short, the echo of gunfire, the scent of blood mingling with the salt of the sea—it all flooded back with a visceral intensity.

I knew death intimately, both as a witness and participant after years of service in the military, yet the feeling of helplessness in the face of unchecked violence gnawed at my soul, bringing back unpleasant memories.

In my previous life, I had faced similar horrors during my time in the army, forced to abide by orders that condemned innocents to their fate. The memory of being confined to a shelter while lives hung in the balance haunted me still to this day. 

Lost in my own thoughts, I was jolted back to reality by the arrival of the quartermaster. "Up and at 'em, lad," he grunted, tossing me a meager ration of bread. "Time to make the rounds." His command was clear, leaving no room for argument as he turned on his heel, expecting me to follow suit.

With a weary sigh, I nibbled on the hunk of bread and dragged myself out of the makeshift bed. Three days had passed since the bloody clash between pirates and Marines, altering the rhythm of my days aboard the ship.

My mornings now began with a reluctant trudge alongside Old Barn, our footsteps echoing against the creaking planks of the ship. As we meandered through the labyrinth of corridors and decks, I observed the pirates with a newfound scrutiny, dissecting their every gesture and exchange.

It was an education of sorts, as Old Barn drilled me on the subtleties of pirate behavior—when to approach, when to avoid, and when to keep my distance.

With each passing day, I found myself sinking deeper into this strange world, my routine becoming a blend of observation and learning all manner of unsavory things. Once our rounds were complete, Old Barn would retreat to a secluded spot, imparting his sly wisdom upon me like a sage of the seas.

Yet in our daily routine, a sense of unease lingered in the back of my mind. Was this really the path I was meant to take? I couldn't help but wonder what my teacher would think of the person I had become—a pirate's lackey, a far cry from the man I once was.

Lost in contemplation, I snapped back to reality as I noticed our footsteps veering off the usual route, Old Barn leading the way with a purposeful stride.

Standing alongside Old Barn, I raised an eyebrow at the sight of the storage room door. "What's this about, old timer?" I inquired, my curiosity piqued.

Without turning to face me, Old Barn unlocked the door with a flick of his wrist. "Change of plans, lad. Willington's not happy with the stalemate, especially since the three men we lost against the marines were his own," he explained, motioning for me to follow him inside.

As we stepped into the dimly lit room, Old Barn continued, his voice low and urgent. "He'll be looking to settle the score and even the scales soon, but we can't afford to wait for his move. We need to take control of the situation if we're going to survive," he said, halting before a crate brimming with weapons.

His gaze fixed on me, Old Barn gestured toward the array of pistols and rifles nestled within the crate. "Can you shoot?" he asked, his tone expectant.

I hesitated for a moment before admitting, "I'm not sure..." I confessed, rubbing the back of my neck awkwardly.

Old Barn's expression soured at my response. "What do you mean you're not sure? Either you know how to shoot or you don't," he chided, folding his arms across his chest.

"Well, it's not that I'm completely clueless, but I've only ever used a different type of fire arm," I explained, hoping he would understand.

His brow furrowing, Old Barn attempted to decipher my words. "Different type? Ah, those revolver pistols from South Blue, perhaps?" he guessed.

I simply shrugged without bothering to correct him. After all, I couldn't explain that I'm used to shooting an advanced form of weapons that happened to be from a completely different world, could I?

"Well, pick whatever ya find suitable, give it a shot, and we'll see what you're made of," Old Barn remarked with a satisfied nod, a hint of amusement in his tone.

'Give it a shot? Is this old man cracking jokes now?' I thought to myself, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Nevertheless, I complied with his request, selecting a pair of pistols and a rifle from the crate.

Moments later, I found myself on the upper deck, standing at the starboard side of the ship. Across from me, perched on the port side railings, sat an empty bottle of rum, positioned as my target.

"Try shooting the bottle, lad. Let's see what ya can do," Old Barn instructed, motioning toward the distant target.

I shot him a sidelong glare, incredulous at the challenge he'd set before me. Shooting a target that far away with unfamiliar firearms was no small feat. The gap between the ship's railings might have seemed insignificant on a standard vessel, but atop a massive Marine galleon, it was a formidable distance to bridge. At least 15 meters separated the two sides of the ship.

'Is he trying to make a fool out of me?' I wondered, sensing the eyes of the gathered pirates upon me. They had undoubtedly gathered for the spectacle, intrigued by the sight of me emerging with Old Barn and a rifle in hand.

In a sudden revelation, it struck me like a cannonball. 'Is this another one of the old man's tricks? Trying to make me appear incompetent so the pirates would be even less careful of me?' I pondered.

If that was his game, then I'd put on a performance so laughably bad that it would be seared into the minds of those blasted pirates for ages. Yet, I couldn't afford to squander this opportunity to acquaint myself with these weapons. Given my frail form, they might be my only lifeline in the days ahead.

"Alright," I replied, raising the rifle to a shooting stance and squinting down its iron sights. 'This piece of junk can't be as precise as a modern firearm, so I'll aim for the bottle's neck and see how it goes...' I reasoned, my finger hovering over the trigger.

I anticipated missing, but that was fine. I only needed to understand the projectile's trajectory for future attempts-- how much it deviated from my aim, how often, and in which way, that sort of thing.

With a steady hand, I squeezed the trigger, the deafening roar of gunpowder thundering through the air as the bullet soared. Simultaneously the unmistakable crash of glass filled the space, and I stared in disbelief as the bottle's neck cleanly separated, leaving the rest intact.

My eyes widened in shock. 'How in hell is this thing so accurate?' I fumed internally, resisting the urge to hurl the rifle on the deck and stomp on it with both feet in frustration.

The reaction to my shot rippled through the gathered pirates like a sudden gust on the open sea.

Marcus, the same guy who gave me a knife and had me kill that Marine Soldier, wasted no time in voicing his skepticism. "That's a blasted lucky shot, and we all know it!" he declared, his voice carrying across the deck. "Let the whelp try again, and we'll see just how lucky he can get!" His contemptuous gaze locked onto me, his doubt palpable.

Even Old Barn, usually unflappable, seemed taken aback, though he swiftly regained his composure with a clearing of his throat. "Quite the shot, lad," he acknowledged, though his eyes held a silent plea. "But it seems some of our friends here need a bit more convincing. Why not give it another go and prove them wrong?"

I caught the subtle message in his gaze: 'Miss, or all my plans will go to shit....!'

Sheepishly, I chuckled at the unspoken understanding. 'Well, Marcus might be an asshole but he just saved me a lot of trouble,' I mused inwardly, masking my thoughts. 'When the time comes I'll make his death painless at least... well, maybe just a bit painful...'

"I hate to disappoint, but I'm no sharpshooter," I confessed with a shrug. "Though, I'll give it another shot if that's what you want."

With that, I raised the rifle once more, aiming at the railing this time. As I squeezed the trigger, the bullet found its mark again, hitting with uncanny precision.

The pirates' interest waned instantly. "So it was just luck after all," one muttered, echoing Marcus's sentiment.

"Of course it was luck! Just look at the whelp-- he can barely hold the rifle straight!" Marcus said with a scoff, turning around and leaving contently as if he'd just achieved something remarkable.

Well, he wasn't wrong since the rifle was indeed heavy and recoil was a bit too much for this feeble body, but I really can't stand this guy. 'Change of plans, his death will still have to be very painful, after all...'

As the crowd dispersed, I continued aiming at everything that wasn't the intended target and always hitting the mark, much to my surprise. 'As expected of the world of One Piece I guess... almost nothing makes sense...'

...

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