Meighen Island – Shoreline & HMS ResoluteLate Evening – Act IV, Scene I Continuation
The forest belched smoke like a wounded beast, thick and black and laced with the bitter stench of oil, gunpowder, and burning moss.
Cracks of gunfire snapped like dry twigs in the mist, followed by screaming—short, sharp, cut-off. Then came the shadows.
The first fireteam broke from the treeline not in formation, but in pieces.
They didn't move like soldiers.They moved like survivors.
Faces smeared in blood and soot.Coats torn by barbed vine and broken glass.One man clutched the side of his face, fingers buried in a wound that refused to clot.Another limped on one leg, the other bound in a belt soaked through and dripping.
A boot was missing.A rifle lost.A helmet caved in.
Behind them, two more marines dragged a stretcher over the uneven moss, its occupant howling—his thigh impaled with slivers of glass that pulsed blood with every bounce.
The men weren't shouting orders.
They were screaming in confusion.
Their eyes scanned the trees behind them as if expecting the very forest to leap forward and consume them.
They weren't retreating.
They were fleeing.
"Keep moving!" Sergeant Harte bellowed, his voice ragged from smoke. "Back to the line! FORM UP, NOW!"
He grabbed the closest private—barely more than a boy—and threw him toward the sandbags being hastily manned.
More marines poured out behind them—some limping, others dragging wounded, some simply staggering, staring at nothing, weapons hanging loose.
One tried to speak.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
The moss underfoot had changed color—tinged darker now, as if bleeding from the forest's breath.
Behind them, the fog thinned for just a moment, parting like curtains before a cruel performance.
That's when they saw it.
A flash of orange light and rippling fire from the cliffs above—high and wide. A plume of black smoke coiled into the sky like a serpent unfurling.
A cannon blast.
Aboard the HMS Resolute
Commodore Redgrave lowered his spyglass just as the smoke curled across the treeline.
The ground below the cliff shuddered, tossing rocks and loose gravel down the slope.
From the bridge, it looked like a full artillery emplacement had just opened fire.
He turned sharply, coat snapping at the collarbone.
"Christ…" he muttered.
Then louder, urgent:
"Signal from the shore! What's happening down there?"
A sailor scrambled across the deck toward the bridge, hands fumbling at the sidearm on his belt.
"Sir! Receiving panicked Morse—short bursts—'ambush,' 'enemy above,' 'multiple dead'—unclear!"
Another signal flare hissed up from the beach—red.
Emergency.
Redgrave turned to the artillery captain without hesitation.
His voice was steel.
"Guns! Starboard broadside ready—target upper ridgeline and fire on my command!"
The gun crews moved at once—clamps released, bolts checked, wheels aligned. Twelve-pounder cannons were cranked toward the cliff face. Gunpowder was poured. Shells were rammed home.
"Sir, confirmation?" the gunnery officer asked. "There are men still in those trees—"
"Fire. Now."
The Resolute recoiled as three forward cannons loosed in a staggered boom, flames licking from the muzzles. The shells screamed through the air, arcing toward the ridge where the smoke rose.
One struck low, kicking up dirt and mist.
The second hit just shy of the cliff face, exploding in a burst of light and moss and blackened branches.
The third—
It hit something.
The blast wave rolled across the treeline.
The forest screamed.
Or maybe it was something else.
Redgrave clenched his jaw.
"Reload."
The cannons clanked open, and the fire raged on.
This wasn't recon anymore, this was war. And then the cannons answered.
The Resolute roared across the sea, its first shell tearing into the treeline with a thunderclap that made the very cliffs shudder. Rock cracked. Earth lifted. Moss caught fire.
The Vanguard joined in seconds later, as if in reflex or vengeance, loosing a full volley that arced over the shoreline like burning angels. Iron screamed through the air, crashing into the canopy with the force of heaven's judgment.
The forest didn't burn quietly.
It howled—trees splintering like bones, branches wrenched into flame, the top of the ridge swallowed in smoke.
On the beach, soldiers ducked low behind crates and half-finished sandbags, eyes wide, unsure if they were witnessing salvation or the beginning of something worse.
No one knew what they were firing at.
But the message was clear:
The Empire was awake.
And it was angry.
Beneath the waves, Cain heard the world shatter.
It rolled through the water like a drumbeat in his chest—distant, muted, but unmistakable.
He'd already slipped beneath the surface, mask tight against his face, limbs slicing through the cold like white knives. His breath was slow. His heart was slower. He did not panic.
He moved like a creature born of the ocean's silence.
The war above him was not his concern—not yet.
The hull of the Vanguard rose above, blackened with age and groaning under its own weight.
Cain surfaced beneath the rear cargo ramp, unseen.
He climbed.
One hand.
One foot.
Quiet.
Deliberate.
Predatory.
Inside the lower corridor, there was a calm that felt like denial.
A few crewmen passed—tense, but focused. Unaware.
They spoke in hushed voices:
"Orders to prep shell room—hold fire until Redgrave confirms.""Did you see the ridge go up?""If those trees are screaming, I don't want to know what's in 'em."
Cain moved behind them like a phantom slipping between heartbeats.
The first died to a blade across the throat, yanked into a maintenance closet so smoothly the man didn't even have time to drop his wrench.
The second—a young runner with a satchel of orders—got three steps before Cain caught him by the collar and snapped his neck sideways, dropping him into a supply shelf like a pile of rope.
Cain didn't slow.
He reached the armory deck, bolted the doors behind him with scavenged wrenches and rifle brackets, jamming them in place.
If he moved fast enough, no one would be able to reach the cannons in time.
He could fire one.
Just one.
Maybe crash the ship again.
Maybe make another offering.
But then—the ship shook.
A fresh shell fired above.
The Vanguard's own forward cannon.
Cain paused mid-step.
Another.
Then another.
He could feel the recoil in his ribs.
They were already firing.
He was too late.
He sprinted up the narrow stairwell toward the gun deck.
A door opened mid-corridor.
A marine stepped through, mouth already opening to bark a command—then froze.
"What in God's—"
Cain moved.
He crossed the space in a blur, slamming his shoulder into the man's gut, then ramming his glaive upward under the ribcage, twisting it with surgical precision.
The marine crumpled.
But he'd screamed.
And it was enough.
"CONTACT! LOWER DECK! CONTACT—"
Boots thundered from every corridor.
Shouts. Orders. Rifles raised.
The air filled with footsteps and steel.
Cain ducked behind crates—then exploded forward.
He moved like a storm in a steel coffin.
One marine raised a rifle—Cain knocked it aside with his shoulder, drew a knife from his hip, and buried it in the man's throat.
Another fired—the bullet clipped Cain's shoulder, spinning him.
He recovered instantly, grabbed the rifle, and used it like a club—breaking the man's jaw with a swing that cracked bone on impact.
The third tackled him, slamming him into a bulkhead—Cain grinned beneath the mask, let it happen, then smashed his forehead forward, driving the skull mask into the marine's face, breaking his nose with a crunch.
He could feel the ship coming alive beneath him.
Sirens blared.
Lamps flickered.
More men were coming.
The polished brass floors were now streaked with blood.
Cain ducked into the boiler room just as another squad turned the corner, rifles ready.
Steam hit him first—boiling, thick, blinding.
He staggered once, breathing hard.
He looked down at his left hand.
Blood.
His.
Not much.
But enough.
Enough to mean something.
He reached for the wall, steadied himself.
They were fighting back.
They were fast.
They weren't afraid enough yet.
He liked it.
But it meant the next move had to be bold.
Unrelenting.
Holy.
He gripped the glaive in both hands and whispered to the furnace.
"Burn with me."
The boiler room screamed.
Not with voices—but with steel, with fire, with pressure.
Pipes twisted violently along the walls like veins under glass. One burst above Cain's head, showering the air in a spray of scalding steam that hissed as it touched his armor. Another valve erupted in a violent burst, flinging brass bolts across the room like shrapnel.
Cain crouched low behind the furnace shielding, his shoulder heaving, his mouth open inside the skull mask—dragging in breath through smoke and heat.
His hand burned—flesh peeled and bubbling from gripping metal too long.His shoulder throbbed—punched by shrapnel earlier in the corridor.His ribs ground against each other with every movement.His vision swam, but his eyes—his eyes were still sharp. Focused. Alive.
Ahead of him, the great furnace yawned wide.
Flames bloomed out of the gaping door like a deity exhaling—bright, hungry, alive. The fire had eaten through its limiters. Now it wanted more.
Cain stood slowly.
His knees buckled—he ignored it.
He reached across the scorched panel and grabbed the pressure release chain.
With a sharp yank, the mechanism snapped loose.
Alarms howled.
High-pitched whistles shrieked up into the decks above, bouncing off walls, alerting gunnery crews and officers.
"ENGINE ROOM BREACH—!"
"SECURE PRESSURE—SECURE—!"
Boots began thundering on the deck above.
Too late.
Cain turned, grabbed a nearby oil can, its contents sloshing thick and black inside.
He bit the cap free, spat it onto the floor, and hurled the oil into the furnace.
For a second, there was no reaction.
Then the flames surged forward.
The furnace roared.
The fire wasn't orange anymore. It turned white, then blue, then blinding. The heat wave that rolled out hit Cain like a wall. The iron plating nearby curled, warped by the raw temperature, edges glowing red like a brand.
Steam lines snapped above him with deafening cracks.
Up above, two decks higher, men screamed as the lights blinked out—blown fuses from the heat overload. The ship groaned—really groaned—as the hull began to expand and warp with the rising pressure in its veins.
Cain moved.
He bolted to the access ladder.
One deck.
His fingers slipped—burnt flesh leaving skin on the rungs.
Another deck.
His breath tore in and out. He coughed blood into the mask, spat it onto the metal, and kept going.
The air grew clearer as he rose—but so did the shouting.
He burst into the gun deck at full sprint, boots hitting steel with a clang that echoed like a thundercrack.
Two marines turned.
One aimed.
Too slow.
Cain's hand snapped the glaive from its back sheath and let it spin—a blur of metal and heat.
The weapon hummed in the air like a prayer.
It hit the man center mass, piercing the breastplate, nailing him to the wall with a wet crunch.
The man tried to scream.
All that came out was blood.
The other raised his rifle—panicked.
Fired. Missed.
Cain didn't.
He crossed the distance in two strides, grabbed the man by the throat, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the floor with a force that cracked bone through uniform and armor.
He didn't scream either.
Only convulsed once.
Cain wrenched his glaive free and moved.
The hall behind him pulsed red with flickering flame.
The bridge was empty.
Smoke oozed from the vents and cracks like breath from a sleeping beast.
Cain stepped inside.
Broken glass crunched underfoot. The lanterns had gone out—shattered. The controls glowed from the light of the fire, casting long shadows that danced along the wheel and throttle like spirits waiting for a verdict.
The helm wheel stood untouched.
Polished brass, half-lit by fire and blood.
He reached for it with a trembling hand.
Gripped it.
Spun it.
Hard.
The rudder groaned beneath him, deep in the bones of the ship.
Then the dizziness hit.
His vision lurched.
The room tilted sideways.
Too much blood. Too much heat. Too much.
He dropped to one knee.
One hand splayed against the helm, the other wrapped around the throttle lever.
His breath rasped inside the mask.
His heart beat once.Then again.
Steady.
He pushed the lever forward—all the way.
The boiler screamed in answer.
And the HMS Vanguard surged forward—aimed at the shore like a spear pulled from God's chest.
From the sea, the Resolute watched in horror.
The sky had turned the color of bruised ash. The smoke from the island drifted wide now, mixing with the sea mist, forming a curtain of gray. Only when the wind shifted did the lookout see it—
"SHE'S MOVING AGAIN!"
Voices called up from the lower decks.
"Starboard! The Vanguard's underway!"
"Helm's unmanned—who's controlling her?!"
Binoculars were raised.
Redgrave stepped to the railing, glass in hand.
Through the smoke: a shadow, then a hull, then the unmistakable flame-wreathed carcass of the Vanguard, moving, drifting, charging toward the island.
Not drifting.
Steering.
"She's headed straight for the shore," someone shouted. "Sir—he's still on her!"
On the burning bridge, a small black figure stood at the wheel.
Cloaked in smoke.
Coated in blood.
Unmoving.
On the beach, the marines turned as one.
What they saw made them pause—not run.
The Vanguard emerged from the smoke like a ship returning from hell itself.
The starboard hull was cracked, metal curled back like flayed skin.The masts were aflame, ash rising from the rigging like falling feathers.From the lower vents came roaring fire, pouring out in long, angry breaths.
She should have sunk.
She should have broken.
But she was coming.Straight at them.
"It's him," someone whispered.
"The boy. The thing. He's driving it."
"Fire on her!" Redgrave roared from the Resolute's deck, voice cracking with fury. "STOP HER!"
Cannon crews scrambled.
Lines snapped.
Bolts loaded.
The Resolute's bow heaved as a twelve-pounder loosed a shot across the sea.
It struck true—slamming into the aft deck, blowing the rear railing apart.
Cain flew backward, the blast hitting him like a hammer to the chest.
He struck the deck hard, skidding through soot and splinters. His shoulder screamed. His mask cracked. Blood filled his mouth, thick and hot. Something in his ribs shifted wrongly—a snap, or a pop, he didn't know.
The sky spun above him.
The fire flickered.
The bridge was glowing red now.
He heard shouting on the decks below.
Footsteps.
Running.
Panic.
He didn't care.
He crawled—one hand dragging him forward, the other limp and bleeding.
He reached the wheel again, fingers slick with blood, and pulled himself upright.
His legs trembled.
The beach loomed ahead now—
Closer than ever.
He saw the tents.
The trenches.
The marines scrambling, grabbing rifles, shouting to one another, firing flares.
He saw fear.
And he smiled.
"This," he whispered, breathless, "is the last light."
He let go of the wheel.
Turned.
Staggered to the forward deck, every step burning.
He reached the gun platform.
Knelt.
Picked up a flare shell—brass casing dented, payload still intact.
He lit it with the ember of his own breath.
Then looked once more toward the cliffs.
The sky.
The moss-covered field.
The altar of bones.
"Open the gate."
He dropped the flare.
It fell into the open vent shaft—down into the heart of the boiler room.
The Vanguard exploded just before it hit the sand.
A column of flame erupted from the deck, splitting the ship in half mid-air.
The blast ripped outward, a concussion of thunder and steel, spewing molten shrapnel and shattered bodies in every direction. The shockwave hit the shoreline like a war hammer.
The first two rows of tents were obliterated.Men were thrown backward—legs broken, ears ruptured, some hurled clear into the sea.Others dove for cover—too late.
The air filled with splinters, bone, and burning canvas.
A cannon door, still smoldering, landed in the middle of a supply tent with the finality of a tombstone.
The ship's wheel, blackened and glowing, spun lazily where it fell—still intact, embedded in the moss like a relic left behind by a dead god.
The flames reached high into the Arctic sky.
The sea hissed, angry and boiling from falling debris.
On the cliffs, the crucified bodies lit like torches, fire crawling up their limbs, illuminating the message carved into the rocks behind them—
SEND MORE.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Not even Redgrave.
The air was too thick.
The fear was too loud.
And somewhere beyond the wreckage—
In the fire, or perhaps in the silence after—
They thought they heard breathing.
But no one could say from where.