Rolling in the 'Deep [Exemplary]

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

The engine roared to life as the boat’s hull slid from the wet sand into the water. Vincent let out a sigh of relief as he gave the tub a final shove. He was glad that the boat had spawned pre-fueled. Ral adjusted the heading and lowered the engine as the boat began to drift into the open water, with Vincent soon landing nimbly beside him, taking the seat at the bow. The bespectacled youngster glanced back quickly at the cadaver on the opposing island, staring for a moment. The cloaked Prime took noticed, silently acknowledging the boy’s concern with a shake of his head. Ral grunted in response, glancing down at his feet; his hands gripped tightly on the engine’s controls.

“I’ll keep us on course, heading toward the transfer ship,” Ral yelled over the din of the engine, “As for what we do when we get there; I hope you’ve got a plan.”

The gunslinger nodded, turning to face the front once more. Truthfully, he didn’t. Knowing the ways of the empire, Vincent suspected that violence was a likely consequence of what they were planning to do. He had yet to engage in combat since his arrival in the Omniverse and he was a bit hesitant to dive in as he normally did. The ex-Turk was fairly confident in his own physical abilities; aside from a general feeling of ‘weakness’ in comparison to how he felt on Gaia, he did not feel very different. At the very least, Omni could not remove his tactical knowledge. Even still, assuming that he was physically able to overpower his foes, he doubted he could take out a boatload of trigger-happy troopers. Cerberus sat in her holster as his side devoid of ammunition, mostly useless now. Vincent mentally contemplated attempting a spell, or perhaps a summon. But would his abilities, primarily dependant on the Lifestream, even be possible here? Everything was so untested.

The heavy speedboat churned through the water, racing toward the imperial transport. The duo could now clearly make out the shape and direction of the ship. Vincent examined the craft, making note of possible points of entry. Immediately, he could tell that the barge had a military look to it, though it seemed to lack the normal array of weaponry. The holes in the upper sides of the hull that normally allowed for cannons to fire on opposing ships had been covered with sheet metal, welded on hastily to seal the openings from the water. Judging by this, as well as how low the ship seemed to ride in the water compared to other ships he had seen, he surmised that the ship was likely a decommissioned warship, retrofitted to serve as a transport or cargo ship. He made note of the height of the boat’s deck from the waterline; nearly 5 meters. The ship’s low draught may be helpful, he thought.

As their craft approached the transport ship, the deafening sound of its engines drowned out all other noise. White, frothy water issued from the stern as the ship’s rudder cleaved through the sea. As the speedboat began to close in on the transport, roiling water met its hull, causing the craft to jostle and buck. Ral quickly turned the craft out of the ship’s spray, turning in a wide arc.

“Not sure how close we can get without being seen,” Ral called, “though I don’t think they’re really expecting company.”

Vincent nodded, rising to his feet as they neared the ship. Bracing himself against the rushing wind, he glanced back at his young guide. “Bring me in closer, I’ll head in alone. While I’m aboard, fall back and wait for my cue to meet us.” Ral flashed a thumbs-up in response, bringing the speeder alongside the Imperial ship.

Vincent unbuckled his mantle, removed it, and stowed it under his seat. He did the same with his cloak, wadding everything up to protect it from flying away. Stealth would likely be his best course of action, he reasoned, and wearing a bright red cape would surely be a giveaway. He finally removed his red bandana, allowing his messy black mane to fall around his shoulders. The speeder was now abreast the barge, accelerating toward the bow. The pale Prime dropped to his knees, breathing out slowly. He double-checked his holster, tightening the buckle around his firearm. Looking up, he judged his distance carefully and quickly calculated his jump. With the deck in sight beyond the gunwale, he sprang into the air.

Vincent landed silently-or at least, silent in relation to the roar of the engine—upon the vacant deck of the transport, somersaulting as he touched down to soften his fall. He stopped abruptly at the end of his tumble, glancing around quickly for signs of movement. Finding none, he took in his surroundings: the fore end of the ship was decidedly empty, completely free of any notable object. The desk seemed quite clean, though this could be due to the constant barrage of wind and water as they blasted through the sea. The sun hung low in the sky, continuing its slow decent toward the horizon. Dusk would follow soon; darkness would certainly aid him in his mission if he were to remain on deck, though he could not afford to waste time waiting.

The loud clang of metal-on-metal from the other end of the ship caught the gunslinger’s attention. The dark-haired man turned to face inboard, spying an enormous smokestack between a pair of what appeared to be turrets with the gun barrels removed. He dashed quickly toward them, staying low to avoid possible detection. Placing his back against the smokestack, he leaned slightly and peered over his shoulder at the source of the noise.

A soldier dressed in lightweight maroon armor strode toward him, having emerged from a bulkhead that Vincent could only assume lead bellow-deck. He resembled one of the men he had seen on the beach earlier, wearing a dull maroon-colored breastplate, forearm, thigh and shin guards, combat boots and thick gloves. Between his armor could be seen black cloth, presumably some variety of durable synthetic, and a balaclava. At his side hung a futuristic-looking firearm and a baton of some variety. The attire screamed mercenary to Vincent, as did the man’s gruff-looking visage. The pale Prime quickly hid himself behind the smokestack as he approached, hoping he had not been seen.

“Area three, clear.” The mercenary barked into a communicator on his wrist. Vincent caught a better look at the man as he passed; mid-thirties, his exposed skin heavily scarred though his armor looked new. “Proceeding to area four.”

Halfway down the deck, the man turned at an abrupt 90 degree angle and continued his patrol. Vincent dashed behind a turret, eyeing the man as he passed. Just as he passed the turret and raised his arm to activate his communicator, the ex-Turk sprang from his cover, pulling Cerberus from her holster and bringing the barrel sharply across the back of the man’s head. The mercenary promptly dropped with a sharp “Ack!” and slumped to the deck. With a twinge of regret, the pale Prime kicked the man’s unconscious body over the gunwale and down to the sea.