In a bar, on the same ring but opposite Tanendille, it was a normal Saturday. The regulars were in, drinking their regular drinks and eating their regular food. That is to say, it was a normal Saturday, until she walked in.

  In general, Fleet Admirals are to be avoided. For criminals and ne’er-do-wells, it should be obvious that the highest flag-officer in the Union would be an unwise encounter. But, for the average, law-abiding citizen, the presence of a Fleet Admiral indicates that a threat of sufficient level is present to warrant their being sent.

  And she was no different.

  She was tall, easily standing over half a foot above six, with a thick, dense musculature that gave her the appearance of a gorilla. Her skin was fair, but weathered by the sun and scarred by all manner of weaponry, and her face, though traditionally handsome, was resting as a scowl that told others to steer clear. And the look was topped off with the signature of her rank, a deep purple jacket, with five golden rings emblazoned on the right sleeve near her cuff.

  When she walked in with her commanding presence, the bar quieted down, all the patrons watching in silent trepidation for what this mountain of a woman would do. But it seemed she wasn’t there to cause trouble or stop it, at least not yet, as she quietly sat at the bar near an old man and ordered a whole bottle of maraschino.

  Once it arrived, she slammed the jar down on the bar, popping the cork and catching it to replace it on the table, before she downed nearly half of it in one swig and turned around, resting her elbows on the bar.

  “So, Karl,” She turned to address the older man, “How’ve you been?”

  “Karl?” Put his hand over his heart with a sad, hurt expression, “Roserie, I thought I told you to call me dad.”

  “Hahaha!” She bellowed, shaking the room and no doubt increasing the tension all the drinkers felt, “You piece of shit - You aren’t my dad any more than my brother’s.”

  “Now, now,” Karl wagged his finger, “You might not love me, but don’t presume to speak for -”

  “Shut up, old man.” Roserie said, seizing her dad by the neck and slamming his face into the bar. When she did so, she felt that he was not flesh and blood, but rather, the malleability of his head indicated he was some type of summon, perhaps clay, perhaps mud, but regardless not human, “Great. Let me guess - the summoner’s hiding somewhere, aren’t they?”

  She thought for a little bit about how to best drag them out of hiding, before she saw the jar she drank from. So, with a brilliant idea now in her mind, she corked it and smashed it sideways against the bar to create an opening on the bottom. Then, she gave it a few swirls before swinging her arm in a wide arc to launch the liquor.

  Then, she saw it, the alcohol didn’t fall to the ground in one spot, instead suspended on what she believed was some cloaked individual. Her legs and arms glowed with a red aura as she launched towards the unseen individual, letting loose a punch that very well may have caved their skull in, had she not stopped her fist and let the wind pressure serve as a message of her strength.

  Before they could take off, they were grabbed, rather easily, by the scruff of the neck by Roserie, who dangled them in the air like a naughty cat, “Don’t try running now, let me see you.”

  The boy (she realized he couldn’t have been any older than twelve), took off his cloak which hid him and dropped it to the ground, “Sorry, ma’am! He never told me he was running from you! Please, don’t arrest me!”

  Roserie rolled her eyes, setting the boy down, “Whatever, kid, just tell me which way he went.” And when he relayed the information, she shouted again, “Jones! Get in here!”

  Jones, a catfish man with only two fewer rings on his sleeve than her, came in and asked, “Yes, ma’am?”

  “See to it that these fine people are paid for their clothes,” She pointed to the bar, “And see to it that the barman is paid for the trouble. I’ve got someone to catch.”

  And so, the almost-peaceful encounter at the Cheval Blanc (named so because the country was once under Cartesian rule) ended with no blood shed.

  —

  “I’m warning you - I’m in no mood to deal with this,” The Admiral said, staring down a man larger than even here, “I’m not going to play around.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “You’re a fleet admiral?” He asked in a cocky tone, “You don’t look so tough.”

  “Alright then,” She set down the duffel she slung over her shoulder, letting it thud powerfully against the pier, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She started off by dashing forward, foregoing either of her weapons for the moment, and instead opting to raise her foot to kick him straight in the chin, before coming back down with an axe kick to the shoulder.

  “That all?” He asked, unscathed.

  “Wow!” She exclaimed, a look of genuine shock on her face, “You’re tough!” Her boot once again glowed with a red aura, “But let’s see if you can take this.” This time, she changed strategies, kicking into the pier itself to launch a chunk of rock which she slapped like a volleyball straight into her opponent’s bald head.

  “Guess you couldn’t, huh?” She rhetorically asked, picking her duffel back up and charging in a random direction, hoping to find her father’s ship. She did, in fact, spot the Star, and took a cannonball from the dufflebag she carried. She tossed it in the air to get a feel for its weight. Then, with a great roar of effort and a great spot of aura, she bowled it much like her favorite cricket players, taking with it a great chunk of the ship.

  Deciding then that it would be too inefficient to either continue her pelting or go and make preparations for her own ship to sail, she commandeered a small skiff and used her inhuman athleticism to start after the damaged vessel, taking about fifteen minutes before she was within an acceptable range.

  “Get back here!” She screamed, launching from her boat to theirs with one leap, landing right next to the helmsman, who was summarily thrown into the drink. Wasting no time, she began on her rampage, brawling her way through a dozen deck-hands before the bosun stood in front of her.

  “Long time no see, Roserie,” The bosun, a demon (so called because of their resemblance to the creatures in Paacist canon) by the name of Robert said, drawing his gun and firing, “Never thought you’d come back.”

  The bullet seemed to hit her in the head, and everyone on the deck assumed she had died when she started falling back. Before long, though, she stomped her foot forward and revealed that she had caught the projectile between her teeth before spitting it out. Then, in a flash, she laid the bosun out with a haymaker to the ribs which sent him flying.

  “Get out here, Karl!” She shouted, beginning the process of dismantling the deck, piece by piece, with nothing but her fists and the admittedly quite effective sack of cannonballs she carried around with her.

  Any attack on her was ineffective, swords were easily deflected and bullets were simply dodged. What’s worse, any time someone managed to steel themselves enough to attack her, they were swiftly punished for their impudence with a punch or a kick or a clubbing from her sack that damn near shattered their spine.

  “Come on, relax lady.” The first mate said. He was a younger man, with a handsome face, and one whom she didn’t recognize. He must’ve been new. Regardless, his control over the water around the ship didn’t matter much when he was still human - and just as susceptible to a strong blow to the head.

  “Alright, alright,” Karl finally ascended the stairs, hands up in surrender, though he was flanked by two others, “What do you want, Roserie?”

  “You know damn well who I’m here for,” She answered, glaring at him, “But seeing as you’ve given me all this trouble, I formally charge your entire crew with aiding and abetting a fugitive, and interference in an official investigation.”

  “Come now, daughter,” The Captain laughed cockily, “Let’s not get ha -”

  Before he could finish, she grabbed the weapon on her hip, what appeared to be a cat-o-nine, except for the strange look: it was pink, and fleshy and the individual strikers seemed to undulate and twitch as though alive, and finally they were adorned with club-like heads and suction cups all through the length. It was a weapon she called the Kraken Whip - supposedly, although the story was a fabrication, she ripped the tentacles right off of a kraken to braid together.

  Continuing past that digression, Roserie used the whip, its tentacles expanding and lurching to grab Karl and latch on to him, slamming him against the ground. Once again, this was a body double, though not made of any material but mist that dissipated with sufficient force.

  “Fine then, the hard way?” She asked, cracking her knuckles. It seemed the two accompanying Karl were just as ignorant as she was, given their shocked, frightened looks at realizing they’d be fighting the Admiral alone.

  She blitzed the one of the left, sweeping his legs out from under him before punching him mid-air to knock him into the mast, cracking both the wood and his bones. Then, while the other was still stunned, she stomped on the plank he was standing on, at the opposite end, to launch him vertically. As he reached the apex of his flight, she ran below and did a standing back-flip, landing on her hands and lowering herself down the ground. Once her arms were at full contraction, she sprang back up and launched herself towards the airborne foe, kicking him at full-force into the distance.

  “Now, let’s do this the smart way.” She said to no-one in particular, stretching the Kraken Whip over the ship, running its tentacles along the wooden hull, feeling for any signs of life. They were plenty, of course, but most of them were either too young, too inhuman, or just plain wrong to be her father. But then, she found it, the one bit of vitality that she thought matched her father enough to drag to the main deck.

  “Who the fuck are you?” She asked, looking at the catwoman who was desperately holding her skirt aloft so as not to lose her modesty, “And why do you have the heart of a fifty year old man?”

  “I’m Parknaaa -” She said, thudding on the deck, “I’ve always had this heart condition. I swear I just got mixed up with these people, you have to believe me!”

  “Wait - I remember you!” The Admiral pointed accusatorily, “You were a prisoner on the Cannon!”

  “Well, yes,” The catwoman’s ears drooped, “But I can help! I know where the captain is!”

  Roserie followed her down the stairs, but the catwoman disappeared around a corner, out of sight. So, slowly, the Admiral crept around it, watching out for any ambushes.

  “Kitty, where are you?” She asked. Before getting any response, the hairs on her neck stood up straight, and she turned around to see her father, hopefully the real one, standing there.

  “Look, I’ll be honest with you,” She said, “Either you give up, or I’m gonna tear your ship apart, plank by plank.”

  It was strange - there was no danger to her, as far as she could tell, but something was causing her anxiety to flair, almost as though caused artificially by some gift. For a second, just a second, she turned around to investigate. But, the momentary lapse was enough for another crewman to use his gift to lift her out of the ship and into the water.

  “Dammit!” She roared, swinging her arms in the water. Her tantrum continued for a few minutes before she grumbled and started swimming back to her skiff.

  Back on the ship, Karl, who was in fact the real one, congratulated the three who’d pulled the trick off, and they set sail, abandoning their lost crew members.