Marines vs. Fleet

The Marines from the Turaxis main base and the fleet sailors from Alpha Squadron stared each other down for a few seconds. Then, a Navy Petty Officer First Class leading the fleet side waved his hand, taking his men to find a few empty seats to sit down.

Before they could even sit, a fleet sailor stumbled while walking toward his chosen seat. In truth, there were no Marines near him—not even his own men within three yards—but this became the immediate spark.

"A Marine tripped me!" another fleet sailor, who had been standing perfectly still, suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Beat the hell out of them!" A cheer erupted from the Marine side, and a Technical Sergeant charged forward, leading the way.

The two groups suddenly descended into a brawl. In an instant, over sixty Marines in maroon and coffee-colored uniforms and fleet sailors in black were locked in a fight, knocking food, drinks, and everything on the tables to the floor.

The owner behind the bar watched this scene with indifference; clearly, such events happened here often. The wood-grain tables and chairs were actually cast from alloy and bolted firmly into the steel reinforcements beneath the floor; even if a herd of bulls were to collide here fighting for a mate, they wouldn't be able to budge them.

"Gentlemen, officers! Please, stop!" the owner shouted while wiping a crystal glass, his pale face trembling from an overdose of chemical hallucinogens. "The Provost Marshal's military police are already on their way!"

But no one listened to him. The fight showed signs of escalating, the brawling men spreading like ink dropped into a petri dish or toppling dominoes, rapidly engulfing the already cramped bar.

Even those who didn't want to be involved were dragged in, the grappling soldiers overturning table after table of food. When a beer bottle thrown at random struck an innocent bystander and a comrade in the head, the situation immediately spiraled out of control.

Everything on the tables was flipped over, shards of vases and glasses glittering under the brilliant lights as women began to scream and wail.

It seemed to happen in a flash; by the time Augustus and the others realized what was happening, they had already been pulled into the fray.

Raynor's childhood friend from home, Tom Omo, was the first to be affected. A fleet sailor with bloodshot eyes splashed a plate of leftover fried chicken in his face, and before Omo could react, the man knocked him to the ground with a heavy punch and pinned him down, raining blows upon him.

The man who had downed Omo was a fleet veteran; Omo, having just graduated from boot camp, was no match for him.

"Someone help me!"

Arland Londerstein, Lee Pachinyang, and Ilya Kurovsky, who were near Omo, immediately rushed over. Ilya kicked the fleet sailor in the shoulder, and then the four of them, including Omo, began a righteous beatdown.

"Things aren't looking good," Raynor said, scanning the surroundings for another exit from the bar. But they were already surrounded by brawling soldiers with no way to escape, forced to dodge flying bottles and other debris.

At this point, staying out of it was no longer possible. In the blink of an eye, soldiers were tangled together everywhere. Even in this era where interstellar migration had become commonplace and humanity's home worlds were ever-expanding, the friction between the branches remained irreconcilable.

"They don't have as many men as we do," Augustus said, standing up and speaking to Raynor. "I just did a rough count. There are at least two hundred Marines—several times the number of fleet sailors."

"Let's go. We're breaking out through the front."

Before Raynor could answer, Augustus had already climbed onto a table using his chair, his voice momentarily drowning out the curses and screams of the soldiers: "Marines! Follow me!"

For a moment, everyone in the bar looked up at him, but most were at a loss, as they didn't recognize Augustus.

After Augustus jumped off the table, Harnack grabbed a bottle and was the first to charge out, with Raynor following close behind. The rest of the first squad of the second platoon of Company D gathered toward Augustus, and several nearby Marines joined them as well.

The first opponent Harnack encountered was a fleet corporal over seven feet tall; in the bar, his height was enough to look down on everyone, a head taller than anyone else.

The corporal lunged at Harnack like a charging, enraged brown bear, but the latter nimbly ducked the lunge and punched the man in his soft abdomen.

Clearly, the opponent was all show; he knelt on the ground and vomited after taking only a few punches, while Harnack was the most avid brawler in his hometown.

Harnack then used the same method to take down two more fleet sailors, and Raynor and the others took out several more together.

The bar was in total chaos, with every soldier fighting for themselves like loose sand. The dozen Marines sticking together immediately became a force that could not be ignored.

Augustus led his men to drag the fleet-uniformed sailors out of the pile one by one, beating them until they lost the ability to stand before tossing them aside; the harder they resisted, the harder they were hit.

The fleet side had fewer men to begin with, and as Augustus and his companions neutralized each fleet sailor, more Marines joined their ranks.

No one could stop Augustus on his way to the front door of the bar, and by the time he reached the entrance, thirty or forty men had gathered around him, with a pile of Marines and fleet sailors lying on the floor.

Today happened to be the first day of recruit graduation. The fleet had only recently arrived on Turaxis, and when they started the trouble, they hadn't noticed that there were far more Marines in the bar than usual, nor had they expected the other side to be so united. Regardless, the fleet had been soundly defeated in today's conflict.

This bar saw a conflict break out on average once a week and required redecoration every half month, but no one had ever taken the lead to organize or command. Those involved belonged to various battalions, companies, and departments, possessing no cohesion whatsoever; after the fight, everyone just went their separate ways.

In the past, the brawls were always intense, but the military police would arrive before a winner could be decided. This time, the fleet had suffered a major loss.

As Augustus stood at the entrance of Bloody Mary's and looked back inside, the Marines who had followed him crowded around him, whether consciously or unconsciously.

For a moment, only the music remained in the bar, and everyone looked at Augustus's cold, gray eyes. If Augustus had issued an order like a commander at that moment, many would have obeyed without hesitation.

This calm did not last long; soon, Augustus heard the shrill whistles of the military police.

"What are you waiting for? Run!" As soon as Augustus finished speaking, the sound of dozens of pairs of boots hitting the stone floor echoed through the street, accompanied by the engines of military scout vehicles.

Mass brawling wasn't actually a big deal among the Marines—at most, they would be locked up for a day or two—but no one wanted to be captured. With a sudden rush, the Marines and fleet sailors in the bar took off running. As for those who couldn't even crawl or were knocked unconscious, they could only blame their own bad luck.

"Augustus, nice work!" Raynor didn't forget to praise Augustus while they were fleeing.

"Fleet bastards! I've hated them for a long time!"

"Well done!"

Continuous cheers followed. Augustus, running at the front, looked back and was shocked to find a sea of people behind him, including the fleet sailors from Alpha Squadron—at least half the bar was following him!

"Don't all follow me! Scatter!"