In the Mist

Regret

Yikes.
I grimace, remembering that horrific beatdown I was given.
Eventually, Tirpitz did stop. She didn't stop in time to prevent a massive crowd from forming and putting my ass-whooping on full display for hundreds of people to see live, but, that's alright. I guess.

During my prolonged recollection time I stomped and kicked up sand, play-shooting Lugers has become undeniably boring.

Shame. I now have buttfuck nothing to do.

By this point I have memorized the entirety of this vessel. I've confirmed that I am bound to it, and I think we all know what it is, it's me. Or something similar to me. No, it's not me-- But it is- Okay, fuck, that's not a concise sentence.

I can't explain how it works. Somehow, I am this ship. I am the incarnation of this ship, personified. You, as, whoever you are, can already understand that. I don't though. And to me this is where it gets strange, because I'm talking to myself. But myself doesn't respond. It just repeats.

Like a record that's playing along with my life, delayed in audio by a few seconds.

Is this hell?

I regret doing whatever it was that brought me here