Author's Note: All right, now I'm out of ideas. Once again, I owe Patrick O'Brian everything for this character and also Peter Weir for bring it to film, even though I don't know how to spell either of their names. Sorry this is so short, but it's just a one-shot, as it says in the description.

Before he knew it, the battle had begun. He saw killing left and right, and even managed to prick a few off, himself. He used his pistol—it seemed to be the most effective.

"Joe!" someone called his name, beckoning for him to toss the gun. He threw it, happily. He would have it back in a moment. It would only be a moment. He turned and glanced down just long enough to see a little boy, who was crouched under a plank of wood, calk and fire his weapon. At such close range, it caused him to stagger backwards, and he fell against a wall. He slid down to the deck slowly. He looked down at the wound in his chest. He was not so stupid as to believe he would live. He knew this was the end.

The blood slowly soaked further and further into his shirt. He looked down, but could not even grimace at the sight. He watched the fighting continue, but could not see much because his vision was failing him. Everything was blurred, swirling together in some terrible mixture of smoke and bloody corpses. He closed his eyes and willed himself to cover his ears, but his hands would not move. He could not move any of his limbs, he found. His head lolled against his chest--he no longer had control of even this, holding his head up. He had never expected to die.