Abyssal forces have a stranglehold on mankind, and it's taking everything the combined naval and...
Belated Battleships (KanColle) [REHOST]
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Parts 1-3
- Location
- 'Murica
Abyssal forces have a stranglehold on mankind, and it's taking everything the combined naval and kanmusu forces of the world can to just to break even. USS New Jersey finds herself thrust into the middle of this world, but how much difference can one battleship do?
Are you really waiting for an answer? The answer is a LOT. Seriously. She's a frigging BATTLESHIP.
- - - -
Ao3 archive >HERE<
Or, if you'd prefer FF.net, Obssesed Nuker is maintaining an FF.net archive >HERE<
A/N: The following is a re-written version of the first part that's less suckish. The original is included in a spoiler if you'd like to read that.
Professor Arthur Crowning stared across the steely-cold waters of the Delaware river with numb scrutiny. He should feel something, he knew he should. An early Fall had drove its talons into the city with a vengeance, and freezing wind blew off the chilly river, rubbing the man's skin raw like so many icy daggers. Even though his thick coat and half-zip sweater, the professor knew he should feel something. Some pang of cold slipping up his spine… but all he felt was numb horror.
Try as he might, he couldn't tear his eyes of the steel cathedral across the river. A ship, a battleship—no, the battleship. The most decorated of her kind ever to grace to oceans with her thundering pretense. The USS New Jersey, The Big J. He might just have been a lit professor, but he'd grown to love the old sea queen. She was a fighting lady, a queen of the seas who commanded admiration even sitting with quiet dignity at her museum berth.
At least… she had. Now she was nothing more than so much scrap metal. The shredded remnants of her hull were blackened and twisted like confetti for an angry god of the sea. Her mighty belly had been torn open, and sickly-black oil bled from her fuel tanks.
Crowning didn't want to look.
New Jersey was more than a ship. Her crew knew that—even before kanmusume started cropping up all those months ago—and in his few months aboard her, the Professor had learned that too. She was a lady of steel, but now she was little more than a bleeding tomb for the thousand-strong research team trying to wake her from her slumber.
The professor scowled. He hated seeing her like this, hated knowing how many of the hard-working friends he'd made were still resting in her steel embrace. But he couldn't bring himself to look away. Not now… not yet.
A blast of chill air ran though his silvery-gray hair, and the professor hunched down in reflex. It was getting dark and cold… he'd have to get going soon.
Soon, but not now.
The professor closed his eyes as an unbidden memory forced its way into the theater of his mind.
—|—|—
"Are you sure this is safe?" the sweet music of HMS Victory's accented English flowed though the cramped battleship interior like quicksilver on glass. The old tall ship—who, ironically enough, was one of the shortest people on the entire battleship, even with her towering admiral's hat—lazily dragged a slender silver spoon around her teacup.
"Well," Crowning took a long gulp of his own beverage, the much more pedestrian delicacy of light-blue Gatorade. Even with the fall chill moving in unusually early, just moving around the enormous steel behemoth that was New Jersey could work up a sweat. "I don't actually know. Is it?"
Victory shrugged and took a quiet sip of her tea.
Crowning smiled at the old Englishwoman. She did an admiral job of presenting the facade of a proper gentlewoman of the British Empire. But Crowning had seen her chase around a group of terrified Wiccans with her saber. The one-armed sailing ship wasn't nearly as stuffily British as she liked to act.
"Mmm," Victory smiled as she set her teacup down. "Let's see… shells that weigh more than a car, enough powder to send even a fireship running in terror, and everyone who has any experience with the stuff's either dead or deployed."
Crowning took a bite of his sandwich—peanut butter and jelly with extra peanut butter—before responding. "They did send you to supervise."
"I-" Victory froze, her refined demeanor cracking for a minute. "I didn't… I wasn't sent… insomuch as they ordered me to come."
"Oh?" Crowning feigned ignorance.
"You've heard the story before," Victory huffed and pulled her hat low over her eyes.
"I seem to have forgotten it," said Crowning, "You know how we yanks are."
"Fine," Victory grabbed the other half of Crowning's sandwich and placed it firmly on her side of the table. "I marched into the Admiralty office and asked—"
"Demanded" interrupted Crowning.
"Yes, demanded," Victory rolled her eyes, "to be given something worthwhile to spend my energies on."
"At gunpoint."
"At cannonade point," corrected Victory with a smile creeping across her face, "but yes, that's about it."
Crowning smirked and popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth.
"I wouldn't trust a Royal Navy ship about powder safety anyhow," said the old sailing ship. "You should hear Hood rant about it, she's not nearly as… refined as I am."
"As you are?" Crowning took an exaggerated sip of his drink.
"Mm," Victory nodded sagely.
"Remember when you caught Steve trying to smoke in the machinery spaces?"
Victory tensed, "Vaguely," she said as she played with the last few inches of her tarred ponytail.
"I'm pretty sure I heard you threaten to keel-haul him," said Crowning, "from the bridge."
Victory blinked. "I have no memory of this."
"Really?"
"Yes, really." Victory drew herself up to her full height—as little as that actually was—and stared down that slender nose of hers. "Her Majesty's Ship Victory* could never be so crass."
Crowning just rolled his eyes.
"In any case," Victory coughed as she changed the subject with all the grace and poise of a river barge, "I'm quite surprised there's even shells left for this little… experiment."
"Honestly, so am I," said the professor. "All that stuff was supposed to be destroyed years ago, then someone goes and finds a warehouse stuffed with ten thousand of the things."
"The wonders of bureaucracy never fail to amaze me," said Victory with a warm smile.
Crowning just stared at the heavy metal bulkhead behind her. "Yeah… bureaucracy."
"You think it's something else?"
Crowning shrugged. "None of our girls have come back," he said, "We've got to fight with these old steel hulls, and what should we find when we try to bring them into service than warehouses full of everything we need that just…" he drew little circles in the air, "slipped though the cracks."
Victory smiled. "You think your girls are trying?"
"Lend Lease," said the professor. "Before we committed men to the war, we practically gave away supplies."
"Hmm," Victory nodded, "Always trust an American to do the right thing." She smirked, "Once every possible alternative has been expended."
"Well," Crowning threw up his hands with a sheepish grin, "If this doesn't work, I've got a backup plan."
Victory cocked an eyebrow.
"Gonna bake her an apple pie," said the professor, "see how the old girl likes that."
"Hey, Professor?" a voice sounded from somewhere over his shoulder. His real shoulder. A smooth contralto with just a hint of tender concern that shook him out of his melancholy reminiscence.
—|—|—
Crowning blinked as the memory evaporated like fog in the face of a morning sun. "Yeah, um," he ran a hand though his hair, taking a second to compose himself before he addressed the voice, "If you're looking for an extension-"
He felt his voice die in his throat the second he glanced over at the source of the voice. A girl—a young woman really, she looked just barely too old to be one of his students—lounged against the riverside railing. Even hunched over with her forearms resting on the silvered wood, she towered over him.
Her shorts—very short shorts stuffed until the navy-blue fabric was pulled taut—did nothing to hide the long, thick-thighed legs of a cross-country runner. How she wasn't freezing with so much of that pale skin on display was beyond him. Maybe the even-tighter red undershorts helped? They looked like the kind of material he'd seen athletes wear.
"I'm not," she said.
"Then, uh," Crowning locked eyes with the girl. Or at least tried too, her mirrored aviators showed only his own ragged reflection. "What exactly are you doing?"
"Honestly?" The girl shrugged, her close-fitting puffer vest spreading around her bustline. Crowning wouldn't have called her top-heavy, especially with hips like hers, but she definitely had enough to fill out her shirt. But if she caught his errant glance, she didn't show it. "Just started running and… well, I wanted to make sure you're okay."
Crowning turned back to the railing, staring at the charred corpse of the once-great museum ship New Jersey. "Attack hit you pretty hard?"
"You could say that," the girl spun the other way, resting her back against the railing as she stared at the city skyline. Her strawberry-blond braid cascading out of the navy-blue baseball cap she wore backwards.
"I was supposed to be there, you know," said Crowning, barely registering that he'd let the words slip out until the girl's steeply-canted eyebrow sneaked up her brow.
"On Jersey?" she asked, idly fiddling with the orange-foam headphones cradling her neck. "The fuck's a Lit prof doing on a battleship?" a teasing smile graced her snow-white face.
Crowning nodded, tracing the wires of her headphones down to the… was that a walkman on her hip? He didn't risk looking longer to verify it. Not with hips like that in shorts like… that. "Navy's trying to summon her—hell, at this point they'd take a freighter if they could get it. I think they were just throwing everything they could at the problem." He smiled in spite of himself, letting out a little self-conscious cough. "Saw Victory waving her sword at some… witches, I think who tried to mess with her tea leaves. I actually- the day of the attack, I was supposed to be trying something new."
The girl dipped her head, lazily waving one hand at him to get him to continue, the three watches around her wrist glinting in the afternoon sun.
"Wanted to bake her an apple pie. Figured… her spirit's an American, maybe that'd coax her out."
"Goddamn, I could go for some pie right now," said the girl, patting her belly with a frustrated grunt. "you sure it didn't work?"
"How could it?" Crowning scuffed his shoe against the concrete. "Car broke down on the way there… I just barely made it there to see her blow up."
The girl tensed, her knuckles going white as she clenched at the railing. "How…" her voice was hollow and quiet, "I… battleships don't just fucking blow up."
"We, uh," Crowning shrugged, "We figured we were thinking a little too far outside the box."
The girl cocked one eyebrow and waited for him to continue.
"If she's gonna come back… better make sure she's got the tools to fight." Crowning stared across the water at the battleship's burnt-out corpse. "We were loading her magazines when…" he trailed off.
"Fuck," the girl winced, her hands suddenly cluching at her stomach. "You sure it didn't work?"
"What do you-" Crowning stopped. Then his eyes slowly went wide as dinner plates.
"Took you long enough," the girl smirked as she spun her hat around, letting Crowning read the proud golden embroidery above the bill. "USS New Jersey: BB-62."
"You're-"
"Jersey, yeah." the girl—or rather the battleship New Jersey herself—offered a cocky grin. "Now where's my fucking pie?"
Are you really waiting for an answer? The answer is a LOT. Seriously. She's a frigging BATTLESHIP.
- - - -
Ao3 archive >HERE<
Or, if you'd prefer FF.net, Obssesed Nuker is maintaining an FF.net archive >HERE<
Part 1: The beginning one.
A/N: The following is a re-written version of the first part that's less suckish. The original is included in a spoiler if you'd like to read that.
Professor Arthur Crowning stared across the steely-cold waters of the Delaware river with numb scrutiny. He should feel something, he knew he should. An early Fall had drove its talons into the city with a vengeance, and freezing wind blew off the chilly river, rubbing the man's skin raw like so many icy daggers. Even though his thick coat and half-zip sweater, the professor knew he should feel something. Some pang of cold slipping up his spine… but all he felt was numb horror.
Try as he might, he couldn't tear his eyes of the steel cathedral across the river. A ship, a battleship—no, the battleship. The most decorated of her kind ever to grace to oceans with her thundering pretense. The USS New Jersey, The Big J. He might just have been a lit professor, but he'd grown to love the old sea queen. She was a fighting lady, a queen of the seas who commanded admiration even sitting with quiet dignity at her museum berth.
At least… she had. Now she was nothing more than so much scrap metal. The shredded remnants of her hull were blackened and twisted like confetti for an angry god of the sea. Her mighty belly had been torn open, and sickly-black oil bled from her fuel tanks.
Crowning didn't want to look.
New Jersey was more than a ship. Her crew knew that—even before kanmusume started cropping up all those months ago—and in his few months aboard her, the Professor had learned that too. She was a lady of steel, but now she was little more than a bleeding tomb for the thousand-strong research team trying to wake her from her slumber.
The professor scowled. He hated seeing her like this, hated knowing how many of the hard-working friends he'd made were still resting in her steel embrace. But he couldn't bring himself to look away. Not now… not yet.
A blast of chill air ran though his silvery-gray hair, and the professor hunched down in reflex. It was getting dark and cold… he'd have to get going soon.
Soon, but not now.
The professor closed his eyes as an unbidden memory forced its way into the theater of his mind.
"Are you sure this is safe?" the sweet music of HMS Victory's accented English flowed though the cramped battleship interior like quicksilver on glass. The old tall ship—who, ironically enough, was one of the shortest people on the entire battleship, even with her towering admiral's hat—lazily dragged a slender silver spoon around her teacup.
"Well," Crowning took a long gulp of his own beverage, the much more pedestrian delicacy of light-blue Gatorade. Even with the fall chill moving in unusually early, just moving around the enormous steel behemoth that was New Jersey could work up a sweat. "I don't actually know. Is it?"
Victory shrugged and took a quiet sip of her tea.
Crowning smiled at the old Englishwoman. She did an admiral job of presenting the facade of a proper gentlewoman of the British Empire. But Crowning had seen her chase around a group of terrified Wiccans with her saber. The one-armed sailing ship wasn't nearly as stuffily British as she liked to act.
"Mmm," Victory smiled as she set her teacup down. "Let's see… shells that weigh more than a car, enough powder to send even a fireship running in terror, and everyone who has any experience with the stuff's either dead or deployed."
Crowning took a bite of his sandwich—peanut butter and jelly with extra peanut butter—before responding. "They did send you to supervise."
"I-" Victory froze, her refined demeanor cracking for a minute. "I didn't… I wasn't sent… insomuch as they ordered me to come."
"Oh?" Crowning feigned ignorance.
"You've heard the story before," Victory huffed and pulled her hat low over her eyes.
"I seem to have forgotten it," said Crowning, "You know how we yanks are."
"Fine," Victory grabbed the other half of Crowning's sandwich and placed it firmly on her side of the table. "I marched into the Admiralty office and asked—"
"Demanded" interrupted Crowning.
"Yes, demanded," Victory rolled her eyes, "to be given something worthwhile to spend my energies on."
"At gunpoint."
"At cannonade point," corrected Victory with a smile creeping across her face, "but yes, that's about it."
Crowning smirked and popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth.
"I wouldn't trust a Royal Navy ship about powder safety anyhow," said the old sailing ship. "You should hear Hood rant about it, she's not nearly as… refined as I am."
"As you are?" Crowning took an exaggerated sip of his drink.
"Mm," Victory nodded sagely.
"Remember when you caught Steve trying to smoke in the machinery spaces?"
Victory tensed, "Vaguely," she said as she played with the last few inches of her tarred ponytail.
"I'm pretty sure I heard you threaten to keel-haul him," said Crowning, "from the bridge."
Victory blinked. "I have no memory of this."
"Really?"
"Yes, really." Victory drew herself up to her full height—as little as that actually was—and stared down that slender nose of hers. "Her Majesty's Ship Victory* could never be so crass."
Crowning just rolled his eyes.
"In any case," Victory coughed as she changed the subject with all the grace and poise of a river barge, "I'm quite surprised there's even shells left for this little… experiment."
"Honestly, so am I," said the professor. "All that stuff was supposed to be destroyed years ago, then someone goes and finds a warehouse stuffed with ten thousand of the things."
"The wonders of bureaucracy never fail to amaze me," said Victory with a warm smile.
Crowning just stared at the heavy metal bulkhead behind her. "Yeah… bureaucracy."
"You think it's something else?"
Crowning shrugged. "None of our girls have come back," he said, "We've got to fight with these old steel hulls, and what should we find when we try to bring them into service than warehouses full of everything we need that just…" he drew little circles in the air, "slipped though the cracks."
Victory smiled. "You think your girls are trying?"
"Lend Lease," said the professor. "Before we committed men to the war, we practically gave away supplies."
"Hmm," Victory nodded, "Always trust an American to do the right thing." She smirked, "Once every possible alternative has been expended."
"Well," Crowning threw up his hands with a sheepish grin, "If this doesn't work, I've got a backup plan."
Victory cocked an eyebrow.
"Gonna bake her an apple pie," said the professor, "see how the old girl likes that."
"Hey, Professor?" a voice sounded from somewhere over his shoulder. His real shoulder. A smooth contralto with just a hint of tender concern that shook him out of his melancholy reminiscence.
—|—|—
Crowning blinked as the memory evaporated like fog in the face of a morning sun. "Yeah, um," he ran a hand though his hair, taking a second to compose himself before he addressed the voice, "If you're looking for an extension-"
He felt his voice die in his throat the second he glanced over at the source of the voice. A girl—a young woman really, she looked just barely too old to be one of his students—lounged against the riverside railing. Even hunched over with her forearms resting on the silvered wood, she towered over him.
Her shorts—very short shorts stuffed until the navy-blue fabric was pulled taut—did nothing to hide the long, thick-thighed legs of a cross-country runner. How she wasn't freezing with so much of that pale skin on display was beyond him. Maybe the even-tighter red undershorts helped? They looked like the kind of material he'd seen athletes wear.
"I'm not," she said.
"Then, uh," Crowning locked eyes with the girl. Or at least tried too, her mirrored aviators showed only his own ragged reflection. "What exactly are you doing?"
"Honestly?" The girl shrugged, her close-fitting puffer vest spreading around her bustline. Crowning wouldn't have called her top-heavy, especially with hips like hers, but she definitely had enough to fill out her shirt. But if she caught his errant glance, she didn't show it. "Just started running and… well, I wanted to make sure you're okay."
Crowning turned back to the railing, staring at the charred corpse of the once-great museum ship New Jersey. "Attack hit you pretty hard?"
"You could say that," the girl spun the other way, resting her back against the railing as she stared at the city skyline. Her strawberry-blond braid cascading out of the navy-blue baseball cap she wore backwards.
"I was supposed to be there, you know," said Crowning, barely registering that he'd let the words slip out until the girl's steeply-canted eyebrow sneaked up her brow.
"On Jersey?" she asked, idly fiddling with the orange-foam headphones cradling her neck. "The fuck's a Lit prof doing on a battleship?" a teasing smile graced her snow-white face.
Crowning nodded, tracing the wires of her headphones down to the… was that a walkman on her hip? He didn't risk looking longer to verify it. Not with hips like that in shorts like… that. "Navy's trying to summon her—hell, at this point they'd take a freighter if they could get it. I think they were just throwing everything they could at the problem." He smiled in spite of himself, letting out a little self-conscious cough. "Saw Victory waving her sword at some… witches, I think who tried to mess with her tea leaves. I actually- the day of the attack, I was supposed to be trying something new."
The girl dipped her head, lazily waving one hand at him to get him to continue, the three watches around her wrist glinting in the afternoon sun.
"Wanted to bake her an apple pie. Figured… her spirit's an American, maybe that'd coax her out."
"Goddamn, I could go for some pie right now," said the girl, patting her belly with a frustrated grunt. "you sure it didn't work?"
"How could it?" Crowning scuffed his shoe against the concrete. "Car broke down on the way there… I just barely made it there to see her blow up."
The girl tensed, her knuckles going white as she clenched at the railing. "How…" her voice was hollow and quiet, "I… battleships don't just fucking blow up."
"We, uh," Crowning shrugged, "We figured we were thinking a little too far outside the box."
The girl cocked one eyebrow and waited for him to continue.
"If she's gonna come back… better make sure she's got the tools to fight." Crowning stared across the water at the battleship's burnt-out corpse. "We were loading her magazines when…" he trailed off.
"Fuck," the girl winced, her hands suddenly cluching at her stomach. "You sure it didn't work?"
"What do you-" Crowning stopped. Then his eyes slowly went wide as dinner plates.
"Took you long enough," the girl smirked as she spun her hat around, letting Crowning read the proud golden embroidery above the bill. "USS New Jersey: BB-62."
"You're-"
"Jersey, yeah." the girl—or rather the battleship New Jersey herself—offered a cocky grin. "Now where's my fucking pie?"
She'd been beautiful. As beautiful as however-fucking-many tons of steel and fire and slopped-on gray paint could be. Now she was just… a stain. A fucking… sucking chest wound bleeding inky-black fuel oil into the Delaware, a casket of metal scrap twisted into a display almost as macabre as the unholy… things that came from the abyss to gut her from the depths.
"Hey, Professor Crowning, right?" a voice sounded from somewhere over his shoulder, a smooth female contralto, with just a note of tender concern.
He ran a hand though his long, graying hair, taking a second to compose himself before… had to be one of his students. "Yeah, uh… if you're looking for an extension-"
"I'm not," the girl leaned around, her weight on one foot as she let herself fall sideways against the waterfront railing. She was… well, the kind of girl that makes American-lit professors wary to be alone with. Easily taller than him, even leaning on the railing, she had the thick-thighed legs of a cross-country runner. Legs that were… rather overly displayed in her very short running shorts. How she wasn't freezing in the brisk mid-autumn breeze was beyond him.
"Then, uh…" Crowning locked his eyes on hers. Or tried to, but her oversized aviator shades only showed his own haggered reflection. "What exactly are you doing?"
"Honestly, I dunno," the girl shrugged, her navy-blue puffer vest spreading around her… generous bust. If she caught his errant glare, she didn't show any signs of it. "Just started running and, well, I wanted to make sure you're okay."
Crowning turned back to the railing, staring at the charred corpse of the once-great museum ship New Jersey. "Attack hit you pretty hard?"
"You could say that," the girl spun the other way, resting her back against the railing as she stared at the city skyline. Her strawberry-blond braid cascading out of the navy-blue baseball cap she wore backwards.
"I was supposed to be there, you know," said Crowning, barely registering that he'd let the words slip out until the girl's steeply-canted eyebrow sneaked up her brow.
"On Jersey?" she asked, idly fiddling with the orange-foam headphones cradling her neck. "The hell's a Lit prof doing on a battleship?" a teasing smile graced her snow-white face.
Crowning nodded, tracing the wires of her headphones down to the… was that a walkman on her hip? He didn't risk looking longer to verify it. Not with hips like that in shorts like….that. "Navy's trying to summon her-well, at this point they'd take a freighter if they could get it. I think they were just throwing everything they could at the problem." He smiled in spite of himself, letting out a little self-conscious cough. "Saw Victory waving her sword at some… witches, I think who tried to mess with her tea leaves. I actually- the day of the attack, I was supposed to be trying something new."
The girl dipped her head, lazily waving one hand at him to get him to continue, the three watches around her wrist glinting in the afternoon sun.
"Wanted to bake her an apple pie. Figured… her spirit's an American, maybe that'd coax her out."
"Goddamn, I could go for some pie right now," said the girl, patting her belly with a frustrated grunt. "you sure it didn't work?"
"How could it?" Crowning scuffed his shoe against the concrete. "Car broke down on the way there… I just barely made it there to see her get shot."
"Torpedoed," said the girl, her voice suddenly curt and clipped.
"Pardon?"
"That was a torpedo," said the girl, pushing her vest aside and pulling up the hem of her shirt, exposing a mottled bruise on her muscled belly. "Right here."
Crowning's eyes went wide.
"Took you long enough," the girl smirked as she spun her hat around, letting Crowning read the proud golden embroidery above the bill. "USS New Jersey: BB-62."
"You're-"
"Jersey, yeah." the girl—or rather New fucking Jersey—offered a cocky grin. "Now where's my fucking pie?"
"Hey, Professor Crowning, right?" a voice sounded from somewhere over his shoulder, a smooth female contralto, with just a note of tender concern.
He ran a hand though his long, graying hair, taking a second to compose himself before… had to be one of his students. "Yeah, uh… if you're looking for an extension-"
"I'm not," the girl leaned around, her weight on one foot as she let herself fall sideways against the waterfront railing. She was… well, the kind of girl that makes American-lit professors wary to be alone with. Easily taller than him, even leaning on the railing, she had the thick-thighed legs of a cross-country runner. Legs that were… rather overly displayed in her very short running shorts. How she wasn't freezing in the brisk mid-autumn breeze was beyond him.
"Then, uh…" Crowning locked his eyes on hers. Or tried to, but her oversized aviator shades only showed his own haggered reflection. "What exactly are you doing?"
"Honestly, I dunno," the girl shrugged, her navy-blue puffer vest spreading around her… generous bust. If she caught his errant glare, she didn't show any signs of it. "Just started running and, well, I wanted to make sure you're okay."
Crowning turned back to the railing, staring at the charred corpse of the once-great museum ship New Jersey. "Attack hit you pretty hard?"
"You could say that," the girl spun the other way, resting her back against the railing as she stared at the city skyline. Her strawberry-blond braid cascading out of the navy-blue baseball cap she wore backwards.
"I was supposed to be there, you know," said Crowning, barely registering that he'd let the words slip out until the girl's steeply-canted eyebrow sneaked up her brow.
"On Jersey?" she asked, idly fiddling with the orange-foam headphones cradling her neck. "The hell's a Lit prof doing on a battleship?" a teasing smile graced her snow-white face.
Crowning nodded, tracing the wires of her headphones down to the… was that a walkman on her hip? He didn't risk looking longer to verify it. Not with hips like that in shorts like….that. "Navy's trying to summon her-well, at this point they'd take a freighter if they could get it. I think they were just throwing everything they could at the problem." He smiled in spite of himself, letting out a little self-conscious cough. "Saw Victory waving her sword at some… witches, I think who tried to mess with her tea leaves. I actually- the day of the attack, I was supposed to be trying something new."
The girl dipped her head, lazily waving one hand at him to get him to continue, the three watches around her wrist glinting in the afternoon sun.
"Wanted to bake her an apple pie. Figured… her spirit's an American, maybe that'd coax her out."
"Goddamn, I could go for some pie right now," said the girl, patting her belly with a frustrated grunt. "you sure it didn't work?"
"How could it?" Crowning scuffed his shoe against the concrete. "Car broke down on the way there… I just barely made it there to see her get shot."
"Torpedoed," said the girl, her voice suddenly curt and clipped.
"Pardon?"
"That was a torpedo," said the girl, pushing her vest aside and pulling up the hem of her shirt, exposing a mottled bruise on her muscled belly. "Right here."
Crowning's eyes went wide.
"Took you long enough," the girl smirked as she spun her hat around, letting Crowning read the proud golden embroidery above the bill. "USS New Jersey: BB-62."
"You're-"
"Jersey, yeah." the girl—or rather New fucking Jersey—offered a cocky grin. "Now where's my fucking pie?"
Part 2: in which we get pie
"This…" Jersey paused, wiping a few stray bits of juicy apple filling from the corner of her mouth, "This is amazing pie."
"I, uh, figured that much," said Crowning his hand sneaking back to his wallet as the battleship admired her reflection in the polished-clean pan. He'd taken her to the best pie restaurant he knew of. After all, the first (and so far only) ship spirit of the United States deserved a hero's welcome before the Navy delivered her to a life of wartime rations.
That was before she'd munched her way though half a dozen apple pies without even slowing down. He was starting to suspect she'd only stopped out of mercy. "I told you, it's the best in the state."
Jersey nodded, scrunching up her face to edge her aviators higher up on her nose.
"I'm actually surprised you liked it," said Crowning, hoping to capture Jersey's attention before her stomach wrested control. "I didn't-" he shrugged, waving his hand idly in the air as he searched for the right way to broach this.
"Didn't think… what?" Jersey slumped back in her chair, her arms splayed over the back, showing off the ridiculous number of watches around both wrists. "That I knew what pie was like?"
"Not in so many words, but… yes."
"You didn't- oh, right. I was your first," Jersey flashed a cheeky grin before pulling herself up from her lazy slouch. "Okay… what is a ship?"
Crowning steepled his fingers, waiting for her to continue before he realized the question wasn't just rhetorical. "Well…" he thought back to the handful of science classes he'd taken all those years ago, "It's a buoyant structure that-"
"Wrong!" Jersey slapped her palm on the table with a resounding thunk, a wicked grin spreading across her face at the shocked look from the remaining patrons of the restaurant. Those who hadn't already been surprised by her ravenous appetite.
"I- I'm sorry?"
"This…" Jersey made a box in the air with her hands, "this ain't a ship. That's a hull, maybe."
Crowning pursed his lips, he recalled something along these lines from Victory. But she never spent much time with the academics, and it was hard to separate truth from bravado with her anyway.
Jersey let out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl. "Okay… uh, a hull is like…" she grabbed at a pie tin, spinning it so it sat in the center of the table. "It could be a ship, but it isn't," said Jersey, brow furrowing in frustration. This was all so obvious to her, why wasn't he getting it!
"And… you need the crew to… make you live?" asked Crowning.
"Yeah! yeah, exactly!" Jersey slammed her fist on the table again, waving her free hand at Crowning's face with increasingly energetic gestures. "Like… the crew's actions, their conduct in the war… it makes the ship who she is."
"Like the body and the soul?"
"Hmm?"
"The hull is your body," said Crowning as he finally put the pieces together," but without your crew… you don't have a soul."
"No, no that's-" Jersey's face froze as the cogs in her mental computer ground to a halt. Crowning could almost see her mind backstep and recompute what she was saying. "Actually, yeah. Yeah, it's exactly like that."
Crowning smiled, glancing past her shimmering hair for a moment to check if that "Ship-spirit transport" the Navy had mentioned had arrived yet. "You're not used to having a body, are you?"
"Well… no," Jersey shrugged, "But also… yes?" She lazily waved her hand around in the air, drawing little spirals next to her head. "Everything's all hazy, you know?"
"How much do you-" Crowning paused, glancing past her again as a huge olive-greensomething rumbled to a stop in street outside. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it looked like somewhere between a semi-truck and a house. "Um… is that-"
"Our ride?" finished Jersey, clearly confused to see the mammoth vehicle apparently waiting for them outside.
As if on cue, a man in the choppy brown-green fatigues of a US Marine hopped out of the cab and straightened his cover. After a few seconds' deliberation, he made for the doors—moving just a little too deliberately for anyone who wasn't a little uneasy.
"Hey! Devil dog!" Jersey barked at the top of her lungs, sending Crowning recoiling back in his chair. "You our wheels?"
"Yes, ma'am!" snapped back the blond-haired Marine without a moment's pause. "Lance Corporal Jon Sherman"
Jersey sighed, pulling herself out of the chair and up to her shockingly full height. "No salute for an old battle-wagon?"
The Marine's hand quivered by his side, his face a sea of churning thoughts as he clearly tried to figure out what he should do with it. Crowning braced himself for the oncoming storm. He'd seen a good Marine ass-reaming when he was working on the museum ship.
"Ma'am, I-" Sherman was abruptly cut off as the battleship New Jersey, the newly returned spear of America's ship spirits, the last big-gun battleship to retire from active duty,pouncedon him.
She flung her sinewy arms around him, picking him up with ease as she let out a wordless—surprisingly girlish-squeal of delight. If Sherman made any reply, it was muffled into nothingness by the excessive battleship-girl-cleavage cradling his face. "Always loved my Marines!" said Jersey, giving him a good squeeze before setting him down again.
"Tha- thank you, ma'am," wheezed Sherman, struggling to get his breath back after the 'hug.'
Jersey's face instantly flipped from utter glee to borderline despair. "I… I didn't hurt you, did I?"
Sherman shook his head, wincing at the sudden motion. "No ma'am," he said, the tendons in his neck just a little tauter than usual.
Jersey pursed her lips, clicking the chunky soles of her running shoes together as she offered a perfect salute. Or what looked to Crowning like a perfect salute, she certainly had the poise. "Lance Corporal Sherman," she paused, chewing on the corner of her lip for a moment- "I don't have a rank, do I?"
Sherman shrugged.
"Fuck it," Jersey stiffened her back as she returned to full attention. "Battleship New Jersey, reporting for transport."
"Right this way, ma'am," said Sherman, waving her towards the hulking truck parked outside. "Sir, after you," he added, motioning for Crowning to follow in trail.
"This what they're using for jeeps now?" said Jersey, her hands going to her hips as she glanced from Sherman to the eight-wheeled tactical truck and the Spartan passenger cabin built up in the bed.
"No ma'am. This is a Mark 14 LVSR," said Sherman, hauling himself into the cab with a grunt.
Jersey raised one eyebrow over the rim of her mirrored aviators.
"Uh… a ten-ton truck, ma'am."
The battleship laughed, "A ten ton truck," she hopped onto the ladder leading up to the bed, "Do I look like-" she abruptly stopped as the suspension groaned under her weight. The shock absorbers let out a pathetic metal tink as they hit their stops.
Crowning spun on his heel, trying to hide his colossal grin. Sherman ducked further into the cab and erupted in a violent coughing fit.
"I hate all of you," scowled Jersey.
"I, uh, figured that much," said Crowning his hand sneaking back to his wallet as the battleship admired her reflection in the polished-clean pan. He'd taken her to the best pie restaurant he knew of. After all, the first (and so far only) ship spirit of the United States deserved a hero's welcome before the Navy delivered her to a life of wartime rations.
That was before she'd munched her way though half a dozen apple pies without even slowing down. He was starting to suspect she'd only stopped out of mercy. "I told you, it's the best in the state."
Jersey nodded, scrunching up her face to edge her aviators higher up on her nose.
"I'm actually surprised you liked it," said Crowning, hoping to capture Jersey's attention before her stomach wrested control. "I didn't-" he shrugged, waving his hand idly in the air as he searched for the right way to broach this.
"Didn't think… what?" Jersey slumped back in her chair, her arms splayed over the back, showing off the ridiculous number of watches around both wrists. "That I knew what pie was like?"
"Not in so many words, but… yes."
"You didn't- oh, right. I was your first," Jersey flashed a cheeky grin before pulling herself up from her lazy slouch. "Okay… what is a ship?"
Crowning steepled his fingers, waiting for her to continue before he realized the question wasn't just rhetorical. "Well…" he thought back to the handful of science classes he'd taken all those years ago, "It's a buoyant structure that-"
"Wrong!" Jersey slapped her palm on the table with a resounding thunk, a wicked grin spreading across her face at the shocked look from the remaining patrons of the restaurant. Those who hadn't already been surprised by her ravenous appetite.
"I- I'm sorry?"
"This…" Jersey made a box in the air with her hands, "this ain't a ship. That's a hull, maybe."
Crowning pursed his lips, he recalled something along these lines from Victory. But she never spent much time with the academics, and it was hard to separate truth from bravado with her anyway.
Jersey let out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl. "Okay… uh, a hull is like…" she grabbed at a pie tin, spinning it so it sat in the center of the table. "It could be a ship, but it isn't," said Jersey, brow furrowing in frustration. This was all so obvious to her, why wasn't he getting it!
"And… you need the crew to… make you live?" asked Crowning.
"Yeah! yeah, exactly!" Jersey slammed her fist on the table again, waving her free hand at Crowning's face with increasingly energetic gestures. "Like… the crew's actions, their conduct in the war… it makes the ship who she is."
"Like the body and the soul?"
"Hmm?"
"The hull is your body," said Crowning as he finally put the pieces together," but without your crew… you don't have a soul."
"No, no that's-" Jersey's face froze as the cogs in her mental computer ground to a halt. Crowning could almost see her mind backstep and recompute what she was saying. "Actually, yeah. Yeah, it's exactly like that."
Crowning smiled, glancing past her shimmering hair for a moment to check if that "Ship-spirit transport" the Navy had mentioned had arrived yet. "You're not used to having a body, are you?"
"Well… no," Jersey shrugged, "But also… yes?" She lazily waved her hand around in the air, drawing little spirals next to her head. "Everything's all hazy, you know?"
"How much do you-" Crowning paused, glancing past her again as a huge olive-greensomething rumbled to a stop in street outside. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it looked like somewhere between a semi-truck and a house. "Um… is that-"
"Our ride?" finished Jersey, clearly confused to see the mammoth vehicle apparently waiting for them outside.
As if on cue, a man in the choppy brown-green fatigues of a US Marine hopped out of the cab and straightened his cover. After a few seconds' deliberation, he made for the doors—moving just a little too deliberately for anyone who wasn't a little uneasy.
"Hey! Devil dog!" Jersey barked at the top of her lungs, sending Crowning recoiling back in his chair. "You our wheels?"
"Yes, ma'am!" snapped back the blond-haired Marine without a moment's pause. "Lance Corporal Jon Sherman"
Jersey sighed, pulling herself out of the chair and up to her shockingly full height. "No salute for an old battle-wagon?"
The Marine's hand quivered by his side, his face a sea of churning thoughts as he clearly tried to figure out what he should do with it. Crowning braced himself for the oncoming storm. He'd seen a good Marine ass-reaming when he was working on the museum ship.
"Ma'am, I-" Sherman was abruptly cut off as the battleship New Jersey, the newly returned spear of America's ship spirits, the last big-gun battleship to retire from active duty,pouncedon him.
She flung her sinewy arms around him, picking him up with ease as she let out a wordless—surprisingly girlish-squeal of delight. If Sherman made any reply, it was muffled into nothingness by the excessive battleship-girl-cleavage cradling his face. "Always loved my Marines!" said Jersey, giving him a good squeeze before setting him down again.
"Tha- thank you, ma'am," wheezed Sherman, struggling to get his breath back after the 'hug.'
Jersey's face instantly flipped from utter glee to borderline despair. "I… I didn't hurt you, did I?"
Sherman shook his head, wincing at the sudden motion. "No ma'am," he said, the tendons in his neck just a little tauter than usual.
Jersey pursed her lips, clicking the chunky soles of her running shoes together as she offered a perfect salute. Or what looked to Crowning like a perfect salute, she certainly had the poise. "Lance Corporal Sherman," she paused, chewing on the corner of her lip for a moment- "I don't have a rank, do I?"
Sherman shrugged.
"Fuck it," Jersey stiffened her back as she returned to full attention. "Battleship New Jersey, reporting for transport."
"Right this way, ma'am," said Sherman, waving her towards the hulking truck parked outside. "Sir, after you," he added, motioning for Crowning to follow in trail.
"This what they're using for jeeps now?" said Jersey, her hands going to her hips as she glanced from Sherman to the eight-wheeled tactical truck and the Spartan passenger cabin built up in the bed.
"No ma'am. This is a Mark 14 LVSR," said Sherman, hauling himself into the cab with a grunt.
Jersey raised one eyebrow over the rim of her mirrored aviators.
"Uh… a ten-ton truck, ma'am."
The battleship laughed, "A ten ton truck," she hopped onto the ladder leading up to the bed, "Do I look like-" she abruptly stopped as the suspension groaned under her weight. The shock absorbers let out a pathetic metal tink as they hit their stops.
Crowning spun on his heel, trying to hide his colossal grin. Sherman ducked further into the cab and erupted in a violent coughing fit.
"I hate all of you," scowled Jersey.
Part 3: Did you call me fat?
Save for the jostling every time the hulking truck slowed or accelerated, Jersey hadn't moved for a solid half-hour. Crowing was fairly sure she was asleep, but it was impossible to tell with her eyes hidden by those mirrored aviators. Then again, he couldn't shake the feeling that her eyes were following his every move.
"You know," he said, content to address the towering battleship when she was too tired to retaliate. "I was going to ask how much you remembered."
"Hmm?" one eyebrow creeping up over the rim of her glasses was the only motion the battleship girl made.
"At the restaurant," said Crowning, mentally steeling himself for whatever retaliation she might inflict. She had a good foot on him, and those bare legs rippled with muscle. If he really made her mad, there wouldn't be anything he could do but take it. "I wasn't asking how much you weighed."
For what felt like hours, the truck's bed was silent except for the weary rumble of an overstrained diesel engine. Then the front end of the truck exploded in the squeal of air brakes and the bellowed tirade of one thoroughly fed-up Marine.
Jersey's head pivoted towards the cab with such mechanical precision, Crowning swore he could hear the bearings glide in their raceways. "The hell, Marine?"
After a few minutes of frustrated growling at max frequency distinguished only by amplitude, Sherman finally forced out a coherent sentence. "Not my fucking fault the truck only makes fifteen fucking miles per hour."
Jersey rolled her eyes so hard Crowning could see it though her shades. "Yeah, we get it. I'm a fatass."
Sherman grumbled back something too quiet to be heard though the cab walls. Crowning just stared at the battleship girl, his mouth hanging half-open.
"What?"
"You weren't offended?" said Crowning, throwing away all the well-laid plans he'd made for broaching the subject.
"The hell would I be?" said Jersey, smirking as she crossed her arms. "I'm fifty-eight thousand tons, and I still make thirty-three knots!"
"But you-"
"Have these?" Jersey glanced down at her chest, her mouth dropping open in one of the most painfully overacted displays of surprise Crowning had ever seen. "My god, clearly these override the fact that I'm… ya know… a fucking battleship."
"I.. see your point," said Crowning, hanging his head and trying very hard not to watch the newly-incarnated battleship prodding her chest. "Then why were you so quiet this whole trip?"
Jersey let her hands fall onto her lap, dipping her head so she could look though the top of her shades. "I was hungry."
Crowning's jaw dropped, his hand reflexively wandering to his wallet. "You ate two dozen apple pies."
"At full power, I burn fifty tons of fuel an hour."
His hand clenched tighter. "I… I'll count myself lucky then."
Jersey shrugged, a glint of a smile on her face. "But, uh… the answer's 'not much'."
"Pardon?"
"How much I remember," said Jersey, holding her hands out ahead of her, her fingertips touching in the general shape of a ship's prow. "From when I was a ship." She made little wave sounds, bending her arms to make her 'hull' rock in the imaginary seas. "It's just… feelings. Maybe a flash here and there. My crew doing their duties, shit like that."
"Nothing specific?" Asked Crowning, fumbling for the notepad in his jacket pocket. "Even… when you were summoned?"
Jersey shook her head, pursing her lips as she stared intently at her toes. "I'm sorry…"
Crowning set the notepad back down, tapping a loose rhythm against the paper with his pen.
"If I could help, I would," said the battleship, her voice so soft it was almost lost in the pathetic screeches of suspension springs. "I just… I knew I needed to be. That's- that's something, right?"
"You know," he said, content to address the towering battleship when she was too tired to retaliate. "I was going to ask how much you remembered."
"Hmm?" one eyebrow creeping up over the rim of her glasses was the only motion the battleship girl made.
"At the restaurant," said Crowning, mentally steeling himself for whatever retaliation she might inflict. She had a good foot on him, and those bare legs rippled with muscle. If he really made her mad, there wouldn't be anything he could do but take it. "I wasn't asking how much you weighed."
For what felt like hours, the truck's bed was silent except for the weary rumble of an overstrained diesel engine. Then the front end of the truck exploded in the squeal of air brakes and the bellowed tirade of one thoroughly fed-up Marine.
Jersey's head pivoted towards the cab with such mechanical precision, Crowning swore he could hear the bearings glide in their raceways. "The hell, Marine?"
After a few minutes of frustrated growling at max frequency distinguished only by amplitude, Sherman finally forced out a coherent sentence. "Not my fucking fault the truck only makes fifteen fucking miles per hour."
Jersey rolled her eyes so hard Crowning could see it though her shades. "Yeah, we get it. I'm a fatass."
Sherman grumbled back something too quiet to be heard though the cab walls. Crowning just stared at the battleship girl, his mouth hanging half-open.
"What?"
"You weren't offended?" said Crowning, throwing away all the well-laid plans he'd made for broaching the subject.
"The hell would I be?" said Jersey, smirking as she crossed her arms. "I'm fifty-eight thousand tons, and I still make thirty-three knots!"
"But you-"
"Have these?" Jersey glanced down at her chest, her mouth dropping open in one of the most painfully overacted displays of surprise Crowning had ever seen. "My god, clearly these override the fact that I'm… ya know… a fucking battleship."
"I.. see your point," said Crowning, hanging his head and trying very hard not to watch the newly-incarnated battleship prodding her chest. "Then why were you so quiet this whole trip?"
Jersey let her hands fall onto her lap, dipping her head so she could look though the top of her shades. "I was hungry."
Crowning's jaw dropped, his hand reflexively wandering to his wallet. "You ate two dozen apple pies."
"At full power, I burn fifty tons of fuel an hour."
His hand clenched tighter. "I… I'll count myself lucky then."
Jersey shrugged, a glint of a smile on her face. "But, uh… the answer's 'not much'."
"Pardon?"
"How much I remember," said Jersey, holding her hands out ahead of her, her fingertips touching in the general shape of a ship's prow. "From when I was a ship." She made little wave sounds, bending her arms to make her 'hull' rock in the imaginary seas. "It's just… feelings. Maybe a flash here and there. My crew doing their duties, shit like that."
"Nothing specific?" Asked Crowning, fumbling for the notepad in his jacket pocket. "Even… when you were summoned?"
Jersey shook her head, pursing her lips as she stared intently at her toes. "I'm sorry…"
Crowning set the notepad back down, tapping a loose rhythm against the paper with his pen.
"If I could help, I would," said the battleship, her voice so soft it was almost lost in the pathetic screeches of suspension springs. "I just… I knew I needed to be. That's- that's something, right?"
Last edited:
Parts 3-6
- Location
- 'Murica
Part 4: In which Jersey encounters the wonders of TLAs.
Jersey stretched her legs as best she could in the cramped ten-ton's bed. Her toes squished into the front of her navy-blue running shoes as the bumped up against the opposite wall. She'd been under tow before, back when she was a ship proper, but this… this was something very different.
"Leg falling asleep?" asked Crowing, obligingly scooting down the bench seat to give the battleship more room to stretch.
"Hmm?" Jersey tilted her head to the side, peering at him though the tops of her shades. "Oh, no…" she trailed off, trying to think of how she knew what 'leg falling asleep meant.' "I don't think. Just a new experience for me."
Crowning nodded, then slowly let out a soft chuckle. "I keep forgetting you're less than a day old."
"Hey now," Jersey sat up, resting her arms on her bare thighs. "I was laid down in '39."
"And yet, this is your first car ride."
Jersey scowled. "Fine, you got me. I'm grouchy." She crossed her arms over her chest, puckering her down vest so the yellow-gold liner showed. "I'm not meant to spend this long cooped up in a box."
"We've been driving for an hour and a half."
"Don't tell me," Jersey glanced at one of the watches around her wrist, making sure it agreed with her ship's chronometer. A minute or so fast, but that didn't make her sore... stern? maybe? feel any better. "'least we're almost there."
Crowning glanced over his shoulder. The windows were little more than narrow slits, impossible to get a good set of bearings without your nose pressed up against them. "With this traffic, who knows?"
Jersey smirked.
There was a sharp bang against the front of the cab. "Yo," Sherman's voice was hoarse from screaming at traffic and the truck's overstressed engine. "we're here!"
Jersey's smirk graduated to a full-blown Cheshire-cat grin.
"How could you possibly know?"
"Simple," said Jersey, her body sloshing forwards against the cabin bulkhead as the truck ground to a stop. "We made two stops in quick succession. That was our driver stopping to exchange ID, then wait for the inner gate to open."
Crowning sat back in his bench, shaking his head with a disbelieving grin.
"Oh, and I launched a kingfisher before we met. Had it trailing us for the past four hours." Jersey closed her eyes, letting the faries in her scout plane see for her.
"That… that's cheating."
Jersey shrugged, waving a hand at the back door, "And in three… two… one…"
The latches swung open with a crunch of metal-on-metal, and the door swung open to reveal a half-dozen men in splotchy gray tiger-stripe fatigues. The nearest offered a pearly smile as he stepped back to make room. "Welcome to JB-MDL, ma'am?"
Jersey ducked as she made her way out the rear of the truck, letting out a pleasured sigh as her shoes hit the comfortingly still tarmac. "Jay-Bee-what-what?" She pulled her cap on, squinting into the amber evening sun. "We name bases with a can of alphabet soup in the future?"
"Uh, no, ma'am," said the main in the tiger-stripe fatigues. "It stands for Joint-Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst."
Jersey was only half-paying attention as she whistled for her kingfisher. The fairy'd been happy to finally get in the air again. But four hours was a long time to stay in the air, and the poor thing was getting grouchy. "Bit of a mouthfu- wait, what?"
"Ma'am?"
Jersey glanced over at the man, her eyes picking out the details of his uniform. "Hey, Sherman!" she barked, her floatplane all but forgotten.
"Ma'am!" Sherman trotted over as fast as the limp he was dependently trying to hide would allow.
"We let zoomies on our bases in the future?"
"Well… ma'am, it's technically our base now." said the Airman. "JB-MDL is under Airlift Mobility Command."
Jersey let out a grunt, flashing a smirk at the airman. "Well," she said, splitting her attention between the airman infront of her and the kingfisher angling in on said airman's cover, "Thank you for letting an old salt onto your fancy little base."
"You're very welcome ma'am," said the airman with almost painful earnest.
"One question."
"Ma'am?," he said, blissfully ignorant of the tinny whrrrrr of a teeny-tiny Pratt & Whitney.
"Is the pattern full?"
"MaaAAA The FUCK!" His voice jumped almost a solid octave as the kingfisher sent his cover flying with the nose of its float.
Sherman bit his lip to keep from laughing along as the tiny airplane flew a victory roll around Jersey's head before vectoring off to land.
"You, uh, might want to advise the tower."
"Will do, ma'am," said the airman, waving at one of his subordinates to do the deed.
"Ma'am-" Sherman stepped a bit closer to the battleship, "General Carter and Admiral Williams want to talk with you."
Jersey huffed, crossing her arms with a cocky smirk. "No more bothering zoomies?"
"I'm afraid not, ma'am."
"Fiiiine."
"Leg falling asleep?" asked Crowing, obligingly scooting down the bench seat to give the battleship more room to stretch.
"Hmm?" Jersey tilted her head to the side, peering at him though the tops of her shades. "Oh, no…" she trailed off, trying to think of how she knew what 'leg falling asleep meant.' "I don't think. Just a new experience for me."
Crowning nodded, then slowly let out a soft chuckle. "I keep forgetting you're less than a day old."
"Hey now," Jersey sat up, resting her arms on her bare thighs. "I was laid down in '39."
"And yet, this is your first car ride."
Jersey scowled. "Fine, you got me. I'm grouchy." She crossed her arms over her chest, puckering her down vest so the yellow-gold liner showed. "I'm not meant to spend this long cooped up in a box."
"We've been driving for an hour and a half."
"Don't tell me," Jersey glanced at one of the watches around her wrist, making sure it agreed with her ship's chronometer. A minute or so fast, but that didn't make her sore... stern? maybe? feel any better. "'least we're almost there."
Crowning glanced over his shoulder. The windows were little more than narrow slits, impossible to get a good set of bearings without your nose pressed up against them. "With this traffic, who knows?"
Jersey smirked.
There was a sharp bang against the front of the cab. "Yo," Sherman's voice was hoarse from screaming at traffic and the truck's overstressed engine. "we're here!"
Jersey's smirk graduated to a full-blown Cheshire-cat grin.
"How could you possibly know?"
"Simple," said Jersey, her body sloshing forwards against the cabin bulkhead as the truck ground to a stop. "We made two stops in quick succession. That was our driver stopping to exchange ID, then wait for the inner gate to open."
Crowning sat back in his bench, shaking his head with a disbelieving grin.
"Oh, and I launched a kingfisher before we met. Had it trailing us for the past four hours." Jersey closed her eyes, letting the faries in her scout plane see for her.
"That… that's cheating."
Jersey shrugged, waving a hand at the back door, "And in three… two… one…"
The latches swung open with a crunch of metal-on-metal, and the door swung open to reveal a half-dozen men in splotchy gray tiger-stripe fatigues. The nearest offered a pearly smile as he stepped back to make room. "Welcome to JB-MDL, ma'am?"
Jersey ducked as she made her way out the rear of the truck, letting out a pleasured sigh as her shoes hit the comfortingly still tarmac. "Jay-Bee-what-what?" She pulled her cap on, squinting into the amber evening sun. "We name bases with a can of alphabet soup in the future?"
"Uh, no, ma'am," said the main in the tiger-stripe fatigues. "It stands for Joint-Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst."
Jersey was only half-paying attention as she whistled for her kingfisher. The fairy'd been happy to finally get in the air again. But four hours was a long time to stay in the air, and the poor thing was getting grouchy. "Bit of a mouthfu- wait, what?"
"Ma'am?"
Jersey glanced over at the man, her eyes picking out the details of his uniform. "Hey, Sherman!" she barked, her floatplane all but forgotten.
"Ma'am!" Sherman trotted over as fast as the limp he was dependently trying to hide would allow.
"We let zoomies on our bases in the future?"
"Well… ma'am, it's technically our base now." said the Airman. "JB-MDL is under Airlift Mobility Command."
Jersey let out a grunt, flashing a smirk at the airman. "Well," she said, splitting her attention between the airman infront of her and the kingfisher angling in on said airman's cover, "Thank you for letting an old salt onto your fancy little base."
"You're very welcome ma'am," said the airman with almost painful earnest.
"One question."
"Ma'am?," he said, blissfully ignorant of the tinny whrrrrr of a teeny-tiny Pratt & Whitney.
"Is the pattern full?"
"MaaAAA The FUCK!" His voice jumped almost a solid octave as the kingfisher sent his cover flying with the nose of its float.
Sherman bit his lip to keep from laughing along as the tiny airplane flew a victory roll around Jersey's head before vectoring off to land.
"You, uh, might want to advise the tower."
"Will do, ma'am," said the airman, waving at one of his subordinates to do the deed.
"Ma'am-" Sherman stepped a bit closer to the battleship, "General Carter and Admiral Williams want to talk with you."
Jersey huffed, crossing her arms with a cocky smirk. "No more bothering zoomies?"
"I'm afraid not, ma'am."
"Fiiiine."
Part 4.5 Has reality hit the bottle again?
"You want me to land what?" Tech Sergeant Kenny Chung could only stare at his own bewildered expression reflected in the smooth black plastic telephone.
"A, uh… floatplane, Tower." the tinny voice on the other side of the seemed to flip between confusion and a tinge of fear with every word.
"A floatplane." Chung's voice was flatter than the miles of concrete runway he looked after. Any other day, he might have brushed this off as some sort of prank, the poor airman on the other end certainly sounded like he didn't believe what he was saying. Then again, the base—the landlocked base— was currently playing host to a battleship from WWII.
"Uh… yes, sir." there was a pause, and Chung could just make out rapid, if muffled, conversations on the other end of the phone. "A kingfisher, sir. We think."
Chung sighed, cradling the phone against his shoulder as he reached for his coffee. "And do you have a vector for me?"
"Uh, negative. She just told us to tell you."
"She?"
"New Jersey, tower."
"Well, tell her that-" Chung's voice was abruptly lost in the throaty rumble of a Pratt & Whitney Wasp Junior engine ripping past the control tower windows with all the speed a portly little kingfisher scout plane could manage. "FUCK!"
"Yeah," said the airman, clearly struggling to suppress a chuckle as muffled laughter sounded though the phone. "She, uh… likes to do that."
Chung growled something incoherent and slammed the phone back down. "Tapping!"
"Sergeant?" the blonde airman looked over from her station.
"Get me a line to that plane, WWII frequencies!"
"Uh… okay, Sergeant." said Tapping, her normally doe-like blue eyes as wide as dinner plates with confusion.
"Have to vector in a WWII naval float plane," said Chung, hoping if he explained enough it would make sense to him.
"But… we're landlocked."
"Yeah," Chung sighed, hanging his head in resignation. "Just… tell me when you have the freqs."
"Wait one," Tapping ducked under her desk for a few minutes, coming back with her cover askew and a triumphant smile on her face. "Try it now."
Chung held the phone like a lifeline as he brought it up to his face. "MDL tower to…" he paused, trying to guess how to even address the buzz-happy little floatplane, "New Jersey kingfisher. How copy, over?"
The little blue plane dipped one wing, then the other as it blissfully cruised past the tower.
"Sergeant, that plane has a float," said Tapping, setting her binoculars down.
"I know."
"I mean- It doesn't have wheels."
"I know."
Tapping leaned in, pressing her binoculars against the control tower glass. "We're on a landlocked base."
"Yeah, I know." Chung let out a low whistle as he tried to think. "Uh, Kingfisher, due west of the tower is a lake, you'll have about twelve-hundred feet of open water."
"That's not much," muttered Tapping. With her eyes glued on the little floatplane, she utterly missed the razor-sharp glare Chung was sending her way.
The kingfisher, however, seemed to disagree. Flipping one haze-blue wing over the other, it did a little barrel roll over the tower.
"Uh… let's get a fire-control team down there," said Chung, "So we can fish out the, uh, WWII floatplane." he added, hanging his head. This was going to be a strange night.
"A, uh… floatplane, Tower." the tinny voice on the other side of the seemed to flip between confusion and a tinge of fear with every word.
"A floatplane." Chung's voice was flatter than the miles of concrete runway he looked after. Any other day, he might have brushed this off as some sort of prank, the poor airman on the other end certainly sounded like he didn't believe what he was saying. Then again, the base—the landlocked base— was currently playing host to a battleship from WWII.
"Uh… yes, sir." there was a pause, and Chung could just make out rapid, if muffled, conversations on the other end of the phone. "A kingfisher, sir. We think."
Chung sighed, cradling the phone against his shoulder as he reached for his coffee. "And do you have a vector for me?"
"Uh, negative. She just told us to tell you."
"She?"
"New Jersey, tower."
"Well, tell her that-" Chung's voice was abruptly lost in the throaty rumble of a Pratt & Whitney Wasp Junior engine ripping past the control tower windows with all the speed a portly little kingfisher scout plane could manage. "FUCK!"
"Yeah," said the airman, clearly struggling to suppress a chuckle as muffled laughter sounded though the phone. "She, uh… likes to do that."
Chung growled something incoherent and slammed the phone back down. "Tapping!"
"Sergeant?" the blonde airman looked over from her station.
"Get me a line to that plane, WWII frequencies!"
"Uh… okay, Sergeant." said Tapping, her normally doe-like blue eyes as wide as dinner plates with confusion.
"Have to vector in a WWII naval float plane," said Chung, hoping if he explained enough it would make sense to him.
"But… we're landlocked."
"Yeah," Chung sighed, hanging his head in resignation. "Just… tell me when you have the freqs."
"Wait one," Tapping ducked under her desk for a few minutes, coming back with her cover askew and a triumphant smile on her face. "Try it now."
Chung held the phone like a lifeline as he brought it up to his face. "MDL tower to…" he paused, trying to guess how to even address the buzz-happy little floatplane, "New Jersey kingfisher. How copy, over?"
The little blue plane dipped one wing, then the other as it blissfully cruised past the tower.
"Sergeant, that plane has a float," said Tapping, setting her binoculars down.
"I know."
"I mean- It doesn't have wheels."
"I know."
Tapping leaned in, pressing her binoculars against the control tower glass. "We're on a landlocked base."
"Yeah, I know." Chung let out a low whistle as he tried to think. "Uh, Kingfisher, due west of the tower is a lake, you'll have about twelve-hundred feet of open water."
"That's not much," muttered Tapping. With her eyes glued on the little floatplane, she utterly missed the razor-sharp glare Chung was sending her way.
The kingfisher, however, seemed to disagree. Flipping one haze-blue wing over the other, it did a little barrel roll over the tower.
"Uh… let's get a fire-control team down there," said Chung, "So we can fish out the, uh, WWII floatplane." he added, hanging his head. This was going to be a strange night.
Part 5: More brass. All of the brass.
The General's office stank of long-forgotten coffee and messy piles of paperwork made the room seem half the size it truly was. Jersey nearly knocked over a pile of binders resting precariously on a chair as she ducked under the lintel, her sneaker stopping just in time.
An exhausted-looking woman—her rumpled tiger-stripe fatigues nearly lost in the mess of forms and stained-brown coffee mugs— stood to greet the returned battleship.
"Battleship USS New Jersey reporting!" said Jersey, throwing her shoulders back as she stood at full attention, the brim of her cap just brushing against the overhead light fixture. "Ma'am!" she added, snapping her hand up in a salute.
"At ease…" the General returned the salute with a considerably looser version. For a moment, she looked lost for how to address the towering girl, before finally settling on, "Jersey. Sorry about the mess, managing airlifts' been hell."
"Oh, of course ma'am." Jersey nodded, tipping the brim of her hat at Crowning as the civilian awkwardly shuffled in behind her. "And, ah, this is Professor Crowning. He's the one who summoned me." She paused, biting the corner of her mouth, "I- think."
"If she's telling the truth, we're in your debt," said the General, letting herself fall back into her chair. "Brigadier General Sarah Carter," she added, fishing her name-plate out from a toppled pile of… some kind of paperwork.
Crowning rocked on his heels, suddenly very interested in anything but the General. "You should save the thanks for when I figure out how it happened."
Carter nodded, letting out a quiet sigh as she let her chin loll down against her collar bone.
"Um, ma'am," Jersey stepped a little closer, making sure to duck under the lights this time. "Isn't there supposed to be an Admiral here?"
Carter coughed, nodding in the direction Jersey and Crowning walked in. A huge flat-screen television dominated the wall, leaving just enough room for the door frame and a few shelves with books and scale-models of transport aircraft Jersey didn't recognize.
On the television was a silver-haried man who managed to somehow look even more exhausted than that general Carter. His duty whites were fraying around the collar, and his face had the tell-tale stubble of at least a few days without a shave. A subtitle identified him as "VADM: Samuel Williams, COMPACFLT"
"Oh," Jersey was suddenly very glad for the mirrored shades hiding her eyes, and blush. "That's cool," she said weakly.
"Miss Jersey, Doctor Crowning," said the Admiral, his voice surprisingly commanding for all the stress he was obviously under. "I can't tell you how good it is you have you with us."
"It's, uh… good to be here, sir," said Jersey, somehow forcing her spine straighter as she stood rapt attention.
"Doctor Crowning, before we continue… I'm afraid I must ask something of you."
"Yes?" Crowning stepped forwards so he wasn't being dwarfed quite so much by the battleship.
"I won't lie to you, either of you. We are in desperate need of ship spirits to continue this war," said the Admiral, his gaze piercing even though the jittery webcam. "And so far you're the only American to summon one, regardless of how accidental."
"Sir, I'm not sure-" Crowning abruptly stopped when Jersey put her hand on his shoulder.
"You did," she said, giving him a brief reassuring pat, "I'm pretty sure."
Williams gave the two a moment before continuing, "Jersey is to be transferred to our research facility in Bremerton. Doctor, you're on contract for another month of research on Jersey, though… obviously the situation has changed."
"No, no- I mean…" Crowning shook his head, sneaking a glance at the stern visage of the returned battleship-girl. "I signed on for this, I'm not leaving her."
"Excellent," said Williams, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a vague approximation of a smile. "Carter will have a modified C-5 prepared-"
"Sir," Jersey leaned forwards, biting her lip as she interrupted.
"Yes, Jersey?"
"The pacific isn't the only coast under attacks," said the battleship, her hands on her hips as she stared down at the little plastic webcam. "Why send me across the country."
"Because so far every attack, including the one that sunk you, has been carried out by submarine," said Williams, humoring the battleship girl for now. But Jersey could see his temper wearing thin before her eyes. "Perhaps in the future your surface warfare skills will be needed. But they are needed in the pacific. Desperately."
Jersey scrunched up her nose, risking one more question before she was satisfied. "But… New Jersey is my home, we're not leaving it defenceless."
"The RCN has twenty ASW girls patrolling the coasts, with more on the way," said Williams, "They'll do the job a hell of a lot better than you could. Understood?"
Jersey nodded, the heels of her sneakers coming together with a squeak of rubber on polished flooring. "Perfectly, sir."
"One final thing. As per US Navy protocol, you're promoted to the brevet rank of Lieutenant Commander, with official recognition to follow after you've proven yourself. Williams out."The transmission abruptly cut to a black screen with a blue "Signal Lost" message dominating the upper quarter.
Crowning was the first to speak. "I- I thought you were the first we summoned," he glanced from Jersey to Carter, "And there's already a protocol?"
"You think the Navy would try and summon a shipgirl," said Carter, "without knowing what to do if they got one?"
Crowning shrugged, but Jersey was too busy wordlessly staring at her reflection in the television to notice.
"C-5'll be prepped in two hours," said Carter, flipping open one of the hundreds of folders littering her desk, "Do what you got to do."
An exhausted-looking woman—her rumpled tiger-stripe fatigues nearly lost in the mess of forms and stained-brown coffee mugs— stood to greet the returned battleship.
"Battleship USS New Jersey reporting!" said Jersey, throwing her shoulders back as she stood at full attention, the brim of her cap just brushing against the overhead light fixture. "Ma'am!" she added, snapping her hand up in a salute.
"At ease…" the General returned the salute with a considerably looser version. For a moment, she looked lost for how to address the towering girl, before finally settling on, "Jersey. Sorry about the mess, managing airlifts' been hell."
"Oh, of course ma'am." Jersey nodded, tipping the brim of her hat at Crowning as the civilian awkwardly shuffled in behind her. "And, ah, this is Professor Crowning. He's the one who summoned me." She paused, biting the corner of her mouth, "I- think."
"If she's telling the truth, we're in your debt," said the General, letting herself fall back into her chair. "Brigadier General Sarah Carter," she added, fishing her name-plate out from a toppled pile of… some kind of paperwork.
Crowning rocked on his heels, suddenly very interested in anything but the General. "You should save the thanks for when I figure out how it happened."
Carter nodded, letting out a quiet sigh as she let her chin loll down against her collar bone.
"Um, ma'am," Jersey stepped a little closer, making sure to duck under the lights this time. "Isn't there supposed to be an Admiral here?"
Carter coughed, nodding in the direction Jersey and Crowning walked in. A huge flat-screen television dominated the wall, leaving just enough room for the door frame and a few shelves with books and scale-models of transport aircraft Jersey didn't recognize.
On the television was a silver-haried man who managed to somehow look even more exhausted than that general Carter. His duty whites were fraying around the collar, and his face had the tell-tale stubble of at least a few days without a shave. A subtitle identified him as "VADM: Samuel Williams, COMPACFLT"
"Oh," Jersey was suddenly very glad for the mirrored shades hiding her eyes, and blush. "That's cool," she said weakly.
"Miss Jersey, Doctor Crowning," said the Admiral, his voice surprisingly commanding for all the stress he was obviously under. "I can't tell you how good it is you have you with us."
"It's, uh… good to be here, sir," said Jersey, somehow forcing her spine straighter as she stood rapt attention.
"Doctor Crowning, before we continue… I'm afraid I must ask something of you."
"Yes?" Crowning stepped forwards so he wasn't being dwarfed quite so much by the battleship.
"I won't lie to you, either of you. We are in desperate need of ship spirits to continue this war," said the Admiral, his gaze piercing even though the jittery webcam. "And so far you're the only American to summon one, regardless of how accidental."
"Sir, I'm not sure-" Crowning abruptly stopped when Jersey put her hand on his shoulder.
"You did," she said, giving him a brief reassuring pat, "I'm pretty sure."
Williams gave the two a moment before continuing, "Jersey is to be transferred to our research facility in Bremerton. Doctor, you're on contract for another month of research on Jersey, though… obviously the situation has changed."
"No, no- I mean…" Crowning shook his head, sneaking a glance at the stern visage of the returned battleship-girl. "I signed on for this, I'm not leaving her."
"Excellent," said Williams, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a vague approximation of a smile. "Carter will have a modified C-5 prepared-"
"Sir," Jersey leaned forwards, biting her lip as she interrupted.
"Yes, Jersey?"
"The pacific isn't the only coast under attacks," said the battleship, her hands on her hips as she stared down at the little plastic webcam. "Why send me across the country."
"Because so far every attack, including the one that sunk you, has been carried out by submarine," said Williams, humoring the battleship girl for now. But Jersey could see his temper wearing thin before her eyes. "Perhaps in the future your surface warfare skills will be needed. But they are needed in the pacific. Desperately."
Jersey scrunched up her nose, risking one more question before she was satisfied. "But… New Jersey is my home, we're not leaving it defenceless."
"The RCN has twenty ASW girls patrolling the coasts, with more on the way," said Williams, "They'll do the job a hell of a lot better than you could. Understood?"
Jersey nodded, the heels of her sneakers coming together with a squeak of rubber on polished flooring. "Perfectly, sir."
"One final thing. As per US Navy protocol, you're promoted to the brevet rank of Lieutenant Commander, with official recognition to follow after you've proven yourself. Williams out."The transmission abruptly cut to a black screen with a blue "Signal Lost" message dominating the upper quarter.
Crowning was the first to speak. "I- I thought you were the first we summoned," he glanced from Jersey to Carter, "And there's already a protocol?"
"You think the Navy would try and summon a shipgirl," said Carter, "without knowing what to do if they got one?"
Crowning shrugged, but Jersey was too busy wordlessly staring at her reflection in the television to notice.
"C-5'll be prepped in two hours," said Carter, flipping open one of the hundreds of folders littering her desk, "Do what you got to do."
Part 6: Please do not break the BBs
Jersey didn't say a word as she picked at her twelfth plate of chicken-fried steak, her face an emotionless mask behind her aviators as she sliced off a bite-sized morsel.
"Haven't said two words since…" Crowning set his cup down, gingerly clearing a spot between the two towers of plates the battleship had produced. "Well, since that talk with the Admiral."
Jersey glared at him, her stare piercing even though her shades.
"And… you've barely touched that," he added, nodding to the mostly-intact piece of breaded meat on her plate.
"Not hungry," grunted the battleship, tossing her fork down against the plate with a clatter of steel-on-plastic.
Crowning smirked in spite of himself, nodding to the stack of messy dishes. "I should hope so, after all that." He took a sip from his own cup—coffee, one cream two sugars—before addressing her again. "But something's bothering you."
"You don't know that," said Jersey, weakly toying with her fork, turning it over and over against her plate.
"You saying I'm… wrong?"
Jersey huffed slouching back in her chair until her face all but disappeared into her navy blue scarf. "Fine. I'm not okay. I just… that was a Vice Admiral we talked to."
Crowning settled on his chair, taking a sip as he waited for her to continue. Hopefully, she'd put it in terms a civilian like him could understand.
"CINCPACFLT's a four-star billet," said Jersey, scowling as she flung her fork down, crossing her arms with a huff. "If… if a three-star's holding the post, either everyone above him's dead, or" she bit her lip, looking over her shoulder at nothing in particular."
"Or?"
"Or we've lost so many ships a three-star's all it takes," said the battleship. She bit her lip, pulling her shades off to run her hand over her face, barely letting out a tiny sniffle. "Or both," she said, her rumbling contralto replaced by a quiet wimper, "And, uh…" she stopped, coughing as she fought to get her voice back. "And I'm pretty sure it's more the second one."
Crowning stared into his coffee. The horrific losses the Navy'd been suffering were common knowledge, and that was after whatever propaganda mills the DoD had working for them put their spin on it. It was just a fact of life for him.
"I was born after Midway," said Jersey, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand.
"Hmm?"
"The turning point of the war," Jersey sniffed, pushing her shades back on as she turned to face him again. "I served for fifty-nine years, and I never knew a time when we weren't… when we didn't own the seas."
"Times have changed-"
"Fuck that!" said Jersey, slamming her fist on the table so hard her plate shattered, sending bits of jagged plastic flying into the tables around her. "I'm an Iowa class battleship. You know what that means?"
"That-" Crowning was cut off by a guttural snarl from the battleship girl. Behind her, a pair of airmen glanced between the suddenly-shouting battleship and one another, both frozen in place.
"It means," said Jersey, grinding her hand into the table. "It means that my job is to protect. I was a flak screen for our carriers, I was artillery support for our troops… I was… I was…" She snarled again, wiping her free hand across her face. "I let my country bleed dry when they needed me!"
Crowning was lost for words. He'd gotten used to the battleship's relaxed, if rather trollish, personality. "Jersey, we need you now. You didn't miss your calling, it's still here."
The battleship was silent, and Crowning could somehow tell her eyes were fixed on his though those mirrored shades, her lip quivering ever so slightly.
"Hell, we need you now more than ever," said Crowning, "We're up against the wall, and we need… spirits like you." He stopped, running a hand though his hair as he cobbled together another sentence. "We would have taken a destroyer, hell, a freighter. But we got you, a- no, the battleship."
Jersey sat up a little straighter, her head canting to the side as she listened to him.
"I'm no historian," said Crowning, "but from what I've been told… your class were the ultimate battleships, The floating embodiment of America's industrial might. You're more than a ship, you're a symbol. A Symbol that will lead our fleet into battle. And into victory."
Jersey smirked- no, smiled, her teeth shining in the mess hall lighting a she wiped at her face. "The hell'd you learn to talk like that?"
"Henry the Fifth," said Crowning with a shrug.
"Well, it helped," said Jersey, plucking her fork up again.
"Uh… ma'am?" One of the airmen Crowning'd spotted before gingerly walked up, holding his clipboard before like a shield.
"Hmm?" Jersey spun in her seat, her running shorts swooshing against the smooth plastic.
"There's been an… uh…" the airman glanced over for his comrade, who was still standing in the doorway flashing him a thumbs-up. "incident with your plane."
"Oh shit," Jersey, bounced to her feet, her shoes briefly leaving the ground from the energy of the manuver. "What'd she do- wait." She skidded around, grabbing her mostly- untouched piece of chicken-fried steak, "What'd she do now?"
"Haven't said two words since…" Crowning set his cup down, gingerly clearing a spot between the two towers of plates the battleship had produced. "Well, since that talk with the Admiral."
Jersey glared at him, her stare piercing even though her shades.
"And… you've barely touched that," he added, nodding to the mostly-intact piece of breaded meat on her plate.
"Not hungry," grunted the battleship, tossing her fork down against the plate with a clatter of steel-on-plastic.
Crowning smirked in spite of himself, nodding to the stack of messy dishes. "I should hope so, after all that." He took a sip from his own cup—coffee, one cream two sugars—before addressing her again. "But something's bothering you."
"You don't know that," said Jersey, weakly toying with her fork, turning it over and over against her plate.
"You saying I'm… wrong?"
Jersey huffed slouching back in her chair until her face all but disappeared into her navy blue scarf. "Fine. I'm not okay. I just… that was a Vice Admiral we talked to."
Crowning settled on his chair, taking a sip as he waited for her to continue. Hopefully, she'd put it in terms a civilian like him could understand.
"CINCPACFLT's a four-star billet," said Jersey, scowling as she flung her fork down, crossing her arms with a huff. "If… if a three-star's holding the post, either everyone above him's dead, or" she bit her lip, looking over her shoulder at nothing in particular."
"Or?"
"Or we've lost so many ships a three-star's all it takes," said the battleship. She bit her lip, pulling her shades off to run her hand over her face, barely letting out a tiny sniffle. "Or both," she said, her rumbling contralto replaced by a quiet wimper, "And, uh…" she stopped, coughing as she fought to get her voice back. "And I'm pretty sure it's more the second one."
Crowning stared into his coffee. The horrific losses the Navy'd been suffering were common knowledge, and that was after whatever propaganda mills the DoD had working for them put their spin on it. It was just a fact of life for him.
"I was born after Midway," said Jersey, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand.
"Hmm?"
"The turning point of the war," Jersey sniffed, pushing her shades back on as she turned to face him again. "I served for fifty-nine years, and I never knew a time when we weren't… when we didn't own the seas."
"Times have changed-"
"Fuck that!" said Jersey, slamming her fist on the table so hard her plate shattered, sending bits of jagged plastic flying into the tables around her. "I'm an Iowa class battleship. You know what that means?"
"That-" Crowning was cut off by a guttural snarl from the battleship girl. Behind her, a pair of airmen glanced between the suddenly-shouting battleship and one another, both frozen in place.
"It means," said Jersey, grinding her hand into the table. "It means that my job is to protect. I was a flak screen for our carriers, I was artillery support for our troops… I was… I was…" She snarled again, wiping her free hand across her face. "I let my country bleed dry when they needed me!"
Crowning was lost for words. He'd gotten used to the battleship's relaxed, if rather trollish, personality. "Jersey, we need you now. You didn't miss your calling, it's still here."
The battleship was silent, and Crowning could somehow tell her eyes were fixed on his though those mirrored shades, her lip quivering ever so slightly.
"Hell, we need you now more than ever," said Crowning, "We're up against the wall, and we need… spirits like you." He stopped, running a hand though his hair as he cobbled together another sentence. "We would have taken a destroyer, hell, a freighter. But we got you, a- no, the battleship."
Jersey sat up a little straighter, her head canting to the side as she listened to him.
"I'm no historian," said Crowning, "but from what I've been told… your class were the ultimate battleships, The floating embodiment of America's industrial might. You're more than a ship, you're a symbol. A Symbol that will lead our fleet into battle. And into victory."
Jersey smirked- no, smiled, her teeth shining in the mess hall lighting a she wiped at her face. "The hell'd you learn to talk like that?"
"Henry the Fifth," said Crowning with a shrug.
"Well, it helped," said Jersey, plucking her fork up again.
"Uh… ma'am?" One of the airmen Crowning'd spotted before gingerly walked up, holding his clipboard before like a shield.
"Hmm?" Jersey spun in her seat, her running shorts swooshing against the smooth plastic.
"There's been an… uh…" the airman glanced over for his comrade, who was still standing in the doorway flashing him a thumbs-up. "incident with your plane."
"Oh shit," Jersey, bounced to her feet, her shoes briefly leaving the ground from the energy of the manuver. "What'd she do- wait." She skidded around, grabbing her mostly- untouched piece of chicken-fried steak, "What'd she do now?"
Parts 7-9
- Location
- 'Murica
Yes. Yes it is.
Also, sweet. I got hugs. Good. Jersey really needs hugs from time to time.
Part 7: The new normal
Major David "Trip" McMann sat back in his F-16's reclined ejection seat, his face stuck between irritation and sheer befuddled confusion. He'd thought flying an old-style standing-air-patrol had been unusual. And then command sent him hunting for diesel-powered pigboats. That were also magic. Because why not.Then, just when he and his crew were settling into the numbing routine of fly-land-repair-repeat, the subs started launching float-planes, Float planes with fucking… plague bombs slung under their wings. Except they were Magic float planes that were fucking invisible on radar until you get close enough to throw a knife at the little bastards.
And then they insist on dogfighting. With a forth-generation fighter. And they normally make a decent enough account of themselves. Some-fucking-how.
All this had become the new normal for Trip and his squadron. Normal to the point that a perfectly-pristine navy scout-plane getting wheeled in to the hanger barely rated a raised eyebrow, even when it inexplicably shrank.
No, the weirdest, most utterly inexplicable part of his current situation was the tiny bobblehead of a girl perched on his instrument cowling. Her tiny little arms were crossed over her khaki flying suit and yellow life preserver, her over sized face crossed with a minuscule look of determination.
"No, you can't!" said Tripp, sighing as he stared down the diminutive girl, "No and…" he shook his head, "Are you even rated to fly a jet?"
The girl let out a barely-audible sound, her chin jutting out in defiance as she stared down the infinitely-larger Viper driver.
Trip was about to respond when the door burst open. An Airman almost stumbled though the door, blabbering as fast as his lips would let him. "ma'amIswearitwasbiggerwhenwefoundit."
A second later he was joined by a… girl. A very very tall girl in very very short shorts, with a pair of aviator shades on her smirking face. If the scuttlebutt was even close to the mark, she'd be the battleship New Jersey given human form. Because of course she was. "Okay, first of all… breathe."
Tripp glanced back at the minute girl sitting on his instrument cowling, and the two pilots exchanged a mutual shrug.
New Jersey was joined by an older, academic-looking man in a civilian sweater, but he looked too out of breath to contribute anything.
She gave him a smile before wheeling around to the airman. "And second of all, they… sorta do that," she said, walking over to where the little kingfisher was sitting. Next to the Vipers, it looked like a child's toy resting sideways on its float.
"Hey, you," she said, offering a finger for the tiny floatplane's equally teeny gunner to shake. "Where's your pilot?"
The gunner must have said something, because the next thing Trip knew, the towering battleship-girl was leaning on the cockpit railing, her massive braid hanging right in front of his face. "Hey, this is cool and all, but you know it's air force, right?"
The tiny pilot made a face, her bubbly cheeks going red as a rose.
"There there, c'mon," the fucking battleship intruding in his cockpit held out her hand, motioning for the girl to hop aboard. "Sorry about that," said Jersey, slouching back to smile at Trip. "She, uh… loves Top Gun."
Trip shrugged. First thing this month that actually made sense.
"Hey, Jersey," the scholarly-looking man finally got enough wind in him to speak.
"Yeah?" Jersey jumped down the ladder, her shoes hitting the ground with a thundering thump.
"What, uh, happened to the plane?"
"Picked it up," said Jersey, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her vest.
"Where, uh-" the professor held his hands out in imitation of the plane's foot-or-so wingspan, "where'd you put it?"
"Oh, it's back on the cat," said Jersey.
"But-"
"On. The. Cat."
Part 8: In which we meet animate traffic-control implements.
In her brief time as a human, Jersey had experienced all the emotions she'd only known about second-hand from her crew. Confusion, when she first manifested in the wreck of her own body. Pleasure, when Crowning had introduced her to the marvels of apple pie. Despair, when her Admiral told her how truly dire the situation had become. And now, she got to add one more emotion to her experience.Misery.
"I hate flying," she muttered, her voice so weak it was lost in the rumble of four turbofan engines. The battleship stared into the five-gallon bucket clenched between her thighs, hoping the unnaturally pale shade of her legs was because of the aircraft's lighting.
"Pardon?" Crowning leaned over, doing his best to avoid the sickly-black mix of partially-digested pie chunks and fuel oil sloshing around in her bucket.
"I said I HATE FLYING!" snarled Jersey, whipping her head up to glare at him. And instantly regretting it. "Oh- fu-" she barely managed to get her head over the bucket before her dinner came surging up her throat.
"How are you motion sick?" said Crowning, carefully holding the battleship's braid clear. "You're a…" he stopped, glancing up the girl's body as she vomited for the tenth time, her spine quivering as her muscles tensed and relaxed. "A- uh, a ship," he finished weakly.
"Not-" Jersey wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, "Not the same." She let her head fall back against the jump-seat, her eyes closed as she panted.
Crowning wanted nothing more than to pull the girl in for a tight hug, but contended himself with a sympathetic nod. One of the aircrew—the load-master if he recalled correctly—wordlessly handed her a wet-wipe, which the exhausted battleship took with a weak nod of thanks.
"In the sea, no matter how rough, I've got my hull under me," she said, her chest heaving as she struggled to get her breath back. "This is…" she looked over, her face utterly drained, "This fucking sucks, man."
"Maybe we could land early," said Crowning, glancing towards the cockpit, "See if there's a tr-"
Jersey's grasp was hard as steel around his wrist, her nails biting into his skin as she shook her head. The muscles in her neck tensed as she fought down another wave of nausea, her demanding stare fixed on him.
"Or… not."
Jersey let go, immediately going for her bucket with a thundering wretch.
"Damnit, Jersey!" said Crowning, frantically waving for the airman to fetch another bucket. The flip-side of her bottomless appetite was rearing its ugly head. Only this time it wasn't funny. "If you can't make it-"
"I'll make it!" snarled the battleship, doing her very best to sound threatening with a tiny rivulet of fuel oil running down the corner of her mouth. "They-" she closed her eyes, hissing as the C-5 trundled though a patch of turbulent air.
"Jersey?" Crowning fished a handkerchief from his sweater pocket.
"They need me in the Pacific," she said, dabbing at her face as best she could. "I'm going to the Pacific."
"Stubborn one, aren't you?"
Jersey nodded, her head lolling over until it fell into Crowning's lap. "I'm…" her voice was so quiet it was almost lost in the thrum of jet engines, "I'mma sleep now."
The last thing she remembered before she slipped into unconsciousness was Crowning's hand running though her hair.
- - - - - - - - - --
Jersey bolted upright with a gasp, her eyes burning as they adjusted to the glaring florescent lights all too slowly. "Ah!, what-" she felt a tug on her arm. Her shirt was soaking wet her skin was deathly pale and someone had stabbed her in the elbow with- no, that's an IV. Shiiiiiiit.
"Huh," said someone off to her side. A quick glance confirmed it was doctor. Navy this time though, not Air Force. Yay. "Her vitals look-" he glanced at Jersey, his face a tortured mess of confusion, "I mean… uh, she's awake."
"Clearly," grunted Jersey, reaching over with her free hand to fumble with the IV line. Before anyone could say anything, she wrapped her fingers around the little plastic needle and ripped it out of her arm. "Fuck!"
"Jersey!" Crowning was by her side in an instant, cradling her bleeding arm in his hands.
"Why did I think that was a good idea!" snarled the battleship, her muscular arm taut as she tried to stem the trickle of sticky blood.
"You got me, Commander," said the doctor as he darted off to collect… some medical item, Jersey couldn't see what. His voice was a mix of tender care with just a dash of 'what the hell were you thinking you stupid thing.'
"It looks so cool in the movies," said Jersey, tilting her head so her hat all but hid her face. "What, uh… what happened to me?"
"You passed out," said Crowning, moving his hands as the doctor came back with gauze to bandage her elbow. "On the plane, we couldn't wake you."
"You mean I'm-"
"Not dead," Crowning almost yelped the words out. "You're in Washington."
Jersey narrowed her eyes.
"The State. Joint Base-" Crowning glanced to the doctor.
"Lewis McChord."
"That," said Crowning, smiling as Jersey's skin started to regain its color. "Doc here rushed down from the naval base as soon as we realized we couldn't wake you."
"What, uh… what happened?" asked Jersey, swinging her legs over the side of the stretcher, experimentally poking at the floor with her toes.
"We, uh, think you were out of your element."
Jersey gave him a look so deadpan you could hear it.
"He's not wrong," said the doctor, offering her a glass of water. "Nothing we did could wake you, until…" he motioned for Crowning, "Your friend here had the brilliant idea to splash salt water on your face."
Jersey glanced down at herself, plucking her soggy shirt off her chest. "So…"
"Yeah…" Crowning made sure his eyes were well and truly averted.
"Thanks," said the battleship, throwing her arms around him and pulling him in for a tight, though slightly damp-hug.
"When you two are done," said the doctor, already busying himself with tidying up the exam… room… thing, "There's someone else who'd like to meet you."
"Hm?" Jersey slid off the stretcher onto her feet, leaning on Crowning as she tested her legs, "Yeah, sure. Send him in."
"Her."
"what?"
Before anyone could respond, a bubbly woman in an impossibly short orange-black skirt burst though the door. She was easily a foot shorter than Jersey—not saying much, nearly everyone was—but she more than made up for it with the size of her personality.
"Konnichiwa!" she said, her high-pitched voice positively oozing cuteness, her black-gloved hands coming up in a adorable little wave.
Jersey grunted in abject confusion.
"I'm Naka-Chan!" said… apparently INJ Naka given form. "Idol of the fleet, and liaison of kanmusu operations to the United States!" Her knees bumped together as she effortlessly shifted into yet another pose, this one somehow even cuter. "It'll be so nice to have another kanmusu around!"
For what felt like hours, Jersey didn't even breath, her head slowly pivoting to face Crowning with all the oiled mechanical precision of her main battery turrets. "Crowning?"
"Yeah?"
"What the fuck did we do to Japan?"
Part 9: Ka-Kanmasu? Kanmusu? wtf, Japan?
Jersey didn't say a word as she followed the… frilly orange traffic-cone of a light cruiser towards a truck. A bigger one this time, a semi-tractor rig some vague memory of hers identified as a tank-transporter. "You're Sendai class, right?"Naka nodded, effortlessly pulling herself up into the trailer-mounted cabin. To Jersey's chagrin, the suspension didn't even budge. The slight Japanese girl might only be a light cruiser, but she still displaced almost—Jersey bit the corner of her lip, mentally rifling though the stacks of musty recognition manuals filling her CIC shelves— almost six thousand long tons.
"Still getting used to it, aren't you?" said Naka, offering the towering battleship girl a hand.
"Hmm, what?" Jersey shook it off, climbing into the cabin under her own steam. So to speak. Maybe? She could feel her turbines humming along inside her, like that… phantom limb thing she—or rather her crew— had heard about.
"To being a girl," said Naka, her skirt frilling up with each movement as she slid further into the cabin to make room. "I can tell by the way you look at me."
Jersey frowned. Was she really that easy to read? "Okay, fine." She crossed her arms, her damp shirt wet against her bare forearms. "When I look at you, I see…"
"You see more than a girl, right?" said Naka, her bubbly sweet smile effortlessly transitioning into something a little more… genuine, for lack of a better word. "You're not sure how, but you can tell I've got four stacks, two masts-"
"And a 'cat on your stern," finished Jersey. "It's weird as hell."
"Yeah, well," Naka leaned over, glancing past Jersey as a soldier slid the cab door closed. "You'd better get used to it."
Jersey glanced between the door and Naka. "Why… where's Crowning?" she said, the hair on her neck standing up as she slipped towards General Quarters.
"What we're about to tell you is… very classified," said Naka, "Your friend's riding up front."
"We?"
Naka pointed to the flat-screen mounted on the cab's front bulkhead,"Admiral Williams."
"Oh, shit!" Jersey swore, glancing down at her soaking shirt with distraught. "Shit shit shit…" her head swung back and forth as she looked in vain for something presentable to wear, already shrugging off her vest.
"Uhm…" Naka coughed as the battleship started to pull her shirt up.
"Commander." The familiar scratchy tones of Vice-Admiral Williams' video call echoed though the cabin.
"Sir," said Jersey, her reddening cheeks the only chink in her otherwise perfect deadpan.
"Admiral!" chirped Naka, pushing the cute up to eleven as she beamed an incandescent smile. Jersey swore she saw the little cruiser shoot her a wink.
"Am I interrupting something?" said the Admiral, his tone gruff and full of Admiraly 'if I am, drop that shit and listen up.'
"No sir!" said both shipgirls, more on reflex than anything.
For a moment, Williams just glared at Jersey, his tired stare burning holes in her shades. "Very well… Ladies, I'm not going to sugar coat this. Sixty-percent of all pan-pacific convoys flows though the Pac-North-west. Without those convoys, Japan… hell, most of the Pacific will fall or starve."
"Holy Hannah," whispered Jersey.
"The JMSDF and their… Kanmusu- the Admiral nodded to Naka by means of explanation, "-are doing their best to keep their half of the ocean clear. But their best is just barely cutting it."
"What about us, sir?" said Jersey. She knew she should just sit quietly and let her Admiral brief her. But…damn it, she was a battleship of the American Navy. She couldn't bare the thought of her country doing nothing!
"We don't have the ships to put up a fight," said Williams. He sounded just as bitter about it as Jersey. "And even if we did, we wouldn't have the missiles to fill their magazines. Hell, half the Atlantic CAP's flying with just gunpods, or nothing at all."
"Damn…" Jersey ran her hand over her face, her eyes starting to water in spite of her best efforts.
"I'm… afraid that's not all."
"Sir?"
"Abyssals… they're like us," said Naka, twisting in her seat to face Jersey. "They're… more spiritual than physical."
"Bastards don't show up on radar if they don't want to… or until you get close enough to see the whites of their fucking eyes."
"We're different though," said Naka, the little cruiser resting one gloved hand on Jersey's bare leg, giving her the tiniest of reassuring nods. "We're… uh, on the same plane as them-" she drew a little shape with her hands "-our sensors work just like they should."*
"Even your early-war kit was world-class," said Williams, "Especially compared to the jap sets." He let out a long sigh, "I know convoy duty isn't what you're made for-"
"Sir," Jersey sat up as straight as she could in the cramped cab, "BB-62, USS New Jersey… point me where you need me."
"That's my girl."
— | — | —
"Welcome to Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, ma'am," the sailor barely opened the door before his hand snapped up in salute, his face beaming with a smile he couldn't quite suppress.
"T-thanks," Jersey said, returning the salute as best she could. The base looked… different than she remembered. Two massive container ships were tied up in dock, refit crews scurrying around them like ants. It looked like they were hurriedly slapping on whatever guns and missiles they could find wherever they'd fit, along with a fresh coat of messy camouflage paint.
"My pleasure, ma'am," said the sailor, "It's… it's damn good to have you with us."
"Pleasure's mine, sailor," said Jersey, her stomach rumbling in agreement. "Now, uh… where's the mess?"
"I'll show her the way," said Naka, smiling sweetly at the sailor before hooking one arm around Jersey's. For all the good that did her, the battleship displacement was ten times the slender cruiser's. "Uh… Jersey?"
"Oh, yeah," said Jersey, letting herself be dragged along, her head swinging wildly from one Exciting New Thing to the next, the end of her braid nearly taking out a passing contractor. She couldn't take three steps without someone saluting her or running up to welcome her. "You're not the only… what did he call you?"
"Kanmusu?"
Jersey shrugged, "You're not the only one here, are you?"
Naka shook her head. "Fubuki's out escorting a convoy up the straight of…"
"Juan de Fuca?"
Naka smiled, spreading her short little skirt in a girlish curtsey. "Thank you. And Yuudachi's in the docks at the moment."
Jersey nodded. Two destroyers and a cruiser… not the best fleet, but- Her ears perked up as her VHF set sputtered to life. "Naka-"
"I hear it too," said the cruiser, one hand holding her air bun like a wireless headset. "Dreadnoughts"
Shit. Jersey heard the desperate screams of destroyers, but human and 'kanmusu' as if they were right next to her. Valiant cries of tin-can ships going up against armored battle wagons ten times their size. "No," she whispered, pressing her eyes closed.
"J-Jersey?"
"I left seven destroyers to die off Samar," Jersey's eyes snapped open, her vision tinted an angry, burning red. "Never again." her voice was calm. So calm it would have scared her, if there was room in her heart for anything more than flaming, seething rage.
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Parts 9&10. Battle of Juan De Fuca
- Location
- 'Murica
Part 9: The battle of Juan De Fuca
Naka sprinted after Jersey, her slender legs struggling to close the distance with the towering, rage-fueled American. She wanted desperately to help, Fubuki was one of her closest friends, and she liked to think the Americans aboard Shoup and Turner Joy were her friends too.But Jersey was… was a newly returned ship. A battleship ten times her displacement who could crumple her like so much shredded tinfoil with a single volley. A battleship seething with so much bottled fury the light Washington drizzle was flashing to steam as it hit her skin.
"HEY!" barked the American as she sprinted down a pier, her voice thundering louder than a gunshot. "NAKA!"
"H-hai?" stuttered Naka, instinctively veering to the side to throw off the big American's firing solution. If that'd even matter, the girl was an Iowa class. With those radar-guided fire-control computers, she'd re-acquire in seconds. If it was even possible for her to miss at this range.
"What's your flank?" Jersey barked over her shoulder, swan-diving off the end of the pier. The air around her seemed to shimmer as she summoned her rigging, air flowing around her as guns and armor manifested themselves. But this wasn't the gentle breeze of Naka or a destroyer summoning their gear. It was a gale-force whirlwind of air molecules fleeting the furious warship.
"What?" Naka zigged to port, her legs hurling her back on track towards the battleship. Distance… if she could get close enough, maybe the American's batteries wouldn't be able to traverse fast enough…
"What's. Your. Flank." Jersey snarled, plucking the two massive revolvers from where they hung—low off those wide American hips—and spinning them around into her hands.
"T-Thirty-five knots."
"Tubes hot?"
"Yes!" Naka nodded, her own rigging swirling around her as she jumped into the water. Her guns might be pathetic, her armor tissue-paper, but the four 61cm Oxygen Torpedoes—"Long Lances" as the Americans called them—were her trap card. Her ace in the hole, as it were, her one saving grace as a warship.
Jersey smiled, her grin devilish as she thumbed her Walkman on, "Then stay on my ass."
Naka felt her mouth hang open, her turbines screaming as she pushed herself to keep up with- with a battleship? How fast was Jersey anyways!
"Let's wreck shit, you thick nip!" Jersey almost laughed, waving for the torpedo-cruiser to come alongside.
All that Naka manged to say was a quiet "Hai."
— | — | —
"She's doing what?" Admiral Williams tore his eyes from the turkey-shoot ensuing at the mouth of the straight to stare at the petty officer who'd gotten his attention.
"She's sortieing, sir," said the petty officer in question, seeming to wilt under the Admiral's gaze as he pointed to one of the dozen sixty-inch TVs filling NAVSTA Everett's CnC bunker.
A grid-overlay map of the Puget Sound displayed the location of every ship Wiliams had under his command. Shoup, Turner Joy, and Fubuki were flickering around at the northern corner. But down at the bottom, a single blue dot, labeled helpfully with "CL: IJN NAKA (KANMUSU)" was making its way up Sinclair inlet at what had to be almost thirty knots.
"Naka, what the hell?"
"I'm escorting Jersey, Teitoku," said the cruiser, her voice slipping back into her native Japanese as her tiny blue-dot representation wheeled around Point Glover.
Williams squinted at the map, which had a notable absence of any "BB-62: USS NEW JERSEY (KANMUSU)" dots.
One of the CnC techs was the first to speak up. "She arrived on-base at PNSF about… thirty minutes ago."
"Hai. She didn't have time to eat, much less get a.."
"BLUFOR tracker" said another voice. A voice low and resonant, but unmistakably female. New Jersey, it had to be.
"Yeah, one of those."
Williams shook his head. Any other day, he'd be weeping in joy at the thought of having a big-gun battleship.. the big-gun battleship rolling into brawl. "Jersey."
"Sir?"
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!" barked the Admiral, not so much yelling as speaking in capital letters.
"I-"
"You were unconscious an hour ago," William's voice was a finely-tuned mixture of professional detachment and disappointing-father rage. "After puking almost a solid ton of fuel oil up."
"Admiral!" Jersey's voice dropped to a rumbling roar, "This is what I was built for. How do you intend to stop me."
Williams glowered at the single blue dot, his eyes boring at the blank space where New Jersey must be. "The convoy's a hundred nautical miles away, even at flank, it'll take you three hours to-"
"Two and a half."
Williams scrunched up his face. "Jersey-"
"I haven't eaten," said the battleship "I've got two-hundred tons of fuel left. Loaded that light I can make thirty-five knots." A pause, Williams almost swore he heard tiny voices speaking just barely loud enough for the mic to pick up, "If I overload my boilers, I might be able to push it to thirty-six."
"Sir," one of the CnC techs leaned back in his chair, waving for the Admiral's attention, "At that speed, she'll only have four hours before she's dry, maybe less."
Williams nodded, "Jersey-"
"I know, I've run the math. You can tow me back. Drag me before a tribunal… fucking… scrap me, throw me in Miramar until I rust away. I don't give a fuck. I'm not running from this fight."
"Naka?" asked Williams.
"H-ai?" came a tiny voice, almost a wimpier. The cruiser had bad odds against a pissed-off Jersey and she knew it.
"You have your cell phone with you?"
"Oh, yes!" the cruiser's voice staggered back to its normal bubbly sweetness, "An idol is never-"
"Toss it to Jersey," said Williams, snapping his fingers to draw the attention of a C3 tech, "We're down-linking all the recce data we have."
— | — | —
Jersey deftly caught the slender black… plastic? glass maybe? rectangle Naka's tossed her, spinning it around in her fingers as she held it up to her face. "What the hell…"
They were aerial-recon photos, like she—or rather her crew—had seen a hundred times before. Photos of ships, older-ones, but ships. Dreadnoughts by the look of them. Jersey counted six twin turrets, each with a pair of long-barred guns—probably 12 inchers—, in the hexagonal arrangement so popular before the war.
But there was something… wrong. Something twisted and evil about the photos that made her want to hurl the phone away in disgust. Her stomach churned at the jagged… teeth lining the dreadnoughts' waterlines, the hungry mouths to those blackened gun barrels, the pillars of sickly black smoke bellowing from their triple stacks.
"Abyssals," said Naka, her quiet voice almost lost in the foamy churn of Jersey's wake.
"This… this is what we're up against?"
Naka nodded.
"Hell…" Jersey gave the photo another glance. She closed her eyes, focusing on the boiler rooms deep within her citadel. She knew her faeries were doing their very best… but today she asked them for just that much more. She willed herself faster, tapping every shred of steam her body could generate and sending it straight to her turbines.
She felt her screws bite into the water, churning it white with foam as she plowed ahead into the sound. "You with me, Naka?"
Naka nodded, her face tight as she sprinted to keep up.
— | — | —
Crowning hunkered down in his seat, surrounded on all sides by a sea of navy-blue uniforms as sailors huddled around the CNN broadcast. "Isn't it dangerous to have a chopper that close?" asked the professor, his eyes not moving from the scene.
"Nah, those old barges don't have any AA," said the worryingly unsure voice of a sailor off his shoulder.
Crowning nodded, trying to make sense of the chaos unfolding on the jerky camera feed. Three destroyers—one sleek modern-looking one, and two clearly-older designs— jinked left and right though the towering waves, their bows kicking up sheets of spray as they bounced about like toys.
Ahead of them, barely visible in the corner of the camera's view, were the lumbering masses of two container ships breaking for safe harbor with all the speed they had.
"They're chasing splashes," said a Sailor.
Crowning glanced at him for the briefest of seconds.
"The DDs. Big guns like that aim to bracket their targets," said the Sailor, his own eyes equally fixed on the screen. "They're running for the one place they know those bastards aren't aiming."
Crowning nodded. With the size of those splashes though, he wasn't sure that was comforting at all. One destroyer, the smallest one that ran low in the water, the one— Crowning blinked—the one in the blue sailor-suit with her hair in a short ponytail, slalomed between two splashes, her stern flicking out to just barely miss an incoming shell.
"WOO!" the room erupted in cheers of "Way to go, Fubuki!"
Fubuki heeled over as she swerved hard in the other direction, the turrets on her low-riding hull opening up with tiny pop, pop, pop noises just barely audible though the camera's microphone.
"C'mon! Hit'em with the lances!" barked a strong southern drawl.
"Can't, she fired them already," replied a crisp Midwest accent, "bastards dodged 'em like champ."
"What about that one," said Crowning, pointing at the modern-looking destroyer as it zigged to cover Fubuki, it's one little gun barking a steady PakPakPakPak.
"What, Shoup?" said the southern drawl.
Crowning nodded.
"Gun's all she's got left. She fired all her RIM-66s-"
"Which isn't much," interrupted the Midwest. "Convoy duty gets the sloppy seconds when it comes to ordy."
Crowning nodded again, watching the third ship—the USS Turner Joy, as the subtitle crawl helpfully pointed out— flick her tail out in a turn, barking away with all three of her turrets. He'd never been a particularly religious man, but… in the face of demons, a little supernatural aid never hurt.
He closed his eyes, offering up a wordless prayer to… anyone who'd listen. God? Allah? Hell, Davy-fucking-Jones, Someone! Keep those men safe, keep those girls safe… Bring them home alive, even if it takes a miracle.
— | — | —
Turner Joy shook as a barrage of twelve-inch shells landed far to close to her fantail, sending the destroyer's bow plowing into the next unearthly wave. Her masts were smashed to hell, which would mean a damn, if the abyssal dreadnoughts weren't so close that the mark one eyeball could acquire targets faster than radar. And from the increasingly-desperate pleas coming from the 26MC, she'd bent a shaft, maybe even snapped it.
"I don't fucking care" growled Commander Dave Marquez, his voice reduced to a raspy growl as he clutched for the captain's intercom. "We slow down and we die!"
The pleading from engineering didn't stop, but it at least damped down somewhat. Fucking fine, he had his room to maneuver. Precious little room, but room.
"XO, status on the tubes!"
The XO shook her head, her scruffy blond hair matted with blood seeping from the gash across her brow. "Tubes red. We fire those fish DC says they'll blow in the tubes."
"CO! Shoup signals she'd down to her last thirty rounds," said yet another of the panicked voices filling Marquez's bridge. "She's going for an end-run."
"Bring us about!" snapped Marquez. Shoup was an Arleigh Burke. A fast motherfucker if there ever was one. If she could close the distance, get under the dreadnoughts' guns… she stood the best chance at taking one of those coal-black bastards down with her. "Signal Fubuki, tell he-FUCK!"
Marquez ducked as something zoomed right past the destroyer's bridge. Something… tiny and blue with-
"Is that a floatplane?"
Marquez glanced at the BLUEFOR tracker map, one of the few goddam instruments on his bridge that still worked, and it was the one item he hadn't needed this entire fight. "Holy shit."
Along with the five frantically jinking dots of Turner Joy, Shoup, Fubuki, and their two lumbering charges, was a sixth dot. A dot racing towards him at what had to be almost forty knots. A dot labeled "CL: IJN NAKA (KANMUSU)" with a second line below it, "BB-62: USS NEW JERSEY (KANMUSU)." A dot not twenty miles away. Which, if memory served-
"Sir, incoming message on fleet-wide," said the XO, not even trying to hide the laugh of relief slipping though her teeth, "It's transmitted in the clear."
Marquez yanked the bridge phone off what was left of it's cradle, pressing it tight against his hear to blot out the chaos of battle around him.
A scratchy, throaty voice, barely intelligible though what was left of Turner Joy's radio system, crooned with all it's passion. "There was no help! No help from you!"
"Sir, look!" The XO frantically waved past Turner Joy's bow. Six flaming tracers raced though the air, barreling towards the nearest dreadnought like the dogs of hell itself.
"Sound of the drums! Beating in my heart!"
Marquez swore he saw the dreadnought's turrets do a double-take, the whole ship seemed to recoil in horror just before the six sixteen-inch shells slammed home.
"The thunder of guns, Yeah! Tore me apart!"
For a brief second, nothing happened. The 2700 pound armor-piercing shells burrowed though what little deck armor the abyssal dreadnoughts had. Armor that had bounced five-inch shells for hours was little more than tissue-paper to the best-damn armor-piercing round ever developed by mankind.
"You've been…"
Then it happened. Explosions ripped the dreadnought open from the inside, splitting it in-half as magazines and boiler-rooms exploded, spewing flaming ordnance, burning coal, and flying shrapnel in a massive cloud over the burning oil-slick that was once an abyssal warship.
"THUNDERSTRUCK!"
USS New Jersey had arrived.
Part 10: the battle of Juan De Fuca continues
Jersey plowed though the waves, her massive hull steady as a rock in swells that sent the wounded destroyers--and even little Naka--bouncing like toys. Her turbines were at flank, her screws tearing though the water as she sprinted forwards, not even bothering to unshadow her after turret.
"They're making for open ocean!" said Naka, her voice almost lost in the thunder of a quarter-million horsepower roaring away in the battleship's machinery spaces. "If they disengage-"
"We'll never catch them again," scowled Jersey, her guns dropping down into battery as her faerie crew scrambled to reload. She closed her eyes, 'looking' though her floatplane as she searched for her next target.
The last dreadnought was steaming for the pacific, its stacks belching ugly coal-fired smoke. Jersey could sense its fear, the terror in its choppy wake only fueling her rage.
Trailing behind were two- no, make that three cruisers. Ugly twin-stackers with short barreled guns bristling along their sides in casemates. The three were desperately criss-crossing behind the dreadnought, laying down a blanket of sickly black smoke. Not one of them was making more than twenty knots.
Jersey glanced over her shoulder, past the enormous forty-eight star flag she flew from her main mast, camouflage be damned. "Turner Joy, you guys okay?"
"We'll manage," came the scratchy reply though what was left of the old destroyer's radio."Go get 'em Black Dragon!"
Jersey smiled, her teeth glinting razor-sharp in the evening sun. She couldn't see a thing though the curtain of smoke the abyssal cruisers had laid, and even her float plane was struggling to keep them sighted. Against a ship two years her junior, the tactic might have worked.
She'd be reduced to firing at random and hoping her spotter plane saw the splashes. With sixteen-inch guns, it could take her hours to land a good salvo, hours that the abyssals could use to sprint out to the depth and fucking fade.
But smoke worked both ways. And her guns were radar guided. "Die," she growled, her turrets slewing over as the gunnery computer on her watch locked in a perfect firing solution. "Die you son of a bitch!"
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM Her six guns rippled off one after another, each one sending shock-waves though the air and cratering the ocean as it spoke. A turret focused on the nearest of the cruisers, but B turret… B turret had the dreadnought all to itself.
— | — | —
Admiral Williams stared slack-jawed at the battle unfolding before him. Battleships were an awesome sight in the truest sense of the word, he'd had that proved to him time and time again by Abyssal dreadnoughts. But an Iowa class… she was a force of nature.
The lone remaining dreadnought survived by the very skin of its teeth. Two of Jersey's shells bracketing it with towering splashes, while the third flew long, ripping the entire bow off as it detonated.
The cruiser wasn't so lucky. Jersey's volley landed square amidships, her massive shells simply cracking the hapless armored cruiser in half at the keel. Secondary explosions raced down the rapidly-sinking wreck as ready-ammo stacked outside the magazines torched off, churning the water to froth as it sunk beneath the wave.
"Hot DAMN!" yelled someone with a thick New England Accent.
Williams smiled, he was moments away from doing the very same himself. "Naka," he growled, trying his best to present the calm, collected Admiral, not a laughing man with a shit-eating grin that just wouldn't die.
"T-teitoku?" said the light cruiser, her voice hovering at between terror and giggling triumph.
"Are you good to press your attack?"
There was a pause, and Williams swore he saw Naka glancing ever so briefly at the towering American rage monster she was 'escorting' before responding. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, okay."
"Naka…"
"I'll do my best!" said the cruiser, her voice slipping back into the good-hearted Idol.
"You got four fish," said Williams, "Put 'em to work!"
— | — | —
Naka set her jaw as she stared down the smoke cloud off her bow. She wanted to surge ahead, to run screaming into the fray and drop her oxygen torpedoes in a flurry of decisive action.
But her turbines were maxed out just keeping abreast with the howling-mad American, and without radar, that cloud could just as well have been a brick wall.
"Swing south," barked Jersey, even the little twin-turrets along her flanks slewing ahead, their barrels barking in a rhythmic "PakPak! PakPak! PakPak!"
"What?" said Naka, already heeling over in the turn. Whatever the reasoning, anything that took her further away from the American with her loud music, louder guns, and unending rage was a good thing.
"Last cruiser's too the north," said Jersey, her smirk elevating into a snarl as her guns drew a bead.
Naka, nodded, slewing all her guns hard starboard. Her torpedoes were hot, she could feel them begging to be let fly. Once she punched though that smoke-screen, it would be chaos. No visibility, enemy ships at close range… this was what she was built for.
— | — | —
"Admiral, new surface contact!" yelped one of the CnC techs, his voice a solid octave higher than it should be. "Designate Skunk-Six. She's coming in from the Pacific!"
Williams' glare was fixed on the pulsing red dot sliding up the mouth of the straight. "Speed?"
"Nineteen, maybe twenty knots." The tech frantically glanced over his shoulder at Williams. "Sir, from the return I'm getting… it's gotta be big."
"You certain?"
"Aye, sir," the tech waved at the monitors dominating his console, "Clear track. It's like it's not even trying to hide."
"Shit." Williams balled his hands into fists. "Jersey, you've got-"
"Yeah yeah, I see her," said Jersey with a roaring laugh, her voice punctuated by the rippling thunder of her forward turrets.
— | — | —
Naka cringed at the American's laugh, willing herself to be small as she slammed prow-first though the abyssal smokescreen. Anger, she could deal with, especially if there was something more… threatening than a lone torpedo cruiser to attack the ire of those nine sixteen inch guns.
But she'd gone laughing mad! Naka forced herself to push those terrible thoughts to the stern-most corner of her mind, gritting herself for a torpedo run.
Then she heard it, the humming, rumbling sound of aircraft engines ripping though the air. Torpedo bombers, Avengers, they had to be! Naka let out a tiny whimper. Memories flashed though her mind: the sound of Avengers hurtling towards her, the splash of torpedoes dropping into the surf, the sound as her hull ripped in two. Then… nothing.
"I'm sorry, Admiral," she said, turning broadside-on to the Abyssal dreadnought. "I did my very best!" she screamed, letting her torpedoes splash into the chilly straight.
"Shut up, you dipshits! You're not gonna die," said Jersey with a roaring belly-laugh.
— | — | —
"Jersey, what the hell?" scowled Williams. Between a fatalistic torpedo cruiser with kamikaze aspirations and a battleship that'd apparently lost her shit, he'd had enough with the kanmusu strangeness.
"Check your track again," said Jersey, "She's steaming into the wind."
Williams' eyes went wide, the pieces clicking together in his brain. "Check that!" he said snapping frantically in the general direction of the radar-tracking techs.
"Confirm, sir! Skunk-six is tracking into the wind."
— | — | —
"Yo, WHITE!" barked Jersey, her bow plowing though the smokescreen as she laughed, her armor shrugging off the pathetic volley of six-inch rounds the lone remaining cruiser was peppering her with like they were mere insults, "Nice of you to join us!"
Naka glanced up, cringing as a squadron of six TBF Avengers roared right over her head… then peeled off towards the limping dreadnought, their bomb bays opening in ragged sequence.
In the next ten seconds, a thousand and one things happened all at once. A volley of six sixteen inch Mark 8 armor-piercing shells, two Type 93 long-lance oxygen torpedoes, and six Mark 13 air-dropped torpedoes slammed into the dreadnought's flanks and stern.
Explosions raced along its flank as warhead after warhead blew enormous gashes in the hull, even as Jersey's volley gutted the abyssal from the inside, lighting off magazines, bursting boilers, and sending flaming coal arcing though the sky.
Jersey threw her hand up in salute to the pudgy torpedo bombers, her stern swinging out as she brought the last cruiser under the guns of her stern turret.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! at this range, she simply couldn't miss. Three sixteen inch Mark 7 rifles sang in murderous symphony, joining the chorus of 5inch/38 twins barking like wild dogs.
— | — | —
The mess hall erupted in roaring, wordless cheers. Every sailor, contractor, and civilian lept to their feat in with thunderous cheers. Crowning felt someone grab him in a crushing hug, hands slapping hard against his back.
The abyssal wasn't merely sunk. There was no wreckage, no burning oil sick to memorialize the hell it'd caused. The cruiser was simply gone, erased from this earth by the combined fury of one severely pissed-off Battleship and her newly arrived friend.
"OHRAH!" barked someone, setting off a chorus from even the blue-uniformed sailors. "Way to go, Big J!"
— | — | —
"Hey, Admiral?" Jersey's voice was uncharacteristically quiet, so soft it was barely audible over the roar of applause filling the CnC.
Williams waved for his crew to quiet down. "Yeah."
"Heh… I do good?"
"You did outstanding, Commander."
"Okay," on the CNN feed, Williams saw Jersey offer a faint smile, her legs starting to wobble beneath her. He checked his watch… poor girl must be running on fumes. "I'm uh… gonna take a nap now, if that's okay."
Williams smiled, "request to nap granted, Jersey. You earned it."
- - - -
A/N: IJN Naka was sunk by a combined Helldiver and Avenger attack in February of 1944. She dodged the first two waves, but the third nailed her with a torpedo and a bomb, cracking her clean in half).
"They're making for open ocean!" said Naka, her voice almost lost in the thunder of a quarter-million horsepower roaring away in the battleship's machinery spaces. "If they disengage-"
"We'll never catch them again," scowled Jersey, her guns dropping down into battery as her faerie crew scrambled to reload. She closed her eyes, 'looking' though her floatplane as she searched for her next target.
The last dreadnought was steaming for the pacific, its stacks belching ugly coal-fired smoke. Jersey could sense its fear, the terror in its choppy wake only fueling her rage.
Trailing behind were two- no, make that three cruisers. Ugly twin-stackers with short barreled guns bristling along their sides in casemates. The three were desperately criss-crossing behind the dreadnought, laying down a blanket of sickly black smoke. Not one of them was making more than twenty knots.
Jersey glanced over her shoulder, past the enormous forty-eight star flag she flew from her main mast, camouflage be damned. "Turner Joy, you guys okay?"
"We'll manage," came the scratchy reply though what was left of the old destroyer's radio."Go get 'em Black Dragon!"
Jersey smiled, her teeth glinting razor-sharp in the evening sun. She couldn't see a thing though the curtain of smoke the abyssal cruisers had laid, and even her float plane was struggling to keep them sighted. Against a ship two years her junior, the tactic might have worked.
She'd be reduced to firing at random and hoping her spotter plane saw the splashes. With sixteen-inch guns, it could take her hours to land a good salvo, hours that the abyssals could use to sprint out to the depth and fucking fade.
But smoke worked both ways. And her guns were radar guided. "Die," she growled, her turrets slewing over as the gunnery computer on her watch locked in a perfect firing solution. "Die you son of a bitch!"
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM Her six guns rippled off one after another, each one sending shock-waves though the air and cratering the ocean as it spoke. A turret focused on the nearest of the cruisers, but B turret… B turret had the dreadnought all to itself.
— | — | —
Admiral Williams stared slack-jawed at the battle unfolding before him. Battleships were an awesome sight in the truest sense of the word, he'd had that proved to him time and time again by Abyssal dreadnoughts. But an Iowa class… she was a force of nature.
The lone remaining dreadnought survived by the very skin of its teeth. Two of Jersey's shells bracketing it with towering splashes, while the third flew long, ripping the entire bow off as it detonated.
The cruiser wasn't so lucky. Jersey's volley landed square amidships, her massive shells simply cracking the hapless armored cruiser in half at the keel. Secondary explosions raced down the rapidly-sinking wreck as ready-ammo stacked outside the magazines torched off, churning the water to froth as it sunk beneath the wave.
"Hot DAMN!" yelled someone with a thick New England Accent.
Williams smiled, he was moments away from doing the very same himself. "Naka," he growled, trying his best to present the calm, collected Admiral, not a laughing man with a shit-eating grin that just wouldn't die.
"T-teitoku?" said the light cruiser, her voice hovering at between terror and giggling triumph.
"Are you good to press your attack?"
There was a pause, and Williams swore he saw Naka glancing ever so briefly at the towering American rage monster she was 'escorting' before responding. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, okay."
"Naka…"
"I'll do my best!" said the cruiser, her voice slipping back into the good-hearted Idol.
"You got four fish," said Williams, "Put 'em to work!"
— | — | —
Naka set her jaw as she stared down the smoke cloud off her bow. She wanted to surge ahead, to run screaming into the fray and drop her oxygen torpedoes in a flurry of decisive action.
But her turbines were maxed out just keeping abreast with the howling-mad American, and without radar, that cloud could just as well have been a brick wall.
"Swing south," barked Jersey, even the little twin-turrets along her flanks slewing ahead, their barrels barking in a rhythmic "PakPak! PakPak! PakPak!"
"What?" said Naka, already heeling over in the turn. Whatever the reasoning, anything that took her further away from the American with her loud music, louder guns, and unending rage was a good thing.
"Last cruiser's too the north," said Jersey, her smirk elevating into a snarl as her guns drew a bead.
Naka, nodded, slewing all her guns hard starboard. Her torpedoes were hot, she could feel them begging to be let fly. Once she punched though that smoke-screen, it would be chaos. No visibility, enemy ships at close range… this was what she was built for.
— | — | —
"Admiral, new surface contact!" yelped one of the CnC techs, his voice a solid octave higher than it should be. "Designate Skunk-Six. She's coming in from the Pacific!"
Williams' glare was fixed on the pulsing red dot sliding up the mouth of the straight. "Speed?"
"Nineteen, maybe twenty knots." The tech frantically glanced over his shoulder at Williams. "Sir, from the return I'm getting… it's gotta be big."
"You certain?"
"Aye, sir," the tech waved at the monitors dominating his console, "Clear track. It's like it's not even trying to hide."
"Shit." Williams balled his hands into fists. "Jersey, you've got-"
"Yeah yeah, I see her," said Jersey with a roaring laugh, her voice punctuated by the rippling thunder of her forward turrets.
— | — | —
Naka cringed at the American's laugh, willing herself to be small as she slammed prow-first though the abyssal smokescreen. Anger, she could deal with, especially if there was something more… threatening than a lone torpedo cruiser to attack the ire of those nine sixteen inch guns.
But she'd gone laughing mad! Naka forced herself to push those terrible thoughts to the stern-most corner of her mind, gritting herself for a torpedo run.
Then she heard it, the humming, rumbling sound of aircraft engines ripping though the air. Torpedo bombers, Avengers, they had to be! Naka let out a tiny whimper. Memories flashed though her mind: the sound of Avengers hurtling towards her, the splash of torpedoes dropping into the surf, the sound as her hull ripped in two. Then… nothing.
"I'm sorry, Admiral," she said, turning broadside-on to the Abyssal dreadnought. "I did my very best!" she screamed, letting her torpedoes splash into the chilly straight.
"Shut up, you dipshits! You're not gonna die," said Jersey with a roaring belly-laugh.
— | — | —
"Jersey, what the hell?" scowled Williams. Between a fatalistic torpedo cruiser with kamikaze aspirations and a battleship that'd apparently lost her shit, he'd had enough with the kanmusu strangeness.
"Check your track again," said Jersey, "She's steaming into the wind."
Williams' eyes went wide, the pieces clicking together in his brain. "Check that!" he said snapping frantically in the general direction of the radar-tracking techs.
"Confirm, sir! Skunk-six is tracking into the wind."
— | — | —
"Yo, WHITE!" barked Jersey, her bow plowing though the smokescreen as she laughed, her armor shrugging off the pathetic volley of six-inch rounds the lone remaining cruiser was peppering her with like they were mere insults, "Nice of you to join us!"
Naka glanced up, cringing as a squadron of six TBF Avengers roared right over her head… then peeled off towards the limping dreadnought, their bomb bays opening in ragged sequence.
In the next ten seconds, a thousand and one things happened all at once. A volley of six sixteen inch Mark 8 armor-piercing shells, two Type 93 long-lance oxygen torpedoes, and six Mark 13 air-dropped torpedoes slammed into the dreadnought's flanks and stern.
Explosions raced along its flank as warhead after warhead blew enormous gashes in the hull, even as Jersey's volley gutted the abyssal from the inside, lighting off magazines, bursting boilers, and sending flaming coal arcing though the sky.
Jersey threw her hand up in salute to the pudgy torpedo bombers, her stern swinging out as she brought the last cruiser under the guns of her stern turret.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! at this range, she simply couldn't miss. Three sixteen inch Mark 7 rifles sang in murderous symphony, joining the chorus of 5inch/38 twins barking like wild dogs.
— | — | —
The mess hall erupted in roaring, wordless cheers. Every sailor, contractor, and civilian lept to their feat in with thunderous cheers. Crowning felt someone grab him in a crushing hug, hands slapping hard against his back.
The abyssal wasn't merely sunk. There was no wreckage, no burning oil sick to memorialize the hell it'd caused. The cruiser was simply gone, erased from this earth by the combined fury of one severely pissed-off Battleship and her newly arrived friend.
"OHRAH!" barked someone, setting off a chorus from even the blue-uniformed sailors. "Way to go, Big J!"
— | — | —
"Hey, Admiral?" Jersey's voice was uncharacteristically quiet, so soft it was barely audible over the roar of applause filling the CnC.
Williams waved for his crew to quiet down. "Yeah."
"Heh… I do good?"
"You did outstanding, Commander."
"Okay," on the CNN feed, Williams saw Jersey offer a faint smile, her legs starting to wobble beneath her. He checked his watch… poor girl must be running on fumes. "I'm uh… gonna take a nap now, if that's okay."
Williams smiled, "request to nap granted, Jersey. You earned it."
- - - -
A/N: IJN Naka was sunk by a combined Helldiver and Avenger attack in February of 1944. She dodged the first two waves, but the third nailed her with a torpedo and a bomb, cracking her clean in half).
Parts 11-13
- Location
- 'Murica
Part 11: She's SHOOO CUTE! No one tell Nagato!
Naka heeled over into a turn, her port-side tubes trained on the squat little carrier steaming towards her. Her legs were burning from three straight hours at flank speed. Her ears were ringing from the awesome and terrible wrath of an American battleship pushed to the breaking point of rage.But her adrenaline ran higher than it ever had as she jinked hard this way and that. "Jersey! are you okay?" called the torpedo cruiser, glancing over her shoulder for a brief moment.
"'m tired," said the American, her legs quivering as she fell to her knees, her voice slurred and quiet. "Imma… take a nap," she said, flopping over onto her face with a truly ignominious crash. "Mm.. did good, nip."
Naka bit her lip to keep from screaming. She'd made sure to read up on every file the JMSDF would give her. An Iowa class battleship had the kind of AA suite that'd make a whole cruiser division jealous. She could make anything intruding on her airspace go down in flames.
But she'd given her all just to get her, to save Fubuki and Naka's human friends. Now it was the cruiser's turn to do her best. "Don't worry!" she yelped, hoping her voice sounded more confident than she was feeling, "I'll… I'll protect you!"
But with what. Naka's AA suite was all of two five-inch DP guns and ten 25mm cannons. Not even radar-guided at that. She shook those thoughts from her mind, gritting herself as she turned bow-on to the new arrival.
"Naka, what the hell are you doing?" came the gravely tones of her Admiral.
"I… I don't know," confessed Naka, staring at the squat little carrier lazily steaming towards her.
She didn't look like any abyssal she'd ever seen. In fact… she looked more like a destroyer; tiny and cute with a band-aid slapped across her button nose and her coppery hair in two bouncy pigtails. The ragged hem of her navy-blue skirt fluttered in the breeze, showing off her skinned knees as her oversized sneakers cut though the water.
"Jersey's down," said Naka, gritting herself as her AA guns scanned the sky, "and… kanmusu don't just show up, right? She has-"
"Negative, Naka, weapons hold!" barked Williams in that "don't even think you can argue with me" tone.
"H-hai," said Naka, making herself very small as the carrier steamed ever closer.
"That's USS White Plains, CVE-66, she's friendly."
Naka heeled around, making sure she didn't get too far from the gently-snoring battleship. An escort carrier? That made sense, she was too tiny to be a full-size carrier like Akagi or Kaga. And too… well, too cute.
White Plains tossed an bubbly wave at Naka, her freckled cheeks forcing her eyes into a squint as she smiled. "Hey, friend!"
Naka let loose a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. The carrier was slowing to a stop, and the little wagon she draged behind her was too full of pudgy Avengers to spot another strike, let alone launch one.
"O-okay," she sighed, weakly waving back. "I-it's nice to meet you, White Plains."
"Call me White!" said the little American carrier, nosing up alongside Jersey and trying to get her arms around the massive battleship's midsection.
"Naka, relax. If she was abyssal, you would be dead by now."
"Hmm?"
"Battle off Samar," said Williams, his voice quivering upwards. He was hiding a smile, Naka knew it. "She crippled the Choukai."
"That's… not really-"
"In a gun-duel."
Naka's jaw dropped open. "Holy shi-"
— | — | —
Crowning slouched back in his chair, numbly buffeted by the many congratulations from what seemed like every sailor in the crowed mess hall. She'd did it.
"Excuse me, sir? Doctor Crowning," said another one of the hundreds of indistinguishable sailors. The combination of weary old eyes, short military haircuts, almost twenty hours without sleep, and disruptive camouflage patterns had ruined whatever ability to differentiate faces he'd acquired over the years.
"Yeah?" said Crowning, rubbing his eyes as he turned to face the sailor.
"It'll be a while before they can tow Jersey back in," said the sailor, "I can show you to your quarters."
Crowning sighed, pulling himself to his feet, "You'll get me when she's back?"
"Actually, uh, sir…" the sailor pursed his lips, "They're only taking her to Everett." He paused, tapping his boot against the floor in thought, "We could… probably get you a chopper and put you up there. I mean… you earned it."
Crowning smiled, working a kink out of his neck from staring at the TV for so many hours. "Thanks, lead the way."
— | — | —
Naka steamed abreast the rag-tag flotilla of tugboats corralling the sleeping American battleship back down the straight, her screws lazily churning though the gentle seas as she cruised at a solid ten knots.
After three solid hours of sprinting at flank, her legs were sore, her boilers overheated… the cool water felt amazing as it lapped up against her hull. So amazing she could almost forget the scrappy little carrier with a comically-over sized six-shooter hanging off her tiny waist steaming not fifty yards away.
"Hey," said White, her pigtails bouncing as she waved. "So, uh…" she glanced at the napping battleship, "She's gonna be okay, right?"
Naka nodded, "I don't think she even got hit."
White pursed her lips, her enormous eyes going full puppy-dog as she looked back at the silent form of USS New Jersey. "But… she's gonna be okay, yeah?"
"She should be," said Naka, "Those Iowa class ships… they're tough."
White shoved her hands into her skirt, her thumbs tapping out a rhythm against the thick leather gun belt hanging around her hips. "I just… if I let her down, you know. Gambier and Lo… I don't think they'd ever forgive me."
"I think they'd be proud, White," came the gravelly tones of Admiral Williams. This time with the gentle, fatherly inflection he usually reserved for destroyers, "Hell, I'm proud."
"ADMIRAL!" screeched the little carrier, her tiny lungs pumping an inhuman amount of air though her voice box. Even Naka had to cover her ears. "YOU MEAN IT!"
"Jeeeeeeeze," Naka could hear the wince in the Admiral's voice at that last-second save,"easy, White. We're using your radio room. I can hear you just fine if you talk normally."
Naka stifled a laugh, nearly biting though the thin black velvet of her gloves. Some kanmusu took longer than others to get used to their old machinery. But she'd never seen a reaction quite so… vocal.
"Oh…" White's freckly face went red, "S-sorry, Admiral."
"As you were, sailor. You earned it."
Naka grinned, pulling along side the little carrier. "Hey, you hungry?" Destroyers were always looking for something to eat, and… well, an escort carrier was sort of like a destroyer, right? White certainly looked kawaii enough.
"Uh, a little." said White, patting her belly with a confused look.
"You know… the mess hall has a buffet line."
"Hmm?"
"They have the most amazing cherry pie," said Naka, her mouth starting to water after the marathon sprint of the day's sortie.
White's face lit up, her smile threatening to leap off her face. "Showmeplease!"
Williams huffed, muttering a low, "Naka, goddamit," over the net.
Part 12: After-Action Snacking
Naka was content. She'd done well in the battle, she had a belly full of warm American cherry pie and ice cream, and she could feel the warm softness of her bed waiting for her. Just a few dozen yards more… barely two boat-lengths!"Um… Naka?" White tugged at the frilly hem of the cruiser's skirt with one hand, the other still clutching a juice-box she'd grabbed for the walk.
"Hmm, what?" said Naka, trying not to smile too much at the specks of pie filling still clinging to the corner of the little carrier's mouth.
"Is-" White glanced over towards the docks, "Is Jersey going to be okay?"
Naka paused, biting the corner of her lip and hoping the early morning light was too dim for White to make our her expression. Her legs were burning after that marathon sprint, and she was made to go thirty-five and a quarter knots.
"She's… a battleship," said Naka, trying her best to temper her voice, "They're really tough."
"Can I see her?" asked White, rubbing furiously at her mouth with the end of her sleeve. Probably making sure she was presentable to the battleship.
"Uh, probably not just yet." Naka brushed a stray strand of White's hair down, "besides, she'd probably steal you for cuddles," she added, stifling a laugh as she remembered the sleepy giggle Jersey let out every time a tugboat nosed up to her.
"Oh… okay," said White, her shoulders slumping as she shuffled closer to Naka, snuggling up against the cruiser's side.
"C'mon, let's get you to bed," said Naka, guiding the carrier over to the shipgirls' barracks. No one'd officially given her a place to sleep yet, so Naka made the command decision that White Plains would bunk with her. "The Admiral'll want to see you in the morning."
"Mmkay," mumbled the carrier with a yawning sigh.
— | — | —
"USS White Plains, CVE-66 reporting for duty, sir!" squeaked out White, her foot coming down in a loud stomp as she held her arm up in a salute. Her chest was thrown out, her back as straight as could be, and her round face as stern as she could manage.
"At ease, White," said Admiral Williams, returning the salute with one just as formal. "you sleep well?"
She nodded enthusiastically, her pigtails bouncing long after her head stopped moving. "Miss Naka let me borrow one of her stuffed whales."
Williams grinned, "Now, White, before we continue… I have to ask, is there anything you remember from…" he stopped, furrowing his brow in thought. "From before you were summoned?"
White's face fell, and her shoulders went slack. "N-not really, Admiral. I just… I knew I was needed, you know?" she glanced up, her enormous eyes full of hope that he'd understand.
"I'm afraid I don't," said Williams, sighing as he sat back in his chair. "But that's beside the point. USS White Plains?"
"Yes?" the little carrier drew herself up, her chest puffing out again as she stood at her best impression of full military attention.
"As per protocol, you are to be promoted to the brevet rank of Lieutenancy, Junior Grade, with full commission pending your trials in combat."
The carrier's cheeks glowed as she smiled from ear to ear. "Yes, sir! I won't let you don't, sir!" she said, almost leaping off the floor as she saluted.
"Outstanding, Lieutenant," said Williams, struggling not to smile himself. The little carrier's enthusiasm was infectious. "Because I've got a mission for you."
White leaned in, her eyes wide as she got ready to soak in every shred of information.
"We're taking another shot at the trans-pacific run," said Williams, nodding to a map hanging on the wall of his office, "A super-tanker and four container ships escorted by you, Naka, and Yuudachi."
White nodded, her mouth quivering like she was reading notes to herself.
"You'll escort them half-way, then exchange charges with a convoy from Japan."
White nodded again. "Sir, why are you telling me this now?" she asked, her head tilting to the side, "I mean… aren't we gonna get a proper briefing."
"You will," said Williams, "But… you'll be spending a lot of time with IJN ships. I need to know you can handle it."
"Oh, I can, sir!" said White, bouncing up on her heels, "Japs don't scare me." A pause while she thought, "And.. And I wasn't struck until '58, sir. I'm not gonna go crazy or anything."
Williams steepled his fingers. Proper air support could do- would do wonders for convoy security… hell of a call to make. "Understood," he said, nodding at White, "We're all counting on you, White."
White snapped off another salute, her pigtails even seeming to quiver up to attention. "Yes, sir!" She paused, biting the corner of her lip.
"Yes?"
"Uh… why isn't Jersey joining us? Is she okay?"
"She's… she's tired," said Williams, "She'll be fine soon, but we need those convoys running now." He huffed, glancing away from the tiny carrier's hurt face, "Don't you worry, White. Doc's with her right now."
—|—|—
Jersey lay on a hospital bed, her toes just peeking out from under the coral-green covers as she slept. Her hair splayed around her like a shimmering red-blond oil slick, and her face looked calm and almost… peaceful.
Almost, Crowning could still see the fire of righteous anger in the steel of her jaw, the cant of her eyebrows, and the strong lines of her nose. Or at least the embers of that fire still burning under her cool skin.
He smiled, gently brushing her hair out of her face under the watchful gaze of her… Crowning glanced over to the tiny figure standing on Jersey's chest.
Barely three inches tall, she was dressed in oily blue dungarees, her minute feet made little dimples where she stood on the battleship's generous breast. Beady eyes stared down his every move, watching with arm-crossed anticipation for the tiniest of mistakes. It would have been intimidating if she wasn't moving up and down with every shallow breath the battleship took.
"You an engineer, aren't you?"
A diminutive scoffing noise.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Chief engineer?"
A nod.
"Hell of a ship, isn't she?"
A nod, punctuated by at tiny noise of approval.
"You did good," said Crowning, patting Jersey's forehead, "You know that?"
A muffled noise of… was that laughter? Crowning glanced to the Chief, who shrugged her tiny shoulders. Then he glanced at Jersey, who was furiously biting her lip.
"You're awake, aren't you?"
Her eyes fluttered open, ice-blue and sharply in focus. "…mebbe?" she mumbled.
"Goddamit, Jersey."
The Battleship smiled, propping herself up on her elbows, sending her chief tumbling over to land face-first on her stomach. "Oh… sorry there, chief," she said, gently scooping up the tiny fairy and gently depositing her on top of her head.
Crowning shook his head. Three days ago… he didn't believe he'd be sitting next to a battleship who was also a beautiful woman wearing another, much smaller, woman as a hat.
"I can't take a compliment?" she said with a smirk.
"Jersey, I was worried about you!"
"Oh please," Jersey rolled her eyes, before instantly dipping her head. "Right, sorry… um…" she rested her hands against her stomach. "I've got all-or-nothing armor."
Crowning gave her a blank stare.
"This…" she waved her hands over her torso, "All the important bits are under my citadel- my heaviest armor. Unless I get penetrated-" Her fairy made a tiny scoffing sound, and Jersey shot a deadly glare straight up. "I as I said, unless I get penned there, I can't die."
"Even if you're flooding?" asked Crowning, unintentionally setting off another tiny giggle from Jersey's engineer.
Jersey shrugged, tipping her head to the side so the fairy fell right onto her lap. "Nah, I got enough reserve buoyancy." She smiled, "They're not gonna sink this battleship."
"Then-"
"Then what am I doing here?" Jersey lay back against her pillow, her hair shimmering in the harsh infirmity lights. "I ran beyond max for three hours. My boilers need an overhaul, my turbines need maintenance. I'm damn lucky I didn't-" she stopped, turning to stare right into Crowning's eyes, a sly smile on her face, "-snap a shaft."
The fairy exploded in tiny laughter, and Jersey looked like she was physically straining to keep her face even.
Crowning shook his head, hiding his smile with his hand. "Jersey.."
"Hey, I spent sixty years full of seamen," said the battleship, biting her lip to keep from laughing as her eyebrows bounced on her face. "But, uh… seriously. A day, maybe two? I'll be good to go."
"You sure?"
Jersey nodded, "Yeah. Go get some sleep or something, Chief says you didn't leave my side this whole time. Go… get a meal or something."
Crowning smiled, patting Jersey's head with a nod, "Will do, Commander."
Jersey smiled back as he left. "Hey, wait!"
"Yeah?"
"Can you get me something?" she said, drumming her hands on her suspiciously-hollow sounding belly, "Like… a lot of it?"
Crowning rolled his eyes.
Part 12b: so THAT'S what Naka does with her spare time...
"'nother flight coming up!" White's little voice carried surprisingly well, even over the rev of the pair of pale-blue scout bombers warming up on her flight deck. "Aaaaand-" the girl hefted one in her hand, testing its weight with her face scrunched up in concentrated curiosity.Then, without a shred of pomp or elegance, the little American just chucked the plane into the air like a pitcher lobbing a baseball into the air. "Wooo!" she screamed, giggling to herself as her TBF lumbered into the air.
Naka quickly stifled a giggle, her silky black glove clamping down over her face. Three days at sea, you'd think she'd have gotten used to it!
"What's so, like… funny, Naka-Chan?" said Yuudachi, her eyes bouncing from Naka's to the horizon and back again at least three times over the course of that one sentence.
"Yeah!" said White, her tiny hands on her hips as she turned around, trying her very best to look serious and tough. Which… considering what she'd done do Choukai wasn't quite as adorably impotent as it could've been, "what's so funny, Miss Naka?"
Naka glanced between the two girls, "Yuudachi, you- you've met Kaga, haven't you."
"I like- oh," Yuudachi smiled, her hand coming up to cover the giggle slipping though her mouth, "Poi!"
White's nose crinkled, "Poi?"
"Poi!" explained Yuudachi.
Naka grinned, "You'll know when you meet her. Carriers are…" she shrugged, taking a moment to figure out just what carriers were. She wanted to say 'arrogant', but what kind of example would that be setting for little Yuudachi—not to mention adorable little White-chan! She couldn't badmouth her fleet-mates, especially not behind their backs!
"Are what?" asked White, her pigtails bobbing as she practically vibrated with anticipation.
"Traditional," said Naka, settling on the best way to phrase it. "To them, aviation is a sacred art."
White bit her lip, visibly processing for a moment. "Oh… okay, that makes sense!"
Naka shrugged, idly zigging a few degrees to port. She was keeping a watch on the horizon, but it was nothing more than habit. White's aircraft could see further than she ever could, even if she had a proper radar suite.
For another few minutes, the sea was silent except for the gentle crash of waves against steel.
"Hey… Miss Naka?" said White, her wagon bouncing in the waves as her hull rolled over in a swell.
"Y-yeah?" Naka would've sworn the American was about to capsize, but she just rolled back up with a giggling smile on her face.
"You're a singer, right?"
Naka nodded. "Back in Japan… a lot of people were scared of us when we first showed up. Being an Idol… it humanize me, you know?"
"Poi!" agreed Yuudachi.
White smiled. Then blushed. Then found the dirty scuffs on her oversized sneakers to be the most interesting thing in the entire world.
"What is it, White-Chan?" asked Yuudachi, steaming a little closer, "are you, like, okay?"
"Well… I'm kinda getting bored," said White, playing with the pleats on her dress. "Miss Naka, could you sing for us?"
Naka arched her brow. There were plenty of kanmusu who tolerated her singing, and a few who even enjoyed it back at base. But this was the first time she'd gotten asked to sing on patrol. "Well, I.."
"PLEAAAAASE!" moaned White and Yuudachi, the latter effortlessly slurring the end of the word into a pleading little "p-poi?"
Naka blushed, looking out to sea again.
"You should totally do it, miss!" came the thick New England accent of one of the freighter skippers.
Naka did a little curtsy, her skirt flaring out just so. She wasn't sure how many of her songs the cuddly American would be able to understand, much less like. Except… There was that one show the sailors had introduced her too. He said it was a hit with American kids, and Yuudachi and Fubuki did love the theme… "OOOOOOH-"
Yuudachi smiled, joining in on the very next word, "Who lives in a pineapple under the sea!"
White stared at them with utter bewilderment.
—|—|—
"J-Jersey-Sempai?"
Jersey looked up from her twentieth hamburger of the day, giving the perfectly-cooked beef and succulent a longing glance before setting the burger down with a solemn nod. "yeah?" she said, pivoting in her stool to face the quivering voice.
It was a destroyer, one barely taller than Jersey even when the battleship was sitting down. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and her face was adorned with a few sutures around her eye.
"Fubuki, right?" said Jersey. Between the twin stacks, tree turrets, and high forecastle, the girl couldn't be anyone else.
"H-hai!" said Fubuki, dipping her whole upper body in an exaggerated bow. Or… what would have been an exaggerated bow if she wasn't so damn earnest about it.
"Fry?" asked Jersey, sneaking another bite of her burger as she offered one of the delicious chill-cheese-seasoned french-fries.
Fubuki shook her head. "N- no thank you," she said, wringing her hands so hard Jersey could see her shirt scrunch up. "I… I just wanted to say thank you."
"Uh…" Jersey shrugged, "Thanks? I guess?" she scarfed down another mouthful of burger, "'jus doo'n mah jahb."
Fubuki gasped, but was too frozen in place to do anything about it.
Jersey took her sweet time swallowing the burger, letting the mix of spices gently tour around her mouth. Eating was still by-and-large a new experience for her, and she'd be damned if she wasn't gonna squeeze every shred of enjoyment out of it before she swallowed.
"Jersey-sem-"
Jersey held up a finger, silencing the girl while she took a nice, long drink of ice-cold coca-cola—the one darn thing that hadn't changed in sixty years. "Okay," she said, a resonating burp echoing out of her belly, "Now you may speak."
Fubuki's jaw dropped open, her arms going slack as she stared at the battleship. Somewhere, someone—probably one of the female petty officers who'd never seen Jersey's definition of "snack"—dropped a glass plate.
"You're scared of me, aren't you?" she said, crossing her arms with a big-sisterly smirk.
Fubuki nodded.
"'cause… why?"
The destroyer girl opened her mouth to speak, than promptly thought better of it. "Because…" she said, visible picking her words one at a time, "Because you're American."
"And you think I'm gonna go all rage-monster on you?" said Jersey.
Fubuki hung her head, slowly nodding as she stared at her shoes.
"You thick little Nip," said Jersey, her face cracking into a smile as she grabbed for Fubuki's middle, pulling the little destroyer in for a hug.
Fubuki let out a squeak of surprise, but there wasn't much she could do against a battleship,
"I wasn't de-commed until '91," said Jersey, giving the destroyer's head a playful pat. "I spent fifty years with Japan as an ally."
Fubuki's eyes went wide.
"So yeah, I don't hate you any more than you hate me," said Jersey. "Plus…" she glanced over her shoulder, making absolutely sure neither Williams nor Crowning were around, "You're cuddly as fuck."
Part 13: stabby-stabby
White was positively giggling with anticipation. So much so that—beyond the occasional violently enthusiastic nod of acknowledgement—she'd been all but incommunicado for the past three hours.
Even the little clutch of navy-blue air planes bouncing along in her wagon looked giddy. By the looks of it, her faeries had had to lash them down against her deck.
"Naka-Chan?" said Yuudachi, her blond hair blowing in the stiff breeze as she plowed up a wave crest. It wasn't anything like the unearthly storms Abyssals seemed to gravitate towards, but it certainly wasn't calm.
"Yeah?" said Naka, her eyes stuck on the horizon as she looked for the tell-tale dots of superstructures sailing into view. White had told her the convoy was close, but she'd descended into giggles before she could relay the exact composition.
"Is she, like…" Yuudachi glanced at the enormous smile spreading between the carrier's ruddy cheeks, "Okayish?"
"She's just eager to make new friends," said Naka, hoping with all her being that she was right. Kaga had been quite… upset when she learned the war hadn't gone as she'd hoped. Then again, White was quite literally everything the elegant fleet carrier wasn't.
"Poi," shrugged Yuudachi.
"Look," said Naka, pointing to the horizon, "There they are!" She waved at the cluster of ships steaming in their direction.
At the head was Tenryuu, her sword bouncing against her hip as the boisterous torpedo cruiser rolled in the waves. And wherever Tenryuu went, at least some of DesDiv six would inevitably follow.
It took Naka a second, but she saw the adorably-tiny form of Akatsuki steaming between two mammoth container ships, her purple hair blending in with Tenryuu's skirt. It's a good thing Nagato wasn't around, between White and Akatsuki, the battleship might just faint!
Guarding the flank was- oh. Oh fuck me. Naka buried her face in her hands.
"HEEEY!" Yuudachi waved, "Choukai-san, hey!"
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck Naka swerved out of formation, barrelling ahead as she tried to… she wasn't quite sure, but she knew she'd need all the steam she could manage.
"Yuudachi-chan, hey!" Choukai smiled, waving back at Naka's half of the convoy. Then her face froze, stuck somewhere between bemused confusion and utter skirt-ruining terror. "Is, is that-"
"We, like, made a new friend!" said Yuudachi, her stacks bleching smoke as gathered her steam, "Isn't she so kawaii!"
"H-hai," muttered Choukai, frantically yawning left and right as she tried to shadow her torpedo tubes.
"Fufufufu," Tenryuu laughed, "You're scared of that little thing?"
"Mmhm," agreed Akatsuki, "It's really not ladylike!"
"S-she sank me," stammered Choukai, her turrets slewing around as she locked a firing solution on the escort carrier.
"I did, didn't I," said White, biting her lip as she struggled to force her face into a bask of disinterested boredom.
"Eh, so?" Tenryuu scoffed, "Loads of us died to airc-"
"It wasn't airplanes," said Choukai, her head hanging against her crop-top, "She out-gunned me."
Akatsuki's eyes went… even wider than they normally were, and the girl frantically started looking between White and Choukai.
Even Tenryuu looked impressed. Impressed… or like she wanted to kidnap White and add her to the kindergarten. With Tenryuu the two expressions are pretty much interchangeable.
"Of course I did!" said White, giggling as she pulled on a pair of… of American-Flag shutter shades. "I'm murican, gosh-dangit! It's what we do!"
Tenryuu smirked at Naka before shooting the escort carrier a subtle wink.
"Can-can we just get this over with?" said Choukai with her head firmly buried in her hands.
—|—|—
Petty Officer Sarah Gale drummed her knuckles against the laminated-wood door. It wasn't quite the first time she'd had to run out and fetch someone from their quarters, though itwas her first doing so to a superior officer.
That that was her hang-up, not said superior officer being a living, breathing battleship would have worried her. But three months with Naka and the destroyers had made her all but numb—though unfortunately not deaf. She hated J-pop—to the shipgirls' antics.
"Waazzit?" slurred the smokey contralto she'd come to associate with USS New Jersey. The door swung open to reveal a towering—and Gale had to grudgingly admit, extremely shapely—woman. Her eyes were just barely open, and her hair hung in a messy cascade of shimmering strawberry blond that was in desperate need of a good wash.
"Uh, Ma'am… it's past noon," said Gale, pursing her lips as she tried to rectify her dad's old stories of 'the black dragon' with… well that.
"So…" said Jersey, glancing at one of the four watches around her wrist and making a tiny "huh" sound.
"Did… you just wake up, ma'am?" said Gale, trying her very hardest not to let any condescension creep into her voice. Jersey looked like an adult—mind-twenties if she had to guess—, she outranked her, and she was a damn battleship.
Jersey locked her terrifyingly icy eyes on Gale's, her brow crinkling in… almost recognition. "Maybe," she said, biting the corner of her lip.
"I thought Doc said you were good to go, ma'am?"
"I am!" said Jersey, raising one leg to put all her weight on the other, notably rock-solid, one, "'jus not a morning person."
"It's Twelve-fifteen, ma'am."
"And I outrank you."
"Aye-Aye, ma'am."
Jersey smirked. "You," she waved a hand at Gale, poking her in the sternum with one slender, surprisingly strong, finger. "I like you…" she trailed off with an expectant glance.
"Yeoman Second Class Sarah Gale," said Gale, her heels snapping together as she stood a little straighter.
Jersey's eyes narrowed, her mind visibly ticking over as it scoured the dustiest archives of her memory. "Gale… Gale… I know that." She looked up and down the petty officer, "I… think I know you."
"My, uh, my dad served on you during the gulf," said Gale, "I would've been two when you were retired."
Jersey smiled, grabbing Gale in a tight hug that smelled vaguely of fuel oil and that awful lemon-scented shampoo Naka liked. "Okay," said Jersey, slowly letting Gale out of her grasp, "Why'd you wake me? Can't be urgent if you didn't break down the door."
Gale took a second to catch her breath, "Oh, yeah. Right… Williams wants you present at the next summoning attempt-"
"I told you, I don't remember anything," said Jersey, her voice tempered with more than a little bitterness.
"He knows," said Gale, scooting a few inches further away. So what if the battleship was mad at herself, she'd seen what Angry Jersey was like. "But… maybe if you're there it'll jog your memory?"
Jersey huffed, crossing her sinewy arms. "Yeah… yeah, of course."
"And… you need to wear dress whites," said Gale, crossing her fingers behind her back. Jersey wasn't quite as… exotically dressed as Naka, but short-shorts and baseball caps weren't exactly regulation attire.
"I don't…" Jersey glanced into her quarters, her face falling, "Are they gonna get me some or something?"
"That's what I'm here for, ma'am."
Jersey glanced down at her outfit. Her shirt was getting ragged around the edges, and Gale noticed a hint of seawater clinging to the fabric. "One question."
"Yes, ma'am?"
"I'm technically a Lieutenant Commander, yeah?"
Gale nodded.
"That means I get one of those cool-ass swords, right?" practically begged Jersey, her icy eyes melting into puppy-dog puddles.
Gale had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. "We'll, uh, we'll see what we can do."
Even the little clutch of navy-blue air planes bouncing along in her wagon looked giddy. By the looks of it, her faeries had had to lash them down against her deck.
"Naka-Chan?" said Yuudachi, her blond hair blowing in the stiff breeze as she plowed up a wave crest. It wasn't anything like the unearthly storms Abyssals seemed to gravitate towards, but it certainly wasn't calm.
"Yeah?" said Naka, her eyes stuck on the horizon as she looked for the tell-tale dots of superstructures sailing into view. White had told her the convoy was close, but she'd descended into giggles before she could relay the exact composition.
"Is she, like…" Yuudachi glanced at the enormous smile spreading between the carrier's ruddy cheeks, "Okayish?"
"She's just eager to make new friends," said Naka, hoping with all her being that she was right. Kaga had been quite… upset when she learned the war hadn't gone as she'd hoped. Then again, White was quite literally everything the elegant fleet carrier wasn't.
"Poi," shrugged Yuudachi.
"Look," said Naka, pointing to the horizon, "There they are!" She waved at the cluster of ships steaming in their direction.
At the head was Tenryuu, her sword bouncing against her hip as the boisterous torpedo cruiser rolled in the waves. And wherever Tenryuu went, at least some of DesDiv six would inevitably follow.
It took Naka a second, but she saw the adorably-tiny form of Akatsuki steaming between two mammoth container ships, her purple hair blending in with Tenryuu's skirt. It's a good thing Nagato wasn't around, between White and Akatsuki, the battleship might just faint!
Guarding the flank was- oh. Oh fuck me. Naka buried her face in her hands.
"HEEEY!" Yuudachi waved, "Choukai-san, hey!"
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck Naka swerved out of formation, barrelling ahead as she tried to… she wasn't quite sure, but she knew she'd need all the steam she could manage.
"Yuudachi-chan, hey!" Choukai smiled, waving back at Naka's half of the convoy. Then her face froze, stuck somewhere between bemused confusion and utter skirt-ruining terror. "Is, is that-"
"We, like, made a new friend!" said Yuudachi, her stacks bleching smoke as gathered her steam, "Isn't she so kawaii!"
"H-hai," muttered Choukai, frantically yawning left and right as she tried to shadow her torpedo tubes.
"Fufufufu," Tenryuu laughed, "You're scared of that little thing?"
"Mmhm," agreed Akatsuki, "It's really not ladylike!"
"S-she sank me," stammered Choukai, her turrets slewing around as she locked a firing solution on the escort carrier.
"I did, didn't I," said White, biting her lip as she struggled to force her face into a bask of disinterested boredom.
"Eh, so?" Tenryuu scoffed, "Loads of us died to airc-"
"It wasn't airplanes," said Choukai, her head hanging against her crop-top, "She out-gunned me."
Akatsuki's eyes went… even wider than they normally were, and the girl frantically started looking between White and Choukai.
Even Tenryuu looked impressed. Impressed… or like she wanted to kidnap White and add her to the kindergarten. With Tenryuu the two expressions are pretty much interchangeable.
"Of course I did!" said White, giggling as she pulled on a pair of… of American-Flag shutter shades. "I'm murican, gosh-dangit! It's what we do!"
Tenryuu smirked at Naka before shooting the escort carrier a subtle wink.
"Can-can we just get this over with?" said Choukai with her head firmly buried in her hands.
—|—|—
Petty Officer Sarah Gale drummed her knuckles against the laminated-wood door. It wasn't quite the first time she'd had to run out and fetch someone from their quarters, though itwas her first doing so to a superior officer.
That that was her hang-up, not said superior officer being a living, breathing battleship would have worried her. But three months with Naka and the destroyers had made her all but numb—though unfortunately not deaf. She hated J-pop—to the shipgirls' antics.
"Waazzit?" slurred the smokey contralto she'd come to associate with USS New Jersey. The door swung open to reveal a towering—and Gale had to grudgingly admit, extremely shapely—woman. Her eyes were just barely open, and her hair hung in a messy cascade of shimmering strawberry blond that was in desperate need of a good wash.
"Uh, Ma'am… it's past noon," said Gale, pursing her lips as she tried to rectify her dad's old stories of 'the black dragon' with… well that.
"So…" said Jersey, glancing at one of the four watches around her wrist and making a tiny "huh" sound.
"Did… you just wake up, ma'am?" said Gale, trying her very hardest not to let any condescension creep into her voice. Jersey looked like an adult—mind-twenties if she had to guess—, she outranked her, and she was a damn battleship.
Jersey locked her terrifyingly icy eyes on Gale's, her brow crinkling in… almost recognition. "Maybe," she said, biting the corner of her lip.
"I thought Doc said you were good to go, ma'am?"
"I am!" said Jersey, raising one leg to put all her weight on the other, notably rock-solid, one, "'jus not a morning person."
"It's Twelve-fifteen, ma'am."
"And I outrank you."
"Aye-Aye, ma'am."
Jersey smirked. "You," she waved a hand at Gale, poking her in the sternum with one slender, surprisingly strong, finger. "I like you…" she trailed off with an expectant glance.
"Yeoman Second Class Sarah Gale," said Gale, her heels snapping together as she stood a little straighter.
Jersey's eyes narrowed, her mind visibly ticking over as it scoured the dustiest archives of her memory. "Gale… Gale… I know that." She looked up and down the petty officer, "I… think I know you."
"My, uh, my dad served on you during the gulf," said Gale, "I would've been two when you were retired."
Jersey smiled, grabbing Gale in a tight hug that smelled vaguely of fuel oil and that awful lemon-scented shampoo Naka liked. "Okay," said Jersey, slowly letting Gale out of her grasp, "Why'd you wake me? Can't be urgent if you didn't break down the door."
Gale took a second to catch her breath, "Oh, yeah. Right… Williams wants you present at the next summoning attempt-"
"I told you, I don't remember anything," said Jersey, her voice tempered with more than a little bitterness.
"He knows," said Gale, scooting a few inches further away. So what if the battleship was mad at herself, she'd seen what Angry Jersey was like. "But… maybe if you're there it'll jog your memory?"
Jersey huffed, crossing her sinewy arms. "Yeah… yeah, of course."
"And… you need to wear dress whites," said Gale, crossing her fingers behind her back. Jersey wasn't quite as… exotically dressed as Naka, but short-shorts and baseball caps weren't exactly regulation attire.
"I don't…" Jersey glanced into her quarters, her face falling, "Are they gonna get me some or something?"
"That's what I'm here for, ma'am."
Jersey glanced down at her outfit. Her shirt was getting ragged around the edges, and Gale noticed a hint of seawater clinging to the fabric. "One question."
"Yes, ma'am?"
"I'm technically a Lieutenant Commander, yeah?"
Gale nodded.
"That means I get one of those cool-ass swords, right?" practically begged Jersey, her icy eyes melting into puppy-dog puddles.
Gale had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. "We'll, uh, we'll see what we can do."
Last edited:
Part 14: The summoning.
- Location
- 'Murica
Part 14
"You're late," said Williams, his stern gaze seeming all the sterner framed by his crisp white uniform. His gloved hands were folded behind his back. His chest adorned with row after row of medals earned from sixteen months of desperate war.
"S-sorry, sir," panted Yeoman Gale, her chest heaving as she tried to force wind back into her vacant lungs. "We-" she held a hand up, begging for another moment.
"Truck broke down," said Jersey, looking not the slightest bit out of breath. If not for the blond braid hanging down past her waist, and the steel in her icy blue eyes, Williams could almost have mistaken her for an ordinary officer. Albeit, a very tall, quite shapely one.
Gale nodded, stuffing her cover back on as she panted to attention.
"Think, uh… it was my fault," said Jersey, scuffing one of her white dress shoes against the floor. The soles were covered in muck, but there wasn't much anyone could do about that now. "Sorry, sir."
"We had-" gasped Gale, "To run- All the way here."
"Tailor's can't be more than…" Williams' narrowed his eyes by a fraction, mentally recalling the area layout, "Two-three miles away."
"Fitting," said Gale. Her voice was still shaky, but at least she had enough wind in her to speak, "The fitting took longer than we'd, uh, then we'd thought."
"Yeah…" Jersey bit her lip idly fiddling with the hilt of her dress sword, "that's my fault too." She glanced down at the medal-covered swell of her not-insubstantial bust.
"Commander?" Williams glanced between the two women—or woman and battleship— and put on his most Admiraly 'i'm waiting for an explanation. Give it before I order one' face.
"The, uh, Tailor," said Jersey, absent-mindedly fiddling with the medals on her chest, "didn't expect a BB to come back with double-"
Gale elbowed her in the flank. Hard.
"Oh!" Jersey's face went red, "Yes, uh, sir. Um… yeah," she glanced down at where her hands were. "Shit," her hands snapped to her side.
Williams let out a long-suffering sigh, "Gale?"
"Sir?"
"What do I pay you for?"
Jersey glanced wordlessly between the two sailors, trying her very hardest to just fade.
"Uh…" Gale was all but frozen in place by the Skipper Stare. "You mean my standing orders, sir?"
Williams nodded.
"To keep 'sparkly magical ship-girl bullshit off my desk.' Sir."
Williams nodded again, motioning for her to continue.
"Sorry, sir." Gale's hand snapped up in salute. "Won't happen again, sir."
"Understood, Sailor," said Williams, returning the salute and motioning for her to continue into the summoning chamber.
Jersey watched her go without a word. The battleships' lips were pursed, and a vein in her neck pulsed as she flexed and un-flexed her jaw. For a moment, she didn't say anything, only the subtle tension in her uniform betraying that she was breathing at all.
Then she pivoted to face him, her weight rotating on her heel like it was a polished bearing. Her eyes were wide, almost pleading as she looked to him, her body coiled to respond the second he gave the word.
It wasn't quite the puppy-dog eyes the destroyers gave him, but it was close enough for Williams to feel a migraine building up steam in his skull.
"Yes, Jersey?"
"It… it really was my fault," said Jersey. She sniffed, scrunching up her nose as she blinked back the first hint of a tear. "If- if I hadn't slept in late, if I wasn't so…" she trailed off, staring resignedly at her shoes. "I failed you," she said, her voice almost too quiet to be heard. "I'm the one who should be punished."
Williams huffed, clicking his tongue against his teeth in thought. "Jersey, look at me."
The battleship looked up, her icy blue eyes locked on his.
"You came back when we needed you," said Williams, "You got here just under the wire. You haven't failed me."
"Sir," Jersey stood a little straighter.
"Now get in there and let's summon you a friend."
"Aye Aye, Sir!" said Jersey, a ghost of a smile creeping back over her face.
—|—|—
Jersey felt her mouth fall open as she stepped though the double-doors to the so-called 'summoning chamber'. Other than a walkway around the edges, and a single narrow causeway going out to the exact center, the floor was open to the sea. Rows upon rows of flickering candles lined the walls, casting flickering reflections off the salty sea below.
Tapestries hung from the rafters. Some were decorated with stylized renderings of warships at sea. Others had inscriptions Jersey couldn't read, but somehow recognized.At the far end of the room, an enormous 48 star flag—Jersey recognized it as the one she'd flown in battle— was on proud display.
"That's Old-English."
Jersey glanced over. She hadn't even noticed Professor Crowning walk over, looking very fancy in his suit and skinny blue tie.
"On the tapestries," said Crowning, waving at the hanging sheets of canvas, "We had a bunch like them hanging off you."
Jersey gave him a confused look.
"Back before you were… uh… you." Crowning drummed his fingers against the railing, looking out into the candlelit water. "They're, uh… they're made from the sails of theConstitution."
Before he could explain further, a barrel-chested Marine in full dress blues stomped the butt of his rifle against the walkway. "Ah-TEN… SHUN!" he barked, his hand snapping up in perfect military salute.
Jersey didn't even register that she'd snapped to. She simply realized she was standing at full attention, her hand held to her brow like her life, her crew-her very soul depended on it.
Somewhere to her right, she heard Williams step forwards. Each footstep came in perfect time with the last, his shoes clicking off the walkway as he moved with supernatural grace towards along the central causeway. Step. Step. Step. Jersey swore her heart was beating in time.
Finally he stopped. His right hand swept up to meet the brim of his cover. His left came down, barely kissing the hilt of his sword.
"Spirits of the deep," he said, his voice calm, yet thunderously loud. "Beneath this sea lies the body of American warriors. Ships and sailors who gave their last measure of devotion to the Constitution, and to the country that they loved. Spirits who now rest in glory."
Jersey felt eyes flicker towards her, watching for any sign of a reaction. She didn't move a muscle, she barely even breathed.
"Spirits," continued Williams, his body still at rigid salute, "whose rest we must disturb. Spirits we call to action once again in-"
The sound of a gaping yawn cut though the summoning room like an armor-piercing shell, echoing off the walls and only building in intensity with each bounce. Every eye in the building swiveled to locate the source.
Jersey's eyes were inhuman wide, her face beet red as she tried to physically muscle her mouth closed, the other still held up at full attention.
Williams glared at her, even her twenty-inch turret armor melting to slag under the force of her gaze.
"Sorry," she said, her voice very small and quiet after the force of her yawn. "S-sorry."
—|—|—
Jersey hadn't said a word since the incident at the summoning chamber. Even when Gale suggested visiting the Mess Hall to capitalize on Italian night the battleship hadn't offered more than a non-committal grunt.
Even then, she'd taken her food with the quietest of acknowledgements, shuffled over to the remotest table she could find, and hunched her back to make herself as small as her towering frame would allow.
Plus, she had three plates of lasagna sitting in front of her—not one of which had been licked clean. For a battleship, that was practically 'not eating.'
"It's… it's not your fault, you know," said Gale, balancing her own tray on one arm as she pulled a seat out.
Jersey glanced up, her eyes bleary and oozing utter despair. She sniffed, rubbing her nose with the end of her blue t-shirt.
"We've done that a hundred times," said Gale, dropping her tray down next to Jersey and sitting down. "Never worked before."
Jersey slumped forwards, her head falling against the table with a loud clunk of metal-on-metal.
Gale glanced over her shoulder. Technically, she was skirting regs by even being in the officers' mess. But.. damn it, she was supposed to look after the battleship, and she'd be damned if she left her to cry her eyes out alone. "Hun?" she said, reaching out to gently pet the girl's braid.
Jersey mumbled something very quiet.
"White should be back soon," said Gale, reaching across the table to stroke the battleship's head. "I'm.. I'm sure she'd be happy to see you."
Jersey shook her head. "Not today."
Gale paused, trying to make sense of that. "Jersey? I don't-" She stopped mid-sentence. Fuck. FUCK FUCK FUCK! October 25th. The Battle Off Samar.
Jersey's mouth twisted up in a sad imitation of a smile. "There you go… destroyers and carriers getting slaughtered, and where was I? Where was I?" she hissed, her voice dripping venom, "the world wonders."
"Jersey, you-"
"I was sitting on my ass!" snapped the battleship, her hand slamming down against the table hard enough to make her plates jump. "Eating my own shit while those destroyers fought like lions."
"That's the past," said Gale, forcing herself not to flinch in the face of an angry, self-hating woman with guns bigger than she was. "You're back now. With us."
Jersey scowled, "Yeah? Look what good I fucking did." She threw herself to her feet, piling her dishes up with a rattle of plastic bouncing against plastic. "I'll be in my rack."
—|—|—
"We've gotta be missing something," said Williams, running his hands though his short, slowly-graying hair as he slouched down into his office chair. "Drink?"
Crowning shook his head, "Not after that." He sighed, looking over the row of delicate model ships decorating the Admiral's bookshelf. "She's pissed, you know."
"Who, Jersey?"
Crowning nodded. "Barely ate a thing, then stormed off to her room. She thinks she failed you."
Williams took a long breath, balling his hands into fists then slowly relaxing the muscles. "Hell… it was along shot at best. The Brits've been doing that exact same ritual for months. New boat every time."
"I know," said Crowning, slouching into a chair opposite the Admiral, "did the same thing on Jersey." He paused. "The, uh… the ship. Even had Victory on hand to make sure we did it right."
For a few long minutes, both men said nothing. Each stared off into the middle distance, wracking their brains for something, anything to work with.
Crownings' eyes went wide, and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards in an unbidden smile. "No they haven't."
"Doc?"
"The British don't mention the constitution, why would they," said Crowning, suddenly pacing frantically though the room.
"Yeah…" Williams nodded, motioning for the professor to get to the next point in his logical argument.
"Their summoning, they say all that 'for queen and country' rhetoric, right?"
"It's the same thing," said Williams, rubbing at his temples, "The monarch hasn't had real power for centuries. She just… she symbolizes the country. A figurehead. Constitution's gotta be close an analogue."
—|—|—
Jersey rolled over onto her belly, fumbling for the slender plastic cell phone the Navy'd been kind enough to issue her. She'd left it sitting on her bedside table out of confusion, and now the stupid thing was buzzing up an angry storm at her.
She liked to consider herself tech-savvy—she had been fitted with missiles and modern electronics in the 80's after all— but this twenty-first century stuff was just… far beyond her.
After a few minutes of angry fiddling, and about a third of her more profane vocabulary, she'd managed to unlock the goddamn thing. Alongside the mess of jewel-like buttons, she finally found one with a little red message box next to it.
A text message. Jersey sighed. This, she could deal with.
Sarah Gale said: "Hey, a few of us are gonna watch Top Gun with White. She wants to know if you'll join us."
—|—|—
Crowning stared at the map covering one wall of the Admiral's office, letting his mind wander as his eyes tracing out every one of the little navigational lines and notes. "Only it's not," he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
"Pardon?"
"The Constitution and the Queen," said Crowning, tapping his finger at the little island that was England. "You said the queen gave up power a few centuries ago."
"More or less, yeah," said Williams, suddenly on his feet, the gears of his mind ticking over one in furious sequence.
"For us that's a long time," said Crowning, "But for them…" he frantically tapped on the map, "But… but England as we know it started… what, 1066? That's almost a thousand years of history where the monarch was the country. And it's an island."
Williams nodded, motioning for the professor to continue.
"Britannia Rules the waves," said Crowning, his eyes wide as she smiled from ear to ear. "Up until… what, the forties? They were the naval power on this planet."
Williams nodded again crossing his arms as he stared at the map, "Just like Japan, their Navy's their shield."
"And their sword."
"Get to the point, Doc."
—|—|—
Jersey wrapped her knuckles against the laminated wood door, balancing a six-pack against the crook of her hip. It was the only familiar looking can she could find at the PX. Hopefully it'd be enough to make up for her shitty attitude earlier.
"'s open!" said something though a mouthful of popcorn.
Jersey opened the door with her free hand, ducking under the lintel with a humble little smile. "Hey. I, uh, brought booze."
The room itself was about the size of Jersey's, though there was a second bed where Jersey had a desk. Inside was at least a dozen men and women, some in uniform, the others in shorts, jeans, or even sweatpants.
Seated at the very front, facing the biggest television Jersey'd ever seen in her life, and surrounded by a small army of tiny faeries in minuscule leather jackets, was the only-slightly-less-tiny form of White Plains.
"Hey, Jersey!" said Gale, waving from the far side of the room, "Just sit wherever there's room."
Jersey got all of three steps in before a tiny escort carrier just appeared in front of her. She felt White's hands close around her waist, the tiny carrier nuzzling Jersey's tummy as she hugged with all her strength.
"I missed you," she said, her eyes huge as she beamed up at the battleship.
Jersey wiped at her face, suddenly very happy she had her aviators on.
—|—|—
"The point is," said Crowning, his words frantically tumbling out one after another, "Is we can't just- we can't just summon them to duty and expect them to come! Especially if we don't need them."
Williams narrowed his eyes, "Doctor, if the Abyssals own the sea, our allies-"
"Yes, our allies!" said Crowning, slapping his hand against the map. "If we loose the sea, we'll be fine. We've got-" he waved frantically at the map representation of North American, "We've got enough natural wealth to supply ourselves fifty times over."
Crowning stepped back running his hands though what hair he had left. Words poured into his mind in a glorious epiphany. "But Britain? Japan? The only countries to summon spirits?"
"Holy shit," breathed Williams.
Crowning nodded, his head flopping up and down with unbridled enthusiasm. "Their girls came because they were needed. Because no one else could help but a spirit. Ours? We can't summon them in our hour of direst need because that hour hasn't come yet."
"Ah, hell," Williams scowled, "If this war isn't theirs, how do we get them to fight?Especially since they've damn well earned their rest."
"We have to…" Crowning smiled, breathlessly pacing from one corner of the office to the other, "We have to recruit them."
—|—|—
Two minutes. White had gotten all of two goddamn minutes into Top Gun before she was reduced to utterly unintelligible gibbering and frantic vibrations of unbridled glee. Jersey had to use all her strength and coordination as a battleship to keep the tiny carrier from falling clean off her lap.
"Didyouseethat!" screamed White, holding her arms out like an airplane, then slowly sweeping them back in imitation of an F-14 Tomcat. "Theydon'tevenhaveprpoellersbutstilltheygo," she puckered her lips, "FOOOOOOOOSH!" she screamed. "THIS IS SO AWESOME!"
"Just wait," said Gale, throwing a handful of popcorn at the carrier. "It gets better."
"How could it-" And then White's jaw dropped. On the screen, an F-14—a forty-thousand pound fighter, if Jersey recalled correctly—was bodily hurled into the air by a mighty steam catapult like it was nothing more than a child's toy.
The very same instant, the soft, melodic ballad of the Top Gun Anthem was replaced by a roaring rock anthem. A few sailors started air-guitaring, and Jersey had to restrain herself from following suit. On her last cruise, every sailor aboard had seen this movie at least one. But now… seeing it with her own eyes… Jersey was starting to feel things she'd never felt before.
"Revving up your engine, listen to her howl and roar!" sang every single person in the room, USS White Plains excepted. Even Jersey's roaring contralto wasn't strong enough to drown them all out.
"EEEEEEE!" White was reduced to a screech of pure glee.
Jersey laughed, holding White's waist to keep her from falling off her lap. Then it hit her, some absent thought tickling the furthest corner of her mind. "Hey… Gale?"
The Yeoman looked over, her smile positively glowing as she rocked out to the guitar solo. "Yeah?"
"Doesn't… Naka have a guitar?"
Gale thought for a second, "Yeah. She or her band, yeah."
Jersey smirked.
—|—|—
The phone on William's desk rang. Not just any phone, The phone. The definite article. The bright-blue phone that was only to be called in—to use the Admiral's own words—the case of sparkly shipgirl bullshit.
"Williams," barked the Admiral, almost ripping the phone from its cradle.
"Sir, Yeoman Gale here," came a frantic voice. "You, uh… you should get everyone down to the summoning chamber."
Williams didn't think twice, snapping his fingers at his aide, "Get every MP we have down there ASAP-"
The aide saluted before scurrying off to fulfill the order.
"Gale, what exactly is going on?"
"I, uh… I don't know, sir," said Gale, "Jersey just ordered me to get everyone to meet her there. And…"
"And what, Yeoman?"
"And then she ran off with White. And, uh… they were both giggling."
The phone hadn't even hit the floor by the time Williams sprinted though the door.
—|—|—
Jersey cradled the guitar, running her hands up the fretboard and lazily plucking at the strings. It was the first time she'd held one. But—in between the moments of sheer pant-shitting terror—deployment at sea was a painfully boring experience. Sailors had to find ways to pass the time, and she'd had plenty of sailors aboard her.
"You sure this is a good idea?" said White, playing with a wireless microphone Naka'd been kind enough to loan.
"You'll do fine," said the torpedo cruiser, tactfully turning the microphone around.
"Just rock your little heart out," said Jersey, plucking a few experimental chords. "Naka, how do I sound?"
The Idol gave a thumbs up before disappearing behind her laptop.
Jersey took a breath as she stared out into the summoning chamber. Sailors and MPs were slowly filtering in, but so far no one'd risked the narrow causeway to reach Jersey and White. Come on, come on thought Jersey, her eyes narrowing as she scoured the crowed for any sight of her Admiral.
"Look, there he is!" said White, waving frantically with her microphone.
"Alright," said Jersey, her smirk graduating to a full-on shit-eating grin. Her hands ran over her guitar with practiced precision, strumming out the three notes everyone in the Navy knew. bum bum bum BUMBUM
—|—|—
Darkness. Peace. Calm.
That was her existence now. A warm, peaceful rest. The sea wrapped around her like a blanket, warm with the knowledge that she'd done her duty.
She'd fought like a wildcat, she'd gone down without a shell in her magazine or torpedo in her tubes.
She'd served with honor.
She'd died with valor.
She rests in glory.
She'd forgotten what it was like to sail. The crash of salt against her bow, the pounding of waves against her hull were nothing but dreamy, half-remembered feelings in the rearmost part of her mind.
She'd almost forgotten what it was like to fight.
Almost.
General Quarters
The call echoed though her hull. Machinery stirred to life that hadn't moved—hadn't even existed—in decades.
General Quarters
She heard a voice. No, voices. Hundred, at least, begging her to return.
It was coming back to her. A fight against overwhelming odds. A fight she wasn't expected to survive.
But she fought. Like **hell* did she fight. She charged straight into the danger zone without a moment's hesitation.
She'd only wanted to do what damage she could. To make her captain proud. To down swinging.
And she'd sent the Japanese fleet running with their tail between their legs.
She and her two sisters.
General Quarters.
She smiled. Not one step back. Never a step back.
RETREAT HELL!
—|—|—
Jersey's hands flew over her fretboard, her body pulsing with the rhythm as she pounded out the notes with all the energy she could muster. Eight boilers hot, a quarter million shaft horsepower, and the biggest speakers Naka could rustle up.
"Highway to the-" White held her mic out to the crowd of sailors filling the railings to capacity.
"DANGER ZONE!" bellowed the crowd. Even Admiral Williams was begrudgingly getting invested.
And then the chamber went deathly silent. Every eye was fixed on the water.
Crowning squinted, leaning over the railing to get the best possible view at the new arrivals.
Three girls, all of them around junior-high age, stood on the water in a ragged V formation. They all wore the same outfit, although the girl on the left had added a feathery war-bonnet.
Each wore running shoes, blue pants rolled up to their knees, a chunky gun belt, and a sailor-top with the sleeves ripped off. They all had the same anchor tattoo on their sinewy bicep, and the same devil-may-cry smirk on their faces.
"Who are-?" Crowning glanced over to the nearest Sailor, a red-headed man who looked like he was seconds away from crying with glee.
Jersey leaped off the makeshift stage, landing on the water with a splash and running over to grab all three girls in a huge hug. "I missed you all so much!" she said, spinning around with the three girls in her arms.
Feather-girl grunted something in response, but it was too muffled by Jersey's chest to be audible.
"Um…" Jersey finally put them down, her face seemingly stuck in an enormous smile. "Everyone… I'd like you to meet Taffy 3."
"JOHNSTON!" screamed White, leaping off the stage to catch the feathered girl in a flying tackle.
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Part 15: I have feet now?
- Location
- 'Murica
Part 15: I have feet now?
Having a body was a very… interesting set of experiences for Johnston. First… she had a body! The first few seconds of her existence had been dominated by that simple fact.She remembered, hazily, her first shakedown cruise. She could feel her turbines idling away inside her engine room, feel her crew shuffling around on her cramped decks as they manned their stations…
But… she could also feel the cool air flowing though her lungs, feel the gently-churning surf lapping at her ankles, feel the warmth of upmpty-jillion candles against her suntanned skin. Skin She had skin now! What?
Out the corner of her eye, she could see her sisters. Hoel shot her that look. The skipper look. The long-suffering look that could only be descried as "dammit, Johnston, look where you lead us."
Johnston didn't care. She was a destroyer, she didn't run from danger, she ran at it. She was the danger! (And she knew that, deep down under those 5in/38s, Hoel loved her for it.)
Johnston glanced over, aiming to lob some snappy comeback at her nominal skipper, but the words died in her throat. It was Heermann! The last of the Taffy 3 trio, the three little tin-cans that fought like battleships! The most awesomesest destroyers to sail the seven seas! So why did she look so sheepish? With that little half-smile she looked almost… demure.
Then, a splash tore Johnston's attention away from her bash-sister. Over to… to… to a battleship.
The world around her slowed to a crawl as Johnston stared in slack-jawed awe at the most perfect example of American Military Awesomeness ever to put screw to salt. Not just any battleship, her old friend, USS New Jersey!
Nine guns, turrets bigger than her entire body, enough AAA to turn a sizeable chunk of sky into solid lead and fire. More horsepower than all three Fletchers put together.
But Johnston didn't notice any of that. She was a destroyer. She'd been inhabited by 329 sailors, many of them scared kids barely out of high school giving their all in impossible circumstances. Kids who—for all the steel of their character—where still kids.
Johnston couldn't tear her eyes off the battleships's enormous… top weight. Fletchers weren't small, at least by destroyer standards. New Jersey, an Iowa class battleship… she was stacked.
It seemed to move a solid second out of step with the rest of her body, flowing with the same graceful ease perfect torpedo spread ripping the bottom out of a nip cruiser.
Scratch that, a whole flotilla of nip cruiser.
"I missed you all so much!" screamed Jersey, throwing her arms around all three destroyers and effortlessly lifting them off their feet. Her… chest slammed into Johnston's nose, temporarily knocking the little destroyer's brain for a spin as she tried to comprehend what just happened.
"T-thanks, New Jersey!" is what Johnston tried to say. What came out was closer to a muffled grunt of "mMMmmmMff."
Jersey must have set her down at some point, but Johnston was too lost in a euphoric haze to notice. A Battleship. An Iowa class battleship. The very awesome-est of the awesome surface combatants. And she'd hugged her!
Johnston finally snapped out of her daze by the frantic chirp of her Mark 25 radar. She was about to be under air attack! By something… truly massive.
For a second, she hovered on the edge of panic. The recognition settled in. Tiny, with a flat top, a pair of bouncy little pigtails, and a squat little island to one side, there's only one ship it could be!
"White!" is what Johnston wanted to say. But the little baby-CV slammed into her before the destroyer'd even opened her mouth, sending her skidding butt-first onto the surf,a CVE clinging to her tummy with the tightest hug Johnston'd ever felt.
—|—|—
Admiral Williams didn't recall getting his cell phone. His hands had fished it out on their own initiative, dialling the first number on his speed-dial on nothing more than muscle memory.
"NAVSTA Everett, office of kanmu-"
"This is Williams," growled the Admiral, knifing his way though the crowd of excited sailors, marines, and MPs. The sheer power of The Brass driving a wedge though the mass of fatigue-clad humanity.
A very audible gulp filtered though the phone's speakers.
"Where's Fubuki and Yuudachi?"
"They're, uh…" a brief pause as whoever was on the opposite end looked away from the receiver to shout fantic orders, "Uh, Fubuki's getting dinner. Yuudachi's napping in her room."
"Get them gone."
"Sir?"
"Take them into town, take them shopping, I don't care," said Williams, his voice the very embodiment of Not To Be Fucked With, "Get them off the base. In fifteen minutes I want them gone."
"Aye-Aye, sir!" came the instant response.
Williams didn't bother putting the phone back in his pocket, already moving on to the next firecracker in this horribly unstable power keg. Naka was… Naka was hunkered down behind her macbook, hiding behind the mess of audio cables she'd rigged up for Jersey's little concert.
Good, it might hide her for the moment, especially with Taffy 3 still disoriented from the summoning. But the girl was wearing a traffic-orange dress!
"Gale," said Williams as loudly he could risk, grabbing the Yeoman's arm to get her attention.
"Sir?" said Gale with a yelp.
"Take Naka," he nodded to the frilly traffic cone hiding behind her sticker-covered lap top, "and fade, understood?"
Gale took a second, looking between the Admiral and the returned American destroyers. "Aye, Aye, sir."
Williams pivoted to face the gaggle of shipgirls exchanging frantic hugs. Destroyer-girls were trying to deal with when they weren't murder-crazy gunslingers who seemed to draw their power from impossible odds and lacked a single fuck to give between the lot of them.
Well… one problem at a time. "Attention on deck!" he barked, his voice echoing off the chamber walls.
Instantly the room went still. Behind him, Williams heard the rustle of fabric as a hundred or so sailors instantly shifted from the electric glee of a rock concert to stoic silence in the face of an angry Admiral.
Even the shipgirls snapped to, scrambling to their legs and standing at rigid attention. Jersey pulled it off the best, somehow looking the very image of a professional American warfighter, even in short-shorts with a guitar slung over her back. And White… well, she was trying, her ruddy face taut with concentration as she gave it her all.
The destroyers though… Johnston had her chest puffed out as far as she could manage, her arms flexed as she tried her very hardest to look match Jersey's stoic stance. Neither of the other girls were much better.
"Taffy 3 destroyers," said Williams staring down at them from the summoning chamber platform, "Report."
"USS Johnston, DD-557 reporting!" Barked the girl with the feathers, her voice overflowing with bravado. "Ready to kick nip ass and take names, sir!"
"USS Hoel, DD-533 reporting!" Barked her sister, the flame-headed girl with her hair in a messy ponytail who seemed intent on not coming in second-loudest. "Can Do!"
"USS Heermann, DD-532 reporting," came the surprisingly quiet voice of the demure—relatively speaking—little brunette. She gave her sisters a timid, loving look before looking back to Williams. "Ready for action, sir."
Williams couldn't help but smile. "Jersey?"
"Sir?" said the battleship, her voice effortlessly carrying over the little destroyers' boasts.
"That was a hell of an idea."
"Thank you, sir," said Jersey, her cheeks all but glowing with pride.
Williams felt his phone buzz in his hand, and he tilted it just far enough to glance at the screen. Outstanding, the DDs and Naka had just cleared the gate… he had time and space to manoeuvre. "You girls must be hungry."
Johnston nodded, her feathery headdress exaggerating every enthusiastic move of her head.
"Jersey, you know the way to the mess," said Williams, prompting a wave of hurriedly-stifled laughter to issue from the sea of sailors behind him.
"Is… that a question, sir?"
"It's an order, Commander," said Williams, allowing himself a slight grin. "Get these girls fed, then get then in my office by twenty-hundred."
"Aye sir," said Jersey, her eyes almost imperceptibly shifting towards the pile of audio equipment Naka'd been hiding behind, scuffing her shoe against the surf she stood on.
Williams offered a slight nod of acknowledgement. "Dismissed."
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Part 15: How DARE they!
- Location
- 'Murica
Part 15
Jersey felt her belly start to grumble at the very thought of the mess hall. The downside to being an Iowa class battleship; her appetite never quite vanished, it merely faded enough for her to concentrate on other things.Things like herding three of the most improbably battle-happy destroyers the US Navy had ever had the honor to deploy in the general direction of food.
It didn't help that the three girls hadn't shut up about food for one second since the Admiral dismissed them.
"You need'ta try the cherry pie," said White, her pigtails bouncing with each step as she skipped along next to the ragged flotilla. "'s so good!" she chirped.
Johnston made a show of scoffing, her hands thrust firmly into the pockets of her rolled-up pants. "Hrmpf," she grunted, scowling as best she could with her big brown eyes. "I don't want pie."
"But pie's delicious," said Heermann with a shy smile, her voice far quieter than her sister's boastful yell.
"We're destroyers!" said Hoel, gritting her teeth and flexing—or at least attempting to flex—the muscles in her bare arm. "We're badasses! We eat steaks!"
"Raw!" said Johnston, thrusting her little fist in the air with a passable wolf-growl. Hoel nodded, pounding her fist against Johnston's while Heermann smiled, letting out a little roar of her own.
"Shut up, all of you," said Jersey, rolling her eyes as she drummed her fingers against her frustratingly-empty belly. "Everyone likes pie."
"But-" Johnston scrunched up her face to argue, then completely lost her voice as she stared up at the battleship. The destroyer's mouth hung open, and even her feathers seemed to droop in resignation.
Somewhere behind them, Heermann furiously stifled a giggle.
"Okay, both of you-" said Jersey, grabbing the awestruck Johnston in a headlock before reaching for her sister.
"Hey!" Hoel let out a half-hearted screech before letting herself be dragged into the battleship's grasp.
Jersey squeezed Hoel to shut her up. "I outrank you, nuggets."
The destroyers instantly fell silent. Only the gentle lapping of water against dock pilings—and the wheezing of a CVE trying to hold in her laughter—could be heard.
"Good," said Jersey, "Now… you know why I have you two in a headlock and not Heermann?"
"Because I-" Heermann's voice died under the withering force of the battleship's Skipper Glare.
"'cause we're awesome? I dunno," mumbled Johnston. Apparently the little DD that could had figured out some kind of ass-chewing was in her future.
"Because the war's over, dipshits," said Jersey, squeezing both girls against her chest. "Heermann lived though it. But you two…" the battleship sighed, "You two went down in a blaze of glory, yeah?"
"Damn straight!" barked Hoel.
"We won," said Jersey, "Japs are friendly now." The two destroyers in her arms froze, and Jersey could feel their brains stall out and struggle to build up steam again. "They're one of our closest allies in the Pacific."
Johnston's head swiveled to face Jersey's, her face a mask of utter disbelief.
"This has to be a trick," said Hoel, her breathing shallow as she futility tried to squeeze out of Jersey's grasp.
"No trick," said Jersey, glancing to where Heermann and White were watching. "Right, Heermann?"
The destroyer nodded, "It's true… we burned their cities… broke their spirit."
Hoel stared ahead into space, "But… the Emperor-"
"Is gone," said Jersey, "The Japanese don't worship him anymore." The battleship bit her lip, giving Hoel a tiny bit more slack, "They… they worship cute things now."
Johnston gave Jersey a look that was equal parts confusion and unmitigated horror. "Worship-" she started.
"-Cute things?" finished Hoel.
"Yeah," said Jersey with a sigh. She had to make sure she was around when they met Naka, "It's… it's really weird. Actually. I'm not really sure how it works."
"Is it… a ploy?" murmured Hoel, "Are they trying to trick us?"
"For sixty years?" scoffed Jersey. "Yo, White."
"Yes?" said the little CVE, bouncing off her feet as her name was unexpectedly called.
"Who'd you run that last convoy with?"
White glanced between Jersey and the two destroyers in her arms, "Um… Miss Naka and Yuudachi."
"WHAAAAT!" screamed Johnston, her nose flaring in anger at the mere thought of a CVE, herCVE, the CVE she'd gave her life to protect, being… deflowered by those… those…. Gah, just the thought of it make her gag.
"JOHNSTON!" barked Jersey, her face as hard as the steel of her armor and twice as cold. "SECURE THAT!"
"BUT-"
Jersey glared down at the destroyer, a low growl rumbling up from deep within her.
"Aye… aye, aye ma'am," muttered Johnston, trying to shrink into nothingness.
"That goes for you too, Hoel," said Jersey. "Admiral's got a lot on his plate. You are notgoing to start anything. Understood?"
The two destroyers mumbled something.
"I said under-fucking-stood!" barked Jersey.
"Aye,Aye, ma'am!" chimed both girls in unity.
Jersey finally released the headlock, and the two girls shuffled away, suddenly fascinated by the concrete beneath their shoes.
"Hey," said Jersey, her voice suddenly soft and quiet, "turn around. Heermann, get in here too."
The three destroyers turned around, nearly-equal levels of sheepish caution on each of their faces. "Y-yes, Jersey?" said Hoel, forcing herself to lock eyes with the battleship.
"C'mere," said Jersey, dropping to her knees and spreading her arms wide. "All of you."
The destroyers shuffled in, and Jersey pulled them in tight, making sure they could all feel her body against theirs. "I'm so…" she stopped, sniffing back a tear that was threatening to escape her eye, "I'm so proud of you."
Johnston squirmed, her face going beet red.
"What you did that day…" Jersey sniffed back another tear, "You did what I should have done. You're battleships. Every damn one of you."
Now Hoel was blushing, her face almost redder than her coppery hair.
"We- we don't blame you," said Heermann, squeezing closer to plant a kiss on Jersey's cheek.
"Yeah," said Hoel, "It- it wasn't your fault."
Johnston nodded, "You… you would've just stolen the glory anyways."
Jersey laughed, squeezing the destroyers in for a tight hug. "Thanks… thanks, kiddos."
"It's okay," said Hoel, sneaking in a kiss before bouncing away. "C'mon! Last one to the pie's a mark-fourteen!"
"Hey, no fair!" snapped Johnston, skidding around in place as she struggled to get traction.
Heermann just smiled, her little hand reaching up for Jersey's as she counted off. "Three… two… one…"
"Uh… hey," Hoel skidded around on her heel, her face flustered as she jogged back. "Miss Jersey?"
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"Where, um… is the mess hall?"
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Part 16 a and b
- Location
- 'Murica
Part 16(a): They didn't give me plushies...
A timid knock at the door, so soft it was almost inaudible, shook Admiral Williams from the mindless paperwork haze he'd slipped into. "Enter," he said, closing the latest folder outlining just how badly he was falling short on… everything.
For a second, nothing happened. Then the door creaked open, and the three destroyers—with Jersey herding them in from the rear—shuffled into his office.
"S-sir," said the redhead, Hoel. "Reporting as ordered, sir." The other two destroyers stood at attention, but their heads were hung, not meeting Williams' gaze as they stared at… anything in the room but him.
Williams sat back in his chair, glancing over to Jersey, who only offered a blank stare in response.
"Jersey told us what happened," said Hoel, finally looking up at Williams. "That we'll be serving with the ni- with Japanese ships."
"And-" Heermann was the next to speak, her timid voice finally fitting in with her sisters, "And we heard you had to rush them off the base when we showed up."
"We're really sorry," said Johnston, pulling her feathery headdress off and holding it loosely over her belly. "We- we didn't mean to make things hard for you."
Jersey nodded, her face starting to regain its usual smirk. "I don't think it should be a problem anymore, sir."
Williams took a deep breath, looking over the four ship girls as he slipped deep into thought. Destroyers were tricky little bastards at sea, but he'd never heard of one lying to their Admiral. Exaggerate, maybe, but never flat-out lie.
Finally, he let out a sigh, leaning forwards to rest his arms against his desk. "Taffy 3?"
"Sir?" all three destroyers chimed in unison.
"Welcome back to the US Navy."
Heermann smiled sweetly, while Hoel and Johnston had to visible fight to keep from squealing.
"Normally… there's a whole sequence of procedures for formally recommissioning you, but…" Williams nodded to the row of clocks on his wall, at least one of which showed the local time-zone. "It's late."
"'s naaaaawwwwt," yawned Johnston.
Jersey kicked the destroyer in the meat of her calf with a roll of her icy blue eyes. "White'll show you the way to your bunks," said the battleship, leaning over to muss with Johnston's silky black hair.
Williams let her finish before speaking again. "Taffy 3, Dismissed."
The three destroyers scrambled to throw up salutes before awkwardly shuffling out of the office.
"Jersey?"
"Sir?"
"Good job."
Jersey beamed, her smile utterly incandescent, "Thank you, sir!"
"Now get some rack time. You've earned it."
—|—|—
Jersey collapsed on her bed feeling nothing but content. She had a belly full—or at least less empty— of warm cherry pie and hamburgers, the pajamas Yeoman Gale had left on her dresser for her were unbelievably soft, and she'd gotten praise! From her Admiral!
More than that, her hunch payed off! Her friends were back! And they loved her! Jersey was still smiling as she worked her way under her covers, burrowing deep beneath the comforting embrace of blankets and comforters.
It felt like… like pulling into drydock, but without the pain that usually proceeded drydocking. The feeling that everything is going to be okay, that she can just let go and let herself be pampered.
She could feel her fairies shuffling around inside her, checking her systems, cleaning her decks, lulling her to sleep with their minuscule footsteps.
Mmm… sleep…
"J-Jersey?" a gentle knock at the door shook Jersey awake. The battleship scowled. Her ship's chronometer said she'd had all of fifteen minutes of sleep. And unfortunately the alarm clock on her bedside table agreed.
"Yeah yeah," mumbled Jersey, brushing a stray hair from her face. "'s open."
The door creaked open to reveal two Fletcher class destroyers, both wearing fluffy blue slippers and pajamas with the sleeves ripped off. "Um, Jersey?" said Johnston, all but unrecognizable without her headdress.
"Can't sleep?" said Jersey, yawning as she shuffled over to the little kitchenette attached to her room. "C'mon."
Johnston nodded, shuffling in with Hoel hot on her heels.
"Where's Heermann?"
"Sleeping," said Hoel, her hands shoved into the pockets of her baggy pajama pants. "She's with White, they went to sleep like that."
"But…" Johnston shrugged.
"Bad dreams?" half-asked Jersey, pouring two cups of milk and sliding them into her microwave.
"Y-yeah," admitted Johnston.
"You wanna sleep with me?" said Jersey, rocking on her hips as she waited for the milk to warm.
Johnston all but leaped out of her slippers, a smile on her face as she ran over to grab Jersey's waist in a hug. "R-really?"
"Hell yeah," said Jersey, barely even flinching as the 2,500 ton destroyer collided with her 58,000 ton body. "Hoel, goes for you too."
Hoel smiled, darting over to join Johnston in hugging Jersey's midsection.
"But first," said Jersey. The girls hanging of her waist barely even slowed her down.
"Hrm?" muttered Johnston, her face firmly pressed into the muscles of Jersey's flank.
The battleship rolled her eyes, fishing the lone honey bear left in her cabinet and pouring a generous dollop into each glass of warm milk. "Drink."
Hoel's nose crinkled up, "Warm milk?"
"But we're badasses!" said Johnston, pulling her face away from Jersey just long enough to speak before pressing back against the battleship's warm body.
"And?" said Jersey, shaking her hips to dislodge her adorable little limpets, "Milk builds strong bones. Or… something."
"Okay," sighed Hoel, taking the glass in both hands and cradling it against her chest.
"Now drink up, both of you," said Jersey, walking over to her bed. "Then get over here."
"But-"
"No buts, they didn't give me a single plushie," said Jersey, scowling as she rolled onto her back.
Johnston beamed, chugging down her milk in one long gulp. For a second, it looked like she was going to dash the glass against the floor, but at the last instant her reason took over and she gently placed it on the counter.
"Thanks, Jersey," she said as she jumped onto the bed, landing with a loud belly flop next to the battleship. "You're the best," she said, snuggling up tight and resting her head against Jersey's breast.
"Mmm, thanks," said Hoel, putting her glass down much more carefully. She didn't say a word as she padded over, deftly finding a spot to curl up next to her sister and Jersey. "mmm, 'night," she yawned.
Jersey smiled, cradling the destroyers—her destroyers—tight as she drifted off to sleep.
Part 16(b): So yeah... we may have... murdered all your friends.
Fubuki was exhausted, which both worried and surprised her. She could steam for ten days on patrol without a second thought, even if she did get kinda bored after a while. Even when Yuudachi kept her up late into the night watching American cartoons, she still managed her early-morning runs without much trouble—even if they were more to focus her mind than train her body. Even the frantic gun battle in the straight left her more shaken then actually tired.
But a single, unplanned overnight shopping trip with Naka and she was wiped out. The Special-type destroyer stared at her oatmeal, watching the scoop of brown sugar slowly dissolve into the cream.
With a tired sigh, she scraped together the energy to scoop out a spoonful, plopping it into her mouth with a lazy flick of her wrist. As she chewed, she glanced over at her friend, the so-called nightmare of the Solomons.
Who was currently passed out. On the mess hall table. Snoring softly into a Naka-Chan plushie Gale'd bought her as a pillow.
Fubuki sighed, taking another bite of her oatmeal and chewing happily, her eyes glazed over as she focused what little energy she had on simply enjoying her meal.
"Um… hey."
Fubuki almost dropped her spoon. In fact, she did leap out of her seat and land with a loud thump on the mess hall tile, her bowl clattering to the ground behind her.
An American kanmusu stood over her, her tanned cheeks puffing out as the girl tried her very hardest to hold in a laugh. The feathers on her head quivered as her shoulders quaked with barely-restrained mirth.
Fubuki gulped, sizing up the American. She knew new kanmusu had showed up, Naka said that was the reason for their expedition to the shopping malls. "H-hai," she stuttered.
The American kicked her feet against the table, biting her lip as she stared at her feet. "Uh, damn. Okay…" she paused, the feathers on her head quivering in thought, "You, uh… you want a hand?"
Fubuki thought for a second, then nodded.
The American offered her right hand, showing off the anchor tattoo on her arm.
Fubuki shakily extended her own, taking the American's with a moment's hesitation. Didn't Naka say these Americans might be… angry? "A-Arigato," she stammered, "It means-"
"Thank you, I know," said the American, quickly shoving her hands back into her pants pockets.
For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence between the two of them, even Yuudachi's quiet snores of "ppoi~" were gone.
"So yeah," said the American, sucking in her cheeks and clicking her tounge. "That, uh, that happened."
"What my sister is trying to say," said another voice. Another of the sleeveless Americans had sneaked up behind her. It was all Fubuki could do to keep from jumping.
"Oh, shit, sorry," the second girl said, her head whipping around to check for… something.
"Look," said the girl with the feathers, "we're the new girls here."
"And we want you to know we're not gonna hurt you," said the second.
"Because if we did," said the first, "Jersey said she'd shove a sixteen incher so far up my ass I'd taste silk for a week."
The second girl looked over, rubbing her chin with her hand. "I'm still not sure how that works."
"It's because," said yet a third American, "The Mark 7 gun uses separately loaded ammunition. She loads powder in six silk bags."
"Ooooooh," said the first two in harmony, each smiling as she rubbed their chins. Meanwhile, the third just hung her head in shame.
Fubuki just stared at the three girls, her head ping-sponging from one to the next with reckless speed. And she thought DesDiv6 were high-energy.
"So yeah!" said the first, skidding around on her heel to face Fubuki. "USS Johnston, DD-557!"
"USS Hoel, DD-533," said the second, jamming her hand in the general direction of Fubuki's face.
"USS Heermann, DD-532," said the third, a weary smile on her face as she rolled her eyes at her two sisters.
Fubuki was stunned, her eyes slowly slewing down to stare openly at the three girls pronounced… topside displacement. "D-destroyers?" she stammered. She thought for sure they were heavy cruisers, if not battle cruisers!
Fubuki stumbled backwards onto her stool, her mouth hanging open in sheer shock. Shock! not envy, shock!
"Oh shit," said Johnston, "I… I think I broke her."
"Nice going, dummy," said Hoel, rolling her eyes as she gave Johnston a hard smack on the back of her head.
Heermann just let out a long, resigned sigh.
—|—|—
"What the hell is this?" scowled Jersey, holding the clear plastic cup at arms length like it was about to leap out of her hands and maul her to death.
"It's… Coffee, Jersey," said Crowning, rubbing his temples as he held his own beverage like it was a beverage not a tiny creature with many sharp ends intent on mauling his face.
"It's… brown," said Jersey, her brows knitting as she tried to determine what foul intentions the so-called coffee had in store for her or her destroyers.
"It's coffee, Jersey."
"I've had coffee," said the battleship, "Or… uh… my crew.. you know." She scowled. "It was not this color."
Crowning shook his head, rubbing at his temples with his free hand, "You mean Navy Coffee?"
Jersey nodded.
"That… that's not coffee… that's a UN Human Rights violation in a cup."
Jersey made a face that almost literally screamed, "yeah… and?"
"It's a salted Caramel Mocha," said Crowning, taking a sip of his own drink. "Just drink the thing."
Jersey gave the cup a wary look, carefully bringing it close enough to sniff. When nothing threatening turned up—beyond a little dollop of whipped cream hanging off the end of her nose— she risked a tiny sip. "Oh fuck yes," she breathed, her cheeks going red as she greedily sucked down the rest."
"Told you," said Crowning, taking another sip of his own to hide his triumphant smirk.
"I'm never doubting you again."
But a single, unplanned overnight shopping trip with Naka and she was wiped out. The Special-type destroyer stared at her oatmeal, watching the scoop of brown sugar slowly dissolve into the cream.
With a tired sigh, she scraped together the energy to scoop out a spoonful, plopping it into her mouth with a lazy flick of her wrist. As she chewed, she glanced over at her friend, the so-called nightmare of the Solomons.
Who was currently passed out. On the mess hall table. Snoring softly into a Naka-Chan plushie Gale'd bought her as a pillow.
Fubuki sighed, taking another bite of her oatmeal and chewing happily, her eyes glazed over as she focused what little energy she had on simply enjoying her meal.
"Um… hey."
Fubuki almost dropped her spoon. In fact, she did leap out of her seat and land with a loud thump on the mess hall tile, her bowl clattering to the ground behind her.
An American kanmusu stood over her, her tanned cheeks puffing out as the girl tried her very hardest to hold in a laugh. The feathers on her head quivered as her shoulders quaked with barely-restrained mirth.
Fubuki gulped, sizing up the American. She knew new kanmusu had showed up, Naka said that was the reason for their expedition to the shopping malls. "H-hai," she stuttered.
The American kicked her feet against the table, biting her lip as she stared at her feet. "Uh, damn. Okay…" she paused, the feathers on her head quivering in thought, "You, uh… you want a hand?"
Fubuki thought for a second, then nodded.
The American offered her right hand, showing off the anchor tattoo on her arm.
Fubuki shakily extended her own, taking the American's with a moment's hesitation. Didn't Naka say these Americans might be… angry? "A-Arigato," she stammered, "It means-"
"Thank you, I know," said the American, quickly shoving her hands back into her pants pockets.
For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence between the two of them, even Yuudachi's quiet snores of "ppoi~" were gone.
"So yeah," said the American, sucking in her cheeks and clicking her tounge. "That, uh, that happened."
"What my sister is trying to say," said another voice. Another of the sleeveless Americans had sneaked up behind her. It was all Fubuki could do to keep from jumping.
"Oh, shit, sorry," the second girl said, her head whipping around to check for… something.
"Look," said the girl with the feathers, "we're the new girls here."
"And we want you to know we're not gonna hurt you," said the second.
"Because if we did," said the first, "Jersey said she'd shove a sixteen incher so far up my ass I'd taste silk for a week."
The second girl looked over, rubbing her chin with her hand. "I'm still not sure how that works."
"It's because," said yet a third American, "The Mark 7 gun uses separately loaded ammunition. She loads powder in six silk bags."
"Ooooooh," said the first two in harmony, each smiling as she rubbed their chins. Meanwhile, the third just hung her head in shame.
Fubuki just stared at the three girls, her head ping-sponging from one to the next with reckless speed. And she thought DesDiv6 were high-energy.
"So yeah!" said the first, skidding around on her heel to face Fubuki. "USS Johnston, DD-557!"
"USS Hoel, DD-533," said the second, jamming her hand in the general direction of Fubuki's face.
"USS Heermann, DD-532," said the third, a weary smile on her face as she rolled her eyes at her two sisters.
Fubuki was stunned, her eyes slowly slewing down to stare openly at the three girls pronounced… topside displacement. "D-destroyers?" she stammered. She thought for sure they were heavy cruisers, if not battle cruisers!
Fubuki stumbled backwards onto her stool, her mouth hanging open in sheer shock. Shock! not envy, shock!
"Oh shit," said Johnston, "I… I think I broke her."
"Nice going, dummy," said Hoel, rolling her eyes as she gave Johnston a hard smack on the back of her head.
Heermann just let out a long, resigned sigh.
—|—|—
"What the hell is this?" scowled Jersey, holding the clear plastic cup at arms length like it was about to leap out of her hands and maul her to death.
"It's… Coffee, Jersey," said Crowning, rubbing his temples as he held his own beverage like it was a beverage not a tiny creature with many sharp ends intent on mauling his face.
"It's… brown," said Jersey, her brows knitting as she tried to determine what foul intentions the so-called coffee had in store for her or her destroyers.
"It's coffee, Jersey."
"I've had coffee," said the battleship, "Or… uh… my crew.. you know." She scowled. "It was not this color."
Crowning shook his head, rubbing at his temples with his free hand, "You mean Navy Coffee?"
Jersey nodded.
"That… that's not coffee… that's a UN Human Rights violation in a cup."
Jersey made a face that almost literally screamed, "yeah… and?"
"It's a salted Caramel Mocha," said Crowning, taking a sip of his own drink. "Just drink the thing."
Jersey gave the cup a wary look, carefully bringing it close enough to sniff. When nothing threatening turned up—beyond a little dollop of whipped cream hanging off the end of her nose— she risked a tiny sip. "Oh fuck yes," she breathed, her cheeks going red as she greedily sucked down the rest."
"Told you," said Crowning, taking another sip of his own to hide his triumphant smirk.
"I'm never doubting you again."
Part 17a: Fruit Loops!
- Location
- 'Murica
Part 17a
Johnston was well into her second bowl of fruit loops. That was her favorite part, she'd decided. Right when the cereal turned into a contiguous whole, and the dividing line between soggy cereal bits and sugar-laden milk simply faded into a bowl of multicolored sludge.
"I love the future!" screamed the little destroyer, turning heads clear across the officer's mess. Johnston smiled as she spooned another helping of the delicious elixir of the gods into her mouth, her body starting to buzz from the accumulated sugar high.
"That can't be good for you," sighed Hoel though a mouthful of Nutella-covered toast,"'s nothing but sugar."
"I know!" said Johnston, holding her spoon in the air like she was King Arthur himself before dramatically bringing it down to grab another mouthful of her so-called breakfast.
Heermann just quietly smiled to herself, enjoying her eggs and toast while her sisters bickered.
"Your sisters are very…" Fubuki looked over,a little ball of rice grasped between the ends of her polished wood chopsticks.
"Yup," agreed Heermann, taking another bite of toast.
"Poi~" sighed Yuudachi, her chin resting on the table as she stared at the pudding she'd gotten, apparently willing it to leap into her waiting mouth.
"Yo, nuggets!" the distinctively commanding voice of New Jersey herself instantly shook the girls out of their early-morning stupor. For a moment, there was utter calm. Johnston and Hoel stopped bickering mid-sentence, their heads slowly pivoting to face Jersey with the oiled mechanical grace of their 5in/38s.
Heermann and Fubuki abruptly dropped their conversation, the Japanese girl going stock-straight in her seat while Heermann just froze. Only Yuudachi seemed unaffected, but that was because she was going very still in the hope that she'd avoid detection.
Then, Johnston exploded into action, her spoon clattering to the floor as she threw her hands in the air. "I didn't mean to!" She said, her big brown eyes pleading as she stared up at Jersey.
"What?" said Jersey, her nose crinkling up a fraction as she stared at the little destroyer.
"Yeah, we're really sorry," said Hoel, pursing her lips and giving her best set of adorable-destroyer-eyes to Jersey.
"The hell?" grunted the battleship, looking to Heermann for an explanation.
"Uh… what my sisters mean," said the last of the trio, steeping her hands over her meal in what she hoped was a thoughtful manner, "Is that whatever we've done to make trouble for the admiral-"
"We're really really sorry," said the three taffies in harmony.
"We're trying our best to be good," said Johnston, her hands hovering in the air as she tried to decide if a hug was worth trying for. "Honest."
"Aw, hell, kids…" Jersey sighed, rubbing her temples with one hand as she stole a piece of toast off Hoel's plate, "I'm not here to- why do you think you're in trouble?"
"Because… it's eight," said Johnston.
"In the morning," added Hoel.
"So?" said Jersey, her hands crossing against her chest.
"It's eight."
"In the morning."
Jersey scowled, "Okay, first off, fuck you."
Johston beamed like she'd just gotten complimented by God—or maybe even SecNav—himself.
"And second of all, Skipper wants to see you-" Jersey waved her hand in a lazy circle, generally indicating the gaggle of destroyers, "-in the briefing room in thirty."
"Oh," said Hoel, nodding as she processed this new morsel of information. "You mean we're really not in trouble?"
"Do you wanna be?"
"N-no. Not really, no."
Jersey smiled, glancing over her shoulder at the rows of Navy culinary ratings standing behind the day's breakfast options. More than a few had gone white as sheets by the time Jersey'd turned back to her stable of destroyers. "The hell's White?"
"Oh," said Heermann, her chest puffing with pride, "she ate early. I think she's with Yeoman Gale."
The battleship nodded. "What about her?" she asked, waving in the general direction of the frozen Yuudachi.
"P-poi~" explained the Japanese destroyer.
Jersey shrugged. "Good enough. Fubuki-"
"Hai, Jersey-Sempai!"
"Know the way to the briefing room?"
Fubuki nodded.
"Outstanding. Show the taffies the way," said Jersey, her head pivoting as the smell of freshly-cooked sausage wafted though the air. "I'll… uh…" her feet brought her a few steps closer, evidently without her knowledge or consent, "I'll meet you there."
—|—|—
White sat at the very front of the briefing room, her hands poised over her open notebook, ready to take down her Admiral's every word. Around her, scattered about the desk seemingly at random, were at least a dozen tiny figures in miniature leather flying jackets.
Williams blinked. The figures remained, each holding their minute clipboards at the ready, their beady eyes locked on him.
"White?"
"Yes, Admiral?" chirped the carrier, puffing out her ruddy cheeks as she smiled.
"Are… those your pilots?"
"Mmhm!"
Williams blinked again, unsure of what he'd expected in response. Before he could let his mind slip further into the infinite abyss of ever-increasing strangeness that was commanding kanmusu, the doors burst open with a thunder of pounding destroyer footsteps.
"Sorry we're late!" barked Johnston, flying down the aisle at a dead sprint. She just barely skidded to a stop before slamming into the front of Williams' khaki uniform. "USS Johnston, reporting!" she said, snapping her hand to her brow so fast she sent the feathers of her headdress quivering.
"USS Hoel, I'm here too!" snapped Hoel, bouncing on her heels so hard she actually left the deck as she saluted.
"USS Heermann reporting," said Heermann, offering a relatively demure salute with one hand and… And a shiny red apple with the other.
"Destroyer Yuudachi here," said Yuudachi with a smile and one of her trademark "poi!"s.
"Naka-Chan, desu," said the frilly orange torpedo cruiser, throwing up a cutesy grin.
"Fubuki, desu!" said the special-type destroyer, dipping her torso in a polite bow before proceeding to her seat without further pageantry.
Williams blinked again. Without a word he turned on his heel, walking over to set the apple on the briefing room podium as he prayed for the universe to regain some kind of decorum.
"Hey," said White, her chair creaking as the little CVE bounced up and down, "Where's-"
""m here," grunted Jersey as she backed though the briefing room doors, her voice muffled by the huge chunk of buttery toast rammed up her maw. She had what looked like a solid third of the breakfast menu with her, piled high on her ample chest like it was a shelf. "Sur," she said, bumping Johnston with her hip as she scooted into a set.
"Oh, are those lemon?" said Hoel, reaching over to snag a tart off the portable buffet tray that was Jersey's chest. Johnston just let out a tiny 'eep' before turning to stare intently at Williams.
"Commander?" sighed the Admiral.
"Hmm?" Jersey gulped, an implausibly large piece of toast simply disappearing down her gullet. "Oh, right," she—with plenty of help from an enthusiastic Johnston—relocated her rack full of snacks to a neat pile on her desk. "Attention on deck!" she barked, bolting to her full height.
The other destroyers, plus one CVE, one CL, and way to many teeny aviator faries, leaped to attention with a shuffle of desks and chairs.
"As you were," said Williams, turning to the projection screen that dominated the front half of the briefing room.
With a nod from the Admiral, a map of the entire northern-Pacific flickered into existence, drawing "oohs" from the taffy-3 destroyers. NAVSTA Everett and Yokosuka naval base were pointed out with blue markers, and red hatching displayed the approximate extent of Abyssal-controlled sea. Lots of red hatching. Too much red hatching.
"This is Japan," said Williams, waving his laser-pointer at the island nation. A tiny island of blue in a sea of bloody red. "It, like most of the Pacific Islands, depend on the ocean for food. An Ocean which is currently in hostile hands."
The room was silent except for the sounds of pencils scribbling against paper.
"We," continued the Admiral, waving his pointer over the American heartland, "Have enough food and grain to supply them twice over, "But the problem is making the trans-Pacific run. The JMSDF-"
Naka leaned over to Johnston, "Japanese Navy," she whispered, sending a ripple of nods though the destroyer cadre.
"-are preoccupied with keeping what sea they have," said Williams,"and we haven't had the forces to run more than token convoys. Until now." He gave the assembled cluster of kanmusu a nod.
"We've assembled a task force of twelve modified bulk carriers-" the projector switched to display a a massive floating brick decked out in slap-dash camouflage with sandbagged missile emplacements on its bows and sterns. Jersey recognized it as one of the cargo ships she'd spotted whens she first arrived at Bremerton. "-with a total dead-weight tonnage of just over two-and-a-half-million metric tonnes."
The room was silent except for a whispered "Woooooow" from Hoel and a surprised "ppoi~" from Yuudachi.
"And we're sending them all in one go," said Williams, tabbing back to the map of the Pacific and watching as a dotted line arched up along the Alaskan coast before dashing for Japan. "Japan's been running on borrowed time, but if we pull this off, we'll buy them a month. Maybe more."
The destroyers nodded, and White's pilots doubled over their clipboards, tiny pencils scribbling furiously.
"Abyssal forces," continued Williams, "Have so far been concentrated in the western Pacific, which means once you cross the IDL, you'll be running into the heart of enemy-held waters."
Johnston and Hoel smirked, sharing a high-five much less stealthily than they thought while Heermann just rolled her eyes.
Williams huffed, tapping his hands against his pants pockets for a moment. "Due to the great importance of this convoy… you'll be joined by Japanese kanmusu for the final leg."
The room fell silent as Williams gazed at the assembled girls.
"That won't be a problem, sir!" said Hoel.
"Yeah!" said Johnston, "Nips are our friends now, right?"
"Johnston?" sighed Jersey, rubbing at her temples.
"Yeah?" chirped the feathered little murderball.
"Fuck it," breathed the battleship, "You tried."
"Sir," said Heermann, her hand held so high in the air it was almost touching the lighting fixtures.
"Yes, Heermann?" said Williams.
"Do we know who'll make up the SDF task force?"
The Admiral sighed, "I'm afraid not. The situation's too fluid, but they'll send what ships they can spare." He paused, glancing at his briefing notes to find his place. "Task force will depart at 0300 on the 5th under overall command of USS New Jersey."
Jersey nodded, scribbling something down on the notebook she'd fished out of her mountain of snacks. "Uh… White, I'd like to get with you and discuss ASW tactics before we ship out."
White nodded, grinning from ear to ear at the thought of working so close to a battleship. "Sure thing!"
Williams tapped his hands against the podium with an air of finality, "I'm sure you've all got matters to handle before H-hour, I suggest you get to them. Any questions should be addressed to Jersey or myself. Look over the plan," he nodded to the pile of manila folders at the front of the briefing room, "and don't be shy about expressing your opinions. You girls have more applicable surface warfare experience than anyone alive."
Johnston beamed.
"Dismissed."
The room exploded with the sound of chairs skidding against linoleum and running shoes padding across the floor. Johnston and Hoel bolted for the folders, both hell-bent on being the first to grab the manila tomes from heavenly instructions. The other destroyers—and White—were a little more organized, and Jersey just slouched back in her chair, picking at a pop tart.
"Jersey?" said Williams.
"Yeah?" said the battleship, glancing up with a pop-tart resting against her breast.
The Admiral glanced at the pack of destroyers, waiting until they'd filed out. "Keep an eye on those girls."
"Sir?" said Jersey, brushing crumbs off her navy-blue shirt as she walked over.
"If we're going to win this war, we need to go on the offensive," said Williams, his hands resting in his pockets as he stared at the bloody map. "And there's no way in hell we can do that with one battleship, three destroyers and a CVE. Not if we want to keep convoys running."
"You… you want to bring IJN boats here?" asked Jersey, the cogs in her brain whirring away behind those chillingly blue eyes.
Williams nodded, "Which we can't do if Taffy 3 goes all…"
"Murder-happy?"
"Yeah," said Williams with a smirk, "So watch them. If they can't interact with IJN personnel-"
"I don't think it'll be a problem, sir," said Jersey, puffing her cheeks out before slowly sighing the air back out. "Those girls… they're terrified of letting you down. They won't like it, but they won't cause trouble."
"Let's hope," said Williams. "And Jersey, one more thing."
"Sir?"
"You're scheduled for a press conference tomorrow evening."
In an instant Jersey's composure shifted from calm, collected Naval officer to little girl who just got told she had to take the garbage out and do the dishes. "Oh shit, really?"
Williams nodded, "People are scared. Of the war, of the Abyssals… hell, even of you." He waved in the general direction of the shipgirl dorms. "SecNav wants you in front of a camera. We need to show people that we're still in the fight."
"And… that I'm not some monster, right, sir?" said Jersey, "That's why Naka does her…" the battleship splayed her knees in a passable impression of the torpedo-cruiser-idol's cutesy poses, "weird…jap… singer shit, right?"
Williams nodded again.
"Straight from SecNav?"
"Yeah."
"Fine," said the battleship with a scowl, "but I'm not putting on a dress!"
- - - -
A/N: semi-relevant art from The Pacific: Link