He thought he'd been ready.
Professor Crowning stared at the unblinking screen of his laptop and ran his hands though his hair, a shaking, rattly breath sneaking out of his lungs. He thought he'd been ready, he'd thrown himself so throughly into unraveling the mystery of the summonings that… that he could push Jersey into a corner of his mind. Keep her at bay while he put his every energy into cracking an enigma the fate of the world depended on.
And it'd worked… until he saw her. Those ice-blue eyes, the way she winced when he accidentally startled her into pinching her own chest—a chest that, despite her many gripes, Crowning thought was absolutely flawless—, even the way her nose crinkled like tinfoil when she tried to deny her little bout of clumsiness warmed his heart.
No, especially the way her nose scrunched, there was just something about the way she transitioned from a symbol of courage vested in fighting steel to… to a girl. A girl who smiled and laughed and cared for the people she loved. All the mental blocks the professor had put in place crumbled at that smiling face, and it'd taken every shred of self-control he had to keep himself pulled together.
And then… and then she mentioned her dream. Some people might dismiss a strange dream as the result of some poorly cooked fish the night before, but Crowning knew better. When dealing with magical ship spirits, it wasn't wise to dismiss the time-honored tradition of prophetic dreams. Besides, he'd seen Jersey eat, there wasn't a thing on this earth that could give that girl's bottomless stomach a moment's pause.
It only worried him that the dream sounded so terrifyingly familiar. He hadn't told her, mostly because he didn't know the implications himself, but her description of an infinite icy plain matched almost perfectly with Dante's ninth and lowest circle of hell. The circle reserved for traitors and Satan himself.
And then there was that number. Thirty-five thousand, eight hundred and fourteen feet. That was too specific to be random, it had to mean something, but the professor didn't have a clue what. Luckily, he didn't have to.
Alt-tabbing away from the cool blue tones of his skype window, he hurriedly keyed the number into wolfram alpha to see if it turned up anything he could work with.
It did.
Challenger Deep.
Crowning felt his body tense with panic, his pulse pounding in his temples as he read the innocent looking characters. That distance… it was the exact depth of Challenger Deep, the deepest single spot in the enter planet. The closest any mortal being could get to the underworld—to hell itself.
"No," whispered Crowning. He wasn't sure why he said it out loud, he was quite sure he was alone in his study. But still…
"No." This time he said it loud, his voice quaking with fearful fury. Jersey was not a demon, she did not come from hell or deserve to burn within it. And on the off chance there was someone from hell looking in on his little room at this very second, he needed them to know that he would never accept it.
"Uh, Doc?"
Crowning spun around, his hand somehow closing around the worn leather grip of his longsword—one of the only personal items he'd thought to bring that wasn't some form of book. The polished, oiled metal slid out of its leather-wrapped sheath with quiet fury, lovingly-honed edge glinting in the light of his reading lamp.
It was a pointless gesture, but not in the way he'd expected. Waiting at his open door—that he was sure he'd locked—were three little destroyer girls staring at his blade with rapturous interest and not a shred of fear between them.
"Oooooh," Kidd smiled from ear to ear, her big brown eyes following every move of the polished blade with rapturous interest.
"I like mine better," Bannie puffed out her little chest in defiance of the way her face followed the swish of the steel. "It's curved."
Dee just smiled and stood very still to avoid sticking herself. Not that it would matter, even the Professor's sword couldn't cut though structural steel.
"Oh, uh," Crowning let his blade slump to his side. He'd been meaning to save the dramatic reveal for the next time the girls stared a fencing match, "Hey girls."
"Hi!" Dee waved frantically.
"We figured, uh… since you came to pick us up around dinner time," stared Kidd.
"You probably missed dinner," finished Bannie.
"So we made you something!" added Dee.
The three destroyers shuffled over to his room in a tightly-meshed clump of chunky braids and—in Kidd's case—a ratty Jolly Roger do-rag. After a few minutes of what Crowning could only describe as 'frantic destroyergirl-ing' the three stepped back to show off their handiwork.
"Baked potatoes!" Bannie smiled as she waved her hands over two of the most ridiculously overstuffed potatoes Crowning had ever seen. The already large tubers overflowed with sour cream, onions, bacon, and what looked like a few carefully-placed bits of parsley. "And Lemonade!" Bannie helpfully slipped a coaster under a tall, frost-glass.
"Jambalaya!" Kidd wafted the sent of… well Crowning wasn't exactly sure what it was, only that it seemed to involve rice and it smelled utterly delicious. "Also, rum!" The little girl let out a roaring laugh as she slammed a half-empty yet suspiciously-unopened bottle of Captain Morgan onto the table with a giggly "Yo ho!'
And then it was Dee's turn. The little destroyer shuffled to the desk and very carefully set an unassuming plate down. "I made brownies," she said with a contented half-grin. And brownies they were, brownies so moist and fresh out of the oven they were slowly melting into a puddle of amorphous chocolate goo.
Even with all that was weighing on his mind, the professor couldn't help but smile at the girls' antics. Never let it be said that a DesRon couldn't get things done if they put their little hearts to it. "Thanks, girls."
The three destroyers shuffled over to surround his waist with hugs. "You're welcome," cooed Dee.
"I hope you like it!" added Bannie.
"What'cha working on?" finished up Kidd.
Crowning bit his lip. Part of him wanted to leave the little destroyers in the dark, but they had a frustrating tendency to always know everything that was going on. Besides, they weren't as young as they looked. He was pretty sure he didn't have to coddle them. "Trying to figure out a dream," he said.
The three girls stared up at him, waiting for him to continue.
"Jersey had a dream-"
"Oh, I like her," said Bannie.
"She's so pretty," Kidd almost swooned.
"She's like a beauty queen," concurred Dee.
Crowning blinked. While he'd never deny how gorgeous the battleship was… 'beauty queen' was not the first image that came to mind when thinking of the amazonian battlewagon. "Anyway," he continued, "she had a dream, and we're trying to figure out what it means."
"Do ships have dreams a lot?" asked Kidd.
"Not…" Crowning gently peeled one destroyer at a time off his waist at a time until he could sit down. "Not like this."
The three destroyer girls stared at him like eager schoolgirls, each waiting with bated breath for the next tidbit of information he had to dole out to them.
"Sometimes they'll… you'll have regular dreams. Flights of fancy that don't mean a thing, that fade like dust when you wake."
The girls nodded in acknowledgment.
"But sometimes… sometimes it's more than that. Something that means something. Nagato has them, apparently Arizona too, but it's never been more than a flash or a glimpse. This was… something more."
"Hmm…" Kidd hummed thoughtfully while sneaking closer to the bottle of rum she'd brought.
"Why's she so special?" asked Bannie.
Crowning shrugged, "If I knew…" He sighed, "With everything else that's happened, it's probably staring me right in the face."
"You'll figure it out!" cheered Dee.
Crowning ruffled her hair, "Thanks, kiddo."
Dee beamed, and buried her face in his chest.
—|—|—
Jersey strolled though the Alaskan train yard in what she hoped looked like an appropriately casual manner. Each step sent her sneakers crunching though the half-frozen gravel, their chunky rubber soles picking up a few errant rocks and sending them skittering over the industrial tundra. Every so often, a massively bundled-up figure would glance at her and do a brief double-take at her very long—very naked—legs.
Of course, Jersey knew they were more surprised that she wasn't freezing her cute little stern off in this weather, as well they should. But she liked to pretend they were admiring the graceful curves of her Iowa-class stern.
Not because she was vain, though. Because everyone who worked on her, from the highest designers to the lowest welder, did good work. Beautiful work, a symphony of steel that deserved to be admired and respected. Okay, she was kinda vain, but can't a girl want some attention?
Especially when Big-tits McMushi as getting her ass bounced off with free fucking drinks. Because fucking pagodas are soooooo sexual.
And so, Jersey made her way down the railyard, her hips swaying maybe a tiny bit more than they strictly-speaking had to. But there was one particular train she was interested in.
A train capped off by what had, at one point, been a passenger car. "Jersey!" the unmistakable voice of Major Solette rolled out from an overstuffed bundle army-camouflage cold weather gear standing next to the carriage. "It's five degrees out."
Jersey nodded.
"How are you not freezing?" asked the Major with resigned indignation.
"Fucking scarf, army." Jersey tugged at the fleecy fabric wrapped tightly around her neck, "How's my little girl?"
Solette clambered up into the car with all the grace a man-sized bundle of batting and gore-tex could. "Heermann's all set," he turned around to watch the battleship climb up. Jersey got the feeling he would've offered to help if she was anything but a fifty-thousand ton war machine. But she doubted even he could muscle around that much steel. "Got her a blanket and everything."
Jersey smiled and gently put her foot on the ladder rung. Even with most of her weight still resting on her other foot, the steel groaned under her immense weight. "Army?"
"Speaking," said Solette. Jersey couldn't see his face though his parka, but she knew, fucking knew he was shooting her a huge shit-eating grin.
"If you laugh," Jersey grunted and hauled herself up onto the rung. "I will eat your babies."
"You sure, Jersey?" The hood of Solette's parka quivered as he let out a ragged laugh. "Shouldn't you be watching what you eat?"
"Fuck you!" Jersey threw herself up the last step, "My waist is fucking perfect." She pulled her shirt up and flexed her rippling stomach muscles, "See!"
Solette shook his head. "'s fucking cold." Without further comment, he shuffled into the—thankfully heated—train car with one pouting super-battleship in tow.
The car's interior had been almost totally rebuilt. The dividers and seats had been torn out to make room for a bathtub large enough to fit Heermann—in a swim suit this time, not her ratty uniform—, and the various medical tools and monitors the major thought he might need.
It slightly worried Solette that he now considered a plasma cutter to be 'crucial medical hardware', but less than it probably should. And that worried him.
Jersey, of course, dropped any shred of bluster the moment she saw the destroyer napping in the tub. Her scowl melted into an honest smile and she bolted to the welded-steel side.
"Kiddo?" the battleship idly played with Heermann's hair, her voice quiet and warm as a mother's whisper.
"Mmm?" Heermann stirred, then bolted around to throw her little hands around Jersey's musclebound shoulders in a tight hug. "Mama!" she squealed.
Jersey's cheeks blushed beet red, but she returned the hug regardless. "Hey, kiddo." She pulled back to examine the girl's swimsuit, an American flag bikini, albiet one that covered far more skin than the battleship's FREEDOMkini. "Like the outfit."
"Thanks!" Heermann pulled at the brightly colored fabric and smiled, "Naka bought it for me. It's just like yours!"
"Well," Jersey ruffled the fletcher's braid, "I think you look fucking badass then."
Heermann beamed.
"Army treating you okay?" stage-whispered with a solemn nod to Solette.
"I'm right here," sighed the Major.
"Well, he gave me ice cream," said Heermann, "and he even gave me a little hug when I was scared."
"Hey!" Solette knife-handed the destroyer, "That was supposed to say secret. How am I gonna nurse if people think I'm caring!"
Jersey rolled her eyes, "relax, Army, your secret's fucking save with me."
Solette made a show of examining his selection of medical angle-grinders, letting the two women-who-were-also-ships have their moment.
"Where're your sisters?" asked the battleship while Heermann happily played with the tip of her braid.
"Out," explained Heermann, "Naka took them shopping for Christmas presents." She stopped, her little cheeks puffing out while she idly drew circles in the water with the end of Jersey's ponytail, "They're still riding back with me, right?"
"Oh hell yeah," said Jersey. "I wouldn't make you ride home all alone!"
"But docboat-"
"Is Army," Jersey held up her hands like a barricade. "Doesn't… doesn't count.
Solette rolled his eyes.
Jersey blinked. "docboat?"
Heermann nodded, as if that was all the explanation that was needed.
"O-fucking-kay then," said Jersey. The battleship glanced over her shoulder to make sure Solette was throughly occupied, then quickly leaned over to plant a kiss on Heermann's forehead. "Get better, okay kiddo?"
"Mmhm!" Heermann nodded enthusiastically.
"Good girl," Jersey ruffled her hair, then stood up to let her get some rest. "Yo, Docboat? You got a moment?"
Solette sighed, and gently set down the welding torch he'd been idly messing with. "Yeah?"
Jersey jerked her head towards the cordoned-off sleeping area, a ghost of a scowl on her fine features. The major didn't waste time tidying up his tools and half-dragging the battleship into the bunked-over sleeping section. The flimsy divider door wasn't quite soundproof, but it should be quiet enough to keep any personal secrets… well, secret.
Jersey planted her hands on her hips, her fingers clutching at her own body like it was a lifeline. Her neck—at least the part Solette could see above her scarf—was a mess of corded muscle pulled to the breaking point, and he could see her temples tense as she flexed and unflexed her jaw.
"So," the major slid the door closed behind him. Standing this close to the old battlewagon, he couldn't help but notice the glitter of bare steel still present on her cheekbone. "You doing okay?"
"I… sorta." Jersey's gaze drifted back to where Heermann was napping. Even with the mirrored sunglasses blocking her eyes it was painfully obvious the old girl was worried sick. "I just… if something goes wrong, I don't wanna abandon her, you know?"
"It won't," said Solette. "She's perfectly stable," he held up a thumbnail sized manila folder, "even got approval from her Chief Engineer."
Jersey smiled a soulless half-smile.
"Look," Solette sighed, "Engineer says she'll be back on her feet inside of a month even if I don't do anything. There's nothing you have to worry about."
"Yeah," Jersey sighed, "Yeah, you're probably right. Doesn't mean I won't worry though."
"Because you're a good officer." Solette followed her gaze back to the sleeping destroyer, "And a better momboat."
Jersey blushed, but her gaze barely twitched. "You know, there's uh… something I've been meaning to ask you."
"Hmm?" Solette arched a brow, "Anything."
"Fuck," grunted the battleship. She slowly turned back to face him, her towering stature seeming even more immense in the cramped train car, "I, uh…" her shoulders slumped and her voice suddenly got very small.
Slowly, almost timidly the battleship slipped her shades off. For a few seconds, she just stared at her toes, then her gaze slowly crept up to Solette's face. "Can I have a hug?"
The major didn't even have to think before he responded. "Of course, Big J." He took a step closer, wrapping his arms around her in a warm, gentle hug. A hug like he'd give his daughter. If… his daughter was taller then him, stronger than him, much older than him, and also a ship.
He felt her melt in his arms, the knots of twisted muscle in her broad back turning to taffy in his embrace. Her shoulders slumped, and he felt her thundering heartbeat settle down to a sedate four-piece sonata.
"Thanks," the battleship's voice was barely louder than a contented purr in his ear as she let herself be held. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her chest swelling against Solette's. For a second she held it, then she slowly let it out, and Solette swore he saw her anxiety slipping out with it.
"Anytime," said the Major.
"But," Jersey took a half-step back, "there's one last thing I gotta do before I leave."
—|—|—
On the other side of the Pacific, escort carrier White Plains stifled a yawn as she shuffled though the Yokosuka carrier dorms. She was feeling a lot better after her sprint across the ocean—and that minor arrow incident that she agreed never to speak of again—but that just meant she got to join the line of duty now.
White didn't begrudge the admiral for putting her on escort duty, it was what she was built for. But as much as she enjoyed helping out, spending all day at sea was tiring. The little escort carrier just wanted to curl up in bed and nap. Ideally, she'd have a certain Iowa-class battleship to snuggle up against, but White was a sailor. She'd make do with a pillow if she had to.
She'd just ducked into her room—the largest one in the whole carrier dormitories, at the insistence of literally everyone else—when she heard a quiet knock at her door.
"Who is it?" said White, her chubby cheeks glowing in a smile at how adult she was being.
"Houshou, White-sama." The old carrier's calming accent washed over White's stubby hull. She was so nice, so sweet, almost as sweet as Jersey! "May I come in?"
White hopped off her bed, her shoes slapping against the wood floors with a loud, undignified wumpf. CVEs were dependable, CVEs were diligent, but the little jeep carriers were not graceful. "Yeah."
Houshou slid the door open, her face—that was somehow ancient and youthful all at the same time—glowing in kind smile. Her traditional skirt-thingy—White knew it had a name, but she couldn't think of it right now—looked at odds with the brushed silver laptop she cradled in her hands. "I have New Jersey on the line," said the old carrier, "She would like to speak with you."
"Really?" White beamed as she bounced over to the carrier's side. "Jersey!"
On screen, the image of her beloved battleship momboat smiled back. "Hey, kiddo, how's Jap-land?"
"Oh, it's really nice," said White. She wasn't sure how, but she somehow ended up sitting in Houshou's lap while the older carrier held the laptop steady. Not that she was complaining or anything. "I'm teaching them all damage control!"
"Hell yeah," Jersey held up a hand, which White obligingly high-fived, "They any good at it?"
White shrugged. "Eh," she held her palms out like a pair of scales, "They're getting there."
"Well out-fucking-standing, kiddo!" Jersey laughed, her breath flashing to frost as it rolled out of her mouth. "Anyway, I'm at Elmendorf AFB right now."
White froze, then slowly started hyperventilating. Elmendorf meant… it meant… oooooooooooooooo!
"Which means," Jersey turned her camera around, including a bundled up airman in the shot, "Oh, and by the way, this is Major Malcolm Steele. Fucking everyone up here has a badass name."
The airman tossed a wave, "Nice to meet you White."
White bit her lip to keep in her squeal.
"And," Jersey shot the camera a ridiculously shit-eating grin, "What exactly do you fly, Major?"
"That would be this." The airman patted the angular gray-painted nose of A F-22 Raptor.
White let out a loud squee of undiluted pleasure as she drank in the fighter's aggressive angles. "It's SOOO PRETYYYYY!!!!" she screeched, her little hands flailing as adrenaline flooded her system.
Jersey winked at the airman, "Told you she'd love it."
"It's a Raptor," counted the major, "It's a mary-sue with wings."
Jersey blinked, "I don't know what that means, but whatever."
White was too busy attempting to describe the awesomeness of a Raptor to Houshou via increasingly energetic squeals to react.
Then the airman noticed someone off-camera. "Hey, Colonel, you got a minute?"
Jersey followed his gaze to someone off-camera.
"You think I have an awesome name?" the airman shot Jersey a shit-eating grin as he motioned to yet another air force officer joining the frame. One who, while not as tall as Jersey, at least didn't looked dwarfed by her. "This is our Wing commander. Colonel?"
The colonel sighed, and shot the other airman the kind of look that promised severe and hilarious punishment the second cameras stopped rolling. "Matrix, ma'am," he said, offering a hand to Jersey, "Colonel John Matrix, USAF."
Jersey's cocky grin instantly melted into a slack-jawed stare of awe. "Colonel…" she wrung her hands, her cheeks flushing a pale pink against the snowy backdrop of the base, "Can… can I have your babies?"
The colonel sighed, "Major?"
"Yesss~"
"I am going to hurt you."
White exploded in uncontrollable giggles, and even quiet Houshou laughed so hard she almost sent white toppling off her lap.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
A/N: The thing about only Jersey having vivid dreams? That's not just special-snowflake syndrome. There's a very good reason for it, and it's a reason you should be able to figure out with the knowledge you have at this point.
rofl:
