Old Iron
Admiral Unfun
- Location
- The Southwestern Deadlands of America
You can never go wrong with Houshou.
Belated Battleships (KanColle) [REHOST]
- Thread starter theJMPer
- Start date
- Location
- North Carolina
Aye that's a fact, so for the British I think Momboat was Victory but then after she died that role fell on Dreadnought, for the Germans it will likely be Nassau, for America either Langely CV-1 or South Carolina or Utah, as for everyone else I have no flipping clue!
Skywalker_T-65
Writer with too many ideas.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- Plural/They/He/Her
From what I know, actually, they're putting the Big E portholes in a museum now. Nuke-E may have parts on Newer-Nuke-E, but not Big E.
See? said:
Memento's passed from Mother to Daughter to Granddaughter indeed.
- Location
- Vancouver, Washington
Next E may have armored windows made of transparent aluminum. A gift from 'Future' E. 
Icywinter
50% ice, 50% winter
- Location
- ?
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Next E may have armored windows made of transparent aluminum. A gift from 'Future' E.
And Scotty. :b
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
Maybe Camp can be in two places at once?
- Location
- North Carolina
Who the hell is Camp?
Glitchrr36
Slick's Short Company, CEO
- Location
- The Wastes
- Pronouns
- He/Him
While I second the sentiment, the (admittedly extremely light) cursing isn't necessary, and makes you seem immature, thor.
Reckoning
- Location
- 'Murica
Support carrier Shinano winced as the stone-gray sea stung at her hull. The ocean churned with unnatural chill against her flanks, and each crashing wave stung like daggers against her decks. She'd never faced the Abyss before, but she knew they were out there, knew they were coming for her.
And she knew she couldn't do a thing but lash her planes down and hope for the best. Her guns were manned, but she was still stuck with the borderline useless 25mm mounts. Her Damage Control teams stood ready, but this would be only their second action in the face of real enemy fire.
Above her circled what was left of Jun'you's and Ryuujou's fighter wings. Less than two dozen Zeros to fend off the horde.
Shinano clenched at the wrought iron grip of her bow and muttered a timid whimper. She'd been scared before. The worry that she might just do something wrong and screw up the fishing trip hadn't left her mind since the moment she got her mission assignment.
But now that she knew there were monsters coming with the express intention of murdering her and her friends… she was terrified. She wanted nothing more than to curl up on White's lap and cry until she just couldn't cry anymore.
"Here they come," Ryuujou's bitter hiss crashed over the freezing air like a file dragged along a rusty wire. The light carrier's bangs were matted down with sweat and blood, and her hand shook with exhaustion as she pointed to the horizon.
She was down to her last four fighters, and the strain of losing so many so fast was chiseled on her grimy features.
"Mmm," Jun'you just nodded and motioned her planes to join the CAP. Blood still oozed from a cut on her brow, but Jun'you still had a full dozen zeros in the air. The strain assaulted her on every side, but she was still standing strong. "I count…" her voice trailed off in exhausted resignation. "T-twenty Focke-Wulfs, about that many Stuaks."
"I'm seeing the same," Ryuujou wiped a matted string of hair out of her eyes and threw her rudder hard over. "We're not gonna be able to stop them."
"Don't have to," Jun'you's voice sounded a lot more assured than her face looked. "Just… scatter them and dodge."
Shinano nodded and threw her rudder hard over. She couldn't spot planes, and even if she could she didn't have the pilots to launch them. She couldn't fight back, not really. Her twenty-fives were barely worth the displacement they cost. But she could steer. Her rudder worked, for now, and she'd work it with everything she had.
"I,Sh- Shinano," she struggled to put on a brave face when she wanted nothing more than to find a nice friendly corner of the shower hall and cry until she vanished into a puddle of tears, "Will dodge."
Jun'you gave the giant support carrier a brief nod, but most of her attention as focused on her fighters barreling towards the merge. Zeros crashed into the seething mass of Focke-Wulfs and Stukas, exchanging fire with a brilliant fireworks display of tracers and smoke.
The zeros fought well. Ryuujou's pilots were aces to a man, and Jun'you's airwing wasn't far behind. They danced though the Abyssals like sprites on a breeze, putting a few quick shots into a target before peeling away in hard turns.
They were exacting a toll in blood, but it wasn't enough. With no armor and a less potent engine, the Zeros had absolute no margin for error with their attacks. The Abyssal planes, with their hard-hitting cannons and heavy armor, shrugged off all but the hardest hits while punching back well above their weight.
And with more powerful, boosted engines, the Focke-Wulfs had the luxury of disengaging at their discretion and rocketing to altitude. They could attack on their terms, and slash down when—and only when—the situation favored them
The Japanese planes fought like caged tigers, but they were outnumbered and outmatched. By the time the Stukas reached their drop point, there wasn't a single Zero left to oppose them.
"BREAK!" Jun'you screamed with a voice coarse and strained. Her spiky hair was slicked back and soaked in blood. Her flanks erupted in strobing fire as her anti-aircraft guns poured flak into the air. With her rudder wildly shifting to screw up the dive bomber's approach, they couldn't have hit the broadside of a barn. But… maybe just maybe she could get a lucky hit or two.
With the Focke-Wulfs circling lazily above, the Stukas rolled over into howling dives. Their sirens screeched a cry of hateful fury as they power dived onto the carriers.
Ryuujou screamed as a bomb slammed into the front edge of her deck, tearing a hole in the wood and exploding inside her bridge. Another three bombs smashed into upper hull, tearing her deck into a pile of splintered wood and buckled steel.
A bomb punched through Jun'you's elevator, sending splintered though the precious few airplanes she still had left.
Even Shinano wasn't spared. A stick of bombs landed on her bow. Her armor kept her useless planes safe within her belly, but that was the end of the good news. The attack cratered her armored flight deck and tore the last twenty feet of her deck into burnt, twisted metal.
She screeched in pain as her left arm was torn into a bloody, ragged stump at the elbow. Oil soaked the rugged fabric of her Kimono, and Shinano hugged herself with her free arm as her damage control teams scrambled to do… to do whatever had to be done.
Shinano couldn't think, she'd never felt pain like this. Her crews were scrambling just to figure out what to do, her gunners poured ineffectual flak into the air as she mentally retreated back into her safe, comforting corner.
The Abyssal Focke-Wulfs made sport of tearing down from their high perches just long enough to strafe one of the fleeing ships before powering back up to altitude. But eventually, even they got bored. The big fighters formed up with the Stukas and faded into the horizon, leaving the three shell-shocked carriers in their wake.
Alaska seethed with a barely-controlled firestorm of rage. A fury so intense it nearly burned away every shred of humanity contained in her hull, refining her down to a cold, calculating warrior. The corners of her vision throbbed an angry red, and her voice sounded distant even to her own ears.
"Okay,"she said in a voice so tranquil it'd terrify her if there as room for any emotion besides righteous anger in her heart. "Listen up, here's the plan."
Atago and Nachi inclined their heads to give her their full attention. Normally, it was impossible to get the stern, serious-minded Myoukou and the bubbly, outgoing Takao to agree on anything. But right now, the same look was present in both cruisers' faces. A look of resolute determination.
"The… Princess," Alaska spat out the word with all the vitriol she could muster. Just thinking about that unholy abomination wearing the skin of her friend turned her stomach. But it had to be Sara. Sister Sara, the sweetest, kindest girl Alaska'd ever known. "Wants me dead."
Alaska set her jaw. She'd been eating a steady diet of Abyssal Panzerschiff and surface raiders for the past month. Whoever was commanding them had to be angry his fleets kept dying for nothing. And Alaska was the only ship in the Carribean fast enough to stay with the Princess and big enough to hurt it. If she died, the Princess could wreck havoc in the oil fields in peace.
"I can't outrun it," said the Large Cruiser, "But it can't catch me. And even if it can, it's not gonna want to close the distance until my guns are silenced."
She glanced from Atago to Nachi. Her friends, her fellow warships, girls who'd fought beside her for a country that sent them to the bottom all those years ago. "I'm the bait," she said, "Wisconsin's the trap."
"What about us?" Asked Atago. There wasn't a shred of her usual playful cheeriness hiding in her voice today. Just focus.
"Keep the pack together," said Alaska. "Don't let those cruisers break off into the oil fields. Sink 'em if you can so the Air Force can do their thing. But do not let them break off."
"Understood," chorused Atago and Nachi.
"Good," Alaska glanced at her phone. Akron's planes helpfully kept her updated on the exact location of the Princess's battle group. As if the sickly blue glow wasn't indicator enough.
"Um, 'Laska?" Hamakaze fiddled with the screw on one of her torpedoes and gave the towering American a glance though her silver bangs.
"Mmm," Alaska grunted in response as she turned over to setup the stern chase.
"It's a long way to Panama," said Hamakaze, "Can you make it all the way there?"
"Gonna have to," said Alaska.
Five-eleven glanced at her watch. Even this deep underwater, the luminous characters glowed with a gentle green florescence. It as only the barest slimmer of the brilliant firestorm the American trailed in her wake, but the U-boat preferred subtly over raw power.
She held her breath as the last few seconds ticked by, one hand pressed to the hydrophone headset clamped around her bone-white face. She could hear the battleship's cruiser escorts fade away into the distance, and the purr of a vast cargo ship's choppy screws would mask her sound from the half-deaf frigates left behind.
Slowly, the seconds ticked by. Five-eleven felt a tension build within her body. Stale air, sweat, and battery acid mixed into a noxious slurry, but she forced herself to stay calm. Wars below the waves weren't won by grand actions or heroic gestures. They were one with mechanical precision and mathematical slaughter.
Then, at long last, the hour came. Five-eleven spun up her screws and carefully lifted off the bottom. All around her, although she couldn't hear them, she knew her wolf pack was doing the same. A dozen submarines converged from every direction on a target unaware of their very existence.
For a split second, five-eleven allowed herself a tiny smile. Few things pleased her more than the oiled precision of a well-timed attack. But the moment passed in a heartbeat. She needed every shred of attention she had to set-up her attack.
Then she heard it. A shift in pitch of one of the frigate's screws. One of her packmates had been heard, either by inexperience or simple ill fortune. The escort ships were suddenly alert and hungry for a kill.
Five-eleven wouldn't mourn her packmate's loss. They were only weapons after all, expendable in the long run. What mattered was only that they survived long enough to earn back their steel.
Or, perhaps, give another a chance to land a killing blow.
The usually-placid waters of the Mexican Gulf churned with foaming fury. Waves frothed white where screws had frantically tore into them, biting into the sea for every shred of purchase they could find. Towers of spray loomed over the angry surface where sixteen-, twelve-, and eight-inch shells landed short.
Alaska screamed in rage as her bow knifed though a column of spray. She hadn't taken a square hit. Yet. But even close misses pounded at her hull and sent bruises sprawling over her snow-white skin. The thirty-three knot seas pounded against her, driving the pain home anew with every crashing wave.
But still she soldiered on. She'd dragged the Princess out of the oil fields, and Atago and Nachi'd bagged one of the anti-aircraft cruisers. Her plan was working. It was hurting her every second, but it was working.
"Alaska, come in, over," Alaska felt the voice of her Admiral rasp over her radio. Only it wasn't the calm, assured voice she knew and loved. This time his voice was… tired. Almost defeated.
"Alaska here," the cruiser habitually put a finger to her ear as swung wide around a splash. Her core tensed in agony as the maneuver put yet more stress on her bucking hull plating.
"Alaska, re-route to Galveston, over."
Alaska felt her breath slip from her lungs. "T-Texas, sir?"
"Yes, dammit!" snapped back her beloved Admiral in an uncharacteristic rage.
"B-but…" Alaska blinked. The only way back to Texas was though the edge of the oil fields. If Atago and Nachi couldn't keep those cruisers contains…
"Don't argue, Alaska," snapped her Admiral. "Wisconsin's gone, her cruisers are heading back to the Canal. Our new priority is keeping you girls alive."
Alaska blinked. She couldn't believe what she'd just heard. "But the Princess!"
"Air Force has a trio of Bones prepping as we speak." For a second, her Admiral's voice almost cracked. "Just make it to shore and we can protect you."
"No," said Alaska. There were still two healthy anti-air cruisers escorting the Princess, plus whatever guns it carried itself.
"Dammit, Alaska!" her Admiral's voice filled with rage, but something told her it wasn't directed at her this time. "You're not expendable."
"Understood sir," said Alaska. It took every reserve of strength she had left to keep her composure, "Routing to Galveston. We'll take as many of these CLAAs down as we can."
"Understood, Alaska. Godspeed."
The second the line dropped, Alaska let out a howl of fury and despair.
Jun'you clutched her side as her convoy limped for home. Her stomach twisted with pain as shards of twisted aluminum rattled around her bombed-out decks. Blood matted her hair down and dripped off onto her ragged white jacket, and her skin was clammy and soaking in sweat.
Ryuujou wasn't any better. Like Jun'you, she'd lost every fighter she had in the last… it wasn't a battle. A battle implied some kind of even exchange of blows. It was a massacre. The Marinaras all over again.
Ryuujou's hat was torn to bits, and one eye was swollen shut as she stumbled along on auxiliary control. Her deck was a smoldering wreck, and her hands shook with exhaustion as she staggered though the waves. Shattered glass was ground into her shell-shocked face, and avgas dripped off her fingers.
And then there was Shinano. Everything below her left elbow was just gone. A ragged stump of twisted, scorched metal and the blood-soaked canvas of her kimono was all that remained. Her face was as young and fresh as ever, save a tiny cut over her left eye, but somehow… that made it all the worse.
She still looked like what she was: a young, scared girl struggling to deal with the misery of her failure in battle as much as she was with the pain of her wounds. Hell, Jun'you'd seen Kagerous who looked older and more weathered than poor Shinano. The carrier's lips quivered as she muttered under her breath, staring off into the horizon and worrying with the heavy iron of her quiver.
Jun'you couldn't bring herself to look more. It was sights like that that made her long for a nice bottle of warm sake.
At least their whaling fleet came out with minimal casualties, albeit with their holds less than half full. Almost a dozen men were wounded, but… somehow there weren't any dead. At least not yet.
"Bonin task force, be advised," Ooyodo's voice crackled over the radio. Crisp, precise, and tense with sleep-deprived frustration only barely kept in check by lethally high doses of caffeine, it rang with all the features Jun'you never wanted to hear from her. "Abyssal air-attack en-route to Tokyo. Advise you divert to Osaka, how copy?"
"Uh…" Jun'you blinked, trying to clear the haze of battle fatigue from her burned-out brain, "What… what about shore aviation?"
"We spent everything we had blunting the last attack," said Ooyodo with clipped, tense frustration. "They'll cut though the CAP like butter and hit out planes before they can finish refueling. Divert to Osaka," the cruiser's suggestion was far more order this time around, "How copy, over?"
"Dammit!" Jun'you swore with all the energy she had left. "Understood. Diverting to Osaka." The carrier turned West with an exhausted sigh. She wanted to be mad, but she didn't have the energy left to work herself up. Her planes were gone. Ryuujou's planes were gone. Shinano didn't have a single carrier-qualified pilot, and none of her planes had even been properly tested. She hadn't—
Jun'you blinked.
Shinano wasn't turning in.
"Shina!" Jun'you yelled at the top of her rasping lungs.
"N-no," whispered so quietly her voice was almost lost. Her unfocused gaze was locked on the horizon, and her mouth kept quivering she uttered timid almost-words.
"Shina, we have to GO!" Jun'you barked as loud as she could. Just yelling sent shooting pain down her throat, but she forced herself past it. Shinano was her friend, she was not letting her friend die alone, even if she had to tow her back herself.
Shinano shook her head. "M-my name is Sh-" her voice sputtered and died. She closed her eyes, lips forming a wordless prayer. "Shinano."
Jun'you opened her mouth to bark an order. But all that came out was a hearty laugh. She planted her hands on her gut to try to steady herself as waves of sudden mirth overwhelmed her despair.
Ryuujou shot her a confused, horrified look.
"I…" Shinano straighted her back. Her bloody sleeve flapped against her side as she drew an arrow from her quiver with her heavily gloved hand. "Am the th-third of the Yamato sisters."
She hadn't failed to turn like Jun'you had thought.
"I was trained by—" Shinano bit her lip and brushed her gloved finger along the arrow's steel fletching. "By White Plains."
She'd turned, she just hadn't turned West like the rest of the fleet.
She'd turned into the wind.
And she hadn't been worrying her quiver out of fear or misery. She'd been spotting a strike.
Shinano's eyes flicked open, and she was suddenly staring at the horizon with a burning intensity that put the rising sun on her battle flag to shame. Her hand closed around the shaft of her arrow and she hurled it into the air with all her might. "And I'll take you all on," she said with quiet conviction.
"No!" Ryuujou screamed as a Shiden rumbled down the carrier's battered deck towards the torn-up bomb crater at the end. Only for it to claw its way into the air with feet to spate.
Jun'you let out a howl and pumped her fist in the air. Shinano might be down, but she sure as hell wasn't out.
"Shina, what are you doing!" demanded Ryuujou, "Your pilots can't land."
"No they can't," Said Shinano. Her voice was as quiet and gentle as ever. But there was an edge to her timid accent that wasn't there before. A conviction that what she was doing was right. "Not on me." She glanced over at Ryuujou, her matted black hair suddenly whipping in the salty wind over her bow, "But they won't have to."
"You're crazy!" barked Ryuujou.
Shinano shook her head. "No, I'm a Yamato." She put her hand to her ear and linked into the fleetwide net. "Ooyodo, this is Shinano?"
"Yes?" snapped the cruiser, "What?"
"I've got twenty Shidens in the air one-fifty miles sou-south-west of Tokyo," said the carrier. "where do you want them?" After a moment's pause, she sheepishly added, "Um… over."
"Uh," the confused relief on Ooyodo's voice was palpable even though the radio's garbling. "L-linking you into local air-defense. They'll guide your pilots in."
"Thank you," Shinano nodded with a calm unbecoming her horribly mangled arm. Seconds later, she linked up with an unbelieving JASDF officer and coordinating her strike with calm conviction.
Meanwhile, completely unknown to the tightly-focused support carrier, Ryuujou stared in awe.
In his fifty-odd years of life, Jim Warren, curator of the Battleship Texas museum, had seen his share of strange and odd things. But he'd never seen something quite as odd as the sight that awaited him at the pier this morning. Big T sat waiting at her berth like she always did.
Only it wasn't his Big T.
Sloped-on dark blue paint over rusted-though metal had been replaced by the crisp gray and prissiness blue of Measure 21 camouflage. Her number two and four turrets bristled with 20mm cannons that hadn't been there in decades. Smoke curled from her stacks as boilers that hadn't been lit since before he was born hummed away like they were built yesterday.
As he staggered up the gangplank in awe, he noticed more and more things wrong, but so terribly right with his beloved battleship. Secondary mounts that had long since rusted into place gleamed with oiled, machined precision.
Men in grubby, but clearly cared for Navy dungarees scrambled over her decks with the ordered chaos of a well-drilled crew. And the decks themselves! Battered, splintered wood held together with desperate plywood patches had been replaced by gleaming pristine teak.
As he set foot on the battleship's deck, a young man in a Lieutenant's uniform waved him over. He didn't say a word to Warren, but somehow, the old curator knew he was being directed to the bridge. Apparently there was something he needed to see.
He couldn't keep his mouth shut as he made his way forwards. He'd gotten used to the old girl's rather miserable shape. He could see the character in every ding and bit of rust she'd accumulated in her century-plus life. But all that was gone. Everywhere he looked he saw factory-fresh components and loving-maintained machinery.
Big T looked like she'd finished her shakedown yesterday. And when he stepped onto the bridge, he knew why.
A woman waited for him by the captain's chair. A short, plump woman with long shimmering gray hair falling down her back. A parasol rested on her shoulder, and a crisp white hoop skirt nearly as big and round as her chest hung off her hips.
She was the very image of a fine southern belle, albeit with just enough nautical touches to make her identity clear.
"T-Texas?" Warren stammered out.
She smiled and dipped her head. "I am indeed," she said in a voice more sweetly southern than sweet tea with biscuits and honey. "Now, I understand you're in charge of this museum?"
Warren nodded, "Uh, yeah. Yeah, you could say that."
"Well then," Texas twirled her parasol and smiled, "I hate to impose, but I'm lead to believe I'm needed?"
Warren nodded again, "Yeah, uh… yeah."
Texas' smile suddenly turned downright predatory. "Well then, I'm afraid I've got to ask you a favor." She planted her hand on the bridge rail and smiled down at her number two turret, "Might I please borrow your boat?"
And she knew she couldn't do a thing but lash her planes down and hope for the best. Her guns were manned, but she was still stuck with the borderline useless 25mm mounts. Her Damage Control teams stood ready, but this would be only their second action in the face of real enemy fire.
Above her circled what was left of Jun'you's and Ryuujou's fighter wings. Less than two dozen Zeros to fend off the horde.
Shinano clenched at the wrought iron grip of her bow and muttered a timid whimper. She'd been scared before. The worry that she might just do something wrong and screw up the fishing trip hadn't left her mind since the moment she got her mission assignment.
But now that she knew there were monsters coming with the express intention of murdering her and her friends… she was terrified. She wanted nothing more than to curl up on White's lap and cry until she just couldn't cry anymore.
"Here they come," Ryuujou's bitter hiss crashed over the freezing air like a file dragged along a rusty wire. The light carrier's bangs were matted down with sweat and blood, and her hand shook with exhaustion as she pointed to the horizon.
She was down to her last four fighters, and the strain of losing so many so fast was chiseled on her grimy features.
"Mmm," Jun'you just nodded and motioned her planes to join the CAP. Blood still oozed from a cut on her brow, but Jun'you still had a full dozen zeros in the air. The strain assaulted her on every side, but she was still standing strong. "I count…" her voice trailed off in exhausted resignation. "T-twenty Focke-Wulfs, about that many Stuaks."
"I'm seeing the same," Ryuujou wiped a matted string of hair out of her eyes and threw her rudder hard over. "We're not gonna be able to stop them."
"Don't have to," Jun'you's voice sounded a lot more assured than her face looked. "Just… scatter them and dodge."
Shinano nodded and threw her rudder hard over. She couldn't spot planes, and even if she could she didn't have the pilots to launch them. She couldn't fight back, not really. Her twenty-fives were barely worth the displacement they cost. But she could steer. Her rudder worked, for now, and she'd work it with everything she had.
"I,Sh- Shinano," she struggled to put on a brave face when she wanted nothing more than to find a nice friendly corner of the shower hall and cry until she vanished into a puddle of tears, "Will dodge."
Jun'you gave the giant support carrier a brief nod, but most of her attention as focused on her fighters barreling towards the merge. Zeros crashed into the seething mass of Focke-Wulfs and Stukas, exchanging fire with a brilliant fireworks display of tracers and smoke.
The zeros fought well. Ryuujou's pilots were aces to a man, and Jun'you's airwing wasn't far behind. They danced though the Abyssals like sprites on a breeze, putting a few quick shots into a target before peeling away in hard turns.
They were exacting a toll in blood, but it wasn't enough. With no armor and a less potent engine, the Zeros had absolute no margin for error with their attacks. The Abyssal planes, with their hard-hitting cannons and heavy armor, shrugged off all but the hardest hits while punching back well above their weight.
And with more powerful, boosted engines, the Focke-Wulfs had the luxury of disengaging at their discretion and rocketing to altitude. They could attack on their terms, and slash down when—and only when—the situation favored them
The Japanese planes fought like caged tigers, but they were outnumbered and outmatched. By the time the Stukas reached their drop point, there wasn't a single Zero left to oppose them.
"BREAK!" Jun'you screamed with a voice coarse and strained. Her spiky hair was slicked back and soaked in blood. Her flanks erupted in strobing fire as her anti-aircraft guns poured flak into the air. With her rudder wildly shifting to screw up the dive bomber's approach, they couldn't have hit the broadside of a barn. But… maybe just maybe she could get a lucky hit or two.
With the Focke-Wulfs circling lazily above, the Stukas rolled over into howling dives. Their sirens screeched a cry of hateful fury as they power dived onto the carriers.
Ryuujou screamed as a bomb slammed into the front edge of her deck, tearing a hole in the wood and exploding inside her bridge. Another three bombs smashed into upper hull, tearing her deck into a pile of splintered wood and buckled steel.
A bomb punched through Jun'you's elevator, sending splintered though the precious few airplanes she still had left.
Even Shinano wasn't spared. A stick of bombs landed on her bow. Her armor kept her useless planes safe within her belly, but that was the end of the good news. The attack cratered her armored flight deck and tore the last twenty feet of her deck into burnt, twisted metal.
She screeched in pain as her left arm was torn into a bloody, ragged stump at the elbow. Oil soaked the rugged fabric of her Kimono, and Shinano hugged herself with her free arm as her damage control teams scrambled to do… to do whatever had to be done.
Shinano couldn't think, she'd never felt pain like this. Her crews were scrambling just to figure out what to do, her gunners poured ineffectual flak into the air as she mentally retreated back into her safe, comforting corner.
The Abyssal Focke-Wulfs made sport of tearing down from their high perches just long enough to strafe one of the fleeing ships before powering back up to altitude. But eventually, even they got bored. The big fighters formed up with the Stukas and faded into the horizon, leaving the three shell-shocked carriers in their wake.
—|—|—
Alaska seethed with a barely-controlled firestorm of rage. A fury so intense it nearly burned away every shred of humanity contained in her hull, refining her down to a cold, calculating warrior. The corners of her vision throbbed an angry red, and her voice sounded distant even to her own ears.
"Okay,"she said in a voice so tranquil it'd terrify her if there as room for any emotion besides righteous anger in her heart. "Listen up, here's the plan."
Atago and Nachi inclined their heads to give her their full attention. Normally, it was impossible to get the stern, serious-minded Myoukou and the bubbly, outgoing Takao to agree on anything. But right now, the same look was present in both cruisers' faces. A look of resolute determination.
"The… Princess," Alaska spat out the word with all the vitriol she could muster. Just thinking about that unholy abomination wearing the skin of her friend turned her stomach. But it had to be Sara. Sister Sara, the sweetest, kindest girl Alaska'd ever known. "Wants me dead."
Alaska set her jaw. She'd been eating a steady diet of Abyssal Panzerschiff and surface raiders for the past month. Whoever was commanding them had to be angry his fleets kept dying for nothing. And Alaska was the only ship in the Carribean fast enough to stay with the Princess and big enough to hurt it. If she died, the Princess could wreck havoc in the oil fields in peace.
"I can't outrun it," said the Large Cruiser, "But it can't catch me. And even if it can, it's not gonna want to close the distance until my guns are silenced."
She glanced from Atago to Nachi. Her friends, her fellow warships, girls who'd fought beside her for a country that sent them to the bottom all those years ago. "I'm the bait," she said, "Wisconsin's the trap."
"What about us?" Asked Atago. There wasn't a shred of her usual playful cheeriness hiding in her voice today. Just focus.
"Keep the pack together," said Alaska. "Don't let those cruisers break off into the oil fields. Sink 'em if you can so the Air Force can do their thing. But do not let them break off."
"Understood," chorused Atago and Nachi.
"Good," Alaska glanced at her phone. Akron's planes helpfully kept her updated on the exact location of the Princess's battle group. As if the sickly blue glow wasn't indicator enough.
"Um, 'Laska?" Hamakaze fiddled with the screw on one of her torpedoes and gave the towering American a glance though her silver bangs.
"Mmm," Alaska grunted in response as she turned over to setup the stern chase.
"It's a long way to Panama," said Hamakaze, "Can you make it all the way there?"
"Gonna have to," said Alaska.
—|—|—
Five-eleven glanced at her watch. Even this deep underwater, the luminous characters glowed with a gentle green florescence. It as only the barest slimmer of the brilliant firestorm the American trailed in her wake, but the U-boat preferred subtly over raw power.
She held her breath as the last few seconds ticked by, one hand pressed to the hydrophone headset clamped around her bone-white face. She could hear the battleship's cruiser escorts fade away into the distance, and the purr of a vast cargo ship's choppy screws would mask her sound from the half-deaf frigates left behind.
Slowly, the seconds ticked by. Five-eleven felt a tension build within her body. Stale air, sweat, and battery acid mixed into a noxious slurry, but she forced herself to stay calm. Wars below the waves weren't won by grand actions or heroic gestures. They were one with mechanical precision and mathematical slaughter.
Then, at long last, the hour came. Five-eleven spun up her screws and carefully lifted off the bottom. All around her, although she couldn't hear them, she knew her wolf pack was doing the same. A dozen submarines converged from every direction on a target unaware of their very existence.
For a split second, five-eleven allowed herself a tiny smile. Few things pleased her more than the oiled precision of a well-timed attack. But the moment passed in a heartbeat. She needed every shred of attention she had to set-up her attack.
Then she heard it. A shift in pitch of one of the frigate's screws. One of her packmates had been heard, either by inexperience or simple ill fortune. The escort ships were suddenly alert and hungry for a kill.
Five-eleven wouldn't mourn her packmate's loss. They were only weapons after all, expendable in the long run. What mattered was only that they survived long enough to earn back their steel.
Or, perhaps, give another a chance to land a killing blow.
—|—|—
The usually-placid waters of the Mexican Gulf churned with foaming fury. Waves frothed white where screws had frantically tore into them, biting into the sea for every shred of purchase they could find. Towers of spray loomed over the angry surface where sixteen-, twelve-, and eight-inch shells landed short.
Alaska screamed in rage as her bow knifed though a column of spray. She hadn't taken a square hit. Yet. But even close misses pounded at her hull and sent bruises sprawling over her snow-white skin. The thirty-three knot seas pounded against her, driving the pain home anew with every crashing wave.
But still she soldiered on. She'd dragged the Princess out of the oil fields, and Atago and Nachi'd bagged one of the anti-aircraft cruisers. Her plan was working. It was hurting her every second, but it was working.
"Alaska, come in, over," Alaska felt the voice of her Admiral rasp over her radio. Only it wasn't the calm, assured voice she knew and loved. This time his voice was… tired. Almost defeated.
"Alaska here," the cruiser habitually put a finger to her ear as swung wide around a splash. Her core tensed in agony as the maneuver put yet more stress on her bucking hull plating.
"Alaska, re-route to Galveston, over."
Alaska felt her breath slip from her lungs. "T-Texas, sir?"
"Yes, dammit!" snapped back her beloved Admiral in an uncharacteristic rage.
"B-but…" Alaska blinked. The only way back to Texas was though the edge of the oil fields. If Atago and Nachi couldn't keep those cruisers contains…
"Don't argue, Alaska," snapped her Admiral. "Wisconsin's gone, her cruisers are heading back to the Canal. Our new priority is keeping you girls alive."
Alaska blinked. She couldn't believe what she'd just heard. "But the Princess!"
"Air Force has a trio of Bones prepping as we speak." For a second, her Admiral's voice almost cracked. "Just make it to shore and we can protect you."
"No," said Alaska. There were still two healthy anti-air cruisers escorting the Princess, plus whatever guns it carried itself.
"Dammit, Alaska!" her Admiral's voice filled with rage, but something told her it wasn't directed at her this time. "You're not expendable."
"Understood sir," said Alaska. It took every reserve of strength she had left to keep her composure, "Routing to Galveston. We'll take as many of these CLAAs down as we can."
"Understood, Alaska. Godspeed."
The second the line dropped, Alaska let out a howl of fury and despair.
—|—|—
Jun'you clutched her side as her convoy limped for home. Her stomach twisted with pain as shards of twisted aluminum rattled around her bombed-out decks. Blood matted her hair down and dripped off onto her ragged white jacket, and her skin was clammy and soaking in sweat.
Ryuujou wasn't any better. Like Jun'you, she'd lost every fighter she had in the last… it wasn't a battle. A battle implied some kind of even exchange of blows. It was a massacre. The Marinaras all over again.
Ryuujou's hat was torn to bits, and one eye was swollen shut as she stumbled along on auxiliary control. Her deck was a smoldering wreck, and her hands shook with exhaustion as she staggered though the waves. Shattered glass was ground into her shell-shocked face, and avgas dripped off her fingers.
And then there was Shinano. Everything below her left elbow was just gone. A ragged stump of twisted, scorched metal and the blood-soaked canvas of her kimono was all that remained. Her face was as young and fresh as ever, save a tiny cut over her left eye, but somehow… that made it all the worse.
She still looked like what she was: a young, scared girl struggling to deal with the misery of her failure in battle as much as she was with the pain of her wounds. Hell, Jun'you'd seen Kagerous who looked older and more weathered than poor Shinano. The carrier's lips quivered as she muttered under her breath, staring off into the horizon and worrying with the heavy iron of her quiver.
Jun'you couldn't bring herself to look more. It was sights like that that made her long for a nice bottle of warm sake.
At least their whaling fleet came out with minimal casualties, albeit with their holds less than half full. Almost a dozen men were wounded, but… somehow there weren't any dead. At least not yet.
"Bonin task force, be advised," Ooyodo's voice crackled over the radio. Crisp, precise, and tense with sleep-deprived frustration only barely kept in check by lethally high doses of caffeine, it rang with all the features Jun'you never wanted to hear from her. "Abyssal air-attack en-route to Tokyo. Advise you divert to Osaka, how copy?"
"Uh…" Jun'you blinked, trying to clear the haze of battle fatigue from her burned-out brain, "What… what about shore aviation?"
"We spent everything we had blunting the last attack," said Ooyodo with clipped, tense frustration. "They'll cut though the CAP like butter and hit out planes before they can finish refueling. Divert to Osaka," the cruiser's suggestion was far more order this time around, "How copy, over?"
"Dammit!" Jun'you swore with all the energy she had left. "Understood. Diverting to Osaka." The carrier turned West with an exhausted sigh. She wanted to be mad, but she didn't have the energy left to work herself up. Her planes were gone. Ryuujou's planes were gone. Shinano didn't have a single carrier-qualified pilot, and none of her planes had even been properly tested. She hadn't—
Jun'you blinked.
Shinano wasn't turning in.
"Shina!" Jun'you yelled at the top of her rasping lungs.
"N-no," whispered so quietly her voice was almost lost. Her unfocused gaze was locked on the horizon, and her mouth kept quivering she uttered timid almost-words.
"Shina, we have to GO!" Jun'you barked as loud as she could. Just yelling sent shooting pain down her throat, but she forced herself past it. Shinano was her friend, she was not letting her friend die alone, even if she had to tow her back herself.
Shinano shook her head. "M-my name is Sh-" her voice sputtered and died. She closed her eyes, lips forming a wordless prayer. "Shinano."
Jun'you opened her mouth to bark an order. But all that came out was a hearty laugh. She planted her hands on her gut to try to steady herself as waves of sudden mirth overwhelmed her despair.
Ryuujou shot her a confused, horrified look.
"I…" Shinano straighted her back. Her bloody sleeve flapped against her side as she drew an arrow from her quiver with her heavily gloved hand. "Am the th-third of the Yamato sisters."
She hadn't failed to turn like Jun'you had thought.
"I was trained by—" Shinano bit her lip and brushed her gloved finger along the arrow's steel fletching. "By White Plains."
She'd turned, she just hadn't turned West like the rest of the fleet.
She'd turned into the wind.
And she hadn't been worrying her quiver out of fear or misery. She'd been spotting a strike.
Shinano's eyes flicked open, and she was suddenly staring at the horizon with a burning intensity that put the rising sun on her battle flag to shame. Her hand closed around the shaft of her arrow and she hurled it into the air with all her might. "And I'll take you all on," she said with quiet conviction.
"No!" Ryuujou screamed as a Shiden rumbled down the carrier's battered deck towards the torn-up bomb crater at the end. Only for it to claw its way into the air with feet to spate.
Jun'you let out a howl and pumped her fist in the air. Shinano might be down, but she sure as hell wasn't out.
"Shina, what are you doing!" demanded Ryuujou, "Your pilots can't land."
"No they can't," Said Shinano. Her voice was as quiet and gentle as ever. But there was an edge to her timid accent that wasn't there before. A conviction that what she was doing was right. "Not on me." She glanced over at Ryuujou, her matted black hair suddenly whipping in the salty wind over her bow, "But they won't have to."
"You're crazy!" barked Ryuujou.
Shinano shook her head. "No, I'm a Yamato." She put her hand to her ear and linked into the fleetwide net. "Ooyodo, this is Shinano?"
"Yes?" snapped the cruiser, "What?"
"I've got twenty Shidens in the air one-fifty miles sou-south-west of Tokyo," said the carrier. "where do you want them?" After a moment's pause, she sheepishly added, "Um… over."
"Uh," the confused relief on Ooyodo's voice was palpable even though the radio's garbling. "L-linking you into local air-defense. They'll guide your pilots in."
"Thank you," Shinano nodded with a calm unbecoming her horribly mangled arm. Seconds later, she linked up with an unbelieving JASDF officer and coordinating her strike with calm conviction.
Meanwhile, completely unknown to the tightly-focused support carrier, Ryuujou stared in awe.
—|—|—
In his fifty-odd years of life, Jim Warren, curator of the Battleship Texas museum, had seen his share of strange and odd things. But he'd never seen something quite as odd as the sight that awaited him at the pier this morning. Big T sat waiting at her berth like she always did.
Only it wasn't his Big T.
Sloped-on dark blue paint over rusted-though metal had been replaced by the crisp gray and prissiness blue of Measure 21 camouflage. Her number two and four turrets bristled with 20mm cannons that hadn't been there in decades. Smoke curled from her stacks as boilers that hadn't been lit since before he was born hummed away like they were built yesterday.
As he staggered up the gangplank in awe, he noticed more and more things wrong, but so terribly right with his beloved battleship. Secondary mounts that had long since rusted into place gleamed with oiled, machined precision.
Men in grubby, but clearly cared for Navy dungarees scrambled over her decks with the ordered chaos of a well-drilled crew. And the decks themselves! Battered, splintered wood held together with desperate plywood patches had been replaced by gleaming pristine teak.
As he set foot on the battleship's deck, a young man in a Lieutenant's uniform waved him over. He didn't say a word to Warren, but somehow, the old curator knew he was being directed to the bridge. Apparently there was something he needed to see.
He couldn't keep his mouth shut as he made his way forwards. He'd gotten used to the old girl's rather miserable shape. He could see the character in every ding and bit of rust she'd accumulated in her century-plus life. But all that was gone. Everywhere he looked he saw factory-fresh components and loving-maintained machinery.
Big T looked like she'd finished her shakedown yesterday. And when he stepped onto the bridge, he knew why.
A woman waited for him by the captain's chair. A short, plump woman with long shimmering gray hair falling down her back. A parasol rested on her shoulder, and a crisp white hoop skirt nearly as big and round as her chest hung off her hips.
She was the very image of a fine southern belle, albeit with just enough nautical touches to make her identity clear.
"T-Texas?" Warren stammered out.
She smiled and dipped her head. "I am indeed," she said in a voice more sweetly southern than sweet tea with biscuits and honey. "Now, I understand you're in charge of this museum?"
Warren nodded, "Uh, yeah. Yeah, you could say that."
"Well then," Texas twirled her parasol and smiled, "I hate to impose, but I'm lead to believe I'm needed?"
Warren nodded again, "Yeah, uh… yeah."
Texas' smile suddenly turned downright predatory. "Well then, I'm afraid I've got to ask you a favor." She planted her hand on the bridge rail and smiled down at her number two turret, "Might I please borrow your boat?"
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TikiTau
Commander Pangolinski
- Location
- Texas
*sniffles*
Big T!
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
*native born Houstonian*
*Hasn't seen Big T show up before in KanColle fics*
*super excited*
Also, so many feels from Shinano.
Also, Dat Mood Whiplash! xD
'Oh god, things are going bad.'
'Oh gods, Abyssal Wolfpack...'
'Oh no, Wiskey! ;_;'
'...Wait, she managed to launch her fleet?'
'Wait...Big T is about to enter the fight and she's pissed?!' (Small predatory smile is the Stereotypical Southern Belle equivalent of ominous laughter, you see!)
...also, just realized, but...the Battlecruiser Princess is probably the USS Guam, the OTHER Alaska-class Battlecruiser...annnnd she's apparently at least semi-radioactive. Given her reference to Being Rewarded With GLORIOUS Nuclear Fire, and according to Wikipedia, the only two cruisers/battlecruisers tested in Operation Crossroads were Alaska and Guam...
Edit: I AM NOT GOOD AT SHIP THINGS. xD
Big T!
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
*native born Houstonian*
*Hasn't seen Big T show up before in KanColle fics*
*super excited*
Also, so many feels from Shinano.
Also, Dat Mood Whiplash! xD
'Oh god, things are going bad.'
'Oh gods, Abyssal Wolfpack...'
'Oh no, Wiskey! ;_;'
'...Wait, she managed to launch her fleet?'
'Wait...Big T is about to enter the fight and she's pissed?!' (Small predatory smile is the Stereotypical Southern Belle equivalent of ominous laughter, you see!
)Edit: I AM NOT GOOD AT SHIP THINGS. xD
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Nervos Belli
Don't think this means you've won!
- Location
- Murica
Blitzed the whole story in two days. Super lewd, super awesome. That's all. Now sleep.
Lady Darkhound
Haha, tanks!
- Location
- My very own personal hell
- Pronouns
- She/Her
So the Japanese carriers got wrecked by the German fighters and bombers, Wiskey got torped to death, and Texas showed up. But Texas is still a museum ship near Houston. Does this mean that shipgirls can be summoned or self summon while their hull is still afloat?
Icywinter
50% ice, 50% winter
- Location
- ?
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Always Late
Lacking in coffee, sleep, and brains
- Location
- Ohio
No you're not. You have these.
1. Even shitty guns and FC like yours should be able to shoot down underpowered POS Stukas.
2. Twenty/Forty(Not sure if I read 'I'm seeing the same right' Stukas means there's more than one Nazi carrier out there. Graf Zepplin could only take 13 JU 87s in her remodel.
1. Missing period.
2. The old American tactic: Boom and Zoom.
1. Whelp. That's a headshot.
2. She's lucky she didn't blow/burn up from that.
3. Not that bad TBH.
Eeeesh. That's a real mauling.
The Caribbean crew's getting serious.
Alaska and Wisconson take Sara, the cruisers take on the other cruisers...
Prussian discipline.
... a dozen Kriegsmarine shipgirls?
Did we just have a US Navy ship kill a shipgirl?
And that's a smash-cut to later.
1. How the fuck did an Iowa get killed?
2. Why did you feel the need to have such an important event happen off-screen?
3. Guess this means Wiskey's coming back as a shipgirl. Probably not in time though...
1. Another B-52 level bombing run.
2. I find it a bit SOD-straining they're not throwing more planes at the ship, overwhelming the air defenses and all that. Three B-52s can't be all the Air Force/Navy can strap bombs to and get in the air.
Musashi's going to lose it when she sees what's become of Shinano. And White Plains...
Copy, but cannot comply. They've got no planes to assi-
What the fuck are you doing girl?
Desperate times call for desperate measures. Let the Divine Wind howl once more against Japan's invaders!
Yeah, they can just land on local airfields/wherever they can find open space.
We stare into the Abyss, AND MAKE IT BLINK!
These things?
Hoo boy, if they perform as well as they were hyped up to be, then this'll be interesting.
And another Battleship activates.
... so these are her 'fairies'. Texas' old crew, back aboard and getting her fit for fight.
No cowgirl?
Son, I am disappoint.
*facepalm*
You shipgirls are all crazy, stupid, or both.
That was a bit of an exciting chapter. An unusually high amount of stuff happening off-screen for you though.
- Location
- New Braunfels, Tecas
Jersey's going to be out for blood.
Oh someone's goin to get an arse whippin'....probably multiple someones!!!
and it shall be glorious!
TikiTau
Commander Pangolinski
- Location
- Texas
I think they're actually Shidens, not Shindens. maybe. I am not good at ship things, but just guessing since the Shiden is a carrier-based plane and the Shinden was designed as a land-based interceptor, according to the Tome O' All Knowledge Wikipedia. xD
I mean, they're still a really good plane, either way!
Spectre
eternal servant to the Fire/EMS gods
- Location
- NY
actually its B-1 lancers.B-52's were BUFF's
Glitchrr36
Slick's Short Company, CEO
- Location
- The Wastes
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I don't think we're getting Wisky back for a while, most of the tonnage seems to have gone to Texas. Though on the other hand, we get a battleship who is capable of immediately going out and fucking shit up.
Also, as other people have stated, Jersey is going to be fucking furious.
I imagine we'll be seeing the first dynamic entry performed by a battleship soon, as some U-bitches (and U-511) get to see what happens when you fuck with the family of (well, barely) arguably the most powerful battleship ever.
Also, as other people have stated, Jersey is going to be fucking furious.
I imagine we'll be seeing the first dynamic entry performed by a battleship soon, as some U-bitches (and U-511) get to see what happens when you fuck with the family of (well, barely) arguably the most powerful battleship ever.
Icywinter
50% ice, 50% winter
- Location
- ?
- Pronouns
- She/Her
If I don't get to that submarine first.
no its Saratoga in her battlecruiser form.
TikiTau
Commander Pangolinski
- Location
- Texas
...i am not good at ships.
I totally didn't realize she had a battlecruiser form. >_>
well, I feel kinda dumb now. Guess I missed that in discussion. Welp!
*goes to strike -that- out of posts*