Jersey's mind was socked in a fog so thick even her radars couldn't see though it. The big battleship wandered aimlessly though the halls, watching powerlessly from the furthest corner of her bridge as her body navigated on its own. She was soaked to the keel, freezing cold, and…
And she didn't know what to feel. She should be happy for her little sister, she knew she should. Little Wisconsin had died like a battleship. There was one defining factor that made a battleship a battleship, and it wasn't guns. It was armor. More than any other ship afloat, battleships existed to keep their crews safe. They existed to take the enemy's hardest blow squarely on the chin, then shrug it off and reply in kind.
Jersey couldn't imagine a better way for a battleship to die than after getting every last soul under her care to safety. It was an honor even she had failed time and again to even come close to. But…
But all the honor in the world wouldn't make her miss her little sister any less. Maybe she'd come back… But from what little the battleship could remember of her time in that icy sea, it took time to tuck a ship in for the long wait. This war could be over before she came back.
If she came back…
Someone… a sailor probably. Or maybe a destroyer. Jersey was too shattered to tell the difference. But someone pointed her towards the baths. Good. The battleship knew she wasn't getting over what'd just happened to her any time soon. But she could at least fight off the soaking chill clinging to her sodden body.
Then she'd only be emotionally miserable, instead of emotionally and physically.
Jersey was pretty sure she muttered some words of thanks, but her memory turned to haze before she could be certain. Hallways and doors slid past her like half-remembered dreams as she could only assume she was walking though the base. Her footsteps rang like silent gunshots between her ears, and her misery was rapidly paling in comparison to her growing fury.
She'd lost one fucking sister and she was a fucking useless wreck of a wo—ship. One. Her country had lost twenty-fucking-thousand in the first five goddamn minutes of this war, and Jersey hadn't once seen her admiral crying like a sniveling little child.
Jersey was angry. She was furious at the monsters who'd put her sister on the bottom, but even that anger was nothing compared to the limitless burning hatred pointed squarely at herself. She felt her vision tint an angry red, and she didn't give a single rotten fuck.
"FUCK!" Jersey roared in anger and threw her fist out with all the might her towering body could produce. A mangled bollard stood wrapped around her fist as concrete dust drifted to the ground. The black nomex of her fingerless flight gloves was already blossoming with blood. Jersey could tell she'd torn her knuckles open down the the steel, and she didn't care.
She was a battleship, she was designed to take punishment. So why the fuck couldn't she handle herself!
"Ya quite done there?" The one-armed old man-o-war that Jersey was rapidly learning to despise sauntered into view with a cocky smirk on her oaken face. At least she'd exchanged the three-postage-stamps-and-some-floss bikini from earlier for a proper Navy greatcoat.
"Stow it, Victory," Jersey glared at the Australian-accented apparition that seemed determined to haunt her in her lowest moments. "I'm not in the fucking mood."
"Oh," Victory smirked, and clambered up onto the mangled bollard so she could look Jersey in the eyes. "I think you are, mate."
Jersey shoved with all her might, only for her hand to pass though the man-o-war's chest like it wasn't even there. Which it wasn't. The American just scowled deeper and stormed away.
"Can't get away from me that fast," said Victory as the battleship cratered pavement with each furious step.
"I make thirty-five knots!" roared back Jersey. "Fucking watch me."
"I'm a figment of your imagination, mate." Victory was suddenly sitting on a bench a head of Jersey with a smile on her face that almost matched the glare off her polished sword. "I go where you go."
Jersey scowled, then stormed into a secluded building with barely more than a nod from the officer on duty. She might've flashed her ID, but she doubted it mattered. She'd be amazed if there was even a single woman anywhere who looked like her, let alone in Japan. "I'm taking a fucking bath," she snapped. "Why don't you go fuck yourself."
"If only," Victory sighed wistfully, "But… hallucination, mate. Can't exactly—"
"NOPE!" Jersey threw another pointless punch at the sailing ship's towering admiral's hat.
"Just saying, mate," Victory tugged at the lapel of her greatcoat with her one remaining hand. "Rum, sodomy, and the lash. Pick one of the fun ones."
"I'm American, bongbote," Jersey scowled. "I run dry."
Victory shot a significant glance at the battleship's hips. Or more specifically, the area between them. "Can say that again, mate."
"Fuck you!" Somehow, Jersey's frustration and… almost embarrassment was starting to push her hatred down. "I mean… I don't drink."
Victory shrugged. "So, Sodomy then?"
Before Jersey could respond, she'd ducked though the doors to the bathhouse. It was, if she was being honest, a nice place. Polished wood veneer that looked like it'd been lovingly maintained by someone with precious little to do with their time surrounded a stone-sided tub full of steaming water. The tub itself was huge, big enough to fit someone of Jersey's titanic size with ease.
Maybe even two, if they got a little comfy.
Which was good.
Because there was already someone in the tub.
And she was naked.
"M-Mushi?" Jersey's jaw fell open as she stared at the chocolate goddess soaking in the steaming water. She'd never actually… seen Musashi naked before. Close to it, yes, but… but it seems those scant few inches of cloth made all the difference.
The Japanese super-battleship actually blushed, and cradled her arms over the bulging swell where her breasts crested above the steaming water. Her glasses were too fogged up to read her expression, but the battleship almost looked shy.
"That a yes to the sodomy?" Victory shot Jersey an evil wink.
"Fuck you," hissed Jersey. "I have a— a—"
"Boyfriend?" giggled the Brit. "'cause if you can't even say it, then…"
Jersey scowled and slammed the door closed on the intensely frustrating man-o-war. "Shouldn't you be with your sister?"
Musashi hugged herself, then glanced down with uncharacteristic restraint. "Probably, yes. But she's…" The giant battleship furrowed her brows. "She's the hero of the day, and I, Musashi, do not wish to intrude."
Jersey blinked. "But she's your sister."
Musashi nodded glumly. "Yes. My baby sister, converted to the world's largest escort carrier. And she's still done more for Japan than I ever have."
Jersey settled herself on a bench and started unlacing her sneakers. "Mushi… you, uh… fucking…"
"I'm a battleship," said Musashi. "A Yamato. My country emptied its pockets to build me." She sunk down in her bath until only her face was above the steaming surface. "I was obsolete before I even tasted salt."
"So?" Jersey zipped off her vest and breathed a sigh of relief as her sodden shirt was suddenly not squeezed right against her damp skin. "So am fucking I."
"It's not the same," hissed Musashi. "You… I've read your history."
Jersey scowled with her shirt half-over her head. "That's not creepy."
"You and your sisters were the last battleships," Musashi wheeled around in her bath. Her chocolate body breeched the waves as she stood, her face a mask somewhere between anger and despair. "You can do thirty-five knots. Even in the age of carriers you were always in demand!"
"As flak-barges, yeah." Jersey only shrugged as she wadded up her shirt and tossed it in the corner.
"Better than me," said Musashi. "I… I never even fired my rifles. Not really.
"Didn't you shoot those useless-ass beehive rounds?" said Jersey as she slipped off her shorts.
"Doesn't count," mumbled Musashi. "I… I spent the war dragging my country down. When I came back, they stuck me in a shed, fed me just enough for minimum combat readiness."
She shot an angry glare at the American, who was currently mumbling insults at her uncooperative sports bra. "You spent the war in constant demand! Your nation brought you back time and again! You were back for two days and you bagged more tonnage than I have in my entire life."
Jersey shook her head and growled. "You know… I was gonna come here and cry about how fucking useless I am."
Musashi blinked. "W-what?"
"Wisky died, I wasn't there to save her," Jersey shrugged. "All that jazz."
The Japanese battleship nodded, and the intensity hiding behind those fogged-over glassed dimmed. "She died well."
"Mmm," Jersey poked a toe into the steaming water and let out a quiet moan. It was warmer than she ever imagined. This was going to feel so good.
"When Yamato died," Musashi scooted over to make room for the gigantic American. It was going to be a tight squeeze, but Jersey didn't quite have the same beam as a Yamato-class. "You could see the explosion from the mainland."
"That so?" Jersey carefully slid her body into the water with a happy sigh.
Musashi nodded. "It… yes. Yamato means Japan, you know."
"I'm not fucking illiterate," mumbled Jersey, but she was too busy moaning in happiness as she finally got warm again to put any real bile behind her words.
"When she died it was a symbol of my country," said Musashi. "Dying in pointless attack against a victorious foe."
"Hell yeah," Jersey smiled. "'was awful brave though."
Musashi blushed, and nodded. "Jersey."
"What?"
"Your sister's death was a symbol too."
"I don't fucking believe in that supernatural bullshit," snapped the American battleship who was also a towering blond woman with hips that could kill from twenty miles away in any weather.
Musashi didn't even attempt to address that. "Perhaps. But she died like an American." Musashi puffed out her chest until the chocolate swell bulged over the surface, "She threw reason to the curb and went beyond the impossible to save her crew."
Jersey smiled, and spread her muscular arms along the bathtub rail. Musashi shivered as Jersey's chilly skin brushed against her bare shoulder. "Sisters, right?"
"Mmm," Musashi smirked. "You know… Yamato used to be so jealous of me."
"That so?" Jersey glanced over with a mirror-shaded smirk.
"I was the second ship," said Musashi. "They made several improvements." The gigantic Japanese battlewagon chuckled. "You know… she used to stuff type-91 shell caps to try and pad out her—"
Musashi stopped dead in the water as she realized something that had until now been hidden behind her fogged-over glasses. Battleship New Jersey, the most decorated battleship in human history, second-born of the Iowa-class and object of all Musashi's jealousy and attraction was squeezed into the tub with her.
And she was, save for those mirrored aviators she always wore, totally naked. All that magnificent American Engineering was on glorious display. Chiseled power plants twice as strong as the best Musahsi had to offer rippled under the American's belly. Her chest bulged with armor thinner and smaller than Musashi's own, but far firmer and tougher. Her stern, unencumbered by the awkward arrangement of hanger decks and catapult rails Musashi was burdened with, bulged in a perfectly uninterrupted curve.
And it was all right there. Musashi blushed a deeper brown and hurriedly crossed her legs and tried to focus on the most unappealing mental image she could come up with. Namely, a shirt.
"Where?" Jersey smirked, apparently oblivious to the Japanese battlewagon's discomfort. "Where'd she stick the shells?"
"Her—" Musashi coughed to hide her voice breaking. "She stuffed them down her shirt."
Jersey blinked. Then blatantly glanced at Musashi's bulging upperworks. Then the big American threw her head back and let loose a laugh that could probably be heard in Tokyo, if not Washington.
Musashi just sunk deeper into the water and sulked.
