PAGDTenno
Verified Warmind. Probably on fire.
- Location
- South Carolina
Yet. Neither of you are pregnant yet.
Belated Battleships (KanColle) [REHOST]
- Thread starter theJMPer
- Start date
Yet. Neither of you are pregnant yet.
Burning Baron
This position needs more entrenching.
- Location
- In here, not out there.
Suddenly, we are the Gossip Botes.
PAGDTenno
Verified Warmind. Probably on fire.
- Location
- South Carolina
It happens when we go too long without an update
- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
Wash: "I'm a boat. The test verified it."
- Location
- Pacific NW
The test verified a boat. Ships do happen to have boats on board. In my mind a negative test would be blank or nothing. A boat means something. And as a boat grows in tonnage eventually it gets called a ship. 
PAGDTenno
Verified Warmind. Probably on fire.
- Location
- South Carolina
The test verified a boat. Ships do happen to have boats on board. In my mind a negative test would be blank or nothing. A boat means something. And as a boat grows in tonnage eventually it gets called a ship.
See, the great thing is that theJMPer can write that result as meaning whatever the fuck he wants it to mean.
- Location
- Canada
And make us even more confused.
Sorry, Jersey, but I'm afraid they aren't. They're exempt from FOIA because revealing them could damage national security. Sadly...
CompassJimbo
Where’s Your North?
- Location
- The former Rubber Capital of the World
Well, the Internet is a series of tubes at least partially meant for porn.
- Location
- Pacific Northwest
Well, the Internet is a series of tubes at least partially meant for porn.
I thought they were mostly meant for cute cat photos and videos, porn is only a secondary use.
- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
Remember what happened to Musashi.
HMSFearlessCL-56
Radical Centrist Death Squads
- Location
- The United States
Of course you-
*Is shelled by multiple angry battleships*
...Of Mice and Men
- Location
- 'Murica
The Island princess reclined on her throne, her ice-cold lips twisting into a mirthless smirk. The traitors had done well for themselves. They'd survived the encounter, and even sent a few of her jets to the bottom. But what was a noteworthy victory for them was barely worth mentioning as a setback to her.
She'd sent out barely a third of her jets, and lost even fewer. Most would make it back to the loving embrace of her runways, and the few that didn't were gratefully offered up in supplication to the Abyss. The Princess cared not. She would birth their replacements a hundredfold when she gorged herself on the traitors' blood.
No, what she cared about was the cause of her jets' untimely demise. That… overgrown mockery of a destroyer had expended several of its precious missiles sending her jets to the deep. The princess' knowledge of modern warfare may not have been exhaustive, but it was extensive. She knew those missiles were worth their weight in gold, and under the industrial strain of a global war, effectively irreplaceable.
Far, far more important, however, was the damage her jets had caused. The cruisers had not been killed, but they'd been crippled. Slowed to a paltry twenty-two knots as they frantically limped back to their traitors' dens with that… whore leading the fleet.
The princess drew a vast talon of frigid forged iron along the heavy fabric of her greatcoat. She was hungry, ravenous even. Her stomach roared at her, she felt it trying to gnaw though her belly as her limitless hunger whipped itself into a frenzy at the thought of the feast she was soon to enjoy.
Her demons would be on the traitors within the hour. And she would feast on the blood, gorge herself on their deaths and birth forth a yet more powerful fleet. This victory would be but the first of many in her endless quest to sate the need to devour burning within in.
A long, slender tongue darted between her lips. She was hungry, and her first proper meal in months was being prepared before her eyes.
Partially because… well, she'd gone months without fucking anything, and she libidos of almost two thousand young, horny sailors driving her to levels of sexual frustration never before thought possible by mankind. She hadn't fucked anything in months, and she was fairly certain if someone didn't lay a nice long keel in her slipway soon, she'd blow her magazines.
And no, that attempted roll in the sheets with Musashi hadn't helped. That niggling sense of fucking honor that the American still somehow had kept her back from actually fucking enjoying what little intimacy the two super-battleships had scraped together. If anything, it'd only made her more desperate to get something between her shaft galleries.
But, as impossible as it might seem, the lion's share of the Iowa's frustration had nothing to do with her need to fuck something. At least not sexually fuck something.
She—and her division—were the backup. She could crush those candy-ass Nazi bitches with ease if Richardson would just let her off her chain, but that defeated the fucking purpose. The goal of this mission, and hence the somewhat overcompicated plan, was to give Ari and Pennsy some much-needed trigger time. The rational part of Jersey's brain, the part manned by her former officers and admirals, understood that. Neither standard had much surface-action experience, and bullying a few hapless battlecruisers would be child's play to them.
But the animal part of Jersey's brain, the part manned by her former enlisted, the part capable of thinking only about tits and killing, would have none of that. Those ships were Nazi. And if there was any fucking thing Jersey knew, it was that killing Nazis was always objectively the right thing to do. Even her all-consuming hatred for communists paled next to her burning desire to kill Nazis in gratuitously bloody ways.
But she had to play fucking second string. Had to sit on her fucking ass and twiddle her thumbs up her butt while Pennsy and Ari got to play. It was like having a plate full of seventy-two ounce steaks dangled in front of her nose by a chocolate-skinned battleship wearing nothing but a frilly apron, then being told she'd have to make do with decade-old C-rats and her imagination.
And to make things fucking better, she was stuck in the middle of a fucking tropical squall. Admittedly, having a place to hide was kind of nice, and lessened the chances of having to go to the contingency "Plan Fuck Everything With The Sixteen Inch-Fifties of Freedom," but that was about all the credit Jersey could give it. She was still fucking miserable.
It wasn't even the lightly refreshing rain she'd experienced a bit further north. No, this was fucking tropical rain. The kind that almost drove her mad during 'nam until her intrepid crew turned one of her guntubs into a swimming pool. The kind of rain that's so muggy and fucking oppressive, you can't tell where your skin ends and the sky begins. The whole fucking universe was one vast continuum of sweat and fucking misery, and Jersey was stuck right in the motherfucking center of it all. And of-fucking-course, the sea state sucked utter donkey cock, because why the flying fuck would it not.
And she couldn't even look forwards to a good battle. She was beyond frustrated. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could think about was fucking pretty girls by the dozen atop a mountain of bleeding Nazi corpses that scraped the clouds. Occasionally, pie would be delivered, but it was always served on the naked bellies of inexplicably busty girls.
"Fuck," Jersey scowled at nothing in particular. "My life."
She could already taste the traitors' blood on her lips. The thought of her imminent feast was enough to sate her hunger for the moment, but it only amplified the thrill of the hunt. Her body shook with a frantic, nervous energy, and she couldn't keep herself in one place for long. The ground shook with each thundering footstep as she paced.
The Traitors had spotted her demons of course, they traitorous whores, but they were hardly stupid. They'd pushed their turbines to the limit to stay ahead of her demons' relentless onslaught, but it wouldn't be enough. The damage from her airstrike had hobbled them. They'd slowed her demons' closure, not stopped it.
Soon enough, the damage from her airstrike would start to compound. Water smashing in through torn hulls would smash bulkheads to pieces. Damaged machinery already gasping on its last legs would fail entirely. Crippled ships would collapse at her mercy, and she would gorge herself on their terror.
The princess smiled, her talon idly stroking up her—currently—slender belly. She already had a fleet in mind, she would waste no time birthing forth her newest clutch of demons. The seas were hers to rule, and she intended to take them without…
What.
WHAT!
"N͍̾̐̀͟Ỏ̵͆̔̽ͤ̍ͯ̓͠͏̬̥͍̹̪!" the princess' voice roared with screeching fury. Her talons balled into fists so tight she felt steel piece the skin of her palms.
She'd been tricked.
She didn't know how she'd missed it… how her Condors could have missed it… but a pack of battleships had slipped through her defenses. She counted an Iowa and a Kongou, plus a gaggle of destroyers that were all but inconsequential in the grand scheme of things breaking free of a squall.
Her Demons were no longer the hunters. In an instant, her precious children had become the hunted.
A guttural cry of fury tore from the princess' lips. She buried her fist in the concrete wall up to her elbow, barely even feeling the pain in her wrought-iron entombed knuckles. This could not happen, would not happen. She would not allow it.
With a thought, she ordered her demons to break off their pursuit. Her feast would wait, she would go hungry today… a sacrifice she'd gladly suffer to keep her demons alive.
She could not win this fight.
But… perhaps… she could avoid loosing.
Her Demons were old ships, fast but not quite fast enough. They couldn't hope to outrun the traitorous battle group. But with luck, they wouldn't have to.
If they could just… extend. If they held onto ever meter of separation they could, sold every scrap of distance for the highest price… If they could keep ahead of the traitors, her demons could make Luzon by nightfall.
They'd loose their shadows in the night, among the islands. Nobody, not even the vaunted Americans with their radar or Japanese with their night training could maintain a chase in the inky black of night, she was sure of it.
She could not, and the technology she had at her fingertips was better—had to be better—than anything the traitors had access to. She was sure of it.
If they made it to the strait, her demons would break free into the Philippine sea. They'd find refuge… maybe even support from the Abandoned Princess.
The Island princess had no love lost for her counterpart in the Philippine sea… but if it meant keeping her precious demons alive, the princess would happily swallow her pride. The Abandoned Princess was her rival… but the two served the same master, and fought the same foe.
She would help.
She must help.
All the Island princess need to was get her demons to the Philippines.
If she got them to the Philippines they would be safe.
The Philippines would be safe.
"You know," the old standard glanced over her shoulder at the wooded island coast behind her. "I've always wanted to visit the Philippines."
She'd sent out barely a third of her jets, and lost even fewer. Most would make it back to the loving embrace of her runways, and the few that didn't were gratefully offered up in supplication to the Abyss. The Princess cared not. She would birth their replacements a hundredfold when she gorged herself on the traitors' blood.
No, what she cared about was the cause of her jets' untimely demise. That… overgrown mockery of a destroyer had expended several of its precious missiles sending her jets to the deep. The princess' knowledge of modern warfare may not have been exhaustive, but it was extensive. She knew those missiles were worth their weight in gold, and under the industrial strain of a global war, effectively irreplaceable.
Far, far more important, however, was the damage her jets had caused. The cruisers had not been killed, but they'd been crippled. Slowed to a paltry twenty-two knots as they frantically limped back to their traitors' dens with that… whore leading the fleet.
The princess drew a vast talon of frigid forged iron along the heavy fabric of her greatcoat. She was hungry, ravenous even. Her stomach roared at her, she felt it trying to gnaw though her belly as her limitless hunger whipped itself into a frenzy at the thought of the feast she was soon to enjoy.
Her demons would be on the traitors within the hour. And she would feast on the blood, gorge herself on their deaths and birth forth a yet more powerful fleet. This victory would be but the first of many in her endless quest to sate the need to devour burning within in.
A long, slender tongue darted between her lips. She was hungry, and her first proper meal in months was being prepared before her eyes.
—|—|—
Battleship New Jersey was mad. If she had any balls, they'd be as blue as the ocean she steamed through right now.Partially because… well, she'd gone months without fucking anything, and she libidos of almost two thousand young, horny sailors driving her to levels of sexual frustration never before thought possible by mankind. She hadn't fucked anything in months, and she was fairly certain if someone didn't lay a nice long keel in her slipway soon, she'd blow her magazines.
And no, that attempted roll in the sheets with Musashi hadn't helped. That niggling sense of fucking honor that the American still somehow had kept her back from actually fucking enjoying what little intimacy the two super-battleships had scraped together. If anything, it'd only made her more desperate to get something between her shaft galleries.
But, as impossible as it might seem, the lion's share of the Iowa's frustration had nothing to do with her need to fuck something. At least not sexually fuck something.
She—and her division—were the backup. She could crush those candy-ass Nazi bitches with ease if Richardson would just let her off her chain, but that defeated the fucking purpose. The goal of this mission, and hence the somewhat overcompicated plan, was to give Ari and Pennsy some much-needed trigger time. The rational part of Jersey's brain, the part manned by her former officers and admirals, understood that. Neither standard had much surface-action experience, and bullying a few hapless battlecruisers would be child's play to them.
But the animal part of Jersey's brain, the part manned by her former enlisted, the part capable of thinking only about tits and killing, would have none of that. Those ships were Nazi. And if there was any fucking thing Jersey knew, it was that killing Nazis was always objectively the right thing to do. Even her all-consuming hatred for communists paled next to her burning desire to kill Nazis in gratuitously bloody ways.
But she had to play fucking second string. Had to sit on her fucking ass and twiddle her thumbs up her butt while Pennsy and Ari got to play. It was like having a plate full of seventy-two ounce steaks dangled in front of her nose by a chocolate-skinned battleship wearing nothing but a frilly apron, then being told she'd have to make do with decade-old C-rats and her imagination.
And to make things fucking better, she was stuck in the middle of a fucking tropical squall. Admittedly, having a place to hide was kind of nice, and lessened the chances of having to go to the contingency "Plan Fuck Everything With The Sixteen Inch-Fifties of Freedom," but that was about all the credit Jersey could give it. She was still fucking miserable.
It wasn't even the lightly refreshing rain she'd experienced a bit further north. No, this was fucking tropical rain. The kind that almost drove her mad during 'nam until her intrepid crew turned one of her guntubs into a swimming pool. The kind of rain that's so muggy and fucking oppressive, you can't tell where your skin ends and the sky begins. The whole fucking universe was one vast continuum of sweat and fucking misery, and Jersey was stuck right in the motherfucking center of it all. And of-fucking-course, the sea state sucked utter donkey cock, because why the flying fuck would it not.
And she couldn't even look forwards to a good battle. She was beyond frustrated. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could think about was fucking pretty girls by the dozen atop a mountain of bleeding Nazi corpses that scraped the clouds. Occasionally, pie would be delivered, but it was always served on the naked bellies of inexplicably busty girls.
"Fuck," Jersey scowled at nothing in particular. "My life."
—|—|—
The Island princess stalked her throne room with a ravenous smile on her stony lips. Her face cracked like ice as her predatory grin twisted her features like quicksilver. The vast talons of her overgrown gauntlets tapped an impatient cadence against her hips, and her jackboots ground the shattered concrete floor to powder.She could already taste the traitors' blood on her lips. The thought of her imminent feast was enough to sate her hunger for the moment, but it only amplified the thrill of the hunt. Her body shook with a frantic, nervous energy, and she couldn't keep herself in one place for long. The ground shook with each thundering footstep as she paced.
The Traitors had spotted her demons of course, they traitorous whores, but they were hardly stupid. They'd pushed their turbines to the limit to stay ahead of her demons' relentless onslaught, but it wouldn't be enough. The damage from her airstrike had hobbled them. They'd slowed her demons' closure, not stopped it.
Soon enough, the damage from her airstrike would start to compound. Water smashing in through torn hulls would smash bulkheads to pieces. Damaged machinery already gasping on its last legs would fail entirely. Crippled ships would collapse at her mercy, and she would gorge herself on their terror.
The princess smiled, her talon idly stroking up her—currently—slender belly. She already had a fleet in mind, she would waste no time birthing forth her newest clutch of demons. The seas were hers to rule, and she intended to take them without…
What.
WHAT!
"N͍̾̐̀͟Ỏ̵͆̔̽ͤ̍ͯ̓͠͏̬̥͍̹̪!" the princess' voice roared with screeching fury. Her talons balled into fists so tight she felt steel piece the skin of her palms.
She'd been tricked.
She didn't know how she'd missed it… how her Condors could have missed it… but a pack of battleships had slipped through her defenses. She counted an Iowa and a Kongou, plus a gaggle of destroyers that were all but inconsequential in the grand scheme of things breaking free of a squall.
Her Demons were no longer the hunters. In an instant, her precious children had become the hunted.
A guttural cry of fury tore from the princess' lips. She buried her fist in the concrete wall up to her elbow, barely even feeling the pain in her wrought-iron entombed knuckles. This could not happen, would not happen. She would not allow it.
With a thought, she ordered her demons to break off their pursuit. Her feast would wait, she would go hungry today… a sacrifice she'd gladly suffer to keep her demons alive.
She could not win this fight.
But… perhaps… she could avoid loosing.
Her Demons were old ships, fast but not quite fast enough. They couldn't hope to outrun the traitorous battle group. But with luck, they wouldn't have to.
If they could just… extend. If they held onto ever meter of separation they could, sold every scrap of distance for the highest price… If they could keep ahead of the traitors, her demons could make Luzon by nightfall.
They'd loose their shadows in the night, among the islands. Nobody, not even the vaunted Americans with their radar or Japanese with their night training could maintain a chase in the inky black of night, she was sure of it.
She could not, and the technology she had at her fingertips was better—had to be better—than anything the traitors had access to. She was sure of it.
If they made it to the strait, her demons would break free into the Philippine sea. They'd find refuge… maybe even support from the Abandoned Princess.
The Island princess had no love lost for her counterpart in the Philippine sea… but if it meant keeping her precious demons alive, the princess would happily swallow her pride. The Abandoned Princess was her rival… but the two served the same master, and fought the same foe.
She would help.
She must help.
All the Island princess need to was get her demons to the Philippines.
If she got them to the Philippines they would be safe.
The Philippines would be safe.
—|—|—
Arizona smiled as a stiff ocean breeze washed through her coppery hair. The water below her keel was such a clear, brilliant blue that, were it not so stunningly beautiful, she would have felt scandalized that so much of her anti fouling was on display."You know," the old standard glanced over her shoulder at the wooded island coast behind her. "I've always wanted to visit the Philippines."
Always Late
Lacking in coffee, sleep, and brains
- Location
- Ohio
So you're making the 'meatgrinder' of war a literal character trait.
Hoookay.
Well... that's gonna stir up some politicals in the comments.
*points* QQ's thataway.
1. Hey. We're in your base, killin' ur doods.
2. And she's misidentified the enemy. Interesting...
Given the actual ships are slower than she thinks they are, that's quite possible.
FTFY.
Uh...
Why?
- Location
- 'Murica
Because if she's wrong, her Demons are dead and there's nothing she can do but watch.
Glitchrr36
Slick's Short Company, CEO
- Location
- The Wastes
- Pronouns
- He/Him
This is why.
Also what JMPer said. Losing assets in war sucks. Plus the weird "mom" thing she has going on
Burning Baron
This position needs more entrenching.
- Location
- In here, not out there.
Only J can find a way to use the word 'Nazi' with the same flexibility of the word 'Fuck.'
Death_Sheep
Cat Owned
- Location
- Wisconsin
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Actually, I don't think the Island Princess has misidentified the enemy. The cruiser element, TF Razor, kited the Abyssals out to sea with TF Shield's air group and missiles providing cover, then when Island Princess spotted New Jersey's TF Sword, the fleets were positioned such that running for the Philippines seemed like the Abyssal's best option. Not that she knows Ari, Pennsy, and the rest of TF Sledge are waiting to bushwhack them...
That is if they don't get pick up by radar or worst yet German hydrophones.
At which point the Abyssals are still fucked, because they're caught between the rock that is TF Sledge and the hard place that is TF Sword. Even if they detect TF Sledge while they are still far enough out to try and go around them, all TF Sword has to do is turn to intercept. Not to mention, the enemy also has to make sure that their turn wouldn't blunder them into the range of TF Sledge's guns, which complicates things. At least, that's my understanding of it given maybe 50 or so hours of playing Rule the Waves.