Subterfuge
- Location
- 'Murica
For most people, organizing a day trip to a flight museum would be an trifling affair barely worthy of note. Yeoman Jennifer Bowers was not most people, and neither were the girls she had to wrangle. Getting Shinano to the nice shiny planes was the whole purpose of the trip, and both Jersey and Musashi wanted to tag along—for obvious reasons in both cases.
There was one problem. All three of the warships weighed enough to max out the biggest trucks Bowers could get her hands on. By themselves. And that wasn't even counting the flotilla of escorts that'd be tagging along. And lunches for everyone.
Descending on one of the unsuspecting local restaurants was out of the question. Even if they had parking for the vast convoy and enough staff to feed three girls who could out-eat a Marine Battalion with minimal effort, Shinano's crippling shyness would never tolerate such public conditions.
Bowers ended up staying up all night with a cadre of kitchen staff, Tenryuu, and the painfully adorable destroyers under said cruiser's care making bagged lunches for the trip. Jersey popped by for the last few hours, which Bowers appreciated. The Kanmusume tended to slack off when ashore, but considering how hard they worked at sea, she couldn't begrudge them anything.
"Hey," Jersey smiled at the sailor, her massive frame only barely fitting into the lumbering truck. In an effort to keep the convoy down to only somewhat ridiculous size, Bowers had crammed herself and additional naval personnel wherever they fit. A few hundred pounds of sailor here and there was nothing compared to the thousands of tons even a small ship weighed. "You did good, Yeoman."
"Thank you, Commander." Bowers smiled and stifled a yawn. She'd elected to ride with Jersey mostly because there wasn't any other option. Shinano much preferred riding with only her escort—of both ships and stuffed animals—to an American Sailor she'd barely met. Also, Jersey couldn't be left alone with the vast sea of bagged lunches or she would—by her own admission—probably eat most of them.
Bowers thought better of the big battleship, but then again… she'd never experienced the constant gnawing hunger that big warships apparently felt. Not that she was complaining, mind you. Jersey was the kind of officer who was a joy to work with and under.
"With this," Jersey waved a half-gloved hand around the compartment. "But also the whole… uniform… thing."
Bowers blushed at the compliment. Finding a pattern for Jersey's new vest that accommodated for her… rather prodigious new bosom had been a task in itself. But getting it sewn was joy undiluted for the sailor. There was nothing she liked more than turning a few scraps of flat fabric into something three-dimensional and real.
"It was a pleasure, Commander." Bowers might have a chest you could play pool on, but she'd sewn for her busty friends before, some who even approached Jersey's superheroic proportions. Of course, they did it with corsets, a little padding, and a lot of silicone. Jersey's figure was all natural… well… metal. "You know, Comic Con is coming up soon…"
Jersey was wearing her mirrored aviators, but Bowers could still tell the battleship was rolling her eyes. "Do I look like a virgin nerd?"
"After the other night?" Bowers chuckled. "You do know the difference between sex and a cage fight, right?"
"Hardy-har-fuck you," grumbled the Iowa. "You're worse than Naka. Which is saying something, because Naka is… just the worst."
"Tell me about it," said the yeoman. "All those frills."
Jersey blinked, her pre-staged sequence of gripes thrown for a loop as her mechanical brain processed that new bit of information. "What?" And then it hit her. "Oh good lord, you didn't…"
Bowers blushed. "Yeah. For Halloween. Before your time."
"Why?" Jersey shook her head. "why would you dress up as a fucking traffic-directing-implement?"
Bowers shrugged. "Because it's kinda cute? Don't knock a frilly miniskirt until you've tried it, ma'am."
Jersey shot the sailor a sly look, but couldn't get anything out before the squeal of overtaxed brakes made talking impossible. The truck heaved as its exhausted motor finally embraced the sweet release of death with a sputtering cough and a hiss of compressed air.
"You know," said Bowers with an impish smirk, "I could probably make you a Musashi getup."
"Why the fuck," Jersey scowled, carefully negotiating her amazonian frame around the cramped cab to get to the door. "Would I want to dress like the tiddy monster from Nippon's fever dreams."
"I've seen your abs, ma'am."
The Iowa shrugged. "Fair point."
Jersey hopped off onto the parking lot, and Bowers felt her butt leave the seat for a moment when springs strained to buckling suddenly had their burdens lifted. She followed suit a moment later, pulling her cover on smartly when she ducked out into the chilly winter air.
The convoy had filled up what felt like nearly all of the museum's parking space. Which might've been a problem if they museum staff hadn't closed early to make sure Shinano had the whole place to herself. Bowers would love to take credit for that, but they'd proposed the idea the moment she mentioned Shinano's shy, timid nature and there was no dissuading them.
Across the lot, Musashi unfolded her immense chocolate form with a scowl. Despite all the brutality she and Jersey had inflicted on one another in their brutal eight-hour marathon quote-unquote 'lovemaking' session, the damage had been virtually all superficial. According to Vestal, she was fully combat-ready. That said, it seemed like her ass hadn't been quite up to sitting in the back of a ten-ton for several hours.
And then Shinano came spilling out of her truck. And Bowers did mean spilling out. The poor girl put one of her massive iron-shod boots down first, letting her leg take some of her weight as she shimmied down the ladder. That'd been a mistake, the truck's suspension shifted and the poor carrier nearly overbalanced. She managed to catch herself at the last instant, but for a moment Bowers was sure the littlest Yamato was going to dig a new foxhole in the blacktop.
Jersey as at her side in an instant, with Musashi coming in second purely due to her weaker turbines. Shinano blushed brighter than her battle flag as Jersey and Musashi both frantically dusted her off and set her straight.
"You know," Destroyer-escort England smiled by Bowers' side, her little neck adorned with truly massive headphones. "I think that's the first time I've seen them do something and not make it a competition."
Bowers chuckled. "Think you're right, kiddo."
England beamed.
Meanwhile, Shinano was more embarrassed than she'd ever been in her entire—though admittedly extremely short—life. She was a support carrier. She was supposed to hide in the rear supporting the real combat vessels, not be doted on by two of the mightiest battleships the world had ever seen. Also, she hadn't tripped. She'd gotten close, but she'd recovered. Besides, she was an armored support carrier!
"I'm fine," she said meekly, wringing her hands over her heavily armored chest.
"You sure, Shina?" Jersey ruffled the girl's flowing hair.
"It is…" Musashi gulped. "It is no weakness to ask for help among friends."
Shinano nodded. "Y-yes. I'm fine. Can… can I see the planes now?"
Jersey nodded. "Yeah, right this way."
The two-and-a-half battleships made it all of fifteen yards before a smiling old man in a museum-branded polo shit greeted the little flotilla. "Jersey," he said with a knowing wink.
The Iowa looked at him for a moment, then erupted with a howling, happy laugh. "Holy Hannah! Chief Irons? Goddamn you got old!"
Irons chuckled. "And you got prettier."
Jersey blushed. "Aww…" When she noticed Musashi's look of utter confusion—and Shinano's attempt to hide behind her older sister, which was working out more successfully than her usual attempts to hide behind white—the battleship hastily clarified. "Um… Musashi, Shinano, this is Master Chief Irons, he ran my boilers during 'nam. Girl couldn't ask for better hands."
Irons just rolled his eyes as Jersey's lewd comment. "Miss Musashi, Miss Shinano, it's a pleasure to meet you both."
Musashi puffed out her chest and offered her hand. Sunlight glinting off her glasses hid her eyes, but it was pretty clear to all that she was pleased to meet someone who knew Jersey's propulsion plant so well. "The pleasure is mine."
"She may have fucked up your handiwork the other night," said Jersey, turning Musashi's cheeks bright red. "My guys are working on it, but…" she smirked. "They don't have your touch, chief."
Irons chuckled. "I'm a married man, Jersey. Otherwise…"
Jersey shrugged. "Good to see you again, Chief."
"Likewise." Irons angled around Musashi and put on a kindly smile. He'd been with the museum for a long time now, he was used to coaxing shy young kids into enjoying themselves. Of course… most of those shy little kids weren't a foot taller than him or strapped with several hundred pounds of forged iron. "Miss Shinano?"
Shinano mumbled something inaudible and scuffed her steel-capped toe against the ground.
Irons just smiled at her. "Why don't we get started, hmm?"
Shinano nodded.
"You see anything you're interested in, just ask me, okay?"
She nodded again. She stayed silent for all of fifteen seconds once they were through the doors, then something interesting caught her eye.
"Zero!" said Shinano with all her impressive Yamato-class lung capacity. "Mushi! Mushi! There's a Zero!" She waved her heavily armored gauntlet frantically at the little airplane. "That's a Zero!"
Musashi smiled and covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.
"And…" Shinano didn't wait for a response. She just grabbed Jersey's hand in hers and tore off towards the parked airplane. She made it about three steps before getting distracted again. "That's a spitfire!" She wheeled around and almost crashed into Jersey. "Jersey!Jersey!Jersey! That's a spitfire!"
Jersey ruffled the girl's hair. "I know, kiddo."
"I have one of those!" Shinano didn't so much speak as open her mouth and let words come tumbling forth. "In… in War Thunder, at least. It's so pretty."
"Ain't that the truth." Jersey always felt herself drawn more towards the brutish elegance of a corsair or a Phantom—or of course a Tomcat, but that was just cheating. But… she had to admit… there was something eminently fuckable about the sleek Supermarine.
"It's a very pretty plane," said Musashi as she trotted over.
The battleship had barely finished talking when Shinano noticed something else. "Look! Looklooklook!" She jumped up and down, earth shaking with every impact as the big carrier pointed in another direction entirely. "Jersey, look!"
The Iowa squinted. "Focke-Wulf?"
"Correct," Irons didn't so much walk up as appear by the two warships. "But that version's—"
"A Dora," Said Shinano. "With the inline, I know. For…" her brows knit in thought. "High altitude performance, right?"
"That's correct," said Irons. "They also added a—"
Shinano cut him off with a squeal. "Is that a P-51? That's a P-51! Jersey! Mushi! That's a P-51!" The threw her arms out and broke into a run. "Cadillac of the skies!"
"Hey, Harder." Alaska closed the door behind her. Then she blinked and looked again at the submarine's shorts. "Are those Cameron's pants?"
Harder shrugged without a hint of shame. "They were at one point, maybe."
Alaska pouted. She'd wanted to be the first ship to deprive Cameron of his pants. "Was he wearing them at the time?"
Harder shook her head, her ponytail scratching noisily against Alaska's pillow. "Nah, I'll leave that up to you."
The large cruiser beamed. "Thanks."
Harder shrugged. "You two are damn cute you know. Surprised he hasn't railed ya."
"Me too," said Alaska with unrestrained frustration. "Anyways, I need your help."
"What's in it for me?" Harder picked at her fingernails with her dive knife.
Alaska closed her eyes. Then she opened them again, tears welling up like glacial melt as her lip quivered pathetically. She clasped her hands together and dropped to her knees. "Please?" she said softly.
"Destroyer eyes?" Harder laughed. "You do know who I am, right?"
Alaska nodded. "Is it working?"
Harder scowled and crossed her skinny arms. "Yes."
The large cruiser giggled. "Yes!"
"What's up?"
"This," Alaska fumbled around her bookshelf for her prized signed copy of Changing Destiny, "Is Mister Stewart's handwriting."
"Okay…" Harder bit her lip and read over the message. "A little loopy."
"I know." Alaska fished a scrap of paper out of her pocket and wrote something down. "And this is what I'd like you to forge."
"Hmm," Harder held the two against each other. "In his hand?"
"Yeah," said Alaska. "Can you do it?"
Harder's only response was to roll her eyes and point to the dolphin tattoo just above her hip.
Luckily, she's prepared a few extra-large sandwiches loaded down with three of every meat the kitchen had on hand. She'd even slipped a few of the beers she and Musashi hadn't drank into a few choice bags.
Unfortunately, she was barely through her ninth sandwich and second beer when Shinano wandered over. The massive carrier had a small, half-finished sandwich—peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off, her favorite—clasped to her chest and a plantive look on her gentle face.
"Sup, shinny?" Said Jersey through a mouthful of turkey, chicken, ham, roast beef, regular beef, bacon, and like thirty kinds of cheese.
"Um…" Shinano worried her little sandwich. "I… was wondering…" Her long black hair blew in the breeze. "Could you braid my hair?"
Jersey gave the carrier a sideways look.
"I…" Shinano blushed and sat down in a heap. "I can't do it very well. Not as well as you."
Jersey swallowed and stared at the remainder of her sandwich, sitting so temptingly on its foil wrapper. She'd need both hands to braid Shinano's shimmering mane, and that meant putting off the rest of her meal for however long being a hairstylist took. For the hungry battleship, that was a decision that didn't take an instant of thought.
"Sure," Jersey shook the crumbs off her fingerless flight gloves. "Turn around."
"Hmm?" Sara planted her hands on her hips. There was a note tied to the package, but all it said was her own name. 'Sara' in beautiful cursive that she recognized as Daniel Stewart's handwriting.
Maybe it was a Christmas present, but then what was it doing in her room? There was a Christmas tree setup in the common area—Alaska's idea—and the large cruiser had made it very clear that Christmas presents were supposed to go there until Christmas day.
Her curiosity getting the better of her, Sara slipped the ribbons off and opened the package. Inside was a dress. A gorgeous dress in shimmering red velvet that flowed through her fingers like water when she touched it. Pure white fur lined the skirt, and there was even a little cape to keep her shoulders warm.
"Oh my god," Sara breathed, holding it up to the light. It was gorgeous! And short! So very… very… delightfully short. And it came with matching thigh-highs! Oh, how Sara adoredthigh-highs. She held the soft fabric to her bosom and sighed with happiness.
And that's when she noticed the note.
Cocking her head to the side, Sara lay her new dress on the bed and picked up the note. A short message was written on it, in handwriting she recognized.
"Sara, enclosed is my Christmas present. I hope you'll let me unwrap it. Daniel."
There was one problem. All three of the warships weighed enough to max out the biggest trucks Bowers could get her hands on. By themselves. And that wasn't even counting the flotilla of escorts that'd be tagging along. And lunches for everyone.
Descending on one of the unsuspecting local restaurants was out of the question. Even if they had parking for the vast convoy and enough staff to feed three girls who could out-eat a Marine Battalion with minimal effort, Shinano's crippling shyness would never tolerate such public conditions.
Bowers ended up staying up all night with a cadre of kitchen staff, Tenryuu, and the painfully adorable destroyers under said cruiser's care making bagged lunches for the trip. Jersey popped by for the last few hours, which Bowers appreciated. The Kanmusume tended to slack off when ashore, but considering how hard they worked at sea, she couldn't begrudge them anything.
"Hey," Jersey smiled at the sailor, her massive frame only barely fitting into the lumbering truck. In an effort to keep the convoy down to only somewhat ridiculous size, Bowers had crammed herself and additional naval personnel wherever they fit. A few hundred pounds of sailor here and there was nothing compared to the thousands of tons even a small ship weighed. "You did good, Yeoman."
"Thank you, Commander." Bowers smiled and stifled a yawn. She'd elected to ride with Jersey mostly because there wasn't any other option. Shinano much preferred riding with only her escort—of both ships and stuffed animals—to an American Sailor she'd barely met. Also, Jersey couldn't be left alone with the vast sea of bagged lunches or she would—by her own admission—probably eat most of them.
Bowers thought better of the big battleship, but then again… she'd never experienced the constant gnawing hunger that big warships apparently felt. Not that she was complaining, mind you. Jersey was the kind of officer who was a joy to work with and under.
"With this," Jersey waved a half-gloved hand around the compartment. "But also the whole… uniform… thing."
Bowers blushed at the compliment. Finding a pattern for Jersey's new vest that accommodated for her… rather prodigious new bosom had been a task in itself. But getting it sewn was joy undiluted for the sailor. There was nothing she liked more than turning a few scraps of flat fabric into something three-dimensional and real.
"It was a pleasure, Commander." Bowers might have a chest you could play pool on, but she'd sewn for her busty friends before, some who even approached Jersey's superheroic proportions. Of course, they did it with corsets, a little padding, and a lot of silicone. Jersey's figure was all natural… well… metal. "You know, Comic Con is coming up soon…"
Jersey was wearing her mirrored aviators, but Bowers could still tell the battleship was rolling her eyes. "Do I look like a virgin nerd?"
"After the other night?" Bowers chuckled. "You do know the difference between sex and a cage fight, right?"
"Hardy-har-fuck you," grumbled the Iowa. "You're worse than Naka. Which is saying something, because Naka is… just the worst."
"Tell me about it," said the yeoman. "All those frills."
Jersey blinked, her pre-staged sequence of gripes thrown for a loop as her mechanical brain processed that new bit of information. "What?" And then it hit her. "Oh good lord, you didn't…"
Bowers blushed. "Yeah. For Halloween. Before your time."
"Why?" Jersey shook her head. "why would you dress up as a fucking traffic-directing-implement?"
Bowers shrugged. "Because it's kinda cute? Don't knock a frilly miniskirt until you've tried it, ma'am."
Jersey shot the sailor a sly look, but couldn't get anything out before the squeal of overtaxed brakes made talking impossible. The truck heaved as its exhausted motor finally embraced the sweet release of death with a sputtering cough and a hiss of compressed air.
"You know," said Bowers with an impish smirk, "I could probably make you a Musashi getup."
"Why the fuck," Jersey scowled, carefully negotiating her amazonian frame around the cramped cab to get to the door. "Would I want to dress like the tiddy monster from Nippon's fever dreams."
"I've seen your abs, ma'am."
The Iowa shrugged. "Fair point."
Jersey hopped off onto the parking lot, and Bowers felt her butt leave the seat for a moment when springs strained to buckling suddenly had their burdens lifted. She followed suit a moment later, pulling her cover on smartly when she ducked out into the chilly winter air.
The convoy had filled up what felt like nearly all of the museum's parking space. Which might've been a problem if they museum staff hadn't closed early to make sure Shinano had the whole place to herself. Bowers would love to take credit for that, but they'd proposed the idea the moment she mentioned Shinano's shy, timid nature and there was no dissuading them.
Across the lot, Musashi unfolded her immense chocolate form with a scowl. Despite all the brutality she and Jersey had inflicted on one another in their brutal eight-hour marathon quote-unquote 'lovemaking' session, the damage had been virtually all superficial. According to Vestal, she was fully combat-ready. That said, it seemed like her ass hadn't been quite up to sitting in the back of a ten-ton for several hours.
And then Shinano came spilling out of her truck. And Bowers did mean spilling out. The poor girl put one of her massive iron-shod boots down first, letting her leg take some of her weight as she shimmied down the ladder. That'd been a mistake, the truck's suspension shifted and the poor carrier nearly overbalanced. She managed to catch herself at the last instant, but for a moment Bowers was sure the littlest Yamato was going to dig a new foxhole in the blacktop.
Jersey as at her side in an instant, with Musashi coming in second purely due to her weaker turbines. Shinano blushed brighter than her battle flag as Jersey and Musashi both frantically dusted her off and set her straight.
"You know," Destroyer-escort England smiled by Bowers' side, her little neck adorned with truly massive headphones. "I think that's the first time I've seen them do something and not make it a competition."
Bowers chuckled. "Think you're right, kiddo."
England beamed.
Meanwhile, Shinano was more embarrassed than she'd ever been in her entire—though admittedly extremely short—life. She was a support carrier. She was supposed to hide in the rear supporting the real combat vessels, not be doted on by two of the mightiest battleships the world had ever seen. Also, she hadn't tripped. She'd gotten close, but she'd recovered. Besides, she was an armored support carrier!
"I'm fine," she said meekly, wringing her hands over her heavily armored chest.
"You sure, Shina?" Jersey ruffled the girl's flowing hair.
"It is…" Musashi gulped. "It is no weakness to ask for help among friends."
Shinano nodded. "Y-yes. I'm fine. Can… can I see the planes now?"
Jersey nodded. "Yeah, right this way."
The two-and-a-half battleships made it all of fifteen yards before a smiling old man in a museum-branded polo shit greeted the little flotilla. "Jersey," he said with a knowing wink.
The Iowa looked at him for a moment, then erupted with a howling, happy laugh. "Holy Hannah! Chief Irons? Goddamn you got old!"
Irons chuckled. "And you got prettier."
Jersey blushed. "Aww…" When she noticed Musashi's look of utter confusion—and Shinano's attempt to hide behind her older sister, which was working out more successfully than her usual attempts to hide behind white—the battleship hastily clarified. "Um… Musashi, Shinano, this is Master Chief Irons, he ran my boilers during 'nam. Girl couldn't ask for better hands."
Irons just rolled his eyes as Jersey's lewd comment. "Miss Musashi, Miss Shinano, it's a pleasure to meet you both."
Musashi puffed out her chest and offered her hand. Sunlight glinting off her glasses hid her eyes, but it was pretty clear to all that she was pleased to meet someone who knew Jersey's propulsion plant so well. "The pleasure is mine."
"She may have fucked up your handiwork the other night," said Jersey, turning Musashi's cheeks bright red. "My guys are working on it, but…" she smirked. "They don't have your touch, chief."
Irons chuckled. "I'm a married man, Jersey. Otherwise…"
Jersey shrugged. "Good to see you again, Chief."
"Likewise." Irons angled around Musashi and put on a kindly smile. He'd been with the museum for a long time now, he was used to coaxing shy young kids into enjoying themselves. Of course… most of those shy little kids weren't a foot taller than him or strapped with several hundred pounds of forged iron. "Miss Shinano?"
Shinano mumbled something inaudible and scuffed her steel-capped toe against the ground.
Irons just smiled at her. "Why don't we get started, hmm?"
Shinano nodded.
"You see anything you're interested in, just ask me, okay?"
She nodded again. She stayed silent for all of fifteen seconds once they were through the doors, then something interesting caught her eye.
"Zero!" said Shinano with all her impressive Yamato-class lung capacity. "Mushi! Mushi! There's a Zero!" She waved her heavily armored gauntlet frantically at the little airplane. "That's a Zero!"
Musashi smiled and covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.
"And…" Shinano didn't wait for a response. She just grabbed Jersey's hand in hers and tore off towards the parked airplane. She made it about three steps before getting distracted again. "That's a spitfire!" She wheeled around and almost crashed into Jersey. "Jersey!Jersey!Jersey! That's a spitfire!"
Jersey ruffled the girl's hair. "I know, kiddo."
"I have one of those!" Shinano didn't so much speak as open her mouth and let words come tumbling forth. "In… in War Thunder, at least. It's so pretty."
"Ain't that the truth." Jersey always felt herself drawn more towards the brutish elegance of a corsair or a Phantom—or of course a Tomcat, but that was just cheating. But… she had to admit… there was something eminently fuckable about the sleek Supermarine.
"It's a very pretty plane," said Musashi as she trotted over.
The battleship had barely finished talking when Shinano noticed something else. "Look! Looklooklook!" She jumped up and down, earth shaking with every impact as the big carrier pointed in another direction entirely. "Jersey, look!"
The Iowa squinted. "Focke-Wulf?"
"Correct," Irons didn't so much walk up as appear by the two warships. "But that version's—"
"A Dora," Said Shinano. "With the inline, I know. For…" her brows knit in thought. "High altitude performance, right?"
"That's correct," said Irons. "They also added a—"
Shinano cut him off with a squeal. "Is that a P-51? That's a P-51! Jersey! Mushi! That's a P-51!" The threw her arms out and broke into a run. "Cadillac of the skies!"
—|—|—
"You called?" A very skinny and visibly neglected girl in a salt-encrusted swimsuit sprawled over Alaska's neatly-made bed. Her hair was slicked back in a spiky ponytail that might at one point have been blond, but now was now almost bone-white from constant exposure to choppy surf and brackish water. A knife was strapped to the shoulder rig holding her two pistols, and a pair of noticeably-modern jeans had been cutoff into shorts fitting for her inexplicably rounded aft."Hey, Harder." Alaska closed the door behind her. Then she blinked and looked again at the submarine's shorts. "Are those Cameron's pants?"
Harder shrugged without a hint of shame. "They were at one point, maybe."
Alaska pouted. She'd wanted to be the first ship to deprive Cameron of his pants. "Was he wearing them at the time?"
Harder shook her head, her ponytail scratching noisily against Alaska's pillow. "Nah, I'll leave that up to you."
The large cruiser beamed. "Thanks."
Harder shrugged. "You two are damn cute you know. Surprised he hasn't railed ya."
"Me too," said Alaska with unrestrained frustration. "Anyways, I need your help."
"What's in it for me?" Harder picked at her fingernails with her dive knife.
Alaska closed her eyes. Then she opened them again, tears welling up like glacial melt as her lip quivered pathetically. She clasped her hands together and dropped to her knees. "Please?" she said softly.
"Destroyer eyes?" Harder laughed. "You do know who I am, right?"
Alaska nodded. "Is it working?"
Harder scowled and crossed her skinny arms. "Yes."
The large cruiser giggled. "Yes!"
"What's up?"
"This," Alaska fumbled around her bookshelf for her prized signed copy of Changing Destiny, "Is Mister Stewart's handwriting."
"Okay…" Harder bit her lip and read over the message. "A little loopy."
"I know." Alaska fished a scrap of paper out of her pocket and wrote something down. "And this is what I'd like you to forge."
"Hmm," Harder held the two against each other. "In his hand?"
"Yeah," said Alaska. "Can you do it?"
Harder's only response was to roll her eyes and point to the dolphin tattoo just above her hip.
—|—|—
After almost four hours of running about pointing at things and making plane noises at the top of her lungs, Shinano had finally run out of energy and requested a break for lunch. Jersey was happy to oblige. She'd say she was getting hungry herself, but that would imply there was ever a time in her life when she wasn't hungry to some degree or another.Luckily, she's prepared a few extra-large sandwiches loaded down with three of every meat the kitchen had on hand. She'd even slipped a few of the beers she and Musashi hadn't drank into a few choice bags.
Unfortunately, she was barely through her ninth sandwich and second beer when Shinano wandered over. The massive carrier had a small, half-finished sandwich—peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off, her favorite—clasped to her chest and a plantive look on her gentle face.
"Sup, shinny?" Said Jersey through a mouthful of turkey, chicken, ham, roast beef, regular beef, bacon, and like thirty kinds of cheese.
"Um…" Shinano worried her little sandwich. "I… was wondering…" Her long black hair blew in the breeze. "Could you braid my hair?"
Jersey gave the carrier a sideways look.
"I…" Shinano blushed and sat down in a heap. "I can't do it very well. Not as well as you."
Jersey swallowed and stared at the remainder of her sandwich, sitting so temptingly on its foil wrapper. She'd need both hands to braid Shinano's shimmering mane, and that meant putting off the rest of her meal for however long being a hairstylist took. For the hungry battleship, that was a decision that didn't take an instant of thought.
"Sure," Jersey shook the crumbs off her fingerless flight gloves. "Turn around."
—|—|—
When battlecruiser Saratoga returned from her evening gunnery practice with Texas and Alaska, she found a small box waiting for her on her bed. It couldn't have been much bigger than a box of donuts, and it was wrapped in plain red paper with a somewhat sloppy green ribbon bow."Hmm?" Sara planted her hands on her hips. There was a note tied to the package, but all it said was her own name. 'Sara' in beautiful cursive that she recognized as Daniel Stewart's handwriting.
Maybe it was a Christmas present, but then what was it doing in her room? There was a Christmas tree setup in the common area—Alaska's idea—and the large cruiser had made it very clear that Christmas presents were supposed to go there until Christmas day.
Her curiosity getting the better of her, Sara slipped the ribbons off and opened the package. Inside was a dress. A gorgeous dress in shimmering red velvet that flowed through her fingers like water when she touched it. Pure white fur lined the skirt, and there was even a little cape to keep her shoulders warm.
"Oh my god," Sara breathed, holding it up to the light. It was gorgeous! And short! So very… very… delightfully short. And it came with matching thigh-highs! Oh, how Sara adoredthigh-highs. She held the soft fabric to her bosom and sighed with happiness.
And that's when she noticed the note.
Cocking her head to the side, Sara lay her new dress on the bed and picked up the note. A short message was written on it, in handwriting she recognized.
"Sara, enclosed is my Christmas present. I hope you'll let me unwrap it. Daniel."
