The last few pixels of Admiral Williams' stern visage were still fading off the screen when Jersey felt something slam into her from behind. She staggered under the impact, barely managing to dig her shoes into the carpet and stay on her feet. The sheer force of the hit knocked the wind out of her, and before she got it back strong arms clad in impossibly heavy green canvas wrapped around her waist and squeezed.
"S-" Jersey hungrily lapped up a breath of air with what little lung capacity she had left to play with. "Shina?"
The littlest Yamato just squeezed tighter, grasping her own forearms and straining with everything she had until even her prodigious muscles shuddered under the strain. "I'm…" Her voice was even quieter than usual, tiny notes of sound interspersing heavy heaving breaths. "Hugging…" Her embrace somehow got tighter, "You."
"Okay, Shina," Jersey felt the corner of her lips twitch. "But… you can let go now."
"No," Shinano buried her nose in Jersey's back and held on tight.
"What?"
"I'm not letting go." Shinano's voice was quiet, timid, and utterly unyielding. "Not until you're better."
"Shina," Jersey tried to twist until she could at least see the support carrier's unruly mop of shaggy brown hair. "This… this isn't something you can fix with a hug."
"Don't care," said Shinano. She found some untapped reserve of strength and hugged even tighter. "It's what I can do."
Jersey stared at the big carrier wrapped around her middle, and slowly put her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Thanks, kiddo." Her voice was barely a whisper, and not just because of how hard she was finding it to breathe.
"This Musashi is here for you," said a rough dusky voice that, much to Jersey's relief, was still a respectful distance away. The Iowa knew she was going to start crying soon, it she hadn't already. She'd be damned if she let Musashi see her like this. Not again.
"Whatever you need, Dess."
"What I need," Jersey grit her teeth and forced herself to hold it together. "Is to put those bitches in the ground."
Shinano nodded. Jersey could feel it, even with the carrier's face buried in her flank. It was such a small gesture, it shouldn't have meant anything to her. But it almost drove the big Iowa to tears. She screwed up her eyes, trying to force back the salt building in her eyes. When she opened them again, the world was a blur of indistinct diffracted shapes. For a moment, she thought she saw Victory standing opposite her, dressed in her finest uniform with her hat tucked sadly under her hand.
"Actually," Jersey wiped the back of her gloved hand across her face. The nomex came away darkened by wide wet streaks. "There… is one thing."
Shinano squeezed again.
"It's…" Jersey coughed and fished her shades out of her pocket. She was not fucking letting the whole goddamn country see her cry. With Mo and Wisky gone and Iowa a gutted hulk, she was the last Iowa. The last super-battleship serving her country, she would be triple-damned if she gave anyone a reason to doubt their protector. "It's something I gotta do alone, kiddo."
"Oh," Shinano quietly pulled away.
"I'll make the arrangements," said Kongou. Jersey didn't question how the old British-born battle-wagon knew what was on her mind. She was just thankful Kongou'd be lending her considerable skill.
"Thanks," said Jersey. The Iowa hurried out of the briefing room, face set in a rapidly buckling mask of icy rage. She made it halfway to the motor pool before realizing she hadn't seen the Taffies. "Oh, goddammit," she cursed, spinning on her heel and driving back into the base as fast as her legs would carry her. She was mad about Pearl, but her destroyers… those little shits had room for one emotion at a time, and it sure as hell was rage right about goddamn now.
Hell, the only reason Jersey wasn't charging at Pearl right now was because she had some tiny shred of fear that she might loose her life, something those brave little Fletchershad made abundantly clear they lacked all understanding of. "Fuck, Johnston!" Jersey cupped her hands to her mouth, barking at the top of her lungs.
If those little shits had run off to join the fight… hell, she didn't know if she'd be able to stop them. She didn't even know if she'd be able to stop herself from joining them, odds be damned. It was Arizona's resting place those bitches were stirring up, it was Mo's resting place.
"Hoel! Heerman!" Jersey snatched her shades off and ground the heel of her hand into her eye. She was mad, she was frustrated, and she couldn't see past her goddamn nose because she was fucking crying like a schoolgirl! "Where the fuck are you?"
"Sorry," said a small voice.
"It was Hoel's idea."
"Yeah, we, um… yeah."
Jersey wheeled on her heel to see her three destroyers standing on the grass in impeccable dress blues. Well, mostly. Johnston's neckerchief was a little crooked, and Jersey could tell she'd tied it in a hurry. But the brave little ships had tried their hardest. They were even still wearing sleeves.
"K-kiddos?" Jersey gave them a long look.
"It's never easy to loose a sister," said Hoel.
"Even for destroyers," Johnston tugged at the cuff of her crackerjacks. "And… we're meant to."
"We wanted you to know," said Heermann, "that we won't cause trouble."
"At all," added Hoel.
"Until you're feeling… yourself," finished Johnston.
Jersey dropped to her knee and gave the destroyers a hug. "Then you're gonna go back to being little shits?"
"Well…" Johnston couldn't help but smirk. "Yeah."
Jersey hugged them again. "I love you little shits."
"And we love you too, Jersey," said Hoel.
—|—|—
Large cruiser Alaska stared in utter disbelief at the vast gray monsters languishing on the tarmac like beached whales. She knew technology had advanced since her pitifully short time in the service, but still. The two planes—C-5M Super Galaxies Cameron had told her—were simply too huge. Alaska knew—knew—something that enormous couldn't fly, and that if by some miracle of science it did manage to haul it's immense bulk into the air, well…
Well… Alaska knew that despite her slim and distinctly flat-chested figure she was a very big, heavy, and… basically fat ship. She was almost exactly three times the weight of a proper treaty-legal cruiser.
Which, under normal circumstances wouldn't have bothered her in the slightest. She was built long after the treaty with its arbitrary weight restrictions had been abandoned, and while she might be heavy she squeezed every ounce of performance out of her thirty-thousand tons.
But these were not normal circumstances. No, she was about to board a plane for the first time in her life. She might not be a carrier, but she carried floatplanes. She knew exactly how sensitive airplanes were to weight. Too much and it'd never take off. The right amount in the wrong place, and it'd flip on its back and kill everyone in a giant fireball. Her weight would send the plane crashing back to the ground at the worst possible moment, she just knew it.
"C-Cameron," Alaska clutched her boyfriend, shuddering as much from fear as from the gnawing hunger clawing at her empty stomach. She hadn't eaten breakfast that morning. She hadn't eaten anything for the past two days. She knew that if by some miracle the bit Air Force jet managed to stagger in to the air, she'd get sick almost the moment its wheels left the ground.
Hopefully, if she didn't have anything in her stomach, she wouldn't have anything to throw up. She didn't know if the plan was going to work. She didn't know much beyond how hungryshe was. She'd never gone this long between meals, except when she was on patrol. And that was… that was different.
"I'm scared," murdered the large cruiser, using her boyfriend as a crutch. She was so hungry she could barely stand. Which was probably for the best, because if she had enough food in her bunkers to move she'd have bolted as far away from the big scary jets as she could manage.
"I know," Cameron rubbed her back, his hand coming to rest just below her breast. "Don't worry. It's not so bad once you've done it."
"You're not a ship," Alaska gave her boyfriend a long look. She was terrified, and she felt terrible because of it. Her fellow warships in San Diego were preparing to steam into battle, and here she was scared to get on a plane to join them.
"Yeah," Cameron smiled at her and gave her a gentle side hug. "But I am your boyfriend. I'll be right with you the whole way."
"Thanks," Alaska felt a tiny little smile twitch onto her lips. Yes, she was still terrified of flying, but… well, she'd have Cameron by her side. And as long as she had him, she knew things weren't so bad.
—|—|—
Nicholas Ryan had worked on the Iowa for years, but he'd never actually seen one of the mighty warships. True, he'd seen practically every inch of Iowa's slumbering hull, but it just wasn't the same. She was a parts-hulk stripped of everything even remotely valuable in the desperate attempt to keep her sisters in fighting shape, and before that she'd been just a museum.
A lively museum, one visited by scores of tourists and attended by many of her former crewmen. But still a museum. A sleeping, inert hulk incapable of moving under her own steam, tied to the shore for things as basic as lighting. Ryan'd seen Iowa's hull, but not once had he seen her soul.
He knew she had one of course, the old veterans he worked beside had told him in no uncertain terms that Iowa was more than just cut steel and old teak. But still, he'd never seen an Iowa with his own eyes.
Not until New Jersey unfolded herself from a tired Marine truck before his very eyes. She was everything he'd expected, only so much more vivid. Not only was she massive—she towered over even the Marines escorting her—her pretense was so much larger than life. She commanded complete, undivided attention just by existing, and Ryan felt his posture stiffen reflexively.
"Welcome to the USS Iowa, ma'am," he said.
Jersey gave him a brief, half-distracted nod. The was staring at her sister's hull. Ryan didn't blame her, the Big Stick had been cut to shit. Everything even remotely valuable had been torn out without the slightest care for preserving the integrity of the old battleship. Wartime expediency had won out over historical integrity. "We— the navy…" Ryan's words died in his mouth.
Jersey was looking at the desecrated body of her last sister. What could he possibly say that'd give her the slightest bit of comfort? "We've cleared the deck for you, ma'am."
The battleship gave him another nod and a murmured sound that sounded vaguely between thanks and acknowledgement.
"You'll have her all to yourself, ma'am," Ryan ushered her towards the fore gangway. If she said anything in return, it was lost in the groan of buckling metal as she slowly made her way over. Ryan swore he saw the gangway bow in half, but right when he was certain it was going to snap in two the bending stopped. Steel groaned with Jersey's weight, but it didn't quite break.
"Ma'am, I can—" Ryan put one foot on the gangway before a strong hand clamped on his shoulder. One of the Marines who'd driven her over.
"Son," he shook his head. "Leave her be."
"But—" Ryan looked at the battleship. She was on Iowa's deck now, heading forward at a pace that, given her immense stride, was almost tortuously slow. He didn't know what to say, but he knew she was hurting. He knew he had to help, somehow.
"Don't," said the Marine. "Just leave her be."
"O-okay," Ryan said. There was something in the big man's tone. It wasn't just a platitude, but a solemn statement learned through harsh experience.
The two watched Jersey in silence. She made her way forwards until she reached turret one. Then she just… collapsed. Her knees gave out and she fell to the deck, sitting on her hunches and… crying. Even this far away, Ryan could tell she was crying. Bawling her eyes out before her sister's gutted turret, drenching the deck with her tears.
She sat there for almost an hour, just crying and then laughing. It was a melancholy laugh. A laugh punctuated by sniffles and coughs as Jersey cried. But it was something. Slowly, Jersey bent at the waist, letting her forehead rest against Iowa's turret face. She said… something, then straightened up and pulled her vest smooth.
She settled her shades on her nose, and made her way back to the gangplank slowly, but less stiffly than before. Ryan couldn't have said a word even if he wanted to, and he was sure the Marines felt the same way.
Finally, Jersey stepped off the gangplank and back onto dry land. Her shades hid her eyes, but her cheeks were stained with fat tear streaks. "Thank you," she said, her voice quiet, but determined.
"Of-of course," stammered Ryan.
"You, uh," Jersey sniffed and wiped her hand across her cheek. "You did right by her, I think."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"It was good to see her again," said the big Iowa.
"You're welcome back any time."
—|—|—
The jet hadn't even raised its wheels when Alaska felt the first tremor in her empty stomach. Her muscles seethed and somehow rancid bile rose in her throat. Her eyes watered and she doubled over, desperately heaving into a bucket clamped between her legs.
She heaved and heaved, the angry contractions of her muscles growing more and more desperate with each attempt until all she could see were burning stars. She clenched at the bucket with her legs, squeezing until the plastic creaked white, trying to drown out the pain. She clawed at its side, her fingernails scraping twisted ribbons from the sturdy surface. Still, nothing came up.
Her throat was bone dry, her stomach was empty, but her body refused to be stilled. She could feel Cameron's hands on her back, rubbing her convulsing body and keeping her hair out of the way.
She didn't know how long she'd been doubled over the bucket, trying desperately to vomit up something—anything. Hours, probably. It felt like weeks. Her back arched, muscles tensing as her body tried furiously to find something to throw up. She swore she felt her stomach—not its contents, but the actual organ—rise in her throat. But again, nothing came up.
"W-water," she managed to whisper between heaves.
"'Laska, you're just going to throw it up," Cameron's voice was barely audible. Like he was speaking to her from the other side of a crowded, noisy room. Still, those tiny, distant sounds were sweeter than the richest cake Texas could make.
The large cruiser nodded furiously, hacking cotton-mouthed into her empty bucket. A few moments later, she felt something cool pressed against her lips. A canteen, or maybe a water bottle. She didn't care. She just tossed her head back, jealously guzzling every drop she could manage before the convulsions were on her again.
She tore the bottle away, water dribbling from her mouth and dripping onto the front of her parka. It'd barely settled in her stomach when it came roaring back up again. Watery bile filled her mouth and surged past her lips. It felt horrible, but at least her stomach finally had something to give. After so long trying to throw up nothing, it was the sweetest relief she'd ever felt.
Her stomach even eased its somersaults for a moment. She was still brutally nauseous, but at least for the moment she didn't have the same overwhelming need to puke. Her head lolled against Cameron's thigh and she felt his strong hands gently run through her hair. "S-sorry," she said with all the strength she could muster, which wasn't much.
"'Laska, I—, no. There's nothing to apologize for." Cameron's voice was music in her ears, quiet and distant as it was.
Alaska shook her head. "S-should've have…" she stopped, frantically pulling away to reach for her bucket. She heaved once, twice, then nothing. Her stomach eased its contortions to settle back to a distant, lurking malevolence. "You didn't have to."
"No," said Cameron. She could feel him rubbing her back now. "But I wanted to."
Alaska heaved again. This time a few dribbles came out. A long string of sticky drool trailed from her lips, and she was too exhausted to try wiping it away. Cameron ran a warm cloth over her face.
"'Laska, you're my girlfriend," said Cameron. "That means I love you, and I support you. Besides, consider it practice."
"W-wha?"
"For when you get morning sick," Cameron tousled Alaska's hair. "'laska, I love you. I want to marry you, you know that. And someday, I want to start a family with you."
Large cruiser Alaska was more utterly miserable than she'd ever been in her life. So why was she smiling?