I still maintains Wisky needs to be introduced to either TTGL, OPM or both.
Belated Battleships (KanColle) [REHOST]
- Thread starter theJMPer
- Start date
I still maintains Wisky needs to be introduced to either TTGL, OPM or both.
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
We're never going to be able to refit a battleship with an appropriately sized drill.
- Location
- Plato's Cave
It's alright, a certain tsundere light cruiser has you covered in that regard.
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
...I sit corrected.
i have heard of TTGL but i cannot say OPM is an abbreviation i am familiar with.. and its gonna drive me bonkers now... i swear its one i SHOULD know...I still maintains Wisky needs to be introduced to either TTGL, OPM or both.
just one correction.. that is a HEAVY cruiser you are speaking of.. not a light cruiser..It's alright, a certain tsundere light cruiser has you covered in that regard.
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
If she is tsundere, calling her a light cruiser risks understating her abilities, while calling her a heavy cruiser risks calling her overweight.
Perhaps we had best let the matter drop?
Perhaps we had best let the matter drop?
- Location
- look up!
Oh my goddess I need this in my lifeIt's alright, a certain tsundere light cruiser has you covered in that regard.
Too bad imma broke ex-college student
....good point.. dropping the matter now..
.. ahh that explains why i was so sure it should have been familiar.. thanks for the infoOne Punch Man. It has a fantastic OP.
- Location
- Somewhere between here and there
Introduce Wisky to the Fate series. Hilarity will ensure, this I am certain of.
Or you could introduce her to Kill la Kill, but that is neither here nor there.
Or you could introduce her to Kill la Kill, but that is neither here nor there.
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
I'd think Wisconsin's missing all anime from 1992 on.
depends on who she had on board as a caretaker during the time in mothballs methinks
Archduke
Don't Take Geology Puns For Granite
- Location
- Texas
More like the Friendly ships were mostly out of range, and that those pilots knew who was shooting at them.
Snowy
- Location
- 'Murica
"You should go talk to her." Lou's easy-going and delightfully accented voice cut through the layers of stress-riddled knots Alaska'd tied herself into. The bigger cruiser stiffened, letting out a yelp like someone had just poked her shapely aft with a thumbtack and looking around for the source of her surprise.
"'Laska," said Lou, giggling to herself at the absurdity of it all. Alaska was, as the number painted so proudly on her bow made clear, a large cruiser. Fully three times Lou's displacement and with half again the installed power, Alaska was a seagoing behemoth of a cruiser.
She towered over the rest of her division, even the flagrantly treaty-busting Prinz Eugen—who herself was only two-thirds Alaska's immense displacement. And the sweet-hearted immigrant even had the advantage of those thoroughly non-compliant upperworks Friso liked so much to quite literally pad out her stats.
Alaska had none of that. She was nearly as flat around the bust as a treaty cruiser, Her weight came only from her brawn. And, of course, a set of rifles that wouldn't have looked out of place on a battleship.
By every possible metric, the large cruiser should've commanded reverence and awe from her division. But after spending a few days with her, Lou couldn't see anything but a big white teddy bear.
"What?" Alaska chewed her lip nervously, her shock of snowy hair waving in the breeze as she slipped between the last few tiny ice floes still specking the rapidly-warming tropical ocean.
"Go talk to her," said Lou, shooing the bigger warship away with both hands.
Alaska's face blushed as red as it was possible for snowdrift to blush. "W-who," she stammered. "S-shut up."
"I believe," said Prinz Eugen, her accent getting significantly richer either because he wanted to play up the Herr Doktor vibe or because she was Prinz Eugen and that's just what she was like sometimes. "She is talking about miss Missouri."
Lou sighed. "Thank you pudding."
"You're welcome!"
Alaska stifled a giggle.
"Seriously," said Frisco. "We can all tell that you want to talk to her."
"But…" Alaska trailed off. "I was in service for two and a half years. I didn't really…" she scuffed her heel against the surf. "Do anything. Not Mo. Mo… you know she gave the navy eighty years of service?"
Prinz Eugen scrunched her nose, fingers idly flailing through the air as she tried to total up the numbers.
"She's fought in every war," continued Alaska. "World-War II, Korea, the Gulf, now the Abyssal war." She shook her head. "I was on a cruise with her once. It was the coolest thing I'd ever done. For her it was… not even a footnote."
"Oh my god," Lou shook her head.
"She probably doesn't remember me," said Alaska with conviction. "I… I won't bother her."
"You should talk to her," said Prinz Eugen, her voice a tiny bit quieter than usual. "Who knows when you'll… be stationed with her. Again."
Lou nodded. "I can manage the division for a few minutes."
Alaska blinked. "R-really?"
"Yes," said Lou. "Now shoo."
The large cruiser smiled and carefully advanced her throttle until she started to pull away from the rest of her division. She was still trying to figure out what exactly she was going to say when she heard a roaring, familiar contralto call out her name.
"Hey, 'laska!" Mo waved a tattooed arm. "Haven't seen you in a while."
Alaska's jaw dropped. "Y-you remember me?"
"Hell yeah," said the towering Iowa. "You're not exactly easy to forget. C'mere, form up."
Alaska pulled into formation like a giddy school girl. "Thank you."
Mo smiled, her coal-red eyes almost gleaming under her mirrored scarlet shade. "So, what's on your mind, 'laska?"
"Well," Alaska felt the words come tumbling out. Missouri was as close to a goddess as any warship could ever get. A warrior queen, but the way she talked made Alaska feel like she was almost equal with the mighty BB-sixty-three. "I was wondering if… maybe… you'd pat my head?"
The large cruiser leaned over to present the snow-capped appendage in question.
"Of course," Mo reached over and tousled Alaska's shimmering hair with her hand. "Wow, that's really soft."
"Thanks," said Alaska. "I use conditioner."
"Really?"
Alaska nodded. "My boyfriend's mom bought it for me. It's… silk, I think." She nodded again. "I can show you the bottle when we get back."
"That'd be great," said Mo. "I'm… not exactly used to this whole having a body thing."
"You'll figure it out," said Alaska with a sage nod.
"Actually," said Mo, planting her hands on her broad hips and smirking. "On that note there's something you could help me with."
Alaska stiffened, then drew herself up to her full height. Her chest puffed up and she stood ready to assist the great battleship Missouri. "Anything."
"I understand," said Mo, "That you're an expert in sunlit naps. You mind showing me the ropes?"
Alaska froze. Which considering the average temperature of her namesake state and the near-constant pleasant chill emanating from her body shouldn't have been surprising. "Uhhhhhhhhhhhh," a moment later her brain realized there wasn't an alert level higher than general quarters and settled back to a known level of hyperactivity. "I.. you… nap… with me… sun…?"
"So," crooned Wisky from across the formation. "Fucking Kawaii."
"GODDAMIT, WISKY!" barked Jersey. "WHY! FUCKING WHY!"
"Because I'm your little sister," teased the littlest Iowa, "And I can."
"'Laska," said Lou, giggling to herself at the absurdity of it all. Alaska was, as the number painted so proudly on her bow made clear, a large cruiser. Fully three times Lou's displacement and with half again the installed power, Alaska was a seagoing behemoth of a cruiser.
She towered over the rest of her division, even the flagrantly treaty-busting Prinz Eugen—who herself was only two-thirds Alaska's immense displacement. And the sweet-hearted immigrant even had the advantage of those thoroughly non-compliant upperworks Friso liked so much to quite literally pad out her stats.
Alaska had none of that. She was nearly as flat around the bust as a treaty cruiser, Her weight came only from her brawn. And, of course, a set of rifles that wouldn't have looked out of place on a battleship.
By every possible metric, the large cruiser should've commanded reverence and awe from her division. But after spending a few days with her, Lou couldn't see anything but a big white teddy bear.
"What?" Alaska chewed her lip nervously, her shock of snowy hair waving in the breeze as she slipped between the last few tiny ice floes still specking the rapidly-warming tropical ocean.
"Go talk to her," said Lou, shooing the bigger warship away with both hands.
Alaska's face blushed as red as it was possible for snowdrift to blush. "W-who," she stammered. "S-shut up."
"I believe," said Prinz Eugen, her accent getting significantly richer either because he wanted to play up the Herr Doktor vibe or because she was Prinz Eugen and that's just what she was like sometimes. "She is talking about miss Missouri."
Lou sighed. "Thank you pudding."
"You're welcome!"
Alaska stifled a giggle.
"Seriously," said Frisco. "We can all tell that you want to talk to her."
"But…" Alaska trailed off. "I was in service for two and a half years. I didn't really…" she scuffed her heel against the surf. "Do anything. Not Mo. Mo… you know she gave the navy eighty years of service?"
Prinz Eugen scrunched her nose, fingers idly flailing through the air as she tried to total up the numbers.
"She's fought in every war," continued Alaska. "World-War II, Korea, the Gulf, now the Abyssal war." She shook her head. "I was on a cruise with her once. It was the coolest thing I'd ever done. For her it was… not even a footnote."
"Oh my god," Lou shook her head.
"She probably doesn't remember me," said Alaska with conviction. "I… I won't bother her."
"You should talk to her," said Prinz Eugen, her voice a tiny bit quieter than usual. "Who knows when you'll… be stationed with her. Again."
Lou nodded. "I can manage the division for a few minutes."
Alaska blinked. "R-really?"
"Yes," said Lou. "Now shoo."
The large cruiser smiled and carefully advanced her throttle until she started to pull away from the rest of her division. She was still trying to figure out what exactly she was going to say when she heard a roaring, familiar contralto call out her name.
"Hey, 'laska!" Mo waved a tattooed arm. "Haven't seen you in a while."
Alaska's jaw dropped. "Y-you remember me?"
"Hell yeah," said the towering Iowa. "You're not exactly easy to forget. C'mere, form up."
Alaska pulled into formation like a giddy school girl. "Thank you."
Mo smiled, her coal-red eyes almost gleaming under her mirrored scarlet shade. "So, what's on your mind, 'laska?"
"Well," Alaska felt the words come tumbling out. Missouri was as close to a goddess as any warship could ever get. A warrior queen, but the way she talked made Alaska feel like she was almost equal with the mighty BB-sixty-three. "I was wondering if… maybe… you'd pat my head?"
The large cruiser leaned over to present the snow-capped appendage in question.
"Of course," Mo reached over and tousled Alaska's shimmering hair with her hand. "Wow, that's really soft."
"Thanks," said Alaska. "I use conditioner."
"Really?"
Alaska nodded. "My boyfriend's mom bought it for me. It's… silk, I think." She nodded again. "I can show you the bottle when we get back."
"That'd be great," said Mo. "I'm… not exactly used to this whole having a body thing."
"You'll figure it out," said Alaska with a sage nod.
"Actually," said Mo, planting her hands on her broad hips and smirking. "On that note there's something you could help me with."
Alaska stiffened, then drew herself up to her full height. Her chest puffed up and she stood ready to assist the great battleship Missouri. "Anything."
"I understand," said Mo, "That you're an expert in sunlit naps. You mind showing me the ropes?"
Alaska froze. Which considering the average temperature of her namesake state and the near-constant pleasant chill emanating from her body shouldn't have been surprising. "Uhhhhhhhhhhhh," a moment later her brain realized there wasn't an alert level higher than general quarters and settled back to a known level of hyperactivity. "I.. you… nap… with me… sun…?"
"So," crooned Wisky from across the formation. "Fucking Kawaii."
"GODDAMIT, WISKY!" barked Jersey. "WHY! FUCKING WHY!"
"Because I'm your little sister," teased the littlest Iowa, "And I can."
KongouBongo
Always got to make time for tea-time!
- Location
- 26°9'1"N 121°22'57"E
Nicholas
No longer teaching battlethings on a battleship
- Location
- Ashore again
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The best part is, Jersey really hasn't seen Wisky for a very long time. The 80s commissioning? Jersey and Missouri were in Long Beach, California; it was Iowa looking after her in Norfolk. Desert Storm? Missouri was the one sent with Wisky, as Jersey was already going into mothballs.
The only time Jersey might have seen Wisky is when the Navy swapped Iowa and Jersey in 2000, but even then it would only have been a quick "Hi!" as Jersey made her way to Camden to become a museum.
What all this means is that Jersey is the sole sister who didn't watch Wisconsin turning into a weeb. She literally couldn't know.
Until now.
Can you feel the smugness radiating from Los Angeles, Jersey? This is what your big sister had to deal with for years. Feel her pain. Feel it.
The only time Jersey might have seen Wisky is when the Navy swapped Iowa and Jersey in 2000, but even then it would only have been a quick "Hi!" as Jersey made her way to Camden to become a museum.
What all this means is that Jersey is the sole sister who didn't watch Wisconsin turning into a weeb. She literally couldn't know.
Until now.
Can you feel the smugness radiating from Los Angeles, Jersey? This is what your big sister had to deal with for years. Feel her pain. Feel it.
- Location
- Minot, North Dakota
Hard to say. Since the Snow Queen's presence reduced the region to arctic conditions, anyone who survived the sinking, even with a liferaft, probably would've died of exposure. I don't remember what happened to the destroyers that were with Mo. If they were still afloat, they probably would've made a sweep for survivors once the abyssals went by.
- Location
- Nowhere
(repost from other thread about Yams getting pregnant)
Doctor: It's... impossible.
Yams: Clearly not.
Doctor: No, I mean it should be literally impossible. The A-150s are paper ships and thus break the unsaid rules of the story. (that is, our side doesn't get them)
Ooyodo: *hugging a pile of steel* My precious...
Yamato: I think I'll name her Kii *beams*
Doctor: It's... impossible.
Yams: Clearly not.
Doctor: No, I mean it should be literally impossible. The A-150s are paper ships and thus break the unsaid rules of the story. (that is, our side doesn't get them)
Ooyodo: *hugging a pile of steel* My precious...
Yamato: I think I'll name her Kii *beams*
BlackAeronaut
Scaring people witless since 1980
- Location
- A state of mind where it is always ****ing Monday.
Skywalker_T-65
Writer with too many ideas.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- Plural/They/He/Her
in other news
We have a Swedebote now.
We have a Swedebote now.
Ironcolle
- Location
- 'Murica
Captain Matt Irons stared at what had to be the weirdest thing he'd ever seen. Which, considering he was stationed at a naval base in the tropical Pacific that was covered in feet of slowly-melting snow, had been occupied by literal demon-nazis who'd clawed their way back from hell itself, and had just recently been liberated by Kaga and Akagi reborn as shockingly pretty girls, was slightly concerning.
Or would have been, if the good Captain hadn't completely abandoned the idea that he was at all in control of his life anymore. Things just happened to and around him now. Sometimes they would follow some semblance of logical coherency, but that was a rare delicacy that he'd long since learned to live without.
Now he just rolled with the punches. Or as the case may be this particular night, enjoyed what seemed to be an impromptu concert thrown by the many shipgirls not participating in the midnight attack. Since inclusion in that list depended mostly on the presence of integrated American fire-control radar, the ships left behind had been overwhelmingly Japanese.
This had had interesting effects on the choice of music. From what he'd gathered, Naka had nominated herself expert in mid-eighties American culture, and demanded that the Iowa sisters' service during that decade required—nay, demanded—a rocking montage to back their attack.
Kongou'd volunteered to play her incredibly loud and semi-deliberately miss-tuned electric guitar, Akagi was cheerfully smashing away on the drums with a drumstick—of the Kentucky-fried variety—wedged between her teeth, and Kaga of all people had volunteered as the most stony-faced bassist Irons had ever seen. Naka was, of course, on lead vocals.
That'd worked out as well as could be expected for about an hour before the little traffic cone blew out her voice and had to cede her position to Kongou and fall back to furiously hammering a keyboard. Also, Yuudachi had climbed up on stage and started a call-and-response version of Wanted Dead Or Alive for no apparent reason. She was still there, providing backing vocals and screaming 'Poi!' at inappropriate times while flashing devil horns and headbanging.
If Irons were her admiral, he'd recommenced cutting the little destroyer's sugar intake significantly. But he wasn't, and he doubted it would've mattered. It seemed like everyone on the island was determined to feed her things.
"This next one goes out!" Kongou screeched into the mic, her hair visibly sweaty from the impromptu stage lights and the blistering wind coming off the Pacific that was quickly melting the abyssals' icy fortification. "To Jersey and her sisters! Hit it, Naka-chan!"
Naka nodded and bobbed her whole body at the waist as she launched into an instantly-recognizable keyboard riff.
"Where have all the good ships gone?" crooned the oldest dessboat.
"Poi."
"—And where all all the gods?" Kongou shot Yuudachi a glare. "Where's the street-wise Hercules to fight the rising odds?"
Yuudachi bobbed her head with the music, her scarf whipping around as she started… disco-dancing… on stage. That girl had way too much sugar in her bloodstream. That, or she was up way past her bedtime. Or some combination thereof.
"I need a hero!" With both hands flying up her guitar, Kongou stepped close to the mic and crooned into it with all her steam-boosted power. Her voice wasn't what you'd call rock-ready, but she made up for it with enthusiasm and sheer volume. "I'm holding out for a hero 'till the end of the night!"
She took a breath. It was all the opening Yuudachi needed. The little destroyer pounced, ripping the microphone out of its stand and cupping it to her mouth. "She's gotta be fast! She's gotta be strong! She's gotta be fresh from the fiiiiight, poi!"
Kongou mouthed something angry that the microphone didn't pick up and dove on Yuudachi. The destroyer jinked too late, and Kongou cauht her legs in a bear-hug. Naka blinked, and looked to the other two ships in her makeshift band. Akagi was still eating, and Kaga was… well… Kaga. They settled on an instrumental bridge while Kongou and Yuudachi fought.
After a few minutes, Kongou's strength and shear mass won out over Yuudachi's sugar high and the battleship was able to finish the song.
As the last bars faded into the night, Yuudachi took a running jump from the edge of the stage, snatched the microphone from Kongou's hand, and screamed "POOOOOOOOOOI!" with one hand flung up in rocker horns. She whipped around, flashed an impish grin towards Kongou, and then dropped the mic and bolted.
Kongou started to give chance, then thought better of it and just collected the mic. Captain Irons had never been so happy he wasn't in charge of any of the reality-defying little shits.
"Our next song," Kongou wiped her forehead with the back of her billowing detached sleeve, "Will be… um…"
"Do Queen!" roared someone in the audience.
"Yes!" Kongou threw her hand out in the general direction of the speaker. "Queen, yes!" She turned to face her band and with a few seconds' discussion and a few minutes tuning, they launched into their next song of the night.
"Aaaaaaaah!" Kongou grabbed the mic with both hands and got as close to french-kissing it as her British heritage would allow. "You gonna take me home tonight!" The next line was lost in the audience' cheers. Irons couldn't help himself but joining in.
"Fat bottomed boats, you make the world go round!" Kongou was no Freddy, but she wasn't bad either, and that nontraditional miko ouftit certainly worked with her hip-swinging imitation of Mercury's dancing. Her on-the-fly substitution with naval terms wasn't half bad either.
Irons couldn't help singing along, and when the song ended he heard a distant "Poooi!" and what sounded like a muffled car alarm. Which was fine. Yuudachi wasn't his shipgirl. He didn't have any shipgirls. His life was simple now.
"Sir?" a sailor tapped him on the shoulder. "Captain Irons?"
"What is it?" Irons glanced at the young man and for some reason his blood ran cold.
"It's…" the sailor gulped the air. "I… you've gotta see this, sir. At the harbor."
"What is it, sailor?" Irons wasn't asking anymore. He took off after the sailor at a hasty jog, mentally running through what could've possibly gone so wrong.
"It's…" The sailor waved to the harbor. "That!"
Irons scowled and squinted into the gloom. The sky was still black as night, and a heavy fog had settled over battleship row. He couldn't see a—
No.
There.
Just barely visible in the fog, silhouetted by the first amber rays of pre-dawn sun peeking over the horizon.
A mast.
"What?" he mouthed, suddenly as speechless as the sailor who'd dragged him over. He walked closer to the harbor, mouth hanging agape at the massive metal structure towering over battleship row.
No. Not structure.
Structures.
There was another.
And another.
And two more across the harbor.
And there, standing on the concrete embankment at the edge of Ford Island were six girls. Girls that could've been sisters. Short, shapely, impossibly curvy sisters.
One of them stepped forwards. A shapely girl even by the standards of her group with short blonde hair and an even shorter dress. Her armored heels snapped toughener with a clang of anti fouling-coated steel and a gloved hand snapped to the brim of her peaked cap. "Battleship West Virginia, reporting as ordered."
Another stepped forwards. One with long hair and a long fringed-leather skirt split high enough to show a much shorter black underskirt. She snapped off a crisp salute, her red neckerchief billowing in the stiff tropical wind. "Battleship Nevada, reporting as ordered."
A girl with a lone eagle feather tucked into her hair was next. Her skirt was far shorter, but shared the same fringed-leather style. Her cheeks squished into a smile she couldn't repress as she saluted. "Battleship Oklahoma, reporting as ordered."
Next was a well-tanned girl who mixed thigh-highs with her minidress. She stood proud, her shoulders square and her salute parade-ground perfect. "Battleship Tennessee, reporting as ordered."
The next girl had shorter socks and skin more sun-kissed than tanned, but the two were unquestionably sisters. She gave an enthusiastic salute and a big grin. "Battleship California, reporting as ordered."
Last was the lone redhead. She hesitated a moment, staring at the others with tears in her eyes before she too saluted. "Battleship Maryland, reporting as ordered."
Captain Irons brought a trembling hand to his brow. They were back. Battleship Row was back!
Or would have been, if the good Captain hadn't completely abandoned the idea that he was at all in control of his life anymore. Things just happened to and around him now. Sometimes they would follow some semblance of logical coherency, but that was a rare delicacy that he'd long since learned to live without.
Now he just rolled with the punches. Or as the case may be this particular night, enjoyed what seemed to be an impromptu concert thrown by the many shipgirls not participating in the midnight attack. Since inclusion in that list depended mostly on the presence of integrated American fire-control radar, the ships left behind had been overwhelmingly Japanese.
This had had interesting effects on the choice of music. From what he'd gathered, Naka had nominated herself expert in mid-eighties American culture, and demanded that the Iowa sisters' service during that decade required—nay, demanded—a rocking montage to back their attack.
Kongou'd volunteered to play her incredibly loud and semi-deliberately miss-tuned electric guitar, Akagi was cheerfully smashing away on the drums with a drumstick—of the Kentucky-fried variety—wedged between her teeth, and Kaga of all people had volunteered as the most stony-faced bassist Irons had ever seen. Naka was, of course, on lead vocals.
That'd worked out as well as could be expected for about an hour before the little traffic cone blew out her voice and had to cede her position to Kongou and fall back to furiously hammering a keyboard. Also, Yuudachi had climbed up on stage and started a call-and-response version of Wanted Dead Or Alive for no apparent reason. She was still there, providing backing vocals and screaming 'Poi!' at inappropriate times while flashing devil horns and headbanging.
If Irons were her admiral, he'd recommenced cutting the little destroyer's sugar intake significantly. But he wasn't, and he doubted it would've mattered. It seemed like everyone on the island was determined to feed her things.
"This next one goes out!" Kongou screeched into the mic, her hair visibly sweaty from the impromptu stage lights and the blistering wind coming off the Pacific that was quickly melting the abyssals' icy fortification. "To Jersey and her sisters! Hit it, Naka-chan!"
Naka nodded and bobbed her whole body at the waist as she launched into an instantly-recognizable keyboard riff.
"Where have all the good ships gone?" crooned the oldest dessboat.
"Poi."
"—And where all all the gods?" Kongou shot Yuudachi a glare. "Where's the street-wise Hercules to fight the rising odds?"
Yuudachi bobbed her head with the music, her scarf whipping around as she started… disco-dancing… on stage. That girl had way too much sugar in her bloodstream. That, or she was up way past her bedtime. Or some combination thereof.
"I need a hero!" With both hands flying up her guitar, Kongou stepped close to the mic and crooned into it with all her steam-boosted power. Her voice wasn't what you'd call rock-ready, but she made up for it with enthusiasm and sheer volume. "I'm holding out for a hero 'till the end of the night!"
She took a breath. It was all the opening Yuudachi needed. The little destroyer pounced, ripping the microphone out of its stand and cupping it to her mouth. "She's gotta be fast! She's gotta be strong! She's gotta be fresh from the fiiiiight, poi!"
Kongou mouthed something angry that the microphone didn't pick up and dove on Yuudachi. The destroyer jinked too late, and Kongou cauht her legs in a bear-hug. Naka blinked, and looked to the other two ships in her makeshift band. Akagi was still eating, and Kaga was… well… Kaga. They settled on an instrumental bridge while Kongou and Yuudachi fought.
After a few minutes, Kongou's strength and shear mass won out over Yuudachi's sugar high and the battleship was able to finish the song.
As the last bars faded into the night, Yuudachi took a running jump from the edge of the stage, snatched the microphone from Kongou's hand, and screamed "POOOOOOOOOOI!" with one hand flung up in rocker horns. She whipped around, flashed an impish grin towards Kongou, and then dropped the mic and bolted.
Kongou started to give chance, then thought better of it and just collected the mic. Captain Irons had never been so happy he wasn't in charge of any of the reality-defying little shits.
"Our next song," Kongou wiped her forehead with the back of her billowing detached sleeve, "Will be… um…"
"Do Queen!" roared someone in the audience.
"Yes!" Kongou threw her hand out in the general direction of the speaker. "Queen, yes!" She turned to face her band and with a few seconds' discussion and a few minutes tuning, they launched into their next song of the night.
"Aaaaaaaah!" Kongou grabbed the mic with both hands and got as close to french-kissing it as her British heritage would allow. "You gonna take me home tonight!" The next line was lost in the audience' cheers. Irons couldn't help himself but joining in.
"Fat bottomed boats, you make the world go round!" Kongou was no Freddy, but she wasn't bad either, and that nontraditional miko ouftit certainly worked with her hip-swinging imitation of Mercury's dancing. Her on-the-fly substitution with naval terms wasn't half bad either.
Irons couldn't help singing along, and when the song ended he heard a distant "Poooi!" and what sounded like a muffled car alarm. Which was fine. Yuudachi wasn't his shipgirl. He didn't have any shipgirls. His life was simple now.
"Sir?" a sailor tapped him on the shoulder. "Captain Irons?"
"What is it?" Irons glanced at the young man and for some reason his blood ran cold.
"It's…" the sailor gulped the air. "I… you've gotta see this, sir. At the harbor."
"What is it, sailor?" Irons wasn't asking anymore. He took off after the sailor at a hasty jog, mentally running through what could've possibly gone so wrong.
"It's…" The sailor waved to the harbor. "That!"
Irons scowled and squinted into the gloom. The sky was still black as night, and a heavy fog had settled over battleship row. He couldn't see a—
No.
There.
Just barely visible in the fog, silhouetted by the first amber rays of pre-dawn sun peeking over the horizon.
A mast.
"What?" he mouthed, suddenly as speechless as the sailor who'd dragged him over. He walked closer to the harbor, mouth hanging agape at the massive metal structure towering over battleship row.
No. Not structure.
Structures.
There was another.
And another.
And two more across the harbor.
And there, standing on the concrete embankment at the edge of Ford Island were six girls. Girls that could've been sisters. Short, shapely, impossibly curvy sisters.
One of them stepped forwards. A shapely girl even by the standards of her group with short blonde hair and an even shorter dress. Her armored heels snapped toughener with a clang of anti fouling-coated steel and a gloved hand snapped to the brim of her peaked cap. "Battleship West Virginia, reporting as ordered."
Another stepped forwards. One with long hair and a long fringed-leather skirt split high enough to show a much shorter black underskirt. She snapped off a crisp salute, her red neckerchief billowing in the stiff tropical wind. "Battleship Nevada, reporting as ordered."
A girl with a lone eagle feather tucked into her hair was next. Her skirt was far shorter, but shared the same fringed-leather style. Her cheeks squished into a smile she couldn't repress as she saluted. "Battleship Oklahoma, reporting as ordered."
Next was a well-tanned girl who mixed thigh-highs with her minidress. She stood proud, her shoulders square and her salute parade-ground perfect. "Battleship Tennessee, reporting as ordered."
The next girl had shorter socks and skin more sun-kissed than tanned, but the two were unquestionably sisters. She gave an enthusiastic salute and a big grin. "Battleship California, reporting as ordered."
Last was the lone redhead. She hesitated a moment, staring at the others with tears in her eyes before she too saluted. "Battleship Maryland, reporting as ordered."
Captain Irons brought a trembling hand to his brow. They were back. Battleship Row was back!
- Location
- USA
*FREEDOM INTENSIFIES*