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Belated Battleships (KanColle) [REHOST]

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Omake: The Cutest of DDGs
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    • 186​

    The sea was lovely, dark and deep… but she had miles to go before she could sleep.

    Sixteen war patrols. Twelve battle stars. Five ships sent to the bottom of the ocean. A quiet slumber after the war she'd been built to fight was won, drifting off in the embrace of the breakers.

    It was not, perhaps, the way a human would choose to leave the world. But for a girl-that-was-a-ship, it was certainly an acceptable one, her duties discharged with skill and efficiency. In her slumber, she saw her sister wear her name for a film, and was pleased with her performance.

    She slipped back into the sleepy embrace which she'd been consigned to.

    But it was not over for her yet, it seemed.

    Systems that hadn't been part of a cohesive whole, or even in existence for decades stirred to life. Her radio crackled on a ghostly frequency, and the shades of crewmen past answered up.

    [REPORT IMMEDIATELY FOR WAR PATROL ASSIGNMENT. SIERRA THREE ALPHA REQUIRES YOUR PRESENCE FOR PROSECUTION OF ONGOING ENGAGEMENT. ACKNOWLEDGE.]

    [BE ADVISED. UNIT REQUIRES SUBSTANTIAL OVERHAUL. WILL CONTACT SHIPYARD FOR SERVICES. UNIT ACKNOWLEDGES.]

    [SHIPYARD WILL PROVIDE. GOOD HUNTING. HEADQUARTERS OUT.]

    At test depth, a hundred miles offshore, four diesel motors clicked, clattered and clanked to roaring life before shutting down, and batteries long-gone came to be once more, full of charge and ready to be used.

    General Quarters.

    Torpedoes slid into place in her hands and strapped across her chest, her streamlined hull tasting salt water for the first time in seventy years.

    General Quarters.

     Ballast tanks filled with water once more, maintaining perfect buoyancy in the lightless abyss four hundred feet down. Her eyes opened; though her periscope was useless here, her sonar functioned just fine. There was nothing as far as the eye could see, except…

    General Quarters.

    There it was. The elusive sonar contact. Now that she knew where it was… there was nowhere to hide.

    She had a swimmer's build; the wasp-waist and triangular shoulders of someone built for the sea's watery embrace in all its full power, without the comfort of the skies above. She smiled a shark's smile, and kicked off of nothing in particular, two-thousand horsepower pushing her silently through the water towards the fat, oblivious Abyssal freighter.

    Her name was Stingray, once, and so it was once more.

    Time to hunt.

    --

    Fast and Ready, Part V​

    Stout leapt off the dock and hit the water, her rigging manifesting at the moment her booted feet hit the water. Turbines roared atop her backpack as cell hatches ran operational tests on the back face of it, swinging open and then shut. She heard splashes and the thrumming of diesels nearby as her new sisters took to the waves in a fit of giggles and a half-hearted admonishment from the bigger of the two.

    "C'mon, Blake, this is serious! We might have to shoot things again!" Black groaned. Blakeley didn't so much as pay her any mind, twirling about in a pirouette on the waters of the Chesapeake Bay. One of her cannons sat atop her tiny fist and dwarfed it utterly, while the rest trailed her like a stream of ducklings bobbing on the wavetops.

    "We're goin' hunting, we're goin' hunting~" Blakeley singsonged, twirling about again as they headed out of the bay at top speed.

    "And if you keep goin' on like this, they'll know we're coming a long time before we know they are!" Black exclaimed.

    Stout coughed, and pointed at her radars. "Not likely."

    Black's look of betrayal was legendary. "Et tu, Stout?" she asked in a tone of complete despair. Stout giggled and grabbed an imaginary dagger, making wide swipes at Black. Which turned into Stout grabbing hold of and tickling the Fletcher mercilessly, much to her breathless, laughing dismay. "Tra-hai-hai-heeeheheheehehAITOR!" she squealed, feet hammering the water. The big destroyer cackled and continued her tickly attack, until Blakeley came to Black's rescue with a flying tackle-hug that flopped the three of them straight into the water.

    Stout righted herself, grinning, and was about to exact her revenge against the pint-sized escort when her hydrophones started telling her something was following them. Her smile froze and she looked back, scanning the water, pulsing active sonar. Her eyes narrowed, and she squinted into it.

    "You're really bad at hiding, you know." She said in a huff, crossing her arms across her chest.

    A snorkel popped above the water first, followed shortly thereafter by a head of short, dark hair and an equally dark, round, childish face. Their little shadow sighed as she backstroked up to the destroyers she'd been following.

    "I knew I should have cut my diesels further back." she said grumpily. Blakeley jumped into Black's arms, a depth charge that looked for all the world like a soda can clutched in her hand. "Hey, cool it! Friendly!" the dark little subthief said, waving her hands frantically, contemplating a crash dive the whole time.

    Black rolled her eyes and plucked the depth charge from Blakeley's hand. "Relax, Blake, it's Stingray."

    "Oh." the little escort said, looking apologetic, before pouting and grabbing at the depth charge in Black's hand. "Gimme!"

    "Promise you won't blow up our subthief, please." Black said, looking stern.

    "Fiiiine." Blakeley said, sticking out her tongue at Black after she retook possession of her munition.

    "Soooo," Stout said, "what brings you out here?"

    Stingray wiggled her shoulders in the sub equivalent of a shrug. "Same thing as you, I think. Gonna go break up Abyssal jerks down by Hatteras?"

    Stout nodded. "Yeah, that's the plan, anyway."

    "Sweet, I always wanted my own escort destroyers. Except for all the times I didn't." she said, smirking, watching the destroyers take offense. "Don't worry, I'll leave some for the rest of you."

    Stout laughed, rolling her eyes as her weapons cycled through maintenance programs, hatches clanking, air-slugs firing, her rifle actuating without spitting fire and steel. "You must think you're pretty funny. Don't worry, I'll try to make sure I don't ASROC you to the bottom of the sea."

    "Wow, I'm so scared." Stingray chuckled. "Seriously though. Wanna go blow up demon boats?"

    "Let's."

    --

    Stingray and Stout kept up a steady banter as the surface squadron held their speed down to the maximum the Salmon-class sub could reach while surfaced. Hampton Roads slowly slid away in their rear-views as they made their way south. Stout, ever the multitasker, pumped her arrays up to full power and pumped megawatts of RF energy out to probe the distance for the enemy they hoped to find.

    Black kept herself glued to Stout's stern, swanning about in great fantails to clear both of their sonar rigs, the better to see anything that might be lurking under the waves that wasn't Stingray.

    Stingray yawned widely and hitched herself to Stout with a towing hawser. "Wake me up when you see somethin', tacboat."

    "Tacboat?" Stout asked, bewildered.

    "Y'know, tactical. Tacticool. Tacboat." Stingray said, yawning again and closing her eyes as the big destroyer's engines shifted pitch a little under the fifteen hundred tons of extra load they'd just had placed on them. Stout grumbled and thought about grabbing the bosun's knife stashed on her left hip and cutting the line, but relented and resigned herself to pulling the subthief.

    "Just don't try to nab my supplies, subthief." she groused, going back to scanning the horizon while Blakeley did lazy S-turns in front of them, humming along to a tune only she could hear.

    Y'know, I could have woken up in far worse company, Stout thought to herself. These two might not be Gonzo or Mason, but they're still my sisters. Now if only this annoying little subthief would stop slowing me up!

    [CONTACT SURFACE, STRENGTH ONE, BEARING ONE SEVEN SEVEN TRUE. NO IFF RESPONSE. GENERATING TRACK.]

    Inside her CIC, her faerie crew standing watch noted the presence of the ship fifty miles distant, picking it out from amongst the clutter of the sea with some difficulty. It was faint, but it was most certainly there, and moving on a perpendicular course to the squadron's own projected track.

    Stout filed the information away and kept an 'eye' on the unknown.

    "So Blake!" Black piped up, her voice carrying to the little escort. "How do you like your Christmas present?"

    Blakeley turned and beamed. "It helps me sleep a lot better when we're not in the docks. Thank you!"

    Black smiled and bowed a little. Stout looked over at her, quirking a single silver-blue eye. "What'd you get her?"

    "I got her a stuffed Enterprise." Black said, smirking. "Not Big E. Well, not our big E. NCC-1701-D. Blake loves Star Trek." Stout laughed, rolling her eyes.

    "Well… that's a thing." she said, not sure of what else to add to that. "I might be able to hook her up with a-"

    [MULTIPLE CONTACTS AIR. NO IFF. STRENGTH THIRTY.]

    Stout froze mid sentence, her eyes slewing to and over the horizon.

    [BEARING ONE SEVEN SEVEN, CLOSING. CLOSEST POINT OF APPROACH TEN POINT NINE NAUTICAL MILES. RANGE RATE FOUR-FIFTY KNOTS. TRACK IS HEADING INLAND.]

    "Stout?" Black asked, turning, having gotten somewhat ahead of the big destroyer. "What is it?"

    "I think we've got a carrier. " Stout said.

    "So much for that nap," Stingray grumbled. "I was just drifting off."

    [STRENGTH ONE SURFACE CONTACT HAS RESOLVED INTO SIX SURFACE CONTACTS.]

    "Well," Stout said, "you wanted to blow up demon boats. I think we found some. Six, heading on a course that has us intercepting them in an hour."

    Stingray undid the towing hawser and kicked her diesels back to life. "No time to waste, then!" she said, pushing ahead with all the power she could muster. "C'mon! We need to make sure none of those planes make landfall, and then we gotta blow up the things that launched 'em!"

    "Hooyah!" Stout agreed, her turbines spinning up to full speed. "Let's get 'em! Go DESRON Two-Six!"
     
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    • Omake: Iron, what the fuck?
  • Threadmarks
    • * * * * *

    "No."

    "You lost."

    "Fuck you. No. No to the fuckteenth degree." New Jersey stated flatly as she backed away from the advancing avatars of her doom.

    The approach did not slow and a sliver of desperation she would never fathom admitting aloud crept into her voice.

    "I was drunk! Completely shit-faced!" She waved her hands in front of her in a vain attempt to ward off her assailants. Assailants she could bench-press without breaking a sweat. "Fuck no. No no no! You don't get to do this!"

    Malevolent smiles broadened.

    "Oh, yes we do~"

    "And there's nothing you can do about it."

    "Surrender. We... promise to be gentle."

    "Poi~"

    Beaded sweat dripped from Jersey's brow and her blood chilled with each step back. Was there really no escape? Were decades of existing as the most powerful and awe-inspiring surface combatant on the planet to culminate in this kind of humiliating end? At the hands of a few destroyers!?

    Her back hit the wall.

    "Fuck you!"

    The destroyers pounced.

    New Jersey's screams echoed down the halls.

    * * * * *

    "How."

    She took an awkward step.

    "The actual fuck."

    Something dug into places it shouldn't.

    "Do you wear this."

    A breath threatened to expose far more than already was.

    "You fucking speedboat!?

    Okay, so her glorious, cheese grating abs were on full and prominent display for all to bask in their glory. And her legs were unquestionably amazing. But that was right about where the positive side of her situation ended.

    The only possible way this could get any worse was if the internet found out. Or her sisters found out. Or Williams found out. Especially if Williams found out. ...Okay there were a lot of fucking ways this could get infinitely worse.

    A flash of light made her blink.

    Goddammit.

    "The same way Mutsu doesn't flash the entire base. Also, good angle." Shimakaze peeked out from behind the camera she'd borrowed from... somewhere. Probably Naka's minion. She raised one hand and gave a thumbs up. Those inscrutable grey eyes never deviated from their flat stare of personal amusement. Yeah, fuck you and your secrets too.

    "I think we can get some better lighting if we have her lay down." Shigure piped up while adjusting the mirror in her hands.

    No! You be quiet! Do not give them an more fu-

    "She can, like, pose like those models poi."

    "Fuck you, Poi!"

    "Which ones?"

    This was Hell. Actual Hell. The one with a capital 'H' that she sent everyone who ever well and truly pissed her off to. No more betting with destroyers. Never again. Nope. No fucking way. Not even if there was no possible way she could lose, she'd still end up losing somehow. Because the fucking universe ran off of the amusement generated by her suffering.

    New Jersey's face paled to the color of ash when Poi pulled a magazine out of seemingly nowhere.

    Oh. Fuck.

    Fuck. Fuckety. Fuck fuck fuck.

    If Pennsylvania didn't murder her, then Arizona would.

    Or they'd team up and take turns turning her into unrecognizable scrap before getting Sanecone in on the action to make sure her remains could be poured into a fucking sippy cup.

    "Pooooiiiii? Wheeeere did you get thaaat?" Try to be pleasant. Try to catch them off guard. Be fast. Be nimble! The candy-cane stockings she'd been forced into stretched as steel muscle tensed. The syrupy-sweet voice she was attempting to use sounded so very, very wrong in her ears. "That's not for destroyers~"

    "I found it."

    "Where?"

    The other destroyers seemed to become aware that she was not a happy battlewagon at the moment, less so than she already was, and were slowly backing away. Except for that fucking speedboat. She was just taking more and more pictures. That camera was going to get blown up in the most violent way she could manage. With enough prejudice to make it a war crime.

    Yuudachi skipped backwards towards the door with the most shit-eating grin on her face. One New Jersey frequently saw in a mirror.

    Oh fuck no.

    "Hmm... I don't remember where." The destroyer twirled about and Jersey swore she saw a flash of mischief in those eyes. Bored Marine level mischief. "Like, maybe I should get some help so I can give it back. What do you think?"

    New Jersey began advancing, desperation and maybe a little madness in her eyes.

    "Poi, don't you fucking dare. Don't you move one goddamn inch from that spot and give me the fucking magazine."

    If there was a shred of hope left that this hellish situation would not get any worse, Yuudachi dashed it when she grinned.

    "Go ask Mom."

    Jersey whirled around to glare at Shimakaze with fury and betrayal written all over her face. That fucking speedboat!

    "Good idea! Later, Pooooiii~!"

    "You get fucking back here!"

    * * * * *

    Battleship New Jersey did not catch Yuudachi.

    * * * * *
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Old Iron said:
    * * * * *

    "No."

    "You lost."

    "Fuck you. No. No to the fuckteenth degree." New Jersey stated flatly as she backed away from the advancing avatars of her doom.

    The approach did not slow and a sliver of desperation she would never fathom admitting aloud crept into her voice.

    "I was drunk! Completely shit-faced!" She waved her hands in front of her in a vain attempt to ward off her assailants. Assailants she could bench-press without breaking a sweat. "Fuck no. No no no! You don't get to do this!"

    Malevolent smiles broadened.

    "Oh, yes we do~"

    "And there's nothing you can do about it."

    "Surrender. We... promise to be gentle."

    "Poi~"

    Beaded sweat dripped from Jersey's brow and her blood chilled with each step back. Was there really no escape? Were decades of existing as the most powerful and awe-inspiring surface combatant on the planet to culminate in this kind of humiliating end? At the hands of a few destroyers!?

    Her back hit the wall.

    "Fuck you!"

    The destroyers pounced.

    New Jersey's screams echoed down the halls.

    * * * * *

    "How."

    She took an awkward step.

    "The actual fuck."

    Something dug into places it shouldn't.

    "Do you wear this."

    A breath threatened to expose far more than already was.

    "You fucking speedboat!?

    Okay, so her glorious, cheese grating abs were on full and prominent display for all to bask in their glory. And her legs were unquestionably amazing. But that was right about where the positive side of her situation ended.

    The only possible way this could get any worse was if the internet found out. Or her sisters found out. Or Williams found out. Especially if Williams found out. ...Okay there were a lot of fucking ways this could get infinitely worse.

    A flash of light made her blink.

    Goddammit.

    "The same way Mutsu doesn't flash the entire base. Also, good angle." Shimakaze peeked out from behind the camera she'd borrowed from... somewhere. Probably Naka's minion. She raised one hand and gave a thumbs up. Those inscrutable grey eyes never deviated from their flat stare of personal amusement. Yeah, fuck you and your secrets too.

    "I think we can get some better lighting if we have her lay down." Shigure piped up while adjusting the mirror in her hands.

    No! You be quiet! Do not give them an more fu-

    "She can, like, pose like those models poi."

    "Fuck you, Poi!"

    "Which ones?"

    This was Hell. Actual Hell. The one with a capital 'H' that she sent everyone who ever well and truly pissed her off to. No more betting with destroyers. Never again. Nope. No fucking way. Not even if there was no possible way she could lose, she'd still end up losing somehow. Because the fucking universe ran off of the amusement generated by her suffering.

    New Jersey's face paled to the color of ash when Poi pulled a magazine out of seemingly nowhere.

    Oh. Fuck.

    Fuck. Fuckety. Fuck fuck fuck.

    If Pennsylvania didn't murder her, then Arizona would.

    Or they'd team up and take turns turning her into unrecognizable scrap before getting Sanecone in on the action to make sure her remains could be poured into a fucking sippy cup.

    "Pooooiiiii? Wheeeere did you get thaaat?" Try to be pleasant. Try to catch them off guard. Be fast. Be nimble! The candy-cane stockings she'd been forced into stretched as steel muscle tensed. The syrupy-sweet voice she was attempting to use sounded so very, very wrong in her ears. "That's not for destroyers~"

    "I found it."

    "Where?"

    The other destroyers seemed to become aware that she was not a happy battlewagon at the moment, less so than she already was, and were slowly backing away. Except for that fucking speedboat. She was just taking more and more pictures. That camera was going to get blown up in the most violent way she could manage. With enough prejudice to make it a war crime.

    Yuudachi skipped backwards towards the door with the most shit-eating grin on her face. One New Jersey frequently saw in a mirror.

    Oh fuck no.

    "Hmm... I don't remember where." The destroyer twirled about and Jersey swore she saw a flash of mischief in those eyes. Bored Marine level mischief. "Like, maybe I should get some help so I can give it back. What do you think?"

    New Jersey began advancing, desperation and maybe a little madness in her eyes.

    "Poi, don't you fucking dare. Don't you move one goddamn inch from that spot and give me the fucking magazine."

    If there was a shred of hope left that this hellish situation would not get any worse, Yuudachi dashed it when she grinned.

    "Go ask Mom."

    Jersey whirled around to glare at Shimakaze with fury and betrayal written all over her face. That fucking speedboat!

    "Good idea! Later, Pooooiii~!"

    "You get fucking back here!"

    * * * * *

    Battleship New Jersey did not catch Yuudachi.

    * * * * *
    Click to expand...
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    That is magazine as in paper you read right? At first I thought it was the kind with shells and was really confused.
     
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