Belated Battleships (KanColle) [REHOST]

[Skywalker_T-65]

Spoiler: The post in question on the 13.5in guns

Vickers 14/45:

Shell: 673.5 kg (1,485 lbs)
Caliber: 14-inch (355.6 mm)
Muzzle Velocity: 775 m/s (2,540 ft/s)
Maximum firing range 35,450 m (38,770 yd)

BL 13.5 Mk V:

Shell (H): 1,400 lb (635.03 kg)
Caliber: 13.5-inch (342.9 mm)
Muzzle Velocity (H): 2,491 ft/s (759 m/s)
Maximum firing range (H): 23,740 yards (21,710 m) at 20°

So. In comparison with the 14in she would originally have gotten, if Indy has to use the 13.5 it's not that great a difference. The shell is just 85 pounds lighter, using the Heavy variant (the BL 13.5 had both 'light' and 'heavy' variants. HMS Tiger used the latter, so Indy would certainly follow suit). The muzzle velocity is only 16 m/s less. Range is quite a bit longer on the 14, but with the muzzle velocity and shell weight being so close, that's almost certainly because of the historical refits of Kongou and sisters.

BL 14in Mk. VII:

Shell: 1,590 lb (720 kg)
Caliber: 14 inches (360 mm)
Muzzle Velocity: 2,400 ft/s (730 m/s)
Maximum firing range 36,500 yd (33,400 m) at 40.7°

So, even in comparison to the new 14-incher on the KGV, the 13.5 doesn't come off that bad. The shell is a good 200 pounds lighter, but it's reasonable to argue the Brits could pull out a special heavier shell, guns have been modified that way before. The MV is actually higher in the 13.5. While the range is heavily in favor of the 14-inch Mk. VII that's, just as with Kongou, likely because of the higher elevation more than anything.

Really, the 13.5 was a decent gun, if in an odd caliber. It isn't unreasonable to think it could be modified to be competitive, at least against older ships. )

EDIT: Moreover, IRL the 13.5 went out with a whimper because the ships equipping it did. The Lions? Old and not easily modernized, so they were taken out of commission after Washington. The Iron Dukes? Just as old, and it's little surprise they didn't last past London after all. They were slow, underarmored (being designed before Jutland and all) and with the ten 15-inch BBs the Brits had between the QEs and R's, what reason was there to keep them?

Tiger also went away, but in her case it's more economics. She would have been the only ship using the 13.5 if the Brits kept her, which would be a supply headache. In addition, she was showing her age, not modernized.

More on topic, Eurobotes!

...but Vicky FEELS. Namely...

Just why does she hate that nickname so much?

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"I told you, stop calling me that! Bloody hell, what's so hard to understand about..."

"Vicky, calm..."

"I will not calm down!"

HMS Victorious, most powerful of the Royal Navy ship girls, vibrated with anger. That it was directed at her only sister would surprise some. Victorious and Formidable were among the closest of any sister ships that had returned, as their other sisters had not returned. That they were the only two proper carriers in the Royal Navy just emphasized that closeness even further.

In fact, the two never fought.

Or even really argued.

So the betrayed look on Formidable's face was hardly surprising. Her blue eyes were wet, the carrier's lip quivering at the thunderous expression on her sister's face. She couldn't understand why her sister was so angry with her. Victorious had hardly made a secret of hating that nickname...ever since Renown had come up with it, she'd practically jumped down the throat of anyone who used it. From the unrepentant battlecruiser, to Warspite herself.

But...

"Sis, I just..." Formidable croaked out, her shoulders shaking. She wasn't like her little sister. She was...was weaker. Not as skilled or as experienced. And it had her shaking to see Victorious so angry.

"You just jumped on that bloody train," Victorious spat back, her own shoulders shaking. But from anger, not sadness. "I have told everyone how much I hate that damn nickname, why do you lot keep using..."

Even as Victorious built up a head of steam, a hand fell down on her shoulder. A soft, but very firm hand, that squeezed her shoulder in warning. Turning around, mouth already open to shout...

Victorious' head of steam vanished quicker than cold water dousing her boilers.

"Dear, please, leave your sister be." Furious smiled that gentle smile, soft and underlaid with steel, that only a mother could have. And the smile remained firmly in place when she continued speaking, "I know you aren't happy with the nickname, but please don't take it out on Formidable. I hateto see my daughters fighting."

Just as her smile, Furious' voice was that of a disappointed mother. She shook her head at the defiant look on Victorious' face, before turning her blue eyes on Formidable instead.

"I am sorry about that, Formidable."

For her part, Formidable just gave a weak smile, "No, it...it's my fault. I didn't think, I-I thought that she wouldn't be that annoyed."

The younger sister opened her mouth to retort, only for Furious to squeeze Victorious' shoulder again with a warning glance.

With her rebellious daughter suitably cowed, the mother of all carriers turned her head back to her elder daughter, "I wouldn't worry about that Formidable. I've been meaning to have a talk with your sister for some time now. Run along now, we'll be busy for a little bit."

Formidable looked like she wanted to protest. If only because blood ran deeper than any arguments...she didn't want to see her sister punished. For all that Victorious' anger had hurt her, she loved her sister. Looked up to the veteran.

But the look on Furious brooked no argument.

"Right..." the redhaired carrier looked down at her feet, sighing softly. Her hands gripped her skirt, running over the soft fabric as she turned around. "I'm...sorry, Vick...Victorious."

With one last look over her shoulder, Formidable pulled her slightly-melted helmet down her head and walked away. Leaving Furious and Victorious alone, the former letting out a soft sigh when she turned to look at the latter. Without saying a word, the elderly carrier turned her head towards the nearby barracks, nodding once. Victorious...well, she pouted. Her lips were pursed in annoyance, but she didn't dare raise a word against her mother.

Furious may be old, but she could spank her six ways to Sunday.

Without breaking out her old cannon.

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This said, it was only once the two carriers were safely locked into the room they shared, that Furious actually truly showed her daughter how she felt. The old warrior's smile fell away, replaced by a deep frown. Her arms were crossed over her modest bust, a single elegant eyebrow raised up nearly to the line of her brown hair. If there was any one word to describe her stance and expression, it was utter disappointment.

I thought better of you Victorious. Why does that...

"...nickname hurt you so much?" Furious finished her thought aloud, looking at her youngest daughter. The youngest present, at any rate.

"Because it isn't me!" Victorious shot back immediately, only to flinch back when Furious uncrossed her arms.

In fact the elder carrier felt her shoulders slump, a frustrated groan escaping her lips. She tried to act the proper mother figure, but sometimes...sometimes the eager girl who had served with Hood after her return peaked out. Like now, when she just couldn't hide her frustration. Not entirely.

"Don't give me that bollocks, young lady," Furious didn't hold back in her voice either. The tone remained the same, but the words certainly weren't. She shook her head at her daughter, her hairbun swaying with the motion. Furious pointed at Victorious', her eyes narrowed to flinty slits, "I know you better than that, dear. I may have accepted that explanation after I tried to get you to stop going off on Warspite."

Furious let her hand drop, her head continuing to shake. She just...didn't understand.

"And I kept my mouth shut when you continued to go off on anyone who said it. I thought that you would get over it eventually, just as I got over the jokes over my old cannon." Furious couldn't help her mouth twitching up at the thought of that time. Oh, but some of those nicknames were creative. Still, her lips didn't form a proper smile. Not when she needed to work out what was wrong with her daughter. "And I should have talked to you sooner. Because I never thought you would snap at your sister!"

Only at the end, did the elderly carrier let her voice raise. Because she couldn't, just couldn't, understand why Victorious would have snapped so badly at her own sister. Now, it was true that Furious herself didn't have any sisters. Courageous and Glorious, bless their hearts, were half-sisters at best. And honestly...barely even that. Furious missed them, but she wasn't as close to them.

Not like Victorious and Formidable.

Those sisters were practically inseparable. They only had each other, and it showed. They never fought. In fact, Furious couldn't even remember them ever arguing until...

"I...it..." Victorious worked her jaw, her mouth opening and closing. Her shoulders were slumped helplessly, the girl looking young. She was normally every inch the oldest serving carrier in the Royal Navy. Even, in fact, slightly longer serving than Furious herself.

But now...now she looked nothing like that.

"It isn't easy, mother," the girl finally got out, her voice small and quiet. Her brown eyes were shaded by the helmet over her eyes, the old carrier looking at her feet. Her legs shuffled uncomfortably, Victorious clearly uncomfortable on this subject. "I...I know I overreact. But...it..."

Furious sighed softly, walking forward. Damn her motherly instincts...as she wrapped Victorious up in a gentle embrace. She held the bustier girl to her chest, letting her smaller arms wrap around Victorious. Furious leaned her head against her daughters hard helmet, wishing that she could at least lean against her soft hair instead. Kiss Victorious' hair. Let her daughter know she still loved her.

But, she settled for holding Victorious, as the younger girl shook against her chest.

"Shh...shh..." Furious whispered, rubbing comforting circles into the other carrier's back. Her breath ghosted against the old helmet, her voice just as soft as her gentle motions while she continued speaking, "I just want to understand why that nickname hurts you so much, baby. I know you aren't hurt this much by Harbor Queen or any other nickname I've heard the destroyers toss your way."

Those little girls were vicious sometimes...

"I deserve those names," Victorious croaked out, a weak laugh accompanying the words. She shook her head against Furious' shoulder, the shaking in her body growing slightly. "I know I do. With all the time it took to refit me? But that...that's not the same."

Why wasn't it? Furious knew that she didn't know everything about her daughter. Victorious had been away from her more than she was with her. Both during the War, and afterwards. When Furious was scrapped, and Victorious became the Grand Old Lady of the Royal Navy carriers. It was little wonder she loved Warspite so...they were quite similar, in that regard. But...that aside...

Why does that nickname hurt her so? Renown came up with it out of...

Wait...

Furious pulled back, though her gentle grip remained. She looked at her daughter's face, tears trailing down her cheeks. The old carrier resisted every urge she had to reach out and wipe those tears away, and instead, looked directly into Victorious' eyes. Because there was a pain there. No anger. Just...old pain. Regret. Everything she had never seen in HMS Victorious, not once.

And...

"Renown..." Furious whispered, her blue eyes widening slightly. "She wasn't the first one to give you that nickname."

It was a statement, not a question. It was the only thing that made any bloody sense at all.

Victorious croaked out another laugh, shaking her head sadly, "No, bloody hell no. I...remember, mother? What I did in the Pacific?"

Frowning, Furious nodded, "Vaguely, yes. You spent time in the Eastern Fleet."

"Yes, and with the Americans."

Silence filled the room when Victorious said that. Her voice had cracked at the end, barely a whisper. And Furious was reduced to staring in shock. The Americ...of course.

Of bloody course!

"Saratoga. She gave you that name."

Furious knew of the American. A closer counterpart to herself than Langley, the first American being more like little Argus. But Saratoga, and her sister for that matter, were like her. Battlecruisers turned into carriers. Ships that built the American fleet air arm. How could Furious not know of them? But all the same, it had completely slipped her mind that her daughter had spent some time, alone with just the Americans. Just Saratoga. She hadn't really thought of that before.

Of what having no American carriers, least of all that one back, had to be doing to her daughter.

If that...

"She did, yeah," Victorious whispered, snapping Furious' attention back to the younger carrier. A small laugh escaped her lips, the brunette carrier shaking her head, "I...it's been a long time. But I still remember the first time I met the Americans. They were so tired out there, and they were happy to have even me, an inexperienced novice who couldn't even stop Bismarck."

Victorious pulled away from her mother, her shaking legs collapsing. The carrier fell heavily onto her bed, not even noticing her helmet rolling off her head. Thick brown hair fell on her face, and all around her head. But she didn't once stop talking. No matter her voice taking a monotone.

"I was a novice who couldn't do anything right, other than some escort and Torch. But Sara...she was different. Even the first time I saw her, I knew that. She was big, but..." Victorious turned her head, looking up at Furious with wet eyes. Eyes that were filled with distant pain. "She was sograceful. Oh, she was tired too. I could tell she was being pushed too hard for how old she was. But she was still so smart. So kind. Beautiful. Everything I wasn't."

Sitting down next to her daughter, Furious reached her hand out. She stroked Victorious' face, her daughter leaning into the touch. She looked so...vulnerable. This was dredging up her past. And Furious knew that.

But she had to know...just why that nickname was so painful.

"Sara...she was a teacher. She told me stories, of training all the other American carriers. Of Enterprise, eagerly learning at her knee," a small smile crossed the young carrier's face. A small giggle as well, that quickly faded. "She was...someone I wanted to be like. I was only a couple years old at the time, but she didn't care. Sara took me under her wing just like she had with the Americans. She taught my crew everything they knew, later in the War. It was...it was there I got that nickname."

The brunette carrier turned to look at her mother, a melancholic smile crossing her face. Her hand reached out, gently grasping Furious' own hand.

"Big Vicky. That was something her crew called me, you know the Yanks and their penchant for shortening the name of everything."

Furious smiled, a small laugh rumbling up her throat, "I do indeed. A couple of their destroyers call me Miss Fury."

The smile was mimicked on Victorious, but only until she started talking again, "Sara and I spent so much time together, the only carriers in the South Pacific. We played war games against each other. We traded air wings. We just...talked. She told me stories, and I listened. She taught me. And through it all...she was so patient. I made a fool of myself more than I would like to admit. But she never once judged me."

Shaking her head, Victorious turned to look back at the ceiling with another sigh.

"Not only did she not judge me, she cared about me. Sara always said 'I don't want to see another young girl sink. Not after Lex. Yorktown. Wasp. Hornet. I never want to see that again. I would sooner die myself, than see any of you sink again. Especially you, Little Vicky.'"

Watery laughs came from Victorious when she said that, the girl curling up in the bed. Her knees were pushed into her chest, her face resting atop them. Tears flowed freely, and she didn't even resist Furious crawling over to gently pull her into her lap. Her hand stroked Victorious' hair, as she gently hummed. Nothing in particular. She just...hummed. And let her daughter get it out of her system.

She hated this.

Seeing Victorious so sad.

"I..." the younger girl finally got out, her voice cracked. Broken. "I think I might have loved her at the end. Because she was just so kind and understanding. She did more for me than anyone ever had, even in the short time we were together. I didn't like saying goodbye, but she had promised we would see each other again. And...and we never did."

Victorious curled up further, her face buried in Furious' dress, wetting the fabric with her tears.

"I missed serving with her when Big Sis Illustrious did. I missed seeing her after the war, when the Yanks decided that nuking her was the best thing they could for someone who served them so well." Victorious couldn't keep the anger out of her broken voice at the end.

And Furious couldn't blame her. That...that could not have been a nice way to leave the world, even if Saratoga most certainly was already dead by that point. But...she could understand how her daughter felt. To be denied the chance to meet someone she cared for, so very much, one last time. Because of fate, or the actions of governments or whatever the cause. It would always be painful. And it would always leave those left behind scarred.

"Victorious...I don't know what to tell you," Furious whispered, leaning down to finally kiss her daughter's forehead gently. Her soft lips brushed against Victorious' scalp, words ghosting out, blowing her hair around. She held her daughter gently as she spoke, "I can only imagine how much that must have hurt. Is that why...?"

The younger girl let out a watery sob in response, clutching tightly at her mother's dress, "Yes, bloody hell yes. That nickname was Sara's. Not anyone else, our little secret. When Renown 'came up with it'? Started spreading it around? It...I..."

"You felt like it was a betrayal of your old friend." Furious finished for her daughter.

Victorious could only nod in response.

Sighing softly, Furious squeezed her daughter against her, "I see. Do you still love her? I thought that Warspite had your heart now?"

The attempt to lighten the mood worked, to some extent. Victorious giggled against Furious, but it was still weak and watery. It was nothing like the usual reaction she would have gotten. But then...that wasn't going to happen. Furious was just happy that her daughter could laugh. This subject was so very painful for her, it was just nice to get something other than crying.

Other than pain.

"No, you aren't wrong mom," Victorious whispered, not even bothering with the formal title anymore. She looked up, red-rimmed brown eyes staring into blue. "I do love Warspite, I can't deny that to you. But I can't just...I can't forget about Sara. I think she's someone I still love...maybe as a friend or a sister now. But that won't change."

"And it never should," Furious placed a finger against her daughter's lips. A small smile crossed her face, the old carrier nodding sharply. "It truly shouldn't. And, for what it is worth...I'm sorry I made you talk about all of this."

Her daughter laughed weakly at that, "No, it's my fault for being an utter arse to Formidable. I'll have to apologize to her later. And...I think I needed this. At least someone else knows now...I just hope...I..."

"I hope that she comes back too, darling."

Nothing more needed to be said, as Victorious fell down on her mother's lap. Furious returned to humming and stroking the younger girl's hair, her blue eyes looking out the window of their room. Towards the Atlantic. And indeed, towards America, a world away. A nation only now starting to see their soldiers return. And one that could not, for the life of them, summon even one proper carrier. No matter how adorable White Plains was.

But...

Please, let her come back. If only for my daughter. Please.

...Furious still sent a silent prayer. A prayer that her daughter could be reunited with the American who had done so much for her.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Between Hood and Bisko and Vicky/Sara I really am making a habit of having Britbotes who want to meet someone...

But can't.

(not that Sky wouldn't write Sara in a heartbeat if given the chance, as we've established. Bisko I'm not quite as fond of for obvious reasons)

((also, I did say Way back here that I wanted to write stuff with Sara and Vicky. At least I got something. ))

(((Also, also: Vicky is a nickname American sailors gave Victorious. Historical accuracy FTW!)))

 

[theJMPer]

Normally, Yeoman Sarah Gale didn't really like watching Wash eat. The battleship was… stunningly pretty to say the least, with slender waist that her tight uniform only accented and broad hips that flowed into that tiny skirt of hers.

Gale wasn't quite jealous of the battleship's figure, or her ability to maintain it even after gluttony sessions that'd leave Gale moaning on the floor clutching her bloated stomach a tenth of the way though. She didn't quite like it, but she was getting to the point where she could accept it.

After all, she'd seen poor Wash shaking with hunger when her dinner was a few hours late. Gale really didn't want to see that again, it took all her composure not to give the trembling battleship a headpat and a hug.

But… if she was honest, there was something relaxing about watching the battleship consume her meals. Wash ate with a measured temp. She'd pick a nicely-sized morsel out with her fork, pop it in her mouth, and chew with ladylike composure. There was a calm and tranquility to it that just flowed from her serene presence. The zen of gluttony, or something like that.

It made Gale feel at ease just watching it. And at the same time, it made the battleship feel more… solid for lack of another term. Not just a girl in a fancy outfit, but a spirit of steel and fire standing firm against the rising tide of the abyss.

Of course… it didn't help that Wash's bulging breasts squished against the table every time she leaned down. That wasn't the main reason Gale liked watching Wash eat, but it certainly helped.

That was her story. She was sticking to it.

"Mmm…" Gale sighed happily as Wash fished out a small morsel of Salisbury steak. A happy smile passed the battleship's queenly face, and the already taut fabric of her uniform puckered just so over those perfectly plump upper works.

The sailor lazily spun her fork in her spaghetti, her gaze still hovering dreamily over the oblivious battleship. And then the doors exploded open with a sound of cannon shots.

"WHA-" Gale lept out of her chair in surprise, and promptly fell flat on her ass.

"I, MUSASHI," thundered… apparently Musashi, "Have Arrived!"

"Kongou's here!" added the bubbly half-aware giggle of… well, the Dessboat. "Dess!"

"Kirishima here," finished a calmer voice—for Kongou-class standards of calm. "Mic Check, one, two, three!"

Gale scrambled to her feet with a scowl on her face. They just had to ruin a perfectly-good Wash-watching evening, didn't they…

Kirishima bounced—yes, literally bounced. That much jiggle had to hurt like hell—over to Wash's table and calmly asked to join her. Wash gave her a polite smile, a nod, and then resumed consuming her dinner with her usual stoic grace.

Kirishima, apparently spurned on by the battleship's disinterest, took her seat with a huff. The converted battlecruiser propped her chin up with her palms, squeezing the assets she had for all they were worth with her forearms. And then she crossed her legs just so, drawing her already short nontraditional-Miko skirt up dangerously high.

Again, if Wash even noticed, the serene battlehsip didn't show it. But that could mean literally anything. Wash was hard as hell to read at the best of times. And observing from across the room while trying to tune out two other crazy Japanese battleships was far from the best of times.

"Hey, Sailor!" Kongou's bubbly accented English exploded mere inches from Gale's ear. "Is this seat open, Dess?"

"Gah!" Gale yelped in surprise and, for the second time in almost as many minutes, fell flat on her ass. "Don't do that!"

Kongou tilted her head in that adorably confused puppy-dog look. "What?" she asked, bringing a single finger to her chin.

Gale sighed, and shook her head. "Never mind," she sighed, brushing herself off and picking herself off the floor. "How can I help you, ma'am?"

"I'd like to sit with you!" Kongou beamed at Gale. "This is the perfect place for observing Kirishima-chan's romance!"

Gale fumed. But then again… well, she couldn't exactly complain. She was the one stalking Wash from a distance, Kirishima at least had the guts to do so from up close. "F-fine, ma'am."

"Don't worry, Dess!" Kongou hooked one arm around Gale's. "Kirishima-chan's infatuated, but she's not the aim of Washington's Burning Love!" The insane Japanese battleship gave Gale a pointed wink.

Gale blushed beet red and squirmed in her chair. "How could you—"

"Janes', dess!"

Gale blinked. "But-"

"Janes'!" Kongou ended the conversation by shoving a freshly-baked strawberry scone into Gale's mouth.

Gale shrugged.

And then she noticed something she'd been trying very very hard to tune out.

Musashi.

The towering—though not quite as stupendously huge as Jersey—battleship sashayed her way down the serving line, adding more and more to her mountainous tray at each station. And she was wearing a shirt.

Well, for certain definitions of wearing anyways. The crisp black garment was only zipped up to the base of her bustline. Either she wanted absolutely everyone to see her cleavage or (and more likely, in Gale's opinion) there was just no way in hell boobs that big were ever gonna fit into a shirt or shirt-like thing.

Gale scowled, and hunched down so her own chest was shadowed. Stupid sexy battleships…

And worse yet, Musashi seemed to realize it. Unlike Wash, who was blissfully ignorant of her gallons of sex appeal, Musashi seemed to make a point to lean waaaaaaaay over every time she saw something even mildly interesting. She'd shake her hips while she walked and shake… other…. areas too.

"Uh, Gale-san?" Kongou shot the sailor a look.

"Huh?"

"What did that pasta ever do to you?"

Gale cocked an eyebrow, then realized she'd been grinding her spaghetti into a fine paste with her fork ever since Musashi stepped though the doors. "Oh…"

Kongou just shugged, and ruffled the sailor's hair with a smile.

And then Jersey walked in.

Wearing some kind of… tailored vest thing that put her tits on full display instead of hiding them under layers of downy padding.

Jersey spotted Musashi.

Musashi spotted Jersey.

The American narrowed her icy blue eyes to frozen slits.

Gale swore she heard the The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly theme start up. No, scratch that, she did hear that song. Courtesy of Kongou. "Dessboat!" Gale hissed and elbowed the battleship in the ribs.

"What?" Kongou stopped her singing, but Kirishima had already took up the chorus—complete with well-timed tapping of silverware against glasses and plates for the instrumental accompaniment.

Gale grunted in frustration and face-planted in her dinner.

"It's showtime," growled Jersey in her surprisingly accurate Austrian accent.

"Oh god," Gale mumbled into her pasta. She could handle the two super-battleships constant dick-measuring contests. But if they got into an Ahnold off…

"You sure," grunted back Musashi, "They're not tumors?"

"Deah naht tumahs!" thundered Jersey. There was a squishy sound followed by a ring of steel on steel. Someone was groping someone else, though Gale wasn't sure if Musashi started it or was shanghaied into it by Jersey.

"I live," grunted Gale, "With idiots."

"Dess!"

 

[theJMPer]

The paper-covered vinyl exam table felt cold against Prinz Eugen's bare legs. Everything felt like that now that she was back. Too cold or too hot, rough when it should be smooth or smooth when it should be rough. Everything felt wrong.

Sometimes it was so subtle it was all but unnoticeable, like a shadow all the way in the corner of her peripheral vision. Sometimes it was more obvious. Prinz Eugen couldn't shake the feeling that the universe itself was trying to send her a message. "You are not welcome."

The cruiser bit her lip and shook her head. Lies. Lies. She might be German-born, but she was American now. She was part of an American cruiser division, she was friends with two treaty cruisers. She had a family again. So what if reality said she didn't belong? Her family said she did.

Now if only she could get rid of this stupid cold.

Prinz Eugen fished a handkerchief out of her uniform blouse and buried her nose in the slightly-damp material. She blew as hard as she could, so hard she almost let her foghorns go off indoors, but it didn't matter. Her nose still felt like it was teetering right on the edge of a cliff. Like she'd be dripping any second not, but not quiiiiite yet.

She dabbed at her nose, and put the handkerchief away. And then realized she wasn't alone in the room anymore.

"Hey," a short, grizzled American with more silvery steel in her hair than coal-black gave her a quick nod. It didn't take Prinz Eugen long to recognize her design.

"Frau Doctor," Prinz Eugen dipped her head in respect.

"Call me Vestal." The old American's voice slipped though her lips like a thief in the night while she fished a battered wooden pipe from one of the many pockets on her tool belt.

"Frau Vestal then," said Prinz Eugen.

Vestal shrugged, and struck a match against the exam table's heavily reinforced leg. After a moment's fiddling, her pipe let out a thick, coal-fired black puff of smoke.

The old repair ship took a deep breath of the sooty vapor and held it in her mouth. Then, with a hissing puff of breath, she exhaled though lips opened only just enough for the gas to slip though.

"Is… that healthy?" asked Prinz Eugen. There were many many reasons the Nazi party disgusted her. But after German scientists linked smoking with lung cancer, they'd been the first in the world to condemn tobacco.

"Used to be a collier," Vestal shunted the pipe to the corner of her mouth, then seemed to forget it was even there. "And anyways, I'm a ship not a woman, so…"

Prinz Eugen nodded. "I… guess that's okay."

Vestal shot the cruiser a look. "You always this flighty?"

She shook her head. "No, Just… the last experience I had with shipwrights… was not a good one."

"Crossroads?" Vestal scowled, her pipe almost—but never quite totally—falling from the corner of her mouth.

Prinz Eugen nodded sadly. "Not even the test, I don't remember anything about that. But when they were preparing me for it…"

Vestal's scowl deepened, and she shushed the cruiser with a look. "Well, I'm here to make you better."

The cruiser nodded.

"Lollipop?" Vestal fished a plastic-wrapped treat from one of her coat pockets. Then banged it against her thigh a few times to shake the worst of the coal dust off the packaging.

Prinz Eugen smiled a smile that could light up a continent. "Danke!" she said, tearing the plastic off and sticking the candy in her mouth in almost one smooth motion.

Vestal cracked a wry smile for a moment, then it was gone again. "Now, let's get you checked out."

Prinz Eugen just nodded. She was too busy sucking on her new treat to say anything coherent.

Vestal fished something out of her tool belt, a bright yellow box with a short silver handle that crackled quietly when she waved it around. A Geiger counter. Prinz Eugen knew that crackle all too well, even if the exact design was new to her.

"Well," Vestal set the counter down on a table with a heavy thunk. One of her faeries darted down her sleeve and helpfully flipped the thing off for her. "You're not hot anymore. At least not any hotter than you should be."

Prinz Eugen popped the sucker out of her mouth just long enough to mutter a quiet "Danke," then popped it right back in again with a sniffle.

Vestal frowned. The heavy leather of her open welding jacket creaked as she crossed her arms with a huff. "We've gotta do something about that cold."

Prinz Eugen sniffled, and nodded.

Vestal leaned over and unbuttoned the front of Prinz Eugen's uniform blouse. Her pipe almost touched the cruiser's treaty-breaking breasts, but the old repair ship's gaze didn't have the slightest hint of lustful intent.

The cruiser coughed, and blushed a little. She still had her bra on, but she didn't expect Americans to be so forward.

"Easy, girl," Vestal put the head of a stethoscope against her chest. "Just breath normal."

Prinz Eugen nodded, and let out a few rasping, rattly breaths.

Vestal's face twisted up into a scowl. "Damn high-pressure boilers," she muttered, letting the stethoscope fall around her neck. "Be easier if I had a manual for the damn things."

As if on cue, a tiny faerie in an equally tiny Kriegsmarine uniform came crawling out of Prinz Eugen's decidedly non-tiny cleavage. The little creature trotted up to stand on the crown of her breast and saluted.

Vestal raised one bushy, coal-colored eyebrow at the tiny sailor. "Hi."

The faerie produced a stack of itty-bitty books with tiny, but distinctly German, writing on them.

Vestal took the book between her fingers—it was hardly bigger than her own gritty fingernail—and flipped though the pages with careful precision. For almost twenty minutes, she just flipped and read.

Occasionally, she'd mutter a quiet "huh", or "so that's what that does," or even more rarely, "kraut boat magic." Then she closed the book and turned to face the cruiser's confused face.

"Prinz Eugen?" asked Vestal.

"Ja?"

"You've had these aboard all along, yes?" asked Vestal.

"Since I came back, ja." Prinz Eugen nodded. "And a few Kriegsmarine advisors too."

"Hmm," A fire glowed behind Vestal's eyes that Prinz Eugen hadn't seen before. "Prinz Eugen, would you please assemble your crew on your quarterdeck?"

The cruiser nodded. "Done."

Vestal nodded, and leaned over the cruiser until her nose was mere inches from the gentle divot in Prinz Eugen's belly marking her navel. How the Germans got a uniform blouse to fit so snugly over her figure was a question for another time.

"You have manuals now," barked the old repair ship. "I expect you to read them and know them by heart."

Something very quiet wafted up from the cruiser's tummy, but it was quickly quenched.

Vestal blinked. "YOU HAD THEM ABOARD THE WHOLE TIME? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!" she thundered at the cruiser's tummy. "READ THE GODDAMN MANUAL, YOU SHITS!"

A very quiet, timid mumble wafted up from Prinz Eugen's belly.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S NOT AMERICAN?" bellowed Vestal.

"Vestal, are you—" Major Solette froze in the doorway, one hand clasping a tall travel mug while the other was still planted on the handle. For a moment, the nurse tried to comprehend the sight before him. But no matter how much he blinked, thought, or tried to rationalize it, all he could see was a confused German-who-was-also-a-boat getting her belly screamed at by an old American-who-was-also-a-boat.

Vestal was too busy with her furious tirade to notice him.

Solette blinked. "oooookay."

—|—|—
​

"Good evening, Washington-Sama."

Wash glanced up from her fifty-third helping of Salisbury steak with potatoes and gravy, the dabbed a napkin against the corners of her mouth. "Kirishima," she gave the Japanese battleship a polite nod. "It's nice to see you again."

"And it's nice to see you," Kirishima smiled and sat down. Or, to be more precise, she poured herself into the seat like honey sliding across hot metal. There was definitely some extraneous swooshing in those curves of hers, "For the very first time."

Wash blushed a shade, and took a gulp of her milk to cover it. "Yes, our first engagement."

"It was…" Kirishima let out a breathy sigh. The Japanese battleship crossed her legs, drawing her already short skirt scandalously high until Wash caught a glimpse of her anti-fouling measures.

It surprised the American, but Kirishima was, after all, Japanese. She came from a very different culture. If Wash was going to work with her allies, she'd need to learn to work around her new friends' eccentricities.

"Very what," asked Wash, eager to get the conversation back on track.

Kirishima smiled, and adjusted her glasses with one slender finger. "Enthralling."

Wash shrugged. That's not the word she would have chosen, but she couldn't bring herself to correct the Japanese fast-battleship. It's just not kind to correct the word choice of someone who's already going the extra mile to speak in your native tongue, not hers.

"You know what they say," said the American with a bashful shrug.

"No," Kirishima leaned forwards, her arms framing her chest and squishing her breasts up just a smidgen. "No, I don't." Her eyes locked on Wash's. Her lips hung not-quite-closed and glistened with freshly-applied lipstick.

"War is weeks of utter boredom," said Wash, "Followed by hours of sheer terror."

Kirishima tilted her head to the side, a confused noise slipping though her teeth.

"Our engagement was the latter," said Wash.

The littlest Kongou sat back in her seat with a huff, then begrudgingly accepted the compliment with a bow of her head and a smile on those freshly-painted lips. It was so nice of her to clean herself up before sailing into American waters. Wash would have to make sure she did the same if she ever visited Japan. "You must teach me sometime."

"A night battle?" Wash placed a morsel of steak in her mouth and chewed happily.

Kirishima nodded eagerly. "Of course! A night battle!"

"I would be happy to," said Wash, eliciting a squeal of excitement from Kirishima. "But without radar, I'm not sure much I can teach you."

Kirishima blinked. "O-oh…" she hung her head. "R-right, yes. Of course. A night battle."

"What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing!"

Wash shrugged, and resumed eating her meal.

"We're divisioned up, you know," said Kirishima. Wash got the definite feeling that she was mounting a verbal counter-offensive, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out why.

"Mmm," Wash nodded. It wasn't polite to speak with food in your mouth after all.

"That means we'll be sharing a room, right?" said Kirishima with an almost pleading lilt in her voice.

Wash swallowed. "I don't see why not."

Kirishima let out a most un-battleship-like squeal. "Excellent, Washington-sama!"

Wash shrugged, and took another hearty bite of her dinner. She was going to have a roomate now, excellent. She always did find it hard to fall asleep while alone, and she couldn't exactly ask Gale to borrow her tummy for a pillow every night.

And on the plus side, Janes' said the Kongou sisters were all experts in the arts of love and romance. Maybe Kirishima could help her win Gale's heart—and soft, cuddleable tummy!

—|—|—
​

Admiral Williams stepped into the briefing room, and immediately froze the moment his brain caught up with the images his eyes were sending him.

Musashi sat at the back of the room with a distinctly childish pout on her face. The towering super-battleship was at least nominally wearing a shirt, but the combination of how low she'd zipped it and how she insisted on hugging herself made it almost a symbolic gesture. Williams was sure if she so much as took a breath her breasts would go spilling out everywhere.

And that was the least weird thing that was going on.

Frisco and Lou sat flanking Prinz Eugen, but both cruisers wore frilly Octoberfest dresses while they chowed down on pretzels heaping with mustard Williams could smell from the podium. Where they got those dresses was utterly beyond him. Meanwhile, Prinz Eugen just sucked contentedly on a lollipop without a care on the world.

Speaking of cruisers, Naka was trying frantically to brush down Yuudachi's hair tufts—earning a confused 'poi?' from the destroyer every time they popped back up fresh as new.

Further back, Kongou had produced a full tea party out of thin air. Not only was there heaping plates of oven-fresh scones, cake with strawberries, fine china teacups, and dainty little pitches of creamer, but she'd also somehow managed to produce enough English-style wood-back chairs for all of DesDiv six to join her.

Well, most of them at any rate. Inazuma was busy tottering around with a comically oversized carafe balanced on her head, doling out coffee to any girl that needed it. Her place at the table was taken by Tenryuu, who appeared to be using her sword to cut the cake.

Which would be fine if she didn't scream a hearty Kiai every time she swung.

And speaking of swords, Hoel's DesRon and Kidd's DesRon had apparently decided the room wasn't crazy enough and started an impromptu sword fight. It was a messy, chaotic battle where the only casualties—besides peace, quiet, and general dignity—were chairs.

Well, most of them anyway. Johnston had instead shoved her face into Jersey's chest. Apparently she'd been like that for quite some time, because her skin was starting to get noticeably blue.

"What," was all the coherence Admiral Williams could manage.

The shipgirls froze.

Slowly, a slain chair toppled over between Dee and Heermann.

Jersey was the first to react. "Attention on deck!" she barked.

There was a loud scuffing as girls snapped to attention.

Johnston fell out of Jersey's cleavage with a quiet 'fumph' and snapped to.

Williams blinked, "Be seated."

The girls settled back down into their chairs. Inazuma tottered up and offered him a steaming mug of coffee that he gratefully accepted.

When the room had quieted down to a baseline level of utter insanity, Williams flicked the screen behind him to a map of the South China sea. A map drenched in the bloody red of Abyssal controlled waters.

"As I'm sure you're all aware," said Williams, "The supply situation in Japan is… dire. We're doing what we can, but shipping food all the way from CONUS to Japan takes time. Loading our ships takes time and our docks are already overworked. And escorting those convoys pulls ships away from other duties."

There was a quite murmur in the briefing room.

"The Abyssals own the South China sea," continued Williams. "They sink anything that steams though, and strangle the path between the farmland Australia and the hungry mouths of Japan."

The Admiral flicked to the next slide; the same map, but with three island groups circled. "Their control of the sea flows from these three points. Woody Island in the Paracels, torpedo boats in Spratly islands, and bases in the Riaus."

He folded his hands behind his back and turned to the assembled girls. "I intend to seize these islands, and force open a corridor of safe waters clear from Taiwan to Sunda. A corridor to be held open by destroyers and slow-battleships from Naval Activities Sasebo."

Jersey hunched forwards until her chest squished against her desk and scribbled a note on her notebook. The other battleships did likewise, and Tenryuu started absentmindedly polishing her sword.

"Our analysts," Williams tried not to put to much weight onto that word. The first few months of the war had been nothing but bad calls from the intelligence branch. But they were finally starting to hit their stride. "suspect the Riau islands are being used as a distribution hub for supplies ferried in from the Celebes and Bismarck seas."

"Supplies, sir?" Jersey raised her hand. "Since when do fucking demons from the deep need logistics?"

"Since now," said Williams. "Observations from Albacore—" Tenryuu shivered "—and Shioi confirm it. The Abyssals have a logistical train. Or at least they act like they do."

Jersey flashed a razor-toothed smile. "Submarine feeding frenzy?"

"Ideally, yes," said Williams. "But we've got precious few submarines with any experience in commerce raiding, nor do we have the time to simply starve them out. This is going to be a surface-only operation."

The battleship smiled even wider.

"Admiral Kirkpatrick," said Williams, "is dispatching a fleet centered around Haruna—"

"Go Imoto-chan!" cheered Kongou.

"—Tiger—"

"Go Imoto-chan!" cheered Kongou again.

"—to punch though Sunda and take the Riaus."

"Question." Kongou raised her hand. "How are they going take the island with ships?"

"Kirkpatrick has a contingent of Australian Marines at her disposal."

Jersey let out a cackling laugh. "Oh hell yes!"

Kongou shot her a confused look.

"Those guys are badass!" explained Jersey. "They come from a place where everything is actively trying to kill them."

Kongou chuckled. "Emus, Dess."

"What?"

"Emus." Kongou looked at her and chuckled again. "Dess."

Jersey stared at the giggling Japanese girl for a moment.

"You two done?" asked Williams.

"Yes, sir." Jersey blushed, "Sorry."

"As I was saying," said Williams, "the Australians are taking the Riaus, and the Spratlys are too small and scattered to support anything bigger than torpedo boats, or possibly destroyers. Mogami will lead Kuma, Tama, and their DesDivs, along with Akitsu Maru to secure them." He turned to his girls, "That leaves the Paracels up to you."

The screen flipped to a satellite image of a tiny island dominated by a runway that thrust into the azure water surrounding it. "This is Woody island as it looked two years ago," said Williams. "The PLAN were busy converting it from a nameless island rock to a forward operating base. With a one-and-a-half mile runway and an artificial harbor that can support steel-hulls up to five-thousand tons, it commands the entire northern half of the sea."

Williams flipped to the next slide. It was a shallower angle of the same island, shot on black-and-white film from an airplane instead of a satellite. "This was taken two weeks ago by recon planes from Shioi."

"Fuck me," breathed Jersey.

The island was the same, only it wasn't. The harbor'd been dug out further, and there were three iron monsters anchored off the atoll ring. Battlecruisers, probably.

But the island itself was… wrong. It exuded evil and malevolence, like a giant festering wound in the middle of the sea. It was a mockery of everything the navy stood for, a rotting coal-back bit of hell transplanted to the Pacific. Even the water around the island looked gritty and foul.

"Mein Gott," breathed Prinz Eugen. "I… I know those ships."

All eyes swung to her.

"Derfflinger," the cruiser's voice was barely more than a whisper. "Lutzow… Hindenburg."

Williams pursed his lips. "Prinz Eugen, I'm afraid this isn't the only picture we've got of them."

The cruiser steeled herself. The muscles in her legs tensioned like steel cables, and she stared straight ahead. Then she gave a gentle nod.

The image flipped to another picture. A telephoto image of the battlecruisers. They were changed, modernized. Their masts were cut down and their sides bristled with anti-aircraft mounts.

The picture was just close enough to make out… something manning the rails. But it was too grainy to see more than dark, slick shadows. Like animated oil slicks commanding the hateful warships.

Warships which each displays with arrogant pride a red-banded swastika on their bows and flew from their masts a bloody red ensign.

Wood shattered as Prinz Eugen's fingers bit into the armrests of her chair. "Tell me," she hissed, her voice shaking with rage, "Tell me we're sinking those… traitors."

"That's the plan," said Williams. "You'll link up with LHDs off Korea, and take back our island."

"Sir," Jersey glanced back at the assembled kanmusu, "That's a hell of a lot of firepower, isn't it?"

"Perhaps," Williams shrugged. "But this mission cannot fail." He paused. "And the Tosa-princess was last seen retreating in this general direction."

"We'll kick her ass, sir," said Jersey. For once, there wasn't any bombast in the battleship's deadly-cold contralto.

"Outstanding." Williams smiled at her. "The next convoy for Japan leaves on the twentieth. You're be sailing with them. In the mean time…" Williams cast a worried glance at the furious Prinz Eugen, "Consider yourselves on leave. You've earned it."

Johnston's hand shot up.

"Yes," said Williams as he rubbed his temples, "The Navy got you tickets to Star Wars. There'll be a truck convoy waiting to take you on the eighteenth. Yeoman Gale has the details."

Johnston put her hand back down.

"Questions?"

The room was silent except for the sound of shipgirls looking around to see if anyone else had something significant to say.

"Outstanding, dismissed." Said the Admiral. "Jersey, hang back a moment."

Jersey pointed a finger at herself and shot him a confused look while the other girls filed out. "Sir?" she asked, "Am I in trouble?"

Williams looked at her, "Should you be?"

Jersey thought. "No?"

Williams sighed. "Look, Commander, you've only been back a few months, and so far you've acquitted yourself excellently."

Jersey blushed, "No, sir I-"

"Jersey," Williams held up a hand. "This is not up for debate."

"Sorry, sir."

The Admiral smiled. "Good, now… you'll be commanding a far larger fleet than you have in the past. In recognition of that, and your outstanding performance in past missions, the Navy has seen fit to promote you to the rank of full Commander."

Jersey blinked. "What?"

"You're an O-5, now Jersey."

Jersey shook her head, "Sir, uh… there's no way I've got the kinda time-in-grade for that."

"Jersey," Williams offered her a slightly more teasing smile, "When where you commissioned into the navy?"

The battleship shot him a quizzical look. "May twenty-third, sir."

"Of what year?"

"Nineteen-forty-three." The battleship blinked again, then she stiffed with a kind of military respect Williams hadn't seen in her before. "Ooooooooooh, okay. Thank you, sir."

"You earned it. Dismissed."

The battleship smiled, and turned on her heel with a squeak of rubber against flooring. For a moment, as she walked out of the briefing room with that hip-swinging gait of hers, Williams almost let himself think Jersey'd found the military discipline and candor hiding deep within her frame.

Then, mere seconds after the doors closed, a familiar roaring contralto thundered out. "HELL FUCKING YEAH, BITCHES!"

Williams sighed. She was going to be insufferable.

 

[Simon_Jester]

Meanwhile, on the other side of a continent, we learn a few things about the psychology of antisubmarine warfare escorts.

Destroyer cuddle puddles: they're not just adorable, they're practical.

==============================================

Naval Station Norfolk was the largest base of the world's largest fleet. Dozens of ships operated from its docks, hundreds of planes came and went every day. It was home to landmark achievements in naval aviation, home to mammoth fleets, home to a great and critical share of the U.S. Navy's twentieth-century history. As America geared up for the Abyssal War, they'd naturally made a few slight adjustments to their facilities. They'd planned ambitiously, expecting present trends to continue, and for Norfolk to become home port for a mighty force of America's new fleet.

The corner of the base set aside for Kanmusu Command Norfolk had indeed been planned ambitiously. Too ambitiously.

Norfolk's enclosed, indoor summoning pool had so far netted six failures and a blimpcat. The baths, with their oddly aromatic blend of oil and seawater, stood virtually unused. Norfolk's kanmusu mess hall, perhaps unique among dedicated shipgirl provisioning facilities the world over, did not have enough to do. Norfolk's shipgirl barracks, fit to house multiple carrier battlegroups, had yet to host a kanmusu of capital tonnage, aside from a few visits by the girls of the RN. The only semi-permanent residents were a scattering of quiet, shy destroyer escorts from elsewhere along the Atlantic coast, who rotated in and out of port as convoys entered and left the Chesapeake Bay.

Most of the rooms had been decorated on the assumption that a host of cruisers, carriers, and battleships would be filling out Norfolk's complement and sweeping the west Atlantic in short order. Instead, they were echoing, empty, oversized, with at least a dozen rooms per girl.

Rear Admiral Roscoe was starting to worry about the DEs' belief that the extra space was "scary." This was a sign of good judgment on his part. Delayed good judgment, unfortunately…

==============================================

Manning watched the two Edsalls came back to the table, carrying heaped platters of food on their trays. Camp sat down first, then produced a tiny glass bottle of hot sauce from a pocket and upended it over a heap of scrambled eggs. She looked up as Freddie Davis sat down… slowly and carefully, picking at her food without interest. "What's wrong, Freddie?"

Camp nodded slightly. Freddie had been nervous ever since they'd come back from the last convoy. Manning was worried too.

"There's… there's a submarine in my closet!" The nervous Edsall sunk her head into her hands. "I… I can hear it at night…" she muttered weakly.

"You're sure it's not just the fan or something?"

"NO! It's a submarine!"

"Only the one, right?" Manning sympathized, that couldn't feel good. But she didn't understand why that was so frightening. "What's so special about one submarine?"

"No, you don't understand! It's not just any submarine. You don't understand..." Freddie's voice quavered. "It's a missile submarine!"

Manning gasped. "It can't be! Those are just a monster story!"

"No, they're real! They, um, uh..." Freddie shuddered. "They sneak up on your coast and then... then..." Freddie sounded a little vague about that part. "Kaboom!" She spread her hands, making an echoing explosion noise. "They're like worst submarines!"

"I don't care if they're worst submarines! They're not hiding in the barracks, and they aren't real!"

"Are too!"

Camp shook her head. "They totally are." Smiling and raising one finger with a sententious air, she clinched her argument. "I heard about them in Vietnam."

"You're just trying to scare Freddie!" The Buckley-class scowled, trying unsuccessfully to loom in Camp's general direction, with all the miniscule heft her extra hundred and fifty tons' displacement provided. "Besides, even if missile submarines are real, why would one of them be hiding in her closet?"

"I don't know…" Freddie pulled her flying jacket tight around her shoulders. "Maybe it's just… keeping an eye on us and waiting for us to leave the base, so it can sneak past us?"

Camp nodded. "That makes sense…"

"You're both worrying about nothing and we should tell the Admiral!"

"I, um… tried. He just gave me the face he uses when he thinks we're being stupid. Then he told me there's no such thing as closet monsters."

"Well, there isn't."

Freddie set her jaw in an angry pout. "Oh yeah there are!"

"Are not!"

"Are too!"

At this point, the side of common sense suffered a severe setback. Camp took her sister Freddie's side. She chose to express her support by upending the remains of her plateful of eggs into Manning's face.

The hot sauce-laced eggs.

"AAAAACK!"

==============================================

It was late-o'clock and Freddie couldn't sleep. She couldn't risk closing her eyes. The boomer was there, waiting. She could feel it, even when she didn't hear little clicking and chirping noises. She was pretty sure the submarine must be spoofing her hydrophones somehow, because most of the noises didn't sound like they were actually coming from the closet. But that was just a worst submarine trying to lull her into a false sense of security. She was too smart to fall for a trick like that!

Freddie knew what she had to do. She also knew wasn't supposed to do things like that. At least, not on land. Definitely not on base. Especially not indoors. The Admiral had been very stern. Thinking about his "angry papa" face was scary. But there was a monster. In her closet.

With quiet that would have done a submathief proud, Freddie Davis slipped out of bed. Destroyer escorts knew what to do about sneaky hidden monsters trying to get a shot off at a soft, valuable target.

She knew this was probably a bad idea. Looking for missile submarines was dangerous. U-boats snuck up on you and got the drop on you. But that didn't matter.

Some of the briefings were confusing, but she understood the important parts. This wasn't like '45, or the Med, or even like the bad times back in '42, before she was born. It was worse. Abyssal submarines could sneak up the Chesapeake if they wanted to. They'd snuck up the Delaware before, and they'd-

Never. Again.

If she didn't make it... Camp would understand. Especially Camp.

Freddie sidled nervously up to her closet, still silent, trying not to breathe. A shimmer in the air by her head turned into four faeries, teetering on her shoulder, struggling with the weight of a miniature Mark 9 depth charge the size of a lemon. Gratefully, she plucked the explosive-packed teardrop from their hands, smiling affectionately. Three faeries clapped their hands over the fourth one's mouth before she could shout "Hey!" Then the four vanished.

Blur-fast, the destroyer escort jerked the door open, tossed in the depth charge, and slammed the door shut.

Blind time... blind time... wait a minute… uh-oh.

Realization dawned in the escort's eyes. Freddie bolted for the door of her room, then fled down the hall, screaming at the top of her lungs, "RUUUUNN!"

==============================================

Thomas Roscoe stood and stretched, his report concluded. He knew being such a perfectionist was probably a bad thing, but once in a while it was worth it to stay up as late as it took to get something really, truly right.

Even if Roscoe's base was a glorified waystation, and what he'd hoped would be an opportunity to get in on the ground floor of the Navy's new weapon against the legions of Davy Jones had turned out to be a dead end, he felt like he wasn't doing such a bad job.

They also serve who only stand and wait, right? He could take some pride in running a good waystation, and running it well. Yes, Kanmusu Command Norfolk was useful, efficient, quiet-

Two hundred pounds of Torpex detonated in Freddie Davis's closet.

==============================================

The ensuing structural collapse of the north wing of the shipgirl barracks, and most of the central building, did a lot to solve the problem of the excess space by default.

Whether by luck or by sparkly magic, the storm of debris narrowly avoided killing anyone. The destroyer escorts Manning, Camp, and Frederick C. Davis staggered out of the wreckage, wooden beams and cinder blocks bouncing off their scraped, bruised skins.

On consultation with base psychiatric staff, Admiral Roscoe addressed the underlying issue by mandating that all shipgirls below capital tonnage sleep two or more to a room whenever possible.

 

[theJMPer]

There was a spring in Jersey's step as she bounced down the base hallways. Partly because she'd finally got herself to bounce noticeably. Not excessively, mind you. She lacked Musashi's ridiculously limitless tracts of land and utter skirt-darkening fear of anything that even looked like it might give her support.

No, her breasts were what was known in the industry as "hydrodynamically perfect", and the jiggle they created was just enough to be noticeable without being overpowering. Like a gentle spritzing of A-1 on a fine steak, instead of an entire tanker-truck of ketchup on a semi-thawed chicken patty.

Yes, Jersey was very happy about her new appearance, even if it wasn't actually new to anyone but herself. She couldn't wait to show off to Crowning, and hear whatever unusually eloquent thing he might have to say about her. But first, there was something else she had to do.

"Yo, Docboat?" Jersey pounded her knuckles against the door to Major Solette's office. "Got a minute?"

Solette glanced up from his paperwork. "Yeah," he said with guarded voice, "But Heermann's already been released to active duty."

"Oh," Jersey shrugged, "Yeah, I know. This ain't about her."

Solette blinked, then let out a resigned sigh. Clearly he'd accepted his place as the helpless army observer in this churning sea of navy insanity. "Okay, I'll bite. What's up?"

Jersey planted her hands on his desk and leaned over with a wicked grin. "Honestly…" she bit her lip, "Part of me wants to make you touch my boobs."

Solette planted his palm firmly on his face. "Jersey. I swear, have you ever heard of SHARPs?"

The battleship blinked. "No, should I have?"

"Every time you open your mouth," said Solette, "I have to write a new one."

"Yeah, but you're army," said Jersey. "Doing paper work while the real heroes fight the war is… like… why god invented you."

Solette rolled his eyes. "Uh huh."

"Anyways," Jersey slapped her hands on the desk. Hard. Hard enough to leave noticeable gouges in the wood. Every time Solette was finally getting used to the humanity—and limitless immaturity—of the shipgirls, they had to go and do something to remind him of their limitless strength. "I know you're married, so I won't ask you to touch the boobies," the battleship grumbled out. "So a salute'll do."

"Jersey," Solette shook his head. "First off, the army doesn't salute indoors."

Jersey flashed a pout that'd put his teenage daughter to shame. In her toddler years.

"Secondaly," said the major, "We're the…" the battleship's wicket grin gave him pause. "same… rank…"

Jersey smiled at him. A smile so wide her cheeks had to be hurting.

"Williams promoted you," sighed Solette, "didn't he."

Jersey nodded, her smile growing even wider. "Imma commander now!"

Solette stared down the battleship, "Your cheeks hurt doing that."

"Really a lot," Jersey let her face drop back into its normal scowl. "Now hurry up and salute me."

"Army doesn't salute indoors," said Solette.

"Army's LAAAAAAAME," whined the battleship. "Navy rules, Army drools."

"What is this, third grade?"

"There's a courtyard right over there," Jersey pointed at a door not far down the hall, "You can salute me there."

"Jersey, I have—" Solette stopped. He was going to complain about paperwork, but he really didn't have any to worry about. At least not any that couldn't wait a few minutes if it meant putting a smile on a very hard-working battleship's face.

A face that was currently giving him the most pathetic destroyer-eyes the Major had ever seen, despite being attached to the most gigantically powerful woman he'd ever seen.

"Fine," huffed Solette. "But this counts as your Christmas present."

Jersey beamed at him. "I'm totally okay with this!" With that, the battleship grabbed his hand and skipped—yes, literally skipped. Like a schoolgirl on crack—to the courtyard with a long-suffering Major reluctantly in tow.

It didn't take long for the two to reach the outside. Just long enough for Solette to walk though the chain of decisions that lead to being forced to salute a boat.

"Okay," Jersey tugged her hat on straight and fussed with her aviators until they sat just right on her nose. "There. I'm ready."

Solette chuckled, and brought a bladed hand up to the brim of his patrol cap.

Jersey mirrored the motion, although she couldn't keep her giggles down. "Thanks," she said.

"Merry Christmas, Jersey," Solette smiled and let his hand hang by his side. "Permission to hug?"

"Please," Jersey smiled, and Solette gave her a nice gentle hug. "You're a good momboat, think you'll make a fine officer."

"Thanks," Jersey closed her eyes and let herself be swept away by the hug, just for a moment. "You're a good friend, Solette." She paused. "You know… for army."

The major shrugged. "Jersey, what're you standing on now?"

The battleship glanced down, and squished her feet against the rain-dampened grass. "Uh…"

"Say it."

"Grass?"

Solette fished a spare 'US ARMY' velcro tape from his pocket and stuck it against the battleship's formfitting vest. "Think that makes you honorary army now."

Jersey blinked. Then she scowled a scowl the likes of which Solette had never seen before. "LOW FUCKING BLOW!"

—|—|—​

"Jersey," Crowning smiled at his closed door. There were many reasons to love the towering battleship. Her stubborn devotion to her duty, her unwavering care for those she counted under her protection, her adorable pleasure in pie… but her stealthiness as not one of them.

"Wat?" came her trademark rough-edged contralto.

"You can stop pacing and come in now."

There was a pause, but Crowning could see her beautiful face screwing up like it was right before his eyes. Somehow, she looked even prettier like that. "How could you possibly know?"

Crowning rolled his eyes and let out a chuckle. "You weigh fifty thousand tons, I can hear the floor creak under your shoes from the other end of the building."

"Fifty-eight," said Jersey. Her voice had that grumbling lilt to it, like she wasn't quite sure if she was feeling irritated or amused. "If you're gonna call me fat, at least fucking get it right."

"Fine, fifty-eight," said Crowning. "But it's mostly muscle all in the right places. Now are you going to open that door or what."

Another pause, and a few muttered profanities too quiet for Crowning to catch, then the door swung open. Jersey offered a lazy, jerky wave and ducked though the doorway into his study. "Hi."

Crowning smiled at her. She was still the same battleship he'd grown to love, but… she was different.

There was a glow in her face that was fueled by something other than rage and fury. A lazy half-smile tinted more by girlish awkwardness than self-destructive loathing adorned that sculpted face of hers. Even her posture was different. Her hips set at a loose slant. And those mile-long legs of hers were on casual display in her shorts, her muscles slack instead of tense and coiled.

"Looking good," Crowning gave her a gentle hug, and tried his best not to touch her chest too inappropriately. He was trying his very hardest to look past her suddenly-displayed breasts to the warrior maiden beneath. But it was so very hard to ignore them, her new vest was practically sculpted to frame each one like a work of art.

Which, in Crowning's personal opinion, they technically were. Just like the rest of her, a great sculpture in flesh and steel forged by thousands of shipwrights and engineers. America's war machine given form.

"Thanks," Jersey blushed, her skin heating up enough that he could feel it though her shirt. "Uh… notice…" the battleship puffed her chest with all the subtle grace of an ice-skating hippopotamus. She glanced off at nothing in particular and 'casually' pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, "Anything else?"

Crowning rolled his eyes. "Jersey?"

"Hmm?" The battleship shook her hips a little and smirked.

"Can I ask you something?"

The battleship's chest deflated and she shot him a glance. "Yeah, what?"

"How do you spell the word subtle?"

Jersey blinked, those stunningly pretty ice-blue eyes of hers frosting over with confusion. "I don't fucking know!" she scoffed. "I'm a battleship, we don't fucking do—" she froze mid-tirade, her face still contorted from her rant. "Oh."

Crowning rolled his eyes and stood on his toes to give her a quick peck on the cheek. "They're very nice."

The battleship's eyelashes fluttered, but the rest of her was frozen in place like a statue of steel. A statue of steel that, for all her grace and beauty, looked more confused than a baby on a Roomba.

Finally, after almost five minutes, her lips started to move, "W-wat?"

"I said they're very nice," said Crowning, shooting a quick glance to the battleship's prominently displayed chest. Her breasts might not be as big as Musashi's—not even close, actually—but Crowning didn't mind. Her proportions were prefect the way they were, and those legs could put any other girl to shame.

"No, not that," Jersey's hand balled into a fist at her side, and her head started whipping around, examining each bookshelf-coated wall with increasing desperation. "FUCK!"

Crowning arched an eyebrow.

"I need something to hit!" barked the battleship. "Why is there nothing in your room I can smash!"

The professor chuckled, and offered her one of the thick wooden trays Bannie had used to deliver dinner. "Here."

Jersey took the tray and for an instant, her energy mellowed. "You sure?"

Crowning nodded.

"Thanks!" Jersey smiled, then put her fist though the board like it wasn't even there. Splinters sprayed across the room, and Crowning had to dodge one of the heavier chunks.

"Feel better?" he asked her.

She nodded, "really a lot."

"You have no idea how to deal with your emotions, do you?"

Jersey shook her head again. "Nope!" she said with cheery pride.

Crowning let out a smile in spite of himself. "That's why I love you, Jersey."

"Aww…." the battleship's knees buckled and she feel into a lazy sitting position on the floor. "Uh…" she glanced down at herself. "I meant to do that."

Crowning didn't feel like commenting. "So, you're going to be gone for Christmas?"

She nodded, "Yeah, sorry. It's, uh… fucking… battlethings and shit."

Crowning smiled and ruffled her hair, earning a happy purr-like hum from the battleship. Her eyes rolled closed and she leaned against his leg.

"Keep doing that."

He did as he was asked, gently running his fingers though her long hair and enjoying the feel of it against his skin. "I talked with the Admiral."

"Oh?"

"We've got a truck big enough to handle you at our disposal," said Crowning. "I was thinking," he settled onto the edge of his desk, letting Jersey rest her head against his legs while he stroked her hair, "Wake you up at noon, drive down to Seattle so you can gorge yourself on pie, then join up with the destroyers in time for the movie at midnight."

Jersey's eyes fluttered open and she stared at him."Noon to midnight?"

He nodded.

"How much of a glutton do you think I am?" said Jersey. Her tone was hard to read, but Crowning got the distinct impression she would be more upset if he low-balled her than the other way around.

He could, of course, point out the obvious logistical qualifiers. Even if Jersey woke up right at the stoke of noon—a dubious prospect at the best of times—she'd still need to get showered, get dressed, probably molest Musashi a bit, and herd her DDs around before she could even get in the truck. Then there was the drive down—and the hunt for parking spaces—to account for.

But brevity, as they say, is the soul of wit.

So instead, he said only a single word. "Pie."

Jersey blinked. "Okay, given." She snuggled up against him and closed her eyes again. "Now make with the head-scratchy again."

Crowning laughed and got back to work, gently kneading and brushing her thick golden hair with her fingers. Maybe he was imagining things, but for a moment, he swore her heard her purr.

For what felt like hours, he just smiled and combed out her shimmering mane. Then, finally the battleship glanced up at him with those ice-blue eyes of hers. "Uh, Doc?"

"Hmm?" he said, a contented smile on his face.

"I, uh…" she tapped her shoe against the floor, "I've got something to ask you."

"What?" Crowning reached for his notepad, and could already feel some back corner of his mind drawing up a list of potential reference material he might need. "Anything."

"It's, uh…" Jersey bit her lip and blushed. "Kinda personal."

"Jersey," Crowning ruffled her hair up with a pat to the head. "There's not a thing you can't tell me."

"Okay." The battleship puffed her cheeks out, her skin heating by fractions as she quite literally build up a head of steam. "Will you watch me sleep?"

Crowning blinked.

"Not-" Jersey held her arms up defensively, "Not… not like that. I just… I sleep better when someone's there."

"Like an escort?" Crowning tried not to show it, but he felt awed and humbled. Not just that she'd share this sliver of vulnerability to him, but that she apparently trusted him enough to stand watch over her alone. A task normally taken up by a full picket of destroyers.

Jersey nodded. "You know… keep the bad dreams away." She blushed, "If the demons come… you know…" she thrust her hand in the air, "Stabby stabby?"

The professor smiled, "I think I can manage that." For a moment, he said nothing. Then, after a glance under his desk, he spoke again. "And… since you're going to be gone on Christmas, I thought I'd give you this now."

In an instant, Jersey went from contentedly napping at his side to clawing at his shirt and staring wild-eyed just inches from his face. "Gimme," she yelped. "Gimmegimmegimmegimme!"

Crowning managed to get a finger on her nose and gently pushed the immature battle wagon back. "It's my understanding that you made Commander."

Jersey nodded while Crowning fished something from under his desk.

"I hope you still wear a sword with your dress whites."

Jersey thought for a second. Then, once she realized what was going on, she let out a loud squeal of excitement and pounced on the desk. "GIMME!"

Crowning laughed, and tossed her the long, slender package. Jersey tore at the wrapping like a child on Christmas morning. A very large, strong child with the immaturity of a much smaller one.

"I've got a few friends back home who know their way around a forge," said the professor, "hope you like it."

The battleship roared with happiness as she unsheathed a long slender-bladed officer's sword. The metal sang in the air as she swung it, testing the balance in her hand. "Holy Hannah," she breathed, turning it over in her hand.

The blade was etched and inlaid with gold. 'Firepower for Freedom', read one side. 'First to Fight' read the other.

"Oh…" Jersey's legs started to quiver again, and she promptly shoved her ass into a chair. "Oh… this is… thank you."

"It's forged from Abyssal steel," said Crowning. "From your first kill, the dreadnoughts in the strait."

Jersey blinked, and slid her fingers along the blade. "Holy Hannah," she breathed. "That's metal as fuck."

"I thought you'd say that."

Jersey bounced to her feet and started pacing. Each step drove her more frantic, each breath pushed her razor-toothed smile wider and soaked the fire burning behind those ice-blue eyes. "I… " she glanced at her blade. "Where's chunniboat?"

Crowning shot her a confused look.

"Tenryuu," said Jersey, "you know… sword, huge tits, thinks she's the coolest thing since me?"

"She have an eyepatch?"

Jersey nodded.

"Ah," the professor smiled. "Try the sparring room. Or the destroyer's quarters."

Jersey laughed and bolted out of the room screaming "I HAVE A SWORD, MOTHERFUCKERS!" at the top of her lungs. Only to come sprinting back in, plant a kiss on his cheek, then run screaming out again.

She was so happy, Crowning almost didn't regret this.

Almost.

—|—|—​

Tenryuu hunkered under the thick quilted blanket and smiled. If there was one thing the Americans always got right, it was size. The destroyer dorms were easily big enough to house all four Akatsuki sisters, and with their beds pushed together, there was even enough space for them to cuddle with their flagship for bedtime stories.

Inazuma was, as usual, snuggling half-asleep against Tenryuu's breast. The light cruiser wasn't quite sure why she was so much more stacked than her displacement would entail. She'd tried calling Janes' for clarification, but they just gave her a series of noncommittal grunts and hung up.

She didn't really care though, it was nice to have a bustline like hers. If for no other reason than destroyers liked to cuddle it. And Tenryuu, as a destroyer leader, would do anything for her division mates.

Ikazuchi smiled happily against Tenryuu's tummy. Her little ponytail tickled the cruiser's stomach every time she moved, but it was a happy kind of tickling. Akatsuki, meanwhile, sat leaning against Inazuma with a ladylike smile on her face, and Hibiki cuddled against Tenryuu's other breast with a tiny ghost of a grin on her serene face.

"Everyone set?" Tenryuu settled her reading glasses on her nose and thumbed though the pulpy pages of her book. Ever since she saw it at the base exchange, she'd been eager to give it a read, the premise just seemed too exciting, and the prologue captured her from the first word!

The four destroyers slowly signaled their acknowledgement with signal flags. The sun was down, and the sleepy DDs were falling back into their night-battle instincts.

Tenryuu cleared her throat and began. "Chapter one. Walking through the streets of Honolulu, James felt a certain sense of nostalgia." She was about to read the next sentence when the door exploded open.

The cruiser yelped in fright and tore her glasses off as fast as she could manage. Only they weren't there in the first place. Hibiki shot her a knowing glance and patted a pocket on her uniform. Clever girl.

"YO!" barked the intruder. A giant, sword-wielding American with a wild-eyed smile and, as mentioned before, a sword. "Chunniboat!"

Tenryuu fumed at her apparent nickname, "Yes, Jersey?"

"Check it!" Jersey flipped her blade around in her hand and offered it hilt-first to the sleepy light cruiser. "I have a motherfucking SWORD!"

"Oh," the moment Tenryuu's grasp closed around the hilt, she felt something… different about the blade. The balance was perfect, and it was as light and fast as a proper sword should be. But there was something else… the way the steel sang when it scythed though the air.

"It's forged from Abyssal iron," said Jersey with a wicked grin, "From those dreadnoughts I murderized my first week back."

"Wow," Tenryuu bounced to her feed, suddenly not caring if Jersey saw her fluffy pajama pants.

"I know right?" Jersey cackled, "It's so badass."

Tenryuu sliced though the air a few times as a test run. "Oh, this is awesome."

"Wanna go slice shit?" asked Jersey.

Tenryuu tossed the blade back and grabbed her own notched-back Katana, Waterline. "Very much so."

"CHAAAAARGE!" Jersey took off running with her sword held high. Tenryuu followed close on her heels with a wild cackling laugh.

Hibiki and Akatsuki shared a look. A long-suffering, tired look tempered by just a little bemusement. Then the two destroyers tucked in their sisters and turned the lights off. It was time to sleep, they'd witness the disaster's aftereffects in the morning like everyone else.

A/N: Thanks to Skywalker_T-65 (which for some reason SV isn't letting me tag) for letting me borrow Changing Destiny

 

[pjmoyer]

Jersey shows off her big-ass cannons (not that way):



(realized too late that it should be "Fire Three" because that's technically her aft turret, but...)

 

[theJMPer]

"HA HA, BITCHES!" Jersey flailed at a stack of cardboard boxes, tearing them to ribbons with her brand new weapon. "I HAVE A MOTHERFUCKING SWORD!"

Tenryuu hugged her gut tight and try not to burst out laughing. After her sparing match with Major Solette, she'd started to feel like her skills were a blade weren't worth mentioning. It was nice to get some perspective for what 'bad with a sword' really looks like.

"SWORD!" Jersey cackled and bashed a box with the dull back of her blade. Tenryuu wasn't sure if that was planned, or if the battleship had simply lost track of which end was which. She leaned more towards the latter one, though.

Seriously, Jersey was bad at this. It was like watching a fat kid with a mullet flail around with his twenty dollar E-bay 'samurah sword', only somehow worse. At least Jersey was in good enough shape to hurt herself.

"HA! HA!" Jersey drew the sword high over one shoulder and brought it swinging down again, only to do the same over her other shoulder. "HIIIIIIIIAH!" The battleship did a spinning jump and slashed at the pile of tattered cardboard.

Tenryuu couldn't hold in her laughter anymore. The old cruiser toppled off her feet and landed square on her stern with a howling laugh.

Jersey scowled and planted her hands on her hips. Or at least tried to, before a sharp poke in the thigh reminded her she still had a blade in her hand. "Fuck you, chunniboat."

Tenryuu tried to say something in response, but all that happened was a slight modulation of her shrieking laugh. She kicked at the pavement and tried to get her bearings again. "You're…" she gasped out between howls, "So… Bad!"

Jersey's scowl deepened, and she swung the blade though the air. It skipped off her nose with a pathetic metallic tink, leaving the battleship stunned and her sword with a little nick on the flat. "I'm so bad, huh?"

Tenryuu nodded. The laughter she'd been getting under control only flared up again after the nose incident.

"Well," Jersey flourished her blade again, though she was extra careful to keep it away from any extremities. "En garde, Chunniboat. Come at me if you think you're hard enough!"

Tenryuu's laughter died in an instant. Her lips twisted into a predatory smirk, and she slowly planted her hands on the pavement. "Hmm…" She backflipped herself onto her feet, "You wish to face the might of the heavenly dragon?"

The cruiser planted one hand on her scabbard and let the other close around the grip of her beloved katana. "To face the steel of the mighty waterline?"

Jersey blinked. "Well, duh."

But Tenryuu wasn't finished. "A weapon handed down through centuries," the cruiser smiled and slowly drew the blade with practiced grace. "Folded a million times by the greatest smiths of Japan."

"No it wasn't," sighed Jersey.

Tenryuu'd already worked up steam. She was going to finish her monologue, no matter what the irreverent American had to say. "Thrice as sharp as a European sword, and thrice as hard." She flashed Jersey a grin, "Ever wonder why medieval knights never tried to conquer Japan?"

"Because fucking Russia?"

"That's right," hissed Tenryuu, slowly drawing the tip of her blade from its sheath. The red-tempered steel seemed to glow in the floodlit parking lot. "They were too scared to fight the disciplined samurai and their katanas of destruction."

"No, they fucking weren't."

"Even in world war II," Tenryuu flourished the sword and held the flat against her nose. It might have looked impressive if her boobs weren't getting squished out of the way. "American soldiers targeted the men with the katanas first because their killing power was feared and respected."

Jersey rolled her eyes. "That's not even remotely fucking true."

Tenryuu bopped Jersey in the face with the flat of her blade. "Who's the katana expert here, me or you?"

Jersey just growled under her breath. "Are we fucking doing this or not?"

"Well," Tenryuu flourished her blade again, "If you insist."

The battle was short and pointed. For once, Tenryuu had someone to spar with that she didn't have to tip-toe around. She didn't have to hold herself back like when she sparred with the Major. She could hit Jersey with every fiber of muscle in her body, and the big battleship would just shrug it off.

It was a nice ego-boost too. After her last match with Solette, she'd felt hopelessly left in the dust. Now she knew she wasn't even in the same ocean as a true beginner. Like Jersey.

She sucked.

The battleship towered over Tenryuu, her arms rippled with coiled muscle, and she moved with the boldness of one fully aware she was beyond invincible. And she had absolutely no idea what she was doing.

She just flailed her sword around with a limp wrist, apparently praying that the law of averages would eventually win her a solid blow. Which, at long last, it did.

Jersey's blade came down on Tenryuu's right floater, but the angle was too steep. Instead of biting in, the sword just skittered off the hovering metal and ricochet away. Then, carried by its own momentum, the sword bounced back to hit Jersey square in the nose. Again.

"OW!" Jersey scowled and planted a hand on her face. There was yet another barely-visible dent in the flat of the blade. "This is stupid."

"I told you you'd lose," teased Tenryuu.

"WHY DID WE DO THIS," grumbled Jersey. "we have guns."

"Fufufufu," Tenryuu sheathed her sword with a flourish. "You scared?"

"Fuck you, chunniboat," Jersey scowled and slid her own blade back into its scabbard. "I want pie."

"Mess hall?"

"Mess hall."

—|—|—​

Captain John Henry Solomon hunkered low in his bridge chair and clutched a coffee mug close to his chest. Not so much to protect it from the elements—the seas off Hawaii were gentle and the winds non-existent this morning—but to shield himself from the judging eyes of his crew.

Solomon'd never developed a taste for coffee, in all his years with the navy, the best he was ever able to do was tolerate the stuff. Some might call it heresy, but the captain preferred throughly-iced tea as his beverage of choice.

In any case, it was his boat. To quote the famous and eloquent words of New Jersey herself, he could do what he wanted.

"Captain." Solomon's XO, a New Englander named Bill Holland with the resolute countenance and non-existent neck of a bulldog, smirked at him and took a sip from a mug of the blackest coffee the navy could offer. The man said nothing, but the subtle twinge in his massive jaw betrayed a slight distaste for the bitter brew.

"XO," Solommon smirked, and took a long, luxurious drag from his beverage of choice.

"Fine day to be at sea," Holland leaned against the bridge railing, peering over at the glassy smooth sea the ship ever so lazily paddled though.

"Mmm," Solomon nodded. To tell the truth, he hated it. His was a ship of war, she was meant to take the fight to the enemy, not sail lazily around an island paradise hoping to frighten the demons away. It felt wrong, almost sickening. There were so many places—entire countries, even—burning away while he steamed around looking pretty. This wasn't what he joined up for.

He knew his XO felt the same, and he had to suspect most if not all of his crew felt the same. They yearned for action. But in this new world where the presence of magic was made suddenly and painfully obvious, nobody wanted to jinx the whole thing by complaining of boredom.

For a moment, the two men just stared into the salty sea and tried not to think about action.

"Sir!" the OOD's taut voice cut though the silence, sounding a little to tense for any normal action.

"I wasn't thinking anything," said Holland.

"Me either," muttered Solomon. "OOD, what's up?"

The Officer of the Deck, a freckle-faced Lieutenant Sam Ryan, gulped for air for a second. "Message from the Jones, sir. She's under attack."

Solomon cursed under his breath and glanced at the plotting display. John Paul Jones,Halsey, and Amatsukaze were less than two hundred miles south of Kauai. So close to safety they could almost taste it.

"Sound general quarters." Solomon pulled heavy flash gloves on with a grimace. He hated wearing the darn things, especially in the Hawaiian heat. "OOD!"

"Sir?" Ryan glanced at him with taut, tense eyes. He was one of the younger officers on the ship, and one of precious few who hadn't had a ship all but shot out from them.

"What's she facing?"

The OOD nodded, and hastily passed the request back do the CIC. "Amutsukaze reports two Scharnhorst-class battleships."

Solomon cursed. Taking destroyers, even ones as good as Burkes or Kagerous, against hunting battleships like that was a suicide mission.

"XO," barked the captain. "Contact Admiral Kinsey, tell him—"

"Sir," Ryan cut him off. "Orders from the Admiral, we're released from our patrol station."

Solomon nodded.

Taking a destroyer into a battle like this would be suicide.

"Plot intercept course and engage at three-zero knots." barked the Captain. Deeo below his feet, he could feel the gentle hum of idling turbines turn into into a furious roar. "Get our UAV in the air. And get me the Jones."

"Sir," the OOD gave him a nod. "you're go for the Jones."

Solomon cradled the handset. He was damn lucky he wasn't on a destroyer. "John Paul Jones, this is USS Missouri-actual. Turn west under smoke, we're en-route to support you."

"Understood sir," came the wire-tense voice of Jones' radioman.

"Sir, all stations manned and ready."

Solomon smiled. For a second, just the tiniest shade of a second, he'd heard a calm contralto join his OOD's voice. Deep beneath his feet, recruits fresh out of training and grizzled sea dogs from Big Mo's last sortie worked as one, coaxing life out of the old battleship's boilers.

She was an old ship, the oldest ship in the navy that didn't sail under canvas wings. She shouldn't have even been in the water. Decades of neglect as a museum hadn't been kind to the old girl, her boilers were rusted and filled with silty debris, half her gun mounts had frozen in place, and her wiring was frayed and broken.

Only they weren't.

When it came time to pull her back out of mothballs, the museum curators swore up and down she was exactly like they left her all those years ago. Time and salt are harsh mistresses to ships of steel. But this time… this one time they'd made an exception for Big Mo.

Solomon let out a giddy howl as the battleship roared to life. Even on the bridge, he could hear—feel—her turbines thunder. The gentle idling purr was gone, replaced by a quarter-million horsepower of howling American fury.

The sea to her stern churned to foaming white as her screws bit in without mercy. Waves piled up against her slender bow before streaming off to each side, terrified by the presence and fury of a truly angry battleship.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the angular form of the Chafee working up to full speed.

The destroyer was a fifth Mo's displacement and a sixth her age. She was built with the most modern construction and engineering techniques known to man. She was powered by literal jet engines.

And she was panting to keep up with his ancient battlewagon.

"OOD, get me Chafee-actual!" barked Solomon.

"Sir," Ryan gave him a nod.

The captain plucked the handset from its cradle with a smirk. "What's the matter, Fremming?" he teased, "The old girl too slow for you?"

"Age before beauty, my friend."

Solomon laughed and slammed the handset back. He'd spent enough time waiting around, now it was time to hunt.

—|—|—​

"Hey, Doc," Jersey stuck her head into the professor's office. "You got a minute?"

The battleship must've just finished a pie binge. Crowning could tell because of the subtle way she kept hugging her washboard-flat belly. Battleships might not get fat, but they could still feel their dinners sloshing around inside them if they ate enough. And, knowing Jersey's ravenous gluttony, she most certainly ate enough to feel stuffed.

They never looked full, but a skilled eye could pick things out from the way they moved. Jersey'd just eaten her fill, he could tell from the gentle swoosh of her hips and the slightly lazier pace of her gait.

Also, the spots of blueberry around her lips helped.

"Of course," Crowning set down his latest choice of reading material, a scholarly examination of shipgirls though history. After making sure his place was properly marked, and the three highlighters he kept at the ready were capped, he turned a gentle smile to the towering battlewagon.

"Great," Jersey smiled and slid into the room. That was the only way to describe the way she moved, it wasn't the energetic trot of her usual gait. Her whole body seemed to glide, like honey poured over hot glass. It would've been entrancing even if she wasn't stunning.

"Enjoy your pie?" asked Crowning, desperate to keep himself from falling too entranced by the battleship's—by the woman's body.

Jersey froze, and both hands clapped to her belly. "I—"

"You have some on your face," Crowning smirked.

"Oh," Jersey blushed, and scrubbed herself with her sleeve. "So… I'm not getting fat?"

"Jersey, all the fat you have," Crowning cast a brief glance at the battleship's newly-displayed chest. Not enough to qualify as a leer, he respected her too much for that, but enough to let her know he noticed and appreciated, "Is in exactly the right places."

The battleship thought for a second, the bit her lip to stifle a girlish titter. "Um…" she looked around, "Think you could… uh… check anyways?"

Before Crowning could answer, the battleship zipped open her vest and pulled her shirt up. It wasn't all the way, just enough to get an eyeful of a stomach that could've been chiseled by Adonis himself. Her muscles rippled under her pale skin in defiance of the vast bounty of pie she must've gorged herself on mere moments ago.

But what drew his attention most as the scar on her side. The same one she'd worn all these months, only this time it was so faint it was all but unnoticeable.

"Hey," Jersey flexed her belly. Already chiseled muscles leaped out in sharp relief. "Too much?"

Crowning smirked, "since when do those words even exist in your vocabulary?"

"Since…" Jersey set her shirt down. "Uh… fucking…" She sighed and slumped to the floor. "Head scratchy?"

Crowning blinked. "You're such a child."

"Hey!" Jersey pointed a finger at him. "Fourth-youngest battleship ever."

"Fair enough," Crowning smiled and started massaging the girl's golden blond hair. "That the only reason you wanted me here?"

"Uh," Jersey shrugged, "No, not really. It's… about my bedtime." She glanced at her toes and scuffed her shoe against the carpet. "If, uh… you're still willing to—"

"I am," Crowning ran a hand though her hair.

"Good." Jersey leaned against his leg and made another of those quiet almost-purr noises.

It took Crowning almost twenty minutes to coax the happy battleship off the floor and over to her bedroom. Luckily, it didn't take her nearly as long to get changed into her pajamas—long sleep pants and a tank-top that said "MAXIMUM OVERTSUN" on the front. Apparently it was a present from Kongou.

Then, without further ado, Jersey flopped onto her bed in a heap of limbs and shimmering strawberry-blond hair. She didn't even remotely fit onto the mattress, her legs hung off the end and one arm was almost totally on the floor.

But somehow, Crowning just found that more endearing. He settled into a chair with a smile, cracked open his book, and began the night's watch.

—|—|—​

For the past three days, the sky had been dark and thick with choppy overcast clouds. The lead blanket had fallen over the whaling fleet hours after they'd left Tokyo bay, grounding their aircraft and forcing the ships to stare nervously into the dark water.

Shinano hated herself for it, but some part of her preferred the overcast gloom of the trip up to the cloudless blue sky she steamed under now. At least… at least under the clouds she could pretend she was a real carrier. She was just as helpless as Jun'you and Ryuujou. Her planes were just as pointless on her hastily converted deck.

But now that little measure of solace was gone. Jun'you and Ryuujou launched their planes with abandon. They smiled and laughed as glistening white fighter-bombers roared down their decks and burst into the sweet pale-blue sky. They were carriers, real carriers.

Shinano just sailed lazy circles around the Nisshin Maru and tried not to think about what they were doing. She didn't have a problem with whaling, but she did appreciate how hard they worked.

Manning a factory ship wasn't an easy ride under the best of conditions, and doing so in the middle of winter? With the ever present threat of submarine and air attack looming over their necks? And those sailors did it without complaint, day after day, month after month.

And so much of their hard labor would never be seen by the people of Japan. Shinano sniffed and hugged herself tight. Far, far too much of it would go straight to her useless belly!

"Hey, Shinano?" Kiyoshimo tugged at the streaming tail of Shinano's long overskirt.

Shinano sniffed, and pulled her glasses off. Maybe if she cleaned them hard enough, the destroyer wouldn't notice the red in her eyes. "Yes?"

"You okay?" She'd been awfully quiet this whole trip, especially after Shinano started crying when she asked her about becoming a battleship. Shinano hated herself for that too. Look at her, proud sister of the Yamato triplets crying like a baby in front of a destroyer who called her what she was.

Shinano nodded, and turned her face into the wind. Ostensibly to… look for planes… or something else that carriers do. But really, she didn't want Kiyoshimo to see her misery. The destroyer was more battleship than she'd ever be.

"You sure?" Kiyoshimo puffed her little chest and planted her hands on her hips with defiance. "A ba— a warship must always look after her division mates!"

Shinano sniffed, and slid her glasses back on. "I am," she said. "And thank you."

Kiyoshimo smiled. For a moment, the girl tried to give Shinano a nice pat on the head, but even standing on tip-toes she didn't have the reach.

"Hey hey!" Jun'you's giggling voice carried over the waves with a hint of sake-lubricated levity. Her long, gravity-defying hair wafted in the sea breeze, and her eyes wore the thousand-yard stare of a carrier focusing on her aircraft. "Got something here!"

Shinano glanced over, her curiosity overcoming her misery for the time being.

"Huhh…" Jun'you stared down, her eyes twitching like she was watching ants crawl along the waves. "Looks like there be whales, here!" she laughed, "I count…." she flourished a hand and started counting on her fingers. "one, two, three, four, five… looks like five humpbacks! 'bout thirty miles south-west of us, heading closer."

"Copy that," said Nisshin Maru. Or at least one the factory ship's radiomen. "Keep them spotted, will you?"

Jun'you nodded, her eyes still glued to something far below her. "Okie Dokie!"

"Hey, Shina?" Ryuujou's laid-back accent crashed over the converted battleship's timid ears.

"Hmm?" Shinano worried her wrought-iron bow and braced herself.

"I'm, uh…" Ryuujou shrugged as a flight of zeros bounced down onto her deck. "Getting a little thirsty here."

"Me too!" added Jun'you. "A carrier can't live off just sake, you knoww~"

Shinano blinked. She might be a useless carrier, but her avgas tanks were full to bursting, and she had plenty of ordnance for her acrophobic planes aboard. "Y-yes," she stammered, slinging her bow over her shoulder and fishing around in her armored quiver.

It took her a minute, she was still learning the ins and outs of her own hull. But eventually her quartermasters found what she was looking for and placed it in her hands. "Here!"

Shinano's face blushed into a timid smile, and she handed out nice blue bottles of Ramune to the two proper carriers. "It's… it might be a little warm."

Ryuujou shrugged, and took a gulp of the depressingly lukewarm beverage. Just one, little sip before she put it back down. "Thanks, Shina."

Shinano blushed, and nodded at the light carrier. "I— if I could get it colder—"

"Dun' worry!" Jun'you clapped a hand on the towering girl's back. "'s fine the way it is."

"Yeah," added Ryuujou, "It's a chilly day anyways."

Shinano smiled. She could almost believe them. Almost. But it was nice of them to try. "Thanks."

 

[theJMPer]

(so, this ended up being longer than I'd intended... no Mo today.)

- - - - - - -

Jersey woke with a contented yawn. She couldn't remember a time when she slept that peacefully, not since… well, since she came back. Her whole body felt refreshed, like she'd spent the night at a friendly port instead of floating adrift with her crew huddling at battle stations. She even had a dream. One of the nice, calming, natural ones, not a creepy vision from beyond or below or whatever the fuck that frozen sea thing was.

She couldn't remember much of it, just a few flashes. Oiled-up beach volleyball, mostly. But also Musashi licking… something off her belly. It was really weird, but in a way the battleship was strangely okay with.

"Mornin, world," Jersey grunted and wiped a rivulet of oily drool off her mouth. It shimmered against the back of her hand like oil, but it stank like rotten bilge water… which it probably was.

On the other side of the room, Crowning was fast asleep in his chair. A book of ancient history lay open across his lap. Jersey would have passed it by, but the cover caught her interest.

A woman in flowing white robes—a quite stunning woman at that—stood on a churning ocean with a flaming sword in her hand. Behind her were a handful of scared-looking men in Greek-looking armor.

The title read "Shipgirls of the ancient world", by a "Daniel Ja—" Jersey couldn't make out the rest of the author's name, Crowning's fingers were in the way. It didn't really matter anyway, it looked like the kind of book she'd bore herself to death reading, especially when she could just have him tell her the good bits.

The battleship scrubbed the back of her hand macros her face, making sure she cleaned up as best she could. Then, clasping her hands behind her, she leaned over to plant a single soft kiss on his scruffy cheek. "Thanks," she whispered, allowing herself one more kiss. "For watching over me."

The professor shifted in his sleep, and Jersey swore she saw the corner of his mouth flick upwards for a moment.

Jersey suppressed a giggle and turned for the shower. He was probably still asleep, who knows how long he stayed up watching over her. But on the off chance he'd woken up, Jersey took a moment to pull her shirt off before she ducked into the bathroom.

With her back turned to him, her lats flared like the hood of a cobra—No! No, like the wings of an eagle. A big, soaring bald eagle. With shutter-shades. Yeah, yeah, that's so much cooler than a snake. She might not be the bustiest battleship around, but there wasn't even a question that she was the strongest. And if Crowning was into her for her strength, well… she could afford to show off off a little.

Besides, she wasn't really being vain. She was just providing a pedestal for all the naval engineers and shipwrights to show off their stellar work.

Yeah.

Tooootally not vain.

The battleship smirked to herself and finished getting naked in the shower. She might be a show-off, but even she still had standards. Unlike IJN Terrified-that-someone-somewhere-wasn't-able-to-oogle-her-fucking-oversized-pagodas. Jersey had class.

Even over the crash of water—warm water this time. She wasn't feeling mopey enough for a cold shower—against her hull, the battleship heard someone stir. "Yo, Doc?" she stood on tip-toes and stuck her head over the shower rail. "That you?"

"Mmhm," Crowning let out a medley of sounds like a cat stretching out in the sun. "You're up early."

Jersey blinked. "I am?"

"It's a quarter past ten."

"Huh," Jersey cracked a smile, "Look at that."

"You're a regular early-bird," chuckled Crowning. "I'm gonna get some breakfast and—"

Jersey's belly let out a howling roar. The battleship hastily clutched at her middle with a pained grunt. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"I'll get us a table then?"

Jersey smiled and cranked the water up a bit to cover her growling tummy. "Yeah, please."

"And warn the food staff you're coming?"

"That too," Jersey socked herself in the stomach and shot the insubordinate organ an officery scowl. It was so much easier to deal with backtalk from the rank-and-file when said rank-and-file wasn't literally part of you.

Stupid shipgirl bullshit.

"Don't spoil your dinner," teased Crowning.

Jersey rolled her eyes. "As fucking if!" Come to think of it, she really couldn't think of a time she'd been full. Contented, yes. But never so full she couldn't eat another plate if she tried. There was always room to slosh around her her belly, which she supposed made sense.

Steaming—or walking—around with her bunkers filled to bursting hurt her torpedo-protection. Not to mention making it miserable for her crew to get around with her holds overflowing with things.

But before she could contemplate the metaphysical mysteries of being both girl and ship in one, her primal urge for pancakes overtook her and she turned the shower off.

Her hair was already mostly-dry by the time she'd fumbled though the steamy mist for her towel (Awesome shipgirl bullshit!), and she hastily tied the warm terrycloth around her. Not so much to dry off, but to keep her hair from tickling her butt.

She hated that.

She finished drying off, and changed into her usual outfit—or usual plus the special vest Bowers' provided. She'd save the special date outfit for later, she wanted it to be a surprise.

Then, after taking a moment to make sure her Superior American Engineering…es were properly displayed to the downtrodden masses forced to toil with Inferior Japanese Products, Jersey pulled her cover on tight and bolted for the mess hall.

She'd never seen the place so deserted. Normally she stopped by around lunchtime for her first meal, and again around dinner time to finish out the day. But apparently ten-thirty hours wasn't a popular dining time.

But who cares? There's pancakes!

Jersey giggled to herself and loaded a tray with pancakes. She only stopped once she ran up against the structural limitations of pancake-based architecture. Delicious they may be, but they don't stack well once you get over a foot or so.

Then, after helping herself to a hearty helping of bacon, sausage, ham, hash-browns, scrambled eggs,fried eggs, hard-boiled eggs, coffee, coffee cake, French toast, non-surrendering toast, and orange juice, the battleship went looking for her lo— her lov—- her friend.

"Think you've got enough there?" Crowning chuckled from behind a modest meal of buttered toast, scrambled eggs, and a few strips of bacon.

"Fuch yuah," grunted Jersey though a mouthful of syrup-drenched pancake. "Ahm eatahn foah ovah nuntuun-hunna!"

Crowning rolled his eyes. "Swallow, Jersey. Swallow."

The battleship did that with some reluctance."I said, I'm fucking eating for over nineteen hundred." She blinked, and patted her stomach. "This is gonna get really fucking weird if I ever get pregnant."

Crowning cocked an eyebrow. "Can shipgirls get pregnant?"

"I dunno, can we?" Jersey popped a hard-boiled egg into her mouth and smiled. "I mean, we're boats, not peoples."

The professor shook his head and took a small bite of his toast. "Jersey, you're not a boat. You're a—"

"Ship," said Jersey. "I'm a ship." There as a fragile finality to her voice, and she locked eyes with him for a full minute without eating a thing. "I'm a ship," she almost pleaded.

A shadow passed over Crowning's face, then he slowly, sadly nodded. "Fine, you're a ship. But a very pretty one."

Jersey thought for a second. "Acceptable. So, where's everyone else?"

"Cruisers are out shopping," said Crowning, "Then I think they're gonna marathon the first three Star Wars movies."

"Which first three?" asked Jersey with deadly earnest.

"The good ones."

"Okay," the battleship settled back behind her rapidly-depleting mountain of food. "Continue."

"Taffies and DesDiv six have already had their first two meals," Crowning ticked off his fingers, "Naka and Tenryuu should bring 'em by for lunch in an hour or two."

Jersey giggled. There was something adorably cute about the destroyer's need-slash-preference for lots of small meals scattered though the day.

"And Musashi's with Wash and Kirishima on the patrol line."

"What about Kongou?" Jersey wolfed down a whole stack of pancakes.

"I'm… not really sure," said Crowning. "I asked Gale, but she gave me a long explanation that I couldn't follow. Something about quantum super-position and Schroedinger's Dess."

Jersey chuckled. "I have no idea what that means, but it sounds accurate."

The professor smiled, and gave a sheepish shrug. "That's what I thought. So, you excite for our outing?"

"You can say 'date'," said Jersey.

"Fine, you excited for your first date?"

The battleship blinked, "Go back to the first one."

Crowning took a sip of coffee and shot her a knowing look over the mug's rim. "So you areexcited."

"Fuck you," Jersey drained her mug before he'd put his down. "I'm not fucking scared of anything."

"Not even your feelings?" teased Crowning.

"I will cut you," grumbled Jersey. "What were you reading earlier, anyway?"

Crowning smiled, and leaned in over the table. His eyes glinted with the glee of a practiced storyteller, and his voice was low and enticing when he spoke. "Jersey, have you ever heard of the Aeneid?"

The battleship nodded, "I can read. I just choose not to."

The professor smirked, "In book nine, Trunus, enemy of the Trojans, marches against the Trojan camp. He's unable to find a way though their defenses, so he circles around to their defenseless boats and burns them to their keels."

"Uh… huh…" Jersey blinked.

"But what he'd forgotten," Crowning smirked, his voice breathy and tense as he spun his tale. "Was that those ships were no mere boats. They were blessed by the old gods. Cybele, mother of the gods and sister to Saturn offered her sacred grove to form their keels, and begged her son Jupiter to render them immortal."

"Holy fuck," breathed Jersey.

Crowning was too into his story to notice. "As Turnus and his army watch, the burning ships pull free of their anchors and slip beneath the waves, only to surface again as sea nymphs." He paused. "Beautiful maidens standing astride the waves."

The professor settled back in his chair with a knowing smile. "Thousands of years ago, Virgil described a shipgirl summoning and got every last detail correct."

Jersey was too excited to even eat. "Get to the part where you start talking really fast."

"Most scholars," said the Professor, still keeping his even tone for now, "Consider this the first literary deus ex machina. These ships had gone though so many trials and torments… they deserved more than burning undefended at anchor. So Virgil took a few liberties with the facts, and gave these valiant ships a chance to live again. To live in glory."

"Doooooc," Jersey motioned for him to speed up. She wasn't the only one listening, not anymore. What felt like the entire mess hall was huddled around the professor, hanging on his every word.

"For decades, centuries even, people though the Iliad was a myth," said Crowning. "Until in 1870, Heinrich Schliemann dug up a bronze-age city, right where Homer said it'd be. What happened to these Trojan ships was adeus ex machina. But not a literary one."

He pointed a finger squarely at Jersey, "Gods." He swung his hand to point at a battle-weary destroyer sitting at anchor, "From the machines."

Everyone in the mess hall held their breath, and even Jersey could only mouth an utterance of terrified surprise.

"And," continued Crowning, "I think the scholars are right. Just not the way they thought. Look at the girl's we've got back. Battleships. Jersey—"

The battleship almost jumped from her seat.

"You were built to rule the seas. To lay claim to an ocean and dare any who opposed you to take it from you. To inspire terror and awe with your very presence," Crowning's voice was faster now, his diction perfect but tinged with hot-blooded intensity. "To stand like a rock in the storm, and defy any who'd touch those under your protection. To tell the world that if they want what's behind you, they must stand in front of you."

He took a breath, and the room held its own.

"History never let you live up to your potential," said the professor. "But now the old gods of the sea have given you a second chance. A chance to show them and the world what you truly are."

Jersey stared slack-jawed at him for a full five minutes. "Is… are— are you sure?"

"No," admitted the professor. "But it makes more sense than any other theory."

The battleship blinked. Then, slowly, she pulled her aviators off her hat and settled them over those startlingly blue eyes. "The old gods brought me back?"

"Possibly," said Crowning.

"Well," Jersey smirked and cracked the bones in her muscular neck. "I came here to eat pie and kick abyssal ass." She glanced at one of her many watches, "And it's almost time for pie."

 

[Old Iron]

Iron can write happy things again!

* * * * *

Hiei returned to consciousness with a slow, easy pace. She shook off the fog and the cobwebs of sleep as she sat up with the kind of lazy grace more comparable to a well fed predator. While she quite enjoyed the soft lapping of the waves against her hull or the serene calm of the docks, she would readily admit they did not quite compare to a warm, comfy bed. Particularly one replete with the feeling of home.

It was one of the better perks of having been granted a form capable of experiencing the sensations of the body and the ability to comprehend and appreciate them. That she was still a fully capable and qualified Kongou-Class battleship made it even better. Well, there were the obvious downsides. A body capable of feeling pleasure was equally capable of feeling pain as well. Joy and despair to boot.

She rolled her shoulders before arcing her back and reaching towards the ceiling with her remaining hand in a long stretch. That tense feeling of taut muscle brought a satisfied moan from her lips. A grunt and another moan accompanied formerly misaligned machinery and slightly off-kilter joints easing back into their appropriate places.

With a gasp she released the breath she had been holding and relaxed, slouching over before flopping back onto the bed.

"Nnn..." She stared upwards for a few moments, letting her mind drift to the past few days. So much had happened in such a short span of time. Things were already a bit of a madhouse before New Jersey had been summoned by the Americans. But then it seemed as if everything had kicked into high gear. Hmm... Kinda like back in the forties. And then Arizona of all ships had showed up!

In Japan no less!

It made her head hurt when she tried and wrap her mind around it. Maybe if she'd seen the summoning herself? Her Admiral had a way about having strange things happen in his life, so that probably had something to do with it.

"Hmm... thoughts for later. I have things to do!" declared the battleship to no one but herself.

She sat up and all but bounded out of bed, landing on her feet with a slightly unsteady thumping sound. Balance... would be an issue for a while. She was missing a few hundred tons of herself mostly on one side after all.

"Step one, getting dressed." Hiei strolled over to the closet and began rifling through the myriad clothes hanging neatly pressed upon hangars of varying colors and designs. The only ones with any sort of uniformity were, reasonably, the ones sporting uniforms. "Nope. No. Hmm... Not in the mood for white. Or a button down. Oh bugger, this one has a hole in it. ...And that one does too."

It took her a few minutes of searching, grumbling, and tossing of most holey garments before finally grabbing a grey t-shirt and a pair of jeans that she deemed suitable. Plus, they were easy enough to put on. The shirt was quite baggy, so it didn't irritate her wounds any more than it had to. And the same went for the jeans. Though that was less about any easing on her screws than it was they were really, really comfortable. She might be bereft a bra or her bindings, but she really didn't want to try putting the latter on with one arm and all her sports bras were probably going to be a bit too tight on her shoulder. Something of Mutsu's might work. Or if she could find one of her camisoles…

Well, there weren't any here, so she'd need to go hunting through the laundry to find a clean one. And while perfectly capable of simply going through most of the day without, you never knew when you might need to run out unexpectedly or who might stop by. She wasn't that kind of ship after all!

One way or another she'd get it sorted out.

But she actually had to get dressed first. And therein lay the trouble. At least she didn't need to get undressed first.

Sometimes just sleeping in nothing but your knickers was really comfortable.

"Oh, fiddlesticks," Hiei remarked as she held out the shirt by a sleeve and tried to grab the its pair with her other hand, only to realize that hand wasn't there anymore. This would definitely take a lot more getting used to than she initially thought. Conceptually, no problem. In practice… very real problems. "Right. Okay. I can do this!"

She contemplated the upper wear for a few moments before nodding sharply and tossing it into the air. With a deft hand, she caught it by the lower end and draped it over her head. With a bit of struggling and nearly putting her head through a sleeve she managed to finally adorn herself with the shirt.

Backwards.

One frown and a mild curse later, Hiei had managed to right the apparel and no longer looked quite so silly. Well, no more silly than anyone wearing a shirt saying '#1 Dadmiral' on it. It was also a bit large for her. At least it was a bit easier to manage thanks to that. Well, sort of.

"Hiei-mama?"

"Oh! Jane!" Hiei blinked and turned to face the littlest Richardson, a smile blooming on her face until it was plain as day. "Good mor-guf!"

Hiei found herself interrupted as Jane barrelled into her stomach with the most bearish hug that could possibly be delivered by a child. And either she was way more drained from her ordeal than she thought, or Jane was channelling some deep mysterious reserve of power. Probably the former.

"Well, someone's full of energy this morning." She ruffled Jane's hair affectionately and was rewarded with a bright smile. It was good to be home.

"Of course I am! Everyone came home and Daddy said he'd take me on an outing tomorrow and Mutsu-mama finally came back and Ari-mama made breakfast for me!" She released her hold on Hiei and bounced around the half-clothed battleship like an over-enthusiastic tugboat.

"Lucky. I want to try some." Hiei pouted as she realized she'd missed a nice, home cooked morning meal. And one made by Arizona no less. As a ship who prided herself on her culinary exploits, she was always up for trying new foods. Or even everyday things made by different people. Lots of new experiences and ideas to be had there.

"She said you needed your rest." Jane paused in her dashing to and fro to pose sternly with a hand on her hip and a finger raised as if she were some sort of humorless instructor. "The Lieutenant needs as much time to recover as possible if she is to return to her duties."

Hiei snickered openly at Jane's attempt at imitating Arizona.

"But Ari-mama did leave you some leftovers to warm up. And she gave me instructions and everything just in case you couldn't find them before she left." She dropped the attempt at acting imposing and grinned. "I think she's worrying too much."

"Probably. She's got a ton of spirit and I bet she doesn't know what to do with it all. So she just fusses over every little thing. In her own, grumpy way." Hiei laughed alongside Jane at the good-natured ribbing of the absent Standard. Arizona did get pretty wound up about things. Some with plenty good reason, too. But if the redhead were home, she'd probably have heated words about her current state of dress. Or a conniption fit. Maybe both.

Speaking of dress…

"Jane, is all of the laundry clean?" She rolled her wounded shoulder subconsciously as she asked.

"Hmm…" Jane placed a finger to her lips as the thought about it. She was pretty sure it had been done. It was Daddy's turn and he was usually really good about it. She had clean clothes at least. But what got washed with what tended to be up in the air at times. "I… think so?"

"Would you help me out and go find one of my camisoles or one of Mutsu's bras?" Her shoulder was really starting to ache right now. Not painful, per se. But definitely uncomfortable.

"Okay. But why do you need one of Mut-oh! Oh! Sorry. Yeah!" Jane's expression went from confusion to realization to shock before arriving at determination. All in the span of a swiftly spoken sentence. "I'll be right back!"

"Don't run down the stairs!" hollered Hiei as Jane bolted from the room. At least she didn't need to explain the why about needing certain undergarments to Jane. The girl was pretty quick on things sometimes. However the rapid thumping of footsteps made her briefly reconsider that thought. Really now.

"Next up… pants."

By the time Jane had returned, a sizable brassiere in hand, Hiei was a barely decent tangle of limbs and denim laying on the floor.

"...Mama? Are you okay?"

"I've been better?" Hiei flopped onto her back with a huff, her shirt hiked up and pants only partially up to her knees on one side. "I really overestimated what I can do like this."

"Can I-may I help?" Jintsuu-mama's lessons were not for nothing!

"I… Yeah." She was not above asking for help. But it didn't make her feel any less silly about the whole situation. Objectively it's really easy to tell that missing an entire limb is going to change your life in all sorts of ways. But in reality it was a bit harder to wrap her head around just how deep those changes went. The shirt should have been her first indication if last night hadn't hammered it in. Maybe she was just too happy to have been home to really notice or remember all of the advice and warnings she'd been given by Parkson.

"Then sit up so I can get you dressed," Jane ordered in the same tone of voice she normally used when she was playing Ensign.

Hiei somehow managed to sit up and salute without laughing at the sight of a determined Jane barking orders with a bra in hand.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you ma'am." Okay, so she was grinning like a buffoon. She didn't have that much restraint. But at least she could keep it together better than Mutsu. Mutsu would have been on the floor trying to breathe between laughs.

If the Abyssal menace really wanted to stand up to the Nagato-Class, then they should hire a comedian.

Fortunately humor seemed to be beyond them.

"Okay! First is..."

It took some work and a fair amount of pinched skin as Jane wasn't exactly the most gentle of assistants, but Hiei was ultimately able to find herself fully dressed with the requested help. Even though the child didn't do more than pull on the clothes or help steady the battleship at said battleship's request it was still enough. And sometimes enough was all you needed to get through the day. But she would definitely need to get used to doing this on her own.

Hiei rolled her shoulders with an approving look on her face. Yeah, some bits could be better off. But she was dressed and all good to go.

"Alright. Much better! Thank you, Jane!" She reached down and pulled Jane in for a hug that was reciprocated quite readily.

"Anytime, mama." Jane smiled before disengaging and dashing over to the door. Her smile turning into a smirk that was all too reminiscent of her father. "But I bet Daddy could do it even better!"

And with that she ran off, laughing all the way.

"Wh-You little-! Get back here, Ensign Jane Elaine Richardson! Don't make me come after you!"

Hiei sighed and let a slightly wistful smile grace her lips after her outburst. Well, that was fine. The teasing and the laughing and all the madness. Her sisters might not be here, running around across the Pacific as they were, but it was still home. Her home.

"Gotta catch me~!"

...And now it was time for her to have some fun of her own. She smirked ominously. Catch her? Did she think to flee from a Kongou? Surely Jane's words were in jest.

"I don't know. Hide and seek might be a bit tough for me right now. I'm just so hungry. Ari's breakfast might not be enough," she called out in reply as she strolled out of the bedroom. Her blue eyes twinkled with mirth. "You know what? The Major sent me that really good recipe for cinnamon rolls. I should probably make some. But I don't know if I can do it on my own."

Hiei could almost feel Jane's gaze from her hiding spot.

"I might have to pass on making those giant, gooey cinnamon rolls, dripping with frosting and piping hot." She looked down at her side where Jane had all but magically appeared, tugging at her shirt. Hook. Line. And sinker.

"...The Major's recipe?"

"Gotcha." Hiei laughed at Jane's look of embarrassment before ruffling the girl's dark hair. It was fun to do. "Come on. With all our spirit and hearts full of love, lets get cooking!"

"To the kitchen. All ahead flank!"

It was a warzone that decorated the pile of baked goods some hours later, but they were the best cinnamon rolls anyone had eaten in a long time.

* * * * *

 

[theJMPer]

"Sir, UAV is on station."

Captain Solomon let a smile cross his lips for a few fractions of a second. His gaze drifted from the slowly melting slivers of ice bobbing in his tea to one of the many screens added to Mo's bridge in her many refits.

The UAV, like every other piece of modern technology aboard the old battleship, didn't work. TV signals were garbled and washed out with noise and static. Radar returns—when there were returns—were too weak and scattered to make heads or tails of. According to every technician, every diagnostic system the old battleship had aboard, her technology was useless.

However, nobody'd ever told the operators that. Despite what the diagnostics said, Mo's radar saw keen and true. her UAV might send washed-out garbage to every other ship in the fleet, but it gave her a crisp report.

"Good girl, Mo," Solomon smiled again, and ran his hand along the battered bridge rail. The battleship trembled under his fingers with the roar of a quarter-million American horses churning seawater to foam, and… something else. He almost thought he heard a voice murmur something, but it was too quiet to make out. Like a conversation overheard through a thick wall.

"Target spotted," grunted Holland. The old XO needn't have bothered. The two abyssal battleships dwarfed the fleeing destroyers. Their low-riding angular hulls knifed though the water with the distinctive lines of a Scharnhorst-class…

Solomon hesitated to call them battleships. Mo was a battleship. She was built to command the seas and defend a nation. These abyssal monsters were predators. Hunters seeking to ravage the week and flee from any who'd stay their greedy hands.

They were evil incarnate, from the inky black of their hulls to the bloody red of their war-flags.

He clenched his jaw as the two battleships ran down destroyers a quarter their size. Amatsukaze at the lead frantically signaled to the bigger Burkes as all three warships ran for splashes. The frantic jinking was keeping them alive—barely—but each turn cost them precious speed, and the abyssals had no need to dodge. Not at that range.

"TAO," Solomon slammed his mug down so hard he heard it crack. Those battleships were nothing more than bullies, and he hated bullies. "Range to target."

"Range to target forty-five thousand yards," came the hoarse rasp of Mo's grizzled TAO. The old sailor'd fought her in the gulf, now he was taking his beloved battleship into yet another war.

Solomon scowled, and tore his eyes from the screen to the churning ocean off Mo's slender bow.

"I can get though them at anything under thirty-thousand yards."

"Hmm?" Solomon glanced around for the source of the dusky whisper.

"I said," It was Holland's voice now, "We can get though them at anything under thirty-thousand yards."

Solomon smiled, "Main batteries?"

"AP's loaded up," said the XO, a bloodthirty tint to his calm voice. "Eight minutes to target."

The captain nodded. The Abyssals were closing on the destroyers, yes. But they were closing even faster on Mo. "TAO!"

"Sir?"

"Weapons released." Solomon took a quick sip from his chipped mug. "You may fire when ready."

"With pleasure, sir."

Outside the spray-washed bridge windows, the battleship Missouri swung her titanic turrets over her port bow. Barrels bigger than any sailor in decades had witnessed climbed to elevation. Beneath his boots, Solomon felt the warship shudder with anticipation.

Deep within her armored citadel, the captain knew her CIC was abuzz with frantic action. With every passing second, orders were being shouted across the spotlit consoles. Firing solutions were refined as every available scrap of data as fed into her Ford-built firing computer.

But on the bridge, everything was deathly silent. The minutes ticked by with nothing more than the distant roar of Big Mo's propulsion plant and the crash of salt against steel between seconds.

Then, in a titanic crash Mo spoke her furious invocation. Six rifles spoke as one, smashing craters a hundred feet wide in the churning ocean. Fireballs blossomed from her muzzles as the barely-perceptible blur of super-heavy shells roared downrange. All the modern, shock-hardened screens flickered as twenty-first century design cowered before twentieth-century ironwork.

"Hell yeah!" Holland pumped his fist as a cheer went up on the bridge. Solomon was sure most of the ship was doing the same. When Big Mo speaks, everyone listens.

Her guns dropped to their loading angle with the hungry haste of a angry boxer, each turret swarming with men scrambling to feed the Mark seven rifles' angry appetite. Running heavy naval artillery was a lost art, but her crew had found it anew.

At this range, the shells would spend nearly thirty seconds in the air. Her crew would only need twenty to send the next set on the way.

He glanced over to the UAV's feed just in time to see the first salvo slam into the water. Great crimson-dyed splashes bracketed the lead battleship, one landing close enough to splash bloody water over it's foredeck swastika.

The two abyssal battlewagons halted their ruthless bombardment of the destroyers, and Solomon swore he saw panic cross their twisted metal visages.

"Got you," whispered the Captain, "You sons of bitches. Helm! Come right one-five, let's keep the range on them."

His orders were passed back with deadly earnest, but Solomon was already planning his next move. At thirty-thousand yards, they didn't have a hope in hell of penetrating Mo, and at thirty-one knots, they couldn't close the distance. But he couldn't let himself enjoy an easy victory, lest it turn into an avoidable defeat.

The two battleships heeled over in sharp turns. The sudden movement was enough to throw off Mo's second salvo. Only one shell found its mark, but even then it simply passed though the target's upper fantail without encountering anything substantial enough to detonate it.

"They're running for open water," growled Holland.

"I know," Solomon grunted. "TAO, Kill those ships now."

Mo's guns spoke in response, hurling another barrage of deadly American steel downrange. The battleship'd found her range. With the need to sprint ever closer removed, she could swing her fat stern out enough to unshadow her neglected after turret.

This time her fire found its mark. Shells crashed though the fleeing battleship's stern, tearing up armor, structure, and machinery alike. The ship visibly stuttered in the water as at least one of its screws suddenly ceased to exist.

The crash-stop was almost enough to save it from the next barrage. Almost. One of Mo's shells tore a great bite out of the battleship's raised Atlantic bow, while another simply scraped the top several layers of its mast off and deposited them atop the second turret.

The other battleship bolted for the horizion, leaving its twin to founder in a pool of churned-up oil. Solomon would be astonished if it as making over twenty knots.

"Sir," the OOD's voice floated though the hot Hawaiian air. Tense, as always, but with an undercurrent of angry frustration. "We're to return to our patrol anchor. Orders from the Admiral."

Solomon took one last look at his prey, "Say again?"

The sailor's voice bubbled with angry disappointment. "P-8 caught another trio of battleships moving on Pearl from the south-east. Scharnhorsts. Plus… another they can't identify."

Solomon scowled at the limping abyssal battleship. It so close he could almost taste the burning cordite in the air. "Does he know we're engaged?"

"Aye sir. Reason he let us get far out."

The captain grumbled under his breath. He was so close, only to run out his leash and get yanked back by the neck. But he didn't have a choice. He wasn't like the abyssals, he didn't fight just to kill.

He fought to defend.

"Helm, bring us about," he slumped into his bridge chair. "Best possible speed for Pearl."

Mo let out a great sigh as her hull heeled over in the turn. He'd heard ships make that sound before, it was just a product of waves crashing against her bow as she turned. But somehow, it just seemed so much morefrustrated this time.

"Sorry girl," Solomon ran his hand along the rail, "you'll get your day."

—|—|—​

The ride down to Seattle had been more or less uneventful. Or as uneventful as riding in the back of a painfully overloaded ten-ton truck with fifty-eight thousand tons of American fighting steel embodied into a stunningly attractive young woman could possibly be.

Jersey kept mentioning how excited she was to get a chance to gorge herself on pie. Crowning had made sure to call ahead and make sure the bakers were prepared, and he'd even—though the Navy, of course—arranged to buy the place out so Jersey could stuff herself in peace.

He had, however, made the mistake of mentioning this to Jersey. It flustered her momentarily, but soon she was ranting about her upcoming feast in even more detail. Apparently, she was looking forwards to her feast so much she even restrained herself into eating a 'light breakfast'.

Crowning didn't want to think about that too much. He'd been at breakfast with her, the girl ate a mountain of pancakes bigger than Musashi's ego. He'd even talked with one of the culinary ratings about it. Apparently she'd eaten 'round about a quarter-ton' of pancakes.

Luckily, it wasn't too hard for the professor to push those offending thoughts out of his mind. Jersey'd got her hands on a new outfit for their outing—that she refused to call a date for reasons known only to her.

And what an outfit it was.

Gone were the short-shorts and puffy vest. In their place were a pair of stone-washed jeans that her long, sinewy legs—and of course, that superb stern—just barely fit into, and a white turtleneck that hugged her breasts just enough to make their perfect shape known without being ostentatious.

She topped it all off with a neat midnight-blue jacket that hugged her waist just enough to show off that hourglass figure of hers, but was zipped low enough to expose hints of her upper works.

"Doc?" Jersey smirked at him, and Crowning saw his own reflection blush in her ever-present aviator shades. "Something you wanna say?"

"Hmm?" Crowning rubbed at the close-cropped stubble on his chin and shot her a confused look.

"You've been staring at my tits for the past fifteen minutes," said the battleship with a contented grin.

The professor paled, and his mouth hung open. "I… Jersey, I didn't—"

"No," the battleship shook her head. "I'm not mad. Actually, uh… I didn't mind."

"Jersey," Crowning locked eyes with his own reflection in her shades, "I am sorry. You're a kind, loving woman. You deserve more than to be leered over your your body."

The battleship blinked, her cheeks slowly turning a throughly communist shade of red. "But…" she glanced down, and crossed her arms to squish herself. "Tiddy…" the poor girl seemed utterly bewildered by what he'd just said.

"They're very nice," Crowning didn't let his eyes drift by a fraction, "All of you is…" he closed his eyes, trying to gather the words. "Jersey, you're a work of art in a very real sense."

"Get to the part where you start staring at me again," Jersey sank back on her bench with a pout. "It felt nice."

Crowning shook his head. "Jersey, I don't want to leer at your chest or drool over your stern."

"Not even a little?" mumbled the battleship.

Crowning plowed on with nary more than a smirk. "I want to love the Black Dragon. The most decorated battleship in history. I want to know, and love, and be loved by the girl who mere hours after throwing up all but the last dregs in your bunkers charged into battle against dreadnoughts to save those under your care."

Jersey blushed and squirmed to get away from his piercing gaze.

"Your beauty is not why I love you," said Crowning. "Your courage, your faithfulness, even your awkwardness are why I love you."

Jersey stared at him for almost a minute. "FUCK!" She smashed her fist into the truck's sidewall hard enough to leave a noticeable dent. "What the fucking hell, doc?"

Crowning blinked. From experience, he knew it was best to just let her work her anger out by herself.

"Why…" Jersey stared him down, "Why can't you just… fucking… drool over my tits or shit. That I can handle." Her glare seethed with icy anger and she jabbed a knife hand into his chest. "Now you're… you're… making me deal with motherfucking feelings and shit, and you fucking well know I can't handle that!"

For a moment, the battleship just glared at the professor, her hand still pressed against his sternum, her chest heaving against her tight sweater as frustration pounded in her boilers.

Then a cough sounded from the cab. "Uh… Ma'am?"

Jersey glanced over with a huff.

"Are you okay?"

"Not really," she mumbled. "Need fucking someone to drool at my boobs."

There was a pause, then the driver added a timid, "Is… that an order, Commander?"

"Lewd," hissed Jersey.

"I'm a Marine, ma'am."

Her frustration melted away and a good-natured smirk brightened up her finely chiseled features. "Awww, all's forgiven then. But, uh…" she glanced across the cabin at where Crowning was visibly forcing his gaze down along her curves, "I think that position's already been filled."

The battleship smiled, and swung one leg over his until she planted her stern squarely on his lap. Her chest bulged against his face, and she smiled as she felt his glasses tickle at her skin though her clothes. She was just about to offer him a kiss when the marine spoke up again.

"Uh… Commander…" his voice was taut with awkward tension. "Could you… not… move around, please?"

Jersey settled back with a frustrated scowl.

"You're too heavy," mumbled the marine. "Suspension's already maxed-out as is."

"Did you just call me fat?"

"Yes," Crowning smirked at her, "He did. You ate a quarter ton of pancakes."

The battleship blinked. "I don't follow." She flopped onto the bench beside him and let her head fall onto his shoulder. "Head scratchy?"

Crowning smiled, and gave the crown of her shimmering strawberry blond hair a quick kiss. "You're such a child sometimes."

"Head." Jersey somehow pronounced a period. "Scratchy." After a moment, she added an uncharacteristically timid, "please?"

The professor chuckled, and ran his fingers though her silky soft hair. Before long, she was purring contentedly against his shoulder. It wasn't quite what he pictured when he'd planned this date… but she was happy. That alone made him happy.

—|—|—​

Urakaze held the shimmering midnight-blue silk to her chest and sighed. She hadn't been expecting to find something so nice to wear to the Christmas ball. She and her division mates always had trouble finding cute dresses to wear for formal events. There weren't a lot of shops in Japan that catered to girls as… unbalanced as herself, Hamakaze, or Isokaze, and those that did weren't at all suitable for destroyers.

But America had unlimited supplies of anything she could ask for! It only took her and her sisters a few hours to find a store in town eager to sell them nice, cute dresses. Dresses that fit them like gloves without being lewd in the slightest. Even Atago couldn't find anything to take in or let out, and the cruiser had a keen eye for seam work.

Urakaze giggled and squished the kimono against her figure. The dark blue silk went perfectly with the brushed gold of her sash. She couldn't believe there was a shop in town that sold kimonos, let alone ones so pretty.

"'Laska!" the destroyer bounced down the carpeted halls towards the large—not battle, large, she was very emphatic about that—cruiser's room. Ever since she'd gotten back, the American had gone out of her way to make Urakaze and her sisters feel welcome.

She'd even tried cooking them all rice and dumplings, and was mortified when Nachi accidentally mentioned they were Chinese-style dumplings. Not that Urakaze really minded, they were delicious, and it was really the thought that counted.

"'Laska?" She scuffed her boot against the door. "You home?"

"Yeah," The large cruiser's airy, contended-but-confused accent wafted though the air. Urakaze liked that accent. It sounded like how a warm fleece blanket feels. "Come in."

Urakaze smiled and bumped open the door with her hip. "'Laska, look at this—" she froze mid sentence.

Alaska sat cross-legged in the middle of her floor, a veritable nest of boxes surrounding her like a cardboard redoubt. A half-finished model kit—an Essex-class carrier by the looks of it—sat on her lap, while a collection of photo-etched detail kits, pots of paint, brushes, glue, and tools lay scattered around her. The cruiser even had a stray bit of sprue super glued to her temple that a faerie work crew were fruitlessly trying to dislodge.

The cruiser glanced down at her makeshift work space and blushed. "Sorry about the mess, I—"

"EEEEEEEEE!" Urakaze squealed. She flung her dress on the cruiser's bed and bounced over to give her a tight hug. "'LASKA! WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US!"

Alaska opened her mouth to mutter a confused reply, but she was quickly muffled by the destroyer's chesty hug.

"YOU'RE SO LUCKY!" Urakaze hugged the cruiser tight. "Stay here! I have to tell the others!" The destroyer spun on her heel and bolted out the door as fast as her little turbines would carry her, leaving Alaska as throughly confused as she normally was.

The cruiser blinked, shrugged, then went back to gluing 20mm Oerlikons into their gun-tubs. The tiny light-AA guns had been a huge pain in the stern to get done, but her faeries had been invaluably in folding the itty-bitty photoetched ammo drums.

Alaska smiled as she took her her half-finished build. There was something relaxing about building models. It was a nice break from the daily grind of patrols and scouting missions.

"'Laska!" The cruiser looked up just soon enough to get a face full of her best friend's limitless cleavage. Judging by the slight dampness on her skin—and her outfit of a coral-blue bikini with an airy sarong tied around her hips—Atago'd cut her bath short to come by. She hadn't even bothered to trumpet her arrival with one of her "panpakapan"s. This must really be serious."'Laska, why didn't you tell us!"

"Um," Alaska blinked, and pried her face out of Atago's bouncy chest to meet her best friend's sea-blue eyes. And then she spat-out the hotwheel clenched between her teeth. Atago really needed to talk to her faeries about hiding stuff in her boobs. "What?"

Atago giggled, and grabbed the taller cruiser in a huge wet hug. "It couldn't have happened to a nicer girl!" She squeezed Alaska tight, then let her go and leaned over to nuzzle the American's flat parka-clad tummy. "Your momma's the best cruiser in the whole navy!"

"Momma?" Alaska cradled her belly protectively and flashed Atago a confused look. Not that Atago noticed, the Japanese girl was busy cooing sweet nothings to her belly and snuggling.

"Yes," Hamakaze nodded knowingly, "You're pregnant, aren't you?"

"You're building models," added Isokaze.

"You're so lucky!" Urakaze squealed with happiness and pounced on her two sisters for lack of anything better to hug.

Alaska's mouth hung open, but then it promptly shut again. She had been building a lot of models recently, and her mood had been getting sunnier by the day. She thought it was just the Christmas spirit, but the pregnancy theory made a lot more sense.

After all, she was building boats.

"I…" Alaska glanced down at her stomach and smiled, "I… I'm pregnant?"

"You must be!" Atago giggled and nuzzled the American's flat tummy, "Panpakapregnant!"

"It is the most logical possibility," opined Hamakaze.

"We should tell the admiral," said Urakaze with a happy smile.

"And you," Isokaze pointed at the American, "Should call Dreadnought. She knows more about being a mother than anyone alive."

Alaska nodded. She could always count on her friends to keep her on the straight and narrow path. "That's a good plan," the cruiser started to get to her feet when Atago gently pushed her back down again. "You should stay here."

"Mmm," Hamakaze nodded, "It's not good for you to exert yourself in your condition."

Alaska nodded. That seemed smart.

"I'll get your laptop," Isokaze tip-toed though the modeling debris scattered around the room, "Dreadnought should be up by now."

"I'll go tell the Admiral!" Atago bounced to her feet with a triumphant giggle. She laughed and bolted for the Admiral's office at a giddy skip.

"Is there anything else you need?" asked Urakaze. "Some pillows? Warm milk? Glass of water?"

"I'm fine," Alaska blushed at all the attention she was getting. "Really. I can't be that far along…" she glanced from her flat belly to her half-finished model kit. "I think…?"

Urakaze shrugged. "This is uncharted territory."

Isokaze nodded sagely and handed the cruiser her computer. "There's really nothing else we can get you?"

Alaska shook her head. "Really, no. I'm fine."

The two destroyers shot her a concerned look, then slowly filed out of her room. "We'll be right out here if ya need us," said Urakaze.

Alaska smiled at them, then opened up her e-mail. Before long, she had a message typed up for the mother of all battleships.

From: "USS Alaska" <Alaska.CB@Navy.mil>
To: "HMS Dreadnought" <Dreadmom06@gmail.com>
Subject: How do I mom?

Hey, this is USS Alaska. Obviously. Uh… It's so nice to be able to talk to you.

Anyways, I think I'm pregnant. I've been building a lot of model ships, and that seems like the most logical explanation. What do I do?

Love,
Lt. CDR Alaska

PS: we can skype if you're okay with doing that. My user name is "Eskimopie." Not "Eskimocreapie", don't click that. It's… lewd.

Click to shrink...

Alaska smiled, and tapped the send button. Dreadnought would know what to do!

—|—|—​

Atago burst into the Admiral's office with a cheerful "Pan-pakapakapakapaka-pa~n!!" and a happy giggle. She threw her hands in the air in time with her own trumpeting, and Hamakaze deftly ducked under the cruiser's frantic gesticulations. "Alaska is Pregnant!"

Admiral Raleigh glanced up from his paperwork at stared at the to shipgirls over the lid of his laptop. He slooooowly closed the computer and regarded the smiling cruiser with a practiced stare. "Atago."

"Yes?"

"You want to run that by me again?"

Atago planted her hands on his desk and grinned, a few loose lego bricks falling out of her low-cut bikini from the violence of the motion. "Alaska, my best friend in the whole wide world is building a little bundle of joy!"

Raleigh reached for his well-worn mug and took a long sip of coffee. "She's pregnant."

Atago nodded. She was starting to get upset he wasn't getting the picture. "Yes! We found her building model ships in her room, of course she's pregnant!"

Raleigh stared at her for a solid minute. "You found her building models, and that makes you think she's pregnant?"

"Yes!" Atago pumped her fist in the air, happy her Admiral was finally getting the picture.

"And this seems logical to you."

"Of course," said Hamakaze with a slight nod of her head.

The admiral sighed again. "Atago… you were complaining to me just yesterday that Alaska hasn't so much as said two words to that boy at the store."

"I was!" Atago beamed. It always made her day when her Admiral remembered something about their conversation.

"And you think she made a move," Raleigh rubbed his temple, "and grew out of her dorkiness long enough to get laid?"

Atago's smile dimmed. As much as she wanted to see her best friend happy, that did seem like a bit of a stretch.

"You don't think it's possible," Raleigh smirked, and slowly placed a sheaf of newspaper coupons on his desk, "that she's just taking advantage of the holiday sales."

Atago puffed her cheeks out in a pout. "But… but… little bundle of joy…"

"I'm sure it'll happen sooner or later," Raleigh rolled his eyes at the cruiser. "Just not today. Kongou has dibs on the first shipgirl baby after all."

"It's true," added Hamakaze, "She literally does."

Atago and the Admiral shared a mutual double take.

"Jane's," said Hamakaze.

"Ooooooh," Atago nodded sagely. "Of course!"

Raleigh chuckled. It was just like Kongou to get her family intentions on the official record. "Now," he motioned to the stack of paperwork accumulating on his desk. "I've got work to finish, and I believe you girls have a ball to get dressed for."

Atago glanced down at her damp bikini and blushed. "Right, yes. Thank you, Admiral!"

The two shipgirls trotted out of the Admiral's office, with Hamakaze making sure to close the door after her. "Think we should tell Alaska?"

Atago shrugged. "She'll figure it out on her own."