Belated Battleships (KanColle) [REHOST]

[theJMPer]

With a hiss of compressed air and the exhausted grunt of an overstressed diesel engine, the ten-ton truck groaned to a halt. Crowning'd made sure to plan ahead for parking, but Seattle's tangled mess of narrow streets and steep hills gave him precious little room to maneuver. The truck had to park almost a mile away in an empty university parking lot.

Not that Crowning particularly minded. The winter air was more crisply brisk than actually cold, especially compared to some of the winters he'd endured on the East coast, and the body of the walk was along a gentle, scenic canal.

And of course, he didn't have to walk alone. "You need some help there, Jersey?"

The battleship hissed at him and clambered down the back of the truck. Crowning tried not to stare, but the view of her stern was too entrancing to ignore. Jersey filled out her jeans to bursting, and even the denim wasn't enough to totally hide the tension in those massive muscles of hers.

"There," She dropped to the floor with a loud thump, and the trucks' suspension groaned as her immense weight was finally removed. "Okay…" She pursed her lips and stuffed her hands into her pockets.

She looked… like a dream given form. Her long hair streamed over her shoulders in a messy half-braid. Its fiery tips hung past her waist, kissing the plump shape of her stern with ever passing breeze. Puffs of rolling breath slipped though her lips, and her icy blue eyes soaked in the afternoon sun.

"You look fine, Jersey," Crowning chuckled. "C'mon, it's just this way."

The battleship nodded and fell into formation off his side. For a while, the two just walked. Or to be more accurate, Jersey walked while Crowning sort of half-walked half-trotted. Jersey's stunning legs were long even for her height, and she was a very tall girl.

"Doc?" Jersey's cheeks glowed a brilliant red, and she kept her eyes pointed straight ahead as she spoke. "Uh… can I ask you something."

"Of course," Crowning smiled at her.

"This isn't a date," the battleship's voice carried equal tones command and desperation, "But… um… to you think maybe we could act like it was?"

Crowning winced internally. He could think of a few reasons why Jersey wanted to avoid calling this outing a date, from military decorum to winning some sort of convoluted bet. But the most depressingly probable possibility was her desperate need to avoid cutting herself even the slightest bit of slack for her own mistakes. The same reason she so vehemently protested that she was anything more than a ship.

"Yeah," He nodded, and forced a slight smile. Jersey had her issues, and she'd have to work them out herself. The best he could do is love her unconditionally and support her any way he could. "I was in the drama club in high school."

Jersey shot him a withering glance though her shades. "You're such a dork."

Crowning chuckled, and put his arm around her waist. Even though the fabric of her jacket and thick sweater, he could feel her rippling muscle tense under his grasp. For a moment, she felt like corded steel, and he saw her chest start to flutter with quick, shallow breaths.

But then, ever so slowly, she settled down. Her muscles loosened under his fingers, and he felt a tinge of soft humanity under all that fighting steel. And then she started purring. It was a very soft, quiet sound that he felt though his touch more than he heard with his ears. But there was no mistaking it. She was purring, and it was just as adorable as it sounded.

For minutes that felt like hours, the two walked in silence along the canal. Every so often, the battleship would squirm in his grasp and try to work herself closer. Soon, she was practically pressed against him, and every sashaying step sent her broad hip crashing against him. But her purring never stopped, not even for an instant.

Then the pair reached a soring drawbridge. Crowning had made sure to look up the route, and even call up one of Solette's friends in the Army Corps of Engineers to double-check for him. The bridge was built for heavy car traffic, it could bear their weight without a second thought. That didn't keep it from groaning alarmingly with every step the battleship took, though.

"Crowning," Jersey hissed as she planted one footed foot before the other. "If you call me fat, I will fucking eat your babies."

Crowning smirked. Jersey was fat, there was no denying that. She just happened to carry all of it in exactly the right places. But just as he was about to voice his opinion, a horrified look passed over Jersey's aquiline face.

"No," she hissed. "I didn't… that's not what I meant!"

It took the professor a second to catch on, but he shrugged it off like the battleship's angry utterance had flown over his head. She was just grouchy from hunger, it was just a slip of the tongue, it had to be. "If you say so, Jersey."

The battleship blushed, and grumbled something under her breath. The only words he caught were "motherfucking Freud," followed by stifled giggles.

"Get it?" said Jersey. The battleship prodded him in the side, "Motherfucking Freud? Because… you know…" Jersey made a circle with her fingers and started frantically jamming her other finger in the cavity she'd created. "Motherfucking?"

Crowning rolled his eyes.

"Fuck you," Jersey huffed. "That's fucking comedy Go—"

Crowning stood up on his toes, planted a hand on the battleship's head, and started gently scratching at her blond locks. In an instant, the fiery battleship's temper cooled and her voice turned into a gooey purr.

"Where were we?" said Jersey.

"Getting pie," chuckled Crowning.

"Right," The battleship threw her fist in the air. "Onwards, to pie!"

The last few blocks took nearly as long to get though as the entire rest of the walk. Now that the pair were into the city proper, they couldn't go more than a few dozen steps before being asked to stop for pictures. Jersey basked in the attention, though she seemed utterly astonished at how so many people recognized her without her usual uniform.

At least she was until Crowning pointed out she towered over literally every other person in the whole city. And that the Pie shop had hung a "closed to feed New Jersey sign in the door with a stylized drawing of Jersey gobbling down pie by the truckload.

Jersey blinked. "I need that," she smirked and planted her hands on her belly like the little drawing of her. Her own stomach wasn't nearly as rotund as the drawing, but somehow Crowning knew she'd do everything in her power to rectify that.

"Yo," Jersey ducked though the door into the surprisingly narrow restaurant. A half-dozen smiling workers looked over at her from behind the counter, and the warm air was a welcome contrast from the chill outside. "Who—"

Jersey stopped and sniffed. Crowning chuckled. The air was heavy with the sent of baking pies and sweet caramelizing fruits.

The battleship scowled and shook her head, "Who did this…" she trailed off and leaned over a pile of mini-pies. No doubt they were intended as single-serving pies for someone who didn't have the appetite of a first-rate fast battleship. "Uh…"

"Don't worry," said Crowning, "She does this all the time."

"Fuck you," Jersey flipped him off while still staring at the little white-topped concoctions. "These are pies."

"Yes," smiled a waifish young man with his hair in a top knot.

"They smell like meat," Jersey poked one of the pies, only to come back with a bit of creamy mashed potato stuck to her finger. "Explain." She pointed her potato-kissed finger at topknotted fellow with a look of pure desperation, "EXPLAIN THIS WIZARDRY!"

For his part, the baker just smiled at her sudden confusion, "They're Shepherd's pies. We thought you'd like it."

Jersey yanked off her shades to examine the mini-pies more carefully. She very carefully plucked one from its little porcelain cup, turned it around in her hands, and dumped the whole thing in her mouth. Then her eyes lit up and she grinned from ear to ear. She swallowed the whole thing in one bite and grabbed the baker in a crushing hug.

"THIS IS AMAZING!" she thundered. She let go of the baker only to grab another pie and all but pounce on Crowning. She slammed him against the wall while her breasts piled up against his face. "Look at this!" she eased up just along enough to shove the pie in his line of sight, "there's meat in a pie!"

Crowning coughed and sucked down a desperate breath.

"I fucking love America," Jersey popped the pie in her mouth and walked back to the counter. "Anutha pluhs?"

"Jersey," Crowning took in another breath and tried not to think about what'd just knocked the wind out of him.

The battleship was already busy gobbling her way though all the meat-related pies the bakery had ready.

"Shepherd's pie is British." Crowning smirked at her.

You could have heard a pin drop as the battleship slowly pivoted around to stare at him. Her stare was cold as ice, and the muscles in her neck tensed under her sweater. She would've been terrifyingly imposing if she didn't have specs of pie crust sticking to the corners of her mouth. "The fuck you say?"

"Shepherd's pie is a British invention," said Crowning.

Jersey scowled, then she smirked. "Fuck you, It's American now."

"How does that even make sense?"

"FREEDOM!" Jersey threw a plastic spoon at him, which he effortlessly parried away with the back of his hand.

Crowning and the baker shared a sideways look.

"Freedom motherfuckers!" Jersey laughed and face-planted in a freshly baked apple pie. She'd licked the tray clean in under a a minute. "More please?"

This went on for some time.

Crowning tried to strike up a conversation with the bakers when they weren't frantically trying to bake faster than Jersey's ravenous appetite could consume. For her part, Jersey tried to be as personable as possible, but she was limited to grunts while eating and the odd few words gasped out while she changed plates.

For a while, all was well. Watching Jersey gorge herself might not be every man's idea of a perfect date, but Crowning couldn't imagine anything he'd rather be doing. And then it all went downhill once the subject of after-dinner activities came up.

And one of the bakers said something very, very stupid. "If you guys have time, you should check out the statue of Lenin."

Jersey froze mid pie. Slowly, icily, mechanically her head pivoted up to lock eyes with the topknotted baker. Her gaze burned with fury, and the cherry filling smeared over her face suddenly looked a whole lot like the blood of her slain enemies. "Do you want," she hissed with icy anger, "To say that one more time."

The baker blinked, and staggered back a step under the force of her glare. "It's… it's just a block down thirty-sixth."

Jersey thought for a second. Then she cracked a wicked grin. "Bring me all the cream pies you have."

Crowning sighed. Somehow, this was exactly how he imagined a date with Jersey would end.

—|—|—​

Large cruiser Alaska balanced her laptop on her belly and waited. She'd only nets the Skype request to Dreadnought a few seconds ago, but it already felt like hours had passed.

She pursed her lips and puffed out her belly as much as she could. The fabric of her parka went taunt as her laptop rose until it commanded a high vantage point over her nonexistent bosom. Could she really be pregnant? It seemed kinda hard to believe, but Atago's logicdid seem sound and concrete.

"Hmmm," Alaska cradled her belly and hummed to herself. Would it be a girl or a boy, she wondered. She was kinda hoping for a girl, but the large cruiser wasn't married to either option.

Speaking of, she wasn't married at all. She might want to take care of that before she gave birth.

Unfortunate, that'd require her to talk to a cute, or otherwise desirable, boy, something she'd thus far been utterly incapable of doing. Maybe she could get some of her faeries to communicate by semaphore?

But before Alaska could ponder her brilliant idea for a silent wedding, her laptop sparked to life with the kindly visage of HMS Dreadnought.

Alaska let out a tiny eep of surprise as the steel-haired old battleship filled the screen. She was old, but in that timeless British sort of way, and her loose bun was kept in place by a little tripod pin. There was even an itty-bitty Union Jack flying from the tip.

"Alaska, hello," Dreadnought smiled at Alaska, her clipped yet somehow soothing accent washing over the American's ears like buttered toast.

"Dreadnought," Alaska smiled back and fussed with her own snowy white hair. Hers was so much messier than the proper brit's. "I like your pin."

"This old thing?" Dreadnought tossed a bashful wave at the camera, "Your superstructure's so much cleaner."

"Yeah, but it's pretty." Alaska sighed, and drummed her fingers against her thigh.

"So," the old battlewagon adjusted the little half-moon glasses resting on the tip of her distinguished ram-bow of a nose. "You tell me you're carrying a little bundle of joy?"

"Mmhm!" Alaska smiled sweetly and tilted her laptop so Dreadnought could see her belly.

"Very little," said Dreadnought slyly.

"Hey!" Alaska bristled at the insult levied against her unborn daughter. "She's perfect just the way she is!"

Dreadnought just laughed. "I see you've already got your maternal instincts down," she said. "When'd you realize you had one on the slips?"

"Actually, I didn't," said Alaska. "My best friend Atago did." She moved her computer to frame her half-finished model, "She saw me building this on the floor and put two and two together."

"Splendid!" Dreadnought smiled and positively giggled with joy. "You've got a very insightful friend there. Tell me, how's the father taking this?"

Alaska blinked.

Dreadnought's smile faded slightly.

Alaska blinked again. "Father?"

"Of your child, sweetie."

Alaska blinked again. "I don't follow."

"Alaska, child," Dreadnought took off her glasses and wiped them on the end of her knit shawl, "It takes two, as they say."

"Oh," Alaska nodded. She tried not to think of things like that too much, it wasn't healthy to live in such lewdness. "There's this one boy I like… at least I think I like him…"

"But?"

"But every time I see him," said Alaska, "My… it's like someone hid all my signal flags. I can't get a word out."

"You haven't even talked to him?" Dreadnought had to stifle her mirth with a quick cough.

"No," Alaska nodded glumly.

"Dear… then you're not pregnant," said Dreadnought. The old battleship tried to put her glasses back on, but the effort of keeping in her laughter was too much for her to keep her hand steady.

"But…" Alaska glanced from the computer to her model and back, "Model."

"Dear," Dreadnought's cheeks puffed out as she snorted out a laugh. "I'm… you're not pregnant. You can't be."

"But boat," mumbled Alaska with a nod towards her kit.

"You go to the baths when you're wounded, yes?" asked Dreadnought in a tone that implied this was more than a simple request for information. "Does that mean you're wounded every time you take a shower?"

"No," said Alaska. For a second she thought. Then another. Then yet another. "Ooooooooooooh."

"Sorry dear," Dreadnought smiled sweetly at the poor confused cruiser. "I'm sure you'll make a wonderful mother some day. Just… after Kongou, the old girl's claimed dibs."

"I know," Alaska sighed. At least she wouldn't have to find someone to cover her duties, "Thanks for picking up, by the way."

"Oh, it's no trouble," assured the battleship. "There's hardly anything for an old ship like me to do around here."

"Well thanks anyway," said Alaska, "You're a good friend."

—|—|—​

Jersey's shirt was off before the door even closed behind her. She'd enjoyed her outing—even with the minor Communist detour and the police interview that came with it—more than she thought she would. The ride back had been calming, with every bump in the road gently stirring the pie sloshing around in her stuffed belly. Even her parting with Crowning had gone off like a dream.

They'd exchanged a few words of thanks, he told her to stay safe, she bragged about her invincible battleshipness, but thanked him none the less. He kissed her—or at least tried. She had to pick him up so he could really get his lips to hers—and they'd parted ways.

Officially, Jersey just needed a quick shower to freshen up and wash the pepper spray off her skin. But that was just an excuse, she was too badass to be bothered by pepper spray, even if her CBR sprinklers hadn't flushed all the chemical agents over the side.

No, all she knew is that she really, truly desperately needed a long, hot shower.

The battleship tore at her boots, clawing at the laces in a desperate attempt to free herself of their clutches. Next came her pants. Jersey plowed face-first into her bunk with a grunt nearly as loud as the groans of bedsprings creaking under her immense weight.

She at least managed to peel herself out of the tight-fitting jeans with out any drama. Unfortunately, Bowers had suggested Jersey wear something lacy and cute instead of her usual utilitarian sports bra and boyshorts. Well, the lacy and cute things were now lying in a pile of shredded fabric smeared accros most of her floor.

With her turbines roaring at close to maximum RPM, the battleship dove into her shower and slammed the faucet on as hot as it could go. She yelped in pain as the nearly-scalding water splashed against her skin.

But then… then she calmed down. The water was hot, but it felt good against the steel of her hull. She screwed up her eyes and let the water cascade down her body.

Jersey held her breath, letting the hot steam fill her lungs while she counted to ten in her head. Slowly she felt her body relax as her crew stood down to condition two. It wasn't much… but it was enough.

And then someone slapped her bare ass.

Really really hard.

It was like someone'd broken a 2-by-four across her stern. Which meant it could only be…

"Oi," barked a little Australian voice. "Now why aren't you already shacked up with the good professor?"

Jersey narrowed her eyes. "Victory…"

"Answer the question, ya wanker." The short, one-eyed British warship smiled at her reflection in the condensation-covered shower stall. By the look of it, she was wearing her gigantic Admiral's hat. And only the hat.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Victory rolled her eyes and started pacing. "I mean look at him, if I wasn't a figment of your fracturing Yankee imagination, I'd be all over that." She wheeled around and thrust a finger at Jersey's nose.

Or tried to at least. Jersey was so much taller than her her hand ended up lost in the American's soaking wet cleavage. "Have you heard him talk? Or seen him work with those hands? Now go get some for the both of us."

"Not helping!"

Victory carried on like the American hadn't said a thing. "And if those destroyers are to be believed, the way he handles a sword is phenomenal.

Jersey let out a resigned sigh. "There are too many innuendos for me to even begin."

"How about you start," Victory flashed a wicked grin, "with the ones where he buries his sword in your endo?"

Jersey aimed a swat at the man-o-war that she deftly dodged. "Not. Helping," she hissed between clenched teeth.

"Bah." Victory shook her head. "So, how was your date?"

"Wasn't a date," barked Jersey.

"Oh, of course not," Victory put a hand to her little chest like she'd just committed some great faux pas. "You're just two unattached singles who are of the opposite sex and supposedly adults going to an eatery together."

"Not. A. Date," hissed Jersey.

"Did you at least enjoy the pie, mate?" Victory planted her hand on her hip and stared up at the battleship.

"Yes," sighed Jersey. "Yes it was quite good."

"What is it with you and pie anyways?"

Jersey stared at the naked sailing ship like she'd just proclaimed up was down, or that American didn't own the moon. "Because it's fucking delicious, duh."

"And not because Crowning baked you one as a bribe?" Victory elbowed Jersey in the gut. Or tried to, anyways. Her feeble wind-driven strength wasn't enough to even budge the American's abs of (literal) steel.

"No," hissed Jersey.

"Hmm," Victory clicked her tounge. "Ya know, you might wanna try baking one for him?"

Jersey thought. For once, the stupid Aussiboat actually had a decent idea. She should pay Crowning back for his generosity. She was a battleship after all, she should actually do shit instead of sitting around getting pampered. "I… guess that'd be the nice thing to do."

"You'd enjoy seeing him taste it, right?" asked Victory. Her accent slipped until it sounded almost but not quite English. There wasn't even a hint of her usual gently-mocking lilt.

"Yeah," Jersey smiled. She always liked to see him smile, and there's nothing that inspires smiles like— "wait, where are you going with this?"

In an instant, Victory's face changed from honestly concerned old woman to utterly smug old woman. "Well," she said with a gleaming smile, "I did always figure that you'd like to have him eating your-"

"Oh my fucking god!" Jersey swiped at Victory, only for her fist to pass right though like smoke. "You are the most EMBARRASSING ghost I have ever had living inside me!

The sailing ship bilnked. "Wait, I'm honestly confused, is that a large number? You say that as if there's more than one."

"Just…" Jersey scowled, "Let me shower in peace, will you. I have a movie to watch."

Victory sighed, "Fine. But remember what I said."

"I'm actively trying to forget it as we speak."

Victory huffed. "You Yankees, always so serious about love." Then she shrugged, and slipped out of the battleship's vision. "Enjoy the film, mate."

"Thanks, I…" Jersey glanced around. Once again she was alone in her shower. "Fucking hate when she does that…"

 

[theJMPer]

Crowning was teetering at the very edge of the precipice of sleep when a very quiet knock sounded from his door. It was so quiet, so timid even, he almost thought it was a figment of his imagination. Then it happened again, a brisk set of quiet knocks tapped out by a quivering hand.

The professor fumbled for the light switch and squinted as the harsh glow assaulted his dark-adjusted eyes. He couldn't imagine who'd be calling at this hour. All the destroyers were worn out from the movie, Gale had to be asleep by now, and Jersey… well, it wasn't like the towering battleship to be so timid. "Coming," he coughed, stirring his voice back to action.

A very quiet whimper sounded though the thin wooden door, and Crowning heard the floor creak a bit. He knew that sound well. It was the sound of fifty-eight thousand tons of warship nervously rocking on her heels like a high schooler picking up his girlfriend for the first time. But he'd never heard Jersey whimper like that.

"Jersey?" Crowning steeled himself for… whatever was going on and opened the door.

The towering battleship smiled weakly at him. Her hair streamed down her back in a messy waterfall, and tears were melting off those stunning ice-blue eyes. "Um… hey," she mumbled. Her hands hung loosely off the waist of her sweatpants, and even her "MAXIMUM OVERTSUN" tank-top looked more subdued than normal.

"Is… everything alright?" Crowning bit his lip. He'd seen her sad like this before, and it always felt like someone twisting a knife into his heart.

"Mmhm," Jersey nodded glumly. "Um…" she shuffled a bit closer, her head just barely clearing the door frame. "Can I have a hug?"

Crowning didn't hesitate. His arms closed around her slender waist, and the tautness in her muscles slackened at his touch. Her soft, evidently braless breasts flowed against his chest. He felt her heart—or hearts, there was a distinct four-part harmony—beat in time with his own. Her head dropped until she rested her cheek against his silver-speckled hair.

"Thanks," she whispered, her hips slowly swaying from side to side as she cried into his shoulder.

"Of course," Crowning held her a little tighter and tried to massage the tenseness out of those steely muscles.

"He's dead," whispered Jersey.

"Hmm?" Crowning froze. As far as he knew, Jersey didn't know many men, at least not men she cared about so deeply. Most of her friends were girls, and he'd have known about any of the Admirals passing.

Jersey sniffed, and buried her face in his hair again. "H… han," she whimpered. "He's dead."

"Oh, Jersey…" Crowning squeezed her tighter, until he could almost feel the gentle hum of her shafts running down her toned back. He held her tight for almost five minutes before his sleepy brain shook off the cobwebs enough to make the connection. "Wait…"

"Hmm?" Jersey sniffed and tried to squeeze herself tigther into the hug. All she really managed to do was grind her hips against him though.

"You mean…" Crowning coughed. It was surprising hard to breath with an avatar of American Fighting Spirit hugging him, "Han Solo."

"Mmmhm," Jersey nodded.

Professor Crowning considered himself a kind man. He tried to treat everyone with respect, and that went double for someone he loved as dearly as the ideal of valor cradled in his arms. But even so, he let out a snort of stifled laughter and had to bite his lip to keep it under control.

"Fuck you," Jersey momentarily turned her hug into a painfully tight squeeze. Only the excessive cushioning on her chest kept it from being too painful. "He was my childhood."

Crowning snorted as hisses of stifled laughter slipped past his clenched lips. "J-Jersey…"

"Yes?" The battleship slackened her hug enough for him to pull himself out of her bosom.

"Is… that's what you wanted to talk about?"

Jersey nodded. "Yup!"

"Just Han Solo?"

"Well…" Jersey sighed, and wiped her face with the back of her hand. "It's also… you know… my last night before I ship out again."

Crowning froze. Part of him thought she'd ask for… part of him wished that she'd ask for a night of solace and passion, but he quashed that thought as quickly as he could. Jersey was a woman of valor and duty, not some object to be lusted over. "Yes?"

Jersey flopped down onto her knees. Even sitting on her haunches, the titanic battleship nearly came to his chest. "Head scratchy?"

Crowning froze for an instant. Then he smiled. Then he started chuckling. "Of course, Jersey." He gave her head a quick ruffle, then moved to drag a chair over.

To his surprise, Jersey got up and followed him, but there was an odd halting jilt to her actions. She moved like she was trying to reign herself in, but only halfheartedly.

"Jersey?" Crowning cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Think…" the battleship clasped her hands behind her back and nervously shifted her weight from one foot to the other. It would've been adorable if it wasn't so terribly attractive. "Think I could sit on your lap?"

Crowning blinked, "Is that a totally good idea?"

"Maybe?" Jersey shrugged. "I've sat on flimsy stuff before, I don't think I'll break you."

"Fair enough," Crowning settled back on his chair and waited for the battleship to make her move.

Jersey's cheeks blushed a brilliant red, and she slowly took a step closer. Then another. Then she swung one long leg over his lap and settled herself in place. Crowning grunted as she put her full weight down. She was titanically heavy, heavier than even a woman of her staggeringly amazonian proportions should be.

Then again, muscle weighs more than fat, and steel weighs still more.

"Um," Jersey blinked. Her arms rested around his neck and her chest hovered tantalizingly close to his face. So close he locked his eyes on hers forbid himself from looking elsewhere.

"Hmm?" Crowning ran his hands along her thighs. Even though the fabric of her sweats, he felt her muscles twitch and slide like oiled pistons. Great bundles of sleeping strength lay like napping pythons, just waiting to unleash their great and terrible might.

"If you say I'm fat," Jersey's face twisted into a scowl, "I'll fucking eat your…" she blushed, "You know."

The professor smirked, "Head scratchy?"

"Please?"

"For you," Crowning started plucking at the crown of her head like a blond-stringed guitar, "Anything."

Thirty seconds later, she was purring against his chest with her eyes closed in bliss. Thirty minutes later, the battleship was sleeping on his bed—or at least as 'on' as her titanic frame and tendency to sprawl out would allow—while Crowning finished up the latest book in the Changing Destiny series. He hadn't expected their date to end like this, be he wouldn't have it any other way.

—|—|—​

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Wash bit her lip and examined herself in the mirror. It wasn't often that she visited the base gym—at least not when she wasn't heading to the docks for a nice soak. She felt horrible for depriving all these hardworking sailors of their swimming areas, she'd hate to violate their space with her presence any more than necessary.

It was even rarer that she visited the weight rooms. She could push one-hundred-twenty-one-thousand horsepower though her shafts, raw strength was never her issue. Speed—and keeping herself steady at speed like her far faster younger cousin—were her main concerns. She'd much rather run a few laps around the base than sit 'pump some iron' as Kirishima put it.

And it was unheard of for her to visit the gym in such… revealing attire. She approved of the NAVY-branded sweatpants, and the pale blue sports bra felt heartily practical—if a bit snug. She would just have preferred to wear a shirt.

"Of course it is." Kirishima scowled at the serene American and planted her hips on the waist of her nontraditional Miko skirt.

Wash bit her lip and glanced down at herself once more. Where Kirishma found a bra she could fit into so well was beyond the American, very little seemed to come in her size. And she was grateful, but… "This just feels so ostentatious."

"That's the point!" Kirishima stamped her foot on the floor, shattering tile in a two-foot radius of her pout. "Um… I'll clean that up."

Wash sighed, and dropped to her knees to help, "No, let me do it."

"No!" Kirishima flailed her arms in the air, whipping Wash with the tips of her flowing detached sleeves. "You mustn't dirty yourself."

Wash blinked, "Is that not the point of this outfit?"

"What?" Kirishima sighed. "No, Wash… I…"

"Then why am I dressed like this?"

"So that Yeoman Gale will notice you!"

Wash huffed, and experimentally poked at the space-age fabric. "It doesn't seem very modest."

"That's the point," grumbled Kirishima. "You want Gale to notice you."

"You sure it's not too ostentatious?" Wash wound a strand of her russet-brown hair around her finger and thought.

"No!" Krishima waved her finger in front of the American's face. "Well, yes, but not for today. It's like a night battle."

Wash blinked, then slowly shifted her gaze from an indistincint point beyond the horizon to the Japanese battleship's beautiful storm-gray gaze. "What?"

Kirishima huffed, evidently upset her metaphor wasn't clearly understood. "You glide though the night like a specter. Watching, observing, yet unnoticed."

Wash fished a notebook out of her bra, grabbed the pencil stuck behind her ear, and started taking notes.

"Then," Kirishima hunched over, all but whispering into the American's ear with conspiratorial glee, "Just when your target's least expecting it… YASEN!" She threw her arms up and belted out the word at the top of her very considerable lungs. "You strike her with the full force of your BURNING LOVE!"

Wash recoiled as spit sprayed over her face, but notes flowed as quickly as ever from her pencil.

"Then you fade," said Kirishima, "Vanish into the night like a dream, leaving your target dazed, confused, and consumed by lust for something she knew but for an instant."

Wash nodded. It was an interesting tactic. The kind of thing she'd never think of, let alone try. But then again, Kirishima and Kongou were the resident experts in love and romance. Well, experts besides doctor Crowning, but his love for New Jersey was too pure and focused to disturb. "An interesting technique."

"Isn't it?" Kirishima planted her hands on her hips with a dreamy sigh.

"How'd you come up with it?"

The Japanese girl seemed to deflate. "A, uh… friend taught me," she mumbled, "this one time in…" her voice trailed off into nothing.

"Oh," Wash nodded. "You'll have to introduce me to this friend of yours."

"Yeah," Kirishima smiled timidly, "I guess I will."

Before Wash could say anything further, she noticed her target walk up to the check-in desk. Yeoman Gale was looking as pretty as she always did. A selfless, kind-hearted smile adorned her face, and her hair was done up in an adorable little ponytail.

Oh, and she—like Wash—had elected to work out without a shirt. This made Wash very happy, because the battleship caught a glimpse of the sailor's tummy. A tummy which she'd found made for the most comfortable and calming pillow in all of human history.

"Is this really a good idea?" asked Wash. Suddenly, the battleship was having even more intense second thoughts than usual. What if she messed up? A woman as kind and sweet as Gale could have any man—or ship, for that matter—she wanted. What if by trying to 'show off' Wash only drove her friend away.

"Yes," Kirishima nodded, planted her hands on the small of the American's back, and gave her a good shove. "Now go! I'll be watching you from the ceiling."

Wash blinked. "How will you…" but Kirishima was gone. In her place was only a small pile of powdered drywall and the rustle of a ceiling tile being put back in place. "Huh," Wash put a finger to her chin, "So that's what that feels like."

—|—|—​

Crowning stepped onto the shipgirl pier and almost immediately clapped his hands over his ears. The crackling spark of arc welders and angle grinders, the roar of idling turbines and cold boilers, and the hearty metallic clang of munitions and components being manhandled around merged into a truly awesome thunder.

He fumbled a pair of foam earplugs out of his pocket and stuffed them in as tightly as he could. The pier still roared with the sound of military might, but it was at least tolerable now.

Someone tossed him a hardhat, and he gratefully obliged as he made his way past girl after girl. The destroyers were already making lazy circles in the Puget sound, their little boilers took next to no time to warm up.

The cruisers were finishing up their own preparation. Lou was checking the buckles on her leather gun harness while Frisco bounced on her heels to loosen up her sinewy muscles. Prinz Eugen just stared at the horizon with a murderous smile.

Crowning didn't bother them. They were clearly finishing out their own pre-battle rituals. Rituals he'd do best not to interrupt. Besides, they weren't the reason he came down, the battleships were.

One battleship in particular, actually.

"Jersey!" Crowning shouted over the sound of of industry.

"Sup!" Jersey waved back. A dozen men in bright colored sweaters scrambled around her like a well-ordered ant swarm or a drilled pit team. There wasn't a shred of hesitation in their moves as they tightened her gunbelt securely around her broad hips, and snugged the heavy webbing harness on her vest tight to her stunning figure.

"They treating you well?" half-asked the professor. Williams told him these shore crew were pulled from aircraft carrier deck gangs. Fighter pilots trusted them with their lives every time they hurled down the deck, and that trust hadn't been misplaced yet. Crowning had every confidence they knew exactly what they were doing, but he couldn't help but feel a little worried.

"Hell yeah!" Jersey pivoted just enough to show her chest. With her vest tightened up, the fabric was practically painted on her figure. It hugged her slender waist and teased at the muscles of her taut lats, but Crowning couldn't help but be drawn to the swell of her chest.

The shimmering blue fabric hugged the curve of her perfect breasts, but failed to dive the valley between them, letting them stand like veiled mountains with the zipper just low enough for her yellow scarf to tuck away.

"That's…" Crowning smiled at her, "looks like you're in good hands."

"I know!" Jersey gave her chest a pat, "Mushi's sooo jealous."

"AM NOT!" thundered the Japanese super battleship.

"ARE FUCKING TOO!" Jersey bent over so Musashi had a good look and gave herself a good grope. She also shook her stern a little, buffeting one of her pier crew in the helmet and giving Crowning a perfect view of her quadruple shafts. So the professor wasn't too upset about her gratuitous showboating.

Musashi huffed and threw out her chin.

"You quite done?" asked Crowning.

Jersey shrugged, "Yeah, I'm good." She stood back up just in time for a sailor to slap an armored harness on her back. The splinter-painted steel ran up her spine between her shoulder blades, while slender arms wrapped around to cradle her underbust. She winced as another gang of sailors bolted the armor in place with air drivers, but it looked more like surprise than pain. "Oh, one thing."

"Hmm?" Crowning stuffed his hands in his pockets and kept out of her launch crew's way.

"I bought you something," Jersey fished around in her pocket, "For Christmas. I meant to wrap it, but…" she trailed off. "I didn't. 'cause I'm a lazy fuck."

"Jersey, you're not—" Crowning's objection died when she handed him a box that couldn't have possibly fit into her shorts pocket. A 1/700th scale model kit of… herself.

Kongou gasped and applauded, earning herself a stink eye from the American.

"In my defense," said Jersey, "I didn't know what that mean when I bought this."

Crowning smiled. As nice as the idea of Jersey with a daughter or two was, it was just that. An idea. Nobody was even sure if shipgirls could have children, and he still didn't know exactly where he stood with the emotionally-fragile young battlewagon. "I'm sure you didn't," he said.

"Thanks," Jersey blushed, then quietly defocus up. One of her launch crew brought out a heavy pelican case and cracked it open before her. A wicked grin passed her face as she plucked the contents out of their foam cradles.

Her guns. Three matte-chrome plated Smith and Wesson model 29s. 'The gun of Dirty Harry', she's once called them. The most powerful handguns in the world, at least in their time.

As Crowning watched her loving load each chamber with a polished brass cartridge, he couldn't help but agree with the battleship. Those guns were powerful, but in her hands they were awesome in the truest sense of the word. Weapons of great power standing as totems of great and terrible strength.

He smiled as she flipped the cylinder closed, spun the guns around her fingers and slammed them into the contoured plastic carriers strapped low around those broad hips of hers.

"Like what you see?" she teased, shaking her stern just enough to draw his eye as she prepared her third and last weapon.

"Whenever I look at you," replied the professor.

Jersey blushed, and slammed her third gun into the horizontal holster in the small of her back without further theatrics.

"Stay safe out there," he said.

"As fucking if," Jersey rolled her eyes, "I'm a fucking Iowa, 'gaist fucking World War one battlecruisers."

Crowning motioned to himself, "Sorry, I know words, not boats."

Jersey narrowed her eyes, "I will eat them and shit on their graves."

Crowning stifled a laugh, "Very eloquent."

"Fuck eloquent," Jersey rested her palms on the grips of her guns, "I have GUNS!"

Kongou golf clapped, "Very American, Dess."

"Hell fucking yeah!" agreed Jersey.

Crowning shook his head and smiled. "Then good hunting."

"Thanks," Jersey smiled, then glanced around. Her own launch crew were busy stowing their tools, Kongou was working up steam, and Musashi was focused on making sure her breasts were being properly leered at

"And, uh…" the battleship blushed and took a step closer to Crowning. There was just enough difference between the water she stood on and the pier he stood on to put him almost at her eye level.

For a second, she froze. Then she put her hands around him and drew him close for a kiss. Her eyes fluttered shut as their lips met, and she allowed herself only the briefest taste before pulling away. "I… I owed you that."

Crowning just smiled. "I'm sure you did."

"Right," Jersey clapped her hands, her posture visibly shifting from the shy, childish girl she was off duty to the battle-hardened Commander she was at sea. "Let's go kill some Nazis."

—|—|—​

Yeoman Sarah Gale liked hitting the Gym after work. With all these stunningly attractive shipgirls walking around—many of them in far less than regulation clothing—she had plenty of motivation to tighten up her increasingly soft body.

But more to the point, she liked lifting weights. There was a simple grace to it. For a few brief moments in time, all she had to worry about was herself, the bar, and her form. Whenever she was on the bench, or hammering out crunches, or even squatting, she fell into a kind of zen state. She was at peace in a world without sparkly shipgirl bullshit to clog everything up.

Or at least she liked hitting the Gym until Wash inexplicably showed up there. And she was wearing an itty-bitty sports bra that she only barely fit into. For… some reason, it wasn't like her to dress so showily.

But Wash's outfit wasn't the biggest problem, although it did make things worse. The biggest problem was that the battleship never quite left her sight. Every time Gale would finish up a set and move to another part of the Gym, Wash would be there a few moments later. For a moment, Gale thought the battleship was intentionally following her, but the patten of movement didn't make sense.

Sometimes Wash wouldn't move until Gale was on her last set, and sometimes she'd move even before the sailor had finished. It was spooky, but then again what wasn't with the legendarily stealthy battleship-who-was-also-a-girl.

Also, Wash was so much stronger than her it wasn't even funny. Gale considered a reasonably strong woman, but Wash was borderline superhuman. She couldn't quite see how much the battleship was squatting, there were three hulking Marines on each side spotting her in awe, but it had to be at least three hundred pounds.

And of course, she was doing all this without a shirt on, which only highlighted her belly. Wash wasn't as shredded as Jersey was, Gale didn't think any living woman had thatlevel of definition, but her belly was tight and toned. Which only made her bulging chest more frustrating.

Boobs are made of fat! Why does she have fat there but not elsewhere.

Of course, Gale couldn't get mad at the battleship. She was just trying to better herself, and she was too darn serene and focused to think bad of. Gale wasn't even sure the queenly battleship noticed she was there.

After less than thirty minutes, Gale gave up in frustration. At least she could go run laps now, Wash wouldn't be showing everyone up with that insane endurance of hers.

Moments after the sailor had collected her stuff and left, there was a rustle in the ceiling. Powdered drywall fell from the rafters, followed shortly thereafter by a ceiling tile. And then a short-haired Kongou-class battleship landed flat on her stern in the middle of the free weight area with a crash of steel and flesh.

"Okay," Kirishima rubbed her bruised rear, "that did not go as planned."

Wash walked over with the same serene half-smile her face always wore, "I don't think so, no."

"Tea?" proposed Kirishima.

"Yes," Wash nodded, "Lets."

—|—|—​

Large Cruiser Alaska wasn't comfortable. To tell the truth, she'd never been totally comfortable since she came back from… from wherever ships go after they're scrapped. Cuddling with her friends helped. She could momentarily push her confusion at having legs aside when a sleepy Hamakaze curled up on her lap like some kind of silver-haired cat, or when Atago offered to watch over her while she slept—like most shipgirls, Alaskahated sleeping alone.

But… she'd never quite got the hang of being a girl. Or… really of being a ship. Even back in her steel hull, she'd been stuck in an awkward limbo. Too big and strong to be a cruiser, yet not a battleship and certainly not a battlecruiser.

But this was worse.

"'Tagoooo…" Alaska let out a quiet whimper and hilarious failed at hiding herself behind a support column. She scuffed her beloved sneakers against the carpeted floor and wrung the hem of her shimmering evening gown. "'tagooooo"

Atago sighed and gave Hamakaze's DesRon a quick briefing on who they were and weren't allowed to hit on, then sent the three busty destroyers in their beautiful evening dresses off to have their fun. "Coming, 'laska!"

"Not so loud!" Alaska hissed, and grabbed a whole tray of little sandwich roll things from a passing waiter and shoved them all down her throat. "'s rugh thuah."

Atago bounced over with her usual glowing enthusiasm. "Panpakapan!" she pulled up abreast of the bigger American with a glowing smile and a friendly giggle.

"'Tago!" Alaska elbowed her friend in the ribs and mumbled something incoherent.

"Swallow, 'laska." Atago dabbed at the corners of Alaska's face with her hankerchief.

Alaska gulped down the sandwiches. "I said, he's right over there!" She pointed as frantically as she dared as the young man standing alone by one of the tables. The young man dressed in a sports coat that could generously be described as 'fitting' while looking painfully out of place among all the other high-class attendees. The young man she'd ran into all those times at Toys 'R Us but never worked up the courage to talk to.

Alaska pulled herself back behind the support colum. Which work better if it was more than a few inches around, but it's the thought that counts. "'Tago!" she grabbed the busty heavy cruiser by the neck of her halter-necked dress and hissed. "He's right there."

Atago leaned over at the waist to get a good look. Her beautifully done-up blond hair fell down as she examining the boy in question. "Yes!" she said without even the barest lip service to the concept of stealth. "He is!"

The boy smiled at the two cruisers and waved. Atago shot back one of her giggling full-body waves.

"'tago, why is he here?" Alaska grabbed the cruiser's dress again and pleaded with her.

"Oh," Atago chuckled, "I invited him! We did get those plus-ones you know."

Alaska blinked. "That's what that meant?"

"Yes!" Atago smiled, "what did you think it meant."

"I thought…" Alaska glanced down at her tummy. "They were just congratulating me."

"But you're not pregnant."

"They don't know that."

Atago sighed. "'laska… what're we gonna do with you."

Alaska hummed in thought, but before she could say something clever, Atago'd grabbed her by the waist and forcibly shoved her at the boy.

"Panpakapan!"

Alaska came crashing to a stop mere inches from him. Her sneakers squealed against the floor as she threw her screws into full reverse—if she had two rudders like a battleship, she might've been able to stop further, but alas, she was only a cruiser.

"Hi," the boy smiled at her, and raised his punch glass to Atago in thanks.

"Um," Alaska winced and straightened up, "H-hi."

—|—|—​

"Narwhals, Narwhals, swimmin' in the Ocean!" the airy, lilting accent of airborne aircraft carrier-/dirigible-/zeppelin-/whatever she decided she wanted to be called today- Akron filled the Eastern Seaboard Combined ASW command's TOC.

"Somethin' somethin' awesome!" she sang with reckless abandon.

Meanwhile, Admiral Carraway stared into the inky abyss of his coffee cup and tried to hate it out of existence. It didn't work, just like the last thirty-seven times he'd tried that. The coffee, like Akron and her sister Maccon's sunny disposition and airheaded attitude, was all but immune to the feeble powers of the Brass Stare.

"Somethin' something' touch your balls!" Akron giggled and for a moment there was peace and quiet. Mostly because she needed to take a breath to continue singing.

The same song.

She'd been singing.

For the past three hours.

And she didn't even know most of the words!

"Akron!" Carraway tore a handset out of its cradle and snapped at the loopy carrier.

There was a pause. "Admiral?" said Akron with solemn dignity. Then she audible smiled,"Hey, wadddup?"

Carraway sighed. It was impossible to stay mad at her for long. Her planes and the 'cats under her command had all but eliminated the sub threat in American waters. She'd earned a little eccentricity, and she was too damn sunny to get mad at anyways. "Akron…" Carraway planted a hand on his hip and paced his usual route, "I know it can get boring up there."

"Not really," protested the airship. But as sweet and kind as she was, she was an awfullier.

"Akron, don't lie to me, you're staring at a featureless sea for days on end."

There was a pause, "Okay, yeah. I get kinda bored."

"Which is why," Carraway steeled himself for what he was about to say. "I don't mind you singing to pass the time."

"Awesome!"

"But please," Carraway bit back the pleading tint to his voice. He had sailors around him after all, he had to project the image of a strong, respected commander. Not a man desperately pleading with a girl-who-was-also-a-blimp to stop cheerily driving him mad. "Make sure you know the words first."

"Oh, okay!" chirped Akron, "sorry."

The admiral stifled a smile. It was so damn hard to stay mad at her. "You're forgiven," he said. He'd learned the hard way that she'd keep apologizing until he actually worked the word 'forgiven' into a sentence.

The handset was barely back in its cradle when she started up her next song.

"NyanNyanNyanNyanNyanNyanNyanNyanNyanNyan-" she belted out the words at the top of her lungs, giggling every few repetitions with that cheerful giggle of hers.

This went on for some time.

Carraway glanced at his yeoman and sighed.

"Technically," said the sailor as she deftly replaced his coffee with a fresh cup, "she did what you asked."

The Admiral sighed. "I guess that's—"

"Admiral," every shred of levity was gone from the airship's voice. Carraway'd never heard her be this focused. Even when she was harassing subs to their doom she kept at least a hint of bouncy sun in her voice.

"Yes," Carraway clutched the handset to his face, "This is Carraway, what's up?"

"Battle fleet coming though the Bahamas," said Akron. "Heavy surface fleet. Looks like three cruisers and—" there was a pause. "That's gotta be a battlecruiser, but I don't recognize the desi-wait."

"Akron?" Carraway clenched at the handset.

"Okay," Akron's voice was quiet and haunted. "I… I recognize that now."

—|—|—​

Atago smiled and popped a cherry in her mouth. This party was going swimmingly! Alaska hadn't just met the boy she'd been dreaming wistfully about all these months, she was actually talking with him!

Well, okay, he was doing most of the talking while she nervously fidgeted and stammered out one-or-two word responses. But the level of fidgeting was going don at a small but noticeable rate. Atago considered that a success. She was well on her way to achieving her goal of getting Alaska a much-deserved boyfriend!

And maybe, just maybe if things went smoothly, Alaska'd really have a little bundle of joy for Atago to fawn over. The Japanese cruiser had already decided she was going to be the best aunt ever, even if Alaska wasn't technically related to her.

But before she could indulge in her fantasy of domestic bliss any further, someone tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me, ma'am?"

"Yes?" Atago smiled and spun on her heel.

The smile vanished. A very young, very scared sailor stared back at her. "Ma'am," he worried the hem of his uniform jacket, "You're needed back at base. All of you."

—|—|—​

Hunched in what used to be a hotel conference room, large cruiser Alaska scribbled down notes on her Admiral's briefing. While she'd never admit to liking the Abyssals, their very sight sent her blood boiling into a furious rage, a tiny part of her was happy they'd chosen tonight to stage a raid.

Well, not happy but… something. Fighting at sea was something she knew. She was good at it and she knew what to do. It was in her blood—or feedwater, really. It was certainly less emotionally taxing than trying to socialize. Alaska did not make friends easily, especially with people she was furiously crushing on.

She'd actually breathed a sigh of relief when Atago collected her, as much as she was ashamed of it now.

That feeling of relief lasted exactly until her Admiral put one of Akron's aerial photos up on the screen. Then, in an instant, her blood ran icy cold.

"Oh no," she breathed.

Three cruisers steamed in a narrow arrowhead formation. Alaska knew the sleek, multi-turreted design by heart. Atlantas. Her stomach twisted inside her at the sight. Those were American ships, but they were notAmerican. She let out a low, involuntary hiss. Her hands shook too badly to write, and the corners of her vision tinged a pinkish red. Those ships were not her friends.

Her friends… Flint and Sandy and… Juneau and San Juan… and all of them deserved better than this. They were good ships, proud ships, honorable ships.

Her pencil shattered in her grasp.

"Alaska?" the voice of her Admiral shook her out of her rage.

"S-sir?" Alaska shook her head to clear the red haze. "Sorry, I…"

Then she noticed the ship in the center of the formation, the battlecruiser from her briefing. Its hull was long and wickedly pointed at both ends. Its four twin-turrets lay menacingly against its decks. A towering monolithic superstructure all but identical to Alaska's own loomed over the fore turrets, and it's massive funnel trunking was surrounded by a single inky black band.

But more importantly, the water around burned with a brilliant blue-white light. This wasn't the subtle glow of churned up algae, the water almost boiled in hate.

"That's—"

"A Lexington-class battle cruiser," said her Admiral solemnly.

"What's that glowy stuff?" asked Hamakaze.

Then, in an instant it all clicked for Alaska. All those books she'd been reading in her down time… that black stripe on the stacks… she knew what that glow was. "Cherenkov radiation," she whispered.

Her Admiral nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"What…" even Atago's voice was dark and worried, "what does that mean."

"Radiation," said the Admiral. "That ship's so hot she glows. Combined with that stripe on her stack, and we know the exact ship she's based on."

"Saratoga," breathed Alaska. "We're hunting sister Sara."

 

[Skywalker_T-65]

People who expect salt or rage don't know me well. This is more accurate.

Spoiler: And this

( music )

"Now, who here can tell me what ship this is?"

Smile on my face, I looked out at my students. I could say this was probably the most interested I had ever had them in a topic, though I did wish the reason were different. History was something I loved, and I had always tried to impart at least some of that love on my students. Didn't any teacher, with their chosen topic of interest? But it had never been easy. Not once had I found a student who had the same feelings I did, and a lot just didn't care. But now...now they did care. About warships.

Though I had the feeling it was only because those warships were now attractive women.

Well, if it works...

The Abyssals were something I didn't know what to think about. Nothing I knew about history even remotely explained them, and the less-said about how my more scientifically inclined-colleagues tore their hair out, the better. But the Abyssals had done something else. Require first the Japanese, then the British and then others, to bring back our own warships as women to fight them. Like an anime, in a way, but very real.

And, as the case may be, very easy to bring into my teaching.

"Lexington, right?" John, one of my brighter students, shot his hand into the air as I mused.

Though he only got a smile and a shake of my head, "Close, but not quite. Anyone else?"

Ever since the War had started, I had started to give short little lessons on ships that came back. First Kongou, then Victory. Warspite. Nagato. Furious. I had taken these ships, and the girls they now were, and used it to try and get my students a bit more invested in the history. When that history quite literally came to life and fought to protect the world, it was a bit easier than it might otherwise have been.

But now, I had come to a ship that hadn't come back. But one that was quite near and dear to my heart, nonetheless.

"I know!" One of my other students, Betty, snapped her own hand into the air. "Saratoga!"

The smile on my face widened, as I made a note to give Betty some extra points on the next test, "Exactly! Now, Saratoga hasn't come back yet. No American fleet carriers have, for that matter, but I'm allowed to bring up ships that aren't around yet, aren't I?"

A smattering of laughter answered me, the students leaning forward in their seats. I had found they liked my lectures on these ships...these girls. That I picked one that wasn't around yet was a rare occurrence, so they were probably even more interested than usual. And considering which ship it was...

Well.

"Saratoga is a ship that's a bit special to me," I explained, the picture on the screen changing to show Sara with her distinctive black-stripe, "You see, I've said before I became a history teacher because I love history. Have since I was a kid. Well..." I tapped the smart board with a finger, directly on the island of USS Saratoga. "Sister Sara here, has been my favorite ship as long as I've loved history. She's always had a place in my heart, and let me tell you, I'm looking forward to the day she comes back."

"So you can go marry her, eh Mr. Jones?"

I couldn't help the snort, as I looked at the loudmouthed student, "Hardly, but yes, I do want to see her. Now, to give you a bit of context..."

And so, I launched into my usual lecture. This time I had put a bit more effort into it and a bit more time for the lecture though, since Sara really was my favorite ship. If I could impart just a fraction of that, I would consider it a good day.

But I was so wrapped up in my lecture, that I hadn't noticed one of my student's paling in the back of the room. His hand shook on his phone, the teenager looking between the screen and the device in his hands. Not allowed in my class, though I knew some other teachers did allow phones. I had never done so...and had I known, I would have told him to stop.

But Jerry didn't give me a chance.

"Mr. Jones! You have to see this!"

The redhaired teenager jumped to his feet, startling everyone in the class from me to the half-asleep students by the door. I blinked slowly, confusion crossing my face at the shout and how he practically jumped over his desk in the rush to the front of the room.

"Where's the fire Jerry?" I asked curiously, before my eyes narrowed at the object in his hands. "And I told you a dozen times, no cell..."

"You need to look at this. It's an Abyssal that they just found!"

Silence fell in the room, as I hesitantly took the phone from my student's pale hands. Even more pale than he normally was, and that worried me. I knew my students had taken to asking me whenever a new Abyssal appeared, exactly what the ship was. What the monster could do, if it got in a position to hit someone. It wasn't exactly fun, but even my fellow teachers were doing so. Sometimes, being the most knowledgeable on warships was a curse.

"Hmm…" I hummed, recognizing the lines, even past the wrongness. "A battlecruiser. Not a British or Ger...german…"

My face paled, hand shaking as I held the phone back out to my student. That ship...that….

"Lexington-class." I whispered softly.

Jerry frowned, "But that…"

"Is what they were originally going to be. Battlecruisers. And...this…" Shaking my head, I felt my legs nearly buckle as I turned around. "Class...class dismissed." I croaked out, my voice cracking.

"But class doesn't end for another twenty minutes?" Betty protested, always the model student.

I just shook my head, "I'll talk to the Principal. Just...go on home, everyone. Thank...thank you for showing me this, Jerry."

Handing the phone back to my student, I turned around and stumbled to my desk. I only tangentially noted the gossiping among my students, as they filtered out of the room. A few sent me worried looks, even. After all, I had never acted that way about an Abyssal. I had always given them what they wanted to know.

And I had never let a class out this early.

Sara...

The picture on the phone...I looked up from my desk, eyes locking onto the picture frozen in time on my smart board. Sister Sara, laying at harbor with her prominent black stripe and eight-inch gun turrets.

A battlecruiser she was not.

The Abyssal, was. A twisted mockery, glowing in a way that only radiation could. The way only a ship at Crossroads could.

---

What if love will leave your heart an open sore...​

"I can't believe it. It can't...Sara..."

Stumbling into my small apartment, my feet dragged along the carpet. A suitcase fell from limp hands, forgotten on the floor. I could only stumble forward, my mind racing. And my heart feeling like it had been torn in two. This couldn't be happening. Abyssals were...Abyssals. The leading theories ranged around a lot, but they all agreed that the Abyssals were some sort of spiritual thing, and not the actual ship girls. They couldn't be. There were more Abyssals of more classes than were ever built or planned.

And they never had distinguishing markings.

But...

This one did.

I opened the door to my office, flicking the light on. My mind barely even noticed the blinding light, my body operating on autopilot.

Abyssals. Avatars of rage and destruction, who seemed to only exist to kill anything on the seas. And occasionally, as now, on land. Monsters that were the antithesis of the ship girls. Corrupted warships that seemed to come from somewhere, but weren't the warships they looked like. That was what I had thought. It was what I had wanted to believe, when Sara didn't come back.

But now, I didn't know what to believe.

"Why would she do this? Why would Sara come back as one of those...things?" I got out past the lump in my throat, my eyes locking onto the little figure on my desk. I hesitantly reached my hand out, only to pull it back. I couldn't... "It doesn't make any sense. Is she angry about Crossroads? Or...it can't be though. She did so much good! I don't like what they did to her, but surely that wouldn't be enough reason..."

And yet, the evidence stared me in the face. An Abyssal Lexington-class, with a trail of radiation. There was no other ship it could be than Saratoga. Despite the Abyssals never wearing identifying markings. Despite them always seeming to be not real ships.

It...I...

"Sara, please, tell me you aren't coming back as one of those monsters. I wanted to meet you! I wanted to thank you for everything you did." I clenched my fist by my side, tears rolling down my face. I couldn't even wipe them away either, letting the hot, salty liquid trail down my cheeks. Why bother? The pain was...so real. "I know you have every right to be angry about Crossroads. I'm angry too! But...but..."

My voice broke, choked off sobs coming from my throat.

I never cried. The last time I had cried was my grandfather's funeral, and even then, the man had raised me more than my actual father. Otherwise? I never cried. Not because it 'wasn't manly' but because it took a lot to bring me to that level.

This...this...

Cursing what I felt, my hand fell back to my side. I croaked out more words, more for my own benefit than...anything else. "Ever since this war started, I've wanted to meet you. I wanted to see how you looked. How you acted, see if I was right. I've thought about it so often since ship girls..." A weak chuckle escaped my lips, my head shaking in anything but amusement. "I sound like a fool, don't I? But I wanted to talk to you, Sara. Learn your history directly from you, and get to know you as something other than a ship in a book."

My eyes trailed over the collection of books in the corner, the material I had researched so I would have something to talk about when Saratoga came back. Even if I had to wait until after the war was over, because we needed every girl we could get. And every carrier even moreso.

And now, it was all a waste. Because...because...

"Sara, I wanted to show you that you were still appreciated, no matter what anyone says. That someone cares about you, even if you were used as a nuke target. I'm sure your old crew feels the same. But I..." I couldn't finish, my voice finally breaking completely. My shoulders shook, as I sent one look at the object on my desk, before turning around. I couldn't...I couldn't do this. Not right now.

Maybe not ever, now.

I wanted to give you a chance to be human. To have someone to talk to, who wanted to talk to you not a carrier. Silly, but it's what I...

My hands shut off the light in the office, casting it into darkness as I stumbled to my bed.

Covering up the hand-carved model of USS Saratoga I had made as a present for her return.

I can't hate her. No matter what happens. I never could. I...only hope this isn't true. That's it's some trick. I can't think of it any differently. If I do, I...I just can't.

---

"Warspite, let me go. Now."

Standing her ground, Warspite squared her thin shoulders. Her eyes trailed up the taller form of Victorious, the battleship resisting an urge to step back that she had not felt since Jutland. Victorious, normally so very carefree and happy, was a tightly wound spring. Anger radiated off her body in waves that would, Warspite was sure, catch something on fire given the chance.

And she had an inkling of an idea why.

"Vicky, you know I can't let you leave. We need you here, not charging off across the bloody Atlantic!" The old battleship didn't shout. But she did raise her voice.

"And I'm telling you I need to go!" Victorious, on the other hand, had no such qualms. Her voice cracked with the anger she was barely holding down.

Warspite shook her head again, long locks of hair falling down her back, the little crown on her head swaying with the motion, "I know you want to help the Yanks. But that's their fight. We need to keep our home safe."

"Fuck our home!"

Even the Grand Old Lady stepped back a step at those words, violet eyes widening slightly. Victorious actually glared at her, and not in the playful way she normally did. Not even in the way she did when she used the nickname.

"I don't give a rats arse about our home right now. I don't care about what you, or Hood, or Mother say. I need to be over there!" Victorious continued to speak, her voice cracking more and more with each word. Her shoulders shaking harder and harder. "Bloody hell...I...that isn't any ordinary battlecruiser. Warspite, please."

Forcing her own shoulders to stay steady, Warspite shook her head, "I know. That's a Yank battlecruiser."

"No, you don't know. You didn't live long enough to know."

Blinking slowly, Warspite frowned. She couldn't...what did Vicky mean? Not lived long enough? The ship was never even built, at least not as a battlecruiser. So what did living longer have to do with anything?

"That glow isn't because it's an Abyssal. That's radiation you old fool." The armored carrier ground out, her hand clenching tightly in the fabric of her shorts. So tightly Warspite heard the screech of steel on steel. "Radiation. On a Lexington."

Warspite could only shake her head, "I'm sorry, Vicky I...don't know what you're talking about."

"And that's what I meant, damn it all!" Victorious' hand left her side, slamming into the wall next to the two ship girls. A clean hole was punched through the wall, wood and plaster splattering the carrier.

She didn't care.

"You were decommissioned before it happened. But the Yanks….the Yanks bloody nuked her!"

"Nuked who…" Warspite began to ask, before her eyes narrowed. "Saratoga. You talked about her back in the War."

"I loved her in the war!" Victorious snapped back, but the heat in her voice was gone. Her hand slowly fell from the hole in the wall, the carrier's shoulders fire was gone.

Victorious fell forward, nearly toppling Warspite with her greater size. Forcing the battleship to hesitantly wrap her arms around the other girl, now shaking with soft sobs. Warspite could only hold her, unsure of what exactly to do.

She wished that she knew.

"I loved her." Vicky softly repeated, her voice broken. "And I thought she was just sleeping like my sisters. I never...those monsters are using her. I don't know if it's her or just some twisted shell, but they're using her. And I...I…"

Arms desperately tightening, Victorious held Warspite as close as she could. Her voice completely cracking as sobs wracked her body.

"I don't know what to do Warspite. I want to get out there and sink that monster. But I know I can't and it..."

Warspite did the only thing she could do, gently pull Victorious' tear streaked face to her chest.

"Shh...shh. Don't worry, Victorious." And for once, she did not use the nickname. The old battlewagon merely held the younger carrier, softly stroking her back. "I...we're all here to help you. I know I can't fight with you. And I know that we can't just abandon our duties and charge across the Atlantic."

Victorious sniffled, "Warspite…"

"But I swear, I will do everything I can to at least try and convince the Admiral to let you go." Warspite's voice was filled with utter conviction, as she slowly pulled back, a free hand wiping away the younger girl's tears.

"He won't say yes." The carrier whispered, her voice sounding defeated.

"No, he probably won't." Warspite couldn't deny that. But she still shook her head, a soft smile crossing her face. "But believe me, I will bloody try."

Neither said anything more, Victorious falling back down to rest her head on the Grand Old Lady's shoulder. And Warspite returned her arms to the taller warship's back. She couldn't claim to understand what Vicky was feeling. Not when she didn't have the same relationship.

But she would be damned if she let one of her friends, vitriolic as they were, suffer like this.

 

[theJMPer]

"Wait," Ryuujou's voice washed over the steel-gray sea. Her usually laid-back voice was suddenly clipped and precise, "I've got something?"

"Hmm?" Jun'you straighted out. There was nothing more than a vague aftertaste of the drunken giggles she'd been indulging in mere seconds before.

"Incoming strike package," said Ryuujou. "Three hundred miles, bearing one-seven-nine."

"Copy," Jun'you tilted her head to the side by a fraction while Shinano watched in awe. The gigantic conversion hadn't seen carriers—real carriers, proper carriers—in battle before. The way the moved and spoke… she was in awe.

"Looks like… Stukas?" Ryuujou shot Jun'you a sideways glance. "I count sixteen."

"Stukas?" Jun'you messed with one of her gravity-defying hair tufts. "This far from a shore base?"

"There's a flattop around here somewhere," said Ryuujou, causing Shinano to whimper quietly and hug her chest as tightly as she could.

The converted battleship knew she was utterly useless without even a single carrier-qualified pilot aboard. But watching the two real carriers work… they moved with the kind of precise grace she'd only imagined. Everything they did only drove home how much betterthey were at this than her.

"No…" Jun'you shook her head. "You're not thinking—"

"Graf Zeppelin," said Ryuujou. "Or… some twisted version of her."

Jun'you cursed under her breath. "Want me to vector a few planes over?"

Shinano cocked her head. She was no expert like the two real carriers, but even she knew what a Stuka was. An excellent ground-attack plane, yes. But it as slow, underarmed, and lumbered around the air like a pregnant hippo. Even a handful of fast, agile Zeros could tear the whole pack apart.

"Yeah," Ryuujou nodded. "Could be escorts I'm not seeing."

Shinano winced. She should have thought of that! Stupid… shitty almost-carrier!

"Gotcha," Jun'you flicked her head to the side, her hands fidgeting in a way too deliberate to be nervous flutter. "Six birds moving to link up with yours."

"Thank you," Ryuujou nodded, but her attention was clearly focused on setting up her fighters' attack run.

"Should be on-station in ten minutes," said Jun'you, "They'll be coming in from the East at ten-thou."

"Gotcha," Ryuujou put a finger to her ear and relayed the info to her pilots.

"Please don't shoot my boys down," teased Jun'you with just a hint of levity.

"Don't plan on it," said Ryuujou with a smirk.

Shinano rubbed her neck. She'd practically gotten whiplash from watching the two professionals do their job. She'd tried to take notes so she could improve herself, but… but every passing second made the gulf between them and her feel all the more vast.

She'd thought she as doing well in her training sessions with White, but the little escort carrier must've been slowing things down so Shinano could follow. What Ryuujou and Jun'you were doing… it wasn't even a set of actions. It was just one long continue dance they did without a moment's hesitation.

"Wait," Ryuujou froze, her gaze locked on the burning midday sun. "Something in the s— BREAK!"

Jun'you's head whipped to the side as she ordered her planes to scatter, but it was too late. Her muscles tensed and she let out a scream as the pain of shredded airframes was transmitted back to her. "W-what?" she stammered out.

"I don't know!" Ryuujou's voice hovered just below full-out panic as the little carrier frantically bobbed and weaved. Her teeth clenched and blood dripped from her fingers, "Damn, they're fast!"

"Gah!" Jun'you howled like someone punched her in the gut. "Lost another one. I've got three—" She screamed again as, "Two! I have two planes left! What are these things?"

"Damn they're fast," Ryuujou screeched as a gash appeared across her cheek. She shook her head, sweat and blood dripping off her brow. "I, uh… I see tapered wings, blunt tips…"

"Radial eng-" Jun'you stopped, and the two carriers shared a glance for a heartbeat. "Focke-wulfs."

Shinano cringed. The A6M Zero was a brilliant turnfighter, but it lacked any armor, and and the FW-190 was notoriously good at murdering turnfighters. They tore spitfires to shreds, and spitfires had armor. It's how they got their nickname, Butcher Bird.

The only planes the little fleet had that could stand up to the Abyssal Butcher Birds were her own Shiden Kais. But they were uselessly lashed to her pointless deck with pilots who didn't know how to fly while all the realaces were getting cut to ribbons in zeros.

Shinano would have cried if she wasn't so angry at her own uselessness.

"AH!" Jun'you screamed and fell to her knees. "That's… I'm out."

"Me too," Ryuujou wiped at her brow, but only smeared more sweat-thinned blood over her quivering features.

"They're still coming," said Jun'you.

"I know," Ryuujou winced as she tried to make her summoning gestures with battered, bloody arms. "Vector— vector everything you've got left in the air."

"Mm," Jun'you nodded and relayed the order to the handful of pilots she had left. By Shinano's count, she'd lost fully a third of her fighter wing in less than five minutes, and Ryuujou had to be almost out. The big converted carrier clutched at the heavy wrought-iron grips of her bow. If… if only she could just help!

"Launch everything you've got spotted," ordered Ryuujou, "Then batten down and head for home."

"But," Shinano winced, "But what about the whaling?"

"They can fish another time!" Ryuujou spat blood with every word. "We can't afford to loose those ships."

"R-right," Shinano stammered. Her crews bolted to their stations, following all the drills White had taught her. Damage control teams stood ready with hoses while her hanger crews purged her lines. Gunners scrambled to man her AAA batteries. She might not be able to launch the planes sitting in her belly, but she could at least help where she could.

"Um," She bit her lip, "How… how many did we get?"

"One," said Jun'you. "One Stuka."

—|—|—​

The Battlecruiser princess smiled as the last rays of sunlight washed over her hull. By daybreak, she'd be well within the Gulf of Mexico. By daybreak, her guns would be hot with the sweet stench of burning propellant. By daybreak, she'd be wreaking hell against a spineless, traitorous nation.

She'd fought well. For years she soldiered on in the service of her country, and she was rewarded at the end by a glorious baptism in the atomic light. Her hull glowed with that great and terrible power, but her heart burned with furious indignation.

Her country, the country she so proudly served, had bent the very might of God to their will. They'd harnessed the atom into the most awesomely destructive weapon man had ever dreamed of. And then they used it only twice.

TWICE!

They could have purged the red stain! Wiped the malignant Communist tumor from this earth with the cleansing fire of the atom! Instead they grew weak and timid, refusing to unleash the atomic might even when they learned of its true and terrible power!

They emptied their coffers raising up their beaten foes, instead of burning them to glass!

They were weak! They were cowards and traitors! And she would punish them for what they'd done.

She would show this festering scar that called itself America the true glory of war. The gulf would run red with their traitorous blood by the time she was through.

But first… first she had her part to play. She was but a piece in the vast game of shadows, and she knew her role. Smash the oil rigs. Spill the precious lifeblood of trade into the gulf. Throttle the vast trading fleet until they gasped at fumes just to keep their lights on.

Force the traitors to watch their heretic allies starve while mountains of food piled up on their docks.

A wicked smile crossed her lips as she steamed past Florida unopposed. A few fighters had tried to stall her progress. Tried. Her escorts shredded the strange propellerless aircraft like chaff before a combine until there was nothing left but a powder dissolving into the sea.

She would not be stopped by such trivial means. She would have her price in blood.

For the glory of the Atom.

—|—|—​

"Alright, I'll keep this brief," Alaska's head rang with the sound her Admiral's voice."We've got a P-8 shadowing the—" there was a brief catch in his voice, "Battlecruiser princess. She's headed into the center planning area, home of over thirty-three hundred active oil rigs. We loose those rigs we can't fuel our convoys."

Atago spoke up, grim determination darkening her usually sunny countenance, "Can we try an aerial attack."

"Florida ANG tried," said The Admiral, "They lost a half-dozen Eagles before they even reached weapons release. This is going to be a purely surface action."

Alaska nodded. She wasn't a battle cruiser, but… maybe… she could fight like one if she had to, "Understood sir."

"Plan is as follows," her Admiral barked out, "Hamakaze, you're on Alaska. Isokaze, you're on Atago. Urakaze, you're on Nachi."

The three destroyers issued curt words of acknowledgement and took up position off their charges.

"Vicksburg and Normandy are diverting up from Panama to join you."

"Sir, is that wise?" asked Alaska. As much as she appreciated the extra firepower, she hated to think she was sapping Wiskey's escort to get it.

"It'll have to be," said her Admiral though gritted teeth, "I can't hold those ships back from an imminent threat to fend off a potential one."

"Understood sir."

"Captain Takeda knows you're coming. Wiskey's raring for a fight. Push the princess south if you can, west if you have to. But do not let it raise hell in the oil fields."

"Understood, sir."

—|—|—​

A tiny glimmer of appreciation—the closest thing her stoic face had achieved to a smile—passed over the bone-white skin of her pale features. The American had done her job splendidly. She closed her eyes, and listened to the song of her victims.

The two long, fast ships peeled off with a hum of slashing screws and a rumble of turbines. They were the ones who gave her such a cutting headache with their constant pinging. Not that it mattered, with her belly firmly planted in the icy embrace of the sea floor, there was nothing for them to see but an oddly-shaped bit of silty rock.

They tried to find her, she knew they did. But they were weak, out of practice. And she was very, very good. Slipping past the hunting gaze of those aerostatic annoyances had meant a long, boring trip up the South American coast.

But once she was in the Gulf… it was a happy time. Those ships above her tried to sniff her out, but they were simply no match for her skill. They'd gone complacent with their fancy buoys and aerial assistance.

They couldn't believe anyone was really lurking under the placid waves. They'd grown complacent, and she would punish them for their error.

Not that it mattered anymore. The roar of their screws drowned out whatever quite sounds she made. The two long, fast ships were scrambling to put distance between her and her… targets.

A few ancient frigates, and a half-crippled battleship with two screws already firmly in the grave.

They were not, as some might claim, her prey. Nor was she a predator. To use such words implied an emotions connection that simply didn't exist.

She didn't lust for battle, she didn't thrill in the chase or revel in the kill.

She didn't even hunt for sport.

She killed because that's what she was made to do.

There was no glory in what she did, just grim mathematical operations. She never expected to come home alive, nor did she expect to die with glory and valor. She would die, forgotten and alone in the freezing depths.

Her only prayer was that she'd sink enough to hurt her foe. That she'd live long enough to earn back the steel put into her.

She wasn't a predator, she was a weapon.

A killing machine so utterly devoid of soul and emotion she didn't even have a name.

Just a number.

Five-one-one.

 

[theJMPer]

Support carrier Shinano winced as the stone-gray sea stung at her hull. The ocean churned with unnatural chill against her flanks, and each crashing wave stung like daggers against her decks. She'd never faced the Abyss before, but she knew they were out there, knew they were coming for her.

And she knew she couldn't do a thing but lash her planes down and hope for the best. Her guns were manned, but she was still stuck with the borderline useless 25mm mounts. Her Damage Control teams stood ready, but this would be only their second action in the face of real enemy fire.

Above her circled what was left of Jun'you's and Ryuujou's fighter wings. Less than two dozen Zeros to fend off the horde.

Shinano clenched at the wrought iron grip of her bow and muttered a timid whimper. She'd been scared before. The worry that she might just do something wrong and screw up the fishing trip hadn't left her mind since the moment she got her mission assignment.

But now that she knew there were monsters coming with the express intention of murdering her and her friends… she was terrified. She wanted nothing more than to curl up on White's lap and cry until she just couldn't cry anymore.

"Here they come," Ryuujou's bitter hiss crashed over the freezing air like a file dragged along a rusty wire. The light carrier's bangs were matted down with sweat and blood, and her hand shook with exhaustion as she pointed to the horizon.

She was down to her last four fighters, and the strain of losing so many so fast was chiseled on her grimy features.

"Mmm," Jun'you just nodded and motioned her planes to join the CAP. Blood still oozed from a cut on her brow, but Jun'you still had a full dozen zeros in the air. The strain assaulted her on every side, but she was still standing strong. "I count…" her voice trailed off in exhausted resignation. "T-twenty Focke-Wulfs, about that many Stuaks."

"I'm seeing the same," Ryuujou wiped a matted string of hair out of her eyes and threw her rudder hard over. "We're not gonna be able to stop them."

"Don't have to," Jun'you's voice sounded a lot more assured than her face looked. "Just… scatter them and dodge."

Shinano nodded and threw her rudder hard over. She couldn't spot planes, and even if she could she didn't have the pilots to launch them. She couldn't fight back, not really. Her twenty-fives were barely worth the displacement they cost. But she could steer. Her rudder worked, for now, and she'd work it with everything she had.

"I,Sh- Shinano," she struggled to put on a brave face when she wanted nothing more than to find a nice friendly corner of the shower hall and cry until she vanished into a puddle of tears, "Will dodge."

Jun'you gave the giant support carrier a brief nod, but most of her attention as focused on her fighters barreling towards the merge. Zeros crashed into the seething mass of Focke-Wulfs and Stukas, exchanging fire with a brilliant fireworks display of tracers and smoke.

The zeros fought well. Ryuujou's pilots were aces to a man, and Jun'you's airwing wasn't far behind. They danced though the Abyssals like sprites on a breeze, putting a few quick shots into a target before peeling away in hard turns.

They were exacting a toll in blood, but it wasn't enough. With no armor and a less potent engine, the Zeros had absolute no margin for error with their attacks. The Abyssal planes, with their hard-hitting cannons and heavy armor, shrugged off all but the hardest hits while punching back well above their weight.

And with more powerful, boosted engines, the Focke-Wulfs had the luxury of disengaging at their discretion and rocketing to altitude. They could attack on their terms, and slash down when—and only when—the situation favored them

The Japanese planes fought like caged tigers, but they were outnumbered and outmatched. By the time the Stukas reached their drop point, there wasn't a single Zero left to oppose them.

"BREAK!" Jun'you screamed with a voice coarse and strained. Her spiky hair was slicked back and soaked in blood. Her flanks erupted in strobing fire as her anti-aircraft guns poured flak into the air. With her rudder wildly shifting to screw up the dive bomber's approach, they couldn't have hit the broadside of a barn. But… maybe just maybe she could get a lucky hit or two.

With the Focke-Wulfs circling lazily above, the Stukas rolled over into howling dives. Their sirens screeched a cry of hateful fury as they power dived onto the carriers.

Ryuujou screamed as a bomb slammed into the front edge of her deck, tearing a hole in the wood and exploding inside her bridge. Another three bombs smashed into upper hull, tearing her deck into a pile of splintered wood and buckled steel.

A bomb punched through Jun'you's elevator, sending splintered though the precious few airplanes she still had left.

Even Shinano wasn't spared. A stick of bombs landed on her bow. Her armor kept her useless planes safe within her belly, but that was the end of the good news. The attack cratered her armored flight deck and tore the last twenty feet of her deck into burnt, twisted metal.

She screeched in pain as her left arm was torn into a bloody, ragged stump at the elbow. Oil soaked the rugged fabric of her Kimono, and Shinano hugged herself with her free arm as her damage control teams scrambled to do… to do whatever had to be done.

Shinano couldn't think, she'd never felt pain like this. Her crews were scrambling just to figure out what to do, her gunners poured ineffectual flak into the air as she mentally retreated back into her safe, comforting corner.

The Abyssal Focke-Wulfs made sport of tearing down from their high perches just long enough to strafe one of the fleeing ships before powering back up to altitude. But eventually, even they got bored. The big fighters formed up with the Stukas and faded into the horizon, leaving the three shell-shocked carriers in their wake.

—|—|—​

Alaska seethed with a barely-controlled firestorm of rage. A fury so intense it nearly burned away every shred of humanity contained in her hull, refining her down to a cold, calculating warrior. The corners of her vision throbbed an angry red, and her voice sounded distant even to her own ears.

"Okay,"she said in a voice so tranquil it'd terrify her if there as room for any emotion besides righteous anger in her heart. "Listen up, here's the plan."

Atago and Nachi inclined their heads to give her their full attention. Normally, it was impossible to get the stern, serious-minded Myoukou and the bubbly, outgoing Takao to agree on anything. But right now, the same look was present in both cruisers' faces. A look of resolute determination.

"The… Princess," Alaska spat out the word with all the vitriol she could muster. Just thinking about that unholy abomination wearing the skin of her friend turned her stomach. But it had to be Sara. Sister Sara, the sweetest, kindest girl Alaska'd ever known. "Wants me dead."

Alaska set her jaw. She'd been eating a steady diet of Abyssal Panzerschiff and surface raiders for the past month. Whoever was commanding them had to be angry his fleets kept dying for nothing. And Alaska was the only ship in the Carribean fast enough to stay with the Princess and big enough to hurt it. If she died, the Princess could wreck havoc in the oil fields in peace.

"I can't outrun it," said the Large Cruiser, "But it can't catch me. And even if it can, it's not gonna want to close the distance until my guns are silenced."

She glanced from Atago to Nachi. Her friends, her fellow warships, girls who'd fought beside her for a country that sent them to the bottom all those years ago. "I'm the bait," she said, "Wisconsin's the trap."

"What about us?" Asked Atago. There wasn't a shred of her usual playful cheeriness hiding in her voice today. Just focus.

"Keep the pack together," said Alaska. "Don't let those cruisers break off into the oil fields. Sink 'em if you can so the Air Force can do their thing. But do not let them break off."

"Understood," chorused Atago and Nachi.

"Good," Alaska glanced at her phone. Akron's planes helpfully kept her updated on the exact location of the Princess's battle group. As if the sickly blue glow wasn't indicator enough.

"Um, 'Laska?" Hamakaze fiddled with the screw on one of her torpedoes and gave the towering American a glance though her silver bangs.

"Mmm," Alaska grunted in response as she turned over to setup the stern chase.

"It's a long way to Panama," said Hamakaze, "Can you make it all the way there?"

"Gonna have to," said Alaska.

—|—|—​

Five-eleven glanced at her watch. Even this deep underwater, the luminous characters glowed with a gentle green florescence. It as only the barest slimmer of the brilliant firestorm the American trailed in her wake, but the U-boat preferred subtly over raw power.

She held her breath as the last few seconds ticked by, one hand pressed to the hydrophone headset clamped around her bone-white face. She could hear the battleship's cruiser escorts fade away into the distance, and the purr of a vast cargo ship's choppy screws would mask her sound from the half-deaf frigates left behind.

Slowly, the seconds ticked by. Five-eleven felt a tension build within her body. Stale air, sweat, and battery acid mixed into a noxious slurry, but she forced herself to stay calm. Wars below the waves weren't won by grand actions or heroic gestures. They were one with mechanical precision and mathematical slaughter.

Then, at long last, the hour came. Five-eleven spun up her screws and carefully lifted off the bottom. All around her, although she couldn't hear them, she knew her wolf pack was doing the same. A dozen submarines converged from every direction on a target unaware of their very existence.

For a split second, five-eleven allowed herself a tiny smile. Few things pleased her more than the oiled precision of a well-timed attack. But the moment passed in a heartbeat. She needed every shred of attention she had to set-up her attack.

Then she heard it. A shift in pitch of one of the frigate's screws. One of her packmates had been heard, either by inexperience or simple ill fortune. The escort ships were suddenly alert and hungry for a kill.

Five-eleven wouldn't mourn her packmate's loss. They were only weapons after all, expendable in the long run. What mattered was only that they survived long enough to earn back their steel.

Or, perhaps, give another a chance to land a killing blow.

—|—|—​

The usually-placid waters of the Mexican Gulf churned with foaming fury. Waves frothed white where screws had frantically tore into them, biting into the sea for every shred of purchase they could find. Towers of spray loomed over the angry surface where sixteen-, twelve-, and eight-inch shells landed short.

Alaska screamed in rage as her bow knifed though a column of spray. She hadn't taken a square hit. Yet. But even close misses pounded at her hull and sent bruises sprawling over her snow-white skin. The thirty-three knot seas pounded against her, driving the pain home anew with every crashing wave.

But still she soldiered on. She'd dragged the Princess out of the oil fields, and Atago and Nachi'd bagged one of the anti-aircraft cruisers. Her plan was working. It was hurting her every second, but it was working.

"Alaska, come in, over," Alaska felt the voice of her Admiral rasp over her radio. Only it wasn't the calm, assured voice she knew and loved. This time his voice was… tired. Almost defeated.

"Alaska here," the cruiser habitually put a finger to her ear as swung wide around a splash. Her core tensed in agony as the maneuver put yet more stress on her bucking hull plating.

"Alaska, re-route to Galveston, over."

Alaska felt her breath slip from her lungs. "T-Texas, sir?"

"Yes, dammit!" snapped back her beloved Admiral in an uncharacteristic rage.

"B-but…" Alaska blinked. The only way back to Texas was though the edge of the oil fields. If Atago and Nachi couldn't keep those cruisers contains…

"Don't argue, Alaska," snapped her Admiral. "Wisconsin's gone, her cruisers are heading back to the Canal. Our new priority is keeping you girls alive."

Alaska blinked. She couldn't believe what she'd just heard. "But the Princess!"

"Air Force has a trio of Bones prepping as we speak." For a second, her Admiral's voice almost cracked. "Just make it to shore and we can protect you."

"No," said Alaska. There were still two healthy anti-air cruisers escorting the Princess, plus whatever guns it carried itself.

"Dammit, Alaska!" her Admiral's voice filled with rage, but something told her it wasn't directed at her this time. "You're not expendable."

"Understood sir," said Alaska. It took every reserve of strength she had left to keep her composure, "Routing to Galveston. We'll take as many of these CLAAs down as we can."

"Understood, Alaska. Godspeed."

The second the line dropped, Alaska let out a howl of fury and despair.

—|—|—​

Jun'you clutched her side as her convoy limped for home. Her stomach twisted with pain as shards of twisted aluminum rattled around her bombed-out decks. Blood matted her hair down and dripped off onto her ragged white jacket, and her skin was clammy and soaking in sweat.

Ryuujou wasn't any better. Like Jun'you, she'd lost every fighter she had in the last… it wasn't a battle. A battle implied some kind of even exchange of blows. It was a massacre. The Marinaras all over again.

Ryuujou's hat was torn to bits, and one eye was swollen shut as she stumbled along on auxiliary control. Her deck was a smoldering wreck, and her hands shook with exhaustion as she staggered though the waves. Shattered glass was ground into her shell-shocked face, and avgas dripped off her fingers.

And then there was Shinano. Everything below her left elbow was just gone. A ragged stump of twisted, scorched metal and the blood-soaked canvas of her kimono was all that remained. Her face was as young and fresh as ever, save a tiny cut over her left eye, but somehow… that made it all the worse.

She still looked like what she was: a young, scared girl struggling to deal with the misery of her failure in battle as much as she was with the pain of her wounds. Hell, Jun'you'd seen Kagerous who looked older and more weathered than poor Shinano. The carrier's lips quivered as she muttered under her breath, staring off into the horizon and worrying with the heavy iron of her quiver.

Jun'you couldn't bring herself to look more. It was sights like that that made her long for a nice bottle of warm sake.

At least their whaling fleet came out with minimal casualties, albeit with their holds less than half full. Almost a dozen men were wounded, but… somehow there weren't any dead. At least not yet.

"Bonin task force, be advised," Ooyodo's voice crackled over the radio. Crisp, precise, and tense with sleep-deprived frustration only barely kept in check by lethally high doses of caffeine, it rang with all the features Jun'you never wanted to hear from her. "Abyssal air-attack en-route to Tokyo. Advise you divert to Osaka, how copy?"

"Uh…" Jun'you blinked, trying to clear the haze of battle fatigue from her burned-out brain, "What… what about shore aviation?"

"We spent everything we had blunting the last attack," said Ooyodo with clipped, tense frustration. "They'll cut though the CAP like butter and hit out planes before they can finish refueling. Divert to Osaka," the cruiser's suggestion was far more order this time around, "How copy, over?"

"Dammit!" Jun'you swore with all the energy she had left. "Understood. Diverting to Osaka." The carrier turned West with an exhausted sigh. She wanted to be mad, but she didn't have the energy left to work herself up. Her planes were gone. Ryuujou's planes were gone. Shinano didn't have a single carrier-qualified pilot, and none of her planes had even been properly tested. She hadn't—

Jun'you blinked.

Shinano wasn't turning in.

"Shina!" Jun'you yelled at the top of her rasping lungs.

"N-no," whispered so quietly her voice was almost lost. Her unfocused gaze was locked on the horizon, and her mouth kept quivering she uttered timid almost-words.

"Shina, we have to GO!" Jun'you barked as loud as she could. Just yelling sent shooting pain down her throat, but she forced herself past it. Shinano was her friend, she was not letting her friend die alone, even if she had to tow her back herself.

Shinano shook her head. "M-my name is Sh-" her voice sputtered and died. She closed her eyes, lips forming a wordless prayer. "Shinano."

Jun'you opened her mouth to bark an order. But all that came out was a hearty laugh. She planted her hands on her gut to try to steady herself as waves of sudden mirth overwhelmed her despair.

Ryuujou shot her a confused, horrified look.

"I…" Shinano straighted her back. Her bloody sleeve flapped against her side as she drew an arrow from her quiver with her heavily gloved hand. "Am the th-third of the Yamato sisters."

She hadn't failed to turn like Jun'you had thought.

"I was trained by—" Shinano bit her lip and brushed her gloved finger along the arrow's steel fletching. "By White Plains."

She'd turned, she just hadn't turned West like the rest of the fleet.

She'd turned into the wind.

And she hadn't been worrying her quiver out of fear or misery. She'd been spotting a strike.

Shinano's eyes flicked open, and she was suddenly staring at the horizon with a burning intensity that put the rising sun on her battle flag to shame. Her hand closed around the shaft of her arrow and she hurled it into the air with all her might. "And I'll take you all on," she said with quiet conviction.

"No!" Ryuujou screamed as a Shiden rumbled down the carrier's battered deck towards the torn-up bomb crater at the end. Only for it to claw its way into the air with feet to spate.

Jun'you let out a howl and pumped her fist in the air. Shinano might be down, but she sure as hell wasn't out.

"Shina, what are you doing!" demanded Ryuujou, "Your pilots can't land."

"No they can't," Said Shinano. Her voice was as quiet and gentle as ever. But there was an edge to her timid accent that wasn't there before. A conviction that what she was doing was right. "Not on me." She glanced over at Ryuujou, her matted black hair suddenly whipping in the salty wind over her bow, "But they won't have to."

"You're crazy!" barked Ryuujou.

Shinano shook her head. "No, I'm a Yamato." She put her hand to her ear and linked into the fleetwide net. "Ooyodo, this is Shinano?"

"Yes?" snapped the cruiser, "What?"

"I've got twenty Shidens in the air one-fifty miles sou-south-west of Tokyo," said the carrier. "where do you want them?" After a moment's pause, she sheepishly added, "Um… over."

"Uh," the confused relief on Ooyodo's voice was palpable even though the radio's garbling. "L-linking you into local air-defense. They'll guide your pilots in."

"Thank you," Shinano nodded with a calm unbecoming her horribly mangled arm. Seconds later, she linked up with an unbelieving JASDF officer and coordinating her strike with calm conviction.

Meanwhile, completely unknown to the tightly-focused support carrier, Ryuujou stared in awe.

—|—|—​

In his fifty-odd years of life, Jim Warren, curator of the Battleship Texas museum, had seen his share of strange and odd things. But he'd never seen something quite as odd as the sight that awaited him at the pier this morning. Big T sat waiting at her berth like she always did.

Only it wasn't his Big T.

Sloped-on dark blue paint over rusted-though metal had been replaced by the crisp gray and prissiness blue of Measure 21 camouflage. Her number two and four turrets bristled with 20mm cannons that hadn't been there in decades. Smoke curled from her stacks as boilers that hadn't been lit since before he was born hummed away like they were built yesterday.

As he staggered up the gangplank in awe, he noticed more and more things wrong, but so terribly right with his beloved battleship. Secondary mounts that had long since rusted into place gleamed with oiled, machined precision.

Men in grubby, but clearly cared for Navy dungarees scrambled over her decks with the ordered chaos of a well-drilled crew. And the decks themselves! Battered, splintered wood held together with desperate plywood patches had been replaced by gleaming pristine teak.

As he set foot on the battleship's deck, a young man in a Lieutenant's uniform waved him over. He didn't say a word to Warren, but somehow, the old curator knew he was being directed to the bridge. Apparently there was something he needed to see.

He couldn't keep his mouth shut as he made his way forwards. He'd gotten used to the old girl's rather miserable shape. He could see the character in every ding and bit of rust she'd accumulated in her century-plus life. But all that was gone. Everywhere he looked he saw factory-fresh components and loving-maintained machinery.

Big T looked like she'd finished her shakedown yesterday. And when he stepped onto the bridge, he knew why.

A woman waited for him by the captain's chair. A short, plump woman with long shimmering gray hair falling down her back. A parasol rested on her shoulder, and a crisp white hoop skirt nearly as big and round as her chest hung off her hips.

She was the very image of a fine southern belle, albeit with just enough nautical touches to make her identity clear.

"T-Texas?" Warren stammered out.

She smiled and dipped her head. "I am indeed," she said in a voice more sweetly southern than sweet tea with biscuits and honey. "Now, I understand you're in charge of this museum?"

Warren nodded, "Uh, yeah. Yeah, you could say that."

"Well then," Texas twirled her parasol and smiled, "I hate to impose, but I'm lead to believe I'm needed?"

Warren nodded again, "Yeah, uh… yeah."

Texas' smile suddenly turned downright predatory. "Well then, I'm afraid I've got to ask you a favor." She planted her hand on the bridge rail and smiled down at her number two turret, "Might I please borrow your boat?"

 

[Skywalker_T-65]

In other news...Tiger and Haruna time:

A Cat's Scars​

"Onee-san?"

Tiger looked up at the soft voice, her uniform top resting in her arms, "Haruna?"

With only a limited time before they were due to head out on their new mission, the two...sisters...had been preparing rigorously. It was coming back from one of those familiarization exercises, that found the two in the baths. It was the first time they had been together in there, and Tiger had been looking forward to resting. She couldn't quite keep up with the Japanese battleship, and it had showed.

She was tired.

"Onee-san...your..." Haruna's already soft voice was worried, and Tiger had no idea why.

"What is it?" the old battlecruiser blinked, looking down at her torso, her red bra at least preserving her modesty. Not that she was anything to write home about to begin with...

Haruna shook her head, walking over to her sister. The Japanese girl had no such qualms, only a towel covering her fuller figure. As she brought a gentle hand up, running it along Tiger's back. The cold fingers sent a chill down the British battlecruiser's spine when she felt that touch. And not because of being touched like that. Because, as her violet eyes widened, Tiger remembered. As Haruna pushed aside her flowing brown hair, she remembered.

Oh no...

"Your back..." her sister whispered, voice filled with honest concern. Haruna's gentle touch traced along something Tiger had wanted to avoid her seeing.

Stupid...stupid...

"I-I," Tiger sucked in a breath, pulling away from Haruna, her arms self-consciously crossing over her torso. Violet eyes were downcast at the ground, the battlecruiser unable to face her sister in the face. "Haruna, I...with everything going on, I forgot about that. I didn't want you to have to see that."

"Why?" There was no condemnation in the younger warship's voice. Her amber eyes were shining with worry, her hand limply falling to her side. "Onee-san, Haruna is...worried. Why would you hide that?"

Tiger could only shake her head, unwilling to look up at that concerned face. "It's a long story. But the destroyers don't like seeing it...I took my baths alone. Amy's the only one...the only one who never commented on it."

She could remember the time at the beach with her best friend. The teenager had not commented on her...on her scars. At all. Amy had stuck her in that skimpy little swimsuit, but not even once talked about the scars. Just...just been herself. Her cheerful self, who had done so very much to cheer Tiger up when she was down. And now, Haruna...

Her sister had seen them.

And instead of being repulsed like so many others, she was just worried and concerned. If anything, Haruna didn't seem to care about how Tigerlooked. But how she felt.

"Onee-san, do you think you are ugly?"

Head snapping up, Tiger stared at her sister. There was still no condemnation in Haruna's voice, but it had hardened. Amber eyes stared directly into violet, daring Tiger to say anything.

"I..."

"You are not." Haruna's voice, for all the softness, was lined with steel under the velvet. Her arms rose from her side, as the battleship ghosted forward. Her bare feet slapped against the tile, echoing in the silent room. Her hands reached up, gently gripping Tiger, pulling her into a tight embrace. "Haruna knows that. You are beautiful, onee-san. Why would you care about how you look?"

Body shaking in Haruna's grip, her bare skin pressed against the towel that was all that covered her sister, Tiger shook her head, "I...I'm one of the only girls with any scars, Haruna. And the others..."

"The others are worried as well." The Japanese girl cut her distant sister off, shaking her head sadly. Haruna looked at Tiger with deadly seriousness, her gentle features filled with the same loving expression that Tiger had gotten so very used to. "You hide this, onee-san."

"Because no one else has these scars." Tiger whispered back, her voice pained. "Haruna...do you know how many battles were fought between battleships in the second war?"

It was Haruna's turn to not be able to get a word in, because when she opened her mouth to answer, Tiger just shook her head. Long brown hair fell in front of her pained violet eyes, the battlecruiser running a hand along her arm, despite Haruna's tight hug. A round scar, raised above the rest of her pale skin, stood out in stark contrast.

"Not very many, and none like Jutland or Dogger Bank." The old British battlecruiser continued, her tone very soft and distant. "This right here is from Jutland, when I almost died like the others. My turret was hit, right in the middle. The rest are from Jutland and Dogger Bank as well...most of the battles in the Pacific, from what I understand, would have seen you sinking instead of going home and being put back into service?"

Haruna nodded, "Yes. My onee-sans...they didn't make it home."

"Exactly. These scars are...they're part of me, in a way the damage you all took isn't."

Her finger rubbed at the remnant of her turret damage, Tiger sighing softly. Despite the tight hug, she couldn't look up. It was silly of her to worry like this, maybe. But her myriad of scars were something she really, truly, wasn't fond of. They were a reminder of battles gone, and friends lost. A reminder that stared her in the face, every time she saw someone stare at them. She tried not to think about it...but sometimes...

"Onee-san, come with me."

Before Tiger knew what was happening, Haruna had spun around. Her long strides tugged the battlecruiser along for the ride, Tiger unable to stop her sister. Not that she even knew what was going on.

"Haruna, what are you...?" The Brit got out, trying to pull herself free.

"We are going to spend today having fun." Haruna turned to look over her shoulder, her smile widening, if only slightly. "I don't like seeing you sad, onee-san. Haruna wants to see you smile."

And for the first time, Tiger was experiencing a reminder that, yes, Haruna was a member of the Kongou sisters.

With everything that implied.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-​

"What is even happening."

Amy Kirkpatrick was not one to be shocked easily. Her best friend, her sister in all but blood, was a ship girl. Shenanigans and questioning her sanity were the usual. Especially with Australia as the resident joker.

But getting snagged out of her bedroom by a widely smiling Haruna and tossed into a flustered Tiger's arms was probably out of the ordinary, even for her.

"I wish I knew..." Tiger muttered softly, her own voice sounding more than a little confused at the entire situation.

"Isn't Haruna the sane one?" Amy grumbled, looking over at the battleship currently leading them to an amusement park.

Tiger blinked, "What do you mean?"

"Uh..."

The teenager was saved from the need to answer that question by the target of the question, Haruna turning around and sending her trademarked smile at the pair. Her flowing miko gown spun with the movement, flaring up her hips by not once going too high. Magic. Amy had to hold her own skirt down if she moved too fast, and being tossed into Tiger had counted.

Bloody ship girls.

"Come on!" the battleship cheerfully called out, waving at the other two girls.

Who just shared a look, practically reading the other's mind.

What have we gotten into?

But follow Haruna they did, one of the park workers sending a jaunty wave their way as they did so. It wasn't the first time that Tiger had been dragged here. Australia had done it once before, and Amy had done it several times. The workers knew that she was a ship girl and didn't charge them. And Haruna was, whatever else she was, very obviously a ship girl herself.

Still, at least it was a fun place?

"Haruna..." Tiger sighed softly, shaking her head, "She is too excitable."

Amy just smiled, "Well, at least she's getting us to spend some time out and about mate."

It was hard to deny that point, the dizzying array of brightly colored events surrounding the little group enough to make one go mad.

Tiger sighed again, but a soft smile crossed her face, "Maybe. I know I enjoy spending time with you, Amy."

Her friend turned bright red, coughing lightly, "Hey, don't get all mushy on me."

The battlecruiser blinked...before a small laugh escaped her chest. Her violet eyes danced with rare amusement, Tiger reaching out to gently jab Amy with her elbow. The teenager bounced back from the blow, turning a mock glare at the taller woman. Tiger raised an eyebrow in response, her smile actually reaching her eyes for once. And honestly?

Amy was happy for that. She truly was. Tiger didn't smile nearly enough.

"You know, Tiger," Amy looked up at her taller friend. "Your sister is very funny."

"She is?" Tiger asked, confusion at the change in subject clear in her voice. Her eyes trailed up to a dancing Haruna, before turning back to her old friend.

Amy nodded, laughing softly, "Oh yeah. I mean, I'm a bit annoyed at getting dragged out of bed for this, but at least we're going to enjoy ourselves. I mean..." The laugh faded, as the little teenager reached her hand out to grip Tiger's, holding it tightly. Her eyes stared up at the battlecruiser with a hint of worry, when she continued speaking, "You're going to be leaving soon, and it's to fight. So...I want to spend time with you."

Face flushing brightly, Tiger squeezed her friend's hand, "And I want to spend time with you too, Amy."

What neither of them noticed, was Haruna smiling in the background.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-​

Haruna was not like her sisters, she knew that. She wasn't as smart as Kirishima, as brave as Hiei, or as wise as Kongou. And she was filled with worry over what had happened to Hiei...if it weren't for her mission and Tiger, she may have went straight back to Japan when she found out. But she knew where she was needed, and that was with her British sister.

For while Haruna wasn't the smartest, bravest or wisest of her sisters, she at least knew one thing. She loved them all very dearly, and would do anything for them.

Tiger onee-san...

And when she had seen those scars on her sister, spidery lines running up her back and stomach? Haruna had felt like her heart had been shot by the same shells that had sunk Kirishima, so long ago. She had just wanted to help her sister, when she brought them up. But Tiger had been so...so...

Afraid. Ashamed.

Haruna hadn't known what to do.

"Hey, Haruna! You ever been on one of these?!" Amy Kirkpatrick's voice rang out, the little girl eagerly jumping in front of a ferris wheel.

"I have," the battleship sent back with her signature smile, waving the Australian on. "Haruna is going to find food for onee-san though!"

"Mate, come on!" Amy grumbled, but there was no real bite to her words. Especially when Tiger dragged her away.

For her part, Haruna felt her smile fade slightly, as she did move to go find food. Her thoughts returning to her sister, and the way she had acted. Tiger...Haruna loved her sister, just like she loved Kirishima-chan, Hiei onee-san, and Kongou onee-sama. But Tiger was always so sad. Haruna had made it her mission to cheer her sister up, and she tried so very hard.

But those scars had caught her by surprise, and it worried her that Tiger was so ashamed of them. They were a mark of pride, like Kongou's British habits!

"Onee-san..."

And yet, Tiger wore them like she was afraid of them.

Haruna looked down at her own hands, blemish free and as soft as the day she was launched. She wanted to see her sister smile...that was why she had come out here. And, maybe, she didn't really understand Tiger. But Haruna did know one thing.

And that was that food was the way to cheer someone up!

"Ah, hello miss...?"

That very reason, had her standing in front of a food stand. A confused cashier looking at the battleship, clearly not knowing what to think. But Haruna could handle that too!

"Um..." Haruna smiled gently, looking at the confused woman, "Haruna would like to order pie."

"Pie." The cashier responded, confusion clear in her tone. "What kind?"

"All of them," Haruna nodded assuredly. Her amber eyes sparkled with the beginnings of a plan. The best way to cheer her sister up was to give her good pie. Even the Americans agreed on that!

She didn't notice the stunned look on the worker's face, or the panicked shouting as they brought out quite literally every pie in the store. Haruna didn't notice the awed look they gave her when she easily picked up the stacks upon stacks of delectable food, or the money she had given them. The battleship didn't even notice when they started gossiping behind her.

All her attention was on a nearby table, where she would set up the pies.

Claiming that table, the battleship set her pies down and set about moving them around. Little fairies crawled and rappelled down her arms, a chorus of desu ringing out while they pushed and tugged on pies, Haruna humming quietly as she did much the same. Cherry here. Apple there. Even a pumpkin pie, set up at the center of the grouping.

The average passer-by would have absolutely no idea what was going on, other than there being a bunch of pies. And a bunch of adorable little figures, scurrying along the table to prep it.

Onee-san will be happy! Pie makes everyone happy, Onee-sama told me that once!

Nodding happily at her work, Haruna turned her amber eyes down on one particular fairy, with a tiny backpack carrying a radio. "Can you call onee-san down here?"

"Desu!"

Haruna smiled at her fairy, putting the finishing touches on her little grouping of pies. And when she heard the footsteps of her sister and the cheerful voice of Amy, that smile only widened.

"Whoa...that's a lot of pie!" Amy's shout had Haruna giggling softly, when she brushed a lock of grey hair from her eyes.

"Haruna wanted to have enough for everyone!" the battleship replied, holding her hands out over the table...or two...or three...worth of pies.

"Well, I won't eat that much. Tiger here has a good appetite though, right mate?" The little Australian grinned at her much taller friend, looking up at Tiger.

Who, for her part, was staring in evident awe at the feast of sugary goodness laid out in front of her, "I...I..."

Stepping forward, Haruna gently reached out and pulled her sister into a hug again. "Haruna wants you to be happy, onee-san. And Kongou onee-sama always said that food makes someone happy."

"Sounds like she knows what she's talking about," Amy nodded sagely, already seated at the table and eagerly digging into a strawberry pie provided by a fairy. "I mean, at least about food."

While the Australian dug into the food, the Japanese and British warships just stared at each other. Haruna with her gentle smile, and Tiger with an uncomfortable look. At least...at least until she finally sighed under the unwavering smile and love of her sister. Tiger returned the hug, her violet eyes wet. But the tiniest of smiles had crossed her face, and that was what really mattered.

Because she leaned forward to whisper in Haruna's ear, so that Amy wouldn't overhear.

"Thank you...Haruna. I...I know I'm not good at things like this, but thank you." Tiger tightened her grip on the taller girl, a single tear rolling down her cheek. "I know I was an arse to you earlier about my scars. But...thank you. For everything."

"You are my sister, onee-san." Haruna just shook her head, gently squeezing Tiger back. "And Haruna loves you. I would do anything for you."

While it was clear, even to her, that Tiger didn't quite know how to react...Haruna could see the way her sister finally relaxed in her grip. And it brought a wider smile to her face.

Were they about to go into battle? Yes.

Would one of them be hurt? Probably.

But they were sisters, and they would both come back. And even if she had to return to Japan soon, Haruna would do it knowing one thing.

Tiger onee-san loves me, and I love her. We will always be together, even if we aren't in the same place. Because we are sisters.

---

Spoiler: Tiger scars

The logic here is reasonably simple. We know that the girls can have scars from Jersey. But it requires something major enough to have it reflect on them. Kirishima? Mushi? Hiei? They took a hell of a lot of pounding before going down, but they went down. No real difference from any other ship that got sunk violently, and that's why they don't have scars reflecting that damage.

Tiger?





She is far from the one with the most damage at either Dogger Bank or Jutland, but she still got shot up pretty badly. And since she actually survived the damage and since these events are very important to her it's reflected in old scars. I imagine Enterprise or Lexie or Warspite are much the same. Warspite is much the same.

 

[theJMPer]

Support carrier Shinano clenched her jaw so tightly she felt sparks fly against her tongue as steel as ground to its melting point. Her temples throbbed with a piercing, agonizing pain as she struggled to keep her untested pilots together with her shot-up CIC. Blood and oil poured down the heavy canvas of her robes from her mangled arm, and every wave was a stinging reminder of the carnage inflicted on her deck.

But she was a Yamato at full strength. Japanese steel, courage, and spirit merged with American grit, ingenuity, and flat-out defiance in the face of mortal laws.

She would not sink this day.

She would not let her beloved Japan down.

"I'm coming," Shinano wisped though gritted teeth. Her eyes stared beyond the horizon, an unearthly pallor coming over her normally hazelnut-brown irises. Her planes were unproven, her pilots untested. But her faeries had spent every waking moment practicing in the air or testing themselves in simulators.

And it just so happened that the very last simulation they'd played before Shinano put to sea, a simulation picked on a whim, was Shidens versus Focke-Wulfs.

"Tokyo air defense," Shinano wiped a trickle of blood from her nose and pushed her focus even sharper. "My planes are closing in, Angels ten at heading three-four-niner." There was a corded steel in her voice that would've surprised her if she wasn't concentrating on staying alert. "Please don't shoot them down."

"Wouldn't even if we had any missiles left, ma'am," came an exhausted soldier's voice.

Shinano nodded and glanced down around her. It was a strange sensation she hadn't quite gotten used to. She saw her hull cut though the water, saw the ocean a scant few dozen feet below her bridge, saw Jun'you and Ryuujou steaming home beside her.

But she also saw the seas from thousands of feet up. She saw the glittering spires of Tokyo glistening in the morning sun. She could practically smell the gritty smoke pouring from the city's AA emplacements as her fighters barreled towards her beloved homeland at full military power.

And she saw the gritty gray wings of a flight of Focke-Wulfs escorting lumbering dive-bombers, all blissfully oblivious of the violet lighting closing on them from the rising sun.

The carrier took in a breath of the fridged high-altitude air and held it in her lungs. The acrid stench of burning city stung her throat, but she refused to let it go. That stench could not… would not be allowed to exist a moment longer.

Her country needed a hero to save them. They needed an invincible carrier who cowed death himself with her very presence. But Enterprise wasn't back just yet.

For the time being, Shinano'd have to do.

She felt wind whip at her face as her planes rolled over into a howling dive. Her Shidens were just as fast as the Focke-Wulfs. But the Abyssal fighters had slowed to a crawl to keep with their lumbering dive-bomber, while Shinano's fighters were powering down as fast as their roaring radial engines could take them.

The green-painted fighters tore out of the sun with a howl of twenty-millimeter cannon fire. The engagement window was only a scat few seconds, but each fighter poured thirty-seven high-explosive rounds a second from their four guns.

Focke-Wulfs were solid birds, but nothing can shrug off that much lead from such a close range. Some of the Abyssal fighters simply vanished in a puff of exploding aviation fuel and burning, bleeding metal.

Still more were left hobbled by vast gaping holes torn in their airfoils or splinters in their engine bays.

Shinano didn't stop to look. She felt blood pool in her boots as her fighters pulled out of their attack and into a furious zoom climb. The Shidens had energy on their side, and their greater power-to-weight ratio and climb rate sent them rocketing from Abyssal fighters scrambling to build up to combat speed.

The carrier felt blood trickle down her lip as her headache intensified. But right now she didn't care. Fighter combat was a game played out in instants, she couldn't afford to loose concentration for even a second while her planes played out their dance of death.

Cannons barked behind her, and she felt tracers burning with indescribable hate whip past her face. She didn't care. Her fighters kept up their energy while the Abyssals struggled to claw down the difference.

The Shidens wheeled around in the air, pouncing on the Focke-Wulfs struggling to stagger after them. Guns barked and more fighters fell out of the sky with coal-black smoke. But this time they hadn't been caught unaware. Abyssal shells slammed into the Shidens, sending razors down Shinano's nerves.

If those were Zeros, there wouldn't have been anything left but ashes.

But those weren't Zeros. They were Shidens. The hearty fighters laughed off the attack and countered with a devastating barrage of their own. As they roared into the merge, what had been an organized attack erupted into a chaotic furball.

Abyssal pilots, used to pouncing on Zeroes or Vals, struggled to stay with the faster-climbing Shidens in an energy fight. But Shinano's pilots were drilled by the best teachers the IJN and USN had to offer, and the hardy Shidens gave them plenty of second chances.

In less than an hour, the Focke-Wulfs had been cleansed from the sky like the stain they were. Shinano's planes were shot to hell, mostly out of ammo, and staggering though the air like boxers after nine furious rounds. But they still flew, and Shinano couldn't be prouder of her pilots.

The carrier directed them to Tokyo International while a flight of F-2s made meals of the now-unescorted dive bombers.

Shinano felt the sky fade around her as one by one, her pilots touched down. Their landings were nothing to be proud of. Five of her exhausted pilots had to be frantically waved off by ground crews when they forgot to lower their landing gear, and one spun out and nearly plowed into a parked 747.

But Shinano didn't have to be proud of their landings. She was proud of their fighting. Ofher fighting. She just hoped her big sisters were too.

—|—|—​

A agonized scream forced its way past Alaska's gritted teeth out into the freezing Gulf air. Her features scrunched up so tight the steel groaned and buckled as shells landed mere yards short of her stern. Blood poured down her mangled legs, gluing her shorts to her charred skin and soaking into her shoes.

Every wave splashed angry salt into her shredded flesh, a stinging reminder of the mauling she'd received. Half her secondaries were shot to hell, and the ones that weren't were flat-out gone. Her turbines struggled to push her twisted hull past twenty-two knots, and even then she felt the water hammering at her gut with every breath.

She'd hurt the Princess back, but it wasn't enough. She was just a large cruiser fighting in the face of a proper battle cruiser. The abyssal warships was steadily closing the distance, and it'd already shot out all Alaska's radars.

The cruiser wiped at her face and squinted though the haze of smeared blood and burning metal obscuring her vision. Her radars were gone, her optics were smashed, and her guns were all on local control. She didn't even have any working rifles in her stern turret anymore, the damage was so extensive.

Atago and Nachi were faring better—barely. Their hulls were charred back from the waterline up by rapid-firing abyssal cruisers, and their clothes were torn to ribbons kept on only by dried-on blood. But they'd escaped the murderous wrath of the princesses' sixteen-inch rifles.

Probably because their rifles would flat-out bounce off the princess's armor unless they got suicidally close.

Even their torpedo salvos had been in vain. Furious hails of five-inch fire from the princesses' screening cruisers forced them to drop far, far too early. But they could still make steam.

"'Tago!" Alaska's voice rattled from her gritted teeth like a starving animal, "Nachi! Break," every word took titanic effort from her shredded lungs, "For land!"

"No way in hell," Nachi's voice was just as shattered and exhausted as Alaska's, but there wasn't even a hint of give.

"Damnit!" Alaska howled as another shell splashed off her flank. Even the near-miss sent lightning bolts of pain shooting down her body as the shockwave punched at her hastily-repaired seams. "Thats! That's an order!"

Atago flashed her a defiant stare. "I just got you talking to your boy!" she yelled, "You are not sinking on me yet!"

Alaska couldn't spare the breath to argue back. Even if she wanted too, a shell slammed into her upper works and sheared her bridge wing clear off and taking her last working signal light with it.

A piercing pain shoot though her head, like someone drove an ice-pick though her temple with a sledge hammer. The world around her glowed white and her ears resonated with a screeching wail.

She panted and wiped bloody muck from her eyes. She could see land in the distance. The narrow channel between Galveston island and the Bolivar Peninsula was less than ten miles away, and with it, safety. She'd done it, she'd reached land. Now she was going to die in sight of it.

At least, that's what she thought.

Until she saw them.

Her angels.

With her radar gone and her superstructure shot to hell, Alaska didn't even hear them until they were right on top of her. She knew they had names, but her mind was barely limping along as it was. All she knew was the sleek black bombers howling so low their engines seemed to kiss the surf were the most beautiful things she'd ever seen.

Their giant wings were tucked back against their arrow-shaped bodies. As they thundered overhead, Alaska heard a roar the likes of which she'd only imagined. Their four engines belched angry orange flame, and spoke with a sound like a full broadside of her rifles.

Only this sound didn't stop like a gunshot. It roared with fury and anger towards the battle cruiser princess with righteous indignation.

The angels nosed into a shallow dive, hurtling towards the abyssal warship faster than Alaska ever imagined a plane could go. Flak bursts filled the air around them, but it wasn't enough. The princess's directors were as badly mauled as Alaska's, and her guns simply couldn't find their marks.

Alaska felt a happy whoop of joy slip past her split lips as the angels opened their bellies. More bombs than she'd ever even seen came pouring from each plane's bay, peppering the ocean with splashes and smashing though the princess's superstructure.

Explosions cracked though the air, but the angels almost drowned them out with their engines. The planes roared over the princes so low their wings almost chopped off her mast, but their vast tail planes were already cranked to max deflection. Their engines pounded giant furrows in the ocean as the angels thundered into the air.

They hadn't stopped the princess's murderous rage, but they had stalled it. They'd bought just enough time for Alaska and her friends to make it round Bolivar point and into the welcoming waters of the bay.

"Oh, honey," a kind, sweet voice that sounded like honey on fresh biscuits wafted over the bay and wrapped around Alaska like a warm blanket. "You look terrible."

"S-sorry, ma'am," Alaska stammered out, but she couldn't keep a weary smile from passing over her face.

"Now," the gently-smiling face of battleship Texas sent a caring look towards the battered cruisers. "You girls rest up, now, you hear?" The battleship idly spun her parasol over her shoulder with one hand while the other rested on the hilt of an ivory-handled Peacemaker. "Let me take care of this here demon, hmm?"

"Y-yes, ma'am," Alaska clutched her side as she slowed down as gently as she could. Her whole body ached from the hours-long stern chase. But somehow, the old battleship's kind words washed over her like a soothing balm.

"That goes for all ya'll," Texas twirled her parasol again and locked Nachi in a kindly gazed backed by the finest steel.

"Yes ma'am," muttered Nachi almost in instinct. Atago followed suite not much later.

"Mmm," Texas smiled, and carefully rolled a crick out of her neck. She tossed her parasol aside and settled a wide-brimmed hat so her piercing eyes juuuust peeked out from under the brim. "Now then," the battleship slid her hands over the heavy revolvers hanging off her wide hips, "who's this I hear trying to harm my beloved country?"

A smirk crossed the southern-fried battleship's face as she steamed towards the open ocean. It'd been a long, hard sprint to get down here in time, and her tired old engines would certainly have unkind words for her in the morning. But it didn't really matter. In a few short minutes, they'd see the fruit of their frantic labor.

Texas rounded the point at just under twenty-one knots. Her skirt flared around her legs as she steamed into the battlecruiser's sight at what was almost a walking pace. Time seem to grind to a crawl as a look of confusion, then sheer horror replaced hate on the cruiser's bone-pale face.

A stiff ocean breeze blew though Texas' superstructure, flaring her steel-gray hair behind her and blowing the fabric of her skirts back past her holstered revolvers. The cartridges lining her heavy gun belts glittered in the sun, and Texas's grin gleamed like sunset on the plains. "Howdy."

The battlecruiser tried to get her guns around, but it was no good. Texas wasn't called the fastest gun in the west—mostly by her—for nothing.

In less than an instant, her hands closed around the ivory grips of her peacemakers and drew the chrome-plated weapons from their rugged leather sheathes. Texas let the guns spin around her leather-gloved finger. She flicked the hammer back with her thumb as her grip closed around them.

There was no point in even trying to aim. The princess was less than six-thousand yards away. Texas couldn't miss from this range even if she tried. She squeezed the triggers, and a broadside of ten massive fourteen inch rifles spoke. It was a music Texas never thought she'd hear again, and it put a wicked smile on her face even as her guns rose to their loading angle.

Her shells covered the scant distance in an instant before slamming hard into the princess's paperweight armor. Steel only barely heavy enough to alert the shells to its presence touched off fuses in the massive rounds.

Explosions rippled though the Abyssal's hull as splinters tore apart the battlecruiser's machinery spaces. Electricity arced though her hull as turbo-generators shorted out and sparked fires deep within the hull.

At least one of the ten shells found its way to the after magazine and touched off the handful of shells aboard that hadn't been used up hurting Alaska and her friends. Secondary explosions ballooned steel like bubble gum, and burning powder erupted into the air as the battlecruiser cracked in half. There were precious few ships that could endure a point-blank broadside of fourteen inch shells. The princess was not one of them.

Texas smirked, and spun her revolvers around her fingers to slam them back into her holsters. In less than ten minutes, the battle cruiser had turned into so much shrapnel sinking into the channel. Even her hateful blue glow was fading fast.

The battleship tugged on the brim of her hat. "Don't mess with Texas."

 

[Skywalker_T-65]

Battlecruiser Saratoga is okay too, you know! And it'd be adorable to see her freak out and be completely clueless on how to gun.

Click to shrink...

*imagines that*

Nope, would not complain.

Also: Momboat Yavuz

---

It had not been long since she had returned, but even now, Yavuz Sultan Selim moved with a certain grace. Her long-time friend Midili was awkward and stumbled around. Even the more veteran Reşadiye would often have to be careful when she moved, lest her impressive weight topple someone or something important. Yavuz, however, had none of these issues.

Her every action was evenly measured and graceful, just as her long service had been. There were few who could truly rival her experience in the world, though that experience saw little actual combat. She was the Pride of Turkey, and she wore it well. She was elegant and wise. Yavuz was soft-spoken and kind. She was everything she needed to be.

And absolutely none of that mattered, as she stared at the 'computer' screen before her, waiting for a reply from someone she had only heard of in passing.

"Are you sure you're alright with this?" Reşadiye, of course, was by her side. Osman was still with the Italians, and Midili was...

Well, Yavuz didn't blame her old friend for wanting to be alone, sometimes.

"Don't worry, my dear," Yavuz just sent a soft smile up at the other girl. Her pale, Germanic, features were a poor match for Reşadiye's dark Turkish skin. But then, Yavuz didn't mind. She may not look it...

But she was as Turkish as any of her comrades.

"I can understand what she is going through, perhaps better than most," the old battlecruiser continued, turning her head back to the 'screen' in front of her. A soft sigh escaped pink lips, as she shook her head. Her voice lowered, softer than even a battleship could hope to hear. "I understand all too well."

And as a young face overtook that previously empty screen, she found herself remembering. Yavuz had never once seen the cruiser Prinz Eugen. She looked nothing like SMS Prinz Eugen, the proud Austrian who had helped her escape the British, so very many years ago. But...for all that her features were unfamiliar, the expression they carried was not.

Blue eyes wary and worried. Pretty pink lips held in a half-frown, half-smile. Long blonde hair tied back in two tails along either side of her head, that a hand played with. Perhaps without even realizing it. But most of all, the look of confusion.

Confusion, and the question if she truly belonged.

Oh yes, Yavuz knew that feeling quite well.

"Guten..." Prinz Eugen began, only for her half-smile to turn into more of a grimace as she shook her head. "Um...howdy?"

"Merhaba, my young friend." Yavuz replied, inclining her head slightly. Her own lips twisted into a slightly teasing smile at the way Prinz Eugen tilted her head in clear, and thankfully less sad, confusion. "It means 'hello', Prinz Eugen. And, if I may say so, I believe there is no issue if you are more comfortable greeting me in German."

At the slow blinking from her younger counterpart across the oceans, Yavuz couldn't help a small laugh rumbling up her throat. Pushing back a lock of her own brown hair, the Turkish battlecruiser reached her hand forward, as if she was going to touch the other girl's cheek.

"It may have been many years since I had cause to speak it, but I haven't forgotten my German. Guten Tag, Prinz Eugen."

A light blush stole across the other warship's face, but it was joined by a hesitant smile as well, "Ah...thank you, Go...Yavuz."

"And if you are more comfortable referring to me as Goeben, that is alright as well."

Really, Yavuz didn't pity the other girl. Her shoulders were tense, and it was clear she was resisting the urge to back away. Or absolutely terrified of making a mistake of some sort.

Considering they, and Midili, were the only Germans to return? Yavuz could understand that. And even if she had left behind the name SMS Goebenmany years ago, she had no issues if it made her young friend more comfortable to call her that.

So yes, she did not pity Prinz Eugen. She understood her. There was a time when Yavuz had been much the same herself, and she still fondly remembered Hamidiye being there when she needed her. Oh those were fond memories...

But the past is the past. For now, I must be there for my young friend.

For her part, Prinz Eugen just smiled that small, hesitant smile of her's. "If that's alright with you, Danke, Goeben."

"I assure you, there's no problem," Yavuz just shook her head. She wished she could be talking to the other girl in person, able to give her a gentle hug. But... "Now, I believe you wanted to talk to me?"

Prinz Eugen nodded sadly, her small smile fading away, "Y-yes. I...have you seen the same reports I have?"

The smile on Yavuz's face fell away as well, replaced by the well of sadness she had felt ever since seeing a report hand-delivered from a USN Naval Attache.

'I understand you are not able to fight with us, in this case, but Admiral Williams wanted your advice.'

'My advice?'

'On how best to fight an Imperial German battlecruiser.'

"Yes, I have." The old Turk sighed softly, hands squeezing her long skirt. Oh, she had seen the reports. "My cousins. I never met them, you know. By then, I had already been turned over to Turkey. We never once met. But I know them on sight, and I know what the Sirens have done to them."

Siren. Abyssal. Demon.

Yavuz may have used the Greek name out of the belief it fit, but it didn't matter what she called them. The monsters had taken her young cousins and twisted them beyond all recognition.

"I...I'm going to be part of a task force sent to sink them," Prinz Eugen continued. Her voice sharpened at the end, the cruiser squaring her shoulders.

It was an impressive sight, seeing the younger cruiser show her proper backbone. She was nearly as large as Yavuz, larger in some ways. And she had steel underneath her worries.

"And I won't let them escape. Not with what they've done."

"I doubt you would, Prinz Eugen," Yavuz smiled sadly. "No, I never doubted that. And I doubt you wanted to talk to tell me that, as I would do much the same, given the chance. Though I imagine you are more suited to this fight than I am."

While her shoulders didn't relax, a bright pink flush crossed Prinz Eugen's face at that question. "N...no it isn't."

"If I may make a guess, it has to do with how none of our friends and family have come back?"

Even as she asked that question, Yavuz knew what the answer would be. She had wondered it herself, on more than one occasion. And Prinz Eugen looking away from her instead of answering just confirmed that. Well, she had prepared for this.

As much as anyone could, really.

"Prinz Eugen," the battlecruiser spoke softly. Softly, but with a hint of steel underneath her tone. She was kindly and motherly, yes. But she was stillthe battleship of the Turkish Navy. With all that implied. "I would not worry yourself about that."

"But, Bismarck..." Prinz Eugen tried to protest.

Yavuz just silenced her with one raised finger, "No. I understand why you are concerned, I feel much the same. But do you not feel that they have all earned their rest? Should they truly be needed, they will return. Yes?"

"I know that!" The other German protested, but there was no real heat to her words. Just sadness. "But everyone...I wanted to..."

"You wanted to see them, and talk to them."

Again, the younger cruiser looked away. Again, Yavuz sighed softly.

"My dear friend, there is no need to worry. I am sure they will come back." Her voice had lost the steel, replaced with motherly concern. She had never met Prinz Eugen, and she was not remotely related to her.

But Yavuz had a mother's instincts nonetheless. Hard not to, at her age.

"I...I know. But it's so hard sometimes..." Prinz Eugen's shoulders slumped further.

Once more wishing she could be talking in person, Yavuz shook her head, "It always will be. But I am here, if you need me. As is Midili. As are, I believe, the Americans. And if I may say so, I don't think you'll have any issues fitting in with them. You are a nice girl, Prinz Eugen."

The old battlecruiser truly did believe that. When Prinz Eugen smiled, it lit up the room. When she was not sad, her voice was filled with cheer. Even when she was sad, she had the kind of voice that could make anyone smile. No, she should have no issues with the Americans.

"Danke, Goeben." Prinz Eugen whispered, looking up with wet eyes. But the smile on her face was genuine, and infectious enough to make Yavuz smile herself. "We are leaving soon, but is it alright if we talk a bit longer?"

"Perfectly fine, my dear." Yavuz nodded, brushing her hair back. Her own smile was motherly, as she did touch the screen where the cruiser's cheek was. "If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. I may be Turkish now, but I know you may need a more...German voice sometimes."

And talk they did, about anything and everything. Yavuz's efforts to corral Midili into leaving her shell. Prinz Eugen's rather eccentric cruiser mates. The misadventures of ship girls on both sides of the Atlantic.

They just...talked.

And Yavuz would trade nothing for that.

 

[Old Iron]

___〆(･ω･ )

* * * * *

"Did you compare the numbers on form H1-31.R with what was in file H-1941?" intoned Jintsuu's gentle, yet firm voice just as the target of her instruction had been about to sign off on a rather lengthy report.

"I..." Yamashiro paused and felt a ball of nerves settle in her belly. She didn't remember seeing that form. Her eyes widened as she began to frantically thumb through the stack of papers in front of her, not once bothering to look up and question the cruiser's words. "It-It's not here. But where then?"

Jintsuu chuckled while Yamashiro's pace quickened.

"It's not here. There's nothing that looks like it." Had she missed something so simple as a sheet of paper?

"That's because you don't know what it looks like." She paused. "And It's not part of that report."

"Eh?"

"You need A-150." Jintsuu plucked the file from the stack Yamashiro had passed over without a second thought. Indeed upon it were the magical numbers that were needed to help make sure the gears stayed greased in their little fleet.

Jintsuu would not laugh, nor chuckle at the defeated look the unfortunate battlewagon gave her in response. She would smile however. Yamashiro was doing her best in trying to learn how to fill in for herself and for Mutsu. Or any real command position, really. A curve ball here and there would help prod Yamashiro into making sure all her i's were dotted and her t's were crossed. On paper, that is.

"Check your procedures if you don't know and check them even if you think you know. It takes a lot of time and exposure before you can begin starting to go off your memory." Jintsuu leaned in and stage whispered a little morsel of information that she hoped would bolster the depressed woman. "I still use them and so does the Lieutenant Commander."

Yamashiro let a sliver of a smile cross her normally dour face. Okay, it was hard to argue with that. And she really did need to learn these things. If not for furthering the functionality of the war effort, then certainly for her sister. Fusou-oneesama would be terribly disappointed in her if she wasn't up to standard.

Couldn't have that, now could she?

"Do you have a copy, I... Ah. Don't have mine." She did not really want to admit having left it back at the battleship dorms.

"There should be one over here." They were using Mutsu's office as it had far better facilities for this sort of work than Jintsuu's own, but she still knew every nook and cranny like the back of her own hand. As testament to that it took only a few moments to locate Mutsu's copy of the massive tome. Tucked away behind a few inconspicuous photos, baubles, and unrelated books.

Jintsuu had been about to hand over the book when there was a tremendous crash. Both flinched as the door to Mutsu's office was all but blown off its hinges and then once more at the revelation of who had made such a violent entry.

Battleship Arizona.

Yamashiro all but whimpered at the sight of the... considerably angry looking Pennsylvania-Class. A powerful and experienced battleship she might be, but a raging standard was the stuff of nightmares.

Jintsuu on the other hand, blinked as the shock of seeing Arizona so furious gave way to confusion and then to a kind of baffled amusement.

"Where. Is. The Lieutenant Commander?" Arizona growled out as her chest heaved with each deep, ire-laden breath. Her red hair was all but alight and she looked as if she would burst a vein or maybe some piping with the slightest prodding. Both were certainly on the table. And the twitch in one eye couldn't be healthy.

"She's out with Kawakaze and Shigure." Jintsuu placed the form she had been holding back on the desk before tilting her head in thought. "I believe they wanted to try some kind of cake shop. And do a little Christmas shopping while they were at it."

She would liked to have gone, but teaching Yamashiro superseded that little luxury unfortunately. Along with the minute detail of her assigned day off being a day that was most definitely not today.

Missions were going to become even more frequent and likely even more dangerous if what she had heard was accurate. So in response to that, Admiral Richardson had scheduled a number of days off for the ships under his command. He had also added the promise of a bonus day if they could fulfill a specially assigned task. Her's was to make sure Yamashiro was at least competent in substituting for the role of Yeoman or XO by the end of today. One or the other.

So of course, she had decided to take it up to eleven and grind the battleship until she was skilled in both roles.

She'd have her extra day without question. There were movies to see!

And Star Wars. Without question, Star Wars. If another Abyssal task force reared their ugly heads, Jintsuu swore she'd choke them out by herself or drag them to the theater before doing so!

"Miss Jintsuu?" Yamashiro hesitantly prodded the suddenly silent cruiser. She could understand if Jintsuu was spooked by the American, but the violent determination and reddening cheeks coloring her expression did not really speak of fear. Rather something she really wasn't sure she wanted to name. "Miss Jintsuu, please."

"Yeoman?" There was a slight less fury in Arizona's voice, but it was hard to tell for the untrained ear.

Jintsuu coughed and shook the daydreams from her mind, her reddening cheeks turning into a full on blush of embarrassment.

"Oh, sorry. I-" Jintsuu halted as she once again took stock of what Arizona had done. ...And what she had barged in with. She snorted in a matter not unlike Mutsu before covering her mouth. "S-Sorry. But, what do you think you're doing, Arizona?"

"Something about decency?" piped up Aviation Cruiser Chikuma in her airy tone of voice. She really mind being carried underarm like a sack of potatoes by the battlewagon, but that was only because her dear sister couldn't see her in this unusual state.

"Ou! I was running laps and this lagwagon just-"

"Lagwagon!?"

"Yeah! This old slowpoke just yells at me and the next thing I know, I'm being dragged along at a snail's pace." Shimakaze folded her arms indignantly as she glared up at Arizona. She'd been making great time and this old biddy just had to interrupt her. How she got caught, she didn't know. But all she cared about was the fact she wasn't running right now.

"Oh, it's rare to see you this angry." Chikuma smiled amusedly as she glanced in the destroyer's direction. "Did she catch you running?"

"Hmph! Of course she did. What else would I... be..." Shimakaze's words slowed to a halt as she realized just what she had been about to admit. She, probably the fastest warship ever put to sea during the Pacific War, had been caught.

While running.

By a standard.

Both cruisers chuckled as the color drained from Shimakaze's face and her entire body went limp in Arizona's arm.

Yamashiro would have shared a look of resignation with Arizona, but a breeze made its way into the office and blew a not insubstantial amount of paperwork around. She let out a yelp of surprise as she leaped from her chair to grab hold of the now airborne sheets. Only for her movement to jostle yet more paper free and send them flying about the office.

Jintsuu sighed in defeat as the disaster zone expanded. At this rate Yamashiro wouldn't be fit to put postage on an envelope, much less fill out either of the duties being foisted upon her. Maybe she should lower expectations? No. Never! She must have her Force Fix!

"Arizona, why don't you put them down and have some fun with your day off," suggested Jintsuu with a sigh. Not all days off had been scheduled for the same day, hence why she was working while others were playing.

"But, Yeo-! Ji-! Miss Jintsuu!" Arizona swore she'd get it right on the first try one of these days. "I cannot stand by while such indecency runs rampant on base! A destroyer is running around wearing nothing but strips of cloth and string while a cruiser parades about with no undergarments!"

"I'm wearing something," protested Chikuma with a slightly embarrassed tilt. Well, kind of. It was just so much easier to move around like this. And something didn't quantify what. Or where. So it was still true.

"I saw nothing when that thing you call a dress was carried up by the wind!" Arizona's eye began twitching even more violently. And atop her blazing hair, a fairy stood with arms spread like an entertainer's. She turned her furious gaze back to Jintsuu, sending the fairy flying. "There must be some kind of dress code. Some regulation towards decency to be followed!"

"No..."

"There isn't."

"Sorry, but no."

"Have you seen Lieutenant Commander Mutsu's skirt?"

Arizona choked as the other ships in the room shot down her hopes in a rather swift manner. However it was Shimakaze's biting retort about Mutsu's ensemble that finally did her in. Without a comprehensible word, Arizona dropped her two hostages with a crash and stormed out of the office. A trail of very dated and despairing words of heated indignation followed her.

"She's a bit of a grump," commented Chikuma as she sat up on the floor, readjusting her dress in the process. She'd never met the American before now, and her first impression was less than pleasant. It'd have been so much nicer if she could have been assigned down in the Gulf of Mexico with her elder sister. Well, in a peacetime setting.

"Lieutenant Arizona has... very strong opinions about what she considers appropriate dress." If that wasn't the most polite way to say the redhead was a stubborn prude, Jintsuu would eat the Admiral's hat.

"She needs to lighten up. Unnecessary things will just slow you down!" Shimakaze frowned as she pulled herself back onto her feet. "Hmph!"

"Why... don't you put on some shorts and show Lieutenant Arizona around the city? E-Everyone's strung out and she's going to waste her day off doing pointless things at this rate. I think the results of the last battle affected her more than we realize."

As one, every set of eyes in the room was turned to focus on the younger Fusou.

"W-What?" Yamashiro sniped defensively. She was rife with many misfortunes and failings, but blindness was not one of them!

So long as it didn't involve paperwork.

"No, that's actually a good idea." Jintsuu cast a level gaze upon the blond destroyer, who now looked somewhat nervous. Yes, two birds with one stone. Help Arizona control her prude rage and get Shimakaze to interact with something other than a stopwatch. What could possibly go wrong? Many things, if she were honest about it. But she didn't get where she was by not taking chances. "Shimakaze, go change and find Arizona. I'd like it if you didn't have me make it an order."

"Hmhm. I suppose that's what you get," giggled Chikuma, still lounging on the floor.

She froze as Jintsuu's vision swept over her, lacking any hint of her usual kindness.

"And I have a few things I would like you to do as well."

"Oh. Ah..." The cruiser swallowed nervously as it became rather apparent that she should have kept her mouth shut. "Y-Yes, ma'am."

"Oh... fine." Shimakaze rolled her eyes in exasperation. Her day was shot. No more running and now she was stuck escorting the slowest ship in the fleet. Some day off this was. Granted, Yamashiro had a point. And she wasn't in the best of moods either. But still!

"Oh, Shimakaze!" called out Yamashiro as the destroyer began making her way out of the office with a halfhearted salute and a noticeable slouch. "...Try to have fun. You can run all you like when you get back."

"Ou!"

Yamashiro sighed and bent down to pick up some more papers after Shimakaze left. A frown was etched quite clearly on her face. So troublesome. So unfortunate. Why couldn't her sister be here? She'd make everything more bearable. More joyous. More anything that was good in life.

I was nice to have Shigure around, the destroyer's mood always brightened whenever she caught sight of her. And she would admit that, yes, she liked having the Shiratsuyu around as well.

She looked up when she felt a tap on her shoulder and saw Jintsuu giving her a soft smile.

"Wh-What?"

"No. Nothing. I just feel that I've seen something nice today."

"...Can we please get back to work?" grumbled the battleship before pointing at Chikuma. "And what are you going to do with her?"

Jintsuu produced a list out of seemingly thin air.

"Grocery shopping."

"...Isn't that an abuse of power?"

"Not if she's securing supplies for the fleet."

Yamashiro was beginning to think she might have an idea why the light cruiser was so feared even outside the battlefield.

* * * * *

"You're sooo slow!" bemoaned Shimakaze as she led Arizona about the shopping mall. She meant it with as much good humor as she could, but Arizona really was taking her sweet time in following her lead.

"If you did not insist on running around like a jackrabbit, then maybe I would be able to keep up." She was well aware just how fast the destroyer was on the water. But she hadn't anticipated that haste translating over onto land. Perhaps she should have. Or perhaps she should have brought a leash. Though that would means she'd have to find a way to actually bind the girl with it.

At least Shimakaze was wearing something decent. Not very, mind you. But she didn't need to worry about answering very, very embarrassing questions for the local authorities.

And her eye wasn't twitching anymore either, so that was a plus.

"Are you certain you know where you're going?"

"Ou! The most efficient path is the fastest." Shimakaze's declaration was accompanied with a sudden turn. Had she not taken Yamashiro's suggestion, she might have flashed a good number of mall goers. Fortunately jean shorts and tights were counter productive to indecent exposure. It didn't really matter one way or the other to her, so long as she got where she needed to got as fast as possible. "And then take it as fast as you can!"

"I cannot really argue your first point..." Arizona picked up the pace as best she could so as to not lose sight of her guide. Weren't escorts supposed to stick close? "Where are you leading me?"

"You wanted to do some Christmas shopping, right?" Shimakaze queried as she spun in place to allow the standard to catch up. "You haven't been here long and you're living with the Admiral, so that means you don't know anyone else well enough to get them anything meaningful. So! That's only five presents that you're gonna be able to think about. I know exactly the place."

Insightful and well thought out.

Arizona lamented that such a sharp and considerate mind was hidden behind such a lewd dress code.

Were she a more... open-minded warship, she might not have been so bothered that Shimakaze looked like a street corner special in her supposed duty outfit. But she wasn't. All those skimpy, scandalous, revealing... Nope, try not to think about it.

And there was that twitch again.

"Maybe you should get Parkson to look at that eye. Your directors might be on the fritz."

"No, this is something else." Arizona rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to will away her rage. Be calm. Be content. Do not dwell on the indecency so openly displayed in the modern world.

The lingerie store passing by on their starboard did not help.

"You should probably get some more underwear. All that fancy red stuff is nice, but-"

"What?!"

"Ouou! Loud. Really loud." Shimakaze winced at Arizona's outburst. Fortunately there was enough hustle and bustle that not one paid them anything more than a second glance. "Mutsu can help you out with that. She's the fashionable one."

"Why. Do you. Know what my undergarments look like?" she hissed angrily, her face taking on a color not too dissimilar to her hair.

Shimakaze gave her a flat look.

"Locker room. The docks. Clothing damage."

Arizona groaned and covered her face with both hands, unknowingly imitating her Admiral in his more exasperated moments.

"May... May we simply hurry up?" The sooner she could get this done, the better. Then she might be able to escape the madness. Maybe a book. A good manual on tactics or procedures. Or just throw caution to the wind and read something of no real worth. Anything to take her frazzled mind away from the insanity that surrounded her.

"We're already here though." Shimakaze would have prodded Arizona a bit more, but she was a plenty observant girl. You didn't live long as a destroyer if you weren't. And Arizona looked like she was headed bow first into that same crazy state that had somehow allowed the lagwagon to catch her. Better to just let it lie.

"I-Oh. We are?" she cast her grey gaze over the myriad storefronts in an appraising manner. "Toys and hobbies?"

"Ou. And there are other stores we can go by on the way back if you don't find anything here."

"I will one day figure you out."

"You're rated as a flagship. It'll happen eventually." She crossed her arms over her chest with a nod.

"I hope sooner than later." Arizona reached out and gave the destroyer an approving pat on the head. It wasn't Admiral-Grade, but it wasn't far behind. She grinned slightly. "At least by the time I convince you to wear something decent."

"Ugh, that'll take forever then... You'll have better luck figuring out Hiei."

"Do not underestimate a battleship's stubbornness."

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, let's goooo-!" With a spin and a dash, Shimakaze ran about behind Arizona and gave the battleship a prodding shove towards the nearest shop. Understandably, there was no reaction until Arizona decided to play along. Maybe she should pester some of those tug captains about how to get a boat to move. So slow. Jeez...

There was the jingling of a bell as Arizona opened the door to the store Shimakaze had been attempting to guide her into. Despite the very modern, generic layout, the bell gave the store a comfortable air. People mulled about, browsing and playing and chatting away as commerce took place.

"Whoa. Busy."

"It is getting close to lunch. And it is the Christmas season."

"Yeah, but still." Shimakaze frowned as she handily dodged out of the way of a customer who couldn't completely see where she was going. "Let's just hurry up. See anything?"

"If my suspicion is correct, then I believe I have my gift for the Yeoma-for Miss Jintsuu." Arizona marched forward, her gaze firmly locked upon a very particular display. The crowds seemed to part as if the very sea itself for her approach. Her steely gaze and imposing demeanor no doubt helped her advance.

When she reached the display, Shimakaze hot on her heels, she reached out with a gloved hand. There was a pause as she scanned the items placed thereupon before nodding and grasping her choice. With a single deft movement, it was pulled free and held upright to be judged. Arizona's thumb ran over the uneven surface while her fingers readjusted themselves into a more comfortable grip.

"Yes. I think this will do."

There was a sharp hiss as the crimson blade ignited, illuminating the redhead's face with an ominous light.

"Yes indeed."

"Oh, she'll like that. And it's combat approved!" remarked Shimakaze as she looked at one of the other, shorter lightsabers for sale. She poked at the notice confirming just that on a Yoda model. "Not our type of combat, but it's not gonna break if she has a duel with someone. I bet some of those geeks in Intel would love that."

"I simply want to get her something she'd like." Arizona deactivated the lightsaber and held it at her side. She would not admit she might want to swing it around a bit.

"She will. Probably too much." A shudder ran down Shimakaze's keel as she imagined Jintsuu's reaction to such a gift. "But that was nice and fast. Who's next?"

"I will probably want to obtain gifts for the Admiral and Lieutenant Commander elsewhere. But I'm sure I can find something for Jane, Hiei, and Albacore here. Jane and Albacore at the very least." Hiei might be a bit more difficult, so she would have to see what options presented themselves.

"Albacore? The subthief teaching the lewdmarines how to submarine when she's not stealing Admiral Richardson's pants?"

"I... Yes. That's her." Really, that girl. "I owe her tremendously, so I should at least get her something with some thought put into it."

Shimakaze merely nodded in understanding. She'd read the reports. And with great haste!

The duo wandered about for a while longer, browsing and chatting relatively amicably. It wasn't too long before Arizona decided that an art store replete with a rainbow of gel pens would be the best option for Albacore's gift rather than many of the odd trinkets they had come across thus far. And Hiei would require a trip to the bookstore. It was rather hard to find a cookbook in a toy store.

"Oh!"

"What'd you find?"

"This."

"Ou..." There was a hint of awe in Shimakaze's voice as she beheld what Arizona was showing her.

"She enjoys building models, so I think one of these would suit her nicely." Certainly the plethora of kits Jane had shown her were a suitable inspiration. And there was a very distinct note of pride in the child's voice when she had told her about them in a few of the more jovial moments of downtime. And she didn't recall seeing either of the two she had grabbed off the very, very sparcely populated shelves anywhere in the house.

"Which one then?" Two was a bit much, even for Christmas.

"I'm not certain. I'll buy both and save one for her birthday. Or return one if needed." Arizona raised an eyebrow in a questioning look. "That would be the most efficient method wouldn't it?"

"She can be taught!" laughed Shimakaze with an air of mock seriousness.

"One of us at least."

"Hey!"

"Tit for tat."

"Erk!" In an effort to distract Arizona from the loss of face, the high speed destroyer pointed at the two rather complex looking models. "Why those two?"

"Oh? Jane's fleet lacks a solid air wing, so a carrier is a must. But it does not hurt to have another battleship. And I found it odd she lacked a model for one of America's most powerful battleships." Arizona spoke in a very matter-of-factly tone of voice as she gestured to the rather sizable boxes in hand. One of Saratoga and the other of Missouri.

"Hm! Good choices." She pointed towards the checkout counter. If the were done here, then on to the next stop! "Ready?"

"Certainly." A lightsaber for Jintsuu and a model for Jane. The day was turning around, especially after such a disastrous beginning. "If you wish to meet me outside, I do not plan to dally."

"Sounds good."

As Arizona made her way to the register, Shimakaze noted a third, much smaller box tucked carefully under Arizona's arm along with the lightsaber. Why hadn't she noticed it before? And it was a little odd that Arizona hadn't made any mention of it... There was a very distinct lettering on the parcel as well.

USS Arizona.

But why buy a model of yourself?

Unless...

Shimakaze froze.

"No way..."

* * * * *

 

[Old Iron]

Hey! Non-canon as all get out, but it was bugging me. SO I did a thing.

* * * * *

There was a creaking sound as a poorly oiled door was gently pushed open.

The room beyond was dimly lit, but the contents within could still be clearly seen by the intruder. Countless models, books, and myriad papers filled every nook and cranny of shelf space and then some. Even the walls were adorned with countless items ranging from schematics to awards to carefully mounted photos. And the less said about the floor the better. Atlantic winter storms were more akin to a sunny pacific mooring by comparison.

But even for all the mess and all the chaos, it was no match for the dauntless footing of a Pennsylvania-Class battleship.

Arizona approached the dying lamp and the desk upon which it sat. With crossed arms and a stern expression upon her scarred face, she examined the all sight before her. One which had become all too familiar as of late.

With one empty hand poised as if it still held the pencil currently deciding if it wanted to roll onto the floor and the other hanging bonelessly at its owner's side, sixteen year old Jane Richardson looked as if she had fallen asleep without even realizing it. A string of drool was making a decent sized pool on her shirt and her head nodded every so often to the tone of gravity's whims. And her hair, long enough only to tie off into a short ponytail like Arizona herself was wont to do on occasion, was a frazzled mess.

Arizona rolled her eyes in exasperation.

Honestly. You'd think a scolding from medical, a flat officer, and a few warships would carry weight enough. But apparently not. In fact, it seemed like Jane was growing up into a woman to match or surpass the stubbornness of her father and even a battleship.

It seemed like just yesterday that she could haul Jane up onto her shoulders without having to worry about hitting the ceiling. How time flies...

But there would be time for fond memories later.

Right now, she had a troublesome daughter to deal with!

"Jane."

Arizona's voice was low in volume, but carried through the room like the ringing of a ship's bell.

Jane herself awoke with a start and tumbled out of her chair in her haste to stand at attention.

"Sir! Admi-" She blinked and went slightly cross-eyed when a single finger was placed upon her lips, silencing her and forcing her return to reality. She was not, in fact, standing before the Fleet Admiral and about to receive her posting to the most awesome space battleship ever built. Nope. She was in her room. And now staring at the shorter form of Battleship Arizona.

"Ari... mama?"

Arizona leaned in slightly as she lowered her finger, her eyes alight in the darkness with a very obvious ire. The fact she was garbed in a nightgown in no way detracted from her imposing form.

"What time is it little missy?" She all but demanded in a voice carrying a volume of authority normally reserved for a U.N. Security Council meeting.

"Uuuhm..." Jane fumbled about for a watch or her phone or some kind of timepiece. Failing that, she took a shot in the dark. And unlike a certain breed of traffic cone cruisers or ninja battleship, she wasn't all that good at it. "Twenty-three hundred?"

"Try Oh-three hundred."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"W-Well, I was on a roll and I figured one more hour wouldn't hurt. I need to make sure my grades are up and I know all my history and I-" Jane all but flinched when Arizona's gaze turned thunderous. Fortunately the hour might keep her from getting yelled at?

Maybe?

Possibly if she wasn't currently yawning something fierce?

"Jane Elaine Richardson. If you do not get in bed this very instant, I will personally march to the Naval Academy and demand the Board of Admissions delay any appointment they may intend to give you by no less than a year." If Jane continued on this path, then she fully intended to do so. Let it not be said that Arizona was not a woman of her word. And these late night study sessions were getting ridiculous.

"Bu-But!"

"No buts! Even your father finally learned how important a good night's rest is. And a poorly rested mind is of little use to anyone." Oh how well she knew that little morsel of information.

"I only did two all-nighters in a row? Ari-mama, please? One more hour."

"Bed. Now."

"Okay.."

Jane was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

And Arizona wore the slightest of smiles as she gently tucked her too-battleship-like daughter into bed.

* * * * *

And now Im'ma follow Ari's orders and crash.