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Changing Destiny (Kancolle)

Reader mode
It's online now. Once I'm home, I can look at people who may want in, but aren't reading the thread.
 
Damn, this really sucks. Guess the only thing is to move on. See you on the back-up server then.
 
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The Admiral and the President
  • Sidestory
    • Omake: The Admiral and the President
    ​
    The smell never will go away, will it?

    Standing in front of his office window, Admiral Richardson looked out upon Pearl Harbor. Even now, months after the attack, the acrid smell of smoke lingered. It was impossible to sail upon the once pristine harbor without smelling it. Smelling oil. Death. He truly wondered if that smell would ever, completely, fade away. Maybe for people who hadn't been there during the attack?

    He knew that it would never go away for him. He could still see the images behind his eyes. California going up as if a volcano had erupted beneath her. Nevada being crippled in her attempt at escape. Utah sinking beneath the harbor waters, as her men attempted to swim to shore. Utah, brave Utah, snapping and shooting everything she could from the sky. Even friendly fighters. So many other images of heroism and despair that he couldn't even hope to list them all. Even he, himself, helping pull men to safety in the midst of the attack.

    "I will never forget." Richardson softly spoke to the empty room, shaking his head. His hands shaking, ever so slightly, as he reached up to clean his glasses. Never again. I paid for my own mistakes, as much as I did for Roosevelt's. For Thompson's.

    Replacing his glasses on his face, the aging Admiral turned from the window and returned to his desk. He doubted his relationship with Roosevelt would ever recover. He had warned him. So many times, he had warned him. Pearl Harbor wasn't ready. It would only antagonize the Japanese. And here they were. That the President had bowed to pressure and kept him in charge of the Fleet after the attack had more to do with Richardson's own personal heroism than anything else.

    Thompson...well. He understood why the Admiral hadn't told him the truth. Richardson looked down at the notes he had taken of that meeting, sitting before the chair of his desk. Time travel. Who would have ever believed such a ridiculous story? Even with what he knew about the spirits, it seems ludicrous to think about.

    Even so, it was hard to deny that the Admiral could have told him more. Prepared him better. It was far from a logical feeling, yet it remained. Richardson did not act on it, of course. He was fairly certain that the young man hated himself every day for his lack of action. There was no need to burden him further. Not when he was one of the most important men in the country. For his future knowledge and his ability to awaken the spirits of the Navy's warships.

    Perhaps he should look at sending a message along, to get the Admiral---

    "Admiral...? I have a report from the front." That was his secretary, her voice carrying through the closed door of his office. "Would you like me to leave this with the rest?"

    Richardson smiled, faintly, and pushed his thoughts to the side for the moment. "No, bring it in. I could use the distraction, I think."

    In response, the young woman opened his office door and carried a stack of files in. There were dark bags under her eyes and her blonde hair was not quite regulation prim-and-proper. Strands sticking out from her bun and the like. And if her uniform was a bit crumpled and wrinkled?

    Well, he wasn't going to say anything about it.

    "Thank you, dear." Richardson just gave her a thin smile and a nod. "I would assume these are from Bull?"

    His secretary nodded back, tiredly. "They are, yes. Enterprise pulled into Wake and these were passed along. Would you like some coffee while you look this over, sir?" Her own smile was a bit strained, and Richardson knew why. He wasn't exactly looking his best, either. No one was, now that the war had come. "I have a mug steaming right now, if you would like?"

    "That sounds wonderful, thank you." Richardson sat behind his desk, and gave his secretary a little wave. She nodded back and backed out, returning to her own desk, no doubt. There was never enough time in the day, for all the work. "Now then...what are you up to, Bull?"

    While Thompson played diplomat and advisor to the President, Halsey was doing what Halsey did best. Rushing hard and fast, hammering the enemy wherever he could find them. Enterprise and the other carriers, Saratoga excepted, were being kept busy. With the mauling the Japanese had taken at Pearl and Wake, they were on the backfoot in the Central Pacific, at the least. Not so in the South Pacific, where the messages from Hart painted a grim picture that had Richardson wishing he never had to deal with the press ever again.

    Damn that MacArthur and his thrice-damned pride. He's far too adept at playing the press against the Navy.

    Nothing for that. Richardson had his area of authority, and he must focus on that. "Right. The usual, I see..." His eyes scanned over Halsey's reports, noting that it was more of the same. Say what you will about the man, but Halsey knew his job. "A request for more of the new torpedoes. Hmm."

    Richardson's eyes drifted over to another stack of files, narrowing slightly. Torpedoes. "Thompson was right to have us test those as we could. Another thing he could have told us sooner, though I understand he couldn't do much. None of us could. BuOrd refused to listen until the President stepped in, himself. So many failed chances..."

    I do dearly wish I could haul Christie before a board of inquiry. His refusal to listen has almost certainly cost our submariners lives, already.

    Sighing softly, the Admiral jotted down a note to look into finding more of the improved torpedoes. Those were not without their own flaws, but between what Thompson remembered and testing, they had at least ironed out the worst of the issues with the Mark 14 and 15. There was nothing to do for the carriers, as the Mark 13 needed more work to increase its effectiveness. Richardson could only do so much, from his position.

    Still, there were things he could do. Sending a grateful nod to his secretary, as she reentered the room and placed a hot cup of coffee before him, the Admiral looked over the rest of Halsey's missive. Requests for more oilers and for more escorts. A desire for more antiaircraft weaponry for his ships, specifically more of the Swedish guns- something that was bottlenecked in the States, reliant on producing more of the weapons in general. A list of targets he wanted to hit in Japanese-held territory. The Marines on Wake requesting more defenses to better hold the island if the Japanese came back.

    The usual kind of requests a nation at war produced.

    "Jane?" Richardson spoke up, before his secretary had a chance to leave the room. She spun on her heel, and inclined her head slightly in his direction. "Get with the supply officers. I want to know every bit of stock we have ready to send to the front. As well as that, I will have a message for the States requesting updates on oiler production."

    "Of course, Admiral. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

    Richardson opened his mouth to reply, before shutting it. A rueful smile crossing his lips. "No, not at the moment. Thank you."

    As his secretary nodded back and left to do her duty, Richardson leaned back in his chair. He looked out another window, at the still-smoking harbor. Most of that smoke coming from California or from various sources in the salvage efforts. The still-ongoing salvage efforts, as the worst of the damaged battleships were yet to leave the harbor for repair and refit. It was hard enough to think about the men, still trapped within those steel tombs. Long-since suffocated or drowned in dark halls that had gone from home to death sentence. Richardson had more than a few sleeplness nights imagining what those men had gone through.

    It was even harder to think about the ships themselves, now. Where once it might have been just a bunch of metal that would be expensive and difficult to salvage...now it was living, breathing, beings.

    Not for the first time, did Richardson curse Thompson for bringing the truth to light. It would have been so much simpler had he never known.

    "I still hear their screams, sir." Arizona had said, her face tear-streaked and covered in grime. She had thrown herself into working to fix her own hull, to distract herself from the moans of pain of her sisters. Of her crew. "It never--I'm sorry, I shouldn't complain. I'm a battleship. Battleships don't complain about a little damage and stress!"

    Sighing softly, Richardson shook his head. Arizona had been one of the first, alongside her sister, to return to the States for refit. Even with her gone, the ships he was less familiar with remained. And he could still hear them trying desperately to comfort each other, any time he felt like tuning his radio to the frequencies it had been agreed on limiting to the ship's own communications. The only one to not speak was California. Did that mean she was dead, or simply unable to talk? When was a ship truly 'dead'?

    Why had Utah left her hull, but California had not?

    These were the questions that, oftentimes, distracted him. He had no answers either. In spite of his efforts in talking to less damaged ships, to try and figure out how to judge the way repairs impacted them. If they could speed it up by working on the spirit, not the ship. Or if they could find a way to split the two apart as Utah had done. It was...

    "Not important, right now." Richardson shook his head, smiling faintly. He could return to that later. "No rest for those with the burden of command, I'm afraid. I have my own duties, just as they do. Let Thompson figure the answers out, once he returns. Saratoga will be in dock for some time yet, and I sincerely doubt any other ship will work as well with him."

    There was a question he never wanted answered. What Thompson did in his private time was his own business, and Richardson was quite content never knowing.

    Climbing to his feet, the Admiral set off to do his work again. He had supply questions to clear up and offensives to plan. The war waited for no one, no matter what questions they may have had for themselves.


    On the other side of the world, another man sat in the late night, staring at a crackling fireplace. A ring of smoke floated before his face, as he puffed out a drag on his cigarette. His day of work long since over, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts to occupy him. As they had for many, many days now. Much as Richardson, the reveal of what Admiral Thompson truly was...it occupied much of his waking hours. Perhaps even more than it did for the Admiral in the Pacific. For, after all, he had far more responsibility weighing him down.

    Even before one got into the question of running a country.

    I wonder if I am fit for a third term, after all. Let alone a fourth. I would never have imagined actually running for another term, as little as a year ago.

    Franklin Roosevelt gave a raspy chuckle, staring into his fireplace. "Time has a way of changing a man's perspective. Time and age. I wonder if I should curse or thank that man for showing me my own future. Or what it could be."

    The President had known he was living on borrowed time. His body grew weaker every day, and even if his mind remained sharp as ever, he could feel the rest of his life slowing down. He had run for the third term because he genuinely believed he had to. Anyone else would be too concerned with America First and would neglect the suffering in Europe. In China and so many other places. And while the tabloids were not entirely incorrect in saying the President had developed a taste for power, it was not the end-all of his decision making. It never had been.

    Blowing another puff off his cigarette, Roosevelt sighed softly. And now I know that I am living on borrowed time, even more than I had already expected. Even if I were to put all my effort into my health, I will not see this decade through to its conclusion. I will be lucky to see this war through to the end, even if we avoid past mistakes and end it sooner than Thompson claims it originally did.

    He had always known he was unlikely to live for much longer, but nothing put a man in a more contemplative mood than knowing exactly when he would die. 1945.

    "Perhaps I would have been better not knowing." Roosevelt chuckled again, placing his cigarette in an ashtray. He couldn't deny, his own mortality aside, that Thompson had done him a favor. "Though, I suppose, I have had my eyes opened on many topics. I will need that knowledge to ensure the country survives my passing."

    His eyes drifted from the crackling of the fire, and towards his desk. Loathe as he was to admit it, Thompson had been correct in near enough everything he had said. Hoover, slimy as that man always was, had confirmed every single spy that Thompson had named. They had yet to arrest any, choosing instead to observe and find their further contacts. But that, alone, had done much to confirm what he said was true. And if that was true, how much else was true? How much else did he know?

    Sitting on that desk was a map. A map of Europe, as accurate as intelligence could make it. The Germans on the rise, pushing deep into Stalin's Russia, even as they dueled with the British in North Africa. From all indications, the Germans were near-unstoppable. Certainly the Soviets were unable to stop them.

    For now.

    I can hardly say I trusted Stalin, yet I wanted to believe he could at least be trusted to honor our deals. For the sake of being allies. Yet, Thompson would have me believe that any words he puts on paper are worth as little as Hitler's. That Stalin will gladly tear our agreements apart and turn Eastern Europe into twisted mirrors of his own state. Roosevelt grabbed back his cigarette, sighing softly before returning it to his lips. Would that be worse for those nations than the Nazis? No. Is that still something I want to see? Something I can tolerate?

    There were many things he could tolerate in the name of defeating the Nazis. And, for that matter, the Japanese. Including working with a dictator in the form of Stalin. It was...simply, not a positive thought. That if Thompson was right about everything he had said so far, then he was also correct about Stalin. Roosevelt had never believe the man to be kind, yet he had hoped for better from him.

    Puffing on his cigarette, the President turned his attention back to the other side of the world. The War in the Pacific. It was going better than he should have expected, from what the young Admiral had told him. "I suppose I should see about talking with Richardson, again. He will be insufferable, I am sure." Roosevelt hated admitting fault. And he knew that Richardson would not let him forget that, had the fleet been in San Diego, it would not have been so vulnerable to attack. "Pride. I must put that aside for the sake of our country. At least I am capable of that."

    That statement was directed at a certain General in the Philippines. While reports were conflicting in regards to if another ship had shown up to help him, as Utah had done, MacArthur was still working the press for everything he was worth. Even as his command collapsed around him, he was talking with the press and setting himself up as a hero who refused to leave, in spite of overwhelming odds. Roosevelt would be the first to admit he had never much liked Douglas MacArthur. The man was arrogant, self-assured, and entirely too involved in politics for a proper officer of the United States Army.

    And now, he was using every bit of his charisma to try and sway the press towards putting pressure on the government to relieve him. In spite of the fact that the Navy did not have the resources to do so, even with the Japanese carriers crippled by their losses during the early battles.

    "I'm of half a mind to let him fight to the end." Roosevelt's raspy chuckle returned to the room, as he imagined how that would go over. He would never hear the end of 'letting the hero of the Philippines be captured or killed'.

    No, that was more trouble than it was worth. As was relieving him of command. I will have to force him to Australia, at the least. At least then I will not have to deal with the press and their incessant demands to send more men to their deaths for a hopeless cause.

    As his cigarette ran down, the President prepared for bed. Those questions could wait for the morning. He would deal with MacArthur as that became necessary, and he could attempt to figure out a new path for Europe later. He could decide if he would try to run for a fourth term, even knowing he would not live to see the end of it, later. Thompson was a blessing and a curse, but no matter what...

    He had given the President more to think about than anything had in many, many years.


    Phew. At least I got something done. I'm hoping that, between this and being able to go back to teaching instead of retail, my muse will start cooperating with me again. Once I can get it to work with me on the next chapter, we'll have Thompson back in the states. And then back to the Pacific. With him and Schreiber back to their proper places, I can hopefully find it easier to write.

    ...hopefully.

    (At least the new Discord server is working properly. Small miracles.)
     
  • Sidestory
    • I am a little sad that we still haven't gotten a perspective of old Bull Halsey since he learned about the future thing. Or how exactly he took the story of what happened to his beloved Enterprise... I wonder if Thompson mentioned that she was scrapped instead of museum'd in no small part to spite him in particular. Or if he keeps finding his gaze lingering on a little patch of sea off the coast of an island in the Philippines named Samar.
     
    Apologies for the delay on updating...for basically the year, really. This has been a rather...interesting year in a lot of ways. We're not going to lie about that. Hell, the fact we're using 'we' now is one example.

    Ideally, we want to get a longer-than-average update together before the new year. We'll see how that goes.
     
    Skywalker_T-65 said:
    Apologies for the delay on updating...for basically the year, really. This has been a rather...interesting year in a lot of ways. We're not going to lie about that. Hell, the fact we're using 'we' now is one example.

    Ideally, we want to get a longer-than-average update together before the new year. We'll see how that goes.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Don't be sorry, this year has been an absolute clusterfuck.
     
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    Chapter 61
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 61
    ​
    I wonder if it's odd that I feel more at home here than on shore. In my, supposed, actual home. I can never get past the fact that I don't really know anyone there, not really. And...

    Staring up at the rising sun, James Thompson smiled lightly. His view of the sun was obstructed by a towering pillar of steel that, even now, comforted him more than he would ever admit. The familiar black stripe was long gone, replaced by dull camouflage in keeping with the rest of her hull. Men were milling about, putting the finishing touches on paint and other such things, in preparation for sailing back into the war. Had it been any other ship, she probably would have already been back in the war, by this point. But she wasn't and so she hadn't. Because this was his ship.

    "...Roosevelt must have pulled quite a few strings with the Navy. Him and Richardson." Thompson shook his head, chuckling softly as he strode down the flight deck of USS Saratoga. "I'd never want to command from a different ship, after all. And they know that."

    Everyone knew that, it felt like, as he got knowing looks from the crew. Those that had been aboard since the start of the war, anyway. He did his best to ignore those looks, while inspecting the ship and making sure she was ready for sortie. Technically the Captain's job, but if anyone had a right to inspect Saratoga, it was him. No one on the crew would begrudge him that. So, he walked, stopping to look at new anti-aircraft mountings. Talking to the crew to gauge how things were working. Seeing if there was anything that still needed done. All things that were technically beneath him as the Admiral.

    All things that he would do anyway, because Sara was his ship.

    "Welcome back, Admiral! Took you long enough, we were beginning to think the Brits had kidnapped you!"

    Thompson came to a halt, outside the entrance to her superstructure, staring at a grinning pilot with a couple other men on his flanks. "Commander Thach. They haven't stuck you on Lady Lex or something? I would have thought someone like you would have been kept on the front." Thompson said that with a grin of his own, as he walked up to the aviator. "Who at command decided they didn't like you?"

    Thach barked out a laugh, while tossing a lazy salute the Admiral's way. Thompson was one who had always tried to be 'down in the dirt' with his men, even before the revelation of Sara being alive came to the front. And when it came to Thach...well.

    I did steal his claim to fame, so the least I can do is talk to the man. Thompson snorted, internally, and returned the salute.

    "Honestly, sir, I requested this. Sara and I have a good working relationship and I wouldn't want to have to replicate that on her sister," Thach patted the hull next to him, with the soft touch of an old friend. "I don't think you'll find many of us actually transferred, once we figured out you were sticking around. We love Sister Sara and wouldn't trade her for anything. It helps that Admiral Richardson has the final say, and he knows how close you two are."

    It was said with the utmost respect...and still came across as a joke that had the Admiral coughing to hide his spluttering. "Damnit, you too, Thach? I got enough of that from Churchill!"

    "Huh," Thach whistled, deliberately ignoring the first part with a smirk on his lips. "Getting up there, aren't we, Admiral? The President and Churchill? And he even knows about you and 'ole Sara? That's impressive."

    "Pilots," Thomspon shook his head, prompting another round of laughter from the group of naval aviators. "Can't be serious if it was to save your own life. Well." Here, he gestured up at the superstructure, making his intent fairly obvious. "If you could tell me where Sara is that would be helpful. Contrary to apparently popular belief, we don't read each other's minds or anything like that. We're just very close friends."

    "Whatever you say, Admiral," for a man as old as he was, Thach still acted like a much younger man, as he gave a respectful yet dubious answer. And hooked a thumb behind himself, pointing into the superstructure, "She was on the bridge, talking with the Captain. Doubt she's still there now, since she likes going to your cabin. Best bet is there...sir."

    One of these days, Thompson was going to learn how pilots- no matter the branch or time -were able to sound so casual, while not once dropping the respect needed for a superior officer. It was a unique skill that only they seemed to have. He certainly didn't have it. Might have helped with dealing with King...

    "Understood," instead, the relatively young Admiral stuck with 'formal and dignified' in his response. And absolutely did not send his gaze skywards, pleading with God for strength. "Now, do you and your men have work that needs done, Commander?"

    With a laid-back smile, Thach nodded and waved at his companions, "Come on boys, let's make sure the new Wildcats are up to spec. Don't want to keep the Admiral from his good friend, now do we?"

    With a chorus of 'no sir!', the other pilots followed Thach out, leaving Admiral Thompson alone to shake his head bemusedly. He could feel the eyes of a curious group of deck workers, watching his back, as he strode into Sara's dim superstructure. The dull metal walls and the dim, artificial, light somehow feeling more comforting than the warm sunlight and soft breeze of Bremerton. Hah. He really was home wasn't he?

    "I don't even mind the jokes, honestly," Thompson muttered to himself, before smiling and humming a little as he went through the familiar halls towards his cabin. No. He didn't mind the jokes, that much. I'm home and back with Sara. Now we can get back out there and do what we do best. Leave the heavy lifting to the ones who know what they're doing. I belong on the front, trying to save as many lives as I can. I already did that with Wake. Now...

    Well, as he walked through the comforting metal corridors, Thompson knew that he was where he belonged. Doing what he should have always been doing.

    -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-​

    Sitting inside her Admiral's cabin, Saratoga stared up at the small ceiling. Even in such illustrious quarters, space aboard her was tight, and every inch was used for something or other. The bed could barely fit her, if she curled up tight. The desk was more of a 'piece of wood jammed into the wall'. The less said about the 'closet space', the better. It beat out her suddenly expanded crew having to use hammocks in her mess, but not by as much as one would think. It was...

    Enough to make her feel self-conscious about herself.

    She knew that the newer carriers, even Little E, had more space. They were designed from the keel up for their space, after all. They didn't have cramped hangers bolted atop of a hull never designed for it. Their crews had proper quarters, and their Admirals had actual cabins. She knew that even if she had never been aboard one of her little sisters. And it made her very aware of her own limitations in a way she hadn't been, before she met her Admiral. It just hadn't occurred to her to think about it, before then. It did now and all because she wanted the best for her dear Admiral.

    Look at me. I'm acting like a silly girl. Sara giggled, softly, brushing back a lock of her blue hair. She stared at that, wondering not for the first time, if there was some reason her hair was so...strange. It probably doesn't matter. It's just...weird, I guess. Or I'm just being silly again. It's been too long since I was out there, hasn't it?

    Leaning against the sparse bulkhead, Sara gave a small smile to herself. She'd never say no to having her Admiral back, of course, but even she had to wonder if there was some reason why she was being treated with kid gloves. Her repairs were done. Shouldn't she be back out, fighting with everyone else?

    "Lex...are you alright? I haven't seen you since the War started, and..." The old carrier shook her head, not willing to finish that sentence. One of the first things her Admiral had told her was how her sister sank. They should have fixed that problem, but it still worried her.

    It would worry any big sister to know their little sister was out in danger. Even when that sister maintained that she was the big sister!

    Before she could go far down that particular rabbit hole, the cabin was opened from the outside. Sara instantly jumped to her feet, only avoiding braining herself on the low ceiling by virtue of instinctively knowing every inch of her own hull. She still stumbled a little, on landing, and only avoided falling by virtue of her surprised Admiral reaching his hands out to steady her.

    If those hands landed a bit lower on her waist than intended, neither commented on it.

    Guess I'm still a klutz after all. Only one of our carriers to run aground!

    Fighting down a blush, Saratoga pulled back and flashed a grateful smile at her Admiral. "Thank you, Ad..."

    She trailed off, her green eyes widening a bit. The face looking back at her was so...different. Older. She knew it had been a while since she had last seen her Admiral, but it looked as if he had aged years in that time. His eyes crinkled at the corner in his soft smile, age and worry lines plainly visible. The corners of his mouth were little better, stretched in ways they hadn't before. Even his short hair was greying, flecks of silver in the dark mass beginning to outnumber the darker strands. He was...getting old. The war was aging him.

    Saratoga, naturally, didn't look like she'd aged a day. Never before had she felt the realization of what that meant, quite like this.

    "Good to see you too, Sara." Admiral Thompson's warm smile showed no signs of noticing what she was feeling, as he dropped the little luggage he carried to the deck. He used his now-free hands to pull her into a soft, gentle, hug. "It's been...a long time. Too long. I missed you, y'know?" Holding her close, the Admiral whispered into her ear, his breath brushing over her sensitive skin. "Everything holding together up here? I know it's been a wait and a half. You haven't been bored, have you?"

    Sara blinked, before flushing again at the concern in his tone. At what he wasn't saying. "I--I'm fine, Admiral. Nothing to report."

    Thompson pulled back, his gaze meeting her own, looking for any sign of a lie. "You sure? I know the Sara I knew would want to be on the front, protecting all her baby sisters." He chuckled, softly, and shook his head. "Sorry, sorry. I shouldn't compare you to her."

    There was a wistfulness in his expression that almost had Sara asking about the other, her from the future. She didn't. She just smiled and shook her head, herself, "I'm fine, really! I do want to help Lex and Little E and the others, but I didn't mind waiting for you. I wanted you back." I needed you back, she didn't vocalize.

    "Got it, Sara." Thompson sat down on the bed, pulling Sara along for the ride. She didn't resist, even though she was more than strong enough to do so. "So, tell me how things have been? Thach and his boys driving you up a wall like they did me?"

    Sometimes, parsing her Admiral's turns of phrase were difficult. Decades of lingo she had never learned. This wasn't one of those times, as Saratoga giggled merrily. She could forget her own concerns, for a moment, when she thought about her merry band of misfits. Her pilots were almost like her children, no matter that they were all far older than she was. And like a mother, she couldn't help but smile when she thought about their antics.

    "I think they're the ones at risk of that, Admiral. Commander Thach wants to get back out there, but he doesn't want to leave either." With a warm smile, a motherly one, Sara leaned back and waved her hand. "I wouldn't want him to leave, either. He's a good man. We work well together."

    In lieu of a response, her Admiral just leaned back beside her. His hand drifting to lay on her arm, as he looked at the sky, as if he could see it through her deck. As she, herself, could. His face bore a pensive expression, deep in thoughts he wasn't sharing with her.

    What are you thinking about, Admiral? Did something happen in Britain? Something you don't want me to know about?

    Saratoga knew, better than anyone, that her dear Admiral Thompson had things he told no one. She still didn't know the true extent of his relationship with her other self. Or, for that matter, with the Japanese of the future. Was that what he was thinking of?

    "Don't worry about that, Sara," he finally spoke again, turning his head down to give her his classically lopsided smile. The age lines and greying hair did little to take away the boyish charm he had always had, as Sara felt a tightening in her chest. A rush in her boilers that had her engineer blinking in confusion. Thompson didn't show any signs of noticing, other than perhaps a softening of his eyes. "None of us are going to leave you. I, sure as hell, wouldn't want any other ship. You're special. You know that?"

    That cut right through to the worries she had been feeling before, and she couldn't hide it this time. She looked away and waved at the small room. "I'm old and tired, Admiral. Wouldn't it be better to get one of those new carriers? Everyone is relying on you and...I can only do so much. Didn't Admiral Halsey have to leave Little E, in your past? She's even newer than I am..."

    "Sara," in response, the Admiral took his hand from her arm and wrapped it around her shoulder, instead. "None of that matters. I don't have that kind of relationship with Hornet or the Essexes, when they start showing up. I have that relationship with you. I trust you. I care about you." He squeezed, gently, and laughed softly. "Everyone else does, too. So you're a bit cramped and old. Do you think anyone cares about that? Even if they're grouching about the hammocks, they'll still stick around. You're our Sister Sara. We'd never want anyone else."

    Sara thought back to that dockworker, during her refit. The one that had convinced her that these men cared about her, even when they couldn't see her. When she was just metal to them. Now that everyone on her crew could see and interact with her...

    "I'm being silly. Mama Langely would smack me over the head and tell me that." Sara let out a sigh and leaned against her Admiral's shoulder, taking comfort in his warmth. He was so much smaller than she was, in so many ways. Weaker and easier to hurt. But, in that moment, she wouldn't be anywhere else. She felt safe. "Adm...James. Thank you."

    Thompson blinked at the close contact, a flush crawling up his own neck. Before he just smiled, and let the carrier stay where she was. "No need to thank me, Sara. I'll always be here for you. Even when we head back out."

    Thoughts about that could wait, though. For the moment, they weren't Admiral and Carrier. They were just a man and a woman, curled against each other in the quiet of their shared quarters. There were no thoughts about the War and the battles to come. No talk about how she would sortie again within the week. No talk at all, actually.

    Just James and Sara, leaning against one another, as they slowly drifted away.


    Fættenfjorden, Norway

    ​
    Bundling a scarf closer to his neck, Gustav Schreiber looked out at the cold and dimly lit fjord. Unremarkable in the craggy coastline of Norway, where a thousand others just like it stretched from the North Sea to the Arctic. The sheer cliffs tumbled rocks and ranks upon ranks of tough trees were remarkable in their unremarkableness. Were it not, of course, for the row of buildings built along a military dock. The anti-aircraft batteries scattered all around, interspaced with smoke generators and camouflage netting. The signs of a wartime base, setting this barren locale apart from its sisters.

    That and, of course, the slate-grey forms of three battleships and a handful of cruisers and destroyers. Two sisters moored right next to one another, in a way their counterparts in another world never were. Another, off on her own, her squat triple turrets seeming to droop with the pain of one who had lost her only sibling. The jealousy that she couldn't quite hide when glancing at her larger cousins.

    When did I become so adept at noting these things? Schreiber shook his head, turning his gaze away from Scharnhorst. He, instead, looked past the imposing form of the battleship sisters, and towards a much smaller cruiser. A cruiser that was larger than most, as he saw a flash of pink, running down from her bridge and towards the stairs leading up from her side. Ah, Blücher, dear. You always are an eager one. I missed you too.

    With a world-weary smile on his lips, the old Admiral ascended those creaking metal stairs, as his launch pulled alongside the cruiser. If any of the crew were confused as to why he came here instead of his flag, Bismarck, they hid it well. Perhaps they just knew better, as he always did have a soft spot for this cruiser. Blücher might as well have been his home.

    "Admiral!" A home that was currently charging right at him, heedless of how her crew shivered at her passing, as she threw herself at the Admiral. He stumbled, slightly, as the pink-haired girl latched onto his side. "What took you so long? We've been waiting for you to get back for months! It's lonely here~!"

    Schreiber was familiar enough with the cruiser, his daughter in all but blood, to play off her antics. He waved off a concerned officer, who thought he had slipped on ice. He tuned out the sound of screaming at men to deice the ship better, something that all navies had. Instead, he just walked forward, with Blücher tucked safely against his side.

    "You need to be more careful, dear," Schreiber gave her a stern, but loving, glare. She just stared up at him with her bright blue eyes, completely uncaring of his reaction. It was enough to make him sigh. "One of these days, you will do something you regret. You are too eager."

    Blücher only giggled, reaching a free hand up to tug at her own scarf. The blood-red fabric tightened around her neck, not a single sign of any embellishments on it. "I'm plenty careful, Admiral. I'm just happy to see you back! Do you have any idea how hard it is to ignore those SS asses running around like they own me? Captain Lange has to keep telling me to leave them alone!"

    Her pout did nothing to stop a long-suffering sigh from the Admiral, as they moved inside her superstructure. "Blücher, dear, you must stop that. Now that the Italians have proven that your kind exist, the SS will only grow more suspicious if ships I am closely associated with, continue to have unexplainable 'accidents'." At the look she gave him, the old Admiral shook his head. "No matter how amusing that dunk in the Baltic was, we cannot afford to repeat it. Please. For all our sakes."

    Letting out a little grumble of annoyance, Blücher burrowed more into his side, as they walked through her halls. Schreiber sighed with a small smile crossing his lips. His mood wasn't even harmed as they walked by all the crew, none of whom could see the cruiser. He had no idea how it was for the Italians or anyone else, but Schreiber had been very careful to avoid anyone by Captain Lange being able to see the girls. Much as he hated what he had become, he knew it was a terrible idea to spread the knowledge around this Germany.

    Only Louis, of his counterparts ashore, even knew.

    "Welcome back, Admiral. I see that our cruiser found you." That was Captain Lange himself, standing outside the conference room. Blücher's flagship facilities did come in handy, at times like these. "I warned her against heading out until you had settled back in, but I'm afraid we both know how little she follows my commands." Giving a dry look at the cruiser sticking her tongue out at him, Lange rolled his eyes and sent a shrug his Admiral's way. A good-natured one, at least. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm a lowly rating when I speak with her. At least the crew listens to my orders."

    "I listen to your orders!" Blücher shot back, brushing her pink hair from her face as the Admiral detached himself from her to sit down. She allowed that, with nothing more than a pout. "It's not as if I ignore everything you say, Captain."

    Lange chuckled, at that, and gave a simple shrug with his hands thrown up. "You listen to my orders when the Admiral confirms it. Sometimes it feels like he's still the one you consider your 'Captain'."

    Schreiber, for his part, knew it was exactly that. Blücher would, now and forever, always consider him her Captain and father, rolled into one.

    He was also very well aware that they would launch into arguing again, if he let that continue. So he coughed and headed that off, "Blücher, I have important information to share. The time for jokes is later."

    Contrary to her usual personality, Blücher was still a warship. She could be serious if that became necessary. As she did now, rolling her eyes and squaring her shoulders, her golden skirt shifting beneath her. "Fiiiiine. What did you learn, Admiral? Anything to help us out?"

    "Not as such," Schreiber sighed deeply, sliding down into a chair as he looked at his oldest comrades in this world. "As you already knew, the Italians have somehow brought a destroyer forth. Turbine is...about as I expected. I did not expect her Engineer to be so willing to listen to what I had to say." At the looks he got, the old man laughed weakly, softly. "He served aboard her predecessor. He's not so far off from my age."

    "Ah. He remembers a time before the Fascists." Lange tapped the table, nodding along with Schreiber's words.

    "Indeed. Not only that, but he bears no love for the ones who nearly got him killed. Who destroyed his precious Turbine." Schreiber gave a small smile, though it was a dead thing. No happiness to be seen.

    Blücher winced and sat next to her Admiral, placing a hand on his arm and rubbing it softly. She could only imagine his reaction if someone had sunk her from beneath him. It wouldn't matter if she came back right away. It would still destroy her beloved Admiral as surely as watching his family die. It was why he hated having to take any of the ships into combat. Why he tried so hard to end this war behind the scenes.

    She just...never really thought about how much it hurt him. Not until she saw his face in that moment.

    "At any rate," Schreiber gave her a warmer smile, placing his hand on her own. "It is no secret, now, that ships have souls. I imagine it is only a matter of time before the Nazis attempt to summon their own. That madman, Himmler, especially. This is the kind of occult knowledge he dreams of."

    Lange hissed through his teeth, clenching a fist on the table. "You won't allow that, will you? The SS with ship spirits...it doesn't bear thinking of. I can only imagine the damage they could cause."

    "I do not need to imagine it," Schreiber shut his eyes. Images of the Abyssals, of burning cities and crippled young women- girls -flashing through his mind. No. He didn't need to imagine it. "For now, we are secure in the knowledge they have no idea how to summon the spirits. I doubt the Italians do, either. Nor the Japanese."

    "Even if they did summon one of us, would we even want to serve them? The Imperials certainly seemed like they hated the Nazis more than you do, sir." Blücher asked the obvious question.

    It was a question that Schreiber never wanted to see answered. He pushed aside the images in his head, focusing instead on the pensive expression from Lange and the anxious one on Blücher. That, more than anything, grounded him once more. I won't allow her to see what I have. So I swear.

    "All this means is that we must accelerate our plans," Schreiber looked away from Blücher, and tried to put the image of the worried face behind pink hair from his mind. "What of the British? Have we received any messages at all?"

    Lange, now the center of attention, shook his head. "Nothing. Not on the channels or from Gneisenau. It's as if they're ignoring the message entirely."

    "Or they don't see a reason to trust us. Just as I expected."

    Even for a man for whom history was a secondary interest, at best, Schreiber knew that much. The British had hung the German Resistance, disunified and dysfunctional as it may have been, out to dry. They had strung the leaders along with no intention of truly working with them. Given hope where there was none. Was he a fool to expect anything else of Churchill in this time, even with all he had done? Perhaps. It still stung.

    "Very well...we will try another approach. Have a message sent to Seydlitz. She will need to escort a transport of Jewish refugees to the United Kingdom." Schreiber saw the looks he got, and simply brought a hand down on the table. "If they won't listen to the message, we will show them proof. Proof of what inaction dooms so many lives to. Proof that we are acting in good faith. Proof...proof that we are doing everything we can to end this war!"

    "Ah...but what about our sorties? We're still doing that, aren't we?" Blücher spoke up, unusually hesitant in her words. She rolled a lock of pink hair between her fingers, her cherubic face and blue eyes downcast and sullen. "If we want to hurt the damn Reds don't we need to hurt the British too?"

    Once more, Schreiber winced internally at how much his own biases had shaped these impressionable souls. He pushed it down, ruthlessly, and shook his head. "We remain at war. To not act would be to allow Hitler to remove us. We must place ourselves in the greater German mindset. It is the only way to gain their support when the time comes."

    Tapping the table again, his eyes rolled up in thought, Lange sighed heavily. He used his free hand to gesture at a map of Norway, as if it explained everything. "Quite the difficult situation, Admiral. Continue to fight those we wish for aid from. Work against our own goals in the interests of serving them. I don't know how you do it."

    "I wonder myself. How I have yet to lose my mind from it all." Schreiber looked every inch his age, as she sighed and fell back in his chair. "For now, we do as we must. I will speak with Bismarck and plan our further actions. Can I trust you to keep Seydlitz in contact?"

    "Of course."

    Schreiber nodded, and turned to Blücher with a soft, fatherly, smile. "As for you, my dear, I can spend some time catching up. Shall we head to my quarters? You can tell me everything you have done while I was gone."

    In spite of the situation, Blücher grinned brightly as she hopped to her feet. She was lucky that the men in the room were either too old- and her father figure -or married, as her skirt bounced up a tad too far for modesty's sake. "Yes~! Let's spend some time together, Admiral! It's been a long time since we could cuddle on the bed and talk about things!"

    It was at times like this, that Schreiber could try and forget his burdens. Forget that Blücher was anything more than a teenage girl with strange hair. He could pretend, for just a moment, that he was a proud father dealing with a rowdy daughter that he loved with every inch of his being.

    For only a moment. For Schreiber could never, truly, forget that he was an Admiral. A traitor to his country, in his efforts to save it.


    There we go. Apologies on the much belated chapter. As established, last year was...a thing. And we spent this week basically just recovering from the move, so there was that too. Hopefully this is at least...somewhat worth the wait.

    It's a bookend, in a way, as we move back to the real war. Especially for Thompson in the Pacific. Shouldn't be long before this and the ABDA fun start mixing together properly. Hopefully. >.>
     
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    • I've been wanting to do this for a while now. I love the old girl so!

    Omake: On Willpower Alone

    DECEMBER 13, 1942

    "Ship on the bridge!" The new and somewhat amusing call warned Commodore Illingworth of his charge's arrival. The captain was in a corner of the bridge, looking at the charts.

    "All well?" He asked her as she sauntered up to him, unbothered by the harsh swell that had her hull living up to its moniker as it rolled side to side.

    "Our passengers are very well behaved for Americans." Queen Mary replied. "There's hardly any chewing gum on the bulkheads."

    They both grimaced at that. Disgusted by their Yankee cousin's habit of chewing the sweet and soft substance. Mary recalled her first troop transporting journey across the pond. It had taken her weeks to scrap all the gum off. Now, strategically placed covers and rigorously enforced bans had assisted in reducing the amount found throughout the ship but it was an ongoing problem. On voyages like this however, Mary was glad for her instability. The constant rolling motion kept most troops tied to their bunks or the head and left very little room for activities such as chewing gum.

    Mary leaned over Illingworth to look at the charts, taking note of her position. "I got word from the escorts. They're waiting for a hole in this weather. Soon as it clears they'll head out. Curacoa's leading them." Saying that name gave Mary pause. She owed Admiral Thompson that she still could say her favorite escort's name at all. In fact she owed him a lot more than that. She thought back to when she first met the enigma of a man.

    10 MONTHS EARLIER, FEBRUARY 1942

    Mary had just ended another round trip journey from Scotland. And as much as she enjoyed seeing her true homeland on a regular basis, something could be said for New York's charms as well. And that feeling never changed regardless of the garb she wore. A bit self consciously, she ran her hands down her sides, feeling the smoothness of her new skirt. The drab gray matched her hull. Her blouse a slightly lighter shade of gray and was the same style the GIs wore with their khaki uniforms, just stylized for her gender.

    HMS Hood was fresh out of the navy yard and the battlecruiser offered her former charge a friendly wave which Mary returned. She noticed with no small amount of relief that Lafayette was nearing completion. She had been afraid, no terrified, that she'd lose her best friend and rival in that fire but thankfully the stubborn French ship refused to give in. Now garbed in a lovely gray and blue dazzle scheme, horizontal if Mary remembered correctly, and with her red hair now back in a ponytail instead of a braid, Lafayette blew a kiss in her direction.

    "Welcome back, mon ami!" She called.

    Mary blushed. "Lafayette, you look lovely." She replied, hiding her red cheeks with a convenient push of her red locks into her eyes. "I'm glad to see you're alright."

    "It was a close thing." Lafayette replied. "Admiral Andrews was an absolute dick! Asshole totally ignored all the suggestions given to him, even those by Monsieur Yourkevitch. Imbecile..."

    "Lafayette..." Mary was shocked at her companion's language even though it was most certainly warranted. Even so, it was improper for such a fine ship to stoop so low as to speak in such tones.

    "Forgive me Mary." Lafayette did not sound apologetic. "But I had to express my frustration. Anyhow, an Admiral Thompson arrived on the scene and upon being briefed by Captain Coman, how do my new fleetmates put it. Ah yes, tore Admiral Andrews a new one?" She grinned. "I'd never seen a man so angry before. Nor ever heard half the words he used. I endeavor to remember them should the need arise."

    "Just don't let me hear them." Mary sighed, resigned to Lafayette's eccentricities by now. There was no stopping Lafayette from trying something out, even if it was a bad idea or a bad word. It was best to just roll with it.

    "No promises~" Lafayette's teasing hilt almost made Mary throw something at her, almost. But she was quickly distracted from her annoyance when her companion called out "There he is. The man who saved me, Admiral Thompson!"

    Mary turned to look. A man who appeared to be in his early 30s although looks were deceiving, was walking towards her. "You'll like him Mary, mon ami." Lafayette said, the teasing note back.

    Mary huffed. "What good that'll do me." She muttered. She was long since used to being ignored like she wasn't there. Walked through on occasion even but it was still a bitter pill to swallow sometimes. Still, she would be a poor host if she didn't greet all her guests as they came aboard. Even if they couldn't see her. So, offering a wave goodbye to Lafayette who simply blew another kiss at her, Mary sighed and closed her eyes concentrating. In an instant she was transported to her port side where the brows connected her hull to the dock.

    Her watchstander snapped to attention upon seeing the Admiral board and Mary was quick to join him. "Welcome aboard sir!"

    Her greeting matched his and Thompson's eyes traveled straight over her before resting on the watchstander. "Thank you young man. Is your captain here?" He asked.

    "He's on the bridge sir." The man replied. "Shall I send someone to escort you to him?"

    "There's no need. I know my way." Thompson replied, waving off the request. This surprised Mary. She knew the face of every passenger who had walked her decks and she was sure Thompson was not among them. How could the Admiral know. Unless he knew something she didn't. She decided to follow him. Both because she had nothing better to do and because she wanted to make sure Thompson wasn't up to something. Allies or not, she could never be too careful.

    The first class dining saloon was a shadow of its former self but despite the layers of carboard hastily laid down to cover some of the finer works that could not be removed some of the original wood still shone through nicely. With no troops aboard currently and the crew all busy preparing the cabins for the next division of GIs, the saloon was empty. Perfect for what Thompson had in mind. Turning around he smiled at her and said "It's been too long, Mary."

    Startled, it took Mary a full minute to realize he was talking to her. "You-you can see me, sir?" She asked. "And what do you mean by its been a while? I know every passenger that sailed on me and you sir are not one of them."

    "I've always been able to see you girls." Thompson replied. "And as for your second question, well you might find it ludicrous but I am from the year 2015. And where I come from, shipgirls like you, more commonly known as kanmusu, are well known."

    "But how, why...." Mary had so many questions she had no idea where to begin. She settled for the most obvious. "You must have seen me before I take it. So I am, afloat by your time?"

    "Yes. Despite the Abyssals constant attacks your hull is still very much intact in Long Beach. You become California's top tourist attraction." Thompson replied, holding up a hand to forestall her next round of questions. "I will explain everything later." He promised. "But if you don't mind, I really do need to speak with your captain."

    "Oh, of course sir." Mary fell back into her professional roll with ease and guided him through the maze of corridors up several decks to the bridge.

    "ADMIRAL ON DECK!" Her screech was joined by her navigation officer who was on watch and was heard only by Thompson who smiled and shook his head. "As you were." He commanded and turned to greet Mary's captain. "Commodore Bisset I presume?" He asked.

    "Yes sir." Bisset was a seasoned professional. "I was told you wanted to see me?"

    "Yes commodore. During our repairs of Hood we discovered something interesting that we believe may also be affecting your ship as well." Thompson replied.

    "Oh and pray tell what is that sir?" Bisset sounded equal parts concerned and curious. While on one hand he was worried over something that might negatively impact his beloved charge Thompson did not appear to be bothered by what he was about to tell him so perhaps it was more of a curiosity instead. Something that the American engineers did not understand. He was floored by what happened next.

    Thompson had a small pamphlet he pulled out from seemingly nowhere. Covered in American advertising, Bisset saw his command pictured on the front along with some kind of white dome. Confusing. Even more confusing was what Thompson did with it. He tossed it behind him without a care in the world but Mary had understood his plan as soon as he opened his mouth. Reflex took over and she picked the item out of the air, opening it to read.

    Bisset turned white as a sheet when he saw the pamphlet floating there. Mary giggled at his reaction. "My, he looks ready to faint." She said. "Are you sure this was the best way Admiral Thompson?" She asked.

    "There were certainly better ways to go about it, Mary but this is the quickest and most effective." He replied and she giggled again, resuming her reading.

    Bisset meanwhile, started at the mention of that name. "Admiral, if I may be so bold to assume. That standing behind you in a form corporeal only to you it would appear, is my ship?" He asked.

    "Would you like to meet her?" Thompson was grinning.

    Nodding once as he did not trust his voice, Bisset permitted Thompson to guide his hands towards the floating pamphlet. Just before he hit it his hand impacted something soft and warm. He blinked once, twice then before him a woman as tall as him was revealed. She had bushy red hair, green eyes and wore a standard drab gray uniform although the skirt was a bit short and the blouse, revealed more skin than he was comfortable with.

    Mary offered him a grin, folding the pamphlet away. "Greetings captain. It is finally nice to meet you." She said.

    Bisset gaped at what was just revealed to him. He had so many questions he was unsure of where to start. At last he said "just what the hell are you wearing young lady?"

    Thompson sighed and pressed a hand to his face as if he knew this would be the first thing the captain would ask. Mary for her part just blushed, glanced down at herself and replied shyly "um camouflage? Everyone's wearing it nowadays didn't you know?" Thompson lost all pretense and howled with laughter. Mary could hear Lafayette joining in and realized the two were somehow in league with each other. If she looked, Mary could see the former French liner using signal lamp. "K-I-S-S H-I-M!" She was saying. Mary vowed she would find a way to make them both pay. After she explained herself properly to her captain of course.

    OFF SCOTLAND, DECEMBER 13, 1942

    There were a lot of things Mary owed Thompson for, not least of which was keeping Bisset from shoving her in a proper dress. So what if her top was a little revealing? At least her captain hadn't seen Lafayette's outfit. Thompson had told her about how well that conversation had gone with Captain Coman and it had cracked her up rather nicely. She had lorded it over Lafayette for the rest of her stay in New York.

    Now Lafayette was committed to her own schedule of crossings. Mary had passed within 50 miles of her a few days ago as the American transport returned to New York. The two still had their rivalry but now it was about load rather than speed. So far, the numbers were going in Mary's favor. Illingworth had taken command a few months ago and that had been a rather interesting change of command. Illingworth took the shock of Mary's presence better than Bisset did and the two got along rather nicely.

    The British liner winced as another comer broke over her bow and she silently cursed the finicky North Atlantic weather. She was only a day out from Scotland so at least this foul sea wouldn't last too much longer.

    Then she saw something out of the corner of her eye and when she turned to look. She couldn't have swallowed back her fear even if she tried. "C-captain. Help me..."

    Illingworth immediately put his attentions to his charge at that request, something in her tone compelling him to respond and he saw what she saw. A massive, 90 foot rogue wave had reared up out of seemingly nowhere and it was coming straight for the liner. "HARD-TO-STARBOARD!!" He shouted and the helmsman fought to comply quickly, also stunned by this turn of events. Even at full speed it would take Mary's enormous rudders at least a minute to bring her around far enough to be mostly into the swell. "HOLD ON!!" Illingworth cried.

    Mary screamed when the wave impacted her starboard side. Its power had to be witnessed to be believed as it lifted the 81,000 ton liner up its face and rolled her on her side. Everyone on the bridge was sent against the far wall, tables, charts and cups of tea following them. Mary just managed to block a table leg before it impacted her captain's face.

    She did her best to stand but it was nearly impossible given the angle the floor was at now. Mary put it at at least 50 degrees. She knew her limitations better than her builders did and was certain this was the end. She looked for her captain, spotting him next to her. Her gaze met his and she could see that he knew. "Mary..."

    She shook her head and just as she was about to grab him and throw him out the window to give him a chance at survival, a thought came to her. Inspired by her desperate situation. Could she somehow stop the roll?

    "No one knows for sure how you survived that wave, Mary. Another 3 degrees and you would've capsized for sure and all lives aboard surely lost. Another mystery of the sea..." Thompson's words came back to her. Could she control it? She lost nothing by trying.

    With one hand on her captain, Mary managed to pull herself into a kneeling position. She closed her eyes and focused inwards, feeling the frantic thrum of her engines as they fought to control her motion. Instead they were only driving her deeper into the sea. She immediately redirected steam away from the turbines, diverting as much as she dared down the pipes that helped provide hot fresh water for passengers. The rest she risked opening her vents for, trusting the pressure of the steam would keep the seawater out. Her gamble paid off and with a loud weesh, her safety valves tripped. Steam billowed from all three funnels in a tremendous cloud before being pressed down close to the ship by the weight of the water above. At the same instant Mary forced her up until now, dormant rudders as far over as she could turn them. When the wave struck, her helsman was thrown off the wheel, causing the rudders to return to the amidships position. Mary wasn't about to let that stand. With the wave pushing her stern, her bow swung around into the main force of it and she braced herself as it broke over the top of her. Green water filled the view all around and Mary gritted her teeth, hoping and praying that her will to live was enough to win the day.

    The sea's power waned as the wave curled over into itself, its energy spent. The massive liner emerged on the backside of the massive swell, bobbing like a cork in the angry seas. Mary closed her vents and diverted the high pressure steam back into the engines where it belonged. The act she just performed elated but had exhausted her.

    "Captain!" came the shout from the Sovereign Realm of Engineering. "I can't explain it but the engines they shut down and then went back to full power again. Almost instantly."

    "Thank you chief, keep me posted." Illingworth replied instinctively. Looking around to observe the damage, his eyes fell on the woman beside him. "Mary, are you alright?" He asked.

    "Just- just peachy captain." She rasped, eyes dull and glazed. She would've fallen to the deck if he hadn't caught her.

    "Steady. Call for a doctor!" He shouted.

    "No need. I'm alright. I just, overtaxed myself is all." Mary replied, blinking up at him. "Didn't know I could do that."

    "You saved us..." Illingworth stared at her in awe.

    "Well I wasn't about to lose my newest captain now was I? And being the ship with the most loss of life ever recorded at sea is one crown I am happy to pass up on thank you." Mary grinned, despite her obvious exhaustion. As her legs gave out beneath her he scooped her up, surprised he could carry her in his arms. Her head resting on his shoulder, she looked up at him. "Permission to rest sir?" She asked.

    "You've more than earned it, Mary." He replied. "Permission to rest granted. We can man the watch from here."

    "Thank you sir..." Her voice faded away as she fell asleep.

    Effortlessly, Illingworth carried her into his cabin and set her down on his bed. After tucking her in he stood up and whispered "No, thank you Mary."
     
    Skywalker_T-65 said:
    "At any rate," Schreiber gave her a warmer smile, placing his hand on her own. "It is no secret, now, that ships have souls. I imagine it is only a matter of time before the Nazis attempt to summon their own. That madman, Himmler, especially. This is the kind of occult knowledge he dreams of."
    Click to expand...
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    So when does a certain hat wearing archeologist show up to stop the Nazis?

    on a separate note, part of me wonders if Thompson should brief Thatch with his future knowledge.
     
    I'm still wondering how things are going with Zuikaku. That avenue has been silent for quite a while.
     
    still_guns said:
    I'm still wondering how things are going with Zuikaku. That avenue has been silent for quite a while.
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    Ah yes, Zuikaku and the hapless chap that can see him. Hopefully Ozawa can't see her yet.

    But I am more curious about Seydlitz, seems that the Royal Navy is going to have a fucking panic attack when a goddamned Kaiserlich Marine Battlecruiser appears escorting an ocean liner. Hell, she might end up having a full on running gun battle with the Kreigsmarine.
     
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