have a snip!
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Richardson felt his eyebrow twitch as the Mental Model of the Wichita summarized her feelings on his predicament.
"You're an idiot!" she managed between her guffaws. "You're a complete moron!" a few nearby gulls that had perched on the ships superstructure took wing as her latest bout of laughter rang through the air.
"Thank you for sympathy, Wichita..." Richardson sighed. Part of him realized that this was all very strange, given that he was having a conversation with his second Mental Model of the day. For supposed enemies of mankind, they had been quite friendly so far. He hadn't been locked up, threatened, or summarily executed - or even interrogated, really. His mind drifted back to the conversation he had with Augusta. None of that had counted as treason, had it?
With nowhere and no way to run, all he could really do was try and learn as much as he could. He'd only met two so far, but neither Augusta or Wichita had been as genocidal as one would expect from a race that had been waging unrestricted naval warfare against human beings for decades. Two subjects wasn't much of a sample pool though. "So, now what?"
After a moment, Wichita managed to recover from her laughing fit. "Now? Now we rendezvous with the rest of the Task Force and get Augusta patched up." Wichita glanced back toward the hatch they had taken the other Mental Model through, worry evident on her face.
"She'll be fine, alright?" Richardson asked. "I mean, she didn't take any direct damage, did she?"
Wichita simply shook her head. "Her Mental Model didn't take any damage, but she did - the ship is her. Its not like she just remotely controls the hull. Its not even an extension of her self. It IS her self."
"The damage can be fixed, right?" He was sure it could be - Augusta hadn't seemed worried about it when she was in the middle of the fight. Then again, she was in the middle of a fight and likely more worried about just living.
"The physical damage?" Wichita turned to look at Richardson, her expression suddenly somber. "But the mental effects? who knows. Getting chunks torn out of you like that is never fun, no matter how many times it happens..."
"PTSD?" Richardson suddenly thought out loud. Wichita gave him a quizzical look, so he elaborated. "Post Traumatic Stress disorder. Humans get it after, well, traumatic experiences. Its...complicated." And not something he was remotely qualified to talk about. "But, its basically what you said - mental effects from trauma." Nothing in the research before this had indicated that such a thing was possible - at most, the common theory suggested they were just emulating human behavior without actually understanding it. Richardson's problem with that theory was that it ignored why they would bother.
"Well," Wichita stood and stretched, looking over at her own ship as it cruised along side the Augusta before turning back to Richardson. "As fascinating as that sounds, it looks like it will have to wait."
Richardson blinked. "Why?"
"Because we're here." he pointed ahead of them, where the form of a smaller vessel could be seen approaching. Wichita grinned as she greeted the new arrival. "Hey, Porter - Dakota got you on sentry duty again? You didn't break anything agaiin, did you?"
"I didn't!" The two ships had closed with the usual surprising speed of the fog fleet, giving Richardson a clear view of the vessel. It was a Flecher Class - at least, it looked like one - but the most unusual thing was the young girl standing on its prow. "It has a Mental Model? How'd a destroyer get one?"
"Not sure." Wichita replied with a shrug. "We figure its mostly just a fluke. Considering her luck though, its not surprising."
"Her..." Richardson suddenly realized which Flecher class it was. "You gotta be kidding me - that's the William D. Porter?"
"Yeah, why?" Wichita asked. "Heard of her?"
"In her past life," Richardson replied before turning to study the small Mental Model. She looked like a young girl, not unlike the Model's they had observed on larger submarines. She fidgeted with a brown pigtail under his stare, obviously uncomfortable with such scrutiny. Richardson grinned. "Don't shoot!" He shouted. "I'm a Republican!"
Porter, for her part, stared at him in surprise for only a moment before launching into an ineffective, if amusing, tirade. "Waah! Stop teasing me! That's not funny! Why do-" She was cut off as she managed to trip mid-sentence, landing flat on her face. "...ow." She pulled her self up, drawing her legs under herself as one hand rubbed at her nose, as she looked up at the larger vessel. "Who are you?"
"Intelligence Specialist Third Class James Richardson, United States Navy." Richardson provided with a bow. "Human."
"...Waah!" Porter suddenly turned tail, scrambling across the deck before ducking into the nearest open hatch.
Richardson blinked. "What just happened?"
"Porter's a little shy." Wichita provided in lieu of an actual explanation. "She'll lead us to the meet-up point." Sure enough, The Destroyer was beginning to turn around, and soon the three ships were on their way. "The rest of the gang should be a little more chatty." Wichita paused. "Maybe."
They didn't meet another ship until they finally came to a stop, they were in what looked like an otherwise unremarkable stretch of ocean, save for a hint of green on the horizon to the North. Richardson squinted as he studied the distant landmass. "What island is that?"
"Bermuda." Richardson spun around, facing towards the Cruiser that had been waiting for them. A pair of slender legs made their way down a ladder well, Clad along with their owner in a dark skirt suit. Dark Blue eyes looked him over from behind half-moon spectacles. Black hair done up in a severe bun completed the image of the stern school teacher. "One of the last human colonies in the Atlantic to be successfully evacuated." She gave a small grin as she reached the deck. "You left it nicely deserted."
"You made supplying it a bit problematic."
Her grin grew wider. "That we did."
"How's it going Quincy?" Wichita greeted the fellow cruiser. "Enjoy your little trip south?"
Quincy sighed. "Hardly," She glanced toward Wichita. "Might I ask who our guest is?"
"Some human Augusta found in a rowboat." Quincy's eyebrow arched at that. "Guess she wanted a souvenir."
Quincy studied Richardson for a moment before giving a small huff. "A Petty Officer - Augusta couldn't even kidnap a real officer?"
"Real officers don't row out in dingies!" Wichita exclaimed, thumping Richardson on the back. "This guy is either really brave, or really, really stupid."
"Or both." Quincy mused as she turned and started across her ship. "You're in luck - Dakota hasn't shown up yet."
"Fashionably late, as usual." Wichita said with a sigh. "Why does she always..." She was cut off as a massive hull breached the surface, its hull towering over them before crashing back down, sending waves crashing over the hulls of the waiting vessels. Three massive guns sat in their turret as they seemed to point straight at Richardson. For a brief moment, everything went silent, save for the slow drip of water of the hull of the Battleship that had appeared before them.
A soft clank, the sound of a shoe on deck-plating, echoed as a lone figure made her way across the deck. Silver hair spilled down to her shoulders, Grey eyes sweeping over those gathered before her. The long black dress she wore only accentuated her form, even under the cover of her fur-lined coat. Her entire demeanor was poised and grateful, like an aristocrat - or a predator.
"So," her voice rang, "We have a human in our midst. Why is he still breathing?"