Kant-O-Celle Quest [a Kantai Collection game, transcribed from 4chan]

[Trace Coburn]

KANT-O-CELLE QUEST - KICKING THE HORNETS NEST (HURR HURR GEDDIT)​

>Answer honestly

"In a golf cart with Harder and some corgis. Why?"

"What the fuck are you doing out there during a fucking air attack?"

You think about that for exactly two long moments before you give up trying to summarize the recent sequence of fatbuck-insane events.

"Because that's just how I roll, motherfucker," you reply primly, and hang up. "Hang on, Harder – we're going to the field."

He nods and braces his foot against the glovebox for stability as you floor the little cart once more. You have to swerve around a huge bomb crater near the base's housing units, but you reach the football field without further ado. Arizona is standing in the center of the field, looking calm as she coordinates the fire of the cruisers and destroyers; some of which have taken to the water and are sailing tight evasive circles as their AA guns fill the sky with tracers. Arizona herself is barely firing at all – her early-war 5-inchers can't elevate high enough for AA work. A quick scan of the sky reveals no more hostiles in sight; the girls are either putting up barrier barrages or firing at distant targets not readily visible with the naked eye. It's all heavy guns now; the light low-altitude AA has ceased its chatter. A few more SM-2s scream into the air from the south-west, near the Reagan's dock, but things are generally quieting down.

"Arizona!" you call out when you reach her. "Any casualties?"

She shakes her head.

"The flyboys?"

She gives you a solemn thumbs-up, and you sigh in relief. Your phone buzzes in your hand, and you move to cancel it when you see it's Hornet.


"Hey."

"The human pilots are telling me they're bugging out," she replies. "We spotted a wave of strike craft but they turned and ran when they saw our fighters."

"Good," you tell her. "Recover your planes, but keep a CAP airborne."

"Copy," she says crisply before hanging up.

You limp back to your damn golf-cart and slump in the seat, your headache and pained leg seeming to push through your thoughts once more. You cradle your forehead in your hands.

It's over.

Twenty minutes later, you're standing in Yokosuka's armored underground CIC, not far from the room where you commanded the first naval battle with American shipgirls. In your hands is a scanned copy of the base commander's handwritten list of damage.

"Doesn't look too bad, does it?" you comment.

"We got lucky," someone says from behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you see Goto entering. You make to rise, but he gestures for you to stay seated. He's carrying the long white box with that damned cane; you vaguely recall dropping it when you plucked Naka out of her wheelchair. "Where'd you find this?"

"One of the girls picked it up, gave it to me for delivery," he says. "Kaga told me what you were up to. The hell were you doing running around when bombs were falling?" He looks honestly curious.

>You had 7th fleet's Admiral in here already – how many Americans do you need underfoot, anyway?
>Those girls were going to be shooting at SOMETHING, orders or no – wanted to make sure that they didn't get out of hand.
>I was outside when it started – didn't really have a choice, did I?


>I was outside when it started – didn't really have a choice, did I?

You swivel your chair around to face him, and shrug. "I was outside with Naka when it happened – didn't have much of a choice. I knew you and Admiral Thomas would beat me here, so there wasn't much point in stumbling in late, was there?"

Goto looks thoughtful. "I suppose that's true." He snags a roller chair from a nearby desk and plops down next to you, reclining it as far as possible to stare at the ceiling. "Christ, it's been a long day already and it isn't even four o'clock."

"Tell me about it."

"No, you," he rejoins. "Did they find the attacker?"

"No such luck," you gripe. "The survivors just vanished a few hundred nautical miles out, and we have no idea where their carrier might be in the rather large potential range. You point at the computerized map that takes up most of the rear wall of the CIC, where the depressingly large search range is boxed out in red.

Goto grunts. "It's never that easy, is it?"

"No," you reply. "No, it's not. I was just on the phone with the air wing commander from Yokota."

"USAF or JSDF?"

"Both. They reported a sixty percent hit rate for air-to-air missiles and about fifty for the SAMs, long and short range. The Type 91 missiles did a bit better."

Goto raises his eyebrows. "Really?"


"Because of that visible-light feature," you explain. "Something about recording the target's silhouette at time of launch, and comparing it with the thermal track so flares can't fool them. Abyssals radar outline is...." you waggle your hand in air uncertainly and Goto nods, clearly familiar - "-and the infa-red is marginally better, but usually what you see is what you get."

"Until they do that..."

"... transforming thing," you finish, the mental image of a radial engine spinning torque-wise as the chitinous body of the abyssal explodes behind it fresh in your mind.

"Fifty, sixty percent," Goto muses quietly. "I was hoping for better."

"Me too," you admit.

"Did the SM-2s do any better?"

"You'd have to ask Thomas, but I imagine he's got his hands full right now."

Goto grunts, conceding the point. He leans over, invading your space without a care as he tries to read the paper in your hand. "So how bad is it?"

"Mostly superficial," you reply. "The level bombers got clobbered pretty hard by the Patriots – and the batteries engaged some of their bombs in mid-air, apparently. A few buildings got flattened, but nothing terribly important."

Goto's eyebrows shoot up. "The McDonalds got nailed?"


"Yeah," you confirm. "Abyssal fighter crashed right into it. Through the drive-thru window, no less. Probably the one Harder shot down."

"He what!?"

"Yeah. Firing his twin-twenty-mike-mike like a goddamn rifle. Nailed it in front of the NEX, and it went down due south, so..."

"Ha!" Goto snorts. "I like him already." He reclines in his chair again, rubbing his eyes wearily. "Well, we're alive. I guess we should've expected it."

"We didn't?" you ask. "We've got more missile launchers around this damn place than a Chinese parade."

"Sure, but-" he sighs. "It's fucking Yokosuka. They must be pissed off something fierce if they're gunning for the best defended port in Asia. I never thought they'd actually do it."

"A surprise attack on the main Japanese anchorage!?" you gasp. Goto takes his hat off and halfheartedly boffs you in the face with it. "Seriously, though. Sixteen months of constant operations, usually in home waters or the Sea of Japan and they've never had the balls to attack our shore installations – anyone's, much less Yokosuka.

"There was LA," you remind him.

"An undefended target – or so they thought." He shrugs. "But now we know there's a carrier in the area that's hot to trot."

"And she won't be without friends," you observe. He nods. "Lets put together a task force, then."

>Get down to the nitty-gritty. It's already four o'clock, and this could take a while...
>Ask Goto about that secretary business, first – it might not take long enough.
>Insist on sending some destroyers on a scouting expedition first - no point in an attack force without something to attack, after all.
>Other?

40024794 (Cpl. Hate) -
>Goto's eyebrows shoot up. "The McDonalds got nailed?"
FUCK ALL THAT IS FUCK. WHERE THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO EAT NOW? THE FUCKING CHOW HALL? IN FUCKING TOWN?
All is lost.

40024842 (Adm. Settle) -
>>40024794
THERE'S LIKE TWENTY PLACES TO EAT NOT A HUNDRED FUCKING YARDS FROM THE MICKY DEES BUT YOU'RE TOO FUCKING LAZY TO WALK

40024649 -
>>40024615
>People defending McDonalds
It's not about what it is, it's about what it represents.
The stars and stripes are an ugly flag, but it stands for America none the less.
McDonalds is a shitty place to eat, but it stands for America none the less.

Click to shrink...

>Insist on sending some destroyers on a scouting expedition first - no point in an attack force without something to attack, after all.

"Not much point in putting together a task force before we know where we're sending them," you point out. "We need to scout around, first?"

"How, though?" he grumps in frustration. "They only show up on satellite recon when they feel like it and planes rarely spot them. It seems that the bastards just sink under the waves until they feel like striking."

"We don't actually *know* how they work," you point out. "If they really do vanish underwater, how long before an attack they tend to surface, if that dark cloud thing that seems to accompany them shows up only when we do or only when they manifest – we just don't know." You jerk your thumb at the mapscreen behind you. "I did read the briefings. You've basically been reacting to their moves for sixteen months – that's all you could do," you say hastily as Goto moves to object. "We both know that's no way to do things, but now I think we've finally got the numbers to make a difference."

"How so?"

"Try to be on top of them as they manifest," you reply. "Let's try to nail the bastards before they kill any civilians, this time."

Goto's brow furrows as he thinks – and then he nods. "It's worth a shot," he agrees. "And even if it doesn't pay off, it won't cost us, either. Who were you thinking of?"

>Send Jintsuu, Sendai and one of their associated destroyer division(s) out searching.
>Send Tatsuta and Tenryuu with one of their associated destroyer divisions.
>On second thought, send those heavy "aviation" cruisers, Tone and Chikuma – they can search with aircraft, and are better able to take care of themselves if they're attacked. Unless they're attacked by air. RIP
>On second thought – (Write-in suggestion.)

40025419 -
>On second thought – (Write-in suggestion.)
Tone and Chikuma with a destroyer division escort for AA.

Click to shrink...

>On second thought, send those heavy "aviation" cruisers, Tone and Chikuma – they can search with aircraft, and are better able to take care of themselves if they're attacked. Unless they're attacked by air. RIP

"I was thinking of Tone and Chikuma," you reply. "Abyssals can't hide from their planes with whatever trick they use against ours-"

"-if they're even around to be seen," Goto points out.

You shrug. "That's one of the things we need to learn, after all. And this is the job those ships were built for."

Goto nods. "Good point. But lets send some destroyers with them for extra AA protection – if I try to send two heavy cruisers out looking for carriers alone, Mikuma and Mogami will literally smother me in my bed."

You snort and nod. "Good point. Will destroyers be enough, though?"

"Sure," Goto says, pointing at the map. "Human aircraft can't FIND abyssals, but they work just fine against them when they DO show up, and most of that area is within range of Super Hornets."

You stand up. "Sure. But if they do pop up, we might not reach them in time." you sigh. "And I doubt 7th fleet will be keen on keeping planes on station along with tankers for them for a week or two."

"How about an escort carrier?" Goto suggests.

"If we're sending carriers, then why bother with aviation cruisers at all?" you point out. "And nothing short of a carrier task force can put up enough aircraft to defend against a carrier task force." You sigh. "To say nothing of being a more attractive target. "God, I wish we had the Atlanta to send... or just more American DDs."

"Wish granted," a voice says from behind you. You swivel too look – and immediately pop out of your chair and salute.

​

Admiral Settle's immediate boss: VADM. R. L. Thomas, 7th Fleet​

Vice Admiral Robert L. Thomas, commander of the US 7th forward deployed fleet, salutes in return – and gets right down to business. "You need a lot of anti-aircraft in a compact package, correct?"

"Yes sir."

"What does that sound like to you, Admiral Settle?"

"..."

"You should be able to solve this," he says with a small smile.

"An Arleigh-Burke, sir," you reply hesitantly.

"Exactly. Fitzgerald and Mustin are in good shape for deployment – I'll attach one to each of your... cruisers." His mouth quirks as he visibly wrestles with the idea of them being... girls... but vanishes just as quickly. "That'll take care of your air defenses, right?"

You nod. As devilish as tracking abyssals with electronic sensors can be, the 5-inch guns on the Burke's alone are hideously effective at AA against their slow-moving aircraft, even with simple contact or estimated-range fuzing. Modern computational power is incredibly effective.

"Sorry I haven't introduced myself before," Vice-Admiral Thomas says. "I only just got back to base, and things have been.. hectic."

"Same here, sir. I understand."

He nods. "I'll make the calls to the skippers now, and get everything else in order." He steps past you, making for the bank of Important Color-Coded Phones set against one wall.

You sigh, slumping a little – you're sure you look like shit. Vice-Admirals have a way of doing that to people two stars below them.

"I'll attach two of our girls to each cruiser," Goto adds sotto-voice. "Just in case they get engaged in a surface action."

You nod agreement. "Uh, Goto, one more thing."

"Eh?"

"The CNO called me right before all this shit went down."

He gives you a lopsided grin. "And what did he say?"

>Told me to ask you about secretary ships.
>...It sounds a lot like you lied your ass off to cover me, Goto.
(PICK ONLY ONE)

40026284 -
>>40026188
AWW SHIT. MOTHERFUCKING FITZGERALD IS IN THE HOUSE.
She won the Spokane Trophy for most combat effective ship in the Pacific Fleet so many times in a row they had to remove her from the running for a few years so the other ships in her DESRON wouldn't look bad. She's a badass Burke.

Click to shrink...

>Told me to ask you about secretary ships.

"He told me to ask you about a secretary, or something?" you reply. "I already have an assigned staff, though, so..." you shrug. "I should probably introduce myself at some point," you say, feeling abashed. So far the most contact you have with them is the scheduling app on your smartphone, which is updated automatically, and the occasional e-mail. Admirals are supposed to have a staff, for sure, but... it's still weird.

You really, really never expected to reach flag rank.

Goto blinks. "Oh. Oh! No, he's talking about one of the -" he drops his voice and cuts his eyes at Admiral Thomas at the other side of the CIC - "shipgirls."

Now you blink at him. "What."

"He's talking about picking a shipgirl as a secretary."

You contemplate the idea of using a shipgirl – the returned supernatural terrifyingly-powerful eldrictch essence of a goddamned sunken warship – as a typewriter monkey, and your brain locks up for a second.

"For what purpose?" you inquire.


"Not as a paper-pusher – for the most part," he clarifies. "The shipgirls are a real problem to service, in all senses of the not finishing that sentence you know damn well what I mean, because we can't find personnel with the security clearances AND the psychological profiles to interact with them safely."

"Security clearances?"

"Yeah. We need to be sure they won't have a sudden attack of religion or dumbfuck fear and try to poison them. Why do you think they eat at the officer's mess?"

You frown as you think about it. "So it's even hard to find cooks?"

"Very. And for handling more personal or delicate issues, it tends to come a lot better coming from another shipgirl." He leans back in his chair, idly tapping the armrest. "Of course, that's not all there is to it."

You squint at him suspiciously. "... really."

"Nope."

A strange feeling of apprehension crawls up your spine. "Don't tell me... don't tell me that they're..."

Goto smirks, making a little circular motion in air with his finger, egging you on.

"... commanders?" you evade.

He snorts. "Nah, they don't give orders. Can you imagine the shitstorm that would cause in the media? Their other role... to be frank, it's as a bodyguard."

>... are you saying I need one?
>... so who's your secretary ship, Goto?
>Does it have to be one of "my" ships, or are they all fair game? Do you know which ones would even have me?


>Does it have to be one of "my" ships, or are they all fair game? Do you know which ones would even have me?

"... huh." You rub your head. "Well... I guess it's not the first time I've hand-picked a subordinate."

Goto grins. "Like that Lance Corporal that bugs you all the time?"

"Not quite. I think he adopted me. Like a cat." You rub your chin thoughtfully. "Does it have to be one of my girls, because-"

"Between silent-as-the-literal-grave," Goto says without a trace of humor, "and the likes of Willie or Sammy... yeah, no. It'd be great for relations if you picked a Japanese ship, and the media would love it."

"Just what I need," you mutter. "I don't even know how many of them would have me, thought. Somehow I think there's not many who are eager to push paper for a yank."

"I can make you a short list of volunteers," Goto promises.

You think silently, studying Goto's face. "... so who's your secretary ship, anyway?"

Goto gives you a slow, lazy smile, leans back in his chair, and makes a grand show of checking his watch. "Well that's a neat story, but I don't think we've got time for it now. It's almost five."

"So?"

"So? We usually eat dinner at six."

"So?"

"So," Goto says, "I believe you have a dinner date to get cleaned up for."


You stare at him for a long, antagonistic moment, but his shit-eating grin doesn't subside one tiny bit. "You know, Settle, it'd be absolutely terrible for international relations if you stood up one of our lovely ship-girls."

"H-how-"

"I have ears eeeeverywhere~" he says, waggling his fingers. "Primarily in the form of really chatty cute little destroyers. Besides, Shoukaku seems to have taken a shine to you. You don't want to disappoint her, do you?"

"B-but," you sputter, "the base was literally just attacked. The seat of all US Naval Operations in the western Pacific has just been attacked, we haven't even put out the goddamn fires yet-"

"-and I will happily take care of everything," Goto says smugly. "Besides, most of that's the base commandant's job, or 7th fleet."

You scowl at him – he's right. Your authority is almost entirely limited to your few shipgirls and theoretically the numerous fuzzy PT boats. "You- you-"

"Dirty backstabbing jap!?" Goto says with feigned horror. "My my, what if someone heard you, Admiral Settle? Better hurry up, time waits for no man!"

"You're not concerned about this!?" you say, aghast. "I have a job to do, dammit, I'm sure she'll-"

"Oh, no," Goto sniggers, glaring at you from beneath his brows. "Oooh, no. If I had to deal with that shit, so do you. No skating on this one. Have fun~"

You stand up with half a mind to visit mayhem on him, but he just scuttles away across the CIC in his rolly chair, snickering.

Fuck, you think.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

WAH HA HA

THREAD OVER FOR TONIGHT, IN APPRECIATION OF ALL THE GODDAMNED PEOPLE WHO HAVE WORK AND SHIT MONDAY MORNING! Sheepsloots will resume SOONISH; I'm aiming for at least two threads a week (today counts as last week, not the coming week.)

Click to shrink...

 

[Trace Coburn]

KANT-O-CELLE QUEST - A DATE THAT WILL LIVE IN INFAMY​

TWITTER: twitter.com/planefriend
ARCHIVE: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive.html?tags=Kant-O-Celle Quest

For the first time in your life, you're not sure what to wear.

Life in the military is ideal for someone who doesn't like making decisions – there's always someone happy to tell you what you should be doing, and to yell at you for not doing it before they told you to. And for those in positions of authority, there is always Doctrine, the best practices learned through blood and toil by others so you don't have to. And when it comes to uniforms, there's no shortage of variations. The higher your rank, the more you have, with carefully determined differences for every conceivable occasion. There's even a booklet that tells you what goes where, complete with handy-dandy mail order numbers and a list of base PX phone numbers.

The problem is figuring out what kind of event this is.

You're still not sure it's a date – Shoukaku didn't really phrase it that way; she sounded sincere about wanting to welcome you to the team, so to speak, and her warmth was probably an effort to overcome the series of 'wrong footed starts' that have plagued you ever since your C-5 went wheels-down on this island. Worse, you don't even know where you're going – a fancy restaurant? A goddamned burger joint? One might say you have zero actionable intelligence. Considering how deep in the kimchee you've managed to dig after only a few days here, you have to agree.

You've showered, scraped off your five-o'clock shadow and now you're standing in front of your closet, fuming anew at Goto's bullshit. You don't even have Shoukaku's number to call her and ask what she had planned – but thanks to Goto, you've no doubt she's got yours.

What will you wear?

>Super casual. Nice zippered hoodie with "GO NAVY" on the front, polo shirt underneath, brand new dark jeans.
>Dress up a bit. Black dress shirt, slacks, maybe a red tie if we're feeling lucky.
>Service dress whites, (since it's summer.) Not suitable for formal dinners or state events, but certainly the go-to for formal duties during travel, first reporting to a new command and the like. You've been wearing yours around base since you got here, but you've got a crisp, spare set ready to go. It won't surprise Shoukaku much, at any rate.
>Dinner is dinner. Full Dinner Dress uniform – similar to full dress whites, but with miniaturized medals and insignia for tastefulness. Suitable for official functions.
>Dinner Dress jacket uniform – the dress-whites version of a tuxedo, or close to it. Like dinner dress, but the marked contrast with the usual dress/service whites leave no mistake that you consider the dinner an Occasion.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mess_dress (scroll to bottom for pictures of the US Navy dinner dress/dinner dress jacket uniforms.)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uniforms_of_the_United_States_Navy#Dress_uniforms (Service dress blues/whites.)


>Dress up a bit. Black dress shirt, slacks, maybe a red tie if we're feeling lucky.

You reach out – and close the closet door. Limping over to your suitcase, you crack it open and whip out a simple black dress shirt, (oxford-style, nothing shiny or smooth,) some matching slacks and a tasteful red tie. You know it's not a date – it couldn't possibly be a date, nobody even knows if ships *think* like that – but the chance to get out of the goddamned uniform for an evening is too much to pass up. By a combination of the CNO's prescient pessimism and Goto's lying his ass off for you (something you don't feel like pressing him on till you've slept on the matter a bit) you've dodged the consequences of a major fuckup, and nobody got hurt because you slipped up (aside from yourself – your chest still aches a bit.) Part of you is really looking forward to simple dinner and conversation, even with an almost-complete stranger. No Duty, no Work and definitely no Navy.

You check yourself over in the mirror after dressing, making sure every strand of dark hair is in place – casual night or no, Annapolis reprogrammed you pretty well – and smile, satisfied with the effect. Now... for the accessory.


You remove Hate's thrice-damned gift from the now-considerably battered white cardboard box it's housed in. The living dogfish in the tacky globe topping the pimp-cane is swimming in the tight little circle it's meager confines allow, almost spinning in place. It's remarkable it survived the handling it already received. You scowl at the glitter and sequin bedecked length of it – desdiv 6 certainly didn't hold back with the talent on this one – and carry the thing into the kitchen, where you retrieve a big metal bowl and fill it with a gallon of distilled water you find in the refrigerator (why that was stocked, you haven't a clue.) You find the cap comes off the tiny fish-bowl, allowing you to deposit the little beggar within. He swims to the top to gobble up the little crumbs of rolled-up bread you drop in for him – he should be okay till you can get one of those bubble-maker thangmojiggers to oxygenate the water for him. Base PX probably has one. They seem to have one of everything, but never exactly what you want; just something very similar.

As you're screwing the lid back on the now-empty fishbowl, you're startled when it comes off in your hand. Further inspection reveals the thing was merely taped on – the actual grip of the cane is a simple shaft wrapped tightly with criss-crossed leather thongs, almost like the top of a hiking stick. In fact, if you squint, you can see the wood is a handsome, shiny ebony – somewhere underneath the Elmer's glue and sequins.

>Clean it off, take it with us – won't do to go limping around.
>You're slow, not a fucking cripple. Leave the damn thing behind – makes you look like an old man, and you don't want people giving Shoukaku funny looks on that account.


>Clean it off, take it with us – won't do to go limping around.

Your frustration is tromped down by your curiosity – just what the hell did Hate get you? Pulling some paper towel from beneath the sink, you wet it under the faucet and start slowly removing the decorative additions, careful not to scratch the wood underneath. It takes you the better part of an hour, but at last you've uncovered a tremendously handsome looking ebony-wood cane; the freshly-polished surface shining with a deep luster even under the fluorescent lights of your kitchenette. You grin to yourself – you know these' aren't cheap; at least two hundred bucks. You'd been looking at one yourself... kind of. You make a mental note to get Hate something Nice in the future. You add a postscript specifying something *really* nice to account for the fucking decorations he so thoughtfully added.

As you're throwing out the used paper towels, someone knocks on your door.

"Admiral?" comes Shoukaku's muted voice through the wood. "Are you ready?"

"Coming!" you reply, strolling across the little living room and opening the door to -

- see Shoukaku.

She's dressed similarly to you, nothing too fancy - short-sleeved v-neck, a t-shirt underneath; pleated skirt and leggings.

"Nothing too fancy" looks a hell of a lot better on her, you think.

".... Admiral?"

>your face when
>literally. Post your face – that is your vote for this one


"... Admiral?"

You blink, then jerk back to your senses.

You were not staring.

Shoukaku is blushing slightly.

This means you were staring and she fucking knows it.

"Sorry," she says meekly, smoothing out her skirt. "Admiral Goto did a double-take the first time he saw me out of uniform, too. Most of the others are still in the forties, but I kind of enjoy the new fashions. So many options!" She smiles at you so brightly you're worried you might tan. "You look nice."

You chuff with amusement. "From the seabag to your eyes, miss. I tend to pack light, sorry."

She waves away the apology. "I mean it! You look so much more relaxed."

And you feel it, too – that eagerness to just get out of the base and stretch your legs is still there, giddy and bouncing. "Thanks. Where did you want to go?"

She tilts her head slightly, strands of her long hair drifting across her chest in a fashion that begs attention you refuse to give. "Have you ever been to Tokyo, Admiral?"

"Can't say I have."

She smiles again. "It's such an amazing city. It's so much more... more everything than I remember. Let's just walk around till we see a place we like!" Shoukaku's eyes are glittering with honest-to-god excitement.

>Sure, sounds good. They've got all sorts of places there.
>I wouldn't want to feed you anything not up to par. Want to ask Goto for suggestions?
>Other?


>Sure, sounds good. They've got all sorts of places there.

You shrug. "Sounds good to me – I haven't had a chance to go sightseeing or anything since I got here."

"That settles it th- sorry," she giggles. "I bet people make jokes like that all the time."

"My family did," you reply. "It's why I set my sights on a commission, so nobody else could."

You and Shoukaku walk to the road in companionable silence, where you're not surprised to find a black government-issue sedan idling with quiet malice as it lies in wait for you. Goto has indeed arranged the trap neatly – one reason you don't want to compound your error by offering him another chance to lead you astray. He'd probably give you the address of some restaurant with spinning beds in the back or something strange like that, giggling like a loon the whole time. Fucker. All sorts of strange shit in Japan; it does not make sense to give a native an opening to exploit his home-team advantage.

The sedan's window rolls down, and from within a gruff, irritated voice greets you.

"Get in, Skipper."


"... Hate?" you blink. "This really isn't the time-"

"Mr. Hate is our driver today," Shoukaku cuts in smoothly. "Usually we'd need a small army of security to leave the base, but Admiral Goto said Mr. Hate is 'uniquely qualified'."

"Uniquely qualified?"

"Very discreet," she clarifies.

You look at Hate's low-lidded expression and then back to Shoukaku, who's all-smiles. "A Marine. In Tokyo. Discreet. Did you take the bottle away from him after he said that?"

"Admiral Goto was serious!"

"Did you make sure it didn't say 'rubbing' anywhere in front of 'alcohol' on the label?"

"It's the dogs," Hate growls, and on-cue a flurry of yapping erupts from within the cab. "Four Ma Deuces, a Bofors, a thirty-seven mikemike, and anything else they could strap to them. In a package yay big." The corgi's small, fluffy head pops out of the driver-side window, pauses for a second as it cocks its head to study you both, then barks a greeting, Hate snarling as its tail whaps against his Oakleys.

"Aren't the windows in that thing tinted?" you point out.

"JC a bomb," he replies.

"Close, but no cigar."


"That's what she s-"

"HATE!"

"What?"

"There is a lady present," you point out.

"A lady, you say," Hate says, turning his blank sunglass-bedecked gaze upon Shoukaku – you know he's giving her a good thrice-over, but she doesn't. "Miss Shoukaku, what was your crew compliment again?"

"... One-thousand, six hundred sixty, on paper," she replies. "Usually had some stowaways on board, depending on the situation. Why?"

You widen your eyes and unleash the full power of the Skipper Stare, pouring every ounce of authority and wrath into it that you can muster. You see Hate bend under the onslaught – he knows you'll be pissed off enough to build a miniature drill camp and assign yourself his personal re-Basic instructor, even if you've got to nail it together with your own goddamned hands.

But the chance to see an ages-old joke take full effect on unexposed 1940s era innocence is too much. "She used to be long, hard and full of seamen and you're worried about her innocence?" he snorts. "I think she can handle a little language."

Shoukaku cocks her head almost exactly like the Corgi did. "Hate, Marines are naval landing forces, right?"

"Yuh?"

"If ships are penises, would that make you the ejaculate?"

Hate makes a sound somewhat like a vacuum cleaner trying to ingest a sock, which almost drowns out your pained wheeze as you try to suppress an ear-shattering guffaw. You're spared the indignity by the slight rocking of the car as Hate hammers the dashboard, his forehead slumped against the wheel. After a moment he comes up for air, taking off his sunglasses to look Shoukaku in the eye.


"That... was... a Marine joke. Holy shit. You're FILTHY."

The very clean-looking Shoukaku actually giggles. "I just have a good memory."

Hate opens his mouth to reply, but he's interrupted by the Corgi's excitable yapping. He sighs. "We'd best get going – these guys can't be kept cooped up too long or they go absolutely bugfuck."

Yokosuka is just south of Tokyo, and since you got an early start the traffic isn't too horrible. ou and Shoukaku sit in the back, with the Corgi in the passenger seat, front paws braced on the dashboard as he barks excitedly at every passing car. It doesn't take long to reach the big parking garage on the city outskirts where Hate deposits the big black sedan, terribly conspicuous with it's diplomatic flags flapping in the breeze. Hate opens the door for Shoukaku while you get out and catch the Corgi before he can make a dash for freedom and all the Interesting New Smells the parking garage offers. After pausing long enough to switch charges, you manage to lag behind with Hate as you all head for the elevator.

>"Why the hell are you here? I thought you hated babysitting bullshit like this?"
>"Okay, how many goons are following us and what are they wearing? Just in case shit pops off I want to know which onrushing bystanders to punch and which ones to trust."
>Other?

40081621 (demetrious) -
>>40081556
NEW THREAD

Click to shrink...

 

[Trace Coburn]

KANT-O-CELLE QUEST - SHIPS ON A TRAIN​

>"Okay, how many goons are following us and what are they wearing? Just in case shit pops off I want to know which onrushing bystanders to punch and which ones to trust."

"Right," you say sotto-voice, "how many goons?"

"What?"

"The security detail. How many, where, what are they wearing? If there's a scuffle I want to know who to trust and who to stab with my cane."

Hate smirks a bit at that, but lets the penis joke lie with an effort of will. "There isn't one."

"... seriously?"

"Security through obscurity. In their uniforms they could be mistaken for cosplayers. Out of uniform, everyone will be too busy checking out her rack to notice."

"Hate-"

"Or her ass," he says with a little gusto. "Yeah, I don't mind walking behind her for this trip."

"Seriously."

"She wasn't lying. Everyone seems to agree the dog is enough, given his armaments." The corgi, who seems to know when he's being talked about, wags his tail a little harder and rubs up against your pantleg. "And they trust me to manage them, so..." he shrugs.

"I thought you hated these babysitting details," you point out. "The hell did Goto bribe you with?"

"The chance to see you on a date."

"It's not a d-"

"Dude that skirt she's wearing it's a date bro it's a goddamn date TRUST ME ON THIS TRUST THE HATE-"

You accelerate to escape him as his salacious hissing follows you - "a daaaaaate a daaaaaaaaate-"

Once on street level, you look around, nod sagely at the signs bedecked in moonspeak, and shrug. "I have absolutley no idea where we are."

"I do!" Shoukaku says brightly. She slips her arm through yours and starts hustling you along – not quite dragging you; she's simply excited to be out. "There's one place I've always wanted to see!"

"Daaaaaaate," Hate whispers almost in your ear before you accidentally introduce your cane between his ankles.


Tokyo, you soon discover, is busy. New York has a particular grandness to it, a sense of immense scale; the city seeming to tower over you at all times – but her vastness is impersonal; a wide, yawing immensity that dwarfs and humbles. Tokyo is like an anthive, with many "streets" that consist of a constant flowing river of humanity. The last time you were shoving your way through such a crowded corridor someone was shouting "up and fore on the port side, down and aft on the starboard side" over loudspeakers – it's that bad. The sheer noise is impressive – even with most people just trying to get somewhere, the simple sound of hundreds of people walking and jostling each other is significant; even more so in the narrow warrens of high walls that reflect every sound. And then there's simple mobility – it requires rubbing shoulders to get anywhere. The corgi is soon having a hard time of it with all the ankles about, and when he resorts to his inbred skill – ankle nipping – Hate picks him up and carries him in both arms, clearing a little breathing room with an expression that says "we have nukes on-base and I know how to get the key."

Shoukaku pauses for a moment at the end of a cul-de-sac, seeming lost.

"There used to be..." she looks around apprehensively. "Wasn't there a road here?"

"Ask for directions?" you suggest.

She nods, leading you and Hate into the nearest building – a barbershop. The elderly proprietor takes one look at two white boys and the japanese girl and settles on English as the proper route. "Hello!" he says, spinning a chair around with a flourish. "Can I help you?"


"E-English!?"

He smiles. "I used to do discount haircuts for American sailors and marines during the Korean war years," he says, nodding at you and Hate. "No barber can do much business if they don't know how to chat. Even with military men!"

"A-ah!" Shoukaku brightens again. "I was just wondering... there used to be a road down this way, where the street ends-"

"Eh?" he says, looking surprised. "No, not since... well this used to be a thoroughfare, but that was before the fire."

"Oh no, it was here in the thirties, and it ran parallel," Shoukaku insists seriously. "Mayflower, or something-"

"Ha!" the proprietor says. "That was my old street! How does a beauteous young thing like you know about that? Did your family used to live here? Anyone I know?"

"J-just someone I knew," Shoukaku says. "But what happened to it?"

"The fire, honey."

"But-"

"The war."

Shoukaku falls silent as suddenly as if she'd been slapped.

"... did the Americans change it, or-"

"The whole block burned to the ground," he says matter-of-factly. "Hell, half the city did, honey." He nods at you and Hate respectfully. "I'm not complaining – young men like you have put enough money back in our pockets ten times over since then, I figure. Made my living off it." His cheerful expression finally slips a bit. "Are you okay, honey?"

Shoukaku's face has gone slack, like it's gone numb on her. "I... no, it's okay, I just..." she shakes her head. "In that case, could you tell us how to get to Akihabara?"

And then, for no reason whatsoever, Hate begins to laugh.


After the elderly barber gives Shoukaku a good description of the route, she's able to lead you through the tides of humanity to a small rail station that will take you directly to this "Akihabara" district – only two stops, since you're already in the city – for whatever that means, in Tokyo. The train rolls to a stop, and you all step on.

"Trains still have conductors?" Shoukaku whispers to you, eyeballing a smartly-uniformed man wearing white gloves.

"Not quite," Hate mutters. "Watch."

The gentleman with the white gloves begins pushing people – gently, but firmly – and they obliglingly shift positions, shuffling closer and closer till everyone's packed in tightly. When he reaches Hate, the Lance Corporal does his damnedest to make his eyes pop right out of his head, which sends the poor fellow scurrying. His work complete, the doors hiss closed, and the train rolls away from the station.

Hate then turns the Stare on you – because you managed to position yourself next to Shoukaku in the press instead of him. You give him a sly grin and shake your head a fraction of an inch – bad marine. Down, devil dog, down. Shoukaku, on the other hand, has that stunned look again.

"Shoukaku?"


"I'm fine!" she insists, but there's a brittle quality to her brightness.

You query with a dubious eyebrow.

"It's just..." she shrugs, as much as she can. "I don't remember it being so crowded. At all."

"It got bigger," Hate says deadpan.

You ride in companionable silence as the train jolts and jostles towards the next stop, where the press of humanity ebbs and flows around you. Hate makes a valiant effort to get next to Shoukaku, but you manage to slip ahead of him again.

Shoukaku has been silent for minutes now, still with that expression on her face. A sinking feeling sets into your gut as you begin to think you made a mistake.

"Shoukaku-"

"EEP!"

"Huh?"

"N-nothing."

She sets her face like a mask, and doesn't make a sound – but something is itching at the back of your neck. That feeling that something is off. With the train this crowded, there isn't many places to look to give Shoukaku privacy with her emotions, so you glance down -

- and see the hem of your companion's skirt rising on it's own, ever-so-slowly. Shoukaku's long, stockinged legs are tense with tension, as well.

Son of a bitch.

>Hate. REMOVE SUSHI.
>LITTLE BOYS ATTACK.
>Handle this one yourself.

​

Oh, train-groper, you dun gouf'ed now!​

>Handle this one yourself.

Technically, you have some options in this situation. Hate, for one, knows all sorts of neat tricks – such as this little trick with pressure on a thumbnail that makes the most vocal shitbag sit down, shut his fucking beak and maintain silence like a good little boy. Hate even boasts that he pulled it off in formation once, which seems impossible – but then again, it's Hate.

Of course, even Hate will have problems with his hands full of Corgi – but the corgi is uniquely advantaged by small size. You can see him, in your minds eye, stepping on heads till he reaches the offender and laying into him; a scene both horrifying and hilarious, if hardly low-profile.

These thoughts drift through your mind in retrospect, only after you simply reach over Sshoukaku's shoulder and seize the shitbag's face in your hand. You are a large man, and he is not – you cover his mouth and nose with your palm.

And you squeeze.


You were never a big gym rat – the enlisted facilities are populated by some disturbing-looking gym rats that turn your stomach away, and even the scented and hallowed lands in Officer Country are full of pushover staff fucks trotting on fancy treadmills while staring at an overhead TV playing a shitty soap, in an accidental imitation of their usual workday. But for all that, you did work out regularly – if there's any fat captains in the fleet, you've never met one. Stress and a coffee-only diet works for some, but you needed the exercise.

After LA – and the leg – a lot of your options went out the window in that regard. No more squats, no more of this, no more of that – and when you were in the hospital it was even worse. You'd always worked on grip strength - you can't grab a heavy bar without it, after all – and once you were laid up in that fucking hospital it was one of the only things to do. Squeeze that little hand exerciser, day in, day out.

So when you want to grip something, you can fucking well grip it HARD – and right now you're gripping fuckface's air supply with all the strength you can muster. You use your hold to tilt his head, so you can look into his eyes past Shoukaku's ear – they're wide-open, bloodshot, and panicked. His hands struggle up to your wrist to pry and scratch at it, then they move desperately to your palm, but you've got him dead to rights, and just keep squeezing, trying to embed your fingerprints into his fucking jawbone.

A voice chatters over the PA in Japanese, the train slows to a halt, and the doors open. You wait till Shoukaku takes her first steps out before releasing him – with a gentle shove, so he falls back into the men behind him, who are forced to catch his limp form.

You're well away from the station, already mingling into the general flow of foot traffic before Hate breaks the silence.


"I thought you were going to suffocate that bastard."

You and Shoukaku look up like deer in the headlights, both of you astonished that he actually mentioned it.

He looks at you both, his quizzical expression mirrored by the fuzzy face just under his chin. "What?"

"Hey look at that a restaurant lets go check it out!" you exclaim, pointing over Hate's shoulder before barreling past him with Shoukaku in tow (HURR HURR) gripped by her wrist. Twisting and sliding through the crowd, you stop so suddenly that Shoukaku bumps into your back.

Staring you full in the face is a division of shipgirls in a battle line – and they're all looking right at you.

"READY!" shouts Koungou.

"AIM!" returns Haruna and Hiei.

"FIRE!" bellows Kirishima, and their cannons explode with little poofs of confetti just as Shoukaku flattens you to the pavement.

>Just stay down, jesus christ
>GOTTA HEAD THIS OFF, IT'S NOT GOING TO END WELL
>HATE I NEED A DISTRACTION AND I NEED IT NOW
>other?


>Just stay down, jesus christ
>HATE I NEED A DISTRACTION AND I NEED IT NOW

You inspect the asphalt from close range as Shoukaku's comfortable, soft warmth presses you to the ground. You lay there in complete confusion as brightly-colored confetti flutters down around you.

"What!?"

Shoukaku springs off you, levelling a finger at the lead girl. "KONGOU! YOU'VE GONE TOO FAR THIS TIME!"

"W-wha?"

You look over your shoulder and gesticulate wildly at Hate for help. He nods, already striding closer. Shoukaku is already storming down on Kongou, her face flushed with embarrasment. "Just what do you think you're doing off-base without permission!?"

"Aau-a-auauu-" the girl vocalizes in alarm, but Shoukaku is having none of it. "You aren't satisfied with harassing Goto, you need to come after mi-"

"WOW SLIPPERY," Hate says as he neatly tangles his foot between Shoukaku's ankles, sending her roadward with a yelp. He catches her around the waist with one arm, staggering as he does so. "Oh god. Here, hold this guy." The baffled Kongou hasn't time to escape before Hate shoves the corgi into her arms, which immediately starts sniffing all around her face and neck. Determining her acceptable, he begins licking, which apparently tickles her literally or figuratively, judging from the giggling. You're just dusting yourself off when she shoves the dog into the arms of her compatriot, who is likewise beset with affection.


"Shoukaku!" you whisper sotto-voice. "Those are cosplayers!"

"What the heck-"

"Just normal people that dress up like fictional characters-"

"We're not fictional!"

"But you are popular!" you hiss. "The government is spending lots of money on PR based on you girls."

She cuts a quizzical look at you through her white bangs. "But... this-"

"We'll talk about it later," you insist. "For now, just try to keep a low profile. That white hair of yours is conspicuous enough as it is."

She touches it gingerly enough that you immediately feel bad for mentioning it. "Should I cover it?"

"No. Especially not here, if they're cosplaying in the street – you blend in more with it than without."

Meanwhile, Hate has managed to re-secure the corgis, but he's still surrounded by the four cosplayers, who have shifted their attention from the dog to him. He's giving gruff, one-syllable answers, but this seems to be extremely counter-productive judging from the girl's expressions.

"Should we-"

"No," you tell her. "He's going to warm up to the attention pretty soon – he's just on knee-jerk mode because of the costumes at the moment."

Shoukaku's eyes cut left and right shadily – and then she seizes your wrist in a steel-hard grip and quite literally drags you off your feet, barely letting you recover before sprinting away again.

"THE HELL?"

"NOW'S OUR CHANCE!" she giggles, before barreling headlong through the crowd towards the first restaurant she sees – at least you figure it's one based on the coffee-cup shape and styling of the sign.


You manage to put the brakes on just as she's seizing the door handle. "What the hell?"

"Do you really want the good Corporal babysitting us within earshot all night?"

You recall Hate's earlier gibe about 'watching you on a date' and frown.

"Besides, he seems to be having fun." She nods at the middle of the street, where Hate is indeed chatting amicably with all four girls, all of whom are absentmindedly stroking the corgi at the same time. "Come on!" Yielding to her logic, you nod. She smiles bright enough to blind, and pulls you through the door.

"GOMENESAI!"

"What?" you say reflexively.

In front of you, two girls – two *French Maids* are bowing to you, their long, shining locks shimmering in the artificial light. They straighten up with formal composure, revealing the attractive faces framed that hair frames; somehow nicely set off by the starched white headdresses.

"Welcome Home, Master!"

"And Mistress!" one of them adds hastily, both of them giving Shoukaku a double-take before their eyes snap back to you, full of confusion that's soon smoothed away by professional bearing. "Please allow us to serve you tonight!"

Shoukaku rotates to face you, her expression asking questions you can't begin to answer.

>Roll with it!
>ABORT
>other?


>other?
WRITE-IN: 40084109 - [...] there's a gundam cafe at Front City Tokyo, you know.

The two maids catch your mutual expression, and they both begin giggling.

"Ah – I'm sorry," you begin -

"No, no," one of them replies in pretty good English – they must get a lot of tourists in here. She leans forward and drops her voice. "We were pretty surprised to see a good looking couple like you in here."

"Ah, we're-"

"Just looking for a normal place," Shoukaku cuts you off, slipping her hand off your captive wrist and into your palm, twining her fingers with yours as she interlocks your arms. "For an evening out?"

"You'll be pretty hard-pressed in this town," the other one says frankly. "But, uh... your best bet is the Gundam one."

"The what-now?"

"It says Gundam on the front," she says with a shrug. "Right next to the station, you can't miss it. The food is great and it's odd, but nothing that'd bother a couple."

"Thanks," Shoukaku says hastily, and backs out with you in firm control by your arm. Once outside, she scans the street a bit.

It's officially known as the AKB48 Café & Shop, but 'Gundam Café' has more snap and brand-recognition.​

You give the place a good once-over as you take your seat – despite the modernistic styling of the interior, everything is rounded, off-white and dimly lit enough to feel comfortable rather than sterile. Shoukaku is busily studying the menu, trying not too look around too much – she's determined to make this evening work, it seems. You open your own menu and stare blankly at the Japanese characters.

"Uh, Shoukaku?"

"Hmm?"

"Help?"

"Oh, uh – oh!" She says, looking excited. "They have steak!"

"Does it look good?"

She peers at the description. "It really does."

"I'll have what you're having, then."

The waitress swings by, gives a cute salute to match the pink uniform, and departs again with your order. Gathering her courage, Shoukaku finally starts looking around the place a bit. "This is cozy, isn't it?"

"It really is," you admit. "Add some creaks and leaks and I'd feel right at home."

She smiles at that – it DOES feel a little like a brand-new ship... or how you imagine one would look, anyhow. An Arleigh-Burke skipper wouldn't know much about 'new.' Scanning the room with fresh curiosity, Shoukaku points at one corner. "Oh, what's that?"

You glance over at the person-sized replica of a Mobile Suit Model Whatever-The-Fuck in one corner – the white one with the V-shaped forehead thing.

"Some sort of samurai armor?" Shoukaku wonders.

"That's a robot, actually. It's an animated TV series, if I remember correctly." You rub your head. "Yeah, I think Hate watches it."

She looks surprised. "Corporal Hate watches cartoons?"

"After the war, Japanese animation started targeting adult audiences more and more. It's some pretty mature stuff, apparently. But I think he watched it because, and I quote, 'there's a few guys that just slap everyone's shit, like, five slaps a second, it's amazing'."


Shoukaku grins. "Now that sounds like the Corporal."

"Pretty much."

"So they're not...?"

"Real? No. They're basically walking tanks. The pilot sits in the head."

She blinks. "... why?"

"Why what?"

"Why make it look like a human?" In the dim light her hair shimmers like silver and her eyes really do seem like amber now; much more than that first encounter in the officer's mess. She leans forward just a little bit as her limpid gaze locks with yours, full of curiosity, almost intense curiosity. "If it's a weapon?"

>"I think it's mainly about the pilots; the humanoid robot is just an extension of themselves. They call them Mobile Suits, after all." (DEFLECT)
> "That's a pretty common theme in its genre – the units are often special, instead of mass-produced weapons. Heck.. there was a show called Space Battleship Yamato-" (DAMN THE TORPEDOES)
>Why is that confusing? Because it's a weapon? (QUESTION)
>OTHER?

>>40085299
>>40085303
>>40085304
>>40085305
>>40085306
>>40085312
>>40085316
>>40085317

Well, shit. I was going to push out one more update, but come to think about it - this IS a pretty good place to stop for tonight, and I actually have to be up before noon tomorrow for responsible adult things.

WE WILL RECONVENE SATURDAY FOR THE SECOND PART OF THE DATE, WHERE SETTLE REALIZES SHOUKAKU HAS SEPERATED HIM FROM HIS WINGMAN AND BACKED HIM INTO A CORNER FAR AWAY FROM ANY WINDOWS!

Click to shrink...

 

[Trace Coburn]

KANT-O-CELLE QUEST - 4CHAN PLEASE FUCKING WORK THIS TIME​

TWITTER: twitter.com/planefriend
ARCHIVE: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive.html?tags=Kant-O-Celle Quest

As you sweat under the limpid amber gaze of Shoukaku in the middle of a tacky Gundam theme restaurant, you marvel at how eager you'd been to take this little excursion.

You'd never been bad with women; or even one of those skippers so far gone that he'd refold his dinner napkin if the kitchen hadn't gotten the creases just right. You'd been dragged along to a few Official State Functions precisely because of your ability to loosen up and make decent conversation, in fact. And from the tactful way Shoukaku had greeted you in the officer's mess and extended her invitation (so subtly you weren't sure what it was an invitation TO,) you'd gathered she was similar. But now she's sitting with tense shoulders and pleading eyes, aware that she's transgressed the boundaries of dinner conversation.

If you deflect the question beneath the question, you don't doubt she'll pick up on it and segue neatly into safer territory. It's proper manners for dinner chat – and your implied orders, for that matter.

Don't rock the boat.


Don't say a word when you catch Hornet staring into space, pencil tracing the shape of an arrow into the notepad so hard for so long it shines glossy with graphite. Pretend you don't notice Arizona glancing upward every time she hears a buzz overhead, or that subtle pat every five minutes, like a man checking for his wallet – except she's checking for her weapon.

Your dry lips stick together as you reply. "Why do they make them humanoid?"

She nods ever so slightly as you squirm in her amber gaze.

"That's pretty common in the genre," you continue. "Anthropomorphizing a combat vehicle, I mean. Oftentimes they're not mass-production units, like just another tank. They're... special."

Shoukaku's brow crinkles, her shoulders still tense. "More... powerful? Or sophisticated?"

"Have you heard of a show called Space Battleship Yamato?"

The cool, sinking chill of mortification spreads through your chest the instant the words leave your mouth, mirrored by the widening of Shoukaku's eyes.

"Y-Yamato?"

"The plot," you hear yourself say, merciless matter-of-fact reporting; "is that the Yamato's wreck is recovered from the dried-up seabed of the Pacific and used as the hull of a spaceship built to take the fight to attacking aliens."


Shoukaku's expression is blank. "... when?"

"The eighties."

Her voice is low and uncertain now, falling to her tightly clasped hands. "I thought... they said the war was forgotten. Nobody wanted to – to remember all that."

Leaning on your folded arms, you fix your eyes on the salt shaker lest the slight tremor in your bones reach your voice. "Yamato was a symbol, Shoukaku. Industrial might, engineering genius..." you rally and press on - "a creation so massive and complex it can't help but embody every principle and ideal of its builders in its frame. Losing something like that -" for a moment the Higgins flashes through your mind - "it's a wound. When we lost Arizona, her name became a rallying cry for recruiters, a national monument. We still fly a flag from her mast."

That's about when Shoukaku begins to cry.

>Remain silent.
>Apologize.
>Lighten the mood.
>Other?


>Apologize.

Your stomach drops into the bilges the instant you hear her first sniffle. "I- I'm sorry, Shoukaku," you choke out, your voice almost breaking. "I don't like g-giving people the runaround-"

"No," she says through her sniffles. "T-thank you."

You look up at her with surprise. She's smiling at you, making no effort to staunch the tears flowing freely down her pale cheeks. "Thank you for telling me."

An involuntary shiver goes down your spine, paralyzing your mind for a moment. "Uh?"

She finally wipes away her tears with her cheap paper napkin, looking a bit bashful. "I thought w-we'd been f-forgotten. The war was so p-painful, and, we... we didn't do very well." She takes a deep breath, visibly composing herself before meeting your gaze again. You can see the tears still brimming behind her eyes, but she dams them behind another bright smile. "I-I'm sorry, Admiral Settle, I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that."

You fold your arms on the table and lean on them, studying the placemats again. "You wanted to know. Hell, you deserve to know."

"That's not what everyone else seems to think."

You bite your lip and remain silent.

She rests one cheek in her hand, studying you leisurely. "Admiral... have you told Arizona what you just told me?"


"Uh." You shake your head. "It's different."

"How?"

"She hasn't asked."

"I didn't ask my Admiral, either," Shoukaku points out. "When someone is counting on you, you want them to think you're rock-solid dependable."

You swallow past a dry tongue. "Yeah, I can understand that."

"So she doesn't know she's..." her eyes cut to the side shyly at this, "you know... loved? By everyone?"

"It's not easy to talk about," you say quietly. "She hasn't said a single word since she came back. I don't... I figure it's her right to bring it up, if she wants."

"Well, how do you feel about her?"

You blink. "What."

"How do you feel about her?"

"Uh."

"I hear she trounced Kongou pretty handily this morning because she thought they were trying to kidnap you, or something."

"That was just a mis-"

"And ran halfway across base carrying you like a casualty."

You flush at that. "A misunderstanding!"

She grins at you. "She seems to think the world of you – but I suppose I would to, if you pulled a live shell out of me."

You feel that flush deepening as you grope for a good reply and come up empty. "Uh, I guess?"

"So, how do you feel about her?" Her eyes seem almost liquid – or maybe it's those tears again, so close to the surface now. "Why did you pull a live shell out of her with your own hands?"

>I was there, and nobody else. That's how war is. You don't get to choose who lives and dies, who gets lucky and who catches it. You just play the hand you're dealt, and do your job.
>She's my responsibility, and nobody else's. I've already left one ship in a drydock she'll probably never leave. I won't let it happen again.
>One admiral already gave his life for Arizona's sake. We've got her back, now – by some miracle of a gracious God, we have Arizona back, right when we need her most. We'll pay the price again, if we must, to keep her.


>I was there, and nobody else. That's how war is. You don't get to choose who lives and dies, who gets lucky and who catches it. You just play the hand you're dealt, and do your job.
(+ elements of other two)

"I was there," you reply, "and nobody else was. And that was, uh, kind of my fault. I got a little..." you waggle your hand in air - "by the whole... everything, and I kind of spooked the EOD guys."

She frowns. "But isn't that *their* job?"

"If you saw an officer laughing like a lunatic next to a few hundred pounds of live munitions with a damaged fuze, would you stick around?"

She blanches. "I suppose not."

"Yeah. Arizona's..." you take a deep breath - "her..." you tap your abdomen, and hold up your thumb and forefinger to indicate something tiny. "You know, her-"

"... ovaries?"

"FARIES!" you exclaim sharply, making heads turn around the room. "Hergoddamnfaries," you growl under your breath as you blush. "I just hoisted away when they'd handled everything."

"Mmmhmm," Shoukaku hums through her coy smile, looking quite amused. "It seems you already know some of our inner secrets. But that doesn't explain why you were there in the first place."

"Arizona is my responsibility. Mine, and mine alone." You sigh, resisting the urge to slump over the table again. "I've already left one ship in a drydock she'll probably never leave. I don't intend to lose another."

Shoukaku seems to gaze clear through you, a thoughtful, searching look on her face. The waitress returns with your steaks and drinks, serves you and vanishes again. You exchange pleasantries with the waitress, but Shoukaku never blinks till she's gone again.

"You miss your old ship that much?"

You shrug. "She was my first command. Spent all my sea time on her – half of it patching her back together. She was getting old, after all. Hard not to get attached."

"I had one of the girls who's good with that... web thing look for information on that. Apparently everyone's calling you a hero for the battle in Los Angeles bay."

You blanch – of all the things you didn't want coming up, this topped the list.

>Every victory needs a hero, Shoukaku, and they didn't know anything about you girls yet. I was runner up. Poster boy. PR bullshit.
>That was... a messy affair. I wouldn't want to spoil your night by getting into that mess.


>Every victory needs a hero, Shoukaku, and they didn't know anything about you girls yet. I was runner up. Poster boy. PR bullshit.

You shake your head. "It's bullshit."

She looks surprised. "What?"

"Every victory needs a hero," you explain. "And... LA was the first battle. Or one of the first. Depends on if you count minutes from the first abyssal manifestation or the first exchange of fire." You shrug. "They didn't know anything about you girls, yet, so there was just me. And people were scared shitless, you know? They needed someone. Now they have you."

She giggles. "Yeah. A lot of the girls get fan mail."

You blink. "Come again?"

She giggles melodiously. "You didn't know? The Corporal goes through it every morning. We all thought it was strange because he'd bring the boxes in, but there were no censure marks in any of the letters." She shrugs. "We still don't know what he's doing, but Goto explained that they don't do that kind of thing anymore."

"So who is...?"

"Young people, mostly," she says. "The ones that see us on TV or the news. I thought they all looked at us like... you know. Television stars. Like Naka wants to be." She brushes her hair back over one ear.

"So why did you think you'd been forgotten?"

"Oh, the people writing the letters..." she blushes a little - "they're not writing about our old battles."

"So about your current ones, then?" You open a straw and drop it in your drink.

"Future ones, actually," Shoukaku says. "They send a lot of requests for one-on-one night torpedo duels."


You're halfway through a draught of soda when that comment hits you square, causing you to sputter while Shoukaku giggles merrily. "You have to be kidding me."

She shakes her head. "Nope! Some of us get really sweet letters asking us to marry them."

"... you?"

She smirks, and shakes her head. "They just want to give me a full spread below the waterline – oh dear, I'm sorry," she says, covering her mouth as the damn soda goes down the wrong pipe. To your horror this triggers hiccups, and Shoukaku can only giggle helplessly through both hands, eyes closed with mirth as you gulp down more soda to drown them.

You finally get down to dinner – it turns out that even a theme cafe can make a good steak, if you pay twice what it's worth. (That's what the Navy credit card is for, of course.) At length, Shoukaku picks up the conversation again.

"So, Admiral, do you have anyone waiting for you at home?"

"Me? Oh, no."

"Really? A man like you?"

>A career sailor who's gone from home seven or eight months out of the year? With a bum leg? Yeah, a man like me. (Honest.)
>I never really had time for it, is all. (Lie.)
>.... why do you ask?


>A career sailor who's gone from home seven or eight months out of the year? With a bum leg? Yeah, a man like me. (Honest.)

"Like me? A career sailor who's out of port seven or eight months a year?" You chuckle. "I was captain of an Arleigh-Burke. We call them destroyers, because they've got that hull shape, but they're more like old-fashioned cruisers – by which I mean always deployed. They make jokes about how long the deployments are, even. Even boomer crews get six months on, six months off." You shrug. "I never minded, though. I wanted to be a sea captain. I was married to my ship, really."

"But after L- uh, the publicity, I mean-"

You chuckle. "A military man pushing forty with a bum leg doesn't have the same appeal as a mysterious young beauty like you, I'm afraid." You polish off your steak, forcing yourself not to wolf it down – it's been a long day, and it's actually decently cooked. "Well, that was a lot better than I was expecting from a Gundam cafe, I admit."

"I thought the meals were supposed to come with little action figures, or something?" Shoukaku marveled. "The destroyers are bringing them home all the time. The staff usually gives them extra."

"Oh," you say, "those are McDonalds happy meals, I think." You glance towards the front desk. "Bet you ten bucks they sell plastic model kits of the Gundams here, though, if you want one."

She shakes her head with a smile. "Better not. I'm not very good with things like that. Goto might like one, though."


"He builds models?"

"Yeah. He has a collection, but he had to stop displaying them in his office."

"Some new regulation?"

"Inazuma walked in on him without knocking while he was putting the finishing touches on a model of USS Bonefish."

"... oh, shit."

"Quite. Poor girl hid in a closet and it took us hours to lure her out of there. So maybe he'd like a gunpla."

You ask after the rest of Desdiv 6 – from the one you met last night, they seem like a cheerful bunch of girls, and you wonder idly if they'd be a good influence on Willie Dee. Shoukaku is happy to talk about them, explaining that they fight and play much like ordinary girls do – their one quirk seems to be a newfound love of old 50s and 60s American cowboy movies.

"Cowboys? Really?"

"I think destroyers really identify with that free-ranging, devil-may-care gunslinger thing," she says. "A few of them even have toy pistols and bandannas and such; they chase each other playing cowboys and Indians."

"Sounds adorable."

"Mostly. Hibiki really likes this one movie; she got her hands on a harmonica and just kept blowing this... I hesitate to call it a tune..." she shakes her head. "What movies do you like, by the way? I'm trying to get into the new age, but I just don't know where to start."

The conversation is flowing smoothly, the soda was replaced by beer at some point and it seems the evening is finally a success – now's a good time to pick Shoukaku's brain about... well, about anything you want, really.

>What ask?
>Full write-in vote: for best chances of success, pick a good write-in you like and throw your vote behind that!

 

[Trace Coburn]

KANT-O-CELLE QUEST - GOOD CHRIST WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LAST THREAD YOU GUYS TALK A LOT WOAH​

WRITE-INS: "So, I know this is probably a sensitive question, but... Did you manifest, or were you summoned? And if you manifested, was it a conscious choice?"
"So apparently Goto and the CNO say I need a ship as a secretary, mind if I bounce a few ideas off you?"

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you first manifest?"

She looks surprised. "You don't know?"

"Requesting classified documents from my own government is simply a pain. Requesting them from the Japanese means you get to wait for the embassy to do the paperwork."

"Oh." She drains her beer with gusto – you try to remember how many of the big pitcher's she's downed, and find that you lost count. Shouldn't matter, she's a ship, after all. "Well, I wasn't summoned. Do you remember that battle a few months after the war started, when Akagi was almost sunk?"

Akagi had been one of the first Japanese ships summoned – if you can call it that. A young JSDF officer had been praying at a shinto shrine before an expected engagement with abyssals. This included prayers to his grandfather and great-uncle, who had both served – and died – aboard Akagi. The dossier had noted with hilarious dryness how he'd spent five minutes apologizing to "the miko" for not realizing she'd been in attendance when he'd showed up. After a demonstration of her 'abilities' it took *her* ten minutes to lure him out from under the shrine's porch. Her arrival had been the last lighthearted thing about her for a while; the JSDF was small, America had her hands full mobilizing mothballed vessels and moving the surface fleet to a war footing and the 7th fleet was cut off from resupply for eight to twelve weeks when things kicked off. A heavy load had fallen on Akagi, and she'd had some close calls. "There were a few, weren't there?"


Shoukaku nods. "In one of them, she got caught between two Abyssal torpedo bomber squadrons – caught her in a perfect pincer. The first thing I remember..." she shrugs. "Not the first, I mean, I remember the day I was launched, and the day I sank, but... it's confusing. I just felt this flash of terror through my heart, my core – 'it's happening again'. And before I knew it I was launching fighters, trying to build boiler pressure – I didn't want to be hundreds of miles away again, when they needed me there."

"... is it strange?"

"Not at first," Shoukaku replies. "I mean, we know people – we were crewed by them, so of course we know people – and we know what we are, what we were built to do. We don't have to worry about religion or purpose. But after a while, it... it does get strange. I didn't even know what sleep was, at first. When they first gave me a bed, I just bounced around on it for a bit like a little girl – I knew what a berth was, but that was so... so bouncy." A smile at the memory, but it soon fades. "A lot of the girls – even the ones who arrived early – they haven't really adapted yet. Developed hobbies, or friends."

"Do you have any?"

"Friends?"

"Hobbies."

"Well," she says shyly, picking at her shirtsleeve. "I know it sounds terribly airheaded, but I like clothes shopping. It's like being able to repaint yourself any time you want, you know? I go through fashion magazines and try to put together good outfits." She flushes slightly. "It... sometimes looks silly to other people, but sometimes they like what I make, too."

Something as simple as putting on clothing – a whole new world, for a returned ship spirit.

"Shoukaku, mind if I ask you something about work?"

"Not at all."


"My boss told me I should pick a secretary ship – to help with the paperwork, and... because I need a bodyguard, apparently."

"Oh," she says. "After the incident with Kaga-"

"Indeed. But..." you shrug. "I know Arizona and Hornet would guard me if I asked, but I don't want them to be stuck with that all day every day. And I'm thinking it might help close the diplomatic gap if I asked a Japanese ship to do the job."

"Well, there's no shortage of candidates," Shoukaku admits. "But I can tell you this much; the job is largely about mediating between other ships during spats. So you want someone level-headed and fair, or at least good at defusing tense situations." A shadow flits over her face. "Like that incident with Kaga. I didn't handle that very well. And someone that's comfortable with paperwork and writing e-mails and such, so the more energetic gung-ho types probably wouldn't be a good fit. Honestly, I think Arizona would be good at it, from what I hear."

"True... but if I wanted a Japanese ship?"

"No shortage of candidates, like I said, but have you considered Naka?"

You raise your eyebrows. "Naka?"

"It's very hard to carry on an argument when she starts getting cute," Shoukaku points out. You recall the way she shut down Hit'Em Again Harder with about five seconds of innuendo and a little leg flashing.

"Good point," you admit. "Does a secretary ship not deploy?"

"There's no rule against it, or anything," Shoukaku says. "We're pretty much making this up as we go along, after all. But it's partially useful for giving a ship who's underemployed something to do so they don't go stir-crazy."

"Speaking of..." you cut your eyes each way dramatically - "who's Goto's secretary ship?"

Shoukaku avoids your eyes as she wrings at her napkin nervously. "I'm not supposed to tell..."


"Goto swore you to secrecy? That monster's covered every angle, hasn't he?"

"No no, it really is a secret," Shoukaku tells you. "Everyone knows her, but nobody's supposed to talk about her."

"Heh," you reply with amusement. "She launched eighty years ago, guys, we all know you built a really big battleship, you can drop the veil of Asian mysticism now."

Shoukaku blushes slightly and wrings her napkin so hard the paper tears.

".... you have got to be shitting me," you mutter as cool realization seeps through your bones.

Shoukaku shakes her head, biting her lip. "Everyone's worried about the nationalists," she says sotto-voice.

Now you understand why Shoukaku was surprised to hear about Space Battleship Yamato. "Yes, but-"

"They don't tell me this, directly," Shoukaku whispers, "but... you pick it up, after a while. I know people are scared of us."

You open your mouth to object, but she presses a dainty finger to your lips. "That's understandable, it's no surprise. But Japan's an island nation with a tiny navy, and nobody knows if the Chinese are too busy with the Abyssals themselves to worry about us, or if they hope to take advantage while the Americans are occupied."

THAT much you know is true – it's been the talk of USN wardrooms as well for months now. You heard from an Annapolis friend of yours, another Burke skipper, that he was ordered to load nuclear-tipped missiles on his ship not long ago, and not long after rumors had circulated that China had almost attacked Taiwan and only backed down under 'severe threat.'

"Japan isn't unstable," Shoukaku whispers. "Not at all, but there's enough fear – people worry they might take their chances, just like on 2-26. So please keep it secret!"

You nod silently, and Shoukaku sits back in her chair, looking relieved. "A-and don't let Goto know I-"

"Of course not," you promise.


Just then, your phone starts buzzing angrily in your pocket. You fish it out to see Hate's number on the screen. "Just a sec, it's the Corporal."

"Of course."

You swipe your thumb across the green phone icon and press it to your ear. "Hello, Hate."

"The hell did you sneak off to?" Hate grumps. "I'm hungry."

"Sorry," you say, not feeling very sorry. "It looked like you found your meal already, last I saw."

"Har-dee har fucking har," he grouses. "Seriously, where."

"It's right next to the station," you tell him. "You can't miss it."

".... the Gundam cafe?"

"Yep."

"... you stupid cockmunching son of a bitch," he breathes with true horror. "If your powerlevel was any lower you'd need a fucking pacemaker to tock your ticker, you screaming retard. What have you done?"

"... what?"

You hear the muffled sounds of Hate's phone being manhandled. "Oh fuck, you're already on twitter. Get out of there. Get out of there now, you stupid son of a bitch!"

>Fuck that. You're finally having a nice night, and you ain't going anywhere. Stand your ground!
>Immediate evasion – a quick costume change to shake any pursuers followed by slipping out the back. Annapolis bred you may be, but even you've had to give the Shore Patrol the slip on occasion. Very rare occasion. Twice, tops. Maybe thrice, but it wasn't your fault.
>Just wrap up the evening, pay your tab and leave like sane human beings – no need to get hasty, you just won't overstay your welcome, is all.


>Fuck that. You're finally having a nice night, and you ain't going anywhere. Stand your ground!
>Just wrap up the evening, pay your tab and leave like sane human beings – no need to get hasty, you just won't overstay your welcome, is all.

"Yeah, no," you tell him.

"... what."

"It's the first nice night I've had in a while and I'm not bailing out because a few slobbering fanboys are waiting outside with hand-lettered signs," you reply. "It's about time to go home anyways – just meet us at the garage."

"YOU DO-" he manages to get out before you hang up.

"Is there trouble?" Shoukaku asks.

"Apparently someone recognized you," you tell her. "No big deal – it's about time to go anyways. I'll settle up and we'll be on our way."

She stands up with you, gripping your arm possessively. "There's no need-"

"Let's get out of here quickly," she says tersely.

"Is something wrong?"

"Those letters I told you about – I wasn't joking. Entirely. A few guys got the idea to write about wanting to 'take' me just like the Cavalla did. A long stalk and a surprise attack."

"Don't sweat it," you tell her. "We'll be out of here in no time."


"T-think we could slip out the back?" she asks. She seems to be turning green at the mere prospect of meeting one of the slavering otaku who've been harassing her.

"My dear," you reply, "I've given the shore patrol the slip a few times, but I'll be thrice damned if I'm going to take a lady slinking through an alleyway. We're leaving, and nobody's gonna stop us."

Taking heart in your words, she makes no complaint as you pay the tab and let her escort you out the front door – but the instant you step into the muggy summer twilight, you're blinded by camera flash after camera flash; a semi-circle of people directing camera phones and camcorders at you both. Shoukaku shrinks against you as voices start crying out from the crowd – whether they're applauding or rude, you can't tell. You don the slim sunglasses hiding in your breast pocket; (necessary to see much of anything when the sun's low on the water, having some at all times is a habit.) You just pull Shoukau along gently as you make to part the circle – but they refuse to budge. Which is fine by you – your frame is quite sufficient for a little shoulder-shoving. You wade right in without hesitation, bumping people aside. You hear Shoukaku yelp, and before you can react the sound of an open-handed slap claps through the air; sending one camera-boy spinning on his heel before he collapses, unconscious.

You hear a hoarse voice shout something vaugley familiar in Japanese, and your peripheral vision captures two men moving forward as a team, holding between them -

- you spring towards them, a shout on your lips, but they upend the bucket over Shoukaku before you can reach them. She shrieks as cold water soaks her to the skin; including her white shirt. She claps her arms over her chest defensively – and the crowd immediately moves in, no longer fearing her blows, cameras already being thrust downward for a shot up her skirt.

>Remove otaku. REMOVE OTAKU
>"Hate. It's time."
>other?

40144873 -
>>40144802
>Though I kind of missed the vote, why didn't we go for options 2 or 3?
Because there is a difference between some fans that we expected and this rabid horde that has greeted us.

40144939 - http://livedoor.blogimg.jp/asitaharetara999-pics/imgs/4/f/4fdd2ad8.jpg
>>40144873
>Because there is a difference between some fans that we expected and this rabid horde that has greeted us.
We are in fucking Akihabara. You SERIOUSLY expected a small crowd of respectful fans instead of a horde [of] slavering otaku?
ARE YOU FUCKING RETARDED?

40145535 -
So why ARE we letting Hate handle this instead of using our cane to start beating otaku left and right, smashing their expensive cameras on the ground and into their faces, grinding sharp glass and plastic into their flesh with the heel of our shoes, and stomping on their throats and eyes, to give them all a tiny bit of IJA brutality in return for the welcome they gave Shoukaku?

Click to shrink...

>Remove otaku. REMOVE OTAKU
>"Hate. It's time."

Having made your career as a warship captain, you're very familiar with group psychology and chain-of-command. No sooner has the two-man attack registered in your brain than you're scanning the crowd for the asshole with the hoarse voice, the one who gave the order – the ringleader. You spot him immediately; the only unwashed neckbeard son-of-a-bitch with two or three guys hanging near him, watching him more than Shoukaku.

Now you just need to reach him, and fortunately, you have a brand-new cane. You slam it into the first obstruction's instep, sending him pitching over with a yowl. The second and third catch a poke to the solar plexus, dropping them to the asphalt gasping for breath. You leap over them before your target can fully register what's happening. He turns to run at the last second, but you catch him from behind, clamping your cane over his throat and squeezing it.

You spin him around to face the crowd, and with a voice honed by years of dealing with the bright, luminous minds of the Navy's finest, call the crowd's attention.


"STOW THAT SHIT, SAILORS." Your voice thunders through the air and echoes down the concrete canyon of the street. It might not have flown in America, but Japan is a culture used to authority, and all eyes turn to see if you've got a uniform on. In that brief moment of respite Shoukaku dives back into the restaurant, safe. Your captive squirms uncomfortably under the hard wood clamped against his windpipe, but you just squeeze it a little tighter and snarl into his ear. "Not so fast, roundboy. We're gonna have a chat."

The crowd is starting to glare dirks and daggers at you as a few others try to enter the cafe – which has already been hastily locked. Mutterings and maledictions are beginning to fly – a few in broken English.

"YANKEE!"

"YOU TOUCH WAIFU!?"

"MARINE RAPIST!"

"PIG!"

You grit your teeth and prepare your reply.

"Y'all gonna make me lose my mind, lose my mind, up in heah, up in heah. Y'all gonna make me go all out, up in heah, up in heah-"

You hook your elbow over one end of the cane so you can reach your pocket and press the right button on your ringing phone through the pocket. "Hate? You're on speakerphone."


"Skipper, is Shoukaku out of there? Can't see from here."

"She's inside and the doors are locked."

"Good." The crowd is starting to move towards you angrily; some filming and some picking up their packpacks like they plan to swing them at you. You feel an old, old anger rising in you, that mad fuck-everything fire of a much younger man about to jump feet-first into a shoreside bar brawl to defend a shipmate. Shoukau's had her night ruined, once again it's your fault, and now the culprits are giving you every excuse to crack their skulls.

"Uh, you think you can handle them with just that cane, Skipper?"

Roundboy sure thinks so, judging from the wheezing he's making. There might be a lot of them – but they're Asian otakus; the smell might be the most dangerous thing about them.

And you're right pissed off.

>Did the abyssals put shrapnel through our balls as well as our thigh? Of course you can handle a bunch of fucking otaku. Shoukaku's safe now – what the fuck are you worried about?
>Best not to take chances – this has gotten far enough out of hand, and you've made enough mistakes. If he's got a weapon or something, you need it.


>Best not to take chances – this has gotten far enough out of hand, and you've made enough mistakes. If he's got a weapon or something, you need it.
INSPIRED BY DISCUSSION: Hate doesn't need a weapon. Hate IS a weapon.

You scan the crowd of sputtering otaku, pissed to the boiling point at the filthy gaijin who dared desecrate their waifu and interrupted their 'fun.' It's taken them this long just to take a step closer to you, and even now they're flinching away from your cold gaze. You're angry enough to smash skulls, and it clearly shows. Of course you can handle them...

... but all tomorrow morning's news will show is not a gentleman defending Shoukaku, but an American naval officer beating the shit out of otaku with a cane. And even if you have Hate pass you a gun – or flash his own – that'll just make things even worse. You can cow them, perhaps. Perhaps.

But Hate? Hate is in a leauge of his own.

"Corporal?"

"Yeah?"

"I was wrong."

"No fucking shit you shlongobbling fuckburger."

"Excuse me?"

"Shlonggobbling fuckburer SIR."

"Better. I just wanted to say, I'm sorry, and I owe you an apology."

"Save it for later, I think they're finally getting brave. I'm gonna send fuzzy in; when you hear me shout-"

"No, Hate."

"Skipper-"

"No dog. No gun. No."

"Then what-"

"I owe you, Hate."


"...."

"You earned this, Hate."

"Skipper." Hate's voice is low and rough. "Are you-"

"Oooooohhh yes," you growl in return. The crowd is hesitating, listening to the conversation.

"Oh," Hate says, his voice husky with lust. "Oh, god yes. Put fatass on the phone, there."

You loosen up on the cane just enough for fatass to rasp a few pleas to his compatriots before Hate's voice comes roaring through the phone: "ZERO EXCLAMATION POINT ZEBRA ALPHA SEVEN FIVE FOH-WAR CHARLIE X-RAY MIKE TREE NINER ZULU."

For some reason, the entire crowd freezes. Widebody is the worst effected – you feel him go utterly rigid.

"TRIPCODE OF LARD-ASS MCFATFUCK THE FIRST, CURRENTLY BEING CHOKED LIKE A BITCH BY THE SKIPPER."

Big boy is in mortal terror now, his breath coming in quick little gasps. "W-who this?"

"I TOLD YOU I'D FIND YOU."

Your captive emits a high-pitched squeal of terror and tries to flail free, but you just rein him back in by the windpipe. "NO! NO! LIE! BOOSHIETU!"

"CONFIRMED KILL THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY. THAT'S YOU."

"LIE! HAHA!" Large Load snaps. "Three hundred! Three hundred! Fuk u!"

And that's when Hate steps up behind one of the staring otaku in the crowd, claps his hands on his shoulders, and says conversationally, "hello, kill three-hundred and one."

40146304 -
>>40146241
OH MY GOD
THAT'S THE SEAL COPYPASTA
OH MY FUCKING GOD

Click to shrink...

You couldn't have done better if you'd hurled a live grenade in their midst. Quite literally, because grenades do not chase people while laughing like a fucking lunatic.

"WHERE'S YOUR REACTION IMAGES NOW, LARDBUCKET? WHERE'S YOUR FUCKING REACTION IMAGES NOW?"

You stroll casually through the detritus of discarded backpacks and dropped cameras, and begin selectively demolishing every recording device you can find with the stout, metal-capped end of your new cane.

"LETS SEE YOU SHITPOST WITH BROKEN FINGERS, MOTHERFUCKER!" A keening scream of girlish terror rises through the twilight and chokes off somewhere in the upper octaves, a nice counterpoint to the crunch-crunch-crunch of smartphone demolition.

"AAAAAAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHA! WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~" Hate's exultations have become outright feral. You kick one last camcorder hard enough to smash it into splintereens against the curb, and knock politely on the door to the cafe. The desk girl lets you in.

"You are Admiral, yes?"

"Admiral Settle, indeed."

"Ah!" she smiles. "Your girlfriend is fine. We gave her dry clothes." She peers warily over your shoulder. "What... was..."

You turn and look over your shoulder just in time to see an overweight otaku running like a mad bastard, arms flailing spastically as he's pursued by a delivery bike with a happy-looking muffin emblazoned on the back. "I think the Japanese word for it is youkai."


The pretty cashier blanches. "Oh... okay. Shou is back here, please come?" You nod politely and allow her to show you into the back room, which looks like a staff break room. From somwhere behind the vending machine, Shoukaku speaks up.

"Uh... stop."

"All stop, aye aye."

You wait.

"... Shoukaku?"

"Don't look."

"You're dressed, right?"

"... technically."

You sigh and roll your eyes. "Shoukaku, if they dressed you in a bathing suit or some dumb shit just tell me and I'll go back there and break my cane off in their asses. I've had enough of this cartoon bullshit for ten lifetimes already-"

Shoukaku finally steps out from behind the vending machine, and your brain overrevs with a smoking scream louder than a shaft shorn of its props.

​

Shōkaku's new outfit.​

She's wearing one of the staff's sci-fi uniforms – it seems similar to a tight red leotard that hugs the curve of her waist and accentuates her bust. Her 'skirt' is a thin, transparent gauze materiel that accentuates her bare hips and firm, pale thighs wonderfully; like pantyhose, but better; her every movement making the gauze shift enticingly over her skin. She's retained her black leggings, which end just under the 'skirt,' and as she catches you staring from the corner of her eye she tugs them a little higher with hands clad in elbow-length gloves.

This does not help one god damned bit.

"The fuck is this?"

"It's all we had that fit her," the cashier says from the doorway behind you. "Her hips are a little too wide for anything that, uh, covers the hips."

"She can keep it!" her co-worker adds, and they both slink away with stifled giggles.

"I can't go out in this," Shoukaku says grimly.

​

Commissioned art of Shōkaku in her new outfit.​

>Why not? Everyone will take you for a cosplayer – it's perfect!
>Would you like me to dress up for moral support?
>I'll call the base and have them send a ride over; they can come right to the door.

 

[Trace Coburn]

KANT-O-CELLE QUEST - THE DAY THE CHAIRFARCE WAS GOOD FOR SOMETHING​

>Would you like me to dress up for moral support?
>I'll call the base and have them send a ride over; they can come right to the door.

Would you like me to dress to match?" you offer.

"I really, really doubt they've got anything in your size," she whispers.

"I'll bet you five bucks."

"... how much?"

"Five hundred yen or so."

She tugs at the 'skirt' again, fidgeting silently.

"Shoukaku, I'm... I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. Or listen to Hate. I just..." you sigh. "We had a lovely night and I didn't want to end it by slinking out the back."

Shoukaku just studies the floor, so you tell her you'll be right back and step outside to have a word with the staff. About five minutes later, you clank and clunk your way back into the room.

"HEY!"

She looks up and starts violently before she recognizes you. "W-what the hell is th-"

​

Settle's new outfit.​

"Ramba Ral!" the cashier girl exclaims happily.

You look down over the dark navy blue outfit; a thigh-length coat and high boots covered with a striking black caplet emblazoned with a gold... eagle, or something. It even has the gold braid shoulder decorations – they probably have a name of their own, but they're so archaic even US Navy tradition has forgotten them. It's strikingly reminiscent of the European navy uniforms of old. They even gave you a pistol belt to go with it, complete with a holstered airsoft pistol. "Yeah, it's okay, isn't it?"

"Uh."

"What, is it-" your voice dies as you catch a look at her face – she's staring at you like you just walked in walking on your hands while carrying a monkey with your feet. "Shoukaku? Radio check, Shoukaku." You snap your fingers.

"Y-yes!?"

"Our ride's coming. C'mon, we got a short walk."

You and Shoukaku leave out the front door, where you're only greeted by the shattered remnants of a lot of cameras further trod into the asphalt by many passing feet. Shoukaku claims your right arm, so you tuck your cane under your left, carrying the bag with your normal clothes in that hand. You've only got four or five hundred feet to go, but you are both stopped five times for photographs by polite passerby. By the third request, Shoukaku seems to have forgotten her bashfulness, posing for the camera happily, and nudging you to do the same (with some helpful suggestions from passerby.)

"... an arcade?" she asks as you near the objective.

"C'mon, you'll see."


You're met at the door by an employee, who converses with Shoukaku in rapid Japanese before leaving you at the back elevator, reserved for employees. You take it to the top floor, then lead Shoukaku up a final flight of stairs to emerge on the open roof.

"... what, do you have a zip-line up here?" she asks dubiously. "You're not going to stuff me in a mailbag, are you!?"

"Nah," you say. "Look." You peer south and point out a small dot, slightly darker against the last fading light as night falls over Tokyo. The lights of Electric Town reflect off of curved plexiglass as the faint purr of rotor blades become audible over the general hubub of the city below.

"Isn't that pretty small?" Shoukaku asks as the chopper circles the roof once.

"It seats two!" you assure her.

"Who's flying?"

"Some nerd in Florida, most likely."

"... what!?"

You wave at the chopper and it rocks it's stubby little "wings" ever so slightly. "Yep, nerd in Florida!" It sets down with incredible precision smack-center of the roof; far from any big AC units or anything else dangerous. Shoukaku hesitates when you go to board.

"What's wrong?"

"It's... flying itself?"

"An uncrewed machine!?" you gasp. "My god, what if it's alive!"

She pouts at you and shoves you in bodily. After you're both secure and strapped in, you confirm to the operator that you're ready to go, and he lifts the Little Bird into the air.

"What about Corporal Hate?" Shoukaku asks.

"Oh, Hate? Um. You know those cordless phones everyone uses, right?" She nods. "They're just very efficient little radios, is how they work."

"How do they connect to phones?"

You point at a mast atop a building, its red warning lights strobing with sedate propriety. "Receiving towers pick up the signal, and the closest one sets up a link between the phone's radio and a normal phone line."


"What does this have to do with Corporal Hate?"

"Those people that gave you trouble are almost always on their phones," you inform her. "It's very easy to get a warrant in Japan, if the government is on your side – and it's on ours."

She blinks.

"And with modern microchip processors, a bilateral radio signal detector is small enough to fit in a back pocket."

Realization dawns. "So he's-"

"Yeah, he's gonna be busy for a while. I let him have all the leash he wants."

You fall silent as the Little Bird zooms over Tokyo, the vast city a sea of vibrant light stretching away towards the ocean. Shoukaku's still got your arm. You're both wearing tan pilot helmets with intercoms, the insulation muffling the thunderous rotor noise to a comfortable background thrum.

"Thank you, Admiral."

"I'm really sorry about how it all ended," you say sincerely. "I should be thanking you. I haven't had a night like this in..." Years. "A long time."

"You don't have to be sorry."

"Yes I do," you say earnestly. "I was supposed to show you a nice time and – I let all this happen."

"... what do you mean?" she says. Her puzzlement is clear through the headset.

"You wanted to get out of the base, for a change. You said so yourself. I'm sorry it went south, at the end."

She starts to laugh – little giggles at first, then full-out laughter, slumping against your shoulder.

"What!?"

"Well, we're flying south. You got that much right." She slides up your arm, and – careful not to bump helmets – plants a kiss on your cheek, long and firm. "Thank you for a wonderful date, Admiral."

That keeps you quiet all the way back to Yokosuka.

40147967 (demetrious) -
THAT'S A WRAP FOR TONIGHT BECAUSE IT'S 3:42 AM HOW THE FUCK DID THAT HAPPEN OH MY GOD.

Click to shrink...

 

[Trace Coburn]

KANT-O-CELLE QUEST - INSERT SHIPPING PUN HERE​

TWITTER: twitter.com/planefriend
ARCHIVE: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive.html?tags=Kant-O-Celle Quest

You walk Shoukaku home – as it were. The cicadas have begun their almost deafening song as the last light of day slips from the sky, signposts and hedgerows shining gently in the brilliant silver light on one side, their others lost in inky shadows. Shoukaku says nothing; supporting your greater weight effortlessly; freeing you from the irritating tip tap tock of the cane. The moonlight shimmering on her hair gains a strange luster, almost... darkly delphinium. She cuts her eyes at you and you flick yours back to the path, but she smirks ever so slightly, as if she caught you looking. The heat of a southern Japanese summer is still simmering in the sprawling concrete expanse of Yokosuka, but a clean wind is rising from the bay and carrying it away.

You sharply scan the upper story windows of the dormitory building set aside for the shipgirls, but see no lights and no parted blinds. At the door Shoukaku turns to you, hands clasped before her demurely, and smiles up at you.

"Good night, Admiral."

"My pleasure, Shoukaku."


"Uh... One more thing..."

"Hmm?"

".... why did you grab that man like that? On the train?"

"Touch not," you say seriously. "Lest ye be touched."

She giggles. "I was going to work my hand down and just... catch his wrist," she says, "but you – I didn't even know humans could *do* that." She smiles again – you're starting to wonder if she ever *stops* smiling before dismissing the thought as blasphemy. "Thank you, again."

"Anytime."

After the latch clicks you turn your wrist over and check the time – pushing 2120. Still time to get some work done – or maybe just pay that smartass Goto a social call.

You turn to begin beating concrete – and almost jump out of your skin to find Arizona standing there. The wind is rising into a steady blow now, whipping stray strands of red hair across her forehead and swirling the tails of her black duster around her ankles. Her expression is as serene and unreadable as always, but in one hand she's holding something long and black, like a rod of sorts.

>How greet?


>[x] "Good evening, Arizona."
("SIEG ZEON!" ran a strong second, but sadly didn't make it in.)

"Oh," you say, feeling relieved. "Good evening, Arizona."

She approaches with strong, confident strides, her duster rustling dramatically in the wind. You eyeball the long black object in her hand curiously. "I've already got a cane, if you brought me one," you say, hefting yours so she can see it. She stops a little closer than usual, meeting your gaze with those piercing, searching eyes – and raises the black rod to point at the sky.

CLICK-FWHOOMP!

You twitch despite yourself – and look up at the black canopy that so abruptly cut out the light.

"... what?"

Arizona tilts her head half inch, her eyebrows quirking so slightly that you mightn't dismissed it as imagination if you didn't know her. As if to prove her point, a low, ominous rumble growls from the dark skies to the southeast.

"Oh."

She tilts the umbrella ever so slightly as her eyes grow inquisitive.

"I was going to pay Goto a visit."

She nods once, turns her eyes thoughtfully to the sky, then moves to your left side, wrapping her arm around your chest as high as she can. Before you can object she strides off with you safely captive, her arm supporting you like a steel band, if steel bands were slender and soft. Given the number of contradictions each shipgirl literally embodies it's a miracle your similes haven't held a union meeting and gone on strike yet. Her reasoning is demonstrated within minutes as the storm hits – wind-driven rain deflecting off Arizona's coated sides and slightly-tilted umbrella. She holds it in one hand against the wind with no apparent difficulty, and the umbrella itself hardly quavers. You wonder what the hell it's made out of and where you could get one.

You stop in the foyer of the administrative building long enough for Arizona to shake off her umbrella. An MP with a slung USP is re-winding a yo-yo. He gives you both the once-over, only smiling when he sees Arizona, giving her a silent go-ahead wave.


The last time you were in Goto's office, he'd gotten you to spill your damn guts with Arizona listening at the door. Somewhere between then and now the idea of confronting her about it and putting things in perspective just... withered away. She doesn't talk, after all – you can both pretend it was never heard, just as you and Hate pretend you know far less about each other's demons than you let on. But there's a security in that vagueness; the knowledge that the other only strongly guesses the truth, but can't possibly know it all, and Goto stole that from you.

So you're in a fine mood when you crash through the door of his dark office. You find his tanned face bathed in the blueish light of a computer monitor, enraptured. Sitting on his lap is Sammy, her expression similarly riveted. As one, they both reach for the same bowl of popcorn and slowly take a new handful, chewing almost thoughtfully.

"... what are you guys looking at?"

They both beckon you over silently, not looking away from the screen. You and Arizona circle the desk to look over their shoulders at-

"... an imageboard?"


"2chan," Goto and Sammy reply in simultaneous monotone. The browser's running as a picture-in-picture; the sidebar of Grokit evident on the side – a US/NATO suite of translation software that's frankly terrifying in its abilities, not yet available for civilian sales. How it got through the budget process without growing a bad acronym name you're not sure, but it was developed specifically to translate "informal language," which is the fancy way of saying "hajis shouting AN A-10 LEG IT WE'RE HUMPED over the radio." One of it's biggest features is the ability to recognize shortened words, the ad-hoc abbreviations and mash-up words soldiers invariably invent on deployments. "Flow of language in the battlespace" or some class-A bullshit like that. As a side-effect, it's pretty good at telling apart words that are simply incomplete based on pattern-analysis context; (to avoid mistranslating partially-transmitted words over radios and the like.) The sidebar indicates this feature is active now.

Which means you can't dismiss what you're seeing on the screen as a mere Google Translate error. Even as you watch, new messages appear with the page auto-refresh.


"THE GAIJIN IS REAL I SAW H"

">SAW H
Hit the enter key early? They make special keyboards for otakus with fat fingers."

"You don't understand he is chasing us I am on my phone I think I saw him"

"Then why aren't you running?"

"Ducked into a noodle stand to hi"

">to hi
Toshiba makes a nice tablet phone for fatties"

"DEMON SIGHTED NEAR THE STATION AVOID THE STATION"

"I just got here, what the hell is all replying about?"

">replies about
a bad meme"

"I'TS NOT A MEME WE'RE BEING CHASE BY BAD GAIJ"

"... what am I looking at?" you say, even though you're starting to get a good idea.

"The birth of a legend," Sammy breathes. "It's just like nip merchant freighters sending radio distress calls."

>... okay, that's enough of that. You'll catch up with Goto tomorrow morning. Everyone's having a day off.
>Send Sammy home with Arizona; best to let Goto smug when it's late enough that eavesdroppers are unlikely. He seems to know about the Tokyo incident already. Lets head off the scuttlebutt now.
>Pin him to the wall over the Tokyo incident – did he just underestimate the threat, or did he think that one insane Marine and one broken-down ex-skipper with a cane was sufficient security?
>Other?


>Send Sammy home with Arizona; best to let Goto smug when it's late enough that eavesdroppers are unlikely. He seems to know about the Tokyo incident already. Lets head off the scuttlebutt now.

"Arizona?" you whisper gently. "Could you take Sammy home?"

"Muuuuuuurgh," she comments, her eyes riveted on the screen. Goto winks at you and produces a tablet from a side drawer, which he navigates to the page with. Holding the tablet in one hand and the bowl of popcorn in the other, tilting to eat out of it while watching the screen, she lets Arizona lead her out the door. You wave goodbye to the older shipgirl, who nods seriously before swinging the door shut.

It creaks on dusty hinges for an endless moment – and then the latch clicks.

"How'dthedatego?" Goto asks instantly, spinning his chair around to face you. "Looks like it went pretty well."

You snap on his desk lamp and watch him visibly twitch as he gets a good look at you.

"THIS WAS NO DATE, BOY, NO DATE."

Goto regards you from beneath his dark brows with an expression as blank as possible without being passive; the face of a man who's just shaken his brain and is waiting for an emotion to float up against the viewing window.

Then he starts laughing.

​

Remember, Settle is still dressed like THIS pimp-ass S.O.B.​

At first his laughing drowns out the sound of his desktop's cooling fan. Then it rises in pitch a bit till you can't hear the wind-blown rain beating on the windowpanes. It only subsides when he begins to suffocate himself, slowly sliding out of his chair to puddle on the floor under his desk, the hollow space adding a sonorous, solemnly wooden timbre to his wails of mirth.

At last, he manages to climb back into his chair, still shaky, his Inscrutable Asian Atmosphere forever shattered. "Wow," he wheezes. "Wow. Okay. Wow. I knew that, you, but – that. That? That." He wipes tears of mirth off his face. "Guess you made out okay."

You nod sagely, tapping your new toy in one palm. "This new toy's not just for show!"

And like that he's off again, a little pile of giggles descending beneath the desk. He struggles upwards one more time, thrusting a desperate palm at you. "S-stop, it, g-goddamn, I can't... get up-"

"Because your soul is weighed down by gravity," you explain matter-of-factly. This time he manages to slump over his desk and wheeze a bit – not looking at you seems to lessen the effect.

"H-how do you KNOW all that shit?"

"Half from /a/, half they taught me when the staff gave me the costume. Cosplay is serious business, you know."

"... you know about 4chan? 2Chan? CHANS?"


"You get reaaaaal bored in the hospital and historians don't write new books worth the dustjacket very often." You squint at him. "So, what's your excuse?"

"Woah, woah, WOAH, check fire, check fire, lock the breeches, weapons hold," he intones, warding you off with his palms. "It's a security thing."

"No shit."

"Once the government decided to use our girls, they started promoting them pretty hard – people were scared shitless. There was a food panic for a few weeks when they finally hit shipping in the Sea of Japan, airpower be damned. There were whispers of martial law and very, very loud screams in reply, to the tune of 'not that shit again'." He shrugs. "So they made them media darlings because watching a dainty girl peeling an I-beam apart like string cheese does wonders for national morale." He reclines in his chair again and groans. "'Course, it also happens to be the kind of thing otakus have been fantasizing about since forever. And they can get pretty fucking weird, so we thought it best to... monitor things."

"And who did this monitoring?"

"Me," he sighs. "And my secretary, sometimes, but she can't really read that kind of atmosphere, you know? Hate was happy to take it over."

"Wut." Hate's nominally in charge of the security and well-being of your USN shipgirls, although any fuckups rightly fall on you as his immediate (and immediately present) superior. But volunteering for a desk job doesn't sound like the man you know.

"He came to me asking for something else to do – I was happy to oblige. Turns out he's pretty good at it."

"At sitting around reading a computer all day?"

"No. Shitposting. I mean, just look-" he turns the screen around for your perusal.


">Stop forcing your stupid yankee meme and go back to fucking 3D thanks"

">stupid yankee

WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST FUCKING SAY ABOUT ME, YOU LITTLE OTAKU? I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW I GRADUATED THE TOP OF MY CLASS IN ITC AND I'VE BEEN INVOLVED IN NUMEROUS SECRET RAIDS ON NAKED SHIPSLUTS AND HAVE OVER 300 CONFIRMED PANTYTHEFTS. I AM TRAINED IN SQUATTING WARFARE AND I'M THE TOP STALKER IN THE ENTIRE US ARMED FORCES. YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME BUT JUST ANOTHER TARGET. I WILL DOXX YOU THE FUCK OUT WITH PRECISION THE LIKES OF WHICH HAS NEVER BEEN SEEN BEFORE ON THIS EARTH, MARK MY ENGLISH WORDS. YOU THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH SAYING THAT SHIT ABOUT MY ADMIRAL ON THE INTERNET? THINK AGAIN, FUCKER. AS WE SPEAK I AM CONTACTING THE NSA AND YOUR CELL PHONE SIGNAL IS BEING TRACED RIGHT NOW SO YOU BETTER PREPARE FOR THE MAGNETIC STORM, MAGGOT. THE STORM THAT WIPES OUT THE PATHETIC LITTLE THING YOU CALL YOUR HARD DRIVE. YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD, KID-"

"He's got potential, I guess." As the page auto-refreshes you can see the thread is fairly exploding – he's taken a picture of three terrified otaku who he's treed like fucking black bears. The next two pictures show that the brief impulse you'd had the other night of putting a corgi up a tree would have, a-ha, borne fruit, because apparently they're nimble enough in a thick canopy to be a credible threat. This is followed by a picture of a camera resting in a paper shopping-bag, lens pointed up (you presume for upskirt photos,) followed by a picture of the unconscious owner wearing it over his head; bloodstains clear through the paper.

"He has a bright future in... I guess it's like being a social media co-coordinator, except his entire job is to make threats on the internet both credible, and two-way affairs." Goto snickers. "Maybe that'll cut down the creepy mail a bit. Christ."

You finally take a seat. "So if you knew about this, why such light security?"


"They've got to get out of the base on occasion, and they'll never be comfortable if we surround them with goons." He fishes around in his desk and produces that bottle of scotch again, ignoring your feeble protests as he fills two shot-glasses again. "How are they supposed to care about defending humanity if they never meet them?"

"You think humanity made a really good impression on Shoukaku tonight?" you ask dourly.

"Well, the guy choking out a lardass and the other one cutting a swath of terror through their sweaty neckbeard masses probably did."

The implications of his knowledge hit you at once. "Wait, am I-"

"All over 2chan," he says with a nod. "About a quarter of them are wishing you spontaneously combust for dating their waifu and the rest hope you'll choke out those posters next."

You squeeze the arms of your chair till you can hear them creak.

"... and the costumes?"

"YEP," he says with relish. "Someone made the connection about five minutes ago. It really fits you well, you know?"

"Jesus. H. Christ," you growl.

"Don't look at me like that," Goto says defensively. "I'm not the one that took a SHIP WHO IS ALSO A GIRL into a cafe that caters to mecha fans."

"... so?"

"You haven't heard of mecha musume? It's a genre all about anthropomorphizing objects; especially military hardware."

You stare at him blankly. "A what now."


"Like, planes, tanks, whatever – that are girls. With a costume that hints at it. As you might expect it shares a lot of crossover audience with mecha fans."

So THAT is why Hate tried to melt your brain with profanity over the phone when he found out where you were. "Well. Uh."

"You let her pick the venue, eh?" You nod, and he laughs. "Good. It might've ended up crazy, but you let her make her own decisions and I'll bet you never questioned them, either, and that counts for a lot right there. Especially for a military girl."

You down your scotch and remember, belatedly, that you've already got some beer in your system from dinner. You cradle that moment of concern, marveling at its warmth, before setting it free like a small bird. After your first liberty port as a young man, nothing can scare you again. Maybe because it'd kill you – which is far preferable to feeling the bottom of a gutter after every heave to make sure your stomach didn't come out entirely.

>Talk about secretaries – you want his input, to compare and contrast with Shoukaku's. Perfect time for it, too. Plus, you know the topic's gonna make him squirm.
>Ask him about all that nationalist bullshit Shoukaku told you about – plus, it gives you an opening to bring up Arizona.
>Talk some business – warships and deployments. Other areas will need guarding, and you're not sure how to organize your few 'vessels' to work with his fleet.
>Other?

40250468 (demetrious) -
1. JESUS FUCK why did that update take so god damned long, even with being interrupted by people at home oh god what
2. Navy Vet's stories are great and I'm starting to think he worked in sigint
3. >>40250438 The upskirt thing, stalking, etc. is very real. There's lots of otakus and Tokyo is an incredible concentration of humanity, so by the percentages - yeah.
4. >>40250444 NO DODGING THE WAIFU TRAIN HAHAHA NICE TRY

40250548 -
>>40250423
>So I have to ask, are otakus really that bad?
>>40250438
>I assume not, [demetrious is] just exaggerating them for shits and giggles.
There was a rash of Idol Otaku showing up at handshake events with semen on their hands. Pic related.

40250587 -
>>40250548
Okay. That makes American teenaged [fan-]girls seem incredibly normal.
That is not a good thing.

40250632 -
[...] molesters on trains are a big enough thing over there that there are female-only train cars.

Click to shrink...

>Talk about secretaries – you want his input, to compare and contrast with Shoukaku's. Perfect time for it, too. Plus, you know the topic's gonna make him squirm.

"I asked Shoukaku about secretaries," you tell him. "Picking one, and all that."

"Oh, really? Good idea. Shoukaku's pretty familiar with all the girls. Who'd she suggest?"

"Arizona, actually."

Goto blinks. "The one who never speaks?"

You shrug. "Well, there's something to it – you saw how she reacted to Kongou. Or more to the point, didn't."

He digests that thoughtfully. "That's... a rare quality, yeah."

You down your second scotch, letting the warmth go off in your belly like a depth charge; the remnants of your headache almost completely forgotten. "She does have a talent of shutting down arguments by just being conspicuously silent. She kind of makes you feel like you're being silly by getting excited with all those Loud Words and such."

Goto nods. "I hadn't really thought of it that way, but she's got a point. Anyone else?"

"Naka."

He gives you a narrow look, now. "Naka."

"Yeah."

"What do you think of that?"

You think about it.

>Naka must be able to read people pretty well to put up the front she does – and that front is so disarming and hard-to-hate that she achieves an effect much like Arizona, just via the opposite direction. I think she'd be a good mediator.
>Naka needs something to get her off the front lines. She's very insecure in her ability to perform in combat; insecurities that tend to be self-fulfilling. She needs something out of the line of fire for a bit till we can get a better read on her.
>No need to commit to anything now – Naka's going to be in ordinary for a while anyhow; the job would keep her from going crazy, we could trial her at it, and judge the reaction of others/the press to the appointment.

40251452 (demetrious) -
VOTES PRETTY OVERWHELMINGLY CALLED
>>40251414
This is exactly why I didn't put quotation marks around the votes; so it would be clear that it was Settle's internal dialogue, not what he'd say to Goto.

40251880 (demetrious) -
NEW THREAD >>>>40251867

Click to shrink...

 

[Trace Coburn]

KANT-O-CELLE QUEST - HOTEL RESERVATIONS​

>No need to commit to anything now – Naka's going to be in ordinary for a while anyhow; the job would keep her from going crazy, we could trial her at it, and judge the reaction of others/the press to the appointment.

"Well," you say at length. "Either way, she's going to be in ordinary for a while anyways; and with that, uh, energetic personality of hers I think not having something to do will drive her nuts. Absolutely nuts." You rub your chin thoughtfully. "Some of it is just paperwork stuff, but I'm not sure anyone can stay mad when she starts in with that -" you remember the way she shut Harder's wrath down with one well-timed crossing of her slender, pale legs - "uh, idol thing."

"You think she'll do okay?"

"When that air raid hit, I was wheeling her around base. She got her head in the fight faster than I did. Even if she's not cut out for that particular job, I doubt she's going to screw the pooch." You almost catch yourself on that last one, but Goto's drinking too, and he GAVE you the drinks, so to hell with it. You doubt he'll care, anyway – he's pretty loose for a Japanese guy.

In fact, his propensity for office drinking is the only really Japanese thing about the guy. Or maybe you're ethnocentric and Projecting and you didn't even ask him for his pronouns so who gives a shit? You down another shot. "So why are you trying to get me drunk?"

"I assigned Naka a small command an hour or two ago," he tells you.

"What, really?"

"Perfect time for it," he points out. "With the flagship in ordinary, the others will have time to train as a team. Naka doesn't need it; she was one of our first. She's seen enough heavy shit that the training range isn't much use for her. She can still supervise, however."

"So why are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Trying?" he refills your glass.

You toss it back, and slap it down. "Trying."

He smirks – and rolls his chair a few inches away from the desk, looking just like he's trying to dodge another of Kongou's dynamic entries. "I assigned Fubuki to her."

"Makes sense."

"And Willie."

>Oh sweet fuck a headcase with a headcase we need to get ahead of this
>Wow, that's perfect. The one person on base Naka can't possibly feel inferior to!
>An attaboy from someone qualified to judge but without a direct interest in her performance? Give her a few more of those and we might just get along, Goto!

40251901 (demetrious) -
>>40251563
>This is also why it's good practice to justify and explain your votes, because [demetrious] is literate and can identify confusion
Also this guy [...] is so right. This factor alone significantly changed the outcome of a decision last session, and for the better.

40252033 (demetrious) -
>>40251928
>Could you elaborate on which decision and how?
Lessee the archives, here:

>Did the abyssals put shrapnel through our balls as well as our thigh? Of course you can handle a bunch of fucking otaku. Shoukaku's safe now – what the fuck are you worried about?
>Best not to take chances – this has gotten far enough out of hand, and you've made enough mistakes. If he's got a weapon or something, you need it.

Click to shrink...

This one. The vote option referring to a "weapon" meant a real, actual weapon - kind of like firing a gun into the air while yelling to make a crowd abandon all ideas of violence really quick. But anon made it clear that they thought the option was for deploying Hate (which had already been confirmed by the prior vote, so he was in anyways,) so I just... intensified that to fit.
In the end, I think anon DID vote for deploying a real, actual weapon.

Click to shrink...

>An attaboy from someone qualified to judge but without a direct interest in her performance? Give her a few more of those and we might just get along, Goto!

You snicker. "Ah, Goto, this star feels pretty new. If I want to get all huffy I'll bring a ruler and we can both have that contest fair and square."

He laughs.

"Kongou can be the judge."

He stops laughing.

"If Naka was one of your first ships... she must've been rough to start with too, right?"

He nods. "You'd think they'd know how to fight, instinctively... and in a sense, they do. But they all react to their, uh, resurrections in a humanoid body differently."

You recall how Shoukaku described taking to clothes shopping so avidly, and recall that plenty other shipgirls seem to go about base in the same old uniform they always wear. Kind of like you.

"She was a bit unsteady at first – she looked like a kid learning to ice-skate for the first time, really. And there was nobody to ease her into it, or show her how. We had to throw her into battle before she was really ready."


"Isn't that-"

"She wouldn't stay behind," he explains. "She saw us sortieing and just fell into formation. We left at night; it was almost two hours before the deck watch spotted her." He sighs. "I know she doesn't seem like much on paper, but we both know the facts aren't everything with this spooky shit. Fubuki reminds me of Naka a lot; she can barely set sail without face-planting in a wave – top heavy, I guess – but she's trying her ass off. I think they'll all have a good influence on each other."

You chortle. "I can drink to that, Goto."

And you most certainly do.

--------

Your watch wakes you up right on time, with the added benefit that you can't find it in time to smash it. You grope around for it with the intensity of a wounded soldier crawling for cover; powering through agonizing effort with the grim, certain knowledge that you can rest if only you see it through. By the time you locate your watch on your wrist, it's too late – you're awake. A shave-and-shower later you duck into the kitchen long enough to drop more crumbled-up bread to your new fish (still have to buy that aerator thing – today) and check your schedule on your smartphone. A few things have been re-arranged to accommodate work crews patching up the limited damage from yesterday's air raid.

>Hit up the mess – it kicks the shit out of cold cereal, and it's good to keep in touch with the morale/scuttlebutt around base.
>Eat in this morning and check the news, the internet, e-mail – get a fix on public opinion. The Navy has People That Will Handle That, but you don't necessarily trust the likes of journalism majors.


>Hit up the mess – it kicks the shit out of cold cereal, and it's good to keep in touch with the morale/scuttlebutt around base.

You decide to get some real food and skip the usual morning e-mail routine. Paying attention to the public mood is all well and good, but if you turn on the news to see yourself choking roundboy with that cane, it won't set a good mood for the whole damn day. You never got used to the idea of being in the media – or being popular – or being a 'household name,' whatever the fuck that means. And you're keen on the idea that people might be forgetting by now – sixteen months is a lot longer than fifteen minutes.

You make it to the mess without incident. Last night's storm dropped the temps down to the bearable range so the staff have thrown the windows open to let the breeze in. You take a deep breath, feeling pretty good – still a little groggy, but the slow, steady beat of that hangover is helping keep you sharp, and you prefer pain to grogginess anytime. You stand near the drink machine and drink three cups of orange juice quickly before loading a plate high with hash browns balanced on top of eggs. You're advancing on the bacon when your attention is drawn by someone speaking your name. Glancing back, you discover a conspiratorial huddle at one of the tables nearest the buffet line.

"He what!?" one of them exclaims, before being hushed by her fellows. It looks like DesDiv 6 having a pow-wow.

>Just.... eaaaaaase on up and see what they're chatting about.
>Greet them cheerfully so you can watch them try to be all casual like they weren't being conspiratorial.


>Just.... eaaaaaase on up and see what they're chatting about.

You sidle sideways, a depressingly obvious approach given your bright white uniform, but the four girls are engrossed in their little chat.

"H-he didn't," Inazuma breathes. "Everyone says he seems so s-sincere!"

"He totally did," Akatsuki replies confidently. "He left Shoukaku there, bid her goodnight like a gentleman, and then-"

The other three lean in, their faces rapt with expectation -

"-walked away under an umbrella with Arizona!"

The other three gasp. Ikazuchi seems stricken. "B-but he wouldn't," she says, her usual enthusiasm seeming subdued. "He took Mogami to the doctor himself."

"Doctor," Hibiki says, tasting the word experimentally.

"Technically?" Ikazuchi replies. "But he wasn't scared at all and made the guy help Mogami and-" she shakes her head. "H-he wouldn't be two-timing!"

"What if it's Arizona?" Akatsuki theorizes. "Maybe she's seducing Admiral Settle!"

"M-maybe..." Inazuma ventures hesitantly. The other three fall silent and focus on her. "Maybe Arizona is actually a boy?"

The other three twitch.


"T-think about it," Inazuma says quietly, poking her fingers together, avoiding her friends eyes. "She never speaks. She wears a long duster a lot. Someone said she always carries a r-revolver. Sh-she just showed up from out of town one day... all mysterious..." she looks up suddenly, conviction in her eyes. "A-and lots of boys dressed up as girls to fight in the Army in history! What if she was afraid they wouldn't let a ship-boy fight?"

You're glad you chose to hang back – this is fantastic. Hibiki looks up and spots you, her mouth opening in surprise. You wink at her and press a finger to your lips, and she nods almost imperceptibly.

"Shipboys aren't that rare," Akatsuki counters with a frown. "I mean we've even got Har-"

"Akatsuki!" Hibiki scolds her, but it's too late – Ikazuchi is already starting to shiver, an awful, hollow look entering her eyes. Inazuma grabs her by the shoulder.

"Ikazuchi, snap out of it!" She starts shaking her friend, looking striken, vocalizing her distress with a little "hawahwahwahwa" that sounds like it'd be crying if it wasn't too flustered to come out properly.

Hibiki looks up you coolly.

>Scare them – make them forget about the prior topic completely.
>Confirm that Arizona is a mysterious drifter from out-of-town that plays a harmonica on occasion, but never well.
>Ask what's up with the umbrella.
>Ask how the hell they knew about all that – you checked! There were no windows open! YOU CHECKED!

40253772 -
>Confirm that Arizona is a mysterious drifter from out-of-town that plays a harmonica on occasion, but never well.
She showed up one day
With a big iron on her hip

40253783 -
>>40253772
'Big Iron', by Marty Robbins

40253870 -
>>40253783
To the town of Honolulu sailed a stranger one fine day
Hardly spoke to folks around her didn't have too much to say
No one dared to ask her business no one dared to make a slip
For the stranger there among them had a big iron on her hip
Big iron on her hip

40253892 (Cpl. Hate) -
>>40253870
YOU. You are my new favorite fucking person.

40253955 (demetrious) -
>>40253870
>writing update
>look back
>literally my update
HA

Click to shrink...

>Confirm that Arizona is a mysterious drifter from out-of-town that plays a harmonica on occasion, but never well.

"It's true," you say, your voice laden with grave undertones.

The three squabbling girls look up at you like deer caught in the headlights.

You set your tray on their table and pull up a chair. "Inazuma's got the right idea," you explain seriously. "Arizona just... showed up one day. Sailed into the harbor from the South, slowly looking all around. Sixteen-inchers slung low on her hips. People started talking – people panicked. They figured she might be an abyssal loose and sailing, looking to do some vengeance with the big irons on her hips."

"Wh-what did she come back for?" Ikazuchi asks.

You shrug. "She's never told. Never said a word. But she must have some sort of idea... because she does carry a gun."

Inazuma gasps, her eyes sparkling. "S-she does?"

You nod. "A six-shooter."

Now Ikazuchi is shaking Inazuma, but it's too late. "A-and she'll stay silent till she's seen everything, and figured out how everyone operates..."

You nod.

"A-and then she'll make her intentions known!" Inazuma concludes, thrusting a fingergun into the air. "A-and call out her foe!" She leans forward, clearly fascinated. "And Hornet...!"

"Hmm?"

"Is she-" she drops her voice. "A princess?"

Even Hibiki gives Inazuma a look, and you see the girl's face already crumpling as her own words bounce back at her, too late to be recalled.

"Yes," you reply.


Inazuma lights up like a goddamn spotlight, Ikazuchi gives you a dubious look and Hibiki just smiles ever so slightly. "Of course she is. Only braves are allowed to fight – unless you're the chieftain's daughter, and then you can do whatever you want. And did she ever."

"S-she did?"

You nod sagely. "She snuck deep into hostile territory and launched an attack with aircraft she shouldn't have even been able to carry. Everyone thought she was a shaman who had summoned aircraft from the mystical land of shangri-la to carry out the strike."

"Shiggyloogy," Ikazuchi says disdainfully – but she's paying attention to your every word. "Maybe it was just propaganda!"

"Maybe," you say with a shrug. "Maybe. But..."

They all wait, holding their breath.

"She does have a magic arrow."

"No way!" Ikazuchi exclaims.

"Yes," you say seriously. "Way. A black arrow that she never fires... until she has no other option. When she looses it, it always finds the enemy, no matter where they are!"

Their eyes widen.

"Why doesn't she fire it all the time?" Akatsuki asks, her tone uncertain now. "If it's so awesome?"

"Because whenever she does, it *never comes back.*"

You let that hang over the table for a few seconds while you eat.

"... so how does she-"

"Pulls it out of the abyssal it killed," you reply offhandedly. "Sometimes she's gotta put her foot on 'em and really yank. Took us a crane, once."


Inazuma has her fists pressed against her mouth and seems to be thrilled so much she can't breathe.

"So, what's this about me and an umberella?" you ask.

"Uh-" to her credit, Akatsuki only hesitates a moment once she realizes she's in the sights. "Yeah. You! You walked home with Arizona last night! Under an umbrella."

"She brought it to keep me from getting wet," you explain. "It was raining!"

"But Admiral," Ikazuchi ventures. "D-don't you know that sharing an umbrella..."

You raise an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"It's... it's like..."

You make a little circling motion with your fork to encourage her. "It's like...?

"N-nothing!" she says brightly, a nervous little giggle escaping her.

"Would it be like sharing AA coverage? They call those umbrellas sometimes, after all." You look at Inazuma. "Arizona's secondary battery can't elevate high enough for anti-aircraft fire. She'll need escorts. Would you share your AA with Arizona-san?"

Inazuma turns beet-red, sliding down in her chair to hide her face behind her arms, a muffled "hawawawawwa" her only reply.

"We should eat," Hibiki points out. "We'll be late for gunnery practice if we don't."

"Do we have to?" Ikazuchi mutters. "I'm never good with them..."

"Don't slack in front of the Admiral," Hibiki chastises her. "Come on!"

>Invite the girls to take their time and attend range practice with the battleships – you've been meaning to get to that sometime anyways.
>Ask if they'd like to try some ASW training instead, if they're tired of guns.
>Ask if you can see them in maneuvers with their flotilla leader - you need to know more about that if you're going to be adding destroyers to your future operations.
>Other?


>Invite the girls to take their time and attend range practice with the battleships – you've been meaning to get to that sometime anyways.

"You're running late already," you say, checking your watch. "Hey, if you want, just attend the next range session afterward – you don't have anything scheduled for right after, right?"

"With the battleships!?" Inazuma almost squeals.

"That'd be exciting!" Ikazuchi cheers.

"I guess that'd be okay," Akatsuki admits.

"Is it really okay?" Hibiki asks.

"Hat!" you exclaim, pointing. "Star! Ay-thour-i-tay!"

Hibiki shrugs, as if to say sure, see how far it goes. You think you will.


During the breakfast conversation you manage to learn the girls are perfectly capable of evesdropping from impressive range – they've got pretty decent passive sonar, their active systems notwithstanding. After dumping your trays (you polished off the last of Inazuma's eggs on her request; she looks too excited to eat,) you lead them to the little motor launch that services the island of Hakozakicho. From there the girls can line up on the pier and launch their miniaturized projectiles at the rock breakwater about twenty-five hundred yards away. As you approach the impromptu range you can hear the thunder of guns drifting over the island's big central hill. Hate is there to greet you at the rope barrier defining the impromptu range – he's been put in charge of administrating these practice sessions because... well, he's really the only one with the skill, authority and availability to do it. The range officer of the base's small-arms range has the clearance, but being muzzle-swept by a 14-inch gun apparently diminished his already-low enthusiasm for the task. The Lance Corporal's suspicious eyes sweep your little entourage suspiciously.

"You're late."


The girls quail, and Inazuma actually starts edging behind you. As you recall, they've been having most of their shoots at the small arms range; the backstops there can handle the 5-inchers well enough with practice ammo.

"An Admiral is never late," you reply glibly. "He always arrives at the exact instant he intends to. For instance, I intended to show up at exactly -" you check your watch. "Whenever the hell I want. Gee, look at the time."

Hate gives you a lidded-eyed look. "Well, I got Willie and Fubuki on the last two lanes and they haven't killed me yet, so whatever." He turns to the girls, and gestures politely for them to enter, holding the rope open for them. He clips it shut behind them.

"Welcome to the range," he says politely. "Now listen to me and follow my rules."

Akatsuki gives him a Look; her metaphorical hackles already rising.

"One," he says. "Never, ever point your guns... turrets... whatever, anywhere else but downrange. EVER. Never, ever swivel those goddamn turrets in any other direction. I see a turret swing towards me, I will assume you are engaging me and respond accordingly."

"With a smokescreen?" Akatsuki replies dourly.


She's interrupted by a nasty growl near her ankles, no less threatening for its high pitch. She looks down and yelps as she jumps away from a Corgi perched near Hate's feet, the little creature's hackles standing straight up.

"I got something else for the big girls," he says with quiet malice, "but this fella here, he really, really, REALLY hates destroyers."

They gulp.

"Dunno what his beef is, but I keep him on hand just for biting ankles. Sent one girl right into the water yesterday. Funny as hell."

"What'd she do?" Hibiki asks.

"Nothing. But it was funny as hell."

They blanch, and nod hastily to convey that they get the point.

"Second," Hate says, "when I say cease fire, cease frikkin fire – probably some idiot that didn't read the notices pedaling his sampan out during the middle of life-fire practice. Despite, you know, all the noise."

They nod.

"Third – you will all wear ear protection at all times."

"BUUUUUUUUUUUURNING SHELLS!" Kongo's voice comes booming from one of the wooden shooting stalls, the sound of miniature 14-inch rifles almost underwhelming compared to her voice belting out over the open water.

"Not that it'll do you much fucking good," he says sourly. "If you forget your earpo we've got foam earplugs, the Navy pays for those. But they don't pay for eye protection and the cheap stuff sucks, so I got this." He picks up a plastic box setting on a table to his side, and proffers it. "Okay, you all take one. Bring it to practice every time, and DON'T FRIKKIN LOSE THEM."

Kongō and Willie at the range. (art by pixel-anon)​

Ikazuchi picks one of the plastic glasses out of the box gingerly – they look like Iraq Invasion era military ballistic glasses, fresh out of the cardboard. "Are these really that important?"

"I won't let you in without them," Hate says seriously. "If you screw up and come here without them, you get to use one of my spares."

"It can't be worse than these," Ikazuchi says dourly, frowning at the unstylish ballistic glasses.

"DESS~U!" you hear, and turn to see Kongou emerging from her stall as the gunfire tapers off across the line. She's beaming at you from a huge pair of novelty "2009" glasses, where the 0s form the lenses. "GOOD MORNING, ADMIRAL SETTLE!"

Ikazuchi recoils as if struck.

"Figure's she'd forget hers," Hibiki says quietly.

"Oh, no," Hate sighs. "She asks for them, every time."

"Well what about her!?" Ikazuchi says, pointing at Willie, who's just emerging from the stall at the end, closest to Hate. She's wiping dust off the face-shield of the riot helmet she's wearing. "Why does she get that instead of silly glasses?"

"Her? She's a special case. She needs all the help she can get."

40255537 (demetrious) -
THAT IS ALL FROM ME FOR TONIGHT!

Click to shrink...

40254683 (song-anon) -

Finally fucking done.

To the town of Honolulu sailed a stranger one fine day
Hardly spoke to folks around her didn't have too much to say
No one dared to ask her business no one dared to make a slip
For the stranger there among them had a big iron on her hip
Big iron on her hip

It was early in the mornin when she sailed into town
She came sailin from the east side, slowly lookin all around
She's an abyssal loose and runnin came the whisper from each lip
And she's here to do some vengeance with the big iron on her hip
Big iron on her hip.

Near the town there sailed an Abyssal by the name of Iowa
Many had tried to sink her each one got a lead enema
She was vicious and a killer, ship number BB-4
And the notches on her guns numbered one an nineteen more
One and nineteen more

Now the stranger started talking made it plain to folks around
Was a shipgirl and wouldn't be too long in town
She came here to sink an Abyssal in single battalia
And she said it didn't matter she was after Iowa
After Iowa

Wasn't long before Iowa came by to raid again
The Abyssal had no fear of the Navy now or then
Twenty times they'd tried to sink her twenty times they'd made a slip
Twenty one would be the shipgirl with the big iron on her hip
Big iron on her hip

The morning passed so quickly it was time for them to meet
It was twenty past eleven when they sailed in the heat
Folks were watching from the shore every-body held their breath
They knew this pretty shipgirl was about to meet her death
About to meet her death

There was forty hundred yards between them when they stopped to make their play
And the swiftness of the shipgirl is still talked about today
Iowa had not ranged fore a shell fairly ripped
And the shipgirl's aim was deadly with the big iron on her hip
Big iron on her hip

1/2

40254702 (song-anon) -
>>40254683
2/2

It was over in a moment and out sailed a handful of braves
And they saw the body of the Abyssal sink beneath the waves
Oh she might have went on raiding but she made one fatal slip
When she tried to match the shipgirl with the big iron on her hip
Big iron on her hip

Click to shrink...

The KanColle/KCQ rewrite of 'Big Iron', sung by our own Whiskey Golf.​

 

[Trace Coburn]

KANT-O-CELLE QUEST - WHY CAN'T THINGS JUST FUCKING WORK FOR A FUCKING CHANGE​

TWITTER: twitter.com/planefriend
ARCHIVES: sup/tg/ - /tg/ Archive

"All right," Hate says dubiously, eying the uncertain-looking gaggle of Desdiv 6. "Let the battleships finish their rounds for this set and we'll get you guys in lanes with fresh targets and such."

"Lane Corporal-" Kongou singsongs.

"LANCE Corporal, it's LANCE-"

"Can I get a new target now?"

"Why the-" Hate applies his 50 power binoculars and squints downrange at the breakwater. "Where the... why is there smoke?"

"TYPE 3 SHELLS!" Kongou declares happily, doing a little spin-in-place and ending with a dramatically-outflung hand.


"... you know those are fucking useless, right?" Hate growls. "Why are you firing that shit? We're supposed to be using practice rounds, goddammit."

Kongou crosses her arms and pouts at Hate through the massive "2009" glasses perched on her pert nose. "But these shells are better because they are made of FIRE!"

Hate begins to reply, but the words fall right out of his mouth before he can catch them. "... they damage the target stands," he recovers. "If you break'em, I'm gonna make you cower behind that breakwater to do the manual resetting, okay?"

"O~kay~" Kongou says, completely unfazed, cocking her head cutely and blinking demurely through the big 00s of the "2009."

"Crazy bitch," Hate mutters darkly as he turns to desdiv 6. "Okay, just - where the fuck!?" The destroyer girls have crossed The Yellow Line Of Doom and are quietly crowded behind Arizona, almost edging into her stall; all of them hunched over a bit to see past her waist at the distant target. You catch Hate by the shirtsleeve before he can lay into them and shake your head a bit. He sighs, shrugs and shouts: "FINE, RANGE IS HOT, BLOW YER FUKKIN MATCHES, Y'SLUTS!"


Arizona turns her side downrange, extending one arm and making a gun-shape with her fingers; her other hand resting on her hip in a classic one-handed pistol stance. She takes a deep breath as every five-inch battery on her right side takes aim - six heavy casemated guns, and four deck-mounted AA guns; protected only by gun shields. Even in miniature, ten five-inch guns are one hell of a secondary broadside; and the destroyers watch in awe as Arizona cuts loose; practice shells screaming downrange to rip through the paper target. You observe the neat, tightly-clustered holes with Hate's borrowed range glasses, but the girls are already gasping in awe, apparently using their own rangefinders to observe the fall of shot.

... however that works. You keep waiting for this to stop being weird, but it hasn't happened yet.

After a few more broadsides, the battleships fall silent, and Hate moves in to corral desdiv 6 and herd them into some new lanes while the robotic target stands store the shot-up targets and put up new ones. You notice Inazuma's eyes widen enough to pop out of her head when she sees Arizona pass by close enough to touch; her attention riveted on the revolver the battleship wears everywhere on her hip. Despite Arizona's prowess as a ship, it seems its the cowboy mystique that Inazuma's in love with.

>Ask Hate if he feels like some shooting himself - you're sure he's got a pistol dueling tree set up on a float out there, and you'd love to see Arizona in action almost as much as Inazuma.
>On second thought, put Willie and Fubuki on the dueling tree. Just tell Willie it's a game - if she thinks about it in a different context she'll probably do a lot better.
>Just let the destroyers line up and start shooting - you want to see how they do before you try anything fancy and leadership-y.


>Just let the destroyers line up and start shooting - you want to see how they do before you try anything fancy and leadership-y.

The girls of desdiv 6 are shuffled and poked into their stalls by dark glances from Hate; two on either side of Fubuki. The stalls are defined by heavy-duty ballistic plastic sheets attached to the plywood roof at the top; allowing Hate good visibility down the firing line. You see Willie glancing at the double-turrets being gripped by the Japanese destroyers, and looks at her own single-gun turret sadly.

"Hate?"

"Uh."

"What's that on her wrist?" you point at Willie. "A... lanyard?"

"For a wiimote, yeah." He catches your look. "What!? It's all I had!"

"Is she really that bad?"

"Just watch."

Hate calls the range hot, and the girls begin plugging away at the breakwater. Willie squints through the blast shield on the top of the turret - designed to protect the turret-mounted backup rangefinders - kind of like a red-dot sight. You notice she's tensed up something awful and gritting her teeth; her eyes clearly battling the glare on the riot helmet. She jerks the trigger and almost wails when her gun sends up a miniature waterspout well short and to the right of the breakwater.

Inazuma is blazing away excitedly, barely recovering from the recoil before she fires again; clearly thrilled with the high rate of fire her five-inchers put out. Akatsuki, you note, is copying Arizona's one-handed stance, complete with the hand-on-the-hip. The slight hair-toss and exaggerated recoil motion when she catches you looking is probably her own addition, however. Ikazuchi is firing normally; putting a decent pattern through the paper with a few fliers deviating each way. Hibiki is the best shot, waiting long enough to recover from the recoil, but not too long - letting shells fly without bothering to observe fall-of-shot. She knows the range, after all.

"Hate?"


"WHAT?! SHIT, WAIT." He leans over and digs through his supply box before coming up with a spare set of radio-equipped earmuffs for your use. "Okay, now I can hear you," his voice crackles through the headset. "What is it?"

"What good is this if they know the range?"

"We use different-sized targets - kind of like those old quarter-scale green ivan targets, eh? - and vary their powder load for each batch to simulate different ranges," he explains, showing you a heavy cardboard box with case after plastic case of what look like little cylinders of cotton. "That's for the battleships; they use separate charges, so it's easy." He shows you a second bag. "And these are the handloads the armory makes up for the destroyers, because five-inchers use unitary shells. Someone must've had a hell of a time putting those together." Each box has a range listed on them in yards. "Right now they're simulating ten thousand yards, I think. We don't tell them what the distance is; they've got to work it out with their own rangefinders based on the target they're looking at."

You look back to the line. Willie is obviously distressed as she watches desdiv 6 and Fubuki outshoot her by a good margin. She thrusts her gun before her, hand gripping her wrist as if she could punch the shell at the target and manages to squeeze the trigger before she's ready; sending her reeling backwards with a yelp. She pulls the trigger again and a small practice shell embeds itself in the ceiling; showering her with wooden splinters.

Hate nods at her. "See? That's her problem. No trigger control... no nothing." He sighs and rubs his eyes.

You stroke your chin, thinking.

>Stationary shooting is a good start, but have they tried firing while moving? Or at a moving target, for that matter? On their sea legs, so to speak? That makes a big difference.
>Willie needs some help before you do anything else - ask Arizona to give her some pointers.
>Ask Desdiv 6 to help Willie out - destroyers to destroyers. You don't want Willie thinking she's a burden to anyone, and her peers understand the difficulties of a narrow-base rangefinder and an unstable gunnery platform better than anyone.


>Ask Desdiv 6 to help Willie out - destroyers to destroyers. You don't want Willie thinking she's a burden to anyone, and her peers understand the difficulties of a narrow-base rangefinder and an unstable gunnery platform better than anyone.

When the girls finish their current batch of ten-thousand yard sim ammo, you motion Hate to call the range cold. Willie sulks off to one corner, slumping over a weather-worn picnic table to flip up her face shield and wipe at her eyes. Desdiv 6 is already comparing scores before the little robotic RHIB can ferry their targets back from the collection point by the breakwater. You snap your fingers to get their attention and wave them over.

"How did we do, Admiral?" Ikazuchi asks proudly.

"W-was Arizona-san watching?" Inazuma chimes in quietly.

Akatsuki gives her a dim look and sniffs. Hibiki says nothing, as usual - watching everyone with those piercing blue eyes.

You lean over and wrap your arms around their shoulders, pulling all four into a close huddle. "Hey. Look over there." You tilt your head at Willie, who's turned her back to the range, but can't hide the telltale shaking of her shoulders as she has a good cry. The destroyer quartet fidgets uncomfortably for a minute. "The poor girl doesn't have any of her sister ships with her, like you do. She's so uncertain she doesn't know what to do with herself. And I can see you're all good shots. Do you think you could help her out a bit? Give her some confidence?"


"Leave it to MMMPH!" Ikazuchi exclaims as Hibiki claps a hand over mouth.

"Not so loud, idiot," Hibiki admonishes her gently.

"W-wouldn't Arizona-san be better?" Inazuma says shyly, poking her fingers together. "I m-mean she handles her five-inchers l-like a pro - and so f-fast, too-"

"I don't want Willie thinking she's a burden to the bigger ships," you whisper back. "Besides, battleships are big, stable gun platforms with huge rangefinders to do all the work. They don't understand the needs of destroyers very well at all, you know?"

Akatsuki presses a hand against her breast. "Very well, then - I'll show Willie Dee the mystery of the gun!"

Hate snorts at that, earning him a sharp look from the purple-clad girl. "Desdiv 6! Come!" They gaggle up on Akatsuki and charge off to surround Willie. The sniffling destroyer is so lost in her misery that she doesn't notice them till she's been surrounded. Her head snaps up so fast the plexiglass face shield of her riot helmet is slapped down by the motion. She pulls her balled-up fists against her chest protectively, looking up at the girls warily.

"Hey, Willie Dee!" Akatsuki says.

"W-w-hat do you w-want!?" The American girl demands, scooting back along the picnic table seat until she hits Ikazuchi's knees, causing her to spring up with a yelp of fright.

"HEY!" Ikazuchi says. "We're here to help you!"

"I d-don't need any help!" Willie protests weakly, her faceshield rattling audibly with her tremors.

"Don't be silly," Akatsuki says. "We destroyers have to stick together!"


"You're just not used to your new body yet, I think," Hibiki says quietly. "These bodies aren't built for this kind of thing, so we had to learn everything over again."

"Uhh..." Willie says uncertainly, looking down at her hands. "I... I guess-"

"Then lets go!" Ikazuchi declares. She and Akatsuki slip an arm under hers and haul her bodily off her feet, sweeping her over to her stall with a shout. They deposit the vibrating girl on her unsteady feet, one of them picking up her dangling "gun" pressing it into her trembling hands once more.

"Okay!" Ikazuchi says. "You see the target, right?"

Hate presses a button on his remote, and a good ways downrange another little paper target pops up.

"Y-yes," Willie says, sounding defeated already.

"Got it in your rangefinder?"

Willie peers through the little aperture on the top of her turret. ".... yes...."

"Just blaze away!" Ikazuchi encourages her. "It's just a test shot to make sure this new batch of ammo is working anyway, don't think anything of it!"

Willie says nothing, but you can see her shoulders slumping already. Perhaps because she's not overexerting herself, the windage on this shot is fine, but the shell arcs low, splashing into the water only three-quarters of the way to the breakwater.

"Good!" Ikazuchi says boldly. "Now just blast away at 'em, bang bang, walk those shells closer with each shot!"

"That's no way to do it!" Akatzuki objects. "She's got to get closer than that before she tries to adjust fire like that!"

"She can do that later!" Ikazuchi objects. "For now she just needs to practice getting it in the neighborhood, then she can work on precision!"

"Who died and made you the god of gunnery, anyway!?" Akatsuki demands. "If you don't take your time, you'll always muck it up!"


"You have to learn by DOING!" Ikazuchi objects. "You don't always have time in combat to flip your hair and look cool before shooting!"

"Shows what you know!" Akatsuki snaps. "Willie-chan, just take a deep breath; take your pose -" she demonstrates - "and the shell will find its own way. You can't control the wind or sea state, but you can always return to that one pose - poise!"

"Oh god, just shoot before she talks any more!" Ikazuchi snaps back, crossing her arms and huffing at her sister ship.

"You want her to do rapid-fire when she can barely hold onto her gun!?" Akatsuki snaps.

This proves too much for Willie. She leaps out of the stall - right off the pier, in fact; hitting the water unsteadily, her arms windmilling wildly as she teeters on one foot as her Outfit struggles to manifest; the air buzzing and blurring around her as it slowly struggles into being. Before desdiv 6 can react Willie's tearing off across the bay towards the breakwater, her sobbing clearly audible.

Ikazuchi and Akatsuki stare after her, thunderstruck.

"OH G-GOD W-WE M-MADE HER C-CRRYYYYYYYY," Inazuma wails, rubbing at her eyes as *she* begins to sob miserably. "I'M S-SORRY!"

Hibiki just covers her mouth with her hands, her blue eyes watching Willie's retreat with regret.

>... give the girl some room. You think you know what the problem is now, but you should talk things over with Hate before you come up with a solution.
>Chase after her. You can't stand to see her go like this.
>Ask Arizona if she'd go fetch her. If there's one shoulder who she'll be able to cry on, it's quiet, patient, never-judging Arizona.


>Ask Arizona if she'd go fetch her. If there's one shoulder who she'll be able to cry on, it's quiet, patient, never-judging Arizona.

"Arizona!" you shout. Your battleship takes one look at you, salutes, and leaps off the pier gracefully, hitting the water with her outfit already deploying; sailing after Willie at top speed. The little destroyer is faster by far, but you're pretty sure she'll find a spot to cry herself out, and you're sure Arizona can sneak up on her then. You turn your attention to Ikazuchi and Akatsuki, who are now yelling at her as they try to assign blame for what just happened. Hibiki is moving in, a narrow expression on her face as she reaches for their earlobes.

This was your mess, however, so you intend to clean it up yourself.

"SAILORS!" you bellow; and all four girls snap to attention at once, tears still streaming down Inazuma's face.

You scan them impassively, letting them shiver in apprehension for a bit. You think of a few things to say, but... you're not quite sure what you SHOULD say. Inazuma's broken up, Ikazuchi and Akatsuki are in the throes of high dudgeon, both convinced their approach was correct. Hibiki is looking a little downcast - she certainly saw it coming, but she seemed to be powerless to stop it, and you doubt she felt good about that.

>Just focus on calming them down and patting some heads. If nothing else, they helped you see what Willie's problem is - and showed Willie that desdiv 6 has their own problems just as bad as hers.
>Gentle admonishment of Ikazuchi and Akatsuki - they were so hellbent on their ideas that they failed to listen to their squadronmates.
>Gentle encouragement of Inazuma and Hibiki - they've both got passive personalities, but Inazuma is empathetic and Hibiki very level-headed. If they had a little more confidence they could rein in their sister ships without suppressing that aggressive fire that makes them good fighters.
>This really comes down to Ikazuchi and Akatsuki not being able to trust each other. Give them a demonstration of how powerful trust can be.

40377963 -
>Mix of all
"Girls, calm down. It was either going to work perfectly or fail spectacularly. Now, listen. Ikazuchi, Akatsuki, you both failed to listen to your comrades and were so intent on your way.. Inazuma, Hibiki, you two failed to speak up your part and input any at all. sometimes you need to mix parts from all plans. This all comes from being able to trust your allies, your bro..err, sisters next to you. Let me demsontrate."

Click to shrink...

>Gentle admonishment of Ikazuchi and Akatsuki - they were so hellbent on their ideas that they failed to listen to their squadronmates.
>Gentle encouragement of Inazuma and Hibiki - they've both got passive personalities, but Inazuma is empathetic and Hibiki very level-headed. If they had a little more confidence they could rein in their sister ships without suppressing that aggressive fire that makes them good fighters.

"... Ikazuchi!" you call out suddenly, making the girl quiver, tears brimming in her eyes. You let her dangle on the hook for a moment before rounding on the other - "Akatsuki!"

"Mhmrm-" she stifles a cry, trying to be professional.

"You made Inazuma cry," you say seriously, "and Hibiki was about to bop you both. Do you like making your squadronmates cry?"

A flurry of protests from them both as they begin to cry themselves, cringing like they expect you to smack them yourself at any moment.

"Inazuma-"

"I-M SOWWWWYYYYYY," she bawls, tugging on her hair in misery. Hibiki is staring at her feet like she wants to just vanish.

"Do you mean it?" you say, starting to feel a bit rotten yourself - Inazuma is really looking upset.

"YEEEESSSSSHHHHH," she wails.

"Then if you mean it -" you pause dramatically - "HUG AKATSUKI RIGHT NOW!"


Akatsuki barely has a chance to stop rubbing her own eyes and recognize the incoming before Inazuma hits her like a missile, arms outflung for a bearhug. They go down in a heap with Inazuma's face buried against her sister ship's chest.

"IKAZUCHI!" you bellow, but she already knows what to do - and Hibiki sees it coming. She tries to evade, but Ikazuchi is a sprightly little thing and glomps onto her sister before she's made three steps. Within seconds they've all calmed down, clutching their sister ships tightly.

"Now," you say evenly. "Do you all feel better?"

They nod, looking abashed.

"Good. Now hug the Lance Corporal."

They bolt for him as one, without hesitation, and just as quickly Hate produces the long, black blade of a KA-BAR as if conjuring it from thin fucking air, a mad, keening laughter already rolling from his throat. The girls quail and run behind your legs to hide, little hands gripping your pantlegs and jacket hem fearfully.

"You see? The ones you can always rely on the most are your sister ships. Ikazuchi, Akatsuki, you two should pay more attention to your fellows - they'll let you know when you should slow down and think a bit. Inazuma, Hibiki - you two know when they're going off-course. Don't be afraid to speak up, okay? And you two -" you drop your hands onto Ikazuchi and Akatsuki's heads - "try listening to each other a little more. Ask the other two for help before you start fighting, okay?"

"Okay," they say together, sounding abashed.

"K. Ready to do more shooting? It looks like Kongou is getting bored."

​

Anon's reaction to that last sentence. Is a bored Kongō as bad as a bored Marine? Yeah, let's NOT find out.​

At the mention of the battleship, the girls perk up immediately, scrambling back to their stalls, the ruckus already forgotten. They leave one open in the middle, and Kongou strolls right into it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Hate calls the range hot again and soon they're blazing away happy as clams; standing side-by-side with the Big Girls.

Seeing them occupied, you beckon Hate over to one side, confident in the noise of gunfire keeping your headset-equipped conversation private. "Is Willie always shooting low like that?"

"Only when she's not shooting high. And to either side."

"That's just jerking," you say, and Hate nods. "But why can't she get the range right?"

Hate shrugs. "Because she's shit at it?"

You shake your head. "No... no, that's not it. You saw her squinting through that face-shield-"

"That's non-negotiable," Hate says firmly. "You saw her damn near drop the thing; it's saved her from shooting herself in the face before."

"That's not my point. Everything about this range setup is based on optical rangefinders, and hers were never the best to begin with."

Hate raises an eyebrow. "They're not?"

"No. She's a Fletcher-class. They were equipped with a Mark 1 fire control computer, and most of the benefit came from the integrated fire control radar."

Hate seems to sag as realization hits. "Aaand we're making her determine distance to a silhouette on paper via parallax rangefinding."

"Right. Her optical rangefinder works well enough, but she never used it much during the war, and it was slower, and-"

"Right, right," Hate says, thinking. "I see what you're driving at."


"Damn shame, too," you sigh. "The radar feeds the data directly to the analog computer, so you didn't need guys peering at lines in a telescope before fiddling with dials to input the data. It could compute solutions and lay guns damn near as fast as you could point the director."

"Eh, really?"

"Yeah. And for the most part the radar's accuracy only increased as range closed, unlike parallax range-finding."

You and Hate stand there silently for a few seconds, watching the girls put rounds downrange.

"... that's it?" Hate asks after a moment.

"What do you mean?"

"Usually," Hate says patiently, "you would be offering a solution, or a course of action or something. To which I'd reply with something like 'nah gimme a few flashbangs and a blindfold and I'll fix this shit up in a quarter of the time,' and you'd look at me like a disappointed father who knows his son is a fucking lunatic but is still lying to himself about it and projecting the blame onto the poor unmedicated child."

You process that and digest it thoroughly. "Yeah. Yeah, usually."

Hate waits another few seconds to make sure you're serious... and then he smiles. He smiles as only a Marine with Permission can smile.

You look out over the bay at the distant breakwater where little splashes are rising from the calm waters. Usually, you'd opt for the slow and gentle approach, but you just don't have the time.

And maybe - just maybe - you really want to see Willie's face when she realizes what she's truly capable of.

Settle's expression at that thought.​

"Oh, did you take care of your fish yet?" Hate interjects, trying to wipe the wicked grin off his face before the girls finish their firing round and return to him for the next batch of prepared ammo and targets. He's not doing a very good job at it.

"Yeah, put him in a bowl. Even found some distilled water in the fridge for him."

"... skipper, that's salt water. Dogfish need salt water. I put that in there for you - it was the first empty gallon jug I found in the officer's mess trash bin."

"... oh."

"Did you really think you were putting a dogfish in distilled water?"

"Maybe?"

"Skipper..."

"NOW who looks like a disappointed father?"

>Well that's taken care of. What next?
>WRITE-IN VOTE

40379114 -
>Make sure Fubuki hasn't fallen into a hole?
>Go talk to Hornet

40379150 -
>>40379033
>Go see how Hornet is doing we havent talked to her in a while
>check email as we go

Click to shrink...

40380423 -
NEW THREAD
>>40380387
[Fubuki a cute]

40380456 (demetrious) -
>>40380423
INDEED
SORRY I COULDN'T POST A LINK EARLIER FUCKING POST TIMERS AND 8000 CHARACTER UPDATES

Click to shrink...

 

[Trace Coburn]

KANT-O-CELLE QUEST - SUB-PAR​

WRITE-INS: >Make sure Fubuki hasn't fallen into a hole?
>check email as we go

You stay another half-hour watching the destroyers enjoy their target practice with their sempais (whatever the hell that means), during which you decide to catch up on your e-mail. The first one that catches your eye is from the Prophets On High formally notifying you that the Lance Corporal's Silver Star has finally been approved - a pinning ceremony is being discussed with joint JSDF attendance, with a little note tacked on that "formal wear will be encouraged from all attendees and hulls."

Hulls. That's how they're referring to the girls now - 'hulls.' As if they were actual fucking hulls swinging on an anchor chain somewhere. You glance sidelong at Kongou and imagine her in a Navy dinner dress uniform hanging off Goto's arm and suppress a wicked snigger. The real trick will be hinting to Hate that he should track down the pieces of his dress uniform without tipping your hand as to the reason.

You only have one other email, from a "Wright.mil". The subject line is "asdfasdf" and the body consists of three words and eight digits.

"CALL ME NOW." Followed by a phone number.

You're still puzzling at that one when someone takes a seat next to you. You look up to find Fubuki smiling at you a little uncertainly.


"Hello, Admiral Settle."

"Oh. Hi, Fubuki. How have you been?"

"Fine," she says. "I just wanted to ask about Willie..."

"I sent Arizona after her," you assure her. "And we should have her feeling much better about herself soon."

"Really?" Fubuki smiles. "I'm glad. I feel so bad I didn't do something."

"It was my mistake," you assure her. "That was a lot of responsibility for Desdiv 6."

Fubuki smiles after the culprits, who are enthusiastically holding up their targets for Hate's approval. "I kind of envy them sometimes."

You put down your phone and focus on her. "How come?"

"All you have to do is praise them a little bit," Fubuki says softly, "and they're happy for the rest of the day. And they still play with dolls, even - though Akatsuki gets really upset if you catch her at it." She smiles again at the memory.

"You driving at something, Fubuki?"

"Well... does Willie know what you want from her?"

"Aside from fighting abyssals?"

"Yeah. Is she an escort? Is she a scout? When I first came back..." she fidgets a little. "I was a lot like her. I could barely sail straight, you know?"


You recall Goto mentioning that the first time you met him, as you watched Fubuki going for an early-morning jog along the pier. He'd said something about her being top-heavy and barely being able to sail without face-planting into a wave, but that she was really trying her ass off. "According to some, you still can't."

"I'm getting better," she says with a little pout, and you smile at her to say that you know it. "Goto's impressed with your effort, though."

"He is?"

"He said as much to me," you confirm.

"Really!?"

"Well, yeah-"

"Did he say anything about an escort!?" she says, her brown eyes suddenly bright with excitement as she tugs on your arm.

"N-no?"

"Oh." She settles down a bit at that. "Uh. Anyway, I, uh-"


"So what's this about an escort?"

"N-nothing."

"C'mon, too late to hide it. Tell me about this escort."

"It's...nothing."

"Sure. Nothing," you say. "Maybe I'll just go ask around about this nothing-"

She makes a sound like she's clearing her throat.

"... pardon?"

"Akagi," she fairly growls, looking huffily at the firing line. "Goto said he needs a plane guard destroyer for Akagi."

You blink. "So get a butterfly net - yow!" you exclaim as Fubuki elbows you in the side.

"It's an important job!" Fubuki insists. "And Akagi-san is so sweet, she's always thinking about others and never about herself. She needs someone that will pay attention!"

"So this has what to do with Willie?"

"Well, when I first got here... I didn't know what I was good for. The Admiral and Akagi gave me something worth working towards." She smiles wistfully at the ground. "Maybe it'll take a while to get there... but I'm determined to reach it."

You drop a hand onto her shoulder and squeeze it. "Thanks, Fubuki."

"No problem." She rubs the back of her head. "Uh, how is that new submarine working out?"

".... Harder? The one that attacked you?"

"Yeah."

You shrug. "He's... adapting. I guess."

Fubuki smiles. "I'm not angry at him - I understand. He was just doing what he remembered doing, you know? But... uh..."

"... yeah?"

"D-do you think I could... talk to him?" Fubuki seems eager, but nervous.

"... why, you have a cru-"

"What? No. No. No way!" Fubuki says, a faint note of distaste in her voice. "I just, uh, I want to ask him for a favor."

"... okay, sure," you say. "I can make introductions. I need to check up on him anyway. Sound good?"

She nods.

"Let's get going, then."


The destroyers pile into the small motor launch and you putter it back across the narrow straight to Yokosuka proper. Desdiv 6 scampers back to their barracks till they're needed again, apparently making a race of it, but Fubuki tags along with you as you dial a number into your phone.

"Will he be in his room?" Fubuki asks.

"Doesn't matter, we're about to find him," you tell her.

"How?"

"Cell phone." You point at the big microwave tower on the biggest hill in the center of the base; the one that was festooned with AA-firing destroyers just yesterday. "That's got cell phone receivers on it."

"Uh... are those like a radio telephone?"

"Exactly like a radio telephone, actually. They're always transmitting. That tower handles most cell radio traffic for the base, and the US Navy owns it, so-" someone on the other end answers in a bored-sounding voice. "Yeah, IT? Gimme that lazy shit in the back." A question. "Just turn around and shout 'Donut Santa is on the line'."

Fubuki gives you a strange look as the other end of the line makes a dubious sound. "Fine, you fucking nerd - DONUT SANTA IS ON THE GODDAMN LINE!" you bellow into the phone. Fubuki steps back and looks around warily as if she's contemplating vanishing into the shrubbery. There's sounds of a scuffle on the other end, then a new voice answers. "Yeah! Yeah. Could you track down Harder's cell?"


A brief affirmative, a clacking of keys, then-

"What? No shit? Awesome."

A request.

"For this? I'll have them MURDER that motherfucker with frosting. Chao." You hang up.

".... what was that?" Fubuki asks uncertainly.

"Leadership. C'mon."

You find Harder right where the IT guy said he'd be - logged into a public-access terminal in the base library. You creep up behind him and announce yourself with a polite cough.

Harder doesn't turn around. He just sits there, looking comically small in the big wooden chair and that oversized jacket and cover he's wearing, staring blankly at a wikipedia page.

"Harder-san?" Fubuki says politely. "Pardon me, I just wanted-"

You silence her with an upturned hand when you see the page Harder's looking at.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_lost_United_States_submarines#During_World_War_II

>Turn off the monitor. He's been looking at that shit long enough, you think.
>Lean over and type in the address for Operation Petticoat.
>Let Fubuki do the talking.
>Other?

40380707 -
http://www.oneternalpatrol.com/uss-harder-257.htm

40380754 -
>>40380707
Oh wow. that site is depressing as fuck

Click to shrink...

WRITE-IN: "Want to talk about it, Harder?"

You motion Fubuki to step back a little. Kneeling on the floor near Harder, you poke his shoulder. "Hey."

"Hey," he says at last, still staring blankly at the screen.

"Wanna talk about it?"

He points at the screen. "Plane. A fucking plane." He falls back in his chair heavily, shaking his head. "Figures. Nobody could've taken Mush in a fair fight." He closes his eyes and leans his head back, the oversized cap tilting down over his eyes. "A fucking PLANE."

You remain silent.

"Or mines," he snaps, bringing his fist down on the desk hard enough to make the whole row of screens rattle. "A fucking mine. Albacore - a fucking MINE-"

"Harder-san-" Fubuki begins, reaching out - but she recoils when Harder shoots her a poisonous look.

"Yeah, that's not the worst of it." He taps the backspace button a few times till a new page comes up. "What the actual fuck is this?"

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Type_B1_submarine


Fubuki peers at it. "An encyclopedia page on the Type B1 submarine."

"That... word," Harder says. "I do not think it means what you think it means."

Fubuki blinks. "What?"

"It carried... a PLANE," Harder breathes. "A... plane."

"... yes?"

"Pray tell," Harder says with false politeness, "just what in the name of unholy fuck did they do with their... PLANES?"

Fubuki looks uncomfortable. "They... scouted?"

Harder pops out of his chair and seizes Fubuki by the shoulders to pull her in close. "Scouted," he breathes. "Scouted. For. What."

"... enemy ships?"

Harder pulls Fubuki a little closer. "And then?"

"Uh, it would attack-"

"What?" Harder says.

"It'd attack-"

"Ha!" Harder says. "It displaces twenty-five hundred fucking tons and it's going to - ATTACK! Is that before or after they fold up the fucking plane and stuff it back into the hangar?"

"I don't know!" Fubuki objects. "I don't know anything about submarines-"

"No SHIT, nip!" Harder retorts. "Oh fuck, we're not done -" he turns back to the computer and hits the backspace key again. "BEHOLD - this one carried - my god - TWO planes! Was that for scouting twice as much?"

"I don't think-"

"And this!" another key-click. "A transport sub built by the Army! It even dived sometimes! And if you were having a really good day, it'd come back up again, too!"


"Don't blame me for the Army's-"

"Oh right, some of them ditched the hangar so they could carry *these.*" Harder clicks again, and you see Fubuki go pale as the wikipedia page for the Kaiten comes up. "Something that literally killed more of you dumb nip fucks in 'training' then Americans in war. But this is my fucking favorite-" another click.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nakajima_G10N

"This," he says, shaking his head. "The krauts might barely have pulled it off with a few years of Sundays and a blowjob from lady luck and it'd still have not done enough damage, but you? YOU motherfuckers? Who couldn't even build a fucking inline engine to save your sorry nip asses? What the fuck even went on with this? Some stupid fuck in his study with a little model wooden airplane flying around going vrooom pew pew die amurikun peeg dooog like a child with his toy soldiers?" He yanks Fubuki a little closer. "WHO DID YOU PEOPLE THINK YOU WERE FUCKING WITH?"

Fubuki's expression is alarmed and scared. You step in, reaching to part Harder from the girl, when she pushes you away, shaking her head.

"... someone we didn't respect," Fubuki says quietly. "We were arrogant. We'd won victory after victory. We had the best weapons - we were sure of it." Fubuki hugs herself, staring at the carpet. "But you killed several destroyers who thought they were the predator. They were arrogant." She looks up at Harder, her eyes glistening, looking terribly vulnerable. "There's - there's someone I want to protect no matter what. More than -" her voice falters. "More than anything," she finishes lamely. "And Admiral G-" she swallows. "The Admiral says we're seeing more and more abyssal submarines now..."

Harder releases her, adjusting his cap a bit. "So?"

"So I want you to teach me," she says in a rush.


Harder blinks. "What."

"Teach me how you - how you killed them. Teach me how a submarine fights. Teach me how to survive where they didn't."

He frowns. "Are you serious? Even if I was inclined to, what makes you think a fucking floater like you can understand a goddamn word of it?" Harder turns his shoulder to her, as if he's about to walk out.

"You have to!" Fubuki wails. "You're the best, aren't you?"

That stops Harder dead in his tracks - but he does finish turning up his jacket collar. "So?"

"So, teach me!"

He stands silent for several long seconds, the tick-tock of an old analogue clock on the wall and the hum of computer fans the only noise.

"The pier where I first snuck up on you."

"What about it?"

"Seven AM tomorrow. Be there."

"Arigato!" Fubuki exclaims, bowing quickly. "T-thank you Harder-san!"

"Whatever," he says, waving her away. "Don't be late."

"I promise I won't!" she says. "I- I've got to practice!" She runs in one direction before realizing it's a dead-end, forcing her to double back as she hunts for the exit.

"Christ," Harder says sullenly. "Dames."


"Hey, Harder."

"Eh?"

"Swing by the base post office before you go home," you tell him.

"Why?"

"I got a present for you."

".... kay," he says before flipping you a casual goodbye and sauntering out. You have to restrain the urge to plant your boot up his adolescent ass - you have to admit, he's pretty good at the bullshit. Good enough to fool Fubuki, at any rate. You make sure to log Harder out of the library terminal - he seems to have taken to computers pretty well, but some concepts take longer than others to internalize, especially for children of the 40s.

With that taken care of - you look at your phone, wondering who the hell sent you that nutty e-mail, and if you really want to deal with it right now.

>Call the damn number - face the music.
>Fuck that, misery loves company - go talk to the brown girl trying to hide behind that big book at the desk just behind you and failing miserably.


>Fuck that, misery loves company - go talk to the brown girl trying to hide behind that big book at the desk just behind you and failing miserably.

You glare at your phone for a second, knowing that when you answer that e-mail a fresh torrent of shit will come rolling downhill at you. You look back at the dusky, slender hands gripping a large illustrated history of the 8th Air Force and doing her damndest to sink far enough into the chair that she can disappear - a task made harder by the telltale feather peeking over the top. You stump on over, leaning your cane on the edge of the desk, and pull up one of the heavy wooden chairs. The reader doesn't respond, till finally grab the edge of the book and slap it flat against the table.

"Admiral!" Hornet says, trying to sound surprised and failing. "What brings you here?"

"You."

She smiles, but her feather is quivering ever so slightly. "Weren't you just talking with-"

"Coincidence," you say firmly. "Ran into Fubuki at the range, she wanted to find him, he happened to be catching up on his history."

"He came to me asking about it," she tells you. "He wanted some books that would give him the, uh, 'low-down' fast, he said. I asked the librarian to show him the computers."

"He seems to be okay with them."

"Better than me," Hornet says. "They hurt my eyes after a few minutes."

>Make small talk, slowly declining to silence - get her to start the Serious Talk first. See what she brings up.
>Thank her for throwing herself at Goto and trying to take all the blame for The Incident.
>Congratulate her for her performance during the air raid yesterday.


>Congratulate her for her performance during the air raid yesterday.

"Before you try to sidetrack me with chit-chat," you say firmly, "I wanted to thank you for saving my life yesterday."

Hornet's pretty slate-grey eyes widen, her fingers wrinkling the glossy pages of the big picture book as her arms tense. "Uh, I-" she swallows. "I didn't even know you were there," she says. She looks down at the book - a picture of a burning B-17. "You were behind the dune. I just... fired."

"Hornet? You saved my life."

She bites her lip and stares through the desk, saying nothing.

"What's wrong?"

"It... really was just luck," she says softly. "It shouldn't have mattered." She looks up at you, eyes crinkling, mouth firm. "Akagi and Kaga should have been covering *you*, not the other way around. They can take a hit. You can't."


"They *can't,* Hornet. Akagi burned till she sank from just one damn hit. You know that, you were there."

"They can take it better than you can," Hornet says fervently, "and that's what they're - we're - supposed to do. You know that. We're warships - its what we do."

"But-"

"Settle," Hornet says gently, "It's what we do."

You scowl. "You're not dis-"

"We're valuable," Hornet replies, "but we're not irreplaceable." You remember her the other day, right after the Incident, telling you that we built a lot of carriers, that she was disposable, that she read about it. "Newport News - where I was built - they replaced me with an Essex class. CV-12. I hear she's a museum ship."

You nod. "I've visited it."

"Right. Settle, they were launching an Essex class every three months. Every three *months,*" she stresses gently, her pretty grey eyes flat and cold. "A bigger, better ship than I was. Every three months. They produced nine - of *twenty four.*" She closes her book with a weighty WHUMP, the heavy sound punctuating her statement. "And we don't die easy... compared to the Japanese ships, at least. Just look at Franklin."

"H-"

"I know it's different for them," she says. "They... they only had a few. And they lost their best at Midway. And now... now they have them back again. But I was never the best - and I was never rare. We've got a lot more coming from where I came from, and... and they don't."


"Horn-!"

"Settle!" she says, smacking the table with one palm to silence you. "Goto - you see how many ships he has?!"

"So?"

"Do you really think he's got time to hold all their hands?" Her slate-grey eyes bore into you mercilessly as Naka's words echo in your head.

>Settle... there's a lot more of us Japanese girls than your American ones. And Goto's been at this for sixteen months. He's had his plate full."

"That's him and-"

"We have nothing to be ashamed of," Hornet says quietly. "They'll all come back on their own, sooner or later, without being asked. *You* should know better than anyone."

You fume at that. "Don't you dare-"

"If she can, then why not CV-12!?" Hornet says pointedly. "Or Enterprise? Saratoga? Lexington? Yorktown? They will. And when they do you won't have time to coddle the failures. I was a burden to my country in my first war, Settle. I'm not going to be that again." She bows her head, looking down at her clasped hands. "So... please. Just... don't. Don't do this."


>You feel stunned - what the hell? This is worse than you could have - how does this logic even - you need time to come at this from the right angle, or - or something. You need help.
>You feel angry. What horseshit. What a bunch of fucking horseshit, she saved your life twice and - what the fuck is she babbling about? She's here. SHE is here, not Lexington, not Saratoga, not CV motherfucking 12, SHE is HERE in the flesh, quite literally in the flesh, what the fuck is she BABBLING about!?
>She's got this whole fucking thing backwards. She's got it so bass akwards it's not fucking funny. They mint new Annapolis assholes every goddamn day. Returned warship spirits from the great beyond? Not so much. She needs to get her head out of her ass, wake up and smell the burning oil, god dammit.


>You feel angry. What horseshit. What a bunch of fucking horseshit, she saved your life twice and - what the fuck is she babbling about? She's here. SHE is here, not Lexington, not Saratoga, not CV motherfucking 12, SHE is HERE in the flesh, quite literally in the flesh, what the fuck is she BABBLING about!?
(informed and modified by discussion, of course)

A flash of frustration burns through you, swiftly boiling towards anger. There's something rotten and twisted and wrong at the core of Hornet's thinking, but you don't have the time or the patience or the inclination to work through it becuase your patience is at an end. You feel that ire rising, that fucking wrath that makes the veins pulse in your neck, the one that's always accompanied by a terrified, white-faced look from the sailor who's ass you are about to chew like MRE bubblegum.

"What the fuck are you babbling about!?" you snap. You notice heads turning on the other side of the library and you don't give a damn. "It wasn't fucking Saratoga that saved my fucking life yesterday. It wasn't fucking Enterprise and it wasn't CV-mother-fucking-TWELVE!" Hornet scoots back in her chair a bit, her eyes wide with astonishment. "And it wasn't Akagi or Kaga that got the CAP up that saved all our fucking lives yesterday, because they were still busy spotting their perfect massed overwhelming attack instead of getting planes off the deck as fast as fucking possible. If I remember right that's how you pushed Shoukaku's shit in at Santa Cruz, isn't it?"

Hornet's mouth opens and closes like a fish, her feather quivering with her body.


"And you would've survived, if they'd had the balls to fight a surface action to defend you. Instead they abandoned you and left you burning and - YOU were a burden? What the *fuck!?*"

"I-"

"Shut up," you snap. "I've listened to this fucking bullshit my whole career. People who let best become the enemy of good. A missile in the fucking magazine is worth twenty in the goddamn storehouse. You know why I survived LA? It wasn't the fucking ship. I never would've lasted long enough for that. It was the Harpoons."

"Wh-wha-"

"Harpoons. Old anti-ship missile, obsolete as hell. Only reason the Higgins had them was because she's old as hell, too. Newer ones don't even have those. Navy decided they'd just wait for two fucking decades, let our 'primary surface combatants' go without a missile for shooting at fucking surface combatants, make us CV handmaidens. Waiting for the new Long Range Anti-Ship Missile. I got really lucky - I got to pick up a few from the first run not a day before things went to hell. That wouldn't have been enough. Not nearly enough. If it weren't for those eight obsolete Harpoons, I'd be fucking DEAD right now!"

Hornet is hugging herself defensively, staring up at you wide-eyed - when did you stand up? Fuck it. "Everyone else - New York, San Diego - you know what they had to fight with? A few of them had the latest, greatest weapon, all the bells and whistles. A few of the Flight I ships had their Harpoons. A few had more then three or four LSRAMs, because they were shiny and new and didn't even have Harpoons. And everyone else? Everyone else had RIM-66s, RIM-162s and THEIR OWN LIMP DICKS!"


"Ah - I-"

"So do NOT give me any fucking bullshit about what we might get tomorrow or the next day. You're all I have. You're the missile in my goddamned magazine. You came, they didn't. You stepped up, they didn't. You got CAP in the air in time to save my fucking life and *NOBODY ELSE DID.* I've got enough fucking problems with Willie and Naka and ACTUAL INCOMPETENTS to take any extra shit from your neurotic BULLSHIT!"

"Ah-ah-ah-"

"UNFUCK YOURSELF, SAILOR!" you snarl, and Hornet pops out of her chair at automatic attention, every fiber of her body jittering and vibrating in - something.

You tug your cap down low over your eyes and almost go limping out without your cane. You snatch it off the table and limp out anyway, carrying it like a bat in case the librarian gives you a stink-eye. He wisely declines to do so.

You manage to make it out of the library when your phone begins ringing - probably that emergency text from earlier.

>Sure, I'm in a good mood to chew the shit out of something.
>Whoever it is can damn well fucking go through the chain of fucking command for a fucking change god DAMMIT!


>Sure, I'm in a good mood to chew the shit out of something.

You let the phone ring for a bit as you try to cool off - but you don't really feel like it. Hornet deserved that. She really did. Hornet's not like Shoukaku, not miss-dress-up, miss-tender-hand-clasping. Hornet is a warrior born; this much you've seen. She's not graceful or skilled - just swift and relentless. She ought to know better than anyone the value of an arrow in the quiver, and worse - she had to put her foot right on the sore spot, and she knows, you KNOW she knows about LA, she talks to people, she reads, she's not a sealed-up enigma like Arizona. She was abandoned and left to die by her own people, who refused to fight to save a precious commodity - a fleet carrier. You only lived because of a CIC full of geniuses who figured out in mere minutes how to use unsuitable weapons against an unexpected, unfathomable foe at the most unlikely range possible... and eight Harpoon missiles. The age of your old ship worked for you, never against. She held together though stormed at by shot and shell; weapons she was never designed to survive - but did anyway. You owe your crew - and your entire crew owes that sturdy old hull.

Men fail their ships. Never the other way around. And for some reason, Hornet acting like it's all on her just pisses you off in a way you can't quite comprehend. So instead, you slide your phone out of your pocket and snarl into it, after confirming the incoming number is the one from the e-mail.


"Settle. This had better be good."

"YOU!"

"YES, ME, WHO THE FUCK!?"

"Wainwright," he says quickly, rushed for breath. "Goddamn you, something fucking bad happened last night."

"It can't possibly be-"

"Naka dropped a fucking 5-inch shell on a Yakuza's goddamn foot."

The world ceases to spin on its axis, but pesky inertia keeps your head going round and round for a long queasy moment. "What."

"A fucking Yakuza walked into this base - into the infirmary - and threatened her to her goddamned face."

You groan miserably. "This is really, really fucking bad."

"No shit. Yakuza? We need to-"

"No. You don't get it. The bad part is, she hurt him."

"He had it coming!"

"No, no, it's - Hate. He's going to sulk like a wet cat. God DAMN."

40383480 (demetrious) -
[...]
kk folks, thats it for me tonight!

Click to shrink...

As an informational, there were some... 'discussions' of demetrious' quest-running style earlier in the thread, particularly regarding the way he handles possible romance options and 'incites paranoia', and he posted the following response:

40382840 (demetrious) -
>>40382776
>I'm not him, but people are perfectly capable of filling threads with inane nothings and latching onto [waifus] without you stoking the fire.

Here's how it works:
>Dean Koontz or Stephen King trolls reader endlessly and encourages constant shadowruns
"11/10 RIVETING NON-STOP RIDE OF TENSION AND MORE TENSION AND THE TENSENESS A RUSH A PAGE TURNER BOOK OF THE YEAR"

>Danielle Steele or whoever-the-fuck writes a book where nobody can really tell which dude the vapid bitch MC will end up with
"HEART-WRENCHING DEEP EMOTIONAL PAGE-TURNER OF THE YEAR BESTSELLER LIST HO"

>I stroke anon's shadowruns AND waifuing as hard as possible
"YOU FUCKING GOD DAMNED ASSHOLE WHY CAN'T YOU CUT IT OUT WITH THIS DUMB SHIT!"

It's almost like I get no respect because I blatantly steal horrible IP and write shitty fanfiction about it!

Click to shrink...